Joint Task Force #2: America (13 page)
“I’m not sure if we want to do this,” Alrajool said, stepping out onto the bridge wing with Tamursheki.
“Did you hear me ask what you thought? No, you didn’t. Your job is to do what I tell you to do. Not make suggestions, recommendations, or decisions. I will tell you what to do, when to do it, and most times how to do it,” he said, never realizing that his minutes-before thought of being surrounded with independent thinkers who could make the right decisions conflicted with his actions. Arrogance is a vice always clouded with illusions. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand,” Alrajool answered with a sigh. He would be glad when this bunch was ashore. His bigger
challenge was dumping the weapon on the stern into the waters off shore. He stepped back into the bridge and ordered another slight course change to correct for the actions of the wind against the freighter. The life raft ahead was being pushed away from the aircraft. On this course and at this speed, when they reached the crash area, the ship would be between the aircraft and the raft, putting the raft on the lee side of the ship.
Tamursheki nodded in agreement as he saw the bow of the merchant vessel line up with the orange life raft. It would take a few minutes to get there. He rushed into the bridge just as Qasim stepped inside from the port bridge wing. “Qasim, tell the men to get their weapons. We’re going to have some Americans for entertainment.”
“Yes, Affendi,” he said respectfully. Qasim opened the interior door leading down the ladder to the main deck.
“Qasim, tell them they’re not to kill them. I want them alive. If you have to kill one to make an example, make sure it is one of the leaders, but not the senior leader. Okay?”
“I understand,” he said. The big man turned and hurried down the ladder.
Captain Alrajool listened stoically to the exchange, wondering how any of them would be able to tell who was the leader and who wasn’t. Tamursheki’s age exceeded the man’s experience. He steeled himself for the carnage he knew these disciplines of Abu Alhaul were about to commit. Though he heard Tamursheki indicate they were going to bring them on board, he doubted the Americans would come willingly. He looked around the graying horizon as clouds continued to grow overhead and wondered how soon it would be before American aircraft filled the skies. Alrajool watched Tamursheki out of the corner of his eye as the terrorist leader ran from the starboard bridge wing to the port side of the bridge. The bridge wing on the port side was through a hatch that opened onto an open walkway running below the signal bridge. Alrajool ran his hand across his forehead. He should have brought his entire crew instead of the ten men
he had with him. If he had his crew, he might overpower the Jihadists, kill them, dump their bodies in the sea, and flee south. Take refuge along the West African coast until they changed the appearance of the ship again. He glanced to the right as the aircraft approached off the bow of the ship and watched dispassionately as the nose disappeared beneath the ocean. For a brief moment, he thought he saw another life raft ride the top of a wave about a mile away, but then it disappeared. The shouts of the Jihadists and the sound of gunfire caused him to forget it. Tamursheki stuck his head back inside the bridge, and at the terrorist leader’s command, Alrajool ordered all to stop.
The helmsman reached over and shut the hatch.
Tamursheki had no way of knowing that the aircraft had failed to report the presence of the terrorist merchant vessel and that the last message from the reconnaissance aircraft to Joint Task Force America was the report of the contact heading northeast toward Europe or the Mediterranean. Tamursheki looked down at the compass in front of the helmsman. Two-nine-zero.
The ship rocked as the waves coming from the west crashed against the side of the hull. He ordered a couple of revolutions on the shaft to keep the bow on course.
“TUCKER, CAPTAIN ST. CYR, COME IN,” REAR ADMIRAL
Holman said, motioning the two men into the room. “Wing Commander Tibbles-Seagraves, you, too.”
The three warriors represented the Special Forces of their respective countries. Tucker Raleigh had the sleeves of his camouflage uniform rolled up. The dark oak leaves of a Navy Commander pinned on his collars seemed out of place with the gold-plated parachute wings over his left pocket. The name RALEIGH was embroidered over the buttoned right pocket. Silver oak leaves identified the rank of Commander, but on combat utilities, the oak leaves were embroidered in black.
Marc St. Cyr, French Navy Commandos Marine—the term used for the French equivalent of the U.S. Navy SEALs—a head shorter than Tucker, followed directly behind the Navy Commander. St. Cyr’s blue shoulder boards conflicted with the darker green camouflage uniform he wore. Where Tucker’s utilities were clean and pressed, the Frenchman had permanent sharp creases along the front and back of the trouser legs. The sharp creases pulled tight from where the trouser legs had been
wrapped toward the inside of the leg, then trapped by the sides of tightly tied combat boots. The spit shine of the black combat boots gleamed from the overhead florescent light. The creases on both the front and back of the trousers stopped a couple of inches north of the crotch. Two creases on the shirt rode upward directly above where the creases on the trousers faded into the waistline and continued onward to the shoulder, where they disappeared under the shoulder boards of five gold stripes. When St. Cyr turned slightly, the creases reappeared on the back of the shirt to complement the military preciseness of the creases on the back of the trousers. Three sharp creases ran down the back of the shirt.
“Thank you, sir,” St. Cyr said with a nod. He held his dark beret in his left hand. A set of parachute wings decorated the spot over his left breast pocket.
Tucker and St. Cyr moved aside to allow their British counterpart to join them. Wing Commander Tibbles-Seagraves had been waiting for them at Commander, Special Warfare Group Two, in Little Creek, Virginia, when the two men had returned with Rear Admiral Holman. The short, squat Brit with his aristocratic accent had been participating in a field exercise with SEAL Team Six, the highly secret SEAL Team the U.S. government kept hidden away at a secret location for hostage rescue.
Tucker had been surprised to discover a Royal Air Force officer as the third member of their allied Special Forces group. He wondered briefly if his counterparts in France and England had had the same shock when a Navy SEAL had appeared as the U.S. member of this strange coalition. Politics were wonderful. One moment we’re ready to go to war with another nation, and the next we treat each other as if we are long-lost siblings suddenly returning home. He glanced at Marc St. Cyr to discover the man looking back. France! Here was a country that had a love-hate relationship with the United States. One moment they could be the loyalest ally, and then you go to sleep to wake up the next morning to discover them tossing rat poison in your breakfast. Going to war with
France was like fishing with your mother-in-law. When they’re not complaining and pointing out your faults, they’re taking credit.
Tibbles-Seagraves saluted the Admiral as he emerged from behind the taller Tucker and St. Cyr who stood in front of him. His dark blue Special Air Service uniform—the famed SAS—deeply contrasted with the two sets of cammies to his left. “Good afternoon, Admiral,” he said, raising his right hand in an open-palm salute. The man’s eyebrows rose as he spoke, rising on an otherwise expressionless face. Slight jowls below each cheek twitched as his lips moved. The slight pouches beneath the Englishman’s eyes made Tucker think of what his mother always said about them being an indication of heart disease. An old wives’ tale, but one he had heard from others during his life and long after she had passed away. The image of the British bulldog came to mind as he assessed this new arrival.
“How was your experience with SEAL Team Six, Wing Commander?” Holman asked.
Tibbles-Seagraves answered, going over the challenges and the professional satisfaction of working with America’s best. The SAS officer spoke with a nasal tone common to the higher classes of British society. It made Tucker think of a superior addressing a subordinate, instead of a Wing Commander addressing an Admiral.
How in the hell did the British manage to do that so well?
he thought.
“Thanks, Jonathan,” Holman said, turning back to his taller Chief of Staff, Captain Leonard Upmann.
Tucker caught a slight wince from the British officer. He glanced away as he smiled. First-name basis wasn’t in the British military manual.
“Leo, why don’t you bring these gentlemen up to speed on events?”
“Yes, sir,” the African-American Navy Captain said. He turned his gaze toward the three men standing at parade rest in front of him.
“Why don’t you relax?” Holman said, motioning at the
three men. “You gentlemen, relax. This isn’t an inspection,” he said, interrupting his Chief of Staff. “Sorry, Leo, continue.”
“Of course, sir,” the man answered, bobbing his head slightly.
Tucker had read the Chief of Staff’s biography before they had checked on board the Commander, Amphibious Group Two flagship, the USS
Boxer
. It never hurt to always do a little intelligence gathering when you were going into unknown territory, even when that territory was your own Navy. Bald on top with a light gray perimeter of military-trimmed hair. The deep bass voice rode easily through the compartment. Tucker had learned that the Captain had been Admiral Holman’s Chief of Staff for nearly two years, which meant the man was up for orders. The last year was always the lame-duck year in any tour. He glanced at Holman, wondering what level of confidence the Admiral had for a man who had made headlines becoming one of the first active-duty officers to accept a Liberian passport as a sign of dual citizenship. It was legal. Congress had passed it on par with the laws authorizing American Jews dual citizenship in Israel. Tucker had mixed feelings about the idea of an American military person having dual citizenship, but he reconciled his feelings within the apathy familiar to military members who recognize an issue is outside of their control or authority.
“As you three probably know, one of our reconnaissance airplanes staging out of Roosevelt Roads, Puerto Rico, made contact earlier today with a merchant ship. It descended to make a visual identification pass and it hasn’t been heard from since. That was six hours ago. About an hour ago”—he glanced down at a sheet of paper in his hand—“a commercial airliner landed in Johannesburg and reported picking up a distress signal around the same time Recce Flight 62 disappeared. By then, we already had a search-and-rescue operation launched on the fact that they only had fuel for two hours when they disappeared.”
Upmann moved to the small table in the center of the
Admiral’s stateroom, put spread fingers on top of a chart, and twisted it so it faced him. “Come here,” he said, motioning the three men forward. Admiral Holman moved to the top of the table, looking at the chart from the top.
“Right around here is where we figure the aircraft went down. Center of this area is where we commenced our search effort.”
“Thank you, Captain Upmann,” St. Cyr said when the Chief of Staff paused to take a breath. “But, what does this have to do with our mission? We are here for the possibility of the terrorists moving a weapon of mass destruction into the area.” Each “r” trilled off the Frenchman’s tongue like a bubbling brook.
Tucker noticed Admiral Holman’s eyes narrow as he stared at the Frenchman. Something had happened between the two men during Holman’s Joint Task Force Liberia, where the Commander, U.S. Amphibious Group Two, had had to avoid French resistance to an American noncombat evacuation operation. But it hadn’t been noncombat. The Admiral had had to fight his way to the trapped Americans and rescue them. Today, those same Americans now governed the country with democratic elections scheduled sometime early the next year.
“Hold on, my fine French friend,” Upmann said, holding his hand up, palm out.
Tucker caught a slight flash of anger cross the Frenchman’s face, quickly hidden behind a forced smile and the nod he gave Captain Upmann. Looking back at Upmann, he saw no recognition that the Chief of Staff understood—or, if he did, cared—the slight he’d given the French teammate. But he also recalled the sense of humor the French had when they would laugh at someone for their faux pas. Where had it been? Oh, yes, Marseilles, 2006, during a port call. He and a fellow male friend had been reconnoitering the dockside bars, soaking in the French social life along the waterfront. He had turned to his friend when they stepped into one of the rougher establishments and said, “Shut the door.” The establishment had gone quiet when they entered. When he said, “Shut
the door,” they had erupted into laughter, ordering them drinks and singing drunken sailor songs until the wee hours, asking numerous times for them to say, “Shut the door.” Shut-the-door became more slurred as the night wore on.
It was only later, near the end of the night—or had it been the beginning of the day—Tucker had discovered that “shut the door” sounded like the French
je t’adore,
meaning “I love you.” The French sailors had found it amusing for American sailors to keep saying ‘I love you’ to each other.
“. . . the contact reported before we lost contact with them.”
Tucker felt foolish. He should be paying attention instead of recalling liberty ports and fun times ashore.
“What do you think, Commander?” Upmann asked Tucker.
He didn’t know what he thought. Like a mouse in a trap. “I’m not sure what you mean, Captain?”
“I mean if the contact reported was last on a northeasterly course . . .”
“It means the rogue ship is heading toward England, Europe, or will attempt to go through the Strait of Gibraltar,” Tibbles-Seagraves offered, avoiding eye contact with Tucker.
Marc St. Cyr shook his head, his dark hair remaining immaculately in place. “No, I disagree,” he said in a rising curt voice. “I do not think they will go through the Strait of Gibraltar.”
“Why?” Admiral Holman asked.
“Because, Le Admiral, if they’re going to go into the Mediterranean, there are easier and better hidden ways to get there than sail from western Africa through the Strait of Gibraltar. They could have sailed from Libya or Algeria. They could have trucked it across the continent via Turkey and Greece. No, I do not think they will go to the Mediterranean. What I think is that they are heading toward Rotterdam.”
“You may be right,” Wing Commander Tibbles-Seagraves said. “But I would have to quantify the destination as Rotterdam. While Rotterdam is a damn fine choice to disrupt the European economy, sailing up the Thames and blowing up this superbomb in the middle of London would be along the lines of this terrorist organization. It would not only be an attack on both an economic mainstay of the global economy but against the Western world.”
“France is not the Western world?”
“It could be one of many choices,” Admiral Holman said. He looked at the aggrieved St. Cyr. “The good thing is France, Great Britain, and America are in agreement that the rogue ship is heading toward Europe and away from America. That means we’re shifting from the original operational plan of dispersing our fleet along the East Coast to defend the homeland to one of defending our European allies.”
“That means we’re going to pursue them?” Tucker asked.
“Yes, in a way, Commander. We’re going to pursue them, but you aren’t, which is the real reason you’re up here.”
Admiral Holman moved away from the table and over to the green couch braced against the forward bulkhead. He sat on the edge of an arm of the couch and casually crossed his legs. Tucker expected the Admiral to slide off onto the deck at any second. “You three with the other members of your allied Special Forces are going to be off-loaded. We are sending you back ashore to Little Creek,” Admiral Holman said. “Between the ship heading northeast and the approaching storm, our shores should be safe long enough to hop across the Atlantic and take out this latest threat.”
“But, sir, if you run into this ship . . .”
“Commander Raleigh, if we do, then the French- or British-led teams will be responsible for taking it out. You’re going to be detached to Special Boat Unit Twenty under Commodore West. That’s in the event we’re wrong
and/or the rogue ship survives being sunk by the storm and is detected off the East Coast.”
Wing Commander Tibbles-Seagraves covered his mouth with his fist and coughed, drawing their attention. “Sir, with all due respect, having three teams will increase the flexibility of the operations, and, even
if I do say so myself
—if they run into more opposition than they can handle, we would be a welcomed asset; I am sure you agree, sir.”
“You’re correct, Wing Commander. Having three teams would be best, but the agreement between Washington, London, and Paris is we divide this operation into three distinct lines of authority. Right now, Paris will assume command until it is sure the rogue vessel is not headed toward France or the European mainland. . . .”
