Less than a hundred yards from the top, Murdock’s vibrator pager went off. Their contact with the CIA, Don Stroh, had furnished Murdock with a pager and insisted that he wear it whenever he was Stateside.
“Hold it, platoon,” Murdock said. “Somebody is on the hot line.” He looked at his beeper, which had the message: “SATCOM, NOW.”
“Holt, get back here to me at the tail end. Warm up that SATCOM of yours on the way. Methinks that duty doth call.”
“What the fuck he say?” somebody cracked on the Motorola.
Holt had the SATCOM radio on receive before he found Murdock. It was on voice transmission.
“Skipper, just had a transmission. It’s the master chief, and he sounds grumpy as all hell frozen over.”
Murdock took the handset of the fifteen-pound radio that could bounce signals off the satellite or work through cell phones’ TAC frequencies, and a half dozen other configurations.
“SEAL Seven, this is Murdock.”
“Murdock, it’s really hit the fan. Just had an urgent from Don Stroh. He wants you and yours ready to fly out of North Island at noon today. Better get your fannies back on the bus and move it toward town. Not much we can do until you get here. Stroh was breathing fire. He’ll meet you at Andrews Air Force Base near Washington, D.C.”
“We’re moving it, Master Chief. An hour back to the bus, then three hours to your place. It’s 0230 now. Say we’ll see you at 0630, give or take a bit. Let’s start with a big breakfast as soon as we hit the base. Then we can shower, get new cammies, and get our gear ready. Yeah. Can make that noontime deadline.”
Murdock signed off and called into his Motorola, “Reverse your march, SEALs. Just had a call from our buddy, Don Stroh. He’s hot for our asses again. We fly out of North Island at 1200 today. So let’s shag our tails for the fucking bus.”
They made their connection at North Island, sweeping in with less than a minute to spare. The next stop was Andrews Air Force Base, just outside of Washington, D.C. They picked up double-sized box lunches and walked stiffly to their next transportation.
“I’m in fucking heaven,” Jeff Jefferson said when they stopped next to a Gulfstream, U.S. Coast Guard VC11 executive jet. Most of the other SEALs had been in a Gulfstream before.
“It’s got real airliner seats that lean back,” Jaybird said. “Hey, we’re traveling first class on this one. Which means they have some especially dank and shit-kicking job for us once we get wherever we’re going.”
They filed on the sleek jet, took seats. There was room for nineteen passengers and a crew of two or three. It cruised at 581 miles per hour and could cover 4,275 miles without a drink of fuel. A Coast Guard commander sat in the driver’s seat. His copilot was a Coast Guard JG female. She didn’t even look at the men; she was too busy doing a final preflight checklist.
Don Stroh came running out. They had held the plane for him for ten minutes. He grabbed one of the box lunches and dropped into a seat beside Murdock.
“Okay, big spender,” Murdock said. “Tell us where we’re going and what kind of hell we’re going to be jumping into.”
“We’re going there fast. That’s why I wangled this VIP jet. She’ll fly us over there in a damn rush. We’re late now. I haven’t even figured out when we’ll arrive or where we stop for fuel.”
“Hey, Stroh. Just tell me where we’re going.”
“Last stop is Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Another sixty-five hundred miles from here. We’ve got a small problem in the Persian Gulf.”
“Again?”
“Yeah, big buddy, again.”
“So, is it a secret?”
“It is. We’ve had a supertanker hijacked in the middle of the Persian Gulf. The captain on board used a common term that is a trigger word. It means the ship is in terrorists’ hands, and he has no control of it. If the terrorists know that we know, they could sink the ship or release millions of tons of crude into the Persian Gulf, causing a die-off of billions of fish and birds and turning the gulf shorelines into a wasteland.
“The tanker, the SUCC Jasmine Queen carries one and a half million tons of crude.”
“When was the takeover?”
“We’re not sure. First transmission of the trigger word was about midnight, our time, last night.”
“You move fast.”
“The President moves fast. There’s a lot of other crap going on as well over there.” Stroh told Murdock about the four coordinated bombings in Cairo and the attacks on three U.S. embassies in the Middle East.
“Does it all tie together?” Murdock asked.
“The President wishes that he knew. State doesn’t have a clue. Our Middle East desk is totally in the dark. We’re swatting flies in an outhouse here.”
Murdock thought about that a minute. “We must be one of the swatters. Our job is to retake the tanker?”
“Good guess. I have the specs on the ship, layout, crew, types of radar, and machinery. Everything you’ll need to know.”
“We better start planning. Will the tanker still be in the gulf by the time we get over there? How fast is she?”
“She does eighteen knots fully loaded; that’s two hundred and fifty miles a day. The gulf is four hundred seventy miles long. Let’s say they captured the ship in the dark thirty-six hours ago. The tanker had loaded at Kuwait City near the top of the gulf. In forty-eight hours, the ship will be out of the Persian Gulf into the Gulf of Oman.”
Murdock stood up in his place. “DeWitt, Dobler, Sterling, up here for a powwow. Now.”
Stroh moved across the aisle. DeWitt took his seat, and the other two stood in the aisle. The business jet was quieter than most jet airliners.
“We’re going to the Persian Gulf. Here’s the problem.” Murdock laid it out for them. They all listened and then began talking at once.
“Hey, easy. We’ve got lots of time. We’ll be on this plane for another eleven hours. We’ll chew it around, get some sleep, and then talk about it again in the morning. It’s now twenty-two hundred. Stroh says the pilot reports that with two stops, we should hit Riyadh about 0900. So talk to me.”
They talked.
4
U.S. Air Force Base
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
By the time the sleek Gulfstream jet had landed at Riyadh, the SEALs were rested, had worked out a basic plan to take over the tanker, and were ready for breakfast. Murdock was taken to a communications room where he was put in contact with the XO of the carrier Enterprise, now working the duty in the southern half of the Persian Gulf.
“Yes, Commander. We received orders and have been tracking all U.S. super crude carriers in and just out of the gulf with our Hawkeye. We’ve pinpointed six of them and have confirmed ID on all but one. The tanker in trouble is the Jasmine Queen. We have her now outbound in the Gulf of Oman about fifty miles from the Strait of Hormuz. She’s on a southeasterly course at a steady cruising speed of eighteen knots.”
“That’s our target, Captain. My orders are to proceed to your ship via COD. Is there one at this base waiting for us?”
“That’s a roger, Commander. It’s ready when you are. Your orders come from the highest source, and we’re ready to extend all services we can to you and your men.”
“Good, Captain. We’ll need two IBS craft and a chopper to get us in front of the Jasmine. What is your range to the target?”
“We’re about fifty miles from the strait, which puts us now a little over a hundred to the tanker. That’s out of range of the Sea Knight, which would be the best vehicle. We’ll go with the Sea Stallion, which has plenty of room for your boats and men. Sixteen SEALs?”
“Yes sir. We’ll need an assortment of ammo and weapons we can talk about when we get on board. We won’t be leaving you until near dark, so we can do a nighttime attack.”
“Then we have lots of time. I’ll contact you as soon as you’re on board.”
“Thank you, Captain. We’ll see you soon.”
Ed DeWitt and Murdock had
breakfast to order with the rest of the SEALs at one of the mess halls on base, then rode in a truck out to the flight line, where the transport waited. Murdock had dropped in on more carriers in the COD C-2A than he cared to remember. It was a two-engine turboprop cargo plane that could land and take off from a carrier. Its only job was to ferry people, supplies, and mail to and from CVN carriers at sea.
The SEALs grumbled when they filed on board the COD. All had ridden on them before, and they found what they expected: uncomfortable bucket seats along the sides of the ship.
“Hell, it’s only about four hundred miles,” Jaybird cracked.
“Yeah, and I bet they’ll have one of the Air Force’s best box lunches to go,” Ostercamp said. They all laughed. The stock car racer was fitting in well with the platoon.
When they landed on board the Enterprise three hours later, a JG met them and escorted them to an assembly room they could use to get ready for the mission.
“Yes, Commander,” the JG said. “We have three IBS craft ready for your inspection. We’ll have a man from ship’s stores on hand to get any supplies, ammunition, or weapons you’ll need.”
A messenger waited for Murdock, and when he was ready, took him to the XO’s office.
“Are you getting everything you need, Commander?” Captain Arthur J. Small asked. He was a large man with a wind-marked face and brooding green eyes. He wore an aviator’s wings on his shirt.
“Yes sir. All’s in order. All we do now is wait for the sun to get low enough. I understand the target is now about a hundred and thirty miles downstream. That still is in range of the Stallion, I’d guess.”
“Right. She’ll do over a thousand miles round trip.”
“Sunset is about 1830 here?”
“Closer to 1900 this time of year.”
“So we have a little over an hour’s ride at a hundred and seventy knots to get ahead of the tanker. We want dark down there, so we’ll leave here at 1830.”
The captain wiped one hand over his face and grinned. “Have to say, Commander Murdock, that I’ve never had orders direct from the Chief of Naval Operations before. This must be something damned important.”
“Yes, Captain, it’s up the scale a ways, but nothing to write home about.”
“Another day at the office, Commander?”
“Something like that. Only the place where our office is located changes every time, and the job is different every time. Makes it more interesting. Thanks for your help.”
Murdock excused himself and went back to the SEALs. He made sure they had a good meal, then they worked over their equipment and double-checked their ammo. LPO Jaybird took orders and went to sign for the ordnance they needed. Nothing fancy this time, just a straight shoot-and-scoot operation.
Over the Gulf of Oman
The dark, choppy waters of the gulf flashed by below the Super Stallion CH-53A/D. They were rocketing along at only two hundred miles an hour, but when you’re twenty feet above the water, it seems twice that fast.
“The pilot told me at this low level, the radar on the big tanker might not even see us,” Murdock said. “If it does, the blip will be so small and fading in and out that they might think it’s a small ship.
“This terrorist radar man might not be much good at that job,” Murdock said. “Like, he was shoveling camel shit a week ago; now he’s a radar tech.”
Murdock checked his men in the big belly of the chopper. There had been room for the IBSs to stay inflated, so all they had to do was drop into the gulf, grab the black boat, and climb on board.
“We’re about four miles ahead of the tanker,” Murdock told his platoon. “We’ll go one more mile, then turn into its path. Not much reason it should change course. It hasn’t since it left the strait. We get in the IBSs and watch for him. Eighteen knots, five miles, it won’t be a long wait.”
“Fifteen minutes,” Quinley said. Nobody challenged him. Quinley was their computer expert, and he was good at doing figures in his head.
“You know your assignments once we spot the tanker. It won’t be easy. Who has the big magnets?”
Franklin in Bravo Squad had two, and Bradford in Alpha had two.
“They don’t have floatation devices on them, so don’t drop the suckers overboard.”
They felt the chopper turn.
“Won’t be long now. Double-check everything.”
They had decided to do the work in their cammies. They wouldn’t be in the water that long, and the wet suits would be a handicap once on board.
The crew chief tapped Murdock on the shoulder. “About three minutes to our drop zone.”
Murdock nodded his thanks. “All right, you know the drill. Bravo Squad out first, then the SBIs, then Alpha. Grab the boats and hold them. Check the motors first. We ready?”
“Hoooorah!” the men shouted.
They all felt the craft slow. The crew chief slid open the hatch. The black water showed below, less than twenty feet away. The Stallion came almost to a stop, hovering. The crew chief yelled at Murdock.
“Go, Bravo, go,” Murdock shouted.
The eight men ran to the door and stepped out, dropping straight down into the rotor-roiled water. When the eighth man was out, Alpha Squad dumped the bulky SBIs out the hatch, then jumped out behind them. Murdock was the last man out.
The cold water hit Murdock like a thousand icy needles driven into his skin. He surfaced, saw the first boat ten yards away through the gloom of the night, and stroked toward it. Six men were inside: Alpha Squad. Two helped pull him in.
“Who’s missing?” he asked.
SCPO Dobler waved. “Holt, sir. He’s right behind you. That damn radio dragged him down.”
They got Holt in with the waterproofed SATCOM, and Murdock looked for Bravo Squad.
“The other boat is off about thirty yards,” Jaybird said. “I heard them talking.” Jaybird kicked over the engine. It caught on the second try.
“Let’s find them,” Murdock said. Murdock blinked his flashlight three times. To the west they saw three blinks in return. Two minutes later, the two SBIs had a buddy cord thirty feet long tying them together.
He used his Motorola, which he pulled out of the watertight pouch.
“DeWitt, you on the net?”
No answer. Murdock asked the question again. This time DeWitt came back.
“Yes. We’ve been off the chopper for three minutes. Should leave twelve until our friend comes by.”
“Roger that, JG. As soon as we get close to him, we cut the cord and get through the bow wake and alongside the hull.”
“How high is that rail?” DeWitt asked.
“No idea, nobody seemed to know. Your man has three shots to make a catch. Horse has three shots. One of them should catch.”
Harry “Horse” Ronson had the Mossburg shotgun out and ready. He tied the end of a quarter-inch nylon line to the SBI and inserted a slender metal probe down the barrel. The top end of the line tied to a fitting on the part of the device that stuck out of the barrel. It had a wad of thick cotton on the part down the barrel.
“This thing gonna work?” Ronson asked.
“Worked in training,” Murdock said. It’ll work now. You’re using the special shotgun shells without any lead pellets?”
“Oh, yeah. I don’t want it to blow up in my face.”
“The idea is to get the grappling hook over the rail so it’ll catch on something strong enough to support our rope man,” Murdock said. “Don’t get fancy. If the first one doesn’t work, go to the second. When it catches, pull it tight slowly, then hang all your weight on it. If it’ll hold you, it should hold any of us.”
“I’ve got three coils of a hundred feet of line,” Ronson said. “That should be enough.”
The Motorola came on. “Commander, I’ve got some dim lights to the north of us, seem to be moving this way. Could be our favorite supertanker.”
“Roger. Wait until she’s almost on us before we dig out with the motors. If anybody c
an read the name on the bow, it will be reassuring we’ve got the right boat.”
“No sweat there, Skip,” Dobler said. “Radar said there was no other supertanker for twenty miles around this one. Got to be our baby.”
They waited. There was no wind; the water had calmed but was as black as ever. Murdock could see the huge tanker’s running lights now. They seemed to be half a mile apart.
“That’s her,” DeWitt said on the radio. “We’re on the port side, so we see her lights fore and aft. Now, that’s a hell of a big ship.”
“We better motor toward her,” Murdock said. “Keep the tether and let’s move in together. How far is she off?”
“Six hundred yards, at least,” DeWitt said. “Yeah, we better kick these things over there.”
The SEALs crouched in the SBIs, hanging on wherever they could, as the little boats slapped through the swells at ten knots. They were on a collision course with the side of the half-mile-long tanker. Now they could see more lights on her deck and her deckhouse.
“Three hundred yards,” De Witt said. “Let’s up the throttles so we don’t miss her. She’s doing eighteen knots.”
They jolted forward directly at the side of the big ship; then, when they were fifty yards away, they could feel the swell of the bow wave coming off her.
“Cut the line,” Murdock said. “Go with her, get through that bow wake and alongside. Now, full throttle.”
The small boats leaped ahead, came closer to the mammoth island-sized ship, and then angled the same direction she was heading. Slowly, they edged closer. Then the three were moving at the same eighteen knots, and DeWitt brought his SBI up toward the towering metal hulk. The bow wave pushed him away. He tried again, and on the third time got close enough so two men reached out and slammed foot-square magnets against the hull. Lines tied the magnets to the sides of the SBI. The lines were pulled tight and the SBI’s motor cut off.
Murdock had a harder time moving alongside. When he did, the bow wave kept washing him away like a leaf in a torrent. On the fourth time, he angled close enough that the magnets slammed into place, and he was tethered to the tanker.
Frontal Assault sts-10 Page 3
