Detachment Bravo

by Richard Marcinko

  I wasn’t the only one, either—the kid received a fair amount of four-letter abuse from his shipmates. But, to be fair, Timex didn’t waste a second once he realized that he’d screwed up and put the mission in jeopardy. He unlashed a six-gallon fuel can, found a funnel, and poured the gas quickly into the Zodiac’s double tank. As he finished, Boomerang unlashed a second gas canister and handed it to him. Six more gallons went into the tank. Then six more. Mick stowed the empties and lashed them down securely.

  I tried the starter once again. Nothing—and I wasn’t about to kill the goddamn battery right now. So I gave the fucking system thirty seconds to reset itself. And then I hit the switch one more time. There was a slight hesitation, and then the big Yamaha growled just the way it should. I made sure everybody was secure, and that the gas cans had been stowed properly, and then I pushed the throttle forward once again, turned the Zodiac into the wind, and we were off.

  1701. Rotten’s compass got us back on track, even though we couldn’t see Báltaí’s lights yet. Yes, there was the risk that the big ship had changed course, we were charging ahead on an incorrect heading, and we were about to be fucked. But I didn’t think so. First of all, Báltaí had been steaming a steady course since she’d left Horta. Second, it made sense that Báltaí was heading toward a specific point in the sea—the position from which she would launch her missiles against the QE2—and that she’d steam straight to it, instead of zigzagging.

  1704. We crested a swell, and there, about a thousand yards ahead and off to port, way out in the darkness, I was able to eyeball Báltaí. There wasn’t much: I saw a quick flash of red running light, and then it all disappeared in a trough. But I’d seen it. And now Báltaí, her crew of Kraut kockbreaths, Gwilliam and Gerry Kelley, and Brendan O’Donnell—all of them—were MINE. How far ahead Báltaí may have been I didn’t care. Here’s what: it was time to catch up with her and get the job DONE.

  Oh, yes. We had nautical miles to go before we’d sleep, and we had Roguish promises to keep. We had scores to settle, too: comeuppance for all the murder victims who had been slaughtered by these assholes. Payback for lives lost and peace squandered.

  But the most important debt to be paid, so far as I was concerned, was for the death of my shipmate, Butch Wells. “Death,” a poet once wrote, “is a debt; a debt on demand.”71 Well, by fire and by blood would Butch’s death debt be paid tonight. It would be fucking paid in full by his shipmates who were the final piece of what was in reality a debt/death triad: DET Bravo. Only then would the Mystical Circle be complete and our mission be fulfilled.

  The cold had disappeared. It didn’t fucking count anymore. It wasn’t a factor because my rage kept me white-hot. I didn’t need to see Báltaí’s running lights, either. I knew exactly, to the meter, where she was; where they were, and I’d fucking take us there—now—just as if I were a fucking Exocet missile. Instincts keener than any goddamn radar guidance system, I homed in on Báltaí, pushed the throttle to the limit, stood the Zodiac on its ass, and we cut through the water at flank speed.

  In the dim and fading light, I checked the windblown, water-dripping faces of my men. They were Warriors all. You could see it radiating from every molecule of their being. They had Warriors’ expressions: RESOLUTE; FIRM; STEADFAST; UNCOMPROMISING; DETERMINED. They knew the risks and were willing to take them because they lived by the Warrior’s Code. They understood that they had no limits; that they were capable of achieving victory over immense odds. They understood death and could accept it, even though they preferred life.

  The fact that I was here and now, and about to go to WAR almost made me tear up. Look—this is and always has been an emotional thing for me. You have to understand how much I loved these men and respected their capabilities; their skills; and their commitment. I would kill for any of them, just as they would kill for me. That makes for an incredible bond among men. In many ways it is a closer relationship even than marriage. It is more lasting than life itself.

  Let me go even more touchy-feely for just a minute and open up to you. One of the most fortunate aspects of my life and my career is that I have always been blessed by being able to lead Warriors like these. Indeed, I have always believed that the greatest gift the God of WAR can bestow on someone like me is to give to him a group of WARRIORS; Warriors just like these men here, so that I can lead them into a great battle and we can share the absolute danger of risk, followed by the absolute joy of victory.

  1719. Suddenly, we disappeared into a patch of surface fog. It just came on us, and we went into it before I could react. One second, there was wind and rain and you could see the ocean around you. And the next, everything disappeared. It was like somebody had blindfolded me. It wouldn’t take much to disorient us if the fucking thing didn’t lift soon. You lose all sense of direction, time, and space when you can’t see. That’s what happened to John Kennedy Jr. the night he put his plane into the ocean. He’d entered a white-out zone, and tried to follow his instincts instead of his instruments. And that decision killed him.

  I wasn’t about to follow in his footsteps. “Rotten—”

  That was all I had to say. Rotten Randy already had his Silva compass out, squinting at it in the dark; calling my heading every fifteen seconds as we charged through the opaque mist, working to keep our course straight so I could keep our speed constant. I never wavered, holding the throttle all the way to FULL as the Zodiac bounced inexorably onward in the dark.

  1723. Wisp by wisp the fog evaporated. Now we were back to mere rain and wind. But we were drawing ever closer—I could almost taste it. And then, and then … all the hair on the back of my neck suddenly stood up. Mick sensed something, too: I saw him go tense. And it was not more than five seconds after that, that we saw her. She was no more than six hundred yards out, about twenty degrees to port, moving on a parallel track, her wake visible even in the darkness and the chop.

  I looked over at Rotten and said, simply, “Thank you, Rotten.”

  His look told me I hadn’t needed to say anything, but that he was perceptibly happy I had done so.

  As we edged closer, the guys started making ready. They positioned themselves so as to allow the Zodiac the most freedom of movement. They had their War Faces on now; their expressions were absolute masks.

  1725. I shifted our course, bringing us about four hundred yards directly astern of Báltaí. There was something about the ship I haven’t really mentioned, something that hadn’t quite registered before: she was fucking huge.

  Yes, I’ve told you Báltaí was a big yacht. Two hundred and ninety-three feet, in fact, from stem to stern—seven feet shorter than a football field. Her beam was probably thirty-three or thirty-four feet, maybe more. That is bigger than many of the Navy’s surface warships. Certainly, she was more than a hundred feet longer than one of the PC (Patrol Coastal) vessels assigned to NavSpecWar (and tonight, more lethal, too). But only from the water can you truly sense the size and power and energy of a vessel. Oh, to be sure, an aircraft carrier is impressive when it’s tied up: a huge, hulking gray city afloat. But out on the open sea, when approached in a small boat, it becomes even more gargantuan, massive, colossal, because it moves, and it also radiates huge amounts of energy—energy that you can actually feel as you get closer and closer.

  Here, too, as we drew inexorably nearer and nearer, the same thing happened. Even with the wind, and the rain, and the cold, I could feel the power of this big ship; sense the change in the water caused by her big screw, exhaust, and pumps. The Zodiac began to handle differently as we gained on Báltaí. It was affected by her wake and her bulk, just the way a single-engine plane taking off right after a 747 has cleared the runway is affected by the air currents and heat left behind by the jumbo jet.

  1733. I brought us to within a hundred yards of Báltaí, then eased off the throttle just a bit. The big yacht had slowed down, cruising at what appeared to me to be about twenty knots. That certainly would make boarding her a lot easier. You do not
want to board a big ship running at flank speed. The variables are bad enough when it is moving below ten knots. I can recall a 6.5-knot boarding exercise in the South China Sea a few years back that almost killed me.

  There are the currents that run alongside the ship’s hull, which you have to fight as you bring your small craft alongside. The water wants to push you off; you have to hold your craft tight. But the wind buffets you, as does the wave chop. It is therefore possible, when you are riding in a small raiding craft like the Zodiac we were in, to go up, down, forward, and backward all at the same time.

  You say what I have just described breaks all the rules of physics. Lemme tell you something that I have learned through nasty, real-world experience: in situations like this one, the rules of physics don’t necessarily fucking apply.

  1735. I eased us closer, then turned the con over to Nod, who was the most experienced coxswain in this group of shooter-looters. While he got the feel of the Zodiac, I retrieved one of the Berettas from Mick, checked to see that it was loaded and had a cartridge in the chamber, double-checked that the safety was on, then stowed an additional pair of loaded 15-round mags in the rear pockets of my jeans. I ran a three-foot length of light nylon line through the lanyard loop on the Beretta’s butt, secured it tight, and attached the opposite end to my belt. No way was Mister Murphy going to make me lose my weapon tonight.

  1738. Nod brought us to within twenty yards of Báltaí’s fantail. We could feel the temperature of the water rise now, and the little SEAL was having a hell of a time keeping the Zodiac steady in Báltaí’s wake. But he managed, using the Yamaha’s 120 horses to muscle us where we had to be.

  Every man knew his assignment: Nod would remain in the Zodiac until we were all aboard Báltaí. Then he would toss Nigel a line so the RIB could be towed by the big yacht until we needed it for our exfil. We had only six firearms: four pistols and two shotguns. I had one of the pistols. Boomerang, Randy, and Mick had the others. Goober and Digger had the shotguns. Which left Hugo, Timex, Nod, and Nigel unarmed except for their sheath knives. They would have to improvise.

  That was the downside. The upside was that I did not expect more than a few of the crew to be carrying arms. They were out in the middle of the fucking ocean and didn’t expect guests. What we had to do, therefore, was to overwhelm them in the first few seconds of our assault. Tonight, the most vulnerable point of the mission would occur just as we attempted to board Báltaí. Our force would be split, and the objective held by a pitiful few of my Warriors. If we were discovered coming over the rail, we could be repulsed easily. But once we put a nucleus of armed people on board the yacht, we could use speed, surprise, and violence of action to achieve victory within a few short minutes.

  1742. Mick wedged himself into the Zodiac’s bow to play security guard. Nod brought us up to the fan-tail of the big yacht and eased us alongside the starboard side of the eighteen-inch-wide diving platform, which was stored upright, flat against Báltaí’s stern during transit, and latched to the transom of the big yacht by two stainless steel dead bolts. Above it, shielding us from being seen, was Báltaí’s launch, suspended from two huge davits. The launch swung like a pendulum in the swells.

  It wouldn’t be easy. Báltaí was moving at twenty knots. The kinetic energy the ship caused made it almost impossible for us to sidle up behind it. The slipstream alone was sufficient to blow us backward and sideways simultaneously. But now we had an additional problem: Báltaí’s wake. It was enough to push the Zodiac’s seaworthiness to the limit. The centrifugal force caused by the displaced water knocked the little craft askew every time Nod made an approach.

  I pointed to starboard and Nod backed us off twenty yards. My hands told him what I wanted him to do, and he did it: he gunned the Zodiac straight across Báltaí’s stern, transversing the deadly wake. As we passed the starboard bolt, I stood up, with Goober and Rotten holding on to keep me from going overboard. Nod caught a swell that elevated the Zodiac by a yard and a half. I reached up as high as I could and unbolted the starboard side of the diving platform. Then Nod pushed the little craft forward, turned, and repeated the move from the port side, so that Mick, buttressed by Timex and Nigel, could reach up and unhitch the other dead bolt.

  Mick missed on his first try, almost pitching into the water before Timex yanked him back. Nod circled and brought the RIB up close once again, and Mick, straining, managed to flick the dead bolt upward as the RIB caught a big swell. The diving platform dropped on its long hinge. Somehow, Mick managed to catch it so the fucking thing didn’t hit smack hard and break off. Then, with the platform down, it was time to get moving.

  The only way to lead is to lead. I moved to the Zodiac’s bow. Nod whipped the little craft around. As he shot past Báltaí’s stern, I pulled myself across the Zodiac’s gunwale, gripped at the wood lattice of the diving platform, which was only about a foot or so above my head, and started to pull myself across and onto it. Which is when all those laws of physics shattered into the old Irish term for bits & pieces—smithereens—and the Zodiac shifted, rising in a sudden crosscurrent, or wave, or wind shear, or whatever the hell it was, and I was suddenly stretched between the Zodiac and Báltaí like some fucking cartoon character made of rubber.

  My feet were wedged in the safety line on the Zodiac’s gunwale. My fingers were caught in the thick, teak lattice of the diving platform. And I was being stretched as if I were a recalcitrant Marrano on one of Torquemada’s racks. This was no fucking way to achieve victory. This was the way to achieve PAIN.

  And then, the goddamn Zodiac pulled away. Which left me dragging in the fucking water behind Báltaí, my legs churning, my fingers losing their precarious grasp on the diving platform. Below me, Báltaí’s huge prop was churning the water relentlessly. If I dropped, I’d be ground into Rogue Sausage. I was buffeted by nasty crosswinds. The dark water sucked at my legs. The wet wood of the diving platform caused my grip to slip. I tried to claw forward. I fucking couldn’t do it. I lost ground. And then, finally, I managed to thrust three of my fingers through the latticework—and I held on, twisting as I dropped closer and closer to the fucking prop. The pain was incredible. I hurt right down to the soggy cuticles on my toes. All I could hear in my head was the inexorable, throaty invitation of Báltaí’s prop. It was saying, “C’mon, asshole—let go. Give up. Drop. You belong to me.”

  But was I gonna let go, give up, drop? No fucking way, José. I’d come too fucking far. I’d suffered too fucking much. I was too fucking filled with white-hot rage. I wanted to collect the fucking DET Bravo death debt I was fucking owed by these fucking assholes.

  And so, my feet kicking, I used MY WARRIOR’S WILL to pull myself against the water and the current and the slipstream, and inch by fucking inch I gained the distance I’d lost, until I finally muscled my fingers/hands/wrists/forearms/elbows onto the diving platform, reached across and grabbed a ladder rung, and slowly, slowly, slowly, pulled my sore and hyper-extended body onto Báltaí.

  I raised myself onto my hands and knees, my lungs burning, my shoulders telling the rest of my body that I was very much alive. Oh, yeah, I was exhausted. But I didn’t have time for exhaustion. We were fucking vulnerable, and we had to act—NOW. And so, we went to Scenario B. Boomerang and Goober tossed me the fishing net, which I secured to the diving platform. Now, there was something across which we could clamber, no matter how much the Zodiac rose or fell relative to the Báltaí.

  Digger came across first. He flung himself onto the net and pulled himself across onto the diving platform. He was followed by Boomerang’s long frame. Now there were three of us—and it was time to go over the rail. I went up the ladder first, one-handed, the pistol in my big right paw. I held just below the rail until Boomerang had wedged himself close behind me. When he tapped my butt, I sprang up, rolled over the stern rail onto the fantail, and went into an offensive crouch, scanning and breathing as the muzzle of my pistol swept the empty deck.

  Boomerang came next, followed
by Digger. We moved forward to give the rest of the assault team space. You never want to stop-and-go in situations like this one. Like Ranger Randy says, just FIDO—fuck it, and drive on.

  1743. Nod crabbed across the net, then from the safety of the diving platform, he untethered the net and tossed it back onto the little RIB. He pulled the line taut, until the RIB was right under Báltaí’s white launch. Then he scrambled up and over the rail, pulled the diving platform into its vertical position, and secured it.

  1744. The boarding party was complete. The Zodiac was tethered securely to Báltaí, but invisible unless you actually hung over the side, because it was now obscured by the stern davit arms and Báltaí’s launch.

  And so far, we had achieved complete surprise. In a way, that was to be expected. It was now completely dark. The weather was bad. On a night like this, unless you are at Threatcon Charlie, you button your vessel up and retreat to your bunk for a quiet night of pud-pulling over a Playboy or a Penthouse magazine. But that didn’t mean there weren’t going to be hostiles on the prowl.

  1745. Sheltered by the overhang of the quarterdeck, we broke into our prearranged working groups. We’d committed Nigel’s diagrams to memory, so we knew where we were going and (more or less) how we’d get there.

  Mick’s Delta squad headed to port, with Mick on point, followed by Rotten Randy. Hugo and Nigel, unarmed, came next. Goober was Delta’s rear security. Their assignment was to swarm the crew quarters, galley, and engine room.

  My Bravo squad went starboard. I took point, followed by Boomerang. Nod and Timex, both unarmed, brought up the middle, and Digger, with his shotgun, was rear security. Our target was the upper deck area—quarterdeck and above—which included the radio shack and wheelhouse, the main saloon, and of course the staterooms housing the Kelley boys and TIRA scumbag Brendan O’Donnell. Oh, I wanted to pay ’em all a room-service call bad.