Hunt the Wolf (20 page)

The question Crocker faced: What to do now?

It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. The celebration on the third floor seemed to have ended. Chief Warrant Officer Crocker found Akil and Davis helping the nurses clean up empty wine bottles and cans of soda.

“Where’d everyone go?” Crocker asked.

“Klausen and Anders went with the Norwegian ambassador to look in on Malie. The others scattered.”

“Where is she?”

“The critical care ward on four.”

Ironically, the kidnappers and their former victim were recuperating on the same floor.

“You know the room number?”

“I’ll show you,” volunteered the African nurse with the scars.

The half-dozen men gathered in front of the door reminded him of excited teenagers stealing looks at pictures in
Playboy
. They were taking turns peering through the six-inch-square window in the door.

“Crocker, you want to look?” Mikael Klausen asked.

The room was dimly lit and bigger than the others, the walls a dirty yellowish color. A nurse and a doctor blocked his view of the bed. When they moved away, Crocker saw Malie sitting up, wide awake.

Her skin gave off a pink healthy glow, and her blue eyes sparkled. Seeing his eyes through the little window, she smiled as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Her composed serenity took Crocker’s breath away.

“She looks well, doesn’t she?” Klausen asked.

Crocker took a second look to make sure. “I’d heard that Norwegians were hearty people, but I never expected a recovery as fast as this,” he remarked.

“The doctor thinks that in another day or two she’ll be able to return to Oslo,” Klausen said proudly.

Seeing her like this suffused the American with renewed energy. “Before you men disperse, there’s something important we need to discuss.”

“What?”

Klausen, Anders, the Norwegian ambassador, Akil, Davis, and Bahrami followed him to the nurses’ station in the middle of the hall.

“Here’s the situation…” It took great mental concentration for Crocker to recount what he had learned from the former Pakistani policeman and bend his mind around the reasons why the ship posed an impending threat. Exhaustion, pain, and a sense of dislocation had taken their toll.

The Norwegians weren’t interested. They’d gotten what they wanted and were pulling away from the group, which was disappointing but understandable. But the American and Omani participants immediately grasped the threat the ship might pose to commerce in the Persian Gulf, which accounted for roughly 25 percent of the world’s crude-oil supply.

Saudi Arabia, the world’s largest oil producer, was particularly important. One of al-Qaeda’s long-standing goals was the overthrow of the Saudi royal family, who controlled the holy mosque in Mecca.

Jim Anders was struck by the new information about the commandos aboard the ship and their bearded leader. He and Bahrami agreed that in the little time they had before the
Syrena
either disappeared from sight or completed its mission, they needed to establish its current location and either warn the Saudis or secure the necessary equipment and permissions to board the vessel and inspect it.

Bahrami offered to talk to his superiors, a critical step because any operation launched from Omani soil would require their approval.

“First we need to establish the position of the ship.”

Crocker asked Akil and Davis to visit the port dispatch officer and solicit his help.

“Will do.”

“If he can’t pinpoint the
Syrena
’s current location, ask him who can.”

“We’ll find out, boss, one way or another.”

“Good.”

That’s when Anders grabbed Crocker by the shoulder. “I can’t let you go active without consulting you-know-who.”

“Where is Donaldson, anyway?”

“He went back to the Sheraton, about half a mile away.”

“You got wheels?”

“Yeah, I have a vehicle downstairs.”

“Then let’s go see him.”

“Mr. Donaldson is probably asleep.”

Crocker just smiled.

F
our and
a half hours later, the first delicate flicks of sunlight danced off the water. The heavy churning of engines pounded his head.

Crocker peered out the side window of the British-built Super Lynx helicopter to the Persian Gulf below. Sun-baked Iran to the north, the Saudi desert to the south, the two political and Islamic rivals separated by the wide ribbon of water.

Past the tail rotor, the horizon was turning rich deep gold. The land, air, and water were all serene. But no sign of the ship.

The SEAL Team Six assault leader had gotten authorization from the CIA, his CO in Virginia, and Oman’s ISS to go on a last-minute reconnaissance mission. He and his men had orders to locate the
Syrena
and follow it until it reached Iranian waters. Crocker had argued for, and failed to win, approval to board and search the ship.

He and his men were doing this by the seat of their pants—no plan, no rest, no real prep. They didn’t even have a detailed description of the
Syrena
, except that it was a small tanker of Yemeni registry with an orange-red hull and a white bridge.

Crocker half listened to the Omani copilot telling Akil about a boatload of Afghan opium smugglers they had battled a week ago. How the leader had bled to death on the same bench where Akil and Ritchie were sitting now.

Davis and Mancini sat across from them. All four men looked determined and alert.

Crocker, meanwhile, was trying to stay focused. The combination of pain medicine for his knee and shoulder, fear, and lack of sleep brought back strange memories. Like sitting in a matinee with his father and uncle when he was six, watching a cowboy riding into the sunset, a crooner on the soundtrack singing:

The helicopter radio spit out an urgent stream of Arabic as Crocker sorted through random childhood images. Helping his mother fold laundry. Making rifles out of sticks with his friends. Chasing through the woods, ambushing imaginary bad guys—Indians, Russians, Chinese.

Akil leaned toward his ear. “Boss, according to the latest satellite intel, the
Syrena
has turned and is headed toward the south shore of the Gulf.”

Mention of the
Syrena
’s
change of direction hit him like a bucket of cold water. “What? I thought it was going to Bushehr, in Iran.”

“The ship made a sharp turn and is approaching Ras Tanura.”

Crocker jolted to attention. Ras Tanura was the world’s most important oil export terminal. Something like 80 percent of the nine million barrels a day pumped from Saudi oil fields passed through Ras Tanura, where it was loaded onto supertankers bound for the West.

An attack on the critical oil loading station could destabilize the world economy and potentially topple the Saudi regime.

“Why the fuck is a chemical tanker headed for an oil export terminal?”

“Apparently it issued a distress signal and is flying an orange flag.”

“And the Saudis let it through their security perimeter?”

“Appears so. Something to do with faulty electronics and possible engine failure.”

Crocker didn’t like it at all. “Tell the copilot to get on the horn. Alert the Saudis. And tell the Omanis we need permission to board.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is an emergency, Akil. Code red!”

“Understood.”

Faulty electronics, my ass.

He had a feeling that this might become more than a reconnaissance mission. Now he huddled with his men and outlined the situation.

“I thought you said we were simply going to observe the ship,” Davis muttered.

“We just received updated information. What we’re doing here is rapid assessment and response.”

The men looked excited. They lived for ops like this.

“Like riding a bucking bronco,” Ritchie remarked.

“Whether the men on board resist or surrender, we’ve got to gain control of the bridge and stop this sucker before it reaches Ras Tanura.”

Mancini said, “I can do that.”

“Are we dropping in the water?” Davis asked.

“I won’t know until we get close.”

“And see what the bastards throw at us.”

“Basically, we’re going to improvise,” Crocker said. “What have we got to go in with?”

Mancini, always the finagler, had managed to smuggle aboard a couple of MP5 series submachine guns, a half-dozen nine-millimeter handguns, about a thousand rounds of nine-millimeter hollow-point, a few KA-BAR knives, a dozen frag grenades, waterproof weapons bags, and some waterproof utility pouches. All compliments of a friend of his in the military attaché’s office.

“No wet suits or fins?” Davis asked.

“The water’s warm. We’ll manage. Let’s find out what the Omanis have on this bird.”

The men held on as the copter banked left, then scrambled through the fuselage looking in the weapons bays for anything they could use, turning up four more submachine guns, a couple of grenade launchers, an inflatable raft, flares.

Crocker spotted the Saudi coast out the left window, a glowing yellow ribbon.

“Boss! Boss!” Akil shouted from near the cockpit. “Look!”

Pressing his face to the glass he saw a weathered-looking tanker approximately 350 feet in length. Orange-red hull with a matching red stack; white bridge. To anyone else it would have appeared to be an innocuous, smallish, rusting tanker puttering up the coast.

The men pressed their faces against the side window for a better look.

Crocker rushed to join Akil up front. “Tell the pilot to bring this baby right over the bridge.”

“Ten-four.”

A lot of arguing back and forth in Arabic. Crocker asked, “What’s the problem?”

“We’ve entered Saudi airspace. He’s waiting for permission.”

“Screw that. No time.”

The pilot was a stubborn-looking fellow with a big bald circle on the top of his head and fierce dark eyes. As Akil argued with him and the mustached copilot, the helicopter drew closer to the ship.

“Tell him we don’t have time for permission. We’ve got to act now to prevent a catastrophe.”

Akil: “I have.”

From approximately three hundred feet above and fifty feet to the side, Crocker made out men on the bridge waving up at the helicopter and pointing at the orange and black distress flag. A number of them wore black beards.

“What do you think?” Akil asked.

“They don’t look like sailors to me.”

“Me either.”

“Tell the pilot to take it closer.”

“He won’t.”

“Why not?”

“He’s waiting on orders.”

“Fuck the orders!”

Leaning past the back of the pilot’s seat, he grabbed the man’s shoulder and pointed. “Down! Down, man. Take it closer!”

“No!”

“Yes, goddammit. The ship’s headed for Ras Tanura. Do you know what that means?”

The pilot shouted something to the copilot, then steered the metal bird lower until they were about 150 feet over the bridge.

“Lower! Lower! You can do it. Go ahead!”

The pilot shook his head vigorously.

“Lower, my friend.”

“La!”
(No!)

“Yalla! Yalla!”
(Let’s go! Let’s go!)

“Akl laa!”
(No way!)

“You see that ship? It’s going to hit the oil terminal if we don’t stop it. Big explosion.
BANG!
Your sultan will be pissed.”

“He can’t understand you, boss.”

“Translate.”

Akil did. “He says he’s the commander of this aircraft, and you’re insulting him.”

Pissed off, Crocker started squeezing through the space between the seats. “Move aside. I’ll fly this fucking thing myself!” He’d been trained, along with a handful of other ST-6 operators, to fly helicopters by the pilots of Special Operations Aviation Regiment TF-160, the best in the business.

The Omani pilot started to reach for a pistol on the console. Crocker slapped his forearm and the pistol hit the instrument panel, then clattered across the metal floor.

The pilot flew into a rage, shouting insults in Arabic, then steering the bird away from the ship. As Akil tried shouting over him, Crocker retrieved the MK23 .45-caliber automatic from the floor.

Another garbled voice came over the radio, a stream of excited Arabic that Crocker couldn’t begin to translate in the deafening clamor. Running out of options, he pointed the pistol at the pilot’s head.

“Lower this motherfucker! That’s my fucking order!”

The pilot’s voice slid up an octave.
“Akl laa!”

Akil: “He says shoot him if you want to, but this is as far as he’ll go.”

Crocker pulled back the trigger. “Then I’ll have to shoot him!”

Cursing under his breath, the pilot lowered the bird and banked it over the ship. As the Super Lynx closed within fifty feet, the men on the bridge stopped waving and started running for cover. Within seconds a hail of automatic-weapon fire started coming their way and slamming into the helicopter’s metal belly.

“We’re getting hit!” Akil shouted.

“We’re taking fire!”

“Hold steady!” Crocker shouted.

The pilot looked like he was about to be sick.

“Tell him to bank right and take it down farther.”

“He says that’s impossible!”

Crocker handed the gun to Akil. “Stay here and shoot him in the head if you have to. We’re going in!”

He joined the other three SEALs at the side door. They were ready to go.

“Boss! Boss! What’s the order?” Davis shouted.

“You got the weapons in the waterproof bags?”

“Aye, aye!”

“Line up. Prepare to jump.”

“Ready, boss!”

“Stop the ship!”

Crocker slid the helicopter door open. The dark blue water of the Persian Gulf waited twenty-five feet below.

“All clear!” he shouted.

“All clear!” the others echoed.

“Eyes on the horizon! Arms crossed over your chests!” This would prevent them from breaking their necks when they hit the water.

They jumped one after the other and hit the surface hard. A moment of knifing into the warm liquid, then gaining buoyancy and coming up slightly dazed. The current quickly pulled them within ten feet of the rusted red hull, which was slipping past.

Bullets sprayed the water. The rotor wash caused by the helicopter slapped Crocker’s face.

The silver Super Lynx dove over the deck, drawing some fire away.

Thanks!

Through the spray, half-light, and automatic-weapon fire, Crocker saw Ritchie reach the ship’s fire hose and start pulling himself up. Mancini followed behind him, hanging on and managing to extract a grenade from his pack.

“No, Mancini! Don’t!” Crocker shouted from the water.

Mancini threw one, then another.

Jesus Christ!

Panicked shouts in Arabic echoed off the deck, followed by two explosions. The ship kept sliding through the water, and the shooting stopped for a moment.

The helicopter made another pass through the smoke, then climbed and banked.

“Boss, here. Grab onto my hand!”

“I got it.” Out of breath, salt water in his mouth and nostrils. In Mancini’s face, “This is a tanker! Don’t throw any more fucking grenades, you maniac. The whole goddamn ship can blow!”

“They were smoke grenades, boss, for cover. I made sure to aim them at the bridge.”

“No more, you understand? Too fucking hazardous. We don’t know what kind of cargo it’s carrying.”

“Roger!”

Crocker figured the tanks in the hold were fully loaded, since the ship rode low in the water. It was a mere eight or nine feet to the cargo deck.

There the strong smell of kerosene met them. A small fire had broken out on the bridge.

A hail of bullets ricocheted off the metal pumps and ripped into the ballast pipes. The SEALs dove behind any cover they could find—valves, metal flanges, railings.

Crocker sent Mancini to inspect the bow. Then he and the others retrieved their weapons from the waterproof bags and started returning fire.

“Don’t waste ammunition. Our supply is limited.”

One hairy-chested terrorist in a soiled white T-shirt charged down the stairs firing an AK-47—a spray-and-pray maneuver, the kind amateurs often resorted to. Ritchie aimed and caught him in the throat, and the man spun and tumbled down hard, like a rag doll losing parts.

Mancini was back, panting, his face beet red. “I spotted explosives all up and down the outlet pipes on the hold. This baby’s rigged to blow!”

Figure about ten thousand tons of some highly volatile substance. Kerosene? Gasoline? Jet fuel?

Whatever the amount, it would create an enormous bomb. Make the passenger jets from 9/11 look like firecrackers.

“We gotta steer it away from the loading station!”

“I got that covered, boss,” Mancini countered. “But we got to take control of the bridge first.”

“Roger that.”

Enclosed by windows, the bridge sparkled like a crown atop the five-story white superstructure adjacent to the ship’s stern. Rising twelve feet above it was a tall white communications tower, radar tracker, and emergency beacon.

Crocker said, “Davis and I will attack from the starboard side. Mancini and Ritchie take the port.”

“Now?” Ritchie asked, burning with intensity.

Crocker looked behind him to see the Ras Tanura oil terminal playing hide-and-seek beyond the arched metal. Turning back toward the bridge, he looked at his men and said, “Move!”

Ritchie took off like a rocket with Mancini behind him, ducking, zigzagging, and firing all at once.

Crocker slapped Davis’s arm. “Follow me!”

With bullets smashing and ricocheting around them, Crocker ducked under the deck lines that ran fore and aft down the middle of the ship. They provided some cover. Still, the terrorists firing from three decks above had a definite advantage.

How many of them are there?
Crocker asked himself, as Davis shouted near his shoulder: “Boss, watch out! Get down!”