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!”
Crocker turned to see two bearded men emerge from a stairway past the first hold, approximately forty feet behind them, in the direction of the bow. Seeing the Americans, the two terrorists pointed their weapons and opened fire.
A paunchy man with longish thinning black hair and a thick stubble appeared behind the two shooters, accompanied by a younger man. The overweight one looked vaguely familiar.
“Isn’t that AZ?” Davis asked, his urgent breath in Crocker’s face.
“Which one?”
“The pudgy barefoot guy in the black pants.”
Crocker quickly compared the broad face and long nose to the image in his head.
“You might be right!”
“It’s him, boss. I’d put big money on it.”
“Where the fuck are they going?” It was difficult to see because of the unending volley of incoming bullets. Even raising their heads a fraction invited instant death. Squirming to his right, Crocker found a crack between the metal railing and the bulkhead, and looked in the direction of the bow.
Here he saw a portable ladder unwinding down the starboard side of the ship, then two bodies descending. Below them he made out the top of a ten-foot launch bobbing in the water. Trapezoidal, with twin outboards in back.
A last terrific volley, then the firing let up. Crocker raised his head in time to catch the last two men scurrying over the side.
Davis: “Where the fuck did they go?”
“They got into a boat. Follow me!”
But the second they left the safety of the overhang, they were stopped by ferocious firing from the bridge behind them. Pinned again, chins and stomachs to the deck, protected only by a metal outlet valve and pump.
He heard a motor start up below. The launch.
Amid the terrible clatter of incoming fire, Crocker looked in the sky for help from the helicopter, but it was nowhere in sight.
Fuck’n asshole pilot!
Zaman was escaping! The American felt an ache that traveled all the way into his bones.
I can’t let it happen. Not again.
“Cover me!” Crocker shouted desperately, knowing he had to go for broke.
“Boss, hold up!”
But he was already gone, springing from the deck, turning and running approximately thirty feet toward the bow, then veering to the starboard side of the ship. He climbed to the spot where the ladder was attached and, glimpsing the launch below pulling away from the hull, threw himself off.
All in!
MP5 in his right hand, KA-BAR in his left, he flew like a missile.
The four terrorists in the launch didn’t see him coming. He hit the tallest one full-on, driving into the man’s chest so that his knees gave way and he crumpled backward. Crocker heard the terrorist’s ribs crack when his back hit the side of the craft, which simultaneously helped soften the American’s landing and jolted the boat enough that the other three lost their footing, stumbled, and reached for the sides.
This gave Crocker the momentary advantage he needed. Filled with purpose and fury, he grabbed the man closest to him and snapped his neck with a wicked twist. As another terrorist reached for his AK-47, Crocker plunged the KA-BAR into his gut and raked it up to his sternum.
A terrible muffled scream sounded as insides spilled out and the man went down.
The SEAL team leader took a deep breath.
As he exhaled, he felt a sharp pain at the back of his calf. Then the tall man behind him—the one he had slammed into when he dove into the boat—threw a loaded magazine that hit the side of the launch and fell into the water.
The SEAL took two quick steps toward him and brought his boot down hard on the man’s throat.
Now it was just Crocker and Zaman in the launch—Crocker near the stern, Zaman at the bow. Two bodies between them pouring out blood.
The al-Qaeda leader reached down for an AK-47 near his feet. But the American was quicker, kicking it away despite the pain in his calf.