9

The Yellow Sea
Off North Korea

Murdock felt the patrol craft go past them. It was twenty or thirty yards to one side. He surfaced slowly, then took a peek. The large-looking craft did a slow turn to the left and headed back the way it had come, missing the SEALs this time by two hundred yards.

The SEALs surfaced and moved together within talking range.

"So?" Ed DeWitt asked.

"Fucking long swim out another nine miles to that destroyer, then we probably couldn't find her," Jaybird said.

"We left the SATCOM back on the carrier," Holt said. "Sorry. Never do that again."

"Any ideas?" Murdock asked.

"Sonobuoy-type gadget," Ching said. "One of them little sonar balls we carry sometimes."

"Don't have one," Doc Ellsworth said. "Besides, we don't have a sub listening for us."

"Big fucking ocean out here," Fernandez said.

Murdock unzipped the waterproof compartment on his vest and took out his Motorola. He keyed it and spoke.

"This is SEAL Seven. RIB, do you copy?"

"Sonofabitch!" somebody growled.

"You ha d it planned all along," Bradford yelped.

The speaker came alive. "SEAL Seven. This is RIB, we copy. You have a light stick? Give us a pink one and we'll come fetch."

There was a small cheer. Murdock broke out a Cyalume light stick, twisted it, and held it up as high as he could. He put the radio back in the zippered wet-proof pouch.

"How the hell did you guys think those RIBs were going to find us, with a Ouija board?"

"A what?" Quinley asked.

"That's a fake game from the fifties that you ask questions and then shove a little pointer around to the answer you want," Mahanani said.

"I knew they'd find us all the time," Fernandez said.

"Like shit you did. You sounded dumb-assed scared," Douglas snapped.

"Can it you two, or you'll both swim back to the destroyer," DeWitt barked. "I want to see both of you as soon as we get to the carrier."

Three hours later, Ed DeWitt had the two SEALs from his squad braced at attention in front of him in the assembly room. The rest of the platoon had finished putting gear away and headed for their compartments.

"Now, we have this place to ourselves. I want to know what the fuck is going on. You two have been at each other's throats for half of this mission. Who wants to tell me what it's all about?"

Neither SEAL said a word or moved.

"Fine. Fernandez, go down to the far corner of the compartment and sit down."

"Sir…"

"Move it, sailor."

Fernandez looked back as he walked to the far end of the Ready Room. When he was sitting down, DeWitt stepped up so his face was an inch from Douglas's.

"Talk," he roared. "Sir. Just a minor disagreement. Nothing more."

"Go on."

"That's it, sir. Stupid little argument. It's nothing."

"It's enough that it could get one of you killed on a mission, that's what it is. You act like you hate his guts, and Fernandez looks like he'd like to make mincemeat out of your heart."

"Yeah, well, maybe."

"No maybe. What happened?"

"Couple of months ago at a party. Little disagreement. I'll forget about it if Fernandez will."

"Just a little disagreement?"

"Right. Bet Fernandez will tell you the same thing."

"Anything else, sailor, before I bust your butt back to the regular Navy and ship you out to Adak, Alaska?"

"No, sir."

"Move it down to the other end of the compartment and sit on it." DeWitt waited until Douglas sat down; then he bellowed at Fernandez. The SEAL ran up to DeWitt the way they did in BUD/S.

He braced in front of the JG and stared straight ahead.

The officer took a softer tone with Fernandez. "Miguel, I want you to tell me exactly what the friction is between you and Douglas. I don't care whose fault it is, just lay it out for me."

Fernandez took a deep breath, kept staring straight ahead.

"No big problem, sir. Just a small thing. I can work it out."

"Before or after you get yourself and one or two of the other members of this squad killed on a mission?"

"No worry about that, JG. I'll do my job."

"Douglas said the whole thing was just a little disagreement, is that right?"

"Yes, sir. Just a minor disagreement."

"Happened a couple of months ago?"

Fernandez took a quick look at his lieutenant, then nodded. "Yes, sir, couple of months back."

"What kind of a disagreement, Miguel?"

"Personal kind, sir." "Kind you can't talk about?"

"Yes, sir."

"Anything more to say about it?"

"No, sir."

DeWitt scowled. If it was personal, he could go no farther. He had to, but he couldn't.

"Douglas, get your ass up here," DeWitt called. When Douglas stood beside Fernandez, both stared straight ahead. DeWitt paced back and forth in front of them. He stopped and stared hard at each one.

"I've about had it with both of you. Anymore jawing at each other, any physical confrontation of any kind, and you're both out of SEALs, you read me?"

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant, sir," both shouted in unison as if they were back in BUD/S. "Fernandez, you'll walk third in the platoon lineup. On fieldwork, Douglas is next to last in the line. I don't want you to talk to each other, never tie yourselves together with a buddy line, and just the fuck stay away from each other. Maybe I should ship both your asses up to Adak and let you freeze your balls off."

Both SEALs stared straight ahead without saying a word.

DeWitt's scowl was so deep it hurt his cheeks. "Get the hell out of here. You two will be toeing the mark in every fucking jot and tittle or you're booted out of SEALs. You two read me?"

"Yes, sir, JG," the two men roared in unison.

"Good. Dismissed."

Fernandez ran for the door. Douglas let him go ahead, trailing behind, but wanting out of the compartment fast.

Ed DeWitt slammed his palm down on the nearby table. Nothing. He had gotten absolutely nothing out of them. He still had no idea what the problem was. It was the kind of situation that could split a squad in half and cause somebody to get killed. He'd watch them closer than ever the next few days.

Captain Irving Olson, Commander Air Wing on the Monroe, sat in the CIC watching the display panels around him. He had ten F-18's out looking for targets of opportunity along the roadways leading to the front lines. So far they hadn't found much.

"Home Base, this is Buzzer Sixteen."

"Go, Sixteen."

"Got me a convoy coming south. Must be twenty-five, thirty miles north of the old DMZ. I'm out of ammo. Even used up my last Maverick on what I figured must be some kind of an Army headquarters just north of the old DMZ. These trucks could use a good hosing down with twenty mike. Anybody in this area?"

"Come home if you're dry, Sixteen. I'll vector somebody else up that way. The trucks using lights?"

"Home Base, they use them until they hear an aircraft, then go dark."

"Roger that, Sixteen."

"Home Base. This is Buzzer Ten. I'm north of the DMZ about ten. What part of the DMZ has those trucks, middle, east, or west?"

"Buzzer Ten, this is Sixteen. Almost due north of Panmunjom. Follow that road up north and you can't miss them. My guess is about twenty trucks. Good hunting."

CAG Olson rubbed his forehead. The damn headache was back. Too much coffee, no sleep, too many planes in the air. He tried to think when he'd slept last. From 0400 to 0600 way back yesterday. He checked his watch. Just after 0300 now. Hell, he hadn't even been up twenty-four yet.

"Sir," one of the techs said.

CAG Olson thought he heard something.

"Captain, sir, the radio needs you. Buzzer Ten is calling."

The CAG shook his head to clear it, and grabbed the handset. "Yes, Buzzer Ten, Home Base here."

"What a sight, Captain. Like a string of pearl lights. I've got them. Head-on for the first go-round. I've got a full load of twenties. I'll make it a damn sharp angle and get a better concentration of hits. I'm moving and their lights are blinking out. Got them."

"Go, Ten." CAG Olson held the handset so tightly he felt his fingers go numb. He put it down, eased up, then changed hands, and took it back.

Buzzer Seven landed on the big carrier; then Buzzer Thirteen set down. Olson still had eight out there on a hunting trip.

"Oh, yeah, CAG. This is Buzzer Ten. I buried the first one in line and then some more so they can't get around him. Two of the bastards are on fire. Makes for a better target."

"Scratch them all, Ten. You have any Mavericks left?"

"Yes, sir, two, but I can't find any tanks."

"Use them on the trucks. Hunt some more when you splash those."

"Roger that, CAG. I'm around again, going in for a run. Damn but those burning trucks are a big help down there."

Captain Olson shook his head to fight off drooping eyes and checked the displays. He still had seven birds out there.

"Home Base to Buzzers. Anybody need a drink? Talk to me."

The reports came in with percentages of fuel left. Everyone was in good shape. They were so close to the front that there was little fly time between takeoff and action.

"Home Base, Buzzer Twelve. How wide is the penetration of the NKs on the east side of the line?"

"Five to ten miles on most of it."

"Okay, then those must be friendlies down there. I'll get further north. Thanks."

CAG held on. It would take another two hours to shepherd the last section of the flight to targets and back home. His job. He'd do it. Yeah. Then tomorrow the Tomcats would head out. Sleep? Maybe sometime next week. He reached for the caffeine pills. Two more wouldn't hurt. His eyes went wide as he gulped them down with a shot of cold coffee. He held up the cup, and somebody took it and refilled it. The techs just came on fresh at midnight. Bright and eager and so damn young. But they were good at their work.

The speaker broke into his thoughts, and he hit the handset and went back to work. Gunner's Mate First Class Miguel Fernandez ran to his sleeping compartment and rushed inside. It was for six men, and the other five bunks were full. At least Douglas was in another compartment. He stripped to his underwear and slid into the bunk.

For a moment his teeth chattered. They did that when he was so angry he couldn't control himself. That damn Douglas. The asshole could get them both kicked out of SEALs.

He hadn't worked all the way through BUD/S and been ground down until he wanted to scream and ring the bell at least fifty times, just to be slammed out of the SEALs because of some stupid shithead like Douglas. Couldn't the JG see what was going on?

No, he couldn't. He didn't know.

Fernandez loved the SEALs. He'd tried four times to get in, and had finally made it. No way he was going to fuck up and get booted. No way.

That first week at BUD/S had been so shocking and traumatic that six men rang the bell and quit. The next week ten more decided the price was too much to pay.

The shock of BUD/S was overwhelming. First there were the extensive physical tests that had to be passed just to get in the fro nt door. He had shuddered when he looked at the list, but he had worked hard and passed. He'd had to swim five hundred yards breaststroke or sidestroke in twelve and a half minutes. Then rest ten minutes and do forty-two push-ups in two minutes.

After a two-minute rest he'd had to do fifty sit-ups in two minutes. Two minutes more of rest, then do eight continuous pull-ups without a time limit. Next came a ten-minute rest before he went on a 1.5-mile run wearing combat boots and trousers. He'd had to make it in eleven and a half minutes.

He had trained for six months before he attempted the physical tests, and just barely passed them. Then he went through six weeks of physical training and orientation to the Naval Special Warfare way of life before the real SEAL training began.

That was the beginning point. The BUD/S six-month course was carefully designed to test the physical and mental capacity of the candidates. They ran everywhere they went in the loose sand around the Coronado, California, base.

The First Phase of BUD/S training was mainly conditioning, with more soft-sand runs, full-out sprints, swimming, a little trick called drownpoofing, calisthenics, and martial arts. Always there was the mental hazing, taunting the candidates to quit and ring the bell. Forcing them to complete harder and harder physical workouts.

SEAL training concentrated on mental stress and water. If the men couldn't take the hazing, the physical exertion, being in classes and swims and runs for twelve hours a day, then they would never last six months to become SEALs.

Water was the clincher. Early in the training the SEAL candidates were put in a ten-foot-deep pool. It was done to be sure that the men were comfortable in and under the water and didn't panic.

Fernandez remembered this torture especially. He'd never been a strong swimmer. Now he had to be. The men had their hands tied behind their backs and their ankles bound together. Then they had to sink to the bottom of the pool and come back up. This was done repeatedly; then they had to do somersaults in the water and retrieve a diving mask off the bottom with their teeth. This was all done while tied hand and foot. About ten percent of the candidates for SEALs never get past this waterproofing.

Hell Week, all the training including going in and out of the Pacific Ocean's breakers in the small inflatable boats, had been one long and continuous strain for Fernandez. Early on he'd been yelled at by all the instructors, called spic and greaser and wetback. He had learned to let it all roll off his back and grin.

The tough training, and the working closely together, had bred SEALs out of mere sailors. They had learned to support each other, to rely on each other, to trust their lives to the hands of the men working with them. Working as a team became second nature.

Now, after all of his hard work in getting through BUD/S and his two years in SEALs, he wasn't going to be rooted out of the team by some snot-nosed, shit-faced Douglas prick. Before Fernandez went to sleep he made up his mind about one thing. He would never react to any of Douglas's remarks or looks. He'd ignore the jackass. He'd stay a SEAL no matter what happened to Dirty Dog Douglas. That decided, he slept.

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