“What’s up. Skipper?” Senior Chief Petty Officer Manuel Huerta asked.
He motioned toward the broad wake behind the ship with his free hand, carefully keeping the AK-47 in his other hand pointed aft. “A no-fly day figured we’d get in some weapons practice. Never can have too much.”
Sikes drew to a halt. “You may have a chance sooner than you think.
Quick, huddle time. I need some fast thoughts.”
He motioned for the men to close around him.
Within the elite SEAL community, rank made little difference when it came to planning an operation. Even the most junior man might have some valuable insight to contribute. He looked around the circle of faces like a quarterback, noting the keen interest on each one of them.
A good team hell, maybe the best team. His team.
“Here’s what’s going down.” He briefly outlined the strategic scenario, then settled into the business of discussing tactics. “As I see it, there are two main objectives. First, we find our man. Get him out if we can. Second, we disable the weapons systems.” He saw a few frowns across faces. “I know it may not be reasonable, particularly if they’ve got nuclear weapons on there. Still, I want to plan for it. Failing that, we can at least bring back the admiral some hard info on them. We’ve got the gear?”
“Sure, we’ve got everything we need. Radiac equipment, the new version fits in the palm of your hand, it does.”
The man who’d spoken smiled. “I’ve been wanting an opportunity to field-test them.”
“You’ve got it. Any thoughts on how to get the pilot back?”
“It will depend on where he’s being held,” said Felipe Garcia, a petty officer second class and SEAL for three years.
“Garcia, you may be the whole key to this.” Sikes studied the man carefully. He was shorter than most, a fact Sikes noted simply for its reference value. In the SEALs, size made no difference. He’d had his own ass kicked by men far smaller than Garcia. “You grew up in Havana, didn’t you?”
Garcia nodded. “And I’ve been back there since then.
Five times in the last two years. To different parts of the island.”
Sikes nodded sharply. Given the diverse and dangerous nature of the SEALs’ normal missions, he had a good idea of what Garcia might have been doing in Cuba. Not that he’d ask he wouldn’t have to. Only Garcia knew how highly classified his mission had been, and what details he could release to his fellow SEALs. Even if Garcia couldn’t give them a blow-by-blow account of his mission, he’d factor every available detail into the planning of this one.
“Good. I expect you to vet every step of this.” Sikes looked around the circle again. “How do we get in?
Helicopter and HALO would be my preference,” he said, referring to a high-altitude low-opening parachute drop.
“But that’s not going to be practical, not with those radars ringing the island.”
“Small boats might be better, but still not entirely safe,” Garcia said thoughtfully. “The whole littoral area is patrolled regularly by Cuban gunboats. We might be able to outrun them, but there’s a good chance we would be detected.”
“How much of a chance?” Sikes pressed.
“Maybe fifty-fifty.” Garcia shrugged. “I’ve had worse odds.” He looked up and met his skipper’s eyes. “A submarine and lockout in an SD Va swimmer delivery vehicle is better.”
Without asking, Sikes knew that was exactly how Garcia had gotten in last time. It made sense, too. The few remaining U.S. diesel submarines would be particularly valuable for this mission. Quiet and undetectable while operating under battery, it carried a docking station bolted down onto the conning tower that contained the small swimmer delivery vehicles favored for team insertion in an operation such as this. “That would be my preference, but I don’t know if we have time to get one down here. Any other thoughts?”
“We could swim.” The SEAL who suggested it looked displeased. “I don’t favor it, though.”
Sikes shook his head. “Me neither. Sure, we could do it, but we’d be dragging ass when we got ashore.” He looked at the men’s faces and saw them harden. “Not that we couldn’t do it,” he added hastily. “It’s an option. But not the best one.”
“Helicopter or a boat, then,” Garcia mused. He shrugged again, a peculiarly Latino gesture of resignation. Then his face brightened.
“Our odds go way up if we use the Army’s Stealth helos. Think we could get the carrier to send us back to Miami and deploy from there?”
“No doubt. Even on a no-fly day, we ought to be able to arrange that sort of transportation.” Sikes grinned, a wolfish expression crossing his face. “I surely do love those Special Forces helicopters.” The other men nodded.
“I don’t think so,” Huerta said, speaking for the first time.
‘Too much radar, even with Stealth technology.” He shook his head.
“We go in with what we’re best at small boats, then swimming. Less chance of a casual observer seeing us that way, too. Go with our strengths.”
A grizzled veteran, ancient at me age of thirty-five, Huerta was still in superb physical condition. Sikes had watched him outrun, outswim, and outshoot almost every man in the team. He might be beat occasionally at one of those particular skills, but never in all three categories by the same man. Overall, he was the strongest, most indestructible-looking man Sikes had ever met.
As he looked at Huerta, a familiar feeling of pride flooded him. Don’t ever think about being a SEAL, he told himself.
Not unless you are worthy of commanding men like this.
A quick shorthand discussion of equipment and timing followed, the men thinking as one team and each contributing his own comments on particular capabilities and assets they would need. Less than ten minutes after he’d first walked out on the flight deck, Sikes had his answers. And a plan.
He motioned back toward the ocean. “You kill a whale, you file the environmental impact report. Other than that, shoot the hell out of it.” He made a brief gesture, then turned and trotted back toward the island.
Batman stared at the overhead speaker as he spoke into the handset. The COSMIC circuit was the most secure form of radio communication available on the carrier, and this call from Tombstone was hardly unexpected.
“So you think we’ll be ordered to conduct the strike?”
Batman asked. He ran a hand across his forehead, feeling the deep grooves that the pressures of daily living were cutting into his forehead. Even after commanding a squadron and two tours in D.C nothing had prepared him for the awesome weight that fell on the shoulders of a carrier battle group commander. “Come on. Tombstone, I need some answers.”
Admiral Magruder’s voice sounded tired. “I’ve seen the same pictures you have. If it were my call, you know what my answer would be. Damn the political consequences just get the mission done.”
“But it’s not. It’s not mine, either.” Batman felt the beginnings of a headache start at the base of his neck.
“Jesus, Tombstone, how much of this would we have believed when we were still flying? Back then, we thought the admirals had the easy jobs.”
Tombstone chuckled, his voice thin and reedy over the secured circuit.
Not laughing at you, my friend, laughing with you. At least you’re at sea you could be stuck flying a desk, like I am.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know that. So, how long will it take to get an answer?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Batman could hear the resignation in his friend’s voice.
“Hell of an answer. Tombstone.”
“Sometimes it’s like that. Batman. As soon as I hear from the eight-hundred-pound gorillas, I’ll let you know.”