Watching the Italian authorities set free the man who had planned the Achille Lauro hijacking had filled Drake with a towering rage.
He almost quit.
His response was typical of a man who refused to be beaten by the system. Instead of resigning, he applied for an officer candidate program and became a mustang, an officer who’d come up through the ranks.
As a SEAL lieutenant j.g., then, he’d participated in the reorganization of the SEALs, transferring to SEAL Team Eight when that unit, its very existence classified, had taken on most of the Navy’s antiterrorist responsibilities. In 1989 he participated in the takedown of terrorists occupying an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico, an operation that went so smoothly the incident never even made the newspapers. A year later, a newly promoted lieutenant, he’d found himself in another Gulf, on a mission so sensitive he wasn’t even supposed to tell his wife.
And after that had come his assignment to RAMROD. Three months now of light duty and no watches . . . except for the quick sneak-and-peak into Colombia with snowdrop a week ago.
SEAL Eight’s permanent station was Dam Neck, Virginia, tucked away on the southern shore of Chesapeake Bay between Norfolk and Virginia Beach, a part of the Little Creek Amphibious Base. Rather than subjecting his wife and daughter to what was euphemistically referred to as "substandard base housing” with a two-year waiting list, Drake had rented a ranch-style house in Virginia Beach. Normally, on nights when he didn’t have the duty, he had a fifteen-minute drive home. Since he’d been TAD’d to RAMROD, though, his evening commute ran closer to an hour and a half, and even that depended on how badly the traffic was backed up at the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel. It was forty miles from Williamsburg to Virginia Beach, following the expressway through Newport News, Hampton, then across the Roads to Norfolk.
Norfolk was the largest U.S. Navy base in the world. One hundred twenty thousand military personnel worked there, or in the nearby facilities at Portsmouth, Little Creek, Dam Neck, or the naval air station at Oceana, all supported by over forty thousand civilian employees. And at rush hour, every one of them hit the highways. He gripped the steering wheel of the Alliance in growing frustration as the line of traffic crawled into the tunnel portion of the Hampton Roads Bridge- Tunnel.
He was especially eager to get home to Meagan and their daughter Stacy tonight. His sudden arrival back from Panama the day before had ended their agony of several days, knowing that he was missing, not knowing if he was dead. Sinclair himself had visited them as soon as word was radioed from Decisive that he’d been recovered, but the real relief, for all of them, had come yesterday afternoon when he met them at Oceana.
Meagan had pulled Stacy out of school for the occasion. At thirteen, Stacy was old enough to know what MIA meant. The two of them had been waiting on the runway when the C-130 Hercules taxied to a stop.
They’d planned a homecoming celebration—dinner out at a favorite restaurant—but first had come his debriefing at the hands of several CIA spook types. He’d come home late that night, exhausted, his time in the jungle finally catching up with him, and knowing that he had to get up early the next day for more debriefings with Sinclair and Weston.
So they’d decided that their celebration would be tonight, Friday night.
The traffic was moving faster now as he emerged from the depths of the Roads Tunnel and onto the broad ribbon of highway spanning the southern half of Hampton Roads. Below him, the late afternoon sun danced and sparkled on the water. Twenty more minutes and he’d be home.
Meagan. His thoughts turned again to his wife. He’d been so tired last night he scarcely remembered their time in bed, but it seemed that he could still feel her caresses as she’d drawn him close.
Lovely, raven-haired Meagan Drake had put
He almost quit.
His response was typical of a man who refused to be beaten by the system. Instead of resigning, he applied for an officer candidate program and became a mustang, an officer who’d come up through the ranks.
As a SEAL lieutenant j.g., then, he’d participated in the reorganization of the SEALs, transferring to SEAL Team Eight when that unit, its very existence classified, had taken on most of the Navy’s antiterrorist responsibilities. In 1989 he participated in the takedown of terrorists occupying an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico, an operation that went so smoothly the incident never even made the newspapers. A year later, a newly promoted lieutenant, he’d found himself in another Gulf, on a mission so sensitive he wasn’t even supposed to tell his wife.
And after that had come his assignment to RAMROD. Three months now of light duty and no watches . . . except for the quick sneak-and-peak into Colombia with snowdrop a week ago.
SEAL Eight’s permanent station was Dam Neck, Virginia, tucked away on the southern shore of Chesapeake Bay between Norfolk and Virginia Beach, a part of the Little Creek Amphibious Base. Rather than subjecting his wife and daughter to what was euphemistically referred to as "substandard base housing” with a two-year waiting list, Drake had rented a ranch-style house in Virginia Beach. Normally, on nights when he didn’t have the duty, he had a fifteen-minute drive home. Since he’d been TAD’d to RAMROD, though, his evening commute ran closer to an hour and a half, and even that depended on how badly the traffic was backed up at the Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel. It was forty miles from Williamsburg to Virginia Beach, following the expressway through Newport News, Hampton, then across the Roads to Norfolk.
Norfolk was the largest U.S. Navy base in the world. One hundred twenty thousand military personnel worked there, or in the nearby facilities at Portsmouth, Little Creek, Dam Neck, or the naval air station at Oceana, all supported by over forty thousand civilian employees. And at rush hour, every one of them hit the highways. He gripped the steering wheel of the Alliance in growing frustration as the line of traffic crawled into the tunnel portion of the Hampton Roads Bridge- Tunnel.
He was especially eager to get home to Meagan and their daughter Stacy tonight. His sudden arrival back from Panama the day before had ended their agony of several days, knowing that he was missing, not knowing if he was dead. Sinclair himself had visited them as soon as word was radioed from Decisive that he’d been recovered, but the real relief, for all of them, had come yesterday afternoon when he met them at Oceana.
Meagan had pulled Stacy out of school for the occasion. At thirteen, Stacy was old enough to know what MIA meant. The two of them had been waiting on the runway when the C-130 Hercules taxied to a stop.
They’d planned a homecoming celebration—dinner out at a favorite restaurant—but first had come his debriefing at the hands of several CIA spook types. He’d come home late that night, exhausted, his time in the jungle finally catching up with him, and knowing that he had to get up early the next day for more debriefings with Sinclair and Weston.
So they’d decided that their celebration would be tonight, Friday night.
The traffic was moving faster now as he emerged from the depths of the Roads Tunnel and onto the broad ribbon of highway spanning the southern half of Hampton Roads. Below him, the late afternoon sun danced and sparkled on the water. Twenty more minutes and he’d be home.
Meagan. His thoughts turned again to his wife. He’d been so tired last night he scarcely remembered their time in bed, but it seemed that he could still feel her caresses as she’d drawn him close.
Lovely, raven-haired Meagan Drake had put
Similar Books
