Authors: Keith Douglass
Vuylsteke waved at Perez. “Yeah, see what you can find. Nobody gonna be down here for hours, maybe not at all.”
Perez groaned, but moved up to the grating. They could hear him walking around. Five minutes later, he came down with three blankets, two pillows, and a pair of flashlights.
“Damned engineers getting soft,” he said. “I found them so I get a pillow. You guys can fight over the other one.”
“Let’s figure out what to do next,” Vuylsteke said. “Is tonight a done deal, or do we go topside and make some more trouble?”
“How?” Perez asked. “We don’t even know where the fuck these guys are bunked down.”
“We could check the coops,” Tretter said.
“Hell, they’ll be in the Captain’s cabin and officer country,” Vuylsteke said. “How many you suppose are here?”
“My guess, two dozen,” Perez said. “Not enough to defend the ship, but they won’t expect an attack on her from the Navy since they got all of them hostages.”
“Hey, just thought that we didn’t see any dead bodies up there,” Tretter said. “We figured there must have been a hundred and fifty of our guys got on the buses. Where the hell are the others?”
“Overboard,” Vuylsteke said. “They probably tossed the dead and bad wounded into the bay.” He paused, and they thought about that. “So, what the hell are we going to do next?”
“Still got a lot of night left—two, three hours,” Perez said. “Let’s go find some of these murdering shitheads and kick ass.”
Wednesday, July 21
0310 hours
RX Military Headquarters
Nairobi, Kenya
General Umar Maleceia sat on the front edge of his desk in his large office. He looked at the clock, and then at the door. There were two sharp raps; then it opened, and four military police came in ushering a man still in his flight suit but without his hard helmet.
The man was strained and tired, and had a laceration on the side of his head. He’d had no medical attention. The pilot came to attention eight feet from his commander and snapped a salute.
“Captain Ngala Mawai reporting to the general as ordered, sir.”
Maleceia stared at the pilot, who now showed signs of sweat on his forehead. The pilot lowered his salute when it was not returned, and stood at a braced attention staring straight ahead.
“Look at me,” General Maleceia shouted.
Mawai turned, looked at the general, and blinked several times. His face worked a moment.
“Tell me about the attack,” Maleceia said, his voice gentler.
Mawai relaxed a little. “General, sir. Three of us lifted off on your orders proceeding at top speed to Mombasa. About sixty miles from the coast our radar showed four enemy fighter aircraft in the sky with two coming toward us. Their missiles have much greater range and speed than ours do, sir, but we hoped to be able to get within range before they fired.
“Then we were lit up by the enemy radar, and a moment later my two wingmen’s planes exploded with direct missile hits. We had no warning.”
“Then what did you do, Captain?”
“I felt more of the radar on my craft, so I took quick evasive action to avoid being targeted. By then it was two superior fighters against me. I decided it would be better to return to base and have one MiG left rather than try to outgun the faster, better armed fighters.”
“Who ordered you to return to base?”
“No one, my general. It was a tactical decision to save my aircraft.”
“As well as to save your miserable life. Do you think you have served the new government well, Captain?”
“I have always served the government. It is my life. I do your bidding. I also rely on my tactical decision making for the safety of my aircraft for the glory of a greater Kenya.”
General Maleceia turned his back on the pilot, reached for a cigar from his desk, snipped off one end, and lit it. Only after several puffs did he turn around. He gripped the long cigar in his mouth so tightly he almost bit it in two. In his right hand, he held his .40-caliber automatic. As the pilot’s eyes widened, Maleceia shot him twice in the chest, then once more as he fell.
Maleceia stared at the dead man a moment, then shrugged. He turned to his second in command, Colonel Jomo Kariuki.
“Colonel, get this trash out of my office and clean up my carpet. I hate a bloodstained rug.”
0014 hours
USS
Monroe,
CVN 81
Off Nairobi, Kenya
Lieutenant Blake Murdock watched as the Navy doctor finished patching up Red Nicholson’s left arm. There were three slices in his upper arm where they figured 9mm rounds had ripped through a half inch of flesh and gone on their way. The blood was major, the damage minor.
“Why didn’t you say you were hit?” Murdock asked his lead scout.
“You’d call off the war for a few scratches?” Red asked.
The doctor shook his head. “You damn SEALs don’t say die unless you’ve at least got an arm blown off. What is it with you guys?”
“Too damn stupid to know any better, Doc,” Nicholson said. “L-T, we started planning for the assault on the
Roy Turner
yet?”
“About ready to.”
“This man is confined to his bed for at least three days,” the doctor said.
Red laughed.
“Thanks, Doc,” Murdock said. “We’ll take that under advisement. If this guy can walk, I need him. His left arm never does much anyway. You should see him fire an MP-5 without the suppressor with one hand. He’s good. Thanks, Commander. Appreciate your concern.”
Red sat up and slid to the floor.
Murdock tossed him a clean desert cammie shirt, and the two walked out of sick bay and up to their SEAL gathering spot.
“How’s Ronson?” Red asked.
“Patched and hurting, but no way he’ll stay behind. Magic Brown says he’s healed up already, but he won’t let anybody look at his leg. They’re just three crazy sonso-bitches.” He grinned as he said it, and Red grinned too.
In the SEAL assembly area, half the guys had sacked out waiting for Murdock. When he and Red came in, there was a small cheer. That woke up the rest of them.
Murdock glanced around at the fifteen men. “You guys look terrible, like you need a late-night supper. You don’t even have to wash your hands. We have a man to lead you to the mess. Then I’d suggest a quick shower and about eight hours of sack time. We have no data on the next job, liberating the
Roy Turner.
Now get out of here. I’ll let you know when we get together again. Later today sometime. Meanwhile, I’ve got to have a small chat with Don Stroh. I’ll see if he’s been talking with our President lately. Now get out of here.”
He sat in one of the chairs next to the long table, and looked over at DeWitt.
“Two down, two to go, Two-IC. How’s your squad?”
“Fine. You’ve got the casualties. Can Red do it?”
“Oh, yes. not all that serious. Lots of blood, though. They stuffed a pint in him while we were down there.”
“Stroh?”
“Yep, if we can find his digs. Let’s go look.”
Don Stroh was in the stateroom of a commander he’d bumped. He’d been reading some printouts when the pair knocked on his door. It had taken two guides to help them find the spot. Murdock was sure he couldn’t go there by himself again. A carrier was just too fucking big.
“Well done, men.” Stroh said, “We’re listing the forty-six missing personnel from the
Roy Turner
as either KIA or MIA. We have witnesses who saw the Kenyans murder our badly wounded on the ship. However, there may be as many
as ten men who were not on board the
Turner
when the attack came. A number of men were on liberty that evening. We don’t know how many of them got on board before the attack.”
“So we could have over forty KIAs,” Murdock said. “Bastards.”
“We’re debriefing the
Turner’s
officers now. They figure there might have been a dozen of the attackers killed. Probably ten or twelve of our men got weapons out of the armory and used them.”
“Fine, what’s next?” DeWitt asked. Then he yawned.
“Next, gentlemen, is a stiff shot of bourbon and a ‘well done.’” He took a bottle from a desk drawer and poured three shots in drinking glasses.
“I really shouldn’t,” Murdock said, and tossed it down. DeWitt matched his CO. “Damn, it’s Coke,” Murdock said.
“Yeah, Navy regs. Well, we’ve got a go from the President on the capture of the
Turner.
The wording says at our earliest convenience. When would you gentlemen say that would be?”
“First dark tomorrow, or today, I guess that is,” Murdock said. “About eighteen hours from now.”
DeWitt nodded. “Yeah, time to rest up some, get plans made, and round up the special gear we’re going to need.”
“Like what?” Stroh asked.
“Tell you when we figure it out,” Murdock said.
Stroh yawned. “That’s good with me. Now get yourselves some sack time so you’ll be awake by tonight. You’ve got a whole damn task force waiting for your command.” He grinned. “Christ, I love this. I was a corporal in the Army. I love giving orders to these officers. One thing a full admiral doesn’t like, and that’s getting his orders passed up from you guys, a pair of chickenshit lieutenants.”
Murdock heard him and tried to laugh, but it never quite came out. “Tell him things are tough all over. Anytime he wants to trade jobs and rank, let me know.”
The two SEALs waved at Don Stroh, who outranked everyone on board including the admiral, and headed for the
officers’ dirty mess where there would be steak to order or anything else they wanted.
“Food, then the sack,” DeWitt said.
Murdock looked at him. “How’s that broken arm holding up?”
“Fine. How’s your shrapnel ass doing?”
They both laughed. The jabs referred to their wounds during their Firestorm mission. Murdock pushed open the dirty mess door and hurried inside. Food would be good, sleep even better.
Wednesday, July 21
0346 hours
Dockside
Roy Turner
Mombasa, Kenya
The three U.S. Navy sailors worked up to the mid deck and explored cautiously. They knew the ship like a private playground. They were amazed that there were no more guards in all of the dozens of long companionways and decks.
“Officer country,” Vuylsteke whispered. They crept that way expecting a guard. No one was there.
Each of the three had a firearm now, and each a knife pushed in a belt loop. Tretter tried the door to one of the “jungles,” rooms for four officers of lower rank. The door was not locked. He edged it inward an inch to look around. A night-light illuminated the area. Four men slept in the bunks. Gear and weapons had been laid within reach.
Perez took a look, then dropped to the floor and slid into the room. He found a bag of grenades, two pistols and magazines, and a silenced stubby little submachine gun and two magazines almost a foot long. He grabbed all of them and wormed his way toward the door while still on the floor.
He was two feet from the door when one of the Kenyans in the lower bunk sat up, said something in Swahili, then fell back and kept on sleeping. Perez had the submachine gun aimed at him in an instant, then lowered it, and worked his way out of the room.
“Yeah, some firepower,” Perez said slinging the submachine-gun carry-strap over his shoulder. The huge magazine had to hold sixty rounds, he decided.
They slipped away from the spot, and continued on to the officers’ mess. There were no cooks on duty. The lights were all on. They found what they wanted, and pushed it all into a gunny sack that had held potatoes. They took a half-dozen loaves of bread that had been unfrozen, half a cured ham, six bags of potato chips, jars of jam, silverware, apples, oranges, and a case of Coca-Cola.
They all grinned. They had really struck a blow against the enemy.
Ten minutes later, they were in the bilges in aux two. They ate until they couldn’t face another sandwich, then turned out their flashlights and went to sleep.
It was morning when they awoke. The only way they could tell was by their wristwatches. They said it was after 0800.
“Could be some company soon,” Vuylsteke said. “I’ve been listening, but I can’t hear a damned thing. We’re so far down here we won’t hear their outrage at two of their men missing and that guy’s fancy sub-gun and the grenades gone. Damn, I’d like to see what they do.”
The answer came quickly.
They heard the firing from above through the doors, compartments, and decks. It gradually came closer. They identified the stuttering of sub guns, and the flat crack of the AK-47, which was hard not to recognize if a person had heard it before.
“Now we know what they do when they get mad,” Perez said. “Hell, it ain’t their ship. What do they care if they shoot up the place.”
A moment later, one of the watertight doors above them came open. It was thirty feet forward. The blasting of a submachine gun came as a surprise, and made all three men duck and put their hands over their heads where they lay.
The gun chattered six rounds, then six more, then the door clanged shut.
“Looks like they’ve had their say,” Tretter snorted. “Just
wait until tonight when we start lobbing these fucking grenades into their living quarters. We could come close to wiping them out if we really try.”
Vuylsteke nodded. He was senior here and he still had some responsibility. Hell, he was the commander, the Captain of the
Roy Turner
, since he was the highest-rated man on board.
“Yeah, tonight after things quiet down a little, we’re going to try real hard to cut down the odds,” Vuylsteke said.
On the quarterdeck of the
Roy Turner
, Lieutenant Elijah Koinange stared at the body of his top enlisted man and scowled. Who had done this? One guard missing, and now the sergeant stabbed to death. Were there raiders on board? Had they stolen anything? How had they gotten on and off? Or were they still on board?
Koinange shivered when he thought about making a radio report to the general. What could he say? No, better to take care of the matter himself. He would make a complete search of the ship starting on the top deck and working down. He knew little of ships, but he learned quickly. He could ask a Navy friend to come help.