Seal Team Seven (42 page)

Not that they'd be able to do a hell of a lot. A four-man Rambo-type assault was a possibility, but not a good one. SEALs got results by working as a team according to a carefully worked-out plan, not by going in with guns blazing in some kind of wild, death-or-glory banzai charge. Besides, though they were armed, they had no grenades, no explosives, and once on board they would be outnumbered at least ten to one. Getting themselves shot would accomplish exactly nothing.

The smart move would probably be to return to the Boghammer and try to raise Prairie Home on the sat comm. Presumably, the air assault portion of Deadly Weapon was still under way, even if the SDV attack had been aborted.

Or was it? It wouldn't be the first time that a nervous Pentagon or an indecisive Administration had gotten cold feet and called off a major attack at the last possible second. Maybe the SDV SEALs and the airborne assault had both been called off, but nobody had bothered to inform the four SEALs already in the harbor.

It was a lonely thought.

Then as if on cue, other divers materialized silently out of the inky water, familiar shadow-shapes in SEAL black gear vests and Mark XV UBAs. It was too dark to recognize features behind those full-face masks, but MacKenzie's big-boned lankiness was a welcome sight indeed.

Murdock counted them as they gathered around, and realized with a small stirring of alarm that there were only ten men in the group. The last sat-comm transmission from Prairie Home had said that there would be twelve. Who was missing?

There was no time to find out. With swift, silent efficiency, the SEALs parceled off into two groups. As in the first assault against the freighter, they would go aboard in two groups, both of them on the starboard side this time, to avoid being seen from the pier.

Unpacking their gear from the cargo sled, the SDV SEALs extended their hooked painter's poles and unshipped their weapons. In moments, the first two SEALs were on their way up the
Yuduki Maru
's side.

Doc Ellsworth broke surface close beneath a wood-and-concrete pier extending west from a massive stone jetty. Coburn surfaced a moment later, and Doc guided him to the algae-caked bulk of one of the pier's bollards.

This appeared to be a fueling pier. A Combattante II-class patrol boat was tied up alongside, and the sailors aboard were passing fuel lines across from the jetty.

The Combattante II was a French-made boat, about 155 feet long, weighing 249 tons, and carrying a complement of about thirty men. Originally equipped with harpoon missiles, the Iranian Combattantes were now armed only with one rapid-fire 76mm cannon in a turret forward and a 40mm antiaircraft gun aft. Doc was less worried about the patrol boat's armament than he was about the men working on her afterdeck.

But Doc's first thought was for his patient. As Coburn clung gasping to the bollard, Ellsworth pulled off the SEAL's mask, then examined his face closely in the dim light. There was a lot of bloody mucus hanging in clots from Coburn's nose . . . probably from a ruptured sinus. No froth at the nose or mouth, which was damned good because then Ellsworth would have to consider the possibilities of embolism or lung squeeze. Chances were, Coburn had been breathing so hard he'd popped a sinus.

Hard breathing almost certainly meant CO
₂
poisoning. The symptoms were subtle, but included drowsiness and loss of concentration, confused thinking, and sometimes the headache that might be associated with the dilation of the arteries in the victim's brain.

“How do you feel?” he whispered in Coburn's ear, just loud enough to be heard above the lapping of the water at the pier and the voices of the working party nearby. “Head?”

“Head hurt like a bastard for a while there,” Coburn said. “It's better now.”

“Tingling in your hands? Nausea? Chest pains?”

Coburn shook his head. “Negative.”

His speech was taut and coherent. MacKenzie had spotted Coburn's trouble in time. The insidious thing about CO
₂
poisoning was the way it crept up on you, robbing you of your concentration and mental clarity, while making you breathe harder . . . which in turn made the condition worse. A two percent excess of CO
₂
in the gas mix was enough to trigger harder breathing. Ten percent caused unconsciousness, while fifteen brought on spasms and rigidity. Death was usually from drowning.

One thing was sure. They didn't dare risk letting Coburn dive again. Doc gestured toward the shore, where rocks and mud rose from the water at the point where the pier met the land. They could take shelter there, without having to worry about clinging to the bollard. They would also be able to unstrap their H&Ks and have them ready, just in case. “Let's get comfortable.”

Together, they started moving toward the shore, keeping to the shadows beneath the pier.

MacKenzie was first up the freighter's side, hauling himself from the water hand over hand along the painter's pole. The last time he'd done this had been at sea, safely shrouded by the anonymity of night. This time it was night . . . but the glare of lights from the shipyard facilities ashore and from the work area on
Yuduki Maru
's forward deck was bright enough that he could imagine himself etched clearly against the ship's side.

In fact, his combat blacks provided camouflage enough against the ship's black side, and the SEALs had chosen their approach carefully, coming in over the quarter where they were unlikely to be noticed by casual observers ashore. Still, guards in a passing patrol boat or sailors aboard one of the other ships in the harbor could easily look the wrong way at the wrong moment. They
might
assume that the divers emerging from the water were part of the “salvage work” going on aboard the Japanese freighter . . . or they might sound an alarm. Security lay in moving swiftly, with no waste motion and no delays in the open.

As he reached the top of his climb, hanging from the freighter's gunwale, he could hear voices coming from the deck above his head.

Japanese. At least two of them.

Clinging one-handed to the painter's pole, MacKenzie drew his Smith & Wesson Hush Puppy. The team wasn't bothering with laser sights this time; the gadgets were too sensitive to salt-water immersion.

This one was going to have to be quick, crude, and dirty.

Doc helped Coburn in a clumsy side-kick as they made their way along from piling to piling, always staying in the shelter beneath the pier. As they passed beside the patrol boat, they could hear the voices of Iranians on the dock and aboard the vessel, calling to one another in Farsi. Doc concentrated on staying afloat. Both men were burdened with weapons and gear, and it was a struggle just keeping both of their heads above water. Moments later, they cleared the patrol boat. They were less than ten yards from the shore now.

Across the water toward the north, less than one hundred yards away, the
Yuduki Maru
lay tied up to the construction pier, bathed in light from shore and from her own forward deck. As he moved through the water, Doc could see her aft starboard quarter . . . and two tiny, black figures dangling against her hull near the fantail.

Shit! If anyone on the fuel dock looked that way . . .

Twelve feet to MacKenzie's left, Kosciuszko clung to the second painter's pole, pistol in hand. MacKenzie exchanged silent nods with the other SEAL, wordlessly counting down with a three . . . two . . . one . . .
now!

Pulling themselves fully erect, MacKenzie and Kosciuszko reared over the freighter's fantail gunwale, balanced back against the gripper hooks at the tops of their poles, weapons tracking and firing in a blurred succession of rapidly triggered shots. The sound-suppressed gunfire sounded like a ragged chain of heavy blows, scarcely louder than the slaps and thuds of bullets striking flesh. The two Japanese guards were caught in intersecting lines of fire, struck again and again and again before they'd even had time to fall. Their assault rifles clattered onto the deck; one man crumpled where he stood; the other stumbled back three steps, half turned, and very nearly went over the rail before dropping to his knees, then collapsing onto his back, arms outflung in a spreading pool of blood.

MacKenzie swung himself over the rail and took a kneeling position, standing guard while Kos attached and unrolled two caving ladders. In seconds, two more SEALs were on the fantail . . . then two more. Kosciuszko and Nicholson hauled away hand-over-hand at a line, dragging the platoon's heavy weapons up the ship's side. Moments later, MacKenzie had his M-60 machine gun, a one-hundred-round ammo box snapped onto its receiver and the first round already chambered. Kosciuszko too had a 60-gun, wielding the massive weapon in his huge hands like a carbine.

As the other SEALs came aboard, they dispersed immediately, every man already briefed on his deployment. Fernandez and Garcia stopped long enough to draw their M-16/M203 combos from the heavy weapon pack, tuck some grenades into their pouches, and load up. Magic Brown picked up his M-21 rifle and nightscope, while Scotty Frazier grabbed a shotgun. Doc's beloved full-auto shotgun remained on the deck unclaimed.

The rest of the SEALs carried their standard loadouts, H&K MP5s with Smith & Wesson Hush Puppies as backups.

Silently, MacKenzie willed the SEALs to move faster. They didn't have much time now at all.

Murdock dropped into a crouch at MacKenzie's side. “What's the word, Chief?” His whisper was scarcely audible above the soft scufflings of the moving SEALs.

“Hey, L-T.” It was the first time Murdock had been called that since joining SEAL Seven. “Welcome aboard.”

He looked around at the silently moving SEALs. “Who's OIC? DeWitt?”

“You are, I guess. Coburn brought us in, but he's out of the game. Diving casualty.”

“Aw, shit! What happened?”

“Maybe CO
₂
poisoning. I'm not sure. Doc's with him.”

DeWitt joined them, clutching his H&K against his chest. “Hey, Lieutenant,” he said. “I'm damned glad to see you.”

“Glad to see you. Mac tells me Coburn is scratched. I don't know the plan. You two'd better take the lead.”

MacKenzie considered this, then nodded. “I think so too.” He glanced at DeWitt. “Lieutenant?”

“Affirmative. But stay with me, L-T, huh? I'll feel a lot better with you at my back.”

Murdock grinned. “You'll do fine, 2IC. Where are you supposed to be?”

“Bridge.”

Murdock nodded. “The bridge again. Okay, let's move it!”

It took a few seconds more to sort out the last-minute details. Roselli and Higgins were posted on the fantail, guarding the SEALs' escape route, manning the sat comm, and providing the rest of the team with a ready reserve. Jaybird would partner with Murdock. Tactical radios were set to the proper frequencies. By the time Murdock was set, the rest of the platoon had already dispersed, leaving him, the three SEALs off
Beluga
, Lieutenant j.g. DeWitt, and Chucker Wilson on the fantail.

DeWitt gestured forward.
That way.

With his AKM slung over his shoulder, Kurebayashi was on his way back up the ladder toward the bridge. After completing an inspecting tour of the freighter, he still felt uneasy. The atmosphere held that undefinable tension, a charge that was nearly electric in its intensity, that often presaged a storm.

The air was dry, however, and the sky clear. Perhaps, Kurebayashi told himself, it was simply his nerves.

For a long time now, he'd been questioning his own motives, and his future. What was it he wanted from the Ohtori? What did he expect to accomplish?

Martyrdom, certainly . . . but Kurebayashi questioned the popular idea that he and those with him would be transformed into stars if they successfully fulfilled their vow and brought low the American giant. Oblivion seemed a likelier fate, and Kurebayashi had found himself dreading that possibility. To be snuffed out, never to know whether all of his pain and sacrifice for the cause thus far had borne fruit . . . the very idea was repellent now, even though he and his comrades had discussed the possibility countless times before.

Or was it simply that he was afraid? The thought shamed him, burning more than the fear of oblivion as he turned the corner on the landing just below the bridge access corridor. He stopped for a moment, steeling himself. Perhaps if he spoke again with Takeda, he would feel better.

At the top of the steps, two Iranian Pasdaran stood guard, lounging in the passageway, their red scarves much in evidence. One looked down at Kurebayashi, smirked, then said something in Farsi to his companion. The other laughed unpleasantly.

Barbarians
. . .

Silenced gunshots chuffed from some unseen source above and behind Kurebayashi's head. The laughing soldier's eyes bulged as crimson flowers blossomed at his throat, the bridge of his nose, his forehead. The other was still trying to raise his G-3 rifle when a trio of 9mm slugs punched a three-inch triangle through his chest, centered on the middle of his breastbone. His mouth gaped to shout a warning; three more hissing rounds slammed into his face in a wet spray of blood and bone.