Battlecraft (2006)

from the women's lounge. Another lighter canvas container was filled with sandwiches that Hildegard had made in the galley. She was so excited about the coming adventure that the impetuous, reckless woman had unwisely told the Frenchwoman Blanche that she and Mike were going to sneak out for a picnic and not return until the next evening when it was dark. Hildegard knew all the women were jealous of her romance with Mike, and used the fib to rub it in.

'Now or never,' Mike said, opening the door. 'Let's go, baby!'

He carried the tote bag while Hildegard took responsibility for the sandwiches. They went slowly and silently down the passageway to the door leading out to the main deck. Mike slowly pulled the heavy metal portal open and peered out. He saw Baa, bored to distraction, leaning against the rail.

The bastard's evening was about to get more exciting.

Hildegard waited while Mike stepped out onto the deck. He staggered slightly as if drunk as he approached the gangplank. He hummed an out-of-tune rendition of the old rock standard 'Getting Through the Night'--which he thought was an appropriate choice--as he drew closer to Baa. 'Kaefae haelik?' he politely inquired.

'Biher,' Baa replied.

Mike drove the heel of his hand straight into Baa's chin with such force that he felt the jawbone break and slip out of joint as several teeth shattered. The Arab dropped to the deck without as much as a whimper. Mike turned back and motioned to Hildegard to join him. She hurried out, going to Mike's side while looking down at the unconscious bodyguard. All the women had been so intimidated by Alif, Baa, and Taa, they thought them invincible. Evidently, that was a mistaken assumption on their part. But witnessing violence against one of the men still unnerved her to some extent.

Mike took her hand and led her onto the gangplank and down to the dock. The couple stayed in the shadows as they made their way across the wharves to where the whaler boat sat. Hildegard got aboard as the SEAL loosed the bow and stem lines. He joined her, grabbing the boat hook and giving the vessel a push away from the dock. He winced at the whiny noise when he hit the starter. As soon as the engine caught, he throttled back to just enough power to get under way. Mike piloted the boat for open water, glancing back at the wharf area. He was relieved to note that no alarm had been raised. He looked over at Hildegard, who showed a nervous smile. Mike grinned at her, hoping to put the woman more at ease.

'Lovely evening for a boat ride, huh?'

Chapter 16.

USS DAN DALY

INDIAN OCEAN

VICINITY IF 5deg NORTH AND 65deg EAST

28 OCTOBER

0503 HOURS LOCAL

PETTY Officer Paul Watkins had slipped the stern fans into reverse, moving out of the docking well egress at back slow with water spraying up on the steel bulkheads of the Dan Daly. The lift fan's RPM was just enough to hold the Battlecraft a scant two feet above the water's surface as it eased out into the open ocean. The entire SEAL detachment was aboard along with the crew, and the vessel was as crowded as it had been on the night of the coastal raid.

The weapons wings bristled with Penguin antiship, and both laser and radar antiaircraft missiles. Extra ordnance for those sophisticated systems was stowed in the now unusable wardroom along with extra ammo for the SEALs' CAR-15 rifles and SAWs. Rather than pack along bulky foodstuffs for the microwave, MREs were kept above and inside the cabinetry of the small galley. In following the KISS principle, Lieutenant Bill Brannigan decided everyone would use FRHs to heat their meals. That meant the food could rapidly and easily be prepared anywhere on the ACV.

When the ACV cleared the mother ship, Brannigan took a final sip of coffee from his cup. 'Due north at two- thirds speed.'

'Due north at two-thirds speed, aye, sir,' Watkins said, working the piloting instrumentation.

'Use the automatic pilot,' Brannigan said to the helmsman. 'We're going to be following this course for a while.'

'Aye, sir,' Watkins said, setting the instrument to read the preprogrammed waypoints. 'On automatic pilot, sir.'

Brannigan looked out the front windshield at the bleached sky blazing down on the deep blue of the Indian Ocean. 'Those crazy DuBose brothers should have put air-conditioning in this vehicle.'

'They did, sir,' Lieutenant Veronica Rivers said. 'I had it taken out to make room for the weapons systems.'

'You are heartless,' Brannigan said, half-joking.

Veronica smiled. 'I'm just like Hard-Hearted Hannah the Vamp of Savannah in that old song. I'd throw water on a drowning man.'

Brannigan chuckled. 'I do believe you would, Lieutenant.'

The First Assault Section was sprawled across the topside of the cabin, well coated with sunscreen and wearing wide-brimmed boonie hats to keep the sun off their faces. Normally, a canvas covering would have been rigged across the area to provide some shade, but the super speeds of the Battlecraft would have blown it off in an instant if Watkins kicked the throtde over to flank speed.

Down below in the crowded wardroom, Senior Chief Buford Dawkins's Second Assault Section had arranged themselves as comfortably as possible among the piles of ammo and other gear. They were not as comfortable as Jim Cruiser's guys above, but at least they didn't have to worry about sunburn at the moment. That problem would have to be dealt with when it was their turn to move topside.

Bobby Lee Atwill baked in the engine compartment as he monitored the true love of his life; the gas-turbine power plant that kept the ACV flying over water, ground, swamp, beach, or any other reasonably flat surface. Bobby Lee didn't have to swelter in the company of the engine, but it was his habit of staying close beside her during the first few hours of a cruise. She might get nervous and develop hiccups, and he wanted to be there to calm her down for the job ahead.

A certain grimness gripped the mood of SEALs and crew alike. All sensed that the next few days would bring about the wrap-up of their mission, and that was always the most dangerous part.

.

FORTRESS MIKNBAYI

0600 HOURS LOCAL

THE mujahideen guard had just come on duty after relieving the man on the third watch, and he began his rounds slowly, still feeling the need for sleep after leaving his wife and bed less than a half hour before. He strolled up and down the wharves, gazing with disinterest at the boats, coming to a stop at an empty mooring place. One of the whaler boats used to fetch in passengers and cargo from freighters was usually docked there. He glanced out into the deepwater anchorage to see if a crew was tending to one of the merchant ships, but there was no activity out in that area. He yawned, then continued his circuit of the wharves.

Twenty minutes later he had worked his way back to the guardhouse up at the entrance gate, and stepped inside. He was happy to see a pot of coffee on the hot plate by the guard sergeant's desk. The guard poured himself a cup, sitting down beside the door. After a couple of swallows, he murmured, 'Somebody has taken a whaler out.' * The sergeant looked up from the roster he was updating. 'Mmm? What did you say?'

'I said one of the whalers has been taken out from Wharf Three.'

'It is probably being used to unload a freighter' the sergeant said.

'There is not a ship out at the anchorage.'

The sergeant was thoughtful for a moment, then pulled out the previous day's journal. 'No one signed it out for use. At least its departure has not been noted down.'

'Some of the fellows are very careless about making entries into the journal,' the guard remarked. 'They get sleepy at night and miss things.'

'Well, I don't want the guard captain to think it was us,' the sergeant said. He reached for the ancient field telephone and cranked it. 'This is Sergeant Aboud,' he said when the call was answered. 'Somebody has taken a