Seal Team Seven 6 - Battleground

by Keith Douglass

  "The redheaded woman was our CIA agent. I'm sure she put up a fight. She'd know the time to pick. Damned shame. Both fine women, both of them." He paused a moment. "We're taking out our dead, of course."

  DeWitt shook his head. "Sorry, but we don't have the capacity on our aircraft. We'll be back soon to claim them. We won't leave them here for long. You have the U.S. Navy's word on that."

  The wounded were led up first. DeWitt picked out twenty people, including the wounded and the distraught, and kept them inside on the first floor until the big Seahawk chopper landed and the dust cloud blew away.

  The SEALS spread out as security around the landed Seahawk as the civilians ran to it and climbed on board. Underhill declined to go on the first bird.

  Just as the first Seahawk took off, Holt ran to Murdock. "Better listen to this, LT. I switched to the pilot's frequency."

  "Roger that, Sweepers. You have two incoming blips about eighty miles out."

  "Slowboy, we figure they're Kenyan jets. Arms unknown."

  "Sweepers, just lifting off number-one Slowboy. Suggest you splash the bogies if they don't ID."

  "Just had clearance from Home Plate to do that. No change in their course or speed."

  Murdock frowned. Eighty miles. In the age of jet interceptors that was like bayonet fighting. Say the Kenyan jets were old, could only do only a thousand miles an hour. That was still seventeen miles a minute. In five minutes they would be here. He needed probably fifteen minutes to land, load, and launch each of the last two choppers.

  DeWitt's voice came over the Motorola. "Hey, Boss, we've got three bad-guy weapons carriers heading our way. Not more than two blocks down the street. Can't be sure, but looks like they have fifty-calibers mounted on top."

  8

  Tuesday, July 20

  0353 hours U.S. Embassy compound Nairobi, Kenya

  Radar Intercept Officer Lieutenant Satterlee checked his screens in the back seat of the Tomcat high over Nairobi. "Cap, we're tracking on both the targets. We have a weapons-free order yet?"

  "Soon, my boy, soon. Stay on the first target." That was the front-seat jockey of the Grumman F-14D Tomcat, Lieutenant Commander Harley Allison.

  "Still tracking," RIO Satterlee said. "Range sixty-five miles. We'll go with a Phoenix launch if we get a chance. The bogie might turn tail and run when his radar picks us UP."

  "A chance, but we hope he doesn't."

  The AIM-54-C Phoenix is unique in U.S. armaments. It's a 985-pound missile with a range of over 120 miles and a speed of just over Mach 5. In the U.S. arsenal it can be fired only by the F-14 Tomcat with its advanced AWG-9 radar-guidance system. The Tomcat's radar was a set-to-track-while-scanning system, and could lock onto six separate targets and guide missiles simultaneously to all six locations.

  "Range fifty miles, Cap. I see no indication of enemy radar locking on us."

  "Just got a weapons-free signal from Home Plate. Sat, let one fly."

  "That's a fox three from Eagle One," Satterlee said, giving the aviator's code words for a Phoenix launch and his own ship's ID.

  Satterlee hit the launch button, and the Tomcat bounced higher as it dropped the half ton of missile from its belly. The Phoenix ignited at once under the Tomcat, and jolted forward at more than three times the speed of the Tomcat, leaving a contrail streaming after it.

  "Missile-away," Allison said. He brought the Tomcat into a hard climbing turn, then pushed the wheel forward, slamming his bird downward toward the Kenyan countryside below. It was a maneuver designed to shake an enemy missile if one had been coming at them.

  Then Allison put the bird in a hard climb.

  On the ground, Murdock took the mike from Holt. "Sweepers, this is Ground. We could use some help down here. Anybody listening?"

  "Eagle Two, I'm with you, Ground."

  "We've got three half-track weapons carriers coming up from the north toward the compound. You won't be able to see them, but they're about a block out along that north-south street that runs right along the compound. Welcome them if you can. We need another twenty minutes here minimum."

  The second Seahawk had set down in the compound, and Murdock fought the cloud of dust. He wiped his eyes and spat twice.

  "Eagle Two, you copy?"

  "Roger that, Ground. Yes, I have the road. I'll make my run away from the compound. Don't expect any miracles with the twenties."

  Almost before the transmission ended, Murdock heard the jet coming in. Most of the sound on a jet goes out the rear burners, but they give off a sound wave in front as well as they rip through the air at an operational speed of 1,342 knots per hour. The Tomcat flashed over the compound at less than a hundred feet, firing repeatedly at the vehicles a block away. Then it swept up, vanishing in the night sky.

  "DeWitt, that do any good?" Murdock asked on his Motorola.

  "Scared two fucking months' growth out of me," DeWitt answered. "Looks like one of the rigs is dead in the water, the second one is wounded. Here comes the third one. Wish we had our own fifty."

  DeWitt brought three of his men up with the M-4A1s, and had them start lobbing HE 40mm grenades out of the M203 launchers under the barrels.

  Ted Yates set up his HK-21A1 on top of the wall, and began blasting the confused half-track men with the 7.62mm rounds from the machine gun. Six men went down before the rest ran for cover in neighboring houses and stores. The third weapons carrier turned forward, and the .50-caliber machine gun stuttered, slamming the big rounds into the block wall.

  Yates slid off the top of the wall and hunted for a better-protected spot. Adams, Bishop, and Lampedusa all worked their .40mm grenades on the half-track. They switched to Willy Peter, and the white phosphorus blazed white trails across the top of the carrier, and brought some wails of anguish as the intensely burning phosphorus burned straight through wood, leather, canvas, and human flesh.

  When the dust cloud eased, Jaybird Sterling had the last twenty-one hostages waiting to run from the front door to the Seahawk. The last one on board was Underhill. When he was sure all of his people were safely inside the bird, he stepped in, and the craft jolted into the air and raced toward the coast.

  The next Seahawk came down almost immediately. The dust from the takeoff hadn't even cleared.

  Murdock was on the Motorola. "DeWitt, get your men up here. We've got transport. I say again. We have transport. Fall back to my position south of the main building to our LZ. Move, move, move."

  All the men in the Second Squad heard it. Bishop got off one more shot, and saw his WP land just in front of the slowly moving half-track and spray the engine, cab, and body with the burning chemical. Then he ran for the side of the main embassy building, and down to where he could see the Seahawk with its big top rotor swinging around.

  "Twelve, thirteen, fourteen," Murdock counted. "Where are the last two?"

  "We need Jaybird and Magic Brown," DeWitt said between gasps for air. He'd sprinted 150 yards, and the last batch of air had been loaded with dust.

  Jaybird materialized out of the dust helping Magic Brown, who limped badly. Eager hands pulled both on board.

  "Go, go, go," Murdock bellowed. A crewman slammed the side door shut, and the bird jumped off the ground like a frightened deer.

  "You still set for the flyboys?" Murdock asked Holt, who sat on the floor of the chopper beside the L-T.

  Holt nodded, and handed Murdock the mike.

  "Eagle Two, this is Ground."

  "Have you, Ground. Is your last Slowboy off the deck?"

  "Roger that, Eagle Two. Off and moving. Thanks for the twenties down the road. You saved our bones back there. That last weapons carrier was bearing down on us."

  "All in a night's work."

  "What happened to the two jets coming in?"

  "Eagle One splashed one out about sixty miles. His buddy turned his afterburner on and gunned back the way he came. We have no EFF on them. They didn't respond to our friendly signal, so we know they weren't the good guys."


  "Thanks again. You going home?"

  "Going to do a little cover work until you get wet; then we'll break it off."

  Murdock gave the mike back to Holt, and moved among his men checking them. They had some scrapes and gouges. Nothing Band-Aids wouldn't cure. Then he looked at Magic Brown. The corpsman on the chopper worked on Brown's leg.

  "Sir, this man took a round through his thigh. I don't know how he even walked, let alone ran. Said he got it early on. Don't think it hit a bone, but the doctors will tell us that for sure. He's going to be resting up for a week or so."

  Magic Brown snorted. "Hell, little scratch like that won't slow me down none. Got me some work to do. We still got to get that fucking ship back in U.S. hands."

  The corpsman grinned.

  Murdock shrugged. "Hey, he's not your ordinary sailor. This man's a SEAL. Usually bullets bounce off Brown. Don't know what happened this time."

  Magic Brown gave Murdock a thumbs-up. Then the morphine worked its magic and he dozed.

  In the middle chopper, a corpsman looked over two slightly wounded embassy people. Nothing serious. Then he checked Underhill's arm. "Sir, have you had any medication?"

  "No. None available."

  "I'll give you a shot of morphine. That's a serious arm wound. We'll have the doctors ready for you when we get in. A little under two hours and we'll have you on board the carrier. Your other people are all in good shape. About half of them are sleeping."

  First Secretary and Acting Ambassador to Kenya Frank Underhill nodded wearily. He hardly felt the injection. So many of the embassy people had died. They had to go back and get them. Had to. They just had to. America didn't leave its dead for the butchers to desecrate. Had to go back and get them.

  Then he slept.

  9

  Tuesday, July 20

  0628 hours USS Monroe, CVN 81 Indian Ocean off Kenya

  Six of the hostages needed medical attention, but First Secretary Frank Underhill was not among them. He was in the Carrier Intelligence Center talking by SATCOM to the State Department in Washington. He told them what had happened, and how the Ambassador had been murdered. He asked for instructions.

  Below in the hospital, Murdock watched the doctor treat Magic Brown's leg wound.

  "The round missed the bone, which is good," the doctor said. "I'd suggest at least a week of limited duty. That means stay off that leg until it gets a chance to do some healing. You're a SEAL?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then you're grounded for two weeks." The doctor nodded at Murdock, who was still in his dirty cammies, and left.

  "Two weeks?" Brown asked. "He's got to be kidding. When do we go back after that ship?"

  "Not sure, but the ship won't be next. We've got a hundred and sixty sailors somewhere in a jail. State still has some contacts in the Mombasa area. They're trying to find out where the colonel stashed our guys. Then we move."

  "I'll be ready by morning," Brown said. He shook his head and blinked. "They give me a shot?"

  Murdock grinned. "Something's got to knock you out. You have a good sleep, and we'll talk tomorrow."

  The hostages had been given quarters, showers, clean uniforms if they wanted them, and the option of having dinner or sleeping. All but one went for the midnight supper. Murdock's men were fed in the crew mess, and then hit their own berths.

  Murdock went topside with Don Stroh to find out if they had an intel yet on where the crewmen were being held in Mombasa.

  Stroh leaned back in a chair and scowled. "Murdock you look like hell warmed over. How long you been up now, thirty-six or forty-eight hours?"

  "Long enough. Any news from Mombasa?"

  "State made contact with a newsman there they use now and then. He has a SATCOM radio. Said he warned State about the coup almost thirty-six hours before it happened. He's trying to find out where the sailors are. Most likely in the Indian Ocean Prison on the outskirts of Mombasa. Remember, that's a big town, over six hundred thousand."

  "He give any time when he might have the information?"

  "Said he just didn't know. Might be a few hours, might be two days. He doesn't want the colonel to come calling and blow his head off."

  "Right. We can use some sleep anyway, and some more food in the morning. You wake me up the minute we know the location so we can start planning."

  "Choppers again?"

  "Not sure. Depends how far from the bay it is. We can get ashore in the IBSS. But if it's ten miles to the lockup, we don't want to walk. We'll see. Remember, give me a call if you get the location."

  Murdock found his sleeping quarters, showered, and flaked out on the bunk. He was sleeping before he knew it.

  Tuesday, July 20

  1630 hours

  Murdock got up, showered, ate dinner, and then went to the room that Don Stroh had taken over as his headquarters. The CIA man worked on a third cup of coffee.

  "Nothing yet. Hey, it's been slow over there on-shore. He should get something tonight. D.C. said he'd give us a call here direct."

  Murdock waved. "Going to check on my men."

  He found them cleaning weapons, checking equipment, and grousing about it. Jaybird had them toeing the line. Ed DeWitt came in with a sour expression and a cup of coffee.

  "Don't think I slept an hour. I kept seeing those two women that the colonel slaughtered. He's got to go down. Wouldn't mind doing that job myself."

  Murdock agreed with him, then brought the men up to date on the next step.

  "The crew off the Turner is our next target. We're not sure yet where they are or how we go get them. We have the IBSs and all the choppers we need. There must be some fast launches we could call on too for close-in work in that bay. First, we need more information."

  "How's Magic?" Fernandez asked.

  "Mean and lean. I'm surprised he isn't down here."

  "I checked him this morning," Lieutenant DeWitt said. "He was boiling because they took away his uniform. He's only got that little white robe that ties in back." The men roared with laughter imagining Magic making his escape bare-assed.

  "Think he'll be with us on the next op?" Jaybird asked.

  "The round took about two inches of meat, missed the bone. If Brown can walk, we'll play hell to breakfast to keep him out of the next run. We'll wait and see. Lot depends how soon we saddle up."

  "We could start some planning," Jaybird said. "Like what we do if the place they have the guys is right on the bay, or if it's five miles inland."

  "Shoot," Murdock said.

  For the next hour they kicked around ideas about what to do and how to do it. It could all be wasted effort, or they might have a foundation to work on when the word came down.

  A half hour later Don Stroh came into the big room where the SEALs were quartered, and at once the place went quiet.

  Stroh looked around. "Hey, I didn't kill anybody. What's going on?"

  "Any word?" Murdock asked.

  "Words, yes, but not the right ones. Got two messages for you, though. On paper." He handed two sheets to Murdock. They had come straight from the encryption machine. The first was from the Secretary of State.

  Murdock read it out loud. "Lieutenant Murdock. SEAL Team Seven. Congratulations on pulling our people out of Nairobi. Excellent work. Tell your men well done. We wish you success on the rest of the mission. The whole State Department congratulates your team." Below he read the name of the sender "Mable L. Thorndyke, Secretary of State."

  "What the fuck, somebody noticed," Red Nicholson said. "Usually we're the deepest darkest secret in town."

  "True," Stroh said. "But this one wasn't exactly covert. Some talk of getting you guys some ink on this one. What's the other one, Lieutenant?"

  Murdock switched the pages and looked at the next message. He glanced at the bottom of the page first. It was over the name of the President.

  "Lieutenant Murdock and SEALS, Third Platoon, SEAL Team Seven," it read. "Please accept our sincere appreciation for the outstanding job you and you
r men did getting the forty hostages away from the rebel Kenyans and safely back to the carrier. We commend you, and offer you the thanks of the entire nation--even though the american people probably will never realize the service you performed in their name.

  "I know your mission isn't complete there, and we and the White House family and staff wish you a safe and successful completion of your work. Thanks again." The typed name on the paper was "Wilson Anderson, President."

  "Who's that one from?" Ken Ching asked.

  "Just some guy in Washington," Murdock said. They yelled at him until he held up his hand. "Okay, just don't get swelled heads. We got much work to do yet."

  He read it aloud, and when he finished, the men were quiet.

  "Well, somebody knows that we exist," Ron Holt said.

  "Oh, Washington knows about you," Stroh said. "The President and the Director of the CIA are most aware of you and your work. That's why you're on that special string that goes from the President to the Director of the CIA and down to me and then to you. Congratulations. Now, what were you doing? Didn't mean to interrupt." He grinned. "The hell I didn't. I'm getting back upstairs to wait for that damn radio to start talking to us."

  When he left, Doc Ellsworth looked at Murdock. "L-T, how long you think it will be before we know our target?"

  "My guess, sometime tonight, and we'll go in as soon as possible. That means we wrap this and have some sack time right after chow. I don't want any of you falling asleep on me with bullets flying around."

  Sunday, July 18

  0613 hours Pita's apartment Mombasa, Kenya

  Olie Tretter watched the Kenyan-Arab woman go out the door and close it. They heard her lock it from the outside. Tretter let out a long breath.

  "Man, I have been at sea too long. That is one fine mama."

  "She's finer yet if she can save our fucking tails from the locals," Vuylsteke snapped. He regretted it at once. He hadn't slept well last night on those boards. "Easy, guys," Rafe Perez said. "She looked cool to me. She hates the colonel and his Army. Looks like she will keep our secret hoping we can help her."