Seal Team Seven

Saturday, 14 May

0900 hours (Zulu -5)

Headquarters, SEAL Team Seven

Little Creek, Virginia

"Lieutenant Murdock reporting for duty, sir."

"At ease, Lieutenant. Hand 'em over."

Murdock handed his sheaf of transfer and travel orders and his personnel record folder across the desk to the lean, bronzed captain sitting there.

"Okay... Murdock," the captain said, leafing through the first few pages. "I'm Captain Coburn, commanding officer of SEAL Seven. Welcome aboard."

"Thank you, sir."

He indicated a battered gray-painted metal chair nearby. "Grab a seat. Drop anchor."

"Thank you, sir."

"Coffee?"

"No, thank you, sir."

Coburn leaned back in his chair, studying Murdock with a critical eye. "So, Lieutenant. How much do you know about SEAL Seven?"

"Not all that much, sir. I tried to look up its history before I left Coronado, but there's not much to be found."

"Figures. Some of that is the usual SEAL secrecy, of course. SEALs don't say nothing to nobody when they don't have to, and they say even less to people who aren't in the Teams. But SEAL Seven is new, and it's a new idea. A lot of the people you'll be meeting around here are plank owners, including myself."

Plank owners — personnel aboard for the first cruise of a new ship, or who'd been in on the mustering of a new command. It was a special distinction, one worn with quite a bit of pride. Of course, the SEALs had expanded a lot during the eighties, from two Teams to seven, and with new Special Warfare bases appearing from Japan to Puerto Rico to Scotland, so there were plenty of plank owners still about. But from what Murdock had gathered so far, SEAL Seven was brand-new, only recently brought on-line.

"SEAL Seven has been operational now for about six months," Coburn said, confirming Murdock's thoughts. "It was created as our first rapid-deployment SEAL combat team."

"I thought all SEAL Teams were expected to be rapid-deployment, sir."

Coburn's mouth twisted in a wry grin. "They're supposed to be, and they are. Still, the logistical tail tends to slow things down quite a bit. That's where the Army's Delta Force has been running into trouble, as I'm sure you know. All the super-sophisticated sci-fi hardware in the world won't help you when you can't deploy to a trouble spot halfway around the globe in less than forty-eight hours. Tell me what you know about SEAL Six."

Murdock blinked at the sudden shift in the topic. "Um, organized in 1980 as the Navy's response to the hostage crisis in Iran. Put together by a guy named Marcinko. Something of a nonconformist, if what I've read is true."

"That doesn't say the half of it. Go on."

"He conceived of SEAL Six as a special anti-terrorist unit. Go anywhere, do anything. Dress as civilians and blend in with the local population. Hit the terrs on their own home turf. They took part in the Achille Lauro incident, didn't they?"

"That's affirmative. One of the men in your platoon used to be with SEAL Six, and he was at Sigonella when it all went down. MacKenzie, a master chief. He'll be able to tell you some stories."

"I should imagine."

"Okay, you know the basic layout of the SEALS, the Teams' TO as it was developed in the eighties. Two Navy Special Warfare Groups, Group One on the West Coast, Group Two headquartered here at Little Creek. Teams One, Three, and Five at Coronado. Teams Two, Four, and Eight here. And SEAL Six is still located across the way at Dam Neck, but they answer directly to the Joint Chiefs.

"While we've tried to keep the SEALs flexible overall, a certain amount of specialization has crept in over the years. Units grow larger, acquire more equipment. They become more difficult to move on short notice. SEAL Two, for instance, runs Navy Special Warfare Unit Number Two out of an advance SEAL deployment base at Machrihanish, in Scotland. They do a lot of training with people like the SAS and GSG-9, and if something goes down in northern Europe or the North Sea, they're the ones who'll go. SEAL Four works with Special Warfare Unit Three, down at Roosey Roads, in Puerto Rico. They handle things that come up in the Caribbean.

"SEAL Seven is basically an experimental concept, like the Army's light infantry, a Team that can be deployed anywhere in the world on a few hours' notice. We can draw on equipment stashed at other SEAL prepositioning sites, of course, but the key to making the notion work is mobility. In fact, we're not even tied down to the traditional Group One and Group Two theaters of responsibility. Seven was originally slated to set up shop in Coronado, which is why we got the odd number. The Pentagon decided they wanted us closer at hand, at least to begin with, especially with things so bad in Europe and the Middle East right now."

"So the idea is we could be sent anywhere in the world."

"Right. If a crisis goes down in Iraq, let's say... some UN weapons site inspectors are being held hostage, for example... a SEAL platoon from Seven can be on-site within twenty-four hours to act as forward controllers for air strikes, gather intelligence for a major military operation to follow, or if the opportunity presents itself, grab the hostages and beat it for home."

Murdock had looked up sharply at the mention of Iraq. Now he smiled slowly. "Are you saying, sir, that that 'Special Forces' op in Basra the other day was us?"

"More than that, Lieutenant. It was your new platoon."

The news stunned Murdock. He'd not seen that one coming. "I'll be God damned."

"Hours after Iraqi ground troops blocked the takeoff of the UN transport, fourteen men under the command of Lieutenant Vincent Cotter inserted by parasail into Hawr al-Hammar, crossed several kilometers of salt marsh and swamp, assaulted Republican Guard elements guarding the aircraft and Basra airport, and extracted all of the UN personnel by helicopter. A textbook operation, well planned, well executed. The platoon suffered one KIA: Lieutenant Cotter."

"Damn." Murdock closed his eyes. "I'm sorry to hear that, sir."

"Cotter was a good officer. One of the best. You're going to have to hit the deck running just to keep up with his shadow."

"You know, I had the impression that my transfer was something of a hurry-up affair," Murdock said. "They tagged me smack in the middle of a BUD/S class in Phase One."

"Our replacement pools have been run down with the personnel cutbacks recently," Coburn explained. "And the established Teams have priority for replacements and material. You'll find Seven is still in the process of learning how to fit into the scheme of things out here."

"I understand, sir."

"You know, back in the eighties, SEAL Six was notorious with the rest of the SEALs because they always got the best and hottest of everything. The hot new toys, the nifty James Bond gadgets, unlimited funding. Not to mention the sexy, covert missions. There was a lot of jealousy among the Teams over that." Coburn grinned suddenly. "Well, at Seven it runs the other way. We're like the Marines here, Murdock. We make do with what we have, travel light, and count on the men instead of the gadgets.

"And speaking of men, you've got some of the best in Third Platoon. Your two senior CPOs are Ben Kosciuszko and George MacKenzie. I told you about MacKenzie. He's the guy who was with Six for a couple of years. Kos came in with the UDT, so you know he's been kicking around for a while."

Murdock nodded. The SEALs had been an outgrowth of the old Underwater Demolition Teams, which had formally been swallowed up by the SEALs in 1983.

"You can rely on them," Coburn continued. "I suppose you'll want to meet the rest of your people yourself. You want me to walk you over?"

"Mat's okay, sir. I think I'd just as soon drop in on them unannounced and see just what I have to deal with."

"Well, they know you're getting in sometime today. God knows what you'll find waiting for you. They're a high-spirited bunch."

"I'll take my chances, sir."

"Fine. We have an office for you in this building, just down the hall. The BOQ is just down the road. Anything you need, let me know."

It was clearly the end of the interview. Murdock stood. "Thank you, sir."

"Glad to have you with the Team."

0915 hours (Zulu -5)

Norfolk City Jail

Norfolk, Virginia

"Aw, c'mon, Ray," MacKenzie said. "I'm sure the boys were just blowing' off a bit of steam. You know how it is!"

"Blowing off steam, huh?" Captain Raymond Nagel of the Norfolk Police favored MacKenzie with as dark a glower as the SEAL had ever seen as he tapped a stack of reports on his desk with a bony forefinger. "Look, Mac. I've got thirty-seven complaints here from various parts of Norfolk's east side. Your boys were busy last night."

MacKenzie was already tallying up the possible damages in his head. Thank God that the cop on at the duty desk was an old friend. He'd known Ray Nagel back in Vietnam — he'd been Gunnery Sergeant Nagel of the U.S. Marines then — and since MacKenzie had been transferred to Little Creek, he'd more than once had official dealings with Nagel as representative of the Norfolk City Police Department.

"Are you sure it was my people, Ray? I heard some Marines went off half cocked and..."

"It's your people we've got back there in the tank, Mac." Nagel picked up another sheet of paper and studied it judiciously. "Chief Machinist's Mate Thomas Roselli. Radioman First Class Ronald Holt." He glanced up. "They are yours?"

MacKenzie sighed. "They're mine."

"Just wanted to keep the record straight. Okay, at nine-forty last night we got a call from a bar that a fight was in progress. We get there just behind the Shore Patrol and find twelve Marines that look like they'd had a run-in with a steamroller. No one'd say what happened, but these little tiffs between gyrenes and the SEALs are getting kinda routine, ain't they, Mac?"

MacKenzie spread his hands. "Ray, I can't even say for sure it was my guys who did it. Were they at that bar?"

"You don't know?"

"Hey, I'm asking you, right?"

"Yeah, okay. Fine. At ten-fifteen last night, we get another call from the Night's Rest Hotel up on Ocean View. Seems several guys were seen climbing up the outside of the hotel. Five stories, straight up. Some of the guests thought the place was being burglarized and called the police. There were also complaints about an unusually loud party on the fifth floor, and reports of several young ladies running down the corridor naked, rather loudly pursued by several naked or indecently exposed men.

"By the time the police arrived twenty minutes later, we'd already received another call, this one from hotel security. They said the hotel manager'd gone up to a room on five in response to complaints about the party. When the police reached the fifth floor, they about tripped over a man and a woman copulating in the hall in front of the elevator. Four more men were in a room registered to a 'Mr. Smith,' threatening to throw the manager out of the fifth-story window and into the hotel swimming pool below. Your man Holt had him by the ankles and was dangling him out of the window upside down. That's assault, Mac. It's damned serious."

MacKenzie groaned. After the dustup at Samelli's the night before, they'd hit a bar or two more before Garcia passed out, dead drunk on the sidewalk. MacKenzie had driven him back to the base. This new round of fun and games must have started after he'd left. Damn it, he'd told them...

"What's my boys' story, Ray?"

The police captain made a face. "That they were just having a quiet little get-together with some, ah, friends, that the manager used abusive and threatening language, and that they were just trying to reason with him."

"Uh-huh. That sounds about right."

"The room was a shambles. The bed frame had collapsed, and the thing was disassembled and stacked in one corner along with the mattresses, which I suppose explains why that couple was going at it out in the hall. The bathtub had been filled with something later identified as liquid lime Jello. And there were colored balloons hanging from the ceiling panels that turned out to be inflated condoms. 'Mr. Smith' was identified by the manager as your Chief Roselli. The arresting officers took Holt and Roselli into custody. Both men were under the influence and resisted arrest."

"Uh-oh. How badly did they resist?"

"One of my men may have a broken wrist, Mac. Four others have an assortment of bruises and contusions."

"That's a relief. Shit, Ray, you know as well as I do that if my boys had really been resisting arrest..."

"They also broke five nightsticks with karate blows and chucked two revolvers, a pair of handcuffs, and one of my men into the Jello."

MacKenzie sighed. "You sent five men to answer that call?"

"Eight. Hell, the dispatcher called in a 10-34, Mac. That's 'riot in progress." We finally managed to subdue Roselli and Holt, but the other three got away. The one in the hall slipped out a window and climbed down the outside of the building. The other two went through the open window in the hotel room. They dove — dove, mind you — five stories into the hotel pool. Damned lucky for them the deep end was beneath their window. But one older lady ended up in the hospital."

"My God. They landed on her?"

"No. Just shock. The guests at the poolside were rather, ah, startled, shall we say, by the sudden appearance of two naked men landing in the water."

"Is the woman okay?"

"Yeah. No thanks to your SEALS. The ones that got away were last seen barreling across the hotel's golf course in a '91 Chevy, taking out a palm tree and an ornamental fence on the way. The hotel's tallied up a bill of, let's see," Nagel consulted another paper on his desk. "Two thousand, three hundred ninety-five dollars. Damage to the bed, the grounds, the tree, the fence. Christ, Mac, this really is the final straw. We could hit your people with assault, unlawful restraint, resisting arrest, malicious destruction of property..."

"Ray, I'll give it to you straight. These boys just came back off a mission. A real mission. And they lost their CO. I mean it. It really hit 'em hard."

Nagel's eyes widened. "No shit?"

"Ray, you know I wouldn't shit you. We lost a good man."

"Where was it, Mac? Iraq?"

"You also know I can't tell you anything."

Nagel took a deep breath. "Look Mac, I understand, and I wanna do you a favor, you know I do. But this is a decent town, and I can't have your boys trashing the place just because they need to cut loose. I've covered for your SEALs before, but..."

"Have you filed charges yet, Ray?"

"No, but..."

"Is the hotel manager pressing charges?"

Nagel glowered, then shook his head, almost reluctantly. "If they get paid, they won't file. I think the manager was so relieved to get them out of his place he, well, sorta forgot."

MacKenzie pulled out his checkbook and began writing. The senior chiefs at Little Creek maintained a discretionary fund against just such emergencies. Roselli, Holt, Doc, Fernandez, and Nicholson would be encouraged to "contribute" to that fund, as they had a time or three in the past. He filled in the amount for three thousand, tore it off, and passed it to Nagel. "That's for the damages, Ray. If there's any change left over, maybe the Policemen's Fund?"

Nagel accepted the check and tucked it into a desk drawer. "Thanks, Mac. The boys appreciate it. But I can't keep sweeping up the mess your SEALs leave behind them.

The lecture that followed was rough, but not as rough as MacKenzie had feared. At least this time around there would be no civil charges against his men, and he thought he could handle the military end of it informally, through extra duty and that "contribution" to the chief's fund. Of course, if they wanted a captain's mast, he'd let them have one.

He wondered, though, what the new CO would make of all this. Maybe it was better that he never know.

They brought Roselli and Holt out to him, both men showing some nasty blotches around puffy eyes. "You two," he said ominously, "have a shitload of explaining to do." Damn, what was the new lieutenant going to think?

0945 hours (Zulu -5)

Headquarters, SEAL Team Seven

Little Creek, Virginia

Murdock stood appalled inside the barracks wing set aside for SEAL Seven personnel. There were going to be some changes made here if he had anything to say about it.

Not all of the men of Third Platoon "lived aboard" at the Navy's Little Creek Amphibious Base. Kosciuszko and MacKenzie were both married, Murdock had noted while going through their records a few minutes earlier, and lived off base. Brown and Frazier were also married and lived in base housing, while Lieutenant j.g. DeWitt stayed in the Bachelor Officers' Quarters, the BOQ Coburn had mentioned.

The rest of the Third Platoon, however, was quartered here in the barracks, a large, two-story cinder-block affair painted a depressing olive drab and overlooking the dumpsters arrayed along the back of the enlisted mess across a dusty street. Large signs decorated the bulkhead outside the door: "To err is human. To forgive is not our policy." "SEALs have nerves. They just ignore them." There was trash on the floor, several beer cans and a plastic Diet Coke bottle. More alarming was the white bra dangling like a pennant from an overhead light, and the sheer panties on the deck just inside the door.

Otherwise, the place was similar to other enlisted barracks Murdock had seen. A fair amount of ingenuity had been used to turn a spartan and utilitarian open barracks into living quarters offering a semblance of privacy. The original dormitory space had been divided into "cubes" by plyboard partitions, each with two racks in a bunk-bed arrangement, plus gray, upright lockers, a table or battered government-issue desk, and occasional human touches like a guitar case or a stereo or a nude centerfold taped to bulkhead or open locker door. Each cube was separated from the world by improvised curtains hanging across its entrance, old sheets or blankets.

There were beer cans scattered about the barracks deck, and one body, a man clad in boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Murdock stooped to check the guy's breathing; he appeared to be sleeping off a hinge, and didn't move when Murdock nudged him twice. He was clutching a woman's bra, a lacy black one, in his right fist.

Murdock stood as another man entered the passageway, a short, dark-skinned Latino with a thin, black mustache. He was wearing a towel and shower clogs and carried a bar of soap.

"What's your name?" Murdock asked.

"Boomer. Ah... Garcia. Sir."

"I could be mistaken, Garcia," Murdock said slowly, "but I thought the usual procedure was to shout 'Attention on deck' when an officer walked in."

Garcia stiffened, hands at his sides. "Attention on deck!"

Murdock nudged the body with the toe of his shoe. "What's this?"

"That's Doc," Garcia said. "Uh, HM2 Ellsworth. Sir."

"He always rack out in the passageway?"

"No, Sir. We, ah, we had a bit of a party last night, sir."

Murdock looked at the woman's undergarment in Ellsworth's hand. "So I see." Two more men stumbled from behind two of the curtained-off cubes, one wearing civilian clothing, the other in boxer shorts. Their reactions were definitely running a bit on the slow side. It took several beats for them to realize that Murdock was there and to shuffle into a position approximating attention in front of their cubes.

"Names?"

"Torpedoman's Mate Second Nicholson, Sir." He was the one in his underwear. He had the hard-muscled body of a SEAL and a face that looked too young to shave.

"Gunner's Mate First Class Fernandez. Sir." Another Latino, stocky, heavier than Garcia, with black hair beginning to curl over his ears.

"And this is that crack SEAL platoon I've been hearing about?" He crossed his arms and shook his head in mock exasperation. "I don't believe it!"

"Sir," Nicholson said. "It's Saturday."

"I know what day it is, Nicholson. Thank you. Next time the Iraqis decide to take hostages, you can pass 'em the word that we won't attack until regular working hours.

"In the meantime, and before the Norfolk City Department of Health comes in and closes this establishment down, you're going to square this shithouse away. Understood? I said, 'Understood?'"

"Yes, Sir!" the three chorused.

"Garcia!"

"Yes, Sir."

"Lose the face fuzz."

"But..."

"You're a SEAL, Garcia. You know that facial hair can break the seal on a swim mask."

"But Lieutenant Cotter said..."

"I don't give a shit what Lieutenant Cotter said! Strip the lip!"

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Murdock heard the resentment in Garcia's voice. "Fernandez?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Haircut."

Fernandez looked startled. "Aye, aye, Sir."

"Just in case there was any question, ladies, I am your new platoon leader, and we will be seeing a lot of each other in the next few days. Where's the rest of the platoon?"

The men traded uneasy, sidelong glances. "I ain't sure, Sir," Garcia said. "Maybe they left early."

Murdock glanced at his watch. It was almost 1000 hours. "When you see them, you can tell them I will be holding inspection of this barracks tomorrow afternoon. I will expect the flotsam cleared away, the contraband off the bulkheads and lockers, the personal gear stowed, and the deck waxed and shined." He looked meaningfully at Nicholson. "And I don't give a shit if tomorrow is Sunday. Beginning Monday, I will begin talking to each of you individually. I want to get to know you, find out what the hell makes you think you're decent SEAL material. And..." He stopped, and nudged Ellsworth again. "Will two of you pick this up and get it to its rack? I have this thing about gear adrift. That is all."

Murdock turned to make a dignified exit and nearly collided with a familiar figure in civilian clothes who was just coming through the door, a big, olive-green sea-bag balanced on one shoulder.

"Uh... Third Platoon?" the newcomer asked uncertainly, looking around.

"Jaybird!" Murdock said, taking a step back and smiling. "You're just in time!"

Sterling's eyes widened. "Oh, no!"

The SEALs stared after the lieutenant for several long moments after he'd gone.

"What the fuck was that?" Fernandez wanted to know.

"A prick." Garcia replied. "Mickey Mouse himself with delusions of grandeur."

"You guys notice his hand?" Nicholson asked. "He's a ring-knocker."

"No shit?" Garcia said. "An Academy grad?"

"I don't care if he's John Wayne in drag," Fernandez said. "We're SEALS. We don't hafta' take that shit."

"Scuttlebutt is he's from Coronado," Nicholson added. "A fuckin' BUD/S instructor."

"He is," Jaybird put in. "I flew out from California with him last night."

"Aw, man," Garcia said, disgusted. "I did my hard time in BUD/S. What is this shit anyway?"

"Yeah," Fernandez added. "I wonder if that dude's always so full of sweetness and light, man." He pointed at Jaybird. "I thought you California SEALs were 'sposed to be laid back and mellow, man."

"Hey, don't blame me," Jaybird said. "I hardly know the guy."

"Obviously," Nicholson pointed out, "he's an officer an' a gentleman. Far above us enlisted pukes. Say, how'd you get a handle like Jaybird anyway?"

On the deck, Ellsworth gave a mournful groan. "Hey," Garcia said. "Couple a' you guys gimme a hand here."

Together, they got Doc to his rack.

For a long time after that, they discussed the new lieutenant's manner, bearing, attitude, and probable ancestry, comparing it point by point with those of Lieutenant Cotter. So far, the new guy didn't measure up well at all.