RW03 - Green Team

by Richard Marcinko

  Epiphany one: Mick Owen had been briefing Sir Aubrey all along.

  Epiphany two: Lord Brookfield had no idea that Marcel Mustache’s trip to Dorsetshire had been canceled because of death, caused (albeit accidentally) by yours truly back at Numéro Douze. In fact, if Lord B had checked up on his accomplice, he’d have been told that one Monsieur André Marcel Dall’au had checked in, stayed two nights, and left—right on shed-yule. That’s how I’d set it up with Mick from Italy.

  Speaking of which, there was epiphany three: I’d been set up. Again. I was the cheese in the trap. The bait. The lure. The decoy. The patsy.

  I realized why, too—do you?

  No? Let me explain quickly. Lord Brookfield was too highly placed, and too well-connected, to be dealt with by the class-conscious Brits. He was part of their power structure, and bringing him down would be evidence that it was completely rotten from the inside. Instead, they turned a rogue American—me—loose on him.

  While I was having my epiphanies, Sir Aubrey kept talking. I stopped thinking and started listening. “Where are they, Lord Brookfield?” he was asking.

  Brookfield smiled. “You know I can’t say anything until later.” He shifted his body. “It occurs to me, Sir Aubrey, that you should come with me. That way, as soon as I’ve reached my destination, I’ll give you your information.”

  Frankly, I’d had enough. CNO, as good and brave a man as ever lived, had been murdered by this asshole. Howie Kaluha, too, was dead, a casualty of the chase. Now, Brookfield was threatening to take more innocent lives unless he got his way. So far as I was concerned, whatever I did to stop him would be justified.

  So, as Brookfield shifted, my hand moved to my belt buckle. I reached three fingers under the bottom edge and withdrew the .357-caliber derringer that had been customfitted when the buckle was made.

  The gun’s a Davis D-38, cut down to an overall length of just over three inches. It holds two .357 cookie-cutter rounds—customized, high-explosive, shock-trauma loads perfected by Doc Tremblay as last-ditch man-killers. They’re called cookie cutters because they cut through tissue the way a cookie cutter cuts through dough.

  I fired twice from a distance of just under four feet, aiming at Brookfield’s shoulder.

  The rounds hit him—one in the shoulder, the other in the upper chest. They connected with a thwomp that knocked him backward off his feet. I saw the incredulous expression on his face as, instinctively, he squeezed the detonator button to set off the anthrax.

  Except he couldn’t squeeze the button, because his arm had been blown two feet away.

  There are three elements to a cookie-cutter round. The first is the knifelike cutter, which opens a huge wound channel. Then comes a small charge of plastic-based explosive, which widens the path. Finally, a third charge implodes, causing tremendous, lethal trauma. The whole process takes less than three one-hundredths of a second. If you’re not killed by the initial shock, you die from loss of blood.

  Brookfield collapsed, the socket where his arm had been attached pumping blood onto the floor at a healthy rate. That meant the rounds hadn’t cauterized the artery. Too bad for him.

  I would have liked to watch him bleed, but there was Todd Stewart to deal with. He’d launched himself at me—almost horizontal—an SAS stiletto aimed at my throat.

  Bob Spear, who designed the Field Fighter, has a theory about weapons defense that I also subscribe to. We call it C-3 defense. I put it to use now.

  The first C is contact. So, I didn’t try to grab the weapon as Todd came at me. I blocked him with my shoulder and hit the back of his neck with my elbow, deflecting him as he careened past me. He went down.

  It was time for C-2—control. I hit him with a chair, which stunned the son of a bitch for about half a second. It was enough for me to jump his bones and kneel on him, trying like hell to get both of my hands on the wrist that held the knife.

  Todd was not being cooperative. He was a strong asshole, too. We rolled around for a while, each of us trying to gain the advantage. I kneed him in the groin. He returned the favor. I bit—taking much of his ear off. He got a hand around my throat and tried to crush my Adam’s apple.

  I fought free, loosed my left hand, broke his nose, and tried to claw his eyes out.

  The stiletto came around. He nicked me good, too—right through the upper right arm.

  But it gave me the opening I’d been waiting for. I broke his thumb, snapping it back alongside his big wrist. That got his damn attention. He looked at his arm, an expression of dumbfounded amazement on his face.

  I hit him in the face with a closed fist—smashed his nose twice, then rolled over, kneed him half a dozen times rapidly in the groin, as if I were stretching wall-to-wall carpet, then wrested the knife out of his damaged hand.

  Time for C-3—counter. I countered by sinking the stiletto into him just below the solar plexus. There was an audible hiss as it perforated his diaphragm.

  That brought him to a full stop. I rolled him onto his stomach, snapped his neck from the rear, then flopped over and lay on my own back, exhausted.

  Believe me, there have got to be easier ways of earning a living.

  But not as challenging, right? It took a few minutes, but I finally struggled to my knees, then my feet.

  Sir Aubrey was on the phone, looking as pleased as the fucking cat who ate the canary.

  He cupped the receiver. “Good work, Captain. I’m sure your CNO would have been proud of you.”

  That was nice to hear. Nobody’d mentioned CNO in a while, and it was good to know that a few of us still remembered him. It was, after all, CNO who’d put this whole convoluted chain of events in play by sending me to Cairo.

  There were a bunch of questions I’d have liked to ask Sir Aubrey right then—like, whether he’d been the one to leak the Cairo op to Pinky, knowing Pinky would put me on the run and I’d be forced to prove my theory about Lord B’s being a tango on my own, thus allowing the Brits to remain at arm’s length from the op, while still controlling me through Mick.

  But I knew better than to ask, because I knew Monocle Man would never answer me truthfully. It just wasn’t his style.

  Sir Aubrey finished his conversation and rang off. He turned to me. “It seems, Captain Marcinko, that you broke Admiral Prescott’s jaw in two places.”

  I shrugged. “Too bad.”

  “That it’s broken?”

  “No—that it’s only broken in two places.” I heard action downstairs. “Police?”

  The Brit shook his head. “SAS. This thing has to be handled quietly. Too many sensitive ramifications, y’know.”

  I knew all too well.

  Sir Aubrey screwed his monocle into place. “So, Captain, what’s next?”

  “A lot of Bombay gin on the rocks, Sir Aubrey, a few pints of bitter with Mick, and then I’m going to take my men and go home, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Home?” That actually brought a smile to his face. “But what about your Admiral Prescott? He’s not going to let you off the hook so easily this time.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t be too sure about that, Sir Aubrey. I’m confident Admiral Prescott and I will come to an understanding.”

  “You will? After all of this, I’d think your differences were completely irreconcilable.”

  “Sir Aubrey, that’s because you don’t know Pinky the way I know him.”

  After all, I knew something about Pinckney Prescott III, Vice Admiral, USN, that Sir Aubrey didn’t.

  I knew I still have his fucking NIS file.

  Glossary

  Admirals’ Gestapo: what the secretary of defense’s office calls the Naval Investigative Services Command. See

  SHIT-FOR-BRAINS.

  AK-47: 7.62x39 Kalashnikov automatic rifle. The most common assault weapon in the world.

  AMEMB: AMerican EMBassy.

  APC: Armored Personnel Carrier.

  ARG: Amphibious Ready Group.

  Arleighgram: highly effective
shaped ribbon explosive charge designed by Los Angeles Police Department EOD expert Arleigh MacRae. Used to blast through roofs.

  ASW: Anti-Submarine Warfare.

  A-Team: basic Special Forces unit of ten to fourteen men.

  ATF: Antiterrorist Task Force, or Ambiguous (Amphibious) Task Force.

  A/VCNO: Assistant Vice Chief of Naval Operations.

  * * *

  BA-PP3/I: real bad shit. See BWR.

  BDUs: Battle Dress Uniforms. Now that’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one.

  BIQ: Bitch-In-Question.

  blivet: a collapsible fuel container, often used in SEAL missions.

  BLU-43B: antipersonnel mine currently in use by U.S. forces.

  BOHICA: Bend Over—Here It Comes Again!

  Boomer-class: nuclear-powered missile submarine.

  brick: SAS slang for patrol.

  BTDT: Been There, Done That.

  BUPERS: naval BUreau of PERSonnel.

  BURT: Big Ugly Round Thing.

  BWR: (pronounced beware) Biological Warfare Rat-shit.

  C-130: Lockheed’s ubiquitous Hercules.

  C-141: Lockheed’s ubiquitous StarLifter aircraft, soon to be mothballed.

  C-4: plastic explosive. You can mold it like clay. You can even use it to light your fires. Just don’t stamp on it.

  C2CO: Can’t Cunt Commanding Officer. Too many of these in Navy SpecWar today. They won’t support their men or take chances because they’re afraid it’ll ruin their chances for promotion.

  CALOW: Coastal And Limited-Objective Warfare. Very fashionable acronym at the Pentagon in these days of increased low-intensity conflict.

  cannon fodder: see

  FNG.

  CAR-15: Colt’s carbine-sized .223 assault weapon.

  Christians in Action: SpecWar slang for the Central Intelligence Agency.

  CINC: Commander IN Chief.

  CINCLANT: Commander IN Chief, AtLANTic.

  CINCLANTFLT: Commander IN Chief, AtLANTic FLeeT.

  CINCUSNAVEUR: Commander IN Chief, U.S. NAVal Forces, EURope.

  clusterfuck: see

  FUBAR.

  CNO: Chief of Naval Operations.

  cockbreath: SEAL term of endearment used for those who only pay lip service.

  Combatmaster: palm-sized .45-caliber pistol made by Detonics, often used during undercover assignments.

  CONUS: CONtinental United States.

  cosh-and-carrys: British spook slang for snatch-and-grab operations.

  CQB: Close-Quarters Battle—e.g., killing that’s up close and personal.

  CQC6: Ernest Emerson’s titanium-framed Close Quarters Combat folding knife.

  Crimson Trace: state-of-the-art laser sights engineered especially for Glock pistols.

  CT: CounterTerrorism.

  D-11: London Metropolitan Police CT/SWAT unit. Armed bobbies.

  DDS: Dry Dock Shelter. The clamshell unit put on subs to deliver SEALs and SDVs.

  DEA: Drug Enforcement Agency.

  DEFCON: DEFense CONdition.

  DEVGRP: Naval Special Warfare DEVelopment GRouP. Current designation for SEAL Team Six.

  detasheet: olive-drab, ten-by-twenty inch, flexible, PETN-based plastic explosive used as a cutting or breaching charge.

  Dickhead: Stevie Wonder’s nickname for Marcinko.

  diplo-dink: no-load cookie-pushing diplomat.

  DIPSEC: Diplomatic SECurity.

  dipshit: can’t cunt pencil-dicked asshole.

  dirtbag: the look Marcinko favors for his Team guys.

  DITSA: Defense Technical Security Administration—the guys who try to keep complex, dual-use technology out of the bad guys’ hands. They are often stymied by State Department diplo-dinks and Commerce Department apparatchiki.

  du-ma-nhieu: (Vietnamese) go fuck yourself. See

  DOOM ON YOU.

  doom on you: American version of Vietnamese for “go fuck yourself.”

  Draeger: great German rebreathing apparatus.

  DREC: Digitally Reconnoiterable Electronic Component. NSA’s top secret computer chip that allows it to decipher all U.S. military codes.

  dweeb: no-load shit-for-brains geeky asshole, usually shackled to a computer.

  EC-130: electronic-warfare-outfitted C-130.

  ELINT: Electronic INTelligence.

  EOD: Explosive Ordnance Disposal.

  FAMFUC: FAMiliarization Facility/Urban Combat.

  Fart Cart: Marine-pilot slang for A-4 Skyhawk.

  Field Fighter: Bob Spear’s massive all-purpose combat knife. Great for eviscerating tangos, or cooking kabobs.

  FIS: Flight Information Service. flash-bangs: disorientation device used by hostage-rescue teams.

  FNG: Fucking New Guy. See CANNON FODDER.

  Foca: Italian minisub built with SpecWarriors in mind.

  foreplay: hold on Brigitte, here it comes.

  FORTE: Fast On-board Recording of Transient Experiments satellite. New, still top-secret, multispectral, thermal-imaging spy-in-sky bird that can track radioactive matter with great precision.

  four-striper: captain. All too often, a C2CO.

  frags: fragmentation grenades.

  Frequent Flyer: composite knife made by Mad Dog Knives that can get through any airport security procedure with the exception of a head-to-toe frisking.

  FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Repair.

  * * *

  Clock: reliable 9mm pistols made by Glock in Austria.

  goatfuck: what the Navy likes to do to Marcinko. See FUBAR.

  GSG-9: Grenzschutzgruppe-9. Top German CT unit.

  HAHO: High-Altitude, High-Opening parachute jump.

  HALO: High Altitude, Low-Opening parachute jump.

  HK: SEAL talk for the ultrareliable pistols, assault rifles, and submachine guns made by Heckler & Koch, a German firm. SEALs use H&K MP5 submachine guns in various configurations, as well as H&K-93 assault rifles, MSG-90 sniper’s rifles, or H&K USP and P7 9mm, .40-caliber, and .45 ACP pistols.

  Huey: slang originally for Bell’s AH-1 two-bladed helicopter, but now refers to various UH-configuration Bell choppers.

  HUMINT: HUMan INTelligence.

  humongous: Marcinko dick.

  Hydra-Shok: extremely lethal hollowpoint ammunition manufactured by Federal Cartridge Company.

  IBS: Inflatable Boat, Small—the basic unit of SEAL transportation.

  ICS: Joint Intelligence Community Staff. The guys at 1776 G Street who (allegedly) coordinate intelligence operations.

  IED: Improvised Explosive Device.

  Incursari: Italian Frogman unit based at La Spezia.

  inshallah: (Arabic) God willing.

  Japs: bad guys.

  Jarheads: Marines. The Corps. Formally, USMC, or Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children.

  JSOC: Joint Special Operations Command.

  KATN: Kick Ass and Take Names. Marcinko avocation.

  Ketamine: Dr. Nostradamus’s best knockout potion.

  KH-11: NRO’s spy-in-the-sky satellites, now superseded by KH-12s.

  KISS: Keep It Simple, Stupid. Marcinko’s basic premise for special operations.

  Lacrosse: latest-version eye-in-the-sky NRO spy satellite with upgraded capabilities.

  LANTFLT: AtLANTic FLeeT.

  M16: basic U.S. .223-caliber weapon, used by the armed forces..

  Mad Dog: Paulden, Arizona, bladesmith Kevin McClung, whose Frequent Flyer composite knife is carried by Marcinko SEALs.

  MagSafe: lethal frangible ammunition that kills but does not exit the human body. Favored by some SWAT units for CQB.

  Mod-I Mark-0: basic unit.

  NAVAIR: NAVy AIR Command.

  NAVSEA: NAVy SEA Command.

  NAVSPECWARGRU: NAVal SPECial WARfare GRoUp.

  Navyspeak: redundant, bureaucratic naval nomenclature, either in written nonoral, or nonwritten oral modes, indecipherable by nonmilitary (conventional) or military (unconventional) individuals during normal interfacing configuration conformations.

  Ne
xis: private database.

  NIS: Naval Investigative Service Command, also known as the Admirals’ Gestapo. See SHIT-FOR-BRAINS.

  NMN: No Middle Name.

  NRO: National Reconnaissance Office. Established August 25, 1960, to administer and coordinate satellite development and operations for the U.S. intelligence community, currently headquartered in a secret, $310-million, 1-million-square-foot compound off Route 28 behind Dulles International Airport outside Washington, D.C. Very spooky place.

  NSA: National Security Agency. Snoop-’n’-spook complex at Ft. Meade, Maryland. Known within the SpecWar community as No Such Agency.

  NSCT: Naval Security Coordination Team (Navyspeak name for Red Cell).

  NSD: National Security Directive.

  OBE: Overtaken By Events—usually because of the bureaucracy.

  OOD: Officer Of the Deck (he who drives the big gray monster).

  OP-06-04: CNO’s SpecWar briefing officer.

  OP-06B: assistant deputy CNO for operations, plans, and policy.

  OP-06D: cover organization for Red Cell/NSCT.

  OP-09N: commander, Naval Criminal Investigative Command.

  O

  PS

  EC: Operational Security.

  OXY-NG: U.S. Divers first-class bubbleless underwater breathing apparatus used by SEALs.

  P-3: Orion sub-hunting and electronic-warfare prop-driven aircraft.

  PDMP: 661521Pretty Dangerous Motherfucking People.

  RPG: 661521Rocket-Propelled Grenade.

  SAS: Special Air Service. Britain’s top CT unit.

  SATCOM: SATellite COMmunications.

  SBS: Special Boat Squadron. Royal Marine commando unit with CT responsibilities.

  SCIF: Special Classified Intelligence Facility. A bug-proof bubble room.

  SEAL: SEa-Air-Land Navy SpecWarrior. A hop-and-popping shoot-and-looter hairy-assed Frogman who gives a shit. The acronym stands for Sleep, Eat, And Live it up.

  Semtex: Czecho C-4 plastic explosive. Used for canceling Czechs.

  SERE: Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape school.

  SH-3: versatile Sikorsky chopper. Used in ASW missions and also as a Spec Ops platform.

  shit-for-brains: any no-load pus-nutted pencil-dicked asshole from NIS.