The Mercenary Option

by Dick Couch

  “Well, fuck it,” he said aloud. “Just fuck it.”

  The sun was up but had not reached the blacktop in back of the SEAL Team Three grinder, a large open area lined on either side by Connex boxes, trucks, Humvees, and equipment trailers. Only a tall chain-link fence segregated the compound from the beach and the Pacific Ocean.

  “SEAL Team Three, a-ten-HUT!”

  Close to ninety men, all dressed like Master Chief Garrett Walker, came from a parade rest to attention. Full strength, Team Three numbered close to 120 men, but some of the SEALs were on training away from the team area. Already, the prospect of accelerated deployments to the Middle East expedited the platoon training cycle. Garrett walked across the compound and faced Commander Stennis. Behind Stennis and to either side were Team Three’s Executive Officer and the Command Master Chief. The Exec was small and wiry, as were many SEALs, but the Command Master Chief was a very large black man.

  Stennis saluted Garrett. “Sir, Team Three is standing by for inspection and instruction.”

  “Thank you, Skipper,” Garrett replied as he returned the salute. He glanced from the Exec to the CMC. “You going to be okay, Frank?”

  “Hooyah, short-timer,” he said in a game, gravelly voice, but he was obviously feeling the effects of the previous night at McP’s and far too many tequila shooters.

  “Well, let’s see if we can do something about that.” Then to Stennis. “Skipper, would you and the others please fall in.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Stennis again saluted and led the other two men to the rear of the formation. Garrett took a step forward and regarded the men arrayed before him. Tradition held that a SEAL who retired after a full career, or retired early for medical reasons, be allowed to inspect the team and lead them in PT on his last day. More than one maimed SEAL, even an amputee, had bravely put his teammates through their paces on his final day. But Garrett Walker was neither maimed nor visibly disfigured; he simply couldn’t pass a SEAL diving physical. With his damaged lung, he could handle just about anything except the Navy treatment tables for recompression sickness. Since he couldn’t dive, he could no longer be an operational Navy SEAL.

  “Good morning, gentlemen!”

  “HOOYAH, MASTER CHIEF!”

  “We’ll dispense with the inspection today, gentlemen. Otherwise, half of you would be out doing push-ups in the surf with the BUD/S trainees for improper haircuts or poorly starched caps.” An amused murmur passed through the ranks. “But since we’re all out here on this fine morning, why don’t we do a little light PT?” Another murmur swelled into a collective grumble. “Okay, girls, circle up!”

  The formation broke, and the men melded into two large concentric circles. An undercurrent of quiet joking and easy banter accompanied the SEALs as they moved to the perimeter. More than a few rolled their eyes at the thought of what lay ahead of them. Fortunately, they were men who could endure and sometimes even enjoy pain. Garrett moved to the center, rubbing his hands together as he turned to watch the SEALs settle into the expanded rings. They shifted and moved, raising their arms until they touched the fingertips of the man to either side, expanding the large circles. Garrett stood with his feet apart, hands on his hips, and the other SEALs did the same.

  “Ready!”

  “HOOYAH!”

  “Push-ups!”

  “HOOYAH, PUSH-UPS!”

  Garrett dropped to the leaning rest position, and the rings of men followed him down.

  “A-down!”

  “ONE!”

  “A-down!”

  “TWO!”

  “A-down!”

  “THREE!”

  Garrett took them through a hundred push-ups, and more than a few of the SEALs had difficulty with the last dozen or more. Then he took them methodically through a series of squat thrusts, leg levers, stomach crunchers, and a few sadistic exercises that only SEALs visit on one another.

  “A-one, two, three, ONE!”

  “A-one, two, three, TWO!”

  “A-one, two, three, THREE!”

  Every five exercises, he took them back for fifty push-ups. He punished them. When he sensed that some of the less able were at the breaking point, he would say, “C’mon, girls. It’s only a few push-ups,” then drop them for another fifty. Many of the SEALs lagged the count, but none of them stopped. About the time even some of the better-conditioned men were starting to falter, he took them to a soothing routine of neck rotations, trunk benders, and stretches. The push-up count went down to twenty-five, then to ten.

  “All right, ladies, let’s hit the bars.”

  By the rear entrance to the compound was a long, well-supported horizontal metal bar with room enough for twelve SEALs at a time to do pull-ups. They lined up in eleven files, eight deep.

  “Ready, up!”

  Garrett and eleven other SEALs leaped up to the bar and hung by their arms, like a line of bats in a sleeping cave.

  “Up!”

  “ONE!”

  “Up!”

  “TWO!”

  “Up!”

  “THREE!”

  After fifteen reps, “Re-cover!”

  “HOOYAH!”

  “Next group!”

  “HOOYAH!”

  The team moved through the bars, each man doing his fifteen pull-ups. To the amazement of even those who knew Garrett Walker well, he led each group through their fifteen reps.

  “Okay, girls, let’s fall in and go for a little stroll on the beach.”

  The team assembled outside the chain link in running formation of six across, fifteen rows deep. Garrett led them at a comfortable pace across the berm to the hard sand near the water’s edge. There he turned north. The tide was dead low, so an expanse of flat wet sand provided excellent footing. A gentle surf pooled and receded at the edge of the wide smooth beach. It was an easy run to the rocks just seaward of the Hotel del Coronado. Normally, they ran through a break in the rocks to cross the del Coronado beach. Today, Garrett took them seaward around the rocks. The water was only knee deep at best, but wet boots and socks make for a different kind of run. Then he took them up to the soft sand as the formation continued north up the beach. Garrett never changed the pace, but every hundred yards or so he took them back into the water and back up into the soft sand. He led them past the North Island fence and out to the North Island jetty, a man-made extension of boulders that marked the entrance to San Diego Bay. In the elbow where the beach gave way to the rocks, the wave action had created a treacherous mudflat. Again, the pace never increased or slackened, but SEALs sloshed in close formation through four inches of black silt. Save for Garrett at the head of the pack, each SEAL was spattered with mud from head to foot.

  They made the trip back to the team compound entirely in the soft sand. The beachcombers in Coronado are used to formations of SEALs and SEAL trainees running along the public beaches between the del Coronado and North Island. Those few out this early morning stared openmouthed at the obviously fit but very dirty group of men who struggled south just above the high-water mark. A hundred yards north of the team complex, less than two dozen men were still in formation. The others were strung out behind, but none had quit. Two men stopped briefly to throw up, but they kept running.

  “Quick-time, march!”

  Garrett brought the lead ranks to a walk. The formation began to swell as stragglers caught up and rejoined the group. Many of the SEALs walked on rubber legs, but they carried themselves as well as they could. Garrett timed their pace so the formation was intact when they reached the team area.

  “Team Three, halt!” The formation lurched to a stop. A collective mist of steam rose from the blue-shirted mass. Each man did his best to stand tall.

  “Right…face!”

  Garrett walked slowly around to face his teammates. He pushed the billed fatigue cap a few inches back and surveyed the formation. The sun was full up now, illuminating his face and the gentle Pacific swells behind him. He stood at rigid attention. The SEALs
in the front ranks could see that he was sweating, but not breathing heavily.

  “Gentlemen, thank you for joining me this morning. I will always consider it an honor that I once counted myself as one of your number. It has been a privilege to serve with you.” He saluted, and the SEALs collectively drew themselves up and returned his salute.

  Garrett dropped his hand. “You are secured.”

  “HOOYAH, MASTER CHIEF WALKER!” It was a throaty, exhausted bellow, but one charged with emotion.

  They surged around him, and tired, strong arms lifted him up over their heads. They carried him out to the surf line as if he were a fallen Viking in funeral procession, and on the count of three, tossed him facedown into an oncoming wave.

  Thirty minutes later, Garrett Walker was performing yet another ritual. With this one, there was closure. He had cleaned out his personal locker many times before, but only to move on to another SEAL assignment, another team, or an overseas deployment. This time he would not return. He put the wet boots and PT gear into a plastic bag and pushed the bag to the bottom of a light backpack. Then he rolled his dress shoes in his uniform and crammed them in. The few remaining toiletries rounded out the load. He knew he would not be coming back, nor did he want to, not as a civilian. Garrett made his way from the locker room to the quarterdeck, pausing only for a quick checkout at the team supply and administration offices. He nodded a greeting to the SEALs he passed. Several wished him well, but few could meet his eye. Suddenly Garrett began to feel confined, almost claustrophobic; he just wanted to be out of the building. It was a long journey from the locker room to the entrance of SEAL Team Three. As he stepped onto the quarterdeck, he was met by the shrill cry of a boatswain’s pipe.

  “Attention on deck! Master Chief Petty Officer, arriving!”

  The two remaining SEAL Team Three master chiefs and four senior chief petty officers were dressed in choker whites and posted by the door. They were arranged on either side of the entrance in columns of threes. Garrett could see that some of them were still sweating, having only had time to towel off, dress quickly, and be down here to meet him. Commander Stennis, also in a starched white collar, stood at the head of one column. Behind him, in a white jumper and bell bottoms, a first-class boatswain’s mate waited with his pipe at the ready. Stennis glanced at the others and stepped forward.

  “Master Chief, I know you specifically requested no formal ceremony, but this was the doing of your fellow chief petty officers.” He hesitated as he surveyed Garrett. He was dressed in jeans, sneakers with no socks, and a faded aloha shirt. “I was honored that they asked me to take part. No long speeches, but we want you to know that this door is always open to Navy SEALs, and that means it’s always open to you. Oh, and here’s a little token from your teammates. God forbid that you ever become a nine-to-fiver, but if you do, we wouldn’t want you to be late.”

  Stennis handed Garrett a small case. Garrett let his pack slip from his shoulder to the floor and opened the case. It was a Rolex oyster-shell diving watch. Many SEALs conveniently “lose” their team-issue diving watch when they leave the teams, but Garrett Walker was not one of those. Only a few minutes ago, he had unstrapped his own and dropped it by the Team Three supply department. He looked up at the two files of chiefs in their dress whites; they stood at attention, but each looked at him, grinning broadly.

  Garrett took the watch and carefully strapped it to his wrist, then dropped to one knee to slide the case into his pack. As he rose, he swung the pack across one shoulder. He paused for a long moment to regard the SEALs in white on the Team Three quarterdeck.

  “Thanks, guys,” he said to his former shipmates. “This means a great deal to me.” He would have said more, but there was a lump building in his throat. Then to Stennis, “Thank you too, sir.” He held out his hand, and Stennis took it. “Good luck to you and this fine SEAL team.”

  As Garrett took a step for the door, Stennis nodded to the quarterdeck watchstander, who stood holding the handset to the team public address. The boatswain began a long two-toned trill on his pipe. As the uniformed chief petty officers and their commander saluted, loudspeakers echoed throughout the Team Three spaces.

  “Master Chief Petty Officer, U.S. Navy, retired…De-parting.”

  Garrett walked across the quarterdeck between the two files of chief petty officers and out the door. He reclaimed his bicycle and pedaled away without looking back. About halfway along the strand toward Coronado, a wry smile crossed his face as he glanced down at his new watch. They retire me from the Navy because I can’t pass a diving physical. And the guys give me a diving watch as a retirement present. Go figure.

  2

  Tuesday, March 5,

  Langley, Virginia

  Watson sat at his desk at the massive CIA headquarters building and read another scathing article about his agency in the Washington Post. It was E. J. Dionne this time. What a complete asshole, he thought. After three decades of declining budgets and ACLU oversight, now everyone wants us to do something, and they’re labeling the attacks on New York and Washington as an intelligence failure. It had all started with the Church Commission in the mid-1970s and had slowly gone downhill from there. Of course, mused Watson, we didn’t exactly cover ourselves with glory during the Ames affair. True, Aldridge Ames was not the only inglorious incident at CIA, yet the press seldom cut the intelligence community any slack, and they never mentioned the overwhelming numbers of hardworking, dedicated intelligence professionals who risked their lives on a daily basis. When you were overseas on a field assignment, you could ignore the Washington chatter, but it was much more difficult when you were at headquarters. And Jim Watson was a field man, or at least he used to be. A career intelligence officer, he had spent twenty-four of the last thirty years of his life outside the United States. That was all behind him now. He’d now become one of them, what he and his fellow CIA case officers in the field had called a headquarters puke. But it was time to come in, and he knew it. The office was very plush—it went with the title, Assistant Deputy Director for Operations—and Patty, his fourth wife, liked the Washington scene, even if he did not. The life of an intelligence officer made married life a difficult proposition, but Watson, like many of his breed, kept trying. A fellow case officer had once advised him just to find a woman he couldn’t get along with and buy her a house.

  Watson was also a tired man who looked much older than his fifty-five years. His skin was mottled, and he had bags under his eyes, in large part due to several decades of embassy cocktail parties. CIA staffers in the DDO were, for the most part, fairly well used up by the time they were called back to Langley. “Rode hard and soaked in alcohol” was the phrase frequently used. And when they went on the retired list, they didn’t last long. Retired military officers seemed to go on forever, drawing their pensions well into their eighties. Foreign intelligence case officers like Watson, on the other hand, lasted just over three years in retirement on average. It was commonly thought that they drank themselves to death, and that was certainly a factor. The reality was that after so many years on the “inside,” they simply withered on the outside. There was no American Legion or VFW for old case officers to go and reminisce, and their spouses, if they still had them, didn’t want to hear about it anymore. Watson tossed the Post on the desk just as the intercom buzzed.

  “Sir, I have an Ambassador Simpson for you on line one.”

  Watson smiled. “Thanks, Holly.” He paused a moment and raised his eyebrows. Then he sat up in his chair and straightened his tie as he took the receiver. “Good morning, Ambassador. It’s certainly been a while; how are you, sir?”

  “Doing well, thank you. I see they finally have you tied down to a desk. How’re you holding up?”

  Watson chuckled. “As well as can be expected, I suppose. The world has changed a great deal since we were last together, sir. A whole new set of bad guys, and these are not so civilized as our Russian friends.”

  “I’m afraid our nation will alway
s have enemies, and sometimes old enemies can become friends. One thing is certain, there will always be a need for good information, about friends and enemies alike. I happened to be in town, so I thought I’d give you a call. I hope it’s not an inconvenience.”

  Simpson’s not a Washington regular, Watson thought. I wonder what he’s doing here—and why he’s calling me? “Not at all, sir; I’m pleased that you did. Ah, Ambassador, I read about your loss during 9/11. I was very sorry to hear about it.”

  “Thank you, Jim. I was wondering if you would have time for lunch sometime this week.”

  Watson glanced at his desk calendar, but there was very little he couldn’t reschedule to have lunch with the former ambassador to Russia. “What day did you have in mind, sir?”