Direct Action sts-4

by Keith Douglass

  The engine knocking became faster. Murdock could see the reflection of the moon on the water below. He really didn’t feel like ending the evening with a swim. This was about the time Razor would say: “Don’t worry, Boss, we probably won’t survive the initial crash anyway.” But Razor wouldn’t be saying much until the drugs wore off.

  One of the door gunners was pointing to the front of the helicopter. Those SEALs who could raised themselves off the floor to be able to see out the windscreen. And there was the George Washington glowing in the moonlight.

  The lead Blackhawk peeled off to allow the damaged one to land first. The carrier was sailing into the wind, which was how the helicopter would land.

  As the Blackhawk dropped, Murdock’s view out the cabin door changed from dark ocean waves to flat black no-skid flight deck.

  As soon as the wheels touched down, the copilot instantly shut the engines down. They were finished taking chances for the night.

  There was minimal crew on the flight deck, and they had been instructed to forget everything they saw. Or else.

  White-shirted and red-crossed medical corpsmen were waiting with stretchers. The SEALs passed Higgins out first, then Razor. DeWitt walked to sick bay, as did Murdock with the aid of the morphine.

  The SEALS didn’t kiss the flight deck. But now that his officers and chief were gone, Jaybird Sterling leaned between the cockpit seats and planted a firm wet kiss on the cheek of the pilot. The warrant officer jumped, startled, and then broke into a huge grin. He knew SEALS, and was probably glad he hadn’t been French-kissed. Then Jaybird gave him the traditional, heartfelt, but very unofficial Special Forces crowning tribute. “You sweet motherfucker, don’t you never die!”

  50

  Saturday, November 11

  2145 hours Aboard the U.S.S. George Washington Eastern Mediterranean Sea

  Blake Murdock would have loved to catch a little shut-eye. But he was lying naked, on his stomach, atop an examination table in the sick bay. And a doctor was giving him the facts of life.

  “No, I wouldn’t even think of putting you under,” the doctor said, shaking his head. He was a lieutenant, wearing nice clean khakis. “Not in your present condition.” He pinched the skin of Murdock’s forearm. When he released it the skin stood right up. “See how dehydrated you are? No, we’ll just give you a local and probe for fragments. The big ones, that is. The little ones will work their way out on their own, eventually.”

  “Great,” Murdock said dryly. He handed the beaker to one of the corpsmen. “How about another water, Doc?”

  “That’s your third one,” the corpsman said in amazement. It was a liter beaker. “Are you sure you don’t have to go?”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” Murdock assured him.

  Doc Ellsworth entered the compartment, freshly showered and dressed in a clean unmarked flight Suit. He cast a professional eye over Murdock’s backside. “Hey, Lieutenant, we’re going to have to get you a laminated chit for when you go through airports. You’ll never make it through a metal detector after this.”

  “What’s the word?” said Murdock.

  The Doc turned serious. “The Professor is still in surgery. He’s critical. Razor’s in surgery too. I saw his X-rays, the ankle’s pretty well shattered. They’ll just clean things up in there. When we get to CONUS they’ll open up the leg again and screw everything back together.”

  “Is he looking at a medical?” Murdock asked. Meaning a medical discharge or loss of SEAL qualification.

  Doc shrugged. “Time will tell. Mister DeWitt’s fracture didn’t get any worse. He’s in plaster now. He may have bruised some internal organs; we’ll be keeping an eye on him. As far as everyone else, you’re talking first-and second-degree burns, bruises, sprains, ripped and pulled muscles. I’ll be handing out Motrin for quite a while.”

  “You did a hell of a job, Doc.” Murdock smiled. “Shit, just the positive thinking alone.”

  Doc grinned back. “I kept telling you, sir, but I guess you had to experience it for yourself. Now you see that it works, you’ll be thinking extra positive next time and you won’t get hurt at all.”

  “You must have converted Jaybird. I don’t think he got a scratch.”

  “It’s his aura,” Doc explained. “Son of a bitch has an aura so bright you could read by it.”

  From the puzzled looks they were getting, no one else in the compartment had the slightest idea what they were talking about.

  “Get some sleep, Doc. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Doc Ellsworth took another look at Murdock’s situation and shook his head sadly. “I’d tell you to have fun, Lieutenant,but you aren’t going to.”

  They had to stab him so many times to administer the local anesthetic that Murdock started to wonder if he shouldn’t just self-administer another syrette and let them go ahead and probe.

  Don Stroh walked in. Evidently, Murdock thought, he’d flipped a coin with Kohler and lost. “Blake, what can I say except that I’m sorry for everything.”

  Murdock made no reply.

  Stroh went on. “The word from the overhead imagery is that the warehouse was absolutely flattened. Communications and signals intercepts indicate that you took out close to five hundred Syrians and Hezbollah, both at the warehouse and afterward.”

  Murdock thought that went a long way toward evening the score for the Beirut bombing. But what he said was, “I lost a good man, and I didn’t have to. My men are wounded, and there was no need for them to get hurt.”

  “Blake, I …”

  “Look, Don, I know it wasn’t your call not to launch. But you can tell those assholes back at Langley that they better pray we don’t take some leave when we get back and go spook hunting. Fuck!” Murdock looked over his shoulder. “Jeez, Doc, what are you using, a bayonet?”

  “I’ll talk to you later, Blake.”

  “Sure, Don.”

  Stroh left, and a whole platoon of SEALs came thundering in.

  The doctor looked up from Murdock’s ass and said in outrage, “Get all these people out of here!”

  The corpsmen looked at the burly SEALS, then at each other, as if to say: “Who, us?”

  “It’s okay, Doc,” Murdock said. “They’re family.”

  “Hi, Sir!” said Jaybird Sterling, as usual the spokesman. “We just talked with Doc Ellsworth. He said your ass was a sight to behold, so we had to come in and check it out for ourselves.”

  Murdock could hear the doctor grumbling behind him. “It’s okay, Doc. We’ll be lucky if they don’t head right for the mess deck and sell tickets to the crew.” He turned to his SEALS. “I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to tell you how proud I am of every one of you.”

  SEALs had the balls to do just about anything except accept a compliment without screwing around like a bunch of hyperactive schoolboys. They grinned, shuffled their feet, hung their heads, punched each other on the shoulders, and made remarks like, “We know you’re just saying that ‘cause your ass is hanging out, sir.”

  “Okay,” said Murdock, “I showed you my ass, now get the hell out of here. Jaybird, you and Magic hold on for a second.”

  The rest of them left. Jaybird said, “The helicopter guys are taking pictures of our bird down in the hangar deck. They think it’s probably the record for the most hits taken by a Blackhawk that still kept flying.”

  “They said another few minutes and that engine would have caught fire,” said Magic.

  “Thanks for getting me up that ladder, you two,” said Murdock. “I ran out of gas.”

  “No problem, sir,” said Magic.

  “You try carrying around a moose like Razor and that’ll happen,” said Jaybird.

  “What I really wanted to talk to you about,” said Murdock, “is my choice for who’s going to pinch-hit for Razor as platoon chief.”

  “Don’t worry about a thing, sir,” Jaybird said earnestly. “We may get a little crazy every now and then, but while you’re laid up we’ll back the guy
one hundred percent.”

  Murdock began to shake with suppressed laughter, so much that the doctor, by now highly annoyed, had to halt work behind him.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” said Murdock, straining to hold it in. “Because you’re the new platoon chief.”

  Jaybird’s jaw dropped all the way to the deck. He stood thunderstruck. “No way, sir.”

  The laughter burst out of Murdock. “Way,” he insisted between guffaws. Magic Brown fell to the deck laughing. “You’re kidding, right, sir?” Jaybird said hopefully.

  Murdock had to hold onto the table to support himself. He shook his head and managed to squeeze out, “Date of rank. You’re the senior first class. Can’t do anything about it. Hey, Magic,” he called down to Magic Brown, who was still writhing on the deck. “Guess what? You’re the new leading petty officer.”

  “Whatever you say, sir,” Magic gasped, holding onto his belly. Every time he looked up at the expression on Jaybird’s face, he went hysterical again.

  Murdock wiped the tears from his eyes. “You’re going to love the prestige. I’ve heard you say it before. The chief just dicks off and orders people around.”

  Jaybird opened his mouth to protest.

  “No, no, that’s okay,” said Murdock. “I want you to consider this a reward for a job well done. You can start with the equipment. Make sure everything we brought aboard is cleaned, accounted for, and packed for disembarkation. Get Razor’s inventory list out of his quarters. We left a lot of gear behind in Lebanon, including some very expensive sniper rifles. Prepare a list with serial numbers so we can start work on the paperwork to write it off as lost in combat. While you’re doing that, start putting together a chronology of events and statements from everyone, including Miguel and Red, for the after-action report.”

  Jaybird’s mouth was still hanging open.

  “Get some chow first,” Murdock said benevolently. “And a good night’s sleep. You can get cracking on everything tomorrow morning. Then come and see me in the afternoon and I’ll give you the rest of the things to do.”

  “The rest?” Jaybird asked faintly.

  “The rest,” Murdock said definitely. “And I want you to know that I’ve got every confidence in you. Now get out of here and quit distracting the doctor before he sews my butt cheeks together.”

  Magic, still giggling, led a dazed Jaybird Sterling from the compartment.

  Murdock allowed himself another good laugh. He felt fifty pounds lighter. “Sorry about that, Doc. You can go back to work.” He glanced over at the corpsman. “I think you need to hand over that urinal and help me roll over. Now I’ve really got to go.”

  “Quite a group you have there,” the doctor mumbled from behind.

  “Oh, they’ll break your dishes and piss on your floor, said Murdock. “But they’re worth the trouble.”

  51

  Tuesday, November 14/Wednesday, November 15

  In transit

  Murdock made sure Razor was still pretty well doped up when he told him who was standing in for him. Murdock didn’t want him to have an embolism or anything.

  Razor’s evil smile was a little dreamier, but still a sight to behold. “Jaybird’ll get me back on the job if he has to take charge of my rehab himself,” he predicted.

  Murdock spent the next three days limping around with his own evil smile well hidden as the responsibility, rather than the authority, worked its magic on Jaybird Sterling. Just as it had on Razor Roselli. And George MacKenzie before him.

  Jaybird organized, cajoled, persuaded, and occasionally threatened. The gear was cleaned, inventoried, and packed, paperwork was started. The platoon was ready to go.

  They flew off the ship on the 14th. The platoon was on one of the Chinooks, with Razor and Higgins strapped to stretchers and a Navy medical team attending. The other Chinook carried the Army maintenance people, with the wounded Blackhawk slung beneath it. The surviving Blackhawk flew off under its own power.

  They landed at Sigonella after dark. C-5’s were waiting to take the helicopters back to Fort Campbell, Kentucky.

  The SEALs and the medical team went from helicopters right onto an Air Force C-9 Nightingale. This was a McDonnell Douglas DC-9 airliner specially fitted out as an aeromedical evacuation aircraft to transport casualties between theaters of operation. The Navy medical team disembarked and left Higgins and Razor in the care of the Nightingale medical crew.

  The Nightingale lifted off immediately and flew from Sigonella to Rhein Main airport in Frankfurt, Germany. Higgins was taken off to the hospital there for more surgery. He was still unconscious, and for security reasons the platoon couldn’t accompany him off the aircraft. But a SEAL lieutenant commander and senior chief from Special Operations Command Europe were there to take care of one of their own.

  At Rhein Main the SEALs dragged Razor Roselli and their equipment off the C-9 and onto a C-141 transport. That too took off immediately.

  The C-141 stopped in Shannon to refuel. The SEALs ate foil-wrapped TV dinners and stared longingly out the windows in the direction of the duty-free shop.

  From Ireland they stopped in Newfoundland to refuel. The SEALs were not allowed off the aircraft. The C-141 hopped across the U.S., finally touching down at North Island Naval Air Station.

  Razor Roselli was taken off in an ambulance to San Diego Naval Hospital, and the rest of the very exhausted and jet-lagged 3rd Platoon boarded trucks for the short drive to Coronado.

  52

  Epilogue

  Third Platoon received a very respectful reception back at SEAL Team Seven headquarters. No one knew the details of the operation, or would, but word had gotten around that 3rd Platoon had really counted coup.

  In his will Kos Kosciuszko named Blake Murdock the executor of his estate. There wasn’t much for Murdock to do. Kos’s parents were dead. As Kos said in a letter attached to the will, “My other relatives never cared about me, and the feeling is mutual.” He’d been married once; a SEAL divorce and no children. The Navy was his home and the teams his life.

  Don’t any of you feel sorry for me,” he said in the letter. “I loved every minute of it!”

  Kos left most of his money to Navy Relief. Treasured possessions, souvenirs from his travels, and his beloved gun collection were earmarked to specific SEALS.

  Blake Murdock got a Remington 12-gauge autoloader because he’d never managed to outscore Kos when they’d shot skeet. Razor Roselli got a lovingly customized Colt.45 because: “He’s always getting himself into trouble and ought to have something to get him out.” Magic Brown received a pre-1964 30–06 Model 70 Winchester with a beautiful walnut stock. The first time Murdock ever saw Magic cry was when he gave him the rifle.

  Jaybird Sterling got a mahogany sculpture of some long-forgotten pagan fertility god with fantastically outsized genitalia. For a long time after that Jaybird walked around with a faraway look of remembrance in his eyes.

  The other SEALs of the platoon all got something. The rest of Kos’s possessions, never more than would fit in a self-storage locker during deployments, went to Goodwill.

  Contrary to what Murdock had thought, there was to be no burial of an empty coffin with full military honors. Kos had been to too many of those, the letter said. He’d always hated them.

  In an eerie piece of prophecy that raised the hairs on the back of Murdock’s neck, Kos wrote that if he had fallen in battle, he hoped that no one would get hurt or go out of their way on his behalf. “Once you’re done with it, the body is just an empty container. It’s stupid to concern yourself with the container, only what’s inside it.”

  But if it wasn’t too much trouble, Kos wanted to be cremated and his ashes scattered at sea. He didn’t want the service for burial at sea to be read “by any pencil-neck Navy chaplain. I’m definite on that, sir. It has got to be a SEAL Master Chief. If George MacKenzie isn’t around, anyone you can dig up will do. And no eulogies or speeches. I hate the idea of you all lying about what a great guy I was. J
ust keep it to yourselves.”

  There were so many SEALs and chiefs from Special Boat Squadron One who wanted to go that they ended up on a large and elderly LCU landing craft. It was a gray and overcast day, with heavy chop. The SEALs wore their blues. Razor Roselli was in a cast that ran all the way up to his crotch, supported on either side by Jaybird and Magic.

  The members of 3rd Platoon had made up a package with letters, mementos, and Budweiser badges. George MacKenzie read the centuries-old service for those lost at sea. The package slid over the side. SEALs from the other teams tossed wreaths. The LCU headed back to shore.

  Kos had left money for an open bar at his favorite drinking establishment. A place where the proprietor didn’t mind a ring of solemn SEALs each tossing a shot of Bacardi 151 onto the bar and setting the liquid ablaze. It was a SEAL tradition — their version of the Viking funeral. Then they all got loudly shit-faced and told Kos Kosciuszko stories long into the night.

  George MacKenzie’s drinking days were long over. When the glass fell out of Blake Murdock’s hand while he was in the process of swallowing, Mac thought it was time to take the lieutenant home. Before he did he picked the pockets of all the SEALs in the platoon and removed their car keys. He left cab fare for them with the bartender, along with an unveiled threat that it had better be used for cab fare.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said to Murdock.

  “Okay,” Murdock replied. He was well into the zombie mode. If someone had said set yourself on fire, he would have replied, “Okay.” He got off the bar stool.

  Mac caught him before he hit the deck. He got Murdock out to his pickup, positioning his head carefully so that any vomiting would take place out the window. Mac wasn’t a Master Chief for nothing.

  “I did it, George,” Murdock mumbled drunkenly as they drove along.

  “Sure you did,” said Mac. Always humor the drunk.

  “I killed him.”