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...