Rogue Warrior: Dictator's Ransom Part 19

"Maybe they don't want to invite us to their picnic after all," said Doc. "I don't think I'd've wanted any civilians s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g me up, even if they were you."

"Who says I'm a civilian?"

"Uncle Sam."

The thought had crossed my mind. But SEALs tend to be blunt-if they thought we were going to screw them up, they probably would have just said so.

"Maybe Mr. Murphy kicked them in the b.a.l.l.s," suggested Sean. "Maybe they aren't going to make it."

"SEALs find a way," said Mongoose. He snapped it out angrily.

"Hey, I ain't putting them down," said Sean. "They're only human."

"No they're not," said Shotgun.

"Watch it, blankethugger," said Mongoose.

Shotgun started laughing. He put his hand on Mongoose's shoulder. "Relax, little brother."

"f.u.c.k your little brother s.h.i.+t."

There's nothing like love and kisses in the air between team members before a mission. But they were only blowing off some excess testosterone before hitting the silk.

"I say we go out and the h.e.l.l with them," said Trace. "We'll take the s.h.i.+p ourselves if we have to. There's six of us, for Christsake."

Trace's math was off. Yes, there were six shooters from Red Cell-Trace, Sean, Shotgun, Mongoose, myself, Doc-jumping despite a balky knee, I might add. But you can never forget the inestimable Mr. Murphy. Murph is along whatever you do, whatever lengths you go to to keep him from getting an invitation.

He was with the SEALs as well. In fact, he was having a h.e.l.l of a time with them, goat-f.u.c.king their communications system so badly that they couldn't communicate with each other. Nor could they talk to their sub-or us, for that matter.

I didn't know that was the problem at the time, of course. As far as I was concerned, Trace was right-we could take the s.h.i.+p ourselves if we had to.

The rest of the team looked at me. I looked at my watch.

0100 hours on the dot. H hour.

"Let's go," I said.

[ I ].

BLACK IS BLACK, but there is no black blacker than the ocean on a moonless night.

The chute gave me a good tug as it deployed, punching me in the family planning region hard enough to make me focus very intently on what I was doing. All things considered, though, it was better than the alternative. The altimeter on my left wrist told me I was falling at sixteen feet a second, about as perfect as you'd want. I had a good chute, and I was even heading in the right direction, as verified by the GPS.

One by one, the others checked in. Now that we were on our way, idle chatter dropped off. Even Shotgun was quiet.

I was only about a mile away from the s.h.i.+p as I fell through eight thousand feet. I could see it a bit to my left, a yellowish jag of lights bobbing into the murky ink. I tacked into a spiral to get closer to the bow of the s.h.i.+p, where I intended on landing.

"Something moving on the water near the s.h.i.+p," said Trace over the radio. "Away from it-northwest."

"Where?" I asked her. "Show me on the GPS."

Our GPS units had integrated wireless transmitters, making it possible for team members to track one another. The units had small cursors that could be used as pointers during transmission, showing direction or, in this case, where something was. (Gamin sells a civilian model nearly as powerful as the ones we used for a fraction of the price, so if you're planning on doing a night jump to take out a s.h.i.+p this weekend, check them out.) Even with the GPS pointer, I couldn't see the boat. The location made me doubt it was part of the SEAL a.s.sault-they had briefed an approach from the south, and they were going in the wrong direction.

"Listen up," I told the others over the radio. "Looks like we have a motorboat trying to get away. Trace and I will check it out. The rest of you proceed as planned."

The chorus of "copy that"s was interrupted by a series of flashes that silhouetted the s.h.i.+p. The SEALS had arrived, right on schedule.

THE OFFICIAL AFTER-ACTION report presented an executive summary of the action: the SEALs came, they saw, they kicked b.u.t.t; same old, same old. Casualty count: good guys 0, bad guys 13 dead, no wounded.

The actual play-by-play was a hair more complicated, and I'm proud to say that my guys held up their end.

The submarine surfaced ahead of and parallel to the s.h.i.+p, which was moving at roughly twelve knots, your typical merchant vessel not-getting-too-crazy-with-the-fuel speed. The SEALs quickly launched and boarded their rubber rafts, revved their outboards, and went off in pursuit of their prey. There are a number of different methods for hostile boarding of a cargo s.h.i.+p under way; all entail enough bruises and general aggravation to make you one ornery son of a b.i.t.c.h by the time you get aboard.21 Consider first of all the fact that those rubber rafts are not built for comfort. You can get them up to forty knots, maybe even higher, but you feel every shock in every bone of your body as the craft smacks against the waves. They do have their pluses-the craft are very hard to see at night, since they and their occupants are low to the water and as black as black can be. Because of the typical ambient and not-so-ambient sounds aboard s.h.i.+p, they're also relatively hard to hear. Your basic merchant s.h.i.+p-h.e.l.l, any s.h.i.+p-has a fairly loud engine, and then there's the water and all manner of other noisy distractions to render even large outboards virtually silent.

But getting back to my point. The real b.u.mps and bruises come with the boarding itself. The method of choice involves telescoping poles that can be hooked on to the s.h.i.+p and unfolded into a primitive caving ladder. The contraptions are made of t.i.tanium; while light for what they do, they still weigh a ton when you're holding them up in the open sea. SEALs also use line firing guns-they look like mortars-that shoot lines over the railing. The problem is that the lines can easily go right through without catching. Using the telescoping rod/ladder in a boat moving twenty or so knots is like trying to hold up an extension ladder on the freeway while sitting on your car roof, but my feeling is it's much more reliable. Some things haven't changed much in forty-some years-although in this case I'll bet a lot of guys wish they had.

The SEALs weren't dealing with a wars.h.i.+p, but the vessel was definitely of a hostile sort and had a full watch mounted-there was that gun at the bow and the antiaircraft missile up near the bridge. The invaders were getting real-time intelligence thanks to a small unmanned plane circling above the area. A direct data link-unlike the radios, this one was working-showed them where all the watch hands were. That helped cut down on the pucker factor as they climbed up the narrow ladder to the deck. The SEALs' image was crisper than the satellite view Junior had hacked for me earlier: not only did it show that the weapon up front-still tarped-had the barrel of a 12.7mm DShK-but it was sharp enough to show them how many of the men on watch were bald (two out of six).

That's one big difference between the SEALs today and what us "experienced" guys did back in the day: when I was their age, we had to guess about where the blind spots would be on the trawler; the young bloods' eye in the sky let them leave the guessing to the enemy. Their technology doesn't make them better SEALs-excuse me for sounding egotistical-because a SEAL is a SEAL is a SEAL, then, now, and forever. I might even argue that not having that intelligence gave those of us back in the day a certain advantage-we had to be naturally more flexible, an important a.s.set when dealing with Mr. Murphy. But the pictures helped these young bloods narrow Mr. Murphy's all-important window of opportunity, making them, even in my prejudiced opinion, more efficient than we were.

Now that you've read that, burn this book, because I may never admit it again.

But Mr. Murphy long ago proved that even if you lock all the doors, he'll slip through the window. One of the groups a.s.signed to get aboard on the starboard side had trouble getting the ladder to hook on to the railing so they could climb up. It wasn't much trouble-it just took them four or five tries, while the others were able to hook up in one or two. Not a big deal-except it gave Mr. Murphy a chance to tickle the s.h.i.+p's first mate's tobacco habit. The mate came out on deck and whether he heard the clank of a grappling hook nearby or just looked over the side to see if it was safe to pee, we'll never know. One of the SEALs below saw him look over the side, almost directly overhead. The Russian stood there stunned for only a moment, but it was long enough for the SEAL to cure the man's curiosity with a few rounds from his MP5N. A friend who'd been coming out to join him for a smoke saw him fall. He threw himself back inside and slammed home the lock on the door, then alerted the s.h.i.+p as the SEALs began their attack.

Knowing the locations of the men on deck made the shooters' job easier than it might have been, and within three minutes the two platoons of SEALs had successfully eliminated opposition on deck, killing all of the watch hands. That left the people inside the s.h.i.+p. And that's where things started to get interesting.

Generals often complain about how hard it is to fight in an urban environment-close quarters and all that. Imagine that same fight in a s.h.i.+p. Instead of roads, you have corridors and ladders. And it's at night. The s.h.i.+p is rolling ten degrees every few seconds, and stinks of fish that died twenty-five years before.

Not that the SEALs were complaining. Or even cursing. They were too busy working.

A trio of SEALs pus.h.i.+ng up the starboard side of the superstructure came under fire, barely managing to duck fire from the bridge as the Russians began to rally. Meanwhile, another team approached from the other side. As the point man reached the railing at the deck outside the wheel house, a Russian emerged from the top of the superstructure and began firing down at him. The SEAL threw himself against the bulkhead only a few feet away from the bridge. He couldn't have been ten feet from the man who was firing at his companions on the other side. But he might as well have been ten miles away-the guy on the top of the s.h.i.+p had him pinned and unable to move.

Here's another difference between SEALs now and SEALs back in the day-the new guys have much better air support.

Doc, Sean, Shotgun, and Mongoose had been observing the situation as they descended. Mongoose was closest to the bridge, and began tugging on his guidelines to speed his descent even before Doc tasked him with the job of helping the SEAL. Knowing Mongoose, his preference would undoubtedly have been to land directly on the SOB, but the antenna mast made that impossible. And not even Mongoose is crazy enough to try shooting his machine gun during a descent.22 Instead, he took one of the flash-bang grenades he'd prepared, slipped off the tape with his thumb, then tossed it down. He claims he got a bull's-eye; whether that's true or not, the grenade's strum and thrum was more than enough to give the Russian an immediate dry-cleaning emergency. The SEAL saw the flash, realized what must be happening, and jumped out of cover, taking down the man who had been firing at the team on the starboard side of the s.h.i.+p.

Mongoose, meanwhile, dipped his parachute's left "wing," trying to turn back quickly enough to land on the main deck near the bow. The sharp maneuver caused him to stall so close to the water that there was no s.p.a.ce or time to recover. He plopped unceremoniously into the sea, lucky that he hadn't slammed face-first into the side of the s.h.i.+p a few meters away. He cursed, shed his chute, then swam over to one of the SEALs' inflatable boats.

Shotgun had been tasked to take the high ground at the stern of the s.h.i.+p, and was aiming to land on the catwalk of the rear crossbar. But the catwalk was narrow; Shotgun is not. Even though he slowed the chute down considerably as he approached, there was simply not enough s.p.a.ce to land properly. So he pretended he was a jet fighter-note that I'm talking about the aircraft, not the aviator-using the walkway's wire railing as an arrestor cable, bas.h.i.+ng into it as if he were an F/A-18 stopping on a carrier.

That had to hurt. And if it didn't, tumbling over onto the steel-plated catwalk and bouncing a few times as the parachute tried pus.h.i.+ng back with the wind almost certainly did. But Shotgun would never admit that it did, not even to himself. His response was to start laughing-a little chuckle at first, which grew to a pretty loud guffaw after he'd straightened himself out on the beam, unhooked his chute, and grabbed his gun. Three of the Russians made the mistake of running toward one of the lifeboats, probably hoping to escape; Shotgun promptly demonstrated that it was a supremely poor move.

Doc had a routine landing near the bow, rolling gently onto the deck to preserve his knee, all as planned. He hooked up with the SEAL lieutenant in charge of the op, and watched as the SEALs continued their demonstration of how to successfully take over a s.h.i.+p. Sean landed a few feet away and joined one of the search parties. Taller than anyone else on the team, he found himself at point-there was no sense staying back, he explained, since he was likely to get the ricochets anyway.

The Russian captain and a few crewmen tried to take a stand on the bridge, locking the doors and yelling incomprehensible curse words at the invaders, punctuating their oaths with automatic weapons fire.

"Looks like it's time to negotiate a surrender," said the SEAL lieutenant. He called in his chief negotiator, a young petty officer with an advanced degree in the LAW.

That's L-A-W, as in Light Ant.i.tank Weapon, officially known as an M72. It looks like a bazooka and can be fired by one man. As the initials suggest, the weapon is actually intended for tanks, but it can blow other things up as well.

Negotiations were quick and thorough. The weapon was aimed at the middle plate of gla.s.s on the bridge. The weapon was fired. The projectile penetrated the gla.s.s. The projectile detonated. The bridge was incinerated, as were its occupants.

Negotiations successful. Deal closed.

With the s.h.i.+p's captain eliminated, the remaining crew quickly surrendered. The SEALs began searching the s.h.i.+p. Mongoose went aft with the team tagged to look into the fish well; Shotgun stayed on top providing cover and stuffing Twinkies in his mouth.

The fish well looked exactly as it would if the trawler was still being used for fis.h.i.+ng. Not only did it reek of dead-fish stink; it was rusted, b.l.o.o.d.y, and smeared with crushed fish gizzards. But the bulkhead on the end of the well below the bridge superstructure had been subtly altered, not only reinforced but enlarged and equipped with state-of-the-art locks.

Even the best lock won't stand up to C4, the ultimate lock pick. The SEALs were accommodating fellows; upon learning that Mongoose was a member of the fraternity, they bestowed upon him the honor of pus.h.i.+ng the b.u.t.ton that blew the locks. The charges blew out with so much enthusiasm that the entire panel flew downward into the well, revealing a large garagelike structure big enough to hold a rocket launcher and its missile. And, as a special added bonus, there was a spare next to it, resting on a set of wooden cradles and a pair of small trucks, which looked to have been fas.h.i.+oned from Gators, the ATV-like vehicles often used for ferrying supplies around military bases.

The basic ingredients of solid fuel are ammonium perchlorate (an oxidizer) and hydroxyl terminated polybutadene (the actual fuel), which is often spiked with PETN and other explosives to make it more potent. The ingredients are inert until brought together. Hydroxyl terminated polybutadene is comparatively safe and easy to handle unless you do something to make it burn. Once ignited, it gets extremely hot and very bright-so bright that I'm told it can be seen clearly from five miles away, which was where the Greenville picked up the team and our guys just as the timers the SEALs had set ignited.

Made a h.e.l.l of a snapshot.

The SEALs hauled twelve sailors back to the sub with them, using the s.h.i.+p's lifeboats. None of the sailors were Yong s.h.i.+n Jong, which disappointed Doc a great deal.

But I wasn't surprised at all.

[ II ].

I LEFT MYSELF DANGLING from my chute along with Trace as we tried following a small boat moving at a high rate of speed away from the trawler. For the first few seconds, I thought we might be able to drop in on them-from our angle and height, it looked as if we would be able to do just that. But that was an optical illusion, and after a minute pa.s.sed it was obvious that we were falling behind. Trace and I each trimmed our chutes, trying to accelerate, but it was a losing battle, and by the time we hit the water we'd fallen behind by what I'd guess was a mile and a half. I spotted a low, dark silhouette on a dead run ahead, maybe three miles away. I made a mental note of it as I tucked my feet together and did my best side roll to ease the landing impact.

The water was not warm. My chute came in right over me, forming a soggy little tent as I surfaced. It felt as if I'd been swallowed by a jellyfish for a few seconds as I struggled to get my bearings in the darkness. I finally untangled myself from the nylon, got out from under the chute, and took a healthy breath of sea air.

"d.i.c.k!"

I growled in Trace's direction. She'd inflated her little raft and gotten herself squared away.

"Which direction?" she asked as I pulled myself onto the gunwale.

I pointed in the direction of the silhouette.

The tiny survival raft had not been designed as a transport vehicle, and was not particularly large. We shoved our knapsacks-waterproof, of course-and the rest of our gear on them. Then Trace and I lined up shoulder to shoulder on one side, kicking in the direction we wanted to go, guided by our GPS units. But it was very slow going, and more than an hour pa.s.sed before we saw the shadow of a s.h.i.+p on the water ahead.

It turned out not to be a s.h.i.+p-it was the motorboat we'd been following. But at first the darkness and shadows and our own expectations played tricks on our eyes, and we had a hard time deciphering what we were seeing. It wasn't until we were less than fifty yards away that we finally realized it was the boat. From where we were we had no way of knowing whether it was occupied or not.

Trace took the bow; I took the stern.

The boat was a small pleasure craft, thirty or so feet long, much of that devoted to a cabin. She was powered by a pair of good-sized Mercury engines. None of her lights were lit.

Just because the boat seemed deserted didn't mean that it was. And if I was going to a.s.s-u-me anything, I'd better a.s.s-u-me there'd be trouble aboard.

A metal swimming ladder hung down off the starboard side. I put my left hand on it, pausing to listen. In my right hand I had my RW Strider knife.

I slipped upward, taking a peek.

Nothing.

Up and over.

Still nada. Knife away. Gun out. Ready for bear.

Something moved near the bow.

Trace.

But as I dropped to my knee, I saw a shadow near the opening to the cabin. I pointed my weapon there, waiting.

The shadow didn't move.

"d.i.c.k!" hissed Trace.

I hissed back, then rose and walked toward the shadow slowly. It grew into a head, and then the head grew into a body.

A dead body. Behind it were two more.

"There's a dozen bullet holes in the boat," said Trace.

"Yeah," I said, pulling out a flashlight to check the rest of the small cabin. When I was absolutely certain there was no else there, I shone the light on the first body.

It was Yong s.h.i.+n Jong.

"d.a.m.n," I said, cursing as I snapped off the light and went topside.

"Since when are you so sentimental about dead sc.u.m-bags?" asked Trace.

I ignored her question, inspecting the controls. The boat had an ignition key circuit; the key was missing.

"See if you can hotwire that," I told her. "I'll check the engine."

"Quicker to just find the key," said Trace, going back down the ladder to the cabin.

A line over the side near the stern held a small anchor. I pulled it up slowly, half expecting I might find another body attached. But it was just an old can filled with cement that had hardened into concrete.