Chapter 1
Special Operator Calvin “Coop” Cooper and Special Operator Alphonso “Fredo” Manuel Esquidido Chavez had stopped for gas near Moss Landing, California. The smell of recently harvested broccoli drifted in the air. Fredo ran inside to pay the attendant for the fill up.
Cooper started pumping gas in the green king cab beater Fredo had bought from the San Diego Parks Department. The gas mileage was horrible, but the extra cab space was worth its weight in gold. Many times Team guys transported gear they weren’t supposed to have in public between their various vehicles and homes. Depending on the need.
Being part of SEAL Team 3 meant he had to be ready at all times, even though they had a couple months before their next workup. Word was, they were going to train somewhere they would freeze their asses off. So, this little sojourn to Monterey, on their way to Silicon Valley, was just what the doctor ordered.
“You wanna tell me what that shit smell is, Coop? Smells like your compost bucket in the Babemobile.”
The Babemobile Fredo referred to was the motor home Coop kept parked at the beach, just down the strand from base. He pocketed his housing allowance and lived on the cheap. It was also a very inexpensive way to pick up girls. He powered his way through San Diego on a red scooter the rest of the Team guys gave him one hell of a time about, especially because Coop was so ridiculously tall, six foot five. But Coop felt that at 80 miles per gallon, they could laugh and make fun of him all they wanted to.
“Brussels sprouts.”
“Holy Mother of God. Are we smelling farts or an explosion at the Brussels sprouts factory?“
Cooper had to laugh. He doubted Fredo had eaten anything green except chilies and cilantro, maybe an occasional veggie he neglected to remove from a burrito.
“Do they even have a Brussels sprouts factory here?” Fredo asked.
“No.” Cooper loved the differences between them. Here he grew up on a farm in Nebraska, knew how to grow anything that would, and Fredo looked at vegetables and healthy food as poison.
“Damn right. No wonder Mexico gave California up.”
“Scared off Clark Gable, too.” Cooper nodded at the five-foot-five Mexican SEAL.
“Excuse me?” Fredo scrunched his nose up, which made his brow look even more Neanderthal. Coop knew his heart was as big as the ocean but he was unlucky with the ladies. Although he joked about it all the time, Fredo would make a great father and Coop suspected he secretly wanted to settle down.
“Clark Gable. He married Alma Spreckles—I think that was her name—whose dad owned the sugar refinery nearby. Story goes he drove up here from Hollywood and said ‘No thanks.”
“I always liked Clark Gable,” Fredo said. “He seemed like a man who made a lot of sense, for a Gringo.”
The pump shut off and Cooper replaced the screw on gas cap. Fredo started up the truck, clouding the gas station with a generous helping of gray smoke.
“Think we’ll be in San Jose in about two hours,” Cooper said over the roar of the truck engine.
“You ever met this guy?”
“Nope. My friend from DOD said he was trustworthy. They even bought equipment from him.”
“Really? Our government is now buying things outta people’s garages?”
“He’s supposed to be this super genius inventor. They ask him to come up with something, off the books of course, and he does.”
“That why you’re buying this thing for a grand?”
“Fredo, don’t mention the price—to anybody. I’m not going to pay a grand for it.”
Cooper punched his buddy in the arm. “I feel like I have to give you a lecture like my dad always gives my mom when they go to buy a new car, otherwise she’d tell them exactly what their budget is. She thinks she has to tell the truth, even to a used car salesman.
The green rows of cabbage, lettuce and strawberries fanned out in neat spines as they drove down the two-lane road. Coop’s dad said there
Special Operator Calvin “Coop” Cooper and Special Operator Alphonso “Fredo” Manuel Esquidido Chavez had stopped for gas near Moss Landing, California. The smell of recently harvested broccoli drifted in the air. Fredo ran inside to pay the attendant for the fill up.
Cooper started pumping gas in the green king cab beater Fredo had bought from the San Diego Parks Department. The gas mileage was horrible, but the extra cab space was worth its weight in gold. Many times Team guys transported gear they weren’t supposed to have in public between their various vehicles and homes. Depending on the need.
Being part of SEAL Team 3 meant he had to be ready at all times, even though they had a couple months before their next workup. Word was, they were going to train somewhere they would freeze their asses off. So, this little sojourn to Monterey, on their way to Silicon Valley, was just what the doctor ordered.
“You wanna tell me what that shit smell is, Coop? Smells like your compost bucket in the Babemobile.”
The Babemobile Fredo referred to was the motor home Coop kept parked at the beach, just down the strand from base. He pocketed his housing allowance and lived on the cheap. It was also a very inexpensive way to pick up girls. He powered his way through San Diego on a red scooter the rest of the Team guys gave him one hell of a time about, especially because Coop was so ridiculously tall, six foot five. But Coop felt that at 80 miles per gallon, they could laugh and make fun of him all they wanted to.
“Brussels sprouts.”
“Holy Mother of God. Are we smelling farts or an explosion at the Brussels sprouts factory?“
Cooper had to laugh. He doubted Fredo had eaten anything green except chilies and cilantro, maybe an occasional veggie he neglected to remove from a burrito.
“Do they even have a Brussels sprouts factory here?” Fredo asked.
“No.” Cooper loved the differences between them. Here he grew up on a farm in Nebraska, knew how to grow anything that would, and Fredo looked at vegetables and healthy food as poison.
“Damn right. No wonder Mexico gave California up.”
“Scared off Clark Gable, too.” Cooper nodded at the five-foot-five Mexican SEAL.
“Excuse me?” Fredo scrunched his nose up, which made his brow look even more Neanderthal. Coop knew his heart was as big as the ocean but he was unlucky with the ladies. Although he joked about it all the time, Fredo would make a great father and Coop suspected he secretly wanted to settle down.
“Clark Gable. He married Alma Spreckles—I think that was her name—whose dad owned the sugar refinery nearby. Story goes he drove up here from Hollywood and said ‘No thanks.”
“I always liked Clark Gable,” Fredo said. “He seemed like a man who made a lot of sense, for a Gringo.”
The pump shut off and Cooper replaced the screw on gas cap. Fredo started up the truck, clouding the gas station with a generous helping of gray smoke.
“Think we’ll be in San Jose in about two hours,” Cooper said over the roar of the truck engine.
“You ever met this guy?”
“Nope. My friend from DOD said he was trustworthy. They even bought equipment from him.”
“Really? Our government is now buying things outta people’s garages?”
“He’s supposed to be this super genius inventor. They ask him to come up with something, off the books of course, and he does.”
“That why you’re buying this thing for a grand?”
“Fredo, don’t mention the price—to anybody. I’m not going to pay a grand for it.”
Cooper punched his buddy in the arm. “I feel like I have to give you a lecture like my dad always gives my mom when they go to buy a new car, otherwise she’d tell them exactly what their budget is. She thinks she has to tell the truth, even to a used car salesman.
The green rows of cabbage, lettuce and strawberries fanned out in neat spines as they drove down the two-lane road. Coop’s dad said there
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