8: DÉJÀ VU

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 100-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.

RPD

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 hill-sides 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 in was cool—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 some thing 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 stem 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 afteraction 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.