ROGUE WARRIOR®

by Richard Marcinko

  In fact, if there was one type of man I’d visualized whenever I thought of the archetypal plank-owner of SEAL Team Six, it was Larry. He was a sailor in the tradition of Ev Barrett, a PO2 who never stopped working with the men under him. Larry’d made the cut for Six before there was a cut.

  Gold Dust Frank was an unknown quantity, so far as I was concerned. But during a beer-soaked night while I was conducting my personnel interviews at Little Creek, Larry had vouched for his buddy’s skills, written his Gold Dust Twin’s name on a soggy bar napkin, and stuffed it in my pocket. “He’s workin’ as an instructor at BUD/S, Skipper.”

  When I showed up at Coronado to do my recruiting, I had the napkin on the table in front of me. Frank walked in. “Name?”

  He told me. He’d never met me before and didn’t know what to expect. He got my crazy commander act. I picked up the soiled cocktail napkin and made a big thing of trying to read it. I turned it every which way, screwing up my face as I puzzled vocally over the ink blots. “Your name’s not Fnnnnnunnk Fynnnnnnufff?”

  “No, sir.” He repeated his name.

  I looked at him critically, then examined the napkin again. I shook my head. “Are you sure your name’s not Fnnnnnunnk Fynnnnnnufff?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s your social security number?”

  He told me.

  “You’re Larry’s swim buddy.”

  “Yup.”

  I balled up the cocktail napkin and three-pointed it into a nearby wastebasket. “You got the job. Now get outta here.”

  “Uh, Commander …”

  “Yeah?”

  “What is the job?”

  “You mean Larry didn’t tell you?”

  “No, sir, all he said was to show up, and if you asked if I wanted a job, say yes.”

  Frank turned out to be all right. He became a flier. And he helped us perfect our parachute work and sniping, as he was both an imaginative and accomplished jumper and a quick-eyed shooter. But I chewed his ass that first night at Little Creek. He showed up in a SEAL T-shirt. “Hey, shitfor-brains …” I grabbed him by the offending garment. “Can you say ‘operational security’?”

  Horseface was Paul’s selection. A former state-champion wrestler, he’d left the Navy and was crop-dusting in Ohio when I called him and sketched out the possibilities if he’d reenlist. He was at Little Creek in a few days, smiling his trademark yard-wide, big-toothed smile. Large, strong, and intimidating, Horseface was one of those rare individuals who knew no fear. Best of all, there was nothing he wouldn’t fly—from a Piper Cub to a 727, he’d climb into the cockpit and after a few minutes get us off the ground.

  Fingers was a chief who’d known me long enough to call me Demo Dick and remember why. He didn’t look much like your archetypal SEAL. He weighed less than 150 pounds soaking wet, had ears like Dumbo, big blue eyes, and a metabolism that ran so fast he probably burned a hundred calories every time he blinked. An EOD specialist, he could only count to nine using his fingers, which is how he’d received his nickname. And he had a mouth that never stopped moving. Fingers had at least one opinion about everything. Sometimes he had two or three opinions. Whether they conflicted or not didn’t matter—after a while we figured he had multiple personalities. He was a shoot-and-looter; a combat workaholic who’d be graded D on style—he looked like a real dirtbag—but A-plus on results. He’d helped Mac and me design Six and was exactly the kind of AVIS asshole I was looking for.

  SEAL Team Six would be permanently based about thirty miles from Norfolk. Our facility, however, would not be finished for almost a year. In the meanwhile, we needed somewhere to hang our hats, stow our gear, receive our phone calls, and put up our shingle. Little Creek was convenient and familiar ground for most of us, so we set up shop in two chicken coops located fifteen yards behind SEAL Team Two’s HQ. At least I thought they looked like chicken coops—WWII wooden structures forty feet wide and eighty feet long built atop concrete slabs. One had been used as the Wives Club meetinghouse; the other was the base Cub Scout den.

  Me, my XO, my operations boss, and my command master chief, Mac, all shared space in the same room. I appropriated the best furniture: a battleship-gray metal desk with three legs we salvaged from the junk pile, and a rickety swivel chair. Paul’s ensemble was similar, but in worse condition. Our wall decorations were Cub Scout leftovers with the exception of a composite photograph some wiseass had made of my head atop the CNO’s four-star body.

  Our situation was not ideal—and not simply because the quarters were cramped and ill-suited to our needs. Our location was just too damn visible. We were, after all, an alleged top-secret unit. We wore civilian clothes; I’d ordered my men to remove the base stickers from their vehicles, keeping them instead on magnetic strips they’d attach just as they drove through the gates. We’d come and go at odd hours. Nothing about SEAL Six was military—and that’s the way I wanted it. But less than a hundred feet away, SEALs from Two, dressed in their green fatigues, stared openmouthed as convoys of trucks rolled up to our sheds, unloading box after box of goodies. I’d look across the chain-link fence that separated the men from the boys and tsk-tsk them. “Thou shalt not covet,” I chided.

  There was a lot to covet, too. The inventory that was piling up in our sheds looked like a lethal, high-budget version of Outward Bound. Gore-Tex parkas and boots. Parachutes. Climbing gear. Helmets and goggles. Backpacks and ballistic nylon soft luggage. Skis. Aqua-Lungs. Wet suits. Camouflage for every environment from arctic to desert. Smith & Wesson .357 revolvers in stainless steel, so they wouldn’t rust when we swam with them. Beretta 9mm automatic pistols. HK machine guns, with and without silencers. Stainless steel Ruger Mini-14s. Silenced .22-caliber automatics. Sniper’s rifles. Stun grenades. C-4 explosive. Claymore mines. Radio-controlled remote detonators. And hundreds of thousands of rounds of ammunition.

  We mounted antennas on the roofs and set up our own secure communications network. We used walkie-talkies, waterproof portable radios, SATCOMs, and mini satellite dishes. Each man was given a secure beeper. When it went off, he was expected to show up, prepared for deployment and fully equipped, within four hours. If the second hostagerescue mission was mobilized, we’d be ready to go—even if we hadn’t finished our training yet.

  It took a couple of weeks to settle in. I brought Kathy and the kids down from Washington. All they knew was that the War College was out the window, and Daddy had a new job, which he couldn’t talk about, but—golly, gee, Pop—your hair and beard sure are getting long. The men arriving from the West Coast, too, had to find housing, buy transportation, and get adjusted. Training, however, commenced immediately. I’d hinted we were going to do a lot of climbing, so the guys began going to the base gym and working on their upperbody strength. We started firearms workouts, too. Most SEALs believe themselves to be great shots. I, on the other hand, remembered how badly things had gone with Bravo Squad, Second Platoon, before we deployed to Vietnam in 1967, when me and my five Daniel Boones only put 2 rounds out of 360 in a six-by-eight-foot piece of slowly moving plywood.

  The shooters of SEAL Team Six would have to be able to bring down their targets with one or two shots, under any condition. That meant our shooting had to be both instinctive and accurate. To achieve that end, I designed a program in which each SEAL in Six would shoot a minimum of 2,500 rounds a week, every week. That was more per week than most SEALs shot in a year.

  There was bitching, but at my insistence we began with the basics. Every night, when the pistol range at the Armed Forces Staff College closed down, we’d run teams in and work from 1700 until 2300. During the first couple of days, we didn’t even use ammunition. The men hung silhouette targets in each lane, then practiced acquiring a sight picture and squeezing the trigger of their stainless-steel Smith & Wesson .357 Model 66s. We started everybody dry-firing at three yards, then progressed to five yards, then seven, ten, fifteen, and finally, twenty yards. The exercise was rudimentary, starting slow, getting fa
st: acquire the sight picture, then fire. Acquire, then fire. Acquire, fire. Acquire/fire.

  The third day we tried the exercises again, then repeated them with live ammunition. We examined each target carefully to see who was heeling, shooting high at one o’clock; who was squeezing too tight, which grouped the shots low and left or low and right; who was anticipating recoil; jerking the gun; or breaking the wrist too far up or down. Problems were noted and corrections made. In less than a week, the guys were shooting straight. Now all they had to learn was to shoot to kill.

  We built doorjambs out of two-by-four and canvas. Once again, we began without ammo, teaching the men how to come through a doorway singly, then in pairs, then in groups of four, and finally, in groups of six. They weaved in a lethal, complicated choreography, until everyone had mastered the art of dancing through a door and entering a room without getting killed, or killing the man in front. We began discussing the tactics of clearing a room, of determining friend or foe. And as one set of SEALs worked on entry, another group two lanes down the range worked on firing basics, shooting round after round after round at silhouette targets.

  Except now, I added a new twist. The men would paste a three-by-five index card on each silhouette, sometimes on the head, sometimes on the torso or shoulder or groin or neck. The score would count only if they hit the card. Any other holes in the target meant they had to start all over again. I also encouraged people to break into pairs and shoot against each other for beers. The Gold Dust Twins, Frank and Larry, were natural and vocal rivals. Mac and Fingers paired up, bitching at one another as they punched paper. XO Paul, whose white-wall, Marine-style short-crop was growing nicely into curly, Prince Valiant locks, shot against Jew. And Snake shot opposite Pooster. I could hear them over the gunfire ragging each other—and God help the poor asshole who missed the three-by-five.

  The second week we began, very carefully, to send one guy at a time, moving downrange, using live fire. This was something new to everybody. It’s one thing to acquire a sight picture and fire when you’re looking at a silhouette. It is entirely different when you are moving toward it, crouching or running. By the end of the week, I was able to add the doorjambs to the scenario and watch as four SEALs at a time would “enter” an area and clear it with live fire.

  The work was not without problems and hazards. The indoor range had no proper ventilation, so we had to break regularly to vent it. And concrete walls and floor made the place prone to ricochets. There were a couple of close calls, and my guys took a minor ding or two as we live-fired at angles for which the facility had not been designed. Still, it was all we had, so we used it.

  Each night after we finished, we’d roll out of Gate Five in a convoy, cruise up to Virginia Beach Boulevard, hang a left, and three blocks later pull up in front of a decrepit, one-story storefront, painted an indeterminate and undefinable dark color. This was our permanent hangout, the bar we’d visited the first night I arrived as Six’s commander, the FO Bar. It was an after-hours joint run by the Fraternal Order of UDT/ SEAL. Inside two sparsely furnished, dimly lit rooms were pinball machines, card tables, a couple of bars, and a microwave for nuking sandwiches and pizzas; along with a friendly bunch of active and retired Frogmen, SEAL groupies, girlfriends, and even an occasional wife or two. The place was open all night, and if there was any single place SEAL Team Six’s unit integrity was built, it was the FO Bar, during the first three weeks of September 1980.

  Since we’d just been shooting, we all smelled of lead and primers—not as pungent as cordite, but it told people we’d been having fun. We’d be high from the exercises, and the guys from the East Coast would be playing head games on the West Coast SEALs and vice versa—kind of like the first day of kindergarten where the kiddies are deciding who gets to play in the sandbox first. The women were plentiful—and available. Also, we were the new kids on the block, and the old-timers wanted to test us. Testing was usually done with fists and chairs.

  I watched as partnerships formed—who was marrying up with who; I sat at the bar, sipped my Bombay on the rocks, and made mental notes about who could handle his liquor and who couldn’t. I noted which of my Six guys were aggressive, which ones were passive. When there were fights, I stood back and let them happen, only wading in and separating people if it looked like serious damage was about to be done. The harbingers were good. My men might fight among themselves, but as soon as outsiders stepped in, they’d turn on the strangers and stomp them into the floor.

  While the Team got itself into physical shape, Paul and I honed the training schedule. By the fourth week of September, we’d done as much as we could at Little Creek. Most of the equipment had been delivered—what remained to arrive could be forwarded. Now the serious work was ahead: our first road trip to Florida, where, at a secluded corner of Eglin Air Force Base, we’d begin our training in earnest.

  The press of events had been so tight, I hadn’t even held a full team meeting yet. So, two nights before we left for Florida, I scheduled the base auditorium for the evening and assembled the Team. I put Paul and Command Master Chief Mac outside the doors to keep interlopers away.

  Then I mounted the stage. Behind me, appropriately enough, hung a huge American flag. If this was going to be a SEAL Six version of the opening to the movie Patton, that’s where the similarities ended. I was missing the ivory-handled revolver and the polished boots, not to mention the gleaming helmet. I looked like a wild man with my beard and long hair. And my mode of delivery was somewhat different than George C. Scott’s throaty growl.

  I looked out upon my troops, who were sprawled over the first dozen rows of the auditorium. “Fuck you all, cockbreaths,” I said by way of introduction.

  There were scattered laughs. I paced back and forth, searching out faces. I liked what I saw.

  “Gentlemen,” I said, “this will be a no-shitter.”

  There was a murmur of approval. “You know what we are here to do—counterterrorism. And what does counterterrorism mean? It means that we will fucking do it to them, before they fucking do it to us.” A dozen of the men cheered. “Right on,” I answered. “It’s about goddamn time, right?”

  I waved my arm over the assembled SEALs. “You are all talented SpecWarriors. You are all—as of now—gifted shooters. You all get a lot of pussy—” I was interrupted by laughter. “Now we’re going to hit the road and make you prove those things all over again.” Scattered applause and whistles. “But before we do, there are a few things I want to tell you.

  “First. You do not have to like everything you do. Fact is, I don’t give a shit whether you like everything you do or not. All you have to do is do it.

  “Second. You are the system, gentlemen. You. The buck stops with each one of you. I bought you your own gear, and you will take care of it. You assholes have the very best toys money can buy. If your equipment fails, it’s because you fucking failed—not it. So I will not accept any goddamn excuses—‘The gear didn’t work, sir’ or ‘I got the wrong lung, sir’ or ‘I didn’t bring the right weapon, sir.’

  “You are the fucking system. Failure is on your shoulders. I will accept no excuses. None.

  “CNO Hayward sent me down here. You know what he fucking said, gentlemen? He said, ‘Dick, you will not fail.’

  “So I will not fucking fail, gentlemen, nor will you fucking fail.”

  I paced back and forth in front of the flag. “For SEAL Team Six, I am fucking lifting the rules. You’ve already seen that at the range. And now hear this: each of you will carry a weapon at all times. On duty, off duty, liberty—fat fucking chance of that—on the road, getting laid, whatever. You gentlemen are going to become the living embodiments of ‘Have Gun Will Travel.’ Why? Because the more you’re used to the weight and position of the gun, the less obvious it will become. The less you will think about it. The more a part of you it will be. When we go clandestine, gentlemen—and believe me, we will fucking go clandestine—I don’t want you playing with the jockstrap where you
stowed your .38, so some numb-nuts, shit-for-brains, buck-an-hour airport-security monkey in Ouagadougou catches you carrying and tosses you into the hole. That will not fucking happen on my watch.

  “Listen closely, gentlemen, because you will hear these words again: safety is out the window. We will train the same way we will fight—balls to the wall. That means some of you will get hurt during training. Some of you may die. That’s a fact of life. But we will watch each other’s back. We will take care of each other. If you screw up and waste your swim buddy, I will waste you. Believe me, it’s easy to rig a fatal accident, and I will waste you. You will be history.

  “Your loyalty must be first and foremost to your partner, your squad, your platoon, and the Team. I am the law, gentlemen—and my law is simple. There will be unit fucking integrity.”

  There was absolute silence. Good. I had their attention.

  I hunched my back and slipped into my godfather mode, speaking in a passable Vito Corleone accent. “This command … will be like a friggin’ Mafia. I … am the Capo di tutti capi, the Padrone. I make the offers nobody refuses. And I … I take care of everybody. What’s more, we’re a family. And you never talk family business outside the family. You got a problem—you come to me. Before you go anywhere else, you come to me first.”

  I walked to a covered easel stage right and threw back the black drape, revealing a large map of Iran. “We have been assigned a mission. We aren’t even a unit yet, but we have a mission—which is par for the course. Okay, you see the map. You know where that is. You know who’s still being held there. We are on call. Our number has been posted.” I changed the display, showing a list of seven targets we had been assigned to neutralize while Delta Force went in after the hostages. I ticked them off, one by one.