“Hey, I ain’t been through one of these for over a year,” he said. “We don’t get out to the desert training much in the other platoons.”
“You’ll have plenty of it here,” Jaybird said. He had taken an instant liking to Omar, and had been helping him adjust to the new platoon.
“Just don’t let Jaybird lead you astray,” Senior Chief Sadler told the young man. “You know why we call him Jaybird, don’t you? And it’s got nothing to do with the little bird legs he has.”
“So tell me, Jaybird,” Omar said.
“Hell, okay. We was in Austria, or Senegal or maybe Paris, France — I don’t remember that part too well — and there was this huge guy in this bar who was just itching to pick a fight with somebody. Everybody in the platoon knew I was the best street brawler in the outfit, so they started pushing me forward.”
Somebody threw a brown MRE plastic pouch filled with sand at Jaybird.
“You’re making that up, Jaybird, you asshole,” Bradford yelled. “Tell him the real reason. About that four-story building in La Jolla that night about four years ago.”
“Wasn’t in La Jolla,” Lam said. “He told me it was in San Francisco, down in Chinatown somewhere, and it was before he was even in this man’s Navy.”
That afternoon they worked a swim up to BUD/S and staged a mock attack on the grinder, then ran back to their campsite below the big antennas. That night they had a roaring campfire on the beach, and told war stories about some of the more hairy missions they had worked.
The next day had been a half hour of sit-ups and push-ups and stretching exercises before a six-mile run down to BUD/S and back.
When they came back, Murdock gave the men a fifteen-minute break. Then he lifted out of the dry sand and dusted off his cammies. “Break time is over, you ladies, time we get into some real workouts,” Murdock called. They lined up in a column of ducks by squads. “We’re going to run back to the grinder and check out some IBSs and get in some work. Let’s move it. Omar, lead us out at a seven-minutes-to-the-mile pace. Out-a-here.”
An hour later they had worked the IBSs twice coming in through the breakers, sliding up on the Coronado Strand, and rushing up through the water to create a beach landing. The next time they took the small inflatable boats out, Murdock made a change. “This time we get into the first wave and pretend that we dump the boat and everyone bails out in a simulated turnover. You all have that? We drop out of the boat into the breakers and swim and surf into shore, where we lay like logs for two minutes, before we charge up the beach to the dry sand with simulated firing. No live rounds. Let’s do it.”
The first boat motored into the surging Pacific swell just before it broke, and rode it halfway down before Lieutenant (j.g.) Gardner gave a yell and his squad dropped over the sides of the boat, let it surge forward, then surfaced and swam in behind the pounding roar of the big surf. All eight men made it to shore, and lay in the receding water as one wave after another half-covered them with foaming, sandy water.
Murdock headed his Alpha Squad’s IBS into the wave. Jaybird was on the motor and he angled for the top of the big swell, then just before it broke he angled down the sliding wall of water. He was off by half a yard and the wave tumbled the twelve-foot-long boat upside down, spilling out the men and racing the floating craft toward the beach.
Murdock surfaced and began counting heads. The last time they had dumped an IBS this way, one of his squad had almost drowned. This time he found seven more heads bobbing in the water, and he signaled and all swam hard for shore, where they spread out and dove into the wet sand in a rough line facing the beach as the ocean waters flowed over them and then receded. After three minutes Murdock used the waterproof Motorolas.
“Charge the dry sand,” he ordered, and the sixteen men lifted up and surged up through the water and wet sand and sprawled in the dry sand with weapons covering the thin strand of beach ahead of them.
“Jaybird, what happened?” Murdock asked.
“You said to dump the boat. So I dumped it. Not hard, just overplay the top of the wave by six or eight feet and you’re going down.”
“It was supposed to be a simulated dump, not a real one. Remember when we almost lost Canzoneri when the boat clobbered him in the head when it went over?”
“Oh, shit. Yeah. Sorry, Boss. Won’t happen again.”
Murdock gave them five minutes, then stood. “Okay, you hotshots, we have a swim. Know where the beacon is down on the point off the tip of the Naval Air Station? You’ve been there a dozen times. Lieutenant Gardner will lead us out on a three-mile swim to the beacon. Then we turn around and come back home to BUD/S. Take us down fifteen feet and keep in touch with each other. We’ll use a long buddy line for each squad. Let’s get wet.”
Lieutenant (j.g.) Gardner took a compass reading on the point that he could see down the coast. He took the handheld compass board, waded into the water, and checked the buddy line. The JG waved at Murdock, took the men down fifteen feet, and angled along his azimuth setting on the compass board toward the point.
Murdock swam in his position at the head of Alpha Squad. He loved the new Motorola radio, which worked better underwater than it did on the surface. The throat mike and earpiece made it an entirely hands-off operation, which would come in handy in a tough firefight situation.
Halfway there, Lieutenant Gardner called for a surfacing. The SEALs came up and the JG checked his course. He made a minor adjustment on his setting.
“Everyone okay?” he asked on the net. “We’re about halfway. Let’s do a mile on the surface. We’re cutting across the water for the quickest route instead of following the curve of the land mass. Let’s have a radio check. Alpha Squad first.”
The men sounded off in squad field-marching order.
“Everyone accounted for. Let’s take a swim.”
They were crawl-stroking on the surface when their Motorolas sounded again.
“Murdock, lad, are you in range?” It was the Scottish-accented voice of Master Chief MacKenzie.
“Right, Master Chief. I read you loud.”
“Bring the boys home, Commander. We’ve had a bit of a message from the CNO. Seems like he’s needing your services again. What’s your ETO BUD/S?”
“Thirty minutes if we push it. We’re in the wet about two miles off. Heading your way now. Might take us a little longer. Keep the lights on.”
“Copy that, Commander. Stop by and see me before you get dry.”
“Roger, Master Chief.”
Murdock waited a moment, then used the radio again. “Gardner, head us for home plate. Looks like we have a mission coming up.”
It was thirty minutes before the SEALs ran up the beach in front of BUD/S and flopped on the sand. Gardner had set a pace that was ten strokes to the minute too fast, and the men were exhausted.
Murdock, Gardner, and Senior Chief Sadler hurried on to the Quarterdeck. Master Chief MacKenzie met them just outside.
“Have enough wet sand in my Quarterdeck already,” he said. He handed Murdock a computer printout. It was in 16-point type and brief.
“Alert Third Platoon, SEAL Team Seven, to be ready to fly from North Island Naval Air Station at 1230 today. Bring all weapons, double supply of ammunition, full water gear, and tropical uniforms. Transport will be the Gulfstream II. Report to the embassy in Sierra Bijimi and await further orders.”
“Where the hell is Sierra Bijimi?” Murdock asked.