The site was where a French geological survey team was doing illegal work for the Saudis in Oman. The work crew was a mix of unsavory French, Arab, and African workers who looked as if they had been recruited from a den of thieves on the Marseilles waterfront. After arriving at the dilapidated facility, Mike, Sabah, and Mahamat were met by a corpulent, hairy, sweating supervisor who was not pleased to see them. "My pilot will be veree cross," he said in a heavy French accent. "He don' wan' get up from bed until midday."
As if on cue, the pilot shuffled out of the small dormitory in an unsteady manner. After giving the three passengers a scowl, he escorted them to a dirty, oil-streaked French Aerospatiale SA-360 chopper for the rest of their trip to the yacht. The pilot was a hungover, smelly Italian reprobate who stank of sweat and garlic to the extent his body odor filled the fuselage with an invisible rankness. The aircraft lifted off after a minimum warm-up run of the engine, heading toward the open sea for the relatively short flight to the royal yacht. Mike noticed the guy wore a badly faded military shirt, and the SEAL figured he had probably been cashiered from the Italian armed forces for drinking on duty. But at least he seemed a competent enough helicopter pilot.
A quick landing on the pad located on the Sayih's superstructure lasted only long enough for the trio of passengers to leap off before the battered and ill-used aircraft coughed its way back up into the air for a return to its clandestine home field in Oman. The trio of Sheikh Omar Jambarah's bodyguards, Alif, Baa, and Taa, greeted Mike and his companions with their usual surliness as they searched the arrivals. After the less-than-gentle procedure, the searchees straightened out their ruffled clothing and followed the rude reception committee down to the bridge, where they were taken back past the officers' cabins to the area the sheikh used as his office.
Although Jambarah sat at his desk, he was attired in a bathing suit and sandals, showing he had come in from the stem deck to meet the unexpected visitors. The sheikh's face was glum and an unlit cigar was clenched between his teeth. 'The message given me by the radio room indicated things did not go well in the confrontation with the American hovercraft. What happened?"
"We sailed into a trap, Sheikh Omar," Mahamat said. "There was more than one air-cushion vehicle. At least a half dozen sped around and among my ships, firing missiles while taking evasive action and jamming our electronics capabilities."
"We were told they only had one such boat," the sheikh said.
"It was all a great subterfuge, Sheikh Omar!" Mahamat cried. 'The infidels cleverly made it appear they had only one by employing a single hovercraft until the battle. Then they brought out the rest along with other warships and even jet airplanes. Squadrons of F-14s raked across our squadron as my brave men were martyred. We stood no chance at all!"
The sheikh looked at Mike and Sabah, asking, "Were any of you wounded?"
Sabah shook his head. "We did not participate in the battle, Sheikh Omar."
"They would have been in the way," Mahamat explained.
"Very well," the sheikh said. "Continue telling me about the incident."
Mike stood back a short distance with Sabah, listening as the commodore described an attack force that would have served well in the great Normandy landings on D-Day in 1944. As Mahamat continued his verbal after-action report, it seemed that American missiles and bombs rained down from the sky as torpedoes snaked through the depths toward the Zauba Squadron like schools of crazed sharks smelling blood in the water. While Mike Assad had been a SEAL all his naval career, he had enough savvy to know that the type of naval assault being described was a logistical impossibility owing to the actual tactical situation in the Middle East. It seemed to him that even if the entire United States Navy was on site for the battle, they wouldn't have near the firepower that Mahamat was describing in such vivid detail. Mike was sure the commodore was covering his ass big-time; no doubt the defeat was completely his fault because of bonehead errors and the mismanagement of his command.
However, the sheikh's face showed an expression of shock and surprise as Mahamat told of attack boats exploding in rows. When the erratic report came to its sputtering end, tears streaked down the commodore's face and he fell to his knees. He held out his arms in a beseeching manner. "Sheikh Omar! You must see that a new Zauba Squadron is created so that this great disaster can be avenged. Surely the Saudis with their unlimited wealth can finance such a crucial undertaking. Do what you can to convince them of this dire necessity. I beg you in Allah's name!"
The sheikh stood up and reached across the desk, grasping Mahamat's hands in his own. "Get to your feet, my brave friend! I will use all my influence and resources to see that replacement vessels are made available to you."
Mahamat wiped at the tears on his face. "I thank you with all my heart, Sheikh Omar. I would have martyred myself with my men, but I swear that Allah spoke to me in my heart of hearts to tell me it would better if I returned to you so that the great struggle of al-Mimkhalif can continue with al-Azeez--the Almighty, the Powerful--showering us with His most holy blessings." He sobbed loudly. "I fought the battle as best I could under the most dreadful of circumstances."
"Of course you did, my poor brave friend," Sheikh Omar said. "Nobody could have done better in the face of such overwhelming odds."
"You are most kind, Sheikh Omar," Mahamat said.
"You are exhausted," the sheikh said. "I will see to it that cabins are made available to you and your brave companions Mikael and Hafez." He picked up his phone and punched the button for the chief steward of the yacht. "I need two cabins prepared for my guests. One for Commodore Mahamat and another to be shared by his two companions."
Mike, though no trained actor, did his best to exude bitter disappointment and grief. In part, the emotions were genuine. It appeared there would be no way he could contact American intelligence. He was locked into a vacuum.
.
USS DAN DALY
INDIAN OCEAN
VICINITY OF 5deg NORTH AND 15deg EAST
1700 HOURS LOCAL
LIEUTENANT Veronica Rivers was so confused, she was now irritated and more than just a little perplexed. Not only were the SEALs off somewhere on their own, but from the looks of things, they were purposely ignoring her. It didn't make sense, and she was determined to find out what was going on.
She made her way down into the docking well to see if they had gone to work on the Battlecraft for one reason or another. Veronica noted that the ACV was tied at its place, and a quick glance inside showed the helmsman Paul Watkins running some checks on his steering equipment.
Veronica went aboard and joined him. "Have you seen Lieutenant Brannigan or Lieutenant Cruiser around?"
"No, ma'am," Paul replied. "I haven't seen 'em since early this morning."
She went over to the engine compartment to see Bobby Lee Atwill. He was giving loving attention to his beloved gas-turbine power plant as he changed oil with as much care and affection as a mother preparing formula for her baby. Veronica interrupted him. "I'm looking for the SEALs. Do you have any idea where they went off to?"
"No, ma'am," Bobby Lee replied looking up from his greasy chore. "I ain't seen any of 'em a'tall."
Veronica went back outside and walked over to Chief Warren Donaldson, who was supervising maintenance on the hydraulic system that opened and closed the well's doors. "Have you seen anything of the Battlecraft's crew, Chief?"