Ishaq.'
'We thought you were dead,' Abiska said.
'I damn near was.'
'You are compromised, la?'
'True,' Ishaq said wearily. 'But I am still useful. I must get out of here.'
'That can be arranged,' Abiska said. 'But first I suggest you take a few days to recover from whatever hardships you have endured so recently. You are obviously exhausted.'
Ishaq shook his head. 'There is no time to be wasted. I must get back.'
Chapter 1
THE PLATOON
NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE
CORONADO, CALIFORNIA
THE platoon was new, having been activated less than a month previously from veteran personnel drawn out of the ranks of SEAL Teams One, Three and Five. Most of the men knew each other well from having served together at various times in the past. They also had participated in many drinking sessions at the Fouled Anchor Tavern in Coronado, thus it didn't take them long to form into a cohesive unit. Within a short time they began referring to themselves as Brannigan's Brigands after their commanding officer Lieutenant William 'Wild Bill' Brannigan.
They were a typically dedicated SEAL unit who had endured the near unendurable to earn their way into that elite branch of the United States Navy. Consequently, they performed their duties with exceptionally high morale, esprit de corps and a special elan. Among the other platoons, Brannigan's Brigands were noted to possess that little extra something special that occurs when the right chemistry develops among congruous people. The men even had unique T-shirts made up from a design a couple of the more artistic in the group had dreamed up. It consisted of the unit's name around the image of a leering buccaneer wearing a pirate hat. But instead of the usual skull-and- crossbones emblem on the headgear, it bore the eagle-and-trident insignia of the SEALs.
The platoon consisted of sixteen men divided into two squads of eight men each as per SOP. The squads were further broken down into pairs of four-man fire teams. The commanding officer led the First Squad and its Alpha Fire Team, while a senior chief petty officer honchoed the Bravo Fire Team. The platoon's executive officer commanded the Second Squad and bossed Charlie Fire Team, while a chief petty officer led the Deltas.
The Brigands' camaraderie went beyond duty hours. They spent most of their liberties in the company of other platoon members. Their favorite watering hole was the Fouled Anchor, owned by Salty Donovan, a leathery SEAL veteran who ran the establishment with his wife Dixie. Salty spent thirty years in the Navy, from 1967 to 1997, serving in Vietnam, Somalia, and the Gulf War. He had earned a chestful of decorations, including the Navy Cross, and stories of his exploits were still part of the SEAL legend.
It was a toss-up whether Salty or Dixie was in charge of the tavern. She was the feminine version of her husband, i. E., muscular, with an Irish temper. They were both in their fifties, and as an evening of boozing progressed, Dixie let Salty come out from behind the bar and sit with his old buddies or the young guys still on active duty, to knock back what seemed to be endless rounds of brew. Though he drank his share of the pitchers and more, Salty was most certainly not a tub of beer guts. Even after a long session of drinking, he would still be out early the next morning double-timing down Silver Strand Boulevard--AKA State Highway 75--all the way past the state beach before reversing direction for the return run. That was a distance of ten miles, and Salty arrived back home invigorated and ready to take on the world for the rest of the day.
Dixie, on the other hand, didn't exercise at all. But she didn't smoke or drink except for an occasional glass of wine and had inherited a robust natural health from her Irish ancestors. She and Salty didn't have any kids, and lavished their affections on the youngsters who patronized the tavern. Sometimes, when the testosterone and beer mixed a little too well, Dixie would break up the fights with kind words, a motherly smile and a hard grip around the muscular necks of the combatants. They always settled down to shake hands and let bygones be bygones. Dixie did not allow grudges.
And on occasions when reports came back of young SEALS giving their lives for their country in training accidents or combat, both Salty and Dixie wept with the deep grief of parents losing a child.
.
PLATOON HUT
4 AUGUST
0630 HOURS LOCAL
SENIOR Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins stood in front of the twelve men who were arranged in a reveille formation of two ranks of six. Buford, an Alabaman, was the senior enlisted man of the platoon, while his buddy Chief Petty Officer Matt Gunnarson ranked just under him. At that particular moment, Gunnarson stood off to the side, aloof and in somewhat of a bad mood. Neither of the two platoon officers was present, which meant that everyone was at Dawkins's mercy.
A bit of confusion was evident at this early morning formation. Everyone was dressed for the normally scheduled run. The platoon T-shirts, shorts and boots made up the prescribed uniform. The footgear was the skipper's idea. Wild Bill Brannigan considered jogging shoes candy-ass. If a SEAL fought in boots, the Skipper reasoned, he should damn well run in them too.
The two chief petty officers, however, were not garbed for physical activity. They wore the normal BDUs. Senior Chief Dawkins gazed at his charges, the grin on his face making a blatant display of devious humor. 'I see we have a dozen smiling faces this morning. That pleases me. Did y'all have a good time last night? Did you see your little honeys and get some sweet loving and affection from 'em?' He looked into the second rank, at Petty Officer Second Class Bruno Puglisi. 'What about you, Bruno, ol' buddy? Score some poontang, did you?'
'I did awright, Chief,' Puglisi said. 'I always do awright, you know that.'
'Well, I'm glad you did all right,' Dawkins said. 'In fact, I hope all y'all did just fine with the ladies. And I use that term loosely where y'all are concerned since I seen some of the sorry wimmen you guys attract. But, looks aside, it's my fondest wish that y'all got yourselves laid, re-laid and par-laid.'
Joe Miskoski, holding the right guide's position, snickered. 'That's real nice of you, Senior Chief. You ain't always this concerned about our love lives.'
'I'm nice this morning, because I got some bad news for ever' body,' Dawkins said. 'If you didn't get any loving last night, that's too damn bad 'cause you sure as hell ain't gonna get another chance for romance for a good long while.' He winked over at Gunnarson. 'Tell 'em why, Chief.'
'Because as of this very minute the platoon is on alert,' Gunnarson said morosely. 'We're all going into Isolation.'
The men were caught between elation and disappointment. They were glad to be going on active ops since it would be the first for them as a platoon, but some of them had been working hard establishing some very satisfactory and shallow relationships with cuties in both Coronado and San Diego. Their activities with the female of the species had been progressing nicely.
'Is that why you aren't dressed for PT?' James Bradley asked, thinking of the pretty San Diego State University coed he was currently romancing.
'That's it,' Dawkins answered. 'Me and Chief Gunnarson was hauled out of our racks at oh-two-thirty for notification of the alert. Unfortunately it took so long to brief us, I wasn't able to arrange early chow for you this morning. It looks like you'll have to wait for box lunches to be brought into Isolation at noon.'
'How about you, Chief?' Joe Miskoski asked. 'Did you get early chow?'
'If you don't get to eat, then I don't eat,' Dawkins answered. 'I just hate having a guilty conscience. It was the same for Chief Gunnarson.'
The men weren't surprised that the two had purposely skipped a meal because none of the others in the platoon would have breakfast that morning. This was typical in the SEALs, where bad luck, danger and food were shared equally in times of feast and famine, regardless of rank or position.
'Okay, now,' Dawkins continued. 'When I fall you out, go into the platoon but and grab your alert bags. You can change into the uniforms you got in 'em when we get to Isolation. Albee! Murchison! You two get the Skipper's and Lieutenant Cruiser's. All right! Fall out!'
The men went inside to grab the parachute kit bags where their field gear, extra clothing, boots and other items needed for operations were packed. Once alerted, all they had to do was grab the bags and they were ready
