First Team (29 page)

They paddled for a good five minutes, then on some silent signal stopped—a vessel was making its way down the coastline, a pair of searchlights splaying out toward the shore.

“Patrol boat,” the master chief told Conners as the craft cut its speed and the lights stopped moving toward them. It cut across their path. “It’s a little north of our guys. James, Fu—meet them.”

The two SEALs slipped into the water, pulling on masks and fins and taking extra Draeger gear for the others with them. The LAR V Draeger diving gear was a self-contained, “closed-circuit” breathing apparatus. The green oxygen tank held pure oxygen. As the diver exhaled, his breath recirculated through a special filter that took out carbon dioxide. One of the system’s major advantages was the lack of telltale oxygen bubbles as the diver swam. It was also extremely lightweight, though its size was one limit on its endurance.

A minute after the SEALs had disembarked, MC raised his hand forward. He and the other SEAL began paddling, pushing the boat toward the open water. The patrol boat, meanwhile, circled north. Its searchlights swung together.

“Tommy,” said the team leader.

The man at the starboard bow slid back into the well of the tiny boat, pulling gear from one of the waterproof bags. A heavy machine gun on the Iranian patrol boat began to fire. Tommy rose, and there was a sharp crack—one of the lights went dark. The SEAL steadied his sniper rifle and fired again, but the second light stayed lit. It swung in their direction as the patrol craft’s engines revved.

“You owe the team a case,” laughed MC.

The gun cracked again, and the second light went out. A half second later, the low, sharp rap and fizz of a grenade canister leaving a launcher filled Conners’s ears. A heavy machine gun on the patrol boat began firing.

“You owe a case, too,” snickered Tommy from the front, as the grenade exploded well aft of the charging patrol boat. The grenade launcher whapped again, and this time it found its target, exploding on the forward deck of the Iranian vessel, where its shrapnel killed one of the machine gunners.

That didn’t stop it. Conners heard a shriek and instinctually ducked; a second later the rubber raft pitched hard to the starboard, nearly throwing him into the water. He knew the shell—fired from a 76 mm cannon—had missed, but there was more gunfire and more explosions, and the thick shadow of the patrol craft kept coming toward them.

“Into the water,” said MC. Before Conners could push himself over the side he found himself submerged. He struggled for his breathing gear, lungs starting to burst. He bit water, then something hard; a giant fist grabbed him around the chest and spun him around. Something punched him in his face, and he felt his legs starting to spasm. His age and relative inexperience in the water had caught up with him, and he realized that MC hadn’t been overprotective.

Screw that, he thought, pushing back to the surface.

“Breathe,” said a voice as he cleared his head. The SEAL team leader was treading water a few inches away. Conners grabbed the Draeger mouthpiece and shoved it between his teeth.

“You swim OK for a soldier,” said MC when he gave it back.

“For a geezer, you mean.”

MC—who was probably about his age—laughed. “Come on. We got work to do.”

“I’m right behind you,” said Conners.

~ * ~

hen the shooting began, Ferg dived, stroking hard in the direction where Reid had been. Adrenaline sped through his veins; he broke water as a fresh string of bullets crossed just to his right, more like bees dive-bombing an enemy than hard and vicious pieces of lead smacking into the water.

Something floated ahead. He pushed his arms in the water and kicked hard, came to it—Reid, who’d been nailed in the arm and leg.

“I don’t think I can swim too fast,” said the SEAL.

“I don’t think you can swim at all,” said Ferg.

Something exploded nearby. The patrol vessel spun around, suddenly interested in something else.

Ferguson grabbed hold of Reid.

“No, turn yourself around,” said the sailor, explaining how to properly tow him through the water. Ferguson let go and looped around, his muscles groaning.

Rankin and the other SEAL were a few yards away. Reid checked his GPS; they were only about ten yards from the rendezvous point.

“We may have to go back ashore,” said Ferg. “Let’s swim south.”

“Nah,” said Reid. “MC’ll be out here in a few minutes.”

“Fuckin’ patrol boat’s going after them,” said Rankin.

“You don’t know MC,” said Reid.

~ * ~

13

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Corrine went home to her condo after the president spoke with her, intending to go right to bed though it was still early. She hadn’t had much sleep in Cuba or over the last few days, and she knew she was beyond tired.

But she couldn’t settle down enough to rest. The idea of being involved in a CIA-Special Forces operation both thrilled and terrified her. As counsel to the Intelligence Committee, she had occasionally daydreamed about what she would have done in different situations that were presented in reports and briefings. That was just a fantasy, though—she didn’t have the background or training to be a CIA case officer, let alone get involved in SpecOps warfare.

Then again, the problem here wasn’t expertise, it was oversight. And judgment.

She went upstairs and changed into her flannels. Corrine started to pull back the covers on her bed, but as soon as her fingers slid below the fold of the sheet she realized she couldn’t settle down. She paced the hallway, went down to her living room, and put an aerobics video into the machine, thinking to work off some energy and put her mind on hold. But rather than soothing her, the workout left her more agitated. She went to the closet and took out some of her dumbbells, starting her regular routine—”regular” being a relative word since she’d started at the White House. After curls and alternating presses she skipped to some lat work, loading up the small metal bars and finally starting to sweat.

Then she realized she was still in her pajamas.

It was too late to change—she worked through the rest of the workout, pushing for a few extra reps on each set, putting her muscles into it, trying to work fast enough so that the rhythm of her breathing kept her from talking out loud.

Not talking—more like ranting. She’d been bamboozled into a no-win job. The president wanted her to be his personal spymaster.

Corrine imagined the congressional hearing when this all hit the fan. There’d be knives in her back from the CIA, the Pentagon, USSOCOM, the Democrats, the Republicans. Hell, even the DAR would find a way to blackball her.

But if she didn’t take the job, who would? Because McCarthy would find someone to do it. He was determined to protect America, and that’s what Special Demands was designed to do. Not break the law, just skirt around it when necessary.

If the right person kept it on track, it would succeed.

Why not her? Passing a Special Forces Assessment and Selection (SFAS) session and surviving Q Course wasn’t what was important—they already had a host of people who could do that. They had hardware, intelligence, muscle—what they needed was conscience.

And actually, she had taken their stinking SFAS, the three-section, twenty-one-day physical and psychological exam that weeded out individuals for Q Course, which all SF soldiers had to pass through before wearing SF tabs. She’d volunteered as part of her first congressional committee job during one of the debates over allowing women in SOF combat units. Corrine had insisted on the full damn thing, and hung in there when they were all smirking behind their face paint.

Not that her showing had done anything for the debate. Nor did she think that she was
really
qualified—just that she could take what the bastards dished out.

She would have liked to try the Q Course, though, just for the hell of it.

If I don’t take the job, who will?
The idea stung her brain, just as the gradually building acid in her muscles stung her shoulders and arms. Tired at last, Corrine left the weights in the middle of the floor and went upstairs to her bath, filling it with warm water as she stripped off her clothes. She slipped into the water, easing back against the side of the tub.

Who, if not me?

Someone Slott could twirl around his finger. Then things would be even worse—they’d be cowboys with the imprimatur of the White House.

Corrine’s agitation began building again.

She’d have to do something right away to get their attention and respect. She wasn’t going to be one of the guys—that wasn’t possible, and not just because she was a woman. She didn’t want to be. They were never going to like her. But she had to show them that she had balls.

Or whatever gender-inappropriate sneer they were using these days.

She’d run the surveillance mission herself. That would prove her bona fides.

More likely, it would make her look like an ass. Corrine put the idea out of her head, then rose, pulling the plug on the drain. She actually felt tired, finally.

Too bad. There were phone calls to make, things to do. Corrine wrapped a towel around her and went to make a pot of coffee.

~ * ~

14

OFF BANDAR ‘ABBÃS, IRAN

Ferg actually found it easier to swim pulling Reid, either because of the adrenaline rush or the other man’s powerful kick. The swells from the patrol boat’s wake reared across the channel, the water surging up like a pile of dirt plowed by a bulldozer blade. Something had drawn the craft to the south, and as it started to fire its cannon, Ferg realized it had to be the SEAL team.

“Well that was altruistic, but not terribly bright,” said Ferg.

“What?” said Reid.

“How close are we to the ASDS?” asked Ferg.

“Mile to the south. Long swim.”