Hunt the Wolf

Chapter Twenty

Don’t wait! The time will never be just right.

– Napoleon Hill

Four and a half hours later, the first delicate flicks of sunlight danced off the water. The heavy churning of engines pounded his head.

Crocker peered out the side window of the British-built Super Lynx helicopter to the Persian Gulf below. Sun-baked Iran to the north, the Saudi desert to the south, the two political and Islamic rivals separated by the wide ribbon of water.

Past the tail rotor, the horizon was turning rich deep gold. The land, air, and water were all serene. But no sign of the ship.

The SEAL Team Six assault leader had gotten authorization from the CIA, his CO in Virginia, and Oman’s ISS to go on a last-minute reconnaissance mission. He and his men had orders to locate the Syrena and follow it until it reached Iranian waters. Crocker had argued for, and failed to win, approval to board and search the ship.

He and his men were doing this by the seat of their pants-no plan, no rest, no real prep. They didn’t even have a detailed description of the Syrena, except that it was a small tanker of Yemeni registry with an orange-red hull and a white bridge.

Crocker half listened to the Omani copilot telling Akil about a boatload of Afghan opium smugglers they had battled a week ago. How the leader had bled to death on the same bench where Akil and Ritchie were sitting now.

Davis and Mancini sat across from them. All four men looked determined and alert.

Crocker, meanwhile, was trying to stay focused. The combination of pain medicine for his knee and shoulder, fear, and lack of sleep brought back strange memories. Like sitting in a matinee with his father and uncle when he was six, watching a cowboy riding into the sunset, a crooner on the soundtrack singing:

Saddle your blues to a wild mustang

And gallop your blues away.

The helicopter radio spit out an urgent stream of Arabic as Crocker sorted through random childhood images. Helping his mother fold laundry. Making rifles out of sticks with his friends. Chasing through the woods, ambushing imaginary bad guys-Indians, Russians, Chinese.

Akil leaned toward his ear. “Boss, according to the latest satellite intel, the Syrena has turned and is headed toward the south shore of the Gulf.”

Mention of the Syrena’s change of direction hit him like a bucket of cold water. “What? I thought it was going to Bushehr, in Iran.”

“The ship made a sharp turn and is approaching Ras Tanura.”

Crocker jolted to attention. Ras Tanura was the world’s most important oil export terminal. Something like 80 percent of the nine million barrels a day pumped from Saudi oil fields passed through Ras Tanura, where it was loaded onto supertankers bound for the West.

An attack on the critical oil loading station could destabilize the world economy and potentially topple the Saudi regime.

“Why the fuck is a chemical tanker headed for an oil export terminal?”

“Apparently it issued a distress signal and is flying an orange flag.”

“And the Saudis let it through their security perimeter?”

“Appears so. Something to do with faulty electronics and possible engine failure.”

Crocker didn’t like it at all. “Tell the copilot to get on the horn. Alert the Saudis. And tell the Omanis we need permission to board.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is an emergency, Akil. Code red!”

“Understood.”

Faulty electronics, my ass.

He had a feeling that this might become more than a reconnaissance mission. Now he huddled with his men and outlined the situation.

“I thought you said we were simply going to observe the ship,” Davis muttered.

“We just received updated information. What we’re doing here is rapid assessment and response.”

The men looked excited. They lived for ops like this.

“Like riding a bucking bronco,” Ritchie remarked.

“Whether the men on board resist or surrender, we’ve got to gain control of the bridge and stop this sucker before it reaches Ras Tanura.”

Mancini said, “I can do that.”

“Are we dropping in the water?” Davis asked.

“I won’t know until we get close.”

“And see what the bastards throw at us.”

“Basically, we’re going to improvise,” Crocker said. “What have we got to go in with?”

Mancini, always the finagler, had managed to smuggle aboard a couple of MP5 series submachine guns, a half-dozen nine-millimeter handguns, about a thousand rounds of nine-millimeter hollow-point, a few KA-BAR knives, a dozen frag grenades, waterproof weapons bags, and some waterproof utility pouches. All compliments of a friend of his in the military attaché’s office.

“No wet suits or fins?” Davis asked.

“The water’s warm. We’ll manage. Let’s find out what the Omanis have on this bird.”

The men held on as the copter banked left, then scrambled through the fuselage looking in the weapons bays for anything they could use, turning up four more submachine guns, a couple of grenade launchers, an inflatable raft, flares.

Crocker spotted the Saudi coast out the left window, a glowing yellow ribbon.

“Boss! Boss!” Akil shouted from near the cockpit. “Look!”

Pressing his face to the glass he saw a weathered-looking tanker approximately 350 feet in length. Orange-red hull with a matching red stack; white bridge. To anyone else it would have appeared to be an innocuous, smallish, rusting tanker puttering up the coast.

The men pressed their faces against the side window for a better look.

Crocker rushed to join Akil up front. “Tell the pilot to bring this baby right over the bridge.”

“Ten-four.”

A lot of arguing back and forth in Arabic. Crocker asked, “What’s the problem?”

“We’ve entered Saudi airspace. He’s waiting for permission.”

“Screw that. No time.”

The pilot was a stubborn-looking fellow with a big bald circle on the top of his head and fierce dark eyes. As Akil argued with him and the mustached copilot, the helicopter drew closer to the ship.

“Tell him we don’t have time for permission. We’ve got to act now to prevent a catastrophe.”

Akil: “I have.”

From approximately three hundred feet above and fifty feet to the side, Crocker made out men on the bridge waving up at the helicopter and pointing at the orange and black distress flag. A number of them wore black beards.

“What do you think?” Akil asked.

“They don’t look like sailors to me.”

“Me either.”

“Tell the pilot to take it closer.”

“He won’t.”

“Why not?”

“He’s waiting on orders.”

“Fuck the orders!”

Leaning past the back of the pilot’s seat, he grabbed the man’s shoulder and pointed. “Down! Down, man. Take it closer!”

“No!”

“Yes, goddammit. The ship’s headed for Ras Tanura. Do you know what that means?”

The pilot shouted something to the copilot, then steered the metal bird lower until they were about 150 feet over the bridge.

“Lower! Lower! You can do it. Go ahead!”

The pilot shook his head vigorously.

“Lower, my friend.”

“La!” (No!)

“Yalla! Yalla!” (Let’s go! Let’s go!)

“Akl laa!” (No way!)

“You see that ship? It’s going to hit the oil terminal if we don’t stop it. Big explosion. BANG! Your sultan will be pissed.”

“He can’t understand you, boss.”

“Translate.”

Akil did. “He says he’s the commander of this aircraft, and you’re insulting him.”

Pissed off, Crocker started squeezing through the space between the seats. “Move aside. I’ll fly this fucking thing myself!” He’d been trained, along with a handful of other ST-6 operators, to fly helicopters by the pilots of Special Operations Aviation Regiment TF-160, the best in the business.

The Omani pilot started to reach for a pistol on the console. Crocker slapped his forearm and the pistol hit the instrument panel, then clattered across the metal floor.

The pilot flew into a rage, shouting insults in Arabic, then steering the bird away from the ship. As Akil tried shouting over him, Crocker retrieved the MK23.45-caliber automatic from the floor.

Another garbled voice came over the radio, a stream of excited Arabic that Crocker couldn’t begin to translate in the deafening clamor. Running out of options, he pointed the pistol at the pilot’s head.

“Lower this motherfucker! That’s my fucking order!”

The pilot’s voice slid up an octave. “Akl laa!”

Akil: “He says shoot him if you want to, but this is as far as he’ll go.”

Crocker pulled back the trigger. “Then I’ll have to shoot him!”

Cursing under his breath, the pilot lowered the bird and banked it over the ship. As the Super Lynx closed within fifty feet, the men on the bridge stopped waving and started running for cover. Within seconds a hail of automatic-weapon fire started coming their way and slamming into the helicopter’s metal belly.

“We’re getting hit!” Akil shouted.

“We’re taking fire!”

“Hold steady!” Crocker shouted.

The pilot looked like he was about to be sick.

“Tell him to bank right and take it down farther.”

“He says that’s impossible!”

Crocker handed the gun to Akil. “Stay here and shoot him in the head if you have to. We’re going in!”

He joined the other three SEALs at the side door. They were ready to go.

“Boss! Boss! What’s the order?” Davis shouted.

“You got the weapons in the waterproof bags?”

“Aye, aye!”

“Line up. Prepare to jump.”

“Ready, boss!”

“Stop the ship!”

Crocker slid the helicopter door open. The dark blue water of the Persian Gulf waited twenty-five feet below.

“All clear!” he shouted.

“All clear!” the others echoed.

“Eyes on the horizon! Arms crossed over your chests!” This would prevent them from breaking their necks when they hit the water.

They jumped one after the other and hit the surface hard. A moment of knifing into the warm liquid, then gaining buoyancy and coming up slightly dazed. The current quickly pulled them within ten feet of the rusted red hull, which was slipping past.

Bullets sprayed the water. The rotor wash caused by the helicopter slapped Crocker’s face.

The silver Super Lynx dove over the deck, drawing some fire away.

Thanks!

Through the spray, half-light, and automatic-weapon fire, Crocker saw Ritchie reach the ship’s fire hose and start pulling himself up. Mancini followed behind him, hanging on and managing to extract a grenade from his pack.

“No, Mancini! Don’t!” Crocker shouted from the water.

Mancini threw one, then another.

Jesus Christ!

Panicked shouts in Arabic echoed off the deck, followed by two explosions. The ship kept sliding through the water, and the shooting stopped for a moment.

The helicopter made another pass through the smoke, then climbed and banked.

“Boss, here. Grab onto my hand!”

“I got it.” Out of breath, salt water in his mouth and nostrils. In Mancini’s face, “This is a tanker! Don’t throw any more fucking grenades, you maniac. The whole goddamn ship can blow!”

“They were smoke grenades, boss, for cover. I made sure to aim them at the bridge.”

“No more, you understand? Too fucking hazardous. We don’t know what kind of cargo it’s carrying.”

“Roger!”

Crocker figured the tanks in the hold were fully loaded, since the ship rode low in the water. It was a mere eight or nine feet to the cargo deck.

There the strong smell of kerosene met them. A small fire had broken out on the bridge.

A hail of bullets ricocheted off the metal pumps and ripped into the ballast pipes. The SEALs dove behind any cover they could find-valves, metal flanges, railings.

Crocker sent Mancini to inspect the bow. Then he and the others retrieved their weapons from the waterproof bags and started returning fire.

“Don’t waste ammunition. Our supply is limited.”

One hairy-chested terrorist in a soiled white T-shirt charged down the stairs firing an AK-47-a spray-and-pray maneuver, the kind amateurs often resorted to. Ritchie aimed and caught him in the throat, and the man spun and tumbled down hard, like a rag doll losing parts.

Mancini was back, panting, his face beet red. “I spotted explosives all up and down the outlet pipes on the hold. This baby’s rigged to blow!”

Figure about ten thousand tons of some highly volatile substance. Kerosene? Gasoline? Jet fuel?

Whatever the amount, it would create an enormous bomb. Make the passenger jets from 9/11 look like firecrackers.

“We gotta steer it away from the loading station!”

“I got that covered, boss,” Mancini countered. “But we got to take control of the bridge first.”

“Roger that.”

Enclosed by windows, the bridge sparkled like a crown atop the five-story white superstructure adjacent to the ship’s stern. Rising twelve feet above it was a tall white communications tower, radar tracker, and emergency beacon.

Crocker said, “Davis and I will attack from the starboard side. Mancini and Ritchie take the port.”

“Now?” Ritchie asked, burning with intensity.

Crocker looked behind him to see the Ras Tanura oil terminal playing hide-and-seek beyond the arched metal. Turning back toward the bridge, he looked at his men and said, “Move!”

Ritchie took off like a rocket with Mancini behind him, ducking, zigzagging, and firing all at once.

Crocker slapped Davis’s arm. “Follow me!”

With bullets smashing and ricocheting around them, Crocker ducked under the deck lines that ran fore and aft down the middle of the ship. They provided some cover. Still, the terrorists firing from three decks above had a definite advantage.

How many of them are there? Crocker asked himself, as Davis shouted near his shoulder: “Boss, watch out! Get down!”

Crocker turned to see two bearded men emerge from a stairway past the first hold, approximately forty feet behind them, in the direction of the bow. Seeing the Americans, the two terrorists pointed their weapons and opened fire.

A paunchy man with longish thinning black hair and a thick stubble appeared behind the two shooters, accompanied by a younger man. The overweight one looked vaguely familiar.

“Isn’t that AZ?” Davis asked, his urgent breath in Crocker’s face.

“Which one?”

“The pudgy barefoot guy in the black pants.”

Crocker quickly compared the broad face and long nose to the image in his head.

“You might be right!”

“It’s him, boss. I’d put big money on it.”

“Where the fuck are they going?” It was difficult to see because of the unending volley of incoming bullets. Even raising their heads a fraction invited instant death. Squirming to his right, Crocker found a crack between the metal railing and the bulkhead, and looked in the direction of the bow.

Here he saw a portable ladder unwinding down the starboard side of the ship, then two bodies descending. Below them he made out the top of a ten-foot launch bobbing in the water. Trapezoidal, with twin outboards in back.

A last terrific volley, then the firing let up. Crocker raised his head in time to catch the last two men scurrying over the side.

Davis: “Where the fuck did they go?”

“They got into a boat. Follow me!”

But the second they left the safety of the overhang, they were stopped by ferocious firing from the bridge behind them. Pinned again, chins and stomachs to the deck, protected only by a metal outlet valve and pump.

He heard a motor start up below. The launch.

Amid the terrible clatter of incoming fire, Crocker looked in the sky for help from the helicopter, but it was nowhere in sight.

Fuck’n asshole pilot!

Zaman was escaping! The American felt an ache that traveled all the way into his bones.

I can’t let it happen. Not again.

“Cover me!” Crocker shouted desperately, knowing he had to go for broke.

“Boss, hold up!”

But he was already gone, springing from the deck, turning and running approximately thirty feet toward the bow, then veering to the starboard side of the ship. He climbed to the spot where the ladder was attached and, glimpsing the launch below pulling away from the hull, threw himself off.

All in!

MP5 in his right hand, KA-BAR in his left, he flew like a missile.

The four terrorists in the launch didn’t see him coming. He hit the tallest one full-on, driving into the man’s chest so that his knees gave way and he crumpled backward. Crocker heard the terrorist’s ribs crack when his back hit the side of the craft, which simultaneously helped soften the American’s landing and jolted the boat enough that the other three lost their footing, stumbled, and reached for the sides.

This gave Crocker the momentary advantage he needed. Filled with purpose and fury, he grabbed the man closest to him and snapped his neck with a wicked twist. As another terrorist reached for his AK-47, Crocker plunged the KA-BAR into his gut and raked it up to his sternum.

A terrible muffled scream sounded as insides spilled out and the man went down.

The SEAL team leader took a deep breath.

As he exhaled, he felt a sharp pain at the back of his calf. Then the tall man behind him-the one he had slammed into when he dove into the boat-threw a loaded magazine that hit the side of the launch and fell into the water.

The SEAL took two quick steps toward him and brought his boot down hard on the man’s throat.

Now it was just Crocker and Zaman in the launch-Crocker near the stern, Zaman at the bow. Two bodies between them pouring out blood.

The al-Qaeda leader reached down for an AK-47 near his feet. But the American was quicker, kicking it away despite the pain in his calf.

When he looked up, their eyes locked-enemy faced mortal enemy; religious fervor confronted fierce determination.

“Where’s your burka?” Crocker asked.

Sneering, Zaman glanced at the AK-47 behind him, then back at Crocker. He had something clenched in his right fist.

I fucking dare you, Crocker’s eyes shouted.

The launch continued to drift away from the ship. Blood from the KA-BAR dripped down the American’s right arm.

“You’re mine now, Zaman.”

“No, I’m not.” The voice came back in clear British-​accented English. Under the circumstances it was eerily assured.

Adrenaline racing through him, Crocker took a step closer, as Zaman reached for whatever he had in his right fist.

The American heard a distinctive metallic click and stopped. Zaman had pulled the pin to a grenade, which he held to his chest. He smiled like the devil, without doubt or fear.

“We meet the Messenger together. Allahu Akbar.”

Fuck that!

With no time to think, Crocker sprung over the side and hit the water just as the grenade went off. He felt a piece of hot metal rip into the skin near his ankle and heard a muffled roar as he sank into the Gulf.

Even in the bitter smoke and tumult, his heart rejoiced.