attempting to keep drinks and paper plates from spilling as they stood at attention.
'Carry on, gentlemen,' he said, smiling broadly. Batman thought he looked… older now, or perhaps it was just the effects of exhaustion. Fitzgerald had rarely been absent from either the bridge or CIC during the past three days, and the beginnings of blue smudges on the pouches beneath his eyes were showing.
'Just wanted to drop in and tell you men 'well done,'' the Captain said, 'And to let You all know that Jefferson has been officially credited with eight blue bandit kills today. That's one each for Lieutenants Taggart, Garrison, McConnell, and Grabiak. Two kills for Commander French.' He sobered for a moment, then brightened again as he turned and looked Batman in the face. 'And two for this hotdog here! If we keep this up, the NKs aren't going to have one goddamned fighter left!'
There was an answering explosion of applause and laughter.
'I know I speak for all of us… and for Admiral Magruder as well, when I say that Commander French and Lieutenants Ashly and Whitridge will be sorely, sorely missed. They were good men, all of them, good aviators and good shipmates. But they gave their lives in the service of their country, and no man can ask for a better epitaph than that.' He looked around, noting coffee mugs and paper cups. 'Well now, I don't suppose anyone's saved some of that Kool-Aid for me?'
'Comin' right up, Captain.' Someone handed him a paper cup. He sipped at it appreciatively, made a sour face, and looked at it.
'Lemonade,' he said, sounding disappointed. He looked up at Batman. 'You know, Wayne, too much sugar can be bad for you, especially when you have to fly the next day. Screws up your metabolism.'
'Yes, sir.'
'That goes for all of you. Not too much sugar.' Fitzgerald tossed off the rest of the cup. 'That's all, men. Have a good evening. Thanks for the… Kool-Aid.'
'Good night, Captain.'
Batman stared dubiously into his own mug. 'What did you give him, Tiger? Lemonade, or…?'
'I'll never tell,' Tigershark replied primly.
The laughter and easy conversation picked up again moments after the Captain had gone. Malibu took Batman's mug. 'Let me get you a refill. What's your flavor?'
'More of the same,' Batman replied. 'But with ice this time.'
'You think Tombstone'll be okay?' Hoffner asked.
'They don't make 'em any better, Snake,' Batman said. 'He'll do just fine.'
Another junior officer crowded close. Lieutenant j.g. Peter Costello was about the same age as Snake but looked even younger. 'Hey, listen, Batman, I wanted to say congratulations on your kills! Real smooth work, y'know?'
Batman smiled. 'Thanks, Hitman.' Costello's running name, it was said, was derived from the tough Italian street-kid manner he affected at times.
'I saw it, man,' Army Garrison said, leaning over Hoffner's shoulder. 'Watched his first missile going' in smooth as silk…' He slapped the palm of one hand across the other. 'Kapow! Fireball city!'
'No shit?' Costello shook his head. A nugget pilot with VF-97, he'd missed the fight. He looked positively wistful.
Batman wasn't certain what to say. A modest answer didn't seem to be in character somehow, but a cocky reply would have been out of place. Malibu gave him an excuse to turn away by returning with his drink. 'Great timing, Malibu. Thanks.'
'Hey, Batman?' Costello persisted. 'I was wantin' to ask you. What's it feel like, killing a man?'
The question took Batman completely by surprise. He blinked. 'What?'
'I was just wondering how it felt, killing a human being like that. You feel different? Anything?'
The words hit Batman like a hammer blow. He'd always considered himself to be a professional, hard and detached. That the question should rock him so badly surprised him as much as the question itself.
'Hey, Batman?' Malibu laid a hand on his shoulder. 'You okay?'
'Fine. I'm fine.' He made himself swallow the rest of his scotch, letting the liquid fire mingle with the fire in his stomach. A new emotion mingled with the others. Shame. He was ashamed of letting the others know how he felt.
Suddenly he had to get away. He handed his mug to Hoffner, the ice cubes tinkling merrily. 'Stow this ? I think I'm going to turn in.'
He pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring the back-slaps and shouted congratulations as he went.
Batman wanted to be alone with thoughts grown suddenly black.
Surf hissed and thundered, the breakers faintly luminescent under the glimmer of lights from the oil refinery on a bluff overlooking the bay to the south. Chief Huerta let the waves carry him toward the beach in a succession of rushes. He held his rucksack in front of his body with his left hand, using it as shield and flotation device. His right hand held a Colt XM 177E2 Commando braced across the top of the rucksack. The SMG, barrel-heavy because of the custom suppressor affixed to the muzzle, tracked in his hand as he watched the blackness of the shore.
Another wave picked him up and slid him forward until rough sand grated under his legs and swim vest. He waited as the outgoing water sucked at his body, leaving him for the moment exposed on the beach. There was no movement at all, no sound save the repetitious roar of the surf.
Huerta sensed motion to his left. Machinist's Mate First Class Brian Copley was all but invisible in the darkness, but Huerta could make out the flicker of a hand motion, questioning. He replied with a hand sign of his own. 'Go!'
Minutes earlier, the two of them had dropped from the raft fifty yards offshore. Lieutenant Sikes was waiting now with the others while they checked out the beach.
A low whistle, barely heard through a lull in the surf, told him the way was clear. As the next wave picked him up and slid him forward again, Huerta rose to a low crouch and loped forward. He ran twenty yards up the beach, then threw himself down at Copley's side. Working quietly, they pulled night-vision goggles from waterproof pouches and put them on. Switched on, the goggles enhanced the available light enough that the SEALs could see a man-sized target at three hundred yards.
They exchanged more hand signals. The SEALs split up, checking a hundred yards up and down the coast.
The beach was narrow, with a steep, boulder-strewn slope rising like a wall in front of them. There were buildings close by, a seaside resort and the ramshackle huts of a fishing village, but this stretch was empty.
Huerta met Copley once more, signaled him to mount guard, and made his way back to the water's edge. He switched off his starlight goggles and raised them up on his head to conserve battery power. Taking a penlight, he aimed it out past the surf and pressed the switch once… twice… three times. There was no response ? no sense in alerting other watchers along the shore ? but minutes later Huerta glimpsed the subdued flash of a black paddle dipping against a wave. The IBS had motored in from the drop point, stopping only once when a North Korean torpedo boat had growled past on patrol. Though their DZ had been well inside the twelve-mile limit, the team had still been forced to motor a long way to reach this portion of the coast, and speed was essential. For the final approach silence and invisibility were the watchwords, so they'd come into the beach with the motors off, using paddles to keep from broaching to in the surf.
Figures materialized out of the night, carrying the dripping rafts. Lieutenant Sikes touched his shoulder, a silent 'well done.' Huerta led the rest of the SEAL team back up the beach to where Copley was waiting with his suppressed Smith and Wesson M-760 SMG, prone behind his rucksack.
They worked swiftly, half mounting guard while the other half stripped off wetsuit tops and donned camouflaged combat suits, boots and web gear. Headgear, like weapons, was largely a matter of personal choice. Most of the men wore boonie hats. Some, like Huerta, preferred a simple sweat band of camo cloth.
The SEALs took another fifteen minutes using paddles to scoop out holes above the beach's high-tide line where they buried the rafts and motors, paddles, wetsuits, fins, and goggles. Whatever happened now, they would not be needing them again. They spent minutes more checking themselves and each other, making certain that exposed skin was covered with camo grease-paint, that snaps and swivels on rifles and equipment were secured with black tape, that no one wore anything which might shine or clink or rattle and thus give their presence away to
