SEAL Team 666: A Novel

Walker and Ruiz sat in the ratty vinyl booth comparing birth dates on the Chinese zodiac. They were dressed in loose-fitting cargo pants, Hi-Tec boots, T-shirts, and hoodies. The hoodies hid the 9mms in quick-draw shoulder holsters. Their cargo pockets were filled with magazines. Each also had an MK3 knife strapped to his left calf. Walker’s T-shirt was from a restaurant in Salt Lake City called Steaks and Bitches, and had a prominent picture of a cowgirl with a steak on the end of a long fork. Ruiz wore an Old Navy shirt.

“You’re a cock,” Ruiz said.

“And you’re a goat.”

“But you’re a cock.” This time his smirk was in full force.

Walker shook his head. “It’s a rooster.”

“They’re the same thing. ‘Cockerel’ is the term for a young male fowl. We call them cocks for short. ‘Rooster’ is the slang term for a mature male. They made you a cock. Not me. Anyway, don’t blame me, blame the Chinese zodiac.”

Walker stared at Ruiz as though he’d just answered a Double Jeopardy question as the young Chinese waitress delivered their hot tea and bowls of steaming hot and sour soup. Ruiz dug in right away. Walker waited until the waitress left, then reaffirmed, “I’m a rooster.”

“Cock,” Ruiz said in between slurping his soup.

Walker ate a few spoonfuls. The taste was heavy with mushrooms, the way he liked it, and only had a bit of bite. He usually evaluated a Chinese restaurant by their ability to make hot and sour soup. This one was pretty terrific. It was going to be sad at the end of the day when they were no longer able to make the soup. But that’s what they deserved for housing a Snakehead sweatshop and way station in their basement, or so said the intelligence gleaned from the ship’s hard drive. At first, SPG wasn’t sure if it had any relevant information, but then one of the analysts began tracking the ship’s route of travel based on navigational buoy beacon responses along the coast and discovered that the ship had been anchored off the coast within ten nautical miles of the restaurant. What turned out to be a gold mine was a deeply hidden file with latitudinals and longitudinal, each with notations using the word “Pifu,” which translated roughly to “skin suit.”

When they finished, the waitress brought two heaping serving dishes of twice-cooked pork and Mongolian beef, along with a large bowl of steaming white rice. As he had with the soup, Ruiz dug in right away.

“You’re actually going to eat?” Walker asked.

“Sure, why not?”

Why not? Walker checked his watch. They were six minutes from making their move, that’s why. He looked around the restaurant. Five other tables were occupied. Three of those were regular customers. One table held a heavyset, mean-as-a-Rottweiler NCIS agent named Alice Surrey, and at the other sat Laws and Yaya. Holmes was still waiting for the board. He was forced to stay back and keep Hoover company. While Laws was yammering away at one thing or another, Yaya looked miserable. Or at least his eyes did, because that’s the only part of him that wasn’t covered in black fabric. Being the newest member of the team and conveniently Middle Eastern, he was chosen to wear the burka. Not only did it lend some authenticity, but it allowed for a lot of fabric with which to hide the weapons he had secreted beneath.

“Y’all might as well eat,” Ruiz said, barely intelligible around a bite of food.

“How can you eat at a time like this?”

“The food is good. Eat.”

“You’re a goat, all right.”

“Just being practical. You’re going to need the energy.” Ruiz glanced around without moving his head. “Plus, you need to look like you’re eating rather than sitting round scoping the place.”

Walker picked at the pork with his chopsticks. He slid one piece into his mouth, aware that they only had three minutes. His increasingly heightened tension made it taste like clay, but to keep up appearances he chewed the piece of meat until it was macerated into a paste.

Finally it was time.

Yaya, dressed as a woman, got up at the same time as Surrey. They both made a beeline for the bathroom. Surrey was there first, but Yaya pushed her out of the way, entered the bathroom, and slammed the door behind him.

Surrey tried to open the door, but it was locked. She began to bang heartily on the hollow wooden door. “It was my turn!” She began shouting at the top of her lungs, “Get out!” Each protest was accompanied by a thump on the door.

The entire Chinese waitstaff came running, shocked and dismayed by the ugly American antics. One of them, a petite waitress, put her hand on Surrey’s arm and was shoved away for her efforts. Meanwhile, Surrey had added bitch to her shouted mantra Get out!

By now, everyone was on their feet. One of the tables of real customers, a father, a mother, and two daughters couldn’t take it anymore. They left, but not before the father threw a scalding look at the interior of the restaurant as he dropped a pile of bills to pay for their meal.