“Are the warheads in danger of going off, either from the air strikes or from pressure in deep water?” Clarke asked.
“No, sir,” said the chairman. “The nukes can’t be detonated from explosions alone. And there have been warheads lost at sea since the 1950s by us and the Russians through accidents of one kind or another. Some estimates put the number as high as fifty. But none of them have ever detonated. Nor have any of those been recovered.”
“I don’t like it,” said the president.
“Nor do I,” Stephens said.
Evans shook his head. “Me neither. I think we should stick with our game plan, however messy it becomes.”
The president then turned to his defense secretary, who had been unusually quiet thus far.
“Cal, what do you think?”
“Mr. President, I don’t like it any more than the rest of you,” Foster said. “But as much as I’m loath to admit it, Ryker may be right. We’re losing a lot of men and choppers at this rate. At this point the SEALs on scene are combat ineffective. The deck is secure. We could certainly order more men in to help them. But the storm is worsening. You’ve got raging fires at both ends of the ship. I’m not sure how long that tanker is going to stay afloat. This just might be our best option.”
“What about al-Zanjani?” the president asked. “I wanted him taken alive.”
“I realize that, sir,” the SecDef replied. “But honestly, I think that moment has passed. I have to side with Ryker on this. It’s time to get our men off that ship and tie this thing off before we lose anyone else.”
Under almost any other circumstances, McDermott would have pressed for sending in more men and seizing those warheads. But not tonight. They’d already paid too high a price. And his friend was out there. It was a miracle Ryker wasn’t dead already.
“Point taken,” the president said. “Get our men off that ship and take it down.”
91
THE EAST CHINA SEA
They were down to just three grenades for the M79.
For the first time, Marcus wondered whether they were going to be able to contain the Revolutionary Guards at the other end of these two corridors. How many were down there? None of them knew for sure. Nor did they know what other tricks the Iranians had up their sleeves. What if they came charging forward? Could he and Warner and the others hold them off? They were quickly running out of ammo for their best deterrent weapon.
Marcus fired one more grenade, reloaded, and tossed the gun to Warner. He fired, reloaded, and tossed it back. As he did, Callaghan hung up the satphone. “Grab your gear and get your butts up on deck.”
“Why?” asked Warner. “What’s going on?”
“Washington just green-lit your plan, Ryker. We’re bugging out.”
Marcus fired the last grenade, then followed Callaghan and Warner up the metal stairs, the other two SEALs right behind him. Along the way, they set up several booby traps, then stepped out into the rain and shut and locked the door behind them.
Callaghan told Warner to take up a sniper’s position in one of the bunk rooms on the second floor of the still-burning superstructure and instructed Marcus to take up a position at the base of the nearest crane—just in case.
“Take out anybody who makes it through that door or pops out any of the hatches on this deck,” he ordered. “No one comes near those choppers. You got it?”
Both men nodded.
The Seahawks were on scene and onloading the dead and wounded near the bow of the ship, and that’s where Callaghan and the remaining two SEALs now headed. Marcus and Warner moved to their positions even as they struggled to maintain their footing. The ship was rocking violently and the deck was not only slick with rain but littered with the bodies of dead Iranians, spent shell casings, and all manner of ropes and chains that had snapped off whatever they once tied down. Thankfully, Marcus made it to one of the cranes without slipping and cracking his head open. Beyond him, he could see a chopper pulling away and disappearing into the storm, heading east.
A moment later, another Seahawk pulled into position. There was too much wreckage to actually land on the deck, so the crew had to lower a winch to bring the men up. But Marcus could see that all the dead and most of the wounded had already been successfully evacuated. They were in the process of removing the last few wounded SEALs. Once everyone else was secure, he, Warner, and Callaghan would be the last to go. That suited Marcus just fine. He was honored to cover the backs of these brave men and was grateful the president had taken his advice.
Callaghan came over to check on him.
“You good?” he asked.
“Good, sir,” Marcus replied.
“I’ve got a present for you,” a smiling Callaghan said as he handed Marcus a bright-orange automatic inflatable life preserver. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
“I’ll be fine,” Marcus laughed.
“No, seriously, put it on,” the SEAL commander said.
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“Nope. I just learned the president and the NSC are watching live drone coverage of this extraction and the fireworks to come. I figured it might be nice if your old sergeant could pick you out of the crowd.”
Marcus looked up in the sky, tempted to wave.
Callaghan persisted. “Put it on, Ryker—now. That’s an order from the new commander of SEAL Team Six.”
“Yes, sir,” Marcus replied. “And congrats.”
“Thanks,” Callaghan said as Marcus donned the vest.
Callaghan slapped him on the back and headed over to the hovering chopper. Marcus shook his head and actually started to relax. This was really it, he thought. After all they’d been through, the mission was almost over.
Still, it was increasingly a challenge to maintain his balance as one massive wave after another pelted the ship. Marcus braced himself against the crane to help him stay upright. But no sooner had he done so than he heard the booby traps explode one by one.
Wiping the fog from his goggles, he gripped his MP7, made sure the safety was off, and aimed at the door to the lower decks. But that’s not where the first Iranian emerged. Instead, a hatch about twenty yards behind him suddenly popped open. With the roar of the choppers and the pounding waves, Marcus didn’t hear it happen. What he did hear was Warner opening fire from the second-floor window. That caused him to whip around just in time to see one of the Revolutionary Guards collapsing to the deck, his body riddled with bullets.
Marcus heard another explosion. Turning back to the door they’d just come through, he saw it had been blown off its hinges. An instant later, someone came charging through the doorframe, gun blazing. Marcus reacted instantly, double-tapping him to the forehead. But just then the ship rocked hard to starboard. Marcus fought to stay on his feet as the body of the slain Revolutionary Guard slid across the deck and over the side of the ship, leaving behind a trail of smeared blood, though it was almost entirely washed away by the rains in a few seconds.
An instant later, another Iranian came bolting through the door, this one firing a grenade launcher. Marcus took aim and unleashed two bursts—one into the man’s face, the other into his chest—killing him immediately as the grenade went soaring over Marcus’s head, though not by much, exploding somewhere behind him.
Warner opened fire again. This time the rounds hit so close that Marcus felt a flash of anger. Warner was going to get him killed if he wasn’t more careful.
That’s when he saw it out of the corner of his eye. It was a blur at first, and then Marcus realized someone was coming straight for him.
92
WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Via the live drone feed, McDermott could see what Marcus Ryker could not.
Another tango had crawled out an open hatch onto the deck, some twenty yards to Marcus’s right. But this Iranian had learned the lesson of the man who had gone before him. No sooner had he popped the hatch than he immediately opened fire at the second-f
loor window, forcing Warner to duck down. Having momentarily suppressed the SEAL’s return fire, the Iranian began charging across the deck toward Marcus, aiming his AK-47 and pulling the trigger.
McDermott tensed, bracing himself for the muzzle flash sure to come, yet it didn’t happen. Whether the man was out of ammunition or his gun had jammed, McDermott could not know. But as the Iranian closed the distance on Marcus—who was looking the opposite direction—Warner popped back up and took aim. His first shots went wide, so he fired again. But when these, too, missed their marks, Warner simply stopped, clearly fearing he might hit Marcus rather than the Iranian.
With nothing to stop him now, the man lowered his shoulder and blindsided Marcus, sending him and his weapon hurtling across the pitching deck.
Only later would someone tell McDermott that at that moment he had jumped to his feet and yelled at the monitor in the Situation Room. He would never remember doing it. What he would remember was the knock-down, drag-out fight to the death that ensued.
The first thing Marcus felt was his ribs cracking.
Then he was airborne. Time seemed to slow. He landed squarely on his back. All the breath in his lungs was forced out of him. He was in immense pain and gasping for air. Before he could react, whoever had just tackled him landed on top of him, driving his fist into Marcus’s jaw.
The video from the drone feed would later show Revolutionary Guards emerging simultaneously from multiple doors and hatches. It would also show Warner, then Callaghan, opening fire in multiple directions. But at that moment Marcus saw and heard none of it. Rather, he felt his head slam back onto the deck. Had he not been wearing a helmet, he likely would have split his skull open or at least been knocked out cold.
Instead, Marcus instinctively drove his right knee upward, catching his assailant in the solar plexus. He simultaneously threw a right jab. As the deck shifted below him, however, the arc of his fist was altered slightly. The blow did not hit its mark dead-on, glancing instead off the man’s left cheek. But the combination was enough to drive the man off him and give Marcus a moment—if only a moment—to suck in some desperately needed air.
Marcus rolled left. He tried to seize the Iranian by his jacket, by his combat vest, by something—anything—but the man slipped away. The two scrambled to their feet. As they did, Marcus found himself empty-handed while the Iranian had grabbed hold of a steel lashing rod and swung it like a baseball bat.
The first blow hit Marcus on the shoulder and sent him crashing back to the deck. Then the Iranian moved in for the kill. He began pummeling Marcus with the rod again and again. Marcus tried to get away, but the deck was so slippery and heaving so much he couldn’t get his footing.
Over and over the rod came crashing down on Marcus’s chest and back and head and arms. The pain was excruciating. Marcus tried to kick the man’s legs out from under him, but to no avail.
He reached for his Sig Sauer, but it was not there. Using his arms to shield his face, Marcus desperately searched for his holster, finally spotting it several yards away. Somehow during their struggle, it had been torn away from him. He tried to move toward it, but the blows kept coming.
Then his eyes went wide. Marcus saw the Iranian pick up his MP7. He saw the man turn and aim the fully loaded submachine gun at his head. Marcus stared down the barrel of his own weapon, paralyzed, unable to think, unable to move. He heard a single shot ring out. The Iranian spun around and dropped to the deck. Marcus looked up and saw Warner in the window, the barrel of his rifle smoking, giving him a thumbs-up.
Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed. Marcus gave Warner a thumbs-up in return and began breathing again. He lay on his back for a moment in the unrelenting rain, staring up at the angry sky. Blood was once again pouring from his nose and mouth. He was certain he’d broken at least one rib and probably several. Still, he was thankful to be alive and ready to go home.
Finally forcing himself to his feet, he scooped up the MP7A1, clicked on the safety, and threw the strap over his shoulder. Then he limped over to the edge of the ship, where his Sig Sauer lay in its holster. He reached down, picked it up, and slid it into a zippered pouch on his combat vest so he couldn’t lose it again. With one hand, he took hold of the metal railing. With the other he grabbed a nearby bollard, one of the steel posts used for mooring the ship at port. Steadying himself between the two, he stared down at the tangled web of severed ropes and broken cables and chains all around him, then at the roiling sea, letting himself be drenched again and again by spray from the waves slamming against the side of the ship.
He heard Warner calling to him, making sure he was okay. The SEAL had just descended from his second-floor perch. All enemies were down. Marcus thanked him for saving his life yet again, then responded that he was fine and would be there in a moment. Turning to his left, he realized that everyone, including Callaghan, was now on board the waiting chopper. Only he and Warner remained. The F-22s were no doubt inbound. It was time to go.
Just as he started heading for the bow of the ship, however, Marcus saw in his peripheral vision the Iranian suddenly rising to his feet. Stunned that the man was not dead, Marcus turned to face him and was stunned again. It was the first time Marcus had actually looked at the man’s face and into his eyes, and at that moment he realized the figure now advancing upon him was Alireza al-Zanjani.
93
How had he not seen it before?
The beard. The scar. The man’s identity was unmistakable. And now Marcus saw vengeance in his eyes.
He reached for the Sig Sauer, but al-Zanjani lunged for him, hitting him directly in the stomach. The two men crashed back to the deck, exchanging blow for blow. Marcus tried to drive his left knee upward, but the wounded Iranian was ready for him this time. He fended off the attack, then grabbed Marcus by the throat with both hands and squeezed.
Marcus tried everything he had ever learned to turn the tables on this guy, without effect. Al-Zanjani was taller, heavier. Marcus could gain no leverage. And there was a wildness in his eyes, the fevered look of a man possessed.
Where was Warner? Where was the chopper? Wasn’t there anyone who could finish this guy off?
No one was coming to his rescue. It was all happening too fast. Marcus realized he had to find a way to put this man down or he’d be dead in less than a minute. He tried in vain to move his legs, but they were pinned to the deck. His right arm was as well, though his left arm still had some range of movement. He groped blindly for the lashing rod. All he found was a piece of chain.
Marcus’s eyes began to close. He was almost out of oxygen. He was losing consciousness. But suddenly the deck heaved again. Al-Zanjani’s weight shifted and he momentarily lost his grip. Marcus’s eyes shot open. He sucked in a lungful of air and pivoted to the right. In the same motion, he brought his left hand whipping around. The chain struck the Iranian in the side of the head and opened a large and bloody gash.
Both men scrambled back to their feet, but Marcus seized the initiative. Whirling the chain twice over his head, he built up some momentum and then struck hard, wrapping the chain around the Iranian’s neck until it had effectively created a noose. Then, moving behind al-Zanjani, Marcus pulled the two ends of the chain in opposite directions with every ounce of strength he had left. The man’s eyes bulged. He choked and flailed and gasped for air. His feet were kicking wildly, but Marcus was careful to stay behind him and kept pulling the chain for all that he was worth. It was working. Unless al-Zanjani could maneuver a reversal, it would now be him who was dead in less than a minute.
Marcus saw Warner running toward him. He had his weapon raised but couldn’t take a shot without killing them both. Meanwhile, al-Zanjani continued to thrash wildly, a trapped animal desperate to get free. Marcus kept pulling, kept squeezing, until the Iranian made his final, brazen move. They were stumbling over a bollard, and as they did, al-Zanjani suddenly lifted his right leg and pushed off the bollard, driving all his considerable weight backward and sending them both
crashing over the side of the ship.
Marcus had only a split second to fill his lungs with air before he slammed into the swirling waters. Yet despite the searing impact of falling more than twenty feet and hitting the water headfirst, Marcus never lost or loosened his grip. They were sinking fast, but Marcus kept squeezing. Al-Zanjani was going crazy. Though he couldn’t possibly have much air left in him, he kept rocking and swiveling from side to side, feverishly trying to turn his body, trying to use his legs to kick Marcus away from him and break for the surface. But Marcus wouldn’t let go.
McDermott watched in horror as the two men fell over the ship’s side.
He watched them hit the water, then sink below the waves. He stood staring at the monitor, waiting for one of them, either of them, to resurface. But neither did.
The video feed zoomed out a bit, then more, providing a wider view. McDermott continued staring at the heaving, pitching, burning ship and the solitary figure of the lone Navy SEAL operator standing at its edge, looking into the brewing cauldron of the East China Sea.
Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Then two. Then three. No one resurfaced.
McDermott staggered back to his chair and watched as Warner hung his head and returned to the waiting, hovering chopper.
Was that it? Was there nothing they could do? Why hadn’t Warner jumped in after them? Why hadn’t he tried to save Ryker’s life?
Down they went.
Marcus’s ears popped. His lungs were burning. So were his arms and hands. He could not see the surface. He could no longer make out the lights of the chopper. They were in total darkness now. But finally, finally, he felt something in al-Zanjani’s neck give way. His body went limp. Marcus pulled the chain even tighter as they kept descending, just to be sure. But at last he let go, and the man drifted away.
The Persian Gamble Page 35
