Behind Enemy Lines: Supernatural Meddling

By Craige McMillan

Mia is confused. She died during an operation and is now in a wonderful place! But William Bradshaw, praying with her mother in the hospital room where she died, has come to tell her she must return home.

America’s most respected flying ace has defected to the navy. He is investigating the loss of two American submarines. His forme

• Language: English
• Publisher: Revelare
• Release date: Feb 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781946047038

Craige McMillan

Craige McMillan is an American writer. He grew up in the rolling farmland and small towns of the Midwest, which served farmers and provided railroad transportation for their crops. His family later moved to southern California. There he finished high school and met the girl who would become his wife. They both attended college, where he studied history during the social turbulence of the early 1970s. He followed the same route to novel writing that many other authors have taken. He wrote articles, news stories, and later worked in signals intelligence overseas during the Cold War. When he returned to the United States, he worked in large-scale computer systems where he did programming, database design, computer security and disaster recovery. Craige now lives in what is still cowboy country, the high desert American West, with his wife of forty-some years, and a Belgian Shepherd, to whom he reads his first drafts.

Book preview

PART I: OFF THE COAST OF BRAZIL

CHAPTER 1

Submarine Attack On A Yacht

Up periscope, said Captain Steinsen.

The captain leaned his early-graying head into the optics rest of the periscope while his junior officer watched the images on a small video monitor.

Target range, nine miles, said the captain. Bearing 270 true. Ahead slow, 320 true. It’s a big yacht, we’ll have to get closer to positively identify.

Captain, said Lieutenant Berkowitz, looking up from the video monitor. It is the Tristan. We have a positive GPS fix on the target.

Steinsen gave the young lieutenant a swift but penetrating look, his dark eyes boring into the man’s blue ones. Before I blow a civilian yacht out of the water, sailor, I’m going to damn well know it’s the right one. Unless, of course, lieutenant, you’d like to assume command. It wasn’t a question. Steinsen didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t get one.

The USS Ensign slid silently toward its target, slowly closing the distance where the submarine could move ahead of the bow of the yacht, to verify the name with a video recording.

Ready bow torpedo number one, said the captain. Leave the door closed. Lieutenant Berkowitz, take the periscope.

Berkowitz took a deep breath, then confidently walked toward the optics. Bearing 250 true. Distance seven miles, sir, said Berkowitz. The change represented the submarine’s advance ahead of the yacht.

Ship details? asked the captain.

Berkowitz deflated. I don’t know, sir.

You are relieved of your duties, Lieutenant. Report to your quarters until further notice.

Yes, sir, said Berkowitz, glancing at the captain as he left the command center.

Captain Steinsen took the periscope again. "Target is an Italian-made luxury yacht. Size is one-hundred-seventy-five-foot class. Full displacement steel hull. Maximum speed around sixteen knots. Cruising range five thousand miles. Sleeps twelve passengers and thirteen crewmembers. Continue toward rendezvous to verify ship name.

Descend to two hundred feet. Maintain heading 320 true. In five minutes, begin return to periscope depth with a gentle climbing right turn to heading 160 true. That will put us near enough the bow to positively identify the target. At depth of one-hundred fifty feet open the outer torpedo door. 

Captain, Rio Grande Rise begins in three minutes, said sonar technician Dryden. We have picked up a pod of whales three miles ahead of us. 

Whale pod noted, said the captain. Maintain five-hundred feet minimum clearance above the seamount. Navigational discretion as necessary. Continue with my instructions. Notify me when we begin the climbing right turn. We should be over the lowest part of the seamount during the climb.

Captain, another two pods of whales are in the area. Distance five miles. All pods on our starboard.

Noted. Continue instructions, said the captain.

Whale pods maintaining distance, ignoring us, sir, said Dryden.

Level at two hundred feet, Captain, said the helmsman.

Whale pods still maintaining distance, sir, said Dryden. I now have five pods, all off our starboard.

Continuing at two-hundred feet, captain, the helmsman called out. 

Initial seamount ahead, one thousand feet below us, said Dryden.

Seamount noted, said the captain.

Captain, seamount separation now seven hundred fifty feet. Back down to twelve hundred feet. Numerous peaks below us, varying depths. Sea floor eight thousand feet, said Dryden.

Maintain five-hundred-feet depth separation, said the captain. Adjust course at your discretion. Notify me when we are five miles from the target. Then begin the right climbing turn to heading 160 true.

Captain! There was urgency in Dryden’s voice. "The whale pods are closing on us. Three pods off our starboard. Two descending from one hundred feet above us. Closing fast.

Increase speed to full, said the captain.

Captain! shouted Dryden. Collision course with whale pods. One thousand yards off starboard and closing!

Ahead flank speed! Blow the forward ballast tanks! ordered the captain. Brace for impact with whale pod!

The two whale pods above struck the submarine first. Their impact sheared off several antennas and a portion of the conning tower railing. The impact rolled the ship toward its port side and reversed its beginning ascent. The other three pods struck the starboard hull near the front of the submarine. The impact altered the sub’s heading to the port side. As the submarine righted itself from the roll, it surged full speed toward a glancing impact with the highest peak of the seamount.

Full right rudder! ordered the captain.

Everyone heard the grating sound of metal against rock, as the seamount peak scraped along the port side of the sub.

Damage report? yelled the captain.

Captain! Another seamount peak dead ahead! yelled the sonar tech.

Full right rudder! yelled the captain.

This time everyone felt the impact as the submarine struck the peak in a glancing blow. The captain was knocked to the floor.

Three whale pods closing on our starboard! shouted Dryden. The whales struck the top of the conning tower, destabilizing the submarine and rolling it to the port side again. The submarine nosed down toward the ocean floor.

Captain! Seamount floor dead ahead! yelled Dryden. Beginning uncontrolled descent!

Blow all ballast tanks! yelled the captain. Issue distress call and location information!

Depth five hundred feet! Descending! yelled sonar technician Dryden.

Level the submarine! yelled the captain.

Controls are not responding, Captain! shouted the planesman.

Depth six hundred feet, Captain.

Seamount floor depth? asked the captain.

Eight thousand feet, Captain, said sonar technician Dryden. Now at seven hundred feet, sir.

The submarine impacted with the seamount peak nearly dead on, three hundred feet below the volcanic structure’s newly grown and uncharted top. The first few compartments compressed into themselves from the impact with the weight of the entire ship at speed behind them. The captain was thrown against the wall and fell to the floor. He was nearly unconscious, but he could still hear the events unfolding around him. The submarine began a slow spiral, propelling itself lower toward the seabed floor.

Everyone who had survived the impact heard the pop…pop…pop as the waterproof compartments along the grazing wound from the initial collision burst. One after another, the compartments slowly collapsed, the sound growing louder as death advanced inward toward the control center of the submarine. The men waited, barely able to breathe, as the pops grew louder.

Captain Steinsen could not move. All he could do was listen to the sickening sound as it moved closer and closer to the command center. There was a very loud crushing sound as the compartment just ahead flooded. Then the command center imploded, filling with greenish-red seawater that poured in from around the seamount rock. The submarine continued its long, spiral journey, glancing off several lower peaks as it drilled its way toward the bottom of the Rio Grande Rise. 

Finally the submarine impacted the sea floor. A cloud of debris rose around its crippled, collapsed hull. Slowly, like dust in a seldom-disturbed attic, the debris cloud settled over the remains of the invader, obscuring its wreckage from view as the submarine settled into its watery grave. It was as if the USS Ensign had never existed.

CHAPTER 2

Sunlight poured in through the bank of windows in the admiral’s stateroom aboard the aircraft carrier. The man, dressed casually, sat behind a large desk in the center of the room quietly studying charts.

Before the sunlight reached him, it bathed a small sofa alcove near the stateroom’s large, multi-paned window. Outside, in the distance, was the Alaskan coastline. Inside, a woman sat curled up on the sofa, quietly reading a book. Steam from her cup of tea on a nearby end table spiraled upward in the sunlight where it dissipated in the roomful of fresh sea air.

There was a sharp rap on the stateroom door.

Enter, said the admiral.

A young officer walked briskly toward the admiral’s desk. He stopped in front of it and saluted. The admiral acknowledged the salute with a nod of his head. 

What information do you have for me, Lieutenant? the admiral asked.

The young officer turned his head and looked at Odessa on the sofa with her book. She closed the book and rose to leave.

Odessa may stay and listen to your report, Lieutenant, said the admiral. The young officer looked uncomfortable. She has an important part to play as events unfold. Please, your report…

Yes, sir, said the lieutenant. We have learned of two events surrounding the Tristan that may be of interest. The admiral’s gaze became more penetrating at the mention of the Tristan.

First, the captain of the Tristan reported a pod of whales that had been persistently shadowing the ship. He reported it to marine weather and asked if any other ships had filed similar reports. The weather station had no other reports.

The vaguest hint of a smile appeared on the admiral’s face. And your second report, Lieutenant? he asked.

Sir, an American submarine was lost at sea, possibly in the vicinity of the Tristan.

Details, the admiral snapped.

A mayday signal was picked up by an ocean liner, possibly from the submarine. A long wave transmission was also issued by the submarine. It is believed to have sunk in the Rio Grande seamount. The Tristan could have been a hundred miles away or very near. We don’t know.

Lieutenant, I am issuing you a direct order, the admiral said. The young officer snapped to attention, seemingly growing an inch taller where he stood. 

Yes, sir! he responded.

I want you to keep me informed of any developments that may affect the Tristan. I am holding you personally responsible, and you will report to me directly. Am I clear?

Yes, sir! snapped the lieutenant. Absolutely clear, sir. Is that all, sir?

There is one other thing, Lieutenant, said the admiral. You don’t need to broadcast the young lady’s presence in my stateroom.

No, sir, said the lieutenant.

You are dismissed, Lieutenant, said the admiral. 

The man saluted, turned and walked briskly from the stateroom. The admiral rose from his chair behind the desk and walked over to the coffee pot in the small corner kitchenette near the window. He refilled his cup and returned to his desk. Odessa watched him out of the corner of her eye, under cover of having resumed reading her book. The admiral sipped his coffee as he looked out the windows. 

His gaze turned to Odessa. Do you have a question for me? he asked.

Odessa smiled as she looked up at him. More than one, she said.

Ask one, said the admiral, with his barely perceptible grin, and we’ll see how it goes.

Odessa took a deep breath. She sorted through her questions, trying to pick the most important. What is the Tristan? she asked.

The admiral’s grin became a smile. Well chosen, my dear, he said. He leaned back in his chair. Odessa could see that he was sifting through what to tell her and what not to tell.

The Tristan, the admiral said thoughtfully, or rather two passengers on that ship, are the world’s best chance to avoid a date with destiny that none of us wants to keep. Those two people are flawed human beings. It is not at all clear they will be able to accomplish what I hope. But they might.

One more question? Odessa asked, hopefully.

Can I count that one? asked the admiral.

No! Odessa said, momentarily shocked at the familiarity of her own response. How dare she! But she smiled. I mean… please don’t! she said.

The admiral sat waiting. This is a military ship, Odessa said. I think with a military mission. Why am I here?

You are correct, said the admiral. This is a military ship with a military mission. Most of those serving on board were handpicked by me. The admiral fell silent for a long moment, as if pondering a further response. His eyes connected directly with Odessa’s gaze.

There are a very few here who were chosen by my Father, Odessa. You are one of those.

Odessa felt her chest tighten. She was having difficulty breathing. Do not be afraid, said the admiral. Perfect love… and he waited. 

Casts out fear, whispered Odessa.

CHAPTER 3

Maria Bradshaw…the woman smiled as she thought of her new name while she snuggled next to her husband on the deck of the Tristan. The ocean breeze parted around the two of them as they watched a pod of whales that had surfaced just a few hundred feet off the port side of the ship. 

Bradshaw held Maria closer and a bit tighter than he had previously. Women have a very precise sense of these things. Maria, for her part, had let her hand drop down below Bradshaw’s waist, onto his buttocks.

They are such beautiful creatures, Maria said, as the two of them watched the pod.

And big, said Bradshaw. I’ve never been this close to whales.

The Tristan is a big ship, Maria said.

Not so very much bigger than him, Bradshaw said. He nodded toward the largest of the whales, which was slowly moving from the rear of the ship, toward the front. Look at the size of his eye, Bradshaw said. He seems to be looking at us.

I’ve seen them before—out with Papa, said Maria. We’ll be fine. She felt Bradshaw’s hand slide down to her buttocks. She rested her head on his shoulder.

Do you still like me…now that we are married? Maria asked.

Oh, God, yes! Bradshaw said.

Maria snuggled tightly against him. Is it still fun…when we make love? she asked.

Bradshaw ran his hand over Maria’s bottom. It’s better than…I thought you were hot before we were married. You’re even hotter now, Bradshaw said.

Good! Maria said, her eyes smiling at Bradshaw. South American women…I think we always want to be married. And so we withhold something for our husbands. Now, she said, turning to face him and looking deeply into his eyes, you are my husband. I withhold nothing from you.

So you won’t run off with a trucker? Bradshaw asked, remembering the moment he’d first thought about asking Maria to marry him.

No… Maria said, standing on her tiptoes and kissing Bradshaw’s neck. Because none of the men in that restaurant could even come close to handling me. She continued kissing his neck softly.

Someday, said Bradshaw, now unable to ignore her advances, I will rent a big truck. I will force you into the cab, and make love to you until we are both exhausted!

Um…you don’t have to rent a truck, Maria said. Papa has a trucking company. Some evening we will go to the maintenance garage. You will overpower me, drag me into the cab of a truck and make love to me until I am exhausted!

In the meantime, Mrs. Bradshaw, he said, "you shall have to settle for the bed in our stateroom. And he took Maria’s elbow in his hand and steered her toward the lower deck and their stateroom.

Captain Markos walked purposefully into the ship’s dining room. Among all the guests, he zeroed in on Papa Cordozo seated at the head of the dining table. Markos walked over, bent down and whispered into Papa’s ear. Ship-to-shore telephone call, sir, he said.

Papa looked up from his meal. Is it urgent? he asked.

I am afraid it is bad news, Markos said.

Papa got up from the table and walked to the radio telephone station with the captain. The two men did not speak. The ocean’s swells rocked the Tristan gently, the sound of the waves never entirely silent. It only changed in intensity as the two men walked together in silence. They entered the radio station just off the pilot house and Markos handed the corded receiver to Papa. He quickly excused himself.

Papa— Abigail gasped through her sobs. The operation…it did not…Mia is dead! My daughter is dead! Abigail sobbed into the telephone. She had no idea why she had called Papa Cordozo—but she had been overwhelmed with the sense that if she could just get word to him, somehow things would be better. But what could be done? Her daughter had died on the operating table!

Abigail, I am so sorry! Papa said. He was fumbling for words, but his mind was working the problem as it always did. Abigail, are you certain? Did the doctor say she died?

She is dead, Papa! The doctor told me afterward. The heart that had come from the child in the accident…it was somehow not right. It had been damaged. My child died while they were discussing what to do.

Abigail, stay there. Do not leave the hospital. Do not leave your daughter. I need to collect my thoughts. I will call you back soon. I must tell our family. My child, I am so sorry!

Yes, I will not leave here, said Abigail.

Markos escorted Papa back to the guests in the dining room. Was I right? he asked. 

Abigail’s daughter has died, Papa said. She is terribly distraught. I must think of what to do to help her. The two men approached the dining room door. Please, Captain Markos, come inside with me while I announce this terrible news.

Papa’s expression, while a poker face under so many circumstances, immediately betrayed tragedy. The group’s demeanor transitioned from questioning to solemn. The clink of the dinner dishes and silverware stopped. All eyes were on Papa.

It is very bad, said Papa. Mia has died during the operation that was to save the child’s life. Her mother is distraught and does not know what to do. I fear she could even be suicidal. And I confess; I do not know what to do.

William Bradshaw felt a shock of energy strike him as he sat at the dinner table. It momentarily knocked the breath out of him. He must have uttered some word or expression because the group turned its eyes to him. At the same time he knew that his presence was required at the hospital. He knew this every bit as much as if his army drill sergeant father had shouted into Bradshaw’s rebellious teenage ears, DO IT. NOW!

Bradshaw pushed his chair back from the table where he sat next to Maria. He stood and addressed Papa. I must go there, immediately, he said. To the hospital.

Markos, find Mario, our helicopter pilot. Tell him he must transport Pastor Bradshaw to St. Catherine Children’s Hospital immediately. That is an order.

Yes, sir, said the captain. He went to find Mario.

The small group of dinner guests now stood huddled together on the Tristan’s heliport, just beyond the arc of the helicopter’s swishing blades as they spun slowly overhead. The swish of the twin blades was a mechanical complement to the sea swells against the Tristan’s hull. Bradshaw entered the helicopter. It was a dark night, but he could see stars in the sky. He fumbled with the headset, placing it over his ears and the microphone next to his lips.

Are you there? he asked the pilot.

I’m here, Pastor, said Mario.

Can the trip be made safely? Bradshaw asked.

It is about a hundred nautical miles over open water at night, said Mario. But I am possessed of an instrument rating. The night is clear. And the helicopter has fuel and is well maintained. Yes, the flight can be made safely.

The onlookers stepped back as the helicopter engine moved toward takeoff power. Several women covered their hair with their hands. The helicopter rocked on the ship’s helipad, then drifted sideways toward the edge of the ship. Slowly it began to climb. It moved away from the ship and upward, out over the open water.

Maria stood with her mama and papa. Oh, please be careful, she whispered underneath her breath. Maria sought her father’s comfort. Why does he insist on going now? Maria asked Papa. I have never seen him with such determination. Mia is dead. Why now?

My child, Papa said, holding Maria close to himself and speaking softly into her ear. Your husband, my son-in-law, has a date with destiny. I now understand. The Holy Father hinted at this to me, but my ears were too thick. I did not understand. He kissed Maria on the cheek. You need have no fear. He goes under the protection of our Lord.

Bradshaw looked out of the windshield as the helicopter, now at altitude, headed toward the lights of São Paulo. The air was smooth. Except for the noise of the engine, the machine might have been suspended in nothingness. How did the pilot know where to go? So many lights so far in the distance, such a great city. How could he possibly find the children’s hospital?

The two men traveled on in silence through the night. The lights ahead grew slowly into São Paulo. 

São Paulo approach, Lifeguard One inbound for St. Catherine Children’s Hospital. We are presently twenty miles to the northeast, three-thousand feet.

Lifeguard One, São Paulo Approach. Turn to heading three-four, descend to fifteen hundred feet ten miles out.

Bradshaw fidgeted in silence as the immense city swallowed the helicopter amidst its lights and tall buildings. The pilot looked busy. Bradshaw said nothing.

São Paulo Approach, Lifeguard One, ten miles out from St. Catherine Children’s Hospital, said the pilot.

Lifeguard One, helipad elevation is 966 feet. Wind 270 at six. You are now seven miles out. Cleared to land.

Bradshaw marveled as the helicopter drifted ahead and downward, toward the brightly lit helipad. Beneath them was a shadowy, menacing darkness, the tops of just slightly shorter buildings than the hospital, and antenna clusters that the pilot seemed to know how to avoid. They settled uneventfully onto the concrete landing surface. The helicopter rocked twice, then the power was cut to idle and the blades slowed until Bradshaw could distinguish the individual whoosh of each blade as it passed overhead.

Keep your head down, Pastor. There is your landing party. The pilot pointed to a lone individual well outside the arc of the swinging overhead blades. Bradshaw slipped out the door, got his feet underneath himself on the concrete, then crouched down and moved toward the man standing well beyond the arc of