Randy had a misappropriated desert patrol vehicle that a grateful Lieutenant Bill Brannigan had given him for past services rendered. The young airman, knowing well when guile and subterfuge were necessary, immediately had it painted Air Force blue and stenciled some phony registration numbers across the hood. He happily zipped around in the purloined conveyance as he tended to his duties.
The new SEAL arrivals, after disembarking from the C-130, were ushered quickly to the hangar Brannigan's Brigands used as a headquarters, living quarters, and warehouse. The newcomers found bunks and mattresses waiting for them but no blankets or sheets. That meant they would be slumbering in sleeping bags and/or poncho liners. SCPO Buford Dawkins had chow passes for them through the efforts of Randy Tooley, which meant the newcomers could get hot food in the base mess hall rather than have to consume MREs in the hangar. All the facilities at Shelor Field were open to them: BX, base theater, NCO and enlisted men's clubs, and the swimming pool. The only downside to their stay was being confined to the base. For reasons of the tightest security, no one was permitted to wander off the Air Force property unless on official duty.
One of the new arrivals was a young African-American officer named Ensign Orlando Taylor. After walking down the ramp from the C-130, he went inside the hangar to find the detachment officers. Brannigan and Lieutenant JG Jim Cruiser were in the corner cubicle used as a headquarters of sorts, going over the roster as they began to organize the assault sections for the coming operation. Ensign Taylor dropped his gear by the door and knocked. The Skipper looked up and noted the somber young black man. "You must be our newly assigned Ensign Taylor. Come in."
Taylor stepped inside the office and rendered a faultless salute. "Sir! Ensign Taylor reporting to the commanding officer as ordered."
"Welcome, Taylor," Brannigan said, offering his hand. "This is Lieutenant JG Jim Cruiser. Take a seat and join the party."
"Thank you, sir," Taylor said. He took a chair as invited, sitting stiffly and formally.
Cruiser gave him a friendly smile. "How was the trip over?"
"Everything moved on schedule," Taylor said. "I am anxious get into the program. When will I be able to meet my men?"
"Right now, Ensign," Brannigan said, "you don't have any men. Jim and I have been mulling over how to reorganize the detachment for the new operation. We went from a total strength of eighteen men to forty-one. Besides the increase in personnel, we also have some added weaponry. All that has to be married together into an effective fighting team. I know that sounds melodramatic, but it's fact." He pushed the rosters and other papers aside. "Well, now, tell us a little about yourself."
"Sir," Taylor said. "I received my commission through NROTC at college. I attended a mostly African-American institution of learning in Georgia. I have only recently completed BUD/S, and this is my first assignment. I have, however, completed the HALO course at Yuma, and am properly prepared for any duties assigned me."
Cruiser smiled. "Well, I guess you must be chomping at the bit, Ensign."
"Yes, sir!" Taylor said. "I look forward to this auspicious beginning of my naval career. Although I hold a reserve commission, I plan to make a career of the U. S. Navy."
"Fine," Brannigan said, reaching back for his papers. "I've got a couple of ideas to discuss. Jump in any time you feel froggy."
"Aye, sir," Taylor said. "Thank you, sir."
"Okay," Brannigan said. "The first thing I want to do is organize a patrol team."
"I take it you'll start with the Odd Couple," Cruiser said. "And don't forget Redhawk. He's a natural."
"Right. And I think I'll put Connie Concord in charge of it. He's a first class and about ready for chief. It's time to start grooming him, don't you think?"
"Yes, sir," Cruiser said. "And I noted that there's a Petty Officer Matsuno on the roster. I know him. He'd make a good addition."
Brannigan wrote down some notes. "Done! And I'll leave Gomez and Bradley in headquarters with me." He sank back into thought for a moment. "Another thing has just this instant occurred to me. This coming operation will be perfect for a sniper team."
"Puglisi and Miskoski," Cruiser said. "That goes without a second thought."
"It shall be done, sayeth the gods of war," Brannigan said, writing down the names of the two SEALs. "Okay. I can see we'll be able to have three assault sections with two fire teams each."
"Don't forget a SAW gunner for each one," Cruiser urged him.
"Right, Jim. You take the First Section," he said, writing down the assignment. He glanced over at Taylor. "The Second Section is yours, Ensign."
"Yes, sir," the young man said.
"And, of course, the Third will be honchoed by the intrepid Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins, the pride of Alabama."
"You have some guys left over," Cruiser pointed out.
"It's all part of my cunning master plan," the Skipper said with a wink. "That will be our support section of machine guns. Seven-point-six-twos, as a matter of fact. I'll let Chief Gunnarson run that particular show." He gave Taylor another look. "Any suggestions?"
"Negative, sir."
"This operation is going to be your baptism of fire, is it not, Ensign?" Brannigan asked.
"Yes, sir."
"In that case, I have some advice for you," Brannigan said. "You'll be the leader of an assault section, understand? You are the commander, but you listen to the advice of the senior petty officers. Developing that habit will be invaluable to you not only in the beginning of your career, but even after you're a salty old dog yourself."
"Yes, sir."
When Brannigan slid the diagram of the organization over to Cruiser, the impassive Ensign Orlando Taylor gazed steadily at the two veteran officers. The one thing he wanted to conceal from them was his fear; not the fear of death or injury, but the fear of failure. He had been raised in an African-American family well tuned into the twenty-first century. It was headed by a capable, ambitious father. The outcome of this paternal supervision was a fierce rivalry among the four Taylor brothers, who had been taught that anything short of success was not an option.
Cruiser handed the quickly sketched manning chart to Brannigan. "I'd say it's good to go."
"Fine," the Skipper said. "So let's put it into reality, shall we, gentlemen?"
"Lead on, sir," Cruiser said.
The three officers got up to go outside. Taylor followed the two seniors, his apprehension growing.
.
OVAL OFFICE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D. C.
5 JUNE
A rapping at the door caught the President's attention. He looked up from the press briefing he was preparing and called out, "Come in."
Arlene Entienne, the White House chief of staff, entered the office. She was a beautiful woman of African-Cajun ancestry, with green eyes and dark brown hair. She looked stunning that morning, even though it was obvious she was tired. "Good morning, Mr. President."
"Hello, Arlene," he replied to the greeting. "I heard you came in at four A. M. today."
"Yes, sir," she replied. "I received a call from Edgar Watson of the CIA a little after three. Operation Persian Empire has kicked into high gear."
The President got up and walked over to the side of the room where a coffeepot was plugged in. He poured a cup of the brew, then brought it over to Arlene. "Here. You need this."
"I sure do!"
"Did we hear from Aladdin again?" the President asked, sitting back down. He referred to a mysterious individual who had been sending anonymous but accurate intelligence from the Iran-Afghanistan border.