“I have access to the blueprints for Bouddica,” the SAS colonel said after several minutes of listening. “I can download them through my fax back at headquarters. We’ll have to talk with someone higher up about the notion of a prisoner release… or an exchange, and that will give us the excuse we need to get a boat in close. The powers that be might go for that in any case, just to be able to talk with the opposition.”
“That’s what I thought. Sounds like the people on Bouddica are especially eager to get that Korean woman, Chun, back.”
“Yes. Yes, they are. Getting M15 and the people at HQ to go along with the idea, though…”
“We can try. What have we got to lose?”
“Our commissions, for one thing. But I think you’ve got a decent plan there. I’ll get on it with my staff people right away.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Just one thing, Leftenant.”
“Colonel?”
“Why do you insist that you be along as one of the scouts? Wouldn’t things be better served if you coordinated from the rear?”
“That’s not the way SEALs do it, Colonel.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Maybe. But I was wondering if you had… personal considerations in this.”
Murdock didn’t answer immediately. Of course he had personal considerations… and Wentworth damn well knew it. He’d been worrying about Inge Schmidt ever since Monday, when he’d heard the People’s Revolution had kidnapped her.
Where was she? There were, essentially, two possibilities as he saw things. They might be holding her in a safe house ashore, probably somewhere in Germany. If that was the case, there was almost nothing he could do about it… nothing, that is, except carry out the raid against the tangos on the Bouddica platform. It was just possible that a prisoner taken there, or a document, or some other piece of intelligence picked up in either the preliminary reconnaissance or in a full-blown takedown later would yield some clue as to where they were holding her. The moment such a clue surfaced, Murdock would see to it personally that Lieutenant Hopke of GSG9 had it too… and then God help the terrorists who were holding Inge captive!
The second possibility was more intriguing. The bad guys must have kidnapped Inge to find out more about the Americans who’d been seen with her. If they knew Murdock and MacKenzie were SEALs, they’d be questioning Inge about how much the American SEALs knew, about why they were in Europe, about how they might react to the Bouddica takeover. Depending on how the tango command structure worked, it was distinctly possible that they would take Inge out to Bouddica and hold her there. It would be more secure than any safe house ashore; the terrorists must be afraid that intelligence picked up by the SAS in Middlebrough would compromise their operation all over the continent. They might see Bouddica as the safest place to hold their hostages.
Either way, Murdock was determined to be on that recon team.
“I’m going, Colonel,” he said quietly. “Let’s leave it at that, shall we?” He shoved his glass back across the table and stood up. “Perhaps it’s time I got my boys out of the pub, off the streets, and away to someplace where they’ll do no harm.”
“That lot?” Wentworth asked. He laughed. “No chance there. Your lads, like mine, were born to do harm, and heaven help the poor soul who gets in their way.”
17
Five miles southwest of the Bouddica facility
Captain Ronald Quentin Croft stood on the afterdeck of the wallowing tug, wondering how anybody could do this for a living. The North Sea, predictable only in its rough and unruly character, seemed determined to swamp the vessel from astern, and each passing wave pitched the work-boat aft-high and forward, then surged beneath the keel with a queasy, rolling motion. Croft knew the SAS prided itself in fighting anywhere, in any conditions, but this particular venue he would gladly have left to the SAS’s sister unit, the SBS.
While the Special Boat Squadron was on alert as well, however, it had happened that the 23rd Regiment was already set to go with full kit… and the Old Man, Colonel Wentworth, had seemed particularly eager to push this one through. Croft wondered if it had anything to do with that tin full of Yanks aft…
The Horizon was properly classified as an anchor-handling tug and had originally been designed to haul oil-drilling platforms from one North Sea site to another. She was 250 feet long, with a high prow, with all of her superstructure crowded as far forward as it would go, and with a long, low afterdeck that gave her a decidedly unbalanced look. For the past twelve years she’d served as one of the supply boats that kept the North Sea oil platforms linked with the shore. On her voyages out from her home port in Middlebrough, she carried food, drilling mud, bits, shafts, piping, and all of the other myriad supplies and spare parts necessary to keep a small community of oil-field workers going. On her voyages back, she carried garbage.
This time, however, Horizon was carrying a piece of equipment unlike any she’d ever hauled before.
Forward, just aft of Horizon’s white-painted superstructure, a massive winch as thick as a man was tall rested on its supports, a six-inch steel cable paying out astern and vanishing into the churning white foam of the tug’s wake. A second cable, no thicker than Croft’s little finger, paralleled the first. It was attached to a com unit near the winch, where half-a-dozen SAS men were huddled together, keeping down and out of sight. The twin towers of Bouddica had slowly risen above the horizon over an hour ago, and it had to be assumed that men with binoculars were there, observing all that they could of the approaching supply boat. In Croft’s case, it didn’t matter; he was wearing civilian clothes — jeans, a heavy leather jacket over a wool sweater, and a balaclava — but most of the SAS men aboard were in their combat blacks.
Ready to go.
Briskly, Croft walked toward the crouching men. Sergeant Major Dunn acknowledged him with a nod but did not stand. He was listening to a headset pressed against his ear.
“How are they?” Croft asked.
“All’s right so far,” Dunn replied. The Horizon gave a heavy lurch as she slid into another trough, and Dunn grinned. “I’d say they’re getting an easier ride than we are.”
Croft nodded, then walked around to the side of the superstructure, peering forward. He could have gone up to the bridge for a precise figure, but he estimated — a guess close enough for government work, he decided — that the Bouddica complex was about five miles off.
“Pass the word to Tagalong,” he told Dunn. “Release in another minute.”
“Yes, sir.” Dunn held the headset’s mike close to his mouth. “Tagalong, Tagalong, this is Big Brother. Do you copy?”
It was time.
It was cold. Even in the British-designed dry suit, the bitter chill of the North Sea seeped through the stubborn material and permeated Skeeter Johnson’s bones.
Crammed into the cockpit of the bus, he scarcely had room to breathe, much less stretch or move to unkink muscles too long cramped into a space smaller than any coffin. Worse, visibility was zip. Even though it was broad daylight above the surface, the light filtering down through the silt-filled water at a depth of forty feet was just enough to turn the world around him to a soft, gray murk. Before joining the Navy, Johnson had dived in plenty of different conditions, including at night, but he’d never gone diving in really deep water. Always before there’d been a bottom to give some sense of scale, perspective, and movement, even if only glimpsed in the moving beam of a hand-held diver’s light.