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Lieutenant Commander Hunter would man the command post, which would be situated on a section of steep, wooded ground 40 yards southwest of the helicopter pad, just left of the track down which the prisoners had first marched. The recon team had spotted this ideal place because of its clear view of the main gates. Rick would be assisted by Lt. Bobby Allensworth, who would also act as his personal bodyguard, plus two other SEALs during the initial phases of the attack. They would provide the radio contact for all three teams. If there were any problems, Rick Hunter would decide on the length of delay.

Only when the outer buildings were destroyed, the inner guards subdued, and the gates blasted open would Rick Hunter and his team move into the main courtyard of the jail and organize the exit of the prisoners down to Rusty Bennett’s beach.

Right now, it was still pitch dark and raining like hell, and the equipment was arriving agonizingly slowly in the jungle clearing. But SEALs hate mistakes, hate leaving anything behind, hate unchecked lists, hate forgetting anything, hate surprises. Lieutenant Conway was working with a small waterproof laptop, checking everything under its subdued light, and Olaf Davidson was moving each piece of equipment to the appropriate team, each of which was now occupying a separate section of the clearing.

Rick Hunter walked among them, whispering instructions to each leader, particularly in terms of the radio signals. The lieutenant commander wanted no words unless, as he put it, “the fucking roof’s falling in.” His preferred method of communication was quick bleeps from the hand-held sets, one for nearly ready, two for ready, three for minor problem, one long beep for crisis.

It was almost 0030 before they were ready to move, which meant they were around an hour behind schedule, but that was built in to the mission. Colonel Hart knew they would be an hour behind, but he thought they would catch up once they were under way. And now Rick Hunter ordered everyone forward into the soaking-wet darkness, and they moved silently in different directions, each leader carrying his map of the jail, his map of the island, and his timing notes made so carefully by Rusty and the recons.

The watchword was H-hour—“H” for HIT. They were expected to be in position one hour from now, and that would be H minus 15, or 15 minutes from the opening attack. Thus, right now they were looking at H minus 75, SEAL time.

Down along the shore, Ray Schaeffer and Garrett Atkins led two other SEALs through the trees at the top end of the beach, and they walked with stealthy steps, a special SEAL walk, light, moving weight forward at the last moment, avoiding the breaking of small twigs. In full daylight they would have looked a bit like extras from the Pink Panther movies, but they traveled deceptively fast and made no sound. In addition to their personal weaponry, each of the four men carried two light plastic disposable antiarmor rocket launchers, the M136-Bofors.

Their program was vital and simple. On the command, precisely at H-hour, Ray and Garrett would fire one shell each at the patrol boat. Each one would hit the port side, one below the waterline, one above. Depending on the damage, they would then fire two more. Of course, if the first two reduced the ship to matchwood, no further action would be necessary, although Ray would put two SEALs with their light machine guns within 40 feet of the end of the gangway, specifically to cut down any Chinese crew who were able to make a run for it. The objective was plain: to ensure that no one could possibly get a radio message off that ship. Being SEALs, that meant the total destruction of all radio equipment plus anyone who might be able to work it.

And still they slipped through the edge of the jungle, watching the lights from the ship draw nearer. With 200 yards still to walk they swung deeper into the trees, following the route Rusty Bennett had suggested. Then they turned in, back toward the ship, coming at it softly, step by step, finding their position, looking straight at it from the cover of the foliage. Time was running out for the Chinese ocean patrol.

The walk had taken them 40 minutes. It was H minus 35, and out on the edge of the jail’s precincts, the other members of their team, Lt. Commander Olaf Davidson and his veterans, were staring down at the two helicopters from a hillside southeast of the prison. Olaf knew that Colonel Hart was not in favor of timed detonations because once they were fixed they had to stay fixed. He instinctively agreed with that, realizing that if there was a hitch and they had to delay the start, they would have to deactivate the charge, which aside from being a PITA was also bloody dangerous, and they might get caught under the choppers.

Thus he placed two men with the light portable antitank launchers in prime position, less than 50 yards from the choppers. The first moment the operation went noisy, they would rip a high-explosive shell straight through the cockpit of each aircraft, both of which were full of fuel and would unquestionably explode in a massive fireball. The guys would want to stand well back from that one, especially as the blast might send up the fuel dump as well.

Olaf watched his men move into place. Then he moved on through the rain and set the rest of the team up in two strategic locations. Group one would conceal themselves in a position opposite the southeast corner of the wall, ready to follow the first assault force through the main gate. Group two would provide covering fire and backup to the force that would attack the dormitory, where there could be resistance. Olaf ordered his men right around to the western hill, from where they could if necessary destroy the entire building. By the time they were settled, it was H minus 25.

Dan Conway’s Team B had to move a lot of high explosive, and they were slower through the jungle than Olaf and Ray Schaeffer. There was a pile of satchel bombs, four of them containing special compressed gas with which to blast open the administration block. The regular high explosive was for the commandant’s quarters, which also held the communication center. The satchels weighed 40 pounds each, and they were life or death to this mission. There was a contingency plan for each one of them—What if two SEALs were gunned down on the way in? That would require two more, maybe four.

There were four buildings to be hit, and whereas 8 bombs would do the job just fine, they had to bring 16, just in case. That was a 320-pound insurance policy against the lives of 170-odd Americans that Dan and his team carried. Fit as mountain lions, they hauled their burdens through the wet, clinging jungle. SEALs walked out in front with machetes, cleaving some kind of a path for Rocky Lamb, Rattlesnake Davies, and the gigantically strong Catfish Jones, who carried two satchels on his own, as did Steve Whipple. And the rain beat down, and the SEALs slipped and cursed softly, and they prayed that it would not stop pouring on this night of the Nighthawks.

By the time Dan had deployed his team it was H minus 20, and they were almost ready. Lt. Paul Merloni, in company with three other SEALs, was the last man in place, completely concealed in a hollow opposite the north wall, right in the area where he would attempt to kill all four Chinese guards, or six if necessary. Olaf’s note had reported two extra guards on duty in the afternoon, but of course he had no way of knowing whether the same would apply after midnight. Nonetheless, the warning was there.