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“No,” Murdock replied. “We don’t want to make it look too professional. If we’re lucky, anyone who finds them won’t make the connection. They may write it off as a business disagreement.”

Kos Kosciuszko’s body was wrapped in Doc Ellsworth’s German nylon poncho. It had six stout carrying straps on each side and doubled as a stretcher.

Murdock took point. DeWitt followed him. Jaybird, Razor, Higgins, and Doc carried Kos. It took that many to bear his weight and still cover the ground at a decent pace. Magic Brown took over the tail-gunner position.

Despite what had happened, they pushed harder. The fire-fight had to have attracted attention, and the nearby road networks would allow a fast response. And the fast-approaching dawn was on everyone’s mind. The ground was rising fast as they headed up higher into the mountain highlands. It was hard going.

The time only permitted a mile and a half advance before Murdock called a halt. They formed another perimeter with Kos’s body in the center. Professor Higgins broke out his backpack radio.

It was a piece of gear that had only recently come into SEAL
service, the AN/PRC-117D. Extremely compact at fifteen inches high, eight inches wide, three inches deep, and fifteen pounds total, it was one of the most sophisticated tactical radios in the world. Capable of operating in a number of modes and multiple frequency bands, the PRC-117D combined the functions of the three different radio sets it had replaced in SEAL service.

It could send and receive UHF satellite communications, or SATCOM, capable of reaching literally anywhere in the world. It also used UHF line-of-sight, to talk to aircraft and direct airstrikes, and VHF, or FM, the band used for tactical communications by most of the world’s armies, the same band the Motorola MX-300 walkie-talkies operated on.

Changing bands was as easy as flipping a switch and deploying the right antenna. The radio’s power could be adjusted anywhere from ten watts maximum down to .1 watt to reduce the probability of enemy interception. It could also be switched to automatic frequency hopping in the VHF band. The encryption system was embedded in the radio, and the crypto keys could be changed daily by simply punching in a new set of numbers.

The radio could transmit in a number of modes: voice, data, video. A special interface could even link it into the worldwide cellular telephone system.

The capability was incredible, but it also allowed everyone in the chain of command to contact and supervise you to an extent that Murdock did not care for at all. The Vietnam ploy of turning off the radio or pleading poor reception was no longer a viable option if you could talk in real-time with the admiral in Coronado or the President at the White House from the middle of the Lebanese hills.

If it had been a straight SEAL mission, Murdock would have been transmitting code words to mark his progress at each step in the operation, from landing onward. But as he’d told the CIA, if they weren’t going to provide him with any external
fire support, then he didn’t need to be talking to them every five minutes—no matter how much they might want him to.

Higgins unfolded the satellite antenna, which was just a collapsible wire facsimile of the familiar dish. The radio set told him when the antenna was in line with the communications satellite overhead.

A signal sent straight up to a satellite was hard for an enemy to direction-find, but not impossible. Especially if you were dealing with a paranoid dictatorship like Syria, which had the best signals-interception and direction-finding equipment money could buy. So the SEALs would send their message by data-burst. Instead of talking over a handset, Murdock wrote out his message and Higgins typed it into a small keypad. Previously agreed-upon code words were used to reduce the length of the message. It went something like this, but in a continuous line of traffic with STOP where any periods would have been:

E70:
Phonetically, Echo Seven Oscar, 3rd Platoon’s call sign for that day
.

SWITCHBLADE:
Target destroyed
.

ZEBRA-1:
One friendly killed in action
.

SEATBELT-1:
Request immediate helicopter extraction. No change from mission brief
.

PENGUIN:
Landing zone is secure
.

857682:
Their current location, in map grid coordinates
.

END.

Murdock reviewed the message in the keypad’s liquid crystal display and nodded to Higgins. Higgins pressed a button and entered the message into the keypad. Another button automatically encrypted it. Then he pressed the SEND button and the message went out over the air in a compressed burst of less than a millisecond in duration. Now there was nothing to do but wait for confirmation and any return message to come back from the aircraft carrier.

0503 hours

Aboard the
U.S.S. George Washington

Eastern Mediterranean Sea

The huddle of men packed together in the dull gray intelligence center of the
George Washington
was becoming both more hyper and more despondent, if such a thing was possible. The coffee they’d consumed by the gallon had done its own small part to jack up the general mood.

Don Stroh of the CIA couldn’t sit down in his institutional Navy chair for more than a minute before springing up to pace. He wouldn’t call it pacing, though, just a continuing process of checking in with the line of Navy communicators at their consoles, or talking to the ship’s bridge or Combat Operations Center on the phone.

Paul Kohler, his CIA counterpart, had gone through what seemed to be about five cartons of cigarettes, based on the contents of the ashtrays. The fastidious young sailors in the room, high-IQ types one and all, appeared to be on the verge of donning breathing apparatuses.

The Army major from the 160th was sitting with his legs crossed and reading a paperback novel, to all intents and
purposes the very picture of professional calm. But that crossed leg was bouncing up and down so fast it might have been hooked to an electrical current.

Miguel Fernandez, the lone SEAL, was catching up on some sleep. His feet were up on the worktable, his head thrown back, and every minute or so he let loose with a few seconds of loud honking snores. Whenever it happened the others threw him looks that were part disgust, part envy.

One of the communicators suddenly shot forward in his chair. “Message just came in,” he announced excitedly.

They all practically climbed over each other to reach the terminal and read Murdock’s message off the display.

“They did it!” Paul Kohler whooped, sounding very much like Razor Roselli.

Miguel Fernandez, whom the platoon called Rattler in honor of his favorite cuisine during desert operations, stared at the screen and wondered which one of his friends was dead.

Don Stroh had a handset up to his mouth, and was passing the news over a satellite link to the operations center at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

The major was on an internal ship’s phone giving the word to his pilots waiting in the ready room.

Stroh put down the handset and picked up another one that connected to the ship’s Combat Operations Center. “Is it still there?” he asked. “Okay, thanks.” He hung the phone up. “We’ve got a real problem.” He turned to the communicator. “I want you to send, ‘WAIT ONE STOP STAND BY FOR MESSAGE END,’” he ordered.

“Aye, aye, sir,” the sailor replied.

A Russian Sovremenny-class destroyer had shown up in the area about a half hour before, attracted to the
Washington
and trying to discover what she was doing. Intelligence photographers shooting through night-vision equipment had been lined up on her rails the whole time. The Russians had been going through one of their we’re-a-great-power hypernationalistic
phases lately, and had been causing more mischief than they had in years.

The presence of the destroyer meant the
Washington
couldn’t launch the helicopters without permission.

“If only we’d gotten that message an hour ago,” the major lamented.

“The COC says we can lose her,” said Stroh. “But the Navy can’t do that, get back into helicopter range, and go to flight quarters all before daylight.”

“Then we have to launch anyway,” said the major. “Screw the Russians.”

Fernandez was glad the major had said that because otherwise he would have had to. And one of the facts of life was that majors got more favorable hearing than first-class petty officers.

“We can’t do that without permission from Langley,” said Kohler.

“Well, fucking get it then,” Fernandez blurted out. Heads turned and all eyes fell on him, and he added rather lamely, “Sir.”

Well used to SEALs, Don Stroh only chuckled. “I’m going to do just that, Miguel.”

The communicator handed him the handset to Langley, and he explained the situation in detail. After Stroh finished he listened for quite a while. His face darkness. “I’d like to point out, sir,” he said, “that if any SEALs are captured, the mission will be even more compromised that it would be by the sighting of a few helicopters. Any number of cover stories could explain that away.”

Fernandez’s stomach turned to ice.

Stroh listened some more. “Yes, sir, their equipment is sterile, but that won’t matter if the Syrians get a chance to go to work on them.” More listening. “Yes, sir, we
will
stand by, but allow me to remind you that our launch window is closing
rapidly. Yes, sir.” He gave the handset back to the communicator. “They’re going to get back to us.”

“The fuck!” Fernandez said fiercely. “The dirty work is done, so now no one gives a shit anymore.”

One of the Navy intelligence officers seemed on the verge of having words with Fernandez, then perhaps thought better of it.

“I can launch at any time,” the major said. “I’m
willing
to launch right now,” he added pointedly.

Don Stroh just shrugged helplessly and shook his head.

The minutes ticked off. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. The tension in the room was unbearable.

“Sir,” the communicator said, giving the handset over to Stroh.

“Yes, sir,” Stroh said into the handset. There was conversation on the other end, and Stroh finally broke in to protest, “Yes, sir, but we have no idea what the situation on the ground is right now … sir, I don’t care where the order came from, this is murder. Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I understand perfectly.” Stroh gave the handset back to the communicator. “We don’t launch while the Russian ship is here,” he told them. “So that means the earliest we can launch is after dusk. Tonight.”

“They got to sit out there all day?” Fernandez shouted.

“Well, screw that,” said the major. “I’m launching right now. I’ll take the responsibility.”

Fernandez could have French-kissed him—and an officer at that.

Another phone rang, and it was handed over to Don Stroh. “Yes? Yes, Captain? You did? Very well, thank you.” He hung up. “The Captain just got a flash message from Washington. No Army helicopters will be launched until End of Evening Nautical Twilight. Tonight.”

“Those bastards don’t miss a trick, do they?” Fernandez asked bitterly. If they had turned the major down he’d been considering pulling his pistol and making some demands. Now even that wouldn’t work. “I’ll tell you something. You all better
make out your wills, ’cause you do this to Razor Roselli and I wouldn’t put odds on your life expectancy once he gets back.”

“I’d be glad to have Razor take a shot at me, as long as we get him back,” said Stroh. He sounded completely worn out. “Be that as it may, now we have to sit down and put together a message to the SEALs.”

0535 hours

North central Lebanon

The light on the keypad blinked. Murdock and Razor were both huddled over the tiny display.

“What the fuck took them so long?” Razor whispered in Murdock’s ear. “They bring in Shakespeare to compose the fucking message?”

Murdock reached over and hit the button to review the message.

They watched eagerly as it ran across the narrow strip window of the display:

UNABLE TO LAUNCH AIRCRAFT STOP CANNOT LAUNCH IN DAYLIGHT STOP REMAIN HIDDEN OR ESCAPE AND EVADE AT YOUR DISCRETION STOP WILL LAUNCH ON ORDER ANY TIME AFTER EENT 11 NOV STOP SORRY STOP ORDERS STOP GOOD LUCK END

Razor couldn’t believe it, and reviewed the message again. Murdock felt like he’d been kicked in the balls.

Razor took a moment to regain his composure, then whispered, “Well, this has to be the best fucking I’ve ever taken, bar none.”

“I think I’m finally starting to get a handle on the drawbacks to working for the CIA,” Murdock whispered back to him.

“Fuck ’em,” Razor whispered. “We’ll get our own selves out.”

“Acknowledge the transmission,” Murdock told Higgins. “And don’t tell them to go fuck themselves.”

“Roger that, sir,” the Professor replied. “I’ll keep it professional.”

With that, as might be expected sitting in the Lebanese woods with dawn approaching, it was back to business.

Murdock crawled to each man and gave him a whispered briefing. They were SEALS, so no one went hysterical. At first some of them thought Murdock was playing a really bad joke. Then there were a few whispered oaths, followed by a general shrugging of shoulders, as if all that could be expected from the powers that be was a good hard shot up the ass anyway. The SEALs knew what kind of situation they were in but, since they were SEALs, it was the kind of situation they
expected
to find themselves in.

Murdock briefed them because they needed, deserved to know. And because, as usual, they picked his morale right back up. Jaybird Sterling wanted to know if it meant an extra day of combat pay. Murdock said only if it went past midnight the next day. Jaybird then asked if the lieutenant would take that into consideration in his planning, since he was thinking of buying a motorcycle.

Then Murdock, Razor, and DeWitt pulled a poncho over their heads, turned on a flashlight, and broke out their maps for an impromptu conference.