“Do-Lord, take him down,” Jax repeated. His voice sounded almost bored, but flexible and deadly as a rapier, it cut anyway.
Do-Lord could see runnels of sweat making lighter streaks through the dirt on the man’s cheeks. From the moment he had the tango in his scope Do-Lord had been unconsciously tracking his own slow heartbeats. He inhaled, found the space between one heartbeat and the next, and squeezed the trigger.
“What the hell took you so long?” Jax asked. Shoulder-to-shoulder they were jammed into the Humvee to be transported back to the base on the outskirts of the city near the airport.
“Couldn’t get a clear shot.”
SEALs lie. They succeed in their dangerous and deadly work by not appearing where they are expected and by not being what they appear to be. A cynical SEAL saying was: “Never tell the truth, when a lie will do as well.”
Lying didn’t bother Do-Lord. He hadn’t told the truth much since he was ten years old. But until now, he’d never lied to Jax. Do-Lord passed a hand over his face, pressing his thumbs against his eyes, fighting the urge to weep.
“God, I’m tired,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Jax, slumping beside him. “And we’ve lost almost twelve of the twenty-four hours we had to get squared away before we leave.”
“Grab some rack time when we hit the base. I’ll write your after-action report for you.”
Jax grumbled and shook his head.
“Shut up.” Do-Lord cuffed him lightly on the arm.
“You know I write better than you do. I can do it in half the time. It’ll be waiting for your signature before chow.”
Jax didn’t answer, but packed together as they were, Do-Lord felt him relax and his breathing become more regular. To let Jax nap for a few minutes, Do-Lord angled his shoulder to brace his friend against the jolts of a road that was more pothole than pavement.
In his bones he still felt the deep tremors where past and present, like tectonic plates, ground together. When he’d made his vow, he’d been thinking like a kid, boiling with a violent compound of grief and teenage testosterone, pressurized by his sheer powerlessness.
But he wasn’t a kid anymore.
He had a promise to keep. It was time he stopped reacting and started thinking like a SEAL.
Chapter 1
Little Creek, Virginia
FUNERALS, YES. HE’D PULLED HONOR GUARD DUTY AT too many of them. But in all his thirty-two years, Caleb “Do-Lord” Dulaude had never attended a wedding. In a surprise development, barely four months since the platoon’s return from the ‘Stan, Jax was getting married, and Do-Lord had to be the best man at one.
Mellow November sunshine trickled into his cubicle from the window in the hallway, and his stomach growled. He pushed back the cuff of his gray and tan desert camo BDU’s to check his watch then rifled the pages of the etiquette book open on his desk to see if he had a chance of finishing it in time to get some lunch.
His battered 2002 Bluejacket’s Guide, a chief petty officer’s bible, specified in detail how to render military honors at a funeral, but it hadn’t helped much with a wedding. It said very little about his duties during the ceremony, only that he would be in charge of the arch of swords, which would take place outside the church. He figured there was a lot more to a wedding than that, especially among the upper-crust of North Carolina.
This book on etiquette was the third he’d read. In his palm pilot he had a twenty-six item list of his duties as best man. He wouldn’t necessarily need to know all, but it was always the little things that got you killed. Since he had no idea which details would prove to be crucial, he ignored the rumbling of his stomach.
Harder to ignore were his boredom with what he read and the tiny niggle of fear that the two staves on which he had depended, feeding his mind’s thirst for information and the engrossment of SEAL life, were failing him.
The tall white cake typically served at wedding receptions today was once the bride’s cake, whereas the wedding cake was a fruitcake, filled with nuts…
“I looked for you in the NCO mess.” Burly Master Chief Lon Swales, also dressed in camo, interrupted him. From the first, although he didn’t take well to regulations, Do-Lord had loved the Navy’s prescribed dress code for every occasion. He always knew exactly what to wear in order not to draw attention to himself. “What are you missing lunch to read?”
Do-Lord slid the yellow highlighter through his fingers while he considered lying. His fellow SEALs accepted his reading mania. He had a paperback stashed in a pocket anytime he wasn’t in combat gear—and a lot of times when he was. In desperation, after he’d exhausted all other printed matter, he’d even read paperback romances while in Afghanistan. Since pictures of scantily clad women were offensive to Muslims, the covers of many had been torn off, adding a new layer of meaning to the term “bodice ripper.”
Everyone would really razz him, if they found out he’d moved on to etiquette books. On the other hand, the razzing would be worse if the guys learned he’d lied about reading up on etiquette.
“Emily Post. Research. Boning up for Jax’s wedding.”
The weathered skin around the Master Chief’s eyes folded into deep crow’s feet, and his lips quirked, but the expected teasing didn’t come. Instead, with perfect seriousness, he asked, “Have you read Service Etiquette?”
“Swartz, Fourth Edition? Read it first. When I’m invited to the White House, I’ll sho’nuff do you proud.”
Lon chuckled at Do-Lord’s tongue-in-cheek reference to the fact that Service Etiquette covered protocol for every social occasion a person in the military could encounter, no matter how unlikely. “Stranger things have happened.” He took a seat in the straight metal chair in front of Do-Lord’s desk, and in an almost gentle voice he asked, “How’s it going?”
“Tell you what…” Caleb let the sentence hang while he tossed the highlighter on the desk and rolled his desk chair back to stretch out his legs. “It’s boring as hell, but it’s not as bad as that outboard motor service manual you made us read during Hell Week.”
Do-Lord saw with satisfaction he’d struck the right note with the Master Chief. Twelve years ago, Lon had been a BUD/S instructor to the class that included Jax, an ensign, and Do-Lord, except he hadn’t earned his nickname yet.
“Hey, I was just trying to help you stay awake.” Lon settled into his chair and hooked his thumbs over his belt, his innocent tone belied by a devilish grin.
“Yeah, right.” During Hell Week the trainees were allowed a total of four hours sleep. During so-called rest periods, harsh consequences would descend on anyone who fell asleep and on all those near who allowed him to nod off. Listening while someone read aloud was bad enough, since few people did it well. Trying to stay alert while boring material was read aloud would turn their few minutes of respite into torture.
Lon’s expression grew thoughtful, his eyes on a distant past. “Until that night I didn’t think you were going to graduate. Some guys never get it that being a SEAL isn’t about taking punishment, or endurance, or even being the best or the baddest.”
Though fewer than twenty percent graduated from the toughest training in the world, it wasn’t because instructors tried to wash a trainee out. They did, however, use any means to make a trainee aware of his weak areas and the need to overcome them. “You were doing your part, but that’s all you were doing. For all the physical stuff we do, ultimately, making a SEAL is mental. A man must decide he’s personally responsible for the success of the team and the welfare of every member. He has to find within himself whatever makes him able to do that. You were holding back, side-stepping opportunities for leadership, letting your boat crew not do as well as they might have, because you didn’t like being noticed.” Lon’s eyes twinkled. “So we noticed you—a lot.”
“That’s why you handed me the manual to read aloud!” Until this moment, Dulaude had never suspected the instructors had intended to make him uncomfortable by singling him out. He shouted with la
ughter at the double irony. For Dulaude, being made to read was a “get out of jail free” card. Thinking only of himself, he had known exactly how Br’er Rabbit felt in the briar patch. He could easily pretend to mumble through it.
“Yup. We figured you’d be miserable trying to read aloud, and you’d make everybody else miserable.” Lon chuckled in reminiscence.
But Dulaude had looked out at the faces of the men gathered in the mess hall at 3:00 a.m. Of a starting class of one hundred twenty-nine, around fifty red-eyed, battered men remained. More would quit before the night was over, because the pain, cold, and exhaustion would only get worse. White with fatigue, shoulders slumped, neither hopeful nor interested, longing only for sleep, they had watched him with faces set to endure.
Except for Jax. His eyes had been so bloodshot he looked like a creature from a horror movie, but still they lit with expectation. He seemed to think Dulaude intended to do something to keep them awake.
Dulaude had glanced down at the manual Chief Swales had stuffed in his hands. Gray print on flimsy gray paper, it was designed to blind any reader it didn’t render comatose. However, Dulaude could read a page at a glance and had something close to eidetic memory. Up to now, he had concealed his reading ability as he had his real IQ. He had learned early that both made him stand out, and drawing the attention of authorities was never a good thing.
A crazy idea came to him, one that would blow his “average” cover forever, but would get everyone else through the next fifteen minutes.
“My brothers-s! Listen-n to the word-d of the naval command-d,” he began with the over-articulated cadences of a tent preacher. “Verily I say unto you, this”—he waved the manual—“is what you must know about the 175 horsepower four-stroke outboard, and if you have faith, it is all you need to know.”
A murmur went through the assembled men, a rustle, as awareness that something novel was happening penetrated their tired brains.
“The outboard is secured with four three-inch bolts— four, did you hear me brothers, four!”
“Preach it, brother!” yelled Jax, a huge grin breaking across his face.
“Hallelujah!” someone in the back exulted.
“Which should always be tightened—”
As they caught on to the joke, more joined into the irreverent fun. Their instructors did pursue safety and equipment maintenance with something close to religious fervor.
“Before and after each use—”
“Thank you, Jesus!”
“Or after four hours elapsed running time.”
“I believe! I believe!”
“Praise the Lord!”
“Yeah. Praise Duluade!” Jax added.
Lon rose laughing. Instructors made training as tough as they could, but they gloried to see trainees demonstrate the out-of-the-box thinking that was the SEALs’ hallmark. “Metcalf, lead us in a closing hymn.”
“I’ve got a home in glory-land that outshines the sun.” Metcalf’s rich baritone began the old church-camp song, so easy anyone could sing along. When he got to the chorus of “Do, Lord, oh do, Lord, oh do, remember me,” the mess hall rang with clapping and stomping.
“That’s when the guys nicknamed you Do-Lord, isn’t it?” Lon broke in on Do-Lord’s train of thought, returning him to the present. “And you and Jax have been friends since BUD/S.”
“Yeah, the Philadelphian with a silver spoon in his mouth and the Alabama cracker, raised in trailer located on the hind end of nowhere.”
The older man’s eyes sharpened. “Alabama?”
“Sure. You knew that,” Do-Lord deepened his drawl. “That’s why I talk this way.”
Lon snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. “How much you drawl depends on how much bullshit you’re spreading.”
Do-Lord nodded gravely. “That too. Why did you come looking for me?”
“I just got the report on Delvecchio’s condition.”
“Carmine? How is he?” Carmine was a trainee who had finished BUD/S but who still had a six-month apprenticeship to serve before he would be a full-fledged SEAL, ready to operate.
Lon took a deep breath, eyes squinted with pain. “He’s been moved to Bethesda. He’s got leukemia.”
“What?” Do-Lord’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “I told him to report for sick call—three, four days ago, but I didn’t think anything was wrong with him. I was tired of him saying he was tired.” Do-Lord slammed the stupid book on etiquette shut, disgusted that he had been studying the social customs of the upper class while a man he was responsible for had been seriously ill, and he hadn’t realized it. “I thought he was goldbricking. Showing up late looking like hell. Phoning in his PT.” Do-Lord pushed his hair back from his forehead, a gesture left over from Afghanistan. Dark red hair like his wasn’t uncommon among Afghanis, so while there he’d let it grow, and with his more rangy than stocky build he’d blended in better than some of the darker guys. SEALs, who might have to leave the country undercover at any time, were allowed relaxed grooming standards, but Do-Lord had cut his hair as soon as he returned to the U.S. “The poor SOB.”
“Cut yourself some slack. You took the appropriate action when you had cause to do so. You know how these gung-ho kids try to cover up.”
“That’s right. I do know.” Do-Lord wasn’t going to let himself off the hook. “I’ve seen men trying to run on broken legs and showing up for roll call with one-hundred-four-degree temperatures. I should have suspected something else was going on.” Do-Lord felt like breaking something, but SEALs don’t make violent gestures. When they’re violent, it’s for real.
“I should have been paying better attention to his motivation.” Maintaining smooth function of the team on a day-to-day basis was done by chiefs. The blend of skills and personalities that would meld a pack of all-alpha dogs into a cooperating team was as difficult to analyze as an alchemical formula. A man whose performance was lackluster might be outstanding if assigned to a different group. “And don’t bother reminding me the platoon Jax led in Afghanistan was tight,” Do-Lord went on. “Unusually so, even for SEALs. It’s breaking up now, scattering to different posts. It’s normal for us to resent the new guy, although he isn’t the cause of the changes. It wouldn’t be rational to expect him to fit in.”
“Are you going to have both sides of this conversation, or am I allowed to speak now?” The older man’s amused drawl was a gentle, but unmistakable, rebuke.
Do-Lord pressed his lips together and nodded.
“I’m not holding you responsible for Delvecchio, and neither is anyone else. But I am worried about you. You haven’t been yourself since Afghanistan. You fake being laid-back better than anybody I know, but you’re too tight. I know you’ve got a degree in clinical psychology, but you can’t treat yourself. Find somebody to talk to, get it off your chest, and get your head back where it needs to be.”
Lon was thinking post-traumatic stress. The thought had occurred to Do-Lord too. It explained the difficulty paying attention, the sense that some nameless something was wrong, the oppressive boredom. He was sure it explained the crazy moment in Afghanistan when he’d almost fired on a man he was tasked to protect. He still woke up in a cold sweat from nightmares in which he saw Calhoun in his rifle scope and did squeeze the trigger.
He’d put the whole event down to combat stress, some aberration induced by the fatigue of unrelenting vigilance in a land where the enemy could be anyone, anywhere. The popular press often attributed Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (once called “battle fatigue” until it was recognized that many people who hadn’t been in wars had the same symptoms) to one horrific, traumatic event.
In fact, people were amazingly resilient, and one terrible event in an otherwise stable, supportive environment didn’t usually induce PTSD. Instead it was an accumulation of stresses: being in constant danger from which there was no escape, assaults on the emotions which one dare not feel, morally ambiguous situations which many were far too young to comprehend, much less grap
ple with, that eventually overwhelmed the mind’s defenses.
The men he was responsible for, he carefully monitored for signs of combat stress, but apparently it had snuck up on him. He still couldn’t believe that, even for a second, he had risked the careers of every man in the unit, especially Jax’s, his best friend. His own career he wouldn’t have needed to worry about. Someone would have seen to it that he left Afghanistan in a body bag. And he would have thought the punishment just. He was grateful that the deeply indoctrinated ideals of loyalty, responsibility, and awareness of consequences had pulled him back from the brink, but the shame of that moment crawled up his face in a hot slither. He couldn’t possibly, ever, tell anyone.
Anyway, he already knew what a therapist would tell him. In Afghanistan, though he had done what he should, he hadn’t done what he wanted to. Therefore, what was troubling him now was lack of closure.
He was determined to stop thinking like a hotheaded teenager and start thinking like a SEAL. Whether caused by PTSD or not, if he had lived up to his promise, instead of burying his past when he buried his mother, the moment in Afghanistan would never have happened.
When he made the vow with a teenager’s intensity, he’d wanted justice and seen it in black and white, a life for a life. With planning, nothing would be easier than to kill Calhoun. But now that he’d had time to think rationally, a clean head shot was too good for the senator. If he thought about justice for his mother in a balanced way, Calhoun hadn’t murdered Do-Lord’s mother. He had destroyed her life. It was a subtle, but important distinction.
So, thinking like a SEAL, he needed to do the most damage to Calhoun’s life with the least expenditure of resources. That was exactly what Calhoun had coming.
The first step was to gather intelligence, and he had begun. He had bought a cheap laptop to be destroyed later, which he used only for surfing the Net for every detail he could glean about Calhoun. Eventually, he would learn where Calhoun was vulnerable.
Mary Margret Daughtridge SEALed Bundle Page 31