Jim turned his attention to the Sea Wolf crews, the two pilots, two copilots, and four gunners who would man the two helicopter gunships. “We need two helos. Fully loaded rocket pods, two M-60s on each gunship, with as much ammo as you can carry.”
Hottest pilots in the world, Gene thought. They’d go anywhere, do anything, to get the SEALs out alive.
He watched Jim pace, glance down at the paper in his hand, then look at the boat personnel, the eight men from Mobile SEAL Support Team unit assigned to Lima Platoon. “We need two MSSCs, Medium SEAL Support Crafts. I want two .50-calibers with five thousand rounds each on each boat, as well as two M-60s with five thousand rounds, per weapon, per boat.”
“Uniforms.” Jim announced the second half of the briefing, as was SOP—standard operating procedure—for the Warning Order. “Everyone in the patrol will have cami tops, pants—Levi’s 501s or cami bottoms—jungle boots, insect repellent, first-aid kits, UDT SEAL life jackets, knife, UDT emergency flare, and green and black face paint.”
Behind them, Gene stood up and stretched. UDT, he thought. Underwater Demolition Team. Frogmen, they were called, and they were good at what they did. Had some aboard Seafloat, but in spite of what people thought, UDT people weren’t SEALs, and SEALs sure as hell weren’t UDT. The UDTs hadn’t had the massive amounts of advanced training SEALs got.
“Inspections are set at 1530 hours, ready for patrol. Help each other out. Jump up and down and make sure nothing rattles, and that everyone has all the equipment and ammo brought up. Patrol Leader’s Order is at 1600 hours,” Jim finished. “Eat early. See you at 1600. In uniform. Ready to go.”
Gene unlocked the door, stepped out onto Seafloat’s deck and into steaming heat. The rest of the details he and Jim had worked out for the op would come later, during the PLO. It was his time now. He needed it to stay alive, stay sane…go quiet and read from his little pocket Bible. At least he still had his faith, but he’d given up a long time ago his high school dream of becoming a missionary. Becoming a SEAL had changed him too much. Now the jungle and the enemy were waiting…and so was he.
The Viet Cong, partly because of Gene Michaels, came to believe the Navy SEALs could fly, could breathe underwater, and could not be killed. Other military people who encountered them believed they were individually and collectively crazy. Nobody, not even other Special Forces, messed with the SEALs, one of the deadliest and most elite intelligence-combat entities in the world, a status shared only by Britain’s Special Air Services.
The SEALs of Lima Platoon, legendary for their fierceness in combat, were base-camped in mid-river on Seafloat, one of the hottest AOs—areas of operation—in Vietnam. Lima numbered fourteen SEALs, divided into two seven-man squads. Though assigned to Lima’s first squad, Gene operated not only with both squads but with other squads on Seafloat and with the Kit Carson Scouts, the Montagnards, and any other unit that wanted him and his 60. They all did. He was the most lethal of all the SEALs, and he loved to operate.
The men swore his big M-60 sang in combat, with a firing rhythm that was his alone. SEALs who’d operated with him insisted they’d recognize the da-da-da, da-da-da, dut, dut, da-da-da, da-da-da, dut, dut rapid-fire music of his 60 forever after.
He stood six feet tall, weighed two hundred pounds. When his laughter died and he went off alone, his features icy, his eyes gone from brown to black, not even Willie dared approach. But the squads considered Gene their lucky element. No SEAL on patrol with him had ever died. Nor had any ever been seriously wounded or captured.
Gene had caught some shrapnel, and he carried flecks of it still, inside his left wrist and arm. He refused to report such minor injuries, knowing a report would cause a Purple Heart to be forthcoming. Having seen the savage wounds others sustained, he had his own ideas about when a Purple Heart was called for.
Carrying a pack of Marlboro cigarettes in the left pocket of his cami shirt, and in the right pocket a small Bible, read before and after every mission, he ignored his squad’s comments about luck, the kidding about his praying. He just counted, like beads on a rosary, the number of times he should have been dead—they should all have been dead—and was silent.
CHAPTER TWO
BY 1600 HOURS, THE ten-by-twenty-foot briefing room on Seafloat had been secured and the Patrol Leader’s Order was under way. Tarps, rolled down over the three-foot-wide screened windows, muffled the voices inside. Outside, two armed SEALs stood security on opposite corners of the building, able from their positions to take all four sides of the structure under fire. Only those involved were allowed to know anything about the upcoming operation.
Inside, the Sea Wolf and Mobile SEAL Support Team crews, along with six of one of Lima Platoon’s seven-man SEAL squads, settled into green or gray metal folding chairs. The SEALs lounged in them, some tilted back against the plywood walls. They looked completely relaxed. Gene Michaels, at the rear, had his head propped on one hand, his other arm across the back of an empty chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, and his M-60 slung, hanging at his side, but his concentration was total, focused on the seventh SEAL, Jim Henshaw, patrol leader for this operation.
Nobody took notes. Everything pertaining to the operation, their parts and the other men’s parts, had to be committed to memory. Except for the sound of Jim’s voice and an occasional shift in someone’s position, the room was silent.
Jim paced in front of the blackboard and situation map, both permanently attached to the wall behind him. The situation map showed all past operations run in any particular area; the locations were marked by colored pins. Red meant heavy enemy contact at that coordinate. Yellow signified light contact. Green, no contact. There were very few green pins among the fields of red and yellow.
Gene, scanning the map, focused on a particular green pin, thought of Doc, and couldn’t help but grin. That op had been a honey.
They’d inserted in early afternoon, and the seven of them were about an hour into the jungle with another hour and a half to their objective, a tiny Viet Cong village. Intelligence had it that the village hosted an NVA encampment. The SEAL squad headed in to check the situation out. If the NVA had indeed moved in, the SEALs would call in the coordinates, their helo gunships would bear down, and the whole area would disappear.
As always, Gene remembered the heat. Patrolling through dense foliage beneath the three ascending heights of trees, the tallest hidden from sight by the two levels below, they’d sweltered in the dim light under the triple-canopy jungle. The heat joined with the deep, stinking mud and the insects to make the squad truly miserable. None more so than Doc, walking rear security, whose face made plain that he was one unhappy corpsman. He purely hated to operate.
The Mekong Delta ran water everywhere in the form of rivers, streams, creeks, and canals. Shit ditches, the SEALs called them, due to the people’s habit of using them as toilets. Nobody wanted to fall into one. Not even the villagers. And especially not Doc, who saw them as writhing with bacteria, fungus, and God knew what else. And here they were, Gene thought, with a narrow canal to cross and no bridge.
Jim had signaled that the squad should improvise a monkey bridge. As silently as possible, they foraged for dead and fallen palm branches and layered them across. With their boots caked with mud, they crossed one at a time.
Gene remembered Brian, on point as usual, walking carefully out on the narrow monkey bridge, the branches giving slightly under his weight. Jim crossed next, followed by Roland. They immediately stood security for the rest.
Carrying the 60, and loaded with ammo belts, Gene had weighed the most. He stepped on the bridge and felt it bend under him, but it held. The fronds were slippery, but his balance was good. Once he was back on solid ground, he sighed with relief and took his security position.
When Cruz and Alex were across, Doc started. By then, the monkey bridge bore a thick layer of mud. Midway, Gene saw Doc skid. At the moment his feet went out from under him, he yelled, “Oh, no!” and landing as
traddle the spiky fronds, let out a Tarzan shriek that must have echoed across the entire Mekong Delta. Gene couldn’t believe his eyes or his ears. Teetering out there on the branches over the shit ditch, Doc was inventing new words at the top of his lungs between howls of pain and fury.
Gene thought about going to help him, but didn’t dare. Doc was having such a fit that he’d probably shoot the first person who went near him. Biting his lip and trying to keep a straight face, Gene glanced at Cruz, who caught Jim’s eye, who looked at Brian and Roland, who stared first at Doc, then Gene. Gene shook with silent laughter. Tears came to his eyes. When he saw Alex struggling not to laugh, and Alex saw him, it was too much. The entire squad lost control. Tears streamed down green and black faces. They roared. Arms around their stomachs, holding their sides, rolling on the ground, they howled, while Doc called them every SEAL and Vietnamese name he could come up with.
With their location completely blown, Jim aborted the mission. When they could stand up, six re-crossed the monkey bridge to head back to Seafloat. Doc refused. He waded. Dripping wet, testicles swelling, he waddled along at rear security, hissing unprintable things with every step. Gene couldn’t remember ever laughing so hard and so long. The 60 and its ammo had weighed a little less on the way back from that op…
Gene looked away from the no-contact green pin just in time to catch Brian grin at him and shake his head. He knew their point man had also been remembering Doc and the monkey bridge.
“Okay,” Jim said, and took a deep breath, “let’s get on with it. Patrol Leader’s Order.”
Gene straightened slightly in his chair and prepared to listen to the tactics he and Jim had worked out. Under the layers of bandoliered ammunition, he flexed his shoulder muscles and the patrol leader began.
“Situation: As indicated in the Warning Order. Our target is an R&R Center for approximately ninety NVA officers who have been released from hospitals and are being…are getting ready to take command of enemy forces throughout the Mekong Delta.
“Enemy forces: Intelligence reports there are a minimum of three companies of NVA, constantly on patrol around the NVA officers’ R&R Center.
“Weather: Tonight should be overcast, possible chance of rain. Sunrise at 0530. Sunset at 2050. The tide will be going out during extraction. High tide at 0130.
“Terrain: Basically a triple canopy, as indicated by the visual reconnaissance that took place earlier today. If by any chance the weather clears up, there’ll be very little light coming in due to the triple canopy.
“Identification of the enemy forces: Not known, other than the fact that they’re NVA, who are used to protect the R&R Center.
“Enemy strength: Seven hundred fifty to a thousand enemy forces.”
Seven of us, Gene thought again. The hard grin flashed. Good odds.
“They are not based at the R&R Center. They have company camps set up in different locations around its perimeter, ranging from five hundred to a thousand meters from the R&R Center.
“Friendly forces.” Jim looked up. “There are no friendly forces.”
There never were. Gene adjusted the position of the 60. Before they ever went into an area, they made sure no other operations were going down. When the SEALs operated off the Float, the area they went into became a free kill zone. Anybody they encountered was considered the enemy and therefore a target.
“Mission of the next higher unit,” Jim continued. “Again, there are no other operations taking place in the AO.
“Location and planned action of units on the right and left: Again, there are no other operations within the AO.
“Fire support available for the patrol: We have two Sea Wolves, which we’ll be using for air support, and they can be called upon for emergency extraction. We have two MSSC units.”
The SEALs looked at the Sea Wolf and MSSC personnel, studying them, watching their expressions, making sure they understood, would be ready.
“Mission and routes of other patrols: Not applicable. We are the only friendly forces within the Secret Zone.
“Attachments and detachments: None, other than the Sea Wolves, who will remain on Seafloat up until the time they are called by radio to bear fire support, and our MSSC vehicles, which, after insertion, will be standing by on the Son Ku Lon river until the time the extraction is called for and/or emergency extraction is necessary.
“Our mission this evening…”
Gene focused intently on Jim. Here it came.
“… is to infiltrate the R&R Center, pulling out or abducting one of the highest ranking officers, who will be returned to Seafloat for interrogation and then released to the V Corps Interrogation Center. The rest of the R&R Center will be destroyed. We will take no other prisoners.”
Gene didn’t move. “No other prisoners” translated instantly to an image of explosions, screams, total annihilation.
“Area or location: This is going to take place approximately 11.4 miles up the Dam Doi River, in the northern section of the Secret Zone. Coordinates of our target are 68745832. MSSC will take us to the river just west of the Dam Doi, approximately 9.4 miles in, to our insertion point at 68745832.
“Execute, concept, plans, objective area: We are going to patrol into the southwest side of the R&R Center. Insertion coordinates are 83783761 for primary. We will take compass bearing, thirty-five degrees magnetic. We will be patrolling about four thousand meters to the objective site with the Dam Doi River to our right.”
Jim paused and looked up for a moment, then continued. “If we can’t get in with compass bearing, we will connect with the Dam Doi River and take it up to the objective site. Intelligence reports three guards inside the compound. Once the objective is in visual sight, we will stop the patrol, and that location will be our primary rally point if anything should happen before completion of the operation. If nothing does happen, prior to the charges going off, all members will rally back to that location.”
Gene made quick eye contact with the others in the squad.
Everybody understood. Especially Doc. He looked ready to bite the barrel of his weapon in half.
“There are two roving guards patrolling the east and west sides of the compound.” Jim tapped the blackboard. “Intelligence reports also reveal that there is a heavy-machine-gun emplacement at the south end of the compound, just inside the open area and backed in against the trees of the jungle. Here. The diagram on the board shows the locations.”
The chalked-on diagram stood out on the green board, white and solid. Gene studied it, listening to Jim.
“Brian and I will eliminate the two roving guards using our Hush Puppies.” He looked at the rear of the briefing room. “Gene, can you take out the gun emplacement? Silently?”
All eyes focused on Gene. Knife kill. From the back of the room, he answered with one word, “Yes,” and realized his hand had found the hilt of his bowie knife. He moved it back to the 60. The men looked back at Jim—except for Alex, who was pointing to himself and mouthing “Me.” Nobody could figure what went on in his head, Gene thought. Strange, weird guy. He wanted the kill.
“Prior to Brian and myself eliminating the two sentries,” Jim continued, “I will be leaving the two LAAWS rockets with Roland, and Roland will give Brian ten pounds of C-4 explosives with five-minute delay fuses on them.”
As Jim named names, Gene, with the rest of the men in the room, studied each man’s face to make sure he had no hesitations, no unanswered questions. Mistakes were almost always fatal.
Jim paced, pointing out locations on the board. “Roland, Alex, Cruz, and Doc will set security for Gene taking out the heavy-machine-gun emplacement, and take up positions ten to fifteen feet apart on both sides of the gun emplacement so, if need be, we can take the entire compound under fire in support of Brian and myself. Roland and Alex will be on the left side of the machine-gun emplacement, and Cruz and Doc on the right side. I suggest fifteen-foot intervals, but maintain sight of each other.”
He cleared his t
hroat and went on. “Brian and myself will each place five pounds of C-4 approximately two feet in on the underneath side on each corner of the main structure housing the ninety officers. All three buildings are on stilts, about three feet off the ground. Brian will be on the west side and I’ll be on the east side, which will put me between the structure housing the ninety and the NVA doctors’ hootch. There are five doctors. The number of personnel sleeping inside the security hootch is unknown. I will be looking inside the officers’ quarters to see about the feasibility of bringing one of them out prisoner.
“While I’m looking in, if at any time the op is compromised, Brian and I will hit the deck, Gene and the other security will take all buildings under fire, firing into them at a three-foot level and up, which will enable Brian and me to crawl back out and head into your location.
“Gene, if the shit hits the fan, I want you to take the officers’ quarters under fire. Primarily I want you to take the main structure under fire.”
The scenario ran like a movie through Gene’s mind.
“Alex, if the shit does hit the fan, I want you to drop 40 Mike-Mike into the security building. It’s the closest building to our security element’s location. And then everyone will be raking the buildings at the three-foot level. Everybody.”
Jim cleared his throat again, smoothed his headband on both sides, then continued. “If everything goes to plan, and we can take out a prisoner of war, I will bring him out, placing him on the ground. Then Brian and I will pull the fuses on the C-4 charges. I’ll pick up the POW and move into your location.
“Once the hostage is captured, Cruz will be responsible for carrying the POW to the extraction point. If we should take casualties, Doc will render emergency treatment on location and, if need be, Doc will use the fireman’s carry to get the wounded man out. If we take more than one casualty, the nearest man will be responsible for carrying him out to a safe location where Doc can render first aid.
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