Frontal Assault sts-10

by Keith Douglass

  “Ronson, you ready? Make sure the coil of line is free.”

  “Ready, Cap.”

  “DeWitt, your man ready to fire?”

  “Ready.”

  “Fire grappling hooks until we get one or two set. Go.”

  Horse Ronson fired the cut-down, pistol-grip shotgun with both hands, aiming the six-pointed grappling hook at the rail far above him. He watched the line peel out of the coil. Then the line stopped moving, and he saw it arc out from the tanker and the hook evidently fell into the water. He pitched the rest of the coil of line overboard. He loaded a second special shotgun shell and the grappling hook and tied the inside end of the second coil of line to the grappling hook. Then he aimed outward more this time, so the hook would clear the side of the big tanker, and fired.

  “We have a hookup,” Murdock’s earpiece reported.

  This time, Ronson’s line kept snaking out of the coil of rope until it fell in on itself, then stopped spooling out. Ronson put down the shotgun and pulled gently on the line. It came down two feet, then three more. Two more feet of line came down, then stopped. It had snagged something above. Ronson pulled it hard, then stood high, grabbed a loop of the line, and pulled himself upward off the small boat. The hook held.

  “Got it, Commander,” Ronson said. “Looks to be about twenty to twenty-five feet of line left. A seventy-five-foot climb.”

  Jaybird moved to the line. All the SEALs still had their weapons tied across their backs. Jaybird flexed the thick aviator’s gloves and reached up on the rope. On the O Course, he was the fastest up the rope climb of anyone in the platoon.

  “Go,” Murdock said. He touched the lip mike. “Ed, send your first man up. One man on the rope at a time. Go, go, go.”

  The rest of Alpha Squad watched as Jaybird worked his way up the line. He moved smoothly, all with his arms. He might use his feet on the line higher up, but down here it was partly for show. Moments later, he was out of sight. Ronson sat on the bottom of the line to make it as steady as he could for the climber.

  They waited.

  The big tanker kept plowing through the Gulf of Oman at eighteen knots. Murdock used the radio. “Ed, make sure everyone has his Motorola out and working. Make a net check on your men to me.” He looked at his remaining men. They were digging out their radios from waterproof pouches. Soon the whole platoon was wired for sound and ready to rumble — except the two men climbing up the line.

  “I have my first man up,” DeWitt said. “He’s on the deck, has tied off the line more securely.”

  Jaybird gave two tugs on the line, indicating that he was on the deck. He checked the grappling hook. It was secure. He looked around. He could see no lookouts, guards, or terrs.

  Ron Holt went up next. He left the fifteen-pound radio in Murdock’s hands, still in its waterproof wrap. It would be tied on the line and pulled up after the last man was on board.

  On the deck of the tanker, Jaybird saw Quinley in a crouch and moving toward him.

  “See anybody?” Quinley asked as he bellied down beside Jaybird.

  “No. You watch forward, I’ll check aft. We stay in place until the rest are up.”

  Far to the stern of the tanker, they both heard a door open and a brilliant splash of yellow light gush out, then grow smaller and vanish when they heard the door close.

  Jaybird motioned Quinley to the inside of the tanker where there were masses of large pipes that were used to fill each of the giant holds. They wedged onto the deck with six inches of cover. They could hear the hard soles of someone walking down their side of the long ship toward them. There was no way to warn the men below. The man had a hundred yards to cover before he came to them. He must be heading for the deckhouse.

  The man turned on a flashlight, and the beam bounced along, covering the deck directly in front of him. The tanker man was twenty yards away when a SEAL came to the rail and clung to it. Jaybird had not heard the signal to turn on his Motorola. He waved at the man directly opposite him, but couldn’t get his attention. The man rolled over on the deck, panting from the long climb.

  By then, the flashlight beam bounced along, ten yards away. Jaybird was midway between the man with the light and the SEAL. No way the man could miss the SEAL on the deck here where the empty space between rail and pipes was no more than ten feet.

  Jaybird waited until the tanker sailor came directly opposite him, then he stood and slammed into the man with the light. He knew he couldn’t kill him, not until he was sure the man was a terrorist. Jaybird hit the man hard, and they both jolted to the deck.

  5

  On Board the Jasmine Queen

  Gulf of Oman

  Jaybird hit the seaman waist high and drove him to the deck. His hand curled around the man’s mouth so he couldn’t call out. The SEAL spread his legs to keep the man from turning him over. His right hand jerked the KA-BAR from its sheath, and he pressed it hard against the sailor’s throat.

  “Are you an American?” Jaybird whispered.

  The head nodded.

  “Yeah? Who is Jay Leno?”

  The man tried to throw Jaybird off him, just as Quinley dropped on top of them both, pinning the man securely to the deck. Quinley had the flashlight the man had dropped. He shielded it and shone the light in the man’s face.

  “Oh, yeah, he’s a damned A-rab,” Quinley said. “Check for a weapon.” In his belt, Jaybird found a pistol. Quinley pulled the man’s hands behind his back and snugged them tightly with plastic riot cuffs. He did the same to the Arab’s ankles.

  Four more SEALs came over the rail.

  “Get Franklin up here,” Jaybird told Quinley. Quinley was back in two minutes with Franklin still gasping from the long rope climb. He was the only man in the platoon who could speak Arabic.

  Franklin looked at him. “Oh, yeah, he’s an Arab. One of the terrs. I’ll see what I can get out of him.”

  Franklin talked to the man but got only grunts in reply. Senior Chief Dobler came up and spread out the men, then looked at Quinley.

  “We’ve got an Arab captive. He tell you anything?” “He won’t say a word, Senior Chief.”

  “Let’s pretend to throw him overboard.”

  Three of them picked up the Arab terrorist and took him to the rail. They swung him once, then twice, and were about to swing him the third time when he began jabbering in Arabic. They dropped him on the deck, and the Senior Chief stood on his back.

  “What?” Dobler asked.

  “Says he’s one of fifty Arabs on board. They have captured the ship and we will all die.”

  Murdock came up and was told the situation.

  “Tell him he has one more chance,” Murdock instructed Franklin. “Make him understand that we know he’s lying. If he doesn’t tell the truth, he’s swimming in the gulf.”

  Franklin translated the words for the captive. He spat in Franklin’s face. Murdock and Senior Chief Dobler picked up the small Arab and threw him over the rail. He screamed only once and then was lost in the darkness. They didn’t even hear the splash as he went into the cold waters of the Gulf of Oman.

  Murdock put his SEALs on the deck and considered the matter. Jaybird told him the terr had come from the poop deck in the stern, evidently heading for the deckhouse. Murdock knew they had to capture the deckhouse, the control center of the ship. There were enough electronics, sensors, and computer-linked instruments in there to fly a space ship. It all was controlled on the bridge.

  Other computer-instructed instruments piloted the big ship and could hold her on a precise course for days at a time without the aid of a human hand. This, regardless of the weather, tides, winds, currents, or changes in engine power. She was locked on to the stars for her precise guidance across the vast oceans of the world.

  Murdock still wondered how many Arabs were on board. He didn’t believe the fifty the terrorist claimed. At least now they were sure they had the right ship. He motioned to DeWitt.

  “Take your squad and capture the poop deck an
d anyone there. If you find captive U.S. sailors, free them, but keep everyone quiet and down there. Don’t let anyone use the phones they must have there and warn the bridge. We both have a hike to get to our targets. Alpha will be taking down the deckhouse. We’ll both hit them in five minutes. Go.”

  The SEALs split and moved toward their targets.

  Something had roused Ben Casemore where he hid among the various vents, pipes, and machinery used to load and unload the ship. He lay there without moving; then, when he could see no danger to himself, he lifted up and looked over a huge pipe down the deck of the tanker.

  At first they were shadows moving from one bit of cover to the next. Six, seven, now eight men came toward him. He had heard nothing. They did not act like they were terrorists. No. They were attacking! Someone had learned of the takeover and had come to recapture the Jasmine.

  He started to jump up and was about to yell, but he stopped and shook his head. Not the best idea. A good way to get himself shot. Even in the darkness, he knew the men had rifles and probably machine guns. They had to be military of some sort, Rangers, maybe, or Navy SEALs. He’d heard about them. He watched the men moving down toward the poop deck and waited.

  Slowly, he began working his way toward the main doorway into the rear deck. Perhaps he could help in some way. He wiggled past some pipes, slid behind a square shaft, and was within six feet of the door.

  The first attacker came up to the door and flattened out on one side of it. Another man went on the far side. Soon six more men were in position near the door.

  Ben took a chance.

  “Americans,” he called with enough force for them to hear him. “Americans, I’m one of the crew. Don’t shoot.” The nearest man lunged toward him, a short weapon up and covering him at once.

  “American. I’m one of the crew. Don’t shoot.”

  The man in a camouflaged uniform rushed him and pinned him against the bulkhead. At once three more of the men were beside him.

  “Who is Jay Leno?” an American voice asked him.

  “Late-night talk show host from Los Angeles,” Ben Casemore said. “Hey, I’m an American, no shit. You Rangers?”

  “Hell, no, we’re SEALs,” a tall, thin man said. “Arabs took over your ship?”

  “Oh, yeah, at night. I was out prowling. They missed me. Been hiding ever since.”

  “How many terrorists are back here?” Ed DeWitt asked.

  “Only three now. One went up the deck a while ago.”

  “He’s swimming now,” DeWitt said.

  “Good. They did some shooting back here. Bet somebody’s dead in there.”

  “Where would the terrs be?” DeWitt asked.

  Ben frowned. “I ain’t been inside when they been there, but I’d guess they herded the crew into the storeroom. No windows, steel door. Leave the rest of the quarters back here for the Arabs.”

  “Is this door locked?” Guns Franklin asked.

  “Never seen it locked,” Casemore said.

  “What’s your name?” DeWitt asked.

  “Ben Casemore, sir.”

  “Casemore. You stay here and keep out of sight. We don’t want you getting hurt.” DeWitt turned pointed at Adams. “You and I’ll go in. Fernandez, grab the door and jerk it open. Adams, you go right if there’s any room. I’ll be on the left. Once we’re in silently, the rest of you come in. No shooting unless required. Bullets will bounce all over the place on those steel bulkheads. Fernandez, now.”

  Fernandez turned the knob slowly, then jerked the door open. Adams was in front. He went through the open door into a companionway. Doors showed to the left and right in the dimly lit area. No one was in sight. Ed pointed to the first door. Adams turned the knob slowly and eased the door outward. Ed used his flash and looked inside the room. A sleeping area. Four bunks. Nobody home.

  Four more SEALs were in the companionway now. Two worked each of the next two doors. A soft night light glowed in the second room. A man slept on the bottom bunk of another four-man room.

  Mahanani dropped on him with his 240 pounds and clamped one hand over the man’s mouth. A moment later, Quinley had his hands and feet tied with the plastic strips and a gag tied across his mouth.

  They found one more man in the fourth room, which was as large as the others but with only one bed and a soft chair and a TV set. Ostercamp went in the door, heard a hammer cock, and dove for the floor. Right behind him in the light of the door, Jefferson heard the sound, too. He triggered three rounds from his Colt M-4Al. The silenced rounds sounded much louder in the closed room. Ed DeWitt jolted into the room and shone his small flashlight around until he found the bed. One terrorist lay there with his hand still holding a .45 automatic with the hammer on cock. He had taken three rounds in the chest and died before he could pull the trigger.

  “He had me, JG, I was dead meat,” Jefferson said. “I had to fire at the sound.”

  “It worked, and you’re alive,” DeWitt said. “We’ll talk it over later. Let’s get the rest of this place clear. Should be one more terr here somewhere.”

  The last room hadn’t been looked at. Ed DeWitt turned the knob slowly, then pulled the door open. Al Adams charged quietly into the lighted room. A terr sat on his bunk, an AK-74 in his hands. He looked up, blinded by the JG’s flashlight beam, then lifted the weapon and triggered three rounds.

  Adams had his Colt up and returned fire, nailing the terr with three rounds into his chest and neck. He spun back on the bunk, dropped the automatic rifle, and gave a long sigh. In death, his bowels emptied, and the odor was immediate and sharp.

  “Anybody hit?” DeWitt asked.

  “Yeah, just a scratch on my arm,” Adams said, then he sagged against the bulkhead.

  “Mahanani up here,” DeWitt barked.

  The corpsman came in the door and looked at Adams. He moved him to another bunk and sat him down. Blood showed on his left sleeve. Mahanani pulled down the shirt and looked at the wound.

  “In and out, JG,” he reported. He treated the small entry wound and the larger exit wound on the back of Adams’s arm and then bound it tightly with a bandage. He slipped the shirt back on and buttoned it.

  “Good as new,” Mahanani said.

  “Hell, I must not have been much good new,” Adams said. “Hurts like crazy.”

  The medic gave Adams a shot of morphine and nodded at the JG.

  “Leave the terr there,” DeWitt said. “That should be the last of them. Let’s clear the rest of this place in a rush. Bring in Casemore.”

  Somebody brought in the tanker sailor. They quickly cleared the rest of the sleeping areas. Nobody was on guard.

  “Show us where the rest of the crew is,” DeWitt said.

  Casemore took them to the spare storage compartment. It was locked from the outside. Eighteen men lay on mattresses and blankets on the floor. They cheered when they saw Casemore.

  “What the hell’s going on?” one seaman asked.

  “We just got rescued,” Casemore said.

  “At least half of the ship,” DeWitt said. “Would there be any of the terrs up on the front of the ship?”

  “Naw, just in the deckhouse,” Casemore said. “Our officers are still there. We gonna go up and free them?”

  “That’s being taken care of,” DeWitt said. We just stand by here and wait. Are there telephones from here to the bridge?”

  “Sure, want me to call?” Casemore asked.

  “No. We’ll wait for our people to call us when they have the situation under control.

  Control was a problem in the deckhouse. Murdock and his Alpha Squad had played it by the numbers. He and Jaybird went in the first door on the deck level, found a changing room with nobody in it or in the rest of the first deck’s three rooms. They worked silently up the stairs and discovered the officers’ quarters.

  “Door’s locked,” Jaybird whispered to Murdock.

  “Who do we have who picks locks?” Murdock asked. Jaybird passed the word for Ken Ching to come up
front. He looked at the locks, took out a set of lockpicks he had learned to use when he went to locksmith school, and soon had the first lock opened.

  “Locked, so they must be good guys,” Murdock whispered. He opened the door slowly and shined his light inside.

  “What the hell?” an American voice asked.

  “We’re Navy SEALs,” Murdock said from a crouch near the door.

  “Chrissakes, you fuckers got here in a rush. I’m Tabler, the first mate. Bunch of raunchy Arabs grabbed us two nights ago. Or was it one night ago? Damn glad to see you. You have control?”

  “No, just arrived. Can you show us the best way to get to the bridge without getting our asses shot off?”

  “Local native guide,” Tabler said. “How many of you?”

  “Eight on this end. Eight in the poop deck.”

  “Good. Only four of them here. Some of them may be sleeping. Should be two on duty topside. Got a spare weapon?”

  “No. If we need to shoot, we’ll shoot. How do we get to the two sleepers? Where would they be?”

  “In the captain’s cabin. They threw him out early on. He’s pissed.”

  “Show us where. Would the door be locked?”

  “Shouldn’t. They control the place. Let me get my pants on, and I’m with you.”

  A minute later, First Mate Tabler led the way down the short companionway on the second deck to the end door.

  “Captain’s cabin,” Tabler whispered.

  Murdock and Jaybird, both with their H & K MP-5 submachine guns, stood by the door. It opened outward. Jaybird turned the knob, then nodded at Murdock. Jaybird jerked the door open; Murdock went in with his flashlight on and held against the barrel of the subgun. He saw two men in the captain’s big bed. Jaybird slugged one in the head with the butt of his subgun. Murdock fell on top of the other one, who was sleeping on his stomach, and pulled the pillow hard against his face.

  “Strap them,” Murdock said. Senior Chief Dobler had followed them in, as did Ron Holt. Each slipped the plastic riot cuffs on hands and feet and then put gags around their heads, covering their mouths.