SEAL Team 666: A Novel

by Weston Ochse

  Later they ordered Chinese food, only afterward laughing at the irony of it. A few beers in their guts, then each of them made their way to bed.

  The next morning, Walker forced himself out of bed at five. After a quick run on the beach and a breakfast of yogurt, juice, and a hard-boiled egg, Walker joined the others in the conference room. He’d tried to arrange a meeting with Jen last night, but she’d been busy. When he entered the conference room, she was taping several pictures to a board. She wore a knee-length dark blue skirt with a white blouse. He couldn’t help but smile as he watched her work. Then he noticed Holmes staring at him with the same stern expression he gave to beegees or a Girl Scout selling cookies.

  Walker went to his seat and sat. Everyone was there except Ruiz, who came in last, carrying a breakfast burrito the size of a Yule log.

  When Jen finally turned, she gave Walker a quick wink that was lost to no one. He tried to use his tunnel vision, but he couldn’t help but see Yaya, Ruiz, and Laws all winking dramatically at him. What almost shocked him senseless was when Holmes did the same. As subtle as it was, it was more extravagant because the man seemed to never joke around. Ever.

  “Let’s get started,” Jen said.

  Other than Jen and the members of SEAL Team 666 there were two other members of SPG—a young man who looked like he knew every episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation and a young woman who could have been either a candy striper or a porn star. Billings sat in back.

  “I’ve brought along Peter Musso and Liz Lake. Peter’s a specialist on the culture and geography of Southeast Asia, where you all will be going. Liz is new to our office. I brought her along to show her how these things are run.”

  “If y’all need a private tour, I’m sure that I can provide one,” Ruiz said, true love in his eyes as he addressed the new girl.

  “Chum in the water,” muttered Laws.

  The girl blushed and turned away. But the young man seemed more than pleased and grinned from ear to ear, as if he was hoping that he could get the same invitation extended to him.

  “Let’s get on with it,” Holmes said, as if he were being forced to sit amid a room of fourteen-year-olds.

  “Okay,” Jen said. “First let’s discuss the telemetry information we got from the hard drive you brought from Macau. There were two significant findings. One was the GPS history of the ship. It originated in Rangoon and is owned by an export company with nineteen other ships. Now that we have their international identification codes, we can track them once they pass near any of our subsurface tracking buoys. Until then, we believe they’re still in their home-station harbor.”

  “Why don’t we know this for certain?” Holmes asked. “Where’s their harbor?”

  Jen turned to the SEAL team leader. “Yangon. You would have known it as Rangoon, Burma. The country is now called Myanmar. As far as why we aren’t sure? That directly relates to a lack of assets in the area. We can’t do a physical eyes-on, so we’ve requested an NRO overflight, but right now all satellites are operationally deployed to support CENTCOM in Afghanistan-Pakistan. We’re expecting a pass tomorrow morning. At that point we’ll know for certain.”

  Walker thought about the creature they’d encountered in the hold of the old cargo ship. They’d lost Fratty and if it hadn’t been for them rocking and rolling the ammo until they were all but dry, it would have had them, too. Put that beast inside of a mall or on a busy downtown street and it would end in a bloodbath. The enforcer in San Francisco had alluded to a threat to America. If the threat had to do with the chimeras aboard twenty ships sailing to America, then people would be dead in the streets from Los Angeles to New York.

  As if reading his mind, Jen continued. “If each one of the ships has the same sort of crates as the first one, and we truly are the target, then our red, white, and blue is in trouble. The CDC assisted us in projection modeling, and if each of these ships has fifty creatures, and if each one lands in a different port, there’s a seventy-six-percent chance that it could be the end of life as we know it within the continental United States. Based on your observations, we think we know how they transform from stone to flesh, but there’s too much missing data. Some of the variables are that we don’t know how they’re controlled, we don’t know how much they can eat, and we don’t understand how they can metabolize their energy.”

  “Frankly, we don’t need to find this out,” Billings said from her place at the back of the room. “We’d prefer that the ships on this manifest be destroyed in place. Wherever they are. Regardless.”

  “That’s clear,” Holmes said. “We’ll wait for reconnaissance, then launch.”

  “Can I get a printout of all the documents?” Laws asked. “I’d like to check and see if there are any clues you missed.”

  Musso’s eyes narrowed. He frowned as he said, “It’s in Chinese.”

  Laws just looked at him. “That’s okay. I know Chinese.”

  “Which dialects?”

  “All of them … basically. But that doesn’t matter with the characters, now, does it?”

  “We’ll get them to you right after the meeting,” Jen said, shaking her head subtly at her assistant.

  Musso stood and made his way to the front. He gave Laws a wary eye. “All of them?” he asked again.

  “Yep,” Laws responded. “I also speak Spanish, Italian, French, and half a dozen other languages.”

  This gave Musso pause. Finally he turned to a map that had been taped to the wall. “Myanmar. It used to be Burma, but that was a colonial derivation of colloquialization of Bamer, which is the written word for the country. Rangoon is now called Yangon. Basically, all the names have changed.”

  “What’s their military like?” Holmes asked.

  “They’ve been embargoed since 1990, but still get support from rogue nation-states such as North Korea and Syria. Previously, they received support from Equatorial Guinea and Libya, but with the advent of the Arab Spring, we believe that these relationships will be changing, if they haven’t already.”

  Walker found himself staring at Jen, who’d taken a position beside Musso. She was leaning against the wall. With three-inch heels, her legs seemed to go on for days. This evening they had plans. Dinner in the Gaslamp Quarter and maybe dancing at one of the clubs catering to upscale tourists. He could almost feel her in his hands.

  He felt someone kick him under the table.

  He returned his attention to the briefing. Musso was saying something about someone named Karen, or something like that. He listened dutifully for a moment, then noticed the way Jen had her hair pulled back and how a few stubborn strands fell across her eyes.

  35

  FORT ROSECRANS NATIONAL CEMETERY.

  Zagat-rated translated to freaking expensive. They ate at Monsoon Indian Restaurant in the Gaslamp Quarter of San Diego. Lemon chicken, roghan josh, and fish were piled high on their table. After a bottle of wine, the curries and gingers and Far East spices mingled admirably in their palate. Walker was thankful he didn’t ordinarily have enough time to spend his money. The cost of that meal was nearly a week’s pay, but the satisfaction of being fed and pampered reflected in Jen’s eyes made it all worth it.

  When they were done, they walked around the Gaslamp Quarter for a while. She wore an orange silk summer dress. He wore tan slacks with a purple Polo. As nice as the cobbled streets and retro-old feel were in the Gaslamp, it soon wore on him. It was like any other shopping district in the world, just polished to a gleaming faux-Victorian shine.

  Soon they were in Jen’s Corvette, cruising over to Point Loma and Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery. “This is what it’s all about. This is why we’re here. These people here,” he said, pointing to the geometrically straight rows of white stones, “are the reason I go out and fight.”

  “So it’s the dead who inspire you to help the living?”

  “Maybe.” They were walking hand in hand between the rows. A gentle offshore breeze spun the bottom of her dress and made her hug
close to him. “Or maybe it’s my deep regard for their service and for their sacrifice. Most of those people on the street don’t know what sacrifice is. Going without television? One less trip to the gym? One less Happy Meal for their kid? Every one of these men and women put their life on the line at one time or another. Many of them sacrificed that life so we could go into a nice restaurant and eat mahi mahi with ginger and coconut.”

  “It was good mahi mahi with ginger and coconut. Thank you, sailor, for making the sacrifice for me,” she purred into his ear.

  He couldn’t help smiling. He knew she understood him. This was just how she acted when she was feeling satisfied. So why wasn’t he acting the same way? It was because his satisfaction manifested in the need to serve. He was convinced it was part of his DNA.

  “Do you always take your dates to cemeteries?” she asked after a while.

  “Only those who matter.”

  “Oh!” She stopped and placed both hands on hips. “And why am I just now mattering?”

  “You’ve mattered to me for some time now. With SEAL training and my new command, I’ve been—” He stopped as he saw her shoulders shaking in silent laughter. “You’re messing with me.”

  “I only mess with boys who matter.”

  They walked for a time, then stopped at a granite memorial to the USS Wasp.

  “This was an aircraft carrier in World War Two. It was sunk by Japanese torpedoes supporting Guadalcanal on March 19, 1945.” His finger traced the list of Killed in Action, then stopped. “This was my grandfather. He was an electrician’s mate, second class. He and a hundred and ninety-three men went down that day.”

  “You never knew him,” she said, reaching out to touch his hand.

  “But I grew up with stories about him.”

  “Your father was in the Navy, too, wasn’t he?”

  “It’s sort of a family tradition. My brother was in as well.”

  “Are they buried here?” she asked softly.

  “My brother is buried in Manila, in Manila American Cemetery. He got special dispensation because my grandfather is buried there, too.”

  “This grandfather?” she pointed to the name on the plaque.

  “The same.”

  “Why not by your father?”

  “Because no one except the men who killed him knows where he is.”

  She remained silent for a moment, then asked in an almost imperceptible voice, “Then how do you know he’s dead?”

  “I don’t, I guess. But they sent his hands to Fleet Headquarters along with a box of black butterflies.” Jen’s eyes shot wide and her jaw dropped. Jack continued. “The package was traced through military mail channels to Corregidor. My father was a supply chief. He made a lot of money dealing with the Filipino black market. Navy HQ believes that he finally crossed the wrong person.”

  It took a moment for her to speak. “That’s when you and your brother were sent to the orphanage.”

  “Only me. My brother joined the Navy. Got an old friend of my grandfather’s to get him in when he was sixteen.”

  “Which left you all alone.”

  A sparkling slice of empathy for the child he’d been on that dark day he’d first been sent to the orphanage jabbed through his thoughts. He’d never been more alone in his entire life. “Come on,” he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her away as if he could flee the memory. “I want to show you something.”

  They walked amid the darkness between the stones. Their way was lit only by the intermittent lights shining on the monuments and the lights of San Diego. After a brisk ten-minute walk, they arrived at a stone that also had the symbol of the Congressional Medal of Honor.

  “This was the first SEAL I ever heard about by name.”

  Michael Anthony Monsoor. Died September 29, 2006.

  “A grenade was tossed onto a rooftop where he and others were operating. He threw himself on the grenade and saved the others. He was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. He was from Class 250.” He turned to Jen. “This is who I fight for.”

  Jen nodded. She held on to his arm with both hands and hugged herself to him.

  “My brother died a hero, too,” he said after a long pause. “Or so I always thought. Turns out he died because he wasn’t following orders … using his heart, not his head.” He turned to her. “I had it out with Holmes the other night. He told me what happened. It was an IED. One minute my brother was walking along the side of the road, the next he was trying to get some kids to stop playing in the street. Then the bomb went off.”

  “Were any of the kids hurt?”

  “No. He saved them.”

  “Then he was a hero.”

  “Holmes said that he ordered Brian to stay in place. He told Brian not to go to the kids.”

  “So he disobeyed an order to save the kids. So what? You say you fight for the dead. Looks like your brother was fighting for the living.” She touched his chest. “You said he was using his heart and not his head like that’s a bad thing. You have a good heart, just like your brother. I hope that when the time comes, you go with your heart.”

  “Even if it kills me?”

  “Could you live with the alternative?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I couldn’t.”

  “Sounds like you knew it all along.”

  “It’s funny. I think I took my brother’s death harder than my father’s. In some ways, he was more of a father to me than our father was. He used to send me letters every month. Then when he was able, he made sure I was adopted.”

  “How did he make sure?”

  “He found a family who was looking for an older son. They’d lost their child in a car accident.”

  “So you were their…”

  “Replacement kid. Yeah. I know. But we needed each other.”

  “Do you still talk to them?”

  “At Christmas and birthdays I call them. They’re good people.”

  She rubbed his arm. “You know, we’ve been dating for almost a year and this is the first time you’ve talked to me about your family.”

  “Might have been sooner if we’d had a moment to breathe.”

  She nodded, but the look on her face showed her doubt. They headed back to the car. The wind had picked up and she shivered against him. “Do you know what my favorite memorial is?”

  “No. What is it?”

  “The Homecoming statue. Not a memorial really, but it’s one that has been copied all over the U.S.”

  “I’ve seen it.” It was a statue of a sailor returning home from a long time away. He’s holding his wife in his arms and his son is hugging him from behind.

  “So you know what it represents, right?”

  “No … what?”

  “The living. Those people the sailor went out and fought for.”

  Walker couldn’t help but grin. “You really want me to change my opinion, don’t you?”

  “I do. I think it’s dangerous to fight for an ideal you can’t see. I think it’s dangerous to fight to impress the dead.”

  “That’s a little bit of an oversimplification, I think.”

  “Is it? I just want you to know that when you leave for wherever you’re going on this mission you’ll have someone to come back to besides a few old graves and a statue.”

  “Is that so?”

  Weaving through the stones, they came back to the parking lot from a different angle. Hers was the last car. She went to the passenger door. He opened it for her and let her slide in. He closed the door, and as he walked around the back of her car, he noted that something had changed in their relationship. He’d never told anyone else about his family, especially his father. Which only left one secret, and that one he wasn’t about to tell her or anyone other than the members of his team. At least they had a frame of reference.

  36

  SUBIC BAY. 1985.

  Little Jackie waited in the pile of trash. The liquid from banana skins, coffee grounds, and rain-soaked rags seeped through hi
s clothes, making him shiver. His teeth chattered. Beneath the soft skin of his bare chest he felt what could have been gravel. A piece of rubber he’d seen thrown away by the hookers on Llollo Street in Barrio Barretto rested like a deflated sausage two inches from his nose. A wasp crawled inside, causing the skin of it to wriggle and jump. He felt rats crossing the backs of his legs. When they sniffed at his skin, he fought the urge to jerk as their whiskers tickled the soft underskin of his knees.

  Feral.

  Like a pig.

  Or a dog.

  He was wild and eager to gnaw on something that screamed.

  Twice, old men shuffled by, coming home from a day spent at the dump.

  Each time he screamed like a dying cat. “Hoy! Hoy! Tanda! Halika. Sayaw tayo.” Hey! Hey! Old man. Come and dance with me.

  Whenever the men would look over, he could barely contain himself with glee. Although they looked right at him, he knew they didn’t see him. He was invisible. He was like the air.

  But then came the old cripple, pulling himself along with one withered arm, a hand gnarled like the fingers of a twisted branch. His skin was the color of old chocolate. He had a few hairs on his face and even fewer on his head. His eyes were the colors of olive pits and were sunken into craters of wrinkles.

  Jackie could barely contain his laughter as he leaped free of the trash and high into the air. Pieces of trash sprayed the cripple. Jackie screamed like a beast. He picked up an old hubcap and swung it as hard as he could. He caught the cripple in the side of the head. The cripple screamed. The slick metal slid off without doing much damage, so he brought it around again, this time coming straight down with the hubcap on the crown of the cripple’s head. Blood exploded outward, the sight of it fuel for another swing of the arm. This time it came around in a flat arch, catching the old man beneath the eye.

  “Hoy! Hoy!” he cried. “Dance with me, you fool!”

  The cripple fell to his side, his mouth twisted into a curl of fear as he whined miserably.