Hunt the Dragon

by Don Mann

  “On it like white on rice.”

  “Davis, recheck the comms.”

  “Got it.”

  “Sam, double-check all first-, second-, and third-line gear. I’ll eyeball the med kits and the big bag. Suarez, check the CL-20, detonators, all that stuff is critical. Make sure it’s triple-sealed in case we capsize and hit the water.”

  “Done, boss.”

  “I’ll see you gorillas in half an hour.”

  Despite the hundreds of things on his mind and the several dozen he had to get done, he shoehorned in a minute to contact Cyndi on Skype—then realized it was something like 4 a.m. in Las Vegas. So he tried Jenny back home, instead.

  It was just after 7 a.m. in Virginia.

  “Dad?” Jenny answered.

  “Sweetheart, I hope I didn’t wake you. How’s everything? You okay?”

  “All good. No problem. I’m up early studying for a civics exam. You talk to grandpa?”

  Crocker reminded himself that he had to huddle with the SDV pilot as soon as they reached the Dallas. SDVs usually ran with a two-man crew and carried a maximum of four operators with gear. Since both Davis and Akil had served a tour at SDV Team One, he was hoping that under these extraordinary circumstances one of them could replace the copilot.

  “No. Why?” he asked back. The team already felt thin without Mancini and Cal. Cutting another operator on an op this perilous would make them even more vulnerable.

  “You didn’t get my texts?” Jenny asked.

  “No, sweetheart. I’ve been off the grid a while. What’s going on?”

  “Yesterday he was exercising after he woke up, and started having trouble breathing and was getting sharp pains in his chest. So he called some lady friend of his.”

  Crocker tensed up. “Carla?”

  “Yes, Carla. She drove him to the ER. Turns out one of his arteries was like ninety percent blocked, and they caught it just in time.”

  He could already feel the guilt burrowing into him. “He okay?”

  “Yeah, Dad, thank God. They had to insert something called a stent. He’s probably sleeping now. I talked to him last night and he was really out of it.”

  “What did the doctor say?

  “I didn’t speak to the doctor, but Carla said the procedure went well. She seems like a really nice woman. Uncle Bob is driving down now. He’ll be there in the morning.”

  A quick glance at his Suunto told Crocker he was running short on time. “Where is grandpa now?”

  “Inova Fair Oaks Hospital.”

  Someone started rapping on the door behind him. “You have a number I can call?”

  “Seven oh three, three nine one, three six oh six.”

  Akil, on the other side, was summoning him urgently.

  “Thanks, sweetheart. Tell Grandpa I’ll call him first chance I get. I’ve got to run now. I love you, and good luck on your test tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Love you, too.”

  The wind hit the helo and rocked it, causing the fuselage to twist right and the tail to dip. Across from him, he watched Sam lean forward and throw up into the yellow bucket at his feet. Great kid so far, smart, focused, and thorough. Excellent command of Korean. His face had assumed a greenish tinge in the dim cabin light.

  Beside him Davis listened to music through earbuds, seemingly oblivious to the noise, danger, and stench. Eyes closed, he didn’t even flinch when the helo was buffeted a second time, even harder.

  Crocker was thinking about his father, who had served in the navy as a pilot and was one of the kindest, gentlest men he’d ever known. Proof of that was the fact that he’d put up with Crocker’s raucous rowdiness as a teenager, including various gang fights and arrests. Never stopped believing in him.

  God, please look after my father, and help him heal quickly and fully.

  Crocker reminded himself that he hadn’t been with his mom either when she’d died in a fire. In fact, he’d left her side hours earlier.

  What kind of a shitty son am I?

  All the birthdays, weddings, and special events he had missed because he was busy training or deployed overseas with ST-6 unreeled in his head.

  What am I supposed to do, cancel the mission and jeopardize thousands of lives because Dad is in the hospital?

  Questions like this were the most agonizing part of SEAL work. The long hours, danger, and physical hardships were easy in comparison.

  Over the roar of the engine, he heard the copilot establishing comms with the USS Dallas.

  “SNN-700, Bravo Tiger Seven, do you read me? Over.”

  “Copy, Bravo Tiger Seven. SNN-700. Read you loud and clear. Currently waiting above at 36-16-77 lat, 127-37-23 long. Over.”

  Seconds later a bald man in a flight suit turned back to Crocker and held up ten fingers followed by a thumbs-up.

  Crocker said into his headset, “Five minutes to ready. Ten minutes to launch.”

  The SEALs to his right and across from him started to get their gear ready and pull on their gloves. Davis didn’t budge. Crocker reached his foot across and kicked Davis’s boot. The blond SEAL opened his eyes and nodded. Cool as a fucking cucumber, like he wrestled harder shit than this in his sleep.

  Out the window at his back Crocker made out the dark outline of the sub tower. It looked as though the SDV and launch pad had already been secured to the deck. Deckhands wearing helmets and earphones were using high-lumen red-lens flashlights to signal to the pilot.

  The helo circled into position and hovered at twenty feet, bouncing and shifting in the heavy wind. Then the green cabin light came on, and Crocker shouted, “Go! Let’s go!”

  Men jumped up, grabbed bags and packs. Boots scraped against the metal floor. The hatch opened and Akil fast-roped down first, followed by Davis and Suarez.

  Sam, wearing a helmet that looked too small for him, was next. Crocker shouted into his ear, “You okay? You need help?”

  The draft off the rotors dented Sam’s face. Instead of answering, he grabbed the rope with both hands and jumped. But he never managed to secure his legs around it, so he descended too fast. And when he tried to engage his right leg it got tangled in the rope, causing him to jerk to a stop, wrench free, and tumble the remaining ten feet.

  “Watch out, below! Man falling!” Crocker shouted.

  In the helo landing light, he saw Sam somersault and Akil reach out to catch him—a seemingly impossible task, given Sam’s mass and the speed of his descent. There were wind conditions to deal with, too. A gust yanked Sam right, so that his shoulder glanced off Akil’s chest. Akil lost his balance and the two men fell backward into the soup.

  Jesus!

  “Man overboard!”

  “Two men in the water!”

  Crocker slid down fast, dropped his gear on the deck, bent his knees, and dove in in one continuous motion. He was airborne, looking for objects, when the water hit him like a bucket of ice. He almost passed out from the impact and extreme cold. When he came up and gasped for air, his mind scrambled and blanked.

  His body slammed into automatic, kicking and flailing arms to stay above water. With his right he held on to the white floatation device someone had tossed in. He saw two guys on deck pulling Akil out with the help of a pole. Suarez knelt and shouted as he pointed to something beyond Crocker.

  “What?” he shouted back.

  The helo rotor tore at the surface and whipped water into his face and eyes. The salt and cold stung. He fought not to go into shock.

  “Boss! Boss!”

  Something heavy bumped into his left leg, and he reached down through the frigid water and felt an arm that slipped out of his grasp.

  “Boss!!!!”

  The light from the helo blinding him, he took a big gulp of air and dove. His hands, arms, and legs turned completely numb. In a matter of seconds he knew muscle coordination would go. Seconds after that, his brain and body would shut down. He surfaced.

  Balls to that! I’m not losing Sam!

  His eyes and
limbs becoming rigid, Crocker reached left and right until he felt something round like a human head and dove again until his hands found a neck and shoulder. The cold salt water welled up his nostrils and hit his brain like a hammer. Trying the best he could with numb hands to grab on to fabric, he pushed up until he reached the surface and was blinded again. Sam gasped, spitting water into his eyes.

  “Some fucking thanks…”

  He couldn’t believe he actually had him. The muscles in his legs and shoulder were so badly cramped that his tears were mixing with the water.

  “Boss! Hold on!”

  Sam’s lips and nose had turned deep blue. Crocker’s legs were starting to spasm. He figured he had a few more seconds left, and then strong hands pulled him toward a boat. He welcomed the smell of rubber. With his last ounce of strength, he pushed Sam up.

  Crocker came to minutes later, upright in a chair and wrapped in a thick wool blanket. Someone was rubbing his feet and another person massaged his hands. Their faces and his surroundings were a blur of light and color.

  “You hear me, Crocker?” someone asked.

  He didn’t recognize the voice. Shivered and clenched his teeth. His tongue felt like a piece of leather. “Ye…ah.”

  “Open your mouth and sip this slowly.”

  It took several seconds for the signal from his brain to reach his jaw and lips. Then his mouth and throat suddenly came alive and starting burning.

  He heard someone say, “Pulse rising. Body temp at eighty-nine.”

  “I didn’t know he had a pulse.” He recognized Akil’s voice. “DARPA told us they assembled him out of parts.”

  “That’s not funny. He was down to eighty-two when you brought him up. In most circumstances that means you’re dead.”

  “He’s our leader, doc,” Akil said. “He ain’t going nowhere.”

  Waves of warmth spread from Crocker’s throat and stomach out to his limbs and head. His consciousness sharpened. He made out a clock on the wall and the face of a nurse—square jaw, green eyes, black hair with bangs.

  “You remember your name, sir?”

  “Chief Warrant Crocker. What’s yours?”

  “Luci.”

  “Hi, Luci. How’s Sam?”

  “He’s resting. Recovered fast. Terrible fast-roper from what I hear, but the hide of a walrus.”

  In the morning after he’d showered and dressed, Crocker met with the commander, a rail-thin African American with short hair and a black-and-silver mustache. They sat in the sub’s tiny ops room, sipped tea, and pored over nautical charts and satellite photos as the ship’s doctor checked Crocker’s vitals. A very serious looking lieutenant waited at a laptop ready to take notes. A photo of the commander playing golf with the president hung on the wall.

  “You play?” Commander Thompson asked.

  “Not my game. Don’t have the patience.”

  “Teaches self-control and the need for precision.”

  “Vital signs back to normal,” the doctor announced, cleaning the stethoscope with the hem of his tunic. “Can’t tell how it affected his brain without a scan.”

  “One-two-seven-thirteen-ten,” Crocker joked. “I can still count to ten. I’ll be fine.”

  “I believe we’ve crossed paths before,” the doctor said, peering at Crocker through round glasses. “Tikrit, ’04. We were both staying in a safe house that came under attack. You and two other SEALs fought off Iraq insurgents for five hours until a QRF rescued us.”

  It wasn’t a happy memory. One of Crocker’s best buds, Sean, had taken a bullet in the stomach that night and died from complications.

  The doctor seemed to be remembering that, too, as he quickly loaded his instruments into his bag. “Good to see you again.”

  “Thanks. You, too.”

  Commander Thompson cleared his throat and said, “SOCOM had the mission slated for a 2100 launch, but given events last night and the new moon, they figure you’re going to want to wait twenty-four hours.”

  “Wait another day? For what?” It jarred Crocker back to the mission. In the recesses of his mind lurked the emergency with his father. Sensing that the mission was going to be difficult, he wanted to get it started as soon as possible so he could return home. “No. No, screw that. That won’t be necessary as long as the other members of my team are accounted for and in one piece.”

  “What’s the determination on their fitness, doc?” asked the commander in his rich baritone, freezing the doctor in the doorway.

  “Uh, sir…um, yes. They’re all fine, except maybe Sam, who could use another day of rest.”

  “No time for that,” Crocker pronounced, fixing his eyes on the red phone in the middle of the metal table and wondering if he could use it to reach his father. “That connect to the States?”

  “We’re in a red zone, so only official calls, and they have to be encrypted,” the commander answered.

  “Got it.”

  Crocker quickly pushed his concern for his father to a corner of his mind and shifted focus. “Can we back up a minute? Am I correct to infer from what you said that SOCOM has given me the last word on when we launch?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Then I need to talk to the SDV pilot. Where can I find him?”

  “Get Warrant Naylor in here,” Commander Thompson ordered, turning to the lieutenant.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call the members of my team, too,” Crocker added. “I need to know if we lost any gear. I’m assuming we still have time to get things flown in from the Vinson if we need to.”

  “We should be able to accommodate that. Yes.”

  Warrant Naylor appeared to be navy-issue all the way—medium height, thinning light brown hair, watery blue eyes, straight back. As he sat across from him sipping from a mug of coffee, Crocker laid out the reasons it made sense to swap the copilot out for Akil or Davis, both of whom had completed advanced SDV training after BUD/S.

  But Naylor wasn’t buying any part of it. “Chief, I appreciate where you’re coming from. But this mission will be pushing the envelope as is. Taking into account ocean currents, possible live ordnance in the water around the island, and other considerations, guiding Sleeping Beauty to the target will be a sphincter-tightening two-person job. Any additional pressures could push the mission past the breaking point.”

  “Sleeping Beauty?” Crocker asked. “That’s the name of the vessel?”

  “We named it that because it resembles the coffin from the movie.”

  “Never saw it.”

  “My copilot Hutchins has got a six-year-old daughter.”

  “Naylor, here’s the long and short. This is gonna be a tough mission, and one where we’ll be facing lot of unknowns when we reach our target. That’s why I need you to work with me and squeeze in five operators.”

  “Nope. Not happening. I hear we might be taking a hostage out. So four operators max. That’s the law.”

  “What law?” Crocker asked, trying to remain calm.

  “I’m not trying to bust your balls, chief. Even with four, you’re gonna feel like you’re squeezed. The fifth means you’ll have to severely minimize your gear.”

  “How about flying in a second SDV and crew?” suggested Crocker. “What would be the timetable on that?”

  Naylor thought for a minute and answered, “The closest one is in Hawaii, and its electrical system is down.”

  “Never mind.”

  “We’re looking at a four-hour ride through frigid seas in wet suits breathing through tanks, and a two- or three-hour ride back. Any weather could throw us off course and kill our chances of returning.”

  Crocker, who had taken long rides in SDVs before, didn’t need to be reminded of the conditions. Without Davis, he’d be depending on three other operators, one of whom he’d never worked with before. “What’s the weather look like?” he asked.

  “Clean and calm tonight,” answered Commander Thompson. “Tomorrow fifty percent chance of precipitation and accompan
ying winds blowing in from the north.”

  “Then we’re launching tonight. Show my teammate Akil the amount of cargo space we’re dealing with, and prepare to deploy at 2100.”

  “Chief,” Naylor started, “I just want to say that my co-pilot and I have heard a lot about you, and we’re both honored to be working together.”

  “Thanks, Naylor. Let’s get it done.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sometimes you gotta let shit go and say “to hell with it” and move on.

  —Eminem

  Dawkins hadn’t been the same since the episode in the amphitheater. Something inside him had shut down, severely reducing his energy and affecting his ability to remember simple things—like the names of his assistants or how long he had been held in captivity. He sat for hours in the workshop staring at the partially assembled missile guidance system, vaguely aware of the engineering problems involved in fitting the gyro-stabilized platform, battery, power distribution unit, and missile guidance system together. His assistants Pak Ju and Yi-Thaek stood at his side, looking concerned.

  “Battery work, yes?” Pak Ju asked, pointing to the wires running from the lithium pack to the laptop-sized computer that had been specially configured to slip into the platform. Sometimes the ingenuity of the NK engineers surprised him. On other occasions they seemed useless.

  “What battery?” he asked, remembering the lullaby Sung had taught him about the peasant woman leaving her baby to search for food.

  He found the lithium pack on the bench, and as he picked it up he imagined her looking at the infant’s face, trying to communicate without words. Then he was holding baby Karen and recalling the sense of connection between them as strong as anything he’d ever felt.

  “How do you measure that?” he asked out loud.

  “Measure what, Mr. Dawkins?” Pak Ju asked.

  “Is there a way to correlate that to newtons?”

  Pak Ju and Yi-Thaek looked confused. The baby-faced interpreter leaned over Dawkins’s shoulder and said, “They don’t understand.”

  “Newtons,” Dawkins answered, rubbing his forehead. “It’s how we measure gravity. The acceleration on Earth is 9.8m/s2. On the Earth’s surface 0.98 newtons equal the force of gravity of 100 grams mass, right?”