They retired to bed soon after midnight, but for most of them it was a fitful night. The first four hours of sleep were easy because of general tiredness after the endless journey. But by 0400 the SEALs were awake, each man wondering what the next 24 hours would hold for him. The younger first-mission SEALs would not sleep again this night, and even the veteran Lt. Commander Ray Schaeffer was anxious. He climbed out of bed and walked around his room, flexing his muscles, as if taking comfort from his enormous strength. But the mission weighed heavily upon him, and he could not take his mind off the warm shallows through which he must lead his men in the darkness of the following night.
Commander Bennett was sharing a bigger cabin with Lt. John Nathan, and the younger man was unable to sleep. Three times he stood up and walked over to the door, finally pulling on a sweater, waking Rusty and leaving to find a cup of coffee. Fortunately a big carrier never sleeps, and the dining room was full, mostly of Navy fliers. By some bush telegraph they seemed to know that the broad-shouldered young stranger in the corner nursing coffee in a plastic cup was one of the SEALs going in later that day.
None of them were strangers to fear and daring, but there is a certain aura surrounding a combat SEAL on the brink of a mission, and no one approached him. No one, that is, until a cheerful 24-year-old pilot from Florida, still in his flying jacket, showed up. He collected a tall glass of ice-cold milk and walked straight over to Lt. Nathan’s table, stuck out his hand and announced, “Hey, how you doin’? I’m Steve Ghutzman.”
The SEAL explosives chief looked up and nodded. He shook hands and said, “Hi, Clouds Nathan.”
He felt awkward, sitting there in the middle of the night with this robust stranger, but in truth he was glad of the company. Steve swiftly regaled him with details of the hot, gusting southwest wind out there. “You don’t wanna take your eye off the ball tonight, I’m telling you. The air’s like a goddamned switchback coming in…it wouldn’t be no trouble to slam one of them Tomcats bang into the ass of this fucking airfield. Gotta stay right on top of it, yessir.”
Steve was unable to distinguish the rank and station of his new companion, and he was talking fast, in the slightly high-adrenaline way Navy pilots do after a tense landing on a flight deck. But he was a nice guy, born a mile from the runway at the Navy air base in Pensacola, a flier all his career, just like his father before him.
He inhaled the milk, got up to get another glass and brought back another cup of coffee for his new buddy. Winding down a little, he asked finally, “What’s that first name of yours? I didn’t quite catch it.”
“Oh it’s just a nickname. The guys all call me Clouds because I’m interested in astronomy. I used to be a navigator. I got kinda used to it.”
“Hey, that’s cool. Clouds…I love it. You just arrived? Didn’t see you around before.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty new. Got in a while before midnight. And we’ll be gone by fifteen hundred.”
Steve Ghutzman hesitated. Then he dropped his lower jaw in mock astonishment. “H-O-L-E-E-E SHIT!” he said. “You’re one of ’em, right?”
“Guess so,” said Lt. Nathan, smiling. “Guess I’m one of ’em.”
The pilot knew better than to ask details of a classified SEAL mission, but like most of the 6,000-strong crew of the gigantic Nimitz-Class carrier, he knew there was a SEAL team on board for less than 24 hours, and that they were going into Iran later that day. He knew nothing of the mission, the objective or when they were due to return — just that they were “going in,” God help them.
Throughout every corner of the U.S. Navy the SEALs were regarded as men apart.
The SEAL nodded. “Some,” he said. “This is my first mission. Guess it’s on my mind.”
“You been in the platoon awhile?”
“Oh, yeah. Five years now. And I’ve done a lot of training…but you always think of this day…the day you’re going in. And for me that’s today…right now…and I can’t sleep worth a damn.”
Steve nodded. “They tell you a lot about it before you go?”
“Everything there is to know. I’ve never even been to the Middle East, but I know what I’m headed for. I know every hill, and every rock. I know how warm the water is and where to be careful. But it doesn’t stop you from thinking about it. Can’t get it off your mind, really.”
“You think it takes courage, or is it just the training?”
“Well, I guess it’s mostly the training. But in my case it’s gonna take courage. I don’t really know about the others.”
“Shit, Clouds, you scared?”
“Damn right, I’m scared. Wouldn’t you be?”
“Damn straight I would. But you guys are the best. What do they say, one SEAL, five enemy, that’s fair odds, right?”
“Seven.”
Steve laughed. “Hey, you guys are indestructible.”
“Not quite. We bleed. And we hurt like everyone else. We’re just a bit tougher to get at.”
Steve Ghutzman drained his glass. “I gotta go. I’m back up there at zero-eight-hundred.” He stood up, stuck out his hand and said, “Hey, it was good to talk to you, buddy. Good luck tonight, wherever the hell you’re going.”
“Thanks, Steve. We’re staying the hell out of Hell, that’s for sure.”
For the short run out to USS
They all wore just light pants and olive green T-shirts. They carried their heavy-duty welder’s gloves for the hot-rope drop to the deck of the submarine. It was too hot for them to wear wet suits, and an area had been set aside in the submarine for them to change and prepare for the swim-in during the final hour of the journey up through the partially cleared minefield.
There were, as ever, the flight-deck crews on the takeoff area as the two rotors on the big white U.S. Marines Sea Knight roared into life. The SEALs had already blackened their faces with waterproof greasepaint, and were just about unrecognizable.
Among the crowd was Steve Ghutzman, and he just yelled a solitary, “
They flew low, out over the calm blue water, toward the waiting submarine. It took less than 15 minutes, and as the Sea Knight hovered above the deck, they all saw the thick rope unravel downward to a point in front of the sail, right behind the long deck shelter on the right, where the miniature submarine awaited them. One by one the SEALs grabbed the rope and dropped fast, away from the aircraft, sliding down 30 feet, before gripping hard with the big rough leather gloves, their brakes, and coming in to land gently on the casing of the
Lieutenant Commander Schaeffer led the way, followed by Lt. Dan Conway, then Lt. Nathan, then Petty Officer Combs, then the big Chief Petty Officer Rob Cafiero. The next seven combat rookies came sliding in right behind them, with Commander Rusty Bennett bringing up the rear.
They were greeted by the Officer of the Deck, Lt. Matt Singer, who hustled them quickly through the door at the base of the sail, and on down the ladder. The hatches were slammed shut and clipped behind them, and Commander Reid ordered
“Steer course three-six-zero…make your speed one-five for fifteen miles, then stand by for course change to zero-seven-zero.”
They all felt the submarine’s gentle turn to due north, settling on a course that would allow them to cleave right through the middle of the now-three-mile-wide “gateway” through the minefield, and then on up the strait until she turned in toward the shore of Iran.
