Deadly Force

7

Platoon Three of SEAL Team Seven enjoyed its second day of “camping out” on the beach just below the Kill House on the Coronado Strand and just north of the Navy antenna farm. Murdock thought about yesterday. They had started with a full-operational-gear jog down the six miles to the antennas in the loose sand. Then, after a five-minute blow, they walked into the sparkling Pacific Ocean surf, dove under the breakers, and swam out a mile due south, then retraced their route. All of the SEALs now had the new underwater Motorola personal radios, good for seven miles underwater and five miles on land. It helped them keep in touch with each other fifteen feet underwater even on a moonless night. After the two-mile trek they worked through the Kill House three times, taking names and times. The new man, Omar Rafii, hadn’t seen the new Kill House.

“Hey, I ain’t been through one of these for over a year,” he said. “We don’t get out to the desert training much in the other platoons.”

“You’ll have plenty of it here,” Jaybird said. He had taken an instant liking to Omar, and had been helping him adjust to the new platoon.

“Just don’t let Jaybird lead you astray,” Senior Chief Sadler told the young man. “You know why we call him Jaybird, don’t you? And it’s got nothing to do with the little bird legs he has.”

“So tell me, Jaybird,” Omar said.

“Hell, okay. We was in Austria, or Senegal or maybe Paris, France — I don’t remember that part too well — and there was this huge guy in this bar who was just itching to pick a fight with somebody. Everybody in the platoon knew I was the best street brawler in the outfit, so they started pushing me forward.”

Somebody threw a brown MRE plastic pouch filled with sand at Jaybird.

“You’re making that up, Jaybird, you asshole,” Bradford yelled. “Tell him the real reason. About that four-story building in La Jolla that night about four years ago.”

“Wasn’t in La Jolla,” Lam said. “He told me it was in San Francisco, down in Chinatown somewhere, and it was before he was even in this man’s Navy.”

That afternoon they worked a swim up to BUD/S and staged a mock attack on the grinder, then ran back to their campsite below the big antennas. That night they had a roaring campfire on the beach, and told war stories about some of the more hairy missions they had worked.

The next day had been a half hour of sit-ups and push-ups and stretching exercises before a six-mile run down to BUD/S and back.

When they came back, Murdock gave the men a fifteen-minute break. Then he lifted out of the dry sand and dusted off his cammies. “Break time is over, you ladies, time we get into some real workouts,” Murdock called. They lined up in a column of ducks by squads. “We’re going to run back to the grinder and check out some IBSs and get in some work. Let’s move it. Omar, lead us out at a seven-minutes-to-the-mile pace. Out-a-here.”

An hour later they had worked the IBSs twice coming in through the breakers, sliding up on the Coronado Strand, and rushing up through the water to create a beach landing. The next time they took the small inflatable boats out, Murdock made a change. “This time we get into the first wave and pretend that we dump the boat and everyone bails out in a simulated turnover. You all have that? We drop out of the boat into the breakers and swim and surf into shore, where we lay like logs for two minutes, before we charge up the beach to the dry sand with simulated firing. No live rounds. Let’s do it.”

The first boat motored into the surging Pacific swell just before it broke, and rode it halfway down before Lieutenant (j.g.) Gardner gave a yell and his squad dropped over the sides of the boat, let it surge forward, then surfaced and swam in behind the pounding roar of the big surf. All eight men made it to shore, and lay in the receding water as one wave after another half-covered them with foaming, sandy water.

Murdock headed his Alpha Squad’s IBS into the wave. Jaybird was on the motor and he angled for the top of the big swell, then just before it broke he angled down the sliding wall of water. He was off by half a yard and the wave tumbled the twelve-foot-long boat upside down, spilling out the men and racing the floating craft toward the beach.

Murdock surfaced and began counting heads. The last time they had dumped an IBS this way, one of his squad had almost drowned. This time he found seven more heads bobbing in the water, and he signaled and all swam hard for shore, where they spread out and dove into the wet sand in a rough line facing the beach as the ocean waters flowed over them and then receded. After three minutes Murdock used the waterproof Motorolas.

“Charge the dry sand,” he ordered, and the sixteen men lifted up and surged up through the water and wet sand and sprawled in the dry sand with weapons covering the thin strand of beach ahead of them.

“Jaybird, what happened?” Murdock asked.

“You said to dump the boat. So I dumped it. Not hard, just overplay the top of the wave by six or eight feet and you’re going down.”

“It was supposed to be a simulated dump, not a real one. Remember when we almost lost Canzoneri when the boat clobbered him in the head when it went over?”

“Oh, shit. Yeah. Sorry, Boss. Won’t happen again.”

Murdock gave them five minutes, then stood. “Okay, you hotshots, we have a swim. Know where the beacon is down on the point off the tip of the Naval Air Station? You’ve been there a dozen times. Lieutenant Gardner will lead us out on a three-mile swim to the beacon. Then we turn around and come back home to BUD/S. Take us down fifteen feet and keep in touch with each other. We’ll use a long buddy line for each squad. Let’s get wet.”

Lieutenant (j.g.) Gardner took a compass reading on the point that he could see down the coast. He took the handheld compass board, waded into the water, and checked the buddy line. The JG waved at Murdock, took the men down fifteen feet, and angled along his azimuth setting on the compass board toward the point.

Murdock swam in his position at the head of Alpha Squad. He loved the new Motorola radio, which worked better underwater than it did on the surface. The throat mike and earpiece made it an entirely hands-off operation, which would come in handy in a tough firefight situation.

Halfway there, Lieutenant Gardner called for a surfacing. The SEALs came up and the JG checked his course. He made a minor adjustment on his setting.

“Everyone okay?” he asked on the net. “We’re about halfway. Let’s do a mile on the surface. We’re cutting across the water for the quickest route instead of following the curve of the land mass. Let’s have a radio check. Alpha Squad first.”

The men sounded off in squad field-marching order.

“Everyone accounted for. Let’s take a swim.”

They were crawl-stroking on the surface when their Motorolas sounded again.

“Murdock, lad, are you in range?” It was the Scottish-accented voice of Master Chief MacKenzie.

“Right, Master Chief. I read you loud.”

“Bring the boys home, Commander. We’ve had a bit of a message from the CNO. Seems like he’s needing your services again. What’s your ETO BUD/S?”

“Thirty minutes if we push it. We’re in the wet about two miles off. Heading your way now. Might take us a little longer. Keep the lights on.”

“Copy that, Commander. Stop by and see me before you get dry.”

“Roger, Master Chief.”

Murdock waited a moment, then used the radio again. “Gardner, head us for home plate. Looks like we have a mission coming up.”

It was thirty minutes before the SEALs ran up the beach in front of BUD/S and flopped on the sand. Gardner had set a pace that was ten strokes to the minute too fast, and the men were exhausted.

Murdock, Gardner, and Senior Chief Sadler hurried on to the Quarterdeck. Master Chief MacKenzie met them just outside.

“Have enough wet sand in my Quarterdeck already,” he said. He handed Murdock a computer printout. It was in 16-point type and brief.

“Alert Third Platoon, SEAL Team Seven, to be ready to fly from North Island Naval Air Station at 1230 today. Bring all weapons, double supply of ammunition, full water gear, and tropical uniforms. Transport will be the Gulfstream II. Report to the embassy in Sierra Bijimi and await further orders.”

“Where the hell is Sierra Bijimi?” Murdock asked.

“Looked it up, lad. It’s on the west bulge of Africa. Small place with about four million people. Something must have happened down there we don’t know about. ’Tis now 1015. Suggest you get your tails in motion. I’ll have a bus here for your transport to North Island at 1215.”

“Thanks, Master Chief. We’re moving.”

Murdock told the men all he knew about the mission as they walked over to their quarters, changed into clean dry tropical cammies, and got their gear ready to travel. Full combat vests and ammo and their weapons went into duffle bags, along with complete wet suits and all of their underwater gear. They had early chow at the Amphib base across the highway, and were in the parking lot next to the Quarterdeck by 1200.

Chris Gardner was grinning. “Damn, the second day I’m with the platoon we get activated. Yeah, this is my kind of duty. Glad to be on board.”

“West coast of Africa?” Jaybird yelped. “Gonna take us a year just to fly over there. That’s halfway round the fucking world. What does the Gulfstream II do? As I remember it goes five hundred miles an hour at forty thousand feet. Maybe stop in New York, then to Newfoundland, head southeast to the Azores, and then maybe Mauritania before we go south to that little country. We’re talking some heavy sack time here, gents.”

“How long, Jaybird?” Fernandez asked.

“Maybe twelve thousand miles at five hundred should come out to about twenty-four hours, not counting time stopped to refuel and the clearances and diplomatic shit. Say another six hours. Thirty hours. Then we’ll also lose about eight or nine hours on the clock.”

“Shut up, Jaybird, you’re making my head hurt,” Luke Howard thundered.

At the North Island Naval Air Station, the Gulfstream was warmed up and waiting for them. A slender, pretty woman in a khaki uniform met them at the door. Murdock spotted the lieutenant’s bars on her shoulders and the silver wings on her blouse. She was Coast Guard.

“Lieutenant, some SEALs looking for a ride,” he said. “You have any seats open?”

“Commander, we have nineteen. Also some good food just stowed. Glad to have you on board.” She held out her hand. “I’m Sandra. I’m your bus driver for the trip.”

“I’m Murdock. I hear we’re heading for Sierra Bijimi.”

“That’s what my orders say. I’ve never been there before. If my flight plan works, we should find it.”

They moved out of the doorway and let the men troop inside. Senior Chief Sadler claimed the first four seats for the officers and himself. “Don’t crowd, we’ve got plenty of good seats,” Sadler said.

Murdock and Gardner settled into their seats and strapped on their seat belts. Gardner shook his head. “These guys aren’t going to be happy with thirty hours in the air. How about our taking a one-mile run on our second fueling stop? That could be Newfoundland. Then they’ll be ready to sleep for about ten hours.”

“Good idea,” Murdock said. He liked this young man the more he saw of him. Yes, he would work out well in the platoon.

“Sierra Bijimi,” Murdock said. “I didn’t even have time to look it up on the Web. We don’t know a thing about the country. I wonder what Uncle Sam wants us to do down there.”