The Crucible. Joaquin De Torres
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The klaxons blared, joining the klaxons of the other ships in a deafening cacophony as all ships in the formation came alive.
“The fog’s too thick! I can’t see the vessel type! Is she changing course?”
“No, sir! Coming dead on!”
“Calm yourself, Matsui! She won’t hit us, but she’ll ram vessel two.” The captain grabbed his radio mike. The digital frequency read-out showed that he was already sitting on the bridge-to-bridge channel, linking all the ships in the formation. He pressed the Jake key and bellowed into the speaker.
“FORMATION ALERT! Imminent collision dead ahead! Vessels four, three and two, hard to port 45 degrees, on my command! I say again, hard to port, 45 degrees! Emergency formation break, on my command!” He waited three more seconds then pressed the key. “EXECUTE! EXECUTE! EXECUTE!” The vessels pulled clumsily into their turns, their hulls moaning with the sudden torque.
“Captain, 375 meters!”
“It’s going to be close! Helmsman, hard to starboard! Drop to three-quarter speed on the starboard propeller!” The helmsman spun the wheel down furiously with his left hand while pulling the speed handles down for the starboard engine with his right. The Tadashi-maru leaned its body to the right, her hull creaking under the pressure.
“THERE SHE IS!”
The three trailing ships had just begun to lurch to their left as the Kim Il-Sung’s bow exploded out of the fog wall like a monstrous beak. Moving like a leviathan through the herd, the iron monster heeded no warning as she steamed defiantly through. The Japanese captain’s eyes enlarged as he stumbled out of his bridge and onto the weather deck. His eyes gazed at the vessel passing just 20 meters away. Massive swells, generated by the frantic cavitations of the escaping vessels, slammed into the warship with no effect. Mountainous fans of seawater roared up the valley between the two ships, washing over both decks.
Although the Tadashi-maru was taller and fatter, it seemed belittled by the rigid armored symmetry of the warship. The captain gazed in shock, inspecting the gigantic superstructure. His eyes captured her awesome nest of gun turrets, her forest of antennae and radar dishes, and her cold gray complexion. The sailors of the Japanese ship clutched the side railing to view the vessel, but none of the intruder’s sailors came out onto their decks to look at them. When the warship finally passed, the captain went back into the bridge house and pulled his formation back into position again with several maneuvering commands. When he put down the mike, he felt perspiration in his hands.
“That was close,” the helmsman exhaled, visibly shaken. “Who or what was that?” In his 30 years he had never come so close to such a powerful presence.
“It was an old Russian warship, a Kirov. But I don’t know from what country. I couldn’t see her flag. I thought those ships were scrapped by the Soviet Union.”
“Don’t warships turn on their search lights and running lights when they go through heavy fog?” asked another young bridge crewman.
“The only time you’d run dark in the fog is during wartime,” the captain said hesitantly. He rushed out of the pilot house and stood on the weather deck facing aft. It was gone. The only evidence of the juggernaut was the white, foamy wake leading into the fog.
Sea Breeze Terrace
Columbia, Maryland
When the first scent of smoke reached her nose, Kristina ripped the sheets off herself and jumped to her feet on the side of her bed. The entire room was in flames. She could hear screaming in the other rooms and down below in the kitchen, den and living room.
“I’m coming!” she called out and tried to move through room but stumbled on objects on the floor. She looked down and saw people stumbling around her, choking on smoke. Some were ablaze and screaming, while others lay motionless already burnt beyond human recognition. She tried stepping over the bodies as she headed for the door which seemed to move away from her. The moans from downstairs grew louder.
“Hang on! I’m coming!” When she reached the door and turned the corner to head downstairs she was launched back by an explosion that landed her on a pile of writhing bodies. The black burning arms and hands grabbed her, holding her down despite her struggle to get up. Then a head rose out of the tangle of smoldering arms, legs and torsos. It turned to her and opened its eyes. Her heart stopped as her mouth opened in a silent scream. It was her father.
“NOOO!!!”
Kristina bolt upright out of her sleep as she’d done hundreds of times before.
Chapter 9
The Sins of Our Fathers
Pentagon
Chief of Naval Operations
“The Navy is a complete laughing stock!” Harold Cranston thundered. “I can’t believe the lack of authority you have over your people and your office!” The snarl on his face was menacing as he paced with anger. “I can’t believe what happened!”
Antonio Espinoza ignored him as he continued to carefully place his rare pieces into padded boxes. The room was prepped for vacating. The packers had already removed his personal furniture, crystal items, plants, rug and paintings. The smaller ancient art pieces were left for Antonio’s personal movement. Wearing jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt, he arrived at his office at 5 A.M. that morning and began working and cleaning. By 9:30 A.M. three men unexpectedly arrived. His secretary Rachel didn’t have time to press her intercom button when she saw the trio walk right past her. It made no difference. Antonio was done.
He had already transferred his computer files, schedule, and other important agenda items to the Vice CNO, a passdown that had been secretly going on over the past week. He bought gifts for all his staff members, and notified BUPERS and the Veteran’s Administration about his retirement paperwork. Stop-loss be damned--it didn’t apply to him. He had already made arrangements with several congressmen and allies, as well as his lawyer. The government couldn’t apply the stop-loss referendum to anyone after serving over 30 years; he had served 36, and he was done.
The movers were coming this afternoon. The next morning he would be debriefed and read out of all his security clearances and special accesses. So bitter and distraught, he shocked the entire admiralty by refusing a retirement ceremony. He didn’t want to participate in any pomp and circumstance on his behalf. He did make one important phone call that week, however. He called to request the presence of a friend to stay over for a few days at his home and help him sort out his life. The friend had yet to arrive that morning, but was due sometime before noon.
Seemingly marching into his dismantled office were SECNAV Lance Stevenson, who came to bid farewell; Assistant CNO Vice Admiral Gary Sparks, who came for a final guidance from his boss; and the Secretary of Defense Harold H. Cranston, who came to destroy the last vestiges of Antonio’s dignity.
“From the time we selected you, you have disobeyed orders, failed to act when the president and I demanded action, and overstepped the boundaries of political and military protocol by rewriting and countermanding several orders I had given you!”
“Yes, I have,” Antonio said dismissively and without eye contact. He was carefully wrapping a piece of ancient Mayan pottery with plastic bubble wrap.
“You have even gone public with your interviews about your displeasure with the administration’s policies; jeopardizing morale, order, and discipline!”
“Yes, I have.” Antonio carefully placed the delicate piece into a Styrofoam box and began sealing it with packing tape. Indifferently, he moved past Cranston and retrieved another empty box from a stack in the corner. The other men eyed the admiral as he coolly refrained from confronting Cranston, knowing full well that this was a tactic he employed simply to infuriate the secretary even more. On several levels, they enjoyed it.
“Aren’t you listening? Do you even understand that the