"I understand you're on your way over there."
"Yes, sir. First and Second Platoons will be taking part in the main landings."
"I just wanted to hear it from you, your assessment of young Murdock. He's been pushing pretty hard. Can we push him this much more?"
Coburn considered the question. "If he wasn't up to it, Mr. Hadley, I don't think he would have suggested it. Murdock always has the Team's best interests at heart, not his own."
"Hmm. That was my assessment, based on what I've heard. You know, don't you, that a lot of the SEALs' future is riding on this op?"
Coburn grinned at him. "Tell me something I don't know."
"Right now, a House investigative committee is going over your Murdock's after-action report on the Japanese freighter. They're explaining to each other how they could have done it better, and they're wondering if all the money they're giving NAVSPECWAR is being well spent. There's serious talk of disbanding the SEALS, Marine Recon, the Rangers, all of the SPECWAR people except the Green Beanies."
"Give us half a chance, Mr. Hadley. We'll show them that we can deliver plenty of bang for the buck."
"Yes. From what I've heard about your people, I have to agree." There was a knock at the door, and Coburn looked up. A young second class electrician's mate stood there, his SEAL Budweiser winking brightly in the overhead fluorescent lighting. "Hey, Chucker! Come on in."
"Helo's waitin'on the pad and ready to go, sir," EM2 Wilson called, gesturing with the rolled-up white hat in his hand. "Whenever you're ready."
"Let's haul ass then. Ah, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Hadley?"
"Of course." He nodded toward the enlisted SEAL. "That one of your people, Captain?"
"Sure is. A brand-new SEAL, just assigned to an open slot in First Platoon. Isn't that right, Wilson?"
"Yes, sir. Uh, begging the Captain's pardon, sir, but the helo jockey told me that if our asses weren't on board in five minutes we were gonna have to hitch a ride to Oceana."
"Then we'd better move. Mr. Hadley?"
"You've answered my questions." Hadley reached out and clapped Coburn on the shoulder. "Good luck over there, Captain."
"Thank you, sir. But believe me, it's not luck that counts in this game." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating EM2 Wilson. "It's guys like that."
He picked up his briefcase and headed for the door.
Sunday, 29 May
1612 hours (Zulu +3)
Greenpeace yacht Beluga
Off Bandar Abbas
The sun was merciless, glaring down from a brassy, cloudless sky. The yacht Beluga was still following along in the wakes of her larger Iranian consorts, but by this time she'd managed to drop back until she was nearly five miles astern of the Yuduki Maru, far enough to avoid inspection by curious soldiers or sailors aboard the freighter or the other ships, close enough that it was not obvious that she was hanging back.
Throughout the run north past Al Masirah, zigzagging northwest into the Gulf of Oman at the Tropic of Cancer, then north again through the oil-blackened narrows of the Strait of Hormuz, Murdock had noticed that the Iranian flotilla lacked almost any sense of order or convoy discipline. The Damavand continued plowing steadily ahead, towing the dead weight of the Japanese freighter. One or another of the frigates was usually within close support range, but the patrol boats scattered themselves all over the map, and by Sunday morning, two had vanished entirely, probably racing ahead to safe berths in Bandar Abbas.
The formation was made even more ragged by the presence of so many civilian vessels. The Strait of Hormuz was always crowded with commercial shipping, most of it the monster oil tankers bearing the flags of a dozen nations. The biggest were VLCCs Very Large Crude Carriers steel islands as long as four football fields end to end, with dead weight tonnages of half a million tons or more. At any given moment, one or more of those monsters could be seen on the horizon from Beluga's deck, entering the Persian Gulf riding high and light, or exiting the passage with full loads that seemed to drag those leviathan bulks down until their decks were nearly awash.
It was the seagoing traffic, of course, that invested the Strait of Hormuz with its singular strategic importance. More than once in recent memory, Iran had threatened to use its surface-to-surface "Silkworm" missiles purchased from China to close the strait to international shipping. So far, they'd refrained. Iran also used the Strait of Hormuz for access to the world's oil markets. But when it came to splinter groups like the NLA, or bands of disaffected military leaders who might actually welcome the political chaos such a shutdown of the economy might bring, all bets were off, and anything was possible. General Ramazani and his fellow plotters might easily decide to close the Strait of Hormuz permanently, leaving them free to pursue their own military objectives without fear of Western intervention in the Gulf. A couple of tons of radioactive plutonium distributed among the warheads of SCUD or Silkworm missiles and detonated across the shipping channel off Ra's Musandam would do just that. Alternatively, clouds of plutonium dust released from Iran's Gulf islands of Abu Musa and Tunb could close the channel and leave the port of Bandar Abbas open.
The situation might even allow Iran's new rulers to practice some good old-fashioned blackmail, threatening to close the strait or to poison the Saudi oil fields unless their demands were met. Murdock had a realistic enough understanding of modern international politics to know that the chances of closing ranks against such threats were nil. Japan and much of Europe still depended on the Gulf for nearly all of their oil imports. Hell, even the United States, given its zigzag record in foreign policy over the past couple of years, might cave in and pay rather than risk having the Strait of Hormuz closed. Murdock was frankly amazed that the go-ahead had been given for Deadly Weapon.
Threading their way north past the civilian traffic, the SEALs stuck with the Yuduki Maru. The Iranian radio-silence order worked to their advantage, of course, as did their straggling. With luck, the SEALs would be able to sail the Beluga all the way into Bandar Abbas, allowing them to provide II MEF with an eyewitness report on the defenses and preparedness inside the port.
Jaybird Sterling had the helm again. The young SEAL trainee did indeed know how to handle a pleasure craft like the Beluga, and he'd been standing watch-and-watch at the wheel with Murdock since he'd volunteered to stay aboard. The other two SEAL volunteers were Razor Roselli and Professor Higgins. During Saturday's early morning hours, the former hostages had been bundled up in life jackets and transported two by two in one of the SEALs' CRRCs to a point well clear of the Beluga, then hoisted aboard a hovering Sea Mustang sent out from the Nassau for the recovery. Colonel Aghasi had made the trip as well, along with eight of the VBSS team SEALS.
Murdock, Roselli, Higgins, and Sterling had remained aboard, ready to make a quick getaway over the side with their diving gear if their cover was too closely probed, but otherwise continuing to report on the Iranian squadron's position and disposition throughout the next thirty-six hours. Higgins had programmed Beluga's on-board satellite communications gear to track a MILSTAR relay satellite, giving them secure and untraceable communications with both Nassau and the Pentagon.
Now Murdock emerged from below deck into the baking heat of the Gulf sun and walked back to the helm. There was a somewhat lonely emptiness to the sky; American helicopters had continued to dog the Iranian squadron day and night until an hour earlier, when the freighter had officially entered Iranian territorial waters. Now the four SEALs were alone. "Looks like we're getting pretty close," he told Jaybird.
"For sure, Skipper. Maybe we should get shined up and squared away for inspection, huh?"
"Shit, Jaybird," Roselli called from the top of the deckhouse. "You look just fine to me!"