Free Men in Green Faces by Gene Wentz, B. Abell Jurus

Gene’s and Marc’s squads, Lima and Delta, learned they’d be inserting on the Mighty Mo. Gene could feel the strange combination of reassurance and concern among the SEALs in the room. Reassurance, because they all felt safe on the Mighty Mo. She carried four .50-caliber machine guns, four M-60s, two Honeywell grenade launchers, an 81mm mortar, and a 105mm cannon. Plus, she’d have the combined firepower of fourteen SEALs within her black, armor-plated interior. Concern, because any op that called for using her brought with it the possibility of very heavy contact.
    Knowing it was a recon op didn’t help much. He remembered, very damned well, the crew of the Mo reconning by playing the Beatles’ music over their loudspeakers. Arrogant, crazy bastards. But it worked. Couldn’t argue with tactics that succeeded.
    He threw a final length of ammo belt over the ones already crossing his shoulders, caught the ends, pulled them across his chest, broke off the excess length, and snapped the two ends together. However, he reminded himself, body-fitting more ammo belts around his hips, Delta was running this op. Devin Walker was patrol leader, with Jim acting as Devin’s APL…unless the squads split up after insertion. In that case Dev would remain Delta’s PL, but Jim would be PL for Lima. They wouldn’t be splitting while aboard the Mighty Mo.
    He checked the bowie, making sure it was secure in its sheath, and flexed his shoulders under the belts of ammo. Good fit. He patted the grenades, made sure the Bible and cigarettes were in their pockets on his cami shirt, and ensured the compass was readily available. Finally he jumped up and down, making sure nothing rattled. Everything that could make noise was taped. Satisfied, he gave one last tug on his headband and picked up the big M-60 with about 150 rounds loaded and on safe. In green face and full combat gear, he left the hootch and joined the rest of Delta’s and Lima’s SEALs to go hear Devin’s Patrol Leader’s Order.
    Devin stood, one hand on his hip, the other holding the PLO form, looking down at them. “Now, intelligence reports show heavy enemy movements,” he said, “in our area of operation.”
    The Naval Academy grad had a voice like a bullfrog. Really deep. Gene liked to listen to him talk. Dev looked down on people even when they were standing. At six foot five, there weren’t many who could look him in the eye. A good operator too. Admirable poker player, good drinking capacity, but Dev couldn’t match him drink for drink. He’d tried. Passed out. Not an ounce of Dev’s 225 pounds was fat either. Clean-shaven, with dirty-blond hair and brown eyes, he looked, in Gene’s opinion, like an Old West gunfighter, only dressed wrong.
    What really got all the SEALs’ respect was Dev’s deviousness in getting what he wanted, and what they wanted. He ran good ops.
    “Now,” he said, “we’re going to be running day and night recons. We want to locate where they’ve set up camps and identify enemy personnel. We don’t want contact. We want to bring out information that will allow us to run a hard-target op on their base camp at a later date, with great success.”
    At 1400 hours, the fourteen SEALs left the hootch to board the Mighty Mo.
    “She looks like floating death,” Cruz commented as they waited to board, “with all those gun barrels sticking out. Don’t you think?”
    “Yeah,” Gene answered. “Like she’s daring the enemy to try it.”
    On board, shaded by the helo platform above, Delta’s squad filed down to sit on one of the two long steel benches running parallel to the sides of the Mo’s interior. Lima, also in patrol formation, sat facing Delta on the opposite bench. Those of the Mo’s crew not operating the boat manned its weapons. Gene leaned back against the olive-drab flak blankets covering the bulkheads and settled down for the ride.
    They moved slowly through the waters of the Son Ku Lon, then turned south, down