Paul “Jeff” Jefferson: Aviation’s Mate Second Class. Black man, 23, 6'1", 200 pounds. Expert in small arms. Can tear them apart and reassemble, repair, innovate. Is a chess player to match Ed De Witt.
PLATOON WEAPON: Colt M-4A1 with grenade launcher.
Murdock stared at the names and weapons. He remembered the two months of training they had taken to fuse the new men into the platoon. He remembered the nights of talking with SCPO Dobler, bringing him up to date on the men, trying to give him a firm foundation in the team. Had he done it with Dobler? Were the men in the platoon ready?
On the schedule for the coming week, he had put intensified live fire drills. Each man in the platoon had to be at home firing every weapon the platoon used. This was essential.
The walking wounded had rounded out in good shape. All were fit for SEAL duty, and that was rougher and tougher than normal Navy duty. Murdock tried to relax. Bowling used to relax him. He thought about it a minute.
No, not bowling. There you were shooting for perfection. The perfect 300 game. His competitive instincts would take over, and he’d be furious if he didn’t do well. Even a 200 game would piss him off. He settled for going home, taking a long hot shower, then diving into bed.
As he turned out the light, he wondered what Ardith Manchester was doing in her apartment in Washington, D.C., about then.
2
Eight wet suit — clad divers came up out of the depths of the black waters of the Persian Gulf twenty miles below Kuwait City. They swam strongly against the bow wake of the huge ship until they came against the black side. There they pushed strong magnets against the steel hull of the super crude carrier oil tanker.
All eight men wore black wet suits, face masks, rebreathers, caps, gloves, and boots. Automatic weapons had been tied across their backs. Each man wore a combat vest with pockets and zippers, and all were loaded with arms. The men rested as the big tanker towed them through the water at her normal loaded cruising speed of eighteen knots. The smallest man in the team lifted out of the water and, using magnets on his hands and feet, worked his way slowly up the side of the tanker at the lowest point, about amidships. He trailed a thin, strong nylon rope tied to his waist. He rested halfway up, then paused at the rail. He looked down the long expanse of the deck, saw no sentries, no one on watch. It was nearly three A.M. Most of the crew would be sleeping.
Of the eighteen in the crew, they estimated that only four would be on duty at night.
The dark-clad man tied off his end of the nylon line to a sturdy iron fixture, then gave it two short tugs. Two pulls answered him from the bottom. The man pushed behind a fixture and blended in with the ship. He watched carefully both ways. A door slammed somewhere on the houselike building forward of amidships. It was made up of three or four decks topped by the pilothouse with the navigation and equipment section, the bridge, and the communications room. There also were quarters in this house for the officers and some of the crew. It was the nerve center of the computer-operated ship.
He could see the poop deck on the stern of the long ship. That area covered the loading and unloading machinery and the huge power plant that propelled the ship. There were quarters there for the crew as well.
In the intense briefing yesterday, he was told that the tanker was 2,400 feet long. That was almost the length of eight soccer fields laid end to end! Fantastic. He would believe it when it grew light and he could see for himself.
They told him it was 430 feet across, farther across the big ship than the width of two soccer fields. The deckhouse was supposed to be seven stories tall.
Their leader said he was not sure just how many crewmen were on board. With every advance in computer technology, they trimmed down the crew. They were figuring that there were still eighteen men on this older ship. It still had one hull, not the double hull the newest tankers had.
He couldn’t see the bow of the ship, but up there was the forecastle. There would be no crewmen or workmen in the forecastle, so they would ignore it during the first attack.
One of his men came over the rail from the rope. He sank to the black deck at once. The men came regularly after that until all eight were on board. Their leader came last.
Each man knew his assignment. Four would take over the poop deck area, to capture the crew, killing as few as possible. They would need most of the Americans to run the ship. Four men would go to the large boat house.
Kamel Jaber took off his wet suit helmet and discarded it over the side. The other divers did the same. He gathered his men around him as they drained the seawater from the barrels of their weapons and charged rounds into the chambers.
“You know what to do. We will not fail. We keep as many alive as we can to run the ship. Your reward will be great. May you go with Allah.”
They moved cautiously in the darkness of the night along the huge ship toward their targets.
Jaber took three key men with him. One was a ship’s engineer, the other had a pilot’s license for the coastal regions of the Persian Gulf, and the third man was his best shooter.
They moved like shadows along the side of the ship outside the array of pipes across the wide deck. Jaber knew the giant ship held its crude oil in all of its ninety holds. It was full and heading to America. He smiled. Not for long. They reached the metal door that led into the deck-level floor of the house. It was unlocked. He edged it open and peered inside. It looked like a dressing room for foul weather. Various lockers covered one wall. Another had pegs with wet-weather clothing and hats. A stairway showed to the left.
Jaber knew the floor plan of the tanker’s house. He had studied it for a week. The steps led to the second level, where there were living quarters for the captain, first mate, and chief engineer. He needed all three of them alive and uninjured.
They cleared the three rooms on the first level, storage and supplies. Jaber took the lead up the steps. He had a stun gun and a silenced pistol. The steps were metal, and their rubber-soled diving boots made not even a whisper of sound. Jaber came up the steps to where he could see the second level. Just as in the plans he had seen, there was a hallway with four doors off it, and more steps up to the pilothouse.
He tried the first door. His three men moved in close behind him. Unlocked. He turned the doorknob gently, then edged the panel in an inch. Darkness. He took out the penlight and thrust the door open a foot, then shone the light inside. One bed. The man on it slept with only a sheet over him.
Jaber moved quietly to him, pressed the silenced automatic to his throat, and shook him.
“Wake up,” he said in English. The man mumbled and tried to turn over.
“Wake up,” Jaber said louder. One of his men had closed the door behind them. The man jolted upward, his eyes wild in the beam of the small, powerful light.
“What the hell?”
“True, my friend,” Jaber said, pushing the automatic into the man’s side. “One outcry, and you will be in hell. Are you the first mate or the engineer?”
“First mate. What is this?”
“Nothing to get alarmed about. Hands behind you, please.”
One of Jaber’s men came up quickly and taped the man’s hands together behind his back, then put another piece of tape across his mouth. More tape fastened his ankles together. Then they put him back on the bunk.
“You will stay there, First Mate, or you’ll be shot. Do you understand? We’re taking over your ship.”
The first mate’s eyes focused on the shadow behind the light, but he saw little. He nodded.
The four men left the room silently.
The next room was unlocked and empty.