Tier One (Tier One Series Book 1)

by Brian Andrews

  Jarvis paused for the audience to consider that.

  “I knew these men. I fought with these men. I laughed with them and cried with them. They were my brothers. They were my family. But what can I say about them?”

  He spent the next twenty-five minutes saying exactly what the audience, especially the families, needed him to say. He gave them the most precious gift he could give—his memories. He told stories of courage under fire, and triumph over terror. He told stories of fraternity and teamwork. He told stories that made them laugh and made them cry. Anecdotal stories that filled their hearts with pride and made them remember the good times, while forgetting the bad. When he finished and looked out over the crowd, he was satisfied. Never once did he speak a name, a rank, or a call sign. To every wife, he celebrated her martyred husband. To every parent, he venerated a lost son. And to every fatherless child, he took off Clark Kent’s eyeglasses to reveal that their dad was, and always would be, Superman.

  A strange paralysis settled over the assembly. All eyes were fixed on him. They wanted more. They were not ready to let go. And when the JSOC Commander stood and clasped a hand on Jarvis’s shoulder and replaced him at the podium, they began to weep and hold each other. They ignored the words that followed, introducing the Secretary of Defense. Instead, they watched Jarvis with wet, grateful eyes as he walked past the front three rows where the widows, orphaned children, and parents and siblings of the lost were seated. They watched him until he took his seat in the fourth row, behind them. Those within reach shook his hand. Others nodded or mouthed a silent “Thank you” as he walked by. In the end, the Secretary of Defense was made to wait—wait for a man he had never heard of.

  Eventually, the memorial regained its banal rhythm. Jarvis let the ramblings of the SECDEF become background noise as he reconsidered the data and the decisions that had sent his fellow SEALs to their deaths. The mental exercise was not about assuaging his guilt—that was neither possible nor necessary. It was about formulating a plan to use the event to unmask those responsible, so that the sword of justice—his sword—could exact vengeance. It was up to him to solve the unknown variables and balance the equation. Everything in life was an equation, and unbalanced equations set off chain reactions and became chaos. In a perverse sense, he considered himself a bookkeeper, maintaining the ledgers of madness that mankind perpetually unleashed on itself and the world at large. When the books were balanced, a fragile sort of peace persisted until the tireless agents of entropy began their work anew.

  What is peace but war held in check?

  What is life but entropy held at bay?

  He could not remember when the thought first occurred to him that good and evil could be—must be—understood in mathematical terms. Entropy is the true devil in the universe, not some cackling, fiery satyr with horns and a pitchfork. Entropy is the great destructor, the root of all disorder and chaos. What are the seven deadly sins, if not a failure to resist the decay of one’s moral fiber? What is war, if not an alliance with entropy to bring chaos and destruction to an ordered world? It took 182 years to build Notre Dame de Paris—182 years of effort, energy, and discipline to construct a magnificent cathedral from sand, wood, and stone unhewn. But with only one Mark 83 general-purpose bomb, this beautiful triumph over entropy could be reduced to rubble. Would the bombing of Notre Dame be a sin, even with no human casualties? Yes, because the very existence of such a structure in the universe is good. Life, in all its forms, is good. Because life, by definition, is the endeavor to persist against the forces of entropy, always nibbling and clawing to redistribute life’s energy and matter into the cold, homogeneous ether.

  The Secretary of Defense finished his remarks and introduced President Warner. Everyone in the audience perked up as the president took the stage—everyone except Jarvis. As usual, he expected the president to speak many words but say very little. Judging from the pacing of the poorly focused drivel he was hearing already, Jarvis guessed he had at least eight or nine minutes to devote to something more important than listening to the most powerless powerful man in the world. He let his eyes glaze over as he looked inside and resumed dissecting the question that had been plaguing him day and night for the past week: Who was the puppet master behind the SEAL massacre?

  Supposition number one: someone with access to, and control over, critical channels of information inside the Al Qaeda network.

  Supposition number two: someone with authority to direct multiple data streams through multiple sources in a way that would fool not only the Americans, but also those allies whose actions he wished to control.

  Supposition number three: someone not interested in publicly taking credit for the attack, and therefore someone occupying a powerful position in either an Al Qaeda parent organization or a Middle Eastern government that supported terror activities behind the scene.

  Al Qaeda was fractured, partially by intent, partially by economics, and partially by culturally rooted Islamic differences. Al Qaeda in Iraq was not the same as Al Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula, which was not the same as Al Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb. As the saying went, “All politics is local.” That same aphorism applied to terrorism. Which was why Jarvis still struggled with the idea that someone had unified the sectarian terror cells and conducted an operation of unprecedented scale and sophistication against the US military. Were he still alive, even Bin Laden would have had difficulty managing a coordinated feat such as the SEAL massacres in Yemen and Djibouti.

  Tired of fixating on the complexity of the operation and the data streams, Jarvis decided to simply go back to the beginning. The rise of the Islamic State was a powerful inducement for the factions of Al Qaeda to cooperate. ISIS had grabbed the world’s attention, and to stay relevant, Al Qaeda needed a big win. The initial tip that AQ factions were gathering in Yemen had come from his VEVAK source in Tehran. By itself, that meant little or nothing. Just because the source reported the meet, and the meet turned out to be a trap, did not guarantee the source was supplying counterintelligence. Most sources lived in the middle of the food chain, where they made opportunistic intelligence grabs. This particular source had consistently provided valuable leads—despite the fact that his intel often had holes or inaccuracies. The tip about the Darya-ye Noor was the perfect example—right ship, wrong cargo, but a big win nonetheless. Because of this tip, the SEALs had been able to destroy a cache of surface-to-air missiles bound for Yemen and guarded by Iranian security forces. For an Iranian source to provide intel that resulted in Iranian deaths was a powerful validation of the source’s loyalty. At first blush, Jarvis was inclined to believe his source had been an unwitting pawn in the massacre. And yet . . . a spymaster must always remain cynical.

  On paper, Iran had much to gain from wiping out the Tier One SEALs. Not just because of its covert support for jihad against the West, but also the necessity of removing barriers to Persia’s ascension to the head of the caliphate and a new era of global Islamic domination. Since the creation of the JIRG, the uptick in actionable intelligence gathered had resulted in the Tier One SEALs being tasked regularly and often. Over the past several years, Tier One had repeatedly kicked Iranian black-ops collective ass all over the map. Together, his task force and brother SEALs had foiled countless MOIS and IRGC operations outside of Iran’s borders. Had Tehran finally decided to punch back? Had he and Shane terribly underestimated the strategic prowess of President Esfahani? He found it impossible to believe that the bureaucrat who’d championed nuclear cooperation with the West could also be the architect of such a brilliant and subversive plan. But maybe he’d misclassified the man. Perhaps, Esfahani was not the puppet Jarvis had assumed him to be. After all, Esfahani’s charm offensive had worked on the White House. Just last week, the Warner Administration had praised Iran on its progress since the implementation of the JCPOA and had even hinted that the remaining long-standing economic sanctions levied against the former regime might be lifted soon as well. He’d even heard US ambassador Felicity
Long refer to Esfahani as “a moderate voice of reason in an ever more turbulent Middle East.” Jarvis shook his head. How could the politicians not understand that there was no such thing as “moderate” when it came to the ruling powers in Iran?

  Yet, pegging Esfahani as the mastermind behind the SEAL massacre raised more questions than it answered. With the ongoing inspections of Iran’s nuclear facilities, why would Esfahani engage in such overt warmongering? The timing couldn’t be worse. Moreover, why risk the ire of the Pentagon when the United States was on the verge of ending an era of Iranian sanctions? There were other issues to consider as well. Had Esfahani used VEVAK to manipulate the various Al Qaeda factions? If so, how had he managed logistics of such an operation without a single leak?

  Jarvis had an informal agreement with an old friend—recently “retired” from the Israeli Mossad—to exchange critical intelligence on matters of joint concern. The Mossad had reliable assets embedded in both the MOIS and IRGC. If Harel had heard anything, anything at all about a move against the US military, he would have warned Jarvis. But Harel had been quiet for a while now, and had not contacted him in the days since the massacre. Given the magnitude of the loss, Jarvis would have expected at least a phone call. Strange.

  Something in this equation definitely doesn’t balance.

  President Warner finished his remarks, and the crowd stood. They gave him subdued, respectful applause as he looked out at them with a stoic face. Jarvis rose to his own feet noticeably late. He had not processed a single word of the president’s speech, but now he was paying attention. President Rand Warner made an obvious point of wiping away a tear, probably imaginary, and then gave an awkward salute to the entire crowd, equally inappropriate, before leaving the podium. He took his place back between SECDEF and his chief of staff, Robert Kittinger. Jarvis had not yet met this president, but he’d done his homework on the country’s newest Commander in Chief. Admiral Kenneth, who sat on the Joint Chiefs of Staff, had recently shared his observations with Jarvis over a bottle of bourbon:

  “He’s always in campaign mode. In public, he’s a master bullshitter and knows how to leverage his good looks and charm to win both critics and detractors over to his side. Behind closed doors, he’s a megalomaniac with a short fuse and a deep distrust of flag officers. But he’s neither lazy nor stupid. Unlike his predecessor, he has a tenacious appetite for information and a memory for detail. Shit, in that respect the guy reminds me of you, Kelso . . . the sonuvabitch doesn’t forget anything. But the similarity ends there. Warner does not see the world like you and me. Hell, the Iran treaty is proof of that. If he’s willing to bow to Tehran, then there’s no telling what he’s capable of.”

  Jarvis shifted his gaze from the president back to the podium, where the chaplain from NAVSPECWAR Group Two stood ready to close the proceedings. The crowd bowed their heads and listened to the chaplain recite a brief prayer—vague and generic enough to offend no one, which, of course, resulted in offending almost everyone. Then everyone stood for a moment and looked around at one another as if uncertain what to do or where to go next. For many of the families, this was the first in a long series of painful events meant to honor their lost loved ones. There would be a private ceremony back at the command. There would be individual funerals. There would be ceremonies at commissioned memorials for many months to come. It would be a long time before they’d be allowed to let go.

  For the leadership, however, the next stop was Congress and their goddamn hearings to decide whom to blame for the tragedy. It would be a circus, with both sides of the aisle pointing at each other until some poor SOB—probably one of Jarvis’s friends—was offered up as the sacrificial lamb. He doubted that he would be summoned to the witch hunt. As long as he ran JIRG, he was vapor. But that didn’t make him immune from self-flagellation. He knew who to blame for this.

  Himself.

  And the enemy he planned to hunt to the ends of the earth.

  He moved to the end of his row and waited for the occupants to sift past in single file. He had one final obligation to fulfill, and it was bitter. Head bowed, he waited for the former Mrs. Kemper to exit her seat in the front row.

  He only had to wait a moment.

  Their eyes met, and he took her by the elbow—leading her and her son into an empty row. “I am so, so sorry, Kate.”

  She nodded, tried to speak, and then shook her head. Her chestnut hair, which he remembered as always pulled back into a sporty ponytail, hung limp and heavy to her shoulders, framing her ashen, tear-streaked cheeks. Her hazel eyes, usually so bright and vibrant, looked tired and bloodshot. And yet despite the angst, she had not lost her inner strength. She stood tall, her petite chin raised.

  Beside her, Kemper’s sixteen-year-old son stared at the floor, his mouth half-open and his eyes far away. The boy had Kemper’s same tawny-brown hair, but wore it long and unkempt—a Kurt Cobain homage. He had Kate’s eyes and narrow nose, but Jack’s square jaw. He stood five foot nine or ten, but he still had the skinny, gangly body of a teenager with a nuclear-powered metabolism. He carried none of his father’s hard-packed muscle, but give it a couple of more years, and that would change.

  “Do you remember me, Jacob?” Jarvis asked, placing a hand on Jacob’s slumping shoulder. The boy looked up, stared at the trident on Jarvis’s chest for a long moment. Finally, the boy’s bloodshot gaze met his own.

  “You used to be my dad’s boss,” he said, in a voice younger than his age.

  “Yes,” Jarvis said. “And I never stopped being his friend. With the exception of you and your mom, I knew your dad better than anyone on the planet. I knew him enough to know how very much he loved you and how very proud of you he was. He showed pictures and video clips of you all the time—playing soccer, at your wrestling competitions, even a YouTube clip of you playing the guitar. He never stopped talking about you. I know he was counting the days until the war was over and he could be with you again.”

  “Really?” the boy said, in a voice full of pain and hope.

  “Really,” Jarvis said. “Can we spend a few minutes together so I can tell you some things you need to know about him?” He glanced at Kate for a mother’s approval.

  She answered him with her eyes: Thank you for this, thank you . . . thank you.

  Jarvis put an arm around Kemper’s son, and they sat side by side on the cushioned folding chairs. He talked for forty minutes, recounting the odyssey of Jack Kemper—SEAL, father, hero—blending truth and fiction so that by the end, the son, and his eavesdropping mother, had heard what they needed to hear. When he had finished answering all their questions, he retrieved Kemper’s trident insignia from his coat pocket and pressed it into the palm of Jacob’s hand.

  “Every SEAL owns a handful of these, but this one is special. This trident was your dad’s first, pinned onto his chest the day he officially became a SEAL. He had been saving it for the right time to give to you . . . I know it’s not the same, but that honor now falls to me.”

  With tears streaming down his cheeks, Jacob clutched the brass insignia in his hand and threw his arms around Jarvis. Jarvis hugged the boy back, hugged him like the son he would never have.

  After a long moment, Kate stood and gently laid her hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “It’s time to go, Jake.”

  Jacob released his bear hug. Jarvis did the same.

  “If you ever need me,” Jarvis said, not sure what else to say.

  Kate leaned in and kissed him cordially on the cheek. “You were a good friend to him, Kelso.” She was about to say more, but the tears came rushing, and it was time.

  He watched them disappear into the crowd, and for an instant, he lost himself in the charade and felt his eyes moisten. He blinked, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck.

  Someone tapped his shoulder.

  The tap was not a tentative tap. Not an “Excuse me, but you’re blocking the aisle” tap. This was the tap of a man with something to say. The tap of a man who was not afraid of
anything a former Tier One SEAL having a very bad day might do to him. It was the tap of an equal, and someone just as lethal.

  Jarvis turned and found himself face-to-face with the last man on earth he expected to see.

  CHAPTER 15

  Tehran, Iran

  April 14, 1722 Local Time

  Triumph is a jubilant elixir. It is bright and fleeting, like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Grief, on the other hand, is something altogether different.

  Grief lingers. It stains. It weighs.

  Ten days ago, Masoud Modiri had been so very, very happy. Thanks to his vision and his brother’s impeccable planning, America’s most elite Special Forces unit had been decimated and the will of Allah satisfied. The infamous Tier One SEAL unit was no more, and his son’s death had been avenged forty times over.

  Persia had triumphed over the Great Satan.

  The Modiri brothers had bloodied the most powerful nation on Earth and done so in perfect anonymity.

  Fireworks.

  But now, the feeling was no longer within his grasp. Lost, like wind through his fingers. Lost, like Kamal. Five hundred, or five thousand, or five million dead Americans would not bring his son back. Almost a month had passed since that dreadful day when he had learned of Kamal’s death, and still his wife wept. She wept upon waking; she cried herself to sleep. When he tried to comfort her, he had trouble keeping his own tears at bay. He had stopped bargaining with death, and it had left him weary.

  Death was no man’s companion.

  He leaned his head back against the leather seat of the Mercedes sedan and closed his eyes. Traffic was heavy today; the driver had told him the commute would take ten to fifteen minutes longer than usual. He was exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally. He let himself sleep, until the sound of the passenger door opening roused him.

  “Will you be needing the car tonight?” the chauffeur asked him.

  “No,” he said, climbing out of the sumptuous backseat. “See you in the morning at the regular time.”