LITTLE CREEK, VIRGINIA
The saltwater spray was invigorating. It hit the men full in the face as the fifteen-foot Zodiac thumped and lurched through the choppy water. At the stern of the Combat Rubber Raiding Craft, a forty-horsepower outboard propelled the inflatable boat at nearly thirteen knots.
Master Chief Carlos Bitow looked forward from amidships, assessing the rookies’ performance. He had worked the SSI men up by stages, getting them progressively accustomed to the bucking, spume-tossed ride in the rubberized craft. Most were former Army pukes—a term he applied literally, considering that two had succumbed to seasickness—but at least they gamely stuck it out.
Seated amid the trainees, Bitow employed his basso profundo voice to shout criticism mixed with occasional encouragement. “Keep your balance, damn it!” He nudged the closest security operator. Hollering over the outboard’s shrill whine, he called, “Stay low! Don’t upset the center of gravity!”
Glancing aft, the master chief signaled the SEAL petty officer to cut the throttle. The Johnson motor subsided to a steady putt-putting and the CRRC crested a small wave, riding the tide onto the beach.
“All ashore that’s goin’ ashore,” Bitow announced. The SSI men gratefully debarked, clambering over the side and tromping through the surf. One man, a hefty former Ranger named Pace, dropped to his hands and knees. He dry heaved a couple of times, having emptied his stomach a half hour before.
Bitow stood beside the craft, immune to the wet and cold. He wore swim trunks, boots, a floatation device, and a cap that once was green. Now it was a salt-faded shade of its former self. “Where do you think you’re going?”
The SSI men immediately realized that Master Chief Bitow dealt in rhetorical questions. None required an answer, though frequently he insisted on one.
“Come back here and pick up this boat! Nobody’s happy until I’m happy, and I ain’t happy until my boat is happy.” He pointed an accusing finger at the Zodiac. “Does this look like a happy boat to you?”
The eight trainees obligingly sloshed back to the offending Zodiac, four men to a side. They made a valiant effort to hoist its 320 pounds, but its bulk defeated them. Finally they dragged the thing to the high tide mark and let it sulk there under Carlos Bitow’s perpetual glare.
Jeffrey Malten gave the daddy SEAL a knowing grin. “Well, Master Chief. Nobody drowned. Better luck next time.”
As the petty officer led the men off to some hot chow, Bitow allowed himself to smile. “Actually, they did okay. Not great but okay.” He regarded his former partner from Team Two. “You seem to remember what to do with a CRRC.”
“Like riding a bicycle, Carlos. It’s kind of nice to be back in the saddle, you know?”
“Well, in that case why’d you leave? Hell, you coulda made chief by now.”
Malten elbowed Bitow’s arm. “C’mon, Chief. Don’t kid a kidder. We’ve both known guys who spent ten years eligible for their crow and never sewed it on. The Navy’s still screwed up the promotion system and probably never will fix it.”
Bitow conceded the point but refused to vocalize it. Instead he said, “So how do you like it on the outside? Growing your hair, staying home, listening to rock ’n’ roll music that bad-mouths your country?”
The younger man adopted a relaxed stance, tipping his cap back on his head. “Well, I’ll tell you. I miss some of the guys. Hell, once in a great while I might even miss you. But to be honest, no. I like working when I want to, getting paid obscene amounts of money, and actually getting to do the job. Not many false alerts, and … well, I finally got some trigger time.”
Bitow knew when to shut up. “Really?” He arched an eyebrow.
Malten was tempted to tell his former superior about SSI’s Pandora Project and the hunt for a radical Islamic cell in Pakistan and Afghanistan. But his professionalism stayed his tongue. Instead, he merely said, “Gotta love that Benelli entry gun.”
“So what’s this job about? Must be pretty damn important to take a bunch of door-kickers who don’t know port from starboard.”
Malten bit his lip, musing how much to tell the operator. “Chief, all I can say is that it’s a hurry-up job involving maritime ops, and we don’t have enough guys from the teams to fill out a boat crew. That’s why Admiral Derringer leaned on the command here: to get some basic experience. Once we deploy we hope to do more mission-specific training. The only other thing I can tell you is … Vic Pope is involved.”
Bitow’s eyes widened. “No shit! Now there’s an officer I’d like to work with again.”
Malten saw his chance; he swung at it. “Put in your papers and you probably can. We’re looking for a few good … SEALs.”
The master chief’s hazel eyes bored into Malten’s. “Uh, how much did you say you get paid?”