by Jack Terral
Battlecraft (2006)
( Seals - 3 )
Jack Terral
When the terrorist group known as al-Mimkhalif wages war on the high seas, Brannigan's Brigands prepare to take down the enemy, until they discover that one of their own is deep undercover in the al-Mimkhalif organization and holds the fate of their mission in his hands.
Battlecraft
Seals 03
Jack Terral
A Cut Above
The Four Goons Seemed To Materialize In Front Of Him Out of the gloom. Mike Assad sized them up as the local tough guys; a quartet of miserable buffoons who shared the same qualities and quantities of meanness and stupidity, and would happily kill him to strip his corpse to get a few rupees for his clothing. They pulled knives from beneath their chadors, and grinned.
They didn't waste time. The leader led his buddies into the fray. Mike sidestepped, and the guy was sent sprawling with a wicked wakite punch to the kidneys. A quick yubi punch to the second dropped him straight down in the dirt, while a vicious marui kick knocked the third over on his back. The fourth, who had been bringing up the rear, wisely jumped over his prostrate buddies and ran away down the alley into the darkness.
Mike stopped long enough to take a calming breath and then picked up the three knives. He chose the best to keep, and tossed the rest onto the top of the nearby mud huts.
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TABLE OF ORGANIZATION
BRANNIGAN'S BRIGANDS
COMMAND ELEMENT
Lieutenant William "Wild Bill" Brannigan
(Commanding Officer)
P02C Francisco "Frank" Gomez (Rifleman/Commo Chief)
P03C James "Doc" Bradley (Rifleman/Hospital Corpsman)
.
FIRST ASSAULT SECTION
Lieutenant (JG) James Cruiser (Section Commander)
P02C Bruno Puglisi (SAW Gunner)
.
ALPHA FIRE TEAM
CPO Matthew "Matt" Gunnarson (Fire Team Leader)
P02C Garth Redhawk (Rifleman)
P03C Chadwick "Chad" Murchison (Rifleman)
.
BRAVO FIRE TEAM
POIC Michael "Connie" Concord (Fire Team Leader)
P02C David "Dave" Leibowitz (Rifleman)
P03C Arnold "Arnie" Bernardi (Rifleman) .
2ND ASSAULT SECTION
SCPO Buford Dawkins (Section Commander)
P02C Josef "Joe" Miskoski (SAW Gunner)
.
CHARLIE FIRE TEAM
POIC Michael "Milly" Mills (Fire Team Leader)
P02C Reynauld "Pech" Pecheur (Rifleman)
P02C Peter "Pete" Dawson (Rifleman)
.
DELTA FIRE TEAM
POIC Guttorm "Gutsy" Olson (Fire Team Leader)
P02C Andrei "Andy" Malachenko (Rifleman)
P03C Guy Devereaux (Rifleman)
.
ATTACHED
Lieutenant (JG) Veronica Rivers (Navigation/Weapons Systems Officer)
POIC Paul Watkins (Helmsman)
P02C Bobby Lee Atwill (Turbine System Technician)
.
Excerpt from Sun Tzu's The Art of War as paraphrased by Petty Officer 2nd Class Bruno Puglisi of Brannigan's Brigands:
.
It don't matter so much if you outnumber the enemy as long as the son of a bitches got no idea how many guys you really got. In a case like that, it's the way you deploy your troops that'll determine whose ass gets kicked.
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Reprint of an article that appeared in a recent edition of Advanced Technological and Scientific Design Magazine.
.
THE WATERFLYER
By Eduard Andiwaczeski
Two Florida brothers have produced a prototype of an ACV that could revolutionize commercial traffic on United States rivers.
The Waterflyer is an ACV (Air-Cushion Vehicle) but is not designed to carry passengers as are other similar craft. Instead, its unique function is to serve as a pusher-vessel in barge operations moving cargo via river transportation systems. The craft was created and built by brothers John and Harry DuBose at their workshop facilities along the Indian River in Brevard County, Florida. This river is part of the Intracoastal Waterway, which allows boat travel from Key West, Florida, all the way north to Boston on the Atlantic coast. On the Gulf of Mexico, the waterway connects Apalachee Bay, Florida, with Brownsville, Texas. The DuBose brothers--John, the older, is forty-two and Harry is thirty-eight--got the idea for their ACV from watching barge traffic passing by their Pine Island home.
"The barges were slow and ponderous," John explained. "Harry and I figured the transport of their loads would turn a better profit if the deliveries were faster. The biggest challenge of the concept was to have pusher-vessels that would be powerful drivers, yet could maintain high speeds at the same time."
'Technical projects are a hobby of ours," Harry added. "We've been coming up with ideas and inventions since we were kids. At first we thought that a propulsion system that combined both underwater and air propellers might do the trick."
"But when we considered the drag on the pusher-vessel going through the water, we knew that wasn't a practical approach," John said. "So we had to try a completely different methodology."
Although neither brother has had any scientific or technical schooling, their innate ability to solve physical and abstract problems has amazed even the quintessential rocket scientists at nearby Cape Canaveral. The brothers admit they have consulted with several of their aerospace friends on questions involving certain disciplines and scientific difficulties that stymied their progress now and then. One NASA engineer who wished to remain anonymous described them as 21st-century Wright Brothers who have the ability to absorb technical knowledge, then turn it into reality. It also helps that their private funding is practically unlimited. John and Harry are heirs to the long-established DuBose Citrus Farms in Orange County, Florida.
"We eventually turned to an air-cushion-vehicle concept," John explained. "That eliminated the drag problem, but there wasn't much of a possibility for it to be a powerful pusher."
"Right," Harry interjected in their characteristic way of speaking in turn. "The problem was the power plant. We had to have something really strong to move that hummer along while shoving tons of weight ahead of it."
"We got on the internet and started making inquiries until we found out about this outfit in Argentina," John said. 'They had developed a real ass-kicking engine for moving sled-type equipment vehicles down in Antarctica. We flew down and took a look at it."
"The problem was that it was too small," Harry added. "So we sat down with their chief design engineer and came up with some solid ideas. The company boss was so impressed that he retooled one section of his factory to accommodate the concept."
This company, Poder-Ventaja, S. A. of Cabo Blanco, offered a part ownership in the resultant product, but the brothers settled for a free engine with the options of claiming two more in the future. Four months after their return to Florida, their power plant arrived from Argentina and was installed aboard the newly christened Waterflyer.
"Things worked out better than expected," John stated happily. "My brother and I have ended up with an excellent product. We made a couple of short runs for a local barge outfit with great results."
"We just have to find somebody who'll buy it," Harry pointed out. "So far, none of the barge companies we've contacted are interested. They don't seem to be overly concerned about speeding up their operations."
"They simply don't have a 'hurry-up' frame of mind," John said.
The vessel is forty feet long, twenty feet wide, and propelled by a pair of eight-foot, six-bladed variable-pitch airscrews mounted on the stern. These and oversize rudders provide a
fantastic turning radius that whips the ACV around on the proverbial dime. The lift comes from a ten-foot, twelve-bladed fan located on the bottom of the craft. The engine is a 1,000-horsepower Poder-Ventaja Marine Gas Turbine from Argentina. It has moved the vessel at a speed of ninety miles per hour over open ocean without a load. The brothers estimate that they could push forty tons of barges along at half that speed. Needless to say, it is not fuel-efficient!
The cabin offers excellent all-around vision and has such amenities as a head, a triple-tiered bunk, and a small but functional galley that contains a microwave oven and small refrigerator. The engine room is located in the aft portion of the cabin. Two semi-rigid dinghies are mounted on the sides of the hull for extracurricular maritime activities.
As of this writing, the prototype sits at the DuBose workshop dock, except for the times when the brothers take it out for tune-up runs between Titusville and Melbourne. It is an excellent vessel waiting for the right outfit to come along and take advantage of its features.
Chapter 1.
NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE
CORONADO, CALIFORNIA
5 SEPTEMBER
PETTY Officer Second Class Mike Assad had disappeared.
The Arab-American member of Brannigan's Brigands wasn't AWOL, assigned on a TDY detail, on furlough, or transferred to a different outfit. He had simply vanished. Even though this extraordinary situation caused reactions from mere curiosity to outright anxiety, the United States Navy didn't seem particularly worried about this absence from his duty station. And this perplexed his SEAL buddies to distraction.
Mike's non-presence was discussed in much detail one evening at the Fouled Anchor Tavern in Coronado. This was the favorite bar of Brannigan's Brigands, and was owned by a retired SEAL by the name of Salty Donovan and his wife Dixie.
Salty had joined the Brigands at their table to partake in the near-ceremonial downing of pitchers of beer as well as discuss the discombobulating circumstances regarding Mike Assad.
"He wouldn't quit the SEALs, would he?" Salty asked. "I don't mean to suggest he turned chicken or candy-ass, but maybe he's figured he wants a change in his Navy career."
Dave Leibowitz, Mike's best buddy, violently shook his head at the suggestion. "Mike would rather die than not be a SEAL."
"Oh, shit!" Bruno Puglisi suddenly exclaimed. "You don't suppose--?" He stopped speaking as if what he was about to say was so horrible it shouldn't be spoken aloud.
"Go on with the theorem you were going to asseverate," Chad Murchison, ex-preppy and best-educated Brigand, urged.
Puglisi frowned in puzzlement. "I never understand a fucking word you say, Chad."
"I'm merely asking you to express your opinion on why Mike is no longer among us."
Puglisi hesitated, then blurted out, "Maybe he's gone to OCS."
"Oh, no!" Leibowitz said. "Mike would never want to be a fucking officer."
A murmuring of agreement followed, and Garth Redhawk, a taciturn Kiowa-Comanche from Oklahoma, sighed loudly. "It's just a deep dark mystery that may never be solved."
"I suppose we should just accept the fact he will no longer be with us," Joe Miskoski said.
"Oh, God!" Dave Leibowitz moaned.
.
THIS disappearance occurred after Mike had been awakened from a sound sleep during a Standards of Conduct class being given by a droning female officer from the Naval District Human Relations Department. A shadowy figure in officer's attire had come quietly into the classroom and shaken Mike by the shoulder. The SEAL woke up instantly and was quietly ordered to follow the man outside. When the rest of the detachment returned to their quarters at the end of the duty day, they found Mike's rack stripped and his locker sealed up. The situation smacked of criminal activity, and everyone in the detachment tried to think of some felonious deed that Mike might have committed. But since his best buddy, Dave Leibowitz, was still present and accounted for, it didn't seem any wrongdoing was involved. After all, the two were inseparable.
Even the ever-knowing Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins was at a complete loss as to the wandering lad's fate. His appeals to numerous contacts and friends had been futile.
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6 SEPTEMBER
LIEUTENANT Wild Bill Brannigan, the skipper of the special SEAL detachment known unofficially as Brannigan's Brigands, had been summoned to the office of Commander Thomas Carey, the N3 of the base. Brannigan's mandatory invitation included instructions to bring along his 2IC, Lieutenant (JG) Jim Cruiser, and Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins. The trio, still having misgivings about the mysterious circumstances surrounding Mike Assad, was not in a good mood when they reported in. The orders passed on to them by Carey did very little to improve their grumpy dispositions.
The commander glanced across his desk at them, grinning happily at their discomfiture. "How are you gentlemen today?" He slid three paper-clipped documents over to them. 'These are xeroxes of a short article that recently appeared in Advanced Technological and Scientific Design Magazine. Are you familiar with the publication?"
"Never heard of it," Brannigan said.
"I'm not surprised," Carey said. "It deals with unusual and far-out scientific and technical matters. At any rate, I'd like you all to read it. Don't worry. It's not long."
The three SEALs quickly scanned the article concerning an ACV called the Waterflyer. When they finished, they looked up at the commander without further comment, waiting for him to get into the purpose behind the session.
"A special assignment has come down for you gentlemen," Carey said. "It involves this particular hovercraft or air-cushion vehicle or whatever it is. You'll be doing a bit of travel."
"Our assignments always involve a bit of travel," Brannigan grumbled. "Where're we going this time?" Since the detachment's activation, they had been to Afghanistan and South America where P. P. P. P. had all but gotten them wiped out on each mission.
"You'll be visiting the Sunshine State, i. E., Florida," Carey replied. 'The Navy wants you to check out the potential of that newly designed ACV for SPECOPS."
"Us?" Jim Cruiser remarked. "We're not technocrats."
'The Navy realizes that," Carey said. "In fact, I don't think you guys would be qualified to pass judgment on potential wheelbarrows for the Seabees. There'll be a qualified engineer joining you later. All you have to do is see if you can fight with the damn thing. Take a ride on it with the inventors. That would be"--he glanced at the article--"John and Harry DuBose. As you just read, they built a prototype for the purpose of having it push barge traffic up and down the Intracoastal Waterway, but couldn't sell the idea. They contacted the government and the ball started rolling until it came to a stop right here in front of my desk."
"At least it'll be change of scenery for a while," Brannigan said. "When do we leave?"
Carey reached in a desk drawer and pulled out three packets. "Here're your plane tickets. You'll travel in civvies on a commercial flight out of San Diego International to Orlando International. You can rent a car there and drive over to Merritt Island. Enjoy."
"Thank you, sir," Brannigan said, taking the papers. "I take it we'll have to make a written report."
Carey shook his head. "Let the engineer type take care of that, Lieutenant. You'll be grilled back here in Coronado in a combination discussion and critique on how all this will fit into your lives as SEALs."
Brannigan gave Cruiser and the senior chief their tickets, then looked back at Carey. "By the way--"
"I don't know a damn thing about Mike Assad," Carey interrupted. "It has nothing to do with this headquarters."
Senior Chief Dawkins screwed his face into what he considered a polite smile. "Maybe you could ask around for us, sir."
"There are certain situations in which inquiries are not made," Carey said. "Mike Assad is one of those. Sorry. See you when you get back from Florida."
The three Brigands left the office.
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KUPANG, TIMOR ISLAND
7 SEPTEMBER
1030 LOCAL HOURS
THE Greater Sunda Shipping Line that operated out of Timor Island had been grandly conceived and named by its Indonesian owner, Abduruddin Suhanto. When he started the business with an inheritance from his grandfather, he entertained himself with fantasies of becoming a rival to the famous shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis. And, like the Greek tycoon, he would have hundreds of romances with beautiful women, then marry a stunning and famous American lady of high class. Maybe even a film star.
Unfortunately, his dreams deteriorated rather quickly and he never developed the contacts needed for lucrative shipping transactions. Politicking and socializing were not Suhanto's fortes. He ultimately ended up with a list of shady clients who operated in the darkest shadows of legal commerce. These customers did not pay well, if at all, and his fleet ended up as a quartet of fifth-and sixth-hand cargo vessels with documentation that had been changed, counterfeited, and transferred so many times that it was impossible to trace the rust-streaked tubs' original ownerships.
After a bit more than twenty-five years, Suhanto was now in as bad a physical condition as his ships. He was a fifty-year-old bloated wretch with a multitude of illnesses that had been brought on by shocking excesses of rich foods, alcohol, and sex. His feet were so swollen that he could wear nothing but flip-flops, and he walked with a heavy shuffle. His round face, which should have shown a healthy swarthy complexion, was faded and patched with a network of capillaries that ran through his cheeks and nose.
Suhanto's home life was as miserable as his business. The woman he'd drawn in an arranged marriage by his parents had been overweight, whining, and homely. This was a far cry from the comely svelte women he'd dreamed of in his youth.
Over the years of misery, the wife grew even worse. He had taken a second bride of sorts by purchasing a twelve-year-old girl in Thailand fifteen years ago. She was now moving into middle age and had adopted the first wife's love of chocolate candy and indolence. The two fat women now conspired together to make their husband's existence a living hell. Suhanto had lost all interest in having sex at home. He sought release for his infrequent passions between the legs of his favorite sexual partners: adolescent girls available in the city's brothels.