He had lost a lot of good men, especially on the sneak attack that rolled so far into his beloved land. But anyone in any country who puts on a military uniform voluntarily must come to accept the fact that he could die. War is not a tea party. War is man’s greatest game. War is also a giant chessboard where the actors die as the game is played.
He heard a cheer and looked up.
“My General,” an aide said. “It has just been told here that the majority of the Iraqi troops in the corridor that has been cut off have been surrendered by a brigadier general who was in command.”
General Jablah sipped at the thick black coffee and stared over the top of the cup. So, soon he would have to decide. Did he pursue the enemy into his own land, capturing as much matériel as possible? Take over the tanks and trucks that would still run and the field guns and small arms and supplies of food and fuel?
Or did he stop at the border?
He knew it would be an almost impossible job to defeat Saddam on his home territory. There the Syrian troops would have the long supply lines. The Iraqis would have the emotional cause of defending their homes and protecting their women and children. It would take more than his resources to invade Iraq and dethrone Saddam Hussein.
His troops would stop at the border. Someone else would have to take care of the devil Saddam Hussein.
The SEALs had been back on board the floating island for over a day now, and Don Stroh had not been seen or heard. They put their gear in shape, oiled their weapons again, and, once rested from the last challenge, they began to get bored.
They knew that operations on the big platform had slowed. There were fewer and fewer of the F-18s screaming off the catapults. Fewer calls for pilots to report to the ready room. They heard reports that the war was slowing down, that Saddam was licking his wounds and making a mad dash for home. The Syrians jolted along, hot on his heels, gathering up as much war matériel as they could before it vanished across the border.
On the second day with no action for the SEALs, Murdock looked up Stroh. The CIA man had just finished a big meal and sipped at an ice-cold cola.
“Murdock. Wondered where you were. Word came through about an hour ago. I have new orders for you.”
“At least this time we’re rested and ready to go.”
“Good. This afternoon, your three hospital cases are being flown out of here, heading for San Diego’s Balboa Naval Hospital. The rest of you slackers will be leaving by COD for Riyadh and the big Air Force base near there. I’m washing my hands of you. You’re reassigned back to Coronado.”
Murdock stared hard at the slightly plump CIA man and scowled. “Stroh, this is not something you should joke about.”
“No joke, Red Ryder. You get on your cayuse in two hours and you’re out of here. You might want to tell your guys and get them ready to boogie.”
Murdock laughed and nodded. “Okay Little Beaver, now I believe you. You keep yourself well, and we’ll talk in about three months. I need at least that much time to get my troops back in top fighting shape.”
“Three months? Easy. I don’t know of anything that’s even cooking on the back burner. You take care, and we’ll see you when we see you.” He took a drink of the cola. “When did you say the best yellowtail tuna fishing season was there off San Diego?”
“It’s mostly off Baja California, Mexico, and it could be almost anytime. But usually in the summer. Last year they caught yellows ten months out of the twelve.”
“Good. We’ll keep that in mind.”
Murdock waved and hurried into the companionway and down to his men to get them ready for the COD transport plane on their first leg of the long trip home.
30
Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock had settled into his small office in the SEAL Team Seven, Third Platoon, building in the SEAL compound on the beach at Coronado. He’d had his platoon back in town for three days, and they were getting used to walking on land again.
Most of his time had been spent in Balboa Naval Hospital up in the park. Bradford had taken a bad turn and would be in bed another two weeks with his stomach wound. He kept joking about no guts, but that was too close to the truth. His doctor said he should be fine in two months.
Adams, whose left arm had been blown off by the mine, was progressing slowly. The attachment had taken; the blood surged through the arm almost normally. Some of the nerves weren’t responding the way the doctors had hoped. He had partial use of his arm and hand.
He was still under treatment in the hospital. They wouldn’t let him out until they were satisfied that they had established as much use of the arm and hand as possible.
“Yeah, Skipper, I know. I figured it out. I can’t be a SEAL anymore. Turn in my trident. Sometimes I wonder, ‘Why me?’ Then I quit feeling sorry for myself. Hell, I should be dead by all rights. So I’m one lucky puppy. I’ll do whatever I can, but I want to stay in the Navy and I want to stay with Team Seven if you can wangle me a light duty spot somewhere at BUDS/S.”
Murdock said he would try.
The JG could be a problem. DeWitt had not responded to treatment the way the medics hoped. He was still having trouble with the punctured lung. Some veins were chopped up by the splattering lead, and they still hadn’t found all of the fragments. He would be in the hospital for at least a month more.
That left Murdock with a problem. Did he check out the JG and ask for a replacement squad leader, or did he let senior Chief Dobler carry the load until the JG was fit for duty? He’d have to decide soon.
His other casualties were healing. Lampedusa’s shoulder wound had closed and caused him little trouble. The medics at the hospital checked him and the other walking wounded and released them all.
The shrapnel in Franklin’s left leg had worked its way out and was healing. The eye men checked Holt twice and decided there was no physical damage to his eyes from the exploding mine. His blindness was from shock and psychological trauma and had left no lasting damage. Ching’s arm wound had almost healed, and he was ready for duty.
Master Chief Gordon MacKenzie came into the office and dropped into the chair beside Murdock’s desk.
“Laddie, that after-action report. Well done. I passed it on to the commander. He’s away for a month’s special duty at Norfolk.”
“Maybe he’ll get promoted to NAVSPEC Two.”
MacKenzie chuckled. “Not a chance, Laddie. We’re stuck with him until he retires. You had a bunch of rough missions since you’ve been home.”
“True, Master Chief. We got our asses shot off, is what happened. Going to take at least two months to get back in shape to go out again.”
“I told the commander three months. Aye, you’ve got some holes to fill and some mending to tend to.”
“First I better get a replacement for Adams. We’ve got to figure out where to put him in the nonaction part of the team.”
“First he has to get past the medical board,” MacKenzie said. “I have my doubts he’ll be in the Navy much longer. A medical discharge and forty percent disability is my guess.”
“That could kill Adams. He’s SEAL from head to gullet.”
“I’ll call in some favors and see what we can do for the lad. Oh, you had some fan mail this morning.”
The master chief pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Murdock.
“A fax,” Murdock said. He read it: “Murdock. Checked by phone with Seaforth Landing. Said they had over 200 yellowtail and six dorado yesterday. I may need to come to San Diego next week. I might have a special assignment for you and Jaybird on board the Seaforth Two. I’ll keep you up to date.