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  SEAL TEAM SIX EXTRA-SIZED HOLIDAY BUNDLE

  A Dynamite Entertainment Collection

  Published by Dynamite

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  Mount Laurel, NJ 08054

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Copyright © 2014 Dynamite Characters, LLC.

  Dynamite, Dynamite Entertainment and the Dynamite Entertainment colophon are ® and © 2014 Dynamite. All rights reserved.

  Edited by Hannah Elder

  Cover design by Jason Ullmeyer

  Nick Barrucci, CEO / Publisher

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  Hannah Elder, Associate Editor

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  Visit us online at www.DYNAMITE.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data TK

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  E-BOOK ISBN: 978-1-60690-656-9 1-60690-656-9

  PRINT ISBN: 978-1-60690-658-3 1-60690-658-5

  PRINT ON DEMAND: 978-1-60690-657-6 1-60690-657-7

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to the Navy SEALs, the brave Americans who defend our country.

  SEAL TEAM SIX: A NOVEL

  A Dynamite Entertainment Book

  PROLOGUE: ABBOTTABAD, PAKISTAN

  Green tracers crossed and crisscrossed the night, making a web of momentary strands against the starless sky.

  There was a sudden crack of thunder as Helo 2 went up. A fuel fire spread in a blazing pool around it as it burned outside the walls of the compound. The flames sent crazy patterns of light between the cement huts, casting flickering shadows all around.

  They were down off their choppers in seconds. Heavily armed and armored men. The two units made a hurried rollout as soon as their choppers touched down. Helo 2 came down too hard and had to be burned. A second Blackhawk tried to hover. The air that moonless night was hot as an oven and the rotors grabbed at it, but could not maintain lift. It dropped to the ground outside the walls. Rather than rappel down to their target, the teams spilled out of the belly of the big helo to blow entrances into the compound with shaped charges of Semtex.

  Big-ass Chinooks hovered overhead in the dark to provide close support and noise-cover for the raid. They were packed with more teams in case things went even more seriously wrong. This was a one-shot deal. They'd never get another chance like this, and were trying to cover all the bases; every contingency and potential disaster. Every man's internal clock was running; they all knew their task here--and the task of every other man--should it all go sideways.

  The thud of small arms punctuated by a high-pitched scream cut short. A woman's cry. The origin of the fire was hard to determine. The insertion team was armed with modified M4s; not much difference in the sound of the heavy slugs they fired and the deep chunka-chunka of an AK-47. The gunfire ebbed and flowed. Not the pattern of an evenly matched shoot-out. More like a one-sided takedown favoring the good guys. Sounded just like the practice back at Bagram. Sounded like music.

  Twenty-three men and one canine fanned out in the dark of the triangle-shaped compound. All had their beats. All had their orders. Helo 2 was burning and that could be the start of a clusterfuck. One chopper out was all they had, and that had to work. Well, tough shit. Move on. The battle clock was ticking, and all they could do was what they'd trained and re-trained and re-re-trained to do, back at the plywood mock-up compound near Bagram. The more exposure they had, the more they risked the involvement of the local military, sleeping in barracks less than a quarter mile away.

  * * * * *

  Night-vision gear turned everything into a bilious green world of sharp chiaroscuro; sharper than the natural vision of the naked eye. Everything looked more real than reality. The team leader led his squad forward through the tangle of smaller cinderblock structures. They were guns-up, and seeking targets to be taken or subjects to be cleared. All around was chaos, but they were the control. Men and women and kids ran blind through the hazing shadows and fuel smoke. Dogs barked but kept their distance. The team could see all around, right through the dark and the fog and the panic. They knew this place better than the inhabitants who'd lived here, safe and sequestered, for six years. They could find their way blindfolded.

  Two figures rushed from a carport. One holding an AK-47; the other with a Makarov pistol in his fist. Adult males. Three-round bursts dropped them to the ground. More rounds kept them there; a spreading stain of black beneath them, in the watery light of the enhanced-vision lenses. First blood. Another figure ran for the cover of a pick-up truck and fell flopping. The dust came alive around him as controlled fire from two team members tore towards his shuddering form.

  More heavy thuds of small arms from the tallest structure inside the walls. Not our job, the leader thought. We're here to control the perimeter. The whole neighborhood could go up, and the leader of Brick Three and his five teammates would hold the front gates secure while their brothers in the other teams took care of the prime target and gathered all the intel that time would allow.

  Through his helmet radio, the team leader was getting crosstalk from the leader of the killer team and the pilot of Helo 1, as well as the Chinooks circling in the black sky above. Back and forth. Geronimo was KIA. It was background noise. No need to respond. Stay focused. The mission ain't over until their boots are back on the tarmac at Bagram. The killer team and helo pilots knew he'd have his guys in the right position, just as he knew they'd be doing their jobs. He'd be able to pick out any chatter relevant to him and his team when the time came.

  They were in position with the SAW trained on the main gates at the end of a concrete-walled alley. If assistance was coming for Geronimo, it would move through this gate. Other teams watched the gate to the west and another covered a main door leading to the street along the north wall.

  One by one, the teams got the call back to Helo 1. The leader waited. All eyes on his fire zone. He and his team were the back door. They'd leave when the mission parameters were met and the other teams were on the chopper, and not a second before. The team leader's boot would be the last one on the ground here. If they didn't get the order, then they knew the job was to hold their ground and secure the LZ until Helo 1 could get clear.

  "Brick Three," a voice broke through the hiss on the team leader's radio. "Position Zulu. We are out of here."

  "Helo! Helo! Helo!" shouted Brick Three's team leader, and waved his five bros away from their positions and back to the main courtyard, where the stealth-modified Blackie sat revving hard. He was the last aboard, backing through the swirling dust toward the broad rear ramp, until he felt a hand grip the back of his battle vest and yank him into the crowded cargo bay.

  Helo 1 was off, and following the
Chinooks at treetop level to evade Pak radar and possible AAA fire.

  He ripped off the night-vision gear and turned to look around at the packed chopper loaded with his teammates, and the untidy pile of containers they'd taken from the main building. Strapped down in the center of the deck was the still weight of a single body-bagged figure.

  "We went in his house!" someone roared over the chopper's bone-rattling hum.

  This was answered by an animal sound of approval that boomed off the crowded chopper's walls. A rebel yell of purest joy. This night was a long time coming. Even the dog joined in, with deep barks and tail wagging furiously.

  "And kicked his ass!" the same someone roared again.

  The response to this outcry echoed over the rooftops of the densely packed houses below. Killer birds had come and taken their prey away into the sky. And all that remained was the rhythmic waft of their wings and the shriek of their passing.

  CHAPTER 1

  VIRGINIA BEACH, VIRGINIA

  "There I was, looking right into his eyes," said the guy at the bar.

  "Were you scared?" asked the blonde on the stool next to him.

  "Scared? Me?" The guy took a pull on his Coors. "But he sure-as-shit was."

  "What happened then?" The blonde wiggled her ass on the seat to turn closer to him; touch his arm. The guy was padded with thick gym-muscle under a polo shirt. He flexed the bicep under her manicured hand.

  "Pop! Pop!" the guy said, making a pistol of his hand. The blonde leapt on her stool and released his arm in surprise. They both laughed.

  "You killed him? You're the one?" She recovered and swiveled closer.

  "I can't really say, babe. We keep a zipped lip in the SEALs. You know, it's classified."

  "I could never keep a secret like that," she said.

  "You'd better, babe or..."

  "Or what?" Her blue eyes went wide.

  He made a pistol of his hand again and touched a finger to her forehead.

  "Pop."

  They both laughed again at that. He reached out to run a hand up her bare, tanned thigh toward the frayed fringe of her cut-offs.

  The guy felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see two men; one his height and one shorter. White dude and a brother. Neither was as wide as him. Spring break maybe? College dudes down at Virginia Beach for the easy pussy? They looked the right age for students; maybe a little older. But there was something about them. Jeans, t-shirts. One with a faded NYU logo. The other with the name of a bar, The Bunker, Tijuana. The shorter one looked like some kind of pirate or an Arab. Densely curly black hair cut short, and the beginnings of full beard under a crooked nose. The black guy was linebacker-huge with a shaved head and a nasty scar; a jagged line of pink skin running along his jawline. Both had hard eyes. Not unfriendly. Just unwavering; locked on him.

  "Can I help you?" the guy asked.

  "Just wanted to see if you looked as dumb as you sound," the pirate said. "What do you think, Heath?"

  "Dumb as a bag of hammers, Manny," said Heath, with a voice that rumbled like far-off thunder on a summer day. But he didn't sound mad; only stating plain fact.

  The guy stood and regretted it immediately. The black guy was taller than him. 6' 5" at least. The white guy, Manny, was well under six-foot, but his grip on the guy's shoulder maintained. It was like five separate steel clamps.

  "You got a problem with me?" the guy asked. He was fronting and the last word trailed off in a lilt that let everyone at the bar know it.

  "I got a problem with any dumb fuck who says he was there the night Usama got kakked," Manny said. Voice cool and low and reasonable. "I run into pogues every damn day who say they were there. So many assholes, that if every damn one of them that says they were there, was there, that shithole shack would have been packed like the Super Bowl with jack-mouthed jerk-offs just like you."

  "Yeah?" the guy asked. Whispered, actually. Behind him he heard that fine, fine ass sliding off the vinyl stool top. Gone forever.

  "And do you have any idea how damn dumb you are, friend?" asked the black one, Heath, this time. "So dumb you try to impress your lady by telling her you're a SEAL just a stone's throw from Little Creek."

  "Little Creek?" the guy asked. It was a squeak.

  "Home to SEAL Team Six, numbnuts." Manny stepped closer and threw an arm around the guy's shoulders. The arm was like a vise. They both escorted the guy toward the back door and the parking lot at the rear of the beach bar.

  "Hey," the guy said. "Where are we going?"

  "That's classified," Heath said.

  * * * * *

  The Virginia Beach cops picked the guy up twenty minutes later. He was running down Shore Drive. Buck naked. He showed no signs of assault and didn't appear to be all that drunk. Not running-around-commando drunk, anyway. When they asked what happened to his clothes, the guy plead the Fifth. He said he'd never tell. He'd never talk. All he wanted was to get back to his hotel, pack his clothes, and get his ass back to Delaware and his wife and kids in Newcastle, and his boring, dumbass job at Best Buy.

  Manny and Heath had the cab driver leave them off near the south checkpoint gate into Naval Amphibious Base, Little Creek. They snaked their way through the serpentine of concrete barriers lining the load road that led to the gates. They were over the legal limit, but not actually drunk by their own standards, and the walk in the nighttime chill would do them good. They filled their lungs with salt-tanged air and straightened up their walk--but not too much. Nothing gives away a tipsy sailor like walking too carefully.

  As members of what was once called SEAL Team Six, they had considerable leeway in manner and dress. In recent weeks that leeway was broadened. But neither of them wanted to push it. The team took rooms at the Sea Breeze down by the beach for two weeks of girls, drinking, and lazy swims in the ocean. They deserved a celebration and some serious downtime, but every party has to end. You could walk proud, but strutting was not a SEALs thing. No end zone spikes. That was for the politicians and all those pogues who went pouring out on the streets to chant "USA!" when not one of them had ever been downrange in their lives.

  No, the champions walked onto the court and, if they were lucky, they got to walk off. They were allowed a mystique because that came along with the secrecy of what they did. But it was no call to be an asshole. They also serve who only sling hash or walk a sentry.

  And secrecy was more and more a part of their lives. Since being taken out of the SEAL team numbering system (which now ran from SEAL Team One through Five, skipped a number, and went on from Seven through Ten for combat active hunter/killer units) and having their new designation (DEVGRU) made public, the team's name was classified. Other teams had regular military records just like any other rating. Their names, missions and deployments were all documented in their military files. But in this unit even their pay grades were known only to themselves. Their deployments were matters of strictest national security, shared only with their CIA contacts and certain members of the executive branch. This was the unit once referred to as Cheney's Assassins, by some dumbasses.

  Assassins, never. These men were warriors.

  They were barely part of the floating Navy anymore. As their name suggested (Sea Air and Land), they went anywhere, anytime--and often far from open water of any kind. What started in the Second World War as a rough and tumble underwater demolition team had evolved in the jungles and rivers of Vietnam into an elite unit, known the world over for toughness and results. Deadly results.

  The CIA called the shots for them more often than the admirals. Officially they were under Navy Special Warfare Command, which answered only to Joint Special Operations Command. But it was the spooks at Langley who ran the show for real. They mixed in with Delta Force and Ranger and Marine Force Recon on lots of their ops. In fact, they were part of so many Army operations that most of the guys on the team had US Army Combat Infantry Badges, in addition to their many Navy commendations; none of which could they wear when in the public eye. B
ut it was the spooks and black-baggers in the Agency who called them to action most often. The CIA looked to the unit as a Praetorian guard; only, ready to fight and die for the republic rather than for Caesar.

  And they were prepared to fight and die for their country and for each other and even for total strangers, if that was the mission. It came down to one of those three options more often than not. You'd die for your brother-in-arms and he'd die for you. It might be jumping on a grenade or standing up to draw fire on yourself or volunteering to be the last one to withdraw to cover your retreating bros; staying behind to kill and die to save the men you came up with.

  That's what was on Heath's mind as he walked with his buddy Manny. But the thoughts were unspoken. These two had come up together. They schemed and plotted to get off the USS Lexington and join the SEALs. They made a pact to leave their miserable carrier duty behind, and get into something more meaningful than dodging warbirds on a rolling deck; past being glorified gas jockeys. They got accepted and helped each other through the most rigorous military training in the world to make the cut. That led to a 24-week selection process (BUD/s) that separated the girls from the boys, the swinging dicks from the dickless; followed by a 28-week training course (SQT) in which some candidates were badly injured, and even crippled for life. Two guys died in Heath and Manny's training pod. One drowned during an at-sea exercise. Another's heart just pure stopped dead on a night jump over a wooded area in the Carolinas.

  But Heath, born Nathan Brandeis Heath, and his pal Manny, coached and challenged and tested one another over every mental, psychological, and physical challenge, until they stood before The Man and received their SEAL Trident breast insignia, after a year of the kind of intense hardship that all but a small minority failed to endure.

  "Think the local cops will come looking for us?" Heath asked as they neared the gate.