experiences. These were the three traits that develop elan and discipline among professional fighting men, and outsiders were not be tolerated in their midst.
Senior Chief Dawkins and Chief Gunnarson nodded to a couple of acquaintances while glancing around the room. Moments later they spotted their quarry at the rear of the tavern deep into an evening of serious drinking. Several members of the SEAL platoon known as Brannigan's Brigands sat at a table happily knocking back pitchers of beers with the establishment's owner Salty Donovan, who was a retired SEAL. Salty's wife Dixie was behind the bar drawing some beer into a couple of pitchers when she noticed Dawkins and Gunnarson heading for the back of the tavern.
'Hey!' she called out. 'You two hold up and grab these pitchers. They're for your buddies in the back.'
'Sorry, Dixie,' Dawkins said. 'We ain't here to drink. We got important business to conduct.'
'Are you collecting bets, or is it Navy doings?' Dixie asked. She was a heavyset woman, built solid like her robust Irish female ancestors.
'Navy,' Gunnarson said.
'What the hell am I gonna do with these pitchers?' Dixie asked, exasperated.
'Give 'em to Salty,' Buford suggested. 'He'll knock 'em all back within five minutes.'
'Oh yeah!' Dixie said. 'That's just what that old bastard needs: more beer.'
The two chief petty officers walked through the other tables of drinkers until reaching the place where the Brigands sat. They all looked up, surprised at the sudden appearance of the senior enlisted men of the platoon. But any happy drunken greetings were squelched by the serious expressions on Dawkins's and Matt's wind-burned faces. This arrival was obviously going to have serious consequences.
Bruno Puglisi, a petty officer second class, winced. 'Hey, Chiefs,' he greeted them. Then he hopefully added, 'What's the good word?'
'Isolation,' Dawkins said. 'Now.'
Salty Donovan, a holder of the Navy Cross won during his third tour in Vietnam, had been happily drunk, not only from the beer but from the enjoyment of being with some of his favorite people. This group had lost two men KIA on their last operation, and now it appeared they were about to go out on yet another. He set his mug down and leaned back in the chair, glancing at the young faces around him. The old vet wished he could go with them. Others in the room also noted what was going on at the rear table and realized something urgent was in the works.
Matt walked over to an old-fashioned pinball machine where PO2C Mike Assad was working flippers as he batted the steel ball under the glass cover. Mike's best pal PO2C Dave Leibowitz, sipping from a mug, silently cheered his buddy on. When he noticed Matt's presence, he nodded a greeting.
Matt nudged Mike, saying, 'I hope you ain't winning.' Mike frowned. 'Why the hell not, Chief?'
'Because you ain't gonna be able to play any extra games. The platoon has been alerted. Let's go. Immediately if not sooner!'
The two young SEALs looked around and saw Dawkins with Salty and the others. Dave grimaced. 'Oh, shit!'
'Yeah,' Matt remarked. 'Oh, shit.' He walked to a table where PO3C Chad Murchison was playing chess with a SEAL from another team. The chief announced, 'Checkmate!'
Chad looked up. 'Not yet.'
'Then stalemate,' Matt said. 'Move out, Murchison. We've been alerted.'
Chad frowned. 'How incommodious!'
'Whatever,' Matt commented. 'Move!'
Brannigan's Brigands walked toward the door a group without making any comments. They nodded to Dixie on their way out the tavern, and she gave them a proud smile. Dawkins and Gunnarson followed them through the door into the cool night air.
An impromptu convoy formed as four POVs followed the senior chief's car out of the parking lot and into the street for the short ride down to the base.
.
NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE ISOLATION AREA
21 NOVEMBER
0530 HOURS LOCAL
THE sun was on the eastern side of the Laguna Mountains, hidden down near the desert floor, and none of its illumination showed yet on the distant horizon. It would be some time before it rose high enough to light the sundown side of the mountain range. Over near the Isolation Area entrance, a Navy Humvee appeared out of the darkness and came to a stop. Lieutenant Wild Bill Brannigan and his 21C Lieutenant (J. G.) Jim Cruiser quickly exited the vehicle to walk into the illumination of the light at the gate. The Marine guard on duty knew them both by sight, but he checked their I. D.'s per regulations before he allowed them to enter the compound.
They quickly crossed the short distance to the entrance of the squat building to their direct front. When the two officers entered, they found Brannigan's Brigands just beginning to stir to greet the new duty day. A few were in the head going through their morning toilette while others were sluggishly dressing. They still hadn't gotten the word on why they had been so unceremoniously pulled out of the Fouled Anchor the night before.
The appearance of their two officers snapped them out of the early morning doldrums. Senior Chief Buford Dawkins walked in from the head. He immediately bellowe to attention. Now the men moved smartly, snapping into the traditional position.
'Good morning, sir!' Dawkins said with a salute as he reported.
'Good morning, Senior Chief,' Brannigan said. 'Gather the guys around. I've got a couple of items to pass on to them.'
'Aye, aye, sir!'
It took Dawkins one more bellow to have the entire platoon assembled within five seconds. Brannigan gave the SEALs permission to make themselves comfortable, and they sat down on racks and footlockers, waiting to learn what the hell was going on.
'The first thing I want to say is that I'm sorry about everybody's plans for the holidays fizzling out. But I'm afraid it couldn't be helped.'
Frank Gomez, sitting on a footlocker beside his buddy James Bradley, grinned. 'You've probably saved the lives of about two dozen turkeys, sir. The humane society should give you an award.'
'It wasn't my idea, believe me,' Brannigan said. 'Lieutenant Cruiser and I received a preliminary briefing last night. None of it was etched in stone, so we won't get the final word until the N2 and N3 show up with an asset. But right now I have good news, and I have bad news.'
Joe Miskoski stood with a towel around his waist, his face still covered with shaving soap. 'Give us the good news first, sir.'
'Sure,' Brannigan said. 'The good news is that this mission will be carried out with one foot in the water. In other words, it's an old-fashioned SEAL operation with boats. There're evidently some rivers and creeks involved.'
'Excellent!' Connie Concord said. He suddenly sobered. 'What's the bad news, sir?'
'It appears we're going to be in the OA for quite a spell,' Brannigan said. 'Possibly for much longer than the last operation.' On their last mission, the platoon had deployed on what was supposed to have been a quick linkup with a defector in Afghanistan, but the situation quickly deteriorated to the point that they were on the mission a bit over five weeks. Two of the Brigands had been killed in action during the ensuing combat. 'And one more very important item. Because of the nature of this upcoming little happening, I'm adding seven more guys to the roster. Two are to replace Kevin Albee and Adam Clifford, of course. The other five are going to flesh out the assault sections.'
'Assault sections?' Gutsy Olson asked. 'What's that all about, sir?'
'It will all be explained later,' Brannigan replied. He checked his watch. 'All right! Go ahead and finish getting dressed. The briefing is scheduled to start at oh-seven-thirty hours.' He nodded to Dawkins. 'Take over, Senior Chief.'
'Let's go, people!' Dawkins yelled. 'We're gonna have company!'
The SEALs turned back to dressing. Thanksgiving and Christmas were completely forgotten with this latest news of going back into harm's way. Most wondered where on the globe they would be headed to put their asses
