Battlecraft (2006) (20 page)

TAIMUR NAVAL BASE, OMAN

1715 HOURS LOCAL

MIKE
Assad stood on the second-floor balcony of the base officers' quarters looking out to sea. He had watched the entire Zauba Squadron sail out of the harbor the evening before, knowing they were on their way to attack a single American vessel. He wasn't familiar with air-cushion vehicles whether armed or unarmed, but the sight of the flagship and the six fast-attack boats was evidence enough that they would be a formidable task force. The impotent rage he'd felt kept him awake all that night, and he'd been unable to even enjoy brief naps as the day wore on.

Hafez Sabah stepped out of their shared room to join him. "We will have quite a celebration when the commodore returns with his victorious squadron." He checked his watch. "His estimated time of return is eight o'clock tonight."

Mike turned his face away from the Arab and only nodded at his remarks.

"Are you all right?" Sabah asked. "You seem ill."

Mike quickly turned to face him and smiled. "It is nothing, brother. I think the rich food in the officers' mess has upset my stomach. I have grown quite used to the simple fare of the mujahideen off in the mountains."

Sabah chuckled. "I too have felt as if my stomach is carrying a heavy load. Those thick sauces and all that meat! And the desserts! These Oman sailors live well, do they not?"

A siren suddenly sounded from the harbor area, the wail loud and steady. Mike and Sabah instinctively looked out to sea. A small dark smudge showed on the horizon.

"I wish we had some binoculars," Mike said, peering past the harbor at the distant open water.

The two continued to gaze into the distance for ten minutes before they were able to discern the shape of Commodore Mahamat's flagship. "Ah!" Sabah exclaimed. 'They have returned from their victory. Praise Allah!"

"I don't see the other ships," Mike said. "I wonder where they are."

"Perhaps they cannot go as fast as the flagship," Sabah suggested.

"Actually, they are able to go much faster," Mike reminded him.

A staff car sped from headquarters toward the officers' quarters and pulled up just below the balcony. The passenger, a chief petty officer, waved up at them. "The commodore has sent a message that you are to await his arrival in his office. Come at once, if you please."

The two went into the room, grabbed the naval caps to match their uniforms, and went out into the hall. Their bodyguards, Imran and Ayyub, were startled when they appeared unexpectedly. Sabah told them where they were going and the two youngsters insisted on coming along. When the four got downstairs, it was a struggle for all of them to get into the back of the vehicle.

.

THE COMMODORE'S OFFICE

1800 HOURS LOCAL

A
commotion in the hall marked Commodore Muhammad Mahamat's arrival in the headquarters building. Petty officers yelled and enlisted men scurried about as their commanding officer bellowed orders at them, his words tumbling and jumbling into unintelligible shouts. When he charged into his office, both Mike and Sabah were alarmed at his appearance.

"Musibi
--a disaster!" Mahamat yelled. "All is lost!"

"What happened?" Sabah asked.

"There was more than one of those cursed ACVs!" Mahamat said, close to weeping. 'There must have been a dozen! We were outnumbered and the infidels could go much faster than us. We were surrounded and the treacherous dogs loosed missiles at us from all sides! They would appear at one location and fire. Then another and fire! I think we must have destroyed eight or nine of them, but the remaining three or four were too much."

Mike glanced out the window at the undamaged flagship tied up at the dock. "How did you get away?"

"Only through the blessings of Allah and my skill as a combat leader," Mahamat said. "But they sank all my fast-attack boats. Those poor lads did not have a chance."

Sabah, visibly shaken, sat down. Between this disaster and having to deal with the ship owner Suhanto's treachery, he had stood about as much as he could. "What do we do now, Commodore?"

"I have radioed from the flagship for a helicopter at a heliport just north of here," Mahamat said. "I will have them fly us to Sheikh Omar's yacht for a council of war. I fear we are finished."

Mike fought a desire to cheer, making his voice somber and low. "I think we should go pack our things for the trip."

"Yes!" Mahamat exclaimed, glad to have something to do. "We must be prepared to stay with the sheikh for a good long spell."

"We better tell Imran and Ayyub to get ready," Mike said.

"No!" Mahamat ordered. "There may not be room for them on the helicopter."

Sabah grabbed Mike's arm. "Let us go, Mikael!"

The pair, with their faithful bodyguards following, did not send for a car. Instead, they ran all the way back to the officers' quarters. By the time they managed to throw a few things together, the sound of rapid honking could be heard out in the street. Mike looked through the window and saw the limousine with a chief petty officer behind the wheel. It was the same vehicle that had brought them to the naval base. Mahamat stood beside it, gesturing for them to come down.

Imran and Ayyub had grown frightened in the atmosphere of panic and trepidation. When Mike and Sabah emerged from their room, the two former baker apprentices followed them to the large automobile. As soon as Mike and Sabah joined the commodore inside, the driver took off.

Mike turned and looked out the back window at the two forlorn kids, standing alone and abandoned.

Chapter 14.

OIL COMPANY HELIPORT

23 OCTOBER

0900 HOURS LOCAL

MIKE
and his two traveling companions, Commodore Muhammad Mahamat and Hafez Sabah, were driven across the desert to a lackluster oil-survey station that been scarred and marred by sun, sand, wind, and neglect. This was a far cry from the sleek, well-maintained naval helicopter base that Mike Assad expected to see.

The site was where a French geological survey team was doing illegal work for the Saudis in Oman. The work crew was a mix of unsavory French, Arab, and African workers who looked as if they had been recruited from a den of thieves on the Marseilles waterfront. After arriving at the dilapidated facility, Mike, Sabah, and Mahamat were met by a corpulent, hairy, sweating supervisor who was not pleased to see them. "My pilot will be veree cross," he said in a heavy French accent. "He don' wan' get up from bed until midday."

As if on cue, the pilot shuffled out of the small dormitory in an unsteady manner. After giving the three passengers a scowl, he escorted them to a dirty, oil-streaked French Aerospatiale SA-360 chopper for the rest of their trip to the yacht. The pilot was a hungover, smelly Italian reprobate who stank of sweat and garlic to the extent his body odor filled the fuselage with an invisible rankness. The aircraft lifted off after a minimum warm-up run of the engine, heading toward the open sea for the relatively short flight to the royal yacht. Mike noticed the guy wore a badly faded military shirt, and the SEAL figured he had probably been cashiered from the Italian armed forces for drinking on duty. But at least he seemed a competent enough helicopter pilot.

A quick landing on the pad located on the
Sayih'
s superstructure lasted only long enough for the trio of passengers to leap off before the battered and ill-used aircraft coughed its way back up into the air for a return to its clandestine home field in Oman. The trio of Sheikh Omar Jambarah's bodyguards, Alif, Baa, and Taa, greeted Mike and his companions with their usual surliness as they searched the arrivals. After the less-than-gentle procedure, the searchees straightened out their ruffled clothing and followed the rude reception committee down to the bridge, where they were taken back past the officers' cabins to the area the sheikh used as his office.

Although Jambarah sat at his desk, he was attired in a bathing suit and sandals, showing he had come in from the stem deck to meet the unexpected visitors. The sheikh's face was glum and an unlit cigar was clenched between his teeth. 'The message given me by the radio room indicated things did not go well in the confrontation with the American hovercraft. What happened?"

"We sailed into a trap, Sheikh Omar," Mahamat said. "There was more than one air-cushion vehicle. At least a half dozen sped around and among my ships, firing missiles while taking evasive action and jamming our electronics capabilities."

"We were told they only had one such boat," the sheikh said.

"It was all a great subterfuge, Sheikh Omar!" Mahamat cried. 'The infidels cleverly made it appear they had only one by employing a single hovercraft until the battle. Then they brought out the rest along with other warships and even jet airplanes. Squadrons of F-14s raked across our squadron as my brave men were martyred. We stood no chance at all!"

The sheikh looked at Mike and Sabah, asking, "Were any of you wounded?"

Sabah shook his head. "We did not participate in the battle, Sheikh Omar."

"They would have been in the way," Mahamat explained.

"Very well," the sheikh said. "Continue telling me about the incident."

Mike stood back a short distance with Sabah, listening as the commodore described an attack force that would have served well in the great Normandy landings on D-Day in 1944. As Mahamat continued his verbal after-action report, it seemed that American missiles and bombs rained down from the sky as torpedoes snaked through the depths toward the Zauba Squadron like schools of crazed sharks smelling blood in the water. While Mike Assad had been a SEAL all his naval career, he had enough savvy to know that the type of naval assault being described was a logistical impossibility owing to the actual tactical situation in the Middle East. It seemed to him that even if the entire United States Navy was on site for the battle, they wouldn't have near the firepower that Mahamat was describing in such vivid detail. Mike was sure the commodore was covering his ass big-time; no doubt the defeat was completely his fault because of bonehead errors and the mismanagement of his command.

However, the sheikh's face showed an expression of shock and surprise as Mahamat told of attack boats exploding in rows. When the erratic report came to its sputtering end, tears streaked down the commodore's face and he fell to his knees. He held out his arms in a beseeching manner. "Sheikh Omar! You must see that a new Zauba Squadron is created so that this great disaster can be avenged. Surely the Saudis with their unlimited wealth can finance such a crucial undertaking. Do what you can to convince them of this dire necessity. I beg you in Allah's name!"

The sheikh stood up and reached across the desk, grasping Mahamat's hands in his own. "Get to your feet, my brave friend! I will use all my influence and resources to see that replacement vessels are made available to you."

Mahamat wiped at the tears on his face. "I thank you with all my heart, Sheikh Omar. I would have martyred myself with my men, but I swear that Allah spoke to me in my heart of hearts to tell me it would better if I returned to you so that the great struggle of al-Mimkhalif can continue with al-Azeez--the Almighty, the Powerful--showering us with His most holy blessings." He sobbed loudly. "I fought the battle as best I could under the most dreadful of circumstances."

"Of course you did, my poor brave friend," Sheikh Omar said. "Nobody could have done better in the face of such overwhelming odds."

"You are most kind, Sheikh Omar," Mahamat said.

"You are exhausted," the sheikh said. "I will see to it that cabins are made available to you and your brave companions Mikael and Hafez." He picked up his phone and punched the button for the chief steward of the yacht. "I need two cabins prepared for my guests. One for Commodore Mahamat and another to be shared by his two companions."

Mike, though no trained actor, did his best to exude bitter disappointment and grief. In part, the emotions were genuine. It appeared there would be no way he could contact American intelligence. He was locked into a vacuum.

.

USS
DAN DALY

INDIAN OCEAN

VICINITY OF 5deg NORTH AND 15deg EAST

1700 HOURS LOCAL

LIEUTENANT
Veronica Rivers was so confused, she was now irritated and more than just a little perplexed. Not only were the SEALs off somewhere on their own, but from the looks of things, they were purposely ignoring her. It didn't make sense, and she was determined to find out what was going on.

She made her way down into the docking well to see if they had gone to work on the
Battlecraft
for one reason or another. Veronica noted that the ACV was tied at its place, and a quick glance inside showed the helmsman Paul Watkins running some checks on his steering equipment.

Veronica went aboard and joined him. "Have you seen Lieutenant Brannigan or Lieutenant Cruiser around?"

"No, ma'am," Paul replied. "I haven't seen 'em since early this morning."

She went over to the engine compartment to see Bobby Lee Atwill. He was giving loving attention to his beloved gas-turbine power plant as he changed oil with as much care and affection as a mother preparing formula for her baby. Veronica interrupted him. "I'm looking for the SEALs. Do you have any idea where they went off to?"

"No, ma'am," Bobby Lee replied looking up from his greasy chore. "I ain't seen any of 'em a'tall."

Veronica went back outside and walked over to Chief Warren Donaldson, who was supervising maintenance on the hydraulic system that opened and closed the well's doors. "Have you seen anything of the
Battlecraft's
crew, Chief?"

"Lieutenant Brannigan don't like us to call 'em a
crew,
ma'am," Donaldson reminded her. "He prefers the word
detachment"

Veronica's temper snapped. "I don't care if he wants them referred to as the goddamned
New York Metropolitan Opera
!
Have you seen them around?"

"No, ma'am," he replied. "Not since yesterday."

Veronica returned to the flight deck and took the trouble of walking the entire length of it, looking over the side in case her wandering comrades-in-arms had gotten together in one of the whaler boats. Maybe they'd decided to go off for a swim someplace. Or even go fishing. After a twenty-minute search, she figured there was nothing else to do but return to the wardroom and wait to find out what was going on. Her jaws were torqued tight with anger at being ignored. It seemed she would have to experience some male chauvinistic snobbery after all. It was a real shame. She had begun to almost feel like a SEAL herself, especially after going into battle with them. They owed her something for that, even if nothing more than polite consideration.

Veronica's mood didn't improve when she arrived back at the wardroom to find the coffeepot empty. Then there was nothing in the supply cabinet to brew a fresh batch. She was seriously considering throwing the empty container against the bulkhead when the door opened and Petty Officer Second Class Bruno Puglisi stepped inside.

"Oh!" he said. "There you are."

"Yes " Veronica growled. "Here I am."

"The skipper's really pissed off at you, ma'am," he said. "How's come you didn't come to the meeting he called up for'd in the pilots' ready room?"

"I didn't know a goddamn thing about any meeting in the pilots' ready room because nobody told me about it!"

"Well, you better come with me," Puglisi said. "And be careful what you say. Wild Bill's feathers is really ruffled. He don't like it when somebody misses one of his meetings. Fact is, he expects ever'body there fifteen minute before it even starts. And here you are--"

"I told you that nobody gave me the word on any godamn meetings, Puglisi, so back off!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Lead on, Puglisi," Veronica said in disgust. "Escort me to my doom. Does the firing squad have their weapons loaded?"

"I don't know, ma'am," Puglisi answered, missing the sarcasm. "Do you want me to check the ammo inventory?"

"Shut up!"

They made their way forward, going up a couple of decks in the island. The ready room for pilots was unused since no squadron was assigned to the
Daly
at that time. When they arrived at the door, Puglisi opened it and stepped aside to allow her to precede him into the interior.

Veronica took a deep breath and stepped inside, then stopped.

All the SEALs immediately got to their feet and broke into applause with wide smiles. She frowned in puzzlement now rather than anger, and was baffled by the silly grins they directed at her. Wild Bill Brannigan signaled for her to join him at the front of the room.

Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins suddenly yelled, "Three cheers for Lieutenant Rivers!"

The three "hip-hip hurrahs" thundered out as she walked up to join the skipper. It was then she noticed the keg in the corner and the beer-filled paper cups everyone had at their seats. Petty Officer First Class Connie Concord handed her a cup. "It's light beer, ma'am," he said. "We know that's what you prefer."

"A toast to Lieutenant Rivers!" Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson ordered.

"To Lieutenant Rivers!" the SEALs yelled out simultaneously as they raised their beers.

Veronica didn't know what the hell was going on, but whatever it was she liked it.

Suddenly Brannigan loudly commanded everyone to attention and they all snapped into the proper position. Then the skipper called, "Attention to orders!"

Lieutenant (JG) Jim Cruiser marched grandly to the front of the room. He turned to face the assemblage, holding a document in his hands. After clearing his throat, he began reading aloud from it.

"Ahem! Whereas Lieutenant Junior Grade Veronica Rivers, United States Navy, has been assigned to a mission with the United States Navy SEAL Detachment known as Brannigan's Brigands; and whereas the said Lieutenant Junior Grade Veronica Rivers, United States Navy, has participated in combat with the SEAL Detachment known as Brannigan's Brigands; then let it be known that the aforementioned Lieutenant Junior Grade Veronica Rivers conducted herself with courage and cool efficiency in a battle against an enemy naval force, firing weapons in anger while taking evasive actions to keep our ACV
Battlecraft
from being harmed. Therefore, the aforementioned United States Navy SEAL Detachment known as Brannigan's Brigands does hereby proudly, affectionately, and respectfully declare that the aforementioned Lieutenant Junior Grade Veronica Rivers is now and forever an honorary member of the United States Navy SEAL Detachment known as Brannigan's Brigands with all the rights and privileges that go with that honor. This, of course, includes permission to drink an unlimited amount of beer--regular or light as she prefers--in the Fouled Anchor Tavern in Coronado, California, in the company of United States Navy SEALs." He cleared his throat again. "Ahem! However, I must point out that her running up a tab in the joint depends on Salty and Dixie Donovan, the proprietors of the aforementioned Fouled Anchor Tavern."

Brannigan reached behind him to the podium, picking up a framed certificate. "By the authority of the proclamation just read, I am pleased to present this to Lieutenant Junior Grade Veronica Rivers, United States Navy, as a testimony to her new status."

Veronica took the certificate and looked at it. The SEAL trident insignia was displayed conspicuously at the top, and under it was her name. The other printing identified her as a full-fledged honorary Brigand.

Then Petty Officer First Class Milly Mills presented her with a neatly folded T-shirt and sweatshirt bearing the unofficial buccaneer insignia of the detachment. "You are also authorized to wear these whenever you choose, ma'am."

Veronica was close to crying, but she was determined it wasn't going to happen. She clenched her teeth long enough to bring her emotions under control, then glanced out at the assembled SEALs.

"You bastards! You wonderful bastards!"

.