A Common Thread
224
A Common Thread
224Paperback
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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781458211507 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Abbott Press |
| Publication date: | 11/06/2013 |
| Series: | Studies in Language Companion |
| Pages: | 224 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.51(d) |
Read an Excerpt
A COMMON THREAD
By K. W. Hearth
Abbott Press
Copyright © 2013 Kurt W. HearthAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4582-1150-7
CHAPTER 1
Reflecting
With the stealth and silence of a shadow, the black Zodiac and its cargo travel across the night-shrouded water. The craft and the muffled outboard motor propelling it, both manufactured specifically for covert operation. The only visible indication of their presence, glowing phosphorescent marine life, which soon dissipated, agitated by the spinning outboard motor prop. The moonless nocturnal sky provides cover that renders the assault boat along with its six occupants, clad in black forest leaf Battle Dress Uniforms, BDUs, practically invisible. Only with a trained experienced eye, could one detect the intruders with any amount of positivity.
These warriors once a special team, who fought shoulder to shoulder, retaliating to acts of aggression from greedy, tyrannical powers. One by one through attrition each bid one another farewell. Eventually all, to depart this subversive, clandestine way of life. Either retirement or separation to walk their individual paths. Anyone ever associated with military life, would understand this sometimes very emotional process.
When considering the hazards and pitfalls associated with their former career, it is not inconceivable that a common thread exists binding each to the other. This to continue, as long as any inhaled a breath of life. Not so much a team, but, more a very close knit family.
A life-threatening crisis involving a former team member, has without question or hesitation from any, reunited them. This group, during their military careers had spent the bulk of their time, living "on or close to the edge". By direct relationship blood kin could be no closer. Without hesitation anyone member would sacrifice his or her life to protect or rescue another of this team. Now, proceeding toward their objective through the darkness there is no conversation. Any discussion which amounted to very little, over the, why, for their presence long since debated and decided. Regardless of the operation civilian or military, all remain loyal to their code and to each other. Under no circumstances, would anyone, alive or otherwise be deserted. All go in, all come out. One way or another, together.
Enabling them to blend effectively with their surroundings, the application of camouflage makeup. A closer observation though difficult, reveals determined features. Impossible to hide, is the lack of emotion displayed in each warrior's eyes. Their coldness beyond freezing.
In shoulder holsters or strapped to their sides, each carries a Glock. A 0.40 caliber semi-automatic hand gun. The Glocks, chosen for their reliability during adverse conditions. Against environmental elements that would render other weapons useless. Hanging from their shoulders and ready for instant use, dangle MP5s with attached silencers. Automatic weapons with but one function. Spit large volumes of death and destruction in a very short time. However, no louder sound than a surpressed belch after killing a good beer. In modified ammo pouches, each individual carries extra magazines which had been taped together and loaded with deadly black talon rounds. Bullets especially designed to rip through and tear tissue upon contact with their target. Thirty man-killers in each magazine. A combination of "frag" and concussion grenades dangle by their spoons, safety levers, from pack straps within easy reach. Should necessity require their services. Everyone hoped not. This was supposed to be a covert type operation. Secured handle down to each person's pack strap a sheathed custom made, double edged, razor sharp fighting knife. Unquestionably these fighters do possess the expertise required for any edged-weapon confrontation. Stowed inside each's black back pack, an assortment of IEDs (improvised explosive devices), timers, initiators, various killing tools and survival items that would make any professional warrior notably envious and potential target nervous. In short, this bunch was out to raise some serious hate and discontent involving the application of pain, agony, and/or death. And they were not particular about which came first.
In the event traverse from any great height is required. Up, down, or laterally. Each operator carries a coil of black kermantle line, along with a considerable number of carabiners. Rescue eights, prusik cords, and ascenders, mechanical devices, that would allow easier climbing on a rope. All required tools for any rapelling task encountered.
From the wood slatted deck protecting the boat's rubber bottom to the top of its Kevlar coated tubes, sides, the Zodiac is loaded with hopefully all the necessary and back-up equipment to complete the operation. There is so much gear in the boat, its passengers are required travel astraddle the tubes.
By their appearance alone. No doubt exists, these individuals each an expert in CQB (close quarter battle) and seasoned veterans of blackops, are on a specific mission. An operation consisting of infiltration, rescue, extraction and elimination of any opposition posing a potential threat to its ultimate successful completion.
To enable penetration of the darkness all wear NODs (night observation devices). Without them, any progress at all would be totally by "guesstimation". Precious time would be compromised and the possibility of discovery definitely greater.
Time on this operation is not a luxury or commodity. The odds on this mission are NOT in the favor of the rescue party. Of course, operating on the edge, is old hat to these troops.
While he navigates the craft across the gentle swells of the sea this dark moonless night. John Hawk, retired NAVY SEAL, mentally backtracks to review all the events preceding this hair-rained, totally insane, but deadly urgent rescue attempt for his friend and former SEAL team-mate Father Joe O'Reilly.
Hawk's recollections now are as vivid as when this incident was brought to his attention.
The lights in CAP's PLACE, low and soft, sexy soft. Given the right circumstances and partners. Who knows what just might happen. His scotch was smooth but with just enough bite to logically require a refill to verify that it not spoiled. Watching her from the bar, Hawk decided without a doubt the cocktail hostess working the floor had great lookin' legs. All the way up to her perfectly shaped butt. Then topped off with a body made to share a bed with, especially on cold nights. Well, it wasn't illegal for a person to dream. Hawk was real good at dreaming.
The atmosphere inside the bar, considerably better, than the shitty day outside. A chill rain drizzling, and the temperature on the down turn. A day like this called for four things. Good booze, a knock down drag out shithouse brawl, warm intimate firelight, and a fine woman. Maybe not in that particular order, but the plan had merit and three out of four picks wasn't bad.
This time of day CAP's PLACE usually had few customers. That helped because HAWK didn't feel like talking with anyone. Especially, some overly friendly, talkative drunk. He raised his glass, swallowed, and shivered as the booze hit the bottom of his gut. Still holding the glass up, Hawk thought to him self one down. Then sighed, and allowed his mind to wander, to drift to other places.
Cap, owner, chief cook and bottle washer of the place looked down the bar at Hawk. Wiping his hands, more from force of habit on the towel hanging off his shoulder than a sanitary function acknowledged Hawk's empty glass. With a bottle from the back bar, the stock he reserved for preferred customers, he refilled the glass.
Grinning at Hawk Cap reminded him.
"Don't forget the regs pal".
Without benefit of a verbal response, HAWK mentally reflected on Cap's "regs".
Everyone patronizing the bar had mixed notions about them. But they were well meaning, plus, had a positive purpose. If you wanted to drink in CAP's PLACE. His "regs", would be without question, respected and adhered to.
Cap, a long time close friend whose association with Hawk spanned many adventure filled years. Cap was the only name Hawk or anyone else associated with the military special operations groups had ever known him by. Years before, in NAB Littlecreek VA., he was one of Hawk's first SEAL training instructors.
Cap a medically retired UDT/Frogman whose little known background went all the way back to the Korea days. Long before the inception of President KENNEDY's SEAL program. He had seen and participated in more than his share of the "real" action. After surviving an unknown number of special operations in Korea. He had gone through 'NAM without getting even a scratch. Including some of the so-called to be politically correct, "advisory operations". Those missions, that politicians decline to take credit for supporting, and/or if they had any knowledge of them. Plus the fact, these guys got very nervous and antsy at the mere reference as to their existence. It was in North Viet-Nam when the two warriors worked together on several "missions", they established their close friendship. One night at one of those ass kickin', hell-raisin' bubblehead, {old terminology for a navy diver) parties, Cap got himself snot-slinging, knee-walkin', commode-huggin' drunk. He tried walking home, he was too drunk to drive and not drunk enough to crawl. That's when the accident happened. He stumbled into the street and got hammered by a passing car. The driver never saw him until it was too late. He couldn't avoid hitting Cap. Due to his military training, Cap wouldn't wear anything reflective at night. Cap survived the accident, but sustained a broken back along with other debilitating injuries. Like 01' Humpty-Dumpty, he was real bad broke. Even the best surgeons the Navy could buy or the SEALs could shanghai couldn't put Cap back together good enough to stay in the SpecOp Program
Those "nice" folks at the Pentagon after being heckled long enough did offer him a billet where he could stay on active duty until his retirement. But, it was for all intentional purposes, nothing but a token gesture to pacify everyone and keep public sentiment off their backs. But Cap refused the offer to revert back to the "regular Navy" to finish out his military career. Why not? If the truth were known, he couldn't accept all the new changes in policies and attitudes. In his estimation, which he voiced frequently, quality and pride no longer existed, voiced frequently, quality and pride no longer existed.
CDR MARSH, U.S. NAVY SEALs head honcho, called in some old favors owed him from undisclosed parties and got Cap released with a medical retirement. Even finagled a pretty hefty pension, along with his disability allowance. Financially, Cap wouldn't be hurtin' for anything.
With that capital, he invested in a bar whose existence was about to become extinct. Mainly, due to shoddy management and lack of customer participation. So, being the opportunistic con artist he was. Cap picked up the place for a song. It didn't hurt either that the present owner wanted to get shed of the albatross around his neck as soon as possible.
The place was in an area he liked and was confident it could be turned around to produce a nice profit. Truth was, he wanted a somewhere his SEAL buddies and other "bubbleheads" without the aggravation of being hassled by those who did not understand their particular lifestyle.
Along with lots of help volunteered from long time friends, combined with the bribery of barbecues and beer parties. After, the work was done of course.
Finally after lots of dedicated effort (ol' fashioned elbow grease). They transformed the place into what some might call a gallery of memories. All types of memorabilia of the past. Diving gear and souvenirs allover the place. Including, an almost impossible to come by, "JAKE" (complete mock-up of a deep sea diver). Wired with sound and standing at the front door to welcome customers aboard.
Pictures adorned the walls. Long time buddies, various SEAL Teams together shoulder to shoulder, grinning and grabassin'! Photos highlighting the military's special ops forces in action. SEALs conducting water entries from speeding small craft. RECON MARINES in rubber rafts making a covert beach landing. ARMY RANGERS frozen in HALO (high altitude low opening) free fall. AIR FORCE COMBAT CONTROLLERS establishing an LZ (landing zone). That kind of PR (public relations) stuff that would make recruiters drool.
Fond memories of bygone times. Some brought smiles, others, you figure it out. There were mementos from past operations. On display only as incentives to recall and recount the war stories that went with the souvenirs. Some of the more sentimental souls swore that the spirits of those warriors now departed, existed at peace within the walls of Cap's Place.
Just a plain light blue neon sign advertised the bar. "CAP'S PLACE" told you, you be there. Kinda reminded one of the infamous GREEN DERBY. The diver's bar down from the NAVY DIVING SCHOOL, in Anacostia, Maryland, outside Washington, D.C. Just a little tamer.
Though "CAPS" was in a semi-up neighborhood, it did well. First out of curiosity customers stopped in. When they discovered Cap ran a tight ship and refused to allow any trash to take place, folks were impressed and returned. Some even brought their friends along. Some drank and some drank nonalcoholic beverages. But they kept returning. Whether on the way home from work, or just to kill a little time. With many it became a stopping off place for the traditional beer or two. An oasis to hang out at. Watch the ball games with the troops, shoot the breeze, play a little pool or shuffleboard. In a short while the place began to show a profit. Cap's dream was finally beginning to become a reality.
Cap's easy going personality and friendly smile made the patrons feel comfortable and at home. He made it clear, their patronage was appreciated. Cap was happy as long as they were spending money in his place. And, as any good bartender their friends along. Some drank, some drank soft drinks. But, they came back.
Whether on the way home from work or just to kill little time. With many, it became a stopping off place for the traditional friendly beer or two. An oasis to hang out at. Watch the ball games with the troops. Shoot the breeze, play a little pool or shuffleboard, and stuff like that. Cap's place was beginning to turn a profit. Cap's pipe dream, slowly becoming reality.
Cap's easy going personality and friendly smile made the patrons feel at home and their presence appreciated. Whether they ordered a coke, or stronger. Cap was happy as long as they were spending money in his place. And, as any good bartender, he also had a strong shoulder to cry on and could be a sincere listener. Secondly Cap's strict regulations.
A few simple rules that would be followed, if, you were to be welcome, in CAP'S PLACE. Of course, there just had to be the traditional, unavoidable non-conformists. But they were dealt with as the situation demanded. The primary "reg", you could drink all you could handle. But, if you put too much away, you did not drive away. Cap or one his cohorts put you in a cab and sent you home. The other regulations were mostly decency and common courtesy toward the patrons.
Sitting with his back to the bar, Hawk absently watched the crackling flames in the fireplace across the small now empty dance floor. Cap had a thing about a fire in the fireplace. He figured it gave the place a warm, welcome, comfortable atmosphere. Remembering Caps reminder about the "regs", Hawk sipped his scotch slowly savoring the sharp tang as he let his mind continue to drift.
Since retirement from Uncle Sam's "NAV" he seemed to be stuck in a void. No real aim in his new life of no distinct purpose. Seems he was just existing, kinda useless. CAP'S appeared to be the only place he could think any halfway rational thoughts. Must be 'cause CAP'S linked him to his former career. In a sense of speaking, the place became sort of a safe haven for him. The SEALS had been his only family and security for the better part of his twenty plus years, of military life. Now he was no longer with them and that security blanket gone. Kinda like an orphan kid, alone without family. Consequently, CAP'S PLACE became his home away from home. Hawk spent a lot of time in his second home. He had no personal responsibilities, so why not?
Cap barked from the opposite end of the bar.
"Hey Hawk, Red Line!"
That snapped him back from his feel sorry for yourself memory land to reality. Cap slid the cordless down the bar to him. Catching and picking up the phone, Hawk answered in what could be described as a matter-of-fact tone of voice.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A COMMON THREAD by K. W. Hearth. Copyright © 2013 Kurt W. Hearth. Excerpted by permission of Abbott Press.
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