Pacific Siege

6

Third Platoon of Seal Team Seven had been home almost twenty-four hours. Murdock’s five casualties had been treated in an Air Force hospital near Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. All except Gonzalez had been cleared for transfer to the Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego.

Gonzalez was flown to Germany to one of the best military hospitals. He would get specialized treatment. The doctors had no idea how long he would be hospitalized or when he would be cleared to go to Balboa. They had dug the slug out of his upper chest, but were still evaluating the internal damage the steel-jacketed slug had done.

Ron Holt’s slug through his left arm had not been a problem. The doctors said he could return to full duty in three weeks. The same prognosis had been given to Ken Ching, who had a bullet through his right leg.

Al Adams and Joe Douglas both had shrapnel wounds from the RPG, but they were not deep or serious and were already starting to heal. The two SEALs didn’t require any more hospitalization. The four injured men who came home were all released from Balboa and told to return in two weeks for a final checkup.

Murdock sent a hot dispatch to Don Stroh. Never before had he been hung out to dry for so long, taking so many needless casualties. He knew Don would have an answer for it all. He also put the same comments in his after-action report that went through Master Chief Mackenzie and thence to Commander Masciarelli, the skipper of the Seal Team Seven and Murdock’s immediate boss.

With that out of his way, Murdock settled down to putting the pieces of his platoon back together. Balboa had certified the four injured SEALs fit for light duty.

“Shit, there ain’t no such thing as light duty in the SEALS,” Ron Holt said. “Be fucking lucky if they don’t pile it on us double because we was dumb enough to get hit.”

All of the men had liberty, including Ed Dewitt, and now Murdock sat in the strangely empty and quiet office of the Third Platoon checking his roster. He recognized the sound of the footsteps in the hall outside long before the body came through his door.

Without looking up he said: “Good morning, Master Chief Mackenzie.”

The master chief, who ran the eight platoons in SEAL Team Seven, had previously been Platoon Chief of the Third Platoon, and still had a special feeling for the group, even though many men had come and gone since his term there.

“Didn’t catch you when you stepped over the quarterdeck this morning, Commander. Were you avoiding me?”

“Hard thing to do, Master Chief.” Murdock grinned and put his polished black shoes on the edge of his desk. “Hell, George, you know I couldn’t do that if I wanted to. Even polished my belt buckle this morning for your inspection.”

“How are Gonzalez and your lucky four wounded?”

“You know Gonzalez is in the hospital in Germany. Hard to tell when they will transfer him to Balboa. The other four are SEALs and labeled fit for light duty. You know what that means around here.”

“Figured. You going to want a replacement for Gonzalez?”

“Be a good idea. Run someone in as a temporary replacement. If Gonzalez doesn’t get cleared in three weeks, he won’t be ready for any action we might have within two months, so we’ll make the temp permanent. You’ve done it before.”

“You want to pick from my roster?”

“This afternoon. If it’s all right with the master chief and if you can squeeze me into your loaded appointment calendar.”

“Might be a problem. Later on that. I read your after-action report before I passed it on to the skipper. The old man is going to be pleased.”

“Well, hot damn, George. You came all the way over here to tell me I did a good fucking job for a change?”

“That and to remind you that you owe me a steak dinner.”

“What the hell for, George?”

“Because I’m the master chief and I keep your ass out of the fire, and save your neck from getting chewed every week by Commander Masciarelli. Why else?”

They stared at each other for a minute, then both chuckled. They had been working together for more than four years now. First when Murdock had been an instructor for the tadpoles coming through the BUD/S training. Then for over two years since Murdock had taken command of Third Platoon.

“You don’t think you were too rough on the CIA for not getting you out of Iraq?” Mackenzie asked.

“Not half tough enough. They hung us out to dry again. Hell, they didn’t even try with a second chopper. They let us sit in there and fight our way out.”

“Which you did destroying a shitpot full of Iraqi equipment including shooting down two choppers and one Mig jet fighter.”

“Yeah, we got in a couple of lucky rounds. I’ve still got a huge bone to pick with Don Stroh. Figure he won’t be around for a while.”

“Not for a while, Murdock. Not until ten-hundred today.”

Murdock scowled. “Don’t shit me about this, George. I’m still not cooled down about how they fucked us in Iraq.”

“Get over it, Commander. That’s the way the CIA plays the game.

Once the mission is completed, the personnel are secondary.”

“But we hadn’t extracted the civilian yet. The mission wasn’t over.”

Master Chief Mackenzie dropped into the chair beside Murdock’s desk. “What’s bugging you, George?”

“Nothing, nothing at all.”

“That’s why you’re sweating? Why have you cleared your throat six times since you came through the door? It’s your psychosomatic throat problem, remember? You always get it when you’re nervous as hell.”

“So?”

“So what’s bugging you?”

“The other platoon chiefs are giving me static about your platoon’s facial hair and haircuts. I know, I know, you have special permission from the old man, but it bugs the other SEALS. You know how close I watch every man who steps across the quarterdeck. No beards, no goatees, no long sideburns. Face hair can interfere with the proper use of underwater gear.”

Murdock sat there grinning, enjoying this as much as anything in the past few months.

“True, Master Chief. All true. Tell them when they work for the CIA they can wear face hair too. End of argument.”

“Why?”

“You know damn well why, Master Chief. Sometimes we go in undercover, no uniforms, no weapons, getting the lay of the land. Three or four of us show up clean-shaven with white-side haircuts a half-inch long, lean and mean, we’re gonna scream to everyone who sees us that we’re military. We need to be low-key sometimes. It’s got our dicks out of trouble several times in the past year, and now I won’t let the guys all go clean-shaven and short-haired. That’s why, George.”

“Yeah, I guess I have to live with it. If Commander Masciarelli kissed the CIA ring, not a fucking thing I can do about it.”

“Anything about the commander getting transferred out?”

The master chief perked up and looked at Murdock critically. “You just trying to lift my spirits or what? No word anywhere about any command changes around here. Not that I wouldn’t welcome it. Our leader is bent all out of shape because he lost command of Third Platoon. He says all he is to your platoon now is an impotent pussy of a figurehead. He hates Don Stroh and the CIA with a white-hot passion.

That’s why I want to steer Stroh away from here as soon as he arrives.”

The command master chief rubbed his face for a minute. “Oh, business. You’re not going to need any replacements for your four other wounded men, I’d guess, since you haven’t asked for any.”

“True. We have a month to six weeks and we’ll be ready to dance again, if you get us a top-notch replacement for Gonzalez. Don’t want to mess up the platoon. We’ve had too many changes lately. Interferes with our teamwork.”

Mackenzie checked his watch.

Murdock frowned. “Master Chief, that’s the third time you’ve checked your timepiece in the past five minutes. You late for a hot date somewhere?”

Mackenzie stood, and walked around the chair grinning. “Indeed I am, young man. A hot date straight from Washington, D.C. Like I told you, your buddy Don Stroh is due at ten-hundred. He’s late. Want to come out to the quarterdeck with me and greet him?”

“Not especially.”

“Might be interesting. You can read him off about hanging you out on a tough titty in Iraq.”

“Now that you mention it.”

A knock sounded on the doorjamb, and a seaman came around the corner. “Sir, a visitor.” He backed away, and Don Stroh, wearing a red hibiscus, Hawaiian shirt, and walking shorts, stepped into the room.

“Commander, what a beautiful job in Iraq. Haven’t had time to tell you what an outstanding job you and your men did over there. Your transport got deep-sixed, and you made adjustments and brought out the hostage, and all of your men with only one major wound. Remarkable.

The President sends his congratulations.”

“You and your Company almost got us all killed, you fucking well know that. What the hell is the matter with … ” Murdock stopped.

“Shit, I can chew you out later when Master Chief Mackenzie can’t appreciate it. Instead we’ll take a cash bonus of five thousand for each of my men.” He paused. “That was a joke, Stroh.” Murdock took the CIA contact man’s hand. Master Chief Mackenzie jumped out of his chair, and waved Stroh toward it.

“Nope, no time to sit down, we can talk later,” Stroh said. “I’m here on vacation. I want to go albacore fishing. Understand that’s the best of the tuna family, and I want to catch about a dozen.”

Master Chief Mackenzie looked at Murdock.

“Albacore, you sure?” Murdock said. “Problem is the albacore fishing was spotty this year. It started in June and finished in August. All the surface fishing is over now.”

“So why are the half-day boats going out of Seaforth? I just called them and made three reservations for the 12:30 boat. Said they had good catches this morning.”

Murdock chuckled. “Yeah. Those landing guys lie a lot. What they’re catching now are rock cod, some mackerel, and maybe a calico bass or two.”

“Hey, a fish is a fish. Come on, our poles, licenses, and tickets are all paid for and waiting for us.” Stroh laughed when Murdock started to protest. “Hey, I won’t let you say no. I’m your boss, remember? Anyway, this will give you a chance to chew me out for letting you find your own way out of Iraq. Things just fouled up, and I’m sorry. Now, get your tail in motion. We have to drive all the way down to Mission Bay to the landing.”

“I’d like to go, but the master chief here gets seasick.”

“You lie, Commander. The car is ready. Where’s your hat?”

They pushed off from the Seaforth dock at 12:35, and stopped at the bait barge to pick up anchovies; then they headed out the channel to the Pacific Ocean, and turned north toward the La Jolla kelp beds that spread out for a half mile seaward. It would take them almost an hour to get to the first fishing stop. They signed in, and got their numbers for their burlap sacks to hold their catch. Murdock saw that there were thirty-two fisher-persons on the boat.

Murdock bought three beers at the small galley, and they settled down at the tables.

“Now, Stroh. Tell me what kind of foul-ups on your end almost got me and my men killed by Saddam Hussein.”

When they docked a little before 1800, they all had fish in their numbered gunnysacks. In the parking lot, Murdock went through the sacks, picked out the mackerel, and gave them to a Vietnamese family who waited nearby.

“Fish fry at my condo tonight,” Murdock said. “Master Chief, see how many of my guys you can round up.”

The evening was a raucous success. Three of the other condo owners complained. Six of the SEALs had shown up, including Lieutenant (j. g.) Ed Dewitt and his lady, Milly.

A little after midnight, Don Stroh got around to telling Murdock why he really came to town.

“Frankly, the NSC is worried about North Korea. State has no idea what’s going on over there. The situation is volatile and we want your Third Platoon on a carrier in the area where you can be on instant call.

You’ll fly over when we think it’s about ready to blow. No timetable yet. That should give your four men time to heal up enough to be operational. You’re getting a replacement for Gonzales, I’d imagine.”

“Tomorrow or the next day, yes. My other men will need at least a month to get healed, and then another month to get back in condition. I can’t have them running twenty miles with bullet holes still healing in their legs.”

“This isn’t next week, Murdock. Just a little advance warning.

Hell, Berlin or Mexico or Antarctica might blow up before then, and you’ll be off somewhere else. This is just the hottest thing on our agenda right now, for your future calendar.”

“The National Security Council is uptight again, huh? So we go over there and sit on the fucking carrier and wait for something to happen?”

“About the size of it. Look at it this way. You won’t have to do all that tough desert training out at Niland.”

“How long do we wait on board the toy boat?”

“Not sure. A month at least, maybe two months. You can do physical training on the deck, dodge Tomcats landing. You can take target practice off the flight deck, work night problems when there’s no flying. Be a change of scene.”

“But we still just sit and wait.”

“About the size of it.”

“We’ll get some tough training in before we go. Don’t tell the men about this yet. We’ll surprise them a week before we leave.”

The next morning the men were still on leave, and Murdock spent half the morning with the master chief sorting through prospects for a replacement for his team. There were eight men fresh out of BUD/S training who had not been assigned a SEAL Team yet. Murdock figured he needed more larger men in the platoon.

He liked two of them. One was a tough Chicano from Los Angeles.

He admitted that he’d been in a gang there, but had bailed out and moved away from town. He was clean, no police record, no behavior problems, and had an outstanding record in BUD/S. He was six-two and weighed 210 pounds.

The second man was half Hawaiian and half Tahitian. He’d been in the Navy for four years, was a first class corpsman, but said he wasn’t looking for the doc job in a platoon. He’d grown up on surf and sand in San Diego. Could bench-press four hundred pounds, had been married for a while and had a three-year-old daughter in Los Angeles, and had the all-time SEAL record for the three-mile ocean swim without fins. His papers said he was six-four and weighed 220 pounds.

Murdock decided he had to see the men. Master Chief Mackenzie had them both at Murdock’s office at 1300. He took the Latino, Manuel Guzman, first. Murdock liked the kid on first sight. He was twenty-four, had been in the Navy for four years, and had a brush cut that hadn’t grown out much from the BUD/S training period.

Guzman stood at attention until Murdock told him to sit down. He did so stiffly, looking nervous.

“Guzman, why do you want to be in Platoon Three?”

“You’re the action around here, Commander. You get more assignments than all of the other platoons combined. I like action. I used to work the flight deck. I didn’t want to get sucked into the intake of a jet.”

Murdock nodded. He’d seen it happen once on a carrier. He didn’t want to watch it again.

“You have a family?”

“Parents in LA. Two sisters. A batch of uncles and cousins I don’t really know. I got out of town when I quit one of the clubs they have up there.”

“You seem a little tense, Guzman.”

“Yes, Sir. Officers make me that way.”

“Not a good quality for a SEAL. You know that I went through BUD/S training the same as you did. Only I had to score ten percent better on everything than the enlisted. The instructors love to pour it on the officer tadpoles. Didn’t you have any officers in your class?”

“Yes, sir. Two. Both rang the bell.”

“They don’t do that anymore.”

“We still call it that. Put your hat down by the bell and bug out.

We say they rang the damned bell.”

“You’re Second Class.”

“Yes, sir. Striking for first on my next chance.”

“You know it’s hard to keep up with your specialty and do the job as a SEAL.”

“Yes, Sir. I want the next grade.”

Murdock stood. Guzman stood at once, and came to attention.

“Thanks, Guzman, Master Chief Mackenzie will be talking with you.”

Guzman started to salute, then dropped his hand, did a snappy about-face, and walked out of the room.

Murdock went to his door, and motioned to the next man, Jack Mahanani. The man rose out of the chair across the squad room, and filled the door frame when he walked in. He stood at ease, and grinned at Murdock. Murdock told him to sit down. He did with a smooth, controlled movement that many big men lack.

“Damn, Sir. Been hoping like crazy to get a shot at the Third Platoon of Seven.”

“Why’s that, Jack?”

“Hell, you guys get all the best assignments. Seems like you’re in the field damn near half the time. Hear you almost lost a man on your last run. Bitchin’. But then that means I got a shot at filling in his place.”

“How much do you weigh, Jack?”

“Two-forty. I keep it right there. I know the SEAL limit is two-forty-two, so I don’t get in no trouble.”

“Hear you like to swim.”

“True. My mom says I’m half dorado. I’d rather be half white shark, but you take what you can get.”

“You did the rough-water three-mile without fins?”

“Oh, that. Yeah, kind of embarrassing. I beat all the instructors who challenged me. They roasted me for a week.”

“All-time record, I hear.”

“Yeah. My Tahitian mom is to blame. She made me swim every day off Mission Beach in San Diego. Said every Tahitian should be a swimmer.”

“You’re a Hospital Corpsman First Class, but don’t want the corpsman job in the platoon. Is that right?”

“I could do it if your regular man goes down. Rather use one of them big fifty-caliber Mcmillan eighty-sevens.”

“You should be able to handle it. Jack, how do I pronounce your last name?”

“It’s Hawaiian, my dad’s moniker. Mahanani, just the way it looks.

Pronounce every letter.”

“Thanks. Now, why do you want to be in Third Platoon of the Seventh?”

“Like I said. You guys get all the action. Training is fine, but I hear some of these platoons here have never fired a damn shot in anger on a mission. I don’t want to play at war that way. I want some real action.”

Murdock grinned. He liked this kid. “Jack Mahanani, I think we can guarantee you some real action. If you come with us, we’ll get you blooded in a big rush.”

Murdock stood up. Jack stood.

“Jack, you’ll be hearing from Master Chief Mackenzie. You’re supposed to report back to him now.”

As soon as he left, Murdock got on the phone to Mackenzie.

“Yes, George. I want Jack Mahanani. Write out the orders for him.

He’s to report here at zero-eight-hundred Monday morning.”

“The swimmer. He’s quite a specimen. You can use him. I’ll get the paperwork done. He’s all yours. I’d guess you’ll go on a training sked.”

“You guess right, Master Chief.”

“Whatever you need, have Jaybird give me a call.”

“Will do. Thanks.”

They hung up, and Murdock looked at his master training chart.

What could he pull out to help integrate Mahanani into the platoon?

Holt, with the slug through his left arm, could do all of the training exercises except the o-course. Adams and Douglas, with their minor shrapnel wounds, could take the pace on any of the training. Ken Ching, with the slug through his thigh, would have to go light on marching and swimming for a week, maybe two. He’d be left behind on the first week’s workouts. Murdock decided to assign Ching to a series of upper body workouts that wouldn’t bother his leg and would keep him busy.

Mahanani could fit into Gonzalez’s old slot in the Second Squad, but that would be up to Dewitt. He might want to adjust his squad somehow. The big Hawaiian would be the man if they put a Mcmillan Fifty with the squad. Murdock had often thought of having two of the long-range weapons in the platoon. This might be the time to try it.

He’d talk to Dewitt Monday.

Murdock took Sunday off. He stayed at his condo, slept until noon, then called Ardith and ran up his phone bill.

“I’m recuperating from a nasty cold, I’m tired, crotchety, and I wish I was there so you could pamper me a little,” she said. “I can use a lot of pampering right now.”

“Hey, wish I was there too. Maybe in March.”

“But this is only January. March is not acceptable.” There was a pause, and she gave a long sigh. “Damn, Murdock, why can’t we at least work on the same side of the country?” They went on talking for a half hour.

“I hear things are heating up over in North Korea,” Ardith said.

“Wouldn’t know, I’m not at the seat of government. I’m just a lowly cog in the military machine. Nobody tells me anything.”

“I bet. Hey, fair warning. If I hear about you getting ready to shoot off somewhere on a mission, I’m going to have an urgent need to do some government work in San Diego. Fair warning.”

“Heard and understood. No complaints from this side of the country. I better let you go. Pamper yourself. A bubble bath, and then a long nap, some coffee, and maybe some white wine while you watch the flames in your fireplace.”

“Oh, yes. I’ll remember doing that when you were here.”

“Good night, beautiful lady.”

“Thank you, and good night to you.”

Murdock hung up. Why couldn’t life be simpler? Why couldn’t Ardith have a nothing job, and jump at the chance to live in San Diego, and be with him all the time? He snorted. Hell, then she wouldn’t be Ardith, and he probably wouldn’t look at her twice.

He went for a two-mile walk, then watched an old movie on TV, and got to bed early.

Monday morning, Murdock put Third Platoon into a light training schedule. They were near Niland in the California desert at the Naval Chocolate Mountain Gunnery Range for two days. They had some new weapons Murdock wanted to test. The men who had not fired the now-standard H&K G-11 caseless-round automatic rifle got all the firing time they wanted with it.

“Every man here has to be proficient with every weapon we carry.

Who hasn’t been checked out on the fifty-caliber sniper rifle yet?”

There were three men, including Mahanani. Murdock told Bradford to give Mahanani lots of work on the big weapon. Bradford took them to the “B” range, and they each took twenty-five shots. Then Bradford gave them all a quick course in breaking down and cleaning the heavy-firing long gun.

Murdock and Dewitt had talked about Mahanani before they left.

“Yeah, let’s put him in Gonzalez’s spot in the formation,” Dewitt had said. “I like the idea of having a Fifty in my squad. It’ll give us a little more firepower when we need it. He’s big enough to do the job. What does he weigh?”

Murdock had told him 240.

“I just hope I don’t have to carry him out of some firefight like we did Gonzalez.”

Murdock showed the rest of the men a weapon that looked strange.

It had a bipod, shot a NATO 7.62 round, and could be used to fire around the corner of a building or a wall. The weapon was placed around the corner, then the gunner sat in the protected spot, looked through a right-angled flexible telescope, and fired the weapon with an electronic trigger.

Murdock got off two three-round bursts, and turned it over to Jaybird.

“Too much trouble to set up,” Jaybird said. “Yeah, I’m crazy, but I want reliability and mobility. Anyway, I don’t shoot around too many corners these days.”

Most of the other SEALs who tested the new around-the-corner weapon agreed.

Murdock gave Jaybird a move-out signal, and the Platoon Chief rousted the men out into their combat positions in a pair of diamond formations.

Murdock came in front of the formation, and looked over the men.

“Ching, fall out and stand guard over our goods here and our favorite bus. We’re going on a hike, and the doctors don’t want you working that leg as much as we’re going to. You get to do any series of upper-body exercises you want to. We have some free weights in the bus, and there are always push-ups and chin-ups. Give yourself a good hour’s workout.

Then take it easy, and heal up. We want you back going flat out in a week.”

Ching fell out, and Murdock saw a flicker of emotion on the man’s face. He figured it was relief at not having to go on the march.

Murdock led them out on a ten-mile march with full operational loads, including combat vests with standard-issue ammo for the various weapons. Every man also carried two filled canteens, his weapon, a smoke grenade, four hand grenades, a first-aid kit, a plasma kit, twenty-five feet of quarter-inch nylon rope, a weapon field-cleaning kit, a K-bar fighting knife, a large plastic garbage bag, sunscreen, camouflage makeup, sunglasses, water purification tablets, waterproof matches, and four chemical twist-to-start light sticks.

The men wore their desert cammies, with an assortment of headgear ranging from balaclavas to floppy field hats to bandannas.

They headed out for Hill 431, and Murdock led the pace. Halfway there they moved into their combat field diamond formations, with Second Squad leading and Scout Lampedusa a hundred yards out in front.

At the top of the small peak, Murdock spoke into his Motorola, and the men moved into a long line of skirmishers five yards apart along the rim of the hill.

“See that old snag down there that we’ve shot at before?” Murdock said into his lip mike. “That’s the target for today. Machine gunners, give it six bursts of five rounds. Bradford, be ready. You’re next with three rounds. Let’s blow that snag away this time. Douglas and Ronson, you may fire when ready.”

When Bradford had fired, Murdock came back on the net. “What’s the range to the snag?” He got several ideas.

“The right answer is two hundred yards. Let’s see who can lay a forty-mike-mike right on the target. Each of you give it four tries.”

The five SEALs equipped with the Colt M-4A1 with the M-203 grenade launcher under the barrel started firing.

After a dozen rounds went out, Murdock came back on the radio.

“Remember, this is like horseshoes and fraggers. Close counts. Nudge them in there.”

When the firing stopped, the desert was so quiet they could hear a hawk call a half mile off.

Murdock lifted his subgun and chattered off six rounds.

“That’s enemy fire from our rear. What’s your first reaction?”

“Get our asses over the ridge and protection on the downslope,” Jaybird called.

“Do it,” Murdock bellowed. The fifteen men jolted over the ridgeline, and six feet down the reverse slope. They crawled back up until they could just see over the ridge, and readied their weapons.

“How about some return fire on those attackers below?” Murdock whispered into his lip mike.

Fifteen weapons sprayed hot lead down the slope ahead of them until Murdock gave them a cease-fire. Murdock pulled the men around him.

“Anybody remember where the hog’s back is?”

“To hell and gone north,” Quinley said.

“Another dog-fucking ten miles,” Ron Holt added.

“True, I have to keep you puppies in shape. You could be coming into some light duty, who knows?”

Jaybird laughed. “Bet you do, Commander. Don Stroh didn’t come out here just to go fishing and have a fish fry.”

“You know anything more, you tell us, Jaybird,” Murdock said.

“Just guessing,” the Platoon Chief said.

“We’ve got company at three o’clock,” Lampedusa said.

Murdock looked out from their ridgeline, and saw a trail of dust spiraling up in the quiet desert air.

“He’s moving too fast for the terrain,” Lam said.

“Got to be a Humvee,” Joe Douglas threw in.

The Humvee is the U.S. military light-utility truck that replaced the time-honored Jeep. It’s a multipurpose 4x4 wheeled vehicle with automatic transmission, power steering, and a Detroit Diesel 150-hp diesel V-8, air-cooled engine. Top speed is 65 mph with a range of 300 miles.

“What the hell is a Humvee doing out here?” Ed Dewitt asked.

As they watched the dust trail come closer to them, they saw a green flare pop in the sky over the dust trail. The rig was still two miles away, and the flare faded quickly. “Trying to get our attention,” Murdock said. “Jaybird, fire a green flare and let’s get moving down this asshole of a mountain. Maybe we’ve got an assignment.”

“Could have talked to us on the SATCOM,” Holt said. “Oh, yeah, we haven’t had it turned on this morning.”

“Do it,” Murdock said.

They stopped, and Holt broke out the SATCOM and aimed the fold-out dish antenna. As soon as he had it aligned, and the set turned on, it gushed with voice transmission.

“Commander Murdock, respond ASAP. This is Commander Masciarelli.

This message will repeat every five minutes.”

Holt switched the set to transmit in the clear, and Murdock took the mike.

“Commander Masciarelli, this is Murdock. Message received, standing by.”

Less than a minute later, the speaker came on.

“Murdock, you’ll be having company there today. Special Agent Olivia Poindexter. She works with the Company, and has a group of special items to show you. You may want to extend your stay in the field for testing. In case you decide to, I’ve sent rations for your platoon for four more days. Advise the master chief of your schedule.

Questions?”

“No, sir. The Humvee is in sight now, and we’re moving toward it.

Murdock out.” Murdock looked at his platoon.

“You heard the man. We’ve got a date below with the people in that Humvee. Let’s not keep them waiting too long at the boulder field down there.” Ed Dewitt walked beside Murdock.

“One of Don Stroh’s guys is bringing us some new weapons to test?”

“That’s what it sounds like. The Agency has some great little items, but usually they don’t share much. I’m interested in what they’re going to show us.”

Twenty minutes later, they hiked over the last of the boulder field that had stopped the Humvee. A civilian sat in the front seat. The driver was a seaman.

Murdock put his men at ease fifty yards from the Humvee, and walked up with Ed Dewitt to the vehicle. They were thirty yards away when the civilian stepped out. She was slender, a brunette, and wore khaki pants and shirt. Sunglasses protected her eyes, and her hair had been cut short and stylish. She turned toward them, and waited.

“Be damned,” Ed Dewitt said.

“Probably,” Murdock said, and grinned. They stopped a respectable six feet from the woman, and both men came to attention and saluted.

“Good morning. I’m Lieutenant Commander Murdock. This is Lieutenant (j. g.) Dewitt. I understand you want to see us?”

Up close, he could see that she was tan, more sturdy than he had first thought, and smiling as she took off her sunglasses. The two SEALS took off their shades as well. Her smile was delightful.

“Gentlemen, I’m Olivia Poindexter. I often work with Don Stroh, who you know. He asked me to show you some of our newest, and best, defensive and offensive weapons and gadgets. I hope this isn’t too much of a problem for you?”

“Not at all, Miss. Poindexter. We’re always glad to see anything that Don thinks might help us in our missions.”

“I’m aware of what you’ve done in the past, Commander. I respect your work, and your skills. I’ll try not to show you anything that might not be appropriate.”

“We want to see everything you’ve brought, Miss. Poindexter,” Ed Dewitt said. “We’re always watching for new ways to do our job.”

“Your material is back at the bus?” Murdock said.

“No, it’s with us, but we can off-load there.”

“We’re about six miles from the bus,” Murdock said. “We’ll see you there in an hour or a little less.”

She lifted her brows. “Six miles an hour, Commander. That seems a little fast for men with full field gear.”

Murdock grinned. “Watch us.”

The SEALs didn’t even grumble when they went into double time over the desert terrain. They had done it before, many times. Now they had a good purpose, to get back to their Navy bus, which served as their headquarters there in the Navy bombing range. It was near noon and that would mean chow. Even MREs sounded good right then.

Murdock’s watch showed exactly fifty-two minutes had elapsed when he brought the men to a stop in front of the bus.

“Let’s eat,” Murdock said, and the men dropped their gear and grabbed MREs from the bus. They sprawled around it in what shade it could provide. The California desert sun beamed down at them in its winter warmth. The high desert should be showing about sixty-five degrees during the day, down to forty-five at night.

Murdock handed the CIA agent an MRE.

“Ever had the pleasure of dining on one of these, Miss. Poindexter?”

he asked.

“Please call me Livy. It’s short for Olivia. My mother started it a long time ago. No, I can’t say I’ve ever been in a four-star hotel that offered these. Are they good?”

“Relative term. They aren’t bad, and they keep the troops alive, which is the important element. Sometimes they’re better than my own cooking.”

“I’ve heard that bachelors either learn how to cook rather well, or spend a lot of time eating out, true?”

“Absolutely. I’m huge when it comes to beef Stroganoff, and my enchiladas aren’t bad either.”

She tore open the brown plastic wrap on the MRE. Murdock watched her.

“Look, I’m eating French,” she said. “I have chicken A la king.”

“One of our chef’s best,” Murdock said.

She delved into the contents of the dark brown envelope.

“There’s peanut butter — yummy — and crackers, a spoon, cocoa beverage powder, a beverage base powder, and this inch-and-a-half-tall tiny little bottle of tabasco sauce. How delightful.”

“You missed one whole envelope,” Murdock said.

“There’s more?” She laughed as she said it, and he was pleased she was taking it so well. She could have insisted on driving back to the tiny wide space in the road called Niland for a civilized meal.

“Oh, I see what you mean, Instant coffee, cream substitute, sugar, salt, chewing gum, matches, toilet tissue, and hand cleaner. Really, you shouldn’t have been so extravagant. I’m not as high-level as Don Stroh.”

They both laughed.

“When we have time, and firewood, we make real hot coffee, and hot chocolate even,” Murdock said.

“All the comforts … “

The sailor who drove her out unfolded two tables and set them up beyond the Humvee. He carried a half-dozen boxes from the vehicle, and then waited nearby. He had finished his MRE in record time.

“Things still tense in Korea?” Murdock asked her. “Don told me insula sometime soon.”

“Tense is a good word. The North seems to think they can push and push, and nobody will shove them back. The time might be near when South Korea will shove back without our permission. Then there will be real trouble over there. The big problem is, it looks like the North is massing troops along some of the border, which could be really, really bad news.”

The men finished the MREs. Murdock noticed that she didn’t eat all of the chicken A la king, but did better on the crackers and peanut butter. He had mixed up the drink solution for her with a canteen of water, and she liked that.

“Time to get to work, Commander,” she said.

“Please, call me Murdock. Everyone else does.”

“Good, informal is better. What I have is a series of gadgets and weapons — some you may know about, some you might have heard about. Some are off the shelf, and others are experimental, and many are one of a kind. Yes, some of it is spy stuff that you can’t use, but Don wanted you to check it out. Maybe your undercover operations could utilize some of our standard equipment. I’ve brought some of that too.”

Murdock called to Jaybird, and he rounded up the men and sat them in the dirt, sand, and rocks in front of the table. Livy went up to the table, and leaned against the edge of it. She smiled.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I hope you had a good lunch. Now it’s time to go to work. What I’m showing you is a combination of currently available tools that many of our agents use, and quite a few far-out and still-in-development weapons that you might be interested in.

“I know firepower is your trademark. The ability to put massive amounts of lead into a given target or area in the least possible time.

Good. Nothing beats it. We have some items that just might help you in that task, and some that might work better even than massive firepower.

“The first item isn’t in that category. It’s a tool you can use in your training that can be just as effective in a pair of rooms in your headquarters as a full-scale operation in your Kill House.”

She held up a Glock 17 automatic in one hand and a tube that looked like a ballpoint pen in the other.

“This is Range 2000, developed by IES, an Israeli company. It consists of a sophisticated digital video-projection system controlled by an IBM-compatible computer with a 133-megahertz Pentium chip. This machine can ‘.‘That means the sequence of events that unfolds on the screen in front of you is determined by your reaction to individual segments as they come on the screen.

“This tool is aimed at police, and gives them the options of using the right body language and talking so they might not have to use force.

If force is required, they must choose what level of force, such as pepper spray, a baton, or their pistol.

“The laser insert works in almost any pistol with the addition of various sleeves, and is powered by a hearing-aid battery good for twenty-five hundred laser shots.

“The video tapes you confront can be made in various local locations, and then edited for the use you need. You play out the scene, ” with the laser in your own pistol, and get a score on your action, timing, and hits.

“The cost of this system is about thirty-five thousand dollars.”

“Lots of luck,” somebody in the platoon called out, and everyone laughed.

“Yes, it costs a little, but if such training could save just one of your lives, it would be well worth it. At least to the guy who would have died.”

The sailor next handed her a sawed-off shotgun. She loaded one round into the chamber and closed it.

“This is a weapon you know something about. It’s a little hard to show you here in daylight, but I just put in the chamber a Starflash round. When fired into a room, the round erupts in a shower of sparking fireballs that ricochet wildly throughout the room. They are intended to be distracting and confusing, and by the time the persons in the room realize what’s happening, you are in there doing what you do so well.”

She looked around. “Questions.”

“Are those rounds available?” Doc Ellsworth asked. “I carry a Mossburg pump, and they would surely come in handy.”

“Yes, available to police and to the military. I’ll see that your master chief gets the address.” She paused.

“Now, since you mentioned shotguns, here’s a new thought. The finest shotgun in the world, and the one used most by SWAT police across the country, is the Italian made Benelli 12-gauge 121-M-1 recoil-operated semiautomatic shotgun. The Benelli has been called the masterpiece of ballistic handiwork. I have one here, and you can test it out. The semiautomatic feature may be the most important element in the kind of fast-fire situation you guys specialize in. Oh, the Benelli also has an optional mini-flashlight fitted on the barrel.”

“We do a lot of work in the dark,” Jaybird said. “Does the mounted flashlight have a handy switch for on and off?”

“To simplify matters, it’s on the back of the flashlight. It could be rigged with a solenoid down by the trigger housing. Any questions?”

There were none, so she went on. She picked a yellow tennis ball from a box. “Any of you play tennis? If you use one of these, it’s a love game every time.”

She stepped forward, and threw the tennis ball as far as she could away from the men. It arced out forty feet, and when it hit, went off with a sharp cracking explosion.

There were some murmurs from the men.

“That’s a camouflaged impact grenade. As long as it hits something fairly solid, it will explode. It’s about the same power as your usual M-67 fragmentation grenade. Now, tennis, anyone?”

“Probably not, Livy,” Murdock said. “We don’t do that much undercover work.”

“Fair enough. Here’s an item you should be aware of. We don’t know all about them yet, but they are on the market, and we expect that they have been sold in some quantity to terrorists.”

She held up a weapon with an inch-thick solid barrel and a folding stock.

“This is the Russian-built VAL Silent Sniper. As you can see, it’s sound-suppressed, and has a twenty-round magazine for the nine-millimeter rounds. It fires the heavy bullet at subsonic velocity due to the silencer. The nine-by-thirty-nine round is said to penetrate all levels of body armor out to four hundred meters.

“Now, the folding stock makes it easy to transport and conceal.

That’s why we are certain that this weapon will be showing up more and more around the world in the hands of criminals and terrorists.

“We haven’t completed our testing of it, and only recently obtained two of them, so we should know more in the future.”

“How much does it weigh with that heavy barrel?” Colt Franklin asked.

“Good question. Actually, it weighs two and a half kilos, almost exactly the same as your Colt M-4A1 carbine, and your H&K MP-5 when they are without the suppressor.”

She watched the SEALs for a moment. “Any questions about this weapon? You may never see one; then again, the next batch of terrs you hit may have a potful of them.”

She looked at Murdock, then went on. “I understand that you use the Heckler and Koch G-11 as a standard weapon. Good. I like it. It works well in the field. And from a security standpoint, it leaves no brass to be identified later by some irate nation.

“We understand that Germany is now in the process of bringing out an advanced version of this weapon, which was created in 1990, but we don’t have any of the new models yet. We’ll keep you informed if and when we get one and what the availability is.”

“What about some real spy stuff?” Al Adams asked.

Livy smiled. “You mean like an umbrella with a poison dart in the end, a BMW with a rocket engine and machine guns under the headlights, and a pen that explodes when it’s turned the wrong way?”

“Yeah, like them.”

“Sorry, most of those extreme measure items went out with the Cold War. There really are few enemies now that our field agents are asked to kill. From what I hear, this platoon’s body count is probably higher than that for all the Company personnel in a year.”

She looked around. “Commander Murdock. That about takes care of my indoctrination for you. Don Stroh says he’ll have some items to talk to you about from time to time. Just to keep you informed.”

“Thank you, Miss. Poindexter. Tell Don we’ll be waiting for his call. Now, it’s time the foot soldiers out here got back to basics.

Today is the land phase of our training. I understand you have brought us some more rations.”

“Yes, they were unloaded into your bus when we arrived.” She looked around. “Thanks, guys. Have fun in the sun, and don’t get those nice clean uniforms all dusty.”

The seaman quickly had the displays boxed up and put back in the Humvee. He started the engine, and the Humvee moved back down the lane toward the gate, and then back toward San Diego.

Murdock stretched and looked up at the sun. “Okay, SEALs. You have five minutes for a piss call. Then it’s back to work.”

They hiked away from the bus with full vests and weapons, combat ready, in their sweat-stained cammies.

A half-mile out, they halted, and Murdock gave them hand signals.

He wanted Ed’s squad to take the lead in a diamond formation. His squad would follow in another diamond. The signals told them to stay ten yards apart.

“Anytime you see a red flare, that will be the signal that we’re taking fire from that flank. You will form into a line of skirmishers to that side, take cover wherever you can find it, and return fire on my first burst of three rounds. Move out.”