Seawolf Mask of Command (59 page)

When their down-and-dirty test session didn’t trip her up, Grogan pointed at all of her dive gear lying in a pile and told her to check it and put it on. Kristen, her memory serving her well now, raced through the operation checks and then donned the equipment, adjusting it to her body size.

“Don’t worry about adjusting it right now,” Grogan told her. “When we go ashore, you’ll be wearing a bullet bouncer and combat gear. You can adjust it once you got all that crap on.”

Combat gear? Bullet Bouncer? What the hell have you gotten yourself into?

“Looks like she’s got it, Chief?” Hoover commented with a hint of admiration after they finished with the dive gear. “You picked that up pretty quick, Ell-Tee.”

“All right,” Grogan ordered, apparently satisfied thus far. “Dump that shit into a kit bag.”

Kristen stripped off the diving equipment, thankful time was short and there was a lot to do. She didn’t want time to think about what she was doing. She just wanted to get it over with. Once she’d placed her dive gear in the kit bag, she turned back to Grogan and the others. Hamilton had yet to even look at her. Instead, he was currently feeding a lengthy belt of machine gun ammunition into a metal backpack. Beside him, glistening with oil, was a menacing looking M240G machine gun. The weapon looked huge, even for Hamilton.

“Now what, Chief?” she asked.

“Have you ever fired a pistol?” he asked as he showed her an unfamiliar pistol.

“I spent an afternoon on the range during Plebe Summer back at the Naval Academy,” she answered honestly.

“Howdya do?” Hoover asked as he began unpacking a bag of combat gear meant for her.

“I managed not to shoot myself.”

“That’s a start,” Grogan said as he sat across from her, cleared the pistol, and then handed it to her. “That’s the Navy M11, also known as the Sig Sauer P-228 9mm semi-automatic pistol,” he began. “Lightweight, it carries a thirteen round magazine in the well and is ideal for someone with small hands like yours,” Grogan explained without malice. He quickly went through the basics, having no time to try and turn her into an expert.

Over her wetsuit, they had her pull on a pair of ill-fitting dark camouflage trousers and blouse. They then had her pull on a set of body armor. It was too big, but would have to do. The armor had a series of pouches attached to it for more equipment. Not that she had the slightest idea what she might need to carry.

“What’s your blood type?” Grogan asked as he fished a black marker out of his kit bag.

“Why?” she asked as Hoover adjusted the camouflage armor.

Grogan pointed toward her chest. She looked down and saw, printed to the front of the vest, written in bold lettering: B+. “Just in case you get hit and can’t talk, we’ll need to know your blood type,” Grogan answered.

Oh, shit!

“What about my dog tags?” she asked as the deadly seriousness of what she’d gotten into hit her like a brick. “You could just use them.” Like all military personnel, she wore dog tags with her blood type clearly stated on them.

“Thanks for reminding me,” he said and motioned for her to hand over her dog tags. “Cough’em up, Ell-Tee.”

“Why?” she asked as she pulled the tags out from around her neck.

Hamilton spoke, for the first time, “So when your sweet ass gets shot off, and we leave you for the fucking Gomers, they won’t be able to identify you as an American.”

“
Oh, shit,
” she whispered out loud.

“My thoughts exactly,” Grogan answered. “Blood type?”

“O-negative,” she answered nervously.

“Better not get hit,” Hoover offered as he began inserting equipment into her pouches, telling her what it was as he did so.

“Why?” she asked.

“O-negative is some rare shit,” Hamilton told her. “It means none of us can donate to you if you’re hit. We’ll just have to let you to bleed out.”

Oh, shit!

“Is he always this charming?” Kristen asked, trying not to let Hamilton intimidate her as he was clearly trying to do.

“He’s an acquired taste,” Hoover said with a slight smile.

Grogan tossed her dog tags to Graves who was watching from nearby. The Chief then showed her how to draw the pistol. “Now, if all goes according to plan—”

“Which it never does!” Hamilton cut in as he poured more oil on the machine gun.

“That’s enough, Trip,” Grogan warned Hamilton who was still stripped to the waist. Kristen could see that he was built like a brick wall.

“As I was saying,” Grogan resumed. “You probably won’t need it. But, if you do, just try not to hit yourself or any of us, okay?”

Graves watched as they bombarded her with gear, weapons, and then specific procedures she would need to know so as not to be too much of a burden. Graves knew this was insane. Of course, the entire mission was insane in his book. He knew Brodie thought so, too. But, just an hour before the meeting with the SEALs where Brodie had ordered them to go in at once, they’d received a message from the National Command Authority warning them that the CIA believed the North Koreans had armed a rocket with a nuclear device, and it was being readied for launch.

Both he and Brodie were now carrying the keys around their necks that would arm the two warheads and possibly start World War III. Graves knew he could—and would—turn the key if ordered. He just prayed Brodie wouldn’t. He then saw, standing quietly on the ladder leading into the torpedo room, his face as impenetrable as granite, was Brodie.

Graves moved over to his oldest friend. He knew it wasn’t as easy to order these men and Kristen to their probable deaths as Brodie made it appear. In fact, Graves had seen the way Brodie had been hesitant to do so when it came to Kristen. It had been a tough call. Perhaps the toughest he’d ever made. “Are you okay, Sean?” he asked in a whisper as he reached the ladder. Brodie was watching the SEALs show Kristen how to use a HK-416 assault rifle.

“I’ve never been less ‘okay’ in my life, Jason,” Brodie confided anxiously.

“It’s not too late to call this off.”

“It was too late the moment we let her on the sub,” Brodie concluded bitterly after a long pause.

Kristen stood still as Hoover adjusted her gear a final time, trying to make it fit a little better. For her part, the heavy armor and gear made her feel like she was a turtle in a shell. They’d thrown everything but the hull plating at her for the last five hours. Dive gear, hand-and-arm signals, grenades, claymore mines, first-aid equipment, radios, and weapons she’d never imagined seeing, let alone touching, had all been thrown at her in a barrage of information she was struggling to keep sorted in her head.

“You’re really going to do this, aren’t you?” Hoover asked her.

“Are you?” Kristen answered, trying to hide the terrified little girl inside her.

“It’s my job,” he replied simply.

“Mine too,” she reminded him. “What’s next?”

Hoover handed her the HK-416 assault rifle and showed her how to sling it so she could use it effectively by having a body sling help support it.

“Do you really think I’ll need this?” she asked nervously, having never imagined holding such a weapon, let alone possibly having to use it.

“I sure the fuck hope not,” Hamilton said dryly. The walking human fireplug was checking the edge on his combat knife and, not satisfied, began running it across a whetstone.

Hoover showed her the small squad radios they all carried. Once he’d positioned it on her back in its pouch, he showed her a small pressure pad under her left arm she could use to activate the radio while still firing her weapon.

“Yeah,” Kristen responded sarcastically, feeling certain if any shooting started, she would pee herself and hide in the nearest hole. “I’ll do that.”

“Hoover,” Grogan ordered, once he was satisfied she’d seen enough. “You keep her with you at all times, got it?”

“Check,” Hoover replied evenly, slipping loaded magazines into his own tactical harness while calmly smoking a cigarette.

“I’m serious,” Grogan said. “When I look for you, I’d better see two fucking shadows, and one had better have a better ass than yours.”

“I got it, Chief,” the Corpsman responded and then offered her a cigarette. “Smoke, Ell-Tee?”

“No, I don’t smoke,” she admitted as she watched Hamilton beginning to don his equipment. “But I’m thinking of starting.”

“Don’t worry,” Hoover assured her, “We’ll be in and out before the little yellow bastards know we’re there.”

A few minutes later, once they were all dressed in their combat gear, they sat down on empty ammunition crates in a tight circle. Kristen had never been more nervous in her life as she watched them smear grease paint over their exposed skin. Hamilton had, in three quick swipes of a couple of fingers, created a more terrifying camouflage pattern across his face than any Hollywood make-up artist could dream of.

“Okay, Ell-Tee,” Grogan began as he handed the grease paint to her. “Now this is something we need to go over.”

Kristen nodded, thankful for something to think about other than playing amateur commando. He then lowered his voice. “You might have noticed we don’t have much of an escape-and-evasion plan in the event of trouble. But, if things…” he paused, glancing at the others, “if things go FUBAR on us—”

“What does FUBAR mean?” she interrupted, struggling not to panic as the time to leave approached. She had the sudden uncomfortable urge to urinate.

“Fucked-up-beyond-all-recognition,” Hamilton explained bluntly.

“Anyway,” Grogan started again, “if things go bad and you end up on your own, or cut off, or in any way unable to get away…” He paused and handed her a pen-sized piece of equipment from a small pocket sewn into her camouflage trousers.

Kristen looked at it for a second and saw what looked like a plunger on one end and a sealed cap on the other end. She looked up and saw they were now looking at her with all the seriousness of a grave and holding identical devices in each of their hands. Even Hamilton was no longer playing around. He held the pen-sized device in front of him and stared at her in dire earnest. Grogan carefully removed a similar device he had in a pocket sewn onto his gear and removed the cap. She saw a thick needle about an inch long.

“Listen, Ell-Tee, I’m not trying to scare you any more than you probably already are. But if it looks like the North Koreans are going to get you.” He made a quick stabbing motion with the device stopping just short of his own thigh. “This will be a hell of a lot more merciful than those bastards.”

Oh, shit! Next time keep your mouth shut!

Kristen couldn’t conceal the disbelief on her face. Memories from her past suddenly threatened to rise up and consume her, and she struggled to suppress them, knowing she could never commit suicide. “I…I don’t think I could do that.”

“Suit yourself, lady,” Hamilton said as he slipped his own suicide injector into a pocket on his webbing. “But if those cocksuckers get their claws on you, if you’re very lucky, they’ll only gang rape you,” he told her honestly.

“And then it’ll get unpleasant,” Hoover warned her as he slipped his own injector in a pouch on his gear.

What the hell have you gotten yourself into?

“And there’s no fucking cavalry going to come over the hills with guns blazing to save your ass,” Grogan told her bluntly. “Once we cross the beach, we’re on our own. The mission is to get the doctor out. If all of us get waxed while accomplishing—”

“Waxed?”

“Killed,” Hamilton explained.

Grogan nodded in all seriousness. “If all of us are lost, but we manage to get Dr. Dar-Hyun out, then it is considered mission success. If we suffer casualties…” he motioned toward the others…“we are too few to carry any wounded, which means if you’re hit, we’ll have to leave you behind. If you’re captured, the US Government will disavow ever knowing you.” He pointed at all their gear. “None of this equipment can be traced back to the US Navy, and you’ll be just another nameless person in a DPRK gulag.”

Kristen looked at the pen in her hand. The hand trembled slightly, and she cursed what she believed was weakness. These men looked to be afraid of nothing. In fact, Hamilton looked like he was looking forward to going ashore and getting shot at.

“Scared?” Hoover asked.

“Shitless,” Kristen admitted and slipped the suicide injector back into the pocket.

“Good,” Grogan said honestly. “So am I.”

“That goes double for me,” Hoover replied and stood up.

“All right boys, let’s get wet,” Grogan said in finality and stood up.

Kristen stood, feeling the definite need to use the bathroom. In fact, she was fairly certain she would likely burst if anyone so much as brushed up against her. “Chief?”

“Yeah?” He hefted a heavy kit bag and tossed it onto a meaty shoulder.

“Do I have time to use the head?” she asked, slightly embarrassed.

But then Alvarez raised a hand after securing his vest. “Yeah, Chief, I got to take a pregame dump.”

“Yeah, me too,” Hamilton added, “I gotta piss like a rude dog.”

Kristen returned five minutes later and saw the others picking up the heavily laden kitbags. Hamilton slung the machine gun as if it was a toy. She bent down to pick up her own bag filled with dive gear.

“Hey, Chief?” Hoover asked and pointed toward Kristen. “What are we going to do with her hair?”

The intricate French braid had been too uncomfortable when she’d tried to wear the full face mask for the scuba gear and she’d resorted to a pony tail. Grogan responded to Hoover’s concern, by tossing Kristen an olive drab piece of cloth. She recognized it as an arm sling from a standard first aid kit.

“See if you can cover up the hair, Goldilocks,” he suggested and then looked around at his small team. He studied all of them for a few seconds, making certain he liked what he saw.

Apparently satisfied, he nodded his head confidently, his face stern and dead serious. “Let’s do it,” Grogan said once they were ready and led them out of the torpedo room.

Kristen now felt she knew what death row inmates felt like as they made their final walk to the electric chair. She was scared, in fact she was more afraid than she could ever recall. It was like a dream, and she kept expecting to wake up, but every time she closed her eyes and opened them again, she was still dressed in full combat gear and looking like she might actually know what she was doing.