Counterfire

4

The two civilians standing beside the Turtle wore brilliant Hawaiian print shirts, Bermuda shorts, and sunglasses. One was tall with a beard, the other one short and wearing a SEALs cap. The SEALs didn’t pay any attention to them.

Murdock took his first close look at the machine. It was about twice the size of a rubber duck. Sat on four tires that were twice as wide as most car tires and that looked under-inflated. Reminded Murdock of sand tires on a dune buggy. It had a bow, hull, and closed front end that stopped with a slanted steel panel that extended up two feet where the windshield should be. There were four view slots in it. The whole outside of the rig was made of dull green steel with no sharp corners.

Ed DeWitt came up rubbing his chin. “Damn thing is sixteen feet long and has twin screws aft. Crazy-looking tub. Didn’t we ask for a fifty MG up front? Where the hell is that one?”

The tall civilian with the beard came up to Murdock and grinned. “You must be Commander Murdock, the honcho of this outfit. I’m Dunwoody, helped create this mutha.”

Murdock took the offered hand. “Mr. Dunwoody, I’ll get the men corralled here and you can give us a rundown on the Turtle. Take it from the top, we’re in no rush.”

Murdock bellowed, and the SEALs came to one side of the Turtle where the civilian stood.

“Gentlemen, at last we have a prototype to show you,” said Dunwoody. “Hear you call her the Turtle. Good as any. First some statistics you don’t need to remember. She’s sixteen feet four inches long from bow to the propeller. No headlights, she’s not road-certified. She has a beam of six feet and four, which means she will roll a little in a rough sea.

“Yes, she swims, but leaves little more than eighteen inches of freeboard to present the lowest possible profile to give radar operators fits. She buttons up tight on top and stays dry inside. Room for eight and a driver. She’s unsinkable. Has built-in buoyancy panels so she can fill up with water and still stay afloat.

“She has Cadloy steel armor plate overall that protects her against 7.62 rifle fire. Power is a liquid-cooled Cummins V-504 diesel with two hundred and two horsepower. Her top road-cruising speed is fifty-five miles an hour, slightly less than that cross-country. The wheels gyro down when she hits the dirt to give you two-foot-obstacle clearance. Water speed has been pushed up to twelve knots with the least possible engine noise.

“To give you firepower, a turret raises hydraulically just behind the driver’s chair. This Turtle is fitted with a .50- caliber machine gun with a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree field of fire. Any questions?”

“Yeah, how does it switch from propeller to wheel power when we get it on land?” Frank Victor asked.

“Good question. It’s automatic, all done with sensors on the wheels. Once the wheels hit the sand or shore, the computer signals the drive shaft, which switches in half a second from prop to wheels and you’re off and driving.”

“Has she got a steering wheel, or do we just drag one foot to turn?” Jaybird cracked.

“Steering wheel, and gearshift for the automatic transmission. Not even a stick. Another thing might surprise you, electronic brakes with brake pedal and all.”

“Has this one been wet?” DeWitt asked.

“Took a joyride this morning in the bay and then into the ocean,” the shorter civilian with the cap said. “You won’t be doing any waterskiing behind her, but overall, we’re happy with this machine.”

The tall engineer opened a swing-up door on the side of the craft. “Take a look inside,” he said.

The SEALs crowded around it and gave their approval. Inside, it wasn’t a bare-bones metal can; it had bench seats along both sides, room for gear in back, and a swivel chair for the driver/boatman up front. Just behind him was the raised turret and the handles of a mounted .50-caliber machine gun where a man could stand and see out viewing slots on the side of the turret.

“I need seven men for a demo ride,” the bearded civilian said.

“Alpha Squad,” Murdock barked. “We’ve only got seven. Front and center and board. Who drives?”

The tall one was already inside and in the driver’s seat as the SEALs stepped on board. They quickly realized they had to bend over so they wouldn’t clunk their heads. They looked over the inside closer. It had racks on the short walls to tie down gear, and a large first-aid kit. They sat on the benches, and found them to be wider than usual and with foam padding on them. Murdock took the spot behind the driver and looked at the console of instruments. The dashboard looked more like a car than a boat. It had the usual auto readouts, lights for overheating, low oil, generating, and a fuel gauge. The steering wheel was about two thirds the size of that on a car and heavily padded. The bearded man swiveled his chair around.

“Ready back there?”

He got a chorus of ayes, and pushed a button on the dash to close the side hatch.

“She has hatches on both sides, manually or electrically operated. Most every system on board has a backup. Two power shafts to the twin screws. If one goes out, all the power is automatically switched to the one operating.” He looked back. “Ready to move?”

Without waiting for an answer, he pushed a starter and the diesel engine growled into life. He let it warm up for thirty seconds, then pushed the gearshift lever into forward and the Turtle rolled down the slight incline, across the soft sand, and into the receding froth and salt water of the Pacific Ocean.

“We take the breakers head-on,” the engineer said. “We’ve got enough weight to smash through most of them without much of a surge. This baby has never tipped over, and never filled with water, but we might get some splash through the turret. Here we go.”

Murdock bent over and looked out the view slots. They were three inches wide and twice that long and made of inch-thick Plexiglas. He could see a breaker just cresting and crashing down as the Turtle took it head-to-head, breaking through and coming out on the other side.

“I never felt it switch from wheels to screw,” Murdock said. He was amazed how quiet it was inside.

The driver bobbed his head. “No way you should know when it switches coming out. More obvious going into land. There’s a lurch when the wheels hit and dig in to move you up the beach.”

By then they were through the breakers and into the calmer ocean beyond them. The driver touched another control on the panel and the left hatch swung up.

“Hey! It could get wet in here,” Luke Howard yelped.

“Usually it won’t,” the bearded one said. “You can lift the hatches on both sides if you need to for putting firepower on an enemy.” He hit the switch again and the other hatch went up.

“Hey, this is living,” Jaybird sang out. “Can I check it out for a date I have Saturday night?”

“If you want to pick up the tab,” the engineer said. “Cost of this first prototype was a little over three hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”

“No sweat, put it on my Visa Card,” Jaybird said.

“Cut the speed to five knots and I could do some good trolling out the side here for yellowtail,” Senior Chief Sadler said. “I could catch dinner for us on the way home.”

After that it was just a boat ride. Murdock signaled for the driver to take them back to shore.

When the Turtle came back, DeWitt took his squad out on a run while Murdock talked with the engineer.

“How long do we get to keep it and who do we send our design changes and suggestions to?”

“That would be me,” the shorter man with the cap said. He handed Murdock a card. “Bill Spencer. E-mail me any suggestions that you might have. About how long you get to keep it, all we have to do is have your CO sign off on some papers I have and it’s yours. We have another prototype at the factory we’ll work with. We want you to give this some field evaluation. The specs say no enemy-fire missions, but who is going to know? We want you to check out everything within two months so we can move ahead. We have a contract to build ten of them. They are designed to work in pairs, with transport for a full platoon.”

Murdock grinned. “Sounds good. You have an operator’s manual?”

“Two of them in my bag back by the gate.”

“Good. We’ll also want you to train two of our men in each squad to be the drivers. Eventually we’ll want every man in the platoon able to drive the rigs.”

“We can give your men all the training they need in two hours. From then on, it’s your baby.”

A Humvee boiled up and stopped abruptly ten feet from the two men. Commander Dean Masciareli steamed out of the passenger’s seat and marched over to Murdock.

“Why in hell wasn’t I informed that this vehicle was on base?”

“Just came, Commander. This is Engineer Bill Spencer from the factory. He’s about ready to take you on a private demonstration drive.”

The Turtle came sliding through a breaker, coasted up to the sand, and the wheels dug in and it half-floated, half-rolled on in with the surge of sandy water; then the wheels took over and without a pause or hesitation, it rolled up the dry sand to the top of the slope and stopped. SEALs popped out both sides of the craft.

Masciareli seemed to cool down as he watched the Turtle come in. “Damn, that was smooth, Spencer. It ever been stuck?”

“Yes, sir, once in some thick mud holes where we pushed it, the wheels couldn’t dig us out. That was a manufactured hazard, and it won’t find them often.”

“Mr. Spencer, why don’t you take the commander for a ride?” said Murdock.

“Do you have time, Commander?” Spencer asked.

“Well, I had an appointment. Think I can squeeze this in. I hear we have this as a permanent part of our operation here on base.”

Spencer said that was true as the two walked away and stepped into the Turtle.

Murdock motioned to DeWitt, who came up. “When they come back, get Victor and one volunteer and have them checked out on driving the Turtle. Keep them on land for a while, then work out to sea. The rest of us will go on a little hike. Make your pick.”

DeWitt looked at his squad and picked Franklin. He sent the rest of Bravo Squad over to Murdock.

“Time we get back to work, SEALs,” Murdock said. “We’ll do six miles down the sand and back. I want a seven-minute-mile pace. Bradford, lead us out in a column of ducks. Let’s move it.”

Five minutes later, well down the beach, Murdock ran to the head of the line.

“We’re not out to break the four-minute mile, Bradford. Slow it down and maybe the guys won’t kill you.”

“Aye, aye, Commander. I’m slowing down.”

They used the wet sand for easier footing, and made it to the far end of the Navy Communication Station antennas where it met the Imperial Beach city border. When they came to the turnaround, Murdock took the con and led the way back up the beach. He moved the pace up faster.

Halfway back to the O course they met DeWitt and the two Turtle drivers slogging through the sand toward them. Murdock waved at the trio and kept moving.

Back at the platoon area, Murdock had the men fall out and clean and oil their weapons. “We’ll cancel the rubber duck drills, Senior Chief. We’re as good as we’re going to get on them, and we might just not have so much use for them in the future. I need to talk to the commander about where we house the Turtle and what kind of security we need on it. I should be back in a half hour.”

Twenty minutes later, Jaybird had his H & K MP-5 bright, clean, and oiled. He put his gear in his locker and found Sadler in the platoon office.

“Senior Chief, remember I told you about that community service work I’m doing, coaching Little League?”

Sadler looked up with a frown.

“This is Thursday and it’s practice day,” Jaybird said. “The team has a practice at 1630. I sure would like to get over to the field, if there isn’t anything pressing here.”

“Did you beat me on the O course today?”

“I didn’t see the times, Senior Chief.”

Sadler grunted. He remembered the time when a SEAL ate, drank, and pissed SEAL life twenty-four hours a day. “Yeah, the old man said we should encourage this sort of thing. Take off now, but be back here for 0800 tomorrow.”

“Right, Senior Chief. I’ll be here. Thanks.”

Sadler watched him leave. Jaybird was one of the best men in the platoon, and had been around the longest. He had avoided getting shot up too bad to get discharged and too little to die. The senior chief shrugged. Jaybird would be on the line when they needed him. He looked at the training chart for tomorrow. Yeah, that workout would be no problem. What about tonight? If Sylvia didn’t have anything planned, he was going to polish up the trumpet and sit in with the Dixie Five. They were playing at some dive in Chula Vista. Sadler grinned just thinking about it.