Battlecraft (2006) s-3 Read online

"And I am Muharno," came the reply from the other, who was a heavyset man wearing a greasy merchant marine khaki uniform. "I bring you French mortars." Then he added, "At least that is what they tell me."

  "Have you inspected the cargo?" Bashir asked in a worried tone.

  "I have not," Muharno answered. 'The customer was very explicit about that. You will notice that the sealing wax around the crates is unbroken."

  "That is good for both of us, brother," Bashir said in relief. "I fear I could not accept anything that had been opened."

  "There are twelve crates," Muharno said. "Everything is proper and in order."

  During the conversation between the two captains, the crew of the Jakarta had opened the forward hatch and lowered a cargo net into it. The crewmen below muscled two oblong crates into the device, then signaled for it to be hauled up.

  Muharno turned as the crane motor came to life. The cables creaked through the pulleys and within moments the net appeared from the hold. The crane swung the load over the dhow and gently lowered it to the smaller vessel. The crewmen removed the crates and stacked them into place on the deck. The unobtrusive figure of Hafez Sabah, special agent of al-Mimkhalif, stood in front of the dhow's wheelhouse watching the operation. He was there to observe the first delivery he had arranged with Abduruddin Suhanto of the Greater Sunda Shipping Line. Sabah carefully noted the condition of each crate as it was lifted from the net.

  Within a half hour, all twelve crates of mortars were placed in such a way as to evenly distribute their collective weight of half a ton. The two captains once again turned their attention to each other. "Our hold is now empty," Muharno reported.

  "The shipment tallies correctly," Bashir said. "All is well."

  "We will see you on the next trip."

  "I look forward to it, brother," Bashir said. "May Allah watch over you."

  "And over you. Farewell"

  The lines were cast off the Jakarta, and the Nijm Zark's helmsman kicked his small ship's ancient engine into life, maneuvering away from the freighter. When the dhow was clear, he hit the throttle and turned onto the course for their next rendezvous, which would be off the coast of Pakistan.

  Bashir joined Sabah by the starboard rail. The captain showed a wide-gapped, toothy grin. "I think this new system will work well for us, brother."

  "We shall see," Sabah said. 'The Indonesian shipper is worse than an infidel. He has fallen from Islam."

  "May Allah cast him into Hell to be roasted by Satan!"

  "Such a fate is written for those who turn their backs on the merciful and benevolent Allah," Sabah said. "Now I want to inspect the cargo."

  The wooden vessel, its sails furled, continued under engine power toward its destination.

  .

  MERRITT ISLAND, FLORIDA

  11 SEPTEMRER

  1000 H0URS LOCAL

  THE three Brigands had gone to their reserved rooms at the Radisson Hotel in Cape Canaveral to wait for the arrival of the engineer who would make a detail technical inspection of the ACV.

  They had to endure almost seventy-two hours with nothing to do before the phone call they had been waiting for came through. It was Harry DuBose passing on a message to them.

  'That Navy engineer is here with a crew," the inventor told Lieutenant Bill Brannigan. 'They got in day before yesterday and really crawled all over the Waterflyer."

  "Why wasn't I notified of their arrival?" Brannigan asked angrily.

  "The engineer said there was a lot to do before you'd be needed," Harry explained. "They didn't even go to a hotel. They've been with the Waterflyer since they got here."

  "I see," Brannigan said, thinking the engineer and his crew were among those dedicated nerds who sucked up nourishment from technical manuals and circuit boards.

  "Anyhow, they seem to like the ACV, and they went right to work making alterations. They say they're ready for y'all to come on out here for another ride."

  "Why are they making alterations?" Brannigan asked. "As far as I know, the vehicle hasn't been approved for government purchase."

  "I don't know," DuBose said. "But they want to see you."

  "Right. We'll be there in twenty minutes."

  Brannigan hung up, then dialed up Cruiser's and Dawkins's rooms to roust them out.

  .

  1030 H0URS LOCAL

  AFTER arriving at the DuBose compound, the SEALs parked and went around the house to the dock. Brannigan and his two companions were surprised to see that a dozen people were crawling all over the ACV installing instrumentation and other equipment. But they were particularly unnerved by the sight of a beautiful young lady clad in the khaki uniform of a lieutenant junior grade. She was slim with honey-blond hair and blue eyes that had a slight Oriental cast to them.

  "Good morning!" she said brightly to the arrivals who were dressed in civilian clothing. "I'm Lieutenant Rivers, the engineering officer assigned to this project."

  Jim Cruiser had a silly grin on his face. "I'm Jim. Jim Cruiser, that is. Also a lieutenant JG."

  "Veronica Rivers," the young woman said, giving her first name.

  "I'm Lieutenant Brannigan," the skipper interjected. "And this is Senior Chief Dawkins."

  "I understand you are SEALs," Veronica said. "And that this ACV will be going on a mission."

  "You're a few steps ahead of us at this moment," Brannigan said. "We haven't made our report yet."

  "I called mine in last night with my complete approval," Veronica said. "I was told to inform you that you wouldn't be going back to Coronado. Orders are being cut assigning you to this ACV. Your whole detachment is included."

  Senior Chief Dawkins glanced at Brannigan. 'They must have a mission lined up for us, sir."

  "That's a fact," Veronica said. "When I came into the Navy I never thought I'd be going on a real live SEAL operation."

  The senior chief scowled. "What do you mean, going on a SEAL operation?"

  "I've been assigned as the navigations and weapons systems officer," Veronica said.

  Cruiser's grin grew slightly sillier. "Well! Welcome aboard!"

  "Thank you," she replied.

  Brannigan nodded toward the other people working on the vehicle. "I didn't think the crew was going to be this large. And it doesn't look there's room for that many people. Especially if a SEAL detachment has to be aboard too."

  "Don't worry, sir," Veronica Rivers said. "Only two of them--the helmsman and the turbine technician--will stay as crewmen. The others were sent down to take care of their particular equipment. The two DuBose brothers are also lending a hand."

  "I see," Brannigan said. "Let's go over to the ACV and you can give us the Cook's tour so we can see what you've done so far."

  They crossed the dock and stepped onto the Waterflyer. The busy people paid them no mind as Veronica led the SEALs into the cabin. They saw a cramped but efficient design that included four bunks and one head for nature's calls. However, it was obviously not designed to be lived aboard for any great length of time. A small refrigerator and microwave oven were situated on the port side that served as a tiny galley. Just to the front of that was a table with benches bolted to the deck.

  "That would be our wardroom, would it not?" Jim Cruiser asked.

  "Yes," Veronica answered. "Such as it is. That door on the stern bulkhead leads to the engine room. It's a very tight, compact space ."

  Brannigan turned his attention forward. He noted three leather chairs located in front of the instruments on the small bridge forward of the galley and bunks. One, a leather swivel model, was to the rear and slightly higher than the others. Veronica walked over and patted it. 'This is your position, Captain," she informed him, following the custom that the skipper of a vessel always be addressed in that manner even if he actually ranked lower. She next touched the starboard seat. 'This is where I sit to do my navigational-and-weapons-officer duties. I also man the chain gun during combat operations. The weapon is aimed by radar and fires 30-millimeter rounds at six hundre
d twenty-five rounds a minute."

  Brannigan nodded. "It's obvious the port chair is for the helmsman." He noted the pair of control yokes for manipulating the variable-pitch airscrews, as well as the foot pedals used for the rudders. The throttle was to the right of the sticks. "What about the rest of the ordnance? Who's the designer?"

  "That'd be me, sir," Veronica said. "It's all installed and the technicians have returned to their home stations. I'll operate it all from my position at the chain gun." She took them out to the deck and pointed to two weapons wings that had been added to the sides of the cabin. Each held three pods. "The first is a Penguin antiship missile," Veronica explained. "An AIM-9L antiaircraft missile is mounted on the second, and the third sports a seven-round 2.75-inch rocket launcher. All this is aimed inside by me from my station. I have combination radar and laser target-acquisition systems. I also spew out chaff and flares to throw off incoming enemy ordnance when appropriate."

  "This was all done pretty fast," Brannigan remarked. "When we arrived here on the eighth, this was pretty much an empty shell."

  "We've been working around the clock, sir," Veronica explained. "And a lot of this weaponry and equipment comes in kit form."

  "I'd like to meet the two crewmen," Brannigan said.

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  The two sailors left their tasks when summoned and formed up as directed by the female JG. Brannigan walked up to them, stopping in front of the first. "Name and duties."

  The sailor, a short blond man with intelligent eyes, presented himself. "Petty Officer First Class Paul Watkins, sir. I'll act as the helmsman as well as assist Lieutenant Rivers to navigate, maintain charts, and plot courses."

  "Very well, Watkins." As Watkins stepped back, Brannigan turned his eyes on the second sailor, who was a kid with a happy-go-lucky expression on his face. "And you?"

  "Sir, I am Petty Officer Second Class Bobby Lee Atwill," he responded in a marked Southern accent. He was covered with grease and oil, and was as short as Watkins but darker and more easygoing in appearance. "I'm the turbine system technician. I run and fix our engine."

  "Have you developed a rapport with it as of yet?" Brannigan asked.

  "Yes, sir," Atwill answered. "I sure have. What we have here is the Argentine Poder-Ventaja system. The DuBose guys helped design it, so they got with me and we took her apart and slapped her back together." He shrugged. "Well, not completely apart, but enough that I got to know her really good."

  "What's your opinion of the power plant?" Brannigan asked.

  "Cap'n, I'd marry her if I could," Atwill said.

  Brannigan grinned at the kid's obvious enthusiasm. "I don't think Navy regulations permit that, Atwill, but you can go steady with her if you want. Is she ready for a trial run?"

  "Gimme a couple of hours more, sir," Atwill said. "There's some last-minute tuning to do."

  Brannigan checked his watch and glanced over at Veronica Rivers. "Let's take her out at fourteen hundred hours. Will we be able to play war with her?"

  "Can do, Captain," she answered.

  .

  1400 H0URS LOCAL

  BRANNIGAN, Cruiser, and Lieutenant Veronica Rivers situated themselves in the cabin, each taking their respective positions, while Atwill went aft into the small engine compartment. Veronica prepared herself for a simulated fire mission with the weapons system. Brannigan settled into his chair directly behind Watkins, who sat eagerly in the helmsman position.

  "Let's take her out," Brannigan said. He picked up the intercom. "Engine room, what's your status."

  "Everything is a go, sir," Atwill replied.

  "All right then," Brannigan said. "Watkins, show us your stuff."

  "Aye, aye, sir!" The helmsman hit the starter, and the strong vibrations from the gas-turbine engine could be felt as it kicked to life.

  "Left full rudder," Brannigan said. "Ahead one third."

  "Left full rudder," Watkins said. "Ahead one third, aye, sir." He manipulated the transmission and clutch levers to engage the airscrew and lift fan. He turned rudder and airscrews for a port turn and pushed the throttle forward from stop to one-third speed ahead. The ACV moved smoothly in the direction indicated, easing away from the dock.

  "Steady on course," Brannigan ordered.

  "Steady on course, aye, sir," Watkins replied straightening up with some deft manipulation of the controls. They moved over the water and to the inlet that allowed access to the Indian River. A trio of sailboats was to their direct front, and was allowed to move out of the way before the Waterflyer went to the channel in the river.

  "I've been told we can't really open her up here," Brannigan said. "Too bad. Left full rudder and follow the channel markers."

  Watkins eased them into the channel marked by the square red and round green markers. He played with the controls a bit to familiar himself with them.

  "Half speed."

  "Half speed, aye, sir."

  It took only moments before the Waterflyer moved down the river, spewing out a spreading cloud of mist around her. The rate of travel was a steady forty miles per hour according to Watkins's electronic speed indicator. Rivers began running a drill with her system, picking out various targets on both the river and land. Her lock-ons registered quickly and exactly, and she turned to Brannigan with a thumbs-up signal.

  The skipper felt confident and optimistic as they continued down Merritt Island and past the town of Cocoa.

  .

  THE short shakedown cruise had proven a success. The Waterflyer needed no more than some minor tuning from Bobby Lee Atwill's skilled hands to have the Poder-Ventaja gas turbine humming at top efficiency. All other navigational, observational, and weaponry systems checked out to Veronica Rivers's satisfaction.

  As soon as the vehicle was tied up at the dock, Brannigan led his crew into the shop for a briefing. After getting sodas out of the refrigerator, they settled down around the electronic work bench.

  "Okay, people," the skipper began. "The first thing I'm going to do is change the name of this ACV. Waterflyer is too candy-ass to suit me. It sounds like some kind of bug."

  Senior Chief Buford Dawkins sighed in relief. 'Thank God, sir! Have you thought of another name?"

  "I sure as hell have," Brannigan replied. "From now on the name of our sturdy vessel will be the ACV Battlecraft. Get used to it. We're all in this together."

  Lieutenant Veronica Rivers took a swallow of her Diet Coke. "Do you remember that last line in the movie Casablanca when Claude Raines and Humphrey Bogart were walking off together in the fog? This looks like the start of a beautiful friendship.'"

  "That does seem apropos at the moment," Brannigan commented. "At any rate, I want Lieutenant Rivers, Atwill, and Watkins to go back aboard and button down their equipment. Make sure it'll be ready for the next run. We'll be taking the ACV Battlecraft out on the Atlantic Ocean."

  "Aye, sir," Veronica said.

  The helmsman and turbine technician followed her back to the dock while the SEALs stayed behind. Brannigan summed up their collective mood. "This is going to be a hell of a lot different than anything the detachment has done so far."

  Cruiser shrugged. "As long as Lieutenant Rivers and those two guys do their job, we'll be all right."

  "I don't have a problem with that," Dawkins said. "The Battlecraft is basically our transportation to and from missions. We jump off, kick some ass, and jump back aboard again."

  "It's a bit more than that," Brannigan said. "If we're caught at sea, we may have to use the weaponry to save our asses." He finished his can of soda. "I hope Lieutenant Rivers understands that."

  "It wouldn't hurt to have a word with her, sir," Dawkins suggested.

  Brannigan walked from the building to the ACV, stepped aboard, and joined Veronica in the cabin. He nodded to her. "You seem satisfied with your systems."

  "I am, sir," she replied. "They responded to today's testing with flying colors."

  "Keep 'em that way, Lieutenant," he said. "There's a g
ood chance we might need 'em for something as fundamental as pulling ourselves out of some real deep shit."

  Veronica turned and looked up at him. "I fully realize that, sir." She hesitated, "I hope you don't have any misgivings about having a female weapons officer."

  "My wife is in the Navy, Lieutenant," Brannigan said. "She's a pilot stationed at North Island." He walked to the door. "See you later."

  "Later, sir."

  .

  PAKISTAN

  BALUGHISTAN PROVINCE

  12 SEPTEMBER

  MIKAEL Assad was the most popular man in al-Mimkhalif's Camp Talata. His aggressive attitude and good-natured personality made him likable to his comrades in the terrorist organization. He was eager to please, hardworking, and considerate of others. Assad was short but powerfully built, demonstrating extraordinary physical strength. On the other hand, one significant impression he gave was that he was not very bright. However, he seemed to recognize this shortcoming and showed a determination to make the best of things. He always sought the advice and guidance of the older mujahideen, and never argued about misunderstandings that arose from time to time in the demanding camp routine.

  He was also an American.

  Assad could speak only a stumbling brand of Arabic due to his home environment. He was the second generation of his family born in the United States, and he had grown up speaking mostly English. But he tried hard to acquire Arabic in his own bungling way, and he struggled faithfully to learn to read the scrawling written version of the idiom under the tutelage of his camp mates. There were many who considered this latter attempt a lost cause, but he labored so diligently over his lessons that they encouraged him to continue.

  As one older mujahideen said; "Perhaps Allah in his wisdom and mercy will reward our brother Assad with a flash of intelligence and comprehension. If he is not brought deeper into the faith, he will not be martyred when he dies in battle."

  .

  0930 H0URS LOCAL

  WHEN the overloaded Toyota pickup truck arrived at the camp with a load of crates, Mikael Assad dropped his Arabic lesson book and rushed over to help unload the vehicle. It was tough work, since each of the crates weighed in excess of forty-five kilos. Most of the men teamed up with another and made only one trip from the truck to the supply shack. But Assad took a total of three muscle-cramping turns toting the weapons by himself. When he put the final one on the stack, he went back to the truck and spoke to the driver.