“Yes, sir.”
“Get your men geared up and ready to deploy.”
“You can count on us, sir.”
“There’s no time to fly in another team or the cigarette boats. You think you and your men can handle this situation alone?”
“Absolutely. We’ll take care of it, sir, as long as someone can get us there.”
Typically pirates operating off the coast of Somalia held ships and their crews hostage while they negotiated five- and six-figure ransoms. So Crocker asked, “Have there been any communications from the pirates, sir? Have they made any demands?”
“None so far.”
Strange, he thought.
“Approximate number of pirates?”
“Expect six to ten. Secure the sensitive material because the White House would like to use it as evidence.”
Evidence of what?
“Deploy as quickly as you can,” his CO said.
“Yes, sir.”
As soon as the room’s lights illuminated, the supercarrier’s operations officer appeared at Crocker’s side. A big man with a shaved head, dressed in a khaki uniform, he said, “Give me a list of what you need and I’ll turn this carrier upside down to find it.”
Crocker thought quickly and answered, “A helicopter that can get us there fast, two Zodiacs with twin outboards, wet suits and skin suits, fins, Dräger LAR V rebreathers, twelve frag grenades, a telescopic pole and caving ladder if you have one, flares, TUFF-TIES, comms, SMGs, and pistols.”
The op officer scribbled everything down. “That all?”
“A cutlass and eye patch, if you can find them.”
“What?”
“It’s a joke.”
“I should find most of this in one of the Conex boxes from the last SEAL platoon on board.”
“Works for me.”
“Be on the flight deck in fifteen minutes with your men.”
“Yes, sir.”
Crocker was thinking about his wife, Holly, as a tall navy officer led him through a maze of corridors, past a gym, commissary, and barbershop. She worked for State Department Security and was about to deploy overseas any day, too. He wanted to call her, but there was no time.
They entered the ship’s mess, where he found his men feasting on Szechuan chicken and chow mein noodles. Moving them over to a corner table out of earshot, he briefed them as more aides arrived with nautical charts and satellite photos.
According to the latest intel, an unmarked assault boat appeared to be towing the MSC Contessa to the Somalia coast, which was highly unusual. What were primitive pirates doing with a launch that was powerful enough to tow a forty-thousand-ton ship?
Crocker and his men would soon find out.
Still chewing a mouthful of chicken, he helped his men carry their gear and weapons up past the ship’s hangars to the flight deck. There they were greeted by a fresh ocean breeze, a welcome relief from the stale air and claustrophobic atmosphere below.
Crocker didn’t like the confined feeling of ships, particularly the submarines he and his men had deployed from a dozen or so times over the years, which seemed like sardine cans filled with pasty-faced men. He especially disliked Swimmer Delivery Vehicles (SDVs), which were basically mini-subs.
He covered his ears as an F-18 Super Hornet approached the Vinson’s flight deck, its engines screaming, its tailhook deployed. The F-18 hit the deck, sending a tremendous shower of sparks into the night sky. The fighter jet was slightly off track and missed the ship’s arrest wire, so it quickly zoomed up to full throttle and took off again with a roar.
Crocker noted that the sky was cloudy and the sea choppy, which caused the carrier to rock side to side.
“That can’t be easy,” Akil remarked.
“Flying in at a hundred and seventy-five miles an hour and trying to hit a wire. You try it sometime.”
“No thanks.”
The LSO who was escorting them shouted into Crocker’s ear, “Be careful where you walk. A year ago one of our maintainers got his cranial matter sucked right out of his head when he stood too close to the intake of an A-6E.”
“Good to know.”
Right under the ship’s superstructure, known as the island, they met the pilots and copilots of the two MH-60 Knighthawk helicopters that had been tasked with flying them in. Each helo was equipped with M240 machine guns and Hellfire missiles. The four stood in a huddle studying weather charts as Crocker’s men loaded their gear. One of the pilots—a lanky-haired man with gray eyes and a Fu Manchu mustache—turned to Crocker and said, “Expect the flight to be a little rough. We got some weather blowing in from the south.”
“What have you got in terms of in-flight entertainment?”