The fifteen men of the Third Platoon of Seal Team Seven struggled out of the Coachella Canal and flopped on the desert sand and rocks. They had just completed a half-mile swim against the six-knot current of the swift-flowing water.
Lieutenant Blake Murdock sat up and winced, then let out a small groan and waved for Doc Ellsworth.
Doc walked over and squatted beside his L-T, then sat down in the sand.
"Looks like you're about due, L-T," Doc said.
"Not so fucking loud, Doc. I could get you a bullhorn."
Doc took out an ampoule of morphine and Murdock rolled back his cammie sleeve for the shot.
Doc rubbed the shot spot with some alcohol and nodded.
"Damn good thing you talked Mr. Dewitt out of this picnic. He'd be in Balboa Hospital by now."
"Went to see his family in Seattle." Murdock rolled over on his stomach to relieve the burning in his buttocks and upper thighs. "Doc, how long is it going to take these damn things to heal up?"
"Depends. Some are healed over now. The ones with shrapnel that has to work their way out of your butt are going to take longer, a month at least."
"Oh, damn."
Murdock let the men rest for ten minutes, then hand-signaled for Jaybird to come up. "You're up, Platoon Chief. Make a call."
"My choice?"
"As long as it's the CQB."
Jaybird sighed. "That's two miles the other direction."
"By then our cammies should be almost dried out and our weapons should be drained. Let's go. A nice easy seven-minutes-to-the-mile run. Easier than double time."
Jaybird heaved up to his feet and bellowed to the frogmen. They lined up in the two squads and moved out with Murdock and Jaybird leading them.
The Close Quarters Battle House was devised by the British in training their elite SAS troops. It provided training in room-to-room fighting.
When troops barge into a room they don't know who or what is inside, and they must have a plan to take down anyone there and neutralize the whole place in only a few seconds. There is no room for mistaking friend for foe, or mixing up who is covering which side of the room or how the hostiles will be handled. Everything must be planned out in advance, practiced and practiced until the procedure is so ingrained in the SEALS' minds that they act automatically with no time to think.
"If you have to stop and think in a combat situation, you're dead." A SEAL truism that has helped save a lot of SEAL lives.
The CQB was more affectionately known as the "Killing House," because that's what SEALS did in such a situation when on a combat mission. It always paid to practice.
The old Killing House at the gunnery range had been made from used tires stacked up and laid out in the shape of roofless rooms and halls. The tires had been filled with sand to help absorb the bullets and prevent them from ricocheting or go zinging off into the rest of the training area.
The new one was more like a real building, with walls of bullet-absorbing material, rooms, halls, even a roof.
The desert sun had half dried out the cammies by the time the men arrived at the CQB. Jaybird sent four men inside to set up plywood silhouettes of good guys and hostages. The hostages all had hoods over their heads and their hands tied.
The new rooms were better than the old roofless ones, because the roof and lack of windows made most of the rooms almost dark. Since the SEALS did most of their work in the dark, the training was more realistic.
When the British set up the program for the CQB, they worked out a firing stance that presented the shooter facing the target with his legs spread and arms extended in front and elbows locked. The weapon was held in both hands. The British advocated that the shooter not use the weapon sights. Rather the shooter looked over the top of the barrel, picked out a special spot on the target such as the chest, and fired.
The Americans modified the system when they put it into practice. Having the body squared and looking forward left too much of the attacker open to return fire. Like duelers of old, the Americans modified the British stance and stood sideways to the bad guys, leaving the side-view body as a smaller target.
The two-handed grip was used and the shooting arm was straight. The other arm rested against the chest for support.
When the targets were set up, Jaybird let the men divide into fire teams as they logically would entering a targeted room. This depended on where they functioned in the squad combat order.
They would use the rapid-aim fire technique. The submachine gun or pistol would be held with the barrel slightly elevated. When a target was found, the gunman put the front sight on it, centered it on the rear sight, and fired in a fraction of a second. It wasn't quite like firing from the hip, but much of the same eye-hand-target coordination was used.
Jaybird set up the first run through the three room with three-man teams. As usual, each man would take a third of the room. They burst through the door one at a time in quick succession. Jaybird was on the first team, and he led them into the first room. He burst through the door with his MP-5SD sub-machine gun at the ready and visually swept the left one third of the room. He found three terrorists near one hostage.
He had his MG set on three-round bursts, and blasted each of the three terrs with a burst without touching the hooded hostage.
Right behind him came Ron Holt, who had the center one third of the room. Before Jaybird had fired his second burst, Holt had found two terrorists holding automatic weapons. He fired two bursts into each one.
At the same time he fired, Magic Brown stormed in and checked the right one third. Only one terr was there, with a knife, about to kill a hostage. Magic put six rounds into the cutout and blasted it across the small room.
"Clear here," Jaybird said.
"Yeah, clear," Holt said.
"Clear and easy," Magic said.
Jaybird snapped on an electric light recessed in the ceiling. All of the terrs had been killed. He waved and turned off the light.
"Let's move to room number two."
Each team went through the three rooms five times with their MP-5s. Then Jaybird changed the signals.
"Now we do it with the HK forty-fives. Unstrap them and let's do it with the fucking long silencer. Remember that it's going to be different than using your HK Five."
Murdock had made the runs with two other men. He nodded as Jaybird made the change. It was a good idea. The more actual firing time they had with the new offensive little ass-kicker, the better. But it was going to be different.
Firing the new.45 was a disaster. On the first three men through, one of them shot a hostage, and one of them had the silencer on wrong and the silencer fell off. The third man hit one of his three targets and missed the other two.
"What the hell is the matter?" Holt bellowed at the men. He took them outside, and all of the SEALS practiced quick-aim firing for twenty rounds into the side of the CQB mockup.
"Now, let's see if you can at least kill a few terrs before they blow your asses into the Chocolate Mountains."
The second try, the men hit 80 of the targets.
Holt growled at them. "We'll have more work on the forty-five. I told you it takes a little more time to counter the recoil. This ain't no machine gun. You got to pull the fucking trigger every time you want it to go bang and get a chunk of hot lead to rotate itself out the end of the fucking barrel."
After five rotations through the three rooms, the platoon had reached a 95 rate of kills. Holt growled at them. "Yeah, ninety-five percent. So only three of you motherfuckers got yourselves killed. Ain't you damn proud of your little asses. I give up, L-T, they all yours."
Murdock sent three men back to the bus to pick up the two.50-caliber sniper rifles and four hundred rounds of ball ammo. The bus was only half a mile away. When the three came back, Murdock marched them another half mile beyond the Kill House to Range B. The targets were a thousand yards away, well over half a mile.
"Every man is going to fire twenty-five rounds on the Mcmillan M-88. I want you proficient with it, not just making noise. You'll each have a spotter with a twenty-power scope. I want to see the last ten shots at least hits on those man-sized targets out there.
"This weapon is lethal at two kilometers. That's over a mile and a quarter. If you can see it, you can kill it with this eighty-eight. This is your party, Magic. You work with Ronson first and I'll clue in on the second gun. When you get Ronson up to speed, he can tutor the rest of the squad. Let's do some shooting."
"I've done fifty rounds on the eighty-eight," Ronson said.
"Show me," Magic said.
Ronson settled down with the fifty and adjusted the bipod, then the Leupold Ultra MK4 16-power telescopic sight. He asked for the two-power converter, and screwed it on the end of the telescope moving the sight to 32-power.
He put five rounds into the magazine, inserted it into the weapon, and chambered a round. Then he settled down to aiming, and a moment later the big round went off. Jaybird held the spotting scope beside him and he saw the hit. "Miss. A yard to the right. Watch that windage."
Ronson sighted in again and fired. Jaybird saw the hit in the permanent target.
"Hit," he said.
Magic cuffed Ronson on the shoulder. "Get out of there and let the homeboys have a turn. I'll use my weapon with the Second Squad."
Ken Ching, the new man, fired the big weapon four times and shook his head. "This is not an easy popgun to make go bang. Almost tore my shoulder off."
Jaybird put on his serious face. "Mr. Ching. That's because you held it too close to your shoulder. Allow about a half inch between your shoulder and the stock to absorb some of the recoil."
"Really?" Ching asked.
"Oh, yeah," Red Nicholson chimed in. "Helps a bunch."
Ching laughed at them. "Not a chance. Learned about that from my grandpa when I was twelve and he had a ten-gauge shotgun."
Murdock took his turn with the big fifty, and was impressed with the telescopic sight and how well it zeroed in on a man-sized target over half a mile away. He got his twenty-five rounds in in two sessions. It was easier on the shoulder that way.
It was nearly 1400 when they finished firing. They double-timed it back to the bus and Jaybird broke out the rations.
"Not those damned MRE horse turds," Ross Lincoln bleated.
"You don't want any, you don't get any," Jaybird said. "You should have tried the old C rations they used in WW Two and in Korea. Those were not the best. These rations are ten times as good."
Each man took one of the dark brown plastic pouches about a foot long and seven inches wide. They were marked "MEAL, READY-TO-EAT, INDIVIDUAL."
These were all the same "MENU NO. 6, CHICKEN ALA KING, ACCESSORY PACK C, CINPAC INC. CINCINNATI, OHIO."
The men cut open the pouches and looked at the familiar contents. Most of them had eaten more than their share of the MRES on combat missions and field exercises.
"How they expect us to make coffee when they don't give us no damned canned heat?" Al Adams asked. "Hear the old C rations had a little can of jellied gasoline you lit and it burned damned hot."
"Yeah, if you had time and nobody was shooting your ass off," Joe Douglas chirped.
The men dug through the contents. The chicken A la king came in a brown plastic package inside a slender cardboard box.
"We supposed to eat this chicken stuff cold?" Scotty Frazier asked.
"Yeah, cold, or I'll take it away from you and stuff it up your ass," Magic Brown bellowed.
The rest of them guffawed at the crack and settled down to eat. One envelope had crackers in it, and another was filled with peanut butter. All of the plastic envelopes had tear slots so they could be opened easily.
"Wow, I got Taster's Choice Instant Coffee," Jaybird said. He had opened the accessory packet B that bragged of having coffee, sugar, dry creamer, salt, chewing gum, an inch-high bottle of Tabasco sauce, and a wet-wipe towelette.
In the main envelope there were also a cocoa beverage powder for a hot or cold drink and a beverage base powder to mix with half a canteen cup of water. Most of the men used the beverage powder and discarded the cocoa and coffee mixes.
Murdock was surprised to see many of the men eating the crackers and peanut butter. He ate the cold chicken A la king. It wasn't half bad. It would have been better hot, but they didn't want to take the time. They had plenty of water in the water cans they had brought with them from Coronado.
Then Jaybird brought out the capper, large chocolate bars he'd had stashed in a cooler loaded with dry ice.
Murdock found Ron Holt. "Your PRC come through the swim in its watertight with no problems?"
"Haven't checked."
"Better. I want you to send a message to Command Master Chief Mackenzie back in Coronado."
Holt stared at him in confusion for a minute.
"That's not SATCOM. It's not line out of sight and we ain't talking to no aircraft." He frowned for a minute. "This damned thing can do so much sometimes I forget all it can do. Oh, yeah, hook into the worldwide cellular telephone system. Piece of cake."
He snapped two switches, and saw the power come on for the warmup. Then another light blinked and he hit the cell-phone circuit.
"We have a phone number, sir?"
Murdock gave him a number, and Holt punched it into the keyboard. A moment later Holt nodded and passed the hand set to Murdock.
"Master Chief Mackenzie. Murdock here."
"Indeed it is, sir. How goes the Hell Days?"
"Fine, so far. Wanted to remind you that I won't be able to have that dinner out with you tonight. Unless you want MRES."
"No, thanks. This man Holt getting the knack on the new radio? At least new to him?"
"Seems to be working out. Thanks, Master Chief. We're off on a fun hike."
He hung up and looked back at Holt. "Now set up the unit to contact SATCOM and get me through to the CIA."
Holt frowned for a minute, then hit two switches and unfolded the satellite's small antenna. It was collapsible, and when extended looked like a small dish. He attached the antenna and turned it slowly and watched the readout dial. When the antenna was in line with the communications satellite many miles overhead in orbit, the readout told him it was in the correct position.
"Let's send a data burst, so nobody can get a fix on our position, Holt. You know how to do that?"
"Yes, sir. Write out your message and I'll type it on the keypad."
Murdock looked at his code book and wrote out this message
"Zebra Two Oscar [Third Platoon's code word for the day] training mission under way. No casualties. On schedule. No air extraction needed. Cancel previous request. End."
"What now?" Murdock asked the new radio man.
"Now I type it on the keypad, check for accuracy, and then set the broadcast band to the SATCOM." Murdock checked the message on the liquid crystal display screen and approved. Holt touched another button, and the message was automatically encoded. He looked at his L-T.
"What would come next if we really wanted to send the message, Holt?"
"I'd push the send button and it would jolt out of here in a compressed burst of less than a millisecond of time."
"Right, good. Now shut it down. No transmission. That exercise is through. I want you to have this procedure down so you can do it in the dark, in your sleep with both hands tied behind your back and while having great sex with a blonde. Understand?"
"That's a Roger, sir."
"And stop calling me sir."
"Fine with me. I mean, sure. That's cool, sir."
Murdock shook his head and went to talk to Jaybird. He told him what he wanted and went back to the bus. He found the box of fraggers and half-a-dozen WP grenades.
By the time he got outside the bus, the men had finished the MRES and were sprawled in the shade of the big rig. Jaybird walked back to the bus after having set up the.50-caliber ammo boxes out from the bus at twenty yards, thirty yards, and forty yards.
Jaybird stopped a dozen feet from Murdock. The L-T took out one of the smooth and round M-67 hand grenades with the spoon handle and held it up. "You men know what these little sweethearts are. Sometimes they can save your ass. If you know how to use them right. Harmless as a newborn babe until the damn spoon is popped."
Murdock pulled the ring and jerked the safety pin out of the grenade. He held it a moment, then let the arming spoon pop off the grenade and tossed it underhand toward Jaybird.