Sixty seconds later, Ray Schaeffer dragged himself over the wall, and he and the big SEAL leader maneuvered themselves into position. Then they carried the canister forward, into the trees, where they lowered it to the ground by the green chemical marker the Chief had left.
The walk back, in the near-freezing rain and twenty-knot southwest wind off the Baltic, was not much short of paradise. Relieved of their heavy burden, the two SEALs marched along, smacking their feet into the mud. After three hundred paces they called out Fred’s name. Just out of sight on the right they heard the Chief snap, “Over here.”
Rick Hunter was concerned at the distance of separation, and he decided they should carry the last two canisters in fifty paces at a time, going back for the third one each time. “That way we get a rest between the drives, and it keeps Fred up close in case we need help.”
It was a psychological masterstroke. Ray Schaeffer felt he could handle fifty paces if he could just get a rest in between, and with a renewed vigor he picked up the new handle, this time with his right hand, and walked forward into the dark. He counted off the first twenty-five paces before the pain began to set in, right across his forearm. Even Rick Hunter was feeling the strain. And the ground seemed to grow more waterlogged by the minute. First Ray went down, then Rick, then Ray twice more. Rick’s knee was cut almost as badly as Ray’s.
But the SEAL code was never broken. Neither of them uttered one word of complaint. When they fell, they got up again. When the pain was too great, they ignored it and walked forward. When Ray felt he could go no farther, he drove on, assuming that he would either make it or die out here in this horrific Russian farmland.
It took one more hour. And it was a truly terrible hour. No ordinary man could have withstood it. The two SEALs, covered in mud, were almost at the end of their tether. Shivering violently, sweat pouring down their chests, they were exhausted by their titanic efforts carrying one-third of a ton across a saturated field, by hand. Neither man had much left.
But they had reached the wall, and now Chief Cernic was stripped for action down to his shorts and sneakers, trembling in the freezing rain, helping to manhandle the two final canisters over the wall. The three half-dragged, half-lifted them over to the trees, where Lieutenant Ray Schaeffer collapsed on the wet leaves of the woodland.
“Get him up, sir,” snapped the veteran Chief. “Get him up, sir…he’ll stiffen up in two minutes. Get the jackets out and get him upright.”
They pulled the shattered SEAL to his feet, and Rick Hunter wrapped one coat around Ray’s shoulders. The Chief came up with a small flask of brandy, and tipped it between Lieutenant Schaeffer’s lips. The liquid burned its way through the youngest SEAL’s throat and worked its magic. Ray came around, shook his head, and said, “Christ, guys, I’m really sorry. I’m okay. Just lemme sit here for a minute…”
“Keep moving, sir, straightway,” said Fred Cernic, who knew imminent hypothermia when he saw it. “And keep talking…don’t even think of stopping…keep moving.”
He moved to the first canister and opened it. Bull’s-eye. The first things he felt, right on top, were two shovels, and a flashlight. He grabbed them and shut the metal door, handed one to Rick and said, “Pick a spot and let’s start digging…what do you say, Ray?”
“That’s it, Chief…I’ll help in a minute. Just gimme a minute.”
Fred and Rick walked deeper into the wood, using the flashlight sparingly, looking for a spot in the undergrowth. The Chief picked one out under a loose straggling bush. “Let’s pull that out and bury them underneath, then stick the bush back in.”
“Good call, Fred. Let’s go.”
They pushed through the branches, ignoring the scratches and slammed their shovels into the area around the root, loosening the earth. Then they grabbed the stem and heaved, and the entire bush came out in one rush. They did not stop to discuss the matter. They just started to did three trenches, each one six feet long, four feet wide, and three deep, about the size of a well-proportioned grave.
Fred Cernic was tough. He was from New Jersey, and he knew how to dig. But he had never seen anyone dig quite like the country boy from Kentucky who worked beside him. Rick Hunter got into a rhythm, cleaving the shovel into the ground and lifting out a mound of wet earth with every stroke. Fred reckoned he could pull out ten such shovels without a break. Rick Hunter could do thirty.
The first “grave” took them forty minutes to dig. The second took an hour. The rain, if anything, grew worse. It was 0330 and there was still another hole to dig. Fred Cernic was spent. Ray Schaeffer was half-dead, and Rick Hunter worked on. Cut and scratched by the foliage, bloodied and shivering, they were covered in mud, their hands too slippery to hold the shovels efficiently. Only one man was still pulling the wagon. And Rick dug on without complaint, understanding that when a highly trained SEAL can offer no more, there is simply no more to offer.
Rick crashed the shovel into the ground, hauling out the earth, trying to find a rhythm, his breath now coming in short angry bursts, his rib cage heaving, the pain in his massive arms excruciating from the lactic acid buildup in his muscles. He was operating on the edge of blackout now, and he knew it. Rick Hunter tried talking to himself, snapping out the word “NOW!” every time his shovel hit the ground. He worked like this for three minutes before he became conscious of another shovel slamming into the earth alongside his, and through the sharp light of the Chief’s lowered flashlight he could see the pale face of Ray Schaeffer, still fighting, still trying to help. Covered from head to foot in mud and blood, flecks of white spittle coming from his mouth, his lips drawn back from his teeth with effort, Ray Schaeffer was alone now with his god, still praying softly that he would not let the SEALs down. They rammed their shovels into the ground alternately, each of them drawing strength from the presence of the other.
And they kept going like this, shoveling steadily, tackling the pain barrier, for five more minutes, before Ray Schaeffer collapsed facedown into the trench he had just dug, his head sinking in the five inches of rainwater that had gathered there. Chief Cernic came out of the dark like a panther and dragged Ray’s head clear. Rick Hunter dropped his shovel and helped to carry the younger Lieutenant out.
They propped him against a tree while the Chief grabbed the jackets and wrapped all three of them around the unconscious SEAL. Ray was beyond brandy, he needed a doctor, or a hospital, and there wasn’t one. However, his breathing was steady, and Fred Cernic left him covered and picked up the second shovel. It took twenty more minutes to complete the “graves,” and they rolled the canisters into position carefully, before tipping them into the holes, with their long doors uppermost. While Lieutenant Commander Hunter fell back exhausted, conscious but battered, the Chief checked the contents of the canisters, rescued three towels, locked the doors, and began the much easier task of covering them with the loose soil.
The holes required only about one-third of the available earth, and as the Chief began to tackle the last one there was one hell of a pile of soil still left. When he was almost through he dropped one shovel into the last “grave” and then covered it. He and Rick then took turns making the mound of spare earth smooth above the precious buried stockpile of SEALs demolition kit. Afterward they brought in piles of dead leaves to make it look like a natural mound. Finally, they dragged the big bush back into place and replanted it to disguise the disturbed area. It was almost 0500 when they laid the last shovel into the loose earth, deep under the bush, and camouflaged it with soil and leaves. Rick checked the burial position with the GPS as the rain dripped steadily down through the trees.
“Okay, Chief, let’s go,” said the team leader. “You pack up the clothes and towels into the garbage bags, and we’ll head back to the road as fast as we can.” At which point, he walked back to Ray, zipped up his jacket, and lifted him up and over his shoulders, walking forward on course 140.
They made the return journey faster than they expected; Ray regained consciousness and insisted on walking unaided. It was 0534 when they reached the dirt road. They could see the lights of the
At 0615, looking more or less normal, they strolled back up the gangway into the darkened ship. A seaman on duty was asleep in a deck chair, and the three SEALs walked silently past to their cabins. They were not seen by their fellow passengers.
There was an envelope pinned to Lieutenant Commander Hunter’s cabin door with the name “Ricky” on
