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Alan J Murray
Alan J Murray
Alpha Mike Media
Category:
Action/Thriller
Publisher: Langdon Street Press
ISBN-10: 0979912032
Type: Fiction
Pages: 342
Copyright: May 4, 2007
ISBN-13: 9780979912030
Price: $4.99 (eBook)
An Eye for an Eye takes the reader on a multifaceted effort to free American tourists held hostage on a cruise ship near the Bahamas. Luck, skill and timing all converge to win the day in this chilling, cleverly spun scenario based on the technological and political realities of today. Alan Murray's "Enemy Of My Enemy" is a thought provoking, relevant political thriller destined to enthrall any reader.
"Enemy Of My Enemy" takes the reader on a global chase to unravel a deadly bioterror plot concocted by a startling alliance of adversaries. Author Alan Murray draws on a wide-ranging historical insight to weave a compelling nightmare scenario grounded in the political and technological realities of today.
A Modern Day Trojan Horse
Think about the dozens of strangers you encounter everyday. Now imagine that several of them were biological time bombs carrying a deadly disease for which neither you—nor anyone else—were protected against. What if that scenario was part of an elaborate terrorist plot intended to cripple America? Just when you thought you had heard it all, comes a fresh, new book, Enemy Of My Enemy, that explores one of today’s most frightening terrorist threats.
In Enemy Of My Enemy, author Alan Murray's razor-sharp foray into the shadowy world of bioterrorism, CIA analyst Allan Anderson and his reporter sister, Susan Anderson, find themselves at the heart of a deadly game played out in hidden places of power across the globe, from a safe house in the wilderness of Iran to a submarine in the Atlantic.
Enemy Of My Enemytakes the reader on a global chase to unravel a deadly bioterror plot concocted by a startling alliance of adversaries. As this sinister plot unfolds before an unsuspecting America a mere ninety miles from its shores, Enemy Of My Enemy’s characters come together in a most unusual way to foil the attack and save the day.
What makes this book different from any other is the way that author Alan Murray, a retired military officer, cleverly draws on a wide range of factual information to weave a compelling nightmare scenario grounded in the political and technological realities of today.
Excerpt
Chapter Four
In Refit
U.S. Naval Submarine Base
Kings Bay, GA
The USS Wyoming, one of eighteen Trident nuclear submarines built, was the pride of the U.S. Navy’s Fleet Ballistic Missile (FBM) submarine program. She was also the pride of Submarine Squadron Twenty. And there was no doubting that fact in the eyes of her current crew, either. Ever since the USS Wyoming was commissioned in 1996, the Ohio-class sub, officially known as SSBN-742, had never failed to make the grade. She and her crews always departed for patrol duty on time. Together, sub and crew had always excelled in training and maneuvers. The Wyoming was regarded as the Navy’s benchmark for fleet ballistic missile submarine
operations.
Without fail, for the past ten years, the Wyoming and her crews had stood guard in the silent depths of the Atlantic. In the cold, dark waters of that ocean she had waited for an order the crew hoped never would come. If received from the U.S. Strategic Command, the launch order originating from the National Command Authority would permit the “boomer,” as the Navy’s
nuclear subs were called, to unleash a nuclear arsenal of 120 warheads atop twenty-four long-range missiles.
The Wyoming was a marine engineering marvel, with a submerged displacement of 18,750 tons, an overall length of 560 feet, a beam of 42 feet, and a draft of 38 feet. She could cruise
submerged at a top speed of over twenty knots and remain underwater and virtually undetected for up to six months at a time. With her complement of torpedoes, anti-ship Harpoon missiles, Tomahawk cruise missiles, and twenty-four Trident II missiles, the USS Wyoming was an impressive underwater arsenal and therefore truly a leviathan.
To permit her to spend more time on patrol, the Wyoming, like all Fleet Ballistic Missile submarines, was assigned two full crews. Called Blue and Gold, each had its own skipper and full complement of officers and enlisted men. They rotated patrols, each crew giving the other a chance for training, family time, and much-needed rest. As one boomer returned to Kings Bay, another one sailed to take its place, ensuring that the silent sentinels of the deep would be ever present, ever watchful.
Today, the Wyoming was in homeport. She was almost done with refit. It was a grueling three-and-a-half-week process between patrols that consisted of routine maintenance, repairs, refurbishment, and crew rotation. It was never any fun. Of course, the next seventy days spent silently patrolling at the bottom of the ocean weren’t going to be much fun either. But once out into the deep waters of the Atlantic, there was no Navy bureaucracy to deal with, no day in, day out distractions to have to brush aside, and no real focus other than the Wyoming’s peacetime mission.
The sub’s Gold crew commander, Navy Commander William C. Murphy, stood on the dock alongside his boat while watching his crew scurrying about. He thought there was a terrible
irony in the phrase “peacetime mission.” After all, the country hadn’t known any real peace in years. It was only few years ago that terrorists had struck at the heart of America on the morning of that clear, blue-sky day in September.
Commander William C. Murphy was an eighteen-year career officer in the Navy. The “C” stood for “Church.” It was an old New England family name that had accompanied him and many of his relatives before him throughout life. He had graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis with a degree in engineering. The modern nuclear Navy of today liked engineers. But Murphy knew exactly what he wanted to do from the time he first saw a picture of a submarine when he was a young boy. One day, he was going to command a submarine.
He set his sights on it as a youngster, and never once thought of doing anything else. He was a good student in school. He read all sorts of books on military and naval history. He excelled in math and science. He played baseball. He made the honor roll. He even ran for class president in his senior year and won. But most of all, he envisioned himself as the commander of a U.S. Navy submarine.
“Murph,” as he was known to his friends and those closest to him, had earned the reputation as being one of the best. He had graduated from Annapolis at the top of his class. The engineering programs were tough. But he worked hard at it. He managed to play sports for two of his four years there. He quickly ascended to key leadership positions within the cadet corps. Therefore it was no surprise when he chose submarines as his assignment prior to graduation.
He was good-looking, fit, and trim. In keeping with Navy tradition, he always told himself. In reality, it was to set an example for the crew. Submarine crews tended to gain weight when leading a more sedentary existence while submerged for almost three months.
Bill Murphy had closely-cropped hair that had turned gray prematurely. It made him look distinguished. He had squared facial features that were set off by sparkling blue eyes. Put a beard on him, friends would say, and he’d be a knock-off for Chuck Norris. Murph rather liked that comparison.
Two days remained until the Wyoming’s patrol departure. A lot of work still needed to be done—there always was. But Murph knew that the chiefs and the enlisted men would pull it off again just like they’d always managed to do before. The crew made all the difference and could make or break a sub commander’s career. Murph had commanded the Wyoming for the last three years. His efficiency reports were a glowing testament to the harmony that existed among the Wyoming’s crew.
A constant parade of vehicles streamed in and out of the area. Sailors tending to the Wyoming scurried about the pier in the early morning light. He checked his watch. It was a few minutes
after 7:00 A.M. and everything appeared to be on schedule. I’ve got the best damned Trident crew in the Navy, he thought. I’m one lucky son of a bitch!
A familiar voice called from behind, “Skipper?”
As he turned, he saw his executive officer coming toward him.
“Yes, Hansen. What is it?” Murphy asked, returning the XO’s salute.
“Sir, I’ve got the update on the Wyoming’s refit status,” Hansen replied. “The leak in the reactor’s cooling system has been successfully repaired and tested. The propulsion shop has signed off on it.”
“Have you had a look for yourself?”
“As a matter of fact, I have, sir. The chief engineer and I personally inspected it during second shift yesterday.”
“And the chief engineer is satisfied?”
“Yes, sir. We both reviewed the repair logs and the inspection report,” Hansen stated. “We’re both confident that the reactor is safe and mission ready—so sure, we’d be willing to bet on it!”
“Very well,” Murphy replied, studying the junior officer’s eyes. “So, there will be no associated delay and nothing to affect our patrol departure schedule?”
“Absolutely nothing, sir,” Hansen affirmed, his pride showing through with a nearly imperceptible smile. “The repair team and the boat’s crew have been working around the clock to get the
repair completed. The chief of the boat told me the men didn’t want it to affect their reliability rating. They aren’t the Gold crew for nothing, Skipper.”
“Great job, Mr. Hansen. Pass along my appreciation to the crew. And I’ll tell them personally during afternoon report.”
“Very well, sir. I’ll be glad to,” Hansen acknowledged, as he popped a salute and turned to leave. He stopped suddenly and pivoted around to face Murphy again.
“I don’t know if you’ve seen the news yet, sir,” he added, “but I was watching CNN in the day room a few minutes ago. It looks like the Iranians are stirring things up again. Something about economic support to Cuba. We’ll probably have to monitor developments while we’re on patrol.”
Murphy nodded. “I appreciate the heads-up. I’ll stop by the intel shop later to see if I can find out more. I’ll let you know.”
Hansen saluted again and began walking toward his dockside office, a small, gray, trailer-like hut a short distance away.
Murphy watched Hansen walk away. After a few moments, he shoved both hands in his pockets and stared down at the concrete. Just what the hell are the Iranians up to? I wonder what’s going on? He zipped up his jacket and headed for his car. There’s only one way to find out.
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