Seal Team Seven (20 page)

“I heard you'd been transferred. I thought I'd come down and look you up.” He looked around the lounge, at its peeling paint and shopworn, fifth-hand furniture, nodding as though it met all of his expectations. “This is where you work now, eh?”

Murdock's lips compressed into a tight white line. “I was seriously wondering if you had anything to do with this. They yanked me out of the middle of a Phase One class in Coronado, had me about bust a gut to get out here.”

“And you thought I arranged it to get you back to the East Coast?” The older man shook his head. “I'm afraid not. I
could
arrange a transfer, you know. . . .”

“We've been over that ground, Father. You know how I feel.”

“Yes. You seem to have this idealistic notion about your career path. Damn it, Blake, didn't anybody ever tell you that these special-forces units like the SEALs are a dead end career-wise?”

“It's what I want. I'm very good at what I do. Sir.”

“Um. I daresay you are.” He looked Murdock up and down. “You're looking fit enough. Nice southern California tan.”

“What did you want to see me for, Father? My platoon has a heavy training schedule today.”

“Well, actually, I heard you might be going overseas soon. On, ah, business.”

Murdock glanced about the empty room. Even here in SEAL headquarters there were things that weren't openly discussed. And he wasn't sure what his father's security clearance was.

Hell, the man was a member of Congress, for God's sake, and on the House Military Affairs Committee to boot. Still, the reserve that had built up between the two men, an impenetrable wall for the past five years, remained. Murdock did not immediately reply.

“Look, Blake,” the older Murdock said. He spread his hands, as if to demonstrate that he was unarmed. “I know this must be a bad time. But I wanted . . . I wanted to see you once, before you left.”

“I don't know that I'm leaving, sir.” He was dying to know what his father knew . . . and unwilling to be the one to ask.

“Son, this mission coming up is going to be dangerous. And thankless. Definitely a case of damned-if-you-do-and-damned-if-you-don' t.”

“How the hell do you know about this?”

“The Joint Chiefs have been keeping Congress informed, of course. Some of us, at any rate. I'm on the mailing list.”

“What about Farnum?”

The older Murdock cracked an uneasy smile. “My esteemed colleague from California has, ah, such a pressing schedule, I believe it was decided that it was unnecessary to add to his work load.”

Murdock knew how it worked. Notification of Congress about upcoming military operations had long been a sore point in the tug-of-politics between Capitol Hill and the Pentagon. The actions of some congressmen during the debate over Nicaragua during the eighties had, in Murdock's view, been nothing less than treasonous. More than once, covert operations had been given away to Managua by left-leaning representatives, and American advisors and other personnel had died as a result.

The elder Murdock appeared to read his son's thoughts. “I know how you feel about some of my colleagues. There are quite a few powerful men and women on the Hill who are no friends of the military. But you can't lump me in with men like Farnum.”

“Of course not. You've been doing your bit to keep the bastards from disemboweling the armed forces. And I appreciate that. All I want is to be able to live my own life. All I have lined up for my ‘career path,' as you call it, is to do what I want to do. I'm not going to be some politician's trained, uniformed poodle, okay? I happen to think the SEALs are important, that they're needed.”

“I understand that, Blake. I don't think you realize it, but I do understand. And I'm trying to tell you that the SEALs have some pretty powerful enemies, and not just on the Hill. I'm talking about the Pentagon, here.”

“Nothing I haven't heard before.” A substantial number of the decision-makers and policy-setters in the military still disagreed with the whole idea of elite special forces. General Norman Schwarzkopf, the strategic mastermind of Desert Storm, had been well known for his mistrust of units like Delta or the SEALs. Most military commanders disliked them for the simple fact that they skimmed off the best troops from conventional forces and often got priority treatment when it came to funding and special equipment.

People actually within the Special Warfare community, of course, had a different perspective on the problem.

“Well, it looks like the hammer's going to come down pretty hard in my committee,” the congressman said. “Farnum and some of the others have latched onto the SEALs like bulldogs, and they aren't going to let go. And I'm damned worried about this business in the Indian Ocean. . . .”

“Uh, I really don't think it's a good idea to talk about some of this stuff. Not here.”

“Maybe you're right. But look at it from my point of view for once, Blake, okay? I'm on a committee that is examining the role of Navy special forces. Now, a crisis comes up where those forces have a chance to do what they've been trained to do, and it just happens that the son of one of those committee members is leading the team. If you succeed, it's going to look like the whole operation was set up to give me support. I won't have a power base I can rely on. What I have to say up there will be discounted. Follow?”

“I think so.”

“But if what I hear is true, your chances of succeeding are, well, they're not good. Like damned near impossible. What happens to your precious SEALs if the son of a congressman on the Military Affairs Committee comes back a corpse?”

“I don't think—”

“What happens if half of Africa gets contaminated with radioactivity because the SEAL son of the congressman
screwed up?
It'll mean the end of everything you say you believe in, Blake, not to mention my own political career.”

“Not to mention your son.”

“Well, yes. Of course. I didn't mean to imply that—”

“The hell with your politics, Father, and the hell with you. The SEALs have a damned important role to play, more so than ever with the world falling apart the way it is.” He looked down at his dirty combat blacks, then wiped at the greasepaint smeared on his face. “They're not interested in appearances or tact or appropriate social behavior. They're concerned with the way the world
really
works. I'm a SEAL. I'm going to carry out my orders to the best of my ability and I'm going to do what I've been trained to do for as long as the Navy will let me do it. And I am not going to let you or Mother or anyone else not in my immediate chain of command tell me what to do with my life. Not any more. Clear?”

Murdock sighed. “Clear. Speaking of your mother, Blake, she sends her best.”

“I'm sure she does.”

“You really ought to bury the past, son. She does love you, you know, and you've managed to break her heart. All she ever wanted was what's best for you. As I do.”

“Then stay out of my life. Sir. Even if you manage to kill the SEALs, I will set my own course. I will not accept a nice, safe posting to some congressional staff because I am not a lapdog, and I most certainly will not refuse a mission because it might be politically inconvenient for you. Now, sir, I have that training schedule to complete. If there's nothing more?”

When there was no answer, Blake Murdock turned crisply on his heel and strode from the room.

He had to struggle to maintain his composure. Obviously, things had not changed between him and his father. The congressman was still looking to get him into some nice, safe niche inside the Beltway, some place with a political future for the heir to the Murdock dynasty.

Outside the headquarters building, he checked his watch. Yeah, there was still time. He wanted to put himself on a four-man break-and-enter team and run through the killing house a few more times before breaking for chow.

It might help him burn off some of his anger.

He knew one thing, though, if he knew nothing else. He was more determined now to carry out Sun Hammer than he'd been before, if only because of his father's opposition.

Damn
the man . . .

Tetsuo Kurebayashi had bow lookout this night. He enjoyed the night watches, for the ship was silent and still, empty save for the pounding of the big freighter's screws churning up the wake astern. When he stood on the foredeck, with his back to the light from
Yuduki Maru'
s towering white bridge and with the night air in his face and darkness all around, it was like stepping into another universe, where he was alone, a solitary Mind and Will in a dark and eternal cosmos.

Craning back his head, he stared up into the star-glorious sky overhead. Here, well beyond the circle of light spilling from the
Yuduki Maru'
s bridge windows, the night was a wondrous immensity. The Milky Way arced overhead from horizon to horizon, diamond dust gleaming against black velvet. Alpha Centauri shone like a beacon high up, near the zenith, while other stars, alien to men raised in northern latitudes, burned in the south. Kurebayashi's eyes traced out constellations unknown in Honshu but familiar to mariners who sailed the southern seas: Centaurus; Vela; the four, tightly clumped jewels of Crux.

He searched for Orion and the Martyr's stars, but that constellation had long since set in the west.

No matter. The spirits of the
Junkyosha,
the Martyrs, were here, as much a part of this operation as were Kurebayashi and his comrades. He thought about how close he and his brothers were to their goal, to final victory, and excitement quickened within.

So far, everything had gone perfectly according to Isamusama's plan. The most difficult aspect of Operation Yoake had been smuggling eight of the brothers aboard, disguised as members of the Police Special Action force assigned to
Yuduki Maru's
security contingent, and two more as members of her crew. The Tokyo organization had taken care of all the details. Rumor had it that they had people planted inside the police personnel office who'd been able to reassign security force members, plant false IDs and fingerprint records, and even buy some of the officers of the government-subsidized company that owned
Yuduki Maru
and her cargo. It was the old, old story playing itself out once more: The technology, the planning, the security arrangements themselves might all be perfect, but the strongest walls were always exactly as strong as the weakest men guarding them. When
Yuduki Maru
had set sail from Cherbourg, ten of the seventy-five men aboard had been members of Eikyuni Shinananai Tori.

It had been more than enough. The other twenty-three security men aboard had been killed within seconds of
Shikishima's
destruction, those on duty gunned down by their supposed comrades from behind, those off duty below deck killed by poison gas and gunfire as they slept. Five members of the ship's crew had also been shot, but so far, at least, the rest were cooperating with
Yuduki Maru's
new masters. The officers had been separated from the men, and both groups were kept locked in carefully searched compartments below, released a few at a time under close guard to carry out their shipboard duties. They'd been promised their lives if they cooperated.

Kurebayashi wondered how many of them seriously believed they would be allowed to live once
Yuduki Maru
made landfall. The stakes in this game were so fantastically high. . . .

Since the takeover, there had been only one significant threat to
Yuduki Maru
. For the past three days they'd been steaming steadily on a heading of 012, almost due north. The coast of Madagascar, however, slants from south-southwest to north-northeast, so the plutonium freighter had been steadily drawing closer and closer to the huge island's eastern shore. At this moment she was just 150 miles southeast of Cape Masoala, and needless to say, her abrupt change of course had not gone unnoticed.

Ever since they'd left Cherbourg, the Greenpeace vessel
Beluga
had dogged the freighter's northbound wake. Perhaps because they hadn't been sure whether the course change was according to plan or not, Greenpeace had made no immediate announcement about the change in course, but as the
Yuduki Maru
had steadily neared the Madagascar coast, violating her pledge not to approach any coastline by less than two hundred miles,
Beluga
had radioed the news to the world.

As expected, once the news had gone out, governments along the
Yuduki Maru's
new course had panicked. The 235-ton coastal patrol boat
Malaika,
largest ship of the Malagasy Republic's tiny navy, had attempted to rendezvous with the freighter late on Friday afternoon but had been scared off by warnings broadcast over the radio. In two more days, they would be passing through the Seychelles and Amirante Islands, a thousand kilometers northeast of Madagascar, and there would almost certainly be another attempt then.

Well, Kurebayashi and his comrades were ready. He hefted his AKM, comforted by its reassuring bulk.

Nothing,
he thought,
not all the navies of the world, can possibly stop us now!

Maps of various scales of the western Indian Ocean had been tacked up on every wall of SEAL Seven's briefing room, mingled with blown-up black-and-white aerial photos of two ships. KH-12 satellites had been tracking the
Yuduki Maru
almost continually since Thursday; holes in the spy sat observation time had been filled in by relays of Air Force high-altitude Aurora reconnaissance aircraft.