Seal Team Seven #20: Attack Mode (3 page)

“Shigahara, you bastard. Why you hitting me?” The sailor snarled in fury, kicked out of the bunk, and charged Shigahara, who stood only four feet away. The report from the .45 firing twice blasted into the small steel-walled cabin, sounding like 155mm howitzers going off. Both heavy slugs caught the seaman in the chest and drove him backward. Everyone in the cabin went temporarily deaf as the echoing gunshot sound boiled through the room, crashing from one steel bulkhead to the others.

Shigahara pointed at the third man, and Matsuma reached out and bound his wrists. Shigahara leaped out of the cabin door and eyed the other hatches down the companionway. The one nearest him opened and a man pushed his head out. The gunman’s hearing came back slowly.

“I hear a shot, man?” the sailor asked. Shigahara heard
something but didn’t know what the man said. “Huh? What?”

“Thought I heard a shot.”

Now his hearing was good enough that he understood. Shigahara held the .45 behind his back. “You’re having nightmares again, Ewing. Anybody else in there with you?”

“Yeah, Shig. What the hell’s going on?”

Shigahara brought the .45 around and pushed Ewing back into the cabin. “I’m taking over this stinking bucket. Anybody here want to help me? You help, you get fifty thousand dollars when we’re done.”

“Fifty grand?” a new voice said. Shigahara looked at the three other men in the cabin.

Ewing shook his head. “No way. I’d be the guy they hung. I’ll pass. Are you shooting people? What’s the middle ground? I won’t help you, but I don’t want to get shot.”

“You get a vacation in the locked dayroom for the rest of the trip. You guys with Ewing?” The other three nodded.

It took them a half hour to get the rest of the crew collared and marched into the dayroom. It had two Ping-Pong tables, two TV sets, and a rack of movie videos. One man had volunteered to come with the hijackers. The ten others stood close together watching.

“Where do we sleep?” Ewing asked.

“On the floor. I’ll be back to get the two cooks to start work at three
A
.
M
. Is that about right, Pete?”

One man looked up. He was six feet four and more than 250 pounds. He was the head cook. “Our usual start time is oh-two-thirty,” Pete said.

“Good enough. I want to eat well on this trip. You’ll be cooking for twenty-two so far, not twenty-four. Any questions?”

“Usual mess times?”

“Right.”

“We bring food in here for the men?” Pete asked.

“My men will bring in the food.” Shigahara looked
around. “I have no fight with any of you. Just stay out of my way and you’ll live to sail again.”

He stared hard at each man there, then went outside with his six men. They pushed a steel rod through the handles of the double doors, locking the sailors in the recreation room. Shigahara looked at the new recruit—Keanae, a Hawaiian who had been a loudmouth and a troublemaker on the first trip. “You know we’re taking over the ship and rerouting her?”

“Hell yes, I heard.”

“You’re all right with that?”

“Hell yes. I don’t owe them fuckers nothing.”

Shigahara smiled. “Good. Stay with us, do what you’re told, and you’ll get a big payday. Now, let’s get up the bridge and see what the second mate has to say. Remember, no matter what I tell him, we need him and the radio officer alive to help us run this ship.”

They attacked with two armed men through hatches on both sides of the bridge. Shigahara pushed open the port hatch and saw the three men, one at the console.

“Lift your hands, fuckers, or I’ll blow your heads off,” the Japanese-American shouted. The three men looked at him and, with scowls that showed disbelief, lifted their hands.

“Shigahara, what in hell are you doing?” Ludlow asked. “This is piracy. The captain can have you hung.”

“Not likely. Now, my conditions. I’m taking over this vessel. You will obey me to the letter. You will do precisely what I instruct you to do. Ludlow, you will act as navigator and captain, and you will see that all ship’s functions are carried out. If you don’t, I’ll blow your brains out. Clear?”

“It’s the damn plutonium, isn’t it? I told the government we should have a squad of Marines on board.”

“Did I make myself clear, Second Mate Ludlow?”

“Perfectly. Where’s the captain?”

“He and Mr. Stillman are in the captain’s cabin. Now, for the specifics. Matsuma here will give you a new course. You will enter it into the computer and make all
needed changes. You will increase speed to fourteen knots from eleven. You will do that now. Matsuma will check your every move.”

Matsuma went to the second mate and gave him a piece of paper with the new course. As soon as Ludlow read it, he looked up in astonishment.

“You’re kidding. This means we’ll be heading for the middle of the South Pacific. How much fuel do you think we have on board?”

“We have plenty to make a five-thousand-mile trip, Ludlow. Now make the course change.”

Ludlow scowled, punched the change into the computer, and watched the numbers come up.

“Course change is entered, Captain.”

“Well, I got promoted. Thank you. Do you need three men on the bridge?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then two of my men will replace these two. Matsuma will monitor everything.”

“Why, Shigahara?” Ludlow asked.

“Not your worry. Remember, all of my men are armed. We don’t need you to run this ship, Mr. Ludlow. So don’t even try to do anything brave or we’ll shoot you down before you get started. My man will be on the radio, so don’t think you can get any help there. I know about the required messages via satellite, so don’t worry about that. Any questions?”

“It’s the plutonium?”

“Of course. Now, you’re on duty until oh-six-hundred. I’ll see that you’re replaced. Oh, and about that little thirty-eight revolver you keep in your locker, under your extra uniforms. We have it now and the shells. A nice little weapon. Be careful, Mr. Ludlow, and you will live.”

Shigahara felt the ship change directions as it began its turn from southeast to southwest. They had a long run ahead, but the faster speed would help. He turned toward the bridge hatch when one of his men ran inside, his face flushed, eyes wild.

“Shig, we’ve got trouble. That guy who volunteered to join us, that Hawaiian, Keanae. He just took the weapon away from one of our men and shot him, then he vanished. I don’t know where the hell Keanae is.”

NAVSPECWARGRUP-ONE

Coronado, California

Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock stared at the strange-looking vehicle parked on the Silver Strand that ran between Coronado and Imperial Beach. This was one of their prime training areas for the four teams of SEALs based in Coronado. Today Murdock had his Third Platoon, SEAL Team Seven, working out with the Turtle. It was a new experimental craft that his SEALs had helped design. It was to be used specifically as an amphibious landing craft that could move his men from any body of water onto shore and then miles inland if needed, with the armor protection needed to withstand small arms fire. They’d had it for months but hadn’t had time to really get familiar with it.

“Officially this is the combat entry/attack vehicle, CEAV,” Murdock told the assembled SEALs. “It can be hoisted aboard a destroyer or almost any ship, then launched ten or twelve miles away from the target and run us into a specific beach or waterway, where it swims to shore and rolls up on dry land.”

“Looks like it’s got flat tires,” Jaybird said.

“Yeah, half-flat and twice as wide as a car’s tires,” Murdock said. “Lets them roll right through soft sand and mud and still charge along at fifty-five miles per hour on a good road.”

The SEALs began crawling over the rig. It had a bow, hull, and closed bow that ended with a slanted steel panel
that extended up two feet, where the windshield should be. There were four view slots in it.

“Must be sixteen feet long,” Howard said. “Didn’t we see this before with a fifty-caliber on it?”

Murdock looked at a spec sheet. “She has a fifty topside just behind the driver. She’s unsinkable. Fill her with water and she’ll still float and function. She has Cadloy steel armor plate over all that protects her from anything up to 7.62 rifle fire. The wheels gyro down when she hits the sand and give you a two-foot obstacle clearance when she’s on land.”

“Twice as big as a Rubber Duck,” Canzoneri said. “What about her speed in the water?”

“Does twelve knots and is relatively quiet, with a Cummins V-504 diesel engine that kicks out two hundred and two horsepower.”

“I still don’t see no fifty-caliber,” Howard said.

Murdock scanned the spec sheet again. “Yeah, the fifty raises hydraulically when you want to shoot, which gives the gunner a three-hundred-sixty-degree field of fire.”

“Damn near a whole circle,” Jaybird said. Somebody threw a rock at him.

“How do you switch her from water to land?” Senior Chief Sadler asked.

“Don’t have to,” Murdock said. “It’s all automatic. She has sensors on the wheels. As soon as they hit sand or mud, the computer signals the drive shaft, which switches in half a second from prop to wheels and you’re off and driving.

“Now for some more data about her. She rides low in the water to give radar men fits. Has only eighteen inches of freeboard. The let-down sides button up tight on top to make her waterproof for rough water. Inside she has bench seats along the sides and a swivel chair for the driver up front. The dashboard looks more like a car than a boat, with the usual readouts for overheating, low oil, generating, and a fuel gauge. Automatic transmission.”

“So we gonna get to work out with her or is this just a beauty contest?” Bill Bradford asked.

“Oh, we’re working out. We have all morning. I want each of you to drive this Turtle out through the surf and back in. Every man has to be able to operate this vehicle. We’ll be here until all of you can make it purr like a kitten. Any questions?” There were none. “This is another piece of our equipment. It’s like our weapons and gear. We get the best results from them with repeated and quality training. So let’s get at it. Senior Chief, load up Alpha Squad and take them out for a run. She has a steering wheel and brakes. Go.”

Alpha Squad piled into the Turtle. Murdock showed Sadler how to start the engine and work the gears. It even had a reverse and two speeds forward. Then he stepped out.

“Go out a half mile, turn around. Alpha Squad, you bail out and swim back. Senior Chief drives in alone. I don’t want to see even a face mask until you’re within fifty feet of the beach. Then come in on the breakers and play dead driftwood logs washed up by the waves until the beach is cleared by your scouts. Go.”

Murdock watched the Turtle work out through the wet sand, then the foam from the waves, and at last take a three-foot breaker head-on and dive through it. Quickly the Turtle was beyond the surfline and turning. The rig was too large to fit inside the Navy’s choppers, but could be airlifted by heavy choppers from one ship to another. So far the SEALs hadn’t put the little craft into operation. It would hold just eight men, so they would need two of them for a platoon mission. Murdock had had word this week that a second one should arrive in Coronado within a day or two. Good enough reason for a hard workout on the rig to be sure they could handle it if the need arose.

Murdock watched the Turtle head for shore, then he turned to Bravo Squad. “JG, take your squad down to the Kill House. Put everyone through twice, then come back for your turn on the Turtle. I want scores recorded and brought to me.”

“Aye, aye, Commander, we’re moving.” JG “Chris” Gardner made two hand signals and his squad fell in a
line of ducks. He led them at a six-minutes-to-the-mile-pace run a quarter of a mile down the beach, toward the navy radio antennas. The Kill House had been dug into the sand at the far end of the strand. Most of it was underground, with bullet-absorbing walls and overheads that wouldn’t let any stray rounds escape. The Kill House had four rooms, each set up with furniture and pop-up targets of bad guys and good guys. It was all computer-controlled with fifty thousand combination targets that were always changing. It was a live firing range for all weapons except the 20mm. Murdock had been running his men through the Kill House once a day for the past two weeks. It was one of the best ways to keep them sharp and ready for anything.

Murdock heard a beeping and looked around. Then he swore softly, dug into his shirt pocket, and took out an inch-and-a-half-square plastic beeper. He had argued against using one, but the boss, Commander Masciareli, had insisted that every platoon leader in Team Seven have a beeper and a cell phone, and they would be in use whenever the men were on or off duty in the Coronado area.

Murdock took out the beeper and looked at the window. A phone number showed. It was Master Chief MacKenzie’s number at the Quarter Deck. Murdock fought against it a moment, then shrugged and took a cell phone from his pocket and turned it on. He dialed the number.

“Quarter Deck, Johnson here, sir.”

“Master Chief MacKenzie please,” Murdock said.

A moment later the familiar Scottish brogue came marching over the airwaves.

“Well, you are available, Commander, lad … sir,” MacKenzie said. “Wondering if you knew that a cell phone has to be switched to the on position before it works? Did you know that now, lad?”

“I’ve heard something about it, Master Chief.”

“Good idea to keep it turned on; otherwise it’s not much good.”

“You must have something important to say, Master
Chief. Or is it just that the fishing is good off the kelp beds?”

“Fishing is good, aye. But there is one item. Sorry to break up your training routine, Commander, but your team commander himself wishes a word with you and JG Gardner. He said immediately, so I’d say that’s as soon as you can get your bodies up this direction.”

“The JG is currently at the Kill House, but he’ll be returning in about ten and we’ll choggie our way up to the Quarter Deck.”

“Aye, lad. I’ll tell him you’re on your way.”