Seals (2005)

Seals

Jack Terral

*

Book Cover:

Bloody Work

Pulling their K-Bar knives, Brannigan and Mike moved slowly towards the two fighters who were guarding the hostages, appreciative of the noise from all the shooting some hundred meters away. They stopped a scant two paces from the guards, then Brannigan nodded the order to attack. Both SEALs struck simultaneously with the viciousness of cobras, driving the blades of the weapons under the back of the rib cages and up into vital areas where organs and arteries were located. The knives were violently twisted to enlarge the wounds. Brannigan and Mike kept their hands over the victims' mouths, working the knives until the mujahideen went limp. At that point the dead men were lowered gently to the ground to avoid unnecessary noise.

'Damn!' Mike whispered. 'The son of a bitch vomited.'

'It's a messy job no matter which way you cut it.' Brannigan said. 'No pun intended.'

.

TABLE OF ORGANIZATION

BRANNIGAN'S BRIGANDS

.

FIRST SQUAD

William 'Wild Bill' Brannigan

Lieutenant

Platoon Commander, First Squad

and Alpha Fire Team Leader

.

ALPHA FIRE TEAM, FIRST SQUAD

PO2C Mikael 'Mike' Assad

(Recon/Scout)

PO2C Francisco 'Frank' Gomez

(Radio Operator)

PO2C David 'Dave' Leibowitz

(Recon/Scout)

.

BRAVO FIRE TEAM, FIRST SQUAD

SCPO Buford Dawkins

(Team Leader)

PO1C Mike 'Connie' Concord

(Weapons/Fire Support)

PO2C Guttorm 'Gutsy' Olson

PO3C Chadwick 'Chad' Murchison

.

SECOND SQUAD

James 'Jim' Cruiser

Lieutenant (J. G.)

Platoon Executive Officer, Second Squad

and Charlie Fire Team Leader

.

CHARLIE FIRE TEAM, SECOND SQUAD

PO2C Michael 'Milly' Mills

PO2C Josef 'Joe' Miskoski

(Demolitions)

PO3C Kevin Albee

.

DELTA FIRE TEAM, SECOND SQUAD

CPO Matthew 'Matt' Gunnarson

(Team Leader)

PO1C Adam Clifford

PO2C Bruno Puglisi

(Weapons/Fire Support)

PO3C James Bradley

(Hospital Corpsman)

.

When you're wounded an' left on Afghanistan's plains, An' the women come out to cut up what remains, Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains, An' go to your Gawd like a soldier

--Rudyard Kipling, Barracks Room Ballads

PROLOGUE:

BAGHRAN, AFGHANISTAN

2 AUGUST

1620 HOURS LOCAL

THE stranger walking through the bazaar showed obvious signs of having endured a difficult, strength- sapping ordeal. His clothing was dusty and sweat-caked as would be expected from a traveler who had made a long foot journey. His eyes, red with fatigue, looked out from under his bushy eyebrows in a dazed sort of way, and his thick black beard was unkempt and in bad need of a trim. What casual observers couldn't perceive was that deep inside the man's psyche, his waning strength and alertness functioned more out of stark fear than physical vigor. He struggled to keep moving in spite of the exhaustion that threatened to drop him to his knees.

A couple of thieves skulking in the marketplace caught sight of the limping man. They tried to determine if the fellow might be worth robbing. After a few moments of observation, they changed their minds about any attempts to overpower him, even though he seemed an easy mark. The Kalashnikov assault rifle and bandoleer of ammunition across his chest gave evidence that his lifestyle was not a particularly peaceful one. An old Pashtun proverb taught that an exhausted man with a weapon was like a wounded tiger with teeth. Both could summon spiritual rage to fight off enemies.

The man seemed to know where he was going as he painfully shuffled through the crowd and lines of kiosks in the bazaar. He reached a narrow alleyway, and turned down it to walk past a blacksmith's stall before reaching a gun merchant's shop. He went inside and nodded to the clerk, who was cleaning a Heckler & Koch assault rifle in preparation for display.

The gun cleaner, a teenage boy, politely stood up. 'Asalaam aleikum, sir. How may I serve you?'

'I wish to speak to Ilyas,' the man said in a raspy voice.

The name he spoke caught the boy's interest. This was one of those special customers that came around now and then, and only the boss could speak to them. 'I shall inform him, sir.' He went through a curtained door and entered an interior room. His employer, Nader Abiska, sat in his favorite chair, sipping a hot cup of sur chaff tea with milk. The boy approached him closely and whispered in his ear. 'A man has come making inquiries about Ilyas.'

Abiska pulled the Beretta automatic from his shoulder holster and went to the curtain to peer out. He could see the disheveled man leaning against the counter. The shop owner opened the curtain. 'Come in.'

The boy went out as the stranger entered. 'Sit down,' Abiska invited him.

'Shukhria--thanks,' the man said gratefully, settling down onto the cushion of a wicker chair. 'I am