Captain Steven Keller, Platoon Commander of SEAL Team One, sat outside Commander Pierce's office. He moved his large bulk uncomfortably in the wooden chair and waited patiently. Outside, the first morning rays were starting to light the California coastline. It was already starting to get hot - it would be one of those days again. A phone buzzed on the secretary's desk and she picked it up, nodded and motioned Keller in. He stood, adjusted his crisp, dark fatigues and marched into his superior's office.
        "Steve, morning, " said Pierce. Inside the room, Commander Pierce and both his aides wore harried expressions. Keller came to attention and threw a perfect salute.
        "At ease," said his commanding officer. He motioned him towards his desk and handed him a few photographs.
        "This is the SS Caribbean, an English cruise ship, at the moment one hundred twenty miles from the California coast. Also, this is the USS Dakota, a Los Angeles class submarine." Keller studied both pictures. One, a standard photo of a cruise ship over a deep blue sea under a cloudless sky. The other, a typical Navy shot of an attack sub. "One hour ago San Diego Naval Base received a flash message from the Dakota." Commander Pierce sat and leaned back in his leather chair. "Navy has reason to believe she's been destroyed." He let the fact sink in. Captain Keller raised his eyes sharply and met his superior's stare.
         "This is not a drill, Captain. Navy's mighty pissed off at the moment. Also, the Coast Guard picked up an emergency signal from the Caribbean, not two miles from the accident area. They sent a helicopter in and it disappeared. Guess our boys in San Diego want to know what's happened and that's where we come in." One of Pierce's aides brought a cup of coffee from the pot and handed it to Keller, who nodded his thanks. A good caffeine jolt. Although, he reflect, the morning seemed to have an excess of these.
        "Navy is sending a couple of Frigates in and an underwater rescue sub but they're leaving the cruise ship to us."
        "When do they want us in, sir?" asked Keller.
        "Right away. The Blackhawks are warming up already." Which meant that his team had already been woken and were preparing at this very moment. "The operation stinks. No recon, no data, no nothing. Usual stuff. This is floor plan of the Caribbean." Pierce handed over a standard 3 by 2 foot engineering plan. On it, etched in blue ink, he saw a top-down view of the cruise ship, each room and cabin carefully detailed. "The mission is to find out what the hell is going on." And neutralize it, continued Keller.
        That was it. In the SEALS you didn't have to ask any other questions. They gave you an objective. You went in, accomplished it and got out.
        "Sir, your right, the mission sucks. Blind all the way." He checked his watch: it read five thirty five a.m.
        Pierce raised his eyebrows. "Don't they always. Good luck."
        Keller stood, saluted and pivoted. Outside the Commanding Officers barracks he jumped into the waiting HUMVEE and sped towards the landing field. The air seemed a lot more humid than it had been a few minutes before. It took them under a minute to get there. On the strip, two Blackhawk helicopters sat with their engines on low idle. Beside them, a Bell AH-1 Super Cobra attack chopper was revving up. That would be their airborne fire support. In front, the fifteen men of Team One were already dressed and fully equipped. They stood in groups of four checking their equipment. Keller's adrenaline rose, as it always did before a mission. A familiar warmth in the base of his stomach and a slightly acid taste in his mouth. He loved it.
        He hurried to where his second in command, Lieutenant Shelt, stood, his black battle fatigues fluttering in the helo's downdraft. Shelt looked up and saluted. "Sir, all present and ready."
        "Ok, let's get going." Keller grabbed his equipment, which had been assembled in front of the helo and climbed aboard the first Blackhawk. He moved quickly to the front, pulled his Kevlar body vest on and strapped himself into his post. The Blackhawks revved and lifted off, banking sharply on their westerly heading.
        Keller started to check his stuff. First, he donned his communication headset, basically two small ear plugs and a tiny microphone that fit snugly around his head and switched into a small transceiver in his belt. He switched the transmitter on. With it he'd be able to stay in constant touch with the rest of his squad and through their high powered satellite communications gear with the base.
        Following this, he pulled his shoulder strap on and checked his sidearm, a Heckler & Koch P9S 9mm automatic. Keller actioned the loading mechanism, checked the magazine and, once satisfied, slid it into place under his left arm. Next, he lifted his main weapon, a Heckler & Koch MP5 compact submachine gun.
        The rest of his equipment, grenades, flares and tiny medikit he checked quickly and thoroughly. This done, he pulled a black grease camouflage bar from his chest pocket and started to cover his skin.
        "Okay, everyone," he said into his headset." Let's sound off." One by one, the rest of the sixteen man team checked in.
        "Good. Mission is like this," when Keller spoke, he did so with an economy of words that bespoke the rest of his actions. Keller quickly got his men up to date and ended with the final mission profile :"We have to secure the cruise ship and report in. Coast Guard has been unable to communicate with the ship so we don't know if there are any live civilians. Be careful, we don't know what we're up against. We'll be landing on the aft section and working forward. Four man teams, one port, one starboard, one above decks and one below. Questions ?" There were none.
        The Blackhawks were moving at their cruise speed of 145 mph, which would put them in the drop zone in under an hour and a half. Beside them the Cobra was keeping station.
        Keller leaned back, closed his eyes and lost himself deep within his thoughts. SEAL training is without doubt one of the toughest experiences a man can undergo: it requires many months to train a SEAL, through courses so tough that an incredible stamina and threshold for pain are necessary. Keller, who had emerged from the course with honors, had learned to delve deep within himself in search of the energy that lies in the inner most recesses of each person and only the most challenging of situations can bring out. Keller was super-charging himself.
        So deep was his concentration that time flew by. He was slightly shocked when the pilot connected the overhead speakers and informed them that the SS Caribbean was at five minutes distance. Keller sat up straight. "OK, people, hook up." The eight SEALS in the helo stood up and walked towards the open doors. The sea below them rushed hypnotically past and the air shot inside the cabin adding to the racket of the twin GE engines. Shouting was out of the questions but they counted on hand signals. Each of the men attached a rope to the outer fuselage of the helo and hooked themselves to it with a hip harness ready for a fast rope insertion onto the cruise ship.
        Keller noted that the Cobra had moved slightly forward. If there was anti-aircraft trouble, the Cobra would cover them. The Blackhawk came in low, directly to the rear section of the Caribbean, reared its nose to stop above the DZ and remained in a hover as the SEALS, as one man, dropped to the deck from 60 feet. As Keller descended he noted that the cruise ship looked decidedly empty. The sixteen men hit the deck and immediately fanned out in four man teams. The two transport helos, moved away quickly while the Cobra took station at one thousand feet.
        Keller would lead Group Alpha down the port side upper deck, while Lieutenant Shelt would do so with Group Bravo on the starboard side. Chief Petty Officer Johnson (Group Charlie) and Leading Petty Officer Deleo (Group Delta) would scan below decks. Each group carried at least one shotgun, plastic C-4 explosive, four MP5 submachine guns, and several smaller pistols. Additionally, Group Bravo was assigned an M-60 heavy machine gun and Group Alpha a Stinger shoulder fired missile. SEAL Team One had enough firepower to stop a small army.
        Keller looked around the aft section. A large circular swimming pool occupied most of the space. Around it, plastic beach chairs mounted guard for tourists that were not there. Drinks lay untouched on tables, a few overturned. Towels still drapped over chairs. On the far side of the pool Keller saw a bar, with several large stools in front, and a restaurant. Most of the tables still had food on them : dinner from the previous evening. Behind this, a double door led into the main lounge. On either side, a large gangway led down the entire length of the Caribbean. Level to the double doors, two iron stairwells led below decks.
        "Groups Charlie and Delta, move forward and inside," said Keller over the com link. First the point men rose and quickly took stations at either side of the double door. Taking turns, they peered inside and then nodded at the rest of the team. All clear. Group Bravo moved starboard and Keller took his own group forward. The morning sun beat down on them with increasing force as they made their way slowly forward. They ship was large but it took them only ten minutes to reach the forward section. No news had come over his radio from the other groups so Keller presumed the top deck was deserted. Keller crouched next to the front of the stairwell leading upwards to the bridge and signaled his point man up. The radio crackled. "Group Bravo. All clear starboard side. We're heading below to deck one."
        "Affirmative, Bravo. Group Alpha is moving up to the bridge," whispered Keller. The point man had, by now reached the top rung of the ladder and was signaling the rest of the group up. Keller climbed the stairs and entered the bridge from the port side door. The large, white room was empty. To the forward side rows of computer displays, GPS and satellite equipment and engine information were unmanned. To his right, a door led to the rear section of the bridge and, he consulted the map, to further stairwells leading down. The iron door was open, secured against the bulkhead. He was about to leave the bridge through the rear exit when the radio came to life.
        "Group Delta has contact on lower deck two," a whispered voice. "Movement in front at the end of the corridor. Lights are out."
        "OK, Delta. Evaluate," breathed Keller. He took station by the rear exit, his radio man beside him while the other two members of his team crept down into the lower deck. A bridge unmanned was not a good sign. His radio came on again, an urgent and loud voice.
        "Captain." Keller froze. He could feel the tension. "One man down. Fernandez, cut in two. I don't know what the hell...." a loud staccato of machine gun cut the conversation and then shouting. "Everyone take cover...." a loud fizzing sound, "....Rawlings, we got something behind us..." further machine gun fire, now more sustained,.... "oh shit, Peters is down...Duck, get over here, cover in that room..." another fizz and then silence. Keller felt his blood boil. It was suddenly very hot.
        "All groups, converge on deck two, now!" he said. It would take then a few minutes to get there. They were SEALS and they weren't taking any extra risks. Rushing into a battle area was suicidal. They quickly and quietly crept down the stairwell to deck one. The decks were dark. Light was seeping in from outside, but all electrical lighting was non-functional. Keller stopped, consulted the map and pointed silently right, back towards the aft section. Rows of doors lined the corridor. Here and there a few English portraits of old wooden ships were framed at shoulder height. The carpet was a plush blue. He took it all in, stashed it in his memory and kept going. Halfway down the corridor a large circular stair angled down. It was not like the metallic functional stairwells of the outer deck; these were made for rich passengers, old ladies who negotiated them gingerly towards dinner, or young men on their way for a swim. They had probably never had a SEAL team creeping down them. Keller thought he could smell a faint cordite odor, mingled with something like the ozone smell at the seaside.
        "Captain, Group Charlie. We're on lower deck two, front section, starboard side. You'd better get over here." The voice held a distinct tone.
        "OK. Group Bravo. Continue sweep. Go below to deck three." Keller clicked his radio and moved forward as fast as was prudent. It didn't take long for his group to reach the fire fight area were he was met by Chief Petty Officer Johnson.
        "Sir, whatever hit them has a shitload of firepower." The starboard corridor was a long, wide walkway crisscrossed by smaller corridors at right angles, connecting it with the portside corridor thus allowing passengers to cross from one side of the ship to the other. In essence, the corridors were divided into sections. From the center of the Caribbean, seven such sections ran forward and seven aft. Team Delta had been ambushed in the furthermost front section.
        The corridor was a mess. Several doors had been blown in by what looked like grenade explosions. Shrapnel peppered the walls as well as dark scorch marks. A hole had been punctured in one of the mahogany panels straight through the cast iron steel deck. The remains of Group Delta lay on the floor. Keller had never seen such damage. One of his men had been literally cut in half and another had had most of his upper torso, including his head, blown from his body. Steam rose from superheated surfaces and added to the general stench. He blanched and felt his stomach turn. All of the group - every member, damn it - was dead.
        "Fuck," he flipped his radio. "OK, from now the operation has gone from evaluate to terminate. Everything that moves is a liable target. Just be careful with the civilians." He turned to PO Johnson. "Comb this deck. Let's move back to the rear section...."
        "Captain," an urgent whisper on his radio. "Movement down port corridor. Right over here." Enemy was coming back for a second kill. No way. Keller's blood boiled harder. The call had come from the lookouts he had left two sections back. Between them and where he was standing at the moment, two other team members where set up behind the M-60 heavy machine gun. The radio continued. "Shit, several contacts. Coming this way." And then something that made his hair stand up. "Captain, whatever it is, it ain't human."
        "Take them then get back here," he said into his mike.
        Two sections forward, seaman Franelli crouched low into the corridor and let his MP5 rip on full automatic. Against procedures but he wasn't taking any chances. The alien let out a shrill scream as it's chest burst open and lurched back with the force of the bullets. Franelli moved quickly back into cover as his team mate checked the corridor by peering around the corner at a different height. Nothing. Something. A burst of light fizzed by him as he ducked back into cover and then was flattened against the mahogany wall. The explosion had hit the wall behind him but it seemed as a hammer had bounced off and landed between his shoulder blades. Franelli recovered swiftly, pulled a grenade from his belt, bit the ring off and lobbed it past the corner. They didn't wait to here it go off. Turning they ran at a crouch towards the rest of the team.
        "One down. One coming this way," they said into their headsets.
        "OK." He signaled Johnson, Group Charlie lead to move over to the port side using the first available connecting corridor, where the M-60 was posted, then cut back to trap the remaining targets. The four SEALS moved off quickly. Keller then shot the bolt off one of the cabin doors, kicked it in, checked that nothing was inside and knelt by the door frame. If a fight erupted he could duck in for cover. His radio man did the same on the other side of the corridor. Good crossfire positions. Keller saw his men trotting back and then as they reached the last connecting passage turn left towards the port side. He squinted and saw movement. By now natural light was compensating for the electrical failure.
        His eyes widened. From his concealed position he saw a little gray man, about half his height creeping down the corridor. Its black eyes, much larger than normal contained no emotions. It had a large head but small, thin arms and legs. The gun, on the contrary, was large. He caught his radioman's stare and nodded. Whatever it was, it was going to stop being shortly. His radioman, crouched into the corridor and let of a three round burst, catching the alien in the gut. A loud shriek and it was down. Keller rolled into the corridor, and let off a quick burst himself to be sure. The answer was immediate. A small alien, moved into view three sections down and fire his weapon. The blast was incredible, smashing into the forward bulkhead and leaving a large hole. The concussion was pretty much to par.
        It knocked Keller flat on his stomach and emptied the air from his lungs. Ignoring the pain, and the bright red sparks in his eyes, he rolled into cover. His eardrums sang but he heard the M-60 open, and another satisfying scream.
        Through the puzzle of noises, his radio came on. "Group Bravo. We have contact on lower deck three."
        "If they don't look human, take them," said Keller. One deck below, two SEALS looked at each other with wide eyes. They came out of cover and instantly knew what Keller meant.
        "Group Charlie. We're set up on port side, section three." That would be two connecting corridors down from where he was.
        "OK, Group Alpha. Let's roll forward. We'll both sweep aft. Check every room." It would be a painstaking process, but they wanted no more surprises. The radio spoke in his ear.
        "Group Bravo. Contact cleared. Two, uh, things down. We're moving down to the engine room."
        Keller clicked his radio in response and edged forward.

        Then the air filled with a noise that he would come to recognize and hate: a low-pitched warble that rumbled against his chest. He froze, signaled his team to halt and looked around. Way ahead of them, half a dozen sections aft a small football sized frisbee negotiated a corner and accelerated towards them. It wasn't moving very rapidly (hell, it had just turned a corner) but it had an ominous look about it. The frisbee was a dark metallic color, it's noise increasing in pitch as came to meet them. Keller shouted a warning and dove into one of the connecting corridors. He ran until he reached the starboard corridor and then allowed himself to look back. His radioman was right behind him, but the M-60 team lagged under the weight of the heavy machine gun. Keller felt more than heard the frisbee change pitch and he glimpsed as it angled towards the ground. The explosion was tremendous. His two man M-60 team were picked up like puppets and flung towards him. Again he crashed against the floor and his lungs were emptied.
         "Holy shit," he gasped. "The fuck was that?" His radioman turned over on the floor and pointed his MP5 towards the port corridor. He started to crawl backwards. Keller reflected briefly. Half of his team was dead. His options were severely limited and the situation was way out of hand. Time to call it quits. Fuck it, the Navy could sink this tub for all he cared.
         "All SEALS listen up. Abandon mission, repeat, were outta here. Everybody up to the aft deck." Then to the airborne pilots. "Cobra One, were coming out. You see anything move, fry it." Keller got up and winced. Blood oozed from a dark gash in his right leg. He continued limping down the corridor even as his radio came on.
         "Group Bravo," Keller could hear machine gun fire in the background." Captain, we're engaging hostiles. Retreating to upper decks but we sure could use some help." The tone belied the casual phrasing.
         "Bravo, where are you?"
         "Coming up to deck one through the central staircase. Up from the mall area. We have two wounded and there are at least three hostiles." A loud thump of a grenade.
         Keller looked forward and consulted his map. Central staircase, starboard side connected the mall on deck two with deck one. One of those plush, wide passenger stairs with a chrome banister and large steps. Two men at the top could certainly give adequate cover. He motioned Group Charlie forward towards the upper deck. They should clear the deck if necessary and set up defensive positions. His radioman by his side, he ran limping towards the stairs. He slid to a stop and called down to Group Bravo. Then he pulled his communications gear and called his base in San Diego. They would be leaving shortly. SEAL business, asses and evaluate, was over. They would need large numbers of men to thoroughly comb the ship, top to bottom, every cabin, every cabinet and every porthole. A loud thump echoed up the stairs followed by machine gun fire, and his men came into view, limping up the steps, helping each other up. When the last of Group Charlie had negotiated the staircase, Keller pulled a grenade, primed it and lobbed it down, taking cover by flattening himself to the floor. His leg was starting to hurt badly and he tried to ignore the pain. The grenade went off and he emptied half a magazine without looking into the deck below. Then he turned and hurried towards the stairwell leading to the upper deck. He exited into the bright sun next to the pool where an age ago he had landed. Both Blackhawks balanced in a low hover. Chairs had blown everywhere from the helos downdraft and towels scattered in the wind. Group Charlie was giving cover while Group Bravo with its two wounded clambered aboard one of the choppers. Once all the men were secured, the Blackhawk reared and the second helo occupied its place. Keller signaled the rest of SEALS to evac and he ran, half crouched to the awaiting helo. A chair exploded in front of him, leaving a charred hole in the wooden deck. He felt the heat and the concussion of the shot and heard the Cobra open up, its nose mounted rotary cannon blasting into the open double doors that led down to the lower decks. Anything standing there was definitely in trouble. Before climbing aboard the waiting chopper he turned to double check that none of his men were being left back and froze. A frisbee appeared through the double doors, corrected its trajectory and directed itself towards him. Keller lifted his MP5 and fired wildly at the incoming menace. If it hit the helo, they were all as good as done. However, for the first time in the day luck chose to side with them and the frisbee moved into the rain of bullets coming from the Cobra, exploding violently. Keller's last thought before he was flung unconscious to the deck was that, next time they would need a hell of a lot more firepower.

The next chapters is:

• First Raid: the fight between a UFO and four F-18s, and the subsequent ground raid.