SEAL Forever (24 page)

In case you missed it, read on for an excerpt from Anne Elizabeth's first West Coast Navy SEALs book:

A SEAL at Heart

If you're not gonna pull the trigger, don't point the gun.

—James Baker

Operation Sundial, at an undisclosed location deep in the jungle

Blood dripped down his forehead and blurred his vision. Wiping it away, Jack forced his eyes to focus. He squinted, but it was useless.

The helicopter downwash whirled mud and dirt into the air faster than he could blink, and the clouds of grit stuck to his face. Nothing shielded him from the suffocating pelting of the brownout, making him blind as hell without his protective glasses.

Gathering the five-foot-ten-inch form of his swim buddy Don into his arms, he duckwalked as low as he could, heading toward the belly of the helicopter. Luckily the rain had stopped momentarily as the rotor blades cut the air, but it made the moment more surreal.

Whup, whup, whup…

He blew air out of his mouth. His nostrils were caked with grime, but he could still smell the blood seeping from the bandages he'd fastened around Don's chest. He squeezed his swim buddy tightly, trying to keep pressure on the wound.

A stray bullet ricocheted, displacing the air near his face. Where the hell did that shot come from? The helicopter was
so
goddamned loud.

The door of the copter jerked open; the blessed haven was dead ahead. The two door gunners laid down suppressor fire, but it was short-lived aid as enemy bullets took them down. They fell back just within the side door of the helo.

“God help us,” Jack muttered under his breath as he finally reached the opening. The men in front of him were practically cut in two by the rounds. There wasn't time to think about them or their families now. With a mighty heave, he lifted his buddy onto the helicopter floor and scrambled in after him.

Coughing the crap out of his lungs, he dragged Don over to the far wall, away from the doorway, and stood up to scan the interior. It took him a minute to take in the carnage. He tried to wipe the image from his eyes as his mind put the gory pieces together. The pilots were shredded.
Damn.

Making his way to the cockpit, he could see that the glass dome had been compromised and the entire enclosure looked pretty chewed up. “Please let this thing fly.” The blades were still turning, so that was a good sign, and neither the cyclic nor collective were hit. But would it be enough to get them out of this hellhole?

He touched his throat to activate the comm mic. It didn't respond. He spoke softly, trying again, “Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.”
What
the
fuck!

Where
the
hell
is
everyone?

The rain was starting again, angling into the copter and hitting his face.

Another series of blinding flashes—hard to tell if it was lightning or shots—from outside, but it forced him to move Don, to stash him deeper in the belly of the copter, and momentarily duck for cover.

Pwing!
The bullet bounced off metal.

He was pretty sure it was only a small number of insurgents and one sniper firing wildly. Random shots in the dark. Problem was, even a broken clock was right twice a day, and the dead airmen were horrific evidence of the sniper's success.

A volley of shots. A few rebels cross-fired at one another, sending shouts of anger into the air.
Go
to
it. Maybe you'll hit each other.

The only good news was that if he couldn't see them, they couldn't target him directly either.

There was no point in sitting tight. He needed to find his Team. After securing Don and rigging a piece of equipment to hold pressure on his swim buddy's wound, Jack went back to the open door. A glimpse of rag-covered muddy boots to the right let him know that an enemy was approaching. Moving quickly into the disrupted cloud of crud, he positioned himself so his vantage point was optimal.

Two Tangos dressed in frayed pants held Russian 9 mms at the ready. Instinctually, Jack withdrew his SIG Sauer, took a breath, and squeezed off several rounds. They dropped instantly.

He checked their pulses. Dead. Now, where were the others?
Here, birdie, birdie, birdie…

Working his way quickly out of the cloud of dust, he knew he would be vulnerable, but this was his best option. He had to know what was going on. This mission had gone sideways long ago.

Coming up behind a rebel who was caught up in dislodging a jammed gun, Jack holstered his own weapon and, using bare hands, silently broke the enemy's neck. Slowly, he worked his way around the perimeter of the helo. For now, it was clear.

Lightning split the sky, bathing the area better than a floodlight. It was the vantage point he sought.

A noise caught his attention as a door from the factory flew open, banging against the siding. That was them—his Teammates—sprinting from the interior as flames engulfed the structure. They were coughing and several of them appeared to have minor injuries. Jack held his ground, preparing to lay down cover fire, if required. His eyes were desperately searching for a subversive threat, when an explosion lifted him from his feet and threw him to the ground.

Bam!

Thrown backward from the blast, the back of his head smacked something hard. Black spots danced in front of his eyes and bile scored the back of his throat. Swallowing the harsh rush of acid, he lifted his hand—gun gripped tightly in his fingers—trying to focus on the enemy that should have been coming over the large boulders a few feet in front of him.

Nothing. No one.

The smell of C-4, with its acrid ether odor, filled his nostrils even as thunder shook the sky and rain barreled down.

A sharp burning sensation seared the back of his skull, going from ten on the pain scale to numb within seconds. Another wave of nausea made his stomach roll and quake as he deliberately forced his way to his knees and then his feet.

The
clock
is
ticking.
Fighting the dark spots, he stood wavering for a few seconds before his sight returned to normal and he could search for them… The enemy. His buddies. Or any signs of life.

His eyes widened.

Giant pieces of seared, cloth-covered flesh were scattered over the ground. It didn't compute at first. Those were his buddies, Teammates from SEAL Team ONE, Platoon 1-Alfa, and only a few of them were moving.

Jack was instantly in motion. Grabbing the body closest to him, he felt for a pulse. The steady thump sent a surge of adrenaline through his system. He gathered the man to his chest, trying to keep his hands on his buddy as he dragged him toward the helicopter. The path was wet with blood and mud, and repeating the task several times, he slipped in the sludge as he loaded the bodies closest to him on board.

Only one Teammate, Gerry Knotts, was left and remained exposed. Jack would be a moving target—a perfect bull's-eye—for the enemy's shoot-'em-up game if he attempted it.

Eyes sought his. His Teammate was alive and signaling him. Jack understood and moved to a rock as far from Knotts as possible. Lifting his 9 mm, Jack fired several shots. Bullets peppered around the rock as he quickly belly-crawled back to his original position.

Knotts fired several shots, nailing the Tangos.

Moving up into a dead run, Jack reached Gerry's side and then helped him stand. Together they rushed into the cloud of dirt and grunge, going for the helo.

They left long streaks of mud along the deck as they rolled inside.

Jack checked…seven men loaded, and he was lucky number eight. His life meant nothing without them.

Finally able to close and secure the door, Jack shoved debris aside until it was easier to move around the cockpit. Quickly moving the pilot's body to properly reach the controls, he straddled the chair and checked the instrument panel.

He held his breath, watching the RPM gauges of the turbine and rotor. The helo hovered. The controls required constant small changes to keep the bird in the air. Sweat dripped off his face. “Come on, baby. That's it! Into the storm.

“Now, let's get the hell out of here.” As the helo responded, he sighed with relief. He'd only piloted helicopters a couple of times—all his experience was in fixed-wing aircraft—and he was hoping his brief lessons would be enough to get them back to the rendezvous point.

He had to hand it to her—this bird flew, even all shot up. Just as he was beginning to feel okay about the flight, he noticed black spots at the edge of his vision. With the back of his thumb, he rubbed one eye. Nothing prepared him for his sight going, leaving only one eye functioning.

He squinted at the instruments. The radio was blown and there was no luxury of an autopilot. Keeping a helo in the air was a constant struggle against the torque, the wind, and the pilot's ability. “Come on, Jack. Concentrate!”

Wind buffeted his face courtesy of the bullet-shattered windshield. The smell of ozone was heavy and ripe. He hoped the lightning was over.

Wetness dripped down the back of his neck. He wiped a hand against the warmth, and it came away with fresh blood. His.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Looking over his shoulder, he saw the bodies of his Teammates. He didn't know if they were alive or dead. But he could never let them down. He'd get them all to safety—make them secure—even if it was the last thing he ever did.

* * *

Coronado, California

No other place on the planet was like McP's Pub in October—the seagulls circling and crying overhead, and the women just as raucous. He took a long pull on his beer.

“Welcome home, Jack,” said Betsy. The friendly blond waitress with a wide, pearly white smile and a set of 44Ds grinned knowingly at him as she walked by. Hers was the kind of walk that had her hips swinging, and her tight apron full of change played a musical medley to the movement of her sexy saunter.

Some
women
can
move
like
their
hips
are
on
springs.

For those around him—the suntan worshippers—almost any hot spot on the planet would probably suffice. But for Jack, this tiny island town between Glorietta Bay and the Pacific Ocean was uniquely qualified to be his home. Having been assigned to SEAL Team ONE and with an apartment only ten blocks away from the Amphib base, Jack thought this was a snapshot of perfection.

He scratched at the gooey tape mark behind his ear. The bandage around his head was gone and he was no longer hooked to IVs or being pumped full of fluids and painkillers, but he wished there were an antibiotic or balm for the one place he hurt the most, his soul.

At Balboa Naval Hospital, the medical staff had told him his number one job was to relax until he was fully healed and had his memory back. There were too many holes, too many memories missing from the last Op. The worst part was… his best friend was dead.

Jack couldn't reconcile it and didn't know how to fix the situation.

The rub was… if he didn't take care of himself, fix the recollection issue, he'd be stuck with the label “acute psychological suppression”—forever. That didn't bode well for him.

Do
the
familiar. Take it easy.
Those were the orders from the medical staff.

With those directions rattling around his brain, it meant finding a place to unwind where he could feel the sun's raw heat on his skin, taste the tang of salt on his lips, and have a cold brew sweating in his hand as he savored each sip. Well, maybe not the alcohol part, but everyone had a vice and his was simple: fresh air, exercise, and a bit of the barley.

Ah, beer!
The first sip was always sweetest.

At first, being back in Coronado had been difficult. The layers of emotion had punched him in the gut practically every few minutes. Drink in hand, his mind had started to go numb, turn off, and he went whole hog for the break. McP's was the perfect place to just… be. Where men and women interacted, doing a dance as primal and ancient as time itself to attract each other. As the action unfolded in front of him, he saw a few younger brethren had scored, snapping up the curvy and very willing quarry to set off for more serious play somewhere else. Nature's fundamental dance never ceased to intrigue him, though he wasn't looking.

Listening to the slap of the waitresses' tennis shoes against the slate wasn't quite as sexy as the click of a stiletto, but he couldn't complain. Most of them were paragons, Madonnas—look but don't touch—because they were SEAL wives or friends.

A loaded hamburger with a crisp green salad was placed in front of him. Steam rose from the burger and his nostrils flared. Of course,
this
tasty morsel he would be willing to sink his teeth into anytime.

“Just the way you like it, and on the house,” said Jules with a wink, another one of McP's waitressing angels. “‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan, a stately pleasure-dome decree…'”

“‘Where Alph, the sacred river, ran through caverns measureless to man down to a sunless sea…'” The reference from “Kubla Khan; or, A Vision in a Dream,” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, was a favorite of his and McP's was a home of sorts, his own pleasure-dome. A framed copy of the eighteenth-century poem sat on his nightstand, a birthday gift from Jules and all of the waitstaff at McP's. Even now he could recite each and every line verbatim. His own life was like that poem, a journey, and very much unfinished. He wanted that chance… to explore.

“Thanks, Jules.” Jack grinned, unusually grateful for the human connection. He shifted uncomfortably on the chair. Maybe the incident overseas had shaken him more than he realized. “Hey, how did you know exactly what I wanted?”