Battleground

16

General Umar Maleceia paced his office, blowing one blast of cigar smoke after another into the already too-warm room.

"How could they do it? I sent two hundred men in there to put down that raid on the prison, and all hundred and sixty prisoners still got away? You're telling me that they all escaped and got on U.S. Navy hovercraft and charged out to sea? The one hundred and sixty hostages I had in the prison all got away?"

"Yes, my general. There were the jets strafing the prison, and then they had direct hits on our trucks that brought in the men. The men couldn't fight back against hundreds of rounds of twenty-millimeter cannon fire. I'm sorry, my general."

"You're sorry? Hell, we lose this fight and you'll be hanged, you know that, don't you?"

The colonel nodded.

"So, what do we have left? The ship, the stinking little frigate we captured at dockside. How many men we have guarding it?"

"There are twenty-four men under Lieutenant Elijah Koinange. He's a fine officer."

"Have you heard from him today?"

"No, sir."

"Didn't you give him one of our new radios?"

"Yes, Sir. I'll get in contact with him at once."

"If the bastards rescued the crew from the prison, sure as hell they'll try for the ship too."

Colonel Kariuki saluted and hurried out the door.

General Maleceia continued to pace. He'd had it in his grasp. He'd had the embassy and forty hostages. Then he'd had the ship and a hundred and sixty hostages. What the hell went wrong? He shook his head, and took a long pull from the glass of bourbon on his desk. Too many things had gone wrong.

There was still time. He would hold the U.S. Navy ship. Send five hundred of his best rangers to pitch camp on the docks with all of their heavy weapons. Yes, that would do it. He looked at the list of the units he had in Mombasa. Not a lot.

He had sent his Fifth Infantry to the prison. A late report showed that they had suffered nearly fifty percent casualties, including more than seventy percent of the officers. That unit was out of service.

The Second Infantry was fifty miles north of Mombasa in a blocking position. Two hundred men, two tanks, and 81mm mortars. Yes. He'd get them moving almost at once.

Colonel Kariuki came rushing into the room, then slowed. He held up a piece of paper.

"General, it seems there have been some attacks on our guards left on the American ship. Two men were killed last night, and some arms and grenades were stolen. Lieutenant Koinange has no explanation other than that there must be some American sailors hiding on the ship and attacking during the night." General Maleceia threw his drink across the room. The glass shattered on the far wall.

"Idiots! Why am I surrounded by idiots? He was told to search the ship and make sure there was no one hiding. Idiot. Have that lieutenant relieved and broken to a corporal with a note on his personnel file that he is never to be promoted any higher.

"Then, send an order to the Second Infantry posted fifty miles north of Mombasa to de-camp and proceed today to the dock beside the American ship. They are to get there before dark, and let their supplies and equipment follow. I want them in place before dark and ready to fight.

"If the Americans try to retake their ship, they will find a new fighting spirit facing them. Go now, Colonel. I'm making it your responsibility to get those troops there on time if you have to carry them on your back."

Colonel Kariuki let a frown tinge his face. "But General, Sir. We have less than five hours until full darkness. It will be impossible for any but a few truckloads of the troops to be in place by…"

General Maleceia turned, and stared hard at his second in command. The colonel stopped talking, took a deep breath, then ran out of the office.

For the first time in two days, General Umar Maleceia smiled.

Major Merit Mudodo looked at the dispatch his radioman had just brought him

He called in his second in command, who read it.

"A joke, Sir."

"No joke, not with Colonel Kariuki's name on it. Get the troops alerted now. We move out in fifteen minutes. How many trucks do we have?"

"Six big ones, maybe five smaller that will run. Sir, it's over fifty miles to Mombasa and at this time of day, the roads will be crowded, and it's market day, and-"

"We use sirens and gunfire and move everyone any way we can. We must be on that dock before dark and ready to fight. Issue ammunition to squad leaders. They are to issue it to the men ten miles outside of Mombasa. Move, now, Captain, move."

They didn't leave camp in fifteen minutes. Two of the big trucks wouldn't start. Mechanics worked on them, and they were ordered to make them start and bring their loads of men as quickly as possible.

That left four heavy trucks, each jammed with twenty men. Four of the personnel carriers were working, and could each carry ten men. Three utility rigs held four men each.

It was nearly two hours before the convoy pulled onto the road. Major Mudodo led them. He punched his utility rig up to forty miles an hour, but found the big trucks couldn't keep up with him. He slowed to thirty miles an hour and established that, then gradually crept up to thirty-five. At that rate they would make the fifty miles in two hours. It was market day. The road was jammed.

That would make it 1815, just to get to the outskirts of Mombasa. If he remembered right, he knew the way to the docks, but Mombasa was a big city, the traffic that time of day would be terrible, and they would have only an hour left then to darkness. If they made it to the docks by 1900, it would be a miracle. That was the same time for sunset that day.

He crept the speed up to forty miles an hour, but the convoy fell behind. Captain Mudodo swore, and told the driver to ease off to thirty again.

Long before they came to Mombasa itself, the road was jammed with market day people going home. His driver was constantly on the horn, and twice the captain had fired a burst from his Uzi submachine gun into the sky to move people aside.

The sun went down a half hour before they came to the Kipevu Causeway to get onto Mombasa Island. They still had three kilometers to travel down the harbor frontage road to Pier 12. Captain Mudodo wondered how long his military career would last. He had gone over to General Maleceia reluctantly, but at the time it seemed the best thing to do. Now he was questioning it. He had 132 men with what ammunition they could carry and some in reserve, but not much. If it came to a firefight, he couldn't hold out for long. He prayed that 132 men standing guard over the ship would be enough.

Lieutenant Blake Murdock had made a final inspection of his men. Ed DeWitt had done the same. Each SEAL had a silenced weapon, and his silenced Mark 23 pistol. They wore their darker jungle cammies, and had camouflage paint in various shades on their faces, especially their ears and noses, which could catch light easily. This was billed as a dry operation, so they didn't have their rebreathers or wet suits.

Murdock had everyone in the two IBSs by his Time of Departure, and now the fifteen-foot-long Zodiac-type rubber boats slashed through calm seas toward the coast. The Monroe had edged to within four miles of the shore, but would come no closer. At eighteen knots, the IBSs could cover the distance to the Mombasa bay in twelve to fifteen minutes.

"Should be dark right about 1900," Murdock told Jaybird.

"That gives us the run up to the ship in the dark, so we should be invisible," Jaybird said. "Hope that Kenyan Navy patrol boat isn't snooping around."

"We've got the SATCOM, Holt?"

"Right, L-T, up and running."

"We've got two Hornet F/A-18s for air cover if we need them. Rather do this quietly, but you never can tell."

The whispers stopped. A brisk wind gave them a small chop to the ocean now, but it didn't slow them down. It meant they held on to the handholds a little tighter.

"Remember, the rail is only twenty to twenty-four feet off the water, depending on what part of the ship we hit," Murdock said. "We have the blind spot on the port side from amidships aft for twenty feet.

"Nobody on the bridge or the flight deck on the fantail can see us. But then I don't expect these Army guys to have a Navy-type watch."

Soon they passed the little town called Likoni on the left-hand side of the channel. It looked about the same. They were quiet now, and darkness was complete. They throttled back to twelve knots to make less noise, and less of a wake in case anyone watched for them.

At twelve knots, it would take a little longer, but their approach had to be quiet. They figured about three and a half klicks to the pier where the Roy Turner was berthed. Another twelve to fifteen minutes, maybe five more than that.

The second IBS trailed Murdock's boat by twenty yards. Ed DeWitt was ready with his squad. They would go up the stern onto the chopper flight deck and secure it, then work forward.

Silence was the key. Even the grapple hooks they would throw over the rails had been wrapped with rope to cushion the sound when they hit metal.

The mission looked to be on schedule and on track to Murdock. Another ten minutes and they would be there.

Then Murdock's boat engine went dead.

Ken Ching swore and bent over the thirty-five-hp outboard trying to get it started. DeWitt idled his boat up beside them.

Ken Ching swore again. He tried ten times. It wouldn't start. Murdock had been checking his watch. He waved to DeWitt. The other boat came up and bumped them. The men held the two craft together.

"Hey, sailor, give a guy a tow?" Murdock asked.

"Sure, if that means I have salvage rights, law of the sea."

"We're in port."

"Oh." A minute later DeWitt's boat growled along on full throttle towing the second IBS. They were making about five knots.

"Makes us thirty minutes late getting on-site," Jaybird said. Murdock nodded. "If they don't know we're coming, thirty minutes don't mean squat. Let's see how it plays."