Seal team six extra size.., p.6
SEAL Team Six Extra-Sized Holiday Bundle, page 6
It started with a scene like out of a situation comedy, with a funny mom and dad, and their funny, sassy kids. Then it went to scenes of how fucked-up the world was. The towers in New York coming down. Police beating people and bodies lying on a street, being covered by EMTs. Drunks and drug addicts and whores. All edited to keep his attention, with a driving trip-hop score.
The basic theme was that the whole world was going to shit. Were you going to shit with it? Or were you going to take a stand? It took Kevin through a history lesson of the last twenty years, and how the world was in the hands of gamemasters who set the rules to benefit themselves, and keep everyone else poor and miserable and empty. It was all fixed. It was all pre-ordained. We were all living in The Matrix and we were all sound asleep.
There were more videos about what you could do to change things. How one guy could make his own rules, and fuck the system to make real changes. One guy could be a hero and free millions from the world plan that the gamemasters were putting in motion. Maybe you felt like you were alone. Maybe you felt like your whole life was for nothing. Maybe you thought there was something you should be doing but didn't know what. Maybe you knew, deep down inside, that there was a better future for you then slaving away for a gallon of gas and a two-liter bottle of soda.
Kevin felt like the people who made the videos were looking into his mind.
He spent more time at the library; staying until closing, even though his friends were all off work and partying. He even went on weekends when there was more traffic, and ignored the dirty looks of anyone who thought he was hogging his terminal too long. The website was huge and, in addition to the games and videos and music, there were text pieces. Even though he never finished a book in his life, Kevin read these tracts feverishly, as if they were messages from some wise stranger meant only for him.
They called for him to clean up. They called for him to straighten up his life, and give up the dope and the porn and the beer. He had to shed the corruption and pettiness of this modern world, like a snake sheds its skin. They told him to look inside himself and find the worthy being within. They told him there was a plan for him and this plan had nothing to do with the gamemasters. This plan was a divine one, and designed to make the most of him in this world, and a master of all his desires in the next.
In addition to reading, he also joined message boards where he met others who felt like he did. He wasn't alone. He posted as kBonerator1033 and became one of the most frequent posters on the board. He made friends here and, even more, was looked upon as important member of the community. K-Bone had respect for the first time in his life.
Most of the posters were from outside the country and often their English was on the weak side. But the message was still pure, no matter how garbled the language. And they all seemed to be guys. No chicks here. That suited Kevin just fine. Women were weak and spread their weakness to the men they touched. He always knew that, but the site revealed that truth from within him. The site did that all the time; made him realize how much knowledge he had within, knowledge that the western world could never reveal, knowledge buried under a shallow, celebrity-obsessed, entertainment-distracted society.
He logged in one morning and went to the main message board at newworldofpeace.net. He found there was a private message there for him. It wasn't unusual. He had PMs from members before; mostly side issues from the board about music or movies. But today's message was from a board moderator who invited him to exchange emails with the staff who ran the board, including the guy who owned it.
This was awesome, and Kevin was totally blown away. He rushed a short email off in response and followed up with a longer, more detailed message about what an honor it was. They told him to get a new public email account and supplied the email addy for the site administrators. This began a lively exchange of email messages with some of the site's moderators and even a few from the Big Dog himself. They were cool and funny and friendly. It was frustrating because sometimes there was as much as a two-day delay between his messages and a reply. But they were busy, right? He had to be patient and patience was something the brand-new K-Bone was all about.
Then the connection was cut. Just like that. His emails came back to him as error messages. Every address was the same. A pop-up advised him to make sure he spelled the address correctly. Try after try bounced back. He went to the message board to PM the site administrators only to find he'd been locked out. His membership was no longer recognized. He could read the board but not post or send private messages or access his profile. It was as if he was dead to them.
Kevin left the library in a dark quandary. He drove around playing some of the new CDs his friends on the site had sent him to download. The insistent beat, accented by trilling riffs on instruments he wasn't familiar with, pounded out of the woofers in his trunk. He just drove, no destination in mind, and soon he was on a highway moving through the trees and dark.
Had he done something wrong; somehow offended someone? What could he do to get back in? Maybe a new membership under a different avatar. But what good was that? He was kBonerator1033. It was no good as someone else. Under his identity, he had friends and admirers and even a following of guys who found him witty and wise. He couldn't rebuild that overnight. And what was the use? Whatever he'd done to be blacklisted would come up again when they found out who he was.
But what if it wasn't the site administrators? What if it was the police or some shadowy department within the government? He knew from TV that cops used the 'net to hunt and trap pedophiles. They had to be watching sites like newworldofpeace.net. They talked some pretty radical shit there. It was free and easy and you could speak your mind without being judged. The gamemasters hated that. They'd want to deal with it. Shutting down the site would be just the kind of fascist move they'd make.
Only the site wasn't shut down. He was shut out.
The Man knew K-Bone. They knew who he was and they were watching him.
He knew he should be scared. They could make him disappear or lock him up on some bullshit charge or maybe he'd die in a convenient accident.
All this should have had him pissing his pants.
He turned the car back at the next light and drove back to his mom's house.
K-Bone was an outlaw now.
He wore a smile on his face the whole way home.
CHAPTER 10
SULU SEA, 25 KILOMETERS WEST OF JOLO
From the deck of the transport, the spine of the volcanic mountain range was visible along the horizon as a darker shape against the star-filled sky. The island of Jolo, in the Sulu Archipelago, running south from Mindanao to the tip of Borneo. Still, officially, within the governance of the Philippines but, in truth, a lawless province dominated by fanatical terror groups with strong ties to Al Qaeda, like Abbu Sayyaf and Jemmaah Islamiyai. Much of the planning for the 1993 World Trade Center bombing took place in Jolo City. Usama Bin Laden's brother-in-law provided them with financing.
Heath leaned on a rail at the bow of the BRP Zamboanoa Del Sur, a WWII-era tank landing ship, maintained by the Philippine Navy for missions like this. The sea all around was flat, with only a slight bow-wave raised by the passage of the ancient LST cruising east at ten knots. It was hot and the air was dead and unmoving. He was already soaked under his armored vest and gear. He sipped Fiji water from a one-liter bottle.
The boat's superstructure was set aft like a cargo carrier, and the deck forward of the bridge was an eighty-meter surface that could serve as a landing platform for helos; open and flat and fifteen meters across. Two squat Sea Kings were tied down there and being loudly fussed over by Filipinos from the Force Recon Battalion; a bunch of tough Marines who'd accompany the SEALs tonight as cover and support.
The ship was running dark to allow the men to keep their natural night vision. A sliver of moon hung over the ocean and was only visible as an aqueous glow through the dense cloud cover which was building. A night with no moon would be better, but the dense clouds moving in from the west promised rain by mission time. It was southern monsoon season so they could count on a heavy downpour to cover the noise of their approach. The Sea Kings were loud as hell.
They'd need all the edge they could get. Their only familiarity with the target area came from satellite photos and a virtual tour hastily assembled by the fobbits at Langley. The whole set-up was not ideal; a heavily populated area with the target located in a section of Jolo where houses were packed tight with only narrow, winding lanes between them. Griggs assured them he had HUMINT on the ground and one of his assets would clearly mark the shack they were looking for.
There was some wiggle room and deniability built in here. The raid would look like a routine operation by Filipinos. The SEALs, if spotted, would appear to be ride-along Anglos, on the scene as observers or advisors. The Philippines, and especially these southern islands, were lousy with Al Qaeda, and the locals were used to seeing American personnel from Army, CIA, and even the FBI in their neighborhood. After decades of sore feelings between Washington and Manila, the Philippine government and military were down with the War on Terror, so coordinated operations were now an everyday event.
On the surface it would appear to be a hunter/killer mission to bring down members of a local terror cell. All that noise would cover Heath and his bros snagging one Walid al Azarri; a Saudi national and Al Qaeda operative, and one of the couriers Griggs uncovered. They had recent photos of him. A chubby bastard in his twenties, with a half-ass beard and receding hairline. The face of the new Al Qaeda. In every photo, he wore a slightly worried expression; the troubled face of someone who's certain he's forgotten something urgently important and can't remember what it is.
Well, they'd give him something to worry about, for damn sure.
This Walid was a go-between for the Young-El network, and reliable intel had him at the Jolo location. The city was a hive of criminal and terror action, and a center for global computer hackery and fraud. Perfect place to hide an Al Qaeda cyber-lair. Walid was reportedly in charge of the operation and more often than not on site. While the Filipinos were cleaning house, the team would snatch up Walid. It would look like he was caught in the net by chance, with the rest of the fish. Grabbing him wouldn't cause the whole network to roll up in its shell. The trail would still be hot after WAA, codenamed "Rabbit," gave up what he knew.
That was the plan, anyway.
"I still don't like it." Manny joined Heath at the rail.
"I don't like any op that starts on a boat," Heath said.
"And you joined the Navy, why?" Manny asked.
"I thought it was the cleanest service. After where I came from I wanted fresh air and open space."
Manny laughed.
"Yeah," Heath said with a grin. "That was before I knew what a nasty, filthy, greasy, shitty life a blue water sailor leads."
"I thought I liked boats," Manny said. "Until I got assigned to the Lex. Flattops are no place for a sane man to be. I like my home base to stay in one place; not have to fly around looking for it after a rough night in-country."
"So, you have anything new to add about Operation Bullrush, or is it your same old bitch?"
"Same old. We're relying on local intel. Griggs' instincts are good but, in the end, that's all we're going on. It's a kind of process of elimination deal that places our target on the scene. It could all be a waste of time and taxpayer dollars if the dude isn't home."
"The man's under pressure. This Young-El's stepped it up since UBL got waxed. And he can remote jump-start the kind of one-man jihads that're impossible to defend against. No 9-11 level actions, but smaller incidents of mass murders, poisonings, and bombings can be just as effective. Maybe more effective. Especially if it's from home-grown wackos."
"It's just not our kind of play, bro," Manny said. "We're not cops. We're not spies. We're gunfighters. You point us at the target and we move. We can bring 'em home alive or dead, and then our job is done."
"So, we're comin' into the process a little early," Heath said. "I trust Griggs. He's never lied to us or screwed us over. If he says it needs to happen this way and we're the ones for the duty, then I say we jump in and make the man proud."
"Yeah," Manny said with a shrug.
"And we're dropping into a damned maze filled with motherfuckers trying to kill us."
"And that's the upside." Manny smiled. "I think our ride's ready."
They turned to walk to where the Sea Kings were revving up, the slow moving props providing the only breath of air on the sweltering deck.
* * * * *
Both helos were flying on instruments as the clouds opened up on approach to the island. The choppers bucked and banked and the team in Helo 1 were jostled against each other on bench seats lining the bulkhead of the cargo area. They were dressed in digital forest camos that matched those worn by their Filipino compadres. In the chaos and confusion, any witnesses would mistake them for homegrown ass-kickers. Dressing in familiarly-patterned BDUs would make it less likely they'd get kakked by any of their new friends. Balaclavas pulled down to cover their faces would make further ID near impossible.
They sipped water from Fiji bottles and swallowed salt tabs to keep hydrated in the punishing heat. They checked and rechecked gear to make sure it was secured to their webbing and in easy reach. Except for Pig and his treasured SAW, the rest were armed with modified M4s. These were standard issue weaponry for US military, but the SEALs model was amped up on steroids. The frames were reinforced, and the actions and barrels re-chambered for the .50 caliber Beowulf round--a fatter round that packed twice the punch and impact area of the .223 the Mike-4 was built for. It was a man-killing round made for eyeball-to-eyeball firefights. What it made up in stopping power it gave up in magazine capacity. Each magazine could only carry ten rounds, so the guys were loaded down with twenty mags each, and a double "jungle clipped" mag loaded with one up the pipe. They tried drum magazines of fifty rounds each but those proved unreliable in early tests.
Each was also armed with their choice of sidearm. Most wore the standard issue Beretta, but Manny packed an old school 1911 Colt .45 and Heath was strapped with an incongruous Dan Wesson .44 magnum revolver; a custom hammerless job with a four-inch barrel. In addition, Flame kept a severely cut-down Remington Wingmaster 12 gauge securely Velcroed to his thigh. And every man on the team carried an assortment of grenades, as well as combat knives privately purchased and as individual as the owner. Weaponry, communication and vision gear, ammo, armor, and explosives had each guy bearing an additional forty pounds of ordnance. Sixty pounds for Pig. That was travelling light for this team.
It was all a ritual they'd been through before. Check your gear. Check your buddy's gear. Safeties on. Batteries to max. Re-Pete was satisfied that he was squared away and leaned his helmeted head back against the copter's juddering bulkhead; he touched his fingers to his silver crucifix before tucking it away out of sight. He looked over at the others who sat calm and cool like they were commuters instead of warriors on their way into a shitstorm. All but Flame, who was restlessly tapping the deck with the toe of his left boot, his head bobbing to the internal rhythm heard only by him.
The bay door of the helo was wide open as they flew and a steady stream of warm water sprayed in. A pair of Filipino marines were braced in the open door. One of them leaned out with an optical device to his eye. The guy next to him aimed a large spotlight down into the dark. The one with the ocular gestured to Manny without removing his gaze from the scope. He was Lieutenant Bayani Olchondro (PMFR); a squat dude built like a pro-wrester. For some reason, he insisted on being called "Bogie".
Manny unbuckled and duck-walked to the bay door over the rolling deck and took the scope. Bogie pointed downwards.
"There! There!" Bogie shouted over the rotor noise and rain.
Manny secured the scope to his eye and looked down. There, in a wavering beam of UV light, he could see the close-packed metal rooftops below. On one of the roofs was a large "O" painted in ultraviolet paint, invisible to the naked eye but clear in the scope's image area, even through the torrent pissing down. It was confirmation of the intel that brought them here. Manny turned to the team, and the five men began unbuckling from their seats.
"Let's do this thing!" Manny shouted, as he handed back the scope.
"Bet your ass!" Bogie answered in heavily accented English. The feral smile he was wearing showed a bottom row of all-gold teeth.
"You are Navy SEALs!" Bogie shouted. "Bad Ass Number One! We are proud to go into battle with you! Kill some Moros. Fuck Bin Laden, yes?"
"We're proud to kick ass with you too, my friend!" Manny called back.
Bogie's grin broadened.
The choppers banked wide around a large mosque; its four towers the distinguishing feature of this part of Jolo City. This was their only clear reference point in the tangle of streets and patchwork of rusting rooftops spread all around in no discernable pattern. The mission prep used the mosque as a center of a compass; Mosque North, Mosque South, East, and West.
Helo 2 was first to land in an outdoor basketball complex that was the only open area close to their target. Filipinos piled out the bay door and rushed across the courts in a rough triangular formation. Helo 1 dropped to the cracked tarmac, and Manny led his guys after the half-dozen marines they rode in with. One of the guys in this group was a local, and their most reliable guide through the labyrinth of downtown Jolo.
When everyone was clear, the helos lifted off to provide an eye in the sky along with air support if needed. They would also monitor police frequencies and call off the law when the action got loud. No one wanted local constabulary in what was expected to be a free-fire zone.
