Tom Clancy Presents: Act of Valor

SEVEN

“Oh, miss. I’ll have another ginger ale if you don’t mind?”

The flight attendant scowled at him, then headed aft. A moment later she returned with a plastic cup with clear bubbly and no ice. She all but dropped the cup on the generous armrest between the two passengers, slopping a little as she did so.

“And another bag of peanuts would be nice as well.”

She returned with a handful of small packets and dumped them in his lap. “If there’s anything else you need,” she said, “you can damn well get it yourself,” and she was gone.

“You always have to push it, don’t you?” A.J. said to his seatmate. He was seated by the window, thumbing through the latest edition of the special-operations quarterly magazine, Front Sight Focus.

“Y’know,” his companion replied as he mopped up the soft-drink spill, “you’d think that when you have your own airplane, you’d get treated with a little more respect.”

“Your own airplane — yeah, right. Let me know if you’re going to give the lady any more shit so I can move. The next drink order is probably going to get poured over your head, and I want no part of it.”

Alfonso Joseph Markum and Ray Diamond were a study in contrast. A.J. was lean and compact, with smooth olive-colored skin and regular features. He had deep-set dark eyes that complemented thick, wavy hair, which he kept well-barbered and just slightly longer than regulation. His mixed lineage allowed him to pass for just about anything but white. There was a sense of effortless dignity to A.J. and an almost natural civility that often caused others to underestimate him. He was polite to a fault. Almost no one would take him for the capable martial artist that he was. When he moved, it was with economy and purpose, like someone with ballet training. And he could be deceptively fast.

Ray was taller and heavier, and bore the scarring of teenage acne that at best gave him a swarthy look. He had royal blue eyes and a James Coburn smile that seemed at odds with the gangland tattoos that covered both arms. He, too, was dark, but not as dark as A.J. His computer and IT skills aside, most of the Bandito SEALs, including his platoon officer and platoon chief, considered him something of a genius. He refused to speak of his past, and his service record listed his education only as a GED equivalent. Yet his military test scores were off the chart.

The two SEALs were traveling in an elevated style, at least on this leg of their journey. The analysis of the computer and cell phone they had obtained from the compound in Costa Rica had produced solid evidence of a terrorist plot. It had also yielded a date and a location in Somalia linked to the plot. This proved to be their only solid lead to what seemed to be plans for an attack on the American homeland ^ sized t. It was decided to send a team on a special reconnaissance mission to that location in Somalia. Since the threat appeared to be significant and credible, the operation had been assigned a code word — which greatly restricted who could be brought into the picture. It was decided to send an element from the small Bandito squad for the SR mission. Both Lieutenant Engel and Chief Nolan had officially requested that an SR team from some other SEAL or special-operations unit be tasked with the mission. For now, those up the chain of command, which reached quite high, wanted as few in on these developments as practical. So Ray and A.J. had been dispatched from the Bonhomme Richard for this desert rendezvous.

After Lieutenant Engel and Chief Nolan briefed them on the mission, they had launched from the Bonhomme Richard in a CH-53E Super Stallion. It was at the limit of the Super Stallion’s range, but they had made it to the Naval Air Station in Corpus Christi, Texas, in one jump. There they had transitioned to their current ride, a Gulfstream G5. When the commander of the U.S. Special Operations Command in Tampa had been read into the code-worded operation, he had put his personal command aircraft at the disposal of the mission requirements. Now the Bandito reconnaissance team was over the Atlantic. After a refueling stop at Tenerife in the Canary Islands, they would make the final jump across North Africa to Addis Ababa. From there, they were not yet sure of their future travel to the job site. They knew it would be interesting but most likely not so luxurious. In the rear of the Gulfstream, they had several bags of gear and they were not traveling light. Their primary mission would be that they see and not be seen, but if it came to a fight, they had to be ready for that as well. Just then, Ray’s Iridium satellite phone sounded. He had it programmed to loudly play the William Tell Overture. The sound carried to the rear of the quiet executive jet, bringing a frown from the single flight attendant, an Air Force master sergeant who was both senior to and a little tired of her two demanding SEAL passengers. Not to mention that both cell and satellite phones were not allowed to be used on military aircraft.

“It’s okay,” Ray called back to her with his best killer smile, as A.J. rolled his eyes. “It’s a business call.” Then into the phone. “Special Operations Executive Service. Wars fought, uprisings quelled, governments toppled, and virgins converted. How may we help you today, sir or ma’am?… Oh, yes, sir… Understood, sir… Yes, sir… Absolutely, sir… Roger that, sir.” Then after a long pause while he listened, “Just as soon as we’re ready to launch… Understood, sir… Until then.”

“So what’s up, Mr. Executive Operator? I take it that was the boss?”

“It was,” Ray replied. “He gave me the rest of our travel itinerary. Looks like we’ll do it all on this trip,” and he briefed A.J. on what was ahead for them.

“It seems like a lot of trouble just to cross the beach of a failed state,” A.J. replied.

“I guess it has to do with the pirate thing in Somalia. It seems the Skinnies have a pretty effective coast-watching system set up, and there’s a lot of traffic in the Gulf of Aden. And there are the naval vessels of several nations there on pirat cherliarde patrol. They’re taking no chances getting us ashore unnoticed.”

“Whatever,” A.J. replied. “Let’s hope it’s a walk in the park and not another slugfest like the last one.” He sighed. “But like all our little field trips, getting there is half the fun.” He went back to his magazine. Ray pushed his call button to see if maybe the master sergeant could rustle them up a couple of sandwiches.

Miles away in the Ukraine, two aging Russian pilots climbed into their ancient Albatross aircraft, which was easily five times as old as the Gulfstream that carried A.J. and Ray. They grumbled that their boss had called them at 4 A.M. and told them to get to their aircraft and start heading south. They knew it would be a rough flight, with multiple refueling stops, many of them in third-world shitholes. With each stop, they risked getting a bad load of fuel that would damage their engines — or worse.

But the money was good, and their employer had promised them a substantial bonus if they arrived precisely on time. They were flying for themselves now, not for the Russian Air Force, which had pretended to pay them decades earlier. Yet the sooner they got the mission done and got back to their adopted country, the better.

The Gulfstream set down at Bole International, just outside the Ethiopian capital, a few minutes before 1700 local time and taxied to a remote section of apron, well off the main service strip. The presence of a G5 was unusual but not unheard of. Since there were no markings, ground personnel assumed the aircraft belonged to some Saudi or Kuwaiti prince, making a refueling stop on the way to Cape Town, possibly on a diamond-buying expedition. While the fuel bowser attended to the Gulfstream, the two SEALs saw their gear off the aircraft and into a small warehouse that had been leased by the American embassy in Addis Ababa. Each had a backpack, a good-sized duffel, and a hard case for their weapon — a short hard case, as they were carrying only M4 rifles. The embassy representative who was there to meet the plane watched the two SEALs make their way inside. He waited a few moments at the bottom of the air stairs for the others. When it became apparent that there were no others, he followed them inside.

“Gentlemen, my name is William Leach, and I’m from the embassy. I’m to see to your needs for the short time I understand you are to be here.” He proffered an envelope. “And to give you these sealed orders.”

“Thank you, William,” Ray replied. He took the envelope and stepped away to where A.J. waited for him. Ray broke the seal, then extracted a second envelope with yet another seal. The second envelope was marked TOP SECRET, EYES ONLY, which meant it was not to be copied, only read.

“Concentric Russian dolls,” A.J. offered.

“So it would seem.”

Ray broke the second seal, removed yet another envelope, and removed the message. They read it together. The message contained little new information but did confirm the support and transportation platforms that would be available to them for this special reconnaissance. Then they turned to Leach.

“You know what’s in this?” Ray said, holding up the message.

Leach had the neat look of an embassy gofer — mid-thirties, well turned out in chinos and a starched, open-collar shirt. He had the beginnings of mottling on his cheeks that said he was on the legation cocktail circuit. It was a known fact the embassy staffers in African capitals consumed their share of Beefeater gin and Schweppes tonic.

“Absolutely not,” he replied, “and I’m told that its classification and special-handling protocols are outside my security clearance.”

“So what are we supposed to do with it now?”

Leach took a step back. “Uh, I have no idea. Now that it’s open, I can’t handle it.”

Ray looked at A.J., who just shrugged. “I guess we can eat it, or we can burn it. Probably ought to burn it.”

“Yeah,” A.J. concurred. He pulled a Bic lighter from his shirt pocket and fired it up. He touched the resulting tongue of flame to the corner of the message while Ray held it. Ray let the single sheet become engulfed in flames and nearly singe his fingers before he let it fall to the concrete floor. After it burned out, he scattered the blackened residue with his boot.

“Uh, I’m not sure that’s an approved method for the destruction of a classified document,” Leach said.

“Neither am I,” Ray replied. “But I didn’t want to eat it, and we sure as hell can’t take it with us.”

The embassy man shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. “I’ll have to report this,” he said, “when I get back to the embassy.”

“No worries here,” A.J. said, “but in the meantime, what are your instructions?”

“Ah, I’m to remain here and be of any service I can to you fellows.”

“Really? Well, we have some new instructions for you. We have a long night ahead of us and some gear to prep before we leave. Why don’t you see if you can rustle us up something to eat? We like to eat before we go to work, and God knows when we’ll next get a decent meal.”

“I, uh, well. I suppose I could do that. What do you have in mind?”

Without hesitation, Ray answered. “How about a Philly cheesesteak?”

“Exactly,” A.J. chimed in. “With lots of grilled onions.”“Nt>

Leach stood there with his mouth open for several seconds, then said, “I’ll see what I can do.” He turned on his heel and left.

As he left by a side door to the warehouse, they could hear the engines of the Gulfstream begin to spool up. The Air Force master sergeant stepped past Leach as he made his way out.

“He didn’t look too happy,” she reported.

“Embassy business,” Ray deadpanned. “We can’t talk about it.”

She ignored him and handed A.J. a bulky paper bag. “There are a couple of box lunches in there that I liberated from the commander’s personal larder.” She paused a moment, then continued, “Look, I know you two lowlifes wouldn’t be on my bird unless it was something important — and probably dangerous. You guys take care of yourselves, and good luck.”

“Thank you, Master Sergeant,” A.J. replied.

“Yeah, thanks,” Ray echoed. “We really do appreciate it.”

She threw them a casual salute and took her leave. Moments later, they heard the whine of jet engines rise an octave and then grow fainter as the Gulfstream taxied away.

“That was nice,” Ray said, “but I’m holding out for a Philly cheesesteak.”

“Yeah, dream on. But, yes, it was nice of her, and these, my friend,” A.J. replied, sniffing the contents with approval, “are four-star box lunches. Just look at them as backup chow; it may be the only backup we have on this operation.”

“Yep, looks that way,” Ray agreed.

They put the box lunches aside on the floor and, under the fluorescent glow of a single suspended fixture, began to lay out their operational gear. At 2030, shortly before dusk, two Marine CH-53E Super Stallion helicopters set down a hundred yards from the warehouse. While the helos refueled, the two SEALs made ready. A.J. and Ray now wore their kits, but they were not operationally configured. They were kitted up for intermediate travel. They wore their backpacks in normal fashion, but their duffels were clipped to D-rings on the front of their harnesses. The M4s in their hard cases were strapped to their sides. As they stepped from the door of the warehouse, a Land Rover screeched to a halt in front of them. It was Leach. He handed Ray a paper sack that was well stained with large grease spots. The smell alone told them that he had accomplished his mission.

“How the hell did you find Philly cheesesteak subs in Ethiopia — in Africa at all, for that matter?” Ray asked.

“Hey, you fellows have your secrets, I have mine.”

“William, old son,” Ray said, putting a hand solemnly on his shoulder. “You are something else. I’m going to se cm gStd">e that you’re mentioned in our dispatches.”

“Okay, thanks,” he replied, not sure whether Ray was kidding or not. “You guys have a safe trip.”

The two SEALs, each now armed with a grocery bag of chow, made their way to the two Super Stallions that were turning on the tarmac. Both SEALs, as directed by one of the crew chiefs, boarded the same bird — the lead helo. Both helos took off, heading southeast away from the city and then veering left to a northeasterly heading. They flew in loose formation for close to two hours approaching the Ethiopian-Somali border. The trailing helo turned away to a northerly heading for Djibouti and a clandestine refueling stop. The trail bird’s mission was over; it was there only for redundancy. With its tanks topped off, it could just make it back to the USS Bataan LHD-5, cruising an antipiracy station off the Horn of Africa at the eastern approaches to the Gulf of Aden. The lead helo, with the two SEALs, dropped to an altitude of five hundred feet to avoid the anemic Somali coastal radars near Berbera, skimmed over the western edge of that nation, and crossed unnoticed into the Gulf of Aden. The Super Stallion’s progress was carefully monitored by an Air Force E-3C Sentry airborne early-warning and control aircraft orbiting well out over the Gulf.

An hour into the flight, the two SEALs were eagerly devouring their Philly cheesesteaks, handing over their Gulfstream executive rations to a very grateful Marine Corps flight crew. Their hastily prepared box lunches from the Bataan were unpalatable by comparison. For all concerned, it would be a long flight, and by helicopter standards, a very long flight. The Super Stallion has a range of just over six-hundred nautical miles and a cruising speed of 170 knots. Some three hours after takeoff and eighty miles north of the Somali coast, the lead helicopter found the MC-130P Combat Shadow special-operations tanker. The Combat Shadow had launched out of Aden, Yemen, and had reached the rendezvous coordinates only minutes before the CH-53E’s arrival. After taking on a full measure of JP-4, the helo continued in an easterly direction, paralleling the coast of Somalia but well out to sea.

Another two hours of flying brought it to a position some fifty miles off the Somali coastline, just north of the city of Candala. The Super Stallion descended from a cruising altitude of nine thousand to fifteen hundred feet, and there it was, right where it was supposed to be — the USS Michigan. The pilot made a careful approach, following the wake of the big submarine until it was matching the sub’s ten knots, and hovered some fifty feet above the broad missile deck, behind the sail and just aft of the dry deck shelter — a bulbous metal lump clamped to the rear of the missile deck. It resembled a large propane tank.

“Thanks for the chow,” the crew chief yelled as he hooked Ray up. The heavily loaded SEAL was sitting in the door of the helo. “I don’t care what the bar girls in San Diego say about you guys, you swabbies are all right.”

“You’re welcome, Gyrene. Safe trip home.”

He tapped Ray on the helmet, and the SEAL swung out into the night and the noisy prop wash of the 53’s big seven-bladed main rotor. Because of the weight of their gear, the SEAL recon team would be winched to the deck rather than using the more expedit c moMichigan’s deck crew, stepped lightly onto the metal deck of the submarine as if they were stepping down from a passenger bus. Once the two SEALs were aboard, the Super Stallion turned and continued east. It again mated with the loitering Combat Shadow, drank its fill, and continued on to the USS Bataan, which was steaming west to meet it. The crew of the helo had been in the air for close to eleven hours. Their only break had been two short ground refueling stops. Back at the air-sea rendezvous point, there was only empty ocean. Before the CH-53E was fifteen miles into the final leg of its journey, the Michigan had slipped beneath the waves.

The USS Michigan (SSGN-727) was originally commissioned as a fleet ballistic missile submarine and carried the most advanced versions of the Trident ICBM system. For more than two decades and sixty-six strategic deterrent patrols, this largest of U.S. submarines was converted to a new mission. The eighteen-thousand-ton Michigan was stripped of her ICBMs and refitted to carry cruise missiles and to support a variety of special-operations missions. During the cold war, the U.S. submarine force eschewed working with SEALs and Special Operations Forces in favor of their strategic mission of tracking Soviet-era submarines and nuclear retaliation, should the Russians and their ballistic submarines do the unthinkable. With the end of the cold war, the SEALs and SOF became the submariners’ new best friends. They took to these new duties with great gratitude, as the SOF requirements kept their boats in the water and underway. The submarine service took on this new role with their typical high degree of professionalism and attention to detail. After they boarded the submarine, A.J. and Ray were taken to a small compartment where they dumped their gear. A ship’s master-at-arms was stationed at the door. Moments later, an officer led them to the commanding officer’s quarters.

“Welcome to the Michigan, gentlemen. I’m Captain John Toohey. Happy to have you aboard.” The Michigan’s skipper was an affable Navy captain with an agreeable slouch and the chalky pallor of those who lived most of their working life underwater. His hair was boot-camp short, and he had kindly, highly intelligent eyes and a crooked nose over a push-broom mustache. As with the other members of the crew, he was dressed in dark blue, one-piece cotton overalls; as if they were blue-water counterparts to the SEALs desert camouflage utilities. Like the Marine Corps flight crew, Toohey was not briefed into the mission specifics of these two SEALs, but he did know it was a code-worded operation and therefore operationally significant. The Michigan spent much of its life boring holes in the ocean and conducting training exercises. Now they were to be a part of a classified mission. It was a break from the routine and a chance for a real-world tasking, if only in a support role. And they were prepared to play their role well. After A.J. and Ray introduced themselves to the captain, he bid them to sit at a small conference table over a chart of the coast of Somalia and the Horn of Africa. Joining them were two other blue-suits — the sub’s operations officer and the Michigan’s COB, or chief of the boat, the senior enlisted leader.

“Here’s where we are,” the ops officer said, pointing to a location almost due north of the tip of the Horn, “and here is where you need to cross the coast. We can get the Michigan safely to a point here some twenty-three mi centto ales offshore, then it becomes a little too shallow for us. At this offshore location, the two of you will board a SEAL delivery vehicle for the rest of the trip. The SDV will get you to about a mile offshore, where it then shallows up for them. You’ll have to swim the rest of the way.”

The two SEALs studied the chart. “How soon will you be in position to launch the SDV?”

“We’re only about thirty miles from the launch site now, so we could easily be there in a few hours.” He paused to glance at his watch. “Since we have to wait until dark, or about twenty-one hundred this evening, we’ll just be idling here in the Gulf of Aden, avoiding surface traffic. This will give you about sixteen hours to prep your gear, run through the launch procedures, and maybe get in a few hours’ sleep.”

Ray looked at A.J., then the Michigan’s ops boss. “Easy day, sir.”

“We here on the Michigan,” Captain Toohey intervened, “fully understand our orders. We’ll get you to the launch coordinates, and we’ll get you on your way. I’ve not been read in to the specifics of your mission ashore but I know there are issues of national security and homeland security in play here. When this all gets resolved, I’d like to be able to tell my crew of the role they played in this, if security protocols allow for it.”

“Understood, sir. When this is over, we’ll do what we can to see that you’re included in the after-action reporting. No promises, but we’ll try.”

“I appreciate that. Thank you and good hunting.”

They discussed the mechanics of the Michigan’s role in the mission, and then the COB led them back to what had been the missile compartment of the submarine, where the massive silos once housed the Trident D-5 ICBMs and enough megatonnage to create a nuclear winter. In those strategic-deterrent times, the crew referred to these closely placed silos as Sherwood Forest. Now four of the silos housed advanced cruise missile sabots, poised in the ICBM silos like the cylinders of a revolver handgun. Other silos had been converted for storage and troop-support requirements for embarked special-operations personnel. Once they reached the SDV area, Ray and A.J. were greeted with a barrage of chiding.

“Well, for Christ’s sake — look what the COB dragged in.”

“All this trouble for these two?”

“I thought this was a big, secret, high-profile mission. And here they send in the second team. Go figure.”

There were six of them, SEALs from SEAL Delivery Vehicle Team One, stationed on Ford Island, in Hawaii. These SEALs specialized in the underwater launch and recovery operations associated with SEAL delivery vehicles — mini-submersibles that piggybacked on larger nuclear submarines like the Michigan and took SEALs into waters too shallow for the bigger boats. The boats carried by the Michigan for this mission were the Mk8 Mod 1 SDVs. These were “wet” submersibles, meaning that th cani a ney have seawater inside the SDV as well as outside. While this subjects the occupants to ambient conditions, the simplicity of a non-pressurized fiberglass hull makes the little craft both simple and reliable.

“You know, A.J., if I knew that we had to work with these turkeys, I wouldn’t have volunteered for this important and dangerous mission.”

“Yeah, well y’know, Ray, we didn’t exactly volunteer. We’re just here following orders.”

“Still, you’d think that we’d be given some better support than this bunch of misfits.”

The SDV Team One SEALs each in turn greeted their brothers from Team Seven with handshakes and hugs. Meetings between SEALs from sister Teams are often accompanied by a great deal of bantering and good-natured condescension. The COB watched all this with a grin and shook his head. With close to thirty years in the Navy under his keel, he knew all about submarines and submariners. These SEALs were a different lot. After a few minutes of greetings and grab-ass, the SDV officer in charge, a master chief petty officer, called for order. They then began to talk through the mechanics of the launch and the clandestine delivery of the two reconnaissance SEALs to a precise location on the coast of Somalia.

The USS Makin Island (LHD-8) was an updated, carbon copy of the Bataan and the Bonhomme Richard and the last of the eight Wasp-class amphibious warfare ships. Since the U.S. Navy no longer had the luxury of the huge base at Subic Bay in the Philippines, any military contingency in Southeast Asia of any size had to be addressed by an afloat presence. For this reason, the Makin Island, her diverse air group, her embarked Marine Expeditionary Unit of 1,400 Marines, and a SEAL task unit had been cruising the waters of the South China Sea off the island of Luzon. The SEALs and the Marines had detachments working with the Filipino military to counter Muslim secessionists in the southern archipelago in the Sulu Sea. So it was with some reluctance that the captain of the Makin Island recalled his disbursed SEAL elements and their combatant craft and put his ship on a course for Malaysia. After heading south for a full day with no reason given to the captain, and some harsh message traffic up his chain of command, he was granted limited code-word clearance, as it related to his ship’s orders. That evening the SEAL task unit commander and Senior Chief Otto Miller, charts in hand, knocked on the door of the captain’s sea cabin.

“Come in, gentlemen. My mess specialist has just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. I only hope you have some fresh perspective as to why my ship had to abandon its duties off the Philippines and is now making best speed for Malaysia.” Captain Evin McMasters, the skipper of the Makin Island, was easygoing, competent, and well liked by his crew. Yet it was all he could do to remain civil at having been kept in the dark while his embarked SEALs seemed to know a whole lot more than he did. When they were seated around the small conference table, the captain continued. “So, Commander,” he said, pushing two mugs of coffee across the table, “what the hell’s going on?”

Lieutenant Commander Todd Crandall was the embarked SEAL task unit comm caskidtander. In addition to a platoon and a half of SEALs, he had an Mk5 boat detachment and two 10 meter-RHIB (rigid-hull inflatable boat) detachments. The TU also carried the associated administrative, technical, and maintenance personnel to include Senior Chief Miller’s cadre of intelligence analysts. The TU commander was a short, serious former enlisted man, who had been a boatswain’s mate before he was a SEAL. He knew the blue-water Navy, and he knew Special Operations. Although he did not like the tone of the Makin Island’s commanding officer, who was about his same age, he could well appreciate the man’s irritation at being kept in the dark.

“Captain, I’m going to let Senior Chief Miller read you into this. He’s been with the operation since the beginning, and he has a good handle on the situation.”

“Okay, Senior, let’s have it.”

“Uh, it’s a rather long story, sir. Before we begin,” he said as he sipped appreciatively at the coffee, “let me apologize for your not being read in to this operation from the beginning. Sometimes those up the line, in the interest of security, get a little stingy with the information. So let’s take this from the beginning.”

Aboard the USS Michigan, Ray and A.J. stood off to one side in their dry suits. The previous sixteen hours had been occupied with a few hours’ sleep and a lot of preparation and briefings, along with a final text message from Lieutenant Engel and Chief Nolan. They were now in the metal chamber on the deck of the Michigan called the dry deck shelter, a pressurized garage whose interior walls were a maze of pipes, air flasks, and fittings. In the harsh fluorescent glow of the crowded space, a single SEAL delivery vehicle rested in its cradle.

For now, there was little for the recon SEALs to do; they were merely spectators to the preparations that would see them from the Michigan to their drop-off point off the Somali coast. They wore only their Mk15 scuba rigs, which had been meticulously prepared earlier that afternoon. Since the depth of the dry deck shelter would be close to sixty feet, they would use the more sophisticated Mk15 mixed-gas diving rig rather than the standard Dräger rebreather. While the SDV SEALs and their diving-submersible technicians made their final checks, the speaker overhead barked out the launch countdown.

“Ten minutes to launch sequence — ten minutes to launch sequence. All nonessential personnel should now exit the shelter.”

Then, “Five minutes to launch sequence initiation. All craft personnel should be in place. All hanger handlers should be in place.” The hatch that mated the dry deck shelter to the Michigan was now closed, and they were environmentally segregated from the mother submarine.

Ray and A.J., helped by two SDV SEALs, climbed into the rear compartment of the SDV. Up in the forward compartment, the pilot and navigator were already in place, powering up their propulsion and navigation systems. Both had done this dozens of times before in training, but given that this was an operational mission, they went through their checklists with additional attention to deta cntihistiil. The SDV master chief, in dry suit and traditional scuba attire, stepped to the side of the submersible and offered his hand, first to A.J., then to Ray.

“You sure that you don’t need me to go along to keep you two out of trouble?”

“Thanks, Master Chief. We could probably use the help, but three’s a crowd, and this one’s a sneak and peek.”

“Then good luck to you both. The SDV will stand offshore and surface at half-hour intervals for a comm check and in case you need an emergency extraction. They’ll stay on station for about four hours before they head back to the Michigan.”

“Thanks for everything, Master Chief. Your guys are great.”

“Ditto, Master Chief,” Ray echoed. “Mahalo and aloha.”

The senior chief took his position along the forward bulkhead of the shelter, from where he would direct the launch. The SDV pilot and navigator signaled that their systems were up and they were ready to launch. Two SEALs and two SDV Team diving technicians stood by on either side of the SDV to assist with the launch. On the signal of one of the diving techs, Ray and A.J. began to purge their scubas, breathing in from the rig and exhaling through their nose and mask so as to replace the air in their lungs with the nitrogen-oxygen mix in their scubas. A loud buzzer sounded, and the dry deck shelter began to fill with water. As it filled, swallowing up SDVs, SEALs, and divers, the pressure inside the shelter was gradually increased to equal that of the sixty-foot depth at which the Michigan was moving through the Gulf of Aden. Her forward progress was about three knots, just enough to make steerageway and to hold depth. The fluorescent lights in the shelter now took on an emerald shade. Then the launch crew began the much-rehearsed and well-choreographed sequence of events that undocked the SDV, attached the bow planes, and eased the craft gently aft and out from its underwater hanger. A.J. and Ray felt rather than saw the big pressure door hinge back to open the dry deck shelter to the open ocean. They did notice the fluorescent lighting of the shelter give way to the blackness of the open sea.

The SDV was towed by a steel cable as it followed the mother sub, hovering just behind and above the shelter. When the pilot and navigator were again satisfied with their systems and instrumentation, the pilot turned on his lithium-ion-powered electric motor and began to match the speed of the Michigan. He then dropped the tow cable. For several minutes, the SDV matched the course and speed of the big submarine, like a small pilot fish keeping station on a whale shark. Then it veered to port and took a southerly heading for Somalia.

At the SDV’s six-knot cruising speed, they had a three-hour run to their offshore insertion point. The little craft finally leveled off at its cruising depth of fifteen feet, as the four SEALs aboard shifted from their Mk15s to “boat air,” or the SDV’s internal supply of breathing air from the onboard compressed-air bottles. Their scubas were now backup/bailout rigs. The onboard breathing mouthpieces were modified for speech. Hearing was achieved through the use of a “bone phone,” a circular transducer held to the diver’s temple by his diving cby ari hood. The speech was garbled and understandable, and the bone phones transmitted sound quite well. Yet both the SEALs in the rear compartment were surprised when Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto no. 2 in C Minor floated over the SDV’s comm system. A.J. appreciated both the music and the skill of the SDV’s navigator, who had found a way to hook his iPod into the underwater sound system. Ray was a little miffed that there was no salsa music on board, but he’d brought a book. He read with a waterproof mini-headlamp, and after finishing a page, he pulled it from the soaked book and jettisoned it from a crack in the canopy of the SDV. He did this because it passed the time and because he could.