Everything on the HK416 seemed secure-the AAC (Advanced Armaments Corp.) suppressor, AG416 40mm grenade launcher and AN/PVS-17 scope.
His Black Cell teammate Akil, on the bench beside him listening to “One” by Metallica through his headphones, turned to him and mouthed “Awesome.”
“One” happened to be one of Crocker’s favorite workout songs. Out of the side of his mouth, he said, “Won’t be so awesome when you shred your eardrums.”
“What?”
“Your mama’s so fat the back of her neck looks like a package of hot dogs.”
Akil nodded to the beat of the music and flashed a thumbs-up. A couple of SEALs on the opposite bench laughed. Akil was a knucklehead, but Crocker loved him. Appreciated his family, too, a tight-knit group of Egyptian Americans employed in Akil’s father’s jewelry shops in and around Detroit.
Crocker tucked the gold ankh good luck symbol Akil’s father had given him under his combat vest. Last time he was in Michigan, Akil’s old man had told him about the incidences of anti-Muslim prejudice directed against them-slurs painted on their car, rocks thrown through windows, garbage dumped on their front stoop. It pissed Crocker off.
He tried to be objective. With ISIS radicals routinely hacking off people’s heads and raping women, he understood why many Americans felt outraged and angry. But the guys in ISIS and al-Qaeda occupied the lunatic fringe. Most Muslims were decent people who wanted a better life for their families. Some were freedom-loving Americans, and a few, like Akil, played an important and heroic role in the war on terrorism.
The copilot barked through Crocker’s headset, “Zero Alpha, Tango Two. Eyes on target, one o’clock.”
He jolted to attention. “Copy, Tango. Over.”
Crocker slapped Akil on the shoulder, then pumped his fist up and down and pointed at the forward windshield to tell the members of Team Alpha to get ready. Filling out Alpha were four other SEALs from DEVGRU (Team Six)-Jenks, Tré, Pauly, and Sam. Most of them were guys Crocker had never worked with before. His Black Cell teammates Mancini, Suarez, Davis, and Cal were either on medical or personal leave and therefore unavailable.
A light southeast wind rocked the Blackhawk. They were currently fifteen miles off the coast of Singapore in the Strait of Malacca-a busy shipping lane that had been the scene of hundreds of pirate attacks from 2001 to 2004. Now it was regularly patrolled by the Indonesian, Indian, Malaysian, and Singaporean navies.
Because their target was still in Singaporean waters, the Singapore Maritime Police cutter White Shark, commanded by Captain Kin Han, would do the initial intercept. Earlier this morning Captain Han and Crocker had traded sets of 350-pound bench presses at the SMP gym. It wasn’t something Crocker did often. Instead of adding bulk, he preferred to remain lean so he could shoot and scoot.
The SEALs were in the air to provide backup should the crew of the Cong Son Gang try to evade the Marine Police or things get noisy. Given that this was a North Korean freighter headed for Iran and that the North Koreans had a reputation for being crazy, they had to be prepared for anything.
Crocker slammed a twenty-round 5.56mmx45mm mag in his weapon, checked that everything in his assault vest was secure, then turned left and tried to locate the vessel through the forward windows. The early morning yellow-orange haze obscured the water, making it hard to spot anything, even something the size of a 295-meter-long container ship.
His last week and a half had involved a whirlwind of travel-Vegas to Virginia Beach; Virginia Beach to DC; DC to Coronado, CA; Coronado to Honolulu; Honolulu to Okinawa; Okinawa to the USS Ronald Reagan, stationed in the Indian Ocean off the island of Sumatra.
“Zero Alpha, this is White Shark One, do you read me? Over.”
“Send, White Shark One. Over.”
“Moving into position. Ready to initiate radio contact.”
“Copy. Over.”
The Blackhawk hovering at three hundred meters flattened the chop in a circular pattern. Even with the engines roaring, Crocker could hear EDM blasting through Akil’s headphones. He shoved his shoulder.
Akil turned to him and lifted his grizzled square chin. “What?”
“You’re not gonna be able to hear anything,” he said, pointing at Akil’s headphones.
Akil pulled them down. “This? It’s Swedish House Mafia.” He sang off-key, “‘We’re gonna save the world tonight…’”
“Not like that, you won’t.”
“Whadda you know about music?”
Crocker preferred classic rock like the Stones and sixties-era jazz. Brubeck, Getz, Monk, and Davis were his current faves. He regretted leaving his iPod in the locker back at SMP headquarters.
The haze was starting to burn off, so he lifted the binos and could now make out the long container ship with the rusted white hull and yellow-blue-and-red stack. Looked like it was badly in need of some TLC. Pulling up to one side was a much smaller and sharper-looking white-red-and-blue Singapore Maritime Police cutter.
Five minutes passed without the Cong Son Gang appearing to reduce speed and Crocker growing antsy.
“Zero Alpha, this is White Shark One. The target is not responding to our radio signals, so we’re going to initiate blocking maneuvers.”
“Copy, White Shark One,” Crocker responded. “We’re standing by. Over.”
He wasn’t surprised. North Korean vessels were notorious for not responding to internationally accepted maritime signals and conduct.
“What the fuck we waiting for?” Akil asked as he removed his shiny new Beats headphones.
“For you to get your shit together. Ready?”
“Always, boss.”
“Put your toys away and inspect the rope,” Crocker said, nodding toward the back of the helo.
“Copy that.”
Through his Steiner binos, Crocker watched as the Marine Police cutter positioned itself in the path of the container ship and the ship changed course to steer around it. He glanced down at his Suunto watch to start to measure how long this would last when he heard a rip from the White Shark’s 25mm Bushmaster chain gun and looked up.
Captain Han wasn’t playing. Either that, or the Cong Son Gang was nearing the limit of Singaporean territorial waters and Han was taking this bit of United States-Singapore cooperation seriously. Maybe he had a personal motive. At the gym that morning, he’d talked about wanting to get his daughter admitted to MIT.
Crocker removed the Hellstorm SOLAG gloves from the carabiner on his web belt and pulled them on. The four SEALs on the opposite bench followed suit. On hearing the gunfire, the pilot of the U.S. Navy Blackhawk moved in closer so they were only a hundred meters behind the North Korean freighter and two hundred meters overhead.
Crocker felt the adrenaline building in his system. Below he saw the Cong Son Gang tack left past the White Shark and closer to the eastern edge of Sumatra, which glistened in the distance. Interesting corner of the world, Crocker thought. And one he wanted to explore further. He’d read a lot about Borneo and its rain forests and diverse species, which included orangutans, barking deer, pig-tailed macaques, and huge flying fox bats. It lay about six hundred nautical miles to the southeast.
Below, the White Shark’s Bushmaster and twin 12.7mm machine guns echoed in unison. When the smoke cleared, the Cong Son Gang showed no signs of slowing down.
Stubborn fucks.