Chapter 1

What counts is not necessarily the size of the dog in the fight - it's the size of the fight in the dog.
- Dwight D. Eisenhower

“Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum.” (“If you want peace, prepare for war”)

- Flavius Vegetius Renatus. Roman Military Strategist.




Chapter 1

Situated in a small inlet on the southern shore of Chesapeake Bay, Little Creek is largest operating centre for the United States Atlantic Fleet amphibious forces. In fact, it is the largest base of its kind in the world.
Created in 1945 Little Creek grew out of four bases constructed during World War II-the Amphibious Training Base, the Naval Frontier Base, and Camps Bradford and Shelton.
Today the facility is comprised of five locations in three different states, making around almost 9,000 acres of real estate within which 15,000 military and civilian employees work together. The outlying facilities of the Amphibious Base include a 6,013-acre Naval Gunfire Support Range located at Bloodsworth Island, Maryland, 80 miles north in the Chesapeake Bay and Approximately 350 acres at Camp Pendleton, sandwiched between Dam Neck and the commercial section of Virginia Beach, make up Little Creek's only property with direct access to the open ocean. Twenty-one acres known as Radio Island at Morehead City, North Carolina, are used as an amphibious embarkation/debarkation area for United States Marine Corps units at Camp Lejeune, NC.
Some 4,500 Navy, Army and Marine Corps reserve personnel have use of the training facilities at Little Creek. Their training is coordinated through the Naval and Marine Corps Reserve Readiness Centre.
Naval Amphibious Base Little Creek’s mission is to provide required support services to over 15,000 personnel of the 27 home ported ships and 78 resident and other supported activities.
But it has a less well-known, more secretive mission as well.
To provide a home for the US Navy SEALs.

The US Navy Sea, Air and Land (SEAL) teams are the elite special operations force of the U.S Navy. Trained in the various streams of unconventional warfare, including direct action, foreign internal defense and special reconnaissance operations, they are a force that can adapt to any environment. Whether it is fast-roping on to a deck of a ship or sweltering in the heat of the desert, the SEALs are always at the there, leading from the front.
To become a SEAL you need pass the 26-week Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL (BUD/S) which is held at Naval Special Warfare Center in Coronado, San Diego, California. BUD/S consists of an “Indoctrination Course” which takes 5 weeks, and then 3 different phases which cover physical conditioning (phase 1), diving (phase 2) and land warfare (phase 3) which takes up the remainder of the time.
BUD/S is most famous for a certain period of time during the course.
Hell Week.
Usually occurring during the third week of first phase the legendary Hell Week is the time when SEAL candidates want to give up, want to go home. From Sunday evening until Friday afternoon, trainees get approximately four hours of sleep while subjected to intense physical stress. Trainees are almost always wet and sandy and develop what is known as the “Hell Week Shuffle”, which is a way of walking that keeps salt-affected clothing away from chafed skin.
Many find that the pressure of the course, not only in Hell Week, is too much and Drop on Request or DOR for short.
A small ceremony and tradition is associated with DOR. This consists of dropping one's helmet liner next to a pole with a brass ship's bell attached to it, and ringing the bell three times. Nearly 80% of students complete this ceremony.
Those few who complete the BUD/S course are then sent to attend the Strategic Air Operations School in the desert just outside San Diego. Previously Navy Special Forces where trained to free-fall by the Army. SAO has allowed more students to become HAHO/HALO qualified than ever before.
Upon completion of the three week SAO School, they receive their Naval Special Warfare Classification (NEC) code. The last requirement before going to a team requires students to go through SEAL Qualification Training, or SQT, which is a 15 week course. This course is also conducted in and around the Naval Amphibious Base Coronado.
After completion of SQT training, students are then considered SEALs and are awarded the Special Warfare Badge, or SEAL Trident.

One of the few to gain the Trident was Lieutenant Daniel Stewart USN, commander of 4th Platoon, SEAL Team 2.
He walked purposely, back straight and eyes forward, down the corridor of the Team 2 Headquarters Building,
In a few minutes he arrived at his destination, a door marked:

Commander John Halverson USN
Commander, SEAL Team 2

He knocked on the door and waited. Soon came the terse reply.
“Come in.”
He quietly opened the door and entered the room. Stewart walked up and saluted him, to which Halverson casually replied. Behind him mounted on the wall was the patch of Team 2, the black and white seal over the white numeral of two and a blue background.
“Ah, Danny, how are you?” he said as he looked up.
“Very well, thank you sir.”
“At ease, Danny-boy. Take a seat.”
Stewart sat but still did not feel at ease, he never did in front of a higher ranked officer.
“I understand that your platoon is the go-team right now,” said Halverson.
“Yes sir.”
“No injuries, sickness.”
“Nothing serious sir. Fuzzy – Petty Officer Hickman, sir – still has a jarred thumb but it should be okay.”
“Good. I have just got off a call from CINCLANTFLT.” Stewart made a start at this. CINCANTFLT was the Commander-in-Chief of the US Atlantic Fleet. A call from him meant something big. “He is driving over from Norfolk and has a job for us. Get your team ready and get over to the briefing room right quick.”
“Yes sir.”

The 4th Platoon’s headquarters was a small brick building, made up of a few rooms. It was a place where the team could relax, hang out and not worry about anything. The back room was a small change room and when Stewart entered, the platoon was already in there, getting changed after morning PT.
Everyone faced Stewart, but no one stood to attention or saluted. Rank didn’t matter in an elite organisation such as the SEALs, at this level anyway.
“What’s up?” enquired Seaman Zach ‘Cheeseball’ Fast who was known for his extremely lame jokes.
“I think we have a go mission. Hurry up and get changed. We need to get over to the briefing building. CINCLANTFLT is coming down.”
While everyone sped up the changing process, Stewart walked over to Senior Chief Petty Officer Frank Grey, who act like an Army Staff Sergeant, the senior NCO in his platoon. Stewart was glad to have him with him, he really knew his stuff.
“Danny-boy, looks like we going to have some action.”
“Sure does. It must be big, with CINCLANTFLT involved.”
“Yeah.” He then saw that the rest of the team was changed and ready. “Okay, let’s move it out!”
The team shuffled out the door and Stewart and Grey followed them stilled talking.
“Is Fuzzy’s thumb okay?” asked Stewart.
“Dunno. Let’s find out. Oi, Fuzzy! Is ya thumb okay?”
“Yeah,” came the inevitable reply.
“Well,” said Grey turning to Stewart. “There you go then.”

In the briefing room stood Commander Halverson, Admiral Edward Cochran and a man dressed civilian clothes who Stewart didn’t know.
“Stewart,” began Halverson. “This is Admiral Cochran, CINCLANTFLT as you would know, and Joseph Artois. Joseph works for our friends over Langley.”
Cochran was every bit intimidating as every one who met him said. Standing at 5’11 he wasn’t overly giant, but the posture he took and the way he acted, showed a man who had been there, done that, and was definitely confident in his abilities. Softly spoken, he was highly respected among the officers and enlisted personnel of the United States Navy and was a legend in his own right.
He looked Stewart straight in the eye.
“Nice to meet you, kid.”
Dressed in a sharp grey suit, Artois looked like a spook, acted like a spook and, in reality, was a spook. He reached forward and stuck out his hand.
“Good to be working with you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Shall we get into it?” asked Halverson.
“Yes, right away.”
Everyone took a seat in the many spread around the room. Artois however, remained standing, flicked on the projector and began to speak.
“Welcome everyone. I’ll try and get to the point right away.” He clicked a button on the projector controller and a picture of a man appeared.
“This is Mohammed Al’Rafique. He has been wanted since he first came to prominence working with the Hezbollah in Lebanon in the early 80’s. It is rumoured that he was behind the suicide truck bombings that killed more than 200 U.S. Marines at their barracks in Beirut, Lebanon, in 1983, though he was never directly involved with it. He is also behind a number of smaller attacks. He has since left Hezbollah but still remains close with Imad Fayez Mugniyah, the suspected planner of Hezbollah attacks and Sheikh Mohammed Hussein Fadlallah, Hezbollah’s spiritual leader.
We understand that he know works has a contractor to many organisations. In essence, he is a hired terrorist, a freelance operator who only works for fundamentalist Muslim organisations, no matter how much money is being offered.
We have information that he is going to a high-profile meeting in Istanbul, Turkey. Other prominent figures include Al-Qaeda number 2 Ayman Al Zawahiri and Imad Fayez Mugniyah.”
“So, Mr. Artois, the reason you’re telling us this is why?” asked Stewart.
“You going to go in and get him.”
“Why us? Why not ‘6’ or Delta?” This time Commander Halverson spoke. ‘6’ was SEAL Team 6, or Naval Special Warfare Development Group (DEVGRU), was the Navy’s counter-terrorist unit, similar to the Army’s Delta Force.
“Delta and DEVGRU are busy. You are the available go-team, the quick reaction force. We need you there now.”
“Okay, when do we go?”
“You’ll rendezvous with the Truman in the Mediterranean and then chopper it into Turkey. The Turkish government has no knowledge of this operation. You get caught; you’re on your own. You do not exist.”

It was hot, and the dust from the street rose high into the air.
Down at street level a motorcade of cars rumbled along, moving slowly. They soon stopped outside a small building.
Out of the middle car, an old and battered Mercedes, stepped a man dressed in a cheap suit and surrounded by bodyguards. He walked up the small flight of steps and entered the building.
“Muhtashim, welcome my friend.” Another man, from the other side of the hall, walked over and greeted the man who had just entered.
“Ah, Abdul Ali,” said Muhtashim. “Is the meeting all set, all ready?”
“Yes, yes, no problems.”
“Good.”
“Are you staying the night?”
Muhtashim looked around, as if he didn’t trust Abdul Ali.
“Yes, I am. I will look after security from now on. The boss doesn’t want anything to go wrong. He has important guests coming.”
“Who is coming? Am I allowed to know?”
“Ayman Al Zawahiri and Imad Fayez Mugniyah are the most prominent.”
“Allah!”
“Yes, you have heard the stories about Al Zawahiri. He’s a stuck-up piece of shit. Nothing like Osama but…he keeps in on none the less. If gets angry, it could mean disaster for the treaty.’
“Yes, yes, I understand. Can I do anything for you now?”
“Where is my office?” asked Muhtashim.
“I’ll get one of my men to show you.”
“Thanks.” A phone rang and Muhtashim pulled it out of his pocket, still vibrating. He walked away from Abdul. Whoever was calling him, was probably not wanting to him to overhear.
“Yes.”
“Hello Muhtashim.” The voice was quiet, raspy, and slightly creepy.
“Who is this,” Muhtashim demanded.
“You do not need to know my name, but we have mutual acquaintances.”
“What do you want?”
“Money.”
“Why? I can’t just give you money.”
“What about for some information.” Muhtashim became intrigued. Information was always good in this line of business.
“Yes, okay. Tell me.”
“No, no,” chuckled the man at the other end. “Not yet, anyway. Put 100,000 dollars American in account number 1-23334-566 in the Cayman Islands. I expect another $300,000 after I give you what you want.”
“How can I trust you?”
“You can’t.”
The phone went dead.