Seal Team Seven 04 - Direct Action

by Keith Douglass

  DeWitt raced around to the other side of the helicopter where the caving ladder was flapping back and forth in the rotor wash. He made a running leap at it, trying to hit as high up as he could. He climbed one-handed, almost falling as the helicopter shook, but made it high enough for Fernandez and Nicholson to reach down and grab him. As they dragged him roughly into the cabin, DeWitt screamed from the pain in his broken arm. But once in, he still got up on his knees and emptied his last AKM magazine out the door.

  After DeWitt went up, all the SEALs fell back toward the ladder.

  A Syrian with a PKM machine gun rose up in front of Jaybird Sterling and fired at the Blackhawk. Jaybird cut him down with his last few rounds rapid-fire. When the magazine ran out, he threw the AKM in the direction of the Syrians. He pulled out his Makarov pistol and sprinted for the helicopter.

  Murdock saw the caving ladder flapping free. He knew that if it got blown up into the rotors their ride was going to come crashing down. He made a diving grab for the ladder and hooked an arm around one rung. He put his weight on it and brought the AKM up to his shoulder. The minigun was screaming just above his head. Jaybird came running up. "Go, go, go!" Murdock shouted. Jaybird hesitated a brief instant, then went up the ladder.

  2015 hours Blackhawk, Hammer-One

  The belt on Miguel Fernandez's SAW ran out just as he saw a Syrian stand up from the rocks with an RPG-7 launcher on his shoulder.

  Fernandez screamed at Red, but couldn't be heard above all the noise. He forced himself to take his eyes off the RPG gunner and tear off the old belt box, get a fresh one out of his vest, and snap it in. Too slow, too slow. The feed cover was open--he laid the new belt over the feed tray.

  The RPG rocket came out of the launcher with a tremendous flash. Fernandez saw it heading straight for him.

  The rocket passed right over the top of the rotors. Fernandez hammered the feed cover down.

  The Syrian stood staring at the helicopter as if he couldn't believe he'd missed. Fernandez let fly with a continuous fifty-round burst that left the SAW barrel smoking. The Syrian fell back into the rocks. Unlike Jaybird, Fernandez wasn't dehydrated, and he did piss his pants.

  Warning lights were blinking in the cockpit. The pilot held the Blackhawk steady. They weren't going anywhere.

  2015 hours North central Lebanese mountains

  Magic Brown shot another Syrian soldier as he backed toward the helicopter. The Syrians were pushing forward. Magic had just reached the ladder when two Syrians appeared near the tail of the helicopter. Magic dropped one of them, then the hammer clicked on an empty chamber as the second Syrian reared back to throw a grenade. Rounds cracked past Magic's shoulder. The Syrian fell, and lost his grip on the grenade. Magic ducked. The grenade exploded beside the Syrian.

  Murdock had fired from the base of the ladder. He gestured frantically for Magic to get up. Magic did.

  Razor Roselli killed a Syrian who'd made it all the way up to the perimeter, only to hesitate fatally when confronted with someone wearing the same uniform. Razor bolted for the Blackhawk.

  A round hit him in the ankle and took him off his feet. Razor tried to get up off the ground, but couldn't.

  Murdock released the ladder. He got over to Razor and dropped to his knees. Razor threw his arms around Murdock's neck. Murdock strained to his feet with Razor hanging onto his back. The pain was blinding.

  Murdock staggered over to the ladder. He dropped his AKM and grabbed the rungs. He pulled himself up one step, and it seemed like lights were flashing before his eyes.

  Six 120mm mortar illumination rounds popped in the air above the helicopter. The effect was like being on the field of a football stadium during a night game.

  Murdock made it up another rung, and then couldn't make his legs move any more.

  Then Razor's weight suddenly came off his shoulders.

  2016 hours MH-60K Blackhawk, Hammer-One

  When the flares popped, the Blackhawk crew flipped up their now-useless night-vision goggles. It was an incredibly dangerous transition to make while flying.

  When they saw the lieutenant stop moving on the ladder, Jaybird and Magic scrambled back down. They snatched Razor off Murdock's back and passed him up into the cabin. Then they took hold of Murdock's wrists and lifted him up. The others grabbed him and pulled him into the cabin. Jaybird and Magic clambered up the ladder.

  "Go!" the SEALs in the cabin screamed. "Go, go, go!"

  The pilot swung the Blackhawk down the ridge while the SEALs were still pulling up the caving ladder. A few seconds later the ridge masked the Syrian fire. Then the Blackhawk was out from under the light of the flares, and the crew went back on the NVGs.

  There was no cheering or exultation in the back of the Blackhawk. There were hurt SEALs who needed to be attended to. Fernandez and Nicholson slammed the cabin doors shut.

  The metal floor was slick with blood, and the empty cartridge casings rolled around underfoot like ball bearings. Doc Ellsworth slipped twice trying to get across the cabin. One of the door gunners handed Doc his infrared flashlight.

  Magic had already tied a battle dressing onto Razor's ankle. The bone was broken, so Doc slipped on a splint, gave him a shot of morphine, and started an IV with a bag from Fernandez's trauma kit.

  Murdock sat slumped against the back wall of the cabin. Doc was busy, and enough was enough. He took out one of his own morphine syrettes, jabbed it into his thigh, and squeezed the tube dry. What was that sensation? It couldn't be the morphine yet. Ah, that was it. It was warm in the cabin. He hadn't felt that way in a long time.

  The Blackhawk sped down the mountain ridge. The crew saw the thermal strips of the circling backup bird and formed up behind it. Far too many warning lights were still lit up on the console. The copilot ran through the systems.

  "FLIR is down," he reported. "So is the radar."

  With no forward-looking infrared or terrain-following-and-avoidance radar, the pilot was going to have to ride the treetops with no aids other than his Mark-I eyeballs looking through night-vision goggles. Well, that was how the first Nightstalkers had done it. So could he. The stick was feeling heavy. He didn't want to put the Blackhawk through any sudden maneuvers. Something might break.

  "Do we have the nav?" he asked the copilot.

  "Nothing but GPS, and that keeps going down and coming up. Radar warning is down too."

  At least they didn't have to sit and worry about being shot at, the pilot thought. They wouldn't know until they were already hit. He keyed his mike button. "Hammer-Two, Hammer-One, over?"

  "Hammer-Two."

  At least the radio worked. "Hammer-Two, we don't have a lot of systems left. We'll follow you all the way. Keep an eye on us in case we lose our radio, over."

  "Roger."

  The Blackhawks turned off the top of the ridge and headed west down the slope. They followed a different route from the one they'd taken in.

  If the injured Blackhawk could no longer stay in the air it would put down, hopefully without crashing, and everyone inside would transfer to the second ship. No one looked forward to doing that in the middle of Lebanon at night. Of course, if anything happened to a helicopter at that altitude, there wouldn't be much time to react.

  The turbines were screaming too loud for casual conversation. Jaybird got the attention of the door gunners and pantomimed drinking. One of them tapped his hand to his forehead as if to say he was sorry for not thinking of it. They passed around all the crew canteens and water bottles.

  Murdock refused a canteen until all his men had something to drink. He finally accepted one, and the flat tepid water tasted delicious. The morphine was providing a wonderful soothing warmth.

  The port turbine engine started to give off a knocking sound. Jaybird waved his hand, as if signaling for a waiter, to get the door gunners' attention again.

  Ed DeWitt was sitting near the front of the cabin. He tapped a gunner on the leg and pointed to the back.

  Jaybird aimed his thumb up
at the engine. The gunner picked his way through the crowded cabin until he was right below the engine. He lifted up the bottom of his helmet so he could hear clearly. Then he began talking rapidly into his microphone.

  "If it goes we'll shut it down," the pilot replied, still unruffled. "But we've got too much weight and not enough altitude to shut it down now and still keep flying."

  The knocking continued. At least it was rhythmic, Murdock thought. He couldn't fly a helicopter, and he tried not to get agitated about things he had no control over.

  The two Blackhawks crossed the coastline between Byblos and BatroOn.

  "Feet wet," the pilot reported.

  Murdock motioned for Fernandez and Nicholson to open the cabin doors. If the helicopter died there was no possibility of landing now, only a crash into the sea. And when helicopters hit the water, even gently, they sank. And because the heavy engines and rotors were above the cabin, helicopters flipped upside down when they sank. If that happened, everyone inside would need to get out fast.

  "Screw it," the pilot said. "We're outside the territorial limits, I'm getting some altitude." He pulled back on the cyclic and began a very slow, very gentle climb.

  The engine knocking became faster. Murdock could see the reflection of the moon on the water below. He really didn't feel like ending the evening with a swim. This was about the time Razor would say "Don't worry, Boss, we probably won't survive the initial crash anyway." But Razor wouldn't be saying much until the drugs wore off.

  One of the door gunners was pointing to the front of the helicopter. Those SEALs who could raised themselves off the floor to be able to see out the windscreen. And there was the George Washington glowing in the moonlight.

  The lead Blackhawk peeled off to allow the damaged one to land first. The carrier was sailing into the wind, which was how the helicopter would land.

  As the Blackhawk dropped, Murdock's view out the cabin door changed from dark ocean waves to flat black no-skid flight deck.

  As soon as the wheels touched down, the copilot instantly shut the engines down. They were finished taking chances for the night.

  There was minimal crew on the flight deck, and they had been instructed to forget everything they saw. Or else.

  White-shirted and red-crossed medical corpsmen were waiting with stretchers. The SEALs passed Higgins out first, then Razor. DeWitt walked to sick bay, as did Murdock with the aid of the morphine.

  The SEALS didn't kiss the flight deck. But now that his officers and chief were gone, Jaybird Sterling leaned between the cockpit seats and planted a firm wet kiss on the cheek of the pilot. The warrant officer jumped, startled, and then broke into a huge grin. He knew SEALS, and was probably glad he hadn't been French-kissed. Then Jaybird gave him the traditional, heartfelt, but very unofficial Special Forces crowning tribute. "You sweet motherfucker, don't you never die!"

  50

  Saturday, November 11

  2145 hours Aboard the U.S.S. George Washington Eastern Mediterranean Sea

  Blake Murdock would have loved to catch a little shut-eye. But he was lying naked, on his stomach, atop an examination table in the sick bay. And a doctor was giving him the facts of life.

  "No, I wouldn't even think of putting you under," the doctor said, shaking his head. He was a lieutenant, wearing nice clean khakis. "Not in your present condition." He pinched the skin of Murdock's forearm. When he released it the skin stood right up. "See how dehydrated you are? No, we'll just give you a local and probe for fragments. The big ones, that is. The little ones will work their way out on their own, eventually."

  "Great," Murdock said dryly. He handed the beaker to one of the corpsmen. "How about another water, Doc?"

  "That's your third one," the corpsman said in amazement. It was a liter beaker. "Are you sure you don't have to go?"

  "You'll be the first to know," Murdock assured him.

  Doc Ellsworth entered the compartment, freshly showered and dressed in a clean unmarked flight Suit. He cast a professional eye over Murdock's backside. "Hey, Lieutenant, we're going to have to get you a laminated chit for when you go through airports. You'll never make it through a metal detector after this."

  "What's the word?" said Murdock.

  The Doc turned serious. "The Professor is still in surgery. He's critical. Razor's in surgery too. I saw his X-rays, the ankle's pretty well shattered. They'll just clean things up in there. When we get to CONUS they'll open up the leg again and screw everything back together."

  "Is he looking at a medical?" Murdock asked. Meaning a medical discharge or loss of SEAL qualification.

  Doc shrugged. "Time will tell. Mister DeWitt's fracture didn't get any worse. He's in plaster now. He may have bruised some internal organs; we'll be keeping an eye on him. As far as everyone else, you're talking first- and second-degree burns, bruises, sprains, ripped and pulled muscles. I'll be handing out Motrin for quite a while."

  "You did a hell of a job, Doc." Murdock smiled. "Shit, just the positive thinking alone."

  Doc grinned back. "I kept telling you, sir, but I guess you had to experience it for yourself. Now you see that it works, you'll be thinking extra positive next time and you won't get hurt at all."

  "You must have converted Jaybird. I don't think he got a scratch."

  "It's his aura," Doc explained. "Son of a bitch has an aura so bright you could read by it."

  From the puzzled looks they were getting, no one else in the compartment had the slightest idea what they were talking about.

  "Get some sleep, Doc. I'll see you tomorrow."

  Doc Ellsworth took another look at Murdock's situation and shook his head sadly. "I'd tell you to have fun, Lieutenant,but you aren't going to."

  They had to stab him so many times to administer the local anesthetic that Murdock started to wonder if he shouldn't just self-administer another syrette and let them go ahead and probe.

  Don Stroh walked in. Evidently, Murdock thought, he'd flipped a coin with Kohler and lost. "Blake, what can I say except that I'm sorry for everything."

  Murdock made no reply.

  Stroh went on. "The word from the overhead imagery is that the warehouse was absolutely flattened. Communications and signals intercepts indicate that you took out close to five hundred Syrians and Hezbollah, both at the warehouse and afterward."

  Murdock thought that went a long way toward evening the score for the Beirut bombing. But what he said was, "I lost a good man, and I didn't have to. My men are wounded, and there was no need for them to get hurt."

  "Blake, I ..."

  "Look, Don, I know it wasn't your call not to launch. But you can tell those assholes back at Langley that they better pray we don't take some leave when we get back and go spook hunting. Fuck!" Murdock looked over his shoulder. "Jeez, Doc, what are you using, a bayonet?"

  "I'll talk to you later, Blake."

  "Sure, Don."

  Stroh left, and a whole platoon of SEALs came thundering in.

  The doctor looked up from Murdock's ass and said in outrage, "Get all these people out of here!"

  The corpsmen looked at the burly SEALS, then at each other, as if to say "Who, us?"

  "It's okay, Doc," Murdock said. "They're family."

  "Hi, Sir!" said Jaybird Sterling, as usual the spokesman. "We just talked with Doc Ellsworth. He said your ass was a sight to behold, so we had to come in and check it out for ourselves."

  Murdock could hear the doctor grumbling behind him. "It's okay, Doc. We'll be lucky if they don't head right for the mess deck and sell tickets to the crew." He turned to his SEALS. "I'm glad you're here. I wanted to tell you how proud I am of every one of you."

  SEALs had the balls to do just about anything except accept a compliment without screwing around like a bunch of hyperactive schoolboys. They grinned, shuffled their feet, hung their heads, punched each other on the shoulders, and made remarks like, "We know you're just saying that 'cause your ass is hanging out, sir."

  "Okay," said Murdock, "
I showed you my ass, now get the hell out of here. Jaybird, you and Magic hold on for a second."

  The rest of them left. Jaybird said, "The helicopter guys are taking pictures of our bird down in the hangar deck. They think it's probably the record for the most hits taken by a Blackhawk that still kept flying."

  "They said another few minutes and that engine would have caught fire," said Magic.

  "Thanks for getting me up that ladder, you two," said Murdock. "I ran out of gas."

  "No problem, sir," said Magic.

  "You try carrying around a moose like Razor and that'll happen," said Jaybird.

  "What I really wanted to talk to you about," said Murdock, "is my choice for who's going to pinch-hit for Razor as platoon chief."

  "Don't worry about a thing, sir," Jaybird said earnestly. "We may get a little crazy every now and then, but while you're laid up we'll back the guy one hundred percent."

  Murdock began to shake with suppressed laughter, so much that the doctor, by now highly annoyed, had to halt work behind him.

  "I'm glad to hear that," said Murdock, straining to hold it in. "Because you're the new platoon chief."

  Jaybird's jaw dropped all the way to the deck. He stood thunderstruck. "No way, sir."

  The laughter burst out of Murdock. "Way," he insisted between guffaws. Magic Brown fell to the deck laughing. "You're kidding, right, sir?" Jaybird said hopefully.

  Murdock had to hold onto the table to support himself. He shook his head and managed to squeeze out, "Date of rank. You're the senior first class. Can't do anything about it. Hey, Magic," he called down to Magic Brown, who was still writhing on the deck. "Guess what? You're the new leading petty officer."

  "Whatever you say, sir," Magic gasped, holding onto his belly. Every time he looked up at the expression on Jaybird's face, he went hysterical again.

  Murdock wiped the tears from his eyes. "You're going to love the prestige. I've heard you say it before. The chief just dicks off and orders people around."

  Jaybird opened his mouth to protest.

  "No, no, that's okay," said Murdock. "I want you to consider this a reward for a job well done. You can start with the equipment. Make sure everything we brought aboard is cleaned, accounted for, and packed for disembarkation. Get Razor's inventory list out of his quarters. We left a lot of gear behind in Lebanon, including some very expensive sniper rifles. Prepare a list with serial numbers so we can start work on the paperwork to write it off as lost in combat. While you're doing that, start putting together a chronology of events and statements from everyone, including Miguel and Red, for the after-action report."