Frontal Assault
( Seal Team Seven - 10 )
Keith Douglass
Moving with deadly swiftness and stealth, Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock and his elite SEAL team go up against the one man insane enough to take over the entire Middle East — Saddam Hussein…
Keith Douglass
Frontal Assault
1
Tuesday, July 23
Damascus, Syria
Linda Walsh jolted upward and took a quick look through the shot-out, barred, second-floor window of the United States Embassy in Damascus, then moved to the left against the solid rock wall. The gunfire came again, a deadly drumming of rifles and machine guns. She winced each time one of the bullets slammed into the wall outside. The smell of cordite and smoke drifted through the window, stinging her nose and throat with an acrid bite.
“The idiots,” she said out loud. It would take three hundred of them to overrun the embassy compound, and then it could happen only if they would accept enough casualties. No problem there. The Syrian extremists would love to die for Islam. A martyr’s death for Allah was the highest honor any Muslim could pray for.
Linda held her Walther PP automatic in her right hand. She had drawn it instinctively when she first heard the attack. There was no immediate need for it, but she kept it at the ready. Ingrained company training.
Linda stood tall and slender against the beige wall of the second-floor hall. Her dark hair, cut short on the sides, framed her face. Her brown eyes flashed in anger. Why were they attacking the embassy?
When the spate of firing stilled for a moment, she edged up and looked outside. One white-clad Syrian pushed to the top of the embassy’s ten-foot-high rock wall directly opposite her. Before he could climb over, a red flower of blood blossomed on his forehead, blasting him backward and out of sight.
Time to report in. This wasn’t a chance mob assault. It was planned and programmed. The ranks of white-robed Arabs, all with new Russian weapons. Everyone moving on signals from a manipulator. Arlington had to know.
She ran to the communications room and typed out a report to CIA headquarters. It was encrypted immediately and transmitted at once to the satellite. She told them it was a planned attack, more serious than ever before. A few casualties. She’d do a complete report later.
The radio tech handed her some papers. Two more attacks at two more U.S. embassies in the Middle East all at exactly noon. That meant one hand was behind all of these attacks. Was this the start of a general uprising by Arabs against the United States? The great religious war the Muslims had been promising for years?
She ran back to her post in the hallway and looked out the window, then ducked down quickly. A hot Arab slug burrowed its way into the window casing near where her head had been a minisecond before.
Linda ran to the window just down the hall and took a quick look outside. Three white-clad Arabs rolled over the wall and dropped to the ground inside the compound. One took a round to the chest and died. The other two charged for the outside wall of the embassy itself and moved out of sight of the gunners inside.
She heard a muffled explosion and guessed the Syrians who came over the wall had blown open the locked and unused door just below her. No Marines would be inside at that point guarding it.
Linda went low under the windows and ran down the maroon-carpeted hall to the back stairs that led to the first floor. That outside door was just in back of the steps. She held her Walther automatic ready and crept silently halfway down the stairs. She stopped when she heard whispers in Arabic coming from below her.
They must be the Syrians she saw coming over the wall. She held her pistol high and edged lower on the open stairway. The invaders would have to come past the stairs to get to the embassy’s main front rooms.
The Syrians both charged from their hiding place past the stairs. They came in view almost at once, and Linda tracked one a moment, then fired twice with her Walther. The muhajed was only ten feet away and hadn’t seen her. He took one .380 round in the chest and the other in his neck, spraying the wall beside him with a gushing rain of blood. He stumbled and fell as his automatic weapon chattered, sending lead slugs down the empty hall. The second Syrian turned toward Linda and swung up his AK 74 rifle. Linda had changed targets and fired three times as fast as she could pull the trigger.
One of the rounds hit the Syrian’s weapon, jolting it off target. The second and third tore into his chest, rocking him sideways. He stared at Linda a moment with black eyes of hatred, then he smiled, mumbled, “Shukran,” “thank you,” and died before he hit the floor.
Linda dropped to the steps, looking for any more Arabs. Sweat beaded her forehead and her heart raced. She could smell the raw copper scent of the blood on the wall and pooling on the floor. She kept her pistol trained on the closest Syrian, but he didn’t move.
Footsteps pounded toward her down the front hall. She relaxed when she saw three Marines in their show-off dress blues rushing toward her. Each had an M-16 up and ready.
The Marine sergeant nodded grimly at her. “Good work in here, Miss Walsh. If they’d got down this corridor, a lot of us would have died out there. I think we’ve about got them beaten off.”
Tuesday, July 23
Cairo, Egypt
It was hot, even for Cairo.
A devil wind whipped down the crooked street, bringing stinging sand on the wings of hot air that scraped the skin off a person’s face and arms if left exposed too long. The local weatherman had promised that this was the last day of the heat wave.
Two young women hurried from one shady spot to the next along Scarab Street, their veils protecting their faces from the blowing sandpaper. They turned into a shop.
Two boys about twelve walked along Scarab Street. They wore white head coverings that protected their lower faces as well. Only their black eyes showed to the world. Each carried a red plastic sack that sagged heavily in his arms. They paused, set down the sacks, and rested, flexing their arms, talking quietly. The taller one looked at his wristwatch and nodded.
They picked up the plastic sacks and walked forward. Twice more, the taller boy checked his watch. The last time he slowed, then they walked casually to the front of a building with a sign in English and Arabic. The English part said: U.S. Petroleum Explorer.
The boys evidently tired again and set down their heavy sacks against the front of the American business and huddled against the facade to escape the savage wind.
They looked at each other, nodded, and walked away, quicker this time. They hurried down the block, around the corner, and out of sight.
Thirty seconds after the boys vanished, the two bags left outside the business exploded with a crackling, roaring blast that demolished the front half of the two-story building. The rest of the second story stood, gaping and exposed like a shameless streetwalker. It teetered there for a moment, then the back part tilted forward, and it all fell with a crashing roar onto the ground floor.
After the sounds of the smashing wood and shattering glass faded and the dust began to settle on the wreckage, one plaintive cry could be heard from the ruins. The cry came again, weaker this time. Once more, it issued from under some heavy timbers. Then it ceased and there was no life left in the American business office.
In three other sections of Cairo that afternoon, at precisely two P.M. local time, three more American business firms were shattered by bombs planted at the fronts of the buildings. Fourteen people died in the blasts, and over forty were injured. Two Egyptians, who worked in one of the firms, survived the blasts.
Ambrose Blount, security officer at the United States Embassy in Cairo and resident CIA man, inspected all four sites within an hour of the explosions. He wrote
his report and sent it by top security scrambled radio by three-thirty, Cairo time.
“All four blasts went off within seconds of each other. Two had evidently been set up by small boys who left the bombs in plastic sacks against the fronts of the offices. It was a coordinated attack. I have absolutely no suggestion as to the reason for the terrorism or who could be behind it.”
Naval Special Warfare Section One
Coronado, California
Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock sat in his small office in the headquarters of SEAL Team Seven, Third Platoon, near the BUDS/S training facility. He could hear the surf breaking less than fifty yards away on the foaming Pacific Ocean.
He studied his personnel roster spread out on his desk and flipped down his pen and rubbed his face. Had he made the right choices? Coming back from the double whammy of the Kuril Islands and then the blowup in Korea had left him with three wounded men and the need to replace three others. Two had suffered wounds that would knock them right off the SEAL platoon, and the third one was in federal prison.
On top of that, his boss, Commander Masciareli, top gun of SEAL Team Seven, had ordered him to get with the T&O and put a SCPO on his platoon. A damned senior chief petty officer, who in effect would be third in command of the platoon right after Lieutenant (j.g.) DeWitt. A SCPO. The man had to be a top SEAL, somebody who Murdock and the rest of the men could get along with. He had to have the respect of the men, and they had to be willing to take orders from him. A hard combo for a chief in any field.
Master Chief Gordon MacKenzie had come up with four suggestions. The commander said anyone in the Seventh was available to him. That could cover maybe ten men. He had interviewed four different SCPOs. One was only twenty-six and on a fast track to Officer Candidate School. At last he had picked SCPO Aviation’s Mate Will Dobler. He was thirty-seven years old, which would give them some maturity at the top.
Murdock picked up the pen and put on the cap. It had been three months since they came home from Korea. Things were shaping up.
J.g. Ed DeWitt was healed up and strong again. Jack Mahanani had agreed to be the platoon’s medic, but he stayed in Bravo Squad. Murdock had to promise him he’d get some time on the big .50-caliber sniper rifle.
Miguel Fernandez had come back well from his chest wound. They picked twelve pieces of lead out of him, but none of it had hit anything vital.
Colt Franklin, who had been knocked out of action in the Islands, was whole and doing the O course faster than before.
That left him still short two men. He’d worked with Master Chief MacKenzie and come up with two good replacements. The first was a mechanic, Machinist Mate First Class Tony Ostercamp. He came from Third Team, was an amateur race car driver who had a car at the El Cajon Speedway, and could tear apart any machine ever made and then put it back together.
For the last man he wanted an armorer, or at least somebody who could repair and work with their weapons. He found him in the pool waiting for an assignment. His name was Paul (Jeff) Jefferson, a black man from Oakland and an aviation’s mate second class.
Murdock looked over his completed roster sheet again:
SEAL TEAM SEVEN
THIRD PLATOON [1]
CORONADO, CALIFORNIA
PLATOON LEADER:
Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock: 32, 6'2", 210 pounds. Annapolis graduate. Six years in SEALs. Father important congressman from Virginia. Murdock recently promoted. Apartment in Coronado. Has a car and a motorcycle; loves to fish.
WEAPON: H & K MP-5SD submachine gun.
ALPHA SQUAD
Willard “Will” Dobler: Aviation’s Mate Senior Chief Petty Officer. Platoon chief. Third in command. 37, 6'1", 180 pounds. Married. Two kids. Sports nut. Knows dozens of major league records. Competition pistol marksman.
WEAPON: H & K MP-5 submachine gun. Good with the men.
David “Jaybird” Sterling: Machinist Mate Lead Petty Officer. 24, 5’10”, 170 pounds. Quick mind, fine tactician. Single. Drinks too much sometimes. Crack shot with all arms. Helps plan attack operations.
WEAPON: H & K MP-5SD submachine gun.
Ron Holt: Radioman First Class. 22, 6'1", 170 pounds. Plays guitar, had a small band. Likes redheaded girls. Rabid baseball fan. Loves deep-sea fishing, is good at it. Platoon radio operator.
WEAPON: H & K MP-5SD submachine gun.
Bill Bradford: Quartermaster First Class. 24, 6'2", 215 pounds. An artist in spare time. Paints oils. He sells his marine paintings. Single. Quiet. Reads a lot. Has two years of college. Squad sniper.
WEAPON: H & K PSG1 7.62 NATO sniper rifle or McMillan M-87R .50- caliber sniper rifle.
Joe “Ricochet” Lampedusa: Operations Specialist Third Class. 21, 5'11", 175 pounds. Good tracker, quick thinker. Had a year of college. Loves motorcycles. Wants a Hog. Pot smoker on the sly. Picks up plain girls. Platoon scout.
WEAPON: Colt M-4Al with grenade launcher.
Kenneth Ching: Quartermaster’s Mate First Class. Full-blooded Chinese. 25, 6'0", 180 pounds. Platoon translator. Speaks Mandarin Chinese, Japanese, Russian, and Spanish. Bicycling nut. Paid $1,200 for off-road bike. Is trying for Officer Candidate School.
WEAPON: Colt M-4Al rifle with grenade launcher.
Harry “Horse” Ronson: Electrician’s Mate Second Class. 24, 6'4", 240 pounds. Played football two years at college. Wants a ranch where he can raise horses. Good man in a brawl. Has broken his nose twice. Squad machine gunner.
WEAPON: H & K 21-E 7.62 NATO round machine gun.
BRAVO SQUAD
Lieutenant (j.g.) Ed DeWitt: Leader, Bravo Squad. Second in command of the platoon. From Seattle. 30, 6'1", 175 pounds. Wiry. Has serious live-in woman. He’s an Annapolis grad. A career man. Plays a good game of chess on traveling board.
WEAPON: The new H & K G-11 submachine gun.
Al Adams: Gunner’s Mate Third Class. 20, 5'11", 180 pounds. Surfer and triathlete. Finished the Ironman twice. A golfing nut. Binge drinker or teetotaler. Loves the ladies if they play golf. Runs local marathons for training.
WEAPON: Colt M-4A1 with grenade launcher.
Miguel Fernandez: Gunner’s Mate First Class. 26, 6'1", 180 pounds. Has wife, Maria, and child, Linda, age 7, in Coronado. Spends his off time with them. Highly family-oriented. He has family in San Diego. Speaks Spanish, Portuguese. Squad sniper.
WEAPON: H & K PSG1 7.62 NATO sniper rifle.
Colt “Guns” Franklin: Yeoman Second Class. 24, 5'10", 175 pounds. A former gymnast. Powerful arms and shoulders. Expert mountain climber. Has a motorcycle and does hang gliding. Speaks Farsi and Arabic.
WEAPON: Colt M-4A1 with grenade launcher.
Les Quinley: Torpedoman Third Class. 22, 5'9", 160 pounds. A computer and Internet fan. Has his own Web page. Always reading computer magazines. Explosive specialist with extra training.
WEAPON: H & K G-11 caseless rounds, 4.7mm submachine gun with 50-round magazine.
Jack Mahanani: Hospital Corpsman First Class. 25, 6'4", 240 pounds. Platoon medic. Tahitian/Hawaiian. Expert swimmer. Bench-presses 400 pounds. Once married, now divorced. Top surfer. Wants the .50 sniper rifle.
WEAPON: Colt M-4Al with grenade launcher.
Anthony “Tony” Ostercamp: Machinist Mate First Class. 23, 5'10", 180 pounds. Races stock cars in nearby El Cajon weekends. Top auto mechanic. Platoon driver.
WEAPON: H & K 21E 7.62 NATO round machine gun. Second radio operator.
Paul “Jeff” Jefferson: Aviation’s Mate Second Class. Black man, 23, 6'1", 200 pounds. Expert in small arms. Can tear them apart and reassemble, repair, innovate. Is a chess player to match Ed De Witt.
PLATOON WEAPON: Colt M-4A1 with grenade launcher.
Murdock stared at the names and weapons. He remembered the two months of training they had taken to fuse the new men into the platoon. He remembered the nights of talking with SCPO Dobler, bringing him up to date on the men, trying to give him a firm foundation in the team. Had he done it with Dobler? Were the men in the platoon ready?
On the schedule for the coming week, he had put intensified live fire drills. Each man in the platoon had to be at home firing every weapon the platoon used. This was essential.
The walking wounded had rounded out in good shape. All were fit for SEAL duty, and that was rougher and tougher than normal Navy duty. Murdock tried to relax. Bowling used to relax him. He thought about it a minute.
No, not bowling. There you were shooting for perfection. The perfect 300 game. His competitive instincts would take over, and he’d be furious if he didn’t do well. Even a 200 game would piss him off. He settled for going home, taking a long hot shower, then diving into bed.
As he turned out the light, he wondered what Ardith Manchester was doing in her apartment in Washington, D.C., about then.
2
The Persian Gulf
Eight wet suit — clad divers came up out of the depths of the black waters of the Persian Gulf twenty miles below Kuwait City. They swam strongly against the bow wake of the huge ship until they came against the black side. There they pushed strong magnets against the steel hull of the super crude carrier oil tanker.
All eight men wore black wet suits, face masks, rebreathers, caps, gloves, and boots. Automatic weapons had been tied across their backs. Each man wore a combat vest with pockets and zippers, and all were loaded with arms. The men rested as the big tanker towed them through the water at her normal loaded cruising speed of eighteen knots. The smallest man in the team lifted out of the water and, using magnets on his hands and feet, worked his way slowly up the side of the tanker at the lowest point, about amidships. He trailed a thin, strong nylon rope tied to his waist. He rested halfway up, then paused at the rail. He looked down the long expanse of the deck, saw no sentries, no one on watch. It was nearly three A.M. Most of the crew would be sleeping.
Frontal Assault sts-10 Page 1
