Joint Task Force #2: America

by David E. Meadows

  Abu Alhaul had lied and tricked Tamursheki, but Tamursheki was like other followers of this wanna-be Muhammad. The terrorist leader would never consider that this great charlatan, Abu Alhaul, had intentionally led them to their deaths. Alrajool leaned closer toward the forward windows of the bridge. The faint view of a shoreline blinked in and out through the windshield wipers. About twelve nautical miles away, he figured. Somewhere on that spot of land would be the man Abu Alhaul had vowed to kill—a vow this new leader of radical Islam had taken when he had learned the name of the military person who had led the American Special Forces team responsible for the deaths of his wives and children. The thing about vengeance is it clouds the big picture. What Abu Alhaul failed to understand, but Alrajool did—as did those such as he who retained doubts about their own omnipotence—is that vengeance is a fast tide to failure. He leaned away from the windows. Time to get on with business.

  “Chief Mate, call the engine room and tell them to secure their doors. Unless they hear from me personally, they are to obey the orders of the bridge. Keyword is ‘Big Apple.’ ”

  The tall, bearded merchant marine officer who was Chief Mate, picked up the handset and passed the instructions to the engineer, who had three sailors with him in the engine room. As he put the handset back in its cradle, Alrajool envisioned the huge Greek hulk of sinew and muscle who had refused to come out of the engine room since they’d sailed; a Christian distrustful of the terrorists. Alrajool knew the man had had the doors secured before he had been ordered, and now with his instructions relayed, any change to revolutions or directions—forward, reverse—would have to be accompanied by the code word ‘Big Apple’ otherwise the stubborn Greek would ignore the command.

  He pushed the able-bodied seaman standing beside him toward the far hatchway leading from the walkway that ran along the port side of the ship. He didn’t expect Tamursheki to come that way, but you never knew what those seeking death are prepared to do. The other able-bodied sailor he positioned near the hatch through which he had entered.

  Without saying anything to the two other men manning the bridge, Alrajool turned back to stare across the bow of the freighter. Now came the series of critical moments that would determine whether this mission failed or succeeded. Rain and spray rattled the windows that banked the bridge. He pulled his phone from his pocket and hit the telephone listing buttons a couple of times until the right number appeared. “I’m calling our contact and having them ready the pier, Affendi—my friend,” he said to the Chief Mate, who was standing beside him.

  He jerked his thumb toward the bulkhead behind him. “Get the weapons out until Tamursheki and his band of assholes are off our ship.”

  The merchant marine officer nodded. Like Alrajool, he only wanted to finish this dangerous mission and return to sea before the Americans discovered what was happening. Alrajool paced to the starboard side of the bridge while his number-two flipped the locks on the false bulkhead behind the helm. The helmsman stood and slid out of his seat so the officer could open the hidden storage space.

  The sound of Alrajool talking mixed with the muffed noise of the storm as the Chief Mate slid the false wall up and into the overhead. Bolted onto the hidden bulkhead were several pistols along with a couple of older Brazilian Uru 9mm submachine guns. Originally designed in 1974 for the Brazilian Army and police, over the decades these older but still efficient automatic weapons had made their way into hands such as his.

  Alrajool closed the cellular telephone and clipped it onto his belt. Now that they were at their target, he needed access to it in the event that those watching and observing had to make last-minute changes. His second in command pulled the weapons away from the mountings and passed them to the bridge crew. A few more American dollars and Alrajool could have bought better and more efficient weapons, but he didn’t need a lot. He prided himself on doing his covert missions the way they are supposed to be done—covertly, with stealth. He did not intend to fight an American or a British boarding party. He sure as hell was not foolish enough to fight the French Foreign Legionnaires, who preferred to kill first and ask questions later. He took a deep breath and flipped on the television monitors. He thought of the hidden safe in his stateroom. He possessed enough intelligence to work a deal with the British or the Americans, though most likely it would require him to retire to a life of luxury. He smiled.

  A wave washed over the starboard side of the ship, slamming against the windows and the bulkhead of the bridge. The helmsman nearly fell, but the Chief Mate grabbed the helm, holding it steady, while pulling the helmsman upright.

  “Keep her steady, Helmsman,” Alrajool said, holding on to the overhead safety line that ran the width of the bridge. The makeshift line allowed bridge personnel to move around the confines of the small compartment in the worst of storms as they maneuvered the vessel. On the television monitor showing the second deck, Tamursheki and his men emerged from the medical compartment. For a moment, the terrorist leader looked toward the front of the ship, toward the bridge, as if trying to decide what to do next. Alrajool took a deep breath.

  Tamursheki turned away and started down the passageway toward the stern of the ship. Alrajool released his breath when he saw Tamursheki motion the others to follow. The terrorist leader was heading to the rafts. Alrajool shut his eyes for a moment as he said thanks to Allah for getting the fool and his lackeys off his ship. In this rough weather, he’d be surprised if any of them made it ashore, but he didn’t care. That wasn’t his responsibility. All he cared about right now was having them off his ship. Damn fools.

  Alrajool picked up the handset to the radio. “Time to tell the Americans we’re coming in. They frown on surprises, so keep them informed and they’ll be happy,” he said to his Chief Mate.

  “Let’s see, channel sixteen, harbor common,” he said, mumbling to himself as he checked the radio controls. Satisfied, he raised the microphone to his lips.

  The hatch from the walkway slammed opened, startling him, causing sweat to break out instantly across his forehead as the thought of Tamursheki crossed his mind. Alrajool caught a glimpse of a huge black monster, screaming at the top of his voice as he rolled through the entrance. He nearly lost bladder control. The roar of the storm drowned out any understanding of the shouts inside the bridge. Water ran from the intruder’s face. The man’s body looked as if seaweed was stuck tightly against it.

  The Chief Mate raised his Brazilian Uru. The automatic weapon in the monster’s hand rattled, sending bullets spraying across the bridge, ripping into the Chief Mate. The helmsman was caught in the same burst as he ran toward the far hatch where two others had already dove through and escaped.

  The huge figure rose to one knee, cradling the gun and pointing it directly at Alrajool. Behind the attacker, two others entered the bridge.

  The sailor near the door fired. The Chief Mate’s Uru fired a couple of bursts into the overhead as he fell. Alrajool glanced at the black man and knew he was dead. The three figures opened fire on the able-bodied sailor who was trying to pull a weapon off the bulkhead, sending him reeling backward, jerking like a misused puppet.

  The thought burst into his mind that these weren’t part of Tamursheki’s group. Alrajool dove for the deck, taking the microphone with him, gripping it tightly in his hand, unaware he had the transmit button pushed down.

  These were the three prisoners they had had belowdecks. What in the hell was Tamursheki thinking, freeing these people? They were Americans. Did he expect them to slink off into some corner, curl into a fetal position and die?

  Alrajool released the microphone. The transmit button jumped out, automatically stopping transmissions from the battle. In the storm, gray light cast dark shadows across the deck of the bridge, Alrajool crawled toward the dying sailor near the far door, searching for the pistol the man had dropped. The shooting stopped. He found the pistol, his hand touched it as a cold metal barrel jammed into the small of his neck.

  “Try it, asshole,” a
deep bass voice said. “Just try it.”

  “Senior Chief!” Early shouted. Kelly lay prone on the deck near the hatchway. A pool of blood grew under the copilot.

  Senior Chief Leary never looked up, but pressed the gun barrel deeper into the back of the neck of the man beneath him. “I think I have to kill this one,” he said through clinched teeth. “How about it, Lieutenant? We don’t need prisoners, do we?”

  “Don’t kill me!” Alrajool begged, throwing his arms up as far as he could raise them off the deck while laying face down. Oh, my God, he thought. “I know stuff. I can be helpful,” he offered, his words running together. These were Americans. They would negotiate.

  “Yeah, well, I know stuff, too. And, what I know right now is that you’re the Captain of this ship where we’ve been captives for . . . and your men killed good friends of mine.”

  “Don’t, Senior Chief!” Early shouted from where she sat on the deck.

  The pressure of the barrel moved away from his neck. He was going to live. It wouldn’t be pleasant for a while, but once they saw his value, life would become good again. Plus, there was that bank account in Liechtenstein. Of course—Pain surged through his head for a moment, and the thought that the man had shot him accompanied Alrajool into darkness.

  The speaker mounted near the merchant radio blared with ships’ conversation as various vessels tried to contact harbor control. Early listened to the radio chatter as she and the Senior Chief gently dragged Kelly to the forward bulkhead of the bridge.

  “How you feel?” she asked softly. Above her head from the radio came a Coast Guard broadcast about opening the channel in a few hours to traffic into Hampton Roads. Hampton Roads was the generic name for the ports of Norfolk, Little Creek, and Hampton. Communications traffic increased in both volume and garbles as ship after ship demanded priority in entering.

  “I feel like shit—but, then, I’ve been feeling like shit since we’ve been captured. Only this time, it really hurts.” He coughed a couple of times.

  Early noticed no blood emerged with the coughs. That’s good news, she said silently.

  “Senior Chief,” she said. “What did you do to him?” she asked, nodding toward Alrajool’s body.

  “I cold cocked him with this here little gun,” he said, smiling. “He probably thinks he’s dead, and,” the man nodded toward Alrajool, “if he makes one move when he wakes up, he’s gonna be that way.”

  She looked at Kelly. “Scott, you picked an awkward time to get yourself shot. You’re the only one of us with Surface Warfare experience and who has driven a ship, not counting those little things at Boat U.” Boat U was the euphemism for the Navy Academy.

  The Senior Chief leaned down and gave Lieutenant Kelly the Uru he had taken from the dead hands of the Chief Mate. “Here, sir. Lieutenant Early, we need to make contact and drive this big piece of shit,” he said, referring to the merchant vessel.

  “Anyone can fly an aircraft, Senior Chief,” Kelly added. “But—” Coughing broke up the sentence for a few moments before Kelly continued. “It takes a real man to drive a ship.”

  “If I can help you young’uns drive a P-3, sir, I can drive a ship.”

  “Remember, Senior Chief, there are more aircraft in the ocean than there are ships in the sky.”

  “Damn, Lieutenant. Just stay shot. You’re a better wounded than a comedian.”

  Early grabbed the radio handset, turning it over in her hands as she tried to determine how to operate it. “It has a lot of numbers on it,” she said aloud, her voice betraying her nervousness.

  “Does it say sixteen?” Kelly asked from the deck.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then, you’re on harbor common. Everyone’s on that, including the Coast Guard and the United States Navy. Broadcast away, Lieutenant, and get the cavalry out here. They—” Kelly broke into coughing. Early could hear liquid behind the cough. That wasn’t good.

  “Shit, ma’am!” Senior Chief added as he shoved the dead helmsman off the seat, his finger running over the console as he concentrated on the displays. “They can even bring the Air Force as long as we don’t have to wait for them to take crews’ rest. But push the button and talk to them, please!”

  “We’ve got to move him, Senior Chief. And, we got to do it now.” Early jammed the handset back in its holder, bent down, and with both hands under Kelly’s armpits, lifted him to a sitting position. “Here, I’m going to slide you against the helm in the center of the bridge,” she said.

  The coughing stopped. A thin line of blood appeared out of the left corner of his mouth. “That would be nice,” he said weakly.

  “Got it!” the Senior Chief said, looking over the helm at Early. “Which way you wanna—Here, let me give you a hand.” He came around the console and quickly helped Early move the wounded lieutenant the last couple of yards.

  They propped Kelly with his back against the console. The ship took a slight roll and the wounded man tilted with the roll. Early grabbed him before he tumbled onto the deck.

  Leary touched her on the shoulder. “We got problems, Lieutenant,” he said, pointing to the small monitors above the forward bridge windows.

  She looked at where the Senior Chief was pointing.

  “See the center one?”

  Several armed men were scrambling up a ladder. Behind them more poured out of a nearby compartment. A couple of them in the passageway fell and stayed where they fell. Then they split into two groups, with the smaller group of terrorists heading forward while the others, unbeknownst to Early, headed aft, in the direction that Tamursheki and others had taken earlier.

  “You think—”

  “I don’t get paid to think, Lieutenant. That’s your job. But since you asked, I would say that in a few seconds we’re going to have a lot of company up here on the bridge with us. You really need to get on that radio, ma’am.”

  Kelly tumbled onto the deck with the return roll, then slowly pushed himself upright. Breathing heavily, he said, “I’m okay.”

  Early grabbed the handset.

  “Don’t try to figure it out, Gotta-Be!” Senior Chief shouted. “Just push the button.”

  She pushed the transmit button just as the hatch to the bridge opened. The ship took a steep roll to port. The roll caught the terrorists off-balance, causing three of them to fall into each other and onto the deck. Guns blazed from behind the three as others fought to enter the bridge. Shots rippled in a line across the overhead.

  Early flipped her gun to the right, still holding the handset in her left hand, pulled the trigger, discovering herself surprised that bullets came out of the thing when you did that. Senior Chief Leary fired from the end of the helm console.

  The terrorists inside the bridge dove back through the hatch into the passageway. One lay lifeless on the deck. The open hatch moved back and forth to the roll of the ship, bouncing off the head of the dead terrorist blocking the hatchway.

  Whoever was following stopped. How were they going to shut the hatch? They should have secured it as soon as they took the bridge. She mentally kicked herself for failing to think of it. Between the starvation and dehydrating diet they’d been on for a week, finding her crew massacred, and fighting for the bridge, it was a wonder they were still alive. Still, she should have been thinking ahead.

  She lifted the handset to her lips. “Mayday, mayday, mayday . . .”

  CHAPTER 11

  THE GRAY OF DAY RODE ACROSS THE SHEETS OF RAIN dancing along the shoreline toward the tower. A hot breakfast had given Tucker his second wind after a restless night. He watched through the window as Pete MacOlson and the First Class continued their work along the piers. A new person was with them. The anchor of a chief petty officer was embroidered on the front of the new one’s ball cap.

  When Tucker had gone to bed the night before, MacOlson and his men had been setting and resetting the mooring lines on the special operations crafts; when he had risen early at around three in the morning, they had still been out th
ere; and here it was approaching eight o’clock and they were still at it. At least with the SEALs you got a change of scenery every now and again. Granted, a lot of those scenes had bullets in them.

  No wonder few remained Surface Warfare officers. Plus, Navy SEALs do get a few hours in a row for a good sleep. Most SWOs were lucky to get four hours in a row, especially when they were at sea. Must drive their wives mad. On the other hand, there could be many happy nights when the sailor came home from the sea.

  Footsteps behind him drew Tucker’s attention. Commodore West appeared at the head of the stairs, holding papers in his right hand. He waved them at Tucker. “Looks as if we’re finally getting some good news,” he said, walking toward the Navy SEAL.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Our esteemed weather-guessers have met in secret counsel and decided that by noon the malevolent Being driving this storm will be far enough away in its sharp right-hand turn toward the northeast that we should see the rain and seas diminish. The storm is heading toward our brothers and sisters on the British Isles, who, as we all know, are much better qualified to handle weather such as this.” He handed the top paper to Tucker. “Personally, I would much rather have it visit the French.”

  A schematic of the East Coast filled the sheets covered with the myriad of wavy lines that, with the exception of the Cray computers hidden beneath the bowels of NSA, only trained meteorologists could interpret. Little arrows bulging along the lines pointed the directions various fronts were moving, and in the upper right-hand corner, a small block identified the date and time of the data.