Seal Team Seven Read Online Free PDF

century, Colonel,” one of the suits, a CIA liaison officer, said. “Warfare with all the comforts of home.” He took a bite from a slice of pepperoni pizza, and some of the others chuckled.
    Coburn said nothing, but continued to watch the stealthy deployment of his men on the screen. The comment about warfare in comfort rankled, but then, as friends of his in the Teams had often told him, “When an asshole gives you shit, you gotta consider the source.”
    Almost as though he’d read Coburn’s thought, Mason winked at him.
    Coburn rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, then leaned closer to the screen. “Could we see a wide-angle shot, please?” he asked quietly. The tight view requested earlier showed nothing but a single team sprinting toward the aircraft; there was a full platoon on the ground now, fourteen men, and he wanted to see the entire plan unfolding, not just one small part of it.
    The technician typed in a command, and the C-130, huge on the screen, dwindled to a toy outside a tiny cluster of buildings.
    According to plan, the two SEAL squads had approached the objective separately. Gold Squad was to neutralize the guards at the runway roadblock and in the control tower; Blue Squad would hit the guards outside the Hercules and board the aircraft itself. Coburn could just make out the flitting heat shadows of the two SEAL groups as they dispersed across the airfield. Two men appeared to be creeping up on the Iraqis at the roadblock. The others were moving to jump-off positions closer to the C-130.
    â€œFairyland, Tally Three” sounded over the room’s speakers. “Hot Iron, repeat, Hot Iron. ”
    General Bradley, one of the Air Force officers, cocked his head, listening to the murmured transmissions, relayed through an Air Force AWACS aircraft over northern Saudi Arabia. “Ah! There’s Tally Three. Here we go!”
    Tally Three was a pair of F-117 Stealth fighters circling south of al-Basra. When informed that the SEALs were going in, the black, arrowhead-shaped aircraft had swung north and commenced their approach. Their target was an Iraqi SAM site and command bunker dug into the hillside above the village of Zabeir. When the bunker went, the SEAL platoon would launch their assault.
    The tension in the room was growing, tightening. Even here, in a darkened room thousands of miles from where the action was going down, Coburn felt the old combat reflexes kicking in. His senses were sharpened; it seemed that he could smell not only the pizza, but the breath and sweat and aftershave of each of the men present in the room. He could hear the tick and hum of the room’s computers, the sigh of the air conditioner, the excitement in the anonymous radio voices of the AWACS crew as they noted the time and confirmed that Cowboy One, Two, and Three were all airborne.
    He desperately wanted to be in the field again, on the ground with Third Platoon.
    â€œMan, oh, man,” the spook said, grinning. “This is the way to fight a war!”
    Somehow, Coburn resisted the urge to drive that pizza slice down the man’s throat with his fist.

0236 hours (Zulu +3) Shuaba Airport, Iraq
    â€œYou got him?”
    â€œHe’s dead meat, Skipper. He just don’t know it yet.” Brown lay prone at Cotter’s side, the Remington braced on his left hand, motionless, his right eye pressed tight to the rubber shield of his starlight scope to keep the device from casting a telltale glow on his face. “Say the word ‘n’ I cap him.”
    Cotter checked his watch again. Tally Three ought to be sounding the starting gun almost any moment now. Invisible to radar, silent as death, an F-117 should have already loosed its Paveway II, sending the one-ton smart bomb gliding in along an invisible laser beam and right through the SAM bunker’s front door. . . .
    A yellow flash lit up the southeastern sky, sudden, startling, and utterly silent as it