Hawking looked around. "Doesn't look to me like every available space is packed with food."
"Not this time, sir. We got caught short at Bremerton, with only three days to load supplies. Normally takes a good six days to get all of the food stowed on board before a long mission.
"But Ohio boats are big. Lots more room to store stuff than on an L.A. SSN. And, well, this probably won't be a long deployment."
"How long?"
"Do I look like the skipper?" He shrugged. "They're saying six weeks at most. In any case, we'll have a big, well-stocked friendly port close by our patrol area— Bahrain. We'll be able to resupply there any time we need to."
"Well, I've heard that submarine chow is the best in the Navy."
Connolly grinned. "Oh, it's better than best, sir! Surf and turf once a week? Of course, on a long patrol the fresh fruit and produce goes pretty fast, and things can be a bit monotonous on the homeward leg."
As they kept walking, a sharp voice cried out, "Gangway!" Hawking turned, startled, to see a line of sailors wearing shorts and sweat-stained T-shirts jogging up the narrow passageway behind them. He and the chief stepped aside as the party ran past; one of them must have glimpsed the rank insignia on the collar of Hawking's poopie suit, for he called out "By your leave, sir!" as he passed them.
"This compartment is the biggest on the boat," Connolly explained. "Twenty or so times around equals one mile. These boomers are the only submarines large enough to really let a man get any exercise."
"I'll remember that." Hawking tended to go with the minimum exercise required. He was young and in good shape, with little interest in renewing the physical regimen he'd endured at flight school in Pensacola.
Exercise on a submarine? They had to be kidding.
Shaking his head, he followed Connolly forward and out of the compartment.
The Navy C-130 Hercules thundered down out of the tropical sky, its tires hitting the tarmac once with a squeal, bouncing, then hitting again and taking hold.
The big turboprops began braking hard, and the transport slowed with a long, stomach-jolting shudder.
Hospitalman Chief David Tangretti turned in his narrow, cargo deck seat to peer through the round porthole at his side. He could see palm trees and endless blue ocean. "Welcome to Hawaii, gents," he said, to no one in particular.
"You see any hula girls out there, Doc?" BM1 Olivetti asked, shouting to be heard above the roar of the CH-130's four big turboprops. "I don't get off this here Herky Bird less'n there's hula girls out there to put flowers around my neck and give me a big kiss."
"Shee-it, Olive," EM1 Hutchinson shouted back, sneering. "Who the hell would kiss you?"
"Twenty says I get laid tonight, asshole."
"You're on!"
"I'll take a piece of that," Tangretti said, grinning. "Twenty says you don't get laid tonight."
"Done!" Olivetti laughed. "Ha! Easy money! Happens I know this little girl, works in a bar on Ala Moana Boulevard. She's gonna be so glad to see me and my six-inch gun, I'll be pounding her in the rack ten minutes after liberty call!"
"Haven't you heard, Olive?" EM2 Richardson laughed. "The Navy's gone metric! That's a six millimeter gun!"
"Fuck you, asshole!"
The Hercules thundered to a stop, and the ramp at the rear of the cargo bay began opening with a shrill whine.
"On your feet!" Commander Drake called, standing. "Muster on the tarmac with your gear!"
Tangretti hauled his sea bag out of the pile of olive-green strapped bags stored down the center of the aisle, shouldered it, and followed Richardson aft and down the ramp. Warm, humid air assaulted them, heavy with the smell of sea salt and avgas. The men, SEALs from SEAL Team Three, fell into ranks next to the ramp, in the shade of the Hercules's massive taiclass="underline" four blocks of sixteen men each.
Detachment Delta was unusual in its design and makeup. SEAL units were built up in relatively small units — two eight-man squads to a sixteen-man platoon, four platoons to a sixty-four man SEAL company. The usual field deployment of a SEAL element was at platoon strength, with a lieutenant as CO or "Wheel," and a lieutenant j.g. as his XO. Detachment Delta, however, was an entire company, deployed under the command of Commander Charles G. Drake, and with Lieutenant Richard Mayhew as executive officer.
Tangretti wondered if he would ever get used to the larger formation, and to the additional problems of supply, logistics, and tactics it created. SEALs — the old SEALs he'd grown up with — were masters of small-unit operations, usually deploying teams of eight or sixteen, and often as few as two or four. Sixty-four men were a freaking army, and a guarantee of confusion once things went hot.
The last time JSOC had tried to put this large a unit of SEALs into action had been during Operation Just Cause, in Panama. There, forty-eight SEALs in Task Unit Papa had been tasked with moving into Paitilla Airfield and disabling President Noriega's private jet to prevent his escape.
The operation had been a cluster fuck from the git-go… not because of any lack on the part of the Navy SEALs on the op, but because of poor planning and mismanagement all the way up the chain of command. Those forty-eight SEALs had been employed as assault troops, for God's sake, and walked into a deadly cross fire on a brightly lit and exposed tarmac. Four SEALs had been killed, and eight seriously wounded, the highest casualty rate ever suffered by a SEAL unit. Task Unit Papa had carried out the mission. They'd also been stranded on that airfield surrounded by hostile forces for twenty-four hours before they could be relieved; the original op had called for a five-hour mission.
The story of what had happened at Paitilla was well-known within the Naval Special Warfare community, a kind of cautionary tale against poor or overambitious planning. Lately, though, it seemed that more and more of the higher-ranking planners — the ones in JSOC and at the Pentagon — were coming up with SEAL deployment concepts involving large numbers of operators. The Seawolf SSN was supposed to carry up to sixty Special Forces.
What the hell did you use that many SEALs for, anyway? Tangretti wondered.
Perhaps, with this upcoming op in Iran, he thought, they would find out.
The last of the SEALs filed down the Hercules's ramp, dropped into ranks, and set their sea bags at their feet. There was a little chatter among them, but the company was disciplined and restrained. Several pulled chewing gum out of their mouths and deposited it on the tarmac — or, in one case, on the outside bottom of the lowered ramp on the aircraft.
SEALs could be a casual lot when it came to military formalities. Their officers went through the same BUD/ S training as the enlisted men, and camaraderie, experience, and professionalism were far more important in the measure of a man than mere rank. Drake was unusual, though, for being something of a stickler for the formal details. He stood off to one side, aloof, as Lieutenant Mayhew took his position in front of the waiting ranks. With clipboard in hand, he bellowed, "Atten… hut!" The SEALs came to attention, and he began calling the roll. "Alloway!"
"Here!"
"Anderson!"
"Yo!"
"Avery!"
"Present."
The roll call went down the list of names until May-hew checked off the last name — as if any of the men had somehow escaped from the C-130 during the flight from San Diego — then he turned to face Drake.
"All personnel present or accounted for, sir!"
"Very well, Lieutenant." Drake waited as Mayhew took his place with First Platoon. "Welcome to Hawaii," he told them. "Do not get comfortable, however. Transportation has been provided to Pearl Harbor, where the Ohio is docking as we speak. We will be boarding Ohio and getting squared away this evening. Needless to say, there will be no liberty on this stop."