Marcel Hurtubise had faced that choice.
84
The Sikorsky SH-60B of HSL-44 normally answered to its squadron call sign—”Magnum”—but for this operation its identity was intentionally generic. As arranged on a discreet UHF channel two hours before, the VHF transmissions would be short and cryptic.
Maas’s senior watch stander was on the bridge when the Mayport-based sub hunter made its approach. “Charlie Delta, this is U.S. Navy helicopter. I am approaching your starboard quarter. Where do you want your supplies? Over.”
The merchant officer glanced rearward, saw nothing, but sensed the geometry of the situation. He keyed his mike. “Ah, Navy helicopter, we are ready on the bow. Over.”
Two mike clicks acknowledged the instruction. Moments later the gray Sea Hawk hove into view off the starboard beam and settled into a thirty-foot hover over the bow. The crew chief winched down three rectangular metal containers that the deckhands hauled in. Fighting the rotor wash, they disconnected the load and set each container aside. The helo then delivered a smaller box that was easier to handle.
Jeff Malten supervised the operation and quickly inspected the contents of each container. Satisfied, he stood up and waved to the HSL-44 Swamp Fox’s detachment commander. The helo pilot nodded, added power, pulled pitch, and motored away.
Malten led the way into the vessel’s superstructure where other SSI operators were waiting. “Are we set?” Pope asked.
“Affirmative. Three ‘60s and about a thousand rounds of linked ammo.”
“Okay. Get ‘em ready. We need to function test every one and then work out the best way to mount them.”
Malten nodded, then asked, “Who do you want for shooters?”
“Whoever’s the most experienced. I’ll leave that to you. But keep our naval people for the boarding party.”
Malten eyed his senior colleague. “Wish we had night sights. It’d be a lot quicker target acquisition.”
“There’s nothing we can do about that, Jeff. Besides, I think the muzzle flash will white out the NVGs. We’ll just have to establish fire superiority from the start.”
“Well, yeah. But if we don’t, there’s no way we can get aboard.”
Pope slapped his friend’s arm. “That’s why we get the big bucks.”
85
Victor Pope made a final tour of the ship’s exterior. Gerritt Maas’s men had been up most of the night, fashioning mounts for the M-60s, and Jeff Malten was still supervising the test firing. They met aft of the bridge.
“How’s it going?” Pope asked.
“Well, we had to headspace that one gun. Those idiots on that destroyer hadn’t even bothered to do that. Obviously they hadn’t tested it.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, and we’re the beggars.”
Malten shifted his weight against the transport’s roll. He was hardly aware of his movement. “Well, Admiral Derringer must’ve been kneeling on a pretty thick carpet. I didn’t really think we’d get the guns this soon.”
Pope merely nodded. Then he said, “We have thirteen healthy operators but we need at least three on the guns. I don’t like trying to take down a ship with just ten guys.”
“Hey I was going to tell you. One of the crew saw what we were doing and took an interest. He even helped us degrease the ‘60 that hadn’t been fired. Turns out that he was a Marine E-3. Think we can use him?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, is he any good?”
Malten smiled. “He had a pretty good pattern around the empty can we tossed overboard. And he doesn’t lean on the trigger too much.”
Pope thought for a few heartbeats. “Does he know what’s likely to happen?”
“Yeah. I told him everything. The bad guys have belt-fed weapons and RPGs, and any M-60 is gonna be a priority target. But he said he spent Desert Storm afloat off Kuwait and figures this is his chance to make up.”
“Well, okay. I’ll talk to him. What’s his name?”
“Ritter. Goes by Tex.”
“Figures. Texans are like that.”
Malten laughed again. “That’s what I thought. But he’s from Vermont.”
Pope leaned against the bulkhead, arms folded. “Okay. That gives us eleven operators, unless another crewman can help.”
“I talked to Dr. Faith. He says that Verdugo can stand up as long as he doesn’t have to move.”
“That’s what Esteban said when I checked on him, but he didn’t mention doing any shooting.”
“Might be worth checking out,” Malten offered. “We can see how he does with the gun and the mount to hold on to. That would make a dozen door-kickers.”
“Let’s do it.” Pope turned to go, then stopped. “Oh, one other thing, Jeff. Tell the gunners that if possible, they need to stagger their firing. We don’t have a lot of ammo, and there won’t be any A-gunners to reload for them. I don’t want everybody running dry at the same time.”
Malten nodded. Then, eyeing his superior, he asked, “Vic, what’s your plan? Can we take a ship with only two full boats?”
“Actually, Jeff, I’m not planning on using the boats.”
Malten muttered, “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot?”
Pope turned and walked away from the workers. “Here’s what I have in mind.”
86
Hurtubise gawked at the nine-thousand-ton ship pounding alongside, looking as big as a small mountain. Zikri watched out the starboard side of the bridge, gauging the intruder’s interval. Abruptly the bigger vessel’s bow swung to port.
“My God!” Hurtubise shouted. “They’re going to ram!”
The Libyan captain braced himself, then said, “Maybe not.”
“What? What do you mean?”
Hurtubise took six fast heartbeats to absorb the implications. Then he spun on his heel and shouted down to Pinsard. “RPGs up here. Now!”
Before Pinsard could respond, Hurtubise was on the opposite side. “Man the machine guns! Starboard fore and aft but keep one amidships to port.”
Rene Pinsard gave his superior a wry grin. “You’re sounding very nautical this morning,
From the bridge, Gerritt Maas judged the closure nicely. He ensured that his ship established a three-knot
