Seal Team Seven 7 - Deathrace

by Keith Douglass

  "I've had a deadline kicked in my face," George said. "I have six more days to find the exact location of that nuke facility. I've been working on it two months, and thought we had it knocked. Then my rep here goes to meet this engineer we know works at the plant. Next thing I know I'm up to my asshole in Secret Police shooting at me."

  "Your rep?"

  "Either in jail or in the morgue."

  "They don't have morgues here. If they killed him, he's probably on a trash heap somewhere. If the family finds him, they can bury him. Did he have any U.S. dollars with him?"

  "Fifteen hundred."

  "He's dead."

  "I figured." They sat there for five minutes without a word. Then George broke the silence. "Tauksaun, can you help me?"

  "You have a radio in that kit?"

  "Yes."

  "You have plenty of U.S. dollars?"

  "YeS."

  "Either one of those could get all of us in the place killed in a heartbeat. First we hide the radio, and all but twenty bucks of the cash. They won't burn us for a twenty. The fucking Secret Police keep all the dollars they find. Always have, always will."

  "Hide them?"

  "Yes. I'll know where they are. So will Tiny. A way to keep you alive. You have papers?"

  George nodded and handed over his tourist visa and other papers, including a U.S. passport and a letter ascertaining that he was a professor of Middle Eastern history at New York University on leave to study some ancient manuscripts.

  "Ever had to show them to anyone?"

  "Just some hick cop to the north."

  "Parachute in?"

  "No, came across the border from Russia."

  They were silent again.

  The door opened, and Yasmeen came in followed by an extremely small woman. She was only a little over four feet tall, delicately proportioned, with long black hair to her waist, and flashing black eyes. Her skin was the color of toasted almonds.

  Yasmeen took her to George, who hurriedly stood. Tiny stepped back. Yasmeen told her in Farsi that in America a man standing when a woman entered a room was a mark of politeness and respect. Tiny frowned but nodded.

  "George, I want you to meet Tiny. She takes care of Tauksaun. Tiny, this is George." Tiny bowed briefly, her eyes downcast. At last she glanced up at him, smiled, and hurried back through the door they came in.

  Tauksaun smiled. "Usually Tiny doesn't meet my friends. She's shy."

  Yasmeen went back to her seat.

  "Can you help us?" she asked, looking at the huge man.

  He waved, moved a pillow on the couch, and took out a cordless phone with an antenna. He dialed a number, and waited. He spoke rapidly in Farsi. The conversation lasted no more than thirty seconds. He smiled and hung up.

  Tauksaun's bloated face was serious for a moment, then he smiled thinly. "There is a chance. We may have someone who knows something. He grinds lenses for glasses. A year ago he was pulled off his job, and sent to Chah Bahar. He went into the hills, and did much the same work, only not on glass, on some kind of metal that he had never seen before. He's still not sure what he did or where he was. Still he might help us."

  "Lens grinding?" Yasmeen asked.

  "Some of the metal in a nuclear bomb is similar to stainless steel," George said. "It takes careful machining, but any skilled craftsman, like a lens grinder, can do the job."

  "Exactly," Tauksaun said. "This little man can be contacted tonight. He's extremely cautious. He'll talk only to Tiny. If he's convinced he'll be safe, she'll bring him here. Then he'll talk only to me."

  "Sounds promising. Your phone. I thought they were few and far between in this town."

  "True, but I can't get out, so I call out. Easier that way. Fact is I have two lines, three extensions."

  George smiled. "Good plan. Hey, I need to check in with the office. Is there a balcony or a roof where I can use my little SATCOM without being seen?"

  "Let's see it," Tauksaun said.

  George took out the latest development in the satellite communications field. The dish traveled folded like a fan that extended into a circle six inches in diameter. It had a small tripod three inches high. The send/receive set was minimal, with only voice/data capability. It had sensors to angle the antenna at the orbiting Milstar satellite at 23,300 miles over the equator in a geo-synchroness orbit.

  The small keyboard had a built-in crypto unit that automatically scrambled the message. He would type it out, approve it, then hit a button to scramble the message. A few seconds later it was shot out of the small antenna in a data burst of no longer than a tenth of a second. It was almost impossible to triangulate the signal, even if one listening post picked it up.

  "That one's a lot more advanced than the old ones I used to use," Tauksaun said. "Don't be surprised, these are off the shelf now. Not calibrated to the mil frequency, but good for the satellite."

  "The roof?" George asked.

  Tauksaun nodded, and Yasmeen led the way through the closed door into a second bedroom, and up a steep flight of open stairs to a pull-back door on the roof. There were no taller houses close by. He found a good spot behind the structure that topped the stairs, and settled down.

  Yasmeen sat beside him. He set up the small antenna aiming it generally southward. He turned on two switches and checked the glowing lights. He plugged the lead from the four-inch-square transceiver unit into the antenna, turned on the set, and began to type in his message.

  "George. One contact might be productive. Name Tauksaun. American. Suspect location still southernmost area. Shahpur KIA. Any intel for me?"

  He read over the message on the small screen, nodded, and punched the crypto button. A moment later an indicator light glowed, telling him the transmission had been completed.

  "That's all there is to it?" Yasmeen asked.

  "That's it. Shoots it directly to a satellite which relays it to a receiver in the States."

  "Can they talk to you?"

  "On a schedule. Midnight and noon local time. I set up the antenna, turn the set on to receive, and wait for ten minutes. If nothing comes through, they aren't sending." He folded up the antenna and put the unit back in the heavy plastic carrying case. He stuffed it in the shoulder bag that held everything he owned in Iran. His clothes and some other items were by now in the Iranian Secret Police hands.

  "What now?" she asked.

  "We wait and see if Tiny can talk this lens grinder into coming to see Tauksaun. We don't have enough. We could wander around those desert roads down there east of Chah Bahar for months, and never find the right sheepherder's shack."

  "For my father's trucks, the road would have to be wide, and well made, not the narrow little trails that the shepherds use. The road should stand out from a light plane flying over."

  George agreed. Also it would show up well on a satellite photo. He'd send that on his next transmission. Have them move the satellite enough to cover the Iranian southern area on an every hour basis. The road had to be there. You couldn't camouflage a heavy truck road through the mountains and across some desert plateau. They had to find it.

  They went downstairs, and into the front room, where Tauksaun now lay on the bed snoring softly.

  Tiny looked up and put her finger over her lips. She motioned them back into the other room and showed them to chairs.

  "Coffee?" she asked in English. They said fine, and watched her work on a small hot plate to boil water. "I practice English," she said.

  "You're doing very well," George said.

  "You wait here. Tauksaun say. Maybe tonight the lens grinder comes. Now, we wait. You want sugar?"

  5

  Friday, October 21

  1730 hours Coronado, California

  Lieutenant (j.g.) Ed DeWitt watched Katherine Garnet walk away and through her door in the officers quarters. It hadn't really hit him yet, a woman on a SEAL mission. Unthinkable. Impossible. Outrageous. Dangerous as hell. But they were going to do it.

  Had to. The President s
aid so.

  He turned and walked out the gate, and across the highway to the SEAL headquarters. A few minutes later he entered the small offices where the Third Platoon hung out when they were on base.

  Platoon Chief Jaybird Sterling worked over some papers on his desk, and only looked up and nodded. They were informal where they could be.

  DeWitt walked into Murdock's office and dropped into a chair beside the battered desk.

  "We have to go through with this?"

  Murdock looked up and laughed. "Just how in hell are we going to get out of it? Not a chance." He threw a wadded-up sheet of paper at the wastebasket across the room. He missed. DeWitt saw that there were a lot of misses around the target.

  "Makes sense, in a way. Having her go in with us. But why couldn't they have found a man just as good at taking apart nukes? Now, that I could have lived with a lot easier."

  "Living with it, the key phrase," DeWitt said. "How much is she going to compromise us? Are we going to take any extra KIAs because she's along? Can we get in there, and out, without getting her killed?"

  "Wish I knew. If I did, I'd ask for another two months to make her the best shot in the outfit."

  The two career naval officers looked at each other. The silence stretched out.

  "So, what we have to do is turn Kat into a damn good SEAL in a month," DeWitt said.

  "About the size of it." Murdock kept staring at DeWitt.

  "You wouldn't."

  "I would. Lieutenant, your new task for the Third Platoon is to be personal training officer for Kat Garnet. You will be with her twelve to fourteen hours a day. You will train her until her little buns fall off. You will make her an expert shot with pistol, and the MP-5 sub-gun."

  "How in hell-"

  "You will do it. Start with the most important first--shooting. Work her with the five and a pistol, probably a nine-millimeter with fourteen rounds. Work out a training sched to show me in the morning. Hot rounds first. Might take two weeks. Then we'll work her into the first squad as our ninth man and try to get her integrated into the platoon conscience. She has to know what we do and how we do it, so she'll know instinctively what to do and when to do it."

  "It's a three-month job, Murdock."

  "True. So we'll be lucky to get four weeks out of the brass back on the fucking Middle Eastern desk and from State."

  "Oh, damn."

  Murdock grinned. "Hey, what's Mildred going to say you ass-to-elbows all day and half the night with a pretty, sexy woman like Kat?"

  "Oh, damn. I won't tell her. No, I have to. No secrets. Damn, already I'm going to be sleeping on the couch."

  "Milly might surprise you."

  "Yeah, you're right. I'll be sleeping in the garage and eating on the patio. We don't have a dog house."

  DeWitt yelped and looked at a small notebook he took out of his pocket. "Oh, damn. Murdock, I need a favor. Tonight you were due at our place for a fried chicken dinner. Call Milly and cancel out. I've got at least five hours of work to get a training sched to map out for my CO tomorrow."

  "Done."

  "Don't say anything about Kat. I'll have to break that news to Milly a little at a time."

  "But don't tell her why Kat has to go with us."

  "Naturally," DeWitt said. But both he and Murdock knew that he'd have to tell Milly. There was no way around that kind of a challenge.

  Ed arrived at his Coronado apartment off base at 1815. Milly was pacing the kitchen. She scowled at him, and her fists went onto her hips. Ed wished he was a religious man so he could say a prayer.

  "I know, I know, he had to cancel out. That leaves more chicken for me." He swept forward and kissed her, then kissed her again until her akimbo arms dropped and she grinned. "Hey, maybe this isn't such a bad deal, after all."

  Milly looked at his sandy, dirty cammies. "Shower," she said and pointed.

  A half hour later, they were eating the fine meal, when Ed began.

  "We had a double whammy, Navy style, today. We got a new assignment, almost, but Murdock told them we needed another month for training."

  "Will you get the extra time?"

  "I hope so. Think we will. Murdock can be damn convincing when he's talking about the platoon."

  "What was the other whammy?"

  "Oh, that. We have a new person to work into the platoon for this assignment, a damned civilian."

  Milly stopped the fork halfway to her mouth. "You're joking. The SEALs have never taken along a civilian on a shooting mission. What is Washington thinking of?"

  "Whatever it is, they don't tell me. Now, how did your day go?"

  Milly looked at him and smiled. "Hey, did I tell you that I'm just delighted that you're back from your little three-day camping trip. I missed you. I don't want you ever to go away again."

  They both laughed. It was a standing joke. She knew he had to go away, and he did, too. But in more than a year now, the two of them had weathered the separations. Twice he'd asked her to marry him. Twice she had said no.

  "Ed, this is a dangerous game that you're playing," she'd said the last time. "I know it. You know it. I've read all the books about the SEALS. I know now that you do some covert work that nobody can be told about. I can accept that for now, this way. But I just can't marry you, and start a family, knowing that you might come home the next time in a damn body bag." Tears had welled up in her eyes and spilled over. She slashed them away with her hand.

  For now they both accepted that, and made the best of what they had. Long, quiet walks along the crashing Pacific Ocean. Dinners out at curious and different eateries around the San Diego area. Bicycling up and down the streets of Coronado and then playing racketball. Going to plays and concerts. Walking through the zoo and Balboa Park. For now it was enough. Ed wasn't sure how much longer it would be. She had never asked him to quit the SEALS, but he was sure that was what she was hoping for.

  He helped her with the dishes, and cleanup, then they sat on the sofa, their thighs touching.

  "So, tall Navy officer, what's on the agenda for tonight?" Before he answered, she leaned over and kissed him, and eased him down on the sofa, so she lay on top of him.

  The kiss lasted a long time. When she came up for air, he chuckled. "Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?"

  She hit him on the shoulder. "That's from an old, old movie. And yes, I am. After three good sessions, what do you have to do?"

  "About three hours of planning out a training schedule for this civilian so nobody in the platoon gets killed. First weapons, then conditioning, parachute jumping, underwater--the works. Never know what we'll need to do once we get in the field."

  "But you're not going to tell me why it's so important that this civilian go along with you on the mission."

  "Absolutely not. Top secret. Anyway, I don't want to tell you anything to upset you while you're looking and sounding this sexy."

  "Like the way you think, sailor. So, roll me over in the clover, big guy. As the English song used to go. Do they still sing that anymore?"

  He didn't know. He didn't care. He had more important things to do right then. Milly agreed with him, passionately.

  6

  Saturday, October 22

  0700 hours SEAL training base Coronado, California

  Kat Garnet had been up since 5 A.M. She frowned. No, that would be 0500 Navy time. She had to immerse herself totally, unrelentingly, in Navy now, specifically Navy SEALS. She could do that. She had a fast breakfast, then tried on her clothes. They almost fit, probably the smallest that the Navy issued. Not exactly from some fancy downtown store. She grinned when she looked at the beige boxer shorts. So they were a long way from Jockey ladies' briefs. She pulled them on. They nearly fit.

  She rolled up the cammies legs two narrow turns, then put on the Navy bra and the cammie shirt. It didn't nearly fit. She stuffed it in the pants and tightened the belt, then looked in the mirror and saw silver bars on her collar. She took them off and put them in her shirt pocket. The black
jungle boots came next, with the socks rolled down over the tops to keep them from snagging. Like the boxers, the boots almost fit. Somebody must have checked. She realized she'd be spending a lot of time walking and running in those boots, so they better fit right. She'd know after the first day.

  She put on the cammie-splotched floppy hat and took another look. It would have to do. She picked up the plastic-enclosed pass she had been given, and an ID card, also sealed, and put both in the big front-flap shirt pocket.

  Kat paced the floor of her small quarters a minute, saw that her waterproof wide-plastic-banded watch set for military time showed that it was 0730. Time to move.

  She pushed open the door and headed for the main gate, to go across the highway to the SEAL headquarters on the other side of the road.

  When she stepped into the SEAL "quarterdeck," she found it to be only a lobby for the headquarters. She showed her ID card to a sailor behind a counter and he snapped a salute.

  "Good morning, Lieutenant. I'll have a man take you down to SEAL Team Seven, Platoon Three."

  At once a sailor in blue dungarees appeared at a locked door to her left and motioned to her.

  "This way, ma'am."

  For a moment, Kat felt almost pampered, but she knew that wouldn't last. She had to become "one of the guys" to make this mission work. She had made up her mind about one thing She was going to be so damn tough nobody would question her, and she wasn't going to get herself or anyone else killed on this mission.

  A short walk later and she was shown into a building and to an open door. She stepped inside an office.

  "Lieutenant Garnet, we were just talking about you," Murdock said from behind his desk in the eight-by-eight-foot room. He didn't get up. Two others were in the room. She knew one was the other officer in the platoon, DeWitt. The third was an enlisted man she remembered seeing. They all wore desert cammies.

  "Good morning, Lieutenant Garnet," Murdock said.

  "Good morning," she said, trying to keep her voice even, neutral.

  "One suggestion, Kat. While we're at the base and in training, we all wear our rank. For you it will mean a certain amount of on-base respect, and some protection. The regular Navy likes to know who is who. Do you have the bars?"