Scorched Earth

by George Galdorisi

  “Dad, you gonna be able to come to my soccer game tonight?” Amber, their oldest daughter, asked.

  “Who you guys playing, honey?”

  “West Springfield.”

  “Bad news for West Springfield, huh?”

  “Yeah, right,” Amber mumbled.

  “Amber’s just made the starting team, Jay,” his wife, Meagan, added. “And now she’s playing midfield, the same position Dale played when we were first stationed in D.C.”

  The mention of the Bruner’s oldest, their only son, Dale, brought a smile to his face. While he loved their two teenage daughters dearly and unconditionally, Dale had always been his favorite. And the son had followed in his father’s footsteps in the Navy—to a point.

  Growing up, Dale had never been interested in the military. Maybe it was the fact that even though his parents did everything they could to make their frequent change-of-station moves seem normal and routine, they were anything but. Every move meant he and his sisters had to make new friends, find a way to fit in with a new social group, and try to get up to speed in their studies in a new school with a different curriculum. The three Bruner children survived the family’s constant moving, and even thrived in a situation that often challenged children in military families.

  But toward the end of his college career, Dale became motivated to serve. He wasn’t sure what triggered it. Maybe he finally came to the realization that having to cope with being Navy brats actually strengthened him and his sisters. He decided to join the military and also to put marriage on hold. He wasn’t sure he had the skills his parents had to raise normal children while moving a family around the country—let alone possibly having to move them to overseas postings in Asia or Europe. However, Dale found a different calling from naval aviation. Growing up in the wake of 9/11, he had decided to join the part of the Navy he felt was taking the fight right to the enemy—he joined the Navy SEALs.

  “Well, sweetie, I promise I’ll try to make it,” Bruner replied. “You know I’m swamped at work, but I’ll be there if I can. What time is it?”

  “Eight o’clock. You may actually have to leave work while it’s still light out.” Amber was pouting now, and her younger sister piled on.

  “Dad, my softball game is Saturday; you’re not going to work again this Saturday, are you?” Katherine asked.

  “Girls, your dad is doing the best he can,” their mother said.

  “It’s okay, I get it and I deserve it. I promise I’ll try to make it to both games.” Bruner added, “And now that Dale’s finally on shore duty in San Diego, maybe he can fly back when your teams make the playoffs.”

  All three women rolled their eyes as the ever-competitive Bruner got up to leave and get into his new BMW to join the many thousands of military people who get into their cars to go work in the Pentagon every day. While chief of legislative affairs was a coveted job among U.S. Navy officers, for Bruner it could never be as satisfying as going to sea. He’d make the best of it, and maybe one more sea-duty tour—serving as a U.S. Navy numbered fleet commander—was somewhere in his future.

  Meagan Bruner accepted the peck on the cheek from her husband. She knew he loved her and their three children and would try his best to make it home for their daughters’ games. But she knew she shouldn’t count on it. She didn’t like the fact he was working twelve-hour days any more than their daughters did.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Deghayes Home: Minneapolis, Minnesota

  June 22, 1515 Central Daylight Time

  Amer Deghayes was only one year older than the next oldest of the five Minneapolis friends who were stymied in their attempts to join ISIS in Syria and Iraq. But for that reason, as well as the fact that Amer’s parents had a large basement where they allowed the men to meet, he had become their peer leader.

  Amer had texted his friends earlier that afternoon to tell them he had exciting news to share with them. They knew that while he wasn’t a bit more religious than any of the rest of them, the imam at the Masjid Omar Islamic Center had taken a shine to Amer and had agreed to help him—and by extension his friends—in their efforts to achieve the goals they so desperately wanted to attain: leave the United States and fight with the Islamic State in Syria and Iraq.

  The men assembled in the Deghayes basement and said prayers, as was their custom whenever they met. Then they listened as Amer began to share his news.

  “You know that Imam Maher has always had our best interests at heart—”

  “How do you figure?” one of his friends interrupted.

  “Hear me out,” Amer replied.

  He couldn’t help himself as he paused for effect. “Imam Maher told me today that a benefactor has provided a generous amount of money and that we’ll receive scholarships to American University in Washington, D.C., soon.” The room fell silent; he now had their attention. None of their parents could afford to send them to college, so these scholarships were a start.

  “But that does nothing to get us visas and help us travel to the Mideast to wage jihad,” another of the friends groused.

  “The imam knows that, but he says this is just the first step in the process,” Amer replied.

  Amer didn’t disagree with his friend; he wasn’t certain what the imam was offering was going to get them to their ultimate goal. But it was better than sitting around in Minneapolis and doing nothing. He didn’t like having to act like a salesman to get them to accept what was clearly a generous offer—a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

  He patiently explained to his friends that the imam had told him that American University had several study abroad programs in the Mideast. If they signed up for one of those once they got to the university, they could travel out of the United States without the kind of scrutiny they would get if they applied for tourist visas. Then he explained that if they applied to American right away and mentioned this specific scholarship, they could enroll for the summer semester. Finally, he could see his friends coming around to his way of thinking; maybe he was a better salesman than he thought he was. He saved the best news for last.

  “There’s more. Come over here and look in the alley.”

  The four friends followed Amer up the few steps to the alley behind the Deghayes home. There was a late-model Honda van sitting there.

  “What’s that?” one of the men asked.

  “That’s our van, courtesy of our benefactor. That will be our transportation to Washington, D.C. The imam has a friend there who manages rental units for students. He’ll find us a place to live.”

  The men all looked at Amer, and each allowed himself a small smile. They were finally beginning their journey.

  * * *

  Just over a thousand miles as the crow flies, east-southeast of where Amer was sharing this exciting news with his friends, Rear Admiral Jay Bruner was on familiar turf on Capitol Hill. The chief of legislative affairs for the Navy didn’t typically testify before congressional committees—his job was to facilitate more senior officers doing that, as well as to prep them for their testimony. Beyond that, working the backrooms and bargaining with these senators and representatives to defend the Navy’s budget—especially its procurement budget for ships and aircraft—was also part of his role as chief of legislative affairs, and Bruner was good at it. And because of his prior tours with OLA, the admiral was a well-known quantity with congressmen and senators—and especially with their personal and professional staff members. Because of his reputation, he was on call to testify at the drop of a hat.

  The hat had just dropped. Senator Sonny Enfield was the senior senator from the Commonwealth of Virginia and the ranking member of the powerful Senate Armed Services Committee Subcommittee on Seapower. Part of the Navy’s budget request this year was for money to procure another of its Ford-class supercarriers, carriers built—not coincidently—in the massive Huntington Ingalls shipyard in Newport News, Virginia. Tens of thousands of jobs—and at least that many votes—revolved around keeping the production of those carri
ers going strong. Enfield knew he would keep returning to the world’s most exclusive club only as long as the grateful voters of the Commonwealth knew that he was protecting those jobs.

  Enfield’s committee had heard from “all the usual suspects” as he so inelegantly called them—the secretary of defense, the secretary of the Navy, the chief of naval operations, the Naval Sea Systems Command program manager for aircraft carriers—and a host of others. They had all fed him the same sop—convincing sop—that he, his committee, and especially the voters from the Commonwealth of Virginia watching the hearings on C-SPAN, wanted to hear. They all spewed the party line: If the dedicated workers at Huntington Ingalls shipyard didn’t keep churning out Ford-class aircraft carriers as fast as they could, the United States would be defenseless against a host of foes around the globe.

  But Enfield saved the best for last. He wanted his committee and the voters to hear from a man who had actually used a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier to carry out the work of the republic in waging war against the enemies of the United States. And he wanted them to hear from someone he knew he could count on to say what he wanted him to say. While familiarity bred contempt for some, for Enfield, it bred assurance that the man sitting at the table in front of him would say just the right words.

  The statesmanlike Enfield had let his colleagues on the Seapower Subcommittee question Bruner first, and now that it was early evening and C-SPAN had its maximum audience, Enfield began questioning him. “Admiral, thank you for taking time from your demanding duties as chief of legislative affairs to testify before the committee.”

  “It’s always a pleasure, Mr. Chairman. The Navy appreciates all you and your fellow senators do to ensure our Navy continues to be a global force for good.”

  Enfield smiled. Bruner was on-script. “Indeed, Admiral, and that’s precisely why we—and you—are here this evening. And you also know we in the Congress have been, I’m sorry to say, less than diligent in moving forward on the president’s defense budget request.” Then, contorting his face in a gesture of resignation, he continued, “And that’s precisely why we’ll not recess until we vote on this bill.”

  “Yes, Senator, I understand,” Bruner replied.

  “Now, Admiral, I want to take you back to earlier this year when the terrorist Mabad al-Dosari, the leader of the scourge we call ISIL, brutally murdered the special presidential envoy, General Underwood. The general was a native of our great Commonwealth of Virginia,” Enfield added with a flourish, looking directly at the C-SPAN camera.

  “Yes, Mr. Chairman, that was a tragic event indeed.”

  “It certainly was. And I want to take you back to two days ago when the secretary of defense testified that when our commander in chief sought to extract retribution and go after the ISIL leader, he said, on the record, and I’m quoting now, ‘Our carrier strike group operating in the Arabian Gulf provided the fastest and most lethal way to go after al-Dosari.’”

  “Yes, Mr. Chairman, I’m familiar with the secretary’s testimony.”

  “Just so, Admiral. But the secretary wasn’t there on scene; he was thousands of miles away in his Pentagon office. So for the benefit of this committee, and for the American taxpayers who fund these supercarriers that are on station day in and day out to provide the ‘fastest and most lethal way’ to deal with our enemies, we want to hear from you. You were the man who was on scene. Please tell us, from the moment you received the execute order originated by our commander in chief, just how you carried out these strikes.”

  Enfield looked directly into the C-SPAN camera as he concluded his question, but then the camera shifted immediately to Bruner.

  Bruner knew it mattered not one whit to Enfield that the strikes he directed didn’t actually take out the ISIL leader. This was theater, pure and simple. Speaking with no notes, he began a long and detailed recounting of the events of March 7 as the C-SPAN audience drank it all in.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Naval Special Warfare Command: Coronado, California

  July 8, 0630 Pacific Daylight Time

  Even in early July in southern California, the morning marine layer chilled the air with a heavy mist. For the thirty-six Navy SEAL candidates of Class 318 who had spent the last twenty minutes in the surf, it seemed even colder. Class 318 had begun with 175 men—men carefully screened for Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training, or BUD/S. Thirty-eight from that class had made it through “hell week,” but two were too battered to continue. Past experience said that not all of the thirty-six survivors would make it through the six-month BUD/S ordeal or the seven months of SEAL Qualification Training.

  “You’ve been here two years, Chief. How does this class stack up to the others you’ve worked?” Lieutenant Dale Bruner asked.

  Chief Petty Officer Josh Anderson paused before replying. Bruner was his boss, and would be until Anderson’s three-year tour at BUD/S was up next June. The lieutenant was new to the Naval Special Warfare Command training component and was assigned as the Phase One training officer. “Well, sir, I think they’re a lot better prepared than when you and me went through BUD/S, but some of them still come for the wrong reasons. I think that fella over there,” he said, pointing to an officer trainee struggling to do one more pushup, “he’s gonna ring the bell before the day’s over. The rest, who knows? Most of ’em should be good to go. They’re tough enough to get through the next few months. We’ll see if they’re smart enough.”

  As if on cue, the struggling trainee stood up and walked over to a brass ship’s bell lashed to a stanchion outside the BUD/S training office. He made no move, but just stood there staring at the bell.

  “You had enough of this, Mister Cavanaugh?” Anderson asked in a neutral tone. There was no response. “Look, sir, it’s like this,” he continued. “You either want to do this or you don’t. Either ring the damn bell or get your sorry ass back out on the grinder and start pushing them out.”

  BUD/S candidate Cavanaugh looked at Anderson, then Bruner, and then Anderson again. There was no sympathy or encouragement in the face of either. He shrugged, and then grabbed the braided lanyard tied to the bell’s clapper.

  CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! And so ended the attempt of yet another physically—but maybe not mentally—capable young man to become a Navy SEAL. Head down, he turned and walked off the grinder.

  Ringing the bell was the way a SEAL trainee let Anderson and the others know he’d had enough of the torture that was Navy SEAL training. That was why the shiny brass bell sat in a prominent place on the grinder, within easy reach of any recruit who wanted to quit. This would probably not be the last trainee from this class to ring out. Bruner and Anderson watched dispassionately as Ensign Cavanaugh departed. Then Bruner turned to his chief.

  “You may be right, Chief, but the operational teams need these men. I know your reputation and that you won’t coddle these guys, but our job now is to help ’em succeed.”

  “Copy that, sir,” Anderson replied. He knew Bruner had done his homework even before coming here and checked out the reputations of all the BUD/S instructors who were part of his training cadre. In the small, close-knit SEAL community, it wasn’t that difficult to learn about another man’s reputation. Nor was it difficult for Anderson and the other BUD/S instructors to learn about their new phase officer. All it took was a few phone calls to chief petty officers in the operational teams.

  All the officers coming to the SEAL training command were combat veterans, but few had more trigger time than Bruner. He had done several tours in Afghanistan with SEAL Team Three and had fought through some desperate situations. He was a gunfighter, and he led from the front. But what Anderson and the others found most interesting about their new lieutenant was the independent streak he’d demonstrated in several ops. While other officers might have paused to check with the next level of command to help weigh options, once Bruner had decided how to pursue a mission and had talked it over with his squad, he was good to go. And the fact that he had pulled off some
missions his seniors might well have vetoed—and not lost any of his men in the process—impressed Anderson and the other senior enlisted instructors in the training cadre.

  Growing up as a Navy brat, Bruner had moved from city to city as his naval aviator father advanced through his career. Even during grade school, whenever his dad left for a deployment, he felt it was his responsibility to look after his mother and his two younger sisters. Nothing was ever said, and his mother was a strong, independent woman who didn’t need “looking after”—two decades working as an ER nurse had steeled her to deal with just about anything. But the unspoken words between father and son somehow conveyed a sense of responsibility in the younger Bruner. It was one of his earliest memories.

  Bruner played a myriad of sports growing up. Many of his friends gravitated to football, and he played running back in Pop Warner leagues. But football simply didn’t seem like a team game to him. It bothered him that he got the attention while those who blocked for him received little or none. He eventually found soccer more to his liking and played throughout high school—on three different teams due to his family’s frequent moves. He was good, but he never became a regular starter. But on occasion, when an opposing midfielder got a bit too physical with one of their team’s smaller players, Dale was sent in to help the opposing player adjust his attitude.

  He wasn’t a scholarship player at Georgia Tech, but made the team as a walk-on. There, as in high school, he didn’t start, but his coaches noticed that he trained and practiced like he would be starting every game. Years of tough practice sessions conditioned him and also refined his sense of team play. He could run and move before he got to SEAL training, and he loved a physical challenge.

  There are some SEALs who get through training with few problems, but don’t do all that well when they get into combat. Bruner wasn’t one of them. He led from the front, but he allowed his senior SEAL petty officers to run his platoon, working closely with them in the planning and execution of SEAL operations. And when his platoon or one of his squads made a good hit, he pushed the recognition down the line to his enlisted SEALs. Yet his combat time hadn’t gone unrecognized. When he donned a dress uniform, there was a Silver Star, two Bronze Stars, and two Purple Hearts.