The warrior code, p.9
The Warrior Code, page 9
part #2 of Seal Strike Series
Jared realized he was tense, bracing for the bad news. He let the air out of his lungs and sat up a little straighter. “Sir, will I receive a tasking order or intelligence package to work from?” Jared’s heart was beginning to race.
“As I said, lieutenant, I don’t know much yet; but I will push to get you everything you need.”
“Yes, sir, I understand.” Jared really didn’t understand, but that was okay. He was going to lead his platoon into combat. It’s what they’d trained for and why they sacrificed a normal life for a life in the teams.
“I expect that some aspects of the general mission scenario will be fed to you while you’re in isolation out at the island. Remember, isolation is just what it sounds like. No contact between your platoon and the rest of the world. Take all your standard hostage rescue equipment and basic loadout, but don’t neglect to take your heavier weapons. This could turn out to be something other than a platform takedown. If that’s the case, you don’t want to get stuck with only submachine guns and pistols.”
“I see,” Jared said. “Sir, my platoon’s still in the compound. We returned from the desert two hours ago. Can I pull them together really quick? I’m afraid the chief might start cutting them loose to go home.”
“Sure, that makes sense. Go ahead. By the way Jared, I think this is a good deal for you. Keep your guys straight, practice, and work on your skills out there so when the time comes you are sharp; but don’t push too hard. The adrenaline can jack you up to the point that no amount of training seems to be enough. I know; I’ve been there.”
The older man stood up. For a man in his early forties, he looked great. Years of physical training kept him lean and hard. Any civilian would guess the skipper was thirty, not forty-two.
“The security classification for this project is top secret, SPECAT. No one else in the SEAL Team Three is to know the nature of your mission or even where you’re going for isolation.”
Jared was ready. “Yes, sir!” he said, jumping to his feet. “Excuse me, but is that all, captain?” The captain smiled. He was jealous of the young lieutenant. He wished he were still young enough to lead a SEAL platoon.
His time in the saddle had been challenging and, in some cases, humbling. His greatest claim to fame was that he’d led or participated in over forty combat missions without losing a single man. Stone was a good man. He’d get the job done and bring his SEAL platoon back in one piece.
“Get out of here, son, and good luck!” The SEAL captain extended his hand. Jared shook the offered hand, pumping it a little too vigorously.
“Thanks, sir. We won’t let you down!” Jared turned and left the office. Man, oh man, he thought. The boys are going to shit!
Tocumen International Airport – Panama
Matt shifted his weight to his left foot, hoping to provide relief for his right one. He’d been waiting in this spot for an hour and a half. His contact said the other two members of his party were due any minute. “This is total bullshit,” Matt mumbled out loud.
Matt was firm about his picks for the mission. Everyone tried to talk him out of pulling Boone out of Stuttgart. He wasn’t stupid. He had his pick of over two hundred combat-proven SEALs from either coast. He chose Boone for a reason; he was the best. The mission planners were tied in a knot trying to accommodate the timeline. Matt knew time was critical, but he still insisted on Boone and he got his way.
It had been five years since the mission in Egypt, five years since he’d last seen Boone. After the fight at the airport, Matt was transported to emergency medical facilities in Germany along with his chief and machine gunner, who also was wounded. It took three months for him to be released, and when he returned to SDV Team Two, he found the troop he’d commanded had been rebuilt and was under new leadership.
It made sense; his reconnaissance and surveillance troop were beaten up by the ordeal in Egypt. Time marches on. More experienced guys like Boone moved on to another troop or, in some cases, they were up for rotation to another SEAL team. The natural military cycle of replenishment, rebirth, and training began with new guys filling the empty positions in this old troop.
“Hey, bullet trap!” The voice originated from Matt’s left. He turned and saw the infectious smile of his former point man.
“Hey, butt munch, you’re late!” Matt laughed and Boone jogged the last few yards and embraced Matt in the standard team guy bro hug.
“What the fuck, sir? One minute I’m teaching finger painting in Germany, and the next minute I’m told zip shit, nada, and thrown on a plane for sunny Panama. They won’t tell me what this is all about. But who gives a shit? It’s the job, right?”
Matt surveyed his first pick for the mission. Boone was tall, a natural athlete, and a blast to be around. If he ever had bad moods, nobody would know by watching him. He was sniper-trained and had served in that role in Matt’s SDV Team Two Troop. He looked good, a few signs of aging here and there in his face, but that was to be expected.
Boone married a few years after the experience in Egypt. He was happy and thought seriously of leaving the navy to stabilize his home life. He was dedicated to both ideals, and one had to go. But before he executed his plan to leave the teams, a tragic car accident took his wife and two-year-old son away from Boone.
Matt had heard the story form other team guys who served with Boone during this terrible time in his life. To make it worse, it happened while he was deployed; he never had a chance to say goodbye.
Something like that had to take a chunk out of the man’s heart. According to the details he read in Boone’s file on the flight to Panama, the cherry SEAL became resolved to become a sword, a warrior dedicated to the teams, his brothers in arms, and to America. Boone was a good choice.
As if reading Matt’s mind, Boone decided to strike first. “I know you heard about Nancy and Adam. It was a shit deal. I was told they died instantly, so that’s some consolation. I don’t think about it much, just try to stay busy. By the way, you still with that hottie? What was her name, Cherry?”
Matt wanted to say something about Boone’s loss, but the point man’s face said drop it, so he rolled with the change in tempo. “No, dumbass, and her name was Sherry.”
Boone tilted his head slightly. “Team guy curse?”
Matt nodded “Big time. She couldn’t handle my being shot. She tried, she really did; but the healthier I became, the more depressed she became. All she could focus on was time getter shorter and shorter before I was fully operational again. When that day arrived, she gave me the speech.”
“Sorry to hear that, boss. You’re a good officer. The teams need guys like you, a modern Templar knight living large for god and country. I’d like to think I’m living that way, too.”
Matt laughed. “You make failure sound like a promotion. Templars, eh? I guess so, maybe. Not sure I like the celibacy part, though.”
“Fuck that, sir! We’re frogmen. We are duty bound to procreate and spread our loving arms around the planet, even as we decimate the heathen enemies of America.”
Matt was getting warmed up. It felt like the two of them were together only yesterday. He started to respond in kind, when his attention was drawn to a figure fifty yards away walking purposefully in their direction. He pointed with his chin. “The great long gunner arrives!”
Chapter Seventeen
Sam Oberman, a graduate of Boston College with a degree in biology, couldn’t hear the compliment; but he could see his fellow SEALs’ lips moving, so he assumed bullshit was flying at his expense.
Team guys always fucked with team guys. That is unless you were a fucking new guy, normally referred to as simply an FNG, then nobody talked to you. Being made fun of was the way warriors kept things loose in an uptight profession.
“You’re late! I was about to go find a Marine sniper to take your place!” Oby took two long final steps and offered his hand to the navy lieutenant.
“Now LT, you know you’d only end up carrying the guy! No Marine can outshoot a SEAL, and there is only one great SEAL shootist, and that’s yours truly.”
Matt laughed, returning the handshake. Boone stepped forward and delivered a bro hug to his SEAL brother. Oby stepped back and lifted one eyebrow. “Shit, Boone, was that a hard-on I felt?”
Boone smiled. “Fuck you!” he shot back, laughing. “I’m not that happy to see you again.”
The three men stood for a moment sheepishly looking at each other. Strong emotions swirled around under the surface. Emotions that could only truly be shared by men who had fought and bled in combat together.
“It’s good to see you again, big guy; it’s been a while,” said Matt. Oby looked fit and trim. The past couple of years spent at SEAL Team Four clearly had matured him. He seemed poised and confident. Not the young pup Matt remembered.
Oby lowered his voice; this was no place for a conference. “Good to see you guys, too! So, what the hell is going on? They wouldn’t tell me shit back at the team area.”
Matt glanced at Boone, then back to Oby. “We’ll fill you in later, Oby. This isn’t a good time or place to bring you up to speed.” Matt looked around to emphasize their lack of privacy.
Boone nodded in agreement. “That’s right, old buddy. One thing is for sure, though, we’re going to be butt deep in spent brass on this one. Oby, my man, it’s time to get down and dirty again.”
“Like Egypt?” Oby asked, referring to their shared combat experience two years earlier. “That was a goat rope.”
“I hope not,” quipped Matt. “We’re waiting for our support crew to arrive by plane, and there was supposed to be a contact meeting us here to get us into that hangar.” Matt tilted his head in the direction of the large commercial building thirty yards away.
“Not spooks again I hope.” Boone, Matt, and Oby remembered the agency guy who gave the orders before their troop went into a shit storm in Egypt.
Matt checked his watch. “No, Boone, not this time. JSOC’s sending a command cell, and one of the Naval Special Warfare (NSW) groups is sending a standard support team.” Matt shielded his eyes and scanned the horizon. “We’re where we’re supposed to be. Where the hell is everybody else?”
“Probably still back in Bragg or Tampa polishing their boots.” Boone wasn’t fond of rear echelon types. However, he had great respect for the support folks embedded in the teams. NSW techs were vetted and selected to mesh with the culture of the brotherhood. The SEALs couldn’t execute most of their complex missions without their help.
“JSOC?” Oby asked, confused. “Why not send a command element from one of the teams?”
Matt decided not to tell them about the SF men KIA in the ambush. The green side of JSOC had a vested interest in getting the two hostages back and delivering some payback at the same time.
“Once we get to a secure location, I’ll fill you in; but I can tell you there is a good reason JSOC is involved and that the job is a combat recon. Something thirty other snipers from any SEAL team are qualified to do.”
“So why pick us? And why jerk us out of our jobs to create a non-standard mission unit? No offense.” Oby smiled looking at Boone.
“It’s this simple. They chose me to lead and allowed me to pick my team. And poof! Here you are!”
Boone shook his head. “That’s got to be some kind of bullshit, boss. We, I mean the teams, don’t do shit that way.”
Matt nodded in agreement. “Tell me about it. I was running a Hell Week shift when I received orders to the Pentagon. I should be their last resort, not their first choice.”
Oby cleared his throat. “Well, you are the hero of Alexandria, the slayer of demons, and the man who wears the Navy Cross. Who else could they pick?”
Matt took a slow swing at Oby’s head, and the sandy-haired sniper easily avoided the blow, laughing. Boone joined in the running joke. The guys in the teams were all heroic. The job demanded heroism.
It was a given. The big awards tended to go to leaders or key players in bigger operations. Such high visibility virtually assured that the men and officers involved would be recognized.
The men of Matt’s SDV Troop all contributed to making the mission in Egypt a success. They all received valor awards and deservedly so, but somehow Matt didn’t feel right about the award he’d received. The Navy Cross was the second highest medal for heroism next to the Congressional Medal of Honor.
He’d only done his job, the job the navy and the teams prepared him to do. Nothing more, nothing less. The old troop knew the topic was sensitive, so it was exploited for fun as often as possible.
The three of them had a good laugh and then began to exchange stories as they waited. The sun was hot and they were not acclimated to equatorial conditions. The nearest hangar was locked up tight, and here in the forgotten corner of the commercial logistics area of the airport, there wasn’t a person in sight.
An hour passed after the reunion with Oby, and the burning cement toasted their feet without mercy. Matt messed around with the buttons on his navy issue dive watch. He mumbled a curse as he tried unsuccessfully to set the watch to show the correct time in Panama. Boone watched amused as his boss fumbled around.
“I just do the math in my head LT. Those watches are too tough for me to figure out, and besides, I liked it better when you only had to pull the stem out and presto the time changed!”
Boone was a computer fanatic. Back in the states, he spent hours every night surfing the Internet and playing games. He considered himself fairly well-versed in the complexity of high technology, but those dive watches were something else altogether.
“You’re right, I suppose,” said Matt, shielding his eyes with his hand. He looked up and stared into the sun. “I think I know how to do it, but my fingers are too fucking big for the buttons!” Matt continued to scan the sky. Boone spotted the plane first. A tiny speck visible just above the horizon.
“Look right over there, LT.” Boone pointed at the small object looming larger and larger as it approached.
Matt and Oby looked in the direction indicated by Boone. The navy C-9 passenger plane landed and began the long slow taxi to the private aviation side of the airport. The C-9 was a small passenger airframe that looked like a commercial airliner, not a military aircraft, and that was the point.
The sound of a vehicle approaching caused the three SEALs to spin around. A small grey sedan pulled up in front of the nearby hangar. Matt watched as a man and a woman stepped out of the car.
The man went straight to the hangar and unlocked a small side access door, walking into the building. The tall dark-haired woman walked to where Matt and his two friends waited. All three men watched without saying a word.
The young JSOC analyst was drop-dead gorgeous. In mid-thigh length shorts and a sleeveless top, there was no way of identifying her branch of service or rank. Her dark brown hair was worn loose, flowing over her shoulders. She had the body of a swimsuit model, and aside from the oversized sunglasses obscuring much of it, she had a pretty face to go along with the body.
“This is going to be interesting,” Boone mumbled under his breath.
“Steady, boys. This could be a trap. JSOC sent this lady to disarm us, knock down our defenses, and . . .”
“Have our way with us,” Oby finished Matt’s sentence.
Major Lane Sanchez smiled a knowing smile as she closed the last few yards to stand in front of the recon unit. “Matthew Barrett, I presume.” She held out her hand.
Matt took it and shook it mildly. Her grip was impressive. Up close, she looked less swimwear model and more cross fit fanatic. Matt got the feeling she wouldn’t be a cartoon personality. This woman had depth.
“Yes, I’m Matt, and these two guys are my teammates, Boone Kilpatrick and Sam Oberman.”
The analyst shook both men’s hands. “My name is Major Brooks. JSOC sent me to assist with the mission planning and intelligence piece. You can call me Lane around here and for the duration of the mission.”
The last part of her speech was nearly drowned out by the sound of the C-9 taxiing off the access runway and onto the large concrete pad in front of the hangar. Matt noticed the small navy emblem was painted over.
From the point of view of casual or focused observers, the airplane could be a mail carrier. So far Matt was impressed with the way things had been organized, but now he needed to get inside the building and get his hands on the target package.
They followed Lane into the hangar. There were three rectangular cargo containers standing empty to one side of the large structure. Matt led the way over to the first of the three containers. “All right, guys, we’ll be storing the mission equipment in these ready boxes. Use the one on the left for your personal stuff.” Matt pointed to emphasize which box he meant. “The other two are for weapons, ammo, and comms gear.”
“You’re still not going to tell us what’s going on, huh boss?” Oby asked.
“All in due time, Oby,” Matt replied. “All in due time. I’d rather give you the pitch at one sitting rather than bits and pieces.”
Boone couldn’t help himself. “I’ve already got this whole gig figured out.”
“Oh yeah?” Matt replied sarcastically.
“Yeah!” Boone fired back. “This is how I figure it. The president of the United States has decided that some asshole down south needs to learn some new manners. Of course, when he turned to his experts and asked for the very best the country had to offer, they said, ‘Navy SEALs, sir!’”
“The president, no less!” Matt was only partly listening. He’d opened the first container and stowed his personal gear in the back. Oby and Boone did likewise.
“Yeah, the big guy!” said Boone, continuing the silly theory without skipping a beat. “Of course, once we’ve completed the mission, we’ll all be given the Congressional Medal of Honor, free homes, and never have to pay taxes again!”
“Hey, Boone, you got an agent? You’re a natural if you ever start writing screenplays!”
