“Sure we got enough goop?” Radioman First Class Ron Holt asked. “Sounds like we got one shit pot full of junk to blow sky high.”
“True, lots of stuff out there, but we’re covered. That’s why each of you has a drag bag loaded with C-4 and TNAZ.”
“What if somebody spots us doing our work?” Engineman Second Class Paul Jefferson asked. “Hey, us black guys don’t blend in too damn good with the fucking Muslims.”
“We play it cool if we can. We want as few of their dead bodies out there as possible tonight. It could be a warning and get their guard up. Remember, all of these fuckers out there are terrs. We take anybody out, we have to tonight or early in the A.M., but we do it silently. Your knives will be best here.”
“This sale yard is a half mile long?” Quartermaster’s Mate First Class Kenneth Ching asked.
Boatswain’s Mate First Class and Senior Chief Petty Officer Willard Dobler took that question.
“Yeah. Alpha Squad has the right-side quarter mile and Bravo Squad works the left four forty. We spread out over the length of the place, and when activity slows down about midnight, we move in, take out any guards we have to, then plant our goop and get the hell out of there. No timers to set. All will be detonated with radio signals.”
“All this work for a damn rummage sale?” Machinist Mate First Class Tony Ostercamp asked. “Hell, couldn’t six F-18s off the carrier do just as much damage in less time?”
“They could,” Murdock said. “The only trouble is worldwide public opinion would be against us on this one. We maintain that the mother of all flea markets of terrorists’ favorite weapons and other missiles of war and terrorism should not be held. It’s such an array of weapons that terrorists want that it’s caused an uproar in several countries. Our satellites have been printing out pictures for two days of a glut of terrorist treasures. We want to destroy all of it we can.
“We knew that such a sale could not benefit the world in any way, yet could arm hard-core terrorists and hate mongers for ten years. That’s why we go in covertly, do the business, and get out without anyone tagging any country as the hit men.”
“Hey, glad for the work,” Torpedoman Third Class Les Quinley said. “I can use the overtime pay.”
That brought a chorus of wails and cheers.
“Somebody say that the old fox Osama bin Laden is behind this full table?” asked Electrician’s Mate Second Class Harry Ronson.
Murdock looked at Ronson. “That’s the word we have. Bin Laden is the multimillionaire who promotes terrorism on a worldwide scale. He recently moved from Sudan to Afghanistan, where he has his headquarters and training camps for terrorists. We raided him back in 1998 with Tomahawk missiles after who we think were his men bombed the two U.S. embassies in Africa earlier that year.
“It’s reported that every year, bin Laden pumps millions of dollars of his inherited fortune into terrorist groups and supplies them with weapons. This huge fire sale of everything the terrorists want is believed to have been arranged and highly subsidized by the bin Laden millions.”
“What if we miss something, don’t get it planted with a bomb?” Machinist Mate Second Class and Lead Petty Officer David “Jaybird” Sterling asked.
“We won’t,” Senior Chief Dobler said. “When you go in, you’ll be in pairs. You start planting your charges and move away from each other, planting your bombs on everything in sight. When you meet another SEAL working toward you, you’ll know that you have covered your fifty-yard area. The two of you finish and shag ass out of there.”
The snarl of the diesels slowed, then came close to stopping. The slender boat coasted to a halt in the water. One of five crewmen on the craft came into the compartment. He wore the stripes of a Lieutenant (j.g.).
“Men, we’re ten miles off the objective, Chah Bahar, Iran. Their radar can’t pick us up from here. We’ll wait here until first dark and then move in slowly to your disembarkment point a half mile off the beach. The last mile will be at five knots. Any questions?”
“You’ll be picking us up, Lieutenant?” the senior chief asked.
“That’s not clear yet. It could be a sub, might be choppers, or it could be me. That will be worked out, and you’ll be informed by SATCOM before you get wet coming back.”
“Good. Otherwise, it’s a long swim to the carrier,” Dobler cracked, and the SEALs laughed, glad for something to break the tension.
“We estimate we’ll be under way again in about fifteen minutes. Then we’ll need about forty minutes to get you ready to splash.”
“Thanks, Captain,” Murdock said, using his title as captain of the small craft. The officer nodded and left.
“Double-check your gear again,” Murdock said. “We’ll use the rebreathers all the way as soon as we splash. Last report was that this beach was a gentle slope and sandy, but a recent storm may have turned it a dozen ways from there.”
The SEALs did as they had dozens of times before on missions and on training runs. All the men, even the officers, had undergone the six months of rigorous training that became a boot camp hell of cold, water, explosions, more water, long hikes, no sleep, working the problems, and live fire exercises, until they wanted to scream and run somewhere that they could get warm, dry, and go to sleep. More than 60 percent of the Tadpoles who started SEAL training quit and went back to regular Navy duty.
Murdock watched his men. He had been blooded with all but one of them on the last two missions. His one new man, George “Petard” Canzoneri, had been a find. He was the top demolition man in the whole of Team Seven. He could make C-4 and TNAZ do work that nobody else could. Lieutenant (j.g.) Ed DeWitt had found him as they searched for a man to replace Al Adams.
For a moment, Murdock was worried about DeWitt not being along on the mission. He still hadn’t recuperated enough from his chest wound in Iran to get back into training. Senior Chief Dobler had been leading Bravo Squad through the last two months of training. If Ed didn’t make it back into the team in another two weeks, he’d have to be replaced by a new squad leader.
Murdock heard the big diesels stir, then turn out more power. They were moving at what he figured was twenty knots. Four of his SEALs had finished final checking on their gear and were sleeping. He grinned. Yeah, they were loose. This was a simple little mission that Don Stroh had briefed them on two days ago.
“Directly from the President and the CIA chief,” Stroh had said. A day later, they were on the plane and then to the carrier and now a half hour from Iran. But it would be only a twenty-four-hour mission, if that long.
Fifteen minutes later, Murdock looked out the slanted front windows of the Pegasus’s cabin and saw lights onshore.
“Two miles off, Commander,” the captain told him. “We’re at seven knots now, coming down to five. How close do you want me to take you?”
“Half mile should be safe for you. Dark as hell out there tonight. What happened to the moon?”
“It’s on the wane,” the Lieutenant said. “Don’t think it gets up and over the horizon tonight.”
“Good.”
Ten minutes later, the SEALs splashed into the Gulf of Oman, tied on their six-foot-long buddy cords, took their compass sightings, and headed for shore, swimming fifteen feet below the surface. The first man to touch land would wait for the rest, staying submerged.
Ken Ching found Iranian soil first and put down both feet, then backed up so he’d stay underwater. The rest of the men assembled, and the squad leaders counted heads. All present.
One by one, the SEALs surged shoreward with the waves, coming to rest on the beach sand, looking like long, motionless black logs. Murdock went first, using two waves to get in just out of the heavy surf. He unhooked his rebreather and, without moving, checked the shoreline.