Battlecraft (2006) (14 page)

PATROL BOAT 22

0925 HOURS LOCAL

AGUILANDO
stood by the helmsman as they slowed to
one-third
speed. The
Jakarta
was a hundred meters off their starboard bow, moving at ten knots. The officer picked up the microphone on the radio that was tuned to the international maritime frequency.

"Freighter
Jakarta
, this is Philippine Patrol Boat Twenty-Two. We have spotted you and are ready to pick up the cargo. Heave to and prepare for the transfer. Over."

The familiar voice of Captain Bacharahman Muharno came back over the speaker. 'This is the
Jakarta
. I will not pass the cargo to you. Over."

Aguilando was confused. "Did you not pick up the machine guns?"

"I have them, but I refuse to give them to you. Out."

"Have you gone crazy?" Aguilando asked angrily. He could not believe the unexpected insolence. "Heave to or I'll send you to the bottom."

"If you do that," Muharno said, "the ship and machine guns will go down together."

"And also you and your crew!" Aguilando screamed into the microphone. "Now heave to, damn your lost Muslim soul! You pull that fucking tub over now, Muharno, or I'm going to put a cannon round through your hull! Over!"

"I say again," replied Muharno. "I am not going to comply with your order. Out!"

Aguilando started to press the transmit button again when the petty officer of the watch came up to the bridge. "Ship approaching off our stern, sir. A warship of unknown nationality."

Now a new voice came over the speaker. "
Jakarta,
, this is the
Harbi-min-Islam.
Continue on your course."

Aguilando swung his eyes rearward. "This is Philippine Patrol Boat Twenty-Two, unknown warship. Identify yourself and your nationality."

A couple of seconds later, a French Exocet MM-40 missile whipped so low over the patrol boat that Aguilando's cap was whisked off his head as the rocket continued on toward the open ocean. A second shot came right after the first and slammed into the stern of the Philippine boat. The concussion of the resultant explosion blew forward, sending a thick shower of white-hot metal, sheets of flame, and roaring gases through the lower deck. In the unnoticeable passage of a millisecond, the crew in the area was reduced to minute specs of charred flesh and bone.

Aguilando and the other survivors above deck could feel the unbearable heat through their shoes, then saw clouds of steam rolling up from the sea as the boat began going beneath the waves. By that time the
Harbi-min-lslam
had come alongside and its Bofors twin-barrel cannon pumped bursts of 40-millimeter shells into the sinking hulk at a rate of six hundred rounds a minute. The Filipinos who had been topside joined their shipmates below in death.

Commodore Mahamat stood out on his signal bridge, watching as machine gun crews sent bursts of automatic fire into the debris of the patrol boat to ensure there would be no survivors. He looked up to see the
Jakarta
fading in the distance as it continued on to make its rendezvous with the dhow
Nijm Zark.

.

ACV
BATTLECRAFT

OFF THE PAKISTANI COAST

2200 HOURS LOCAL

THE
Battlecraft
was packed with people, weapons, and equipment. The entire Command Element along with the First and Second Assault Sections were all present and accounted for. Additionally, Lieutenant Veronica Rivers, Petty Officer Bill Watkins, and Petty Officer Bobby Lee Atwill were also present. This meant that a total of twenty-two warm bodies were crammed aboard. To make matters even more uncomfortable, two fifteen-foot CRRCs were strapped to both the port and starboard sides of the deck.

Veronica Rivers surveyed her radarscope, which displayed the nearby coastline. The location was in the direct center between the city of Karachi and numerous mouths of the Indus River that fed out into the Arabian Sea. The terrain in the area was wet and marshy, and although the ACV could have easily moved over it, the tactical situation dictated that the CRRCs be used to move the Brigands ashore. Noise was an important factor.

These raiding boats were normally propelled by outboard motors, but since silence was of the essence that evening, the men aboard would be paddling with oars. It would take them a while to reach their destination, do the job assigned them, then make the laborious return trip.

"We're in position, Captain," Veronica said to Brannigan, who sat in his chair above and behind her.

"All stop," Brannigan said.

"All stop," Paul Watkins, the helmsman, said. "Aye, sir."

Brannigan, outfitted for combat complete with web gear, weapon, and camouflage paint on his face, grabbed his CAR-15 and stood up. "Section Leaders! Take your men to your boats."

Lieutenant Jim Cruiser and Senior Chief Buford Dawkins immediately left their cups of coffee in the wardroom and went out on deck to get the mission rolling.

.

THE night's operation was almost an impromptu effort, except they had received a warning order three hours earlier. Intelligence from the Pakistani Army had been sent to Commander Tom Carey about a seaside camp of a small Islamic terrorist group that was sympathetic toward al-Mimkhalif. An informer had passed on the information that the local thugs were earning extra money by acting as errand boys for the bigger guys as well as reporting on police and military activities in the area. If the
Battlecraft
was to knock off al-Mimkhalif 's transportation system, the camp would have to be taken out.

.

NOW the two CRRCs were launched into the water and the SEALs climbed aboard. The boats were designed to hold eight men, but each had an extra guy crammed aboard. The Number One Boat with the First Assault Section had Wild Bill Brannigan stuffed in between the two fire teams, while the Number Two Boat endured the presence of the detachment hospital corpsman, Doc Bradley. However, Doc elicited no complaints from the other SEALs. He had been instrumental in saving the lives of several Brigands in their previous two combat operations. A good chance existed he might be needed again on this raid.

Back on the ACV, Frank Gomez glowered with disappointment and anger at being left behind to monitor the AN/PRC-112 radio that was on the same frequencies with those of the assault sections. Veronica Rivers stood on the deck beside him, watching the rubber rafts disappear into the night's darkness. She had glanced in Jim Cruiser's direction as his two fire teams climbed into the raft, and she'd caught him looking back at her. They'd exchanged smiles. Jim had winked and waved, then turned his attention to the job at hand.

Frank didn't fail to notice the silent rapport between the two.

.

2356 HOURS LOCAL

COMMUNICATION
between the fire teams was done by LASH radio headsets. The SEALs could whisper into the microphones and their voices would be transmitted through the earphones perfectly audible to the recipients. They were also supplied with night-vision goggles to make movement through the darkness of the swamp safe and easy.

Brannigan checked his GPS, noting they had come within a hundred meters of the target. He hoped the information he'd received about the water in the swamp was accurate. It was supposed to be no more than a meter deep and cover a firm bottom.

"Hold it," the skipper said over the LASH. "We're walking from here on in."

The paddling came to a stop, and the SEALs stepped out into the swamp, finding themselves in water just above their knees. A few tentative steps revealed they were in mud, but it wasn't deep or clinging.

Alpha Fire Team under Chief Matt Gunnarson moved out on the point in a skirmish line. Jim Cruiser and his SAW gunner Bruno Puglisi followed with Connie Concord's Bravo Fire Team behind them. Brannigan and Doc Bradley followed the Bravos.

Senior Chief Dawkins's Second Assault Section was in a similar formation, with Charlie Fire Team in the lead while he and his own SAW gunner, Joe Miskoski, were between them and Delta Fire Team.

Over on the far side of the enemy camp, a detachment of Pakistani paratroopers was supposed to be waiting to police up any enemy stragglers who might try to escape in that direction during or after the attack.

After a quarter of an hour of slogging through the dirty water, Garth Redhawk spotted the camp. He alerted Chad Murchison on his right and Matt Gunnarson on his left. All three SEALs slowed down, making sure they made no unnecessary splashing as they continued forward. The rest of the detachment had monitored Redhawk over the LASH system, and reacted accordingly.

The enemy camp was out of the swamp, up on a slight rise above the water. This dry land went all the way to a road a couple of hundred meters farther on. A few crude canvas-and-log structures were all the shelter the terrorists had. No fighting holes or bunkers had been built. The Brigands would have to strike fast and viciously to keep a minimum number of terrorists from fleeing the immediate area. If the paratroopers were not where they were supposed to be, those who reached the road had an easy run to safety.

Jim Cruiser swung the Bravos up on line with the Alphas while he and Puglisi moved between the two fire teams. When they stepped from the water and entered the edge of the bivouac, Cruiser ordered the attack. The CAR-15s blasted three-round automatic bursts while Puglisi played his SAW like an accordion, sweeping the barrel back and forth with four-to-six-round firebursts plowing into the huts and lean-tos of the terrorists.

Screams of wounded mujahideen filled the air for the first few seconds, then sporadic return fire answered the assault.

By then Brannigan and Bradley had joined the battle along with the Second Assault Section. The collective automatic fire became one long continuous burst, and a few fleeing terrorists could be seen running frantically toward the road.

"Cease fire," Brannigan ordered.

A sudden silence settled over the scene. The SEALs moved among the crude living quarters finding bullet-riddled bodies in and outside the shelters. The fire from the detachment had been so heavy and intense that there were no enemy survivors. Each sprawled corpse was bloodied with multiple wounds.

A search for documents or other intelligence items began at the same time that fresh firing broke out further inland. Cruiser glanced over at Brannigan. "It would seem the Pakistani paratroopers were right where they were supposed to be."

"Mission accomplished," Brannigan said. Then he repeated under his breath, "Mission accomplished." Those were his two favorite words.

Senior Chief Buford Dawkins reported to the detachment commander. "We didn't find any documents laying around, sir. I don't think them dumb bastards could read."

"Not even any Korans?"

"Negative, sir."

"This must have been just a temporary bivouac," Brannigan surmised. "But we broke up the operation." He took a deep, satisfying breath. "Okay, Senior Chief. Let's get back to the CRRCs."

.

FRANK
Gomez had been raised on the AN/PRC-112 with the good news that the operation went off without a hitch. He made a report to Lieutenant (JG) Veronica Rivers since as senior ranking person aboard, she was in command of the
Battlecraft
until Brannigan returned.

"Were there any casualties?" she asked, looking intently at the RTO.

"The enemy caught it hot and heavy," Frank replied.

"What about the SEALs?"

Frank grinned. "No, ma'am. Lieutenant Cruiser is just fine."

Veronica's face reddened so much, it was apparent even in the dull glow of the illumination coming from the ACV's instruments.

Chapter 10.

CAMP TALATA, PAKISTAN

11 OCTOBER

IMRAN
and Ayyub were sixteen-year-old mujahideen who had just finished their elementary training and were now considered full-fledged though inexperienced fighters in al-Mimkhalif. They had not been present at the disastrous attack on the police station on the Afghanistan border because they were in the final phase of their battle instruction in the foothills.

The boys' entrance into the world of jihad had not come from a devout belief in the causes of Islam. They had been apprentice bakers in their home village in rural Yemen, working for a demanding and cruel master. Slowness in learning or inattention to detail by the neophytes meant solid painful blows across the back and buttocks from a heavy cudgel wielded with cruel abandon by their large muscular boss. Many times they were locked in the pantry overnight without supper for their transgressions. Unfortunately, Imran and Ayyub were not the brightest of the village youths, and they made more than their share of mistakes in not only preparing the shop's products, but in learning the skills of the trade at the pace demanded by the master baker.

Things came to a head early one morning when both overslept. Their first duty of the day was to be up at four
a. M.
to get the oven fires going so that when the master appeared at five, things would-be ready to begin the day's demanding work. But that particular dawn began with the master's furious bellowing when he walked into a cold kitchen. The two apprentices sat straight up in their bed, looked at each other, and grimaced as they realized that this was the worst disaster of their short bungling careers. A prolonged brutal beating loomed in their immediate future.

Without exchanging a single word, they knew what they must do. The boys gathered up their few miserable belongings and went through the rear window of the bakery, and ran like hell toward the highway two kilometers away. This road led to the city of Sadah.

Luck was with them that day, and they were able to catch a ride on a truck that took them to the safety of the city where the brutal master would never be able to find them. Unfortunately, the pair of bunglers had no idea what they were going to do in the unknown metropolis, and after nearly starving for a week, they found a charity kitchen at one of the city's mosques located in the slums. More than physical sustenance was available in the dining hall. Clever clerics, looking for disenfranchised and frustrated youths to recruit into al-Mimkhalif, were waiting to preach to the boys prior to the serving of meals.

After several recruitment sermons--replete with messages of hate for the Great Satan America--Imran and Ayyub volunteered in the same unthinking manner they'd used when running away. It was a quick exit from a bad situation; better a dead martyr than be caught by the police and hauled back to face the master baker's rage and beatings.

.