Final fathom, p.1
Final Fathom, page 1
David E. Meadows
Final Fathom
This book is dedicated to our children Sara Meadows and Nicholas Meadows
Acknowledgments
It is impossible to thank everyone who provided technical advice and support for this book and my other action-adventure novels. I deeply appreciate their advice, support, and technical competence. I also am always appreciative of those who visit www.sixthfleet.com, read my columns, and sometimes disagree. Your comments are welcomed and for those who send e-mails, I do try to reply personally to each.
You run the risk of missing someone when you are acknowledging contributions, technical advice, and support, so I apologize up front if I did so.
In these three books of the Dark Pacific series, I wrote a lot about the F-22A Raptor. The F-22A Raptor is the most technologically advanced fighter aircraft in the world. All the information in the books on the F-22A is easily available on the Internet. Without reserve, my great respect to the men and women who take this phenomenal weapon of democracy into the hostile areas of the world. Writing about them and trying to extrapolate how they fly and how flying those planes is dif-ferent — from those who sit in the cockpit, who know what they are doing, and use the advantage of the technologies and avionics of the stealth fighter to control the aerial battle space — I ask their forgiveness if, for the sake of literary ease, I mixed up the cockpit controls and capabilities of the aircraft.
There is another group of individuals who should be recognized for their contributions to the Raptor. This group is the men and women of Lockheed Martin, Boeing, and Pratt & Whitney, who built the F-22A Raptor, integrated the technologies, and designed the avionics that gave this aircraft its superior position in the history of military aviation. Without them, this aircraft would never have left the enterprising desk of some Pentagon defense requirements person.
The Joint Strike Fighter (F-35), also in this series, is being flown by our closest Navy ally, the Royal Navy. Lockheed Martin leads the Northrop Grumman and British Aerospace Systems (BAE) teams in building this stealth fighter. When accepted by the Pentagon, the Joint Strike Fighter will join the F-22A as another premier battle space fighter to be flown by the United States and some of our closest allies, including Great Britain.
The information on the Fast Sealift Ships was gained in an afternoon of trekking across the deck of the USNS Denebola with the master of this gigantic aircraft carrier-size ship, Captain Joe Gargiulo, and Mr. Matthew Cull (PM5 Sealift Surge Detachment). Other information came from personal research, which included libraries, the Internet, the handouts on the ships. The Denebola is representative of all eight of the Fast Sealift Ships. It is over 946 feet in length. The newest aircraft carrier, the USS George H. W. Bush, is 1,092 feet in length — a difference of less than 150 feet. The Nimitz-class aircraft carriers, of which USS George H. W. Bush is one, have a crew of more than 5,500 people, with ship’s company and the air wing embarked. The USNS Denebola has fourteen merchant marines manning her while in port, growing to a maritime complement of about forty when she is under way.
My thanks to Terry Smith, Vincent Widmaier, William “David” Cross, Amanda Roberts, and Angela O’Neal for their security insights and recommendations. For technical advice and support, my appreciation to Tim Bovill (may he enjoy Norfolk), Jerry Bechlehimer, Mark Thomson, Christine Weston-Lyons, Mary Forbes, Shirley Cool, Bonni Rae Lamson, Sue Abbott, William “Bill” Gaul, and Bill “USNA class of ’74” Hall. And, of course, three of the most powerful women at NIS: Cassandra Mewborn, Brenda Williams, and Jessie McAliley. Then, of course, every retired sailor has ole shipmates who keep in touch. My thanks to Paul and Karen Ratkovich, William J. “Hawk” McDonnell, and Marcus “Narwhal” Williams for their comments and support.
As always, my continued thanks to Tom Colgan for his editorial support and to his able right-hand person, Sandra Harding. And my thanks to my agent, John Talbot, for his advice and guidance.
Rest assured any and all technical errors or mistakes in this novel are strictly those of the author, who many times wanders in his own world. Please keep in touch.
David E. Meadows
Figure 1. The Sea Base foundation.
Figure 2. The Sea Base deployed.
ONE
The hammer clicked on an empty cylinder. Andrew jumped. His eyes flew open. Beads of sweat raced down his cheeks. His breaths were short, rapid, and panicky with relief. The steady outward appearance of calm moments earlier vanished. His body shook and he nearly tumbled off his knees. He closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly, knowing those watching believed him to be praying. Andrew fought to stop the trembling, slow his breathing. He recalled his father’s warning about how he should act once the selection process finished, but it was easy for his dad to tell him for his dad never had to do this.
The pressure of the barrel shifted off his temple. When the handler pulled the pistol up, the cool air circulating through the shadows of the barn brushed like a circle of ice across the red pressure spot on his temple. His eyes followed the pistol as the man placed it in the case carried by another man.
“It is God’s will,” the crowd said in unison.
“Like his brother,” someone said.
“The pistol!” one of the deacons shouted.
“The pistol!” the crowd shouted, taking up the cry.
The man who moments earlier had pulled the trigger while the gun was against Andrew’s temple reopened the case and took the gun out of it. He pointed it upward and pulled the trigger. The gun fired. The bullet shattered old wood shingles as it penetrated the roof. Andrew jumped at the noise. The smell of cordite drifted across his face. Small splinters drifted down onto the crowd.
“Amen,” came a smaller chorus from the deacons surrounding the pit. “Praise the Lord.”
Four more shots followed the first one. More small pieces of wood rained on the crowd.
The congregation went wild with cries, prayers, and shouts of praises for God’s grace on Andrew.
The pistol was laid reverently back in the case. Then the man locked it, nodded at the man holding the case, and the crowd watched as the person carrying it walked up the steps leading from the pit. Andrew watched along with everyone else until the case disappeared within the crowd, the man carrying it heading toward the area where earlier Andrew had hugged and left his father.
Two pairs of hands grabbed Andrew under the arms, pulling him to his feet. He opened his eyes and glanced at the two men. Their lips moved. They were speaking, broad grins stretching their faces. He smiled. He knew they were praising him, shouting thanks to the Lord. But the words flowed around him like a bubbling stream, failing to penetrate the frightful haze still enveloping him.
His knees buckled, their hands tightened. He was numb from kneeling so long as the congregation prayed for divine intervention. Upright, he was a good six inches taller than the two men holding him. His weak smile faded, removing all expression from his face.
The hands tightened slightly and the two men turned him toward the steps. He took a deep breath. A few tears edged from the corners of his brown eyes, trickling down across day-old growth of dark stubble. He wanted to fall back onto his knees. Take more time to regain control of his body; show his composure; impress the congregation — not disgrace his father.
Andrew shut his eyes for a brief moment when he reached the first step, causing him to trip slightly on the rough rise of the concrete pit. The pressure from their grasp increased enough for him to regain his footing, keeping him from falling, as if they knew he had no energy to stop anything that might happen now. When God pulls you back from the abyss of death, there is a great weakness surrounding the body in the knowledge of His power, thought Andrew.
Three slow steps later, he stood at the top of the pit. Gradually, they let him go. He swayed to the right. The man there touched him briefly on the shoulder, steadying him. Andrew grimaced, bending his knees slightly to relieve the itch and pain of blood flowing into the numbness. He turned slowly, testing his feet, prepared to fall, even though the two handlers remained alongside him.
He turned and looked down at the pit behind him. Ten feet from one side to the other, the ancient pit canted toward the far side, where drainage ran across a rusty wire grating covering a twelve-inch iron pipe that carried the blood and runoff of the old slaughter pit from the barn.
As a lad, Andrew had followed the course of the pipe. It ran under the nearby dirt road to an overgrown drainage field created by the runoff from it and the septic tank of the nearby abandoned farmhouse. The stamped, ancient straw stomped into the bottom of the pit was soaked in fresh blood. Andrew looked at the drain cover at the far end where earlier in the day four other disciples had preceded him. Pieces of white flesh hung on the cratered edges of the drain cover.
God had not intervened in His display of love and worship for the four who preceded him.
Andrew stared for a moment, looking at the imprint in the blood-soaked straw upon which he had knelt for what seemed hours. He stopped a quick impulse to look at the knees of his blue jeans to see if the blood of his fellow believers had soaked into them. He knew it had; he didn’t need to look.
He turned away, nearly falling, but his handlers took him gently by the arms, softly offering gratitude to God. He was too unsteady. He’d fall, or the handlers would grab him again. The travail wasn’t over. He had to accept this as God’s will.
The gun had five bullets along with an empty chamber. Holding the pistol by his side, the handler had kept turning the cylinder throughout the hour of prayer — one spin after the other, over and over again — never looking to see where the unloaded chamber came to rest. The sound of the spin, the smooth clicking imprinting itself in Andrew’s memory, drawing his attention to the cylinder and away from his prayers, and still God had intervened to choose him.
Each of the young men chosen for the selection, the Lord had turned His back on. Then, without warning, his father had volunteered Andrew. He should have known eventually he would be chosen to go through the selection. His father had taken him for a walk this morning talking about God’s will and how the Bible many times required God’s followers to demonstrate their faith through sacrifice. He should have figured it out, but his father was forever sharing his thoughts with Andrew in their many walks. It was good he didn’t fully share this one.
A clear insight rushed through Andrew. His father had had little choice but to send him into the pit. The past few weeks had been a jumble of pastoral maneuverings that his father believed were leading those who oppose him into replacing him with another. When mumbling turns to whispers, the leader has little choice but to offer a sign of his faith before the whispers become shouts and fist-waving demands.
Andrew was that sign. As others in the Bible had offered up their firstborn as a sign of their love for God, so his father did with him. His father preached to all to never worry that God would be with them always.
But his father hadn’t been the one on his knees hearing the spin of the chamber or surviving the click of the hammer. Suddenly, his bladder was full and Andrew had an overwhelming urge to pee. He tightened, forcing the urge down. Joshua, his brother, probably had had no doubt he would survive the selection process.
Now, since Andrew was the Lord’s chosen one, his father’s — Ezekiel’s — leadership would not be challenged for a long time.
Andrew looked at the crowd chanting his name. There were more than a hundred crowded into the huge barn in the woods of eastern West Virginia. Andrew breathed deeply, fear dissipating quicker as the joy of being alive raced through his body. A few tears escaped from his eyes. His brother had not cried. The chanting increased in intensity.
“The purity,” someone said, and he knew they were referring to his tears.
“Holy.”
“Acceptance of God’s will.”
Andrew nodded at his handlers, standing near him, ready to grab him if he faltered. If he fell, no one would think ill, for God had chosen him, but if he regained his composure and walked with confidence, then when his father fell, he’d assume the mantle of God’s Army. The idea of replacing his father had never entered his thoughts until now. There was only one more trial to face, and then God’s Army would be his. But not until his father, whom he loved and worshipped, passed into God’s arms.
Andrew raised his arms wide, feeling the joy of his name being chanted louder and louder as the congregation swayed in unison to the love of God. His arms felt heavy as he held them aloft, and he fought the momentary urge to lower them; holding them in this position for a few minutes before bringing them down.
Andrew’s eyes roved over the crowd, stopping when he saw his father standing in the rear. His father’s trademark thick dark beard with streaks of white hair running down from each side of the chin, tracing a path like a waterfall to the beard’s very edge, which rested on the second button of the white shirt. Ezekiel’s eyes were hidden beneath thick eyebrows forever brooding.
Looking at the old man’s face, Andrew wondered if this man he called Father had cared whether he survived the selection, or if his father had been willing to chance Andrew’s survival as the only option for maintaining sole control of the people. It might not have been his only chance, but it was a quick one if Andrew survived, and survive he had.
“Sir…,” one of the handlers whispered. “The Bishop waits.”
The Bishop waits. His father would never willingly give up the title Bishop. His father communed with God. He spoke with Jesus. Ask his father, he’ll tell you. His father preached the righteousness of his faith. A faith grown from a handful when his father started God’s Army, to encompassing nearly six thousand in less than eight years; dedicated to whatever his father wanted. And within that six thousand were the core one hundred who plotted and planned the coming Armageddon. The core one hundred who sent followers across the globe to start the world toward Armageddon.
The Bishop preached, and they all believed, that with anarchy and the growing radicalism of Islam, the return of the Messiah would occur sooner, wiping bogus religions from the face of the earth and bringing peace for a thousand years. Ezekiel preached that the key to releasing the demons of Revelation was to rain destruction upon the world. The explosions at North Korean embassies in Canada, New York, and London had nearly achieved that goal. Alert police in France and across Europe had stopped the others — others who now languished in jails around the world, but who would die rather than betray God’s Army. They knew that when Armageddon came, their freedom would be assured.
If this first march toward anarchy had been successful, God’s Army would have led the people of America toward salvation as they waited for the return of the Lord.
A handler touched him slightly. Andrew nodded and started forward. The crowd shuffled apart, creating a path through which Andrew and the two men walked abreast. Someone tossed a small bouquet of flowers into the path. As Andrew passed, worshippers fell to their knees, giving thanks to God. A God looking down who had taken His finger and touched Andrew as the most faithful, most pure of the five men.
The scuffing of shoes disturbed the mildewed straw, stirring long-idle dust. Years of dried manure crumbled, joining the sharp mixed coppery odor of blood rising through the lantern-lit barn. It was the smell of God’s creation, which was why his father liked this abandoned and long-forgotten farm. Blood and manure — the beginning and the end — the Alpha and the Omega — the Ying and the Yang — for every start there is a finish.
Each step brought more confidence. Andrew’s pace quickened to a normal gait. His smile broadened and his tears stopped; only moist streaks remained on his dust-covered face. He raised his right hand as if blessing those who knelt in honor of God who had chosen him.
A few feet from his father, he met the old man’s eyes, and saw anger in them. His knees weakened for a moment, and then coursing through his body was the realization that with the click of the hammer he had both become his father’s successor and his father’s adversary. only hours earlier, Andrew had been the Bishop’s eldest son. He thought of Joshua for a moment — now Andrew was his father’s only son.
His father reached out and touched Andrew on his shoulder with his right hand. Even through the light shirt, the calluses on the hand were rough against Andrew’s skin. Calluses that told of the hard labor of many years put into the fields of the farm and the cotton mills of the South. The Bishop looked upward, lifting his left hand, waiting for the prayers and chanting to stop.
Keeping his hand on Andrew, Ezekiel stood. He looked down at Andrew, their eyes meeting briefly. “My son, I am proud of your goodness and faith.” His father looked at the congregation and continued. “Pride is something God forbids in the faithful, and for that pride I accept the small sin for what I feel for my son. God has reached down.” He looked at Andrew. “He has touched you with His spirit and He has returned the son I offered as a sign of my faith and love.”
Andrew dropped his gaze. His father dropped his hand. Andrew cut his eyes upward, watching his father. His father’s head turned slowly as the old man surveyed his loyal followers. In a loud voice, his pastor’s voice, his father took a deep breath and addressed the crowd. “This is a sign. It is a sign that God’s Army continues on the right path. I offered my son to the Lord to prove my faithfulness to Him. To prove to those who think that God’s Army needs a new Bishop, that God’s Army is moving too fast or too slow to hasten Armageddon, and that our direction is too radical for a country founded on the Bible. Let me say and ask each of you to carry this story forth. Carry it to your own congregations. Let it be known that Bishop Ezekiel offered God his remaining son and God, through His benevolence, rewarded my faithfulness by sparing Andrew.”
