Typically pirates operating off the coast of Somalia held ships and their crews hostage while they negotiated five- and six-figure ransoms. So Crocker asked, “Have there been any communications from the pirates, sir? Have they made any demands?”
“None so far.”
Strange, he thought.
“Approximate number of pirates?”
“Expect six to ten. Secure the sensitive material because the White House would like to use it as evidence.”
Evidence of what?
“Deploy as quickly as you can,” his CO said.
“Yes, sir.”
As soon as the room’s lights illuminated, the supercarrier’s operations officer appeared at Crocker’s side. A big man with a shaved head, dressed in a khaki uniform, he said, “Give me a list of what you need and I’ll turn this carrier upside down to find it.”
Crocker thought quickly and answered, “A helicopter that can get us there fast, two Zodiacs with twin outboards, wet suits and skin suits, fins, Dräger LAR V rebreathers, twelve frag grenades, a telescopic pole and caving ladder if you have one, flares, TUFF-TIES, comms, SMGs, and pistols.”
The op officer scribbled everything down. “That all?”
“A cutlass and eye patch, if you can find them.”
“What?”
“It’s a joke.”
“I should find most of this in one of the Conex boxes from the last SEAL platoon on board.”
“Works for me.”
“Be on the flight deck in fifteen minutes with your men.”
“Yes, sir.”
Crocker was thinking about his wife, Holly, as a tall navy officer led him through a maze of corridors, past a gym, commissary, and barbershop. She worked for State Department Security and was about to deploy overseas any day, too. He wanted to call her, but there was no time.
They entered the ship’s mess, where he found his men feasting on Szechuan chicken and chow mein noodles. Moving them over to a corner table out of earshot, he briefed them as more aides arrived with nautical charts and satellite photos.
According to the latest intel, an unmarked assault boat appeared to be towing the MSC Contessa to the Somalia coast, which was highly unusual. What were primitive pirates doing with a launch that was powerful enough to tow a forty-thousand-ton ship?
Crocker and his men would soon find out.
Still chewing a mouthful of chicken, he helped his men carry their gear and weapons up past the ship’s hangars to the flight deck. There they were greeted by a fresh ocean breeze, a welcome relief from the stale air and claustrophobic atmosphere below.
Crocker didn’t like the confined feeling of ships, particularly the submarines he and his men had deployed from a dozen or so times over the years, which seemed like sardine cans filled with pasty-faced men. He especially disliked Swimmer Delivery Vehicles (SDVs), which were basically mini-subs.
He covered his ears as an F-18 Super Hornet approached the Vinson’s flight deck, its engines screaming, its tailhook deployed. The F-18 hit the deck, sending a tremendous shower of sparks into the night sky. The fighter jet was slightly off track and missed the ship’s arrest wire, so it quickly zoomed up to full throttle and took off again with a roar.
Crocker noted that the sky was cloudy and the sea choppy, which caused the carrier to rock side to side.
“That can’t be easy,” Akil remarked.
“Flying in at a hundred and seventy-five miles an hour and trying to hit a wire. You try it sometime.”
“No thanks.”
The LSO who was escorting them shouted into Crocker’s ear, “Be careful where you walk. A year ago one of our maintainers got his cranial matter sucked right out of his head when he stood too close to the intake of an A-6E.”
“Good to know.”
Right under the ship’s superstructure, known as the island, they met the pilots and copilots of the two MH-60 Knighthawk helicopters that had been tasked with flying them in. Each helo was equipped with M240 machine guns and Hellfire missiles. The four stood in a huddle studying weather charts as Crocker’s men loaded their gear. One of the pilots-a lanky-haired man with gray eyes and a Fu Manchu mustache-turned to Crocker and said, “Expect the flight to be a little rough. We got some weather blowing in from the south.”
“What have you got in terms of in-flight entertainment?”
“If you watch carefully you might be able to see a pelican taking a crap.”
“Just get us close. We’ll be fine.”
“You planning to fast-rope onto the deck?”
“No, I’d rather take the bastards by surprise,” Crocker answered.
“How far away you want us to drop you?”
“You’ll need to approach lights-out. Drop us about a mile behind the stern so we can’t be seen.”
The lead pilot nodded. “We can do that.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
Chapter Two
Only the dead have seen the end of war.
– George Santayana
Fifty minutes of bouncing around in the sky later, the six SEALs were in their black skin suits, ready to jump. Crocker leaned out the side door of the Knighthawk, trying to locate the MSC Contessa ahead. The light mist that fell dampened his face and hair. That and the cloud cover made visibility problematic, which meant that they had to rely on the helo’s radar.
The pilot kept his eyes focused on two green blips on the screen that appeared practically on top of each other east of the coastal town of Eyl-part of Puntland, the northeast corner of Somalia, which had declared itself an autonomous state in 1998.
When the helicopter got within two miles of the vessels, the pilot spoke into his headset. “Looks like they’ve both anchored off the coast.”
“They’ve stopped moving?”
“Correct.”
“Two vessels?” Crocker asked.
“Yeah, the cargo ship and the launch.”
“At what location?”
“Approximately fifteen miles off the coast. Direction…east.”
“Interesting.”
Crocker could understand the pirates commandeering the ship and anchoring it in friendly waters while they negotiated ransom. That was SOP in such cases. But what was the launch doing there?
The pilot’s voice interrupted his train of thought. “Signal when you’re ready for extraction.”
“Will do. And thanks for the lift.”
“Godspeed.”
The pilot lowered the helo within forty feet of the ocean and flipped a switch, which changed the light inside the starboard door from red to green. Crocker gave his men the signal to go. They pushed out the two Zodiacs and then the men fast-roped down-Ritchie first, followed by Akil, Davis, Mancini, Cal, and Crocker.
Lastly the copilot lowered their equipment-engines, paddles, Drägers and related dive equipment, fuel bladders, watertight weapons bags, telescopic pole with caving ladder attached.
Each three-man squad moved expertly, Davis, Akil, and Crocker in Zodiac 1 and Mancini, Ritchie, and Cal in 2. Each man knew what he was supposed to do: connect the engines and get them started, establish direction, comm. Check gear and weapons.
Within three minutes they had the motors running and were on their way, water slapping the bows, the boats twisting violently from side to side.
Crocker felt the adrenaline slam into his veins-that welcome burst of energy that produced a sense of invincibility. He lived for moments like this.
The warm air and faint scent of rot and tropical flowers reminded him of the times he’d operated in Somalia before. All hair-raising and life-threatening. Each time he left injured or sick. It was a country that had come apart at the seams in the early ’80s and never managed to pull itself back together. An anarchic mess of young gangs and drug lords armed with AKs and rocket-propelled grenades. Somalia seemed many centuries away from the social norms and political stability enjoyed in the U.S. and even other African countries. Much of which, he thought, people back home took for granted as they sat in their easy chairs watching TV.