Authors: Keith Douglass
Each SEAL Team was budgeted for 300,000 rounds of pistol ammunition per platoon, per year. So it took a little time to unload the ammo cans from the back of the platoon Hummvee and break it down.
And with five twelve-round magazines per weapon, the shooting benches were soon littered with piles of the empty cardboard boxes that had held the .45 hardball, full-metal-jacketed ammo.
“Israeli Military Industries?” Scotty Frazier wondered aloud, reading off one of the boxes. “What the fuck are we doing buying .45 ammo off the Israelis? They don’t even use anything in .45.”
“It’s one of those foreign military sales deals,” explained Miguel Fernandez, who had pulled some military training group time overseas. “They buy F-15 fighters with the aid money we dole out, and we buy .45 ammo and shit like that
from them to even out the bookkeeping, make it look like we’re getting something back, not spending so much.”
Eric Nicholson tried to work that out, but it didn’t happen for him. “What the fuck?”
Look,” said Razor Roselli. “The U.S. picks up everyone’s check, the manufacturers get paid for the weapons, and the taxpayer gets fucked. That’s all you gotta know.”
The platoon snickered. “International Relations 101 by Chief Roselli,” said Ed DeWitt.
“Well, am I wrong, sir?” the Razor demanded.
“No, you aren’t,” DeWitt admitted. “But we give Israel the aid because of the Camp David agreements, and the fact that they’re under the gun.”
“Yes, sir,” said Roselli. “But the Russians aren’t supplying the other side anymore, so who’s going to take the Israelis on? No one. But we’re still dishing out over three billion a year.”
Any regular Navy officer walking by would have been astounded to overhear the learned discussion of Middle Eastern politics this provoked among the enlisted swine, but SEALs liked to keep up on where their services might be required.
It only ended when an exasperated Ron Holt asked if anyone would like to shoot some fucking rounds.
They started off on a classic pistol range with paper bull’s-eye targets. Murdock soon had to admit that the weapon was fantastically accurate. The pistol had a special O-ring that locked the slide to the barrel when it came into battery. It made it more accurate than most SEALs could shoot, though Holt won all the beer that was bet that day with a cloverleaf group—all rounds in a single jagged silver-dollar-sized hole.
The platoon was used to the lighter-recoiling 9mm, so it took them a little while to get accustomed to the kick of the .45. Once everyone was shooting to his satisfaction, Holt let them add the suppressor to see what kind of difference it would make in the placement of their groups. The suppressor could be loosened and indexed to ten different positions, with the rounds grouping in a different spot at each position.
“When Holt thought they were good to go, he announced, “Okay, let’s go to the CQB range.”
That was to everyone’s liking, but first they had to replace the targets and police up all the trash, ammo cans, and expended shell casings.
“No, no, no,” Razor Roselli said kindly, holding up his palm to stop them. “I don’t want you studs straining yourselves in this hot sun. Jaybird and Doc already volunteered for the detail. The rest of you head over to the shade and get some water.”
The rest of the platoon snidely voiced their thanks to Sterling and Ellsworth, who were already bent down picking brass out of the sand and grumbling through only the beginning of Razor Roselli’s platoon punishment.
When they were finished, the platoon went over to what had been the first CQB range at Chocolate Mountain. Old auto tires were stacked on top of each other and filled with sand to absorb bullets and prevent ricochets. The tires were laid out in the shape of rooms and hallways. It had been rendered obsolete by the new killing house with bullet-trap walls, but it suited Murdock’s purposes. With all the SEAL platoons running around Chocolate Mountain, it was a lot easier to reserve.
The British SAS had been the first in the CQB business, and taught everyone the ropes. The initial shooting technique was theirs, developed from the Grant-Taylor method of instinctive firing perfected by the gentleman of the same name while he was the number-two man on the police force of pre-World War II Shanghai. He saw plenty of action, and later taught his technique to British and American intelligence operatives and commandos during World War II.
Instinctive firing was done with the shooter facing the target with both legs spread, both arms extended in front and locked, and the pistol held in both hands. The shooter didn’t use the sights, but instead looked out over the top of the weapon, picked out a distinctive spot on the target, and fired.
Once they had become more established, Delta and SEAL
Team Six moved to the modified Weaver stance, where the shooter presents his body sideways so as to be less of a target. A two-handed grip is used, with the shooting arm straight and the support arm bent and locking the shooting arm across the chest.
The Americans also developed “rapid aim fire,” where the weapon was brought up with the barrel slightly elevated. The shooter picked up the target on the front sight, centered it on the rear sight, and fired in a split second. Much more accurate than instinctive firing, and just as fast.
This was how the SEALs of 3rd Platoon shot. They set up good-guy and bad-guy targets throughout the CQB range and moved through in fire teams. They fired while moving, from the prone, rolling, and squatting.
Murdock had just finished a first run with his team when his pager went off. He looked around. “Anyone else?” All the SEALs checked theirs and shook their heads. “Fuck!” Murdock exclaimed. If it had just been some petty bullshit, the Chocolate Mountain duty would have radioed him from the headquarters building. It was obviously too confidential to put out over the radio, so now he’d have to drive up there. And he’d been looking forward to more shooting. “Fuck me,” he repeated.
“We’ll save you some rounds, Skipper,” said Professor Higgins.
“We’ll try not to have too much fun.” added Ed DeWitt, enjoying one of the rare times it paid to be the j.g.
When Murdock stomped into the headquarters building, the warrant officer on duty forestalled any tirade by telling him, “You gotta get back to Coronado ASAP. There’s an HH-60 turning on the pad right now.”
When Murdock began to sputter, the warrant added, “It’s come-as-you-are. You don’t need any gear, and I’ll get your Hummvee back along with word to your platoon. Have a nice trip, and no, I don’t know any of the details.”
Later, Murdock was embarrassed that his first thought had been, “Shit, what did the boys do this time?”
1500 hours
Naval Amphibious Base
Coronado, California
Murdock was met at the helo pad by Command Master Chief George MacKenzie and immediately whisked into a white U.S. Navy van.
“What did I do?” were Murdock’s first words.
“Nothing this time,” Mac replied. “Or at least nothing I know about. You’ve got a heartbeat to get a shower and into some khakis, then I have to run you over to Group. The Skipper’s over there waiting for you, pissing up his toenails.”
“And why is the Skipper pissing up his toenails?”
“Because he doesn’t know what this is all about either.”
“Great.”
MacKenzie gunned the engine and pulled out. “Did you get a chance to shoot?” he asked.
Murdock nodded.
“What do you think of the Mark 23?”
“It shoots like a dream, but it’s a heavy beast.”
“A head shot is a head shot,” MacKenzie said heatedly. “So why not stay with the 9-millimeter? And if you’ve just got to
have a .45, why not buy the Glock 21 off the shelf? With the fluted firing pin, it’s the only pistol in the world you can fire coming out of the water without having to break suction in the chamber. And for all the frigging money they’re going to waste on it, how often do you use a pistol anyway?”
“How do you
really
feel about it, Mac?”
MacKenzie chuckled. “You mean I never told you that opinions are like assholes, everyone has one?”
“Maybe once or twice.”
MacKenzie got Murdock showered and changed, and deposited him outside the headquarters of Naval Special Warfare Group One.
“You’re not coming in?” said Murdock.
“Wasn’t invited.”
The Team Command Master Chief not invited? “What the hell?”
“Get in there,” said MacKenzie. “And good luck.” He drove off.
Murdock quickly found himself in the secure conference room, which was theoretically shielded from electronic surveillance.
Besides himself, there were only three other SEALs there. That might have been reassuring, except that one was Rear Admiral Raymond, the commander of Naval Special Warfare and the boss of all the SEALs. He was joined by Commodore Harkins, the boss of all the SEALs on the West Coast. The man Jaybird and Doc had attempted to introduce to the camel. And Commander Masciarelli, Murdock’s boss.
There were four CIA officers, two of whom Murdock had worked with while planning the Port Sudan op. The other two looked very senior, very high up.
Finally there were two guys who just had to be cops of one variety or another. But Feds, because they dressed like IBM salesmen.
Admiral Raymond was regarded in the community as a
real-deal SEAL who still went out and did PT with his SEAL platoons. He’d picked up flag rank by accomplishing the missions during the Gulf War and not killing any SEALs in the process, something his predecessors hadn’t managed to do in either Panama or Grenada. He greeted Murdock with a warm handshake. “A hell of a job in Port Sudan, Blake. And you make sure you tell all your boys I said so.”
Murdock had never met the man before, but he immediately felt like going out and killing someone for him. “Thank you, sir, I’ll be sure to.”
Commodore Harkins, on the other hand, was widely regarded as just another staff pony. He gave Murdock a stiff handshake, and said, “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant.”
“Good to meet you, sir,” Murdock replied formally.
Commander Masciarelli, a little unhinged by the unusual circumstances and the presence of all the brass, shot Murdock a somewhat frantic look that said sit the fuck down and keep quiet.
The admiral gave the CIA men a nod that he was ready. Don Stroh, who had worked with Murdock on Port Sudan, stood up and moved to the podium at the front of the room.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I’m Don Stroh from the Central Intelligence Agency Covert Action Staff. This briefing is classified Top Secret Cable Crane. Need to know does not extend beyond this room without the personal authorization of the Director of Central Intelligence.”
Jeez, Murdock thought. He knew the code word classification didn’t mean anything in itself—some computer had vomited it up at random. What was important was that he was sitting in on it in the midst of all the brass.
Then Stroh froze him in place with his next words. “For the benefit of Lieutenant Murdock, who missed the preliminary meeting, I’ll introduce everyone.” He gestured to his CIA cohorts. “Mr. Hamilton Whitbread is the Director of Covert
Action Staff. Mr. Gene Berlinger is the Director of Special Activities Operations. You know Paul Kohler.”
The first two were big boys, thought Murdock, almost deputy director level—Special Operations and Covert Action, the people he’d been working for lately. Kohler had worked with Stroh on Port Sudan.
“And from the Secret Service, Deputy Director Jim Capezzi and Special Agent Dennis Flaherty.”
The Secret Service? Murdock couldn’t figure it out. Unless maybe some bad guys were planning to kill the President and needed to be taken out. His palms started itching again.
Then Stroh said, “Since this briefing is directly related to Operation Granite Ghost, Lieutenant Murdock’s raid on Port Sudan, I’d like to begin by extending him the Agency’s congratulations on a job well done. Video and document analysis, along with communications intercepts, confirmed that the target four-man cell was accounted for in the villa, along with a number of significant high-level personnel of the group involved. The adversary has no idea what happened, or even if any non-Sudanese external force was responsible. From other documents recovered, preliminary indications are that the raid derailed at least five other future terrorist operations. Well done, Blake.”
To Murdock’s utter embarrassment, Stroh began clapping, and everyone else in the room must have felt they had to join in.
Stroh continued. “Since our main focus today is the money recovered by Lieutenant Murdock in the Sudan, I’ll let Denny Flaherty give us the background.”
Murdock knew it. He just knew that damned three million was going to come back and bite him in the ass one day. That was why he kept the receipt in his safety deposit box. Let them try what they wanted. He was covered. He’d tell the admiral that himself.
This small-scale internal emotional episode was cut off by
Special Agent Flaherty, a beefy Irishman with a pronounced Boston accent. Boston College, Boston College Law School, Murdock thought.
Flaherty wasn’t much for bullshitting around. He clicked on a slide projector to display a blowup of a one-hundred-dollar bill. “Gentlemen,” he stated, “the entire three million dollars discovered in Port Sudan was counterfeit.”
That stunned Blake Murdock, since he’d personally counted the money at least three times and it had all seemed genuine to him.
“Are you familiar with the Supernote?” Flaherty asked.
Murdock looked around. Everyone else was looking at him, so he shook his head no.
“In 1992,” said Flaherty, “two Lebanese-born drug traffickers got caught trying to bring three tons of hashish from the Bekaa Valley in Lebanon through Boston Harbor. They were looking at thirty years mandatory, so they asked the federal prosecutor if he’d be interested in high-quality hundred-dollar counterfeits being printed in Lebanon. He was. They turned the bills over, and the U.S. Attorney passed them on to Secret Service.
“These bills,” said Flaherty, “were close to perfect. Our top technical analyst, who had examined every counterfeit ever produced, called them genuine. On a second viewing, he picked out three tiny imperfections which are now our only way of identifying this note, which we named the Supernote. It’s also been called the Super 100.”