Seal Team Seven 01 - Seal Team Seven

by Keith Douglass

  Murdock locked eyes with MacKenzie across the Sea Knight's deck. The master chief grinned back in reply, his teeth impossibly white against his paint-blackened face, and returned a jaunty thumbs-up. It was difficult to put his finger on it, but Murdock sensed that something important had changed in his relationship with these men. He was accepted now, a part of the team. The change might have been occasioned by something as simple--and as complex--as shared combat aboard the freighter.

  Carefully, Murdock gave his weapon a final check. For this raid, Gold Squad would be serving as backup, a just-in-case reserve against the possibility that Iranians might show up in force, perhaps from one of those escorting patrol boats, and they were armed accordingly, with sound-suppressed HK MP5SD3 subguns and, just in case the platoon needed heavy fire support, an M-60 machine gun and M-16s with M203 grenade launchers attached.

  Murdock and Blue Squad, on the other hand, had the primary task of boarding the yacht and taking down the terrorists, if any, a role known to SEALs as VBSS, or Visit, Board, Search, and Seizure. Marksmanship aboard a small and wave-tossed sailing vessel could be a problem even for the best shot, and there was the danger that high-velocity rounds that missed their target might punch through a thin, fiberglass bulkhead and kill a hostage in the next compartment. Though all of them carried HK subguns strapped to the rear of their assault vests as secondary weapons, the boarding party's primary weapons would be their sound-suppressed Smith & Wesson Hush Puppies, each mounting an under-barrel laser target designator.

  The problem was that the laser sights were relatively delicate and had to be perfectly aligned for them to do any good. The SEALs had checked their sight alignments aboard the Nassau; now pistols and attached laser sights were cradled in black, foam-padded, watertight cases. Murdock again tested each of his sight's connections, then closed up the case and secured it to his assault harness. It would have to ride out a pretty severe thump and he didn't want anything coming loose along the way.

  "One minute!" the crew chief yelled, and Murdock signaled to the SEALS. Together, they stood up and made their way aft, as the Sea Knight's cargo ramp whined open. Because they were helocasting with bundles of gear, they would be using the open ramp instead of the small, square opening known as the "hellhole" in the Sea Knight's deck.

  Chief Roselli, first in the stick, helped MacKenzie and Brown drag the team's bundled CRRCs to the ramp, then stood by, his swim fins looped over his arm, silently counting down the last few seconds to the jump point. The helo was traveling more slowly now; Murdock could sense the change in the pitch and speed of the rotors.

  "Ready ..." the crew chief warned. "Your target is now at bearing one-seven-four, range ten miles!"

  "One-seven-four, ten miles," Murdock repeated.

  A light at the front of the cargo deck winked from red to green, and the crew chief gestured sharply with his arm. "Go!"

  MacKenzie and Roselli shoved the first CRRC bundle off the ramp, then the second. Roselli followed them, racing into the black gulf yawning beyond the open ramp.

  "Go! Go! Go!" Murdock called, clapping Brown on the shoulder. Garcia was next, then Higgins, then Ellsworth, each man slipping smoothly into the place vacated by the man before him, taking a breath, and propelling himself into the night.

  One after the other, each of the eleven SEALs went down the ramp, until finally it was Murdock's turn. The crew chief gave him a thumbs-up. "Good luck, SEAL!" the man yelled, and Murdock nodded. Stepping off the ramp's end, he dropped into space and plummeted toward the sea.

  The Sea Knight was now traveling at a speed of less than ten knots, at an altitude of about fifteen feet. The blast from its twin rotors raised a swirling, wet mist above the surface of the water. Murdock splashed into the sea and, with practiced efficiency, donned and cleared his mask, slipped on his swim fins, and kicked his way toward the surface.

  The other SEALs had already unshipped the four CRRCs and were busy inflating them. Murdock took his place in the first raiding craft, giving a hand to Garcia and Roselli in getting the outboard motor mounted.

  It took only minutes to get all four boats inflated, to remove the SCUBA gear and fins, and to secure their equipment for the next phase of the mission. There was a brief delay as the engine on number three refused to start, but after several tries, Murdock signaled to the men to leave it. A CRRC could carry seven men, more if necessary; they would make the approach with all six men of Gold Squad on one boat, with Blue Squad traveling three apiece in the remaining two. Ten miles ... turning a little east of due south. With their engines purring softly beneath the overcast night sky, the three CRRCs began traveling south.

  2356 hours (Zulu +3) Greenpeace yacht Beluga Indian Ocean, 230 miles southeast of Masirah

  Colonel Ruholla Aghasi leaned against the light wire railing of the schooner, studied the lightless sky for a moment, then produced a Turkish cigarette and lit it. A few meters away, an Iranian marine stood at the boat's wheel, studying the compass binnacle with an attentiveness that suggested the colonel's presence made him nervous.

  Aghasi ignored the man, staring instead at the running lights of the Iranian ships visible on the horizon. The Yuduki Maru and the Damavand were currently about two miles ahead of the Beluga and to starboard, while the Iranian frigates and patrol boats were scattered carelessly about the horizon.

  The sight of so many Iranian warships was reassuring somehow, and it took Aghasi a moment to decide why. Kurebayashi, the cold little Japanese terrorist, had motored across to the Yuduki Maru several hours before, and Aghasi, for his part, was delighted. He believed in this mission, believed in the promise for his nation resting in the Yuduki Maru's vast cargo holds, but the Ohtori commandos disturbed him. Aghasi thought of himself as a moral man, a devout follower of the teachings of the Prophet, and the random, seemingly blind violence practiced by the members of some of the more extreme terrorist groups, such as Ohtori, sickened him. Worse, random terror, in his opinion, was counter-productive. It made enemies of potential friends and squandered the gains made for the Revolution by painting the terrorists and their allies as barbarians.

  Ruholla Aghasi would have been a lot happier if the Japanese weren't involved in this mission at all. Possessing two tons of plutonium might indeed elevate Iran to the heady position of supreme military power in Southwest Asia and the Middle East, but the presence of the Ohtori--even if they had been necessary to carry out the initial hijacking--cast a sickly shadow over the entire endeavor.

  A woman's muffled scream floated up from the open companionway leading below deck, followed by a man's laugh. He'd been dead serious when he'd lectured the women on their immodest dress a few days before; none of the nine soldiers or marines aboard the Beluga with him was used to the casual standards of dress so often adopted by Western women--especially by rich Western women--and it was proving increasingly difficult keeping his men under control. His request to Colonel Hamid, that the women be removed from the yacht and held elsewhere, or else put aboard a helicopter and flown to Bandar Abbas, had been ignored. There'd been no serious incidents aboard the Beluga yet, but that, Aghasi was convinced, was only a matter of time. The women had served their purpose in providing leverage over the men, and Aghasi was wondering if they hadn't already outlived their usefulness. The scream sounded again, louder, more urgent.

  Angrily, he tossed his cigarette over the side. "Keep us on course," he told the helmsman, and then he stalked forward. Clattering down the steps to the lounge and galley, he brushed past five off-duty troops who traded knowing grins with one another as he passed, then squeezed into the narrow passageway that led to the Beluga's staterooms. As he'd expected, several of his Pasdaran were clustered around the open door to the cabin where the women were being kept; Corporal Mahmood Fesharaki was holding one of the women, the American blond, by her waist, laughing as she beat at his chest with flailing fists. "Mahmood!" he snapped. "Release her!"

  "We weren't doing anything, Colonel," the man replied. "We just
wanted her to dance with us."

  "I said release her!"

  Grinning, the Iranian corporal shoved the woman back into the cabin. Aghasi glanced at the three female prisoners incuriously. All of them were fully clothed now, at least after the lax fashion of Westerners, in long pants and pullover shirts, but obviously either their clothing was still too revealing, or the men had already made up their minds about their characters. Their obvious fear and vocal protests counted for very little.

  "Return to your duties," he ordered.

  "But we are off-duty, Colonel," a private said.

  "Then find something else to do before I put you on UULY! I will not tolerate this lax disregard for discipline and order!"

  Reluctantly, but still grinning and nudging one another, the crowd began to break up.

  The Beluga gave a sudden lurch to port, and Aghasi braced himself against a bulkhead to keep from falling. A loud thump sounded from outside, from above deck.

  Suddenly, Aghasi's eyes widened. Something was wrong. He didn't know what, but he could sense that all was not right aboard his tiny command.

  2358 hours (Zulu +3) Greenpeace yacht Beluga Indian Ocean, 230 miles southeast of Masirah

  They'd encountered the Iranian squadron right on schedule, and within moments, using AN/PVS-7 night-vision goggles, they'd spotted the Beluga some distance astern of the Yuduki Maru and closed in on her from port and starboard. Since the Iranian ships were traveling at close to the top speed of the outboard-driven CRRCs, the men of the SEAL assault team knew that they would have only one shot at this; if they missed, there would be no way to turn around and catch up with their target.

  Boat one, with Murdock, Roselli, and Garcia, closed on the Beluga from starboard and toward her stern; boat two, with MacKenzie, Higgins, and Ellsworth, came in from port up near the bow. The third boat, containing all of Gold Squad, followed the starboard-side assault team. They would hook on with Murdock's team, but not board unless they were needed.

  Lying flat across the bow of the pitching rubber boat, Murdock studied the target carefully as they drew closer. He could see one man at the wheel and two others on watch, one beside the helmsman, the other on top of the boat house, leaning against the foremast. There was no way to guess how many more men were below decks; those he could see were wearing fatigues, evidently Iranian army uniforms, and the two men on watch carried German-made G-3 assault rifles.

  Roselli, at the CRRC's silenced outboard motor, corrected the rubber boat's course, gauging the speed and direction of the much larger yacht. There was no need for words. Both the approach and boarding had been carefully planned earlier that day, and rehearsed time and time again, first with models, then with areas representing Beluga's deck and compartments chalked out on Nassau's hangar deck. With no wasted motion, with no noise at all save the soft purr of the outboard, they veered straight in toward Beluga's starboard quarter. For Murdock, his face scant inches above the slap of the waves, it was an eerie sensation; he could look up and see the Iranian soldier and helmsman standing in Beluga's well deck only a few feet away, brilliantly illuminated by his starlight optics, while they, obviously, had not yet seen the black-garbed commandos rushing toward them out of the night on the breast of a black ocean. Murdock had his Smith & Wesson out, the laser sighting device switched on, warmed up and ready. As they closed to within a few feet of Beluga's hull, he flicked over the switch that engaged the laser and took aim.

  Instantly, a dazzling pinpoint of ruby light appeared on the side of the sentry's head. Riding out the up-and-down bump of the CRRC beneath him, Murdock squeezed the handgun's trigger and the weapon coughed, a harsh sound masked by the growl of the yacht's own engine.

  In the same moment, a second dot of light winked into existence on the forehead of the man at the helm. Garcia fired an instant after Murdock; both Iranians were dead instantly, and Murdock was clambering out of the CRRC and onto Beluga's well deck a scant second or two behind the two bullets. The double thump-and-clatter of the falling bodies, the metallic crack of the G-3 rifle hitting the polished wooden deck, seemed impossibly loud in the near-silence of the night. Murdock took two long steps to Beluga's now-untended wheel and grabbed it before the yacht could swing about into the wind. He kept the brilliant pinpoint of his Smith & Wesson's laser playing next to the companionway set into the yacht's deckhouse forward, holding his breath as he waited for alarmed Iranian soldiers to come boiling out onto the deck.

  Nothing. Garcia came across the rail, his pistol in his right hand, a line from the CRRC clutched in his left. With a quick movement, he secured the boat by lashing the line to a cleat. As he finished the task, Roselli scrambled up into the yacht at his side.

  Forward, the second sentry was already sprawled lifeless by the mast, as Mac, Doc, and the Professor came aboard over the bow.

  "Prairie Home," Murdock whispered into his microphone, "this is Bedsheet. We're aboard and tucked in." They'd made it, clearing the upper deck of guards in mere seconds, and with no indication that the alarm had been given below.

  Awn cheest!" a voice cried from below decks. "Ali! Bepaweed!"

  And then Murdock knew that his first assessment had been just a little premature.

  Saturday, 28 May

  0001 hours (Zulu +3) Greenpeace yacht Beluga Indian Ocean, 230 miles southeast of Masirah

  "Ali!" Colonel Aghasi called again, and again there was no answer from the sergeant on guard on Beluga's well deck. Thoroughly alarmed now, he drew his pistol, a big, black Colt .45 automatic, and started toward the deckhouse companionway. "You men," he snapped at the five Pasdaran soldiers in the lounge. "With me, quickly!"

  The soldiers were picking up their assault rifles when the commandos burst into the compartment.

  The first two crashed through the aft companionway, figures scarcely human in black garb that completely obscured their features. Ruler-straight, needle-slender streaks of ruby light whipped about in the semi-darkness of the lounge and galley, and each time they brushed one of Aghasi's men there was a short, ringing chuff of sound. One after another, the Pasdaran infantrymen jerked wildly with a bullet's impact, arms and legs flailing as they spun, twisted, or pitched back off their feet. There were four left ... then three ... two ...

  A thunderous explosion sounded from forward, followed closely by the stink of burnt plastique. One of the men in the passageway screamed, then collapsed into the galley, just as Corporal Mahmood Fesharaki lunged through the door into the women's cabin. Two more nightmare apparitions appeared at the forward end of the passageway, dropping down into the yacht through a forward deck hatch blasted away by an explosive charge.

  Chance spared Aghasi's life; he was lunging forward, the 45 in his right hand coming up, when the side of an Iranian soldier's head exploded a meter away in a fine mist of blood and pieces of skull. Something--a fragment of bullet or bone--struck Aghasi squarely on the inside of his wrist with the solid jolt of a hammer blow. His fingers went dead as the pain of a splintered bone lanced up his arm, and the pistol spun from his hand as though propelled by a kick. At the same instant, Aghasi's face and torso were painted by a grisly splash of blood and brain. Clutching his shattered wrist, he went to his knees as the last of the Iranian troops in the aft lounge died.

  Then he was smashed down by a stunning blow to the back of his head. Blinking up from the deck, he saw one of the invaders looming over him, the night-vision goggles over his eyes giving him the glittering, black-chitin look of some monster insect. The long, heavy snout of a silenced automatic pistol swung toward him, and suddenly he was half blinded by the other-worldly dazzle of a laser tracking up his face.

  "Don't ... shoot!" Aghasi gasped in English, trying to squint past the laser's light. "Please! ..."

  "Harakat nakoneed!" the nightmare figure rasped in passable Farsi. The gaping muzzle of the sound-suppressed pistol, the ruby sparkle of the laser sight, did not waver. "Don't move!"

  Gritting his teeth against the pain in his wrist, Aghasi manag
ed a jerky nod. "Absolutely, sir," he replied, still in English. "I would not dream of moving."

  A woman screamed nearby, and Aghasi squeezed his eyes shut, certain that the sound would make the invader kill him anyway. He felt a hot wetness spreading across his groin and realized with a burst of sickened shame that he'd just lost control and emptied his bladder. He could sense the commando's finger tightening on the pistol's trigger.

  0002 hours (Zulu +3) Greenpeace yacht Beluga Indian Ocean, 230 miles southeast of Masirah

  Murdock, the Smith & Wesson gripped firmly in both hands, held the red aim-point of laser light centered squarely on the prisoner's forehead. Garcia and Roselli squeezed past at his back. "Galley clear!" Roselli called. From the corridor leading to the sleeping compartments forward, MacKenzie answered with, "Passageway clear!"

  Turning his full attention to the prisoner at his feet, Murdock revealed his teeth, a terrifying mimicry of a smile, he knew, from his paint-blackened, insect-eyed face. "Rawst begueed, he growled, before shifting to English. "Tell the truth! How many men with you?"

  "Four and--ah, fourteen," the man admitted. He was wearing olive-drab fatigues, but the gold device on his collar was the rank insignia for an Iranian Pasdaran colonel. A lucky catch, if he could be made to cooperate. "Fourteen, plus myself! You've already some of-"

  "Mac!" Murdock said, speaking into the slender microphone wired against his cheek. "We have fifteen tangos aboard total." Reaching up with one hand, he slid the starlight goggles up on his face, then glanced about the room. "I have five tangos down here, and one prisoner."

  "Three tangos down here," MacKenzie replied. With three more dead on the upper deck, that made the total twelve. Which left three unaccounted for.

  He changed channels on his Motorola. "Backup, Backup, this is Bedsheet," he called. "We have three tangos loose."

  0002 hours (Zulu +3) UH-1 helicopter Indian Ocean, 230 miles southeast of Masirah

  "No sweat," Magic Brown said, squinting into the eyepiece of his night sight.