I began to realize the depth of the Navy’s commitment to Six as I worked on the unit budget. The training-ammo allowance for SEAL Team Six’s ninety men was larger than the training-ammo allotment for the entire U.S. Marine Corps. The overall first-year budget for SEAL Six was more than East Coast and West Coast SEAL budgets combined— about the same as two F-14 fighter planes.
But money doesn’t mean much without the right men. On August 16, the day after the unit was officially “created” on paper, I drove down to Little Creek to begin interviewing prospective team members. I paid a courtesy call on the SpecWar commodore, Ted Lyon.
Ted was still as prissy as he’d been when we wrangled over the Little Creek parade ground. He didn’t much care for the way I looked. I was letting my hair and beard grow out, so I was uncommonly shaggy. Instead of a starched uniform I dressed in jeans, an open-necked, button-down shirt, and a sport coat. Long gone were my Geek-polished boots. Instead, I wore ragged running shoes.
I dropped into a chair in his Spartan, meticulous office.
“Morning, Ted.”
He saluted formally. “Commander.”
It was going to be one of those days. I rose and returned the salute. “Sir.” I may have said “Sir,” but I was thinking “cur.”
I explained what I was doing at Little Creek, and that I’d be starting to talk to prospective team members immediately.
Ted shook his head. “No, you won’t. There’s been no paperwork on this, Dick. And unlike some others I can think of, I do everything by the book.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk to emphasize each syllable. “By the book.”
1 looked at him. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, yes, I am. Just who the hell do you think you are to waltz in here and create havoc? This command will not respond to that sort of behavior. We actually observe a few of the formalities here. So, if you want something from now on, Dick — if you want anything from now on, Dick — put it in writing. Send it up through the chain of command. Send it to Staff, which will evaluate your proposal. If Staff approves, then your suggestion will be sent up the line for the appropriate action.”
“Well, tuck you very much, Ted.”
“And don’t speak to me in that way. Unlike the days when each of us was a unit commanding officer, I am now your direct superior.”
Actually, he wasn’t. I wouldn’t be reporting to Ted — he wasn’t a part of Six’s chain of command. Ted’s view, however, was that any East Coast SEALs — including Six — came under his administrative purview. And be was determined to make me obey. This wasn’t the time or the place to screw with him.
So I gritted my teeth, rose, and saluted. “Aye-aye, Corn-modore. Now, what paperwork do you wish, sir, so that I may commence interviewing prospective personnel for my new command?”
Ted smirked. “A memo from the CNO routed through CINCLANTFLT and SURFLANT to COMNAVSPECWARGRU would suffice— if you can get it.”
“Tell you what, Ted — it’s Saturday. I’m going to go have a few beers with the boys. I’ll be back next week and we’ll talk.”
At 0915 the following Wednesday, the exalted Commodore Edward Lyon III was shaking his head in disbelief as he read a rocket from Admiral Hayward, which I’d had sent directly to Ted’s attention. It had been routed through CINCLANTFLT, SURFLANT, and COMNAVSPECWARGRU, Just as Ted had ordered. The gist of the telex was simple: “You asshole, get out of Marcinko’s way or I will squash you like a bug. Give him everything he wants. Strong message follows. Love and kisses. Admiral Thomas Hayward, Chief of Naval Operations.”
The hate with which Ted looked at me was incredible. No wonder. His daughter, who worked as a bartender, had seen me drinking over the weekend with a number of SEALs and reported the fact to Daddy, who began our session by berating me for allegedly violating operational security guidelines. But despite the looks and the accusations,there was nothing Ted could do. Three hours later, I was interviewing candidates for SEAL Team Six.
I spent four days evaluating sailors at SEAL Team Two and the UDTs at Little Creek. For many of those who’d served under me six years before, it was a shock. They remembered the spit-and-polish CO who wore white-walls, demanded that Team members shave all facial hair, and ordered his officers to carry calling cards. Now they were being interviewed by a guy looking like Lobo the Wolf Man, who suggested strongly that they keep their hair unkempt and get their ears pierced.
What was I looking for? Shooters, of course. If you can’t kill the bad guy, then everything else is FUBAR. Second question: what’s the best way to get where the bad guys are?
Ilo-Ilo Island taught me that: why knock politely on the front door and eat bullets when you can hop and pop through the back door — where you’re least expected — and feed them some lead. And the option package includes all kinds of fun ways to arrive at the back door: you can swim or come by boat or chopper; you can climb up, or you can parachute down.
Third question: what sort of people can slide in the back door most easily? Dirtbags. Dirtbags with union skills — truck drivers, crane operators, bricklayers, electricians, longshoremen. But I wasn’t looking for just any dirtbags. I wanted motivated dirtbags — AVISes — the guys who try harder. I went through each candidate’s BUD/S records to see where they ranked in their classes. Whereas the number one man may have breezed through, the guy who was seventy-seventh probably had a bitch of a time in the water, didn’t like crawling through mud, and hated demolition — but he never quit. Experience had taught me that warthogs who tough it out are better in combat than your natural gazelles.
I made my selection — just under half the unit. The rest of Six would come from California. I called Paul Henley at Coronado. “Paul — XO, what’s happening? How’s the Job?”
“Not bad. It’s a living.”
I giggled. “Terrific- How about earning a living as my XO?”
“Wha—?”
“I mean it. I have a job for you.”
“What is it?”
“Can’t talk on the phone. I’m flying to San Diego tomorrow to do some interviewing.” I gave him the flight number. “Meet me at the airport — I’ll explain everything. And tell Marilyn to start packing. Your ass is coming East in less than two weeks.”
September 1 was Labor Day. On September 2, I checked out of the Pentagon to assume my new command. I got a warm send-off from Admiral Crowe, paid my respects to a two-star admiral named Art Moreau, who had run yards of interference for me as I was putting SEAL Team Six together, and called Ace Lyons, who’d received his second star and was heading up the Mobile Logistic Support Force at the Seventh Fleet, out in the Pacific. My last stop was the CNO’s cabin. Bill Crowe took me there.
Tom Hayward rose from his desk and came around in front of it.
“I’d like to thank you, sir, for the opportunity to command SEAL Six.”
“You were the best man for the job. Commander,” Hayward said.
“Do you have any final words of advice for me?”
The CNO took my hand and shook it solemnly, but warmly.
“Yes, Dick,” he said. “It comes down to this: you will not fail. That is an order.”
A bunch of my prospective troops were waiting when I drove through the gate at Little Creek at about twenty hundred. It was like Papa Bear coming home — lots of “Daddy, Daddy, what did you bring me?”
We went to a private club, run by the Fraternal Order of UDT/SEALs near the base, and over several cases of beer I told them in general terms what I’d be asking of them, and not to be expecting much vacation time between the next morning and, oh, 1996. Faces fell.
“I said it was gonna be hard work, guys. I didn’t say it wasn’t gonna be fun.” I took a bar napkin and a pen and drew a globe, framed by an old-fashioned “horseshoe” toilet seat. Above the drawing, I wrote PHOC-6; below it, the letters W.G.M.A.T.A.T.S. “That’s the unit emblem,” I said as the napkin got passed from man to man.
Somebody asked what it all stood for.
> “Phoc is French for ‘seal.’ The globe means we have a worldwide mission, and the letters at the bottom stand for ‘We Get More Ass Than A Toilet Seat.’ ”
We were a group of about thirty that night — the “close hold” core of SEAL Six, officers, chiefs, and enlisted men.
That was one of the best things about Six — there would be no caste system in my unit. If a man was good enough to die with, he was good enough to eat, drink, and get laid with.
SEAL Team Six would be run according to Barren’s First Law of the Sea, and Marcinko’s First Law of Unit Integrity: screw everybody but us.
Paul Henley sat at my elbow, listening and not saying much.
That was par for the course. He was yin to my yang. I was the archetypal LDO — Loud, Dumb, and Obnoxious; he was quiet and deep. Paul hadn’t seen combat, but had everything else working for him: language skill, CT training, brains, and was eighteen or nineteen. Good-bye, Corvette; hello, station wagon. In my book that was a plus: the kid needed responsibilities.
After he completed OCS, I pulled more strings and got Jew detailed to SEAL Two. SEAL Team Six was being designed, and I wanted him as part of the package. By getting Jew assigned to Little Creek, he’d be on the shelf until Daddy Demo came home.
The enlisted men swapping stories at the club that night had backgrounds as varied as the officers‘. I’d chosen them for youth and stamina, for combat experience, language specialties, and aggressiveness, A couple of the youngsters were picked because Six, like all units, needed cannon fodder.
Baby Rich was one of them. When I’d interviewed prospective SEAL Six members, I took one look at Rich’s round, naive baby face, gangling, tall body, and ham-sized fists, and laughed. “What the hell makes you think you can cut it, junior?”
“I know I can, sir.”
I shook my head. “You’re a regular tyke, a cherry. If I take you, it’ll be as an expendable, kiddo. If there’s a rope to climb and it looks like it’s gonna break, you’re the one who goes up to see. If we need to throw a jumper out of the plane to check the wind — you’re gonna be ‘it.’ ” I gave him my Sharkman Crazy Otto look and wiggled my eyebrows. “How does that sound to you?”
“Sounds fuckin‘ ducky to me, Commander.” He thumped my desk for emphasis. “Count me in. Shit, sir, I always wanted to be a fuckin’ SEAL — and now that I are one, I wanna be the best fuckin' SEAL there is. So if that means getting myself killed in your unit, as opposed to sitting somewhere with my thumb up my ass, I say go for it.”
Of course I hired him — who wouldn’t have?
Others I chose because they were just plain crazy. I figured, if we were going to jump out of planes at thirty-five thousand feet, free-fall, then parasail another fifteen, craziness was a definite requirement.
You want crazy? Okay — there was Snake, popping the poptop on his Coors. Snake was a dark-haired petty officer, third class. A former paratrooper from the Eighty-second Airborne and a qualified radio operator, Snake combined natural ath-letic ability with considerable strength and imagination. I liked him because he wouldn’t try to outthink you — he’d simply outperform you every single time-
Pooster the Rooster was another P03. Pooster was a spelunker from the Pacific Northwest whose specialties were shooting and women. He was deadly at both. Pooster got his handle from the Italians during SEAL Two deployments in the Mediterranean. He’s got copper-red hair that stands up in a perpetual cowlick, almost like a rooster tail. The locals in Naples and Rome would point at him and exclaim, in pidgin English, “Mista Poosta-Roost.” The moniker stuck.
Larry and Frank were my Gold Dust Twins. They’d met as swim buddies during BUD/S and become as close as brothers. Even though Larry was at SEAL Two in Virginia, while Frank had been posted to BUD/S in Coronado, California, they’d still start and finish each other’s sentences seamlessly.
But talk about opposites. Gold Dust Larry had dirty-blond hair and a face that looked as if it had weathered one too many brawls. Gold Dust Frank was dark haired, and he looked like a bulkier version of the actor Mark Harmon. Larry was moody — when ecstatic, he looked as if he’d never had a happy day in his life. Frank was ebullient, with smiling eyes, the kind of guy who walked into bars and made easy conversation with the ladies. -
Larry’s skills included specialties ür ordnance (he’d helped me build my wooden soldiers for the Iranian raid) and air operations — he could fly a plane. He’d seen combat as a Marine, so I knew he’d pull the trigger if he had to. Moreover, I’d been his CO for a short time at SEAL Two. He’d arrived just as my successor and I were exchanging command. I hadn’t gotten to know Larry well, but he’d impressed me as steady and dependable — the first guy to show up, and one of the last to leave.
In fact, if there was one type of man I’d visualized whenever I thought of the archetypal plank-owner of SEAL Team Six, it was Larry. He was a sailor in the tradition of Ev Banett, a P02 who never stopped working with the men under him.
Larry’d made the cut for Six before there was a cut.
Gold Dust Frank was an unknown quantity, so far as I was concerned. But during a beer-soaked night while I was conducting my personnel interviews at Little Creek, Larry had vouched for his buddy’s skills, written his Gold Dust Twin’s name on a soggy bar napkin, and stuffed it in my pocket.
“He’s workin‘ as an instructor at BUD/S, Skipper.”
When I showed up at Coronado to do my recruiting, I had the napkin on the table in front of me. Frank walked in.
“Name?”
He told me. He’d never met me before and didn’t know what to expect. He got my crazy commander act. I picked up the soiled cocktail napkin and made a big thing of trying to read it. I turned it every which way, screwing up my face as I puzzled vocally over the ink blots. “Your name’s not Fnnnnnunnk Fynnnnnnufff?”
“No, sir.” He repeated his name.
I looked at him critically, then examined the napkin again.
I shook my head. “Are you sure your name’s not Fnnnnnunnk Fynnnnnnufff?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your social security number?”
He told me.
“You’re Larry’s swim buddy.”
“Yup.”
I balled up the cocktaü napkin and three-pointed it into a nearby wastebasket. “You got the job. Now get outta here.”
“Uh, Commander…”
“Yeah?”
“What is the job?”
“You mean Larry didn’t tell you?”
“No, sir, all he said was to show up, and if you asked if I wanted a job, say yes.”
Frank turned out to be all right. He became a flier. And he helped us perfect our parachute work and sniping, as he was both an imaginative and accomplished jumper and a quick-eyed shooter. But I chewed his ass that first night at Little Creek. He showed up in a SEAL T-shirt. “Hey, shitfor-brains…” I grabbed him by the offending garment. “Can you say ‘operational security’?”
Horserace was Paul’s selection. A former state-champion wrestler, he’d left the Navy and was crop-dusting in Ohio when I called him and sketched out the possibilities if he’d reenlist. He was at Uttle Creek in a few days, smiling his trademark yard-wide, big-toothed smile. Large, strong, and intimidating, Horserace was one of those rare individuals who knew no fear. Best of all, there was nothing he wouldn’t fly — from a Piper Cub to a 727, he’d climb into the cockpit and after a few minutes get us off the groundFingers was a chief who’d known me long enough to call me Demo Dick and remember why. He didn’t look much like your archetypal SEAL. He weighed less than 150 pounds soaking wet, had ears like Dumbo, big blue eyes, and a metabolism that ran so fast he probably burned a hundred calories every time he blinked- An EOD specialist, he could only count to nine using his fingers, which is how he’d received his nickname. And he had a mouth that never stopped moving.
Fingers had at least one opinion about everything. Sometimes he had two or three opinions. Whether they conflicte
d or not didn’t matter — after a while we figured he had multiple personalities. He was a shoot-and-looter; a combat workaholic who’d be graded D on style — he looked like a real dirtbag— but A-plus on results. He’d helped Mac and me design Six and was exactly the kind of AVIS asshole I was looking for.
SEAL Team Six would be permanently based about thirty miles from Norfolk. Our facility, however, would not be-finished for almost a year. In the meanwhile, we needed somewhere to hang our hats, stow ouf gear, receive our phone calls, and put up our shingle. Little Creek was convenient and familiar ground for most of us, so we set up shop in two chicken coops located fifteen yards behind SEAL Team Two’s HQ. At least I thought they looked like chicken coops—
WWII wooden structures forty feet wide and eighty feet long built atop concrete slabs. One had been used as the Wives Club meetinghouse; the other was the base Cub Scout den.
Me, my XO, my operations boss, and my command master chief, Mac, all shared space in the same room. I appropriated the best furniture: a battleship-gray metal desk with three legs we salvaged from the junk pile, and a nckety swivel chair.
Paul’s ensemble was similar, but in worse condition. Our wall decorations were Cub Scout leftovers with the exception of a composite photograph some wiseass had made of my head atop the CNO’s four-star body.
Our situation was not ideal — and not simply because the quarters were cramped and ill-suited to our needs. Our lo-cation was just too damn visible. We were, after all, an alleged top-secret uryt. We wore civilian clothes; I’d ordered my men to remove the base stickers from their vehicles, keeping them instead on magnetic strips they’d attach just as they drove through the gates. We’d come and go at odd hours- Nothing about SEAL Six was military — and that’s the way I wanted it. But less than a hundred feet away, SEALs from Two, dressed in their green fatigues, stared openmouthed as convoys of trucks rolled up to our sheds, unloading box after box of goodies. I’d look across the chain-link fence that separated the men from the boys and tsk-tsk them. “Thou shall not covet,” I chided.
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