Immediately tension started to build and stomachs did loop-the-loops. The copilot produced a yellow plastic bucket, which quickly saw use. Crocker managed to hold his dinner down by visualizing the mission, step by step. Several times he and the others were tossed violently left or right and the vessel seemed about to capsize, but somehow it righted itself and continued to pull them closer.
Usually during infils, guys relieved stress by taking the piss out of one another. But this time all the operators remained quiet, occupied with their own thoughts. Some listened to music through earbuds; others prayed silently. Crocker focused on his breathing, trying to keep the breaths soft and of equal length-in and out, in and out-in an effort to keep the fear away. Still, errant anxieties drifted into his head: The terrorists would be expecting them. They’d find themselves in a death trap. They would cause the terrorists to release the sarin, resulting in the deaths of everyone on board.
“Six miles to target,” SWO Cowens announced. “We’ve established visuals.”
Crocker turned and squinted through the side slit window located just inches above the waterline, but couldn’t see anything through the mist and splash.
The ST-10 SEALs on the opposite bench measured every minute, with fear and determination in their eyes. Each man wore a black skin suit with hood, operator gloves, a nylon holster with a SIG Sauer P226, quad-tube NVGs, earbuds and bone phones, and carried either an HK416 or a German-made M7 chambered with 4.6x30mm rounds with their greater ability to penetrate body armor. Most of the men had M203 grenade launchers fixed to the rails; Mancini chose to carry his favorite single-shot, break-action M79. Attached to their black web belts were SOG knives, grenades, pouches with extra ammo, Tuff-Ties, Motorola Saber portable radios, medical supplies, and other gear.
Though they looked like ninjas with their black suits and body armor, what Crocker saw weren’t cold-blooded killers but dedicated operators with families, who loved their country. Difficult, high-risk ops like this were what they’d been selected and trained for. If they succeeded and came back alive, they’d be talking about this mission for the rest of their lives.
Scott Russert lay in bed looking at his sleeping sons and wife, thinking that he was responsible for putting them in harm’s way and wondering how he could get them off the ship. In the hot, airless room his mind raced through numerous scenarios-including sneaking them onto the main deck and commandeering a lifeboat-and each time ran into the same dead ends, as though trapped in his own mental maze.
The waiting and uncertainty were excruciating. He tried to find something positive to think about, but kept drifting back to the image of the two armed men with black masks standing in the hallway. And every twenty minutes, the blasts of gunfire from the deck above and shouts of Allahu akbar sunk his spirits further.
He sensed death creeping closer, and longed for the tranquility of Putney-the Thames River path, the rowing clubs, the cafés, the botanical gardens that were home to kingfishers, bitterns, and swans.
Scott imagined he heard the echo of footsteps from the hallway. Then they became real. They approached. A moment of silence passed before a knock on the door caused his heart to leap into his throat.
Scott carefully lifted Karen’s head off his chest, and crossed the cabin on bare feet, clad only in boxers and a T-shirt. He almost fainted at the sight of the three armed, masked men standing in the doorway. Before he could think of anything to say or do, they were dragging him down the hall past images of Daffy Duck and Minnie Mouse that now seemed like gargoyles. He sensed that his life was soon about to end, and he tried to slow down time.
Even the fresh air on Deck 9 seemed indifferent. Half stumbling, half dragged by two of the armed men, he saw the Goofy-themed pool ahead. Yesterday he had been splashing in it with his sons and other happy kids and parents. Now it seemed dull and quiet with only one of the underwater lights on, and the water appeared red. He wondered why-until he saw the floating bodies. Then something in his head shut off and he lost consciousness.
Crocker stood on the bow of the SEALION II holding the long pole aloft and trying to hook onto the rail of the main deck of the Disney Magic. A difficult task in any circumstances, it was made more challenging by the rolling, bobbing vessel. The muscles in his arms and shoulders quaking, he focused intently and managed to steady the hook enough to rest it on the rail and pull down, releasing a small caving ladder that unrolled thirty feet to where he stood.
As the lead climber he went up first, two rungs at a time, like a mountain lion. In addition to the other first-line equipment secured to his web belt, he carried a carabiner with four one-inch tubular nylon runners. Reaching the deck, he knelt, did a quick 360 through his NVGs, saw that the coast was clear, secured the ladder to the rail with the carabiner, slung the nylon runners over it, and attached a safety line from the runners to the ladder.
Done!
Now he signaled the rest of the team to board the ship. They hurried up, grenades and anything that could rattle taped to their combat vests. The ten SEALs broke into three groups designated Alpha, Beta, and Delta. Delta, led by Mancini and including Revis, JD, and Diego, headed directly for the Variable Air Volume (VAV) system on Lower Deck D, near the ship’s engine. Beta, consisting of Duke and Nash, with Davis in charge, had been tasked with securing the engine room and helping Team Delta clear the lower decks. Crocker directed Team Alpha, which included Akil and Storm, directly to the ship’s bridge.
Precisely as planned.
The element of surprise uncompromised, Team Alpha hurried up the metal stairway two steps at a time, Crocker in the lead, finger resting on the safety guard of his suppressed HK416, heart pounding. The electromagnetic energy directed toward the ship interfered with their comms, too, so they were using hand signals-left fist pumped up and down for “hurry,” hand around the left eye for “sniper,” and so on.
They were halfway to Deck 10 when Crocker felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned back to Akil, who flashed three quick signals in succession-“hostage” (left hand under chin), “enemy” (slapping the right wrist), and “direction” (pointing behind him).
Where?
Mid-deck below, near the pool, he saw three armed terrorists in black, with black beards, dragging a hostage. It was unclear whether the captive was alive or dead until one of the terrorists slapped him hard and the man moaned and waved his hand as though he were drunk, or coming out of a stupor.
Crocker placed his palm on his head, indicating that he wanted the other two SEALs to cover him, then sprung.
Scott was disoriented, but still alive. His head felt swollen and hot, and every muscle in his body was seized with terror. He knew what was about to happen as the terrorists positioned him against the Goofy fountain and stepped back.
What have I done to you? he wanted to ask them, but there was no point now. Instead, he said out loud, “Please, God, watch over my wife and sons.” He closed his eyes as the terrorists lifted their AK-47s and waited for the bullets to enter his head and body, hoping it would end quickly and he wouldn’t feel much pain.
His body flinched as he heard the shots, which sounded more like spitting than pops. Curiously, he didn’t feel anything pierce his skin. Even so, his knees gave way and he started to sink.
Halfway to the deck he was stopped by strong hands that pulled him close and covered his mouth. He heard a voice whisper in English, “Sir, are you a passenger?”
Scott nodded and looked up. He wasn’t sure whether he was seeing a demon or a rescuer. It was a heavily armed man all in black, peering at him through elaborate goggles. No eyes, no smile, a serious expression.