Seal Team Seven #20: Attack Mode (29 page)

“I have target acquisition, moving out to concentrate the twenties on the right wing,” the F-18 pilot said high over the Pacific.

“Transport One, this is Two. After your run, I’ll do a fly-by and see how our duck is quacking.”

“Roger that, Two, I’m moving in.”

The air was quiet for a few seconds.

“Oh yes. Should be five or six big holes in that sucker’s right wing, enough to destabilize him, maybe kill out some controls.”

“This is Transport Two, your little bird has a broken wing. He’s in a shallow bank to the right and going down. He’s at ten thousand feet, no way he can make any landfall. Angle of descent is increasing. He’ll splash down in two minutes outside.”

“Roger that, Two. I have him again. Oh yeah, he’s not more than three thousand now and dropping in that banking dive to the right. Should hit fairly flat, right wing first, and cartwheel.”

“He’s close, One. There he goes, splashdown, the crate didn’t break up, so the plut should be safe. He’s floating for about ten to twenty seconds, then he’s finished. Heads popping out of the doors. Five, six, seven of them.”

“Roger that, Transport One. This is Home Base. I understand that the craft went down in mid-Pacific, and there were no survivors. I repeat, we understand that there were no survivors of the crash, so no S and R choppers will respond. Do you copy?”

“Aye, aye, Home Base. No survivors of the twin engine
transport out of Wotje Atoll. We copy that. No survivors. The craft is sinking. Another ten seconds. Yes, she’s down—only blue Pacific swells down there. Request vectors to come home. Looks like our work here is finished.”

Gardner looked at Claymore. “No survivors? The pilot said he saw seven heads on the wreck.”

“My guess is that Don Stroh gave the order. He’s had enough prisoners to interrogate. Besides, those bastards killed that woman and the two little girls.”

Gardner nodded. “Yeah. Well, what else do we have to do to get cleaned up here?”

“What about the guy’s pickup?” Fernandez asked on the net.

“Yeah, we owe him a new pickup. Fernandez, find the guy and get a statement from him about the worth of his rig. We’ll figure out how to cover it somehow. We’ve got the dock man compensated, and the dead woman. We wait for the radiation chopper to come. Any more cleanup at the airport, Fernandez?”

“We’ll go over the second plane, but doubt if they left anything in it. The operator of the airstrip says he’s claiming it for damages to his office. He did lose a window.”

“What about the boat?” Canzoneri asked.

“Probably rented out of Majuro,” Gardner said. “We’ll let the sheriff take care of it. If it’s not a rental, she can claim it as salvage and sell it. Maybe some of the money could go to the family of the woman who was shot.”

The big chopper came in a few minutes later. It was a heavy hauler. Two radiation-suited men checked out the plut crate and peeled off their suits. Only trace radiation found. They rigged cables and loading rings to the crate and waved the chopper in. It lowered a thick cable with a large hook and the cables were attached. Slowly the big bird inched upward. The crate slid one way, then the other, then eased off the boat deck and into the air.

Gardner watched the chopper fly to the west, then called in all of his men to meet at the softball diamond.

“Good work, men. We’re out of here.”

They buttoned up the SH-60 and took off, heading west to meet the carrier that steamed toward them.

Gardner, Murdock, Jaybird, Lam, and Canzoneri huddled with Don Stroh and the carrier’s captain. Gardner’s team had hit the deck of the big flattop only a half hour before.

“So we have a problem,” Stroh said. “The CIA operatives have been following the aircraft that got away earlier and headed west. Yes, it did land in the Philippines, but not at the airports we thought it might. We had forty covered, and they found one we didn’t. It refueled and took off at once. The flight plan filed was bogus. We know it headed on west. From there on, we’re not sure of the route. They probably had contacts in India where they stopped, maybe twice for fuel and food. From India’s west coast, it’s a jump around Pakistan to Abbas in southern Iran.”

“Any confirmation that the same plane landed in Abbas?” Murdock asked.

“As good as we can get. We have some people there. One of them said a similar twin-engine propeller aircraft landed at the Abbas airport within the right time frame and was at once taken to the far end of the field and guarded with fifty armed troops. That was a little over twenty-four hours ago. We’ve had no contact with our man in Abbas since his last transmission, and we hope that does not mean bad news for him.”

“So they made it,” Gardner said. “The four hundred pounds of weapons-grade plutonium 239 is in Iranian hands, and they will at once sell one or two bomb portions of it to the highest bidders. We’re out of it.”

Murdock chuckled. “Gardner is new to our fun and games, but he’s a fast learner. If we we’re out of it, JG, we wouldn’t be having this high-level chat with the CIA and the captain.”

“So we’re going in after the plut?”

“Is the cardinal a Catholic?” Jaybird cracked.

“What we want to work out is how and when,” Stroh said. “The office has sent some suggestions. We have
some underground assets in Abbas that few people know about. When is as quick as we can get there. Your favorite business jet has been on its way from San Francisco for ten hours. It’s due to drop down into Majuro Atoll soon. The captain tells me we’re a little less than two hundred miles from that capital city. The twelve of you SEALs fit for duty will be boarding an SH-60 for a joy ride to Majuro. You leave in an hour. Now we get to work. The how is tougher. Do we go into the airport, or wherever they have taken the crates of plut, and get them back? Or do we find the plut and mix it with highly radioactive material, such as atomic-plant spent fuel, to render it unfit for boom boom?”

“How good is this undercover woman agent you have in Abbas?” Jaybird asked.

Stroh’s head jerked up. “How did you know it was a woman?”

“Easier to keep a woman under wraps, especially in Iran with its strict dress code. Is she good?”

“She has good connections. She’s an artist and has a certain amount of begrudged freedom.”

“Where do we fly to nearby?” Murdock asked.

“We still have some friends in Oman, just across the Strait of Hormuz from Iran,” Stroh said.

“Better to go in by boat to those marshes than try to drop in from the air,” Lam said. “Boats are better for this job.”

“Agree,” Murdock and Gardner said.

“You’ll be short four men,” Stroh said. “Do you want to take four Marine Recon men with you?”

“No,” Gardner said. “I worked with a squad on the atoll and we did well. But it was friendly country. We had no coordination and our weapons were different. In something this hot, we better stick with our twelve men and do the job.”

Murdock grinned and nodded. “I’ll second that motion.”

Stroh looked at the carrier boss. “Anything to input here, Captain?”

The captain shook his head. ’I’m still amazed the way your enlisted men step up and help in the planning. Remarkable. The Navy probably should learn something from that.” He shook his head. “But we’re in the black shoe navy. Things don’t change much.” He stood. The men around the small table jolted to attention.

“Thanks, SEALs. It’s been good working with you and watching you operate. Good luck on your new assignment.” The captain walked out and the men relaxed.

“No time for special chow, but they will have four big boxes of deli sandwiches and lots of coffee on the Sea-hawk,” Stroh said. “Don’t ask me your route. I have no idea. Now, who needs to clean some weapons and get ammo pouches loaded up? You’ll be taking everything with you that you brought from the States. Oh, just as a change of pace, I’ll be riding with you on this one. Let’s roll.”

“Move it” Murdock said and the men hurried out of the room toward their compartment to get ready to fly.

After the hour’s flight in the noisy Seahawk, the SEALs settled down in the Gulfstream II business jet at the Majuro Atoll airport The Coast Guard used the sleek plane for military VIP flights. The SEALs had ridden in the first-class seats before. A Coast Guard lieutenant welcomed them on board. He was sturdy, red-faced, and with corn-silk blond hair.

“I get first dibs on the steak dinner,” he said. “No sweat, we’ve got plenty. I’m your bus driver for the tour. Don’t ask me how long it will take to get where we’re going. We’re supposed to have diplomatic permission for some fly-overs, but some countries rethink these things as they come up. We’ll play it by ear and get you to Oman as quickly as possible. Have a good ride.”

He vanished into the cockpit and two minutes later they taxied down the apron, hit the runway, and took off.

The steak dinner was fine, Murdock decided. It had come from the airport restaurant and was served on china. The flight steward had a time juggling the china, but he
made it. When the dishes were cleared, Murdock took over.

“Rafii, front and center. We’re going back to school. Arabic. We are going to have Arabic coming out of our ears before this flight is over. Start us out with greetings—how to ask where a street is, how to find the bathroom, where is a hotel, the usual tourist stuff. Then we’ll move into the fun stuff, like put up your hands, or tell me the information I want to know or I’ll shoot you.” Murdock grinned and Rafii spoke rapidly to him in Arabic. Murdock held up his hands. He’d caught only half of what the Saudi native said.

Rafii laughed and then got into the job of refreshing and teaching as much Arabic language as he could in the few hours they had.

Al Fujayrah, Oman

Murdock was tired when they landed in Oman. Even though they had slept half the time, and studied Arabic the other half, he felt worn out and groggy. Once on the ground, the plane had been flagged down and signaled to follow a jeep with a large red flag. It led them to a transit hangar and they waited for the customs inspectors. Stroh met them at the door, mentioned two names, and the men simply looked inside, nodded at the heavily armed men, and left.

“Next step is to find the Oman Army colonel who is supposed to meet us here and let us use his barracks until we can make the needed arrangements to get across the Strait and start your trek into Abbas,” Stroh said. A sleek black Mercedes pulled up shortly and an army officer hurried to the plane. He spoke to Stroh, who went to the car and talked to someone in the rear seat. Then the Mercedes sped away.

Stroh came back smiling. “Well, we have our barracks and a chow line, and a line on a boat. Beyond that, we’ll have to play it by ear.”

Jaybird had been scanning the maps that Stroh had brought with him. “If we can get somewhere near Jask,
there’s a road that leads up the coast right into Abbas. Wonder if they hitchhike in Iran.”

“That’s the end of the coast road,” Stroh said. “Below that it’s a wilderness. Might be a good spot to land.” A twenty-man bus pulled up and the driver honked twice.

“Our limo is here,” Stroh said.

Ten minutes later they had settled in the army barracks, all twelve of them, and now were checking maps, distances, and the exchange rate: roughly two rial to a dollar.

“How far to Abbas from that other town?” Gardner asked.

“Roughly a hundred and fifteen miles,” Jaybird said. “Long damn hike.”

“Does our artist lady friend have a car, or a van?” Murdock asked.

“She has a car, and can meet you at Jask,” Stroh said. “She should be able to get another car to take you back up the road.”

“Clothes, makeup, rials—we getting all that?” Mahanani asked.

Stroh checked his watch. “We’re due there now. Looks a lot like a movie wardrobe department, but it’s ours.” He shook his head. “Damn, wish you guys weren’t so tall. You’ll have to slouch a lot. Wigs and hats and clothes and some face and hand makeup will help.”

“You’ve got the boat big enough for twelve of us, but not big enough to attract attention?” Murdock asked.

“I have. An eighteen-footer with an outboard and a backup engine.”

“How far across is it here?” Van Dyke asked.

Jaybird went back to his maps. “Just over a hundred miles. That far?”

“Too far in an open boat at night doing ten to twelve knots,” Murdock said. “How can we cut down the time?”

Jaybird pointed on the map. “If we motor up north here in Oman to Diba al Hisn, and take off from there, it’s only sixty miles across.”

“Then we get a powerboat that can do twenty knots,
and we can do the trip in three hours,” Gardner said.

“Bigger, faster boat,” Stroh said. “Yeah, I can do that. Might take a little longer. Want to get you out of here with three hours of dark for your boat trip. If any of you have watches that aren’t set yet, it’s now just after oh-seven-thirty. We have lots of time until it’s dark. We’ll suit up here, get land transport up to Diba al Hisn, and launch you from there as soon after dark as we can. Then I contact our lady in Abbas and tell her where to find you.”

“So we find her,” Murdock said. “Does she know where the plut is?”

“She’s working on it. There was a big push to get it out of town fast. They didn’t want any accidents. Just where it was taken is not known yet. That may be a big part of your job. First find it, then take down whoever is protecting it, and then figure out some way to get it destroyed or mixed with material that will leave it highly radioactive, but render it unfit for powering nuclear weapons.”

“Sounds like a piece of cake,” Claymore said.

“Hell, we should be home by noon,” Jaybird countered.

Three hours later the SEALs had been transformed into Arabs, with light-brown-dyed faces, hands, and arms. They had a big meal and soon were in an army truck heading up the highway toward Diba al Hisn, their port of embarkation.

“Hear we get an Oman Navy boat,” Gardner said. “It should be able to do thirty knots, makes a hell of a lot of noise, and has two twenty-millimeter weapons for defense. Just in case we run into any Iranian gunboats.”

“The. Iranians have a navy?” Lam asked.