ROGUE WARRIOR®

by Richard Marcinko

  What could be next?

  Two trays of shot glasses arrived. One held cognac. The other held an opaque, dark liquid.

  “And this is?” I asked my gentle host.

  “Ah,” Kim Simanh said. “Le sang du cobra—cobra’s blood.” He lifted his glass. “Your health.”

  I lifted mine. “And yours.” We drank. Blood first, then cognac. Cognac never tasted so good.

  Sous Chef couldn’t restrain himself. “And now, dessert.” He was virtually jumping up and down in his chair.

  Dessert? I liked the sound of that. At my quarters, when I ordered “dessert,” number one houseboy Sothan would produce a LBFM, and I’d eat my “dessert” in bed.

  The room quieted down. I realized there would be no LBFMs today. Instead, five servants brought in trays of what looked like huge Old-fashioned glasses. In each was cognac, and something else. It looked like a marinating baby octopus.

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça?—What the hell’s that?”

  Kim Simanh’s eyes narrowed evilly. “That, my friend, is le venin—the venom of the cobra. The poison sac.”

  This was truly nefarious, genuinely diabolical. The sacs rested on the bottom of the glasses, opaque, oozy, and loathsome. These were no mountain oysters. I am no fan of mountain oysters, but I would have sucked down five dozen instead of one of these little treasures.

  Kim Simanh grinned and picked up his glass. “Your health,”

  “And yours.”

  I wolfed down the sac and cognac, neither chewing nor tasting. Incredibly, I managed to swallow it whole. But I could feel it when it hit. Not three seconds later, my forearms broke out in huge beads of sweat. Then my whole body—chest, legs, back—began to perspire profusely, quickly soaking through my uniform. The room lost color and started to turn black and white. I saw dots. It was like going through a nineg turn in a fighter. I fought for consciousness for what I thought was minutes, but what was in reality no more than thirty seconds.

  Then as suddenly as it had come on, it was over. The sweat stopped; my body felt strangely cool and relaxed. My vision returned to normal.

  I wiped my eyes, clasped my hands in front of me, and performed the traditional Cambodian gestures for grateful humility to Kim Simanh. “Please, sir, could I have some more?”

  The Cambodian Navy is a small organization, so it didn’t take long for the word to get out about my little cobra feast. My performance got me respect wherever I went. But it also began a nasty tradition among Khmer COs, who would each try to fix me a bizarre little snack that I wouldn’t eat.

  Moi turn down a meal? It never happened. Braised chicken beaks? Ate ’em. Crocodile tail? Ate it roasted, baked, steamed, and salted. Fish eyes? Ate ’em by the bowlful. Dog? By the time I left Phnom Penh I could have written a Cambodian cookbook called 50 Ways to Wok Your Dog. I liked my roaches panfried, my grubs sautéed, and my maggots in chili and garlic sauce. One enterprising young Naval Infantry officer fed me raw monkey brains plucked from a still-live monkey. I ate those, too. In truth, however, there were times over the next six months when I’d think of the cobra feast—venom and all—with fond nostalgia.

  It was in Cambodia that I first learned about visiting legislators. It was an eye-opener, too. We received a fair number of codels in Phnom Penh during my posting. Codel is bureaucratese for Congressional DELegation. Allegedly, these trips—which are sponsored by various House and Senate committees, subcommittees, and working groups—are factfinding missions that help our duly elected public servants make educated decisions when they vote on the nation’s future. Most of the codels I spent time with, however, were made up of congressmen and senators who wanted only to shop or get laid, or both.

  At first I was insulted—outraged that they didn’t want to discover anything about Cambodia or learn about whether or not the Cambodian military was up to its tasks. But the embassy staffers brought me up to speed. There were legions of horror stories about the shameful ways in which codels had acted abroad. Embassy secretaries told stories of congressmen fondling them, or worse, raping them—without any recourse. The political officers and consuls each had their stories, too, about pulling this congressman or that senator out of jail in Hong Kong or Caracas or Warsaw.

  So, as I got wise to the fact that these trips were really boondoggles—vacations taken at the taxpayers’ expense—I asked not what I could do for my country’s legislators, or what they could do for me. I simply wrote out a three-page briefing paper on the state of the Cambodian military, slipped it to each exalted representative and senator, and told them to read it on the plane going home.

  That gave them lots of free time to accomplish their real mission: visit the best gold stores, buy some incredible and cheap temple rubbings, and smuggle stone carvings or antique Buddhas home on their Air Force jet. The question most asked by codels was, where can a congressman get an absolutely perfect blow job, or some incredible fuckee-fuckee. My diplomatic answer was always the same: “Wherever you’d like it best, Congressman.”

  I’d give them the use of my car, and Pak Ban would take them around to get themselves bejeweled and be-blown. I’d go be-back to work.

  Henry Kissinger, who was the national security adviser back then, used to call the embassy a lot. Tom Enders would sometimes invite me into the bubble—the ultrasecure room within a room we used to receive the most secret calls and hold the most secret conversations—to listen in on Kissinger’s rumbling Teutonic musings about the ebb and flow of events in Southeast Asia, and his plans for bringing the Khmer Rouge to the negotiating table. I’d listen to Henry as he tried to play Metternich, but in truth he sounded less like the great nineteenth-century statesman than he sounded like my grandfather Joe Pavlik, ruminating on the sorry state of the world while sitting at a miner’s bar in Lansford, Pennsylvania. On the one hand Kissinger’s head games ultimately meant nothing. The Khmer Rouge won Cambodia because they were fiercer on the battlefield—and screw the negotiations.

  On the other hand, I gleaned a lot from listening in. I was able to see firsthand how the State Department thought; I discovered about the various tongs back in Foggy Bottom, each of which wanted its own hegemony on Cambodian policy. I learned how a country-desk works, and how the information an ambassador sends back flows through the diplomatic capillary system. I also found out that there were too many Foreign Service officers who believed that any negotiation was better than no negotiation—and in believing so, would sell the Cambodians down the drain rather than face the possibility of taking a hard stand.

  Then, having been inculcated in the labyrinthine ways of diplomacy, it was time to move on. Not that I particularly wanted to return to the States. Indeed, despite the fact that I knew I’d been wired to become commander of SEAL Team Two, I didn’t want to leave Cambodia. I liked the Khmer people. They were basically lovers, not fighters, but they could fight well if they were given the right training and motivation.

  I’d achieved all the goals Tom Enders had given me when I’d arrived. I’d been able to triple CNO’s manpower during my fourteen months in Phnom Penh, as well as design and launch a naval infantry force that had proved potent and effective in battle. And I’d gotten CNO new boats—armored gunboats we called Monitors—and three howitzer batteries. The infusion of manpower and weaponry and the new, offensive tactics worked. The number of convoys lost to the Khmer Rouge dropped to next to nothing. The bombings in Phnom Penh had been brought under control.

  I extended my tour by almost three months, so that I could stay through the dry season, when the boats are most vulnerable. Then my replacement arrived. George Worthington was a SEAL of a different stripe. He was a tall, lean, aristocratic Naval Academy graduate whose talent lay more in establishing himself as le grand phoque at the poolside cocktail bar at the cercle sportif than playing full-contact mud-sucking with the Khmer Rouge. A lanky bachelor who could make polite conversation with the best of them, he’d earn a reputation in Phnom Penh as le nageur d’amour, the love swimme
r, even as I’d earned mine as le nageur de combat, the combat swimmer. It was unlikely he’d ever bodysurf on the Mekong River, much less be invited to a cobra feast. I hung on, but was finally ordered out—told in no uncertain terms that I would lose my promotion to commander, as well as any chance at a field command, if I remained in Phnom Penh. So I set a departure date, and on it, regretfully, I left.

  In the month before I did, however, CNO and I ate a lot of cobra together. We had a lot of dessert, too. Yum, yum.

  Chapter 15

  THE CHANGE-OF-COMMAND CEREMONY IS A RITUAL AS OLD as the Navy itself. The regulation reads: “A commanding officer about to be relieved of his command shall, at the time of turning over his command, call all hands to muster. The officer about to be relieved shall read his orders of detachment and turn over the command to his successor, who shall read his orders and assume command.”

  The uniqueness lies in the fact that, during the formalized passing of the command, the total assumption of responsibility, authority, and accountability—for a ship, or a unit—is transferred directly from one naval officer to another. This happens nowhere else in the military.

  My incoming change of command took place in the huge Little Creek Amphibious Naval Base gym, as it was October and too cold to have it out of doors. At the north end of the block-long, tile-walled facility, a podium had been erected. Behind it, a twenty-by-thirty-foot American flag provided a moving, patriotic backdrop. From the side door to the podium a red carpet lay on the polished wood basketball court. Along the carpet’s edges stood chromed five-inch-shell cases draped with bleached, starched white hawser. A chief boatswain’s mate and five boatswains stood at attention, ready to pipe the official party on board.

  Perhaps two hundred seats had been set up for visitors and friends. Kathy-Ann and the kids had front-row center seats. My mother, Emilie, showed up, along with two of my uncles. That gave me no small satisfaction. My Navy career had generally been treated with indifference by my family. They couldn’t have cared less that I survived Hell Week and became a Frogman. When I graduated from OCS, they grudgingly noted what I’d done. No one had shown up to see me receive my four Bronze Stars or my Silver Star. But now that I was about to become the commanding officer of an elite unit, they couldn’t have been nicer. There were presents for the kids, offers of support, and compliments galore. Still, I took the kudos with the requisite grain of salt because—in truth—as I sat on the podium and looked out on my mother and my uncles, I also saw the faces of officers and enlisted men to whom I felt much closer than I could ever feel to my own flesh and blood.

  The men of SEAL Team Two, deployed by platoons, stood at attention, resplendent in their dark blue uniforms. On their chests were displayed rows of battle ribbons and commendations. Every Team member active between 1966 and 1972 had spent at least two tours in Vietnam; many had spent three or four tours there; a few had spent six. You could tell the new men aboard—their chests were bare. Next to the SEAL Two ranks stood representatives from the Underwater Demolition Teams and other naval units.

  Change of command, like all Navy ceremonies, does not recognize dry land. The symbolism and terminology are nautical. SEAL Two’s HQ, from which the official party was just leaving, is known as the quarterdeck. And as we arrived at the gym, a ship’s bell would be sounded—clang-clang, clang-clang, clang-clang, clang-clang—and we would be piped aboard, saluting the chief boatswain’s mate, as our ranks were called out just as if we were climbing from a barge onto a battleship.

  Clang-clang, clang-clang. “Lieutenant commander, U.S. Navy, arriving.”

  That was me. I strode down the red carpet ramrod straight, returned salute, climbed the podium, and waited for the fun to begin. It didn’t take too long. The chaplain read the invocation. The guest speaker was introduced and made a few short remarks. Bob Gormly, Two’s outgoing commander, read his orders. Then I read mine: “To Lieutenant Commander Richard No Middle Initial Marcinko, from Bureau of Personnel: You will assume command SEAL Team Two effective 10 October, 1974.”

  Bob looked at me. “I am ready to be relieved,” he said.

  I looked at him. “I relieve you, sir,” I said. It was 1038 hours, according to the big clock on the side wall of the gym. Twenty-nine minutes before, I’d been piped aboard as just another thirty-three-year-old lieutenant commander. Now as I left the podium, the chief boatswain’s mate called out, “SEAL Team Two, departing.” The words were like music to my ears.

  Although the ceremony was virtually flawless, my journey to command had not been an especially easy one. One reason was my rapid rise within the SpecWar community. I was relieving Bob Gormly, who had been a full lieutenant when I was an ensign. Now we were both lieutenant commanders. That meant in the ensuing eight years he’d been promoted only one rank. I had been promoted three. Moreover, I’d jumped over a whole generation of SpecWar officers in order to be able to take command of SEAL Team Two. That made certain people very unhappy, especially those who had been passed by.

  On the other hand, I’d taken risks many SEAL officers chose not to take. Most of those I’d been jumped over had stayed in Little Creek, where they’d built up their real estate portfolios, played volleyball and football on weekends, joined the parachute team, and drunk beer at the O Club. Perhaps more significantly, they’d formed cliques and tongs to help each other out, both personally and professionally. I came back from Phnom Penh owing no one anything. I was the outsider who’d taken a three-year staff job with no demolition or jump pay, gone to college, and then overseas to Cambodia as an attachè. Some in the SpecWar community saw these assignments as desertions, not as a way of expanding capabilities.

  That was their problem, not mine. I felt that my three years at COMPHIBTRALANT staff and the subsequent attachè tour had given me the ability to move in circles SEALs hadn’t traveled before—which could only be good for SpecWar in general, and SEAL Two in particular. For example, I’d come home on a short leave in May of ’74, in order to brief the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the chief of naval operations on the situation in Cambodia. While I was in Washington, I had the opportunity to visit Little Creek for a change of command ceremony at Navy Special Warfare Group Two. There, I met Rear Admiral Greene, the man for whom I’d be working when I returned to take over SEAL Team Two. Greene gave me the once-over during the ceremony. Afterward, he asked who I was, and why I was wearing a fourstrand epaulet (which signified that I represented a four-star officer).

  I explained I was naval attachè, Phnom Penh, and that I represented the president of the United States. Admiral Greene and I chatted for a while. He asked for a situationer, and I gave him a two-minute brief on Cambodia, saluted, and let him get back to his guests. I went on to mix and mingle. I saw him eyeballing me from time to time, noting that I could talk to three-stars as easily as I could to chiefs, watching me hold a cocktail without dribbling it down my chin, nodding approvingly as I made the admirals’ wives laugh.

  Now, as commander of SEAL Two, I was going to work for this guy—and his staff. It was in my favor that I’d already met him in a social situation, and he knew I was capable of briefing the chairman of the JCS and the CNO. On the other hand, Bob Gormly, who’d worked for Admiral Greene for almost six months, hadn’t gotten to know him at all. Bob’s attitude was, “If Staff doesn’t specifically call, don’t bother ’em.” It was typical for a SEAL commander—I’d had a similar attitude when I was in Vietnam (remember all those UNODIRs?).

  But in Vietnam, I’d had only fourteen men to worry about, and others to take the heat if I screwed up. Now I had 150, and the buck stopped with me. Furthermore, as a unit commander, like it or not, I had to exist—and succeed—within a command structure. SEAL Two fit within the parameters of a strategic framework. As much as I’d have preferred it to be otherwise, SEAL Team Two was not autonomous. So, if I wanted bigger budgets, better equipment, more exotic training, and top-of-the-line weapons. I’d have to go through Admiral Greene and his staff to get th
em. That was the political reality. For me, however, there was a much more gut-level issue. Command—whether it is of a ship, a submarine, a naval air wing, or a SEAL team—is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Most officers get a single shot at it. I made up my mind I wasn’t going to squander my tenure at Two.

  Indeed, exactly how I’d lead Two was a matter of some concern—both to me, and to the troops. I’d returned from Cambodia in early September and spent a lot of time—some people thought too much time—hanging around SEAL Two. I drank with the men and listened to their complaints over beer. They told me how happy they were that I, an old Team guy, was about to take over. The men were open and unguarded with me. After all, I was one of them—I was Rick the Geek from UDT-22, the guy who sucked peas through his nose. Or I was Mr. Rick, the ensign of Bravo Squad, whose merry marauders had wreaked havoc on the VC and driven Hank Mustin crazy. Or I was Demo Dick, Sharkman of the Delta, the guy who ran barefoot in the jungle and told Special Forces colonels, “Kiss my ass.”

  In truth, I was all those things—and I was none of them anymore. Yes, I liked a good brawl. Yes, I liked to drink beer with the guys. Yes, I had no problem telling officers of any rank to go screw themselves. But this was 1974. I’d been away from the Teams for six years, and I’d changed—changed radically. The raw energy was still there. But most of my rough edges had been smoothed away, either through schooling or by watching how the most sophisticated operators got away with things others didn’t. So when the troops spoke longingly of returning to the good old days, when Roy Boehm, Two’s first CO, would lead the men through two hours of PT—Physical Training—in the mornings, followed by a fourmile run to the Oysterman’s Club, where they’d drink beer the rest of the day, I listened. But I made no one any promises.

  I went up to Fort A.P. Hill, where Two did its field exercises, and watched as the platoons trained. I wandered in and out of offices, looking at how the paperwork was handled and the assignments made. I didn’t like much of what I saw, either. In Team-puke parlance, everything sucked. The budget sucked. Grooming standards sucked. The condition of the buildings sucked. The equipment sucked. I was not a happy camper as I wandered around, peering into nooks and crannies.