“Aye, aye, Commander. Right away.”
Fifteen minutes later, the two SEALs, in their wet, sandy cammies, and MacKenzie, in his pressed and spotless uniform, stood at attention in the SEAL Team Seven commander’s office.
“At ease, but don’t sit down, you’re still wet. We’ve got an assignment for you. Just came from the admiral’s office the way it should. He received it from the CNO, who had the order directly from the President.
“You know about the nuclear bomb that Libya dropped on Chad early this morning. For sometime the CIA has been monitoring the ICBMs left over in Ukraine after the breakup of the USSR. They all were supposed to go back to Russia for disposal, but not all made it.
“Last week the CIA found out that some were sold or stolen and taken out of Odessa on a ship. We believe, but are not certain, that one or more of the Russian Satan ICBMs were on that ship, which went directly from Odessa to Tripoli. The CIA believes that one of the multiple independently targetable reentry-vehicle warheads was what Libya dropped on Chad.
“Your platoon has been authorized to conduct a covert operation to determine if the ship did have one or more of the Russian Satan missiles, and if so, to destroy the remaining warheads so they can’t be used as independent bombs. Either that or capture the remaining warheads and transport them out of the country for U.S. control.”
“Simple,” DeWitt said.
Commander Masciareli glared at him a moment.
“The only easy day was yesterday, J.G.” He looked down at some notes. “You will operate from an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean which will move up from its position off Lebanon. Don Stroh will be your on-board contact and you will work out your strategy and operation en route and on board the carrier. Transport for your platoon will leave North Island in three hours. Is your platoon operational, Commander?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve had almost two months since our last fling and our wounded are healed and tough. Our one replacement man is integrated into our group and can function.” He paused. “Is there anything else, sir? We need to get our men out of the ocean and into some dry clothes.”
Two and a half hours later, the properly cammy-clad Third Platoon of SEAL Team Seven stepped off a Navy bus at North Island Naval Air Station onto the edge of the taxi strip. A sleek Gulfstream II, which the Navy designates as VC-11, sat on the taxi strip warmed up and waiting for them.
They had flown in the business jet before. It was usually reserved for VIPs, and called a large executive jet by the Navy. It was made by Grumman Aircraft, later called Gulfstream Aerospace, carried a crew of two or three, and could transport nineteen passengers.
It has a maximum cruising speed of 581 mph at 25,000 feet, and can cover 4,275 miles between fuel drinks from a tanker or on the ground. It has airline reclining-type seats, and facilities for meals and refreshments for the passengers if the flight plan calls for that.
The SEALs settled down in the comfortable seats and relaxed. They knew what their job was; they just didn’t know how they would handle it. That would be worked out on board the carrier in the Mediterranean Sea.
Stroh had called just before they left their quarters. He said he’d meet them on the carrier.
“I’ll probably get there first,” he said. “I have a three-thousand-mile head start.”
Murdock, DeWitt, and Senior Chief Dobler conferred near the front of the double row of seats.
“So we don’t know how many ICBMs there could be in that ship just in port from Odessa?” DeWitt asked.
“We don’t until we open the door and look,” Murdock said.
“These are the MIRV babies with ten warheads in each nose cone?” Dobler asked.
“Right,” DeWitt said. “The CIA thinks they took out one of the independently targetable warheads and turned it into a drop bomb and blew half of that region in Chad into Bolivia.”
“Then their Army charged across the border,” Murdock said. “Which might help us since most of their good troops will be out in the field, not guarding that ship.”
“How do we know it will even still be there?” DeWitt asked.
“Priorities,” Murdock said. “If I was Qaddafi, I’d get that first bomb out and ready to go before anything else on that ship moved. First jobs first.”
Dobler looked at Murdock. “Anybody in our platoon know how to defuse and destroy a nuclear warhead?”
“Not that you could count on,” Murdock said.
“Our orders were to capture or destroy the warheads, as I heard,” Dobler said. “We going to pack them out of there on our backs with a ten-mile swim, or what the hell?”
“Mostly the latter,” DeWitt said.
They looked at each other.
“So?” Dobler asked.
“So we play it by ear until we can get some on-site intel and then plan out damn carefully just what the fuck we’re going to do,” Murdock said. “Right now I’m ready for a nap. On this one we better sleep when we can. It’s about a three-hour run to D.C. Then we’ll probably get some juice in the air or on the ground. After that I’d bet we’ll drop in on Lisbon, Portugal. That should take another seven or eight hours.”
“What do I tell the troops about chow?” Dobler asked.
“Supposed to be something on board, box lunches, and we hope, better than MREs.”
An hour later, Ed DeWitt was still wide awake. He poked Murdock in the shoulder and weathered the growl.
“Hey, Boss, I keep thinking about the destroy part of that mission description. I’d bet you know who I’m thinking about.”
“True, true as blue, J.G. We were lucky once, why tempt fate? This one looks just nasty as all hell. No reason to expose that person to all the shit we’re going to run into.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” DeWitt grinned. “Okay, you can go back to sleep now.”
An hour later the crew chief came back from the cockpit. He had a printout of a radio message from Washington, D.C. Murdock rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and focused on the paper and the stark black print.
“Thursday, September 12.
“From the Office of the President.
“To Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock, Commander SEAL Team Seven Third Platoon.
“Commander Murdock: The President has assigned a special agent to assist you in your destruction of the warheads we suspect are on a ship in the Tripoli, Libya, harbor. That person is someone you’ve worked with before, Katherine Garnet. She will travel with Don Stroh and meet you on the carrier. Good luck.” It was signed by the President’s administrative assistant.
Murdock showed the paper to DeWitt, who read it.
“Not again,” he said.
“Again,” Murdock said. “Just like in Iran on our death race. At least the lady knows her business. All we have to do is keep her alive, do the job, then get her home in one chunk without a lot of bullet holes in her pretty little hide.”
5
Third Platoon of SEAL Team Seven came off the COD plane on the deck of the Franklin D. Roosevelt carrier tired and grumpy. Most of them had slept little on the fourteen-hour flight. They had crossed so many times zones that they had no idea what time it was other than it was still daylight.
They were shown to their quarters and a nearby double-size compartment where they could stash their gear and weapons and work on them when they needed to. Murdock called them together in the assembly compartment. Jaybird struggled in the door, the last man to report.
“I haven’t had any new signals on our mission,” said Murdock. “For those of you who want to set your watches, it’s now thirteen-fifteen. You have lost seven hours, we had a thirteen-hour flight, and you’re all assigned to your bunks until eight hundred in the morning. Senior Chief Dobler will tell you where your chow is and will boot you out of your bunks in the morning. Any questions?”