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Red Cell Page 33

by Richard Marcinko


  Below the mess deck lies the engineering space. In the old days, that meant a bunch of snipes working on boilers. Today, it normally means just one gauge-watcher, who sits monitoring the fully automated power plant. When the tanker enters confined waterways, there’s usually also someone in the auxiliary steering compartment, which is aft, just to cover in case of a loss of steerage from the bridge.

  There wouldn’t normally be someone in the ASC when we did the takedown—but I wasn’t about to trust “normally” because the steerage compartment is one of those hideaways sailors go to be alone or thump their lizards with a dog-eared fuck book. Other lockers that caused me concern were the forward boatswain’s locker and chain locker. Both were pockets of privacy on long cruises.

  What this all meant is that I had to run two shooters to the bridge to take control of the communications and the steerage, two shooters to the mess to secure the off-duty personnel, two belowdecks to control the power plant, two to sweep through the engineering spaces, one to clear the boatswain’s locker and chain locker, and one to secure the bow. That made ten.

  There were seven SEALs on the plane, including me.

  Well, the superstructure was the key. Once the aft was secured, we’d be able to sweep the hold, the cofferdams, and the forward spaces. It would be a slow, meticulous, and most of all dangerous process—but we could do it.

  141:22:25 I climbed back up into the cockpit and crawled in the rack behind the naviguesser position. I needed a combat nap. I don’t sleep much—three, four hours a day will suffice. But once in a while I like to close my eyes for fifteen or twenty minutes and just let things go. This was one of them.

  I woke up as I felt Pick change course and dip the wings. I went forward. He pointed to seven o’clock through the windscreen. There was a ship out there—a speck in the distance from our altitude of seventeen thousand feet. I threw glasses on it. It was a freighter. I went back to the rack.

  Pick hit the jump Klaxon at 145:06. I rubbed my eyes and peered out the windscreen. Target in sight—tanker dead ahead, about six miles out. Damn—Steve’s calculations and my revisions had been right on the money. I high-fived Pick. “Great work.”

  I clambered down and pulled the NIS monitor receiver from my war bag. I turned it on. No response. There were no bugged Tomahawks on that ship.

  It was the wrong tanker.

  I double-timed back to the flight deck. “Wrong target.”

  Pick didn’t like what I was telling him. He tapped the gauges to emphasize the point. Even though we’d consumed less fuel than expected, he said, we were already brushing the edge of the envelope because with only three engines working we’d been flying lower, through thicker air, and we’d used up our gas faster.

  “How long do we have?”

  “Two hours. Maybe two and a half. Any ideas, Skipper?”

  “Try a slow sweep to port.” I’d plotted the tanker twelve miles south of normal shipping lanes, which were marked on my charts. Maybe it had veered farther south to escape detection.

  “And if that doesn’t work?”

  “Then we’re all in for a long, long swim.”

  The NIS monitor began squawking intermittently an hour and three-quarters later. I took it up to the flight deck. “We’ve got a signal.”

  “Let’s follow it.” Pick banked the plane to the right. The squawking stopped. “Nope.” He altered course again, and we got a weak signal. Now he banked the other direction, and the squawk grew stronger. “They’re way south of where we thought they were.”

  The monitor began to squeal loudly. I slammed Pick on the shoulder. Now we were heading toward the bull’s-eye.

  “There she is.” I pointed through the windscreen. About eight miles ahead, a tanker was visible through the high clouds, her wake clearly marking her position. Pick held on the ship. The monitor left no doubt that the tanker I saw below was carrying the missiles I’d bugged.

  We began a slow sweep, circling wide, putting fifteen to twenty miles between us and the Akita Maru. I would have preferred to go round one more time, but Pick showed me the fuel gauges. We were running on fumes—we didn’t have enough to make another 360. In fact, we might go down before we came up on the tanker’s wake.

  “We’ve got to reach the wake.” Indeed, to minimize the chances of failure, we had to go off the ramp just as we pulled directly behind the Akita Maru. I looked down at the water. The swells looked like they were running four to six feet. They were hypnotizing in the sun. Now I understood why P-3 pilots got bored—even hypnotized—during the long hours of sub hunting. The water is absolutely mesmerizing as it catches the light and the wave patterns move, undulating like a multicolored kaleidoscope. It’s not just monochromatic blue or simple blue-green, but there are flashes of gold and orange from the sun, creamy wave froth, and even metallic glints from an occasional school of fish. It changes second by second in a pulsating, rhythmic syncopation. I could have watched it forever.

  But there were other things to do first. Pick dropped to ten thousand feet, then descended another half mile. We’d go off the ramp at seventy-five hundred feet. High enough to make the jump interesting and low enough to make sure we’d all land in the same area. I wanted to drop astern of the Maru by twenty-five miles or so, which would put the C-130 out of sight during the maneuver. Jumping off the ship’s port quarter would allow us to come up her wake—we’d be able to sense her presence in the darkness by the feel of the water. Then we’d slip up her port side and board at the gunwales just forward of the superstructure, where the decks are almost awash.

  The men had their assault packages and chutes on. Cherry lowered the ramp. Half Pint, Duck Foot, and Nod set the cables on the IBS. Nasty opened the side door facing toward the Akita Maru. He’d spot the jump as soon as we crossed her wake.

  I ran forward and slammed the ladder to the cockpit three times with a crowbar. That was the signal to Pick. Now he’d check the gauges, set the flaps, and slow us down to just over 110 knots, then slip the control onto autopilot and run like hell. He’d have to get into his equipment fast.

  We all breathed easier now that fresh air was rushing through the aircraft. I looked down at the water below. It would be cold, and we weren’t wearing wet suits—they were the single item that we hadn’t been able to obtain during Cherry and Duck Foot’s quick raid on Coronado.

  I felt the aircraft slow down as it banked in a slow, easy counterclockwise turn. Then Pick slid down the ladder and ran aft. “We’re going in,” he shouted.

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “We’re out of gas.” Pick came even with the IBS. Half Pint and Duck Foot held his vest and chute harness for him. They swaddled, slammed, and smacked him into his equipment. Looking at them work was like watching a championship pit crew at the Indy 500.

  Nasty was screaming that we hadn’t crossed the wake yet, but ready or not, it was time to go. We launched the rubber ducky’s extraction chute and ran out the greasy ramp right behind it, our static lines providing only the merest hint of resistance as we fell into the crepuscular sky.

  The slipstream caught me and slapped me awake. I watched as the plane continued in its inexorable plunge to the sea. It hit, tumbled, cartwheeled, and disappeared beneath the waves before we’d descended through five thousand feet.

  Now I paid attention to my risers. There were some twists, but I untangled them in short order and continued the descent. The IBS was falling nicely—no sign of trouble there. I looked at the water surface. There were crosswinds, but they weren’t heavy. A heavy crosswind meant you could be dragged all the hell over the ocean. No fun.

  I hit feet first and went under. The chilly water sent my balls into my mouth. Damn. I hit the quick-release, pulled myself out of the chute harness, and fought my way to the surface, dragging my combat pack with me. Quickly I uncoiled a length of nylon rope from my vest and swam toward Nasty, who’d landed about ten yards to my right. We linked up, both spitting water.

  “Okay?”

>   “Yeah, Skipper—piece of fucking cake.”

  The IBS was about fifty yards from us, bobbing in the four-foot swells. Half Pint was already cutting the pallet away by the time we got there. He heaved himself over the gunwales and checked the equipment.

  “All here,” he shouted.

  I gave him a thumbs-up. While the rest of us pulled ourselves aboard, he played snipe and began the engine-starting sequence. He pumped, primed, then pulled the starter cord. There were two sputters and a cough, and then the goddamn thing growled, roared, and settled into a steady, throaty purr.

  Now it was time to go over the gear carefully. The assault pole had survived the ride in great shape. We had weapons and ammo. Cherry’d lost half a dozen flares, and Nod’s survivor’s kit had disappeared on impact. But that was all minor compared to what might have happened.

  Even the extra fuel bladders had made the drop without rupturing—giving us an extra fifty miles worth of gas if we needed ’em. We shifted cargo until we’d achieved a working balance of men and equipment, then I rolled my forefinger above my head, pointed west, and we charged, Half Pint kicking the engine in the ass and almost standing the IBS’s nose in the air.

  It would not be an easy trip to the Akita Maru. All oceans are different. Each has its sphincter-puckering, nut-numbing, mind-fucking charm. The North Sea slam-dunks you in series after series of bone-jarring, keel-rattling shudders. Riding a small boat in the North Sea is like getting kicked in the balls again and again and again. The Atlantic has long swells that resemble roller coasters. You go up-up-up slowly, hit the crest, and look at the horizon, then down-down-down crashing into the frigid water. Riding a small boat in the Atlantic is like getting kicked in the balls punctuated by getting kicked in the ass.

  In the Pacific, sixty-foot swells are not unknown. There are huge water-walls that can turn ships topsy-turvy. There are trenches so deep that nothing lives in them. Because of those trenches and the deep water, the ground swells are tremendous and powerful. One minute you’re on the crest of a wave. Then all of a sudden your engine is sputtering and flooding and the water’s looming ten feet above the gunwales and you’re trying to fight your way out of a trough so fucking deep that it looks like one of those fucking Japanese prints with the stylized waves three stories high. Riding a small boat in the fucking Pacific is like getting kicked in the balls punctuated by getting kicked in the head. Am I making myself clear here through the use of repetition? I hope I am.

  After twenty minutes or so my coccyx couldn’t take any more. I had Half Pint cut the engine and we shifted ourselves around, moving onto the outside tubes, which distributed the weight better, allowing the boat to ride more evenly. That made all the difference in the world. Now, Half Pint was able to time the wave action without worrying about the IBS’s balance, allowing him to push the boat forward as well as sideways and backward. I looked at it as one small step for mankind.

  We kept pressing on. It was cold but nobody noticed. At times like this the adrenaline is flowing so fast and furious that even if it had been fucking freezing, we wouldn’t have paid any attention. By the time we’d pulled within a mile and a half of the tanker, we were able to get a good view of the underway lights high on the ship’s masthead about every third wave. I pointed and told HP to key on the lights until he closed in on the Akita Maru’s wake.

  The wake is easy to follow and gives you the reassuring sense that you’re really getting closer to your target, even though you may be more than half a mile off. The underway lights on the masthead do precisely the opposite. They’re small and you can only see them when you’re cresting the waves. Moreover, because of the relative speed between our rubber ducky and the Akita Maru—their sixteen-plus knots and our twenty-five—it seemed as if we were sitting still in the water and getting cold and miserable while they were steaming ahead full. I knew that once we hit the wake, however, there’d be a real feeling of progress. First, you’re on a tangible track—like being on a dead heading. Second, as the wake reduces in size you can almost sense the heat from the ship’s discharges in the water.

  It was close to 2100 before we sensed we were riding in her wake—a subtle change of rhythm and motion that made our hearts beat just a little bit faster. Even though it was dark we could see her silhouette when we hit the crest. In my mind I heard the deep throb of those huge engines as we finally pushed through the wash.

  Nod checked the extra fuel bladder and readied it for a quick transfer. I didn’t want to run out of gas as we made our attack run. Nor did I want to run the current tank down to empty. If I did, the line might vacuum up. That would take some minutes to clear, with us sitting within sight of the tanker like a fucking bull’s-eye. Merci, non, Monsieur Murphy. But we had to change tanks. The first was too low to sustain us through our assault. So, when we got close enough to the Akita Maru so that her huge fantail towered above us like the ass end of four ten-story eighteen wheelers side by side, I told Nod to do his quick change.

  Deftly, he switched the hoses and pumped the bulb, then watched horrified as the engine hiccuped, coughed, then died.

  Unaware of his fuckup, the Akita Maru chugged on, pulling slowly away from us. Nod extracted the end of the hose, sucked on it, spat out fuel, reattached the hose, pumped the bulb, and yanked on the starter.

  Nothing. We were up shit creek without a paddle, and the fucking tanker was getting away.

  Duck Foot swatted Nod aside. He grabbed the starter cord, adjusted the choke, then gave the cord a vicious tug.

  The engine sputtered, then died.

  He tried again. Then again. It caught on the third try, and we all watched with a mixture of fascination and terror as he nursed the engine back to life by playing with the choke. Finally, it growled the way it was meant to growl. He threw it into gear, and we were back in the chase. It may have been cold, but I was sweating as much as if I’d been working the weight pile at Rogue Manor in August.

  It was time to move. I wanted Nasty up the ladder first—he was the second-best climber in the group. The best, Duck Foot, would handle the boat and come up the ladder last, since he had the best chance of making it without help. And there would be problems in getting aboard. When you bring an IBS alongside a vessel the size of a tanker, you suffer additional ground swells. These come from the turbulence running down the sides of the ship, and they cause your small boat to be swept away from the ship’s skin. It makes climbing difficult, to say the very least.

  We came alongside. From the air it had seemed that the amidships deck was almost awash. Now, looking up at this fucking behemoth, I realized just how wrong I’d been. Pick extended the improvised caving ladder, set the hook on the rail, and tugged. It swayed like a fucking pendulum—but it held. Nod and Cherry swept the rail with their weapons. There’d be a crew aboard. We could handle them. We also sensed that Buckshot Brannigan, Manny Tanto, and the rest of the Centurions would be there, too, protecting the missiles. That was all right by me—we had a score to settle with them.

  Nasty’s HK was slung across his shoulders. He had a caving ladder coiled around his waist, and his vest was filled with deadly things. He looked at me in a way that told me he knew I was crazy and that he was even crazier. Then he started up the pole.

  He got eight feet when one of the rungs we’d set into the pole collapsed under his weight and he fell ass over teakettle back into the IBS.

  Luckily for him—and us—he landed on me.

  “Shit, Skipper.”

  I rolled him off me and examined him quickly for breakage. He was okay—he’d only lost a tooth on the butt of my gun, so I kicked his ass and sent him back up the ladder. “Try to keep the fucking thing in one piece this time, will ya, Grundle?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Nasty gave me the finger. Then he actually scampered up the fucking pole, vaulted the rail, secured and dropped the caving ladder, and threw me the bird again.

  I truly love the boy.

  Now the rest of us could make the climb—anywhere
from sixteen to twenty-six feet of it, depending on the swells. I let Nod and Cherry precede me, then I hooked an arm through the cable and started to pull myself up.

  It’s harder than it looks. There’s the motion of the ocean; there’s the bolt-covered skin of the tanker. The cable itself was wet and slippery, and you had to hook your arms and legs on each slippery metal rung.

  There are exercises you do at BUD/S to make you proficient at climbing cargo nets, but they do not prepare you for the unmitigated hell of an at-sea assault, hanging on to a ship under way with a bunch of bad guys aboard.

  Still, consider the motivating factors. I could fall and break my back in the IBS. Or I could hit the water and be sliced by our outboard engine. If that didn’t work, I could be sucked alongside the tanker, inexorably drawn toward the big grinding screw of the tanker, where I’d be turned into Dickburger.

  Combine all those elements with the “normal” sphincter-pucker factor, and climbing on board becomes a piece of cake—you just go up the fucking ladder like a goddamn monkey with a tiger on your tail.

  Over the rail. Nod, Cherry, and Nasty were spread out in a defensive perimeter, their weapons sweeping the deck. Not a soul out.

  Finally, Duck Foot heaved himself aboard. I watched as the IBS slipped away, drawn aft by the current toward the tanker’s screw. There were no lights forward, although I could see figures in the wheelhouse atop the superstructure.

  I gave hand signals, and we moved out. Pick and Half Pint would scale the superstructure and take over the bridge. Nasty and I would seize the crew’s quarters. Duck Foot, Cherry, and Nod would secure the engineering spaces, then work their way forward to the chain lockers.

  We had no radios. We had no comms. All we had was us—and the knowledge that everyone else aboard the Akita Maru was a bad guy.

  It was time to go to work. I watched as Pick and HP went up the outside of the superstructure, climbing hand over hand. HP rolled over the rail first, his suppressed submachine gun at the ready. Then Pick followed. I’d have liked to watch, but I was otherwise engaged.

 

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