Seal Team Seven 5 - Firestorm

by Keith Douglass

  "You have a flare gun?" Dewitt asked.

  "Always carry one." Murdock took the small flare gun from his fanny pack and broke open the waterproof plastic seal. "Loaded and ready to go."

  "Let's do it," Dewitt said.

  The muffled report of the flare gun and then the brilliant red flare on a parachute surprised the SEALS. "This is crazy," Sterling said. "Get ready to dive again," Chin agreed. "Might work," Brown said. "Nothing else is fucking working."

  The thirteen men watched the flare drifting to their right. The bright red flare burned for almost a minute, then sputtered out.

  The SEALS waited.

  Less than a minute later a bullhorn sounded to the east of them. "Got you, swimmers. Where are your two IBSS?"

  The SEALS gave a cheer.

  Ten minutes later they were all on board the USS Dorchester changing into dry clothes.

  Murdock checked his watch 0422. Plenty of dark time out there. They were scheduled to rendezvous with the carrier as quickly as they could get there. They would have a few hours of sleep and then get ready for the second half of their mission. Murdock grinned. This was beginning to feel a lot like Hell Week back at the Coronado BUD/S training command.

  16

  Monday, November 24

  0600 hours Navspecwarcom Coronado, California Lieutenant Blake Murdock sat at his desk in the home base headquarters of the Seal Team Seven. He stared at the list of names of the men in his two squads in the Third Platoon. He was still tired. He was grouchy as hell and he had a monster headache.

  Third Platoon had been back from Lebanon for ten days. He'd given the men three-day leaves, and had tried to catch up on his sleep himself. His butt and both legs still hurt like they were on fire. The medics had told him to stay in bed for a week and let the shrapnel wounds heal. Sure, a week in bed.

  He stared at the list of men again, concentrating now on the three with red circles around them.

  Chief Petty Officer "Kos" Kosciuszko was dead and buried on foreign soil. Murdock hated that as much as any part of the Lebanon mission. SEALS just didn't leave a KIA behind. This time there was no possible way they could have brought him out. Koz had been with the platoon a long time, longer than Murdock had, and he was the anchor of the operation. He had to be replaced.

  Razor Roselli, his longtime Platoon Chief, was still in Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego with a shattered ankle. If it didn't heal right it would mean Roselli would be out of the SEALS. Roselli had more combat experience than any other man in the platoon. He'd be hard to replace.

  His right hand on a mission, his radioman, Bill Higgins, was in critical condition with a badly shot-up side. If he lived he would probably never be fit for SEAL duty again.

  Three good men. How did he replace them?

  He stared at the roster again. Ron Holt. He'd seen a lot of good action from Ron. Ron was a cool head who obeyed commands in an instant. Yes, he'd move him up to be his radioman. That still left two big holes.

  He had moved Jaybird Sterling up as Platoon Chief on the ship just after they got out of the Blackhawk chopper. So far Jaybird had done a fine job. He had persuaded, cajoled, threatened, and bullied the men to get their equipment squared away, their reports written and their lost weapons detailed. He'd be fine in that post.

  So far he was measuring up. Several men in the platoon had more combat experience than Jaybird, but none had the guts, the bravado, and the cool decision-making and problem-solving in action that Jaybird had shown. Jaybird it was.

  Murdock had his first cup of coffee, and then looked over the roster of unassigned SEALS there in Coronado.

  Each man was listed with his name, rank, specialty, physical description, length of service and a picture.

  Murdock picked out Electrician's Mate Second Class Henry "Horse" Ronson for his machine gunner to replace Kos. He was six-four and 230 pounds of muscle. If he passed an interview he'd be assigned to First Squad.

  That left two slots to bring him up to TOE. He needed a man who could handle explosives. All SEALS are trained to be sappers, but it was beneficial to have one man specially trained and outstanding at his work. He picked out Willy "The Priest" Bishop, an Electrician Mate Second Class, to fill that spot.

  A linguist would help. He went over the available list of SEALS to see if any had been to language school. One man had. He could speak Spanish and French, Tagalog, Russian, and four dialects of Chinese. Yeah, that should cover most of the world. He looked at the man's picture. He was Chinese. Kenneth Ching, Quartermaster First Class.

  Murdock made a phone call to personnel and told them to send the three men over that morning for interviews at 1100. The platoon should be back from PT by then.

  Murdock moved cautiously on the pillow on his swivel chair. He'd have a sore butt for a month, maybe more. He was lucky at that. He'd made a hospital call that afternoon to Balboa and check on his two wounded men. Both had been detached from his command, but they were still his men. If they weren't being taken care of properly, there would be some serious shit flung around those clean hospital rooms, corridors, and offices.

  Dewitt. The lieutenant and second in command of the platoon had come back from Lebanon with his left arm in a cast. A bad break. The medics had told him to take a two-week leave and rest up at home. Dewitt had said yes, sir, saluted the commander doctor, and reported back to duty the next day.

  He was hurting. Doc Ellsworth checked on him twice a day with a shot of morphine ready. Dewitt was making it fine now with no training going on. Murdock didn't know how he'd fare during the tough training school he had worked out. It would be nasty and brutal. He had to integrate the new men and confirm Jaybird's leadership ability under tense and near-combat conditions.

  "Oh, damn!" Murdock whispered as he shifted on the chair. Lacy pains darted up his thighs and buttocks, and he stared at the bottle of ibuprofen on his desk. He'd been gulping three at a time four times a day. The dope kept him civil most of the time.

  Murdock looked down at the training schedule. It wasn't Hell Week exactly, but he did have a forty-eight-hour mission set up without sleep and with live firing out in the desert. Two canteens of water, no food, no rest, lots of double-timing, and a whole shit-pot full of beer cans to knock down at three hundred yards. The two-day Hell would come after some intensive day-long training exercises with definite objectives followed by evaluations and critiques. Jaybird would have a lot to do with these. The troops were due to report back today at nine. Jaybird would be in by eight. He hadn't taken any leave, wanting to get to understand all of his duties. He was a quick learner. He, in effect, would do a lot of the running of the platoon while they were in garrison.

  Dewitt came in, groaned, and drew a cup of coffee. He sat down across from Murdock. "Platoon back today?" Murdock nodded. "We going to hit the training sched?"

  "Like we were a brand-new class of BUD trainees. I still think you need that week's leave to see your parents up in Seattle."

  Dewitt looked at him from deep-set eyes under his just renewed flattop haircut. "If the men do it, I do it, except maybe the cargo net climb."

  "You won't do that cast any good smashing it around."

  "It's my cast, and my arm. What's on for this morning?"

  "Start out slow," Murdock said. "Figured we'd do a little log PT with cammies and life vests."

  "Then a run with the logs?"

  "An easy five-mile jaunt. You don't get to carry the log. You can do the run."

  "Thanks, Boss." Dewitt looked out the window. "I got five more weeks on this cast. If anything pops in the world, you take me along even if for nothing more than to hold your goddamn fly open."

  Murdock chuckled. "Nothing can pop. I've got a six-week training schedule worked out. Not even the CNO would mess up one of my schedules."

  "I'll send him a fax so he's sure about your timetable."

  The two grinned at each other. They had hit it off since the first day when Murdock was named to replace Lieutenant Vincent Cotter, w
ho had been KIA in the Shuba airport raid in Iraq. Third Platoon had gone in to rescue a C-130 full of UN weapons inspectors that the Iraqis had surrounded and wouldn't let depart.

  Dewitt hadn't been upset when a new man had been called in to take over the platoon that he could have inherited. They had both worked together like the well-oiled parts of an HK MP-5 sub-machine gun ever since.

  Dewitt was a string-bean, six-one, not over a hundred and eighty pounds, and tough as Southern fired shoe leather. He came from Seattle, and served two years as an enlisted man before he got his appointment to Annapolis. A year after he graduated he applied for the SEALS and made the cut. That made him a Mustang, ring-knocker SEAL. He wasn't married and tended to like long-legged redheads, when he took the time. Being a SEAL didn't leave much time for social activities besides a few bars.

  Dewitt rested his cast on the desk. "Yeah, I think Jaybird is going to make it as Platoon Chief. He's damn good with the men."

  "He's coming along. Sure I can't write you a week's leave with an airline ticket for Seattle?"

  "I wouldn't know what to do. Mom would love it, but I'd drive my dad nuts. He still carries mail for the Post Office."

  "You can go fishing. Remember those big salmon you used to catch?

  When do the chinooks and kings run up there? About now? Even find some of those big flounders you were telling me about."

  "Out here we call them halibut. Not as many of them as there were. I've lost my enthusiasm for fishing. Much rather help get this outfit ready to fight again."

  David, "Jaybird" Sterling banked into the office, dropped two notebooks on his desk in the outer section, and filled a coffee cup before he came to Murdock's room and leaned against the door.

  It was 0800.

  "Sir, I have the latest intel from the men," he said to Murdock. "Seems you've picked up a new nickname. It has something to do with the recent unpleasantness in Lebanon which shall be nameless."

  Dewitt turned grinning. "This I've got to hear. They've been calling me Broken Wing."

  Jaybird laughed. "True, L-T. That's not such a bad moniker. The guys are calling the commander Old Iron Ass in honor of all the shrapnel that wound up in his lower sections."

  Dewitt laughed. Jaybird beamed. "It could be worse, sir. This way you could go down in history right next door to Old Ironsides."

  "Not likely," Murdock growled.

  "Good coffee," Jaybird said through his big smile.

  "Don't change the subject," Murdock said. "We fall out at 0910 for training. You're in the mix, Jaybird. When the troops arrive get them into cammies, floppy hats, and issue each one a life vest. No weapons. Be a walk in the fucking park." He stared at them a minute, his growl showing on his face. "Now get out of here and let me finish my plans for a forty-eight-hour Hell Week."

  They both left. Murdock popped three Motrins and washed them down with coffee.

  Murdock had never wanted to be anything but Navy since he went on an Outward Bound trek the summer after his senior year in prep school. His family came from the wealthy enclave of Front Royal, Virginia in posh Royal County. His father was a longtime Congressman holding a key seat on the powerful House Military Affairs Committee. His dad wanted him to go to Harvard, then get into politics and some day run for the family seat in Congress.

  Murdock wanted something more challenging, with more bite, and physically demanding. He wrangled an appointment to Annapolis, and four years later received his ring. A year later he applied for SEAL training, and worked his way through the six-month course right alongside the other SEAL candidates.

  Officers get no preferred treatment in SEAL training. They do everything the other men do. It helps mold a strong bond between enlisted and officers, and has a way of breaking down the strict and traditional "officer country" psychology. When you're trusting your life to the SEAL behind you on an operation, it doesn't matter what insignia of rank he has on his collar. All that matters is that he can do his job.

  Murdock had been in the SEALS for five years, including two years as a senior instructor at the BUD/S training base in Coronado. He was delighted when he took over Third Platoon about a year ago as platoon leader.

  He was still single. He had met a girl, Susan, on the Outward Bound program in Colorado the summer before his last year at Exeter. Their relationship had grown and they had planned to be married. She was driving to his graduation at Annapolis when a teenager on cocaine hit her head-on three days before they were to be married. She died instantly.

  He shuffled the papers again. Teamwork. That was the hallmark of the SEALS. In the field they had to operate as a team. Every man had to know what the SEAL beside him and behind could do and would do under any combat situation. There could be no guesswork, no lost time hoping somebody would do his job.

  Those kind of glitches killed SEALS. He wanted no more dead men on his watch.

  He dug into the paperwork again, working out specific exercises and problems to help the new men function smoothly with the experienced ones. He also had to see that the men in new positions, such as his radio operator, would know what to do and when to do it in every possible situation.

  He worked over the papers again and when he looked up, Jaybird stood in the doorway with his red life vest on.

  "The troops are ready for training, sir," Jaybird said.

  Murdock hesitated. When he was here as a senior training officer he used to take out his training boat team wearing clean, perfectly pressed khakis in contrast to their sweat-, mud-, and sand-lathered cammies. No time for that today.

  He stood, and couldn't suppress a groan. The damn shrapnel.

  Jaybird frowned a moment. "L-T, Doc will be with us and he has his full kit with lots of Motrin and morphine."

  "You didn't hear a thing, Jaybird. Let's get out there with the troops."

  The platoon double-timed into the sand of the Pacific Ocean and directly to the pile of much-used telephone poles. The men were lined up in two squads, and Murdock halted them and grinned.

  "Ladies, we'll have a meeting of the sewing society today. Each squad grab a pole and sit down and put it on your laps. It's review time."

  The SEALS knew what was coming. They lined up, picked up a three-hundred-pound butt end of a former telephone pole, and sat down with it on their thighs.

  "Move your friend the log up to your chests, ladies." The logs moved and Murdock nodded. "Ready? It's sit-up time. Hold the log in place and do sit-ups. Ten will be enough. Move!"

  These seasoned veterans had been through the log PT dozens of times during and since their BUD/S training, but it still took the ultimate in teamwork and guts. If just one SEAL didn't lift his share, the log wouldn't come up and the whole squad would fail.

  The logs came up, slowly at first, then quicker as the men counted off the ten sit-ups.

  "Fair, fair," Murdock barked. "I've had raw recruits do it better. Some of you are getting old and sloppy. Okay, drop your friend the pole in the sand and on your feet."

  He waited for them to stand beside their logs. "We'll play a little pickup, men. Lift that little toothpick to your knees." He waited as fourteen backs strained and lifted. "Now take it to your waist." They did.

  "Up to your shoulders. Move it!"

  Murdock waited until the logs were lifted quickly to shoulder height. Then he bent to the ground and worked on the laces on his boots. The SEALS held the log in position. Murdock stood and grinned at them. "Not bad, not bad. Now let's push it over your heads, arms straight. Move!" The logs pressed upward, wavered, then were up clean for both squads. Murdock nodded. "Yes, fair. Drop your toothpick to your shoulders and we'll do that again, fifteen times. Count them off." He waited as the men pushed the heavy poles upward the fifteen times barking off the number with each completion.

  Murdock shook his head. "Slow, you ladies are slow as my grandmother. Enough of that. Let's take a little hike. In case you've forgotten, we start out on the left foot. Works best if you all try to stay in step."


  Lieutenant Dewitt marched along with his squad. With his broken left arm, there wasn't a thing he could do to help them. "How far today, L-T?" a voice shouted from one of the men.

  "Was going to be only five miles," Murdock said. "Now I think we'll do seven instead." He looked at the troops. "Any more questions?"

  There were none.

  "Let's move out," Murdock called, and the sixteen SEALS marched ahead in the soft sand along the Coronado Strand. They had done it before, but not for a long time. The log was unforgiving and a quick way to whip the SEALS back into fighting shape. Murdock knew it and the men knew it.

  Somebody sang out with the ages-old cadence count chant. It was permitted. "You had a good home and you left."

  "Damn right!"

  "You had a good home and you left."

  "Damn right!"

  "Sound off."

  "One, two."

  "Sound off."

  "Three, four."

  "Cadence count."

  "One two three four ... three four!"

  A new verse came out. "Love those girls all dressed in red."

  "Love those girls all dressed in red."

  "They don't mind giving us head."

  "They don't mind giving us head."

  Dewitt moved up beside Murdock, who led the march. "Seven miles?"

  "Damn right. We don't have time to fuck around. We could get a mission anytime now that the saintly CIA is twisting our tails. Those Damn Christians In Action are always coming up with some world crisis. We might only have a week to get these puppies back in shape. Now that Don Stroh has pegged us as the CIA's pet tiger, they can unleash whenever they feel the need. We've got to be ready."

  Dewitt didn't respond.

  Murdock looked over at him. "Broken Wing, I like that. The down-side is that if we get a call while that wing is still in the cast, we leave you high and dry here on the grinder."

  Dewitt scowled and spat into the sand. "The thought had occurred to me. Not that I like it. I'm sticking pins in my CNO doll every night telling him not to call us for another six weeks."

  "Yeah, hope it works. If we do leave you behind, I'll put Jaybird into your slot. Only thing I can do."