“Not quite. We bleed. And we hurt like everyone else. We’re just a bit tougher to get at.”
Steve Ghutzman drained his glass. “I gotta go. I’m back up there at zero-eight-hundred.” He stood up, stuck out his hand and said, “Hey, it was good to talk to you, buddy. Good luck tonight, wherever the hell you’re going.”
“Thanks, Steve. We’re staying the hell out of Hell, that’s for sure.”
For the short run out to USS Shark, the 15-strong SEAL team embarked in one of the last of the Navy’s old warhorses, the HH-46D support/assault Sea Knight helicopter. The explosives and other gear had been airlifted in a cargo net four hours previously, and now Rusty Bennett stood at the loading door and saw each of his men aboard.
They all wore just light pants and olive green T-shirts. They carried their heavy-duty welder’s gloves for the hot-rope drop to the deck of the submarine. It was too hot for them to wear wet suits, and an area had been set aside in the submarine for them to change and prepare for the swim-in during the final hour of the journey up through the partially cleared minefield.
There were, as ever, the flight-deck crews on the takeoff area as the two rotors on the big white U.S. Marines Sea Knight roared into life. The SEALs had already blackened their faces with waterproof greasepaint, and were just about unrecognizable.
Among the crowd was Steve Ghutzman, and he just yelled a solitary, “GO, CLOUDS, BABY!” And his voice rang out in the general serious hush that surrounded this departure. But big Lt. Nathan heard him, and he half raised his right hand in response, smiling to himself at his new 20-minute friendship with the Navy Tomcat pilot. For all he knew, he might need Steve’s fighter-attack aircraft not too long from now. The Navy had mounted rescue attacks for missions a lot less dangerous than this one.
They flew low, out over the calm blue water, toward the waiting submarine. It took less than 15 minutes, and as the Sea Knight hovered above the deck, they all saw the thick rope unravel downward to a point in front of the sail, right behind the long deck shelter on the right, where the miniature submarine awaited them. One by one the SEALs grabbed the rope and dropped fast, away from the aircraft, sliding down 30 feet, before gripping hard with the big rough leather gloves, their brakes, and coming in to land gently on the casing of the Shark.
Lieutenant Commander Schaeffer led the way, followed by Lt. Dan Conway, then Lt. Nathan, then Petty Officer Combs, then the big Chief Petty Officer Rob Cafiero. The next seven combat rookies came sliding in right behind them, with Commander Rusty Bennett bringing up the rear.
They were greeted by the Officer of the Deck, Lt. Matt Singer, who hustled them quickly through the door at the base of the sail, and on down the ladder. The hatches were slammed shut and clipped behind them, and Commander Reid ordered Shark to periscope depth heading north.
“Steer course three-six-zero…make your speed one-five for fifteen miles, then stand by for course change to zero-seven-zero.”
They all felt the submarine’s gentle turn to due north, settling on a course that would allow them to cleave right through the middle of the now-three-mile-wide “gateway” through the minefield, and then on up the strait until she turned in toward the shore of Iran.
Lieutenant Commander Dan Headley led them down to a more-or-less empty area in which they could prepare for the mission. He fell into conversation with Rusty Bennett, and mentioned he had a good friend in the squadron…“Guy named Rick Hunter…Commander Hunter now, I believe. He and I grew up together.”
“Hey, you gotta be from Kentucky, right?” said Commander Bennett. “Rick’s a real good friend of mine. Just left him, matter of fact, down at DG.”
“That right? I didn’t know he was anywhere near here.”
“Oh, just Rick and about seven-eighths of the entire United States Navy,” Rusty replied with a chuckle. “I’m telling you, someone in the Pentagon’s awful jumpy about whatever the hell’s going on in the gulf.”
“Guess so. All we know is what everyone else knows. The Iranians somehow mined the Strait of Hormuz and shut down most of the world’s oil supply.”
“Big minefield, I understand. That’s gotta be a major worry.”
“It ought to be,” replied Dan Headley, smiling. “’Specially for you. We’re just about in the middle of it right now.”
“Shit,” said Rusty. “I knew I shouldn’t have come. Your CO any good?”
“I don’t really know him well enough to say. But I don’t think he’s hit anything recently.”
“God forbid he starts now.”
Both officers laughed. And Shark’s XO asked what Rusty’s men needed between now and the 1900 ETD.
“They had lunch, steak and eggs, at fourteen hundred,” said the SEAL Commander. “Maybe you could fix a few sandwiches, slices of pizza or something. Just in case anyone’s hungry. But I don’t think many of them will be. They’ll need a lot of cold water, though. They got a two-hour journey in the ASDV, then a long swim…don’t want them to get dehydrated.”
“Okay. I’ll get that organized. By the way, you’re not going yourself, are you, sir?” The XO paid due deference to Rusty’s higher rank.
“Not this time. But I’m gonna help your boys get the ASDV moving, if you think I could help. I’ve done it a few times in my life. And this is a very big vehicle.”
“I’m sure my crew would appreciate that, sir. The damn things are always difficult. And this one’s the biggest we’ve ever had.”
“Anyhow, right now I want to talk to the guys while they’re getting ready — so we’ll catch up in a little while.”
“Good enough, sir. My watch starts in a few minutes. I’ll be in the control room, you need to find me.”
By now the twelve combat SEALs were sorting out their gear. Each man had his own custom-made wet suit and numbered flippers. Each of them had a Draeger oxygen supply, the special SEAL air bottle that leaves no telltale bubbles on the surface. Each man would carry a knife and Heckler and Koch’s superb light submachine gun, the MP-5, a close-quarters weapon, best inside 25 yards, but perfect for an assault on a nonmilitary establishment. Only Petty Officer Ryan Combs would carry in a bigger weapon, the lethal M-60E4 machine gun. They would carry in, between them, 14 ammunition belts, each containing 100 rounds. Ryan himself would carry the gun, plus two belts, to give him a total weight of 40 pounds to carry. The gun would be used only in a dire emergency if they had to fight their way out of the refinery.
Ryan would also carry on his back a limpet mine, which he could manage just fine. It was the walk through the shallows that was so worrying. The Draeger is just about weightless in the water, but it weighs 30 pounds in the air, and that gave Ryan Combs very nearly 100 pounds in weight to haul to the beach, which would probably prove too much after a quarter of a mile.
Rusty Bennett had ordered big Rob Cafiero to step up and share the load of the gun and ammunition if Ryan could not cope. All the SEALs were heavily laden, a bomb or mine for 11 of them. Two for three of them. The fusing wire and detonation devices would be carried by John Nathan. Between them, the SEALs would also haul camouflaged groundsheets, two shovels, wirecutters, clips, plus night binoculars, the lightest possible radio for emergency only, water, high-protein bars and medical supplies. The return journey would be one hell of a lot easier.
In Rusty’s final briefing back on the carrier, they had debated making a request for the crewman of the ASDV, not the driver, to accompany them in, strictly as a beast of burden, until they reached dry land. But that ASDV was priceless, the only one of its kind, and the CO of the Shark probably would wish to take no chances, leaving it in the hands of just one operator.