“Oh, yeah, that was a dandy,” Jaybird said.
“Not bad,” Murdock said. “Let’s get out and launch and do it again.”
Both squads made it through three runs at the beach without a wipeout, and they carried the 265-pound rubber ducks back to supply. After depositing the boats, the men formed up in squads in a column of ducks.
“Men, it’s time to try out that new CQB down by our explosion pit. You’ve been watching it being built. It’s eighty-percent underground, so there can’t be the remotest chance that a round could get loose and go into the highway or out to sea. Absolutely fail-safe. Don’t prove me wrong. I lobbied long and hard to get this CQB built here for better access, rather than driving all the way to Nyland. Weapons in hand, normal ammo load, let’s chogie. Senior Chief, show us how and lead us out at six minutes to the mile. Let’s move.”
When they had come out of the water, Murdock had taken a new waterproof pouch off his combat harness and opened it. Inside lay a cell phone. He punched up the master chief’s number and let it ring.
“Good morning, this is Navy SEALs Central, how may I help you?”
“Damn, you’re grouchy this morning, Master Chief.”
“Murdock, sir. How did the waterproofing work?”
“Must be okay, we’re talking. What I want to know is what happened to that order for the underwater personal radios that Motorola promised us?”
“Those sonar/radios that work submerged? Yes, we ordered enough for both your squads. Cost us a bundle, something like twenty-five hundred dollars each.”
“If they work they’ll be worth it. The demo on them worked fine, but that was two months ago.”
“Takes a while, lad, to get things through the proper channels. This is the Navy, you know.”
“I’m being reminded. Any fallout from the North Korean fiasco?”
“Lots of it. Our United Nations ambassador has demanded a vote of censure and damage to be paid by North Korea. The U.S. has stopped all food and humanitarian shipments to North Korea. Our seventh fleet is heading for waters off North Korea and it is on full wartime alert.”
“About time. They’ve attacked South Korea without provocation, and now trashed the West Coast in a move to save face. We should cut them off from the rest of the world. Put a tight blockade on all their ports.”
“Now, lad, Commander Murdock, sir. That’s being a little easy on them. How about a twenty megaton nuke on Pyongyang?”
“True, they deserve it. They killed five people up there in the Sierras, a big bunch on that airliner, three hundred in San Francisco, and probably dozens more due to the blackout. I don’t know what the hell else they have planned.”
“We’ll see in due course, sir. You sound short of breath, lad. Any breathing problems?”
“Just when I’m running ten miles an hour through the sand and trying to carry on a conversation. Do a trace on the order. I want to test out those underwater radios as soon as possible.”
“Aye, aye, Commander. Consider them traced.”
“I’m running out of breath. I’m out.”
“Right, and remember, Commander, you’re not twenty-two years old anymore.”
Murdock liked the new kill house. It was made of four-by-twelve planks for the walls and the ceiling, with two feet of dirt and sand on top. No round could possibly penetrate four inches of Douglas fir. It had been dug out so all but the roof was underground. Ramps led to the front and back doors. Inside there were four small rooms, each set up with electronic targets, terrorists, hostages, innocents, and SEALs. The targets popped up electronically from pressure pads on the plank floor. The computer had programmed more than fifty thousand combinations of targets so no run-through was ever like any other.
Murdock took his turn at the close-quarters-battle house with Jaybird. They missed a terr in the second room, and both were shot according to the computer readout. They finished the course, and Jaybird had shot only one hostage. No scores were kept.
Murdock watched the other men go in, and checked them when they came out. The consensus was that the new house was good and would serve them well without the long drive.
“Be good to use this once a week,” Ed DeWitt said. “Keep us sharp.”
Murdock’s cell phone sang a small tune. He pulled it from his combat vest and flipped up the cover.
“Murdock.”
“Lad, we’re in business again. The Old Man wants to see you pronto. He’s sending a Humvee for you and DeWitt. Get your men back to their quarters and have them ready to travel. Not sure how many will be going, but we should be prepared. The Humvee just motored down the highway. He’ll cut through the sand and meet you on the high-tide mark.”
“What’s up?”
“His Lordship didn’t confide in me. You know the routine. It’s something that needs to be done quickly, and we get the call. Oh, speaking of calls, there was one from Washington, D.C., but she said she would call you tonight. You probably know who it was.”
“Probably, Master Chief. We’ll meet the Humvee on the side of the highway. Be faster that way. Out.”
Murdock yelled at DeWitt and Senior Chief Sadler. He told them what was up. Then he and DeWitt walked through the soft sand up to the fence and through to the state highway that connected Imperial Beach with Coronado. Sadler pulled the men together and began a quick march back to their quarters.
“What in hell?” DeWitt asked.
“Don’t know,” Murdock said. “I’ve got a hunch we haven’t heard the last of the sneaky North Koreans. This could be something more about them.”
21
Commander Dean Masciareli looked up as Murdock and DeWitt entered his office. They both braced at attention.
“At ease,” he said. “I just received an order through channels to activate some of the platoon. You may not have heard, but there have been ten forest fires in Oregon and Washington through the Cascade Mountains. All of incendiary origin. One eyewitness to one of the fires has reported that a pair of Orientals wearing cammies and backpacks and carrying rifles started a fire, then hurried away and vanished into the woods. The backpackers said the Orientals didn’t see them.”
“Are the fires under control?” DeWitt asked.
“Four of them have been put out. Two are out of control and burning in valuable timber. There’s been another sighting, and now the National Forestry officials say they have reports of four teams of arsonists loose and on foot that they want to track. They are limited as to manpower, and want some help. Frankly, they want eight men who are expert trackers who can deal with the arsonists if and when they are run down.”
“That’s where we come in?” Murdock asked.
“Right. I want each of you to pick the three best trackers in your squads and be ready to shove off in thirty minutes. Go light on the ammo, take all of your Bull Pups for long-range work, and be in the parking lot in thirty. That’s all. You’re dismissed.”
The two officers did snappy about-faces and hurried out the door.
“Tracking arsonists?” DeWitt asked as they hurried back to the platoon area.
“Better than a sharp stick in the eye, but not much,” Murdock said. “I’m taking Lam, Jaybird, and Bradford. You?”
“I’m thinking. Franklin, Mahanani, and Fernandez. Eight men, but we only have seven Bull Pups.”
“Have the other man bring an MP-5. We might need it.”
Twenty-five minutes later the eight SEALs, in fresh cammies and dry floppy hats, waited on the parking lot for the bus. They wore their combat vests with the usual gear and carried one GPS device and a SATCOM.