Murdock still wondered how many Arabs were on board. He didn’t believe the fifty the terrorist claimed. At least now they were sure they had the right ship. He motioned to DeWitt.
“Take your squad and capture the poop deck and anyone there. If you find captive U.S. sailors, free them, but keep everyone quiet and down there. Don’t let anyone use the phones they must have there and warn the bridge. We both have a hike to get to our targets. Alpha will be taking down the deckhouse. We’ll both hit them in five minutes. Go.”
The SEALs split and moved toward their targets.
Something had roused Ben Casemore where he hid among the various vents, pipes, and machinery used to load and unload the ship. He lay there without moving; then, when he could see no danger to himself, he lifted up and looked over a huge pipe down the deck of the tanker.
At first they were shadows moving from one bit of cover to the next. Six, seven, now eight men came toward him. He had heard nothing. They did not act like they were terrorists. No. They were attacking! Someone had learned of the takeover and had come to recapture the Jasmine.
He started to jump up and was about to yell, but he stopped and shook his head. Not the best idea. A good way to get himself shot. Even in the darkness, he knew the men had rifles and probably machine guns. They had to be military of some sort, Rangers, maybe, or Navy SEALs. He’d heard about them. He watched the men moving down toward the poop deck and waited.
Slowly, he began working his way toward the main doorway into the rear deck. Perhaps he could help in some way. He wiggled past some pipes, slid behind a square shaft, and was within six feet of the door.
The first attacker came up to the door and flattened out on one side of it. Another man went on the far side. Soon six more men were in position near the door.
Ben took a chance.
“Americans,” he called with enough force for them to hear him. “Americans, I’m one of the crew. Don’t shoot.” The nearest man lunged toward him, a short weapon up and covering him at once.
“American. I’m one of the crew. Don’t shoot.”
The man in a camouflaged uniform rushed him and pinned him against the bulkhead. At once three more of the men were beside him.
“Who is Jay Leno?” an American voice asked him.
“Late-night talk show host from Los Angeles,” Ben Casemore said. “Hey, I’m an American, no shit. You Rangers?”
“Hell, no, we’re SEALs,” a tall, thin man said. “Arabs took over your ship?”
“Oh, yeah, at night. I was out prowling. They missed me. Been hiding ever since.”
“How many terrorists are back here?” Ed DeWitt asked.
“Only three now. One went up the deck a while ago.”
“He’s swimming now,” DeWitt said.
“Good. They did some shooting back here. Bet somebody’s dead in there.”
“Where would the terrs be?” DeWitt asked.
Ben frowned. “I ain’t been inside when they been there, but I’d guess they herded the crew into the storeroom. No windows, steel door. Leave the rest of the quarters back here for the Arabs.”
“Is this door locked?” Guns Franklin asked.
“Never seen it locked,” Casemore said.
“What’s your name?” DeWitt asked.
“Ben Casemore, sir.”
“Casemore. You stay here and keep out of sight. We don’t want you getting hurt.” DeWitt turned pointed at Adams. “You and I’ll go in. Fernandez, grab the door and jerk it open. Adams, you go right if there’s any room. I’ll be on the left. Once we’re in silently, the rest of you come in. No shooting unless required. Bullets will bounce all over the place on those steel bulkheads. Fernandez, now.”
Fernandez turned the knob slowly, then jerked the door open. Adams was in front. He went through the open door into a companionway. Doors showed to the left and right in the dimly lit area. No one was in sight. Ed pointed to the first door. Adams turned the knob slowly and eased the door outward. Ed used his flash and looked inside the room. A sleeping area. Four bunks. Nobody home.
Four more SEALs were in the companionway now. Two worked each of the next two doors. A soft night light glowed in the second room. A man slept on the bottom bunk of another four-man room.
Mahanani dropped on him with his 240 pounds and clamped one hand over the man’s mouth. A moment later, Quinley had his hands and feet tied with the plastic strips and a gag tied across his mouth.
They found one more man in the fourth room, which was as large as the others but with only one bed and a soft chair and a TV set. Ostercamp went in the door, heard a hammer cock, and dove for the floor. Right behind him in the light of the door, Jefferson heard the sound, too. He triggered three rounds from his Colt M-4Al. The silenced rounds sounded much louder in the closed room. Ed DeWitt jolted into the room and shone his small flashlight around until he found the bed. One terrorist lay there with his hand still holding a .45 automatic with the hammer on cock. He had taken three rounds in the chest and died before he could pull the trigger.
“He had me, JG, I was dead meat,” Jefferson said. “I had to fire at the sound.”
“It worked, and you’re alive,” DeWitt said. “We’ll talk it over later. Let’s get the rest of this place clear. Should be one more terr here somewhere.”
The last room hadn’t been looked at. Ed DeWitt turned the knob slowly, then pulled the door open. Al Adams charged quietly into the lighted room. A terr sat on his bunk, an AK-74 in his hands. He looked up, blinded by the JG’s flashlight beam, then lifted the weapon and triggered three rounds.
Adams had his Colt up and returned fire, nailing the terr with three rounds into his chest and neck. He spun back on the bunk, dropped the automatic rifle, and gave a long sigh. In death, his bowels emptied, and the odor was immediate and sharp.
“Anybody hit?” DeWitt asked.
“Yeah, just a scratch on my arm,” Adams said, then he sagged against the bulkhead.
“Mahanani up here,” DeWitt barked.
The corpsman came in the door and looked at Adams. He moved him to another bunk and sat him down. Blood showed on his left sleeve. Mahanani pulled down the shirt and looked at the wound.
“In and out, JG,” he reported. He treated the small entry wound and the larger exit wound on the back of Adams’s arm and then bound it tightly with a bandage. He slipped the shirt back on and buttoned it.
“Good as new,” Mahanani said.
“Hell, I must not have been much good new,” Adams said. “Hurts like crazy.”
The medic gave Adams a shot of morphine and nodded at the JG.
“Leave the terr there,” DeWitt said. “That should be the last of them. Let’s clear the rest of this place in a rush. Bring in Casemore.”
Somebody brought in the tanker sailor. They quickly cleared the rest of the sleeping areas. Nobody was on guard.
“Show us where the rest of the crew is,” DeWitt said.
Casemore took them to the spare storage compartment. It was locked from the outside. Eighteen men lay on mattresses and blankets on the floor. They cheered when they saw Casemore.
“What the hell’s going on?” one seaman asked.
“We just got rescued,” Casemore said.
“At least half of the ship,” DeWitt said. “Would there be any of the terrs up on the front of the ship?”
“Naw, just in the deckhouse,” Casemore said. “Our officers are still there. We gonna go up and free them?”
“That’s being taken care of,” DeWitt said. We just stand by here and wait. Are there telephones from here to the bridge?”
“Sure, want me to call?” Casemore asked.