One of the instructors jogged up and saluted. "Sir?"
"Take over, Kaminsky. You know the drill."
The petty officer grinned, a death's-head rictus. "Aye, aye, Sir. We'll make 'em sweat!"
As Murdock strode away, Kaminsky started the cadence anew. "And... three! Four! Three! Four!"
Leaving the grunting, heaving platoon to their telephone poles, Murdock walked over to the man standing by the jeep. Chief Frank Bowden was a thickset black machinist's mate who'd been in the Navy for eighteen years and in the Teams for twelve.
"Morning, Lieutenant," the chief said, saluting crisply. "My, oh, my, but you're up bright and early."
"Out with it, Bow. You look like the proverbial cat with the proverbial canary feathers on his snout."
"Could be. I just came down from Admin. Seems there's a packet for you there, swim buddy."
"What... orders?"
"All the way from BUPERS. Word is they came through Saturday."
"God damn! And nobody told me?"
"I just did, man."
"How 'bout running me back there?"
"Hop in, Lieutenant. It'll be my pleasure."
A quick cruise down Silver Strand Drive brought Murdock back to the cluster of buildings that was the heart of SEAL school. The main building was a light tan, brick structure. Above the doors in front of the glassed-in foyer were the words: NAVAL UNDERWATER DEMOLITION SEAL TRAINING DIVISION.
To the right of the walk leading up to the building was a life-sized replica of the Creature from the Black Lagoon, a net draped over his right hand, a trident in his left. A sign on the trident read, "So you want to be a frogman?" A plaque recorded the statue as a gift from an earlier SEAL training platoon upon graduation.
As Bowden parked the jeep, a platoon of trainees marched past. These were Phase 2 men, wearing olive-drab fatigues and caps instead of shorts and white T-shirts. At this stage of their training, they were less into mud than they were into demolitions and weapons training.
"Gee, I want to be a SEAL!" the petty officer in charge of the column singsonged.
"Gee, I want to be a SEAL!" came the chorused reply.
"Eat seaweed with every meal!"
"Eat seaweed with every meal!"
"Hoo yah!"
"Hoo yah!"
"Sound off!"
"One! Two!"
"Sound off!"
"Three! Four!"
"Cadence count!"
"One! Two! Three! Four! One, two... three-four!"
SEALs spent far less time marching than they did running, since traditional drilling on the parade ground was useful only to instill cooperation and esprit de corps. Still, Murdock thought, these men looked sharp, damned sharp. Lean, hard, and ready to kick ass and take names.
"Bein' a SEAL just can't be beat!"
"Bein'a SEAL just can't be beat!"
"Get more ass than a toilet seat!"
"Get more ass than a toilet seat!"
Mother, Murdock thought wryly, would not approve. He returned the salute of the formation's leading petty officer, then crossed the road behind them, past the scowling Creature, and up to the training center's front door.
"See that girl all dressed in green?"
"See that girl all dressed in green?"
"She goes down on SEALs like a submarine!"
"She goes down on SEALs like a submarine!"
No, Mother would definitely not approve.
A second class yeoman in whites manned the front desk in the headquarters foyer. "Hey, Burman. What's the word."
"Good morning, Lieutenant Murdock," the yeoman replied. "I guess you're looking for this." He handed him a thick manila envelope. Murdock rapidly opened it, broke out the top sheet, and began reading.
ON RECEIPT OF THESE ORDERS, YOU WILL PROCEED TO THE U.S. NAVY AMPHIBIOUS BASE, LITTLE CREEK, VIRGINIA, WHERE YOU WILL TAKE COMMAND OF THIRD PLATOON, SEAL SEVEN, UNDER COMMAND AUTHORITY USNAVSPECWARGRU-2.
YOU ARE AUTHORIZED SEVEN DAYS' LEAVE IN WHICH TO MAKE ARRANGEMENTS FOR TRANSFERRING PERSONAL EFFECTS.
Murdock looked up, stunned. He was going to NAVSPECWARGRU-Two, to Norfolk? It was hardly credible. There was a long, long history of rivalry, even outright animosity between the two SpecWar groups. The West Coast SEALs thought their East Coast counterparts were too hidebound, too tied to rules, discipline, and spit shine; the East Coast SEALs thought the Californians too laid back and easygoing, without a proper respect for attitudes and traditions military.
"Where you headed, Lieutenant?" Burman asked.
"Son of a bitch, they're sending my ass to Shit City," Murdock replied, using an old Navy term for Norfolk. "I'm going to be running a platoon at Little Creek."
"Bummer," the yeoman said, shaking his head. "Course, that could mean you're going up against the Rags."
"Maybe." Murdock was too stunned to even begin to unravel his own feelings at the news, but already a nasty suspicion was forming in his mind.
So help me, he thought, clutching the orders as he turned and strode toward the Bachelor Officers' Quarters, if my father had anything to do with shanghaiing me back to the East Coast...
Tuesday, 10 May
0930 hours (Zulu -5)
Headquarters, SEAL Seven
Little Creek, Virginia
There was a sharp triple rap on the door, and Captain Phillip Coburn looked up from the battered gray metal government-issue desk from which he ran SEAL Seven operations. "Come."
He was pretty sure he knew what was about to happen.
Electrician's Mate Second Class Charles "Chucker" Wilson opened the door and centered himself before the desk. The young SEAL was immaculate in his whites, with his white hat neatly folded and tucked into his waistband. Uncovered, he did not salute, but he stood at attention with his eyes focused on the big print of the Bon Homme Richard fighting the Serapis on the bulkhead at Coburn's back.
"Sir!" Wilson snapped out. "Request permission to speak to the Captain, sir."
"Aw, knock off the boot-camp crap, Chucker. Stand easy and tell me what's on your mind."
Wilson relaxed, but only slightly. "Uh, yessir. I mean, thank you, sir. I..."
Coburn sighed. "Spit it out, son."
The petty officer fumbled for a moment with the gold Budweiser on his white jumper. Damn. Coburn had thought this was why Wilson had requested the interview, but he'd still been hoping he was wrong.
Wilson dropped the SEAL badge on Coburn's desk. "I want to put in for a transfer. To the fleet."
"Shit, Chucker, you know what you're saying?"
"Yes, sir. I think I do."
"You just got your Budweiser... what? A month ago?"
"I didn't deserve it, sir."
"Bull. The officers who reviewed your record after your probationary assignment didn't agree. You questioning their judgment?"
"With respect, sir, they weren't at Shuaba."
"You don't want fleet duty."
"Yes, sir. I do."
"A SEAL? Scraping paint and flemishing lines? You'll be so bored you'll be climbing the bulkheads inside of six weeks. What the hell makes you think you want to stop being a SEAL?"
"Sir, I was the guy tasked with going through that control tower at Shuaba. I don't know what happened, but somehow I missed a hostile. And that hostile nailed the L-T."
Coburn tipped his steel, straight-backed chair, balancing on the two rear feet as he considered how to answer. "Chucker, we went through this at the inquiry last week. What happened was not your fault. It was not Lieutenant DeWitt's fault, it wasn't anybody's fault. There weren't enough men with Blue Water's ground element to adequately search that tower. As I see it, you did your best, you..."
"Begging the Captain's pardon, sir, but I was there. That last room we checked... I should've gone in and taken a harder look."
"You told us all of that at the inquiry."
"Captain, that whole building was dark and empty. It, well, it felt empty, and I must have gone in assuming that it was empty."
"Okay. So you screwed up. Made a bad call. That doesn't mean you can't be a SEAL. Even SEALs make mistakes."
"I screwed up, and the best officer I've ever known bought it. Sir, I've given this a lot of thought, and I'm looking at it like this. What happens next time I'm on a combat op? With some new platoon leader? I'm going to be there trying to keep my mind on the mission, and I'm going to be thinking about Shuaba. Maybe spend too much time checking a room. Wondering if I'm going to screw up again. Sir, you know as well as I do that you can't stop to think about stuff in combat. If you do, you're dead. And maybe some good guys are dead with you."