Sons of Valor Page 2

  “Neptune Two, One—how copy?” Chunk said into the boom mike by the corner of his mouth.

  “You’re five by, One,” Lieutenant Carlos Juarez replied. If the young Officer in Charge of Bravo Platoon was annoyed that Redman, as Task Unit Commander, had taken the helm as Neptune One, he didn’t show it. Most SEAL officers continued to lead missions as they promoted, and Chunk had a reputation for getting down in the dirt with his team more than most. In fact, he hoped never to promote beyond his current O-4 rank. He hadn’t become a SEAL to sit in a TOC and watch his men fight on TV. He’d become a SEAL to bring the fight to the bad guys’ front doors, so that Americans at home could sleep soundly.

  He keyed his mike. “Mother, Neptune One—passing Camaro.”

  Someone in the N3 shop had a hard-on for muscle cars, because almost every mission lately had used automobile models for checkpoint designators. The next call-in was when they reached the target ship, where he called, “Stingray,” to get the green light for the assault.

  “Roger, One. We got eyes in orbit. You’re all clear from here to Stingray,” came the reply.

  The satellite had good visuals; no unexpected watercraft or counterinsurgency measures had been identified. Chunk acknowledged with a double click of his mike, then nodded to the three SEALS, who’d all repositioned into a line on the pontoon beside him. He turned to the pair of SWCC operators piloting the RIB and gave them a thumbs-up. For this op, the protocol was for the RIB to creep in behind them and be ready for emergency exfil—in other words, if they got their asses kicked and had to evacuate.

  He smiled at the thought. Not gonna happen.

  If all went well—and it would—two MH-60 helicopters would drop off a second wave of personnel—a navy boat crew and qualified merchant pilot who’d drive the Pakistani-flagged ship and its cargo to a port on the Gulf of Oman. Chunk and his boys would stay behind to play security escort on the seized freighter, and the CIA or another dark and spooky “Joint Task Force” would take over the show, inventory the spoils, and hopefully confirm whatever terrorist operation they thought was going on. They would also sort out the geopolitical aftermath of the raid. Thank God he didn’t have to deal with any of that bullshit. He and his team were door-kickers, plain and simple, and that’s the way he liked it.

  He rolled into the water—forcing away the thought of a great white shark’s giant open maw waiting for him just below the surface. Riker, Saw, and Trip rolled in behind him. Their four-man assault team was half of first squad, Bravo Platoon, SEAL Team Four. The other half of first squad was being led by Lieutenant Carlos Juarez. Dubbed “Carla” by his teammates in light of the long silky locks he grew whenever they “bearded up” for Middle East deployments, Juarez would be swimming in from a thousand yards farther northwest. The two four-man fire teams would board simultaneously on the port and starboard sides of the freighter to begin the assault.

  Chunk would’ve preferred a deeper water infil with rebreather tanks, but finning on the surface tonight worked fine, given the moonless sky. The gray vest he wore over his kit was optimally buoyant, just enough to keep him at the surface. He swam with one arm stretched forward and the other trailing, holding his rifle tight against his side, while his legs did all the work. Now and again he’d break the waterline with his mask just enough to recalibrate his bearing on the target. The well-lit ship was growing incrementally larger with each glance. He was aware of the four SEALs behind him, staggered so that they formed a V, but they were nearly silent, too quiet to be heard over the water swirling across his earphones and sloshing around his helmet. The noise-canceling tech in his Peltor headset worked great for dampening loud, staccato sounds like gunfire or helicopter engines, but it amplified quiet noise like whispers—and unfortunately, sloshing water.

  We are invincible warriors of the night, he told himself, silent death from the sea . . . unless, that is, a twenty-foot tiger shark decides to maul our asses before we get there.

  He shoved the paranoid thought out of his head, and instantly other concerns filled the void. Rumor had it that the Joint Special Operations Command was finally ready to reconstitute the elite Tier One SEAL unit, after the previous unit had been wiped out during Operation Crusader in a horrific act of terrorism levied against US Special Forces. A high-ranking spook friend had hinted once that if that time ever came, he’d throw Chunk’s name in for consideration. Getting selected for the Tier One had been Chunk’s dream from the day he’d pinned on his trident. Hell, it was every SEAL’s dream. But after Crusader, he’d shelved that fantasy and resigned himself to finishing out the operational years of his command with Team Four.

  Now with the possibility back on the table, he wasn’t sure if the Tier One was what he wanted. How could he, in good conscience, walk away from his guys? This unit worked because of the trust and bond they’d forged. As Task Unit Commander, it was his job to keep Riker from running off the rails, to make sure Trip didn’t burn out from pushing himself to the breaking point, and to be that insulator between the job and Saw so he had time to be the devoted husband and father he wanted to be. Chunk was their sounding board, their mentor, and most importantly their umbrella—shielding them from a ceaseless deluge of shit raining down from above. They needed him, and the inverse was true.

  They were his brothers.

  They were his family.

  If the CSO walked up and offered me that golden ticket, would I take it? I don’t know anymore . . .

  “Neptune One, Two—in position,” Juarez said, the SEAL’s soft whisper crystal clear in Chunk’s headset.

  The report snapped him back to the present. A mental picture formed of the other half of their assault force bobbing in the water on the opposite side of the freighter, and he double-clicked his mike in acknowledgment. With the ship looming, he ignored the lactic burn in his calves and thighs as he pushed through the tail end of the fifteen-minute infil. Moments later he steadied himself with a hand on the hull of the ship as his fellow operators crowded around him.

  With both fire teams now in position, he made the call. “Mother, Neptune One—Stingray, ready.”

  “Roger, One—hold,” came the calm voice of Lieutenant Commander Aveda, who was coordinating the op from their Tactical Operations Center with the rest of the command staff.

  While the Head Shed assessed and deconflicted any new intel before giving them the go, Chunk pictured the layout of the ship and rapidly reviewed the assault. Phase One, board at the stern and take down any roving security elements or personnel loitering aft. Then they’d advance forward, one fire team on each side, clearing the port and starboard rails. Saw would find high ground and become overwatch, while Juarez and his shooters secured the main cargo deck. Meanwhile, Chunk would lead his team up the starboard rail to the bridge tower. At the corner of the superstructure, his fire team would split into pairs and take the bridge, using opposite stairwells and converging on the O-5 level in the middle. Once Chunk’s guys had secured the bridge and Juarez’s the cargo deck, the vessel would be under their control. After that, Phase Two would commence—the slow, methodical process of clearing the entire ship for bad guys potentially hiding in some nook or cranny, waiting to ambush them.

  Easy day.

  “Neptune, you’re a go. Call Charger,” came Aveda’s voice over the wire.

  Chunk double-clicked and nodded at Riker. The SEAL finned backward a few yards, doffed his fins, then struggled into his REBS magnetic climbing system. The foot attachments worked like crampons, fitting over the boot, but instead of spikes these had a bulky, articulating magnetic plate. The hand units were similar but smaller. After a string of quiet curses, Riker was ready and swam up to the hull, where he created his first “handhold” with a dull thud. Next, he brought his knees up and his toe-plates connected to the hull with a double thunk thunk.

  Saw secured two dark-green ropes to Riker’s kit with carabineers and gave him a two-finger salute. Like an ant defying gravity, Riker began the otherwise impossible climb up the side of the ship. When he reached the halfway point, Chunk and the other three SEALs each readied an equally badass piece of ship-

  boarding tech—the Atlas Power Ascender. About the size of a small shoebox, the APA-3 was a battery-powered motor that would zip them up forty feet to board the freighter.

  Upon reaching the top of the gunwale, Riker locked the REBS handhold devices into place. Next, he peeked cautiously over the rail, suspended like Spider-Man on the side of the ship. He looked down over his shoulder and gave Chunk a thumbs-up before unclipping the climbing ropes from his kit and tying them to the gunwale rail. After securing his harness to the rail, he silently slipped out of the REBS, leaving the toe and hand grips stuck to the hull.

  Chunk locked his ascender onto the free end of a dangling rope, then squeezed the handle. The electric motor whirred into action, feeding the nylon rope through a pulley system and propelling him upward. Heels on the hull, he walked up the side of the ship as the power ascender lifted him by the harness. Soon he was dangling midair beside Riker, four stories above the waterline. Twenty seconds later Saw and Trip joined them.

  Chunk let himself hang in his harness, resting his arms for the work ahead, and keyed his mike. “One is set,” he whispered, knowing the Peltor would make his voice crystal clear to the team.

  “Two, all set. Call it, boss,” came Juarez’s reply.

  Chunk got nods from Riker and Trip, while Saw gave him a thumbs-up. Chunk pulled his NVGs into place, then wrapped his right arm around the rail. “Three . . . two . . . one . . .”

  At the zero beat, the SEALs slipped sequentially over the top rail, landing in tactical crouches, their weapons at the ready. Chunk turned
left, feeling a familiar but paradoxical calm spread over him as he cleared his corner and surged forward. Three suppressed rounds kicked off the assault, white flashes lighting up his green-hued night vision as Juarez’s operators shot two men armed with AK-47s who were rising from sleeping mats on the deck. Chunk sensed motion to his left. He turned, put his green targeting dot on the forehead of the large man, eyes wide in surprise, emerging from behind a power box. The guard didn’t even try to raise the rifle slung over his shoulder, but Chunk dropped him with a single shot before the man could cry out and steal their stealth. He crumpled to the deck, and Riker snatched the AK-47 and tossed it over the side. Only seconds had passed, but the eight SEALs had dispatched three armed sentries and cleared the stern.

  Chunk nodded at Juarez, who nodded back, then led his team around the aft tower, as wide as it was tall at five stories above the deck. If these assholes were smart enough to have a sniper on the aft tower or armed lookouts on the forward bridge wings, then crossing and securing the cargo deck would be deadly. Aveda, call sign Mother, back at the TOC, hadn’t reported any heat signatures of concern, but the thought still needled at Chunk’s brain.

  “Two, One—hold at the corner,” Chunk said, keying his mike.

  “Check,” came the reply. “Problem?”

  “No, but if they have a shooter in the aft tower, it could be a problem for you, and especially for Saw moving to his nest.”

  “Roger. How ’bout we clear around the corner and take covered positions on the cargo deck? Somewhere with sightlines up the face of the aft tower and across the deck.”

  “Roger, Two. Go,” Chunk said and advanced his own team—but only to the corner, where he took a tactical knee and held up a closed fist. As his men bunched in behind him, he started his ten count, expecting gunfire. When it didn’t come, he snuck a peek around the corner and got a glimpse of a pair of SEALs repositioning, quickstepping in low crouches.

  A heartbeat later, the report came: “One, Two—we’re dug in.”

  Chunk double-clicked and gazed out at the expansive main cargo deck. He’d seen freighters like these stacked with CONEX boxes as tall and wide as an apartment complex, but this ship was carrying a modest load—only few dozen CONEX boxes, half of them strapped down in four small distinct clusters, and the rest stacked all the way forward. He quickly scanned for threats, and finding none, his eyes settled on a loading crane in the center of the deck. He pointed to Saw, then to the crane.

  The sniper nodded and crept up beside him.

  “Two, One—Three is Zeus now,” Chunk said, changing Saw’s designator. “Hold and cover until he’s in the nest.”

  A double click told him Juarez understood. Of all the assignments on tonight’s op, Saw crossing the cargo deck and climbing up the crane tower to provide overwatch was the most dangerous: he was completely exposed and vulnerable.

  Chunk turned to his sniper, and Saw flashed him an easy grin.

  “Go,” Chunk said and watched the SEAL streak forward along the starboard rail, a shadowy blur of lethal precision. Saw disappeared, only to reappear a minute later climbing the crane ladder with smooth, practiced efficiency. But every second his teammate was on that ladder, Chunk’s guts were in knots.

  Finally, the call came.

  “Two, this is Zeus,” said Saw’s calm, confident voice. “Zeus has good eyes.”

  Chunk double-clicked, then said, “Two, One—clear the deck.”

  “Roger, One. Clearing the deck,” Juarez came back.

  Chunk leaned around the corner and watched two pairs of SEALs advance from their hides and fan out toward the next cluster of CONEX boxes. He turned to Riker and Trip and was about to chop a hand forward when night became day.

  “Shit,” he barked, flipping his NVGs onto his helmet and squinting.

  Halogen floodlights illuminated the cargo deck. Chunk and his SEALs made themselves small.

  “They know we’re here,” Chunk growled.

  “Neptune, Mother—we hold two new heat signatures on the conning tower. One shooter has stepped out onto each bridge wing, port and starboard sides,” came the report from Aveda in the TOC.

  The first round fired was from Saw, the distinctive sound of the .338 Lapua Magnum high-velocity round screaming across the deck. A volley of AK-47 fire echoed next, followed immediately by the staccato crack of 5.56 as the SEALs went to work with their assault rifles. A second sniper round whistled above the fray and Chunk watched a body fall from the port bridge wing.

  “One, Zeus—Bridge shooters are KIA,” Saw reported.

  “Roger, Zeus. Mother, what else you see?” Chunk queried, while using hand signals to direct Trip to sweep the stern, thereby covering their six.

  “Neptune, we’ve got heat sigs moving inside the bridge tower. Expect more resistance,” Aveda came back.

  Chunk turned to Riker. “With me,” he barked and advanced across the cargo deck.

  A deck hatch popped open fifteen meters away, catching Chunk’s immediate attention. He hovered his green infrared target designator a foot above the opening. But instead of a head popping up like he expected, a soda can-sized object arced out of the hatch and sailed toward the middle of the deck.

  “Grenade amidships!” Chunk shouted and hit the deck as the grenade flew into the gap between clusters of CONEX boxes—the exact spot where he thought one or more of Juarez’s team might be sheltering.

  The grenade detonated with a resounding pop, sending shrapnel ricocheting off the deck and punching holes in the sides of the shipping containers.

  Chunk knelt and performed a quick self-assessment: Nothing burning, grinding, or leaking—I’m good. He brought his rifle up and lit up the hatch with his IR designator. “Zeus, put a round down the open hatch, starboard amidships where I’m pointing.”

  “Check,” came Saw’s reply, followed by a .338-caliber lightning bolt streaking into the hole. “That’ll make him think twice before lobbing another grenade.”

  “Neptune, SITREP?” Chunk queried his team.

  “Four is intact,” Riker said, falling in tight beside Chunk.

  “Neptune Two is intact,” came Juarez a split second later, speaking for the entire team.

  “Neptune, you’ve got fire teams stepping out of the bridge tower at deck level,” Aveda reported.

  Chunk scanned the walkway along the gunwale and saw two crouching figures duck out of the outboard hatch, moving like operators. Riker squeezed off a volley a millisecond before Chunk, and together they dropped the lead shooter. The second shooter returned fire. A tracer round sailed past Chunk’s right ear as bullets sparked off the gunwale. Working together, Riker strafed the ground in front of the shooter, sending him scrambling, and Chunk dropped him with a headshot. The path now clear, he chopped a hand forward and they were advancing side by side, a heartbeat later.

  “Forty Mike-Mike that hole,” Chunk shouted as they passed the open hatch they’d been ambushed from minutes earlier.

  “Gladly,” Riker said and sent a 40-mm grenade down the hatch from the undermounted M203 launcher on his weapon.

  The grenade detonated behind them with a satisfying boom and an aftershock that shook the deck beneath their feet as they ran. Gunfire echoed from the port side, where Juarez’s element was engaging an enemy fire team.

  “One, Two—two tangos KIA portside. Who are these assholes?” Juarez asked, his voice ripe with aggravation.

  “Don’t know, but they’ve had training,” Chunk said. He put a round in the back of the head of the first enemy shooter they had dropped seconds ago. The other combatant was missing half his head and clearly out of the fight. Chunk’s brain cataloged other tactical details as he sprinted past the bodies to the outboard side of the bridge tower, where he and Riker stopped and pressed their backs against the metal bulkhead.

  “You expect this much resistance?” Riker asked, scanning vertically with his rifle, making sure some new asshole on the bridge wing didn’t drop a grenade or worse on their asses.