Battlecraft (2006) (26 page)

USS DAN DALY

31 OCTOBER

0830 HOURS LOCAL

MIKE
Assad sat in the middle of the front row of seats in the ready room. He wore a brand-new uniform that showed the creases of storage. An entire new outfit complete with web equipment and a CAR-15 rifle had been sent over for him from the nearby carrier battle group. The combination of conventional U. S. Navy garb and his long hair and beard gave the wandering Brigand an appearance that was both startling and ludicrous to his old buddies.

Directly across from the newly outfitted SEAL, Commander Tom Carey, Sam Paulsen, and Mort Koenig sat mesmerized as he made a complete oral report of what he had been through since the contrived escape from the American Embassy in Rawalpindi, Pakistan. He took them through the confrontations with hostile slum residents; the help from the mosque; the bus trip; another escape, this particular one from the rural police lockup where he lifted a revolver; meeting the Pashtuns; and finally reaching Camp Talata to rejoin the al-Mimkhalif terrorist group.

Koenig, who was taking notes, kept grinning as he jotted down the discourse in his shorthand. "Damn! Goddamn!" he whispered under his breath from time to time.

Mike's dissertation continued on through the special assignment with Hafez Sabah, the Zauba Squadron, and on up to his escape with Hildegard Keppler from Fortress Mikhbayi and the subsequent meeting with the ACV
Battlecraft.

"You had quite an adventure," Carey remarked. "And put in a damn good job in the bargain."

"That's for sure," Paulsen agreed. "How about giving us some names and descriptions?"

"Okay," Mike said. "I'll start small and work up to the bigwigs. They are using a dhow for bringing arms to the Pakistani coast. I know the exact location they used, and I'll point it out on the map. The captain of the dhow is an old guy by the name of Bashar Bashir."

"We already know about him," Carey said. 'The
Battlecraft
intercepted them at sea. Even though the ship was empty, Senior Chief Dawkins discovered numerous spots of Cosmoline on the deck of the hold when he and Lieutenant Brannigan went aboard to take a look around."

"Jesus!" Mike exclaimed. "You guys haven't exactly been on vacation either. Okay. So here's another name. Commodore Muhammad Mahamat. Does that ring any bells?"

Paulsen looked at Koenig, then back to Mike, shaking his head. "It doesn't do anything for me."

"Well, the poor bastard is dead anyway," Mike said. "He was publicly beheaded for losing a big sea battle."

"Aha!" Carey exclaimed. "That has to be the one where the
Battlecraft
really kicked ass. Can you tell us the origin of the enemy force?"

"It's part of the Oman Navy," Mike answered. "But I better explain some things before you get ready to declare war on that country. The outfit gets extra funds and other goodies through Saudi Arabian sources. The name was the Zauba Fast Attack Squadron. Even the government there has no idea just how strong the outfit is. They thought it was just a small half-ass coastal patrol outfit. But instead of secondhand Brit hand-me-down vessels, the Saudi financiers were able to arrange some modem Swedish fast-attack boats and a missile boat used as a flagship."

Paulsen's eyes opened wide. "Now there's some news. Nobody in the intelligence community had any idea of that situation."

"It don't matter now," Mike said. "It was completely destroyed except for the flagship. It is still at the naval base with some of the surviving personnel who are waiting to be resupplied and refinanced."

"That will
not
happen!" Paulsen said forcibly.

"Right," Koenig agreed. "We'll work on that straightaway."

"Sounds like a job for the special section of the State Department," Paulsen said. "Dr. Joplin is the man to handle that."

Mike got up to pour himself another cup of coffee, then came back to his chair. "The number-one agent for al-Mimkhalif is a guy named Hafez Sabah. I got to tell you, he's one hell of an organizer. He took over the arms-delivery activities of the group and it's still going like a well-oiled machine. He was educated in Britain and speaks fluent English."

"We have him on a list," Paulsen said. "Any more names?"

"Just two," Mike said. 'The field commander for the al-Mimkhalif is a pretty savvy guy called Kumandan. It's not his real name--it actually means 'commandant' in Arabic-- but he knows how to organize and direct combat, recon, and security operations. I wasn't able to find out his real identity; they're real careful about that."

"Who's the other guy?" Koenig asked.

"Here's a big one" Mike said. "And I got in good with the son of a bitch. Sheikh Omar Jambarah. He's a Saudi who rules a small but wealthy sheikdom within the kingdom. His clan is in good with the Saudi government for past support, and they ended up in an area that's practically floating on oil."

"The name is familiar," Paulsen said.

"I know about him," Koenig interjected. "He's just one of a list of potential assholes, but now we know to upgrade him."

"Well, he uses the war name Husan," Mike said. "He is the supreme leader of al-Mimkhalif."

"Holy shit!" Carey exclaimed.

"He operates out of two places," Mike continued. "One is the royal yacht
Sayih
that the Saudi government has more or less given him as a gift. It's sort of a permanent loan without a lease. He has a coastal fortress that's nestled along the border of Yemen and Oman," Mike said. "It's at sixteen degrees, fifteen minutes north and fifty-three degrees, five minutes west. I checked the GPS in the whaler boat before I took off."

Carey laughed. "I think that should be sufficient enough for us to locate it."

"Anything else?" Paulsen asked.

"I think that's it, but I'm sure I'll remember other stuff eventually," Mike said.

"Okay then," Koenig said. "You've given us some good intelligence, so we now have some for you." He paused with a grin. "Al-Mimkhalif's field operations are wiped out--at least for the moment. Three different groups of mujahideen made a run for safety, but were intercepted by the Pakistani Army and shot up bad. The prisoners' morale was low and they rolled over quickly under some vigorous interrogation. The result of what they gave up resulted in a raid on Camp Talata by Pakistani paratroopers. They found the place deserted."

"Did they get Kumandan?" Mike asked.

Paulsen shook his head. "No. We figure he got away with the best men after sacrificing the sad sacks "

"Now let's get to another matter" Carey said to Mike. "Give us the scoop on that German broad you've been out boating with."

"Her name is Hildegard Keppler and she was one of the call girls Sheikh Omar kept on that yacht," Mike said. "I showed an interest in her and he gave her to me as a playmate."

"What did you do?" Koenig asked. "Fall in love with her or something? Is that why you brought her out with you?"

"No," Mike said. "I brought her along as an asset. She's prob'ly fucked half the terrorist leadership in the Middle East. Not all of them guys are devout Muslims, know what I mean?"

"Way to go," Carey said. "She's staying with Lieutenant Rivers right now."

"Let's get her down here," Paulsen said. He glanced at Mike. "Take a break, guy. You've done a great job."

"All in a day's work."

.

1000 HOURS LOCAL

CAREY,
Paulsen and Koenig looked up as Lieutenant Rivers came into the ready room with Hildegard Keppler. Veronica introduced the men to the Gierman woman and they shook hands with her in a friendly, respectful manner, inviting her to take a seat. Veronica had no need-to-know regarding the interview, and made a hasty exit so they could settle down for an intimate tete-a-tete with the woman.

Hildegard, sunburned and haggard from exhaustion and exposure, did not look her best, but she was still attractive. The trio of intelligence men appreciated what they saw in her femininity. Paulsen began the proceedings with a simple question. "Would you tell us your name, please, and where you're from?"

"I am Hildegard Keppler and from Germany I am," she said. "I was bom in the East in the city of Dresden "

"And you were in the employ of Sheikh Omar Jambarah?" Paulsen inquired diplomatically.

"Ja,"
Hildegard said, her sunburn hiding the blush that crept across her face.

"You performed your duties aboard a yacht called the
Sayih,
I believe."

"Ja."

"Do you know who owned the ship?" Koenig asked.

"Somebody told me the Saudi government."

"I understand from Mike that you had the opportunity to meet a lot of Arab men aboard the yacht," Carey said. "Is that true?"

"Ja."

Koenig took a folder off the desk and handed it to her. "Here are some photographs of some Middle Eastern gentlemen. Would you look at them, please, and tell us if you recognize any?"

Hildegard took the photos and started to look at them; then she glanced up at the three Americans. "A good woman I am! After united was Germany, we had no work in the East. I did what must I do to get by."

"Of course you did, Ms. Keppler," Paulsen said in a kindly tone. "We understand perfecdy. We are all men of the world, do you understand?"

"Ja, danke
--thank you," Hildegard said. She began going through the photographs, carefully studying each one. When she finished, she had separated a half dozen from the group. "On the yacht come these men."

Paulsen tried not to grin at the Freudian slip. 'Thank you, Ms. Keppler. What do you know of the gentlemen?"

"They with the sheikh had many dealings," Hildegard said. "Always big meetings they had with much talk. Arrangements of many kinds, but the things they planned I do not know."

Koenig was extremely happy with the six identified photos. Four of them were Saudis who were suspected of working closely with terrorists while putting on a facade of friendliness toward the United States. Diplomacy and sensitivity in certain areas had made outright accusations imprudent. That situation was now changed. "You have been most helpful, Ms. Keppler."

"I am happy" she said. She hesitated, then said, "My friend Franziska Diehm murdered by the sheikh. Will you arrest him, please?"

Carey leaned forward. "Why would the sheikh murder her?"

"Certain I am not," Hildegard said. "I know that pregnant she was."

"Actually," Paulsen said, "we're planning on doing much more than simply arrest Sheikh Omar Jambarah."

Hildegard smiled through her chapped lips.

.

WHEN
Mike left the ready room, he went directly to the wardroom, where Lieutenant Bill Brannigan and Lieutenant Jim Cruiser were drinking coffee as they went over some of the scheduled maintenance that had to be done on the ACV. The rest of the detachment was out on the flight deck getting the kinks worked out by double-timing up and down the length of the ship. Senior Chief Buford Dawkins ushered them through the activity with rude remarks punctuated by loud shouts of criticism.

Mike snapped to in front of the skipper. "It looks like I'm officially back with the detachment, sir."

"Right," Brannigan said. "How're you feeling, Assad? It must have been pretty rough out on that whaler boat."

"It wasn't so bad, sir," Mike said. "I'm ready and raring to go."

"Good," Brannigan said. "I'm going to put you with the Command Element as a rifleman. That way you'll be handy to fill in when needed."

"Great, sir," Mike said. "I'm anxious for some recon with Leibowitz. I really missed that son of a bitch when I was an acting mujahideen."

"You seemed to have done all right in that outfit," Cruiser said with a wink. "Did you make much rank?"

Mike thought a moment, then a devious thought flashed through his mind. "Oh, yes, sir! As a matter of fact I was a general. I assume the Navy will pay me in that rank for the time I spent in al-Mimkhalif. Actually, I was in command of an infantry division, what with all those tanks and cannons. Twenty thousand men. Oh, yes, sir! A lot of responsibility being a general. I should be compensated accordingly, right?"

Brannigan scowled good-naturedly. "If you keep that shit up, you'll be lucky to get paid in your regular grade of E-five, Assad."

"I understand, sir," Mike said. "How about per diem pay? I had to eat, y'know."

"No problem," Brannigan said. "Put the paperwork in and I'll sign it. Of course, DJMS will forward it to al-Mimkhalif for the funding. Any more questions?"

"Shit, sir!"

"I didn't ask for
comments,
Assad, I asked for
questions!"

"No questions, sir."

"Dismissed!"

"Aye, sir!"

"And get rid of that long hair and beard, goddamn it!" Brannigan growled, "You look like one of those fucking hippies from the nineteen-sixties."

"Aye, sir!"

Mike wasted no time in heading belowdecks to the area where the detachment was billeted. He had had only sporadic contact with those guys who meant more to him than his own life. Now he wanted to settle back into the Brigands as quickly as possible.

With no USMC personnel aboard the
Dan Daly,
the SEALs had more than enough room to make themselves comfortable. By the time Mike reached the area, the Brigands were back in after the long period of PT administered by Senior Chief Dawkins.

His best buddy, Dave Leibowitz, like the others, was stripping down for a shower, and spotted him coming into the compartment. "Hey, Mike, are you completely debriefed yet?"

"Yeah," Mike replied. "They wrung me dry. By the way, where's the ship's barber on this tub? The skipper told me to get a haircut and get rid of the beard."

"There ain't one," Dave said. "If there was Marines aboard, they'd have a full ship's complement, but the
Dan Daly
is understaffed right now."

Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson walked by, overhearing the exchange. "We've got a field barber kit."

"Yeah," Dave said. "Arnie Bernardi has been doing a pretty good job with it. He gave us all haircuts last week." He looked down the row of racks. "Hey, Amie. You got time to give Mike a haircut?"

"You bet," came back the call.

Within five minutes, Mike was seated on an empty ammo crate while Bernardi took the hand clippers and began running them down through his beard. Amie asked, "How you want your hair? Long enough to comb?"

"Naw," Mike said. "Take her down to the scalp. Believe me, after weeks and weeks of this shit, it'll feel good to be a cue ball."

"You got it, buddy," Amie said, applying the squeaky instrument to the task.

Chad Murchison, with a towel wrapped around his waist and a soap dish in his hand, walked up. 'Tell me something, Mike. How does one manage to go off on a recondite mission into the ferity of the Middle East, then return with a pulchritudinous woman?"

"Damn it, Chad!" Mike snapped. "Will you fucking speak fucking English?"

Dave laughed. "I think he wants to know how you managed to go off on an undercover operation and come back with a good-looking woman."

"Oh, her," Mike said. "I met her on the yacht."

"On the yacht!"
Dave bellowed. "What the fuck were you doing on a
yacht?"

"Oh, God!" Mike moaned. "It's obvious I'm back among the peasantry, so let me explain. I'll speak in simple terms so you poor bastards can understand me. I was on a luxury yacht complete with stewards and beautiful women."

"You son of a bitch!" Dave growled. "Here we were all worried about you being off on a dangerous mission, and you were in the lap of luxury."

"Mmm," Mike mused. "I suppose you would really get pissed off if I mentioned my harem, huh?"

"Hey, Amie," Dave said. "How about cutting off his head with them clippers?"

.