He could hear the thunder of the Huey outside edging closer to the yacht.
0008 hours (Zulu +3)
Greenpeace yacht Beluga
Indian Ocean, 230 miles southeast of Masirah
"Prairie Home, Bedsheet," Murdock called. Leaving the prisoner under guard, he'd emerged onto Beluga's well deck and was standing again in the night, speaking via satellite link with the command center aboard Nassau. "Prairie Home, Bedsheet. Come in, Prairie Home."
He waited out the silence, listening to static. The Huey circled through the night, keeping watch against the appearance of Iranian patrol boats or other unpleasant surprises. Close by, Jaybird, who'd once professed to Murdock his experience with sailing vessels, had taken over the helm, while MacKenzie, Higgins, Roselli, and Fernandez mounted guard on Beluga's upper deck.
Except for the muffled clatter of the helo, the night was quiet now. The nearest Iranian vessels, some three miles ahead now, seemed oblivious to the activity aboard the Greenpeace yacht. The continual fly-bys and perimeter intrusions throughout the past hours had paid off; the Huey was certainly registering on the Iranian warships' radar, but they'd apparently chosen to ignore it.
They would, no doubt, continue to ignore it, at least until Beluga showed some sign of trouble, an abrupt change of course, for example, or a rendezvous with an American ship.
"Bedsheet, this is Prairie Home," a voice crackled at last in his earplug speaker. "Authenticate Hotel, Alfa, one-niner-one."
"Prairie Home, roger. I authenticate: Victor, India, one-one-three.
"Roger, Bedsheet. Go ahead."
"Prairie Home, objective secured, repeat, objective secured. We have fourteen tangos down, that's one-four tangos down, one tango captured, all accounted for. We have one hostage dead during the takedown, one missing."
Murdock tried to dismiss the sour, dark burning inside he'd felt since he'd learned of Paul Brandeis's death minutes before, but it wouldn't go. The SEAL assault had gone down with stunning ferocity, speed, and precision. Forty seconds after Murdock had first opened fire on the Beluga's helmsman, all but one of the Iranians had been dead, with no casualties among the SEALS. Of the hostages aboard, all three women, Rudi Kohler, and four of Kohler's employees found locked in the crew's cubby below dec were safe.
The single, wrenching tragedy in the takedown had been the death of Paul Brandeis, the American hostage who'd blundered into Roselli's line of fire and taken the full-auto burst meant for the SEAL. Doc hadn't been able to help the American, who'd probably been dead before he hit the deck. Murdock could still hear the wrenching sobs of Brandeis's widow, even out here on Beluga's deck.
"Bedsheet, Prairie Home. That's a major well done! Now pack up and get the hell out of there!"
"Copy, Prairie Home," Murdock said. "We have some loose ends to tidy up first. This is Bedsheet, out."
Well done, right, he thought bitterly. The hell of it is, the mission was well done! But damn it all! We came so close to pulling it off one hundred percent!
There was always a terrible risk in hostage rescues, the near certainty that one or more of the civilians involved would get hurt or killed. Put one or more desperate, armed men in the company of a number of untrained and panicky civilians, then throw a SEAL assault team into the middle of it. No matter how well trained the attackers, no matter how expert their marksmanship, no matter how many hours logged in the fun house back at Little Creek or how advanced the technology of their weapons, the chances were still better than ever that someone SEAL or terrorist, it didn't really matter would deliberately or by accident cut down some kid or wife or husband. In the 1990s, the supreme example of how a hostage rescue ought to work remained the stunning Israeli raid on Entebbe in 1976. The Israeli paras performed brilliantly, but even there, two of the over one hundred hostages were killed and seven wounded during the fierce firefight in the air terminal building between Israeli troops and the PFLP terrorists.
Knowing the odds didn't help. Paul Brandeis had panicked and gotten in the way during the firefight; another hostage, Karl Schmidt, was missing almost certainly dead, though Murdock hadn't had time yet to question the rescued civilians about that.
Yes, there definitely were several loose ends to wrap up here. Turning sharply, he strode across the deck and took the steps down the companionway two at a time.
0025 hours (Zulu +3)
Greenpeace yacht Beluga
Indian Ocean, 230 miles southeast of Masirah
Murdock sat behind a polished formica table across from the Iranian prisoner, who'd been propped up on one of the sofas that circled the lounge bulkheads. Doc was next to the prisoner, wrapping a bandage around his broken wrist. The man claimed to be Pasdaran Colonel Ruholla Aghasi and insisted that he was ready to cooperate in any way that he could.
Studying the man, Murdock was inclined to believe him, though training and common sense both urged caution. Senior officers did not change sides at a whim, nor were they as likely to be cowed by pain or threat as lower-ranking men who simply did what they were told.
None of the SEALs was feeling particularly friendly toward Aghasi at the moment. In choked, broken words, Gertrude Kohler had described the hijacking, Karl Schmidt's murder, and the threatened rape and torture of the women. Doc's hostility was clearest of all, a dark simmering behind his eyes as he tended to Aghasi's wound. Garcia was sitting quietly on the other side of the lounge, mounting guard with a sullen intensity that was disturbing. The rest were either forward with ex-hostages or up on deck. Casually, Murdock gestured with the muzzle-heavy blackness of the Smith & Wesson in his hand. "Colonel, you say that you're willing to help us," he said quietly. "I don't see why I should believe you."
"Hell, I don't think you should trust him, Skipper," Doc said. He continued wrapping the roll of gauze bandage around Aghasi's wrist as he spoke, the action strangely at odds with the steel-hard anger in the SEAL's voice. "These sons-a-bitches gunned down two innocent people!"
"Take it easy, Doc. Let's hear him out."
"I... regret those deaths," the Iranian said. "I didn't want civilians to be hurt. This operation has not gone entirely to plan."
"Suppose you tell us about it, Colonel. Who killed Karl Schmidt? The Ohtori?"
That jolted the colonel. He reacted to the name Ohtori as though he'd been slapped. "N-no," he said. "One of my men shot him when he, when he attacked the soldier holding his wife. I did not order it. How... do you know of Ohtori?"
"Never mind, Colonel. It's my turn to ask the questions. How long have you been working with the Japanese?"
Aghasi swallowed. "Not long. To be truthful, this operation has been a mistake from the start. That is why I wish to cooperate."
Ellsworth tied off the bandage, then slipped the Iranian's hand into a gauze sling. "Maybe he'd like to cooperate from the bottom of the sea, Skipper. Should be safe enough. Even the sharks wouldn't want him. What d'you say?"
"Why don't you go check on Mrs. Brandeis, Doc?"
"Aye, aye, sir."
Aghasi looked pale, and he was sweating heavily. His uniform gave off the acrid bite of ammonia, a mingled stench of sweat and urine. "Your men are... frightening, Lieutenant."
"Frightening? Hell, you don't know what frightening really is. Right now, they just dislike you. You'd better pray you never get them really mad!" He gestured with the pistol again. "So. Why don't you like the Ohtori? Who decided to start working with them?"
The Iranian took a deep breath. "Do you know an Admiral Sahman? Or General Ramazani?"
"No. Should I?"
"Perhaps not. Sahman is second-in-command of the Iranian naval facilities at Bandar Abbas. Ramazani is one of our senior Pasdaran officers, a hero of the Iraqi War."