Tier One (Tier One Series Book 1)

by Brian Andrews

  “And for Persia,” added Masoud.

  “And for Allah, praise be his name.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Sixth Medical Group Hospital

  MacDill Air Force Base

  Tampa, Florida

  March 22, 1515 EDT

  “It’s my job to take your vitals, Mr. Kemper. Would you please just let me do my job?”

  The nurse glared at him, cheeks flushed, one hand on her hip and the other on the machine that would take his pulse and blood pressure, if only he would let her.

  “And I told you I’m fine. I just want to rest, but you keep waking my ass up with that damn machine to check if I’m still alive. Well, I’m alive . . . see?” Kemper said, waving childishly at her. “My ticker is beating; my blood pressure is just dandy. Now, please go, so I can get some sleep.”

  “Your doctor wants vitals every four hours,” she said, but her voice had lost all its fight.

  “He’s not my doctor,” Kemper said for what seemed the hundredth time. “My doctor is—”

  “Right, right, I know,” the nurse said, giving up and tossing her stethoscope onto the machine. “Your doctor is the lumberjack with the fake name who drops by and pisses the real doctors off. Thank God you’re leaving today.”

  With that she rolled the machine out, mumbling obscenities under her breath.

  Thirty seconds later, his hospital-room door swung open again, and this time in strolled “the lumberjack.” Today, Commander Dan Munn looked nothing like an esteemed Navy doctor who rated silver oak leaves on his collar. Munn’s unmarked BDU pants, untucked gray Columbia shirt, and Oakley desert boots screamed, Don’t fuck with me. I’ve earned the right to look like this. The two-week beard growth he sported was the exclamation point. Munn was a former enlisted SEAL who, instead of retiring, had taken a detour into medical school, followed by a tough surgery residency, and finally an even tougher trauma fellowship. And now here he was, back with the teams, still serving the brotherhood, but in a distinctly different role.

  “’Sup, bro?” Munn said, hands in his pockets.

  “Shouldn’t you be in North Carolina with Cathy, visiting her family before you deploy?” Kemper asked. “You’re going down range in a few weeks, right?”

  “Yeah, but she’s probably glad to have a couple days away from me,” Munn said, which they both knew wasn’t true. “It’s good for her to have some private time with her folks. Plus, I wanted to stick around until you discharge. Someone’s gotta make sure you head home and not straight to the bars.”

  “Nothing to worry about. I rarely hit the party scene like I did back in the day.”

  It was true. Being a member of a Tier One unit nowadays meant keeping it low key. When he partied, he partied with his unit. And when he really wanted to cut loose, he’d do it at a friend’s house rather than in public. It was better for everyone that way, except for maybe the lucky wife enlisted as the evening’s designated driver.

  “So when am I out of here?” he asked Munn.

  “Admin is working on your discharge paperwork as we speak. An hour, two at the most.”

  “An hour, huh? Guess that means you’re my ride?”

  “Nah, Thiel insisted that he and the boys had that honor.” Munn glanced at his oversize Suunto wristwatch. “I’m supposed to meet the gang in the lobby in fifteen.”

  “Cool,” Kemper said and looked out the window at Hillsborough Bay and the silver-spired downtown Tampa skyline.

  So what happens next? Rehab and a desk job?

  Munn placed a hand on his shoulder, reading his mind. “Doctor Platz, the spine guy, thinks you’ll have full recovery.”

  “My vertebra was cracked in half, Dan.”

  “Yes, but with the bone fragment back in place, your spine will heal. Now that we have the inflammation under control, you should be feeling a helluva lot better. Left leg feeling normal?”

  “Almost,” he said. “Still feels kind of heavy.”

  “That should go away completely in a few days.”

  Kemper eyed him with suspicion.

  “Okay, two weeks tops,” Munn said. “The bone fragment was pressing on the nerve, and now the nerve needs time to calm down. Plus, you had a ton of pressure in the spinal cavity from the swelling and blood and shit. Platz assured me he saw no damage to the nerve. A little physical therapy after the bone mends and you’ll be good to go. Hell, I’ve got twenty bucks wagered that you’ll be operational before Spaz.”

  That perked Kemper up. “Wager with who?”

  “Gabe.”

  Kemper shook his head. “Dumb kid. When’s he going to learn that experience trumps youth every time?”

  “And that you never make a wager with a doctor who has confidential medical knowledge of both patients,” Munn quipped.

  After he’d stopped laughing, Kemper asked, “So, what’s the verdict on Spaz?”

  “Metal plates to rebuild the femur, and a vein graft to bypass his superficial femoral artery. He has a tough road ahead of him—anywhere from a three- to six-month recovery.”

  “You do realize when you collect the twenty bucks on that wager, the drinks are on you.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Munn said.

  Kemper looked down at his legs. The muscles in his thighs already looked flabby. Was that even possible? He hadn’t been in the hospital that long.

  “You okay, Jack?” Munn asked, his tone turning serious.

  Kemper forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m good. Just don’t bounce like I used to.”

  “True for us all,” Munn said with a chuckle and a slap on the shoulder.

  The hospital-room door flew open. “The sign says don’t fucking disturb,” Kemper barked without waiting to see who it was.

  “Didn’t think that applied to me,” a baritone voice answered.

  Kemper opened his mouth to assure this jackass that it applied to Air Force docs most of all, but then the tall figure stepped past Munn into his field of view.

  With his neatly trimmed gray hair, pressed suit coat, and open-collar dress shirt, Captain Kelso Jarvis bore little resemblance to the rugged, bearded, mountain-man look of current operators. As if sensing the disparity, or remembering it, he shrugged off his suit coat, draped it over the back of a nearby chair, and began rolling up his sleeves.

  “Snuck up on a Tier One operator. Not many men can say that. Men who are still breathing, that is,” Jarvis said.

  “Doesn’t count when the man doing the sneaking happens to be a former Tier One SEAL commander, sir,” said Munn, extending his hand to the man who was arguably the most legendary SEAL in the US military’s secret Tier One umbrella. Kemper noticed the cords of muscle rippling across the former CSO’s right forearm as he shook Munn’s hand. Clearly, Jarvis still had it. His level of fitness cut at least a decade off his fifty years of age.

  “Once a SEAL, always a SEAL,” said Jarvis. “Been a while, Dan. Good to see you.”

  “Likewise, sir,” said Munn. “I assume you came by to rib Kemper?”

  “Absolutely.” Jarvis turned toward Kemper. “So, how is our guy, Doc?”

  Munn glanced between them. “Well, he’s doing everything in his power to win the title of most belligerent SOB on the ward, but other than that, he’s on the mend.”

  “That’s a relief. I’d hate to think that same belligerent SOB who made my command tour miserable had gone soft in his old age.” With a smile, Jarvis added, “It’s good to see you, Jack.”

  “You too, sir,” Kemper said, extending his right hand to his former boss.

  Jarvis gripped his palm and then clasped his left hand against Kemper’s forearm. “You can cut the ‘sir’ shit. You never called me that in Bosnia or Iraq, so why the hell start now?”

  Despite the divergent paths they’d taken since Jarvis’s retirement, the man would always be “Skipper” to Kemper. If Jarvis wouldn’t let him say “sir,” then he’d have to deal with the other. “In that case, what brings you to Tampa, Skipper?”


  “I was in the neighborhood visiting SOCOM and thought I’d drop by and see my old LCPO. A little bird told me you’d had an accident.”

  “Minor setback,” Kemper corrected, borrowing Jarvis’s favorite line—the one he’d made legendary when making SITREPs to the brass.

  While Jarvis laughed, Kemper wondered what a retired SEAL commander working in the civilian sector had going on at SOCOM. Anyone who knew Jarvis never believed he would stay out of the game for long.

  “What’s new with you?” Kemper asked. “How’s civilian life treating you?”

  “Relax, Senior. This is just a social call, nothing else,” Jarvis said. Then, screwing up his face, he added, “And yes, that’s right, I’m aware that you’re still a fucking Senior Chief.”

  “Not gonna command a desk just to make Master Chief,” Kemper said with a shrug. Jarvis understood. Rather than putting on a star and going soft pushing papers at the Pentagon, Jarvis had retired and moved on.

  “Mind if I sit for a few minutes and shoot the shit? Swap a few lies?” Jarvis pulled up an empty chair next to Kemper’s hospital bed.

  “Be my guest,” Kemper said, straightening. The movement sent a stinger down his back. Nothing like the pain he’d experienced on the Darya-ye Noor, but sharp enough that he fought the urge to grimace. No matter the situation, he refused to show weakness in front of Kelso Jarvis.

  Munn shuffled backward toward the door. Checking his watch, he said, “I think I’ll go intercept the ass clowns—er, I mean highly trained, elite, tactical operators—gathering in the lobby. Give you guys a few minutes to catch up before they crash your party.”

  Jarvis waved a hand. “No need to rush off, Dan,” he said. “I swear this is just a social call.”

  Munn laughed. “You’ve always had a lousy poker face, Skipper,” he said, heading out the door.

  After the door shut behind him, Jarvis casually propped an ankle up on his knee and smiled at Kemper with his slate-gray eyes. “Doc’s gone, Jack. How are you, really?”

  “I’m fine. Really. Sore as hell, but the spine guy says after the bone heals I’ll be a hundred percent. Fully operational.”

  “Requals?”

  “Nah, should be back on line before that much time elapses.”

  “Good. Going through requals is a pain in the ass,” Jarvis said, nodding. “How much time you got left?”

  “Time?” Kemper asked, confused.

  “Yeah, time,” said Jarvis, knocking the edge off his words with his trademark Jack Nicholson chuckle. “What? You planning to stay in forever? Even you have a shelf life, Jack.”

  There it was again—shelf life.

  “Hadn’t really thought about it,” he lied. “I got my twenty in, so I suppose I could put in papers anytime. But I still got a few good years left.”

  “I’m sure,” Jarvis said. “But when the time comes, I might have a place for you.” He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, and propped his elbows on his knees. “Does Kate know you’re here?”

  Kemper hated when Jarvis did that—opened Pandora’s box with one hand and, while you were gawking at it, tossed you a live grenade with the other. His current teammates knew better than to float his ex-wife’s name—or mention his son, now sixteen—but by rank or history, Jarvis obviously felt he’d earned the privilege.

  “We haven’t talked in a long time,” he said, hoping to leave it at that.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. She was good for you. Tough girl, Kate. Funny, too. I always liked her.” Jarvis continued, unbidden. “I knew you were divorced, but I’d heard you were dating her again—whatever the hell that means for two people who shared a life and had a son together.”

  “We were,” Kemper said, silently wishing to end the conversation. “That changed after the thing in Afghanistan a couple of years back. She wanted me to get out after that. Something about straws and camels’ backs.”

  Jarvis nodded, a frown tightening his face. “Gotcha,” he said. “How’s Jacob?”

  Better off without me.

  He sighed. “Honestly, Skipper, I have no idea. Like I said, we don’t really talk.”

  Jarvis simply nodded. Every operator knew the toll the job took on families. Jarvis lived alone—or used to, back in the day—so he was intimate with the sacrifice. And the regret.

  The door burst open, and Munn returned with six rowdy mountain men in tow. Kemper’s brothers in arms. His family.

  “Kinda nursing this shit, ain’t ya?” Thiel said and high-fived him. The slap ignited a stab of pain in his back. This time it stayed concentrated at the surgery site, rather than radiating down his spine.

  “Anything for a med chit to get out of PT, huh, Senior?” teased Pablo, with a scratch of the ridiculously thin beard that painted his chin. “Ain’t you heard, man? The only easy workout was yesterday.”

  “I could whip your ass in a swim right now,” Kemper fired back, goading the much younger three-time Iron Man competitor. “But why bother, when I could just whip your ass?”

  Jarvis laughed at the dig, and the guys turned to stare at him en masse, as if they’d just noticed him for the first time.

  “This your lawyer, Senior?” Rousch asked.

  “No. This is Captain Kelso Jarvis,” he said, and reveled in the gaping jaws all around—except for Thiel, who knew the Skipper and just shook his head with pity at the others.

  “Honor to meet you, sir,” Rousch said, regaining his composure and reaching out a hand. Only a SEAL would breach the protocol of waiting for a senior officer to extend his hand first. And only a blooded SEAL like Jarvis would expect it.

  “Honor’s mine,” Jarvis said, rising. “Pleasure to meet the poor assholes charged with following the Senior Chief into battle. God bless you guys.”

  After shaking hands all around, Jarvis abruptly said, “Well, fellas, I should probably get going.”

  “Are you sure, Skipper?” Kemper said. “After I check out of this dump, we’re gonna grab some beers. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but it’s time I go pretend I have a job,” he said, donning his suit jacket and making for the door. “Left a number for you, Jack. Call me if you need anything, and for Christ’s sake, keep me apprised of how you’re doing, okay?”

  “Will do, Skipper,” he said, glancing at the business card Jarvis had left on the tray by his hospital bed.

  Jarvis paused at the threshold just long enough to make eye contact with Kemper before disappearing. He didn’t say anything, because his eyes said it all: Don’t forget about my offer.

  Kemper nodded deferentially and then shifted his attention back to the guys.

  “Holy shit, fellas. Was that really the Captain Jarvis?” Rousch blurted out once the doorway was clear.

  “Yeah, nice work, dipshit,” Gabe said, leering at Rousch. “‘Is that your lawyer? Smooth, dude. Fucking smooth.”

  Gator elbowed Gabe. “What a dumbass,” Helo chimed in.

  The others piled on, slamming Rousch until his cheeks were crimson.

  “All right, all right. Cut a brother some slack,” Kemper said.

  “What time you outta here, boss?” Thiel asked. “I got a tee time, ya know.”

  “In that case, let’s go,” he said, and swung his legs out of bed. He winced, unable to mask the spear of pain from the twisting movement.

  “Hold on there,” Munn said with a laugh. “At least let the nurse get your friggin’ IV out, bro. I’ll go get her,” he said, and disappeared out the door.

  “You sure you’re okay?” asked Thiel.

  “Good as new. Thanks to Munn and that quack there,” Kemper said, gesturing to Rousch. “If it wasn’t for you, Spaz and I might not have made it. You’re the real deal, Rousch. Bravo fuckin’ Zulu, dude.”

  Rousch shrugged, and quickly shook Kemper’s outstretched hand, clearly uncomfortable with such a healthy dose of praise from his team leader in front of the group.

  “Now, let’s go grab a beer,” Kemper s
aid, and rolled his arm so the IV was in Rousch’s face. “Pull this fuckin’ needle out, Doc.”

  While Rousch removed the IV, Pablo fetched a wheelchair from the adjacent room. Two minutes later, Kemper was strapped into some poor bastard’s missing wheelchair, with the rest of the gang running at his side hooting and hollering. He tilted his head back to look at Rousch, who was propelling him down the corridor at ludicrous speed.

  “Driver, we need to make a detour by Room 178 on our way out of this dump.”

  “Sure thing, Senior,” Rousch said. “What’s the mission?”

  “Operation Spaz Attack.” He turned to Pablo, who was jogging next to him. “Did you bring the two items I requested?”

  “You mean these?” Pablo said, holding up a Spider-Man doll in one hand and a rubber shark in the other.

  Kemper flashed Pablo his broadest Cheshire cat grin and then said to the group, “I heard from one of the nurses that Spaz was lonely. The least we can do is drop off his two best friends to keep him company while we go party.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Jamkaran Mosque

  Qom Province, Iran

  March 24, 1321 Local Time

  Masoud watched the young man’s fingers tremble as he tried to tie the knot. Like hundreds of thousands of Shia Muslim pilgrims before him, Reza Pashaei was leaving a private message for the Twelfth Imam at the Well of Requests. Masoud had waited fifteen minutes for young Reza to compose his wish on a piece of the ambassador’s private UN stationery. Then, as was the custom, the young man had folded the paper, fixed it with a string, and proceeded to tie his note for the Mahdi to the metal grate atop the well. In trying to complete the deed, Reza’s nerves appeared to be getting the better of him.

  “It is okay to drop the note in the well, Reza,” Masoud said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “I know many people do that, but I want to tie it as is the custom.”

  “Then let me help you.”

  “Thank you, but that is not necessary,” Reza protested, cheeks flushed as he continued to fumble with the string.

  Masoud noticed that the paint on the metal grate was worn and scraped—rubbed to a polish by millions of Persian fingers. The mosque kept no official accounting, but he imagined the number of notes left for the Mahdi surely reached the hundreds of thousands. Finally, not being able to stand it anymore, he snagged the ends of the string from Reza’s fingers and deftly completed the knot. When he’d finished, he looked at Reza and smiled.