Chokepoint

By John Morse

A brutal, seemingly invincible Russian general flees the Motherland. Determined to control an international maritime chokepoint as the Ottoman Empire did 400 years earlier, he boldly trumpets his plan to the shipping industry. Skeptical, the free world is soon set back on its heels and seems powerless to deal with the self-styled despot. Negotiations are impossible. The Russians try a special-operations takedown. The General may hold a trump card that no one wants him to play. Conventional military operations against his Red Sea fortress and band of loyal fighters just won’t work. An incident involving a modern British container ship provides the catalyst for action. Major capitals around the world examine all options to stop the rogue who has shown that he has both the will and means to enforce his extortion of seagoing commerce.
Dan Steele is a fearless ex-US Navy SEAL working in a top-secret cell as a warrior conducting America’s sensitive clandestine operations. Still mourning the loss of his wife and twin boys at the hands of a terrorist, he is determined to stay in the intelligence loop and to bring his family’s killers to justice. He plans a high-risk mission and finds himself executing it. Steele again puts himself at the point of the spear. This heart-pounding thriller will elevate your pulse rate as you follow a plausible, near future scenario which blurs the distinction between fiction and reality. From the White House situation room to the depths of the Red Sea, the non-stop action will keep you turning pages. Find out what Dan Steele faces in this high-stakes mission.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Morse
• Release date: Mar 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9780997645033

John Morse

. John P. Morse’s novels are set in the near future, drawing heavily on his Navy career as a surface warfare officer serving on six combatant ships, two afloat staffs, and ashore in the Middle East. He deployed in all oceans of the world and commanded two combatant ships. Parts of his military service record still remain classified. After retiring from the US Navy, he worked for a large defense contractor for 16 years developing both domestic and international business. His widely acclaimed first novel, Half Staff 2018, introduced his principal protagonist, Dan Steele. His second, Chokepoint, has garnered many five star reviews. His third novel and the final story in the Dan Steele trilogy, Bunker 43, will be published in the fall of 2023. He has written multiple articles and book reviews for professional journals, newspapers, and literary magazines. An accomplished diver, his world-wide diving experiences are reflected Steele’s underwater adventures. He and his wife, Carole, divide their time between southern New Jersey and southeastern Massachusetts.

Book preview

Part I

Chapter One

Antalya,Turkey

Dan Steele had difficulty blending into a crowd. On the sleepy waterfront in Antalya, his presence was obvious since it was late fall, and the tourists had left. His six-foot three-inch frame dwarfed the people walking along the ancient harbor. Wearing blue jeans and a pullover sweatshirt emblazoned with the crest of UPPA, the University of Pau and Pays de l'Adour, he didn’t have that carefree look of a sightseer. A cool sea breeze flattened the fabric against his body, outlining broad shoulders and a narrow waist, not the physique of a sedentary office worker on low season holiday. As he walked, all his senses were tuned to his surroundings: the smoothed cobble stones under his feet, idle talk between deck hands, fishy smell of seawater, the rainbow sheen of oil roiling between the boats moored stern first against the stone-walled quay and the people passing by, working, relaxing, and restless.

Spotting Iklim painted in large gold-leafed letters across a raised wooden planked stern built with a row of windows, he continued past the boat. He fished a bottle of water from a vendor’s washtub, checked its plastic seal, and selected a round, seed-covered pretzel from a circular stack piled on a disk balanced on a young man’s head. Sitting on the faded blue wooden slats of a wrought iron bench about 100 feet away from the ketch, he watched people. Stretching his legs out straight, he ran his hand through a head of thick dark hair and rubbed the stubble which had sprouted on his face during the overnight international flight to Ankara and the domestic connection to Antalya.

Hundreds of fishing boats converted for tourist cruising on the Aegean and Mediterranean Seas were available for charter, with a captain, cook and a single deckhand doubling as waiter, bartender, and storyteller every evening after anchoring in one of the quiet, secluded coves that lined the azure sea along Turkey's coastlines. Most of the boats appeared to have used the same designer. Formally known as a Gulet, the two-masted sailing vessel was eighty feet long and almost twenty-four feet across the beam.

Iklim boasted a number of hidden modifications, decidedly not added to attract tourists. A team of US Navy engineers had upgraded the ketch with a gas turbine engine, deck-mounted tripods to support large caliber machine guns, an armory, and three iron-barred cells the size of oversized dog cages. A modern communications suite was disguised into the topside structure. The after deck could accommodate a sixteen-foot Zodiac rubber boat built to military specifications. Though it flew the flag of Turkey, the captain and crew were Turkish-born US citizens paid in local currency converted from a check drawn from the United States Treasury.

After another round of stretching, Steele added the remainder of the pretzel and empty plastic bottle to an overflowing trashcan before meandering along the edge of the quay wall to Iklim. Walking up the steep, narrow metal gangway hanging from its stern, he ducked under a bleached canvas awning rigged to cover the after part of the deck. Steele strode on the solid planks and disappeared through a mid-ships wooden door that opened to a different world.

The darkened main cabin featured a bank of full color screens depicting the eastern Mediterranean Sea and the countries abutting its shores. Two data terminals flanking the screens processed surveillance information from ships, aircraft, submarines and satellites operating in the region. All-source intelligence reports overlaid the symbols and kept two console operators busy maintaining a coherent operational picture.

Steele studied one of the displays and saw the familiar symbols for US Navy and Allied ships and submarines. One unknown surface track near the coast of Syria attracted his attention.

Do you have anything on track S42?

No, we think it's a Russian destroyer operating in support of the Coastal Defense missile system they are putting into Aleppo. The carrier has a surveillance asset headed that way, and we should have a positive ID within the hour. The chatter is mostly Russian with some alternating Arabic thrown in from time to time. Probably a translation.

Thanks. Is Rami aboard?

Right here, Dan, said a burly man with a lustrous black beard emerging from behind a blackout curtain that shielded the rest of the cabin's lights.

Rami, it's been a long time. How are you, my friend?

Still vertical and breathing. Life is good. No complaints. And how about you?

Anxious to get underway.

Always the way. Follow me, and I'll show you to your cabin.

Rami opened the polished mahogany door identified by a simple oval brass disk displaying the numeral 1. The cabin had a built-in berth with a small sink and mirror, a stand-up locker and a porthole open to the sea. Rami put his hand on Dan's shoulder.

"I was very sorry to hear about the tragedy in Virginia that took your wife and two sons. My family was looking forward to your visit last year. I heard nothing from you and thought something must be wrong. One of your colleagues told me the story.

The worst day of my life, he choked out the words, suddenly looking away, his eyes glistening with tears.

Knowing that he’d inflamed a raw nerve lying just beneath the surface of Steele’s confident exterior, Rami moved quickly from the subject.

Maybe after the mission you can spend a few days in Antalya. You’re always welcome.

I'd like that. said Steele.

Good. How would you like a cup of my Turkish coffee?

Yes, as long as you promise not to read the grounds, Steele forced a laugh.

Rami’s face beamed. He ardently practiced this ancient tradition but had a widely-known reputation for his predictions being consistently wrong.

I’ll put on the kettle, Rami said.

Thanks. It will help me with the jet lag. Give me three minutes, and I'll see you in the galley.

Steele gripped the sides of the small stainless-steel basin and looked at his face in the small mirror. His face was sad, drawn and forlorn. His red-rimmed eyes wouldn’t fool anyone. He should have been here in Turkey with Jill. As he studied his reflection, his mouth contorted in grim determination. Now was not the time for self-pity. However painful, he had to wall off those emotions deep inside his soul and hidden from view.

Others arrived throughout the day. Once aboard, they remained below decks. By late afternoon, Rami and the young mate appeared topside. The diesel engines growled to life, and they cast off the lines and maneuvered the ketch from between two of its cousins. After clearing the harbor, the passengers emerged for some fresh air. The mood was relaxed and friendly, and the men swapped stories about their circuitous travel to Antalya.

After a meal of grilled lamb kabobs and fresh fish, they watched the sun drop into the western horizon over the stern and then gathered below decks around a large blueprint of the objective area. All were accustomed to special operations missions. Several were active duty SEALs that had temporarily discarded their identities. Four supporting communications and intelligence experts rounded out the team.

What they had conceived after weeks of planning and refined during practice raids on a mock-up in the Arizona desert was ready to be executed. Along the way, Steele solicited the team's ideas on how best to accomplish the mission, and none were reluctant to provide unvarnished input. He knew each of them well. They were ready. For what seemed like the hundredth time, he reviewed the approach, timeline, assignments and discussed several contingency questions with confidence. Steele had a reputation for being over-prepared and that included having thought through all the things that could possibly go wrong.

Though no longer wearing a Navy uniform, his exploits as an active duty SEAL elevated the level of trust between the team-members. The details of most special operations were highly classified, but the cadre of men and women fighting the United States' other wars knew the service reputations of the brave souls who fought them.

The team's mission was to capture a bomb-maker who instructed eager students at an international terrorist training camp sited on the Mediterranean Sea in eastern Turkey near the border with Syria. It was an ideal location, since those studying the craft were able to put their learning into practice just a few miles away from the classroom. Sponsored by Hezbollah, the school opened its doors to screened students from any country where Shia terrorists were actively spreading fear through explosives. Forty apprentices were enrolled to learn the deadly craft from an expert.

As the sun rose, the men assembled topside, limbering muscles that would be tested later that day. The cook prepared a breakfast of fresh fruit, yogurt, smoked fish, skewered beef, eggs, white cheese and oblong flatbread. Small bowls filled with roasted hazelnuts and brined olives lined one side of the table.

After breakfast, they selected weapons according to their individual tastes from the armory. Steele chose a Heckler & Koch MP5K machine gun and disassembled it on a small square of canvas spotted with oil. He inspected the moving parts, cleaning and lubricating the gun as he reassembled it.

He opened an envelope which contained two throwing knives made of Brazilian walnut, known as Ipe, a dense tightly grained hardwood more than three times stronger than American Black Walnut. The knives were hand-crafted by a retired Army Ranger who found Ipe's strength, balance and accuracy rivaled the titanium blades favored by those wanting something lightweight and extremely strong. Steele found the center-balanced knives the most versatile, able to be thrown by the blade or the grip. The eight-ounce weight carried enough force to stop any target with a quiet lethality that made them perfect for this type of mission.

The coastal traffic had lightened after the high summer season, and just a few other boats were sighted during the 30-hour diesel transit that followed the uneven coastline staying well to the north of Cyprus. Iklim drifted several miles northwest of the objective area just off the old Turkish city of Samandag. As expected, a dark, moonless night fell over the coastal waters. Within an hour, the men launched the rubber boat into the dead calm water, while Iklim headed off-shore towards the finger-like projection of Northern Cyprus' easternmost landmass. Lying atop the inflated gunwales and clad in black, eight commandos landed and carried the inflatable up the wide beach to the base of a date palm rustling gently in a light breeze.

The coxswain remained with the boat and two of the men carried an assortment of explosives to defend the flanks. The other five followed the high-water mark to a stand of palm trees fifty yards from their objective: a low Bedouin tent staked into the sand. Until now, they'd only seen it from satellite imagery. Air-conditioned, it was thought to be the local equivalent of a Western man-cave, likely outfitted with large screen TVs, a refrigerator and perhaps a microwave. A generator behind a nearby cinder-block building housing the resident students and armed security staff fed power to the retreat.

Intelligence estimated that ten to twelve of the instructors and staff usually spent evenings together, and the target should be among them. After taking several minutes to observe the surroundings using night vision goggles, Steele was ready.

Through a lip microphone, he whispered to his team, OK, guys, here we go. We get the package and haul ass out of here. He raised the short, lightweight, silenced machine gun to the firing position, hoping surprise would be sufficient to complete the mission without using it, recalling the oft-quoted warning of a famous field marshal in Prussian army: No battle plan ever survives first contact with the enemy. The only contact he wanted was to snatch the bomb-maker and immobilize the others with plastic handcuffs and duct tape. A small knot grew in Steele's throat as it usually did before showtime.

Two men advanced to positions on either side of the tent. One sliced a small hole in the thick woven fabric and slowly pushed a tiny wire-mounted camera inside. He turned a Vernier dial with his fingers, panning the room and zooming in on the people and the interior layout. The interior surveillance seemed like it took hours, but no one liked surprises. If nothing else, it was thorough. They all waited patiently.

The cameraman finally spoke into his microphone, Nine guys on the south and east side. Weapons stacked near entry point at the north and a couple of pistol belts hanging on a clothes tree just to the left. Just laughing and scratching and smoking hubbly-bubbly. Local news is on one TV, and a soccer match is playing on the other.

OK. We're on the move, said Steele as the three men moved to their positions.

After a quiet approach from the north, Steele pulled back one side of the tent’s entry flap and stepped through, flanked by two of the team, weapons leveled at the group.

Show me your hands, now! His words were translated into Arabic by the man on his right. As their eyes panned the room, the two other team-members entered from the southern side, weapons ready. Lounging on low overstuffed couches and bolsters, with their sandals scattered on a thick floor of hand-woven carpets, five wore tactical uniforms and the others wore the traditional thobe, a neck to ankle robe. Window air conditioners mounted on frames built into the canvas walls hummed in the background, swirling the sweet-smelling smoke from two hookahs.

Steele took a step forward and asked, Where is Abu Sayed? He looked at the eyes of the men as no one answered the question. The Intelligence Community had only a name and no photo. Steele was playing a potentially dangerous game of Will the real Abu Sayed please stand up? The eyes of one robe and one uniform unconsciously identified the man seated in the middle of the group, somewhat younger than the others and clean-shaven. Wearing a white long-sleeved robe, sitting cross-legged and leaning against a floral bolster, he knew that he'd been fingered. The younger man shifted his body and responded, Here's Abu Sayed, as he pulled the pin on a grenade and pitched it towards the trio.

The operator to Steele's right pulled a hefty uniformed man to his feet and drove him to the ground on top of the grenade as it exploded, spattering everything with a warm red froth. Bolting for a side entrance, the grenade thrower was spun around and floored as two 9mm rounds from Steele's MP5K hit his upper right shoulder. The others held their hands high in the air and watched in stunned silence, glued to their seats as an alarm sounded in the distance. Lights winked on in the barracks, and a warning came through Steele's earpiece: looks like someone just sounded reveille.

Steele strode across the room and roughly grabbed the grenade thrower and brought him to his feet. The loungers were pushed to one corner of the tent by two of the team.

Yalla, he yelled to the team, pushing the man ahead of him.

A watchkeeper shaped charge was set in front of the group to guard them: any movement or sound would be detected in the sensor's 45-degree beam and detonate the device. A green lamp flashed with a steady beat. Huddled together, they looked like they were posing for a graduation photo.

Remember, don't move, cautioned the last commando as he turned to leave. The team doubled-timed back towards the beach with their captive.

Five seconds later, an explosion rocked the night as the electronic sentry did its job. Truck headlights pierced the darkness and headed towards the tent. Steele's earpiece crackled, Looks like the hornets are swarming. Four hundred yards to go, and they ran hard in the loose sand. Light pick-up trucks fitted with fifty caliber machine guns and armed trainees drove to intercept the intruders on the beach. A trip wire rigged 200 yards to one side of the landing point triggered a string of explosives, and the trucks’ tires detonated anti-personnel mines seeded to protect the path to the sea. The three men assigned to secure the escape route fired a barrage of tube launched grenades. Though fitted with a lightweight engine and a small fuel bladder, carrying a 500-pound inflatable in the sand and simultaneously firing at a pursuing enemy had not been part of the plan.

While the explosive devices halted the major assault, one truck got through the perimeter unscathed and continued to pursue the uninvited visitors. The raiders fired more grenades to slow the hornets’ progress. Steele shoved the captive into the boat and jumped over its inflated walls into the forward section, and the engine whined as the team launched and propelled to sea. A single heavy machine gun pumped rounds at the waterborne raiders with a deadly cadence. With a maximum range of three miles for the fifty caliber machine guns, they would remain in its killing zone for several long minutes. One round ripped through the mid-ships’ inflation chamber, lodging in the aluminum deck plate. After running at full throttle for ten minutes, Steele motioned the coxswain to slow down.

Roll call, said Steele. The men responded in order. Everyone was OK except for the Chief who pushed the uniformed man onto the grenade. He described the several deep shrapnel lacerations to his legs as cuts from shaving his legs. Steele shook his head with the dark humor.

Doc, take care of the Chief first and then see what kind of damage our prisoner has to his shoulder. Just keep him alive.

They continued in complete darkness. Standing well offshore, Iklim's gas turbine engine pushed the ketch at 30 knots closing to recover the raiders.

Hey boss, said the corpsman. The Chief will need a few stitches when we get back to the ranch. I've applied a compression bandage and stopped the bleeding. Our passenger is in shock but stable. Don't think you hit anything critical.

OK, good.

Just one more thing. Did you know this big bad terrorist is really a she?

Chapter Two

Moscow, Russia

This situation in Kerch is starting to annoy me, said the man seated at the end of a small conference table. He picked up his coffee cup, studied the dark surface of the contents and stared at the men lining the table's sides. Perhaps the people of the city need to be reminded we annexed Crimea years ago in response to a popular referendum and control much of the Ukraine today. We have bent over backwards to mollify these simple, misguided farmers, and now they have set up camp in the center of town and intend to stay there until independence can be restored. How naïve can some people be? So, how do we quickly persuade them to abandon this hopeless protest and get back in line?

Yes comrade, we could send some of our destroyers to the port as a show of force.

The man at the end of the conference room knew that the only recommendation from the thick-skulled Admiral would be a naval option. Saltwater must have addled the man's brains. Reluctant to dictate the next steps to this group of so-called advisers, he hoped at least one of them would offer a more creative solution. He responded to the Admiral, whose uniform was dripping with gold braid with a large section of the dark blue cloth dedicated to a vast array of colorful medals awarded for lasting 38 years in the service of the Soviet Navy.

That's a good option, Admiral, but I fear that the time to prepare the naval force will permit the protests to continue. Things will become more complicated with time, and the press will get interested in the story. I'm certain you agree with this reasoning. So, I believe that we need a quick response with boots on the ground. Other ideas, gentlemen?

After a further forty-five minutes of unproductive chatter, the man at the end of the table delicately summed up the meeting.

Given the broad range of creative ideas on how to respond to our countrymen in Kerch, I will recommend to the State Secretary the immediate dispatch of a small Alpha Group team to restore order. Thank you very kindly for your thoughts and suggestions. Our meeting is adjourned.

Days later, the Alpha Group directorate met to discuss the operation.

Gentlemen, said General Yuri Urodov. You've all read the State Secretary's directive to Alpha Group to quell the disturbance in Kerch. I have some initial thoughts but would like to hear your ideas on how to best approach this situation.

A massive uniformed man sitting on the right of the table between two colleagues offered a quick response, Tell the Navy to carry a company of our crack Army regulars down there to implore the people to end their protest.

The small group roared with laughter until some of the men at the table were actually brought to tears. Unamused, General Urodov sat patiently at the head of the table and offered an indulgent smile waiting for order to be restored. He took several long drags on the unfiltered cigarette that stained his fingers yellow. Constant exposure to tobacco smoke cast his face with a waxen, jaundiced appearance.

Thank you, General Zlodeyev, for that less than helpful suggestion. As you already know, that option is off the table. Are there other ideas? His voice signaled that the time for frivolity was over, and he expected everyone to get down to the serious business at hand. He stabbed out his cigarette to underscore his unhappiness with the general's sarcastic response.

General, said Zlodeyev, I apologize for my outburst and silly suggestion to send the Navy and Army. The situation in Kerch is clearly a mission for this team, as the Minister so rightly decided. If I may offer a more thoughtful suggestion, I propose the following. The lights dimmed, and the large screen came alive with a detailed presentation of an operation planned with meticulous care.

Very impressive work, General, Urodov said, dismissing the plan and its creator by asking, are there any other ideas from the group?

There were none.

Very well. I will study General Zlodeyev's recommendation along with some courses of action I have developed. Please let me know if there is any reason why you and your teams could not execute this plan or something similar in the next three weeks. That is all.

Urodov closed his thick leather planner and waited for his commanders to leave before returning to his large desk. Lighting another cigarette, he began thinking how he could make this minor military operation an embarrassment for Nikolai Zlodeyev, the man who suggested the plan and the man Urodov would assign to carry it out.

Chapter Three

Mediterranean Sea

While the crew retrieved the boat using a portable davit on Iklim's afterdeck, the Chief and prisoner were carried down to the galley where tables were rotated on their bases and joined into a makeshift trauma ward. The corpsman scrubbed and pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, irrigating the Chief's legs with sterile water and then scrubbing the wounds with a sponge packaged with germ-killing hexachlorophene. He deftly administered a tetanus booster shot and used a disposable syringe to inject a local anesthetic into the three deep wounds requiring sutures. The Chief joked that he had a future as a leg model before the raid and now his chances were slim to none.

With the preps completed, the corpsman turned to the prisoner, who was strapped to the table with four plastic tie wraps. He cut away the blood-stained thobe at her waist and the cotton undershirt covering her torso, removing the compression bandages impregnated with silver nitrate applied during the transit from the beach. The bleeding had stopped. Her eyes were still fluttering with shock as he examined the gunshot wounds on her right shoulder, cutting the plastic tie wrap so that he could examine both sides. Because the bullets entered from her upper back, there were clean holes through her shoulder blade, and the exit wounds indicated that the bullets passed through without being deflected by other bones. The collarbone seemed intact as the bullets passed through her body between the collarbone and her small right breast. Holding her on her left side, he irrigated the wounds then injected anesthetic on both sides before probing as deep as he could to find any metal fragments that might have been left along the bullets' path, finding none. Finally, he hung an IV bag over the patient. Her eyes opened.

I'm going to open a vein to give you some fluids for the shock and an antibiotic.

She stared at the corpsman and asked in well-spoken English with a faint British accent, Aren't you going to rape me first?

No, that is not part of the procedure. I am here to treat you medically. How bad is your pain?

The pain of being captured by infidels is intense. The bullet wounds are an annoyance.

Are you injured any other place?

No.

Good, please hold your arm in this position so I can start the IV.

Iklim paralleled the Turkish coast on its diesels in a darkened ship condition without the customary navigation lights. Rami expected little traffic for the rest of the night. One of the intelligence officers came on deck while the team was stowing gear with the aid of muted red lights.

Hey, Steele, what were you thinking? The objective of this raid was to capture Abu Sayed, not his mistress.

Look, you sent us in to find the tango without a mugshot or even a description. And because none of these guys was wearing a name tag or party hat, I guessed the one who attacked us had something more to lose or gain by not being captured. I don't have ESP. We didn't find out he was really a she until we were on the boat headed back. Let's hope she knows more than you think.

Yeah, maybe she does, something significant like the size of Abu Sayed's crank. It's not going to be easy explaining this operation up the chain. Our overseas facilities are not equipped to handle women, so this is going to be a major problem. Seems to me that this operation was a complete bust.

Steele turned and stopped in front of the man. I've heard enough of your initial assessment. I recommend that you strike below before a freak wave washes you overboard.

Are you threatening me, Steele?

No, I wouldn't do that. I was just telling you a sea story. Strange, unexpected things sometime happen up here on the weather deck. The man returned below-decks without another word.

Energized by their investigative success with the journalist killed in the Saudi consulate in Istanbul, the Turkish authorities responded quickly to an emergency call and descended on the bomb-maker's training camp before Dan Steele finished stripping off his all-black nylon stretch pajamas. They cordoned off the crime scene and called for more resources to examine the area for clues.

Steele pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and walked to the trauma ward. With three new stitch lines on his legs, the Chief lay on his back sleeping on the table. The corpsman was packing the prisoner's gunshot wounds. Her dark eyes were open and staring at a distant object somewhere in space. The IV needle was taped to her lower left arm. Steele noticed her arm below the elbow was badly burned, the leathery, mottled flesh twisted after being cooked by fire. He wondered if this burn had been caused by scalding liquid or perhaps an accident with a bomb.

How did it go? Steele asked.

No problem. The Chief will be fine. He can walk out of here when he wakes up. Steele noticed that the Chief and the corpsman were still wearing the long black pajamas from the operation. The woman is out of the woods. She needs to have these drains advanced daily as the hole fills in. She's been pumped full of antibiotics but will require regular care for proper healing. Maybe we can find a rack somewhere on the boat for her to rest instead of moving her to one of the cells. She speaks English fluently.

Thanks Doc, great work. I'll ask Rami about a berth where she can rest and be secured at the same time.

Steele went to the operations center and slid into a swivel chair bolted to the deck at a communications terminal. There were two digital clocks over the console reflecting local time and one for the current time — 7:45 a.m. — in Washington, DC. He jotted down a few bullet points on a sheet of paper and dialed the secure telephone that would ring on Admiral Wright's desk.

Morning Admiral, said Steele after the handset was picked up. I hope I'm not calling too early.

No, I've been in the office for over an hour. Everyone's got his hair on fire about what happened over in Turkey, and the morning news is all over it.

News travels fast. Here's a quick summary: First, the team is in one piece with some minor injuries. Second, we have a prisoner aboard with non-life-threatening gunshot wounds. Third, the clandestine raid we planned went off the rails when the prisoner rolled out a grenade. Fourth, the remaining group didn't believe what they were told about the watchkeeper. Fifth, several trucks tested our perimeter defense and it worked. Sixth, once underway, we discovered that the prisoner is a woman. Over.

A woman? You're kidding, right?

No, I just saw the corpsman finish patching her up. It's definitely a woman.

OK, got it. No fingerprints left at the scene?

None I'm aware of.

Listen, Dan. The extraction plan for you and the team will likely change. You were motoring over to Marmaris and then splitting up to return separately, right?

Right, Steele replied.

The Admiral continued, "The Turks know the raid came from the water and