Direct Action

52

Third Platoon received a very respectful reception back at SEAL Team Seven headquarters. No one knew the details of the operation, or would, but word had gotten around that 3rd Platoon had really counted coup.

In his will Kos Kosciuszko named Blake Murdock the executor of his estate. There wasn’t much for Murdock to do. Kos’s parents were dead. As Kos said in a letter attached to the will, “My other relatives never cared about me, and the feeling is mutual.” He’d been married once; a SEAL divorce and no children. The Navy was his home and the teams his life.

Don’t any of you feel sorry for me,” he said in the letter. “I loved every minute of it!”

Kos left most of his money to Navy Relief. Treasured possessions, souvenirs from his travels, and his beloved gun collection were earmarked to specific SEALS.

Blake Murdock got a Remington 12-gauge autoloader because he’d never managed to outscore Kos when they’d shot skeet. Razor Roselli got a lovingly customized Colt.45 because: “He’s always getting himself into trouble and ought to have something to get him out.” Magic Brown received a pre-1964 30–06 Model 70 Winchester with a beautiful walnut stock. The first time Murdock ever saw Magic cry was when he gave him the rifle.

Jaybird Sterling got a mahogany sculpture of some long-forgotten pagan fertility god with fantastically outsized genitalia. For a long time after that Jaybird walked around with a faraway look of remembrance in his eyes.

The other SEALs of the platoon all got something. The rest of Kos’s possessions, never more than would fit in a self-storage locker during deployments, went to Goodwill.

Contrary to what Murdock had thought, there was to be no burial of an empty coffin with full military honors. Kos had been to too many of those, the letter said. He’d always hated them.

In an eerie piece of prophecy that raised the hairs on the back of Murdock’s neck, Kos wrote that if he had fallen in battle, he hoped that no one would get hurt or go out of their way on his behalf. “Once you’re done with it, the body is just an empty container. It’s stupid to concern yourself with the container, only what’s inside it.”

But if it wasn’t too much trouble, Kos wanted to be cremated and his ashes scattered at sea. He didn’t want the service for burial at sea to be read “by any pencil-neck Navy chaplain. I’m definite on that, sir. It has got to be a SEAL Master Chief. If George MacKenzie isn’t around, anyone you can dig up will do. And no eulogies or speeches. I hate the idea of you all lying about what a great guy I was. Just keep it to yourselves.”

There were so many SEALs and chiefs from Special Boat Squadron One who wanted to go that they ended up on a large and elderly LCU landing craft. It was a gray and overcast day, with heavy chop. The SEALs wore their blues. Razor Roselli was in a cast that ran all the way up to his crotch, supported on either side by Jaybird and Magic.

The members of 3rd Platoon had made up a package with letters, mementos, and Budweiser badges. George MacKenzie read the centuries-old service for those lost at sea. The package slid over the side. SEALs from the other teams tossed wreaths. The LCU headed back to shore.

Kos had left money for an open bar at his favorite drinking establishment. A place where the proprietor didn’t mind a ring of solemn SEALs each tossing a shot of Bacardi 151 onto the bar and setting the liquid ablaze. It was a SEAL tradition — their version of the Viking funeral. Then they all got loudly shit-faced and told Kos Kosciuszko stories long into the night.

George MacKenzie’s drinking days were long over. When the glass fell out of Blake Murdock’s hand while he was in the process of swallowing, Mac thought it was time to take the lieutenant home. Before he did he picked the pockets of all the SEALs in the platoon and removed their car keys. He left cab fare for them with the bartender, along with an unveiled threat that it had better be used for cab fare.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said to Murdock.

“Okay,” Murdock replied. He was well into the zombie mode. If someone had said set yourself on fire, he would have replied, “Okay.” He got off the bar stool.

Mac caught him before he hit the deck. He got Murdock out to his pickup, positioning his head carefully so that any vomiting would take place out the window. Mac wasn’t a Master Chief for nothing.

“I did it, George,” Murdock mumbled drunkenly as they drove along.

“Sure you did,” said Mac. Always humor the drunk.

“I killed him.”

“That you did.”

“I killed Kos.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I killed him. Walked right into the ambush.”

“MacKenzie had heard the story from Razor Roselli. He brought Murdock back to his apartment, threw a blanket over him, and positioned a wastebasket next to his head within easy reach.

He waited until afternoon the next day to give Murdock a call and invite him over for dinner.

Murdock showed up on time, still looking a little shaky. Mac’s SEAL wife and SEAL kids had left for the evening. He threw steaks on the grill and offered Murdock a beer.

Murdock shook his head. “I’m on the wagon.”

They ate, and then stretched out on the lawn chairs listening to the bug-zapper.

“You think you’re responsible for getting Kos killed,” said MacKenzie. “You’re full of shit.”

Murdock glared at him.

“If you’re responsible for Kos being dead, then you’re responsible for the other six being alive.”

“Sure,” said Murdock. “For Higgins being in the hospital for the next six months. For Razor maybe never being able to parachute or even run on that ankle again.”

“Saint Murdock,” MacKenzie said scornfully.

“You trying to piss me off, George?”

“You piss me off. You’ve lost SEALs before. We’ve lost SEALs before. So what is this bullshit?”

Murdock got up to leave.

“Is it because Kos died and you loved the guy more than you loved the others? Or is it because your dad’s a scumbag politician so you have to be the white knight who carries every decision he makes like a two-ton cross? Sit down, I’m not done yet.”

Murdock was livid. But he stopped, and leaned against the grape arbor.

“I read your after-action report,” said Mac. “Quite a barn-dance card.”

Murdock looked up at him.

“You think that report is going to be your revenge against the CIA for leaving you out there. Nail their hides to the wall. Kos died before they left you hanging, so that’s your fault. And everyone else who got hurt is theirs.” MacKenzie snorted in derision. “You’re a real fucking Boy Scout, you know that?”

“George,” Murdock said angrily, “I’m telling you-“

“You know who that report goes to?” MacKenzie shouted. “The admiral, who is going to question your judgment for writing it up that way. And then it goes to the fucking CIA! And they’re going to take that report and classify it Top Secret You’re-an-Asshole-Lieutenant-Murdock. And they’re going to make sure that the only person cleared for it is the Director of the CIA, and then they’re going to forget to tell him about it. He’s got too much to read already. They’re laughing about it right now!

“Let me tell you something,” said Mac. “And I’m only doing it because you’re a hell of a fine officer and I’d hate to see the community either lose you or get rid of you. Generals and admirals hate Special Forces because they hate covert operations. Politicians love Special Forces because they love covert operations. You’re dreaming if you think a sixteen-man SEAL platoon is ever going to be master of its fate. We are going to get used, occasionally stupidly. And the same stupidity is going to get some of us used up every now and then. Let me clue you in. We are professional warriors. We take the King’s shilling and we fight the King’s war. When you, me, Higgins, Razor, and Kos pinned on that Budweiser, we signed a contract of unlimited liability. Kos knew that. You read his letter. You just didn’t understand it.”

“I understood it.”

“All bullshit aside, you do this job because you like to fight. So do I. You’ve got the real license to kill, but you don’t get to pick — they do. Now, those are the facts of life. You’ve got a choice. I made it, so did Razor, and so did Admiral Raymond. You either do the job or you pick up your hat and you go.”

“I can’t,” Murdock said desperately. “You’re right, I love it. I hate the part you talked about, but I love the job.”

“You can’t separate the parts. We tell you to take care of your men, love them like your own children. We tell you to accomplish the mission. But if you or your men have to die to accomplish the mission, then we expect you to die. Why do you think there are so few SEALS? And there aren’t even that many of them who can talk the talk and walk the walk.”

“I guess I have to live with it, then.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that. You’ve got to live with Kos too, because a man can’t take back anything that’s happened, in his life. Now, I want you to hang that Boy Scout uniform back up in the closet while I give you some real world. You did the CIA’s work. They’re happy, and they’re going to pay you off. I’ve seen the citations. Navy Cross for you and a posthumous one for Kos. Silver Stars for the rest. DFCs for the helo crews. Bronze Stars with Combat V’s for Miguel and Red. Should do your careers some good. And if you walk into Admiral Raymond’s office and talk to him about it before he forgets all about you, you’ll probably get that posting to the Kampfschwimmers.”

“So that’s how you do it.”

“No, you can be Saint Murdock and get burned at the stake with the rest of the holy men. And while you’re doing that, some political ass-kisser is going to end up being our admiral instead of you.”

Murdock let his breath out hard. “Have dinner with the Master Chief and you’ll never need a psychiatrist. You should be the admiral, George.”

“Now you’re talking like an officer. An admiral can fuck up every hour and it makes no difference. Without Master Chiefs the whole Navy shuts right down. So what are you going to do?”

“I guess I’m going to call Inga tonight, and go see the admiral on Monday.”

“Now that sounds like a plan,” said MacKenzie. Sometimes it took a Master Chief to wrap things up.