Seal Team Seven

Saturday, 21 May

0215 hours (Zulu +3)

Yuduki Maru

Off the Madagascar coast

Tetsuo Kurebayashi had bow lookout this night. He enjoyed the night watches, for the ship was silent and still, empty save for the pounding of the big freighter's screws churning up the wake astern. When he stood on the foredeck, with his back to the light from Yuduki Maru's towering white bridge and with the night air in his face and darkness all around, it was like stepping into another universe, where he was alone, a solitary Mind and Will in a dark and eternal cosmos.

Craning back his head, he stared up into the star-glorious sky overhead. Here, well beyond the circle of light spilling from the Yuduki Maru's bridge windows, the night was a wondrous immensity. The Milky Way arced overhead from horizon to horizon, diamond dust gleaming against black velvet. Alpha Centauri shone like a beacon high up, near the zenith, while other stars, alien to men raised in northern latitudes, burned in the south. Kurebayashi's eyes traced out constellations unknown in Honshu but familiar to mariners who sailed the southern seas: Centaurus; Vela; the four, tightly clumped jewels of Crux.

He searched for Orion and the Martyr's stars, but that constellation had long since set in the west.

No matter. The spirits of the Junkyosha, the Martyrs, were here, as much a part of this operation as were Kurebayashi and his comrades. He thought about how close he and his brothers were to their goal, to final victory, and excitement quickened within.

So far, everything had gone perfectly according to Isamusama's plan. The most difficult aspect of Operation Yoake had been smuggling eight of the brothers aboard, disguised as members of the Police Special Action force assigned to Yuduki Maru's security contingent, and two more as members of her crew. The Tokyo organization had taken care of all the details. Rumor had it that they had people planted inside the police personnel office who'd been able to reassign security force members, plant false IDs and fingerprint records, and even buy some of the officers of the government-subsidized company that owned Yuduki Maru and her cargo. It was the old, old story playing itself out once more: The technology, the planning, the security arrangements themselves might all be perfect, but the strongest walls were always exactly as strong as the weakest men guarding them. When Yuduki Maru had set sail from Cherbourg, ten of the seventy-five men aboard had been members of Eikyuni Shinananai Tori.

It had been more than enough. The other twenty-three security men aboard had been killed within seconds of Shikishima's destruction, those on duty gunned down by their supposed comrades from behind, those off duty below deck killed by poison gas and gunfire as they slept. Five members of the ship's crew had also been shot, but so far, at least, the rest were cooperating with Yuduki Maru's new masters. The officers had been separated from the men, and both groups were kept locked in carefully searched compartments below, released a few at a time under close guard to carry out their shipboard duties. They'd been promised their lives if they cooperated.

Kurebayashi wondered how many of them seriously believed they would be allowed to live once Yuduki Maru made landfall. The stakes in this game were so fantastically high since the takeover, there had been only one significant threat to Yuduki Maru. For the past three days they'd been steaming steadily on a heading of 012, almost due north. The coast of Madagascar, however, slants from south-southwest to north-northeast, so the plutonium freighter had been steadily drawing closer and closer to the huge island's eastern shore. At this moment she was just 150 miles southeast of Cape Masoala, and needless to say, her abrupt change of course had not gone unnoticed.

Ever since they'd left Cherbourg, the Greenpeace vessel Beluga had dogged the freighter's northbound wake. Perhaps because they hadn't been sure whether the course change was according to plan or not, Greenpeace had made no immediate announcement about the change in course, but as the Yuduki Maru had steadily neared the Madagascar coast, violating her pledge not to approach any coastline by less than two hundred miles, Beluga had radioed the news to the world.

As expected, once the news had gone out, governments along the Yuduki Maru's new course had panicked. The 235-ton coastal patrol boat Malaika, largest ship of the Malagasy Republic's tiny navy, had attempted to rendezvous with the freighter late on Friday afternoon but had been scared off by warnings broadcast over the radio. In two more days, they would be passing through the Seychelles and Amirante Islands, a thousand kilometers northeast of Madagascar, and there would almost certainly be another attempt then.

Well, Kurebayashi and his comrades were ready. He hefted his AKM, comforted by its reassuring bulk.

Nothing, he thought, not all the navies of the world, can possibly stop us now!

0720 hours (Zulu -5)

Headquarters, SEAL Seven

Little Creek, Virginia

Maps of various scales of the western Indian Ocean had been tacked up on every wall of SEAL Seven's briefing room, mingled with blown-up black-and-white aerial photos of two ships. KH-12 satellites had been tracking the Yuduki Maru almost continually since Thursday; holes in the spy sat observation time had been filled in by relays of Air Force high-altitude Aurora reconnaissance aircraft.

Things had been moving quickly since the Broken Arrow alert had gone out. Most of SEAL Seven's energies had been directed toward gathering intelligence. Early Friday — Friday afternoon, Madagascar time — the missing Iranian oiler Hormuz had been picked up and photographed as well, less than six hundred miles north of the Japanese freighter and plodding south on an intercept course. During the past twenty-four hours, the two ships had closed the gap to a few dozen miles. By now, everyone assigned to Operation Sun Hammer was working on the assumption that the Iranians must be behind the hijacking of the Yuduki Maru. Iran, of course, had denied the charges.

There were orbital snapshots of other vessels as well, the motor sailing ketch Beluga, registered with Greenpeace, and a small Malagasy Republic coastal patrol boat, Malaika. Word had gotten out about the plutonium ship's change of course yesterday, and that, naturally, had complicated everything. "Plutonium Ship Off Course!" were the Friday morning headlines on half the world's newspapers. "Hijacking Suspected!"

Later, the hijacking theory had been all but confirmed when the Yuduki Maru had warned off the Malaika, proving that those aboard, whoever they were, were less than friendly. All of the publicity, however, made Operation Sun Hammer far more difficult. SEALs preferred operations set well out of the glare of media notice.

Master Chief MacKenzie leaned against the plot table with his arms folded, listening to the new lieutenant lay out the mission plan. Everyone in Third Platoon was there, gathered in the briefing room that was part of the CO's suite in headquarters. Also present were Captain Friedman of the Red Wolves light helo squadron, Captain Coburn, and their tactical staffs.

"Our overall plan has been approved by Admiral Bainbridge and his staff," Murdock was saying. "However, there's plenty of room yet for creativity in this thing. In particular, I want to hear your suggestions. After all, you guys're going to be in the water too."

Good, MacKenzie thought. Draw them out and give them a say. No military organization can afford to be a democracy, but the men, these men, responded well to an officer who cared what they thought.

The excitement in the room was rising, thick enough to cut with a SEAL's K-bar. First and Third Platoons had been notified early that morning that they were going after the hijacked Japanese plutonium ship.

Now they were working out just how they were going to pull it off.

"Well, I have to say I'm concerned about the approach, Lieutenant," Roselli said. "I'm wondering why we're doing it with CRRCs. If the objective keeps to that eighteen-knot speed, we're not going to have any leeway."

CRRCs — Combat Rubber Raiding Craft — were slightly larger versions of the traditional IBS. They could be dropped from aircraft by parachute or released by a submerged submarine, as was called for by the Sun Hammer op plan, and were powered by a silenced outboard motor. They had a top speed of about twelve knots, which meant that the SEAL assault force wouldn't be able to catch up with the target if they missed on their first try and it passed them by.

"What would you suggest instead, Chief?" Murdock asked.

"Come in astern by helo. Fast-rope onto the fantail. Short and sweet."

"And if the bad guys hear the helicopters' approach? We could find ourselves coming in over a damned hot LZ."

"Suppressive fire from an escorting gunship. Sir. Clear the deck with gas, small-arms fire, and buckshot so we don't risk breaching the cargo or hitting the hostages."

Roselli did have a point. Freighters like the Yuduki Maru were noisy enough astern that a helicopter, especially a silenced, covert-ops bird like the Model 500MG Defender 11, could slip up their wake without being heard aboard.

"I agree that would make our approach easier, Chief," Murdock said. "Unfortunately, we can't guarantee the bad guys won't have lookouts on their fantail. Making the approach on the surface at least gives us a chance of getting aboard before they know we're there. And gentlemen, it's critical that we do just that. It'll let us take down some of the tangos silently, and maybe we can make some of them tell us where the hostages are being held and how many guys they have aboard. I think we'd all rather not have to fight our way aboard. Right, Chief?"

"Yes, sir," Roselli said.

"Other questions? Suggestions? Bitches?"

There were none.

"Okay, let's go over the approach again."

Sun Hammer's success depended on catching and boarding both the Yuduki Maru and the Hormuz in an ocean where Western assets were few and far between. While Murdock had considered staging the SEALs' assault out of Diego Garcia, the plutonium ship was expected to approach no closer to that island than thirteen hundred miles, probably sometime around noon local time on Sunday as it passed the Seychelles Islands. Thirteen hundred miles was well outside the range of any but the largest, midair-refueling-capable choppers like the Super Stallion.

The final decision had been to deploy the team from an American Los Angeles-class attack sub on station in the Indian Ocean, the U.S.S. Santa Fe. Helicopter support would come from a Marine Expeditionary Force now transiting the Red Sea; the U.S.S. Nassau, the MEF's amphibious assault ship, would provide a mobile landing field for the SEAL helos, but it would take a couple of days yet to get them into position off the Horn of Africa. The Indian Ocean was a very large and empty battlefield.

"What about the Greenpeacers, Lieutenant?" Magic wondered. "They see something going' down, they might decide to get close. And get in the way."

During the past few days, the Beluga had closed to within thirty-five miles of the Japanese ship, though so far she'd not dared to come any nearer. That civilian ship could cause endless mischief, however, deliberately or accidentally, especially if they spotted a military operation unfolding and decided that the risk to the freighter's cargo outweighed all other considerations.

"Good point. Captain Friedman, you've got our perimeter security." The helicopter squadron, operating off of Nassau's flight deck, would be available to provide airborne firepower and, of course, to bring in NEST personnel once the two ships had been secured. "Think you could block that Greenpeace ship if she started to get too close?"

Friedman grinned. "You just tell me where the line is, Lieutenant, and we'll dare them to step across. My boys won't have any trouble stopping a damned bed-sheet sailer."

"Question answered, Brown?"

"Affirmative, Sir."

"Good. Now, let's take a look at our deployment once we get aboard."

Lieutenant Murdock, MacKenzie decided, was doing a pretty fair job leading the platoon through the briefing. Every one of them was with him, following along, making decent suggestions or asking intelligent questions, and no one was dragging his heels. Murdock could still stand to loosen up a bit, though. MacKenzie had the impression that the new lieutenant was pushing, pushing, trying to prove something to himself, or possibly to someone else, and while he was running himself into the ground, there was a very real danger that he would do the same to the platoon. MacKenzie did not want to see that happen.

"Okay," Murdock said. "Once we're aboard the freighter, we have two main worries. We have to take down the terrorists, and we have to make certain the plutonium is secure. That means checking the stuff for booby traps and bombs, tampering by idiots, and outright theft. The NEST people will be concerned with stolen plutonium and subtle leakage. But we'll have to check for quick and dirty bombs. Needless to say, we'll want our best people on this. One slip and..."

"Shine on, shine on, Evening Moon," Doc Ellsworth sang, completing the thought. Most of the SEALs laughed at his gallows humor. "Evening Moon" was a literal translation of the poetic term "Yuduki," and if even one of those plutonium canisters in her hold was ruptured, she most certainly would, in a manner of speaking at least, "shine."

"That's right," Kosciuszko added. "We won't need a flare to bring in our follow-up, 'cause we're going to be goddamn glowing in the dark."

2335 hours (Zulu -1)

U.S. Air Force C-130

En route to the Indian Ocean

Lieutenant Murdock leaned back in the C-130 Hercules's red-lit cargo deck, feeling the steady beat of the transport's four great engines, feeling his own excitement building, the pressure rising until he could scarcely contain it. Combat! He was going into combat again. The heady adrenaline rush was like a jolt from some powerful drug, sharpening the senses until every sound, every smell, the slightest detail of the men around him and their equipment stood out in his awareness with crystalline, supernatural clarity.

They were rigged out for an airdrop at sea, wearing wet suits and SCUBA tanks. Their personal combat gear was stowed in tethered, waterproof rucksacks resting on the deck between their feet, while their CRRCs and heavier stuff were in a separate paradrop package lying on a pallet near the C-130's cargo bay door.

Murdock studied each man carefully, without being too obvious in his appraisals. Thirteen men, thirteen different ways of dealing with the stress and the emotions that everyone felt as they approached combat. Bill Higgins, the Professor, had his legs stretched out and his ankles crossed atop his rucksack. He was holding a pencil flash in one hand and a paperback translation of Sun Tse's The Art of War in the other. Doc Ellsworth was also reading; he'd laid a wide strip of masking tape across the masthead of a recent issue of Penthouse, then used a magic marker to print in the title Gray's Anatomy. Bearcat Holt was sound asleep, his head back against the bulkhead and his mouth hanging wide open. Rattler and Boomer were talking quietly together in Spanish. Frazier was working a fist-sized lump of plastic explosives in his hands, kneading it like clay. Roselli and Nicholson both were stripping and cleaning their H&Ks. Magic Brown had a 9mm round in one hand and was turning it end over end between his fingers, almost as though it were a rosary or some kind of talisman. His eyes were fixed on something unseen beyond the Hercules's bulkhead. Jaybird was also staring into space, but with his arms crossed over his chest, an almost belligerent display. DeWitt, Kos, and Mac were all forward, talking together in tones drowned out by the C-130's engine noise.

They were good men, every one of them. He'd been pushing them all damned hard this week, and they'd responded well. If any men in the world could carry out this mission, these men could.

He just hoped that he was sharp enough to lead them. Usually, especially before combat, Murdock felt the supreme, egotistical, almost arrogant confidence of the athlete who knows he is ready to perform. This time, though, he felt... unsure of himself, despite the pre-combat excitement. It was an unfamiliar sensation. Was it his father's visit that had done this? Or was he simply nervous about jumping into action with thirteen men who were still near-strangers? He didn't know, and he didn't know how he could go about finding out... except, possibly, by surviving these next few hours.

"Lieutenant?"

He started. MacKenzie was standing over him, huge in his combat harness and rig. "Yeah, Mac?"

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

Rising, Murdock followed MacKenzie forward, to a place where they could talk without being overheard by the rest of the platoon.

"What's on your mind, Master Chief?"

MacKenzie's teeth gleamed briefly in the cargo hold's red lighting. "I just wanted to say, sir, that I think you've done a pretty fair job of pulling the guys together this last week. You've worked their tails off, and there's some of them that think you're a son of a bitch. But you're their son of a bitch, and they're pretty proud of that."

Murdock nodded. "Thanks, Mac. The hardest thing about this job, you know, is competing with Lieutenant Cotter. If the men don't follow me instead of him, this platoon doesn't have a chance in hell."

"Roger that, sir." He hesitated. "I, uh, just wanted to say one thing more."

"Spit it out, Master Chief. Off the record."

"These guys are not raw recruits, sir. Except for Jaybird, who hasn't pinned on his trident yet, they've paid their dues and they know their shit. Every man except Jaybird has been in combat."

"You're telling me to get off their backs and let them do their jobs."

MacKenzie's eyes widened slightly. "Well... yes, sir."

"Don't worry, Mac. I'd already reached the same conclusion. When we jump tonight, I'm not going out that door leading this platoon."

"No, sir?"

"Nope. I'm going out as part of the platoon. Part of the team."

"And the Teams." MacKenzie grinned. "Yes, sir!"

Hours later, the C-130 neared the planned drop site. The U.S.S. Santa Fe, motionless on the surface in a slight swell, signaled with an IR-beacon, and the Hercules pilot replied in kind. They were going in at eight thousand feet so that they wouldn't need high-altitude breathing gear. The pressure on the cargo deck had already been adjusted to match the air pressure outside.

The Hercules crew chief passed the word that the sub was in sight and that the pilot was circling in toward the drop zone. Five minutes.

"Stand up!" Murdock called.

As one, the platoon stood up, looped swim fins over their right arms, gathered up their rucksacks, and made their way in two lines toward the rear of the aircraft, bunched up on either side of the paradrop package. There, the cargo ramp was coming down with a grumbling whine; beyond that opening, the night was darkness and the shrill thunder of wind and engines. Murdock felt the bite of cold, surprising this close to the equator.

"Check equipment!"

The equipment check was carried out in three phases. Each man checked his own gear, making sure buckles were fastened, straps and weapons secure, equipment snug. Next, he checked the gear of the man in front of him in line, and finally he turned around and checked the man behind him. "Sound off for equipment check!"

"One okay!" Kosciuszko called from the head of the port-side stick.

"Two okay!"

And so it went down the paired lines, until Murdock completed the litany with "Fourteen okay! This is it, SEALS. Stand in the door."

The Hercules's rear door was gaping wide now. Stars gave illumination enough that the waves a mile and a half below were intermittently visible, a glint of pale illumination in the darkness below the arc of the Milky Way. Murdock's heart hammered beneath his rebreather pack. It always pounded like this before a jump. Like more than one guy had said on similar occasions, jumping out of a perfectly good airplane is neither a sane nor a natural act.

A light on the forward bulkhead flashed from red to green.

"Go!"

As one, the two lines of men grasped the equipment package and slid it aft on the cargo rollers set into the deck. With a heavy rumble, it slid down the ramp and into space, its static cord popping its drogue almost at once, the main chute appearing seconds later, then vanishing into the night.

Almost the moment the cargo was clear, Third Platoon rushed down the ramp after it, plunging headfirst into space. The mob rush allowed the platoon to free-fall close together, enabling them to stay together for the descent and splash down in a tight group.

The excitement that had been building inside Murdock exploded behind his eyes like a magnesium flare. The wind blasted at his face and wet suit as he spread his arms and legs and arched his back, assuming the classic free-fall position that actually let him turn his body into an airfoil and fly... at least for a few precious, fantastic moments. In the darkness, his companions were visible as mere shadows, sensed more than seen as their bodies occluded the stars around him. Free-fall was glorious, a buoyant weightlessness, transformed to literal and ecstatic flight by the lack of any fixed reference point save his own body suspended in space.

Together, they fell through the night until the luminous dials of their wrist altimeters read five hundred feet. Then they pulled their rip-cords; Murdock could hear the pops and cracks of the other chutes around him an instant before his own parasail deployed, yanking him upright with a sensation that felt like he was heading straight back into the star-strewn sky.

His chute clear, he released his rucksack, letting it dangle at the end of its tether. Hauling on his risers, he guided the parasail into a gentle turn against the wind, killing his forward momentum. He could see the submarine now, a long, black shadow against the luminous sea.

He prepared for the landing, loosening the left side of his reserve chute, donning his swim fins, and readying his quick release by turning it to the unlocked position and removing the safety clip. One hundred feet above the water, he steadied his chute with his face into the wind and put his fingers over his Capewell Releases, which secured the parachute straps to his harness at his shoulders.

Moments later, he splashed into the water, pressing the left-side Capewell Release and releasing the chute before he was fully submerged. Underwater, he released the second Capewell, then hit the quick-release box to free the leg straps. The harness fell away, leaving him free in the ocean.

The Santa Fe rose like a black steel cliff from the sea, less than fifty yards away. Pushing his rucksack before him like a swim board, Murdock headed toward the sub. Around him, he heard the gentle splashes of other members of the unit. Third Platoon, SEAL Seven, had arrived.