Battlecraft (2006) s-3

by Jack Terral

  "You won't drown, Hildy," Mike said, applying a bit of crude psychology. "The sharks will eat you before that."

  "Ach, mein Gott!" she cried, sitting back down. "Now horrible fishes to eat me!" She crawled over to the small bit of shade in one comer of the cockpit and began weeping. She sobbed bitterly, her body shaking with the effort.

  Mike knew the woman wouldn't last much longer. His conscience bothered him a bit since he had lied outright about her being able to get revenge for her murdered friend Franziska. It would be virtually impossible to prove that Sheikh Omar Jambarah had killed her. Mike's real reason for getting Hildegard to come with him was as an intelligence asset. She undoubtedly had a lot of information regarding the sheikh's operations, ports of calls, visitors, and other subjects that could be fed into the intelligence files.

  He glanced at her huddled in the shade. If she got steadily worse, he would give her the rest of the water and sacrifice himself, leaving a note revealing her usefulness to the antiterrorist cause. Maybe that way she could last until a ship turned up. He looked around at the unforgiving environment, then turned to the radio.

  "All the ships as sea," he said. "Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. I am at six degrees five minutes north and sixty-three degrees twenty minutes east. I say again. Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. Position six degrees five minutes north and sixty-three degrees twenty minutes east. Over."

  He switched off the radio to save the battery, then gave the throttle a little push to get the boat a bit of momentum in the rapid current.

  .

  DHOW NIJM ZARK

  OFF THE PAKISTANI COAST

  30 OCTOBER

  0445 HOURS LOCAL

  CAPTAIN Bashar Bashir and his first mate, Bakhtiaar Ghanem, stood at the wheel of the dhow, staring into the light to the east. They had been silently sipping hot tea as the old boat strained against its anchor cable. Ghanem, as usual, was fidgety and cranky. "I hope they are not late."

  "Whatever happens will happen because Allah wills it," Bashir said.

  "I am not as complacent as you," Ghanem said. 'Things do not always happen through Allah's will. If we are caught by the Pakistani Navy this close to shore, it will be because the people who are to meet us are delayed."

  "Either way, it does one no good to worry," Bashir counseled him. He looked upward and raised his voice just enough to be heard by the man standing watch up on the main mast. "Badr! Do you see anything yet?" "La, Raiyis!" Badr answered. "Nothing."

  "I tell you, brother" Ghanem said. "Something has gone wrong with al-Mimkhalif. We have not been called to pick up arms or supplies for them for a long time, eh? Hafez Sabah and that American fellow have dropped out of sight. This bodes ill for us all. Perhaps they are dead. Or worse! Captured!"

  "If there had been a serious reversal of their fortunes, we would not have been called to serve them tonight," Bashir said. "You seem to know so much. Have you been speaking with their leaders?"

  "Of course not," Ghanem said, "but I am not a stupid man, only an uneducated one. Most of them could be rotting in Pakistani jails this very moment, and if things go wrong today we may well join them."

  "I admit that I am not optimistic about the situation," Bashir said. "We were supposed to have warships we could call if we got into trouble. Now nobody has spoken of that for a while. To tell you the truth, I would not be sad about going back to hauling cargo between Alula and Bombay."

  "Nor I!" Ghanem exclaimed. "We did not make much money, but we knew we could return home safely unless a storm caught us at sea."

  "Ah, well, if al-Mimkhalif is truly destroyed, we will be free of them," Bashir said.

  "I told you we should have turned them down when they first approached us with their offer."

  "You did no such thing, Bakhtiaar Ghanem!" Bashir said. "You were already making plans to build a big house in Alula when we took on the first job for the mujahideen."

  Ghanem shrugged. "Perhaps, but--"

  "People on the beach!" Badr, the lookout, called down.

  Bashir pulled his ancient telescope off the binnacle and focused it shoreward. He could see some shadowy figures pulling rafts from hiding places in the brush. These were the same floating platforms used to come out to the dhow and pick up cargo, then ferry it back to the beach. They were divided into two groups, each taking one raft and dragging it across the sandy expanse to the water's edge. It took some hard work, but they got the things into the water in about ten minutes, then began muscling them through the gentle surf that lapped in from seaward. As soon as the water was waist deep, everyone jumped aboard and began paddling.

  "Sloppy!" Ghanem snorted.

  "I agree," Bashir said. 'They are not as good as the men who normally pick up the cargo. This appears to be their first time at the task."

  "Ha!" Ghanem laughed. "That means these fellows were the big shots in the camp. They sat on their arses while their underlings came to do the hard work. So this is the first time for them to come out to the Nijm Zark."

  One of the rafts began to broach. As it turned, the riders on it went into a frantic effort of uncoordinated paddling to try to face it back toward the dhow. But the incoming waves, though slow and shallow, were persistent and within only moments, the raft was pushed back to the sand.

  Ghanem laughed again, this time with more derision. "Those buffoons could not cross a lake properly."

  Bashir grinned and shook his head in amusement. "We may be here for a while."

  The leading raft drew alongside the wooden ship and the crew helped the seven men climb over the railing and onto the deck of the Nijm Zark. One of them was Kumandan, who looked around. "Where is the captain?"

  "Here I am, ejfendi," Bashir said, recognizing the man's authority by his well-tailored uniform. "Bashar Bashir at your service, if it pleases you."

  "How do you do," Kumandan said. He glanced toward the beach. "What happened to them?"

  "They broached, ejfendi," Bashir said.

  Once again the crew of the second raft pushed their vehicle into the sea, then leaped into it to begin paddling. They bobbed awkwardly, not making much headway as they struggled across the undulating waters.

  Kumandan growled in his throat, then turned to Bashir. "If they broach again, we leave them "

  "As you command, ejfendi" Bashir said with a slight bow.

  The raft began to lag and list a bit, but the riders worked hard until it suddenly straightened up and began moving straight toward the dhow. It took them twenty minutes, but they finally reached the old boat. As soon as they were hauled aboard, Kumandan nodded to Bashir. "Sail to Mikhbayi."

  Bashir salaamed. "As you order, so I obey, ejfendi "

  .

  ACV BATTLECRAFT

  INDIAN OCEAN

  VICINITY OF 6deg NORTH AND 63deg EAST

  1400 HOURS LOCAL

  THE collective mood aboard the ACV was one of irritability. There had been a couple of flare-ups between the two assault sections involving Bruno Puglisi and Dave Leibowitz versus Joe Miskoski and Guy Devereaux. It involved some inadvertent bumping when they were changing places between topside and the cabin. Puglisi gave Devereaux a hard shove with a snarl of warning, setting off a spontaneous clash. The situation didn't have a chance to escalate into a brawl, however, because Senior Chief Buford Dawkins and Chief Matt Gunnarson each grabbed their respective men by the collars and pulled them apart with threats of throwing them to the sharks. Lieutenant Bill Brannigan jumped up and locked some heels, delivering an ass-chewing that seemed hot enough to scorch the paint off the overhead and bulkheads. Everything quickly settled down, though Puglisi muttered under his breath for the next quarter of an hour before finally becoming quiet.

  Now they were back into the routine, moving at one-third speed as Veronica Rivers monitored her scopes. Brannigan checked the fuel gauges and began to ponder about radioing back to the Dan Daly for instructions. There was a choice of returning for more fuel or meeting with the combat-support ship attached to the local carrier battle g
roup. After deciding to let a couple of hours drift by before making inquiries, he settled back into his chair and stared out the windshield at the wet nothingness that lay before them.

  "I've got a reading, sir," Veronica announced. "It seems to indicate a small craft moving on a heading of zero-niner-zero. Really slow."

  "Roger," Brannigan said wearily. "Set an interception course, Lieutenant. Then give it to Watkins."

  "Aye, sir," Veronica replied. A couple of beats passed, then she announced, "Change course to one-six-seven."

  "Change course to one-six-seven," Watkins repeated. "Aye, ma'am."

  The speed remained the same as they moved toward the dot on the scope. Twenty minutes passed, then a smudge appeared on the horizon. As they drew closer, the target shimmered into view. Senior Chief Dawkins, standing topside with his binoculars, shouted, "It's a whaler boat!"

  "A whaler boat?" Brannigan said. "The damn thing either belongs in a harbor or to a nearby ship."

  "There is no indication of other vessels in the immediate area, sir," Veronica informed him.

  Bobby Lee Atkins, standing just behind the skipper, grinned. "I've heard of people getting lost, but this guy's got to be the lostest son of a bitch in the world. I bet he couldn't find his ass with both hands."

  Brannigan had just reached for his microphone to raise the stranger when a static-filled broadcast came over the speaker. The voice was distorted by a weak transmitter as it said, "Unknown ship. Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. I am just off your port bow. Over."

  "We've spotted you," Brannigan said. "Are you alone?"

  The voice began breaking up. "I have one other... with... we're... in... shape--" Then the signal faded out altogether.

  'The guy must not have paid his electric bill," Brannigan said. 'Take us over there, Watkins."

  Doc Bradley came forward with his medical kit. 'Those folks may be in bad shape"

  "Yeah Brannigan agreed. "Or this could be some kind of trick."

  Now Jim Cruiser joined them. "I've heard of suicide bombers going to the extreme, but I doubt if someone would send one out on the open ocean in a whaler."

  "Maybe not" Brannigan said. "But get your men out there and put Puglisi to the front with the SAW."

  "Aye, sir!" Jim replied.

  Within short moments the First Assault Section was on the port side of the ACV, ready for whatever might happen. As Watkins maneuvered alongside, Puglisi aimed the SAW at the man behind the wheel. "Put your hands up, you mujahideen motherfucker!"

  "Hey, there's a woman on board with him," Connie Concord said.

  "And quite comely," Chad Murchison remarked. "Though rather sunburned."

  Jim Cruiser ordered Garth Redhawk and Amie Bemardi into the whaler to help the two people up onto the Battlecraft's bow. The woman was weak and could barely stand, but the man was able to get aboard without help. He was heavily bearded and wore one of the pakol caps the SEALs had learned to hate from their experiences on their first mission together in Afghanistan. The SEALs also did not fail to notice the man's uniform.

  Brannigan came out on the bow, and approached the mujahideen, looking closer at him. "Who the hell are you?"

  The man's eyes opened wide as he stared into Brannigan's face. Then he looked at the others in the First Assault Section. Suddenly he snapped to attention and saluted.

  "Sir!" he said sharply. "Petty Officer Second Class Mike Assad reporting for duty!"

  Chapter 18.

  USS DAN DALY

  31 OCTOBER

  0830 HOURS LOCAL

  MIKE Assad sat in the middle of the front row of seats in the ready room. He wore a brand-new uniform that showed the creases of storage. An entire new outfit complete with web equipment and a CAR-15 rifle had been sent over for him from the nearby carrier battle group. The combination of conventional U. S. Navy garb and his long hair and beard gave the wandering Brigand an appearance that was both startling and ludicrous to his old buddies.

  Directly across from the newly outfitted SEAL, Commander Tom Carey, Sam Paulsen, and Mort Koenig sat mesmerized as he made a complete oral report of what he had been through since the contrived escape from the American Embassy in Rawalpindi, Pakistan. He took them through the confrontations with hostile slum residents; the help from the mosque; the bus trip; another escape, this particular one from the rural police lockup where he lifted a revolver; meeting the Pashtuns; and finally reaching Camp Talata to rejoin the al-Mimkhalif terrorist group.

  Koenig, who was taking notes, kept grinning as he jotted down the discourse in his shorthand. "Damn! Goddamn!" he whispered under his breath from time to time.

  Mike's dissertation continued on through the special assignment with Hafez Sabah, the Zauba Squadron, and on up to his escape with Hildegard Keppler from Fortress Mikhbayi and the subsequent meeting with the ACV Battlecraft.

  "You had quite an adventure," Carey remarked. "And put in a damn good job in the bargain."

  "That's for sure," Paulsen agreed. "How about giving us some names and descriptions?"

  "Okay," Mike said. "I'll start small and work up to the bigwigs. They are using a dhow for bringing arms to the Pakistani coast. I know the exact location they used, and I'll point it out on the map. The captain of the dhow is an old guy by the name of Bashar Bashir."

  "We already know about him," Carey said. 'The Battlecraft intercepted them at sea. Even though the ship was empty, Senior Chief Dawkins discovered numerous spots of Cosmoline on the deck of the hold when he and Lieutenant Brannigan went aboard to take a look around."

  "Jesus!" Mike exclaimed. "You guys haven't exactly been on vacation either. Okay. So here's another name. Commodore Muhammad Mahamat. Does that ring any bells?"

  Paulsen looked at Koenig, then back to Mike, shaking his head. "It doesn't do anything for me."

  "Well, the poor bastard is dead anyway," Mike said. "He was publicly beheaded for losing a big sea battle."

  "Aha!" Carey exclaimed. "That has to be the one where the Battlecraft really kicked ass. Can you tell us the origin of the enemy force?"

  "It's part of the Oman Navy," Mike answered. "But I better explain some things before you get ready to declare war on that country. The outfit gets extra funds and other goodies through Saudi Arabian sources. The name was the Zauba Fast Attack Squadron. Even the government there has no idea just how strong the outfit is. They thought it was just a small half-ass coastal patrol outfit. But instead of secondhand Brit hand-me-down vessels, the Saudi financiers were able to arrange some modem Swedish fast-attack boats and a missile boat used as a flagship."

  Paulsen's eyes opened wide. "Now there's some news. Nobody in the intelligence community had any idea of that situation."

  "It don't matter now," Mike said. "It was completely destroyed except for the flagship. It is still at the naval base with some of the surviving personnel who are waiting to be resupplied and refinanced."

  "That will not happen!" Paulsen said forcibly.

  "Right," Koenig agreed. "We'll work on that straightaway."

  "Sounds like a job for the special section of the State Department," Paulsen said. "Dr. Joplin is the man to handle that."

  Mike got up to pour himself another cup of coffee, then came back to his chair. "The number-one agent for al-Mimkhalif is a guy named Hafez Sabah. I got to tell you, he's one hell of an organizer. He took over the arms-delivery activities of the group and it's still going like a well-oiled machine. He was educated in Britain and speaks fluent English."

  "We have him on a list," Paulsen said. "Any more names?"

  "Just two," Mike said. 'The field commander for the al-Mimkhalif is a pretty savvy guy called Kumandan. It's not his real name--it actually means 'commandant' in Arabic-- but he knows how to organize and direct combat, recon, and security operations. I wasn't able to find out his real identity; they're real careful about that."

  "Who's the other guy?" Koenig asked.

  "Here's a big one" Mike said. "And I got in good with the son of a bitch. Sheikh Omar J
ambarah. He's a Saudi who rules a small but wealthy sheikdom within the kingdom. His clan is in good with the Saudi government for past support, and they ended up in an area that's practically floating on oil."

  "The name is familiar," Paulsen said.

  "I know about him," Koenig interjected. "He's just one of a list of potential assholes, but now we know to upgrade him."

  "Well, he uses the war name Husan," Mike said. "He is the supreme leader of al-Mimkhalif."

  "Holy shit!" Carey exclaimed.

  "He operates out of two places," Mike continued. "One is the royal yacht Sayih that the Saudi government has more or less given him as a gift. It's sort of a permanent loan without a lease. He has a coastal fortress that's nestled along the border of Yemen and Oman," Mike said. "It's at sixteen degrees, fifteen minutes north and fifty-three degrees, five minutes west. I checked the GPS in the whaler boat before I took off."

  Carey laughed. "I think that should be sufficient enough for us to locate it."

  "Anything else?" Paulsen asked.

  "I think that's it, but I'm sure I'll remember other stuff eventually," Mike said.

  "Okay then," Koenig said. "You've given us some good intelligence, so we now have some for you." He paused with a grin. "Al-Mimkhalif's field operations are wiped out--at least for the moment. Three different groups of mujahideen made a run for safety, but were intercepted by the Pakistani Army and shot up bad. The prisoners' morale was low and they rolled over quickly under some vigorous interrogation. The result of what they gave up resulted in a raid on Camp Talata by Pakistani paratroopers. They found the place deserted."

  "Did they get Kumandan?" Mike asked.

  Paulsen shook his head. "No. We figure he got away with the best men after sacrificing the sad sacks "

  "Now let's get to another matter" Carey said to Mike. "Give us the scoop on that German broad you've been out boating with."

  "Her name is Hildegard Keppler and she was one of the call girls Sheikh Omar kept on that yacht," Mike said. "I showed an interest in her and he gave her to me as a playmate."