“Yes, sir.”
SEALs, an acronym for SEa, Air, and Land, are the Navy’s foremost special operations force. If the U.S. needs an enemy ship destroyed in a buttressed harbor, the job goes to the SEALs. When a beach needs to be “softened up” before a large-scale attack, SEALs get the call. They take out bridges, roads, railway lines, and communications centers. They parachute into global hot spots, though they’re more likely to swim into an area of operation. And they can swim for a very, very long time. Water is a SEAL’s best friend.
President John F. Kennedy commissioned the SEALs, the Navy’s former Underwater Demotion Team, on January 1, 1962, as an elite maritime special operations unit capable of striking anywhere in the world.
Skip Gatson tagged SEAL team THREE, one of eight operational platoons. The platoons are comprised of sixteen SEALs, which are divided into two squads of eight or four of four. Each SEAL platoon is generally commanded by a Navy lieutenant (0–3 grade). Today, the honors went to Lt. James Nolt. On Gatson’s call, Nolt selected the seven men he wanted with him. He was going in, too.
“Gentlemen, we have ourselves a genuine situation.”
Nolt shouted over the light whine of the C-17 Globemaster III engines. The SEAL team commander was ordered to brief his men in two parts. The first, while in the air; the second, after they parachuted to their South Pacific LZ near the USS Essex.
Much of Nolt’s Louisiana drawl fell off as he yelled. Not that it mattered. He only used it for effect and the SEALs knew it.
“If you didn’t believe me before we took off, believe it now. This is not a drill. We’re flying due west, then south. In six hours we’ll jump, you do the math and figure out where we’re going. A buddy in the 7th Fleet will lend you a shower. We’ll have a full briefing, a little trip in a pair of SDVs, and then a nice swim. Our mission is pretty straightforward. Enemy forces have taken a VIP and his entourage. Our job is to locate and neutralize the enemy, and get our people out for their first class trip home. Questions?”
“Who’s the bigshot?” asked Mario Pintar, one of the snipers in the team. He was laying out his gear in the C-7′s voluminous interior cabin. The space was large enough to play a regulation basketball game.
“Next question,” Nolt replied.
Pintar stopped his work. “Come again?”
Ordinarily, Special Ops forces heading into action would never be denied the identity and nature of the target. But Nolt had been instructed to wait for more ISR — intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance information. They wanted to know whether the president was alive.
“Next question,” Nolt repeated.
“Okay, don’t tell me,” Pintar said under his breath.
“What’s the size of the enemy force?” Julio Lopez asked.
“Undetermined at this time.”
“Unified army or guerillas, sir?” This question came from the youngest SEAL on the team, Brian Showalter. He still used “sir,” something SEALs generally ignored.
“Guerilla rebels. We suspect they’ve been supplied by the Chinese and other non-allied countries. But that’s an assumption only.”
“Any injured in the VIP’s party?” SEAL Harold Chaskes asked. He was a combatant who also served as medic.
“Unknown. Possibly.”
There were no further questions except for the ones that Nolt wouldn’t answer now. “So, what do you say we sit around the campfire? For old times’ sake.”
The SEALs grumbled. They knew what was coming.
“Lopez, let’s hear it.”
“Never underestimate the enemy,” he yelled over the whine of the engines. “No matter how untrained or disorganized.”
“Expect the worse and prepare for it,” added Chaskes.
“Never fight fair,” Pintar piped in.
“Talk the assholes back home out of proposing commando ops during daylight hours,” added SEAL Derek Shaughnessy.
Then, one after another they chimed in with the other rules that would keep them alive.
“Conserve your rounds…HQ might not know what the fuck is going on…Bad weather is your buddy…Review procedures…Review maps…Wire cutters come in handy…Be ready to kill.”
“And?” Nolt called out as a cue to a well-rehearsed line.
“Get the job done!” they all shouted.
They were pumped up. Soon they would sleep. He left them with one other thought for now.
“Once again, I remind you, this is not an exercise,” Nolt stated. “We are in an operation fully sanctioned by the government of the United States of America, under the command and coordination of General Jonas Jackson Johnson and the Joint Chiefs. We even have ourselves a code name. OPERATION EAGLE CLUTCH.”
“Ouch!” yelled Pintar.
“Snatch and grab,” Lt. Nolt summarized. “Our claws are going to be sharp.”
“Speaker Patrick, I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”
Eve Goldman, the attorney general, had been appointed to talk to the congressman.
Patrick stood, but that was his only nod to decorum. “Attorney General,” he blustered, “I’ve been wasting my good time for over an hour. I demand to know what is going on!”
“And so you will. Have a seat, Congressman Patrick.”
“I’ll stand,” he said defiantly. He never liked Goldman. In fact, he opposed all of Taylor’s appointments when he was part of the minority. If she, or any of his other cabinet members ever came up for another assignment, Patrick, now leader of the democratic majority would make life impossible for them.
“Fair enough, congressman. Here it is. Air Force One went down in the Pacific earlier today.”
“What?” Even this was too much for Patrick to comprehend. His knees buckled and he sank into the chair he wasn’t going to take.
She chose her words carefully. She was speaking to one of the country’s greatest leaks, let alone the man next in line to succeed Morgan Taylor. “Roughly three hours ago, the president’s plane encountered a series of mechanical problems.” She kept the actual details off the table. “We’re still determining the exact cause.”
“And Taylor?”
“President Taylor,” she said correcting him.
“President Taylor,” he noted without a hint of respect.
“That’s a question, Mr. Speaker?”
“Yes, it’s a goddamned question. What about President Taylor?”
“We haven’t heard from him since the crash.”
“And that was hours ago?”
“Yes, his plane went down in the South Pacific. The Navy has been overflying the area.”
“Then?” he asked anticipating his immediate future.
“We have a decision to come to, Congressman.”
“There’s no decision to come to, Madame Attorney General. It’s already been made for you. The 25th Amendment. Remember? I’m next in line.”
“Well, yes, and no, Mr. Speaker.”
“What do you mean, Goldman?” He was completely full of himself. “This is the law!” The door to the Cabinet Room suddenly flew open. “You can’t stop me.” Two Secret Services agents entered. Duke Patrick ignored them. “You need to swear me in. The country has to have a president!” Patrick was so self-absorbed that he didn’t see who followed the Secret Service agents into the Cabinet Room.
“The country has a president,” pronounced a frail, but authoritative Henry Lamden.
“I believe you’re in my seat, Mr. Speaker.”
Patrick had to look down. Lamden was in a wheelchair, rolling under his own steam. “Mr. President, I had no idea,” he said more angry than embarrassed.
“Apparently not. But then, you had no reason to think otherwise.” Lamden pulled up next to his chair at the cabinet table.