'Yes, sir,' the young man said.
'And, of course, the Third will be honchoed by the intrepid Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins, the pride of Alabama.'
'You have some guys left over,' Cruiser pointed out.
'It's all part of my cunning master plan,' the Skipper said with a wink. 'That will be our support section of machine guns. Seven-point-six-twos, as a matter of fact. I'll let Chief Gunnarson run that particular show.' He gave Taylor another look. 'Any suggestions?'
'Negative, sir.'
'This operation is going to be your baptism of fire, is it not, Ensign?' Brannigan asked.
'Yes, sir.'
'In that case, I have some advice for you,' Brannigan said. 'You'll be the leader of an assault section, understand? You are the commander, but you listen to the advice of the senior petty officers. Developing that habit will be invaluable to you not only in the beginning of your career, but even after you're a salty old dog yourself.'
'Yes, sir.'
When Brannigan slid the diagram of the organization over to Cruiser, the impassive Ensign Orlando Taylor gazed steadily at the two veteran officers. The one thing he wanted to conceal from them was his fear; not the fear of death or injury, but the fear of failure. He had been raised in an African-American family well tuned into the twenty-first century. It was headed by a capable, ambitious father. The outcome of this paternal supervision was a fierce rivalry among the four Taylor brothers, who had been taught that anything short of success was not an option.
Cruiser handed the quickly sketched manning chart to Brannigan. 'I'd say it's good to go.'
'Fine,' the Skipper said. 'So let's put it into reality, shall we, gentlemen?'
'Lead on, sir,' Cruiser said.
The three officers got up to go outside. Taylor followed the two seniors, his apprehension growing.
.
OVAL OFFICE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D. C.
5 JUNE
A rapping at the door caught the President's attention. He looked up from the press briefing he was preparing and called out, 'Come in.'
Arlene Entienne, the White House chief of staff, entered the office. She was a beautiful woman of African- Cajun ancestry, with green eyes and dark brown hair. She looked stunning that morning, even though it was obvious she was tired. 'Good morning, Mr. President.'
'Hello, Arlene,' he replied to the greeting. 'I heard you came in at four A. M. today.'
'Yes, sir,' she replied. 'I received a call from Edgar Watson of the CIA a little after three. Operation Persian Empire has kicked into high gear.'
The President got up and walked over to the side of the room where a coffeepot was plugged in. He poured a cup of the brew, then brought it over to Arlene. 'Here. You need this.'
'I sure do!'
'Did we hear from Aladdin again?' the President asked, sitting back down. He referred to a mysterious individual who had been sending anonymous but accurate intelligence from the Iran-Afghanistan border.
'Edgar said it was a quick transmission,' Arlene answered. 'Evidently Aladdin is in a particularly dangerous area. At any rate, he informed us that a compact group of Iranians and Arabs are occupying a fortified area in the far west of the Gharawdara Highlands. When the time is right, they'll make their move. Their objective, of course, is to gain control of that mountainous area in western Afghanistan.'
'A 'compact' group, hey?' the President remarked. 'They evidently don't want to make a big fuss. That's good. We don't want to either.'
'Mr. President,' Arlene said, 'you gave me authorization to put your special executive order into effect. I did so at a little past five this morning.'
'All right,' he said. 'It's amazing when one considers the fact that this sensitive international crisis is going to be settled by dozens rather than thousands of troops.'
'Without a doubt it's a most unique situation.'
'And now our own so-called compact group will answer the challenge,' the President said. 'A small, deadly operation within a larger one, with global implications.'
'Operation Battleline folded into Operation Persian Empire,' Arlene said.
The President sighed. 'The worst part of this job is having to put the lives of our finest young people at risk.' He stood and walked to the window, gazing out pensively. 'I cannot describe how much it distresses me.'
Arlene got to her feet and went over to him, standing close to the chief executive. 'Would it make you feel better if I reminded you they were all volunteers?'
'Not really.'
CHAPTER 1
SHELOR FIELD, AFGHANISTAN
7 JUNE
THE procedure is called 'isolation,' and the name can be taken literally.
This is a routine of segregating a detachment as it begins preparation for a highly classified mission. Its members are either moved to a secure area, or their present quarters are sealed off. Segregated from the outside by security personnel, the people concerned are first briefed with what is actually a very complicated WARNO. This involves a detailed presentation, usually given by an operations and/or intelligence officer that spells out the what, where, and when of an upcoming operation.
This is called the briefing.
The people receiving the information then write up an OPLAN based on everything they've learned during the briefing. When the commander of the mission is satisfied with it, the OPLAN is presented orally to the briefing team.
That phase is called the briefback.
This can lead to more discussion until everything is hashed over and given a final approval. At that point it becomes an OPORD, and the situation shifts into high gear for implementation and application.
The SEAL operations officer, Commander Thomas Carey, and his cohort, Lieutenant Commander Ernest Berringer, an intelligence officer, worked off the USS Combs, a DDG that served as a surreptitious SFOB floating around in the Persian Gulf. The commander was a grumpy U. S. Army Special Forces brigadier general named Leroux. He likened his assignment to being encased in a steel box that rolled and pitched 24/7 without ceasing. From all appearances, the vessel was just part of a CVBG carrying on normal duties rather than acting as a direction center for SPECOPS within that operational area.
Both Carey and Berringer had arrived at Shelor Field only hours before. Their appearances were always unexpected and heralded the beginning of exciting times, but this latest presence raised moods of the deepest suspicion and apprehension among Brannigan's Brigands. The pair of visiting officers had someone with them, and this person gave strong evidence that something very special was about to go down. Carl Joplin, PhD, an Undersecretary of State, was already well known by the SEALs, and his usual bailiwick was in the State Department Building in Washington, D. C.
Immediately after their arrival, Carey and Berringer placed the recently reinforced SEAL detachment Brannigan's Brigands in isolation. The SEALs were taken into their special hangar, cut off from the rest of the air base, meaning they no longer ate in the mess hall, no longer visited the theater or service club, and had to curtail their favorite pastime of making out with female Air Force personnel behind the beer garden. Security was provided by Shelor's APs to make sure the Brigands were kept out of circulation.
They and all their belongings were now in total confinement.
.
SEAL HANGAR
0700 HOURS
SCPO Buford Dawkins checked the names on his clipboard with the faces seated in the four rows of folding chairs. Brannigan's Brigands had gone from its customary strength of some twenty-one individuals to a total of
