Hostile Fire (3 page)

“Miguel, you stop talking that way. Stop thinking that way. You are a survivor. You’re smart and you’re good, and you don’t do stupid things and expose yourself to those bullets. Now just stop it. Come to bed and stop thinking about all of that.”

Miguel tried a grin that didn’t work. “Is that an order, ma’am?”

“Damn right that’s an order. You might as well kick out of those pajama pants right now. It’ll save a lot of time later on.”

Miguel laughed softly. The crisis was over at least for now. But he knew he was going to be doing a lot of thinking the next few weeks. Did he owe his wife and child more than he was giving them? Did his tempting fate and singing shrapnel and hot bullets put his family at risk as well? If it came
just right, he’d have a talk with Murdock. Now, there was an officer who could help a man get through a problem. At least most problems. Maybe not one like he had right now. Still, it was worth a shot with Murdock.

NAVSPECWARGRUP-ONE
Coronado, California

In the small office of Third Platoon, SEAL Team Seven, Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock stared across the micro-sized desk at his second in command, Lieutenant (j.g.) Christopher “Chris” Gardner. Murdock, six-feet, two-inches tall and 210 pounds, was in the best shape of his six years in the SEALs. His brown hair was almost businessman length. He hadn’t cut it since before they went on the last mission. On the off chance they needed to infiltrate into civilian territory, three or half a dozen young men with buzz cuts would stand out like a beacon.

Chris Gardner tossed a pair of papers in front of Murdock and nodded. “Yeah, I talked to the master chief and he cut orders for the senior chief at First Platoon of Team Three to come up for a look-see. This man had requested a transfer to Third whenever the chance came.”

“What do we know about him?”

“His name is Elmer Neal, he’s a senior chief, and came up fast. Something of a hotshot, but from what I saw before, extremely good with the men. Top quality leadership all the way. He’s been a SEAL for three years, has been blooded, and looks good for the job. He’s divorced, has two kids who are with their mother in the LA area. Is said to be a whiz at chess and is in a bowling league where he averages a hundred and seventy-three. He’s winding up his desk up there and will report here at fifteen hundred.”

“Sounds good. Now, what about the replacement for your squad? How is he doing?”

“Been on board for about a week. We’ve done a little training with him but not much. His name is Dexter Tate.
He’s a second-class electrician’s mate and is our squad petard man. He’s not blooded, and I want to see how he reacts in our live firing exercises. We’re going to the desert for an overnight, right?”

“Bright and foggy tomorrow morning. We pull out on the bus at oh-four-thirty.”

“Might as well stay up all night. No, I’m kidding. That means I’ll hit the sack about eight-thirty tonight.”

Gunner’s Mate First Class Miguel Fernandez popped his head in the door. “Oh, you’re busy. Cap, I’d like to talk with you sometime today, if you can do it.”

“Lots of time, Fernandez. How about right after our afternoon walk in the park?”

“Sounds good.” He waved and left.

“Fernandez, hasn’t he been around here a long time?” Chris asked.

“As long as I have, six years. Only four men still in the platoon who were here when I came on board. Fernandez, Lampedusa, Jaybird, and Kenneth Ching. They are the best. I depend on them lots of times because I know they’ll come through. Fernandez didn’t look like a happy camper. Wonder what’s bugging him.”

“Maybe too much SEAL. I’ve seen it happen before.”

“It does happen, but I’d hate to lose a good one like Miguel.”

Murdock tossed the training sched at Chris. “So, this morning a soft sand run down to the kill house range and we do some live fire on the inside rooms. Then we swim back with full gear. Your men ready?”

“Will be. We taking the recuperating guys?”

“Ching should be up to it, but I’ll give Howard another few days. He needs to check with the medics anyway.”

Chris looked at his watch. “So, we’ll see you in about fifteen.” The Bravo squad leader eased out of the chair and out the door. Murdock stared at the stack of papers he had to get through. What he needed was a good paper pusher, only the roster didn’t call for one. Part of the job, Sailor, he told himself and dug into the stack. With any luck he’d be done before the morning workout.

He wasn’t. The platoon fell out at 0830 in full field gear.
In the SEALs the officers went on the same training activities that the men did, from the OC (obstacle course) to the twenty-mile hikes in the desert. The officers had to be in just as good shape as the men when it came to functioning in combat. And combat was their job. Not the full division charge, but the more refined and sophisticated special forces operations that called for stealth, ability, and on-the-site ingenuity, skills, and firepower.

The training that morning had them running in the soft sand along the Pacific Ocean strand that stretched from Coronado down to Imperial Beach and the navy radio towers. About a six-mile jaunt. No, it isn’t Coronado Island, as some like to say. Coronado is a bulge of land on the end of the six-mile strip of land, an isthmus, between the huge San Diego Bay and the ocean, from Imperial Beach to Coronado. No island about it. The fancy pants of Coronado liked to call it an island, and Murdock had long ago decided there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

Jaybird led the run down through the soft sand. He was officially Machinist Mate First Class David “Jaybird” Sterling, a six-year veteran of the platoon and small at five-ten and a hundred and seventy pounds. But he made up for his size with a fast mouth and the ability to jazz up the platoon.

“Come on, you ladies, you think this is some fucking quilting party? Keep up, you laggards, or you’ll drop and do a hundred. Right, Cap?”

Murdock grinned. “You’ve got the con, sailor. Steer your own course.”

Three miles down the picturesque beach in the bright morning sunshine, Jaybird led them onto the hard sand, then ankle deep into the foaming waves as they broke and rolled up on the shore. The footing was better and the SEALs could cool off their feet. Water and being wet was nothing new to SEALs. Most of them felt more at home in the water than they did on land. However they were trained to fight from the air, on land, and on, or coming out of, the water.

They arrived at the Close Quarters Battle house dug into the sand near the navy radio towers. The CQB was a three-room house built eight feet deep into the sand and soil of the
isthmus. It was built of concrete-block outer walls, bullet-absorbing inner walls, and a bulletproof ceiling so no stray live rounds could leave the building. The SEALs worked through the CQB house, or kill house, as it was also called, at least twice a week.

Just inside the first room the shooters’ feet hit pads that triggered computer-generated terrorist dummies that popped up from hiding with weapons firing at the good guys. The drill was to get through the three rooms taking out as many of the terrorists as possible and not kill any of the hostages, who were identified by bags over their heads.

“Bravo leads off,” Murdock barked. “Get in there and let’s have some good scores on the other end. Go.”

Two men from Bravo Squad ran to the door, stepped inside, and began firing with live rounds at the terrorists who popped up. The men never saw the same combination of terrorists or positions twice. There were over fifty thousand combinations of positions in the computer.

Murdock watched the men flaked out in the sand. Most were talking, some just resting. Not a man in the platoon smoked that Murdock knew about. They needed all the lung power they could get. The old World War II call of “Smoke ’em if you got ’em” was nowhere to be heard.

He looked at Fernandez. He sat alone to one side, his arms around his knees, staring off into the Pacific Ocean. He had asked to talk. Murdock wondered if it was some family problem, or financial. Those were the two top winners in the counseling sessions he sometimes had with the men. He’d find out after their training day.

Murdock went to the far side of the kill house and took the printed-out results of the men going through. He read them, then passed them on to the team members.

J.G. Chris Gardner and Canzoneri were the first men through. They came up with a combined score of seventy-six.

“Is that all?” Canzoneri wailed. “I was sure we were in the eighties.”

“Would have been if you hadn’t chopped that one hostage down in room three,” Chris said and they both laughed.

Murdock monitored the rest of Bravo Squad, then went
out front to take Jaybird through as the first of Alpha Squad.

“I’ve got the right,” Murdock said as they stood at the front of the kill house.

“Leaves me the left,” Jaybird cracked; then they were inside. Two terrorists with a woman hostage between them popped up on Murdock’s side and he blasted the first with three rounds from his Bull Pup on 5.56, shifted, and cut down the second one before he could fire. Jaybird had blown away one terr right on top of him, then almost didn’t see a latecomer at the far corner he hit with three rounds before they moved on to the second room.

Jaybird and Murdock came out with an eighty-one score.

When all sixteen men were through the course, Murdock named the new man, Dexter Tate, to lead the swim back to the grinder.

“We’ll go three miles on the surface, then drop down to fifteen feet with your buddy cords and go the last three miles. Everyone clear?” Murdock asked. The men wore their cammies and floppy hats, no wet suits today. They had on their Drager rebreathers so they wouldn’t leave any telltale bubble trail. Each man had his assigned weapon over his back and his combat vest and what was left of its normal load of ammunition.

Murdock moved Bravo Squad out front and brought up the rear with Jaybird. They were tethered with the usual six-foot buddy line. Murdock watched as the platoon plowed through the Pacific Ocean just beyond the breaker line. It was a straight shot up the six-mile route back to the SEAL home.

When they arrived at the grinder, they moved around the current class of tadpoles and assembled near their headquarters.

“Scores are down at the kill house,” Murdock said. “Concentrate. Get with the program. We have to keep sharp because we never know how much lead time we’ll have until the next trouble spot blows up and we’re on a fast plane to combat. Let’s break for chow and we’ll work the O course this afternoon. There will be recorded times there as well. Get into some dry clothes and we’ll see you later.”

Murdock and J.G. Gardner showered and changed into
dry cammies. When they came back to the office, they found a man waiting for them.

“Sirs, Senior Chief Elmer Neal reporting.”

Murdock checked him out. About six-one, maybe two hundred pounds. He didn’t look his thirty-four years. He had a buzz cut and a slight sunburn from not enough outdoor work. His cammies were fresh and looked pressed. His floppy hat had a certain angle to it that Murdock liked.

“I thought you said fifteen hundred,” Gardner said.

“Yes, sir, but I finished up early and figured a couple of hours could be better spent here. If it’s okay, sirs?”

Murdock held out his hand. “That’s fine. Good to have you on board, Senior Chief. You can show us your muscle on the O course right after chow. You find a locker that suits you?”

“Yes, sir. Everything stowed and ready. I’ll need to pick up the gear they didn’t let me bring: rebreather, vest, my new weapon, the rest of the goodies from the armory.”

“We’ll get it as soon as we’re back. I hear you like to play chess. We lost our best player when Lieutenant DeWitt got his own platoon. Is it true you have a bowling average of a hundred and seventy-two?”

“No, sir, my average has slipped down to one seventy. I’ve lost my line, somehow. I need more practice. Do you bowl?”

“Just for the fun of it now and then,” Murdock said. “I’m always glad when I can get to a hundred. Hey, see you after chow.”

By 1550 that afternoon the members of Third Platoon were all down and panting. The O course is probably the toughest one in the world. It has killer obstacles that make even the most efficient on the course bellow in rage and fury. Murdock dropped to the sand after he had heard his recorded time: six minutes and forty seconds. He had done better. Jaybird came through with a five-minute-and-twenty-eight-second time. Then the men watched as Senior Chief Neal took the last barrier and sprinted for the finish line.

“Five twenty-two,” J.G. Gardner called out. “Best time of the day. Congratulations, Senior Chief. Jaybird is going to
buy you a six-pack.” The rest of the SEALs cheered.

“Hey, I buy it, I drink it,” Jaybird called out. The senior chief grinned. He was panting too hard to respond.