Assault on Al Shabaab Read online

  He hit two of them, and the third dived for cover as he realized his danger. He keyed his mic. "Brad, report your status."

  "Took a couple of hits on the vest, and one punched a dent in my helmet, but I'm not hurt. Only my pride."

  "Copy that. You saw that guy dive for cover under the lifeboat?"

  "Roger that. As soon as he pops up, I'll take him down."

  Nolan swept the area around the boats with his scope. No target presented itself, not yet. He heard shooting from upstairs, and it seemed Will Bryce and Vince Merano had come under fire. A second later Will's voice came into his earpiece.

  "Bravo Two, this is Three. We have ten; repeat ten hostiles, pinned down up here. Wait one." A pause for a couple of seconds, "Make that seven. With any luck, we'll finish them off. Whoever trained these guys didn't know his business. Every time a man pops up, Vince knocks him down. How's it going down there?"

  He explained about their firefight with the enemy on the Lido Deck.

  "What about Boswell? He with you?"

  "Negative. He went down to the engine room."

  A pause, and then Will replied, "Understood."

  It was one word spoken in a flat tone, and with no intonation. He couldn't have better underlined his disgust. Nolan heard another burst of gunfire from up top.

  "We're busy up here, Chief. Call you back."

  "Yeah, keep your heads down."

  He was still scanning the lifeboats, moving his rifle barrel in an arc, side to side. As he did so, he caught sight of movement. His finger instinctively tightened on the trigger and loosened; a flash of camouflage, Zeke.

  Eight men on the bridge, ten on the top deck engaged in a fight with Will and Vince. Ten down here, their numbers being whittled away. That made possibly twelve unaccounted for. He keyed his mic.

  "Bravo One, this is Two. Have you sighted any hostiles?"

  "This is Bravo One. We ran into six, and two of them are still giving us trouble. I'll call you when we're done, Chief."

  The Lieutenant sounded irritated, as if the work they were doing was the most important part of the operation. Nolan ignored him and adjusted the count. With Boswell's six hostiles, that left six, assuming the Captain's assessment was correct. Where were they, about to detonate the explosives? It was no time to linger.

  We need to finish these guys, and fast. I estimate one or two left in there. There isn't time to do this the easy way.

  "Zeke, Brad, listen up, my guess is one or two men left behind cover. I'm going to show them a target. The minute they try for the shot, hit them." They both argued, but he ignored them, "On my count, three, two, one…"

  He climbed to his feet, bracing his body for the shot. Two men jumped up, their teeth like a vivid scar against their black faces as their lips spread in a leer of triumph. One got off a shot, which thumped into Nolan's ballistic vest, hurling him backward to the deck. But the two Seals were ready, and they went down under a barrage of almost noiseless shooting.

  He felt himself almost passing out with agony, and he knew one of his ribs was badly bruised, maybe even cracked.

  Too bad, I've had worse.

  He looked up into the eyes of Brad Rose.

  "You okay? That was a crazy thing to do."

  "I'll survive."

  "If he'd taken a headshot, we'd be burying you at sea. How'd you know he'd go for the body?"

  "These people are crappy shots. It was obvious."

  Zeke ran across to join them. "I've checked around. That was the last of them."

  "Roger that. I make it six of them still on the loose. And remember, they say they have charges set to explode."

  Brad looked around. "Christ, this ship is big. Where the hell do we…?"

  The screams echoed up a nearby stairwell. Lounge Deck Six. He catapulted to his feet and ran for the stairs.

  "That answers your question. It sounds like they've got a bunch of passengers down there."

  Dear God, not the Robsons. My kids have lost enough. They can't afford to lose their grandparents. They were on Deck Five. Maybe they were lucky.

  They reached the foot of the staircase, just as Will reported in.

  "We're clear up top, Chief. You want us down there?"

  "Right away. Hostiles on Deck Six, so watch your step and hold somewhere at the base of the center stairwell. With any luck, you'll be right behind them."

  "Copy that, give us a few minutes."

  They held a couple of steps above Deck Six, and he peered around the corner. Every light on the ship was switched on, but it only meant the enemy would see them coming, an enemy somewhere behind a huge bunch of passengers. There must have been hundreds of them bunched in the restaurant area. They all had their hands on their heads, those that were still alive. The carpet was covered in bodies, shattered, bloody bodies of the victims of the attackers. He was about to turn to Brad and Zeke to spell it out when a voice shouted.

  "Mister! You want these people to die, you go right ahead. You want them to live, you come out here and talk."

  A man stepped forward, black, Somali, yet he carried himself differently to the others, more erect, more sure. Instead of the artificial swagger, there was the confidence of someone who knew what they were doing. This was the man in charge, the commander. Nolan turned to the two men behind him.

  "It looks like he wants to parlay. There's nothing we can do. Right now, they hold all the cards." He keyed his mic. "Will, what's your status?"

  "We're in position, but there's a couple of guys covering their six. If we start shooting, there'll be a bloodbath."

  "Copy that. Sit tight. I'll see if I can talk him down. All of you be ready to take the shot the second it looks doable, without losing any of the passengers."

  He handed his sniper rifle to Zeke, made sure his Sig Sauer had a full clip, loosened it in his leg holster, and walked forward. He kept his hands spread wide, palms up, to show he was unarmed.

  "We can settle this. There's no need for anyone to die. Who am I talking to?"

  The man's response was just a slight smile. "If you wish to know to know who you are addressing, I am Mohammed Ibrahim. But you haven't heard my terms yet. Maybe you won't like them, Mister. Condition number one, I want you and your friends off this ship. Condition number two…"

  "That isn't going to happen. If I leave you aboard, I'll be risking the lives of the passengers."

  "And if you don't get off, they'll die anyway."

  "What's condition number two?" he asked, to gain time.

  Another smile. "That's easy. Condition number two is the government of the United States will pay ten million dollars into a bank account. As soon as you comply, we'll let them all go."

  "And the ship?"

  He chuckled. "Oh, no, no. The ship is ours. You're not getting that back."

  It was then he saw John Robson clutching his wife in the center of the frightened passengers. One of the terrorists had a gun to Violet's head, in case the husband decided to be brave.

  If this goes wrong, they're dead.

  He heard a voice in his earpiece, a whisper. Will. "We've got a bead on five of them, two at the back near to us, and three hiding in the middle of the passengers. If you can take out the guy in front of you, we're in business. I can see you're busy, so give me one click to acknowledge. The second we see you move, we'll take 'em.

  He touched the transmit button. One click. The guy in front of them didn't appear to have noticed. He waited calmly for a reply.

  How the hell can he be calm? He must know Special Forces have infiltrated the ship and killed most of his men. That we'll be waiting to send the rest of his little band to Paradise. Why so calm, when he knows he's about to die?

  The answer came to him in a flash. That's why he was calm. They didn't board the liner to come out alive; the intention was to die. He studied the man opposite carefully and noticed the device held in his hand. It was the shape and size of a mobile phone.

  That's the detonator, for sure.

&nbs
p; The man understood and smiled even wider.

  "Yeah, you're right. This is your one-way ticket to hell, Mister. Now get off my fucking boat, and take the rest of your men with you. I'm giving you sixty seconds to start moving."

  Another murmur in his earpiece, "Chief, this is Brad. I've got a bead on that remote. I reckon I can destroy it the moment the shooting starts."

  He gave him two clicks, negative.

  It's one hell of a chance. It could stop the detonation, or it could trigger it, a fifty-fifty chance. Except if we leave the transmitter in one piece, he will detonate. Which changes the odds. I don't have a choice. God help me, with one click of a button, my kids may lose their entire family, and every man, woman, and child on this boat could die.

  The enemy commander was watching him intently. There was no smile on his face, and he was holding out the remote trigger, to underline the threat. If Brad would ever have a shot, this was it. He keyed his mic.

  "Shoot."

  A microsecond later, his men opened fire. First to go was the remote trigger. Brad's bullet smashed through the plastic case, shredded the internal components and went on to pierce the hand that held it, and exit the other side. The man shrieked, his face a mix of agony and rage. Then Zeke's shot hit him in the chest, and he fell. The muffled 'thunks' of the Seals' weapons sounded above the frightened murmurs of the passengers. The six Somalis went down, their fall cushioned by the thick carpet. It made no difference. They were all dead before their bodies hit the deck, except one.

  Nolan rushed forward, jerked the man's pistol out of his belt, and tossed it away.

  "The explosives, is there any other way for them to detonate? You've lost. There's no need to kill all these people."

  The Somali stared back at him, and his mouth moved. Nolan bent down to listen to his words, but to his astonishment someone pulled him aside, and he fell, sprawling on the carpet. As he watched, a black girl took his place next to the Somali and began speaking to him in a language he assumed was native Somali or Arabic. Her skin was the same color as the fallen terrorist, but that was the only connection. When she spoke, she was all African-American.

  "What the fuck..."

  She turned her head aside for a moment to look at him. "FBI, undercover agent Amelia Stowe. Leave this to me. This man has information we need to know."

  She turned back to him and continued talking, and he replied in a few words. The conversation only lasted a few seconds, and then the man twisted his head to look at Nolan. He said a few more words, and then his head lolled back as the last breath whooshed out of his body.

  The girl stood up, shaking her head in frustration. "Shit, I'm sure he was about to tell me something. "

  "What did he say, right there at the end? When he looked at me?"

  She seemed to be working something out, but finally she returned his gaze. She wore the uniform of one of the officers. It fitted her curves to perfection even though it was stained and torn.

  "He said this was only the start. That America is next, and this time, the bleeding won't stop."

  "Any ideas what he meant?"

  She nodded slowly. "Some. Listen, whoever you are, we need to get this ship back on course."

  "Already done. We took the bridge, and the Captain turned her around."

  "Good. If the ship is clear, I'll go to the radio room. I need to contact Washington. By the way, who are you? Delta, Force Recon, Seals? I know you're not FBI HRT."

  "Seals, I'm Chief Petty Officer Nolan." He was irritated by the way she seemed to have taken charge, "You can show me some ID?"

  "And you?" she flared, by way of a reply.

  He held up his Sig Sauer. "I reckon this is all the ID I need."

  She nodded and reached under her skirt to pull out a small credentials case. She passed it to him, and he felt a tremor of arousal. The case was warm, and it smelt of her, musk with a hit of her fragrance. He squashed the feeling and glanced at it. FBI Special Agent Amelia Stowe, Office of the Director, Washington. She was on the level. He handed it back to her.

  "I need to check to make sure they're all dead." He keyed his mic. "Bravo One, this is Two. We've cleared the Lounge Deck. What's your status?"

  "This is Bravo One. We're clear down here, Chief. Lucas is searching the bodies in case there's anything interesting for our intel guys. Any news on the explosives?"

  He confirmed the hostiles were all down, and they'd removed the risk of detonation.

  "We have an undercover friendly up here, Boss. FBI, I checked her credentials."

  "FBI? A woman? I don't know what the fuck she's doing, but until this operation is over, keep her with the rest of the passengers. We'll deal with this. We'll join you in a few minutes. Bravo One out."

  He looked back at Amelia Stowe. He had a suspicion the feisty young FBI undercover agent would not take well to Boswell's order to keep her with the passengers. She was already walking toward the stairs on her way to the radio room. He called to her.

  "Agent Stowe."

  She turned back to him, and he caught himself thinking of that credential wallet he'd held in his hand, now back under her skirt. She was short, but held herself with that confident but relaxed pose of someone who knew they could overcome any problem the world threw at them.

  No doubt the child of a successful and wealthy family.

  She was also very pretty, with short-cut dark hair to match her flashing, almost luminous eyes. Everything about her was in proportion. Everything about her was gorgeous. Her rich, bow-shaped lips parted in a slight grin, as if she knew he was weighing her up, and she arched one perfectly sculptured eyebrow.

  "Chief?"

  "Uh, be careful. We think we got them all, but you never know."

  She gave him a taut nod. "Thanks, but I took this off one of the bodies."

  She showed him the weapon, a small, Tokarev 7.62mm automatic pistol; flat, black, compact and lethal. Russian made, the preferred weapon of Soviet Commissars for killing suspected traitors, to save the cost and bother of a trial.

  She turned and ran lightly up the staircase, and he went in to find John and Violet. At first they were puzzled until he ripped off his helmet.

  "Kyle!" Violet Robson rushed into his arms, "My god, I thought they were going to kill us."

  "You'll be fine," he comforted her. Robson shook his hand, held on tight, as if he wouldn't let it go. "I have to go, but you're safe now. I'll be in touch soon as I get home."

  "That was some rescue, Jesus Christ. We'll never forget what you did here."

  "It wasn't just me, John. It was..."

  "The US Navy Seals, at your service, folks. You're just lucky we happened to be in the right place at the right time."

  Boswell with Lucas Grant at his shoulder; the Lieutenant carried a half-amused grin.

  Real hero style.

  But he also noticed Grant's wince of embarrassment.

  "Lt, yeah, I have to get topsides. I'll get moving."

  He ran up the staircase. Brad and Zeke followed right behind. For some reason, Boswell seemed like a politician on the stump. If there'd been a handy baby, he for sure would have kissed it.

  They relieved Dan Moseley on the bridge. Captain Constantinides was busy on the ship's communications system, making an inventory of the fallen. Nolan looked at Dan.

  "How bad does it look?"

  "About twenty of the crew are dead, another half dozen wounded. He's not sure yet. It's bad, real bad. Although it could have been worse."

  "Yeah."

  He looked around the bridge at the bloodstains and the bodies.

  Bastards.

  Amelia Stowe bustled through the door and gave him a wave.

  "Chief Nolan, I made my report to Washington. They're sending choppers out to pick us up. They'll be here inside of thirty minutes."

  "Us? We take care of our own transport, Agent Stowe."

  He hadn't meant to snap at her, but that's the way it came out, too late to pull back.

  "I'm sure you
do, normally. Come through to the radio room. It's at the back of the bridge. There's someone you need to speak to."

  She put her hand on his arm to pull him along, but he shook her off.

  "I don't need to speak to anyone. We have business here to finish up."

  "You need to speak to this guy. He's your boss."

  What the hell does Rear Admiral Drew Jacks want?

  If anyone knew the importance of tidying the loose ends when an operation was over, double-checking for any hostiles unaccounted for and dealing with casualties, it was Jacks. He followed her in silence up to the radio room, wondering what the connection was between an FBI agent and the Navy Seals based at Coronado. She left him outside the door, saying she had to locate Boswell.

  He walked through the door into a world of electronic equipment, communications consoles, and satellite receivers. A young seaman sitting in front of the main console gave him a nervous glance.

  "Chief Petty Officer Nolan? It's all set up ready for you, Sir. The call is on a satellite frequency, which means it's encrypted, although not to military standards."

  "Understood."

  He took the offered telephone handset and grimaced. It still bore the traces of the attack, a long smear of blood down the black plastic. "This is Nolan, Admiral. We're looking good here, just a few things to finish up before I'm ready to report in."

  "I'm pleased to hear it, but this isn't Admiral Jacks. You're speaking to your Commander-in-Chief."

  Jesus Christ, the President of the United States. There's no doubt. The voice is familiar worldwide.

  "Mr. President, yessir. What can I do for you, Sir?"

  "First of all, congratulations on a job well done. I take it there were no casualties?"

  "Our unit is intact, Sir, but the passengers and crew were hit hard. A lot of them were killed, some hurt bad."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. We'll have medics standing by as soon as the ship docks in Cartagena. And I've ordered a couple of SAR helicopters on standby to take off any of the wounded who're critical."

  "That's good news. Some of them need urgent treatment."

  "They'll get it. Listen, Chief, Special Agent Stowe has gone to fetch your unit commander, Lieutenant Boswell. In the meantime, I wanted to speak to you. Admiral Jacks tells me you're the man who makes things happen in that platoon."