Rolling Thunder (2007)

by Jack - Seals 04 Terral

  Archie happily learned that Middle Eastern nations had an established, legal system of discrimination against human females. They were subordinated to men in every aspect of life. After all, they were not only created from the rib of a man, but from the weakest part, the curved tip. That was written in the Qu'ran.

  The laws of Islam demanded that they wear khimar head coverings along with burqas that concealed their entire body. Women could never leave their homes unless in the company of a male relative. They had weak morals and needed constant surveillance, or they would become promiscuous with any man they found attractive. Leave it to them, Archie was told by his mullah instructor, and women would give birth to innumerable bastard babies from all their casual love affairs.

  Archie also liked the laws of marriage. A Muslim man was allowed to have up to four wives as long as he treated them all equally and could afford to support such a family, which would produce many children. Fantasies of having four humble, compliant women to tend to his every want and desire danced through his head. It would be justified revenge against all the snobby girls he'd had to endure in his schooldays. When the entire world was converted to Islam, they were going to get their comeuppance but good!

  With that thought in mind, Archie took the final step one memorable day six months after his desertion from the British Army. He announced to his pleased instructors that he wished to convert to the Islamic faith. And he expressed this desire in fluent Arabic.

  Archibald Sikes took the name Arsalaan, which meant Lion, King of the Jungle. However, in spite of his mentor's insistence, he refused to take an Arabic last name. The day's coming, he said, when the name 'Sikes' is gonna ring across England! As part of his evolution into a Muslim, Archie even submitted to circumcision, though this was done as an outpatient under anesthesia in a doctor's office.

  A few weeks later, he was told he would be taken to a special military training camp in Iran. It was there he was to be formerly inducted into the Jihad Abadi the Eternal Holy War.

  .

  SHELOR FIELD

  1400 HOURS

  WITH nothing much to do, SCPO Buford Dawkins distributed the men among their vehicles and had them get out the manuals. The idea was to get them to perform some maintenance and go through immediate action drills in case of breakdowns. Everyone, including Lieutenant Bill Brannigan and his 2IC Lieutenant Junior Grade Jim Cruiser, joined in the activity. With the hoods up on the patrol vehicles, all the Brigands were either leaning over the motors or beneath the chassis checking out the various mechanical, hydraulic, and electrical functions while referring to the workbooks. Fortunately, the batteries were installed, but the men had to be careful about running them down. Brannigan had Frank Gomez radio in a requisition for a couple of chargers, knowing it would probably be a month before they came in.

  As the activity continued among the nine individual groups, Senior Airman Randy Tooley came driving up on his Vespa to see how the SEALs were getting along. On this day, the T-shirt he wore proclaimed:

  SOCCER PLAYERS DO IT WITH BIG BALLS!

  He rode the motor scooter inside the hangar and braked to a stop. Brannigan noticed the little guy as he came in, and he put down the wrench he had been using to loosen an air filter. The lieutenant walked over with Jim Cruiser at his side, hoping for some good news. The Skipper asked, How's it going, Randy?

  Pretty good. I checked on that gasoline you're waiting for, but it ain't in the pipeline yet.

  Bummer, Brannigan grumbled.

  But I may have a way for you to work around that, Randy remarked.

  Brannigan was interested. Yeah?

  There's an Army transportation company on the other side of the field, Randy said. They get their supplies from the quartermaster depot in Kandahar. They make regular convoy runs in their gas trucks over there and back. I bet I could talk them into giving some of their fuel to you. When your own comes in, you can pay them back. That would include motor oil and coolant too.

  Cruiser was suspicious. How are you going to manage to talk them into that, Randy?

  They owe me some favors, Randy replied. I got them some refrigerators through a contact of mine.

  Cruiser looked at Brannigan. Sounds solid to me, sir.

  Me too, Brannigan said. He gave a Randy a close look. And what would you want in return?

  Randy glanced past him to the vehicles inside. I'd be proud to have my very own personal DPV for me alone.

  Cruiser sputtered, Jesus Christ!

  It will be done, Randy, Wild Bill Brannigan proclaimed.

  Randy immediately leaped back aboard his Vespa and roared out of the hangar. Brannigan and Cruiser returned to the vehicles to resume the maintenance work.

  .

  1600 HOURS

  THE SEALs were cleaning the windshields of the DPVs and wiping down the chassis in the final phases of the PM session. The hours of crawling in and out of the little vehicles had given them all an intimate knowledge of the inner workings. Brannigan noted that the work done that day was beneficial beyond the mechanical aspects. The men had begun developing real affection for the vehicles they would be driving in Operation Rolling Thunder. They were now referring to them in feminine terms, and the names Ol' Bessie, Sweet Lil, and others like them could be heard during conversations among the crews.

  The squealing of loud tires and a rumbling engine sound interrupted the activity. The detachment looked up to see Randy Tooley on his faithful motor scooter leading an M-35 fuel tanker across the aircraft parking area. They drove straight into the hangar before coming to a halt. Randy got off his Vespa and gestured to Brannigan. Wheel them DPVs up here. They'll top you off. We got twenty-five gallons of motor oil and enough coolant so's you'll have some left over. We got some lube too, and they're lending you a couple of grease guns.

  SCPO Buford Dawkins jumped into the breech as always. Let's go! We'll load on one at a time. Devereaux! Push Command One up to the tanker.

  Jim Cruiser, chuckling, walked over to join Brannigan. That Randy is one hell of a kid, isn't he?

  Roger that, Brannigan said. That's what I mean about the real meaning of discipline. He sees a situation that needs fixing and he sets about putting things right.

  Do you think we could talk him into joining the SEALs? Cruiser asked.

  Do you think he could make it through BUD/S?

  Not a chance, Cruiser commented.

  Randy's right where God meant him to be, Brannigan said. He turned and motioned Frank Gomez to come over to him. Gomez left Command Three, where he and Doc Bradley had been working all day. What's going on, sir?

  Fire up that Shadowfire radio, Gomez, Brannigan said. Tell 'em we need another DPV ASAP.

  Aye, sir. I suppose having a spare would be a good idea.

  This one isn't for us, Brannigan said, gazing at Randy Tooley sitting on his motor scooter.

  Chapter 5

  OPERATIONAL AREA

  8 APRIL

  1100 HOURS

  EIGHT of the Brigands' DPVs moved in a slightly lopsided vee formation across the desert expanse, kicking up clouds of fine dust. This man-made irritation was dealt with by the use of goggles and head scarves wrapped around noses and mouths.

  The ninth vehicle, Commando Two with Mike Assad and Dave Leibowitz AKA the Odd Couple was out to the front a couple of kilometers ahead of the pack. As usual, the two buddies were doing recon chores as the detachment continued on a northerly course toward its destination for the day. Mike performed the driving chores, while Dave sat up in the gunner's position keeping an eye on the surrounding terrain through his binoculars. Their AN/PRC-126 radios with the LASH headsets were on frequency and warmed up for intra-detachment commo.

  Earlier, Brannigan had called a halt an hour after they left Shelor Field, and had everyone stand down for familiarization firing with the HK-416 carbines. The evening before had been spent learning field-stripping and how the weapons functioned. This class was given by Bruno Puglisi in his role as the detachment's main weapons m
an. He had attended both the light and heavy infantry weapons courses conducted under the Army's USASFC at Fort Bragg, North Carolina.

  While out on the desert that next morning, each SEAL shot up a couple of thirty-round magazines, pumping out short fire bursts and individual shots into the distance. The weapons seemed to operate well enough, but there were no suitable targets to test the accuracy. The ever-grumpy Puglisi summed up everyone's thoughts when he remarked, I'm glad this ain't a real hot mission. Them rounds could have been going anywhere. He shrugged. But at least they seem to head out in the general direction we're aiming.

  Well, Miskoski replied, if them HK-Four-Sixteens don't measure up, we'll just have to throw rocks.

  Chad Murchison laughed at the remark. How pristine, Joe! It would be much more propitious if we employed bows and arrows.

  Jesus, Chad! Miskoski groaned. Your sense of humor is as fucked up as the way you talk.

  After the small arms were taken care of, attention was turned to the big M-2 .50-calibers on the vehicles. Everyone enjoyed firing the powerful weapons, whooping and hollering, until SCPO Dawkins came unglued at the frivolity. He took the fun out of the game by having them practice coordinating their fire bursts to cover a hundred-meter range to their direct front as they swung the muzzles back and forth across the width of their overlapping fields of fire. This went on for a half hour until Brannigan decided it was time to resume the patrol. The detachment quickly secured from firing, restacking the ammo boxes onto the vehicles.

  .

  USS COMBS

  SPECOPS CENTER

  NOON

  LIEUTENANT Commander Ernest Berringer stepped from the passageway into the crowded compartment of working people, desks, and computers. He made his way back to the corner, where a small space had been allotted him and Commander Carey. Carey was at their one desk preparing a map of the SEALs' OA to mount on the bulkhead. He raised his eyes as Berringer walked up. I hope you picked up some positive info down in commo.

  Berringer, who had four typed message sheets in his hands, dropped the first one down on the desk. Carey picked the missive up and read it. What the hell is this all about? Why in hell would Brannigan request an additional DPV from Station Bravo? He laughed. Well, he sure isn't going to get it.

  Berringer dropped the second sheet down. As stated here, sir, his audacious request was approved.

  Good God Almighty! Carey exclaimed.

  Now Berringer produced the third sheet. And it's already on its way to Shelor Field via the next scheduled C-One-Thirty.

  Brannigan never ceases to amaze me. Well! All I can say is that there must not be much of a demand on the inventory. In fact, there must not be any demand at all if they shipped one out so quickly.

  And here's the last and the wordiest. Now get ready for this, Berringer warned him, handing over the fourth message.

  Carey, his curiosity boiling, began reading the words. He spoke as much to himself as to Berringer as he made a running commentary. He's launched active patrolling...left Shelor this morning at oh-five-hundred...vehicles topped off with fuel and carrying two additional five-gallon jerry cans as contingencies...fuel did not come through normal supply channels... special arrangements At this point Carey stopped speaking.

  What sort of special arrangements could he have made, sir? Berringer asked.

  Oh, God, Carey moaned, I don't even want to know!

  .

  OPERATIONAL AREA

  1400 HOURS

  PETTY Officer Third Class Chad Murchison sat in the gunner's seat of Green Two, the wind blowing hard, making the scarf over his lower face flutter rapidly. The DPV bounced across the desert at a bit less than fifty miles an hour, with Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson deftly handling the wheel as he carefully steered to avoid rough patches of terrain.

  Chad would have preferred the empty passenger seat on the right side of the vehicle, but he sat at the M-2 .50-caliber machine gun as per Lieutenant Bill Brannigan's SOP. The Skipper wanted the heavy weapons locked, loaded, and manned during transit at all times.

  Without exception. Always. Unremittingly. Constantly. Wild Bill had thus spoken, and he was therefore obeyed.

  At that particular moment in time, the young SEAL was going through mixed emotions. Their final destination for that day was the UNREO camp. His girlfriend Penny Brubaker was there in her role as an instructor in basic hygiene and sanitation. He hadn't seen her for over a year, and he was not looking forward to this meeting. The thing that was so perplexing for Chad was that he didn't fully understand this hesitancy on his part.

  FOR almost his entire life, Chad Murchison had adored Penny Brubaker, who was a year younger than he. Both their families were members of the higher echelons of the Boston financial and banking community, and they had shared the experience of being raised in stunning wealth and privilege among friends and classmates who were their social peers. All the kids went to the best private elementary schools the city offered, then to the prestigious Marchland Preparatory School in New Hampshire. Chad and Jenny began going steady at Marchland and everyone including the young couple assumed they would eventually be engaged, then married, and begin procreating to carry on the dynasties of their powerful families. But during her senior year, after Chad had graduated and gone off to Yale, Penny unexpectedly dumped him for a jock. This betrayal caused Chad's world to come apart at the seams.

  His grief at losing Penny was so great and pressing, it was nearly unreal. He lay in his dormitory room at Yale unable to get up to go to class, eat, or sleep. Dehydration and exhaustion set in during his mental and physical deterioration until he was looking so bad that the dormitory superintendent was notified by Chad's frantic friends. An ambulance was called immediately and the boy was taken to the nearest ER. Youthful resilience was on his side, and the medical crew determined he could be brought back to physical normalcy if he were immediately admitted to the hospital to get fluids dripped into him. The treatment would include regular doses of Valium to mellow him out.

  A week later, he was back in his home in Boston. The family physician recommended that he stay out of school for the rest of the year. If he regained his ability to deal with the real world by the following September, he could reenter Yale and resume his studies. From that point on, Chadwick Murchi-son's existence consisted of sitting around and moping while barely eating. His days were spent at his bedroom window, sprawled in a recliner and staring out over the broad expanse of the back lawn that flowed down to Lake Saint Michael.

  This lethargic style of a miserable existence went on for a bit more than a month before a spark suddenly ignited deep in his psyche. It wasn't a flash of intellect or realization; it was a burst of bald, naked anger. Chad may have been a little skinny guy with two left feet, but one thing he had inside was an instinctive courage and fighting spirit. It took this emotional disaster to fuel that inner self that had been smothered by the good life. It was nine o'clock in the morning when he impetuously got out of the chair and marched down to the kitchen, where the staff was going about their usual routine. Chad announced he wanted three eggs over easy, a half-dozen sausage links, a big pile of fried potatoes, and no less than four croissants with butter and jam.

  After stuffing himself, he went back to his room and shucked the pajamas and bathrobe. He put on his jogging duds, went downstairs, out the front door, and began a run through the plush neighborhood. He had to stop once to throw up the enormous breakfast in his stuffed belly; then he continued the circuit.

  And thus began a hard-ass, self-imposed program of roadwork, lifting weights, swimming laps in the family's Olympic-size indoor pool, and punching a heavy bag. The latter workout was particularly vigorous since he imagined the inoffensive target of his fists as Cliff Armbrewster, the jock who had taken Penny Brubaker away from him.

  Then the decision that was to really change his life was made while watching television. The Arts and Entertainment Channel showed an hour-long program on the U.S. Navy SEALs. The next day, Chad
presented himself at the recruiting office in Cambridge and signed on for a four-year hitch, volunteering for the SEALs. The petty officer recruiter took one look at the skinny kid and figured he would never make it through much more than about five minutes of Hell Week. But the sailor had a quota to meet, so he signed the young volunteer up.

  Chad went to Boot Camp at the Naval Training Center in Great Lakes, Illinois. He came out of those weeks about five pounds heavier, but still skinny. From there, he went to Class A School, where he was given specialized training to qualify him for a disbursement clerk's rating to work in the Navy's financial department. When that was finished, the eager young sailor put in for the SEALs. In order to make it to BUD/S, he had to pass a physical fitness test. In spite of Boot Camp, he barely squeaked by. The pull-ups were particularly tough, and his little arms fairly trembled with the effort before he got out the required number. The run, on the other hand, was a piece of cake. He fairly flew around the course, completing the mandatory distance with time to spare.