Through the spray, half-light, and automatic-weapon fire, Crocker saw Ritchie reach the ship’s fire hose and start pulling himself up. Mancini followed behind him, hanging on and managing to extract a grenade from his pack.
“No, Mancini! Don’t!” Crocker shouted from the water.
Mancini threw one, then another.
Jesus Christ!
Panicked shouts in Arabic echoed off the deck, followed by two explosions. The ship kept sliding through the water, and the shooting stopped for a moment.
The helicopter made another pass through the smoke, then climbed and banked.
“Boss, here. Grab onto my hand!”
“I got it.” Out of breath, salt water in his mouth and nostrils. In Mancini’s face, “This is a tanker! Don’t throw any more fucking grenades, you maniac. The whole goddamn ship can blow!”
“They were smoke grenades, boss, for cover. I made sure to aim them at the bridge.”
“No more, you understand? Too fucking hazardous. We don’t know what kind of cargo it’s carrying.”
“Roger!”
Crocker figured the tanks in the hold were fully loaded, since the ship rode low in the water. It was a mere eight or nine feet to the cargo deck.
There the strong smell of kerosene met them. A small fire had broken out on the bridge.
A hail of bullets ricocheted off the metal pumps and ripped into the ballast pipes. The SEALs dove behind any cover they could find-valves, metal flanges, railings.
Crocker sent Mancini to inspect the bow. Then he and the others retrieved their weapons from the waterproof bags and started returning fire.
“Don’t waste ammunition. Our supply is limited.”
One hairy-chested terrorist in a soiled white T-shirt charged down the stairs firing an AK-47-a spray-and-pray maneuver, the kind amateurs often resorted to. Ritchie aimed and caught him in the throat, and the man spun and tumbled down hard, like a rag doll losing parts.
Mancini was back, panting, his face beet red. “I spotted explosives all up and down the outlet pipes on the hold. This baby’s rigged to blow!”
Figure about ten thousand tons of some highly volatile substance. Kerosene? Gasoline? Jet fuel?
Whatever the amount, it would create an enormous bomb. Make the passenger jets from 9/11 look like firecrackers.
“We gotta steer it away from the loading station!”
“I got that covered, boss,” Mancini countered. “But we got to take control of the bridge first.”
“Roger that.”
Enclosed by windows, the bridge sparkled like a crown atop the five-story white superstructure adjacent to the ship’s stern. Rising twelve feet above it was a tall white communications tower, radar tracker, and emergency beacon.
Crocker said, “Davis and I will attack from the starboard side. Mancini and Ritchie take the port.”
“Now?” Ritchie asked, burning with intensity.
Crocker looked behind him to see the Ras Tanura oil terminal playing hide-and-seek beyond the arched metal. Turning back toward the bridge, he looked at his men and said, “Move!”
Ritchie took off like a rocket with Mancini behind him, ducking, zigzagging, and firing all at once.
Crocker slapped Davis’s arm. “Follow me!”
With bullets smashing and ricocheting around them, Crocker ducked under the deck lines that ran fore and aft down the middle of the ship. They provided some cover. Still, the terrorists firing from three decks above had a definite advantage.
How many of them are there? Crocker asked himself, as Davis shouted near his shoulder: “Boss, watch out! Get down!”
Crocker turned to see two bearded men emerge from a stairway past the first hold, approximately forty feet behind them, in the direction of the bow. Seeing the Americans, the two terrorists pointed their weapons and opened fire.
A paunchy man with longish thinning black hair and a thick stubble appeared behind the two shooters, accompanied by a younger man. The overweight one looked vaguely familiar.
“Isn’t that AZ?” Davis asked, his urgent breath in Crocker’s face.
“Which one?”
“The pudgy barefoot guy in the black pants.”
Crocker quickly compared the broad face and long nose to the image in his head.
“You might be right!”
“It’s him, boss. I’d put big money on it.”
“Where the fuck are they going?” It was difficult to see because of the unending volley of incoming bullets. Even raising their heads a fraction invited instant death. Squirming to his right, Crocker found a crack between the metal railing and the bulkhead, and looked in the direction of the bow.
Here he saw a portable ladder unwinding down the starboard side of the ship, then two bodies descending. Below them he made out the top of a ten-foot launch bobbing in the water. Trapezoidal, with twin outboards in back.
A last terrific volley, then the firing let up. Crocker raised his head in time to catch the last two men scurrying over the side.
Davis: “Where the fuck did they go?”
“They got into a boat. Follow me!”
But the second they left the safety of the overhang, they were stopped by ferocious firing from the bridge behind them. Pinned again, chins and stomachs to the deck, protected only by a metal outlet valve and pump.
He heard a motor start up below. The launch.
Amid the terrible clatter of incoming fire, Crocker looked in the sky for help from the helicopter, but it was nowhere in sight.
Fuck’n asshole pilot!
Zaman was escaping! The American felt an ache that traveled all the way into his bones.
I can’t let it happen. Not again.
“Cover me!” Crocker shouted desperately, knowing he had to go for broke.
“Boss, hold up!”
But he was already gone, springing from the deck, turning and running approximately thirty feet toward the bow, then veering to the starboard side of the ship. He climbed to the spot where the ladder was attached and, glimpsing the launch below pulling away from the hull, threw himself off.
All in!
MP5 in his right hand, KA-BAR in his left, he flew like a missile.
The four terrorists in the launch didn’t see him coming. He hit the tallest one full-on, driving into the man’s chest so that his knees gave way and he crumpled backward. Crocker heard the terrorist’s ribs crack when his back hit the side of the craft, which simultaneously helped soften the American’s landing and jolted the boat enough that the other three lost their footing, stumbled, and reached for the sides.
This gave Crocker the momentary advantage he needed. Filled with purpose and fury, he grabbed the man closest to him and snapped his neck with a wicked twist. As another terrorist reached for his AK-47, Crocker plunged the KA-BAR into his gut and raked it up to his sternum.
A terrible muffled scream sounded as insides spilled out and the man went down.
The SEAL team leader took a deep breath.
As he exhaled, he felt a sharp pain at the back of his calf. Then the tall man behind him-the one he had slammed into when he dove into the boat-threw a loaded magazine that hit the side of the launch and fell into the water.
The SEAL took two quick steps toward him and brought his boot down hard on the man’s throat.
Now it was just Crocker and Zaman in the launch-Crocker near the stern, Zaman at the bow. Two bodies between them pouring out blood.
The al-Qaeda leader reached down for an AK-47 near his feet. But the American was quicker, kicking it away despite the pain in his calf.
When he looked up, their eyes locked-enemy faced mortal enemy; religious fervor confronted fierce determination.
“Where’s your burka?” Crocker asked.
Sneering, Zaman glanced at the AK-47 behind him, then back at Crocker. He had something clenched in his right fist.
I fucking dare you, Crocker’s eyes shouted.
The launch continued to drift away from the ship. Blood from the KA-BAR dripped down the American’s right arm.