RW11 - Violence of Action

by Richard Marcinko

  “You’re crazy, Marcinko! Fucking crazy! Leave me the fuck alone”

  I walked over to Lassiter and grabbed his right ankle. Dragging him out of the corner I let loose only long enough to reach down and grab up a handful of his pants belt. With a powerful jerk I lifted him off the floor and slammed him into one of the still-standing chairs. I grabbed his face with one hand and squeezed it until I saw tears forming in the corners of his eyes. Bringing my face an inch from his, I roared as loudly as I could directly into it. I then let go of the now totally cowed Nemesis operator, took two steps back, and waited.

  “What…do…you…want…from…me?” he choked.

  “Wind Storm.”

  It was like I’d fired a jolt of electricity through his body.

  “How…? Fuck, Blanchard will kill me.”

  “You dumb motherfucker!” I yelled, “I’m going to kill you if you don’t tell me what I want to fucking know right now and right fucking here. What is it you don’t understand about what I just said? Wind Fucking Storm. What is it? Where is it? How much fucking time do I have? Talk to me you cocksucker. Talk to me or I’ll rip your fucking heart out and eat it in front of your lying, dying eyes!”

  Remember what I said earlier about my bedside manner? It sucks. But it does get results.

  Lassiter’s first response to my little speech was to piss himself. A sure sign we’d made progress. Then he started sniffling and whimpering. That I didn’t need. I hate whiners. Then his whimpering turned into talking. Now that was better, much better. I picked an overturned chair up off the floor and sat down next to him. For the next five minutes Lassiter babbled on about mud races, the Phineas Priests, Blanchard’s role in starting the second American Revolution, and most importantly what and where Wind Storm was. The battered, bruised, and broken man had just finished when I heard the sound of many feet running down the hall toward the lounge. I stood up and met the rush of FBI agents and Air Police, their guns drawn, as they tried to crowd their way into the now destroyed room. “The prisoner tried to escape!” I shouted above the melee of officers, agents, and assholes all. “Thank God I got here when I did! He damn near killed your agent here! If I hadn’t stopped him…”

  The mob furiously fell on poor old Lassiter like sharks on chum. I slipped past the beating in progress and trotted back down the hall toward the great outdoors. “Sucks to be you,” I murmured to myself as Lassiter’s screams and howls followed me outside. Fuck him. I’d gotten what I needed and it was time to go nuke hunting.

  I saw a newly arrived transport chopper on the tarmac—the platoon from SIX had arrived. I’d found a hangar to house them and I instantly started to jog in that direction. I couldn’t wait to get to where my platoon of real-deal killer SEALs was waiting for its lead dog. As I approached the hangar, I spotted Trace. Her lithe figure was now encased in an OD green Nomex flight suit and an M4A1 was slung across her chest. She waved and pointed to the hanger. I raised a hand in acknowledgment and kept on running. Barrett was standing just outside getting a briefing from the crew chief of the CH-47. He and his crew would be the cavalry who would take charge of the SADM once we had it in hand, or try to pull our asses out of the fire if we didn’t get it in time. As I burst into the brightly lit interior of the hangar I saw my boyz standing ready. Paul was right in the midst of them, and he threw me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

  They were the most beautiful bunch of lethal bastards I’d ever seen.

  And I was about to take them downtown on a hot load for the fucking ride of their lives.

  I pulled up short and nodded once to the platoon. They could see in my eyes and in the way I was standing like the Fucking-A God of War I am and have always been that I was ready to lead them on the most important mission they’d (God willing) ever face. As one, they began cheering and waving their weapons high above their heads. The SEAL war cry echoed throughout the hanger.

  HOO-YAHHHHHHHH!

  It sent shivers from the top of my thick Slavic skull down to the tips of my booted toes. “Saddle up, motherfuckers!” I yelled. “We’re goin’ downtown! HOO-YAH!”

  Chapter

  17

  “This was our first chance to prove ourselves. If we blew it, it would probably be our last.”

  DANNY O. COULSON, No Heroes—

  Inside the FBI’s Secret Counter-Terror Force

  One by one I rechecked my thirty-round magazines. Each one held twenty-seven rounds of green-tipped 5.56 brain busters courtesy of Uncle Sam. The first two rounds loaded were red-tipped tracer so I’d visually know when it was time to change mags. The last round loaded was tracer, as well. I used that one to dial in follow-on fire and to freak the fuck outta anyone downrange looking to dial in on me! I never let anyone else handle or check my weapons for me, whether on the range, in training, or when going hot like we were doing now. I trust in moi, and encourage others to do the same. A bad mag at the wrong time will get you or a teammate killed. I’ve seen an operator lose a whole load of bullets out the bottom of his magazine at the worst possible moment because he didn’t check the fucking base plate prior to mission launch. You learn from others’ mistakes if you’re smart. You learn from your own if you’re lucky. I was taking in eighteen mags for the M4A1 alone. In Vietnam I’d learned the value of having as much ammo available to me as possible. As a SEAL going up against the Viet Cong and NVA I carried boo-coo bullets, grenades, commo gear, and water. That’s the shit that kept me alive. At most, I would shove one issue meal ration into my jungle ruck for a foray into the woodline. Food was not a priority for me in the bush. Hell, there were things aplenty I could eat in the bush if I got hungry!

  After carefully inspecting each magazine from top to bottom for serviceability and reliability I slipped it into an ammo pouch on my rogue-black Tactical Tailor–made Modular Assault Vest. My SEALs had purchased a shitload of this outfit’s custom-designed tactical gear from the in-house manufacturing firm in Tacoma, Washington. They’d raided the place while working with the 2/75th Ranger Battalion, which was practicing airfield seizures at Gray Army Airfield on Fort Lewis prior to the emergency call-out to Portland. The MAV two-piece modular vest rode high on my upper body and allowed me the full range of movement I needed while still letting me ride easy in either an aircraft or vehicle. Those shooters wearing body armor could easily and quickly adjust the vest as they positioned it over their ballistic protection. I had two large utility pouches to act as drop bags for my 40-mm munitions, extra thirty-round mags, and a few other lethal goodies I just can’t live without. I went with four 3-Mag 5.56 modular ammo pouches on the front of the vest to handle my primary magazines. Two additional utility pouches allowed me to carry an emergency TalkAbout radio with a transmission range of five miles, and an emergency trauma kit for patching my ass up if I got in the way of any heavy metal shit flying in my direction.

  Like I said, bullets, bombs, and commo is all you need when it comes to kicking ass and taking names in my particular line of work.

  I secured my new Glock 17 with night sights and TacLight in its modular SAS-style drop holster on my right thigh. Backing up its 17 + 1 high capacity magazine were six more fully loaded mags, all nicely secured on my left thigh courtesy of the modular leg mount that complements the pistol’s carry system. Also attached on my left thigh was a Saber radio pouch for commo with the helos, a knife pouch holding my Wor-Tech tactical folder, a small utility pouch for my SOG Specialty SwitchPlier™, and a strobe / compass pouch for my emergency rescue items. Everything would be up close and personal once we went for the nuke.

  The best CQB is based on the KISS principal. Keep It Simple, Stupid. Walking among the shooters from SIX, casually chatting and checking on their preparations, I was pleased to see to a man they followed the Rogue Warrior’s formula for close quarters fighting to the “K.” Everything they were carrying was lean, mean, and strapped tight. The platoon leader was a savvy young pup named Fletcher with grit in his gut and steel blue eyes. As I looked over his people whi
le they prepared their weapons and gear, I couldn’t help but feel proud. They appeared fit, confident, and to move with a single purpose. Despite the Navy’s attempts to “clean up” SIX, the come-and-go commanders after me hadn’t weakened the resolve of each succeeding generation of shooters who came to the Team.

  I’d designed SIX to be able to move from Point A to Point B with little more than a rucksack, a weapon, and the smallest amount of mission-specific equipment an operator needed to get the particular job done. Today, thanks to all the paperwork and signatures required even to take a crap in the Navy, a ludicrous amount of time usually elapses between the moment a call to action comes in and the time the operators ship out. But I’d noticed the operators—the shooters—the only ones that count when it gets right down to it—have improvised, adapted, and overcome the administrative obstacles placed in their way to an admirable degree. I knew that was true of this bunch. I’d kept in pretty regular touch with SIX’s shooters since my “retirement,” despite the Navy’s blackballing my hairy ass from the compound. Blood is thicker than water, and it was blood that built SIX.

  If I’d given them the green light my shooters at SIX would have busted me out of jail any time. That was the degree of loyalty we held—and still hold—for each other. There was no one who could have stood in their way. I could have gone anywhere in the world and found myself a new home. But I’ve never run away from anything in my life. And I’d never compromise my men to the degree such a gesture of brotherly love would have demanded. The brass were lucky I hung around for their little circus. Otherwise they’d have had to rely on the post office to bring me the results in the fucking mail!

  I know for sure that there was nowhere else on earth I’d rather have been right at that moment. I was suited up, geared up, gunned up, and ready to roll. This is what I’d trained my entire life to do. This is what I’d trained my men and those officers under me to do. The ancient warrior ethic had been reawakened in me during the last year and I was now once again going to lead warriors, true warriors, into combat.

  Understand, good reader, that what the Navy never could figure out was why my men could and would do the things I demanded of them. What Charlie Beckwith accomplished with his shooters at DELTA I accomplished with mine at SIX. I deliberately inculcated within the very souls of my operators a spiritual dedication and belief in themselves and their mission. They were modern-day warriors using modern-day weapons and equipment to accomplish an age-old task: hunting down those who were dedicated to terror and chaos.

  I’d successfully bred into SIX the understanding that we were the most recent links in a long chain of warriors stretching back thousands of years. That they owed their very existence to all those courageous and honorable warriors who had come before them and laid down their lives for worthy causes. My shooters knew they were more than just the sum of their individual efforts. They were the living emblem of countless brave men who’d come before. Spiritually, mentally, emotionally, and physically linked to such a noble ideal, SEAL Team SIX became unstoppable. The most effective counter terrorist unit ever created. Such was the caliber of the twenty-first-century SEAL who I was preparing to lead into battle against Blanchard and his spiritually mutated Nemesis team.

  We were taking four M240B medium machine guns in with us, three with the assaulters and one with the SAR team on the ’47. The M240B is a gas-operated, air-cooled, linked belt-fed machine gun that replaces the tried-and-true M60 machine gun. Firing 7.62 rounds from the open bolt position, the new gun has a maximum effective range of 1100 meters. I liked its new plastic buttstock and its improved M145 Flex Sight. We’d pulled the folding bipods off for this mission and each 240B gunner had slung his weapon with a Safariland cable sling for maximum support and flexibility in any firing position. I demanded 1000 rounds for each gun, the additional belts of ammo carried in the gunners’ TT-3-Day Assault Plus packs. I wanted maximum firepower put down on Nemesis, and with the integrated weapons systems we were taking in with us I figured it was sure to be one hell of a firefight with the odds stacked in our favor.

  I’d test-fired my rifle and pistol at the PANG’s indoor range along with the rest of the platoon. Trace and Danny had squared their combat loads and gear away earlier. And were now helping the crew chief of the CH-47 unlimber the two electronic mini-guns the big black Chinook from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment commonly carry. The ’47 would serve as an airborne gun platform for us as well as an SAR asset once we got on target. The minis could blanket an area with thousands of rounds of steel core 7.62 rounds with exceptional accuracy. Trace would accompany the back-up team on the ’47 with Danny handling overall Command & Control from PAVE Hawk #2. I’d be taking the first ’hawk in with its chalk of shooters, the second fully loaded ’hawk hot on our ass. We had to hit our target hard, fast, and perfect the first time out. My plan was audacious, risky as hell, and way outside the box, even for special operations.

  “Dick?”

  I looked up to find Lieutenant Fletcher, the officer-in-charge of the platoon from SIX, standing next to me. Lieutenant Fletcher was an academy graduate. Since meeting him I’d been impressed with his easygoing manner and lack of bullshit when it came to turning his people over to me for the duration. The platoon’s senior chief told me privately as we were drawing our ammo that Fletcher had proven himself a capable and flexible leader. The platoon had several classified flyaway missions under its belt and the young lieutenant had drawn first blood on one of these. He was cool, calm, and astute. I liked that in a young officer. “What’s up, Phil?”

  “The platoon is ready for final brief. Where do you want us?”

  Fletcher was geared up much like I was with the exception of the M240B slung across his chest like some badass electric guitar from Hell. He had a black drive-on rag tied gypsy-style around his skull and a pair of Bolle assault goggles pushed up high on his forehead. His hands were encased in skintight black Nomex flight gloves, each index finger cut halfway back to give him maximum feel of whatever trigger he was pressing. He’d opted for Nike assault boots like those I’d first ordered from Germany when I’d stood SIX up so many years ago. The Nikes were light, well sewn, and their unique sole pattern allowed an operator to move with security on wet or slippery surfaces. I noted the lieutenant favored the SIG 226 9-mm pistol in stainless steel. A good choice of weapon.

  “Tell ’em to bring their asses over here and to take a seat anywhere they can find space. Dahlgren and Barrett have their marching orders. We’ll link up with them on the birds. You ready, Lieutenant?”

  Fletcher gave me a sturdy smile. “Yes, Sir. We’re all ready. We won’t let you down, Captain. My boys are the best in the Team at what they do. If 160 can get us to the target, we’ll do the rest. You can count on it!”

  “Well Fucking-A Tweety,” I replied. “Let’s do it!”

  Five minutes later I was surrounded by the best people Naval Special Warfare had to offer me. I waited as they made themselves as comfortable as possible on the hangar’s cold concrete floor. Finally I felt I could hold my own against Blanchard’s team of religious psycho-killers. I had sixteen go-to-war motherfuckers in full kit straining at the leash. Time was running out but the odds, at least in my book, were now at least even. I knew where Blanchard was, what he was doing, and where he was headed. I knew what Wind Storm was and I knew I could assault it with what we’d pulled, scraped, borrowed, and stolen over the last twenty-four hours. I also knew it was up to me to take the nuke away from Blanchard and then get it clear of the mainland if at all possible. I had a plan, but it was one I was keeping to myself for the time being.

  “Lissen up!” I barked. “I’m only going to say this once. You got questions, you ask ’em! We got one fucking chance to do this right. One! We fuck up and a lot of innocent bastards are going to fry before the sun comes up tomorrow morning. I know what you fuckers can do, and you all know me. We’re going in together, and we’re coming out together. Hoo-yah?”

  Their
response was instantaneous and deafening. With a grim smile I nodded in satisfaction as each operator acknowledged the challenge I’d just thrown down. We were holding one-way tickets on this trip. Once airborne and over the target, there’d be no turning back and no giving up. Each and every man jack assembled in front of me knew about Nemesis. They were renegades, yes. But they were also First Class operators who knew our tactics and techniques as well as we knew theirs. Never had U.S. counterterrorists gone toe-to-toe with their own kind, on their own soil. Our prize would be much more than a recovered tactical nuclear weapon; it would be the continued safety and security of the nation.

  Fuck it, I thought to myself. This is what I’ve trained all my life for. Time to see if Dickie can cut the mustard or if he’s just been jerking off all these years.

  “Our target is the Wind Storm, a 250-foot, three-deck seagoing pleasure boat. She was leased last year by Colonel Max Blanchard under a false name to make a trip from her home port in Seattle down the Washington coastline and up the Columbia River to Portland. It is coming upriver even as we speak. The SADM is onboard and under the direct control of the colonel.

  “According to my intel, Colonel Blanchard split Nemesis up after the nuke was delivered to him. The fuckers we’ve been engaging around the city flew into Portland early and took up positions where they could guide and monitor the events leading up to the detonation of the device. What this means is that HRT and my people—until your arrival—have been bleeding ourselves dry taking on Blanchard’s advance team. The remainder of Nemesis has been standing by to steam toward Portland from the Port of Astoria.”

  I paused, looked around at the intense faces of the men in front of me, and then continued.

  “Wind Storm is the vehicle for delivering the SADM to Portland’s doorstep. Blanchard plans to navigate the fucking thing center mass of where the Willamette River cuts the city in two, anchor the boat, then set the timer and boogie using two Zodiacs. He only needs sixty miles between him and the nuke to be in the clear, come detonation time. Nemesis has run the route several times over the past year from Astoria to the city under the guise of training exercises in support of the Coast Guard.”