Deadly Force
( Seal Team Seven - 18 )
Keith Douglass
On a tour of Western Africa, the U.S. Vice President is taken hostage by a group of freedom fighters. The SEALs must perform a daring rescue without losing sight of the bigger picture — that this time, the bad guys are actually good…
Keith Douglass
Deadly Force
This novel
about the fictional
SEAL Team Seven is gratefully
dedicated to the real SEALs based
at Coronado, California: Teams
One, Three, and Five
of the Naval Special
Warfare Command.
These real SEALs
do the dirty
little jobs
that
keep America free!
SEAL TEAM SEVEN
THIRD PLATOON[1]
CORONADO, CALIFORNIA
Rear Admiral (L) Richard Kenner. Commander of all SEALs.
Commander Dean Masciareli. 47, 5' 11", 220 pounds. Annapolis graduate. Commanding officer of Naval Special Warfare Group One in Coronado, including SEAL Teams One, Three, Five, and Seven and the 978 men.
Master Chief Petty Officer Gordon MacKenzie. 47, 5' 10", 180 pounds. Administrator and head enlisted man of all NAVSPECWARGRUP-ONE in Coronado.
Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock. Platoon Leader, Third Platoon. 32, 6' 2", 210 pounds. Annapolis graduate. Six years in SEALs. Father important congressman from Virginia. Apartment in Coronado. Single. Has a car and a motorcycle, loves to fish. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round.
ALPHA SQUAD
Timothy F. Sadler. Senior Chief Petty Officer. Top EM in Third Platoon. Third in command. 32, 6' 2", 220 pounds. Married to Sylvia, no children. Been in the Navy for fifteen years, a SEAL for last eight. Expert fisherman. Plays trumpet in any Dixieland combo he can find. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round. Good with the men.
David “Jaybird” Sterling. Machinist’s Mate First Class. Lead petty officer. 24, 5' 10", 170 pounds. Quick mind, fine tactician. Single. Drinks too much sometimes. Crack shot with all arms. Grew up in Oregon. Helps plan attack operations. Weapon: H & K MP-5SD submachine gun.
Luke “Mountain” Howard. Gunner’s Mate Second Class. 28, 6' 4", 250 pounds. Black man. Football at Oregon State. Tryout with Oakland Raiders six years ago. In Navy six years. SEAL for four. Single. Rides a motorcycle. A skiing and wind-surfing nut. Squad sniper. Weapon: H & K PSG1 7.62 NATO sniper rifle.
Bill Bradford. Quartermaster First Class. 24, 6' 2", 215 pounds. An artist in his spare time. Paints oils. He sells his marine paintings. Single. Quiet. Reads a lot. Has two years of college. Platoon radio operator. Carries a SATCOM on most missions. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round.
Joe “Ricochet” Lampedusa. Operations Specialist First Class. 21, 5' 11", 175 pounds. Good tracker, quick thinker. Had a year of college. Loves motorcycles. Wants a Hog. Pot smoker on the sly. Picks up plain girls. Platoon scout. Weapon: H & K MP-5SD submachine gun.
Kenneth Ching. Quartermaster First Class. 25, 6' even, 180 pounds. Full-blooded Chinese. Platoon translator. Speaks Mandarin Chinese, Japanese, Russian, and Spanish. Bicycling nut. Paid $1,200 for off-road bike. Is trying for Officer Candidate School. Weapon: H & K MP-5SD submachine gun.
Vincent “Vinnie” Van Dyke. Electrician’s Mate Second Class. 24, 6' 2", 220 pounds. Enlisted out of high school. Played varsity basketball. Wants to be a commercial fisherman after his current hitch. Good with his hands. Squad machine gunner. Weapon: H & K 21-E 7.62 NATO round machine gun.
BRAVO SQUAD
Lieutenant (j.g.) Christopher “Chris” Gardner. Leader Bravo Squad. Second in command of Third Platoon. 28, 6' 4", 240 pounds. Four years in SEALs. Hang-glider nut. Married to Wanda, who designs clothes. Father is a Navy admiral. Grew up in ten different states. Annapolis graduate. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round.
George “Petard” Canzoneri. Torpedoman’s Mate First Class. 27, 5' 11", 190 pounds. Married to Phyllis. No kids. Nine years in Navy. Expert on explosives. Nicknamed “Petard” for almost hoisting himself one time. Top pick in platoon for explosives work. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round.
Miguel Fernandez. Gunner’s Mate First Class. 26, 6' 1", 180 pounds. Wife, Maria; daughter, Linda, 7, in Coronado. Spends his off time with them. Highly family oriented. He has many relatives in San Diego. Speaks Spanish and Portuguese. Squad sniper. Weapon: H & K PSG1 7.62 NATO sniper rifle.
Omar “Ollie” Rafii. Yeoman Second Class. 24, 6' even, 180 pounds. From Saudi Arabia. In U.S. since he was four. Loves horses, has two. Married, two children. Speaks Farsi and Arabic. Expert with all knives. Throws killing knives with deadly accuracy. Weapon: H & K MP-5SD submachine gun.
Tracy Donegan. Signalman Second Class. 24, 6' even, 185 pounds. Former Navy boxer. Tough. Single. Expert tracker and expert on camouflage and ground warfare. Expert marksman. Platoon driver, mechanic. Frantic Chargers football fan. Speaks Italian and Swahili. Weapon: H & K 21-E 7.62 NATO round machine gun.
Jack Mahanani. Hospital Corpsman First Class. 25, 6' 4", 240 pounds. Platoon medic. Tahitian/Hawaiian. Expert swimmer. Bench-presses four hundred pounds. Divorced. Top surfer. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round.
Frank Victor. Gunner’s Mate Second Class. 23, 6' even, 185 pounds. Two years in SEALs. Radio, computer expert. Can program, repair, and build computers. Shoots small-bore rifle competitively. Married. Wife, June, a computer programmer/specialist. No children. Lives in Coronado. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round.
Paul “Jeff” Jefferson. Engineman Second Class. 23, 6' 1", 200 pounds. Black man. Expert in small arms. Can tear apart most weapons and reassemble, repair, and innovate them. A chess player. Weapon: H & K MP-5SD submachine gun.
1
Gaslamp Quarter
San Diego, California
Senior Chief Petty Officer Timothy Sadler stared up at Shortchops Jackson where he was taking a solo on his bass fiddle in the middle of a wailing rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” He was good, had played with a lot of great jazz groups, but everyone knew he was over the top of the curve and well on his way down the other side. Even so, Shortchops simply blew away the knowledgeable crowd there at the Basic Jazz Club in the Gaslamp Quarter.
Shortchops finished the riff with a flourish and a wide-mouthed grin as he shouted, “Oh, yeah,” and everyone in the room clapped and cheered.
The rest of the Gaslamp Quarter Dixieland Band came in and raced through to the last notes on the old standard tune. Sadler took a short blast in the middle of the last phrase, and squealed his golden trumpet up to high C and down again as they all came to a big finish.
Sadler knew that this was his pressure-relief valve. His wild ride, a great way to relax after his high-powered, strict, and often strident life as the top EM in Third Platoon of SEAL Team Seven. It was a relief after the violent and deadly games they played as the best and most active combat specialists in the whole SEAL contingent. They were on direct call to the CNO, Chief of Naval Operations, who set the wheels in motion when the President, the head of the CIA, the State Department, or the National Security Advisor needed some dirty little covert job done anywhere in the world.
“Oh, yeah, Tim, you hit some good ones there,” Shortchops said as they put their instruments on stands and headed for the back room where they could take a twenty-minute break.
“I try to keep up with you, Shortchops,” Sadler said. “You were really wailing and flailing out there tonight.”
“I’m getting it on, brother, getting it on. Almost felt li
ke old days there for a few minutes.” He closed his eyes, lifted his head, and shook it gently. “Oh, yeah, there were some great times back there twenty years ago. Memories, yeah, I have some great memories.”
Sadler knew that Shortchops was on something. He didn’t know what and he didn’t want to know. The five of them were making good music together. It was a traditional Dixieland group: trumpet, clarinet, bass, trombone, and banjo. Sometimes they doubled with drums, piano, even a saxophone, and a tuba.
Sadler was thirty-two years old, young for a Dixieland man, but the oldest man in his SEAL platoon. He was a tough six feet two, married to Sylvia, and had no children. He had a thin face, heavy brows, a muscled body, and a whiteside, flattop brown haircut reminiscent of the 1940s. His blue eyes took in everything he saw like a camera.
Sadler gave Shortchops a high five, and they went into the back room. The place smelled of stale tobacco smoke, the sweat of dozens of musicians over the years, and a whiff of Lysol. Sadler watched Shortchops. He was the only black in their group. Six months ago he had been a patron of the club, sitting in with them from time to time. Then the U.S. Navy had transferred their bass player to Norfolk. They’d asked Shortchops to become a regular, and he’d fit like the middle finger of a glove. Sadler had no idea how old he was, maybe seventy-five. He was so thin, it looked like his white shirt would fall off his shoulders. They all wore identical ties, blue vertical-striped jackets, and flat white straw hats. Sadler was sure that the jacket sleeves of Shortchops covered up needle marks, but as long as he played the way he did tonight, nobody was going to ask him about drugs. The rest of them were clean.
Steve Rawlings was fifty-five, and hit the bottle a little hard now and then, but he could play his trombone as well drunk as he could sober. He worked in the post office, and had a beer gut that hung over his belt. He still wore a crew cut from his Navy days, and had two kids he put through college.
Dick Andrews, on clarinet, was fifty-one, and a lay preacher at his church. He had slicked-back black hair, a full beard, and was a singer for the group. He could have been great if he’d started his music earlier. Now he played for the love of it.
Tom Peterson, on banjo, was fifty-five, the band’s leader and business manager. He worked as a stockbroker by day. He was a large man, just over six-five, and built like a concrete block. He had a grin you remembered all day.
It was their midnight break, and Sadler checked out the tray of sandwiches the kitchen always provided. They specialized in triangular white-bread tuna fish that was the best Sadler had ever had. They put chopped-up nuts in the mix.
“We was rollin’ tonight,” Shortchops said. He grabbed a sandwich and ignored the bottles of beer. “Got to hit the head,” he said. Sadler watched him go. He’d come back a little higher and ready to wail. He must have his drugs stashed somewhere in the bathroom, or maybe just in his pocket.
Sadler grinned as Shortchops came back five minutes later with a black woman. She was maybe twenty, Sadler figured. Had on a skirt that barely covered her panties, fishnet stockings, and a blouse that showed half of one breast. He could smell her perfume from across the room. Poison maybe, or Obsession.
“One of my ladies,” Shortchops said. “Wanted to see you’all, a real live Dixie-shit band. Now you seen them, baby, let’s move.”
She turned and one bare breast popped out of her blouse. She looked down and giggled. “Well, look at that. Miss Boob here wants to say hi, too.”
Shortchops turned her around. “Baby, this ain’t no tit show. Let’s get to the important stuff.” He looked back, grinned at them, and angled her out the door.
After their twenty-minute break, the band was halfway through “Too Tired in New Orleans” when Shortchops came in late and grabbed his bass. His face was bright, his grin wide, and he latched onto the next sixteen with a crazy and wild beat that went beyond syncopation. That run proved to Sadler again that each jazz musician, and especially each Dixieland cat, became his own composer. Their group never played the same number the same way twice. Each man had a turn at a wailing solo, and the true fans of Dixieland gloried in the variety and diversity that these improvised riffs brought to their music.
The Gaslamp Dixieland Band played for another hour, and Sadler noticed that Shortchops was not looking good. He missed his solo twice, and had trouble giving them a solid beat with his whanging on the long strings. He seemed distracted or worried about something. Sadler saw Shortchops watching the side door that led off the small stage they played on. Then he looked at the front door. A half hour before they were due to stop playing, Shortchops picked up his bass and left the stage. Sadler thought the bass player looked angry. The tall black man had never bugged out early before.
They played through to the two o’clock closing hour, and finished with their theme song, “It’s Been a Long Night Coming.”
Before the band members had their instruments put away, two men in suits came in. Sadler figured they could only be cops. Sure enough, they flashed San Diego Police Department badges and said they wanted to talk to the band.
“Talk? What about?” Sadler asked.
“We ask the questions,” the tall detective said. He told them his name was Petroff. He had a thin, angular face with deep sunken eyes that were almost black. “Were any of you in the alley behind the club tonight?”
Dick Andrews, the clarinet player, nodded. “Yeah, I parked out there tonight, way down at the end. Hope my car hasn’t been trashed.”
“Wouldn’t know about that,” Petroff said. “You go into the alley between parking it and now?”
“No.”
“Anybody else been back there?”
The other three shook their heads.
“We’ve got a problem. A young black woman dressed like a prostitute. A friend with her said the girl came into the club by the back door. Said she knew one of the musicians. She came back and said she had taken a pop of heroin, and then she sat down in the alley. They talked, and five minutes later the girl was dead on an OD. We want to know who gave her the stuff.”
The second detective frowned. He was short, and as he took off his jacket, his white shirt showed wet spots under his arms. His tie had been loosened and he was fifty pounds overweight. He didn’t tell them his name. Sweat moistened his face and fought with a heavy dash of mint-smelling aftershave.
“Where the hell is the fifth guy?” he asked. “I was in here last week and five of you played. Yeah, a black guy, older than most of you. Where’s the cat who banged on the bass?”
“He went home early,” Anderson said.
“Yeah?” the fat detective asked. “Was he wasted? Was he on drugs?”
“I never saw him do any drugs,” Sadler said.
The cop looked at the rest of them. They all said the same thing.
“Did you see a black girl in a short skirt come into the club tonight?” Petroff asked.
“Oh, damn,” Tom Peterson said. “Yeah, we all saw her. Short plastic skirt that barely covered her and a yellow blouse.”
The detectives looked at each other. Petroff took over. “All right, just relax, everyone. This could take some time. We’re going to take statements from all of you. One at a time. You, sir, will be first.” He pointed at Steve. “The rest of you go out into the club with Detective Lasiter. I know it’s late, so we’ll do this as quickly as possible.” He took out a small notebook and looked at Steve.
“Now, give me your name, address, work and home phone numbers, and then tell me exactly what happened when the black girl came in.”
Sadler and the other two musicians went into the club. It was a half hour after closing. A waitress brought them coffee on the house. She looked frightened. This little club always smelled like beer. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t a grungy beer bar. But the hops-and-malt scent hung heavy in the air. At least there was no smoking allowed.
“They said they want to talk to all of us,” the waitress, with the name tag of Bunny, shrilled, not able to keep her voi
ce down. “Christ, we’ll be here all night.”
Sadler sipped his coffee and tried to think what the SEAL training sked was for tomorrow. No, it was for today now. Damn. They had only been back to duty for two weeks since they got home from the last mission in the Philippines. They’d all taken three-day leaves and come back rested and ready. He grinned. Murdock and DeWitt had both been on local television. That mission had not been covert, and the press was all over it from the start. The story was picked up nationally, and the two officers had their fifteen minutes of fame.
Yesterday DeWitt had been officially transferred to another platoon as the commander. Good. He deserved it. They still had to find a replacement for Franklin, who got himself shot dead in the Philippines. Also, they needed a new officer to lead Bravo. Both officers had wounds from the mission. Murdock had had a bullet tear through his left arm, but it wasn’t serious. DeWitt had had a slug dig into his right leg. Both would stay on duty.
Canzoneri was the worst hit, with a bad wound high in his shoulder. He had been in Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego, and would be barred from any serious training for another week.
Then it was Sadler’s turn to be questioned. This was a new experience for him. He wasn’t sure he liked it.
“Your name?” Petroff asked.
Sadler told him: name, rank, and serial number.
“Navy. I did one hitch. What unit?”
“Third Platoon, SEAL Team Seven, Coronado, sir.”
“A SEAL. A good outfit. Now tell me about the girl.”
“What’s all this flap about a hooker? Don’t they cash in quite often?”
The detective frowned. “Yeah, but this one is different. I recognized her right away. She’s famous, at least her father was. It was in the papers. She’s the only whore I know who inherited three and a half million dollars.”
“So why is she still whoring? If she’s a junkie, she could be in dreamland for the rest of her life.” Sadler scowled. “About the girl, yeah, she came in with Shortchops. I figured she was a hooker. One of her breasts popped out of her blouse and she laughed it off. Shortchops ushered her out and that’s the last time I saw her.”
Deadly Force sts-18 Page 1
