Keith Douglass - Seal Team Seven

Ruholla Aghasi would have been a lot happier if the Japanese weren't involved in this mission at all. Possessing two tons of plutonium might indeed elevate Iran to the heady position of supreme military power in Southwest Asia and the Middle East, but the presence of the Ohtori — even if they had been necessary to carry out the initial hijacking — cast a sickly shadow over the entire endeavor.

A woman's muffled scream floated up from the open companionway leading below deck, followed by a man's laugh. He'd been dead serious when he'd lectured the women on their immodest dress a few days before; none of the nine soldiers or marines aboard the Beluga with him was used to the casual standards of dress so often adopted by Western women — especially by rich Western women — and it was proving increasingly difficult keeping his men under control. His request to Colonel Hamid, that the women be removed from the yacht and held elsewhere, or else put aboard a helicopter and flown to Bandar Abbas, had been ignored. There'd been no serious incidents aboard the Beluga yet, but that, Aghasi was convinced, was only a matter of time. The women had served their purpose in providing leverage over the men, and Aghasi was wondering if they hadn't already outlived their usefulness. The scream sounded again, louder, more urgent.

Angrily, he tossed his cigarette over the side. "Keep us on course," he told the helmsman, and then he stalked forward. Clattering down the steps to the lounge and galley, he brushed past five off-duty troops who traded knowing grins with one another as he passed, then squeezed into the narrow passageway that led to the Beluga's staterooms. As he'd expected, several of his Pasdaran were clustered around the open door to the cabin where the women were being kept; Corporal Mahmood Fesharaki was holding one of the women, the American blond, by her waist, laughing as she beat at his chest with flailing fists. "Mahmood!" he snapped. "Release her!"

"We weren't doing anything, Colonel," the man replied. "We just wanted her to dance with us."

"I said release her!"

Grinning, the Iranian corporal shoved the woman back into the cabin. Aghasi glanced at the three female prisoners incuriously. All of them were fully clothed now, at least after the lax fashion of Westerners, in long pants and pullover shirts, but obviously either their clothing was still too revealing, or the men had already made up their minds about their characters. Their obvious fear and vocal protests counted for very little.

"Return to your duties," he ordered.

"But we are off-duty, Colonel," a private said.

"Then find something else to do before I put you on UULY! I will not tolerate this lax disregard for discipline and order!"

Reluctantly, but still grinning and nudging one another, the crowd began to break up.

The Beluga gave a sudden lurch to port, and Aghasi braced himself against a bulkhead to keep from falling. A loud thump sounded from outside, from above deck.

Suddenly, Aghasi's eyes widened. Something was wrong. He didn't know what, but he could sense that all was not right aboard his tiny command.

2358 hours (Zulu +3)

Greenpeace yacht Beluga

Indian Ocean, 230 miles southeast of Masirah

They'd encountered the Iranian squadron right on schedule, and within moments, using AN/PVS-7 night-vision goggles, they'd spotted the Beluga some distance astern of the Yuduki Maru and closed in on her from port and starboard. Since the Iranian ships were traveling at close to the top speed of the outboard-driven CRRCs, the men of the SEAL assault team knew that they would have only one shot at this; if they missed, there would be no way to turn around and catch up with their target.

Boat one, with Murdock, Roselli, and Garcia, closed on the Beluga from starboard and toward her stern; boat two, with MacKenzie, Higgins, and Ellsworth, came in from port up near the bow. The third boat, containing all of Gold Squad, followed the starboard-side assault team. They would hook on with Murdock's team, but not board unless they were needed.

Lying flat across the bow of the pitching rubber boat, Murdock studied the target carefully as they drew closer. He could see one man at the wheel and two others on watch, one beside the helmsman, the other on top of the boat house, leaning against the foremast. There was no way to guess how many more men were below decks; those he could see were wearing fatigues, evidently Iranian army uniforms, and the two men on watch carried German-made G-3 assault rifles.

Roselli, at the CRRC's silenced outboard motor, corrected the rubber boat's course, gauging the speed and direction of the much larger yacht. There was no need for words. Both the approach and boarding had been carefully planned earlier that day, and rehearsed time and time again, first with models, then with areas representing Beluga's deck and compartments chalked out on Nassau's hangar deck. With no wasted motion, with no noise at all save the soft purr of the outboard, they veered straight in toward Beluga's starboard quarter. For Murdock, his face scant inches above the slap of the waves, it was an eerie sensation; he could look up and see the Iranian soldier and helmsman standing in Beluga's well deck only a few feet away, brilliantly illuminated by his starlight optics, while they, obviously, had not yet seen the black-garbed commandos rushing toward them out of the night on the breast of a black ocean. Murdock had his Smith & Wesson out, the laser sighting device switched on, warmed up and ready. As they closed to within a few feet of Beluga's hull, he flicked over the switch that engaged the laser and took aim.

Instantly, a dazzling pinpoint of ruby light appeared on the side of the sentry's head. Riding out the up-and-down bump of the CRRC beneath him, Murdock squeezed the handgun's trigger and the weapon coughed, a harsh sound masked by the growl of the yacht's own engine.

In the same moment, a second dot of light winked into existence on the forehead of the man at the helm. Garcia fired an instant after Murdock; both Iranians were dead instantly, and Murdock was clambering out of the CRRC and onto Beluga's well deck a scant second or two behind the two bullets. The double thump-and-clatter of the falling bodies, the metallic crack of the G-3 rifle hitting the polished wooden deck, seemed impossibly loud in the near-silence of the night. Murdock took two long steps to Beluga's now-untended wheel and grabbed it before the yacht could swing about into the wind. He kept the brilliant pinpoint of his Smith & Wesson's laser playing next to the companionway set into the yacht's deckhouse forward, holding his breath as he waited for alarmed Iranian soldiers to come boiling out onto the deck.

Nothing. Garcia came across the rail, his pistol in his right hand, a line from the CRRC clutched in his left. With a quick movement, he secured the boat by lashing the line to a cleat. As he finished the task, Roselli scrambled up into the yacht at his side.

Forward, the second sentry was already sprawled lifeless by the mast, as Mac, Doc, and the Professor came aboard over the bow.

"Prairie Home," Murdock whispered into his microphone, "this is Bedsheet. We're aboard and tucked in." They'd made it, clearing the upper deck of guards in mere seconds, and with no indication that the alarm had been given below.

"Awn cheest!" a voice cried from below decks. "Ali! Bepaweed!"

And then Murdock knew that his first assessment had been just a little premature.

0001 hours (Zulu +3)

Greenpeace yacht Beluga

Indian Ocean, 230 miles southeast of Masirah

"Ali!" Colonel Aghasi called again, and again there was no answer from the sergeant on guard on Beluga's well deck. Thoroughly alarmed now, he drew his pistol, a big, black Colt .45 automatic, and started toward the deckhouse companionway. "You men," he snapped at the five Pasdaran soldiers in the lounge. "With me, quickly!"