Keith Douglass - Seal Team Seven

Mason thought about the hearings on the U.S. Navy SEALs still going on up in Washington and wondered how much weight Kerrigan's faction now carried on Capitol Hill.

The entire future of the SEALs might have just been settled once and for all, and settled with all of the finality of a door slamming shut.

2310 hours (Zulu +3)

U.S.S. Nassau

Off Ras Asir, Somalia

"Hey, Skipper?"

"Hello, Mac. Whatcha got?"

Murdock was standing on Nassau's port-side elevator, which had been lowered to the hangar deck position. At his back, through the cavernous maw opened in Nassau's sheer, vertical side, lights glared from the overhead over a tangle of helicopters and AV-8 Harrier jump-jets. The aircraft were packed so closely that their order could have made sense only to the ship's "Mangler," the officer in charge of moving aircraft about the interior of the huge amphibious assault ship and up the elevators to the flight deck above. The sense of chaos was heightened by the men serving the machines, and by the dozens of low-slung "mules," vehicles that served as shipboard jeeps and tow trucks, skittering among the shadows.

It was more peaceful out here, Murdock thought, leaning against the elevator platform's safety railings beyond the spill of light from the glaring cavern of Nassau's interior. Twenty feet above the dimly seen froth of the LHA's wake, he could hear the hiss of the water against the assault ship's hull, the powerful throb of her screws astern.

"I don't mean to disturb you, Lieutenant," MacKenzie said. He sounded hesitant.

"No problem, Chief. Come on out and enjoy the view."

The view was spectacular, and one Murdock never tired of. Though the ship itself cut off half of the sky, the other half, visible to port, was a glory of stars undimmed by city smog or street lights. Aft, half a mile astern in Nassau's wake, the running lights of LPD 4, the U.S.S. Austin, added red, green, and white exclamation marks to the Milky Way's glowing message.

"Thanks, Lieutenant," MacKenzie said, walking up and delivering a salute that Murdock returned. He was wearing a chief's khaki uniform and flat black-billed cap with a CPO's anchor-and-USN insignia, both acquired at the ship's store just that afternoon. "I got the guys bedded down. Weapons stripped and cleaned, gear stowed. The ship's store was able to provide dungarees or khakis for everyone."

"That's good." Murdock plucked at his own new khakis, distinguished by the railroad ties on the collar, and by the officer's eagle, shield, and crossed-anchor insignia on the cap. "I was beginning to think we were going to be running around in our wet suits for the rest of the cruise."

Mac looked off into the darkness astern. "Hey, maybe you can tell me. Scuttlebutt says one of those slants we scooped up was a tango. Know anything about that?"

"Sorry, Chief. They haven't told me a damned thing."

It was true. Murdock had heard the same stories, spreading now among the enlisted men and junior officers aboard the Nassau, but no one had been able to confirm them, and when he'd asked the intelligence officers they'd simply smiled and politely told him that their investigations were continuing, and that he would be informed if there was anything about the rescued men he should know.

"I get the impression we've been sent to Coventry, Sir."

"It's possible, Chief. I wouldn't worry about it, though. You and the men all did everything that was expected of you, and more." He grinned, though he didn't know whether MacKenzie could see his expression in the poor light. "If anyone gets the axe for the Sun Hammer screw-up, it'll be me."

"Screw-up, Sir?"

"Hell, yeah, screw-up. We didn't get the freighter, did we?"

"We locked up the Jap computer and we fucked up their starboard propeller shaft. That counts for something, Sir, don't it? And we brought back those two slants. Even if neither one's a tango, that's bound to give G-2 some pretty solid intel on what's happening on that ship."

"Maybe. But we failed to carry out our orders, Chief. That's something CO-NAVSPECWARGRU-Two and CO-MIDEASTFOR don't like to hear. Especially with so much riding on it."

He'd spent most of the past twenty minutes watching the stars and the ship's wake and wondering how this was all going to shake out. His father, conceivably, could use the episode as additional ammunition to force him out of the SEALS, if only because a congressman's son couldn't be permitted to embarrass his father; hell, Captain Coburn might be under pressure from half a dozen different directions right now, all urging him to dump Blake Murdock. Unless G-2 had more questions for him and the team tomorrow, he expected they'd all be heading back to CONUS by sometime tomorrow afternoon. From what he'd heard from the Marine officers aboard the Nassau, II MEF would be handling things from here on out.

"Well, if you ask me, Lieutenant," MacKenzie said, "you did a hell of a job out there. The guys think so too, all of 'em. I just thought you should know that." He saluted again, turned on his heel, and strode back onto Nassau's hangar deck, leaving a stunned Murdock saluting empty air.

MacKenzie's respect, and the respect of the other SEALs of the platoon, meant more to him right now than an official commendation and "well done" from Admiral Bainbridge himself.

It was time, he decided, to stop thinking about his own future and make sure his men knew his feelings about them.

Turning away from the night, he followed MacKenzie back into Nassau's brightly lit belly.

1610 hours (Zulu +3)

Motor yacht Beluga

Indian Ocean, 380 miles southeast of Socotra

They'd crossed the equator in the wee hours of the morning on Tuesday, some thirty-six hours earlier. As they kept motoring north, sails furled, Jean had continued to hammer at Paul about what was happening, but neither Paul nor their hosts seemed to have any idea about what was really going on.

"It must be terrorists," Karl had said time after time. "It must be terrorists." But beyond the mute and tragic testimony of those bodies adrift in the oil slick a week before, there'd been no announcement, no official word of any kind except for continuing stories over the news networks about Yuduki Maru's mysterious change of course. Other news bulletins, from Madagascar and the Seychelles, had reassured Beluga's crew that it was indeed the plutonium ship they were still tracking on their radar, but the only solid reporting had been what they themselves had called in.

And Jean knew just how thin that information really was. For several days now, Paul, Rudi, and Karl had been arguing among themselves about whether or not to take Beluga in close to the Japanese freighter in order to give her a visual inspection and, possibly, hail her crew. Paul and Karl were afraid that if the ship had been hijacked, they would be putting Beluga and all aboard at risk. One burst of machine-gun fire, and the yacht would be transformed into a sinking wreck, with everyone aboard her dead. Rudi continued to argue that terrorists wanted nothing more than a forum where they could air their political grievances and who better to provide such a forum than Rudi Kohler? Although Rudi was Beluga's master, however, he'd held back from simply deciding to take them in. Jean thought that, despite his reporter's zeal, he too was frightened of what they'd stumbled into.

The women, for the most part, kept out of it, though they speculated among themselves endlessly. The sunbathing sessions continued, though for short periods only and never in the middle of the day. In late May, the sun this close to the equator could be ferocious.

Terrorists. Jean wanted nothing to do with terrorists. She was still certain that she'd heard gunfire on Monday night, and the memory haunted her. Rudi insisted that she couldn't possibly have heard anything across thirty miles of open ocean. She'd heard something, though, just before midnight, a low, dull, double boom out of the north that might have been thunder... except that the sky had been perfectly clear.