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 can 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.

“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.

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