"And you think dropping out of the SEALs is the answer?"
"Yes, sir. I do. It's... what's best. For me. And for the Team. Look at it from the guys' point of view, Captain. They know what I did at Shuaba, and they know what I didn't do. Think they're going to want to go into a free-fire zone with a fuckup like me backing them up? I sure as hell wouldn't."
"Bullshit, Wilson," Coburn snapped, dropping the father-figure approach in a sharp change in tactics. "The Navy's got eighty-some thousand bucks tied up in your training, and you want to chuck it all the first time you run into some rough sailing? What are you, a quitter? If Hell Week didn't make you chuck it all, why should this?"
"This is different, sir."
"Bullshit. Once you're a SEAL, you're always a SEAL. I don't think you'd be happy any place but with the Teams!"
"Maybe not, sir. But I think it's better if I get out."
Coburn considered the youngster for a long moment. Wilson was just twenty-three years old, and though he had the lean and deadly look worn by most SEALS, there was a vulnerability about him as well. As though something inside had snapped. Maybe the kid knew himself, knew what was best for himself and his buddies after all.
"Mmm. Tell you what. I'll approve a transfer for you, Wilson, but not back to the fleet. There're plenty of spots open in the Teams where you can make yourself useful. Admin. Intelligence. Parachute packing. How about the SDVs?"
Wilson's lip curled at the mention of the Swimmer Delivery Vehicle teams. Most SEALs thought of an assignment to the SDVs as real dead-end to their career tracks, a purgatory to be escaped at the first opportunity. "I'd... prefer to go to the fleet..."
"Since when does the Navy give a shit what you prefer, mister? You claim you're thinking about what's best for the Teams? Well, so am I. We have a lot invested in you, son. You have a lot invested in you too. I'm not going to let you throw it all away, at least not without a chance to think about it. You read me, son?"
"Y-yes, sir." He looked broken, as though he'd just been sentenced to life at hard labor. "If you say so, sir."
"I say so. I'll have personnel draw up your orders this afternoon. I will also write up a recommendation for your next CO that you be allowed to return to a direct-action team once you've had a chance to think things through. Because I think you're combat SEAL material, and you won't be happy doing anything else."
"Yes, sir."
"Now get out of here." He tossed the badge back to Wilson. "And take this thing with you."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Coburn sat there, rocking back and forth on his chair for a long time after Wilson had gone. The kid would be back, he was sure of that much. But in the meantime, he'd left Coburn with yet another administrative headache, an open slot in Third Platoon's Gold Squad.
The real problem was Third Platoon's morale, which had been at rock bottom since Cotter's funeral. They would be lucky, Coburn thought, if Wilson was the only team member who quit.
He reached out and touched a button on his intercom. "b!"
"Yes, sir," replied the voice of his yeoman in the outer office.
"What do we have in the replacement pool? E-4 or E-5."
"Not a thing, sir. I'm afraid the cupboard's bare. At Little Creek, anyway."
Damn. He'd been pretty sure that that was the case. "Okay. Looks like we'll have to tap Coronado." He wondered who Seven would draw as a replacement for ET2 Wilson.
1045 hours (Zulu -8)
La Jolla, California
This early on a weekday the beach on the rocky coast north of San Diego was nearly deserted. Though the southern California sun was warm, a chilly breeze off the ocean had kept all but the most dedicated sun worshippers at home. The coastline here consisted of smooth, sandy beach stretching out from the base of a rocky bluff. North, at the top of the bluff, the roof of the Scripps Institution of Oceanography was just visible behind a screen of palm trees and shrubs. South, the shore grew swiftly steeper in a rugged headland rising in a sheer, black and red cliff above the crashing surf.
Machinist's Mate Second Class David Sterling was a SEAL... almost a SEAL, at any rate. He'd completed his twenty-six weeks of BUD/S and several weeks more in airborne training at Fort Benning. Now he was assigned to SEAL Team One's headquarters platoon at Coronado, where he was serving out his six months of probationary apprenticeship before winning the coveted eagle-trident-and-pistol Budweiser.
This week, he was standing night duty, which left his days delightfully free. He'd brought Christine Jordan, his girlfriend of the past two months, to the beach for a picnic. She was nineteen and a freshman at San Diego State, a gorgeous, tanned California girl with fantastic long legs, long, sun-blond hair, and a face and body right out of Playboy. His tactical plan for the day called for considerably more than lunch and a swim. So far, their relationship hadn't passed the heavy petting and fondling stage, though they'd talked about going further often enough. With no other beach-goers closer than half a klick off, Sterling had decided that now was the time to make his move. He might show up for duty tonight without having slept in thirty hours, but what the hell? He'd done worse stints during Motivation Week, and man, this was going to be worth it!
"C'mon, babe," he told her. They were lying face to face on a beach blanket. Minutes before, he'd coaxed Christine into slipping off her black and red bikini top, and for emphasis now he reached over and delicately kneaded her left nipple until it popped up like a bullet. "SEALs do everything in the water! You know that!"
"David," she said, dimpling. "You are absolutely nuts!"
"That's what you love about me, right?"
"But suppose someone sees us!"
"Who's to see? The beach is deserted! We've got the place to ourselves, at least until school lets out."
"Gee, David, I don't know."
Bending his head to her breast, he gave her nipple a long and lingering kiss. Chris moaned, her head back, her mane of long blond hair spilling across the beach blanket.
"Ooh, David... you are persuasive."
"Come on, Chris! Let's get naked and get wet! It'll be fun!"
Impulsively, Christine stood up. She stood there for a moment, hesitating, her arms crossed protectively over her bare breasts as she looked first one way up the beach, then the other. Then she stooped, skinned off her bikini briefs, and scampered toward the water, her long brown legs scissoring in the surf.
"Yes!" Sterling tugged off his own swimsuit, dropped it on the blanket, then raced into the waves in close pursuit. She squealed as he grabbed her from behind and dragged her down. A wave crashed over them, knocking them together as he encircled her with his arms. Their lips met.
Clinging to one another, they made their way to a point about one hundred yards off the beach, beyond where the surf was breaking. Each wave lifted them high as it surged beneath them, then sent them plummeting into its trough, a wild and exhilarating ride with Christine shrieking in his arms. It was probably too rough today for any serious sea-borne docking operations, but the clinging and grappling were tremendous fun and promised better things for later.
He was trying to maneuver himself between her thighs despite the ocean surge when Christine gave another scream, this one of a sharply different timbre from the others. "What's wrong?"
Eyes wild, her wet hair plastered across her face, she pointed past his shoulder toward the beach. "David, look!"
Turning, he saw the people winding down the path from the road where they'd parked Sterling's VW. It was a fair-sized crowd, five or six adults and at least that many children. Some of them carried beach umbrellas, coolers, blankets, and the other paraphernalia of an afternoon's outing at the beach. A teenager sent a frisbee sailing across the sand, and a small dog yapped after it.