"Fool. In another ten minutes we could all be dead." The colonel took a swing at the younger man, who dodged back. "I'll go personally and dig out those last men, Colonel."
"Do it, Nigoru, or don't bother coming back," Colonel Maleceia said in his native Swahili. The younger man lifted an Uzi and ran down the passageway.
"Where the fuck did the attackers come from?" Torpedoman's Mate Third Class Lew Klement whispered from where he lay beneath the bottom bunk in his mid-level coops. He winced when he moved his right arm, which had taken a shotgun's wildly ricocheting double-aught slug.
"I heard some big three-hundred-pound son of a bitch of a Kenyan officer killed Mathews on watch at the brow and the OD and they swarmed on board." It was Quartermaster's Mate Second Class Clifford "Jonesy" Jones. He always knew everything going on on board.
"How good is that bitch of a door?" Hospital Corpsman Second Class Jugs Wilson asked. He'd just wrapped up Klement's wounded arm.
"As strong as a Japanese mama-san's whorehouse door," Jonesy said. "Last about two minutes. You'll have lots of work to do in here shortly, Doc."
Klement watched the door. All the lights were out except one far back. The door wasn't a watertight-compartment type. One stick of dynamite would blow it right off its hinges.
As he thought that, Klement heard voices outside. One shouted in what sounded like an ultimatum, but Klement couldn't tell if it was in English or Swahili. He'd been doing some reading about Kenya ever since he'd heard that they would stop here. This was supposed to be a damn goodwill call, for God's sake.
The blast at the door came as a surprise. Klement thought he could see the metal door bulge. Then the hinges came off, slashing through the air like shrapnel.
The front three men in the quarters had the only weapons. Klement had a shotgun and a full five-round magazine.
Doc Wilson carried a .45-caliber automatic. The only weapon Jonesy could find was a flare gun with three rounds. At close range one of the flares could burn halfway through a body.
The three sailors were on the floor under the triple-deck bunks, which was below the dynamite blast that tore through the metal door and pitched it aside like a used tissue. Six Kenyan rangers stormed inside all firing automatic weapons.
Jonesy targeted the first man deliberately and hit him with the flare gun's magnesium round in the stomach. The round didn't penetrate, but it glued to the man's shirt and burned at two thousand degrees, putting the man down shrieking for help. Before Jonesy could target another Kenyan, two AK-47 rounds plowed into his chest, spinning him around under the bunk into death.
Klement fired his shotgun the moment the rangers ran through the door. He shot three times as fast as he could work the pump. The double-aught buck cut down three attackers before a round from one of the enemy guns drilled cleanly through Klement's forehead, dumping him to the side, dead in an instant.
Doc Wilson pumped out six rounds from the .45, firing as fast as he could, before one of the heavy slugs caught him in the leg, another in the chest, and he slumped dead before he knew it.
The wave of attackers swarmed over the three on the floor. One man kicked the flare gun away and it was over. They took the rest of the men prisoners and had them all lie facedown on the floor. Quickly the Kenyan rangers put plastic hand restraints on the U.S. sailors. They were all bound by the time Lieutenant Nigoru arrived. He wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead and marched the prisoners of war to the main deck.
Colonel Maleceia stood grim-faced as he watched the prisoners lined up on the bow. They had been brought in from all over the ship. The colonel turned to Lieutenant Nigoru.
"I want to know at once how many enemy are dead, how many alive, and how many wounded. Do it now."
As he spoke, five large buses rolled up to Pier 12 just below the brow. The drivers stopped the rigs and turned off their lights.
A few moments later, after conferring with two sergeants, Lieutenant Nigoru hurried up to the large Kenyan. "Colonel, sir. My report shows that We have found twenty-eight Americans dead and a hundred and sixty captives lined up here who are not seriously wounded."
Colonel Maleceia nodded. "How many alive but with bad wounds?"
"We're not sure yet, Colonel. We've found twelve so far."
"That's only two hundred, Lieutenant. They had a full complement of two hundred and six officers and men. Where are the other six?"
"We'll find them, sir."
"Don't bother, we don't have time. Kill the wounded."
The black lieutenant hesitated. "Colonel, sir. Did I understand You correctly? We are to kill the badly wounded?"
Colonel Maleceia's face worked, and his eyes blazed with such fury that the young officer shrank back.
"Shoot them in the head at once, Lieutenant, unless you wish to join them." The junior officer saluted smartly, and took two steps away. "Lieutenant, after you shoot the wounded, throw all the dead overboard."
2
Sunday, July 18
01 35 hours
Dockside at Pier 12
Mombasa, Kenya
Seaman Greg Goldman stood in the bow lineup beside Radioman First Class Chuck Inman. Goldman scowled as he looked around. Lots of the men lived through the attack, but where were the wounded? He whispered the query to Inman, who shook his head.
"No wounded. I heard shots when we came past some compartments. Now it's just us and the KIAs."
"Bastards!" Goldman whispered. "They'll get theirs."
"Silence," a Kenyan sergeant bellowed. He walked along the line, but evidently couldn't figure out who had been talking.
Colonel Maleceia paced in front of the American sailors. He said something to an officer and left the ship.
The English-speaking sergeant screeched for attention. "Time to move to your new quarters. No talking, no lagging, or you'll end up in the bay. Move out now a line at a time to the buses on the dock."
Goldman looked down at the shorter man. He shook his head. Nothing they could do now. Maybe later. Maybe.
A hundred yards away, Navy chiefs lay in the wreck of an abandoned building just in back of Pier 12 and watched their shipmates marched off the Roy Turner and into the buses. They had had a little drinking party at a dockside bar, and had been almost back to the ship when they'd heard the firing on board. All wore civilian clothes since the Kenyan authorities had requested no U.S. uniforms be worn on Kenyan soil.
"Gonna be hell to pay," Gunner's Mate First Class Pete Vuylsteke growled. "Didn't think them fuckers would try to take over the whole damned ship."
Electrician's Mate Second Class Olie Tretter, a black man who sprawled beside the gunny, swore softly. "Them damned bastards shot up the old Turner pretty fucking good. You hear a lot of shotguns?"
The third sailor, Hospital Corpsman Second Class Rafe Perez, shot a stream of tobacco juice into the rubble. "Hell, yes, scatterguns, AK-47's, and something else. Always tell the Forty-seven by the high-pitched snarl." Perez shook his head. "What the hell we do now?"
"I sure as hell ain't gonna volunteer to get on them buses," Tretter said. "Most likely heading for that prison we heard about in town."
Vuylsteke, the ranking man of the trio, looked at Tretter. "You think you can find somebody to help us hide? Know damned well Uncle Sam ain't gonna let his ship be hijacked for long. Be a task force steaming in here in two or three days to blast this place apart and take back the old Roy Turner."
Tretter laughed. "Hell, you think 'cause I'm black I got kin here in town or something? Yeah, I talked with some of the natives tonight. Especially that one lady with the big tits who went topless. But I ain't no diplomat."
"Weapons," Vuylsteke said. "Perez, you still carry that piddling little Thirty-two strapped to your ankle?"
"Never without it."
"So, we've got a start. We stay in deep shit here until the assholes out there hustle all our men off the ship. Then we slide out of here and find somewhere that we can eat and sleep for a couple of days. Two day
s, maybe three tops. By then Uncle will have about a thousand Marines in here to take back our ship."
Perez shook his head. "How the hell us two white guys gonna hide in this black country?"
"Didn't say it would be easy," Vuylsteke said. "Our man Tretter here is going to make it happen. What do we do first, Tretter?"
Tretter grinned. It wasn't often these two top hands asked him anything. Then he sobered. "From what I heard, some hairy-assed colonel staged a coup and took over the police and the radio, TV stations and the airports. He already had the army in his back pocket. So looks like this colonel is running the whole damn country."
"He figured the Turner would be a threat to him?" Vuylsteke asked.
"Who the hell knows," Tretter said. "I heard some guys talking who said this colonel is a huge guy, six feet five and two hundred pounds. Not a man to be pushed around."
"You understand this Swahili shit?" Perez asked.
"Not a word. But half the country can speak English. It's one of two official languages, so that'll help. What we have to do is find some friendlies who will cover for us."
"How?" Perez asked.
Tretter watched the last of the American sailors board a bus, and all five buses pulled out. They could see green-clad Kenyan troops on their ship. All had automatic rifles or shotguns.
"Must be leaving a squad or two to occupy the old tub," Vuylsteke said. He looked at Tretter. "So how do you find us some friendlies?"
"First I go back to that little bar — no, a different one. I can pass here, man. I buy somebody a drink and get him talking. Maybe I can find someone not happy with the colonel."
"We all should go," Perez said.
"No. I had to explain why I was with two white guys before. The ship. They knew about the Turner. Now they'll know she's been captured, so you white American sailors should have been captured too. I got to go by myself."
Perez bent down to his ankle, and a minute later came up with the.32 revolver with its tie-down holster. "This might come in handy. I don't have any more rounds. Didn't think the hell that I would need any."
Vuylsteke came back from the front of the abandoned building. "Looks like all of the army has gone except for the guys on board. Too many for us to take with our peashooter. Time for us to haul ass. Where to, Tretter?"
Tretter shook his head. "Right now I don't have the slightest idea."
3
Sunday, July 18
0800 hours
Coronado, California
Lieutenant Blake Murdock heard the ringing. Some giant ship was about to ram his forty-two-foot sailing boat in the middle of the Bahamas, and there was no possible way to avoid the collision. He did everything he could think of to get away from the huge freighter rushing toward his fragile craft, but he couldn't, and the ringing came again and again and again.
Murdock jolted upright in his bed. Not the Bahamas. Coronado, California. The phone had provided the ringing sound effects for his dream. Thoroughly awake by this time, Blake reached for the phone. His voice wasn't up to speed, however. He garbled out a hello and listened.
"You sleep all day out there in Lotus Land, Lieutenant Murdock? Hell, it's almost noon in Washington. The birds are out, the sun is shining, and it's going to be one fine day. This is Don Stroh."
"Figures," Murdock mumbled.
"You been listening to the news? It's all over CNN. I don't know how those news-hounds get their stuff so fast. We've only had it since nine last night ourselves. You still with me, buddy?"
"Yeah. My body is awake, but my brain is still trying to outrun somebody in the Bahamas. What's all over CNN?"
"About one A.M. Sunday Mombasa, Kenya, time, a colonel who'd staged a military coup attacked and captured the frigate Roy Turner, which was tied up at a dock on a goodwill call."
"Yeah, now I'm listening. So?"
"Get your boys together fast. Uncle wants his ship back. Third Platoon will go in and get it. Be ready to load at North Island Air Station as soon as possible. Bring your sixteen men, personal gear, personal weapons, plus the fifty-caliber sniper rifles, and most of the ammo and goodies that you'll need."
"We have a hunting license."
"The best kind, straight from Uncle Sam himself. He wants this taken care of quickly and with the more noise the better. He's got a carrier task force steaming that direction — I'll meet you in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. You'll get a satellite printout of all we know about the situation."
"Who led the coup?"
"An old friend of yours. Remember Umar the Great?"
"Umar Maleceia, the huge guy? He was Kenyan, wasn't he. We put him through some tough sledding at the special training program we ran for certain of our allies."
"He loves you too. He pulled the coup. Start gathering in your chicks. I know this is Sunday morning. You don't fly out of North Island until four o'clock this afternoon. Gives you eight hours."
"I should have twenty-four. I think some of the guys went to Baja fishing."
"Hook them back and get them ready. I've got a hot lunch date, then I'm flying out of here. See you in Saudi Arabia."
They hung up.
Murdock flopped down on the bed, then popped right back up. The first thing he did was call David "Jaybird" Sterling, Machinist Mate Second Class and the Platoon Chief. He would know where most of the other fourteen men were. They'd get who they could, and send the strays over by a later plane. They'd done that before, but Murdock didn't like to do it.
He got Jaybird on the second ring. "Circle the wagons, we got a job to do," he told his chief by way of greeting.
"When?"
"We fly out of North Island at sixteen-hundred. We need sixteen live bodies. Spread the word. I'll be at the office in half an hour."
Murdock downed a cup of instant coffee, then drove to the SEALs' home base just south of Coronado on the Silver Strand in the U.S. Naval Amphibious Base. He called Lieutenant (j.g.) Ed DeWitt, his 2IC, leader of the Second Squad, and caught him at home.
By 1000, eleven of the sixteen men were on hand working on gear for the trip.
"We're still five guys short," Jaybird said, coming into the commander's office.
"Who?"
"Magic Brown, Adams, Red Nicholson, Lincoln, and Holt."
"Put one man on each one and have them track them down," Murdock said. "If they can't find them by fourteen hundred, have them get back here. Who went to Baja?"
"Brown and Red Nicholson, both fishing nuts. Don't even know where they were going. Not much below Ensenada, I don't think."
Murdock scowled. "Yeah, The Matzalan Fish Shack. Give them a call. Nicholson liked the guy that ran it. He used to go down there every weekend. Remember, he used to talk our ears off about the good fishing down there? You might hook them at that Fish Shack."
"Where the fuck we going, L-T?" Operation Specialist Third Class Joe "Ricochet" Lampedusa asked as he came in the door when Jaybird left.
"It make any difference?"
"Hell, yes, we take mucklucks or suntan lotion?"
Half the crew brayed with laughter.
"Make it sun-tan lotion and desert cammies. Any other dip-shit questions?"
The SEALs razzed Lampedusa, and went back to work packing their gear and cleaning weapons.
Murdock watched his men. He had finished his packing and cleaning and oiling his weapon, an HK MP5SD4 specially custom-fitted for the SEALS. These were good men. He'd lost one on the last mission. He hoped he didn't lose any this time.
The Navy SEALs carried a ton of macho mystique with them that was becoming known more and more outside the service. Mostly they were famous for their training course — the six-months Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL regimen. Over the years, the name had been shortened to BUD/S. It was rougher and tougher than any other training course in any military force in the world.
Every man who came to the BUD/S training center in Coronado was a volunteer. Most didn't know just how tough the twenty-six-week training schedule would be. Physica
l fitness and training dominated the first part of the schedule. Some of that involved lifting eighteen-inch-thick telephone poles on the shoulders of seven SEAL trainees. They might hoist it overhead and hold it, hoist it partway up, or put it on their shoulders and do a five-mile run.
They trained with eight-man inflatable boats in the surf, learning how to get them through the Pacific Ocean breakers, and how to get them back in without dumping everyone into the water.
They took ocean swimming as a matter of course, doing five- and seven-mile swims in the open sea with and without fins, and with and without underwater breathing apparatuses.
By the time the SEALs came out of BUD/S training, they were so accustomed to the water that it had become their second home.
The basic lesson in all of the training was teamwork. SEALs operated in eight-man squads. Every man relied on every other man to protect his life. Teamwork became so ingrained in SEALs that in combat situations they functioned automatically, taking the right action and making the right decisions. If they didn't, one or more of the team could die.
Navy officers go through the same training as any other SEAL. They have no rank when they enter a BUD/S class. They lift the logs, run the killer obstacle course, work the boats, get sand and water thrown on them during exercises and classes, and generally accept all of the rugged training procedures the other men do.
There is one officer-related requirement. Any officer in any SEAL trainee class is expected to test better than the rest of the class. All this helps mold a strong bond between enlisted, and their SEAL officers, and to a large degree breaks down the "officer country" psychology of the military. A lot of regular Navy officers don't like this aspect of SEAL operations.
SEAL officers say when you're trusting your life to the SEAL behind you in a life-or-death firefight operation, it doesn't matter what rank or rate he has. All that matters is that he can do his job, protect your back, and run a successful mission.
One thing about SEALs that Murdock had always questioned. The SEALS, like all enlisted men and women in the Navy, carry a rating, a work specialty like Hull Technician or Machinist's Mate. These ratings simply don't apply in the SEALs' operations. They have an entirely different kind of job and specialty.
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