"We're already putting our transport assets together toward that end," Bainbridge said. "Air Force C-5s will carry your helicopters and whatever other gear you need to the island. The State Department is also in touch with the Sultan of Oman, trying to get permission to use Masirah as a staging area."
An island located just off the Omani coast, Masirah was close to the southern approaches to the Strait of Hormuz. Though the traditionally touchy Arab sensibilities objected to American troops on their territory, Masirah had been used in the past, beginning with the Iranian hostage-rescue attempt in 1980. Obtaining permission to use the former British base there would probably not be difficult, so long as the Americans kept a low profile.
Which SEALs were very good at doing.
"That's all I have at this time, gentlemen," Mason concluded. "Other questions?"
There were none.
"Okay." He scanned the faces of the group until his eyes met those of Captain Coburn, of SEAL Seven. "Phil?" he said. "Don't leave."
In small groups, already discussing the operation, the others filed from the room. Phillip Coburn remained.
"What do you think, Phil?" Mason asked.
"Could be hot, Paul." Alone, they reverted to first names. "If those terrorists planted explosives around the ship, there may not be any way to get at them with any kind of reasonable chance of success."
"Gambling on the odds will be up to the politicians," Mason said. "How's Seven fixed right now?"
"Second and Fourth Platoons are in the Caribbean," Coburn said. "Training deployment to Vieques with the Marines. One and Three are here. They could be ready to leave on twenty-four hours' notice."
Unlike the other SEAL Teams, SEAL Seven, brand-new and still growing, had only four platoons.
"How would you handle the deployment? Just in rough."
"Two platoons," Coburn said without hesitation. "I'd put Third Platoon in the lead, with one squad for the Yuduki Maru, a second for the Hormuz. They're my most experienced people, with the most actual combat experience. They'd go in and secure both vessels at once, then hold 'em for the NEST guys. First Platoon in reserve, probably at Masirah. As backup to Three in case something goes wrong."
"Third Platoon just got back from Iraq."
"Right. And they just got kicked in the gut too. I need to put them back in ASAR."
"This is too damned important a mission for you to use it to build up your people's morale, Phil."
"They can handle it, Paul. They're the best people I have. There was fire in his eyes and in his voice as he said the words, and Mason could feel his excitement.
"Well, the final decision hasn't come through yet, but there's a good chance we're going to have to use Seven on this one. I had to go through the motions with the others, but Two, Four, and Eight are all pretty well committed elsewhere right now."
"What about Six?"
Mason smiled as he shook his head. "That's USSOC territory, and outside my bailiwick. But Six is under a cloud right now, and I have a feeling the Joint Chiefs aren't going to want to use them. The size of the appropriations for their toys are part of the reason Congress is looking so hard at the SEALS just now.
"In any case, we're still looking at the Seven concept of a unit that can deploy outside of established operational areas. And Seven's pre-positioned gear is still handy at Bahrain. Unlike SEAL Six."
"That's right," Coburn said eagerly. "Like I said, twenty-four hours. All you have to ship are my boys."
"Draw up your plan, Phil. Have it on my desk tomorrow morning."
"Aye, aye, Captain!" He looked as delighted as a kid at Christmas.
Mason sighed. He just wished that he could be going along.
Friday, 20 May
1330 hours (Zulu -5)
NAVSPECWARGRU-Two Training Center
Little Creek, Virginia
Lieutenant Murdock stood with the men of Blue Squad, Third Platoon. "Okay, people," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Hit it again. Four-man entry, door center, buttonhook."
They were standing outside the NSWG building variously called the "fun house" and the "killing house," part of the SEALS' Little Creek training facilities. They were tired, all of them, and their faces were coated with greasepaint and gunpowder. Their bodies seemed bent beneath the weight of their gear, combat blacks and full harness, Kevlar vests, safety helmets, and tactical radios. Murdock had been running the platoon since daybreak, literally and figuratively. Gunfire banged and crackled in the distance First Platoon practicing on the outdoor firing range. It had been a long day already, and it would not be ending at five o'clock.
"First four up," Murdock continued. "Let's have Roselli, Garcia, Higgins, and Brown."
"Aw, man, Lieutenant," Brown said. "I'm a sniper, not a God damned door kicker."
"You heard the lieutenant," MacKenzie said softly. There was no threat or anger in his voice, but the men complied immediately, filing into place beside the fun house South wall, where a couple of construction ratings were hammering the wooden framework of another practice door into place.
The subtleties of MacKenzie's line had not escaped Murdock. He'd noted that the men, when they referred to Cotter, called him "L-T," while Murdock was still "the lieutenant." The distinction spoke volumes of the gulf between him and his men.
Or am I just being paranoid? Murdock wondered. He'd not yet worked up the courage to actually discuss the situation with MacKenzie.
He was in a hell of a tough position. In the SEAL Teams especially, the differences between enlisted and officer were almost nonexistent. The men followed the officer not so much because of his rank, but because they knew he'd been through everything they'd been through, Hell Week included, and that he was as good a man as they were. He had to earn their respect, not demand it as a right.
There was an almost overwhelming tendency for new lieutenants joining a platoon to try winning that respect by familiarity, by being "one of the guys," but that approach was dead wrong from the start. The platoon's survival could hinge on whether or not the unit had one absolute leader; he had to be obeyed instantly, without argument or discussion. "Respect" in this context did not mean "like."
He'd held inspection on Sunday, as promised, and been pleased to see the barracks had been cleaned up, as ordered. He'd also noted the fading bruises on the faces of Holt and Roselli but refrained from commenting on them. Keeping order in the ranks was MacKenzie's job, and Murdock had already decided to let the master chief keep running the platoon his own way. If any serious deficiencies cropped up, well, that would be the time to pounce. Not now...
He knew they didn't like him, and after five days he still felt like he was wrestling with Cotter's ghost. But if he drilled them hard enough, by God, the respect would come. If it didn't, they'd never survive as a team.
The workers had finished with the door and stepped back out of the way. The killing house, constructed of plywood, Kevlar, and concrete blocks, was designed to allow rapid reconfiguration for any desired room layout, with or without windows, with one or multiple doors in any location, with or without interior partitions. Except for Higgins, who was carrying a shotgun, all of the men carried Beretta 92M pistols loaded with Glaser safety slugs, frangible rounds that would not punch through walls and kill someone half a mile away... or ricochet from concrete and kill someone in the room.
Safety rounds or not, SEALs took their training with deadly seriousness. Men had died in this exercise. MacKenzie had told them all about the time he'd actually seen a kid shot and killed in the fun house when the guy behind him tripped going through the door.
"Right," Murdock said. He held up his clipboard and read the notes he'd scrawled there. "The situation is three suspected terrorists and at least one hostage. Nothing known about position or disposition. Go in, take 'em down, and try not to shoot the hostages or each other. Ready?"