Frontal Assault

5

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 and 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.

“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.