Death Before Dawn (SEAL STRIKE Book 1) Read online

  DEATH

  Before

  Dawn

  The SEAL STRIKE Series--Book One

  By

  M. L. Strong

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my Grandson Landon. May he learn, love, laugh, and follow an interesting and stimulating path.

  Copyright © 2019 M. L. Strong

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-0-9994810-9-7

  Prologue

  The rain sliced at sharp angles toward the ground, mixing easily with the young man’s tears. His hand, trembling ever so slightly, wiped away the tears. His eyes, a striking deep blue, were red and puffy. Unlike the others assembled all around, he didn’t mind the chill and the rain. Matthew Barrett had been raised to ignore trivial distractions. His father had always required a constant state of Spartan discipline, a code of personal conduct that stood as law in Matt’s small world.

  Matt was oblivious to the presence of the other attendees. He was focused, instead, on the dark muddy hole containing the sharp outline of his father’s casket. He stood numbly, struggling to mask his rage and frustration from the people standing all around him at the sober gathering.

  The deep baritone of the Episcopalian minister’s voice faded in and out. The rhythm of the storm attempted in vain to intrude on his eloquent message of faith and hope as it rose and fell in perfect modulated intensity. A ceremonial Marine honor guard, complete with shiny chrome-covered rifles, polished dress shoes covered in wet leaves and grass, and bright brass fittings blinking through the down pour, stood ramrod straight to one side of the mourning family. The young Marines, eyes locked forward, awaited their cue to execute the traditional tribute, a gun salute to a fallen brother-in-arms.

  Those young Marines had never met the legend, Colonel Arthur Barrett, United States Marine Corps, and it didn’t matter—not to them. For in the great tradition of the Corps, any Marine—all Marines—were Marines for life and deserving of their respect. But this special Marine, they knew, deserved a little bit more.

  Matt tore his red eyes away from the grave site to look at the friends, family, and guests. They were his devoted followers. A pitiful collection of idol worshipers; some close, most simply tourists seeking fame by association. They huddled together in a shapeless mass of umbrellas and oversized raincoats feigning sorrow.

  Then, there was the family. It was clear to anyone taking inventory that Arthur Barrett had been the only success story in a long line of morons, failures, and fools. They’d always fed off of Matt’s father in their own way, basking in his glory, deriving a small measure of local notoriety for themselves. He knew theses misfits would miss his father more than anyone.

  The professional wax finish refused to allow the pounding raindrops the satisfaction of staying in one place on top of the dark coffin. The harder the rain fell the higher the raindrops bounced. Matt was mesmerized by the effect—hypnotized. Until the loud report of the honor guard’s rifles startled him out of his trance. His eyes snapped up to watch the Marine honor guard as it completed their well-practiced drill in complete silence and perfect unison. Arthur Barrett would not have found fault in their execution; he would have been proud.

  Matt looked skyward, allowing the rain to pummel his upturned face as the Marines finished performing their ceremonial dance. With the last echoes of the rifle shots drifting away, a tall well-conditioned officer in his early fifties solemnly approached where his mother sat in a metal folding chair, too fatigued and anguished to stand. The officer halted and stood at attention in front of her for a moment before slowly bending at the waist and slowly stretching out his hands.

  Grace reached up, too fast, and grabbed the offered triangle-shaped bundle, clutching it to her chest. The new military widow looked down at the deep blue field and bright white stars on the flag in her hands then gazed up, focusing on the three silver stars resting on each shoulder of the Marine general standing before her. Their flashing brilliance easily pierced the pouring rain. The General began to deliver the words heard by countless generations of patriotic mothers and wives.

  “Mrs. Barrett, on behalf of the President of the United States and the men and women of the United States Marine Corps, a grateful nation presents you with this flag.”

  Matt rode home in silence, squeezed tightly in between his overfed cousin Ralph and his always over-perfumed Aunt Celia. The overall effect of sight and smell made him queasy. It took forever to travel the relatively short distance from the cemetery to his family home. When they finally pulled into the driveway of his modest home, Matt didn’t hesitate. He waited for his aunt to shimmy out of the car then jumped out of the rented limousine. Matt bounded up the porch steps two at a time, and yanked open the front door. Streaking through the foyer and into the narrow hallway of his two-story brick house, Matt turned a corner and pounded up the carpeted stairs.

  Matt stepped inside his bedroom and slammed the door, safe at last in the peaceful safety of his rather cluttered sanctuary. In short order, the noise of guests arriving downstairs began to mix with the metallic clattering of folding chairs as Uncle Billy directed the catering staff.

  Matt didn’t care. He tossed his body in the air and twirled halfway around, landing on his bed in a jumble of legs and arms. Determined to ignore the noise and the people, Matt rolled on his back and took a deep breath. He exhaled slowly, letting his eyes wander across the ceiling. He felt guilty. He knew things were different but that wasn’t it.

  For a long time, Matt knew his father didn’t love him. A strict and starched personality, his father didn’t have time to love. His son was an object, a possession—nothing more. Just another family head to count. Matt didn’t feel guilt for that reason. No, Matt felt guilty because his father’s death cheated him of any chance at redemption. The old battle horse had robbed him of any opportunity to even up the score and maybe—just maybe—measure up to the Marine’s high standards.

  Arthur Barrett’s heavy-handed badgering and strict rules of conduct had driven Matt to tears more times than he could count. His old man taunted him relentlessly. “Don’t quit, Matt! Don’t let anyone see you cry, Matt! Always be the best, Matt!” On, and on, and on. But no matter how hard he tried he was never able to pull it off. He couldn’t rise to the level of his father’s severe standards of performance. Of course, now, he never would.

  He understood the full nature of his father’s curse and hated him for it. Without his father alive, Matt would always be the weak son, the failed son. Death had conspired to place the prize beyond his reach. It wasn’t fair! His eyes started to sting again.

  Hearing a loud pounding, Matt swiveled his head in a tight arc toward the door. “Go away!” Matt shouted. “I don’t want to see anyone!”

  “Matt?” The soft feminine voice seemed strangely out of place against the backdrop of the noisy and unwanted guests downstairs. “Matt, honey, can you please open the door?”

  Matt grudgingly swung his legs off the bed and shuffled to the door. He twisted the knob and eased the door open half-way.

  Matt could see his mother’s outline in the dimly lit hallway. She seemed somehow smaller today and very much alone. Grace Barrett looked fondly at her only son. “Matt, please come downstairs, honey, show yourself. People have been asking for you!”

  Matt stepped forward and hugged his mom. The hug was tighter and longer than he intended, but he felt stronger somehow when they gently pushed away from each other. Grace was the product of small-town America. Born and raised in Iowa, her early years were spent helping raise ten siblings. As the oldest, Grace continued to help in the family home until the day she met a handsome, freshly-minted Marine officer attending sch
ool in nearby Sioux City.

  Arthur Barrett was ready to take on the world and Matt’s mom was swept up by the dashing first lieutenant. Grace needed a little prodding to persuade her to leave home and start her new life. Later in their marriage, when his father’s tours to Vietnam started to add up, Matt’s mom would draw on her childhood sense of duty to family and muster up the courage to cope.

  The love had left the marriage years ago—even after Matt was born when she was in her late thirties the old man didn’t change. In all those rough years his Mom would never think of leaving the colonel. She wasn’t a quitter. He knew his mom would never say it, but she felt set free by his father’s death. They were both free now.

  “Okay, Mom,” Matt said, smiling weakly.

  “Let’s go down and pretend to like everyone.” Matt’s mother smiled. She always said there was strength in his eyes. His eyes confirmed her faith in his judgement and his commitment to the family. His mother was also fond of noted how her son was so much like her husband. He had the same all-American look. Wavy blond hair, crystal blue eyes, and an infectious grin that belied a keen intellect. Matt hated the comparison; he was different from his father. He suffered his setbacks with poise and humor. He was generous, and routinely protected his family and his friends. These were traits not associated with his late father.

  Matt and his mother came down the stairs and entered the crowded parlor, walking hand in hand. Within seconds they were surrounded by teary-eyed well-wishers. Most of the guests had been stuffing their faces with a passion, acting as if the food was going to be taken away. The mixture of bad breath and the press of so many bodies made Matt ill. He didn’t want their pity. And he didn’t need their reassurances.

  Matt shoved himself away from the crushing weight of the guests, moving toward what looked like the nearest point of escape. Cracking open a solid oak door, Matt slipped quickly into his father’s study. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the room. He then recognized his terrible mistake.

  Standing transfixed, Matt stood at attention, his eyes riveted to a small object across the room. It sat in a special place high on the mantle near the rest of the mementos collected by his father over the years. One thing was for certain: Arthur Barrett had been an achiever of the first order. The walls were covered with splendid plaques and fancy certificates, each by itself worthy of praise and awe. But eventually, any visitor to this—the most sacred place in the Barrett home—would see the object on the mantle, and stare.

  The oak frame was noble in its simplicity. The military shadow box was a three-inch-deep rectangle lined in red felt on the inside to better show off the items contained there. The red signified that his father was a Marine veteran. Inside were displayed his father’s accumulated military insignia and personal awards. The rectangular frame was topped by a triangular section that held an American flag. The soft red felt provided a startling contrast for the single most powerful object in Matt’s young life.

  The Congressional Medal of Honor seemed to pulse brightly as if possessing its own internal power source. Matt stared at the medal. The pale blue ribbon was designed to be worn around the neck. If you looked really close you could see little white swirls dancing along its length, twisting and twirling down until the two sections of cloth joined together with a ring made of solid gold.

  Suspended below the ring was the medal itself. Crafted in twenty-four-carat gold, it was designed in keeping with the United States Navy’s version of the nation’s highest award for heroism and courage under fire. Yeah, the old man was a genuine war hero. Famous even. Turning with great difficulty, he walked to the large oak door and paused before opening it. Matt set his jaw in determination. Somehow, he had to find a way to beat his old man.

  Chapter One

  A thousand little pieces of broken beach shells worked their jagged edges into Matt’s exposed flesh. This wasn’t any fun at all, he thought, grimacing in pain. Since graduating from college, Matt’s life in the United States Navy had been nothing short of a living hell. The officer recruiter at the University of Nebraska never mentioned things could get this bad. Matt, like everybody else who volunteered for the elite SEAL teams, was sold a dream, a fantasy straight out of a Hollywood movie that was far from the reality of being a special warfare operator.

  Seduced by images of heroic commandos defeating America’s enemies after the attack on the Twin Towers using only their bare hands if necessary, Matt wanted the admiration and respect the Navy’s special warriors received. Just being selected for SEAL training had been an honor. He knew it was only one of a thousand steps he must make to compete with his old man. However, Matt was determined to make a name for himself in the SEALs. There were plenty of opportunities in the teams to see combat and maybe even pick up a few medals along the way! Matt knew exactly what he wanted, he had it all figured out.

  “Damn it!” Matt muttered under his breath, his mind snapping back to the present. Every time he attempted to improve his situation and get more comfortable, the shift in body position only exposed a new patch of his skin to the mean little shells. Even when he tried to take a short catnap, the tiny slivers of shell continued to torment him like a sadistic alarm clock.

  Close at hand, seven other dark shapes lay hidden, each suffering their own personal agony. Inland, a long thin beam of white light flitted back and forth, from the left flank of the beach to the right flank—like a lazy finger, tracing along the edge of the shoreline near Matt and his men. No one was aware of their presence, at least not yet. Timing a movement across this beach was going to be tricky. Matt doubted they’d get far before being detected.

  Matt instinctively pressed himself to the ground to reduce his already small silhouette against the sand. The seekers high on the ridge were spending an extraordinary amount of time straining to pick out anything amiss on the beach below. That, in of itself, was strange. Normally guards were lazy, bored, and not committed to their task. These guards were alert and switched on.

  Matt’s target brief said little about fixed guard positions. He’d been informed the security along the beach was sporadic, roving vehicle patrols that stayed off the softer sand near the water. He studied the group above them on the berm line. These guys weren’t in a hurry to go anywhere. The SOBs might even decide to pitch camp and really screw things up for Matt and his team, he thought angrily. He was certain of one thing: his SEALs couldn’t advance inland toward their objective until the patrol moved on their merry way.

  Matt stared at the luminescent face of his dive watch in frustration. He and his men were running out of time. “If the jerks don’t move soon, I’m going to fire them up!” Matt whispered quietly to his men. He knew firing at the patrol wouldn’t help matters, though. No matter how good it might feel to break the stalemate, it would only serve to alert the entire coastline and doom their mission.

  Matt decided to drop the bullshit dialogue in his head. He and the other men needed to stay put and be patient, simple as that. They were trained to handle every kind of stress imaginable. This is exactly why they sent SEALs to do these jobs. They were especially selected and trained to suck it up. So, suck it up they would.

  The minutes crawled by and eventually Matt’s left leg fell completely asleep. Soon after that, he dozed off. He didn’t see the enemy patrol depart the berm area. The sleeping Lieutenant Junior Grade missed this key event. The men around him had either fallen asleep from exhaustion or if awake, were waiting for Matt to give an order. Over the next hour, Matt drifted in and out of consciousness. His mind wandered freely, drifting as usual to the impact of his decision to join the Navy after college.

  Part of the reason he joined was to avoid the post-college decision to grow up and do something productive with his life. His mother had reacted badly to the news when halfway through school Matt told her he’d joined the navy recruit officer training candidate program. Grace Barrett didn’t see anything positive in her son’s involvement with the military. She was ev
en more concerned when Matt told her he’d requested assignment to the SEAL teams.

  Matt never shared his mother’s reservations. For him, it all seemed so natural. From the very beginning he knew in his heart he was doing the right thing. He was an athlete and at five foot eleven inches he was an impressive physical specimen. He told her she didn’t need to worry—he’d sail right through the SEAL program. He’d excelled in many sports throughout high school and college. So, it was no surprise to those who knew him when he crushed the SEAL physical screening test on the first attempt.

  The SEAL instructor administering the test sat Matt down and tried one last time to dissuade him by letting him know the odds of becoming a SEAL. Matt brushed off the warning that it wasn’t about pushups and running, it was all about the mental aspects of the course that mattered. Matt listened politely then ignored the advice. He was convinced he was ready.

  The SEAL teams routinely screened three to five thousand people a year. The hopeful candidates came from high schools, colleges, the United States Naval Academy, and even active duty sailors from the fleet. From this population, The Navy selected approximately seven hundred and twenty men a year for orders to the five-month-long Basic Underwater Demolition SEAL, or BUD/S course in Coronado, California.

  As the son of a Medal of Honor recipient Matt’s paperwork was destined to fly through the Navy bureaucracy, and by the time he graduated from college, Matt had his orders for BUD/S in hand. First, he had to attend the four-month-long officer candidate school—or OCS—in Newport, Rhode Island. The course was focused on naval engineering with a minimal focus on leadership and tactics. Matt was bored out of his mind but stuck with it, earning his commission as an ensign.

  In the mid-1980s Congress created the United States Special Operations Command. This new entity was almost its own service, competing with the other services for funds and eventually for missions. Based in Tampa, Florida, USSOCOM as it was called, relied on the parent services to provide the candidates, through their respective recruiting capabilities, that eventually became students in the various Army, Navy, and Air Force special operations schools.