Crocker explained the situation to Anders and Admiral Marcelus, who called the Naval Command Center in Norfolk and requested permission to move within ten miles of the Disney Magic. After strenuous arguments back and forth, permission was granted.
The mission still had a chance.
Chapter Twenty
It is a sin to believe evil of others, but it is seldom a mistake.
– H. L. Mencken
The digital display on the console on the bridge of the Disney Magic read 0355, and Stavros Petras and his fellow terrorists were getting anxious. The man who had recruited them and planned this mission (code name the Fox) had told them that the United States would quickly accede to their demands and the terrorists would go down in the history of the Middle East as heroes. But with the deadline only three hours away, they were completely cut off from communications from the outside and with each other in different areas of the ship, and had no idea what was happening.
Petras blamed this on the Magic’s officers and crew. He was convinced that one of them had flipped a switch or disabled a computer that had shut down all telecommunications, short-wave and medium-wave communications systems, the air conditioning, some lights, and even interfered with their radios. He didn’t understand that the real cause of the blackout was a massive bombardment of electromagnetic energy from flux compression generators and other sophisticated electronics on the Eisenhower and other U.S. ships as well as malware dispatched by computer experts back at NSA headquarters in Maryland. Petras understood little about electromagnetic pulses and radar jamming. All he knew was that they were literally operating in the dark and on their own. Even though the ship’s engines were still working intermittently, he was enraged. So he decided to take matters into his own hands.
Standing on the bridge with three other heavily armed terrorists, he informed the ship’s officers that he and his men were going to execute one crew member or passenger every twenty minutes until the lights, computers, radio communications, and air conditioning were fully restored.
“But you don’t understand,” argued the first engineer, a mustached Bangladeshi named Amitava Sanguri. “We are as powerless as you are in this situation. If I could restore these things, I would. I promise.”
“Two minutes until we shoot the first man,” Petras announced, pointing at his watch.
“The interference is coming from outside,” Amitava continued. “If you want me to, I can explain the electronics.”
“Too late,” Petras said, grabbing him by the collar.
He turned to one of the other terrorists and said in Arabic, “Two of you take him down to the pool and shoot him in the head. Leave his body in the pool as an example. He’ll be the first.”
The terrorists led First Engineer Sanguri out, while one of the chief officers protested, “Don’t do this. We want to cooperate! The blackout has nothing to do with us!”
Petras pointed at him and screamed, “Shut up! You’ll be next!”
Scott Russert was lying awake in bed, clutching his sleeping wife to his chest, when he heard what sounded like automatic weapons fire from one of the decks above, followed by shouts of Allahu akbar.
The killing has started, he said to himself. He had expected it. Somehow he knew that more terror was coming.
“God, help us,” he prayed out loud. “Deliver us from this, somehow. Me, my wife, our sons, the passengers and crew. God be merciful, please!”
Crocker and the other SEALs watched from inside the flight deck island control tower as the C-130T Hercules approached the Eisenhower. With wind speed at forty knots, the captain had increased the speed of the ship by ten knots to reduce yaw motion. He also changed course so the plane could land with the wind on its nose, thus helping it stop.
The ship’s deck crew had laid a line of orange phosphorescent tape down the middle of the flight deck to help the pilot of the C-130T avoid hitting the island with his wings. Still, as the turbo-powered plane drew closer, Crocker wasn’t sure it would clear the island.
Turning to a lieutenant who was filming the Hercules with a digital video camera, he asked, “C-130s have landed on this deck before, correct?”
“Not on this deck, no, never,” the lieutenant answered, “but they’ve landed on other aircraft decks a handful of times. Kind of problematic, because unlike, say, an F-16, they don’t have a hook that can deploy and catch the cable.”
“Then how will it stop?”
The lieutenant shrugged and continued filming. The pilot of the C-130T was trying to level the plane in the robust wind, but was experiencing problems. The big aircraft tilted up and down and veered into the path of the island as it approached.
Crew members on deck dashed for cover. Others used flashlights to direct the pilot to climb, circle, and try another approach. But the C-130T kept bearing down.
Crocker held his breath as the pilot leveled the wings at the last second and the big plane touched down, immediately reversed engines, braked, and stopped to loud cheers and applause from the crew on the bridge and the deck.
“Fucking incredible,” the lieutenant shouted. Following him out onto the flight deck, Crocker observed that the aircraft’s wings had cleared the island by only three feet.
When he got a chance to introduce himself and congratulate the pilot, the Navy Reservist told him he’d been flying C-130s since Vietnam but had never done a landing this dangerous before. Crocker also shook hands with the two Special Warfare Combatant-Craft Crewmen (SWCCs) who had accompanied the SEALION II from Italy. They were the waterborne equivalent of the 160th SOAR helicopter force, with whom he’d often flown.
“Glad you could make it. How was the flight?” Crocker asked one of the SWCCs, as the aircraft’s engines powered down.
“I thought we were on a carnival ride. That old dude has got some stones.” He was a stocky man with a big nose and a ruddy complexion, and he wore a Special Boat Team 20 (SB20) insignia on the chest pocket of his black flight suit. “Surface Warfare Officer Dan Cowens.”
“Welcome, Dan. Chief Warrant Crocker. We better get the SEALION fueled up and in the water. Time is short.”
“Let’s get to it. Follow me.”
Crocker had worked with SB20 before, everywhere from the jungles of Colombia to the coastal waters of Somalia, and knew them to be tough, smart men. Reaching the back of the C-130, he saw the bow of the SEALION II protruding from the door like a spear.
“The craft is so long, we had to improvise and make some modifications,” Cowens explained.
“To the SEALION?” Crocker asked, hoping they wouldn’t need time to reassemble it.
“No, to the C-130. Had to kick out the cockpit panel and door.”
When the rear gate was raised, Crocker saw that the SEALION was an elongated, covered-canoe-type vessel, painted gray. Looked like something borrowed from the set of a sci-fi movie.
The deck crew carefully lifted it out, then wrapped its hull in a MEATS insertion delivery system, which consisted of very strong nylon cables configured as a giant sling. Then a CH-53 Sea Stallion helicopter with the MEATS attached lifted the SEALION off the deck and set it in the water. After crew support technicians and SWCCs had fueled the boat and set the ballast, Crocker and his men started loading in their gear. With everyone’s expert cooperation, the entire process took less than fifteen minutes. Now the mission was ready to launch.
Captain Marcelus, his officers, and the crew assembled on the Eisenhower’s deck to see them off with three rounds of hoo-ahs and raised thumbs. The copilot checked that the SEALs were buckled in, then the craft’s two MTU diesel engines fired up, providing 1,136 shaft horsepower to each of the two Rolls-Royce Kamewa waterjets, and they were off, ripping through the seas at twenty-five-plus knots.