Seal Team Seven #20: Attack Mode (4 page)

Fifteen minutes later, Murdock and the JG stepped out of the Turtle and walked over to the Quarter Deck. From there it was a short distance to the Team Seven commander’s office. Murdock knocked, and the two officers entered when they heard a growl from behind the door.

“Good you’re here. Gardner, are you dripping?”

“No, sir. Just sweating.”

“Good. At least he went through channels this time. We have a small problem in the Pacific Ocean. Somewhere out there. Finding it is going to be a problem. It seems that we have a three-hundred-foot merchant freighter missing.”

“Missing, sir?” JG asked.

“That’s right, Lieutenant. She was supposed to dock here in San Diego two days ago and has not shown up. Her satellite transmissions were on schedule, and she reported every night for the eight days of the trip. Each time her position was consistent with her eleven-knot speed working toward the mainland. She isn’t here. The CIA and the Nuclear Regulatory Commission are up to their armpits in deep shit.”

“Nuclear, sir?” Murdock asked.

“More than nuclear. Ten tons of pure plutonium packed in lead transfer tanks. The whole damn ship with the plutonium is missing, and we don’t have a clue where she might be.”

“Where did she sail from?” Gardner asked.

“That we know. A little atoll fifteen hundred miles almost due west of Honolulu. Draw a circle from there for ten days of travel at eleven knots and the ship should be in that circle somewhere.”

“Damn big circle,” Murdock said. “Say she makes eleven knots for twenty-four, that’s two hundred and sixty-four nautical miles. Ten days of that and she could be two thousand, six hundred and forty miles from that atoll. That’s a lot of ocean to search.”

“That’s what they’re doing,” Masciareli said. “I understand they have repositioned two satellites to scan the area so they can log in and chart every ship of that size or larger. The Navy had a carrier group at Pearl, and it pulled out six hours ago and headed to the southwest. That’s where the brains think the hijackers may be headed. They could try to get lost down there in that maze of South Pacific islands.”

“So we’re on standby?” Murdock asked.

“Your platoon is on a six-hour travel alert. It could take them three or four days to find the ship. When they think they’re getting close, we’ll ship you to Pearl and then probably to the carrier, whichever one they sent down there.”

“Is Don Stroh involved?” Murdock asked.

“Yes, he’s your control and he’ll be on base before ten hundred today. He’ll be going with you whenever you leave.”

“He opens a lot of doors for us,” Murdock said.

“We’ll get our travel gear ready and tell the men to stay within arm’s reach of a phone when they’re off duty,” JG Gardner said. “They say anything about special weapons or equipment?”

“Not yet. I’m suggesting they fly your Turtle over to Pearl and have it nearby in case you need it on some of those atolls and islands out there,” Masciareli said. “I talked with the CNO this morning and he’s authorized the transfer of the Turtle by air to Pearl. We have it, we might as well get some good out of it.”

“Agreed,” Murdock said. “We’ll get her dried out and ready to fly. When does she leave?”

“Tomorrow at ten hundred from North Island.”

“We better alert the men and get putting some travel packs together. Is there anything else, Commander?”

“I’ll keep you informed. Oh, be sure to keep your cell phones turned on when you’re not in the water.”

“Yes, sir,” both men said, then turned and walked out of the office. Gardner went to bring the SEALs back to the platoon area. Murdock went to his office to start getting gear lists made out for the expected trip. He found Don Stroh sitting in his chair waiting for him.

“Commander, I’ve decided I don’t want to trade places with you. The damn chair isn’t right, and then if I sat here, somebody would want to shoot at me sooner or later. How’s it going, big, tough SEAL?”

“Around and around, Stroh. I hear you’re going with us this time, so I’m getting a set of combat gear all ready for you. What weapon do you want, a submachine gun?”

“Hey, hold on there, Petruchio. I’m support, not backup. I don’t like getting shot at. What do you think of this new job?”

“Sounds impossible. How can you find the ship?”

“Satellites and AWACS for starters. Then we’ve contacted every island in the South Pacific with a radio or telephone, telling them about the hijacking, and they are watching. We’ve also put out a million-dollar reward for whoever finds the ship. All of the big ports are covered like a security blanket. Now we concentrate on the little islands that are populated. We have a chance. But it could take a couple of days.”

“We’ll be ready.”

“Murdock, your guys can be ready in a couple of hours. That’s why I’ve arranged for an afternoon fishing trip out of Seaforth. We shove off at twelve-thirty. I’ve got six reservations and I hear the yellows are just jumping in the boat out there.”

Murdock chuckled. “Big international crisis, enough
weapons-grade plutonium out there to blast apart half the world, and you want to go fishing?”

“Just trying to relax some of the men before a big combat mission, my strategy. Always works. Besides, I checked. The half-day boats are bagging up to two yellowtail per pole. Sure, they are small, maybe eight to ten pounds, but hey, that’s a good fight.”

Murdock shook his head. “You are off the scale, Stroh. You must know they won’t be calling us for at least two days.” Murdock shrugged. “Hell yes, let’s go. Your expense money. We should leave the JG here to mind the troops. Pick your men.”

“Timmy Sadler, Jaybird, Lam, and Fernandez. Make a good crew and I can outfish the lot of you.”

“That we’ll see, Stroh. We rent tackle, right?”

“Right. We’ll be on a special recon mission, classified, in case anybody asks. I’ll square it with the master chief. Have your troops in undercover civilian clothes. Oh, be sure to bring your cell phone and beeper.”

“What happens if we get our six-hour call?”

“No problem. I’ve got connections. A Coast Guard cutter will zap out there at twenty knots and pull us back to the dock.”

Two hours later, the fishing on the
New Seaforth
had picked up. Don Stroh hooked the first yellow but didn’t keep his line tight enough and the big fish threw the hook.

“I’ll get the next one,” he boomed.

Jaybird, Murdock, and Sadler all hooked up as a school of the young yellowtail came through. Murdock and Sadler boated their catches, both about eight-pounders. Jaybird’s broke the line.

“Drag’s too damn tight,” Jaybird yelled. A crewman stepped up and checked the drag, loosened it a bit and handed the pole back to Jaybird.

The half-day fishing boat had settled in at a favorite spot about a mile offshore from the Children’s Pool at La Jolla. She hadn’t moved for an hour. Don Stroh finally
hooked up again on a live anchovy bait and yelled when he thought he had color.

“No color yet,” the crewman said. “Pump your pole up slowly, then wind like crazy as you ease the tip of the pole down. Less strain on the line that way.”

“Easy for you to say,” Stroh growled. He kept pumping and after a five-minute struggle and moving halfway around the eighty-foot-long fishing boat, he had the yellow up showing color. The crewman made one swipe at it with the gaff and lifted the big yellow on deck.

“Biggest one I’ve seen so far,” the deckhand said. “Has to go at least twelve pounds.” Stroh promptly carried his prize around and showed it to the rest of the SEALs.

The bite petered out about 1630 and the captain called for the fishermen to bring in their lines. Time to go home. The SEALs gathered just below the bait tank on the stern and compared notes.

All had two yellowtail except Stroh with his one.

“But mine is the biggest,” he shouted. “Just wait until I win the jackpot. Must be fifty bucks in there.”

As the crewmen looked through the sacks, they lifted out the heaviest fish and checked them against another big fish on a balance rod, with hooks on both ends and supported in the center. The heaviest fish pulled down and lifted the lighter fish up.

“Okay, that’s it,” the crewman said. “Sack twenty-four wins the jackpot. Who has sack twenty-four?”

“Hooooooo ha!” Stroh bellowed and charged up with his ticket half that showed his number twenty-four written in marker pen. He turned to the SEALs. “Hey there, guys. Just who the hell is the best fisherman now?”

They all clapped him on the back and asked for a loan. They watched as the crewmen quickly filleted out the yellowtail and a few rockfish and put the boneless meat in plastic bags along with the gunnysack half-ticket.

Murdock used his cell phone and called Chris Gardner.

“Hey, buddy, how is the training?”

“Murdock? Went fine. Master chief says you owe him one.”

“True. Hey, fish fry at my place tonight at seven. Invite all the guys and find out how many can make it. I want you there for sure. Also invite the master chief. He won’t come, but invite him anyway.”

“Will do, Cap.”

“Hey, I like these cell phones. Can come in handy. See you later.”

Eighteen SEALs, wives, and girlfriends had a great time at the fish fry. Murdock had called Ardith, and she had everything but the fish ready when they arrived home at 1830. To the surprise of everyone, Master Chief Petty Officer Gordon MacKenzie came and Murdock decided the old salt had a good time.

He shook his head when Murdock asked. “So far, lad, there’s been no results from the search in the South Pacific. My hunch is that you’ll fly out sometime tomorrow afternoon on your way to Pearl Harbor.”

San Diego, California

After the day’s training sessions were over, Kenneth Ching didn’t go to the fish fry. Instead he drove his two-year-old Mazda across the bridge to San Diego and down to the small area that was all that could claim to be called Chinatown. He cruised through the area twice, looking closely at the vegetable stands, at the various shops and stores. He was trying to soak up some of his heritage. Sometimes he regretted that he hadn’t gone into business with his father in San Francisco. He would have been on his way to being a rich man by now. But the Navy had claimed first rights on his soul.

He turned uptown and parked near a large Chinese restaurant, the Friendly Dragon, on the refurbished Fifth Avenue section called the Gas Lamp Quarter. Several blocks along the street had been upgraded, with new firms, flashy restaurants and cafes. It was now a major tourist attraction.

Ching studied the outside of the building for a few minutes. Mostly non-Chinese were going in, evidently for dinner. He walked through the doors and old China hit him with an emotional surge that he hadn’t anticipated. The décor, the staff dressed in authentic Chinese costumes, the paper lanterns, the low singsong music of a China he had never known but had heard so much about when he was growing up—Kenneth Ching stood there a moment drinking in the atmosphere, and didn’t notice the slender Chinese girl who spoke to him.

“Uh-oh, what?”

She smiled. “You seemed a thousand miles away. I asked if you came for dinner or cocktails?”

“Oh, yes, excuse me. I was taken by the décor. I haven’t been here before.” She watched him, then lifted her brows.

“Oh, I’m here to see Mr. Kwan Tung.”

“Yes, our illustrious owner. He’s in his private dining room this time of day. Did he ask you to come?”

“Yes, we had a six o’clock appointment.”

“So, your name, please.” He told her.

She smiled and motioned for him to follow, and led him through the dining room with dozens of tables to a side panel of rice paper that slid back. Inside, a hallway stretched out in front of them. She stopped at the second door, also made of a wood frame with the fragile rice paper as the covering. She knocked, then opened the door and bowed low.

Ken Ching looked into the room done entirely in old China décor. He saw dragons and paintings of oriental vistas, and a large bronze Buddha sat on a delicately carved dark wood table. To one side two men rested on cushions around a low table.

The girl spoke quickly in Mandarin. Ching understood it. She was announcing him. She nodded, bowed again, stepped back, and motioned him inside, then she closed the panel. He watched the older of the two men both in ceremonial Chinese robes.

“Ah, yes, Kenneth Ching, son of my great and good friend Ching Gschu of San Francisco. Welcome. Pardon me for not getting up, but my old bones do not like to move even when I order them to. Please sit down.” He waved to a spot across the intricately carved table that Ching thought must be teak or perhaps mahogany.

“Honored Grandfather, I come to visit you and bring greetings from my venerable father.” Ken remembered some of the etiquette of the older Chinese. He had no idea why his father had insisted that he come visit this rich restaurant owner. He had intentionally made no contact with the Chinese community in town for the three years
he had been stationed in the San Diego area. He moved over and sat on the heavily brocaded silk pillow. Glasses of rice wine rested on the table, and Ken saw that there was one in front of the place he sat. He nodded at the older of the two Chinese and sipped the wine. Strong and good the way he remembered. The younger Chinese man said a few soft words to the man beside him, then rose, bowed, and left the room past a sliding panel.

“Now, we will talk, we will eat, we will have good wine, and we will remember the old days when I, too, was in San Francisco.” He looked at Ching’s glass. “Drink, my friend’s son. Drink the good wine from China and we will dream that we are walking the green fields and the majestic mountains of our homeland.”

A panel opened and two girls came in who Ching guessed were about seventeen. Both were topless. They began performing one of the ancient dances from China that Ken barely remembered. They were poised, expressionless, and graceful as butterflies. The music came up and the dance grew faster, and one girl embraced the other as the music came to a jolting climax. Both girls froze in their embrace, then hurried off the small stage and out of the room.