Seal Team Ten Read online

  Seal Team Ten

  by Suzanne Brockmann

  1 - Prince Joe

  2 - Forever Blue

  3 - Frisco’s Kid

  4 - Everyday, Average Jones

  5 - Harvard’s Education (1998)

  6 - It Came Upon A Midnight Clear (1998)

  7 - The Admiral's Bride (1999)

  8 - Identity: Unknown (1999)

  9 - Get Lucky (2000)

  10 - Taylor’s Temptation (2001)

  1 - Prince Joe

  For Eric Ruben, my swim buddy.

  Prologue

  Baghdad, January 1991

  Friendly fire.

  It was called friendly because it came from U.S. bombers and missile launchers, but it sure as hell didn't feel friendly to Navy SEAL Lieutenant Joe Catalanotto, as it fell from the sky like deadly rain. Friendly or not, an American bomb was still a bomb, and it would indiscriminately destroy any­thing in its path. Anything, or anyone, between the U.S. Air Force bombers and their military targets was in serious danger.

  And SEAL Team Ten's seven-man Alpha Squad was definitely between the bombers and their targets. They were deep behind enemy lines, damn near sitting on top of a fac­tory known to manufacture ammunition.

  Joe Catalanotto, commander of the Alpha Squad, glanced up from the explosives he and Blue and Cowboy were rigging against the Ustanzian Embassy wall. The city was lit up all around them, fires and explosions hellishly il­luminating the night sky. It seemed unnatural, unreal.

  Except it was real. Damn, it was way real. It was danger­ous with a capital D. Even if Alpha Squad wasn't hit by friendly fire, Joe and his men ran the risk of bumping into a platoon of enemy soldiers. Hell, if they were captured, commando teams like the SEALs were often treated like spies and executed—after being tortured for information.

  But this was their job. This was what Navy SEALs were trained to do. And all of Joe's men in Alpha Squad per­formed their tasks with clockwork precision and cool con­fidence. This wasn't the first time they'd had to perform a rescue mission in a hot war zone. And it sure as hell wasn't going to be the last.

  Joe started to whistle as he handled the plastic explo­sives, and Cowboy—otherwise known as Ensign Harlan Jones from Fort Worth, Texas—looked up in disbelief.

  "Cat works better when he's whistling," Blue explained to Cowboy over his headset microphone. "Drove me nuts all through training—until I got used to it. You do get used to it."

  "Terrific," Cowboy muttered, handing Joe part of the fuse.

  His hands were shaking.

  Joe glanced up at the younger man. Cowboy was new to the squad. He was scared, but he was fighting that fear, his jaw tight and his teeth clenched. His hands might be shak­ing, but the kid was doing his job—he was sticking it out.

  Cowboy glared back at Joe, daring him to comment.

  So of course, Joe did. "Air raids make you clausty, huh, Jones?" he said. He had to shout to be heard. Sirens were wailing and bells were ringing and antiaircraft fire was hammering all over Baghdad. And of course there was also the brain-deafening roar of the American bombs that were vaporizing entire city blocks all around them. Yeah, they were in the middle of a damned war.

  Cowboy opened his mouth to speak, but Joe didn't let him. "I know how you're feeling," Joe shouted as he put the finishing touches on the explosives that would drill one mother of a hole into the embassy foundation. "Give me a chopper jump into cold water, give me a parachute drop from thirty thousand feet, give me a fourteen-mile swim hell, give me hand-to-hand with a religious zealot. But this... I gotta tell you, kid, inserting into Baghdad with these hundred-pounders falling through the sky is making me a little clausty myself."

  Cowboy snorted. "Clausty?" he said. "You? Shoot, Mr. Cat, if there's anything on earth you're afraid of, they hav­en't invented it yet."

  "Working with nukes," Joe said. "That sure as hell gives me the creeps."

  "Me, too," Blue chimed in.

  The kid wasn't impressed. "You guys know a SEAL who isn't freaked out by disarming nuclear weapons, and I'll show you someone too stupid to wear the trident pin."

  "All done," Joe said, allowing himself a tight smile of satisfaction. They'd blow this hole open, go in, grab the ci­vilians and be halfway to the extraction point before ten minutes had passed. And it wouldn't be a moment too soon. What he'd told Ensign Jones was true. Jesus, Mary and Jo­seph, but he hated air raids.

  Blue McCoy stood and hand-signaled a message to the rest of the team, in case they'd missed hearing Joe's an­nouncement in the din.

  The ground shook as a fifty-pound bomb landed in the neighborhood, and Blue met Joe's eyes and grinned as Cowboy swore a blue streak.

  Joe laughed and lit the fuse.

  "Thirty seconds," he told Blue, who held up the right number of fingers for the rest of the SEALs to see. The squad scrambled to the other side of the street for cover.

  When a bomb is about to go off, Joe thought, there's al­ways a moment, sometimes just a tiny one, when every­thing seems to slow down and wait. He looked at the familiar faces of his men, and he could see the adrenaline that pumped through them in their eyes, in the set of their mouths and jaws. They were good men, and as always, he was going to do his damnedest to see that they got out of this city alive. Forget alive—he was going to get them out of this hellhole untouched.

  Joe didn't need to look at the second hand on his watch. He knew it was coming, despite the fact that time had seemed to slow down and stretch wa-a-a-ay out....

  Boom.

  It was a big explosion, but Joe barely heard it over the sounds of the other, more powerful explosions happening all over the city.

  Before the dust even settled, Blue was on point, leading the way across the war-torn street, alert for snipers and staying low. He went headfirst into the neat little crater they had blown into the side of the Ustanzian Embassy.

  Harvard was on radio, and he let air support know they were going in. Joe was willing to bet big money that the air force was too busy to pay Alpha Squad any real attention. But Harvard was doing his job, same as the rest of the SEALs. They were a team. Seven men—seven of the armed forces' best and brightest—trained to work and fight to­gether, to the death if need be.

  Joe followed Blue and Bobby into the embassy base­ment. Cowboy came in after, leaving Harvard and the rest of the team guarding their backsides.

  It was darker than hell inside. Joe slipped his night-vision glasses on just in time. He narrowly missed running smack into Bobby's back and damn near breaking his nose on the shotgun the big man wore bolstered along his spine.

  "Hold up," Bob signaled.

  He had his NVs on, too. So did Blue and Cowboy.

  They were alone down there, except for the spiders and snakes and whatever else was slithering along the hard dirt floor.

  "Damned layout's wrong. There's supposed to be a flight of stairs," Joe heard Blue mutter, and he stepped forward to take a look. Damn, they had a problem here.

  Joe pulled the map of the embassy from the front pocket of his vest, even though he'd long since memorized the basement's floor plan. The map in his hands was of an en­tirely different building than the one they were standing in. It was probably the Ustanzian Embassy in some other city, in some country on the other side of the damned globe. Damn! Someone had really screwed up here.

  Blue was watching him, and Joe knew his executive offi­cer was thinking what he was thinking. The desk-riding genius responsible for securing the floor plan of this em­bassy was going to have a very bad day in about a week. Maybe less. Because the commander and XO of SEAL Team Ten's Alpha Squad were going to pay him a little visit.

  But right now, they had a problem on their hands.

  There were three hallway
s, leading into darkness. Not a stairway in sight.

  " Wesley and Frisco," Blue ordered in his thick Southern drawl. "Get your butts in here, boys. We need split teams. Wes with Bobby. Frisco, stay with Cowboy. I'm with you, Cat."

  Swim buddies. Blue had read Joe's mind and done the smartest thing. With the exception of Frisco, who was baby­sitting the new kid, Cowboy, he'd teamed each man up with the guy he knew best—his swim buddy. In fact, Blue and Joe went back all the way to Hell Week. Guys who do Hell Week together—that excruciating weeklong torturous SEAL endurance test—stay tight. No question about it.

  Off they went, night-vision glasses still on, looking like some kind of weird aliens from outer space. Wesley and Bobby went left. Frisco and Cowboy took the right corri­dor. And Joe, with Blue close behind him, went straight ahead.

  They were silent now, and Joe could hear each man's quiet breathing over his headset's earphones. He moved slowly, carefully, checking automatically for booby traps or any hint of movement ahead.

  "Supply room," Joe heard Cowboy breathe into his headset's microphone.

  "Ditto," Bobby whispered. "We got canned goods and a wine cellar. No movement, no life."

  Joe caught sight of the motion the same instant Blue did. Simultaneously, they flicked the safeties of their MP5s down to full fire and dropped into a crouch.

  They'd found the stairs going up.

  And there, underneath the stairs, scared witless and shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, was the crown prince of Ustanzia, Tedric Cortere, using three of his aides as sand­bags.

  “Don't shoot," Cortere said in four or five different lan­guages, his hands held high above his head.

  Joe straightened, but he kept his gun raised until he saw all four pairs of hands were empty. Then he pulled his NVs from his face, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dim red glow of a penlight Blue had pulled from his pocket.

  "Good evening, Your Royal Highness," he said. "I am Navy SEAL Lieutenant Joe Catalanotto, and I'm here to get you out."

  "Contact," Harvard said into the radio, having heard Joe's royal greeting to the prince via his headset. "We have made contact. Repeat, we have picked up luggage and are heading for home plate."

  That was when Joe heard Blue laugh.

  "Cat," the XO drawled. "Have you looked at this guy? I mean, Joe, have you really looked?"

  A bomb hit about a quarter mile to the east, and Prince Tedric tried to burrow more deeply in among his equally frightened aides.

  If the prince had been standing, he would have been about Joe's height, maybe a little shorter.

  He was wearing a torn white satin jacket, reminiscent of an Elvis impersonator. The garment was amazingly tacky. It was adorned with gold epaulets, and there was an entire row of medals and ribbons on the chest—for bravery under enemy fire, no doubt. His pants were black, and grimy with soot and dirt.

  But it wasn't the prince's taste in clothing that made Joe's mouth drop open. It was the man's face.

  Looking at the Crown Prince of Ustanzia was like look­ing into a mirror. His dark hair was longer than Joe's, but beyond that, the resemblance was uncanny. Dark eyes, big nose, long face, square jaw, heavy cheekbones.

  The guy looked exactly like Joe.

  Chapter 1

  A few years later Washington, D.C.

  All of the major network news cameras were rolling as Tedric Cortere, crown prince of Ustanzia, entered the air­port.

  A wall of ambassadors, embassy aides and politicians moved forward to greet him, but the prince paused for just a moment, taking the time to smile and wave a greeting to the cameras.

  He was following her instructions to the letter. Veronica St. John, professional image and media consultant, al­lowed herself a sigh of relief. But only a small one, because she knew Tedric Cortere very well, and he was a perfection­ist. There was no guarantee that Prince Tedric, the brother of Veronica's prep-school roommate and very best friend in the world, was going to be satisfied with what he saw to­night on the evening news.

  Still, he would have every right to be pleased. It was day one of his United States goodwill tour, and he was looking his best, oozing charm and royal manners, with just enough blue-blooded arrogance thrown in to captivate the royalty-crazed American public. He was remembering to gaze di­rectly into the news cameras. He was keeping his eye move­ments steady and his chin down. And, heaven be praised, for a man prone to anxiety attacks, he was looking calm and collected for once.

  He was giving the news teams exactly what they wanted— a close-up picture of a gracious, charismatic, fairy-tale-handsome European prince.

  Bachelor. She'd forgotten to add "bachelor" to the list. And if Veronica knew Americans—and she did; it was her business to know Americans—millions of American women would watch the evening news tonight and dream of be­coming a princess.

  There was nothing like fairy-tale fever among the public to boost relations between two governments. Fairy-tale fe­ver—and the recently discovered oil that lay beneath the parched, gray Ustanzian soil.

  But Tedric wasn't the only one playing to the news cam­eras this morning.

  As Veronica watched, United States Senator Sam Mc-Kinley flashed his gleaming white teeth in a smile so falsely genuine and so obviously aimed at the reporters, it made her want to laugh.

  But she didn't laugh. If she'd learned one thing during her childhood and adolescence as the daughter of an interna­tional businessman who moved to a different and often ex­otic country every year or so, she'd learned that diplomats and high government officials—particularly royalty—take themselves very, very seriously.

  So, instead of laughing, she bit the insides of her cheeks as she stopped several respectful paces behind the prince, at the head of the crowd of assistants and aides and advisers who were part of his royal entourage.

  "Your Highness, on behalf of the United States Govern­ment," McKinley drawled in his thick Texas accent, shak­ing the prince's hand, and dripping with goodwill, "I'd like to welcome you to our country's capital."

  "I greet you with the timeless honor and tradition of the Ustanzian flag,” Prince Tedric said formally in his faintly British, faintly French accent, "which is woven, as well, into my heart."

  It was his standard greeting; nothing special, but it went over quite well with the crowd.

  McKinley started in on a longer greeting, and Veronica let her attention wander.

  She could see herself in the airport's reflective glass win­dows, looking cool in her cream-colored suit, her flame-red hair pulled neatly back into a French braid. Tall and slen­der and serene, her image wavered slightly as a jet plane took off, thundering down the runway.

  It was an illusion. Actually, she was giddy with nervous excitement, a condition brought about by the stress of knowing that if Tedric didn't follow her instructions and ended up looking bad on camera, she'd be the one to blame. Sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades, another side effect of the stress she was under. No, she felt neither cool nor serene, regardless of how she looked.

  She had been hired because her friend, Princess Wila, knew that Veronica was struggling to get her fledgling con­sulting business off the ground. Sure, she'd done smaller, less detailed jobs before, but this was the first one in which the stakes were so very high. If Veronica succeeded with Tedric Cortere, word would get out, and she'd have more business than she could handle. If she succeeded with Cor­tere...

  But Veronica had also been hired for another reason. She'd been hired because Wila, concerned about Ustanzia's economy, recognized the importance of this tour. Despite the fact that teaching Wila's brother, the high-strung Prince of Ustanzia, how to appear calm and relaxed while under the watchful eyes of the TV news cameras was Veronica's first major assignment as an image and media consultant, Wila trusted her longtime friend implicitly to get the job done.

  "I'm counting on you, Veronique," Wila had said to Ve­ronica over the telephone just last night. She had added with her customary frank
ness, "This American connection is too important. Don't let Tedric screw this up."

  So far Tedric was doing a good job. He looked good. He sounded good. But it was too early for Veronica to let her­self feel truly satisfied. It was her job to make sure that the prince continued to look and sound good.

  Tedric didn't particularly like his younger sister's best friend, and the feeling was mutual. He was an impatient, short-tempered man, and rather used to getting his own way. Very used to getting his own way.

  Veronica could only hope he would see today's news re­ports and recognize the day's success. If he didn't, she'd hear about it, that was for sure.

  Veronica knew quite well that over the course of the prince's tour of the United States she was going to earn every single penny of her consultant's fee. Because although Ted­ric Cortere was princely in looks and appearance, he was also arrogant and spoiled. And demanding. And often ir­rational. And occasionally, not very nice.

  Oh, he knew his social etiquette. He was in his element when it came to pomp and ceremony, parties and other so­cial posturing. He knew all there was to know about cloth­ing and fashion. He could tell Japanese silk from American with a single touch. He was a wine connoisseur and a gour­met. He could ride horses and fence, play polo and water-ski. He hired countless aides and advisers to dance atten­dance upon him, and provide him with both his most triv­ial desires and the important information he needed to get by as a representative of his country.

  As Veronica watched, Tedric shook the hands of the U.S. officials. He smiled charmingly and she could practically hear the sound of the news cameras zooming in for a close-up.

  The prince glanced directly into the camera lenses and let his smile broaden. Spoiled or not, with his trim, athletic body and handsome face, the man was good-looking.

  Good-looking? No, Veronica thought. To call him good-looking wasn't accurate. Quite honestly, the prince was gorgeous. He was a piece of art. He had long, thick, dark hair that curled down past his shoulders. His face was long and lean with exotic cheekbones that hinted of his moth­er's Mediterranean heritage. His eyes were the deepest brown, surrounded by sinfully long lashes. His jaw was square, his nose strong and masculine.