Seal Team Six Hunt the Wolf(80)
“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.