Seal Team Seven: Hostile Fire Part 1

SEAL TEAM SEVEN.

HOSTILE FIRE.

KEITH DOUGLa.s.s.

DESERT SKIRMISH.

"We're taking incoming," Bradford said. "We're coming over the side and into the hole."

Just then an explosion rocked the fallen-in roof of the factory twenty feet behind...

"Come on in," Murdock said on the Motorola.

"Yeah, getting a line on the shooters," Gardner said. "Look to be about a hundred yards north of us. Putting twenties on them now."

Murdock stood in the opening. One more rocket came in. It went high overhead and hit in the middle of the fallen-in roof. Murdock figured it was a shoulder-fired rocket. He heard the twenties go off.

"Oh yeah," Gardner said. "We got them pinned with the twenties. Now Fernandez is picking them off using the thermal imager. We figure there were about ten of them. Not more than two or three left who can move. Get on with your work down there."

"That's a roger, Gardner. Protect our backs here. Good work. See you soon."

Dedicated.

To those Special Forces.

Who have carried.

The brunt of the fighting.

Against the worldwide.

Terrorist threat.

SEAL TEAM SEVEN.

THIRD PLATOON*

CORONADO, CALIFORNIA.

Rear Admiral (L) Richard Kenner. Commander of All SEALs. Based in Little Creek, Virginia.

Captain Harry L. Arjarack. Commanding Officer of NAVSPECWARGRUP-ONE, in Coronado, California. 51.

Commander Dean Masciareli. Commanding officer of Navy Special Warfare Group One's SEAL Team Seven in Coronado, California. 47, 5' 11", 220 pounds. Annapolis graduate.

Master Chief Petty Officer Gordon MacKenzie. Administrator and head enlisted man of all of SEAL Teams in Coronado. 47, 5' 10", 180 pounds.

Lieutenant Commander Blake Murdock. Platoon Leader, Third Platoon. 32, 6' 2", 210 pounds. Annapolis graduate. Six years in SEALs. Father an important Congressman from Virginia. Murdock has a condo in La Jolla. Owns a car and a motorcycle. Loves to fish. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm. Speaks Arabic.

ALPHA SQUAD.

Elmer Neal. Senior Chief Petty Officer. Top EM in platoon and third in command. 34, 6' 1", 200 pounds. Divorced. Fifteen years in Navy, four in SEALs. Expert chess player and good bowler. A buzz cut on his hair. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56 and 20mm with air-burst round. Speaks German and French.

David "Jaybird" Sterling. Machinist Mate First Cla.s.s. Lead petty officer. 24, 5' 10", 170 pounds. Quick mind, fine tactician. Single. Drinks too much sometimes. Crack shot with all arms. Grew up in Oregon. Helps plan attack operations. Weapon: H & K MP-5SD submachine gun.

Luke "Mountain" Howard. Gunner's Mate Second Cla.s.s. 28, 6' 4", 250 pounds. Black man. Football at Oregon State. Tryout with Oakland Raiders six years ago. In Navy six years, SEAL for four. Single. Rides a motorcycle. A skiing and wind surfing nut. Squad sniper. Weapon H & K PSG1 7.62 NATO sniper rifle.

Bill Bradford. Quartermaster First Cla.s.s. 24, 6' 2", 215 pounds. An artist in spare time. Paints oils. He sells his marine paintings. Single. Quiet. Reads a lot. Has two years of college. Platoon radio operator. Carries a SATCOM on most missions. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round. Speaks Italian and some Arabic.

Joe "Ricochet" Lampedusa. Operations Specialist First Cla.s.s. 21, 5' 11", 175 pounds. Good tracker, quick thinker. Had a year of college. Loves motorcycles. Wants a Hog. Pot smoker on the sly. Picks up plain girls. Platoon scout. Weapon: Colt M-4A1 with grenade launcher, alternate Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round.

Kenneth Ching. Quartermaster First Cla.s.s. 25, 6' even, 180 pounds. Full blooded Chinese. Platoon translator. Speaks Mandarin Chinese, j.a.panese, Russian, and Spanish. Bicycling nut. Paid $1,200 for off-road bike. Is trying for Officer Candidate School. Weapon: H & K MP-5SD submachine gun.

Vincent "Vinnie" Van d.y.k.e. Electrician's Mate Second Cla.s.s. 24, 6' 2", 220 pounds. Enlisted out of high school. Played varsity basketball. Wants to be a commercial fisherman after his current hitch. Good with his hands. Squad machine gunner. Weapon: H & K 21-E 7.62 NATO round machine gun. Speaks Dutch, German, and some Arabic.

BRAVO SQUAD.

Lieutenant (J.G.) Christopher "Chris" Gardner. Squad Leader Bravo Squad. Second in Command of the platoon. 28, 6' 4", 240 pounds. From Seattle. Four years in SEALs. Hang glider nut. Married to Wanda, a clothing designer. No kids. Annapolis graduate. Father is a Navy rear admiral. Grew up in ten different states. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round. Alternate: H & K G-11 submachine gun.

George "Petard" Canzoneri. Torpedoman's Mate First Cla.s.s, 27, 5' 11", 190 pounds. Married to Navy wife Phyllis. No kids. Nine years in Navy. Expert on explosives. Nicknamed "Petard" for almost hoisting himself one time. Top pick in platoon for explosives work. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round.

Miguel Fernandez. Gunner's Mate First Cla.s.s. 26, 6' 1", 180 pounds. Wife, Maria; daughter, Linda, 7, in Coronado. Spends his off time with them. Highly family oriented. He has family in San Diego. Speaks Spanish and Portuguese. Squad sniper. Weapon: H & K PSG1 7.62 NATO sniper rifle.

Omar "Ollie" Rafii. Yeoman Second Cla.s.s. 24, 6' even, 180 pounds. Saudi Arabian. In U.S. since he was four. Loves horses, has two. Married, two children. Speaks perfect Farsi and Arabic. Expert with all knives. Throws killing knives with deadly accuracy. Weapon: H & K MP-5SD submachine gun.

Derek Prescott. Radioman Second Cla.s.s. 23, 6' 3". Comes from a small town in Idaho. Expert marksman. On the Navy rifle team before SEALs. Played college football at University of Idaho as a tight end. Is an expert kayak man who does ocean runs when he has a chance. Unmarried. Speaks good j.a.panese. Weapon: H & K G-11, which fires caseless rounds.

Jack Mahanani. Hospital Corpsman First Cla.s.s. 25, 6' 4", 240 pounds. Platoon medic. Tahitian/Hawaiian. Expert swimmer. Bench-presses four hundred pounds. Divorced. Top surfer. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm & 20mm explosive round. Alternate: Colt M-4A1 with grenade launcher.

Wade Claymore. Radioman Second Cla.s.s. 24, 6' 3", 230 pounds. Unmarried. Played two years of Junior College football. A computer whiz. Can program, repair, and build computers. Shoots pistol compet.i.tively. Lives in Coronado. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo with 5.56 & 20mm explosive round.

Dexter M. Tate. Second Cla.s.s Electrician's Mate. 23, 5' 11", 190 pounds. An African-American. Computer literate, loves to dive on old shipwrecks. Rides a motorcycle. Weapon: Alliant Bull Pup duo 5.56mm and 20mm lasered air-burst round.

*Third Platoon a.s.signed exclusively to the Central Intelligence Agency to perform any needed tasks on a covert basis anywhere in the world. All are top-secret a.s.signments. Goes around Navy chain of command. Direct orders from the CIA and the CNO.

1.

Haifa, Israel.

Asrar Fouad eased back from the table at La Scalla, the best restaurant in town, and touched a linen napkin to his mouth. Steak and shrimp, one of his favorites, and excellently prepared as always. Too bad it would be one of the last servings for some time here at the Twenty-First Century Hotel. He had paid his bill with a Bank America credit card and added a ten-dollar tip. Whoever owned the card would be surprised at the price of the meal as well as the tip. He smiled, his light brown complexion now shaved smooth, his brown eyes pleased. His features were understated and refined, all polish and poise. His suit had cost four hundred dollars at the best men's store in Haifa. He would return it that afternoon as unsuitable. He smiled at the pun. Fouad took one last drink of his coffee, kept brim full and hot by an attentive waiter, then stood and walked out of the hotel's famous dining room and into the street.

He turned left and strolled up Shalom Street. He had plenty of time, almost a half hour. The stores were busy, and the usual Arabs and Israelis were hard at work keeping the mundane activities of their lives in motion. All that would change soon. He walked four blocks, admiring the stores and their goods. One day every Arab nation in the world would have such luxurious merchandise. He turned and retraced his steps, going into the alley a half block down from the Twenty-First Century Hotel. Here even the alley was kept remarkably clean.

Sadoun Kamnil, eighteen years old, waited where he was supposed to, near the rear entrance to a small leather goods store. Sadoun was small for his age, the result of a restricted diet of poor food in his tiny village on the West Bank, when there was any food at all. He came from Fouad's village near the Jordan River. Sadoun was five feet nine inches tall and had a Western-style haircut, wore gla.s.ses, and had a round face that smiled easily and laughed at the slightest hint of humor. Now his face was stiff and his wary eyes looked at Fouad, then to the front of the alley.

"Did you see any police, any army patrols?"

"No, neither. It is as we planned it, as we talked half the night. You are a student looking for work. There always is a shortage of busboys at this restaurant. The two guards at the entrance will be pleased to show you where to go inside."

"This padded jacket looks all right?"

"We have used them before. Yes, they will not suspect. It is starting to get chilly here in the evenings. You will walk in with confidence, but not bravado. You are a student hunting a job. Your English is almost good enough."

Fouad watched his charge. He was wavering; Fouad had seen it before. "Sadoun, my friend. You are a hero of your people. You are on a mission of great importance. You remember the pledge that you made last night?"

"Yes, that I will gladly carry out this mission. That I will go to it with joy in my heart knowing that I am serving my people."

"Right, Sadoun, right. You are a hero to your village, to your family, to every Palestinian."

"And my name will be in the Holy Book in the mosque?"

"I will enter it there myself for all to see. You are striking a blow for Palestine. You are bringing the day closer when we shall have a homeland of our own, and we can spit on the Jews and send them running back to their small country. This is our destiny, to fight the criminal Israelis who stole our land and our homes and our towns. This is the way that we fight against their tanks and their helicopter gunships and their soldiers who murder countless of our finest young men with no equal response." Fouad looked at his watch. "It is almost the peak time for the dinner crowd. We should be going."

Tears sprang into the young man's eyes. "Yes, yes, I know. It is just that I will be leaving so much. I understand it is my duty, my privilege and my honor, a role that must be played."

"Not every man is given the chance to be a hero, Sadoun. You know this. Your family knows it. All of them will be well taken care of. Hezbollah will give them thirty-five thousand dollars reward for your heroism. And your name will be written in the Holy Book as a martyr for Allah."

"I know." He blotted the sweat from his face and set his jaw, then wiped his face with his hands and dried them on his trousers. He reached in his right-hand pocket and took out the three-inch-long, inch-square plastic box. "The red b.u.t.ton. First I push the black one, then the red one, correct?"

"Yes, but only when you are ready."

Sadoun Kamnil took a deep breath, pushed the box back into his loose pocket, and nodded. "I am ready. You will not be far behind?"

"I'll be there in case anyone tries to stop you. The army is usually not around at this time of day."

They walked down the alley to the sidewalk. Kamnil went out first and strode resolutely toward the hotel. Fouad came thirty feet behind him. The youth walked with barely concealed impatience, as if he had made up his mind and wanted to complete his mission before he could back out. Fouad trailed him, watched him go to the door of the hotel and smile at the armed guard standing there. Fouad came close enough to hear the conversation.

"Work? You're looking for work?"

"Busboy."

"Always need more." The guard frowned. "Isn't it warm for such a heavy jacket?"

"I left early this morning; it was cold then. Do I go inside here to apply?"

The guard nodded. "Yes. Past the desk clerks and around the restaurant to the door marked 'Personnel' down that hall. You can't miss it. Good luck."

Kamnil said something in thanks and walked into the grand Twenty-First Century Hotel. He went past the desk, noticed two more guards there, and continued on toward the restaurant. It was a cla.s.sy one; most of the people wore suits and fancy clothes. He had just stepped inside when the head waiter in a tuxedo frowned at him.

"You can't come in here dressed that way," the waiter said.

"I'm meeting some friends," Kamnil said.

"You'll have to have a jacket and tie."

"Not this time," Kamnil said. He ran down two steps into the center of the large restaurant and pulled out the small box. The head waiter charged down the steps after him. Kamnil lifted the detonator and pushed the black b.u.t.ton, then the red one.

The explosion of ten quarter-pound blocks of C-5 plastique hidden inside the padded jacket Kamnil wore disintegrated his torso, blew the far windows out, sent tables, silverware, and bodies flying into the air, and buckled the ceiling, bringing half of it crashing down on the screaming diners. A huge cloud of dust, smoke, and burning flesh gushed out the windows and into the main part of the hotel and the street.

Two fires sprang up and licked at the torn-apart timbers and furnishings in the restaurant. More than a dozen victims had been blasted through the windows into the street, most of them dead or dying. Screams of the wounded came before the smoke had blown out of the huge room. Fire sirens went off. Hotel security men rushed into the restaurant with guns out, but could only stand and gape at the destruction and death. Slowly they started to help the closest injured.

Across the street, Asrar Fouad stared at the smoke pall, as did others on the street. Some began running forward, perhaps to help the injured. Police sirens wailed and police and rifle-carrying army men rushed up. Fouad watched for a few moments, then smiled grimly and walked the other way up the street and away from the destruction.

The Fist of Allah had struck again.

Coronado, California Gunner's Mate First Cla.s.s Miguel Fernandez stood a domino precisely at the end of the long line and looked at his daughter, Linda, seven.

"Go ahead, honey, start them. Push the first domino."

Linda, dark-haired, and often with a serious expression, grinned now. "It's your turn, Daddy. I did the last one."

"Go ahead, then we'll make a really big circle. Did you know we can make a circle out of the dominoes? Now push this line down."

She did and squealed in delight as the dominoes fell, one striking the next and then the next, making a small turn and then hitting a tower of dominoes a foot tall and knocking it down with a crash.

"I did it, I did it. I smashed the tall fort," Linda squealed.

From the sofa, Miguel's wife, Maria, watched her two favorite people. She put down the newspaper and studied the pair. Linda looked up at her father.

"Daddy, what do you do?"

"What do you mean, honey?"

"This morning in school, all the kids told us what their fathers do. One is a carpenter and he builds houses. Another one works at a bank, and one drives a taxi. What do you do? I didn't know what to tell them."

"Well, Pumpkin, next time they do this, you tell them that your daddy is defending their country. I'm in the navy and I help keep everyone safe."

"Oh, okay." She sat on the floor and began setting up the dominoes on the coffee table. "You said we could make a circle?"

It hit him like an out-of-control Mack truck. Yeah, he's in the U.S. Navy, he's a SEAL, and his real job is killing people. Miguel frowned and looked over at Maria. She concentrated on their daughter. He was right. His main job was killing people. Sure, bad people who deserved to die, or people who were on the wrong side of this undeclared war on terror. But the fact remained that his job was killing people.

His hand jigged the wrong way and the partial circle of dominoes fell down before it was done.

"Daddy, be careful," Linda said.