Joint Task Force #2: America

by David E. Meadows

MacOlson dashed out of the small bridge area, down into the compartment, and then out the back. A second later he stuck his head inside. “We’re here, Commander. Boats is firing a hook. The ship has wire safety lines. They should hold the lines you and the others are going to climb up.

  “Ready?” Tucker asked the teams.

  “Bien sur,” replied St. Cyr.

  “Of course,” said Tibbles-Seagraves.

  The remainder of the team acknowledged him and stood, everyone slipping one arm through the strap on their M-4 Carbine so the automatic rifles were tucked tightly against their backs. Tucker noticed that sometime between the dock and here, everyone had managed to finish their preparation for the fight. Pant legs wrapped tight inside socks held together by tied shoelaces. With the exception of the two foreign officers, the camouflage utilities were the same. St. Cyr’s was nearest to theirs, but his had far more patches of light green and Tibbles-Seagraves was the only one in a utility uniform composed of shades of blue. Tucker realized the Brit’s uniform was the only one that would really fade into the colors of the ocean.

  A slight bump told them they had hit the side of the freighter. A moment later, the muffled sound of a line being fired reached their ears. Five additional muffled sounds followed, seconds apart. This was the critical part of the mission. The grappling hooks would sail upward and over the safety lines along the deck. Their motion should send them sailing back through the lines, tangling themselves on the half-inch line leading back to the small craft. Hundreds of things could go wrong. The terrorists could see the lines and wait to shoot them as they climbed over. The lines could fail to connect sufficiently to hold the weight of the men climbing them, causing them to fall onto the deck of the craft below and have their backs broken, or into the drink, where they risked drowning or being crushed between the two vessels.

  Everyone stood, waiting for Tucker to give the go-ahead. There was also the major concern that had been bothering him since they’d started, and that was that none of them had ever worked together before. No training, no pre-mission brief, no rehearsal—just thrown together because of the exigencies of the moment. He looked up at the towering deck edge of the freighter above them. Everything needed for this mission to go wrong was converging at the top of these lines.

  MacOlson stuck his head inside the covered compartment. “Go!” he shouted.

  Tucker was first. The bottom of the lines had been draped over the top safety line of the craft and then poked under the bottom one. He noticed they had not been tied off and knew that in the event the craft had to pull away, it didn’t want to be tied to a rogue freighter that could take it anywhere it wanted.

  Tucker saw Sam out of the corner of his eye follow him toward the number-one line near the front of the craft. A small wave whipped over the bow of the Mark V, soaking him. “Sam, you wait until all of us are up there. Need the teams on board first,” he said, holding up one finger.

  She nodded and leaned against the bulkhead to allow the others to pass. When she looked back, Tucker was already several feet above her, heading toward the top, hand over hand, hurrying as fast as he could.

  St. Cyr grabbed a line and quickly followed. Tibbles-Seagraves was on the third line, his shorter arms working furiously to gain on the other two. Two SEALs moved past her, and at about six-foot intervals they pulled themselves up. The small boat heaved and yawed from side to side as the freighter continued its circle. They only had a few more minutes when the course of the ship would take the calmer lee side away and expose them to the full force of the storm. The storm, though curving away from the mainland, was still throwing a rough punch for a small vessel.

  Sam grabbed the same line Tucker used. Looking up, she saw him hook a leg to the deck and roll under the safety line. She pulled herself up, hand over hand. The line rocked back and forth against the side of the ship. One time in her ascent she scraped the side of her hand. When Sam reached the top, she saw the back of the last man disappear forward toward the huge van blocking most of the deck. She pulled herself up and over the edge, breathing hard from the exertion. She was alone and had no idea what to do now. Tucker had failed to tell her what the plan was after they got on board.

  Little did she know that Tucker himself had little idea what the plan was, other than to get aboard, find the terrorists, and kill them before they could set off the bomb. She looked across the deck. There, about sixty feet from where she lay, was the black van Navy Intelligence had briefed might hold a nuclear device. The rain abruptly stopped. Looking up, Sam saw a hole in the clouds with a spot of sky blue in the center. Then hell broke loose as gunfire erupted out of sight on the other side of the van. She crawled toward a nearby exhaust vent and took position behind it. “Lord, let them win,” she prayed, her thoughts on what would happen to her if the terrorists won.

  Sam wished she had a gun. Even a small one would give her comfort. The sound of Arabic and English filled the air. She peeked around the funnel-like vent to see the bow of a giant ship emerge slowly past the edge of the freighter’s superstructure. It was so close, Sam knew the two were going to hit.

  EARLY AND THE SENIOR CHIEF DOVE FOR THE DECK WHEN they heard gunfire. Early turned her head left and caught movement behind them. Turning further, the bow of a huge tanker emerged. They must have completed one complete circle. She winced. “I think we’re going to hit it this time.” The waves seemed calmer. She reached up and wiped the rain from her forehead. As she watched the huge tanker slide down the length of the ship, gunfire erupted again. High above them, Early saw bits of paint rocket out as bullets hit near the bridge.

  Leary glanced aft. “Seems they’ve found someone else to piss off.”

  “Let’s go,” Early said as she crawled forward along the opened top deck of the amidships superstructure. She had to stop worrying about Kelly on the bridge. They had to stop the terrorists from exploding that bomb. At that specific moment, she realized she could die. And die she would if they didn’t stop them. The bomb would vaporize this ship and everyone on it. The sound of a ship’s horn sounding its one long warning blast drowned out the shooting. And that tanker would go along with it.

  Senior Chief Leary shifted in front of her, widening the gap between them a few feet as they approached the port edge of the walkway. A couple of quick movements and the man reached the edge, where he leaned forward. His head stuck out around the edge of the forecastle, his body prone on the wet deck.

  Early kept watch on the ladder leading from the deck below. She guessed they were three decks above the stern weather deck where the van was tied down.

  Leary turned to her and with urgent hand motions urged her to join him. She bit her lower lip, looking at the top of the ladder about six feet from her and then back at the Senior Chief. If she moved up beside him, their backs would be exposed to anyone coming up the ladder.

  He must have seen her waiver. “Lieutenant!” he said, his voice soft and urgent, as he motioned her again.

  “What the hell,” she whispered, and then crawled rapidly over to where Leary watched the stern weather deck below them.

  When she bumped against him, he slid a couple of feet away, keeping an opening between them. Below was the van. This close she could see the panel door that the man had blocked from view on the monitor. A rush of water carried the key, unnoticed by the terrorists, back toward the van. That must have been what the man had tried to throw overboard, she thought.

  “What do ya think?” the Senior Chief asked.

  “I think the thing is armed. I saw it on the monitor on the bridge before we left. And that thing washing about on the deck may be the key needed to disarm it, Senior Chief.”

  “You see what I see?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Look past the stern. What do you see?”

  Approaching the ship over the raised stern deck was another ship, bearing the white hull with its distinctive red-angled stripe—a Coast Guard cutter. She squinted and looked to the starboard side of the cut
ter. A small boat bopped and dropped on the waves as it used the cutter to mitigate the waves stirred by the storm. She didn’t know what it was, but whatever it was, it was probably good news for them. This was one time she wouldn’t mind seeing some Navy SEALs storm aboard. Her experiences with them in the Officers’ Clubs had been less than amiable. Right now a raging herd of male testosterone roaring about killing everything would make her day.

  “What are they doing?” the Senior Chief asked, nodding down toward the terrorists.

  Four of the terrorists, with their guns strapped across their backs, pushed one of the camouflaged Zodiac rafts toward the port side of the rogue freighter. Two bodies lay in the raft. She thought she saw one of them move but couldn’t be sure.

  Looking back at the two approaching ships, she estimated their distance at less than two thousand yards—a nautical mile. The cutter was changing course toward the port side of the freighter. She looked behind her. The ship’s bow was sliding right, passing the amidships angle of the tanker and turning away. She looked down at the terrorists and at the approaching Coast Guard cutter. The small boat had disappeared.

  Four men shoved one of the Zodiac rafts and leaped in it as it fell to the rough seas alongside the ship. They disappeared from view for a couple of minutes. Along the rails, the other terrorists watched.

  “Lieutenant, we’re here. What do you think we ought to do?”

  She licked her dry lips. With this much rain, why did her mouth feel so dry?

  Senior Chief Leary nodded. “I feel the same way, Lieutenant. I ain’t keen on letting them know we’re here.” He looked back down. “We could wait here until the second bunch leave and then rush down to the deck and . . .” He stopped.

  “That’s the question, isn’t it, Senior Chief? Even if we reach the van after they leave, what do we do?”

  “Can’t do anything up here, but watch it explode.”

  She looked down to where she had seen the key come to rest. It was gone. Probably washed overboard. If not, it could be anywhere down there. “If we can find that key and it opens the panel—that’s probably where he armed the bomb.”

  “It should be somewhere along the left side of it.”

  He shook his head back and forth. “Your eyes are much better than mine, ma’am.”

  Leary had his lips pursed together as if making up his mind. “Okay, Senior Chief, let’s have it. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that if we let them go first, then we’re letting those who know how to turn the damn thing off disappear over the side. What if we find this key we just saw and it doesn’t open the panel? And if it does, we don’t even know what the controls look like, much less how they operate.”

  “You think we need to stop this last bunch?”

  He nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, unfortunately.”

  Unnoticed by them, five lines topped with grappling hooks rose above the far safety lines, wrapping around when the momentum stopped.

  “Let’s roll,” Early said.

  “Remember the Alamo,” the Senior Chief added.

  The two slid back from the edge of the deck before standing. Moments later they were working their way down, the Senior Chief leading. They reached the main deck, coming out around the corner, out of sight of the remaining terrorists. Filling their vision was the starboard aft side of the tanker as the freighter turned away from it. It was so close, Early thought she could leap across the gap and touch its side before falling into the water between them.

  Shouts came from the terrorists, whose race back to the safety line brought them into her line of sight. Early and the Senior Chief leaned back against the bulkhead, trying to remain motionless and not draw attention. As the tanker and freighter grew parallel to each other, it caused the seas between the two massive ships to grow in its force. The tanker was massive, its hull rising about fifty feet higher than the weather decks of the freighter. Early looked up at the tanker, but the ladder under which they hid blocked her view. She doubted the top deck of the freighter superstructure was even level with the main deck of the tanker, such was the enormous size of the anchored ship.

  Waves rushed up between the ships, cascading over the sides of the weather deck, knocking the terrorists down and sending them reeling away from the safety lines. Another spray hit the sides of the superstructure like a broad hand pushing Early and the Senior Chief against the bulkhead, taking away their breath for a moment.

  Opening her eyes, Early saw the Zodiac raft that had been launched minutes earlier climb on the crest of a wave to nearly main-deck level before falling away, leaving the raft floating in the air for a second before it fell back out of sight. The terrorists on board tumbled forward and out of the raft.

  “Damn, ma’am. If we survive this, Mother Nature may finish them off.”

  Two terrorists appeared at the safety line as the ships continued to slide by each other. They turned and ran away as another group of waves washed across the deck. This time the raft was upside down and no one was visible. Early caught a glimpse of an arm sticking out of the wave, its hand clenching and unclenching as if begging someone to grab it. She surprised herself with her joy at seeing these enemies of civilization die. It further surprised her to discover that she wished their deaths had been slower and that she could have helped with them.

  Early reached up and wiped the water from her face, realizing as she did that the rain had stopped. The overcast disappeared briefly as clouds parted to allow a sliver of sunlight to pass through the mist of the storm. She wasn’t a superstitious person, but as she looked around at nature’s spotlight on this area, she prayed this was a good omen.

  Gunfire erupted on the weather deck, around the edge of the superstructure, out of sight, and Early quickly brought her attention back to the matter at hand. The Senior Chief rushed forward around the ladder toward the weather deck. As he neared where the superstructure ended and the weather deck began, a huge Arab ran around the corner and slammed into him. The man was huge and bleeding from a wound to his left shoulder. The Senior Chief was knocked backward, falling onto the bottom rungs of the ladder. Early saw the Senior Chief’s face grimace in pain. The terrorist jumped up, screaming. The man pulled a long curved knife from somewhere around his belt line and jumped on top of Leary, crushing the Senior Chief’s back into the metal rungs. Leary grabbed the hand with the knife, holding it up and away from him. He punched the man with his right hand. The man barely noticed it.

  The ship rolled to starboard. The name on the stern of the tanker appeared briefly as the freighter continued its turn, opening up the distance between the ships. The roll caught the giant terrorist off balance long enough for Senior Chief Leary to free his right knee and bring it up between the man’s legs, knocking him off and against the safety lines.

  Shouts in Arabic and English came from out of sight on the weather deck. The shouts startled Early out of the mesmerizing sight of the two men fighting inches from her face. She pulled her AK-47 up, stepped around the ladder, and pulled the trigger. Nothing. She pulled it again. Still nothing happened. Then pain ripped through her as the Jihadist took the opportunity to backhand her, sending her reeling backward against the bulkhead. Another wave hit, propelling her off from the bulkhead and washing her down the deck away from the fight and toward the safety lines. The water receded over the side of the deck. The blow had burst the skin around her swollen eye. She shook her head. Little white dots danced in front of her vision. Behind her, the gunfight continued. Leary and the terrorist were standing, their chests against each other, and their hands locked together, grunting as they fought.

  Early forced herself up, bracing against the nearby bulkhead. She shook her head slightly, trying to clear her vision. The Navy Lieutenant stumbled forward toward the weapon, reaching down to pick it up as another wave washed aboard, taking the lightweight AK-47 a few feet farther beyond her grasp. She turned in time to see the Senior Chief slam his right fist into the ample stomach of the terrorist, sen
ding the man back a few feet. It had little effect as the man rushed Leary again, this time the knife slashing back and forth as a lethal barrier between the two. Leary grabbed the railing of the ladder and swung himself out and onto the deck as the terrorist sliced through the air where he had been a moment before.

  Early stepped on the gun to hold it in place. She grabbed it and turned back to the deadly fight working its way down the open passageway toward her. The stern of the tanker passed, lessening the sea state between the two ships and increasing the daylight filtering through the heavy overcast. The oily smell from one of the ship’s funnels whiffed down the walkway, causing her eyes to sting slightly. Early blinked rapidly a few times, and then wiped the back of a dirty sleeve across them. When she looked up, the Senior Chief was on his back. The terrorist leaped, his knife drawn back. Leary grabbed the man’s arms as he came down, pulling him down as he simultaneously jerked his legs up, planting his feet in the man’s midsection. The terrorist went flying over the Senior Chief toward Early. Before she could move, the man slammed into her, knocking her against the bulkhead and sending the AK-47 spinning along the weather deck forward.

  She screamed. A horrible pain ripped through her as the pressure of the body lifted. She pushed with all her strength and felt the man fall away, surprised she was able to do it. She looked up and the Senior Chief had the man’s neck in the crook of his left elbow, using his right hand to squeeze it tighter. The terrorist’s arm reached backward with his knife. The knife had blood on it, rain washing it off and onto the deck. Her eyes followed the blood for a moment and saw a larger pool of blood running from beneath her.

  A grunt from the Senior Chief drew her attention. The terrorist’s knife was deep within Leary’s right side. Leary forced the man’s hand back until the knife pulled out. Then he fell to the right, shoving the terrorist backward, sending him rolling across the nonskid decks of the open passageway. The terrorist jumped up, screamed “Allah Akbar” and ran at the Senior Chief. Gunfire rippled from behind the man, and along the front of the large Iraqi small holes erupted with puffs of blood and meat. Blood flowed from the holes as the man looked down at them, took a couple more steps, and fell forward. His knife clattered on the deck, falling within several inches of Early’s hand. She reached for it, sending more pain ripping through her body. Early ran her hand along her side, touching herself, trying to find what was wrong. But the saturation of the rain hid the wound and it was only when she lifted her hand and saw it covered with blood that she knew the terrorist had stabbed her.