The Scorpion's Gate

4

New York Journal reporter Kate Delmarco took a taxi to the world’s tallest hotel, a building shaped like a giant dhow’s sail on a man-made island a hundred yards off the coast of Dubai. She did not enter the hotel, but instead climbed into a golf cart that took her back over the short causeway to the shore, past the Wild Wadi Water Park, and then down to a dock where electrically powered little dhows departed for the canals of the nearby hotel and shopping complex. Alighting at the modern air-conditioned souk, she followed the signs through the mall to an Italian restaurant.

Although she was based in Dubai, her best source in the region was her friend Brian Douglas, the British diplomat stationed in the British embassy in Bahrain. She knew he was more than the regional energy affairs section chief, which was how he was listed in the embassy directory. But despite a few overnight sailing trips together on his 32-foot Bahrain Beauty, Douglas had never broken cover. He had never admitted to his other job. Last week he had called and suggested to her, somewhat cryptically, that she should meet “another Dubai friend” of his. So that was what she was about to do.

Waiting at the bar was Jassim Nakeel, a scion of one of the families that were building the new city of Dubai, soaring office towers, offshore islands of villas and condos, tourist theme parks. He did not wear traditional Arab clothing but looked instead like a transplant from Malibu or Laguna Beach.

“You thought because my name is Delmarco I would like an Italian restaurant?” she said as he led her to a table outside on the balcony. Kate Delmarco looked as though her family came from southern Italy, with slightly olive-tinted skin and long black hair. Although she would be forty-five later in the year, Delmarco was fit and exuded a Mediterranean allure. She had managed to finagle an open invitation to go riding at the Dubai royal stables anytime she wanted. It had become her Saturday-morning ritual.

“No, actually, I thought you’d like this place because it has a great view of the sound and light show the Burj al Arab hotel does every night,” Nakeel said as he seated Kate facing the giant sail-shaped hotel. “Besides, it has a great wine list.”

“Wine list! Is there anything about Dubai that is still Arab? Wine lists, theme parks, high-rise condos filled with Europeans, you in Armani…” Kate stopped as the seventy stories of the Burj turned purple, stars sparkled up one side of the tower and then down the other, and then the building faded to pink.

“Dubai is the center of the new Arab world, Kate, cutting-edge, business-smart, and cosmopolitan,” Nakeel said, taking the wine list. “For most Europeans, it’s more affordable than the South of France and a lot more fun. Besides, it’s cold there this time of year. The 1999 Barolo, please,” he told the waiter without consulting her. “After what happened in Riyadh, most global companies moved their regional offices to Dubai. It’s safe, secure, modern, and efficient. Besides, there are no taxes. They all love it here.”

Kate frowned. “Yes, but isn’t it a little close to the old Arab world? Islamyah? Iran? You can see the lights of the Iranian oil platforms from the bar on the top of the Dubai Tower.” She stabbed a pepper on the antipasto plate that had appeared.

“Yes, that’s why we’re a little worried,” Nakeel said, putting down the menu. “That’s what I want to talk with you about.”

“I’m all ears.”

“For generations, the mullahs in Iran have wanted to unite the Shi’a world into a single power, ruled from Tehran or Qom, the seat of their religious leaders,” he began. “Right after they took power in 1979, they started to stir up the Shi’a majority in Iraq. That’s why Saddam attacked them in 1980.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Kate replied, breaking a breadstick. “Or maybe he just thought he’d grab their oil province while they were weak after the fall of the Shah.”

“The point is,” Nakeel continued, “that almost a million people died in that war over eight years, until both sides quit from exhaustion, and nobody won. Fifteen years later, the U.S. Army comes along and topples Saddam in three weeks. Three years later and the Shi’a are practically running Iraq under Iranian guidance. Washington did Tehran’s work for them. While all the American attention was focused on car bombs in Baghdad, the Iranians secretly built nuclear weapons while denying it and tricking the Europeans and Americans into thinking that they were five years away from a bomb.”

Kate looked bored. “Jassim, that’s your version of history. I think we prevented Iraq from getting WMD again and we gave it democracy. Democracy means majority rule, so the Shi’a rule, but that doesn’t mean Iran is in charge of Iraq. So what else is new?”

“The next steps, Kate. They are about to happen.” He tasted the splash of Barolo the waiter offered for his approval and nodded for him to pour for the lady. “Now they want the Shi’a majority in Bahrain to take power and facilitate Iranian activity across the Gulf. Do you really believe that Pentagon crap that it’s Islamyah behind the bombings in Bahrain?” Nakeel scoffed.

“No, I don’t, but my editors seem to. They spiked my story blaming it on Tehran and ran a piece by our Pentagon reporter demonizing Riyadh,” Kate admitted.

“Your Defense Secretary Conrad has been demonizing them since the day they drove the Sauds out.” He paused and looked her in the eye. “We think Conrad is on the al Saud payroll,” Nakeel said softly.

“ ‘We’? The Dubai real estate development board?” Kate shot back. “Or do you have another job, too?”

He ignored her question. “If you want a story your editors can’t spike, Kate, talk with my friend in Bahrain.” As he spoke, the Burj al Arab and the hotel next to it that was shaped like a giant wave both erupted into a galaxy of twinkling stars, fireworks shot from their roofs, and the speakers in the souk played “Rocket Man.”

“I’m actually booked there on Gulf Air tomorrow afternoon, but I appreciate the advice, Jassim,” she said flatly.

“Well then, may I suggest someone you might want to interview there, a tip from the Dubai real estate board?” He smiled as they brought his veal scaloppine and her roasted pork loin. The music switched to ABBA.

“You’re not afraid to be in a hotel lobby in Bahrain, Ms. Delmarco?” Ahmed said as he sat in the chair opposite her in the coffee shop. He was wearing a blue blazer and khakis, and looked like a thin, young American assistant professor.

“Should I be, Doctor?” she asked as she extended her hand, testing to see if he would take it. He did.

“Perhaps. Many people died in the Diplomat and Crowne Plaza, but not, as your paper claims, at the hands of Islamyah,” he said quickly, settling into his seat.

“Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Rashid. I know you are a busy man at the hospital and…everything else,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “I met an American naval intelligence officer today at the base, who told me that Riyadh was definitely behind the terrorism, part of a plan to push the Navy out of Bahrain.”

“We have to ban smoking in Bahrain,” Ahmed joked. “And lies. You should have better sources than this Navy intelligence man.”

“I guess everyone has their vices,” she said, snubbing out the Kent after two puffs. “That captain’s vices apparently include trying to pick up female reporters. We’re having dinner tonight. What are your vices, Doctor?”

“I have an addiction to American television comedies.” He smiled. “My family would never understand. Do you know Frasier?”

Kate thought Ahmed had a warm, genuine smile, and that the spy business was definitely a second career for him. As much as she liked Brian Douglas, it was going to be a lot easier getting information out of the good doctor. “Frasier? But you’re not a psychologist, you’re a cardiologist. You worry about hearts.” She signaled for the waiter. “And minds?”

“Some people are trying to sow fear in the minds of Americans, Ms. Delmarco, but America does not need to fear the new government in Islamyah. We have replaced a corrupt, undemocratic government with one more in line with our traditions and beliefs as a people. We still sell oil on the world market. We do not attack Americans. Why not let us alone?” Again, he flashed the charming, boyish smile.

“ ‘We,’ Doctor? I thought you were a physician who just happened to have a highly placed brother in Riyadh, a brother from whom the Islamyah embassy press attaché assures me you are estranged. What does that mean, ‘estranged’?” she said, taking out her digital recorder.

“May I call you Kate?” he asked. She nodded. “Then, Kate, let’s stop the dance. I was told I could trust you, and you were told the same about me. I have known the Nakeels for twenty years. My parents have owned a vacation house next to theirs in Spain forever. Yes, many people in our new government would not talk to an American reporter, a woman reporter, but because I support that government, I will. I will try to help you see the truth, assuming you will report it.” Ahmed stopped abruptly and touched his cell phone’s Bluetooth earpiece. “Excuse me. I have to take this.”

Kate sipped her coffee, trying to hear something of what was being said into Ahmed’s ear. His face had changed; he looked concerned, almost afraid.

“I apologize. I have to get back to the intensive care unit. May we meet tomorrow? May I call you?” he said, placing Bahrain dinars on the table.

She smiled and handed him her card, with the Dubai cell phone number. “Anytime, Doctor.”

In a moment, he was gone. Kate Delmarco turned off the recorder and wondered what could happen at the ICU to put fear into such a pleasant young man.

The beat-up Nissan was no more. He had ditched what the cell had given him and purchased something more to his liking. Ahmed Rashid’s new BMW 325 was supposed to be parked at the hotel door, thanks to a small contribution he had made to the doorman, but it was nowhere in sight. A young man in a valet’s uniform ran over, key in hand.

“Excuse me, sir, but we had to move your car. It’s just around the corner. Should I bring it or would you like to follow me?”

Impatient, Ahmed waved him forward. “Let’s go.”

The valet nodded and stepped smartly, Ahmed behind. The valet turned the corner and disappeared. Ahmed could see the front of his BMW as he moved past the building’s edge. He vaguely wondered where the valet had gone when he spotted something moving to his right. As he turned his head, he saw the valet, hand out in front. But instead of car keys in his hand, the valet held something large and metal and black. As Ahmed realized it was a gun, the valet suddenly lurched and fell to his knees and then on his face. Ahmed now faced Saif, breathing rapidly, eyes narrow and dark.

Ahmed looked down at the valet. A knife was sticking out of the base of his head, blood gurgling out from the wound and onto his uniform and on the concrete. The thought floated through Ahmed’s mind that Saif knew his business: the valet, or whoever he was, had been half dead before he had hit the ground.

“Iranian,” Saif said. “Qods. He’s been shadowing you for a couple of days. Waiting for the right opportunity.”

And you’ve been shadowing him, Ahmed thought. Or me.

“Thank you,” Ahmed said simply, hoping his voice didn’t sound as shaky as he felt.

Saif nodded. “Go. I’ll clean up and follow.”

Ahmed got into his BMW and drove quickly through the Manama traffic, fighting his shock, increasingly feeling a sense of vulnerability and dread. What if Saif hadn’t been there? How long had the Iranians been planning to kill him? Would they try again? He had been so stupid: the amateur spymaster. Ahmed violently shook his head, refusing to give in to fear. There was no time. Not now. So this was what his brother dealt with every day of his life. So now it was his turn. Good.

He wove rapidly through the late-afternoon flow, south toward Sitra, the industrial area near the refinery. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled another cell phone from the console between the front seats and hit a speed-dial number. “Two blocks out,” he said and disconnected.

As the blue BMW approached the faded warehouse, a metal door rolled up. It closed again after Rashid was inside. He took the stairs inside the warehouse two at a time to an office looking down on the darkened interior.

“You used the emergency code phrase, Fadl,” Ahmed said as he came through the office door. “What is your definition of an emergency?”

“Saif ’s device in the Qods Force office…he put it in their printer, we downloaded it…two hours ago and it…” Fadl was flustered, stammering. He handed a paper to Ahmed bin Rashid.

Ahmed took the paper and studied Fadl. He was certain that the young man’s distress had nothing to do with what had happened at the hotel. Fadl didn’t know. Ahmed decided to keep it that way. He looked at the paper.

“This is incomprehensible, Fadl. What am I supposed to…” Ahmed said, squinting at what looked like some sort of message format. Fadl stood next to him and pointed at a paragraph toward the bottom of the page and read aloud, “ ‘Karbala team to move to site by 16 this day, board and take down without alarm, and set sail no later than 1730. Jamal 2157 will proceed out as normal to marker red twelve, then turn north with maximum speed to ASU. Ram DD if possible or drive on to land, then ignition.’ ”

The doctor stared at the earnest young man in front of him. “What is that supposed to mean, Fadl? Who is Jamal 2157? Do you even know him? And Karbala, why do I care what happens at some Shi’a shrine in Iraq?”

The door opened and Saif joined them. “Jamal is not a person, brother Ahmed. It is a Japanese ship with 2157 painted on its side. The Qods drove two trucks to a pier here in Sitra this afternoon. Taha, from our group, followed them. He said the Qods had Iraqis with them. He said they took two harbor service boats out to the ship an hour ago. He is on a roof near the dock now, keeping watch.”

Ahmed swallowed. “Let me see the message again. What kind of a ship is this? What are they smuggling into Bahrain, explosives?”

“Type? Taha said it is very large…” Saif responded.

Ahmed looked anxiously around the office, filled with books, boxes, and papers. “The computer, is it connected to the Internet?” He typed “www.google.com” and then “Jamal 2157.” In twenty seconds, the screen changed and a list of Internet pages appeared. Ahmed clicked on the first listing. Another screen appeared with a picture of a large ship with five spheres protruding from the deck. On the side of the red ship were the white letters “LNG Jamal.”

“Allah help me,” Ahmed gasped. “Liquid natural gas! Where is this ship now?”

“Taha said it is offshore, tied up to a special floating dock or point of some kind. I will call him.” Saif quickly changed the SIM chip in the back of his phone and punched in a number. He mumbled a few words into the mouthpiece, listened for a minute, then quickly disconnected. “They are beginning to move the ship, to untie lines. They did not unload explosives into Bahrain. Taha…Taha thinks they brought explosives out to the ship. Some of the Qods people left the ship, left the Iraqis on board.”

Fadl had taken a maritime map down from the office wall and was laying it out on the table in front of Ahmed. “Here is where they are now,” Fadl said, pointing to a channel off the Sitra oil and gas facility.

Ahmed looked at the navigation chart and saw a red triangle with the notation “R-12” east of the ship’s location. From there the channel went east to the Persian Gulf. Directly north of that buoy, however, was a notation, “NOMAR: Permanently Restricted Military Area.” Above the Notice to Mariners notation was Juffair, and the American naval base called the ASU.

“Who do we know in the harbormaster’s office, the port police?” Ahmed asked, moving to the door.

“We have a source in the traffic police…” Saif was saying.

Ahmed bin Rashid stood in the office door at the top of the stairs. “Send out the emergency signal to all of your people, tell them go to ground, disappear, no communication for five days. And get out of here, drive inland, to the west coast. Now!” He ran down the stairs and searched frantically in the BMW’s console for the card that Kate Delmarco had given him.

As the metal door lifted and he backed the BMW out of the warehouse, he punched in her Dubai number. It took what seemed a long time and many clicks before it rang. She answered on the fifth ring. “Kate Delmarco.”

“Kate, don’t say anything, just listen. I am the man you had coffee with an hour ago. Don’t speak my name. Are you with your dinner date yet, just yes or no.”

“Yes, yes, we are having cocktails, yes…” she answered uncertainly.

“Listen to me. You must persuade him that at this minute a liquid natural gas tanker in the harbor, the LNG Jamal, has been seized by Iranian commandos and is about to sail into the Americans’ base and explode the liquid natural gas. The blast will go for miles, like a mini-Hiroshima. There is no time to ask questions. Don’t hang up, just put down the phone on the table so I can hear him.”

There was a long pause. He heard music and clinking. Then he heard Delmarco’s voice, made out some of what she said: “Good source, Johnny… intelligence… right now a gas tanker which has been seized could be, no is, is actually… right now…driving toward ASU….I am serious, very…. Look, just check, call, you can call…what do you have to lose?”

He was driving erratically, with one hand holding the phone, speeding toward the hospital. If his call failed to persuade them, as he thought it would, there would be thousands of people in need of emergency medical attention shortly. There was only music and noise coming over the phone.

He ran a red light and sped into the traffic circle, almost getting hit by a bus. He dropped the phone onto the floor. On the other side of the circle, he pulled into a parking lane and stopped, searching for the phone. He put it to his ear in time to hear a man’s voice say in American-accented English, “…may be something wrong… be right or regret… going to Threatcon Delta…my word… drill… SEAL…you stay put…be back…”

Then he heard Kate clearly; she was speaking to him. “He just left. He’s pissed as hell, but his duty officer seemed to think something was wrong, so he has ordered something. He thinks I set him up. Did I?”

“No. You didn’t. I didn’t. You’ll see now. If you can see the harbor from where you are, go look.” He disconnected and began driving again, more carefully, to the hospital.

Kate was at a bar on the Corniche. She looked around. Across the street and a block away was the Banc Bahrain Tower office block. She ran for it. Darting across the street, she walked into the lobby and noticed a sign for an express elevator to the “Top of the Corniche.” Minutes later, stepping out of the elevator fifty-three stories up, Kate Delmarco ran into the rooftop bar, walked to a window, and scanned the horizon.

“Wanna borra dees, miss?” the bartender said in some version of English as he thrust a pair of Nokia binoculars across the counter. “Your ship coming, yes?”

The klaxon finally stopped.

“… assume Force Protection Condition Threatcon Delta, repeat, Threatcon Delta…” a voice of God said from seemingly everywhere on base. Marines poured out of the security barracks, throwing on flak jackets and carrying M16s. Humvees with blue lights blinking moved down the middle of the street toward the main gate.

At the SEAL dock, Lieutenant Shane Buford was on the red Alert Phone to the COMNAVCENT Operations Center on the other side of the base. “It will be hard to coordinate with the Marines’ helos, Commander, if we move this fast….Aye, aye, sir.” Bufordlooked at his chief, a seasoned, gnarled enlisted man with twice as many years in as Buford. “Chief, launch all three boats. We are to marry up with the duty boat and move toward the channel and…get this… board the LNG tanker Jamal near the R-12 buoy.

“We are to presume the LNG may have been seized by heavily armed men who may have explosives. The Marine FAST, if it can get going, may rappel from Black Hawks onto the deck, simultaneously with our assault if possible. And”—the young SEAL shook his head—“this is no drill.”

Eighteen SEALs ran down the dock into the Zodiacs. Each boat was rigged with three heavy machine guns. The lines were untied and the boats away in seconds. Moving abreast, the Zodiacs cut through the water off the Navy base into the channel. Buford looked

back at the gray hulls tied up in the main dock area. He saw the tower of an Aegis-class destroyer, the masts of two minesweepers, the big mass of a munitions resupply and under-way replenishment ship. Three littoral patrol craft were tied up to one another at the end of one pier.

It was dinnertime and many of the base personnel who lived “on the economy” were in private apartments nearby, but at least four thousand Americans were in the ASU at the moment. Another two thousand were probably within a few kilometers, within the blast radius if the LNG tanker went up.

The Zodiacs were speeding through the main shipping channel now, and Buford was monitoring several frequencies on his headset. His call sign was Alpha Three One.

“Alpha Three One, be advised harbormaster reports suspicious responses to his hails to LNG Jamal. Bahraini navy patrol craft is getting under way from Juffair East.”

And another voice: “ASU Ops, this is Coast Guard D342. We are about three klicks from R-12, have subject vessel in sight. She is proceeding east at eight knots.” Years ago the Coast Guard had sent a maritime safety and security team to help the Navy patrol Bahrain harbor. They were still there and drove 25-foot Defender-class boats designed for harbor-security missions.

In each of the three Zodiacs, the chiefs were going over the rules of engagement with the teams: “Possibly heavily armed men, possibly explosives, but we are not sure, so do not pop some Japanese merchant marine guy without identifying him hostile.”

The fourth SEAL Zodiac, the duty boat, had been patrolling to the west of the ASU and could now be seen speeding to rendezvous with the three alert boats. Buford hailed it on a tactical frequency: “Alpha Three Four, you will team with Alpha Three Three and move down the port side of the target vessel.” As he said that, he realized that they would have none of the tactical surprise that they normally counted on when storming a ship. The sun had just set, but there was still enough ambient light from the city and the refinery that they were not exactly operating in the dark that they normally used to protect them. Buford’s laptop, which he had strapped to the deck, beeped, and he looked down to see a new PDF file with the deck plans of the LNG Jamal. They had just been sent to him from the N-2 at the base.

“ASU Ops, this is Coast Guard Delta 342, subject vessel is turning toward the Juffair Channel and making wake. We will close in three mikes. What are our orders?”

There was a pause before the ASU Operations Center answered the Coast Guard Defender boat. Then, “Roger, 342, you are to hail the target ship on radio, with lights, flares, and loudspeakers. Advise them they are entering into a restricted area and must reverse at full speed. After they clear the zone, tell them that you want to board. Do you have a Bahraini officer for boarding?”

The Defender, like all the Coast Guard boats and ships in the region, typically carried a host country rider, who had the legal authority of the sovereign state in whose waters they sailed. With him on board, they could enforce local laws and come aboard any vessel without permission from the ship’s master.

Buford could now see the orange Coast Guard Defender boat two kilometers out ahead, but the tanker had to be running with few lights. He could not make out the huge ship with his binoculars, so he raised the night-vision glasses from his belt. In the green light of the glasses, at the distant setting, the big LNG tanker, with its spherical containers, was clear. It was now heading straight up the Juffair Channel toward the ASU. A bright light erupting in the nightvision glasses forced him to pull them quickly away from his eyes.

“Coasties are shooting up flares at her,” the chief said. “She has stopped talking to the harbormaster, ignoring his hails.”

Buford switched to the Coast Guard frequency and heard in English, “LNG Jamal, LNG Jamal, this is the United States Coast Guard. You are entering a restricted area. Switch to reverse full power. Repeat…”

He saw it come from the bow of the tanker, a flash there and then a line of light shooting forward in front of the tanker, then… a ball of fire where the Coast Guard Defender had been and a thud and a crackling sound moving across the water. Someone on the Jamal had fired a heavy, man-portable antitank weapon at the Defender, which had exploded, sending flaming pieces up into the sky and sideways to the right and left.

“Alpha Three One to all Alpha patrol boats, target is hostile, repeat, target is hostile,” Buford called into his headset. “Change of plans. Implement Redskins Blue Two, repeat Redskins Blue Two. Alpha Three, join me at point; Two and Four, play stopper.” Buford called out a prearranged maneuver from the SEALs’ playbook, just as he had called plays as the Springfield High quarterback seven years earlier.

The Zodiacs were running full out, without lights, changing their patterns repeatedly to avoid being targeted the way the Coasties had been, by a gunner with night-vision devices on the bow of the Jamal.

Buford heard the Marines’ Fleet Anti-Terrorism Security team commander on another frequency. “Where the fuck are the Black Hawks? My team is ready for pickup.” Probably as many as thirty-six Marines were suited up in body armor and waiting at the ASU landing zone for the ride that would take them to points above the deck of the target ship. The plan was that, as the helicopters hovered in the dark, the Marines would rope down onto the ship. It was only slightly more crazy than what Buford planned to do with the SEALs at some point tonight, which was to launch rope rockets onto the ship and then climb up special ladders onto the deck, 200 feet above the sea.

Another voice on the headset: “This is Bahraini Navy patrol craft to LNG Jamal. We are proceeding to your location. Come to full stop. Prepare to be boarded.” Buford checked the tactical plot on his secure wireless laptop. The Bahrainis were about twelve minutes away. Buford was now about two minutes from executing his play.

“Brrrt…. Brrrt….” Buford could hear arms fire and he saw flashes from the Jamal’s bow and port side, but not another antitank missile. Whoever was on board the Jamal, they were firing automatic weapons, trying to keep away frogmen who they assumed would be there. If there had been time, the SEALs would have, in fact, approached the target ship on diver sleds. The shooters seemed to know that.

A starburst flare overhead lit up the night sky, followed by another off the starboard side. The Zodiacs would be clearly seen now, without night-vision devices. Another missile could be coming from the Jamal any moment. The ship seemed huge now as she plowed up the channel toward the Zodiacs at full speed.

“Alpha Three Three, fire at will, repeat, fire at will,” Buford said, and he gave the go sign to his chief. A second later there was a crack, a whoosh of air, a shock of light. The Zodiac bucked like a horse hearing a cherry bomb go off. Then, half a kilometer away, another Zodiac also let loose with a Javelin antitank missile. As soon as they fired, the two Zodiacs began evasive action before anyone on the bow could fire at them. Buford’s Javelin hit the tower of the ship and it lit up like a dry Christmas tree. Then the second Javelin hit and the flames on the conning tower shot higher. If anyone was steering the ship and controlling the speed from the tower, they were now toast. If the SEALs had missed and hit one of the five round gas tanks protruding from the deck, the entire harbor would have been on fire. If the fire on the tower spread, that might still happen. But the book said it wouldn’t spread.

The Jamal continued to move closer and farther up the channel toward the base at high speed. Buford saw the Black Hawk in his peripheral vision and switched to the FAST frequency. “FAST one moving into position for stern assault. Where are my other three birds?”

“Oh Christ,” Buford mouthed over the roar of the Zodiac. His chief signaled back, “What’s wrong?”

Buford yelled into the chief ’s ear above the din of the motors. “The Marine FAST Commander seems to have gotten frustrated waiting for his rides and launched only one squad with the first chopper he could get. Worse yet, he’s going to do a stern rappel just when Alpha Three Two and Three Four are about to shoot out the props on the tanker.”

Buford was only a Navy lieutenant, and the FAST commander was a Marine major, but Buford was going to have to tell his superior officer up there in the Black Hawk that the SEALs, on the Zodiacs coming around behind the tanker, were about to fire rockets at its propellers. If done properly, there was no danger of the ship’s fuel igniting, but there might be a problem for Marines roping down onto the deck above the props.

“FAST-One, this is Alpha Three…” Buford began, when he saw the light jump up from the ship’s deck. Then the Black Hawk exploded into an orange-yellow burst and he could see the fuselage buckle in the middle while the rotors still turned. The men on the Jamal had fired a Stinger missile or Russian SA-14 at the Marines, twelve of whom were now aflame as the Black Hawk fell to the sea.

Buford now heard the thuds from his two Zodiacs attacking the propellers. If they had succeeded in hitting the large propellers, the ship would slow, but its forward momentum would continue to push it up-channel toward the Navy base. He yelled to the chief, “If they are going to blow the LNG, now’s the time they will try to do it. We got to get on board now and stop them.”

“Boarding party, aye, sir,” the chief screamed back.

Buford coordinated with the other Zodiacs so that all four would launch their climbers up different parts of the ship, then pull back to give the climbers covering fire from the machine guns.

As his boat pulled up next to the tanker, that 200 feet to the deck seemed like a mile of steel looming above them, and moving ahead. Buford yelled to three SEALs in his Zodiac, “Pull out the beanstalk.” They brought out a titanium device that looked only 6 feet high, but its two thick poles contained extensions. Buford pressed the launch button, and the poles shot 75 feet into the air. Between the poles, thin, narrow steps made a ladder. Suction cups and magnets on the sides of the poles attached themselves to the tanker. They moved their Jack and the Beanstalk tower so that it hooked onto a scupper on the side of the tanker, then started to ascend, Buford first.

The Zodiac pulled back out, to get an angle where they could take any people on the deck under fire. Normally, the SEALs would have had their own helicopters, Little Birds, with SEALs sitting outside on the landing gear, providing covering fire. Unfortunately, the Little Birds were training on barges out in the Gulf with most of the SEAL team. Buford was left at home to guard the fort, literally.

As the Zodiac moved off from the tanker, Buford was startled by a noise and a motion above. He looked up from the water to see flames from the tales of two Bahraini F-16s as they shot by 500 feet above the sea. He hoped they knew they should do nothing but look good. Then he heard another, more familiar sound: Black Hawks. The rest of the FAST had arrived on three or four more birds, and so far they were not being targeted with Stingers.

Buford quickly switched to the FAST frequency. “FAST Commander, this is Alpha Three One, I have a dozen men climbing up the sides at positions one, two, and six. I need covering fire from your helos. Suggest we put all men on board on one tactical freq. Over.”

“Roger, Alpha, we will rope down into positions three, four, and five. We will fire at the deck near your positions until you get topside,” the Marine in the lead chopper responded, using the numbers that the SEALs and Marines both employed to designate locations on a ship being assaulted from the air or from the sea’s surface. “Alpha, have your men switch to tac freq 198.22, over.”

Buford and his team had climbed the beanstalk, hooked onto the side, and pulled the ladder up behind them. They then fired it up another 75 feet and hooked on. After the second climb of the tower, they shot ropes onto the deck. When the ropes seemed to be securely caught on something on the deck, the SEALs began climbing the last stretch of the steel behemoth.

Buford could hear small-arms fire now. He imagined some terrorist leader inside the ship lighting charges that would explode the five gigantic gas-carrying spheres. Even from here the explosion would create a blast wave and fireball that would kill hundreds at the ASU. Any moment now…

Above it all, Buford heard a siren. Turning, he saw the Bahraini patrol craft charging at full speed up the channel, all lit up and with a blue bubble-gum light blinking on its tower like a highway patrol car. Then he heard someone on the headset saying, “Hovering above the debris of the Defender…No joy…No joy.” They weren’t seeing survivors of the Coast Guard boat.

Machine guns on the Zodiacs and the Black Hawks were now ripping at parts of the deck area of the Jamal where someone might try to shoot at the SEALs as they climbed up the sides or at the Marines, who were about to rappel down ropes onto the ship. “Keep your fire way from the spheres,” Buford heard someone say on his headset.

Then, as the SEALs neared the deck, he heard, “Cease fire, cease fire, only targeted fire on hostiles.” Finally, he was on the deck. The muscles in his forearms burned, his biceps and back throbbed. He had designated the four SEAL assault units of four men each red, blue, green, and gold. He and the three other SEALs from his Zodiac were gold. “This is Gold One. We are on deck,” Buford said, swinging his assault weapon from his back to his right hand. The other SEAL squads soon confirmed that they, too, had made it on deck. Sixteen SEALs were aboard the Jamal. None had been lost in the perilous climb up the side of the ship.

The SEALs assumed positions behind objects on deck to provide covering fire as the FAST Marines now fell onto the deck on the port and starboard sides. Another FAST squad was, Buford knew, hitting the bow. Buford was on the stern deck. His view of the bow was obscured by the smoke from the smoldering conning tower of the tanker. The Javelins had done a good job.

“Blue squad, join up with Gold. We’ll go below to find the auxiliary controls in the engine room,” he yelled into his headset. “Green, Red, join up with the FAST and go down amidships, look for booby traps and timers, any sign that someone is trying to blow up the ship.” Then he transferred all tactical control to the FAST team leader, a Marine captain. Once he went below, there was little probability that his radio would be able to transmit more than a few feet.

He pulled open a hatch and realized that the lights were out inside the ship. He pulled down his nightscope, and using hand signs, Buford and his squad entered the ship. He tried to remember the deck plans from his laptop. The two squads moved below down a darkened companionway. They descended three decks, providing cover for one another as they moved, just as they had drilled so many times.

He opened the hatch into the corridor. If he remembered correctly, the second door on the left would be the auxiliary helm control room, and from there the ship could be steered. According to the data he had read on the laptop as the Zodiac bounced out to the Jamal, this ship also had two emergency mini-propellers amidships. He wanted to deploy them and throw them to full throttle in reverse.

Buford and the rest of Gold squad found the door and assumed their positions to go through it together, high and low, covering one another. He pulled down the latch handle, and in a second they were in. “No shoot, no shoot,” an Asian man in a T-shirt screamed. Buford saw no one else in the room through his night-vision goggles.

“Are you from the Jamal’s crew?” Buford yelled as he placed his weapon to the Asian’s chest. The terrified man nodded affirmatively. “Where are the midship props and rudder controls?” Buford barked.

The Asian’s hand went out to a switch. “No!” Buford screamed, and knocked him away. The SEAL wanted to see the controls for himself. It looked fairly user-friendly and intuitive. Everything was marked in Japanese and English.

“This should do it,” he said to the rest of his squad as he hit a button that deployed the mini-props. Then he dialed in full reverse. “It will at least stop what’s left of the forward motion and in a few minutes it’ll start slipping her backwards. Now let’s start looking for explosives.”

The young SEAL lieutenant grabbed the quivering Asian ship’s crewman by the T-shirt and threw him back into the chair in front of the console, exactly where he had been sitting when the SEALs burst in. “Where are they? Where are the terrorists?” Buford screamed at the frightened sailor. “Tell me now!”

Almost in answer, a shape moved in the dark. From behind a file cabinet the sound of gunfire exploded in the little control room. Above it, Buford heard a shout: “Allah ahkbar!” He swung to his right, beginning to raise his weapon as he took three rounds into his body armor, one above the other. Then one pierced the skin at the top of his nose and his head exploded as his body fell backward onto the control panel.

Fire from two SEALs in the control room cut the gunman in two. With the sound of the weapons exchange causing his ears to ring and his nostrils to fill with acrid smoke, a SEAL hit the transmit button on his chin microphone. “Gold One is down. KIA, repeat Gold One KIA.” No one on deck could hear the signal through the steel of the hull.

Still hogging the bartender’s binoculars and juggling them with her cell phone, pressed against the window glass at the Top of the Corniche, Kate Delmarco was dictating to a CNN news anchor in Atlanta. She had been at it for half an hour, her reports also turning into bulletins that the Associated Press was running on its global network.

“The helicopters are still hovering above the deck and are scanning below with really bright spotlights. The troops from the helicopters have been on the deck now for almost ten minutes, but I can’t make them out. The fire seems to have gone out in the tower thing.” She squinted. “And I’d say the ship is definitely dead in the water. A lot of little ships are now around it and I can see the lights of more on the way. One has a blue, like a police light, spinning…. The fighter planes are still circling higher up. I can’t confirm the report that the American base was evacuated, but this huge liquid natural gas tanker definitely was headed that way, and had it been exploded by terrorists, thousands would have died, Americans and Bahrainis. I must stress that we do not know the identity of the terrorist group yet, despite rumors that may have appeared.”

The bartender, who had never before had such a high tipper as this American woman, hung up his telephone behind the bar and wrote a note on a napkin. He walked around the bar to the window and placed the napkin in front of Delmarco. It read, “Man from hospital call you. He say shokran jazeelan. Just tell you shokran.”

No, Kate thought, as tears welled up in her eyes. Thank you very much, Doctor, thank you.

Across town, in a small office on the intensive care ward at the Salmaniyah Medical Center, Dr. Rashid was composing an encrypted e-mail to his brother, Abdullah, in Riyadh