"We use sirens and gunfire and move everyone any way we can. We must be on that dock before dark and ready to fight. Issue ammunition to squad leaders. They are to issue it to the men ten miles outside of Mombasa. Move, now, Captain, move."
They didn't leave camp in fifteen minutes. Two of the big trucks wouldn't start. Mechanics worked on them, and they were ordered to make them start and bring their loads of men as quickly as possible.
That left four heavy trucks, each jammed with twenty men. Four of the personnel carriers were working, and could each carry ten men. Three utility rigs held four men each.
It was nearly two hours before the convoy pulled onto the road. Major Mudodo led them. He punched his utility rig up to forty miles an hour, but found the big trucks couldn't keep up with him. He slowed to thirty miles an hour and established that, then gradually crept up to thirty-five. At that rate they would make the fifty miles in two hours. It was market day. The road was jammed.
That would make it 1815, just to get to the outskirts of Mombasa. If he remembered right, he knew the way to the docks, but Mombasa was a big city, the traffic that time of day would be terrible, and they would have only an hour left then to darkness. If they made it to the docks by 1900, it would be a miracle. That was the same time for sunset that day.
He crept the speed up to forty miles an hour, but the convoy fell behind. Captain Mudodo swore, and told the driver to ease off to thirty again.
Long before they came to Mombasa itself, the road was jammed with market day people going home. His driver was constantly on the horn, and twice the captain had fired a burst from his Uzi submachine gun into the sky to move people aside.
The sun went down a half hour before they came to the Kipevu Causeway to get onto Mombasa Island. They still had three kilometers to travel down the harbor frontage road to Pier 12. Captain Mudodo wondered how long his military career would last. He had gone over to General Maleceia reluctantly, but at the time it seemed the best thing to do. Now he was questioning it. He had 132 men with what ammunition they could carry and some in reserve, but not much. If it came to a firefight, he couldn't hold out for long. He prayed that 132 men standing guard over the ship would be enough.
Lieutenant Blake Murdock had made a final inspection of his men. Ed DeWitt had done the same. Each SEAL had a silenced weapon, and his silenced Mark 23 pistol. They wore their darker jungle cammies, and had camouflage paint in various shades on their faces, especially their ears and noses, which could catch light easily. This was billed as a dry operation, so they didn't have their rebreathers or wet suits.
Murdock had everyone in the two IBSs by his Time of Departure, and now the fifteen-foot-long Zodiac-type rubber boats slashed through calm seas toward the coast. The Monroe had edged to within four miles of the shore, but would come no closer. At eighteen knots, the IBSs could cover the distance to the Mombasa bay in twelve to fifteen minutes.
"Should be dark right about 1900," Murdock told Jaybird.
"That gives us the run up to the ship in the dark, so we should be invisible," Jaybird said. "Hope that Kenyan Navy patrol boat isn't snooping around."
"We've got the SATCOM, Holt?"
"Right, L-T, up and running."
"We've got two Hornet F/A-18s for air cover if we need them. Rather do this quietly, but you never can tell."
The whispers stopped. A brisk wind gave them a small chop to the ocean now, but it didn't slow them down. It meant they held on to the handholds a little tighter.
"Remember, the rail is only twenty to twenty-four feet off the water, depending on what part of the ship we hit," Murdock said. "We have the blind spot on the port side from amidships aft for twenty feet.
"Nobody on the bridge or the flight deck on the fantail can see us. But then I don't expect these Army guys to have a Navy-type watch."
Soon they passed the little town called Likoni on the left-hand side of the channel. It looked about the same. They were quiet now, and darkness was complete. They throttled back to twelve knots to make less noise, and less of a wake in case anyone watched for them.
At twelve knots, it would take a little longer, but their approach had to be quiet. They figured about three and a half klicks to the pier where the Roy Turner was berthed. Another twelve to fifteen minutes, maybe five more than that.
The second IBS trailed Murdock's boat by twenty yards. Ed DeWitt was ready with his squad. They would go up the stern onto the chopper flight deck and secure it, then work forward.
Silence was the key. Even the grapple hooks they would throw over the rails had been wrapped with rope to cushion the sound when they hit metal.
The mission looked to be on schedule and on track to Murdock. Another ten minutes and they would be there.
Then Murdock's boat engine went dead.
Ken Ching swore and bent over the thirty-five-hp outboard trying to get it started. DeWitt idled his boat up beside them.
Ken Ching swore again. He tried ten times. It wouldn't start. Murdock had been checking his watch. He waved to DeWitt. The other boat came up and bumped them. The men held the two craft together.
"Hey, sailor, give a guy a tow?" Murdock asked.
"Sure, if that means I have salvage rights, law of the sea."
"We're in port."
"Oh." A minute later DeWitt's boat growled along on full throttle towing the second IBS. They were making about five knots.
"Makes us thirty minutes late getting on-site," Jaybird said. Murdock nodded. "If they don't know we're coming, thirty minutes don't mean squat. Let's see how it plays."
17
Gunner's Mate First Class Pete Vuylsteke eased up and looked down the passageway. Nobody. It was dark outside. They hadn't heard anyone in their section of the Turner for an hour. Probably gorging themselves on the chief's mess stores.
He lifted up from the ladder and ran across the passage that led to the quarterdeck and into the aft section of the ship. He heard Perez and Tretter right behind him. They went down a companionway, up two more ladders, and came out where he wanted to be.
He flattened out on the broad deck aft of the stack on the superstructure. They were in the open on the top of the ship, and with a minimum of movement they could cover either side of the frigate.
They had brought their weapons. None of them were silenced, and if they started shooting, they had to be able to defend themselves until they could get down to the roof of the hangar, where they could take a flying dive into the bay.
"Yeah, let's do it," Perez had said. "I'm getting too fucking tired of sitting in the bilge. My ass hurts. At least we'll be in the open."
They had talked it over all afternoon, and when it had started getting dark outside, they'd worked up to the top deck. It was so easy, they wondered where all the Kenyans were. They spotted some of them prowling the weather deck.
"Damn poor place for lookouts," Tretter said.
"What the hell, they're shit-kickers, not sailors," Vuylsteke said. He grinned. "Hey, you guys know that, by rules of the sea, I am now the Captain and commanding officer of the Roy Turner."
Tretter snorted.
Perez laughed. "Be damned, you're the senior man, all right. Okay, Captain, what the hell we doing next?"
Before any of them could answer they heard the growl of a truck with lights off edging onto the pier.
"Oh, shit, reinforcements. Tretter, can you kill the driver with your AK?"
It was a fifty-yard shot at most. Tretter cranked in a round, sighted on the right-hand side of the glinting windshield, and fired. The round slammed through the windshield, but missed the driver. Tretter's second round punched through the man's chest, and the truck stalled.