Deadly Force (3 page)

Another Army man tried to get across the bridge. He didn't make it. Then Mojombo heard splashing. Some of the defenders were wading across the small river.

“Forward,” Mojombo bellowed. “Let's clean them out.” By the time the twenty men got to the edge of the river on both sides of the bridge, they found only the dead and two seriously wounded Army soldiers. Mojombo dispatched them both with head shots. He counted fourteen bodies.

“Dagana,” Mojombo called. The man who could run the fastest in his camp hurried up. “Run back and bring up the trucks. They should have crept up to within a quarter of a mile. Go.”

His men picked up all the Army weapons they could find, mostly older AK-47's. They stripped all the ammunition from the bodies and took it with them. When the trucks arrived, they climbed on board.

“We won't hit the Army building,” Mojombo said. “We're this close and we need to get to the river. Any casualties?” One man had a bullet in his arm. Another had what looked like a broken arm.

Mojombo smiled as the trucks raced through the small village and out the other side with no opposition from the Army. Now it was only five miles to the end of the road, and the dock where their boat should be waiting for them. He had left six men with a machine gun and five AK-47's to defend it. He didn't think that the Army would try to capture it. He nodded. Yes. He had struck another blow for freedom of his country. Not many of the people knew about his movement, but they would. When he had enough arms and enough men, he would blow the President right out of his corrupt Administration. He looked forward to that day. But he would need some help. He knew how he could get that help, how he could get the ear of the world so everyone would know about the corrupt and murderous President Thom Kolda.

At the end of the road, the two trucks crept through the tiny village of Abuja. About fifty people lived there, and they all were supporters of Mojombo. He could see no Army trap. Then the trucks drove up near the boat. All appeared normal. He sent Dagana running toward the boat. Soon the runner blinked a small flashlight twice at the trucks. All was well.

It took them a forty minutes to load all of the matériel and food they had brought on the trucks into the boat. Then they drove the rigs into the dense jungle as far as they could and camouflaged them with cut branches and limbs. With any luck the six-by-six trucks would be there when they needed them again.

Mojombo watched their only man who had any medical training treat the man's bullet wound, and put the other man's broken arm in a splint and a sling. The forty-foot wooden-hulled boat pushed off from the dock and angled into the current, heading upstream. The ancient diesel engine in the hold could move them against the flow at eight knots, so it would be a long run up the Amunbo River to their camp.

Mojombo welcomed his skipper, an old sailor with many sea voyages in his log. Tansarga had been one of Mojombo's first recruits. Mojombo eased back against the wall of the small cabin and watched out the windows as they hugged the shore to keep in the slower part of the current. Yes, he had made another successful raid. President Kolda would soon be paying more attention to him. Once, he had sent soldiers upstream to destroy Mojombo and his camp. The Army had found only an empty camp and an ambush, which resulted in fourteen Sierra Bijimi Army dead and twenty wounded from the accurate sniper fire of the hidden marksmen around the camp. The government soldiers had withdrawn at once in what turned out to be a rout.

Yes, President Kolda would send troops again, but with more caution. What Mojombo needed now was some help. Some outside assistance and plenty of worldwide publicity about his patriotic cause to free his nation from the pack of thieves, robbers, and murders who made up President Kolda's Administration. Now his job was to get that help.

Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock sat at the desk in his small Third Platoon office and studied the files on three officers. He needed a new second in command for the platoon. Lieutenant Ed DeWitt's transfer had come through, moving him into command of the Second Platoon in SEAL Team Five, based right there in Coronado.

Master Chief MacKenzie had narrowed down a stack of volunteers for the position after word had gone out last week. Now Murdock read through the three. All were qualified. All had the needed rank of lieutenant (j.g.). All had good records in the black-shoe Navy and as SEALs. It would come down to the personal interviews. Two of the men were from there in Coronado. One was flying in today from NAVSPECWARGRUP-TWO in Little Creek, Virginia. He was due at the Quarterdeck at 0900. Murdock checked his watch: 0745.

He flexed his left arm. The bullet hole there still throbbed, and he wasn't up to speed on the O course. He grabbed three ibuprofen, tossed them into his mouth, and swallowed them. It had always been easy for him to down pills.

He checked the file on the man coming in from Virginia. JG Harry Belmer, twenty-six, six-two, 205 pounds, four years as a JG. Seemed like too long. He'd been a SEAL for three years. Yeah, tougher to get promoted inside. He scanned the man's records, including a recommendation by his current platoon leader:

“Personable, good with the men, commands respect, high leadership qualities, second-string all-American collegiate linebacker. Can follow orders, can evaluate situations well and lead his men in difficult situations. No combat experience. Has not been blooded.”

Murdock nodded. Not many SEALs did get blooded these days. With no war on, and no police action, there were few calls on the SEALs to get down and dirty. Except for Third Platoon of Seven. He leaned back, laced his fingers together behind his head, and thought about his situation. Unique. None like it in the service. Even in any of the quick-response Special Forces. His platoon was one of a kind. Direct control from the CNO. The Chief of Naval Operations had battered down the complaints from Commander Masciareli, who headed the Coronado NAVSPECWARGRUP-ONE, and probably Admiral Kenner, boss of all the special war groups and the SEALs. Yeah, Murdock and his platoon were on call like a five-hundred-dollar whore, waiting to get into the field and take care of those dirty little jobs that the public could never know about but that helped to keep the good old Stars and Stripes flying.

“Morning, Skipper,” Senior Chief Sadler said.

Murdock straightened up in the chair and brought his hands down. “Senior Chief, you look like roadkill that some big dog dragged in off the highway. Are you all right?”

“Been better. The Dixieland gig lasted a little longer than usual last night. Hell, ten years ago I wouldn't even have noticed.”

“You're the old-timer of the platoon, Senior Chief. You have to learn to slow down a little.” Murdock chuckled. It was a running and friendly joke between them.

“This morning I could almost believe you. You and Lieutenant DeWitt going to be interviewing today as I remember. I'll take the platoon for some training.”

“Right. Here's the sked. The O course, then a soft-sand run down to the Kill House, and put everyone through there twice and bring me the scores. Then a swim back without fins. Should keep you busy all morning.”

“I was hoping we could get back to some basic push-pull-sit work, Commander.”

“Schedule it for the afternoon with a twelve-mile run to the antennas and back.” He peered at the senior chief. “Sure you don't want to let Jaybird do the drill and you flake out with us here to evaluate the new JG?”

Sadler hesitated just long enough to give Murdock doubts.

“Sir, I better stay with the men. This choosing stuff is Officer Country. I'll do what I'm best at. Just a little fog across my bow. It'll clear and I'll be leading the pack. Good to be back in the saddle again here, sir.” He did a snappy about-face and went into the squad room.

Ed De Witt came in; his grin was still ear-to-ear, Murdock saw.

“Sit down, sad boy, and tell me your woes.”

Ed laughed and sat. “Oh, yeah, it's going good. I talked with the JG in Second of Fifth and I like him. He's shouldering it for the time being. They do lots of training. Yeah. Your new man show up here for a look-see yet?”

“If he is, he's hiding.”

The phone rang.

“Yeah, Third-Seventh.”

“Commander Murdock, sir,” Master Chief MacKenzie said. “I'm sending JG Belmer to your office with a guide. Should be there shortly.”

“Thanks, Master Chief. You do good work.”

They hung up. “He's coming.”

Ed had picked up the file on Belmer, and read through it quickly. “Wow, second-string all-American in football. Not bad. At least he won't have any trouble hitting the dirt.”

The two old friends talked about the last mission. Ed's leg wound was healing, but it would be three weeks before he was back a hundred percent.

Then a knock sounded on the door, and a large man in desert cammies filled it. His floppy hat scraped the top of the doorjamb.

“Sir, Lieutenant (j.g.) Belmer, reporting as ordered.”

“At ease, Lieutenant, come in, sit down. Ed was just ready to stand up. Ever been to California before?”

“No, sir.”

“Lieutenant, this is Ed DeWitt, who is leaving the platoon. He'll be on hand to help the new man merge into our operation here. Tell me, why do you want to join us?”

“Because you're the top-rated platoon and you get all the action. We keep hearing that you go on missions on average of one a month. I want to get in on the action.”

“Lieutenant, did you know that over the past three years we've had twelve men killed during our missions?”

Belmer's eyes widened. He swallowed, then looked at Murdock. “No, sir, I didn't know that. I'd heard that your men do get wounded now and then.”

“We average about four wounds a mission, Belmer,” Ed said. “Last week we sent a KIA home in a coffin, and took three more wounds. Both Commander Murdock and I were shot last week.”

“Wow. I didn't know.”

“Does that change your mind about wanting to join us?” Murdock asked.

“No, sir. Not one bit. It's what I've been trained for, and so far I haven't had one single mission. A guy could go stale that way.”

“Where are you from, Belmer, and how long have you been in the Navy?”

Ed sat back and listened. Murdock took notes. Early on Ed had had reservations about this young man. It was a gut feeling. There were two more to go. He knew long before the hour interview was over that Belmer would get a B rating, right in the middle. The other men would go above or below him. He'd have to wait and see.

After Belmer left the two friends talked it over.

“I wouldn't want him protecting my back in a firefight,” De Witt said. “Nothing concrete, just my overall impression. He seemed to be more interested in telling his friends he was in Third than being here to help us run the outfit.”

“Grade him, with A the highest, C the lowest,” Murdock said.

Ed slid out in the chair, massaged his wounded leg, and scowled. “Is this part of my job here?”

“It is. Give me a grade.”

“Okay, I'd put him at a B. Depends on who else we get. When's the next one?”

“At 1100. A JG from SEAL First, First Platoon.”

“I've heard they're plenty sharp,” Ed said. “Hope their JG is a good one.”

 

Senior Chief Sadler led the platoon on the run to the Navy antennas just six miles down the Coronado Strand toward the outskirts of the town of Imperial Beach.

“Hey Senior Chief, this dry sand is a bitch to run in,” Jaybird squawked.

“Keep it up, Jaybird, and we'll run back the same way, only twenty percent faster.”

At the Kill House, dug into the sand near the far end of the strand, they went through the routine of quick-firing at the pop-up targets. With fifty thousand variables on the computer-programmed targets, there was little chance they would ever see the same ones again.

“We're keeping scores and reporting them to the CO,” Sadler said. “Top score gets my personal six-pack of your choice of beer. Now let's do some good numbers.”

The Kill House was also known as a CQB, Close Quarters Battle house. It had been dug into the sand and had bullet-proof sides on all walls. There were three rooms with ceilings and all sorts of furniture. There were also terrorist figures and terrorists with hostages that popped up the moment SEAL boots hit the floor activators. The computer registered the hits and misses, and any time enough seconds passed without a SEAL response, the computer determined that the terrorist had killed the SEAL.

A pair of SEALs attacked the house, one taking the right-hand side of the first room, the other the left. When it was clear, they said so and moved to the next room and new problems.

Jaybird and Sadler were the first ones into the house. Jaybird took the left. Just inside the door he saw three terrorists pop up with a hooded hostage between them. He cut down the two on the right and shifted to the left, but the target had vanished.

Sadler had one target on the right, drilled it with a three-round burst, then at once two more terrs jolted upright almost in the center of the room holding sub guns. Sadler slapped down both of them with swinging bursts from his Bull Pup rifle set on 5.56mm.

The next room proved tougher, with one after another terrorist popping up after the SEALs thought the room was clear. They missed three of them.

“Damnit, I just shot a hostage,” Jaybird wailed.

When they came out of the last room, Sadler went to the side of the building to a weatherproof hutch and punched the button to get a printout of their score.

“Seventy-four,” Jaybird screeched. “We did better than that.”

“We could have,” Sadler said. “But they fined us fifteen points for that hostage you shot. The setups on the targets are tough today.”

After the last pair went through the Kill House, Sadler checked his watch. No time to make a second pass. He brought the men back to the beach, looked over the printouts, and yelled, “Look at this, you slackers. Van Dyke and Fernandez came up with the winning score. Eighty-nine. I bet they didn't gun down any hostages like some people I know did. Okay, back to the compound. We have thirty-seven minutes for the trip. That's a little over seven minutes to the mile. Who can set the pace?”

“Hell, Senior Chief,” a disguised voice yelped. “You know SEALs don't fucking never volunteer for goddamned nothing.”

There were a dozen hoorahs, and then Lam moved out front of the pack. “I'm not volunteering, I'm just trying for a personal best. If any of you want to try to keep up with me, be my guests.”

He took off down the wet sand, where footing was sure and easier. The SEALs fell in behind him in a column of ducks, and Sadler brought up the rear.

By the time they hit the sand in back of the O course, they were puffing. Sadler knew that a seven-minute mile with their combat vests, packs, and combat weapons was a
strain. He figured most of the men had about forty pounds on their backs.

The men stopped and blew hard. Some of them had hands on knees, bent double. Some sat on the sand. Others kept walking in tight circles to keep their hearts pumping as they oxygenated their spent blood.

“Oh, shit,” Senior Chief Sadler said. “We were supposed to swim back. Now we'll have to swim out four miles and back four miles.”

All twelve of the SEALs threw their floppy hats at Sadler, who grinned at them and threw the hats back.

 

At 1100, Lieutenant (j.g.) Christopher Gardner knocked on the door and was invited into the Third Platoon office.

“I'm Chris Gardner from First Platoon of SEAL Team One.”

“Chris, come in,” Murdock said. The man was six-four, maybe 240 pounds, and grinned like a big teddy bear. He had a whiteside haircut with brown hair almost long enough to comb. His face was square-cut, and he'd have a five o'clock shadow by noon. His clear green eyes took in the office in a glance. “Take the hot seat there and we'll have a talk,” Murdock said. “How are things over at the First Platoon? That would be Charlie Brashears as the CO?”

“Right. He said to say hello. You two go way back, he said.”

“Known Charlie a long time. Chris, I'm Murdock and this is Ed DeWitt, recently promoted and moving up to a platoon of his own. His feet aren't too big, but when it comes to filling his shoes, it's going to take a damned good man.”

“Lieutenant,” Chris said, nodding at Ed. “I've heard about what you guys do over here and I'm amazed. Your platoon gets twenty missions to our one. And then we usually dig out some harbor mines or maybe help train some recruits in Africa. Truth is, nobody has shot at me since BUD/S. Not that I'm anxious to get some lead in my hide. Just a fact you need to know.”

“So, why do you want to be in the Third?”

“I figure I trained to do certain things, and I'm not doing
them. No fire missions, no rescues, no work like you guys did on the Chinese invasion and on the Philippine kidnappings. Those two we know about. That's what I trained to do, and I feel like a slacker when I'm not in the mix on them.”

Murdock looked at Ed and nodded. “Chris, we've been over your file, and frankly, we like what we see there. You're Annapolis. But you must know that SEALs is not an outfit that will give you a good career path to admiral.”

“Yep, I know that.”

“Did your father tell you that?” Ed asked.

“The admiral has strong feelings about almost everything. He loves the SEALs. Actually they pulled his ass out of the fire once. But he didn't want me involved because it isn't blue-water sailing, and as you said, not a fast track to admiral.”