I read somewhere that “true love comes quietly, without banners or flashing lights,” and that was certainly the case for Korrina and me. What started out as a simple friendship quickly grew into a trusting relationship that had us spending countless hours talking about the struggles we shared being military parents separated from our children. I learned how devoted she was as a parent, which in turn made me a better one, too. I also learned how to listen to what she was really trying to say, and I began to realize how much I adored this woman.
For the first time in my life, I felt truly complete. My career was on the fast track; I had recovered from my financial difficulties and had found someone who loved and wanted me as much as I did her. Yet she had pending orders to Virginia, and we knew our lives would once again change. Rather than break up, we believed we could survive the distance if for no other reason than because neither one needed anything from the other. Our relationship was based on our desire to be together as friends, then lovers, so a mutual trust existed like never before. Years later, I would ask Korrina to marry me, and when I told my mother of our engagement she answered with her typical words of wisdom. “Marky, I am glad you are marrying someone you like. Fondness is much stronger than passion. You’ll find as you go through your lives together, love, like memories, will continually fade and resurface, but your friendship will be the one constant that will hold the marriage together.”
9/11
I have always been an early riser due to the military lifestyle. I’d rise at 0500 in order to get a run in by the navy’s 0700 start. In September 2001, I lived a short six blocks from Balboa Park and had access to some of the best running trails in the city. I took full advantage of all of them, including on the Tuesday that changed the world as we knew it.
I returned from my morning run and opened the living room curtains and gazed out toward the San Diego airport and the bay just south of it. I followed my morning routine of calisthenics and postrun stretch while watching the morning shows, primarily for traffic and news. I was scheduled at the hospital and planned to take a leisurely bike ride through the park to get there. It was the first day for a new PA student at the internal medicine clinic, and I looked forward to introducing him or her to the staff. I’d been away from the teams for several years and had become fully immersed in the medical community and nearly forgotten about the life I’d left behind.
Just as the television glowed to life, the phone rang, indicating something was wrong. No one called that early unless it was a wrong number or bad news. Caller ID indicated the cell phone number of my close friend and fellow Medical Service Corps officer Jeff Oman. Odd, I thought. Maybe there’d been a change in my schedule and I was needed at Miramar?
“Morning, Jeff. What’s up?”
“Are you watching the news? If not, I think you need to turn it on,” he said in his typical low mumble. Jeff was the administration officer for the clinic; he didn’t particularly like the job, but there were a lot worse places to be stationed while he waited for a medical planner billet to open up with the marines.
“I just turned it on. What should I be looking for?” I asked, walking back into the living room to see what I was supposed to be looking for.
“A plane hit the World Trade Center.”
He kept talking, but my eyes were fixated on CNN’s special report. I turned up the volume to learn more. Just then the second plane hit the South Tower. “OK, that’s not a coincidence,” I said.
“Damn right,” Jeff replied. “I don’t think this will change too much for us, but your buddies across the bay are going to be real busy. I’ve got to get to work. If I find out anything I’ll page you.” I continued staring at the TV as I hung up the phone, trying to put it all together. Jeff was right; the SEALs on Coronado would soon be very busy.
Like everyone else on 9/11 I had a thousand thoughts going through my mind. I mentally went over the steps that I knew were going on in the military headquarters in Tampa. I sat and listened for several minutes, fully convinced we knew who was behind the attacks. They had tried to destroy the Twin Towers in 1993 and were known terrorists to the intelligence agencies. It was just a matter of time before we identified them and took action to prevent further attacks. It was inevitable that my life would once again abruptly change; it was just a matter of when.
Something was eerily different, far beyond the anxiety that sets in when you realize something is terribly wrong. It was the same experience I would get when the helicopter inserted the team on a mission. We’d quickly exit the aircraft to a perimeter, then hold for some time absorbing the sounds of the environment while our eyes adjusted. “That’s it,” I told myself. “It’s dead quiet.” The west side of my condo was a wall of windows that overlooked Lindbergh Field and the bay. From my living room I could see every takeoff and landing and all the boat traffic heading to and from the Coronado Bay Bridge. The airport was just a few miles away, but noise was never a problem. I could hear the faint sound of engines as they readied for their landing, but not today. The silence was palpable, and as I looked out my window I noticed the runways were dead still. Not one plane was moving. No takeoffs, no landings, not even a plane taxiing to the terminal. The bay was also still; nothing but calm waters. There wasn’t a wake of any kind. Normally, I see a navy ship or commercial freighter heading in or out of the bay. Today, nothing. Even the vibrant Coast Guard pier was dormant. As I headed for the door, the reporter said the FAA had grounded all commercial and private aircraft, and only military fighters were in the skies. It was as if America had hunkered down in its own security perimeter and was preparing to move out into the fight.
I checked in with Korrina, then grabbed my bike and departed for the hospital. As I biked through the park to the back entrance of the hospital I couldn’t help but notice several people sitting in their cars, hypnotized by the radio reports, while others were quickly moving across the empty grounds, no doubt seeking a television. After locking up my bike, I entered the medical center through the main doors of the pharmacy. Sailors were gathered around the TV that normally provided entertainment to folks waiting on their prescriptions. Only this time, instead of weather reports of a sunny warm day, we learned of a plane crashing into the Pentagon. We also heard the mastermind’s name for the first time: a terrorist named Osama bin Laden. The day was getting progressively worse, and the best thing I could do at that point was carry on and wait for orders.
* * *
Three weeks after the attacks, I was at Miramar helping marine units prepare for their deployment to Afghanistan. I received a call from Steve Galeski, our PA specialty leader. Steve was a former corpsman who had served with Marine Reconnaissance before becoming a PA. We first met during Desert Storm, when he was stationed on the same aircraft carrier my SEAL platoon utilized for interdiction operations as part of the UN-mandated blockade. When Scott, my senior corpsman, was injured just before operations commenced, I was left as the sole medical provider until the team could get another SEAL corpsman out to us. Steve stepped up to the plate by supplementing the medical evacuation bird, allowing me to remain on target should we take casualties.
“Mark, thought I’d let you know I’ve received word from above to locate a few of you SEAL-qualified medical personnel for some specialized operations,” Steve said directly.
“I figured something like this would be going on. How soon do you need a decision?” I asked.
“You have time. I have one of your SEAL classmates and friends ready to go. Just don’t take too long, otherwise Big Navy may put you in a billet you don’t want.”
I thought about how well my life was going, how I had more time to spend with my little girl and the money to make visits much more convenient. I thought about Korrina and the limited time we had before she left on her new set of orders, so after discussing it with Steve we both felt it was best if I remained on standby.
“Mark, I can’t hold off on this forever, so if you get a call from the regional POMI office [Plans,
Operations, and Medical Intelligence] assigning you to a deploying unit you call me right away,” he said in his typical “I know a guy” voice.
“Solid copy, Steve. You take care, and try not to ship yourself off to the war.”
“I’d go if I could, but I’m chained to this desk. Take care, my friend.”
The daily tempo returned to relative normal, despite the anthrax scares and other random security flare-ups. As Korrina’s departure time got closer, it seemed we saw less and less of each other. We watched the calendar with melancholy spirits and said painful good-byes as she departed for a brief stint in Rhode Island and then her duty station in Virginia. It was a very difficult time for both of us, but we promised to make it work, our words taking on a far greater meaning in a time of national crisis.
Not long after Korrina departed, Jeff asked me to visit his office. Captain Ferrara, the officer in charge of our clinic, had tasked Jeff with developing a manning plan. Deploying units were requesting medical officers, and we were sending them. Yet the clinic was still very busy, and we needed a strategy to keep the clinic operating at its current numbers while meeting the needs of the Marine Corps.
I entered Jeff ’s office and found him staring at a spreadsheet. He spoke without looking up.
“Mark, I scrunched this with the POMI office at NMCSD a hundred times, and the only way we can continue to support both the war effort and our military and retiree population is to deploy nearly all of our military providers and have the civilians run the clinic.” He looked up at me with solemn eyes. He had just told me to get ready for deployment. It was a foregone conclusion for a SEAL-qualified medic.
“We knew this day would be coming, and I greatly appreciate you and the captain giving me as much time as you did with my daughter.”
“Well, there won’t be a lot more, I’m afraid. You’re a hot commodity and the ground pounders want you right away, and this won’t be a short deployment for the infantry,” he said, obviously concerned about his friend.
“How much time before you have me shipping off?”
“A couple of weeks to two months at best.”
“Alright then, I need to make a call.”
OPERATORS—RETURN TO SPEC OPS
I’d been away from combat units for some time, so I was sent to a training facility in Virginia to reacclimate to the special operations culture. Much had changed since my time in the SEAL Teams, especially the command structure. The Global War on Terror was fought largely with special operations forces, referred to as SOF within the community, from all of the branches and commands. In the past my platoon was assigned to an Amphibious Ready Group or the Combatant Command; now we were deploying as task forces.
It was odd returning to the high-speed world of SOF, especially after working for several years in the relatively collegiate environment of medicine. I had maintained my fitness level and friendships in the community, however, so it was more a matter of readjustment than shock to the system.
The special operations community is a close-knit family comprised of warriors from every walk of life. The average SOF operator, if there is such a thing, is highly trained and fiercely motivated to succeed, yet take away the gear and technology and what you have is a warrior who fights more with his brains than with brawn. The physical and technical capabilities just provide a means of putting those plans into action. I thought back to the ongoing operations when I left and how things were quickly moving to a fully integrated working environment, which I was reminded of upon my arrival at the training compound. I trained with the army’s Special Forces soldiers, Marine Recon, Air Force Combat Controllers (CCTs) and Pararescue Jumpers (PJs), and, of course, my brother SEALs. The majority of the men were on active duty, while a few others had left the military and begun working as government employees on specified defense programs in order to concentrate on specific skills they had acquired over their years of service. Regardless of the “home” branch or employer, each of the men had extensive operational experience and was highly competent and committed to the missions. They were truly America’s finest, and I was happy to be among them once again.
The training was meant to integrate the unit on current policies, weapons systems, and mission profiles, and we worked hard to prepare for the inevitable combat ahead. The Global War on Terror was expanding quickly in several theaters, and new government agencies and programs were being created to obtain information and distribute it to special operations teams in order to allow for the quick action required to capture America’s most wanted terrorist. I received orders to one of those programs and deployed for hot missions in Iraq and Afghanistan just two days after completing training.
13
ARRIVAL IN AFGHANISTAN
Don’t be afraid of death so much as an inadequate life.
—BERTOLT BRECHT
The Chinook banked to starboard and gradually descended two thousand feet as we made the final approach. For the third time in eighteen months, I was returning to combat, this time as a “hot fill” for a position at a forward operating base that required the skill levels of a physician or PA. The helo bucked and buffeted as we crossed one of the endless mountain ranges below, then calmed as the rugged peaks ended and the rocky Afghan plains opened up as far as the eye could see. I was once again struck by the breathtaking beauty of the country and felt an odd twinge of homesickness for New Mexico, which resembles Afghanistan in many ways.
My training and experience as a battle-tested medical officer and SEAL were unique and highly desirable. As a PA, I could treat villagers and oversee care of the Afghan National Army (ANA) at the local clinic at the same standard of care we provide to our own troops. This not only helped to build goodwill but also offered some protection for the United States government as we worked to build relations with the newly formed government. My deployment tempo was very high in the early days of the Global War on Terror, and I spent numerous deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan; in some cases, they were back-to-back with little to no downtime back in the States. I suppose that’s why the rugged Afghan landscape reminded me so much of home.
The fort was outside a scattering of villages called Shkin, just six klicks from the Pakistani border. I could see the firebase in the distance rising off the desert floor. It looked remarkably similar to the Alamo with a towering front wall adorned with two large gates that adjoined enormous adobe walls that had to be three feet thick. It formed a rectangular compound complete with towers in each corner and catwalks on the roofs. As the helo banked into the wind for the final approach, I spotted an artillery battery off to the side of the compound, positioned between the compound’s walls and a double row of HESCO barriers. The HESCOs were stacked two high on all sides of the firebase, except for one wall facing a steep ridge. The helicopter flared to touch down, and through the back ramp I could see a series of smaller walls and fences lining a semitwisted road leading to the stronghold, preventing a direct approach and thereby providing protection against truck bombs.
The structures in the center of the compound appeared to be constructed by a combination of modern tools and ancient technology, while those that lined the surrounding walls were made of the same earthen materials used to build homes in New Mexico hundreds of years ago. The base was currently home to a company from the 10th Mountain Division, various American special operations personnel, and a motivated group of the ANA’s best fighters who volunteered to serve among one of their country’s special operations contingents. It was our job to train, advise, and assist them in the fight against al Qaeda and the Taliban, which required accompanying and often leading them into battle. We did so with limited manpower and supplies, on a base several hundred miles from the nearest American installation.
As the wheels settled on the large rocks that covered the landing zone, a young soldier from the 10th Mountain ducked and ran out to grab my bags. As I exited the aircraft I noticed a single flagpole atop the main entrance flying a tattered American flag and felt proud that th
e only color in this drab area was the flag of our country. The soldier threw my bags in the back of a worn-out Humvee and drove me into the compound, straight to a corner building that was crudely built but wired for power.
“Here you are, sir. This here is where you all work and live,” he said with a smile of accomplishment.
“Well, this is—”
“A real shithole,” he answered before I could finish.
“I was thinking more along the lines of austere, but I think you summed it up pretty well.”
“Yes, sir.” He nodded and gave another a smile, pleased with his accurate assessment of the situation. “I was also told to let you know the other spec ops guys are all in a meeting with our major, but they should be done shortly,” he said as we pulled the bags out of the bed of the Humvee and dropped them against the wall of the hooch. I thanked him, asked where I could find a latrine, and then walked the compound to get familiar with my new home. As I strolled the inside compound, roughly the length of a football field, I made a mental note of the bunker location in case we were hit with a rocket or mortar attack. I also mentally bookmarked the ingress and egress routes and the positioning of the heavy weapons, as well as the many vehicles lined up in the makeshift motor pool. I would revisit the vehicles later.
Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic Page 13