Sleep well, America. Your guardians are more concerned about the sanctity of their pinkie-tight assholes than they are about your collective buttocks when it comes to the security of the most devastating weapons on the face of the planet.
Trace squatted down in front of me. She’d stripped off her M4 and heavy aviation flak jacket after pulling my beat-to-shit hide out of the river. I had to lean in close to hear her over the racket the Chinook was making as we hauled ass for the Pacific Ocean. Her scent filled my nostrils, driving out the pungent, biting odor of burnt cordite, human flesh, and my own roguish stink. Ah, women. Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em. Just because you’ve heard it before doesn’t mean it isn’t true!
“Shouldn’t we open the case and see if he armed the device?” she asked.
I shook my soggy, aching head in the negative. “Remember what happened to George Moore. We gotta figure these bastards set anti-disturbance devices on everything, especially the fucking nuke! If it ain’t broke, we don’t fix it. As long as the pilot can get me out to sea for a twenty-four-hour solo cruise with no boom-boom, we’ll be good to go.”
Dahlgren nodded, although I could tell she didn’t really agree. She’d done a hell of a job for us tonight. Without thinking, I reached out and cupped the side of her face with my hand. For a moment she closed her eyes and nuzzled my paw, then pulled away. We looked at each other in mutual understanding and respect. “You do like having me around, don’t you Dick?”
I nodded once in the semidark of the goddamned noisy-ass helo. “Yeah, you’re okay, Dahlgren. For a girl.”
We both grinned as she flipped me a very professional bird.
“Where’s that asshole Kossens?” she shouted over the whine of the turbine engines. “He kicked some serious ass tonight, too!”
Fuck, I hated to tell her, but I couldn’t put it off. “Blanchard got him. He was a brave kid, right to the last. Went down fighting.”
Trace’s expression changed from mirth to a kind of blank mask that I’d seen way too many times in my career. GODDAMN IT! I willed myself to remain where I was seated on the Zodiac’s gunwale.
“Last I saw of him, he was coming back to check on you right before I made my first gun run,” Trace said.
The kid had been coming back to check on me when Blanchard nabbed him! I suddenly felt very old and used up. I’d not only lost a SEAL in action but I’d lost one of my kids, one of the new team.
“I’m really sorry, Dick. Paul was the best, you know I loved him too. He wanted to be right where he was tonight, in the thick of it with the rest of us.” Trace put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. She then stood up and made her way forward to talk with the crew chief. I was alone. Alone and angry. Alone with a fucking maybe hot and maybe not nuke. Alone with fresh good-bad-painful memories of a go-to-hell young SEAL who’d faced danger with me shoulder to shoulder. I shook my head like a bull who’d been skewered in the middle of the ring. Maybe I’d grieve later, but for right now I was furious! Before this was over I’d see to it Paul’s memory and family were taken care of by my government. He’d saved at least a hundred thousand lives tonight at the expense of his own. I’d not forget that, and neither would those who’d sent him into harm’s way.
The crew chief’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “We’re about ten minutes away from where we can put you down, Captain. Are you sure you have to do this? If it hasn’t blown yet…”
I looked him dead in the eye and nodded. “This shit may still be hot, no way to know but wait. Hell, I’m an old black shoe sailor. A little time on the ocean isn’t gonna hurt me one way or another. Just toss me an MRE and some water before you pull pitch. Another radio would be good, too.”
The special ops aviator nodded once and gave a thumbs-up. Twenty-five miles out at sea is one long ass way from shore for anyone to be bobbing around alone for twenty-four-hours. Especially in a rubber boat no bigger than a 1960s Volkswagen van. I didn’t want to risk the ’47’s crew any more than was necessary. I knew they’d burned a shitload of fuel already and there was no reserve bladder onboard to draw from if we went any farther out. I also knew there was a Coast Guard station at the mouth of the Columbia that could spare at least one ship to chop in my direction after the mandated twenty-four-hour waiting period was up. The fuckers had seagoing SAR aviation assets, as well. As long as Max hadn’t armed the nuke when our attack started, the most I had to worry about was one night on the open seas. For a SEAL, and especially for moi, one night was nothing to get fussed up about.
I felt the chopper beginning to lose altitude. Looking over at the chief I saw him say something to Trace, who nodded once and then disappeared up toward where the pilots were flying the fucking eggbeater. I grabbed the nuke’s case by its handle and clambered into the Zodiac. Swiftly and precisely, I lashed the nuke to the Zodiac using 550 para-cord I’d brought with me for that very purpose. Double-checking my knots I was satisfied the fucking Zod could do rollovers all day long and the nuke would remain secure. I then pulled a homing beacon I’d bummed off one of the PJs before leaving the PANG and taped it tightly to the case’s dinged up side with good old-fashioned hundred-mile-an-hour tape. Hey, I never leave home without 550 cord and hundred-mile-an-hour tape! Whaddaya think I am, a fucking moron? If Moby Fucking Dick gobbled my ass up before the Coast Guard found me, at least they would be able to track and recover the device… unless of course it blew the fuck up between now and then.
Satisfied with my handiwork I made my way over to a starboard side window of the helo and looked out across the vastness of the ocean. God, I love the sea! It had been years since I’d served a duty cruise. For a moment I recalled my last time on waters like these. I’d drowned two goddamned terrorists then. Now I was right back where my trials and tribulations had begun a year ago. The fucking irony was not lost on me!
But before I could start acting out the title role in The Old Man and the Sea, I had a few quick phone calls to make.
Digging around in my assault vest I found my cell. Mumbling a quick prayer, I punched the “ON” button and was rewarded with a green signal light! Somebody must have bought this shit from the highest bidder, given the beating the little phone had taken. I auto-dialed Danny first. He answered on the second ring and although I had to yell to be heard, he acknowledged my instructions and then rang off. Next I called Karen. That conversation took all of sixty seconds. I told her to keep it warm for me and I’d see her soon. It was now time to call the president of the United States.
Clay answered the Oval Office phone. I grinned as he recognized my voice. “How the FUCK did you get this number, Marcinko? And where the fuck are you? I can barely hear you!”
“Put the big man on, you rat-breath, low-life, cocksucking, back-stabbing motherfucker! I’ll be dealing with you in person when I get back to Washington. And back the fuck off Karen. I find out you’ve been back-dooring her sweet ass, you’ll find my ten inches buried to the hilt in yours. Now put the president on, asshole!”
Remember, good reader, what I’ve told you about my bedside manner? It really does suck, doesn’t it?
“DICK! ONE MINUTE OUT! MAKE IT QUICK! WE’RE RUNNING LOW ON GO-FAST JUICE!”
I waved an acknowledgement to the crew chief then fished my waterproofed microcassette player outta my right breast pocket. I’d wrapped the little fucker in a watertight baggie before the mission. There was a cassette loaded and it was a motherfucker!
“Dick? This is the president. Congratulations on your success. I understand you have gotten our device back, yes?”
My lips curled back like a rabid wolf with a hard-on and no place wild enough to stick it. “Yes, Mr. President, I’ve got the fucking nuke. Now listen up. Paul Kossens, one of my SEALS, died helping me get your precious bomb back. A man named Danny Barrett is going to drop by your office in a few days to pick up Paul’s posthumous silver fucking star. You’re going to ensure all the paperwork is squared away and I’m going to personally give it to his next
of kin when they bury him at Arlington. Am I understood, Mr. President?”
There was a half-second’s silence on the other end before the president replied, or tried to, I should say.
“Goddamn it, Marcinko! I’m the fucking president of the United States! Your commander-in-chief! I can’t believe I’m hearing you speak to me in this manner!”
“Believe it.” I paused a moment for effect. “And I’m not done. Karen Fairfield is off-limits. She did her job and that’s more than I can say for some of the rest of your ass-wipes. I want Master Sergeant Trace Dahlgren promoted ASAP to sergeant-major. Get some dumbass colonel over at the Department of the Army to handle that before I’m on the ground at Dulles.
“I have to go now and baby-sit a nuclear bomb, but before I do, I want you to hear something. You can presume there are many copies. You can presume that no matter what happens to me, someone will make these available to the press unless I get what I want. When I want it. Have a great day, sir.”
I held the cassette recorder up to the cell’s mouthpiece and punched the PLAY button. Watching the numbers spin on the triple-digit counter, I punched off when I knew the president had heard what I’d wanted him to—his absolutely clear and explicit orders to me, given over phone at OISA. Like I said earlier, good and faithful reader, I’d learned to play hardball along the beltway a long time ago. The only rules I play by today are my own, and I play damn hard and only to win!
The ramp began to drop and soft, early morning light reflecting off the ocean flooded the gloomy hold of the ’47. Trace, the chief, and I all grabbed the hard rubber handholds on the Zodiac and pulled it toward the ramp. I tossed a paddle in as well as the emergency kit the chief had assembled for me. I nodded in appreciation as he handed over his Nomex flight jacket. I’d appreciate its warmth while I waited on the Coast Guard to show up.
“We’ll hover about ten feet off the deck and then bring her nose up. It’ll just take a good push and you should roll right off the ramp and safely down. Good luck, Captain. See you soon!” The crew chief scooted back and gave a hand signal to Trace. I jumped into the Zodiac and prepared myself for the short drop to the ocean’s surface. Someone pulled my frazzled ponytail and when I turned around it was Dahlgren.
“Sure you don’t want any company, skipper? I’m available.”
“You stay with the bird,” I yelled over the increasing roar of the chopper’s engines, “I’ve already lost one teammate I care about. I don’t want to lose another one. You understand me, Sergeant Major?”
Trace’s eyes widened for just a moment. Then she hopped out of the Zod and joined the chief where together they could push my big ass into the water. I turned around and stared out the back of the Chinook. I could see nothing before me but the smooth surface of a calm sea. Fuck it if I was alone for a while! Loneliness builds character and I’d been on my own since I could remember. Besides, I needed a break. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept. Big ocean, little boat, warm sun, gentle waves, tactical nuclear weapon that may or may not go off at any moment… what more could a simple man like me want from life?
“GO! GO! GO!”
I felt the Zodiac begin to slide as the helo dropped its ass toward the now churning waters below me. Holding on tightly I willed myself to keep my eyes open. As planned, the rubber raiding craft dropped free and pancaked bow-first into the ocean. For a moment I bobbed and bounced and wobbled like a motherfucker. As the ’47 pulled pitch and roared up and away the little boat steadied itself and instantly the world was quiet and peaceful. I waved a hand up toward the Chinook as it grabbed altitude and thought I saw someone waving back. I’d check the radio comms in a moment or two…or maybe three. Shit, I was in no hurry to talk to anyone. The sound of the helo faded into the distance and I made a quick check of my gear. The nuke was intact and happily cinched into the Zodiac for the remainder of the exercise. The homing device I’d activated was steadily blinking away so I knew my signal was going out to whoever was monitoring it back on the mainland at the PANG. I stretched my tired old carcass and took off my assault vest. Checking my drop bag I was pleased to discover I still had the colonel’s little dick skinners available for the FBI crime lab to fuck around with once I was on dry land again.
The morning air was cool, so I peeled off my soaked fatigue shirt, laid it over the gunwale to dry, and shrugged into the waterproof flight jacket the chief had given me. Then I took a long swig of cool, fresh water from one of the three two-quart bladders in the Zod. Looking around, I marveled at the sheer beauty of my surroundings. First and foremost I am a Navy man and going to sea is what real Navy men do. Satisfied with my current situation, I leaned back and closed my bleary eyes.
Exhausted, I fell almost instantly into that peculiar state of semiconsciousness that’s not quite asleep but not quite awake either. The rocking of the boat, the sounds and smells of the ocean, gave me a strange sense of dislocation and I had the overwhelming feeling that the last year of my life had been nothing but a long, intense dream. I swear, for a little while I had the idea that I was floating in a different Zodiac after a different mission, somewhere between Portugal and Hell, having just consigned the Kelley brothers to a life sentence (admittedly, a very short one) at the bottom of the sea. Surely I’d open my eyes and see the night sky above me, the constellations strung across it, showing me and my crew of hardass warriors the way back home. Any second I’d hear Mick Owen’s saying something in his distinctive Welsh accent like, “Wake up, Dick! I can’t take another cock-up today.”
I opened my eyes.
No stars—morning sun. No fellow teammates—me all alone. No Kelley brothers—just a suitcase that could take out a city in a heartbeat. Guess it wasn’t a dream.
From thinking about the Kelleys, I found myself wondering more about Blanchard. How did a guy like him get so far off-track? In some ways, our backgrounds and training weren’t all that different. Hell, people were generally crazy; I’d long ago reconciled myself to that simple fact of life. The more important question was: how did he manage to put together his psycho team within a team without anybody ever getting the least bit suspicious? From what Paul had told me, I knew Blanchard had been looking for recruits for his band of sick fucks for years; this wasn’t something that just popped into his head after one too many drinks at a retirement party a few months ago. And I was supposed to believe that not a single person in the entire U.S. military organization had a goddamn clue that something was seriously off about the guy?
What was it Blanchard himself had said to me on the Wind Storm? Something about this being bigger than him or me. Maybe I hadn’t understood his real meaning at the time…
I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but it seemed as plain as the shiny suitcase sitting next to me that he’d had help somewhere along the way. Granted, maybe Blanchard was a charismatic leader to his men. Maybe he could hypnotize his followers into doing whatever he wanted with some magical spell or a sprinkle of fairy dust. But I’d been around the asshole enough times to know that he didn’t possess the sheer imagination, the balls, or the patience to have single-handedly planned and carried out this whole mission.
It was like I’d been kicked in the stomach when I realized the simple truth—THIS WAS NOT OVER. I didn’t know if he’d had help from people in our own government, or if he’d been the agent of some outside group. It had been clear for a long time that gangs of thugs like Hamas, Hezbollah and Al Qaeda were quietly on the lookout for strategic forces already in place inside the U.S. that they could use for their own purposes. There’s some unverified but believable intel suggesting Tim McVeigh had the benefit of foreign assistance in his Oklahoma City job. That would have been a mosquito bite compared to the pain Blanchard wanted to inflict.
I tried to slow my brain down. If I kept on like this, it was going to be a helluva long twenty-four hours alone in this boat. Why the fuck didn’t I bring a deck of cards, a bottle of Bombay, and an ice bucket?
“Hey, sailor! Looki
ng for a good time?”
What the fuck was that?
A jumper gracefully suspended from a HALO canopy sailed right over my head about a hundred feet above the deck. Now Appearing: Trace Dahlgren starring as Wonder Woman. I watched as she made a nice turn into the wind and splashed down just short of the Zodiac. She cut loose the ’chute as she hit the water and swam down and away from the harness to avoid getting tangled up. As she reappeared on the surface the parachute disappeared beneath the waves as the weight of its harness pulled it under.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I barked at Trace as she began swimming toward me. “Didn’t I order you to be somewhere else?” I held my paddle out when she was close enough to grab it and pulled the little bitch into the Zod with one good heave-ho! Sitting back down, I put on my best war face. Trace ignored me, shaking her pretty head back and forth and then unclipping her hair and letting it hang. Standing, she unzipped her Nomex flight suit and stripped it right off. Underneath it she was wearing a black sports bra and matching black thong. I’d seen Dahlgren stripped down before at the Manor after she, Paul, and I had finished a butt-busting workout and were sweating ourselves silly in the wet steam bath, drinking beer and swapping lies. But somehow she was looking way fucking different now than I remembered her.
My reliable ten-inch companion began to rumble around between my hairy frogman’s thighs, as if he wanted to see what all the fuss was about.
“I’m here because I want to be and the chief had a ’chute that needed jumping,” replied Trace as she sat down on the gunwale facing me. “And yes, you did order me to be somewhere else and yes I’ve willfully disobeyed that order! Now, with that said, you’ve got a choice. Are we going to waste this time talking, or are we going to fuck?”
RW11 - Violence of Action Page 24