Seal Team Seven (10 page)

“One!” Onto the ground . . . and woe to the man who straightened up without waiting for the command to be given.

“One!” It started all over again, but with interesting variations. “Two! Three! Four! Three! Four! Three! Four! What's our creed?”

They shouted the answer back at him.
“Sir, the only easy day was yesterday, sir!”

“Anybody want to quit? The bell's right over there with Petty Officer Simmons. All you have to do is walk over and ring it.”

No answer.

“Three! Four! Three! Four! . . .”

Murdock watched the boat crews heaving their telephone poles, but his thoughts were on Susan. He'd been thinking about her a lot lately, probably more than was healthy. The only easy day was yesterday? Right . . .

Somehow it seemed to keep getting harder.

Susan had been killed on Route 50 when a seventeen-year-old kid with a Corvette and a cocaine habit had jumped the median barrier and taken her out head-on. She'd been on her way to attend his graduation ceremony at Annapolis, three days before they were to have been married.

“I know it's hard, dearest,”
his mother had said after the funeral.
“But you know, it must all really be for the best somehow. Susan was a nice girl
,
I'm sure
,
but I'm afraid she just wouldn't have fit in. I still don't think she would have been happy in our family
. . . .”

So shallow. So self-centered, as though the universe revolved about her and her money- and privilege-centered point of view. And so like her, and like his father too, for that matter. That conversation had been the final, the irrevocable straw. A week later, Ensign Murdock had cut short his graduation leave and put in for BUD/S SEAL training at Coronado. After a week of physical fitness testing he'd been accepted. The training had been hellishly difficult, but he'd thrown himself into each new physical and mental challenge with a wholeheartedness he'd not even known he possessed. The alternative, he'd thought, was to brood . . . and in that direction lay only destructive self-pity, possibly suicide, certainly a betrayal of everything he and Susan had hoped and planned for.

When he'd completed both SEAL training and the follow-up airborne course at Fort Benning, Georgia, he'd specifically requested a West Coast assignment. So far as he was concerned, the further away he could get from his family and their plans for his life, the better.

As a member of SEAL Team Three, he'd missed out on seeing action in Panama, but had participated in the Gulf War. As a squad leader the following year, he'd run some highly classified missions along the North Korean coast before being promoted to lieutenant and getting assigned back to Cornado as a senior instructor.

“Three! Four! Three! Four! . . .”

Turning away for a moment as he continued counting the cadence, Murdock spotted a familiar figure leaning against the hood of a jeep parked by the Strand highway. Maybe? . . .

“Three! Four! Three!”

He waited then, a long, long silence during which the waves crashed against the sand just beyond the dune at his back, and sea gulls screeched and shrilled at one another as they circled overhead. He could hear the gasping breaths of the recruits as they strained against their chest-high burdens.

“Anyone want to quit?” he called, his voice almost friendly. There was no reply from the waiting trainees.

“Ah, well. Thought I'd try. Four!” The logs went into the air and stayed there.

“Two-IC!” Murdock called.

One of the instructors jogged up and saluted. “Sir?”

“Take over, Kaminsky. You know the drill.”

The petty officer grinned, a death's-head rictus. “Aye, aye, sir. We'll make 'em sweat!”

As Murdock strode away, Kaminsky started the cadence anew. “And . . . three! Four! Three! Four!”

Leaving the grunting, heaving platoon to their telephone poles, Murdock walked over to the man standing by the jeep. Chief Frank Bowden was a thickset black machinist's mate who'd been in the Navy for eighteen years and in the Teams for twelve.

“Morning, Lieutenant,” the chief said, saluting crisply. “My, oh, my, but you're up bright and early.”

“Out with it, Bow. You look like the proverbial cat with the proverbial canary feathers on his snout.”

“Could be. I just came down from Admin. Seems there's a packet for you there, swim buddy.”

“What . . . orders?”

“All the way from BUPERS. Word is they came through Saturday.”

“God damn! And nobody told me?”

“I just did, man.”

“How 'bout running me back there?”

“Hop in, Lieutenant. It'll be my pleasure.”

A quick cruise down Silver Strand Drive brought Murdock back to the cluster of buildings that was the heart of SEAL school. The main building was a light tan, brick structure, Above the doors in front of the glassed-in foyer were the words:

To the right of the walk leading up to the building was a life-sized replica of the Creature from the Black Lagoon, a net draped over his right hand, a trident in his left. A sign on the trident read, “So you want to be a frogman?” A plaque recorded the statue as a gift from an earlier SEAL training platoon upon graduation.

As Bowden parked the jeep, a platoon of trainees marched past. These were Phase 2 men, wearing olive-drab fatigues and caps instead of shorts and white T-shirts. At this stage of their training, they were less into mud than they were into demolitions and weapons training.

“Gee, I want to be a SEAL!” the petty officer in charge of the column singsonged.

“Gee, I want to be a SEAL!”
came the chorused reply.

“Eat seaweed with every meal!”

“
Eat seaweed with every meal!”

“Hoo yah!”

“Sound off!”

“Sound off!”

“Cadence count!”

SEALs spent far less time marching than they did running, since traditional drilling on the parade ground was useful only to instill cooperation and esprit de corps. Still, Murdock thought, these men looked sharp, damned sharp. Lean, hard, and ready to kick ass and take names.

“Bein' a SEAL just can't be beat!”

“Get more ass than a toilet seat!”

Mother,
Murdock thought wryly,
would not approve.
He returned the salute of the formation's leading petty officer, then crossed the road behind them, past the scowling Creature, and up to the training center's front door.

“See that girl all dressed in green?”

“She goes down on SEALs like a submarine!”

No, Mother would
definitely
not approve.

A second class yeoman in whites manned the front desk in the headquarters foyer. “Hey, Burman. What's the word.”

“Good morning, Lieutenant Murdock,” the yeoman replied. “I guess you're looking for this.” He handed him a thick manila envelope. Murdock rapidly opened it, broke out the top sheet, and began reading.

Murdock looked up, stunned. He was going to NAVSPECWARGRU-Two, to
Norfolk?
It was hardly credible. There was a long, long history of rivalry, even outright animosity between the two SpecWar groups. The West Coast SEALs thought their East Coast counterparts were too hidebound, too tied to rules, discipline, and spit shine; the East Coast SEALs thought the Californians too laid back and easygoing, without a proper respect for attitudes and traditions military.

“Where you headed, Lieutenant?” Burman asked.

“Son of a bitch, they're sending my ass to Shit City,” Murdock replied, using an old Navy term for Norfolk. “I'm going to be running a platoon at Little Creek.”

“Bummer,” the yeoman said, shaking his head. “Course, that could mean you're going up against the Rags.”

“Maybe.” Murdock was too stunned to even begin to unravel his own feelings at the news, but already a nasty suspicion was forming in his mind.

So help me,
he thought, clutching the orders as he turned and strode toward the Bachelor Officers' Quarters,
if my father had anything to do with shanghaiing me back to the East Coast
. . .

There was a sharp triple rap on the door, and Captain Phillip Coburn looked up from the battered gray metal government-issue desk from which he ran SEAL Seven operations. “Come.”

He was pretty sure he knew what was about to happen.

Electrician's Mate Second Class Charles “Chucker” Wilson opened the door and centered himself before the desk. The young SEAL was immaculate in his whites, with his white hat neatly folded and tucked into his waistband. Uncovered, he did not salute, but he stood at attention with his eyes focused on the big print of the
Bon Homme Richard
fighting the
Serapis
on the bulkhead at Coburn's back.

“Sir!” Wilson snapped out. “Request permission to speak to the Captain, sir.”

“Aw, knock off the boot-camp crap, Chucker. Stand easy and tell me what's on your mind.”

Wilson relaxed, but only slightly. “Uh, yessir. I mean, thank you, sir. I . . .”

Coburn sighed. “Spit it out, son.”

The petty officer fumbled for a moment with the gold Budweiser on his white jumper. Damn. Coburn had thought this was why Wilson had requested the interview, but he'd still been hoping he was wrong.

Wilson dropped the SEAL badge on Coburn's desk. “I want to put in for a transfer. To the fleet.”

“Shit, Chucker, you know what you're saying?”

“Yes, sir. I think I do.”

“You just got your Budweiser . . . what? A month ago?”

“I didn't deserve it, sir.”

“Bull. The officers who reviewed your record after your probationary assignment didn't agree. You questioning their judgment?”

“With respect, sir, they weren't at Shuaba.”

“You
don't
want fleet duty.”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“A SEAL? Scraping paint and flemishing lines? You'll be so bored you'll be climbing the bulkheads inside of six weeks. What the hell makes you think you want to stop being a SEAL?”

“Sir, I was the guy tasked with going through that control tower at Shuaba. I don't know what happened, but somehow I missed a hostile. And that hostile nailed the L-T.”

Coburn tipped his steel, straight-backed chair, balancing on the two rear feet as he considered how to answer. “Chucker, we went through this at the inquiry last week. What happened was not your fault. It was not Lieutenant DeWitt's fault, it wasn't anybody's fault. There weren't enough men with Blue Water's ground element to adequately search that tower. As I see it, you did your best, you—”

“Begging the Captain's pardon, sir, but I was
there
. That last room we checked . . . I should've gone in and taken a harder look.”

“You told us all of that at the inquiry.”

“Captain, that whole building was dark and empty. It, well, it
felt
empty, and I must have gone in assuming that it was empty.”

“Okay. So you screwed up. Made a bad call. That doesn't mean you can't be a SEAL. Even SEALs make mistakes.”

“I screwed up, and the best officer I've ever known bought it. Sir, I've given this a lot of thought, and I'm looking at it like this. What happens next time I'm on a combat op? With some new platoon leader? I'm going to be there trying to keep my mind on the mission, and I'm going to be thinking about Shuaba. Maybe spend too much time checking a room. Wondering if I'm going to screw up again. Sir, you know as well as I do that you can't stop to think about stuff in combat. If you do, you're dead. And maybe some good guys are dead with you.”

“And you think dropping out of the SEALs is the answer?”

“Yes, sir. I do. It's . . . what's best. For me. And for the Team. Look at it from the guys' point of view, Captain. They know what I did at Shuaba, and they know what I didn't do. Think they're going to want to go into a free-fire zone with a fuckup like me backing them up? I sure as hell wouldn't.”

“Bullshit, Wilson,” Coburn snapped, dropping the father-figure approach in a sharp change in tactics. “The Navy's got eighty-some thousand bucks tied up in your training, and you want to chuck it all the first time you run into some rough sailing? What are you, a quitter? If Hell Week didn't make you chuck it all, why should this?”

“This is different, sir.”

“Bullshit. Once you're a SEAL, you're always a SEAL. I don't think you'd be happy any place but with the Teams!”

“Maybe not, sir. But I think it's better if I get out.”