Page 3 of Broken SEAL

Rick held the bottom of the ladder, assisting their coalition partners into the boat. Their warrant officer was the last down. He’d nearly reached the rubber hull when the inflatable bucked over a wave and slammed into him, knocking him off the ladder. Rick reached for his vest but missed. The burly CANSOF operator bounced off the gunwale straight into the white foam racing off the hull.

“Man overboard!” bellowed TJ.

Mike responded with lightning speed. Yanking the emergency release on his armor, he ditched his rifle, helmet, and rig, grabbed one of the inflatable life vests from the side of the bosun's console, and leaped over the side wearing only his belt rig.

Cold water would have driven the air from his lungs, but like every frogman, he was at home in the ocean. Powerful kicks drove him below the surface as he searched for the operator.

It took him a moment to spot him under the churning surface. The warrant, still clad in his equipment, was hanging sideways a meter below the surface by a single inflated safety bag. Like Mike, he wore PEQies on either side of his belt. When inflated together, they provided neutral buoyancy at the hips. Individually, they hindered movement by tipping the wearer sideways.

Mike swam to the warrant and grabbed his shoulder. The man’s eyes were wide, but panic hadn’t set in. He shoved the inflatable vest into his hands and ripped the toggle. The Canadian gripped it tightly as it inflated, dragging him to the surface while Mike swam upward.

Both men gasped for air as they broke the surface at the top of a wave. It was a moment of relief before they dropped into a trough and underwater again. Submerged for less than a second, they reemerged as Mike trod water alongside the chief, who clung to the vest.

“Men in the water port side,” a voice yelled, followed by the growl of powerful engines. A second later, the RHIB appeared, and Rick grabbed the warrant by the back of his armor and hauled him into the boat.

Mike managed to grasp a rope on the side of the craft and held firm before TJ and Ernie pulled him in.

The SEAL team leader slapped him on the shoulder. “Good save, bud.”

Mike glanced across at the Canadian whose bearded face was split with a wide grin. “Saved my bacon there, bud. Couldn’t get out of my gear.”

“All in a day’s work,” replied Mike. “Wouldn’t be much of a coalition if we lost a partner.” The men laughed as the coxswain powered up the engines and the boat headed for shore.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” said the silver-haired Australian general standing on an equipment trunk at the makeshift forward operating base. “That concludes Exercise Talisman Saber 27. I want to thank you all for your efforts in making it our most successful and widely attended event yet. Please, enjoy the well-earned BBQ and beers. I look forward to seeing you all in 2029. Now, let’s get on the cans.”

The crowd of operators and support staff let out a cheer, and country rock blared as the exercise after-party got underway. It had been a strenuous four weeks of workups and missions, and everyone was more than ready to blow off some steam. The Aussies had put on a damn good exercise, and Mike was more than ready for tomorrow’s C-17 flight home. Checking his watch, he did the time-zone math; it was 2130 here, which meant it was around 0200 back home. Everyone would be sleeping. He’d give them a call in five hours when they’d be having breakfast.

Unlocking his phone, he checked the secure app that linked him to the camera monitoring Junior’s room. Sure enough, the infrared feed showed him in bed asleep, his arms sprawled out across the quilt. Axe was there too, asleep on the mat next to his sleeping son’s bed.

“Hey bud,” said a Canadian voice.

Mike glanced up as he slipped his phone back in his pocket. “I got you a beer.” Adrian Garand, the Canadian whom Mike had rescued, approached with a can in each hand.

“Thanks, Sir.” Mike accepted the beer.

Adrian, a grizzly hulk of a man, grabbed his shoulder. “Call me Gar. And I’m going to owe you more than beers. Twenty-seven years of operating, and I nearly went out on my last job.”

“Last job?”

Adrian nodded. “Yep, I’m retiring. Gonna be running hunting and fly-fishing tours out of my ranch in BC. Tell you what, TJ’s got my number. You guys should bring your families up for a week. My wife looks after the luxury accommodation, and I’ve got a mean homebrew setup.”

Mike grinned. “That sounds great.” He took a swig from his can as TJ, Ernie, and the other Canadians joined them, beers in hand. “These Aussies might not know how to BBQ,” announced Rick. “But they sure as hell know how to brew an IPA.”

“What’s wrong with the BBQ?” asked one of the Canadians who was munching on a sausage wrapped in bread.

Rick shook his head in disgust. “It’s all hot dogs and steaks: no ribs or brisket. This ain’t low and slow. It’s just a giant grill.”

“Yeah mate, that’s how we like it,” said one of the Aussies nearby. “Fire up the barbie for snags, chops, prawns, and rissoles.”

Rick stared at the man in disbelief. Then, taking a swig of his beer, he turned to TJ, “Chief, any chance you could translate that?”

The Canadians and the Aussies burst into laughter, and Mike threw his arm around his muscle-bound teammate. “Good thing you’re an outstanding frogman, Rick, because you’re a lousy diplomat. Now, let’s show these Canuks and Aussies how to drink.”

Chapter Two

The next morning, it was a bleary-eyed SEAL team that supervised the loading of their equipment into a C-17 transport jet. Fortunately, Rick, the team’s corpsman, had the foresight to load a cooler with ice and Gatorade. Then, once the gargantuan aircraft clawed its way off the runway and into the sky, the team slung their hammocks, Rick handed out painkillers and sleeping tablets, and they snored their way across the vast Pacific Ocean toward the West Coast of the United States and their waiting families.

Seventeen long hours later, after two refueling stops, the transport aircraft touched down at Naval Air Station North Island, San Diego. It was a refreshed and energetic team that walked down the ramp, across the tarmac, and into the air terminal.