“The first time I left a message for the Mahdi, I was as nervous as you,” he said. “Yours is an important message. But don’t worry. I have faith your request will be granted.”
Reza nodded but said nothing.
“Walk with me,” Masoud said.
“Yes, sir.”
He led young Reza to his favorite spot, a location fifty meters in front of the main facade, where one could marvel at the architectural beauty of the newly renovated Jamkaran Mosque. Masoud had visited this holiest of places at least half a dozen times since the renovation, but despite his familiarity with the complex, the experience had not lost its magic. The iconic onion-shaped dome, painted robin’s-egg blue with gold adornments, was the most recognizable architectural element of the mosque. But his personal favorite had to be the twin minarets. Painted in Khatam style—ornate, geometric, and multihued—these towers were distinctly Persian. Many Iranians had criticized the Jamkaran renovation project for being excessively expensive, but Masoud believed the people of Persia needed a monument that represented their unique cultural and Islamic spirit. What better choice than the mosque dedicated to the Twelfth Imam—the promised one who would someday spread Islam to all corners and countries of the world?
“Can I ask you a question, Ambassador Modiri?” Reza said, breaking the serene silence.
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you believe the Mahdi is coming soon?”
Masoud thought carefully about this question before answering. He decided that the boy was not in fact asking a question, but rather trying to convince himself he had made the right decision volunteering for the mission on which he was about to embark.
“Why do you ask this question? Are you afraid that by carrying out your task, you will miss the Mahdi’s imminent return?”
Reza nodded.
“That is a perfectly valid concern for a man of your years, but take it from one who has spent thrice your lifetime waiting for al-Mahdi to return: no one can predict the date the Twelfth Imam will choose to reveal himself. Even the Supreme Leader does not know when the chosen one will usher in the new era of peace. A wise man does not concern himself with the when. A wise man does not focus on the waiting. Instead, a wise man devotes himself to living a life of piety and service to Allah, knowing that the only certain opportunity to bow before al-Mahdi is in the afterlife.”
Reza, considering this, nodded.
“Let me ask you a question now,” Masoud said.
“All right.”
“If you fulfill the obligation you have to Allah and bring jihad to the apostates and nonbelievers, do you think the Mahdi will be blind to your actions?”
“I suppose not.”
“And when you complete your mission, do you think he will somehow forget about your sacrifice?”
“I hope not.”
“Allah sees all the deeds of men. Action does not pass unnoticed. Bravery does not go without reward. Your sacrifice will bring honor and glory to your family, to Persia, and to Islam.”
Reza looked at him and smiled. “Thank you, Ambassador, for bringing me here today. I know you are a very busy and important man, and I am just a boy soldier. Your generosity and your wisdom give me strength.”
Masoud draped his arm around the young man’s shoulder. “Come, it’s time to go. The drive back to Tehran will take two hours, and my wife is expecting us for dinner.”
As they walked back to the car, Masoud thought about his own life and the choices he had made. He thought about his time in university, and his decision to pursue a career in politics rather than soldiering. He thought about his wife, Fatemeh, and how much he loved her. He thought about his sons and how much pride and happiness they brought him. And then he thought about Kamal—his most beloved lost treasure. The hole in his heart from his firstborn son’s death was still gaping and raw. Like Kamal, Reza was a member of Quds Force. Like Kamal, Reza was brave and pious. According to Amir, Reza had volunteered for the suicide mission in Djibouti. When Amir told him that Reza’s only request had been a one-day leave to visit the Holy Well at Jamkaran before deploying, Masoud had insisted that he be the one to take the young man.
He felt tears welling in the corners of his eyes as they walked.
Martyrdom is essential to jihad, he told himself. The plan cannot succeed without sacrifice.
The truth is sometimes ugly. The truth is sometimes painful.
Would he trade places with Reza, if given the opportunity? Would he sacrifice his wife and only remaining son?
Masoud wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
He was not that brave. He was not that young.
CHAPTER 7
Don Cesar Hotel Banquet Tent
St. Pete Beach, Florida
March 30, 1715 EDT
Kemper skipped the buffet and went straight for the beer. Gabe, aka Special Operator First Class Gabriel Stein, had filled an aluminum tub to the brim with ice and at least five cases of beer. Kemper plunged both hands into the icy slush and retrieved two Budweiser Black Crown longnecks. As he made his way back to the table, he stopped to marvel at Zachary Stein’s bar mitzvah cake.
Expertly crafted to resemble a Torah scroll being unfurled, the multilayered cake sat untouched in all its glory on a pedestal table beside the buffet. MAZEL TOV, ZACHARY! proclaimed the blue frosting letters set against a background of white fondant. A six-pointed Star of David and an impressive Navy SEAL trident insignia decorated with gold icing gave the cake a personalized touch. In the hierarchy of elaborate party desserts, this cake was a title contender.
Kemper felt a tug on his pant leg and looked down. He was greeted by a gap-toothed smile and an unholy mop of curly black hair.
“It’s not time for cake. My mom said no one can have cake until after we dance, and that she’s the only one allowed to cut the cake,” said Samantha Stein, Zach’s little sister.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m just looking.”
“Do you like chocolate? The icing is vanilla, but the inside is chocolate. Chocolate is Zach’s favorite flavor.”
Kemper made a show of licking his lips and said, “Mmmm, mine, too. What about you?”
“Chocolate is okay, but pink is my favorite flavor.”
“Is pink a flavor?”
“Yep,” she said, and then put her hands on her hips. “My mom said that the kids get cake before the grown-ups because bar mitzvahs are for kids, and last time when we had the Super Bowl party, the grown-ups ate all the cheese pizza, which was supposed to be for kids. I only got one piece of cheese pizza, and I cried.”
Kemper nodded sympathetically. “I remember Pizza-gate well. You were not a happy camper. I’ll tell you what, Samantha. If you’re still hungry after you eat your piece of cake, and if there are no pieces left, I’ll give you some of mine.”
“Really, Mr. Jack?”
“Really. That way, we can call it even for what happened with the cheese pizza.”
“Cool, thanks. Maybe I’ll even let you dance with me. Bye,” she said, and disappeared in a blur.
Kemper watched her go, his mind filling with pictures of Jacob. He had missed so much time when his son was an infant and toddling around in diapers, but he had spent almost a whole year at home recovering from an injury when Jacob was Samantha’s age. Subconsciously, he rubbed the scar on his forearm. That year had been about rehab, requals, and family. He remembered savoring the little moments, falling deeply in love again with his wife, and bonding with his son. When it had been time to go back to work, Kate had supported, encouraged, and pushed him forward. And when it was time for him to leave and head down range with the team again, she had cried, perhaps realizing she had been instrumental in rebuilding him only to send him away again.
When he returned six months later, she had cried again—but this time because the man returned to her had reverted to the badass, door-kicking SEAL who had been sliced open in Iraq, not the attentive, caring husband and father she had loved during that year. The operat
ional tempo picked up after that, and the time and the miles took their toll. Kate began to think of herself as a single parent, and he let her.
He let her . . .
He shook his head to scare away the ghosts of regret. The past was a sinkhole, and he wanted to be here, in the moment, with his brothers. He walked over to where Gabe was sitting, a beer in his hand and little Samantha squirming on his lap. Gabe’s wife sat on one side, Rousch and his wife, April, on the other.
“I couldn’t help but overhear Sam giving you the gouge on the cake,” said Gabe. “We Steins can be a little high-strung when it comes to food, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Oh really? You mean like the time you nearly ripped Rousch’s head off for eating one of your PowerBars?” Kemper asked, dropping into the empty chair next to Diane Stein.
“Or the time you sent your porterhouse back at Bern’s three fucking times because it was too pink inside?” teased Rousch.
April socked Rousch in the arm. “Watch the language,” she scolded. “This is a kid zone, not a war zone.”
“Jeez,” Rousch said, pretending to massage his arm, “there’s more rules hanging with the wives than briefing in the SCIF.”
“And while we’re on the topic of language,” Diane piped in, eyeing Gabe, “in addition to being a profanity-free bar mitzvah, this is also an acronym-free bar mitzvah. No one but you guys knows what a ‘SCIF’ is. If I hear one more sentence with more acronyms than actual words, I’m going to scream.”
“You should hear our dinner conversations,” said April. “I’ll ask Mike about his day, and he’ll say something like: ‘Well, the CSO told my LCPO that an NCDU deployed with the JTF got a BZ from JSOC, blah, blah, blah . . .’”
“All you do is fight fire with fire,” Diane said. “As soon as Gabe goes into Team Speak Mode, I immediately switch into Text Message Mode. He says, JSOC SCIF, I respond with OMG RUS—it works every time.”
Kemper looked at Gabe. “What did your wife just say?”
Everyone at the table burst into laughter.
Pablo wandered over, a half-empty beer bottle dangling from two fingers. “So your little dude is a man now or something, Gabe? He ready to head for BUD/S and then down range, or what?”
“And when does his dad become a real man?” Rousch chimed in, earning a high five from Pablo.
Gabe made sure Samantha wasn’t looking, then flipped his teammates the bird. “A bar mitzvah is a rite of passage.”
“So, it’s sorta like a SEAL pinning on his trident after completing quals?” said Pablo.
“Except it’s a rite of passage without the sleep deprivation, HALO jumps, extreme dive training, and explosive ordnance instruction,” added Rousch, garnering another round of laughs.
Over the next twenty minutes, the conversation wandered, and so did Kemper’s mind. His thoughts turned back to Jacob. His boy was also becoming a man, but without a father to guide him. He admired Gabe and Rousch. Somehow they had managed to be Tier One operators and still be great family men. Like him, they were absent all the time, but unlike him, they found a way to not be absent when they were home—something he had never mastered. For him, to excel as a Tier One SEAL meant never turning off the switch. Why? Because he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to turn it back on?
Suddenly, the hip-hop music the DJ was spinning stopped, and a familiar folk rhythm began to play over the loudspeakers. Kemper felt the energy of the crowd ignite. Within seconds, half the guests were on their feet—clapping, cheering, and dancing.
“‘Hava Nagila,’” said Zach, jumping out of his chair. “Come on, fellas, it’s Hora time!”
Kemper looked at Diane and raised an eyebrow.
“It’s tradition to raise the boy up on a chair and dance. C’mon, Jack, it’s fun.”
Kemper smiled and politely waved her off. “You guys go. I’ll watch from here.”
“Suit yourself,” Diane said with a fleeting glance as Gabe pulled her away by the arm. She and Kate had been friends—best friends, actually. He wondered what Gabe’s wife thought of him. He wondered if Kate and Diane were still close.
Thirty seconds later, he found himself alone at the table—the only Tier One wallflower at the party. If Kate and Jacob were here, he’d be out there on the dance floor whooping it up like an idiot, too. A knot formed in his stomach as it occurred to him that not a single one of the wives had asked him about Kate or Jacob. After too many rebuffs, they’d given up any hope for a reunion. Bravo Squadron was stuck with him, the gloomy, non-Hora-dancing, broken-back sonuvabitch.
As he watched the families dancing and laughing, a strange thought occurred to him. Instead of cursing his broken back and numb leg, maybe he should think of the injury as an opportunity—a golden ticket out of life in the unit and back to the life he had given up. If he couldn’t do both—and he had more than proven that he couldn’t—then maybe it was time to hang up the trident and head home. He would have his pension and . . . he slipped his hand into his pocket and retrieved the business card that Jarvis had given him:
JOINT INTELLIGENCE RESEARCH GROUP
CAPT. KELSO JARVIS, USN (RET)
DIRECTOR
No street address. No website. Just a name and a title, with his mobile phone number hastily hand-scrawled in pen on the back. And what the hell was the Joint Intelligence Research Group? He slipped the card back into his pocket. Jarvis had made the transition to civilian life, and the man certainly didn’t look broken. Quite the opposite, in fact. Maybe recent events were signs pointing his life in a new direction . . .
He felt a tug at his pant leg.
He looked down expectantly and found a very familiar gap-toothed smile and an even more unruly mop of curly black hair.
“Yeeees,” he said.
“My mom says that everyone has to dance, including you, Mr. Jack, and if you don’t dance, then you won’t get any cake, and if you don’t get any cake, then that means when the cake runs out, I don’t get any extra cake, so you have to come dance with me, right now.”
“Oh really?” he said, narrowing his eyes at Samantha Stein.
“Yes, really.”
“Well, in that case, let’s go,” he said, taking her delicate fingers in his bear paw of a hand. “No man can refuse a dance from a girl as beautiful as you.”
With a giggle and a twirl, she led him to the circle of people dancing. As the beat of the music picked up tempo, so did the clapping and the hooting and the hollering. Before he knew it, Kemper felt himself swept away in the counterclockwise rotation of the crowd. For thirty seconds, he forgot about the pain in his back and the pain in his heart, and he just danced—danced in celebration of life and friendship and a young boy becoming a man. And for thirty seconds, his life was perfect.
He felt something buzzing—an angry hornet clipped to his belt.
He looked right and saw Gabe palming a pager in his hand, shaking his head. He looked left and saw Zach being lowered to the ground, his chair gone still. The folk music was playing, but the main attraction had ground to a screeching halt.
They had been summoned.
All of them.
Something had gone to hell somewhere in the world, and Tier One had been tasked to fix it.
Kemper felt his heart sink. Not for himself, but for Gabe and Diane. For Samantha and all nine of her cousins. And most of all, for Zach. He watched Diane burst into the center of the circle and clutch Gabe’s arm. He couldn’t hear her voice, but he could read her lips: “Please, don’t go. Not now. Just this once, Gabe, stay. Please, please . . . please.”
“What’s happening?” Samantha said into his ear. “Why is my mom crying?”
He set her gently onto the ground. Taking a knee in front of her, he said, “Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart, except that your daddy has to go to work. We all have to go to work.”
CHAPTER 8
Tampa, Florida
March 30, 1830 EDT
Kemper tapped the pager clipped to his belt with the side of
his thumb—keeping time with the sound of the tires as they rolled over the concrete seams in the road.
Tap. Gurthump, gurthump. Tap. Gurthump, gurthump. Tap. Gurthump, gurthump.
Gabe and Pablo were in the front, and Thiel was beside him in the backseat of Pablo’s jeep. They were crossing the Gandy Bridge, which stretched across the clear, blue-green Florida waters of the Hillsborough Bay, connecting St. Pete with more urban Tampa.
No one was talking.
To the rest of the modern world—a world flooded with Apple iPhones, Samsung Galaxies, and Motorola Droids—the pager was as appreciated as a paperweight. But to Tier One operators, the pager transcended its low-tech capability. It was a part of being. Never lost, and never to be lost. Never forgotten. Never forsaken. It was their battle cry. Their stoic good-bye. An invisible tether. A calling together. It was an amalgam of intangibles—powerful and contradictory and personal.
Three little beeps, and then the rituals started. Last call. Time to go. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. One last hug. One last kiss. One last glance . . .
Leaving was easier for Kemper than for the others. Coming home—well, that was another matter altogether. He stared out the window at Hillsborough Bay. Pablo had the windows down, not because the air was cool and dry this time of year and it felt nice, but because Pablo always drove with the windows down. The wind buffeted Kemper’s cheeks, and he squinted at Skyway Bridge stretching from Tierra Verde to Bradenton. It felt good—really damn good—to be making this ride. To think that just fifteen minutes ago he’d been contemplating leaving the teams. No way. Not an option. He couldn’t do it.
He wouldn’t do it.
He gripped his pager. “This is my fucking life, and I’m keeping it,” he mumbled.
Tier One (Tier One Series Book 1) Page 6