Seal Team Seven

Thursday, 26 May

1945 hours (Zulu +3)

Indian Ocean, seventy miles east of Socotra

It was evening, but the sun was still well above the western horizon when the first flight of four Marine SuperCobra gunships clattered in toward the Yuduki Maru. They came in low, skimming the waves, approaching out of the west so that the enemy's gunners — and their heat-seeking anti-air weapons, if they had any — would be blinded by the sun. Half a mile behind the gunships, three big CH-53 Super Stallions of the 2nd Marine Aircraft Wing came in at higher altitude, each carrying a full load of fifty-five Marine combat troops.

Captain Ron Dilmore was strapped into the rear seat of Pickax One-three, one of the SuperCobras sliding into attack position west of the Iranian squadron. His gunner/copilot, in the front seat, was a skinny, blond kid from Kansas, Lieutenant Charles Mobely.

"So what's it gonna be," Mobely was saying over the ICS, the Cobra's intercom system. "Peace or war?"

"Aw, the Iranies are chicken-shit, Mobe," Dilmore replied. "They'll take one look at us and..."

"Pickax One, Pickax One" sounded over Dilmore's helmet phones. "This is Rolling Prairie. Deploy in attack formation, but hold your fire. Repeat, deploy for attack but do not fire."

Rolling Prairie was the call sign for II MEF's Tactical Command Team, buried away in the combat center aboard the Nassau.

"There they are," Mobely said. "I got the freighter and two... no, three warships. Looks like a destroyer has the freighter in tow."

"I see it, Mobe. Pick your targets. I'm gonna buzz the Maru."

The SuperCobra held its approach, now less than fifty feet above the water, its rotor blast raising a wind-lashed fog of spray in its wake. Ahead, the Japanese freighter Yuduki Maru was wallowing forward in moderate seas, a long length of heavy towing cable stretched from the fantail of the destroyer to the freighter's bow chocks. Red-white-and-green flags flew from the mastheads of both vessels.

"Hey, Skipper!" Mobely called. "The Maru's flying an Iranie flag!"

"I see it, Mobe." He put the SuperCobra into a gentle turn to port, circling the two vessels at a distance. So far there'd been no fire from either ship, though he could see armed men gathered on their decks. According to Prairie Fire's mission briefing, a team of Navy SEALs had managed to get on board the freighter and damage one of its screws, but had been forced to back off. How many Iranian soldiers were aboard? It looked like hundreds, though he didn't have time for an accurate count. Enough, certainly, to fight off a SEAL squad, and enough to make an airborne descent from helos, if not impossible, at least a very bloody business indeed.

"You getting all this, Mobe?"

"We're rolling, Skipper." The gunner/copilot was using a sophisticated camera mounted in the Cobra's chin turret to record the scene.

Damn. If the Iranians had raised their own flag over the Yuduki Maru, this could get real sticky, real fast. With that Iranian flag flying from her truck, the Japanese freighter was now, technically at least, Iranian property, and the American rescue mission could be construed as an invasion. Wryly wondering what the brass hats were going to make of this one, he opened a channel to Rolling Prairie and called in his report.

The other gunships began circling as well, while the troop-carrying Sea Stallions remained at a safe distance. After informing Nassau about the flags and tow cable, Dilmore was told to keep orbiting the freighter but to take no threatening action.

No threatening action? Add the SuperCobra's M197, a three-barreled, high-speed rotary cannon protruding from beneath its chin, to the rocket and minigun pods and TOW missiles slung from hardpoints to port and starboard, and you had one definitely threatening aircraft, even when it was squatting motionless on a flight deck. Circling its intended prey like some bristling, monster dragonfly, it was bound to make the people on those ships nervous.

The original plan, code-named Prairie Fire, called for the Marine helicopters to rush straight in, suppress any hostile fire from the freighter, and off-load the troops directly onto Yuduki Maru's forward deck. It was thought that the sudden, demoralizing appearance of the gunships, coupled with the casualties the Iranian forces had already suffered during the SEAL raid earlier in the week, would be enough to force their surrender.

The raid had been almost ready to go the day before when word had been received from the Pentagon that the Iranian warships Damavand, Sahand, and Alborz had joined the plutonium ship and were now providing close escort, together with a number of small patrol craft. Damavand, a World War II-era British destroyer transferred to Iran in the 1970s, now had the Yuduki Maru under tow.

Delayed for twenty-four hours while options were reviewed and orders rewritten, Prairie Fire had finally been launched despite the new intelligence, but their mission profile now called for them to approach cautiously, to report everything they saw, to hold fire until specifically ordered otherwise. What had begun as a terrorist incident on the high seas could rapidly escalate into a major military confrontation between Iran and the United States.

"Hey, Skipper?" Mobely called over the ICS. "We've got something screwy coming in on channel four."

"Let's hear it." He flipped the channel select knob on his console.

"...vessel Beluga! D-do not attack!" The voice was ragged with excitement, or more likely, Dilmore thought, with fear. "American forces, please, do not attack. This is Rudi Kohler, of the Greenpeace vessel Beluga. Soldiers and sailors of Revolutionary Iran, acting in the interest of world peace, have boarded the freighter Yuduki Maru, which was damaged several days ago in a terrorist incident, and have taken her in tow. This is a salvage and rescue operation as described under the international laws of the sea. The... the commander of the Iranian forces has asked me, as a representative of the organization Greenpeace International, to act as a neutral observer in this matter, to report what I see and hear to the world. American forces, please do not attack."

"Shit," Lieutenant Dilmore said, switching off. "A salvage operation! Who do they think they're kidding?"

"Pickax One, Pickax One, this is Rolling Prairie" sounded over Dilmore's helmet phones. "Hold fire, repeat, hold fire. This one's going up the chain. Confirm, over."

"Rolling Prairie, Pickax One," Dilmore replied. "Hold fire, roger." He dropped the helo into a shallow bank to starboard.

"What do you think, Skipper?" Mobely asked. "Was that message for real?"

"Hell, it sounded like he was reading from a prepared statement. I think the poor bastard had a gun to his head."

"Yeah. Who's this Kohler guy anyway?"

"I don't..."

"Ninety-nine aircraft, ninety-nine aircraft" sounded over the radio, interrupting.

"Uh-oh," Mobely said. The call sign "ninety-nine aircraft" was military shorthand for all aircraft aloft, and a general order to all of them probably meant an abort. "That was a little too fast for my liking."

"Quiet," Dilmore said. "I want to hear."

"Ninety-nine aircraft, scrub Prairie Fire. Repeat, scrub Prairie Fire and RTB."

RTB — Return to Base. The brass was calling off the attack before a single shot had been fired.

"Aw, shit!" Mobely said. "They're letting the bastards get away with fucking murder!"

"Maybe they know something about it we don't," Dilmore said. "Cominright to three-five-oh. Oops. What's that?"

"What's what?"

"Sailboat trailing the Iranians, six, maybe eight miles back."

"Hell, that's probably the Greenpeacers."

"Rog. Let's have a closer look, okay?"

"Fine. You explain digressing from the flight plan to the CO when we get back."

"No problems. Hang onto your lunch."

The Marine SuperCobra dropped until its skids were practically skimming the waves, angling south toward the two-masted schooner motoring northward with its sails furled. Several men in civilian clothes stood on the aft deck, one of them at the wheel. As the helicopter circled at a distance, the men waved.

"That's the Greenpeace bunch?" Mobely asked.

"That's them. Beluga."

"They look okay."

"Yeah. They could also have a guy with a machine gun pointed at 'em, hiding in that hatchway in the deck, telling 'em to smile and wave."

"Whatcha want to do?"

"Shit. We can't land. We can't attack a boat full of hostages, if that's what they are. I guess we wave back."

Circling once more, the SuperCobra then peeled off toward the west, following the other helos of Pickax back toward the U.S.S. Nassau.

Prairie Fire was, Dilmore thought, a total bust. The Iranians had just pulled a bit of legal chicanery that might let them get their hands on the plutonium, the operation had the blessing of some guy from Greenpeace, and Uncle Sam was going to come out of this with egg on his face... again.

Damn. Why couldn't those SEALs have done the job right when they'd had the chance?

1215 hours (Zulu -5)

NAVSPECWARGRU-Two Briefing Room

Little Creek, Virginia

"Is the President aware that it will be a hundred times harder getting at the Yuduki Maru once it's in a hostile naval base?" Admiral Bainbridge asked. "It won't be a simple boarding operation at sea anymore. It'll mean a full-scale invasion."

They were gathered once again in the SEAL base briefing room. Captain Phillip Christopher, a staff aide for Admiral Kerrigan, had just brought the Special Warfare Command the news that Prairie Fire had been aborted. After Christopher had said his piece, Brian Hadley had informed them of the decision made by the President and the National Security Council to allow the Iranian squadron to pass the American ships now gathered south of Masirah unmolested.

"I'm sure the President has been advised of that fact by the Joint Chiefs," Hadley replied, but the CIA liaison officer didn't look happy. His once-neat gray suit was rumpled, and looking at the bags under his eyes, Paul Mason doubted that the man had had more than an hour or two of sleep in the past forty-eight. "For the moment, the military community is being asked to narrow its focus, to concentrate on the Greenpeace vessel Beluga, rather than on the Japanese freighter."

"Just what does Greenpeace have to say about all of this, Mr. Hadley?" Mason asked.

"They've not released an official statement yet," Hadley replied. "Privately, though, people at their European headquarters in Brussels have been discussing the situation with our ambassador there. They feel that there's a strong possibility that their people are being held hostage, that Kohler was being forced to make those statements against his will. They do not believe the story that Iran freed a hijacked ship any more than we do, and they certainly oppose having that plutonium diverted to Bandar Abbas." Hadley gave a grim smile. "Half of Europe is already panicking over what might happen if the Iranians decide to use the plutonium against their neighbors in the Gulf. They wouldn't have to build a bomb, you know. Plutonium is the most deadly poison known to man. Dispersing a few pounds of the stuff as dust in the air or sea could render vast stretches of the Arabian Gulf coast uninhabitable, poison over half of Saudi Arabia's fresh-water supply, even contaminate the region's oil fields for centuries. Iran won't need to build an atomic bomb to become the power in the region. What we haven't been able to determine yet is whether this thing is being orchestrated from Tehran, or whether it's the work of a military cabal, a handful of military officers seeking a power base to overthrow the mullahs."

"Hell, their four largest warships were protecting the Yuduki Maru this morning," Admiral Bainbridge pointed out. "If it's a cabal, it's a damned big one, one including their whole navy."

"We can't rule that possibility out," Hadley admitted.

"Haven't we learned anything from questioning the people aboard Hormuz?" Captain Coburn asked.

"Nothing definite," Hadley said. "Frankly, the officers and men aboard the Hormuz simply don't know that much. Their orders came from the Iranian Gulf Fleet Headquarters at Bandar Abbas."

"Who issued the orders?" Bainbridge asked.

"An Admiral Seperh Paydarfar," Hadley replied. "The Agency's still digging for information on Paydarfar, but he appears to be a fairly loyal senior fleet naval officer with good political connections in Tehran. No evidence yet that he might be involved in an anti-government plot.

"In any case, we think our best chance for detailed intelligence is going to come from the Beluga."

"That's a switch," Coburn said. Several of the other officers in the room laughed.

There was a long, history of, if not outright animosity, then at least hostile wariness between Greenpeace International and the U.S. Navy. Greenpeace had publicly attacked the Navy on more than one occasion — for deploying nuclear weapons aboard its ships, for routinely dumping jet fuel at sea during carrier landing operations, even — and this one went back quite a few years — for purportedly training dolphins to plant explosives against the hulls of enemy ships. For its part, the Navy tried to maintain a good public relations profile by remaining aloof, despite what often appeared to be a leftist-organized campaign against the Navy's programs. It never admitted either way, for instance, whether or not nuclear weapons were stored aboard any given ship, and used simple "no comment" statements to avoid verbal engagements with anti-nuke protestors.

Leftist or not, Greenpeace was clearly now being used by the Iranians for reasons of their own, a situation that could not make the organization very happy. Greenpeace had taken the lead in the international battle against Japan's plutonium shipments, and now it seemed that the organization was actually giving its blessings to the diversion of two tons of stolen plutonium to a nation that was not exactly a trustworthy member of the international arena.

"I imagine the people at Greenpeace aren't exactly happy about this," Hadley said. "They stand to lose a very great deal of prestige and credibility if the Iranians decide to use that plutonium. Even if Tehran just uses the stuff to blackmail its neighbors, it will be remembered that one of Greenpeace's European spokesmen claimed the Iranians were just helping out."

"It's still possible the Iranians are on the level," Captain Christopher pointed out. "The Iranians the SEALs encountered on the freighter last Sunday could have been part of a terrorist faction or a coup, and the Iranian force could have regained control. They might still return the freighter and its cargo to the Japanese."

"Ha!" Bainbridge said curtly. "If that's true, why hasn't there been an official announcement from Tehran? Why haven't we heard from Yuduki Maru's captain? Hell, they could have let the Maru go its way and taken the bad guys back to Tehran for a big show trial. No, this feels like Iran might be trying to play both sides in this. They're buying time until they can get their real plan, whatever it is, in place."

"So where does that leave us?" Mason wanted to know.

"It looks," Hadley said, a grin slowly spreading across his face, "as though Captain Coburn's people are going to get another shot."

"All right!" Captain Coburn said delightedly, smacking fist into palm. "The Yuduki Maru again?"

Bainbridge scowled. "I thought you said the President was ordering us to let the Iranians take the freighter into port."

"He did," Hadley said. "And we're not going after the plutonium ship. Not yet anyway. At least not until we can clarify the exact political situation. And to do that, we're going to need to take a closer look at the Beluga."

2230 hours (Zulu +3 hours)

Tactical Officer's Briefing Room, U.S.S. Nassau

Indian Ocean, southwest of Masirah

"Wait a minute," Murdock said. "Let me get this straight. They're letting the bastards pass?"

Lieutenant Commander Robert Fowler, Intelligence Officer aboard the LHA Nassau, fixed Murdock with an icy stare. "Yes, Lieutenant. That is exactly what they're doing. The order was relayed down the chain of command from the President himself."

"Ah!" Roselli said from the other side of the room. "That explains it then."

"Belay that," Murdock snapped.

The current U.S. President was not popular with most military personnel, partly because of various unpopular social changes he'd made in the armed forces since his inauguration, but partly too because of his erratic course in charting American foreign policy. Nonetheless, he was the Commander-in-Chief. and American military personnel were expected to keep their political convictions to themselves. High-ranking military officers had been broken for careless criticism of the President and his Administration.

More than that, though, the country simply could not afford to have a military that involved itself in politics. That path led to military dictatorship, as had been proven time and time again elsewhere throughout the world. "Sorry, sir," Roselli said.

"If I might be allowed to continue," Fowler went on, "the Iranian squadron is continuing on course toward the Straits of Hormuz, with the Yuduki Maru in tow. We now believe that they will escort the Japanese ship to their naval base at Bandar Abbas. The President has ordered that they be allowed to pass without interference."

"Fuck that," MacKenzie said, the vulgarity shockingly loud in the silence following the intelligence officer's words. Fowler and the SEALs in the compartment all turned and looked at him. "Ah, 'scuse me, sir," the chief added. "But that's just plain damned screwy! Those bastards get into Bandar Abbas, and it's gonna take nothing less than a Marine invasion to winkle them out!"

"That may be," Fowler said coldly. "Do you really want to be the one setting our foreign policy out here, Chief?"

"Uh, no, sir."

"Good. Then I suggest you keep your mouth shut and listen, or you'll find yourself bounced back to the States to sit this one out!"

"Hold on there, Commander," Murdock said suddenly, rising.

Fowler looked at Murdock, eyebrows rising. "Huh? What is it now, Lieutenant?"

"Might I have a word with the Commander, sir? In private."

"Lieutenant, this is hardly the time..."

"These are my men, sir. And my responsibility. I respectfully suggest that if you have something to say to any of them involving order or discipline, you say it through me."

Fowler locked eyes with Murdock for a beat. "You're out of line, Lieutenant."

"No, sir. I don't think I am. Would you care to discuss the matter in private?"

Fowler stared at him for another moment, then took a deep breath and shook his head. "I really don't have time to discuss this matter, Lieutenant. Time is short and I have other briefings to deliver." He turned his gaze on MacKenzie. "Chief, if I was too harsh a moment ago, forgive me. The past few watches have been long ones."

MacKenzie grinned. "No problem, sir."

"Good. As I was trying to explain, the political situation over here is highly unstable. If we launch an outright attack on the Iranian squadron now, while they're claiming to be on an international rescue mission, well, it won't matter much whether they're hijacking that plutonium or not. The United States will be condemned all over the world... for interfering with that rescue, for putting our own prestige ahead of the lives of people in that region, for endangering the coastlines of countries from Saudi Arabia to South Africa if the Yuduki Maru is sunk, for acting like an out-of-control gunslinger when negotiation might have resolved the situation peaceably. The list goes on and on. Whatever you might think about his foreign policy statements lately, the President doesn't really have any other choice on this one. The draft for a formal resolution has been placed before the United Nations, but until we know for sure what's happening over there, our hands are pretty well tied."

Murdock raised his hand.

"What is it, Lieutenant?"

"Damn it, sir, we were aboard the plutonium ship. We brought back a freed hostage and a prisoner. What more do we need?"

"Frankly, Lieutenant Murdock, we need a clear picture of what the Iranians are thinking right now. Were the Iranians your people encountered aboard the Maru a revolutionary faction allied with Japanese terrorists? Or were they some kind of special action group working with the knowledge and approval of the mullahs in Tehran? We don't know, and until we do, our hands are tied.

"What we really need now, Washington feels, is a close look at what's going on aboard that Greenpeace yacht, the Beluga. If Kohler and the others aboard the yacht are telling the truth, then the Iranians have done our job for us, taking the Yuduki Maru back from the terrorists who hijacked her."

"With respect, sir," Roselli said, "that's a load of crap."

"That may be, Chief," Fowler said. "Personally, and speaking strictly off the record, I have to agree with you."

The man appeared to have resigned himself to comments from his audience. He was not, Murdock thought, used to briefing SEALS, as nonconformist and as non-elitist a bunch Murdock had ever known.

"However," Fowler continued, "the Joint Chiefs have ordered a new mission, an intelligence-gathering operation this time. They want you guys to go aboard the Beluga and find out just what's going down. The operation will be code-named Prairie Watch. If Kohler and the others are not hostages, you are to ascertain that fact and leave, hopefully without upsetting the diplomatic apple cart. If, as seems more likely from what we know now, the Iranians are holding Kohler and his guests prisoner, you'll proceed with a hostage rescue scenario."

"Yeah!" Magic Brown said. "That's more like it!"

The other men of Third Platoon sounded excited at the prospect of getting another shot. Murdock wasn't sure that he liked the sound of this mission, though. "What do we know about the target, sir?" he asked. "We don't have models or..."

"The Beluga was built by Luxuschiff, a luxury yacht manufacturer headquartered in Hamburg," Fowler said. "Detailed deck plans, including any modifications Kohler may have had made at the Hamburg boatyards, are being transmitted to us via satellite. You should have them within the hour."

Murdock glanced at his watch. It was nearly 2300 hours. "And when do you need our plans?"

For the first time that evening, Fowler smiled. "Lieutenant, I'm afraid I'll need a copy by zero-nine-hundred hours tomorrow. I know that's stretching things tight..."

"I don't mind a little late-night work, Commander," Murdock said. "But when is Prairie Watch supposed to go down?"

"Tomorrow night," Fowler told him. "Either late Friday evening or early Saturday morning. We have to know which way to jump in regard to the Maru by Sunday. Judging from her speed under tow, she'll reach Bandar Abbas sometime around midday on Sunday. We don't expect to be able to move against her before she's in port. But we must take action before the Iranians have a chance to remove her cargo. Your changing the access code on the Yuduki Maru's computer was a good move, Lieutenant, but once they have the ship in port, all they need to do is cut through the deck hatches with a shipyard-sized cutting torch. I'd guess we're looking at Sunday evening, at the latest."

"Then we'd better get busy," Murdock said. "Sir. We don't have a hell of a lot of time."