READ ALL THE AWESOME ADVENTURES IN THE ROGUE WARRIOR SERIES BY #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHORS RICHARD MARCINKO and JOHN WEISMAN
ROGUE WARRIOR
“For sheer readability, Rogue Warrior leaves Tom Clancy waxed and booby trapped.”
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ROGUE WARRIOR: RED CELL
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“Marcinko gives new meaning to the word tough…. Highly energetic…. A novel for those who like in-your-face four-letter action.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Marcinko … and his hard-bitten SEAL colleagues … come through, filling the memorably fast-paced yarn with vivid, hardware-laden detail.”
—Booklist
“Liberally sprinkled with raw language and graphic descriptions of mayhem, ROGUE WARRIOR: GREEN TEAM is the literary equivalent of professional wrestling.”
—Guy Powers, Detroit Free Press
“Another excellent adventure for the Rogue Warrior and his highly trained SEALs.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Marcinko and coauthor John Weisman double-time the reader through their testosterone- and adrenaline-drenched world of violence and intrigue…. drawing on Marcinko’s thirty years of military and covert-operations to craft a rich backdrop for his globetrotting and globe-saving heroics. If you’re the type who likes narrative breezy, Marcinko and Weisman will blow you away. Marcinko’s command … is absolute.”
—David Comfort, The Orange County Register
“Marcinko says … ‘War isn’t pretty…. But it’s real—and it can hurt you bad. Believe me, war is hell!’ Who could turn down expertise like that?”
—Patricia Holt, San Francisco Chronicle
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“[A] bawdy action novel…. Rogue Warrior: Red Cell never stops to take a breath.”
—Newgate Callendar, The New York Times Book Review
“A chilling, blood and guts, no-nonsense look into clandestine military operations told like it should be told. It doesn’t come more powerful than this.”
—Clive Cussler
“Bull’s eye! Right on target. It makes Tom Clancy’s stuff read like Bambi. It’s rude and crude, gutty and U.S.-Navy-SEAL bad.”
—Colonel David Hackworth, USA (Ret.), author of About Face: The Odyssey of an American Warrior
“Skillfully captures the insider’s familiarity with sophisticated weaponry and rapid-fire action.”
—William J. Caunitz, author of One Police Plaza and Cleopatra Gold
“A gripping blend of action and suspense.”
—W.E.B. Griffin, author of the bestselling series Brotherhood of War, The Corps, and Badge of Honor
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“Fascinating…. Marcinko … makes Arnold Schwarzenegger look like Little Lord Fauntleroy.”
—David Murray, The New York Times Book Review
“Blistering honesty…. Marcinko is one tough Navy Commando.”
—Patricia Holt, San Francisco Chronicle
“Marcinko makes the Terminator look like Tiny Tim.”
—Virginian Pilot and Ledger Star
“Richard Marcinko’s bestselling autobiography reads like the plots for about six Arnold Schwarzenegger or Sylvester Stallone movies.”
—Sacramento Bee
“Marcinko’s ornery and joyous aggression … brought him to grief and to brilliance in war…. Here, his accounts of riverine warfare … are galvanic, detailed, and told with a rare craftsman’s love…. profane and asking no quarter: the real nitty-gritty, bloody and authentic.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Marcinko was too loose a cannon for the U.S. Navy…. Rogue Warrior is not a book for the faint of heart.”
—People
ROGUE WARRIOR
GREEN TEAM
RICHARD MARCINKO
and JOHN WEISMAN
POCKET BOOKS
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations, or are used fictitiously. Operational details have been altered so as not to betray current SpecWar techniques.
Many of the Rogue Warrior’s weapons courtesy of Heckler & Koch, Inc., International Training Division, Sterling, Virginia.
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.
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Copyright © 1995 by Richard Marcinko and John Weisman
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ISBN: 0-671-79959-2
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Once again, to the shooters
And to the memory of Colonel Charlie A. Beckwith, USA, a true Warrior, and a good and valued friend
—Richard Marcinko
—John Weisman
The Rogue Warrior series by Richard Marcinko and John Weisman
Rogue Warrior
Rogue Warrior: Red Cell
Rogue Warrior: Green Team
Also by John Weisman
Fiction
Blood Cries
Watchdogs
Evidence
Nonfiction
Shadow Warrior (with Felix Rodriguez)
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Blessed are the true believers.
—Koran 23:1
THE TEN COMMANDMENTS OF SPECWAR
According to Richard Marcinko
I am the War Lord and the wrathful God of Combat and I will always lead you from the front, not the rear.
I will treat you all alike—just like shit.
Thou shalt do nothing I will not do first, and thus will you be created Warriors in My deadly image.
I shall punish thy bodies because the more thou sweatest in training, the less thou bleedest in combat.
Indeed, if thou hurteth in thy efforts and thou suff
er painful dings, then thou art Doing It Right.
Thou hast not to like it—thou hast just to do it.
Thou shalt Keep It Simple, Stupid.
Thou shalt never assume.
Verily, thou art not paid for thy methods, but for thy results, by which meaneth thou shalt kill thine enemy by any means available before he killeth you.
Thou shalt, in thy Warrior’s Mind and Soul, always remember My ultimate and final Commandment: There Are No Rules—Thou Shalt Win at All Cost.
OFFICE OF THE CHAIRMAN THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF WASHINGTON, D.C. 20310-9999
Secret—Sensitive
Definitions of Joint Chiefs of Staff [JCS] Terrorist Threat Conditions [Threatcons] for Operational Units
The four Threatcons, which may be suffixed with the specific geographic area deemed at risk, are defined as follows:
a. Threatcon Alpha. This condition applies when there is a general threat of possible hostile activity against installations and personnel, the nature and extent of which are unpredictable. The measures in this threat condition must be capable of being maintained indefinitely.
b. Threatcon Bravo. This condition applies when an increased and more predictable threat of hostile activity exists. The measures in this threat condition must be capable of being maintained for weeks without causing undue hardship, without affecting operational capability, and without aggravating relations with local authorities.
c. Threatcon Charlie. This condition applies when an incident occurs or when intelligence is received indicating that some form of terrorist action against installations and personnel is imminent. Implementation of this measure for more than a short period will create hardship and will affect adversely the activities of the unit and its personnel.
d. Threatcon Delta. This condition applies in the immediate area where an hostile attack has occurred, or when intelligence has been received that an hostile action against a specfic location or person is likely. It makes normal activities virtually impossible to pursue.
Secret—Sensitive
Contents
Part One: ALPHA
Part Two: BRAVO
Part Three: CHARLIE
Part Four: DELTA
Glossary
Index
ALPHA
The first two floors were easy—no one in sight, no booby traps, and no cats, rats, bats, goats, sheep, or other miscellaneous animals to make our presence known. I crept up the dusty concrete stairs one by one, my black, knee-length Pakistani “pasha” tunic covering the carbon-colored, custom-suppressed Heckler & Koch USP 9mm in its ballistic nylon thigh holster. The rest of my outfit was also basic black—from the thong sandals to the Maharishi-styled trousers, to the titanium-framed Emerson CQC6 combat folder clipped to my waistband next to the Motorola beeper, to the lead-and-leather sap secured by a thick, black Ace bandage to the inside of my right wrist.
My beard was full—reaching almost halfway down my chest. My mustache drooped Fu Manchu—like way below my upper lip. My shoulder-length hair, restrained by a thick black cotton band, was wild and crazee. If anybody ever looked the part of Islamic fundamentalist rogue warrior—the kind of maniacal mujahideen you used to see on the TV news shows when they sent camera crews into Afghanistan—it was me. Which is precisely why I’d volunteered as point man on this little jaunt, prowling and growling up the unlit stairwell of a Cairo slum at 0-dark-hundred to catch my quarry napping on his bedroll.
I wasn’t alone, of course. You do not meander into Islamic Cairo, home to some of the meanest Muslim fundamentalist sons of bitches in the world, without some fundamentally mean sons of bitches of your own to backstop your ass. That’s why, half a yard behind me, Senior Chief Nasty Nicky Grundle, his suppressed Heckler & Koch MP5K-PDW submachine gun at the ready, rested a huge paw on my shoulder. A yard behind him, Master Chief Boatswain’s Mate Howie Kaluha’s well-muscled Hawaiian back (not to mention his well-maintained Kraut submachine gun) brought up the rear.
A few streets away, cruising in the limo—it was actually a baby blue Peugeot 504 station wagon, but in Cairo, as the saying goes, almost anything that runs can be considered a limo—Doc Tremblay, handle-bar-mustachioed master chief corpsman and supersniper, waited, a Manurhin PPK/s loaded with seven rounds of .380 MagSafe frangible manstoppers tucked in his waistband and a disposable syringe filled with two hundred milligrams of Dr. Nostradamus’s best Ketamine Love Potion Number 9 in his hand. Behind the Peugeot’s wheel sat Grandma Syde’s favorite Peck’s bad boy, Machinist’s Mate First Class Stevie Wonder, on indefinite leave from his classified job at the Washington Navy Yard. Wonder’s carrot-colored hair was covered by a dark, knit fellahin cap, and his tight frame was hidden by a shapeless gallebiyah. He was, however, wearing his trademark wraparound shooting glasses with lenses in the color named especially for him—bastard amber.
Wedged under Wonder’s right thigh was a nineties hush puppy—a suppressed Heckler & Koch 9mm USP semiautomatic—loaded with Doc Tremblay’s best hand-loaded, subsonic hollowpoint. To his nightshirtlike garment was pinned a throwaway receiving device about the size of a pack of gum. When I pressed a Chiclets-sized button in my pocket, his gizmo would vibrate for thirty seconds. The tickle would tell him he had one minute to get his mick ass in gear and pick me and the rest of the team up.
There’s more: while Nasty, Howie, and I crept up the stairs, Chief Gunner’s Mate (Guns) Duck Foot Dewey and Commander Tommy Tanaka were making their way up along a precarious path of irregular stonework, spindly balconies, laundry lines, and drainpipes that ran alongside the target’s third-story dormer windows. I knew it would take every bit of their mountain-climbing expertise to clamber up thirty-five feet of brittle brick without snapping anything off and raising a ruckus.
I know, I know—you’re asking, what the fuck? What the hell’s going on? What’s Dickie doing back in the Third World when he should be home at Rogue Manor, just climbing out of the Jacuzzi clutching a tall, frosted glass of Bombay on the rocks in one hand, and something warm, wonderful, and remarkably full-breasted in the other.
Believe me, if there’d been time, I’d have been asking myself the same question. And as soon as I get a couple of minutes, I’ll tell you everything. But at the present, there was no time for anything but the matter at hand. To wit: scratching and snatching, then whopping and popping.
Translation: our mission was to sit around and scratch our asses until the time was right, then snatch one Mahmoud Azziz abu Yasin, Islamic fundamentalist and terrorist asshole, from his beddy-bye. Whereupon, I’d whop him upside the haid with my handy little sap, knock him cold, and hustle his ass down to the Peugeot, where Doc would pop that two hundred milligrams of Dr. N’s Ketamine right into his upper deltoid, which would drug the shit out of ol’ Mahmoud for a few precious hours.
Then we’d spirit the tango Adam Henry (that’s radio talk for terrorist asshole for the uninitiated among you) out of Egypt on a thirty-two-foot fishing trawler Doc had rented in Alexandria, and after a pleasant ocean cruise, we’d rendezvous with a guided-missile frigate that had orders to be standing by, 75 miles off the Egyptian coast during a six-hour window. From the frigate, we’d chopper to a carrier task force that sat another 125 miles out to sea. Then we’d use a Grumman C-2 Greyhound carrier onboard delivery plane to COD us all to Sigonella, Sicily.
There, we’d quietly slip Azziz aboard his own C-141 StarLifter aircraft and fly him back to CONUS (or the CONtinental United States in civilian speak), where we’d drop him off in such plain sight that even the FBI would be able to find him. We would then disappear back into the shadows from which we’d come, leaving the feds to take all the capture credit when Azziz finally stood trial for his lethal part in a series of bombings across the United States that had cost sixty-five lives in all and disrupted the cities of New York, Chicago, Houston, and Washington, D.C., for more than a month.
Sounds easy. A clockwork op. Guess again. Snatch-and-grabs (or, as the Brits call ’em, cosh-and-carrys) are precari
ous, risky operations. Probs and stats? Bad. Goatfuck likelihood? High.
GF factor 1: you’re operating in a hostile environment with no back-up.
GF factor 2: your government will disavow your actions if you’re caught.
GF factor 3: if the locals do get their hands on you, the odds are that you’ll end up being dragged behind a car or truck for a few hours while they cut off significant pieces of your anatomy joint by joint.
So, you ask, how did I feel right now?
Brief answer: I felt as happy as un grand porc en merde, although you probably couldn’t get something the width of a hairpin up my sphincter because the pucker factor was off the charts.
Above me, something moved. My hand went up. We stopped. I gave signals, and Nasty pressed himself against the stairwell wall, giving himself the greatest field of fire. His free hand grasped my shoulder. That way I’d know where he was all the time. Knowing where everybody is all the time is an important element of operations such as these. It’s altogether possible to kill your own man if he’s out of position by as much as a few inches. I know—because it has happened during training.
I kept moving in the same steady pace I’d set two floors below, progressing inch by inch, the fingers of my left hand sweeping carefully, caressing the stair treads and risers as carefully as if they were virgin pussy. These fundamentalist assholes were SUCs—smart, unpredictable, and cunning. And they fucking owned this part of town—even government troops stayed away from this particular neighborhood unless they were being deployed by the hundreds.
We’d learned this fact—and others—during the past week and a half as we’d begun the deadly business of target assessment. We’d infiltrated commercially. Nasty Nick, Tommy, and I came through Rome, Messina, and Cyprus, catching a ferry from there to Port Said and busing the dusty road from Ismailia to Cairo eleven days ago. Howie, Duck Foot, and Wonder came commercial—TWA from Dulles to Frankfurt, a change of planes for the hop to Athens, then southeast over the Med to Cairo. They arrived eight days ago.
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