by Joe Buff
This particular vampire bat had its eyes on Felix’s hand. He flicked it in the nose with his thumb and index finger. It jumped back, then tried for him again. He bopped it in the nose, harder. The ugly bat gave up, and went into the underbrush.
Felix sighed. He felt drained from his exertions of the past few days but knew he’d be lucky to get much rest tonight. The constant stress and need for alertness were wearing. By the end of the mission, in another ten days or so if he was lucky, he’d be ready for a nice long break back aboard the Ohio. The Ohio was an old boomer sub, and the ample space of her missile compartment had been specially converted for SEALs. Compared to the claustrophobic confines of a typical fast-attack sub, where SEALs squeezed into improvised sleeping racks in the torpedo room, the Ohio was like an undersea resort hotel.
Felix heard distant thunder. Another rainstorm coming. This would cool things off for a little while, though trying to sleep outdoors in a tropical downpour was a losing proposition.
No. Not thunder. Grenades. Now there were pops and stutters and tearing sounds, like rifles and machine guns. They were coming from northeast, farther up the Brazilian coast. Everybody was wide awake now. There was a larger boom, like a Claymore mine, from the same direction, far away and muffled but distinct. Felix was alarmed. He no longer noticed his sweating and itching. He forced himself to stop breathing so hard.
The shooting in the distance died off quickly.
The left hand of the man clockwise of Felix reached for Felix’s right hand. Felix felt a rapid series of taps and strokes and squeezes on different parts of his fingers and palm. The lieutenant was signaling Felix again: “Assessment?”
Felix responded, “Somebody triggered an ambush.”
“Who versus whom?” the lieutenant asked, still passing hand signals. Felix was glad the LT wasn’t breaking silence discipline, even surprised as he must have been by the outof-nowhere eruption of that violently one-sided firefight. The ambush proved how precarious the SEALs’ position truly was.
Felix thought through the LT’s question very hard. The noise had been too far away for him to identify it as specific types of weapons. It might have been a Brazilian Army patrol taking out a guerrilla band. Or it could have been guerrillas getting the jump on a poorly trained army squad…. Or it could involve the other team of Navy SEALs—who’d deployed from the Ohio at the same time Felix did—sent to cover a different area nearer the Guyana Shield highlands. This worried Felix, because the SEALs would never have started an ambush themselves. None of them were even supposed to be here.
Brazil was formally neutral. American armed forces operating on Brazilian soil was an outright violation of international law. It could be taken as an act of war.
Which is why we didn’t just drop in by helicopter, and why the other team can’t call for helo extraction or air support.
Yet U.S. national command authorities had deemed the mission important enough to risk it anyway. The SEALs’ vital role was to provide military indications and warnings. The U.S. simply had to know how far the Axis was willing to go to stir up trouble in South America. If the Axis in fact was active in this part of Brazil, then Felix and the others were tasked to bring back concrete proof—all without being detected. Exactly how this physical proof was supposed to be obtained, Felix and his lieutenant were told they’d best improvise on the spot.
So who hit whom in that ambush? Tensions were already riding too high, with Brazil and Argentina mobilizing along the stretch of border they shared in the middle of the continent. The two countries were on the brink of war, over imagined slights or real provocations. It reminded Felix of India and Pakistan—both of whom were neutral and keeping their heads well down right now—except that the CIA didn’t know if Brazil or Argentina had atom bombs. Felix reminded himself that following deadly attacks and near atrocities by the Boers in the South Pacific, Tokyo had announced just weeks ago that Japan was a nuclear power. Japan, neutral up till then, declined to say if she intended to choose sides. After that, the whole world seemed to go crazy—the parts that hadn’t already gone mad.
With paranoia and warmongering running rampant everywhere, an illegal U.S. incursion into a neutral Latin American nation, if found out, unmasked, could prove disastrous. There was surely much more to the story, or Felix’s team would never have been sent. Felix, a master chief, wasn’t fed the big strategic picture by the higher-ups. But he could use his head, and he guessed that the German presence here—if any—was intended to create an annoying diversion, to draw Brazilian troops away from the faroff Argentine front. That, Felix figured, seemed to imply the Germans intended to back the Argentines in any outright fighting. And that, my man, means one way-serious problemo.
Felix still had to answer his lieutenant. “Ambush adversaries unknown. Possible other SEAL team involved.”
“Should we help them?”
Felix was torn. SEALs trusted one another with their lives and never left a man behind. If the other team was in trouble, Felix and the lieutenant should do everything to assist. But there was nothing they could possibly do. The scene of the ambush was much too far away. Felix judged it would take till noontime tomorrow to get there, at the earliest.
Felix was pissed off. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. But he refused to just give up. He signaled his lieutenant: “Fire into the air? Create a diversion to relieve the pressure.”
It seemed to take forever for the lieutenant to respond. “Negative. Would disclose own position against standing orders. Doubtful slightest real assistance to compromised team would result.”
Felix agreed reluctantly.
All at once he heard more shooting from the same area. His heart began to pound with anxiety and excitement.
That particular rhythm of the firing, the bursts all on full auto and the brief but purposeful pauses, told a definite story to Felix’s trained ear. It wasn’t a bumbling army squad or a rabble of leftist guerrillas. The vicious noises of well-controlled shooting, the perfectly timed crack of grenades, could only be a SEAL team using Special Warfare tactics to break contact with an enemy.
On pins and needles, Felix and his men heard this new act of the drama unfold. Wordlessly they cheered on their friends, praying they’d make their escape. They’d practiced this break-contact drill countless times themselves, with live ammo. For Felix it was like listening to the seventh game of a World Series, from right outside the ballpark, and trying to guess what was happening just from the noise.
Abruptly, the sound of combat halted again. A prolonged and eerie silence took its place. The silence gradually lifted, as if the jungle itself had been holding its breath, and the frightened birds and animals cautiously went back to normal.
“I think they made it,” the lieutenant signaled.
Felix concurred. He was almost overcome with waves of relief. He beseeched his God that none of the men were killed or badly wounded. It would be just like our guys to play dead, then launch a brutal counterambush and make their fighting getaway.
Felix had a sobering thought. He sent to the lieutenant, “All hostiles in area alerted. Danger to own team high.”
“Abort the mission?”
“Negative,” Felix responded without hesitation. He reminded himself the LT was young and untried. “Continue, regain surprise.”
There was a pause, and the lieutenant answered. “Concur. Maintain fifty percent on-watch status. Break camp at first light and continue recon as planned.”
Felix tried to get some sleep, but he wondered. Was his team walking into an elaborate, clever trap? Had German advisers sent a ragtag guerrilla platoon after the other SEAL team to serve as patsies? Was a devious German gambit in play, intended to goad Felix and his team on, and lull them right into another ambush…one laid by kampfschwimmer, from whom the SEALs would not escape?
CHAPTER 3
Jeffrey was still at the reception at the hotel. As he approached the commander, U.S. Atlantic Fleet, for a chat, the four-star admiral was standing in a c
ircle with other admirals and members of Congress. The admiral was himself a submariner, and yet Jeffrey got barely a nod from the man before his senior aide, a full captain, cut Jeffrey off. The admiral and his staff needed to rush back to their headquarters in Norfolk, Virginia. The admiral’s helicopter was waiting for him and his group in an empty parking lot at nearby Georgetown University. Jeffrey got the impression some sort of crisis had just come up. This impression was reinforced when he saw commander, submarines, Atlantic, and several captains and admirals who worked in undersea warfare at the Pentagon also leave the party very hurriedly, but as discreetly as they could. Jeffrey buttonholed a friend on one of the admirals’ staff, but he wouldn’t reveal a thing.
Jeffrey was intercepted by two Secret Service agents. “Come with us, please, sir.”
Jeffrey couldn’t exactly refuse. He wondered if his travel arrangements back to New London were changing at the last minute, for security or because of whatever else was going on. He couldn’t spot his parents to make a quick good-bye.
The Secret Service agents led Jeffrey out of the ballroom. Along the way, seeing that he was leaving, some cabinet members and congresspeople moved in. A staff assistant dragged Jeffrey’s parents over from out of the crowd, almost physically. Other assistants or interns—or whoever the pushy young people were—insisted that the remaining TV crews come closer. Jeffrey and his mom and dad posed for handshakes and hugs and pats on the shoulder from people who spent more time beaming their glued-on smiles into the cameras than they did really looking at Jeffrey or his folks. This final feeding frenzy ended quickly.
Then the Secret Service agents whisked Jeffrey away, after telling his parents that their son would be back soon. They led him down a heavily guarded side corridor.
Passing through two separate steel doors, with an anteroom between them, Jeffrey was all at once in a temporary communications post. The president of the United States was there, speaking in hushed but urgent tones with some U.S. Army and Marine Corps generals.
The steel door shut behind Jeffrey, with the Secret Service agents stationed right outside. Also stationed in the anteroom, Jeffrey realized now, was an officer with the go codes, in case the president needed to launch a global thermonuclear strike; the thought of it sent shivers up his spine.
“Give us a minute alone,” the president said. The generals grabbed their laptops and hats and went out.
Jeffrey was left in a windowless room, standing on the scuffed linoleum, face-to-face with his commander in chief. Jeffrey came to attention.
“Take a seat,” the president said. He pointed to one of the beat-up metal convention-hall chairs. The president sat behind a drab desk covered with telephone banks and computer displays. He eyed one display for several seconds, then turned his full attention back to Jeffrey.
Jeffrey took a chair, but sat in it very erectly.
“Feels good to sit down, doesn’t it?” the president said.
Jeffrey nodded, cautiously; something was very irregular. Getting a medal and a handshake from the president in public was one thing—talking to him one-on-one with no set agenda was something else entirely.
“Relax, son,” the president said in a no-nonsense way. He set the tone by leaning back in his swivel chair, letting his posture loosen up. He gave Jeffrey a smile. Jeffrey perceived in that smile the same depth of character, compassion, humanity, and iron will that millions of voters had seen in the last election campaign. He tried to relax.
“That’s the problem with being a retired four-star general,” the president said. “All you military guys and gals go into your snap-to-attention mode and stop talking and start obeying. Leave the formalities outside the door for now…. Your commodore and my defense secretary were made aware I wanted this chitchat and pep talk in private. Executive privilege, if you will. You’ll get a formal briefing soon from your seniors.”
“Yes, sir.”
The president studied Jeffrey up and down. “You look wilted around the edges.”
“It’s been a long day, Mr. President.”
“Tell me about it. I can’t remember when the last time was I didn’t have a long day.”
Jeffrey decided to say something safe. “I guess it’s not just a cliché, sir, when people keep telling each other, ‘There’s a war on.’”
The president chuckled. “I want to show you something.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a thin billfold.
Jeffrey assumed he was looking for notes, or maybe would show Jeffrey pictures of his family. Instead the president pulled out a set of dog-eared little photographs and reproductions of paintings. He spread them on the desk as if he were showing Jeffrey his hand in a game of poker.
There were pictures of Dwight D. Eisenhower, Ulysses S. Grant, Andrew Jackson, George Washington.
“Who’s this other guy?” Jeffrey was feeling somewhat more comfortable; the president had skillfully broken the ice.
“Zachary Taylor. Know what all these men have in common?”
Jeffrey thought for a second. “They were all elected president after being successful generals in wars.”
“Yup. I like to look at them. Role models. Helps keep me going in these difficult times…Compared to them I’m the odd man out.”
“Sir?”
“They won their biggest shooting wars before they became head of state. I’m the ex-general who got stuck with the Worst World War after I got elected.”
Jeffrey nodded. That phrase, Worst World War, came from a editorial in the Washington Post last summer. It was apt.
The president seemed to read Jeffrey’s mind.
“We got so fixated on the pillar or the post, conventional weapons or fusion warheads, we missed the awful middle ground of tossing around small atom bombs. The Russians never missed it. It was a big part of all their war plans, if they ever went up against NATO…. Making them an associate member didn’t change a thing. ‘Constructive engagement,’ my ass. Russian paranoia and jealous resentment of the West go back to the czars, for God’s sake. It’s burned into their national psyche, and it’s obvious now that’s one thing that won’t ever change.”
“I understand, sir.” Jeffrey wasn’t sure if the president was trying to express regret, or angry hindsight, or what?
“We were so focused on other crises and wars that had to be won. Terrorism, the Middle East, Asia…We treated Europe like nonplayers, looked down our noses at Latin America, and forgot about Africa altogether.”
Jeffrey nodded politely. Where is he going with this?
“The Berlin-Boer Axis bootstrapped themselves into existence very cleverly and we never saw it coming. They used their own twisted brand of voodoo economics to finance a hostile takeover of half the world. Prewar loans from all the big German and Swiss banks and rich insurance companies, to arms makers in Germany and South Africa, with off-the-books covenants saying repayment would come at some future date from war plunder yet to be specified…Building a hundred high-tech diesel subs on spec, supposedly for export, then suddenly turning that inventory into a modern U-boat fleet. Group simulator training in modern attack and defense, in secret, using teaching methods and software pioneered by our own Submarine School, to give ’em a cadre of German crews skilled and seasoned even though they’d rarely been to sea.” The president got more aggravated, and bitter, with every word.
There was a pregnant pause as Jeffrey waited for him to say more. Jeffrey was caught off guard when he changed the subject completely.
“How’d you like to go on a national war-bond drive?”
Jeffrey was crestfallen, and knew it showed. “Sir, I’d rather get back to my ship.”
“Haven’t had enough of nuclear torpedoes and SEAL raids for now? Don’t want some nice long stateside R and R, meet movie stars and famous talk-show hosts?”
“Very respectfully, sir, my answer is negative on both counts. I need to get back to my ship.”
The president smiled. “Good. I wanted to hear you say it….
Although the offer was genuine. You’ve more than earned a break.”
“Sir, is there anything else you need from me?”
The president chuckled. “That’s just like you, Jeffrey Fuller. Usually people connive to get as much of my time as they can. You dare to try to be the first to end the conversation.”
“Sir?”
“Look, son. Nobody gets the Medal of Honor without coming under a lot of scrutiny. Congress won’t approve the award for just anybody. I read your file. You’re considered highly talented, and driven, but with some important rough edges.”
Jeffrey sat back defensively.
“Don’t bristle. If you can’t look at your own strengths and weaknesses with cold-blooded accuracy, you’ll never go as far as you might in life.”
Jeffrey hesitated. “I think that’s good advice, sir.”
“I wanted the chance to talk to you candidly, Captain. Last month, far away in your ship, you saved me here from having to push the button…. I honestly think that for every one of those harrowing twenty-four hours, me in a flying command post waiting in dread for each tick of the clock, and you down in your submarine at the sharp tip of the spear, we have to have been the two most lonely people on the planet…. And besides, I’ve given too many Medals of Honor in this war posthumously. I’ve seen too many widows and orphans and grieving parents look at a velvet box with a chunk of bronze in it and ask me why their son or daughter had to die. Frankly, it’s very refreshing to get to speak to one of the Medal’s recipients while he’s still alive.”
“I never thought of it like that,” Jeffrey said.
“I’m not surprised you didn’t. Seeing things from the other person’s point of view is not one of your strong points.”
“Sir?” Jeffrey bristled again.
The president waved a reassuring hand. “Unless that other person is an enemy submarine captain. Then you seem to be able to get inside his head remarkably well.”
“You make it sound like I’ve got some form of ‘tunnel intelligence.’”