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An attack on the critical oil loading station could destabilize the world economy and potentially topple the Saudi regime.

“Why the fuck is a chemical tanker headed for an oil export terminal?”

“Apparently it issued a distress signal and is flying an orange flag.”

“And the Saudis let it through their security perimeter?”

“Appears so. Something to do with faulty electronics and possible engine failure.”

Crocker didn’t like it at all. “Tell the copilot to get on the horn. Alert the Saudis. And tell the Omanis we need permission to board.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is an emergency, Akil. Code red!”

“Understood.”

Faulty electronics, my ass.

He had a feeling that this might become more than a reconnaissance mission. Now he huddled with his men and outlined the situation.

“I thought you said we were simply going to observe the ship,” Davis muttered.

“We just received updated information. What we’re doing here is rapid assessment and response.”

The men looked excited. They lived for ops like this.

“Like riding a bucking bronco,” Ritchie remarked.

“Whether the men on board resist or surrender, we’ve got to gain control of the bridge and stop this sucker before it reaches Ras Tanura.”

Mancini said, “I can do that.”

“Are we dropping in the water?” Davis asked.

“I won’t know until we get close.”

“And see what the bastards throw at us.”

“Basically, we’re going to improvise,” Crocker said. “What have we got to go in with?”

Mancini, always the finagler, had managed to smuggle aboard a couple of MP5 series submachine guns, a half-dozen nine-millimeter handguns, about a thousand rounds of nine-millimeter hollow-point, a few KA-BAR knives, a dozen frag grenades, waterproof weapons bags, and some waterproof utility pouches. All compliments of a friend of his in the military attaché’s office.

“No wet suits or fins?” Davis asked.

“The water’s warm. We’ll manage. Let’s find out what the Omanis have on this bird.”

The men held on as the copter banked left, then scrambled through the fuselage looking in the weapons bays for anything they could use, turning up four more submachine guns, a couple of grenade launchers, an inflatable raft, flares.

Crocker spotted the Saudi coast out the left window, a glowing yellow ribbon.

“Boss! Boss!” Akil shouted from near the cockpit. “Look!”

Pressing his face to the glass he saw a weathered-looking tanker approximately 350 feet in length. Orange-red hull with a matching red stack; white bridge. To anyone else it would have appeared to be an innocuous, smallish, rusting tanker puttering up the coast.

The men pressed their faces against the side window for a better look.

Crocker rushed to join Akil up front. “Tell the pilot to bring this baby right over the bridge.”

“Ten-four.”

A lot of arguing back and forth in Arabic. Crocker asked, “What’s the problem?”

“We’ve entered Saudi airspace. He’s waiting for permission.”

“Screw that. No time.”

The pilot was a stubborn-looking fellow with a big bald circle on the top of his head and fierce dark eyes. As Akil argued with him and the mustached copilot, the helicopter drew closer to the ship.

“Tell him we don’t have time for permission. We’ve got to act now to prevent a catastrophe.”

Akiclass="underline" “I have.”

From approximately three hundred feet above and fifty feet to the side, Crocker made out men on the bridge waving up at the helicopter and pointing at the orange and black distress flag. A number of them wore black beards.

“What do you think?” Akil asked.

“They don’t look like sailors to me.”

“Me either.”

“Tell the pilot to take it closer.”

“He won’t.”

“Why not?”

“He’s waiting on orders.”

“Fuck the orders!”

Leaning past the back of the pilot’s seat, he grabbed the man’s shoulder and pointed. “Down! Down, man. Take it closer!”

“No!”

“Yes, goddammit. The ship’s headed for Ras Tanura. Do you know what that means?”

The pilot shouted something to the copilot, then steered the metal bird lower until they were about 150 feet over the bridge.

“Lower! Lower! You can do it. Go ahead!”

The pilot shook his head vigorously.

“Lower, my friend.”

“La!” (No!)

“Yalla! Yalla!” (Let’s go! Let’s go!)

“Akl laa!” (No way!)

“You see that ship? It’s going to hit the oil terminal if we don’t stop it. Big explosion. BANG! Your sultan will be pissed.”

“He can’t understand you, boss.”

“Translate.”

Akil did. “He says he’s the commander of this aircraft, and you’re insulting him.”

Pissed off, Crocker started squeezing through the space between the seats. “Move aside. I’ll fly this fucking thing myself!” He’d been trained, along with a handful of other ST-6 operators, to fly helicopters by the pilots of Special Operations Aviation Regiment TF-160, the best in the business.

The Omani pilot started to reach for a pistol on the console. Crocker slapped his forearm and the pistol hit the instrument panel, then clattered across the metal floor.

The pilot flew into a rage, shouting insults in Arabic, then steering the bird away from the ship. As Akil tried shouting over him, Crocker retrieved the MK23.45-caliber automatic from the floor.

Another garbled voice came over the radio, a stream of excited Arabic that Crocker couldn’t begin to translate in the deafening clamor. Running out of options, he pointed the pistol at the pilot’s head.

“Lower this motherfucker! That’s my fucking order!”

The pilot’s voice slid up an octave. “Akl laa!”

Akiclass="underline" “He says shoot him if you want to, but this is as far as he’ll go.”

Crocker pulled back the trigger. “Then I’ll have to shoot him!”

Cursing under his breath, the pilot lowered the bird and banked it over the ship. As the Super Lynx closed within fifty feet, the men on the bridge stopped waving and started running for cover. Within seconds a hail of automatic-weapon fire started coming their way and slamming into the helicopter’s metal belly.

“We’re getting hit!” Akil shouted.

“We’re taking fire!”

“Hold steady!” Crocker shouted.

The pilot looked like he was about to be sick.

“Tell him to bank right and take it down farther.”

“He says that’s impossible!”

Crocker handed the gun to Akil. “Stay here and shoot him in the head if you have to. We’re going in!”

He joined the other three SEALs at the side door. They were ready to go.

“Boss! Boss! What’s the order?” Davis shouted.

“You got the weapons in the waterproof bags?”

“Aye, aye!”

“Line up. Prepare to jump.”

“Ready, boss!”

“Stop the ship!”

Crocker slid the helicopter door open. The dark blue water of the Persian Gulf waited twenty-five feet below.

“All clear!” he shouted.

“All clear!” the others echoed.

“Eyes on the horizon! Arms crossed over your chests!” This would prevent them from breaking their necks when they hit the water.

They jumped one after the other and hit the surface hard. A moment of knifing into the warm liquid, then gaining buoyancy and coming up slightly dazed. The current quickly pulled them within ten feet of the rusted red hull, which was slipping past.

Bullets sprayed the water. The rotor wash caused by the helicopter slapped Crocker’s face.

The silver Super Lynx dove over the deck, drawing some fire away.

Thanks!