Retribution Road by Jon Coon (e reader comics .TXT) 📕

Carol gave him a hug and kiss on the cheek. She whispered, “Just come back to us, please. Before this gets worse.”

The SSN 790, USS South Dakota, a Virginia Class Attack Submarine, was commissioned the second of February, 2019. She was the newest of this class of subs and was moored, with new paint gleaming, in the Key West summer sun, and had a dry deck shelter, or DDS, nested just aft of her conning tower.

“Only the best for our friends from the twilight zone,” Master Chief Kurczewski said as he slapped Gabe on the back and welcomed him aboard. “Let’s get your gear squared away and I’ll give you the tour and introduce you to Captain Anderson. He’s anxious to hear about the mission and the details of the attack on the refinery. I’m afraid you’re sort of an anomaly. It’s hard for the Navy to believe anyone without an MK 5 helmet tattoo can actually dive. But don’t worry, I’m here to protect you.”

Gabe laughed, and they stowed his gear in a small cubicle with two bunks.

“Welcome to the VIP guest suite, Agent Mulder. The rest of us are sharing a bunk room.”

The captain and crew were cordial, and the food excellent for a person with Gabe’s modest palate. After the meal and a bowl of ice cream, Gabe asked the chief when they would get underway.

“Well, that’s classified. I could tell you but then—”

“Never mind. I know how that ends. Thank you.”

Kurczewski laughed. “The truck with the SWCS is still en route from Norfolk. We’ll leave as soon as it gets loaded.”

“Remind me again what that means.”

“En route means the truck is still on the—oh, you meant SWCS. That’s Shallow Water Combat Submersible for you civilians.”

“Thank you. I can tell this is going to be a long trip.”

With a crew of 132—15 officers and 117 enlisted—plus the six-man SWCS crew, the South Dakota was full but not crowded, as submarines go. The meals were good and the crew accommodating and friendly. Gabe was fascinated by the technology and intrigued by the new propulsion system called a propulsor or pump-jet. The system consisted of two massive water pumps capable of thousands of pounds of thrust. They reduced cavitation and enabled the sub to run at a nearly undetectable level of quiet. Other features, like a torpedo room capable of being reconfigured for special ops and a diver lockout chamber that could comfortably hold fifteen divers and their gear, made the South Dakota the ideal two-billion-dollar vehicle for this kind of operation.

Gabe had worried the four SEALs he was to work with would be skeptical of the skills a civilian dive school graduate and Louisiana oil rig diver turned cop and body hunter could possess. While the tactical training and physical prowess of the SEALs was beyond impressive, Gabe also found them bright, engaging, and interested in his training and the job opportunities for post-military diving careers.

As the South Dakota took them toward the Mexican coast at speeds in excess of twenty-five knots, Gabe heard stories of SEAL training and past operations. They went over the plans for this mission numerous times with each operator listing his specific tasks. They introduced Gabe to the weapons they used and to the navigation tools.

Gabe would carry two SEAL favorites: the Sig Sauer P226, 9 mm handgun, and a Heckler & Koch MP5SP, an internally suppressed submachine gun built for special ops groups with the unique feature of being able to fire with water in the gun—a nice feature for operators making assaults from wet submarines or long, submerged swims. From his police training, Gabe was familiar with the HK, but not with this special version.

The six-man team talked long into the afternoon until Master Chief Kurczewski declared “lights out” and told them they would launch in seven hours.

Geared up and waiting to enter the diver lockout chamber, after a light meal and final briefing, the men entered and gave the order to open the valve to flood the chamber. They came out a hatch in the sub’s side and went up to the DDS, the dry deck shelter, on the South Dakota’s deck, opened it, and after a quick systems check, untethered the Shallow Water Combat Submersible.

Designed for two crew and four passengers, the little sub had a twelve-hour range with the divers in wet suits and breathing from onboard compressed air. They boarded, switched from their back-mounted, twin, eighty-cubic-feet tanks to the vessel’s air, leveled at forty feet, and began a one-hour run to the target. Gabe was just beginning to feel the chill when he heard the hum of the electric motors stop and felt the nose settle into the sand.

The two SEALs led the way out, Gabe and the Master Chief followed. Gabe checked his watch; it was 0200—two A.M. for civilians. The water was clear, and the bottom, clean white sand with occasional coral heads and sea fans. Each team had a scooter, and Gabe held to the chief’s ankles as the little black scooter zipped them into shallow water.

There were no lights on the beach, and nothing that looked like a bay for the narco-subs. Ray, the team leader, scanned the beach with night vision and then dropped back beneath the surface. On his slate, he wrote, “railway, 20 m.” He pointed a course parallel to the water’s edge, and they scootered a hundred meters up through the water. Then he signaled for them to surface.

“Let’s use the jungle rather than go straight in across the open sand,” he whispered. “I didn’t see anyone, but that’s too much money to leave unguarded. We’ll lead, you follow—slow and quiet.” They nodded, and Ray crawled across the beach into the trees and waited. His partner looked both ways carefully and then moved quickly until he also was hidden by the foliage.

Gabe and Kurczewski followed. They sat quietly, waiting and watching. When Ray was satisfied they