Seal Team Seven 6 - Battleground

by Keith Douglass

  The commander rolled out drawings of the ship with overlays that showed in detail the areas of access, and how to get from one part of the frigate to another. The SEALs crowded around and started memorizing everything they could about the layout of a U.S. Navy frigate.

  At the end of the two hours, every SEAL in the room knew a lot more about how he would attack the Roy Turner.

  The commander rolled up his displays and held up his hand.

  "Men, I wish you luck, and keep the damned machine operable. As soon as you have the vessel secure, a skeleton crew from my frigate will be boarding the Turner to sail her out to sea. Be careful, but be thorough. Find all of those murdering bastards. I don't want to lose any of my crewmen."

  16

  Wednesday, July 21

  1415 hours RX Military Headquarters Nairobi, Kenya

  General Umar Maleceia paced his office, blowing one blast of cigar smoke after another into the already too-warm room.

  "How could they do it? I sent two hundred men in there to put down that raid on the prison, and all hundred and sixty prisoners still got away? You're telling me that they all escaped and got on U.S. Navy hovercraft and charged out to sea? The one hundred and sixty hostages I had in the prison all got away?"

  "Yes, my general. There were the jets strafing the prison, and then they had direct hits on our trucks that brought in the men. The men couldn't fight back against hundreds of rounds of twenty-millimeter cannon fire. I'm sorry, my general."

  "You're sorry? Hell, we lose this fight and you'll be hanged, you know that, don't you?"

  The colonel nodded.

  "So, what do we have left? The ship, the stinking little frigate we captured at dockside. How many men we have guarding it?"

  "There are twenty-four men under Lieutenant Elijah Koinange. He's a fine officer."

  "Have you heard from him today?"

  "No, sir."

  "Didn't you give him one of our new radios?"

  "Yes, Sir. I'll get in contact with him at once."

  "If the bastards rescued the crew from the prison, sure as hell they'll try for the ship too."

  Colonel Kariuki saluted and hurried out the door.

  General Maleceia continued to pace. He'd had it in his grasp. He'd had the embassy and forty hostages. Then he'd had the ship and a hundred and sixty hostages. What the hell went wrong? He shook his head, and took a long pull from the glass of bourbon on his desk. Too many things had gone wrong.

  There was still time. He would hold the U.S. Navy ship. Send five hundred of his best rangers to pitch camp on the docks with all of their heavy weapons. Yes, that would do it. He looked at the list of the units he had in Mombasa. Not a lot.

  He had sent his Fifth Infantry to the prison. A late report showed that they had suffered nearly fifty percent casualties, including more than seventy percent of the officers. That unit was out of service.

  The Second Infantry was fifty miles north of Mombasa in a blocking position. Two hundred men, two tanks, and 81mm mortars. Yes. He'd get them moving almost at once.

  Colonel Kariuki came rushing into the room, then slowed. He held up a piece of paper.

  "General, it seems there have been some attacks on our guards left on the American ship. Two men were killed last night, and some arms and grenades were stolen. Lieutenant Koinange has no explanation other than that there must be some American sailors hiding on the ship and attacking during the night." General Maleceia threw his drink across the room. The glass shattered on the far wall.

  "Idiots! Why am I surrounded by idiots? He was told to search the ship and make sure there was no one hiding. Idiot. Have that lieutenant relieved and broken to a corporal with a note on his personnel file that he is never to be promoted any higher.

  "Then, send an order to the Second Infantry posted fifty miles north of Mombasa to de-camp and proceed today to the dock beside the American ship. They are to get there before dark, and let their supplies and equipment follow. I want them in place before dark and ready to fight.

  "If the Americans try to retake their ship, they will find a new fighting spirit facing them. Go now, Colonel. I'm making it your responsibility to get those troops there on time if you have to carry them on your back."

  Colonel Kariuki let a frown tinge his face. "But General, Sir. We have less than five hours until full darkness. It will be impossible for any but a few truckloads of the troops to be in place by ..."

  General Maleceia turned, and stared hard at his second in command. The colonel stopped talking, took a deep breath, then ran out of the office.

  For the first time in two days, General Umar Maleceia smiled.

  1425 hours Mackinnon Road Kenya

  Major Merit Mudodo looked at the dispatch his radioman had just brought him

  MOVE YOUR UNIT AT ONCE TO THE DOCKS AT MOMBASA NEXT TO CAPTURED US NAVY VESSEL. YOU MUST BE IN PLACE BEFORE DARK TODAY. USE TRANSPORT. MOVE NOW.

  He called in his second in command, who read it.

  "A joke, Sir."

  "No joke, not with Colonel Kariuki's name on it. Get the troops alerted now. We move out in fifteen minutes. How many trucks do we have?"

  "Six big ones, maybe five smaller that will run. Sir, it's over fifty miles to Mombasa and at this time of day, the roads will be crowded, and it's market day, and-"

  "We use sirens and gunfire and move everyone any way we can. We must be on that dock before dark and ready to fight. Issue ammunition to squad leaders. They are to issue it to the men ten miles outside of Mombasa. Move, now, Captain, move."

  They didn't leave camp in fifteen minutes. Two of the big trucks wouldn't start. Mechanics worked on them, and they were ordered to make them start and bring their loads of men as quickly as possible.

  That left four heavy trucks, each jammed with twenty men. Four of the personnel carriers were working, and could each carry ten men. Three utility rigs held four men each.

  It was nearly two hours before the convoy pulled onto the road. Major Mudodo led them. He punched his utility rig up to forty miles an hour, but found the big trucks couldn't keep up with him. He slowed to thirty miles an hour and established that, then gradually crept up to thirty-five. At that rate they would make the fifty miles in two hours. It was market day. The road was jammed.

  That would make it 1815, just to get to the outskirts of Mombasa. If he remembered right, he knew the way to the docks, but Mombasa was a big city, the traffic that time of day would be terrible, and they would have only an hour left then to darkness. If they made it to the docks by 1900, it would be a miracle. That was the same time for sunset that day.

  He crept the speed up to forty miles an hour, but the convoy fell behind. Captain Mudodo swore, and told the driver to ease off to thirty again.

  Long before they came to Mombasa itself, the road was jammed with market day people going home. His driver was constantly on the horn, and twice the captain had fired a burst from his Uzi submachine gun into the sky to move people aside.

  The sun went down a half hour before they came to the Kipevu Causeway to get onto Mombasa Island. They still had three kilometers to travel down the harbor frontage road to Pier 12. Captain Mudodo wondered how long his military career would last. He had gone over to General Maleceia reluctantly, but at the time it seemed the best thing to do. Now he was questioning it. He had 132 men with what ammunition they could carry and some in reserve, but not much. If it came to a firefight, he couldn't hold out for long. He prayed that 132 men standing guard over the ship would be enough.

  1840 hours USS Monroe, CVN 81 Off Mombasa, Kenya

  Lieutenant Blake Murdock had made a final inspection of his men. Ed DeWitt had done the same. Each SEAL had a silenced weapon, and his silenced Mark 23 pistol. They wore their darker jungle cammies, and had camouflage paint in various shades on their faces, especially their ears and noses, which could catch light easily. This was billed as a dry operation, so they didn't have their rebreathers or wet suits.

  Murdock had everyone
in the two IBSs by his Time of Departure, and now the fifteen-foot-long Zodiac-type rubber boats slashed through calm seas toward the coast. The Monroe had edged to within four miles of the shore, but would come no closer. At eighteen knots, the IBSs could cover the distance to the Mombasa bay in twelve to fifteen minutes.

  "Should be dark right about 1900," Murdock told Jaybird.

  "That gives us the run up to the ship in the dark, so we should be invisible," Jaybird said. "Hope that Kenyan Navy patrol boat isn't snooping around."

  "We've got the SATCOM, Holt?"

  "Right, L-T, up and running."

  "We've got two Hornet F/A-18s for air cover if we need them. Rather do this quietly, but you never can tell."

  The whispers stopped. A brisk wind gave them a small chop to the ocean now, but it didn't slow them down. It meant they held on to the handholds a little tighter.

  "Remember, the rail is only twenty to twenty-four feet off the water, depending on what part of the ship we hit," Murdock said. "We have the blind spot on the port side from amidships aft for twenty feet.

  "Nobody on the bridge or the flight deck on the fantail can see us. But then I don't expect these Army guys to have a Navy-type watch."

  Soon they passed the little town called Likoni on the left-hand side of the channel. It looked about the same. They were quiet now, and darkness was complete. They throttled back to twelve knots to make less noise, and less of a wake in case anyone watched for them.

  At twelve knots, it would take a little longer, but their approach had to be quiet. They figured about three and a half klicks to the pier where the Roy Turner was berthed. Another twelve to fifteen minutes, maybe five more than that.

  The second IBS trailed Murdock's boat by twenty yards. Ed DeWitt was ready with his squad. They would go up the stern onto the chopper flight deck and secure it, then work forward.

  Silence was the key. Even the grapple hooks they would throw over the rails had been wrapped with rope to cushion the sound when they hit metal.

  The mission looked to be on schedule and on track to Murdock. Another ten minutes and they would be there.

  Then Murdock's boat engine went dead.

  Ken Ching swore and bent over the thirty-five-hp outboard trying to get it started. DeWitt idled his boat up beside them.

  Ken Ching swore again. He tried ten times. It wouldn't start. Murdock had been checking his watch. He waved to DeWitt. The other boat came up and bumped them. The men held the two craft together.

  "Hey, sailor, give a guy a tow?" Murdock asked.

  "Sure, if that means I have salvage rights, law of the sea."

  "We're in port."

  "Oh." A minute later DeWitt's boat growled along on full throttle towing the second IBS. They were making about five knots.

  "Makes us thirty minutes late getting on-site," Jaybird said. Murdock nodded. "If they don't know we're coming, thirty minutes don't mean squat. Let's see how it plays."

  17

  Wednesday, July 21

  1920 hours Dockside Roy Turner Mombasa, Kenya

  Gunner's Mate First Class Pete Vuylsteke eased up and looked down the passageway. Nobody. It was dark outside. They hadn't heard anyone in their section of the Turner for an hour. Probably gorging themselves on the chief's mess stores.

  He lifted up from the ladder and ran across the passage that led to the quarterdeck and into the aft section of the ship. He heard Perez and Tretter right behind him. They went down a companionway, up two more ladders, and came out where he wanted to be.

  He flattened out on the broad deck aft of the stack on the superstructure. They were in the open on the top of the ship, and with a minimum of movement they could cover either side of the frigate.

  They had brought their weapons. None of them were silenced, and if they started shooting, they had to be able to defend themselves until they could get down to the roof of the hangar, where they could take a flying dive into the bay.

  "Yeah, let's do it," Perez had said. "I'm getting too fucking tired of sitting in the bilge. My ass hurts. At least we'll be in the open."

  They had talked it over all afternoon, and when it had started getting dark outside, they'd worked up to the top deck. It was so easy, they wondered where all the Kenyans were. They spotted some of them prowling the weather deck.

  "Damn poor place for lookouts," Tretter said.

  "What the hell, they're shit-kickers, not sailors," Vuylsteke said. He grinned. "Hey, you guys know that, by rules of the sea, I am now the Captain and commanding officer of the Roy Turner."

  Tretter snorted.

  Perez laughed. "Be damned, you're the senior man, all right. Okay, Captain, what the hell we doing next?"

  Before any of them could answer they heard the growl of a truck with lights off edging onto the pier.

  "Oh, shit, reinforcements. Tretter, can you kill the driver with your AK?"

  It was a fifty-yard shot at most. Tretter cranked in a round, sighted on the right-hand side of the glinting windshield, and fired. The round slammed through the windshield, but missed the driver. Tretter's second round punched through the man's chest, and the truck stalled.

  The two shots from the ship brought a yell from a ranger on the deck below near the frigate's torpedo tubes. Vuylsteke aimed the shotgun at him and fired. The load of double-aught buck didn't spread as much as smaller pellets, and six of the thirteen slugs hit the ranger in the chest and slammed him halfway over the rail, where he hung like a ripped rag doll.

  They saw no one else on deck. They had the high ground. The only way anyone could get above them would be to climb the mast.

  "We just started the shit hitting the fan," Perez said. "Now the fun begins."

  They saw a line of men come out of the shadows where the truck had stalled and walk forward.

  "Two more rounds in the radiator to kill the truck," Vuylsteke said. "Then nail some of those troops coming up the pier."

  The men in green were out of range of the short guns, but they wouldn't be long. The three sailors also had the bag of hand grenades. Perez had counted them the night before, twenty-one in all. They could do a lot of damage.

  The sailors began taking return fire from the troops on the pier. They edged back so the superstructure would protect them. Tretter moved up now and then to send off a pair of shots into the growing line of men.

  "Close enough yet?" Vuylsteke asked.

  "Not for the sub-gun, the shotgun, or the grenades. But we can all use our long guns."

  "How far can you throw one of them bombs?" Vuylsteke asked.

  "I used to play some baseball, outfield. Hell, guess I can get it out there sixty yards."

  "Give one a try," Vuylsteke said. "Remember, you'll get a bounce on that concrete."

  Perez grinned and pulled the pin from the smooth round M-67 grenade, then lifted up and threw it like a baseball with plenty of body in it. He dropped down at once.

  Vuylsteke lifted up to watch the bomb. It went about thirty yards down the pier, bounced another ten yards, and went off while it was still in the air.

  "An air burst," Vuylsteke yelped. "Must have cut down half a dozen of them bad guys down there."

  "Take a shot," Perez said, tossing two grenades to Vuylsteke. He pitched one, not as far as Perez's had gone, but the troops had moved up ten yards and he saw them scatter when they heard the bomb hit the concrete. It came down before it exploded, and he heard a dozen men yell in pain and confusion.

  "Aft," Tretter bellowed.

  Perez turned, holding the sub-gun, and hit the trigger. Two green-clad Kenyan rangers had just come past the 76mm gun mount. Perez squeezed the trigger on the little jammer and spewed out ten rounds before he let up. One of the rangers went down, the other dove the other way. Tretter nailed him with a round from the AK-47.

  "Get their weapons and ammo," Vuylsteke said.

  "Good idea," Perez said, and ran bent over to the two dead men and brought back their two AK-47s and six magazines of rounds.

&
nbsp; "Tretter, keep watch fore and aft. We'll entertain the troops below."

  Each one threw a hand grenade, and before it exploded they had the AK-47s up laying down a deadly field of fire at the string of rangers who had stopped moving forward. They were still less than halfway down the side of the frigate.

  Murdock and his SEALs were three hundred yards away from the softly lit Roy Turner when they heard firing. Jaybird looked at his commander, who held up his hands in an I-don't-know gesture. They kept moving at five knots.

  "Hand grenades," Murdock said. "Somebody's got a shooting gallery going up there."

  A few minutes later, they heard the flat crack of rifle fire.

  "AK-47s, you can bet your bippy," Holt said.

  They all huddled low in the black rubber boats. The motors had been muffled down to a quiet rumble. Now the firing onshore blocked out any sound the motors made.

  They had worked out the debarking earlier. DeWitt would power them up to the port side of the frigate midships. They would throw up their grappling hooks, and get four men up ropes quickly to the weather deck. Those would cover the other four coming up.

  DeWitt would take his powered IBS to the stern, send his men up grapple-hook ropes there, and work forward.

  "Who is shooting at who?" Jaybird asked.

  Murdock shook his head. "Whoever it is is doing us one hell of a big favor. All eyes will be on the dock, leaving us home free."

  They were thirty yards from the ship when two dark-clad men ran out the quarterdeck door. They didn't look into the harbor; rather they looked up at the superstructure and fired shotguns that way.

  "Take them," Murdock whispered. Two men with silenced M-4A1 carbines rose up and fired three-round bursts almost at the same time. The two Kenyan shotgunners slammed against the bulkhead and dropped. One began to crawl away. Another three-round burst stopped him.

  On the aft deck of the superstructure, Vuylsteke saw they were running short on hand grenades. They had kept the Kenyan troopers back so they couldn't get on board the Turner.

  "Check the port side," Vuylsteke told Tretter. Tretter edged across the flat deck, and looked down on the water side.