SEAL Team 666: A Novel (8 page)

The pilot announced that they were descending, then ran through a pastiche of a commercial flight mantra, to include recommending that tray tables be put away. The members of the team checked their weapons in the brackets, buckled in, and leaned back as they prepared for landing.

Hoover rolled over and scratched herself behind the ear.

“Been to sniper school?” Ruiz asked.

“Scout Sniper in Hawaii.”

“Just checking to see if they pulled you out of that early, too,” Ruiz cracked.

“Very funny,” Walker said.

“Didn’t you hear about the sniper took out the Somali pirates last year?” Laws asked. “This is that guy.”

Walker felt a twinge of pride, which immediately turned into embarrassment as everyone’s eyes suddenly turned toward him.

“The
Maersk Alabama
?” Fratty asked, his eyes narrowing. “I thought that was Chief Garton from the USS
Boxer
.”

“It was. Twitchy here wasn’t involved in the
Alabama
.”

“Please don’t call me Twitchy.”

Laws ignored him. “Remember the CNN reporter the pirates nabbed last year?”

Ruiz and Fratty nodded.

Walker did, as well as he remembered the shot. He’d been on the mast of a submarine with his Barrett 50. There wasn’t a SEAL within a hundred miles and he’d been ordered to take the shot if he had one. On six-foot seas with a twenty-kilometer crosswind, he’d watched through his scope as the pirates ripped off the shirt and pants of the CNN reporter the free world had seen reporting from any number of war zones, her pretty face delivering the tragedy of the human condition in a way that allowed Middle America to keep their evening meal down long enough that they could see commercials about bathroom tissue and cars with five-star safety ratings.

The pirates had popped up sixteen hundred meters off the bow of the cargo ship she’d been reporting from. Then, on an international news feed, they’d stormed the ship, shot her cameraman, and proceeded to tell the world their terms. Three hours later, the USS
Tennessee
, an Ohio-class ballistic missile submarine, arrived on station. Walker, along with seven others from the Kennedy Irregular Warfare Group, had been aboard ship, on their way back from Iraq. When the submarine commander had asked him if he could take the shot, there was no question that he had to try.

The distance was just over a mile. He could swim it in twenty-three minutes. He could walk it in twenty. He could run it in six and a half. But the .50-caliber round would arrive there 2.2 seconds after he pulled the trigger. Taking into consideration the velocity of the round, the curvature of the earth, the rise and fall of the bow of the target ship as compared to the rise and fall of the submarine that was idling perpendicular to the target, and the crosswind, it was an impossible shot. It was one he never should have tried. He just as easily could have shot the woman as missed the entire boat.

But as he’d watched the rape progress through the Leupold 4.5–14
×
50mm Mark 4 scope, he couldn’t help himself. His fingers automatically adjusted the parallax focus, windage, and elevation knobs on their own, receiving mental calculations of the geometry needed to take out the target. At that distance, he couldn’t hear her scream, but as her back arched and her body went rigid, it was as if he was standing right there beside her.

He fired twice.

Three seconds later, each pirate lost his head in mists of bone and spray.

All caught on international television and replayed by everyone over and over for the next several weeks.

Laws had narrated his memory for the other two. As the wheels bit the tarmac, Walker noticed a newfound respect in their eyes. At least they knew that he could back them up if needed.

When the plane came to a halt, the others stood and gathered their things. He joined them as they waited for the ramp to descend.

Holmes came up behind him. “Want to talk to you when we get to the Pit.”

11

CORONADO ISLAND. NIGHT.

They piled into a white twelve-passenger van with smoked windows and the letters CPC on either side. They ran through the naval complex, finally stopping at a hangar that had a sign out front declaring it to be
CORONADO PEST CONTROL.

They ditched their equipment in the front room and entered a conference room, where Holmes went over the mission step by step, laying out lessons learned and establishing their methodology. He stood at the head of the table, a line drawing of the sweatshop basement projected on the wall.

“At this point, we have more questions than we had when we entered. We have a nebulous threat to the U.S. We have a sweatshop that was creating tattoo bodysuits, at least according to the cleanup crew.” He turned to Walker and looked at him for the first time. “Just so you know, we have backup teams when needed. This one was filled with reserve intelligence officers using a hazardous-materials team as cover. They’ve assembled all the items in a warehouse we have near the Salton Sea so that they can be studied. Also recovered was almost ten meters of skin and several finished full bodysuits. The women were also removed and will be debriefed and treated by doctors at the same compound. Hopefully we’ll get more intelligence we can act on. But that’s for another mission.” He turned back to the team. “Anything else?”

When no one said anything, he sat at the head of the table and folded his hands. He looked at them for a moment. They were big hands, tanned by years of outdoor exposure. “Before we go any further,” he said, “let’s talk about that thing that happened on the op.”

Walker watched as the other SEALs all stared at him.

“Do you mean when I shot the beegee?” Fratty asked, trying to ameliorate the moment.

“Fuck that. I meant the other thing.”

Walker stared at his own hands, unwilling to look up.

“He means when you did the kickin’ chicken,” Ruiz said.

“I know what he means,” Walker said. He said the next words carefully. “I just don’t know where it’s any of your business.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Laws lean back and glance at the others for a reaction. There wasn’t any. Just silence that dragged on for several minutes.

Finally Walker said, “Why do I have to tell you guys? This is private.”

Fratty shook his head. “Nice try, but that doesn’t fly. We’re a team and don’t have secrets if those secrets affect the mission.”

“And yours affected the mission,” Ruiz said. “Don’t get me wrong, it was in a good way. But that was this time. What about next time?”

“No offense, Twitchy, but I don’t want you on the Stoner doing overwatch and have you shake, rattle, and roll when I need fire.” Laws frowned and clearly wasn’t happy with having to say it out loud.

“There probably won’t be a next time,” Walker said softly. Then he added, “And don’t call me Twitchy.”

Walker waited for someone to speak, but they were all staring at him. Finally he acquiesced. “Fine. Okay. Here’s what I know: Nothing. It never happened before. It was … fucking terrifying for a moment there. When I opened my eyes and saw you guys there, I was so damn happy.”

“Billings believes that it’s the proximity to supernatural or evil that causes it to happen,” Holmes said. “What she was hoping for, what would be helpful, is if you can figure out a way to control it. It might happen again.”

At
it might happen again,
Walker looked up. The very idea was a terrible one, not to mention it happening enough times that he’d actually learn to get used to it.

“Where’d it come from?” Ruiz asked.

“Ahh, that…” Walker rubbed his face, got up, and filled a glass with water. He drank it and refilled it again. This one he brought to the table and placed it in front of him. He stared at it as he told his story.

“My father sold Navy supplies on the black market when he was stationed at Subic Bay. He pissed someone off. That someone turned out to be some sort of witch doctor.” He laughed hollowly. “Evidently the witch doctor was so pissed off at my father that he summoned a demon and sent it into me. Anyway, that’s what they told me because a lot of it is a blank spot in my memory. I remember some of it, but a lot more came back to me on the op.”

Walker held his breath as he waited for their laughter, but there was only silence.

Finally Holmes said, “Go on.”

“Six months later, I woke up. I was told about some things. Memories pop up and I don’t know if they’re real or not. Most of the time they scare the shit out of me.”

“You were possessed?” Ruiz asked.

“Like Linda Blair but without the split-pea soup.”

Fratty nodded and grinned. “That’s kind of cool.”

Walker gave him an unbelieving look.

“Ever tried to use that as a pickup line?” Fratty asked.

Walker smiled weakly and shook his head. “Think it would work?”

“Most definitely.” Fratty stood and mimicked picking up a girl, using Ruiz as the girl. “My name is Jack Walker. I’m a Virgo and a U.S. Navy SEAL. I like long walks on the beach, poetry by Keach, and, oh by the way, I was possessed when I was a kid.”

“Can I have your baby?” Ruiz joked.

They all laughed, and as they did, Walker began to feel better about it all. He wasn’t going to be called on the carpet for his actions, and it seemed he might even be accepted into the group.

“It’s Keats, by the way,” Laws pointed out.

“What?” Fratty didn’t get it.

“Keach was the actor. Keats was the poet. ‘Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream?’”

Walker stared in wonder. Was there anything that Laws didn’t know? It seemed like he had an answer for everything.

Laws saw Walker’s expression and waved it off. “I have an audiographic memory. Whatever I hear, I remember.” He paused, then added, “It’s a curse.”

12

THE MOSH PIT. NIGHT.

Ruiz led Walker out of the conference room and into the hangar proper for a tour of the Coronado Pest Control facilities, or as the SEALs referred to it, the Mosh Pit. The cavernous interior of the metal building had fifty-foot ceilings and ran half a football field long and wide. Offices ran along the left side as well as the conference room. Five suites along the back wall were designated as living quarters for the members of SEAL Team 666. Each suite had a bedroom, a media/sitting room, a bathroom, and a kitchenette. To the right of the hangar’s door were the armory and the equipment room. Entrance to the building was through a small foyer with a false wall and a reception area, just in case someone came in and actually wanted pest control.

The center of the room was filled with any number of plush leather chairs, leather sectionals, and stools. Tables were arrayed strategically around the room with academic books, supernatural tomes, and magazines of all shape and size including
Mother Jones
,
Jane’s Defense Weekly
,
Smithsonian
,
National Geographic
, various comic books,
Jane’s Intelligence Review
,
Esquire
, and
Soldier of Fortune
.

Walker noted the broad selection.
Mother Jones
was a magazine known for its stances on human rights, conservation, and culture, dominated by deep anti-military sentiment. That it was among the selections said a lot about the team.

Ruiz, who saw Walker pick up a copy of the magazine, said, “Holmes likes us to be well versed in everything that’s going on. Sometimes I’ve found leads in there that helped me.”

Walker put
Mother Jones
down and picked up a comic book with Wolverine on the cover. “And this one? Glean any secrets out of the pages of this stately tome?”

Ruiz chuckled. “No. But it helps pass the time between ops.”

An immense climbing wall took up space near the back of the room. Thick-roped cargo nets could be raised and lowered from the ceiling, along with several rope lines that were most likely used to practice climbing and fast-roping. Windows were set in the eaves near the roof to let light in all the way around the building.

The rooms and the offices were enclosed with drywall and wood. But because they were only standard height, their roofs were repurposed. Above the suites was a full kitchen and a fully stocked bar. An assortment of chrome café tables and chairs were arrayed in front of this. The space above the offices held weight-training equipment, including free weights, treadmills, and StairMasters.

But as incredible as everything was, what amazed Walker the most were the pictures, paintings, and things adorning the walls.

The
things
were clearly trophies of past ops, including strange horns, clawed hands, one large immense tooth, jaws, the tail of something that had to have been a Buick-sized lizard, and the stuffed head of some kind of demonic creature that had wiry horns, a flat face, and wide-slanted eyes. This memorabilia covered two walls from floor to ceiling. It was as if a big-game hunter had stumbled into the world of the supernatural.

An eye-level platform extended from one of the walls by three feet. Affixed to this stood a taxidermically stuffed creature resembling a muscular Great Dane, albeit this creature had a twisted spine and legs, and twisting ram horns coming from its head. A plaque on the side of the platform read
CHUPACABRA, MEXICO, 2004
.

Twin clamps held a six-foot-long red worm. Hairs bristled its hard skin. A puckered indentation covered the lower end of the worm, while triple rows of razor-sharp teeth covered the upper end. A plaque read
MONGOLIAN BLOOD WORM, 1964.

He could stay and stare at these for hours, but the pictures and paintings drew him to another wall.

Two separate walls had distinct groups of pictures. One wall held photos and paintings of men, and one woman, going back over two hundred years. Their uniforms changed with the times, going backwards from the present through Vietnam, Korea, the World Wars, the Civil War represented by both the Union blue and Confederate gray. Then the photos were replaced by pictures going all the way to a man in a white wig, who was clearly landed gentry from the time of George Washington. The newest one was a handsome Asian lieutenant, the date of his death reading May 2, 2011. Walker knew that date.