by Robert Lance
“Yeah. I stopped by the Pentagon to look in on her.”
“Was she scared? I mean, was she like, moody?”
He shrugged. “A little. Why all the questions?”
“Did you see any marks on her? Maybe a bruise or something?”
“Drop it Domino. You’re getting personal.”
“All I’m saying is LT gets accident prone around Alamo. I’m just worried about her.”
Ted became unhinged. “See what I’m talking about? That shit is a distraction that has no place underwater. It’s night, wet, and damned dangerous. You can worry about LT when you’re dry and tight.”
“I’m sorry, Ted. I thought maybe you’d be the one person I could talk to about it.”
“Stay focused on the dive. You’re a barnacle attached to my ass. You come loose, and yeah, you’ll never find the sub on your own.”
Gates and Fitzgerald emerged from the sea not ten feet from Ted and Domino’s exit point. In seconds they were doffing their gear, chattering to each other. Their conversation was strictly about the Ghost and how underwater warfare had changed forever. They were excited for good reason.
Finally, Gates got around to addressing Ted. “Dive go okay?”
Domino answered for Ted. “This Navy SEAL team stuff is pretty cool.”
“I wasn’t talking to you ma’am. You’re not a Navy SEAL and never will be.”
Ted said, “She’s good in the water. You won’t have to knock her out.”
Gates, who was not only cynical, but also a staunch Neanderthal, said, “Don’t take this wrong, ma’am. You’re a woman, just the stump dummies to test our underwater management skills. You will not be involved with any tactical dives.”
Ted understood how Gates had reached that conclusion, but for the fact that Perry had been cut out of the training test. He didn’t want to admit that Alamo’s motive was to punish Carole’s challenge to his authority. If that were the case, she had it coming. Ted was not comfortable with his assessment because it led to the mental stability of the man who had complete and total control over every individual involved with a highly sensitive mission.
The men on the beach could hear floundering and splashing at the sea shore. Alamo’s booming voice was filled with degrading invectives meant to reduce Carole to mush. It was a shrill harangue, ordering her to perform tasks she was incapable of doing. It was a humiliation of her inability to simply save herself from drowning in the shallow water. Alamo did nothing to assist her. Instead, he stomped to the beach and said, “Perrotte, get her out of there.” He stomped past his mates to sulk alone further up the beach.
Ted had a half-drowned victim on his hands, barely conscious, and unable to expunge the water collected in her lungs. The other divers assembled to assist Ted getting the woman on the beach where they could administer emergency aid. Unless she could expunge the water, she could drown on dry land.
Carole was losing consciousness despite Ted’s techniques to clear her wind passages. Her reflex response to vomit got in the way of getting oxygen into her lungs. Ted tasted the acid blow back as vomit gushed from her mouth. He returned to his mouth to mouth efforts when Gates showed up with a pony scuba tank with an emergency respirator.
Gates got a full oxygen flow into her. She spasmed frequently, but was out the woods. It was only after she began breathing on her own that anyone asked what had happened. It was a question that went unanswered, as every man knew that Alamo had the expertise to prevent the “accident” at any time. It was intentional, but there was no one willing to say so aloud.
Alamo, who had shown a complete disinterest in Carole’s rescue, strolled to the group gathered around Carole. He frowned and said, “We found our weak link.” He looked at his watch and said, “Perrotte, you’ve got just over an hour to get WO French through the lock. Domino, get your gear on. You’re coming with me.”
The team was shocked by Alamo’s order. Gates got to his feet and said, “Time out, Alamo. We’ve got a seriously injured victim that we need to get to a hospital. Why not bring the Ghost on shore?”
Alamo laughed derisively. “No time outs sport. Nobody gets to ring the fucking bell. This is not BUDS. I expect you pussies to perform under combat conditions at all times.” He looked at his watch again. “Gates, you and Fitzgerald lead, I’ll follow with Domino. Perrotte, you’re on your own. Move out…now.”
Ted was on his back, on the surface, flipping to the Ghost. Carole was still unconscious with her head resting on Ted’s chest, above the water line. Ted had his pony bottle and the remains of Gates, should he need to use it. His greatest fear was Carole regaining consciousness and panicking. In another twenty minutes, he’d be directly above the Ghost, and it would be a simple matter of deflating both buoyancy compensator devices and sink to the swim deck of the Ghost. He had nine minutes to spare.
In the meantime, Pamela got a sonar ping, profiled a probable patrol boat. At the aft end of the Ghost, Fitzgerald and Gates assisted Alamo dragging Domino through the dive doors. Beetle shouted out, “We’ve got divers in the water. We need to surface and pick them up.”
Alamo noticed the sonar alarm and made his way forward. “What’s with the sonar alert?”
Beetle said, “We’ve got an unidentified patrol boat that will pass between us and the shore. Probably a Philippine fast boat.”
Alamo saw the sonar blip and said, “Either way, we can’t risk surfacing. Move out to sea.”
Willer did a head snap, not believing the order. “What about your divers?”
“What about them? They’ll have to adapt.”
“There’s no near danger. The IS track indicates they’ll miss us by five hundred meters.”
“They could change course. We’ll launch a search and rescue once we are clear. Descend and move this vessel down range…now.”
When Murphy’s Law shows up, it’s like getting caught jaywalking the traffic circle at Piccadilly Square. Getting out of the way is just as dangerous as standing still to let traffic go around. It seemed that everything happened all at once. Ted’s ears picked up the sound of the dull roar of engines tracking in his direction. At that moment, Carole was beginning to regain consciousness. She panicked and tried to scream when she realized she wasn’t alone in the water. Ted quickly checked the underwater beacon. The Ghost was moving slowly away as the foreign boat was closing in.
Ted Perrotte wrote the training manuals and supervised different unexpected interrupts into simulations while training for missions. His situation was straight forward and text book simple. He knew exactly what was expected of him. The “stranded diver scenario” was a part of every SEAL’s DNA. Given Alamo’s disposition, Ted decided to do exactly the opposite of what his training dictated.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When Ted saw the tick on the locator move he understood Alamo essentially abandoned them. The secret integrity of the Ghost was foremost. If it cost two divers, so be it. If he had been put in the same decision paradigm, he wasn’t sure that he’d make the same call. He was being generous with Alamo’s command judgment. No single event could be faulted, but put them in sequential order, it was a goat fuck or a clever demented scheme of a mad man bent on revenge.
He was in a deep dark void, and he let his mind go there. His affair with Heather flipped a switch. It was like an electrical charge energizing a demon. Frankenstein’s monster, Alamo Jones. Two people posed a threat to Alamo’s two obsessions, his ex-wife and his career. Carole was the person who put his career in jeopardy, and Ted was the man who could take Heather from him. They were corks bobbing in the South China Sea. Coincidence? Hardly.
Carole didn’t have the strength to be much of a problem for Ted. He put her out and flipped his way toward the slow-moving blip. He caught glimpses of the patrol boat through the night vision portal built into his swim mask. It was neither a Philippine nor Chinese patrol boat. It was one of Sayyad’s pirate fast boats, probably smuggling guns and drugs.
Ted did a fast flip
, with Carole in tow. He was fixated on the fast boat. It was slowing, changing course, toward the same deserted sandy beach. He checked his watch. The Ghost had three more minutes before it had to surface. He began a sprint flip, straining muscles, breathing rapidly, and near hyperventilation. The nerves in his neck and arms buzzed. He quickly checked the watch and locater. He had closed some of the distance. One minute left. He forgot how long it took for the Ghost to reconfigure. He began to tire rapidly and did his best to shut down the warnings stimulating his brain.
The Ghost began to rise from the deep forty yards from Ted. Thirty yards; the starboard engine began to whine. Ten yards; the port engine started. Ted was between the two pylons reaching for anything to grab onto. His hand fastened onto the outer dive door arm. The Ghost surged forward, cavitating water vibrated Ted’s flanks. Carole was slipping from his grasp, and he felt a strong tug tearing at his wrist muscles. He had to let go of one or the other. Ted had made it, but Carole had not. Ted opened his palm and felt the wake take him away. He couldn’t let Carole drown the way Alamo had intended.
Willer slowly advanced the power levers to the patrol detent. Three hulls were in the water, and waves broke over the beak of the sleek patrol boat. Something was wrong. He saw an amber warning light. He quickly throttled back. Alamo,alerted by the sudden deceleration was at the cockpit door anxious why Willer was stopping and turning at the same time.
“What’s going on skipper? Why are you changing course and why are we slowing?”
“The outer dive door is unlocked.”
“So? We can stow it after we’re free and clear. Continue on.”
“The inner door is locked tight so there’s only one way that handle gets unlocked. Somebody tripped it from the outside. Beetle, have Kitty take a look for divers on the surface.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Did you leave swimmers back there?”
“Yeah, but he’s probably back on the beach by now. Stay on course. We’ll do a SAR when the fast boat moves out of the area.”
Beetle whooped. “Two Bobble heads at our six. Five hundred meters.”
Willer made a PA. “Prepare to retrieve lost divers.” He grinned sideways at Alamo. “I gotta say, your boy has a lot of kick stroke and glide in him…fucking idiot.”
Beetle yelped, again. “That’s our guy. Picked up his locator beacon.”
Willer said, “Forgot to tell you about a few features. We’ll do a Ghost extraction. We can pull Castro out of his bath tub without dripping water on the floor. Slinky, go give them a hand.”
Slinky supervised the extraction and medical response to Carole’s near death incident. The Ghost was outfitted with what Slinky called the “hurt locker”, a makeshift gurney intended as a crew rest compartment for long deployments. The Gurney had restraints to secure prisoners, or alternately used to transport injured operators. There was a mini aide cabinet filled with medical supplies.
Slinky said, “We could do brain surgery back here if we had too, but name one SEAL who has a brain.” He laughed at his own joke. He was ignored as the team hefted Carole onto the Gurney.
Ted let his mates tend to Carole while he stowed his tank and secured his gear. He was bone tired, but his mind was sharp. He was in the other mind of Alamo Jones. Alamo did not conduct a lost diver drill and had no intentions to launch a SAR. He was more concerned with his precious Ghost and had written them off, a very explainable account of casualties of war and a means to rid himself of nuisances. Ted hardened to the sick reality of troubles banging inside his head. He had himself to blame for Alamo’s attack on Heather. Carole’s prank and subsequent challenge to Alamo’s authority would piss anyone off. All three offenders had been dealt with swiftly and viciously.
There was little doubt in Ted’s mind. He knew the back story that his teammates didn’t. Was it a temporary lapse or was there a pattern developing? Hopefully, Alamo got it out of his system.
Alamo drifted through the cabin with a vacant expression. He sat next to Ted. “You got something on your mind, Perrotte?”
Ted had to be careful how he responded. “The fast boat in the bay was neither Chinese nor Philippine. It has the earmarks of Abu Sayyaf’s pirate smuggler boats. I can’t be sure, but I don’t think we’re alone here.”
“What makes you say that?”
“They were off loading contraband on the beach, which means there is a Sayyaf cell operating in our playground.”
Alamo seemed to be giving the new intel some thought. “I don’t see that as a game changer, do you?”
“Maybe.”
“Explain.”
“We have a pretty good idea how Sayyaf operates. The fast boat Captain had no reservations landing on the beach. That’s doesn’t happen unless his lookouts give them the all clear. We were doing dry landings on the beach not an hour before. There’s no guarantee that Sayyaf’s spotters didn’t see us.”
“Nothing to worry about, Perrotte. The fast boat did land, so we know their spotters missed us—.”
“Or mistook something they couldn’t explain. If that’s the case, they felt they had enough firepower to neutralize a threat to their landing.”
“Point taken. What else is on your mind?”
“It’s brazen, even for Abu Sayyaf. What if Sayyaf knows we don’t represent a threat to his smuggling operation?”
Ted’s insinuation that there was a possible leak didn’t register on Alamo’s face. If anything, he dismissed it by standing and patting Ted on the shoulder, saying, “Good job back there Perrotte. Stupid, but good.”
The ride back to the grotto was uneventful with an almost party quality. The spirit affected Ted as he mingled with his men. The near fiasco was overshadowed by the overwhelming magic of the Ghost on its first outing. In the middle of night the sleek boat silently slipped past the curtains into the grotto. Before the hatch opened, Alamo announced. “Everybody get a power nap. We’ll debrief at breakfast. 0900, sleep fast.”
Alamo assembled everyone with clearance to attend a formal debrief of the shakedown of the Ghost. He was in an ebullient mood despite the incident. High praise was passed upon Willer and his contractors. He covered in detail the different configurations, the landing and dive, leaving out any mention of the incident.
The team talked among themselves, picking apart the smallest detail, like a pack of jackals devouring a rabbit. No one noticed Lt. Cummins sitting alone at the back of the briefing room. She was dressed in khaki pants, a tank top with a colorful wrap draping over her torso and arms. She wore a floppy hat that shadowed her face. Sunglasses hid the discoloration around her left cheek and eye, while heavy make-up covered a bruised nose and fat lip. Heather’s heart thumped wildly. She knew Ted and Carole been involved in an incident, but the details were muted.
She had visited Carole, who was recovering in her room. There was nothing to be gained as the woman rigorously avoided answering a direct question. The breach of protocol surrounding the prank on Alamo had yet to be addressed, and her lack of candor was understandable. Punishment was inevitable, but Heather suspected Carole was suffering from Alamo’s wrath. It was a panic pill yet to be swallowed.
Heather had attended many mission debriefs, and it was always the same. Fuck-ups were saved for last. Alamo constructed a serious pose and paused to allow his audience to switch their frame of mind to receive an ass chewing. “We have a serious breach in our comm protocols, Lieutenant Cummins. Everyman showing his ass is hereby restricted to his or her rooms except in performance of duties. E rats and water only. Final disposition of punishment will be dependent upon the performance of your duties.”
Alamo bellowed on for another five minutes pointing out the seriousness of the prank committed. He had duly humbled the intelligence branch as though they had committed treason.
“Final subject. We encountered a training mishap that will go unreported. I don’t give a shit how many casualties we sustain, whether it’s a training accident or combat. Our personnel st
rength is top secret and compartmentalized…no dissemination, period. Lieutenant, your people are dismissed. You and WO Diamato are not excused.”
The enlisted men scrambled away and those being detained were met by Master Chief Gregory’s goon squad. No one on the team had paid particular attention to Heather, except Perry, who wore his infatuation with her on his sleeve. Perry noticed and said, “Hey, LT what happened to you? You look like you got into a monkey fight with big monkeys.”
She anticipated the question. “I tripped on a tree root while out night jogging.”
Perry winched, and said, “That’s gonna hurt.” He accepted her excuse without another thought. Domino’s dark eyes captured Heathers insecure glance. She said nothing. She was in enough trouble as it was.
Fitzgerald didn’t wait for Alamo to speak. He was direct and angry. “We left a diver in the water, and I want to know why.”
Gates, equally angry, but for a different reason, said, “If we didn’t have women in the water with us, Perrotte wouldn’t be where he is.” His angry glare landed on Domino and stuck to her like napalm.
She fired back, “I get it Gates. I’m a woman. I’m also black, which makes me doubly disqualified to breathe the same air you do.”
“Knock it off.” Alamo said.
Gates said, “This is bullshit, Alamo. Putting a female in the water with SEALs draws sharks.” He was referring to a long-held myth that sharks, who can sense a single drop of blood from two miles away, go into a feeding frenzy. Because women have menstrual cycles, SEALs used the myth as an ironclad rationale to keep women out of their ranks. Gates continued. “Neither one of these bimbos belong on any ops. Look where we are now.”
Alamo spoke with authority to end the uproar. “The comm station on the Ghost is an extension of our C and C. We have no external cover, and these women are our real-time link to update vital intelligence. There is no plan for them to engage in combat, but I can not rule out positioning them to critical land masses to broaden our capacity.”
“That’s a two dollar answer,” Gates replied.
