Death Wave (36 page)

“I think the people back home running this op wanted an all-American force, Captain,” Charlie Dean told him. “Fewer complications that way. They probably also think it better to keep the Russians out of the loop for as long as they can. The
Yakutsk
is Maltese-flagged, so the Russians aren’t in there escorting her, but if they knew what was about to go down, they would
not
be happy about it.”

“I’m not sure
I’m
happy about it,” Morrisey said. “But if we bloody some pirate noses, I won’t mind one bit.”

“I think we can count on that, Captain. Right now, though, my partner and I have to get in there.”

“The helo is warmed up and waiting for you,” Morrisey told him. “Good luck … and don’t get yourself shot.”

Charlie Dean and Ilya Akulinin left the
Erie
’s CIC, heading aft.

18

ASSAULT FORCE OCEAN STORM
CARGO SHIP
YAKUTSK
GULF OF ADEN
SUNDAY, 1646 HOURS LOCAL TIME

The flight of HH-60H Seahawk helicopters came in low and tight, skimming above the oceans low enough that their rotor wash threw up clouds of spray. There were eight aircraft, each carrying five Navy SEALs, each mounting GAU-17/A miniguns in their open cargo doors, and four carrying AGM-114 Hellfire missiles slung from hardpoints on either side. They came in out of the southwest, out of the late afternoon sun. Before the pirates were even aware of the danger, the Seahawks peeled off, sweeping around the
Yakutsk
in a counterclockwise circle.

The flight was divided into two platoons, Alfa and Bravo. Alfa was the assault group, Bravo the reserve. With the airspace above and around the
Yakutsk
suddenly dangerously crowded, Bravo hung back while the four helos of Alfa Group pressed the attack.

Alfa One, the command ship, swung in close, bringing its left side to bear on the cargo ship’s forward deck. A second hovered nearby, offering fire support to the first. The port-side door gunner leaned into his harness as he brought his weapon to bear. He pressed the trigger, and a shrill whine filled the Seahawk’s cargo compartment, the weapon’s six fast-rotating barrels delivering a blistering four thousand rounds per minute onto the target.

The firestorm of 7.62 mm rounds engulfed the step of the
Yakutsk
’s foremast, slamming off the steel deck and splintering the white-painted wood of the mast itself. Ship crewmen and JeM defenders scrambled for cover as ricocheting bullets and finger-sized splinters sliced through the air.

Firing at a rate of better than sixty rounds every second, the door gunner kept his weapon trained on the base of the mast as more and more chunks splintered away. Abruptly, then, the mast broke free just above the base, jumping and leaning sharply to the right. The gunner shifted aim then, sending the stream of slugs into the port-side attachment point for the foremast’s stays, hammering at the tiny target until wire rope parted and the shackle broke free.

The loose stay whipped and cracked through the air, and the mast, cut loose at its base, began to topple away from the helicopter, falling over the cargo vessel’s starboard side and hitting the water in a cascade of white spray. The gunner had already shifted his aim, targeting a second stay attachment, moving systematically to take out masts and cables that posed hazards to low-approaching helicopters.

On the command helo’s cargo deck, one SEAL leaned over and asked Lieutenant Commander McCauley, “Sir! What happens if we punch a hole in one of those nukes? Game over?”

“Nah,” McCauley replied. “Not unless they’re booby-trapped. But it’ll make a hell of a mess, and I wouldn’t count on having kids afterward.”

“Got one already, sir.”

On the forward deck of the cargo vessel, a Somali pirate emerged from the deckhouse carrying an RPG on his shoulder. Before he could take aim, a minigun burst from Alfa Two literally shredded him from the waist down, splashing an ugly red smear across the steel deck next to the savagely torn torso. The man triggered the RPG as he collapsed, the round striking a stanchion nearby and detonating with a flash.

“We have one Papa down, one Papa down,” came over the SEAL tactical net. For ease of communications, the people on board the
Yakutsk
were identified as Papas (pirates), as Tangos (terrorists), and as Charlies (crew members). The SEALs would attempt to avoid hitting Charlies, but the Papas and the Tangos were fair game.

The difficulty was in telling them apart in the heat and raw confusion of combat.

On the bridge, high above the deck, a window smashed open on the portside wing, and the flicker of a muzzle flash winked full auto. The SEALs on Alfa One heard a close-spaced pair of loud thumps as rounds struck the Seahawk, but then Alfa Two turned its port-side minigun on the ship’s bridge and sent a stream of rounds smashing through the open window. Glass exploded from the bridge, shards sparkling as it fell in the sunlight.

The ship’s mizzenmast, rising from the deckhouse aft of the ship’s stack, shuddered, then collapsed as Alfa Three hammered at the mast’s step, sending it toppling into the sea alongside the ship. The last of the standing rigging parted with the fall, leaving the
Yakutsk
dead in the water, a tangle of masts and rigging off its port side.

“Deck approach is now clear,” McCauley called over the tactical channel. “Alfa Three, you are go for deployment.”

“Copy, Alfa One.”

One of the Seahawks circled around the
Yakutsk
’s port side, turned sharply, and came in across the bow. Hovering above the forward deck, the helicopter hung motionless as a rope curled from the open side hatch and the first Navy SEAL slid down and onto the deck. He was followed by a second man, and a third. The SEALs on deck spread out as soon as they touched down, H&K submachine guns up against their shoulders as they moved. With the last of the five SEALs delivered to the
Yakutsk
’s deck, Alfa Three moved off, to be replaced by Alfa Four. Within the space of a few seconds, five more SEALs fast-roped to the ship’s deck.

“Alfa Four element, on deck! Moving!”

An armed man—whether Papa or Tango, it was impossible to tell in the battle haze—appeared on a walkway along the side of the bridge house and was immediately cut to bits by a minigun burst from Alfa One. Alfa Two moved aft, drifting into position, then delivering its five-SEAL payload to the
Yakutsk
’s fantail.

“Alfa Two element, on deck! Moving!”

Alfa One continued to hover alongside the ship, LCDR McCauley directing the attack. At his command over the network, Bravo One moved in then and took up station off the ship’s starboard side, flying shotgun as Alfa One moved in to deliver its five SEALs. TM1 Johnson tossed a coiled line out the open door.

“First up!” McCauley yelled. One by one, then, the SEALs grabbed hold of the line with gloved hands and jumped out into wind-blasted space. McCauley went down last, a dizzying descent through the hurricane blast of the Seahawk’s main rotor, landing on the open area directly above the
Yakutsk
’s bridge.

He continued to hear radio chatter from the other SEALs as they moved through the ship. “One-three! I’m on the bridge! Two Tangos down, two Charlies down!”

A ladder led down to the port bridge wing, then past the piles of broken glass, a dropped weapon, a torn body in a pool of blood. Inside the bridge proper, the other four SEALs of Alfa One were checking for survivors in cupboards, behind the compass binnacle, inside the tiny head.

“Alfa, Alfa Three-one,” sounded in the radio receiver in McCauley’s ear. Nearby, two of the SEALs in his element kicked open a door leading off the bridge and found two men cowering inside the ship’s radio shack. “Fo’c’sle secure! We have six Charlies, two probable Tangos, tripped and zipped.”

“Copy, Three-one.”

“Alfa One-one, Bravo One-one,” another voice said.

“Alfa One, go,” McCauley replied.

“NEST One and NEST Two are inbound,” Senior Chief Petty Officer Carl Raleigh told him. “ETA five mikes.”

“Copy that,” McCauley replied. He glanced around the ruin of the
Yakutsk
’s bridge. Holloway and Yancey had dragged the two men out of the radio compartment and forced them onto their bellies and were now zip-stripping their hands behind their backs. Judging by their clothing and pale skins, they were ship’s crew and probably Russians, but in an op like this one you did
not
take chances. “Objective’s bridge is secure. Two collaterals.”

“Copy bridge secure, Skipper.”

McCauley glanced at his watch. Two minutes, fifteen seconds had passed since the first minigun burst, and he’d been on board the ship for fifty seconds.

ART ROOM
NSA HEADQUARTERS
FORT MEADE, MARYLAND
SUNDAY, 0948 HOURS EDT

Rubens watched the battle unfold on the big screen as the images were relayed from an orbiting Fire Scout UAV to the
Lake Erie
, then by satellite back to Fort Meade and the Art Room.

“Objective’s bridge is secure,” came through on the speaker in the Art Room’s ceiling. “Two collaterals.”

The minigun fire directed at the bridge must have swept through the compartment like a storm, killing two terrorists and two crew members. Collaterals—collateral damage, meaning civilian casualties—were unavoidable in a fight like this. The SEALs were there to secure the nukes, not rescue the
Yakutsk
’s crew. There would be apologies to the Russian government later, perhaps reparations as well, but the imperative at the moment was to clear the ship of hostiles. The NESTs—Nuclear Emergency Security Teams—were on the way now. The SEAL assault force did not have much time.

This is the tough part of the job
, Rubens thought.
Sitting back here in a nice, safe underground fortress playing puppet master, giving orders and watching others carry them out seven thousand miles away
.

“So how do you think this is going to go over at the White House, sir?” Telach asked him.

“Not well.”
If there’d been any other way
…

“You know we’re behind you, sir. Every one of us.”

Rubens smiled. “I appreciate that.”

But if it came to a sacrifice, to someone needing to put his neck on the chopping block, Rubens would make sure that it was
his
neck, that no one else would go down with him.

The decision—and the deception—had been his, and his alone.

“Alfa, Alfa Three!” A voice called. “We’re in the Number One Cargo Hold. Two Tangos down, hold secure! Moving to Hold Two!”

As always when it came to Washington politics,
success
became the best form of validation. If this op off the island of Socotra was a success—if the nukes were found on board and no Islamic militant loony decided to push the button and go straight to paradise in a sun-brilliant flash—the status quo would be maintained. Desk Three would survive, the NSA would survive, even Rubens’ career might survive—though
that
wasn’t what was important here. Diplomacy would smooth things over with the Russian government, especially since the Russians wouldn’t care to admit that suitcase nukes had been stolen from one of their facilities, then shipped by terrorists on board one of their freighters.

If things went wrong, however—if a terrorist
did
manage to detonate the nukes rather than see them recaptured, or even if the NESTs got on board and the nukes turned out not to be there—the diplomatic fallout would be damned near as bad in some ways as
real
fallout might have been, at least in terms of finger-pointing and cover-your-ass recriminations.

Still, Rubens played the cards he was dealt.

The chance to stop an Armageddon-born nightmare was absolutely worth
any
risk to himself, to the agency, to the men now boarding that ship.

FORWARD HOLD
CARGO SHIP
YAKUTSK
GULF OF ADEN
SUNDAY, 1649 HOURS LOCAL TIME

The enemy was getting closer.

Syed Rehman Ashraf crouched in the darkness, listening to the approaching enemy. He wasn’t sure who they were—American Delta Force, SEALs, or Marines; British SAS; Israeli Mossad; even Pakistani Black Storks, their Special Service Group. He knew only that they were deadly, black clad, and silent, shadows descending from the helicopters onto the freighter’s deck who’d proceeded to kill his fellow fighters with a ruthless and implacable efficiency. Interception by a foreign counterterrorist force had always been a possibility in Operation Nar-min-Sama, and the fighters accompanying the weapons had been prepared to sacrifice themselves in the name of Allah.

That was why Ashraf was here in the near darkness.

The weapons had been stored in the ship’s forward hold, carefully hidden in a wooden crate identical to the crates of machine tools around it. The hiding place was sheltered by several empty crates positioned next to a bulkhead; slinging his assault rifle, Ashraf shoved the empty crates aside, then used a knife to pry open the one he was after.