Joint Task Force #2: America (21 page)
Tamursheki turned to Hisham, the American-born Saudi Arabian who still had relatives in Chicago. The man had shaved off his beard only a few days ago, and the whiteness beneath the beard contrasted sharply with the darker tan of the face. The other three had shaved their body hair before the ship ever sailed. He reached out, and as he had done with Badr, he touched Hisham’s shoulder. “And, you, our American friend,” Tamursheki said loud enough for everyone to hear. It caused everyone to laugh, for it was a big joke to all of them, including Hisham,
that because of where he was born he was considered American, though his father had taken him back to Saudi Arabia when he was only four.
“This American is ready,” Hisham said, his Arab accent barely detectable. “And yes, I know my job. I will stay in Jacksonville for several days before taking a bus to Pensacola. At Pensacola, an e-ticket will be waiting for me to fly to Chicago. In Chicago, I will stay with relatives who are expecting me. They believe I am coming to America to go to college. While in Chicago, I will be out and mix with people every day. And I will wait for the word for whatever mission I am called upon to do.”
“You are very brave, Hisham.”
“Thank you, Amir, but the bravery is with those who take the weapon”—He reached behind him and patted the dark gray side of the van—“Into the heart of our enemy’s homeland and explode it. I will be watching the news and the papers for word of your success. Do you know where you will go with the weapon?”
Tamursheki thought for a few moments and then decided against confirming their destination. There were no secrets aboard a ship, he had discovered. The radio operator would have shared the message from Abu Alhaul with the cook, who would have shared it with the deck-hand, who would have shared it with one of the Jihadists, who would tell the others. But what if any of these four were captured before the next two days passed? Maybe Hisham was the only one who didn’t know. Then again, what if Hisham was CIA. Tamursheki, like Abu Alhaul and the other Jihadists, believed the CIA was everywhere, and it only took an innocent questions such as Hisham’s to convince them that he was a member of the dreaded CIA with its covert warriors and assassins.
“I think you know, Hisham, as everyone here probably knows. I don’t want to say it, for if you are captured, the enemy uses vile drugs and torture to cause its captives to speak against their friends. I only ask this: if you should be captured, keep the secret for two days. If you can keep it for two days, it will be too late for them to do anything.”
Hisham nodded as Tamursheki moved to the third man of the group. Jabir, the cook, who had grown tired of butchering, cooking, and washing. The Yemeni who would leave behind two wives and more children than he could keep track of. He was the oldest of the four. Tamursheki looked around at the others who were watching him and the four. Every now and again, someone would work their way behind the four warriors and pat them on the back as if touching these first martyrs of their voyage would bring good luck to them. As if touching transferred part of them to these four on their mission.
Jabir straightened, exposing his thin neck to Tamursheki. Tamursheki looked up at the slightly taller man. “Jabir, we will carry your sacrifice to your family,” he said, touching him briefly on the shoulder. “You have given so much in this war against the infidels. No one can ask for more than what you are about to give. Are you truly prepared for this mission?” he asked, for he had always wondered why the man came with them. Were his wives so horrible the martyr preferred death than a life with them? Or was the lure of eternal life something a man who did woman’s work sought, to prove himself a man?
“Yes, Amir, I am prepared to give my life, to be an eternal example to my family and to my sons, who will walk through our village with their heads high, extolling the martyrdom of their father. They will be in high esteem, and their future will be assured.” Jabir reached up and ran his hands along a series of small bumps along the edge of his right ear.
“And, your job?” Tamursheki watched the hand push at the bumps. Wait, he thought, until they mature before you burst them.
Jabir tugged the waist pack around front and patted it. “I have a train ticket from . . .” He stuttered, trying to think of the name of the city. “ . . . Florida,” he finally said. “North to Washington, D.C., then to Baltimore, and finally New York City. In New York, God willing, I
will find a job as a cook.” The word cook was whispered as if he were ashamed of his profession.
Tamursheki patted him on the shoulder again. “You will do well, my friend, and we will tell of your martyrdom when it comes to future warriors who even now are learning the ways of jihad.”
The fourth man was the one who had shot down the aircraft. Tamursheki gave the same encouragement to him and listened as he talked about hitchhiking across Florida to Miami and from Miami onward. Fakhiri was to fly to Seattle before working his way to San Francisco. Only the center part of the States was missing from this group’s sojourns, but there were others in the group who would head to Oklahoma, Kansas, Michigan, and other states in the center of America.
Oh, to be able to live long enough to see the panic and terror he was bringing!
Tamursheki noticed small bumps across the man’s lips. When he touched him, his skin was hot. Already it was starting. He hoped that Ibrahim had estimated correctly.
Thirty minutes passed while Qasim led the others in launching the Zodiac raft over the side where the lee of the ship produced a small windbreak from the east winds. Two men held a tether line at the front of the raft while two others held a similar line at the rear, holding the raft against the side of the ship. The men crawled over the side, down the rope ladder, and into the lurching raft. Then it was a quick flick of the wrists below to free the lines, and the zodiac raft quickly turned away from the freighter. The noise of the small engine was lost in the noise of the sea, the wind, the storm, and the men who stood waving and cheering. The raft was soon lost amidst the valleys of the waves, to reappear for a moment on the crest of a new series of waves. Tamursheki whispered a prayer for the men to reach shore. Even great plans such as this depended many times on luck.
Minutes after Alrajool, who had been watching from the bridge, sighted the raft away from the ship, the engines were engaged and the familiar vibration through the ship returned.
Tamursheki stayed on the stern with a few of the others, catching glimpses of the raft until it became a speck on the ocean, hard to see in the fading light. The freighter turned out to sea, away from the coast, and continued its unhindered trek toward Norfolk, Virginia.
East of the freighter, the high-pressure ridge holding the storm near stationary slipped to the east. The low-pressure front moved slightly northwest, and like a small opening of a closed hose with built-up water pressure, the tropical storm picked up speed. A speed slightly below the threshold required for changing its designation to hurricane. Its movement across ground increased to twenty-five knots. Satellite photos quickly relayed the danger to the National Weather Service at Sterling, Virginia. The situation was debated for several hours at NWS whether to err on the side of caution and recommend evacuating areas along the coasts of Maryland, Chesapeake Bay, New Jersey, and Delaware, or take a chance its wind speed would stay the same until the pressure ridges pushed the storm northward and away. In the end, they gave residents both options; stay or leave.
In Norfolk and Little Creek areas the exodus of Navy warships continued, while at the Oceana Air Station, the F-14 and F-18 squadrons flew their aircraft inland away from the storm, joining other Navy aircraft such as the venerable C-130 and the P-3C maritime reconnaissance aircraft at Air Force bases in Ohio and Kentucky. Nothing gave Navy pilots more pleasure than occupying Air Force officers’ clubs. Naval Air always pissed off its sibling Air Force rivals in air power, and what better place for Naval Air to do this than in an Air Force club. Jealousy was a great fruit best eaten away from home.
TUCKER RALEIGH BRACED HIS SHOULDER AGAINST THE
door and pushed it shut. Wind whipped around the edges of the door, spraying rain into the alcove of the quarterdeck. He pushed the door shut, the wind rattling the facings when he stepped away. Tucker stepped away from the door, expecting it to blast open from the outside elements pressing against it. Like a fierce beast growling, running back and forth along the length of the building, the noise of the storm rose and fell to the tempo of the rain. The door beat cadence to the storm’s rhythm.
“Whew!” Tibbles-Seagraves said, removing his beret and twisting it in both hands to remove the water. “I say—next time, we must insist the driver drop us nearer the door.” He unbuttoned his rain slick and held the sides apart to shake them. Water quickly pooled beneath him.
“Commander, great to see you again, sir.”
Tucker turned. Standing in the doorframe was the lieutenant who commanded the Mark V Special Operations Craft that had brought them from the battle group three days before. The lanky officer was buttoning his rain slick and tucking his gloves beneath the sleeves of the bright
orange garment. Behind him stood Lieutenant Commander Samantha Bradley, Navy Nurse Corps, in a short-sleeve khaki uniform, her gold oak leaves reflecting in the fluorescent light on her collars. She winked at him and pursed her lips.
“Skipper,” Tucker acknowledged to the young officer, his eyes coming off Sam to the officer. Regardless of rank, a commanding officer earned by virtue of the job the honorary titles “Captain” and “skipper.” Even Master Chief Petty Officers given command of harbor tugs were referred to as ‘Captain,’ much to their dismay.
“Lieutenant MacOlson, sir,” the skipper said, touching his chest. “Pete T. MacOlson—P. T. Last time together we didn’t get much of an opportunity to meet.” He looked around the quarterdeck area, pulled out his ball cap, and tucked a heavy stock of red hair beneath it. “And, it doesn’t look like we’ll have much time this time either.”
Tucker shook hands with P.T. Rain dripped from the three men onto the tile floor. The First Class Petty Officer manning the nearby quarterdeck leaned forward across the counter, his eyes rolled upward for a moment, and then the acting Officer of the Deck mumbled something to the young seaman who was serving as the duty runner. “Hey, SLOJ,” the First Class said to the Seaman, motioning toward the area near the door. “Grab the swab again.” SLOJ was slang for what the Navy called those assigned to Shitty Little Odd Jobs.
“Looks as if you’ve just come in yourself, Lieutenant . . .” Tucker slowed for a moment as he realized he had forgotten the man’s name after just having been introduced.
“Pete, sir. Peter T. MacOlson. Most call me P.T. Wouldn’t say I’ve just come in. Would say, unfortunately, that I’m heading back out.” He bowed slightly. “I have the honor of being the duty vessel for the upcoming weekend. Rather than try to trade places tomorrow morning when the storm is supposed to reach the Tidewater area, the Commodore decided in his infinite, aged wisdom to
make the trade Friday while the weather is halfway decent.”
“If this is decent,” Tibbles-Seagraves said softly, “then I will never ever say a bad thing about British weather again. Did I ever tell you that London only averages an inch of snow a year?”
The helmsman who had steered the small eighty-two-foot craft through the heaving waves a couple of days before walked into the room, dressed similarly to his skipper with the exception of the headgear. Seeing the officers, the broad-shouldered sailor stopped a few feet behind MacOlson.
MacOlson turned to the First Class Boatswain Mate. “Boats, you ready? Think we had enough of the good times?”
“I’m as ready as I can be, sir,” he replied, scowling, his voice a husky bass. The Petty Officer reached up and pulled his black watch cap down tighter, part of it covering half his ears.
Sam worked her way around the two wet men to where Tucker and Tibbles-Seagraves stood. “You’re wet,” she said quietly.
“Well, sir, it was a pleasure to see you again,” P.T. said with a grin. He looked around the room. “Where is the other Special Forces type that came with you? French, wasn’t he?”
“He’s here someplace. The Commodore moved us here to the Crisis Control Center since the weather seems bent on turning worse. Seems we are the duty SEAL team in the event we are needed.”
Tucker started taking off his rain slick. Sam reached behind him and took it from him, hanging it on a coat rack that someone on the quarterdeck had strategically placed on a sheet of plastic matting.
MacOlson laughed. “Crisis Control Center? That’s a good one, sir, though he’s right. It is getting worse, but only for a day, I’m told, then the storm’s center is supposed to curve northward and away from us.” He jerked his thumb toward the stairs leading to the tower above.
“Commander, Second Fleet, has ordered the bulk of the SEAL teams to protect some of the critical nodes around the area, and I understand from reading the message traffic that two additional teams were flown out late last night to the UK to support Joint Task Force America.” MacOlson grinned. “That’s another good one, isn’t it? Joint Task Force America is nearer Europe than us.” He moved toward the door. “Let’s hope we aren’t needed. Boats, myself, and the other members of our crew are going to berth aboard the boats tonight. They’re not really designed for living quarters, but we have to keep an eye not only on our ship but the other craft also. Plus, in the unlikely event that we lose cabin pressure and they need a SEAL team, then it will be my sailors who bulk you out.”
“They’re SEALs?”
“Next best thing, Commander Raleigh. They’re Explosive Ordnance Disposal qualified. EODs. Most have had snake-eater training unlike us surface-warfare types whose primary job is to bomb the shore, land the troops, then stand off over the horizon and drink coffee.”
Most SEALs, at one time or other, qualified as EODs. EODs were underwater experts who prepared beaches for amphibious landings prior to the Marines showing up. They would sneak close to shore and remove any explosives found, as well as blowing up obstacles designed to stop landing craft. Their physical qualifications were similar to Navy SEALs, and like SEALs, EOD personnel had to be qualified marksmen with a range of weapons.
Tucker nodded. He doubted anything SEAL-like was going to happen with this weather. “Don’t the other boats have anyone on board?”
The young Lieutenant’s smile widened. “Sure they do. One person as a general rule. Our job is work them as part of our security team and keep the boats safe through this storm. We’ll be doing more Boatswain Mate work than security work, which makes Boats here very happy, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” the Petty Officer replied morosely.
“Isn’t going to be easy, what with the winds playing
havoc with the tides. Good thing the weather isn’t bad yet.”
“This isn’t bad?”
MacOlson looked at the Royal Air Force officer. “No, sir. I’ve seen worse.” He turned to Jenson. “Come on, Boats, let’s get out there in this fine Navy weather and check the lines.”
“Then this shouldn’t be too bad tonight for you, Lieutenant,” Tibbles-Seagraves volunteered.
MacOlson laughed and glanced at the Boatswain Mate standing slightly behind the Royal Air Force Wing Commander. Tucker saw the sailor roll his eyes.
As MacOlson tugged the sleeves of the rain slick down, unwrapping the Velcro edges and rewrapping them so they caught the top of the work gloves, he replied, “Unfortunately, sir, we’ll be lucky to get an hour’s sleep, but what sleep is to a Surface Warfare officer is but a nap to our opposites.” He looked at his watch. “High tide around midnight, and with this tropical storm whipping up wind gusts between fifty to sixty miles per hour, it’ll push the water level up. The water will back up in the channel, and then when it has nowhere else to go, it’ll flow back out to sea, lowering the level.” Finished with his sleeves, the young officer jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the two piers where the six Mark V’s were tied up. “And, as the water level changes and the wind intensity—oh! can’t forget the wind direction—changes, then the lay of the boats change. I suspect that Boats here”—he pointed to the sailor behind Tibbles-Seagraves—“and the other men will spend their time taking in and resetting lines most of the night to keep the boats from getting damaged by the storm.” He moved to the large window in front of the building. “That’s what they’re doing now,” he said, pointing down at the two piers beneath the old watchtower. “Then, there’s the fenders—”
“Fenders?”
“Yes, sir, Wing Commander. Fenders can be anything from old tires, costing a few dollars, to the more
acceptable pneumatic fender made of rubber, about four feet long and three feet in diameter, designed for Navy use and carried in the Naval Supply System. They only cost several hundred dollars to the American taxpayer but take several weeks to arrive. The thing about fenders is whatever you throw over the side of the boat to keep it from bouncing off other boats and the piers is a fender. The one thing we hate to see act as a fender is a sailor, and unfortunately, that does happen every now and again.” He motioned the RAF Wing Commander to the window of the compartment. “Look there,” he said, pointing down to the piers.
Tucker grinned. Here was an officer who loved his job, and even though the Boatswain Mate’s screwed-up face gave the impression of someone dreading the night ahead, he could also tell the sailor had respect for this young Lieutenant. Being liked was nice; being respected was better.
“See how those boats are bopping up and down, and the waves rolling in from the sea are breaking across their hulls? Look how the wind hits their small topsails as if the boats themselves were designed to catch it.” MacOlson removed his ball cap, shook his head, and then jammed his hair back under it. “Yeap, wouldn’t last long in this weather outside of the channel.”
Tucker and Sam moved to the window to watch. Outside, the six boats rocked and rolled to nature’s hand, their fenders banging against each other. Periodically, a huge wave would break over the side of the two boats tied at the far end of the piers. A couple of sailors worked the lines on those two boats, pulling the line through a capstan as their efforts secured the crafts closer to the fenders along the pier. Then, with quick movements, they figured eight the line around the T-shaped cleats on the deck. On the pier, a sailor watched as the working party moved to the next line and lifted the eye of the topmost line from the bollard. On board the small crafts, two sailors untied the line moments before the eye of the line was
once again pulled over the bollard. Then the same scene as with the last line occurred.
“See that working party? That man standing there is Petty Officer Jacobs. Petty Officer Jacobs is the leading Boatswain Mate on the number-two boat nearer the shoreline. His job is to check every one of those lines, and then when he’s satisfied that every one of them is secure and properly tightened, he starts over. On top of all of that, sir, he is responsible for the safety of his men and women. The line is synthetic fiber, which has horrible knot-holding capability. Means you have to keep inspecting it to make sure it doesn’t come away. Unfortunately, not every ship can have the more expensive manila line.” MacOlson looked around at the faces watching him. “Sorry. I seem to have gotten carried away with Surface Warfare talk. With this weather, that is what the majority of our job is going to be through the night and through most of Saturday—a little marlinspike seamanship, of which Boats, here, is an expert.”
Tucker felt Sam ease against his side. He folded his arms across his chest as he watched the nautical scene in front of him, afraid she was going to reach out and take his hand in hers. The Commodore had already had a little private chat with him the day before. If he knew about last night, he’d come unglued. The seasoned veteran was old Navy, where public display of affection was frowned upon within the military services. PDA was doubly hazardous to a bachelor’s health. Of course, if it was private, under a well-hedged row of bushes with all this rain—
that would be something different, and no doubt his Sam would be game for it.
“What are you smiling about?” Sam asked softly, smiling up at Tucker.
He shook his head. “Nothing in particular. Mind just wandered for a bit, thinking about hedge rows and bad weather.” He winked.
She elbowed him slightly. “Can’t fool me, Commander. Every five-point-six seconds, they say, it passes through a man’s mind.”
He grinned, blushed slightly, but kept his arms folded, “Don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s no football game tonight.”
Lieutenant MacOlson was off again. This time, how boats could be lashed up and how the organization of Spec Boat Unit Twenty worked.
Tucker found the scene fascinating. He tuned out the Surface Warfare officer’s words as he watched the sailors on the double piers below the hill of the old tower. Along the two piers jutting out from the concrete wharf were sets of bollards. The squat cylindrical black metal structures, anchored to the piers with thick, heavy steel bolts, had lines running from them to the T-shaped polished-metal cleats on the deck edges of the boats.
