Al Adams and Joe Douglas both had shrapnel wounds from the RPG, but they were not deep or serious and were already starting to heal. The two SEALs didn’t require any more hospitalization. The four injured men who came home were all released from Balboa and told to return in two weeks for a final checkup.
Murdock sent a hot dispatch to Don Stroh. Never before had he been hung out to dry for so long, taking so many needless casualties. He knew Don would have an answer for it all. He also put the same comments in his after-action report that went through Master Chief Mackenzie and thence to Commander Masciarelli, the skipper of the Seal Team Seven and Murdock’s immediate boss.
With that out of his way, Murdock settled down to putting the pieces of his platoon back together. Balboa had certified the four injured SEALs fit for light duty.
“Shit, there ain’t no such thing as light duty in the SEALS,” Ron Holt said. “Be fucking lucky if they don’t pile it on us double because we was dumb enough to get hit.”
All of the men had liberty, including Ed Dewitt, and now Murdock sat in the strangely empty and quiet office of the Third Platoon checking his roster. He recognized the sound of the footsteps in the hall outside long before the body came through his door.
Without looking up he said: “Good morning, Master Chief Mackenzie.”
The master chief, who ran the eight platoons in SEAL Team Seven, had previously been Platoon Chief of the Third Platoon, and still had a special feeling for the group, even though many men had come and gone since his term there.
“Didn’t catch you when you stepped over the quarterdeck this morning, Commander. Were you avoiding me?”
“Hard thing to do, Master Chief.” Murdock grinned and put his polished black shoes on the edge of his desk. “Hell, George, you know I couldn’t do that if I wanted to. Even polished my belt buckle this morning for your inspection.”
“How are Gonzalez and your lucky four wounded?”
“You know Gonzalez is in the hospital in Germany. Hard to tell when they will transfer him to Balboa. The other four are SEALs and labeled fit for light duty. You know what that means around here.”
“Figured. You going to want a replacement for Gonzalez?”
“Be a good idea. Run someone in as a temporary replacement. If Gonzalez doesn’t get cleared in three weeks, he won’t be ready for any action we might have within two months, so we’ll make the temp permanent. You’ve done it before.”
“You want to pick from my roster?”
“This afternoon. If it’s all right with the master chief and if you can squeeze me into your loaded appointment calendar.”
“Might be a problem. Later on that. I read your after-action report before I passed it on to the skipper. The old man is going to be pleased.”
“Well, hot damn, George. You came all the way over here to tell me I did a good fucking job for a change?”
“That and to remind you that you owe me a steak dinner.”
“What the hell for, George?”
“Because I’m the master chief and I keep your ass out of the fire, and save your neck from getting chewed every week by Commander Masciarelli. Why else?”
They stared at each other for a minute, then both chuckled. They had been working together for more than four years now. First when Murdock had been an instructor for the tadpoles coming through the BUD/S training. Then for over two years since Murdock had taken command of Third Platoon.
“You don’t think you were too rough on the CIA for not getting you out of Iraq?” Mackenzie asked.
“Not half tough enough. They hung us out to dry again. Hell, they didn’t even try with a second chopper. They let us sit in there and fight our way out.”
“Which you did destroying a shitpot full of Iraqi equipment including shooting down two choppers and one Mig jet fighter.”
“Yeah, we got in a couple of lucky rounds. I’ve still got a huge bone to pick with Don Stroh. Figure he won’t be around for a while.”
“Not for a while, Murdock. Not until ten-hundred today.”
Murdock scowled. “Don’t shit me about this, George. I’m still not cooled down about how they fucked us in Iraq.”
“Get over it, Commander. That’s the way the CIA plays the game.
Once the mission is completed, the personnel are secondary.”
“But we hadn’t extracted the civilian yet. The mission wasn’t over.”
Master Chief Mackenzie dropped into the chair beside Murdock’s desk. “What’s bugging you, George?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.”
“That’s why you’re sweating? Why have you cleared your throat six times since you came through the door? It’s your psychosomatic throat problem, remember? You always get it when you’re nervous as hell.”
“So?”
“So what’s bugging you?”
“The other platoon chiefs are giving me static about your platoon’s facial hair and haircuts. I know, I know, you have special permission from the old man, but it bugs the other SEALS. You know how close I watch every man who steps across the quarterdeck. No beards, no goatees, no long sideburns. Face hair can interfere with the proper use of underwater gear.”
Murdock sat there grinning, enjoying this as much as anything in the past few months.
“True, Master Chief. All true. Tell them when they work for the CIA they can wear face hair too. End of argument.”
“Why?”
“You know damn well why, Master Chief. Sometimes we go in undercover, no uniforms, no weapons, getting the lay of the land. Three or four of us show up clean-shaven with white-side haircuts a half-inch long, lean and mean, we’re gonna scream to everyone who sees us that we’re military. We need to be low-key sometimes. It’s got our dicks out of trouble several times in the past year, and now I won’t let the guys all go clean-shaven and short-haired. That’s why, George.”
“Yeah, I guess I have to live with it. If Commander Masciarelli kissed the CIA ring, not a fucking thing I can do about it.”
“Anything about the commander getting transferred out?”
The master chief perked up and looked at Murdock critically. “You just trying to lift my spirits or what? No word anywhere about any command changes around here. Not that I wouldn’t welcome it. Our leader is bent all out of shape because he lost command of Third Platoon. He says all he is to your platoon now is an impotent pussy of a figurehead. He hates Don Stroh and the CIA with a white-hot passion.
That’s why I want to steer Stroh away from here as soon as he arrives.”
The command master chief rubbed his face for a minute. “Oh, business. You’re not going to need any replacements for your four other wounded men, I’d guess, since you haven’t asked for any.”
“True. We have a month to six weeks and we’ll be ready to dance again, if you get us a top-notch replacement for Gonzalez. Don’t want to mess up the platoon. We’ve had too many changes lately. Interferes with our teamwork.”
Mackenzie checked his watch.
Murdock frowned. “Master Chief, that’s the third time you’ve checked your timepiece in the past five minutes. You late for a hot date somewhere?”
Mackenzie stood, and walked around the chair grinning. “Indeed I am, young man. A hot date straight from Washington, D.C. Like I told you, your buddy Don Stroh is due at ten-hundred. He’s late. Want to come out to the quarterdeck with me and greet him?”
“Not especially.”
“Might be interesting. You can read him off about hanging you out on a tough titty in Iraq.”
“Now that you mention it.”
A knock sounded on the doorjamb, and a seaman came around the corner. “Sir, a visitor.” He backed away, and Don Stroh, wearing a red hibiscus, Hawaiian shirt, and walking shorts, stepped into the room.