Battleground (33 page)

“Kick up the antenna and let’s try the tac band for the carrier. She still the Rover?”

“That’s a Roger.”

Holt opened the radio cover, and set up the antenna to align it with the Milstar satellite orbiting at 22,300 miles above the earth in a synchronous journey around the equator. It might not matter, but he aligned it anyway.

“Rover, this is Murdock, can you copy?”

There were some pops and whines out of the set; then the voice came over the small speaker.

“Murdock, this is Rover.”

“We’re ready for that pickup. We’re ten to twelve miles, maybe more, northwest of Nairobi in some hills. We’ll use flares when we hear the bird. Two hours? I have 1715.”

“Yes, two hours. Be dark by then, Murdock. Spot an LZ with small fires if you can. Any enemy action expected?”

“No, Rover. Mission accomplished on the papa bear. We lost one Kenyan soldier, but he’s probably still running. We’ll find an LZ.”

Magic came up the trail and dropped beside Nicholson. He shook his head. “Damn, never should have happened. Red stayed on point too fucking long.”

“Wouldn’t let anybody else walk it,” Holt said.

“Yeah, we should have outmuscled him,” Magic said. “Goddamn it to Hell. Damn lousy fucking way to die.”

They moved up the trail they had used since leaving the rock house. Magic picked up Nicholson in a fireman’s carry and marched up the trail without a word.

By the time they found DeWitt and his men, they were
less than a quarter of a mile from the rock house. DeWitt suggested they use the open spot in front of it for the LZ. Murdock agreed.

They hiked to the rock house and checked. The cleared spot in front was more than big enough for a safe landing.

DeWitt put two men to gathering up dry grass, twigs, and larger limbs they could use to light for signal fires when they heard the chopper. They laid four fires at the sides of the LZ, and waited for the signal to light them.

Doc looked at the men who had been injured or shot since he saw them last. He put a wooden splint on Holt’s left arm and gave him a pain shot.

Murdock sent Ching and Bishop down the road to find Ronson. “See how close you can find a good LZ down there,” Murdock said. He gave them two flares and one more WP grenade. “We’ll get picked up here, then go down for you there. We shouldn’t have any trouble finding the truck where Lincoln and Quinley are. Just be a matter of spotting an LZ down there.” The two took off hiking down the road.

“Who has any ammo left?” Murdock asked the men who had flaked out on the ground. “I’ve got about half a magazine. Anybody else?”

Three more men had a few rounds. Murdock set them on the perimeter facing outward. “Let’s have a little fucking security here,” he said.

It was dark and 1922 when they heard the big chopper. DeWitt’s men lit the four fires, and blew them into flames. Soon they burned brightly. The big bird made one pass, then dropped down and sent a tornado of dust and debris at the men as it settled on the ground. The big chopper blew out two of the fires. The men stomped out the last two, carried Red Nicholson to the bird, and laid him gently on the floor.

Murdock called on the Motorola, but couldn’t raise Magic Brown. They all climbed on board, the bird took off, and traced the road with a searchlight.

Murdock tried again, and Brown came in scratchy but readable.

“Yeah, Bird. About a quarter of a mile more. Good LZ on
the left. I’ll put up a flare.” They landed, and brought in Horse and the two others.

Ten minutes later, they found Lincoln and Quinley by the Kenyan truck, picked them up, and headed home.

The pilot told Murdock they might not have enough juice to get all the way to the carrier. She was supposed to steam within four miles of the coast to cut down on flight time.

“We’re pushing the limit in this baby even without all the hardware,” the pilot told Murdock.

“If it’s only four miles, we can swim that with no sweat,” Murdock said.

“Yeah, maybe
you
can,” the copilot yelped.

2158 hours

USS
Monroe,
CVN 81

Off Mombasa, Kenya

The Seahawk settled down on the deck of the nuclear-powered carrier at 2158. Medical corpsmen rushed on board and took off Lincoln on a stretcher. Corpsmen lifted Horse Ronson to another stretcher and carried him out the chopper door. Ed DeWitt went with them to the ship’s sick bay, where both would be operated on. The rest of the SEALs got off and waited near the chopper.

Inside, Murdock sat cross-legged beside Red Nicholson’s body. In all his years with the SEALs, he’d lost only two men. Now Red was the third. There must have been something he could have done differently. Something. Red loved being out in front, leading the pack, as he called them. Leading his pack of wolves.

If it hadn’t been Red out there, another man would have sprung the trip wire.

This was one fucking dangerous game they all played. Somebody was bound to get hurt.

Murdock shook his head and blinked back tears. “Goodbye, good buddy. It was a great ride.”

Two medics came on board and stood behind him waiting. Murdock stood and let them take the body. He knew the routine. He’d write a letter about how Red had
been killed on board a carrier in a freak accident that somehow could not be prevented. He had been a good and loyal warrior in the service of his country, and it was appreciated. He would be awarded the Purple Heart and the Navy Cross. His casket would remain closed during the funeral.

Murdock led his men into the carrier for the last time on this mission. Doc had medic tags on most of them:

Magic Brown for a wound in his left arm.

Les Quinley for a shot-up arm.

Kenneth Ching for a graze on the left shoulder.

Ron Holt for a broken left arm.

James “Doc” Ellsworth for a shot-up left arm.

Horse Ronson for a wounded left forearm and two rounds in his leg.

Ross Lincoln for a shot-up side.

Murdock went with them to the emergency room in the carrier’s sick bay, and watched them all get their wounds checked over, treated, and bandaged.

Ronson had been rushed into surgery, and Lincoln would be watched for another few hours before they went to work on his side wound.

Murdock and DeWitt went to special chow with the men, and when the two officers came out they wanted only to find their quarters and the showers. Don Stroh stopped them and introduced them to three sailors.

“Sir, we were on the
Roy Turner
when you boarded her. We were the three nuts up on the superstructure firing at the Kenyan soldiers coming from the front.”

“Yes, I remember,” Murdock said. “You three did fine work that afternoon, saved us some casualties. We appreciate it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Gunner’s Mate First Class Vuylsteke said. “There’s a favor we need from you, and we’re not sure how to go about it. We talked to Mr. Stroh here, and he set up this meeting.”

Stroh shrugged. He led the way into a nearby room.

They all leaned against the walls inside, and Stroh got it started.

“These three guys were off ship when it was attacked and taken over by the coup. They hid out for three days with a lady in Mombasa. They kind of promised her they’d help her if she would keep them hidden.”

The rest of the story rolled out with the three sailors adding bits and pieces.

“So that’s it, sir,” Vuylsteke said. “We figured if anybody could help Pita, it would be you and Mr. Stroh. I hear he can order our carrier’s Captain around.”

Don chuckled. “Only when I need to.”

“You promised Pita you’d help her get to New York where she could try to be an entertainer?” DeWitt asked.

Murdock was suddenly more tired than he’d been in a long time. He looked at Don. “So, Stroh, do it. Get her a passport, a visa to the U.S., and a round-trip plane ticket to New York. She might decide to come home. Charge it to the Navy. Hey, she saved the lives of three U.S. servicemen here, and maybe a couple of SEALs. It’s a damn cheap price for five or six Navy people’s lives.”

Stroh grinned. “Yeah, I figured you might ask for something like that. Talked to the new acting U.S. Ambassador on board. He said he’d set it up in a week or two, as soon as they get temporary quarters for the embassy.”

Murdock looked at the three sailors. “Thanks, guys, you did a great job. Now I’m getting a shower and some sack time.”

Ten minutes later his head hit the pillow, and he knew he’d kill anyone who woke him up before he had at least twelve hours of sleep.

Murdock got up at noon the next day, put on fresh cammies, and went to check on the men. Half of them were in the assembly room they had used before. Jaybird had them cleaning their weapons and making a list of lost or used-up equipment. Looking around at the men, Murdock saw more white bandages than he did fighting men.

He counted up. Eight of his platoon had been either killed or wounded. It was the toughest assignment he’d had yet. Stroh would have to get another platoon if anything popped in the next few weeks. He was going to authorize two
weeks’ leave for each man, and recuperation time for the worst hurt. Then he’d need at least two new men, and have to pick out a new scout. Ted Yates would be in Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego for a couple of months or more. Chances were that he’d not be fit for duty as a SEAL when he did heal. Murdock would have to find out how bad that shot-up leg was that Ronson had. It was possible that he and Lincoln wouldn’t be fit for duty for six months. Damn!

Murdock still battled a wave of fatigue.

He wanted a two-week leave starting right now. Yeah, sure.

He’d send Ed DeWitt on a fortnight’s leave if he had to hogtie him and throw him on board an airplane himself.

An hour later, Murdock talked with Don Stroh in his quarters.

“The President says good job well done,” Stroh said. “He’d give you a commendation of some kind, but you could never wear it.”

“An early battlefield promotion to lieutenant commander would be nice,” Murdock said.

“Sure, just what you want. Then you couldn’t lead a platoon anymore.”

“He could change that too. Talk to the CNO. You must have some clout.”

“I do. How long do you want the carrier to babysit you here before you fly home?”

“Two days. I’m going to sleep straight through. Then too, I want my wounded guys healed up a little. Never had this many men shot up before. Are these assignments getting harder, or are we getting softer?”

“Maybe you’re all just used up for the moment,” Stroh said with a slight frown.

“Not by a fucking hindsight,” Murdock bellowed. They both laughed.

“Third Platoon is off the action board for at least two months, Stroh. We need two new men, maybe four new bodies. We need to get men well and back into shape and train on some new weapons I’m considering. You ever heard of the Heckler & Koch G11?”

“Nope.”

“It’s a weird-looking sub-gun that can kick out two thousand rounds a minute, carries a fifty-round magazine, and shoots a special caseless cartridge which is simply a block of explosive with a bullet buried inside it. Shoots a 4.7 round, and looks like a winner. I want to test it out.”

“So you want some time.”

“We must have some time, two months at least. I’m getting each man who can walk a two-week leave, and then we’ll think about getting back to work. Heal first, train second.”

“You’re getting conservative on me. What if the world blows up in a week?”

“Call on the duty SEAL platoon in that sector. That’s the way it was supposed to work, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. So in two days I’ll get you and me out of here and flapping our wings back to the good old USA. Unless you want to settle down in Kenya. I hear the local Army has a lot of openings for field-grade officers.”

Murdock threw a pillow at him, and went to check on his men in the sick bay.

Wednesday, August 13

2010 hours

Ardith Manchester’s apartment

Washington, D.C.

Murdock had been in the Nation’s Capital for three days. It had taken him more than two weeks after the platoon arrived in Coronado to get the paperwork done, have new and replacement weapons ordered, pick out two new men for the platoon, and then fight with DeWitt to take a leave. He’d finally sent him on a two-week trip to Maui, Hawaii, where he could fish and swim all he wanted.

Murdock stayed at his folks’ place the first night in D.C. to take care of family responsibilities. He had lunch with his dad the next day in the House dining room, and then called Ardith.

She knew he was in town. He had been at her place ever
since. She’d said she had to work for her father for the next two days, but then she’d take the rest of the week off and they would explore the Virginia mountains.

He was looking forward to it. Some hills where no one would be shooting at him.

She came home early that day, and said she had cleared her calendar.

“Now, is it the mountains, or did you have enough of the outdoors for a while? We can stay here and gorge ourselves with great order-in food, wine, and cheeses you’ve never even heard of. I found this great little place.…” She stopped. “What?”

“It’s just good to hear your voice again. Going to take me a while to figure out that foreign language that you’re speaking, but I’ll come around.”

She leaned back against him and pulled his arms around her. “I’m sorry that Kenya was such a bad one.”

She felt him flinch. “Hey, don’t be so surprised,” she said. “I told you I know what you do. I also have some connections so I know where you go, when, and why. The senator can find out just about anything he wants to know that’s going on in this town, in the country, or in the armed forces. He says it’s part of his job. If he knows it, I know it.”

“Damn few people know what we do or when we do it,” he said softly.

“That’s the way it’s supposed to be. You’re the undercover attack force of the CIA.”

He turned her around to face him. “Don’t you ever tell my mother. Dad knows, but don’t ever let it slip to Mom.”