Miguel Fernandez dropped on his bunk and closed his eyes. It had been a long day. He'd cleaned his weapon, shaped up his gear, and repacked everything ready to roll. If and when. He gave a big sigh. The head again. He could go for eight hours on a mission without needing to urinate, but back on the ship it hit him every hour or so. He pushed his feet down to the floor from the three-high bunk, and bumped into Joe Douglas. They stared at each other.
"What's the matter, you never saw a white man before?" Douglas said, his face stitched with a sneer.
''Not an asshole one like you, Douglas."
Douglas had eased away from the other man. Now he lunged forward. Mahanani grabbed him by the cammie shirt and jerked him backward like a weightless rag doll.
"Hold it there, fast stuff," Mahanani said easily. "Hey, you're not getting this berthing into trouble. Thought the JG told you guys to stay apart."
"Just coming to get something from Quinley," Douglas said with a touch of a whine. "Then this fucking spic jumps down on me."
"Didn't know you were there or I'd have stomped you good," Fernandez said. He'd been called worse names, but the racist jibe from Douglas was ten times as bad. He glared at Douglas.
Mahanani prodded Douglas toward the door. "Little buddy, best you get out of here. Get whatever you need from Quin tomorrow. We're all tired and hurting. Things will look better in the sunlight."
"Hell, no," Fernandez shouted. "This has been going on for too long. Let's get it finished right here with fists and no rules."
Mahanani laughed. "Fernandez, you're not that stupid. Everyone knows what the JG told you two. One more blowup and you're both out of SEALs digging snow in Adak, Alaska. You want that?"
"I'm not gonna let some — "
Mahanani grabbed Fernandez and pushed him against the bunks. "You'd rather give up what you've worked for for three years — to be a SEAL? You're not that stupid, Fernandez."
He stared hard at both men. "Fernandez, get back in your bunk. Douglas, you get out of here and back to your compartment. If any hint of this gets back to the JG, I'll smash a few heads just for the fun of it. You guys hear?"
Douglas snorted and stalked out of the berthing compartment. Fernandez lay back in his bunk, no longer needing to go to the head. When Fernandez looked up, the big Hawaiian/Tahitian stood there grinning at him.
"Hey, little buddy, it goes down hard, but it goes down. I've had some of that too, through the years. I know how bad you want to stay in SEALs, so do it." He leaned in closer so no one else could hear him. "Yeah, I know what happened at that barbecue on the beach. I was there, remember? Nothing you can't live with for a while. I wouldn't give Douglas a hell of a long time in this platoon. He's a natural fuckup. Just hang on, things will get better. If it gets too bad, I'll go to the JG."
"No, Mahan, don't do that. I can fight my own fights."
"Not if the other guy is always hitting below the belt. Now just relax. It's over for tonight." Then Fernandez knew he had to get to the head. He eased down, and looked at Mahanani. "You want to hold my hand while I take a piss."
"I think you can handle that," the big Hawaiian said, and slid into his bunk.
Fernandez took a towel with him and left the compartment for the head. He had just passed the other compartment and turned down the companionway when someone jumped out directly in front of him, and before he could more than try to step sideways, a fist slammed into his face, then again and again, until he went down to his knees.
For just a moment the other man started to kick, then put down his foot.
"Fucking greaser asshole," the man said. That was when Fernandez knew the attacker was Douglas. He tried to get up. Douglas pushed him sideways and he fell on the deck, skidding his right hand and producing a floor burn. Douglas snorted and hurried down the hall.
Fernandez got to his feet, his head still woozy and his vision not what it should be. He tried to clear his head. His face felt like he'd been run over by a tank. He made it to the head, tried to wash his face off with cold water, then half walked and staggered back to his own compartment.
The lights were off inside. Even the Hawaiian was sleeping. Fernandez hadn't noticed much difference in the appearance of his face when he looked in the mirror in the head. Tomorrow morning would be different. Damn, what would he say when the JG asked him how he got his face beat up? Fernandez didn't know. All he knew was that he wanted to stay in the SEALs more than anything else in the world. Well, with the exception of his wife and family. They came first, then the SEALs. But it was a damn close call.
Murdock spent half the morning in sick bay. The doctors had decided to let Franklin rest during the night. They said the operation would be on at 0730.
It didn't get started until 0930. They wanted to do more tests. An X ray found the North Korean slug. It had hit some hard tissue and curved around, and was now lodged two inches from the spine, pushing gently against the Lumbar Five vertebra and a bundle of nerves that controlled the lower extremities. If it didn't come out, it could paralyze him.
The surgery took two hours. Murdock and DeWitt paced the compartment like caged tigers. They took turns filling the coffee cups. Just before 1200 the doctor came out smiling.
"Got the damned thing. Looks free and clear. Ordinarily on a wound like that, the bullet would go in the front of the side and out the back causing little trouble. This man will need at least two months before any strenuous activity. Somebody say he's a SEAL?"
"Right, sir," JG said.
"Put him behind a desk or give him a month's liberty. Don't let him anywhere near that O course of yours in Coronado or I'll have both of you up on charges."
"Tomorrow morning would be too soon to send him to a mission then, I imagine," Don Stroh said from behind them. The doctor scowled, turned and left.
"Way too early, Company man," Murdock said. "We're down to thirteen good men, so from here on let's keep it simple. How is your war going?"
"It's evening up out there. The South Ks are getting their defenses together. Might even be some counterattacks soon. What I'm wondering about is what you did to that general. I still don't know his name. I was having breakfast with the admiral when this Army guy called Kenner. He put it on the speaker phone so I could hear.
"This one-star general called you every name in the book. Said you were insubordinate, refused to follow his orders, claimed you outranked him on this mission, and about a dozen other charges.
"'Kenner listened to him, then snorted and asked this general if the SEALs had saved his ass. He said yes, but… Kenner cut him off, told him he was lucky he didn't get left behind. Told him he better write up a glowing report about the SEALs' rescue or Kenner would forward to General Reynolds a copy of your after-action report.
"That cooled down the one-star in a rush. He said maybe he was a little hasty and he wouldn't press any charges. "'Charges!' Kenner thundered. He said the general should at least recommend you for a Silver Star or a Navy Cross."
Murdock led the other two men to the SEALs' assigned assembly room.
"I'm still going to send a copy of my after-action report to General Kenner," Murdock said. "He probably never will see it, but I owe it to my men to protest that asshole general's actions."
Stroh grinned. '"Yeah, you're a real team player, Murdock. Trouble is, I don't have a single job for you to do today. You get to sit fat, happy, and warm while those GIs out there are fighting for their lives."
"Good for them. I hope you had a good breakfast. Now, time for us working stiffs to get to it."
Jaybird had the men going over their gear, doing resupp ly on their ammo packs, and cleaning their weapons, again.
Ed DeWitt checked over his men. He had five now instead of seven. Fred Washington was still in sick bay from his wound suffered in the action in the Kuril Islands. Now Colt Franklin was also in sick bay with that strange side wound. DeWitt stopped in front of Fernandez, who had his H&K PSG1 sniper rifle broken down on a wipe cloth in front of him. Fernandez looked up and DeWitt scowled.
"Fernandez, into my office." DeWitt walked down to the far end of the room and put the SEAL in a chair.
"Just what the hell happened to you?"
"Fell off my bunk, sir. I'm the third one up. Hit some gear on the floor. Hurt like hell. Then this morning I see I got some bruises. Nothing busted, though. Fit for duty."
DeWitt closed his eyes and shook his head. "Fernandez…" He gave up and looked away. "Am I going to have to talk to the rest of the squad?"
"They don't know a thing, Lieutenant. Happened in the companionway. It was dark. I never got a good look at who hit me."
"But you have a good idea."
"No hard evidence, sir."
"You know our squad is down to five men. I leave both of you behind, that gives me three men. What the hell am I supposed to do with three instead of seven?"
"Sir, this is personal, not professional. I would never violate my job as a SEAL to settle a personal problem. I have no doubts that the other man in this problem would also act like a SEAL in every aspect of a combat situation. We can function in the same squad, sir, and we won't let you down."
DeWitt sat down near Fernandez and stared at him. He was a good man, a fine SEAL, a team player. He was so thrilled to be a SEAL that the vibrations shot out of him in all directions. He knew his job, he did it, he was happy in his work.
Douglas was another matter. He had made the grade, passed through BUD/S, earned his Trident, and was in his second year with the teams. But something just didn't jibe right. Something wasn't 4–0 with him. For the life of him, DeWitt couldn't pin it down. It was nothing right now that would get him ramrodded out of the SEALs. Still…
"I'll have a talk with Douglas. In the meantime and from now on, you keep away from him. You're in separate berthing compartments, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Carry on, Fernandez." DeWitt watched Fernandez go back to his field stripped sniper rifle and begin putting it back together. He knew Fernandez was married, the only one in the platoon. Marriage was almost impossible for a SEAL. Long hours, days, weeks, sometimes months away in the field. No schedule, no time together with a wife and family that could be counted on. Most SEALs who got married found that it didn't last long. Miguel had held on.
DeWitt walked down the line and motioned for Douglas to follow him. At the other end of the room, he had a standup talk with Douglas.
"You notice the bruises on Fernandez's face?"
"Yes, sir."
"Any idea how he got them?"
"No, sir. He told Mahan that he fell out of his bunk. Said he had a third-level slot."
"You believe that?" "No, sir."
"Did you beat him up in that dark companionway last night, Douglas?"
"Me? No. No, sir. Not me."
"Who else?"
"I don't know."
"Douglas, if it turns out you're lying to me, I'll have your ass keelhauled. You know how long it would take you to go all the way under the keel of this carrier and come up on the other side?"
"About an hour, sir."
"Hope you can hold your breath a fucking long time. Dismissed."
Douglas gave him a short grin, then dropped it and hurried back to repacking his ammo. DeWitt watched him go. Dammit to hell. What could he do next? He had to keep them apart. He could do that in the field, but if they had a full day and a night here on the carrier, anything could happen. He'd caution Mahanani to keep a close eye on both of them.
Lieutenant General Richard F. Reynolds studied the wall map that still showed the front lines of the North's invasion. The bulge was greatest daggering at Seoul. It was still twelve miles away, eighteen miles from the Eighth Army Headquarters. What he wouldn't give right now for a pair of fully outfitted U.S. Army quick-response battalions. He quit dreaming. All but one sector of the 151-mile-long front line was manned by South Korean units. They were sharp, well trained, with good U.S. weapons, but they were still ROKs. Some had held, some had fought valiantly in spite of overwhelming odds. Now the front line was relatively stable. Four days of war and not a hell of a lot to show for it.
Yes, the South troops were holding. Partly because the North had a massive supply problem. They had overextended in some areas and were paying for it. There had been some counterattacks to retake strategic high ground, but no big move on either side.
He had air superiority. The Navy planes had been a real help. Now he had to figure where to put a thrust. He had a two-division reserve. Not much, but it would have to do. The bulge toward Seoul would be the logical point of attack. But he and some of his top staff had thought about doing a dogleg. Striking quickly through a weak point to the east of Seoul where the current MLR had been pushed back only three miles from the old DMZ.
Ram through there with tanks and troops and plunge in five miles north, then take a sharp right turn and jolt through mostly unprotected countryside for fifteen miles before turning south and trying to cut off the eight to ten thousand troops and armor that the North must have on line against Seoul. If he could cut them off for three days, it might be enough to bottle up the troops and slice them to pieces with artillery and air.
His senior command had been highly in favor of it. They would start with artillery along the line, then a fake attack near the Seoul bulge, and at the same time launch their major thrust north at Changdan. It should work.
Tanks, how many tanks did he have to have that he could commit? It would take two battalions of tanks, twenty-eight of them. That should do it. They could lead the attack, drop off one here and there for protection along the line, and then race across the bulge if they could toward Songu-ri. Yes. He liked it. His staff had liked it. The ultimate decision was up to him.
He turned to his phone and called Switzer, his tank commander.
"Yeah, I can give you twenty-eight tanks. We patch two outfits together and have Major Kitts in charge of the new Ninety-first. When do you want them and where?"
Reynolds made three more calls, then got his staff together and told them it was a go. They would push off at first light the next morning. All tanks and troops and a supply column with food and ammunition and supplies would be ready to follow the troops.
General Reynolds sat back in his chair and tried to relax. In the morning he was committing over ten thousand South Korean troops to a major battle. He made certain Major Hawkins had all the facts when he talked to the Navy. Hawkins was his Air Liaison officer with the CAG on the carrier. The Navy ground-attack planes would be there to help the troops. Yes, everything done or in motion.
In an hour he'd fly down to the Point of Departure and see how things were shaping up. They had time enough to get the troops down there and the tanks. Most of the movement would take place after dark so they didn't tip off the North. Yes, if this worked they could trip up the whole invasion and then throw the NK remnants back across the DMZ.
Would the United Nations let them chase the NKs all the way back to Pyongyang and end this thing once and for all? From what he'd heard so far, the North Korean equipment was still basically what the Soviets had given them ten years ago. It was old and wearing out and falling to pieces. He was surprised they had surged as far over the DMZ as they had. He had sent a top-priority radio request to the President of the United Nations General Assembly that morning asking if his UN troops had to stop at the DMZ. He'd hoped for a quick reply. So far, no word.
His sergeant major poked his head in the door. "General, better hit the floor. We've got an air raid warning. Not sure if the planes will get through, but they have ordnance. The North Korean jets are less than three minutes away and could launch missiles at any time."