by Dick Couch
The ten years of continuous combat since 9/11 produced a good many wounded SEALs, men physically unable to return to duty. Not all of them handled it well. They had not joined the Navy and the SEAL Teams because they couldn’t find work or because college proved too difficult or to receive job training. They joined to become professional warriors. Once in the Teams, they entered this elite brotherhood and came to know the sometimes-narcotic thrill of special-operations combat. When their battle wounds forced them out of combat rotation, either they adjusted or they did not. Most got to where they were because they were goal oriented and success driven. The disabilities imposed by combat simply brought on a new set of challenges. A great many left the Navy and began a new life, usually with great success. Others, like Otto Miller, found a different way to serve in uniform. For a few, what they had come to know and what had been taken from them proved to be too much. They became the emotional casualties that every war produces.
Miller was heavily scarred about his mouth and neck, and no amount of plastic surgery would ever make him what he was. He wore a beard and mustache that hid most of the damage, but that was not why he let his facial hair grow. Among his many talents was his knack for languages and his skill as an interrogator. In Iraq, a man wore a mustache; and in Afghanistan, men wore beards and mustaches. So did most of those detained as terrorist suspects. He was merely conforming to the culture of those from whom he wished to extract information. Miller’s record of successful interrogations now exceeded his considerable operational success. It was said that he could get a hardened criminal to dime out his own mother and to feel good about having given her up. When he was an operational SEAL, he was in high demand in the platoons. Now every task unit wanted Miller in their intel shop. Both Engel and Nolan considered it something of a coup to have him in support of their detached squad. That they were given Miller was a further indication that there could be some activity in or around Central America that might require an on-call, special-operations response element.
“Any idea what’s going on down there?” Engel asked the senior chief.
Miller considered this, thoughtfully pulling his hand down his beard in a professorial gesture. He wore his hair longish and combed it straight back over his head. His deep green eyes seemed to be backlit. During interrogations, they became incandescent and piercing, and he used them on his opponent like he had once used the targeting laser on his automatic weapon.
“It could be just about anything,” he finally replied. “Drugs, extortion, a kidnapping. I’ll know a little more tomorrow morning once I’ve had a chance to run the agency alphabet trapline. But something’s got someone’s attention, that’s for sure.”
After more than ten years of war, the military special operators and the diverse appendages of the national intelligence apparatus had finally become synched. They now talked to one another, and the talk led to cooperation—the kind of cooperation that had resulted in the killing of Osama Bin Laden. Miller had good contacts at the CIA, FBI, DEA, NSA, and DIA, and with their human and technical collection organizations. The intelligence community and the military were also now linked by sophisticated and secure communications networks. Early Monday morning, Miller would be pushing his agency and military contacts in Central and South America for any breaking leads. Usually, but not always, bits of information came from the opposition’s use of unencrypted cell phones or some other technical collector. There was also the occasional agent on the payroll of some hardworking CIA case officer who came up with some obscure but related fact. And that fact could be linked to another fact and to still another until the mosaic produced operable intelligence in the form of a target folder. This was called operations-intelligence, or ops-intel, fusion, and it was making life dangerous for terrorists worldwide.
“It’s like this, fellows,” the senior chief continued, “over in the sandbox, in the jihad-land, it’s all about religion and tribalism. Down south, it’s all about money. The money comes from drugs. There are the drug-support industries like gunrunning, the bribing of officials, assassination, and so on, but the big bucks come from producing drugs and moving drugs to the U.S. and European markets. It’s a sixty-billion-dollar-a-year industry. The U.S. military mission down south has to do with training—training the Colombians and the Salvadorians to fight drugs. But we don’t fight drugs down there, they do, or at least that’s the idea. We’ve had the Green Berets and some of our special boat teams helping with this training, but not a SEAL direct-action element in this mix, which, gentlemen, is what you are.”
“What we are,” Engel interrupted. “You’re a part of this team.”
“Thanks, sir. The money from drugs only comes when the product gets moved north. So the druggies have some very efficient and sophisticated ways to get the stuff across our southern border. And God knows there are plenty of illegals moving south to north. The big concern has always been that the jihadists and the druggies might climb into bed with each other. It’s got the boys and girls at Langley scared shitless. See, the jihadists have money and motivation, and the druggies have the mules to move contraband into this country. So the fear is that some deal gets cut to bring chemicals or radiological materials across the border. I know the Agency and Homeland Security have people working on this. So our going south may have something to do with this. My guess is they wouldn’t pull a SEAL detachment down there unless there was something afoot. Someone’s concerned about something. There are probably indicators, but nothing solid yet. But, hey, you fellows have been around long enough to know it could be something or it could be nothing.”
Engel nodded. It made sense. “Chief, what else?” he asked, looking at Nolan.
Nolan simply shrugged. “It is what it is. We’re ready to fight—as a platoon or now as a detached squad. All we need is a target folder and a mission-support package, and we’re good to go.” He paused and glanced over to where the platoon SEALs were gathering expectantly, in two separate groups: one, the squad that would be deploying with the task unit to the Philippines, and the other, the detached squad that would go south. “Boss, the guys all know about the change, but a little fatherly platoon officer advice might be in order right now.”
“Understood. Senior, you want to excuse us for a moment.”
“No problem, fellows. I’ll let you know if and when I learn anything.”
It was the custom on the eve of a deployment for the senior platoon officer and the platoon chief to each give a short, private out-the-door speech to the SEALs before they broke off to finish the evening with their families. Since the Bandito Platoon would be splitting into two squads for at least the initial part of this deployment, Engel had elected to make the break now. His assistant platoon officer and the next senior enlisted leader, the platoon leading petty officer, would caucus with the task unit squad, while he and Nolan would quickly meet with their detached squad. The platoon SEALs sensed this, and the two groups of SEALs separated and moved apart—from the families and from each other. Engel and Nolan led their group to one of the outlying picnic tables. There were five others besides the two of them, making it a light squad. The task unit squad would have a total of nine SEALs, which Engel knew would make his task unit commander more comfortable. He had his own responsibilities. Engel and Nolan had selected the five for their individual skills but had not cherry-picked them; they would fight alongside any of the Bandito Platoon SEALs.
There was Diego Weimy, or just plain Weimy. He was one of the platoon snipers and now the lead sniper for their squad. Like many SEAL snipers, he did not grow up hunting or shooting with his father or uncles. In fact, he grew up on the south side of Chicago, where the closest he came to a rural experience was the trash-strewn vacant lot where the kids played baseball and hid from local merchants after they’d boosted a candy bar or a radio from their store. The SEAL sniper instructors liked men who had limited shooting instruction, as it meant there were fewer bad habits to break in teaching them long-range shooting. Weimy had been st
ocking shelves in Albertsons when he decided to go into the military. He chose the Navy because he wanted to get away, and there was no saltwater near Chicago. He volunteered for SEAL training on a whim, having no idea what he was getting into. In training, Weimy had been what they called a gray man—someone you never noticed. But after Hell Week had caused most in his class to quit, he was still there. He was good at all SEAL skills, but by SEAL standards, not great at any except for shooting. Still, he had the right temperament, the shooting mechanics, and the cold efficiency of a natural-born sniper. Weimy, like the rest of them, was now anxious to learn more about the squad’s detached duty. He was also anxious to get back to his wife and infant son.
Ramon Diamond was the one SEAL they selected because he was the best. He was the most experienced of the two platoon radio operators, and since they would not have the support of the task unit’s communications team to draw on, they drafted him for the squad. Ray was an electronics geek first and a SEAL second. Everyone came to Ray—with a new cell phone that they needed to learn how to operate or with a laptop that had fallen prey to a particularly nasty virus. Engel suspected that Ray quietly hacked into national-security databases for satellite imagery. On their last deployment to Afghanistan, he always seemed to come up with great aerial imagery of their targets. When Engel had asked where he got them, Ray had been evasive, saying that you just had to know where to look. They had worked well together on that last deployment. Ray normally stayed close to Engel, as communications were critical in the modern fight—comms with the engaged SEAL fire teams as well as comms with the support elements and higher headquarters. During one particularly vicious firefight, Engel had looked around and couldn’t find Ray. A teammate had gone down, and Ray had raced through a hail of fire to drag the injured man to safety. That action led to Ray’s second Silver Star. One of the big dichotomies with their platoon geek was that his arms were covered with gang tats, which he refused to discuss. “Some guys are reborn in Christ,” Ray would say when asked. “I was reborn in the Navy. That’s all you need to know.” In addition to his IT skills, he had a dry sense of humor and a knack for pushing other people’s buttons.
Sonny Guibert was perhaps the only one of the group who looked like a SEAL, or what those outside this tight-knit community thought a SEAL should look like. In a word, he was a wall. At six feet two and 225 pounds, he was the largest SEAL in the squad or the platoon, and movie-star handsome. He had thick blond hair and perfect teeth. When the Bandito SEALs parachuted without equipment, they often said they were jumping Guibert rather than jumping Hollywood. He towered over SEALs like Weimy and Ray, who were under six feet and fifty-plus pounds lighter. Dave Nolan accused him of having weight-lifter genes, as he was naturally cut and buffed. For that reason, he did only nominal upper-body work, but he was a highly competitive triathlete. He was the squad’s automatic-weapons man, which meant he carried the M48 machine gun—a compact SEAL weapon that digested the heavy 7.62 NATO rounds—and in a squad action, his weapon was the biggest dog in the fight. He also served as the squad’s armorer, which meant he had sub-custody of all the squad weapons and night-vision equipment. He made sure the detached squad had extra weapons and spare parts, so they could operate independently from the task unit. In one word, Sonny was reliable. It was Chief Nolan’s job to check all those with platoon and squad responsibilities, but he did so very carefully with the big SEAL. Sonny took an immense amount of pride in knowing that he kept the squad’s weapons package up to standards and that everyone’s work gun was up and running. Sonny’s personal responsibilities also extended to a wife who could pass for Miss California and two blond, towheaded daughters. The family was Hallmark material.
Alfonso Joseph Markum had joined the Navy in his late twenties and needed a special waiver to enter basic SEAL training at twenty-nine. A.J. was born in Trinidad and came to Miami with his mother when he was six. She married a Cuban exile and they all settled in little Havana. Neither spoke English; they were poor but proud. A.J.’s stepfather worked as a security guard and his mother cleaned homes. A.J. was left alone after school and had flirted with gangs, black and Cuban, but two things kept him from serious trouble: One was the example and sacrifice of his mother and stepfather. The other was a youth-club mentor who introduced him to Muay Thai fighting, or Thai kickboxing. A.J. was small, compact, and quick. His heroes were ranked fighters like Tony Jaa and Buakaw Por. Pramuk. Had he been introduced to the sport earlier, he might have become a professional, but it was a discipline that took decades to master at that level and he had started too late. His inclinations led him into security work and to several years with the Dade County Sheriff’s Department. But he found police work frustrating, and he ran afoul of department politics. His troubles usually began with a fight between his large Anglo partner and a local gangbanger. When things began to go badly for his partner, A.J. would step in and settle things. Three Miami hoodlums, albeit ones with criminal records and aggressive personal-injury lawyers, were left with permanent physical disabilities. While A.J. Markum was protecting and serving the citizens of Dade County, the lawsuits against the county began to mount, and he was let go. So A.J. went looking for work where a man was supposed to have his buddy’s back, and this took him to the Navy SEALs. Most who survive the rigorous SEAL training have to dig deep within themselves to make it through. A.J. was not one of those. He was the squad’s point man, and he was one of the best with Team Seven. Contrary to popular myth, SEALs seldom killed silently with their hands; they had suppressed weapons that did that at long range and up close. But if it came to a quiet kill, hand-to-hand, then the go-to SEAL would be A.J. Markum.
Finally, there was Mike Bennett, or Mikey. The youngest and least experienced SEAL in the squad, this would be his second deployment. Mikey was one of the platoon’s two medics. In dividing up the platoon talent, Chief Nolan had chosen Mikey first. When Engel had lifted an eyebrow in question, Nolan simply shrugged. “He’s good to go, but I’d like him where I can keep an eye on him.” Nolan had no need to explain himself. Engel felt the same way. Mikey would win the nicest-guy-in-the-world award. He’d been an Eagle Scout and a National Science Fair finalist. He had a degree in sociology from the University of San Diego, he’d married his high school sweetheart, and he came from family money. He struggled in basic SEAL training, failing once and finally making it on his second try. On his first deployment, he had done well, both with the dirty jobs assigned new SEALs on their first rotation and with the running and gunning that were an every-night occurrence in Afghanistan. He’d taken life quickly and professionally, so his SEAL skill set was good—even better than good. If Engel or Nolan could put their reservations into words, it would be about the dial. All SEALs have to dial it up in the fight and dial it down in garrison or at home. This allowed them to be tenacious and lethal during the adrenaline high of a firefight and still be able to lose graciously at cards in the barracks or read bedtime stories to their kids at home. Mikey’s dial didn’t seem to be calibrated like the others. On the everyday/normal side, it extended to a range well past the others; he was simply an easygoing, nice person. On the combat side, he did his job, but with seemingly no aggression or emotion. On his first patrol, an insurgent stepped from a doorway and brought them under fire. Everyone reacted, but Mikey was the fastest, ringing the insurgent up with a perfect double tap to the head. He looked back at Chief Nolan with that gee-whiz, how’d-I-do-it grin and simply continued on the patrol. He might well become the best among them, but he was different.
Engel surveyed the men around him. “Guys, I only have so many stay-tight, stay-focused, stay-professional speeches in me. You’ve all been there; you all know the deal. I know nothing more about what may be waiting for us downrange than you do. I do know that while we’re detached from the task unit and the squadron, the communications back home may not be what we’ve enjoyed in the past. Let your families know that there may be times when we’ll be in the wind, and they’ll not hear from you.” He paus
ed to carefully frame his words. “Regarding families, I’ll say again what goes without saying. If there are any issues—personal, emotional, financial, whatever—get them fixed. If you need help, there’s the chief and myself. Our wives are there to help as well. We’re all here for you. But get it right and get it locked down. When we leave, I want a total front-sight focus on the mission. Everyone’s got everyone else’s back. That’s how we go to war; that’s how we all come back from war. We good with that?” He met each man’s eyes in turn, and each nodded in agreement. “Chief?”
“You’ve said it all, Boss. So let’s drink to our brotherhood.” Nolan raised his beer and was quickly followed by others, including a few who were raising water bottles. “For all of those who go downrange—to us and those like us—damn few.”
“Here, here.”
“Friggin’ right.”
The two squads broke from their separate gatherings, much like they had peeled from their free-fall V-formations, and rejoined their families. It was full-on dark, and most people had pulled in close to the fires. The wives handed off sleeping kids to their fathers. The older kids drifted back to sit between their parents. Mikey and his wife joined the Nolan tribe and took one of the little boys between them. Ray and A.J. sat near Engel and Jackie and observed a comfortable silence. Some talked quietly, others just listened. An occasional joke or war story kept the melancholy at bay, but it was a holding action. Finally, the Banditos and their families began to drift away. Jackie walked Julia Nolan back to their car, leaving only Nolan and Engel. Always the good Scout, Mikey had doused and inspected all the fire pits. No glowing embers or rekindles while he was on duty.