Page 56 of Luck Be Mine
When he cleared plates at the end of the meal, he stopped at her side. “Should you need assistance in your house search, I am, of course, at your disposal. Please call.
“Thank you, Niles. We might need help. Our schedules suck, as you can tell. Thank you for everything.”
“You’re most welcome.” He returned to the kitchen.
“Thanks, everyone,” she called to the room, debating the need to rise and give a speech.
Her phone rang.
Frogman.
She broke records grabbing her phone.
§§§§§§§§§§
December 16, 2020
Persian Gulf
Midnight GMT/Zulu
Hunt’s affinity for deep night and the shifting moods of the sea had only grown over his thirteen years of naval service. Tonight, the view from the command deck carried a new weight, leading from a distance, not from the front. The darkness was an old comrade – deeply familiar, ingrained in muscle memory, and workable, yet the role still felt foreign.
The deck’s slow roll matched the calm water. Warm air carried the sharp tang of the ocean, stirring memories of a quiet San Diego beach where he and his wife walked in rare moments of peace. He let those memories soften the sting of a ruined anniversary, then shut them away with a ruthless twist, mind snapping to mission focus.
Intel confirmed two dhows, the traditional sailing vessels in the Persian Gulf, were moving weapons through the Gulf of Aden to Yemen. Hunt’s teams would board both vessels, control and search, and confiscate the weapons. The vessels cut a steady path in the water with harmless silhouettes, unaware of the impending threat.
The U.S.S. Michael Murphy provided their base of operations in black water that stretched all directions. Hunt’s teams launched in RHIBs, and those boats raced across the water. He would keep his binoculars trained on their targets and monitor mission progress before leaving the job to the yeoman beside him. Then he would return inside to their satellite imagery and the cameras mounted on Doogie and Riaz’s gear.
As this was his first time in the lieutenant commander position on a mission, Hunt could finally understand the issues Harrison Scott had remaining behind. This mission type covered everything that could go wrong. But he trusted the exhaustive,brutal training they had for this maneuver. The teams were rested, briefed, and ready with shit-factor solutions discussed and practiced.
Team 1 and Team 2 – just as they’d perfected months ago – we’re in sync and clocking on schedule. At mission point, he focused on the Visit, Board, Search and Seizure (VBSS) procedures. Dark night, cold water, and no matter what weather and ocean conditions, the sides of the boats would be slippery, especially to men carrying heavy gear. The next few moments would be tense with places for accidents and errors.
The men moved into position, gear blending with silhouettes. With image enhancing technology, he counted the beats until ropes went up and over the side on one vessel, then the other. The fast, quiet scaling of the hull was a thing of beauty.
Precise. Silent. Prepared. No hesitation.
He moved inside. Monitors up, cameras active, he took shallow breaths through the quick silent takedowns, the muffled struggles, and the takeover of the bridge and engine room.
“Idaho,” Hernandez hissed in his mic. Baxter echoed the code word for Team 2. They had control of the bridges and engine rooms.
Hunt kept his response brief. “Good copy. Idaho confirmed.” Both ships slid to a clean stop in the water. The RHIBs remained aft of the ships, waiting.
Minutes passed. Hunt went through the steps in his head and monitored the time. Operations personnel remained silent and glued to monitors.
The radio clicked. “Illinois accomplished,” Brennan confirmed. Stemmons reported the same seconds later. The code word meant both hostile crews were secured.
“Copy, Illinois,” he said in his mic. Still on mission clock, Hunt stayed attentive to the monitor showing Doogie’s searchbeginning on the first vessel. Riaz was on point on the second vessel.
Doogie’s camera jostled as he went below deck, but it was only seconds before he settled and transmitted a view of crates crammed in the hold.
The crates were marked with foreign script. That much Hunt could see. But they could be rice for all they knew. He waited for Doogie to translate the writings and open a crate or two. He moved to the next row and repeated.
Dozens of crates opened, Doogie stopped.
“Indiana,” Doogie uttered. “Confirming fucking Indiana. We’ve got assault rifles, dozens of them, sniper rifles and machine guns, and rocket-propelled grenade launchers.” He patted one crate on the side. “This mother is anti-tank missiles. It’s the trifecta of violence.”
“Indiana, verified,” Riaz reported. He’d moved much like Doogie through the hold of the second ship. “Same here. Camouflaged in food but packed with weapons underneath, mostly Russian assault weapons. Guessing there are five hundred here.”
