up on the Iranian watchman, who was firing from the front of the ship.
“So much for the subtle approach,” said Ferg, half-crawling and half-jumping to the solid decking near the superstructure.
The three Americans moved swiftly to the stern, where the other SEAL waved them forward. Gunfire erupted near the main entrance to the dry dock; above the crackle of automatic rounds came two sharp snaps, the report of Remington 700 sniper rifles being fired — a pair of SEAL marksmen had found their targets.
“Left, left,” shouted Rankin, as more gunfire broke out behind them. Following his own instructions, he pivoted, gun on hip, shooting through the clip as two Iranians ran into the semicircle of light.
“Enough of this shit,” said Ferguson, standing and icing the spotlights with his submachine gun.
They were about halfway to the fence when a heavy machine gun opened up from the warehouse yard. Its bullets crashed through the lot, throwing a hail of cement shrapnel before them.
Then another gun picked up the job, its bullets closer.
“Not going that way,” said Ferguson.
“Then how are we getting out of here?” said Rankin.
Ferguson looked back at the ship. The other guard posts were on the city side, near the road.
“We swim for it,” said Ferguson. “You guys up for it?” he asked the SEALs.
“Uh, we can make it,” said Reid.
“Okay. Because I figure that’s going to be the easy way out.” He pushed up the com system’s mike bud as more gunfire flared, this time over near the highway that ran to the east. “Conners, what the hell are you guys doing out there?”
“We just stopped a truck from coming in.”
“Good. More reinforcements coming?”
“Maybe. A lot of shit moving north of you,” said Conners. “What about those machine guns?”
“They’re a pain in the ass. Look, we’re going to go out by the water.”
“You sure?” asked Conners.
“That way you guys can just slip south rather than trying to hold the fort against the entire Iranian Army, such as it is. Listen, they’re working the ship up as a minelayer. Not quite what we were looking for, but they’ll want to know back in Washington.”
“You’re not going to tell them yourself?” asked Conners.
“I’ll tell ‘em, Dad. Don’t fret.” The machine guns began firing again — this time considerably closer. “We’re outta here, boys.”
Rankin took point, running along the dock area toward the water. As he passed a set of large wooden boxes, he saw an Iranian duck behind cover up near the bow. He waited to fire, closing the gap. Rankin was less than five feet from him when the man leaned out from around a portable generator to see what was going on. The bullets from the American’s Uzi slapped through his skull, tossing blood and bits of bone away like drops of rain brushing dust from a windowsill. Rankin kicked the body over, frowning when he saw the man hadn’t been armed. He swung around quickly, then continued forward. A shadow loomed down from the forecastle of the ship; Rankin threw himself onto his back and emptied his clip in its direction. As he rolled back over and started to reload, the figure reappeared, raising a rifle.
The burst that took down the Iranian sounded like a quick drumroll on a metal garbage can top. Rankin looked up to see Ferguson running forward, the SEALs trailing behind.
“Don’t mention it,” Ferg yelled through the com set.
A five-foot chain-link fence sat at the end of the cement area; beyond it was a level jetty of rocks. Misjudging his height in the dark, Ferguson tore the seat of his pants on the top of the fence, and the scrape burned like a bullet wound.
Rocks jutted toward the water in a sawed-off W pattern at the base of the fence. The lights of the city to the north shone faintly on the water, making it the color of newspaper that had faded in the sunlight. Ferguson pulled off his boots but left his socks on, waiting at the edge of the jetty as the others caught up.
“That way,” said Reid, pointing toward the water. “They’ll bring up the raft and meet us. They’ll have the gear.”
“Shit,” said Rankin.
“If you need help, holler,” said Reid.
“I can fuckin’ swim,” said Rankin. “My gun’s going to get screwed up.”
“Don’t be a sissy, Skippy,” said Ferguson, slipping into the water. “Pop’ll buy us new toys when we get home.”
Rankin cursed as he jumped into the water behind the CIA officer. It was shallow — barely reaching his knees. It was also cold; he started to shiver as he waded out behind them, his Uzi strapped to his back.
About fifty yards from shore, Ferguson started to feel tired. He stopped for a moment, treading water, hoping that the burn in his shoulders would dissipate. The current pulled him north, in the opposite direction from where he wanted to go; he started stroking again, kicking harder and putting his head and shoulder against the low run of waves the way a running back might try and wedge himself into a line. Reid stroked about five yards beyond him, guided toward the rendezvous point by his waterproof GPS device. A set of low buoys lay in the distance ahead.
“How we doing?” Ferg asked, as Reid stopped to let the others catch up.
“Got a ways to go,” he told him. “You all right?”
“Not a problem for me,” said Ferg.
“I’m fine,” snapped Rankin on the left.
“Let’s go then,” said Reid.
“If I wanted to do all this swimming, I would have joined the fuckin’ Navy,” said Rankin.
The SEAL team leader tried to talk Conners out of going on the raft; he wanted him to go back to the ASDS.
“We may have to swim from the channel up there, and that’s a long swim,” the leader of the SEAL team said. But Conners refused; he thought he’d be more useful with them. Not only did his com system connect directly with the rest of the team, but he had the sat phone in case they got stranded ashore. Besides, he wasn’t about to swim out to the rendezvous alone, and it seemed to him the team couldn’t spare even a single man to play shepherd.
MC didn’t argue, mostly because there wasn’t time. As they set the raft in the water, the team members took up a post and oar without a word passing between them. Conners put his knee on the inflated gunwale, doing his best to copy the man at the port bow ahead of him as they stroked into the black-pearl darkness. There wasn’t a special SEAL stroke per se, yet the men had a certain quiet rhythm that propelled the raft forward quickly. Perhaps it came from hours and hours of practice in the cold and dark, or maybe it was injected during BUD/S somehow, the basic underwater demolition/SEALs training camp where recruits to the program were made or, more often, broken. Conners could only admire the teamwork and do his best not to screw it up.
They paddled for a good five minutes, then on some silent signal stopped — a vessel was making its way down the coastline, a pair of searchlights splaying out toward the shore.
“Patrol boat,” the master chief told Conners as the craft cut its speed and the lights stopped moving toward them. It cut across their path. “It’s a little north of our guys. James, Fu — meet them.”
The two SEALs slipped into the water, pulling on masks and fins and taking extra Draeger gear for the others with them. The LAR V Draeger diving gear was a self-contained, “closed-circuit” breathing apparatus. The green oxygen tank held pure oxygen. As the diver exhaled, his breath recirculated through a special filter that took out carbon dioxide. One of the system’s major advantages was the lack of telltale oxygen bubbles as the diver swam. It was also extremely lightweight, though its size was one limit on its endurance.
A minute after the SEALs had disembarked, MC raised his hand forward. He and the other SEAL began paddling, pushing the boat toward the open water. The patrol boat, meanwhile, circled north. Its searchlights swung together.
“Tommy,” said the team leader.
The man at the starboard bow slid back into the well of the tiny boat, pulling gear from one of the
