The warrior code, p.4
The Warrior Code, page 4
part #2 of Seal Strike Series
Matt could barely stay awake during the long drive back. He pulled his car into the common parking area in front of Tina’s townhouse and shuffled his way to the door. Fumbling with his keys, Matt finally entered and quietly climbed the stairs to the bedroom. Tina woke up the second Matt’s tired body hit the sheets.
“This isn’t working,” she said sharply.
Matt sighed. “Come on, honey, not right now! I’m beat. Besides, it wasn’t my fault this time.”
Tina wasn’t buying it. “Matt, it’s never your fault! You waltz in here at two thirty in the morning. You never even called to say you’d be late! And to top it all off, you knew I was waiting up for you!”
“Tina, look, I didn’t think the shift turnover would take so long. I didn’t call because I didn’t want to wake you up. I thought we’d wrap things up and I’d still make it home on time. You know how these Hell Week shifts work. We don’t call the shots; the students do. I’m sorry you waited so long, but it just couldn’t be helped!” Matt rolled over and attempted to end the discussion with body his language.
Tina wasn’t going to let up. “Matt, how can we even think about getting married and building a life together if you can’t even honor your commitments? For God’s sake, this is only shore duty! What will it be like when you get reassigned to the teams again?”
Matt knew Tina was right on that point. She had touched on the only concern he had about their relationship. Married life in the teams was tough. Many active duty SEALs spent over two hundred and fifty days a year away from home.
They often were unable to tell their wives where they were going or when they would be back. Matt realized too late that he hadn’t answered Tina’s question fast enough.
“Okay, I get it now. I’m just a convenience. You don’t really intend to make this work!”
Matt knew he couldn’t win this argument. He was pretty sure he loved Tina, but he had his doubts about her ability to deal with his SEAL career. He knew he could always get out of the navy and try to make a go of it on the outside. Tina would love that. But Matt wasn’t so sure he’d be happy doing something else.
“Tina, please, can’t we talk about this after I get some shut-eye? It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning!”
“Sure, Matt,” she punched out. “As usual, we’ll wait until you’re ready to talk about it!” Tina pulled the covers tighter around her shoulders and went silent. Matt smiled. Now he could sleep.
Chapter Seven
When the phone started ringing, the clock radio read five twenty AM. Matt snapped out a hand, snatching the handset from the cradle before the second ring. He listened for a few seconds and then groaned. “I don’t believe this!”
The sun poured its rays down on Mission Valley, creating a living landscape of beauty and charm. The Spanish had seen the same quality when they first arrived. It compelled them to place a mission church on the high ridge overlooking the valley. Matt wasn’t feeling it; he put on his blinker and took the exit for Balboa.
Ten minutes later, he was crossing the Coronado Bay Bridge. The morning traffic was mercifully light and that allowed Matt to make great time. He pulled up to the security post on the ocean side of the amphibious base, flashed his ID card to the guard, and drove the last hundred yards to the Naval Special Warfare Center’s parking lot.
Matt dragged his feet as he went up the two flights of stairs to the second level of the command building. He walked along the outside balcony, which ran the length of the two-story structure that rose up from the BUD/S grinder. He saw that the compound was coming alive, but there was no sign of the Hell Week class.
Matt opened the outer door and entered the reception area placed squarely between the executive officer’s office on the left and the Director of BUD/S training’s office to the right. It wasn’t normal working hours, and the director’s secretary wasn’t at her desk. The navy commander was standing by the window, looking down the beach toward the Hotel Del Coronado when Matt came into the room.
“Come on in, Matt. Have a seat.” The older man pointed to a chair.
“Yes, sir!” Matt answered.
Matt looked around; they were alone. The presence of other senior officers would indicate that he probably was in some kind of trouble or they needed witnesses for some reason. You never knew what might happen in the navy. The institution was famous for axing their leaders for failing to lead.
Tradition stated that officers in charge were responsible for everything that happened on their watch, even if the officer in command himself did nothing wrong. There were all sorts of sad stories about young officers making some mistake and getting nailed. Cutting short their careers before they really got started.
However, they were alone. Apparently, this meeting was for Matt and the director alone. Matt sat down on the chair indicated.
“How’re ya feeling?” asked the older man. The director of BUD/S was a prior enlisted SEAL. The rows of ribbons sitting about his left breast pocket reflected a lot of time in the teams. Matt guessed he was nearing an impressive thirty-year career by now.
Matt swallowed hard; his throat was suddenly dry. He couldn’t figure out from the tone of the director’s voice whether or not in he was in hot water, so he decided to sound curious instead of guilty. “Well, sir, I’m okay, but I am kind of curious why you had me come back into work. I only just left. Did something happen to the Hell Week class?”
“Matt, I received a classified special category (SPECAT) message an hour and a half ago. I was the only one allowed to go into the message center and sign for the document. I know this was an imposition on you, just coming off shift this morning; you probably didn’t get much sleep. I had to drive in all the way from Poway. Do you know how far that is from here?” Matt simply nodded. He was sure the director was about to tear his head off.
“What was the message about, sir?”
The director leaned back in his ergonomically-designed office chair, a gift from his concerned wife of twenty-two years. “The classified message came from the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the subject of that message was you, lieutenant.”
Matt was confused. That and a lack of sleep caused him to do a mental double take. “Me, sir?” Matt murmured. “What could possibly be in a special category message involving me?”
The director continued, “Matt, the message is fairly brief and to the point. You’re directed to report to the Pentagon in Washington, DC, within twenty-four hours. The message states that you are going to be placed in charge of a special operations unit being assembled by the national command authority. Nothing more specific.” The director paused. “Do you have any idea what this might be about?”
“No, sir,” Matt said. The shock caused by the announcement left him numb. “No, sir, I’m attached to BUD/S. You know the deal; this is shore duty. I shouldn’t be doing any operational stuff.”
The director nodded in agreement. “That’s right, Matt. I don’t know what clown decided to pull one of my officers out of BUD/S; it doesn’t make sense. You and I both know there are plenty of capable officers in the operational SEAL teams on both coasts. Why pick you?”
The director’s words were both questioning and accusing. “Your guess is as good as mine, sir. Maybe it’s a mistake.” Did the director think Matt had something to do with this? Maybe angling for a special project behind his back?
“It might be a mistake, but I’m not going to ask if it is or not. Orders are orders. However, if you get to DC and find out this is a mistake of some sort, I would appreciate it if you would let me know and hightail it back here. I’m short two officers as it is.”
“Yes, sir,” Matt replied. “I have one more question.”
“Yes?”
Matt continued, “Are you sure the message didn’t say anything about the reason for all this?”
“No, son, it didn’t. The message was clear as mud. Lieutenant Matthew Barrett, United States Navy, is to report within twenty-four hours. This message will act as official orders for all military transportation.”
The director stopped reading and looked at Matt. “That basically gives you a blank check to arrange immediate transportation at any military facility in the United States. Do you need to wrap anything up here before you leave?”
“No, sir. I’m good to go. I take it I can’t tell anyone I’m leaving?”
“You know the deal, Matt. This baby, whatever it is, is code word access only. You’re single, right? Or do you have a special someone who will ask questions if you disappear?”
“Yes, sir, well, sort of. I live with a lady. She’s already pissed about the whole SEAL thing. She’ll freak out if I play cloak and dagger with her now. If you would, please tell her I had to go to San Clemente Island on an emergency. Say it’s a training accident and I was assigned to investigate or something. That will give me a week to sort this Joint Chiefs of Staff or JCS thing out.”
The director reached out to Matt and shook his hand. “I’ll do my best. You need to get your shit together and roll on out of here. Call me if I can assist in any way.”
Matt returned the firm handshake. “Thanks, skipper! I’ll let you know when I know.” Matt suddenly remembered a problem. “Sir, I guess there is one other thing I am concerned about. I have a heck of a lot of paperwork stacked up on my desk. I saw your request for everyone to get those quarterly budgets in on time.”
Matt was a good officer. Instead of whooping it up about his timely escape from the all the administrative bullshit, he retained a sense of duty to his command. “Don’t worry, Matt,” the older man said calmly. “I’ll make sure somebody looks at the stuff on your desk. If you don’t get back in time, we’ll get input from your phase instructors and get the budget worked out.”
Matt left the office holding the SPECAT message folder. He began conducting a mental inventory. He had his basic combat load in the locker room. It would only take a minute or two to grab his gear. As a third-phase instructor, Matt spent quite a bit of time patrolling with the students, so his personal equipment was squared away as a result.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Whatever was going on, it sounded like operating and that was a good thing. He felt the old juices begin to flow. He had a fleeting image of how Tina would react to all this. Well, Matt thought, he had some thinking to do on that subject. Things might not be the same for them when he came back.
The Pentagon - Washington, DC
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff glared across the table at the other service chiefs. “Gentlemen, we need a plan I can show the president. How the hell are we going to get our people back?”
The assembled uniformed leaders of the nation’s armed forces didn’t immediately respond.
“So far, only the navy has put forth a proposal worth looking at seriously. They, of course, believe this is a navy special operations job, and I for one, can see the logic of their argument. Especially since our boys at the CIA think the guerillas will take General Alexander and the senior chief to their main sanctuary on that river . . . what’s the name again?
“The Ariari River, Chairman,” reminded an intelligence analyst sitting against the wall.
“Right, right. The Ariari River. Seems like a navy job to me. Any thoughts?” The chairman looked at each man around the table, locking his eyes with theirs, challenging them to do something, say something. He knew they were political animals, not really fighters. Always calculating the downside of stepping forward.
A voice to his left piped up. “Yes, sir. As you have already surmised, a river means maritime expertise, and the Special Operations Command in Tampa concurs with my recommendation. We are the force to execute this rescue.”
The admiral looked up and down the long table to gauge the reaction of his army and Marine partners to his bold statement before continuing. “As we stated earlier, sir, the best option is to use a select team of SEALs. As you know, these men are uniquely trained to execute operations in this environment.
“A small team of handpicked SEALs will conduct surveillance of the FARC’s river encampment, then direct and support the rescue force upon our order. Of course, we’ll welcome and require the assistance of the other services in support, as always.”
“Admiral, I’m going to reserve my judgment for a moment, even though, as you pointed out, I’m inclined to agree with your logic. It seems to me that patrolling through the dense jungle would be much tougher to accomplish than coming down that river.”
The chairman stabbed his finger at the map. “I’m an army infantryman, and I know what I’m talking about here. I’m leaning toward an operational concept consisting of two phases. Phase one: reconnaissance surveillance by the SEALs. Phase two: the rescue of our people. I want to study the rescue options a bit further. All Department of Defense service assets will be dedicated to supporting both phases of this operation. Does anyone disagree or have a better plan?”
No one in the room responded. By their silence, he was comfortable in assuming the navy special operations approach was a decision and no longer an idea. “Okay, then it’s settled. What do we want to call this lash-up?”
“How about ‘Operation Green Dagger’?” The admiral was in the zone.
Chapter Eight
The chairman looked around the room. Everyone was happy letting the navy put a noose around their own neck. “Okay, Jake. We’ll designate it Operation Green Dagger. Any other questions? Comments?” The commandant of the Marine Corps raised his hand. He had decided to contest the assumptions discussed so far in the meeting.
“Yes, sir, I do have a question. I’d like a minute of your time to dispute the navy’s logic. I can’t believe that it’s prudent to allow the SEALs to penetrate so far inland. Sure, it’s a riverine environment, but the corps has a long history of successful operations such as this, and, sir, SEALs are still sailors.”
The admiral raised an eyebrow and smirked slightly. He was a combat fighter pilot. He’d supported SEALs, and he was absolutely sure they measured up to a Marine rifleman. “Apples and oranges, George, apples and oranges.”
“Yeah, I get it. Special operations and all that. In my opinion, the Marines can bring more to the table. While the SEALs are certainly capable warriors, I believe that the Marine Corps force reconnaissance units are the best team we can field for Operation Green Dagger.”
“Of course, sir, as you might expect, I respectfully disagree with the commandant’s conclusions.” The admiral looked sideways at his Marine counterpart and maintained eye contact. “If I may, chairman, I’d like to bring out a few salient points that my esteemed associate may be unaware of or may have overlooked.”
“Go ahead, Jake, but make it brief. I thought we’d put this thing in a box three minutes ago.” The chairman checked his watch. He was late for a meeting with the national security advisor.
“Yes, sir, thank you. First and foremost, we have predefined levels of expertise in this area. Marine force reconnaissance units are second-tier forces. They are very effective in a conventional sense. Sir, I mean no disrespect to the commandant or the corps, but I do not recommend we send in a second-tier force to conduct a first-tier level mission.”
The admiral paused for emphasis. “Sir, in addition, I respectfully suggest you compare the actual credentials, capabilities, and training expertise of a two- to three-man SEAL surveillance team with a force reconnaissance unit. While both are made up of patriotic American men, the SEAL’s ability to communicate and send back real-time photography and video stream using state-of-the-art equipment far outclasses any conventional tier-two unit the Marine Corps could put on the ground.”
He had everyone’s attention now. “The average age of a SEAL is twenty-eight. These are mature men, and the team I have in mind are all highly-decorated combat veterans.” The admiral ended his statement with a little smile on his face. He knew the discussion was over.
“Any other thoughts?” the chairman asked, looking around the room. He focused his eyes on the Marine four-star across the table. None of the other joint chiefs felt like jumping in. “All right then. George, I concur with the logic of using tier-one SEAL elements. This is a strategic challenge, and I might add, a politically charged one at that. The SEALs are better for this type of thing.”
The chairman turned to address the admiral. “Quite frankly, Jake, if you guys pick the right men you should be able to pull this off.”
“I’m way ahead of you, sir. I took the liberty of recalling a potential mission commander, Lieutenant Matt Barrett. He led the SEAL platoon that pulled off that miracle in Egypt a few years ago. He’s steady as a rock.”
“All right, admiral, I’ll leave phase one of Operation Green Dagger in your capable hands.” The chairman took one last look around. “Unless any of you have any more objections in this matter, I will adjourn this meeting.” He looked around. “No? Good! Jake, I expect the draft operations order on my desk within twenty-four hours.”
With that said, the chairman stood up. The chiefs all rose to their feet and remained standing until he departed the room. “Good job, Jake!” the commandant said without looking at the admiral.
The admiral looked at his Marine counterpart. “Sorry, George.” The admiral knew his peer was fully aware of the advantages of using a tier-one asset, but it was his job to support the objectives of the Marine Corps. One of those objectives was to capture funding. US Special Operations Command had a huge operating budget as well as its own line of funding in the defense budget, similar to full-fledged military service.
The commandant nodded. “No issues, Pete. Congratulations.” He’d lost this round. The budget game was straightforward.
The threats drove the mission and they drove the spending. After the attacks in 2001, amphibious infantry wasn’t as sexy or as vital as counterterrorist capabilities. The Marine Corps had fought the rising emphasis on terrorism in the late nineties, and after 9/11 they found themselves stuck as a conventional force in an unconventional war.
