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Now they were back into the routine, moving at one-third speed as Veronica Rivers monitored her scopes. Brannigan checked the fuel gauges and began to ponder about radioing back to the Dan Daly for instructions. There was a choice of returning for more fuel or meeting with the combat-support ship attached to the local carrier battle group. After deciding to let a couple of hours drift by before making inquiries, he settled back into his chair and stared out the windshield at the wet nothingness that lay before them.

"I've got a reading, sir," Veronica announced. "It seems to indicate a small craft moving on a heading of zero-niner-zero. Really slow."

"Roger," Brannigan said wearily. "Set an interception course, Lieutenant. Then give it to Watkins."

"Aye, sir," Veronica replied. A couple of beats passed, then she announced, "Change course to one-six-seven."

"Change course to one-six-seven," Watkins repeated. "Aye, ma'am."

The speed remained the same as they moved toward the dot on the scope. Twenty minutes passed, then a smudge appeared on the horizon. As they drew closer, the target shimmered into view. Senior Chief Dawkins, standing topside with his binoculars, shouted, "It's a whaler boat!"

"A whaler boat?" Brannigan said. "The damn thing either belongs in a harbor or to a nearby ship."

"There is no indication of other vessels in the immediate area, sir," Veronica informed him.

Bobby Lee Atkins, standing just behind the skipper, grinned. "I've heard of people getting lost, but this guy's got to be the lostest son of a bitch in the world. I bet he couldn't find his ass with both hands."

Brannigan had just reached for his microphone to raise the stranger when a static-filled broadcast came over the speaker. The voice was distorted by a weak transmitter as it said, "Unknown ship. Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. I am just off your port bow. Over."

"We've spotted you," Brannigan said. "Are you alone?"

The voice began breaking up. "I have one other... with... we're... in... shape--" Then the signal faded out altogether.

'The guy must not have paid his electric bill," Brannigan said. 'Take us over there, Watkins."

Doc Bradley came forward with his medical kit. 'Those folks may be in bad shape"

"Yeah Brannigan agreed. "Or this could be some kind of trick."

Now Jim Cruiser joined them. "I've heard of suicide bombers going to the extreme, but I doubt if someone would send one out on the open ocean in a whaler."

"Maybe not" Brannigan said. "But get your men out there and put Puglisi to the front with the SAW."

"Aye, sir!" Jim replied.

Within short moments the First Assault Section was on the port side of the ACV, ready for whatever might happen. As Watkins maneuvered alongside, Puglisi aimed the SAW at the man behind the wheel. "Put your hands up, you mujahideen motherfucker!"

"Hey, there's a woman on board with him," Connie Concord said.

"And quite comely," Chad Murchison remarked. "Though rather sunburned."

Jim Cruiser ordered Garth Redhawk and Amie Bemardi into the whaler to help the two people up onto the Battlecraft's bow. The woman was weak and could barely stand, but the man was able to get aboard without help. He was heavily bearded and wore one of the pakol caps the SEALs had learned to hate from their experiences on their first mission together in Afghanistan. The SEALs also did not fail to notice the man's uniform.

Brannigan came out on the bow, and approached the mujahideen, looking closer at him. "Who the hell are you?"

The man's eyes opened wide as he stared into Brannigan's face. Then he looked at the others in the First Assault Section. Suddenly he snapped to attention and saluted.

"Sir!" he said sharply. "Petty Officer Second Class Mike Assad reporting for duty!"

Chapter 18.

USS DAN DALY

31 OCTOBER

0830 HOURS LOCAL

MIKE Assad sat in the middle of the front row of seats in the ready room. He wore a brand-new uniform that showed the creases of storage. An entire new outfit complete with web equipment and a CAR-15 rifle had been sent over for him from the nearby carrier battle group. The combination of conventional U. S. Navy garb and his long hair and beard gave the wandering Brigand an appearance that was both startling and ludicrous to his old buddies.

Directly across from the newly outfitted SEAL, Commander Tom Carey, Sam Paulsen, and Mort Koenig sat mesmerized as he made a complete oral report of what he had been through since the contrived escape from the American Embassy in Rawalpindi, Pakistan. He took them through the confrontations with hostile slum residents; the help from the mosque; the bus trip; another escape, this particular one from the rural police lockup where he lifted a revolver; meeting the Pashtuns; and finally reaching Camp Talata to rejoin the al-Mimkhalif terrorist group.

Koenig, who was taking notes, kept grinning as he jotted down the discourse in his shorthand. "Damn! Goddamn!" he whispered under his breath from time to time.

Mike's dissertation continued on through the special assignment with Hafez Sabah, the Zauba Squadron, and on up to his escape with Hildegard Keppler from Fortress Mikhbayi and the subsequent meeting with the ACV Battlecraft.

"You had quite an adventure," Carey remarked. "And put in a damn good job in the bargain."

"That's for sure," Paulsen agreed. "How about giving us some names and descriptions?"

"Okay," Mike said. "I'll start small and work up to the bigwigs. They are using a dhow for bringing arms to the Pakistani coast. I know the exact location they used, and I'll point it out on the map. The captain of the dhow is an old guy by the name of Bashar Bashir."

"We already know about him," Carey said. 'The Battlecraft intercepted them at sea. Even though the ship was empty, Senior Chief Dawkins discovered numerous spots of Cosmoline on the deck of the hold when he and Lieutenant Brannigan went aboard to take a look around."

"Jesus!" Mike exclaimed. "You guys haven't exactly been on vacation either. Okay. So here's another name. Commodore Muhammad Mahamat. Does that ring any bells?"

Paulsen looked at Koenig, then back to Mike, shaking his head. "It doesn't do anything for me."

"Well, the poor bastard is dead anyway," Mike said. "He was publicly beheaded for losing a big sea battle."

"Aha!" Carey exclaimed. "That has to be the one where the Battlecraft really kicked ass. Can you tell us the origin of the enemy force?"

"It's part of the Oman Navy," Mike answered. "But I better explain some things before you get ready to declare war on that country. The outfit gets extra funds and other goodies through Saudi Arabian sources. The name was the Zauba Fast Attack Squadron. Even the government there has no idea just how strong the outfit is. They thought it was just a small half-ass coastal patrol outfit. But instead of secondhand Brit hand-me-down vessels, the Saudi financiers were able to arrange some modem Swedish fast-attack boats and a missile boat used as a flagship."

Paulsen's eyes opened wide. "Now there's some news. Nobody in the intelligence community had any idea of that situation."