Seal Team Seven #19: Field of Fire (4 page)

Gardner took his stopwatch out and handed it to Rafii. “You’ll be timekeeper and sit in the shade until we get back. Time each one and write it down on my clipboard. I don’t quite trust that leg wound of yours to be completely healed. We’ve stressed it enough for one day. The rest of us get ready. It’s a two-mile run.”

Omar Rafii, who came to the U.S. with his parents from Saudi Arabia when he was four, looked down at his right leg. It had taken shrapnel from a hand grenade and had given him a bad time about healing. He’d been to Balboa twice, but this last time they had given him a clean bill and marked him fit for SEAL duty. It didn’t hurt anymore. But he admitted that it was a bit sore sometimes after a hike or a tough workout. He had to make it perfect.

Murdock had pulled off his pack and combat harness, but kept on his floppy hat, as did most of the men. He felt light and easy without the usual thirty to forty pounds of gear they packed even on training missions. That could balloon to a hundred pounds on an airdrop.

“Gentlemen, start your engines,” Miguel Fernandez said, as they lined up next to the bus’s bumper. Murdock and Gardner were in the second row. In the SEAL tradition, every officer in each unit took all of the PT, road-work and exercises that the men did. Every time. It was
remarkable the amount of good feeling this brought to the men. Gardner held up his right hand and brought it down, bellowing out, “Go.”

Jaybird and Lam led the pack. Both had run track in high school and had a natural stride. They soon put twenty yards on the pack. Everyone else kept up what Murdock figured was about a six-minutes-to-the-mile pace. He had no idea how fast the leaders were running.

It was slightly less than fifteen minutes later when the last of the SEALs galloped over the finish line. He was Luke Howard, and while he was powerful at most things with his six-four, 250-pound body, running fast was not one of them. Jaybird and Lam had raced each other flat out the last fifty yards and hit the tape dead even at 12: 38.2. Gardner laughed when both men asked for a case of beer.

“Hey, we both won, we both get a case,” Lam said.

Gardner chuckled. “You guys trying to put me in the poor house? You get a case and you share it.” The men paced around to cool down and help their heart rate come down slower. After five minutes, the JG gathered them around. “Any comments or questions about today’s exercise?”

“Is it over?” Vinnie Van Dyke asked. Everyone applauded, then watched the officer.

Gardner’s face went stern, then he barked out the words. “Damnit, it’s over when I say it’s over.” He scowled at them, then grinned. “Hey, it’s over. Everybody, one last policing the area, then it’s back on the bus.”

During the two days of field training, Murdock had closely watched the new man to the platoon. Frank Victor had been shot up on the last mission with a dangerous wound to his chest. They barely kept him alive getting him choppered to an operating room on an aircraft carrier, where they worked on him for four hours. They finally found most of the pieces of the shattered slug in his chest and repaired the damage of one round to his neck, which had missed his right carotid artery by a half inch. He had stayed on the carrier for two weeks before they felt they could safely fly him to Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego.
He’d been there ever since, over three months now, recuperating and healing. He knew he couldn’t function as a SEAL anymore, and had requested a transfer to one of the SEAL service units there on Coronado. He’d be involved, but not in one of the teams.

The new man had good qualifications. Murdock realized that lately he had been selecting bigger, taller, faster men than he had in the past. He decided he’d been influenced by the National Football League, where the linemen were almost all over three-hundred pounds and so fast it made Murdock gasp. They were tall and tough and fast, and Murdock had slued in that direction.

Wade Claymore was the new man in Bravo Squad. He was six-foot three-inches, could run the forty-yard dash in 4.5 seconds, and weighed 230 pounds. He was a radioman second class, twenty-four years old, and unmarried. So far he had blended in well. He’d been in Team Three there in Coronado and had applied four times to transfer into the Third Platoon of Seven. In the interview with Murdock and Gardner, Claymore had impressed them with his maturity and his desire to get into more action than the normal teams got. He said the routine six months tour sitting on a carrier was a total bore and a waste of time. He also had two years of junior college where he played football. Murdock had given him a thumbs-up and Gardner, who would have him in his squad, also approved.

Murdock watched the men as they cleaned up the area for the fifth time, then stepped on board the bus and flaked out on the seats. They were sharp again. They were ready. The last mission had been tough and they had needed some downtime. Now, even with the new man, they were set to go. The only trouble was Murdock had no idea what Don Stroh, their CIA contact, or the CNO might have in mind for his men.

At least he had solved one problem. During their recent three-month hiatus from any action trips, he had talked Tracy Donegan into becoming their driver. He had taken a week-long course in military driving, been issued a military driver’s license and then got checked out on the bus
they always used for their trips to the desert. Donegan was a car nut, and a mechanic. He’d been the unofficial platoon driver; now he was legitimate.

They should get back to Coronado sometime around 1730. Just in time for a wrap-up and then a great dinner at home. Chris Gardner slid into the seat ahead of Murdock and turned to face him.

“So, how did it go today?”

“Good. No rating, but I loved that line about it’s over when I say it’s over. Great timing. Also you picked up on that suggestion from Jaybird that a six-minute mile downhill would be too dangerous. Some officers have a hard time taking a suggestion from the men that way, especially when you were wrong.” Murdock chuckled. “Hey, don’t sweat it. I’ve been corrected by some of the guys a dozen or more times, and usually it winds up saving some lives. That’s why we function the way we do. Okay, you get an A minus. Now don’t bother me, I’m going to take a nap.” He punched the JG on the shoulder and leaned back in the seat with his head against the side of the bus. He woke up just as the bus pulled into the parking lot outside the Quarterdeck.

NAVSPECWARGRUP-ONE

Coronado, California

Murdock peaked his fingers and stared at the training sked he and JG Gardner had put together last weekend. As with any good team, now and then you had to go back to basics to ensure skills, to sharpen timing and to renew dedication. This was one of those days. Not pleasant, but a task that had to be done. It was noon on Wednesday, and the platoon had worked the O course first thing in the morning, recorded the times, then done a six-mile run in the soft sand at seven minutes to the mile. They had jogged back with full field gear through knee-deep surf just to keep their water wings ready.

That afternoon it would be a swim. They would cut across the arc of the silver strand moving south and come in at the Navy radio towers just this side of Imperial Beach. A twelve-mile round trip. About time they stretched a few swimming muscles. They would go down underwater on a simulated combat mission. After storming the beach there, they would return on the surface with one wounded to tow. Yes.

His second in command, JG Gardner, came in with a huge grin. “Hey, didn’t tell you about my flying over the weekend. Hadn’t tried the Black’s Beach cliffs for a long time, the glider port there. Man, what a hoot. The wind comes up that cliff like a storm and you get off so fast it’s almost scary. But then you can sail and glide and pick up altitude and come back up on top of the plateau again. You ever done any hang gliding, Commander?”

“Some, until I almost broke an ankle one day. I sold it and settled for a motorcycle.”

“This is perfect country for hang gliding.” He looked down at the training sked. “You find any problems with the outline?”

“Nope. Just wondering when Don Stroh is going to be giving us a call. You know what he’s trying to do?”

“Haven’t heard anything from him.”

“He’s trying to get our platoon cut out of Team Seven and made an independent platoon answering directly to the NAVSPECWARGRUP-ONE CO.”

“He wouldn’t do that. Would he?”

“He could.” Murdock shook his head. “Masciareli has been giving us some flack again about our orders not going through channels. If Captain Arjarack gets his dander up, he can swing a lot of weight with our admiral, who can yell loudly at the CNO.”

“The CNO would have to direct the move. He could do it. Hell, he can do almost anything he wants to with the Navy. Let’s say he did push it through. We’d be out of here and into new quarters somewhere. There aren’t any spare units available in this lash-up.”

“If the CNO said to, they would move in some portables or build us a headquarters. Might be nice.”

“Getting out from under Masciareli’s thumb, yeah, I know what you mean.” Gardner looked at his waterproof watch. “Formation in seven minutes. Full field gear?”

“Just like we meant it.”

An hour later the Third Platoon swam fifteen feet below the light chop of the cool Pacific Ocean heading south on a compass reading that would bring them back to land at the Naval Radio Station and antennas just outside of Imperial Beach. Murdock had put Gardner in the lead to set the pace and keep the direction right. So far he was doing a good job. All of the men had the waterproof, underwater-operating Motorolas. It meant the platoon could keep in touch with one another underwater as they moved toward a target. Everything was waterproof-the earpiece, the throat mike, and the unit that hooked on their belts.

Murdock used his radio. “Everyone, let’s take a sneak and peek up on top, faces only. I want to count you and see what kind of a spread we have made.”

The SEALs surfaced and let only their faces out of the water. Murdock counted, all present, then he checked the distance the farthest SEAL was from the leader. “Who is tail-end Charlie?” he asked on the set.

“Guess that’s me, Skipper,” Canzoneri said. “Sorry, I’m closing up and will rattle somebody’s tail the rest of the way.”

“Not a chance. Canzoneri, take the lead. Get the compass board from the JG and move us out when you’re ready. You know the target. Move us down there-only this time, we’re going down thirty feet. There is simulated firing into the water and we have to go under it. Let’s move it, Canzoneri.”

They made the objective and lined up in the water near the shore still submerged. Murdock gave the order for two men to hit the beach as scouts. Rafii and Fernandez surfaced and caught a breaker and let it wash them shoreward. Two more breakers deposited them on the beach like two watersoaked logs. They checked the empty beach from one end to the other, then Fernandez used his radio.

“It’s a go. All clear. Go.”

The rest of the SEALs lifted up and stormed the beach. On a real mission they would be firing as they came. This time they ran up, flopped into the sand, and created a forward defense line. Murdock lay in the sand a moment, then he stood and evaluated the perimeter. “Okay, take ten. Bradford, you were the last puppy up the sand. You getting too old in rank for this kind of life?”

“No, sir, just got my fucking feet mixed up in that last wave. No sweat here, Commander.”

“Good. You’re our sole wounded man for the trip back to the BUD/S. You were gut shot and may not make it. Mahanani, wrap him up. Distribute his weapon and gear to the other men. We’ll go back on the surface. Jaybird has the con with the compass board. Alpha will tow our wounded man. How we going to do it without letting him drown out there?”

“I’ve got one inflatable I can blow up full of air, but it won’t hold up two hundred pounds,” Mahanani said.

“Do it,” Murdock ordered. “What else?”

“We use his buddy cord under his arms and looped over his chest for a tow rope,” Jaybird said.

“What else?” Gardner asked.

“Does it work to tie the legs of pants and fill them full of air and use them as water wings?” Ken Ching asked.

“I don’t know,” Murdock said. “Take his pants off and try it. It could take two or three pair of pants to keep Bradford from sinking. Mahanani, he’s your responsibility. Set things up now.”

It took only two minutes to move his pack, combat vest, and Bull Pup to other SEALs. Then Bradford stripped off his pants and tied the bottoms of the cammies with one tough overhand knot. They put Bradford into the water before he started stopping cars on the nearby Silver Strand Boulevard. He lifted the pants high over his head and swung them down. It took four tries before he had enough air in them to do much good. He held the waist of the pants together and put them under his arms, then lifted his feet off the bottom. He floated, feet down, but there was enough air in both units to keep his head and shoulders out of the Pacific Ocean.

Mahanani had the air-filled plastic float tied around Bradford’s chest.

“Everyone back in the water,” JG Gardner called and the SEALs moved back into the Pacific. Mahanani picked Howard and the new man Claymore to help him with Bradford. Jaybird led out the parade and the SEALs followed in two rough lines in back of him on the surface, moving with an easy crawl stroke.

The two floats worked well at first, but gradually the air seeped out of the cammie pants and they had to pause and refill them. Then Mahanani called for a halt. “Need another pair of pants,” he said on the radio.

“Use your own,” JG Gardner said and there were hoots of laughter from the others. Mahanani pulled them off and tied the wet pant leg bottoms, then inflated them. They worked better wet than dry. The SEALs swam again.

It took them over an hour and a half to get back to the BUD/S area towing Bradford. Four times they had to stop and reinflate the pants. On the last stop they got a third pair of pants to use for an inflatable. When they straggled up on the beach outside of BUD/S, they flopped on the sand to recover.

Murdock walked around the men, judging their condition. Not bad considering. They almost never would have a six-mile swim to get to a target, and if they did, they wouldn’t be towing an injured man. It made good training.