Shadows of the deep, p.41
Shadows of the Deep, page 41
Shultz, quick to react, leaped onto Cutler’s billowing chute, trying desperately to deflate it. Cutler, pinned under the weight of both Shultz and the chute, could only brace as the momentum slid him violently across the slick deck into the steel bulkhead. The impact left him winded, gasping for air, but there was no time to recover. The chute, still filled with air, threatened to drag him back towards the stern.
Shultz, grappling with the canopy, finally managed to gather it in, freeing Cutler. But they were now right in Tuck’s landing path.
Tuck, hurtling towards the deck, realized the perilous situation. His only choice was to brake hard, risking injury to all three of them. He yanked the brake lines, the chute responding instantly, but the manoeuvre was risky.
Shultz, dragging Cutler, scrambled clear of the landing zone just in time. Stahmer, watching from a distance, gauged Tuck’s perilous descent. It was a critical moment, with Tuck’s landing now a dangerous gamble.
As Tuck neared the deck, he swung his legs, aiming to vault over the railing. His calculations were precise, but fate intervened. Mouhamed, on the bridge, unexpectedly altered the Reef Explorer’s course, throwing Tuck’s trajectory off.
Suddenly, two armed Somalians burst onto the scene, alerted by the lack of response from the top deck guard. Colton, watching through his sniper scope, momentarily had them in his sights before they disappeared behind the bulkhead.
The Somalians, instantly on high alert at the sight of Shultz and Cutler with the parachute, raised their weapons. A burst of gunfire rang out, bullets tearing through the fabric of the chute, narrowly missing Shultz and Cutler.
Stahmer, realizing he was too far to intervene, could only watch as the scene unfolded. The first Somalian kept firing, rounds whizzing perilously close to Cutler and Shultz. Then, as abruptly as it had started, the gunfire ceased.
In this moment, the deck of the Reef Explorer had become a crucible of chaos and danger. Every second counted, every decision could mean the difference between life and death. The tension was palpable, the air charged with the imminent threat of more violence. The fate of Cutler, Shultz, and Tuck hung in the balance, precariously teetering on the edge of disaster.
The Somalians changed magazines ready for a second volley of gunfire. The standoff on the deck of the Reef Explorer was a maelstrom of violence and split-second decisions. The first Somalian barely squeezed the trigger before Colton’s sniper round found its mark. The man crumpled to the deck, his lifeblood pulsing out in diminishing spurts as he faded into death.
Ghislaine, her knife a glint of deadly intent, charged the second assailant. He swung his weapon in a wide arc, not fast enough to shoot, but sufficient to knock Ghislaine off her trajectory, sending her skidding across the deck. Her intervention, however brief, bought Stahmer the precious seconds he needed.
Stahmer, weapon-less and desperate, lunged at the Somalian, forcing him against the rail. The gun clattered overboard, leaving the two men locked in a fierce struggle. The Somalian, younger and stronger, began to overpower Stahmer, his hands tightening relentlessly around Stahmer’s throat.
Above them, Tuck was in his own battle, swinging his legs to gain momentum for the landing. He paused, a fatal delay, but necessary for a clear shot. With a deep breath, he took aim. Below, Stahmer was on the brink, the Somalian’s grip unyielding. Then, abruptly, the pressure vanished. Tuck’s bullet had found its mark, the impact shattering the Somalian’s head.
Stahmer collapsed, gasping for air, comprehending in those ragged breaths that Tuck had just made the ultimate sacrifice for him.
Tuck’s struggle was not just against physical forces but against the very essence of defeat. He had Cheryl, his adopted daughter Esme, and a life worth fighting for. His body swung with desperate vigor, his legs clearing the rail by mere inches. It was a battle against gravity, a fight for survival.
But physics had the final say. Tuck’s lower body crashed against the metal barrier, the sickening sound of snapping bone echoing over the deck. On the poop deck, those close enough heard the gruesome snap of Tuck’s femur. Cutler and Colton, through the comms, caught the grunt of pain, the expletive that followed, and then silence as Tuck disappeared overboard, dragged by his parachute into the sea.
In the water, Tuck’s world was one of blinding pain and fading consciousness. His instincts screamed for survival, even as waves of darkness clawed at the edges of his mind. He fought to fill the parachute canopy, to use its drag to keep him away from the lethal churn of the ship’s propellers. The wind, an accomplice in his plight, pulled him first right, then left, drawing him away from the Reef Explorer.
Each touch of the waves was a jolt of agony, shooting from his shattered leg through his entire body. Tuck released his chute, plunging into a swell that engulfed him in pain. The suit and helmet, meant to protect, now felt like weights dragging him down.
Beneath the water’s surface, Tuck’s struggle became a solitary battle. He saw visions of Cheryl and Esme, so vivid against the backdrop of his darkening vision. He fought to kick, to swim, but only one leg responded, the other a source of relentless pain.
.
Chapter 23: Downfall
President Shelby had witnessed it all. His decades in Washington had provided him with an intimate understanding of the political landscape, a terrain marked by covert agreements and concealed operations. He was well-versed in the historical intricacies—the clandestine files of the CIA. The rumours of CIA involvement with drug money in the jungles of Vietnam, the Iran-Contra affair, and Operation Condor assassinations of South American right-wing politicians. These were the shadowy chapters of governance, the concealed aspects of American politics, hidden beneath the surface.
But President Shelby had clung to the belief that those days were behind them, that the government and its agencies had matured, evolved. Yet, as he hung up the phone with Fabienne and Ryan Welt, a bitter rage took hold. The dots connected into a grim picture—the sordid past hadn’t passed; it had merely donned a new disguise.
With steely resolve, Shelby summoned the joint chiefs of staff into the Oval Office. The air was thick with the gravity of the moment as he had them swear on both the Bible and the Tanakh, insisting on truth.
“Collusion, black ops, Conrad Ford, Sheldrake aka Kasim Asfour—swear to me, on these sacred texts, you’ve had no part in it,” he demanded, his voice cutting through the room’s hush.
Each chief, one after the other, placed their hand upon the holy books and swore their innocence, their ignorance. Welt made it crystal clear—this was to stay within these walls.
President Shelby’s late-night conversation with his predecessor was charged with tension and fraught with implications. Under the cloak of night, Shelby laid out the damning evidence, meticulously pieced together by Fabienne. He spoke in cold, hard facts, the kind that could unravel careers and shake the foundations of political establishments.
The crux of their conversation hinged on a legal grey area—the impeachment of a former president. The US Constitution, the bedrock of American law, spells out the grounds for impeachment but remains silent on whether it applies to those who have left the Oval Office. The process, traditionally a tool to oust a sitting official for grievous misconduct, teetered on untested legal ground when it came to former commanders-in-chief.
Shelby, with a steely edge in his voice, laid down an ultimatum to ex-president Nash. He threatened to bring the full weight of the Senate down on him, to push for an unprecedented impeachment if he didn’t divulge the whole truth. It was a high-stakes gamble, a move that could either bring about justice or backfire spectacularly. But Shelby was willing to roll the dice.
Cornered and concerned about the legacy he would leave behind, faced President Shelby with a resigned candour. His reputation, once untarnished, now hung precariously in the balance. Without outright denial, he began to unravel the threads of a black ops that had been set in motion years before.
The plan, audacious in its scope, was originally pitched to him by his then-Chief of Staff Treisman, now Shelby’s vice president. Its objective was clear: to curtail Russian expansion in the Mediterranean. The unwitting architect of this scheme was none other than Conrad Ford, a man driven by the desire to reclaim lucrative government contracts. Ford had come forward with an offer that promised to be a game-changer: the WCU, a weapon of unparalleled potential.
The plot thickened with the involvement of Deputy Director Allen, who had an asset deeply embedded within Al-Qaeda, crucial for ensuring the success of the operation. After much deliberation, the ex-president Nash had given the green light to Treisman and Allen, with one critical stipulation—no government funds were to be used. He had wanted to distance the official channels from this operation, wary of potential blowback.
However, the ex-president’s carefully laid plans unravelled as Shelby disclosed the grim realities of how the operation had been financed. The revelation that Conrad Ford had been given carte blanche to peddle arms indiscriminately on the global stage, and Asfour’s role in pilfering and flipping yachts, hit him like a physical blow. The consequences of these decisions were dire, leading to loss of life, including American citizens.
Nash’s reaction to Shelby’s revelations was one of disbelief and horror. The operation he had sanctioned, under the guise of national security, had spiralled into a dark saga of illegal arms deals and deadly consequences. This was a far cry from the controlled, strategic manoeuvre he thought he had set in motion. Now, facing the consequences, he grappled with the realization that his actions had unleashed a chain of events far beyond his original intent, staining his legacy with the blood of innocents.
Two years had passed since Shelby’s last cigar—a vice relinquished at the behest of the first lady. But tonight, Welt presented him with a box of Montecristo whites. Shelby retreated to the Rose Garden; the privacy of the night air preferable to the risk of leaving evidence of his lapse in the Oval Office.
Out in the garden, Secret Service agents shadowed him, their presence a silent vigil. He paused by the flower bed, a small bird catching his eye. With a flick of the lighter, he ignited the cigar, the aroma mingling with the earthy scent of thyme planted in meticulous patterns around the trees.
The flame’s glow, the cigar’s smoke, the night’s quiet—the scene was a solitary man’s contemplation, a leader burdened with the weight of knowledge, enveloped in the fragrance of secrets and smoke.
The smoke from President Shelby’s cigar twisted and curled into the night air, a visual manifestation of his simmering anger. He exhaled forcefully, each puff a release of his pent-up frustration. Halfway through the cigar, Welt approached him, the timing as precise as everything in Welt’s world.
“What next, Mr. President?” Welt asked, his voice steady despite the unfolding storm.
Shelby’s reply was tinged with a mix of bitterness and resolve. “I am the president of the United States, and yet I’m treated like a mushroom by those in power—kept in the dark, fed crap. That includes the vice president.”
“Orders, sir?” Welt was all business, ready to act.
“Get the vice president. I don’t care what he’s doing or who he’s with. I want him here within the hour.” Shelby’s command was unequivocal.
Welt handed Shelby a mint Tic Tac before departing, a small gesture amid the grander scheme of things. Shelby, seeking a semblance of normalcy, moved to the Nevada roses, plucking one and tucking it into his lapel, hoping its fragrance would mask the cigar’s scent.
President Shelby’s mind was preoccupied with the complex layers of the unfolding conspiracy, but it was Fabienne Asper’s parting words that truly unsettled him. Her assertion that the situation might be more convoluted than initially reported hinted at a deeper, possibly more perilous web of deceit.
“I don’t think it’s as clear cut as what I’ve reported, I have threads leading elsewhere. Do you want me to keep digging?” Fabienne had asked, her tone indicating she was ready to delve deeper into the murky waters.
“Yes, I want you to continue,” the president responded decisively, understanding the gravity of granting such authorization. “You’ll have access to any file required. I’m granting you SAP clearance.”
He was referring to Special Access Programs, the most secretive echelons of classified information. SAPs were the vaults of the nation’s most closely guarded secrets, accessible only to a select few with stringent security clearances. Even among those with Top Secret clearance, access to an SAP was limited to individuals with a specific need to know the sensitive information contained within.
He paused, a thought crossing his mind. “But from what I’ve heard, you might already have had access to these files.” There was a hint of wry acknowledgment in his voice, a nod to Fabienne’s reputation for being always one step ahead in the intelligence game.
For President Shelby, granting SAP clearance to Fabienne was not just a decision; it was a leap of faith, one that could unravel the threads of a conspiracy that reached deeper than he had ever imagined.
Meanwhile, Special Agent Rick Alderman interrupted the Vice President, Treisman, amidst his dinner with senators at Hampson Restaurant. Treisman’s initial dismissal turned into reluctant compliance when he learned the president had sent for him.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, duty calls,” Treisman quipped to his company, disguising his irritation with a veneer of humour. He took the phone from Alderman and retreated to a quieter spot.
“Welt, what’s so urgent?” Treisman’s tone was a mix of annoyance and curiosity, unaware of the storm brewing on the other end of the line.
Vice President Treisman’s s request to reschedule was met with a firm denial from Welt. “Afraid not,” Welt stated, as a special agent approached with Treisman’s overcoat, a subtle indication that the Secret Service was already in on the plan.
Welt led the vice president to the Situation Room, located in the basement of the West Wing of the White House. This room, often referred to as the nerve centre, was where critical decisions were made, especially in times of crisis. It was a hub bustling with activity and tension, housing intelligence analysts, duty officers, communication specialists, and the national security advisor. They were all there, waiting in anticipation.
The atmosphere in the room was charged. The black leather chairs around the long rectangular conference table were filled with the joint chiefs of staff, their expressions grave, their focus sharp. President Shelby sat at the head of the table, his presence one of controlled urgency.
As Vice President Treisman entered, the sensors in the ceiling detected a breach of protocol—he hadn’t left his cell phone outside as required. A duty officer promptly took his phone, an action that didn’t escape Treisman’s notice. His gaze then fell on the screens displaying live feeds of Max Cutler and the SAS teams aboard the Osprey. He moved to take his usual front row seat but was stopped in his tracks as President Shelby stood up.
“I need a word, Richard,” the president said, his tone serious. He led the vice president into an adjoining conference room, with Ryan Welt following closely behind. The joint chiefs of staff exchanged glances, the tension palpable, as they realized that the day’s interviews had unearthed something significant.
“I gather we’re here over the hijacking in the Mediterranean?” Treisman ventured, trying to gauge the situation.
“You know we are, Richard,” the president replied, cutting straight to the chase.
“On the screen, those look like SAS teams. Are the Brits sending them onto the Reef Explorer?” Treisman’s asked, trying to piece together the unfolding scenario.
“In conjunction with ourselves and a private contractor, MIDAS,” the president confirmed.
“Is that wise, Mr. President?” In the high stakes, charged atmosphere, the confrontation in the side conference room was laced with tension and veiled accusations. President Shelby, with Ryan Welt by his side, faced Vice President Treisman in a moment fraught with implications.
Welt, unflinching, chimed in, challenging Treisman. “As a former CIA director, surely you understand the strategic implications here?”
Treisman, feeling cornered, shifted his focus. “Why is Welt here, Mr. President, questioning me like I’m a suspect rather than the vice president?”
Shelby’s response was firm. “Welt stays, Richard. Remember, I chose you for this position.”
Treisman expressed his gratitude, but Shelby cut to the chase, confronting him with allegations of undermining the administration. Treisman feigned ignorance, but the President pressed on, revealing that Deputy Director Allen was currently under intense interrogation.
Treisman, visibly uncomfortable, denied knowledge of any operation. But Shelby was relentless, citing Fabienne Asper’s findings from GCHQ, linking Treisman to a meeting about the operation and its connection to Carl Bridge, now known as the terrorist Kasim Asfour.
The vice president attempted to deflect, advising the president to let the matter go. But Shelby was resolute, questioning Treisman’s role and the operation’s true target.
President Shelby laid down his ultimatum with unflinching authority. The air in the room seemed to thicken as he spoke, his words cutting through the tension like a knife.
“Let me be absolutely clear,” Shelby began, his voice a blend of resolve and cold determination. “The public will be informed later tonight that you’ve had a heart attack. You’ll be moved to a dark site and interrogated until we get the truth.”
Treisman, the vice president, recoiled at the president’s words, his voice a mix of disbelief and indignation. “You can’t do that, I’m the vice president of the United States.”
Shelby’s reply was swift and decisive, a verbal knockout blow. “I can, because I am the president.” His words resonated with the power vested in his office, underscoring the gravity of the situation.
The room, already heavy with the weight of revelations and accusations, seemed to close in around them. The exchange was more than a mere conversation; it was a showdown of political power, a clash of wills between two men who had navigated the treacherous waters of Washington’s elite. For Treisman, the threat was clear and imminent, a stark reminder of the perilous game of power and secrecy in which they were all players. Shelby’s move was bold, a gambit that spoke of his readiness to push boundaries to uncover the truth, no matter how high the cost or how deep the fall.
