Flashpoint

8

Commander Blake Murdock leaned back in the first-class type airliner reclining seat. He could get used to this. The Third Platoon of SEAL Team Seven had been pulled out of station a day earlier than planned. The situation in Colombia was getting worse. More of the troops loyal to the former president were deserting to the new, fraudulently elected man owned by the drug cartels.

Murdock looked around at the aircraft. He knew it was an Air Force C-22, an adaptation of the Boeing 727 passenger liner. It had been set up for twenty-four occupants and was used mostly for VIP passengers in staff movements and getting vital military and high-level civilian personnel to the proper location quickly and with a minimum of danger.

They had taken off from North Island on twelve hours’ notice. Senior Chief Will Dobler had talked with Nancy for two hours and had come back ready to travel. Nancy would meet every three days with Milly and Maria Fernandez to trade news and gossip and to cry on each others’ shoulders if necessary.

All of Murdock’s men were fit and ready. The big plane held the platoon easily, and the cargo bay carried all their personnel gear and weapons, including the five new Bull Pups and five thousand rounds of HE automatic fuzed ammo. They were ready.

Murdock wasn’t sure what route they were taking. He heard something about a fuel stop in Texas and another one in Miami. He knew they would land in Panama City. This bird should have a range of over 2,600 miles. From Panama they would take a Navy COD for transfer out to a carrier somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.

Lieutenant (j.g.) Ed DeWitt snored softly in the seat just ahead of Murdock. He could go to sleep almost on call.

They had been airborne only two hours when one of the crew brought them hot meals from the plane’s kitchen. It turned out to be standard first-class airline dinners, which the men appreciated.

“Damn lots better than MREs,” Ostercamp bellowed.

They had left North Island at 1600. Don Stroh said that would make most of their trip in the dark, especially the stop in Panama City and the transfer to the COD and then the run out to the carrier.

“No sense telegraphing our punch,” Stroh said on his last talk with Murdock. He said he’d follow them the next day and be on the carrier Gerald R. Ford CVN-81 and on call there.

“This one is still a little tricky,” Stroh had said that afternoon on the secure line. “We’re not completely happy with the former president. He may be sharpening his teeth to take over as a dictator himself. So protect your back at all times. We know that we want the bastard drug cartel operators out of power now, and we want to smash a huge hole in their drug trafficking.”

Murdock mulled over the conversation. They would do what they could. Hit the growth area of the leaves of the cocoa tree. Or were there many in Colombia? As he remembered, most of the leaves came from Peru and Bolivia, high up in the mountains. They processed it halfway into cocaine paste and exported that. The Colombians processed that into cocaine. So they would take down the production plants that manufactured the cocaine and then burn up as much of the export pipeline to the States as they could. The puppet president might or might not be on their agenda.

He woke up when they landed. When he looked out the window, he saw all U.S. planes and guessed it was either Texas or Miami.

The C-22 had an extra crewman on board. He was a sharp-dressing corporal with a thick Southern accent.

“Best duty I had in a year, sir.” He told Murdock all he had to do was play attendant. He served the meals, was on call, and said he could provide anything but alcoholic drinks.

“Our captain got orders that you folks was to be considered just a notch below generals and admirals, and we was to treat you with the utmost respect. You SEALs. What’s a SEAL?”

Murdock explained to him.

“Oh, and this is some sort of secret mission. Yeah, I dig. Never heard of you, but then lots of things I ain’t never heard of.”

They took off, and the corporal served anyone who wanted it coffee, juice, or soft drinks. Most of the men slept through the landing.

It was dark when they came down in Panama. Murdock wasn’t sure what relations were with Panama, but they had no trouble transferring their gear to the Navy Greyhound, the CA-2A. The Greyhound is a slightly altered model of the Navy’s E-2C Hawkeye Airborne Early Warning aircraft.

It was a tighter fit, with the plane designed to carry thirty-nine troops. They climbed on board, stowed their gear and essentials, and took off at once.

By that time, Murdock was wide awake. He talked with the pilot who told him it was 0400 local, if he wanted to set his watch.

“We’ll be well away from Panama by the time it gets light and anyone gets curious,” the pilot said. “Now we have to hook up with the carrier Gerald Ford about three hundred and seventy-five miles almost due south.”

“That puts us off Colombia?” Murdock asked.

“About two-thirds of the way down. Not sure how far the carrier will be offshore by then, but should be out a ways.”

Murdock thanked him. The flight engineer told Murdock he had an ETA of about 0520 local, give or take five minutes.

Murdock found half the men sleeping again. Good. They might not have a lot of time to sleep once they hit dry land. This could be on the hairy side. No real enemy, unless they tangled with the federal troops who remained loyal to the new regime. Even then, he wasn’t sure how well equipped they were or how dedicated. Give them a 10 percent casualty rate, and they all might turn and run. Time would tell.

The speaker in the rear cabin came on a short time later.

“We will be landing in ten minutes. There are no flight exercises on, so we have a straight in. Get your gear together for a quick exit.”

Five minutes later, the SEALs were ready. It wasn’t quite daylight when the COD touched down with one bump, caught the number-three wire, and jerked to a stop. After the wire was unhooked, the Greyhound rolled to its assigned parking spot and the flight engineer opened the door.

Murdock was the first man out and on the deck. There he met another two and a half striper who held out his hand.

“Commander Murdock. Welcome aboard. I’m Lieutenant Commander Emerling. I’m your contact while you’re with us.”

“Good to meet you, Commander. Understand we are to have a meeting with your XO as soon as we arrive. Sounds like a quick turnaround.”

“That’s what I’ve heard. We’re heading for the Colombian coastline, but I’m not sure how far offshore we are. We have a secure compartment for your men’s equipment right next to some six-bunk areas.”

“Thanks. We’ll see the men settled in, then you and I will go see the XO. What’s his name?”

“That would be Captain Ingman. Let’s get your men off the flight deck.”

A white shirt motioned to them, and they followed the safety officer across the edge of the flight deck and down four levels to the assigned compartment. It was about forty feet square. The SEALs claimed spaces and put down their personal gear and weapons.

“What about the supplies we brought?” Senior Chief Petty Officer Dobler asked.

“I put a detail on that before we left the flight deck,” Lieutenant Commander Emerling said. “All your goods should be here within ten minutes. If not, I’ll twist some tail.”

“Thank you, sir,” Dobler said and went back to his combat gear.

Murdock looked around, signaled to Ed DeWitt that he was in charge, and then waved at Emerling. “Let’s go see Captain Ingman.”

Five minutes later, Emerling went down the last companionway and pointed to the doorway ahead. “This is it. The captain can be a bit crusty at times, but he’s fair, and a lot of people say brilliant. He’ll brief you, and I’ll make any arrangements that need to be made for transport, onshore backup, support, communications, whatever.”

He knocked, then turned the knob and stepped inside. Murdock followed.

“Captain, Emerling here, sir, with Commander Murdock. His SEAL platoon is on board.”

Murdock took in the office compartment at a glance. All Navy, nothing personal except two framed pictures on the metal desk. The man who sat behind it had pilot’s wings on his blouse and captain’s insignia on his collar. His face was wind-weathered, tanned, and showing worry lines around his eyes. Probably three more years on his star chase to get his own carrier command and his admiral rank.

“Lieutenant Commander Murdock reporting as ordered, sir,” Murdock said.

The captain stared at him a moment, then his face softened for just a flash of a second and he pointed to a chair.

“Good. Don Stroh has been calling me damn near every hour checking to see if you’re here. He says he’s on his way. Now, we have specific orders for you. Specific and yet open-ended. I imagine that you’re used to that sort of thing.”

“Yes sir.”

“All I have is your first assignment, in case Stroh didn’t get here in time. We are now about forty miles off the Colombian coast from the port city of Buenaventura. This port and much of that region is currently being held by Ex-president Manuel Ocampo. It’s a sloppy civil war but not called that. Ocampo has about forty thousand men, a company of tanks, six jet fighters, two light planes, and the rest in infantry and one battery of one-oh-five artillery pieces.

“He’s being harassed by troops loyal to the new so-called elected government.”

Captain Ingman frowned and rubbed his jaw with one big hand. “Tough situation. Your main assignment now is to advise the president and his one one-star general on his situation, tactics, whatever. We will be doing some resupply to the president with some munitions and other items he has requested. We can get almost anything you want, except those new rifle-fired twenty-mike-mike exploding rounds you have.

“You are to proceed to the port at the earliest possible time. That means helicopters. We’ll send you in a Super Stallion, and two more with equipment and matériel for the president. The air boss tells me he’s now scheduled your takeoff time in a little over three hours. Give you plenty of time to get your men to chow and check their gear. You’re going into a friendly situation, but it could turn ugly at any moment. Any questions?”

“I’ll want my platoon to be fully armed, locked, and loaded as soon as they get on board the choppers. Will that be all right?”

“That’s a roger, Murdock. Frankly, I’ve never seen an operation like this on a U.S. Naval ship. The fucking CIA is pulling the strings. My orders are directly from the CNO and the director of the CIA.” Ingman shook his head. “Hell, I’m just a blue water sailor not used to this kind of high-level clout.”

“Yes, sir. I know the feeling.”

“I bet you didn’t know that just so there won’t be any Navy brass out of joint, you’ve been given temporary rank of captain for this mission.”

Murdock hadn’t heard that. “Sir, I’m sure that Commander Emerling and I won’t have any problems with any of your crew.”

“Just wanted you to know. Anything else?”

“No sir. Some chow would go good. Thank you, sir. I hope we don’t interfere with any of your operations.”

Ingman chuckled. “Hell, Murdock, for the next two weeks or however long it takes, you are our only scheduled operation. Wishing you all the luck, Captain.”

Murdock grinned and the two junior officers left the compartment.

Emerling stopped in the companionway. “So, do I call you captain now, or what?”

“Murdock will do nicely. Let’s get the troops into a mess hall.”

“We’ve got a spot waiting. They’ve been on standby for twenty meals ever since you landed. Like the captain said, you and your team get the VIP treatment all the way.”

Two hours later, they were on the Gerald R. Ford’s flight deck, checking their gear.

“Counted them damn boxes of twenty-mikes six times to be sure we got all of them,” Jaybird told Murdock. “Damn, we don’t want to lose any of those.”

All of the weapons, ammo, combat gear, and matériel they brought with them were accounted for. Murdock had them send up from the ship’s arsenal two hundred rounds of .50 caliber, half AP and half HE.

Bill Bradford let out a long sigh when he signed for them and added them to the stack of boxes. “Keeeereist, I thought they was gonna short me on them babies,” he said. “Can’t get along without my Mama Eighty-Seven.”

The platoon had set up parameters for the twenty-mike rounds. They would not be used except on orders of the squad leaders. If an emergency came up and contact couldn’t be made, the shooter was given the decision to use the exploding rounds or not. The whole idea was to expend the rounds where they would be effective and not spray them around just for the hell of it.

“Yeah, and remember that’s thirty bucks every time you pull that twenty-mike trigger,” Senior Chief Dobler said.

The choppers rolled up on schedule. They were loaded with the SEALs’ gear and two big stacks of more ammo and supplies, then the SEALs filed on board the first bird and within two minutes they were airborne.

One of the pilots came back and found Murdock.

“Captain, we’re about fifteen minutes from this landing field at the side of the port at Buenaventura. We’ve been in there before. Commander Emerling told me to let you know that you’ll be met by a Captain Gilberto Orejuela. He’s been assigned to you evidently for the duration of your stay. Good luck.” The young JG looked at Murdock for a moment in awe, then went back to the flight deck.

A short time later, Murdock felt the chopper come around and slow. Before it made it to the landing area, they heard explosions below. The craft jolted upward and then slanted down again as it took evasive maneuvers and whipped back out over the bay. Murdock thought he heard some rounds of shrapnel hit the bird.

“We’re going to wait out here and see what’s happening in there,” the speaker over their heads said. “Looks like some kind of a local attack by some elements of the federals.”

“Oh, God, I think I’m hit,” Joe Lampedusa said. Then his eyes glazed and he fell forward, sprawling on the chopper’s floor, blood making a stark red pool beside him.