Deadly Force

3

Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock sat at the desk in his small Third Platoon office and studied the files on three officers. He needed a new second in command for the platoon. Lieutenant Ed DeWitt’s transfer had come through, moving him into command of the Second Platoon in SEAL Team Five, based right there in Coronado.

Master Chief MacKenzie had narrowed down a stack of volunteers for the position after word had gone out last week. Now Murdock read through the three. All were qualified. All had the needed rank of lieutenant (j.g.). All had good records in the black-shoe Navy and as SEALs. It would come down to the personal interviews. Two of the men were from there in Coronado. One was flying in today from NAVSPECWARGRUP-TWO in Little Creek, Virginia. He was due at the Quarterdeck at 0900. Murdock checked his watch: 0745.

He flexed his left arm. The bullet hole there still throbbed, and he wasn’t up to speed on the O course. He grabbed three ibuprofen, tossed them into his mouth, and swallowed them. It had always been easy for him to down pills.

He checked the file on the man coming in from Virginia. JG Harry Belmer, twenty-six, six-two, 205 pounds, four years as a JG. Seemed like too long. He’d been a SEAL for three years. Yeah, tougher to get promoted inside. He scanned the man’s records, including a recommendation by his current platoon leader:

“Personable, good with the men, commands respect, high leadership qualities, second-string all-American collegiate linebacker. Can follow orders, can evaluate situations well and lead his men in difficult situations. No combat experience. Has not been blooded.”

Murdock nodded. Not many SEALs did get blooded these days. With no war on, and no police action, there were few calls on the SEALs to get down and dirty. Except for Third Platoon of Seven. He leaned back, laced his fingers together behind his head, and thought about his situation. Unique. None like it in the service. Even in any of the quick-response Special Forces. His platoon was one of a kind. Direct control from the CNO. The Chief of Naval Operations had battered down the complaints from Commander Masciareli, who headed the Coronado NAVSPECWARGRUP-ONE, and probably Admiral Kenner, boss of all the special war groups and the SEALs. Yeah, Murdock and his platoon were on call like a five-hundred-dollar whore, waiting to get into the field and take care of those dirty little jobs that the public could never know about but that helped to keep the good old Stars and Stripes flying.

“Morning, Skipper,” Senior Chief Sadler said.

Murdock straightened up in the chair and brought his hands down. “Senior Chief, you look like roadkill that some big dog dragged in off the highway. Are you all right?”

“Been better. The Dixieland gig lasted a little longer than usual last night. Hell, ten years ago I wouldn’t even have noticed.”

“You’re the old-timer of the platoon, Senior Chief. You have to learn to slow down a little.” Murdock chuckled. It was a running and friendly joke between them.

“This morning I could almost believe you. You and Lieutenant DeWitt going to be interviewing today as I remember. I’ll take the platoon for some training.”

“Right. Here’s the sked. The O course, then a soft-sand run down to the Kill House, and put everyone through there twice and bring me the scores. Then a swim back without fins. Should keep you busy all morning.”

“I was hoping we could get back to some basic push-pull-sit work, Commander.”

“Schedule it for the afternoon with a twelve-mile run to the antennas and back.” He peered at the senior chief. “Sure you don’t want to let Jaybird do the drill and you flake out with us here to evaluate the new JG?”

Sadler hesitated just long enough to give Murdock doubts.

“Sir, I better stay with the men. This choosing stuff is Officer Country. I’ll do what I’m best at. Just a little fog across my bow. It’ll clear and I’ll be leading the pack. Good to be back in the saddle again here, sir.” He did a snappy about-face and went into the squad room.

Ed De Witt came in; his grin was still ear-to-ear, Murdock saw.

“Sit down, sad boy, and tell me your woes.”

Ed laughed and sat. “Oh, yeah, it’s going good. I talked with the JG in Second of Fifth and I like him. He’s shouldering it for the time being. They do lots of training. Yeah. Your new man show up here for a look-see yet?”

“If he is, he’s hiding.”

The phone rang.

“Yeah, Third-Seventh.”

“Commander Murdock, sir,” Master Chief MacKenzie said. “I’m sending JG Belmer to your office with a guide. Should be there shortly.”

“Thanks, Master Chief. You do good work.”

They hung up. “He’s coming.”

Ed had picked up the file on Belmer, and read through it quickly. “Wow, second-string all-American in football. Not bad. At least he won’t have any trouble hitting the dirt.”

The two old friends talked about the last mission. Ed’s leg wound was healing, but it would be three weeks before he was back a hundred percent.

Then a knock sounded on the door, and a large man in desert cammies filled it. His floppy hat scraped the top of the doorjamb.

“Sir, Lieutenant (j.g.) Belmer, reporting as ordered.”

“At ease, Lieutenant, come in, sit down. Ed was just ready to stand up. Ever been to California before?”

“No, sir.”

“Lieutenant, this is Ed DeWitt, who is leaving the platoon. He’ll be on hand to help the new man merge into our operation here. Tell me, why do you want to join us?”

“Because you’re the top-rated platoon and you get all the action. We keep hearing that you go on missions on average of one a month. I want to get in on the action.”

“Lieutenant, did you know that over the past three years we’ve had twelve men killed during our missions?”

Belmer’s eyes widened. He swallowed, then looked at Murdock. “No, sir, I didn’t know that. I’d heard that your men do get wounded now and then.”

“We average about four wounds a mission, Belmer,” Ed said. “Last week we sent a KIA home in a coffin, and took three more wounds. Both Commander Murdock and I were shot last week.”

“Wow. I didn’t know.”

“Does that change your mind about wanting to join us?” Murdock asked.

“No, sir. Not one bit. It’s what I’ve been trained for, and so far I haven’t had one single mission. A guy could go stale that way.”

“Where are you from, Belmer, and how long have you been in the Navy?”

Ed sat back and listened. Murdock took notes. Early on Ed had had reservations about this young man. It was a gut feeling. There were two more to go. He knew long before the hour interview was over that Belmer would get a B rating, right in the middle. The other men would go above or below him. He’d have to wait and see.

After Belmer left the two friends talked it over.

“I wouldn’t want him protecting my back in a firefight,” De Witt said. “Nothing concrete, just my overall impression. He seemed to be more interested in telling his friends he was in Third than being here to help us run the outfit.”

“Grade him, with A the highest, C the lowest,” Murdock said.

Ed slid out in the chair, massaged his wounded leg, and scowled. “Is this part of my job here?”

“It is. Give me a grade.”

“Okay, I’d put him at a B. Depends on who else we get. When’s the next one?”

“At 1100. A JG from SEAL First, First Platoon.”

“I’ve heard they’re plenty sharp,” Ed said. “Hope their JG is a good one.”

Senior Chief Sadler led the platoon on the run to the Navy antennas just six miles down the Coronado Strand toward the outskirts of the town of Imperial Beach.

“Hey Senior Chief, this dry sand is a bitch to run in,” Jaybird squawked.

“Keep it up, Jaybird, and we’ll run back the same way, only twenty percent faster.”

At the Kill House, dug into the sand near the far end of the strand, they went through the routine of quick-firing at the pop-up targets. With fifty thousand variables on the computer-programmed targets, there was little chance they would ever see the same ones again.

“We’re keeping scores and reporting them to the CO,” Sadler said. “Top score gets my personal six-pack of your choice of beer. Now let’s do some good numbers.”

The Kill House was also known as a CQB, Close Quarters Battle house. It had been dug into the sand and had bullet-proof sides on all walls. There were three rooms with ceilings and all sorts of furniture. There were also terrorist figures and terrorists with hostages that popped up the moment SEAL boots hit the floor activators. The computer registered the hits and misses, and any time enough seconds passed without a SEAL response, the computer determined that the terrorist had killed the SEAL.

A pair of SEALs attacked the house, one taking the right-hand side of the first room, the other the left. When it was clear, they said so and moved to the next room and new problems.

Jaybird and Sadler were the first ones into the house. Jaybird took the left. Just inside the door he saw three terrorists pop up with a hooded hostage between them. He cut down the two on the right and shifted to the left, but the target had vanished.

Sadler had one target on the right, drilled it with a three-round burst, then at once two more terrs jolted upright almost in the center of the room holding sub guns. Sadler slapped down both of them with swinging bursts from his Bull Pup rifle set on 5.56mm.

The next room proved tougher, with one after another terrorist popping up after the SEALs thought the room was clear. They missed three of them.

“Damnit, I just shot a hostage,” Jaybird wailed.

When they came out of the last room, Sadler went to the side of the building to a weatherproof hutch and punched the button to get a printout of their score.

“Seventy-four,” Jaybird screeched. “We did better than that.”

“We could have,” Sadler said. “But they fined us fifteen points for that hostage you shot. The setups on the targets are tough today.”

After the last pair went through the Kill House, Sadler checked his watch. No time to make a second pass. He brought the men back to the beach, looked over the printouts, and yelled, “Look at this, you slackers. Van Dyke and Fernandez came up with the winning score. Eighty-nine. I bet they didn’t gun down any hostages like some people I know did. Okay, back to the compound. We have thirty-seven minutes for the trip. That’s a little over seven minutes to the mile. Who can set the pace?”

“Hell, Senior Chief,” a disguised voice yelped. “You know SEALs don’t fucking never volunteer for goddamned nothing.”

There were a dozen hoorahs, and then Lam moved out front of the pack. “I’m not volunteering, I’m just trying for a personal best. If any of you want to try to keep up with me, be my guests.”

He took off down the wet sand, where footing was sure and easier. The SEALs fell in behind him in a column of ducks, and Sadler brought up the rear.

By the time they hit the sand in back of the O course, they were puffing. Sadler knew that a seven-minute mile with their combat vests, packs, and combat weapons was a strain. He figured most of the men had about forty pounds on their backs.

The men stopped and blew hard. Some of them had hands on knees, bent double. Some sat on the sand. Others kept walking in tight circles to keep their hearts pumping as they oxygenated their spent blood.

“Oh, shit,” Senior Chief Sadler said. “We were supposed to swim back. Now we’ll have to swim out four miles and back four miles.”

All twelve of the SEALs threw their floppy hats at Sadler, who grinned at them and threw the hats back.

At 1100, Lieutenant (j.g.) Christopher Gardner knocked on the door and was invited into the Third Platoon office.

“I’m Chris Gardner from First Platoon of SEAL Team One.”

“Chris, come in,” Murdock said. The man was six-four, maybe 240 pounds, and grinned like a big teddy bear. He had a whiteside haircut with brown hair almost long enough to comb. His face was square-cut, and he’d have a five o’clock shadow by noon. His clear green eyes took in the office in a glance. “Take the hot seat there and we’ll have a talk,” Murdock said. “How are things over at the First Platoon? That would be Charlie Brashears as the CO?”

“Right. He said to say hello. You two go way back, he said.”

“Known Charlie a long time. Chris, I’m Murdock and this is Ed DeWitt, recently promoted and moving up to a platoon of his own. His feet aren’t too big, but when it comes to filling his shoes, it’s going to take a damned good man.”

“Lieutenant,” Chris said, nodding at Ed. “I’ve heard about what you guys do over here and I’m amazed. Your platoon gets twenty missions to our one. And then we usually dig out some harbor mines or maybe help train some recruits in Africa. Truth is, nobody has shot at me since BUD/S. Not that I’m anxious to get some lead in my hide. Just a fact you need to know.”

“So, why do you want to be in the Third?”

“I figure I trained to do certain things, and I’m not doing them. No fire missions, no rescues, no work like you guys did on the Chinese invasion and on the Philippine kidnappings. Those two we know about. That’s what I trained to do, and I feel like a slacker when I’m not in the mix on them.”

Murdock looked at Ed and nodded. “Chris, we’ve been over your file, and frankly, we like what we see there. You’re Annapolis. But you must know that SEALs is not an outfit that will give you a good career path to admiral.”

“Yep, I know that.”

“Did your father tell you that?” Ed asked.

“The admiral has strong feelings about almost everything. He loves the SEALs. Actually they pulled his ass out of the fire once. But he didn’t want me involved because it isn’t blue-water sailing, and as you said, not a fast track to admiral.”

“Is your father still on active duty?”

“Yes, sir. He was Navy air, and now he’s captain of a carrier.”

“I understand that you’re married, Chris.”

“Right. Been married now for almost three years.”

“SEAL scheduling and sea tours haven’t hurt your marriage?” Ed asked.

“Sure, some, but Wanda is an understanding woman with a career of her own. No kids yet. Waiting a few more years.”

“What does she do?” Murdock asked.

“She has her own small sport clothes design and manufacturing firm here in town. Fabricates the clothes in Tijuana, part of that new across-the-border deal with Mexico.”

“Successful?” Ed asked.

Chris laughed. “Oh, yes, sir. Last year her gross income for the business was a little over twelve million dollars.”

“Just about as much as a JG makes,” Murdock said. They laughed.

“It doesn’t bother me that she makes a lot more money than I do. She earns it. She’s excellent at designing and has a great head for business.”

They talked for another half hour. Murdock sensed it quickly, an immediate bonding with the young man. A meshing of purpose, ideals, and style. It had happened a few times before. An immediate rapport, both on the same wavelength.

Murdock looked at DeWitt and gave a small nod. DeWitt grinned. “About what I was going to say, Commander.”

Murdock stood and held out his hand. “Chris, you’re our man. I’ll have the master chief put through the paper today. He’ll tell you when to report, but probably tomorrow morning. You better get your desk cleaned out and your gear turned in.”

“Hey, good, great.” Chris seemed a little confused. “But the master chief told me there were three men to be interviewed.”

“True, Chris,” Murdock said. “I know the other one and he doesn’t stand a chance after we’ve talked with you. Now get out of here and get your papers put through.”

Chris grinned. “Hey, absolutely right. I can do that, Commander.” He shook his head. “Damn, I’m really gonna be here with the Third. Wait until I tell Wanda. We’re going to celebrate tonight.” He stood, came to a braced attention, and snapped a salute. “Request permission to leave the Third Platoon area, sir.”

Murdock grinned and returned the salute. “Permission granted, Sailor. Get back here as soon as you can.”

When Chris left, Ed DeWitt dropped into the chair he had sat in so often and stretched out his feet. He rubbed his wounded leg and nodded. “Oh, yes, Murdock. I think that you’ve caught yourself a good one.”

Murdock frowned. “Yeah, but not as good as the one I’m losing. What do we do to integrate him into the squad as fast as possible? Like we needed him here yesterday?”

DeWitt rubbed his nose, as he often did when he was thinking. “Okay, I’m with you here for two weeks yet. Let’s go to the desert for four days, see what this young man is made of. It’ll also sharpen up the men and get them back in fighting trim. We also need a new man for Chris’s squad. Do you have some candidates?”

“Master Chief sent me over ten who had requests on file. I looked them over and cut out three. First order of business tomorrow morning when Chris comes back will be to help him pick a new man for his squad. Introduce him to the men in Bravo. Let him see physically who he has to work with. Then we’ll see where we go from there.”

“Sounds good from here, oh, wise leader of men,” Ed said, cracking a grin.

“How does your new outfit look?”

“Good old Second Platoon of Five. Yeah, I’ve met them. Don’t know squat about them yet. I like the JG there, so that’s a plus. Just have to see how it works out. I won’t transfer anyone out unless I absolutely have to. I have the option, if I’m sure I can’t work with any of the men I inherit.”

Murdock laughed and put his feet up on the desk, then leaned back in the chair. “DeWitt, you’re used to a bunch of oddballs here in the Third. You’ll be able to work with almost anybody. They all are SEALs, so you know they’ve been through a lot just to get into the Team.”

“Yeah, yeah, I keep telling myself that. Just have to wait and see. What do you think about the four-day trip to the desert?”

“Sounds like a lot of work, sleeping on those sandy rocks and getting up double-dog-tired. I love it. We’ll work out a training sked that will put Chris in the driver’s seat all the way. See how he does.”

The next morning Lieutenant (j.g.) Chris Gardner leaned against the office door to Third Platoon when Murdock arrived at 0730.

“Couldn’t sleep, Lieutenant?”

“Like a billy goat, Commander. Didn’t want to be late my first day on the job.”

Murdock shook his hand. “Good to have you on board. This time of day we have to make our own coffee. You any good at it?”

“Not the best, sir.”

“Tough. I’ll do it.” As he made the coffee, Murdock told Chris about the work for the day.

“So, I’ve got seven personnel folders over there on my desk. Look through them and see if you want one of them for your squad. Pick three to interview. As soon as the men get here, you’ll meet the rest of Bravo Squad to see what you have to work with.”

“Aye, aye, Commander.”

Ed DeWitt came in about 0800, and the three of them interviewed three men that morning. All had volunteered for Third Platoon and all were from other platoons on the base.

“So, which man do you like?” Murdock asked. “It’s up to you. He’ll be your responsibility, your input to the squad.”

“I’m going with the little guy, Rafii. I just like the way he comes across. He’s from Saudi Arabia, speaks Arabic and Farsi like a native. Came here when he was four with his parents. Omar Rafii. He’s a knife man. I bet you’ve had times when a silent kill with a knife from fifteen feet would be a bonus. If there are no objections, I’ll tell the master chief to get Rafii’s tail over here.”

“Done,” Murdock said. “You’re right about the knife work. Ed here is pretty good, but I wouldn’t want to bet my life on his getting a kill from even ten feet.”

“Amen to that,” DeWitt said with a grin.

“Now, Chris, I want you to help us lay out a four-day training sked for the desert. Tell us what elements you want included, and what you think will work best for you to get to know your squad members and to start the bonding process.”