Direct Action (9 page)

“By George,” exclaimed Kos Kosciuszko. “I think he’s got it.”

“So we dress up like Syrian commandos?” asked DeWitt. “Or Hezbollah?”

“Neither,” said Murdock, really warming to the idea. “You don’t dress like someone they’re going to want to stop and chitchat with. You dress like someone who makes them shit their pants and wave you right through.”

“Syrian Presidential Guard,” said Kos Kosciuszko.

“A big limo,” DeWitt burst out. “And a couple of vehicles filled with Presidential Guards. Jeeps, land rovers, Russian Zils, whatever they use. Something we can fly in by helo.”

“Tinted windows on the limo,” said Kosciuszko. “Syrian flags on the bumpers. You don’t know who’s inside, but it’s got to be someone you don’t want to fuck with. That’s the great thing about dictatorships.”

Once the initial excitement passed, Razor Roselli, the wet blanket, weighed in. “That might get us into town without compromise,” he conceded. “But we’ve still got to set charges and get out. And the problem with dressing up like Syrians and then having to deal with Syrians is like the Germans during the
Battle of the Bulge in World War II. They dressed up like Americans and caused a lot of confusion, but they nearly all got bagged because at close range they couldn’t pass.”

Razor Roselli had never yet failed to amaze Murdock.

“It’s like North Korean Special Forces dressing up in South Korean uniforms and slipping over the DMZ,” Roselli went on. “They get caught as soon as they open their mouths, because every Korean can tell the difference between a Northerner and a Southerner.”

“Which means,” Kos translated, “that the uniforms might get us all the way up to the warehouse if we showed up at night. But even if the CIA gave us someone who could speak fluent Syrian Arabic, we ain’t getting invited inside without a lot of shooting.”

That brought them back to earth. Then DeWitt suggested, “Maybe if we bring along something to shoot our way into the warehouse? Like a Russian BRDM scout car. The armor will stop small arms, and they pack a big-ass 14.5mm machine gun. We could ram our way right through the security.”

“I’m sure the CIA could come up with one or two for us,” said MacKenzie, giving DeWitt an approving nod.

Razor Roselli left the room and returned with the reference book
Jane’s Armor and Artillery
. He flipped open to the Russian BRDM and said flatly, “It won’t fit inside either an MH-53 Pave Low or an MH-47 Chinook. You’d have to sling-load it under the helo, and I don’t know who we’d get to do a night low-level penetration with a slung load. Especially that kind of air defense threat.”

They all groaned, mainly because they knew he was right. Murdock gave them a break, and everyone went out for coffee or a soft drink.

Except Ed DeWitt. He grabbed the book and thumbed through it, stopping at the Equipment in Service section at the back. Under Syria, and Reconnaissance Vehicles, there was BRDM-1, BRDM-2, and Shorlands (IS). What the hell was
that last one? He tore through the index and then the page, and had it laid out when the others returned to the room.

“It’s an armored car,” DeWitt told them. “British, made by Short Brothers of Belfast. Basically an armored Land Rover with a machine-gun turret. The Brits use them in Northern Ireland, the Syrians use them for internal security.” He shot a victorious look at Razor Roselli. “And it fits in an MH-47. I checked the dimensions.”

“Shit hot, Ed,” said Murdock. There were approving noises from the rest. Except one.

“Look, sir, that’s great,” said Razor Roselli. “So we can get to the warehouse and ram our way in with an armored car. But we still have to plant the charges and get the fuck out!” He was almost shouting now.

“Goddammit, we’re a hell of a lot farther ahead than when we started this morning,” Kos Kosciuszko bellowed. “And for all your bitching you haven’t been any fucking help at all.”

Roselli stood up. Kosciuszko took the challenge and came up out of his chair.

“All right!” Murdock said sharply. “That’s it for today. Everyone get the fuck out and go home. I’ll sanitize the room.” Sometimes being a SEAL officer was like being a lion tamer. Except that being a SEAL officer was more dangerous than being a lion tamer. His SEALs all stood up and shuffled about nervously. “Get out,” said Murdock. “Go home, cool down, and be back here tomorrow morning ready to work. Don’t anyone say another fucking word.”

Razor Roselli seemed to want to say something to Murdock, but he turned and followed everyone out.

They all left except George MacKenzie. He helped Murdock collect all the scrap paper, shred it, and put it in a burn bag. All the other materials went into a file box for storage in the classified material vault overnight.

“Boss, we are on
edge
,” said MacKenzie.

“Razor’s not pissing me off,” said Murdock. “He’s not Mr.
Tact, but you have to have a devil’s advocate. If he wasn’t doing it, you or I would have to.”

“Razor is not why we’re on edge.”

“I know that, too. It’s because this is shaping up like a suicide mission,” said Murdock. He slammed the file box down onto the table. “But that’s bullshit! Yeah, as a straightforward infiltration and raid mission, done the way we’ve always done it, it doesn’t work. But we’re the goddamned unconventional warfare specialists. It’s time we started thinking unconventionally.”

“I’ll try, Boss,” MacKenzie said pleadingly. “I swear I will.”

They both started laughing.

“Buy you a beer?” said Murdock.

“No,” said MacKenzie. “I think I better buy you one.”

1815 hours

McP’s Bar

Castle Park, California

Murdock and MacKenzie ended up at McP’s, which was located on Orange Avenue just down from the Coronado Main gate. It was a popular SEAL watering hole, owned by a man who had been a corpsman in the teams during Vietnam. On the back of the bar menu was printed, “If you don’t like crowds, don’t come on Thursday night.” Translated, that was when the place was packed with SEALs, and if you had a problem watching someone toss down a flaming drink without putting it out first, or eating glassware in front of you to win a bar bet, then maybe you ought to stay home.

Murdock and MacKenzie had no such qualms, having seen far, far worse while on liberty with the troops. And, of course, it was only a Tuesday.

The first beer went down fast. “Talked to Inge on the phone last night,” said Murdock.

“Oh?” MacKenzie said warily.

Inge Schmidt was a special agent with the BKA, Germany’s FBI. They’d met during an op in Europe, had nearly gotten killed together, and of course romance had flourished.

“We used to have phone sex once a week,” said Murdock. “Now we talk once a month, if I’m not someplace like Sudan.” He paused. “What the hell, I can’t put my name in to be an exchange officer with the Kampfschwimmers until after this tour. I can’t get out and move to Germany, and she can’t quit her job and move here. So what the hell can we do?”

“As Razor Roselli would say, whenever you get some leave catch a MAC flight to Germany and screw each other’s brains out.”

Murdock clinked his mug against MacKenzie’s. “Words to live by. Of course, I think Razor has more ex-wives than I have cousins.”

“And you have a
lot
of cousins.”

Murdock swung the subject around to something else. “You did a pump in Lebanon, didn’t you?”

“Beirut, when I was a Second Class with Team Four. But that was before the truck bombing.” He took a sip of his beer. “What a fucking zoo that was. And now we’re back to Syrians, Iranians, and Hezbollah, the exact same bunch who did the truck bombing.”

Even while he’d been talking, Murdock had seemed to be somewhere else. Now his focus was almost frightening. “Wait a minute, Mac, what was that?”

“Man, was I wrong when I thought people would listen to me after I made master chief.”

“No,” Murdock said urgently, as if he was about to climb across the table. “Truck bombs, Mac. You were talking about the truck bombs!”

“So you were listening after all.”

Murdock sprang up and threw money onto the table. “Waitress, get this American hero another beer. I’d kiss you, Mac, but your wife thinks we spend too much time together as it is.”

“What the
hell
are you talking about?” MacKenzie demanded. “And where the hell are you going?”

“Back to the office.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Nope, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Murdock walked off, and the waitress put another beer down in front of a very confused George MacKenzie. “What happened to your cute friend?”

MacKenzie looked up at her. “Somebody told him you were married. He was so disappointed he up and left.”

She popped her gum. “Well, what mouthy son of a bitch went and told him that?”

0730 hours

Naval Amphibious Base

Coronado, California

Blake Murdock was waiting when everyone arrived at the planning room. He was freshly shaved and showered, but based on the amount of expended coffee grounds in the wastebaskets, he’d been there all night.

“Hey, sir,” said Razor Roselli, “didn’t you know SEALs are supposed to get ten hours of sleep every night?” A little joke from BUD/s, and Razor’s way of apologizing for the previous day. During Hell Week SEAL trainees get a total of four hours of sleep in five days.

Murdock was in a dead serious mood. “Everybody take a seat. I’ve got something I want to run by you.”

The SEALs began shooting little looks at each other.

A map of Lebanon was spread out on the table, along with a set of satellite photographs.

“We fly in to Lebanon on four MH-47E Chinooks,” said Murdock. “Two Shorlands armored cars, two armored Mercedes limos; one vehicle in each helo. We terrain-fly all the way, and over the central mountain range. The helos drop us
near the road south of Baalbek, so as we drive in it looks like we’re coming from Damascus. We’re in Syrian livery, and we roar past every checkpoint like we’re king shit, all lit up.”

Murdock pointed to a computer-enhanced close-up of the warehouse in Baalbek. “The entrance to the warehouse is fenced, sandbagged, and guarded. So is the loading area. But this road runs right up against the long side of the warehouse. We come up this road, and the two armored cars make a hard right, ram through the chain-link, and keep on going right through the flimsy-assed wood walls of the warehouse.

“The armored cars are filled with as much explosive as we can pack into them. From the specs I figure about seven hundred fifty pounds each, maybe more.”

George MacKenzie was beginning to smile.

“As soon as they go through the wall,” said Murdock, “the boys in the armored cars pop the vehicle smoke dischargers and pull fuses. They un-ass the cars and bolt through the holes in the walls and the fence. The limos provide covering fire and pop their own smoke.

“Everyone hops in the limos and we peel rubber. We blow out of town at high speed. If you look at the route I’ve marked, we have to go through two checkpoints, based on current intelligence. The limos still have Syrian flags, sirens blaring. Everyone’s going to think really hard before taking a shot at us. On the way out of town we’re throwing tire poppers and pursuit-deterrent munitions out the windows.

“We’re out of town, and the helos are already on the way in. Two MH-60K Blackhawks, one primary and one backup, because we’re not bringing the limos back with us. We’ll rig them to blow when we leave.

“If we spend more than thirty seconds on the target, from the time the armored cars go through the fence to the time the limos pull out, you’re all fired.”

Murdock stood there expectantly, but there was silence in the room.

Then Ed DeWitt whistled through his teeth.

George MacKenzie’s smile grew even larger.

Kos Kosciuszko was nodding happily.

All eyes turned to Razor Roselli.

Razor thought about it for a while. Then he said, “This could work. You know, Boss, this could most definitely work.”

Murdock was unmoved. “We’ve just started working,” he said grimly. “We’re going to sit here and diagram every move we make every second we’re in Lebanon. And then we’re going to war-game absolutely everything that could go wrong, from a flat tire to Razor’s hemorrhoids acting up on him. And we will figure out exactly what we are going to do in each situation. And only when we’ve got this plan airtight and polished like a diamond will we brief it back to the brass.”

0925 hours

Naval Amphibious Base

Coronado, California

“I like it!” Admiral Raymond exclaimed. “It’s about time a bunch of my young studs threw away the Ranger Handbook and did some
special
warfare.” He cocked an eyebrow at Murdock. “You like planning for what might go wrong, don’t you, Lieutenant?”

“Something always does, sir.”

“You’re right about that.”

For this meeting it was just the admiral and the CIA. The Secret Service, the commodore, and Commander Masciarelli hadn’t been invited. MacKenzie, DeWitt, Roselli, and Kosciuszko had come along to help Murdock with the briefing. It had taken just under an hour. Murdock had seen briefings go hours longer, but that was ridiculous. Briefers added a bunch of irrelevant crap just to show off for the brass. Anyway, the human brain couldn’t absorb that much information.

Now the admiral turned to the CIA men. “This plan has my complete approval—
unchanged
. Can you get the lieutenant what he needs?”

“I don’t see any problem,” said Don Stroh.

“Well, I do,” said Berlinger. “Do any of you realize how expensive the lieutenant’s plan is compared with our original one?”

“Not too expensive compared to two billion in counterfeit currency a year,” the Admiral observed. “Besides, this plan will work.”

“With the expenditure of two armored cars and two limousines alone,” said Berlinger. “Not to mention the increased helicopter assets.”