Mind the Gap: a Spy School Collection

A Father's Sacrifice

NOTE: THE FOLLOWING IS BASED ON THE UNIVERSE SET UP BY OHC.

June 17, 2018

SBC O'Shea POV

"Six mikes out!" the crew chief shouted, holding up a full left hand and his right thumb.

"Six mikes out!" we shouted back, holding up identical hand signals as we double-checked ourselves and our gear. Once I ensured I was good to go, I turned to SB3 Martinez—a nineteen-year-old fresh out of CQT.

"Kid, you know your place?" I shouted over the deafening noise of the Chinook's rotors.

"Yes, Chief! Bow gunner!" Martinez shouted back as he put on his gloves for fast-roping.

"Make us proud, kid!" my old friend, SB1 Chen, shouted as he reached across and slapped Martinez on the shoulder. "Or your ass is scrubbing toilets for the rest of the year!"

"Aye, Petty Officer!"

"Hey, Chief! You want the stern gun?"

"Negative! Stay on that .50!" I replied, with him giving me a thumbs-up in return.

"One mike!" the crew chief warned with one finger, eliciting yells of acknowledgement from us before he opened the bottom hatch and prepped a fast-rope. "Thirty seconds!" he shouted, holding up his thumb and index finger an inch apart.

With the warning, we stood. When the green light lit, the crew chief shoved the rope out the hatch and began signaling for us to go. Grasping the rope with my hands and feet, I slid down like I had hundreds of times before getting out of the way for the next two. Down came Martinez and Chen within seconds as the pilots slowly lowered the RHIB into the water. As soon as they hit the deck, they scrambled to their stations, prepping the boat's systems.

"Lifter 3-1, all boots on deck!" I radioed to the pilots, prompting the crew to begin retrieving the fast rope while the pilots finally set us down, detaching the MEATS. The three of us quickly secured the lines before I got us going and sent more traffic to the Chinook. "Lines secured!"

"Stingray 1-1, Stingray 1-2 is good!" our sister boat called on the net.

"Roger, 1-2. Lifter 3-1, all Stingrays are good to go."

"Roger, Stingray. Lifters are bugging out. Good hunting," the pilot replied. As the Nightstalkers flew away from our ingress point, I hit the gas and got us going, with our sister boat doing the same. Up front, Martinez prepped the MK19 while Chen handled the M2 in the back. Extra crewmen would've helped to speed up the process, but due to manpower shortages and the essence of time, we had to run with a skeleton crew.

Our mission was to extract SEAL Team 3's Bravo Platoon from a DA on the west coast of Mexico—counter-narcotics with intelligence support from the Mexican Navy—and provide fire support in the event that shit hit the fan. Given that this was a daytime op, though, it probably would.

"Bravo, this is Stingray. We are in the water. Send status, over," I called over the operation-wide net.

"Good copy, Stingray. Be advised, Bravo is about to hit the target. Request that you secure primary extract," a SEAL replied. "We'll be there in ten mikes, over."

"Roger, Stingray moving to secure primary extract in seven mikes. Out," I acknowledged before switching to the detachment's net. "1-2, we're moving to secure primary extract, how copy?"

"Roger, 1-1. On your six," our sister boat replied, gunning it after us. Right on the dot, we arrived within a hundred meters of the primary extraction point. After directing the detachment's gunners to watch the coastline and surrounding waters, I expected us to sit and wait for a few minutes for Bravo to arrive. "Bravo, Stingray has secured primary extract. What's your pos?"