“Range to the target is now twenty-five nautical miles. The first helos should be over the target in ten minutes, thirty seconds.”
“Very well.”
This was where the real worrying began. The SEALs and Navy Special Warfare helicopters were now committed to attack a Russian ship, and the hell of it was that the action probably would not have been approved by the White House. Rubens had set up this scenario to respond to the ship’s SOS, a tenuous legal fiction. If this went badly, it would mean an international incident, and Rubens would be forced to resign at best, face criminal charges at worst.
Nevertheless, he didn’t see any other way to get the job done.
A pitched gun battle was being waged on the decks of the freighter, covertly observed by the shadowing Fire Scout. As the observers on board the
“I hope to hell your boss knows what he’s doing,” Captain Morrisey said. “If he doesn’t, we might be about to start a war with Russia.”
“Shit,” Akulinin said, “the SEALs board the ship, grab the nukes, and get the hell out. What could
“More than I care to think about right now,” Morrisey said. “Why didn’t they just send in CTF 151 and let them sort this out?”
Since January of 2009, Combined Task Force 151 had been patrolling the Gulf of Aden. Led by the United States with the USS
“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
“I’m not sure
“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
18
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
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
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
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
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
“Deck approach is now clear,” McCauley called over the tactical channel. “Alfa Three, you are go for deployment.”
“Copy, Alfa One.”
