“Commander, what a beautiful job in Iraq. Haven’t had time to tell you what an outstanding job you and your men did over there. Your transport got deep-sixed, and you made adjustments and brought out the hostage, and all of your men with only one major wound. Remarkable.
The President sends his congratulations.”
“You and your Company almost got us all killed, you fucking well know that. What the hell is the matter with … ” Murdock stopped.
“Shit, I can chew you out later when Master Chief Mackenzie can’t appreciate it. Instead we’ll take a cash bonus of five thousand for each of my men.” He paused. “That was a joke, Stroh.” Murdock took the CIA contact man’s hand. Master Chief Mackenzie jumped out of his chair, and waved Stroh toward it.
“Nope, no time to sit down, we can talk later,” Stroh said. “I’m here on vacation. I want to go albacore fishing. Understand that’s the best of the tuna family, and I want to catch about a dozen.”
Master Chief Mackenzie looked at Murdock.
“Albacore, you sure?” Murdock said. “Problem is the albacore fishing was spotty this year. It started in June and finished in August. All the surface fishing is over now.”
“So why are the half-day boats going out of Seaforth? I just called them and made three reservations for the 12:30 boat. Said they had good catches this morning.”
Murdock chuckled. “Yeah. Those landing guys lie a lot. What they’re catching now are rock cod, some mackerel, and maybe a calico bass or two.”
“Hey, a fish is a fish. Come on, our poles, licenses, and tickets are all paid for and waiting for us.” Stroh laughed when Murdock started to protest. “Hey, I won’t let you say no. I’m your boss, remember? Anyway, this will give you a chance to chew me out for letting you find your own way out of Iraq. Things just fouled up, and I’m sorry. Now, get your tail in motion. We have to drive all the way down to Mission Bay to the landing.”
“I’d like to go, but the master chief here gets seasick.”
“You lie, Commander. The car is ready. Where’s your hat?”
They pushed off from the Seaforth dock at 12:35, and stopped at the bait barge to pick up anchovies; then they headed out the channel to the Pacific Ocean, and turned north toward the La Jolla kelp beds that spread out for a half mile seaward. It would take them almost an hour to get to the first fishing stop. They signed in, and got their numbers for their burlap sacks to hold their catch. Murdock saw that there were thirty-two fisher-persons on the boat.
Murdock bought three beers at the small galley, and they settled down at the tables.
“Now, Stroh. Tell me what kind of foul-ups on your end almost got me and my men killed by Saddam Hussein.”
When they docked a little before 1800, they all had fish in their numbered gunnysacks. In the parking lot, Murdock went through the sacks, picked out the mackerel, and gave them to a Vietnamese family who waited nearby.
“Fish fry at my condo tonight,” Murdock said. “Master Chief, see how many of my guys you can round up.”
The evening was a raucous success. Three of the other condo owners complained. Six of the SEALs had shown up, including Lieutenant (j. g.) Ed Dewitt and his lady, Milly.
A little after midnight, Don Stroh got around to telling Murdock why he really came to town.
“Frankly, the NSC is worried about North Korea. State has no idea what’s going on over there. The situation is volatile and we want your Third Platoon on a carrier in the area where you can be on instant call.
You’ll fly over when we think it’s about ready to blow. No timetable yet. That should give your four men time to heal up enough to be operational. You’re getting a replacement for Gonzales, I’d imagine.”
“Tomorrow or the next day, yes. My other men will need at least a month to get healed, and then another month to get back in condition. I can’t have them running twenty miles with bullet holes still healing in their legs.”
“This isn’t next week, Murdock. Just a little advance warning.
Hell, Berlin or Mexico or Antarctica might blow up before then, and you’ll be off somewhere else. This is just the hottest thing on our agenda right now, for your future calendar.”
“The National Security Council is uptight again, huh? So we go over there and sit on the fucking carrier and wait for something to happen?”
“About the size of it. Look at it this way. You won’t have to do all that tough desert training out at Niland.”
“How long do we wait on board the toy boat?”
“Not sure. A month at least, maybe two months. You can do physical training on the deck, dodge Tomcats landing. You can take target practice off the flight deck, work night problems when there’s no flying. Be a change of scene.”
“But we still just sit and wait.”
“About the size of it.”
“We’ll get some tough training in before we go. Don’t tell the men about this yet. We’ll surprise them a week before we leave.”
The next morning the men were still on leave, and Murdock spent half the morning with the master chief sorting through prospects for a replacement for his team. There were eight men fresh out of BUD/S training who had not been assigned a SEAL Team yet. Murdock figured he needed more larger men in the platoon.
He liked two of them. One was a tough Chicano from Los Angeles.
He admitted that he’d been in a gang there, but had bailed out and moved away from town. He was clean, no police record, no behavior problems, and had an outstanding record in BUD/S. He was six-two and weighed 210 pounds.
The second man was half Hawaiian and half Tahitian. He’d been in the Navy for four years, was a first class corpsman, but said he wasn’t looking for the doc job in a platoon. He’d grown up on surf and sand in San Diego. Could bench-press four hundred pounds, had been married for a while and had a three-year-old daughter in Los Angeles, and had the all-time SEAL record for the three-mile ocean swim without fins. His papers said he was six-four and weighed 220 pounds.
Murdock decided he had to see the men. Master Chief Mackenzie had them both at Murdock’s office at 1300. He took the Latino, Manuel Guzman, first. Murdock liked the kid on first sight. He was twenty-four, had been in the Navy for four years, and had a brush cut that hadn’t grown out much from the BUD/S training period.
Guzman stood at attention until Murdock told him to sit down. He did so stiffly, looking nervous.
“Guzman, why do you want to be in Platoon Three?”
“You’re the action around here, Commander. You get more assignments than all of the other platoons combined. I like action. I used to work the flight deck. I didn’t want to get sucked into the intake of a jet.”
Murdock nodded. He’d seen it happen once on a carrier. He didn’t want to watch it again.
“You have a family?”
“Parents in LA. Two sisters. A batch of uncles and cousins I don’t really know. I got out of town when I quit one of the clubs they have up there.”
“You seem a little tense, Guzman.”
“Yes, Sir. Officers make me that way.”
“Not a good quality for a SEAL. You know that I went through BUD/S training the same as you did. Only I had to score ten percent better on everything than the enlisted. The instructors love to pour it on the officer tadpoles. Didn’t you have any officers in your class?”
“Yes, sir. Two. Both rang the bell.”
“They don’t do that anymore.”
“We still call it that. Put your hat down by the bell and bug out.
We say they rang the damned bell.”
“You’re Second Class.”
“Yes, sir. Striking for first on my next chance.”
“You know it’s hard to keep up with your specialty and do the job as a SEAL.”