Easy Day for the Dead

by Howard E. Wasdin

  29

  * * *

  Wednesday, at Naval Air Station Sigonella in Sicily, after contacting JSOC with the location of the biological weapons lab, Alex, John, Cat, Dr. Khamenei, and Hassan Khamenei boarded a C-130 and took flight.

  Cat fell asleep in her seat, but the Khameneis seemed nervous about the flight.

  “You think they’ll be waiting for us in Venezuela?” John asked.

  “Yeah,” Alex replied. “Whoever survived that Bouncing Betty you left for them will be waiting for us, and they won’t be happy.”

  “I know our mission is to destroy the lab and capture or kill the general, but I want to take out those three creeps.”

  “They certainly earned it—in more ways than one.”

  “I agree with the priority for taking out the lab, but is the general more important than those other three men?”

  “That’s what JSOC thinks. General Tehrani is the ringleader, and I think JSOC called this one right.”

  John lowered his head.

  “You ever hear of a Team Two guy called Jabberwocky?” Alex asked.

  “Of course.”

  “He was my mentor in Iraq. Later, I found out who killed him. It was Major Khan.”

  “No way. Are you serious?”

  “After we take care of the lab and take out the general, I want Major Khan. I don’t care about Lieutenant Saeedi or his buddy, Captain Fat’hi—I want Major Gholam Khan.”

  When the C-130 reached a safe altitude, Alex took off his seat belt and lay on the cold deck.

  Ten hours later, it was early morning when they touched down at Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia Beach, Virginia. A lieutenant and a petty officer greeted Alex’s crew on the tarmac. The petty officer took Hassan to help him find temporary married quarters. Meanwhile, the lieutenant drove Alex and the others to a secure intel building in the Dam Neck annex.

  Alex thought about asking Cat to sit out the rest of this mission. She was physically fit but not as fit as Alex and John. Cat shot better than most people but not as smoothly as Alex and John. Overall, she was a great operator but not at the level of SEAL Team Six standards. Most of all, Alex didn’t want to bring her home in a body bag—he didn’t know how he could live with himself if he did.

  On the other hand, Cat had more fire in the gut than some SEALs he knew. She wouldn’t take kindly to being sidelined. The last time he left her behind, he felt he’d been unfair. That decision had pissed off not only Cat; it had pissed off the skipper, too. Also, even though she wasn’t up to the insane standards of Team Six, she always managed to be part of the solution rather than part of the problem. With Pancho out of the picture, Alex could use another shooter. Keeping her on the mission seemed the only right thing to do.

  Another thing that occurred to Alex was that he might not survive the mission. It wasn’t something he dwelled on, but it was a reality he constantly lived with. He loved Cat, but he hadn’t told her that yet. Alex didn’t fear death, but he feared dying before telling her. But this wasn’t the time or the place to tell her that he loved her.

  Inside a secure conference room, Alex, John, and Cat discussed details about the lab with Dr. Khamenei. “You could destroy the fleas with a natural chemical like pyrethrin, attacking their nervous systems,” she said. “Or you could attack their neural membranes with the synthetic chemical permethrin. Pyrethrin and permethrin will not stop the eggs from hatching, but methoprene will—”

  Cat interrupted. “Can’t we just toss in a Raid fogger? They probably have something that kills the adults and the eggs.”

  “Our priority is to destroy the MBD21,” John said. “How do we do that?”

  “Raid will kill the fleas and their eggs, but it won’t kill the MBD21 bacteria. MBD21 resists streptomycin, tetracycline, and all antibiotics, too,” Dr. Khamenei reminded them.

  The Lut Desert was so hot that not even bacteria could survive. “Can we burn the MBD21?” Alex asked.

  “I guess so,” Dr. Khamenei answered.

  “You’re not planning to nuke it, are you?” John asked.

  “No, too many civilians nearby, and our friends south of the border wouldn’t be too happy with us for nuking South America,” Alex said. “I was thinking of thermate.” Thermate was an upgraded version of thermite.

  “And burn down the Amazon rain forest?” Cat asked.

  “Thermate could work,” Dr. Khamenei added. “But formaldehyde would be more effective.”

  “Formaldehyde?” John asked.

  “We use it for sterilization,” Dr. Khamenei explained. “Formaldehyde kills MBD21.”

  Alex and Dr. Khamenei continued to discuss the lab compound, including its layout. Cat and John bugged out early, and returned to the Team Six compound. Cat would visit the head shed to gather the latest intel: satellite photos, maps, local population, terrain, weather, enemy, the target area, and infiltration and exfiltration routes. Before coming to Team Six, she had experience as an intelligence specialist, so Alex could depend on her without having to tell her what to do. John dropped in on the Explosive Ordnance Disposal guys to request Raid foggers, formaldehyde bombs, claymore mines, and thermate that couldn’t be traced to the United States.

  After Alex finished with Dr. Khamenei, a petty officer came and escorted her to the temporary married quarters. Then Alex joined John and Cat in the Team Six compound to discuss mission planning. Will we insert by sea, air, or land? They planned in reverse, starting with destroying the biological weapons lab. Next, because they would have no fire support, they discussed the insertion and how they’d be picked up. Finally, they figured out what mission gear was needed—Raid foggers, formaldehyde bombs, thermate, detonating (det) cord, antitank rocket, et cetera. They also discussed other considerations such as escape and evasion. They needed an Activity guy to meet them in Venezuela and take them to the target area. Because the Outcasts were shorthanded, if the Activity guy could assist with the assault that would be even better. Even though the Outcasts worked quickly, it took them two days, day and night, to put everything together.

  At 0530 on Monday, Alex, John, and Cat arrived at the naval base in Norfolk dressed in civilian clothes and walked across the gangway of the USS Jason Dunham (DDG-109), an Arleigh Burke–class destroyer named after a Marine corporal posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor for his heroism in Iraq. The Jason Dunham had a crew of 380 and an armament of missiles, guns, and torpedoes. She also carried two SH-60 Seahawk helicopters.

  The Outcasts stood at attention and requested permission to come aboard. They showed their ID cards to the petty officer of the watch. He checked the IDs then let them come aboard.

  The Outcasts went below deck and waited until their gear arrived in boxes disguised as food supplies. After Alex was sure all their gear was aboard, he checked in with the CO to let him know they were good to go.

  Later that morning, Alex lay down on the couch in the enlisted quarters. He closed his eyes to rest them for a few minutes. Alex remembered attending the funeral for his sister and grandfather, and how he’d never wanted to attend another funeral again. But he’d attended Jabberwocky’s funeral. A black hearse arrived at the grave site. Alex and his platoon Teammates saluted it. Their platoon chief pulled Jabberwocky’s casket from the back. Alex and six other Team guys wearing their Navy dress blues and white gloves carried it, three men on each side. The United States flag was draped over the casket, with the blue field resting over Jabberwocky’s left shoulder. Alex and his Teammates carried Jabberwocky feetfirst past the people standing in front of their chairs in the cemetery. Military men and women in attendance saluted. Those wearing civilian clothes placed their hands over their hearts. Alex and his Teammates placed Jabberwocky next to the rectangular hole in the lush green grass. They made sure the flag was straight and even. The Navy chaplain performed the service.

  After the chaplain’s words, the SEALs removed the flag and folded it twelve times, resulting in a triangle showing only the blue field and white stars. Th
ey handed the flag to the SEAL Team Two skipper.

  The skipper knelt in front of Jabberwocky’s wife and presented her with the flag, a flag sailors had fought for since the days of Captain John Paul Jones. “On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Navy, and a grateful nation, I present this flag to you in recognition of Chief Lee’s heroism,” he said with tears creeping into the corners of his eyes.

  In contrast, Jabberwocky’s wife remained stoic, with her back straight and head looking forward.

  “I’m so sorry,” the skipper said with a quivering voice and tears streaming down his face.

  Then seven honor guard sailors fired M1 rifles in a three-volley salute. The odd number of honor guards and volleys was a representation of Jabberwocky’s absence in the ranks.

  Alex’s platoon leader called, “Chief Lee!”

  “Hooyah, Chief Lee!” Alex and his platoon shouted in unison. Alex took his Trident off his uniform—the big gaudy gold pin of an eagle perched on a trident and anchor with a musket in the eagle’s claw. The trident had cost Alex more pain and sweat than many could ever understand, and it cost him blood and tears to keep, but Alex proudly took his turn in line with his Teammates and, with a pounding of his fist, he stuck his trident next to the others on Jabberwocky’s casket. Then he saluted his fallen comrade.

  After the SEALs pounded their tridents into the casket, a bugler stood off to the side and played taps while everyone stood. Men and women in military uniforms gave their final salute, and civilians put their hands over their hearts. Jabberwocky’s preschool-age daughter saluted.

  As they left the grave, one sailor remained to guard the body until it was buried.

  ALEX WOKE UP. HE’D slept through the ship getting under way and lunch. He ate an early dinner with John and Cat on the mess decks. Alex could stay in the goat locker, where the chiefs had small rooms and ate off plates instead of plastic trays, but he preferred to be with John and Cat. Although Cat had a separate place to sleep, she ate with the enlisted men on the mess decks. After dinner, John went to the enlisted men’s berthing to read his Bible, and Alex and Cat headed for the ship’s fantail to breathe in some fresh air. In the ship’s passageways, sailors were checking out Cat.

  “How does it make you feel when they look at you like that?” Alex asked.

  “They’re not looking at me; they’re looking at you,” she replied.

  “They’re looking at you.”

  “Nobody looks at me.”

  “I do.”

  “Because you’re crazy.”

  They ascended one of the ship’s 68-degree-angled metal ladders and walked onto the fantail. A few sailors were hanging out, one of them having a smoke. No land was in sight. The ship’s massive turbines kicked up a fountain of salt water behind the ship as it sailed at about thirty knots. Alex didn’t mind the cold and he liked the salty taste of the air. He and Cat walked over to the starboard side and watched the sun sink into the ocean.

  “What are you thinking?” Cat asked.

  “That I want to hold your hand, but I better not because we’re guests on this ship, and sailors don’t hold hands on destroyers.”

  Cat smiled. “No risk, no reward.”

  “I love you,” Alex said.

  She froze.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  She was silent for a moment. “I’m trying to figure out if you really said what I thought you said.”

  “I’m sorry I waited so long to tell you.”

  “I’m thinking I should pinch myself, but maybe I shouldn’t.”

  “I love you.” Alex wrapped his arms around her.

  The three sailors on the fantail seemed to take notice.

  “You’re going to get us in trouble,” she said.

  “Are you worried about getting in trouble?”

  “Are you?”

  Alex kissed her and daytime faded to night.

  30

  * * *

  Twenty-four hours later, the USS Jason Dunham anchored in international waters fifty nautical miles north of Puerto La Cruz, Venezuela. Located on the northern coast of South America, Venezuela is surrounded by Colombia to the west, Brazil to the south, and Guyana to the east. Because Venezuela’s elevation varies greatly, its weather varies from the hot, humid rain forest of the Amazon Basin to the snowcapped peaks of the Andes Mountains.

  In 2002, the United States supported a failed coup to overthrow Venezuela’s then president, the late Hugo Chavez. Understandably, President Chavez was pissed. He declared the United States Venezuela’s public enemy and made alliances with anti-American countries such as Iran. Although Chavez supported Iran’s nuclear program, he publicly disagreed with President Ahmadinejad’s statements about destroying Israel. Meanwhile, Chavez supported Iran’s Quds Force’s presence in Venezuela. Even though Venezuela and Iran were strengthening their relationship before 2002, Alex felt the 2002 coup was wrong, and the United States shouldn’t have supported any part of it. It could succeed only in pushing Chavez further into the dark side, taking his country with him.

  At 0300, Alex walked to the front of the ship and entered the Combat Information Center (CIC) to obtain the latest intel dump. The CIC remained perpetually dark except for the glow emanating from monitors and other electronics—it was like walking into an amusement arcade full of video games—except these games were for keeps. Enlisted personnel manned the monitors while listening to communication via their earphones and responding on their microphones. The CIC was the brain of the ship. On the destroyer, its main function was to coordinate guns, missiles, torpedoes, and antisubmarine warfare, but now CIC was also supporting Alex’s mission. Alex approached the Evaluator. He had to be a tactically experienced officer to be an Evaluator. He sat in the rear left corner of the room.

  The Evaluator spoke with a slight lisp. “Chief, there are no changes except that we just received an urgent update from NSA. They’ve pinpointed General Tehrani’s cell phone and locked onto it. They’re tracking it now. He’s in the biological weapons lab west of La Paragua.”

  “Sir, I need you to tell JSOC that I want an electronic divining rod linked to General Tehrani’s cell phone,” Alex said.

  “An electronic divining rod?” the Evaluator asked.

  “Yes, sir. It works like a sensor that’ll beep louder when I get closer to the general.”

  “How do you want us to send it to you?”

  “I trust you’ll figure out a way.”

  “You got it, chief. I’ll tell JSOC you need an electronic divining rod linked to General Tehrani’s cell phone, and I’ll figure a way to get it to you.”

  “As soon as possible, sir. If we fail, General Tehrani may wipe out half of the U.S. population.”

  “Right away.”

  The Outcasts caught some sleep. Just before 0400 the next day, they dressed in civilian clothes and mustered on the starboard side of the ship with their gear. A boatswain’s mate extended the slewing-arm of a davit holding a Rigid Hull Inflatable Boat (RHIB), a high-performance boat used frequently by SEALs. Inside the boat were a pilot and assistant wearing blue overalls without Navy insignia. They also wore orange life vests. A boatswain’s mate lowered the boat into the ocean. Carrying their bags of gear, Alex, John, and Cat descended a rope ladder down the side of the ship and into the RHIB.

  Once they were all aboard, the pilot’s assistant disconnected the slewing-arm and cast off. The pilot fired up the dual Caterpillar diesel turbocharged engines and pulled away from the ship. Soon the RHIB picked up speed to more than forty knots, faster than the destroyer could travel. Unlike the destroyer, each time the RHIB caught a wave, it flew, and when it landed, Alex felt the impact in his bones.

  With the air temperature in the seventies, the weather felt more like summer than winter, and the wind blowing in Alex’s face invigorated him. The lights from high-rises on the coast illuminated the night with a beautiful orange glow. Alex remembered from the map he’d studied that the police sta
tion was on the far right. The pilot took them to the left.

  Slowing down to five knots, the RHIB approached a pier where someone stood waiting. As the Outcasts neared the pier, Alex recognized the short Hispanic man, their contact from the Activity—Miguel. While the pilot’s assistant put out the fenders to protect the boat from getting scratched by the dock, Alex threw the bowline to Miguel, who tied it to a cleat. Then Cat threw the stern line and Miguel fastened it to another cleat. The Outcasts disembarked with their gear.

  Miguel extended his hand. “I’m Miguel.”

  Alex shook it. “Alex.”

  “Welcome to Venezuela.”

  “Good to be here,” Alex said. The short greetings were actually bona fides to prove who they were.

  John and Cat cast off the lines, and the RHIB’s pilot motored away, heading back to the ship. Miguel led the Outcasts to his green Ford Explorer SUV, where they loaded up and took off. Gradually, the sun began to brighten the sky.

  “It’s about seven hours from here to La Paragua, the city adjacent to your target,” Miguel said. “Feel free to get some rest if you like.”

  They headed southwest on Route 9 through the cities of Puerto La Cruz and Barcelona. Shortly after exiting Barcelona, Miguel turned left onto Route 16 and the road veered southeast. To their left, the sun rose above the horizon. High-rise buildings and asphalt roads gave way to smaller buildings and dirt roads. Gradually, the buildings and roads became scarce, replaced by farms, until the human grasp let go of the earth and Mother Nature swallowed them up in her jungle. Alex nodded off to sleep.