Keith Douglass - Seal Team Seven

"Ray, I'll give it to you straight. These boys just came back off a mission. A real mission. And they lost their CO. I mean it. It really hit 'em hard."

Nagel's eyes widened. "No shit?"

"Ray, you know I wouldn't shit you. We lost a good man."

"Where was it, Mac? Iraq?"

"You also know I can't tell you anything."

Nagel took a deep breath. "Look Mac, I understand, and I wanna do you a favor, you know I do. But this is a decent town, and I can't have your boys trashing the place just because they need to cut loose. I've covered for your SEALs before, but..."

"Have you filed charges yet, Ray?"

"No, but..."

"Is the hotel manager pressing charges?"

Nagel glowered, then shook his head, almost reluctantly. "If they get paid, they won't file. I think the manager was so relieved to get them out of his place he, well, sorta forgot."

MacKenzie pulled out his checkbook and began writing. The senior chiefs at Little Creek maintained a discretionary fund against just such emergencies. Roselli, Holt, Doc, Fernandez, and Nicholson would be encouraged to "contribute" to that fund, as they had a time or three in the past. He filled in the amount for three thousand, tore it off, and passed it to Nagel. "That's for the damages, Ray. If there's any change left over, maybe the Policemen's Fund?"

Nagel accepted the check and tucked it into a desk drawer. "Thanks, Mac. The boys appreciate it. But I can't keep sweeping up the mess your SEALs leave behind them.

The lecture that followed was rough, but not as rough as MacKenzie had feared. At least this time around there would be no civil charges against his men, and he thought he could handle the military end of it informally, through extra duty and that "contribution" to the chief's fund. Of course, if they wanted a captain's mast, he'd let them have one.

He wondered, though, what the new CO would make of all this. Maybe it was better that he never know.

They brought Roselli and Holt out to him, both men showing some nasty blotches around puffy eyes. "You two," he said ominously, "have a shitload of explaining to do." Damn, what was the new lieutenant going to think?

0945 hours (Zulu -5)

Headquarters, SEAL Team Seven

Little Creek, Virginia

Murdock stood appalled inside the barracks wing set aside for SEAL Seven personnel. There were going to be some changes made here if he had anything to say about it.

Not all of the men of Third Platoon "lived aboard" at the Navy's Little Creek Amphibious Base. Kosciuszko and MacKenzie were both married, Murdock had noted while going through their records a few minutes earlier, and lived off base. Brown and Frazier were also married and lived in base housing, while Lieutenant j.g. DeWitt stayed in the Bachelor Officers' Quarters, the BOQ Coburn had mentioned.

The rest of the Third Platoon, however, was quartered here in the barracks, a large, two-story cinder-block affair painted a depressing olive drab and overlooking the dumpsters arrayed along the back of the enlisted mess across a dusty street. Large signs decorated the bulkhead outside the door: "To err is human. To forgive is not our policy." "SEALs have nerves. They just ignore them." There was trash on the floor, several beer cans and a plastic Diet Coke bottle. More alarming was the white bra dangling like a pennant from an overhead light, and the sheer panties on the deck just inside the door.

Otherwise, the place was similar to other enlisted barracks Murdock had seen. A fair amount of ingenuity had been used to turn a spartan and utilitarian open barracks into living quarters offering a semblance of privacy. The original dormitory space had been divided into "cubes" by plyboard partitions, each with two racks in a bunk-bed arrangement, plus gray, upright lockers, a table or battered government-issue desk, and occasional human touches like a guitar case or a stereo or a nude centerfold taped to bulkhead or open locker door. Each cube was separated from the world by improvised curtains hanging across its entrance, old sheets or blankets.

There were beer cans scattered about the barracks deck, and one body, a man clad in boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Murdock stooped to check the guy's breathing; he appeared to be sleeping off a hinge, and didn't move when Murdock nudged him twice. He was clutching a woman's bra, a lacy black one, in his right fist.

Murdock stood as another man entered the passageway, a short, dark-skinned Latino with a thin, black mustache. He was wearing a towel and shower clogs and carried a bar of soap.

"What's your name?" Murdock asked.

"Boomer. Ah... Garcia. Sir."

"I could be mistaken, Garcia," Murdock said slowly, "but I thought the usual procedure was to shout 'Attention on deck' when an officer walked in."

Garcia stiffened, hands at his sides. "Attention on deck!"

Murdock nudged the body with the toe of his shoe. "What's this?"

"That's Doc," Garcia said. "Uh, HM2 Ellsworth. Sir."

"He always rack out in the passageway?"

"No, Sir. We, ah, we had a bit of a party last night, sir."

Murdock looked at the woman's undergarment in Ellsworth's hand. "So I see." Two more men stumbled from behind two of the curtained-off cubes, one wearing civilian clothing, the other in boxer shorts. Their reactions were definitely running a bit on the slow side. It took several beats for them to realize that Murdock was there and to shuffle into a position approximating attention in front of their cubes.

"Names?"

"Torpedoman's Mate Second Nicholson, Sir." He was the one in his underwear. He had the hard-muscled body of a SEAL and a face that looked too young to shave.

"Gunner's Mate First Class Fernandez. Sir." Another Latino, stocky, heavier than Garcia, with black hair beginning to curl over his ears.

"And this is that crack SEAL platoon I've been hearing about?" He crossed his arms and shook his head in mock exasperation. "I don't believe it!"

"Sir," Nicholson said. "It's Saturday."

"I know what day it is, Nicholson. Thank you. Next time the Iraqis decide to take hostages, you can pass 'em the word that we won't attack until regular working hours.

"In the meantime, and before the Norfolk City Department of Health comes in and closes this establishment down, you're going to square this shithouse away. Understood? I said, 'Understood?'"

"Yes, Sir!" the three chorused.

"Garcia!"

"Yes, Sir."

"Lose the face fuzz."

"But..."

"You're a SEAL, Garcia. You know that facial hair can break the seal on a swim mask."

"But Lieutenant Cotter said..."

"I don't give a shit what Lieutenant Cotter said! Strip the lip!"

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Murdock heard the resentment in Garcia's voice. "Fernandez?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Haircut."

Fernandez looked startled. "Aye, aye, Sir."

"Just in case there was any question, ladies, I am your new platoon leader, and we will be seeing a lot of each other in the next few days. Where's the rest of the platoon?"

The men traded uneasy, sidelong glances. "I ain't sure, Sir," Garcia said. "Maybe they left early."

Murdock glanced at his watch. It was almost 1000 hours. "When you see them, you can tell them I will be holding inspection of this barracks tomorrow afternoon. I will expect the flotsam cleared away, the contraband off the bulkheads and lockers, the personal gear stowed, and the deck waxed and shined." He looked meaningfully at Nicholson. "And I don't give a shit if tomorrow is Sunday. Beginning Monday, I will begin talking to each of you individually. I want to get to know you, find out what the hell makes you think you're decent SEAL material. And..." He stopped, and nudged Ellsworth again. "Will two of you pick this up and get it to its rack? I have this thing about gear adrift. That is all."