me. This coming operation will be perfect for a sniper team."
"Puglisi and Miskoski," Cruiser said. "That goes without a second thought."
"It shall be done, sayeth the gods of war," Brannigan said, writing down the names of the two SEALs. "Okay. I can see we'll be able to have three assault sections with two fire teams each."
"Don't forget a SAW gunner for each one," Cruiser urged him.
"Right, Jim. You take the First Section," he said, writing down the assignment. He glanced over at Taylor. "The Second Section is yours, Ensign."
"Yes, sir," the young man said.
"And, of course, the Third will be honchoed by the intrepid Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins, the pride of Alabama."
"You have some guys left over," Cruiser pointed out.
"It's all part of my cunning master plan," the Skipper said with a wink. "That will be our support section of machine guns. Seven-point-six-twos, as a matter of fact. I'll let Chief Gunnarson run that particular show." He gave Taylor another look. "Any suggestions?"
"Negative, sir."
"This operation is going to be your baptism of fire, is it not, Ensign?" Brannigan asked.
"Yes, sir."
"In that case, I have some advice for you," Brannigan said. "You'll be the leader of an assault section, understand? You are the commander, but you listen to the advice of the senior petty officers. Developing that habit will be invaluable to you not only in the beginning of your career, but even after you're a salty old dog yourself."
"Yes, sir."
When Brannigan slid the diagram of the organization over to Cruiser, the impassive Ensign Orlando Taylor gazed steadily at the two veteran officers. The one thing he wanted to conceal from them was his fear; not the fear of death or injury, but the fear of failure. He had been raised in an African-American family well tuned into the twenty-first century. It was headed by a capable, ambitious father. The outcome of this paternal supervision was a fierce rivalry among the four Taylor brothers, who had been taught that anything short of success was not an option.
Cruiser handed the quickly sketched manning chart to Brannigan. "I'd say it's good to go."
"Fine," the Skipper said. "So let's put it into reality, shall we, gentlemen?"
"Lead on, sir," Cruiser said.
The three officers got up to go outside. Taylor followed the two seniors, his apprehension growing.
.
OVAL OFFICE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D. C.
5 JUNE
A rapping at the door caught the President's attention. He looked up from the press briefing he was preparing and called out, "Come in."
Arlene Entienne, the White House chief of staff, entered the office. She was a beautiful woman of African-Cajun ancestry, with green eyes and dark brown hair. She looked stunning that morning, even though it was obvious she was tired. "Good morning, Mr. President."
"Hello, Arlene," he replied to the greeting. "I heard you came in at four A. M. today."
"Yes, sir," she replied. "I received a call from Edgar Watson of the CIA a little after three. Operation Persian Empire has kicked into high gear."
The President got up and walked over to the side of the room where a coffeepot was plugged in. He poured a cup of the brew, then brought it over to Arlene. "Here. You need this."
"I sure do!"
"Did we hear from Aladdin again?" the President asked, sitting back down. He referred to a mysterious individual who had been sending anonymous but accurate intelligence from the Iran-Afghanistan border.
"Edgar said it was a quick transmission," Arlene answered. "Evidently Aladdin is in a particularly dangerous area. At any rate, he informed us that a compact group of Iranians and Arabs are occupying a fortified area in the far west of the Gharawdara Highlands. When the time is right, they'll make their move. Their objective, of course, is to gain control of that mountainous area in western Afghanistan."
"A 'compact' group, hey?" the President remarked. "They evidently don't want to make a big fuss. That's good. We don't want to
"Puglisi and Miskoski," Cruiser said. "That goes without a second thought."
"It shall be done, sayeth the gods of war," Brannigan said, writing down the names of the two SEALs. "Okay. I can see we'll be able to have three assault sections with two fire teams each."
"Don't forget a SAW gunner for each one," Cruiser urged him.
"Right, Jim. You take the First Section," he said, writing down the assignment. He glanced over at Taylor. "The Second Section is yours, Ensign."
"Yes, sir," the young man said.
"And, of course, the Third will be honchoed by the intrepid Senior Chief Petty Officer Buford Dawkins, the pride of Alabama."
"You have some guys left over," Cruiser pointed out.
"It's all part of my cunning master plan," the Skipper said with a wink. "That will be our support section of machine guns. Seven-point-six-twos, as a matter of fact. I'll let Chief Gunnarson run that particular show." He gave Taylor another look. "Any suggestions?"
"Negative, sir."
"This operation is going to be your baptism of fire, is it not, Ensign?" Brannigan asked.
"Yes, sir."
"In that case, I have some advice for you," Brannigan said. "You'll be the leader of an assault section, understand? You are the commander, but you listen to the advice of the senior petty officers. Developing that habit will be invaluable to you not only in the beginning of your career, but even after you're a salty old dog yourself."
"Yes, sir."
When Brannigan slid the diagram of the organization over to Cruiser, the impassive Ensign Orlando Taylor gazed steadily at the two veteran officers. The one thing he wanted to conceal from them was his fear; not the fear of death or injury, but the fear of failure. He had been raised in an African-American family well tuned into the twenty-first century. It was headed by a capable, ambitious father. The outcome of this paternal supervision was a fierce rivalry among the four Taylor brothers, who had been taught that anything short of success was not an option.
Cruiser handed the quickly sketched manning chart to Brannigan. "I'd say it's good to go."
"Fine," the Skipper said. "So let's put it into reality, shall we, gentlemen?"
"Lead on, sir," Cruiser said.
The three officers got up to go outside. Taylor followed the two seniors, his apprehension growing.
.
OVAL OFFICE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D. C.
5 JUNE
A rapping at the door caught the President's attention. He looked up from the press briefing he was preparing and called out, "Come in."
Arlene Entienne, the White House chief of staff, entered the office. She was a beautiful woman of African-Cajun ancestry, with green eyes and dark brown hair. She looked stunning that morning, even though it was obvious she was tired. "Good morning, Mr. President."
"Hello, Arlene," he replied to the greeting. "I heard you came in at four A. M. today."
"Yes, sir," she replied. "I received a call from Edgar Watson of the CIA a little after three. Operation Persian Empire has kicked into high gear."
The President got up and walked over to the side of the room where a coffeepot was plugged in. He poured a cup of the brew, then brought it over to Arlene. "Here. You need this."
"I sure do!"
"Did we hear from Aladdin again?" the President asked, sitting back down. He referred to a mysterious individual who had been sending anonymous but accurate intelligence from the Iran-Afghanistan border.
"Edgar said it was a quick transmission," Arlene answered. "Evidently Aladdin is in a particularly dangerous area. At any rate, he informed us that a compact group of Iranians and Arabs are occupying a fortified area in the far west of the Gharawdara Highlands. When the time is right, they'll make their move. Their objective, of course, is to gain control of that mountainous area in western Afghanistan."
"A 'compact' group, hey?" the President remarked. "They evidently don't want to make a big fuss. That's good. We don't want to
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