They all groaned, mainly because they knew he was right. Murdock gave them a break, and everyone went out for coffee or a soft drink …
Except Ed DeWitt. He grabbed the book and thumbed through it, stopping at the Equipment in Service section at the back. Under Syria, and Reconnaissance Vehicles, there was BRDM1, BRDM2, and Shorlands (IS). What the hell was that last one? He tore through the index and then the page, and had it laid out when the others returned to the room.
“It’s an armored car,” DeWitt told them. “British, made by Short Brothers of Belfast. Basically an armored Land Rover with a machine-gun turret. The Brits use them in Northern Ireland, the Syrians use them for internal security.” He shot a victorious look at Razor Roselli. “And it fits in an MH47. I checked the dimensions.”
“Shit hot, Ed,” said Murdock. There were approving noises from the rest. Except one.
“Look, sir, that’s great,” said Razor Roselli. “So we can get to the warehouse and ram our way in with an armored car. But we still have to plant the charges and get the fuck out!” He was almost shouting now.
“Goddammit, we’re a hell of a lot farther ahead than when we started this morning,” Kos Kosciuszko bellowed. “And for all your bitching you haven’t been any fucking help at all.”
Roselli stood up. Kosciuszko took the challenge and came up out of his chair.
“All right!” Murdock said sharply. “That’s it for today. Everyone get the fuck out and go home. I’ll sanitize the room.” Sometimes being a SEAL officer was like being a lion tamer. Except that being a SEAL officer was more dangerous than being a lion tamer. His SEALs all stood up and shuffled about nervously. “Get out,” said Murdock. “Go home, cool down, and be back here tomorrow morning ready to work. Don’t anyone say another fucking word.”
Razor Roselli seemed to want to say something to Murdock, but he turned and followed everyone out.
They all left except George MacKenzie. He helped Murdock collect all the scrap paper, shred it, and put it in a burn bag. All the other materials went into a file box for storage in the classified material vault overnight.
“Boss, we are on edge,” said MacKenzie. “Razor’s not pissing me off,” said Murdock. “He’s not Mr. Tact, but you have to have a devil’s advocate. If he wasn’t doing it, you or I would have to.”
“Razor is not why we’re on edge.”
“I know that, too. It’s because this is shaping up like a suicide mission,” said Murdock. He slammed the file box down onto the table. “But that’s bullshit! Yeah, as a straightforward infiltration and raid mission, done the way we’ve always done it, it doesn’t work. But we’re the goddamned unconventional warfare specialists. It’s time we started thinking unconventionally.”
“I’ll try, Boss,” MacKenzie said pleadingly. “I swear I will.” They both started laughing. “Buy you a beer?” said Murdock.
“No,” said MacKenzie. “I think I better buy you one.”
9
Tuesday, September 5
1815 hours McP’s Bar Castle Park, California
Murdock and MacKenzie ended up at McP’s, which was located on Orange Avenue just down from the Coronado Main gate. It was a popular SEAL watering hole, owned by a man who had been a corpsman in the teams during Vietnam. On the back of the bar menu was printed, “If you don’t like crowds, don’t come on Thursday night.” Translated, that was when the place was packed with SEALS, and if you had a problem watching someone toss down a flaming drink without putting it out first, or eating glassware in front of you to win a bar bet, then maybe you ought to stay home.
Murdock and MacKenzie had no such qualms, having seen far, far worse while on liberty with the troops. And, of course, it was only a Tuesday.
The first beer went down fast. “Talked to Inge on the phone last night,” said Murdock.
“Oh?” MacKenzie said warily.
Inge Schmidt was a special agent with the BKA, Germany’s FBI. They’d met during an op in Europe, had nearly gotten killed together, and of course romance had flourished.
“We used to have phone sex once a week,” said Murdock. “Now we talk once a month, if I’m not someplace like Sudan.” He paused. “What the hell, I can’t put my name in to be an exchange officer with the Kampfschwimmers until after this tour. I can’t get out and move to Germany, and she can’t quit her job and move here. So what the hell can we do?”
“As Razor Roselli would say, whenever you get some leave catch a MAC flight to Germany and screw each other’s brains out.”
Murdock clinked his mug against MacKenzie’s. “Words to live by. Of course, I think Razor has more ex-wives than I have cousins.”
“And you have a lot of cousins.”
Murdock swung the subject around to something else. “You did a pump in Lebanon, didn’t you?”
“Beirut, when I was a Second Class with Team Four. But that was before the truck bombing.” He took a sip of his beer. “What a fucking zoo that was. And now we’re back to Syrians, Iranians, and Hezbollah, the exact same bunch who did the truck bombing.”
Even while he’d been talking, Murdock had seemed to be somewhere else. Now his focus was almost frightening. “Wait a minute, Mac, what was that?”
“Man, was I wrong when I thought people would listen to me after I made master chief.”
“No,” Murdock said urgently, as if he was about to climb across the table. Truck bombs, Mac. You were talking about the truck bombs!”
“So you were listening after all.”
Murdock sprang up and threw money onto the table. “Waitress, get this American hero another beer. I’d kiss you, Mac, but your wife thinks we spend too much time together as it is.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” MacKenzie demanded. “And where the hell are you going? I’ll come with you.”
“Nope, I’ll see you in the morning.”
Murdock walked off, and the waitress put another beer down in front of a very confused George MacKenzie. “What happened to your cute friend?”
MacKenzie looked up at her. “Somebody told him you were married. He was so disappointed he up and left.”
She popped her gum. “Well, what mouthy son of a bitch went and told him that?”
10
Wednesday, September 6
0730 hours Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, California
Blake Murdock was waiting when everyone arrived at the planning room. He was freshly shaved and showered, but based on the amount of expended coffee grounds in the wastebaskets, he’d been there all night.
“Hey, sir,” said Razor Roselli, “didn’t you know SEALs are supposed to get ten hours of sleep every night?” A little joke from BUD/s, and Razor’s way of apologizing for the previous day. During Hell Week SEAL trainees get a total of four hours of sleep in five days.
Murdock was in a dead serious mood. “Everybody take a seat. I’ve got something I want to run by you.” The SEALs began shooting little looks at each other.
A map of Lebanon was spread out on the table, along with a set of satellite photographs.
“We fly in to Lebanon on four MH-47E Chinooks,” said Murdock. “Two Shorlands armored cars, two armored Mercedes limos; one vehicle in each helo. We terrain-fly all the way, and over the central mountain range. The helos drop us near the road south of Baalbek, so as we drive in it looks like we’re coming from Damascus. We’re in Syrian livery, and we roar past every checkpoint like we’re king shit, all lit up.”
Murdock pointed to a computer-enhanced close-up of the warehouse in Baalbek. “The entrance to the warehouse is fenced, sandbagged, and guarded. So is the loading area. But this road runs right up against the long side of the warehouse. We come up this road, and the two armored cars make a hard right, ram through the chain-link, and keep on going right through the flimsy-assed wood walls of the warehouse. “The armored cars are filled with as much explosive as we can pack into them. From the specs I figure about seven hundred fifty pounds each, maybe more.”
George MacKenzie was beginning to smile.
“As soon as they go through the wall,” said Murdock, “the boys in the armored cars pop the vehicle smoke dischargers and pull fuses. They un-ass the cars and bolt through the holes in the walls and the fence. The limos provide covering fire and pop their own smoke.
“Everyone hops in the limos and we peel rubber. We blow out of town at high speed. If you look at the route I’ve marked, we have to go through two checkpoints, based on current intelligence. The limos still have Syrian flags, sirens blaring. Everyone’s going to think really hard before taking a shot at us. On the way out of town we’re throwing tire poppers and pursuit-deterrent munitions out the windows.
“We’re out of town, and the helos are already on the way in. Two MH-60K Blackhawks, one primary and one backup, because we’re not bringing the limos back with us. We’ll rig them to blow when we leave.
“If we spend more than thirty seconds on the target, from the time the armored cars go through the fence to the time the limos pull out, you’re all fired.”
Murdock stood there expectantly, but there was silence in the room.
Then Ed DeWitt whistled through his teeth. George MacKenzie’s smile grew even larger.
Kos Kosciuszko was nodding happily. All eyes turned to Razor Roselli.
Razor thought about it for a while. Then he said, “This could work. You know, Boss, this could most definitely work.”
Murdock was unmoved. “We’ve just started working,” he said grimly. “We’re going to sit here and diagram every move we make every second we’re in Lebanon. And then we’re going to war-game absolutely everything that could go wrong, from a flat tire to Razor’s hemorrhoids acting up on him. And we will figure out exactly what we are going to do in each situation. And only when we’ve got this plan airtight and polished like a diamond will we brief it back to the brass.”
11
Monday, September 18
0925 hours Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, California
“I like it!” Admiral Raymond exclaimed. “It’s about time a bunch of my young studs threw away the Ranger Handbook and did some special warfare.” He cocked an eyebrow at Murdock. “You like planning for what might go wrong, don’t you, Lieutenant?”
“Something always does, sir.”
“You’re right about that.”
For this meeting it was just the admiral and the CIA. The Secret Service, the commodore, and Commander Masciarelli hadn’t been invited. MacKenzie, DeWitt, Roselli, and Kosciuszko had come along to help Murdock with the briefing. It had taken just under an hour. Murdock had seen briefings go hours longer, but that was ridiculous. Briefers added a bunch of irrelevant crap just to show off for the brass. Anyway, the human brain couldn’t absorb that much information.
Now the admiral turned to the CIA men. “This plan has my complete approval — unchanged. Can you get the lieutenant what he needs?”
“I don’t see any problem,” said Don Stroh.
“Well, I do,” said Berlinger. “Do any of you realize how expensive the lieutenant’s plan is compared with our original one?”
“Not too expensive compared to two billion in counterfeit currency a year,” the Admiral observed. “Besides, this plan will work.”
“With the expenditure of two armored cars and two limousines alone,” said Berlinger. “Not to mention the increased helicopter assets.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Murdock. “But if you’ll recall, I said we needed four armored cars. Two reserved for the mission. And two to train with, of which one will be a mission backup and the other I plan on expending for demolition tests. And, of course, three limousines. One of which will be mission backup.”
“And what’s all this backup nonsense?” Berlinger demanded.
“In case one of the vehicles breaks down, sir. We wouldn’t want to postpone the mission while we ordered a new one from the factory, would we?”
Berlinger still wouldn’t quit. “Do you realize that you’re using enough explosives to level a city block?”
“Yes, sir. It should do a really fine job on the warehouse.”
“And you’re not concerned with civilian casualties?”
Beside him, Murdock could hear Razor Roselli grumble, “Is this asshole with the CIA or the fucking Peace Corps?” Murdock quieted his chief with a sharp kick to the ankle.
“Let’s move on, shall we?” Whitbread interrupted. “The rest of us are not about to pretend that we’re concerned about any casualties to the Syrians, Hezbollah, or the good citizens of Baalbek. I, for one, remember that Baalbek was where those same people tortured to death William Buckley, our chief of station in Beirut and a good friend. Lieutenant Murdock, I’m prepared to recommend approval of your plan. Tonight I will present it to the Director and the … appropriate national authority.”
Murdock hoped the President liked it.
“Don Stroh will be in touch with you when a decision is reached,” said Whitbread. “Gentlemen, well done, and good day to you.”
That did a very nice job of breaking up the meeting. Stroh came over to talk to Murdock, and the admiral moved to corner the SEALs before they could slip out of the room.
“Nice job on the briefing, Blake,” said Stroh. “Love the plan. Berlinger’s just bitchy because yours is light years ahead of the one his boys came up with. And you know,” he said quietly, “the computer only gave his plan a fifty-five-percent chance of completion. Yours has got to be up over eighty percent.”
“Great,” Murdock said, without enthusiasm.
“Oh, I also wanted to tell you. That woman at the villa in Port Sudan? It turns out the French wanted to talk to her about the bombings in Paris earlier in the year. They think she might have planted a couple of bombs herself. Woman and a little kid. you know? You wouldn’t figure they’re packing a bomb that’s going to blow up a few innocent people, would you?”
“I guess not.”
“So if anyone was bummed about tagging a woman, you can let them know they didn’t make a mistake.”
“As far as I know, no one was bummed.”
“… Whatever. Our colleagues at the Direction General de Securite Exterieure tell us, on behalf of the French Government, that they’re very pleased not to have her running around anymore. They might even have sprung for a medal, except that it never happened, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, I’m going back to Langley and start putting your shopping list together. Don’t worry about the big boys approving, it’s in the bag. I’ll see you at Niland, okay?”
“Okay.”
Murdock started to walk over to the knot of SEALs that had the admiral surrounded, but George MacKenzie had already slipped away and was waiting to waylay him.
Mac looked around to see if anyone was listening, then said, “You still haven’t told me if you’re taking me along.”
“You want to go?” Murdock asked innocently.
“Hell, yes,” said MacKenzie. “How many ops do you think I have left before I retire?”
“You know I’d take you in a heartbeat, Mac. It’s okay if you don’t give a shit about Razor.”
“What the hell are you talking about? What does Razor have to do with it?”
“The boys would all be looking to you. Really, it’s okay if you don’t give a shit about Razor’s credibility.”
MacKenzie was taken aback. Then he sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. I wanted the op so bad I didn’t think about the platoon.”
“So you’re not coming along?”
“You better be careful, sir. You go around making too much sense and they won’t let you be an officer anymore.”
“I’ll just have to take that risk. You going to come to Niland and help us out with the training?”
“No,” MacKenzie said reluctantly. “Razor and Kos can handle it. I’ve got to get back to work. But there is one thing I want you to add to the plan.”
“What’s that, Mac?”
“I want yo
u to bring along a semiauto sniper rifle for every man that’s going. I’d say M-21s, but you’ll want to use sterile weapons that don’t come from the U.S. German MSG-90’s ought to do just fine. Have Magic Brown pack a.50-caliber. Put them in drag bags with one hundred fifty rounds each, all loaded up in magazines, and stash them in the trunks of the limos.”
“Okay, Mac. You think we might need them?”
“No, just something that kept me awake last night. On the off chance you get caught up in those hills with some free time on your hands.”
“Consider it done, Mac. You know, we couldn’t have put it together without you.”
“You can get off the dick now, sir.”
Murdock laughed and threw his arm around MacKenzie’s shoulders. They walked over to the admiral.
“I asked your boys if they had any heartburn, and they said no,” the admiral told Murdock. “Bunch of lying bastards.” The SEALs all laughed politely. Anything admirals said was automatically funny.
“What about you, George?” the Admiral asked.
“They’re good to go, sir,” MacKenzie replied.
“If George MacKenzie says you’re good to go,” the admiral pronounced, “then you’re good to go.”
“He’s the man, sir,” said Murdock.
“I want to wish all of you good hunting,” said the admiral. “Now get on out of here and let me talk to your lieutenant.”
The others left, and the admiral said, “Don’t you worry about Berlinger, Blake. It’s just politics. If the mission goes off without a hitch, no one will remember anything he said. But if it doesn’t, he’s positioned himself for the Congressional committees. He’ll say that he had serious reservations about the mission, and was concerned about all the innocent bad guys who might get hurt. I’m sorry, son, but that’s the way they play the game at this weight class.”
The admiral obviously didn’t know, so Murdock wasn’t about to tell him, that he’d had a lifetime education in Politics 101 from the Honorable Charles Murdock, Congressman from Virginia. Blake had carried that albatross around his neck for years. The Congressman had planned on Harvard, Harvard Law, and politics for his son. He’d compromised on Annapolis, since a short stint of military service never did any harm when you ran for office, especially a nice safe job on a staff or in the Pentagon. But Blake Murdock had gone 180 degrees in the other direction and become a SEAL. And he intended to stay a SEAL. He and his father didn’t talk much anymore.
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