And he realized they had both lived to see the dawn.
Another little miracle.
Perhaps there would be more of those ahead.
PART TWO
IN THE LAND OF THE BLIND
“What horror is this that has descended upon you? Your heads, your faces, and your knees are veiled in night. The air is ablaze with lamentation; cheeks are streaming with tears. The walls and lovely alcoves are splashed with blood. The porch is filled with ghosts. So is the court – ghosts hurrying down to darkness and to the Underworld.”
– Homer, The Odyssey
Quiet Professionals
Homer cracked the tall barn doors and took a good long visual assessment of the area outside – definitely for security this time. But nothing was moving out there, in the first smudgy light over the withered and frosted cornfields. Not even a breeze on the still and freezing air. So he carefully pulled open both doors and waved Sarah forward. She started the engine and rumbled it out over the uneven ground. Homer climbed in.
And they were off again.
They drove uneventfully and in silence for the 20 minutes it took to work their way forward on rural roads and back to the highway. For whatever reason, this onramp was clear. Maybe the farmers had stayed put. Defended their land. Toughed it out.
Sarah started accelerating out onto the highway, and Homer was just bracing himself for more facial sandblasting from the wind through the missing windshield, thinking about how most of the drive was still ahead of them, and wondering if they could endure it for that long, when—
“Hey,” he said. “Stop.”
“No way,” Sarah said.
But, yeah. There was a single abandoned vehicle, less than 100 meters past the onramp, right in the emergency lane. And it was another Ford Expedition, also late 90s or early 2000s, also with a diesel engine. It might even have been the same color, though Homer wasn’t a hundred percent sure what color this one was supposed to be. Mainly, it had a windshield.
Nothing was moving in the thin early light, no dead, no other abandoned cars nearby. And when they stopped and peered in the windows, the inside of the truck was clean. So, in the next four minutes, the two of them switched batteries between the two, took a quick look at the engine’s hoses and seals, and finally Sarah sat down in the driver’s seat, where she found the key in the ignition. It cranked.
But didn’t turn over.
They checked the tank and it was empty. That explained the abandonment. In another few minutes, they had pumped the fuel out of one tank and into the other, then manually primed the engine using the bleed screw and primer pump. After that, it started right up.
Sarah looked at Homer, shaking her head. “Glad we did all that repair work.” He just laughed.
They then quickly trans-loaded all their supplies, and at the last minute Sarah popped the hood of the old truck and retrieved the timing belt that had been so costly to acquire.
“Not stopping for another damned one of these,” she said.
Then they settled in the front seats and, with a last wistful look at her old truck, Sarah rolled them out again. As she pushed them up to 110mph this time, straight into the first sliver of rising sun, Homer noted with satisfaction that the engine on this one ran fine. They even had a new spare tire, so flats were no longer a lethal peril. Though blow-outs still might be.
But, he thought serenely, we’ll just deal with that when we come to it. It was hard not to be optimistic, looking into the rising sun, plus not having his cheeks blowing back like he was in a wind tunnel, or a Maxell tape commercial. Another omen perhaps – or two of them, the blessing of the truck, as well as the sunlight.
They rode along wordlessly for a while, enjoying all of it. It was Sarah who finally broke the silence. “What the hell?”
“What?” Homer looked over to see her rubbing her sleeve.
“You stitched up the tear in my jacket?”
“I had to do something to stay awake.”
Sarah laughed out loud. “I knew you special-operations guys had huge skill sets. Didn’t imagine it extended to the textile arts.”
“You’d be surprised. Sewing’s actually a big deal in the Navy.”
“Really.”
“You should meet the man who taught me. A senior chief petty officer, African American, size of a truck. I’ll never forget him showing me how to wind a bobbin.”
“My grandmother taught me how to do that.”
* * *
After a punishingly long night, where it seemed like they couldn’t buy a break, and disaster loomed around every corner…
Now, somehow, the daytime drive passed with nothing but the rumble of the tires on blacktop, long and dull hours, hundreds of miles, all without event, never mind mishap. They drove into and across rural southwest Pennsylvania in the bright, crisp, late November light, experiencing it much like any long-distance highway drive back in the days of the world.
Admittedly, there was the total absence of other highway traffic. Also the odd abandoned vehicle. And occasional collapsing structures visible off the highway. Every once in a while, a mostly-eaten corpse could be seen slowly decomposing in the emergency lane. Or even one wandering by, still upright and ambulatory, on the hills or overpasses.
But if you squinted just right in the sharp light…
In fact, belatedly, Homer patted around in his pouches until he found his Oakley wraps. There hadn’t been anything much like sunshine on this mission so far, and he’d almost forgotten he’d brought them. He considered handing them to Sarah – safer for the driver to have them, than the passenger.
Nah, he finally decided, slipping them on. He was on security, and also needed to see. Plus he looked cool.
Through the dark, slightly amber tint, he scanned post-Apocalyptic America as it zipped by around them. Virtually everyone here was not only dead, but most of them had lost everyone they cared about before they died. They had lost everything. As even those left alive also would, eventually.
Loss was inevitable. In this world at least.
But Homer was strangely at peace now.
He knew what he had to do. And he somehow knew that, however the rest of this journey played out, everything was going to be okay. He rolled his window down and breathed it all in.
Maybe it was the bright and beautiful autumn morning, the glorious fresh air, and wide-open spaces. Or the blessing of the replacement truck, and having sunshine instead of pummeling wind in their faces, and something close to real silence. Or of getting dug out of his ammo hole, Sarah’s gift of rounds to refill his rifle mags. Perhaps it was Sarah herself – having a friend, sitting together with him in companionable silence. Maybe it was as simple as getting 90 minutes of sleep.
Maybe it was the cool shades.
* * *
“Last night seems like another lifetime.”
When Sarah broke the silence again, the sun had risen to nearly overhead. Their forward progress had continued strangely peacefully. They’d even managed their next fueling stop, also without incident. Not a dead man in sight. Perhaps it was because it was daytime. Or maybe they were just due some good luck.
Maybe God was finally blessing them.
Homer nodded. “Every day is another chance. As the man said, ‘We have it in our power to begin the world over again.’”
“Which man was that?”
“An American immigrant, like you. Thomas Paine.”
Sarah nodded. “Then again, we only get to begin again if we live long enough. Reflecting on last night, all those close calls… I guess you’re so used to that kind of thing you hardly notice.”
Homer shrugged. “No, we definitely dodged some bullets back there. It was almost like the Lance Factor at work.”
Sarah’s smile deepened. “I’m sensing a war story coming.”
Homer laughed, which melted into a wistful smile of his own. “Maybe. But not a long one. Lance was one of our teammates – a guy who had this superhuman tendency to survi
ve harrowing near-misses, in which he’d nearly die, but then somehow emerge without a scratch. It happened far too often to be on any kind of normal distribution of probability.”
“Example?”
“Let’s see… one time on a raid in Iraq, where the threat was supposed to be IEDs, safehouses wired to blow, tipped-off jihadis blasting around prepared barricades… he somehow managed to fall into a swimming pool, out in back of the target house.”
“Wow.”
“That’s not even the funny part. With the weight of his gear, body armor, and weapon, he was in real danger of drowning, and just trying to get to the edge of the pool before that happened. But when he got there, he saw a sparking power line inches away, about to turn him into fried SEAL steaks. Luckily, his buddy heard the splashing and was there to greet him. He even helped pull him out, when he got finished pointing and laughing.”
Sarah shook with laughter now. “The Lance Factor.”
“Yep. Everyone loved that guy. I really miss him.”
Sarah’s laughter wound down. “Maybe you’ll see him again. When we get there.”
“No,” Homer said quietly. “He died, in a parachuting accident, a few years later.”
Sarah reached across and squeezed his hand.
And then she seemed to somehow read his thought from earlier, about the inevitability of loss. “It seems like everyone keeps falling away. Doesn’t it?”
Homer nodded. “A little. BUD/S, the start of this road for me, was a lot like that. Every day you hung in, hung on, survived… and every day more of the others were gone. Guys you cared about, who you thought would be there until the end.”
Sarah shook her head. “No one’s there at the end.”
Homer smiled sadly. “Well, there were ten of us standing there at graduation. From the group who’d all started INDOC together.”
“Out of how many?”
“A hundred and twelve.”
“Damn.”
“It was hard to forget the others. Team Three, my unit before Six, was actually located just south of the Naval Special Warfare Center where BUD/S is taught – and right beside the O-Course, the obstacle course we had to run incessantly.”
Sarah nodded. “I guess you could still see the ghosts of the ones who failed out there.”
“Exactly. But, then again, speaking of ghosts… much longer and harder than selection and training were the wars. Even before 9/11, SEAL Three had geographical responsibility for the Middle East. So we were first in. Before long, all the teams were deploying there. But we never stopped. And there were more losses. Perhaps not as many as in BUD/S. But worse ones.”
Sarah shook her head again. “And realer ghosts. But, of course, and with respect, it’s not just the military. It’s all of us. We all lose everyone, by the end of life. My great-grandmother lived to a hundred and one. Right before she died, she told me every friend she’d ever had was dead.”
Homer stared into the flashing and cold sunlight.
“Maybe death isn’t the end.”
Sarah swallowed the obvious response to that.
Given the events of the last two years.
* * *
“It’s not your old home we’re going to, is it?”
Another hour of silence had passed, just wind and rumbling highway, the sun tilting toward the horizon behind them now.
“No,” Homer said.
“It’s your old unit.”
“Yes. The Dam Neck Annex. Our team compound.” He exhaled and looked out the window. The late autumn light was beautiful. “If my family’s alive, that’s where they’ll be.”
Sarah took a respectful beat to absorb that. “I’m not going to ask you what makes you think your old team will still be alive – that the compound won’t be overrun, like everyplace else.”
Homer looked back across at her. “Why not?”
“I presume you’ll say, ‘Trust me, you don’t know these guys.’”
Homer laughed. “No, I won’t say that. And you don’t have to trust me.”
Sarah just raised an eyebrow.
“On the mission with Alpha, into Chicago. We inserted by air from the Virginia coast. The first part of the flight was less than fifty miles from Dam Neck. Right after launch, as we were flying by, I hopped around some of our old working radio channels.”
Sarah’s eyes went wide. “You made contact with them?”
“No. I just got an earful of screeches. All their traffic’s heavily encrypted. And my encryption keys are way out of date. I also couldn’t send anything back, except some screeches of my own – which they’d ignore, if they received them at all.”
Homer settled deeper into his seat.
“But there was someone down there. They’re alive.”
He scanned the bright light on the whizzing fields.
“And if they’re alive… they’re operational.”
* * *
Something about this drive was conducing to long silences. Sarah guessed they were both enjoying the peace of it, after all the battles. In Homer’s case, 22 years of them. She waited a while before breaking into it again.
“That’s great news, then. Right? I don’t imagine there could be any safer place for your family.”
“Maybe,” Homer said.
Sarah cocked her head. “I know it’s not supposed to exist and all, but you were in SEAL Team Six. Correct?”
Homer laughed.
“What’s funny? I get the name wrong?”
“I was just thinking of ole Demo Dick. Wondering if he’s alive.”
“Who?”
“Richard Marcinko. He was the one who conceived of and founded the unit. At the time, there were only two active SEAL teams. He claimed he numbered his new one ‘Six’ to confuse the Russians. We all knew he just thought it sounded cool. Anyway, yes, you did get the name wrong. That one’s long retired. We became the US Naval Special Warfare Development Group – or DEVGRU, which is a little less of a mouthful. Or, within JSOC, Task Force Blue.”
“Nonetheless,” Sarah said. “Whatever you’re called, it’s still the most elite special forces unit, right?”
“Technically, only US Army Special Forces are ‘special forces’. Juice’s old unit. But don’t worry, everyone gets that wrong.”
“What do I call the rest of you, then?”
“Special operations forces.”
Sarah punched him. “Jesus, how do you guys have time to fight? Yours is the most elite whatever the hell it’s called, right?”
“One of them, yes. DEVGRU is one of two special mission units pretty universally agreed to be Tier-One.”
“Along with Delta,” Sarah said. “Handon’s old unit.”
“Yes. And Predator’s.”
“What’s the difference?” Sarah asked. “Between the two?”
Homer laughed. “Aside from the maritime aspect? All the surf PT, rebreathing SCUBA gear, and fast boats? Professionalism, mainly. Quiet professionalism, anyway.”
Sarah cocked her head. “Surely you’re not going to talk down your own team?”
“No. They’re my brothers – closer than brothers. Any who are still alive, I’d walk through fire for. I’m just a little worried.”
“What about?”
“What we’re going to find. When we get there.”
He didn’t go on, but Sarah’s curiosity was piqued. Also, since she was going wherever Homer went, she felt like she had some right to know what she was getting into. “Okay. What do you mean by that? Tell me what you’re worried about.”
Homer took a breath. “What the team might have become. After two years of post-Apocalypse.”
“Two years after the end of the world.”
“Exactly. There were, let’s just say, some worrying trends already in process. Before all this.”
“Such as?”
Homer exhaled again, and looked across at her. “You really want to know this stuff?”
“I’d like to know.”
Homer’s
look said he agreed – that she had the right.
“Okay, then. Well, at first, it was kind of just a culture of celebrity. A lot of former team guys writing books when they got out – some of them accused of being sort of tell-all memoirs.”
“I like military memoirs,” Sarah said. “Don’t these guys have a right to tell their stories?”
“Yes and no. Before joining the teams, every SEAL signs onto something called the SEAL Ethos. It’s just four paragraphs, about the high expectations attached to the role. One of the less controversial points is, or ought to be: ‘I do not advertise the nature of my work, nor seek recognition for my actions.’”
“Quiet professionals,” Sarah said.
“Exactly,” Homer said. “That was the idea.”
“That did seem a lot more like Handon. He didn’t volunteer too much.”
“No,” Homer agreed. “All credit to Delta and Unit guys – they never stopped being what we had all always claimed to be. Anyway, the book deals were just the start. You also had team guys doing consulting on movies and video games – some still while on active duty. You had the intentional leaking of sensitive and classified information to the makers of films like Zero Dark Thirty. And then, finally, you had active-duty guys actually starring in the movies.”
Sarah squinted into memory. “Act of Valor?” Homer nodded. “I loved that movie.”
“Yeah, I liked it, too,” Homer said. “But I wasn’t alone, in the teams, in really disliking what it represented.”
“And that was?”
“Well, for starters, it only validated certain SEALs’ latent tendencies toward self-promotion. Also, from a purely OPSEC perspective, operational security, it was pretty dysfunctional to globally distribute two hours of footage showcasing the current tactics of active-duty special operators.”
“Didn’t it help recruitment, though? I thought I read that.”
“Sure, getting more good people into the training pipeline was important. But the film also sent a confusing message to guys on the teams, who started to question why NSW – Naval Special Warfare – could take advantage of public adulation, but individual SEALs could not. And, in the end, the effect on recruiting was pretty negligible.”
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