They’d code-named the spot Eyrie. The other two SEALs were already in place and in the process of setting up the rest of their gear.
The most important set of hardware was the HST-4 satcom unit, its attendant decoder, and the small satellite uplink unit that went with it. MacKenzie had already carefully aligned the folding satellite dish with an invisible point in the sky. With that gear properly set up and aimed, they’d be able to converse directly with Washington through one of the MILSTAR communications satellites if they wanted to, though that particular call was probably a bit premature just now.
More important, it would let them talk directly with Wentworth, back in Dorset, or with Captain Croft aboard the Horizon. The SEALs had a great deal of help available, if and when they needed it.
Though they had personal communication with each other as well, they didn’t use it, since the enemy might have scanner gear in operation, set to watch military channels.
The first information beamed out over the tiny satellite dish was the digital recordings stored in Sterling’s TRW camera, followed by a brief report of what they’d seen so far.
Meanwhile, Murdock and Roselli set out to reconnoiter the rest of Bouddica Bravo… and this time they found some tangos.
There were two of them, rough-looking men armed with H&K MP5 submachine guns much like those carried by the SEALs, though they were not the SD3 suppressed version with the heavy silencer barrels. They’d found a place for themselves on the east side of the facility, tucked away out of the cold and the wind behind an immense stack of barrels and drilling-shaft segments. Indeed, the SEALs could easily have missed them entirely, except that Murdock’s sharp sense of smell had first detected a whiff of cigarette smoke, fresh and sharp above the clinging stink of oil and machinery. Murdock and Roselli watched them for a time, dispassionately, until they were certain that there was no alarm, no sense of urgency or worry on the part of the enemy. Then, stealthily, moving with death-silent footfalls, the two SEALs backed away, rejoining the others.
Back in the Eyrie, MacKenzie had a pair of binoculars out and was studying the sheer white cliff-face of Bouddica Alpha. “Anything?” Murdock asked quietly.
“I’ve got two guards spotted on top of the command center,” MacKenzie replied. “And I’ve been following some movement inside. Hard to get a good count, though.”
“Two more back that way,” Murdock added. “It’s going to be a bear getting an accurate head count. Especially if they keep moving around.”
“Roger that.”
The SEALs settled down to wait.
19
“Who authorized this!” the Secretary of Defense demanded, his face flushed with rage. The transcript of the report from England was spread out before him on the table. “Who let these… these cowboys loose over there?”
“The terrorists?” Caldwell asked, momentarily confused.
“No, damn it! These SEALs! Who gave them orders to board that oil platform?”
“As near as we can gather, Mr. Secretary,” Admiral Bainbridge said quietly, “the SEAL commander on the scene interpreted his orders rather, um, broadly. He wrote up what we call an UNODIR report, a report telling us precisely what he was going to do unless we told him otherwise. Unfortunately, his report did not reach levels cleared to know what was going on until too late.”
“At this point,” Marlowe, the CIA director pointed out, “we’d do a hell of a lot more damage pulling them out than we would leaving them there.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Hemminger snapped. “What if they’re seen, damn it? What if that SEAL over there gets excited and launches a takedown? He could trigger the very disaster we’re trying to avoid!”
“I must remind you, Mr. Hemminger, that the British government has already authorized a takedown,” Caldwell pointed out. “They are proceeding with their plans as we speak.”
The President’s Chief of Staff looked shocked. “God! Why weren’t we consulted?”
Caldwell gave a thin smile. “Great Britain is still a sovereign country, you know, Frank. We were informed because it is our oil tanker which is at risk, but they are taking the steps they feel are necessary and justified to protect their interests, which in this case is a very expensive oil-production facility, half the oil-production capabilities of the North Sea, and the North Sea itself, for that matter.”
Marlowe stood up and walked to the far end of the table, where part of the rococo scrollwork and ornate wooden paneling of one wall had been slid back to reveal a large screen. “Can we have the first shot, please?” he said, raising his voice for the benefit of the unseen techs running the room’s electronics.
The scene on the monitor appeared to be an aerial photograph of the two Bouddica platforms, shot from an altitude of several hundred feet. Long shadows on the water indicated a time close to dawn or sunset; lines of white alphanumerics in the upper right corner listed security codes, and a time of 0734:15 GMT, with Wednesday’s date.
Marlowe pulled a pen-sized laser pointer from the inside pocket of his jacket and switched it on. The intense, ruby-red spot of light from the pointer danced wildly across the photo image. “This is a KH-12 series, with the first shot taken early Wednesday morning,” he said. “We started moving satellites as soon as the word came through that something strange was going down at Bouddica. We shifted KH-12 Delta into a new orbit with its apogee above the North Sea. Gives it a line-ofsight on-station time of almost sixty minutes. You can see here Bouddica Alpha… Bravo… Over by the edge, this fat cigar is the Noramo Pride. This speck alongside Alpha is the Celtic Maiden. That’s a workboat assigned to the oil platform.” The laser-light pinpoint zipped across to Alpha’s helipad and circled an insect centered in the pad’s bull’s-eye. “This is a helicopter that had apparently touched down in the early hours. Our analysts tell me it’s painted with the markings and hull insignia of an aircraft with the Royal Dutch Navy.”
“The Dutch!” Schellenberg exclaimed. “Has anyone consulted with them?”
“Their Defense Ministry assures us it’s not one of theirs, Mr. Secretary,” Marlowe said dryly. “It’s counterfeit, probably to let the terrorists board the Noramo Pride. Next!”
The scene on the monitor flashed to another view, this one from a different angle. The shadows were shorter and differently aligned; the date was still Wednesday, but the time was 0913:35 GMT. The Noramo Pride was nosed up to a buoy, visible as a small, gray blotch next to her bow. Another ship, a third the length and bulk of the tanker, was moving toward the platform, her wake indicating a speed of no more than a few knots.
“Almost two hours later, another ship came on the scene. We’ve identified her as the Rosa, fishing trawler, German registry. Interesting thing is she’s listed as scrapped. We’re trying to track down her current owners, but that may take a while. At first we were concerned that another civilian ship had blundered into the scenario. Now we think the Rosa is part of it. Next.”
On the screen, time leaped ahead once more. Noramo Pride was still riding at her mooring. The Rosa, however, was tied up close alongside Bouddica Alpha. A crane had been swung out over her cargo deck. The workboat Celtic Maiden was tucked in between the Rosa and the platform, partly hidden by the crane and by the bridge connecting the two platforms Alpha and Bravo.