Hunt the Fox

Chapter Twenty

The digital display on the console on the bridge of the Disney Magic read 0355, and Stavros Petras and his fellow terrorists were getting anxious. The man who had recruited them and planned this mission (code name the Fox) had told them that the United States would quickly accede to their demands and the terrorists would go down in the history of the Middle East as heroes. But with the deadline only three hours away, they were completely cut off from communications from the outside and with each other in different areas of the ship, and had no idea what was happening.

Petras blamed this on the Magic’s officers and crew. He was convinced that one of them had flipped a switch or disabled a computer that had shut down all telecommunications, short-wave and medium-wave communications systems, the air conditioning, some lights, and even interfered with their radios. He didn’t understand that the real cause of the blackout was a massive bombardment of electromagnetic energy from flux compression generators and other sophisticated electronics on the Eisenhower and other U.S. ships as well as malware dispatched by computer experts back at NSA headquarters in Maryland. Petras understood little about electromagnetic pulses and radar jamming. All he knew was that they were literally operating in the dark and on their own. Even though the ship’s engines were still working intermittently, he was enraged. So he decided to take matters into his own hands.

Standing on the bridge with three other heavily armed terrorists, he informed the ship’s officers that he and his men were going to execute one crew member or passenger every twenty minutes until the lights, computers, radio communications, and air conditioning were fully restored.

“But you don’t understand,” argued the first engineer, a mustached Bangladeshi named Amitava Sanguri. “We are as powerless as you are in this situation. If I could restore these things, I would. I promise.”

“Two minutes until we shoot the first man,” Petras announced, pointing at his watch.

“The interference is coming from outside,” Amitava continued. “If you want me to, I can explain the electronics.”

“Too late,” Petras said, grabbing him by the collar.

He turned to one of the other terrorists and said in Arabic, “Two of you take him down to the pool and shoot him in the head. Leave his body in the pool as an example. He’ll be the first.”

The terrorists led First Engineer Sanguri out, while one of the chief officers protested, “Don’t do this. We want to cooperate! The blackout has nothing to do with us!”

Petras pointed at him and screamed, “Shut up! You’ll be next!”

Scott Russert was lying awake in bed, clutching his sleeping wife to his chest, when he heard what sounded like automatic weapons fire from one of the decks above, followed by shouts of Allahu akbar.

The killing has started, he said to himself. He had expected it. Somehow he knew that more terror was coming.

“God, help us,” he prayed out loud. “Deliver us from this, somehow. Me, my wife, our sons, the passengers and crew. God be merciful, please!”

Crocker and the other SEALs watched from inside the flight deck island control tower as the C-130T Hercules approached the Eisenhower. With wind speed at forty knots, the captain had increased the speed of the ship by ten knots to reduce yaw motion. He also changed course so the plane could land with the wind on its nose, thus helping it stop.

The ship’s deck crew had laid a line of orange phosphorescent tape down the middle of the flight deck to help the pilot of the C-130T avoid hitting the island with his wings. Still, as the turbo-powered plane drew closer, Crocker wasn’t sure it would clear the island.

Turning to a lieutenant who was filming the Hercules with a digital video camera, he asked, “C-130s have landed on this deck before, correct?”

“Not on this deck, no, never,” the lieutenant answered, “but they’ve landed on other aircraft decks a handful of times. Kind of problematic, because unlike, say, an F-16, they don’t have a hook that can deploy and catch the cable.”

“Then how will it stop?”

The lieutenant shrugged and continued filming. The pilot of the C-130T was trying to level the plane in the robust wind, but was experiencing problems. The big aircraft tilted up and down and veered into the path of the island as it approached.

Crew members on deck dashed for cover. Others used flashlights to direct the pilot to climb, circle, and try another approach. But the C-130T kept bearing down.

Crocker held his breath as the pilot leveled the wings at the last second and the big plane touched down, immediately reversed engines, braked, and stopped to loud cheers and applause from the crew on the bridge and the deck.

“Fucking incredible,” the lieutenant shouted. Following him out onto the flight deck, Crocker observed that the aircraft’s wings had cleared the island by only three feet.

When he got a chance to introduce himself and congratulate the pilot, the Navy Reservist told him he’d been flying C-130s since Vietnam but had never done a landing this dangerous before. Crocker also shook hands with the two Special Warfare Combatant-Craft Crewmen (SWCCs) who had accompanied the SEALION II from Italy. They were the waterborne equivalent of the 160th SOAR helicopter force, with whom he’d often flown.

“Glad you could make it. How was the flight?” Crocker asked one of the SWCCs, as the aircraft’s engines powered down.

“I thought we were on a carnival ride. That old dude has got some stones.” He was a stocky man with a big nose and a ruddy complexion, and he wore a Special Boat Team 20 (SB20) insignia on the chest pocket of his black flight suit. “Surface Warfare Officer Dan Cowens.”

“Welcome, Dan. Chief Warrant Crocker. We better get the SEALION fueled up and in the water. Time is short.”

“Let’s get to it. Follow me.”

Crocker had worked with SB20 before, everywhere from the jungles of Colombia to the coastal waters of Somalia, and knew them to be tough, smart men. Reaching the back of the C-130, he saw the bow of the SEALION II protruding from the door like a spear.

“The craft is so long, we had to improvise and make some modifications,” Cowens explained.

“To the SEALION?” Crocker asked, hoping they wouldn’t need time to reassemble it.

“No, to the C-130. Had to kick out the cockpit panel and door.”

When the rear gate was raised, Crocker saw that the SEALION was an elongated, covered-canoe-type vessel, painted gray. Looked like something borrowed from the set of a sci-fi movie.

The deck crew carefully lifted it out, then wrapped its hull in a MEATS insertion delivery system, which consisted of very strong nylon cables configured as a giant sling. Then a CH-53 Sea Stallion helicopter with the MEATS attached lifted the SEALION off the deck and set it in the water. After crew support technicians and SWCCs had fueled the boat and set the ballast, Crocker and his men started loading in their gear. With everyone’s expert cooperation, the entire process took less than fifteen minutes. Now the mission was ready to launch.

Captain Marcelus, his officers, and the crew assembled on the Eisenhower’s deck to see them off with three rounds of hoo-ahs and raised thumbs. The copilot checked that the SEALs were buckled in, then the craft’s two MTU diesel engines fired up, providing 1,136 shaft horsepower to each of the two Rolls-Royce Kamewa waterjets, and they were off, ripping through the seas at twenty-five-plus knots.

Immediately tension started to build and stomachs did loop-the-loops. The copilot produced a yellow plastic bucket, which quickly saw use. Crocker managed to hold his dinner down by visualizing the mission, step by step. Several times he and the others were tossed violently left or right and the vessel seemed about to capsize, but somehow it righted itself and continued to pull them closer.

Usually during infils, guys relieved stress by taking the piss out of one another. But this time all the operators remained quiet, occupied with their own thoughts. Some listened to music through earbuds; others prayed silently. Crocker focused on his breathing, trying to keep the breaths soft and of equal length-in and out, in and out-in an effort to keep the fear away. Still, errant anxieties drifted into his head: The terrorists would be expecting them. They’d find themselves in a death trap. They would cause the terrorists to release the sarin, resulting in the deaths of everyone on board.

“Six miles to target,” SWO Cowens announced. “We’ve established visuals.”

Crocker turned and squinted through the side slit window located just inches above the waterline, but couldn’t see anything through the mist and splash.

The ST-10 SEALs on the opposite bench measured every minute, with fear and determination in their eyes. Each man wore a black skin suit with hood, operator gloves, a nylon holster with a SIG Sauer P226, quad-tube NVGs, earbuds and bone phones, and carried either an HK416 or a German-made M7 chambered with 4.6x30mm rounds with their greater ability to penetrate body armor. Most of the men had M203 grenade launchers fixed to the rails; Mancini chose to carry his favorite single-shot, break-action M79. Attached to their black web belts were SOG knives, grenades, pouches with extra ammo, Tuff-Ties, Motorola Saber portable radios, medical supplies, and other gear.

Though they looked like ninjas with their black suits and body armor, what Crocker saw weren’t cold-blooded killers but dedicated operators with families, who loved their country. Difficult, high-risk ops like this were what they’d been selected and trained for. If they succeeded and came back alive, they’d be talking about this mission for the rest of their lives.

Scott Russert lay in bed looking at his sleeping sons and wife, thinking that he was responsible for putting them in harm’s way and wondering how he could get them off the ship. In the hot, airless room his mind raced through numerous scenarios-including sneaking them onto the main deck and commandeering a lifeboat-and each time ran into the same dead ends, as though trapped in his own mental maze.

The waiting and uncertainty were excruciating. He tried to find something positive to think about, but kept drifting back to the image of the two armed men with black masks standing in the hallway. And every twenty minutes, the blasts of gunfire from the deck above and shouts of Allahu akbar sunk his spirits further.

He sensed death creeping closer, and longed for the tranquility of Putney-the Thames River path, the rowing clubs, the cafés, the botanical gardens that were home to kingfishers, bitterns, and swans.

Scott imagined he heard the echo of footsteps from the hallway. Then they became real. They approached. A moment of silence passed before a knock on the door caused his heart to leap into his throat.

Scott carefully lifted Karen’s head off his chest, and crossed the cabin on bare feet, clad only in boxers and a T-shirt. He almost fainted at the sight of the three armed, masked men standing in the doorway. Before he could think of anything to say or do, they were dragging him down the hall past images of Daffy Duck and Minnie Mouse that now seemed like gargoyles. He sensed that his life was soon about to end, and he tried to slow down time.

Even the fresh air on Deck 9 seemed indifferent. Half stumbling, half dragged by two of the armed men, he saw the Goofy-themed pool ahead. Yesterday he had been splashing in it with his sons and other happy kids and parents. Now it seemed dull and quiet with only one of the underwater lights on, and the water appeared red. He wondered why-until he saw the floating bodies. Then something in his head shut off and he lost consciousness.

Crocker stood on the bow of the SEALION II holding the long pole aloft and trying to hook onto the rail of the main deck of the Disney Magic. A difficult task in any circumstances, it was made more challenging by the rolling, bobbing vessel. The muscles in his arms and shoulders quaking, he focused intently and managed to steady the hook enough to rest it on the rail and pull down, releasing a small caving ladder that unrolled thirty feet to where he stood.

As the lead climber he went up first, two rungs at a time, like a mountain lion. In addition to the other first-line equipment secured to his web belt, he carried a carabiner with four one-inch tubular nylon runners. Reaching the deck, he knelt, did a quick 360 through his NVGs, saw that the coast was clear, secured the ladder to the rail with the carabiner, slung the nylon runners over it, and attached a safety line from the runners to the ladder.

Done!

Now he signaled the rest of the team to board the ship. They hurried up, grenades and anything that could rattle taped to their combat vests. The ten SEALs broke into three groups designated Alpha, Beta, and Delta. Delta, led by Mancini and including Revis, JD, and Diego, headed directly for the Variable Air Volume (VAV) system on Lower Deck D, near the ship’s engine. Beta, consisting of Duke and Nash, with Davis in charge, had been tasked with securing the engine room and helping Team Delta clear the lower decks. Crocker directed Team Alpha, which included Akil and Storm, directly to the ship’s bridge.

Precisely as planned.

The element of surprise uncompromised, Team Alpha hurried up the metal stairway two steps at a time, Crocker in the lead, finger resting on the safety guard of his suppressed HK416, heart pounding. The electromagnetic energy directed toward the ship interfered with their comms, too, so they were using hand signals-left fist pumped up and down for “hurry,” hand around the left eye for “sniper,” and so on.

They were halfway to Deck 10 when Crocker felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned back to Akil, who flashed three quick signals in succession-“hostage” (left hand under chin), “enemy” (slapping the right wrist), and “direction” (pointing behind him).

Where?

Mid-deck below, near the pool, he saw three armed terrorists in black, with black beards, dragging a hostage. It was unclear whether the captive was alive or dead until one of the terrorists slapped him hard and the man moaned and waved his hand as though he were drunk, or coming out of a stupor.

Crocker placed his palm on his head, indicating that he wanted the other two SEALs to cover him, then sprung.

Scott was disoriented, but still alive. His head felt swollen and hot, and every muscle in his body was seized with terror. He knew what was about to happen as the terrorists positioned him against the Goofy fountain and stepped back.

What have I done to you? he wanted to ask them, but there was no point now. Instead, he said out loud, “Please, God, watch over my wife and sons.” He closed his eyes as the terrorists lifted their AK-47s and waited for the bullets to enter his head and body, hoping it would end quickly and he wouldn’t feel much pain.

His body flinched as he heard the shots, which sounded more like spitting than pops. Curiously, he didn’t feel anything pierce his skin. Even so, his knees gave way and he started to sink.

Halfway to the deck he was stopped by strong hands that pulled him close and covered his mouth. He heard a voice whisper in English, “Sir, are you a passenger?”

Scott nodded and looked up. He wasn’t sure whether he was seeing a demon or a rescuer. It was a heavily armed man all in black, peering at him through elaborate goggles. No eyes, no smile, a serious expression.

“I’m an American,” the man whispered. “We’re liberating the ship. Hide in there.” He pointed toward the shadow behind the Goofy fountain. “Don’t move or make a sound until we come back.”

It all happened in the blink of an eye. When the man turned and left, Scott saw the three terrorists’ legs bent and torsos twisted, bleeding out on the deck. He reached down and pulled a weapon out of one of the dead men’s hands. Holding it, he was about to fire it into the inert body when he remembered his rescuer’s words and stopped.

His whole frame shaking with relief and fury, he knelt behind the fountain, took a deep breath, and said to himself, I’m still alive.

The air hung thick and still in Lower Deck D, because the ventilation system wasn’t working. Condensation clung to the metal surfaces and walls. Wondering what had happened to the crew, Mancini carefully led the way into the ship’s dark bowels, past the massive electric turbines, when he saw a dim light from a metal catwalk above and to his left, and held up his fist: “Freeze!” The three SEALs responded, lifted their weapons to their shoulders, and knelt. Everything was in shades of green-walls, turbines, electric switches, catwalk, even the dim light. He signaled to Revis and Diego to climb up and determine what it was, while he and JD waited. The two SEALs hurried up the slick metal ladder as Mancini glanced at the laminated chart in his hands, trying to determine the direction to the HVAC (heating, ventilation, and air-conditioning) system, which appeared to be farther aft, past the sixth turbine and on a platform of its own.

He was squirming on his belly to massive Turbine No. 3 when he heard the echoes of suppressed fire-subtle, yet unmistakable. Two quick bursts, three, four, five, then silence. Then the loud sound of metal pounding metal that echoed through the cavernous space, then more silence. Then a loud explosion, then more suppressed fire and silence again.

“What the hell was that?” JD whispered.

Mancini shook his head and whispered into his head mic, “Delta 3, Delta 4, report.”

No answer.

“Delta 3, Delta 4, do you read me? Over.”

Nothing.

“Delta 3, Delta 4?”

Praying that the comms weren’t working, he made a quick calculation. Since the HVAC wasn’t functioning, the danger of released sarin quickly spreading throughout the ship had lessened considerably. He handed JD the laminated chart and indicated that he should continue searching for the HVAC while he went back to check on Revis and Diego. JD nodded.

Mancini grabbed hold of the wet metal rail and hoisted his big body up two rungs at a time like an ape. Reaching the catwalk, he hurried along it in a crouch, and stopped when he heard something splatter. A warm, wet liquid hit his neck.

Blood!

Above him he saw an arm and leg hanging over the partial deck, then heard a squeak behind him. Turning, he saw a terrorist aiming an AK at him and pulling the trigger. He hit the metal grid, felt bullets ricocheting around him. Two rounds hit the ceramic discs of the Dragon Skin that covered his back under his black nylon suit.

He flipped over, located the man through his NVGs, and squeezed off a round from his suppressed and specially modified M7A1, hitting him in the face and hands.

The terrorist tried to hang on to the ladder and pull himself up, but Mancini fired a quick round that caused him to twist, fall, and hit the lower deck.

Mancini wiped the terrorist’s blood off the goggle lenses with the sleeve of his suit, took two quick breaths to clear his nostrils, and squinted into the vast space behind him and to his right and left. Then, facing the way the young SEALs had gone, he saw the flash of an IR strobe, invisible to the naked eye but easy to make out through NVGs. He signaled back with his.

Revis emerged from the darkness like a black ghost and whispered, “We took out two enemies. You okay?”

“Yeah. Where’s Diego?”

“The terrorists were guarding a mechanical room. We took them out and found about a dozen crew members inside.”

“Diego’s with them now?”

“Affirmative.”

“Show me. Maybe one of the crew can lead us to the HVAC.”

“We spoke to the chief engineer. He knows where they set up the sarin but says that’s not the only problem.”

“What is?”

“They’ve set explosives throughout the ship.”

Davis and Team Beta encountered that problem as soon as they entered the interior of Deck 4 and had to climb past a pile of propane tanks. Connected to them were strips of plastic explosive wired to a detonator and a digital timer. The massive explosion and fire they would cause if detonated would block access to the Deck 4 lifeboats. All passengers and crew on Deck 4 and below would be trapped and likely die of smoke inhalation if the sarin didn’t get them first.

Fortunately, he had Nash with him, who was the breacher and explosives expert with ST-10. Davis held a red MagLite cell flashlight as Nash removed his NVGs and carefully disabled the detonators and timer. Then they moved down the hallway to the Security Office, pushed open the unlocked door, and dispatched the three terrorists dozing in the dark in front of a bank of blank surveillance monitors.

As one enemy fell to the floor, Davis noticed that the beard he was wearing was ripped partially from his face.

“What the fuck is this?” he asked out loud.

He knew that the plan called for his team to join Delta and clear the lower decks, but there were likely more propane tanks connected to other timing devices on the upper ones that Crocker and Team Alpha might have missed as they hurried to the bridge. So Davis decided to change the plan and clear Decks 5 through 11, first.

It proved to be a critical decision.

Crocker was the first man on Team Alpha to enter the hallway that led to the bridge. Approaching the secure door, he saw a dark trail on the carpeted floor and more dark smudges on the walls. He touched a smear with his operator gloves and held it up to his nose. It was blood.

He tried to push in the door with his shoulder, but it was either locked or bolted shut. A breaching charge would eliminate the element of surprise and give the terrorists time to hit the button that could release the sarin.

He checked his watch as he considered alternatives: 0538, ten minutes before sunrise.

He leaned close to Akil and whispered. “Attach some det cord to the frame and doorknob. Don’t set it off until you hear me and Storm come busting through the forward windows.”

“Copy.”

“Wait for us. You should hear us and their response.”

“Fuck, yeah.”

He directed Storm, a tall former Sooners tight end, to follow him up to the comms deck. There, with the wind whipping their faces and the sun starting to spread a dim ribbon of light across the horizon, he used his SOG knife to cut through the twelve-foot length of nylon rope he wore attached to his belt, handed half to Storm, and asked in a whisper, “You ever rappel down a building?”

“I’ve rappelled down a mountain, sir.”

“Good. Follow me.”

He saw that two panes of glass on the port side forward had already been blasted out. On the safety rail above them he secured both lines with the double figure-eight fisherman’s knot he’d learned while scaling Devil’s Rock in northern Ontario, then pointed to Storm and down to the bridge.

Storm nodded back.

Weapons resting on their right hips pointed forward, left hands grasping the line, they hopped the rail and started down with their boots against the metal face. Crocker pushed out, eased his grip on the rope so he could lower four more feet, and swung forward through the broken window boots first. As he did, a shard of glass in the frame ripped through his nylon suit and cut into his leg along the outside of his calf. He ignored the pain and flash of heat spreading through his body as in a split second he located targets and a place to land.

Through the NVGs he spotted a man gaffer-taped to a chair and a stunned-looking terrorist standing behind him. He directed fire from his 416 into the terrorist’s chest, hit the floor, skidded, landed on his butt, and spun up.

The nerves in his right leg screamed. He ignored them. Located another enemy to his right and directed a burst of fire into his groin. The man screamed and fell back, and almost simultaneously the secure door blasted into the cabin, filling the space with smoke and sucking out the oxygen.

In the midst of hellish confusion and screams in Arabic and English, he gasped for air and looked for targets, who were now harder to distinguish from the crew members because of the smoke, not yet aware that the blast had ripped the 416 out of his hands, and only partially aware of Storm grappling with someone to his left.

Instinctively he reached for his SIG Sauer pistol as Akil charged in, shoved aside a terrorist standing in his way, and in one fluid movement shot him in the face. As the terrorist fell onto Crocker, Crocker saw another, taller one turn to his left, reach for something in his vest pocket, and run in the direction of the captain’s quarters. Crocker intuited what he was about to do. Without wanting to expend the half second it would take to find his weapon, he propelled himself up and lunged onto the man’s back.

Stavros Petras crashed chest first into an upholstered chair and flipped over with Crocker still holding on to his neck. The fall resulted in Crocker landing on his back on the floor, with Petras’s full weight smashing into him, and forcing the air out of Crocker’s lungs. He felt a rib snap and saw spinning stars but he refused to let go, putting Petras in a headlock and squeezing with all his strength.

He reached for his SOG knife with his left hand, aware that the terrorist was desperately clawing for something at the front of his shirt. Crocker didn’t have another hand with which to stop him. He found his knife, raised it, and thrust it into the back of the terrorist’s neck, hoping to sever his spine.

Petras’s whole body jerked three times and froze, and an instant later an explosion from Deck 11 threw both men into the air.