"Oh, my husband was a sailor, too," the old woman said as she nodded. "I know what it's like to wait for your man to come back home." Toni nodded and lost her smile. "But the greatest day is the day he comes back. That's when God just smiles down on your family again and everything is right."
Toni looked down at the woman's face and grinned.
"Yeah, that'll be great."
"Well, chin up, sweetie," the old woman went on. "He's lucky to have you waiting at home taking good care of his little one. Remember," she ended with a finger in the air, "men are the bricks." She paused for dramatic effect. "But we are the mortar."
Toni smiled.
"Take care," the woman said with a reassuring pat on her arm. As she wended her way down the aisle, Toni watched her and suddenly, without really understanding why, she felt a little better.
"A what?"
"A shamal," came the reply from Joe.
"What the hell's that?" Dominic asked.
"It's a really nasty wind and rain storm that happens over here in this part of the world," he answered as the ship continued to list with the powerful waves. The driving rain made matters even worse because it felt like icy needles hitting your face.
Joe, Dominic, Sexton, Hahn and Schmidt were all geared up in their official capacity as enforcers for Operation Enduring Freedom. Joe, Dominic, Sexton and Schmidt each had a 9 millimeter strapped to their legs, the armorer carrying the additional shotgun as well. Hahn bore a shotgun as well. All were wearing their pontoon hats, "U.S. Navy"-emblazoned vests, and desert camouflage.
The boarding party was rounded off by the addition of the lead officer, Ensign Cameron Meeks (his name possibly the reason behind his reputation as a hard-ass) and the 20-year-old Petty Officer Third Class Rachel Farina, whose only function on the team would be interpreter.
Captain Thompson and Master Chief MacLeod stood near the rail as the former stared through binoculars at the Samra as she swayed back and forth in the choppy waters.
"No movement on deck at all," he murmured to the Master Chief and his XO, Graft.
"It's lunch time," the Chief offered, mostly in jest. The captain lowered the binocs and squinted toward the horizon.
"Damned lousy weather," he mumbled, more to himself. "I'm really starting to re-think this boarding." He took a moment and then gazed toward his senior staff, fully expecting to get some input. Nothing. "No opinions?"
Graft looked toward the skies and then offered a military opinion.
"If we wait until the weather clears, we're likely to be in unauthorized waters by then." The captain peered out toward the tanker. "Also, there's the possibility that they've already got a rendezvous plan with other ships who may give us trouble. We're already manned well-below our crew levels and we've already been engaged by horsemen and suffered casualties."
The captain's eyes snapped back to the XO and he noted that, while the tone had seemed sarcastic, Graft's face was serene and matter-of-fact. Of course, that was his normal tone, but Thompson had struggled with the situation as it unfolded in the Suez and was hyper-sensitive about the results of that skirmish.
Turning toward the boarding crew who stood silently at the ready, he put his hands behind his back, gripping the binoculars tightly.
"Okay, people," he began softly as the rain continued to fall through the strong winds. "I want you all back in one piece. Stay sharp…eyes in the backs of your heads. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," came the response in unison.
Graft turned to face the group.
"Clean sweeps," he added. "No frivolous cowboy shit." Dominic leaned forward and whispered in Sexton's ear.
"That means, 'by the book'."
Sexton whispered back over his shoulder, "Thanks." Dominic smiled.
"Stay in constant radio communication. Meeks has the plan and he'll implement it when you're on board."
The Master Chief said something in a low voice to the captain and then stepped forward.
"These people may be no more guilty of breaking the sanctions than we are," he addressed them with a pointed finger for emphasis. "But let me be clear. They are an Iraqi tanker crew that normally ships oil. They have failed to answer any of our calls." He continued to count off the grievances on his fingers. "They are listing…and they are heavy in the water. And they have not slowed their speed." MacLeod paused and sighed. "Chances are, we're dealing with a group of hostiles who are smuggling illegal supplies or ammunition into a warzone. They will be evasive…smiling in your faces…pretending not to be able to speak English…and they'll appear to be cooperative."
The Master Chief put his hands behind his back as well and mimicked the captain.
"But if they're smugglers, they will be strapped and they will be dangerous. Don't think for a second that they'll be deterred by your firepower or your vests. They'd just as soon put a bullet in your head as wave goodbye. So, please, be vigilant and judicious in your actions."
Dominic nearly leaned forward to whisper the definition of the word "judicious" to Sexton, but deferred by virtue of the fact that the brass to his front appeared laser-focused on the mission.
"All right people," Graft shouted, "let's roll!"
"Hoo-ra!" came the enthusiastic answer from Joe, Dominic, and Sexton.
"Hoo-ra!" came Schmidt's slightly belated warcry, to which the others snickered.
The twenty-eight-year-old Meeks stepped forward and shook the hands of the senior staff as they bid him, "Be safe."
Then, he turned and faced the party.
"Seputa, take 'em down," he called toward Dominic.
The armorer quickly stepped to the rail and turned to begin the descent upon the ladder toward the rigid-hulled inflatable board, better known to sailors as a RHIB.
The RHIB was a highly mobile and durable craft with a solid hull and large, inflatable tubes that ran the length of the gunwale, fore and aft. The boat was fast and could accommodate a fairly large passenger load. It was also a very resilient craft, even in waters such as these when the small vessel would inevitably take on large quantities of water. They would use this craft to ferry across to the tanker in order to board the vessel.
The rest of the boarding party followed Dominic down the ladder. Joe was extremely nervous. As he got closer to the surface of the water and looked up toward the skies, he had to forcefully shake off the feeling of dread as the full punch of the sea nightmare came back to him in grand fashion. As always, he thought of Toni and Liam.
The party was secure in the RHIB and they immediately kicked on the motor as Sexton, Hahn and Schmidt sat at the ready with the weapons poised for a firefight.
They motored across the rough waters, skimming the surface and bouncing and jostling in the waves. Sexton shifted in his seat roughly.
"Stop rocking the boat!" Hahn toked toward Sexton.
"What's the matter, wimp? Can't swim?"
Hahn chuckled as he realized that he could play with Sexton a little.
"Yeah, and I can't play no hockey, neither."
Joe and Dominic started laughing. Sexton, realizing suddenly that he had inadvertently made a stereotypical racial equation without even trying, immediately became contrite and apologetic.
"Oh, Hahn, I-I didn't mean –"
"'Course I can swim, fool!" Hahn yelled toward him with a satisfied grin that he had played the young sailor like a seasoned violin. "I just don't like getting' wet, is all." He turned toward the side and muttered loud enough for the others to hear, "Profilin' country-ass white boy."
The laughter erupted, but was quickly quelled by Meeks.
"At ease that shit," he whispered loudly. "Get ready to board."
The crew ceased their merriment and all faced forward as they started their approach to the Samra.
Upon the bridge of the tanker, the lone rider, the Arabian Knight, and leader of the HuJI-B, Abdulrahman Aziz, stood beside his trusted bodyguard and the captain of the Samra. The Iraqi looked concerned because they had been ignoring U.S. Nav
y hails all day long. Aziz and the bodyguard, however, were quite calm and detached as the terrorist leader peered at the RHIB through binoculars as it cut across the waves toward them.
"Are you ready, Said?" Aziz asked in a serious tone of the captain. When he didn't answer, Aziz continued. "Just like we discussed. Right?"
The Iraqi captain nodded slowly as sweat beaded on his temples and forehead. Turning to the bodyguard, the long rider addressed him.
"It is time. Alert the men."
Without a word, the bodyguard turned smartly and made for the lower decks. Aziz raised the binoculars to his eyes again.
"That's right," he purred in a low voice. "Send your little infidel army to parley with us."
At the side of the Samra, the RHIB was positioned for boarding and the party began to quickly scale the rope ladder in place as the waters became ever more unstable in the shamal.
Sexton was first up and over the rail, followed by Schmidt. The deck was devoid of the ship's crew and this was unnerving.
As the rest of the boarding party climbed on deck, Meeks looked quickly about and assessed the situation. Pointing toward Farina and Joe, he assigned teams.
"Alpha Team…Farina, Pigz…with me to the bridge." Looking toward Dominic and Hahn, he continued. "Bravo Team, secure inside the skin of the ship." Dominic and Hahn nodded. "Charlie Team," he directed toward Sexton and Schmidt, "secure the weather decks." Looking at all the members, and giving a nod, he finished with, "Let's move!"
The three groups scattered and Joe followed behind Meeks and Farina. Joe had come to the conclusion that Meeks must have studied a schematic of the tanker beforehand because he seemed very sure of his way toward the bridge. This was impressive, considering that he had not worked with Meeks that often and now saw that he was definitely a capable young officer.
They climbed a stairwell to the bridge and, as they gained the upper deck, were finally confronted by a crewmember who appeared cooperative. He led them to the entrance of the bridge and opened the door.
Captain Thompson closely watched as the teams spread out on the deck of the tanker and disappear into different doorways. Graft stood nearby with his own set of binoculars.
"Looks like everything is going as planned," the XO offered.
"The best laid plans…" muttered the captain, a severe knot in his stomach. He hated having to send young people on these missions.
"Sir?" replied Graft, who thought briefly that he had missed an order. Thompson removed the binoculars from his eyes and rubbed them briskly.
"Nothing."
Taking a deep breath, he returned the lenses to his eyes and squinted, looking for any sign that he had made a wrong choice with this boarding.
The engine room of the Samra was something right out of a horror movie. Dank and foul-smelling, the ship's master equipment was running by sheer luck alone. The inspectors for these ships were notoriously crooked, bribed by owners and company lawyers to give passing grades on the most dilapidated machinery known to man. This ship's interior, in particular, could be moved into the category of "dead ship floating." It was just a matter of time before she would be sliding beneath the murky waters to rest eternally at the bottom of the Persian Gulf.
For now, the ship was operating. Two crewmembers were working rat-like in the dim light of the engine room, securing large wooden crate lids with nails. Three of the four crates were sealed quickly and without much regard for the lumber boxes or their contents. However, the fourth crate was gingerly covered and its nails were tapped in gently and with care. The two crewmen took extra time to ensure that the lid was secured with a nail every single inch of the way about his outer edge. As they neared the end of their chore, the bodyguard entered the engine room, startling them.
"We have been boarded by the American Navy," he announced without much concern in his voice. The crewmembers looked fearful. "Let them search. If they find the oil or the weapons, kill them all."
Meeks, Farina and Joe slowly entered the bridge behind the crewmember who led them. Inside the room, a small lamp shed meager light on two men. The crewman who brought them here excused himself and left, shutting the door behind him. Meeks appraised the two men and noticed that one was wearing a uniform, but the other was not.
"Sir, I'm the boarding officer from United States Navy Cruiser five-five," Meeks began as he directed his introduction toward the uniformed man. Do either of you understand English?"
This was actually a shrewd plan devised by Graft back at the Leyte Gulf. Meeks was instructed to ask this question, knowing that the crew would more than likely claim not to understand English, thereby ensuring that their non-cooperation could be purposefully characterized by them as the resulting language barrier. As expected (and anticipated by Graft in his pre-mission speech to Meeks and Farina) the captain peered toward the other man and they both shrugged and shook their heads.
At that moment, Joe, who had been watching these men with a sharpness bordering on obsession, felt a small tug in the pit of his stomach as he gazed upon the face of the other man who was not in uniform. Squinting and peering hard at the man's features, he was experiencing a most unpleasant feeling of recognition. He could not place exactly the details of this recognition, but it was there, cold and certain, deep in the recesses of his memory. He knew this man from somewhere.
Meeks nodded as he pretended to be understanding of their non-comprehension of his words. Turning toward Farina, he jerked his head toward the captain. Looking to the captain again, he began his instructions.
"What we need to do is ask some questions about your trip and your destination," he said slowly. "We also are going to require you to produce your ship's manifest." Looking back toward Farina, she began to speak to them in Arabic, translating Meeks' words exactly.
Joe continued to stare at Aziz, wishing that he could place this man's face. The Arabian Knight made brief eye contact with Joe and smiled in his direction, but then looked away toward Farina and Meeks again. Joe's hand slowly, but surely, drifted toward the 9 millimeter strapped to his thigh. His hand hovered there, poised at any moment to strike. His stomach tightened even more now.
The captain listened to the words translated to him and then spoke to Farina in the same language. The Petty Officer turned toward Meeks and relayed the message.
"He said he understands what we're doing here and that the ship's manifest is in the drawer of his desk. But he wants to know what they did wrong."
Meeks turned toward the captain and, before he could answer, the man, in broken English, said: "I don't want any trouble." Meeks hesitated and then nodded in response.
"Please tell him that there won't be any trouble if he and his crew just cooperate. As long as the manifest and the inspection check out, we'll be on our way again."
Farina translated the next block of conversation and the captain enthusiastically nodded in response.
"No trouble," he forced out the words.
"No," Meeks agreed. "We'll conduct a quick search of your vessel and then be on our way."
The captain said something in Arabic to Farina. She then faced Meeks and translated the words for him.
"He wants to know why this tanker is being searched."
We're checking every suspect vessel for contraband, due to the oil embargo. All vessels leaving the Gulf who are deemed suspicious will be boarded and searched."
Farina began to translate the words to the captain, but was cut off in the middle of her explanation as the captain appeared to be agitated.
"He's saying that they are not suspects," the Petty Officer offered to Meeks.
The Boarding Officer looked to the captain and, without knowing the language, was quite secure in feeling that the captain of the Samra was now practicing the art of delay.
"Listen, sir," Meeks started again, "the faster you help us, the quicker you'll have us out of your hair." Farina gazed at Meeks, wanting to tell him that the phrase he just used may not translate well. Instead, she told the captain
what he actually meant. Still, the captain argued. Now, Meeks was through with the delays. "Look, sir, you didn't answer our hails and your vessel is listing badly in the water. That puts you right up at the top of our 'most likely to be shady' list."
Noticing that Meeks was beginning to become slightly irritated at his questioning, the captain smiled agreeably in his direction. Meeks shook his head imperceptibly. Joe continued to stare down the other man. Farina translated the last few sentences. While she did, Joe saw that the other man's hands were trembling ever so slightly. It was either nervousness or adrenaline. In either case, Joe thought it was significant.
"Sir," he said in a low voice to Meeks. "Might I suggest that we find out who this other guy is?"
Meeks turned toward the other man and his eyes narrowed.
"Captain," Meeks directed his words to the man in charge. "Please tell me who this man is and what is his capacity on the ship." Farina had paused and listened briefly to Meeks' words, then quickly translated them to the captain.
The captain's tone was light and dismissive.
"He said that the man's his cousin and that he's helping out on the voyage."
Meeks continued to stare into the disingenuous eyes of the captain as he smirked in the boarding party's direction.
"Let's have a look at this manifest," he murmured as he approached the desk. Farina joined him and he pulled the drawer out, removing the tattered, grease-spotted volume from its resting place. Joe's adrenaline was now pulsing through his veins as the other man gazed in his direction, this time without the smile.
The door to the stateroom burst open as Sexton and Schmidt entered the chamber slowly and deliberately, swinging the barrels of their 9 millimeters from side to side in a quick sweep of the interior. Schmidt was chewing his bubblegum loudly as they could see that the room was vacant. Lowering their weapons, Schmidt swiveled one of the chairs in the room as Sexton put the radio to his mouth.
A SEA STORY: THE UNTOLD STORY OF THE U.S. NAVY RESPONSE TO 9/11. Page 15