by Don Mann
“The op’s on hold. Looks like a no-go.”
“The weather?”
“Yeah, weather sucks big time.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Admiral Thompson from SOCOM has decided it’s too dangerous to deploy from the air. We can’t swim because of the conditions, and we can’t get close enough without being detected.”
“Mules, man. What do we do?”
“Nothing. Wait. Hope for conditions to improve. But that seems unlikely to happen before the deadline.”
“Condition FUBAR.” (Fucked up beyond all recognition.)
“You got any crazy ideas?”
Mancini was always good at thinking outside the box. He pulled at his beard, rubbed his huge biceps, then nodded. “Yeah, I might.”
Crocker nodded at him. “What?”
“The SEALION II.”
“What the fuck’s that?”
“It’s the high-speed experimental insertion craft developed by NAVSEA Future Concepts.”
Crocker remembered seeing one at the Naval Amphibious Base in Virginia. “You mean that long, weird, alligator-looking thing?”
“Yeah, looks like an old Confederate torpedo boat, only a whole lot faster and sleeker.”
“Does it work?”
“I hear the fancy electronics suite it carries is filled with kinks, but it’s fast as hell, with low visibility and an almost-zero radar profile. I rode in one once. Cool beans. The advantages it has over cigarette boats include superior ballast, strength, and stealth, including much lower noise production.”
Leave it to Manny to know the latest shit. But the odds of one being on the Eisenhower were about the same as finding a snowball in the Amazon jungle.
“Is the one in Virginia the only one in existence?” Crocker asked, bracing himself for disappointment.
“I think NAVSEA has built four or five. I’ll check.”
“You find one for us and I’ll put you on my Christmas card list.”
At 0035 Crocker was on the phone with Captain Sutter again, informing him that Mancini had located a SEALION II at the U.S. Naval Command Center in Naples, Italy—where it was being tested in ocean conditions—and requesting permission to cram it into a C-130T Hercules and transport it to the Eisenhower.
“God bless, Mancini,” Sutter responded. “But how long is it going to take to get there?”
“Approximately three and a half hours flying at max speed, which is why they need to leave now,” answered Crocker.
“Who’s they?”
“The boat, the chief special boat operator, and pilot.”
Sutter didn’t need more than several seconds to think about it before he answered, “Permission granted.”
“A heartfelt thanks, sir.”
“That doesn’t mean you’ve got a go to launch. That’s the sole prerogative of the White House, but let’s see if the SEALION makes it there in time first.”
“Sound thinking.”
Crocker immediately called Naples and relayed the approval from Sutter, then sat down with Admiral Marcelus and Anders and told them about the plan. They were as excited as he was, but remained leery about the weather.
The SEALION II, like other low-displacement-hull crafts (including cigarette boats) had the capability to navigate the ocean but was designed for littoral (or coastal) waters. High, turbulent seas posed a real danger of capsizing.
Crocker, who was willing to take that risk, next huddled with his men—Mancini, Akil, and Davis, and the six SEALs from Team Ten. The incoming SEALs introduced themselves as Storm (sniper), Revis (logistics), Diego (chief climber), Nash (breacher and explosives), JD (comms), and Duke (weapons). Crocker briefed them on the pending arrival of the SEALION II, the dangerous weather conditions, and the mission to take down the terrorists on the Disney Magic. All nine men expressed their readiness and eagerness to go.
Next they moved to a conference room where they studied plans of the cruise ship and consulted with the Disney engineer via Skype. Given the large number of video surveillance cameras on the ship, the distance from the Security Command Center to the bridge, and the very small margin of time they had to work with, it was a mission that required precise planning and perfect execution.
Surprise and speed had to be impeccable.
For the next two hours they developed an elaborate PLO (patrol leader’s order), raised questions, voiced concerns and criticisms, then amended the PLO and started again. They tried to cover every possible contingency—lack of interior lighting, booby traps, use of chemical agents, what to do if the terrorists started shooting hostages, how to deal with passengers, and so forth. They talked about the dangers posed by rounds ricocheting off metal walls, pressure waves traveling through narrow hallways as the result of an explosion, and the ways they could expect sound to travel in different compartments of the ship.
Thoroughly briefed and mentally exhausted, they took a break at 0256 to dry-check their weapons and organize first-, second-, and third-line gear. Crocker left Mancini to supervise, and went to the ship’s command center, where he learned that the C-130T with the SEALION aboard was scheduled to land in an hour.
Even if they were able to unload the SEALION, fill it with fuel, deploy it in the water, and load on their gear in thirty minutes, they’d be real close to sunrise, which was scheduled to begin at 0548. He learned that Captain Sutter had briefed the White House via encrypted conference software about the nature of the mission, but it still hadn’t been officially approved.
The other problem was the distance between the Eisenhower and the Disney Magic, currently twenty-five nautical miles—as was the case for all other combat ships, per Naval Command orders. At that distance and at the SEALION II’s max speed of twenty-five knots, it would take the SEALs approximately an hour to reach the cruise ship.
Crocker explained the situation to Anders and Admiral Marcelus, who called the Naval Command Center in Norfolk and requested permission to move within ten miles of the Disney Magic. After strenuous arguments back and forth, permission was granted.
The mission still had a chance.
Chapter Twenty
It is a sin to believe evil of others, but it is seldom a mistake.
—H. L. Mencken
The digital display on the console on the bridge of the Disney Magic read 0355, and Stavros Petras and his fellow terrorists were getting anxious. The man who had recruited them and planned this mission (code name the Fox) had told them that the United States would quickly accede to their demands and the terrorists would go down in the history of the Middle East as heroes. But with the deadline only three hours away, they were completely cut off from communications from the outside and with each other in different areas of the ship, and had no idea what was happening.
Petras blamed this on the Magic’s officers and crew. He was convinced that one of them had flipped a switch or disabled a computer that had shut down all telecommunications, short-wave and medium-wave communications systems, the air conditioning, some lights, and even interfered with their radios. He didn’t understand that the real cause of the blackout was a massive bombardment of electromagnetic energy from flux compression generators and other sophisticated electronics on the Eisenhower and other U.S. ships as well as malware dispatched by computer experts back at NSA headquarters in Maryland. Petras understood little about electromagnetic pulses and radar jamming. All he knew was that they were literally operating in the dark and on their own. Even though the ship’s engines were still working intermittently, he was enraged. So he decided to take matters into his own hands.
Standing on the bridge with three other heavily armed terrorists, he informed the ship’s officers that he and his men were going to execute one crew member or passenger every twenty minutes until the lights, computers, radio communications, and air conditioning were fully restored.
“But you don’t understand,” argued the first engineer, a mustached Bangladeshi named Amitava Sanguri. “We are as powerless a
s you are in this situation. If I could restore these things, I would. I promise.”
“Two minutes until we shoot the first man,” Petras announced, pointing at his watch.
“The interference is coming from outside,” Amitava continued. “If you want me to, I can explain the electronics.”
“Too late,” Petras said, grabbing him by the collar.
He turned to one of the other terrorists and said in Arabic, “Two of you take him down to the pool and shoot him in the head. Leave his body in the pool as an example. He’ll be the first.”
The terrorists led First Engineer Sanguri out, while one of the chief officers protested, “Don’t do this. We want to cooperate! The blackout has nothing to do with us!”
Petras pointed at him and screamed, “Shut up! You’ll be next!”
Scott Russert was lying awake in bed, clutching his sleeping wife to his chest, when he heard what sounded like automatic weapons fire from one of the decks above, followed by shouts of Allahu akbar.
The killing has started, he said to himself. He had expected it. Somehow he knew that more terror was coming.
“God, help us,” he prayed out loud. “Deliver us from this, somehow. Me, my wife, our sons, the passengers and crew. God be merciful, please!”
Crocker and the other SEALs watched from inside the flight deck island control tower as the C-130T Hercules approached the Eisenhower. With wind speed at forty knots, the captain had increased the speed of the ship by ten knots to reduce yaw motion. He also changed course so the plane could land with the wind on its nose, thus helping it stop.
The ship’s deck crew had laid a line of orange phosphorescent tape down the middle of the flight deck to help the pilot of the C-130T avoid hitting the island with his wings. Still, as the turbo-powered plane drew closer, Crocker wasn’t sure it would clear the island.
Turning to a lieutenant who was filming the Hercules with a digital video camera, he asked, “C-130s have landed on this deck before, correct?”
“Not on this deck, no, never,” the lieutenant answered, “but they’ve landed on other aircraft decks a handful of times. Kind of problematic, because unlike, say, an F-16, they don’t have a hook that can deploy and catch the cable.”
“Then how will it stop?”
The lieutenant shrugged and continued filming. The pilot of the C-130T was trying to level the plane in the robust wind, but was experiencing problems. The big aircraft tilted up and down and veered into the path of the island as it approached.
Crew members on deck dashed for cover. Others used flashlights to direct the pilot to climb, circle, and try another approach. But the C-130T kept bearing down.
Crocker held his breath as the pilot leveled the wings at the last second and the big plane touched down, immediately reversed engines, braked, and stopped to loud cheers and applause from the crew on the bridge and the deck.
“Fucking incredible,” the lieutenant shouted. Following him out onto the flight deck, Crocker observed that the aircraft’s wings had cleared the island by only three feet.
When he got a chance to introduce himself and congratulate the pilot, the Navy Reservist told him he’d been flying C-130s since Vietnam but had never done a landing this dangerous before. Crocker also shook hands with the two Special Warfare Combatant-Craft Crewmen (SWCCs) who had accompanied the SEALION II from Italy. They were the waterborne equivalent of the 160th SOAR helicopter force, with whom he’d often flown.
“Glad you could make it. How was the flight?” Crocker asked one of the SWCCs, as the aircraft’s engines powered down.
“I thought we were on a carnival ride. That old dude has got some stones.” He was a stocky man with a big nose and a ruddy complexion, and he wore a Special Boat Team 20 (SB20) insignia on the chest pocket of his black flight suit. “Surface Warfare Officer Dan Cowens.”
“Welcome, Dan. Chief Warrant Crocker. We better get the SEALION fueled up and in the water. Time is short.”
“Let’s get to it. Follow me.”
Crocker had worked with SB20 before, everywhere from the jungles of Colombia to the coastal waters of Somalia, and knew them to be tough, smart men. Reaching the back of the C-130, he saw the bow of the SEALION II protruding from the door like a spear.
“The craft is so long, we had to improvise and make some modifications,” Cowens explained.
“To the SEALION?” Crocker asked, hoping they wouldn’t need time to reassemble it.
“No, to the C-130. Had to kick out the cockpit panel and door.”
When the rear gate was raised, Crocker saw that the SEALION was an elongated, covered-canoe-type vessel, painted gray. Looked like something borrowed from the set of a sci-fi movie.
The deck crew carefully lifted it out, then wrapped its hull in a MEATS insertion delivery system, which consisted of very strong nylon cables configured as a giant sling. Then a CH-53 Sea Stallion helicopter with the MEATS attached lifted the SEALION off the deck and set it in the water. After crew support technicians and SWCCs had fueled the boat and set the ballast, Crocker and his men started loading in their gear. With everyone’s expert cooperation, the entire process took less than fifteen minutes. Now the mission was ready to launch.
Captain Marcelus, his officers, and the crew assembled on the Eisenhower’s deck to see them off with three rounds of hoo-ahs and raised thumbs. The copilot checked that the SEALs were buckled in, then the craft’s two MTU diesel engines fired up, providing 1,136 shaft horsepower to each of the two Rolls-Royce Kamewa waterjets, and they were off, ripping through the seas at twenty-five-plus knots.
Immediately tension started to build and stomachs did loop-the-loops. The copilot produced a yellow plastic bucket, which quickly saw use. Crocker managed to hold his dinner down by visualizing the mission, step by step. Several times he and the others were tossed violently left or right and the vessel seemed about to capsize, but somehow it righted itself and continued to pull them closer.
Usually during infils, guys relieved stress by taking the piss out of one another. But this time all the operators remained quiet, occupied with their own thoughts. Some listened to music through earbuds; others prayed silently. Crocker focused on his breathing, trying to keep the breaths soft and of equal length—in and out, in and out—in an effort to keep the fear away. Still, errant anxieties drifted into his head: The terrorists would be expecting them. They’d find themselves in a death trap. They would cause the terrorists to release the sarin, resulting in the deaths of everyone on board.
“Six miles to target,” SWO Cowens announced. “We’ve established visuals.”
Crocker turned and squinted through the side slit window located just inches above the waterline, but couldn’t see anything through the mist and splash.
The ST-10 SEALs on the opposite bench measured every minute, with fear and determination in their eyes. Each man wore a black skin suit with hood, operator gloves, a nylon holster with a SIG Sauer P226, quad-tube NVGs, earbuds and bone phones, and carried either an HK416 or a German-made M7 chambered with 4.6x30mm rounds with their greater ability to penetrate body armor. Most of the men had M203 grenade launchers fixed to the rails; Mancini chose to carry his favorite single-shot, break-action M79. Attached to their black web belts were SOG knives, grenades, pouches with extra ammo, Tuff-Ties, Motorola Saber portable radios, medical supplies, and other gear.
Though they looked like ninjas with their black suits and body armor, what Crocker saw weren’t cold-blooded killers but dedicated operators with families, who loved their country. Difficult, high-risk ops like this were what they’d been selected and trained for. If they succeeded and came back alive, they’d be talking about this mission for the rest of their lives.
Scott Russert lay in bed looking at his sleeping sons and wife, thinking that he was responsible for putting them in harm’s way and wondering how he could get them off the ship. In the hot, airless room his mind raced through numerous scenarios—including sneaking them onto the main deck and comma
ndeering a lifeboat—and each time ran into the same dead ends, as though trapped in his own mental maze.
The waiting and uncertainty were excruciating. He tried to find something positive to think about, but kept drifting back to the image of the two armed men with black masks standing in the hallway. And every twenty minutes, the blasts of gunfire from the deck above and shouts of Allahu akbar sunk his spirits further.
He sensed death creeping closer, and longed for the tranquility of Putney—the Thames River path, the rowing clubs, the cafés, the botanical gardens that were home to kingfishers, bitterns, and swans.
Scott imagined he heard the echo of footsteps from the hallway. Then they became real. They approached. A moment of silence passed before a knock on the door caused his heart to leap into his throat.
Scott carefully lifted Karen’s head off his chest, and crossed the cabin on bare feet, clad only in boxers and a T-shirt. He almost fainted at the sight of the three armed, masked men standing in the doorway. Before he could think of anything to say or do, they were dragging him down the hall past images of Daffy Duck and Minnie Mouse that now seemed like gargoyles. He sensed that his life was soon about to end, and he tried to slow down time.
Even the fresh air on Deck 9 seemed indifferent. Half stumbling, half dragged by two of the armed men, he saw the Goofy-themed pool ahead. Yesterday he had been splashing in it with his sons and other happy kids and parents. Now it seemed dull and quiet with only one of the underwater lights on, and the water appeared red. He wondered why—until he saw the floating bodies. Then something in his head shut off and he lost consciousness.
Crocker stood on the bow of the SEALION II holding the long pole aloft and trying to hook onto the rail of the main deck of the Disney Magic. A difficult task in any circumstances, it was made more challenging by the rolling, bobbing vessel. The muscles in his arms and shoulders quaking, he focused intently and managed to steady the hook enough to rest it on the rail and pull down, releasing a small caving ladder that unrolled thirty feet to where he stood.
