Direct Action sts-4

by Keith Douglass

  The rest of the platoon gave Ellsworth and Frazier a warm and friendly welcome along the lines of: “About fucking time.”

  “Now we can get out of here.”

  “Any day, there, you two.”

  “Fuck you all,” Doc Ellsworth replied.

  When the din died down, Razor Roselli stepped to the fore. The crowd hushed, waiting for his thoughts. “What took you so long, Doc?” Razor asked with deep but utterly insincere concern. “You get a cramp?”

  The platoon cackled. The Doc popped the shoulder straps of his dry bag and dumped it onto the deck. It was bulged out to the size of a filled Navy seabag. “This pig was weighing me down,” he said. “You’ll shit yourselves when you see what’s in it.” He opened up the dry bag, took out a nylon duffel, and unzipped it. The duffel was filled to the brim with U.S. currency, all apparently one-hundred-dollar bills.

  The platoon whooped in exultation. The general consensus was that there sat the makings of a platoon party that would go down in Naval Special Warfare history, with enough left over for a new car for everyone.

  Before Murdock or DeWitt could find their tongues, Chiefs Roselli and Kosciuszko took charge, the human equivalents of a bucket of ice water to the nuts.

  “Razor and me,” Kos Kosciuszko announced, while Roselli zipped up the bag, “and Mister Murdock and Mister DeWitt are going to count all this. Then we will fucking seal it.”

  “You sure you don’t want to reconsider that, Chief?” said a voice from the back of the mob.

  “Yeah, Chief,” said someone else. “Think it over. This could be one of those once-in-a-lifetime shots you come to regret when it’s time to retire.”

  Unlike most SEALS, who only took their work seriously, Kos Kosciuszko took life too seriously to accept a ribbing in the proper spirit. And, of course, the platoon knew it. “My reputation isn’t worth ten times that money,” he informed them with a murderous look on his face.

  “Don’t make me blow the head off anyone who just wants to sneak in and have another little look in the bag,” Razor Roselli added with his usual evil smile. He knew most of them were joking about copping the money, but it was a lot of temptation to be sitting there at close quarters. All it would take was for one guy to get a stupid attack and do something he’d regret.

  Thank God for the chiefs, Murdock thought. Then he chuckled. Otherwise he might have been tempted himself.

  As it turned out, there was three million dollars in the duffel, all hundreds, all crisp and brand-new.

  “You keep doing that, Sir, and you’re going to give yourself a hard-on,” Razor Roselli cautioned Ed DeWitt, who was unconsciously fondling a large stack of bills.

  DeWitt whipped his hand away as though it was on fire, and everyone laughed. Then he recovered nicely. “Just practicing in case the lieutenant makes me sleep with it.”

  There was more laughter. Murdock good-naturedly declined the CIA man’s joking offer to take the money off his hands.

  The fishing boat headed south, and the Kamehameha, unneeded, drifted away. After a leisurely journey of several days and a confinement below deck that drove the platoon of active SEALs crazy, the boat emerged into the Gulf of Aden and then the Indian Ocean. One night two U.S. Navy SH-60F Seahawk helicopters plucked 3rd Platoon and all their gear from the fishing boat and carried them to the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Nimitz. A C-2A Carrier Onboard Delivery aircraft flew them to the British/American naval base at Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean. At Diego the platoon boarded a C-141 jet transport for a very, very long flight back to the U.S.

  4

  Monday, September 4

  0645 hours Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, California

  Blake Murdock hated garrison life with a burning passion. Even the sound of the BUD/S tadpoles singing as they ran by his window was no compensation. The field was where you dove, fired weapons, and blew things up. Garrison was where there were always mounds of paperwork waiting whenever you returned from the field. And there was way, way too much command supervision here at Coronado.

  Team Seven had originally been stationed at Little Creek Amphibious Base near Norfolk, Virginia, the home of the East Coast SEALS. But then someone up in the chain of command became offended by the aesthetics of having an odd-numbered team in the midst of all the East Coast “evens”: Teams 2, 4, 6, 8, and SEAL Delivery Vehicle Team 2. Murdock also suspected that all the action Team Seven had been seeing was beginning to grate on the “Jedi Knights,” the high-speed-low-drag hostage-rescue specialists of Team Six up at Dam Neck, Virginia. A turf war was inevitable.

  And with Team Six firmly established as Delta Force’s counterpart in the elite Joint Special Operations Command, it was more than clear who was going to win. So after the typical bureaucratic power games at command level, Team Seven was shipped off to Coronado and Naval Special Warfare Group One, the West Coast home of the “odd” SEAL Teams: 1, 3, 5 and SDV-1, not to mention the Special Warfare Center and the Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL course.

  Since Team Seven still didn’t publicly exist in the SEAL order of battle, and carried only four platoons instead of the official (but almost never fully manned) ten, it had been redesignated a “black” team. The mission was now primary support for the intelligence community, with special classified intelligence missions known only by their code words, dirty little jobs that didn’t officially happen, the kind of ops that the platoon referred to as “weren’t there, didn’t do that.” Like Port Sudan.

  The headquarters was located in the fenced-off Special Warfare area of the base, but the building wasn’t marked — even though all SEALs knew what it was. The important thing was that no one other than SEALs knew.

  For Murdock Coronado had two main disadvantages. The first was operational: they were now five hours further away by air from Europe, and therefore less likely to be employed. Exactly what Team Six must have had in mind. But then again, they’d gotten the Sudan op, so maybe there were some advantages to playing with the CIA. That is, as long as you remembered to sit with your back to the wall when you were around those boys.

  The second disadvantage was more personal. There were far, far more opportunities for his wild young SEALs to get into trouble. San Diego was just across the bay. L.A. was a short drive north. And the Mexican border and the sinful pleasures of Tijuana were just a stone’s throw to the south.

  Murdock dearly loved his job, but it was getting to the point where he was afraid to step over the quarterdeck each morning and hear what new atrocities 3rd Platoon had committed the night before. Granted, the boys were expected to blow off some steam after an op, but they’d been back two weeks and weren’t showing any signs of slowing down. The weekends were even worse: more time to get into mischief.

  But of course Murdock did step over the quarterdeck in the morning, and of course SEAL Team Seven’s Command Master Chief was hovering nearby, checking on the uniform, haircut, and shave of everyone, officer and enlisted, as they showed up for work. And officer or enlisted, if you weren’t squared away, you were going to hear about it in a hurry.

  A smart officer always took the pulse of the Command Master Chief for early warning of impending disasters, and Murdock was a smart officer. It also helped if the Command Master Chief was George MacKenzie, who had previously been the platoon chief of 3rd Platoon and had kept Murdock out of more trouble than he could say.

  “Morning, Master Chief,” said Murdock. “Got time for a cup of coffee?”

  “Good morning, Sir,” the chief replied. The formality was for public consumption; now Mac took care of all the platoons in the team, not just one. “I’d love to, but you don’t have time this morning.”

  And it had been a pleasant morning, up until now. “Okay, Mac, give it to me straight.”

  “Well, sir, Jaybird and Doc sort of ran amuck last night.”

  “Does the Captain know?” were the first words Murdock got out, even before inquiring as to the nature of the crime. Jaybird and Doc running amuck wasn’t exact
ly what you’d call a news flash.

  The Captain, as every naval commanding officer is called, regardless of rank, was Commander Dean Masciarelli, known in the teams as the Masher, the newly arrived C.O. of Team Seven. Another result of the move to Coronado was that the team was now led by a standard-issue commander instead of a captain. Murdock didn’t want to be the first one to test the new skipper with any major liberty incidents. From all indications, the man didn’t have much of a sense of humor.

  In the old days all that SEAL officers aspired to was command of a team and retirement as a commander. If by some stroke of luck you made captain, that was just pure gravy. Now the SEAL community regularly produced a couple of admirals, and the no-mistakes-on-my-watch mentality and political gamesmanship had gotten almost as bad as the rest of the Navy.

  “No, sir, he doesn’t,” Chief MacKenzie said calmly. “And with any luck he won’t. Razor’s kept the lid on.”

  Murdock resumed breathing regularly. If the Command Master Chief was going to acquiesce in keeping the lid on the incident, it had to be something less serious than murder, armed robbery, or consensual sodomy. “You going to tell me what happened, Master Chief, or are you going to leave me hanging a while longer?”

  MacKenzie’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “Oh, no, Sir, I wouldn’t deprive Razor of the pleasure of telling you himself. He’s waiting in your office.”

  “You want to come along?”

  “I’d love to, sir, but Mister DeWitt hasn’t arrived for work yet. On Friday his belt buckle looked like he’d polished it with snot, so we’re going to have a little talk this morning about how many quarterdeck watches he owes me.”

  “Enjoy, Master Chief.” Old Mac had taken to Command Master Chief like, well, like a SEAL to water.

  As advertised, Doc Ellsworth and Jaybird Sterling were waiting outside his office. To Murdock’s utter shock, they both came smartly to attention and chorused, “Good morning, sir!”

  “Morning,” Murdock grumbled on his way through the door. Fuck, he thought; it had to be serious if those two bastards were resorting to textbook military courtesy.

  Also as advertised, Razor Roselli was waiting in the office with the kind of expression on his face that, as the platoon liked to say, came from having to eat shit donuts first thing in the morning. Murdock collapsed into his chair and said, “Okay, Chief, let’s have it.”

  The Razor nodded and stuck his head out the door. “In!” he commanded.

  Ellsworth and Sterling marched into the office and centered themselves in front of Murdock’s desk, remaining at attention.

  “They’ve both been informed of their rights under Article 32,” said the Razor.

  “That right?” Murdock asked them.

  “Yes, sir,” they both said.

  Roselli began. “Sir, these … these two little diddy-boppers got in the firewater last night and danced their way into a real hairball.”

  Murdock got a real kick out of his chief’s tone of righteous outrage. In his years with the teams Razor Roselli had destroyed more bars, worldwide, than insurance arson. But that was how SEAL chief petty officers were made. When Razor was a troop and fucked up, the platoon chief had hammered him. Now that he was a platoon chief, it was his turn to be Dad. On another level, though, it made Murdock uneasy. If the Razor was going to make the two of them stand at attention while he told the tale, it had to be a real beaut.

  The Razor continued. “You’re aware of the carnival that’s been on base the past week, sir?”

  It wasn’t fitting together, but Murdock had hopes. “The one for the kids, right? Rides and games and all that?” What did they do, he wondered, fuck someone’s daughter on top of the Ferris wheel?

  “Yes, sir,” Razor said crisply. “They also had some animals. It seems that a camel went missing last night.”

  “A camel?” Murdock asked in disbelief, shooting up straight in his chair and staring at Doc and Jaybird. They were giving him the innocent puppy-dog look. “You mean a full-size, Mark-I camel? Hump and all?”

  “That’s right, sir,” the Razor went on, straight-faced. “This camel disappeared from the carnival, and then turned up again in the process of being inserted into the garage of the Special Warfare Group commanding officer.”

  “Not Commodore Harkins,” Murdock pleaded with Doc and Jaybird. “Not his fucking personal quarters.”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” the Razor assured him, while beads of sweat began to break out on Jaybird and Doc’s upper lips. “These two were interrupted in the act by Chief Master at Arms Marlowe, who was on patrol at the time.”

  “You got caught?” Murdock bellowed. Doing the crime was one thing, but a SEAL getting caught in the act was unforgivable.”

  “We thought about killing him,” Jaybird blurted out. “But we figured you’d be even more pissed.” He caught the chief’s fiery look, and added, way too late, “Sir.”

  “Chief Marlowe is an old buddy of mine, sir,” said the Razor. “He brought the incident to my attention, and we handled it chief-to-chief.”

  Murdock had to strain to keep from letting out an audible groan of relief. Chief-to-chief was the only thing that kept the Navy running, not to mention officers like himself out of courts-martial. “Is the camel okay?”

  “Operational, sir, and returned to its rightful owners.”

  “They don’t want to press charges?”

  “No, sir. They were a little steamed about what was on the camel, but I managed to smooth things over.”

  Murdock knew he was going to be sorry, but he had to know. “Okay, what was on the camel?”

  “The number seven, sir.”

  “A seven?” Murdock flashed a massively pissed-off look at his two miscreants; they both wilted. “Oh, that’s good. That’s very fucking good. You two should instruct operational security. And of course while the Commodore was standing in a pile of camel shit in his garage this morning, he’d never look at that number and make any connection with Team Seven. No, noooo, not ever. Brilliant, just fucking brilliant.”

  The two looked like they were trying to dissolve into the deck. “Was it painted on?” Murdock asked no one in particular.

  “What’s that, sir?” asked the Razor.

  “The number, was it painted on?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well?” Murdock demanded.

  “It was shaved on,” the chief said finally.

  “Shaved on? Where?”

  “On its ass, sir.”

  Doc and Jaybird dissolved into giggles, which only ended when the chief gave Jaybird a mild open-handed slap across the back of the head.

  Murdock stared at his framed commission on the wall for inspiration. He was no expert on camels, but from what he’d heard about their general temperament, it was hard to imagine one standing still for having its ass shaved by a couple of drunken SEALS. Then again, he wouldn’t put it past Doc Ellsworth to whip up some kind of camel tranquilizer … no, no, it was best not to even think about things like that. What you didn’t know you couldn’t testify to.

  “Let me sum this up,” he said. “You drank enough alcohol to turn the higher function areas of your brains into Vaseline. Then, when you had become just stupid enough, you stole a camel, which I assume costs enough to knock this gig into the major felony class. Then you were going to tether this live camel, marked with everything except my name, rank, and social security number, in the garage of the quarters, the home, of the Commodore who personally commands all the teams, special boat squadrons, detachments, and units in the West Coast and Pacific theater of operations. The man who writes our commanding officer’s fitness report and reviews mine. Does that about cover it?”

  Ellsworth and Sterling merely shrugged, as if it had all seemed like a much better idea the night before.

  Murdock let them sweat for a while longer. “Okay,” he said to the two. “Your choice. Captain’s mast or platoon punishment.”

  “Platoon punishment, sir,” they both blurted out.
The Razor would take it out of their ass a lot worse than the commander, but they’d keep their rates, and their record books would stay clean.

  “Is that all, sir?” the Razor requested.

  Murdock nodded.

  “Out!” the chief hissed at Jaybird and Doc.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, Murdock and Roselli stared at each other. Then they both burst into laughter.

  “A fucking camel,” the Razor wheezed, holding onto a chair for support.

  “The fucking Commodore,” Murdock moaned.

  “A seven on its ass,” the Razor said weakly. “We can only give thanks that they got caught. Fuck, I know alcohol affects the judgment, but come on!”

  “Nice save on that, Razor.”

  “We were lucky, Boss.” The chief started laughing again. “Standing in camel shit.” I thought I was really gonna lose it when you said that.” He shook his head. “And this commodore? You know what a tight-ass he is? It would have been a shit-storm around here. If they decided not to shoot us, we’d all be assigned to the cold-weather detachment in Kodiak for the rest of our careers.”

  “The only thing I don’t know is how Master Chief Mac kept a straight face on the quarterdeck,” Murdock mused.

  “The word is going to get around,” said the Razor. “This is a minor SEAL legend in the making.”

  “Just as long as the Skipper doesn’t hear about it until after I get orders out,” said Murdock. “And just as long as no one else in the platoon gets the idea to one-up this little stunt.”

  “They won’t,” the chief said confidently. “Not after they see the pound of flesh I’m gonna take out of Jaybird’s and Doc’s asses.

  Just then Lieutenant j.g. DeWitt stomped into the office, his face crimson. “Man,” he announced. “The Master Chief really ripped me a new asshole this morning. He never got so hung up on my fucking belt buckle when he was in the platoon.”