Bloodstorm sts-13
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Bloodstorm
( Seal Team Seven - 13 )
Keith Douglass
The SEALs must stop a Chinese freighter from delivering a nuclear arsenal to Libya — or the entire Middle East will be turned into an apocalyptic wasteland.
Keith Douglass
Bloodstorm
Dedicated to those real-life
SEALs in Teams One, Three, Five
and Two, Four, and Eight,
who are out there on
the covert front lines doing
the dirty little jobs that must be done
to maintain our great nation.
They are the real heroes, the ones no
one ever hears about.
The silent ones.
The deadly ones.
The U.S. Navy SEALs!
SEAL TEAM SEVEN
THIRD PLATOON[1]
CORONADO, CALIFORNIA
Rear Admiral (L) Richard Kenner. Commander of all SEALs.
Commander Dean Masciarelli. 47, 5'11", 220 pounds. Annapolis graduate. Commanding officer of SEAL Team Seven and its 230 men.
Master Chief Petty Officer Gordon MacKenzie. 47, 5'10", 180 pounds. Administrator and head enlisted man of all of SEAL Team Seven.
Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock. 32, 6'2", 210 pounds. Annapolis graduate. Six years in SEALs. Father important congressman from Virginia. Murdock recently promoted. Apartment in Coronado. Has a car and a motorcycle, loves to fish. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round. Alternate: H & K MP-5SD submachine gun.
ALPHA SQUAD
Willard “Will” Dobler. Boatswain’s Mate. Senior chief. Top EM in platoon. Third in command. 37, 6'1", 180 pounds. Nineteen years service. Wife, Nancy; children, Helen, 15; Charles, 11. Sports nut. Knows dozens of major-league baseball records. Competition pistol marksman. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round. Good with the men.
David “Jaybird” Sterling. Machinist’s Mate Second Class. Lead petty officer. 24, 5'10", 170 pounds. Quick mind, fine tactician. Single. Drinks too much sometimes. Crack shot with all arms. Grew up in Oregon. Helps plan attack operations. Weapon: H & K MP-5SD submachine gun.
Ron Holt. Radioman First Class. 22, 6'1", 170 pounds. Plays guitar, had a small band. Likes redheaded girls. Rabid baseball fan. Loves deep-sea fishing, is good at it. Platoon radio operator. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round.
Bill Bradford. Quartermaster’s Mate First Class. 24, 6'2", 215 pounds. An artist in spare time. Paints oils. He sells his marine paintings. Single. Quiet. Reads a lot. Has two years of college. Squad sniper. Weapon: H & K PSG1 7.62 NATO sniper rifle or McMillan M-87R .50-caliber sniper rifle.
Joe “Ricochet” Lampedusa. Operations Specialist Third Class. 21, 5'11", 175 pounds. Good tracker, quick thinker. Had a year of college. Loves motorcycles. Wants a Hog. Pot smoker on the sly. Picks up plain girls. Platoon scout. Weapon: Colt M-4A1 rifle with grenade launcher; alternate, Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round.
Kenneth Ching. Quartermaster’s Mate First Class. 25, 6' even, 180 pounds. Full-blooded Chinese. Platoon translator. Speaks Mandarin Chinese, Japanese, Russian, and Spanish. Bicycling nut. Paid $1,200 for off-road bike. Is trying for Officer Candidate School. Weapon: Colt M-4A1 rifle with grenade launcher.
Vincent “Vinnie” Van Dyke. Electrician’s Mate Second Class. 24, 6'2", 220 pounds. Enlisted out of high school. Played varsity basketball. Wants to be a commercial fisherman after his current hitch. Good with his hands. Squad machine gunner. Weapon: H & K 21-E 7.62 NATO round machine gun.
BRAVO SQUAD
Lieutenant (J.G.) Ed DeWitt. Leader Bravo Squad. Second in command of the platoon. 30, 6'1", 175 pounds. From Seattle. Wiry. Has serious live-in woman, Milly. Annapolis graduate. A career man. Plays a good game of chess on traveling board. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round. Alternate: H & K G-11 submachine gun.
George Canzoneri. Torpedoman’s Mate First Class. 27, 5'11", 190 pounds. Married to Navy wife, Phyllis. No kids. Nine years in Navy. Expert on explosives. Nicknamed “Petard” for almost hoisting himself one time. Top pick in platoon for explosive work. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round.
Miguel Fernandez. Gunner’s Mate First Class. 26, 6'1", 180 pounds. Wife, Maria; daughter, Linda, 7, in Coronado. Spends his off time with them. Highly family-oriented. He has relatives in San Diego. Speaks Spanish and Portuguese. Squad sniper. Weapon: H & K PSG1 7.62 NATO sniper rifle.
Colt “Guns” Franklin. Yeoman Second Class. 24, 5'10", 175 pounds. A former gymnast. Powerful arms and shoulders. Expert mountain climber. Has a motorcycle and does hang gliding. Speaks Farsi and Arabic. Weapon: Colt M-4A1 rifle with grenade launcher.
Tran “Train” Khai. Torpedoman Second Class. 23, 6'1", 180 pounds. U.S.-born Vietnamese. A whiz at languages and computers. Speaks Vietnamese, French, German, Spanish, and Arabic. Specialist in electronics. Understands the new 20mm Bull Pup weapon. Can repair the electronics in it. Plans on becoming an electronics engineer. Joined the Navy for $40,000 college funding. Entranced by SEALs. First hitch up in four months. Weapon: H & K G-11 with caseless rounds, 4.7mm submachine gun with fifty-round magazine.
Jack Mahanani. Hospital Corpsman First Class. 25, 6'4", 240 pounds. Platoon medic. Tahitian/Hawaiian. Expert swimmer. Bench-presses 400 pounds. Once married, divorced. Top surfer. Wants the .50 sniper rifle. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56 & 20mm explosive round. Alternate: Colt M-4A1 rifle with grenade launcher.
Anthony “Tony” Ostercamp. Machinist’s Mate First Class. 24, 6'1", 210 pounds. Races stock cars in nearby El Cajon on weekends. Top auto mechanic. Platoon driver. Weapon: H & K 21-E 7.62 NATO round machine gun. Second radio operator.
Paul “Jeff” Jefferson. Engineman Second Class. 23, 6'1", 200 pounds. Black man. Expert in small arms. Can tear apart most weapons and reassemble, repair, and innovate them. A chess player to match Ed DeWitt. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round.
NOTE TO THE READER
Just wanted to warn you that this is an interactive book. You read it and then you write to me and tell me what you think about the story, the characters, and the SEALs. A kind of grown-up book report. How about that? You thought you were just going to have a couple of hours of good reading, watch the SEALs do their job, and then reach for another beer.
Tough luck this time. Well, yeah, it’s a part of a bet I made with my writing buddy. I waged a small inheritance on the idea that I could get a thousand letters from you guys and gals out there who read these SEAL books.
Now, don’t let me down. If you like them, if you don’t, tell me to take a hike, whatever. Just figure on dropping me a quick line or two, and I can keep the ranch instead of letting this Simon Legree character foreclose on me because of a few lousy letters I didn’t get.
Where? Oh, yeah. Send those cards and letters to:
Keith Douglass
8431 Beaver Lake Drive
San Diego, CA 92119
Hey, thanks a lot. Now you’re cleared to go on reading this brand-new SEAL Team Seven book. Have fun.
— Keith Douglass
1
Odessa, Ukraine
Chen Takung paused in the darkness next to a boarded-up building with peeling paint and graffiti-sprayed walls. To the left a woman screamed. Someone began sobbing. A baby cried. A cool breeze whipped a newspaper down the street. Chen stepped quickly into the dark alley and waited. He was good at waiting. This strange land was nothing like Shaanxi Province in China, where he grew up. Here it was dry, harsh, unfriendly, and even smelled bad. Not at all like the softness of a Chinese night with a pale moon riding high.
An older car with three colors of paint on it drove up
slowly, stopped for a moment, then moved on. Chen was near the Odessa port district that fronted on the Black Sea. Odessa had once been the busiest port and main southern outlet for the Soviet Union in the glory days. Chen had heard that ships from all over the world had lined up to get dock space. Now the new nation that had split off when the Soviet Union fragmented was known as Ukraine, and it struggled to keep its economy going well enough to maintain its independence. Chen knew that ships still stopped here to discharge and take on cargo, but not in the volume they used to.
The smells assaulted him again. It wasn’t the night-soil odor of the Chinese country, but more a cloying smell of unwashed bodies and decomposing garbage. He hated it here in Ukraine. He hated any place that wasn’t China.
Chen Takung had come to Odessa on board the Star of Asia, of Chinese People’s Republic registry, a beaten-up and weathered freighter, which now sat at a dock awaiting its special cargo. Chen eased against the building, not letting the two-hour wait drag at his senses. He saw everything that went on in the area, evaluated the actions, and determined that none of them held any danger for him.
He tried to relax tense muscles. His senses were on instant alert, searching for anything dangerous. He had made covert buys of sensitive goods from foreign nations before, but nothing of this magnitude.
Chen glanced where his backup crouched in the darkness across the street. The other man had a sniper rifle and was deadly accurate. No one would see him until they should see him.
Chen was highly trained in his field of international relations and secret operations. He was extremely efficient when dealing with those who worked outside of the law of their own countries.
He squeezed his left arm against his body and felt the reassuring bulge of the 9mm pistol. The two men he was to meet were late, which he had expected. He had played that role often in his dealings.
He faded to the left out of the mouth of the dark alley, and edged into the doorway of the run-down building. The door was inset two feet, giving him plenty of room to vanish completely in the shadows of the Ukrainian summer night.
The smell came again. Something dead, maybe a rat or a cat. He pushed it out of his mind.
Time dragged. Tension knotted a muscle in Chen’s neck, and he rotated his head trying to calm it. Sweat beaded his forehead even in the cool night. Where were they? They should have been here a half hour ago.
He heard them first. Footfalls on the cobblestones coming from the right. Slowly two men materialized out of the darkness from the downtown direction, and paused at the side of the same building that shielded Chen.
“Nabokov?” Chen whispered the password. He felt better now, more sure of himself. Only two of them.
The men walked toward him slowly with nervous caution.
“Yes, I am Nabokov. Are you Chen?”
“Yes, I’m Chen.” They spoke in Russian. Chen stepped away from the doorway. The two men stopped three paces from him.
“You are early,” he said, still in Russian.
“Yes, we are ready to do business.”
“First I need to inspect the merchandise. Then I’ll show you the payment.”
“You have the seventy-two million U.S. dollars we agreed upon?”
“Yes, the equivalent in gold bars, diamonds, and U.S. currency. I’ll show you it after we see the goods.”
“Yes, we agree. Come with us.”
Chen had expected more than two of them. He made a curt motion, telling his backup rifleman to return to their headquarters.
Chen and the two Ukrainians walked down a block, where the three entered a ten-year-old Ziv auto.
A short drive later, the car stopped at a large run-down warehouse near the docks.
“The merchandise is inside,” the taller of the square-cut Ukrainians said. “We have security. We tell you so you won’t be surprised.”
“I would wonder if you didn’t.”
Six Ukrainian soldiers stood just inside the warehouse’s first door. They had the newer Russian-made AK-74 rifles. A Russian RK-46 machine gun stood on its mount of sandbags, and a soldier trained it on the door. At each of the next four locked doors there were three soldiers armed with the Portuguese-made stubby Lusa A2 submachine guns. They had an interesting closed configuration. Chen counted twenty-four guards before he came to the last locked door. They had worked their way to the far side of the warehouse. This last section was bathed with bright lights. Chen could smell a salty dampness in the air, so this area must be right next to the water.
When the door opened, he stared at the contents of the huge room. Chen caught his breath, but made sure the two Ukrainians didn’t notice. The merchandise was as negotiated. Six of the Russian Satan intercontinental ballistic missiles. The six lay on shipping dollies with wheels for easier movement. All looked identical: painted brown and green in a camouflage pattern, eighty feet long, and should weigh a little over thirty tons each. Chen knew that when fired from a land-based mobile launcher or silo, one missile could travel over 6,500 miles and dump nuclear bombs on ten different independently targeted cities.
Chin shivered. Right in front of him were six of the large missiles waiting for him. They looked to be as ordered, with the correct Russian words and configuration. Ten nuclear warheads should be inside each of the sleek nose cones.
“I’ll need to inspect each missile, to be sure there have been no changes, no sabotage,” he said.
The two Ukrainians nodded. Chen crawled over and around the missiles for a half hour. The long-range ICBMs were in mint condition. He had trained at the Karkoff Institute of Scientific Research in Moscow for two years, specializing in the Russian ICBM system and its missiles. There was no evidence that any of the nose cones had been tampered with or the warheads removed. Good.
Back with the two Ukrainians, he nodded. “They appear to be in good condition and unaltered. We do not need the auxiliary launching and guidance systems. If we find any irregularities after we take possession, we’ll come back and kill you.”
“Have no worries. These missiles are as you ordered.”
“Where do I go to make payment?” Chen asked.
“Do you have it in a vehicle?”
“Yes, a truck with the U.S. dollars, the diamonds, and the gold. Together it has a value of seventy-two million dollars.”
“Bring it here.”
“First our freighter must be under way so it can redock here.”
The Ukrainian who did most of the talking smiled. “There is no need for that. Your ship, the Star of Asia, has been redocked just beyond those large doors.”
Chen smiled. “Ukrainian efficiency. I’ll go and bring the payment. We must have our ship loaded and be ready to cast off our lines before daylight.”
“There should be no problem. Our harbormaster has been told of your departure.”
“And compensated?” Chen asked.
They all laughed.
“I understand that not all levels of your government have been informed of this sale.”
Nabokov, the larger man, chuckled. “This is a private sale.”
“Good. If this works out, perhaps we can do business again.”
Chen went with the other two back through the locked and guarded doors to the street. They loaned him a car and driver to take him where he needed to go. He had the driver drop him off two blocks from the small office he had rented two months ago when negotiations first began with Nabokov, director of the Nuclear Arms Arsenal just outside of Odessa. Chen knew that these were missiles that Ukraine had kept out of the inventory of the large numbers of nuclear weapons, missiles, and warheads that were transferred to Russia in 1994 and slated for destruction. That had been part of the disarmament accord between Russia and the United States. Chen had been told that now the hoarded nuclear weapons were orphans, known about only by a few men high in the government. Six of the missiles would not be missed due to the sloppy management.
Chen walked to the small office, opened the locked door, and turn
ed on the lights. Everything must appear normal. He went into the back room and grinned at his six men. A chorus of questions greeted him. He saw his backup man had returned.
He held up his hands. “Yes, it is arranged. We take the money to them now. I know the way. Is everyone ready?”
The six men wore black combat uniforms, with vests and webbing hung with the tools of the elite Chinese military strike force specialists. All carried Russian AKSU-74 submachine guns with thirty-round reversible banana clips that had been taped together for fast reloading. All of the weapons were fitted with sound suppressors.
The truck was a 1974 Chevrolet half-ton pickup that had somehow found its way to Odessa. In back it held storage boxes filled with currency, gold bars, and boxes of cut and polished, brilliant diamonds.
“Let’s go,” Chen said. He drove the pickup, and the men stepped into an old van of mixed manufacture. Chen would pick up Nabokov and the other man at the front of the same warehouse. The Ukrainians would show Chen how to drive the small truck directly into the section of the warehouse with the missiles.
When Nabokov entered the pickup with his yes-man shadow, he frowned and looked behind them.
“There is a van following you,” Nabokov said.
“That’s my security,” Chen said, and chuckled. “You didn’t think I would try this transfer by myself, did you?”
Nabokov scowled this time. “I hadn’t thought about that. Surely you must trust us as we trust you.”
“My trust is the same as yours. You have twenty or thirty security men at the warehouse. I have my own security men. It is necessary.”
“I want everything to go smoothly.”
“We are paying you a great deal of money, Nabokov. I insist on my own security.”
The Ukrainian licked his lips and took a deep breath. At last he nodded. He took out a small radio and spoke into it in Ukrainian for a moment.