They walked away from the buildings, through a gate and onto the sand. A sand dune had been dozered up to replace the sand ripped out by winter storms. They went down to the hard sand along the water and turned south.
"We've got about three miles down to a spot we use for live firing. Since time is important, we'll run. How about a six-minutes-a-mile pace."
"That I know about," Kat said. She had resolved to talk as little as possible, to record everything, and to remember everything. She started off at the six-minutes-a-mile pace, and was soon glad it wasn't a five-minute mile he wanted. The pack bounced and jolted on her back until she worked out a slightly different stride to move with its sliding motion.
DeWitt looked at her and smiled. "Yes, you know what a six-minutes-a-mile pace is. Can you do that for twenty-six miles?"
"Not with this pack on, for damn sure."
DeWitt grinned. "Good, you're human, after all."
Twenty minutes later they stopped at a twenty-foot-high sand dune with grass and shrubs growing on the top. The face of it had been bulldozed out almost vertical to set up a safe twenty-yard shooting range. DeWitt got down to business.
"At this point we don't care if you can field strip the MP-5 or not. All we want you to be able to do is shoot it, and hit what you're aiming at. That's our job this morning. This weapon has a folding stock so you can hold it close or, if you have time, pull out the stock for a better aim. It has a thirty-round magazine, and will fire single-shot, three-round bursts, or fully automatic. However, we like to think that SEALs are better shots than to have to hose down a spot with thirty rounds to hit one man."
He watched her. She had a slight frown, and seemed to be memorizing everything he said.
"Understand yesterday you fired a weapon for the first time. First a forty-five pistol, and then the G-eleven. This isn't quite so hot as the G-eleven. But it will do the job. Now, let's do some dry firing for position."
Back in the office of Third Platoon, Murdock had tried again to lay out a training schedule. He and DeWitt had worked over it since seven that morning, and it still didn't look right.
"This whole thing might be useless if Stroh says we have only ten days to get on that plane," Jaybird Sterling said.
"Not a chance. Stroh saw how serious I was. I'll call the President direct if I have to. No sense slaughtering a whole platoon and still not get the mission accomplished. We'd just show our hand, and the Arabs could throw a division of troops around wherever the factory is and make it impossible for any outfit to get in there."
"So, we keep the same sequence for Kat weapons, fitness, water training and rebreather, then jumping?"
"Still looks the best. We can modify it as we go along. After her individual training, we still need two weeks to work her in with the rest of the troops."
"At least. In our combat formation, where does she walk?" Sterling asked.
"With our squad. Lampedusa out front, then me, then Holt with the radio. You're behind Holt and right in back of you is Kat. You'll baby-sit her."
"Figures. By the time Mr. DeWitt gets her trained, I hope to hell she'll be able to work right along with the rest of us."
"To be prayed for. Now for the rest of the troops. Get them up and ready — we're hitting the obstacle course. No tadpoles over there this morning. Every man gets timed. Anybody who doesn't do it in ten minutes, drops, and does a hundred pushups. Ten minutes later he does the course again — until he's under ten. I'm the first one out of the chute."
Two hours later, all but two of the men of Third Platoon had done the beast of an obstacle course in under ten minutes. Those two ran it again. This isn't any ordinary course. It includes the usual barriers, plus a twenty-foot vertical wall climb, a go up and down a sixty-foot-high cargo net, a rope climb, a shinny up a sixty-foot tower, a slide down from it on a rope, the stump jump, parallel bars, a rope climb up a wall, a thirty-foot barbed-wire crawl, the weaver, a rope bridge, the log stack, the five vaults, and the swing rope combo. When the men finish, they are told their time, then drop, and do twenty push-ups.
Murdock gave the last two men through the obstacles a five-minute break, then he stood.
"Gentlemen, let's go for a little run."
They hit the hard sand and ran south for a mile at a seven-minute pace, then moved into the soft sand and did another mile. When they were two miles from the gate, Murdock turned them around.
"Too damn hot out here today," he said. He led the twin line of SEALs into the surf, running, splashing along at the seven-minutes-per-mile pace in sometimes wet sand, sometimes a foot of swirling ocean water, depending on when the waves broke.
Within two minutes the SEALs were soaked to the skin from head to toe.
Murdock watched the men as he ran backwards. Yes, they were doing it, holding up. The three new men had settled into their places now that they knew an assignment was coming up. His wounded troops were responding as well. In two weeks they would all be hard and fit, and ready to try something new like working with a civilian woman on a mission where the smallest misstep could mean death to yourself, and some of your fellow SEALS.
It was entirely new territory. No woman had ever participated in a SEAL covert operation before.
By 0900, Kat's right shoulder was sore from firing the submachine gun. She had lost count how many 30-round magazines she had burned up. She liked the three-round burst. Only twice had she fired it on full auto. In two bursts she emptied a full magazine.
"All right, Kat. You have a full mag. We're hiking along this trail. I'll be behind you. Without warning we start taking enemy fire from the left. I'll say 'Fire from the left!' When I shout that, you drop to your stomach, have the MP-5 up, and return fire into the dune. Use up the magazine with three-round bursts. Got it?"
Kat nodded.
They moved back to the start of the range and began walking across the face of the big dune. DeWitt waited until they were almost across the mouth of the range before he called out.
Kat dropped to her stomach, broke her fall with her elbows, aimed, and fired at the carved-out sand dune within three seconds. She fired all thirty rounds, ejected the empty magazine, slammed in a new one, and worked the slide to push a round into the firing chamber the way DeWitt had showed her.
"Cease fire," DeWitt said. He squatted beside her. "Yes, Kat. Good. I didn't even tell you to change magazines, but that's a basic. In any firefight you keep a loaded magazine in your weapon at all times. If you can change from a partly used one to a full one, do that. Never get caught with an empty magazine, or you and half the platoon could be dead."
"Got it," Kat said.
They did the firing on command six more times, three from each side so she learned how to twist her body to return fire to the right. Each time she did it quickly and the right way.
DeWitt sat down across from her and stretched out his legs. He watched her. She looked at him.
"What?"
"Nothing. It's break time. In your pack is a canteen. I filled it with Coke and ice cubes before we left the Grinder. Strongest thing we have on base."
A grin flashed across her face as she grabbed the canteen and drank. She smiled. "Oh, yes, I needed this. Like Navy grog of old."
"Kat, I know you have a Ph.D. in physics. Any minors like law?"
"How did you know? I went into prelaw for two years, then switched."
"How did I know? You have a sharp analytical mind, I'd guess. What I've seen this morning is that I don't have to tell you or explain anything to you twice. You listen, you see, you learn, you memorize I'd bet, and then you do. Traits of a good trial lawyer. I had prelaw and then a year of law school before I went to the Academy."
"Still happy with your choice?"
"Remarkably. I'm so Navy that it hurts sometimes."
She nodded. "I can see that, DeWitt."
They worked on the canteens of Coke.
"What's next?" Kat asked.
"Easy, we have all day. You seem determined."
"That's exactly our plan. So, you ready to work with a pistol?"
"I'll be carrying one besides the MP-5?"
"Right, we all have at least two weapons. Some of the guys also have a hideout, a little twenty-two or a thirty-two."
He reached in his pack, and took out a pistol. DeWitt gave it to her. "This is an HK P7. It fires a nine-millimeter round and holds eight of them in the magazine in the handle. It doesn't have the hitting power that the forty-five you shot yesterday does. But neither does it have the weight or the recoil."
She held it, careful to keep the muzzle pointing downrange.
"One interesting feature on this weapon is that it has no safety. Most pistols have a safety. You can't just draw and fire like in the old westerns. You have to push off the safety, then fire.
"This pistol has a unique grip catch in the front edge of the butt. When your hand grips this, it engages the trigger with the cocking and firing mechanism. That all means that to fire the weapon you simply grip the handle and pull the trigger. If you drop it, the weapon's grip catch isn't engaged, so it can't go off accidentally."
DeWitt stood. "Give it a try. It's loaded."
She stood, aimed at the sand dune, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
"That's an automatic," DeWitt said. "First you need to pull the slide back like you probably did on the forty-five. You need to do this on any automatic just after loading an empty weapon with a fresh magazine."
"Right," she said. She pulled back the slide and let it snap forward, then lifted the weapon, gripped the handle, and squeezed the trigger. It fired. She nodded. Aimed again, and fired. Soon the 8-round magazine was empty and the slide stayed open.
DeWitt handed her a full magazine. "How do I get the empty one out?" she asked.
"The magazine catch is at the left side of the butt, behind the trigger. Push it and the magazine drops out. Slide in the new one."
"Then I pull the slide back to chamber a round. Got it."
"Now hold your fire while I set up some man-sized targets." He went to the face of the sand dune, pulled six targets from a closed wooden box, and leaned them against the back of the carved-out sand.
Back beside her, he motioned at the targets twenty yards away.
"This is a common target distance, twenty yards. That's sixty feet, three times as far as the Old West gunmen liked to be for a gunfight. Twenty feet was plenty for those old six-guns.
"We'll move up to ten yards and give you a try. No weapon is any good if you can't hit what you're aiming at. Anyone we start shooting at won't be afraid of the sound. It'll take hot lead to discourage him. We use the point-and-shoot technique with pistols and handguns. It works.
"Just push out your finger and point at something. You'll do the same thing with the HK in your hand. When you are pointing at your target, pull the trigger. Give it a try on the first target. Hold the pistol at your side. Then lift your hand almost shoulder high and point at the target. When you're on target, squeeze the trigger."
Kat did. The first two shots hit the first target. Then she missed three, and the last three she hit.
"Yes," DeWitt said.
They fired forty rounds through the P-7 then tested two other handguns, both with 14-round magazines. Kat liked the HK P-7, without a safety to worry about.
They packed up, finished the canteens of rapidly warming Coke, and cleaned up the brass from the rounds they had fired. Then they headed back down the beach.
"Packs are a lot lighter this time," Kat said.
They ran back the three miles to the Grinder and dropped into chairs in Murdock's office.
"Boots," DeWitt said. "How do they feel?"
"Blisters," Kat said. "They're half a size too big. I need eight-and-a-halfs instead of nines."
"I'm on it," Jaybird Sterling said. "I'll pick up a pair this afternoon."
"How's the shooting eye?" Murdock asked.
Kat shrugged and pointed to DeWitt.
"Good. Point and shoot with the pistol was right on. Kat likes the HK P-7. We'll keep at it. The MP-5 is coming along. Didn't do much on accuracy. Down the road. What about longer guns? We still have that friendly rancher up by Boulevard?"
"Last time I knew," Murdock said.
"Think Kat and I'll slip up there in the morning for some work on the long guns. Kat, we want you to be able to fire any weapon we carry in an emergency. Not that you have to qualify, but you should be familiar enough to pick up one and use it if you lose yours or you run out of rounds."
"Sounds reasonable. What's next?"
DeWitt looked at Murdock.
"A run?"
"We did six miles already," DeWitt said. "What about the obstacle course? I'd like to try it."
"Not on your agenda," DeWitt said.
"You don't think I can do it," Kat said.
Murdock grinned. "Might be a good welcome to the SEALS," he said. "Yes, Kat, I'll lead you on a tour of the obstacle course. Any one of the stops you don't want to try will be fine."
"I'll do the whole course. Let's go."
7
Friday, October 21
2242 hours
Tehran, Iran
George Imhoff sat in the second room of the small apartment and tried to make sense out of what went on between the huge fat American and the Iranian lens grinder. George belched and his stomach growled at him. He hadn't had anything to eat since that morning. The four warm French beers hadn't helped any. He had no idea where Tauksaun, the huge one, found French beer in Tehran.
George looked at Yasmeen for the hundredth time and lifted his brows. They sat near the door that had been opened three inches so they could see, and Yasmeen could hear. Most of the conversation was in Farsi.
"They still talk about the soccer match. Each time Tauksaun brings up the lens grinding, the man changes the topic."
George swore softly, and watched Yasmeen's eyes light up. She seemed to be excited by the dirty words, but he didn't have time for that now. He slipped the forty-five from his pocket and checked the magazine. Full. He held it in his right hand and reached for the door. "No," Yasmeen said softly.
"Yes, I don't have time for this shit. Past time for some action." He stepped through the door and cleared his throat. Both men near the bed looked at him. Tauksaun shook his head when he saw the weapon.
George didn't hesitate. He pulled the forty-five's slide back and let it snap forward, slamming a round into the firing chamber. He carried the pistol low as he walked up to the Iranian.
"Tell him the bullshit is over. Do it, Tauksaun."
The huge man tried to roll to one side a little to ease the pressure on his hips. He sighed, then stuttered out some Farsi.
George brought the forty-five up to aim at the lens grinder's chest.
"Now, tell him I want to know exactly where he was taken to do the grinding work on the polished steel. Exactly. None of this blindfolded crap."
George waited as the translation came. Then he put the pistol's muzzle against the lens grinder's chest, directly over his heart.
The Iranian was thin, small, with a full dark beard and bushy brows. He slumped back toward the bed and George moved with him, increasing the pressure of the forty-five. The Iranian looked up with black eyes that showed stark fear.
He chattered once, and paused, then came out with a flood of Farsi.
George waited.
Tauksaun nodded. "He says he knows they went to the southern port city of Chah Bahar. From there they drove north by truck into the mountains on a good gravel road. He says they never got all the way through the mountains into the great plain. So the spot must be in the mountains."
"Could he find the place again?" George asked.
When the Iranian heard the translation, he looked at George and shook his head.
Th
e translation came that they had been kept in covered trucks all the way from the port. He only knew they went north. They did not go into Pakistan.
The questioning went on.
The man had no idea what kind of project he had worked on. He was grinding some kind of metal. He never saw a finished product. He and ten others had worked around the clock on twelve-hour shifts.
Yes, they had completed the project and then were sent home. Yes, they each received wages, and a bonus of 210,000 rials. That would be about seventy dollars, not a lot of money for a lens grinder.
"That's all he knows, CIA agent," Tauksaun said. "I don't appreciate your use of the weapon in my house. It wasn't needed."
"It worked, nobody got hurt."
"So far," Tauksaun said. He spoke with the lens grinder for a few moments, then Tiny came. They put a blindfold around the small man's eyes, and Tiny led him out the front door.
It would take Tiny a half hour to get the man out of the area and safely away. Tauksaun didn't talk to George. He tried to find some American music on his short-band radio. He got mostly static, then located an American station on one of the Air Force bases in Germany. The music came through loud and clear.
The Andrews sisters had just finished a golden oldie, when Tiny came in. She closed the door, then tried to turn, but staggered a step before she fell to the floor. George went down beside her and held her head. Her eyes rolled for a moment, then steadied in place.
Blood seeped from her mouth.
"Police," she whispered in English, then passed out. George carried her to a pallet beside the floor bed and stretched her out. He had tears in his eyes. Yasmeen knelt beside Tiny on the pallet, making a quick examination.
"She's been shot in the chest," Yasmeen said. "Probably hit one lung, and for sure lots of internal bleeding. If she doesn't get to a hospital, she'll die."
"No hospital," Tauksaun said. "The police would recognize her and let her die there. Tiny isn't exactly unknown to the authorities. This is all on your head, CIA man."
He stared at Tiny for a moment and blinked rapidly. He nodded to himself, and then used the telephone. He spoke quickly in English and Farsi, then hung up.
Deathrace sts-7 Page 5