Jack Terral - Battlecraft (2006)

Senior Chief Buford Dawkins had alerted his SAW gunner and two fire teams about the contact, and was using binoculars to scan the horizon in the direction of the target.

After a few moments, he climbed down the ladder to the office. "It's one of them towel-head dhows," Dawkins informed Brannigan. "A real antique, but obviously under power. The sails are furled."

Now Brannigan could see the antique vessel through his own binoculars. He retrieved the ensign-identification pamphlet and quickly scanned the contents, finding a green and white banner with a crescent moon and star. "She's flying the Pakistani flag. We'll check her out. The latest intelligence--such as it is--indicates the bad guys may be using a dhow in their operations." He took his pistol belt with the 9-millimeter Sig Sauer and strapped it around his waist. "Let's go topside, Senior Chief."

The skipper and Dawkins went up the ladder and the senior chief gestured to his two fire team leaders, Milly Mills and Gutsy Olson. "We're going to check out a dhow. Charlie Fire Team, stay here to cover us if things get hairy. That means you special, Miskoski. Keep that SAW ready. Delta Team will go aboard with me and the skipper."

"What the hell is a dhow, sir?" Gutsy asked as he and his men got to their feet.

"A traditional Arabian boat," Brannigan said. "Wooden. They go back centuries." The disappointment on the SEALs' faces was evident. This didn't seem to offer much potential in the way of meaningful excitement. Brannigan added, "There's an outside chance it's a terrorist craft."

"Now you're talking, sir!" Guy Devereaux, one of Delta's riflemen, remarked.

The Battlecraft closed in tight as Veronica attempted to contact the boat by radio to order them to heave to. It was a useless effort. "I don't think they speak English. All I get is that Arab gibberish in response to my command for them to break their voyage."

"They must get the drift of what you're saying," Watkins said, maneuvering the ACV into position to close in on the old ship. "The captain is slowing down."

Bobby Lee Atwill went out on the side deck to toss lines to the crewmen of the dhow. Within moments, Brannigan led Dawkins and Delta Fire Team aboard, leaping over the railing into what seemed the tenth century.

Captain Bashar Bashir of the dhow Nijm Zark showed a toothy grin to the visitors. " Asalam aleikum " he said.

The SEALs held their CAR-15 rifles ready, but the half-dozen Arab crewmen showed no unfriendly tendencies. They smiled and nodded silent greetings to the boarding party. Brannigan glanced around to make sure there were no more individuals lurking in any corners before he spoke to the captain. "Do you speak English?"

Bashir indicated a negative with a slight flip back of his head as is done in that part of the world.

"Papers?" Brannigan said. "Where are your papers?"

Bashir smiled with a blank look on his face. Brannigan turned to the SEALs. "Senior Chief, leave your men here. You come with me over to the hold." Brannigan and Dawkins walked to the hatch. Brannigan pointed to the dhow captain, then down to the hatch. Bashir said something to a couple of his crew, who walked over and pulled the entrance to the hold open. Another crewman fetched a ladder off the side of the cabin and courteously set it in position so the two Americans could go down to the cargo area.

Brannigan and Dawkins went below and found it completely empty. There was not one piece of cargo in the place. Brannigan sighed. "Here we go again. More or our time wasted."

Dawkins walked slowly around the hold. Suddenly he stopped and knelt down, touching an oily spot on the deck. "Sir."

Brannigan walked over to him. "Find something, Senior Chief?"

Dawkins raised his finger, which was soiled with some black gook. "Cosmoline, sir. The very stuff weapons are coated with for storage or shipment."

The pair searched around the hold finding other oily spots. There were enough to give ample evidence of numerous transports of weaponry on the old boat. Brannigan sank into thought for a few moments.

"Are we gonna tow her back, sir?" Dawkins asked.

"Nope," Brannigan said. "I'm going to check her papers and try to determine her name and home port. Then Til turn the information over to Commander Carey and he can arrange for some sneaky folks to keep an eye on this tub. We'll catch her when she's got a full cargo."

They ascended the ladder to the main deck. Brannigan put a friendly expression on his face and indicated that the dhow captain was to follow him. They went into the cabin, and Brannigan said, "Papers."

Once again the Arab exhibited a look of incomprehension. Brannigan made a motion with his hands like he was leafing through some documents. Bashir caught on and went to a tin box. He opened it and took out a sheaf of papers, handing them to the American.

Most of the printing and writing seemed to be in Arabic script, but some Pakistani import and export licenses were in English, the nation's quasi-official language. Brannigan was able to determine that the name of the dhow was the Nijm Zark out of Karachi, Pakistan. The man identified as the captain was Bashar Bashir. The SEAL officer looked over at the old man and pointed to him. "You Captain Bashir?"

Bashir smiled and swelled his narrow old chest proudly. "Raiyis Bashir. I captain!"

Brannigan now pointed to himself. "I Captain Brannigan."

Bashir offered his hand and they shook enthusiastically. Brannigan entered the information off the licenses into his notebook, then went out on deck. "Senior Chief Dawkins, let's go back aboard the Battlecraft " He turned to Bashir. "Thank you, Captain Bashir. Thank you. Thank you. Good-bye."

Bashir grinned widely. " Shokhran! Thank you! Goodbye! Good-bye!"

Brannigan led the SEALs off the dhow, then went into the office as the dhow's crew threw the lines back to Atwill.

"Okay, Watkins. Set a course for the Dan Daly . We've actually accomplished something today."

Veronica Rivers looked at him. "Really? Were they carrying contraband?"

"Not a single piece, Lieutenant," Brannigan said. "But what we got was much more important. We picked up enough information to confirm some very valuable intelligence."

'The course to the Dan Daly is one-eight-seven, sir," Watkins reported.

"Go to one-eight-seven then," Brannigan said.

"Course one-eight-seven, aye, sir!" Watkins responded.

The Battlecraft kicked up its speed to two-thirds, heading homeward at a steady sixty-one miles per hour.

.

RAWALPINDI, PAKISTAN

THEpeople of Pakistan speak two dozen languages that are further divided into three hundred dialects. Unfortunately for Mike Assad, he didn't have as much as a working knowledge of any of them. The situation put him at a serious disadvantage as he moved deeper into the country. English is used in the government and the upper reaches of the nation's society, but the SEAL was deeply imbedded in the midst of lower social types, moving among them in an unavoidably conspicuous manner.

And he was still lost.

He could not find his way out of the city and was unable to ask directions. All attempts on his part to address anyone were met with scowls and insulting gestures that he figured either meant to move along or to go fuck a she-goat. A half-dozen instances occurred when he found himself face-to-face with one of the local toughs, unable to respond appropriately to a rough street inquisition. Most of the time he managed to stare them down, but on one occasion the guy pulled a knife and waved it menacingly at him with an evil grin while onlookers ceased their normal activities to urge the local hero on. Mike sneered back, knowing that if he showed any fear at all he was a dead man since others in the crowd would want a piece of him too. He pulled the knife he'd gotten in the fight, and the potential assailant noted that his own weapon was smaller than Mike's. He backed off with a scowl, then made a quick turn and hurried away. When Mike glared at the spectators in a challenging manner, they suddenly discovered they had other things to do.