They had taken off from North Island on twelve hours’ notice. Senior Chief Will Dobler had talked with Nancy for two hours and had come back ready to travel. Nancy would meet every three days with Milly and Maria Fernandez to trade news and gossip and to cry on each others’ shoulders if necessary.
All of Murdock’s men were fit and ready. The big plane held the platoon easily, and the cargo bay carried all their personnel gear and weapons, including the five new Bull Pups and five thousand rounds of HE automatic fuzed ammo. They were ready.
Murdock wasn’t sure what route they were taking. He heard something about a fuel stop in Texas and another one in Miami. He knew they would land in Panama City. This bird should have a range of over 2,600 miles. From Panama they would take a Navy COD for transfer out to a carrier somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.
Lieutenant (j.g.) Ed DeWitt snored softly in the seat just ahead of Murdock. He could go to sleep almost on call.
They had been airborne only two hours when one of the crew brought them hot meals from the plane’s kitchen. It turned out to be standard first-class airline dinners, which the men appreciated.
“Damn lots better than MREs,” Ostercamp bellowed.
They had left North Island at 1600. Don Stroh said that would make most of their trip in the dark, especially the stop in Panama City and the transfer to the COD and then the run out to the carrier.
“No sense telegraphing our punch,” Stroh said on his last talk with Murdock. He said he’d follow them the next day and be on the carrier Gerald R. Ford CVN-81 and on call there.
“This one is still a little tricky,” Stroh had said that afternoon on the secure line. “We’re not completely happy with the former president. He may be sharpening his teeth to take over as a dictator himself. So protect your back at all times. We know that we want the bastard drug cartel operators out of power now, and we want to smash a huge hole in their drug trafficking.”
Murdock mulled over the conversation. They would do what they could. Hit the growth area of the leaves of the cocoa tree. Or were there many in Colombia? As he remembered, most of the leaves came from Peru and Bolivia, high up in the mountains. They processed it halfway into cocaine paste and exported that. The Colombians processed that into cocaine. So they would take down the production plants that manufactured the cocaine and then burn up as much of the export pipeline to the States as they could. The puppet president might or might not be on their agenda.
He woke up when they landed. When he looked out the window, he saw all U.S. planes and guessed it was either Texas or Miami.
The C-22 had an extra crewman on board. He was a sharp-dressing corporal with a thick Southern accent.
“Best duty I had in a year, sir.” He told Murdock all he had to do was play attendant. He served the meals, was on call, and said he could provide anything but alcoholic drinks.
“Our captain got orders that you folks was to be considered just a notch below generals and admirals, and we was to treat you with the utmost respect. You SEALs. What’s a SEAL?”
Murdock explained to him.
“Oh, and this is some sort of secret mission. Yeah, I dig. Never heard of you, but then lots of things I ain’t never heard of.”
They took off, and the corporal served anyone who wanted it coffee, juice, or soft drinks. Most of the men slept through the landing.
It was dark when they came down in Panama. Murdock wasn’t sure what relations were with Panama, but they had no trouble transferring their gear to the Navy Greyhound, the CA-2A. The Greyhound is a slightly altered model of the Navy’s E-2C Hawkeye Airborne Early Warning aircraft.
It was a tighter fit, with the plane designed to carry thirty-nine troops. They climbed on board, stowed their gear and essentials, and took off at once.
By that time, Murdock was wide awake. He talked with the pilot who told him it was 0400 local, if he wanted to set his watch.
“We’ll be well away from Panama by the time it gets light and anyone gets curious,” the pilot said. “Now we have to hook up with the carrier Gerald Ford about three hundred and seventy-five miles almost due south.”
“That puts us off Colombia?” Murdock asked.
“About two-thirds of the way down. Not sure how far the carrier will be offshore by then, but should be out a ways.”
Murdock thanked him. The flight engineer told Murdock he had an ETA of about 0520 local, give or take five minutes.
Murdock found half the men sleeping again. Good. They might not have a lot of time to sleep once they hit dry land. This could be on the hairy side. No real enemy, unless they tangled with the federal troops who remained loyal to the new regime. Even then, he wasn’t sure how well equipped they were or how dedicated. Give them a 10 percent casualty rate, and they all might turn and run. Time would tell.
The speaker in the rear cabin came on a short time later.
“We will be landing in ten minutes. There are no flight exercises on, so we have a straight in. Get your gear together for a quick exit.”
Five minutes later, the SEALs were ready. It wasn’t quite daylight when the COD touched down with one bump, caught the number-three wire, and jerked to a stop. After the wire was unhooked, the Greyhound rolled to its assigned parking spot and the flight engineer opened the door.
Murdock was the first man out and on the deck. There he met another two and a half striper who held out his hand.
“Commander Murdock. Welcome aboard. I’m Lieutenant Commander Emerling. I’m your contact while you’re with us.”
“Good to meet you, Commander. Understand we are to have a meeting with your XO as soon as we arrive. Sounds like a quick turnaround.”
“That’s what I’ve heard. We’re heading for the Colombian coastline, but I’m not sure how far offshore we are. We have a secure compartment for your men’s equipment right next to some six-bunk areas.”
“Thanks. We’ll see the men settled in, then you and I will go see the XO. What’s his name?”
“That would be Captain Ingman. Let’s get your men off the flight deck.”
A white shirt motioned to them, and they followed the safety officer across the edge of the flight deck and down four levels to the assigned compartment. It was about forty feet square. The SEALs claimed spaces and put down their personal gear and weapons.
“What about the supplies we brought?” Senior Chief Petty Officer Dobler asked.
“I put a detail on that before we left the flight deck,” Lieutenant Commander Emerling said. “All your goods should be here within ten minutes. If not, I’ll twist some tail.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dobler said and went back to his combat gear.
Murdock looked around, signaled to Ed DeWitt that he was in charge, and then waved at Emerling. “Let’s go see Captain Ingman.”
Five minutes later, Emerling went down the last companionway and pointed to the doorway ahead. “This is it. The captain can be a bit crusty at times, but he’s fair, and a lot of people say brilliant. He’ll brief you, and I’ll make any arrangements that need to be made for transport, onshore backup, support, communications, whatever.”
He knocked, then turned the knob and stepped inside. Murdock followed.
“Captain, Emerling here, sir, with Commander Murdock. His SEAL platoon is on board.”
Murdock took in the office compartment at a glance. All Navy, nothing personal except two framed pictures on the metal desk. The man who sat behind it had pilot’s wings on his blouse and captain’s insignia on his collar. His face was wind-weathered, tanned, and showing worry lines around his eyes. Probably three more years on his star chase to get his own carrier command and his admiral rank.