The bus had gone across the graceful Coronado-San Diego Bay Bridge, turned south on Interstate 5, and then slanted off on California Highway 15 north toward Interstate 8. Once on 8, the bus had nosed east heading for the desert.
"We going to the fucking desert?" Jaybird had asked.
"Now that you mention it, why don't we?" Murdock had rasped. "You guys haven't had a shot at the Chocolate Mountains in months now."
"I'm getting thirsty already," Ross Lincoln had said.
"Hold that thought," Murdock had said. "You'll be a hell of a lot thirstier before the next forty-eight hours are over."
"Forty-eight?" Doc Ellsworth had asked. "Sheeeet. We can do that without even changing our wad of chewing gum."
Jaybird had been more cautious. "L-T you didn't let me get in on the planning of this one. You got some secrets for us?"
Murdock had grinned and waved at him and closed his eyes. He'd been ready for a three-hour ride out Highway 8 past Boulevard to where it swept within a mile of the Mexican border at Jucumba, and on to Ocotillo and into the desert town of El Centro. From there it was a short run due north to Niland and the Navy's Chocolate Mountain Gunnery Range.
Three hours later the bus stopped at the small headquarters building, and the L-T went inside to check in and confirm the time of stay. Then the bus moved out to the far end of the long bombing range and parked. This would be their home base for the next two days.
The desert was the same. A little scrub growth, sagebrush, cacti all over the place, and a dusky range of low rolling hills called the Chocolate Mountains eastward from the Coachilla Canal. The SEALS wore their desert cammies, and now put on their American Body Armor operations vests with pouches for ammo and radio and grenade pouches on the web belt. There was no bullet-proofing body armor as such on the webbing.
Each man had ammo to fit his issue weapon. Today all carried the HK MP-5SD, except for the specialists. One HW man in each squad had a Mcmillan M-88.50-caliber sniper rifle that could knock down a man from two kilometers away. The other HW men had the new-issue Heckler & Koch 21A1 machine gun. It fires the 7.62 NATO round at nine hundred rounds per minute. Two vest pouches held rounds. Range was up to 1,100 meters. And it would take any of the NATO loads from AP incendiary to tracers and ball.
Doc Ellsworth carried his favorite, a Remington 870 12-gauge pump shotgun with the barrel cut off at the end of the magazine and only a pistol grip instead of a stock. It held five deadly rounds of double-aught buck that could cut a man in half at twenty feet.
All had as backup the new Heckler & Koch Mark 23 Model 0 Special Operation Offensive handgun system. This double-action pistol had a twelve-round magazine of.45-caliber, and a decocking lever that silently lowered a fully cocked hammer. A screw-on Knight sound suppressor hushed the rounds, but added seven inches of length to the stock weapon, making it 16.6 inches long with a weight of four pounds.
It was big and heavy and extra long with the silencer on. Part of that could be solved by attaching the suppressor only when it was time to use the weapon.
Each man carried 50 more than the regular ammo issue for his weapon and one canteen of water.
Murdock had the men fall in, and put Jaybird in charge of the Second Squad.
"We'll start out with a casual little two-mile run. I know it's early and the place hasn't even started to heat up. It can't be more than about eighty degrees out, so it'll be a walk in the park for you guys. We'll all carry the new HK forty-fives, so get used to them. What's another four pounds for tough guys like us? Let's move out."
They did a mile out on a marked cross-country course, and a mile back to the bus. Their time was a ragged eight minutes a mile.
Murdock shook his head. "You pack rats are out of shape. Too much garrison life."
"Yeah, we been back all of four days now," Scotty Frazier popped off. They all laughed.
"One drink. Remember that canteen has to last you one hell of a long time. Next, Ron Holt is going to give us a refresher course on the HK forty-five hideout we carry. A sixteen-inch hideout. We'll go out to Range A for that little schooling. Ron, move these innocents out to slaughter."
There had been little use of the HK.45-caliber pistol in their last engagement in Lebanon. It was too easily traced to the U.S. and it had been too heavy along with all of the other large-caliber firepower they had packed along. So they had left it on the ship.
Now was the time to get intimately reacquainted with the little weapon that could be the last line of defense for the SEALS in some combat situation.
They sat in the sand near Range A, field-stripped the weapon, oiled it, and put it back together. Ron Holt walked them through the process and told them the strong points of the weapon and what to be careful of.
"This weapon has more of a recoil than the 9mm jobs we've been used to," he said. "Allow a scosh bit more aiming time. It's going to rise on you no matter how strongly you hold it. Remember, you've got twelve shots, so make each one count.
"Now, let's draw some ammo and see what you can do at twenty yards."
They fired for half an hour. Each man put more than a hundred rounds through his pistol before they all did a final shoot at paper targets with a case of beer on the line for the winner, when they got off duty.
"I'll fire, but I'm not in the competition," Holt said. "But if any of you wildmen can beat my score, I'll make that two cases of beer."
They fired six shots each on the test. Three men got all the shots in the bull. But Holt's rounds all touched each other to beat the rest. Joe Lampedusa won the contest. Holt turned the show back to the L-T.
"Gentlemen," Murdock said, "the fun is only beginning. We'll double-time out to the edge of the Coachella Canal, and get in some quality training time."
19
The fifteen men of the Third Platoon of Seal Team Seven struggled out of the Coachella Canal and flopped on the desert sand and rocks. They had just completed a half-mile swim against the six-knot current of the swift-flowing water.
Lieutenant Blake Murdock sat up and winced, then let out a small groan and waved for Doc Ellsworth.
Doc walked over and squatted beside his L-T, then sat down in the sand.
"Looks like you're about due, L-T," Doc said.
"Not so fucking loud, Doc. I could get you a bullhorn."
Doc took out an ampoule of morphine and Murdock rolled back his cammie sleeve for the shot.
Doc rubbed the shot spot with some alcohol and nodded.
"Damn good thing you talked Mr. Dewitt out of this picnic. He'd be in Balboa Hospital by now."
"Went to see his family in Seattle." Murdock rolled over on his stomach to relieve the burning in his buttocks and upper thighs. "Doc, how long is it going to take these damn things to heal up?"
"Depends. Some are healed over now. The ones with shrapnel that has to work their way out of your butt are going to take longer, a month at least."
"Oh, damn."
Murdock let the men rest for ten minutes, then hand-signaled for Jaybird to come up. "You're up, Platoon Chief. Make a call."
"My choice?"
"As long as it's the CQB."
Jaybird sighed. "That's two miles the other direction."
"By then our cammies should be almost dried out and our weapons should be drained. Let's go. A nice easy seven-minutes-to-the-mile run. Easier than double time."