first, then reached over the gunwale, lying flat on his stomach, and
grabbed Pamela Drake by the waist. He heaved back, dragging her over
the rigid inflated side and onto the cold, clammy deck- On the opposite
side of the boat, the other SEALs and Thor were executing the same
maneuver.
They took a SEAL rest period, approximately two seconds of stopping,
orienting themselves, and taking three quick, deep breams to flush
carbon dioxide out of their systems. The immediate influx of oxygen
generated a temporary feeling of well-being, but Sikes knew that the
draining effect of the swim out from shore could not be avoided
indefinitely. They needed to get moving now, back to the carrier, back
to safety.
As the small boat topped a wave, he could see the carrier outlined
against the rising sun to the east, just barely visible above the
horizon. Fifteen miles, he decided maybe a bit more. Twenty minutes
to safety, if all went well.
But so often it didn’t, not in the final stages of a mission.
The prospect of safety, the illusion of relative security, tempted SEAL
teams into mistakes. Mistakes that were likely to be fatal at this
point.
Garcia slipped into the stern of the boat and gunned the muffled,
sound-suppressed engine. It caught the first time.
The other men settled into their accustomed spots in the boat. Drake
and Thor sat on the deck, holding themselves steady by grasping the
lines that ran around the gunwales.
“Let’s get going before it’s full daylight,” Sikes ordered.
The boat surged beneath his feet.
The unexpected struck when they were halfway back to the carrier. The
massive floating airfield had grown from a gray, semisolid haze to the
massive floating fortress that it was.
Sikes could even catch glimpses of the combatants and escorts around
her, identifying them mainly by their running lights.
The seas were running smooth, with the morning winds picking up,
flecking the swells with whitecaps. Sea state two or three, he
decided. Uncomfortable, but not dangerous.
Ahead in the water he noticed a log. No, not a log. He turned to
shout at Garcia to throttle back. Whatever it was, they didn’t need to
run over it. If the impact didn’t kill them, it would most assuredly
toss them all into the ocean, thus necessitating rescue by the
carrier.
As the boat slowed, he faced forward again and studied the anomaly
carefully. It looked like part of a dry dock that had broken loose
somehow and floated out to sea, or maybe the rusted remains of an old
houseboat, oroh, hell.
The rest of the submarine emerged from the sea, and figures appeared on
the conning tower. He noticed them scampering quickly up, mounting
stanchions and machine guns on brackets on the conning tower, and
quickly bringing the focus on the SEALs’ boat. By the time he had
turned to give the order to Garcia to get them the hell out of there,
the submarine had them covered.
0618 Local (+5 GMT) Tomcat 202
“Stoney, break off, break off!” Batman’s voice was commanding.
“What the hell?” Tombstone reached over to flip his communications
switch to tactical. “Roger, copy RTB.
What the hell?” Tombstone asked.
“Not RTB, but you’ve got a new primary mission. That SEAL team I sent
in a couple hours ago they’ve run into some problems on their way back
to the carrier. I need you to get in there and cover them. Stoney,
there’s no one else close around it’s got to be you. We’ll vector you
back to the primary mission when you’re done with them.”
“A SEAL team? But what good will” “It’s a guns mission. They were
headed back to the carrier when the Cuban Foxtrot surfaced and held
them off at gunpoint. Now there’s two small Cuban boats inbound on
them, and it looks like the Cubans are planning on taking them
hostage.
The SAR helo’s still somewhere off chasing down Bird Dog, and I don’t
have anything else in the area.
Here, I’ll have the TAO give the coordinates to your RIO.”
Tombstone wanted to scream. It seemed that everything in the world was
working to prevent him from accomplishing his primary purpose for being