Battleground (10 page)

“The round missed the bone, which is good,” the doctor said. “I’d suggest at least a week of limited duty. That means stay off that leg until it gets a chance to do some healing. You’re a SEAL?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you’re grounded for two weeks.” The doctor nodded at Murdock, who was still in his dirty cammies, and left.

“Two weeks?” Brown asked. “He’s got to be kidding. When do we go back after that ship?”

“Not sure, but the ship won’t be next. We’ve got a hundred and sixty sailors somewhere in a jail. State still has some contacts in the Mombasa area. They’re trying to find out where the colonel stashed our guys. Then we move.”

“I’ll be ready by morning,” Brown said. He shook his head and blinked. “They give me a shot?”

Murdock grinned. “Something’s got to knock you out. You have a good sleep, and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

The hostages had been given quarters, showers, clean uniforms if they wanted them, and the option of having dinner or sleeping. All but one went for the midnight supper. Murdock’s men were fed in the crew mess, and then hit their own berths.

Murdock went topside with Don Stroh to find out if they had an intel yet on where the crewmen were being held in Mombasa.

Stroh leaned back in a chair and scowled. “Murdock you look like hell warmed over. How long you been up now, thirty-six or forty-eight hours?”

“Long enough. Any news from Mombasa?”

“State made contact with a newsman there they use now and then. He has a SATCOM radio. Said he warned State about the coup almost thirty-six hours before it happened. He’s trying to find out where the sailors are. Most likely in the Indian Ocean Prison on the outskirts of Mombasa. Remember, that’s a big town, over six hundred thousand.”

“He give any time when he might have the information?”

“Said he just didn’t know. Might be a few hours, might be two days. He doesn’t want the colonel to come calling and blow his head off.”

“Right. We can use some sleep anyway, and some more food in the morning. You wake me up the minute we know the location so we can start planning.”

“Choppers again?”

“Not sure. Depends how far from the bay it is. We can get ashore in the IBSs. But if it’s ten miles to the lockup, we don’t want to walk. We’ll see. Remember, give me a call if you get the location.”

Murdock found his sleeping quarters, showered, and flaked out on the bunk. He was sleeping before he knew it.

Tuesday, July 20

1630 hours

Murdock got up, showered, ate dinner, and then went to the room that Don Stroh had taken over as his headquarters. The CIA man worked on a third cup of coffee.

“Nothing yet. Hey, it’s been slow over there onshore. He should get something tonight. D.C. said he’d give us a call here direct.”

Murdock waved. “Going to check on my men.”

He found them cleaning weapons, checking equipment, and grousing about it. Jaybird had them toeing the line. Ed DeWitt came in with a sour expression and a cup of coffee.

“Don’t think I slept an hour. I kept seeing those two women that the colonel slaughtered. He’s got to go down. Wouldn’t mind doing that job myself.”

Murdock agreed with him, then brought the men up to date on the next step.

“The crew off the
Turner
is our next target. We’re not sure yet where they are or how we go get them. We have the IBSs and all the choppers we need. There must be some fast launches we could call on too for close-in work in that bay. First, we need more information.”

“How’s Magic?” Fernandez asked.

“Mean and lean. I’m surprised he isn’t down here.”

“I checked him this morning,” Lieutenant DeWitt said. “He was boiling because they took away his uniform. He’s only got that little white robe that ties in back.” The men roared with laughter imagining Magic making his escape bare-assed.

“Think he’ll be with us on the next op?” Jaybird asked.

“The round took about two inches of meat, missed the bone. If Brown can walk, we’ll play hell to breakfast to keep him out of the next run. We’ll wait and see. Lot depends how soon we saddle up.”

“We could start some planning,” Jaybird said. “Like what we do if the place they have the guys is right on the bay, or if it’s five miles inland.”

“Shoot,” Murdock said.

For the next hour they kicked around ideas about what to do and how to do it. It could all be wasted effort, or they might have a foundation to work on when the word came down.

A half hour later Don Stroh came into the big room where the SEALs were quartered, and at once the place went quiet.

Stroh looked around. “Hey, I didn’t kill anybody. What’s going on?”

“Any word?” Murdock asked.

“Words, yes, but not the right ones. Got two messages for you, though. On paper.” He handed two sheets to Murdock. They had come straight from the encryption machine. The first was from the Secretary of State.

Murdock read it out loud. “Lieutenant Murdock. SEAL Team Seven. Congratulations on pulling our people out of Nairobi. Excellent work. Tell your men well done. We wish you success on the rest of the mission. The whole State Department congratulates your team.” Below he read the name of the sender: “Mable L. Thorndyke, Secretary of State.”

“What the fuck, somebody noticed,” Red Nicholson said. “Usually we’re the deepest darkest secret in town.”

“True,” Stroh said. “But this one wasn’t exactly covert. Some talk of getting you guys some ink on this one. What’s the other one, Lieutenant?”

Murdock switched the pages and looked at the next message. He glanced at the bottom of the page first. It was over the name of the President.

“Lieutenant Murdock and SEALs, Third Platoon, SEAL Team Seven,” it read. “Please accept our sincere appreciation for the outstanding job you and your men did getting the forty hostages away from the rebel Kenyans and safely back to the carrier. We commend you, and offer you the thanks of the entire nation—even though the American people probably will never realize the service you performed in their name.

“I know your mission isn’t complete there, and we and the White House family and staff wish you a safe and
successful completion of your work. Thanks again.” The typed name on the paper was “Wilson Anderson, President.”

“Who’s that one from?” Ken Ching asked.

“Just some guy in Washington,” Murdock said. They yelled at him until he held up his hand. “Okay, just don’t get swelled heads. We got much work to do yet.”

He read it aloud, and when he finished, the men were quiet.

“Well, somebody knows that we exist,” Ron Holt said.

“Oh, Washington knows about you,” Stroh said. “The President and the Director of the CIA are most aware of you and your work. That’s why you’re on that special string that goes from the President to the Director of the CIA and down to me and then to you. Congratulations. Now, what were you doing? Didn’t mean to interrupt.” He grinned. “The hell I didn’t. I’m getting back upstairs to wait for that damn radio to start talking to us.”

When he left, Doc Ellsworth looked at Murdock. “L-T, how long you think it will be before we know our target?”

“My guess, sometime tonight, and we’ll go in as soon as possible. That means we wrap this and have some sack time right after chow. I don’t want any of you falling asleep on me with bullets flying around.”

Sunday, July 18

0613 hours

Pita’s apartment

Mombasa, Kenya

Olie Tretter watched the Kenyan-Arab woman go out the door and close it. They heard her lock it from the outside. Tretter let out a long breath.

“Man, I have been at sea too long. That is one fine mama.”

“She’s finer yet if she can save our fucking tails from the locals,” Vuylsteke snapped. He regretted it at once. He hadn’t slept well last night on those boards.

“Easy, guys,” Rafe Perez said. “She looked cool to me.
She hates the colonel and his Army. Looks like she will keep our secret hoping we can help her.”

“Sure, kill three Kenyan Army guys,” Tretter said. “Hell, that would bring a company of troopers down on our heads.”

Vuylsteke took a long drink from the Coke. He’d come halfway around the world to find a can of Coke in this hot, dry, and definitely hostile place. He had to think. The woman had saved them so far. She would be in big trouble if the Army knew they were hiding in her apartment. Maybe she’d keep on hiding them.

“Look we’ve got no big fat choice here. The ship is captured and has a ton of security on board. The Army is in the streets, so I guess this place is under martial law. If that damn colonel can count, he knows not everybody got back on board the FFG by curfew.”

“Oh, yeah,” Tretter said. “He must know. So he’ll send some troops into this area to hunt for us.”

“Maybe.” Perez said. “Depends on what else he has going. My guess is that Uncle Sam ain’t gonna take kindly to having his ship shanghaied. Gonna be some action down here shortly.”

Vuylsteke drained the Coke and looked in the other room. A bedroom with a single bed. It had been made up.

“Right now, I need a snooze. Keep it quiet. No radio anybody can hear outside the walls. Station might have some English reports on it. Wake me up at noon and we’ll talk it over again. I’ll be halfway human by then.”

When Vuylsteke woke up about 1400 that afternoon, the other two sailors were sleeping. Tretter was stretched out on some pillows on the floor. Perez was sprawled in an easy chair. He roused them, and asked about any news on the radio.

“Couldn’t find any,” Perez said.

Vuylsteke took the small battery-powered radio and searched the dial. Halfway down he found some news in English.

“The People’s Military Committee has announced that it
is now in total control of the nation. The members urge calm. All facilities and functions of the government will continue. Police will be in place. All aspects of our usual life will go on with no change.

“General Maleceia will address the people on this radio station and the national TV network. All citizens are urged to listen. His press secretary says there will be important announcements made.”

“Sure there will, like turn over all of your teenage daughters to the Army and send us all of your money.”

Vuylsteke turned off the radio. “Money. Tretter you changed dollars into shillings, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I got about twenty-five hundred left. What was it, about sixty shillings to the dollar.”

“I bet Pita doesn’t make much at her job. Some cash would come in handy for her. Might also save our Navy asses.”

“Yeah and give her some some shillings to buy some food with,” Perez said. “We gonna eat her out of this place in another day.”

Tretter yawned and pulled on his shoes. “So, we gonna help this broad kill them Army guys?”

“Don’t see how we can,” Perez said.

“Or maybe it’s the only thing we can do,” Vuylsteke said. “Hell, we saw those murdering fuckers butcher our guys on the
Roy Turner.
We got some payback to do.”

“With one five-shot thirty-two peashooter?” Tretter asked.

Vuylsteke found another Coke in the small refrigerator. Only one more left. “Got an idea that Pita wasn’t talking about shooting anybody. She wouldn’t have a gun. She doesn’t know we have the little shooter. She has something else in mind. Let’s see what it is first. Hell, it might be we need to stay hid here for a week. We better take care of the lady.”

Perez looked at Tretter. “Hey, goof-off. Just ’cause you black, don’t get no fucking ideas about the girl.”

“Me? No way. I like women with big tits. She ain’t got much up on top. You saw her. Hell, we’re just friends.”

“Keep it that way,” Vuylsteke said. “Remember, I’m senior here and I’m in charge of your bodies.”

“Yes, suh, Boss Man,” Tretter said in his best Down South poor-black-trash voice.

Perez chuckled.

It was after six that evening when Pita knocked on the door, then used her key and came inside. She had an armful of groceries.

“Told them I was laying in supplies for a week,” she said. The men took the two sacks and put them on the kitchen counter.

“More Cokes,” she said, smiling. “First I feed you, then we get outfitted and we go kill ourselves some soldiers.”

1730 hours

USS
Monroe,
CVN 81

Off Mombasa, Kenya

Lieutenant Blake Murdock sported a grin as he walked into the training room the SEALs had been given to use for their planning.

“Damned signal came in,” Jaybird said, watching his commander.

“Roger that,” Murdock said. The fifteen other SEALs gathered around the eight-foot table as Murdock sat down and spread out a paper in front of him.

“Our man in Mombasa says it’s confirmed, the one hundred and sixty men and officers from the
Roy Turner
are being held in the old Indian Ocean Prison. It was supposed to be torn down a year ago. Colonel, now self-promoted to General, Maleceia released over three hundred civilian prisoners there and dropped in our citizens. The place is fortified by at least a company of Kenyan rangers.

“Our spy says the rangers are handpicked, and specially trained by the colonel for his elite palace guard. They can fight.

“In their army a company is about a hundred and twenty men. They have machine guns, AK-47’s, as well as shotguns, and at least two mobile fifty-caliber MGs.

“The target is situated about three hundred yards from the
end of an inlet of Mombasa Bay. The water just peters out into a marsh that’s great for concealment, but hell for moving through.”

“When, L-T?” Jaybird asked.

“When we’re ready. I suggested in two hours. Let’s make it 2000 to be sure.”

“We going in with our IBSs?” Horse Ronson asked.

“That we should kick around. Mombasa is an island almost six klicks long. The deepwater port, Kilindini, is on the west side of the island. As I read the satellite pictures we have, the prison is situated directly across from the main port docks. The bay is more than a klick wide there, and the prison is on a small inlet on the west side on the mainland.”