Tom Clancy Presents: Act of Valor

by Dick Couch

  The flanking American flags continued all the way down Harbor Drive, past the San Diego International Airport, and into Point Loma. There were American flags along Rosecrans Street, up Canon Street, all along Catalina Boulevard, and all the way to the cemetery. Jackie and her parents were stunned by how this large metropolitan city had turned out to honor a fallen hero—their fallen hero.

  The procession of cars, more than eighty of them, arrived at Rosecrans to a scene all-too-familiar to Jackie and to everyone in the SEAL community. The rolling hilltops of Rosecrans National Cemetery were covered with the white sentinels of the dead—wars past and wars ongoing. The gravesite was prepared. The seven SEALs in the honor guard were standing by with their rifles, ready to salute their fallen comrade. A senior Navy chaplain was standing by, ready to render more consoling words. Jackie had seen this so many times before. Yet none of that could make her immune to the crushing and all-but-overwhelming grief she felt at this very moment.

  Admiral O’Connor took her arm as he escorted her to her seat while the six SEAL pallbearers carried Roark’s coffin from the hearse to the gravesite. The admiral did not flinch as, halfway to her seat, Jackie’s knees buckled and she almost lost her footing. He held her up in such a way that no one, not even her parents walking a few steps behind, noticed her unsteadiness. But then, Jackie Engel was not the first SEAL widow this admiral had helped to a graveside service. Inside her, their baby stirred uneasily, as if he somehow knew the father he would never meet was to be lowered into the earth. James Roark Engel—Roark had requested that if it was a boy, he be named James for his grandfather, whom Roark so admired. And Roark had never known that he was to have a son. Or did he?

  Jackie took her seat and sat stoically in the front row of chairs. Her parents, and Roark’s, were there to lend support as well as deal with their own deeply personal grief.

  “Friends,” the chaplain began, “John 15:13 tells us, ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend’ . . .” He spoke loudly, to be heard by the hundreds assembled on the hillside on this bright, crystal-clear, San Diego day. Christ Episcopal Church in Coronado was small, and the many mourners were unable to attend that service. They were all here now.

  While the chaplain droned on, Jackie let her eyes survey the scene. There were the military men and women standing ramrod straight. There was Roark’s casket, draped with the forty-eight-star American flag that Roark and his grandfather had carried into battle. There were his men from the Bandito Platoon—Weimy, Sonny, Ray, A.J., and, of course, Mikey, with a black patch covering one eye. Standing with them was Senior Chief Otto Miller. And there was Dave Nolan, wheelchair-bound from his injuries but sitting tall. She knew he was there against his doctor’s orders, and yet she knew he could not stay away. Nolan, like the other Banditos, was in dress blue uniform.

  She heard the chaplain’s words, but they were lost on her. She was already planning—planning how to do what she knew Roark wanted and needed her to do. She knew that for the rest of her life, no matter what direction it took, she would somehow bear the full responsibility of ensuring that James grew into a man both she and Roark would be proud of. That was her SEAL mission.

  She knew she would be up to the task, but she also knew it wouldn’t be easy. Yet Roark’s teammates would be there to help her. Their wives and their children would be there for her as well. She could also count on Roark’s strength and their too-few years together to give her the determination she needed to complete her mission.

  Her reverie was broken by the first of three volleys fired by the seven-man honor guard. Then the next, and the next. Jackie, along with many of Roark’s brother SEALs, flinched slightly at each of the three volleys. It was impossible not to; it was an emotional reaction, not an auditory one. She was still holding it together, though just barely. And she knew it was almost over.

  But as the bugler played taps, slow and sad, Jackie felt a week’s worth of emotions welling up inside, almost choking her. She began to tremble involuntarily, no longer sure that she could maintain her composure through the end of the ceremony.

  The honor guard approached the casket. In one of the most well-rehearsed and solemn of all military rituals, they folded Roark’s flag with care and precision. The senior man in the honor guard took the flag, executed a perfect ninety-degree facing movement, handed the flag to Admiral O’Connor, and saluted. Prior to accepting the flag, the Naval Special Warfare Command commander also saluted. Then with the flag, he walked slowly toward Jackie and dropped to one knee. One hand atop the folded flag, the other on the bottom, he held it out to her.

  “On behalf of the president of the United States and the chief of naval operations, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s service to this country and a grateful Navy.”

  Jackie took the flag and cradled it next to her stomach—forcing it as close to their baby as she could. Tears now streamed down her face. No response was necessary, yet as the admiral stood and again saluted, she met his eyes for a moment before lowering her head. Now, her shaking was becoming visible. Her father on one side and her mother on the other put their arms around her. Roark’s parents, sitting behind her, rested their hands on her shoulders.

  Jackie Engel somehow reached deep within herself and found a reserve of strength. She sat up straight, looking directly at the casket. She had been to enough of these burial services to know that the next moments were not about her, or her unborn son, or Roark’s parents, relatives, and friends, or anyone else. The next several minutes were for the brotherhood. She had been to many SEAL graveside services and knew that what was about to take place didn’t happen every time SEALs buried one of their own. Yet, somehow, she knew it would happen today.

  Ray wheeled Dave Nolan to the casket of their fallen leader, followed by Sonny, A.J., Weimy, and Mikey. Each in turn, with a swift blow of their hand, hammered their Trident pin into the top of the polished wood of the casket. Then the honor guard of pallbearers did the same. Then more and more SEALs walked up to the casket and, each in turn, tendered his Trident. Finally, Otto Miller returned to the casket and delivered nine more Tridents—his own and eight others for the Bandito SEALs still on deployment. When the last SEAL pin was rammed into the casket lid, the SEALs all turned, faced the casket a final time, and saluted.

  The funeral party began to break up. Some passed close to the casket, others didn’t. Those in uniform who did came to attention and saluted. Finally, Jackie stepped to the head of the casket for one last moment with her husband. She touched the wood. Julia Nolan had handed her a single rose, which she laid atop the sea of gold Trident pins. Another quiet moment, then she allowed Admiral O’Connor to escort her back to the staff car. It was over—the service, but not the grieving.

  As the crowd began to thin, Chief Dave Nolan asked his wife to wheel him closer to the casket so he could be alone with his officer. She knew her husband well enough to understand that he needed time alone with the man he so greatly admired. She took their two oldest children, the two old enough to attend the service, off to another section of the hillside.

  After several moments of silence, he began in a quiet voice. “Boss, you know I wanted to take that grenade instead of you. How did you get there so quickly? You always did run my ass because I was so damn slow, and now it played out in the worst possible way. But then again, you always were a step ahead of all of us; that’s what made you the best officer, the best man, I’ve ever known. As long as I live, I’ll never be able to get over feeling that I let you down. All I can do now is to try and make up for it. I’ll do what I can for Jackie and James. I’ll take care of our men—our brothers by different mothers. You have my word on it. And I’ll think of you every day of my life.”

  He wiped away a tear with his one good hand. Dave Nolan, the doctors at Balboa Naval Hospital all agreed, was something of a living medical miracle. In addition to a load of shrapnel from the grenade, he had taken twenty-seve
n bullets. Luckily, none to the head, and those to his torso, the ones that would have been kill shots, had been absorbed by his body armor. But he had still taken a lot of bullets.

  “Safe journey my friend.” Nolan paused, then continued in a softer voice. “Before you died, you gave me this reading by Tecumseh for your kid—just in case. At the time I told you that I’d make it into a paper airplane, that you’d be there to say these words yourself.” Nolan then chuckled to himself as he recalled their talking about it, even though it hurt to do so. “That’s not all I said I’d do with it, but that was then. Now I’ll complete the mission and do as you asked. I’ll give it to Jackie, but I’m going to keep a copy. In a few years, James and I will sit down and read it together. We’ll have a talk about old Tecumseh, and we’ll have a talk about you as well.”

  The last of the mourners drifted away. Most sensed that Dave Nolan and Roark Engel needed to be alone and gave them a wide berth. Yet one man walked quietly up to the casket and the man in the wheelchair.

  “Admiral,” Nolan said, as Admiral Burt Jackson approached. Jackson had been their operational commander and had sent the Bandito Platoon into action. There is a special sense of loss known only to those who must give the orders that send other men off to die. Unfortunately, Jackson was no stranger to this sense of loss and grief.

  “Chief. We lost a true hero, and I know you lost a friend. Thank you for all you did for him, and all you’ve done for the Teams. I understand you want to return to duty as soon as you’re fit. We’ll be blessed to have you back.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.”

  They were silent for several minutes until Jackson again spoke. “Tell me something, Chief. He had an honored place waiting for him in Arlington. Why here?”

  “He wanted to be near Jackie and the Teams.”

  Jackson nodded, and the two waited in silence for a few moments longer. Then the admiral moved down the hill, leaving Nolan alone with his SEAL brother.

  * * *

  Ten months after Roark’s death, Jackie was having a light breakfast while Jimmy was scattering his Cheerios about his high chair and onto the kitchen floor. It had soon become clear to everyone that James was much too confining for this boy; he was now called Jimmy. She was thinking about making a change, perhaps a move to a bigger city where there was a demand for her professional skills. Maybe to New York or L.A. She wondered what it might be like to be just another single mother. But at the end of the day, she knew she would do none of those things. For now, she knew she would stay here, to be near Roark and those who had been a part of their lives back when he was alive. The SEALs, the SEAL wives, and the command had all been so good to her. Yet she often wondered what it would be like to be away from it all and to not be a SEAL widow—one of the SEAL widows.

  She stood up, hesitated, then walked into their small living room. There she reached up to their fireplace mantel and unfolded the last letter Roark had written, the one to his unborn son. It was the letter Dave Nolan had folded into the shape of a paper airplane almost a year ago. She unfolded it gingerly, carefully, just as she had so many times before. And each time she unfolded it, she read it to Jimmy. Each time she did, she somehow sensed that he understood the words. At least she wanted to think he did. She cleared her throat, looked into his blue eyes, and read what Tecumseh had said over two centuries ago and what Jimmy’s father had written to him—to the both of them.

  Live your life that the fear of death never enters your heart. Trouble no one about his religion. Respect others in their views and demand they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, and beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and of service to your people. When your time comes to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song, and die like a hero going home.

  Jackie paused a moment and looked at Jimmy. He smiled, spit up a few Cheerios, and smiled again. And she knew that Roark’s words were reaching his son.

  Jackie Engel carefully folded the letter and returned it to the mantel. There she placed it atop a folded American flag. The flag was flanked by a shadow box displaying Roark’s military medals and decorations. There on the other side of the flag was a similar display of his grandfather’s military achievements. Somehow she knew that the warrior legacy would not skip a generation this time.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  DICK COUCH served as a surface warfare officer aboard a Navy destroyer and as a platoon officer with Underwater Demolition Team 22 and SEAL Team One. While with Team One, he led one of the only successful POW rescue operations of the Vietnam War. He has served as a maritime case officer with the CIA, has been an adjunct professor of ethics at the U.S. Naval Academy, and has been an ethics advisor with U.S. Special Operations Command. Dick began his professional writing career in 1990. His novels include SEAL Team One, Pressure Point, Silent Descent, Rising Wind, The Mercenary Option, and Covert Action. His nonfiction works include The Warrior Elite, The Finishing School, Down Range, Chosen Soldier, The Sheriff of Ramadi, and A Tactical Ethic. Scheduled for release in June 2012 is his latest work of nonfiction: Sua Sponte: The Forging of a Modern American Ranger. Dick and his wife, Julia, live in Central Idaho.

  CAPTAIN GEORGE GALDORISI, U.S. NAVY (RETIRED), spent a thirty-year career as a naval aviator, including commanding officer tours of two helicopter squadrons (HSL-41 and HSL-43), the USS Cleveland (LPD-7), and Amphibious Squadron Seven. His last operational assignment spanned five years as chief of staff for Cruiser-Destroyer Group Three, where he made combat deployments to the Western Pacific and Arabian Gulf, embarked in the USS Carl Vinson and the USS Abraham Lincoln. Subsequent to his Navy career, he was a senior advisor with the Center for Security Strategy and Operations in Washington, D.C., where he was involved in Navy and Marine Corps strategy and policy formulation. He has written two previous novels; four works of nonfiction, including a definitive study of the history of combat search and rescue entitled Leave No Man Behind; and more than two hundred articles in professional journals, newspapers, and conference proceedings. He and his wife, Becky, live in Coronado, California (home of the Naval Special Warfare Command). He works as a senior analyst for the Department of the Navy.