The warrior code, p.2
The Warrior Code, page 2
part #2 of Seal Strike Series
Everyone on the joint special operations protection team expected the others to be professional and do their duty. Auger was the only SEAL in the group. Although he was relatively new to the bodyguard business, he certainly wasn’t new to the business of being a team player. So, he waited. Waited as the Colombian guerillas finished off the two SF soldiers with a few shots to the head and turned their attention to the limo.
Chapter Three
On the street, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) narco-guerillas assembled at one end of the ambush zone and calmly walked online, sweeping the area for any other Americans who might’ve escaped the two burning cars. Once at the third car, their leader signaled the machine gunner standing overwatch above them on the rooftop to stand down.
The silence was deafening. Inside the limo, Auger thought he heard the scuffling sound of lots of boots moving on either side of the sedan. The smoke hadn’t cleared enough to see figures; but they damn sure didn’t move like Joint Special Operations Command (JSOC) operators, and that was bad news. Auger sensed that the moment of truth was at hand.
The attackers were forming a defensive circle around the three cars, which finally brought them close enough for Auger to make out through the haze. Auger’s thoughts of what to do next were interrupted by the magnetic chunk of a mine or explosive charge being applied to the door of their Mercedes.
Auger turned to the precious cargo, four-star General Mark Alexander, Commander, United States Southern Command.
“Sir, we only have a few seconds before they blow these doors wide open! You have to move to the center of the car, now!”
The tall man in the seat next to Auger had remained poised and quiet throughout the attack. He was used to letting professionals sort things out and execute. He trusted his special operations protective detail and the men of the State Department’s Diplomatic Service Division. But he also had ears. He knew things were looking bleak.
He shot a cold look at his navy bodyguard. He wasn’t used to taking orders, especially from enlisted sailors. General Alexander was the man in charge of all US military activity in Central and South America. The theater commander-in-chief was in the process of visiting the city of Bogota, Colombia, to show support for the joint American-Colombian counter-narcotics program there.
The general grudgingly shifted his body closer to the center, in compliance with his bodyguard’s request. “Well, since you’re in charge of this particular tactical situation, Senior Chief Auger, what do you think they’ll do once they break in here?” The general’s voice revealed just a hint of concern.
Auger thought before answering. They both were wearing civilian clothes. He looked hard at the older man. The general was in his late forties, gray hair, with a solid build. He really didn’t look a day over thirty-eight, and that gave the SEAL an idea.
“Look, general, I’ve got a plan. You and I are about the same size and look nearly the same age. When these guys bust in, just play dumb. Don’t let on which one of us is the real VIP. You follow me, sir?”
The general nervously leaned over to look through Auger’s window. He could see the guerillas were scrambling to clear the area around the car. “All right, navy man, but your idea better work. They might not want me alive. They could be trying to kill me, you know.”
Auger looked directly at the general and grinned. “Sir, in that case, it doesn’t matter, we’re both toast!”
General Alexander grunted, unconvinced. “Okay, SEAL, we’ll go with your plan for now. But what about our ID?”
Auger kicked himself for not thinking of it first. “Good call, sir! Give me your wallet; we’ll toss it in here.” Auger indicated the secret armrest compartment used to store weapons in the Mercedes. The SEAL took both their wallets and dropped them in, slamming the armrest shut. “Carlos! Did you follow all that?”
The driver twisted around in his seat. “Yeah, boss, I understand the plan. But somehow I don’t think they’ll want to kidnap the schmuck driving the car.”
Auger’s response was violently swept away as the car doors blew off with a loud popping sound. The explosion was tremendous in the small confines of the limo. All three men dove to the floor of the car to avoid the flying debris generated by the small breaching charge.
Auger saw Carlos throw up his arms as a man forced himself into the car. On the front passenger side, three rapid shots rang out. The sound caused by the automatic weapon was so loud in the small Mercedes that it momentarily stunned the SEAL.
Carlos’s body was blown back into the door on his side, then he slumped forward over the wheel. A second explosion rocked the car, and the door on the general’s side of the back seat was violently breached.
The door was hanging by a hinge. The shock wave had momentarily incapacitated the general; he was barely conscious, with blood dripping from his left ear.
Auger watched helplessly as the older man was yanked roughly from the back seat of the car and thrown to the street. This was it. Auger knew he must survive. He began the mental processing that would give him the best chance to make it out in one piece.
The senior chief willed a change of mind-set; he forced himself to go passive. He was a prisoner for as long as they kept him alive. It was best to hope their lie bought them both some time. Stay alive any way you can and sort things out later. He hoped the general would have the sense to follow suit.
On the dirty sidewalk, the general struggled against the two men holding him. He assumed his size would intimidate the smaller Colombian gunmen. He was wrong; it only served to anger the proud young men. They violently kicked him in the mouth, and then all three of the gunmen began kicking him repeatedly as hard as they could.
One guerilla stepped up, struck a vicious blow to the general’s temple with the butt of his rifle, and knocked the big American out. A young bearded face pushed itself into Auger’s line of sight, blocking his view of the beating. “Venga aquí!” the man shouted angrily in Spanish, emphasizing the command with the barrel of a rifle pointed at Auger’s gut.
Auger nodded and tried to look afraid. He tried to comply by sliding across the seat, but apparently wasn’t moving fast enough. The end of the rifle barrel was jammed into his forehead with a loud smack. Auger’s hands went to his head, and that’s when the gunman thrust the rifle tip into his exposed torso.
Auger grunted and fell forward. He was sure the man had cracked a rib with the second blow. The guerilla fighter took advantage and grabbed the American by his long hair, dragging him out and onto the pavement to lie beside the first American.
Once out of the car, the SEAL could see that General Alexander was unconscious and lying in the fetal position, blows from the angry guerillas still being rained down on the unconscious man. A gunman to Auger’s right shouted something at him he didn’t quite catch. The SEAL turned his head to respond. An explosion of light and pain streaked through the enlisted man’s brain as a result of the rifle butt stroke, then there was darkness.
San Diego, California – Coronado Beach
Navy Lieutenant Matthew Barrett cursed as he stared at the glowing green face of his luminescent dive watch for the third time. Damn it! It was thirty minutes past midnight. He was going to be late two nights in a row, and tonight of all nights. Matt knew Tina wouldn’t fall asleep. She would wait up for him, probably with her arms crossed, dressed in a sexy nightie. Of course, the nightie would be off-limits. There was always a price to pay with Tina.
Matt hadn’t been lucky with women. His first real brush with love, a smart, sexy blonde named Sherry, had tried mightily to cope with the loneliness and fear of being the girlfriend of a navy frogman. Matt’s time in Virginia Beach, stationed at SEAL Delivery Vehicle (SDV) Team Two, had been eventful, to put it mildly. A stroke of dumb luck put him in command of a sniper heavy recon task element only a few months out of advanced SDV training.
Against all probability, he’d been ordered to take that unit recon into harm’s way. He was a green turd, not even a fully-grown frogman, and he knew very little about his chosen specialty of naval special warfare. He owed the success of his time in leadership to seven exceptional men.
They were the reason he didn’t screw up, when after only a few months in command he’d been placed in a combat leadership role. It went well enough to get the job done without losing anybody. He’d learned more in that eighteen hours about being an officer and about being a SEAL than all the training leading up to that mission combined.
The mission was deemed a success by the higher-ups, and a slew of awards were given out to his men for their part in the ordeal. Matt’s wounds put him in a six-month-long process of rejuvenation, going in and out of hospitals and enduring painful physical therapy sessions.
Somewhere along the way, Sherry called it quits. She’d had enough of Matt’s chosen life. He often wondered if she’d ever gotten married. A great looking woman like that was bound to attract attention. Matt sighed. Tina wasn’t Sherry, and Tina was going to be pissed.
Once he’d been cleared operational by the navy doctors, Matt spent one more year at SDV Team Two as the training officer. He then went on to complete two back-to-back combat tours in Iraq as a task unit commander, where the SDV teams mothballed their minisubs and helped win the fight in the sandbox with their brothers in the other teams.
His orders to Basic Underwater Demolition SEAL training, known affectionally as BUD/S, in San Diego, California, was meant to be a rest tour. He took the orders grudgingly. He knew he was getting burned out, they all were. Many of his classmates from BUD/S were on their sixth and seventh combat tours, and quite a few were shot up.
The push was never from the brass. Team guys were designed to fight; it was in their DNA. Once a frogman was able to move, shoot, and communicate, it was go time. That made going to shore duty even more shameful.
He felt he’d been in the zone at SDV Team Two. He fully expected to go to one of the other East Coast SEAL teams and hoped he’d get at least two more combat deployments in before doing his obligatory operations officer tour.
He was getting smarter and more effective, both as a SEAL operator and as a leader; but his feelings on the matter were ignored. His commanding officer had Matt evaluated for post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) not long after he returned from Iraq a second time. Everyone concurred: Matt wasn’t going to another SEAL team, he needed a break.
Chapter Four
Matt spun around to study the ground between him and the SEAL training facility a quarter of a mile away, straining to spot the truck carrying the oncoming Hell Week shift. It was too dark to see anything. Damn, it was cold!
California nights were always chilly. The temperature didn’t tell the real story. Around four in the afternoon, every day in the winter, the wind began to whip up. A Mexican wind.
In the summer, it was a mere inconvenience to bikers heading to Imperial Beach by way of the paved two-lane bike path. But after August, when the sun went down, the temperature dropped and the wind chill steadily increased. A crazy effect, but one every BUD/S student, graduate, and instructor understood.
Matt turned back to address his shift chief, Chief Petty Officer Sanders. “That damn relief crew should’ve been here half an hour ago. Those boneheads are going to screw up the schedule.”
Chief Sanders was always calm and cool. He poured another cup of steaming coffee from his thermos and screwed the cap back on. “Well, LT, Chief Jackson’s a good man. I can’t believe he’d screw us over on purpose, maybe for the fun of it, but never on purpose.” The chief chuckled at his own joke. “There must be a good reason for this delay.”
Matt knew the chief was right. He thought of the VHF radio lying on the hood of the gray navy pickup truck. He could always call, but that would broadcast the problem on the command net.
The radio conversation would be monitored, and eventually, the executive officer would learn there had been problems with the shift turnover. Matt decided he wouldn’t use the radio. He could send a text, but he had a better idea.
Matt decided to drive to the compound and find out what was happening for himself. He knew the shift leader wasn’t supposed to leave the BUD/S class during Hell Week.
He was considered the primary safety officer, responsible on-site for the SEAL students and the ten-man instructor staff. The chief easily could perform the same function; Matt would only be gone for a few minutes.
“You’re probably right, chief. I’m just jumpy because I have big plans after this shift’s over. Kind of an anniversary thing.”
“I didn’t realize you were married, sir.”
“I’m not. It’s our first year dating. Might be our last if I don’t get home on time after my shift. This screwup is kind of cramping my style, if you know what I mean.”
“Well, sir, we could wait five minutes after you leave and then just mosey on over with the class. Just call me on the radio if you need us to bring the class into the compound any sooner. Nobody will be the wiser. I’ll just make them race to the dive tower. Anyone would think you planned it that way.”
As Matt considered the plan, the chief put his whistle to his lips and blew once. The straggling mass of Hell Week students froze in place before easing down to the sand. One whistle meant to stop whatever you were doing and hit the ground.
Three whistles meant to continue with whatever you were doing. The chief was going somewhere else with this drill. The students waited, their hands over their ears and their legs crossed in, as if in preparation for the concussive effect of incoming artillery fire.
The BUD/S students were moving like zombies. The chief knew that at this point in Hell Week, pushing them to move quickly was a waste of time. By now, most of the class would have gone on “automatic”: zoning out the pain, the cold, and the harassment.
Usually, the last two days of Hell Week were a simple endurance event. The instructors didn’t need to create special tortures or games. The weather, the ocean, and the weight of the seven-man two-hundred-pound rubber boats did the work for them.
The chief tweeted his whistle twice, and the blob of sandy wet bodies began to shudder as one-by-one the students began crawling toward the source of the sound. He would direct the pile’s direction by moving to one side or the other as he continued tweeting twice. Tweet, tweet. Tweet, tweet. The only other sounds were the ever-present booming of waves crashing offshore and the scraping sound of the sandy bodies slithering forward.
Matt smiled. It was clear the chief could handle things here. “Okay, I like your idea. I’m out of here.” Matt grabbed his safety radio off the truck’s hood and jumped into the cab. He twisted the key and the truck roared to life.
The chief smiled at the lieutenant and waved as Matt backed the vehicle up. He waved back and rolled onto the sand road leading back to the training complex. Tweet, tweet. Tweet, tweet echoed in the background.
Every SEAL Hell Week shift was composed of an officer and a senior enlisted SEAL. Their primary duty was to ride herd on the younger instructors and make sure the schedule was followed without too much deviation.
Matt realized he was lucky to have Chief Sanders covering his ass. He pulled off his ball cap and ran a hand through his wavy blond hair. He needed a haircut, bad. The truck was set in the four-wheel-drive mode, but it still required skill for Matt to maneuver on the soft sand of the Coronado strand beach. Within minutes, he neared the back gate to the BUD/S compound. Home sweet home!
Matt had spent the better part of two years assigned to the Navy Special Warfare Training Center in Coronado. He had a great job, as far as instructor billets went. He was the officer-in-charge of the third and final phase of BUD/S training.
The first phase was all about weeding out the weak. This was done in a variety of ways; but ultimately, in a volunteer course, the decision came down to how badly a man wanted to become a SEAL. The students checked out on a regular basis, quitting in pairs, by themselves, and once in a while, an entire boat crew left together.
Hell Week took the half that survived the early weeks and weeded the class out even further. All BUD/S instructors and officers chipped in to help during Hell Week. The groups or shift teams rotated throughout the day. That way the instructors were always fresh and alert.
After Hell Week, what was left of the class licked their wounds and recovered, slowly ramping up physical training over a two-week period before moving on to the second phase of training: dive operations.
The order of dive training and land warfare training had flipped and flopped several times over the history of BUD/S. Currently, land warfare was placed at the end of the course in phase three.
The third phase was the place where the baby SEALs first learned the art of ground warfare. Combat tactics, land navigation, weapons training, and mission planning were a daily staple. Matt loved being the leader of this phase of training.
Demolitions also were taught to the young tadpoles in this last phase. All the SEAL instructors working for Matt loved the schedule. Half of the third phase was conducted on the Coronado strand alongside the other BUD/S classes, and the other half was conducted on San Clemente Island, a part of the Catalina Islands sitting a few miles off the California coast.
Matt’s instructor staff knew they were the only BUD/S instructors able to maintain their warfighting edge while still on shore duty. Shore duty was normally two years long. The two years were supposed to be a break between the longer seven-year sea duty tours experienced at the operating teams, but the third phase crew took full advantage of the opportunity to shoot, move, and communicate right alongside the students.
Once on San Clemente Island, the instructors took time to conduct their own weapons proficiency training whenever their schedule permitted. Playing bad guys allowed them time to patrol and practice their fieldcraft. It was a good gig, and the best part was that their professional skills didn’t atrophy while away from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.
