Dedicated to SEAL Team 10 Surviving CHiT

[Cassie Granger 0]

Surviving CHiT

Dedicated to Danny, Axe, and Yankee, who died in Operation Redwing, and to the 16 who died in their rescue.

Also to DASY, Southern Boy’s faithful dog.

 

 

They’re called units for a reason.

The prefix uni- comes from the Latin unus, meaning one.

The word is found in united, unity, unification.

It means any group of things regarded as one entity, single, indivisible.

A unit is a group that works as an indivisible whole.

 

As the team moved through training maneuvers in FORECON OPS Cass could sense each member and they, her. Each judged and reacted instantly to the movements of the other by the slightest shift of weight, a characteristic tick of the head, a quick flash in peripheral vision, or a com click. Through repetitive training, day after day after day, they came to know each other and predict their movements instinctively - by their cadence, their smell, their breathing, the weapon they used and how they moved with it, and by their body stature. Each could spot and visually identify the other from a considerable distance.

 

When together, they moved as a unified, indivisible, synchronized whole, each member intimately aware of the skill set of the other, each member depending on and reacting to the other as though they were connected, as though they were one fast-moving, decisive machine. Repetitive training produces a synergy, a chemistry that evolves into a unit choreography, a rhythm and muscle memory that leaves the brain open to observe and assess situational changes in nanoseconds.

 

To over-simplify, it’s like riding a bicycle. Your hands have one skill, your back, legs and feet have others, your inner ear eventually equalizes to achieve balance, your brain adjusts, the skills of each muscle group and sensory organ are merged, and the parts of the body work together to achieve the act of riding without falling so you can concentrate on your route and the obstacles in your path.

 

The difference is, of course, that the sequence of moves needed to ride a bicycle is simple and over time the muscles forget very little. The sequence of moves needed to use a weapon or operate as a unit in a focused mission is complex; intense situational repetitive training is needed to sharpen and fine-tune that muscle memory or it becomes clumsy, awkward, and, at its worst, forgotten.

 

The schedule had tightened for the eight assigned to Operation: Lost Souls, and it got tighter as they approached wheels up. For the present, the team worked during a shift: Alpha on, Bravo off, and Charlie in FORECON OPS. As the deadline approached they would be pulled from everything for total focus on the mission, day in, day out. They would eat, drink, sleep, and breathe the mission....

 

...all under the watchful eye of their officer in charge (OIC), CPO Elmo Tasker.

 

 

Major Ishiiu knew all too well that one member of the asset extraction team - namely Cass - was, to put it nicely, damn short on team-work, and the presence of a new team member, Ensign Silver, complicated the issue. To fix the problem he’d put together as rigorous a training detachment that he could from the platoon, then he put the entire platoon behind the operation to train the eight who would go on the mission. The platoon always trained together, but it seemed to Cass that their numbers had doubled since she was last down there, and the trainers were out for blood.

 

 

The Major chose CPO Elmo Tasker, the “old man,” for several reasons. He’d seen so much action there was no way he could fit all the ribbons on his uniform, and his stint at Coronado earned him a reputation as a feared instructor, able to wither the toughest candidate with one look. His sharp tongue and grating bark stayed with them way into retirement.

 

Every last man in the platoon respected him, bar none. He could get the job done, get it done well, and in record time. With the extraction window of opportunity closing in, that didn’t leave a whole lot of wiggle room for extensive training, and if anyone could do it, Tasker could.

 

 

The more you sweat in training the less you bleed in combat. Hell, Cass wasn’t just sweating, she was already bleeding and seriously thinking of investing her retirement in medical supplies. But it had the desired effect: give back what they give you, only make it worse for them. You get backed against a wall, back them up against it and cave it in. They press at you, you press back. Harder.

 

During the mission nothing was taken for granted. Sure, they had a plan, but 98% of the time whatever plan that had been put together went south, so they’d damn well better be prepared to go with it. They’d be prepared to infil half a world away or into the middle of hostiles; they’d extract the same way, night or day, fair weather or foul. Not knowing the assets’ condition, they were prepared to carry them out, possibly stretching their medical skills to the limit.

 

 

The infil point was dense jungle, snaked with waterways cutting through deep chasms and swamps in between. If things went south they’d have to be prepared for it all, so they trained as best they could with what they had for all terrain, all possible scenarios...

 

...which brings us to the CHiT.

 

Creek’s FORECON OPS wasn’t exactly a planet, but Tasker had a knack for making it real enough. Yeah, he was that good. Keep in mind that a planet’s natural water supply is seldom like a training pool and consider how many streams, rivers, or lakes are really clear and clean. Some of the rivers on-planet were class 5 rapids, but most were meandering, muddy, and choked with vegetation. And the swamps?

 

Yeah, you guessed it. For several days the main graduated terrace pool in FORECON OPS had a... questionable smell, to put it mildly. And it wasn’t all that mild.

 

 

In all his wisdom, Chief Tasker had commandeered everything from Creek’s CHT: Collection Holding Transfer tanks, also known as the recycle tank or, in more plain language, the sewer. So now, not only did the Marine locker room and showers reek of industrial grade liniments and some home remedies with questionable ingredients that were liberally applied to sore, aching muscles, they had that most distinctive CHiT smell - pronounced just like the other four-letter word. ‘Course, the teams did use rebreathers, but that left the rest of their bodies and whatever they were wearing that day ready to return to the recycle bin. Problem was, you can’t just toss your body into the recycler, so you have to deal with it... as best you can.

 

 

Today during Charlie shift, Warrant Officer Cassidy Granger had dealt with it as best she could. She’d used everything at her disposal - as did the rest of the team - and endured the raucous, though good-natured jeers from the training detachment (expected and taken in stride). If they’d had bleach aboard she probably would have tried that, but what they had at their disposal did a passable job for engineering personnel and maybe security (where their chief could station ‘em away from everyone else), but on the bridge? Not even a brand spanking new uniform could hide the smell of liniment and residual... Eau de CHiT.

 

And Alpha shift followed smack dab on the heels of Charlie. Ooorah!

 

Cass stepped out of the lift still in focused team mode, nodded smartly to the Captain and Exec, relieved the kid at nav, and logged in. Heads turned, noses wrinkled and some coughed. Not her problem; she was doing her job. Anyway, she was kind of enjoyin’ giving the Fleeters a small taste of her Marine life. She figured maybe the liniment would clear their sinuses, and the CHiT? Eyes focused on her consoles, she stifled a grin, remembering Rule #6: Don’t apologize; it’s a sign of weakness.*

 

<<TBC in sim>>

 

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References:

Lone Survivor: The Eyewitness Account of Operation Redwing and the Lost Heroes of SEAL Team 10; Luttrell & Robinson; Little Brown; June 2007.

Service: A Navy SEAL at War; Luttrell & Hornfischer; Little Brown; May, 2012.

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*Gibbs’ Rules to Live By; N.C.I.S.