A light rain was falling, misting the windshield. The soldier examining Wit’s passport stood in the rain, tapping at the sheets, clicking through all the data. He found the photo of Wit and compared it to Wit’s likeness. Wit gave the man his friendliest smile. A second soldier with a leashed German shepherd did a loop around the vehicle, letting the dog sniff the vehicle’s trunk and underside.
The men were stalling. Wit had noticed the security cameras mounted above the gatehouse when he had pulled up. The computers were no doubt running their facial-recognition software to determine if Wit was in fact who he said he was. Wit only hoped the cameras had gotten a clear enough shot through the rain-splattered windshield or this could take a while.
The passport showed his full name: DeWitt Clinton O’Toole, named for the governor of New York who was the driving force behind the actual building of the Erie Canal, a distant ancestor of his mother. There were stamps and visas from a dozen countries, though these were by no means a complete record of Wit’s travels. Those represented his “official” visits to foreign soil. Far more numerous were his undocumented insertions into countries all over the world as he and his team struck hard and fast at whomever was harming civilians. The Middle East, Indonesia, Micronesia, Africa, Eastern Europe, Central and South America.
The soldier with the passport touched his finger to the communicator in his ear and listened a moment. He then handed Wit back the passport. “You’re free to go through, Mr. O’Toole.”
Wit thanked the man and sat back as the vehicle drove him into the parking lot and pulled into a slot. Wit picked up the envelope off the seat beside him, exited the vehicle, and walked toward the wall that encircled the inner campus. The regimental sergeant major was waiting at the gate with an extra umbrella. He wore fatigues and a tan beret with the crest of the NZSAS embroidered on it: a winged dagger with the words WHO DARES WINS.
Wit was in his civvies, but he saluted anyway.
“Welcome, Captain O’Toole. I’m Sergeant Major Manaware.” He handed Wit the extra umbrella. “Bummer your first visit to Auckland’s a wet one.”
“Not at all, Sergeant Major. I am a fan of the rain. It convinces the enemy to stay inside and not come out and kill us.”
Manaware laughed. “Spoken like a true SEAL. Always happy to avoid a fight.”
Wit smiled back. Military trash talk. Our Special Forces can beat up your Special Forces. You guys are bumbling idiots. We’re the real hardened warriors. Soldiers had been talking this way to one another ever since cavemen had picked up a club. Yet Manaware was saying something else as well: The kiwis had done their homework. They had studied Wit’s military record, and, more to the point, they were letting him know it. They were saying, “We’re watching you as closely as you’re watching us, mate.” Which was fine with Wit. He preferred it that way. He hated conversations in which everyone pretended not to know what the others knew. Yet such was the military, especially as you rose up the ranks. There was nothing more cat and mouse than a conversation between two generals in the same army, both of them withholding intel for personal profit. It drove Wit insane. And it was the primary reason why he didn’t hold a place among them. Wit didn’t play that game.
Manaware led Wit into the compound. It was like every other military base Wit had ever seen. Hangars, training facilities, barracks, office buildings. They made their way into a building to the right and shook out their umbrellas in the anteroom. Inside, two SAS soldiers were sweeping the lobby floor with large utility brooms. They snapped to attention when Manaware entered.
“As you were,” said the sergeant major, continuing to the stairs.
The men immediately returned to sweeping. It had always impressed Wit that the SAS instilled in their men the idea that no job was beneath them; no chore was too low for a man serving his country. The running joke was that at the graduation ceremony following their nine months of training, SAS graduates received the coveted tan beret in one hand and a broom in the other.
Manaware led Wit to a door and gave a light tap.
A voice inside bid them enter.
Colonel Napatu’s office was a small space with few adornments. Napatu greeted Wit with a handshake stronger than Wit had expected for a man of Napatu’s age and invited Wit to take a chair beside a coffee table.
“May I offer you any refreshment, Captain O’Toole?” asked Manaware. “Perhaps a fruity tea with lemon?” Manaware smiled. It was one last jab of military trash talk. Isn’t that what you Navy women drink? Fruity tea with lemon?
Wit smiled, conceding defeat. “No thank you, Sergeant Major. You’ve been very kind.”
Manaware gave a wink and left.
Colonel Napatu took a chair opposite Wit. “I heard you lost three men in Mauritania.”
“Yes, sir,” said Wit. “Good men. Our convoy was hit by on IED. The point vehicle took the brunt of it. I was in the second vehicle and thus unharmed.”
“The world is a dangerous place, Captain O’Toole.”
“Improvised exploding device,” said Napatu. “A coward’s weapon. I heard you carried one of the wounded four kilometers to the extraction site.”
“He was a dear friend, sir. He died later in surgery.”
Napatu nodded gravely.
“That is why MOPs exist, sir. War always inflicts its greatest casualties on the innocent. Our job is to put a stop to chaos before more innocent lives are lost.”
“That sounds like textbook talk, O’Toole. You recite that for all the commanding officers?”
“No, sir. It’s simply who we are.”
“At least you’re not like the damn United Nations, who send their boys in only after a war has ended.”
Wit said nothing. He wasn’t here to express political views or criticize other forces. He was here for men.
Napatu got the hint and changed the subject. “You boys must meet a lot of resistance from civil law enforcement.”
“Almost always. But where we go, sir, local law enforcement is often part of the problem.”
“Corruption?”
“Murder. Drug trafficking. Human trafficking. Local police in these situations are often nothing more than thugs in uniforms. It doesn’t take much to swing power in unstable countries, Colonel. If you’re a tribal warlord, and you off the chief of police, suddenly every police officer has a choice. He can either swear allegiance to you and keep his weapon and badge, or he can watch as you hack his wife and children to pieces. Or, as happens just as often, the warlord executes all the police anyway and populates the police force with his own loyal men.”
Napatu sat back in his chair. “The Chief of Defence Force told me that I’m supposed to give you the liberty to recruit any of my men. Full access to all of our facilities and troops. The highest level of clearance.”
“I have the official letter here,” said Wit, placing the envelope on the table, “signed by the Chief of Defence Force as well as the Minister of Defence.”
Napatu didn’t look at the envelope. “You and I both know, Captain, that these signatures don’t mean squat. I can come up with all kinds of legitimate excuses why you shouldn’t take any of my men, all of which the big boys in suits will agree with. Family issues, health issues, emotional issues. They give you these documents because they have to. It would be political suicide to do otherwise. But they don’t mean a damn thing to me. The only way you’re taking any of my boys is if I agree to it.”
Napatu was right. The signatures were more a formality. Wit was actually relieved to hear that Napatu realized that, too. He preferred that Napatu gave him men because he wanted to and not because someone had forced his hand.
“What makes you think any one of my men will want to give up their position here to join you?” asked Napatu. “Do you have any idea, Captain, how near impossible it is to get into this unit? Do you know what these men have suffered, the grueling torture we put them through for the chance to wear the tan beret?”
“I do, sir. I’ve studied your sel
ection process and training cycle. These men go through hell and back, and only a small fraction of them make the cut.”
“You’ve studied?” said Napatu. “With all due respect, Captain, cracking open a book on our process will hardly give you an accurate perspective of what it means to become an SAS man.”
It can’t have been more difficult than my SEAL training, Wit thought. But he said nothing. No need turning this into a pissing contest.
Colonel Napatu jabbed a finger on the table. “These men take themselves to an inch from death to join us, Captain. We push them until we think they’ll break, then we push twice as far. We cull so many in the training process that it’s a miracle we have any men here at all. But somehow a few make it through. Men who have no quit in them. Men who will endure any physical suffering, make any sacrifice. You don’t become an SAS soldier to impress single girls at pubs, Captain. Your motivation has to be rock solid. You have to want it so bad that even the threat of death won’t take it from you. And once they’re here, once these men have joined our ranks, they become part of a brotherhood so strong that nothing can break it. And you think that you, a total stranger, can waltz in here, and convince them to leave behind everything they’ve worked so hard to achieve just so they can join you? I find that incredibly arrogant.”
It was the token response Wit got every time. Regardless of what language they spoke or what corner of the world they came from, all commanding officers of Special Forces units had the same reaction. They saw their troops as their own sons. And the idea that any of their sons would consider going elsewhere was unthinkable.
But Wit knew soldiers better than Napatu did. He understood the warrior mind. The most elite of soldiers didn’t join Special Forces to be part of a brotherhood or for the prestige. Men joined Special Forces because they wanted action. They didn’t sign up to train for fifty-two weeks a year and sleep in comfortable bunks with downy pillows. They signed up to sleep in the rain with their finger on the trigger.
But Wit had to say this delicately; COs had fragile egos. “Your reservations are warranted, Colonel. Your men are the model of loyalty to their country and their unit. However, MOPs offers these men something more. Action. And lots of it. Since we are so few in numbers, we deploy throughout the world far more often than larger forces like yours, which often requires congressional or parliamentary approval. MOPs is not at the mercy of politicians concerned with self-preservation and what military action will mean for them at the voting booths. We move everywhere, sir.”
“We do covert missions as well, Captain. Surely you don’t think our operations are only what you read about in the press.”
“I am aware of your operations, Colonel. Both your covert actions and the missions that never reach your desk because one of your higher-ups vetoed the operation simply because the operation wasn’t his idea. There are careerists in this military, Colonel, as there are in every military. You are not one of them, but there are plenty above you.”
Colonel Napatu had no response to that. He no doubt knew there were men above him who fit that description. He had been suffering under their command his entire career. What probably rattled him was learning that Wit knew more about the classified operations circling the upper echelons than he did.
“We also offer something else,” said Wit. “You will take this as further arrogance, Colonel, but MOPs is arguably the most elite fighting force in the world. At least on a small scale. We recruit from the best Special Forces groups out there. Russian Alphas, U.S. Delta Force, British SAS, U.S. Navy SEALs, Israel’s Shayetet 13, French Green Berets. These units only take the best of their soldiers, sir, what they call the ‘one percenters.’ But MOPs are the point zero one percenters. We only take the best of their best. To be counted among us is an incredible honor. Our soldiers don’t forfeit their love of country or patriotism when they join us. I would argue that service in our unit is an even higher demonstration of love of country because you are representing your home nation on a global scale. Ask yourself, Colonel, if you were given the opportunity to represent New Zealand, to be one of the few men deemed by your government as your country’s perfect soldier, the ideal warrior, would you not at least be intrigued by the idea?”
“I’ll concede that some may jump at the chance for more action,” said Napatu, “but why would we forfeit our best soldiers to another army outside our own jurisdiction?”
“Because MOPs allows New Zealand to have a hand in global stability without worrying about political ramifications, sir. Send a brigade of New Zealanders into North Africa, and the political fallout could be catastrophic. Suddenly New Zealand is the bully of the world. But send a few New Zealanders who are a part of an international military unit seeking to preserve human rights, and there is little to no fallout. No one can accuse New Zealand of imperialism. Any action taken by MOPs is clearly an act of global goodwill.”
“There are those who say MOPs are the dogs of the West, Captain O’Toole, that you boys are nothing more than grunts for American intelligence. Puppets of the CIA nicely disguised as a mini-international coalition.”
Wit shrugged. “There are also those who say we are soulless child murderers carrying out the personal vendettas of the current U.S. administration. It’s propaganda, Colonel. You and I both know who we are and what we do.”
Napatu was quiet a moment. Wit remained silent, letting the man think it through, though he knew Napatu would come around.
Finally, Napatu said, “Who did you have in mind?”
Wit removed his handheld from his pocket and set the device on the table in front of him. He extended the arms on the sides and the thin bar at the top and turned on the holo. A wall of data with photos and records of five servicemen floated in space above him. Wit turned the device around so it faced Napatu.
“There are five of your men we’d like to screen.”
“Screen?”
“A capabilities test, sir. We want the best and most willing candidates. If all five pass our screening and demonstrate an eagerness to serve, then we will gladly take them all. If none pass, we will thank them and you for your time and not bother you further. It’s that simple.”
Colonel Napatu scanned the names and didn’t show any surprise until he reached the last of the five, the youngest and smallest of the group. He was the most unlikely pick simply because of his inexperience. He deserved to be among the SAS like any other man in the unit, but he wasn’t battled-tested like the other four. He had only been with the SAS for five months and was as green as they came.
“You can have your pick of any of my men,” said Napatu, “some of them proven warriors with flawless service records and the highest marks. And yet you choose this one, a greenie?”
“Yes, sir,” said Wit. “We are very interested in Lieutenant Mazer Rackham.”
* * *
The following morning, just after dawn, Wit stood in a small grassy valley two hours northeast of Papakura. Around him, beyond the valley, was the dense Mataitai Forest with its tall Tanekaha trees and vibrant broadleaf ferns. Five men stood in front of Wit at attention, their eyes forward, their feet at a forty-five-degree angle, heels together. They wore military-issued T-shirts, fatigue pants, and solemn expressions. Wit had left them standing that way, unflinching in the morning chill, for the better part of an hour.
Wit looked at each man in turn. They were all physically strong, but only two of them were the heavily muscled bodybuilding types. Two others were of average height and build, and the last, a Maori, Mazer Rackham, was lean and slightly smaller.
Size mattered little in the Special Forces, however. In fact, thick upper bodies and large arms might give you greater strength, but they also made you an easier target and harder to conceal, not to mention top-heavy and less nimble. Wit, who was larger than any of these men, knew all this from experience. He had suffered enough broken noses in sparring matches with men half his size to know that bigger soldiers weren’t necessarily better ones.
; The handheld in Wit’s pocket vibrated, signaling that his men were in position. Showtime.
Wit faced the five soldiers. “Good morning, gentlemen. You know who I am, and you know why you’re here. This morning we will conduct a preliminary exercise. If you pass, you are eligible for a screening. Let me emphasize that whether you pass that screening or not, you can take pride in knowing that you were selected from the entire New Zealand Defence Force to participate in these proceedings. You represent the highest degree of readiness and training, and are a credit to your country.”
The men kept their eyes forward, showing no emotion.
“While we’ve been standing here enjoying the lovely nippy morning,” said Wit, “my teammates have been hiding in the forests around us. I have just received a confirmation that they are ready to begin and are eager to embarrass you by making you fail. On the ground in front of you are forty-kilo rucksacks. You will each carry one of these to a safe house five kilometers from here. The coordinates of the safe house as well as a map and compass are in your rucksacks. Also in front of you is your weapon, a small automatic rifle that you likely have never handled. It is unique to MOPs. It goes by many names, the Flatliner, the Angel Maker, or my personal favorite, the Hell Ticket, since it sends so many of our unfortunate enemies on a one-way trip to the devil himself. Its technical name, however, is the P87, and if you join us, gentlemen, it will become your truest and most devoted companion, never leaving your side. You will pee with it, eat oatmeal with it, shower with it, and sleep with it. Don’t think of it as your weapon. Think of it as the appendage you never knew you had. In the SAS you are trained on many unconventional weapons, but the P87, once you learn its features, may surprise even you.
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