The Devil's Waters

CHAPTER 23





On board HC-130 Broadway 1

6,000 feet above the Gulf of Aden

The team cheered LB’s call with fist pumps. Just as important as his survival, they all liked their chances better now with him at large under the pirates’ noses. LB was—Wally could describe him only one way—LB.

Wally propped a whiteboard across his lap. He drew a bad facsimile of a cargo ship, resembling a spearhead. He made stick figures for pirates.

Around him in the rumbling bay of the HC-130, Doc put the team through a final op check. Communications were tested, weapons function okayed. He dug into fanny packs and rucks for flotation devices, 228 mm lights, tourniquets, med supplies, flashlights, night-vision goggles. Doc pounded on body armor and counted ammo magazines. The target was ninety minutes out.

Doc shot Wally a thumbs-up. Wally gathered and seated the team. He pulled off his headset to shout the briefing, trusting his own voice more than the team intercom to be sure every word was heard.

He began with the dimensions of the freighter. Two hundred meters long, thirty meters wide. Nine meters in height from the waterline to the rail, twenty-seven meters from the top of the superstructure to the surface. Her max speed was twelve knots because of a busted piston.

He handed out the brochure photos of the Valnea.

“She’s got no containers on deck. Lots of room for the targets to spread out, but expect them to be along these corridors, here at the stern, on the bow, and flanking the bridge. LB’s going to get us better intel on number and location of the guards.”

Jamie shouted, “Any info on the hostages?”

Wally answered quickly, to be definitive. “No.”

The team nodded unhappily.

“Listen up. We are not on a CSAR op. This is search and destroy. I want clarity on this. We’ll do what we can for the hostages. But we’ll follow orders, and we’ll get home. Any questions, ask them now.” No mouths opened. “All right.”

He continued into the mission brief. Weather over the target remained clear. Seas one foot, water temperature 75°F. Winds at sea level seven knots southwest.

The HC-130 would go black sixty minutes out. Zero hour approximately 0110. Chutes on at zero minus thirty. The stack would be Wally at the bottom, then big Quincy, Jamie, Dow, Mouse, and Doc as team leader. Fifteen-second intervals between them on landing.

Wally propped the whiteboard on his knees for the team to see. He set a finger on the port wing beside the pilothouse.

“This is our LZ. It’s thirty feet long, ten feet wide. Nine stories above the water, and it’s moving at twelve knots.”

Quincy carped, “That’s a shit Z.”

The team chuckled. That broke some ice.

“Anyone who misses the ship will get picked up by Robey. He and his team will be in the water with the RAMZ five minutes before we jump.”

Doc called out, “At least his team’ll be there. Can’t speak for Robey.”

Quincy barked, “All the more reason to hit the shit Z, guys.”

Wally didn’t laugh with the team. The LT was green, and this was a tough first mission. Wally had more hope than confidence in the young CRO.

Doc leaned forward to stab a finger at the port wing, on the stick figure there.

“That a guard?”

“Yes.”

“That a problem?”

“I’m at the bottom of the stack. I’ll secure the LZ.”

“How?”

“I’ll kick him in the head.”

Doc settled back. “Oh.”

Mouse raised a hand. He shouted, “I missed that. Did you just say you’re gonna kick him in the head?”

Wally drew a small circle on the whiteboard. He tossed the panel on the deck between him and the team.

“To be a member of the jump team at the academy, you had to cover a three-inch dot with your boot ten times in a row.” He planted one heel over the circle. “To run the team, you had to do it twenty times. I ran it. I’ll kick him in the head.”

He plucked the board off the deck. “The moon won’t be up when we land, so it’ll be plenty dark. If we’re lucky, we’ll be on station before anyone inside the bridge spots us. Quincy, when you get down, help the others behind you. There’s gonna be wind on that wing. Dow and Jamie, the moment you’re out of your containers, you take defensive positions here and here. As soon as we’re all down, Dow, you lead Mouse by this catwalk”—Wally trailed a finger behind the bridge, along a platform running beneath the smokestack—“around to the starboard wing. You’re the backstop. Doc, Jamie, and Quincy stay with me on the port wing. We’re the assault team.”

Doc, Jamie, and Quincy knocked fists. Mouse and Dow did the same.

“When everyone’s in position, on my signal, we move on the bridge. If the doors are locked, we shoot out the windows on my mark and unlock them. Dow and Quincy throw flashbangs, then we enter. Doc heads for the exit in the rear of the bridge, behind the chart room. Cut off retreat to the stairs. Dow and Mouse handle any targets who head for the starboard wing. Pirate strength inside the bridge is unknown. We’ll wait on LB for that. We don’t know who else might be inside, so take down only armed and identified targets. When you do, shoot to kill.”

Once control of the bridge was established, the team would take up defensive positions to hold it. Wally would pull back on the throttle and stop the ship’s progress toward the Somali coast.

“That should keep the Reaper off our backs.”

Next, two teams would fan out over the ship to locate and free the hostages, then mop up pirate resistance. Once the ship was secure, Wally would radio the trailing warship Nicholas. A pilot would be sent over to turn the freighter around and guide it to Djibouti.

Jamie asked, “If any pirates surrender, can we take prisoners?”

“Yes.”

Every PJ looked relieved. Wally made no mention, per his orders, of his lone task to eliminate the pirate chieftain Yusuf Raage, whether he surrendered or not.

“That’s it. Rest up.” Wally checked his watch. “Zero minus eighty.”