SEAL Team Six: Hunt the Fox (21 page)

“We’re driving. Maybe…another three hundred miles from Ankara. Should be there by around 0700.”

All he saw out the window was a flat dark landscape—no structures, no signs.

Anders said, “Text me your GPS coordinates immediately.”

“Why do you need our exact location? What’s up?”

“The next field or rest stop you come to, pull over and text me your coordinates. A TAF helicopter is on its way. I’ll be on it. When you see it, flash your emergency lights and prepare to board.”

“Yes, sir. What’s going on?”

“You’ll soon find out.”

The line went dead. As his mind revved up to process the conversation, Crocker handed the receiver back to Davis.

“What’s the story?”

“I think they located the sarin,” Crocker said.

Scott Russert was on his knees, tying his son’s sneakers and hoping to beat the early line for breakfast at the Lumiere’s dining area on Deck 3 when he heard three loud, sharp blasts over the ship’s alarm system. His entire body tensed and his blood pressure shot up.

“What’s that?” his wife asked as she emerged from the bathroom, drying her hair with a towel.

He was about to reach for the brown binder on the desk that outlined all the ship’s signals and emergency codes when Captain Hutley’s voice came over the PA system. He sounded tense and unsteady. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re currently experiencing a security situation that requires all passengers and nonessential crew to remain in their cabins until further notice. Anyone out on the decks, in the hallways, dining rooms, or other public areas, will be subject to grave danger.”

He repeated the message, then signed off.

In the pregnant silence that followed, Scott’s wife stared at him from across the cabin, her cheeks turning deep pink and her hands trembling. “Does that mean what I think it means, Scotty?”

“No, darling. Don’t go there.”

“Is something wrong, Daddy?” son Randy asked, picking up on his parents’ sudden anxiety.

“Does that mean we can’t go to breakfast now?” asked Russell.

Scott, who had trained himself to focus on practical solutions to immediate problems, started to calculate what they had in the room to feed the boys and keep them occupied until the “security situation” was resolved: a box of animal crackers, several fresh oranges, water, coffee, tea, a flat-screen TV and DVR loaded with dozens of Disney movies and TV specials.

He didn’t notice his wife and two sons surrounding him until he felt Karen’s fingers digging into his arm.

“Oh, Scott!” Her whole body was shaking.

“Daddy.”

“Yes.”

They held on to him as though he were their strength and only possible salvation from whatever danger lurked outside.

“Daddy, can we still get pancakes?”

“Does that mean the ship’s going to crash?”

“The ship’s okay, boys,” Scott said. “We’re fine.”

Someone cried out something from a room down the hall. As he listened for sounds of violence, he felt the ship slowly turning to starboard, and assumed they were returning to Turkey. Scott considered it a good sign. They’d re-dock at Ku
ş
adası, officials would address the problem, and they’d soon be under way again.

He thought of their home back in Putney as the alarm blasted again and Captain Hutley repeated his message for the third time. After the message finished, Scott listened carefully for any sound from the cabin next door. It remained quiet.

In some deep chamber of his mind he started to put two and two together. He looked at Karen, who was wiping tears from her eyes before mouthing “Pirates?”

He shook his head, reached out, wrapped his arms around his wife and sons, and squeezed all of them together. “No, love. Don’t think like that. We’re headed back to Turkey. We’re together. We’re a family. The intrepid Russerts. We’ll be fine.”

“Will we, Dad?” Randy pleaded.

“Yes. I promise.”

The SEALs parked the Suburban in the empty parking lot of what appeared to be an abandoned factory just off the O-21 and waited for the French-made, twin-engine AS532 Cougar helicopter to circle and land. Red lights washed over the surrounding buildings and freeway, and then the landing light came on and turned the asphalt bright white.

Crocker felt adrenaline coursing through his veins as he climbed onboard and strapped himself into a seat between a security man in civilian clothes clutching an M5 and a grim-faced Grissom. The helo lifted off and banked to the right. Anders reached over the seat behind him and handed Crocker a single piece of paper.

As he read the hijackers’ statement in the dim overhead light, his blood started to heat up. Terrorists had seized control of the
Disney Magic
. They were threatening to release sarin and kill all the passengers unless the U.S. president publicly pledged to withdraw all American troops from the Middle East immediately and deposit two billion dollars in various Cypriote and Dubai bank accounts. The terms had to be accepted within twenty-four hours. The document had been issued at 0700 hours on the eighteenth of June and was signed “The Fox—ISIS.”

Unacceptable. Not fucking happening.

Crocker turned to Anders and shouted over the engine noise, “How many passengers?”

“Some 2,687. Another 857 crew members.”

Jesus.

“How many hijackers?”

“Unclear.”

“Who’s the Fox?”

“Don’t know. But analysts at HQ are narrowing the list of candidates.”

“Where’s the ship now?”

“It’s been turned around and is heading east.”

“It’s clear the terrorists are in charge?”

“Yes.”

“And the sarin is aboard?”

“We believe so, yes.”

C
haos reigned
at MiT headquarters near the port of Ku
ş
adası—Anders, Grissom, Janice, Crocker, Colonel Oz, the commander of the local Turkish coast guard station Captain Shamaz and two of his officers all crowded into one stifling command center, staring at radar screens and satellite images on computers while talking into cell phones in English and Turkish. Anxiety radiated from all of them.

It was a terrible atmosphere for clear analytical thinking.

Crocker’s head pounded from the confusion and the heat. Events were unfolding so rapidly. Rumors, shards of information, and possible opportunities ricocheted through the room like stray rounds.

A group of Turks perused passenger lists faxed from Disney headquarters in Florida, looking for the names of known Islamic terrorists.

Unlikely they’re using their real names.
He understood the need in crises like this to want to do something, but he also knew the danger of wasting precious time.

As Crocker was downing a bottle of water, he was summoned into a corner where Anders, Janice, and Grissom were all huddled as if for a two-minute drill.

“Here’s the latest from HQ,” Anders announced, sweat beading on his brow and upper lip, his voice breaking up. “The
Disney Magic
is moving at eighteen knots, three-quarters speed, east southeast. According to the latest computer models, it’s headed back into the Mediterranean in the direction of Cyprus, and beyond that possibly the Syrian coast.”

“Why is that important?” Grissom grumbled, his jaw tensed, his blue eyes narrowed into slits.

“For various reasons,” Janice interjected, her white blouse wet with perspiration, strands of hair plastered to her forehead and neck.

“Let me finish,” said Anders, raising his voice. He cleared his throat and spoke with confidence this time. “The president’s in the White House situation room with his national security advisors—DCI, NSC, Defense, Homeland Security.”

Grissom cut him off again. “We know the players.”

“They’ve decided it’s impossible to concede in any way to the terrorists’ demands. Any sort of statement from the president or attempt at negotiation is off the table.”

Grissom: “I’m not surprised.”

Janice: “Me either.”

“So the question is: Are the terrorists willing and able to carry out their threat and kill all crew and passengers?” Anders continued.

“I believe so,” Grissom groaned.

“The conclusion arrived at by the president and his top advisors is yes.”

Janice nodded. “Totally agree. We have to operate on that assumption.”

“I agree. But are we sure they have the sarin?”

Janice added, “They said so in their statement.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.”

“I know, but…”

“No one else has located it,” Grissom continued as if he were the one in charge. “We have to assume it’s somewhere and it was taken for a purpose. I think we can conclude the purpose is goddamn clear now. Agree?”

Anders nodded. “We have to assume the terrorists have the sarin onboard, and if not, some other means of destroying the ship.”

Crocker stood quietly and listened as his mind raced ahead, riffling through the hundreds of ship takedown exercises he’d participated in and the half-dozen actual ones he’d pulled off.

Anders looked at his watch, which read 7:14 p.m. “That gives us approximately eleven and a half hours to organize, plan, and launch some kind of rescue—which appears to be the only option we have left.”

Janice nodded. “Agreed.”

All the real ops Crocker had done involved freighters or oil tankers. None were on passenger liners with so many lives at stake.

“If we can pull off a rescue attempt in this small window of time, the question then is, Do they really have the ability to deploy the sarin?” asked Anders.

Grissom thrust out his chin and answered, “All they have to do is hook it up to the ship’s ventilation system. Take ’em five minutes if they know what they’re doing.”

“How long will it take to deploy?”

“Seconds, probably,” Janice observed.

“Damn right,” Grissom said. “We have to assume seconds. If they have it attached to some kind of mobile digital device, all they have to do is push a button.”

“So how do we get our operatives onboard without losing the element of surprise?” asked Anders.

“Good question.”

“Real good question.”

All eyes turned to Crocker.

“What do you think?” Anders asked. “You think you and your men can fast-rope onto the deck from helicopters?”

Crocker shook his head. “Not without being seen and heard. Not happening.”

Janice agreed. “You’re the expert.”

Anders scratched the side of his face. “There’s another problem. According to BBC Weather, if the
Disney Magic
continues on its route southeast, it’s going to run into a major storm that’s sweeping out of the Caucasus.”

“When?” Crocker asked, glancing again at his watch.

Anders answered, “Sometime before midnight.”

“How long is it likely to last?”

“It’s a big storm. Projected to continue into the morning.”

Grissom slapped his hand against the wall and said, “That’s terrible news.”

Anders nodded. “Yeah. Makes this real problematic.”

“Kind of rules out using helicopters, don’t you think?” asked Janice, looking at Crocker.

Grissom: “Or any other kind of rescue.”

“How about we block the ship somehow? Trap it, so it can’t go anywhere,” Janice suggested.

“Then the jihadists kill everyone aboard,” countered Grissom.

Anders turned to Crocker and almost pleaded, “What do you think? There must be something…”

Crocker remained calm. His mind quickly sorted through possible scenarios, none of which so far seemed appropriate. “I think that my men and I are going to have to board that ship before the deadline, but fast-roping onto the deck is not an option.”

Grissom: “Then what the hell is?”

“First I’m going to need a detailed plan of the ship. Then I’m going to need to talk to an engineer from Disney who knows how the vessel’s ventilation system operates and where the terrorists are most likely to have hooked up the sarin.”

Anders turned to Janice and said, “Call HQ and tell them to get us an expert from Disney. Get him or her up on Skype. Now!”

She hurried off as Crocker continued thinking out loud. “This person…this engineer needs to tell us the best way to quickly shut down the system in a way that can’t be overridden.”

“Check.” Anders wrote furiously on a yellow legal pad.

“We’re going to need to move lightning fast. The terrorists release the sarin or detonate any sort of bomb and the mission goes completely south.”

“Understood. We’ll get that for you. But you haven’t answered the important question.”

Grissom: “Yeah, Crocker, how the hell are you going to get on the ship?”

“The only way we can in this situation.”

“What’s that?”

“From cigarette boats dropped in the water.”

“You’re kidding, right?” asked Grissom.

“No. We’ve done it before.”

“Where?” Grissom asked, hands on his hips, chest jutting out aggressively. “And where the hell are we going to find cigarette boats?”

Crocker turned to Anders and asked, “Any aircraft carriers in the vicinity with SEAL rescue teams attached?”

“I’ll find out.”

“I’m going to need six more SEALs. Guys who are experienced jumpers and swimmers, and have practiced underways.”

“Underways?” Anders asked.

“That’s what we call them. You’d better write all this down.”

Anders did, quickly. “Go ahead. What else?”

“We’re gonna need at least three cigarette boats on wooden pallets equipped with Vetus HD silencers. Three experienced steer-and-throttle men. Three telescopic poles equipped with cave-in ladders. And two planes—one to drop the boats and another that we can parachute from into the water.”

“Seas might be extremely rough.”

“We should expect to lose some men, but we’ll manage,” continued Crocker. “We’ll also need to get to the carrier or base that we’re going to deploy from. Once at the exfil point, I’ll need to huddle with the other six SEALs. All of us are going to need the complete package of weapons and gear—NVGs, comms, explosives, tear-gas grenades, percussion grenades, smoke grenades, et cetera, all waterproofed or in waterproof weapons bags.”

“Check.”

Grissom’s demeanor brightened. He said, “I’ll call the Station and have them put us in direct contact with Special Operations Command in Tampa.”

“Good,” answered Anders. “Focus first on the carrier with the appropriate resources—SEALs, cigarette boats, pallets, jump platforms.”

“Will do.”

As Grissom strode outside with his cell phone, Janice hurried back with news that HQ had already located an engineer who had worked on the design of the
Disney Magic
and knew the vessel inside and out.

“Excellent,” Anders said. “When can he talk?”

“He’s standing by now, ready to Skype.”

Anders looked at Crocker. “Chief Warrant, you’re driving this mission. What do you want to do first?”

Crocker considered quickly, then answered, “Ask Oz for a private room with a computer, then summon the rest of my men. I want them to hear this.”

“Okay. Will do.”

Scott Russert looked at the glowing green LED number on the nightstand, which read 9:53 p.m. He and his family had watched the movies
Aladdin, The Lion King, Beauty and the Beast
,
and
Sleeping Beauty
,
played four games of Parcheesi, eaten most of the fruit, candy, and animal crackers, and consumed all the bottled water. They were exhausted and ravenous as a result of the relentless anxiety.

They had heard nothing further—no messages or announcements—since the warning from Captain Hutley that morning. Neither Scott’s nor Karen’s cell phone could pick up a signal, and the TV transmitter on the flat-screen wasn’t working.

The stateroom where they had laughed, played, planned activities, and sung silly songs together had become a prison cell. All he could tell from looking out the portholes, which were located about five feet above water level on the port side, was that the ship had turned around and was moving rapidly.

Karen lay on the bed suffering from heart palpitations and their sons were antsy and hungry. When he tried calling room service on the blue courtesy phone by the bed, no one answered.

“I’m hungry, Daddy,” Randy said. He was the more inquisitive and vocal of their two sons. “Can we try to see if Lumiere’s is open?”

“It isn’t, son.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the captain said all the dining rooms are closed.”

“But how can we know for sure, if we don’t try?”

“You have to trust me, son. The captain made an announcement.”

“Did he say when the dining rooms will open?”

“No.”

“Are we just going to sit here and starve?”

“Of course not. Don’t talk like that. I’ll set up the Wii for you and your brother.”

“What about the pizzeria? It’s not a dining room. We can have pizza, right Russell?”

Russell chimed in, “Yeah, let’s get pizza and Cokes!”

“The pizzeria is closed, too,” Scott answered.

“How do you know?”

“Listen, boys. The captain told us to stay in our rooms. We have to do as he says.”

Randy thought for a minute and said, “I want to get off this ship.”

“We’ll do that, son, as soon as we can.”

Scott flicked on the flat-screen again, activated Wii tennis, and handed the wands to the boys, who were soon slapping the virtual ball back and forth. Then he sat beside Karen, who looked hot and uncomfortable.

He wanted to help his family get through this and back to their lives in Putney. He wasn’t a churchgoing man, but found himself praying. Reciting a Hail Mary in his head, he retreated to the bathroom to get a wet towel for Karen. When he shut off the water, he heard muffled voices in the hallway.

Dear God! What now?

A door shut and a few seconds later he heard a knocking sound and more voices. They were moving closer.

This could go very badly.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he whispered, “Scott, you can do this. Think of your family. Stay calm.”

Three knocks sounded on their metal door, sending a jolt of panic down his spine. He waved the boys farther into the room, took three deep breaths, and answered.

Standing on the other side of the door were two crew members in white tunics beside two metal carts piled high with sandwiches and bottles of water. One of them had a large bruise on his face and swollen skin around his right eye. The other had spots of blood on his tunic and a cut across his lip. Standing behind them were two bearded men wearing black masks and holding automatic weapons.

The ferocity in their eyes unnerved him to the point that he wanted to scream or run. He fought to keep it together.

“Sir, sorry for the inconvenience,” said the porter with the swollen eye. “We have a limited number of cheese sandwiches and bottles of water. How many are there in your cabin?”

“F-f-four,” Scott stammered, holding onto the doorframe for support.

One of the porters handed him four sandwiches wrapped in plastic. The other placed four 16-ounce bottles of Evian on the floor just inside the room.

They had moved fast and were ready to leave.

Scott’s legs shook as he blurted out, “My wife isn’t feeling well. She suffers from high blood pressure.”

The porter with the swollen eye said, “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Does she have her medicine with her?”

“Uh, well…no. She ran out.”

One of the armed men leaned forward and grunted something into the ear of the steward, something Scott couldn’t make out.

The steward said, “Tell your wife to drink lots of water and try to rest. We’ll see what we can do.”

He swallowed the last word: “Okay.”

Janice, bleary-eyed, sat before a computer next to Colonel Oz, looking through passport and customs surveillance photos of passengers that had been collected by Interpol from immigration services in Spain, Italy, Malta, Greece, and Turkey. To Janice it seemed like a useless exercise. She had petitioned to go with Anders, Davis, Akil, Mancini, and Crocker when they left forty minutes earlier to fly to the aircraft carrier
USS Dwight D. Eisenhower
,
currently positioned southwest of the island of Cyprus. It only added to her discomfort that Oz puffed on one Camel cigarette after another and occasionally glanced down the front of her blouse. With each cigarette he lit, he apologized and said, “For my nerves. I’m sorry.”