By Dawn's Early Light, page 17
The water was filled with rotting garbage and oil slicks that were roiled up and frothy in the short, sharp whitecaps. Behind them, to the east and west, a thousand meters or more out to sea, they could see the lights of perhaps as many as a dozen fast-moving patrol boats. With all the racket they were making, Seawolf would be in no real danger of detection unless one of them accidentally ran directly overhead.
Jackson gave Terri the thumbs-up signal, and she immediately headed toward the beach. The others fell in behind her at ten-meter intervals.
It took them almost an hour to reach the beach, where they lay in the surf to watch for patrols.
There were a lot more lights here than they’d been able to pick out from two kilometers offshore. The mouth of the Hab River was between them and Kandrach. A bridge crossed a couple of klicks inshore, and from where they lay they could see some traffic. More lights moved along the river, and farther inland, maybe several kilometers, were lights on a tower or possibly a power plant smokestack. It was not on their charts.
There was more activity here than promised in the briefing package Jackson had read. A lot more activity.
One hundred meters from the water’s edge the hardscrabble beach gave way to sand dunes, low scrub grass, some scraggly-looking trees, and three sandbagged gun emplacements.
As they watched, an APC came up the beach, its lights off. They were able to hear it before they saw it, and Jackson motioned for them to stay down and to remain absolutely still until it passed. The spotter standing up in the turret was probably wearing night vision glasses.
It was an old Russian BRDM-1, with a crew of five that mounted a 7.62 mm SGMB machine gun. In a real firefight up against a tank, it wasn’t worth much. But against someone crawling up from the beach it would do the job.
It passed slowly east to west, and when they could no longer hear its exhaust, Jackson pointed out the three sandbagged gun emplacements to make sure everyone was clear on exactly where they were.
If anyone spotted them, or if they had to fire a single shot, the game would be up and they would have to hightail it back to the rendezvous and wait for the Seawolf to come pick them up. If that happened there was little doubt what the ISI would do to the American prisoners. At the very least they would be tortured and beaten, if that hadn’t already occurred.
Jackson motioned for them to move out. This time he took point, the other three at close enough intervals that they could reach out and touch the ankle of the SEAL ahead of them.
As they crawled one meter at a time up the beach from the water, Jackson’s every sense was attuned to his environment. He was as aware of his people behind him and the activity out to sea as he was of the lack of activity for the moment on the beach, the gun emplacements they had to slip past, and every square centimeter of scrabble and sand in his path.
If he was expecting an armed party to come ashore, he would have booby-trapped the beach with contact mines or Claymores. Not only would something like that slow down the invaders, it would provide an early warning perimeter.
Fifty meters up from the water, Jackson stopped. A nearly invisible monofiliment line at nose level was just a few centimeters in front of his face. He followed the line out in either direction with his eyes, but he couldn’t see where it connected.
He reached back and touched the top of MacKeever’s head. Shooter’s eyes narrowed behind his camo paint.
Jackson gave hand signals to indicate the line, and that they were to crawl over it without disturbing whatever trigger it might be connected to.
MacKeever nodded his understanding and relayed the instructions.
Jackson probed the sand directly on the other side of the wire to make sure that it was clear. He rose up a little and straddled the line, and then carefully moved completely across, making sure that the toe of his boot cleared.
When he was over he waited for MacKeever to cross, then moved forward a couple of meters to let Ercoli clear the trip wire.
As soon as Terri brought up the rear, Jackson headed for a spot halfway between the two gun emplacements toward the west.
Twenty meters out a red light showed briefly from an open doorway. Jackson froze. The others behind him, realizing that their point man had stopped, did the same.
A Pakistani soldier in night fighter camos appeared in silhouette a couple of meters west of his bunker. He stretched, looked out to sea, then directly at Jackson.
For several seconds the soldier remained staring at Jackson, but then he turned and walked a few meters back toward the sand dunes and brush. He undid his web belt, slid his trousers and underwear down around his ankles, then squatted to pee. It was the Muslim way.
When he was finished he got up, pulled up his pants and donned his web belt and holster, then went directly back to the gun mount.
Jackson waited a few minutes in case the soldier’s bunker mate also needed to take a pee. When that didn’t happen he moved out.
The beach gave way to a series of low, rounded sand dunes behind which were scrub grass and short, gnarly trees that reminded Jackson of olive trees he’d seen in the south of Spain. He’d been over there a few years ago on a training mission with the Spanish special forces.
Beyond the dunes and trees the coastal highway ran roughly parallel to the beach, crossing the Hab River a couple of kilometers to the east.
Jackson checked his watch. They’d locked out of the submarine one hour and fifty-eight minutes ago. They were due back at the rendezvous with the four American prisoners, who were probably banged up and would not be able to move very fast in four hours.
Time was running short.
There was no traffic for the moment. Jackson turned back and explained what he wanted to do.
“I’ll be the hitman,” he told them. “Terri will be the decoy.”
A big grin spread across her narrow, pretty face. “All’s fair in love and war, F/X,” she said.
“That’s the truth,” he replied. “We’re looking for a truck. No comms antenna. Wait for my signal.”
Terri nodded, and started taking off her equipment pack and unslinging her LAWs rocket.
Keeping low, Jackson darted across the road, taking up position in the opposite water-filled ditch. He took off his equipment pack because he was going to have to move fast. He screwed the silencer on the end of his Sig-Sauer P226 9mm autoloader pistol.
The first two vehicles to pass were automobiles, one a battered Mercedes and the other an old Russian Lada. The third was a tanker heading toward the city, and the fourth was a personnel transport truck, its canvas sides rolled up.
Jackson glassed the truck, which was coming across the bridge from Kandrach, with his low-lux binoculars. He could make out that the driver was alone, but very few other details until the truck got within one hundred meters of his position.
The driver was definitely alone. He was wearing an army cap and there was no communications antenna. There were no soldiers in the back.
Jackson motioned at the oncoming truck. Terri waved back.
When the truck was less than fifty meters away, Terri casually got up and walked out onto the road. She had stripped to her bra and panties, her white skin almost incandescent in the truck’s headlights. She had left her boots on, but she had wiped the camo paint off her face.
The truck driver jammed on the brakes.
Jackson checked to make sure that the bridge was still clear and that nothing was coming from the opposite direction. They only needed a couple of minutes for this to work. Considering how long it had taken them to get this far, and how much farther the ISI prison was, they needed transportation even if it meant taking a chance.
Terri smiled and raised a hand as the truck came to a complete halt. She headed over to where it had stopped, the driver’s eyes practically popping out of their sockets.
Jackson rose up and crossed the road in a run, keeping an eye on the back of the driver’s head.
At the last moment he jumped up on the passenger-side running board. Terri ducked down as the truck driver, sensing someone behind him, started to turn.
Jackson fired three shots into the driver’s head, blood and brains splattering out the open window.
They had transportation.
8
0115 LOCAL
SEAWOLF
The fifth surface target closed in from the southeast.
“Talk to me, Ski,” Dillon said calmly. He was at the door to the sonar room. “Can you give me the type?”
“Stand by one, skipper,” Zimenski said, fine-tuning his BSY-2 display.
They’d been at it for a couple of hours, ever since they’d settled on the bottom less than thirty yards from the wreck of what was probably an old freighter. It seemed as if half the Pakistani navy had suddenly shown up and started pinging all over the place in a serious effort to find them.
The first question was how did they know that the Seawolf, or any other submarine for that matter, was going to be here? The answer was fairly simple in Dillon’s mind. They’d been betrayed again by the spy in the Pentagon.
But that brought up a whole host of other problems. Like how the hell did the spy know even before the Seawolf knew where they were going? Or, what sort of reception was Jackson and his team getting ashore? Or, when it came time to make their pickup, how was he going to do it without shooting at every ship up there?
No submarine commander enjoyed being caught between shallow water shoreward and the open water seaward by a fleet of hostile ASW surface ships.
“Skipper, sierra five is an Amazon class frigate. Bearing one four zero, range eighteen thousand yards, and closing at twenty-three knots.”
“Do they have us?”
Zimenski looked over his shoulder and grinned. He was loving this. “Not a chance, sir. They’re making so much noise I don’t think they could pick out their own blade counts.”
“But they’re pinging?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep on it. We’ve got a few hours to get through yet,” Dillon said. He went back to the control room where Bateman and Alvarez joined him at the forward plotting table. Brown was plotting sierra five’s position, bearing, course, and speed.
“It’s a British-built Amazon class frigate,” Dillon said. “The Pakistani navy has redesignated it the Tariq class. But the point is, she’s a strong ASW platform. Carries a Lynx chopper and a good ASW weapons load, including a couple of our CAPTOR mines, and the British Spearhead torpedo that we’d be hard pressed to outrun.”
It was clear from the plotted positions of the surface ships, which included two fast patrol vessels, two British-built Leander class ASW frigates, and the Tariq, that the Pakistani navy knew that a submarine was here and that they were attempting to box it in.
“We could get out of here right now,” Bateman said. “Come back in a few hours after they’d realized they’d missed us.” He was playing devil’s advocate and everyone knew it.
“We’d be leaving the SEAL team hanging,” Alvarez bridled. In the ’hood you took care of your own. By his reckoning it was no different in the navy.
“Just a suggestion,” Bateman said. “I’m talking plain and simple navy math,” He looked at Dillon. “It’s something we have to consider.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but what’s navy math?” Ensign Brown asked.
“Four SEALS plus four American prisoners makes eight,” Alvarez explained. “We’re carrying a crew of one hundred thirty-four. The math says you don’t kill one hundred thirty-four people to save eight.”
“That sucks,” Brown blurted.
“I agree,” Alvarez said strongly. They all looked at the CO.
“Relax, we’ve got a few hours yet,” Dillon said. He glanced at the chart, and then looked up again. “We will not leave anyone behind.”
9
0200 LOCAL
KANDRACH ISI PRISON
The lights suddenly came on and the charge of quarters was standing in the open doorway shouting something.
Captain Amin came awake slowly, despite the commotion. He was in the president’s palace; his wife and and mistress and all their children were with him. His first star was being pinned on his shoulder boards. Afterwards there was to be a lavish party on the grounds, with entertainment, food, drink, even fireworks.
“Captain, there is an urgent call for you from Chaklala. Priority red,” the CQ shouted.
Amin opened his eyes, then sat up abruptly. “What are you doing here?” he screamed. He looked at his bedside clock. It was the middle of the night. His rage peaked. He threw back the covers, grabbed the Soviet PSM semiautomatic from beneath his pillow and scrambled out of bed, cocking the pistol as he went.
The CQ stepped back in alarm. “Captain, it is General Asif on the secure line for you, sir!”
Something of what the hapless enlisted man was saying penetrated Amin’s fog. “What did you say?”
“General Asif is on the secure line, sir. We are going to come under attack at any moment.”
A liter of ice water plugged directly into his brain. “The Americans,” he muttered. “Sound the alert!”
“No, sir,” the CQ replied, holding his ground now that he realized Amin wasn’t going to shoot him. “The general wants to speak to you before we do anything.”
“At least get the base commander out of bed,” Amin said.
He pulled on his trousers and boots, then followed the CQ outside, across the administration complex parade ground and into the communications center.
He couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. Nothing was getting done. The four enlisted man and one junior lieutenant were sitting around looking at him as if he was an apparition. They were making no calls. They were warning nobody. Their collars were open. There were teacups and food on the table. Pigs lived here.
He snatched the secure phone and pushed the talk button, but before he spoke to the general he screamed at the slovenly troops in front of him.
“This base is coming under attack and all you can think about are your stomachs? Alert the base, you godless idiots. But do it quietly so we can set the trap I’ve designed. Now! Or do I have to do everything myself?”
The soldiers scrambled to their feet without a clue what they were supposed to do. The call from Chaklala was for Amin only, and the CQ had been carefully instructed not to sound the general alarm. And what was this trap the captain was talking about? He’d not mentioned it before now.
Amin smiled inwardly as he turned back to the phone. “This is Captain Amin. Good morning, General Asif. Are they actually coming here?”
“At any moment,” Asif said. “Frankly I’m relieved that you seem to be ready down there. There is a submarine parked just off our coast in a hundred meters of water, and four American SEALs are on their way to you as we speak.”
“Pardon me, sir, but why hasn’t the beach patrol taken care of them? Only four men?”
“I don’t know. But you can expect an attack very soon. I want you to stop them, no matter what it takes. They must not be allowed to get anywhere near the prisoners. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Perfectly, General.”
“If you think there’s a chance that you can not hold, then kill all five of your prisoners. Is that perfectly clear as well?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“Very well, Captain. Carry on.”
“Are reinforcements being sent, General?”
“Do you feel that you need them?” the general demanded.
“Of course not, sir. I merely wished to know if anyone else would be approaching this installation tonight.”
10
0230 LOCAL
KANDRACH ISI PRISON
Jackson crawled through the grass to the edge of the dirt road. Ercoli was ten meters behind him, just outside the cleared no-man’s zone alongside the fence.
Terri had crawled to a position across the road from Jackson. MacKeever was ten meters behind her.
The prison was quiet, and mostly in darkness. There didn’t seem to be anyone in the guard towers along the razor wire and chain-link fence. Nor was the fence illuminated. Nothing moved inside the compound and only a few lights came from the service doors of what might have been the motor pool to the west, and around what probably was the communications center to the east. A generator chugged softly in the night air behind the building, and there were a lot of wires and antennae atop the low, cement-block structure.
A SAM missile emplacement was hidden beneath camouflage netting just outside the prison fence toward the rear of the camp, but the radar dish was not moving nor did the site seem to be guarded.
Nothing was adding up in Jackson’s mind. This was a working installation. There were cars and trucks and a couple of APCs parked here and there. The buildings and fences were in good repair. The generator was operating and there were some lights. But the place felt deserted.
Terri raised up and rocked her left hand, palm down, back and forth: “What’s going on?”
He shook his head and motioned for her to wait one.
They’d gotten rid of the driver’s body in a ditch on the way up from the coastal highway about eight klicks south. Then they’d parked the truck at the entrance to a gravel pit. Ercoli had gone under the hood and had removed the coil wire so that no one could come along and take their ride. Then they had made their way the last thousand meters here.
The camp was about one hundred meters on a side. A small, windowless cement-block building directly in the center of the compound was surrounded by a tall chain-link fence of its own, with a serious-looking gate made of interlocking metal tubes. It looked like a vertical Venus’s-flytrap. Get caught in there, and you’d never get out.
The inner building had to be the lockup where the four Americans were being held.
The initial plan was for Ercoli and MacKeever to go through the fence on either side of the main gate and assault the camp from two directions, making as much noise and smoke as possible.
