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  Battleground

  ( Seal Team Seven - 6 )

  Keith Douglass

  The electrifying new novel in the special warfare series!The frigate U.S.S. Roy Turner docked just off Mombasa Bay, Kenya on a goodwill call. But a surprise attack soon left 160 American sailors captured and 28 killed. Now Lieutenant Murdock and the SEALs are being sent to restore justice…

  From the author of the Carrier Naval Aviation series, this action-packed novel is sure to satisfy fans of military thrillers.

  Keith Douglass

  Battleground

  DEDICATION

  To my good friend, writing critic, and advisor in all things Navy, Cyndy Mobley.

  To the ever-vigilant man on the firing line, my agent, Jake Elwell.

  And to my research assistant, language guru, and constant critic, Chet Cunningham.

  To one and all I say thank you. I couldn't have written this book without your help.

  SEAL TEAM SEVEN THIRD PLATOON

  PLATOON LEADER

  Lieutenant Blake Murdock. WEAPON HK MP-5SD sub-machine gun.

  FIRST SQUAD

  David "Jaybird" Stirling. Machinists Mate Second Class. Platoon Chief. WEAPON HK MP-5SD sub-machine gun.

  Ron Holt. Radioman First Class. Platoon radio operator. WEAPON HK MP-5SD sub-machine gun.

  Marvin "Magic" Brown. Quartermaster's Mate First Class. Squadsniper. WEAPON McMillan M-89 7.62 NATO sniper rifle/McMillan M-88 .50-caliber sniper rifle.

  Eric "Red" Nicholson. Torpedoman's Mate Second Class. Scout for the platoon. WEAPON Colt M-4A1 with grenade launcher.

  Kenneth Ching. Quartermaster's Mate First Class. Platoon translator/Chinese, Japanese, Russian, Spanish. WEAPON Colt M-4A1 with grenade launcher.

  Harry "Horse" Ronson. Electrician's Mate Second Class. WEAPON HK M-21A1 7.62 NATO round machine gun.

  James "Doc" Ellsworth. Hospital Corpsman Second Class. Platoon Corpsman. WEAPON HK MP-5SD/Mossburg no stock 5-round pump shotgun.

  SECOND SQUAD

  Lieutenant (j.g.) Ed DeWitt. Leader Second Squad. Second in Command of the platoon. WEAPON HK MP-5SD sub-machine gun.

  Al Adams. Gunner's Mate Third Class. WEAPON Colt M-4A1 with rocket launcher.

  Miguel Fernandez. Gunner's Mate First Class. Speaks Spanish, Portuguese. Squad Sniper. WEAPON McMillan M-89 7.62 NATO round sniper rifle.

  Ross Lincoln. Aviation Technician Second Class. WEAPON HK MP-5SD sub-machine gun.

  Les Quinley. Torpedoman's Mate Third Class. WEAPON Colt M-4A1 with grenade launcher or Mossburg no stock 5-round pump shotgun.

  Willy Bishop. Electrician's Mate Second Class. Explosives expert. WEAPON Colt M-4A1 with grenade launcher, Mossburg no stock 5-round pump shotgun.

  Ted Yates. Bos'n's Mate Second Class. Squad machine gunner. WEAPON HK-21A1 7.62 NATO round machine gun. Second radio operator.

  Joe "Ricochet" Lampedusa. Operations Specialist Third Class. WEAPON HK M-21A1 7.62 NATO round machine gun.

  Third Platoon assigned exclusively to the Central Intelligence Agency to perform any needed tasks on a covert basis anywhere in the world. A Top Secret classified assignment.

  1

  Sunday, July 18

  0120 hours

  Dockside at Pier 12

  Mombasa, Kenya

  Colonel Umar Maleceia waved his silent platoon forward. The combat-outfitted Kenyan rangers blended into the deep shadows along Pier 12 and waited. Colonel Maleceia moved into the glow from the lights on the USS Roy Turner, FFG 68, and marched up the steel gangplank now almost level with the pier.

  The sailor on duty on the quarterdeck watched as the Kenyan military officer strode up to the rail. The sailor hurried onto the weather deck and to the rail next to the brow. The six-foot-five-inch 300-pound officer wearing Kenyan Army combat greens stopped three feet from the American and saluted the American flag, then the sailor. The petty officer first class returned the salute.

  "Identify yourself, sir, and state your business," the sentry said.

  Colonel Maleceia lowered his right-hand salute and at the same instant brought his left hand up from his hip. The silenced Heckler & Koch USP combat.40-caliber automatic whispered twice, and two rounds jolted into the sailor's heart. He died before he could cry out.

  At once ten of the dark-green-clad troopers from the dock's shadows raced to the brow and hurried silently up it. Half went forward, the rest aft on the 453-foot U.S. Navy ship. Each man had a special assignment. A moment later Colonel Maleceia motioned, and twenty more Kenyan Army rangers rushed onto the ship.

  Aft, Gunnery Chiefs Winslow and Harper had just checked the Sikorsky SH-60B Seahawk helicopter that sat on the pad on the fantail outside the chopper hangar. Both men had returned from a night in the Mombasa saloons and were not entirely sober.

  "Told you this baby has the new R-standard ASW sensors," Chief Winslow said. "Told you so. You can see the antenna right there."

  "You're drunk Winslow. You wouldn't know a sensor from your mother's army boots." They both laughed and nearly fell down. "Pay up, Winslow."

  Just as Winslow reached for a roll of bills in his pocket, two Kenyan rangers surged out of the chopper hangar with the 20-mm six-barreled M 15 Vulcan Phalanx perched on top of it. The Kenyans fired their AK-47s as soon as they saw the U.S. Navy men. A dozen rounds slammed into both chiefs and threw them against the side of the Seahawk, where they died instantly.

  Seaman Roberts, on his regular security patrol rounds, heard the shots aft, and then heavier booming blasts from up forward. He ran that way up the weather deck on the starboard side past the alleyway that traversed the middle of the ship. He drew his issue .45 1911 automatic and charged a round into it. Damned big trouble somewhere. The firing sounded like shotguns. Somebody shooting shotguns on the Turner?

  Below the wing of the bridge, two figures rose out of the darkness. Twin flashes from the pair made Roberts dive to the left. He was too late. One of the AK-47 slugs hit him in the chest and drove him backwards into a giant pool of blackness.

  The first shots stirred activity on the quarterdeck. Lieutenant Marvin Foster, the Officer of the Deck, came away from the podium and looked at Seaman Johnson.

  "You hear shots?"

  The seaman on roving security patrol nodded, drew his .45, and headed for the port side. He never made it. A dark figure with a shotgun edged into the passageway and fired one shot of double-aught buck. It almost cut the sailor in half. The second round slammed Lieutenant Foster against the bulkhead, where he slid down, drawing grotesque patterns of blood on the fresh paint.

  Chief Bos'n's Mate Randolph stepped cautiously into the starboard door of the passage to the quarterdeck. He had a five-round shotgun, and fired one round of double-aught buck into the gunman who had just killed the OOD. He bent at the side of the dead officer and pulled out a ring of keys. Quickly, before any more attackers came onto the quarterdeck, he found the right key, turned it in the slot, and hit the General Quarters alarm. The rhythmic metallic gong sounded again and again through the Roy Turner. Now Randolph figured maybe some of the men would have a chance.

  Below-decks, the Security Alert Team leader heard the General Quarters gong and unlocked the armory door. Inside, the light was always on. He quickly took the lock off the long weapons, shotguns, and M-14 rifles, and pulled out a pair of Mossburg shotguns. A dozen men surged toward him reaching for .45 automatics and 9mm pistols and their magazines. Some took shotguns and pockets of rounds. Most of the men were in shorts and T-shirts right out of the sack from their coops.

  "What the hell's happening?" one man shouted.

  "Nobody knows, but we got shitfaces all over the place shooting at us," somebody said. The Security Alert Team leader left the armory open, and ran up a ladder for the de
ck above. He met no one on the ladder.

  Another dozen more men raced to the armory and grabbed weapons and scattered. Now firing could be heard from several parts of the ship.

  Forward, the Kenyans ran into a pair of sailors who had been smoking at the rail and watching the lights on the Mombasa waterfront fifty yards away. When the warning gongs sounded, the two sailors turned and ran for their General Quarters posts. They didn't make it. Two Kenyan rangers fired one round each of double-aught buck from their shotguns. The two sailors caught most of the slugs, slammed over the low railing, and splashed into the harbor below next to the pier.

  The ship was silent for a moment, with only the gentle sound of the Mombasa Bay waters slapping the steel hull. Then two American sailors ran out of the passageway on the port side from the quarterdeck. Both men carried shotguns. Two more Kenyan rangers stormed up the brow from the pier. Damage Controlman Second Class Krokowski brought up his shotgun, surprising the Kenyans.

  "What the hell you guys doing?" Krokowski bellowed. The Kenyans shrilled something in Swahili and lifted their rifles. Krokowski fired first, killing one of the Kenyans. The other invader triggered his AK-47 on full automatic, and Krokowski and his buddy spilled backwards on the deck, their weapons skittering away from them. Both the sailors were critically wounded. The Kenyan ran up, fired one round into the head of each American, and rushed down the deck.

  Shots sounded from the forward part of the ship. Gunner's Mate Third Class Mondes charged around the Mk 13 Mod 4 missile launcher for the surface-to-surface missiles on the forward main deck with an M-14 in his hand. He heard firing down the starboard side and ran that way. Mondes saw two sailors shot down, and he screeched in protest.

  "What is this, a goddamn war?" he roared. Six Kenyans ran toward him and he got off a burst of six shots. He saw two of the Kenyans go down before he felt a hammer blow in his side and then another in his chest and knew he was falling. He hit the missile launcher base and went down. The last thing Mondes saw was a Kenyan soldier standing over him as he stared up at an ugly black rifle muzzle. He never heard the fatal shot.

  Twenty men jolted awake by the General Quarters alarm in their aft coops berthing compartment stumbled around hunting clothes. A few got pants on and ran out the door before two Kenyan soldiers ran in and one blasted a shotgun round into the overhead. One of the Kenyan attackers spoke English.

  "Down on the deck on your faces!" he bellowed. "The first man who moves gets shot dead."

  The General Quarters gong kept sounding through the ship like a racing heartbeat. It sent dozens more men up ladders and reaching for helmets.

  Two officers were gunned down as they charged into CIC, the Combat Information Center, where the missiles were controlled.

  The firing shotguns brought Commander Joseph Goddard, CO of the Roy Turner, awake with a jolt, only to stare into the black bore of an Uzi submachine gun.

  "Captain Goddard, I believe," Colonel Maleceia said softly. "I have just captured your vessel. If you would be so kind as to get up and dress, I'll put you with the other prisoners of war."

  Commander Goddard shook his head to clear it. He came awake slowly these days. He heard more firing on board his ship. He nodded, started to slide out of the bunk, then whipped up the 1911 Colt .45 automatic he had slept with every night of his life for the past twenty years and snapped off a shot. It missed the huge colonel. The Uzi chattered and six 9mm rounds blasted into Commander Goddard's chest and belly, slamming him into eternity on his bunk.

  "Too bad," the colonel said. "It's a shame to mess up such a fine bunk that way."

  Six chief petty officers had been enjoying their weekly Sunday night poker game. The General Quarters blast surprised them, and two headed for the door to the enlisted mess. The Security Alert Team Leader jerked the door open and pushed in three shotguns and a Beretta.

  "We've got Kenyan rangers all over the ship," he yelled. "Use these best you can." Then he ran out and up a ladder.

  "Whoever they are won't be long getting here," Gunner's Mate Second Class Andy Johnson said. "They must know where this place is." He had one of the shotguns and pushed five rounds into the magazine.

  "We'll blast a dozen of them before they touch us," Parachute Rigger Second Class Joe Lawler drawled. He loaded his shotgun and aimed it at the door. "Hail, in Tennessee we got shot at all the time. Damned revenuers never could hit their own assholes."

  Outside, rifle butts hammered on the metal door.

  Johnson moved up beside the dogged-down bulkhead door and waited. He saw the lever turn. A minute later he stormed away.

  "Dynamite," he roared. Johnson swerved behind a heavy metal rack. The explosion that came moments later was muffled, but the locking bolts on the inside of the door snapped and blasted into the compartment.

  Someone outside pushed the door open slowly. Johnson crawled forward. When the bulkhead door was six inches open, Johnson lay near it on the deck and threw a hand grenade through it into the passageway.

  The blast 4.2 seconds later echoed through the ship like a warning gong. When the rumbling died down, the chiefs heard one man screaming outside.

  A moment later, a flash-bang grenade rolled into the compartment and went off with five furiously loud detonations and then six flashes of light so brilliant that a hand over the eyes kept out only a little of the intensity.

  The six men reeled from the grenade. The explosion in such a contained space magnified its effect by three times. Johnson lay on the deck bleeding from his nose and one ear.

  Lawler sat against the bulkhead shaking his head, blind and not able to hear a thing.

  Three submachine-gun-toting Kenyan Rangers stormed through the door and kicked away the shotguns, then systematically shot all six chiefs to death.

  In the Communications Center, Gunners Mate Second Class Art Brachman had just signed on the Internet to send an E-mail to his wife back in Portland, Oregon. He had the first two lines of his flash mail done when he heard the booming report of a shotgun. He knew the sound. He cut the lights in the center. Only the greenish hue of the consoles and screens gave off any light. He unlocked the crypto vault and pulled out the 9mm Glock Model 18 pistol with a thirty-three round magazine they kept there. He cranked back the slide, chambering a round, and had thirty-two more slugs to defend himself with.

  The Captain had cautioned them yesterday when they tied up. He'd said almost anything could happen in a jumpy, wild-assed place like Kenya, so they should be ready. Only a few chiefs had had any liberty that night, and that was Cinderella liberty. Most of the 206 officers and men were still on the ship.

  Somebody ran past the Communications Center room door. Then Brachman heard the steps come back. Brachman swore at himself for not throwing the steel bars on the door, which was always locked. He heard the handle turn; then a half-dozen rounds from a weapon slammed into the door lock and the steel panel swung open. The terrible muzzle of a shotgun poked through the opening.

  Brachman fired four times a foot above the shotgun. The sound billowed around the small communications room, and Brachman knew he couldn't hear much. He saw a body slam backwards against the side of the door, then pitch forward. The scattergun clattered on the deck.

  Brachman grabbed the weapon. The dead man was black — did that make him a Kenyan? He didn't recognize the green uniform. Brachman took the shotgun and looked at it in the glow of the screens. Simple. A five-round pump weapon fully loaded. He dropped to the floor, pushed over the dead man, and crawled to the open door. Brachman took a quick look down the passageway. Twenty feet down someone fired at him with a rifle. The round missed. Friend or foe?

  He poked his head out for a second, saw the green uniform in the passageway, and pushed out the shotgun and fired one round at the approaching figure. The Kenyan ranger flew three feet backwards as he died on the way to the deck.

  Brachman wiped sweat off his forehead. What the hell was going on? Bad guys all over the place. Where was the security team when you n
eeded it? He heard more boots pounding down the passage. He searched the dead man's pockets and found four more shotgun shells. Quickly Brachman refilled the magazine and edged up to the door.

  Three black men in green uniforms worked slowly toward him from the bow. He waited until they were within fifteen feet, then reached out and fired once. He looked out and saw two men down and the third retreating. Brachman's second blast of double-aught buck channeled in the passageway's steel walls, blasted into the running figure, and smashed him to the deck.

  Brachman pulled back the shotgun, wondering if he should push in two more rounds. Before he decided, a submachine gun muzzle poked in the door and fired.

  As soon as he saw the blue-steel barrel, he knew he'd never finish that E-mail to Jody. Brachman jolted sideways and tried to find the Glock.

  Before he touched the small weapon, a six-round burst of 9-mm lead slashed into his left leg, bringing a scream of anger and pain. A second later, four rounds of the next six-round burst caught Brachman in the side of his head and ripped off large chunks of his skull and brain.

  Back on deck, Colonel Maleceia took reports from his remaining lieutenant. His best officer had been killed. He'd lost twelve men so far, and the fight wasn't over. He owned the bridge, the quarterdeck, Main Control, the Combat Information Center, the engine room, the Communications Center, and one of the two enlisted crew's berthing quarters. A dozen men had barricaded themselves in the last berthing compartment. He figured they were heavily armed.

  "You told me that the crew's weapons would all be locked in the armory," Colonel Maleceia shouted at his last officer, Lieutenant Nigoru. The man took a step back. He knew the colonel's physical power, and his political muscle as well.

  "That was our best intelligence, sir. We have the situation almost resolved. Another ten minutes."