Black Tiger: The Adventures of John L. Steelhard, Book One

By James B. Riverton

The Adventures of John L. Steelhard, “A ripping saga of tantalizing adventure!” From the special secret military operations in the jungles of Laos, during the Vietnam War, to air combat in the soaring skies over North Vietnam. The dreaded Chinese Death Pit, where P.O.W.'s must fight to the death in elimination combat, to the underground shadows of New York City. John L. Steelhard, Navy SEAL, battles the foes of America, mankind, and eventually the Earth itself.
The first fantastic novel of an epic series; the legend of a young man's destiny to contest the vicious treachery of powerful forces desiring to control the free will of all beings. A man of many talents, especially with women, must seek the answer to a special hidden gene housed within his DNA, one that will lead to the journey of discovery in the origins of creation itself.
With a hardy band of fellow warriors and backed by the concept of moral responsibility to guide him, John L. Steelhard must become a being forged from the hot hell-fires of conflict, lovst and betrayal to become like his namesake, Steelhard. He is a man that you never want to meet in a dark alley or in any game of chance, a warrior who never, never, never, ever quits or gives up, or in, no matter how fierce the situation, or how dire the circumstances. With a smile that trouble converts into dark blue eyes, he turns into Black Tiger, with a mighty roar that will shake the universe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James B. Riverton
• Release date: Apr 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310062377

James B. Riverton

James B. Riverton is a man of mystery and has been described by some as being "the most famous man you've never met." A reluctant author who spent his youth on a journey of personal discovery, hiding in plain sight. The author was born in San Francisco, Calif. Raised in Texas, Europe and the Middle East while living on an oil tanker part- time, at the age of eight, traveling from England, and France, transporting crude oil from the Middle East to those countries, with his parents. Endless days and nights tramping along at five knots, back and forth. The author learned to swim in the Suez Canal while waiting to transit the canal, traveled through the ruins of Europe and Middle East observing the destruction from the Second World War first hand. He learned to communicate in different countries, sometimes with gestures and good cheer by sharing Hershey Bars with the local children to make friends. At the age of 17 the author joined the Navy to see the rest of the world and especially the Far East. Serving during the 1960's he served three tours of duty during the conflict in Indochina, seeing much of the Far East, and learning about the culture and the people. One of the highlights of his service was meeting President John F. Kennedy, a month before his death, prior deploying to the Far East while aboard the aircraft carrier USS Oriskany, CVA-34. Upon discharge, the author traveled, working overseas construction for Brown and Root, dealing cards in Las Vegas, bartending, waiting on tables in various exclusive resorts, working as a Assistant General Manager in Vail, Colorado. In his travels during this period the author met and served movie actors, Senators, President Gerald Ford, and a host of characters of all walks of life. A graduate of Stephen F. Austin, with a BFA, the author wrote a few screen play outlines, and unpublished stage plays, but never found the time, or the desire to try writing novels. However, he did find the courage to pursue the love of his life, and after five years was successful, at the age of 37, to finally marry, starting a family. Over the next years he entered the world of Real Estate, selling homes, starting home building companies and developing land for residential use. This career of boom and bust carried his family from Texas to Washington, DC and back. Up and down, through thick and thin surviving roiling markets. During slim times finding alternate ways to support a growing family by starting up a successful pre-paid phone card and ad promotional business. Learning one of the most important lessons in life, raising children and learning how to be a father. Always, in the back of his mind remained the ultimate personal challenge, of writing a book, not for recognition, but to see if he could. During the 2008 financial collapse it seemed writing a book would maintain ones sanity. One book turned into a completed series, then more books, to the point that the next challenge was to publish this growing disease gumming up his personal computer. Someone explained writing a book was only 20 to 50% of the effort, the rest was sitting here inputting a personal bio and figuring out that it takes a whale of an effort to publish a book. All he can say is that after all he has seen, and experienced in life, that this is the most taxing thing he has ever attempted, and his hat is off to anyone that has ever contended with this process, let alone become successful. My only goal in life in the end has been to write, and it has become a joy to me. If one person reads anything that I write, and enjoys it, for whatever reason, then I have found success with this part of my life. If anyone can bring laughter or ethos into another's life, if only briefly, then what more can you ask for, except for a winning lottery ticket. My winning ticket has been family and friends, seeing the sun rise each day, thanking the main man for a great life and the passion to finally tell some stories. The author currently lives in Texas, and spends his quality time in the Hill Country and Houston with his wife, friends, family, and his German Shepherd, Yogi.

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Black Tiger©

by

James B. Riverton

Copyright 2012

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition Copyright 2014

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously.

John L. Steelhard™ Novels, no. 1

http://www.johnlsteelhard.com

Library of Congress certificate registration #

TXu 1-814-613 June 11, 2012

Cover art design by Guy Taylor Productions

ESO/Digitized Sky Survey 2. Acknowledgement: Davide De Martin

www.johnlsteelhard.com

Dedicated to all those who never returned

Sail forth-steer for the deep waters only,

Reckless O soul, exploring, I with thee, and thou with me,

For we abound where mariner has not yet dared to go,

And we will risk the ship, ourselves and all.

-WALT WHITMAN-

Never Give In, Never, Never, Never, Never.

Winston Churchill

The Adventures of

John L. Steelhard™

Black Tiger©

a ripping saga of tantalizing adventure

by

James B. Riverton

BLACK TIGER

Chapter 1

He floated into the room like a subtle fart; the kind that gets your attention slowly, but surely for all of the wrong reasons. In this particular case it wasn't so much the foul odor as the total distaste of the moment; it smelled wrong, felt wrong and you sure hoped you didn't have to taste anything.

Suits are suits, but this jerk from the CIA was just too perfect, a pure callous cardboard figure without a soul. In the miserable heat he didn't seem to sweat, and even the dust avoided settling on his super spit shined Wellington boots. The air conditioner was lugging down in the enclosed operations map room and the shot ceiling fan was nearing the end of its rusted existence, just making the hot humid air wash over the five sweat-soaked bodies waiting on his royalty. Why did they all have to wear designer sunshades indoors? All of them would look you over slowly, take off their glasses with flare, clean them very, very carefully; then, use them like a pointer tapping on something, demanding total attention and command from their captive audience. No one else ever demanded the spotlight quite like them. They usually produced a dour look, followed by a shit-eating grin, pausing to gain your full attention; until they finally said something. The profound statement was always, that we were all going to share in some personal and important little private secret together, a real fraternal moment in life. It was always a bitter pill to swallow, waiting and watching for the verbal exhibition to unfold, beating around the bush to get to the bottom line. You always felt like a fly stuck on a sticky tabletop, a fly swatter hovering unseen, then with one quick flick of the wrist, death from above.

Their reduced little group was in the third week of a much-needed recovery after an extremely trying, and difficult previous mission. It was, supposedly, the last ops before being rotated back stateside. Their insertion team, Eagles Claw, had lost two very good team members in the firefight that had ensued at the last mission's extraction LZ in the Ashau Valley. They had both died on the way home, and Steelhard, as a corpsman, hadn't been able to save them, even with the help of an additional critical care corpsman on board. It had been John Steelhard's fifth, and final combat tour. College was just ninety days away, that heavenly safe haven of beer, sunshine, babes, and sleep; of course, not always in that precise order. He had just another twenty-seven hours to finish a history degree; one spring session and two sunny summer semesters at San Diego State University, residing in good old Mission Beach, California. It was where you could hang your hat when returning stateside. Rent was cheap if you didn't live right on the beach.

The tip off on these sudden meetings was always the rolled up set of plans jammed under some guy's sweaty armpit and the usual custom briefcase with triple super secure combination locks. Steelhard thought, all of these guys must have been cast out of some kind of Grade-B Hollywood cookie cutter spy movie. You always knew the jig was up when your CO had that uncomfortable look of embarrassment on his face; the one you probably saw on your father's face when he had to deliver Mom's verdict. You knew someone was about to get the shaft, and more than likely it wasn't going to be dear old Daddy. When you didn't have a dad or mom to reference, but had watched enough Father Knows Best, the Nelson Family, and especially, Leave It to Beaver on television. Then you knew a pro when they came into a room. Big Daddy! Life sucked sometimes, especially whenever you weren't in charge.

Guys, huddle up. This is Mr. Smith, name assumed, and regular restrictions apply to the information you are going to be briefed on, per executive order 126453. Man, you hated it when they pulled that order up. You always would think, "I should have never signed it, but you sign a lot of things in life when you are too young or ignorant to understand certain things, but Duty, Honor and Country. Especially, when the President of the United States issues and signs it. You always wondered who in the heck created order # 126352 and if there were another 126,351 orders out there bobbing around causing heartburn. It seemed these executive orders were popped out of a toaster just to get you roasted, relieving everyone else of responsibility, except the poor sap left holding the bag. It was usually a body bag, filled with a comrade.

I know some of you were out of here within the next month; however, we have a situation that can only be handled by your team. You were the last operators in this area of interest last year, and were responsible for surveying and creating this recon grid. Mr. Smith will brief you on the particulars.

Mr. Smith, I introduce you to Alpha Team, code name Eagles Claw.

Gentlemen, please step to the map table, and I will explain the details of your mission. Smith smiled, and tapped the table with his custom sunshades on cue.

Crap, what a crock of you know what. Mission -- they might be going back in! Looking around you saw four sets of eyes looking at each other. There wasn't one happy camper in the little diminished group. They all stared at their CO as he quickly dropped his eyes, gazing at his shoelaces, trying to hide in plain sight, hmmm. He didn't even have the heart to look them straight in their faces. Not good, this was not good at all.

They stepped up to the map table as Mr. Smith unrolled the maps, pinning down one side with his now opened brief case and pulling out a chrome .45 caliber pearl handle revolver to weigh down the other side. Nice gun, for a collection case, but worthless in the bush. You could tell it was a gift from someone because it had some engraving on it. The inscription said # 1, Class of 1958, West Point Military Academy. You knew you were dead right then. Number one. One of the elites.

I believe you men surveyed and charted the specific terrain and territory outlined here, tapping on the map with his aviator sun shades. You have listed the trails, tributaries, villages, bridges and roads. You have also detailed possible areas for the location of SAM Missile sites guarding the following air trajectory approaches. Two of these sites, in effect, have been built out to house the new longer ranged ground to air SAM missiles.

There was a collective groan, and you could tell someone had let off some gas, the odor defining the moment of utter resignation. The old motto, It is yours to do or die, not to reason how or why.

We now believe these two specific sites to be fully operational. We are not, at the moment, able to authorize in-country air strikes. It is extremely important to neutralize these two facilities' launch command and control centers prior to the date and time listed on these orders. Please review them, and I will continue the briefing. FUBAR! Fucked Up Beyond All Repair! They were really going back in, but this time it was not to just look and see, it would be deep into Indian Country, and all the sites like this were usually very heavily defended. It would not just be a matter of getting in, but more of a question of getting out in one piece, and avoiding being stuffed down a garbage disposal.

Mr. Smith, Sir, why couldn't these sites be taken out by air? Steelhard asked.

Officially, this is another country, Laos. We are presently not at war with them, as you know. The President doesn't have the authority to authorize cross-border air strikes at this time, due to political considerations. These sites are located in such a way to guard the Ho Chi Minh Trail from across the border to aerial attacks in this section; the NVA and the Viet Cong are preparing for a major assault in the south. In a nutshell, we need to disrupt their supply lines, but we have to do so without cross-border air strikes on these two targets. These sites have the latest long range ground to air SAM missiles, and they are designed to defend against the B-52 at their maximum ordnance drop altitude. We need the B-52's payloads to make the difference on the enemies supply lines.

It was pure bullshit; no matter how many bombs you dropped, they would just keep on trucking down the Ho Chi Minh super muddy highway in the jungle, by truck, foot, bike, hook or crook. They were like a mindless, never ending hoard of army ants conveying sugar from one point to the next, little workers serving the anthill. Rub your finger across their path, and they would just bypass and detour around the obstruction, continuing along their merry old way like drones until they dropped. Then another ant would pick up the burden, surging onward. You had to destroy the anthill, the base originating the sugar. There are not enough bombs to kill all of the ants stretched out over a thousand miles. This was a pinprick plan dreamed up to impress someone's boss, a chance to shine, or something else entirely.

The Navy had Shrike air to ground missiles that could take these sites out the minute they became operational, and they didn't have to cross the border by very much to get it done. It was at the missile's maximum effective range, and who would really know, but hey, why waste expensive missiles, when you could waste four tired men?

Marine Gunny Sergeant Wilson, a force recon marine, and our one-zero, enlisted leader, asked,

Mr. Smith, if you won't use an air strike, and you won't use the Navy Shrike, why are you so certain the best method to eliminate this threat, in such a short window, is by ground attack? It is true we surveyed the area, but these recent site pictures are months out of date, according to the stamped recon overfly times, and Intel in this area is no longer confirmed by any on the ground resources. There isn't enough time if we go in on foot, and we will be one hundred percent without any backup support once we are exposed; and how do you expect to insert and extract the team, if you can't fly the border? He looked at their Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Daniels.

Has Captain Crocker signed off on this?

Captain Crocker was a Navy Captain, a SEAL, and the direct commanding officer for our Study Observation Group in Bangkok, Thailand. When in doubt, you complain and ask for the boss, because this was beginning to look like a one-way trip.

No, he has been recalled to SOG headquarters in Cam Ranh Bay. The XO, Colonel McWilliams, has signed off on the mission plan. McWilliams, second in command, was a pure paper shuffling desk jockey, a stupid ass-kissing jerk, who was bucking for Captain Crocker's job. Captain William Wild Bill Crocker was a pure warrior that had served in the field, and knew the Spec Ops ropes, especially the dangers of poor planning, and especially when done too quickly. He had your back at all times, and he would have never signed off on this circle jerk without a damn good reason.

Good question, not paying any attention to Gunny, we have acquired a captured NVA helicopter that will handle the extraction, and Air America will do a low level insert. All you have to do is make the extraction LZ, and your team will be pulled out.

And where will this chopper be coming from, and who will be flying it? persisted Gunny Wilson.

Ah ... that is classified and a need to know, but rest assured that it will be at the appointed LZ. You have my word on that. If that is all of the questions, Lieutenant Daniels will go over the details with you. Timetables, equipment, and call signs are all here for your review. I will be back within two hours, after another meeting. Carry on gentlemen!

With that, Mr. Perfect, with flare, flipped on his sun shades, picked up his shiny pistol, triple locked his briefcase and strutted out the room. All Steelhard could think was, I bet his parents were proud of the little prick. It is one thing to order men into combat, but another just to order them to the morgue. There was no, this was a tough deal, or this sucks and someone has to do it, and you're the best. Not even, this would save some pilots and grunts, or whatever. Just do or die with minimum planning, always a bad situation if you leaped before you looked. It was another simple case of being screwed without even being kissed.

It was a pure sneak in, waste a couple command centers, and run like hell before they caught you. Simple it was not, but this is what you were trained to do, what a slippery slope. First, join the Navy to see the world. How much trouble could that be; sailing around in a nice big ship, three hot meals a day and a nice warm bunk? Three hots and a cot. Never, never, ever volunteer, someone smart told him once, and that's when he shook his hand after kicking him out of an orphanage. Steelhard would never forget the look of guilt on the Headmaster's face when he said Good luck, son! At seventeen, you are too stupid not to bite the apple, especially when they get their hooks into you. Kicked out of the only home he had ever known, supposedly for one too many encouraged fights, nowhere to go, disillusioned, and the Navy had seemed like a decent place to start putting something like a life together.

Join the Navy, it's not a job, it's an adventure! Off to boot camp in San Diego, selected for Hospital Corpsman School after boot, a shortage of corpsmen in the Marines; then off to Camp Pendleton, California, for six months infantry training with a new Force Recon Command designed to go deep behind enemy lines. There is this Navy training program where we're really short corpsmen for UDT or, Underwater Demolition Teams, for six months. The UDT designation amended missions in 1962, and in 1963 were renamed UDT-SEALs, sea, air, and land combat teams, authorized by President Kennedy. Off to three weeks of Army jump school at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Assigned as a Combat Adviser, South Vietnam, for UDT-11; then to the SEALs moving into the Mekong Delta earning a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart. SEAL Team 2 on the second tour, another Bronze Star. Stateside for leave, finally, then the Tet Offensive began, recalled to fight with the Marine Sniper teams in the ancient city of Hue in a brutal house-to-house battle. Hey, we are short medics again, Long Range Patrols (LRP), transferred to attend army Recon School in Vietnam and finally the last stop, Study Observation Group for War Consultation. In other words, a bad ass, top secret, Black Ops Delta Program; but now this enlistment was almost up, finally a short timer, just a few more months, and hello separation.

Steelhard didn't know what service he belonged to anymore; was it still the Navy? His name had been mission changed at least twice and there always seemed to be a field shortage of medical personnel; they usually got wasted in combat situations. He really wondered when he could go back to a normal life, whatever that was. After almost seven years, he just wanted to finish college, buy a better car, and recover what was left, for a normal life. Maybe apply for flight school, fly jets, and then apply for NASA. At the age of twenty-four, John Li Steelhard, First Class Petty Officer, Hospital Corpsman, felt as though every bone in his body had been kicked by a mule. Either he had sewed himself up, or someone else had, more times than he wanted to remember. He had been shoved from one crisis to the next where someone always needed a corpsman that could run, fight, sneak, swim, and jump out of planes into whatever frying pan was waiting. Sometimes he just felt like a piece of fried chicken.

Steelhard looked down at his scarred hands, and thought to himself, how many times had they saved someone's life, only to have taken another life, in the name of what? Was it the hands or the man that was ultimately responsible for confronting death? Who and what was he, really? Steelhard looked around the briefing room at his family; just four of us left now out of the original group of eight, and we all had thought it was over for us, at least for a while. Oh, the sweet, sweet illusions of survival, just thinking of taking that big bird back to the beautiful US of A, again. It was the sounds of freedom of those huge jet engines lifting you to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. One more chance to stand on some corner on Broadway Street in San Diego, with the warm southern California sun on your face. American girls and real milk, with a Greyhound Bus Ticket in your hand that said, homeward bound. Well, he hadn't been home, but once, only to find it closed down; a burned downed, and forgotten ancient orphanage, stuck in an unimportant isolated New Mexico mountain valley.

That particular leave was cut short by the Tet offensive in 1968. After two days sleeping off a drinking session in a shabby room at the YMCA in Denver, Colorado, a knock on the door found him. Your presence is requested, immediately, if not sooner. Two FBI agents had escorted him to the local airport and stuffed him on a plane for San Diego, for a hurried flight back to sunny, smoke and bomb filled Vietnam. All of South Vietnam was under siege, fighting was everywhere. He had walked off the plane and straight into the chaos earning another damn Purple Heart and the Silver Star, the hard way, fighting with the Marines, shedding more blood, in house to house combat against the NVA.

Home, what did anyone know about it anyway? A place, your country, or where you kept your stuff. No girlfriend; the one whore he thought loved him sent a Dear John letter during his first combat tour, and married an older used car salesman. Trained like a razor blade, but the only date he could get worked in a bar, or a whorehouse; what a testimony to finding domestic bliss in life. Well, after listening to their CO, Lieutenant Daniels, fumble through mission details and then reviewing the maps, Steelhard knew the chances of him ever seeing the front gates of college again, or his present local native squeeze, were becoming slim to none. He didn't mind going on missions, that's the job, but when you think you're free and clear it was hard to gear back up mentally. It was not the loss of freedom that hurt so much, but that someone was pulling the sucker out of your mouth, just as you tasted the sweetness of freedom.

Marine Gunny Sergeant Bob Wilson pulled him to the side; he must have been drifting off, and asked Steelhard if his will was up to date? He told Gunny to get screwed, as the only person in his will was him and his wife. Wilson laughed, and told Steelhard he sure needed to find a wife or get a life. He was married to a sweet gal back in the states; a real, live, caring human being. Steelhard never knew why Wilson was still involved in all of this active combat crap anyway. Gunny was within a year of retiring after almost twenty years and getting out for good. Wilson was as tough as nails, and you would follow him through any cesspool, day or night, if he commanded you, no questions asked. Wilson had been a confirmed bachelor until he met Gail almost three years ago at San Diego State while trying to finish up his college degree. It must have taken him ten years to get his degree in education. It was because of Gunny Wilson that Steelhard had started college and taken a ton of courses, doubling up, almost enough to graduate. The two of them made a swell married couple, and Gail was usually good for trying to hook him up with a date every once in a while. Steelhard always declined, sticking with commercial love. He hated getting turned down, especially knowing he wasn't the sharpest looking dude around. Gail always treated him like a little wayward brother that needed looking after, and she was tops in his book. Gunny Bob Wilson was one lucky dude, but hell, he knew that.

After the briefing, he asked Gunny, Well, boss, what do you think of this latest masturbation?

With a sly grin, Ours is not to reason how or why, but to do or die. Look, this might not go down well. If I don't make it, and you do, let Gail know my last thoughts will be of her.

Steelhard said, Man, that's a real vote of confidence, just what I needed to hear, and by the way, what about poor old little me?

Now see, that is what I like about you Doc, nothing. If anyone gets out of this one alive, good luck! And who would you like me to notify in the event of your demise, your last landlady back in Mission Beach, or the manager of the storage place where you keep that piece of crap you call a car?

Well, Gunny, as executor of my meager estate, you are stuck with me and since my estate is semi-broke right now, you will have to buy the booze tonight. No matter what, I will drag you back dead or alive. Especially, since I don't want to have to tell your wife you're not coming back. More than likely she might be happy about that, and finally come to her senses.

About what, exactly?

On the way out of the door, and out of arm's reach, Steelhard yelled over his shoulder, Having a chance, finally, with a younger, good looking stud like me. Who's your daddy now? Ha-ha!

Gunny chased Steelhard all the way to the PX before he caught and thrashed him. Seth Adams, a Ranger, and Jim Collins, a Green Beret, the other two surviving team members, got good and drunk at the NCO Club. The MP's poured them into their quarters after they busted up the Club again, instructing some 82nd Airborne troopers on the fine art of hand to hand combat after they kept losing at darts. Gunny had them up at 04:30 for a four mile run and two hours of PT before breakfast. Another typical day in paradise.

The team mustered in crisp fatigues for their second team briefing with the insertion team leader at 07:45. He was a former USAF Captain, flying with Air America, a front for the CIA, from a new Forward Operations Base, FOB 10 in eastern Thailand. The pilot would do a quick low-level nighttime radar evasion run over the border, pop up to 1,500 feet and allow them a brief window for a low altitude insertion. They would target an LZ, landing zone, asset in a small clearing. Their ground contact would be using a low grade laser light beam they could pick up with some new bulky night-vision goggles. It would be a hairy insertion, and they would be carrying more C4 than weapons, but where they were going weapons wouldn't do them much good anyway. Go light, go quiet, and try not to leave any footprints. In like fierce lions, out like a pact of sneaky rats trying to dodge a posse of angry and hungry alley cats.

Two sites meant they would have to split up into two-man demolition teams. The difficult part was each two-man team would have to remain on target after infiltrating, to set the explosives and manually detonate them by remote to coordinate with the planned B-52 air strikes along the border. The hardest part was evasion after the fact, because it would be like poking a beehive with a short stick. They would have to hump it fifteen klicks to the first extraction point, and hope like hell the ride out would be there. It was extremely difficult to execute two separate operations and coordinate a rendezvous of two teams at one extraction point. There was a back-up location, but that was always dicey. It really was all or nothing; either the bird was there on time, or it wasn't. Then it could be a long hike back home, if you could continue to evade a bunch of pissed off ants.

Last time in was on recon; silent mode in order to not be noticed, but this time both sites would have big-time protection. Intel said troops had been deployed around these missile sites only as R&R, prior to the planned offensive in South Vietnam, with local militia relieving them. They might be on Rest and Relaxation up until, something went boom, then it would be an all-out seek and destroy fox hunt. If these troops were headed south for a major campaign, then they were the elite, and the team could be tangling with very hardened veteran NVA warriors.

Intel had briefed them that up to a full NVA regiment could be providing security for each area and that their local assets had pinpointed locations of manned security positions to be avoided. The team would be given this information once they were down to ascertain the best possible mission routes to the targets. It would take at least 24 hours to reach the targets, where the teams would need some time for site observation and infiltration evaluation into the command and control centers.

After acquiring the site, it would take up to 48 hours to slowly move into position, establish hidey-holes, and ascertain a direct approach into and out of the missile command compounds. Also allowing enough time to set the ordnance in place. Altogether a 72-hour insertion total ordinance time line, and another 24 hours to hustle back to the extraction LZ. It would make for four very long stressful days and nights. No stopping, or dropping off for a nap along the way. This was your whole life in one very small pathetic nutshell. Four days, only if everything went according to plan. In the world of combat, it was rare that all the pieces ever fell neatly into place. The enemy, weather, equipment, communications, and your own backup support never operated like the mission plan outline. It all looked wonderful on a clean piece of paper, but it usually failed muster when it really counted. It was the quality and dedication of the men within the mission that somehow found a way to get results, or wound up rotting in a bug infested ditch, or a shallow unmarked grave when the always brilliant master plan faltered. You needed someone always to have your back, and Captain Crocker was absent. Not good. Not good at all.

The four of them packed their chutes, no one talking, or wise cracking for a change, just each man doing his job. Going sterile, removing any personal identifications, dog tags, or pictures that would ID them as Americans illegally in Laos. They checked their gear, explosives, weapons, medical supplies, water, and wrote out last will adjustments and instructions to be delivered to any loved ones after censorship. Steelhard thought, I don't really have any relatives to leave anything to. He always left his stuff to Bob and Gail; a sad looking 1964 Volkswagen Beetle, $11,000 in the Naval Credit Union, one beat-up guitar, dented alto sax, his pipe, and coin collection. Not much to brag about, other than the cash, that he had mostly won playing poker with any sucker he could find other than Seth Adams.

His unknown father, or long gone mother, wouldn't get the familiar, We formally regret to inform you that your son was KIA, or is MIA, while on a routine patrol, signed by Lieutenant Commander X. What they would fail to say is that you were killed in an illegal action, probably under an assumed name, in a country that no one cared about, or even knew where it was located, and planned by some ass-kissing idiots. At least the United States Government, could save a stamp in his regard, address unknown. He knew Collins and Adams had been disowned by their families, so it would be interesting to see to whom they were leaving their debts. They were always broke; running whores, getting drunk and getting into trouble. Neither one had anything but two Harley Davidson motorcycles back at the storage garage in San Diego. Half the time they mooched off Steelhard, crashing dead drunk in whatever beach rental place he had. Steelhard had to always feed them, and bail them out of jail, before Gunny caught them. He loved both of them no matter what, and they would do anything for him if he asked. He looked over at the both of them; they were professional warriors who couldn't or wouldn't do anything else in life. It was like having two older brothers who just couldn't get their personal lives together. They both looked up and smiled at him, giving him the thumbs up signal, as if to say it was going to be ok, little brother.

He glanced over at Gunny and grinned. Gunny told him to check Collins and Adams' packs again. He knew they all had already done it three times, but he didn't really want any small talk, stay busy. They had all spent the last twenty-four hours going over every contingency, routes, call signs, equipment, and methods of setting up their possible observation positions on target. The team had memorized every topographic detail, possible routes, and security barriers that could block their escape and evasion paths. They had haunted the weather ops officer, and still had not confirmed any intelligence on recent additional troop movements, or deployment shifts in the area. They would not be stopping, or resting, until they were dug in on site. It would be 96 hours on full alert; they could sleep on the chopper, homeward bound; but no rest, in or out. Well, maybe some short power naps, if they had time. This was all about timing. He wondered where they had picked up this extraction bird. It was Russian for sure, so he just hoped the damn thing was in 4.0 condition, normally their stuff was not well maintained. It was troubling to say the least; where was it coming from? In country for sure, probably from a secret CIA patch somewhere in the bush.

The team's only advantage was having been in this area, on the previous tour a year before, while on a long-range patrol for the purpose of mapping and observation. The terrain was rugged, hilly, heavily foliated with streams and tributaries. It was perfect for stealth, and now it was also perfect for missile sites with little valleys of hidden jungle, but not a place you would want to retire.

It was filled with snakes, crocs, scorpions, leeches, bugs, rotting and decayed undergrowth. It smelled like death, and most of the time the sun was blocked out by the jungle canopy. They had spent three weeks moving in and around the area, not really knowing why they were surveying such a desolate place. The team had dodged the locals and had to constantly avoid increasing patrols of NVA and local militia. There were storage areas being developed for munitions, and other supplies, and it looked more like staging areas for the NVA, not R&R vacation spots. No one had bothered the NVA up until now. Before, they had time to quietly hump in and out on foot undetected over a period of several weeks. This time there would be a ride in and out. Time is funny in how long or short it seems sometimes; on the way in time flew by, and the on the way out it always slowed down. He never could figure how that worked, it would be a good question for some Einstein in time displacement theory.

Steelhard looked over at Gunny as he was reading the mission plan over for the tenth time, as he always did, his brows arched as he strained every brain cell to notice things no one else would ever fathom. Steelhard had been assigned to Gunny's unit in the States, after the team had lost their medic on their second tour. Gunny and the medic had been close, almost like brothers. Which was strange since the medic was Army and Gunny was a Marine. They both had been together, thick and thin on special ops for over two years. Steelhard was the new replacement guy coming onto the team that had been training for new types of missions. He had transferred previously to a new type of Special Operations Command, SOG. The whole process was strange. His mission name had been changed again, his serial number was altered, and he was interviewed by some guy in a civilian suit from the DOD, or later came to find out, the CIA. He told Steelhard he had been selected, and trained over the past few years to be routed into a special operations group. You could have fooled him at the time.

Steelhard was told there were openings available for his special training; languages, medical, martial arts, demolition, and small arms. These were classified as a Delta Program, and as such, there would be a 35-year security black out, and on some operations a no time limit. If you agree, then sign here, and here. It was not like you really had any choice in the matter.

The program was Long Range Patrols into Cambodia and Laos. Four-man special operations teams to spy on the goings on in countries you weren't supposed to be in. These missions lasted for weeks, crawling around like some slug trying not to be caught. It was boring and stressful, so it was a relief to be sent back to the States for entrance into this Study Observation Group for Wartime Consulting. It sounded like great stateside duty; to be a consultant, using his combat experience from the field. It was great flying back to the States, and getting out of the line of fire for a change. Like the man said, never volunteer.

He was flown to Alameda NAS, Naval Air Station, in San Francisco, California, on a Navy prop Willie Fudd Mail plane out of North Island NAS, in San Diego, after landing back in the States. Upon disembarking, he was met by a Marine Gunnery Sergeant E-7, Bob Wilson. At least that was his name at the time. He was about Steelhard's height, six feet or a little taller, but there things changed. He filled out his shirt like a lean, mean, machine; two-hundred plus pounds of muscle. He was most impressive, with every part of his torso shaped like something out of a magazine. He wasn't overdone, but you could tell every part of his body had a purpose that had been honed over time. His hazel eyes were striking, and they seemed to look right into you without offending you. Gunny Sergeant Bob Wilson looked like a recruiting poster; he was so official, strictly 4.0. Steelhard dropped his sea bag after hopping down on the tarmac. Gunny walked up to him and shook hands. It was a good firm handshake with personality; Steelhard knew he could have crushed his hand if he had wanted, and introduced himself with a grin.

Reynolds, name assumed, late of the SEALs, Marine Recon, Long Range Patrol's, war hero, I presume?

Yes sir, Gunny. Reporting in for I don't know what kind of duty, but for the better or worse, here I am. Certainly not sure of what I am supposed to be doing, and still getting used to being kicked around from one type of command to the next.

Gunny laughed, and when he did, Steelhard knew that he would follow this man to Hades and back, come hell or high water.

Well, Reynolds, let's use Steelhard. We will be using our real names around here for now, and to answer your obvious curiosity, it will probably be for the worse, but you never know what fate has in store for you. Ours is not to reason how or why, but to do or die. You have some catching up to do on training, as we are going to be deploying within the next few weeks. However, I have been told that you are a fast learner, and Master Chief Joesph said you were one of his top operators.

You know the Chief?

Yes, everyone has a mentor and he was mine. I asked them to send me the best, and he sent you, so you had better not let me down. Is that a can do sailor?

Aye, Aye, Skipper. There was no way Steelhard wasn't going to bust his tail, whatever the cost, right there, and then. You spend a wasted youth getting kicked around, looking for someone to believe in. It probably was not having a father figure in his life, but they say chemistry is the best part of any relationship, and he immediately trusted this complete stranger the minute he met him. Gunny seemed the type of person who commanded respect and loyalty without being a jerk about it.

You ready to go?

Into the breach, as they say, Gunny.

Steelhard hoisted his canvas sea bag over his shoulder and they took off in a medium jog. It was two miles to where Gunny had parked his car. He just wanted to see if Steelhard was in mission shape. The sea bag weighed almost a hundred pounds, but Steelhard kept pace the whole way, refusing to breathe hard as they entered a parking lot.

They rolled up to a perfect Concourse 1957, two-door Navy blue Chevy convertible, with custom tan leather interior. It was the most beautiful car he had ever seen, then or since. Steelhard threw his sea bag in the trunk and hopped in the front shotgun position as Gunny Wilson changed out of his fatigues, and into dress blues. It felt like being in a Hollywood movie, watching John Wayne change clothes in a parking lot, putting on his dress Marine uniform.

Well, we will start up in the morning, but for now you will be going to meet the boss, and get mission approval.

The commanding officer? I have my sealed orders here. Do I give them to you, or him?

Neither, keep them until the morning, this is a different gig.

Well, whatever you say, Gunny. He slid his orders back into his sea bag.

Wilson just laughed, peeled out of the parking lot, and then out the main front gate of the air base.

Steelhard was born in San Francisco, but he had never been back. It was hilly, scenic, and beautiful as they drove up and down streets in the downtown part of the city. Gunny valet parked, and they went into Fisherman's Wharf, capturing two seats overlooking the bay.

What are you drinking sailor, and by way what do I call you, anyway?

I guess, just call me J.L., after John Li.

J.L.?

Yep, since everyone keeps changing my name, I just go by the first two initials of my real first and middle name. At least it reminds me of who I used to be, and it's not recorded anywhere except in the windows of my mind.

Windows of the mind, I like that. Are you some kind of a poet?

No, I'm really just a lover, and a heartbreaker of whores and ladies of the night.

Goddamnit, J.L., you're going to be a welcome addition to the team. What's your drink?

Oh, I rarely drink; I don't smoke, chew, cuss, or take the Lord's name in vain. As a medical man I know drinking too much is extremely bad for your health. Steelhard stared at him with resolve.

You have got to be kidding me, right!

Steelhard leaned in close, and pausing for affect, That's a fact, Gunny. I only drink to steady myself, but sometimes I get so steady I can't move! I'll have a double Wild Turkey neat, with a beer chaser.

Shit, son, welcome to the fight! You had me worried there for a minute. Now, here's the deal. Tomorrow, things get more formal, but tonight is play time, and I need some assistance, and you may just be the man to help me dock the ship.

The drinks came. They shot the first round, and Steelhard waited to hear the mission plan over the noise of the crowded, smoke filled bar.

Gunny looked at him, and with a frown, said. I met my future wife a month ago in San Diego.

Congratulations, Gunny. And when is the wedding?

Well, that's the problem, I haven't asked her yet. The Chief told me you had a way with words and action, especially with the unfair sex. Is this true?

I was wondering how I got into this deal, and now I know.

Bullshit. You are here for all of the right reasons. One, being that you're just as crazy as the rest of us, to even be doing what we are doing for love of country, and God. Two, it will probably wind up killing all of us in the end anyway. We all are living on borrowed time as it is.

True. Alright, you need some professional advice, or what?

No, not exactly. I need someone to entertain the troops so to speak, and buy me that, what did you say, ah, windows of the mind time?

Well, you did say you were buying, right!

If that is what it takes, but you're hired on a temporary basis, subject to review and performance evaluation.

Done! Since I'm as crazy as you are for being here, and I'm volunteering again for something unknown, as your personal consultant, I think we need another round on your tab, so you can better explain all of the mission details.

Atta boy. Hey waiter, how about another round here, please! A double Chivas on the rocks with a lemon twist, and a double Wild Turkey, neat, for my good buddy, with a beer chaser. Now here's the deal, he said as he scooted his chair closer.

I met this girl at San Diego State last month where I am trying to finish up my degree. It has taken me forever, but I am close to graduating, and don't ask me what I am majoring in. It is because of the major that I met Gail. She was one of my professors. Anyway, as luck would have it, she's from here, home on spring break. We had a few dates last month and the sparks just flew, at least for me. She runs around with a childhood friend, a sorority sister from here, and they both teach at State. They are also roommates in San Diego. I don't really know what Gail thinks about me, but her friend really hates the military.

Gunny, do you mind if, since I am your personal consultant, that I call you Bob, for purely social reasons?

No, be my guest, under the circumstances.

Bob, we seemed to have developed a close friendship in a short period of time, based upon need. Is this correct?

Bob leaned back to nurse his drink, eyeing Steelhard.

This is not going to cost me more than the tab, is it? The Chief did warn me not to play cards with you, and to be extremely careful in dealing with anything regarding business.

Don't worry, you're safe until tomorrow. Tonight is free, except for the tab. I do believe there is a plan forming here, somewhere. What does her friend look like?

Well, all the girls like her; wealthy family, teaches bio-chemistry at San Diego State.

In other words, she is a stuck up, over-educated, snooty bitch; probably a prude that hates anyone in uniform.

By Golly, I think you've hit the bull's eye!

Well, when do you think we need to all meet up, to uh, advance your evolving position?

Well, yourself. I'm going to go call and see if we can hook up tonight. Strike while the iron is hot!

Well then, no time like the present, Bob. Steelhard saluted him with his beer.

It is amazing how your reputation gets around. Besides curing all kinds of ailments, listening to tales of woe in order for someone to get a medical excuse. Patching up bangs, bruises, gunshot wounds, delivering native babies, crawling through unmentionable places to keep limbs and lives together, you also get to be father confessor to everyone. It also helps that you save your money, live on nothing, and make a few bucks lending out money to the troops. It also never hurts to play a mean hand of poker.

Steelhard mused, nursing his beer watching the customers, somethings didn't matter; the only thing that did really matter, was your immediate family. Your team was your family, and the ability to be there for them, as it is for them to be there for you, was all that counted in the end. You fought for each other, not necessarily your country. You dealt in stopping pain for