Basically, Gordon was asking us to risk our lives to capture a guy when it was completely unnecessary. They were tracking Montalban’s yacht by satellite. They had an armed UAV ready to drop a pair of guided bombs onto it at a moment’s notice. If they wanted this guy out of the picture, all they had to do was say the word and he’d be on the bottom of the Gulf.
Except Gordon wanted him alive. He wouldn’t even explain why. Eight of us were going to board two of Gordon’s stealth helicopters, fly out over the ocean, and board Montalban’s yacht in force. Just like last time, he was only sending in eight guys when dozens would be preferable. He assured us that Montalban’s security detail, though highly trained, would be caught completely off guard and that we’d have the initiative the entire time.
I thought Tailor was going to blow a gasket. Holbrook and Cromwell didn’t really get vocal until Gordon explained that Anders was coming along to provide support. Gordon probably very nearly avoided getting decked.
I explained that I’d never been trained on rappelling from a helicopter, much less onto the back of a moving ship at night. Gordon said rappelling wouldn’t be necessary. The yacht was big enough that it had not one but two helipads, one on top and one on the stern.
We’d been given a lot of information on the Santa Maria. Photos taken from the UAV stalking it. Plans from the builder, reports on Montalban’s security people. The plan was simple enough. Chalk 1 would touch down on the helipad at the top of the ship’s superstructure. They would then proceed in and take control of the bridge. Chalk 2 would land at the stern, enter the ship, disable the engines, then begin hunting for Rafael Montalban. Once we captured him, the choppers would pick us up. We’d fly off, and the UAV would prang the Santa Maria, sending it to the bottom and killing everyone still alive on board.
The two helicopters would orbit the area for as long as fuel permitted. One would have a machine gun to provide fire support. Anders would be riding in the other, armed with a sniper rifle, to pick off targets of opportunity on the deck. Anders was going to be riding in Holbrook and Cromwell’s chopper. I imagined what a fun ride that was going to be.
Chapter 16:
Surface Tension
VALENTINE
Somewhere over the Persian Gulf
May 9
0155
Dark water flashed below us as the strange black helicopter skimmed the deck at speed. Inside, we were bathed in red light as we made final checks on our equipment and communications.
Tailor, Byrne, Hudson, and I huddled together, going over the plan one last time. Just inside the starboard-side door sat a crewman manning a machine gun. The stealth helicopter flew with its doors closed to maintain its small radar cross-section. When the door opened, the entire gun mount swung out, allowing the chopper to lay down suppressive fire.
“We have the target on FLIR,” the copilot said. “Stand by. Touchdown in three minutes.”
“Going dark,” the pilot said, and the internal red lights switched off. My active hearing protection minimized the noise of the chopper, but I could hear the pounding of my heart. It was that last-minute adrenaline spike that you get right before showtime. With the onset of that adrenaline, my pulse slowed and my thoughts coalesced as the Calm washed over me. Tailor reached over and slapped me on the shoulder.
“Thirty seconds!” My grip on the cut-down Benelli M4 shotgun tightened. The side doors quietly slid open, and the chopper was filled with the roar of rushing air. The door gunner slid his weapon mount into position. Below us, I could clearly see the Santa Maria, well-lit and steadily cruising though calm seas.
My stomach felt the sudden drop as our helicopter rapidly descended upon the Santa Maria’s aft helipad. The yacht rushed up toward us, and with a heavy thud we were on the deck.
Tailor was out the door first, his carbine up and ready. I was right behind him. Following me was Hudson with the SAW, and then Byrne with another carbine. As soon as we were clear, the chopper dusted off. The door gunner opened up as the chopper ascended, raking the foredeck with a stream of tracer fire. We moved together in a tight line, rushing for the superstructure, trying to cover as many angles as possible. Shouting could be heard. An alarm sounded.
The aft superstructure served as a hangar for a small helicopter. We kicked in a personnel door and entered as our second chopper landed above us. The ship’s interior lights were on. A door at the opposite end of the hangar opened as we passed by the Santa Maria’s helicopter. Two men in suits, armed with MP7 submachine guns, burst into the room. They hesitated for a brief moment when they saw us. We’d caught them completely off guard. Tailor cut down one while I put a magnum buckshot load through the other. Both men were dead before they hit the floor.
“Clear!” Tailor said.
“Clear! Reloading!” I repeated, thumbing another shell into my shotgun.
“Clear!” Hudson and Byrne repeated.
“Alpha Team, this is Bravo Team,” Tailor said. “We’re in the hangar. What’s your status?”
“Bravo Team, Alpha,” Holbrook replied. “We’re crossing the sundeck, heading for the bridge. We—shit!” A long burst of automatic weapons fire rattled over the radio. “Encountering stiff resistance.”
“Roger that.” Tailor looked back at us. “Engine room. Let’s go!” We followed Tailor into the bowels of the Santa Maria, encountering terrified crewmembers as we went. The engine room was on the lowest deck, in the aft of the yacht.
We cleared a tight, spiraling staircase and immediately came under fire from down the passageway. Tailor jumped back in the stairwell, stumbling backwards and crashing into me.
“Shit,” he snarled. “That was close.”
“What?” I asked.
“I think they’ve got guys at both ends of the passageway. The hatch to the engine room is sealed.”
“Frag?” I asked, mind racing.
“Frag,” Tailor concurred. We each pulled a hand grenade from our vests. Squeezing side by side, we moved as close to the doorway at the bottom of the stairwell as we could and pulled the pins. At the same time, we reached around the doorway and threw our grenades. Mine went aft, Tailor’s went forward. They went bouncing down the passageway. We withdrew into the stairwell and crouched down. Men were shouting in the corridor. The Santa Maria was rocked by two deafening blasts a second later as the grenades detonated.
“Move, move, move!” Tailor shouted. We spilled into the passageway as rapidly as we could, weapons leading us around the corners. Tailor angled to the left, while I angled to the right. The two men that had been guarding the hatch to the engine room were dead.
I dove to the deck as a burst of automatic weapons fire roared behind me. Bullets zipped over my head and pocked the hatch to the engine room. Tailor fired off several short bursts in response. I rolled over onto my back, leveling my shotgun down the passageway just in time to see Hudson crouch in front of me, SAW shouldered. He ripped off a long burst while Tailor reloaded.