SEAL Team 666 E-Book

Weston Ochse

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

One man down after they lost a sniper on a certain mission in Abbottabad, Pakistan, NAVY SEAL Cadet Jack Walker is chosen to join the US's only supernatural unconventional-warfare special-mission unit - SEAL Team 666. Battling demons, possessed humans and mass murdering cults and evil in its most dark an ancient form, SEAL Team 666 has their work cut out for them. And when they discover that the threat isn't just directed against the US, Walker finds himself at the centre of a supernatural conflict with the entire world at stake.

Leseprobe

COMING SOON FROM WESTON OCHSE AND TITAN BOOKS

SEAL Team 666: Age of Blood

WESTON OCHSE

TITAN BOOKS

SEAL TEAM 666

Print edition ISBN: 9781781166956

E-book edition ISBN: 9781781166963

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: March 2013

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Weston Ochse asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Copyright © 2012, 2013 by Weston Ochse. All rights reserved.

This edition published by arrangement with Thomas Dunne Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

“The Bram Stoker Award” is a registered trademark of the Horror Writers Association.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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FOR OUR WOUNDED WARRIORS

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE: EARLY MORNING. PAKISTAN. MAY 2, 2011.

CHAPTER 1: KADWAN. SIX MONTHS EARLIER.

CHAPTER 2: CORONADO ISLAND. MORNING.

CHAPTER 3: CORONADO ISLAND. MORNING.

CHAPTER 4: CORONADO ISLAND. STILL MORNING.

CHAPTER 5: NORTH ISLAND NAVAL COMPLEX AIRSTRIP. NOON.

CHAPTER 6: 30,000 FEET ABOVE CENTRAL CALIFORNIA.

CHAPTER 7: SAN FRANCISCO CHINATOWN. DUSK.

CHAPTER 8: CHINESE SWEATSHOP

CHAPTER 9: KADWAN. FOUR MONTHS EARLIER.

CHAPTER 10: C-141 STARLIFTER. NIGHT.

CHAPTER 11: CORONADO ISLAND. NIGHT.

CHAPTER 12: THE MOSH PIT. NIGHT.

CHAPTER 13: SPG OFFICES. NIGHT.

CHAPTER 14: SOMEWHERE OVER THE SOUTH CHINA SEA.

CHAPTER 15: MACAU. THE WITCHING HOUR.

CHAPTER 16: MACAU WHARF.

CHAPTER 17: MACAU. CARGO SHIP’S HOLD.

CHAPTER 18: MACAU. CARGO SHIP’S DECK.

CHAPTER 19: MACAU. CARGO SHIP’S HOLD.

CHAPTER 20: MACAU WHARF.

CHAPTER 21: MACAU. CARGO SHIP’S HOLD.

CHAPTER 22: MACAU. CARGO DECK.

CHAPTER 23: SOUTH CHINA SEA.

CHAPTER 24: SUBIC BAY. TWENTY-SIX YEARS EARLIER.

CHAPTER 25: STARLIFTER. OVER THE PACIFIC OCEAN.

CHAPTER 26: SPECIAL OPERATIONS HANGAR. CORONADO.

CHAPTER 27: IMPERIAL BEACH. MORNING.

CHAPTER 28: THE MOSH PIT. AFTERNOON.

CHAPTER 29: CORONADO ISLAND. MIDNIGHT.

CHAPTER 30: SUBIC BAY. 1985.

CHAPTER 31: KADWAN. TWO MONTHS EARLIER.

CHAPTER 32: GOLDEN BUDDHA. IMPERIAL BEACH. LUNCH.

CHAPTER 33: IMPERIAL BEACH. PIRATES’ CAVE.

CHAPTER 34: THE MOSH PIT. MORNING.

CHAPTER 35: FORT ROSECRANS NATIONAL CEMETERY.

CHAPTER 36: SUBIC BAY. 1985.

CHAPTER 37: THE MOSH PIT. MORNING.

CHAPTER 38: SPG OFFICES. MORNING.

CHAPTER 39: THE MOSH PIT.

CHAPTER 40: CORONADO BEACH. EVENING.

CHAPTER 41: THE MOSH PIT. MORNING.

CHAPTER 42: CONFERENCE ROOM. MORNING.

CHAPTER 43: FROM THE DIARY OF LARRY WALKER.

CHAPTER 44: SPG OFFICES. AFTERNOON.

CHAPTER 45: STARLIFTER. SOMEWHERE OVER THE PACIFIC OCEAN.

CHAPTER 46: GUADALCANAL. MORNING.

CHAPTER 47: KADWAN. TWO WEEKS EARLIER.

CHAPTER 48: SKY ABOVE THATON. LATE AFTERNOON.

CHAPTER 49: TREES ABOVE THATON. LATE AFTERNOON.

CHAPTER 50: CIRCUS WAREHOUSE PERIMETER. NIGHT.

CHAPTER 51: CIRCUS WAREHOUSE. NIGHT.

CHAPTER 52: CIRCUS WAREHOUSE. NIGHT.

CHAPTER 53: CIRCUS WAREHOUSE. EARLY MORNING.

CHAPTER 54: SPG OFFICES. CORONADO ISLAND.

CHAPTER 55: CIRCUS WAREHOUSE. EARLY MORNING.

CHAPTER 56: SPG OFFICES. CORONADO ISLAND.

CHAPTER 57: ON THE ROAD TO KADWAN. AFTERNOON.

CHAPTER 58: THE ROAD TO KADWAN.

CHAPTER 59: ALONE IN THE JUNGLE. NIGHT.

CHAPTER 60: KADWAN. EARLY MORNING.

CHAPTER 61: KADWAN. DAWN.

EPILOGUE: CORONADO ISLAND. NIGHT.

PROLOGUE

EARLY MORNING. PAKISTAN. MAY 2, 2011.

DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME was stenciled on the side of the first of two Blackhawk helicopters assigned to the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, aka Night Stalkers. They were en route from Jalalabad Air Base in Afghanistan to the sleepy residential section of Abbottabad, Pakistan, where a million-dollar compound rested a mere eight hundred meters from Kakul military academy, one of Pakistan’s premiere army officer training schools.

SEAL Team 666 rode in the first helicopter. Comprising only five men and a dog, they were different in form and function from all other special-operations units. They wore black camouflage fatigues with dark gray Rhodesian combat vests. On their heads were Protec skate helmets modified for multiband inter/intra team radio (MBITR) headsets and microphones. Atop each helmet was a mount that held a pair of night-vision goggles (NVG). All but one of the SEALs wore gray ballistic face masks. Designed to protect the wearer from 9mm and shotgun hits, the masks produced a likeness similar to a hockey goalie’s.

On board the second helicopter, eleven members of SEAL Team 6 were ready to provide backup if necessary. Dressed similarly to the SEAL team in the first helicopter, none of them wore face masks and they did not have a dog.

“Five minutes,” the pilot announced over the radio system. The crew chief and his gunner prepared the doors and checked the M60 machine guns they could employ if necessary.

SEAL Team 666 heard the announcement through the MBITR and performed a last-minute weapons check. All five SEALs carried SIG Sauer 9mm automatic pistols. In addition to the 9s, two SEALs carried Heckler & Koch (HK) MP5s, two SEALs carried M4 Super 90 semiautomatic 12-gauge shotguns, and the fifth SEAL carried a Stoner SR-25 sniper rifle.

The dog was a Belgian Malinois and lay panting at the feet of the sniper, her mouth open in what could be considered the canine equivalent of an anticipatory grin. She wore a canine tactical assault vest. Spare ammo clips were tucked into compartments, as was a first-aid kit. The word HOOVER was stitched across the back of the vest.

SEALs lowered the NVGs into place, turned them on, and watched the world transform into a realm of phantom green. They postured, ready to deploy through the side doors. The dog stood, prepared to leave last.

The Blackhawk’s doors opened, letting in the cool Pakistani mountain air. The triangular compound came into sight in the SEALs’ green-tinged vision. The Blackhawk was coming in fast, just beginning to flare. But as the helicopter passed over and started to land, the green vision flashed white and all systems blacked out.

“Hold on,” shouted the pilot. “We’re going down.”

“Force field,” grunted one of the SEALs. “Does it every time.”

The SEALs held on to the static bars affixed to the ceiling and ripped their NVGs free, now useless since the force field had fried the electronics.

The pilot managed to autorotate the Blackhawk to a clear piece of ground outside the twelve-foot wall skirting the compound. The other helicopter landed nearby, steering clear of what took down the lead chopper.

One member of SEAL Team 666 vaulted out of the Blackhawk and placed a shape charge on the wall. He stepped aside while a man-sized hole blew through it with a dull whump. Then the two SEALs with the HKs deployed into the breach, weapons sunk deep into their shoulders, barrels leading the way. The SEALs with the shotguns came next, followed by the sniper and the dog.

The sniper set up in a corner of the yard where he had a field of fire that included the main entrance to the compound, the front door, and windows on all three floors. Outside the wall, SEAL Team 6 would ensure that no one got in, especially if anyone was planning on coming to the rescue of those they were about to kill. Ultimately, it was up to the sniper to ensure that no one got out. Hoover waited with him until the others gave the all-clear.

The other four slammed through the front door, pouring through in a routine that had been drilled into them so many times it had become second nature. Every corner of the entry room was controlled by the four SEALs and their weapons. When a bleary-eyed guard stepped into the room from a hallway, a 12-gauge slug disintegrated his face. The sound of the explosion in the tight quarters was stunning, but a thousand hours of close-quarters battle (CQB) training enabled the SEALs to ignore it.

With the communications gear fried as well, they had to resort to hand signals. The fact that the gear no longer worked meant two things, however. One, it meant that the monitoring from the White House Situation Room, Coronado, Dam Neck, and a dozen other places could no longer be conducted, meaning any chance of a flag officer or politician trying to use a ten-thousand-mile screwdriver to fix something they didn’t like was impossible. And two, it meant that their target was most likely here, unless someone else had the capability of constructing a force field large enough to make a platoon’s worth of twenty-first-century electronics worthless.

One of the SEALs made a hand motion to the sniper and Hoover. The sniper returned the gesture and spoke a few words. The dog shot across the ground until she was inside and with the SEALs.

They cleared the first floor, shot three more guards, and cut the power and telephone lines.

The two SEALs with the MP5s stacked up the stairs. They paused at the landing between the first and second floors. A hand signal to the others indicated there was a door at the top. After ensuring the stairs weren’t booby-trapped, the lead SEAL gestured for Hoover to check out the door. The dog padded silently up the stairs and sniffed at the space between the bottom of the door and the floor. It didn’t take long for the dog to turn rigid, then glance worriedly at the SEAL beside her.

The SEAL gave a hand signal to the others. The other SEALs responded immediately, pressing themselves against the walls as they waited for the door to open. Then the SEAL gave another signal to the dog. They were now hair-trigger ready.

The SEAL posted nearest the door pointed his Super 90 toward the spot where the locking mechanism met the doorframe, then pulled the trigger three times. Amid the explosion of sound, light, and wooden splinters, he shoved the door open and flattened himself against the stairs.

The door opened into a hallway, where three men and something dark had been waiting. The men hesitated, still stunned by the explosion. The lead SEAL double-tapped all three, putting two in each chest. They didn’t have a chance, and as they sank to the floor, he could almost see the disappointment in their eyes.

But the thing behind them showed no sign of being stunned. It stepped forward. Glowing eyes. Taloned hands. Dark skin stretched tightly over elongated bones.

Demon.

The next SEAL in line emptied his MP5 into the creature. But it wasn’t enough. The demon roared as it advanced. Pieces of its face had been blown away, revealing old black and brown pitted bone. An eye had disappeared in a burst of dust along with a batlike pointed ear. But even as the lead SEAL watched, the face began to re-form. First the cheek, then the eye, and soon the rest would be as it had been.

The SEAL who’d breached the door dropped to his knees and emptied his shotgun in the direction of the creature’s legs.

The other two SEALs ran forward. The other MP5 opened up, sending fifteen 9mm rounds into the thing’s face. The Super 90 unleashed seven 12-gauge shotgun slugs toward its knees. This combination was immediately duplicated by the first two SEALs, who’d had a moment to reload.

Under the combined damage of fourteen shotgun slugs and thirty 9mm rounds, the demon had no choice but to fall to its back as its soulless body fought to re-form.

Hoover knew what to do. She launched forward, landing on the demon’s chest. Digging herself in place with the claws of her back feet, she opened her mouth wide, then snapped it shut on the demon’s throat.

Behind her, the lead SEAL let his MP5 drop on its sling and pulled his MK3 knife free from the sheath on the side of his right thigh. He knelt on the demon’s outstretched right arm and began to saw madly at the wrist. The hand came away just as Hoover jerked the jugular free like a dirt-encrusted vine. While one of the SEALs opened a canteen filled with holy water and poured it in the empty space in the demon’s neck, another pulled out a flare and jammed it in the center of the unholy beast’s chest. A platoon of Vatican exorcists couldn’t have done a better job.

As the SEALs and the dog worked their way back down the hall, the demon burst into flame and was soon consumed, turning to an ashy reminiscence of its former shape before dissolving into nothing.

They cleared the rest of the second floor with no further interaction.

Outside, they could hear reports of gunshots from SEAL Team 6, as well as those of their sniper, but they couldn’t concern themselves with that at the moment. Whatever was happening outside would be taken care of by those assigned to that mission. For now, all they had to worry about was their target on the third floor, someone the entire world had been searching for over the past ten years.

They repeated the same method for breaching the third floor door as the second, but the door swung open to an empty, dark hallway. They stepped carefully into the hall, hugging the walls and wishing their NVGs were still working. Only two doors exited off the hallway. From the week of practice they had in the mock-up, constructed based on intelligence from the interrogation of an informant at Bagram Air Force Base Detention Facility, they knew the one on the right was a storage room. Their target was through the door on the left. Still, the storage room had to be cleared. Two of the SEALs did so, while the remaining SEALs and the dog made the left-hand door their universe.

Once the storage room was cleared, SEAL Team 666 converged on the last door.

The lead SEAL checked. It was unlocked.

They exchanged glances; then the SEAL turned the knob and pushed the door, which opened into a bedroom suite. The only light in the room came from a fire burning in a brazier on a central table. Behind this sat the man they’d come to kill. But instead of concerned, he appeared unfazed, drinking from a silver goblet.

“Down on the floor!” the SEALs shouted, first in English and then in Arabic.

The man made no move to comply.

Two SEALs moved into the room and searched the corners. They each raised a hand signal that meant clear.

Hoover stalked forward, growling, one stiff leg at time.

The lead SEAL kept his MP5 trained on the man. “If you won’t get down, then stand the fuck up.”

The man placed the goblet on the table and slowly got to his feet. He was very tall, with a graying beard that flowed to the center of his white-robed chest. His face had an almost cherubic quality that could have inspired a smile had it not been universally known that he was the mastermind of thousands of innocent deaths.

A shriek erupted as a woman charged from the inside of a wardrobe. She struck one of the SEALs in the back with the blade of a knife, but it snapped against his Kevlar body armor. The SEAL spun and caught her on the side of the head with the barrel of his Super 90. She fell to the ground, unconscious.

Another shriek erupted, this time from the other side of the room. Another woman leaped free of a wardrobe. This one took two bullets in the leg. The SEAL who shot her then kicked the knife free from her grip. It skidded across the floor and stopped beneath the bed.

The tall man started to change after the failed attack from the women. His face contorted. His features shifted and reshifted, changing the architecture of the human face into something else entirely.

The lead SEAL opened fire, but the bullets had even less effect on this figure than they’d had on the demon one floor below.

The other SEALs opened fire as well, unloading every slug and round they had into the creature. The MP5s ran out of ammo first. The SEALs let them fall on their slings. They opened metal canisters filled with holy water and doused the newly formed creature.

Where the water hit, smoke rose. A multi-octave scream filled the room, the sound of hundreds in agony coming from the mouth of one.

The lead SEAL knelt and withdrew an ancient blade from where it was secured in Hoover’s tactical harness. The blade was black with age. Etchings from a dead language adorned the surface. The shape was like a tongue of flame, and as he held it toward the creature, the creature recognized the blade and showed fear for the first time.

The SEAL and the beast clashed in a mad jumble of punches, blocks, and kicks. One was fueled by the righteousness of his mission and thousands of hours of practice, and the other was fueled by the infinite darkness that had filled its soul.

The remaining SEALs stood aside as their leader fought. Their hands flexed, each teetering on the balls of his feet, eager and ready. Even Hoover waited, her only dissent a constant growl of frustration for not being allowed to join in.

Somewhere outside, they heard a cry for help, then a gurgling scream. Whatever it was, there was nothing that could be done. Their mission was in this room, and until the beast was down, none of them would leave.

The combatants fell to the ground, but their new position did nothing to halt the frequency of their blows. Then suddenly the fighting stopped. The lead SEAL shot rigid, a taloned hand gripping his neck, his tongue jammed out from blue lips. One of the SEAL’s hands came up to pry away the hold on his neck, slipping down to the creature’s wrist to try and wrench it free. But the hold was too tight.

The creature climbed stiffly to a standing position, dragging the SEAL with it. As they stood, the SEAL brought his other hand upward, embedding the blade so deeply through the bottom of the creature’s chin that the point erupted from the top of its head. It stood for one long, mad minute, choking the life out of the SEAL as tightly as it could, then toppled. As the creature fell, it pulled the lead SEAL with it.

The other SEALs worked to lever open the thing’s hand from their team member’s neck. It took great effort, but they finally managed, and as they did, the SEAL took in a lungful of air.

“Mother of God,” he rasped.

They grabbed a blanket from the bed and rolled the creature into it, then rushed it downstairs and out the door. Bodies littered the yard. By the looks of them, they were reinforcements who’d been trying to assist the creature SEAL Team 666 now carried. The team’s sniper lay in the corner. Half of his face had been torn away. His single remaining eye stared into the Pakistani night. Something terrible had happened here and it had happened to one of their own.

But there was no time to mourn. They took him, exiting through the hole in the wall, and crowded aboard the second helicopter. They placed the demon on the floor of the aircraft and strapped their deceased sniper into a harness as the doors snapped shut. One by one, they removed their masks, sweat and grime coating their faces. The members of SEAL Team 6 were eager to assist where they could. With their target achieved, the SEALs rose into the air, leaving the first chopper behind. A hundred meters up and the first chopper exploded, denying it to the enemy. Once SEAL Team 666 returned to Bagram, a joint FBI-CIA forensics team videotaped the creature from all angles and took DNA samples. Afterward, SEAL Team 666 escorted the body to the USS Carl Vinson in the Arabian Sea, where they disposed of the demon in a private ceremony.

Only then did SEAL Team 666 appreciate their accomplishment.

Only then did they mourn the loss of their sniper.

Before the next mission, they’d need a new one.

1

KADWAN. SIX MONTHS EARLIER.

The evisceration of the woman was majestic to behold. He’d delighted in her screams, relished the way her mouth opened so wide that it could have eaten the world. Her pathetic gestures as she begged for her life had almost spoiled it. Not that it had evinced any empathy on his part, but it had marred his journey to the spiritual plateau he’d been striving to reach in order to prepare himself for the transformation.

It was at once funny and sad that he’d been living such a life of somnambulant grace, pitifully ignorant of the creatures and beings that coexisted in their shared universe, kept at bay only by a paper-thin film of civilization and ignorance. If he’d only known sooner, maybe he wouldn’t have wasted half his life pretending to be someone who cared about his fellow man.

2

CORONADO ISLAND. MORNING.

Petty Officer First Class Jack Walker felt like the crap had just been beaten out of him. Then again, he’d felt like that for the last twenty-one weeks. Since the first moment of Indoc, when Instructor Alberto Reno had slammed the door and commanded them to their feet, through the ten thousand push-ups, the twenty thousand flutter kicks, the one hundred and twenty continuous hours of training in Hell Week with only four hours of sleep each night, to the bone-numbing cold of Coronado Bay, his body had been beaten, cracked, and remolded. The pain was there when he got up in the morning. It was there when he drank his coffee. It was there when he went to bed at night. Walker pretended not to notice it, but the pain was persistent.

Which was what it was doing now—being persistent.

Instructor Kenny ran up to him. “What is it, Walker?”

“Nothing, Instructor Kenny. It’s just pain leaving the body.”

“If you’re going to scream, then do it standing up. Get on your feet, Walker.”

Walker crawled out of the sand and onto his feet. He’d just completed the final timed four-mile run. He and the other members of SEAL Class 290 had come in under twenty-nine minutes, and for the first time, they’d all made it. Part of it was that those who couldn’t make it mentally and/or physically through the training had either been rolled back or had rung the bell—Dropped on Request, or DOR. Another part was that they were working together as a team. Several of his mates had seen the way he was pulling up and had helped him as the shin splints soared with the pain of running seven-minute miles. And then there was the fact that the end was in sight. He had four weeks before he could finally graduate. One week more of training, then off to San Clemente Island for the final live-fire exercise.

Instructor Howard ran up and got in his face.

“How’d you make it this far, Walker? Did you have sex with the president or did we collectively just forget what it takes to be a SEAL?”

“I didn’t have sex with the president, sir.”

“Why not? Isn’t he handsome enough for you?”

“No, sir. I mean yes, sir.”

“Make up your mind, SEAL.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So answer my question, Walker. Do you know what it takes to be a SEAL?”

“Yes, sir!” The pain laced up and down his legs, digging through his shin and scoring the bone from beneath. He’d lived with it for weeks now and would live with it for four more.

“I don’t think you know. I don’t think you know anything. I think your body is ready to give up, isn’t it Walker?”

“No, sir. This SEAL candidate is fit and fine!”

Instructor Howard leaned in and whispered violently. “What do you think I’m going to say next, Walker?”

Walker paused, then in a voice that was eerily calm said, “You’re going to say Hooya, sir, because this candidate is going to be a damn good SEAL.”

Howard hid the smirk that flashed across his face. “I don’t think that was what I was going to say.”

Instead of continuing the conversation, Walker hit the sand and pushed out twenty fast push-ups. When he completed them, he popped back up and said, “Petty Officer First Class Walker requests permission to rejoin the class!”

Walker eyed the others, who were already forming on Stumpy, the seventy-pound log with four handles that had become their classmate, never to be forgotten, never to be left behind. Despite the pain, despite the agony, he wanted nothing more than to stay with his class and put his arms around his best friend, Stumpy.

“Permission granted,” Instructor Howard barked.

Walker ran over to the others, happy to be out from under the watch of the instructors.

“Take ten,” Kenny called as he turned to Instructor Howard. Three visitors were walking down the beach toward them, including a tall red-haired woman, impeccably dressed in a gray business suit.

“How are the legs?” Meyers asked, kneeling and unlacing his own boots so he could adjust his socks.

Walker knelt to do the same. “Hurts like a big dog.”

“You gonna make it?”

“Is the pope Catholic?”

“Try and stretch the Achilles tendon more and it’ll give you some relief at least.”

Walker nodded at Meyers, who was a Navy corpsman by trade. If anyone knew how to get more from the body, it was him.

With his shoes retied, Walker stood and stretched, grabbing the bottoms of his boots with his hands and planting his face on his knees. While he was there, he took a moment to pray. He only had four more weeks. If they’d leave him alone, he could do them on his head.

If they left him alone, that is.

3

CORONADO ISLAND. MORNING.

Alexis Billings strode behind Navy Lieutenant Commander Scott and Marine Major Benitez. She’d been smart enough to wear closed-toe shoes; there was nothing worse than sand getting into the inside of Donna Karans. Still, she took high steps and placed her feet in the packed footprints of the two officers who’d been assigned as her escorts.

She spied the class and the instructors about a hundred meters farther down. They all wore the ultrashort UDT shorts, which looked like khaki versions of 1960s basketball shorts, and boots. The instructors wore black T-shirts and black baseball caps. The students wore OD green T-shirts and no caps.

This visit was pro forma, but it had to be done. Senator Withers had made it clear that he didn’t want her or the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence (SSCI), more commonly known as the Sissy, to be a faceless government organization. He wanted the Sissy to have a face, and in her case, a pretty one, especially when it had to do what it was about to do.

That her attractiveness was one of the things that had gotten her this appointment irked her. A graduate of Bryn Mawr and Princeton, she’d entered the working world with brains and a cache of connections.

“Don’t take it personally,” her friend and former classmate at Princeton, Lauren Rhodes, had told her shortly after her appointment. “Not everyone can have beauty, brains, and the family connection like you do.”

Who knew that her father had parlayed his success and social prominence at owning eleven car dealerships into a personal friendship with the senior senator from Pennsylvania? When his daughter told him she wanted to get into politics from the ground up, she was given an interview and an appointment as a permanent staffer for the Sissy, all at age twenty-seven. The Sissy commanded oversight of all intelligence and special-ops training and operations, from the CIA, the Department of Defense, and agencies in between. Not only were they charged with being good stewards of the American taxpayer’s hard-earned dollars, but they were also concerned with ensuring that all operations were conducted with the proper scrutiny. That’s where she came in. Her job had been to become the expert on all things special operations. If a vote was coming up on a new program or a budget cut, it was her job to advise the members of the Sissy regarding the efficacy, loss, and possible repercussions, if any, that might affect current and future special operations around the globe. She had a staff of six, consisting equally of Ivy League graduates and former special operators. Although she had been inexperienced when she took the job, hard work, an ability to remember facts and figures, her determination to get things done right the first time, and her constant respect for those she served had made her a known entity in the community, as well as someone to whom senior flag officers showed respect.

Then, of course, there was her role as the administrator. Very few knew of this position outside the Sissy and the cabinet. She’d held that position for two years now. She’d had to make this walk three times, and on each occasion it was because a member of her team had been killed.

When they neared the instructors, she allowed the officers to step forward and deliver the letter from Admiral Franklin, commander of Naval Special Warfare Command. She watched as the instructors turned and saluted the officers. She noticed their postures and how they changed when they exchanged greetings, when they learned that they were going to lose one of their candidates, and finally when they learned it was because of some uppity broad in a business suit.

It was at the point when they turned rigid with anger that she stepped forward and introduced herself.

“Master Chief Kenny, Senior Chief Howard, I’m Alexis Billings. The Sissy wants to thank you for your cooperation.”

“Cooperation?” sputtered Howard. “The Sissy?”

“Master Chief Kenny, Captain Pastora of DEVGRU speaks highly of you. Likewise, Captain Vitale speaks highly of you as well, Senior Chief.” She held out her hand. “It’s a true privilege to meet both of you.”

She counted on the professionalism of the instructors. It always worked. They each in turn accepted her handshake. They might not like what she was about to do, but they were not going to disobey the orders of the admiral. She also didn’t have to shove it down their throats. At the very least, she could let them know that although she was a woman who was stepping into a man’s world, she was doing it with the utmost respect for their mission, tradition, and way of life.

“I apologize for being the bearer of this request,” she said, softening the verbiage in the letter, which was far from a request.

“We get it,” Instructor Kenny muttered. “Enough with the reach-around.”

She nodded and clasped her hands in front of her. “Then let’s get to it, shall we?”

“One question, ma’am,” Instructor Howard said. “Why Jack Walker? No offense to the boy, but he’s not our best.”

“He’s also not our worst,” Instructor Kenny interjected.

“No, he’s not our worst,” Instructor Howard agreed. “But if the Sissy wants a SEAL for a special mission, why not just go to the teams? We have plenty of qualified SEALs out there.”

“We don’t want to disturb the organization of the teams,” she said, offering him a firm smile.

“Then why not one of the other candidates? What about Marshall? Or Rosen?”

She leaned forward slightly and gazed at the memo. “I believe you’ll see that Admiral Franklin authorized the release of Petty Officer First Class Walker. I don’t believe there are any other names on that list, but I will take your recommendations under advisement.”

Instructor Kenny looked pointedly at Lieutenant Commander Scott. “Sir? Anything to say about this?”

The Phase Three instructor couldn’t know, but she’d already had the same conversation with the lieutenant commander and the major. Neither had been happy with her responses.

Screening and Selection for SEALs was filled with both mental and physical rigor. The psychological interviews and screening process lasted several days, so it hadn’t been hard to sprinkle in a few questions here and there to ascertain those who could best fit the needs of the Sissy. Of the candidates currently in phases, Jack Walker was the only one whose answers and background made him a fit. But Kenny and Howard didn’t need to know that. All they needed to know was that a military officer senior to them had made the order to release this particular candidate.

Major Benitez’s frown said it all. She had to give Lieutenant Commander Scott credit, however. He definitely had a sense of humor and treated the entire event as some Douglas Adams training program. He kept looking at her as if to check and see when she was going to give them the punch line.

But there was no punch line to give.

SEAL Team 666 needed a replacement sniper and Jack Walker was that person.

“Aw hell,” Instructor Kenny said. “Walker! Get your ass over here!”

4

CORONADO ISLAND. STILL MORNING.

Petty Officer First Class Jack Walker felt like the crap had just been kicked out of him... again. As his instructors explained that he had to leave training, all he could think about was the wasted time. He glanced pleadingly back and forth between his instructors and the woman.

“But I have four weeks left. Can’t you all tell her to leave me alone?”

“It’s not just about her, son. The admiral has made his decision.”

The blue sky seemed to sway above him as the sand danced across his vision. Strong hands caught his shoulders.

“Steady there.” Howard held him tightly.

Walker turned toward where the woman stood five yards away. “What does this all mean? I’ve made all the events. Are you kicking me out? Because I’m not going to ring the bell.”

“I’m not going to kick you out,” Howard said.

“He doesn’t have to,” the woman said, approaching. “You’ve graduated early. Come with me, Petty Officer Walker. We have a lot to talk about.”

Howard whispered in his ear. “Don’t know what’s going on, Jack, but do as she says. You want to come back here and finish, we’ll roll you in the last four weeks, no problem.”

“Really, Senior Chief?”

“Maybe give you some time to take care of those shins.”

Walker stared at the aging instructor and let out a laugh. Well, of course he’d known about the injury. Trying to keep anything from the cadre seemed impossible.

Howard let go of him. “He’s all yours, Miss Billings.”

The woman, who turned out to be as tall as Walker, spun and headed back down the beach.

Walker took one last look back at his mates in Class 290, gave them a wave, then hurried after her.

After about a hundred meters, they stopped. She pulled a cell phone from her pocket and spoke into it for a few seconds before jamming it back into her jacket. The onshore wind had teased a few hairs free from the bun at the back of her head. She stared into the surf as if waiting for something.

“What is this all about?” he asked finally.

“We need you to be a part of a special team, Walker.”

“I was going to be part of a special team. As far as I know, the most special team in the free world. The U.S. Navy SEALs.”

“There’s a team more special than that.”

He’d believe that when he saw it. Ever since he’d grown up in Subic Bay as a Navy brat, he’d watched the SEALs come and go from mission to mission, untouched by the rigmarole of the rest of the Navy.

Suddenly the sound of a helicopter rang over the surf. He spied it about a kilometer out. It was a Blackhawk from the 160th. It came close and flared.

She put a hand on her hair and turned away from the landing.

When it hit the sand, she ran toward it, low, her eyes down, as if she’d done it a hundred times.

He followed and climbed into the seat beside her.

The helicopter rose and pitched to the right, as if heading for downtown San Diego.

After smoothing her hair and brushing the sand from her clothes, Billings reached into her bag and handed him an envelope.

“Here. Sorry there’s no ceremony. We were going to wait until you finished but there’s a mission that has to be conducted now.”

He accepted the package. It was just a plain manila envelope. He slipped his finger under the flap and tore it open. Inside were four things. The first was a letter of commendation from the president of the United States, congratulating him for becoming a SEAL. The second was a graduation certificate from the Naval Special Warfare Command announcing that he was a graduate of BUD/S Class 290 and a U.S. Navy SEAL. The third was a SEAL trident pin, freshly minted and as shiny as he was dirty. The fourth and final object was three brass 9s clumped together.

He stared at these for a long minute. He even let his fingers rub the gold trident of the SEAL BUD/S logo. He’d wanted this more than anything. He’d bled for it. He’d cried for it. But somehow, now that he actually held one in his hands, it felt less than what it should have.

He glanced up at her. “I guess there’s something to be said for a little ceremony, huh?”

She gave him a tight smile. “You’re a SEAL inside. No ceremony will make it any different.”

He was struck by the raw truth of what she said. It sounded like something Instructor Kenny or Instructor Howard would say. It was very odd to hear it from a person who wasn’t a SEAL.

“And the three nines?” he asked.

“The what?” She turned knitted brows toward him.

He held up the badge. “This brass thing with the three nines.”

She reached out and turned the object in his hand 180 degrees. “Those aren’t three nines.”

He looked at them in the new configuration. “Three sixes.”

“Six Six Six,” she said. “That’s your new team.”

SEAL Team 666? He’d never heard of such a thing. The U.S. government had played fast and loose with numbering over the years. They’d created SEAL Team 666 long before they had a Team 4 or Team 5, just to make the Soviet Union think they had more SEAL teams. Even now, SEAL Team 6 still existed, but under the name DEVGRU, which stood for United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group. Although the reality was supposed to be highly classified, the truth of the matter was plastered all over the Internet. If that couldn’t be hidden, how could something with a name like SEAL Team 666 be kept a secret?

He couldn’t help but laugh. “No really. What does it mean?”

She raised a single eyebrow, much as Leonard Nimoy famously did on the original Star Trek series whenever Captain Kirk said something funny.

“Seriously,” Walker prodded. “What does it stand for?”

“Knowledge of SEAL Team 666 is governed by a special access program, or SAP. SEAL Team 666 is a highly classified special unit under the direct command of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, with direct oversight from the Office of the Vice President and the President. The classification of the group is compartmentalized Top Secret SAP.”

“You’re serious.” He sat forward. “What’s the mission?”

“You’ll get a mission brief shortly,” she said, pointing toward the airfield below. They hadn’t gone all the way to San Diego, just to the other side of the island. “I had the liberty of having your things packed and sent over.”

“Thanks, but most of them need a good cleaning. Maybe by next week I’ll—”

“No. You don’t understand. You’re going to get a mission brief from the team leader. You leave in less than an hour.”

Walker looked at his hands and legs. They were filthy from the surf and physical training. “Can’t I just clean up?”

“Jesus, Walker. You’re a SEAL, not a princess. Act like one.”

He was so startled by her tone and delivery that he barely noticed they’d landed until she exited the helicopter, running low beneath the whirling blades. He ran to catch up.

5

NORTH ISLAND NAVAL COMPLEX AIRSTRIP. NOON.

The FNG walked up the ramp of the C-141 Starlifter as if he were late for the first day of elementary school. To Senior Chief Petty Officer Tim Laws, who’d lived and breathed the movie industry while growing up in Hollywood, the kid was one part young Steve McQueen and another part Ryan Phillippe. The FNG, perennial military term for the Fucking New Guy, wore a buzz cut of blond hair topping a face made of angles and deeply set blue eyes above a mouth whose usual form, Laws guessed, was a smile. Now it was doing everything but smiling. This was the sort of man who wore his heart on his lips.

“Stow your gear and get out of those UDTs. This isn’t a swim meet. This is an op.” Lieutenant Commander Sam Holmes gestured to an empty space of bench along one wall of the interior of the aircraft. A rucksack with weapons stacked on top of it. “That’s your gear. No time to personalize it. You’ll just have to make do.”