Frontal Assault sts-10

by Keith Douglass

  “Yeah,” said Tabler, who had come in with the others. “I’d like to kick that one called Haddad in the balls about four times. He’s a bastard. Can I throw him overboard?”

  Murdock grinned. “Maybe later. Right now, we need to get the last two of the guys on this end and hope that DeWitt has wrapped up the poop deck. Where do we go?”

  Tabler led them to the end of the corridor and pointed up a set of steel steps. Murdock nodded at Joe Lampedusa and motioned for him to go up. Murdock went second, then had Jaybird right behind him. He whispered to Ken Ching to go get the other ship’s officers out of the still-locked rooms.

  Lam went up the steps on his rubber-soled boots like a ghost. Murdock wondered if he even breathed. He had his Colt M-4 up and ready. It had the suppressor on.

  Lam edged up the steps with Murdock right behind him. He expected to get some resistance. The top men would be in the bridge, making sure the computer sent the ship where they wanted it to go. Murdock had no way of knowing if they had changed the original route to take the fortune in oil to a new customer.

  They came out of the steps on a small platform and then a door that led into a brightly lit room. The glass in the door showed the ship’s nerve center. The whole thing was computerized, with various display screens and high chairs to sit in to watch the screens and the way ahead through the expanse of large windows that slanted outward.

  Only one man sat in a chair. He wore clothes too large for him, with shirtsleeves rolled up three times and pants that must be rolled up at the bottom. He was dark and had a full beard and short hair. An Arab.

  Lampedusa turned the doorknob and gently pulled the panel toward him. He had it half open, with his weapon pointing inside, when the door squeaked. The Arab darted a look toward the door and at the same time brought up a pistol and fired twice.

  Lam caught the slug in his chest and went down. Murdock’s line of fire was clear. He point-aimed the subgun and pounded off three rounds of the 9mm messengers of death. The terrorist took the rounds in his stomach, folded over, and sagged to the floor. He held both hands over his belly and screamed.

  Murdock saw that the terrorist was out of action. He turned to Lampedusa, who had sagged against an instrument panel.

  His shirt showed blood high up. Lam blinked and shook his head. “He hit me?”

  “Just a scratch. Right under your clavicle, right side. What we used to call a million-dollar wound, a going home kind. Don’t push it, just slide down and sit on the floor. I’ll take a look.”

  Murdock unbuttoned the top Lam’s cammie shirt. The slug had gone just above the clavicle bone, cut about an inch of flesh, and come out. Nothing fatal. Murdock told Holt to keep pressure on the wounds until Doc got there.

  Then he looked at the terrorist. He knelt beside him. “Where’s the other man?” Murdock asked.

  “Go to hell, American devil,” Kamel Jaber said in English. “You will surely rot in your own hell for all of eternity.” He coughed after he said it and spat up blood.

  “You’re a dead man, terrorist. You know how bad hit you are. You’ll never see home gain. Tell us what we want to know. Your other man should be watching the radar screens.”

  “Go fuck your mother twice,” Jaber said in English. Murdock punched him in the face and felt something break inside the man’s cheek. Good.

  “Tie him up; let the bastard bleed to death. Tabler, where could that last one have gone?”

  “Not many places to hide on this tanker.”

  “No? This thing is a half mile long. There must be dozens of hiding places. What about down in the holds somewhere?”

  “We have ninety-three holds, they all are filled with oil right now. No place there.”

  “The engine room; must be places down there.”

  “That’s in the stern. Yes, he might be down there.”

  “What about the forecastle?” Murdock asked.

  “Yes, a chance. Easy to clear that one.” Tabler rubbed his hand over his face, evidently trying to think. “Okay, I’d say the engine room and front holds for general cargo would be best. The forecastle, a maybe. Clear that first, then we can check the hold.”

  “Not we. My men know how to check a ship. Can we talk to them in the poop deck?”

  “Certainly. The phone’s right there. I’ll ring them.” Tabler picked up the phone and hit three buttons and handed the instrument to Murdock.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s all right, DeWitt. This is Murdock. We’ve got the bridge secured. We’re in control. You have that area clear?”

  “Yes, one dead and two prisoners.”

  “We have one terr missing. He might be back down there somewhere. Keep a look out. We’ll be down there shortly.”

  He hung up. “Senior Chief, take two men and clear the forecastle, and use your Motorola when it’s done. Tabler, get your officers up here and run the ship. It’s yours now. Your captain would probably like to know what’s going on. The rest of you, let’s get aft.”

  “What about the body?” Tabler asked. “He died while you were on the phone.”

  Murdock pointed at Bradford and Ching and told them to take it down to the storage room on the first deck. Then they headed aft to the poop deck. One terrorist with an automatic weapon could cause a lot of problems on this tanker. They had to find him before he turned deadly and started shooting up people or equipment.

  6

  On Board Tanker Jasmine Queen

  Gulf of Oman

  By the time Murdock and his men reached the poop deck, the crew had shown Ed DeWitt the two hatchways leading into the engine compartment and the forward hold where general cargo was sometimes stowed.

  Access to both was by vertical steel ladders, and DeWitt waited for Murdock before he began any movement down. One of the engine maintenance men volunteered to go with them and show them the engine room. He said there were some good hiding spots down there, and he knew them all.

  Murdock told him the terr down there would be dangerous and would shoot to kill. The sailor from Michigan, who said he was Curley, shrugged.

  “Hey, I’m twenty-six already. I’ve been married, had a kid, divorced, been around the world ten times, tried every kind of drug you can buy or steal. Shit, I never thought I’d last this long. You guys wanta live forever?”

  “Damn right,” Horse Ronson said, and the crew and the SEALs all laughed.

  “Can he sabotage the engine down there?” Murdock asked.

  “Sure, easy, if he knows anything about big diesels.”

  “Ed, you take your men and work the cargo hold. Be careful. We’ll do the engine compartment with Curley here as our local native guide.”

  Murdock used the Motorola. “Holt, get back down here to the poop deck. Tell Lam to hold the pressure on those wounds himself. He’s tough. Mahanani will be up there soon.” He waved the big Hawaiian up the deck, then looked at what was left of his squad.

  He’d sent three men to the forecastle; Lam was down for now, Holt was coming back. He had Ronson, Sterling, and Holt. That would be enough.

  “Go ahead, Ed. Get a guide from the crew to help lead you down to the cargo hold. The Motorolas might not work too well under all this steel.”

  Murdock looked at Curley. “How far down that ladder to the guts of the place?”

  “Three levels. He could be on any of them. He’d have to be down at the last one to do any damage.”

  “You shoot a weapon?”

  “Did a hitch in the Marines.”

  Murdock tossed him the AK-74 they had taken from the dead man. “That’s the new AK-74, upgraded from the old AK-47. This one shoots 5 .45mm zingers. Fully auto or single shot. Be careful with it.”

  Holt came jogging up and grinned. “I got blood on my hands, so be damned careful of me.”

  Murdock waved them toward the hatch that led into the engine compartment three levels below.

  A tall Texan they called Tex said he’d show them the cargo hold, “Jest so no sucker gonna sh
oot my balls off.” He led DeWitt and his men down the ladder. Nothing happened. They went down the iron ladders into a hold with a jumble of boxes and crates. A man could hide a dozen places in that jumble.

  DeWitt and his men swept the hold from one side to the other, protecting themselves at all times. They found no one. They went back the other way, checking under boxes and testing crates. Again they found nothing.

  Murdock tried the Motorola. “Commander, we have a clear on the cargo hold.” He waited a minute, but there was no response. The heavy steel plates had blocked out the signal.

  “Let’s get back up the ladder,” DeWitt said.

  Murdock went first down the ladder with his four men into the engine compartment. He was followed by the volunteer, Curley. At once, the sound of the big diesel engines pounded in their ears. He turned and looked at Curley, who pointed to a metal catwalk going off the ladder. The two of them stepped on it, and Curley did a look around. He shook his head and pointed down. This time, he took the lead.

  They went down next to a huge drive shaft of some sort and on down into the bottom deck of the compartment. The noise made talking impossible. Curley pointed and indicated all three of Murdock’s men should stay there. Then he and Murdock went down a walkway beneath some more equipment and to the far side of the compartment.

  A shot slammed into the other noises and sounded only like a buzz as the round whizzed past Murdock’s head. He dropped to the grating and looked ahead. He saw nothing.

  Curley had gone down, too, and he rolled to the left behind a large tank. Murdock did the same before a second shot could come.

  Curley nodded at Murdock and pointed ahead. Then he shook his head. He motioned to the side and they squirmed around the tank and could see down the same direction they had been going. Murdock saw legs working past another large tank. He aimed and fired a three-round burst, but he figured the legs won the race. The legs got behind cover before the slugs got there.

  Curley came to his feet and ran ahead to the tank that had shielded the terrorist. Murdock pushed around him and went flat on the deck and leaned around to take a look. A single shot whistled over his head. He jerked back.

  Curley cupped his hands to Murdock’s ear and spoke loudly. Murdock could understand.

  “No exit,” Curley said. They moved slower then, darting from side to side where there was steel cover. The terrorist fired twice more and missed. All on single shot. He was conserving his ammo. Down to his last magazine, Murdock figured.

  Murdock put his floppy hat on the butt of his subgun and pushed it just around the corner of their safety shield. A three-round burst almost tore the weapon out of Murdock’s hands and sent the hat flying back the way they had come. Murdock screamed.

  He looked at Curley and grinned.

  Seconds later, they heard feet pounding on the steel deck and a man showed out of the dimly lit engine compartment. He charged up the walkway, his AK-74 aimed in front of him. Murdock waited until the last minute behind his concealment, then swung the stock of the H & K submachine gun at the charging runner’s ankles.

  The sub gun connected and nearly tore out of Murdock’s hands. The runner went down, swearing, and his rifle clattered ahead of him five feet.

  The AK-74 behind Murdock chattered off three rounds, and Murdock saw them tear up cloth along the terrorist’s back. The Arab gave a groan, then tried to lift up, fell flat on his belly, and didn’t move.

  Murdock surged up and checked the man. Dead.

  He waved at Curley, and they went back to where his other men waited in the blocking position. Murdock pointed upward, and the five climbed up the ladder and left the roaring of the big diesel engines behind them.

  Once up the ladder and back on the deck, Murdock took the AK-74 from Curley.

  Ed DeWitt looked at Murdock, who nodded. “One terr taken care of. You find anything in the cargo hold?”

  “Just a lot of cargo. No terrs.”

  The Motorolas spoke. “Commander. We’ve been through the forecastle twice. We have a clear here. Orders?”

  “Move back to the deckhouse. We’ll meet you there. We found the missing terr.”

  Murdock turned to Curley “Thanks for your help. Now, you should get back with the rest of the crew and see what your captain wants you to do.”

  By the time Murdock and DeWitt climbed back to the pilothouse, the captain was in command again, and he had two officers working with him.

  Murdock introduced himself and asked if the ship had a TAC frequency that could contact U.S. naval units.

  “Most certainly, young man,” the captain said. “I understand we have you to thank for capturing the terrorists and returning control of the Jasmine to us. The owners are grateful, as the crew and I are. We did lose two dead in this takeover.” He paused. “I haven’t had to send letters like that for a long, long time.” He brushed his hand across his eyes.

  “Well, come with me to the communications room and we’ll see if we can contact that carrier back in the Persian Gulf we passed a day or so ago.”

  They did.

  A chopper would pick them up at 1000. It was then a little after 0246.

  Murdock checked on his two wounded. The tanker had better medical supplies than Doc Mahanani carried. He used them and re-treated Adams left forearm bullet wound and the chip through Lam’s shoulder.

  The captain suggested the SEALs might like some food. The tanker had enough food to feed a regiment for a month. They found the kitchen and mess hall, and the cooks worked up any breakfast to order they wanted. Breakfast steaks, fried potatoes and onions with cheese, and sides of pancakes and bacon was the most popular order.

  The SEALs found bunks and sacked out for the rest of the night and by 0900 they were up and grousing around the big ship until Murdock led them on a two-mile jog around the long tanker.

  Two hours later, they had landed back on the Enterprise in the Persian Gulf and Murdock wrote up his after-action report.

  Stroh was not impressed. He told them to stand down for a day and rest up. Sick bay redid treatment on the two wounded and sent them back to duty.

  Two hours later, Stroh came in, waving three sheets of paper Murdock knew came off the encryption machine. He groaned.

  “Fisherman of the small yellowtail, I have some news here that you are not going to be too thrilled about,” the CIA man said. “You want it straight or with a sugar coating?”

  7

  The Emir’s Palace

  Doha, Qatar

  The emir of the independent state of Qatar, bulging out into the Persian Gulf from the middle of Saudi Arabia, took his usual early-morning stroll around his gardens. He had spent thousands of dollars to make the gardens grow and thrive. He enjoyed plants and exotic animals. He stopped at his prize row of roses and snipped one off to smell.

  At that precise moment, a large-caliber rifle round slammed through the morning coolness and smashed into the emir’s chest. Emir and Prime Minister Humand bin Kahalifa alt-Thani jolted backward and sprawled on the carefully clipped lawn. A guard behind him ran forward and bent over the emir, but it was too late. The bullet had blasted through the emir’s chest, taking half of his heart with it before it tore through ribs and exploded out of his back.

  They never did find the bullet.

  Sirens went off. A hundred palace guards rushed outward from the garden toward the only place that had a view into the garden. It was a small grove of trees the emir had planted several years ago. When the guards stormed into the grove, they found only trampled grass, a discarded sack with leftovers from a meal, and one fifty-caliber shell casing.

  Before the guards could recover, two companies of the Qatar elite infantry rushed into the palace and took over the grounds, the palace, the automobiles, and the helicopter that sat on its pad. Six guards protested and were shot down where they stood.

  General El Hadar, former chief of the emir’s military, quickly took over the vital controls and services of the small country and declared him
self as the new premier. He would rule by proclamation.

  General El Hadar watched as his new palace guard assumed all of the functions of the palace, discharged the civilian help, and arrested any of the old guards who did not surrender. He smiled as his infantry shot down four guards who had barricaded themselves in a storeroom. None of them escaped.

  His proclamation came only three hours after the emir was assassinated. The words went out over the state-owned radio and television station.

  “The people of Qatar must remain calm. This has been a simple transition of power from the emir to General El Hadar. I will lead my people in new directions. I promise enough food, clothing, and education for all of my people. We will grow and prosper and will create new foreign associations to make our small nation even stronger. All normal government services will continue as before. My door is always open for anyone who wishes to talk to me or bring complaints.”

  General El Hadar drove from the television station back to the palace and rested. Later that day, he put in a telephone call and talked for more than an hour. When it finished, the premier smiled. Yes, it was good to have powerful friends in high places. The cooperation would continue, and the military equipment would be coming within the week. It was good to be strong, even if your nation had less than 700,000 citizens. It was good to be strong.

  Basra, Iraq

  Petroleum Loading Docks

  The medium-sized tanker lay in her berth next to the loading dock and gulped down the crude petroleum that flowed into her thirty-six holds. She could take thirty-five million gallons of crude, and she would be filled and under way within an hour.

  The guards on the pipeline had been tired and inattentive. The next moment, they were dead, and another tanker slid in beside the dock and the Iraqi oil gushed out.

  The oil had been long embargoed by the United Nations in retaliation for the Iraqi attack on Kuwait. Now was the time to strike. Now was the time to move out as many tankers as the pipelines would fill. Now was the time for the Iraqi oil to flow once again into the world markets.