First Salvo by Charles D. Taylor

He was a mustang, a former enlisted man who had finally accepted a commission, and the only reason Winters ever accepted it was so that he could stick with Bernie Ryng. Ashore, they went their own way, but on any kind of mission, they were inseparable. They worked perfectly as a twosome, and when a larger group was needed, Winters always took charge of the other half of the SEAL team. Ryng could have had any executive officer he wanted. The volunteers were waiting in line. But Harry Winters was always there to lead men and deliver when the going got rough. Bernie wouldn’t go without him.
    The initial leg of Ryng’s flight was to Gander, Newfoundland, to join up with Winters, who had brought the team there the day before with all the gear Ryng had requisitioned. Forty-five minutes later, they were airborne, this time for Reykjavik. After refueling, they headed up north, hugging the coast of Greenland.
    When Svalbard was a thousand miles off the starboard wing, they turned due east. Leveling off below radar-acquisition level, they tracked on a homing signal from a trawler fifty miles off the island’s west coast. It not only looked like a fishing boat, it was even experiencing a successful catch. Manned by the Norwegian navy, she was one of the small fleet maintained in that area for just such an emergency.
    Ryng could sleep anywhere. Lieutenant Winters woke him an hour before arrival. There was just enough time to pull on wet suits. Watertight equipment packs were pushed out the cargo door, parachutes opening automatically as each cleared the craft.
    With the deafening howl of engines and wind rushing by outside, there was never a reason for the eight men to communicate verbally. Anything important could be expressed by a tap on the shoulder, a soft jab in the ribs, a hand touching either side of the head—the silent language of men who trusted and depended on each other.
    The green light above the door flicked on. Now it was their turn! Harry Winters, always the first out, stepped to the hatch, flashed his customary V sign, and was gone. Tradition was vital on this team; many in special operations become superstitious the longer they survive and Winters had given the victory sign in that same manner since the first day they had jumped as a team.
    Martin Gable was next. He considered it his duty to give Winters, his underwater demolitions partner, a slap on the butt as the lead man jumped. Harry would always claim that Gable’s “love pat,” as he called it, reminded him to start breathing after his parachute opened. Gable flashed his usual smile at Mel Harper, his white teeth setting off his black face, and he was gone. Harper and Gable were demolitions experts whom Ryng had selected years before when he was instructing. Mel was short, Gable tall, and they became Mutt and Jeff to the team. Louie Chamas, radioman, corpsman, and language expert, followed after doing his version of the two-step, for luck, before he exited.
    The team chief, Denny Bush, waved his arms to catch Ryng’s attention. On the ground he was the team clown, able to imitate with precision every admiral they had ever come in contact with. Now, as Bernie Ryng watched with amusement, Denny pointed outside, then back to his chest, as if to inquire if he was next. Ryng had seen this before and nodded his head, pointing to the hatch. Denny looked out, shook his head, and backed away slightly; then he went through the same exercise again, this time with a smile, ending by pinching his nose as he went through the hatch like a kid jumping off a log into the water. His partner, Wally, followed without hesitation. Always the perfectionist, Wally did everything automatically. A former Marine, he’d transferred to the SEALs because he knew they were involved in covert operations and he couldn’t imagine a military career without action. When he asked Ryng if he could join the team, he explained that he was not the type who could wait for someone to declare