Sexton led the way down a narrow passage as Schmidt took up the rear. They moved quickly but carefully along the corridor, checking open chambers along the way. Suddenly, an Iraqi crewman stepped out of a room ahead. Spotting the Americans, he quickly began to hoof it in the other direction. They took chase, but as they did so, the man turned and surprised them as he unloaded his semiautomatic rifle in their direction. They returned fire, but retreated toward the room he had just recently exited. Ducking inside, they continued to peek out and return fire as the Iraqi had them temporarily pinned down in that location.
Suddenly, Schmidt tapped Sexton excitedly on the shoulder.
"Dude, shit!"
Sexton turned and looked toward where he was pointing. There, in the corner of the room, was an enormous explosive device, its timer counting down and the red light blinking excitedly.
"Oh, crap!" yelped Sexton as he jumped out into the corridor and repeatedly fired off in the direction of the Iraqi crewman. Schmidt followed suit and ran behind his partner as Sexton shouted a warcry. "I'm gonna kick your bitch-ass, mutha-fuc—" he proclaimed before a barrage of return fire nailed Schmidt in the chest. The red-haired sailor collapsed sideways to the deck and dropped his weapon, which clattered to the floor. Blood began to pour from the shoulder-chest wound as Schmidt grabbed his shoulder and groaned.
"Shit!" Sexton cried out as he looked over his shoulder and saw his buddy on the ground. With lightning speed, he jumped back behind his partner and hoisted him up, dragging him backward as Schmidt yelled in pain. As the bullets exploded around them, they managed to get far enough back that they were able to exit to the outside decks. The Iraqi crewman who had been firing on them decided it was time to go and took off toward the lifeboats. Schmidt, through his squinted eyes, then noticed another crewman above them.
"Forward…" he grunted. "Two decks up!"
Sexton gazed upward and saw another deckhand with a weapon who was positioning himself as a sniper. Before he had spotted them, Sexton raised his M14 and aimed. Over his shoulder, Sexton directed his partner to leave the immediate area. "Go, go, go!" he ordered in a hoarse whisper. Schmidt managed to crawl backward away from the area to take cover when Sexton put his eye back to the sights. He was ready to take the shot when a sudden, tumultuous detonation of the explosive device took place. Metal, wood, and fire projected outward in all directions and the heat and sonic pressure of the explosion knocked Sexton and Schmidt off-balance. The entire ship rocked and listed as the dreadful groaning of twisting steel girders sounded off somewhere in the deep recesses of the great vessel. Sexton immediately knew that the bulkheads had been compromised.
Joe peered out the window down at the rough, thrashing surface of the sea below as the rain continued to drive horizontally into the side of the ship. He wasn't sure, but he thought he could catch glimpses of another RHIB somewhere out there in the raging storm and hoped that they could catch the terrorist bastard who had shot Calen.
More gunfire erupted a few decks away and he was sure that it was Sexton and Schmidt. Quickly, he jumped to action and began to run toward the exit of the bridge when a sudden rumbling caused him to lose his footing and stumble sideways into the bullet-riddled console.
"What the –" he began in worry as the entire ship slowly rocked to one side.
Captain Thompson watched through his binoculars as a huge fountain of exploding fire rose from the rear area of the Samra.
"Damn!" he shouted, as Graft looked up from the console and saw the remnants of the volcano-like eruption of smoke and fire.
"What the hell was that?" he asked of no one in particular. The two radio operators stood slowly, mouths agape as the scene unraveled.
Dominic was standing at the door, looking through the crack to determine if there was an ambush awaiting him when the ship suddenly lurched and he was thrown literally off his feet toward the waiting boilers. There, he landed hard against the patched ductwork and fell to the deck. A large portion of the boiler assembly dislodged and toppled over onto Dominic's legs, pinning him in place. Dominic bellowed in agony as his right leg was crushed beneath his left leg.
Raising the radio to his lips, and realizing that, with the deaths of Farina and Meeks, he was now in charge of the boarding team, he clicked the button.
"All teams regroup!" he called through the pain, forgetting about the nuclear device only feet away from him. "Regroup to the RHIB!"
"Dominic!" came Joe's voice in a panic over the radio. "Where are you?"
"I'm in the engine room," he answered. "Can't get out. Pinned."
"I'm on my way!" Joe called back.
Just then, a second explosion ripped through the ship as other flammables and equipment in the vessel began to burn from the initial fire. As soon as the second rumble took place, Dominic saw that seawater had begun to flow quickly into the engine room from the outer hall. The rush of the water forced the door to swing open, but there was nobody waiting for him there. Then, with seeming finality, the door slammed shut.
"Better hurry," he added as he struggled to breathe through the pain of his previous chest injury. "The room's beginning to flood."
"On my way," Joe's voice was received through the radio. "Hang in there."
Sexton moved his weapon hand and realized that he was lying beneath the debris from the explosion. Twisted metal, broken wood, and bent piping were everywhere. He shook his head and rose up, pushing pieces of a door off him as he did so. He looked around and realized that the deck was tilting to starboard and he knew that they were taking on water. He wasn't even sure how long he'd been unconscious. Remembering Schmidt's condition, he began looking around for his weapon and his partner. Nearby, he found the weapon and within moments, he found Schmidt by the redness of his hair and his blood. It was everywhere.
Acting quickly, he tapped his partner on the cheek hard, but there was no response. Hefting him from beneath his arms, he hoisted him over his shoulder and rose to his full height, running off as swiftly as he could in the opposite direction of the wreckage.
Minutes passed as he searched for a proper area to cross the decks from which fire and black, choking smoke were not issuing. Then, he saw a break in the destruction and darted across the ship's width, making for the rendezvous point of the boarding party. As soon as he approached the rail, he could see that the initial launch boat was below them and he struggled to slowly descend the ladder to the craft below. Once there, he placed his partner down roughly and peered through the rain and ocean mist as it sprayed into the force winds. Not far out, toward the forward end of the tanker, Sexton spotted another Navy RHIB and gunned the engine.
Joe raced along corridors in haphazard directions. This entire ship was laid out in a very illogical way; not your normal, everyday, run-of-the-mill schematic for a ship. But then, whadaya expect from the Iraqis, he thought bitterly. As he turned a corner, his weapon drawn and ready, he came face-to-face with two Iraqi crewmen. They immediately raised their hands in surrender.
"Where's the engine room?" he barked as he held his firearm at the ready, trained on one, then the other. "Engine room, engine room!" Only shakes of the head and wide eyes greeted him. Joe scoffed and clenched his jaw.
"No English," one of the crew members spat out in fear.
Joe burned inside. His friend was caught beneath a piece of machinery and would most likely drown while he debated with these assholes. Pointing his weapon down toward the man's legs, he rapidly fired off a round into the knee of the crewmember. The man howled in pain as he flopped to the deck in a heap, grabbing his knee with both hands as blood poured onto the deck. Turning the weapon on the other terrified deckhand, Joe growled, "How about you? Speak English, dickhead?"
Gazing down at his co-worker, the man looked up again.
"I do," he answered as he swallowed hard. "Yes."
"Take me to the engine room," Joe replied through a smirk. Stopping him with a quick shout before he could run off along the corridor, Joe continued. "And if yo
u so much as deviate an inch this way or that, I'll shoot your ass. Understood?" The Iraqi nodded with fright, but had not the foggiest idea what the American had just said to him. "Let's go!"
The crewman jogged off down the corridor as Joe followed closely behind him, the wails of the wounded Iraqi left in the distance. As they wound their way through the hull and climbed down ladders to lower decks, Joe was convinced that, without the assistance of this man, there was no way in hell that he would have been able to locate his friend.
The crew of the RHIB puttered around the area where the man had plunged into the sea from the bridge of the tanker and finally located the man Joe had identified as one of the shooters on board. They motored up to the swimming terrorist and quickly fished him out of the rough waters. Just as they sat him on the craft and put two guards on him, they could hear through the stormy air the sound of another RHIB engine. There, to their rear, they could see Sexton fast approaching their location.
MacLeod looked, holding his breath, trying to determine if there were others in the boat. When he spotted Schmidt in the back, his heart dropped. The boy appeared to be dead.
"How is he?" he shouted toward the approaching vessel.
"He'll be alright!" Sexton called back.
Quickly, Sexton piloted the boat expertly to a position alongside the other and cut the motor. He hefted his partner and passed him to one of the guards in the other boat as two of them held the crafts steady. As he handed off his partner, he turned toward the motor again and sat down.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" MacLeod called out suddenly.
Without looking up toward the Master Chief, Sexton started the motor and gunned the engine.
"I'm gonna go get the boys!" he yelled.
"Negative! Negative!" shouted MacLeod in anger. "Get back to the ship!"
"I can't hear you over the motor, Chief!" he answered as he whooshed off toward the boarding point again.
The Master Chief shouted once more before closing his mouth and smirking.
"Give 'em hell, son," he muttered.
The RHIB disappears quickly into the mist as MacLeod turns about to see that one of the guards is tending to an unconscious Schmidt. Darting a glance in the prisoner's direction, MacLeod notices that Aziz is smiling darkly toward the wounded sailor. Reaching deftly toward the man, the Master Chief grasps a hold of Aziz's shirt.
"You'd better wipe that smile off your goddam face!" he warned in a threatening way.
"No English," Aziz answered as he shrugged.
"My ass!" the Chief retorted as he pushed him roughly by the shoulder. "Don't try that bullshit with me or I'll shove a fuckin' American-made rifle right down your throat."
Aziz continued to stare upward, unflinching, toward the Chief.
Joe followed the crewman this way and that before finally climbing down another ladder. As they got to the bottom, they were both surprised to note that knee-deep seawater had already filled the passages below them.
Swiftly, Joe pressed the Iraqi to speed up the process and locate the door. The Iraqi obliged and sped up his gait. Within minutes, the Iraqi indicated that the engine room was ahead of them. As the water became waist-deep, they were momentarily stunned to see the body of a dead Iraqi, bullet-riddled and oozing blood into the dark water.
They waded around the body and approached the door to the engine room.
"This one," the Iraqi indicated as he stepped aside.
"Dominic!" screamed Joe through the door.
"Joe?" came a muffled voice from within the room.
"I'm here, buddy! Hold on!" Turning to the crewman, he pointed his rifle at the door. "Open it up!"
The Iraqi hesitates as he considers the weapon in Joe's hands.
"C'mon!" shouted Joe. "Hurry it up! Let's go!"
"You will kill me," he said with a sadness in his eyes. "Please, please...I have a daughter!"
Joe stared at him in disbelief. Lowering his weapon, he pointed at the man's face.
"I need your help," Joe said in a serious voice. "You help me and I give you my word…you will leave this ship alive."
The crewman is dubious.
"Please," Joe continued in a softer tone. "That's my best friend in there."
The man stared into Joe's eyes for a moment more and then added another statement.
"Arazna," he said.
"What?" asked Joe with a confused countenance.
"My daughter's name," the man elaborated. Joe looked at him with annoyance.
"Dude! I'm not gonna kill you!" Joe said with exasperation. "Just open the goddamn door!"
Turning to the door, he brought out a set of keys and plunged them into the water in order to work the lock. The door was already unlocked and Joe helped the man to push open the heavy portal, as the seawater was hampering the task.
Once the door was open, there was some miniscule light shed on the room, but more illumination came from the moderate number of small electrical fires that had sprung up all over the room. In the center of the room, however, Joe gasped when he beheld the ghastly scene of Hahn's body floating face down in the water, his weapon's light still on beneath the surface, casting an eerie glow upon his figure, causing him to appear as a ghost himself.
"Oh, no! Hahn!" Joe exclaimed as he pushed forward through the waist-deep water.
"Joe!" Dominic yelled.
Looking around the dimly-lit room, Joe couldn't see his friend.
"Where are you?"
"Here!" he shouted. A splashing sound occurred behind a large floating barrel and Joe made for the area. Moving the barrel aside, he found Dominic, sitting on the deck, chest-deep in the water. An enormous piece of the boiler was lying across his legs beneath the water.
"Oh, Jesus!" Joe said in surprise as he realized the enormity of the problem.
The Iraqi crewmember stood outside the engine room, peering in nervously, awaiting the next command by the American. He had briefly entertained the thought of flight, but then remembered his daughter and remained in place. He had heard all about the so-called atrocities of the American military, but in all the years of his exposure to them, he had not witnessed such behavior. In fact, within his own village in southern Iraq, following the brief period of time in 1990 when Americans had been on their home soil, he recalled a group of American soldiers handing out food and water to the people there; the same people that had, only days before, been casting stones at their vehicles. He knew that much of what had been reported about the Americans was trumped up.
"I need your help," Joe said across the chamber toward the crewman. The Iraqi assessed the water levels around them and he nodded. Wading across the room, he approached them and stood while Joe worked quickly to prop up Dominic's head above the water so that he wouldn't mistakenly be pulled beneath the surface once they began to move the metal monstrosity.
"What do you think about Garrett?" Dominic asked suddenly out of the blue. Joe stared at his friend for a moment.
"What?"
Dominic chuckled and then winced in pain.
"My son…" he clarified. "What do you think?"
"Garrett?" Joe pondered. "What the fuck are you asking me for? Me and Toni are Italian and we named our son Liam." Dominic laughed lightly again, but seawater poured into his mouth and he choked. "All right, let's get this shit off you!" He tucked his weapon into his vest to keep it dry and nodded to the crewman to lift. Turning toward Dominic, he added, "You gotta help us, too, man."
"Can't, Pigz," Dominic immediately disagreed. "Legs are broke-dick and my sternum and ribs are fucked."
Joe hesitated and regarded the machinery they were about to lift.
"God, you are such a little pussy."
Dominic snorted, but stopped again as water entered his mouth.
"Ready?" he called to the Iraqi who then nodded. "One…two…three…lift!"
The two then squatted and pulled upward with all their might. Grunting and straining at the biceps, the two men held the large piece of m
achinery elevated above Dominic's legs until he could just barely pull his legs from beneath it.
"I'm out, I'm out!" he shouted just before the two allowed the heavy debris to fall to the deck again.
Immediately, Joe ran to the aid of his friend and put his arm around his waist as he hoisted him up to a semi-standing position. Gazing forward, Joe spotted Hahn's body again.
"What'll we do about Hahn?" Joe asked with the words practically catching in his throat.
"What can we do," Dominic answered through the pain. "Grab his tags, Pigz."
"Right," Joe agreed. They waded toward Hahn's body with a struggle and fished out his dog tags from beneath his vest and cammies. "Rest in peace, dude."
"Oh, shit," muttered Dominic.
"What?" Joe asked quickly with concern.
"I forgot to even mention it, but we're fuckin' screwed here, Pigz. Those crates over there…"
"Yeah?"
"One of 'em's got a nuke, man."
"A what?" Joe strained his voice as he repeated the word. "A nuke? Did you say, 'nuke'?"
Dominic nodded and winced again.
"We gotta get outa here now," reiterated the armorer. "The shite's all wired up…yellow radiation sticker and all. Looks authentic."
"Help me over here, man, would ya'?" Joe called out to the Iraqi who stood by silently and listened to their banter without interruption.
They made their way to the door and Joe observed that the incline of the floor was very sharp now. In fact, had they been outside the ship, they would have known that the angle of the tanker's stern to the water was nearly ninety degrees. With the way that the water laid in the chamber, it made it very difficult to discern this angle, let along orient one's self to the horizon.
A SEA STORY: THE UNTOLD STORY OF THE U.S. NAVY RESPONSE TO 9/11. Page 17