Seal Team Seven

Monday, 9 May

0620 hours (Zulu -8)

SEAL Training Center

Coronado, California

Hell Week had begun that morning at precisely 0001 hours — one minute past midnight — and the men of BUD/S First Platoon, class 1420, were running. The sun was just beginning to cut through the chill that had lingered over the Silver Strand throughout the predawn hours, and the surf was breaking in long, emerald-green rollers that sparkled enchantingly in the morning light. First Platoon was less interested in the picturesque beauty of the ocean, however, than in remaining upright.

Organized into six boat teams of seven men each, the platoon numbered forty-two men, and they were running along the beach through soft sand that shifted unpredictably beneath their boondockers. Each team carried an IBS — an Inflatable Boat, Small — balanced on their heads, a black rubber craft that had long been a mainstay of both the SEALs and the old UDTs.

Twelve feet long and six feet in the beam, the boat could carry seven men and one thousand pounds of gear. Fully equipped, as they were now with everything save motors, each weighed 289 pounds.

Each boat crew struggled to run together, supporting the balky mass of its IBS on their heads, bracing the boat unsteadily with arms aching from endlessly repeated push-ups earlier that morning. The shorter men in each team held empty coffee cans wedged between their heads and their boat so that they could carry their share of the load. The exercise appeared to be mindless harassment, but it had the positive benefit of providing yet another excuse for the recruits to learn to work together... or else. As did nearly every other aspect of BUD/S training.

Lieutenant Blake Murdock trotted easily alongside the lead boat crew. Tall, lean, powerfully muscled, he paced the recruits with an easy gait in deliberate contrast to their exhausted stumblings. In a malicious addition of insult to injury, while the recruits wore shorts and white T-shirts already drenched with sweat, Murdock wore a khaki uniform, flawlessly, crisply pressed and creased, the railroad tracks of his rank gleaming in highly polished gold on his collar, his eagle-trident-pistol badge shining above two rows of colorful ribbons. The only concession he'd made to the morning's workout was his boondockers, identical to the footgear worn by the recruits. Dress shoes did not stand up well to sand and salt water, nor was it a good idea to run in them. The boondockers were spit-shined, however, until they shone like dress Corfams. Murdock had made a point of running with the trainees throughout the past weeks, effortlessly pacing them without showing a wrinkle, without showing even a single stain of sweat in his uniform as the recruits struggled to match his pace.

The other instructors wore blue staff T-shirts and olive drab shorts as they harried the trainees. "Get in step there! Hup! Two! Three! Four! Pick up your feet, you tadpoles! Come on, come on! Get together!"

Tomorrow, the boat crews would start running with their instructors as passengers in the rubber boats, paddling the air as they shouted "encouragement," standing up, moving around, and in general doing everything they could to upset the crews' physical and mental equilibrium.

Keeping the recruits off balance was a key part of the program. Reveille that morning had been a dark, smoky, and piercingly noisy chaos of automatic gunfire, smoke grenades, and flash-bangs detonating outside the barracks windows as the instructors screamed confusing, often contradictory orders into the ears of the dazed recruits. "Fire! Fire on the quarterdeck! Fire party lay to the quarterdeck! Down on the deck! Give me one hundred! Outside! Outside, you pussies! Get wet! Into the surf! Fall in on the grinder in boondockers and jockstrap! Move! Move! Move-move-move!" They'd stampeded from the barracks into the night, most of them half dressed, as a SEAL chief petty officer fired bursts from his M-60 over their heads.

For these recruits, those able to stick it out anyway, the next five days would be an endless and agonizing round of mud, exhaustion, pain, and humiliation, a grueling trial of fitness and stamina during which they would be lucky to get a total of four hours' sleep.

Hell Week. This was the end of BUD/S Phase 1 training, the culmination of weeks of running, boat drills, running, pushups, running, swimming, more swimming, and running, running, and more running. Phase I was partly for physical conditioning, of course, but far more than that it was deliberately designed to eliminate the quitters, to weed out that seventy percent or more of each SEAL class that did not have the peculiar twist of mental conditioning, stamina, and determination that was vital for service with the Teams. It had been suggested more than once that BUD/S training was two-percent physical and ninety-eight-percent mental.

"Ladies," Murdock had told the class during formation the evening before, "the next five days and nights have been lovingly crafted to make you do just three things: quit, quit, and quit! We are going to do our level best to make all of you see the error of your ways and give up this crazy idea you have that you could actually become SEALS. We've lost a few people already, but hey, we were just getting warmed up with them. They were the lucky ones, sweethearts, the guys who looked deep down inside their souls and realized that they just didn't have what it takes to be a Navy SEAL.

"I can promise you that we're going to lose a hell of a lot more of you before this week of fun and games is over. The United States Navy invests something like eighty thousand dollars in each and every man who finally pins on the trident-and-pistols." For emphasis, he'd tapped his own SEAL pin as he walked down the line of young, skin-headed recruits standing rigidly in their underwear in front of their racks.

"It is our solemn duty to ensure that all those taxpayer dollars are not wasted in this new era of government fiscal responsibility," he'd continued, "that those of you who finish this course — if any of you finish this course — are truly the elite, the very best men in body and spirit we can produce. In short, ladies, SEALS. Of course, I very much doubt that any of you have what it takes to be SEALS."

It was a canned speech, one that Murdock had delivered numberless times before to numberless SEAL recruits. He'd been stationed with the Training Division at Coronado for almost two years now.

When, he wondered, was he going to get his transfer? He wanted a combat platoon, had been applying for one for the past six months. He strongly suspected that the dread hand of his father was somehow involved.

Blake Murdock had been a SEAL for five years now, but he was one of the unlikeliest SEALs in the Teams. Eldest son of a wealthy Virginia family that had gone into politics three generations ago, he'd long since grown tired of the questions leveled at him almost every time he came aboard a new duty station. "Murdock? Are you any relation to Charles Murdock?"

"Yes," he would always answer, a little wearily when he admitted to it at all. "He's my father."

Blake had grown up on the rambling Murdock estate outside Front Royal, half a mile from the banks of the slow-flowing Shenandoah. He'd attended local private schools, then Exeter, with the clear expectation that he would go on to Harvard, followed by a career in law or politics. Indeed, from the very beginning he'd had the feeling that his entire future, from school to marriage to career to internment in the St. John's Episcopal family vaults, all had been carefully planned out with all the care and attention to detail of a well-crafted military campaign.

Murdock knew exactly when he'd begun wanting more, needing more than the stuffy wood paneling and elitist snobbery of Exeter's hallowed halls. It had been during the summer before his senior year, when he'd somehow ended up in the mountains of Colorado with an outward Bound group. At school he'd been a star track and field man, as well as making first string on the football team, and he'd thought he was in pretty good shape, but a summer of long hikes, rugged climbing, and orienteering through the Rockies had convinced him otherwise.

And, of course, that was where he'd met Susan.

His parents had never quite accepted her. She'd been Jewish, for one thing, and for another she came from a military family. Her girlhood had been spent growing up in such diverse places as Yokosuka, Subic Bay, and Pearl Harbor; her father had been a Marine gunnery sergeant who'd lost a leg at Da Nang, her oldest brother a Navy chief stationed aboard an attack sub.

Not exactly the sort of people the Murdocks could easily seat at a dinner party with the landed gentry of Warren County at their Front Royal estate, or worse, at the Chevy Chase Country Club inside the Washington Beltway.

By the time he'd graduated from Exeter, he'd decided that he didn't want any part of Harvard, and Susan had had a lot to do with that decision. Certainly, Outward Bound had generated in Blake a fierce and burning need to keep proving himself physically, and in more challenging ways than joining Harvard's football or track teams.

His parents had not been happy with his decision to join the Marines. There'd been considerable discussion on the matter, ending at last, in the best tradition of Washington politics, in compromise. Blake would attend Annapolis and become an officer in the U.S. Navy.

That would never have been possible, of course, without the direct intervention of his father, Congressman Charles Fitzhugh Murdock, former Virginia state legislator and a three-term member of the House of Representatives. A member of the House Military Affairs Committee, the elder Murdock had considerable leverage both on Capitol Hill and among the higher echelons of the Navy establishment. He'd all but guaranteed Blake a comfortable and promising military career, as a line officer in the fleet, as a Pentagon staff officer, even one day, possibly, as a military liaison officer to Congress. "We want nothing but the best for you, Blake," his mother had told him the day he'd left for Annapolis. "The Navy's lucky to get you. Why shouldn't your father pull a few strings to help smooth the water?"

Why not indeed? All Blake Murdock knew was that suddenly, somehow, his life was being planned for him again.

Turning sharply away from the surf, the platoon trotted inland, struggling over the crest of a dune, rubber boats still balanced on their heads. Over the top, they descended onto a muddy flat, where a number of logs lay in ominous rows. Each was a section of telephone pole, soaked in creosote and weighing three hundred pounds.

At an instructor's bellowed orders, each boat crew lowered its IBS to the sand, then filed into line behind one of the logs. They'd begun this exercise during the first week of Phase 1, and all the men knew the drill by now.

"Okay, ladies," Murdock shouted. "I think some of you are still a bit sleepy. You need some warm-up exercise to make the day go right. One!"

At each log, seven men in line stooped and seized it.

"Two!"

As a unit — more or less — each team straightened upright, hoisting the log to waist level.

"Three!"

Up the log went to shoulder level.

"Four!"

Muscles bulging, backs straining, teeth gritted in seven-times-repeated agony and concentration, the team shoved the log aloft. There was some wavering, but no one collapsed. No one gave up.

"One!"

The logs dropped back to shoulder level.

"Two!"

Waist level.

"Three!" Onto the ground... and woe to the man who straightened up without waiting for the command to be given.

"One!" It started all over again, but with interesting variations. "Two! Three! Four! Three! Four! Three! Four! What's our creed?"

They shouted the answer back at him. "Sir, the only easy day was yesterday, sir!"

"Anybody want to quit? The bell's right over there with Petty Officer Simmons. All you have to do is walk over and ring it."

No answer.

"Three! Four! Three! Four!"

Murdock watched the boat crews heaving their telephone poles, but his thoughts were on Susan. He'd been thinking about her a lot lately, probably more than was healthy. The only easy day was yesterday? Right... Somehow it seemed to keep getting harder.

Susan had been killed on Route 50 when a seventeen-year-old kid with a Corvette and a cocaine habit had jumped the median barrier and taken her out head-on. She'd been on her way to attend his graduation ceremony at Annapolis, three days before they were to have been married.

"I know it's hard, dearest," his mother had said after the funeral. "But you know, it must all really be for the best somehow. Susan was a nice girl, I'm sure, but I'm afraid she just wouldn't have fit in. I still don't think she would have been happy in our family."

So shallow. So self-centered, as though the universe revolved about her and her money— and privilege-centered point of view. And so like her, and like his father too, for that matter. That conversation had been the final, the irrevocable straw. A week later, Ensign Murdock had cut short his graduation leave and put in for BUD/S SEAL training at Coronado. After a week of physical fitness testing he'd been accepted. The training had been hellishly difficult, but he'd thrown himself into each new physical and mental challenge with a whole-heartedness he'd not even known he possessed. The alternative, he'd thought, was to brood... and in that direction lay only destructive self-pity, possibly suicide, certainly a betrayal of everything he and Susan had hoped and planned for. When he'd completed both SEAL training and the follow-up airborne course at Fort Benning, Georgia, he'd specifically requested a West Coast assignment. So far as he was concerned, the further away he could get from his family and their plans for his life, the better.

As a member of SEAL Team Three, he'd missed out on seeing action in Panama, but had participated in the Gulf War. As a squad leader the following year, he'd run some highly classified missions along the North Korean coast before being promoted to lieutenant and getting assigned back to Coranado as a senior instructor.

"Three! Four! Three! Four!"

Turning away for a moment as he continued counting the cadence, Murdock spotted a familiar figure leaning against the hood of a jeep parked by the Strand highway. Maybe?..

"Three! Four! Three!"

He waited then, a long, long silence during which the waves crashed against the sand just beyond the dune at his back, and sea gulls screeched and shrilled at one another as they circled overhead. He could hear the gasping breaths of the recruits as they strained against their chest-high burdens.

"Anyone want to quit?" he called, his voice almost friendly.

There was no reply from the waiting trainees.

"Oh well. Thought I'd try. Four!" The logs went into the air and stayed there. "Two!" Murdock called.

One of the instructors jogged up and saluted. "Sir?"

"Take over, Kaminsky. You know the drill."

The petty officer grinned, a death's-head rictus. "Aye, aye, Sir. We'll make 'em sweat!"

As Murdock strode away, Kaminsky started the cadence anew. "And... three! Four! Three! Four!"

Leaving the grunting, heaving platoon to their telephone poles, Murdock walked over to the man standing by the jeep. Chief Frank Bowden was a thickset black machinist's mate who'd been in the Navy for eighteen years and in the Teams for twelve.

"Morning, Lieutenant," the chief said, saluting crisply. "My, oh, my, but you're up bright and early."

"Out with it, Bow. You look like the proverbial cat with the proverbial canary feathers on his snout."

"Could be. I just came down from Admin. Seems there's a packet for you there, swim buddy."

"What... orders?"

"All the way from BUPERS. Word is they came through Saturday."

"God damn! And nobody told me?"

"I just did, man."

"How 'bout running me back there?"

"Hop in, Lieutenant. It'll be my pleasure."

A quick cruise down Silver Strand Drive brought Murdock back to the cluster of buildings that was the heart of SEAL school. The main building was a light tan, brick structure. Above the doors in front of the glassed-in foyer were the words: NAVAL UNDERWATER DEMOLITION SEAL TRAINING DIVISION.

To the right of the walk leading up to the building was a life-sized replica of the Creature from the Black Lagoon, a net draped over his right hand, a trident in his left. A sign on the trident read, "So you want to be a frogman?" A plaque recorded the statue as a gift from an earlier SEAL training platoon upon graduation.

As Bowden parked the jeep, a platoon of trainees marched past. These were Phase 2 men, wearing olive-drab fatigues and caps instead of shorts and white T-shirts. At this stage of their training, they were less into mud than they were into demolitions and weapons training.

"Gee, I want to be a SEAL!" the petty officer in charge of the column singsonged.

"Gee, I want to be a SEAL!" came the chorused reply.

"Eat seaweed with every meal!"

"Eat seaweed with every meal!"

"Hoo yah!"

"Hoo yah!"

"Sound off!"

"One! Two!"

"Sound off!"

"Three! Four!"

"Cadence count!"

"One! Two! Three! Four! One, two... three-four!"

SEALs spent far less time marching than they did running, since traditional drilling on the parade ground was useful only to instill cooperation and esprit de corps. Still, Murdock thought, these men looked sharp, damned sharp. Lean, hard, and ready to kick ass and take names.

"Bein' a SEAL just can't be beat!"

"Bein'a SEAL just can't be beat!"

"Get more ass than a toilet seat!"

"Get more ass than a toilet seat!"

Mother, Murdock thought wryly, would not approve. He returned the salute of the formation's leading petty officer, then crossed the road behind them, past the scowling Creature, and up to the training center's front door.

"See that girl all dressed in green?"

"See that girl all dressed in green?"

"She goes down on SEALs like a submarine!"

"She goes down on SEALs like a submarine!"

No, Mother would definitely not approve.

A second class yeoman in whites manned the front desk in the headquarters foyer. "Hey, Burman. What's the word."

"Good morning, Lieutenant Murdock," the yeoman replied. "I guess you're looking for this." He handed him a thick manila envelope. Murdock rapidly opened it, broke out the top sheet, and began reading.

ON RECEIPT OF THESE ORDERS, YOU WILL PROCEED TO THE U.S. NAVY AMPHIBIOUS BASE, LITTLE CREEK, VIRGINIA, WHERE YOU WILL TAKE COMMAND OF THIRD PLATOON, SEAL SEVEN, UNDER COMMAND AUTHORITY USNAVSPECWARGRU-2.

YOU ARE AUTHORIZED SEVEN DAYS' LEAVE IN WHICH TO MAKE ARRANGEMENTS FOR TRANSFERRING PERSONAL EFFECTS.

Murdock looked up, stunned. He was going to NAVSPECWARGRU-Two, to Norfolk? It was hardly credible. There was a long, long history of rivalry, even outright animosity between the two SpecWar groups. The West Coast SEALs thought their East Coast counterparts were too hidebound, too tied to rules, discipline, and spit shine; the East Coast SEALs thought the Californians too laid back and easygoing, without a proper respect for attitudes and traditions military.

"Where you headed, Lieutenant?" Burman asked.

"Son of a bitch, they're sending my ass to Shit City," Murdock replied, using an old Navy term for Norfolk. "I'm going to be running a platoon at Little Creek."

"Bummer," the yeoman said, shaking his head. "Course, that could mean you're going up against the Rags."

"Maybe." Murdock was too stunned to even begin to unravel his own feelings at the news, but already a nasty suspicion was forming in his mind.

So help me, he thought, clutching the orders as he turned and strode toward the Bachelor Officers' Quarters, if my father had anything to do with shanghaiing me back to the East Coast...