THIRTY SEVEN.

    Coleman was one of those steady types: never too up and never too down. He had an air of quiet authority about him that commanded a respect among his men. He was never overbearing or brusque, just calculating and decisive. But right now, more than anything, he was wet. The poncho that was draped over him had long ago become useless against the torrent of rain that was coming down by the bucket. The ground was so soaked, it was as if he was sitting on a plump sponge.

    With the onset of nightfall and the deluge of rain, visibility had been reduced to the point where they could no longer see the enemy camp. Coleman had moved Stroble and Hackett to a forward position an hour ago to keep an eye on things. They'd reported back exactly what the former SEAL team commander had expected; that nothing had changed. With their report in mind, Coleman dispatched Wicker on a mission to circumnavigate the camp so he could get a better feel for the entire area.

    As a general rule, when the weather was inclement people stayed put. It didn't matter if it was the South Pacific or the South Bronx. It was human nature to seek shelter and try to stay either warm or dry or cool depending on the conditions.

    SEALs were the exception to this rule. Knowing that they could and would be called on to perform an operation at a moment's notice, regardless of the weather, they took it upon themselves to train in the worst of conditions. It was also why they had to endure hell week during their selection process.

    Candidates were deprived of sleep for days on end and marched continually into the cold surf of the Pacific at all hours, in soiled sandy uniforms. Most of them could handle the physical torment, the academic rigors were challenging, but not overtaxing, and the verbal assaults from the instructors were for the most part ignored. It was the cumulative effect of all of these, however, that got to the SEAL candidates.

    By the time hell week arrived they were already in a weakened state. Their bodies were sore, their nerves were frayed and then the very bedrock of mental stability was jerked from underneath them. They were robbed of sleep and warmth, and when the human body is deprived of those two basic necessities individuals began to do strange and unpredictable things.

    This was when most of the men broke and rang the bell, signaling that they were dropping out. To the average citizen, waking up a group of young men by slamming metal trash can lids together at 2:00 A.M. was cruel enough, but after you added in the fact that the men had just gone to bed thirty minutes earlier and had not been allowed more than an hour of sleep in three days, it seemed downright inhuman.

    But the SEALs weren't looking for just anyone. There was nothing nice or normal about warfare. It was mentally and physically exhausting and it was all done without the comfort of a bed, a hot shower and warm food. Most important, it was unlike almost any other job for one plain reason; you couldn't just quit. If you were working for the airlines and you got sick of throwing heavy suitcases around, you could at a moment's notice walk away from it all. If you didn't like your boss at work, you could easily quit.

    In Scott Coleman's world, however, there was no quitting, because quitting usually meant that you had to die or someone else did. That more than anything was what hell week was about. The men who ran the Naval Special Warfare Center in Coronado needed to find out who could take it, because in the real world of special operations quitting was not an option.

    As miserable as Coleman was right now, he took a small amount of comfort in the fact that he'd been in much worse situations. He did have to admit one thing to himself, however; he wasn't a young stud anymore. Now that he was past forty, it seemed there was a new ache added to his list every month or so. He'd led a hard life for almost twenty years and it was catching up with him.

    As he leaned against the base of a hardwood tree he could tell his lower back and knees had stiffened considerably. He looked out into the faint gray light and checked his watch. The sun wasn't even down yet, but it might as well have been. Coleman judged his visibility was a scant twenty feet. Fishing a small packet from his pocket he tore it open and popped two Nuprin into his mouth. The anti inflammatory drug would help ease the aching in his back and knees. Rapp and the other warriors would be arriving shortly, and it would be time to move.

    Suddenly a whispered voice carried through the air.

    "Coming up behind you, boss."

    Coleman heard Wicker's voice and turned to see the sniper standing just ten feet away. The fact that he had gotten so close unnerved the commander. Either he was slipping or Wicker was the sneakiest little bastard he'd ever met.

    Coleman got to his feet and looking at the diminutive Wicker said, "You know that's a good way to get shot."

    Wicker smiled, his teeth a brilliant white against his camouflage-painted face.

    "You have to hear me in order to shoot me."

    "How long you been standing there?" demanded Coleman.

    "Long enough to watch you pop a couple of pills."

    "Shit." Coleman shook his head.

    "Boss, don't sweat it. With this rain falling I could sneak up on a buck and kill it with my knife."

    / bet you could, Coleman thought. Wicker was a hunter of both the four-and two-legged variety. Having grown up in Wyoming he'd hunted everything from caribou to black bear to timber wolves.

    "What'd you find out?"

    "I don't want to come off as being too confident, but I think I could have walked right through their camp unnoticed."

    "You're serious?" asked Coleman.

    "Yeah. It's this rain. It dulls the senses. It dampens the travel of noise to start with, but then after several hours like this it becomes hypnotic."

    Coleman nodded while he thought of something Rapp had said on the radio earlier.

    "What about that ridge on the other side of the camp?"

    "A couple of footpaths and that's it."

    "No sentries?"

    "None," Wicker said with a disgusted shake of his head.

    "And I took my time. I mean they don't have a single person out checking their perimeter. They're all sitting in those shacks or under the lean-tos.

    It's a joke these guys didn't get their asses kicked off this island a long time ago."

    "Well, when the guy commanding the opposing force is in your back pocket it makes things a little easier."

    Looking through the mist in the direction of the camp, Wicker added, "I think the four of us could go in there right now and get this done."

    Coleman suppressed a smile. He'd already thought the same thing, but he'd prefer to wait for the additional twenty-five shooters that were on their way. With a little luck they might be able to pull it off, but if there was a single miscue they'd get shredded.

    "Any other observations?"

    "Yeah." Wicker tilted his head back, looking up at the dark sky through a hole in the canopy. Raindrops pelted his face.

    "I don't think this thing is getting any weaker; in fact I think it's intensifying."

    Coleman agreed, and looking skyward he said, "The gusts are definitely more frequent."

    "And stronger." With caution in his voice he added, "If it gets worse we might want to think about a different way to get home."

    Just then a strong gust swept the treetops, shaking loose a curtain of rain. Coleman looked toward the ground to avoid getting his face doused and instead got a stream of water down the back of his neck.

    It had already been a long wet day and now it looked like things were only going to get worse.