HANGMAN1.ZIP - SEALS STRATEGIC WARFARE OPERATION HANGMAN [066-066-4.9]

By:  Mike Martell

Category:  Fiction Military

Synopsis:

The Briefing: A CIA spook in pinstrips lays out the scenario
and the SEALs are his: a deadly quarter of America's best,
handpicked for the front-lines in the war against terrorism. The
Preparation: Every contingency is planned for. There can be no
mistakes in the life-or-death, clockwork completion of a
multi-phase operation half a world away. Failure is not an option.
The Plan: To fight terror with terror. The Mission: Infiltrate a
hostile terrorist training camp. Destroy a shipping lane. Disrupt
the transfer of terrorist monies. Free a captive spy. Strike hard
and fast and deadly with all the firepower they can carry to
achieve the ultimate goal: the termination of the world's most
dangerous, elusive, and well-protected madman. The time is now.
An electrifying novel of covert warfare that authentically
re-creates a top secret SEALs op, from inception through
preparation to the bloody confrontation, complete with maps, weapon
illustrations, and briefings. This is the story of how the work
gets done ... and done right. Violence. 1st novel in the "SEALs,
Strategic Warfare" series, 2000.

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by Mike Martell

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PROLOGUE

Even by naval standards, the office was spartan. Lieutenant Anthony T.
Holman always kept his desk clear of all but whatever he was working on
at the moment. The only routine occupants of the desktop were his
telephone, an oversized coffee mug, and an ashtray tooled from the
casing of a five-inch shell. Although smoking was officially prohibited
in the building, Holman continued to smoke, averaging half a pack during
the typical work day. The desk was standard, a utilitarian gray metal
artifact of more than twenty years' service--far more time than the
lieutenant had put in. His chair was slightly newer, but done in the
same ubiquitous gray color, as was the single file cabinet in the
corner. The only decorations on the walls were a clock and a single
framed photograph. Holman's predecessors had always kept a portrait of
the current President there.

Holman had a picture of the frigate USS Mahan, the first ship he had
served aboard, before he had volunteered for the SEALS.

Holman answered a knock on his office door with

"Come in," and looked up at the clock. It was 0930 hours.

"Chief Lucan is here, sir," Holman's yeoman said, only opening the door
far enough to stick his head through the opening. "Send him in," Holman
said, nodding.

Chief Petty Officer Frank Lucan entered, stood at attention in front of
the platoon leader's desk, and saluted--not with any great military
precision. Frank had twenty-one years in the U.S. Navy, almost all of it
in the SEALS. Five foot seven inches tall, and stocky, with his hair
starting to gray, CPO Lucan was not the type to overawe anyone at first
glance, unless you noticed his eyes--dark brown, almost black--when he
was angry, or working.

"You wanted to see me, Skipper?" Frank asked after Lieutenant Holman
returned the casual salute. The two men were physically very different.

Lieutenant Holman was tall and broad. He had been a defensive linebacker
in college, and he had never allowed himself to get out of shape.

"Sit down, Frank." Holman waited until the chief was seated on one of
the two wooden visitors' chairs in the office. "Langley is sending a man
over."

Frank nodded. Langley meant Central Intelligence Agency.

"I can't give you details--hell, I don't know any details--but it's a
big job for a four-man team, and they want our best. The skipper went
over this with all the platoon leaders. It works out you, Guisborne,
Rhodes, and Jensen. You'll have several weeks of preparatory training,
then three weeks on the job."

"Jensen, sir?"

The lieutenant's eyes narrowed a bit. "You've trained with him, Frank.
You know he's good. We've got to use him before he goes state.

Wishing you still had Mcveigh is useless. He's out of the Teams." Frank
had worked with Arnold Mcveigh for a dozen years, and a more perfect
team mate was beyond Frank's imagination, but Mcveigh had asked for a
transfer back to the fleet until his retirement. He was an airedale now,
serving aboard an aircraft carrier in the Pacific, his sunset cruise.

"Yes, sir. He's good. Just a little green."

"He'll stay green until he gets a chance to prove himself," Holman said.

"Have the others been notified yet, sir?"

Holman shook his head. "You'll do that, after you hear what the Agency
man has to say."

"Any idea at all what the mission is about, Lieutenant?" "Vaguely."
Holman paused before he continued. "You've heard of Faud ibn Landin?

"Of course," Frank said. "Rich terrorist with delusions of grandeur.

Thinks he can take on the whole western world by himself." Holman
smiled. "Not quite by himself. That's what the rumble is about. This
Landin is trying to unite a bunch of terrorist organizations in the
Middle East under his command. He's dangerous enough alone, with his
money and his ability to convince people to take suicidal chances in his
holy war. If he can combine the organizations and manpower of all of
these other groups, he can play hell with us. The way I understand it,
he's trying to set up a large conference of terrorist leaders--sort of a
constitutional convention--to finalize things. The Agency wants to spoil
it, and they hope to neutralize him--and maybe some of the other
bigwigs--while he's distracted. Anything more than that, you'll have to
get from the Agency man. He should be here fairly soon."

"You know the spook?" Frank asked. The question was reasonable. The
platoon had provided teams for CIA operations fairly often over the past
decade.

"The name I was given is Harry Tombs. It doesn't ring a bell." "Never
heard of him," Frank said, shaking his head. "Not that it means much.
Hard telling how many names he uses. He might not remember them all
himself."

Holman grinned and shook his head. "Don't start out on the wrong foot,
Frank. Give the man a chance before you start jabbing needles into him."

Frank snorted. "Only spook I ever had any use for was Casper."

Harry Tombs arrived wearing a blue pinstriped suit with creases that
looked as if they had been laminated to stay sharp, thin blue tie, white
dress shirt. His shoes were highly polished, his shave perfect. He made
the two SEALs look shabby in their camouflage battle dress uniforms.
Tombs was slightly under six feet tall and slender. He would have passed
without notice on Wall Street, invisible among the brokers and bankers,
or in any other collection of urban professionals. All he lacked was the
briefcase.

Lieutenant Holman stood when his yeoman brought Tombs in. Chief Lucan
had to rise as well, since the boss had. Holman introduced himself and
Lucan. "Frank will head the team you're taking," he added.

Lucan and Tombs were already staring at each other, sizing one another
up. The looks were as obvious as two fighting cocks waiting to claw each
other to pieces.

"Chief," Tombs said softly, nodding a greeting.

Frank returned the nod, slightly less pronounced. "I understand you've
got some field work for us."

A fraction of a smile came and went so quickly from the intelligence
agent's face, that it might have been missed by an onlooker. "That's
right," Tombs said.

"We might as well sit and take a load off," Lieutenant Holman said,
glancing between the two. "Mr. Tombs, Frank has been in the Teams for
twenty years. He's the best we've got for the kind of operation
described."

"This isn't the time for a full briefing," Tombs said, ignoring the
offered chair. "All I can say right now is that we envision a series of
quick in-and-out ops at a number of locations in the Red Sea area. Our
base will be the battle group on patrol there. At least part of the
time."

Frank nodded. He had not expected a minute-by-minute charting of the
mission at this stage. That would involve only the men involved.

Lieutenant Holman had no "need to know."

"You and your men go on alert status immediately," Tombs said. "Get them
together. I'll have transport here for you at one o'clock this
afternoon. Nobody says anything to anyone, no goodbyes to sweethearts or
buddies. Nobody leaves base or goes to married quarters on base. This is
well beyond Top Secret."

"We know the routine, Tombs," Frank said. It came out more harshly than
he had intended. He did not see, but could sense, the frown from
Lieutenant Holman.

"One o'clock, sharp. Ready to go. Right out front." Tombs gestured
toward the front of the building, then walked out of the room.

1

PRE-MISSION

According to the timetable, the anonymous corporate jet should have been
twenty-five minutes from landing in Cairo, Egypt, where its passengers
were to transfer to a helicopter registered to the same corporation. The
flight had started in Naples, Italy. But just before the airplane had
reached the Egyptian coast near Alexandria, the copilot had called the
man the other four passengers knew as Harry Tombs to the cockpit.

Three minutes later, the jet banked left and started to climb.

Chief Petty Officer Frank Lucan snorted softly. He waited thirty seconds
to see if the plane returned to its previous course, and when it didn't,
he looked around to see if his men had noticed.

Quartermaster's Mate 2nd Class Beau Guisborne was slouched in his seat,
leaning against the bulkhead with his eyes closed. That was no certain
evidence that he was sleeping. Six four, with long arms and legs, Beau
looked deceptively mild. But he was the man in the team the others would
least want to meet in a dark alley ... if they weren't certain he was on
their side.

Gunnery Mate 3rd Class Robert Rhodes was working a crossword puzzle,
concentrating solely on it, as if nothing else existed in the universe.
An even six feet tall and lanky, Rob seemed to fit the nicknames he had
picked up ten years earlier when he'd first joined the Teams. Farmer or
Farmboy Rhodes was from Kansas but had never lived or worked on a farm.
Apart from the general excellence in weapons he shared with all the
members of the team, Rhodes had one extra qualification. He was the best
sniper in SEAL Team Six--which had many excellent snipers.

Machinist's Mate 1st Class Ike Jensen had noticed the change in course.
He had been staring out the window on the other side of the cabin, then
turned to meet the chief's gaze.

"Somebody changed the itinerary," Ike said, just loud enough for Frank
to make out the words. At five feet eight inches tall, Ike was nearly as
short as the chief.

"That's what it looks like," Frank agreed.

"You suppose they called off the operation?" Ike asked.

Frank shrugged. "If they did, we'll find out soon enough. Don't sweat
it." Ike was the rookie on the team. He had been a SEAL less than three
years, and had spent more than half of that time going through various
training programs, alone and with other members of the platoon.

"Yeah, don't sweat it, kid," Beau said, opening his eyes just a slit.

He spoke very slowly, taking care to make each word distinct. That habit
had started in boot training, when an instructor had screamed that he
couldn't understand Guisborne's thick Creole accent and threatened dire
consequences if the recruit didn't start speaking English. Even though
the instructor had been forty pounds lighter than Beau, the veteran had
intimidated the youngster from New Orleans' French Quarter. "The pay is
all the same."

Another ten minutes passed--with the plane remaining firmly on a
northerly heading--before they learned anything more. Harry Tombs came
back into the cabin from the cockpit, and said, "Listen up."

The four SEALs all looked at the spook standing in the aisle, his hands
on seat backs on either side to balance him. Rob Rhodes capped his pen
and closed the crossword book around it. Beau straightened up in his
seat.

"Something's come up," Tombs said, "something we have to take care of
before we get on with our main mission." His shrug looked awkward
because of the way he was standing. Short and thin, Tombs would look
anonymous in a crowd of three. None of the SEALs had ever seen Tombs in
action. He was a manager, a controller. None of the SEALs knew anything
of his background. "No one else is close enough to handle this quickly,
and the word from back home is that it has to be handled tonight."

Just tell us what we have to do, Frank thought. We can do without the
pep talk.

THE BRIEFING

"An American has been kidnapped by one of the radical groups operating
in Lebanon. The group that kidnapped him is not one of the major groups
we're targeting, but operates locally under the suffrage of Hezbollah.

More like a neighborhood gang. The hostage is being held in a coastal
village just outside Beirut. We expect that he will be moved tomorrow,
early, perhaps before first light. The U.S. does not want another long,
drawn-out hostage affair in Lebanon, so our orders are to go in and
retrieve the hostage tonight." He paused, but only for an instant.
"There are two important constraints. First, this has to be done with
total secrecy. No one is to know you've been in and out. Get in, rescue
the hostage and neutralize his captors, quietly, if possible, then get
out without any hue and cry. The second constraint is that you don't
leave the prisoner under the control of the terrorists, no matter what.
We want to rescue him, but if that isn't possible, your job is to make
certain that he can't be pumped for whatever information he might have."
"One of your people?" Jensen asked. The implications of what Tombs had
said about not leaving the hostage alive and in control of the
terrorists did not faze him. This was the sort of mission that the team
had trained for. Even among the elite SEALS, they were an
elite--specialists in counter-terrorist measures.

Tombs stared at Jensen for a moment before he answered. "For now, let's
just say that it is someone with knowledge that could compromise our
primary mission to undermine the upcoming summit meeting of terrorist
organizations in Sudan. His identification, if he still has it, is in
the name Carl Smith. There will be photographs of the hostage, maps, and
other necessary information waiting for us when we land at Incirlik."

"That's an Air Force base in Turkey, just outside Adana, for any of you
who might not know," Frank said in something of a stage whisper.

"Carl Smith?" Rob Rhodes asked, under his breath. "We run out of John
Smiths?" No one responded to his remark.

"We'll be met by a Navy helicopter at Incirlik and ferried out to a
waiting submarine, which will take you in as close to the beach as its
commander deems safe, and wait to retrieve you."

"What's the size of the opposition?" Frank asked.

After a habitual hesitation, Tombs said, "Not large. According to
witnesses, there were only three men involved in the snatch. Maybe two
or three additional men were already in the house where they took him.
We don't expect more than that because both the Lebanese government and
the Israelis have been making life too difficult for these splinter
groups lately, forcing them into tighter cell operations. And we don't
have any information that there might be more assets available. It will
be tomorrow, according to what we do know, before they can move the
hostage to friendlier ground--to the Bekah valley, at least--perhaps all
the way to Syria. Like I said, it was a small local group that got lucky
and grabbed more than they were expecting. They'll use them to improve
their own standing with the big boys, just as quickly as they can turn
him over."

"Anything unusual in the way of weapons?" Rob asked.

Tombs shook his head, not too slowly. "Not that we know of. Rifles,
pistols, grenades, maybe one or two Russian-made SAMs. The missiles
shouldn't be a threat. You won't be going in by air."

THE TARGET FOLDER

There was a full target folder waiting for the team when they landed at
Incirlik. It was in a heavy envelope carried inside a briefcase that was
handcuffed to the courier who delivered it to Harry Tombs as soon as the
five men disembarked from their jet. Tombs signed a receipt and the
courier left. Tombs and the SEALs walked a few feet to the helicopter
that was waiting for him, ready to take off.

Frank almost allowed himself to be impressed by how thorough the mission
briefing papers that accompanied the operational order were on such
short notice--especially since he'd assumed it had been coordinated by
CIA rather than Naval Intelligence. He was neither bothered nor amused
by the code names strewn through the cover document for the target
folder. He had long ago decided that those names were chosen by people
who had failed psychological screening for any worthwhile occupation in
the defense establishment.

There were several photographs of the hostage in the package, along with
a detailed physical description and an identification code. There were
satellite photographs of the village and the surrounding countryside,
right down to the beach where the SEALs would go ashore. There were
navigation charts for the area and a topographical map of the land area.

There was also a list of the gear available for their use on the
submarine, along with a few small cases they carried with them.

Harry Tombs left the Navy men to themselves. He sat off by himself
paying only casual attention to them as they started to prepare
themselves for the mission.

The SEALs studied all of the briefing material on the helicopter,
passing the sheets around one at a time. Frank made a few comments as he
handed off the papers. "Memorize the map of the village and the terrain
down to the water," was the instruction he considered most important.
"The house where the hostage is supposedly being held is the one with
the red X on it. We can't carry the map with us or call Traveler's Aid."
Frank had a special gift with maps. He could study a simple map--like
the one that showed the village--for a few minutes and duplicate it from
memory, if necessary.

After everyone had had a chance to look over each of the papers in the
target folder, the four SEALs moved closer together to study the map
together.

"We'll put the boat in here, at the mouth of this dry wadi," Frank said,
stabbing at the paper with his finger. "Work up along that wash as close
in as we can get."

"Looks like they got this scoped out pretty well," Ike said, as Frank
collected the material and stuck it back in the folder. Jensen seemed
relieved.

"Assuming it's worth a damn," Guisborne said after a grunt. "Maybe it is,
maybe it ain't."

"Most of the time it is," Frank said, not wanting to spook the team's
junior member too much. "And even if it isn't, we'll deal with whatever
we find."

THE PREPARATION

The SEALs had only ninety minutes aboard the fast-attack submarine.

As soon as it picked them up, fifty miles off the coast of Lebanon, it
submerged and started a high-speed run toward the insertion point. Their
gear had come aboard with them, in three aluminum crates. The last three
weeks had been much the same for Frank and his men--they were always in
a rush. The team had been alerted for action, then moved immediately
from their barracks at Dam Neck, Virginia, to a facility maintained by
Central Intelligence. There had been refresher training on tactics, the
usual daily calisthenics and running, weapons practice, and a series of
briefings on the coming operation. Then there had been rather circuitous
transportation, taking the men to New York and London, and then on to
Naples. They had seen little of their surroundings in any of those
cities.

Aboard the submarine, the SEALs were given the use of one of the cabins
normally occupied by crewmen--the usual residents warned to stay clear
while the SEALs were there. Frank and his men changed from their
civilian traveling clothes into camouflage BDUs--battle dress
uniforms--and boots, put on their black and dark green camouflage
makeup, then checked out their weapons and other gear. The BDUs were
standard jungle camouflage. At night, that would serve better than
desert camouflage or even all-black clothing.

Although the team wanted this mission to proceed silently, without
alarm, they intended to go in prepared for a fight, which in this case
meant an M-16 rifle.

The M-16 series of weapons was the first small-caliber, high-velocity
weapon fielded by the U.S. military. Intended for use by Special Forces,
it was designed to carry light, consisting primarily of aluminum alloy
and plastic parts, with steel used only where necessary for strength.
Early models were known to cause almost explosive-effect wounds due to
the intentional instability of the projectile; later designs were more
accurate but less destructive. The light weight of the weapon and
ammunition made it unpopular with traditional military commanders, but
the men who actually carry and fight with them have always found them
dependable--as long as they kept them clean. And the SEALs made sure
they kept their weapons clean and ready. Being ready included a KAC
blast suppressor and 100-round C-mag double-drum magazine. If more
ammunition was needed, each man had six standard 30round magazines in
pouches on his web belt.

Each SEAL also carried a pistol and knife, as well as three hand
grenades--two high explosive, one smoke. The pistols, .45 caliber H&K
Mark 23s, were also equipped with suppressors--silencers. Frank and Beau
each carried a second knife in a boot. The load of weapons and
ammunition was heavy, but no one would carry any unnecessary gear on
this mission, no field packs or rations. They had crammed in a quick
meal aboard the submarine. That would have to hold them until they
returned.

"Just keep cool, kid," Frank advised Ike while the four men were getting
ready. "You've never been on an op quite like this. The rest of us have.
Remember your training and keep your head. We'll get you back in one
piece if you don't screw up."

Jensen swallowed and nodded. He had started to think about what might be
coming.

"I hope the intel is right," Rhodes said. "We won't have time to bust
into every house in that village looking for our man." Rob and Frank had
been together on several snatch operations. One, during Operation Desert
Storm, had almost been a disaster. They had been assigned to hit a house
in southeastern Iraq to grab a division commander in the elite
Republican Guard, and he had not been there, but in the next building
over. He had decided to change beds in the middle of the night.

"In and out and leave nothing behind," Frank said. "If the poop is bad,
we still get ourselves out. We run into trouble, we use all the
firepower we carry and disappear before the locals can react."

"It's what we do," Guisborne said softly, as much to himself as to the
others.

THE MISSION

The few feet of sail that the submarine showed as it deployed the SEAL
team were pointed directly at the coast--three nautical miles away. With
a new moon and scattered clouds, there was almost no light. That made no
difference to the SEALS; they wore night-vision goggles. Frank Lucan and
his men got an inflatable rapid penetration boat into the water, then
hurriedly climbed aboard. Almost before the craft's small outboard motor
came to life, the submarine was back below the surface again, leaving
only a few diminishing ripples as evidence that it had ever been there.

All four men stayed as low in the boat as they could, minimizing the
silhouette. Beau handled the engine and steering. He had a diver's
compass strapped to his left wrist, and held the tiller in his right
hand.

Frank and Rob were in the prow of the boat, rifles at the ready, though
there was little likelihood that they would need them before reaching
the coast. Ike was in the middle, doing his best to avoid showing the
tension he thought he alone felt. He carried the team's radio, although
if there was any need for radio communications before the men were ready
to rendezvous with the sub after the mission, it would mean something
had gone wrong.

The outboard motor was muffled, the exhaust directed underwater. With
the throttle kept near the midpoint, it made very little noise. When the
boat got closer to shore, Beau throttled back even farther, making the
engine almost completely silent.

It took the team almost as long to cover three miles in the RPB as it
had taken the sub to cover fifty miles. For the most part, this was dead
time, little for the men to do but watch the water and--eventually--the
shore. Time to think, time to worry. But patience was not merely a homey
virtue for these men. It was a prerequisite. The Teams had recognized
that since their early days in Vietnam, when a team might have to wait
in ambush--in canals, rivers, or rice paddies--for hours until their
quarry came within reach. Only Beau had physical activity to help pass
the time.

He worked the engine and tiller, watched the compass, and kept an eye on
the landmark he had picked out on shore once they got within a mile of
the sand. The other three had only to remain alert, watching for
unexpected trouble. There was no reason to expect problems going in, but
on an operation like this, you had to be ready for anything. Adrenaline
helped, but training was a far more important part of the equation. If
nothing else, the Teams stressed constant training. It was not just an
entrance ritual, abandoned upon graduation from BUD/S, Basic Underwater
Demolition School. Training continued as long as a man was in the Teams.

Each man was responsible for a specific area of the perimeter. Rhodes
watched to port, Jensen to starboard. At the stern, Beau kept a somewhat
less constant watch on the water behind them, glancing back over his
shoulder and taking a quick scan as an interruption to his concentration
on navigation. And Frank, the team leader, watched ahead.

During the last five hundred yards of the approach, Frank constantly
scanned the shore with binoculars, moving his gaze from side to side,
working gradually across the beach and up to the olive grove and the
first buildings of the village. No people were visible, though he did
spot a few goats and donkeys penned up behind mud brick houses. The
village was smaller than it had once been--before the years of civil war
and repeated Israeli air strikes. The site had been inhabited for at
least three thousand years, one generation of buildings built over the
ruins of those that had come before. Now, there was an area of rubble
and partially destroyed buildings beyond the portion of the village that
was still intact and inhabited. In time, these ruins would no doubt be
built over again.

What Frank considered important was the fact that the layout he saw with
his eyes agreed with the layout visible in the photographs and maps he
had studied. So far, at least, the intelligence was good.

Two hundred yards out, Frank lowered his binoculars, then lifted his
night-vision goggles. The beach was not totally dark. The sand caught
and reflected what little light there was, and the trees and buildings
beyond were easy silhouettes. The gentle surf rolling against the sand
and rocks seemed almost phosphorescent, the water sparkling before it
started to roll back toward its home. Farther north, and more to the
east, Frank could see the glowing dome of light in the sky that had to
mark Beirut. The city was far enough away for comfort.

A dog barked, well in the distance, its call carrying easily over the
water. Beau eased the throttle back another hair, softening the already
muted sound of the boat's engine. He had been around small boats his
entire life. His father and uncles had been fishermen, working the
Louisiana bayous and the nearer stretches of the Gulf of Mexico, and
Beau had spent his summers and many weekends helping out. If he had not
chosen to enter the Navy, he would undoubtedly have still been fishing
for a (meager) living. It had been the uncertainty of the family
business that had sent Beau looking for something more certain.

"Ease us over toward that dry creek bed," Frank whispered, turning
toward Beau. He gestured to the right. Those were the first words any of
the men had uttered since emerging from the submarine seventy minutes
earlier.

Beau nodded and moved the tiller to port, edging the boat toward
starboard. He glanced back. There was almost no visible trace of a wake
behind the boat now. Beau picked up his rifle, balanced it across his
legs, and moved the safety to the off position.

Frank leaned back into the boat, turning toward Jensen. "Kid, take a
deep breath and let it out real slow. Don't go hyper on us. You know the
drill." Jensen nodded and did as he had been told.

"Take your right hand off your weapon. Flex the fingers," Frank said,
and again Jensen obeyed instructions.

"I'll be okay, Chief," Jensen said. "Once we're ashore and moving, I'll
be okay." He had been surprised at being asked to join this
team--hand-picked by the senior chief petty officer in the platoon--and
he was eager to prove himself. But three years in the Teams had taught
him not to appear too eager.

Frank stared at him for a couple of seconds, then nodded once, a short,
abrupt gesture. The kid should work out, he thought. Frank would never
let the kid know that he had not been his own choice.

Frank turned to the front again and used the binoculars for another
complete scan of the shore. The boat was within a hundred yards of the
mouth of the dry river bed. By this point, he was nearly lying in the
boat, little more than the top of his head visible above the inflated
rubber. The camouflaged slouch hat he wore had been crumpled so many
times that it presented a most irregular silhouette, and the blotches of
camouflage greasepaint on his face would not present a recognizable
target at any distance.

He focused on the mission at hand completely now, shutting out
everything else. He trusted the men with him to do their jobs. On an op,
it was all a man could do to make sure he didn't screw up without
worrying about the other guys on the team. Frank thought it was more
important for him to concentrate now than it ever had been before. He
was staring at his fortieth birthday, coming in less than a month. Frank
was no longer quite as ... sturdy as he had once been. He had slowed
down just a step, and his endurance was no longer the same. I've got to
use my head to make up the difference, or get out of the Teams, he often
told himself. Since he did not want to leave the SEALS, he drove himself
in training, and exercised on his own in addition to the usual regimen
of calisthenics and running the platoon did at the base. He could still
run a marathon, and even if it took him fifteen minutes longer than he
had when he was a rookie, he could finish ahead of most of the others in
the platoon, even the new men who had been in diapers when he'd joined
the Navy.

Rob adjusted his position in the boat, anticipating, ready to get out
and up onto the beach as quickly as possible as soon as the bottom of
the boat touched sand. This is a long way from Kansas, he thought. It
was something he would never say again, not where there was any chance
anyone would hear. That was a mistake he had made for the last time four
years earlier, in a bar, with a couple of dozen other men from the Teams
present.

Someone had said, "We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto," in a squeaky
falsetto and someone else had started singing, "We're Off to See the
Wizard," and a half dozen others had joined in. It had been the wrong
thing at the wrong time. Rob and the two men he had entered the bar with
got out just before the Shore Patrol arrived to break up the melee Rob
had started. In the last eight years, Rob had been back to the state he
had been born and raised in only three times, twice for funerals, the
other time for his brother's wedding. If he never went back again, it
would suit him just fine.

Beau eased off a little more on the throttle, until the boat was barely
making headway. He wasn't certain just how quickly the sea floor rose
here, how steep the incline was, and he did not want to drive the boat
too hard onto the sand. The bow was aimed directly at the middle of the
indentation of the dry creek bed. Looks good, he thought--there was no
trace of anyone anywhere around. They would certainly be able to get
ashore and across the beach into the cover of the olive grove
undetected.

After that ... He did not finish the thought. He heard the first
scraping of sand against the raft and cut the engine completely. The
others were already climbing out. Beau was the last. The four men
dragged the boat the last thirty feet, out of the water, and up into the
rocky bed of the dry creek.

At the bow, Frank looped the boat's painter around a rock to keep it
secure. The tide had not quite reached its peak yet, and they did not
want the boat to float away when it started to ebb.

No one noticed wet boots and trousers. They had spent too many hours, on
other occasions, standing or squatting in water up to their shoulders,
or necks, for this minimal discomfort to penetrate their concentration.

This water, at least, was warm.

For perhaps twenty seconds, all four men remained motionless, crouched
over, rifles held in both hands, listening, looking--each man staring in
a different direction. What little breeze there was came from the west,
off the Mediterranean. The smells of land--and habitation--were slow to
make themselves known. Frank sniffed at the air. The odor on the air was
different from Virginia ... or Panama, Grenada, or Iraq, or any of the
other places he had come ashore over the years. He did not try to
identify the components of the smell, beyond the glaringly obvious odor
of animal waste.

Finally satisfied with what he saw and heard--or didn't see and
hear--Frank made a minimal gesture with his right hand and started
moving along the dry creek bed, wadi, toward the village. Landing at its
mouth had added almost three hundred yards to the distance they would
have to travel each way, but it offered a much better chance of
remaining unobserved. Farther north, near the shortest route from shore
to village, there were a few fishing boats drawn up on the beach, and
where there were boats, there might be people.

For Ike, the transition from boat to foot was almost like an electrical
shock, marked by a palpable physical change. It was something he had
never truly experienced before. There was a recognition that danger was
now imminent, that they were in
"Indian country"--as some of the older men in the Teams, with a total
disregard for political correctness, still put it. For the few seconds
that everyone had stood still, Ike had felt a considerable increase in
his tension, a feeling that if he brought a hand near his face, he would
get a static shock. The hair on his arms felt as if it were standing at
attention, or trying to escape the skin that held it prisoner. He took a
deep breath, then blinked once. But as soon as he started moving,
following the chief, his tension, his nervousness, seemed to melt away.
He could concentrate on doing his job, no doubts left.

There wasn't room.

The four men moved like the well-trained team they were, scarcely
conscious of the movements of one another, but responding as they needed
to, instinctively, staying relatively close, dividing the responsibility
of watching the terrain around them without needing discussion or
orders.

Frank led; point was where he felt most at ease, despite the dangers of
that position. Rob was next, and a little to Frank's left, covering
mainly the left side. Because of that, Ike concentrated mostly--but
never exclusively--on the right flank. Beau watched the rear without
losing his place in the procession.

They moved in almost total silence, the only sound the occasional crunch
of a stone moving underfoot, too soft to be heard more than a few yards
away, lost in environmental noises--water washing against the shore
behind them, distant animal sounds from livestock in the village and
night-flying birds, the rustle of leaves in the olive grove ahead of
them.

The beach, and the wadi, climbed quickly away from the water, the
gradient generally near twenty-five percent. By the time the land
started to level out, the SEALs were sixty yards from the water's edge.
The wadi became shallower about the same time. Frank paused again,
crouching lower, as soon as he could see the plain above the beach--the
olive grove flanking the dry creek bed directly in front, the more
distant shapes of the buildings and ruins in the village off to the
left.

Frank scanned the olive grove very closely. It was all too easy to see
phantoms among the gnarled trunks and branches, to imagine people--armed
men--waiting in ambush. He looked and listened until he was certain that
he was seeing only trees and hearing their leaves. The phantoms
vanished. The other men stopped almost simultaneously behind their
leader, no more than a single step late. They froze in position,
waiting, each man scanning his area of the perimeter, overlapping.
Finally satisfied, Frank turned just long enough to spot his men behind
him. He nodded, then turned back and started moving again.

Once within the grove, the men scrambled out of the wadi one at a time,
each man moving to cover behind one of the scraggly trees, kneeling or
prone, however he was most comfortable, ready to react instantly to any
threat that might appear.

The nearest buildings of the village were less than two hundred yards
away. Even Frank could feel his heart rate increasing slightly as they
drew closer to the target. Every step they took now, the chance of
discovery would increase. If they were spotted before they were ready to
break into the house that was supposed to hold the hostage they had come
to rescue, the success of the mission--not to mention their lives--might
be in extreme danger.

When they started moving again, the four men scurried from shadow to
shadow, pausing each time they reached another fragment of cover,
staying low, pacing their breathing as best they could. For Frank, the
feeling now was almost like the "runner's high" he had heard distance
runners talk about, but had never felt himself even during a marathon--a
heady, preternatural awareness, a feeling almost of invulnerability.
Almost. He never let the feeling take full control of him. Training,
experience--and his own nature--would not let him surrender that
control. He would not go crazy like some ancient Viking warrior.
Survival was part of the mission.

For Rob, it was the feeling of being a hunter again. He had hunted
pheasant, deer, and various small animals in company with his father,
two uncles, and several cousins while he was growing up in Kansas. It
was there that he had honed his marksmanship, learning early that he
could bring down prey at far greater distances than the others with him
would even attempt. By his first year in high school, though, he had
started opting out of the fall and winter excursions whenever he could.
They had lost their earlier allure. Operating as a SEAL was not nearly
the same, but the memories were there, below the surface, adding a
slight coloring to his perception of what happened. He had hunted in
Kuwait and Iraq, and in other places he dared not talk about.

Beau had memories of hunting as well, but a far different kind.

Growing up in New Orleans, there had been gang fights, teenagers hunting
teenagers through the streets and alleys. Many of the groups--and most
of the city--was racist.

Unlike some of his friends, he had never tried to hide or deny his
Creole heritage and his mixed ancestry. When necessary, he had
fought--as hard and ruthless as he had to be. He had not found it
necessary to fight that kind of battle since joining the Navy.

The olive grove did not run all of the way to the buildings in the
village. There was clear ground between, ranging from thirty to nearly a
hundred yards. Still within the cover of the grove, the four men went to
ground again, spread out more than they had been on the move. There were
some things that the photographs and maps could never tell
them--especially about the presence of lookouts or armed sentries, and
whether the animals were restless, liable to make a ruckus at the
intrusion of outsiders.

The men took their time with these observations, lying prone, weapons
loosely pointed in the direction of the objective, staying nearly
motionless. Eyes scanned. Heads turned only minimally. There were both
goats and donkeys in pens behind some of the houses, not many, rarely
more than two or three animals in each enclosure. A couple of minutes
after the SEALs had taken up their positions, a lone dog trotted along
the center of the village's lone street, moving away from the intruders,
its tail low, intent on whatever goal lay ahead of it.

It was the dog that gave Frank and his companions their first indication
of a watcher within the village. The dog started, then took a couple of
steps to its left--while looking right--before it resumed its course.

Frank's soft grunt was inaudible, even to the men near him. There was a
sentry--at least a person--near the side of the street, outside. That
was the easy guess. It was also a shred of evidence that there was
something out of the ordinary going on in the village, that the
intelligence might be correct about a hostage being held there. What
other reason could there be for a watcher there?

Cautiously, Frank crawled over to Beau. The two men looked at each
other. Frank pointed into the village, then made a cliche motion drawing
a finger across his throat. Beau understood the order. He nodded, then
started moving.

Beau had noticed the change in the dog's movement as well, and had
understood what it had to mean. He had already picked a path for himself
to the buildings. He stayed low, but did not try to crawl the entire
distance. Now that he had some idea where the sentry was, it was easy to
keep buildings between him and that point.

It took Beau little more than two minutes to work his way to the second
building in the village, next to the house where the hostage was
supposedly being held. He came in behind the animal pen, moving very
slowly, watching the three goats in it closely, ready to stop moving
altogether if any of them started to stir.

At the corner of the building, Beau was very slow and deliberate about
exposing himself. He looked carefully between the two houses, but the
sentry was not visible. He had to be either in front of the next house
or on the far side of it.

Beau slung his rifle and pulled his knife. This had to be done silently,
not just because the mission called for stealth. If the sentry had time
to raise an alarm, any other guards inside would be alerted--and might
kill the hostage rather than risk his rescue. Although Beau could not
spare even a second to turn and look for his comrades, he knew where
they were supposed to go. He trusted that they would be moving into
position to support him if necessary.

After a few seconds of standing motionless, listening, a new smell made
itself known against the backdrop of animal dung. Tobacco smoke.

Beau was unaware of the slight smile that crossed his face when he
recognized the aroma. The sentry was obviously not paying full attention
to his duties.

Nothing would be gained by waiting longer.

Beau had picked out his path while he was waiting, scanning the narrow
passageway between the two houses for any obstructions that might make
noise. He knew where to put his feet. He crossed the six-foot gap and
pressed against the wall of the house that he assumed held the hostage.

Although he moved quickly, it was with extreme care. He was more
deliberate about moving toward the front of the house. Beau had his
knife in his left hand, away from the building, to avoid any chance of
scraping it against the mud bricks.

At this stage, there was a huge chance that things could go wrong, and
go wrong fast. The sentry might pace down to the corner and look between
the houses--too far away for Beau to silence him before he could raise
an alarm. Maybe.

It was difficult to remember not to hold his breath. Beau breathed
shallowly, quietly. It was not distracting that he could hear, or feel,
each beat of his heart now. That was just part of the environment, a
metronome. He glanced at the ground before taking each step. He paused
between them, listening for any sound from the sentry in front.

How far from the corner is he? Beau wondered. It might be necessary to
make a circuit of the house to approach from the other side if the
sentry was too far away from this corner. Which way will he be looking?

It was a game of odds and evens, with the stakes as high as they could
possibly be.

For an instant, Beau hesitated. Even with the silencer attached, a
gunshot from his pistol would not be totally silent. If anyone was awake
inside the house, he might recognize the coughing noise for what it was.

But the pistol would be a more certain tool for eliminating the sentry.

The knife--if possible. Otherwise, the pistol. Don't take stupid
chances.

Beau edged closer to the corner, moving with almost infinite slowness
and care. He flattened himself against the wall, listening with
impossible concentration. After a few seconds, he heard the scraping of
shoe on dirt, soft, lasting no more than a few seconds, as if the unseen
person were grinding out a cigarette.

Now, Beau thought, as he eased his head closer, glancing past the
corner, ready to move in any direction. When he saw the sentry eight
feet away, turned slightly away from him, getting ready to light another
cigarette, AK-47 rifle slung on his shoulder, Beau moved quickly. Two
long steps and a lunge closed the gap. Beau's right arm went around the
sentry's head, his hand covering the man's mouth, pulling back, exposing
the man's neck. At the same time, Beau brought his knife around and slit
the man's throat, cutting deep enough that he heard the scrape of steel
against bone. Blood gushed out over the knife blade and Beau's hand,
seeping up his arm under the sleeve of his BDU. Beau held on even when
the man went limp, then lowered him carefully to the ground, getting his
body on top of the man to still the involuntary thrashing of approaching
death.

Only when the man stopped moving completely did Beau get back to his
feet, looking around to make certain that he had not been discovered.

He needed a few seconds to get his breathing under control. The heady
rush of adrenaline that had come during the attack was not ready to
fade, but Beau remained alert. He wiped the blade of his knife on the
dead man's khaki shirt, then sheathed it and wiped his bloody left hand
as best he could before he took his M-16 from his shoulder. He looked
around. There was a single window as well as the door in the front of
the house. The window was shuttered, as the one he had seen on the rear
of the house was.

There had been neither window nor door on the side he had come along.

There was no sound audible from inside the house. Nor was there any hint
of light around the door or window.

Then Frank was at Beau's side, a hand on his shoulder to get his
attention. Frank nodded, an appreciation of the job Beau had done. Beau
looked over his shoulder. Ike was at the corner of the building, his
attention on the street and the house fronts across the way. Rob would
be at the rear of the target house, ready to prevent anyone from
escaping through the rear window--and ready to force open the shutter to
add his firepower to the operation if that became necessary.

Frank mouthed the word Ready? without sound. Beau nodded, sucking in a
deep breath while he did. Still, Frank waited, giving his team mate and
friend a few more seconds to recover. They had no need for discussion.

Although they had no way to know the precise layout of the house's
interior, nor any certain knowledge of how many people might be
inside--or where--this was a bread-and-butter operation for them,
something they had trained at routinely, from the beginning of their
varied tenures in Team Six. And they had discussed the specifics of how
they would handle this job on the submarine. No chances had been the
consensus. They would use their rifles to put down any opposition
inside. Between noise suppressors on the weapons and the thick mud brick
walls, there was every chance that they would not wake people even in
the neighboring houses if they didn't give the opposition a chance to
fire unsuppressed weapons.

At the corner of the house, Ike kept glancing toward Frank and Beau,
waiting for them to enter. As soon as they did, he would move to the
doorway behind them, ready to add to the offense, to help pull the
hostage out, or to stand off any reinforcements who might attempt to
enter the fray--whatever the situation called for. He glanced at the
dead man twice, and the second time he had to force himself to look
away. He had bled considerably. Now he lay on his back, head tilted at
an unnatural angle, the slit throat a second-gaping-mouth frozen in a
silent scream.

Frank and Beau took their positions at either side of the door--Beau on
the latch side, the right. If they had to break the door down, it would
be up to Beau to kick it. He was considerably heavier than the chief.

The two exchanged a final glance. Frank used his left hand to try the
handle on the door. The handle turned, and he pushed the door just
enough to assure himself that it was not locked.

Frank pulled his hand back just as Beau hurled himself against the door.
Beau followed the door into the room, moving across the opening, his
rifle looking for targets as Frank crossed behind him to the other side.

Two men had been sleeping on blankets on the floor. The noise of the
door slamming against the wall woke them. One almost managed to get his
hands on the rifle lying at his side. The other barely got his eyes
open.

As soon as Beau was certain that neither of these men was the hostage,
he took care of both of them, his rifle stuttering out two three-shot
bursts.

One of the men on the floor managed a long gasp of agony as his body
jerked under the impact of the bullets. The other man died in silence,
his body moving as if shocked by a defibrillator.

Frank was already moving past those two, toward one of the two doorways
at the rear of the room, leading--he assumed--to the only other chambers
in the house. He took the one on the right, leaving the other to Beau.
There were no doors in these openings, just unadorned curtains to give
some privacy to the occupants.

The room Frank had taken proved to be the kitchen, and there was no one
in it. A quick scan. Frank saw boxes of ammunition on a small table set
against the wall. There were minimal supplies on open shelves above it,
a two-burner stove, a small sink. He went back to the doorway. Ike was
across the room, watching the street outside.

Beau was moving through the curtain into the final room. Frank hurried
to back him up.

Assuming that anyone in this final room might have heard and recognized
gunshots, Beau went in low, diving through, under the curtain, and
rolled to the left.

A muzzle flashed a staccato light show. The sound of the rifle seemed
unbearably loud in the confined room. The slugs went well over Beau's
head, and the strobing light at the weapon's muzzle gave him a perfect
target. He fired another three-shot burst and the other rifle stopped.
It clattered to the floor an instant ahead of the man who had been
carrying it.

Frank came into the room, scanning quickly over the barrel of his rifle,
his motions a little jerky now as he tried to see the entire room at
once. "There," he said, gesturing toward the wall on the left side of
the room. "On the bed."

Beau was already getting to his knees. He used the side of the bed to
help him get to his feet. The hostage was lying there, eyes open no more
than a slit, wrists and ankles tied to the frame of the bed. He showed
no reaction to the noise.

Frank was at the man's side quickly, feeling the side of his neck for a
pulse. The hostage was alive, but his heart rate was low. "Cut his feet
free," Frank said, while drawing his knife to cut the ropes tying the
hostage's wrists.

Carl Smith--whatever his real name might have been--showed no sign that
he was aware of anything going on around him. Frank took a small
flashlight from his belt to get a better look at the hostage's face. It
was bruised badly. One eye was swollen shut. Running the light along the
man's body, Frank saw more signs that he had taken a considerable
beating--blood on clothing that had been ripped several times. His left
ankle was also swollen and bruised, at least badly sprained, more likely
broken.

"We gonna have ta carry him," Beau noted.

There was a soft whistle from the other room before Frank could answer.
He moved to the doorway.

"Company coming," Ike said. He had moved into the house and had the
front door partially closed. "About a half dozen men moving this way
from the east end of the village. At a jog. They've got weapons." "Hold
on a second, I'll be right there," Frank told him. Then he turned to
Beau. "Get Smith out the back window. You go with him. I want you and
the Farmer ready to cover Ike and me. We'll slow them down."

He didn't wait for a reply.

Out by the front door, it took Frank four seconds to tell Ike what they
were going to do. "Pop out and down. Spray 'em. Then back in and out the
back window."

Frank glanced out the door, then muttered. "On three. One, two, three."

He shoved the door open all the way and Ike went down on his stomach,
landing with just his head, shoulders, and rifle outside. Frank stayed
over him, in the doorway, firing left-handed. Neither man worried about
being conservative with ammunition. So far, very little had been
expended.

They worked their aim back and forth across the street, getting the
range almost instantly.

The split second of surprise was all they needed. At least four of the
approaching locals went down hard, hit in the first volley of automatic
fire. The others went down, too, but Frank wasn't certain that they had
become casualties. In any case, they would be in no great hurry to come
closer. And there had been no return fire. Yet.

"Let's go, kid," Frank said. "Pull yourself in while I keep them down."

Ike scrambled backward as quickly as if there had been a viper wanting
to get intimate with his ear. Frank loosed another two long bursts at
the figures lying in the dirt street, then retreated behind Ike,
satisfied that he had scored more hits--needed or not. Jensen went
through the glassless window head first, rolling as he hit the ground,
coming back to his feet almost gracefully, quickly ready to use his
rifle or run, whatever the situation might demand.

Frank was not quite so adventurous in his exit. He hoisted himself up
onto the window sill, swung his legs out, and hopped down. "You've been
watching too many kung fu movies, kid," he said as he moved past Ike.
"You and Beau carry Smith down to the boat. The Farmer and I will
provide cover."

Jensen and Guisborne slung their rifles and got the still unconscious
Carl Smith between them in an upright carry, holding his arms over their
shoulders. They started back toward the olive grove and wadi, moving as
quickly as they could.

"We'll stick close until we hit the trees," Frank told Rob, once the
others had covered the first twenty yards, "then hold back a bit." "Not
too far back, I hope," Rob said. "The locals might head straight for the
beach and come around in front of us."

Frank nodded. "Not too far," he agreed.

Even carrying the limp 180-pound man between them, Ike and Beau made
good time. Since the locals knew someone was around, they were no longer
quite so intent on stealth. Speed was more important, and the sooner
they were on their boat and well out to sea, the happier they would be.
It was likely that their little boat would be able to outrun anything
the villagers might have to chase them with.

Rob and Frank leapfrogged each other, one moving while the other kept
his attention on the village, watching for any sign of pursuit. The
shooting had startled the livestock. The animals were all milling around
their pens. There was some bleating and braying. Several dogs were
howling.

The two men slid down into the wadi and turned to look back over the
bank, rifles ready for action as they scanned the terrain north of them.

"Maybe we should have blown their boats," Rhodes said. "They might chase
us right out to the sub."

"Their funeral if they do," Frank said, and then he was up and moving
again. There was no sign of direct pursuit.

By the time he and Rob reached the beach, the others had Smith in the
boat and the boat out in the water. Beau already had the engine idling,
ready. As soon as the last two members of the team were aboard, he
opened the throttle.

"See what you can do for our guest," Frank said, nudging Rob. "We got
him this far. Let's try to make sure he's still alive when we deliver
him.

Ike, arm the pinger and trail it over the side. Make sure the bus knows
we're coming."

The submarine rose furtively, scarcely disturbing the surface of the
Mediterranean as it came up to retrieve the men and their rubber boat.

Carl Smith was hoisted aboard in a basket stretcher and passed below for
the pharmacist's mate to treat.

Frank was the last member of the team to slip through the hatch into the
submarine. He glanced at his watch on the way down the ladder. It was
0103 hours.

POST-MISSION

Harry Tombs had "borrowed" the submarine's wardroom, where Frank and his
men had shed their working gear and taken a couple of minutes to clean
up. Then Frank gave a terse report of what they had done.

The CIA man sat at the head of the table and listened. He did not make
notes.

"You did what you had to do," he said when Frank finished his quick
narrative. "A good job."

"What about Smith?" Rob asked. "He gonna be okay?" "Looks like," Tombs
said. "He's still unconscious, or semiconscious.

He took one hell of a beating, and apparently he had been drugged at the
end, I guess to make sure he didn't try to escape during the night.
He'll be airlifted to the Eisenhower before dawn, then be taken from the
flattop to a good hospital ashore."

"What about us?" Frank asked.

"Vacation's over. Time to get to the work we were sent out to do."

THE REPORT

The four SEALS had gone off to catch a couple of hours of sleep before a
helicopter arrived to pick them up. Harry Tombs sat by himself in the
executive officer's cabin. The room was dark except for the active
matrix screen of his portable computer. Cigarette smoke curled and
floated across the glow, thin, wispy clouds that almost made the report
he was typing on the screen look three-dimensional. He had already
completed the detailed recounting of the mission to rescue Carl Smith,
which said exactly what Frank Lucan had told him--almost. All that
remained was his summary, his categorization of the effort, and he
intended to take great care with every word.

In view of the fact that this was not the mission we planned and trained
for before deployment, and the minimal time for planning and preparation
the SEAL team and myself did have while enroute to the operational site,
the outstanding success seems all the more significant.

The SEALs were able to execute my plan almost flawlessly. I have high
expectations for our eventual success.

2

PRE-MISSION

The four SEALs sat together for lunch aboard the Bellman, a guided
missile frigate in the Theodore Roosevelt's battle group, patrolling the
Red Sea. It was the second meal aboard the ship for Frank Lucan's team.

They had eaten breakfast that morning, then gone to bed. The four men
wore camouflage BDUs, which effectively set them apart from the ship's
normal complement. Only a few members of Bellman's crew were in the
galley, and they gave the SEALs a wide berth. Although no general
announcement had been made concerning the "passengers," or the crates of
equipment that had been loaded two weeks earlier, scuttlebutt had
quickly spread the word that the ship was ferrying "four of those crazy
SEAL SOBs and a spook."

Harry Tombs, aka "the spook," rated a seat in the wardroom, but he had
chosen to forgo lunch, and had scarcely touched his breakfast that
morning.

Although the sea was placid and Bellman was steady in the water, Tombs
had been seasick almost from the moment the five men had boarded her
just after dawn--to the immediate amusement of his companions.

"You know," Frank said, speaking quietly from habit, "in my twenty years
in the Navy, I've spent less than six months total aboard ships.

In-and-out crap, like this, mostly." He chuckled. "And maybe three years
in small boats, rubber and otherwise."

Beau just snorted. He didn't need to mention that he had done a year
aboard a cruiser, his first assignment out of quartermaster school,
before he'd volunteered for the Teams. The others knew. The Farmer had
served six months on a minesweeper. Ike had gone straight into BUD/S
after earning his machinist's rating. That morning had been only the
second time he had even seen a flattop, and it had appeared even more
impressive from the air than the first had tied up at the dock in San
Diego.

"You suppose Tombs is going to be able to brief us this afternoon
without upchucking a half dozen times?" Rhodes asked. "Man, his face was
as green as Astroturf this morning."

"Why would he get seasick on this ship when the sub didn't bother him?"
Ike Jensen asked. "I mean, it moved around more than Bellman. Here, I
can almost forget we're even on a ship." "Who knows, kid?" Rhodes said.
"It's all in the head."

"Yeah. My first wife used to get seasick just standing on the dock next
to a ship," Frank said. Lucan had been married and divorced twice since
joining the Navy. He had learned the hard way what some of the men he
had trained under had told him: life in the Teams was not a good cement
for marriage. Now, he shared an apartment with a woman half his age--for
convenience, he said. That arrangement had already lasted longer than
either of his marriages.

Beau got up and refilled the pitcher of coffee the four men had been
sharing. The last of the ship's crew in the galley had finished eating
and left. Two men were wiping tables down now, getting the room ready
for the next shift.

At the table, Frank glanced at his watch. They still had ten minutes
left before they would need to head toward the briefing for their first
scheduled mission of this operation--assuming that the company man who
was directing the op was able to proceed. Frank assumed he would be. I'd
make it, no matter what, Frank thought. The spook will, too, whatever he
feels like. Frank had never been seasick, but he had known more than a
few hangovers, and they had never stopped him.

It was obvious that Harry Tombs was still not feeling well, but he was
waiting in the conference room, near Bellman's bridge and CIC, when
Frank Lucan led his team in. Tombs was sitting at the head of the table,
where the ship's captain would preside over meetings with his department
heads, leaning back a little, but holding on to the table with one hand,
as if that were all that were keeping him from sliding around the room.
There was a thick envelope with TOP SECRET stamped on it lying on the
table in front of him. The target folder inside carried an even higher
security classification. Tombs looked up as the SEALs filed into the
room and moved to take seats around the table, but gave no other
indication that he was aware they had come in.

In the passageway outside, Frank had warned his men against laughter or
jokes about Tombs's condition. "We got to get along with him the next
few weeks, remember. Let's not see how fast we can push him over the
edge."

Inside, Frank nearly had to bite his lip to hold back the bad joke that
wanted to come out, "You look like you belong in a tomb, Tombs." If
nothing else, as team leader, he had to set the example. It was absurd,
but Harry Tombs looked as if he might have dropped fifteen pounds since
Frank had last seen him--that morning shortly after they had been
deposited aboard Bellman by helicopter. He couldn't have lost that much
no matter how many times he knelt to the porcelain god, Frank told
himself.

"I'll be okay in a day or two," Tombs said, answering the silence. "I
just need a little time to get my sea legs. It won't affect our
operations." There was a slightly strangled quality to his voice, as if
he were trying to hold back a rising gorge. He stopped talking and took
several carefully measured breaths, each slightly deeper and more
prolonged than its predecessor. He closed his eyes for an instant. When
he had finished the routine, his voice sounded somewhat stronger, or at
least, less feeble.

"Most of the terrorist leaders we expect to attend the terror summit in
Sudan are already enroute, taking whatever circuitous routes their
habitual paranoia suggests."

"Is it still paranoia if everyone is out to get you?" Rob asked. That
broke through the studied reserve of the others in the team. Ike
snickered out loud. Beau cracked a rare smile. Even Frank felt it
necessary to cover his face less it, too, show anything.

Harry Tombs chose to ignore the remark. "Our information is that this
institutional paranoia will color the summit meeting to an extreme
degree.

The fact that they're meeting in Sudan, when perhaps only one of the
organizations is headquartered there, is part of it. Despite our
retaliatory strike on Khartoum after the embassy bombings in Kenya and
Tanzania, they feel less insecure in Sudan than in Libya, Lebanon,
Syria, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, or the various other places they come
from. They certainly wouldn't attempt to use Gaza or the West Bank. At
least four separate venues have been prepared for the conference itself,
all well defended, and the individual leaders and their staffs might
have their choice of literally dozens of different locations to stay in
when not attending the conference sessions." "We know all that," Frank
said. "It's always been sort of SOP with these terrorist types. I
remember hearing that Arafat, years back, before he became respectable,
never slept in the same bed two nights in a row, or switched beds in the
middle of the night. Maybe he's still like that.

During Desert Shield and Desert Storm, the word we had was that Saddam
Hussein sometimes got up in the middle of the night and moved, just so
his enemies wouldn't know where the hell to hit. All that really matters
to us"--Frank made a gesture to include the other SEALs--"is that our
targets are where they're supposed to be when we go in."

"When the time comes for the final operation, we'll hit the right
place," Tombs said. "And up until then, we're not looking to bag any of
the big shots. We just want to make them a little more paranoid and
scramble as much of their security apparats as we can, to make the final
show a little more ... practical."

Beau Guisborne cleared his throat noisily, drawing the attention of the
others. "If they be nothin' but crazies, they wouldn't be such bad
dudes," he said, a long oration for Beau. "Whatever else they be, they
be smart at what they do. We don' forget that without gettin' hurt." His
team mates were used to Beau's slow, deliberate way of speaking, but
Harry Tombs started to show impatience long before Beau quit talking and
waved a hand past his mouth to signal that he was finished.

Tombs hesitated before he spoke again. "You're right," he conceded.

"They're smart, absolutely dedicated to what they're doing, totally
ruthless, and perhaps no more cautious than they have to be to survive.
In our line of work we have to be cautious as Well.

"Let's get on to practical matters," Tombs said after another slight
hesitation. "Tonight's operation."

Frank straightened up a little. Yeah, let's get to the job. We can jaw
about the philosophy some other time, he thought.

"At approximately sixteen hundred hours, a helicopter bearing the
markings of the Egyptian Air Force will land on Bellman. Four
individuals will get out, ostensibly VIPs come for a tour of the ship.
At sixteen forty-five, the four of you will board the helicopter and
take off. The bird will land once, for refueling, in southern Egypt. You
should be on the ground there no more than fifteen minutes. Your
destination is a small oasis in the Libyan Desert, inside Libya, just
south of the border between Egypt and Sudan." Tombs broke the seal on
the envelope, extracted the target folder, opened that, and started to
pass several papers around, one at a time, handing each to Frank first,
who looked, then passed them on.

The first was a government-issue topological map of the region. The
second, of more interest to the SEALS, was a photograph of the oasis and
the area immediately around it. There were several other photographs, of
fairly high resolution, that showed three concrete block buildings set
apart from the ruins of several mud brick huts in the oasis.

"Depending on the position of Bellman when you take off, you'll have
between seven hundred fifty and eight hundred miles in the air," Tombs
said, while he continued to pass around the briefing sheets. "With the
fuel stop, the flight in will run about four and a half hours. You'll
jump in high and open your 'chutes as low as possible, aiming for a
landing zone just over a mile northwest of the target."

The briefing sheets started to make their second circuit of the SEALS,
each man taking a little more time to study them this time, giving the
documents more attention than Tombs.

"What's there?" Rhodes asked.

"It's one of a number of depots the Libyan government has established
near their borders to funnel terrorists and equipment into other
countries in the region--Egypt, Sudan, Chad, and beyond. Their, ah,
clients or middlemen come in and get whatever they're being offered. The
depot is maintained and guarded by a garrison of about twenty Libyan
soldiers. The mission is to go in and shut it down, doing maximum damage
to the garrison and any munitions at the site. Choose your weapons with
that in mind." Tombs paused before he added, "You are to consider
yourselves in a free-fire zone from landing to pickup."

Rhodes and Guisborne glanced at each other. Beau shrugged, minimally.

Free-fire zone: they were to consider anyone they came across to be
hostile, a valid target.

"Land transport is limited. The road north is almost imaginary, a series
of landmarks subject to change depending on the wind and sand movement.
Part of the way it's rock, mostly it's just hard-packed dirt.

The way south, across the border, is even less well defined. The Libyans
use half-track trucks mostly, and a few six-by-sixes. Nothing moves fast
on the ground."

"Our pickup will be ...?" Frank asked.

"The helicopter that drops you in will circle around and land to pick
you up east of the oasis. You'll be in direct radio communication with
the pilot and carry a homing beacon you can activate once you find a
secure LZ.

One additional piece of advice. Don't let yourselves be captured inside
Libya. Khadafi might rupture himself with joy. If there's any unforeseen
trouble with pickup, head east, toward the Egyptian border."

Only Beau did not look up at Tombs then. Beau did not plan to let anyone
capture him, anywhere.

"You should be jumping in just after sunset. That will give you most of
the night to get the job done and get out," Tombs said. "Questions?"
There were none. The SEALs continued studying the maps and photos of
their target.

"You've got a little more than an hour before you leave. Assemble your
gear and get a meal in"--the CIA man almost gagged at the thought of
food--"if you can. It might be a long time until breakfast."

THE PREPARATION

There was little time for anything but the necessities. The SEALs
changed into "working" clothes, desert camouflage BDUs. Out in the open,
those would be less conspicuous, even at night, than all-black or darker
jungle camouflage. None of the men wore standard government-issue
footgear. Frank and Beau wore high-topped sneakers dyed totally black.

Rob wore civilian hunting boots with deep tread to give him better
traction on sand. Ike wore low-cut running shoes.

Next, they drew their weapons. Aboard Bellman, they had more choice than
they had had the day before.

They had not had all of their gear with them then; most of it had been
sent ahead. Frank decided to stick with the weapon he had used in
Lebanon, an M-16 with the double-drum magazine, though this time the
blast suppressor could be left behind. Beau and Rob would carry M-16s
with M203 40mm grenade launchers attached under the barrel, and each
would wear one or two bandoleers of grenades.

The M203, which replaced the fragile XM-148 grenade launcher back in
1969, was a favorite of the SEALs for its firepower and adaptability.

Mounted beneath an M-16, the M203 slides forward for loading with the
release latch just above the parent weapon's barrel and a protected
trigger just in front of the magazine. To fire the M203, the operator
holds onto the magazine of the parent weapon with his firing hand and
uses the folding leaf sight on the top of the barrel or the more complex
quadrant sight on the barrel's left side. When the target is hit by an
M203, all hell breaks loose.

Ike, on the other hand, selected a Remington 870P shotgun, and stuck
three boxes of double-ought shells into an ammunition pouch.

"Might have to open a door or two," he said, when Frank gave him a
quizzical look.

Frank nodded. "We just might. But if you're going to carry that, better
take along a backup weapon."

"I figured on an Uzi and a couple of double magazines."

"Got to say one thing for our spook," Beau said, as he scanned the
several open metal crates. "He give us 'bout anything we could want
here."

"Timed explosive charges for the munitions depot?" Rob said, not really
a question about what had been made available, but what they should
take. "If they got a lot of crap stockpiled, we won't want to be close
when it blows. Something incendiary?" "Just what the doctor ordered,"
Frank said, gesturing toward one of the crates. "White phosphorus.
That'll get things hot enough to cook off anything we're likely to find.
A couple of small shaped charges, too, just in case."

The last thing they did was pick up their parachutes and give them a
quick check.

THE MISSION

Frank led his men to the helicopter on the landing pad on Bellman's
fantail. Frank thought that the waiting chopper was of Russian
manufacture, but that was only a guess. It wasn't one of the Soviet
military helicopters he had studied. All he knew was that it was not a
standard American military model. The SEALs set their equipment inside
the cabin, then climbed the two-rung ladder into the compartment. A
member of Bellman's deck crew slid the hatch closed behind them.

"Get yourselves strapped in, gents," one of the pilots said. Both of the
men looking back from the cockpit could easily have passed for Egyptian,
but the accent of the pilot who spoke was pure Brooklyn. The two flyers
were dressed in nondescript khaki uniforms, without insignia of any
kind. "We'll get you in and out safe." CIA men, Frank thought, contract
men, at least. Earlier in his career, that might have made him nervous.
There had been stories that circulated in the Teams about operations
with contract operatives gone bad, but Frank had never experienced any
of those disasters, and had eventually come to have a certain amount of
trust in the company men he occasionally worked with, or for--not
absolute trust, not the trust he would have for a dive buddy, a team
mate, but enough to let him concentrate on the job at hand and not worry
too much about the outsiders.

As soon as the four SEALs were strapped in, the helicopter took off.

The men in back could not hear the talk on the radio between the pilots
and Bellman.

The helicopter curved away from the frigate and the rest of the task
force, settling on a westerly course toward the Egyptian coast, just a
couple minutes of flying time away. The passengers made themselves as
comfortable as they could in accommodations that had not been designed
for comfort. The seats were rudimentary, plastic over metal frames
bolted to the deck.

Beau stretched his legs out as far as he could, leaned back, and closed
his eyes. He probably would not actually sleep, but he would give every
appearance of it. He might not budge for an hour or more. Frank and Rob
knew the routine; they had been on other long flights with Guisborne.

But if there was any talk among the others, Beau would hear it, and
respond, if necessary.

Rob also appeared relaxed, but he kept his eyes open and worked his
mouth as if he were whistling, though no sound came out. Ike was more
active, watching through one of the small windows. All he needed was a
camera to complete the image of the gawking tourist, abroad for the
first time, perhaps.

Good, Frank thought. Give the kid something to think about besides what
we've got to do. He had found no fault in Jensen's performance the night
before, but he was still young, still too prone to nerves beforehand.

Frank also watched the passing scenery--what little of it there was--but
more to determine as accurately as he could the helicopter's course.
Just before the men had gone out to the helicopter, Harry Tombs had
appeared long enough to give Frank the ship's position, both longitude
and latitude and in reference to the map. He expected to see the Aswan
high dam off to port, and did catch a glimpse of it just before one of
the pilots said that it was there. Tombs got that much right, at least,
Frank thought, smiling to himself. the helicopter was flying
west-southwest, staying low, less than five hundred feet above ground
level. A couple of times during the flight, Frank took out his compass
and checked their course.

Their flight had been in progress for nearly two and a half hours when
one of the pilots came back into the passenger cabin and leaned close to
Frank's ear. "We'll be landing to refuel in another ten minutes," he
said.

"You and your men might want to have your weapons ready, just in case
there's been a mistake in the arrangements." He grinned as if that would
be the biggest laugh of the year. "We're getting the right
identification codes, so I don't expect any trouble, but you know how it
is."

Frank nodded. "We'll be ready."

"If we do have trouble, we'll have to abort the mission. We'll need to
stop here again on the way back, and if that's not going to be possible
..." He didn't bother to finish that.

"Hell, why didn't we use the Egyptian airbase at Aswan?" Frank asked.

"I assume they know we're pulling this caper. That base is secure as
hell."

The pilot shook his head. "I'll give you the same answer I got.

Deniability. Anything goes wrong, the Egyptian government wants to be
able to say it didn't know anything about it."

While the flyer worked his way back into his seat in the cockpit, Frank
got the attention of the others. "Lock and load," he said, loud enough
for all three to hear. "Just in case the spooks screwed up on the
refueling deal. We touch down, unbuckle, and be ready for anything."

"We gonna stick up the gas station?" Beau asked, grinning.

"I guess so, if it comes to that," Frank said.

"I thought we made nice with the Egyptian government," Rob said.

"They gonna change sides here?"

"The Egyptians have problems of their own," Ike said, which surprised
all his team mates. "Ever since they made peace with Israel, they've had
their own extremists to worry about."

"Something like that," Frank said. "Hard telling what kind of
'arrangements' the Company had to make to set up this flight for us.
Don't go looking for them to serve bagels and coffee."

Jensen gestured toward the cockpit. The copilot, the one who had come
back to warn Frank to be ready for anything, was cocking an Ingram
submachine gun. The helicopter had started to descend.

Frank craned his neck to get closer to the window, looking toward the
ground. The pilot turned through ninety degrees, giving Frank a fair
view of a paved landing strip that showed little sign of usage. There
were three buildings in a line set off to the west side of the runway.
The runway and buildings were a lighter beige against the dark tan of
the sand and rock that occupied most of his view. He also saw one
canvas-topped military vehicle, something similar to a U.S. Army
two-and-a-half-ton truck, but of European--most likely
Russian--manufacture. The helicopter was less than fifty feet off the
ground before Frank saw any people below.

Three men came out of one of the buildings. One moved toward the truck.

The others stood at the edge of the paved runway. Frank was relieved to
note that none of the men on the ground were openly armed.

"This is as much the middle of nowhere as any place I've ever been,"
Frank said, too softly for his team mates to hear over the noise of the
helicopter's engine and rotors. This side of the Arctic Circle, he
qualified silently. The thought that followed almost brought a smile to
his face: the men sent here must have really screwed up the last place
they worked.

The helicopter was still fifty feet off the ground, aiming for a black X
painted on the paved strip near the buildings, when Frank released his
seat belt--and gestured for his team mates to do the same. Frank shifted
one leg to give himself better leverage in case they had to move quickly
to defend themselves. The others also prepared.

As soon as the aircraft had settled onto the X, the copilot unstrapped
and came back through to climb out through the large doorway in the
passenger compartment. He carried his submachine gun at his side, muzzle
toward the ground next to his feet. Although he had not been invited,
Frank got out with him. Rob moved closer to the door but stayed inside
the helicopter.

Frank did not move far from the door, hanging back when the copilot
moved off to talk with the two men who were waiting. The rotor continued
to turn overhead, the aircraft's engine idling. There was still more
than enough noise and rushing air to keep Frank from hearing anything of
the conversation, even though the men just clear of the whirling
umbrella of the helicopter's rotors appeared to be nearly shouting.

The two men talking with the copilot were fairly nondescript in
appearance. Both had dark hair, dark complexions. They might--or might
not--have been Egyptians. One of them made a come-on gesture at the
truck and it started moving, slowly, toward the helicopter.

If there's going to be any trouble, it'll be soon now, Frank thought.

He concentrated on the faces of the two men talking with the copilot,
but tracked the movement of the truck as well. The fingertips on his
right hand started to tingle a bit, almost as if anxious for something
to happen.

The truck stopped, then backed through a 180degree turn. There was no
tailgate or rear flap on the truck. Frank could see a dozen metal
barrels, and a portable pump. So far, so good, he thought. But he
remained vigilant.

Frank took three steps farther from the side of the helicopter, scanning
as far around as he could see now. One of the locals was gesturing
toward the rotor, shouting something at the copilot. Now, Frank could
hear just enough to realize that the man was saying that the engine
should be shut off before the refueling operation started. Frank did not
hear the flyer's reply, but the vigorous shake of his head was enough.
The men argued for another thirty seconds, then the local shrugged and
turned to the truck. Refueling took longer than ten minutes, but that
did not bother Frank. They appeared to have made excellent time on the
first half of the flight, and a few extra minutes now would help insure
that it was after dark when the SEALs parachuted in near their target.
The hose feeding the fuel pump had to be switched manually from one
barrel to the next, and the copilot had climbed up into the bed of the
truck. He sniffed at each barrel as it was opened, as if he thought he
might detect any irregularities.

It took six barrels to top off the helicopter's fuel tanks, apparently
leaving the other six for the second time, sometime in the night, after
the operation was finished. The copilot spoke with the locals for
another thirty seconds. The truck Moved away. The helicopter's copilot
turned and walked toward Frank and the open door.

"You get in. I'll follow," Frank said, when the flyer got to him.

The man just nodded.

Frank did not really start to relax until the helicopter was a thousand
feet up and a half mile from the refueling stop horizontally. He put the
safety on his rifle on, then strapped himself in again. And wiped the
palm of his right hand on his trouser leg. It had been sweating.

After five minutes--much longer than he really needed to work through
the remnants of his adrenaline rush--Frank unbuckled his harness again
and got up to move toward the cockpit. He stuck his head up between the
two pilots, both of whom glanced his way.

"There's no need to set any speed records on this last stretch," Frank
said, speaking loudly enough for them to hear him. "We'd rather not be
silhouetted against the setting sun when we jump in." He gestured
forward.

Already the helicopter appeared to be flying directly toward the sun.

The pilot in the left-hand seat nodded, and throttled back the engine
just a hair. "No problem," he replied. "We're going to do a 'lost our
way' act as we approach the border anyway, just in case the Libyans have
radar pointed our way and working. That'll add a few minutes."

Back in his seat, Frank continued to stare out the window. There was no
longer anything to see but sand, rock, and the growing shadows cast by
hills and dunes. The helicopter varied its altitude, gradually getting
lower. Having been warned of the maneuver, he was unsurprised when the
craft turned first toward the south, then reversed course a couple of
minutes later, before edging around again to a westerly, then
southwesterly heading. Evening had come to the east. In the west, the
sun was sinking into the horizon, a red-hot globe being tempered in the
sand.

The pilot continued his haphazard-appearing maneuvers, even heading
directly east for almost three minutes, before changing course again and
heading south before turning almost straight toward the drop zone. There
would be a last-minute course change--literally--before the helicopter
would aim directly at the location where the SEALs would jump. The pilot
would increase speed and climb rapidly during that final minute.

"Check your gear!" Frank shouted, so his team mates would hear him.

"It won't be long now." Weapons had to be secured, harnesses checked to
make certain that nothing would come loose. Frank looked at the
altimeter strapped to his wrist. The devices had all been adjusted for
the difference between sea level and ground level at their destination.
The men checked each other's parachutes, back and forth.

"Make sure the safeties are on on your weapons," Frank reminded the
others, checking his own again even though he had specific memories of
flipping it after the refueling stop. The habitual caution that made him
double-check everything had contributed to Frank Lucan becoming an old
SEAL.

When the copilot came back into the compartment and said, "Three
minutes," Frank nodded. He and his men were ready. He checked his watch.

Each of the others did the same. Three minutes.

The flyers could communicate with each other through the interphones in
their helmets. The copilot stood by the side door of the helicopter,
waiting for word from the pilot. Frank remained seated, arms on knees,
his wrist turned so he could watch the face of his watch; like the
others in his team, he wore the watch with the face on the inside of his
wrist. The men all had night vision goggles, but stowed securely in
their packs. They would not wear them during the jump. For that, they
had special jump helmets and goggles.

TWo minutes. Each SEAL had a different perspective on jumping. Frank had
come to enjoy it. For several years he had been part of a civilian
skydiving club, going out and jumping every weekend he could--in
addition to occasional training and mission jumps in the Teams. Beau
accepted the need to jump as part of the job. He was neither averse nor
particularly fond of it. Rob had mellowed. At one time, he had been the
one who always took it to the edge, holding off to be the last man in
any group to open his chute, cutting each dive a little closer, as if
tempting fate--or the limits of his own courage. Now, he was content to
pull with the rest. Ike was still new enough to parachuting to be
nervous at each jump. Since completing jump school, he had made a dozen
training jumps with the platoon, but had never jumped in on an
operation. This would be only the second time he had jumped from a
helicopter; he had been terrified the first time, afraid that he would
somehow open his chute too soon and have it chewed to confetti by the
rotor. He was breathing deeply now, trying to calm himself, remembering
the irrational fear and the way the others had laughed when he'd
mentioned it. It was always an effort of willpower for him to launch
himself out into open air. But willpower was one quality he had in
abundance.

One minute. The copilot gave Frank a signal. Frank nodded. The
helicopter was not equipped with any automatic system to tell the SEALs
when to jump--no system of lights that the pilot could activate in
front.

That was why the copilot was in the passenger compartment acting as
jumpmaster. The four jumpers were out of their seats now, lined up on
the other side of the door that the copilot shoved open. Quickly, they
went through one last check of their equipment.

Thirty seconds. Twenty. Ten.

Frank counted the seconds off in his head but continued to watch the
copilot, who was getting continuous updates from the pilot. The copilot
raised one hand above his head--the other was gripping a handhold on the
side of the compartment, tightly.

... Three, two, one. The copilot brought his hand down sharply. The
signal.

Frank used one hand and his feet to launch himself through the doorway,
into the air beating down from the rotor. Even after hundreds of jumps,
Frank still experienced an inner rush to rival the air hurtling him away
from the aircraft--a speed-up of his heart rate, a hot flush to his
cheeks, a tightening of muscles. A mile below, the desert was mostly a
dark blotch, only dimly illuminated by the early stars. He counted out
two seconds before he spread his arms and legs to slow his fall, just a
little, to keep from getting too far from the men who had to follow him
in. Only then did he start to make out the silhouette of the hills and
the oasis, enough to mark the landing zone they would aim for.

Behind Frank, the other three men had piled out of the helicopter as
quickly as possible, one almost directly on the shoulders of the man in
front of him. This was a work jump, so there would be no fancy
acrobatics, no joined formations, but the team would stay as close
together as safety permitted. During the free-fall, they achieved a
fairly consistent echelon formation, each man a little higher and more
to the right than the jumper in front of him.

The loose fabric of their BDUs flapped violently, dragging on equipment
harnesses, trying the security of each piece of gear. Each man kept an
eye on his altimeter, careful not to let his rate of descent get too
extreme. As they fell, the men maneuvered to give themselves more room.
At eight hundred feet, Frank pulled his ripcord. As his pilot chute, and
then the main parafoil--both black for the night jump--opened, Frank
seemed to be jerked upward as his companions fell past him, each man
opening his own chute in close sequence. The echelon reversed itself,
with Frank on top rather than at the bottom.

These were sports parachutes, rectangular canopies designed to give the
jumper the greatest possible control over his landing, not the huge
hemispheric canopies used by airborne soldiers and aviators. Frank
worked his suspension lines to bring the initial swaying under control
and started slipping air to move him toward the landing zone. Hanging on
a pocket of air, he scanned the rapidly approaching ground, looking for
any sign that they had been spotted, that there was opposition waiting
for them. It would have taken the worst kind of luck, but that did not
mean that the threat could be ignored. At the moment, the SEALs were
helpless, and would be until they were on the ground, free of their
chutes, weapons in hand.

It was difficult to gauge the exact instant of landing in the dark.

Depth perception was limited. Although Frank was prepared, the shock of
landing was still unexpected. But his landing was good. He hit with bent
knees and rolled, the way he had been taught in jump school--ages
before.

Before he could come to a stop, Frank had hit the release latch on his
chute.

The sand was still hot from the day's exposure to the sun, but there was
a hint of coolness to the breeze that caressed cheeks numbed by the
faster air of the jump. Frank took a couple of deep breaths, pacing
them, slowing his body after the rush of the last minutes. But he got
his rifle ready at the same time, quickly checking to make sure that it
had suffered no damage in the landing.

He started to gather in the canopy of his parachute, pulling the rig
into a small bundle as he moved toward his men. "Everyone okay?" he
asked in something of a stage whisper.

"There were short affirmatives from each man, a grunt or a single word,
soft.

"Let's bury the chutes so they don't know how we got here," Frank said.
Burying the rigs took no more than a minute, scooping out depressions in
the loose sand and covering them. In time, the desert winds would either
uncover the chutes or bury them more completely. Either way would make
no difference. The SEALs would be long gone by then, and there were no
"Made in the USN" tags on the chutes.

Rob used a portable GPS--Global Positioning Satellite--set to determine
their position precisely. "Right on target," he reported. "That way." He
pointed in the direction of the oasis. The four men had discarded their
jump helmets in favor of soft caps and their night-vision goggles.

The desert was not simply drifting sand dunes from horizon to horizon.

There was sand, but there was as much hard stone, and even occasional
bare patches of hard, nutrient-starved soil; intermittent stands of
starvation grasses, more brown than green, brittle, breaking rather than
bending when the wind became too much to resist.

Frank took the point, not worrying about staying on a direct heading but
keeping to the lowest areas of ground, cutting down the distance at
which they might be spotted. He had no concern about time. They didn't
have that far to travel, and they had hours of margin.

The night wind was not excessive, but it provided the primary sounds,
blowing itself and sand. The wildlife--and even in an area as bleak and
barren as this, there was wildlife--was silent. The only animal any of
the SEALs spotted before they reached the oasis was a single bird, a
night hunter soaring in lazy circles high overhead.

Although they moved carefully, the four men covered ground quickly,
taking no more than twenty minutes to come within sight of the oasis and
the buildings it sheltered.

Doesn't look anything like oases in the movies, Ike thought as he
scanned it. There's no big pond in the middle and lush trees around it.

The fifteen or twenty trees that made up the oasis were scraggly date
palms that appeared to be barely surviving. There was some grass, the
same miserable excuse they had seen on the walk from the LZ, but in
somewhat greater concentration--enough, perhaps, to provide grazing for
a single horse or donkey for a few days. In place of an open pond, there
was a well, a circle of low stones marking that central feature. Ike and
his companions were lying just behind the ridge of a low dune on the
west side of the oasis, about two hundred yards from the first trees.

The SEALs took several minutes to study the scene, to make the
connection between reality and the photographs and maps they had
studied, and--far more important--to search for the guards they assumed
must be posted.

Two guards, at least, Frank thought. Maybe even three. Depends how
nervous they are.

No guards were immediately apparent. Frank scanned from left to right,
then back the other way, more slowly the second time across, looking for
any hint of movement in the false-color vista of his night-vision
goggles. First of all, he checked the new buildings. Around the bases of
the nearest trees. Then the ruins of the older buildings. Ruins: nothing
much more than waist-high remained of the old huts. The roofs of the new
buildings were slightly above the level that Frank and his companions
were at, but he saw no trace of a rifle or face over the low parapets
that enclosed them.

Men sleeping in two of the buildings, Frank thought. Supplies and
munitions in the third. The briefing had not included any definitive
information on which buildings were used for what. There were two trucks
parked, off beyond the new buildings, together, their tailgates up
against each other, the way tractor-trailer drivers in the States
sometimes parked their rigs to deter theft. Some supplies in there, as
well, Frank thought.

That might mean that they were expecting people in for a pickup. Or it
might mean that extra people were already there, waiting for morning
before driving off in the trucks.

Small windows were visible on the near sides of two of the new
buildings. The angle was wrong for Frank to tell whether there was a
similar window in the third building.

Frank slid back away from the ridge. The others followed him back down
into the hollow.

"Anyone see guards?" Frank asked, his whisper so faint that the others
had to strain to hear him even though they were clustered close
together.

Three heads shook negatives at their leader.

"Me either," Frank admitted. "Either we're slipping or they're being
awful careless. Let's get spread out. Beau, you've got the left.

Farmboy, the right. I don't want us spread over more than sixty degrees
of arc here. Make sure we've all got clear fields of fire and enough
room that we don't start dropping shit on each other. I want grenades
through each of the windows to start. On my signal. Farmboy, you put a
couple of incendiary grenades on those trucks. Then we deal with
whatever comes out of the buildings, trucks, or trees. Blast anything on
two legs that moves.

Ike, you stick fairly close to me. You've got the up-close stuff. We
won't need that at first."

Beau and Rob scrambled away, staying low on the near side of the dune,
moving quickly to get into position. Frank and Ike remained where they
were until the others were fifty yards away, starting to move up the
face of the shallow dune toward their initial firing positions.

"Okay, kid, our turn," Frank whispered.

Ike nodded. He had given up trying to get the others to quit calling him
kid.

The two men worked their way back up the windward side of the dune and
settled in at the ridge, crawling to their positions. They squirmed into
the sand about five yards apart. Although the weapon would be useless at
this range--just under two hundred yards, Ike had his shotgun at the
ready.

If he needed the Uzi submachine gun, he could get to it quickly enough.
He had it on a sling across his back. It might do some damage at this
distance, but like the shotgun it was primarily a close-range weapon.

Frank glanced left and right, making certain that the other two men were
in position and watching for his signal. He was not worried about their
ability to hit small windows with the grenade launchers attached to
their M-16s. They had good Bushnell rangefinders, and enough practice
with the grenade launchers that it would not take them long to zero in
on the targets. Frank checked his rifle. The safety was off. The
selector was set so that each pull of the trigger would fire a
three-shot burst.

I'd be happier if we could see their sentries, Frank thought. There
ought to be two, and maybe a sergeant of the guard to wake up each
shift.

He shook his head, just a little. Maybe they were off behind the
buildings or trucks. There were areas out of sight of any of the SEALS.
But if there were guards, they ought to react quickly to the first
grenades.

That'll be soon enough, Frank thought.

He raised his right arm, glanced to either side again to make sure that
Beau and Rob were watching, then brought the arm down quickly. The two
men with the grenade launchers triggered their first rounds within two
seconds, as quickly as they settled back into firing position.

"Now we see what we've got, kid," Frank said, sighting his rifle at the
cab of one of the two trucks. He put two three-round bursts into the cab
door, then aimed for the cab of the other truck. He thought it possible
that the guards might be sleeping in the trucks. By that time, the first
grenades had exploded--both against the walls of the buildings, missing
the small windows. But Beau and Rob had reloaded and the next rounds did
better. Beau's high explosive grenade went through the window it was
aimed at; Rob's exploded on the sill, dividing its shrapnel between the
desert and the building's interior.

"Hell of a way to wake up," Ike said, but not loud enough for Frank to
hear over the explosions and his own gunfire. Ike did not even notice
the difference in the way he felt this time over the mission in Lebanon.
True, at the moment he was only a spectator, but his nervousness had
almost vanished once he was safely on the ground. Right now, it was
almost like watching a war movie in a theater.

Frank moved his rifle fire, breaking the glass in the window on the one
remaining building--just so they don't feel neglected, he thought. He
kept an eye on the doors. As soon as one of them opened, he would
transfer his aim to get anyone trying to escape the destruction inside.

The two men with grenade launchers operated with a smooth rhythm,
popping new rounds into their launchers as quickly as possible. Each man
had his own system for arranging the types of grenades in their
bandoleers--the important consideration was that the shooter knew where
the HE, white phosphorus, and incendiary rounds were so there would be
no delays.

"Frank! Under the trucks!"

This time, Ike's shout was loud enough for the team leader to hear.

Frank saw the figure crawling away from the truck, toward the trees, or
the ruins of the mud brick buildings. One of the sentries. Frank moved
his rifle and loosed a three-shot burst, and saw the sentry's body jerk
several times as at least two of the bullets hit him high in the back.
The man's head came up sharply, then dropped. He stopped moving.

One of the building doors was pulled open. Two men ran out. Frank
switched his aim and cut both of them down before they had run five
steps.

Only then did he notice that neither man carried a weapon. Beau slipped
his next grenade--an incendiary--through the open doorway, and a burst
of flame erupted inside, spurting back out through the door and window,
glaring orange, red, and yellow. Over all of the other sounds, Frank
heard screams, almost too high-pitched to be recognizable as human.

Rob dropped four grenades on the trucks before he touched off the
ammunition they carried. There would never be any way to tell just what
mix the trucks had carried. There were several small explosions, and
what appeared to be bullets cooking off, then a massive fireball
erupted. The blast sent a concussion wave rolling out, heat and sound
that the four SEALs could feel. The ground shook. Sand danced. Debris
flew, tracing burning arcs in the night. The fireball itself might have
reached fifty yards in diameter and three times that height before
consuming itself, leaving smoke and burning trees and grass behind, and
a miniature mushroom cloud rising above. Small fires burned on the sand
and bare rock where pieces of debris had landed. The building nearest
the trucks had the facing wall blown in.

If there were more screams from that building, Frank and his companions
did not hear them.

Frank got to his feet, gesturing first for Ike, and then for the other
two as he started moving toward the buildings in the oasis. He kept
firing as he moved, targeting doors and windows, sparing with his
bursts, because there were no visible targets. There was only limited
return fire, uncoordinated, poorly aimed. The surviving people in the
buildings obviously had no idea where the attack was coming from.

The four SEALs were halfway to the nearest building before several more
men tried to escape. Gunfire from two or three rifles in the doorway
covered the first man as he ran toward the well and the ruins on the far
side of it.

He almost made it. A burst of rifle fire caught him just as he reached
the low circle of stones that marked the well. He pitched forward, onto
the stones. For an instant it appeared that he would fall into the well,
but he did not, slumping to the ground next to it, pulling one of the
stones over onto himself. The men who had been attempting to cover him
fared no better. Beau dropped a fragmentation grenade right in the
doorway.

"Let's finish this off!" Frank shouted, uncertain whether anyone but Ike
would hear. It wasn't crucial. They all knew the mission. They went to
all three buildings. Frank and Ike took the one in the middle, the one
that had suffered least from the initial assault. Beau and Rob split the
other two.

The door of the center building was still more or less intact, and
closed. "Okay, kid, let's see what you can do with that scattergun,"
Frank said.

Frank kept his own rifle trained on the door while Ike moved to within
ten feet of it and started blasting the hinge side of the door, two
rounds near the top, two near the bottom, shattering much of the door
itself and knocking the remnants inside. That left four rounds in the
weapon. Ike used those, through the doorway, moving his point of aim for
each shot.

Then he dropped the shotgun and slung his Uzi around, clicking off the
safety before he had the weapon in position.

"Go!" Frank said. He went through the doorway and to the right, his
rifle on full automatic now. He started spraying the interior before he
had a chance to look for targets. By the time Ike came through the
doorway, moving to the left, Frank could see that there was no one left
alive in the building, and only two corpses, pockmarked by shotgun
pellets and rifle bullets, growing circles of blood merging with each
other.

Half of the single room was filled with crates stacked six feet high.

Frank could not read the Arabic inscriptions on the wood, but he had no
doubt that they had found more munitions.

"We'll come back for this," Frank said, gesturing Ike toward the door
again. "Let's make sure the other buildings are secure."

Frank was a step in front of the youngest member of the team, just
moving through the doorway when a new weapon entered the fight. Frank
recognized the deeper pitch of a heavier-caliber weapon than the M-16s
he, Beau, and Rob were using--just as bullets started cracking against
the concrete blocks at his side. He pushed backward, shoving Ike out of
the line of fire, and took cover at the side of the door.

"One man," Frank said. He had managed only a quick glimpse of the lone
gunman running toward the buildings, diving for cover near the remains
of the two trucks, briefly silhouetted by the dying flames from those
vehicles.

"The other sentry?" Ike whispered.

Frank nodded. "You keep him busy from here. I'll go out the window and
work around." He was interrupted by another burst of gunfire from the
man outside, bullets that hit the doorway and one of the crates inside.
"I don't hear anything from the others, so they should be trying to work
into position as well." Ike thought of, but didn't raise, the other
possibility, that one or both of their team mates might have been hit.
He just slipped a new magazine into his Uzi and got ready to move to the
doorway when Frank slid around the edge of the room to get to the window
on their right.

Frank had no difficulty getting through the window. There were crates
piled in front of it, one lower than the rest, so he climbed out as if
on an oversized set of stairs, jumping easily to the ground outside.
Beau came out from behind the rear corner of the building on that side
and crossed to Frank. "Got us a hero out there," Beau whispered. "One
hero." "I know," Frank said. "Give me ninety seconds to get around the
huts, then draw his attention. The kid will open up when you do. Tell
him.

Once you've got the hero looking your way, I'll pop him from behind."

Despite the words, neither man assumed that there was indeed only one
hostile left to face. Beau kept scanning. And Frank moved as if he
suspected that there might be a platoon of Libyan soldiers waiting for
him to make a bad move. He stayed low, running clear of the buildings
into the minimal cover of the trees--as far from the light of the fires
as he could.

He saw Rob moving toward him from the third building. Frank gave him a
come-along gesture and they ran on, moving for the far side of the
oasis, to come in on the remaining shooter from behind.

Beau and Ike started shooting before the other two were nearly in
position. Frank and Rob picked up the pace a little, staying three or
four yards apart. There was no need for talk or signs. Frank led and Rob
adjusted. They had worked and trained together long enough for that to
come naturally. They moved to within eighty yards of the lone guard,
crawling the last ten. The flames of the trucks had died almost
completely away, leaving only a few wisps of smoke to obscure vision.

When the local soldier lifted up to fire a burst at the two men he was
facing, Frank and Rob also raised up, but they had their target clearly
in sight. Bullets from both rifles raked the man, jerking his body
around for several seconds after he had died--before he could even fall
to the ground.

Silence.

Frank whistled to let the others know that the fight was over, then
turned to Rob. "Any problems in that hut you hit?"

Rob shook his head. "I guess the explosion of the trucks wiped out
everyone. Five bodies, none still kicking. One of the walls had caved
in."

"Let's get the Job finished. There are crates of munitions in the center
building. I don't know yet about the building Beau had. We blow or burn
the lot, then get the hell out of here before the cops show up."

For the first third of the hike out to the rendezvous point, the new
fires in the oasis were a beacon. Almost routinely, the four SEALs
glanced back in that direction. It was unlikely that the fires would
draw attention very quickly. The territory was far too isolated. Perhaps
a pilot would notice and either come in for a look or radio the news of
a fire in the desert, but even if that happened, it would take time for
the Libyan military to react. Long enough for us to get the hell away
from here, Frank thought after he had spoken with the helicopter pilot
and made sure that they weren't going to have to walk all the way back
to the Red Sea.

Frank was asleep almost before the helicopter was off the ground. Rob
had to shake him awake when they approached the refueling stop. Once
more, they treated the stop as potential trouble, guns ready for use.
But, again, refueling was accomplished without difficulty. Frank did
stay awake after that, all of the way back to Bellman.

POST-MISSION

The watch changed aboard ship. Men hurried along companionways to duty
stations. Frank and his team mates sat in the armory and cleaned their
weapons, even the pistols that had not been taken from their holsters.
This was no "prettying up" for an inspection. They were master craftsmen
caring for the essential tools of their trade.

Harry Tombs came into the room and closed the door behind him. He stood
there, leaning back against the door, while Frank gave his verbal report
of the mission. Afterward, Tombs asked few questions. His voice still
sounded weak, and Frank thought that the CIA man appeared green yet,
still seasick.

"Get some sleep," Tombs advised. "Another busy night coming up."

THE REPORT

Harry Tombs leaned back and looked at the report on the screen of his
portable computer. While he proofread the document, he sipped carefully
at the green tea that had been all he had been able to keep down since
boarding Bellman. Alone in his cabin, he even managed a brief smile as
he reread the summary at the end of his report.

Twenty-one hostile bodies were counted.

It is believed that no hostiles escaped. The team destroyed all three
buildings at the terrorist depot, as well as two military trucks, and a
conservatively estimated six to eight tons of munitions destined for
terrorist organizations in East Africa and the Middle East. No evidence
of the identity or origin of the attacking force was left. Extraction
was accomplished without incident.

Despite his execrable seasickness, the operation was off to a good
start.

The man was so thin that he looked taller than he was. In general, he
was fairly nondescript, middle-aged with a thin but curly beard, brown
with gray streaks. He was dressed in white silk loose-fitting trousers
and a tunic, the latter held tight by a dark brown sash wound several
times around his waist. On his head he wore a turban-wrapped tarboosh,
white around a brownish red Peering through bifocals (that he never
allowed himself to be photographed wearing), he stared at the message on
the screen of his notebook computer. He might have been a mid-level
clerk in a government office somewhere, or a shopkeeper reviewing his
books. He did not look like the most-wanted terrorist in the world, with
a price of five million U.S. dollars on his head.

Faud ibn Landin growled softly under his breath, not even conscious of
the sound. The email he was reading was bad news. It had come encrypted
so securely that no intelligence agency would have any hope of reading
the transmission. The software had been developed by programmers in
India, and was far more secure than any encryption software the foolish
Americans would permit to be sold in the United States.

"We'll have to postpone the meeting, Nasir, Faud said, speaking softly.
He looked over the top of his computer screen at the aide who was the
only other person in the room. "Shining Star won't come. They've had
trouble at home, some business with a group of villagers who claimed to
have an important Yankee prisoner." He shrugged, minimally. "And Al-Bahr
suggests that we might have had something to do with destroying a load
of munitions they were to pick up from the Libyans early this morning.
They believe we are involved in some trickery."

"We should head back to Afghanistan immediately," Nasir said, ignoring
any other concerns. "I said it was a mistake for you to risk yourself
away from where we can protect you fully." Nasir was ibn Landin's chief
of security. A dozen handpicked bodyguards surrounded the building that
housed the terrorist leader. Armed heavily, even with shoulder-fired
surface-to-air missiles, the bodyguards did not ease Nasir's worries.

Ibn Landin pushed his chair back and stood. The butt of a 9mm pistol was
visible now, tucked into the sash around his waist. A second pistol, a
.38 caliber revolver, was holstered around the top of his right boot,
concealed by his loose-fitting trousers. The other boot held a knife
that was made of surgical steel, its blade honed as sharp as any
surgeon's scalpel. "This time, I think you are right, at least about
returning to the camps for the time being. I'm going to have to talk
with these people, calm their worries before we can go ahead with the
meeting. And I need you to find out everything you can about these two
incidents."

"Why not call the meeting off completely?" Nasir suggested. "You can
talk with the others one at a time, bring them to the camps, or meet
them close by, where the Americans and the Zionists can't get to you."

"That wouldn't work, Nasir, and I've told you why. We can't form a
complete union unless we can actually all come together, face to face.

Without that level of cooperation, of trust, we can never succeed. We
need the reality of union, not just a paper show."

"You already command the devotion of as many people as the other nine
men together. Why do we need them at all?"

"Precisely because the others have as many trusted followers as I have,
Nasir. We will double our numbers in one stroke, and once we can show
that level of commitment, we'll draw more people in. And we'll achieve
more equal alliances with those governments who support us. In a year,
we can be a nation without borders, Nasir, as strong as any member of
the Arab League, and more united in purpose behind the flag of Jihad.

We'll be strong enough to engineer the destruction of Israel and force
the abject submission of the infidel west.

3

PRE-MISSION

The four SEALs had the weather deck of Bellman pretty much to
themselves. Frank had called his men out for calisthenics and a morning
run at 0930. Exercises had eaten up the first half hour. Now, he was
leading his men in a brisk jog around the ship's open main deck, from
the heliport on the fantail to the missile launcher on the foredeck.
Seven laps equaled a mile, roughly, and the SEALs were in their
twentieth lap of the morning. Their pace was slowing. The coarse black
hair on Frank's back and shoulders was matted down with sweat. All four
men were sweating profusely. Despite the twenty-knot breeze generated by
Bellman's speed southeast along the Red Sea, the temperature was already
over a hundred degrees fahrenheit, and there wasn't the slightest hint
of a cloud anywhere in the sky.

As the group reached the narrow band of shade on the port side of
Bellman's superstructure, Rob stopped running and leaned over, hands on
knees, trying to catch his breath. "Enough!" he called out, loud enough
that Frank--twenty yards farther on--heard. Beau and Ike stopped running
immediately, and moved into the scant shade. Frank took another couple
of paces before he slowed to a walk, then turned back toward the others.

"Crazy, runnin' out in this shit," Beau said, when Frank had rejoined
the group.

"We've got to keep in shape," Frank said, but he didn't complain about
the others quitting. It had been getting to him as well, age and heat
added to the normal exertion. It was a little much. "After this, we'll
have to get back to doing our workout at first light."

"Not when we don't get back from an op until four in the morning," Rob
said. "We're not going to turn into pig fat if we miss a couple of days
out here. Anyway, what damned use we gonna be to anyone if we get so
dehydrated we can't stand up?"

"I'll try to get some idea what our schedule's going to be when I see
the spook," Frank said.

"Yeah, tell him his jobs are screwing up your training regimen," Rob
suggested, "and one or the other has to go." Beau and Ike laughed.

"Tell him he can do the running for us," Beau said. "Let him sweat the
seasick out." That was good for another laugh. Even Frank could not
suppress a grin.

"Okay, you've made your point," Frank said. "But we do need to keep in
shape. Bellman has some exercise equipment below. Use it."

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, Frank went to Harry
Tombs's cabin. He knocked and Tombs told him to come in.

Tombs was lying on his made bunk, staring at the overhead when Frank
entered and closed the door behind him. The CIA man swung around and sat
up.

"Something bothering you?" Tombs asked quietly.

"No more'n usual," Frank said. "Just thought I'd check and see how
you're doing, and ask what's up next for us." He had already noticed
that Tombs looked healthier than he had the day before. There was color
in his face again--other than green. "If we don't have any jobs for a
day or two, I want to make sure my people don't get out of shape."

"I'm doing better. Sit down," Tombs said, gesturing to the one chair in
the small cabin. Frank sat.

For a moment, Tombs just stared at his visitor. He respected the ability
of Lucan and the other SEALS, but habit and training dictated
separation, a certain studied aloofness. The habit of secrecy was even
more deeply ingrained. It would have been a relief to talk about the
dispatches he had received that morning, maybe get another perspective
on what appeared to be going on, but ... "For now, we continue working,
hit the bad guys as hard and as often as we can. Right now, the more
shit we throw at them, the better. You get to the point where you feel
your men need a day off, let me know."

"We haven't hit anything hairy enough for that yet," Frank said when
Tombs paused. "Hell, we've really only started."

Tombs nodded. "We'll have our mission briefing at two this afternoon.

For now ... well, let's just say we've got an ambush to set up and
execute."

By 1400 hours, Harry Tombs looked as if he were almost completely
recovered from his sea-sickness. He moved with assurance and his voice
was firm again.

The SEALs were waiting when he entered the conference room and opened
the target folder to start passing the briefing documents around.

"A transfer of funds, expected to consist of bullion and British and
German currency, is scheduled to take place between eleven o'clock
tonight and three o'clock tomorrow morning," Tombs started. "In part,
these funds are to help finance the terrorist activities of a group
calling itself Glory of God. More than that, the money is to help pay
for security at the summit meeting that ibn Landin has engineered. Glory
of God is to route some of the money to at least one and perhaps two
other groups. Glory of God has gone by several other names over the past
couple years. There's a breakdown of aliases and activities in the
folder. Our job is to prevent the transfer and impound the bullion and
currency. Make 'em all tighten the purse strings a little."

"Hell, I thought all these terrorists did their money transfers through
banks and so forth now," Frank said. "Electronic transfers or numbered
accounts. This sounds more like drug money changing hands in South
America."

"You're not too far wrong," Tombs said. "Our information is that the
money comes from the drug business--opium, to be specific. Ibn Landin
may be rich in his own right, but his legitimate sources of income in
Saudi Arabia were cut off a long time ago, and he's been forced to
diversify.

Drugs, kidnapping for ransom, even robbery. Two banks in France and a
diamond exchange in Amsterdam that we're sure of. Despite all the money
he's poured into terrorist activities over the last decade or more, he's
probably worth more now than when he started."

"Hey, you two are way ahead of the rest of us, Rob said. "You been
talking this out ahead Of time?"

"Not substantively." Tombs paused and looked around the table at each of
the SEALS.

"This is the layout," he said. "Bellman will separate from the rest of
the task force in about three hours and increase speed to put us near
the coast of Eritrea just north of the town of Mitsiwa shortly after
dark this evening. We will go ashore by rapid penetration boat, and set
up our ambush near a small hotel on the outskirts of Mitsiwa, where one
group of people is going to turn over several suitcases full of cash and
gold to another group of people. We get the money, and do whatever is
necessary to the people involved to make certain they can't positively
identify us as Americans, then return the way we went in." "We?" Frank
said, staring at Tombs. "The way you say that makes it sound as if you
intend going in with us."

"Exactly," Tombs said.

There was silence for a moment. Frank could feel the stares of his team
mates, but he continued to look at Tombs. That's all we need, Frank
thought.

"I don't think that's the best choice," the chief said. "I mean nothing
against you, but you haven't had the specialized training and physical
conditioning we've had, and on top of that, you've spent the last two
days puking your guts out. The boat we're going to use to get in and out
is likely to bounce all over the place, and you couldn't handle Bellman.
You'll be useless if you're seasick, and worse than that. Having you
along could endanger the four of us and the mission, just because you
want to play James Bond all of a sudden. I wouldn't take anyone in like
that, not even one of my own men. We can't count on being able to carry
you and wait for you to get done puking every few minutes."

"I'm not asking you to carry me," Tombs said, his voice coldly rigid.

"I can take care of myself. I didn't ask your opinion about the manning
on this op. And I am the boss here."

"I don't give a damn what you did or didn't ask," Frank said, his tone
matching the CIA man's almost perfectly. "The four of us are a team.

We've trained and worked together for years. We know what to expect from
the rest, what we can and can't do. We know we can count on each other.

We don't know diddly-squat about you."

"Deal with it. We don't have photographs of any of the possible couriers
available. I've either seen most of the people ibn Landin might trust to
transfer so much money, or studied their photographs before. We hit the
Wednesday night poker club by mistake, we're all knee deep in the shit.
Besides, I'll be handling the glass ear. We might have trouble figuring
out what room they're in otherwise."

Frank tried to marshal more objections, but there was that one fact he
couldn't get past. Tombs was in command. If he wanted to go along, there
was no way Frank could prevent it without breaking more Navy regulations
than he wanted to contemplate.

"We will obey orders," Frank said, after the silence had gone on for
more than a minute. "But I'm going to Put my objections in writing. I
want them on record in case things go wrong because you come along on
this."

"Fine. You do that," Tombs said. "Now, can we continue with the
briefing?"

There was an icy formality to the rest of the session.

THE PREPARATION

Machinist's Mate Ike Jensen had been free early and so had already
kitted up. Now he sat and watched the other members of his team
preparing for the mission. It was rather humorous, in a way, and he had
to smile.

When he had applied for the tests to be a SEAL, even when he was in
BUD/S, Ike had wondered what a real SEAL thought about while preparing
for the field. He had imagined some sort of psyching up process, maybe
the sort of self-hypnosis the ancient Viking Beserkers were said to
practice. The memory brought out a full smile. Jensen wondered at it for
a moment, then went back to fastening his boots.

The truth was that there was no secret. No ritual, no kata, nothing.

Like all SEALS, Ike was a professional who prepared like any
professional would to do his job. You review the details, check and
recheck Your equipment and weapons, wonder where You'll go for break on
your next leave.

More than anything he now understood that professionalism made the
difference. Frank had been right, he could trust every man on the team
to be where he was needed when he was supposed to be there. That's what
worried them all about taking the spook. The company man may be in
charge, they were used to that, but he wasn't one of them. He hadn't
trained as they had, he hadn't passed the test of Hell Week. Simply put,
they were a team and the company man wasn't a part of that. Having to
include him, to ensure his safety, might cause them to hesitate. But
hesitation could mean failure, even death.

Jensen stretched. He was nervous, everyone admitted they were before a
tricky mission, and this one had a greater potential for disaster than
most. The plan just wasn't precise. They didn't know which building, the
number or armaments they might be facing, even the timing was too loose.

But looking at his team mates, Ike knew they had the skill and abilities
to overcome almost any obstacle. Nervous, that was human, but the young
SEAL was also confident in his own abilities and those of his team
mates. They were professionals, well prepared for anything they were
likely to face.

Knowing this helped the Machinist mate retain his air of calm even as
the muscles on the back of his neck tensed.

He turned the machine gun over in his hands. The 9 mmm-10 Ingram is one
of the most compact submachine guns in the US military inventory. The
high cyclic rate of fire causes it to empty its 32-round magazine in
about two seconds if the trigger is held down. It takes a good deal of
training and practice to fire the Ingram in short, effective six-shot
bursts, especially since it's a two-handed firing weapon that packs a
lot of muscle. But that's what being a SEAL was all about. Control.
Discipline.

Principle. Ike checked his pack and came up with the sound suppressor
that screwed onto the threaded muzzle of the Ingram. It was a reminder
of just how dangerous this mission was going to be.

Eventually, Ike put the weapon away and repacked the silencer for the
trip in. Then, taking the opportunity while the others finished
selecting and checking their weapons, Jensen leaned back against a
locker and reviewed the map he had already memorized.

THE MISSION

Bellman had lowered the SEALs' RPB--rapid penetration boat--over the
port side, away from the African coast, no more than twenty-five hundred
yards from shore. The ship slowed only minimally. The transfer would be
done on the fly. Harry Tombs and the SEAL team climbed down a rope
ladder into the boat, then cast off the painter holding the RPB to
Bellman. The SEALS took up the same relative positions they had during
the rescue mission in Lebanon. Tombs sat in the middle of the boat--or
rather, crouched low on his knees. All the men stayed as low as they
could, to minimize the silhouette they would present once Bellman moved
away from them.

All five men were dressed in special night-camouflage clothing--in
patterns of black and grays--long-sleeve jerseys and trousers, black
boots and slouch hats, with black greasepaint smeared randomly on faces
and the backs of hands. They were armed similarly as well, with
submachine guns--Ingram or Uzi, according to personal preference--all
with noise suppressors attached. Each man also carried a pistol and at
least one knife. The firearms had no easily discovered serial numbers.
The clothing had no tags. None of the men carried or wore any
identification, military or civilian. If anyone was killed or captured,
there would be no way for the local authorities to prove who they were
or where they had come from.

Not even fingerprints would provide identification. If necessary, files
would be extracted from FBI and naval records.

There had been virtually no talking among the five men from the time
they'd rendezvoused on Bellman before climbing down into their RPB. The
SEALs had done their talking before, going over the tactical details of
the operation. Frank explained tactics in far more detail than he would
have for just his mentaring at Tombs through the simplified
instructions. Tombs might be boss of the operation, but Frank Lucan
retained tactical control.

Once in the boat, silence was a matter of routine discipline, not
continuing disgruntlement over the presence of the civilian.

Bellman maintained its speed and heading for several minutes after the
RPB cast off so there would be no reason for observers to mark a
specific point where something might have happened out of the ordinary.
By the time the ship adjusted its course by turning several degrees to
port, farther from shore, the small boat was a third of the way to the
coast even though Beau kept the engine throttled back far enough to
minimize the RPB's wake.

Bellman would continue on course through the Mitsiwa canal before making
a slow turn to port to circle the Dahlak Islands to head back northwest
to rendezvous with the team.

After sunset, there was little chance of running into any local boats
out in the water. Most of the fishermen put out in the pre-dawn twilight
and were back in port before midday. The boats that handled freight
transportation along the coast also worked almost exclusively during
daylight hours. And this was not an area known for pleasure boating. The
small number of residents of Mitsiwa wealthy enough to afford recreation
of that nature had other things to do with their money--like hiring
bodyguards to keep them and their money safe.

It was early enough in the evening that there were still a considerable
number of lights on in the town of Mitsiwa, even streetlights.

But the number was much smaller than it would have been in any American
or European town of comparable size. The one improved highway serving
Mitsiwa led west to Asmera, some sixty miles away, but the men in the
RPB could see the headlights of few vehicles.

Using binoculars and night-vision goggles, Frank identified the inn that
was their destination. The building was single story, of stucco covered
brick, whitewashed. The layout was simple, three sides of a hollow
square with the courtyard facing the Red Sea. According to the briefing
papers, the inn's office, kitchen, dining room, and bar were in the
central part of the structure, with guest rooms in either wing.
Everything faced the courtyard, with private doors to the guest rooms.
There was a smaller addition built onto the back of the central section,
with refrigerated storage for the kitchen. Only the public rooms were
air conditioned. A small jetty along the shore protruded far enough to
let small boats tie up to deliver food and supplies--or an occasional
traveler coming in by water.

Several cars were parked in the courtyard.

Beau aimed for a point a couple of hundred yards north of the inn. As
the RPB neared shore, Frank could no longer see into the courtyard. He
turned to studying the section of coast where the boat would land. The
inn was at the very edge of settlement. Along the shore, civilization
appeared to come to a sudden halt. Farther inland, there might be
hundreds of shanties where refugees and the working poor lived, but not
here. There might almost have been a line drawn: town here, wasteland
there. All the better for us, Frank thought; I hate to work in a crowd.

Someone had spent considerable time watching the inn, over a period of
weeks, if not longer. The patterns of business had been carefully
delineated in the briefing papers. There were rarely more than two or
three guest rooms occupied overnight. The inn's primary business came
from its bar and dining room, from lunch-time through early evening. The
supper crowd reached its heaviest between seven and nine in the evening.
Business in the bar started trailing off soon after the dining room quit
serving at ten and the barman was usually able to shut down for the
night by eleven.

After he finished cleaning up and left, the only staff left would be a
night manager and a single porter, unless the inn had most of its rooms
occupied--a rare occurrence--in which case a second porter might be on
duty.

The narrow beach just north of the inn was not sand, but primarily rock
and gravel--rounded bits of stone that had been tumbled and polished by
years of tides and the wash of boat engines. The RPB grounded a few feet
short of the beach, and the men hopped out into the water to pull it
ashore and into the cover of a scraggly bush that had somehow survived
almost at the water's edge.

Beyond that, the ground rose in a sharp bank, about six feet. Water had
undercut the land above. Tombs and the four SEALs got down behind that.
For a moment, they all watched over the top, looking for any sign of
people about--any hint that their approach might have been noticed.

Then, when Frank was sure that the five of them were alone, he moved
closer to Tombs and whispered close to his ear. "You might be in charge
of the overall operation, but remember this. I'm the team leader, and in
tactical control. You do what you're told, and God help you if you fuck
up."

Tombs turned to stare at Frank. He waited a few seconds before he
whispered back, "Then lead."

"Until we get in position, you stick close to me. I've got to know where
everybody is, and I don't have to see the others for that."

Frank whistled softly to get the attention of his team mates, then made
a gesture. Rob was the first man over the top of the embankment.

Then Frank nudged Tombs. "Let's go."

They clambered up away from the beach and moved a little to the right.

At the same time, Ike moved up and to the left. Beau was the last man.
He gave the others a ten-yard head-start before he climbed out and
followed them.

The team moved in a roughly diamond-shaped formation, with one point too
heavy because of the presence of an extra man. They all moved in a
crouch, weapons at the ready. But this was one mission where they hoped
that there would be little need--if any--for gunfire. If the terrorists
transferring money could be caught unaware, put under the gun before
they could start using their own weapons, they could be dispatched
silently--one way or another.

The goal was to get in and out with as little fuss as possible. If they
could finish their mission without disturbing the inn's staff or any
other guests, that would make it perfect.

The rocky soil was poor but did manage to support some grass, but
nothing larger. The team moved to a position fifty yards from the north
wing of the inn and went to ground--flat on their faces--while Tombs
used his "glass ear," a listening device that could read conversation
from the vibrations talk set up in window glass as well as more directly
to eavesdrop on the eight guest rooms on that side of the hostelry. It
was still early--it would be another hour before the anticipated
earliest time for the transfer specified in the briefing--but it might
be possible to find likely guests before then. Frank and Tombs each had
binoculars.

Tombs might spot a familiar face. If they didn't find anything here,
they would move around to the far side of the inn to survey the eight
guest rooms on that side. Then come back later, if necessary.

"One way or another, we'll find our targets," Tombs had told the SEALS
near the end of the briefing that afternoon.

"If they show up," Frank had replied.

"They'll show up." Maybe, Frank thought after ten minutes of watching
for movement near the windows in the rooms he could see. There was a
light burning in only one of those rooms, and no one moved past the
window during the time that Frank stared at it. This side or the other,
he thought. Should have had two bugs so we could watch both sides at
once. And radios to communicate.

"There's someone in that room with the lights," Tombs whispered. "I can
pick up snoring. Almost loud enough to hear without the glass ear."

"Just peachy," Frank whispered. "Listen, we're not going to be Sure of
anything just sitting here. We need to move around, down near the front,
where we can see both sides at once." "Front of the courtyard?" Tombs
asked.

"You said it. Back down by the Water. If necessary, we can hide at the
edges of the pier." Should have planned on that from the start, Frank
thought. If he hadn't got me so riled about going along, I would have.
He shook his head, a minimal gesture. Letting emotion get to him had
been a major screw up. Maybe I'm getting too old for this. Frank waited
long enough to give Tombs a chance to object, then signaled to the other
men.

"I'll go first," Frank said when the other SEALS came close enough to
hear whispered instructions. "We've got to get down where we can see the
whole operation at once. Farmer, you nursemaid our spook. Ike, you get
on my tail and stay there."

Frank didn't wait for comments or objections. He didn't even look to see
how Tombs reacted to nursemaid and spook. He simply didn't give a damn.

There was no evidence that anyone was looking their way--or that there
was anyone around to look. But Frank took every precaution he could,
short of slithering along on his belly. He moved slowly and steadily,
walking in an uncomfortable crouch.

He had his Uzi ready, but if any of them needed guns at this stage of
the operation, the night would be a total bust.

They had little more than the length of a football field to go from
where they had been to the shore. Frank angled a bit farther from the
inn as he moved. Once they were down by the water again, they could move
toward the center of the inn with less chance of being discovered by
accident. If they had to go into the water, so be it. SEALs would hardly
notice it, and if it made Tombs uncomfortable, all the better. Maybe he
won't be so damn eager to come along next time, Frank thought.

Frank had covered nearly half the distance to the shore when car
headlights came around the seaside corner of the Inn. Twin cones of
light swept across the field Frank and his team were crossing. There was
scarcely time for the five of them to drop to the ground before the
light reached them.

Then the light was gone. The car had turned into the courtyard of the
inn. It parked and the engine was shut off. That might be part of our
target, Frank thought. He lifted his head, and then got up and started
moving again, hurrying now. He wanted to see how many people got out of
the car and where they went.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath when he finally got close enough to
the water to see into the courtyard. There was no one moving. Whoever
had been in the car had already gone in--somewhere.

"Quick, slide along until we can cover all three sides of the
courtyard," Frank instructed as the others came down over the embankment
behind him. He sent Ike on first, then Tombs and Rob, then moved into
the line himself, leaving Beau at the rear again. That was where
Guisborne preferred to operate.

For an area generally starved for lumber, the wharf was surprisingly
constructed of wood pilings thicker than telephone poles, eight by eight
beams, and heavy planks. Rock had been blasted or dug away to
accommodate larger boats than might routinely be assumed to need the
wharf. Only right along the shore was there a shallow shelf. The wharf
was thirty yards long, and extended ten feet out from the shore. Near
the northern end, there was a gap between wharf and shore, as much as
five feet right at the end of the dock.

There was nearly four feet of clearance between the water and the bottom
of the wharf's decking.

We could have brought the boat right in here and tied up underneath, Ike
thought as he edged his way along the ledge toward the southern end of
the wharf. Saved ourselves a lot of trouble. His shrug was only mental,
and quickly over. He had to concentrate on the next stretch of rocky
ledge. It was narrow, slippery, and angled a little toward the water.
The gentle swell, rising and falling against him, didn't help. Twice he
came close to losing his footing. The second time, it was only a good
handhold that kept him from sliding completely off the ledge.

Ike was already wet to the waist. That was no problem, though he was
getting uncomfortable with water in his boots. A fall would mean a
splash though, and that might draw attention--the one thing the SEALs
did not want.

Finally, he reached the end of the wharf. The land jutted out a little
just beyond the end of the decking, and he was able to find a position
that seemed secure. He looked over the embankment toward the inn.

He had a clear view of the doors and windows along two-thirds of the
courtyard--all but the south wing--as well as the ends of the wings.

Now, we wait, he thought. He scanned past the inn, toward town. He would
not want to be caught with his head sticking up between the gap between
wharf and shore. They could see all of the doors and windows facing the
courtyard, though the angle on the north wing was acute enough to make
Rob wonder if Tombs's eavesdropping device would be fully effective
there. There was barely room for Tombs to get his head up above the
level of wharf and shore to use the glass ear. Rob had moved a couple of
feet away from the CIA man, where the gap was wide enough to give him a
chance to get his weapon up over the edge if he had to use it.

Five yards farther on, Frank's view of the courtyard was the counterpart
of what Ike could see.

Frank could not see the windows facing the courtyard from the north
wing.

At the north end of the wharf, Beau gave the courtyard little attention.
He watched the outer side of the north wing, and the area north of the
inn--land and water. This gonna be a dry hole, he thought, unconcerned
by the irony of the cliche. Like the others, he was wet to his waist.
But even if no one showed up to hand over cash and bullion to someone
else, security was important. If they were captured by locals and made
to talk, they would be in trouble--and the U.S. government would have a
major diplomatic flap. We got home, people steer clear of us like we was
dead fish been sitting in the sun for a week, Beau thought.

When the lights went out in the inn's kitchen, Frank looked at his
watch. It was 2230 hours, ten-thirty at night. Three minutes later, a
man and woman--both dressed in white--came out of the central portion of
the inn and went to one of the four cars parked in the courtyard. They
got in.

The car was balky. Its driver had to try several times before the engine
came to life. The vehicle backed all the way out of the courtyard and
toward the north, then shifted into forward and drove out past the south
wing, turning toward town.

It was nearly an hour later before the lights went out in the bar.

One man came out and started walking. He had his hands stuck in the
pockets of his khaki shorts and was whistling. Just after he left the
courtyard, rounding the corner of the south wing, he stopped and looked
toward the shore.

Ike, the nearest SEAL, held his breath and very slowly lowered himself a
few inches. Only the top half of his head, from the eyes up, had been
exposed at the start. When he stopped moving, little more than the top
of his hat might have been visible to the man by the corner of the
building.

If he started toward the shore, Ike would see him before he got too
close.

And then ...? If the man came too close, he would have to be silenced.

One way or another.

The others had also lowered themselves, slowly, taking care not to move
quickly enough to draw the attention of the man they all assumed to be
the inn's bartender. Only Beau stayed up far enough to watch him. He
edged farther away from the north end of the wharf ready to climb ashore
and go after the whistler, if necessary. Beau unsnapped the strap on his
shoulder holster, drew his pistol, then screwed the silencer in place.
The whistling man was seventy yards away, but Beau was confident that he
could make the shot if he had to.

After nearly five minutes, the man lit a cigarette, blew one long puff
of smoke, then started walking toward town. Beau let out his breath,
softly, but he continued watching until the man disappeared from sight,
on the dark road into Mitsiwa. Then he removed the silencer from his
pistol and put both back where they belonged. It was ten minutes until
midnight.

By one o'clock in the morning, Frank was about ready to believe that the
rendezvous would not come off. There were no lights on in any of the
guest rooms in the south wing. In the center, one light showed in the
lobby, but even the light by the entrance had been switched off at
midnight. Frank could still see light shining out of one guest room on
the north wing, but that was where Tombs had said there was a man
snoring, hours before.

Frank did remember that the briefing had indicated that the rendezvous
might take place anytime between 2300 and 0300 hours, but every minute
that went by seemed to make it less likely that anyone would show up.
And no way for anyone to tell us if new intel has come in, he thought.
Harry Tombs was the SEALs' only link to the intelligence apparatus
providing information for this entire series of operations. If something
happened to him, Frank could do nothing but take his men back to Bellman
and notify his superiors in Virginia.

It was 0115 hours. Frank took out his binoculars and scanned as much of
the sea as he could. Bellman was out there, somewhere, waiting for a
message from the SEALs to set up retrieval. There was traffic on the Red
Sea, but most of the lights Frank could see were well out, near the
horizon. And more beyond that, he thought. Most commercial shipping
would steer east of the Dahlak Islands. Even the rest of Roosevelt's
battle group would be out there, somewhere, staying as near the center
of the deep water and as far from potentially hostile land as possible.

Frank started to slide along the ledge toward Harry and Rob. His legs
were cold and stiff after standing in water so long. The Red Sea might
be relatively warm, but it was at least ten degrees below normal body
temperature, and that left him slightly chilled. Ten years earlier, it
might not have bothered him at all, but he was aware of it now. He could
feel it.

Tombs and Rhodes both noticed Frank coming.

"Doesn't look like your people are going to show," Frank whispered when
he was as close to the other two as he could get. "Maybe their plans got
changed."

"Maybe," Tombs whispered back, "but it's too early to give up. That end
room on the north. There's someone in there. Sounds like he's just
pacing back and forth from the window on this side to the far side of
the room. Back and forth, like he's waiting for someone, or something."

"You got any idea which end of the transfer he might be?" Frank asked.

"If we could be sure it was the one with the loot, we could hit now and
get out before the other side arrives. That'd do the job, wouldn't it?"

"If we could be sure," Tombs conceded, "but we can't. Our information
wasn't quite that complete. If we hit the people waiting to get the
money, we might be out of luck. We don't know what recognition signals
they might have." "Just a thought. You still figure on waiting here till
three o'clock if we have to?" "If we have to," Tombs said. "Maybe ten or
fifteen minutes past, just to be sure. That would still give us time to
get back to the boat and make our rendezvous with Bellman before dawn."
Barely, Frank thought, but he did not say it. He just nodded, then edged
his way back to where he had been before. Movement helped take the
strain from his knees and ankles.

Beau was the first to hear the sound, not just because he was nearest,
but because it was a sound he had known since he was a baby--the sound
of a small boat engine throttled well back. It was coming along the
shore from the north. He slid back under the embankment at the edge of
the wharf, into the water. After a glance south, to make certain that
none of the others were exposed enough to give away their position, Beau
turned his attention to the north again, searching for the boat that was
making the noise.

When he did spot it, the boat was no more than fifty yards away, and
within thirty feet of shore. Maybe close enough to see our boat, Beau
thought. That might mean trouble, whether the boat carried the people
the team was there to intercept or someone else. If it was a local army
or police patrol ... We might have us an international incident, Beau
thought. He got as low as he could without risking slipping off the
underwater shelf. Little more than his head, arms, and submachine gun
were above the surface. He held himself motionless then, not even daring
to glance south again, to see if the others had heard the approaching
boat.

They had. Tombs and Rhodes had ducked under the wharf. CPO Lucan was
ready to duck under as well. Where he was, the underwater ledge extended
under the planking. But he didn't want to go under until he had to. It
was more important to watch the boat until he could tell whether it was
coming for the dock or going on past.

This must be it, Frank thought. I wish someone had said something about
maybe they'd come in by water. But it would have made little difference.
The men were where they could see the target, and--Frank hoped--out of
sight of the new arrivals.

The boat's engine stopped as the vessel was drifting toward the wharf.

Frank made out the sounds of rope being tied to a cleat. Gently, the
boat scraped against the rubber fenders hung over the side of the wharf.
A second man climbed from the boat onto the wharf. Footsteps moved
across the wood decking and out onto the gravel walkway leading toward
the courtyard. From his position under the wharf, Frank could see the
two men.

One of them was carrying a submachine gun. Frank wasn't certain, but he
thought it might be an Uzi.

Are there only two? Frank wondered. He didn't question that these men
were the people they were after; the submachine gun was evidence enough
of that.

Someone needed to check the boat, and quickly, before Tombs or one of
his own men started to move. Frank went back toward Rob and Tombs. He
didn't dare talk, not when there might be one or more people still in
the boat, but he got the message across with hand signals. He took Rob's
submachine gun. Rhodes was the man to check the boat.

Rob lowered himself the rest of the way into the water then pushed off
gently, swimming in a slow breast stroke, moving as silently as he
could.

Before he got to the far side of the wharf he took a deep breath, then
slipped underwater and propelled himself forward, using his legs now.

Visibility was nonexistent, but Rob swam outward until he was certain
that he was clear of the boat, then jack-knifed his body around and came
to the surface facing back toward the shore. With his mouth just barely
out of the water, Rob took several slow breaths while he treaded water
and looked at the silhouette of the boat.

The near side of the vessel was ten feet away. The fiberglass hull had
between three and four feet of freeboard--clearance above the water.

The deck was higher at the prow, lower at the stern. The boat was about
twenty-five feet long, and there appeared to be only a low cabin
amidships.

At first, Rob saw no sign of movement aboard, so he paddled back farther
to give himself a better angle. Even then, it was not movement he saw
first, but the flash of a cigarette lighter and the glowing end of the
cigarette it lit--before the man turned his head toward shore again.

Good enough, Rob thought; keep looking that way. He started moving
toward the boat again, keeping his head just above water, watching. He
plotted his moves in advance. There would be one tricky moment--getting
from the water into the boat. The second he put weight on the craft, it
would tilt in response, and that would alert the man aboard.

There was no room for error. There would be no second chances. Rob knew
he had to make the transfer the first time, in one fluid movement,
before the man aboard could turn to defend himself or shout a warning.

Rob went underwater, going down until his feet touched bottom, then he
pushed himself upward, using his arms and legs to give him more
momentum.

When he popped out of the water, he grabbed for the gunwale of the boat,
pulled himself over the side, and lunged forward as he drew his belt
knife, a titanium MPK. The single man on the boat seemed frozen by
surprise for a fraction of a second, but that was all the break Rob
needed. As the man finally turned, realized what was happening, and
started to bring up his Uzi submachine gun, Rob barreled into him--knife
first.

His aim was perfect. The blade slid between the man's ribs, straight
into his heart, as Rob's body slammed into him, knocking him backwards,
half onto the wharf. The body gave one convulsive jerk as death claimed
it. Rob pulled his victim back into the boat, pulled the knife from the
body, then took a quick look inside the cabin to assure himself that
there was no one else present.

Rob looked toward the inn then. The other two men had gone inside,
though he had not seen where they had entered. It did not bother him.

There would have been four other pairs of eyes watching that. There were
lights on now in the nearest room on the south wing of the inn, where it
had been dark before. Rob did not go back into the water. He crossed the
top of the wharf, staying low, as he aimed for the point where he had
left Frank and the spook.

"Off to the left," Frank said, handing Rob's submachine gun back to him.
"They're in the first room on the south wing. You and Ike cover the back
and this side. Stay low. We'll go in the door and the window on the
courtyard side. When we hit, you stick your gun in the window on the
end."

Rob nodded, then started moving to the left, running low, almost bent
double, until he passed the end of the wharf and Ike. He slid to the
ground then, facing the south wing of the inn.

Ike hoisted himself out of the water and moved into position a few feet
to Rob's side. The two men glanced at each other, nodded back and forth,
and Rob started moving at an angle toward a point some yards from the
corner of the inn. The two men moved alternately, one getting up and
scurrying forward a few yards while the other stayed prone, ready to
provide covering fire should that prove necessary.

Within seconds, Tombs and the other SEALs were also moving, their target
the door of the end room on the south wing of the inn. Frank had given
whispered instructions to his companions before they started moving.

They angled first to the south, to put the corner of the south wing
between them and the office--in case the night manager might happen to
look out.

With lights on in the room the SEALs were going to hit, there was little
chance that the people inside would see them even if they did look out.
And they were more likely watching each other. Frank had been on enough
operations against drug smugglers to know that they were more paranoid
about the people they did business with than they were about the law.

It took less than a minute for everyone to get into position. Frank and
Tombs flanked the window on the courtyard side of the room. Beau was
ready to hit the door. His initial job was mostly to distract the people
inside. He would give the door a kick near the handle, then duck to the
side, out of the way. As soon as Beau hit the door, Tombs, Lucan, and
Rhodes would have the muzzles of their submachine guns in the open
windows of the room. After that ... Frank nodded. Beau kicked the wooden
door as hard as he could, splintering wood. Then he dove to the side.

An instant of surprise. That was all that was needed. The barrels of
three submachine guns stuck in two windows. Harry Tombs called out,
"Don't move or you're dead," in Arabic.

The four men inside froze in position. One man who had started to raise
a submachine gun dropped it. Maybe they think we're local cops who can
be fixed, Frank thought. He had not known that Tombs spoke Arabic, but
it did not surprise him. There must have been some reason why Tombs had
been chosen to head this operation. Frank could understand a couple
hundred words of the language, if it was spoken slowly, but he had
scarcely caught what Tombs had said.

"These are the ones," Tombs said.

Frank nodded, then gestured to Beau, who had gotten back to his feet.

The door swung open easily now, and the latch and bolt fell to the
floor.

Tombs moved around to the door. Inside, he and Beau flanked the doorway,
their weapons covering the four men they had surprised.

"On the floor," Tombs instructed in Arabic. The room was not large
enough for the men to spread out. They were close together, touching,
when they obeyed. Harry Tombs moved around them, to the double bed
against the wall, and flipped open one of the two suitcases lying there.
That erased any doubt he might have had that they had found the right
men. The suitcase contained stacks of high denomination bank
notes--German marks, British pounds, and others, and several plastic
tubes of one-ounce gold coins. Tombs opened one. The coins were
krugerands. He sifted through the stacks of bills for a moment, checking
to make sure that there were no explosives in the case, then he shut the
lid and zipped it. Then he looked in the second case and found a
repeat--currency and gold.

Tombs picked the second case up. It was satisfyingly heavy. The spy
smiled, briefly, then passed the case to Frank, and gestured toward the
door before he picked up the second case and passed it to Beau.

Frank moved toward the door, backing away, keeping his eyes on the four
men on the floor. Beau stepped to the side to give his boss room to get
past without getting between him and the prone men, then started to
follow.

Before Frank or Beau realized what was going on, Tombs had drawn his
pistol from under his belt. The 9 mm Russian weapon had a silencer
attached. Tombs fired four times, killing each of the men on the floor
with a single shot to the back of the head. The pistol coughed with each
shot, but even with the silencer the noise seemed enough to guarantee
that it would be heard.

"Let's get out of here," Tombs said.

POST-MISSION

"I don't give a damn who those men were, what Tombs did was nothing
short of murder," Beau said, the anger obvious in his voice even though
he was doing little more than whispering. It was the first chance the
four SEALs had found to be alone since the killings. The debriefing
session had been short and one-sided, with Harry Tombs doing virtually
all of the talking. The money had been counted out. Tombs and Frank had
each signed two copies of the inventory, and then the suitcases had been
turned over to the captain of Bellman for safekeeping.

"He never did say whether he recognized any of those people," Rob Rhodes
said. "We can't even say for certain that he killed the right targets."
For Rob, the question was more practical than a matter of conscience.

"Men meeting in an out-of-the-way place like that in the middle of the
night to transfer close to two million bucks, you can be damned sure
they were up to no good, whether they were the specific people we were
after or not," Frank said. "Look, there's not a damn thing we can do
about Tombs.

He's in charge of this operation. We get back to Dam Neck, I'll have a
talk with the skipper, see what he has to say. But don't expect it to go
any farther than that. This is a company operation."

"If the locals had caught us, they'd have executed us as common
murderers," Beau said. "And they'd have the right of it, as much as
anybody."

"They didn't catch us. They were never likely to catch us," Frank said.

"Don't it bother you none?" Beau demanded.

Frank took a deep breath. "Hell, yes, it bothers me. But I've seen stuff
as bad before. Worse. We do our job. Nobody ever told us we had to like
what we were doing. Hell, man, this is a war where the other side
doesn't play by any rules but their own. What do you want to do, read
them their rights? We don't know that all the folks we've wasted
deserved what they got." "It ain't the same," Beau said, shaking his
head vigorously. "We don't lay 'em down and pop 'em off the way Tombs
did, execution style--ain't that what they call it?"

Ike sat apart from the others, glad that no one was paying attention to
him. After the team had returned to Beltman, before the debriefing, Ike
had gone to the head and puked--his body's reaction to what he had
witnessed. Now, he felt as if he might have to vomit again.

THE REPORT

The boat rides, going and coming, had been as miserable as Harry Tombs
had expected, but he had been careful to avoid showing any discomfort. I
won't give Lucan the pleasure, he had told himself--over and over. Tombs
had focused on the immediate needs. He held that focus until he
completed his report on the mission. He was happy--as happy as he could
be in the field.

His report had been as detailed as always, and strictly accurate. He did
not attempt to hide the fact that he had executed four men; that would
be more cause for censure from Langley than the fact of the killings.
Two of the faces had been familiar from briefings, men long sought by
the Agency. No tears would be shed for them on that side of the
Atlantic.

The count of bank notes and gold coins had been in the main body of the
report. But Tombs returned to them in his personal summary at the end.

Currency and bullion coins worth, as of the latest quotes available,
approximately one million eight hundred and thirty-six thousand dollars
($1,836,000) were impounded. At this point in time, that is sufficient
to create hardship among the terrorists the money was intended for.
Between that and the fact that we were not seen and left no identifiable
evidence--meaning that neither ibn Landin nor the intended recipients of
the money will know who intercepted the shipment and killed the
couriers--I believe it is safe to say that even if we accomplish nothing
else on this mission, we have achieved signal success.

Tombs encrypted the report after going back through it, line by line,
one more time, changing a word here and there. He transmitted the
report, waited for acknowledgment of its receipt, then wiped the copy on
his computer's hard drive.

When he went to bed, he slept better than he had since leaving London.

4

PRE-MISSION

Harry Tombs had given the SEALs no explanation for the order to stand
down six hours after their return from Mitsiwa. He did not tell them
whether it was temporary or permanent. They had no orders to head for
home, or anywhere else. They would remain on Bellman and await further
orders. Beyond some inevitable initial speculation about the meaning of
the stand-down, the SEALs were content to take their time off--except
for their daily exercises and runs.

For Tombs, the two days that had passed since the order to halt
operations had not been idle. He had been in contact with his
headquarters in Langley, Virginia, several times each day. Besides the
computer link, he had participated in two lengthy radio conferences.

When Tombs received the initial order to halt operations, there had been
no immediate explanation, just a promise of additional information as
soon as possible. Ninety minutes later, he had been told that the
"situation" had become "fluid," that the terrorist summit was not going
to take place as planned, that several of the expected participants had
started heading back toward their home bases, or to other safe areas.

It was the next day before the analysts at Langley had been able to
inform him that the summit meeting had not been cancelled, only
postponed for "at least seven, and perhaps as many as fourteen days."
There were still no additional operational orders.

The battle group centered on Roosevelt steamed out of the Red Sea,
through the Gulf of Aden, and turned south, paralleling the coast of
Somalia, always staying at least fifty miles from shore. The battle
group's orders were to go as far south as the capital, Mogadishu, before
turning north again. In addition to normal reconnaissance flights,
Roosevelt's air group conducted training exercises that extended almost
to the coast--well within sight of people in the Somali capital. That
was, almost, standard practice. The Department of Defense did not want
to let Somalia forget about them, and the possibility that U.S. military
forces might one day return. The unexpressed addendum was: to even the
score.

The SEALs had finished their exercises and a brisk morning jog, then
showered and had breakfast before 0800. They had still been at the
table, drinking coffee, and discussing how they might while away another
idle day, when a yeoman came in to tell Frank that his team was
"expected" for a meeting at 0815.

"Well, I guess Tombs finally has something to tell us," Frank said after
the yeoman left. "Either we go back to work or we go home." "I hope it's
home," Beau said. "Anything to get away from that spook." Guisborne had
not spoken of the events of the last mission since the stand-down order,
but he had never spoken of the CIA man since except disparagingly.

"I don't much care which," Rob said. "Either is better than getting
calluses on our butts."

Ike remained silent. He had found very little to say about anything over
the past two days. He was almost afraid to talk, uncertain what might
come out if he started. For the first time in longer than he could
remember, Ike had been having nightmares.

THE BRIEFING

"Here's the situation," Harry Tombs said, when he reached the conference
room five minutes after the SEALS. "Our work has been having an effect,
so much so that ibn Landin was forced to reschedule the summit meeting
he's worked the last eighteen months to set up. Some of the people
coming got too suspicious when things started happening while they were
enroute. We've picked up whispers that some of the groups suspect that
ibn Landin himself might be behind recent events, trying to weaken or
destroy them rather than just set up a grand alliance with himself at
the head."

Tombs no longer showed any sign of his earlier seasickness. His appetite
had returned, and he had regained the weight he had lost during his
first couple of days aboard Bellman. He had also regained his
reassurance and his voice was as strong as ever.

"The stand-down was to give our people time to track down the next
moves, to find out if the meeting was indeed going to be rescheduled, or
if it would be cancelled altogether. A lot of operatives have put in a
lot of work. Our latest information, somewhat tentative, is that the
meeting has simply been pushed back ten days, and will still be held in
one of the locations that have been prepared in Sudan. At least three of
the groups, including ibn Landin's own organization, are sending
additional security assets to Sudan to guarantee the safety of their
principals." He smiled.

"No one seems entirely willing to leave security to anyone else.

"Tonight, we go back to work." Tombs opened a folder and started the
usual process of passing around the orders, maps, and other information.

"This mission has dual purposes. It is related to the rest of our
operations, but it is also partially payback, a reminder. The latest
warlord in Mogadishu has established a terrorist training facility just
north of the city. In addition to providing training for his own people,
he's working with people being sent to him by at least three of the
organizations who will be at the summit meeting. Paying customers, and
some of the people there now are expected to be part of the security
staff when the terrorist summit finally comes off. Tonight, you will go
ashore near this training facility and provide an object lesson--hit the
barracks with RPGs and other explosives, shoot the place up, and get out
before the locals can respond. Do as much damage to personnel and
physical assets as possible in a short time."

"Just like that," Rob commented.

"Just like that," Tombs replied. "Remember, some of those bastards are
due to be working security at the summit. Any you put down tonight are
men you won't have to face later, when conditions might not be quite so
... favorable. You'll go in by boat again, and come out the same way. We
have been expressly forbidden to use a helicopter over Somalia. A
chopper will be available to pick you up once you get three miles
offshore."

"How far out do we start?" Frank asked. "How close will Bellman take
us?"

"Bellman will stay with the battle group. That means it won't get any
closer than fifty miles. You'll ride a helicopter in to just outside the
three-mile limit. Your RPB will be slung beneath. You'll transfer to the
boat, make your run in, complete the mission, and come back out."

THE PREPARATION

"You know what that means, don't you," Beau said, after Tombs left the
room. "We're all the way on our own this time. Things go bad, won't
nobody be coming to get us out."

"We've been there before," Frank said. "We go in, do our job, and make
sure nothing goes bad. We get ourselves out, even if we have to swim
back to the chopper."

"These folks got gunboats, don't they? We gonna take diving gear so they
can't pop us in the water?" Beau asked.

"Good point," Frank said. "Now, let's see about the rest of our gear.

We want to make noise and raise as much hell as we can. M-16s with C-Mac
magazines, grenade launchers, as much ammo as we can carry."

"How 'bout a few Claymores to slow the enemy down?" Rob suggested.

Intended to defend a position against "human-wave" attacks, the Claymore
mine is, for all intents and purposes, a giant, explosion-driven
shotgun. The curved body of the mine holds slightly over one pound of
plastic explosive in its rear portion; the front is filled with 700
steel fragmentation balls. The blast of a Claymore drives out its
fragmentation at velocities of 3,000 feet per second, creating a curtain
of steel shot fifty meters wide and 2 meters tall at 150 meters in front
of the weapon.

It is guaranteed to cause serious damage to anyone within 16 meters of
the weapon who isn't under cover. A series of Claymores can be connected
with detonating cord so that all the mines detonate at the same time.
Which might be just what the SEALs needed on this run.

Frank nodded his agreement to bring them along. "Now spread that map out
again," he said. "We need to be damned careful about where we land and
set up." He took the most recent recon photos from the target folder
again as well.

THE MISSION

Face masks, air tanks and regulators, and swim fins were lashed in place
in the boat under the helicopter, along with two extra cases of 40mm
grenades and a half dozen Claymore mines.

Quietly, when Rob had a few seconds alone with Frank during the process
of loading their equipment, he said, "I notice the spook didn't invite
himself along this time. I guess he doesn't like the odds. There may be
several hundred armed men around that camp. Not like having four poor
bastards he could off to get his jollies."

"Don't you start on me, too," Frank said. "You don't have to love the
bastard, but we do have to work with him."

"Just tell him to keep his ass on this ship after this. He gets himself
fragged on an op, some folks might think one of us did it."

"As long as they're not right," Frank said, and then he walked away from
the Farmer. Jeez, Frank thought, I hope the spook doesn't want to come
along again. Let us just get this over with and get away from him.

Frank did a final check of the gear stowed in the boat, and checked the
connections between it and the helicopter, along with the helicopter's
pilot and crew chief. The rigging job looked sound. This time, the
helicopter was a U.S. Navy craft, sent over from Roosevelt for this job.

Frank spent two minutes checking the arrangements for insertion and
extraction with the pilot while his men got aboard, ready for take-off.

All four SEALs had armed themselves the same way this time--M16s with
M203 grenade launchers under the barrel. No one bothered with
suppressors for the rifles or the pistols they also wore. Each man wore
two bandoleers filled with grenades, and the extra crates in the RPB
meant that they would be going in with nearly fifteen dozen
rounds--almost certainly far more than they would get to use.

Once Frank was in place, the pilot looked back to him. Frank gave him a
thumbs-up gesture and the pilot nodded. Thirty seconds later, the
helicopter was in the air. They circled around clockwise, approaching
Roosevelt before turning west. As soon as the helicopter was clear of
Bellman again, the pilot dropped his craft almost to the water, leaving
less than ten feet of clearance over the crests of the gentle swells.

At first, Ike Jensen stared out at the water, but the nearness of it
combined with the aircraft's speed started to make his stomach queasy,
so he turned away, looking at his team mates instead. The night-vision
goggles he was wearing gave a strange cast to skin colors and everything
else, but the almost-bizarre imagery was nothing new. Chief Lucan's face
revealed nothing. It rarely did. He wore a poker face like a master ...
and Ike had seen the chief playing cards. It was impossible to guess
what he was holding from his look or body language. Beau Guisborne had
his "game face" on, a fierce scowl, but Ike thought there was more to it
than concentration this time. Beau was clearly still angry about what
had happened at Mitsiwa. Rob was something of a puzzle to Ike. There was
nothing new in that, either. Rhodes could be the most easygoing guy in
the platoon, or a hardnose who might turn violent at what seemed like
little provocation. Now, he looked nearly comatose, staring vacantly at
the bulkhead across from him, as if he had no idea--and less
interest--where he might be or where he might be going.

For himself Ike had spent most of the past several hours trying to
insure that he could focus on the night's work without thinking back to
the four men who had been killed where they lay the last time the team
had gone out. It was hard. Violence was nothing new to Ike Jensen. He
had seen a lot of it in the SEALS, especially since the team's foray
into Lebanon, but the execution-style killing of those four men--drug
smugglers and terrorists though they might be--was still eating at him.

When the helicopter suddenly slowed down and banked through a turn to
starboard, Ike looked up, sensing that it was almost time for them to
drop the boat and transfer to it. This ride was nothing compared to the
long haul they had made to hit the depot in southeastern Libya.

It took three men to make the boat drop--to do it smoothly to minimize
the chance of losing any of the gear the RPB carried. Frank helped the
copilot and crew chief. The pilot hovered with the Red Sea no more than
eight feet below the boat, doing everything he could to hold the
helicopter rock steady while the others hit the releases for the straps
that held the SEALs' rapid penetration boat in place. As the boat fell
free, the helicopter did lift a few feet before the pilot could make his
adjustments.

Two ropes were lowered from the starboard door of the helicopter.

Beau and Frank were the first men down into the boat, fighting gravity
and the downdraft of the rotor to make an easy descent. As soon as they
were down, Rob and Ike slid out the door and onto the ropes. Ike was
thankful for something to concentrate on fully. The first time he had
tried going down a rope into the water, he had fallen. Since then, he
had focused on each movement of his hands, and on keeping the rope
between his legs to keep his speed minimal. He made the slowest descent
of the team, but he stayed dry.

The helicopter moved a few dozen yards away from the boat to minimize
the wash from the rotor, and climbed fifty feet higher, then hovered
until Beau had the RPB's engine started and the boat headed toward the
shore, three and a quarter miles away. The pilot threw the SEALs a
salute before turning the helicopter and starting back toward
Bellman--where it would wait a signal from the team for pickup.

Even with the diving gear, Claymore mines, and extra crates of grenades,
the RPB rode only a little lower than usual in the water. Away from the
turbulence caused by the helicopter, the Red Sea was almost glassy
smooth, only an almost imperceptible swell. Beau checked his compass
heading and opened the throttle to start them toward shore. There was
still a narrow band of reddish orange, blending into purple and black,
along the western horizon. Before the boat got close enough to shore for
its passengers to worry seriously about being seen, night would be
complete. The black boat and men in night camouflage would be virtually
invisible ... the way they liked it.

Ike went back over the operation plan in his mind, trying to "see" the
map and photographs they had studied. The training camp was built around
a rectangular drill field that was slightly larger than a football
field.

The barracks were on the left, looking in from the sea. Offices, mess
hall, and training buildings were on the right. According to the
briefing documents, an old shanty town had been bulldozed to make room
for the camp.

Farther north were firing ranges and some of the other ancillary
requirements for training soldiers. There was also a small airstrip and,
off to the side of it, the derelict fuselage of an old Boeing 727--used
to train terrorists in hijacking procedures and countermeasures, Harry
Tombs had said.

According to the briefing, the camp itself was not particularly well
guarded. The trainees stood guard duty but, like American military
trainees, without ammunition for their weapons. The real security was
provided by the warlord's soldiers, and they were mobile, riding around
in old Land Rovers--some dating back to when Britain was still a
colonial power in parts of East Africa. Each vehicle would have three or
four soldiers, and they would have a machine gun mounted on the vehicle
as well as their own rifles and pistols.

"There aren't very many patrols," Tombs had told the SEALS, "usually one
vehicle patrolling the beach and the approaches to the camp, especially
at night. They put out more manpower only when their boss gets an itch
that something might be up."

"The approach of an American carrier battle group might get him itching
awful hard," Frank had suggested. Tombs had shrugged.

Ike had been a teenager when the United States had gone into Mogadishu.
He could recall news accounts of the men who had been lost, or tortured,
the anger that had been expressed back home--but never translated into
effective retaliatory action.

We'll get a little of that back tonight, he thought.

The coast was still a mile away when Frank urgently signaled for Beau to
cut the throttle. Frank had kept busy scanning the shore with
binoculars. What he had seen was the beam of a small searchlight
scanning the beach and the waterline.

"One of their patrols," Frank whispered, turning to face the rear of the
RPB, after Beau throttled down until the engine was just barely ticking
over. Beau shut the engine down completely then. Better than most, he
knew just how far sound could travel over water.

All four men crouched low in the boat. Ike moved his rifle into a more
comfortable position, even though it would be foolish to think of firing
at this range--Rob might be able to hit a target at a mile, though not
with the M-16 he was carrying, but none of the others were sharpshooters
of Rob's caliber--even if they dared make noise before they got to land.
But the action helped ease Ike's tension, knowing he could defend
himself, if necessary.

The searchlight moved slowly, back and forth, bouncing erratically as
the vehicle carrying it continued northeast along the shore. Frank kept
his binoculars trained on the source of the light, and on the vague
forms he could see around it. The question in his mind was whether the
vehicle would go so far then turn around and come back along the beach,
or if it would make a circle of the training camp. Either way, he
thought, we're going to have to deal with those people before we get out
of there.

The next five minutes dragged for all the SEALS. The patrol vehicle on
shore continued to move to their right. Then the searchlight went out.

The vehicle made a U-turn and sped back toward the southwest. Frank
waited until the vehicle was out of sight, between the training camp and
Mogadishu, before he signaled to Beau to start the engine again. He
didn't need to tell the others that they would have to be alert for the
return of that patrol vehicle.

Beau did not open the throttle as wide as he had before. The last mile
took as much time as the first two and a quarter. The other three men
had their rifles at the ready as soon as they were within five hundred
yards of shore, and every eye in the team was scanning for any hint of
opposition--even the trainees without ammunition for their rifles. An
unarmed man could raise the alarm just as quickly.

The beach was wide, and there was no obvious place to conceal the boat.
Frank still worried a little about that; it had been one of his main
concerns during the planning session. They could lose the boat, and
their diving gear, while they were off attacking the buildings of the
training camp. That patrolling vehicle, and however many men it carried,
was a major threat. It would be a long three-mile swim without at least
flippers, though every man in the team was capable of making it.

"We'll drag the boat all the way up to the lee of that rise, by those
rocks," Frank told the others just before it grounded in the minimal
surf.

"Move the diving gear away from the boat, just in case. Take the
grenades and mines with us."

They went over the side and grabbed the ropes to haul the boat along
with them. It slid heavily on the sand and rocks, enough to put a strain
on the SEALS. There wasn't even any driftwood or brush around to
partially disguise the craft.

We can't wait around to take out the patrol first, Frank decided.

That was a no-brainer, but he toyed with the idea for all of thirty
seconds. They had no way to know how long it might be before the patrol
came along again, if it did, and it might not be possible to take them
out silently even then--and the primary target was the training camp.
They had to hit that.

Frank and Rob stood guard while Beau and Ike moved the diving gear--to
two different spots, one on either side of the boat. Ike moved sand with
his feet to at least give a little cover to the two sets of gear he had
carried. Just maybe, it might be enough. In any commotion, the guards
might not notice--or might think they had found everything if they
uncovered one stash. Two sets of gear, two air tanks, would not be as
good as four, but they would be better than none.

"We'll set up two of the mines to cover the boat and our gear," Frank
decided. It was almost the flash of inspiration he had been hoping for.

He pointed out where he wanted them. "String tripwires. That Rover comes
along, there's damn little chance they'll be looking for booby traps,
let alone see the wires in time to avoid them."

Beau and Rob rigged the land mines, setting them in the deeper shadow
under the rise that marked the landward end of the beach. All four men
checked for landmarks to be certain that they would not trip their own
mines on the way back to the sea. Then Frank spent a couple of minutes
with the binoculars, looking for any hint of anyone walking a sentry
post at the near end of the training camp. There was one man standing
near the closest barrack, smoking a cigarette, looking toward the city.
Across the field, Frank saw a man turn the corner, behind the buildings
on that side.

"Okay, let's move," Frank said, when he was satisfied. "Stay low. We
don't need to get closer than fifty yards from the parade ground. We can
cover the entire compound from there."

Ike and Frank grabbed the handles on one crate of grenades. Beau and Rob
shared the other. They climbed the rise and started at a slow jog toward
the eastern end of the drill field, running almost doubled over. As they
ran, they kept watch for any sign that either sentry might be looking
their way.

This part of Somalia appeared to be in another period of drought. The
grass and shrubbery between the training camp and the beach all seemed
to be dead. Some of the grass crunched underfoot. The few trees all
seemed to be bare. There was hardly a leaf in place.

Be nice to know how long the current class has been here, Ike thought as
he struggled to keep pace with the chief. The newer they are, the less
trouble they might cause. All we'd really have to worry about is the
cadre, and whatever other trained soldiers are near.

He tripped and almost fell. Frank had to slow up. The thoughts were too
much of a distraction for an instant, and gave him a quick look. Then
they moved on again.

The two pairs of SEALS moved gradually apart. When they went to ground,
it would help to have ten or fifteen yards separation between them.

Or more. Seventy yards from the end of the drill field, Frank gestured
to the others and they went prone. He had lost sight of the sentry who
had been smoking, and he wanted to spot him again before they moved on
to their final positions. And the other man--where had he gotten to?

It took five minutes before Frank located both men. On the left, the
sentry had moved behind the barracks. It wasn't until he came back
around the corner that he was visible again. On the other side, the
sentry had come up between two of the buildings. He was leaning against
the corner of one of them, staring toward the barracks across the way.

There must be at least two more, farther along the line, Frank thought.
He looked but saw no one else. Then he glanced at his watch. It was
2230. I hope they don't get relieved until on the hour, Frank thought.

Not now, before we're set. He leaned toward Ike. "Now we crawl," Frank
whispered. "Keep the box between us like before."

It was almost as awkward as a three-legged race, crawling and moving the
crate of grenades a foot or two at a time, but they managed. Once Beau
and Rob saw what the others were doing, they started moving the same
way.

The SEALs needed ten minutes to cover the last twenty yards. Then they
settled in, opened the crates of grenades, and loaded the launchers
under the barrels of their rifles. No one needed to be instructed to use
the crated projectiles first. The grenades in their bandoleers would be
saved.

They would have those for last, even to use on the run if they had to
move.

The crates could be abandoned.

The mix of rounds they had was in a nine-nine-two ratio--nine high
explosive, nine incendiary, and two smoke. Unlike most of the buildings
in the city, the training camp had been built of wood. Those buildings
would burn quickly once they were ignited.

Each man started out with HE. Although nothing had been said, the first
volley was aimed at the two sentries that had been spotted, two grenades
toward each of them. The explosions came in a span of less than two
seconds, and each sentry was bracketed. Neither man was seen afterward.

The SEALs moved quickly into a steady rhythm. Each man could load and
fire ten or eleven grenades a minute, still allowing himself time to aim
each shot. They worked each of the buildings flanking the parade ground,
mixing HE with incendiary rounds. Fifty grenades had been fired before
any of the SEALs saw men coming out of two of the barracks--still
struggling to get into their clothes, carrying rifles but not making any
attempt to use them. Frank thought it likely that they did not have
ammunition for them.

That would almost certainly be locked away in the camp's
armory--whichever building held that.

It wouldn't make much difference. Two minutes after the attack started,
every building around the field was burning. Men were still coming out
of the barracks. Two came out screaming, their clothing--and
skin--burning. One man got almost halfway across the parade ground,
streaming flame behind him, before he finally collapsed and started to
roll, still screaming his agony and fear. Fire spread from the man as
the grass caught. Tinder dry, flames moved outward from the source,
racing through all of the available fuel.

With armed men visible, each SEAL occasionally took a break from
launching grenades to spray rifle fire at the visible targets. As the
flames grew in the buildings, the area surrounding them got lighter,
casting a haze of orange and red over everything. The crackling of dry
wood burning was soon audible as well, between the explosions. There was
no breeze at all. The flames and smoke rose in pillars. Around the
buildings, more grass fires started.

As the SEALs neared the bottoms of the crates, they started launching
smoke grenades into the killing ground as well--green and red as well as
white, trying to sow as much confusion as possible.

Frank turned his head to the right and whistled sharply. As soon as the
others looked toward him, he made a gesture. It was time to get away.

Less than five minutes had passed since the first grenades had exploded.

Every building in the training camp was fully involved in flames. There
was virtually no chance that any of them could be saved--if the locals
even bothered to try.

"No telling how many soldiers might be heading this way," Frank said as
the men started to run back toward their boat. There was little need for
the SEALs to worry about concealment, or crawling. Speed was more
important. The men in the training camp were no immediate threat, and
there was no sign yet of the warlord's regular soldiery. There were
almost certainly at least a thousand of them billeted within two or
three miles of the training camp. The patrol they had seen earlier--and
perhaps several others--would be hurrying toward the flames. It would
take more time though for additional troops to respond.

How much time, Frank didn't even want to guess.

Ike was still thinking of the Land Rover and its occupants. As best he
could, he scanned toward his right, looking for headlights or the
searchlight mounted on the vehicle. How many of them? he wondered.

Although the run to the sea seemed to last an eternity, it actually took
the four men little more than a minute. They jumped the embankment, down
to the cover behind it. Every one of them needed a few seconds to catch
his breath.

Not one gunshot had come anywhere near them. It seemed probable that
none had been fired.

"Let's go!" Frank said, shouted, as soon as he had air to spare for
talk. "Get the gear into the boat and let's get out of here before that
patrol shows up. We don't want to fight them if we don't have to."

While the others moved the diving gear back into the boat, Frank used
his binoculars to survey the damage they had done ... and to look for
hostile troops approaching. There were no lights coming toward them yet.

"Maybe we'll get out clean yet," Frank mumbled as he moved to help the
others drag their boat back to the water.

The RPB did not seem to be as heavy now, and it was not just the absence
of the mines, the crates of grenades, and the few rounds missing from
bandoleers and rifles that made the difference. Each of the SEALs was
operating on a full load of adrenaline, both from the action and their
concern that they might have a less one-sided fight in front of them
before they could get far enough from shore to be safe.

Ike found it hard not to keep looking over his shoulder toward the city,
along the tracks the patrol vehicle had left on earlier runs.

The four men were moving on wet sand, near the waterline, when
headlights came into view, the sound of the car's engine a growing growl
as it raced along the beach. Four hundred yards. Three fifty.

"We're going to have to hit 'em," Frank shouted. "Get the boat in the
water, then we'll use up some of the grenades we've got left."

The last dozen yards of beach seemed interminable. As soon as there was
enough water to float the RPB, the SEALs dropped it and turned. They all
had grenades in their launchers, and the Land Rover was in range, no
more than one hundred and fifty yards away, racing forward at more than
forty miles per hour. Its searchlight was moving back and forth, but
along the side toward the training camp. Frank had an instant to realize
that they had not been spotted yet before he gave the command to open
fire.

The patrol car swerved to the left before the grenades exploded. It was
moving too quickly to be an easy target in any case. A machine gun
started firing, bullets dotting the sand in an arc that only slowly
started to reach toward the SEALS. Frank and his men replied with
automatic rifle fire and grenades, with the emphasis on the former. The
few seconds it took to reload the grenade launchers were hard to spare.

The vehicle swerved again, this time to the right, until it was headed
directly at the SEALS. It hit the trip wires and both Claymore mines
were detonated, rocking the vehicle over to the right. The headlights
and searchlight all went out. The gunfire from inside the car stopped.
The vehicle kept moving forward as the SEALs emptied their rifles'
magazines into it. Beau and Rob had to jump aside, out of the path of
the vehicle.

It kept going, into the sea, until water caused the engine to stop. The
four men inside were either dead or too badly wounded to stop the car or
continue the fight.

"Move it!" Frank said. "Into the boat."

They dragged the RPG into waist-deep water before they climbed aboard.

Beau got the engine started and quickly ran the throttle all the way
open.

The faster they got away from the shore, the less likely they were to
have any additional trouble. And the RPB could move quickly.

The other SEALs had each reloaded their rifles, including putting a high
explosive grenade into the launcher. As soon as the boat was a hundred
yards off-shore, Frank signaled Bellman to send the helicopter, then
keyed the transponder that would let the pilot home in on the boat
without difficulty.

POST-MISSION

"It'll be morning before we get a complete damage assessment on that
camp," Harry Tombs said, when the SEALs were settled at the table in the
conference room. The team had come straight to the debriefing after
securing their weapons. No one had even started to wipe the camouflage
smears from their faces. The smells of gunpowder and fire were still on
their clothing. "But it looks like you really did a number on them. The
pilots in the air cap over the task force said they could see the flames
from more than sixty miles out."

"A lot of that might be grass and bushes," Frank said. "The ground was
bone dry. But we got all of the buildings flanking that parade ground,
all of the training camp buildings. They were fully involved before we
withdrew. Damn little chance they'll be able to save anything of them.
My guess is that casualties were extensive. We may never know how many.
I don't think a lot of them made it out of the barracks." Frank went on
to give Tombs a full report. He was sparing of words, and the details of
movement and so forth were inconsequential, so he omitted those. "Figure
the facility is a total loss," Frank said. He shrugged. "That part
doesn't mean much. They were just wooden buildings. They can be replaced
in less than a week."

Tombs matched Frank's shrug. "The physical plant is minor. The
terrorists you took out, trainees and cadre, are another thing. You did
good. Your written report can wait for morning, Chief. Anyone else have
anything they want to contribute?"

No one spoke. Tombs nodded. "Get cleaned up, grab a meal, and hit the
sack. You've earned your sleep."

Tombs remained seated. He watched the four SEALs get up and leave the
room. None of them appeared to be moving very sprightly. Are they just
tired, or is the job starting to wear on them? Tombs wondered. How much
more can we get out of them before we have to send them home?

Harry Tombs finished encrypting the report and the various addenda to
it, including his suggestions for orbital reconnaissance to confirm the
destruction and casualties. Later, he would submit his more detailed
report, with the written debriefing statements of all four SEALS. As
soon as he transferred the file to Bellman's communications officer and
watched while the message was transmitted, he could get to bed himself.

They keep on making me look good, and if they don't burn out too soon, I
should be up for a promotion when we get done with this job, Harry
thought as he headed back to his cabin. He was feeling very pleased with
himself.

5

PRE-MISSION

There had been no briefing scheduled for this morning. After the
Mogadishu operation, Frank and his men had looked forward to a chance to
sleep in. But the four SEALs were wakened before 0600 by a chief petty
officer from Bellman's crew and told they had fifteen minutes to report
to the conference room near the bridge.

"Now what?" Rob asked as he scrambled for a fresh uniform.

"I don't know a damn thing more than you do," Frank replied after the
Bellman chief left the compartment. "We'll find out what's up when we
get there."

But they did not learn much more then. "I hope none of you left anything
behind you might need in the next thirty-six hours," Harry Tombs said,
when they reached the conference room. "There isn't time to go back and
get it."

"What's going on?" Frank asked.

"You'll get your mission briefing later. Right now, we need to get on
deck to transfer to another ride. You don't need any of your gear. The
necessary equipment will be available when we get there. Let's go."

"You're going with us?" Beau asked, his voice a deeper than usual growl.
Instead of his usual civilian clothing, Tombs was wearing khaki shirt
and trousers--a Naval officer's uniform without insignia.

"Just part way," Tombs said, meeting Guisborne's stare.

Harry Tombs had led the way out to the main deck of Bellman, on the
starboard side. He carried a thick briefcase with his laptop computer
and a few necessary papers.

All four SEALs were more or less startled by what they saw. Ike was
dumbfounded. Fifty yards off the starboard beam of Bellman, a submarine
was just coming to the surface--of a type Jensen had never seen. There
was a large structure sitting on the submarine's deck aft of the sail.

"What the hell is that?" Ike asked, stopping where he was.

Behind him, waiting to go through the hatchway, Rob said, "Dry Deck
Shelter. Must be one of the Sturgeon-class subs. Looks like we're going
to get wet this time out." He gave Jensen a not-too-gentle shove.

"That's Pompano," Frank said. "One of the converted jobs."

Tombs and the SEALs climbed down a Jacobs ladder to a waiting boat.

The boat sped across to the submarine and its passengers were helped
aboard and hurried inside. As soon as the hatch was closed behind them,
the sub's crew started through its pre-dive procedure.

"We don't like being where we might be seen," the lieutenant (J. g.) who
met them said. "We're rather too obvious."

THE BRIEFING

Ten hours later, Ike still felt a little dazed by it all. With the other
members of the team, he had been inside the DDS on the afterdeck, seen
the swimmer delivery vehicles (SDVs) it carried, and met several members
of the sub's normal SDV team. There was common ground. The men of the
SDVTs were all BUD/S graduates, just like the SEALS.

Finally, at 1645 hours, it was time to find out what was going on.

The briefing was held in the SDV hangar. Besides Tombs and the four
SEALS, two members of the SDV team were present, the j.g. who had met
Team Wolf when it came aboard, Lubinski, and a chief petty officer,
O'Brian, an old acquaintance of Lucan and Rhodes.

"We'll get through the obvious first," Tombs said, looking at the four
SEALS of Team Wolf. "You've already guessed that you'll be riding an SDV
on your next operation. Chief O'Brian will piloting, Lieutenant Lubinski
will be the navigator. I know you've all trained with the SDVs, but
Lieutenant Lubinski will go over the details anyway in a few minutes.

"We've been steaming at a steady thirty knots, skirting the coast as
closely as the skipper was comfortable with. We've rounded the northeast
tip of Somalia and are heading across the Gulf of Aden now. We will be
just outside the port at Aden about two thirty a.m. At that point, an
SDV will be launched. Lieutenant Lubinski and Chief O'Brian will
transport the four of you into the harbor. You will locate a boat known
as the Spirit of God, attach mines to its hull, giving yourselves enough
time to get back to the SDV and well started on your way back to this
boat before the mines blow.

"The target vessel is basically an oceangoing cabin cruiser,
sixty-four-feet long with twin diesel engines, fuel tanks to give it a
range of approximately five thousand miles. Normally, it carries a crew
of four. At present, we believe there are at least ten people aboard."

"Who?" Frank asked.

"I'm getting to that," Tombs said, trying not to show annoyance at the
interruption. "The boat is registered in Muscat to a company that is a
known front for Faud ibn Landin's terrorist activities. It is currently
carrying at least two high members of his inner circle--and there is an
outside chance that ibn Landin himself might be aboard--along with
several bodyguards, in addition to the normal crew. The boat docked in
Aden when the terrorist summit was postponed."

Tombs stopped and hesitated, as if debating with himself what to tell
the others.

"There is a specific reason for targeting that boat right now, instead
of later, the way we had originally planned," he said, speaking slowly.
He glanced at his watch. "Just under twenty-three hours ago, terrorists
answering to ibn Landin ran a truck loaded with more than three tons of
explosives against the barrier in front of our embassy in South Africa,
just as many employees were leaving at the end of their day's work.

Altogether, there are more than a hundred dead, twice that many
injured--not just embassy personnel but civilians who just happened to
be in the wrong place at the wrong time. So we hit ibn Landin close. His
boat. Two of his top aides.

"It is important, vital, that you get in and out without being detected.
Ibn Landin will get the message without our leaving a calling card.
Covert activity on the Arabian peninsula would be politically
embarrassing just now if it became known that we were involved. Not only
would the government of Yemen yell its head off in the U. N., but the
Saudis would be ... seriously miffed, and that is something we need to
avoid."

"A question," Lieutenant Lubinski said. He waited until Tombs nodded in
his direction before he continued. "If it appears that we have been
detected before our mission is accomplished, do we abort?"

Tombs hesitated before he answered. "If you are reasonably certain that
your SDV has been spotted by the harbor patrol or local naval or coast
units, yes. You will abort immediately and return to Pompano."

"What if we're detected after the mines have been attached and the
timers activated?" Frank asked.

"Don't be," Tombs said.

THE PREPARATION

After the briefing, and Lubinski's run-through of the use of the SDV,
the four SEALs went through the diving gear available to select what
they would use for the operation, testing regulators, putting together
masks, fins, suits, and air tanks. Frank and Rob examined the mines they
would be carrying to attach to the yacht. The boat's hull was made of a
resin-based composite, so traditional magnetic limpet mines were out Of
the question.

These explosives had a special adhesive designed to function underwater.
A backing sheet had to be peeled off, then the mine could be pressed
against the hull and it would stick. Generally.

Once the gear was ready, the SEALs went to supper. They all ate, but Ike
had to force the food in.

"Get some sleep," Frank told his men, when they had finished eating.

"We've got until midnight. Then they'll get us up and we'll get ready
for the op. This should be an easy one. We get in and out the way we're
supposed to, we won't even see anybody, let alone have to do any
fighting.

Just a beer run, nothing to get excited about."

"Had to go and mention beer, didn't you?" Rob asked. "You've given me
the taste, and I'll bet there's not a single can on this tub, or
anywhere within five hundred miles."

"Give you something to look forward to, Farmboy," Frank said. "We get to
someplace civilized, we're all due a good drunk."

Beau grunted. Ike held in a belch; he didn't much care for the taste of
beer. On the rare occasions when he drank at all, he preferred mixed
drinks--preferably mixed with something sweet. That always brought
ribbing from any team mates who happened to be around ... but they
ribbed Ike about everything. Why should his taste in drinks be any
different?

The four men worked their way back to their compartment. It wasn't far.
They hadn't ousted any of the submarine's regular crew from bunks this
time. They shared quarters with the enlisted men of the SDV team.

That team was shorthanded. There were bunks to spare.

Ike took off his shirt and shoes. None of the SEALs took off more, and
Frank only took off his shoes. Each man lay on top of the bunk he had
been assigned. The compartment's light was extinguished. The other
occupants of the room were not present.

Of the four men, Beau was the only one who managed to get to sleep
quickly, he could sleep anytime, anywhere.

Frank thought about the upcoming operation. He played parts of the
briefing back in his mind, tried to firm up the pictures in his
head--the boat that was their target, the in and out ... and what
options they might have if something went wrong. Underwater, danger was
never far away, and mistakes could quickly be deadly; the environment
was nearly as unforgiving as space. On land, at least, there was usually
some room for maneuvering, no matter how badly an op went sour. Even
unarmed, you had a chance to get away, make your way to friendly ground,
or to someplace where a pickup could be made. Underwater, nothing could
be taken for granted, not even the air you breathed.

Rob kept thinking about beer, which led him to thoughts about various
liberty ports he had visited during his years in the Navy. He thought
that he had certainly seen a good piece of the world since signing on
for his first hitch--every major base in the United States, including
Pearl Harbor; Panama, Subic Bay; some two dozen other foreign ports. And
other places--locations a fleet sailor rarely, if ever, got to see.
Beer, other drinks ... and other enjoyments. And a few good fights.
Rob's eyes were closed. He wasn't aware of the smile that worked its way
onto his face.

There had been some good times. A long ride in an SDV would not be one
of them, though. The smile faded, then was replaced by a frown. Rob
always felt too confined in a swimmer delivery vehicle. Human sardines,
he thought, and for an instant his frown deepened into a full-fledged
scowl.

Six men packed into a can fifty-two inches high, fifty-two inches wide,
and twenty-one feet long.

Ike's difficulty was, as usual, nerves. He worried. It was something he
had always been good at. Or bad at. He vacillated on which adjective was
best for the "condition." As far back as he could remember, he had
always worried about just about everything that might--by the farthest
stretch of his very active imagination--possibly affect him. Plan for
every contingency, even if the odds against are worse than those for
winning the Powerball jackpot with a single ticket. That way there were
fewer surprises. But it cost him a lot of sleep.

Eventually, Ike did sleep. So did Frank, who drifted from planning to
slumber without noticing; even in his dreams he continued to think about
the night's operation. Only Rob did not succumb, and the almost
trance-like reverie he fell into was nearly as resting as sleep.

THE MISSION

There were three separate compartments in the dry deck shelter. The
first simply provided the connection with one of the submarine's
hatches.

The second could function as a pressure chamber for decompression of
divers. The third, and largest, was the hangar for the Mark VIII SDV.

Two technicians were in the hangar completing the pre-mission checklist
for the SDV. Lieutenant Lubinski and Chief O'Brian led the SEALs through
the chambers of the DDS. All six men were in wet suits, with air tanks
strapped to their backs. Face masks were pushed up on top of heads, and
regulators and hoses hung loose.

The Swimmer Delivery Vehicle (more often than not called a SEAL Delivery
Vehicle, these days) is the simplest type of submarine. Called a
"wet-sub," its inside is flooded with water and the occupants must wear
breathing equipment and protective suits against the cold of the water.

The crew of two, pilot and navigator, sit side by side in the forward
section. The rear section would hold the four SEALs and their gear. To
say the back of an SDV is cramped is a serious understatement. The men
were in for a long, cold, dark trip.

"We're going to have a run of about six nautical miles to the target
once we launch," Lubinski told the SEALS. "A bit more than an hour to
get there. We'll let you out in the harbor's deep water channel, then
get the SDV turned around and wait for you. You'll have ninety minutes
to locate the proper boat, do what you have to do, and get back. That's
to give us time to get out of the harbor before sunrise. If you can make
it in less than twenty minutes, all the better."

"We'll do our best," Frank said. The repetition of details covered in
the planning session earlier did not bother him. He liked to know that
everyone was working to the same schedule.

The crew of the SDV waited until the SEALs were in the rear compartment.
"Get your masks down and check your air connection," Lubinski said. In
the SDV, the SEALs would use the craft's air tanks rather than their
own. "Chief, you'd better plug into the radio so we can talk, if we have
to."

Frank nodded. Times like this, I'm glad I'm built compact, he thought as
he shifted around to get as comfortable as he could. Four men with their
gear made the compartment quite confining. It would be a little better
once they were wet and near neutral buoyancy, the pseudo weightlessness
of the diver. The SDV did not provide a dry environment for crew or
passengers.

Lubinski and O'Brian got into their places in the front compartment.

The sliding doors on both compartments were closed. After finishing two
last items on their checklist, the technicians left the hangar and
closed the watertight door between it and the other chambers of the DDS.
Only dim red lights were left on inside the hangar, to start the process
of night adaptation for the men going out, and to avoid showing light
through the hangar door when it was opened.

The six men who were going out the other end were breathing from the
SDV's air tanks now. Their face masks were in place. Everything was
ready.

Water started flowing into the compartment. The sound of rushing water
seemed too loud to Ike, but that was just something else to worry about.
The whole thing has to be flooded, he reminded himself. They can't open
the door until then. Wouldn't want to get shot out of here on a bubble
of air. Opening the large door in the aft end of the compartment too
soon might be enough to rip the SDV from the clips that held it in
place.

When water first started to seep into the SDV, Ike felt chilled by it.

Just hang on, you'll adjust as soon as you're all the way in, he told
himself. You know what it's like. It's not like you're in the Arctic.

The water is fairly warm around here. Ike talked to himself almost
constantly, either aloud or silently. It was something he had always
done--at least as far back as he could recall.

The water level rose steadily, soon filling and covering the SDV. It was
a couple of minutes more before the sound of rushing water faded. The
men in the SDV felt as much as heard the hangar door being opened.

Lieutenant Lubinski released the clips holding the vehicle in place.

CPO O'Brian gently opened the throttle on the SDV's electric motor.

With the sliding hatches on the compartments closed, no one inside the
SDV could see anything outside. There were no windows, no portholes.
They had only the faint green light of instruments in the compartment to
let them see inside. The SDV was piloted by a Doppler navigation system,
with a specialized sonar system to help the pilot avoid obstacles. "Like
flyers learning how to fly on instruments only," an instructor had once
told Frank--and he had probably told dozens of other SEALs the same
thing over the years. "A sub doesn't have windows, and it rarely goes
close enough to the surface to use its periscope these days. Hey,
underwater at night, the only way portholes would do any good was if the
thing used headlights--and how the hell can you sneak up on a target
that way?"

Ike looked at the luminous dial of his watch as soon as he felt the SDV
start to move. The lieutenant had said that the ride would take a little
more than an hour. Ike wanted to be sure he knew when to start expecting
the end of the ride. Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Ike closed his
eyes for an instant. Too many comics, he thought. Too many bad jokes.

Frank found himself wishing there were some way to make transport like
this faster. It seemed like wasted time. He had done all the planning,
all the thinking ahead, he could reasonably do. Continuing it now--and
he couldn't stop himself from doing that--was just spinning his wheels,
as likely to hurt as help. After being wakened at midnight, he had taken
another long look at the chart of the harbor and the photographs of the
yacht they were going after. He worked to memorize the Arabic characters
of the boat's name. Harry Tombs had made a point of saying that the name
was on the transom in both Arabic and English, but what if only the
Arabic is visible? Frank had asked himself. Better to be ready. He
wouldn't be able to surface and ask a crewman.

Beau gave himself a few seconds to think about how uncomfortable it was
with four of them crowded in the compartment. Then he shrugged and put
it out of mind. He relaxed, and let himself rest, concerned only with
slow, regular breathing. There was nothing else to do.

Rob was unable to put the discomfort out of mind that easily. He was big
and the compartment was small. Too small, in his opinion. Riding in an
SDV always brought images of coffins to mind, thoughts of trying to
escape a casket before the dirt was shoveled in on top. He was not
claustrophobic, but he felt cramped. Several times he let a hand drift
up near the sliding door on his side of the compartment, fighting the
urge to open it, if only a few inches, to give himself at least the
sense of having more room. If they're gonna put six grown men in one of
these damn things, they could at least make the box bigger, he thought.
This is like those damn hippies seeing how many people they could cram
into a VW. The ride would have been a lot easier for him if he could
have worked a crossword puzzle enroute.

Frank did have one welcome distraction. On the radio link with the SDV
crew, he had their occasional comments to listen to. And the lieutenant
gave Frank periodic reports on their progress. But the two men up front
really did not need to speak to each other all that often.

"There's nothing entering or leaving the harbor," Lubinski reported,
once the SDV was close enough for its sonar systems to detect any
movement in the channel. "We're not picking up any activity anywhere
close."

"That's the way we like it," Frank replied.

A few minutes later, Lubinski reported that they were entering the
harbor. "About five minutes until you get out and walk," he added. The
joke did not earn a laugh, but the lieutenant had not expected one.

There was just barely enough of a glow in the aft compartment for the
other three men to see Frank's gesture, five fingers held up. Ike
nodded, though he was directly behind the chief, so Frank could not see
him.

Even though the real mission was about to begin, all four men felt a
certain amount of relief at the thought of getting out of the SDV and
doing their own swimming, stretching muscles that had been confined far
too long.

"Your course to the small boats is two-seven-zero magnetic, distance
twelve hundred yards," Lieutenant Lubinski reported, as CPO O'Brian
throttled down the engine near the end of those five minutes.

Frank looked at the compass on his right wrist. "Two-seven-zero,
distance twelve hundred yards," he repeated.

"Right. We'll be waiting for you. I'd like to get back to the boat in
time for an early breakfast."

"We'll try to accommodate you, Lieutenant," Frank said. He slid open the
compartment door at his side and pulled himself out. He paused, body in
contact with the SDV, while he put on his flippers and waited for the
others to emerge from the vehicle.

Underwater at night, the universe is dark. Even a mere thirty feet below
the surface, where the SEALs emerged from the SDV, the moon and stars
are at best refracted pinpoints of light marking up, and pollution or
currents on the surface can hide those. There was plenty of both in the
harbor. Visibility was a matter of inches. Allowing divers to stay in
visual contact with each other at night, without lights to broadcast
their position to others, was an old problem with few good solutions.
Frank and his companions wore luminous strips on the forearms of their
wet suits, applied stickers that could be ripped off and discarded, if
necessary.

With the strips in place, the divers could keep tabs on each other as
long as they stayed relatively close.

Beau and Rob, the two heaviest members of the team, carried the mines.

Those were specially designed for divers to carry, and included their
own air chambers to give the weapons neutral buoyancy. As the divers
moved away from the SDV, they shifted into a diamond pattern. Frank swam
in the lead. Beau and Rob were to either side, slightly behind and below
the team leader. Ike brought up the rear.

Underwater, Beau seemed to be in his natural element. Dry, his motions
often seemed languid, even sluggish. On a dive, they were perfect--no
wasted movement, no frenzied churning of the water. Long, lazy kicks
propelled him forward. Hands and arms were used minimally, mostly for
steering. Techniques that most divers had to learn had come naturally to
him.

Like the others, Beau occasionally checked his instruments--watch,
compass, depth and air gauges. All were important. This dive was planned
to stay above the thirty-two-foot mark, to avoid the need for
decompression stops at its conclusion. His air tanks gave him two hours
of air--a half hour margin of safety, even if this swim lasted the
ninety-minute maximum planned, a half hour of air left over when they
returned to the SDV and switched back to its air supply. The compass
provided the only sure indication of where they had to go, and the
course they would have to follow to rendezvous with the SDV. And the
watch provided a rough gauge of distance traveled.

Beau kept track of the others. He had to stay close enough to keep sight
of the luminous strips they all wore. Keep track of the formation
leader, the other flank, and--perhaps most important--the man bringing
up the rear. Don't let the kid drop out of sight; make sure he doesn't
straggle. Keeping track of Ike was the most difficult part of that job.

In front, Frank tried to keep the pace moderate, as easy on the team as
he could without wasting too much of the limited time they had. Once he
estimated that they had covered two-thirds of the distance, he started
angling toward the surface. It was time to go up and take a sighting,
verify the distance remaining, and try to locate the specific boat they
were after.

Near the surface, there was more illumination, a sparkling that still
did not present much threat of making the divers visible to anyone above
the water. Frank broke water gently, only his head out, using legs and
arms to hold position. He gave his eyes time to adjust to the presence
of some light, scanning his limited horizon. He turned through a
complete circle, noting the position of the two freighters currently
docked at the commercial pier, then spotting a half dozen smaller boats
tied up some distance away.

The silhouette of the private yacht Spirit of God proved easy to spot,
about three hundred yards away. None of the other boats even came close
to it in size or configuration. Frank looked closer, to see the heads of
his team mates, still in formation, as cautious as he was. He pointed at
the target and saw an answering nod from each of the others.

Frank took a compass reading, then made a gesture with his right hand,
back underwater. He submerged and started angling down, on a heading
directly for the target. The other three followed him under.

This time, Frank did not take them as deep. There had been no hint of a
patrol boat moving about the harbor. Nothing appeared to be moving on
the surface. The team went down only to twenty feet. Frank increased his
pace a little. At first it was a subconscious thing, an instinctive feel
for covering the last stretch of water as quickly as possible. When
Frank realized what he was doing, he slowed back down, but only for a
few seconds. We can use a little more speed, he decided, and he resumed
the slightly faster pace.

Behind him, the others adjusted to his speed.

Only one extraneous thought broke Ike's concentration on this mission.

Just after they went underwater again following the target sighting, he
thought, This is what it's supposed to be about. He had a brief memory
of a movie he had seen on television, not a year before--a World War Two
movie with James Garner as a Navy frogman on a mission to photograph a
Japanese code book; he had been taken close by a submarine whose skipper
was reluctant to risk his boat too close to the island that Garner was
supposed to infiltrate. The few other SEALs in the day-room had laughed
through much of the movie, deriding it as "hokey."

It was not quite so completely dark now. There was a shimmer to the
surface. Ike noticed that Frank was slowly moving higher in the water,
until the low man in the team--Ike--was only fifteen feet deep. The
second time that Frank went to the surface, the others were even more
cautious about exposing themselves, letting no more than the faceplates
of their masks rise above the water.

The target was a hundred yards away. It looks a lot bigger now, Ike
thought. He had time for nothing else. Frank had slipped back
underwater, and the rest of the team had to follow.

It was only by glancing at his watch frequently that Ike could keep
track of passing time. Apart from the reminder of a hand moving around
the dial, time might have stood absolutely still. Frank went back down
close to thirty feet below the surface for the last stretch, and he
increased his pace again. The divers were not racing toward the target,
but they were not out for a lazy swim anymore, either.

When they got close, the hull of the boat was only a darker blur in the
water, a place where the surface shimmer ended. The divers moved closer
together again, almost within touching distance of each other.

The decision as to where to place the mines had been made during the
mission's planning stage. Both would go on the shoreward side of the
keel, one close to the boat's main fuel tank, the other just forward of
amidships under the largest cabin. The goal was to get the force of the
explosive in the mines as well as fire and explosion from the diesel
fuel in the boat's tanks. The timers were set to ninety minutes. The men
carrying them came together and activated the devices simultaneously to
make certain that the explosions would come at the same time. Then they
moved toward the positions where the mines would be located.

One man could peel the backing strip from the adhesive on the mines, but
the job was easier with two men working together. Frank and Beau handled
the mine that would go against the fuel tank. Ike helped Rob with the
other mine, working almost entirely by feel. Visibility had once more
been reduced to virtually zero.

Rob placed his mine carefully against the hull and pressed to bond the
adhesive. Any force would have translated as sound inside the boat, and
there was a faint chance that someone aboard might hear the sound and
recognize a potential threat. Rob used both hands then to test the
security of the bond. The mine did not come away from the hull.

Ike felt Rob's touch on his shoulder before he saw any movement.

Pressure. Rob brought his arm to just in front of Ike's face mask and
tapped the watch on his wrist. Time to go. Ike nodded, though he knew
that Rob would not be able to see the gesture. He turned and paddled out
from under the keel of the boat. The other two men met them and the team
moved back into its diamond formation.

Frank went back down to thirty feet. Close to the target, he wanted as
much water above him as was practical. He also kicked more vigorously
going out than coming in. The thought of live mines in the water behind
him was enough to insure that. Timers could malfunction. And when those
mines went off, Frank did not want to be anywhere near. The concussive
force of explosives in water could be brutal, even lethal.

On the way out, there was no need to surface at all. Frank kept a close
watch on his compass and stayed precisely on the heading he needed to
rendezvous with the SDV. The swim in had taken twenty-seven minutes,
allowing for the two times they had surfaced to pinpoint the target.
Frank guessed that the return swim would take two minutes less. He was
not too concerned about finding the SDV. Its sonar would find the
divers.

He wasn't the only one thinking about the live explosives behind them.

Ike found it difficult to maintain his proper position at the rear of
the diamond. He kept drawing too close to the others and had to
consciously will himself to slow down. But, then, two minutes later, he
would find that the gap had shrunk again and have to do it all over
again.

Twenty-three minutes. Frank saw a green luminous glow ahead of him, then
the vague outline of the top of the SDV. He adjusted his course enough
to head for the glow, then, when the SDV was almost close enough to
touch, angled to the left, toward the open door on the rear compartment
of the vehicle.

Frank moved onto the top of the SDV, waiting to make sure that all three
of his men got in before he followed. Inside, he switched to the SDV's
air supply and plugged in the radio connection again.

"We're all set, Lieutenant. Time to boogie on out," Frank reported.

"We've got sixty-one minutes before things go thump in the dark."

The ride back was different than the ride in, psychologically, at least.
Each SEAL remained conscious of the explosives they had planted.

If everything went as planned--and there was no real reason to believe
otherwise--the mines would detonate after the SDV was well out of the
harbor, within minutes of rendezvousing with Pompano. There would be
enough water, and part of the city of Aden, between them and the blast.

Still, Ike was not the only man to feel a tightness between his shoulder
blades, an itch, as if anticipating that the explosion would come much
sooner, perhaps any second. Ike had to pay conscious attention to
keeping his breathing regular--a necessity on any dive. It made for a
long ride.

When the explosions did come, none of the SEALs felt anything.

Lieutenant Lubinski reported to Frank that the sonar had picked up the
explosions, but that was the only way anyone aboard the SDV knew that
they had happened. Eight minutes later, the SDV was moving back into its
hangar on Pompano's afterdeck.

POST-MISSION

A quick hot shower, dry clothes, and hot coffee banished the chill the
divers had felt on emerging from the water. Cooks were finishing a hot
breakfast for the six men sitting in the galley--most of them cupping
their mugs in both hands to savor the heat. Scrambled eggs, sausage
links, hash brown potatoes, and toast. There was orange juice as well,
and as much coffee as the men could drink. There was little talk among
them. The isolation of the dive was slower to recede than the chill.
They drank coffee, then ate, saying little more than

"Pass the salt," or

"How 'bout some more coffee?"

But the thaw came. There was, finally, room for small talk in private
universes that were again expanding, touching. They did not, could not,
talk about the mission. There were other sailors in the galley, cooks
and men coming in for breakfast, or just for a cup of coffee after
coming off watch.

Ike asked what regular duty was like aboard a Sturgeon-class submarine.
Chief O'Brian made a few general remarks. Talk turned to the naval base
at San Diego where BUD/S training was conducted, and where the SDV teams
were headquartered.

Time passed. It was seven o'clock when Harry Tombs came in.

"Let's move back to the DDS for the debriefing," Tombs said, and he let
Lieutenant Lubinski lead the way. They all took fresh cups of hot coffee
with them.

Frank's verbal recounting of the operation was even shorter than usual.
Not much was necessary beyond: We rode the SDV in, then swam the rest of
the way; we planted the mines and activated them; then we swam back to
the SDV and rode back here. Lieutenant Lubinski reported that he had
noted no difficulties and that the explosions had been picked up on the
SDV's sonar precisely at the time Chief Lucan had told him to expect
them.

No one else offered any additions.

"We don't have any visual damage assessment yet," Tombs said when the
reports were finished. "But we have confirmed that there were two
explosions, seconds apart. An aircraft flying quite some distance
offshore managed photographs of the immediate aftermath, but those
photographs are still being processed.

"Lieutenant, I think you and your chief are finished with us. Thanks for
your help."

Lubinski nodded and stood. "Your friendly taxi service," he said.

"Nice to have some real work to do once in a while."

After the SDV men left, Tombs said, "We've got a little down time, so
you can relax. We don't rendezvous with Bellman until just before dawn
tomorrow."

THE REPORT

They were back aboard Bellman before Tombs was able to submit his formal
after-action report with its supporting documents. The yacht had been
totally destroyed, its wreckage so mangled that it would scarcely pose a
hazard to other boats in the harbor.

Too bad you weren't aboard, Tombs thought, staring at a photograph of
ibn Landin on the desk before him. At least you'll know you've got a
cobra on your ass. I wish I could send you a note, maybe an e-mail,
something simple like

"Fuck you, bugger. We'll get you next time."

Tombs leaned back. No matter what it took, he was determined to be the
man who brought ibn Landin down.

Faud ibn Landin appeared impassive as he listened to the report. His
boat, the Spirit of God, had been destroyed in what should have been a
safe harbor. Two of his most trusted commando leaders, as well as their
deputies and the boat's crew, had been killed. As the report came to an
end, Faud recited a prayer in his mind. He took the extra seconds needed
to make certain that his rage would not be apparent when he spoke.

"The deaths are an outrage," he said, and he did sound calm. "A
murderous attack that we will avenge at the first opportunity. The boat
... well, perhaps it was a vanity that I should have outgrown years ago,
part of the trappings of my former life." He always spoke of his life as
a successful businessman, before finding the light of jihad, that way.
"His former life."

"Have we been able to gather any information about who staged the
attack, or how? Was it the Americans or the Zionists?"

Rashish Suleiman, Faud's second in command and designated successor,
made an open gesture with both hands. "So far, we have no hard
information. No one who survived saw or heard anything. There was an
explosion, perhaps two explosions. Then the fuel tank went off as well.

Our friends in Aden are pushing for a thorough investigation, but, well,
the authorities seem to have little interest in pursuing the matter. One
fears that they are merely going through the motions, hoping they do not
find anything solid enough to force them toward unwanted diplomatic
repercussions. They have gone so far as to release a report suggesting
that the explosions might have been due to some mechanical mishap aboard
the Spirit of God, and not the result of a cowardly attack."

"We must assume, until proven otherwise, that this attack is part of the
pattern we have been seeing over the past week." Faud leaned back and
looked at the ceiling of the small office. "I must confess that it is
slightly possible that we have been stabbed in the back by one of the
groups we have been courting, but I don't think it likely, and--for the
moment--it makes no difference. That could, at most, account only for
the attack on the boat." He paused, thinking. He turned to his second.
"We will use this attack to help hearten those whose will seems weak. It
is not impossible that Mossad could mount so many operations in such a
short time, but I think it is unlikely. That leaves the Americans. I am
surprised that they could strike at Spirit of God so quickly after the
bombing of their embassy in South Africa."

"They did have a carrier battle group just offshore at the time of the
attack in Somalia," Rashish said. "And a helicopter from that group
approached the three-mile limit twice, before and after the attack on
the training camp. That same battle group was close to Eritrea when our
agents there were assassinated. And in the Red Sea when the depot in
Libya was attacked."

"I believe you are right, Rashish. Of course, it doesn't explain the
assault near Beirut, but four out of five is hard to argue. The
Americans are afraid of us, my friend. They are afraid of the grand
alliance we hope to form, and they're doing everything in their power to
stop it."

"All the more reason not to let them succeed," Rashish said.

Faud nodded slowly. "I want you to start by sending the following
message to all of the people we hope to have at our summit meeting. 'The
American cowards are targeting all of our operations in order to keep us
from working together. The recent attacks against us were staged by a
special operations group operating primarily from a carrier battle group
patrolling the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean. I urge you, for the love of
God, to take special precautions in all of your operations, and at all
of your locations, through the time of our summit. Union is more
important than ever now. We must come together to meet this threat. It
is the only way we can be certain of final victory, God willing." "You
have that, Rashish?" Faud asked.

"Every word, Master." Rashish had not taken notes, but his memory was
very nearly eidetic. There was no chance he would forget the message
before he could write it down and start it on its ways to the men it was
intended for.

"Get the word to our own people as well," Faud said, almost as an
afterthought. "I would very much like to have one or more of these
Americans as prisoners to show the world. A live prisoner would be worth
far more than a dead body." He paused. "Not that we would not like dead
bodies as well."

6

PRE-MISSION

"You're not going to like this one," Harry Tombs said, as soon as the
four SEALs had taken their seats in the captain's conference room aboard
Bellman. "I'm not too happy with it myself, but we weren't given the
option to refuse."

Even Beau Guisborne sat up a little straighter in his chair. Tombs had
the undivided attention of the SEALS. They had been back aboard Bellman
less than four hours, time for a second breakfast, showers, and a change
of uniform after their time aboard the submarine.

"Tonight's op is a favor to the Egyptian government, payback for their,
ah, constructive non-interference with our crossing their airspace to
hit that munitions depot in Libya. The target is one of the groups we're
after, so the official line is that we further our own interests while
helping out friends in the region." This must really be a beaut, Frank
thought. Tombs had never been one to waste a lot of words before getting
to the details of the mission.

"I'll be going part of the way with you, as far as the final staging
area," Tombs said, "and I'll be there to arrange alternate extraction if
... well, if there are problems with the primary arrangements. We are
going to be cooperating with Egyptian internal security police on that.

They are going to provide the vehicle for your final insertion and
provide a checkpoint to hold up any pursuit on the way out. In theory."

"What do we do, hijack King Tut's gold?" Rob asked, just to relieve the
tension he was beginning to feel.

Tombs gave him a very tired look. "No. The target is one of the groups
of fanatical extremists who have been attacking tourists in Egypt over
the past several years, blowing up busloads of foreigners and so forth.
As far as Cairo is concerned, they're bad for business. Egypt needs all
the money it can get, especially from people coming to gawk at King
Tut's gold and all the rest of the ancient glories it can no longer hope
to duplicate. But the Egyptian government is somewhat limited in its
ability to respond. They have to maintain a delicate balancing act to
stay in power. There's too long a tradition of assassinating leaders in
Egypt."

"All the way back to pharaohs," Beau said under his breath. No one took
any notice.

"At ten thirty this morning, we will board a helicopter. You'll be fully
armed for a land engagement. Our helicopter will transport us to the
Egyptian air force base at Aswan. There we will transfer to an Egyptian
helicopter, piloted by their security police, and be taken to the town
of Beni Suef about sixty miles south of Cairo. I'll stay there with the
helicopter. The four of you will be taken in a closed van to a police
checkpoint just outside the city of El Faiyum in the Faiyum Depression.

You will be concealed in a building at the checkpoint. Our information,
which comes from the Egyptians, is that a van carrying two members of
this terrorist organization make regular runs between El Faiyum and
their base north of the city. They come out, make purchases and do
whatever business they do, then return. The same vehicle, the same
route, almost always the same two men, every day but Friday. The
Egyptians will have the route laid out for us. When the vehicle heads
back toward their base this evening, the police will stop it at the
checkpoint, make the occupants get out--something they do periodically,
just to harass them--and escort them into the building, where they will
be, ah, detained until they can pose no threat to the op. The four of
you will take their places and use the vehicle as your access to the
terrorist base. The vehicle is not stopped at the perimeter, again,
according to our Egyptian sources."Once inside, you will strike the
three main buildings of the complex with rifles and grenades, do as much
damage as you can quickly, then make your escape the same way you came
in."

Throughout the talk, Tombs had been holding the mission target folder,
not opening it to pass the documents around so the SEALs could study
them while they half-listened to him. This time, he wanted to make sure
they didn't miss a word he said.

"The same kind of action we had at Mitsiwa?" Ike said.

Tombs nodded. "With far less opposition. This area is farming country,
citrus and olive orchards, flowers for export, and so forth."

"What's the size of the opposition?" Frank asked.

"Anywhere between eight and thirty," Tombs said. "That's the best
information I can give you, based on what the Egyptians have told us.

Whatever the size of the opposition, figure that they'll be well
armed--Russian assault weapons, grenades, the makings of relatively
large bombs, even SAMs. You won't catch this bunch sleeping either. They
live with the threat of raids by Egyptian authorities. Their sentries
have radio contact with the main buildings."

Finally, Tombs set the target folder on the table, opened it, and
started passing around the documents.

"The operational orders stress that it's imperative that the fact that
this is an American operation must not be known. That means don't get
captured and don't carry anything that will identify you as American,"
Tombs said as the order made the rounds of the SEALS. "We have to have
full deniability on this, the same way the Egyptian government does. No
American weapons at all."

"If something goes wrong, we assume that the Egyptians would rather have
us blamed then take the rap themselves?" Frank asked.

"I don't think you would go wrong proceeding on that assumption," Tombs
said. "That's one of the reasons I'll be close enough to get something
in to pick you up in case there are difficulties and our allies decide
to cut their losses and our throats. Just in case," he added after a
slight pause. "We'll have assets standing by in the Red Sea and in the
Mediterranean. And closer. I can't say more than that."

"Sounds like this could turn into a one-way ticket to Hell," Rob said.

He scarcely noted the fact that no one offered to contradict him.

THE PREPARATION

"We've been warned," Frank told his men when they were alone in the
armory to select their weapons for the operation. "This could be balls
to the wall. My suggestion is, we go in with so much heat that we could
take Baghdad all by ourselves. The load gets too heavy, we can always
dump the excess, but we can't count on being able to pick up any extras
along the way."

"We s'posed to have rides all the way. Don' have to carry the weight
alone," Beau said. "'Sides, we get to the place, we use up all the
extra."

"Two radios," Frank said. "I'll carry one. Farmer, you carry the other.
I want to be sure we can talk to Tombs when we have to. Two men with
M-203s--Beau and Ike, and all the rounds you think you can carry. The
Farmboy and I will each wear an extra bandoleer of grenades."

Frank armed himself carefully, ignoring weight for the comfort of having
as much firepower as he could possibly carry. An M-16 with the
double-drum magazine was his start. He loaded a second double-drum
magazine in an ammunition pouch, and eight standard magazines--four
pairs that were taped together. He would have taken more of the C-Mag
hundred-round magazines, but the team only had eight of them, and he
planned to leave two for each of the other men.

"Hey, Tombs said no American weapons," Ike said, when he saw what Frank
intended to carry. "There's nothing more American than the M-16."

"You leave Tombs to me, kid," Frank said. "Anybody gets their hands on
these weapons, they might find that they came from a shipment that went
to the Panama Defense Forces back when Noriega ran things there--and
part of that shipment disappeared and was assumed to have found its way
to one of the Colombian drug cartels. A lot of countries use M-16s now;
even a few of the terrorist groups we're after favor them over
Kalishnikovs. And we don't have any drum magazines for the AK-47s we
have."

"We go out with these at the last minute, Tombs won't have time to make
us change weapons, not if we put up a fuss," Rob said. He grinned.

"Besides, I'm all in favor of anything that pisses the spook off." "I'm
not looking for a fight with him," Frank said. "I'll give him good
reasons." A 9mm Glock pistol went in a shoulder harness. Four extra
magazines for that went in the pouch with Frank's spare C-Mag. A second
pistol, a Walther PPK, went in an ankle holster on his right leg. A boot
knife went on the left leg under his BDU, a backup for the knife on his
web belt. Finally, Frank took six hand grenades--four high explosive and
two smoke. Then he strapped on a bandoleer of grenades for the M-203
launcher.

I must look like hell on two feet, Frank thought, as he moved around a
little to judge weight and balance of the load. I'd hate to have to hike
twenty miles carrying all this. He looked around. His men were all
dressed very similarly. Even Ike had finally quit hesitating and taken
one of the M-16s.

"You do realize," Rob said, "the four of us together are packing more
mayhem than an entire infantry company did in World War One." "Anyone
for making it a battalion?" Ike asked. The other three all looked at
him, surprised that the kid was the one to try that gag.

"Let's not press our luck," Frank said. "You look like you've shrunk two
inches from what you're carrying now." "I can handle it," Ike said. "I'm
not carrying Much more than you are and I'm a ..." "Don't say it, kid,"
Frank said. "I know what you're thinking, but don't say it." The two
grinned at each other.

"We'd better start waddling toward the fantail," Rob said. "Let's just
hope we don't overload the chopper."

Climbing a ladderway was an adventure.

Harry Tombs was waiting for them on deck. He was dressed all in khaki
trousers, shirt, and lightweight safari jacket. The SEALs were not
surprised to see that the spook was openly armed, carrying an Uzi, with
a large-frame automatic pistol in a belt holster. He also carried
several spare magazines for the submachine gun.

Tombs looked the others over quickly. His lips seemed to disappear when
he noticed the American rifles, pressed tightly together. He didn't
speak for thirty seconds or more. Then he took a deep breath and nodded.

"That goes directly against orders, but I think I can guess the reasons.

Just don't let those weapons fall into the wrong hands. You look like
models for'Blood and Guts, comics. Ordinarily, I'd say you were
overdressed, but ..." He shook his head and the grin that had been
flickering on and off vanished. "Let's just hope you don't need all that
shit."

"No argument from us," Frank said. "You're not quite in your banker
uniform either." "I used to be a Boy Scout," Tombs said.

THE MISSION

The Soviet Mil-8 (or Hip, as NATO designated it) was a tough bird. It
could carry up to 32 passengers, depending on the internal layout of the
seats, and an internal payload of 8,820 pounds. With a normal payload
and an altitude of 3,280 feet, it had a range of 298 miles. Even as
loaded as they were.

There was really no danger that the five men and their gear would
overload the helicopter, but that didn't stop them from joking about it
as the aircraft lifted off the fantail of Bellman and climbed away from
the battle group.

"This bird goes down, we'll be looking for footprints where the
Israelites crossed the Red Sea before we can shed all this ballast,"
Frank said.

"I think we're too far south for that," Ike said. "That must have been
up somewhere along the Gulf of Suez. It would have taken a week for them
to walk across it here. I don't think even Moses coulda held his arms
out that long."

"Yeah, how come he settled on the only patch of land in the Middle East
that isn't floating on oil?" Rob asked.

"That would have been too easy," Ike said. "No challenge. Like us using
air tanks in a swimming pool."

It wasn't often that the joking in Frank's team turned to religion.

Only when things get tense, Frank thought. He still considered himself a
Catholic, despite two divorces. The Farmer was Episcopalian: "but I'm
not a fanatic about it," Rob said occasionally. Ike was Jewish. Beau.
The others weren't completely sure what his affiliations might be.
Sometimes, he said he had been brought up Catholic. At other times, he
talked of a grandmother who was a Voodoo priestess--or something like
that. "She give me a powerful juju," he had once claimed. "Ain't been
the bullet cast can do me, less it be made of silver or gold." Beau had
been teamed with Frank and Rob for nearly two years before he had said
anything at all about his family. One side had been French and
Portuguese, and had lived in Louisiana since the 1700s. The other side
had been African, brought to New Orleans as slaves in the first years of
American rule of the city. "We been masters and slaves, but mostly, we
been fishermen." Another time he had claimed that one ancestor had been
a pirate with Jean Lafitte, and had served at the Battle of New Orleans.
The others were never certain how much of Beau's talk they could
believe, and when he was just putting them on. It didn't matter.

The helicopter was forced to circle in a holding pattern for five
minutes before being given clearance to land at the Egyptian air force
base at Aswan. Then, the pilot set the chopper down near one of the
concrete bunkers that had been built to protect Mig fighters from
Israeli air attacks in the days before the Camp David accord. They
landed thirty yards from another helicopter, one bearing markings of the
Egyptian air force.

"Everything appears to be normal," the Egyptian officer who met Tombs
and the SEALs said in British-accented English. "There has been no
deviation from the schedule."

"That's good to know, Colonel," Tombs said. He did not introduce the
Egyptian officer to the SEALS.

"I'll be flying you to Beni Suef myself," the Egyptian said. "We are
being exceptionally cautious in this, as you know."

Means they don't know who the hell they can trust, Frank thought, but he
kept his face expressionless, and his mouth shut.

The Egyptian officer was also good at maintaining a poker face. He
showed absolutely no reaction to the quantity of munitions that the five
men carried. He merely led the way to the Egyptian helicopter and
gestured them aboard.

The Navy flyers would stay with their helicopter.

In the passenger compartment of the Egyptian helicopter, the colonel
retrieved a folder from his copilot and gave it to Harry Tombs. "The
necessary information," the Egyptian said.

As the helicopter started to lift into the air, Tombs opened the folder
and scanned the three sheets of paper inside--details of the route to
the terrorist base, a rough map, and information on several of the
people believed to be in residence. Tombs passed the papers to Frank,
who circulated them among his teammates. Each man studied the map and
route with great care. The names meant nothing to them.

The helicopter followed the Nile downstream, north, then northwest,
except for a bow to the right near Luxor. The pilot made no attempt to
navigate directly cross-country. Nor did he push the Russian-made
helicopter too hard. It was a relatively slow flight, rarely getting
above 130 miles per hour.

Throughout the flight, Rob did little but stare toward the flight deck,
as if he thought he had to watch every move the Egyptians made, just in
case they might be up to no good. He scarcely blinked the whole time,
and though he never made a threatening move, his hand was never far from
his rifle. Beau settled in and closed his eyes, or narrowed them to
slits, as if sleeping--his usual in-flight pose. Frank and Ike played
tourist, staring out at the monumental temples and ruins they passed.
Since the helicopter rarely climbed above five hundred feet altitude,
they had good views of most of them.

It was not just the ruins of a civilization that had faded thousands of
years before that Frank watched. He did his best to keep track of the
helicopter's position. He wanted to know exactly where they were at all
times. A precaution. He had studied the maps. Now, he could match what
he saw out the window with names on paper. Luxor, Karnak, the Valley of
the Kings. It was a few minutes past two thirty when they flew over
Asyut dam. About another hour of flying time, Frank thought, unless they
decide to get a little more speed out of this egg-beater.

Frank was a little surprised when the helicopter turned ninety degrees
to the east, at least thirty miles south of Beni Suef. The unexpected
course change made him nervous. He glanced at Tombs to see if the agent
had noticed, and might know what was up. But Tombs did not meet Frank's
glance. He was looking out the window at his side, showing no apparent
interest in anything.

Five minutes later, the helicopter turned north again. Ten minutes after
that, he turned to the northwest.

Coming in through the back door, Frank thought, breathing a little
easier. Don't want to be seen coming straight up the river. He couldn't
fathom why, but it seemed to be the answer to the maneuvering.

They crossed the Nile and landed at the edge of Beni Suef, near a
building that flew the Egyptian flag. It was 1545 hours.

"The four of you wait here in the helicopter until they bring the van
up," Tombs said as the rotor wound down to a halt. "They'll back it
right up to the door and you'll go straight in from here."

Tombs got out with the colonel and his copilot, both of whom very
studiously avoided looking at the SEALS, who watched while Tombs and the
two Egyptians walked to the nearby building and went inside. There was
an old-fashioned delivery van--high-sided and boxy--parked next to the
building. The van was white, and showed the effects of long usage,
innumerable scrapes and dents, with more than a trace of rust showing.

"I guess that's our ride," Frank whispered.

"Hope it works better than it looks," Rob said. "I haven't seen a
contraption like that in years. Like an old milk truck, back when they
used to deliver."

"They used to deliver milk?" Ike asked, feigning ignorance. "How long
ago was that?"

"Never mind, kid," Rob said.

"Stow the crap," Frank said. "We're on the button here." I don't think
anything will go wrong this soon, he told himself, but it's not too soon
to watch for it. He shook his head, a subconscious gesture. They'd have
to be crazy to pull anything here, he thought.

The five minutes the SEALs had to wait before anyone came out of the
building did no one's nerves any good. Everyone had his weapon in his
hands, and more than one pair of eyes checked the selector and safety.

When Harry Tombs came out of the building and gestured for the others to
join him, Ike was the only one to let out an audible sigh of relief and
even that was just barely noticeable.

"Stay alert," Frank warned. He was first out of the helicopter. He kept
his eyes on Tombs, looking for any clue that something--anything--might
be wrong. The van was not being backed up to the helicopter the way
Tombs had said it would be.

"Your driver speaks English, but not very well," Tombs warned when the
SEALs got to him. "His name is Sergeant Turhan. The four of you will
stay in the back of the van, out of sight.

The police sergeant came out. His uniform was starched and pressed,
sharp creases in trousers and shirt. The Sam Browne belt that held his
pistol holster and two other pouches was polished and looked new. A
little shorter than Frank, Turhan was clean-shaven and appeared to be in
his late thirties.

"You get in. We go," Sergeant Turhan said, gesturing at the double doors
at the rear of the old van. "Get there quick."

Frank opened one of the doors, but stepped aside quickly, out of the
way, in case there was a surprise waiting inside. There wasn't. The rear
of the van was empty. There were no seats, not even a bench along the
side. As he climbed inside, and moved toward the front of the
compartment, near the open connection to the driver's compartment, Frank
noticed a smell that seemed to be a mix of animal odors and human sweat.

Ike was the next man in. Frank gestured him to a position across from
him, also at the front of the cargo area. Frank was right behind the
driver's position, on the right. Beau and Rob got in and stayed near the
doors at the back.

Harry Tombs stepped into the opening there. "Remember, I'll be right
here when you get back," he told the SEALS. "Good hunting." As Tombs
closed the doors, Sergeant Turhan hurried around to the front, climbing
in behind the steering wheel.

"Quick" was not the word any of the SEALs would have chosen to describe
the ride from Beni Suef to the police checkpoint just outside El Faiyum.
The distance was little more than twenty-five miles but took the van an
hour and fifteen minutes. In town, the streets were dusty--even where
they were paved--and crowded with other cars and trucks, bicycles,
animal-drawn vehicles, and pedestrians. Twice, before they got out of
Beni Suef the van was actually jostled by people, the vehicle swaying on
shock absorbers that had long ago lost any absorbency. Each time that
happened, it brought a surge of adrenaline to the SEALS, fearing that
some sort of attack might be imminent.

Even on the highway, Sergeant Turhan did not overtax the van's engine.

Frank could not read the speedometer but doubted that they ever topped
forty miles per hour. Traffic on the highway was heavier than Frank
would have expected, and none of it appeared to be moving faster than
the van.

Throughout the ride, Turhan seemed unflappable. Nothing they encountered
seemed to bother him, nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be
happening. Several times the security police sergeant whistled a few
bars of some song that none of his passengers could recognize.

The road that the police checkpoint guarded was not one of the main
thoroughfares. The road was oiled gravel, barely more than a single lane
wide. But there were stop signs aimed in both directions, and a small
stone building on the east side of the road. The building was no more
than fifteen feet square, and single-storied, with a flat roof. Two
police officers stood outside, in the sun, watching for traffic that did
not seem to be coming from either direction.

Sergeant Turhan drove right up in front of the building, coming to a
stop between the two officers. They spoke in Arabic, briefly, then
Turhan drove around to the north side of the building and parked right
up against the wall--the van almost touching the building.

"We are here. We go inside," Turhan said, turning in his seat to look at
Frank.

The only door in the building faced the road. There were four windows,
two flanking the door, one each on the sides. The white van blocked the
view out the north window. Except for a four-by-four-foot toilet, there
was only a single room. A counter ran across the middle, facing the
door. Two tall stools were behind the counter.

"We wait here," Turhan said, gesturing around the room. "Stay away from
windows, please."

Frank nodded, then positioned his men around the room so they could see
as much of the surrounding territory as possible. The counter offered no
defensive possibilities, only concealment. It was faced and topped with
half-inch plywood, held up by a framework of two-by-fours. The walls of
the building were sturdy though, and at least a foot thick. Except for
the blind side--the bathroom had only a single small window seven feet
up--it would not be difficult to defend the building.

"How long will it be?" Frank asked the sergeant, who had propped himself
up on one of the stools at the counter.

Turhan shrugged, then glanced at his watch. "One hour, maybe more, maybe
less. We see. They come there." He pointed left, south.

"Their vehicle, what does it look like?" Frank asked.

The police sergeant hesitated, as if he were having difficulty
understanding the question. "Small truck. Color like sand." He gestured
toward the window facing west.

"A small, tan truck," Frank said, nodding. Sergeant Turhan grinned and
nodded back.

An hour, give or take, Rob thought when Turhan mentioned the time.

Rob glanced at his watch. Can't expect much more precision than that. He
shrugged. The cops can't control when the bad guys come back. He was not
too concerned. The policemen outside were armed with assault rifles and
pistols, but Rob had seen no spare magazines. Apparently, the only
ammunition they had was what was in their weapons, unless there was more
in the police cruiser parked on the other side of the road. And Sergeant
Turhan had only a pistol. These guys aren't going to give us any
trouble, Rob assured himself.

Although there were no shades or curtains on the windows, there was
little chance that the men inside would be spotted by anyone on the
outside, as long as no one got too close to the window. There were no
lights on inside the building, and the glare of the sun outside was
almost as sure a mask as a coat of dark paint.

It was marginally cooler--at least, less hot inside the building than in
the van. There was no air conditioner, no fan, but the thick walls did
provide some insulation.

Waiting was no novelty for any of the SEALS, though it was not the
favorite pastime of any of them. Beau remained almost completely
motionless, seldom doing so much as blinking. Rob moved in spurts,
letting several minutes pass, then stretching arms and legs, just making
sure that nothing got stiff. Ike was the most restive. Twice, he started
pacing--stopping only when Frank gave him a pointed glance.

Mostly, Frank used the time as constructively as possible. He went back
over the directions for getting from where they were to the farm that
the terrorists were--apparently--using as a base. He looked at the map,
working to commit every detail to memory. Occasionally, he glanced at
his watch.

An hour passed; an hour and ten minutes. Only five vehicles had gone
through the checkpoint since the arrival of the SEALS. None of those had
looked anything like the target vehicle.

"Not so long now, I think," Sergeant Turhan said, when he noticed Frank
looking at his watch. "They come soon." He had waited with the SEALS,
standing near the door, where he could watch the two officers outside as
well as the men in the building--nearly as motionless as a mummy ... and
as expressionless. By turns almost, the SEALs had spent time observing
their host, or chaperone. He appeared to be able to go for minutes at a
time without blinking, without moving a muscle. But his eyes did move
quickly in response to any movement around him.

Half an hour into the wait, Beau had awarded him a minuscule nod of
approval, behind his back, deciding that the Egyptian knew his way
around, knew his job. He be a good fighter, Beau thought. It was quite
an acknowledgment for him to give anyone who had not gone through BUD/S
and a host of other training courses. Beau decided that he would rather
have Turhan as an ally than an enemy.

After seventy minutes, it was difficult for any of the SEALs to avoid
glancing repeatedly at watch and window--the window on the south, the
direction the terrorists were expected to come from. Each man tried to
concentrate on his zone of the perimeter, but no one--not even
Frank--succeeded completely.

Seventy-five minutes; eighty.

"Very soon, I think," Turhan said. "They come. They always come."
"Yeah," Frank said, almost inaudibly. Makes no difference to me if they
come or don't, he thought. We're not getting paid piecework.

Ike wanted to ask, "How long do we wait?" but didn't, though he had to
bite his lower lip to keep the question in. Even without an outsider in
the room, it would have been poor form, led to later ribbing by the
others.

Too impatient, too nervous, still a rookie, still "the Kid." But every
minute that passed made it harder to remain silent.

An hour and a half.

"Something coming from the south," Frank said. Although he spoke very
softly, everyone in the room heard him. Sergeant Turhan moved away from
his post by the door to get a better look out the window to the south.

"I think, yes, them," he said. He went to the door, opened it, and
whistled softly. One of the men outside waved a half-hearted salute at
the sergeant and nodded.

"We get men out of truck," Turhan said. "Bring them in here."

The truck coming along the road appeared to be doing no more than
fifteen miles per hour when it was first spotted, and it slowed down
before it got within a hundred yards of the checkpoint. The last thirty
yards, the wheels barely seemed to be rotating. Even so, there was a
loud squeal as the brakes were applied to bring it to a complete stop,
between the two uniformed officers outside.

Frank and his companions could hear a flurry of Arabic through the open
window. One of the policemen spoke to the occupants of the truck, then
one of them replied at length. There was another exchange before the
truck's engine was turned off and both doors on the truck cab opened.

Neither officer had made a threatening move with his rifle, or moved to
draw a pistol. The two men who had been in the truck seemed to accept
the demand that they get out, though with poor grace. One of them
continued to mutter under his breath.

Sergeant Turhan opened the door with his left hand. He had drawn his
pistol with the right, but held the weapon at his side, out of sight.

The three policemen operated smoothly together, as if they had rehearsed
the maneuver many times. As the two terrorists reached the door--and got
where they might have spotted one or more of the Americans inside--the
two assault rifles behind them were suddenly against their backs, and
Sergeant Turhan's pistol was aimed at the face of the nearest man. They
had no chance to attempt to overpower the police or make an escape.
Turhan stood aside and the two men from the truck were prodded inside.

"You go now, quick," Turhan said, turning toward Frank and using his
pistol to gesture toward the truck waiting outside. "Men in front wear
these." He switched to Arabic and shouted something at the two captives.

They both glared at him but took off the loose shirts they were wearing.

Turhan took each, then passed them to the nearest SEALS.

"Beau, you and me up front," Frank said, tossing one of the shirts to
Guisborne. He quickly put the other one on himself, over his own gear.

Leaving the building, the SEALs had their rifles up, at the ready,
turning to left and right to make certain that there was no ambush
waiting for them.

The terrorists' truck appeared to be a converted pickup, perhaps forty
years old. The back had been modified to turn it into a vehicle like the
delivery van. Aluminum sheets had been bolted to the sides of the bed
and to each other. A roof had been bolted over them, and a canvas flap
hung down on the back, overlapping the original tailgate. A doorway had
been cut in the rear of the cab with a torch, to give the people up
front access. The old scorch marks where the cutting torch had sheared
the metal were still visible. The edges had been pounded over to make it
somewhat harder for a person to cut himself on them. But the job was
patently amateur.

Frank climbed behind the steering wheel of the right-hand drive truck.

Beau went around to the other side, while Rob and Ike climbed in the
back.

Frank looked back through the cutout to make sure they were in before he
put his feet on clutch and brakes and turned the key in the ignition.

"Remember, this thing doesn't have the best brakes in the world," Frank
said, as he shifted the truck into first gear. The right-hand drive made
that awkward for him. It was the first time he had driven anything on
the "wrong" side. "Keep an eye out on the road behind us, but don't be
obvious about it. If anyone does come up in back, we don't want them to
know you're there."

The truck's muffler appeared to work no better than the brakes. The
engine was loud, and rough. It was in desperate need of a tune-up ... or
a major overhaul. The engine seemed to be getting only a trickle of gas,
and acceleration was abysmal.

Gears complained when Frank was finally able to shift the truck into
second. "Damn junkyard reject," he muttered.

"James Bond never gets stuck driving crap like this," Beau observed.

"Inspector Clouseau did," Frank observed through gritted teeth. The
truck bounced along the road as if it were climbing a flight of stairs.

Shock absorbers were also missing, or dead. 44 Eight miles of this?"
Beau said. It was not really a question. "My teeth be all jarred out."

"We get back on that chopper, I think I'll push Tombs out and let him
swim home," Frank said. "Serve him right for sticking us in this pile of
rancid camel shit."

After two miles, Frank reached the first turn, off the gravel road onto
one that was merely packed dirt, with ruts more than six inches deep.

The quality of the ride suffered ... considerably.

"You trying to shake us to death?" Rob called from the back--shouting to
make himself heard over the truck's cacophony.

"We're only doing fifteen, if that," Frank shouted back. "You want to
get out and walk, wait for us at the perimeter."

"They could use this in BUD/S, for Hell Week," Rob said. "Shake kids out
quicker than anything they got now." Frank didn't answer. Just then, the
truck's steering wheel seemed to develop a will of its own as the rutted
road tried to jerk the tires off to the right. The rocky ride
deteriorated until Frank was able to wrestle the vehicle back into the
ruts.

In the next five minutes, the truck covered less than half a mile, each
yard an adventure. Finally, Frank took his foot off the gas pedal and
let the truck slow to a stop on its own.

"Maybe we better off driving on the side," Beau suggested. "Looks better
than this."

"Can't be worse," Frank said. He had leaned forward resting both
forearms on the steering wheel. "That road is a bitch."

"You know, man, you awful pale for an Ayrab," Beau said. "You want,
maybe, I should drive so you can duck if anybody comes close?"

Frank lifted his head and turned to look at Beau. "That some kind of
racial remark? I'm not all that pale."

Beau laughed. "You more pale than me."

"Okay. You drive. That ought to take some of the starch out of you."

Frank got out and walked around the truck, scanning the horizon
carefully.

They were well away from town, out in the areas of Orchards and gardens.

Just to the right there was a field, several acres in extent, filled
with blooming flowers. Ahead and to the left he saw trees. The closest
ones were familiar--olive.

"Stay alert," Frank said as he passed the tailgate. "I don't see anyone,
but who the hell knows."

"We shoulda worn helmets," Rob said, softly. "We're getting banged
around back here something fierce."

By the time Frank got to the passenger side of the cab, Beau was behind
the wheel, and looking across the seat. "Be almost sunset when we get
there, way we're goin'," Beau said.

"We sure don't want to stall too long," Frank said as he got into place.
"They might get nervous if the truck's too long getting in. Or send
someone looking."

Beau snorted. "Bet this heap break down at least once a week. Must be
used to it bein' late."

"Wish we'd had a chance to search the two birds who had this truck, see
if they had a two-way radio or a phone with them. Let's go." Frank
gestured forward.

Driving off to the side of the so-called road did seem to help. There
was still some jouncing, but not as much as before. But they did not
make any better speed. There was sand over rock, and every time Beau
tried to get a little more speed from the truck, the wheels started to
lose traction.

"I don't think this speedometer works," Beau said after he had been
driving for five minutes.

"Says we goin' twenty-five, and we can't be doin' twenty." "Fast
enough," Frank said. "Faster than we could walk. Watch for a gate.
Shouldn't be too far ahead now."

It wasn't--a gate across the road but no fence on either side. That was
what the instructions said. A grove of olive trees to the right.

Orange trees to the left. The gate was open, and hanging from one hinge.

There was a ditch on either side, no more than three feet wide but
nearly that deep, so Beau put the truck back on the road and went
through the gate.

"Another half mile to the buildings," Frank said. "But we're on the
property now. Could be sentries anywhere."

"We ain't gonna just drive up to the front door, are we?" "No," Frank
said. "Get up there where the olive trees come right out to the road and
pull off on that side. We'll pop the hood so maybe somebody'll think the
engine died. Then we walk the rest of the way."

The sun was low on the horizon, but still mostly above it, casting long
shadows in the orchard. Beau pulled off to the right side of the road,
parking the truck almost under the branches of the nearest olive tree.

"Out and down," Frank told the men in the back. "Right side. Beau, take
the key out of the ignition and stick it under the seat where we can
find it when we get back."

Beau grunted. "Maybe we boost something better up there? Maybe they got
a Mercedes or something." The thought was appealing, but Frank shook his
head. "Don't want to confuse Sergeant Turhan and his men. But if there
are any other vehicles, we don't want to leave them in running
condition. No need to let them have something to chase us with."

Beau got out and went around to the front of the truck. He needed a few
seconds to find the release on the hood latch, but he eventually got it
up. Then he moved into the olive grove with the others who had taken up
a quick defensive position, close together, facing out to watch in all
directions.

"How far you figure we are from the buildings?" Rob asked.

"Shouldn't be much more than four hundred yards," Frank said. He checked
his compass, then pointed a few degrees east of north. "Right about
there, I think." He looked through a complete circle. "They figure to
have at least a couple of sentries prowling around. We need to see them
before they see us. And we want to take them out silently if we do see
them."

Frank gave his men two minutes to work out the stiffness of the ride,
then started moving through the trees, from cover to cover, angling
farther east, away from the road. If they come looking for the men from
the truck, he reasoned, they'll concentrate on the area close to the
road.

It should take them a bit to think about something going wrong besides
the truck. Longer to look for intruders farther off. He hoped.

Before moving away from the truck, Frank and Beau took off the light
shirts they had worn over their BDUs. They would have been too obvious
against the shadows of the olive grove.

To an onlooker, the movements of the SEALS might have appeared
haphazard, as if none of them were taking any notice of the rest, but
that was far from the case. Each man remained aware of the relative
position of each of the others. They moved, mostly, two at a time, and
their formation never strayed far from a rough diamond shape. They were
absolutely silent.

Twice, Frank held the others up with a hand signal. The first time, he
thought he might have caught a hint of movement off in the trees,
farther to the right, and he had the others wait until he had assured
himself that there was nothing out there but the last shadows before
sunset. The second time he held the others up was when he approached a
large clearing. This time, he changed direction, turning to the right to
go around rather than through the open space.

"Figure they're going to be getting antsy about now," Frank whispered
after gathering his team close. The roof of one building was visible, at
least a hundred yards away. Unlike most of the buildings they had seen
on this trip, this one had a sloped roof with what appeared to be slate
shingles. And the gable they could see was either wood or siding meant
to look like wood. Unusual. "The truck is late. If they've found it,
they know something's wrong, but not what. Anybody spots us now, we
might get a half second break before they realize we're not one of their
people and start shooting, but don't count on it."

"If they've got everyone out looking for the truck driver and his
helper, we might hit empty buildings, have the bogeys on the wrong side
of us," Rob said.

Frank nodded. "I thought of that. We get into position, we drop a couple
of calling cards on the buildings, then we move, fast, back and to the
side and take the best cover we can. After that ..." He shrugged, looked
around, then said, "Depends on what we can see when the time comes."

It was dark enough for night-vision goggles to help, so the four men put
them on. Beau and Ike each slipped an HE grenade into their launchers.

"How close we go before we let them know somebody's here?" Beau asked.

"We get someplace where you've got a clear shot, no closer than we are
now," Frank said. "Might even pull back a hundred yards, give them more
area to search, give us a better chance to locate them before they
locate us."

"This as good a place as any," Beau said. "That clearing. Don' have to
worry 'bout the trajectory on the grenades." He gestured. Frank turned
to look, then turned back to Beau and nodded.

"Go for it. Farmboy and I will move back thirty yards. You and the kid
put a little distance between you. One grenade each, then you pull back
toward us." He waited until everyone nodded.

Better to be doing than not, Frank thought as he moved through the
trees. This would be the most awkward time to be discovered, getting
into position for the first strike. He kept his focus, searching two
thirds of a circle as he moved, trusting Rob to cover the rest. Once the
action started, it would be better. Frank always found it almost
relaxing to have the first shots out of the way. There was no longer
that edge of anticipation, the wait ... even though there might be more
waiting later.

Moving through the olive trees required concentration. So many of the
branches were low-hanging that an instant of losing focus might easily
result in a collision--annoying at best; at worst possibly dangerous,
not just for the injuries that might result but also because the sound
of a head hitting a tree might be enough to alert the enemy.

Frank and Rob slid into position--prone, behind tree trunks--almost
simultaneously, like dancers who had rehearsed the move together for
days.

They brought their rifles into firing position and waited.

Thirty yards away, Beau and Ike had both moved, putting a few more yards
between them and angling for a good trajectory at the one roof they
could see clearly through the trees. Then they looked at each other
before glancing back to make sure that the other two were in position.

Beau nodded to Ike. The two men brought their weapons up, took rough
aim, and launched the first grenades. Neither man waited to see the
results. Before the explosions came, Beau and Ike were trotting back
toward Frank and Rob.

Frank gave hand signals telling them to go on past, then angle to their
left, farther from the so-called road and the buildings. No additional
instructions were needed. The team would maneuver by twos, leapfrogging
each other until Frank decided that it was time to move in to resume the
attack ... or until they were spotted by the opposition.

The two explosions came close together, but were distinct. All the SEALs
could see was the brief glow of the blasts, orange and yellow,
appearing, then fading quickly. But they weren't interested in damage
assessment yet.

Beau and Ike went to ground ten yards beyond the others. Frank and Rob
got up and started moving. We've got their attention, Frank thought.

They'll hear that anywhere on the farm. They would look. If the
opposition was scattered, at least some of them would start moving
toward the explosions. How much time it took the terrorists to decide
on, and implement, a coordinated response would determine how successful
the SEALs were likely to be. And, Frank thought with some satisfaction,
defensive responses were not commonly high on the list of training
priorities for people who normally went out and planted bombs to kill
unarmed civilians.

Ike's thoughts were similar, but more concise. Give them a taste of
their own medicine.

Up, move, down. Keep your eyes open and moving. Look for any trace of
enemy movement. It might not be much. Don't wait for confirmation.

Even if it's only a bird startled from its perch, go down and signal the
others. It might not be a bird, and even a half second lost trying to
decide could make the difference. It could make you dead.

Frank had just gotten up to start his next move forward--the third
exchange of this maneuver--when several gunshots sounded in the
distance.

He went flat anyway, even before his mind could come up with, Just
somebody's nerves, shooting at shadows. Frank glanced around,
double-checking the positions of his men. A few seconds to catch his
breath and try to determine if there was any activity close enough to be
an immediate threat.

When he got up again, Rob got up as well, and they continued on.

Another fifty yards this way, Frank thought as he dropped to the ground
and waited for Beau and Ike to move. Then we'll turn in toward the
buildings again and see what we can net.

He had to change those plans though, because on their next move forward
Frank and Rob came to the end of the olive grove. They went down under
trees in the last row, and Frank gestured for Beau and Ike to stay put.

The buildings were off to the left, all three visible now beyond two
acres of blooming roses--flowers that had not been tended recently.

Instead of well-trimmed rows, the bushes had been left to spread as they
pleased. Nor had flowers been harvested. As many were wilting, losing
their petals, as were freshly budded or just opened. It was obvious that
the tenants, whoever they actually were, were not actively working the
farm.

Frank did not worry that any of his men might start sneezing. None of
them had any known allergies to plants.

There was a border, about ten feet wide, between the olive trees and the
rose bushes. Along most of it, grass grew a couple of inches deep, the
perhaps inadvertent beneficiary of the irrigation still provided for the
farm's ignored cash crops.

Just briefly, Frank wondered about the state of the farm. If it was
supposed to be a functional front for the terrorist group, it would make
sense to keep working it. Leaving it idle would draw attention. If
they're not working it, they must not be worried about attention, Frank
reasoned. They must think they have adequate protection against
interference. Which might be why the Egyptians had
requested--demanded--that the SEALs come in and do it for them.

Frank was ready to start his men moving in the direction of the
buildings again, within the cover of the trees, when he spotted movement
sixty yards away. Three men armed with AK-47s came into view on the
grassy border between trees and bushes.

For nearly two minutes, the three men just stood between olives and
roses, talking--though Frank could not hear anything they said, and
would not have been able to understand much of their Arabic if he could
hear.

One man seemed to be doing most of the talking, punctuating with wild
gestures of his one free arm. He pointed down the lane, then pointed
across the field of roses. The other two men left him then, one coming
along the grassy stretch toward where Frank and Rob were hiding. The
other moved past the end of the rose field. The third man remained where
he had been, in position to watch both of the others--as well as he
could see without aid in the deepening twilight.

It's going to be a near thing, Frank thought. He turned on his side and
used hand signs to communicate with Rob, to tell the Farmer to take out
the sentry when he went past. If the man who had stayed in place saw the
activity, Frank would take him out. Then they would worry about the
third man ... and any others the sound of Frank's gunfire might bring.
It would have to be too far away to take him out silently.

The man coming closer walked slowly, his rifle held at the ready in both
hands. He peered into the darkness of the trees, then scanned across the
flowers, spending most of his time trying to see into the olive grove.

Rob lay his rifle carefully on the ground and drew the knife from his
belt sheath. The matte black blade reflected almost no light. It was
just another shadow in the dark under the tree. Maybe he won't come this
far, Rob thought as he adjusted his position to make it easier to get up
and out when the time came. Maybe he'll turn around and go back before
he gets to me. It was a worry, not a hope. If the terrorist turned back,
he Would still have to be accounted for, and it might not be as easy
later; he might have a chance to do some damage of his own first.

Still fifteen yards short of where Rob waited, the man stopped. He spent
thirty seconds or more squinting, looking into the dark of the trees.

Then he turned and looked back toward the man who had sent him off--a
noncom, or the organization's equivalent, Rob thought. Rob nearly held
his breath, willing the man to come on, to come within reach.
Eventually, the man did start moving closer again, but now he seemed to
stop after almost every step, almost as if he suspected that danger was
very close.

One of his stops was no more than ten feet from where Frank lay. The
chief was absolutely motionless, keeping his gaze down so there would be
no chance even of a reflection from the lenses of his night-vision
goggles.

Frank did not even breathe until the terrorist took another couple of
steps away from him ... and closer to Rob.

Time twisted around itself in the peculiar manner of anticipation and
excitement, extending itself in the perception of the SEALs who were
nearest the Egyptian with the rifle. Frank became overly aware of the
beating of his heart, feeling loud thumps that came too close together.

Discovery seemed impossible to avoid. He readied himself for action. If
the Egyptian gave any sign that he might have spotted any of the SEALS,
Frank would not wait to see if Rob could get to him. He would try to get
the man first.

Rob had his arms under him, ready to help propel him to his feet and
forward. Two more steps, he thought as the Egyptian came to a stop
directly in front of him. Get just a little past me, so I can get you
from behind. Advantage could be measured in hundredths of a second.
Years of training had given Rob confidence in his abilities ... and
knowledge of his limits. One more step.

The Egyptian took that step.

Rob did not look to see where the other Egyptians were, or where they
might be looking. He gave no thought to what his own team mates might be
doing. As soon as his target moved to the position Rob had marked, he
shoved himself up and forward with arms and legs, propelling himself
almost like a swimmer at the start of a race.

He hit the Egyptian chest high, carrying him to the ground. Rob's left
hand went around the man's head, over the mouth. Rob's right hand, with
the knife, came up and across the Egyptian's throat, cutting to the
spine, severing throat, veins, and arteries. Hot blood spurted out over
Rob's hand and arm. As he rolled to his right, Rob brought the already
dead man between him and the Egyptian who had remained at the end of the
lane--cover if that man started shooting.

Frank had moved just a fraction of a second after Rob did. He got up on
hands and knees and crawled far enough out to give himself a clear shot
at the man at the end of the grassy lane. At first, that man showed no
sign that he had seen anything out of the ordinary. It was at least
twenty seconds after Rob struck before the man at the end of the lane
noticed that his companion had gone from sight, and another few seconds
before he apparently spotted the body lying in the grass.

He called out, loudly, and took two steps in the direction of the SEALs.
Then he turned to his left and gave a shrill whistle. He brought his
rifle up and started cautiously along the grassy border then, moving
very slowly.

Frank allowed him only two steps. Then he pulled the trigger on his M16,
squeezing off a single shot that caught the Egyptian high in the chest,
knocking him backwards and down, dead or near death.

Rob moved back under the trees, retrieving his rifle, then came to Frank
and dropped to the ground.

"Let's go," Frank whispered, gesturing to the left. "Time to move in and
make some real noise."

"What about the third man here?" Rob asked, wiping his bloody hand and
arm on the ground to get rid of the sticky fluid.

"We see him, we pop him." Then Frank was up and moving.

Although the SEALs moved quickly, ranging deeper into the grove, it was
no heedless run. They were careful about noise, rarely making any sound
that could be heard more than twenty or thirty yards away, angling
closer to the buildings even when they could not see them directly.

In the five minutes they needed to get into a position where they could
see all three of the main buildings, they did not see any more of the
residents. They heard shouting, at a distance. The survivor of the
ambush at the edge of the olive grove had apparently yelled for help.

Let him draw the rest in, Frank thought. His men were a hundred and
fifty yards away.

"Hit it," he said, just loud enough for his team to hear him. "Pound
those buildings." He stripped off the bandoleer of grenades he was
wearing and tossed it toward Ike. Rob passed his string of grenades to
Beau. The grenadiers would use those grenades first, then switch to the
ones they were carrying.

The division of labor was natural. Two men worked their grenade
launchers as rapidly as they could load, aim, and fire. The other two
were ready to provide covering fire once the enemy managed to narrow
down their positions. Until they had targets, Frank and Rob would hold
their fire.

Firing blindly now would do nothing but make it easier for the enemy to
find them ... and count their numbers.

Beau and Ike worked in a steady rhythm, the way they practiced on the
target range. In little more than a minute, each man launched a dozen
grenades, mostly high-explosive, with only a few incendiaries in the
mix.

Then it was time to move, before the enemy could zero in on them and
perhaps return the favor with their own grenades.

Frank led the way, moving toward the left, counterclockwise around the
buildings and the clearing that held them. At least one fire had been
started in the main house. Flames were coming through the roof and one
of the windows on the top story. In the silence after the last explosion
from the first barrage of grenades, the SEALs could hear more shouting,
as the residents of the complex tried to determine where the attack was
coming from, and to locate each other.

Not very well trained, Frank thought. They're just broadcasting their
positions. Two men ran across his field of vision. Frank lifted his
rifle and sprayed a dozen rounds toward them, certain that at least one
of the men went down to stay. The other, he thought, was probably dead
as well.

The team moved sixty yards before the two men with the M203 grenade
launchers went back to work. Each man fired another six grenades. This
time, they didn't want to give the enemy as much time to respond. Six
grenades, then move.

All three buildings had been severely damaged. The main house was
burning, fully involved. The flanking buildings, both smaller and made
of brick or stone, had lost roofs and windows. There were small fires
burning inside each. Ike spotted a cluster of cars and trucks parked
thirty yards from the houses. On the run, he fired an HE grenade toward
them--his aim good enough even on the move. The projectile exploded on
the hood of a Mercedes that had to be three decades old, though Ike
didn't realize the age of the car until later.

When Beau saw what Ike had fired at, he launched the grenade in his tube
at the vehicles as well. The grenade's detonation was followed by a
secondary blast, as the fuel tank of a large truck exploded, sending
flames out to engulf all of the vehicles.

For the first time, enemy rifle fire started to sound close enough to be
a concern. The terrorists might be firing blindly, but they had narrowed
down the area where the intruders were. Frank veered left, farther from
the buildings. The fires were starting to provide too much light for
comfort.

Time to get out, Frank thought. Before they get their act together.

"Start using those grenades where the gunfire's coming from," he called,
loud enough to make sure that Ike and Beau both heard. "We've done
enough damage. Let's get out while we can."

Frank had only a vague idea of the direction they needed to head.

They had changed course too many times for him to be certain just where
the old pickup truck was. He was aware that they had not crossed the
dirt road again, so that gave him a general idea. He angled more to the
left, not wanting to hit that road too near the buildings.

Beau and Ike each fired off two grenades, angling them high, looking to
detonate them above the heads of any pursuers, making it slightly more
difficult for anyone to determine just where they were coming from. Both
men reloaded their launchers, but put their attention to following Frank
through the trees. Rob hung back, but only a few yards, as rear-guard.

Three minutes later, there was more gunfire directed at the SEALS, this
time from ahead. Some of it came close enough that the enemy had
apparently seen something. Frank changed course, turning right, but he
did not stop or go to cover. Right now, covering ground was more
important.

The last thing he wanted was for his team to get pinned down long enough
for the enemy to bring more forces to bear.

He came out onto the road, driveway, almost before he realized it was
there, and kept going. More gunfire sounded. The terrorists were
watching the lane. Should have thought of that, Frank thought, spraying
bullets along the road as he crossed. He went on into the trees on the
far side.

The rest of the team got across. Frank waited, dropping for cover for
just the few seconds necessary to make sure that none of his men had
been killed, or wounded badly enough to need assistance.

"Looks like they found the truck," Rob said. "We'll play hell getting it
back if they're sitting on it.

"I sure don't want to walk all the way back to that cop shop," Frank
said. "And the boys didn't leave any of the other vehicles up there
operable."

There was time for no more. Frank pushed himself to his feet and started
moving parallel to the drive, toward the boundary of the farm and the
truck they had left behind.

There had been almost constant, though sporadic, gunfire from the time
the team had crossed the driveway, but none of it came particularly
close as the SEALs worked their way toward the perimeter of the farm.
Once they got close to the truck, the SEALs dropped to the ground and
crawled in, making virtually no noise at all. They could see three of
the terrorists near the truck, using it for cover ... but uncertain just
what side of it they needed to be on for safety. They were moving about,
clearly nervous, and out of their element. The men around the truck had
no night-vision goggles on, and that put them at an additional
disadvantage. The SEALs could see them very plainly.

The SEALs moved to within forty yards of their targets, spread out so
that all of the terrorists were visible to at least one of the Navy men.

Frank looked around at his team, then made a gesture, like a child using
a hand as a make-believe pistol.

Four shots. Three dead terrorists. The SEALs were up and moving before
the last body stopped jerking through his death throes. If there were
any other terrorists around, they would have to be taken care of on the
fly. Frank intended to get his men in the truck and the truck moving, as
quickly as possible.

"Beau, get the hood down. I'll drive," Frank called as they reached the
drive. "Rob, Ike--in the back."

No one took it for granted that there was no one lurking in the back of
the truck. Ike and Rob went at the flap hanging over the rear as if they
knew there were hostile guns just inside--weapons first, fingers on
triggers. Frank and Ike pulled open the cab doors at the same time,
loudly enough to provide a distraction for anyone inside.

The truck was empty.

"Now, long as nobody gimmicked this beast," Beau said as he retrieved
the keys and handed them to Frank.

"You ever have any cheerful thoughts?" Frank asked as he inserted the
key in the ignition and mentally crossed his fingers.

"Not when I'm workin'."

The starter ground for several seconds as if it would not turn the
engine over, but then there was a sputter and, finally, the engine began
to run, sluggishly. Frank eased his foot down on the gas pedal and,
after another thirty seconds, the engine was running as smoothly as it
had during the trip out from the police checkpoint; that is, not very,
but enough.

"Hang on!" Frank warned as he made a U-turn in reverse. "I'm going to
push this buggy as fast as it'll go."

The truck was rolling toward the gate, gaining speed, when bullets
started hitting the tailgate and one side. In the back end, Ike and Rob
moved the tarp enough to return fire, spraying the driveway behind them
on full automatic, and Ike popped off the grenade in his M203 launcher.

Driving without lights made the exit even more interesting. Frank's
night-vision goggles did not pick out the ruts, bumps, and holes
efficiently, and the ancient pickup bounced around like a Ping Pong ball
on a sea of mouse traps. Frank felt that he was constantly on the verge
of losing control of the vehicle, but that was of less concern than
giving any surviving gunmen behind them a chance to catch up. Several
times the truck skidded, and once, Frank thought for an instant that it
might overturn.

But he pushed the truck for all it was worth until they got to the
gravel road, and even then he did not slow down by more than three or
four miles per hour. The ride was, however, markedly less rocky.

There was no sign of pursuit. That cuts down the worries, Frank thought.
Now we just have to worry that one of them might have used a cell phone
to set up an ambush in front of us, and whether Turhan and his cohorts
are playing us straight.

Bright floodlights illuminated the road at the police checkpoint, though
the interior of the building was dark. The white van was still parked at
the side of the building. Two uniformed officers still stood in front.

"Keep your weapons ready, just in case," Frank warned, as he downshifted
to help the pickup's feeble brakes slow the vehicle to a stop.

He pulled off the road, just at the edge of the most intense circle of
light. "No reason to think our hosts are going to try to screw us, but
we don't take chances."

Sergeant Turhan came out of the dark building to stand a couple of paces
in front of the door, watching as the SEALs got out of the truck and
started across the lighted area toward him. Frank could read no
expression on the sergeant's face. I wonder if he's had any reports yet
on what we did? Frank wondered.

Turhan moved several more steps toward the SEALS. When they were no more
than twenty feet apart, his face finally opened up in a grin. "You are
back safe. Is good," Turhan said. He gestured toward the white van that
had brought the men from Beni Suef. "We go right now. Your people
anxious."

Harry Tombs was standing next to the Egyptian helicopter, in the
shadows, his Uzi in hand, when the van came into view and headed
directly toward the aircraft. The tense look on his face did not ease
until he saw all four members of the team get out of the van under their
own power, weapons still in hand.

"Any problems?" Tombs asked when Frank reached him.

"Not with the mission. The taxi service left a lot to be desired," Frank
replied as he climbed into the helicopter.

POST-MISSION

There had been delays before taking off from Beni Suef and during the
transfer to the Navy helicopter at Aswan, and then before they were
allowed to land on Bellman. Once aboard the Navy chopper, Beau had
stretched out on the floor, head on his arms, and gave every appearance
of sleeping until the aircraft was descending over Bellman.

"We'll go straight to the conference room for the debriefing," Tombs
told the SEALS, when the aircraft was finally on Bellman's afterdeck.

"Pick your minds before you forget anything." "Have somebody send in
coffee," Rob said. "Lots of it."

"And a masseuse to put our bones back where they belong," Beau said.

The interior companionways of Bellman were illuminated only with dim red
lights, to help eyes adapt if it was necessary to go out into the night.
It was not until they were in the conference room that they had good
light.

"What the hell happened to you?" Frank asked Ike, when he saw the
youngest member of the team then. There was a lump and a growing black
and blue patch over Jensen's left eye.

"Your hara-kiri driving, that's what happened," Ike said.

"Hell, Frank, I thought he'd knocked himself out," Rob said. "There when
we were going through the gate. When you almost tipped that truck over.
The kid banged his head on the side of the truck and went down heavy.
First time I ever heard him cuss so much. He sounded worse than you do
on a three-day drunk."

Frank got right in Ike's face, examining the lump and discoloration.

"Soon as we get done here, kid, we'll get you to sickbay." He turned to
Tombs. "Roosevelt has better facilities. Can you set things up to have
the doc over there check him out? Make sure he didn't crack his skull or
something?"

Tombs nodded. "I'll go talk to the O.D. now, have him set it up."

"Hey, all I need is a coupla aspirin," Ike said, annoyed because no one
seemed interested in what he might want.

"If so, then they'll give you aspirin," Frank said. "We don't take
chances we don't have to."

THE REPORT

"Hell of a way to get a day off," Harry Tombs muttered, as he ran the
encryption program so he could send his report and its addenda on to
Langley. The doctor on Roosevelt had prescribed twenty-four hours' rest
for Ike Jensen. Tombs expected that the entire team would be given the
extra twenty-four hours. He had made a point of suggesting that in his
summary, referring to comments the SEALs had made about the ride and the
active nature of the mission.

The summary had been an exercise in carefully worded diplomacy. Tombs
smiled, satisfied that he had conveyed just exactly what he had wanted
to.

... Due to the uncertain nature of our relationship with the security
police of the Egyptian government--and the possibility that security
leaks within that organization might have endangered our operation--I
felt it essential that I accompany the SEAL team as far as the final
staging area to insure that extraction would be made as planned--or to
obtain alternate methods of extraction if anything went wrong with the
arrangements. I remained with the Egyptian helicopter at Beni Suef,
armed, with that intent.

"If you don't blow your own horn, nobody else will do it for you," Tombs
whispered.

7

PRE-MISSION

Most of the swelling had gone down, but the bruise on Ike's forehead was
still vivid. The consensus among his team mates was that it looked worse
now than when it was fresh, with its shades of purple and jaundice
yellow.

"I'm okay," Ike said, every time one of the others looked at the bruise.
He was tired of solicitous questions about how he felt. At first, a
little sympathy had been a welcome change from the usual teasing, but
the others were carrying it to excess. "You can't use me as an excuse to
take another day off." There was still some residual pain, and the area
was definitely sore to the touch, but Ike was not about to admit that.
He did not want to be considered unfit for action, and he worried that
the doctor might order him to stand down for another day, or longer;
maybe even stick him back in sickbay aboard Roosevelt for more tests.
"You want more time off, go bash your head against a bulkhead."

The SEALs had gathered early for a 1400 hours briefing. Tombs had passed
the word for the briefing four hours earlier, after asking Jensen how he
felt. Tombs would not be early for the meeting. The SEALs expected him
to walk in the door precisely at 1400.

"Hey, kid, the other night when you saw stars, did they have five points
or six?" Rob asked.

"Kiss my ass, Farmboy," Ike replied, an unusually testy remark for him.
With his head still aching, he thought that was all the reply Rhodes's
gibe deserved.

"Let him be, Farmer," Frank said. "You were out of line with that."

He watched Jensen. Although Ike tried to conceal it, it was clear to
Frank that he was still in some pain.

"Sorry, Ike. I didn't mean anything by it," Rob said.

Small victory, Ike thought. He didn't call me kid this time. "Yeah, I
know, Rob," he said. Watch yourself, he thought. Any other time you
wouldn't have jumped all over him for that. He's said worse before, and
so have you. "The subject of my head is just starting to bore me stiff."

A minute later, when Harry Tombs walked into the room, the first thing
he did was look at Ike Jensen's forehead.

"Don't ask. I'm fine," Ike said before Tombs could speak.

"Never doubted it," Tombs said quietly. "That's why we're here. Time to
get back to work."

THE BRIEFING

"Old business first," Tombs said. "We've had word on our last outing.

The Egyptian government is quite satisfied with the results,
although--publicly--they are voicing outrage at 'another senseless act
of terrorism' and promising crackdowns on their domestic terrorists
again." Tombs smiled. "The body count is nine dead, including two at the
police checkpoint. You were right, Chief. They offed the two men they
pulled from the pickup truck. Three other men were taken to the hospital
with serious wounds, two from gunshots and one from shrapnel. The
survival of all three is officially in doubt. One way or another."

"They gonna send us some of King Tut's gold for our trouble?" Rob asked.

"Dream on, Farmboy," Beau said.

"New business," Tombs said, raising his voice a little to recover
everyone's attention. "Bellman has been temporarily detached from the
battle group and is steaming up the Gulf of Aqaba. The ship is scheduled
to make port at Elat in Israel this afternoon, then proceed to the
Jordanian city of Aqaba in the morning. Goodwill visits, showing the
flag and making nice with everybody. The two ports are only four miles
apart at the head of the gulf. There will be brief ceremonies with
municipal and national politicians in both ports. Neither will be too
time consuming, and you don't have to worry about participating in
either. The five of us are definitely persona non grata at the
festivities. We might be an embarrassment." "Do tell," Rob said.

Tombs ignored the interruption. "Bellman will remain in Elat until dawn
tomorrow morning, then make the short trip to Aqaba. That visit should
be concluded by about eleven o'clock, at which time the ship will steam
back down the gulf to rejoin the battle group."

"I assume we're not going to just hide in our compartment all this
time," Frank said.

"Not all the time, just during the ceremonies at each port," Tombs said.
"It's in between that you go to work." "Here come the shiv," Beau said
under his breath.

"After sunset, the four of you will board the ship's launch and be taken
several miles south of Elat. You will deploy a rubber raft and use that
to approach Aqaba under cover of darkness. Right off the bat, let me
tell you that this operation is totally black--you will not wear or
carry anything that can be identified as having been made in the United
States.

And this time, no exceptions--not a damned one. That means you can't use
one of your usual RPBs. A substitute has been obtained and is already
aboard the launch. Your weapons must all be of foreign manufacture, as
well as the ammunition. That part's no trouble. No rifles or other long
guns, strictly pistols and knives. Untraceable clothing, right down to
skivvies and socks, has been brought in especially for this. You are to
get in, accomplish the mission, and get out. No one is to be taken
prisoner under any circumstances." He paused.

"You gonna give us suicide pills?" Rob asked.

"That shouldn't be necessary. I assume you can handle that job without
pills," Tombs said.

"You're going into Jordan on this one, therefore we don't make waves
that say'Made in the USA.' The new king has more than enough problems."

"Okay, we get the picture. So what's the job?" Frank asked.

Tombs paused before he answered. "Blow up the headquarters of one of the
splinter groups that broke away from the PLO over the peace for land
deals with Israel. The explosive devices will be of regional
construction, ones we, ah, liberated from another of the groups that
refused to go along with Arafat making nice with the Israelis. The
manufacture is quite distinctive and very effective, exceptionally well
suited to this job.

More elegant, shall we say, than a truckload of fertilizer and fuel oil.

No one will have any difficulty identifying the origin of the devices.
The timing mechanism was constructed of parts available in the Middle
East.

Give yourselves enough time to get back to your boat before it goes
off."

He finally slid the target folder across the table to Frank ... who did
not open it immediately.

"You do realize that the northern end of the Gulf of Aqaba is one of the
most heavily patrolled stretches of water in the world, from the air and
on the surface as well as from shore," Frank said. "On the west you've
got Egyptians. In the north, Israelis. On the east, both Jordanians and
Saudis. It would be damned hard for a used condom to float ashore along
there without being spotted."

"The Egyptians stay close to the coast of Sinai," Tombs said after his
usual pause. "They go to extremes to avoid raising Israeli hackles. The
Saudis respect the territorial interests of Jordan. Their patrol craft
don't come as far north as where you'll be operating, and the Israelis
will not be a problem. That just leaves the Jordanians. While they have
competent people, they have political worries to distract them. They
can't even raise the price of bread without risking riots that might
overthrow the monarchy. Hussein couldn't manage that, and his son
doesn't have the juice of his old man yet. The sizable Palestinian
minority creates constant problems for the government. There is a
certain amount of routine contraband brought in through Aqaba, and the
authorities turn a blind eye to it. In addition, they're far more
concerned with safeguarding the commercial traffic that uses the port.
There is some risk of discovery, but no more than you have faced before.
As long as you steer clear of the commercial facilities, the risk is
minimal."

Frank finally opened the target folder. He just scanned the operational
order on top--those never really said much about a mission; they were
merely the covering document. The details came in the other papers. At
this point, Frank was most interested in the maps and satellite
photographs.

"Aqaba is on top of a cliff," he said. "Do we scale it or use this
street going up to where most of the buildings are?"

"There isn't time for climbing," Tombs said. "That stretch is where your
greatest risk of discovery comes, and going in after midnight there
shouldn't be much activity. Remember, the population of Aqaba is under
seventy thousand, and a large part of that consists of refugees who
don't have much beyond the necessities of life. Night life is minimal."

"Be nice if there was something going on at the far end to distract the
cops," Frank said, sliding the map and photos to Rob. "But I don't
suppose we can get anything like that." "Not this time," Tombs said.

"This is crazy," Beau said. "Like trying to sneak this ship into a
wadin' pool."

"You doubt your ability to handle the mission?" Tombs's voice changed
tone, raising warning flags in Frank's head.

"There's no call for that," Frank said, before Beau could reply. "If it
can be done, we're the ones can do it. We've gone balls to the wall
before, but this one ... well, this might be stretching things,
especially since none of us speak Arabic."

"What does that have to do with it?" Tombs asked.

"If we could speak Arabic, we might be able to bullshit our way past
anyone. I can understand a little, but not much, and no one ever seems
to understand me when I speak it."

This time, Tombs hesitated for nearly half a minute before he said, "I
speak Arabic."

"I know," Frank said, meeting his stare. "You got the balls for this
one?"

THE PREPARATION

"Are you crazy?" Rob asked, loudly, once the SEALs were alone together.
"Inviting the spook along? Wasn't once enough?"

"Most times, I'd say you were right," Frank said. "But this time is
different. Unless you think you can learn Arabic in the next few hours,
he might actually contribute something more than four bullets. This op
stinks, and having Tombs along might just mean we get to bitch about it
tomorrow, back here. I'm not crazy about having his company again, but
there it is. You got a better idea?"

"Yeah, tell our fearless leader to handle it by himself."

"You that eager to go back to Kansas and ride a tractor and slop the
hogs?" Frank asked. "Besides, just supposing for a minute that we could
get away with telling him to do this one himself, how would we look if
he pulled it off without us?"

"Better than we'd look with that 'fall-on-your-swords' shit. I got
better ideas for when I check out, and they don't include that."

Frank stared at Rob for a moment, trying to decide whether this was just
normal grousing or something more serious. "You want out, you know how
to do it," Frank said at last, softly, so Rob would know it was not
banter. He had to know. "You volunteered for the Teams. You volunteered
for Team Six. You can unvolunteer yourself all the way back to the
fleet."

It was Rob's turn to stare before talking. "We started as a foursome and
that's how we'll finish," he said.

THE MISSION

During the last part of Bellman's journey north in the Gulf of Aqaba, it
had seemed more like sailing up a river than being at sea. Land was
visible on both sides, and--finally--ahead as well. The SEALs had done
more than their share of looking, especially as Bellman passed Jordanian
Aqaba near the end of the trip. Layers of buildings seemed to adorn the
side of cliffs. Ike had checked an encyclopedia and reported that the
entire gulf was a northern continuation of Africa's Great Rift Valley.
"At one time, the land on the east and on the west touched," he told the
others before they adjourned to their compartment below--just before the
ship docked at Elat.

They were not totally cut off from the festivities on deck, the ship's
loudspeakers and closed-circuit television system relayed everything
that happened. Frank and his companions tried not to pay too much
attention to the speeches and the music played by a local band. The
ceremony was over before sunset though, and the SEALs went to supper.

Before midnight, they were rested, dressed, and equipped for the night's
mission. The clothing was all civilian, and might have passed muster in
any town or village in the Middle East.

Harry Tombs had come to their compartment and they had gone over each
step in the plan. He even added a couple of extra photographs to the
target folder. That afternoon, he had taken several photographs of Aqaba
with a telephoto lens. They gave the team a better view of what they
faced.

At 2355 hours, all five of them were on deck, near the fantail, on the
side of Bellman away from the dock. The ship's launch was in the water.

The two explosive devices, each weighing slightly less than fifty
pounds, had already been lowered to the launch--with extreme care.

"We don't leave anyone behind," Tombs said softly before they started
climbing down the Jacobs ladder to the launch.

Bellman's skipper had provided an excuse for having the boat
out--fishing. During the meeting with Elat's politicians, the captain
had mentioned hearing that there was good fishing in the area, that a
couple of his officers were interested in giving it a try. The story was
bizarre but had apparently drawn no suspicion. The launch had a perfect
cover story both for going out and for remaining away most of the night.

"If it works, it works," Frank had commented when Tombs told him the
tale.

"As long as they remember to actually do some fishing," was Tombs's
reply.

In the launch, Tombs spoke with the lieutenant (j. g.) in charge, then
sat with the SEALs as the boat started away from Bellman. The launch did
not race out of port. Beau guessed that the boat never got above six
knots. That was more than enough. They didn't have far to go.

Tombs and the SEALs did no talking among themselves during the fifty
minutes the launch took to get them to the point where they would
transfer to a rubber boat. The launch's crew took care of inflating the
boat, trailing it over the side, and installing the electric motor and
batteries.

After the team was in the raft, they finished preparing it for their
purposes, spreading a black waterproof tarp over the top and securing it
to the rope on top of the inflated sides. The fit was loose enough to
allow air to circulate, but the SEALs knew that it was going to be a hot
ride.

"Frank, you navigate from the bow. Give Beau his directions," Tombs
instructed. "This gives us a little better chance to get in unobserved."

The trip in, nearly four miles, was uneventful, though tense. There
would be no talking their way out of it if a Jordanian patrol boat came
across five men trying to sneak into Aqaba, especially if the raft was
inspected. Two bombs would be impossible to explain. Frank decided, for
himself, that if they were spotted before they got more than halfway in,
he would try to slip over the side and swim back to the launch. It might
not work, but it would give him a chance.

They aimed for the edge of the port area, away from any activity that
might be going on, or anyone standing watch on the single ship tied up
at the dock. There were a couple of fishing boats tied up, and Frank
directed Beau to bring the rubber raft in next to the last of them.

There were no lights on within fifty yards.

Frank was the first man out of the boat. He climbed into the open
fishing boat and looked around to make sure no one was sleeping aboard
it.

Then he went ashore. He could see no one anywhere along the waterfront.

A gesture from Frank brought the others out of their boat, beginning
with Harry Tombs. "Looks good, so far," Tombs whispered when he joined
Frank. "Down there, up the street to the left, a block past the old
fortress."

"I studied the folder," Frank replied. "You take point. We'll stay
close, two by two. Rob and Beau will bring up the rear." The division of
labor had been settled before leaving Bellman, but Frank repeated it to
reassert his tactical command over Tombs after letting the spook's
directions in the boat pass without comment. Ike and Beau would carry
the explosives. Each fit into a large olive-colored satchel with a
shoulder strap. Frank and Rob would handle the detonators until they
reached the target and did the final assembly of the bombs and set the
timing devices.

Everything seemed to be made of stone, buildings and streets. The route
up to the top of the cliff had been carved from the hillside, and the
angle was steep enough to put a strain on calf and thigh muscles. There
were few streetlights, and they were well separated, leaving
considerable pockets of darkness.

The five men did not try to sneak up the hill. That would have been too
suspicious. They walked along the street, staying close to one side but
making no effort to dart in and out of shadows. The image they hoped to
project--if they were observed--was that they might be crewmen from the
freighter, taking a peaceful walk into town. For whatever reason.

Frank and Ike stayed only a couple of yards behind Tombs. Beau and Rob
were somewhat farther behind them. Not all together, but close enough
that they could be presumed to come from the same place. And close
enough that Harry could do the talking no matter what side they might be
hailed from.

Better he not have to talk, Frank reminded himself as they reached the
top of the incline and turned toward the old fortress--that the British
and French had shelled during World War One, before Lawrence of Arabia
took the town from the other side. Better still if no one sees us. Ike
and Beau both list badly; anyone will know those bags are heavy, heavy
enough to be suspicious anywhere.

On the seaward side, the street and buildings had all appeared clean,
scoured by wind and squalls blowing off of the gulf. Once on level
ground, behind the first barriers to weather, the street and buildings
had the dusty look common to desert towns.

They went past the old fortress--with signs in several languages
announcing what hours the site was open for tourists. Frank could match
their location with the map and photos he had studied. He could pick out
the building they were to tar get as soon as he saw it.

Tombs led the way into an alley across the street and half a block from
the target. This was where detonators and explosives would be assembled.
The SEALs all had gone through considerable training in explosives, and
they knew the steps necessary to arm this particular combination. The
men who had carried the detonators did the assembly in near darkness,
with only a faint glow from a streetlight near the entrance to the old
fortress providing illumination. Frank and Rob worked slowly, knowing
that this job could not be rushed. Tombs stood watch at the mouth of the
alley, in the shadows, looking for any hint of approaching danger.

He did not try to rush the SEALS.

When the assembly work was finished, Frank went along the alley wall,
stopping just behind the CIA man. "They're ready. We get to the target,
just need to set the time and arm the detonator. Ten seconds' work."

Tombs nodded without turning. "No sign of anyone moving anywhere around.
What say we put the bombs in the middle? I'll stay up front. You and
Rhodes bring up the rear." "Best way," Frank said. Put you up front, he
thought. That way, if you're wrong about there not being a bunch of
armed men in that building you'll be the first to know. After all the
strikes the team had made, he thought it extremely likely that any
groups that might be targets would take extra measures to protect their
assets.

Harry Tombs stepped casually out of the alley and stood in the open, a
couple of feet from the nearest building. He stuck his hands in his
trouser pockets and looked around--overplaying the part, Frank thought;
he's doing everything but whistling

"Over the Rainbow." After a moment, Tombs gave a minuscule nod of his
head and started walking, sauntering, toward their target.

Frank stood at the end of the alley, where Tombs had been before, and
gestured Beau and Ike forward. They walked together, still leaning to
the side to balance the weight of the bombs they carried. Frank gave
them only a few yards before moving out with Rob. This was not the time
to get too strung out.

It's all going too easy, Frank worried, glancing over his shoulder to
assure himself that no one was sneaking up behind him. No place can be
as deserted as this burg looks. There weren't even many lights visible
inside buildings. And they had not seen a single vehicle moving. There
ought to be police patrols, if nothing else, Frank thought. Almost
involuntarily, his right hand moved to touch the butt of the pistol
stuck in his belt, under his shirt. Something.

They were crossing the lone intersection remaining between them and the
target when Frank saw something off to the left. A block away, a car had
sped across the next intersection. He was startled, almost to the point
of physical response. Damn, Frank thought. Next thing, I'll be jumping
out of my skin. Good thing that car didn't come this way. He shook his
head.

Ahead of Frank, Beau and Ike had both seen the headlights and heard the
engine. I don't know 'bout using the spook to bullshit anyone, Beau
thought. We get spotted, our best bet be cut and run, fire off a few
shots then get away fast. It was a little late to wish he had thought
about bringing along a hand grenade or two as escape insurance.

The car lights had startled Ike so badly his sphincter contracted and he
was afraid he would brown out. He needed a few seconds to get control of
his reactions, and longer to let his heart quit beating so rapidly.

Then he found himself thinking that it was a good thing that the bomb he
was carrying was hung from his shoulder. Otherwise, he thought, he might
have dropped it. According to everything he had been taught, the mere
shock of a drop would not have caused the bomb to detonate, but he
wasn't absolutely certain--not dead certain.

When he reached the target building, Harry Tombs stopped at the near
corner. He turned facing the street, looking both ways, and scanning the
windows of the building across from the target.

The building that housed the headquarters of the terrorist faction had
been built just after World War One. Its predecessor had been destroyed
in the naval bombardment of Aqaba. Tombs had studied roughly drawn plans
of the building, not blueprints or anything approaching that level of
detail.

The building was unusual for the area in that it had a cellar--intended,
Tombs supposed, as a haven in case Aqaba again underwent the kind of
shelling that had destroyed the previous building on the site. There was
an exterior stairway in the narrow passageway between that building and
its neighbor, and a door leading directly into the cellar. That was
where Tombs hoped to gain entry--to place the bombs against interior
load-bearing members. It was the optimal way to use the two bombs.

Tombs remained at the street while the four Navy men went back into the
passageway. Rob had a long pry bar stuck under his belt. He went down
the stairs and examined the cellar door. The door was constructed of
what appeared to be two-by-fours banded together with wrought iron. The
wood showed the effects of long exposure to the weather, and the door
and jamb did not meet as securely as they might.

"If there's no alarm system, this should be a snap," Rob whispered to
Frank, who was behind him in the stairwell.

Frank had drawn his pistol as soon as he was between the buildings, out
of casual view. He glanced back toward the street. Beau and Ike were
leaning against the wall, as deep in the shadows as they could get.
Tombs remained out by the street. Frank shook his head when he saw the
CIA man take out a cigarette and light it. He's seen too many James Bond
movies, Frank thought. He turned his attention back to the door.

Rob had edged the pry bar between door and jamb and was wiggling it
closer to the latch, working the bar back and forth. The wood was
complaining, but not loudly. Not yet.

"We don't want it to snap loud enough to draw attention," Frank
whispered.

"I know," Rob replied, "but it's gonna be hard. This wood is so dry it
could make enough noise to wake the dead. I'm trying to work it to pop
the bolt without splitting the wood."

"Maybe with you prying and me pushing?" Frank suggested.

"Maybe. Let's try."

Frank stuck his pistol back in his belt, then leaned into the door, as
close to the latch side as he could get his weight. He could feel some
give in the wood, but the door resisted.

"Hang on. Let me get a new entry under the latch," Rob said. He pulled
the pry bar out and worked it in again lower, wiggling it into position
again. "Okay. Here we go again," he said, when he was ready. He pulled
on the bar. Frank leaned into the door.

The wood strained. Frank could feel, more than hear, the protest of door
and jamb. He got one foot up behind him, against the rock on the other
side of the stairwell, and fought for every ounce of leverage he could
get. When the door finally popped free of the jamb, Frank nearly went
headfirst into the cellar. He grabbed the edge of the door, keeping it
from flying all the way open and arresting his own momentum, but it did
expose him for an instant. If there had been anyone waiting inside the
cellar, Frank would have been silhouetted clearly against the doorway,
an unmissable target. Rob got his pistol out, but if there had been an
armed watchman in the cellar, Rob would have been too late to save the
chief.

There was no one waiting, though.

The other SEALs did not wait for an invitation. They were down the steps
and in the cellar with Frank and Rob in less than ten seconds. Harry
Tombs was only a step behind them. He pushed the door almost closed.
Then he pulled out a small flashlight and started scanning the cellar,
particularly the ceiling, looking for places to set the explosives.

"Be careful with that light," Frank said in a forced whisper. "Rob, you
watch outside. Stay in the stairwell, but make sure we know if anyone
comes this way."

Rob slid through the doorway, opening the door just enough to let
himself through--after looking to make sure that Tombs had turned off
his flashlight. As soon as the door was pushed to again, Tombs clicked
the light on again.

"We can't do this in the dark," Tombs whispered to Frank. "We have to
know where to put the charges." "Leave this part of it to us," Frank
said. "Give me the light. You go over there by the stairs leading up
into the house, just in case they've got a nosy watchman."

Tombs complied without saying anything. Frank used the light to look
around the room. There were stacks of crates along one wall. They
weren't standard munitions crates, and Frank doubted that weapons and
ammunition would be stored in what was supposed to be a political
headquarters. It didn't matter.

The cellar was simply one large room, with two metal columns--little
more than glorified jacks--along the center line, about ten feet apart,
supporting much of the weight of the building. Rafter and joist
construction above. Crates along one wall. Electrical service and
plumbing against another. No sign of a furnace or water heater. Waste
pipe.

"Ike, Beau. We'll set the charges where the columns meet the joists.

Wedge 'em and tie 'em in place." Frank pulled two coils of copper wire
from his pockets. "It won't be the best solution, but it's the best we
can come up with in a hurry. The blast should knock out the supporting
columns below and raise hell with the structure above. If the wood in
the rest of this place is in the same shape the door is, we ought to
bring the whole thing down."

Even though the ceiling height was only eight feet, Ike and Beau each
moved a box over from the wall and climbed up on them to work. Frank
watched as they got started, then went to the outside door and looked
through to check on Rhodes.

"Not a breath of anything, Chief," Rob whispered when he saw Frank
peering out at him.

"It won't be long," Frank replied. "We're putting the packages in place
now."

Rob nodded and turned his attention to the street again. He was lying on
the steps, only the top half of his head exposed--enough to get his eyes
above street level. He had his pistol out, lying on the first step down
from the top.

When Frank moved back inside, he saw Tombs coming down the other flight
of stairs--more quietly than he had gone up them. He hurried across the
cellar to where Frank was.

"There is someone upstairs," Tombs said, whispering directly into the
chief's ear. "The telephone rang. Someone answered it."

Frank nodded, then looked at the men working on the explosives. "Just
about done," he whispered. "Just need to set the timers and activate
them."

"Ninety minutes," Tombs said. Frank went to each of the men setting the
bombs and repeated the message. He waited until the last wires were tied
around the bombs and the timers set, then made a gesture with his right
hand to tell the men to activate the bombs. They ought to go off within
a fraction of a second of each other--if the timers were both accurate,
and he was far from confident of that.

"Let's get out of here," Frank said, pushing Tombs toward the door.

"I'll be last man out."

Tombs went first, then Ike, followed by Beau. Frank shoved the
flashlight in his pocket and started to the door. Just then, the other
door, at the top of the interior stairs, opened, and the single light in
the middle of the cellar ceiling came on.

Damn! Frank thought. We can't take a chance on someone seeing what we've
done. The crates Ike and Beau had climbed on were still sitting directly
under the bombs. Frank's reaction was reasoned, even if the thought
processes went too quickly for him to be consciously aware of every
step. By the time a pair of boots and the lower half of a pair of khaki
trousers appeared on the stair, he had moved along the wall and around
toward the front of the building, until he was directly under the open
wooden stairway.

Frank drew his knife and held it in a fighting stance, thumb resting on
the guard, along the flat of the blade. For perhaps ten seconds, the man
above just stood where he was, looking down into the cellar without
moving. Then both feet shuffled and one came down to the next step.

He saw the crates! Frank thought. He moved half a step to his left, near
the edge of the stairs. For just an instant, Frank had to take his eyes
off of the man above him. He thought about the others, waiting for him
to emerge. God! Don't let any of them open that door again, Frank
thought.

The watchman, or whoever he was, came down one more step. His boots were
level with Frank's face.

I can't wait any longer. Frank reached up as he moved out from under the
stairs, grabbing the man as high as he could and pulling him sideways.

The man made a grunt of surprise but had time for nothing more before
his body slammed into the cellar floor. His head bounced off the end of
a tread. Before he could get his wits and his wind back, Frank was on
top of him, one hand over the man's mouth, the other drawing his knife
across the exposed throat. His victim had no chance to struggle, no
opportunity to defend himself. Blood poured out of a six-inch-long cut,
along with a strangled gurgle as the last of his breath bubbled through
the gushing blood. Frank took no chances. He shifted his position and
stabbed between the ribs of the man beneath him, directly into the
heart. The body trembled violently for a few seconds, then was still.

Frank pushed himself to his feet, looking toward the top of the
stairway. If there was anyone else there, he might be finished. But
there was no shout, no sign of anyone. Frank hurried around the
perimeter of the room, heading toward the door. Halfway there, Frank
stopped. After another glance at the top of the interior stairs, he
crossed to the middle of the room and moved the two crates back to where
they had been originally, along the far wall. And he unscrewed the
single light bulb in the cellar. When he finally got to the exit, Beau
and Rob were both at the bottom of the exterior stairwell, pistols in
hand.

"You okay, Chief?" Rob asked, an urgent whisper. "We saw the light come
on."

"I'm okay. Let's get moving. I left a body in there." "You better wipe
that blood off," Beau said as they started up the stairs. "That stand
out a mile." He handed a red bandana to the chief, who mopped as much of
the blood off his arm and hand as he could. There was nothing he could
do about the stains on his shirt.

It was difficult to walk casually back toward the dock. Frank had to
consciously will himself to walk slowly, to give the appearance of a man
simply out for a late-night stroll. He could see the startled look in
the eyes of the man whose throat he had slit, smell his sour breath. The
man had been past middle aged, gray haired and grizzled, not some young
hothead out to change the world at any price. It was only after Team
Wolf was halfway back to their rubber boat that Frank realized that the
pistol in the man's belt had been an antique, a Mauser that must have
dated back to at least the First World War. The man had never drawn the
weapon, had made no attempt. He had only had time to realize that he was
going to die.

The blood that had soaked through Frank's shirt felt cold against his
chest. He moved from side to side, staying in the deepest shadows, where
the wet stain would not be so immediately obvious if they were stopped.

The five men started back down the slope to the water. The sound of a
car or light truck rose and faded above and behind the five men. Beau,
at the back of the team, glanced over his shoulder and watched for a few
seconds, but no lights came into view. The vehicle was not coming after
them. I hope nobody finds that body 'fore the bombs go, Beau thought.

Might waste all this effort. They had not booby-trapped the bombs so
they would go off if anyone attempted to remove or disarm them.

Ike, walking next to the chief, was the first to see the man on the deck
of the lone freighter in port. He was leaning on the railing, smoking a
cigarette. There was no place to go to escape notice. Ike nudged Frank
and gestured with his head.

"Just keep going like we belong," Frank whispered, so softly that Ike
barely heard him. Frank could tell when Tombs spotted the sailor, but
Tombs kept going as well, just--gradually--sliding a step closer to the
wall at his side, deeper into the shadows. The other SEALs eventually
saw what was going on and were just as subtle in their own movements.

The merchant seaman spotted the five men. His head moved as he watched
them come the rest of the way down the slope and turn toward the fishing
boats. The man waved, but did not call out a greeting. Tombs waved back.
So did Frank. Ike was too nervous, afraid of making a wrong move, so he
pretended that he did not see the seaman. Rob nodded. Beau hunched his
shoulders up a little--giving the impression he did not want to be
bothered.

I hope that ship's leaving in the morning, Frank thought. Maybe it'll be
gone before anyone thinks to ask questions down here.

The lit end of the cigarette traced an arc as the seaman tossed it into
the harbor. He turned and moved out of sight of the five men on shore.

Once they got to the rubber boat, Frank and his men worked quickly to
get away from the shore. "Twist that throttle off," Frank told Beau.
They kept the tarp over their heads, but everyone but Beau spent nervous
minutes looking out from under it, worried that there might yet be some
pursuit before they got to safety. The seaman might say something to one
of his crewmates--someone more suspicious by nature. Someone might find
the body in the cellar. Anything.

As soon as they were five hundred yards out, Frank ripped his shirt off
and balled it up, with the bloody section in the middle. He mopped at
his chest and stomach, trying to get rid of the sticky reminder. Then he
tied the shirt around the knife and sheath. By that time, the boat was
nearly to its rendezvous. Frank slipped the package over the side and
into the water, and pushed it under, and he watched to make certain that
it did not bob back up. The knife would, he thought, be heavy enough to
take itself and the shirt to the bottom of the gulf.

The launch was within twenty yards of Bellman, slowing down, when the
bombs detonated. None of the SEALs noticed the initial flare. It was the
sound of the blasts, rolling across the gulf, that caught their
attention.

Even at a distance of four miles, it was impossible to miss what the
sound was. They looked across the water toward Aqaba. There was more
smoke than fire visible, but the mostly unseen flames cast an orange hue
to the billowing cloud above the port. From this angle, the smoke seemed
to rise directly over the old fortifications.

The officer in charge of the launch whistled under his breath. Ike, who
was the nearest SEAL, heard him whisper, "I don't want to know," very
softly as he shook his head. The lieutenant (j. g.) wanted nothing more
at that moment than to get aboard ship and forget all about this fishing
expedition.

POST-MISSION

"Our ambassador to Jordan is in Aqaba tonight," Tombs said, when the
team gathered for the debriefing. "He came to be present for Bellman's
visit in the morning. Several high-ranking officials of the Jordanian
government are also on hand."

Tombs shook his head. "It was to be expected, but, no, I didn't know,
not for sure. Actually, I never even considered that possibility. We had
our orders."

We really were on the hot seat, Ike thought, swallowing hard. They'd
caught us, we would have just disappeared.

"Nobody knows what to make of it yet," Tombs continued. "The last I
heard, the fire wasn't out." He paused, and focused on Frank. "That
means they haven't been into the cellar, haven't found the sentry who
stumbled in on us."

"They will," Frank said. "And they'll probably be able to tell how he
died."

Tombs shrugged. "They'll be able to determine that the place was blown
up by explosives, and might be able to pinpoint where they were planted.
Depends how much effort they put into the investigation. That's not
certain here. The one thing that does seem certain, at least from the
reports I've been able to gather since we got back to the ship, is that
there were no casualties outside that one building. No collateral
damage."

"That's good to know," Rob said.

"Get your written reports to me in the morning," Tombs said. "After
Bellman leaves Aqaba."

"You don't think Jordan will cancel the visit?" Ike asked.

"I doubt it, but it's possible," Tombs said. "When diplomats and
politicians get involved, it's not always easy to predict what will
happen."

THE REPORT

Harry Tombs drafted his own report before he had those of the SEALS.

Their takes on the mission did not force him to change anything in the
master document though, not even his summary.

I decided that it was essential that I accompany the SEAL team on this
mission since I was the only member of the group whose command of Arabic
was fluent enough to offer a chance to talk our way out of any potential
trouble. Since we needed to rely more on stealth than the combat
abilities of the SEALS, there seemed no reasonable alternative.

We were spotted by a sailor in the harbor, and that command of Arabic
might have proven necessary. Fortunately, we were able to depart without
delay.

Serenity came more easily than it normally did for Faud ibn Landin,
despite the spate of bad news. He had just come from prayers. Now he sat
with his eyes closed, savoring the moment of contentment. Rashish
Suleiman stood across the desk from his boss, waiting, feeling a certain
amount of surprise at the expression of--almost--happiness on ibn
Landin's face.

"The infidel fools are playing right into our hands, Rashish," ibn
Landin said without opening his eyes. "They think they are hurting us
with their puny mosquito bites but all they are doing is strengthening
us, God be praised."

"I'm not certain I see what you are leading to," Rashish said. "We have
lost good people, and good friends. The people we hope to unite are in
fear, looking to their own safety rather than taking jihad to the
infidels."

Faud shook his head, very slowly, then opened his eyes. "The fools carry
things too far, Rashish. At first, yes, their actions seemed likely to
drive a wedge into our plans. Some of the groups might not have come to
our conference, or might not have agreed to union. They worried that
brothers were attacking brothers, but not now. Now, it is clear to all
that we are being attacked--from outside, and that drives us together,
makes union almost a certainty, God willing. We will be unstoppable!"

"God willing," Rashish echoed.

"Everyone will come. Everyone will join, Rashish. Mark my words.

The infidels do our work for us!"

8

PRE-MISSION

Bellman had made its visit to Aqaba, then proceeded back along the gulf
taking nearly two full days to rejoin the battle group, once again
steaming south down the middle of the Red Sea. The SEAL team had taken a
night off Except for Frank, none of the SEALs had even seen Harry Tombs
in fifty-four hours. Frank had delivered the written reports, his own
and those of his men, to Tombs just after Bellman left Aqaba. That
evening, Tombs had called Frank to his cabin to tell him that the latest
reports confirmed that there had only been one fatality in the blast in
Aqaba, and that the local authorities still professed to have no idea
who had planted the bombs or why.

"The official line is that the police suspect that it was the work of
some group protesting the visit of Bellman to the port," Tombs said. His
grin came and went so quickly it might have been subliminal. "They're
looking for rivalries among the terrorist groups."

"You have any idea how much longer we're going to be out here?" Frank
asked, ignoring Tombs's glee at the misdirection.

"Not exactly. It depends on when--or if--ibn Landin gets his big meeting
going. Once that ends, our job is done."

The following day, Tombs saw Frank just long enough to tell him that the
team would not be in action again that night. The next morning, word was
passed to the SEALs to report to the conference room at 1100 hours.

THE BRIEFING

"I have some positive news for you," Harry Tombs said, as soon as the
door was closed behind the last man and everyone had taken seats at the
table. "We have hard intel that the terrorist summit is definitely on
again, scheduled to start in three days, and it will be at one of the
sites we know about in Sudan. The precise location won't be decided
until within twenty-four hours of the start. But we may be able to
influence that choice. That is the mission for tonight."

Tombs raised the target folder and dropped it on the table. He put his
hand on top of the folder then, before Frank could reach across the
table for it.

"One of the Libyan-sponsored groups has already moved its advance unit
into Port Sudan, though the chief of the organization is probably still
in Tripoli. That doesn't matter. We'll get our chance at him during the
summit. It's his people we're after this time. We know where they're
staying."

"Hang on a second," Frank said. "I've got a question."

Tombs nodded. "Go on."

"The possible sites haven't changed, Port Sudan and Khartoum, right?"

"Right."

"Well, if this op is to influence that decision, aren't we hitting the
wrong place? The easiest of those sites for us to get in and back out of
is Port Sudan, right on the water. Khartoum is a long stretch,
especially if we're trying to get out after hitting the chiefs of all
those terrorist groups. So, my question is, why hit Port Sudan and scare
them farther inland?"

"Hitting Port Sudan now is probably the best way to make sure that's
where they hold the summit," Tombs said, the beginning of a grin
flickering at the corners of his mouth.

"You want to try that again, in terms a plowboy from Kansas can
understand?" Rob asked.

"We're counting on the fact that the opposition can pick up on a
pattern," Tombs said. "So far, we've hit them six times on this
operation, seven if you include the rescue in Lebanon, which wasn't part
of the original game plan. The pattern is, we've never hit the same
place twice--not even close. If we hit Port Sudan now, it's apt to look
like the safest location in the region to the people we're after."
"Okay, I see where you're going," Rob said. "Maybe you've got something,
but I hope you're not betting the farm on this being enough to make them
choose Port Sudan over Khartoum. You didn't go far enough with your
pattern. We haven't even hit the same country twice, so that might just
make them think that anywhere in Sudan will be safe."

"There are no guarantees," Tombs said. "In the end, ibn Landin might
flip a coin to decide where to hold the meeting. But, among other
considerations, these terrorists leaders have got to remember that the
U.S. hit Khartoum with cruise missiles after the embassy bombings in
east Africa. And more than one of the men we're after is paranoid enough
to believe he is worth the million-plus dollars a cruise missile costs."

"We'll handle the final target when the time comes," Frank said,
glancing at Rob. "Wherever it is. What about tonight? That's what we
need to concentrate on now."

Tombs slid the target folder across to Frank. "Tonight, we hit a small
hotel near the Port Sudan airport, on the southern edge of the city.

It's right on the highway leading south out of Port Sudan and on to
Khartoum. A side note: that highway accounts for about half of the paved
road in the entire country. Back to the mission.

"The hotel dates back to the decade before World War One, when Great
Britain and Egypt jointly ruled the Sudan. The rooms are large and airy,
intended to serve the imperial elite. A veranda extends completely
around the first floor, a balcony completely around the second floor,
with doors to each guest room. Also interior corridors and doors. In its
early days, the hotel served mostly colonial officials and travelers
doing business with them, and the occasional member of nobility off to
see the empire.

Currently, the guests are usually tourists or business travelers. But
there are no regular guests at the hotel just now. We have that for a
fact. The entire establishment--some two dozen guest rooms, dining room,
and a bar to serve non-Muslims--has been taken over by the African World
Liberation Front, the latest in a series of names this group has gone
by.

Karim Nazir is, we believe, originally Syrian, but he's worked out of
Libya at least since the Iraqi quarantine began. Right now, there are
perhaps fifteen members of his organization at the hotel, making
preparations for the arrival of their leaders, who are expected the day
before the summit conference starts." "Is the target the building or the
people?" Rob asked.

"The people. We hit late at night, when hotel staff is at a minimum,"
Tombs said. "We have a chance to cripple Nazir's organization, at least
temporarily, take out some of his top people, men responsible for at
least a half dozen terrorist attacks in Africa and Europe. There are
photographs of several of the men we believe are at the hotel in the
packet." He gestured at the target folder Frank was leafing through.

In addition to the usual maps and satellite photographs, there were a
dozen photographs that had been taken on the ground, showing the hotel
and the approaches from the shore of the Red Sea. Detailed sketches were
also included, as well as floor plans for the hotel's interior. None of
the photographs of individuals were particularly good. They were all
grainy, enlarged portions of long-range snapshots, with the rest of the
originals cropped out. Recognition based solely on those photographs
would be difficult.

"According to the information we have, Nazir's men are handling security
within the hotel. At night, that probably means one man in the lobby,
another perhaps roaming the halls. Local police are responsible for
outside security, but until the principals arrive that probably means no
more than their usual patrols taking a look now and then," Tombs said.

"Our operating protocol calls for evading any police going in, and
engaging them on the way out only if there is no practical alternative.
But if it's necessary, you are authorized to take all necessary action.
The Sudanese are definitely not on our most-favored-nation list. They're
still listed as a state supporting terrorism. But the plan is to get in
and out before there is time for the local authorities to mount a
significant response to the attack."

"Twenty-four guest rooms, public rooms. Fifteen targets, perhaps a
handful of hotel employees who are not targets. Four of us," Frank said,
as he passed the last sheets of paper from the target folder to Rob. "I
didn't see anything here to show where the telephone lines enter the
hotel.

The best way to give ourselves a couple of extra minutes before the cops
show up is to cut the telephone line before we start. With all the cell
phones around these days, that's no guarantee, but it's still a
necessary bit of insurance." "Good point," Tombs said. "Let's get to the
tactical planning."

The four SEALs spent nearly two hours going over the photographs,
charts, sketches, and other material in the target folder, talking out
plans for the operation, and deciding on details of the weapons and
methods they would use--subject, always, to what they found when they
reached the target.

"This worries me," Frank said, tapping one of the satellite photographs.
"There's a police station less than a mile from the hotel.

That means we don't have a lot of time. We're not going to be able to go
through that hotel room by room. Not with just four of us. The first
noise loud enough to be heard outside the hotel, the first chance anyone
inside has to call for help, and we could be counting seconds instead of
minutes before the local cops show up." "Silencers, knives," Beau said,
shrugging. "Be better we knew what rooms were empty."

"Nowhere in the orders does it say we have to take out all the bogeys,"
Rob said. "We go in the back way, take out as many as we can without
making it a one-way job, then head back for the shore and leave a final
noisy farewell."

"Our problems might not end at the water's edge," Frank said. "After
being hit with cruise missiles, the Sudanese government has to be viewed
as definitely hostile to Americans. We sure as hell won't get the
benefit of the doubt. The police have a couple of launches to patrol
with, and Sudan does have something of a navy, probably at least a
couple of glorified gunboats available at Port Sudan. We don't want
their navy chasing us back here. Embarrassing to say the least. The
skipper would probably be annoyed as hell."

"We got hot pursuit on us, we might not get picked up at all," Rob said.
"Bellman might have orders to leave us behind, feed us to the wolves if
necessary." "I'd ask Tombs," Frank said, "but that wouldn't prove
anything. If he thought it necessary, he'd lie up one side and down the
other. We'll just take a few extra precautions, be ready for whatever
happens. We're the only ones we can trust not to fuck with us."

THE PREPARATION

The men did not spend a lot of time deciding on armament. That was
fairly well dictated by the mission. M-16s with the KAC suppressors.

Frank decided on the RPD, a Soviet belt-fed light machine gun easily
carried and operated by one man. Instead of the non-disintegrating metal
link belt often associated with the weapon, he chose a drum with a
one-hundred round belt that could be attached underneath the receiver of
the weapon. Unlike the belt, the drum is easy to remove and replace with
a loaded one, which would probably come in handy.

Ike would carry a rifle with the M203 grenade launcher attached, and the
bandoleer of grenades he packed for it was a mix of high explosive and
smoke rounds. Automatic pistols with silencers. Knives. A pair of hand
grenades each. Two ropes with padded grappling hooks. Ammunition for the
rifles and pistols.

The extra precautions included diving gear, and a set of radio code
words. Plan B.

THE MISSION

The SEALs boarded their rapid penetration boat on Bellman's port side,
the east, out of sight of anyone who might be observing from the
Sudanese shore. Harry Tombs gave them a final wave from the deck above
before the small craft started moving east and north, away from the ship
and farther from shore.

"This goes on much longer," Rob whispered to Frank, "folks are going to
put two and two together and figure out that Bellman must have something
to do with our jobs. They'll start watching whenever she's around." "Not
much longer for us," Frank said. "After that ... well, I don't think
anyone's foolish enough to try to attack Bellman. Folks know just what
sort of hell an American battle group can drop on their heads.

Anyway, another month and the battle group is due to rotate home."

"And we should be home long before that," Rob said. "I'm ready for it."

"Just don't start salivating yet, Farmer. We got work to do first.

Keep your eyes open. We're turning for the run into shore."

There were lights in Port Sudan and on the hillsides behind the city--an
easy beacon. Fingers of light, reflections, reached out across the
gentle swell of the water, appearing to be aimed directly at the men in
the RPB. It might be an optical illusion, but it was enough to make all
four men stay as low in the boat as they could, presenting the smallest
target possible for any watching eyes.

Beau angled left, away from the greatest concentration of lights. A
rotating beacon marked the position of the airport, and he kept the nose
of the RPB pointed just left of that, south. There were no scheduled
flights into the airport during the next several hours, no reason to
expect any air traffic.

It was nearly twenty minutes before Frank, at the prow of the RPB, was
certain that he could pick out the lights of the hotel from the clutter
on shore. Not much light was showing on the seaward side of the
building, just at the corners of the veranda and balcony, small yellow
bulbs. As the boat moved farther southwest, he could see lights in one
room on the first floor, at the far corner. That was, according to the
plans Frank and the others had studied, the manager's office.

The boat was halfway to shore when Ike suddenly realized that he had not
been at all nervous this time. I guess I've finally got used to it, he
thought. Later, he might worry that it was becoming too routine, that he
should have some feeling more than "going to the office" on the way in.

Later, not now. Ike just continued to scan his side of the boat, against
the chance that a local patrol might happen upon them.

Two hundred yards out, Beau put the tiller over to run almost parallel
to shore, south. The plan was to land a couple of hundred yards away
from the direct line between sea and hotel. The SEALs had debated their
landing point at some length during the planning session, the advantages
of having the boat as close as possible when they were ready to
exfiltrate against the possible benefits of that extra distance. The
likelihood that there would be hostiles left alive in the hotel had
settled the matter. "We don't want to let them stand on the balcony and
pot away at us," Frank had said. "Give them a longer shot this way."

Finally, they were directly off the spot they had chosen for their
landing. Beau turned the RPB again and headed toward shore, throttling
back a little, more concerned about minimizing the boat's wake and noise
than in speed.

The shore was rocky, and there was little room for the boat below the
first rise. The four men dragged the RPB clear of the water and into
what little cover they found available for it.

Once the boat was secure, Frank led his team toward the hotel. At first,
they stayed right at the shore, taking advantage of the several feet of
cover the rising bank provided them. Then they moved up and toward the
road. A line of shops helped to shield them from direct observation from
the road. In any case, there was little traffic. Two cars headed south,
away from the city, while the SEALs were moving into position.

Eighty yards from the nearest corner of the hotel, Frank and his men
went down, spread across about twenty yards, to observe. There was no
hurry now, not before they struck; the hurry would come once they made
their presence known. Frank used compact binoculars to survey each
window he could see on the hotel, working across the first floor and
coming back along the second. The only visible light was still in the
manager's office on the first floor. Frank assumed that there would also
be lights on in the lobby, but that faced the road, and he could not see
that side of the building.

Frank put the binoculars away, then waited for another car to pass on
the road, also heading away from the city. Then he got to his feet and
started moving. The others got up and moved into position behind him. It
wasn't necessary for Frank to give any commands now. Ike took the right
flank, Rob the left. Beau held back a few yards as rear guard.

Parking for the hotel was on the south side. A half dozen cars were in
the lot. Checking those was the next order of business for the SEALS.

They went from vehicle to vehicle, glancing in, making certain none were
occupied.

Then they moved around to the seaward side of the building. Beau
uncoiled one of the ropes with the padded grapples. Standing back from
the edge of the first-floor veranda, he started twirling the grapple,
then, when he had enough speed to the plastic-covered steel hooks,
tossed it.

The grapple caught on the railing of the balcony on the first try. Beau
gave the line a couple of experimental tugs, then moved in closer to the
building and scaled the rope hand over hand. He ran silently along the
balcony, toward the road, heading for the point where the telephone line
came in from the road. Beau had to climb up onto the railing and stretch
to reach the line. He sliced it with his knife. The severed line fell
away.

Frank followed Beau up the rope, then Ike and Rob came up. It took less
than a minute for all four men to get to the second floor balcony and
spread out along the seaward side of the building.

Here's where it starts to get tricky, Frank thought. We don't know how
many rooms are occupied, or which ones. Each man was between the door
and window of a different room. Frank counted to thirty, silently, his
left hand near the door handle. His men were watching him for their
signal to move. If any of the doors were unlocked, that would give the
team a silent point of entry. They would try doors, then windows. Any
rooms they could confirm as being unoccupied would give them that much
more of an advantage. They would work silently for as long as possible.

... Twenty-nine, thirty. Frank took in a deep breath and held it while
he slowly tried to move the door's handle down. There was no give; it
was locked. Frank looked to either side. None of the others had found an
open door, either. All four men moved to the windows. They were all
casement affairs, made to open out onto the balcony.

All were secured.

Shift right and try again, Frank thought. That spread his men around the
far corner. Ike and Rob were out of his direct view. There was no need
to wait this time. Frank tried the door's handle and, when it didn't
give, moved to the window. It had been pulled closed, but there was a
tiny gap in the center. The windows had not been secured.

Frank pulled the window pane slowly, anxious that he not make any noise.
Beau, to his left, saw the window come open. Frank moved to the corner
of the building and gestured to the other two men. They had a quiet way
into the hotel.

Beau was the first man through the window, with Frank standing by, in
case Beau needed help--in case there was someone sleeping too lightly in
the room.

"No one here," Beau whispered, after just a few seconds. The other three
came in. Ike, the last man through the window, pulled it shut, an
instinctive precaution. Leaving the window open would be a clear
signpost if anyone saw it.

Sixteen of the hotel's twenty-four guest rooms were on the upper floor.
The rest were on the seaward side of the first floor. Public rooms were
in front of them. The lobby was open to the second floor, with a large
skylight above the atrium. Once the SEALs left the room they were in,
they would be visible to anyone looking up from the first floor.

There was a gentle hum from an air conditioner. The room the SEALs were
in was cooler, at least, than the outside.

After a few seconds, Frank thought that he could almost feel the
vibrations of machinery through his feet, a gentle throbbing, almost
like the feel of a ship under way.

Maybe we should have worn night-vision gear and knocked out the
electricity, Frank thought. Too late now. My brain must be rusting up.

It was an unusual time--for Frank--to have misgivings surface. He gave
himself an extra couple of seconds to go over the next steps in his
head.

Once the action started, there would be too little time. Then it might
all reach the point of act and react. Mistakes then could quickly be
fatal.

Frank checked the selector switch on his rifle by touch. To start, he
wanted it on single shot--until the opposition was roused and started to
respond. A single silenced shot might not be recognized for what it was
at first. It could give the SEALs a few extra seconds to operate
unmolested.

"Get ready," Frank whispered, a warning to his men. Rob was across the
room, at the door leading out to the balcony. Ike and Beau were closer
to Frank, ready to follow him into the corridor ringing the atrium,
ready to back up their leader if the action started too soon. Frank was
at the side of the door leading to the interior corridor, pressed
against the wall--one hand on his rifle, the other on the door handle. A
deep breath: Frank took it in slowly and let it out in a long whisper.

Now.

Frank pressed down on the handle and drew the door open, slowly, and
just far enough to let him look down the corridor to the left. He had no
idea where any sentry might be. There was no one in sight in the narrow
angle Frank permitted himself at first. He opened the door a little
more, giving himself a slightly broader view of the second story
corridor and a partial view of the front of the lobby, downstairs.

Nothing.

The open central area of the hotel was poorly lit, but it seemed bright
to Frank, coming out of near total darkness. On the second floor, there
were single light bulbs in each corner of the open corridor--no more
than twenty-five-watt bulbs. In the lobby below, there was the glow of a
light coming from the right, but the light itself was not visible.

Frank pushed the door open the rest of the way. Beau had been waiting
for that. He went down on his stomach, across from Frank, and crawled
forward just enough to be able to see the other half of the second floor
corridor--his rifle ready in case someone was there.

Empty.

The reception desk in the lobby was to the right, under the overhang of
the upstairs corridor. From the doorway where the SEALs were, only the
front of the desk was visible.

Ike stepped over Beau and moved to the right, into the open corridor,
staying as near the wall as he could, and taking care to make no sound
at all. His job was to cover the doorway to the manager's office, to the
left, at the front of the hotel, and he had to move several steps along
the corridor to get an open view of that door under the overhang. That
movement also made him the closest person to the stairway at the right
front of the hotel.

If all of them are in the rooms downstairs, we could turn this into
target practice, Ike thought. Space ourselves to cover all the doors
down there. He knew it wasn't likely. At least some of the terrorists
would be in rooms on this floor, a more immediate threat.

Frank also stepped across Beau, moving left. Frank figured to be the one
who would have to take out the sentry below, especially if he was behind
the reception desk--which seemed likely. He moved his rifle, holding it
in both hands now, slowly bringing the butt up to his shoulder.

All four SEALs were ready for action. Rob was at the side of the
interior door now, his rifle out and covering the front of the second
story. Too much light, he thought, blinking until his eyes adjusted. Be
better in the dark.

Ike had the same thought. Although it had not been covered in the
planning, he moved to the corner nearest him, then reached up and
unscrewed the light bulb, just until the light went out. Beau and Frank
both glanced at him, quickly, then looked back the way they had been
looking. In the open doorway, Rob gave a little nod, just to himself. A
good idea, he thought. We get a chance, we should douse the others up
here.

All four men heard the scraping of a chair below, and an unintelligible
mumbling. Heavy steps were the next sound from the first floor.

Frank eased his finger onto the trigger of his rifle. Whoever was
manning the front desk was on the move. He noticed that a light went
out, Frank thought. He waited. It was no more than a few seconds, but
seemed longer. A man--carrying a light bulb in one hand and an AK-47 in
the other--came out from behind the reception desk and turned toward the
stairs.

He did not reach them. Frank sighted and squeezed off a single shot.

Despite the KAC suppressor, the shot sounded incredibly loud to Frank,
though it was nowhere near as loud as the sounds made when the bullet
struck its target--a final grunt from the man below, the clatter of his
rifle dropping to the floor, the light bulb popping on contact, and even
the softer sounds of the body as it collapsed, dead before it came to
rest.

Frank let out his breath as he looked for any reaction from the other
terrorists in the hotel. It was time for the SEALs to start moving
quickly, checking the other rooms on the second floor, looking for the
rest of the men alleged to be in the establishment.

The others had already started. Rob and Ike each moved to the nearest
room doors and tried the handles. Rob was the only one to get an
unlocked door. He swung it open and entered quickly, moving off to the
side, his rifle tracking toward the double bed in the room--an empty
bed. He came back to the doorway, careful about exposing himself again,
moving left, to the next room.

Ike kept his eyes on the manager's office as he moved toward the next
door on his side of the corridor. He thought he heard a voice below,
muffled, perhaps questioning. He'll come out to look soon, Ike told
himself. Either the night manager or another of the terrorists. No
matter which, Ike's job remained the same ... to put the target down.
Harboring a terrorist was as much a crime as being a terrorist.

The first warning that the office door was open was light coming out of
it, followed by a voice speaking in Arabic. Ike could understand nothing
of what was said, but could make a good guess of the gist: What happened
out there? It wouldn't take long for whoever had asked the question to
spot the body. Ike brought his rifle up, ready to shoot as soon as he
had a clear target--and he hoped that it would be soon enough to
forestall a shouted warning.

It was close. Ike thought that he heard something from the man below
just as he pulled the trigger on his M-16. Whatever the man who had come
out of the manager's office had to say was cut off after no more than a
word though. At least he didn't shout, Ike thought as he tracked the man
dropping to the floor. Maybe we've got a little longer.

A second man came out of the manager's office. This one did have time to
shout before Ike shot him.

"Move!" Frank ordered. Ike turned and kicked open the locked door he had
tried less than a minute before. As he did, he was aware of another
corridor light going out, but did not see Rob reach up and smash it with
the suppressor on his rifle.

A figure moved on the bed in the room Ike had broken into, roused from
sleep by the sound of the door being forced. He had no time to do
anything more than blink twice before the muzzle of Ike's rifle flashed.
The man died without a sound, flopping over onto the rifle that lay next
to him in bed.

Frank and Rob each broke into occupied rooms and took care of the
occupants as efficiently as Ike had. Only Beau did not join in the smash
and shoot. He slid forward a little, and remained prone in the corridor,
his rifle covering the bottom of the stairwell and the front of the
lobby.

During the next forty-five seconds, so much happened that none of the
SEALs was ever completely certain of the order in which the events took
place. Two more doors were smashed in, two more terrorists--sleeping or
just coming awake--were killed. Men came out of one of the rooms on the
first floor, ready for trouble. They started spraying
bullets--unsilenced--toward the second floor before they could
consciously look for targets. At the same time, someone in one of the
front rooms on the second floor started shooting, the bullets tracing a
pattern in the door before the man inside pulled it open.

Ike had swiveled toward the sound of the latest shooting. As soon as the
door on the second floor opened, he moved his right hand and fired the
HE grenade in his M203 launcher into the opening. The man coming out of
the room, still firing his AK-47, was caught high in the chest by the
grenade. When it exploded, the man's torso virtually disintegrated with
blood, bone, and bits of flesh being blasted for yards in every
direction.

Frank took one of his hand grenades and tossed it over the railing,
angling his throw so that it would bounce under the overhang. When it
went off there was a temporary halt in the fire coming toward the SEALS.

"Go!" Frank called, loud enough for his men to hear. He gestured with
his left hand to make certain that everyone got the message. It was time
to get out.

Ike and Rob backed through the nearest rooms, heading for the veranda.

Frank moved back to the room the SEALs had originally broken into, then
waited in the doorway--spraying bullets at still unopened doors and down
into the lobby--while Beau withdrew and crossed to the veranda door.

Beau covered Frank as he followed.

Outside, Rob had uncoiled the second grappling line, secured the hook,
and dropped the rope over the side. Ike and Rob went down the ropes
together. Rob controlled his descent with his legs and one hand. He had
his rifle in the other hand, searching for anyone who might be waiting
for them below. The rope burned Rob's left hand, and he dropped the last
several feet to the ground, falling backward but landing sitting up, his
rifle still pointed toward the building.

Ike and Rob backed away from the building together, giving themselves
better angles to cover the corners. Beau and Frank came down the ropes,
scarcely checking their speed at all--just enough to minimize the odds
of breaking or spraining something that might slow them down on the
ground.

Once all four of them were out of the building, they moved by twos--two
scurrying toward the sea, the other two spraying additional bullets into
the hotel to discourage pursuit. After they were fifty yards from the
building, Ike launched another grenade, aiming for the open door on the
second floor, hoping that the round might catch one or two more
terrorists.

After that, there was some return fire from inside the hotel, but it did
not seem to be aimed very carefully--automatic fire sprayed in the
general direction of the shore.

When the SEALs heard the not-distant-enough tones of a police siren,
Frank called for the others to quit firing. "We're just showing them
where we are," he added. "Down to the water, then turn for the boat."

They ran.

At the water's edge, behind the short embankment, Frank paused and
looked back. Trouble was gathering at the hotel. A police car, flashing
lights identifying it clearly, had pulled up near the corner. A small
searchlight started to probe the darkness between hotel and shore. Men
were shouting. Two men with rifles were visible on the southern side of
the veranda.

Farther off, more sirens were walling.

We don't want to wait for the party, Frank thought. They got to the
hotel faster than I expected. He trotted toward the boat, shaking his
head while he ran. Unless luck started running with them, the night
wasn't over yet.

By the time Frank caught up with his men, they had the boat in the water
and the engine running. Frank climbed in and Beau opened the throttle.
He wasn't worried about stealth, just putting as much distance between
boat and shore as possible.

"Rob, get on the radio and send the code that we're on the way," Frank
said after catching his breath. "Everybody, watch for any move to
intercept us."

Frank put a fresh double-drum magazine in his rifle, then took off his
web belt with the rest of his ammunition. One by one, the others did the
same. If they had to abandon the RPB, the seconds they saved themselves
now might make all the difference in the world.

"Look to port, Chief," Beau said. "Racing right along shore."

Frank looked, then picked up his binoculars to confirm what he had
already guessed. A large launch, probably police, was hurrying from the
port toward the hotel. Its searchlight was scanning the water ahead of
it, though the beam was still not within a thousand yards of the SEALS.

"I see it," Frank said. "Several men on the foredeck, armed. Get into
your diving gear. There's still a chance they won't spot us, but let's
be ready to swim if they do."

Ike was the first man to get his boots off and his air tank on.

Carrying his flippers and mask with him, he went to the stern and took
over the tiller to give Beau a chance to get into his equipment. Ike
divided his attention between the beam of light moving across the water
and the more distant running lights that marked the position of Bellman.
The ship was still more than three miles away. That's gonna be a long
swim, Ike thought, turning to look at the launch again. He eased the
throttle open a little farther.

"Okay, kid, I'll take it," Beau whispered after less than a minute.

His face mask was resting on top of his head. He had his flippers in one
hand.

Ike moved out of the way and let Beau get back in position. "Let's get
as close to home as we can before we have to swim," Ike said.

Beau grinned. "I got no argument with that. Better we don't swim at
all." He glanced toward the launch. "Still a chance."

That chance faded seconds later. "Another boat putting out from the
port," Rob said. "Looks like it's moving fast."

All four men looked for the new set of lights, the distant shape on the
water. The second boat was larger, its searchlight clearly more
powerful. "Some sort of cutter, I think," Frank said. "Looks like we've
got their navy after us now too."

"How good's their fire control?" Rob asked.

Frank shook his head. "I don't want to test it." He trained the
binoculars on the bow of the boat. It was clearly larger than the launch
that had put out first, perhaps over a hundred feet long, and there was
a gun turret on the foredeck. "About a five-incher, I think," Frank
said.

The cutter was not aimed directly at the RPB, but it was not simply
following the shoreline the way the police launch was.

"Time for Plan B. Let's get out of here before they start shooting,"
Frank said, dropping the binoculars and reaching for his fins. "Scuttle
the boat and into the water. Ike, send Bellman the code that we'll be
swimming."

Ike had already started bringing the hand radio up. He checked the
frequency, keyed the transmitter, then spoke a single word: Barfly. As
soon as he released the transmitter key, there were three short clicks,
Bellman's acknowledgment.

Fins and masks on. Air regulators in mouths. A quick test to make
certain systems were functioning. Rifles and pistols would be left in
the RPB, extra weight to help it sink once the four men had slashed at
the sides and bottom with their knives. They rode the boat until it was
awash, then each man rolled clear after taking a compass reading--a
heading for the swim to Bellman. The ship was still nearly three miles
away.

Do they have depth charges? Ike wondered as he took up station to
Frank's right. It might take the cutter three or four minutes to reach
the divers, if the ship had a fix on where they went into the water. A
depth charge did not have to be particularly accurate to disable a diver
in the water. The concussion of an explosion could be devastating fifty
yards or more from the detonation.

There was no need for the divers to go deep. Depth would give no
advantage, and the need to come up slowly for decompression at the far
end of the swim would simply extend the time they were vulnerable. Frank
had decided earlier that, unless the Sudanese got directly overhead,
they wouldn't go deeper than fifteen feet. Bellman would be looking for
them to be shallow. The ship would be able to track the swimmers.

It would slow down to pick them up, and stop the propellers completely
at the critical time to avoid any danger of a diver getting caught by a
blade or the turbulence they kicked up in the water around them. The
only tricky part might be if the Sudanese cutter decided to get close
enough to see the divers come out of the water, and that would be
dangerous for the Sudanese. Even without a clandestine operation under
way, Bellman's normal security protocols would require that it warn the
cutter away. Sudan would not dare challenge. The U.S. battle group
packed more firepower than the entire nation of Sudan could assemble.

Even shallow, the water was dark. The only illumination they had came
from the luminous dials of their instruments--compasses, watches, and
depth and air gauges. The four divers stayed bunched up, shoulders
almost touching. Frank set the pace, not just because he was the team
leader, but because he was also the slowest swimmer in the group. He
made frequent checks of his compass and gauges. Without attention, it
would be too easy to drift off heading or depth.

Easy, even leg kicks. A glance to either side now and then to make sure
that the others were still with him. Check instruments. Keep the
breathing regular, steady. That was one of the first lessons a diver
learned, but even after many years, it could sometimes be hard to
remember.

Rob was on the right flank, outside Ike, staying a head back. Bellman
will stay at least three miles offshore, he reminded himself. They might
come close to that limit for the pickup, but they would not come closer.

At least a two-mile swim for us, maybe two-and-a-half. Time for a lot to
happen if the locals decide to play rough. I'd like to know what's going
on, if that cutter is coming after us.

The only way to know that would be to surface long enough to scan the
horizon. That would slow the swimmers, and might do nothing more than
give the locals a good fix on their position. Frank would have to be the
one to make the decision to surface. Rob did not expect him to.

Beau was on the left of the formation. Closest to the enemy, was the way
he thought of it. Not that he expected the enemy to do anything. They be
fools to, he thought. Uncle Sugar not gonna take no crap from these
bastards. Beau tried to focus on what he could hear, beyond the sound of
his own breathing and his regulator supplying air. If one of the
Sudanese craft did come close, they would hear it before it was directly
over them, the pulsing of propellers beating water, perhaps the
throbbing of an engine. It might not provide very much warning, but a
little, enough to let the divers take evasive action. The approach of an
enemy vessel would mean that the swimmers would have to go deeper, to
avoid getting sucked into a propeller and to make it harder for the
enemy to get at them.

The SEALs had been in the water forty minutes when the divers first
started to become aware of a faint throbbing sound in the water. It was
coming from in front of them, rather than behind. Then a sharp
pinging--three close together, followed by two spaced farther apart.

Bellman.

The throbbing noise stopped. Bellman had shut down its propellers.

Frank took his men deeper, to give the ship's hull plenty of clearance.
The plan was for them to come up east of the vessel, to keep Bellman
between them and the Sudanese coast. Home free, Frank thought. If there
had been potentially hostile craft close, where they could see the
pickup, the signal would have been different.

POST-MISSION

Ten minutes after he had drunk it, Ike could still feel the warmth of
the long shot of whisky. Harry Tombs had pulled out a bottle as soon as
he was alone with the SEALS, before they had a chance to go to their
compartment and change out of their wet clothing. And he went with them.

"We're picking up all kinds of good stuff from shore," he said while the
men dried off and put on dry uniforms. "Police and navy traffic, a
scream of protest from the government. All kinds of good stuff," he
repeated.

"We gave them something to think about," Frank said. "But that was one
hairy mother."

"In one ten-minute broadcast, they managed to suggest that the attack
was staged by Ethiopian terrorists, Israeli agents, and American-backed
mercenaries. They don't know who to blame."

"They say anything about casualties?" Ike asked.

"According to the last report, local authorities killed at least five
members of the attacking force," Tombs said, grinning so widely it
looked as if his face might split open. "By that time, we already knew
all four of you were safely in the water."

"What about their casualties?" Frank asked. "I'm sure we greased at
least six of them, maybe as many as ten or more." "The news report said
that six civilian tourists were murdered in the hotel, along with two
employees." "Bullshit," Rob said. "Civilian tourists and hotel employees
don't run around with Kalishnikovs."

Tombs shrugged. "Doesn't matter what they say. People will believe what
they want to. We should know for certain how well you scored within
twenty-four hours. It looks good though."

THE REPORT

A few hours later, as he completed his after-action report, Harry Tombs
was less certain. He was puzzled, and did not try to hide that in his
summary.

After three hours of almost hysterical screaming about the "outrage"
of the attack, Sudanese media went completely silent on the subject, and
Sudanese government spokesmen retreated to a firm

"No Comment" in reply to every question by the few representatives of
the international press in Sudan. They have not gone so far as to deny
that any attack took place, but they do not confirm it either. The
reasons for this abrupt change of approach are not at all clear. And
must be seen as troubling for that reason.

"Either they know something, or they think they do," Tombs whispered,
staring at the screen of his portable computer. The worry was enough to
trouble his sleep.

9

PRE-MISSION

"I thought we weren't doing anything else until the big op," Rob said,
after the call came for the SEALs to report to the conference room
aboard Bellman.

"That was the last word I had from Tombs," Frank confirmed. "Who knows
what the spook has come up with? Maybe the summit meeting has been
cancelled, or postponed again. Just keep your shirt on. We'll find out
soon enough."

"Maybe Tombs guessed wrong about the effect hitting Port Sudan would
have," Ike said. "Maybe they've moved the summit to Afghanistan or
Timbuktu."

"It won't be Afghanistan," Frank said. "Some of the terrorists scheduled
to attend wouldn't put themselves that completely in ibn Landin's power.
That's why he had to set it up in Sudan in the first place. Those
buggers don't trust each other." One of the early briefings Frank had
attended that the others had not had laid out a list of conditions that
had apparently ruled the choice of a site for the meeting. There had to
be an amenable government in the country. There had to be a variety of
easy transportation options in and out. The location had to be
acceptable to all of the groups invited. Libya was objected to by
several leaders; they feared Khadafi might try to take control. Lebanon
wasn't secure; there was too much chance of Israeli intervention, and
the Lebanese government wasn't completely reliable as far as several of
the groups were concerned. And ibn Landin had ruled out anything on the
Arabian peninsula. The Saudis had a million-dollar price on his head, in
addition to the five million dollars being offered by the Americans. The
Gulf states were all too beholden to the Saudis to be trustworthy; and
most of them were too ready to deal with Americans. Yemen was almost an
alternative, but it was too close to the Saudis, and not entirely
reliable.

"I don't think it'll be moved," Frank said. "Postponed or cancelled,
maybe, but if they hold it, figure it's going to be in Sudan. Now, let's
go find out what Tombs has to say."

THE BRIEFING

The trek to the conference room was routine by now. The SEALs went in
and took accustomed seats at the table. Harry Tombs came in less than a
minute later. The first thing the SEALs noticed was that Tombs was
carrying a target folder.

"Okay, I know I said that we were done until the big dance," Tombs said
as he moved to his usual position at the table. "I thought we were, but
we've got maybe a big bonus dropped in our laps, something just too
sweet to pass up."

"Don't bury us in soft soap," Frank said.

"Uh, right. First off, we've replaced everything you were forced to
abandon last night. And then some. I had some special extras flown in
for the final strike. They'll think they're being attacked by a whole
damned battalion."

Rob snorted at the last word. "Tombs, we've got teams, platoons,
detachments, special operations groups. We don't have battalions. At
least get your lingo right."

"You know it, and I know it, but the terrorists we hit won't know who's
clobbering the hell out of them." Tombs grinned.

"Hey, we're getting off the track again," Frank said before Rob could
get in another comment. "Let's get this op out of the way before we
start thinking about the next one."

Tombs nodded. "You're right, Chief," he said. "My enthusiasm is running
over. Tonight's op." He paused while he looked around at the four SEALS.

"We've learned that there's an extra delegation coming to the terrorist
summit, an unexpected addition. The Iraqi government has decided to send
two members of its Revolutionary Council, and one of the leaders of the
Bath party, to urge the terrorists to step up their activities against
American and British interests. Because of the continuing sanctions, and
what they see as their own security concerns, the Iraqis traveled by
land from Baghdad to Amman, Jordan. They planned to fly out of Amman,
but were forced to make other plans because of diplomatic pressure and,
ah, suggestions that air travel would not be safe for them. That took
them to Aqaba. They arrived there less than twelve hours after your
visit." Tombs chuckled.

"Conditions being what they are, they decided to travel by sea from
Aqaba to Port Sudan. The boat, Georges, is registered as Jordanian, but
is, as far as we can determine, owned by the Iraqis, and the crew is
Iraqi, probably all members of the Republican Guard."

"In other words, fair game," Rob said under his breath.

"Fair game," Tombs agreed. "And the members of the Revolutionary Council
and the Bath party bigwig are wanted for crimes against humanity, for
the attacks made against the Kurds in northern Iraq and against the
Shiites in the Basra area. You will intercept and board their boat
tonight. If practical, the principals will be taken into custody and
brought back for trial. If that is not practical, and I doubt it will
be, our mission is to leave vacancies for Saddam to fill."

"We know the name of that game," Beau muttered, but no one took any
notice.

"We are tracking the progress of the Iraqis' boat," Tombs continued.

"After sunset tonight, you will be dropped, along with an RPB, into
position to intercept the vessel while it is still well away from either
shore. We expect them to make for the nearest point of Sudanese
territorial waters, then follow the coastline to Port Sudan, as close in
as practical. Your job is to make sure they don't get there. If the
Iraqis don't know who to blame afterward, all the better, so plan to
deep six the boat and any remains."

THE PREPARATION

"Let's keep this simple," Frank said, when the team gathered to select
weapons and other gear for the mission. They were already dressed, all
in black, with dark camouflage paint on their hands and faces. Each
carried the classic Ka-bar knife strapped to their sides. A variation on
the famous Marine Corps fighting knife, the SEAL version featured a
waterproof gray plastic sheath and a canvas web hanger strap. Cheap,
rugged, and reliable, the bowie-style knife had been standard gear for
the Teams for as long as any of the current members could remember.

"If we can, we'll board and do this down and dirty. There might not be a
lot of room below-decks on Georges. Farmer, you stick with a rifle.

The rest of us, submachine guns. Pistols. Hand grenades. Half
concussion, half incendiary."

"Be better if you can sink that boat without a fire," Tombs said.

"Make it disappear cleanly." He held up a hand. "We want it gone, one
way or the other. Whatever you can do."

"A couple of shaped charges, then," Frank said. "No guarantees, Tombs.
You want us to disappear it, blowing it out of the water is surer and
faster, but we'll try it your way, if we can. Good enough?"

"I can't ask more," Tombs said.

"There's one more possibility we need to prepare for," Frank said.

"There's a chance we might not be able to get close enough to board the
boat. In that case, we could use a couple of LAW rockets. If we don't
destroy the boat, we should at least be able to do enough damage to let
us catch her and finish the job."

THE MISSION

"We'll have to stay in radio contact until you have Georges in sight,"
Tombs reminded Frank, as the SEALs got ready to board the helicopter.

"I've got the scrambler set on both radios," Frank said.

"I'll be in CIC. They've got the boat on the plotting board and a radio
hookup for me."

"Just make sure you get pickup out for us if that boat changes course so
we can't get to it after we're in the water," Frank said. "I don't want
to spend all night waiting for a date that isn't coming. If they push
it, Georges can do twice the speed an RPB can. We can't chase it down,
can't head it off if it turns much before we can see it."

"As of five minutes ago, Georges was still making only seven knots.

If it changes course early enough, we might be able to pick you up and
set you back down," Tombs said. "We're keeping our options open, and
you've got those disposable rocket launchers if all else fails."

"An operation like this needs two, even three, teams waiting," Rob said,
after the helicopter had deposited the SEALs and their boat in the
water. "Spread out across the course so that one of the boats has a good
chance of intercepting the target." He spoke softly, almost without
inflection, but the others could all hear. "Like this, if the crew has
their eyes open, they could change course the minute they spot this
boat, crank up the revs, and leave us behind. We might not even get
close enough to hit them with those throwaway bazookas."

"Always that chance," Frank said. "If they've got enough eyes looking.
If they spot a low-riding dark lump on dark water. If they suspect we're
more than flotsam. If they think we might be a threat."

"A bunch of paranoids sneaking to a supposedly clandestine meeting of
terrorist leaders." Rob snorted. "A damned seagull might spook them."
"Saddam told them to go to this meeting," Ike said. "Iraqis don't last
very long if they don't do what the boss tells them to, no matter how
scared they might get."

"You're turning into a cynic, kid," Rob said.

"I watch the news," Ike replied. "Chief, how far off are they now?"

"Three miles, almost due north."

"We should be able to see their running lights," Ike said, scanning the
northern horizon.

"Pretty quick, if they've got lights on," Frank said. He was also
scanning the horizon, using binoculars. "We're at water level, and
Georges's masthead is thirty feet above the waterline. Even without
lights we should be able to spot the silhouette in the next few
minutes."

It was only thirty seconds before Frank spotted Georges. "No masthead
light, but they've got port and starboard lights at deck level." "You
sure that's Georges?" Rob asked.

"The position is right and Tombs said there wasn't anything else in the
neighborhood," Frank said. "It's heading straight for us on the right
course. Pretty safe bet."

"Hey, we're going to board it. If we've got the wrong address, we'll
know," Ike whispered.

"Right," Frank said. "Beau, start moving us toward her. We'll tie on as
close to the bow as we can get."

With the throttle kept low, the RPB's engine was almost totally silent,
the minimal noises it made covered by the sounds of the water. The Red
Sea was not as glassy calm as usual. The water had a bit of a chop, the
ragged edge of a squall running along it two hundred miles away.

Georges looked as if she were a cross between a barge and a small
freighter. The boat was broad and low, with no more than four feet of
freeboard--the space between the waterline and the deck. The
superstructure was a rectangular cabin near the stern. The radio mast
and crane were ten feet forward of the cabin, with the hatch leading
into the boat's single hold a dozen feet ahead of them. The boat had
clearly been designed for coastal trade and sheltered waters. It did not
look as if it had been designed to provide a comfortable voyage for
passengers on the open sea.

Beau maneuvered the RPB's tiller and throttle to let Georges come up on
it as gently as possible, almost like a docking maneuver in space.

Frank stood in the bow and hooked the RPB's painter over a bitt near the
bow on the starboard side of Georges, and secured the line. Rob kept the
RPB from smacking the side of the other boat too severely, and Ike was
the first man to clamber up onto the deck of Georges, rolling into
position, careful not to get any higher than absolutely necessary. Frank
and Rob followed within seconds, and Beau joined the others as soon as
he had shut off the rapid penetration boat's engine.

At first, the SEALs all went prone, Rob's rifle and the Uzi submachine
guns of the others pointed in the direction of the cabin at the boat's
stern, ready for action, in case they had been seen coming aboard. The
deck of Georges stank, a combination of odors that included both diesel
and olive oils, and other things that the SEALs could hardly guess at.

I can't believe they didn't see us, Ike thought. Aren't they even
watching where they're going? There were two glass panels on the front
of the cabin, stretching nearly the entire width of the superstructure,
and Ike could also see a long rectangular window--definitely not a
porthole--on the near side of the cabin. The glass appeared to be
back-lit in green and red, undoubtedly the glow from various instruments
inside.

Then he saw movement in the cabin, the vague silhouette of a face
turning, illuminated by the glowing end of a cigarette in a mouth. The
helmsman had obviously been looking aft. Now he was looking toward the
bow of Georges, at or over the four men lying on its deck.

Frank tapped Ike's leg, and when the youngest member of the team turned
his head, the chief gestured toward the cabin. He "walked" his fingers
along the deck. Ike nodded, understanding the order.

As much as possible, Ike used the minimal cover provided by the hold's
hatch lid, which projected fifteen inches above the deck. He slid to his
left, pulling with fingers and pushing with toes, trying not to lift off
the deck by even an inch. Slithering on a wooden deck was slow and
uncomfortable. Ike picked up a couple of splinters along the way.

Patience was the key word. He scarcely dared to breathe, unwilling to do
anything that might give the man in the cockpit any clue that the ship
had been boarded.

Rob was the next SEAL to start moving toward the superstructure, sliding
to his right--the port side of Georges--and moving as cautiously as
Jensen was. Beau glanced at Frank, who gave him a "wait" signal with his
hand.

Ike took nearly five minutes to reach the starboard side of the cabin.

He allowed himself a little leverage then, getting up to hands and knees
to scurry to the rear of the cabin. He glanced cautiously around the
corner.

The single door leading inside had been lashed open.

After laying his Uzi on the deck, with exaggerated care to make certain
that he made no noise, Ike crawled toward the door and peeked into the
cabin. There was only one man inside, standing at the helm, looking
forward.

Just stay that way, Ike thought. He reached for the knife at his belt,
slid it out of the sheath, and got slowly to his feet. Three steps, Ike
told himself. He took a breath first, then held it as he moved into the
cabin, stepping as lightly as he could.

The helmsman either heard or felt something. Ike had just taken his
second step when the helmsman turned his head. The apparition of a dark
figure coming at him appeared to leave the man in shock for a split
second, and that was all the advantage Ike needed. He plunged his knife
into the man's chest while his left hand reached for the man's mouth.
The dying gurgle of the helmsman was only partially muffled by Ike's
hand, but there was no scream of warning, and Ike caught the body before
it could fall to the deck.

By the time Ike had lowered his victim softly, wedging the body into a
corner to keep it from rolling, Rob was at his side, carrying Ike's Uzi
as well as his own rifle. A nod, and a pat on the shoulder, provided
Rob's appreciation for a job well done. Then he waved broadly, his hand
near the window, to let the others know that they could come along.

A ladderway at the starboard side of the superstructure led below deck.
The hatch was closed, but the louvered panel showed dim light beyond.

"Handle the wheel, kid," Rob whispered, his mouth right against Ike's
ear. "Hold her on course."

Forward, Frank gestured for Beau to stay put and watch the hatch to the
hold. Frank got up and went toward the stern of Georges, his feet almost
sliding along the deck to keep from making noise that anyone below might
wonder about.

Frank paused in the doorway, picking out the positions of his men, the
body on the deck, and the hatch leading below. He nodded, then crossed
to the hatch. He bent close to the slats, moving his head, trying to see
what might be waiting in the companionway below. He heard no sounds of
people, saw no indication of movement in the feeble light.

Can't stand around all night, Frank thought. He tapped Rob on the
shoulder, then gestured for Ike to leave the helm and come along. Frank
pulled open the louvered hatchway, and bent low, looking along the low
passage at the bottom of the ladder. There was no one in it.

Going down the six steps, Frank kept his Uzi in front of him, ready to
fire if anyone came out of one of the doors along the companionway.
There were two on either side, and another at the end. In the bulkhead
behind the ladder, another hatch led aft, into the engine room.

Six ways to trouble, Frank thought. He gestured for Rob to take care of
anyone in the engine room, then waved Ike forward.

"Here we go," Frank whispered. He opened the first door on his left,
just a few inches, then reached around the edge to search for a light
switch. His hand closed over a knob. He twisted it and an overhead light
came on in the room.

At the same time, he heard the quick stutter of a three-shot burst from
an M-16--Rob taking care of whatever he had found in the engine room.

The two men sleeping in the berths in the cabin came awake instantly.
The man in the upper berth reached for a rifle on the mattress next to
him.

Frank pulled the trigger on his Uzi, spraying the man in the upper bunk,
then he lowered his aim and shot the man below him--who had been slower
to come alert.

"That tears it, kid," Frank said, turning toward Ike. "Kick 'em in and
watch your ass."

Ike turned and kicked in the door on the opposite side of the
companionway, moving to the side, his submachine gun tracking across the
room. Ike did not wait to give anyone inside a chance to target him. He
sprayed bullets liberally into the cabin, then tossed in one of his
concussion grenades.

Frank and Ike both ducked to the side as the grenade went off.

"Grenade first, then bullets," Frank suggested. Rob joined them then.

Ike and Rob took the next pair of cabins simultaneously, kicking open
doors, tossing in concussion grenades, then moving out of the way until
after the stunners went off. They were just moving back to make certain
that the inhabitants of the cabins were accounted for when the door at
the end of the passageway came open and two rifles started firing.

Frank dropped to the deck at the first sound of the door, so he was
under the first bursts of hostile gunfire. Ike and Rob had both made it
into the cabins on either side of the passage. From the deck, Frank
fired back, and he continued shooting through the hatchway even after
the hostile gunfire stopped--after two rifles clattered to the deck.

Ike did not want to leave the chief to face the guns alone, so he wasted
no time with the three men he found in the cabin. They had apparently
all been sleeping. Two were holding hands to their ears. Blood flowed
through the fingers of both of them. The third man was unconscious or
dead. There were burn marks on his face. Ike sprayed them with 9mm
bullets.

Across the way, Rob was as summary in his handling of the passengers in
the last cabin. Two men, only one of whom had been moving after the
concussion grenade went off.

Rob and Ike both returned to the doors of the cabins they had gone into.
Together, they added their weapons to the fray, shooting into the
darkness beyond the door at the forward end of the passage. On the deck,
Frank fitted a new magazine to his Uzi. He whistled sharply. Rob and Ike
quit firing.

"Anybody recognize any faces?" Frank asked.

"Yeah, at least one of the buggers Tombs showed us," Rob said. "One of
the men from the Revolutionary Council."

"I spotted one of them too," Ike said. "And I think the party guy."

"Any of them in any shape to stand trial?" Frank asked.

"I don't think so," Rob said.

"Then toss a match through that door and let's get out of here," Frank
said.

"What about the shaped charges?" Rob asked. "They're back in the RPB."

"I'll get them," Ike offered.

"Hell, don't bother," Frank said. "Let's do the job clean. Farmer?"

Rob took one of his incendiary grenades, pulled the pin, and tossed the
weapon through the doorway at the end of the passage. He and Ike both
ducked back into the rooms they were in. Frank flattened himself on the
deck. The grenade exploded, sending tongues of flame in every direction.

It was time to leave. Frank got to his feet and ran aft and up the
ladderway to the cockpit. Rob and Ike were almost on his heels. Ike,
last man out, tossed another incendiary grenade into the engine room.
After that, the three men sprinted toward the bow of Georges. Beau moved
to the bitt and had his hands on the rope holding their RPB to the
burning ship before they reached him.

The grenade in the engine room exploded. Seconds later, there was
another blast as the ship's fuel lines ruptured. The secondary explosion
lifted the stern of Georges. The sudden motion tossed both Ike and Frank
over the side. Ike landed in the SEALs' boat with the wind half knocked
out of him. Frank landed in the water and lost his Uzi. Rob managed to
catch the ship's railing and kept himself from going overboard. And Beau
had been holding on to the painter. He lost his footing and slid toward
the side, catching a stanchion between his legs--painfully. He grunted
in pain and doubled over, but did not lose his grip on the rope.

Rob grabbed Beau's arm. "Let's move before this whole tub blows," he
shouted.

Beau got to his feet gingerly, one hand going to ease the pain in his
groin. He was seeing stars, and having difficulty getting his breath.

"Go!" he grunted.

Rob hesitated only fractionally, then went over the side and lowered
himself into the boat. Ike had recovered and was pulling Frank aboard.

Beau was the last man into the RPB, moving half doubled over from the
continuing pain. But he cast off and got into position at the stern.

"Steer due south," Frank ordered after coughing out sea water. "Rob, get
on the horn and tell them to come get us."

Georges burned quickly. The engine room explosions had blown a hole in
the hull. The ship settled by the stern. As the RPB pulled away from the
hulk, Georges lit up the sky, a torch slowly being overtaken by the sea.
Diesel fuel spilled and burned, a sheet of fire on the water.

"They'll be able to see that from twenty miles away," Ike said, looking
back at the fire.

"Farther than that, kid," Rob said. He chuckled.

"By tomorrow, they'll be seeing it all the way to Baghdad."

POST-MISSION

Frank Lucan sat on the deck of Bellman, on the port side, in the lee of
the superstructure, doing something he hadn't done in more than a
decade--smoking. He had borrowed a pack of cigarettes from the duty
chief in the engineering section after the mission debriefing, and after
he had sent his men to bed. Frank had been sitting on deck for more than
an hour, smoking one cigarette after another--uncertain why, other than
an unusual uneasiness. The only time he had been disturbed was when the
junior officer of the deck had spotted him and come to ask what he
thought he was doing. Once Frank had identified himself the Junior O.D.
seemed to lose interest. He left with a mumbled, "Carry on."

Pickup after the burning of Georges had taken only twenty minutes.

The helicopter had been waiting on the pad for word from Team Wolf.
Frank had been chilled after his unexpected dunking, and possibly a
little shaken; he had ridden back to Bellman with a blanket wrapped
around him.

Harry Tombs had produced a bottle of Jack Daniels; a couple of sips of
that had taken Frank's chill away. Ike and Beau both seemed worse for
wear than Frank. Ike kept flexing his left arm and shoulder, as if he
were in pain ... though he denied it. And Beau was walking gingerly. He
had been quite graphic about what had been hurt, and how, but refused to
do anything about the injury. "I be okay," he said. "Been kicked there
before."

Tombs had been so delighted with the results of the operation, and
confirmation that all three primary targets had been eliminated, that he
made only perfunctory complaints about the team's failure to try to sink
Georges without burning her. He already had a satellite photograph that
clearly showed the burning ship and--with the use of a magnifying glass
and a little imagination--the smaller boat the SEALs had used, caught at
the edge of the light of the fire.

Frank chain-lit a new cigarette from the old one, then tossed the stub
into the Red Sea. The battle group was headed south again, the official
plan to sail all of the way to the Balal Mandeb, the strait at the
southern end of the Red Sea, before turning north again--to head through
the Suez Canal and the Mediterranean on its way back to the United
States, its six-month deployment over. Unofficially, Bellman would be
operating detached from the rest of the battle group for several days,
not making the trek all of the way south. It would remain within reach
of Port Sudan to support the final operation of the SEAL team.

The kid's gonna be all right, Frank thought. The changes in Ike Jensen
over the past couple of weeks seemed remarkable. He had become a
veteran, self-assured, confident. The nervousness that had been so
obvious at the start had vanished completely. Beau Guisborne and Rob
Rhodes remained as dependable as always.

...? Frank took a deep drag on his cigarette, then shook his head.

That was the problem, and Frank was just realizing that, though he still
didn't have any idea why he was suddenly so uneasy. Maybe I just need
some R and R, he thought. Or maybe I'm getting too damned old for this
shit.

He lit another cigarette and threw the old one overboard.

10

THE BRIEFING

"This is the big one," Harry Tombs said after he closed the conference
room door behind him. "The blow-off." He moved to his usual place at the
table. "Everyone fit?"

No one rushed to fill the silence. Ike's shoulder was still sore, and a
little stiff, but he was certain it would not interfere with his ability
to do his job. Beau had no real pain left from his injury, but the
memory of pain, and a little tenderness in the region that might not
have been completely imaginary, lingered. Frank felt as if he had slept
four minutes instead of four hours. No one would admit, however, he was
at less than one hundred percent. Only Rob had nothing slowing him down.

Tombs took silence for affirmation. He had worked with SEALs before.

"Good. Most of the participants in the terrorist summit won't reach the
site until tomorrow morning, but we have hard intel that the meeting is
on, and that--as hoped--it will be at the Port Sudan location. From what
we have been able to determine, at least nine of the ten heads of
organizations will be there. We know that Faud ibn Landin has left his
refuge in Afghanistan and is enroute, though we don't know his precise
location. He will probably be the last to arrive. The opening session of
the summit will be tomorrow afternoon.

"We'll put you ashore tonight. You'll have to find a place to go to
ground in the hills behind the meeting site. The Sudanese government is
providing heavy security for the terrorists, a full company of soldiers
and perhaps as many as thirty members of the military security police,
the force that provides bodyguards for the president of the
Revolutionary Command Council. The convoy of troops is on the road now,
perhaps an hour south of Port Sudan. A few members of the security
police detachment are already in the city. Others will be accompanying
delegates to the conference overnight and tomorrow morning. And we
estimate that each of the ten principals will have two or three of his
own people along for personal security."

"In other words, the total opposition right at the site could be over
two hundred," Frank said.

Tombs nodded. "With perhaps another twenty or thirty local police
available within minutes, and additional military forces within three
quarters of an hour. We anticipate that the company of soldiers will be
the best, and most reliable, the Sudanese government has available."
"You pack our blue tights and red capes?" Rob asked.

"You'll have what you'll need to get the job done," Tombs said.

"I'm not worried so much about getting the job done as getting out in
one piece afterward," Frank said. "I know what you've got in those
locked crates. But once we hit that conference, the Sudanese are going
to put everything they've got into nailing us. If we leave an RPB on
shore when we go in, the odds are way too heavy they'll find it. And
they'll have troops, ships, and police crawling all along that
shoreline."

"You're right about leaving an RPB," Tombs said. "You won't. I'll be
riding in with you and bring the boat back to the ship tonight."

"That still leaves the question of extraction," Ike noted.

"Once you hit that conference, the need for secrecy ends. The United
States will be ready to take credit for the strike. That means we can
use any resources necessary to get you out. We're preparing for a number
of contingencies." Tombs held up a hand to stave off an interruption.

"That's not just a vague generalization. The primary extraction plan
calls for helicopter pickup, with whatever air cover seems necessary,
including helicopter gunships or fighters off Roosevelt. Bellman will be
in range to use its five-inch gun as well. Bellman will keep any
Sudanese coast guard or naval assets from interfering. The ship's launch
and an RPB will be ready to make a surface pickup. And our friends from
the Aden mission will be joining us within the next few hours. Pompano
will have an SDV in the water with gear for the four of you. That's also
a fallback in case anything goes wrong with any of the other options.
They'll also have a backup team to put ashore if you need
reinforcements."

"No battalion of Marines?" Rob asked.

"No battalion of Marines," Tombs said. "I was told you heroes wouldn't
like it."

"We're not heroes," Frank said, very softly. "Just men doing a job that,
maybe, has to be done. But, since you say that the government is ready
to take credit, ready to use the entire Roosevelt battle group to get us
out if necessary, why not just use them to take out the conference.

Cruise missiles or bombs and rockets from the fighters?"

"You know the reasons as well as I do, Chief," Tombs said. "We want to
be sure we get the people we're after, and bombs and missiles can't be
counted on for that. You know what we've tried in Iraq and Serbia. We
need people in on the ground." "Just to get everything straight," Frank
said.

Tombs slid the target folder for the mission across the table to Frank.
It was considerably thicker than any of the others had been. "This is a
job that has to be done," Tombs said. "If we can take out the leaders of
the ten most militant terrorist groups in this part of the world, we'll
sow confusion in their ranks, maybe save hundreds of innocent lives in
the next couple of years. Maybe it's too much to hope that we might
permanently cripple any of these organizations, but we can chop the
heads off, get rid of the men with the juice, the ideas. That's
especially true with ibn Landin. He's been a thorn in the side far too
long, and the fact that he has seemed to have some sort of magic
invulnerability has just made the man more dangerous. He's a symbol. We
show he's just a man who can be killed like any other, it might take a
little of the starch out of a lot of nasty people."

"'Nough sermonizing," Beau said. "Let's cut to the cheese."

"The meeting will be held in a large villa on the shore just north of
Port Sudan," Tombs said. "The place was built by one of the Egyptian
colonial officials who ran the Sudan while Egypt and Great Britain ruled
the country jointly. The man had grandiose ideas. Construction is stone
and steel. The villa sits on a promontory sixty feet above the sea. The
main building is four stories high, built long and thin to allow for
cross-ventilation before anyone in these parts had air conditioning.
Large dining room and ballroom on the ground floor. The ballroom has
been set up with a large table. That's where the main sessions of this
conference will be held. There are enough bedrooms to sleep all of the
principals and their aides. Part of the security plan is that once
everyone arrives, everyone stays at the villa until the summit ends.
Which makes it convenient for us. The domestic help, cooks, maids, and
so forth, have all been brought in by the Sudanese government, the names
circulated among the major groups coming to the conference for approval.

"On the inland side of the main building, there is a courtyard that's a
hundred feet square. Ten-foot-high walls, four to six feet thick.

Garages and other outbuildings have been incorporated in the wall
structure. Gate house outside the wall. That will be staffed with
security people, and the military will probably have a machine gun set
up somewhere nearby, as well as patrols extending out for several
hundred yards."

"Which means we'll probably have to deal with the army before we can get
at the terrorists?" Frank gave it the inflection of a question though it
was more a statement of what he saw as an unavoidable fact.

"Before or simultaneously," Tombs conceded. "Until you see the
dispositions and movements firsthand, there's no way to be certain. But
it's unlikely that these troops will be prepared for the sort of
concentrated firepower the four of you will bring to bear."

"Blow the crap out of them before they know they're under attack," Rob
contributed.

"Something like that. Which brings us to the assault on the conference
itself. And the contents of those locked crates the chief mentioned
earlier," Tombs said. He smiled. "I know that at least three of you have
fired the XM18 for familiarization." He turned his attention to Ike.
"All but you, Jensen." "Okay, I'll bite," Ike said. "What the hell is an
XM18?" "The XM18 projectile launcher," Frank said. "Picture a Thompson
submachine gun that fires 40mm grenades. Holds eighteen rounds and you
can empty the magazine in five seconds. Same kind of range and accuracy
you'd have with an M79 or M203." He turned to Tombs. "The kid can handle
one.

He's fired other grenade launchers enough."

"I made preparations based on that assumption," Tombs said. "There are
four weapons and three hundred and sixty rounds of ammunition--high
explosive, armor piercing, incendiary, fragmentation. Concentrated
mayhem.

The four of you lay down seventy-two projectiles in five or ten seconds,
you'll have plenty of time to reload, move closer, or whatever else you
need to do before the opposition knows what the hell hit them. As Rob
said, 'Blow the crap out of them before they know they're under
attack.'"

"Takes a lot longer to reload than to empty it, kid," Rob said.

"Figure a minute to eject empties and replace them."

"We'll give you a chance to practice loading and reloading in the
armory, kid," Frank said. "We could all use a little practice before we
go in. It's been ... since the build up to Desert Storm, I guess, since
I handled one of these crackers. I didn't know we had any in stock yet."

"There are a few around," Tombs said. "In brief here's the plan. You go
in tonight, find a secure place to hide, then hit the conference just
after sundown tomorrow, and we pull you out. Then we all go home." "One
way or t'other," Beau said.

THE PREPARATION

Ike Jensen whistled softly as Frank Lucan took the first XM18 out of the
crate and handed it to him. Ike moved the weapon around, looking at it
from every angle.

"This looks almost like a toy, something to shoot Ping Pong balls with,"
Ike said.

"It's no damned toy," Frank said. "It's one serious piece of ordnance. A
little too heavy for regular use. I guess that's why the Teams never
formally adopted them. The first of these we used, some years back, were
as shiny as the ends of a beer can. Glad to see they had the sense to
give us a black finish on these." "Big appetite," Rob said. "Eats ammo
faster'n you can possibly reload."

"Four of these going at once, we might be mistaken for a cluster bomb,"
Ike said.

Beau chuckled, then pulled another of the weapons from the crate. "We
make pretty music, I think," he said.

Frank took Ike's weapon back, and showed him how to open the drum
magazine. "We'll all take some time practicing loading," Frank said.
"Not too bad, once you get the hang of it."

THE MISSION

"We've got one little extra bonus going for us this morning," Tombs said
when the team gathered in a red-lit companionway at 0130 hours. "All but
one of our ops so far have started earlier. Even if the locals are
concerned about something going on, they should be lulled a little by
the time we get close. It's nothing to take to the bank, but every
little bit helps. At the moment, there's a single boat patrolling the
coast off Port Sudan. It's a police launch. We'll time insertion to put
that launch at the far end of its beat, and the captain is going to
provide a little distraction. The ship's launch will be sent off to the
south, close to the three-mile limit. Give the locals something to look
at while we sneak you in." "What about patrols on shore?" Frank asked.

"The security police have set up a checkpoint between the villa and
town, a half mile south of the villa. Closer in, the military has two
outposts manned outside the walls, one off the northwest corner, the
other a hundred yards up the road, toward town. Earlier, they were
running two patrols, five or six men in each, but it appears that
they've been pulled in. At least temporarily. We plan to make landfall
two hundred yards north of the farthest limit they were patrolling
before."

"We trip over a patrol going in, it's going to screw up the whole
mission," Rob noted.

"So don't trip over them. That's supposed to be your forte, isn't it?"
Tombs said.

"Yeah, but just for the sake of covering all the bases, what if we do
hit trouble going in?" Frank asked.

Tombs hesitated for what seemed to be an extraordinarily long time
before he replied. "Cover your asses and call for extraction. We'll do
whatever we have to in order to get you out. But that would leave a lot
of people very unhappy. You get spotted going in and the conference is
sure to be moved or cancelled, and we might not have a second chance. We
may never get another opportunity this good to bugger these
terrorists--especially ibn Landin. Washington wants him badly."

"Not as badly as we want to keep our butts in one piece," Frank said.

Waiting to board the RPB that would carry them to shore, the four SEALs
looked as if they might have been posing for an editorial cartoon
lampooning the military. Each man was heavily weighted down with weapons
and ammunition--far more than a normal combat load. Each man carried an
XM18 with its drum magazine loaded, and bandoleers and pouches carrying
another fifty-four projectiles each. Rob and Beau also carried M-16
rifles with two of the hundred-round double drum magazines, and the
team's two radios. Frank and Ike carried Uzis with spare magazines.
Everyone wore night-vision goggles, knife, and pistol as well, and,
since they would be out for nearly a full day, the men had to carry
canteens and rations. They wore desert camouflage BDUs and slouch hats,
with visible skin painted in three colors.

Tombs looked at his watch. It was 0158 hours. "Time to go," he
whispered. Tombs was wearing a pistol on a web belt and carried an Uzi
slung over his shoulder. He was going only as far as shore, and would be
bringing the boat back. His position during the following twenty hours
or so would be in Bellman's CIC, the team's liaison with the battle
group.

The men filed out on deck single file and went to the Jacob's ladder
leading down to the RPB that Bellman's crew had already deployed. The
ship's launch had been lowered and started out on its mission of
deception fifteen minutes earlier. Climbing down to the RPB so heavily
loaded took extra care on the part of the SEALS. This was not the time
to fall.

Shedding enough weight quickly to avoid drowning was an exercise none of
them wanted to attempt.

Harry Tombs was the last man to step into the boat. He sat at the rear,
near Beau Guisborne, who would handle the RPB on the way in. Above, on
Bellman's deck, the junior O.D. flipped a salute at the men as the boat
pulled away.

Tombs wore a radio headset, to monitor traffic between Bellman and her
launch for anything that might affect the insertion of Team Wolf. Low at
his side, he kept clenching and unclenching his right fist, his only
show of nerves ... and he did all he could to keep any of the SEALs from
noticing. He was not overly confident of the outcome of this mission.

There was simply too great a chance of something going wrong. At the
moment, his concern was over getting the job done, and getting the team
back out safely afterward. Earlier, alone in his cabin aboard Bellman,
he had allowed himself a few moments to consider the personal importance
of the mission. If they succeed, I've got it made at the Agency. If they
blow it, I might as well submit my resignation right away; I'll be done
anyway. He had fought the urge to go ashore with the SEALS, take part in
the assault on the terrorists, do what he could to help insure that it
was successful. But that would have been an unforgivable indulgence. It
was far more important for him to spend the time on Bellman, make sure
the men ashore got any intelligence that came through and--even more
important--make sure they were retrieved when the time came. Extraction
might prove extremely difficult, even if they were totally successful
decapitating the terrorist Hydra. Besides, he had forced himself to
admit that he was not even close to qualified for this mission. It's
their pidgin, as the Brits say, he had told himself.

Frank sat in his usual spot at the bow of the RPB, scanning the shore
and water with binoculars. His hands had quit the trembling that had
started during his smoking marathon the night before. Frank had smoked
almost the entire pack, most of it in chain fashion. He still wasn't
sure why, or at least couldn't admit that he did, not even to himself.
He had smoked the last two cigarettes from the pack after a late
breakfast, then had brushed his teeth and gargled. After that, he had
not even felt an urge to smoke again. Good thing, he decided. I might
need my wind before this job's over.

Rob found it unusually difficult to concentrate on watching his side.

An edge of anger kept trying to dominate his thoughts, and he wasn't
certain what he was angry about, or who it was directed at. His dislike
for Harry Tombs had been instantaneous and nothing had happened to
mitigate that, but Rob had made the necessary allowances; Tombs did, at
least, seem to be competent. The terrorists? They were the enemy, but
faceless and nameless, even though Rob had studied the photographs of
the ten leaders expected to be at the meeting and gone through the names
enough times that he could recite them from memory if necessary. The
Navy? The Teams? His team mates? Rob shook his head, trying to force
himself away from the distracting thoughts; emotion had no place on a
mission. Just mad at life, maybe, he thought, and his eyes started
sweeping the horizon again.

Beau paid attention to the job at hand, as always. He knew that his team
mates considered his laid-back attitude a pose, and that was when he
dwelled on it, which wasn't often--a laugh. In realistic terms, there
was no place else he would rather be than in the Navy, in the Teams.
Sure, there might be fantasies of a glamorous life in professional
sports or in acting, but those had always been fantasies. This was a
life that Beau knew he was good at. So maybe I don't live to a ripe old
age. Maybe I wouldn't live so long--fishing, or living on the streets
back home. You take your chances. He had dismissed the thought that just
maybe, this was a mission that not everyone would come back from.

Ike was worried, but there was a difference. This time, he wasn't
frightened, or nervous about the mission and how he might perform. He
was worried because he couldn't completely submerge the tingling of
excitement, anticipation, that he felt heading in for what would almost
certainly be the most dangerous mission he had been on in his time in
the SEALS. I don't want to be a combat junkie, he thought. He remembered
one of the instructors at BUD/S who had seemed to get an almost sexual
release from remembering and talking about his experiences in Grenada,
Panama, and Iraq.

I don't want to get like him, ever!

"The deception seems to be working," Tombs said in a loud whisper.

"The police launch is tagging along, staying right with Bellman's boat,
about three quarters of a mile to the side. They're a good seven miles
south of us now."

Beau's response was to open the throttle a little more, give the RPB an
extra mile per hour. The boat was still two miles from shore. The villa
where the summit meeting was to take place was thirty degrees off the
port bow. The villa was marked by several lights in windows, and a small
searchlight was playing over the ground on the shore side of the
complex.

Something Tombs didn't mention, Frank thought, as he watched the
operators moving the beam of light. We'll have to take that out with the
first volley.

Frank turned his attention farther north, toward the landing area they
had chosen, more than a half mile from the villa. The searchlight should
be no problem getting ashore and up the slope to the area where they
would go to ground to wait for the next sunset. There was no sign of
movement, no lights, nothing but rock and a few scrubby trees and bushes
close to the edge of the sea.

We'll have an hour and a half, maybe a little more, to find cover and
get settled in, Frank thought, scanning higher on the rocky slope behind
the narrow coastal ledge. After that, it'll start getting light. There
were several possible locations. The last time Bellman had passed Port
Sudan in daylight, Harry Tombs had taken a number of photographs with a
massive telephoto lens. It was just a matter of getting to the spots
they had seen on those photographs, and making certain that they were
indeed suitable. It was hard to determine the depth of any of the holes
from the flat pictures.

Frank shifted his search again, looking along the shore toward the
villa. There might be a patrol on the near side, or the men in the
sentry post at the northeast corner of the compound might be looking
with binoculars, even their own night-vision gear. He bent forward a
little more, though he was already nearly as low as he could get in the
boat. If they were seen going in, there would be no point in trying to
go forward with the mission. They would have to abort. If they could.

Two hundred yards from shore, the RPB moved past a projection of land
that cut them off from direct observation of the ground in front of the
villa. If they didn't see us before, they won't see us now, Frank
decided.

He scanned the shore directly in front of the boat, then lowered his
binoculars and checked the safety on his Uzi. The next ten minutes will
tell the first tale, he thought, whether we're going to have a chance.

Beau did not ease off on the throttle until the boat was within thirty
yards of land, then he twisted it all of the way down to idle. The boat
nosed against shore. Frank was first out, grabbing the painter to hold
the boat steady while the rest of his team climbed out of the boat.

Tombs had taken the tiller from Beau. As soon as the last SEAL was
ashore and Frank had pushed the RPB, starting it into a turn, Tombs put
the engine in reverse and held the tiller over for a moment, then
started the RPB forward again, away from the SEALS. There were no words
of farewell.

The four SEALs went prone above the overhanging shore, clear of the mud
at the edge of the sea. Although time was critical, Frank took five
minutes to assure himself that they were not walking into a trap, that
there were no hostile forces waiting to open fire. He also picked out
the route he intended to take, scanning along it for any obvious
difficulties.

Finally, he got to his feet and started moving forward, in what was
nearly one fluid motion. He was conscious of all the weight hanging from
his body, the extra burden it represented, but that could be borne. They
were not going to make a twenty-mile hike or a six-mile jog.

The land they had to cross was empty. They might have been hundreds of
miles from the nearest outpost of civilization instead of little more
than half a mile. Even close to the edge of the sea, this was desert,
rocky more than sandy, but with grit blowing on the breeze. An
imaginative person might almost be able to think it was the Martian
landscape rather than a part of Earth that had been inhabited for many
thousands of years.

Frank moved as carefully as he could. A careless step, on a rock that
might shift, could lead to a twisted ankle, or worse. And there was a
chance--remote though it might be--that the Sudanese troops had put out
listening devices against the possibility of intruders.

The others followed, spreading out but staying on the same line, two to
three yards between men. Ike, Rob, Beau--every man focused entirely on
the job at hand. They were professionals. There was no time for anything
else, not if the mission was to be successful ... if they were all to
have a chance of getting out alive.

From the start, the trek was uphill, gently at first, then on an
increasingly steep grade. Fifty yards from the water's edge, the slope
was twenty degrees, and it got worse soon after. The switch from walking
to climbing was almost imperceptible. It became convenient to
occasionally use a hand on the rocks ahead and above to move. Then it
became essential.

Frank had started to angle to the left before that point. Going south
would be more difficult the higher the SEALs got. And even starting as
soon as he did, there came a point when Frank had to concede a few yards
of altitude to find an easy route to get around a jutting outcropping of
rock.

After twenty-five minutes, Frank sat down. He needed a break, a chance
to take some of the weight off. Two minutes, he promised himself as the
others also sat or squatted. Just two minutes. They could not afford to
rest much longer than that, not before finding cover that would protect
them through the day.

Frank did not need to consult his watch, but got on his feet a few
seconds short of two minutes after he had stopped. Another sixty yards
up, he thought, looking for the best route. Maybe a hundred yards
horizontally. On the flat, it would have taken less than a minute, even
loaded down with eighty or ninety pounds of gear. In the dark, on this
slope, it might take all of the hour they had left before they had to
start worrying about the first lightening of the sky in the east.

He took one more short rest--less than a minute--after they had covered
slightly more than half of the remaining distance. His legs ached.

The muscles on the backs of his calves and thighs felt as if they had
been strained almost to the breaking point.

A few feet behind, Ike told himself, It's still not as bad as Hell Week
at BUD/S. It was the fourth time that thought had intruded on his
concentration. He felt as if he were drowning in sweat despite the
breeze in his face, a breeze that had strengthened over the past ten
minutes.

When Frank got up and started moving again, Ike groaned mentally ... but
he got up and followed without complaint.

The last twenty minutes were almost entirely vertical. There was no
doubt at all that this was mountain climbing. Handholds and footholds
were readily available, but each had to be tested before anyone could
put all of his weight on it. At the end of that stretch, there was a
narrow, rising ledge, three to six feet wide, that led toward the areas
that Lucan and Tombs had circled on the photographs.

"This will do," Frank said, after a cursory look inside the first hole.
It was not really a cave. Part of the face of the hill had fallen,
leaving an overhang above and a number of large fragments in front. It
would shield the four men from observation except from one angle, from
the air, and if a helicopter or airplane came anywhere near, they would
have time to duck into better cover among the rubble in front of the
gouge.

"Just look carefully before you sit or lay down," Frank added. "I don't
know just what kinds of snakes we might run into, but you can bet your
ass they'll be mean and poisonous."

"As if the snakes with feet aren't bad enough," Rob whispered, peering
into the darkness of the hole, trying to see everywhere at once. "I
don't like snakes."

"And, for God's sake, if you do see one, remember not to use a gun on
it," Frank said. "Give it a chance to get out if you don't feel up to
taking it with a blade."

The warning was enough to set all four men to poking very carefully
about the limits of their hideout. Ten minutes of searching turned up
nothing reptilian, which let them all breathe a little more easily.

"I'll take the first watch," Rob offered. Snakes were his weak point.

His fear of them approached phobia. It had almost washed him out of one
survival course the Teams had sent him on, in the jungle of Costa Rica.

"Okay, two hours," Frank said. "Wake the kid then. By the time he gets
his time in, it'll be daylight." He paused. No one saw his grin in the
darkness. "That's when the snakes start getting active."

"Very funny," Rob muttered.

Even without mention of snakes, Rob would have had no difficulty staying
awake. The adrenaline rush of a mission guaranteed that. Perhaps if he
had gone for two or three days without sleep it might have been
difficult, but not for less. He lay down his XM18 and stripped off the
bandoleers of projectiles as well as his canteens and the pack with his
MREs. After that, he felt almost light enough to float away.

He moved outside the sheltered overhang and prowled around for a few
minutes, carrying his M-16, looking for the best vantages and checking
out the immediate vicinity for threats and possibilities. He was careful
about exposing himself to view from below, and especially from the area
of the villa. With Sudanese soldiers on site, someone might be searching
with night-vision gear.

Routes in. Routes out. Zones of fire. Looking for those was a reflex.
Know where the enemy might come at you from. Look for ways to evade the
enemy or get in position to counterattack.

Once Rob was confident that he knew the layout, he got in position on
the ledge and kept watch with binoculars, studying the disposition of
forces in and around the villa. He was high enough to have a good view
inside the courtyard walls. He saw five men come out of one of the
secondary structures built into the wall, leave through the main gate,
and relieve the fire team on duty at the nearest guard post. The men who
were relieved went into the building the others had come out of.

There's a target to remember, Rob thought.

Frank was surprised to find himself waking just after sunrise--surprised
because he had not expected to sleep, certainly not soundly enough that
he had not wakened at every real or dreamed noise in the night. He
pushed the night-vision goggles up off his eyes, then took them off and
rubbed at his eyes for a moment. He stretched in place, then rolled over
and got up, slowly. Ike was out on the ledge, his attention somewhere
below. Rob was sitting on a rock under the overhang, looking around
within the hideout, as if he were still uncertain that the SEALs were
not sharing their hole with any snakes. Only Beau appeared to be still
sleeping.

"The head's about ten yards south," Rob said when Frank got to his feet.
"If you stay low, there's no chance of anyone seeing you from the
villa."

"You get any sleep at all?" Frank asked.

"Not so's I could notice. You and your damn snakes."

"Sorry about that, but they are a danger here. Why not catch some
shuteye now. The rest of us will make sure nothing crawls into your
pants."

"Maybe later. I don't really feel the need yet."

"Suit yourself, but you'd better get some sleep today."

Frank went out on the ledge and stretched out next to Ike. "Any activity
yet?" Frank asked.

"They changed the guards about twenty minutes ago," Ike whispered. He
did not take the binoculars away from his eyes. "I think the first
contingent of the day just arrived. Three men in an old British
jeep--Land Rover. There's a boat patrolling two hundred yards offshore,
running back and forth, about a mile past the villa either way. Two
heavy machine guns on deck, a half dozen men in uniform visible."
"Police or navy?" Frank asked, looking out over the water for the boat.
It was not in sight at the moment.

"Police, I think," Ike said. "Can't be sure, though."

"Right. Go give Beau a kick. Tell him it's his watch."

"I'm awake," Beau said. Frank turned his head. Guisborne had not moved.

"Then get out here," Frank said. "Take your watch. We've got a room with
a view. Enjoy it. I'll relieve you."

The first Sudanese helicopter flew overhead an hour after sunrise,
heading north from Port Sudan. The SEALs did not actually see the
aircraft. As soon as they heard it, they pulled back into the best cover
they could manage. The helicopter appeared to be following the ridgeline
west of the overhang that sheltered the intruders. Ten minutes later,
the sound returned, then faded away to the south.

It was fifty minutes later when it came back. That established the
pattern. The helicopter passed over twice, ten or fifteen minutes apart,
more or less each hour throughout the day. The actual interval varied.

Activity on the ground increased as well. Patrols of ten to twelve
soldiers followed the shoreline north from the villa for a mile, then
moved inland to the last easy trail on mostly flat rock. They went south
to a point just past the villa, then went back inside the courtyard. A
few minutes later another squad--the SEALs assumed that the patrol duty
rotated among squads--came out and made the same trek. A different
group, only occasionally visible, patrolled south of the villa. That
duty seemed to be divided between soldiers and the security police
detail.

Different groups of people arrived at unpredictable intervals during the
morning. Shortly before noon there was a major commotion in the
courtyard and around it. Troops were rousted from the buildings where
they were billeted, and formed up into ranks. A large Mercedes, preceded
and followed by Land Rovers with machine gun-armed guards, drove into
the courtyard. Several men, apparently officers, came to attention as a
rear door on the Mercedes opened and a thin man dressed in a camouflage
uniform got out.

Rob Rhodes was manning the binoculars at the time. "Hey, it looks like
the big cheese just arrived. That has to be Landin." He passed the
binoculars to Frank, but the chief didn't get a chance to verify the
sighting. The helicopter was approaching again and the men had to
retreat out of sight.

The ledge was shrouded in deep shadows more than two hours before
sunset. After the heat of the morning and midday, shade gave at least
the illusion of coolness for the men waiting for the coming of night.
The rocks around them no longer seemed to be radiating more heat than
they received, and there was an occasional hint of breeze around them.

All four SEALs had managed to get at least a little extra sleep, though
the routine passages of the Sudanese military helicopter meant that no
slumber went undisturbed for long.

"One little SAM," Rob muttered after one flyby. "Why couldn't we have
brought along one little SAM to take care of the odd buzzard?"

"Because we couldn't have settled for just one," Frank said. "We'd have
wanted enough to take care of three or four fighters as well. Maybe a
torpedo to eliminate their navy, too. If that thing's still buzzing
around when we get ready to strike, keep your eyes open for a chance to
pop it."

He gestured at Rob's XM18. "It would make a pretty show."

Rob looked at the weapon. "Yeah, it would." He tried to calculate just
how difficult the shot would be--whether it would be worth the effort.

Maybe, he decided. It would depend on how fast the helicopter was
moving, how close it was, altitude ... and luck. On the plus side, any
kind of hit was almost guaranteed to bring a small helicopter down.

Sleeping, watching. In between, the men cleaned their weapons to make
certain no sand or dust would clog the action when the time came. They
drank enough water to keep from getting dehydrated. Leg cramps could be
a major distraction, and in the desert heat, they were all too possible.

The shadows moved toward the sea, across the villa, finally out over the
water. Just after 1900 hours, several men came out of the main building
of the villa in two groups. They walked around in the courtyard,
stretching, looking at the sky, apparently talking among themselves--the
groups separate. These were not soldiers or security police, but the men
who had come to the conference.

"One's the Hezbollah guy, with two of his guards, I guess," Beau said.

He was the one on duty with the binoculars. "I think the other group's
the Libyans, but I can't be sure. I can't see their faces."

"The only thing we have to be concerned with now is if any of the groups
leave before we hit," Frank said. "We want all the chickens in the
roost."

"Nobody moving for any of the cars," Beau said.

"Just stretching their legs after a long session of planning how to kill
women and children," Rob suggested.

He moved back a couple of steps, deeper under the overhang, as he heard
the helicopter coming south again. The others moved as well. This time,
the helicopter was flying slowly along the shoreline instead of along
the ridge. It was less than a thousand feet above the water, moving in a
zigzag pattern. Looking for folks like us coming in, Beau thought. This
was the best view the SEALs had had of the helicopter all day. They
could see machine guns mounted in the side doors of the aircraft,
uniformed men hunkering over the weapons, looking for targets.

"We're gonna have to deal with that, one way or t'other," Beau said.

"Looks that way," Frank conceded. "Just something else to remember when
the time comes. At least there are no rocket pods on that chopper."

"There might be more than one of them," Ike said. "We don't know it's
been the same bird flapping back and forth all day. Could be two or
three, taking turns."

The helicopter moved out of sight to the south, past the villa, toward
the city. The SEALs continued waiting.

Lights were on in many of the rooms of the villa. Outside, the soldiers
had moved their searchlight to the shore side. The light was moving
slowly across the water, out to about two hundred yards, looking for
waterborne intruders. The earnestness of that search gave Frank a
feeling of relief. They don't have any idea we're already here, he
thought.

They're watching for anyone coming in. It might give the team a few
extra seconds of surprise when the attack started. Perhaps the first
response of the forces guarding the villa would be to look for attack
from the sea.

That confusion would not last long, except by the wildest chance, but
seconds could make the difference between success and failure ...
between life and death. And the SEALs wanted every fragmentary assist
they could get.

Except for the man on watch, the SEALs held off donning their
night-vision goggles for as long as possible--as long as there was any
remnant of daylight out on the Red Sea within their sight. The equipment
was second nature for the SEALs--so much of their work was done in the
dark--but there was something about the retreat to the green-glow world
of infrared vision that gave the men pause. It was different, going from
daylight to night rather than starting on a mission when it was already
dark. Not a man in the team could have explained what that difference
was, or why it affected them, but each of them felt it.

One by one, though, they slipped the night-vision gear over their heads
and plunged into the world of green light and shadow. The time for
action was approaching.

"We work our way down and to the right," Frank reminded the others as
2100 hours got near. "From the recon photos, it looks as if we'll have
good cover until we get within two hundred yards of the villa. That's
close enough for the XM18s. We'll spread out as much as we can without
losing sight of each other, and I want all four of us popping the
trigger at the same time when we start. When we do open up, Ike, you and
I will concentrate on the troops and police guarding the place. You
handle the people on the right, I'll take the left. The guard posts
outside the villa, the searchlight and machine guns, then we work on
that building inside on the south that they seem to be using as a
barracks. Rob and Beau, start working on the main building right from
the start. Get your range and do as much damage as you can. Go for
windows and doors as much as possible, that's easier than trying to
knock holes in stone walls, even with the rounds we've got. Ike and I
will add our bit as soon as we can."

"What's the cut-off?" Rob asked. "When do we stop worrying about blowing
the hell out of that compound and start worrying about getting our asses
out of harm's way?"

"We're going to have to play this by ear," Frank said. "Bellman will see
the first explosions and know it's time to get ready to lend a hand.

Once we don't have to worry about radio silence, I'll get on the horn
and make sure Tombs knows what's going on. Even if we knock out all the
security at the villa in the first few seconds we can't count on having
more than five minutes before the Sudanese get more troops in. The
helicopter, whatever they've got on the water, and more. So we need to
save some of the popcorn for that."

"We supposed to go inside for a body count, or to ID the targets?" Ike
asked.

"Much as Tombs would like confirmation, we only go through the villa if
that looks like the safest route home," Frank said. "Tombs can get his
information wherever he's been getting it before. We're not going to try
for fingerprints and pictures." Wherever he's been getting it: Frank had
spent some time wondering about that. The intel had been so accurate
that he suspected much of it had to be coming from ibn Landin's inner
circle, someone who knew where and when the renegade millionaire was
going to move.

Maybe someone in the villa with him now, Frank thought. If he hasn't
found a way to get himself out.

"There's the helicopter!" Ike whispered. "Out over the water again.

Must be a half mile out." The others looked, saw the beam of the light
the helicopter was shining on the surface of the Red Sea. "They're still
looking for somebody coming in."

"Helicopter, police launch, and that searchlight on shore," Rob said.

"Might make the assault easier for us, but it's gonna complicate the
hell out of getting home."

There had been no synchronizing of watches. The attack had been planned
to start at about 2130 hours, but the exact time remained up to Frank.
He kept looking at his watch, let 2130 slip past. 2135. 2140.

The team had been ready for a half hour. Everyone had slipped back into
their field gear, donned the bandoleers of projectiles, web belts, and
the rest of it. Their trash, the remnants of the meal packs they had
eaten during the day, had been concealed under rocks; there wasn't
enough loose dirt or sand close by to bury the garbage properly.

"Let's go." Frank got to his feet and started along the rough ledge
leading south from their hideout. It was 2146 hours. He pushed his
wristwatch farther up on his left arm so that the luminous dial could
not give them away.

Ike was second out, followed by Rob and Beau. They had all looked over
the first part of the trail they would follow during the day, knew where
the obstacles were. But as soon as they were forty yards away, they were
on ground they had not been able to see, feeling their way along the
side of the rock-strewn slope. Frank moved slowly, stopping occasionally
to look ahead, trying to find the best route. He did not want to get to
a dead end and have to backtrack.

Somewhere out to sea, Bellman would--Frank assumed--be moving closer,
getting into position to provide cover with its deck gun, and to launch
boats to come in to pick up the SEALS. Pompano would be out there as
well, perhaps just more than three miles out; the SDV was probably out
of the DDS already, maybe no more than a few hundred yards offshore,
waiting to find out if they would have to make the pickup. Roosevelt and
the rest of the battle group were farther away, at least a hundred miles
from Port Sudan, but it would not take fighters from the aircraft
carrier long to get to the scene if they were needed, even if they
weren't already in the air as part of the battle group's normal air cap.

It might get hairy, but we'll get out, one way or another, Frank
thought. He needed the reassurance, and hoped that he wasn't lying to
himself. By this time, a few minutes past 2200 hours, all of the battle
group's assets should be on alert and watching for the first sign that
the attack on shore had started.

Something moved near Frank's feet, scooting out of the way, under a
rock. Frank did not see what it was, but had the impression that
whatever the animal had been, it had moved on feet. Lizard or rat,
something like that, he thought. Not a snake to spook the Farmer. The
barest hint of a smile flitted across Frank's face and quickly vanished.

He kept moving.

It was just after 2230 hours when Frank decided they had reached the
best location they were likely to find. He motioned for Ike to move past
him, then gave Beau the signal to hold his place. The team spread out
across thirty yards. They were near the bottom of the slope, behind the
last cover to hide them from anyone looking out from the positions
around the villa. From here, they would have to slide into firing
position on hands and knees, perhaps even on bellies.

Frank waited until the others were as spread out as he wanted, then
started moving slowly toward their target. It was an awkward
crawl--slightly downhill, around one large boulder and into position
between two rocks that were each about the size of Volkswagen Beetles.

Give them a few more seconds to get ready, Frank told himself. His would
be the first shot. As soon as the others heard the sound of that, they
would pull the triggers on their projectile launchers. That first volley
should hit in a tight bunch, and after that, they would work through the
magazines as quickly as they could line up targets.

Frank took aim on the machine gun post at the northeast corner of the
villa. He had the gun itself in sight, the slight motion of heads behind
the waist-high barricade of sand bags about a hundred and seventy yards
away. He adjusted his aim, then counted silently to three.

Now!

Frank pulled the trigger, felt the recoil, heard the sound of the shot.
He moved the XM18 back into position and sent a second round on the same
trajectory, before the first had a chance to reach the target, before he
heard the reports of the other projectile launchers.

Total concentration. Barely controlled chaos. Fire and smoke.

Noise, an all-out assault on ears and nerves. Frank concentrated as
tightly as he had ever concentrated on anything as he moved his aim from
one target to the next, methodically, being as efficient in his
movements as possible. He kept pulling the trigger until his XM18
clicked on an empty cylinder. It had been no more than seven or eight
seconds since the first explosion.

Frank ducked back, opening the drum magazine as he moved, shaking the
weapon to dump spent casings. He started pulling new projectiles from a
bandoleer, shoving each into place. His fingers trembled a little as he
reloaded. He was halfway through the task when he realized that all of
the other XM18s had stopped firing as well. Everyone had to be reloading
at the same time. He could hear gunshots from the villa, and around it,
but the enemy didn't seem to know where the attackers were yet. The
gunfire was ragged, uncoordinated. Blind.

When Frank finished reloading and lifted his head to look for targets
again, he could see that the bombardment had already had considerable
effect. There were several small fires burning inside the main building,
and a larger blaze from the smaller building that the soldiers had been
using as a barracks.

Frank was more selective about targets with the second magazine of
projectiles. He looked for concentrations of soldiers or police, but
sent most of the rounds into the villa's buildings. He used his radio to
call Harry Tombs, and left that connection open. He had attention to
spare for more of the team's surroundings as well, and spotted the
approaching helicopter when it was still a half mile away, its
searchlight feebly reaching out toward the hillside behind and above the
SEALS, looking for targets from too far away.

"The helicopter!" Frank shouted, uncertain whether any of his men would
hear his warning.

The helicopter had not quite reached the villa when it suddenly
exploded. The range was too extreme for any of the XM18s to have reached
the aircraft.

"One from the fleet," Tombs said over the radio. "You've got three
Tomcats in range. They'll handle the gunboat too." "Give them my
thanks," Frank said, keying his transmitter just long enough for the
sentence. It was time to reload his weapon again.

"Work your way toward shore, a hundred yards north of the villa," Tombs
instructed as Frank filled the last chamber in the XM18. "Two
whirlybirds coming in, one for pickup, one to ride shotgun.

"Take us five or ten minutes," Frank said. "There's still a little
opposition between us and the water." "Ten minutes will work out fine,"
Tombs said. "We're getting great pictures. Doesn't seem to be anyone
getting away from the villa." "Any reinforcements on their way in?"
Frank asked.

"Not close enough to worry about yet," Tombs said.

A grenade exploded fifty yards in front of Frank, close enough to make
him duck, too far to be overly threatening. There were still soldiers
ready to fight.

"Time to shag ass," Frank said. He was talking to himself, not over the
radio. "Ike!" he shouted. "Let's go!" "Aye!" Ike shouted back. "I'm
ready."

As soon as Ike reached Frank, the chief motioned him on toward the
north. "We go out around that side of the villa. Our ride home is on the
way in, with cover."

They picked up the other two men on the way, and kept moving. The SEALs
did no firing once they started leaving their positions. There was still
some gunfire behind them, but nothing that came close enough for any of
them to notice. Several grenades went off, getting closer to the
positions they had evacuated. Within the courtyard, there was a major
explosion as the gas tank on one of the vehicles parked there cooked
off.

Thirty seconds later, a section of wall crumbled from the main building,
falling into the courtyard, exposing the fires burning inside. Hell on
Earth, Rob thought, stopping for a second to look.

Once the team moved away from the cover of the scree and boulders at the
base of the hill, a few of the villa's defenders spotted them.

Automatic rifle fire came at the SEALS. They went to ground, turning to
face the enemy. A dozen forty-millimeter projectiles slowed the rate of
incoming fire for a few seconds, but not long enough. There were more
men coming at them.

An explosion behind the SEALs dropped bits of stone among them. It was
followed by another explosion, just seconds later.

"Hell, they've got a mortar working on us!" Rob shouted. "Must be coming
from behind the main house."

"More men coming in from the south too," Ike said.

The villa was fully engulfed in flames now, fire spouting through
doorways and windows, smoke curling around the eaves. One section of
roof collapsed inward, sending a torrent of sparks up and out. Night had
disappeared from the area. The fire was so bright, and hot, that the
SEALs all pushed their night-vision goggles up onto foreheads. It was
easier to see without them.

"Hey, Tombs, we're not going to be able to get down to the shore," Frank
said into the radio--not quite a shout. "We're going to have to pull
back, try to work our way north and west, away from all the shit here.

They got their reinforcements in faster than we expected." "Working on
it already," Tombs said, almost calmly.

"Frank, look toward the main gate." That was Rob. A small group of men
was moving away from the gate, due west, toward the slope about fifty
yards south of where the SEALs had been forced down. "That's ibn Landin
in the middle. I got a good look."

"Aw, shit," Frank said under his breath. He keyed his radio transmitter
again. "The big cheese is making a break for the high ground, Tombs. Him
and maybe a half dozen others. Looks like he's running, and not back
toward the city."

"Can you get him?" Tombs asked.

"Get these other bastards off our backs and we'll try."

A dozen separate fires were burning in and around the villa, casting
dancing shadows. The SEALs heard the popping sounds of ammunition being
ignited by the flames. Twice they heard gasoline tanks explode. In the
distance they heard the growing wail of sirens, pulsed tones moving
closer.

"The helicopter crews have your position located," Tombs reported over
the radio. "The gunship pilot suggests you move farther north,
immediately."

Frank did not question Tombs. He simply got his men up, and started
jogging. With so much of the ammunition for the XM18s already expended,
the men all felt considerably lighter--more than could rationally be
explained by the precise weight of that ammunition.

Twenty-five seconds after Tombs's warning, Frank and Ike spotted twin
fiery streaks coming out of the darkness over the sea. Two missiles
smashed into the main building of the villa and exploded inside. Through
that noise, they heard the rapid stutter of a gatling gun, ripping
across the level ground through the nearest group of Sudanese soldiers.

Although the SEALs were two hundred yards from the rocket blasts, they
all instinctively dove to the ground and covered their heads at the
sound, before debris started to rain down around them.

"Come on. We've still got work to do!" Frank shouted, after just a
couple of seconds. Lighter bits of debris were still coming down.

"They're heading straight for the top of the hill," Rob said. "Must be
about a dozen of them now."

"That bastard must have planned an escape route," Frank said. The team
was moving again, heading west now, climbing the slope again, hurrying
as fast as they could. "A bolt hole, some kind of transportation."

The four men gave little attention to the scene behind them now, no more
than an occasional glimpse--as often as not unintentional. Ike was the
only one who saw the helicopter gunship explode, a hundred yards from
shore, hit by a surface to air missile fired from somewhere in the
vicinity of the burning villa.

The villa and the ground around it could have passed as some wildly
morbid vision of the gates of Hell. Explosions and fires, dirty clouds
illuminated from within, orange and red flames curling around each
other.

Tracer rounds streaking through the night, up and down. The defenders on
the ground had not been destroyed, despite the mayhem that had been
dropped on them. Beyond there were the sounds of distant sirens. More
troops were approaching. Two helicopters came up from the south, and
these were hostile, not friendly. Over the radio, Tombs relayed news
that the Sudanese had scrambled two of their precious few Mig fighters.

Near the top of the slope, the SEALs had to stop for a moment, mostly to
catch their breath. All turned to look back down toward the sea.

"Sweet Jesus," Rob whispered, his voice hoarse and labored. He was
having trouble sucking in enough air. "How can anyone live through
that?"

Frank lifted his head--a little. "Not our problem. We've still got ibn
Landin to get. You see where they went?"

"No. Lost sight."

"They be seventy--eighty--yards south, maybe a bit higher than us," Beau
said.

"Can't leave them above us," Frank said, pushing himself back to his
feet. "Let's go."

The plateau was a rocky wasteland with virtually no living plant life
that the SEALs could see. They had all donned their night-vision goggles
again. Away from the flames, the night seemed darker than it ought to
be.

Distance muted the noise behind the SEALS, dull thumps and thin cracks.
They were able to hear the Sudanese helicopters coming in low over the
plateau before they saw them. The helicopters were close before the lead
bird turned on a searchlight and started moving it back and forth across
the rocky terrain.

"What happened to the Tomcats that were Supposed to keep off enemy
choppers?" Rob asked.

"Too busy worrying about the Migs," Frank said. "We're going to have to
take care of these birds ourselves."

"Are they after us or looking to pick up ibn Landin?" Rob asked.

"Either way, we've got to stop them," Frank said.

"I've only got one grenade left in my XM18," Ike said, "and I think
that's incendiary." "I've got two HE," Frank said, looking at the drum
magazine of his projectile launcher." Rob?"

"Zip."

"Beau?"

"Two, one frag, one HE."

"It'll have to do. Let's go. And keep your eyes open for the bastards on
the ground." Frank got up and took the point, heading south.

He moved cautiously but fast, darting from one bit of cover to the next.
The broken rock field atop the plateau gave plenty of protection.

It was almost a maze. The SEALs moved a little farther inland, away from
the precipice and--Frank hoped--a little farther from the group of armed
men with ibn Landin. Take care of the choppers first, Frank told
himself.

We can worry about the men on the ground afterward. While he led his men
south, he kept one eye on the helicopter he could see clearly, the one
with the searchlight.

He almost didn't see the second helicopter before it was too late.

That aircraft had circled around on the east. It came in low and fast,
without lights. It was within two hundred yards before Frank saw it and
yelled, "Hit the deck!" just as the helicopter's machine guns opened up.

The gunfire was too accurate to be random. The gunner had to be
operating with his own night-vision system.

Ike had been on the right flank. He was the man nearest the helicopter.
For a couple of seconds, Ike could scarcely hear the sounds of gunfire
over the pounding of his own heart. Bullets had come far too close for
comfort. Ike was so pumped up that he didn't even realize that his right
arm had been nicked by one of the slugs. There was no pain yet, just the
first real gut-twisting fear he had ever experienced. A convulsive
shudder. Ike sucked in a deep breath and pressed his eyes shut--just for
an instant. When he opened his eyes again, he lifted up on one knee,
bringing his XM18 up into firing position, tracking the blinking lights
of the machine gun in the waist of the helicopter. The round was barely
away before Ike dropped the launcher and swung his Uzi around into
position.

The explosion seemed to catch him by surprise, a hundred feet up and
little more than sixty yards away horizontally, as the incendiary round
exploded inside the helicopter. Ike ducked, wrapping his arms around his
head as flaming debris erupted from the aircraft.

Beau was the only SEAL who did not duck. As the glare of the explosion
lit up the sky, he raised up, aiming his XM18 at the second helicopter,
farther away. He pulled the trigger twice, as quickly as he could make
aimed shots, before dropping behind a large boulder and rolling as far
under its edge as he could. He felt something burn his back, but the
feeling was transient. It was several minutes later before it returned,
and he realized that he had been hit.

Frank ducked, moved around the side of a rock, away from the debris,
then crawled forward, coming up to his knees just as Beau stopped
moving.

Neither of Beau's projectiles had hit the second helicopter. They fell
back to the ground before detonating.

Frank fired one HE round, and waited--unwilling to use the last round
unless it was necessary.

It wasn't. The first round hit the nose of the last helicopter and blew
it out of the air. There was no fire, but the aircraft started to rotate
under its rotor, spiraling into the rocks. The larger explosion didn't
come until the helicopter hit the ground.

Frank started moving back, scooting along the ground. "Everyone okay?"
he called in what amounted to a stage whisper.

"Yo," Rob said. "Hey, Beau's hurt." "I be okay," Beau said.

Frank moved toward the voices. Beau had crawled back out from under the
edge of the boulder. He was lying on his stomach, and Rob was bent over
him.

"How bad?" Frank asked.

"Looks like somebody pressed a fucking iron against his back," Rob said.
"Piece of wreckage from the first chopper, I guess. Looks nasty, but
he'll live."

"I be okay," Beau repeated.

Ike reached the others. Frank looked up and saw the wet, sticky area on
his right arm. "What happened to you, kid?" Frank asked.

"What?"

"Your arm." Frank pointed. Ike reached up with his left hand and touched
the spot, then pulled his hand away and looked at the blood on it.

"Shit, I didn't even know. Can't be bad."

"Let me look," Frank said.

Beau moved around, sitting up, flexing his back and shoulders as if
testing his limits.

"Just a scratch," Ike said as Frank leaned close to his wounded arm.

"What about the bad guys? We've still got work to do." "Yeah, man," Beau
said, using his rifle as a prop to help him get to his feet. "Got to do
them 'fore they do us. They be here, close. I kin smell 'em."

"You need a shot for pain?" Frank asked.

"Later."

"Leave the launchers here together," Frank whispered. "We get a chance,
we'll retrieve them later."

Who's hunting who? Frank wondered, as he started moving again. He put
Beau and Ike in the middle. Ike's wound was insignificant, but Frank
didn't want to take chances with the young man. His nerves might be
about shot, Frank thought. Let him look after Beau. That left Rob on
rear-guard.

Frank had lost all track of time. He wasn't certain how many minutes had
passed since they had first taken on the helicopters. Dealing with the
aircraft and then the wounds had robbed the chief of the time. Glancing
at his watch didn't help. It told him the current time, but not how much
had passed.

Where are you, Landin? he asked in his head. Are you running to save
your ass or coming after us? Were the helicopters your ace in the hole?

Or do you have something else here?

The questions did not detract from Frank's alertness. He moved slowly,
cautiously, stopping after almost every step, listening hard for any
sounds that didn't belong. His eyes kept moving, scanning the terrain
ahead and to either side. The barrel of his Uzi moved with his eyes, an
unconscious mimicry that meant that if he did spot anything, the
submachine gun would already be pointed in the general direction of any
target.

Beau, second in line, was a little to Frank's left as well as three
yards behind him. Beau moved with his teeth gritted against the growing
pain of the burn on his back. When the eyes started to tear up he had to
stop and rub the tears away--a few dangerous seconds of less than full
attention. God, we got to get this over fast, he thought.

Ike's wound had started to sting, but it was only a minor irritant, more
a wonder to the youngest member of the team than anything else. I got
shot and didn't even feel it. That amazed him. He was a little to
Frank's right, but only two steps behind Beau, close enough to catch him
if he started to fall. How can he keep going with that? Ike wondered. He
had seen how severe the wound on Beau's back was. The burn went through
the skin to the meat below.

Rob let himself drift farther back than he usually would have on
rear-guard, leaving more than ten yards between himself and the two men
in the middle. He ranged a little more freely from side to side as well,
looking for a better angle, looking for any extra edge to help him see
their targets before the targets saw them ... and started shooting
first.

It was a near thing.

Rob saw--or thought he saw--a hint of movement off to his left, no more
than thirty yards away. He shouted, "Down!" as he pivoted and opened
fire with his M-16, just as at least six men started firing toward the
SEALS. Rob dropped to the ground in what was almost slow motion, his
finger riding the trigger of his rifle the whole way, spraying bullets
across the muzzle flashes. He heard bullets whiz by, heard them chipping
rock, felt splinters of rock against his face. He also heard someone
scream--one of the terrorists.

By that time, the gunfire was general. The other SEALs were firing back.

Rob did not wait around. He started crawling away, back north, going as
quickly as he could on hands and knees. There had been no orders, no
communication at all with Frank. But with the two groups so close
together, there was no time for that. Rob wanted to get an angle, flank
the terrorists--get somewhere he could have a clear shot at them.

He needed five minutes to get into position. He climbed up on a rock,
careful not to expose himself any sooner than he had to. He could see
five men seventy yards away.

Ducks in a pond, he thought as he switched the selector on his rifle
from automatic to single shot. He rested the barrel of the M-16 on the
rock and lined up his first target. There was so much noise going on
that the terrorists might never notice that one gun was shooting from
ninety degrees away from the rest.

One bullet, one body. Rob fired quickly but accurately, working his way
down the line. Four men went down before anyone even thought to look his
way. The fifth man went down as he brought his AK-47 around to bear.

There were more of the enemy, out of Rob's view, but they were fully
occupied by the other SEALS. Rob could make out the sound of the two Uzi
submachine guns, combining to make a sound almost like a buzzsaw.

Then Rob heard a man start shouting in Arabic. Rob could not see him, so
he missed the finale.

Frank had started trying to work his way around to the right, unaware
that Rob was moving left. He was unable to get far. There was an open
space, and the enemy had it marked too closely for him to make it
across.

Frank gave up the attempt. When he heard the report of single shots from
an M-16 at some distance, he guessed what had happened, and worried less
about his own ability to flank the enemy. He put a fresh magazine in his
Uzi and worked to keep the terrorists pinned down.

Ammunition was getting short. Frank only had two more thirty-round
magazines, so he was as sparing as he could be of it. A second single
shot. A third. Frank knew how good Rob was with a rifle, even if the
M-16 wasn't a usual sniper weapon.

Frank raised up a little higher than he had been, and got off a short
burst at one of the men shooting at him. Got him! There seemed to be
only two or three of the terrorists still firing.

He ducked back down and brought the radio to his mouth. "Tombs! You
ready to get us the hell out of here?"

"Soon as you give the word it's safe to bring a chopper in, Chief."

"Getting close. Just a couple hostiles left here, I think."

"You get ibn Landin?"

Frank almost missed Tombs's question.

Bullets started hitting all around him, coming from his right--the
south. Frank fell flat and twisted around, yelling for Ike and Beau to
watch out as he moved.

Two men were running straight at Frank, firing their AK-47s on full
automatic, screaming as they raced toward the SEALS. Frank started
firing back, spraying across the two men. For impossibly long seconds,
nothing seemed to touch the running men. Frank heard an M-16 firing past
him from behind, also on full automatic--Beau. And Ike's Uzi joined in
almost as quickly.

Still the two men came on, as if they were untouchable. They were within
thirty feet of Frank before one of them fell. The other kept coming.
Frank's magazine went empty. There was no time to reload. He dropped the
Uzi and drew his pistol, but he knew he was not going to have time to
get it up before the last terrorist--ibn Landin himself, Frank
realized--got to him.

Frank could see the murderous rage on the Saudi terrorist's face, a
hideous contortion of his features. He was screaming unintelligible
words.

Frank got up on his knees, ready to rise to tackle ibn Landin.

"Down, Chief!"

Frank dropped and Ike Jensen moved up level with him, firing point blank
into the terrorist. Frank could see where a half dozen bullets hit,
stitching a pattern across ibn Landin's chest. The man stumbled. The
muzzle of his rifle drooped, then the weapon fell from his hands. Two
bullet holes appeared in his face and ibn Landin stumbled again, then
fell.

He twitched several times, then his entire body was wracked by a massive
spasm before he quit moving.

Half a minute or more passed before Frank realized that all the shooting
had stopped. Slowly he got to his feet, never taking his eyes off the
dead man not more than three yards away from him. It wasn't until he
heard someone stumbling around behind him--noisily--that Frank turned.

Beau was doing the stumbling, a crooked hesitation step. His rifle
dragged on the ground. His head was tilted back, as if he were studying
the stars. "I got the last one," Beau said, his voice sounding dreamy.

Then he collapsed, falling heavily to his knees. Before he could tip
forward and fall on his face, Ike got to him and eased him more gently
to the ground.

Frank reached for his radio again, but there was only wreckage left.

"Kid, you still got the backup radio?" Ike found it intact and handed it
to the chief. "How's Beau?" Frank said.

"Been shot. Bullet in the side. I'll get pressure bandages on," Ike
said.

"Farmboy?" Frank shouted.

"Yeah. Coming."

Frank keyed the transmitter. "Come and get us, Tombs."

POST-MISSION

"You did it. You really did it." Harry Tombs stood over the body the
SEALs had brought back with them. The corpse was lying in the
companionway at the aft end of Bellman's superstructure. Beau and Ike
were already being tended to, ready for transportation to the better
medical facilities aboard the aircraft carrier.

"It is him, ibn Landin, isn't it?" Frank asked.

"It'll take a couple of days for a positive ID, but I don't think
there's any doubt," Tombs said. "I've spend hours staring at photographs
of him."

"Funny thing is, he could have gotten away again," Frank said. "If he
hadn't tried to come after us, he could have survived, gone back into
hiding."

"Maybe he was just too pissed off at what we'd done to think straight,"
Rob suggested. "We rained all over his little parade back there."

"Crazy, pissed off, or just too damned fanatic to stand seeing his plans
destroyed," Tombs said. "Let's get him into a body bag so the helicopter
can take him over to the carrier. They can keep the stiff on ice there
until we get home." "We going home now?" Ike asked.

Tombs nodded. "The job's finished. All but the celebrating."

"Too bad we don't get all that reward money the government was offering
for this bastard," Rob said, giving the corpse a nudge with his toe.
"Five million bucks."

Tombs chuckled. "I can't get that much for you, but I think the Agency
will be able to cover the price of a damned good celebration and a
month's leave to give you a chance to recover from the celebration." And
there would be a little more. Tombs had discretionary funds at his
disposal. I'm going to come off smelling like a million-dollar rose, he
thought. I can spread a little of it around.

EPILOGUE.

Two weeks had passed. The SEAL team had been airlifted directly to
Roosevelt. Beau and Ike had spent three days in the ship's sickbay
before the chief medical officer approved transferring them to a
hospital ashore--at the American facility on the island of Diego Garcia.
Frank and Rob had been "treated and released" but had made the trip with
the others, as had Harry Tombs. Another four days passed before the team
was flown back to the United States in an Air Force jet that refueled in
flight.

The final debriefing had taken place at CIA headquarters in Langley,
Virginia. Beau and Ike remained under medical attention for another
week.

Frank and Rob were returned to duty.

Frank's first action was to report to Lieutenant Holman's office.

Holman's yeoman sent the chief straight in.

After the two men exchanged salutes, Holman came around the desk and
shook Lucan's hand.

"I'm glad to see you all made it back, Chief," he said. "The Agency
seems to think you did okay."

Frank grunted. "Nice of them to say so," he said, in what was nearly a
growl.

"The press is going wild with speculation."

"I've seen some of it," Frank admitted. "We're not saying anything,
right?" "No comment across the line." Holman nodded and smiled. He went
back to his chair and said, "Take a load off, Frank. If I had a bottle
here, I'd offer you a drink."

"That's okay, Lieutenant. You can owe me." Frank sat and stretched out
his legs.

"The White House has no comment. The CIA has no comment. The State
Department has no comment. The Department of Defense has no comment."

Holman leaned back in his chair and chuckled. Then he lit a cigarette.

"The folks on the other side are sure commenting. They're bitching all
over the place." He took a deep drag on his cigarette. "Beautiful,
Frank.

Worth the price of admission." "Glad you think so, sir," Frank said,
slightly annoyed by the skipper's exhuberance. Frank found no joy in the
memories. Men had died, even if they were "the enemy."

"I'm not going to ask you to tell me anything you're not supposed to.

I've just got one question to ask. How did the spook stack up?" "Tombs?"
Frank paused, weighing his answer. "He's a cold-blooded bastard, but
I've got to give him one thing. He took care of us." In the end, that
was really all that mattered.