Action Adventure / Two Seconds (Analysis)
Mosul, Iraq
04:30 Local time
May 18, 2005
In the annals of war, few atrocities are deemed so inconceivable that neither the victor nor the vanquished would at one time or another, ponder the thought. War is a nasty business and men have for millennia discovered new and innovative ways to inflict pain and torture on their enemies. In the modern day it had become much more civilized to simply vaporize ones foe before they knew what hit them, then to go through all of the trouble of inventing clever ways to lop off ones head and put it on a stick for all to see.
So it was then that the men of Seal Team Six, envisioned the encounter about to unfold. A well-placed bullet here, a scabbard there and it would all be over. Just like in training. It seemed though that fate had at least one surprise left for Lt Doug Hammer and his men on this Godforesaken morning in Mosul Iraq.
The red clouds of early dawn shed a sprinkle of moisture over the quiet neighborhood. It was somewhat unusual for this time of year. Odds were, it would hit 120 degrees by 10:00 am and somehow still find a way to rain. In fact, it had been doing just that, off and on now, for more than a week. There was a smell of content in the air despite the bleak surroundings. The scent of dampness and fruit mixed with the pungent odor of Kabobs roasted over charcoal briquettes by street vendors a few blocks away. Good smells; the kind that might remind you of a happier time. Each aroma though, however innocent by themselves, were about to be betrayed by the scent of pending death.
This neighborhood was in tatters. It was once a place where prosperous merchants lived. Now, cars laced with explosives, homicide bombers and the occasional rocket from a helicopter, had each made their marks. Stone, mortar and blood combined to make what was left of these hollow structures. Most were gutted and deserted from years of war and conflict. Still others survived the onslaught and pretended to be shelter, for the time being.
In one such house a drama unfolded that would surely end in an unplanned, one-way trip to paradise for someone; 70 virgins notwithstanding. Lt. Douglas C. Hammer, Commanding Officer of the SEAL Team Counterinsurgency Squad waited in the shadows, and listened for any sound of activity in the home. His back was pressed against the pitted, pale-yellow stucco wall; the ridges of which were poking through the unprotected sleeves of his tan camouflage fatigues though he could have cared less. Another figure, looking just like Hammer, held a duplicate position on the other side of a window, just a few feet away. Their weapons were shoulder high, waiting for the next act in this play.
Like the true professionals that they were, his team, maintained their positions in silence; each mentally preparing for the inevitable, whatever that was.
One thing was for certain. This wasn’t going to be a Sunday walk in the park and someone was likely to depart this place peering with sightless eyes through the unzippered opening of a body bag. They looked around at each other praying to God almighty, it wasn’t one of them.
They’d gotten the call the previous evening from section headquarters. Col. Ibrahim Mohammed Zeheria, a high level Iraqi Intelligence Officer, had gone missing. Such was the case these days as “The Wolf Brigade” an elite commando group under Saddam Hussein, was working behind the scenes to inflict terror on the Americans but even more so on the local Iraqi’s who cooperated with them. They had taken to executing men like Ibrahim, sometimes beheading their entire families for working with the “devils from the west.” Once marked, there was no way out. It could be a cross word from an acquaintance or Mullah at the “Umayyad Mosque” or a card handed to you on the street by a total stranger. Either way it identified you as a traitor; one who would soon suffer a violent death at the hands of the faithful.
Doug and his crew had beem dispatched to the Colonel’s home to confirm the inevitable or simply wake the embarrassed officer up from his prolonged and tardy slumber and escort him to HQ.
A sniper on the roof across the street checked in and spoke to Hammer in his ear. “Movement in a window LT. Right front. Just over your left shoulder.”
Doug glanced up. A dim light shone through the frame trimmed in torn brown burlap; the beam from which held a place of its own in the early morning mist a mere inches from Doug’s helmet. Every four or five seconds, the stream of light would be broken for a moment and then regain its composure in the heavy air only to be broken once again a few seconds later. Rythmic. Pacing.
It was of course possible, maybe even probable under different circumstances that the thickly mustached Colonel had indeed simple overslept and was at this moment frantically preparing himself for work. Hammer gave the thought a “nano second” of consideration before surrendering to he hairs on the back of his neck, standing at attention and preparing for the worst. No. He’d been in a skirmish or two and this had all the attributes of a full-scale assault in waiting.
He looked up again at the window yet couldn’t see much from his vantage point. Something was odd. Something which he couldn’t quite place but instinctively felt.
“Tell me what you see RP.” he said softly into the microphone attached to his helmet.
Chief Petty Officer Roosevelt Prentice Palmer IV, sniper and SEAL Team Six second in command, placed his Leopold Mark IV night vision scope once more on the target; his Knight Mark 1 SR25 Sniper Rifle balanced carefully in his strong black hands.
“Definitely one individual, in a dark hood, moving in a rhythmic pace back and forth in front of the window. Clear shot LT. Just give the word.” He said.
“A dark hood huh? So much for innocence.” Doug thought.
“Hang tight RP. I got a bad feeling on this. Something is klugy here, using one of his surfer expressions he was noted for but few outside the beaches of his hometown in southern CA understood. As if confirming this he asked rehtorically: “Am I the only one that thinks this thing is a set-up?” A series of microphone clicks followed, echoing his sentiment.” He took a deep breath.
OK RP, any visual on the other occupants of the house?”
“Negative LT, nothing but our hooded window-walker” came the reply.
Just then, a blood-curdling scream from the house pierced the cool morning air and sent a chill through each of the SEAL’s hovering in the darkness. Muffled sounds of crying came through the crumbling walls. A soft voice could be heard in Arabic saying over and over again: wahid, ithnayn, thalath, arbaa, khumsa. One, two, three, four, five.
No more fucking around. It was decision time. As near as he could tell, Doug surmised that Ibrahim, his wife and two children were hostages in their own home. Marked for death.
Another cry, this the voice of Ibrahim himself implored: “La tqtuul ahaleti, la faaluu ai shei!” Don’t kill my family. They didn’t do anything! He pleaded.
Any doubt was now erased.
“RP! Give me a SITREP on the window!” Hammer said, calling for an immediate situation report.
“Nothings changed LT. Almost looks mechanical, like a little hooded robot is walking back and forth.” RP replied.
Odd thought Hammer, they must know that someone would come to check on Ibrahim and his family. He is just too high profile. Why would they place themselves right in front of an open window unless…. “RP!” Hammer gasped. “How tall is the figure in the window?”
“Jeez, Hard to tell LT. The light from the lantern is distorting the shadow. At this angle, I’d say no taller than four to five feet sir. A small woman or a…”
“ A child.” Doug said, finishing off RP’s sentence. My god, the bastards are using a kid to draw our fire. Stand down on the window, RP. Don’t shoot unless I give the order.” commanded Hammer.
Doug looked over at the man across from him on the other side of trash littered alley.
“Rocky, can you get close enough to slip an ISS snake camera under the door?” Hammer queried through his mic.
“That’s a roger LT. Hang loose 10 seconds for a feed.” retorts “Rocky” aka Petty Officer Jim Smith, electronics expert and father of two. He was known as “Rocky” by his friends for his uncanny likeness to Sylvester Stallone. “Rambo” it seemed, was already taken and hit just a little too close to home for the SEAL Team counter-terrorism group. The man glided across the alley like a ballet dancer without making a sound and went to work by the door.
A few seconds later he said: “Coming up on your visor now LT.”
The light was low and it took a couple of seconds to focus. What Hammer saw on his screen momentarily startled him.
Two figures, one of them masked, stood over Ibrahim and his wife while one of his children in a black hood paced back and forth in front of the window. A young girl Doug thought, but couldn’t be sure. Another child was on his knees about two-feet in front and facing his father. His wife, obviously dragged from her warm bed, sat on the dusty floor half naked and sobbing.
The taller of the two, the one with the hood of a coward, gripped a Damasked Sword while the other leered at the exposed breasts of the weeping mother and wife. He held a video camera to record the coming event; his excitement was all but controlled as he nervously looked back and forth from the woman to his partner. The pair were standing behind the boy; each dressed in black. The long blade glistened in the semi-darkness and momentarily reflected the morbid scene back in Hammer’s direction.
The masked executioner spoke; his voice strong and clear: “Anta Jasousan. Alaan, unthor khilal waft usratek!” You are a spy. Now, watch during the death of your family.
“Shit” Doug whispered to no one in particular. His entire team was fluent in Arabic and each understood the words of the masked man all too clearly.
“Listen up all stations. You can see on your visors what’s going on. We don’t have much time before the boy is beheaded in front of his parents. Prepare to take down the door in ten.”
“RP stay put and cover the side door. “Rocky”, “Slip” and Tony take positions for a standard take down. Scenario 4. Repeat Scenario 4. Bad guys between the eyes boys. On my mark in five…four…three…”
Out of the corner of his eye, Hammer saw the sword rising ever so slowly on his visor screen.
“Two,…one…NOW!” Hammer ordered.
“Slip” aptly named for his propensity for falling, once again, didn’t disappoint but had managed to place a satchel containing an explosive in front of the door just as Rocky removed the small camera. A split second later he detonated the shaped charge blowing the door to splinters. The concussion sent the occupants of the home reeling. Detcord would have been neater but they just didn’t have the time and a battering ram would have given the bad guys a second or two more than they could afford.
SEAL Team Six filed through what remained of the doorway immediately preceded by red laser sites mounted to their weapons; criss-crossing the room searching for their targets.
The shorter of the two demons laid against the wall in an oddly contorted position, a foot-long splinter from the door stuck at an odd angle out of the front of his throat; the sound of gurgling came from deep inside his mouth. His eyes were wide open as he registered his fate, administered without mercy by LT Hammer’s weapon. The video camera captured his last breath and the efficiency of his own execution.
The devil in the mask regained his footing and turned to face the intruders.
Pfft-Pfft came the report from Tony’s silenced, Heckler and Koch MP-5, the 9 mm parabellum rounds crossed the room at 1,225 feet per second splitting the forehead of the taller insurgent and sending him straight to paradise. The words: ‘Allahu Alakbar’ “God is the greatest” never fully escaped his dying lips.
The bloody Damascus Sword, held high in his hand hit the floor before the body of the “Wolf Brigade” commando joined it.
The bloody sword… My God….A bloody sword.
Hammer looked down. The headless body of the boy lay crumpled at his feet. His blood mixed with the dark red fluid coming from the dome of his own executioner.
Hammer let out a cry of despair. His normal “stone cold” reaction to death was placed temporarily on a shelf. The emotion of the moment grabbed him firmly as it would for months to come. What is it about men and war that they can rationalize acts like this in the name of a vengeful god?
The eyes of a severed child’s head looked back at him. The boy’s name was Bulous. Hammer would come to learn. His eyes were oddly peaceful but open; questioning Doug silently. Why?
But the Navy Seal had no answer. He knew one thing and one thing only and it would haunt him for the rest of his life. He was Two Seconds too late to save young Bulous. Two Seconds… too late.
Chapter 2
Hammer awoke with a start, drenched with sweat, knowing all too well the ending of this recurring dream. The special berthing compartment of the USS Carl Vinson CVN-70 was quiet save for the occasional snoring warrior and the heavy breathing of Hammer himself.
“Two fucking seconds!” he muttered. “Just two fucking seconds. Jesus!”
The SEALs had been set up in a somewhat secluded area on board the ship. Better to keep his “psycho nut balls” away from the rest of the crew he thought. At least somebody was thinking. He glanced at the luminous dial of his Citizen Eco-Drive watch. 4:30 am; right on schedule. He’d been waking up at the same time everyday for months. The same time Ibrahim’s only son was murdered.
The rest of the operation was a blur. Someone wrapped a blanket around Boulos’ wailing mother and helped her from the floor. Ibrahim, his ears blown out temporarily from the explosion could not hear his wife crying, but he felt her pain from across the small sitting room, as he knelt next to the lifeless form of his son.
The 5-year-old little girl named Selma had removed her hood and stared from across the room by the window at the unmoving body of her brother; a boy who only hours ago teased her about her wild looking hair; uncut for months.
“His head should be attached to his body.” she thought. “I wonder if that’s why Mama is crying. Poor Boulos head is missing. Mama, mama we have to find it!” she screamed silently.
Selma had done her job as instructed by the big man with the foul breath. “Walk back in forth in front of the window and don’t stop” he sneered. Though she couldn’t see through the hood, she had paced in front of this window with her eyes closed before, playing hide and seek with Boulos. She knew it was only five “big people” steps from wall to wall.
The dripping of the rain had formed a new puddle in the frame of the missing door.
The after action report showed that everyone did their jobs precisely as they had been trained, only that didn’t help the poor young boy now resting forever in the Martyrs Cemetery.
It would haunt Lt. Hammer and his team for the rest of their lives. They were no strangers to death. During their tour in Iraq they saw many children die, just none they could have saved.
Hammer thought about the terrible scene in a far-away land months ago. He dragged his 6’2” 220 lb frame up out of the rack and padded to the head. No rest for the weary.
Today was going to be a good day even with this miserable start. He’d make sure of it. Today he would see his Mom Sandy and his two kid sisters Marlene and Susan. The Carl Vinson sat quietly off the shore of San Diego preparing to come home. In a few short hours it would steam into the bay and dock at North Island Naval Air Station on Coronado under much revelry. His tour of duty, for the time being was “on hold” while he settled into his hometown for some much needed R&R.
Once their mission had been completed, they had taken an old Air National Guard C-141 out of Mosul to Dubai and then shuttled from ship to ship by helicopter as SEAL’s often are. They landed aboard the Nimitz class carrier a few days before.
Yes, Hammer was ready for this leave. His whole team was more than ready. He envisioned a few days at the beach, maybe a round or two at his mothers golf club in Rancho Bernardo. He saw himself hoisting his mug of Guinness at McPee’s , a SEAL bar on the Island. His lonely glass mug with the plastic shamrock dangling from the handle has been hanging from the ceiling behind the bar on Orange Ave with 500 or so other mugs waiting for their owners to return from battle. What’s it been, a year maybe? Hammer and that mug had some serious making up to do.
He hoped the next couple weeks would help to purge the demons that followed him home from Mosul. He knew his mother, the pretty, quintessential southern California beach bunny turned attorney would see to it. She always did.
His twin sisters, looking like younger clones of their mother, would want to hear all of the gory details of war over beers and burgers. He may tell them all. Probably not.
The razor scratched across the day’s worth of stubble on his square, athletic chin. His deep set, bright blue eyes offset his short dark hair giving him the look most women longed for. The scars on his muscular tanned body, betraying the battles of a year in a war zone. Saying a silent prayer for the makers of Kevlar, he glanced at the form in the mirror. The figure looking back at him questioned if it all was worth it.
Two fucking seconds…
His homecoming was just as he pictured it though they rarely were. This one however was perfect. He strolled down the gangway in traditional Navy garb amidst a band playing God Bless America. The sun was shining. It was 10am and not a cloud could be seen in the azure blue September sky. You could always count on the weather in San Diego.
The America’s Cup sailboat “Stars and Stripes” passed by the Vinson just a few hundred yards away catching the early morning breeze. It carried a load of corporate wannabe’s paying five-grand for four hours to ride the famous racing yacht.
The USS Midway aircraft carrier, a midget compared to the one he was stepping off of, was now a museum and sitting beside the downtown skyscrapers off in the distance. The sinister shape of a Russian Submarine, also a tourist attraction, sat quietly in its shadow.
And there they were, dressed in red white and blue calling his name. His mother Sandy ran from the pack and wrapped her arms around him nearly breaking his thick neck while the twins struggled to catch up; six beautiful female arms hugging him to death. God he loved them. He did what he did, for them, in an odd sort of way. Keeping them safe ever since his father passed away.
“You look terrific Boomer.” his mother said. She’d called him “Boomer” ever since he could remember though no one, especially her, knew why. The newly minted crows feet at the corner of her iridescent green eyes accented her natural blond hair and made her look mystical and wise at the same time. His Mom and his sisters were all that mattered in his life. He would do anything for them and they for him.
Lt. Douglas Carlton Hammer US Navy SEAL Team Six “stud muffin” as his sisters would say, grew up right here in Coronado. He spent his childhood surfing like all good California boys. Grew his hair long and shaggy and uttered “dude” and “knarley” whenever he got a chance.
When not surfing he hung out at the Coronado Municipal Golf Course where he caddied for the occasional celebrity that passed through town. He tried each and every day to “eagle” hole number 17 along Glorietta Bay a scene punctuated by rows of colorful moored sailboats and the frames of the “Taco Towers” known formally as “The Shores” but populated by big time Mexican money.
“Boomer” always felt a little weird when he passed by the SEAL BUDS training area a mile south of “ The Del” on the Silver Strand. He felt like someone was calling him to climb “the wall” on the confidence course. And they were. Ghosts of SEAL’s that had crossed before him. He never guessed in a million years he would one day actually do it.
When he turned 18 and graduated high school with a Masters in Surfing he went to San Diego State University on a Track Scholarship and got a Masters in Women. He was tall, built like a brick shithouse and didn’t want much for the attention of the local ladies. He sailed through college in unspectacular fashion but he did make it and that in the end is all that counts.
His dad was killed in a car accident on the Hwy 15 that summer and his family was rocked by the loss of their father. Ross Hammer was a man of principle and Doug could only hope and pray to be half the man his father was. A Vietnam vet that flew the MIA Flag everyday on the pole in front of their home on Alameda. His father was an unabashed lover of this country and everything it stood for even naming his 37 foot Hunter Legend sailboat “The Patriot”.
One lonely September day Doug sat alone at the Beach Café. A car drove by with Billy Idol’s “White Wedding” blasting over the stereo, the oversized woofers rattling the mug holding his beer. As he pondered his future over a Kahuna Burger, the waitress came up to him, asked if he wanted anything else and commented on the tragedy in New York. He’d been surfing all morning and didn’t know what she was talking about. She pointed to the TV over the bar inside. He glanced up to see the World Trade Center come crashing down along with the World as he knew it.
Though Sandy objected and his sisters cried, he soon found himself in the Navy Officer Candidate School in Pensacola Florida. He was quickly discovered to have linguist skills neither he nor his family had any clue he possessed. Upon graduation from OCS, Hammer was sent to the Defense Language Institute in Monterey California for the sixty-two week course in Arabic language studies. While there he volunteered for SEALs training and by the looks of him, no one was betting against Hammer getting through the grueling program. A few scant months after he completed SQT training and Doug found himself creeping down darkened streets of Mosul, slinking ever so quietly towards destiny. Two fucking seconds.
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In the first two-seconds (excuse the pun), I found myself wondering how the rest of this story would read. You seemed to want to throw as much detail into every sentence as possible. Don’t worry, I’m a big fan. The problem was, if it wasn’t heart-pounding action, or vivid scenery, it wasn’t very easy to read. I’m a big fan of the comma; something to help break apart varying thoughts and compound sentences. Also, you often got your tenses mixed up (“had” was used, when “has” was the correct word). You threw an incredible amount of detail into every paragraph (I’m a BIG fan of the visuals), but your narrative-like background was rough and sometimes disjointed, as though you had a second stream of thoughts pouring through your head, and you wanted to ensure you hit those wickets.
It was an amazing action-thriller, and I loved the twist and turns (looking at the bloody sword. Wait! It’s bloody! ... what a spin), but maybe you should give it a read-through in a couple months, and see what little things didn’t pop out at you when you initially wrote it. I definitely think it’s worth publishing (albeit a little short for a full chapter), but the piece could definitely use a little cleanup.
High marks overall, on a job well done!
-LoKi
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