Direct Action

2

Murdock signaled the man next to him. Magic Brown, the platoon’s best sniper, crabbed forward until he was almost out of the water. Brown slowly and carefully opened the bolt of his McMillan M89 sniper rifle to allow the water to drain from the barrel and chamber. The M89 was a purpose-built silent sniping rifle, 7.62mm NATO, with a shortened barrel and a fixed, factory-mounted sound suppressor. Firing subsonic ammunition, it was good for a head shot at 150 yards, which was the state of the art for a suppressed sniping rifle. It was about as loud as a Daisy BB gun.

Brown brought the weapon up into a good sitting position, with his elbows braced against his knees. He peered through the Litton M921 3-power starlight scope mounted on the weapon. Another good SEAL piece of gear. With a body made of hard Teflon, it was the only electronic night-vision sight in the world designed to be completely immersible in seawater to a depth of fifty meters.

Murdock was watching through his own Litton waterproof single-tube night-vision goggle. The small single eyepiece covering only his right eye solved the main problem of night-vision goggles. If you were wearing NVGs and had to take them off for any reason, your night vision was gone for up to half an hour. And if a flare or light went off in front of you while wearing them, you were temporarily blinded by the flash of magnified light. But with one NVG tube on your shooting eye and the other eye clear, you were good to go in any situation.

Through the lime-green scene in Murdock’s NVG, he could see the lawn guard moving toward the balustrade. The guard was looking out at the harbor, though not down below the seawall. Murdock felt as much as heard the muffled pop beside him, and the guard on the second-floor balcony dropped with the spastic twitching that comes from a brain shot.

At the clattering sound of the body and rifle hitting the balcony, the lawn guard spun around to look. There was another pop farther off to Murdock’s right. Red Nicholson had fired his McMillan M89, putting a 7.62mm hollowpoint in the back of the guard’s head. The guard slumped to the grass without a sound.

Magic Brown had already worked his bolt and was ready for a follow-up shot. It wasn’t needed. Not that SEALs were overly concerned about such things, but the hollowpoint bullets were perfectly legal. Contrary to popular belief, terrorists, guerrillas, and irregulars were not protected by the Geneva Conventions.

Several more pops came from Nicholson’s vicinity. Red was right in line with the gap between the villa and its neighbor. An the electrical transformer stood in full view on a light pole, and Nicholson was quietly shooting the transformer casing full of holes with his McMillan. As the cooling oil leaked out of the transformer, the unit blew with a sizzling crack and haloed flash of blue light. All the lights in the neighborhood went out, everyone hopefully thinking that it was just another Port Sudan power outage.

Even though all the SEALs by now had their walkie-talkies, earpieces, and microphones on, Murdock hadn’t needed to give any orders. Chief Petty Officer “Kos” Kosciuszko and Lieutenant j.g. Ed DeWitt swept out of the water, dropped their diving rigs on the shore, and began boosting the assault element over the seawall.

First over was Chief Petty Officer Tom Roselli, “Razor” to his friends. No one in the villa fell under that heading. Right behind him was Machinist’s Mate 2nd Class David “Jaybird” Sterling. They sprinted across the lawn directly toward the cast-iron door to the villa. It took them only seconds to apply a cutting charge of lead sheath explosive over each of the hinges of the door. This was a triangular strip of high-velocity explosive sheathed in metal. The point of the triangle focused a shape-charge effect. The sheath blew a linear cut only as wide as a pencil, but deep enough to slice a steel building girder in half. Once the sheaths were on, the SEALs hung air-mattress tubes that they’d filled with seawater over them. These would drastically muffle the sound of the explosions. The final touch was a tiny charge to the bottom of the door to flip it backward out of the way.

Murdock went over the wall right behind Razor and Jaybird. Chief Kosciuszko, who had the same approximate build as a mountain gorilla, almost threw him right over the balustrade. Following up after him were the rest of 1st Squad: Professor Higgins, Hospital Corpsman 2nd Class “Doc” Ellsworth, Minemen 2nd Class Scotty Frazier and Greg Johnson, and Gunner’s Mate 3rd Class Al Adams. Gunner’s Mate First Class Miguel Fernandez, Radioman 1st Class Ron Holt, and Seamen Joe Lampedusa and Ross Lincoln from 2nd Squad were also part of the assault element. There was no confusion or hesitation. After days and nights of intensive rehearsals on a mock-up, with every move choreographed like a Broadway musical, there had better not be.

Ed DeWitt, Chief Kosciuszko, and the two snipers would hang back to cover the water, the grounds, and the exits from the villa. When during the planning DeWitt had complained about being left out of the assault assignment, Murdock had just grinned and told him it was his military fate. The lieutenant was always going to choose to be the bride, and the j.g. would always be the bridesmaid.

By the time everyone was over the wall the charge was ready, the assault element crouched next to the side of the villa in a formation called the “train.” One man directly behind the other, right hand on his weapon and the left clasped to the shoulder of the man in front. Higgins squeezed Murdock’s shoulder, a signal passed up the line letting him know that everyone behind was ready. Murdock squeezed Sterling’s shoulder, and Jaybird signaled Roselli to fire the charge.

The chief was holding a flash-tube firing device, a hand grenade-type fuse attached to twenty feet of thin hollow plastic tube with a blasting cap on the other end. When you pulled the pin and let the spoon fly free, a powder flare shot down the tube and detonated the charge instantaneously, but with you a safe distance away. Just the thing for a dynamic entry, and a lot better than standing around tapping your toes waiting for a time fuse to go off.

Razor Roselli fired the charge. The ground rocked, but there was just a heavy whomp instead of the usual deafening crack. The air filled with rain from the water tamping.

Murdock followed Sterling through the mist and smoke into the door opening. The house was completely dark. The butt of his M-4 was locked into his shoulder, and the laser aiming dot looked like a searchlight in the green field of the NVG.

Designed for the tropics, the villa was open and airy, with high ceilings and open doorways. Roselli and Sterling disappeared into the nearest room. Everyone’s microphone was voice-activated. As he sped down the hallway, Murdock heard Roselli’s voice. “Room one, clear; moving.”

The next room down the hall, the large living room, belonged to Murdock and Higgins. Doc Ellsworth and his fire team went pounding up the stairs to the second floor. Fernandez and his fire team split off and headed for the kitchen and front of the house.

Murdock ran toward the doorway, as he’d done a hundred times in rehearsal. He’d go through diagonally, take a step to the right, and slam his back against the wall. His sector of fire started at the right-hand corner of the room and swept to the center. Higgins would do the same on the left side of the doorway. The firing would be single-shot, unlike the movies where everyone blows off whole magazines on full auto. With an assault rifle fired on automatic, the first round goes into the target but then the upward force of the recoil sends all the other rounds high. A trained shooter could put out almost the same rate of fire on single-shot, one after the other, as fast as the sights could be centered and the trigger squeezed, except that all the rounds would be going into the target. It all went according to plan, but when Murdock began scanning for targets, the pitch-dark room viewed through his goggles turned into a fucking convention center. It was full of shouting people who knew something was going on and were trying, with little success, to get organized in the darkness. Murdock was glad he was the only one who could see. He shot the first man on his right, the suppressor only giving off a quick muffled snap.

Then a flashlight came on. Murdock closed his goggled eye, opened the other, and took down the man with the light. Unbelievably, he heard Higgins both shooting and calmly reporting on the radio, “Contact, room two.”

A better man than I, thought Murdock, because even though the guy he’d shot was dead, his flashlight wasn’t. It lay on the floor casting a nightmare’s worth of illumination over the room. Now everyone could see him instead of the other way around. Not only that, it seemed as if most of them had started shooting. Muzzle flashes exploded in front of him. Murdock tossed his head back to flip the NVG up out of the way, and kept shooting.

Hundreds of hours and thousands of rounds expended in training saved Blake Murdock’s life. He didn’t think about it; he just fired until his man went down and then shifted to another target. First everyone with a weapon, then everyone standing, then everyone moving. The M-4 magazine ran out just as a screaming face loomed in front of him. M-16’s took a magazine change faster than any other weapon in the world, but there wasn’t enough time. Murdock’s left finger was on the trigger of the M203 grenade launcher, and he yanked the trigger. The recoil banged against his shoulder and the figure in front of him went down with twenty buckshot in his chest from the 40mm M576 multipurpose round. So close was the range that the shot group was the size of a fist, and the plastic pellet cup and cap were blown right into the wound.

Murdock stood panting, smoke curling from the end of his suppressor, the room reeking of burnt gunpowder, dead bodies all over the place.

Lieutenant Murdock might have wanted things kept quiet, but Razor Roselli had trouble with orders that conflicted with his personal survival. He wasn’t about to enter the locked downstairs bedroom door without some preparation. Besides, after all the unsuppressed gunfire he’d been hearing, he figured he was absolved.

He nodded to Jaybird Sterling, who reached behind his back and drew out a Remington 870 12-gauge pump shotgun with the barrel cut down to the magazine tube and no stock, just a pistol grip. Sterling shot the hinges off the door with two solid slugs.

Roselli kicked his side of the door down and whipped in an M-67 fragmentation grenade whose fuse he’d let cook off for a couple of seconds. The grenade blew, and they went in.

Blinded by the grenade smoke, Roselli sensed something thrashing on the floor and fired.

Jaybird, on the other side of the doorway, was sweeping the room with his laser, trying to punch through the haze. A figure sprang up from the floor and rushed across his field of view. Jaybird settled the laser on his target and fired. The figure went down with a hideous high-pitched screaming. Sterling kept shooting until the noise stopped. Nothing else was moving in the room, so he moved forward to take a look. In the laser light the figure turned into a woman with a child in her arms.

“What do you got?” Roselli called over. When he didn’t get an answer, he walked over and punched Sterling’s shoulder. “Whatcha got?” he repeated.

Jaybird was still staring down at the bodies. “Two,” he said flatly.

“I got one, and the frag got another,” Roselli said conversationally. “Room six clear, four tangos down,” he radioed. He pushed the microphone down and yelled at Sterling, “C’mon, let’s get going.” When Jaybird didn’t move, Roselli grabbed an arm and slung him out the door.

Murdock rammed in a new magazine and threw the empty into his vest. Then a new buckshot round into the M203. Nothing was moving in the room. He heard Higgins fire twice, then nothing. “You okay, Prof?” he called to Higgins.

“Yes, sir,” Higgins replied calmly.

The first thing Murdock did was stamp on the flashlight and return the room to darkness. Then he and Higgins toured the room, firing a round into the head of each figure on the floor. Better than a wooden stake through the heart.

“Room two, nine tangos down,” Higgins reported over the radio, doggedly following SOP to the last.

“Save some for us,” came Doc Ellsworth’s voice over the net. “Upstairs secure, two tangos down.”

Damn, thought Murdock, there were a hell of a lot more terrorists in the villa than the CIA had thought. Though the fact that they’d got it wrong wasn’t exactly a surprise.

Beside him Higgins gave voice to his thoughts. “If it wasn’t for all the guns, I’d say we fucked up and hit a Chamber of Commerce meeting or something.”

“Sound off,” Murdock ordered over the radio, and each member of the assault element reported in, alive and unwounded. “Clear and search,” said Murdock. “Let’s make it quick.” The SEALs would now make a hasty search of the villa for documents and intelligence. “Victor Two, any movement?”

“Clear,” reported Ed DeWitt.

Evidently the neighbors knew who lived there, and if a bunch of terrorists wanted to have a spat with firearms that was their own business.

Just as they’d rehearsed, Higgins held open a waterproof dry bag while Murdock shoveled in the contents of the terrorist’s pockets, along with all the papers that had been scattered around the room. Then Higgins used a miniature video camera with a night vision attachment to record the faces of the dead.

Each assault pair reported over the radio that they were done.

“Charges ready?” Murdock demanded.

“Victor 1–2 ready,” said Doc Ellsworth.

“Ready,” said Razor Roselli.

“2–1 ready,” said Miguel Fernandez.

“2–2 ready,” said Ron Holt.

“Pull fuse,” said Murdock. “Everybody out. Victor 2, copy?”

“Victor 2, copies,” said Ed DeWitt, letting everyone know that the security element wouldn’t blow them away as they came out the door.

The charges were 1-quart issue plastic canteens filled with a napalm mixture, a blasting cap, a two-minute safety fuse, and a fuse igniter. The fire would consume the villa within minutes, removing most of the evidence of what had happened.

Murdock stationed himself by the blown door and counted everyone out of the house. He was the last man to sprint across the lawn to the balustrade, where Ed DeWitt and Kos Kosciuszko were laying in the grass behind their HK-21’s, smiling big old smiles and hoping some trouble would pop up so they could lay waste to it at the cyclic rate of 900 rounds per minute.

Murdock went over the seawall and they followed right after him. The snipers covered while everyone strapped on their Draegers. While he worked, Murdock sucked on the plastic drinking tube of the Camel-Bak water bag attached to the back of his vest. It held seventy ounces and didn’t make any sloshing sounds when you moved. After all the heat and exertion he needed to get rehydrated before the swim out.

When they were ready, each swim team gave Murdock a thumbs-up that their equipment was working and slid into the water. Murdock checked them all off like a worried mother hen. He looked at his watch. They’d been in and out of the villa in less than six minutes. It had seemed like an hour.

Then Murdock and Higgins donned their mouthpieces and disappeared beneath the waters of Port Sudan harbor, just as the flames began to light up the villa’s windows.