“Ronson, you ready? Make sure the coil of line is free.”
“Ready, Cap.”
“DeWitt, your man ready to fire?”
“Ready.”
“Fire grappling hooks until we get one or two set. Go.”
Horse Ronson fired the cut-down, pistol-grip shotgun with both hands, aiming the six-pointed grappling hook at the rail far above him. He watched the line peel out of the coil. Then the line stopped moving, and he saw it arc out from the tanker and the hook evidently fell into the water. He pitched the rest of the coil of line overboard. He loaded a second special shotgun shell and the grappling hook and tied the inside end of the second coil of line to the grappling hook. Then he aimed outward more this time, so the hook would clear the side of the big tanker, and fired.
“We have a hookup,” Murdock’s earpiece reported.
This time, Ronson’s line kept snaking out of the coil of rope until it fell in on itself, then stopped spooling out. Ronson put down the shotgun and pulled gently on the line. It came down two feet, then three more. Two more feet of line came down, then stopped. It had snagged something above. Ronson pulled it hard, then stood high, grabbed a loop of the line, and pulled himself upward off the small boat. The hook held.
“Got it, Commander,” Ronson said. “Looks to be about twenty to twenty-five feet of line left. A seventy-five-foot climb.”
Jaybird moved to the line. All the SEALs still had their weapons tied across their backs. Jaybird flexed the thick aviator’s gloves and reached up on the rope. On the O Course, he was the fastest up the rope climb of anyone in the platoon.
“Go,” Murdock said. He touched the lip mike. “Ed, send your first man up. One man on the rope at a time. Go, go, go.”
The rest of Alpha Squad watched as Jaybird worked his way up the line. He moved smoothly, all with his arms. He might use his feet on the line higher up, but down here it was partly for show. Moments later, he was out of sight. Ronson sat on the bottom of the line to make it as steady as he could for the climber.
They waited.
The big tanker kept plowing through the Gulf of Oman at eighteen knots. Murdock used the radio. “Ed, make sure everyone has his Motorola out and working. Make a net check on your men to me.” He looked at his remaining men. They were digging out their radios from waterproof pouches. Soon the whole platoon was wired for sound and ready to rumble — except the two men climbing up the line.
“I have my first man up,” DeWitt said. “He’s on the deck, has tied off the line more securely.”
Jaybird gave two tugs on the line, indicating that he was on the deck. He checked the grappling hook. It was secure. He looked around. He could see no lookouts, guards, or terrs.
Ron Holt went up next. He left the fifteen-pound radio in Murdock’s hands, still in its waterproof wrap. It would be tied on the line and pulled up after the last man was on board.
On the deck of the tanker, Jaybird saw Quinley in a crouch and moving toward him.
“See anybody?” Quinley asked as he bellied down beside Jaybird.
“No. You watch forward, I’ll check aft. We stay in place until the rest are up.”
Far to the stern of the tanker, they both heard a door open and a brilliant splash of yellow light gush out, then grow smaller and vanish when they heard the door close.
Jaybird motioned Quinley to the inside of the tanker where there were masses of large pipes that were used to fill each of the giant holds. They wedged onto the deck with six inches of cover. They could hear the hard soles of someone walking down their side of the long ship toward them. There was no way to warn the men below. The man had a hundred yards to cover before he came to them. He must be heading for the deckhouse.
The man turned on a flashlight, and the beam bounced along, covering the deck directly in front of him. The tanker man was twenty yards away when a SEAL came to the rail and clung to it. Jaybird had not heard the signal to turn on his Motorola. He waved at the man directly opposite him, but couldn’t get his attention. The man rolled over on the deck, panting from the long climb.
By then, the flashlight beam bounced along, ten yards away. Jaybird was midway between the man with the light and the SEAL. No way the man could miss the SEAL on the deck here where the empty space between rail and pipes was no more than ten feet.
Jaybird waited until the tanker sailor came directly opposite him, then he stood and slammed into the man with the light. He knew he couldn’t kill him, not until he was sure the man was a terrorist. Jaybird hit the man hard, and they both jolted to the deck.
5
Jaybird hit the seaman waist high and drove him to the deck. His hand curled around the man’s mouth so he couldn’t call out. The SEAL spread his legs to keep the man from turning him over. His right hand jerked the KA-BAR from its sheath, and he pressed it hard against the sailor’s throat.
“Are you an American?” Jaybird whispered.
The head nodded.
“Yeah? Who is Jay Leno?”
The man tried to throw Jaybird off him, just as Quinley dropped on top of them both, pinning the man securely to the deck. Quinley had the flashlight the man had dropped. He shielded it and shone the light in the man’s face.
“Oh, yeah, he’s a damned A-rab,” Quinley said. “Check for a weapon.” In his belt, Jaybird found a pistol. Quinley pulled the man’s hands behind his back and snugged them tightly with plastic riot cuffs. He did the same to the Arab’s ankles.
Four more SEALs came over the rail.
“Get Franklin up here,” Jaybird told Quinley. Quinley was back in two minutes with Franklin still gasping from the long rope climb. He was the only man in the platoon who could speak Arabic.
Franklin looked at him. “Oh, yeah, he’s an Arab. One of the terrs. I’ll see what I can get out of him.”
Franklin talked to the man but got only grunts in reply. Senior Chief Dobler came up and spread out the men, then looked at Quinley.
“We’ve got an Arab captive. He tell you anything?” “He won’t say a word, Senior Chief.”
“Let’s pretend to throw him overboard.”
Three of them picked up the Arab terrorist and took him to the rail. They swung him once, then twice, and were about to swing him the third time when he began jabbering in Arabic. They dropped him on the deck, and the Senior Chief stood on his back.
“What?” Dobler asked.
“Says he’s one of fifty Arabs on board. They have captured the ship and we will all die.”
Murdock came up and was told the situation.
“Tell him he has one more chance,” Murdock instructed Franklin. “Make him understand that we know he’s lying. If he doesn’t tell the truth, he’s swimming in the gulf.”
Franklin translated the words for the captive. He spat in Franklin’s face. Murdock and Senior Chief Dobler picked up the small Arab and threw him over the rail. He screamed only once and then was lost in the darkness. They didn’t even hear the splash as he went into the cold waters of the Gulf of Oman.
Murdock put his SEALs on the deck and considered the matter. Jaybird told him the terr had come from the poop deck in the stern, evidently heading for the deckhouse. Murdock knew they had to capture the deckhouse, the control center of the ship. There were enough electronics, sensors, and computer-linked instruments in there to fly a space ship. It all was controlled on the bridge.
Other computer-instructed instruments piloted the big ship and could hold her on a precise course for days at a time without the aid of a human hand. This, regardless of the weather, tides, winds, currents, or changes in engine power. She was locked on to the stars for her precise guidance across the vast oceans of the world.