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.
Chapter Twenty
Don’t wait! The time will never be just right.
—Napoleon Hill
FOUR 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:
Saddle your blues to a wild mustang
And gallop your blues away.
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.