by Frank Perry
Commander (O-5) who has a number of SEAL platoons and equipment under his command.
“Jim. It’s Hunter Kohl.”
“Hunter! How’s it going lieutenant? You still with the Border Patrol? Pity the poor Mexicans.” Hunter had been a platoon leader under Hollis who was a Lieutenant Commander when Hunter left the teams.
“Jim, I’m leading a soft life. I work for the state now. I’m kind of a lobbyist in DC.”
“Are you kidding me? You’ve got the social graces of a whale. How did that happen? I thought you wanted to go fight the drug war single-handed.”
“Well, in a way, I am, only it’s with my mouth instead of a gun.”
“Amazing, Hunter. You ever get to San Diego?”
Hunter chuckled then retorted. “Are you ever in San Diego?”
“Good point. You caught me in one of our rare “training” periods.”
Hunter smiled to himself. “Good. I’ve got a very special training request I’d like to make.”
“You name it, Hunter. As long as it’s legal, or we won’t get caught, I’m in.”
Hunter said, “I don’t know if it’s legal or not, but do you still have some ship trackers?” One of the missions of the SEALS is to enter harbors undetected and attach transponders to the hulls of certain ships to monitor their movements.”
“Yeah. We can do that.”
“Good. How’d you like to send three units north to SF Bay? I want to track some druggies.”
“Is this for national defense?”
“It’s helping fight the War on Drugs.”
“Close enough. When do you need ‘em?”
“I need three ASAP.”
“Okay. Can you be at Travis AFB tonight after oh-dark-thirty? I’ll check with North Island and have one of my guys come up. He’ll bring his gear, also.”
“That’s great, Jim. Just let me know when to be there. I’m about an hour away in the off hours.”
The call ended, and Hunter went back to sleep, he was going “tactical” again and loved it. He was finally doing something tangible. If the feds need to catch Peña in the act, Hunter would lead them to him. He worried about Sue Ann, but there wasn’t anything he could do for her at the moment.
He slept for three hours before his phone beeped with an SMS message, telling him to be at Travis at zero zero thirty (00:30AM). His watch said nine o’clock at night, and he decided to shower and eat something before driving back to the Bay Area.
The traffic was light as he meandered off I-80 at the Vacaville exit, following the signs to Travis AFB in Fairfield. At the gate, they had his information, and he was directed to the transit terminal to meet the Navy flight. As part of the Military Airlift Command (MAC), Travis is a busy airport around the clock. When Hunter arrived at the terminal, three planes were in the process of arriving or departing. One of them was a Navy C130 Hercules that is used often for SEAL Team parachute drops. It’s coloring and markings distinguished it from the USAF aircraft.
The big plane taxied with two of its four turboprop engines, until stopping far to the right of other aircraft. The loading ramp was lowered in the rear and a lone sailor in Woodland Camo Battle Dress Uniform (BDU) walked down with a full duffle bag over his shoulder and carrying a “Pelican” equipment case in his other hand. Hunter went out to meet him and help with his gear. Petty Officer First Class Calib Leeks introduced himself. “Hello, sir, it’s good to meet you. Commander Hollis told me some stuff about you. I was still in boot camp when you were with the team.”
Hunter smiled and took the Pelican Case, “Good to meet you, Leeks. You good for a swim tonight?”
“Yes, sir! Sure beats hanging around the ready room waiting for the phone to ring.”
Military life is often solitary. These elite fighters spend endless hours training and waiting for assignment -- always waiting. Sometimes, weeks go by without a mission. Boredom is a major problem and why so many leave the service after their first enlistment is over. They crave action, but ninety percent of their time is waiting, followed by short intense missions, then back to waiting. Hunter understood why Leeks was thrilled to be doing something, anything, to break the monotony. Covert night ops in harbors were a pure adrenalin rush.
They reached the Embarcadero district around two o’clock, parking in a lot near Fisherman’s Wharf where Hunter diagramed the berthing layout for Leeks. They discussed the best location to place the transponders under the hull to avoid being seen from the surface, or near the clamshell doors, where divers might work. Hunter checked the tide table, and they discussed the best location to enter the water undetected and use the current to carry them under the Bay Bridge to the vessels, as Hunter had done the night before. Once the op began, there would be no voice communications. They would need to be fully rehearsed and act independently then escape, unseen by anyone in the dark. This was SEAL work at its basic best.
Thirty minutes later, on a rocky edge of the Bay, east of the bridge, they entered the frigid water, which was completely black in the moonless night. It was exhilarating. Cold water in their suits was the first tangible sign that the op was beginning. Their underwater equipment was weighted to be slightly negative buoyancy, so that they could submerge easily when necessary. At the beginning of the op, they kept only their heads slightly above water, breathing surface air. If anyone could have seen them in the water, they would look like two harbor seals, submerged except for their black heads. They pushed the transponders ahead of them in a small buoyancy bags that allowed enough water to enter that the unit would almost sink, offering the least resistance to the swimmer.
The approach took thirty minutes from a mile away. Both men stayed about arms-length apart, not to lose sight of each other. The swim out was effortless with the receding tide doing most of the work. The swim back would be against the current, requiring all their strength to counteract four mile-per-hour outbound water.
At the first hull, Leeks disappeared below the surface and Hunter continued another hundred feet to the Ocean Queen. He relaxed and sank two feet before using his fins, turning toward the ship. He watched his depth gauge. At four meters (seventeen feet), he swam vigorously for thirty seconds on course one-eight-zero then rose carefully, feeling for the bottom of the hull, without being able to see it. Within seconds, his neoprene glove touched metal. Using his hands, he pushed left, guessing that the centerline was that direction and found the keel. He inverted and swam along the keel toward the stern of the ship until it began curving upward, several feet ahead of the rudder.
He pulled the first transponder from the bag and placed it against the bottom of the hull, next to the keel. Strong magnets held the unit in place. From experience, he removed a waterproof tab by feel, allowing sea water to enter the fuel-cell port. He then repeated the process under Fury berthed beside Queen. When finished with the second transponder, he descended a few feet and swam for twenty seconds at three-six-zero degrees, back out into the channel. He surfaced silently and swam against the current, using a type of butterfly stroke, without creating any surface disturbance. It was the most basic skill learned and practiced every day by the SEALS. Their most powerful weapon in hostile water was stealth. It took about two minutes to reach the stern of Ocean Wanderer, where Leeks was waiting. The two began the long strenuous swim back to the launch point, against the current. They remained completely undetectable.
Inside the bay, past the Bay Bridge, they slid onto the rocks and silently moved in the dark back to Hunter’s car. They stripped gear and redressed beside the abandoned warehouse, and were driving away minutes later. Hunter said, “How did it go?”
“No prob, LT. Everything went as planned.”
Hunter smiled. “Look, I’d buy you a beer, but the bars are all closed at two o’clock.”
“No problem, sir. If you’ll get me back to base, I’ll get my ride back home.”
Half an hour later, they were in Fairfield, California,
nearing the Travis terminal. Hunter extended his hand, “Leeks, it was a great pleasure. I’ll touch base with Hollis and give a report.”
“Thank you, sir. The transponders should be at power by now. As soon as we get positive position lock, we’ll start streaming position information to you. You gotta work out a private IP address with the Commander.”
“Will do, Leeks, and thanks.”
Hunter was back in bed at Claire’s by five in the morning after returning the car.
Conspiracy
Hunter went to the bathroom and took three Advil before returning to the guest room for a couple hours of sleep, waiting for his cousin to arrive. He had no idea what more to say to her and really didn’t want a scene in front of Claire and the kids. Instead of sleeping, he called Laura. “Hi, babe. I just pulled an all-nighter and wanted to hear your voice.”
“What’s going on, Hunter? You sound depressed.”
He sat on the bed with his forehead resting in his hand, rubbing his temples. “Actually, I had a good first day. I learned a lot. I guess I just want this guy Peña out of our lives. The wheels of justice are moving too slowly.”
“He’s a mobster, Hunter, a Killer; just stay away from him and be safe.”
He exhaled. “Laurie, I don’t know how to do that. He’s crushing me in a vice and threatening my family.” He didn’t say she was in danger, but they both knew