“How much of a chance?” Sikes pressed.
“Maybe fifty-fifty.” Garcia shrugged. “I’ve had worse odds.” He
looked up and met his skipper’s eyes. “A submarine and lockout in an
SD Va swimmer delivery vehicle is better.”
Without asking, Sikes knew that was exactly how Garcia had gotten in
last time. It made sense, too. The few remaining U.S. diesel
submarines would be particularly valuable for this mission. Quiet and
undetectable while operating under battery, it carried a docking
station bolted down onto the conning tower that contained the small
swimmer delivery vehicles favored for team insertion in an operation
such as this. “That would be my preference, but I don’t know if we
have time to get one down here. Any other thoughts?”
“We could swim.” The SEAL who suggested it looked displeased. “I
don’t favor it, though.”
Sikes shook his head. “Me neither. Sure, we could do it, but we’d be
dragging ass when we got ashore.” He looked at the men’s faces and saw
them harden. “Not that we couldn’t do it,” he added hastily. “It’s an
option. But not the best one.”
“Helicopter or a boat, then,” Garcia mused. He shrugged again, a
peculiarly Latino gesture of resignation. Then his face brightened.
“Our odds go way up if we use the Army’s Stealth helos. Think we could
get the carrier to send us back to Miami and deploy from there?”
“No doubt. Even on a no-fly day, we ought to be able to arrange that
sort of transportation.” Sikes grinned, a wolfish expression crossing
his face. “I surely do love those Special Forces helicopters.” The
other men nodded.
“I don’t think so,” Huerta said, speaking for the first time.
‘Too much radar, even with Stealth technology.” He shook his head.
“We go in with what we’re best at small boats, then swimming. Less
chance of a casual observer seeing us that way, too. Go with our
strengths.”
A grizzled veteran, ancient at me age of thirty-five, Huerta was still
in superb physical condition. Sikes had watched him outrun, outswim,
and outshoot almost every man in the team. He might be beat
occasionally at one of those particular skills, but never in all three
categories by the same man. Overall, he was the strongest, most
indestructible-looking man Sikes had ever met.
As he looked at Huerta, a familiar feeling of pride flooded him. Don’t
ever think about being a SEAL, he told himself.
Not unless you are worthy of commanding men like this.
A quick shorthand discussion of equipment and timing followed, the men
thinking as one team and each contributing his own comments on
particular capabilities and assets they would need. Less than ten
minutes after he’d first walked out on the flight deck, Sikes had his
answers. And a plan.
He motioned back toward the ocean. “You kill a whale, you file the
environmental impact report. Other than that, shoot the hell out of
it.” He made a brief gesture, then turned and trotted back toward the
island.
1015 Local (+5 GMT) Admiral’s Cabin Batman stared at the overhead
speaker as he spoke into the handset. The COSMIC circuit was the most
secure form of radio communication available on the carrier, and this
call from Tombstone was hardly unexpected.
“So you think we’ll be ordered to conduct the strike?”
Batman asked. He ran a hand across his forehead, feeling the deep
grooves that the pressures of daily living were cutting into his
forehead. Even after commanding a squadron and two tours in D.C
nothing had prepared him for the awesome weight that fell on the
shoulders of a carrier battle group commander. “Come on. Tombstone, I
need some answers.”
Admiral Magruder’s voice sounded tired. “I’ve seen the same pictures
you have. If it were my call, you know what my answer would be. Damn
the political consequences just get the mission done.”
“But it’s not. It’s not mine, either.” Batman felt the beginnings of
a headache start at the base of his neck.
“Jesus, Tombstone, how much of this would we have believed when we were
still flying? Back then, we thought the admirals had the easy jobs.”
Tombstone chuckled, his voice thin and reedy over the secured