Red Shark

SEAL Petty Officer First Class Zipolski sat cross-legged, cleaning and checking the weapons and filling M4 20-round magazines with sub-sonic, hollow-point man-stopping ammo. Nearby were night observation devices, PRC-148 inter-squad radios, and a miniature SAT-COM — satellite communications — receiver, and cell phones with embedded crypto-systems. Each piece of equipment had received a thorough going-over by Zipolski. The rest of their weapons—20-pound demolition charges, breaching charges, and grenades of various types, including white phosphorus and fragmentation — had been stowed in the ASDS secured to the Reno’s afterdeck over an escape trunk, which provided access.

“Morning, sir,” said Zipolski, not looking up from his work. An M4A1 bolt slammed shut in its receiver.

Senior Chief Petty Officer Tom Brodie grunted a hello as he watched Zipolski work. Built like a brick, Brodie was the mission coordinator. The other members of the team assembled in the torpedo room also greeted Scott: Petty Officers Caserta, Leclerc, and Ramos, and SEAL corpsman and shooter Van Kirk. Also present were Lieutenants (jg) Allen and Deitrich, the ASDS’s pilot and copilot.

Scott stood with his back to the central torpedo local-control panel and the four tubes canted outboard from centerline of the amidships torpedo room. He addressed the SEALs: “We have another mission briefing update in fifteen minutes. If you have any last-minute questions or comments about the mission, I’ll tell General Radford. It’ll be your last chance for a face-to-face with him.”

Van Kirk said, “Yeah, we don’t want no last-minute cluster-fucks, right, Colonel?”

Jefferson, as he toweled off, said, “Especially from you, Zipolski.” They all laughed.

Such studied insouciance masked the fact that their line of work was sometimes deadly, something they took in stride because they were ready, eager, and good at it. Scott had seen it in their eyes: confidence and a hunger for action. And a need to prove that they could handle the worst anyone could throw at them. It was a fraternity Scott was not part of and likely could never be part of because, good as he was, the SEALs considered him a liability and knew that to guarantee his safety one of them might have to die while babysitting him.

“No one’s expendable, not even you, Zipolski,” Jefferson added, eyeing Scott.

Zipolski slammed a loaded magazine into a Sig Saur with the heel of his hand. Then he joined the other SEALs headed for the wardroom.

“You okay on this, Scott?” Jefferson said as Scott crabbed through the cramped aisle.

Scott halted inches from Jefferson. He smelled the man’s sweat, felt his heat. He met Jefferson’s steady gaze. Scott knew what Jefferson meant. During training at Pearl, Jefferson had constantly measured Scott’s performance, probing for any weakness. He had observed how hard Scott had been breathing, how much trouble he’d had keeping up with the others in rough surf and during the slog across wet sandy beaches at night loaded down with gear and weapons. And above all, how good a marks-man he was with the M4 and Sig Saur. Very good, as it had turned out. Scott knew that despite his performance, Jefferson didn’t want him on the team, had said more than once that Scott belonged in the control room of a sub, not risking his neck on a mission with SEALs armed to the teeth.

“We can handle it,” Jefferson had flat out told him at Pearl. “The intel, I mean. Nothing we haven’t handled before. Maybe you should sit this one out. Radford would understand. Hell, I don’t know a damn thing about driving a sub, no reason you should know about—”

“Stow it,” Scott had said, while nursing a badly bruised thigh after a workout. “I’m along, like it or not.” He knew Jefferson resented the crossover into his territory. And why not? He wouldn’t want Jefferson driving his sub.

Now Jefferson finished seesawing the towel behind his neck and gave Scott a look. The tension that had been slowly building between them during the voyage was threatening to break into the open.

“Briefing in ten minutes,” Scott said.

Scott entered the Reno’s control room. The size of a small bedroom in a typical American split-level, the compartment was crammed with equipment and watchstanders.

On the port side forward was the ship-control station, with its seats, control yokes, and instrument consoles looking very much like those found in a jet airliner. Here, two men seated side by side controlled the Reno’s course, speed, and depth. The man on the left controlled the stern diving planes, the man on the right, the bow planes and rudder. The diving officer, a chief petty officer seated behind them, supervised their actions. To their left, the chief of the watch sat at a wraparound console equipped with monitors that displayed the status of the ship’s various systems.