along to see it later. I think you’ll be impressed.” He rubbed his hands and nodded at the CD which Bonnie was unpacking. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.”
Cole Howard flew from Phoenix to San Diego and drove a rental car south to Coronado. It was warm and sunny and he had the windows down as he drove along Highway 75. The buildings which housed the Naval Amphibious Base were south of the town. Across from the base were more buildings and as Howard drew closer he could see an obstacle course made up of various log structures like half-finished mountain cabins, and beyond it a long ribbon-like stretch of beach. A group of men in white T-shirts and shorts were running along the beach with what appeared to be a telephone pole held above their heads.
The rating who checked Howard’s credentials at the gate looked to be about sixteen years old, tall and gawky with a bad case of acne. He cross-checked Howard’s name with a list of approved visitors and directed him to the visitors’ car park.
Rich Lovell’s former squad leader was a big man, well over six feet and built like a heavyweight boxer. When he shook hands with Howard, the FBI agent felt like a child being gripped by an adult. The features on his egg- shaped head all seemed larger than life: big blue eyes, a wide forehead and thick lips which covered gleaming, chunky teeth. His name was Sam Tucker and he spoke with a slow, Texas drawl. He was wearing immaculately pressed khakis and a dress blouse with his single bar ensign tabs on his collar. He took Howard through to a cramped office and waved him to a chair.
“I mentioned you were coming to my XO, and he said he’d like to be present, Agent Howard.”
“XO?” said Howard.
“Executive officer,” explained Tucker. “Lieutenant Walsh. I said I’d call him when you arrived.”
“Sure, that’s fine by me,” said Howard.
The ensign picked up the phone and called the lieutenant. After saying “Aye-aye, sir” crisply a few times he replaced the receiver and stood up. “XO said you might appreciate an orientation tour, and then he’d like to see us in his office.”
Howard nodded. He told Tucker that he knew little about the work of the Navy SEALs and he’d appreciate the background. They decided to use Howard’s car and they drove out of the base and across Highway 75 to a cluster of concrete buildings which Tucker said housed the SEAL training centre. They parked and Tucker led the FBI agent to the Phil. H. Bucklew Centre for Naval Special Warfare and into the main hall. Tucker waved at a collection of photographs on the walls. “These are all the classes that have graduated from Coronado,” he explained. “You’ve chosen a good time to visit. We’re halfway through Hell Week.”
“Hell Week?”
“Yeah, the first phase of SEAL training is a seven-week conditioning programme — mainly running and swimming. The fourth week is where we push them to their limits — we call it Hell Week. If they get through Hell Week, they’ve a good chance of making it. By the end of Hell Week, two out of three have dropped out.”
Howard’s jaw dropped. “That’s one hell of a cut,” he said.
“It’s worse than that,” said Tucker, grinning. “Only one in five actually graduates from the full twenty-six- week course. We only take the best of the best. You can easily spot the ones who have still to pass Hell Week — they’re wearing white T-shirts. Once they’re through Hell Week they wear green.”
The two men walked through to a central courtyard of asphalt. “We call this the Grinder,” said Tucker; “it’s where we do our drills.” He took Howard over to a brass bell which was fixed to a post. “All the men are volunteers,” he said. “Any time they want to drop out, all they have to do is ring this bell.”
“How tough is the training?” Howard asked.
“By the end of the first phase we’ve worked them up to running four miles in under thirty-two minutes, swimming a mile in the bay without fins in seventy minutes, a two-mile ocean swim with fins in ninety-five minutes, and they can swim fifty yards underwater. We keep them going twelve hours a day. The academic work is tough, too, we teach them first aid, reconnaissance and lifesaving.”
“I saw some men running with a telephone pole on the beach.”
“That’s right, we do a lot of log work. It builds team spirit. Same with the IBS, we make them take the IBS with them wherever they go.”
“IBS?”
“Inflatable boat, small,” said Tucker. “It weighs almost 300 pounds and is twelve feet long. The men have to carry it wherever they go and make sure it’s not damaged or deflated. Teamwork’s probably more important in the SEALs than any other branch of the services. Your life can often depend on the man next to you. One mistake when you’re a hundred feet underwater in a war zone and you’re dead.”
“Rich Lovell, was he a good team player?” Howard asked.
Tucker shaded his eyes with one of his big, square hands. “XO said we should wait until we get to his office before we discuss the reason for your visit, sir,” he said.
Howard nodded and realised it wasn’t worth pressing the ensign. “There’s another SEAL base in Virginia, right?”
“That’s right, at Little Creek. SEAL Teams One, Three and Five are here, Two, Four and Eight are at Little Creek.”
“With SEAL Team Six?”
“The Mob, you mean,” smiled Tucker. “They’re a law unto themselves. Even their manning levels are classified. They train separately, and they report directly to the Secretary of Defence and the White House.”
“Counter-terrorism, right?”
“That’s it, and other dirty work. They were originally taken from SEAL Two, but now it’s only their admin which is at Little Creek. They spend a lot of time playing with Delta Force. You interested in Six?”
Howard shrugged. “Just curious. You read about them occasionally, I just wondered what they were like.”
“Mad bastards, most of them,” said Tucker. “You wouldn’t want your sister to marry one.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Howard. “What’s the operational set-up here?”
The ensign headed towards the tallest building in the compound. “The basic unit is a platoon, twelve enlisted men and two officers. A platoon has two squads of six men each with an officer. I’m a squad leader. Each SEAL Team has fourteen platoons, plus a headquarters platoon.”
They reached the building and Tucker led Howard inside. “This is our dive tower, which allows us to train our divers down to a depth of fifty feet,” the ensign explained. They watched a group of SEALs practising swimming up from the bottom without their tanks. “Our motto is ‘The only easy day was yesterday’ and that’s the truth,” said Tucker. “It was the hardest six weeks of my life, believe me.” Tucker looked at his watch. “XO’ll be waiting. We’d better go.”
They drove back to the camp and Tucker led the way down a battleship-grey corridor to the executive officer’s office, which was several times larger than Tucker’s own, and considerably tidier. Walsh was in full naval uniform, with not a speck of lint on the dark blue material. He was a complete contrast to the squad leader, about five feet nine with swarthy skin, dark, hooded eyes and a clipped New York accent. He seemed eager to help, and sat back in his chair with his fingers steepled under his chin as Howard explained that he was trying to track down Rich Lovell. As he talked, Tucker stood with his back to the wall, almost at attention.
“Can you tell me what the FBI’s interest in Lovell is?” asked Walsh.
“At this stage we’re just making preliminary inquiries,” said Howard.
“Which is as polite a way of stonewalling as I’ve heard,” said Walsh, with a smile. “Anyway, as Ensign Tucker has already told you, Lovell left SEAL Team Three some eighteen months ago.”
“How long was he with the SEALs?”
“Twelve years.”
“On what basis did he leave?”
“I don’t follow you,” said Walsh.
“Honourable discharge?”
“Ah, I see what you mean,” said Walsh. “The decision to leave was his; can I put it that way?”
“Which is as polite a way of stonewalling as I’ve heard,” said Howard.
Walsh laughed, and Tucker smiled.
