Seal Team Seven 6 - Battleground

by Keith Douglass

Five minutes later, the cook, a smiling little Italian man from the Bronx, explained the problem. "General, sir. We have no turkey, no duck. I can prepare a feast for you from some chicken breasts, stuffing, mashed potatoes, giblet gravy, cranberries, peas and carrots, with fluffy dinner rolls and strawberry jam."

  General Maleceia frowned. "I can't make a turkey appear. All right, the chicken dinner. You have an hour. Now get to it." Back in the ambassador's suite, he broke open the locked liquor cabinet, selected a fine scotch, and poured himself a shot. That was so good he had two more. He didn't offer any to the major.

  "Oh, yes. Now, Major, we visit the hostages below."

  In the basement room, the general looked over the people. Some were still crying. He selected a young blonde girl he guessed was a secretary, and a slightly older redhead who looked to have some fire. Both were young and slender.

  "You two, go with the major."

  The women pulled back. The First Secretary, Frank Underhill, now in charge of the embassy, started forward.

  "At ease, all of you," said the general. "I'm not going to shoot these hostages. There's some secretarial work I need to take care of. Both you women can read and write, I assume?"

  They nodded.

  "Very well, go with the major."

  Upstairs in the ambassador's suite, the general closed the door, dismissed the major, and pushed the women into the bedroom.

  "Now, ladies, I want both of you to undress without a lot of tears or anger. As they used to say in Texas, you might as well relax and enjoy it. One way or another you're going to get fucked. Clear?"

  "You have no right ..." the redhead began. His look of anger and rage cut her off.

  The blonde girl began crying softly.

  "No," Maleceia thundered. The roar stopped her weeping. Slowly both disrobed. They turned their backs as they took off their underwear.

  "Turn around," the general demanded. They did, and he smiled. "Nice, extremely nice. I like big tits. You'll enjoy tonight. I've never disappointed a woman in my entire life." He watched them both, then moved first toward the blond woman. "You have a name?" he asked.

  "Sally," she said so softly he could barely hear.

  He faced her, and she shivered. The redhead behind him moved forward without a sound. He had taken a stance with his feet apart in front of the much shorter Sally, and reached both hands for her breasts.

  Marilee Zilke, a C-2 Field Agent with the CIA, moved the last few feet silently and kicked with her right foot as hard as she could. Her foot scraped past his thigh, and slammed into General Maleceia's crotch with crushing force. Only his thick military pants saved him from a shattered testicle. He lunged forward, almost lost his feet, then righted himself, and bent over for one long agonizing moment. Marilee darted forward, swung both of her hands made into one fist at the back of his neck, and drove the big man to his knees. She was about to kick him again when he turned, lifted his pistol, and fired six rounds into the CIA agent. She jolted backward three steps and crashed to the floor. He fired once more into her head, and turned to the weeping Sally.

  General Maleceia could hardly talk. He pointed to the bed, and Sally sat down on it.

  "No more trouble," he squeaked out. Sally had never seen a human being die before. She had shrieked in horror when the bullets hit Marilee. Now she couldn't utter a sound.

  The general pulled off his clothes, and stared down at the softly weeping secretary from Elbow Bend, Wisconsin.

  "Like I said, little lady, I've never disappointed a woman yet."

  6

  Monday, July 19

  1513 hours Wahhabi Air Base Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  Third Platoon had landed at Wahhabi ten minutes ago. There was a rush on, but Murdock led the SEALs in a ten-minute double-time workout around the edge of the taxi strip. Then they loaded into the U.S. Navy C-2A Greyhound, a two-engine turboprop cargo plane that had the ability to land on an aircraft carrier.

  The plane took off as soon as the SEALs had buckled in. Don Stroh had gone on the jog with them, and had been talking with Murdock. Now he motioned to one of the Navy airman on the ship, and he brought out box lunches for all seventeen of them from the base galley.

  "Not much, gentlemen, but something to last you for a couple of hours." The airman passed around chilled cans of Coke, and the SEALs grinned.

  Later, Stroh called the SEALs around, and waved at the familiar faces and the two new ones.

  "Another walk in the park, gentlemen. The President is really pissed about this one. We train this mountain of a man, and he goes back home and grabs control of the army and then takes over the whole fucking country. Promotes himself to general.

  "You know he knocked over the Roy Turner. Then he assaults and captures the U.S. Embassy in Nairobi. That just isn't done anymore. Not after Iran. So we move in and get some payback. He's asking for a hundred billion dollars in goods and materiel. Ransom. I guess he hasn't heard that the U.S. never pays ransom no matter who is kidnapped or taken hostage. That demand was B as in billions. The United States does not pay for hostages, not even two hundred of them. We also don't send bundles of goodies to dictators.

  "We'll be landing on the aircraft carrier USS Monroe in about three and a half hours. She's steaming south along the Somalia coast. Kenya is just south of Somalia. The captain of the carrier tells me he should be off Kenya or within chopper-infiltrating distance at about two A.M. tomorrow morning."

  Murdock took over. "Don, we've kicked this around during the past twenty hours, and the only way we can see to get in and get out of that embassy is with choppers. We'll need at least three, maybe six. That means protection to keep any snipers down and out of business until we can get in, take over the place, get our people freed and on rescue choppers. The birds will probably have to come in one at a time. Then we get the choppers safely in the air and head for the carrier."

  Stroh rubbed his face. He was the CIA contact between the platoon and the President. He outranked everyone from admirals right up to the Vice President.

  "I talked with Captain Prescott of the Monroe about an hour ago," Stroh said. "Given the three hundred miles between the coast and Nairobi, his thoughts were along the Same line as yours. There'll be no trouble getting cooperation from the admiral. His ship is at your disposal. I'd guess he got a special call from the President."

  Murdock took in what the CIA man said, and looked at his crew. "All right, let's plan this puppy from the ground up. What do we have to work with, the Seahawk?"

  Jaybird spoke. "The SH-60 Seahawk is an ASW chopper, but if they take out all of the missiles and depth charges, it should be able to carry twenty-five hostages with no luggage. The Seahawk has a range of seven-hundred-eighty-one miles at four-thousand-feet altitude, with auxiliary fuel. So the three hundred miles to Nairobi and back is no problem. We'll need two of them to exfiltrate the forty-one hostages."

  Magic Brown spoke up. "So to keep it all coordinated, we need another Seahawk to transport us in with all of our goodies, and to get us out of there without a lot of bullet holes in our hides."

  "That leaves our assault on the compound," Murdock said. "My guess is that this colonel-general will keep the hostages in the easiest place to contain them a basement room if there is one. Meaning we won't hit any friendlies when our gunships strafe hell out of the place to dislodge the crew that the fat man leaves there when he moves on."

  "Does this task force have any Cobras on board?" Miguel Fernandez, Gunners's Mate First Class, asked.

  "Not on the CVN, but there should be an amphib ship along in the fleet," Murdock said. "It's got a bunch of them. We've used them before. Only problem is they don't have the range. They top out at four hundred miles max. We'll have to go with something else."

  "What about a pair of F-14 Tomcats?" Joe Douglas asked. "They can't fire their missiles, but they can use their twenty-millimeter cannon."

  Murdock pointed his finger at Douglas. "Yeah, sounds about right. We'll talk with the flyboys about it."


  Stroh rubbed his face with one hand. "Damn, sounds too simple. Does Kenya have any air capability at all?"

  "You're the one who should know that," Murdock said. "Give your buddies in Langley a call and ask them. Whatever air they have, another pair of Tomcats riding a wide shotgun circle around the embassy should be enough to handle any trouble."

  "I'll ask them when we get a list of things," Stroh said. "Now, we need to know how to find this embassy. It's on 2249 R Street North West. Remember, Nairobi is a town of just over two million people. We don't want to blow up the wrong compound--say, strafe the hell out of the French Embassy."

  "The pilots will know how to find the place," Jaybird said. "That's their job. So we're in on the ground. What weapons do we take, our MP-5's and the M-4A1's?"

  Magic Brown chimed in. "We'll still need the sniper rifles and the MGs. Sounds like our usual weapons."

  Murdock looked at Ed DeWitt. "Ed?"

  "Regular shooters plus four fraggers for each man. It's close-in work. Kill House stuff. The MP-5 will do fine, but we won't need the suppressors. Get more range that way."

  "Agreed," Murdock said. "We all have our regular weapons, and a double load of ammo. We can get any more we need from the carrier's supply and stash it on board our chopper. Don't forget the forty-mike-mike grenades. Our side arm will be the Mark 23 again. This time we won't have that hellish long silencer, so be glad."

  "Looks like a regular shoot-and-scoot operation," Red Nicholson said.

  Murdock turned to Stroh. "My guess is the President doesn't want to wait another day on this. We get on station at 0200. Does he want us to jump on those choppers and head inland right then? The Seahawk will do about two hundred mph. That's an hour-and-a-half trip if we're right at the coast. If we're a hundred miles off the coast of Kenya when we launch, it'll take us two hours.

  "Stroh, talk to the skipper of the Monroe and see if he has three Seahawks and at least four F-14's we can use. Then find out how far we'll be from Nairobi at 0200."

  Stroh had been taking notes. He nodded, stood, and hurried up to the cockpit.

  Murdock looked at his crew. "Let's see if we can get some shut-eye. We'll need it. We can't make any more plans until we know for sure we can get the choppers we want."

  Monday, July 19

  1848 hours USS Monroe, CVN 81 Indian Ocean off Kenya

  The Greyhound COD landed on board the carrier after dark, and caught the two wire.

  "Any landing you can walk away from," Murdock said as he supervised the unloading of the cargo plane, and moving all of the SEALs' equipment, ammo, and collapsed IBSs to a spot where they could be loaded on one of the Seahawks.

  A white shirt, a safety guide, led Murdock and his men off the flight deck and into a mess hall where a hot meal waited for them steak, spare ribs, or fish, and all the trimmings.

  Murdock sat across from a three-striper who said his name was Commander Lewis.

  "We've made all the arrangements you asked for, Lieutenant. We have a new position for you. As of 0200 we will be about forty miles off the northern part of the Kenya coast. That's three hundred and thirty-five land miles from Nairobi. Flying time to your target in the Seahawk is about an hour and forty-one minutes.

  "First we thought of the Sea Knight. She hasn't got that kind of range. They top out at about four hundred twenty miles. The Seahawk is the right bird. We've stripped down three Seahawks for you, the SH-60B. They're ASW hunters. We've taken out the torpedoes, most of the armament, and the missiles. We'll move in to the three-mile limit and the Seahawks can get you there and back with a load of twenty hostages."

  "The KIAs, sir?" Murdock asked.

  "The dead will have to wait, Lieutenant. We don't expect this coup to last long. We've got plans."

  "The Seahawks it is, sir." Murdock looked at Don Stroh, who had his mouth full of steak. "Stroh, what about the timing?

  "Just got a signal from the White House. We are to begin the operation at the earliest possible time. Meaning as soon as we get on station about 0200."

  "Commander, what about the F-14s?" Murdock asked.

  "Yes, we'll go with the Tomcats. No missile firing but they can take a load of twenty-millimeter rounds and give you good close ground support."

  "Are they ready to roll?"

  "They will be ready when you are, Lieutenant. We'll send the Tomcats out well after you leave here so they can be on target and give an almost continuous attack starting fifteen minutes before you arrive at the embassy."

  Murdock stood. "Men, chow call ends in five minutes. At 0200 we'll be in the air. Let's move it."

  When the SEALs got to the Seahawks, the one the SEALs would ride in had been loaded with all of their gear and ammo except for the IBSS, which were stored. Murdock saw the F-14s roll out and two get positioned. They wouldn't take off for an hour yet. The Seahawks would be near the target when the Tomcats strafed the place with the 20mm cannon.

  Murdock settled back against the side of the chopper and thought it through again. Yes, they had the best scenario. They had an hour-and-forty-one-minute flight. By the time they got there, the compound would have been pounded by the Tomcats for ten or fifteen minutes. The SEALs' chopper would set down inside or on the street close to the embassy, and his team would charge in and take out any Kenyan soldiers left there alive.

  The other two Seahawks would wait for an all-clear signal to come in to pick up the hostages. The first twenty would go out in the chopper the SEALs arrived in.

  Murdock saw four of the SEALs sleeping. Good. Nobody was wound up tight. This should be a walk in the park.

  An hour and a half later, he was in the cockpit of the chopper looking down at the U.S. Embassy grounds. A Tomcat swept down, fired a salvo of 20mm rounds, and slanted up and away. The radio chattered.

  "Slowboy, that you? Sweepers ready to retire and circle. Be available for any special targets."

  "Sweepers, this is Slowboy, we're approaching. Any more visitors?"

  "We'll watch for any mounted reinforcements coming in by land. Expect no air. Our last run completed. Good hunting."

  The Seahawk pilot looked over at Murdock. "Get ready, Lieutenant, we're going in. See down there in the spotlight? There's an area just this side of the main building where I can set down. Close, but I can make it. You want us to hold or take off?"

  "There'll be sortie damn angry rebels down there. You scoot, and come back when you see a red flare. Shouldn't take long. Looks like the Tomcats did a good job."

  Three minutes later, the tricycle landing gear on the Seahawk touched the Kenyan dirt inside the enclosure, and the crewman jerked open the side hatch. Murdock hit the ground running, and heard the rest of Third Platoon right behind him. That was when they took the first enemy small-arms fire.

  Tuesday, July 20

  0341 hours U.S. Embassy basement Nairobi, Kenya

  Frank Underhill heard the jet plane roaring past again, then the explosions above. He wondered if there would be anything left of the embassy. For the past fifteen minutes the jets had been attacking the rebels above who defended the grounds. None of the Kenyan soldiers had tried to enter the basement room.

  Underhill and the two Marines had barricaded the doors, and put a two-by-four through the large handles of the doors. They opened inward. The two-by-four would need to be broken to get the doors open. At least no Kenyan could rush in and machine-gun them all.

  Underhill's shot-up arm hurt like fire. He tried to forget about it. Two women clung to each other. They had been that way since the strafing began. He saw several people with their eyes closed and their lips moving as they fingered their rosary beads. The woman with the bad chest wound had quietly died about an hour ago. There was nothing they could do for her except hold her hand.

  Somebody was going to pay.

  "Mr. Underhill," someone said beside him. He looked up at the big Marine. "Sir, you think we should open the door yet?"

  "No. Not until the firing stops. What's happening
up there, Sergeant?"

  "Well, the strafing is done. They were bigger rounds than machine guns. Maybe twenty-millimeter cannon. Makes a nasty mess if it hits someone. Then I'd think, with the jets pulled up, some assault choppers would come in. Only I don't know where they'd come from.

  "Course the jets came from somewhere, maybe a Navy carrier. So they would have some choppers. Could be a detachment of Marines from the carrier."

  They heard the stutter of automatic fire from above. Someone pounded on the basement doors and fired some rounds at it, but the steel door held and wasn't penetrated by the rifle slugs.

  The marine sergeant nodded. "Oh, yeah, the guys on top have auto M-16's, or maybe some other automatic weapon. Bet they give them Kenyan GIs a bad time. Wish to hell I was up there with an M-16 and about twenty magazines. Damn!"

  A woman wailed in the far corner, and Underhill went over to try to calm her. He hoped that he could.

  Lieutenant Murdock sprinted to the stub of a block wall, and dove behind it. He heard rounds going over his head. Single shots. Good. He saw Magic hit the ground down about ten feet, and a moment later Ron Holt skidded in beside him. Holt was the radio operator for the platoon, and carried his ever-present radio. It was the AN/PRC-117D. It was extremely compact at fifteen inches high and eight inches deep. It weighed only fifteen pounds, and was the most sophisticated tactical radio in the world. They called it the SATCOM. It could send and receive UHF satellite communications on the SATCOM. That meant it could reach literally anywhere in the world. It could use UHF line of sight to talk to the Tomcats or the choppers above. With VHF or FM, it could use the bands that most of the world's armies use.

  Changing bands was easy as flipping a switch and deploying the right antenna. Its power could go from ten watts maximum down to .1 watt to reduce enemy interception. An encryption system was embedded in the hardware, and the crypto keys could be changed daily by punching in a new set of numbers. It could transmit in voice, data, or video, and with a special interface could even link into the worldwide cellular telephone system.

  Murdock could talk directly with the CIA in Washington or the President.