“Lieutenant Commander Murdock reporting as ordered, sir,” Murdock said.
The captain stared at him a moment, then his face softened for just a flash of a second and he pointed to a chair.
“Good. Don Stroh has been calling me damn near every hour checking to see if you’re here. He says he’s on his way. Now, we have specific orders for you. Specific and yet open-ended. I imagine that you’re used to that sort of thing.”
“Yes sir.”
“All I have is your first assignment, in case Stroh didn’t get here in time. We are now about forty miles off the Colombian coast from the port city of Buenaventura. This port and much of that region is currently being held by Ex-president Manuel Ocampo. It’s a sloppy civil war but not called that. Ocampo has about forty thousand men, a company of tanks, six jet fighters, two light planes, and the rest in infantry and one battery of one-oh-five artillery pieces.
“He’s being harassed by troops loyal to the new so-called elected government.”
Captain Ingman frowned and rubbed his jaw with one big hand. “Tough situation. Your main assignment now is to advise the president and his one one-star general on his situation, tactics, whatever. We will be doing some resupply to the president with some munitions and other items he has requested. We can get almost anything you want, except those new rifle-fired twenty-mike-mike exploding rounds you have.
“You are to proceed to the port at the earliest possible time. That means helicopters. We’ll send you in a Super Stallion, and two more with equipment and matériel for the president. The air boss tells me he’s now scheduled your takeoff time in a little over three hours. Give you plenty of time to get your men to chow and check their gear. You’re going into a friendly situation, but it could turn ugly at any moment. Any questions?”
“I’ll want my platoon to be fully armed, locked, and loaded as soon as they get on board the choppers. Will that be all right?”
“That’s a roger, Murdock. Frankly, I’ve never seen an operation like this on a U.S. Naval ship. The fucking CIA is pulling the strings. My orders are directly from the CNO and the director of the CIA.” Ingman shook his head. “Hell, I’m just a blue water sailor not used to this kind of high-level clout.”
“Yes, sir. I know the feeling.”
“I bet you didn’t know that just so there won’t be any Navy brass out of joint, you’ve been given temporary rank of captain for this mission.”
Murdock hadn’t heard that. “Sir, I’m sure that Commander Emerling and I won’t have any problems with any of your crew.”
“Just wanted you to know. Anything else?”
“No sir. Some chow would go good. Thank you, sir. I hope we don’t interfere with any of your operations.”
Ingman chuckled. “Hell, Murdock, for the next two weeks or however long it takes, you are our only scheduled operation. Wishing you all the luck, Captain.”
Murdock grinned and the two junior officers left the compartment.
Emerling stopped in the companionway. “So, do I call you captain now, or what?”
“Murdock will do nicely. Let’s get the troops into a mess hall.”
“We’ve got a spot waiting. They’ve been on standby for twenty meals ever since you landed. Like the captain said, you and your team get the VIP treatment all the way.”
Two hours later, they were on the Gerald R. Ford’s flight deck, checking their gear.
“Counted them damn boxes of twenty-mikes six times to be sure we got all of them,” Jaybird told Murdock. “Damn, we don’t want to lose any of those.”
All of the weapons, ammo, combat gear, and matériel they brought with them were accounted for. Murdock had them send up from the ship’s arsenal two hundred rounds of .50 caliber, half AP and half HE.
Bill Bradford let out a long sigh when he signed for them and added them to the stack of boxes. “Keeeereist, I thought they was gonna short me on them babies,” he said. “Can’t get along without my Mama Eighty-Seven.”
The platoon had set up parameters for the twenty-mike rounds. They would not be used except on orders of the squad leaders. If an emergency came up and contact couldn’t be made, the shooter was given the decision to use the exploding rounds or not. The whole idea was to expend the rounds where they would be effective and not spray them around just for the hell of it.
“Yeah, and remember that’s thirty bucks every time you pull that twenty-mike trigger,” Senior Chief Dobler said.
The choppers rolled up on schedule. They were loaded with the SEALs’ gear and two big stacks of more ammo and supplies, then the SEALs filed on board the first bird and within two minutes they were airborne.
One of the pilots came back and found Murdock.
“Captain, we’re about fifteen minutes from this landing field at the side of the port at Buenaventura. We’ve been in there before. Commander Emerling told me to let you know that you’ll be met by a Captain Gilberto Orejuela. He’s been assigned to you evidently for the duration of your stay. Good luck.” The young JG looked at Murdock for a moment in awe, then went back to the flight deck.
A short time later, Murdock felt the chopper come around and slow. Before it made it to the landing area, they heard explosions below. The craft jolted upward and then slanted down again as it took evasive maneuvers and whipped back out over the bay. Murdock thought he heard some rounds of shrapnel hit the bird.
“We’re going to wait out here and see what’s happening in there,” the speaker over their heads said. “Looks like some kind of a local attack by some elements of the federals.”
“Oh, God, I think I’m hit,” Joe Lampedusa said. Then his eyes glazed and he fell forward, sprawling on the chopper’s floor, blood making a stark red pool beside him.
9
Jack Mahanani, the platoon medic, dropped on his knees beside Lampedusa before Murdock got there.
“No wound on his back,” the medic said. Gently they rolled Lampedusa over.
They both saw the head wound. Blood ran from the slice across Lam’s forehead. Mahanani pushed a compress over the part bleeding and wiped off the rest of Lam’s face and head.
“Just that one, looks like, Skipper,” Mahanani said. “Head wounds bleed like sons of bitches. This probably looks a hell of a lot worse than it is.”
“Only scraped across his forehead instead of penetrating his skull?” Murdock asked.
“What I’m hoping. But even that way, the shock of the slug hitting him could have knocked him out.” Mahanani lifted the compress. Fresh blood oozed out but at a slow rate. “Oh, yeah. The furrow across his thick head is about a quarter of an inch deep. Two inches long. Lots of fucking blood but shouldn’t be much damage.”
“A concussion?” Murdock asked.
“Have to wait and see. He shouldn’t be out long.”
The medic quickly wiped off the rest of the blood smudges and put a bandage over the wound, wrapping the gauze around Lam’s head. Lam’s eyes flickered, then opened.
“What the hell? Who hit me?”
“Head hurt?” the medic asked.
“Like a damn steam engine is roaring through it. I get shot?”
“Just a little scratch, Lam,” Murdock said. “Somebody had a landing greeting for us. Mostly, they missed.”
“We have an all clear in the LZ. We’re going in,” The pilot said on the speaker. “There should be protection down there. Hope you guys are locked and loaded.”
Murdock looked at the small window but couldn’t see much. They were the first down.
“Shoulder those packs and chamber a round. When we hit the asphalt out there, it will be running. I have Lam’s weapon. Somebody get his gear. If we have a guide, we follow him. Otherwise, we head for the closest building that looks like it has some kind of protection. Read me?”