“Yes, Captain, it’s up the scale a ways, but nothing to write home about.”
“Another day at the office, Commander?”
“Something like that. Only the place where our office is located changes every time, and the job is different every time. Makes it more interesting. Thanks for your help.”
Murdock excused himself and went back to the SEALs. He made sure they had a good meal, then they worked over their equipment and double-checked their ammo. LPO Jaybird took orders and went to sign for the ordnance they needed. Nothing fancy this time, just a straight shoot-and-scoot operation.
The dark, choppy waters of the gulf flashed by below the Super Stallion CH-53A/D. They were rocketing along at only two hundred miles an hour, but when you’re twenty feet above the water, it seems twice that fast.
“The pilot told me at this low level, the radar on the big tanker might not even see us,” Murdock said. “If it does, the blip will be so small and fading in and out that they might think it’s a small ship.
“This terrorist radar man might not be much good at that job,” Murdock said. “Like, he was shoveling camel shit a week ago; now he’s a radar tech.”
Murdock checked his men in the big belly of the chopper. There had been room for the IBSs to stay inflated, so all they had to do was drop into the gulf, grab the black boat, and climb on board.
“We’re about four miles ahead of the tanker,” Murdock told his platoon. “We’ll go one more mile, then turn into its path. Not much reason it should change course. It hasn’t since it left the strait. We get in the IBSs and watch for him. Eighteen knots, five miles, it won’t be a long wait.”
“Fifteen minutes,” Quinley said. Nobody challenged him. Quinley was their computer expert, and he was good at doing figures in his head.
“You know your assignments once we spot the tanker. It won’t be easy. Who has the big magnets?”
Franklin in Bravo Squad had two, and Bradford in Alpha had two.
“They don’t have floatation devices on them, so don’t drop the suckers overboard.”
They felt the chopper turn.
“Won’t be long now. Double-check everything.”
They had decided to do the work in their cammies. They wouldn’t be in the water that long, and the wet suits would be a handicap once on board.
The crew chief tapped Murdock on the shoulder. “About three minutes to our drop zone.”
Murdock nodded his thanks. “All right, you know the drill. Bravo Squad out first, then the SBIs, then Alpha. Grab the boats and hold them. Check the motors first. We ready?”
“Hoooorah!” the men shouted.
They all felt the craft slow. The crew chief slid open the hatch. The black water showed below, less than twenty feet away. The Stallion came almost to a stop, hovering. The crew chief yelled at Murdock.
“Go, Bravo, go,” Murdock shouted.
The eight men ran to the door and stepped out, dropping straight down into the rotor-roiled water. When the eighth man was out, Alpha Squad dumped the bulky SBIs out the hatch, then jumped out behind them. Murdock was the last man out.
The cold water hit Murdock like a thousand icy needles driven into his skin. He surfaced, saw the first boat ten yards away through the gloom of the night, and stroked toward it. Six men were inside: Alpha Squad. Two helped pull him in.
“Who’s missing?” he asked.
SCPO Dobler waved. “Holt, sir. He’s right behind you. That damn radio dragged him down.”
They got Holt in with the waterproofed SATCOM, and Murdock looked for Bravo Squad.
“The other boat is off about thirty yards,” Jaybird said. “I heard them talking.” Jaybird kicked over the engine. It caught on the second try.
“Let’s find them,” Murdock said. Murdock blinked his flashlight three times. To the west they saw three blinks in return. Two minutes later, the two SBIs had a buddy cord thirty feet long tying them together.
He used his Motorola, which he pulled out of the watertight pouch.
“DeWitt, you on the net?”
No answer. Murdock asked the question again. This time DeWitt came back.
“Yes. We’ve been off the chopper for three minutes. Should leave twelve until our friend comes by.”
“Roger that, JG. As soon as we get close to him, we cut the cord and get through the bow wake and alongside the hull.”
“How high is that rail?” DeWitt asked.
“No idea, nobody seemed to know. Your man has three shots to make a catch. Horse has three shots. One of them should catch.”
Harry “Horse” Ronson had the Mossburg shotgun out and ready. He tied the end of a quarter-inch nylon line to the SBI and inserted a slender metal probe down the barrel. The top end of the line tied to a fitting on the part of the device that stuck out of the barrel. It had a wad of thick cotton on the part down the barrel.
“This thing gonna work?” Ronson asked.
“Worked in training,” Murdock said. It’ll work now. You’re using the special shotgun shells without any lead pellets?”
“Oh, yeah. I don’t want it to blow up in my face.”
“The idea is to get the grappling hook over the rail so it’ll catch on something strong enough to support our rope man,” Murdock said. “Don’t get fancy. If the first one doesn’t work, go to the second. When it catches, pull it tight slowly, then hang all your weight on it. If it’ll hold you, it should hold any of us.”
“I’ve got three coils of a hundred feet of line,” Ronson said. “That should be enough.”
The Motorola came on. “Commander, I’ve got some dim lights to the north of us, seem to be moving this way. Could be our favorite supertanker.”
“Roger. Wait until she’s almost on us before we dig out with the motors. If anybody can read the name on the bow, it will be reassuring we’ve got the right boat.”
“No sweat there, Skip,” Dobler said. “Radar said there was no other supertanker for twenty miles around this one. Got to be our baby.”
They waited. There was no wind; the water had calmed but was as black as ever. Murdock could see the huge tanker’s running lights now. They seemed to be half a mile apart.
“That’s her,” DeWitt said on the radio. “We’re on the port side, so we see her lights fore and aft. Now, that’s a hell of a big ship.”
“We better motor toward her,” Murdock said. “Keep the tether and let’s move in together. How far is she off?”
“Six hundred yards, at least,” DeWitt said. “Yeah, we better kick these things over there.”
The SEALs crouched in the SBIs, hanging on wherever they could, as the little boats slapped through the swells at ten knots. They were on a collision course with the side of the half-mile-long tanker. Now they could see more lights on her deck and her deckhouse.
“Three hundred yards,” De Witt said. “Let’s up the throttles so we don’t miss her. She’s doing eighteen knots.”
They jolted forward directly at the side of the big ship; then, when they were fifty yards away, they could feel the swell of the bow wave coming off her.
“Cut the line,” Murdock said. “Go with her, get through that bow wake and alongside. Now, full throttle.”
The small boats leaped ahead, came closer to the mammoth island-sized ship, and then angled the same direction she was heading. Slowly, they edged closer. Then the three were moving at the same eighteen knots, and DeWitt brought his SBI up toward the towering metal hulk. The bow wave pushed him away. He tried again, and on the third time got close enough so two men reached out and slammed foot-square magnets against the hull. Lines tied the magnets to the sides of the SBI. The lines were pulled tight and the SBI’s motor cut off.
Murdock had a harder time moving alongside. When he did, the bow wave kept washing him away like a leaf in a torrent. On the fourth time, he angled close enough that the magnets slammed into place, and he was tethered to the tanker.