Tropical Terror

1

Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock squirmed deeper into the rain-forest foliage of the Koolau Mountains just off the Pali Highway overlooking Honolulu, and grinned. This was work? Here they were in the garden spot of the world. In a land where there were twenty shades of green and each one more vivid than the last. The trees and brush were tangled, beautiful, and always lush. Just beyond them he caught the sweep of the green of the valley far below that let him see all the way to the far side of Oahu.

He jerked his attention back to work as he saw a small tree shudder thirty yards in front of him. Somebody out there was damn good. He’d come up through the brush without any indication. Then he’d made one mistake. Murdock heard the chatter of a machine gun to the right. When the hell did they bring up that gun? Another deadly problem to worry about. He and the fifteen men of the Third Platoon of SEAL Team Seven were strung out along this upward slant of the Koolau Range in a thin defensive line.

He looked out and checked Honolulu in the distance, with Pearl Harbor just to the northwest. Hickam Air Force Base was down there right beside Pearl. Both famous as the targets of the Japanese surprise attack on Hawaii on December 7, 1941. As President Franklin Roosevelt had said, it was a day that would live in infamy.

Something moved to his left through the tropical growth of the Oahu rain forest. The brush tops wiggled again. Somebody or something worked through the area just below.

He lifted his rifle and aimed at the spot. It was less than thirty yards away. A helmet covered with greenery lifted out of the foliage for just a moment, then went down and out of sight. Yes, one of the attackers. Murdock waited. He’d been a Navy SEAL now for over six years. Patience had been trained into him.

More brush movement, then the man belonging to the helmet, with a camo-painted face, came up in a rush charging forward.

Murdock fired twice. Both rounds drilled into the chest of the rushing soldier and he went down on the ground, a clear kill. Murdock heard the rattle of weapons going off to his left. They were hitting hard over there again. He chanced a radio call.

“Alpha Squad, any casualties?” he said into the lip mike. It was the Motorola MX-300 radio for personal communications. A speaker in his left ear brought the sound through a wire down the back of his neck and through a slit in his shirt, and plugged into the Motorola transceiver secured to his combat harness. A filament mike perched just below his lip.

“Oh, hell, no casualty here,” David “Jaybird” Sterling said. “They got some, though. Nailed me two. One KIA, the other looks like an arm wound. I’m A-okay. The line holds here.”

Murdock had rolled twice just after he fired, and saw six rounds splatter where he had been. He came up behind a huge koa tree. The species of acacia soared over seventy feet above him and the trunk was more than three feet thick. He peered around the far side at the suspect area.

“No casualty here, Skipper. I snuffed one of the bastards and another one got away. He was moving in your direction.” The voice belonged to Ron Holt, Radioman First Class and Murdock’s radio operator.

The woods were quiet for a moment high on the ridge line. Then the peace was spoiled by the faintly hollow sound of a machine gun spitting out rounds as it fired farther to the left.

“Trouble, Skip,” Bill Bradford, Quartermaster First Class, said through the earplug. “Got six of the bastards moving up. One MG you heard and some idiot throwing hand grenades too damn far. Shit, there goes another one. I’m a dead duck if I stay here.”

“Pull back to that pair of koa trees,” Murdock said. “Can anybody give him cover?”

“Oh, yeah, cover’s my middle name,” Harry “Horse” Ronson, Electrician’s Mate Second Class, said. At once his H & K 21-E 7.62 NATO round machine gun began spitting out five-round bursts of cover fire.

Murdock pushed forward two feet and parted some low branches on a young ohia tree. He could see down the narrow ridge the enemy had come up. There were at least forty attackers out there somewhere, with their job to overrun his smaller contingent of defenders who had not had time to dig in and presented a thin line of defense.

For a moment he stared beyond the ridge line to the sharp drop-off to the valley below. Several miles away he could see the soft morning fog burning off over Honolulu. What a marvelous place, Hawaii. If it wasn’t for this current unpleasantness, this would be a true vacation. He grinned. Not really. He wouldn’t have it any other way. This was what they kept training for year-round.

A flash caught his eye. It came from the area this side of Honolulu proper. Yes, the flash was near Pearl Harbor. He frowned. Another flash. Only then did the sound come through, the karumph of a massive explosion.

“What the hell?” Jaybird said on the net. “Those bombs I hear?”

Murdock had his binoculars up and trained on the area. Slowly he saw the pattern.

“It’s Pearl,” he said. “Somebody is bombing Pearl Harbor. No, not bombing, those are missiles. Shit! Look at that one hit. Not a nuke but a damn big payload. Who the hell could be attacking Pearl Harbor?”

“Missiles, that’s a Roger,” Lieutenant (j.g.) Ed DeWitt said on the radio. “I count four hits already, one secondary explosion. What the hell is going on?”

“By God, we’re going to find out,” Murdock said. He stood up and made a sign of time-out over his head. “Stop the clock, stop the exercise,” Murdock bellowed. “This training exercise is over.” Just then a red paint ball hit Murdock in the chest and he swore. “Hold fire, damnit. Can’t you Brits understand English? The war games are over. We’ve got the real thing going on down there at Pearl.” He turned and looked around.

“Holt, fire up the SATCOM,” Murdock said. The SATCOM is officially the AN/PRC-117D portable radio. It makes direct connection with the Milstar satellite in a synchronous orbit 22,300 miles over the equator. It’s fifteen inches high and three inches square and weighs fifteen pounds. It can be used to call any spot on earth.

Holt scrambled past some brush and dropped down beside Murdock. He had the small dish antenna folded out and aligned with the satellite, then turned on the set and looked at Murdock.

“What the hell,” Ching said, running up. “Those really missiles hitting Pearl down there? Christ, who the hell is shooting at us?”

A British SAS trooper with heavy camouflage on his helmet and uniform stood up twenty yards away. He ran up to the others.

“Missiles? What the fuck you mean? Missiles, real ones going off down there in Pearl Harbor? Hard to believe.”

“Believe it, Captain,” Murdock said. “We’re going to find out what the hell is happening.”

“Voice?” Holt asked his skipper.

“Yes, on channel two.”

The speaker made the three small beeps indicating that the dish antenna was properly aligned. Murdock took the handset and stared at Pearl Harbor, where two more missiles landed creating large explosions.

“CINCPAC, this is Commander Murdock. Respond. Over.”

Nothing came over the air. Murdock repeated the message, but there was no answer. Two British SAS men stood from the brush in front and hurried up to the others.

“I say, what’s happening down there?” Captain Haworth, leader of the Brits, asked.

“Trying to find out,” Murdock said. “Looks like Pearl Harbor is getting plastered with some kind of medium-sized missiles.” Murdock made one more transmission, but had no reply.

“Go to TAC Two,” Murdock told Holt.

“What the fuck is happening?” Tony Ostercamp said on the Motorola. “The exercise over? You fuckers kidding about real live missiles on Pearl?”

“No kidding. Pearl is getting clobbered,” Ed DeWitt said.

Murdock repeated the message into the mike and they waited.

A moment later the set responded.

“Commander Murdock. Heard your transmission to CINCPAC. Not sure who the hell you are, but this is Air Force Eagle Six. We’re airborne about five miles out on the leeward side of Oahu. I can’t raise Hickam Field. You copy?”

“Eagle Six. Hickam might be off the air. Pearl Harbor next door has taken six or eight missile hits. Real ones. CINCPAC is off the air. There goes another missile into Pearl. We’re on the Koolau Range about ten to twelve miles from the field. I can’t raise CINCPAC.”

“Yeah, Commander, your boss man in the Pacific. So where do we put down? We have six Air Force birds here without a lot of reserve in the tanks.”

“You have an alternate field?”

“On Oahu? Only place they told us about was the Honolulu International, which also serves Hickam. Did the runways get hit?”

“We can’t tell from here. I’d say the missile strike is over. But you can’t land without some radio contact with the field. Suggest you make a call to Kaneohe Marine Corps Air Station. It’s just across the ridge from Pearl flying northeast. About fifteen miles from Pearl. You can try radio contact with them on the emergency channel. They have a long runway there.”

“That’s a Roger, Commander Murdock. Thanks. We’re out.”

By that time all of the SEALs had gathered near the big tree, and about half of the Aussies and Brits.

Leftenant Anderson of the Australian Special Attack Forces shook his head. “Is something afoot we don’t know about?”

“If CINCPAC is off the air, something damn big is happening,” Murdock said. “They usually have security a mile deep down there and the communications room is like a tomb, it’s so safe.”

“Only not this time,” Holt said. “How about giving Don Stroh a try?”

Murdock slapped Holt on the shoulder. “Good idea. Set it up and let’s go.”

Holt adjusted the settings on the radio and nodded. Murdock took the handset again.

“Commander Blake Murdock calling Don Stroh. Don Stroh, if you’re there, get on the horn. We’ve got trouble in paradise. Somebody just shot eight or ten medium-sized missiles into Pearl Harbor. Come back.”

There was no reply.

“It gets recorded and he gets beeped automatically when something comes in on his frequency,” Holt said. “So he’ll get it as soon as anyone can find him.”

A British lieutenant came up with his men and asked what was going on.

“The training exercise is over,” Murdock told them. “It’s been good working with you SAS guys, but now it looks like we’ve got ourselves a real war going on down there. We’ve been attacked by missiles from someone. Seems like most of the communications are down. Time we get down there and see what’s going on. We’re about two miles from our base camp. Get your men down there fast and let’s pack up. The trucks are another hour’s hike out. Let’s move, people.”

After an hour, they stopped and tried the SATCOM again. The second time they had a response from Don Stroh.

“Yeah, Murdock. Good to know you’re okay. We don’t know what the hell is going on out there except that our reports show that someone has launched an attack against Oahu. Thinking here is it has to be China. Only one with any real problem with us in the Pacific who has the capability. When we can, we’ll put you on TAD with CINCPAC. Keep us informed.”

Murdock called Ed DeWitt over.

“Who was that commander who served as our liaison with CINCPAC the first day we arrived?”

“Somebody Johnson. Commander Johnson,” Ed said. He watched his CO. “What the hell we going to do?”

“Maybe this Commander Johnson can tell us. We reported in at Pearl, right? What department was that?”

“He was from the Pearl Harbor Training Command, as I remember,” Will Dobler, Senior Chief Boatswain’s Mate, said. “He was grousing about it, wanting to get back to sea duty.”

“Francis,” Murdock said. “Commander Francis Johnson.”

“Right,” Ed said. “Only it was the CINCPAC Training Command.”

“Try that on the radio,” Murdock said. “Stow these paint guns and get out our usual weapons. We have live ammo, right?”

“Oh, yes,” Senior Chief Dobler said. “The Brits wanted to see just how much gear and ammo we carried when we went into a mission.”

“Pearl must be a mess after the attack, but CINCPAC is up on the hill five miles away,” Murdock said, thinking out loud. “Why are they off the air? They told us to give them a call at CINCPAC whenever we needed anything.”

“Hey, reminds me,” DeWitt said. “Johnson gave me a phone number in case we got cut off by the CINCPAC officialdom. Right here.” He handed a small notebook to Murdock.

The commander looked at Holt, who made two settings on the SATCOM and looked up. “Ready for you to dial the cellular phone, Skipper.”

Murdock hit the buttons and a few moments later the speaker came to life.

“Yes, yes. What do you want? All hell is still on the loose here. Who is this?”

“Commander Johnson, this is Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock, with the SEALs. We were on the Koolau Range when the missile hit. They were missiles, weren’t they?”

“God, yes. But first, somehow they knocked out all of our radio communications. All we have are phones. Going mad. How fast can you get down here? The admiral wants you to do a small job for us. The faster the better. You have transport?”

“Right, we do. I’d say about an hour from here, depending on the traffic. Have the civilians panicked yet?”

“Not that we’ve heard about. All the damage is on-base. They were good, whoever the hell they were. Make it here in an hour and don’t worry about stop signs and traffic lights. Blow your horn all the way. We need you here damn fast. Instead of Pearl, go right up to the Marine Corps’ Camp Smith about five miles up the hill. The admiral has a job for you. A guide will be waiting for you at the gate. Move it, Commander.”

Half the men were in the three trucks. Murdock bellowed that they were moving out. The rest loaded in less than two minutes. Murdock sat in the front seat of the lead six-by and told the driver the drill.

“Yes, sir, I can get there the fastest way. All you SEALs in this rig?” Murdock nodded. “Good, tell them to hold on.”

The usually crowded Pali Highway was jammed by the time they got there. Horns honking, people yelling. The SEALs wound through traffic, on the shoulder, anywhere they could find room.

It wasn’t panic traffic, but thousands of cars were on the move that usually wouldn’t be. Some of the drivers were on the nervous edge, and there were six crashes that Murdock saw before they got to Highway 1 and Pearl City.

The driver knew where the Marine Camp was above Pearl City, and he drove right to the gate. It was blocked by two huge bulldozers.

Two Marines in helmets, combat gear, and weapons came forward and checked the truck.

“We’ve got orders to report to Commander Johnson at CINCPAC Training as fast as possible,” Murdock told the SP.

The SP frowned. “You them SEAL guys? Told us you was coming.”

“That’s right, now move the machinery.” They did.

The truck driver stopped just inside the gate. A guide waved him down. A major looked at the driver.

“You have the SEALs here, sailor?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is a Lieutenant Commander Murdock on board?”

“That’s me, Major,” Murdock said.

“Follow my rig.” The major stepped into a Humvee and it roared away with the six-by right behind it.

Both vehicles stopped at an imposing building a short ways later. The major led Murdock, Lam, Senior Chief Dobler, and Ed DeWitt to a guarded door. The Marine guard saluted the major and opened the door. The SEALs wore their combat vests, cammies, and carried their weapons.

A commander just inside the door stared at them a moment. “Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock?”

“Yes, sir. In response to Commander Johnson’s message.”

“Right. Glad you’re here. You’re going to talk to Admiral Birchard D. Bennington, and he’s getting impatient waiting for you. This way.”

“Can you tell us what happened to Pearl?”

“Half blown off the map. Missiles, but we’re not sure who fired them. So far the brass thinks it’s a Chinese attack.”

The men went to an elevator and down two levels, through a concrete tunnel, and into a war room with huge maps on the wall, a dozen large video monitors, and a table in front with six men clustered around it. All were Navy captains and admirals.

A four-star admiral stood and stared at the four SEALs.

“Are you Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock?”

“Yes, sir.”

“About time. The CNO sends his regards. He has given me an assignment for you and your platoon.”

The four SEALs had come stiffly to attention.

“At ease, men,” the admiral said. “This is a rush job. You know we’ve been hit, Chinese we think. We also have lost most of our radio network. The key is the master communications center, Building Forty-two on Pearl. It was not damaged in the missile attack. Now it’s locked down from the inside. Our best explanation is that some terrorists captured the facility at the exact time that the missiles hit. At any rate, they have complete control. They haven’t sent us any messages, but right now they are seriously handicapping our situation. In short, we have only paste-up communications with the entire South Pacific. We’ve heard by phone that there has been an invasion on the windward coast at Kaneohe Bay. But we’re not even sure of that.”

The admiral looked at the four SEALs critically. “I see you have some of your combat gear. What you don’t have we can supply here in quick time. Your assignment, straight from a man called Don Stroh and the President, sent through the CNO, is to capture the communications building and drive out the enemy there with as little damage to the equipment as possible. Do you have any questions?”