by

A mile offshore from Puerta Cortes, Honduras, the destroyer escort, Boston, anchored in water barely deep enough for the keel to clear sandy bottom.  The Boston was part of a large naval maneuver taking place in the Caribbean, when the skipper received orders to steam at full speed to Puerta Cortes.  They were given no further orders - sail to their present position and stand down for the time being to await a pick up of some Americans ashore.  Diplomats or something.

Captain Lawrence Overstreet and his First Officer, Lieutenant Commander Ryan Porter, stood on the narrow catwalk outside the bridge looking at the lights ashore.  "What do you think, Ryan?"

"Sir?"

"What do you think?  Why would we be ordered here at flank speed, then told to stand down until tomorrow morning?  Who do you suppose we're supposed to pick up?"

"You know how the government works, Captain.  Who could say?"

The captain wore his battle fatigue uniform, as did the entire crew.  He had a habit of sticking his hands in the bulgy back pockets and staring down at the deck when he was angry or troubled by something.  His first officer had seen him do nothing else for the last three hours, since dropping anchor well within Honduran territorial limits without the permission of the Honduran government.

After focusing on the deck in silence for several minutes, Captain Overstreet said, "I don't like it.  Why didn't they send the Norwalk?  If there's some kind of trouble brewing ashore, the Norwalk has choppers and marines aboard.  And, it's a hell of a lot faster than this outdated piece of scrap.”  Concern for the safety of his ship and crew was evident in the captain’s voice and expression.  “Something just isn't right, dammit!"

"I've been in the navy seven years, Captain, and like I said, who knows what anything they order us to do means."

Captain Overstreet turned toward the hatch and answered, "Well being this close to shore without permission bothers the hell outa me.  Let's grab some coffee."

  ***

Signalman First Class Bobby Stewart sat on the deck under the catwalk, looking up at the stars, when Captain Overstreet and Lieutenant Commander Porter stepped through the hatch onto the catwalk and began talking.  A simple, God-fearing farm boy from Nebraska, Bobby wasn't in the habit of eavesdropping on others' conversations, but once they started talking, he was trapped.  If they saw or heard him move away, they might think he was deliberately sneaking a listen.  But, when they stepped back onto the bridge, he immediately hurried toward the stern before they could return.

When he reached the rear of the ship, where he'd normally stand his watch, Steve, (Stretch) Archer was on duty as the sole deck watch.  Bobby was five feet, eight inches tall, while Stretch stood well over six feet and was one of the biggest men Bobby had ever seen.  Bobby firmly believed in ESP, and tonight… well, there must have been something in the air.  He had felt it all evening - something he couldn't put his finger on but, none the less, something real.  Now, he found Stretch fidgety and nervous.

The Boston was a small vessel.  Left over from World War Two, it was a hundred, sixty-five feet in length, and carried a crew of but forty-one, including officers and enlisted.  Some five years earlier, the Boston was converted to an electronics warfare ship - sort of an AWACS of the seas.  With so small a crew, there were seldom more than fifteen people on duty, and the decks were usually deserted this time of night, except for the man standing watch.  The electronics section of the bridge constantly scanned the surrounding waters, so the man on deck was more tradition than for practical purposes.

Like Bobby, Stretch was a signalman.  The Boston carried three men with their specialty, one for each eight-hour watch.  The signalmen were trained in but two things - sending and receiving messages with flags or a signal light.  There was little need for their services, so they stood regular watches to earn their keep.

It was two AM, but Bobby hadn't been able to sleep.  Perhaps it was because he couldn't get his mind off Mary Sue, what with it being such a short time until his hitch was finished and he'd go home to marry her.  Then again, one didn't have to be a ship's officer to be nervous about being in dangerous waters.  At least, dangerous in the sense, they were in another country’s territorial waters without invitation.  Everyone aboard was a bit nervous about it.

Stretch leaned against the rail looking at the sky when Bobby approached.  “Sure is pretty out, ain’t it, Stretch?”

He jumped backward and said, "My God, Bobby, you scared the shit outa me, man."

"Sorry, Stretch.  Didn't mean to."

Stretch walked back and forth a few paces, flexing his long arms and yawning.  In a sleepy voice he asked, "Whataya think we're doin' here, Bobby?"

"Uh, Stretch, you promise you won't tell anyone if I tell you a secret?"

Signalman Archer chuckled, wondering what kind of secret Bobby could have.  "What secret you talkin' about, Bobby?  You got information about what we're doin' here that no one else knows?"

Bobby glanced quickly around the deck and lowered his voice.  "Well, yeah, sorta.  I overheard the captain talking to Mister Porter up on the catwalk by the bridge.  I was sittin' beneath the catwalk when they came out, and I couldn't leave, then.  Didn't want them to think I was spyin’ on them or somethin'."

"What'd they say?  I won't tell anyone."   Now, Stretch seemed interested.

"You know, it's a funny thing.  The captain seemed really worried about our bein' here.  He was tellin’ Lieutenant Porter they should have sent the Norwalk, 'cause they have rangers and choppers and stuff aboard.  Something about pickin' up some people ashore."

"What people?"

"I dunno.  I was right outside the bulkhead where that big generator runs full time.  Couldn't hear everything they were saying, but the captain sure seemed worried."

Stretch leaned back against the rail and said, "Well, after this trip, you won't have to worry about it anymore.  Whataya gonna do when you get out, Bobby?"

His face lit up in a huge smile.  "Well, you know, Stretch, Mary Sue and me are gonna get married right away.  Her daddy has a big farm, and he's gonna give us three hundred acres to build a house on.  You can make a pretty good livin' on three hundred acres up there in Lincoln County.  I ever show you a picture of Mary Sue?"

Stretch was a man of the world, having been in the navy eleven years.  Bobby was just the opposite - naive to the point of being an innocent babe.  When the others had gone ashore on liberty to get drunk and find the closest whore to bed, Bobby always declined their invitation to go along, with the excuse he was saving himself for Mary Sue.  Stretch liked Bobby and the innocence he stood for.  He slapped him on the back and smiled.  "Don't believe you ever have shown me that purty gal you talk about all the time, Bobby."

He ripped the wallet from his pocket and opened it to the plastic photo section in the middle.  It was filled with pictures of the same girl, but he flipped the plastic inserts to his favorite picture of Mary Sue Martin and held it out for Stretch to see.  His voice filled with excitement, as he spoke of his beloved.  "That's Mary Sue."

Stretch looked at the average looking young woman in the picture and said, "Whooee, Bobby, that's some good lookin' gal.  No wonder you're anxious to get home."

"Yeah, she is a looker all right, ain’t she?  Mary Sue's really nice, too.  I'm a really lucky guy."  He continued to hold the wallet to the moonlight and stare at the love of his young life - the girl he'd promised himself to.

***

Ten feet inside the tree line, three miles south of Puerta Cortes and just opposite the Boston, United States Army Ranger Corporal Dean Browder asked his sergeant, "What the hell we doing here, Sarge?"

"Hey Browder, I just follow orders.  We’re here because we were told to be here."

"But why would they want us to fire a Mark-6 at one of our own ships?"

"All I know is, it's some part of an exercise.  The Mark’s a dud.  It won't fly but a few hundred yards and flare out.  They must wanta test some kind of missile detection equipment or something."

"Man, it sure seems strange firing on our own people, even if it is a dud."

"Well, we have just five minutes to get it set up and aimed."

  ***

  Bobby and stretch continued to chat about Bobby's upcoming marriage, the house he would build and what he'd raise on his farm.  Then, Stretch said, "Hey, buddy, do me favor.  I gotta go to the head, man.  Take over the watch for a few minutes.  Be right back."

When Stretch disappeared through the hatch, Bobby leaned on the signal light and took hold of the handle that opened and closed the shutters.  Every time he stood watch, he flashed messages to Mary Sue with the big signal light.  He didn't turn the twenty thousand watt light on, just flipped the shutter open and closed to spell out such things as, "I love you, Mary Sue." and "Sure will be glad to get home and see you."  "How many kids you wanta have, Mary Sue?"  It was a one sided conversation, but it kept him proficient with the signal light and, sometimes, Bobby pretended Mary Sue was getting the message and answering him.

The wallet, with Mary Sue staring up at the clear night sky, was still in his hand when he took hold of the signal light handle.  As he flipped the shutter to begin spelling out "It won’t be long now, Mary Sue," Bobby saw a strange glow coming toward him at a fascinating rate of speed.

The Mark-6, which hit the superstructure a few feet above Bobby's head, was one of the deadliest weapons in the army's arsenal.  Once up to speed, the stealth surface to surface missile flew faster than a bullet.  It was a small rocket, seven inches round, barely four feet long, and was designed to pierce the heavy armor of a tank or the reinforced structure around the bridge of a ship before exploding.  This Mark-6 had been programmed to hone in on the center of electronic activity aboard the ship, and it hit the bridge at waist level.  It took but a microsecond for the warhead to bore its way through the three inches of tempered steel and explode on the other side.

First Officer, Lieutenant Commander Ryan Porter, was killed instantly - blown into a million pieces, nearly vaporized.  Captain Overstreet had been on the other side of the bridge, with the coffeepot in hand.  He was thrown with unimaginable force against the bulkhead and lay in a crumpled, twisted heap beneath the debris that had once been the bridge.  The radar operator, the electronics warfare officer and the boson disappeared with their First Officer.  Everything was destroyed.  Communications equipment - the controls that steered and operated the ship - the coffee pot - everything lay in a jumbled, smoldering mass.  And, everything was coated with the pasty pinkish remains of what had been human beings a split second earlier.

Signalman First Class Bobby Stewart's head lay apart from his body.  The explosion, which blew all the bullet proof Kraylon plastic windows out and a huge hole through the side of the bridge, had ripped the signal light apart, shattering the two inch thick glass and leaving the edges scalpel sharp.

Sometimes, a quirk of fate, or providence, or destiny, or whatever the hell one wants to call it, puts one in the wrong place at the wrong time.  That's what it was with Bobby’s neck.  In the wrong place...

Bobby’s wide-open eyes seemed to stare at his lifeless body in mute recognition.  His mouth was open in a silent scream of disbelief.  Mary Sue Martin continued to look up at the beautiful Caribbean night sky from the little plastic window of Bobby’s wallet.

Stretch stood in the hatch, staring at Bobby’s severed head, screaming, with grievous wounds of his own.  He, too, had been in the wrong place at the most inopportune time, having returned from the head in time for the missile’s destructive blow.  Stretch held onto the edge of the hatch with all his waning strength, but slid slowly to the deck and sat in a pool of his own blood.  As he continued to look into Bobby’s eyes, Stretch toppled over onto his back and joined Mary Sue Martin in blindly looking upward at the beautiful, starlit Caribbean sky.

***

The ranger sergeant stood transfixed, unable to move.  Good God!  How could this have happened?  But, like the good ranger he was, his duty now was to get his men out of a foreign country and safely back to the Walker, thirty miles offshore.  Finally, he yelled at the top of his voice, "Snap out of it!  MOVE!"

"What the fuck happened, Sarge?  You said it was a dud!  We probably killed people out there!  What the fuck's goin’ on?"

The sergeant, close to tears, screamed out, "I don't know what happened!  It was supposed to be a dud.  We gotta get ta hell outa here!"

The six-man team turned to run toward their predetermined pickup point, but it was not to be.  They had moved but five paces toward the beach, when withering automatic weapons fire cut them down.  None would live to confess their sin.

***

On the beach, a mile down the coast, the commander of the Blackhawk helicopter saw the streak of light and the explosion aboard the Boston.  "Jesus Christ, Joe.  Did you see that?"

"Yeah!  What the hell you suppose is going on, Captain?"

"It looked like a missile fired from shore.  Seemed to come from right where the rangers are supposed to be.  That was one of our ships out there!"  He looked at his watch and said, "Five minutes, the men should be here."

Ten minutes later, and no rangers.  Captain Albert Schmidt fingered the control on the radio.  "Cobra control, this is night bird."

A one-word answer.  "Control."

"Cobra, our passengers have not arrived.  Are you aware of missile fired on USS Boston?"

"Negative, Night Bird.  Find our people."

Captain Schmidt rotated the actuator, and the bird lifted off the beach.  The large rock outcrop just to the north easily identified the spot where the rangers should have been.  As they approached, Schmidt said, "Use your scanner for warm bodies, Joe."

"Captain, I have six targets… prone on the ground.  Don't seem to be moving.  Hate to say it, but their echo is one-one."

"Dead?"

"Dead or dying.  Point her into the trees and hit the flood."

Two black clad bodies lay at the edge of the sand.  Schmidt set the chopper down as close to the trees as possible and hovered barely off the sand.  "Check it out."

Master Sergeant Joe Treger waved at the three rangers in the passenger compartment, and they bailed out the door, weapons at the ready.  A half minute later, they disappeared into the trees, and but another minute had elapsed when Joe spoke into his hand held radio. "They're all here, Captain.  All dead."

"We need to retrieve the bodies, Joe."

It took three trips to get all six dead rangers aboard, and as Joe flopped into the right-hand seat he asked, "Where to, Captain?"

"Get us over the water.  I'll tell you in a minute."

Joe Treger was probably the only enlisted man in the army who flew a Blackhawk.  Every time he did, it was breaking every rule in the book, but Captain Al Schmidt was an a-okay guy.  When he figured out Joe had a natural talent for handling the craft, he'd taught him how to fly - and taught him well.  He felt completely comfortable with Joe at the controls.  Normally, there would be a weapons manager in the right seat, who was also a qualified pilot, but when out on normal peacetime maneuvers, many times, the crew chief rode the position.

Al Schmidt tried not to think about the grisly cargo they had placed aboard, as he checked the small book that had been put together for these maneuvers.  Admiral Quello was commander of the entire operation and was aboard the carrier Minneapolis.  Al dialed up the listed frequency for the carrier com center and said, "Minneapolis, this is Army Night Bird.  Over."

"Night Bird, this is Minnie Com.  What can we do for you?"

"Minnie, I need permission to come aboard, Sir."

"Do you have an emergency, Night Bird?"

"Well… yes.  I have some dead army rangers aboard that I need to take somewhere.  Over."

"Did I read that right, Night Bird?  You have dead army rangers aboard?"

"You got it, Minnie.  I know Admiral Quello is aboard.  That's why I chose your ship, Sir.  Over."

"Where are you, Night Bird?"

"Should be Sixty miles northwest your location.  I can go to altitude so you can reach me with radar and magnetic scan.  My code is zero, zero, two, one, two, one, zero.  You copy, Minnie."

"That's a roger.  Pull four grand and let us have a look, Night Bird."

"Will do."  Captain Schmidt nodded to Joe that he had control, then eased forward on the actuator and twisted the knob to get up to four thousand feet as quickly as possible.  He wanted to be rid of the scene back in the passenger compartment.  Al could imagine what they must look like.  Joe was covered with blood front and back from carrying the bodies to the chopper.

A few minutes later, they headed southeast at four thousand feet when the radio crackled, "Night Bird, this is Minnie, over."

"Minnie - Night Bird."

"Roger, Night Bird.  We have you ID'd at 320 degrees and twenty-six miles.  Adjust course to 125 for intercept."

"Roger, Minnie.  Course 125 for intercept.  Holding altitude."

"That's a roger, Night Bird.  No activity our area.  You're cleared all the way in.  We have slight roll of five degrees and negative swell.  Pad two is clear and lit.  We now have you at seventeen miles."

"That's a roger, Minnie.  I have visual on your lights."

Ten minutes later, Captain Schmidt sat the chopper down on the helo pad, cut the engine and shut down nearly two dozen systems before removing the seat harness and standing in the passageway to the troop compartment.  He had seen death in Bosnia and never wanted to see it again.  "Uh, Sarge, can you get them unloaded.  I, uh..."  He was on the verge of being sick. 

Sergeant Treger understood and said, "There's coffee in the thermos up front, Captain.  Why don't you have a cup."

"Yeah.  Thanks, Sarge.  That's a good idea."  He sat looking out the windshield of the chopper at the deck that seemed to stretch a half-mile ahead of him, ashamed that he couldn't handle seeing the dead men.  Maybe his father-in-law was right.  Maybe he should chuck this flyboy stuff and get into engineering like he'd intended when he finished college.  He was like a surgeon who couldn't stand the sight of blood.  It might cost him or someone else their life some day.

Again, he climbed from the pilot's seat and moved to the rear of the chopper.  As he stepped onto the deck, Al wondered who in the hell he should report to on the ship.  Should he try to go directly to Admiral Quello?  He didn't have to wonder long.

Two ship security people waited on deck next to the chopper and said, "Sir, would you come with us, please?"  As he walked silently between them toward a hatch in the superstructure, close to the pad where he'd landed, one of the seaman said, "Beautiful night, isn't it, Sir?"

"Yeah, hell of a night to die."

"What happened, Sir?  Who were the bodies?"

"I'm afraid that might be some kind of classified bullshit, gentlemen.  Army rangers, is all I know."

He was escorted to what amounted to an executive meeting room and told someone would be with him shortly.  Five minutes later, a man in civilian clothes walked in and sat down opposite.  Who the hell was he?  He looked familiar somehow, but what was a civilian doing aboard?  And, more important, what the hell did he have to do with what happened ashore?

Without offering to introduce himself, and without any kind of greeting, the man said, "Captain Schmidt, none of what happened tonight happened.  It's a matter of utmost secrecy.  I can't tell you what it was about, but neither you nor any of your people will say anything about this incident to anyone.  It never happened."

Al Schmidt should have been an engineer, or a priest, or a car salesman or something.  He sure as hell wasn't cut out for this bullshit!  First, he had to haul what had been walking, talking, breathing human beings minutes before from the jungle of a foreign country, some of them nearly cut in half by automatic weapons.  Now, it hadn't even happened?  Bullshit!  BULLSHIT!!

"Just exactly what do you mean, it didn't happen?  Where'd all the goddamned blood inside my machine come from?  You goddamned right it happened!"

"You cannot admit it to anyone.  You weren't even in the region.  Understand?"

"Hell no, I don't understand!  Those were fellow Army Rangers I hauled to this ship.  They were shot all to hell!  Never happened?  Who the fuck are you, anyway?"

The man leaned back in his chair and stared at him, his eyes narrowed to slits.  "You don't seem to understand, Captain.  This is a matter of national security.  Of course, it happened.  And it's a damned shame.  I feel as bad about those dead soldiers as you do.  Son, there are a lot of things go on in the world that sometimes don't seem right, but are happening for a good reason.  You have to understand, if you talk to anyone about this, it could ruin your career.  You're up for major, aren't you?  I know you wouldn't want anything to blemish your record and you not get the promotion you deserve."

So this guy already knew all about him - knew he was up for a promotion, and he was threatening to queer it.  Who the hell is the bastard?  He'd have to have known all this before he even brought the bodies aboard.  That meant he was involved in whatever happened.  Keep your cool, Al.  Go along with him for now.  You might never leave this ship if you don't.  Hell, they killed all those rangers.

"What will they do with the bodies?"

"I'll be honest with you, Captain.  We can't tell their families they were killed down here.  I'm afraid we'll have to tell them they were killed in a training accident.  I'll see to it their families receive all the benefits they would if they'd been killed in combat."

"Do you need me for anything else?"

"Not if you understand this never took place and swear you'll never reveal it to anyone."

"I don't guess there'd be much in it for me to interfere with national security, would there?"

"You're free to go, Captain.  Be careful.  You're flying off the Detroit, right?"

"Yes, Sir."

"We'll have a report made up that you had radio problems and made an emergency landing on the Minneapolis for repairs.  That'll be your story.  Okay?"

"Sounds reasonable."

"Good flying, Captain."

Al nearly laughed at himself for his fleeting moment of terror, as he made his way quickly across the deck to his Blackhawk.  But, then, he realized it was no laughing matter.  Hell, if they could write off the rangers so easily, what were his chances they'd want to silence him and the others aboard the chopper?

Sergeant Treger and the other rangers were in the passenger compartment awaiting his return, with six navy security just outside the door.  As Al dropped into the left seat and began the starting procedure without following the pre-start checklist, Sergeant Treger gave him a strange look and asked, "We in a hurry, Captain?"

"You got it, Sarge.  What did they do with the bodies?"

"I don't know.  They didn't let us beyond the hatch.  What the hell's up, Captain?  They ushered us back to the chopper and told us to stay aboard until it left the ship."

"Sarge, don't be surprised by anything I do.  I have my reasons.  You arm every damned weapons system and activate the defensive measures the minute we’re off the deck."  He hit the master switch and the compressed air whipped through the turbines.  Then, he pressed the ignition button, held it down for two seconds and slowly rotated the throttle.  A slight whoosh shook the craft, as the burners ignited and the whine of the turbines quickly increased.  Captain Schmidt selected full lift on the rotors and twisted the throttle even farther.  The machine jumped from the deck and nosed forward, away from the side of the ship, but close to the water.

Sergeant Treger flipped the switches that armed the auto-tracking Gatlin gun in the nose, the sparrow rockets and the two heavier ATS missiles.  Then, he punched the button to activate the defensive measures computer.

They had lifted off the deck of the carrier without so much as calling air control and receiving permission.  Sergeant Treger knew they were in some kind of serious trouble.  "Everything's armed, defense on, Captain.  What's up?"

The ten-year chopper pilot flipped the control for defensive lighting, and the cockpit was bathed in a soft green glow that was hard to see from a distance at night.  He'd no sooner turned to answer Treger than the klaxon alarm sounded and the screen in the center of the control panel flashed the message - MISSILE LOCKED ON CRAFT -

They both stared at the screen and saw the missile overtaking them at a fantastic rate from behind.  Captain Schmidt hit the intercom switch and yelled, "Hang on!  We're under missile attack!"

As they moved at maximum speed, only ten feet off the water, he released a cloud of phosphorus and aluminum powder that would hopefully confuse the missile's guidance system.

All they could do was watch the screen and pray.  The missile should explode when it reached the cloud.  It didn't.  The sound of the klaxon changed to signify five seconds to contact.  Schmidt hit the intercom and yelled, "HANG ON!  I'll either kill us or save us!"

Their forward speed was well over two hundred, when he yanked the control.  The Blackhawk turned straight up.  It's forward momentum continued, as Schmidt brought it around in a loop and barely missed the wave tops with the skids.  He continued past level and brought the craft to a hundred feet off the water, then dived it to the left, barely above the swells.  The missile had passed under them as they had abruptly pulled to the vertical, but now they had another problem.  The screen showed two missiles coming at them from either side at an angle from the rear.

Sergeant Treger stared at Captain Schmidt.  Schmidt never took his eyes off the screen, as the klaxon clanged loudly throughout the craft.  He muttered in the mike, "Eight miles from land.  Sarge, we can't outrun 'em and we can't keep dodging them.  Only one thing we can do.  Put it in the water."

"We do that, Captain, we'll be sitting ducks.  Someone wants us dead real bad!"

Then Schmidt said loudly, "Thank you, dear Lord!  Looka there, Sarge!"  Directly to the front, less than a quarter mile away, was the Destroyer Walker.  If they could avoid the two missiles coming their way, they'd make it.  They could duck around behind the Walker and set down on her deck.  "Everybody hang on one more time!"  They had again reached maximum forward speed, and two seconds to impact, Schmidt jerked the craft into a vertical climb, then nosed it over forward, falling straight for the water. 

Again, the missiles had been moving too fast to react, and continued on their way in a long arc to come back to the target.  They were but a few seconds from the safety of the Walker.  The people on the carrier tracking the missiles would have to destruct them before they hit the destroyer.  Sergeant Treger turned to say something to Schmidt when the rocket from the Walker hit.  No warning klaxon, no flashing red screen with a message of death on its way - just sudden obliteration.  The Walker carried the new super secret stealth air defense, whose physical presence nor electronics could be detected by the most up to date defense systems on the world's aircraft.  

Captain Albert Schmidt and Master Sergeant Joseph Tregor, along with three other United States Army Rangers, had become another tragic training accident - nothing but small bits of flesh thrashing about in the frothy three-foot swells.  After all, in an exercise of this magnitude, accidents do happen.  People were bound to be lost.