Except Ed DeWitt. He grabbed the book and thumbed through it, stopping at the Equipment in Service section at the back. Under Syria, and Reconnaissance Vehicles, there was BRDM1, BRDM2, and Shorlands (IS). What the hell was that last one? He tore through the index and then the page, and had it laid out when the others returned to the room.
“It’s an armored car,” DeWitt told them. “British, made by Short Brothers of Belfast. Basically an armored Land Rover with a machine-gun turret. The Brits use them in Northern Ireland, the Syrians use them for internal security.” He shot a victorious look at Razor Roselli. “And it fits in an MH47. I checked the dimensions.”
“Shit hot, Ed,” said Murdock. There were approving noises from the rest. Except one.
“Look, sir, that’s great,” said Razor Roselli. “So we can get to the warehouse and ram our way in with an armored car. But we still have to plant the charges and get the fuck out!” He was almost shouting now.
“Goddammit, we’re a hell of a lot farther ahead than when we started this morning,” Kos Kosciuszko bellowed. “And for all your bitching you haven’t been any fucking help at all.”
Roselli stood up. Kosciuszko took the challenge and came up out of his chair.
“All right!” Murdock said sharply. “That’s it for today. Everyone get the fuck out and go home. I’ll sanitize the room.” Sometimes being a SEAL officer was like being a lion tamer. Except that being a SEAL officer was more dangerous than being a lion tamer. His SEALs all stood up and shuffled about nervously. “Get out,” said Murdock. “Go home, cool down, and be back here tomorrow morning ready to work. Don’t anyone say another fucking word.”
Razor Roselli seemed to want to say something to Murdock, but he turned and followed everyone out.
They all left except George MacKenzie. He helped Murdock collect all the scrap paper, shred it, and put it in a burn bag. All the other materials went into a file box for storage in the classified material vault overnight.
“Boss, we are on edge,” said MacKenzie. “Razor’s not pissing me off,” said Murdock. “He’s not Mr. Tact, but you have to have a devil’s advocate. If he wasn’t doing it, you or I would have to.”
“Razor is not why we’re on edge.”
“I know that, too. It’s because this is shaping up like a suicide mission,” said Murdock. He slammed the file box down onto the table. “But that’s bullshit! Yeah, as a straightforward infiltration and raid mission, done the way we’ve always done it, it doesn’t work. But we’re the goddamned unconventional warfare specialists. It’s time we started thinking unconventionally.”
“I’ll try, Boss,” MacKenzie said pleadingly. “I swear I will.” They both started laughing. “Buy you a beer?” said Murdock.
“No,” said MacKenzie. “I think I better buy you one.”
9
Murdock and MacKenzie ended up at McP’s, which was located on Orange Avenue just down from the Coronado Main gate. It was a popular SEAL watering hole, owned by a man who had been a corpsman in the teams during Vietnam. On the back of the bar menu was printed, “If you don’t like crowds, don’t come on Thursday night.” Translated, that was when the place was packed with SEALS, and if you had a problem watching someone toss down a flaming drink without putting it out first, or eating glassware in front of you to win a bar bet, then maybe you ought to stay home.
Murdock and MacKenzie had no such qualms, having seen far, far worse while on liberty with the troops. And, of course, it was only a Tuesday.
The first beer went down fast. “Talked to Inge on the phone last night,” said Murdock.
“Oh?” MacKenzie said warily.
Inge Schmidt was a special agent with the BKA, Germany’s FBI. They’d met during an op in Europe, had nearly gotten killed together, and of course romance had flourished.
“We used to have phone sex once a week,” said Murdock. “Now we talk once a month, if I’m not someplace like Sudan.” He paused. “What the hell, I can’t put my name in to be an exchange officer with the Kampfschwimmers until after this tour. I can’t get out and move to Germany, and she can’t quit her job and move here. So what the hell can we do?”
“As Razor Roselli would say, whenever you get some leave catch a MAC flight to Germany and screw each other’s brains out.”
Murdock clinked his mug against MacKenzie’s. “Words to live by. Of course, I think Razor has more ex-wives than I have cousins.”
“And you have a lot of cousins.”
Murdock swung the subject around to something else. “You did a pump in Lebanon, didn’t you?”
“Beirut, when I was a Second Class with Team Four. But that was before the truck bombing.” He took a sip of his beer. “What a fucking zoo that was. And now we’re back to Syrians, Iranians, and Hezbollah, the exact same bunch who did the truck bombing.”
Even while he’d been talking, Murdock had seemed to be somewhere else. Now his focus was almost frightening. “Wait a minute, Mac, what was that?”
“Man, was I wrong when I thought people would listen to me after I made master chief.”
“No,” Murdock said urgently, as if he was about to climb across the table. Truck bombs, Mac. You were talking about the truck bombs!”
“So you were listening after all.”
Murdock sprang up and threw money onto the table. “Waitress, get this American hero another beer. I’d kiss you, Mac, but your wife thinks we spend too much time together as it is.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” MacKenzie demanded. “And where the hell are you going? I’ll come with you.”
“Nope, I’ll see you in the morning.”
Murdock walked off, and the waitress put another beer down in front of a very confused George MacKenzie. “What happened to your cute friend?”
MacKenzie looked up at her. “Somebody told him you were married. He was so disappointed he up and left.”
She popped her gum. “Well, what mouthy son of a bitch went and told him that?”
10
Blake Murdock was waiting when everyone arrived at the planning room. He was freshly shaved and showered, but based on the amount of expended coffee grounds in the wastebaskets, he’d been there all night.
“Hey, sir,” said Razor Roselli, “didn’t you know SEALs are supposed to get ten hours of sleep every night?” A little joke from BUD/s, and Razor’s way of apologizing for the previous day. During Hell Week SEAL trainees get a total of four hours of sleep in five days.
Murdock was in a dead serious mood. “Everybody take a seat. I’ve got something I want to run by you.” The SEALs began shooting little looks at each other.
A map of Lebanon was spread out on the table, along with a set of satellite photographs.
“We fly in to Lebanon on four MH-47E Chinooks,” said Murdock. “Two Shorlands armored cars, two armored Mercedes limos; one vehicle in each helo. We terrain-fly all the way, and over the central mountain range. The helos drop us near the road south of Baalbek, so as we drive in it looks like we’re coming from Damascus. We’re in Syrian livery, and we roar past every checkpoint like we’re king shit, all lit up.”
Murdock pointed to a computer-enhanced close-up of the warehouse in Baalbek. “The entrance to the warehouse is fenced, sandbagged, and guarded. So is the loading area. But this road runs right up against the long side of the warehouse. We come up this road, and the two armored cars make a hard right, ram through the chain-link, and keep on going right through the flimsy-assed wood walls of the warehouse. “The armored cars are filled with as much explosive as we can pack into them. From the specs I figure about seven hundred fifty pounds each, maybe more.”