Power Play (48 page)

His ship would be known and remembered for that mission of mercy, and that would surely put off interfering US customs officials from giving him a hard time. With his radio operator announcing, in English, that the five-thousand-ton Russian freighter was making all speed toward the sinking ship, he raised his night-vision Red Army binoculars and stared straight ahead, out of the wide bridge windows. His pale-blue eyes scanned through the darkness for the red running light he knew was out there, somewhere.

The Irish radio operator called over to Captain Bedford, almost unrecognizable in his combat gear, face blacked up with cammy cream and his green-and-brown camouflage-colored bandanna, the headgear SEALs fondly describe as their “drive-on rag.”

“Sir, they got the signal,” called the operator. “Russian freighter
Koryak
making all speed dead toward. We should pick up red-and-green running lights in about ten minutes.”

Mack Bedford punched the air with delight. That signal represented the one part of this mission over which he had no control. He could order the SOS to be broadcast over and over, but there was nothing, repeat
nothing,
he could do if the Russian CO chose to ignore it.

“Beautiful,” he said.

The SEALs were at
Action Stations!
Chief Sharp had the marksmen in two strict teams of four, strategically placed on the upper decks, facing out
over the high port side. The boat was rocking and rolling in the choppy sea, and everyone knew the task of the gunners was way beyond the capabilities of ordinary troops. But these men had trained for literally thousands of hours, as no other combat troops on earth.

At 2110 the
Koryak
spotted the Irish cutter and made radio contact. At the same time, Mack Bedford’s two SEALs on the bow spotted the lights of the Russian ship. Mack told the operator to speak in English and to inform the Russians they should slow down to ten knots and the
Róisín
would limp forward at five knots.

At the RV point, could they turn to the northeast? That way the Irish cutter would attempt to come in, high port side to the Russian starboard, and hook up. They had lines, big fenders, and plenty of crew. If the Russians could just help secure the ships together, they could evacuate before
Róisín
finally went down.

Kapitan Gromyko’s operator sent a confirming message. The SEAL team could see the big Russian freighter up ahead, well lit and moving slowly. Captain Farrell immediately observed that she was not particularly high in the water, more a result of her old-fashioned Russian design than cargo weight.

In fact, in Joe Farrell’s estimation, the ships would close together with only about five feet difference in height, from
Róisín
’s rails to
Koryak
’s big cleats. This would make a major difference to Mack Bedford’s opening assault party, which was prepared, if necessary, to rope-climb twenty feet to the point where their grappling hooks gripped the dark-blue rails on the Russian hull.

At this moment the climbers were well hidden in the shadows of the upper works, but they wore their helmets, the ones with the lights and radios, and their M4s were slung over their backs. The six men charged with securing the lines were now dressed in their oilskins, with four of them positioned aft and two for’ard.

The first moment the ships were locked together, all six would retreat into the shadows and cast off their foul-weather coats. Four of them, the Special Forces frogs, would move inside to pull on their wet suits, ready for the dive under the hull to fix the limpet mines.

The other two would stand in reserve to assist the attack party at a moment’s notice, but, for the first twenty minutes of the assault, they would prepare one end of the crew dining room as a hospital, fixing cots and
laying out bandages, dressings, blood transfusion bottles, sterile hypodermics, and morphine.

The two SEALs designated to work the searchlights were already in place, dressed in full combat gear and helmets, ready, if required, to climb the rope ladders and join the fight. This may seem like detailed planning to the umpteenth degree. But to SEALs, this is a way of life. They are trained to fight every day if necessary, and they know precisely what to do at each stage of the battle:
to move forward, to fall back (rare), to provide covering fire for the assault leaders, to engage the enemy, to search, rescue, attack.
It’s all second nature to them.

The avowed creed and philosophy of the Navy SEALs are not carried into combat in any handbook, or set of rules, because that would be superfluous. It’s written, in letters of pure gold, on their hearts:

Thus, Mack Bedford’s SEAL Team 10 stood poised for action, in the shadows, weapons primed, certain of their personal tasks, certain of their mission, and certain of their duty to their nation. They were enormous men in every sense, including the iron master chief, Brad Charlton, who stood “only” five feet, ten inches, but whose men would follow him into the fires of hell.

Right now he had his left arm slightly raised, signaling absolute stillness, until the moment when they all charged for the grappling lines and rope ladders and then toward the freighter’s for’ard hold, where the nuclear warheads were hidden.

Slowly, the two ships closed together, Captain Farrell on the helm of the
Róisín,
edging the heeled-over cutter forward, along
Koryak
’s starboard hull, until they were almost aft to aft. The two sets of seamen were facing each other, and the Russians were waving, although this gesture of friendship was not returned, mostly because the Americans were nervous about dropping their light machine guns in the middle of the joyous greeting.

“STAND BY FOR THE LINES!”
yelled the Irish boatswain, staring across the few feet of ocean that separated the two ships. Together all six
lines were thrown, grabbed, and cleated off on the big cast-iron fittings on the
Koryak
’s main decks.

Mack Bedford swiftly counted a total of six working deckhands, and there must be a couple more up for’ard, the guys who had caught the lines. He could also see two seamen at the aft end of one of the upper decks. No one else.

He hit the buttons on his cell, just
SH,
and Chief Sharp answered instantly. “I got six aft,” said Mack. “And there’s gotta be two for’ard. See those two guys on that upper deck? I think that’s all. Ten total.”

“Roger that, boss,” replied Cody.

He immediately sent one of his marksmen to deal with
Koryak
’s foredeck, and only four more seconds elapsed before Mack Bedford’s right arm, briefly illuminated by a spotlight, swept downward, and the devastating SEAL attack opened up.

High above, the two big searchlights burst into life and sent a brutal beam straight into the eyes of the Russian deckhands.

Chief Sharp’s sharpshooters opened fire and gunned down all six of them in the aft area. Up front, a single SEAL gunner hit both Russians on the foredeck, and Cody’s Assault Group 1 cut down the two sailors on duty in the upper works.

Simultaneously, the grappling irons flew across the narrow waterway between the ships and clanked onto the high railings. The opening SEAL assault group, led by Mack himself, tested the knotted ropes for strength and then swung through the air like acrobats, the soles of their feet slamming into the hull with a dull and decisive thud, as precise as any corps de ballet, but a bit heavier and not quite so graceful.

“FUCK!”
growled one of them, scraping his knee on the hull, but then his boots gripped the knot, and with two heaves he was up and over, standing on the
Koryak
’s deck surrounded by dead Russian sailors and lining up with his three fellow climbers.

Without a word they raced for the aft entrance to the fo’c’sle, leaving the boss to check the grappling irons and then throw each rope back to the waiting members of Assault Group 2. Mack tightened the special cast-steel shackles he’d brought with him to attach two new rope ladders to the rail posts, and he tossed them, too, to the waiting SEAL climbers.

A half minute later he had a total of ten combat warriors on board the
Koryak,
and once more he pulled up the grappling ropes and threw them
down to the final six climbers, one of whom, Mack’s bodyguard, would remain with him while the others fanned out and helped to capture the ship. This was a very dangerous time because it was not possible to ascertain how many Russians now knew they had a hostile enemy force on board.

At this point the two big SEAL searchlights were scanning the aft deck, while the fifteen-strong huddle of SEALs awaited final orders from Mack. Swiftly, the team commander joined them and ordered them inside the ship, taking the port and starboard doors into the passageways.

Simultaneously, Mack went through to Command Center and ordered the
Koryak
’s comms system destroyed. Two RPGs ripped across the deck and smashed into the radio masts, including the giant air-surface search radar. Chief Sharp himself could still see another mast jutting into the night sky, and while he was uncertain what it was supposed to do, he slammed it anyway, with another RPG, magnificently aimed.

Also, from Cody’s vantage point, it seemed the outside lights, all over the fo’c’sle, could not possibly be doing anyone any good except the Russians, who could see from anywhere their ship was under a heavy and murderous attack. There must have been a dozen areas that were brightly lit, illuminating secret places, and spilling light out, all over the place.

He ordered his SEAL marksmen to punch out every lightbulb on the ship, and that included running lights, mast lights, and automatic lights over the lifeboats. No one with a Russian passport was going anywhere tonight. The accuracy of the silenced M4s, firing from the darkened
Róisín,
would have made an Olympic shooting judge blink with admiration. There were sixteen bulbs, and it took four shots each, from four men.

The core action of the operation was now taking place inside the ship. Brad Charlton led his team along the starboard edge of the interior, watching for a downward companionway. The SEALs moved two by two, and the first problem came after only twenty yards when two young Russian officers, both armed with service revolvers, suddenly burst out of a cabin and faced these terrifying, black-faced, bearded, and armed intruders.

No one spoke, but Brad Charlton’s M4 spat fire, one short volley, and the two Russians would never speak again. With a sharp, beckoning movement to his team, following along the passage, Master Chief
Charlton pressed right on toward the for’ard hold where his objective was hidden.

They trotted through the narrow ship’s corridors, in that half crouch SEALs adopt when moving to attack. There was only one door on the left side, and Brad wrenched it open and threw in a grenade, which blew almost instantly and ensured no one would run out of there in much of a hurry.

By now almost the entire ship’s company was aware they were under attack; even away at the farthest point, the officers in the bridge control room knew something very serious had happened. They’d heard gunfire, and they’d heard the explosions as their comms system was blown to high heaven.

All lines seemed dead, except for the one emergency open line to Northern Command, and instinctively Kapitan Gromyko made for it and hit the connect button. Too late. Captain Mack Bedford came rushing through the door and shot the CO dead before tossing a grenade straight at the desk in front of the comms keyboards.

There was just time for the SEAL commander to duck out and jump down onto the stairway that led to the bridge. The grenade exploded and blew the back wall of the control room to smithereens. In a split second Mack was back in, thrilled there was no further possibility of any kind of communication with the Russian ops room in Severomorsk, and even more gratified to see there was no one left alive on the bridge.

All five members of Kapitan Gromyko’s afterguard had died in the blast, and the CO himself had not had time even to regret embarking on this lethal mission of mercy. Mack wondered whether there was a Russian version of the fable
No good deed goes unpunished
.

Outside he could hear a commotion as at least three Russian crewmen came stampeding up the stairs toward the bridge, shouting and yelling,
“Kapitan . . . Kapitan!”
Mack let them keep coming, stood behind the door, and cut them down one by one as they entered the remains of the shattered control room.

By now he was confident Team 10 had the ship. Listening carefully, he could hear from deep in the hull scattered bursts of machine-gun fire as the SEALs methodically cleared the place out, extinguishing even the semblance of a chance that someone might decide to put up a fight.

Outside it was very dark now, and the decks were no longer under
lights. Only the two SEAL searchlights still pierced the blackness of the Atlantic night, scanning slowly across the ship, like the satanic beams of a Nazi concentration camp, searching for weakness. Or defiance.

Mack Bedford’s raiders had smashed forward with their mission, eliminating all opposition. There had been no major outside noise since Cody’s boys had knocked down the masts. The outer steel of the big Russian freighter had muffled her own death throes.

The radars of both the
Róisín
and the
Koryak
had revealed no other shipping anywhere near. It was just possible there had been another vessel within range of that SOS, that the instantly recognizable
dit-dit-dit-daah-daah-daah-dit-dit-dit
had been heard on some remote airwave somewhere in this vast ocean.