by Brad Thor
As a SEAL, Harvath had been inside more C130s than he cared to remember. But never had one sounded as sweet as the one that came roaring in on approach, landed, and taxied to the edge of the frozen lake.
The propeller engines on the Hercules aircraft were known as the “Four Fans of Freedom,” which couldn’t have been more appropriate than at this moment.
They continued thundering as the rear cargo ramp dropped and the Zero-Three-Hundred team raced out onto the ice, riding cold-weather ATVs.
When they got to him, Harvath insisted on snowshoeing the rest of the way to the aircraft. Despite all that had happened, he wasn’t going to leave his teammates. He encouraged Christina to accept a ride, which she did.
When they reached the ramp, a pair of Air Force Pararescue Jumpers, more commonly known as PJs, was waiting. They stepped forward to give Harvath a hand, but he waved them off. He didn’t need any help getting on the aircraft.
C130s were essentially enormous cargo planes. There was the cockpit, a bathroom, and maybe a galley. After that, it was just open space configured for the mission.
In the Skibird, the center aisle was about ten feet wide and reserved for cargo. Along the sides, suspended from bright orange nylon webbing, were seats made from the same material, which flipped down.
At the far end, an enormous American flag had been hung. Upon seeing it, Harvath was filled with emotion.
The PJs were the medical component of the operation and they tried to steer Harvath and Christina to two stretchers upfront. Once more, he told the PJs to assist Christina and promised that he would join them in a moment. Until everyone was on board, he wasn’t going to stand down.
Popping out of their skis, Haney, Staelin, Chase, Sloane, Morrison, Gage, and Barton climbed into the aircraft and stowed their gear.
They were followed by the DEVGRU SEALs of the Zero-Three-Hundred team. Once their ATVs were lashed down and everyone was ready, the Skibird’s loadmaster radioed the pilots that they were ready for takeoff.
Before the engines were even powered up, one of the PJs had already started an IV on Harvath with a saline drip. It was standard procedure and would make administering any meds much easier. There was also the concern, after everything he had been through, that Harvath was severely dehydrated, which the IV would help to reverse.
Taking seats alongside the stretcher, his friends sat down with him.
“We did it,” said Haney. “It’s over.”
Harvath understood what the Marine was trying to say, but it wasn’t over. Not for him. And not by a long shot. The only thing he could think to say was “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank us until we’re out of here,” replied Staelin, as they felt the big LC-130 shudder as it turned and set up for takeoff.
“Fuck that,” joked Barton. “I’ll take my thank-you now.”
“Me too,” added Gage. “Do you have any idea the amount of shit I had to rearrange to be here?”
“I didn’t even want to come,” replied Chase.
“At least they told you the truth,” snarked Sloane. “They told me that I’d be rescuing the President.”
Harvath didn’t think he had it in him, but he smiled nevertheless. He then looked at Morrison. “What about you?”
“I can’t lie,” said the younger Force Recon Marine. “I came for the vodka.”
Harvath raised the arm with the IV and pointed toward his rucksack. “Open it,” he said.
Morrison did and inside found the remainder of the bottle of vodka Harvath had found at the trapper cabin. Pulling it out, he held it up. The team cheered.
“First drink goes to Christina,” Harvath ordered. “That belonged to her uncle, and the two of them saved my life.”
Morrison handed the bottle to one of the PJs, who unscrewed the cap and handed it to Christina.
Sitting up on her stretcher, she smiled and held it aloft. “Za Vstrechu,” she said, taking a swig. To our meeting.
The bottle was then handed to Harvath. This time, he had no difficulty finding words. “To those who are no longer with us,” he said, as he took a drink and passed it along.
Each of his teammates repeated his toast as they took a sip. Outside, the thrum of the engines increased as the throttles were pushed forward.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Haney, just as the brakes were being released. “How about we ask our new pilot to swing by Pavel’s house so we can kick his ass?”
Once again, a cheer rose from the team.
Harvath had always loved his teammates, but he had never really known how much until right now. They had all fought and bled together. But when he had been dragged into hell, they had rushed in to drag him back out.
It wasn’t about money, medals, or fame. It was about loyalty, friendship, and honor.
Even if no one ever knew what had happened here, they would know. They would know what they had done and why they had done it. Integrity was all the reward any of them would ever need.
Harvath only wished that his own integrity had been enough to prevent his wife and two of his dearest friends from being murdered.
Before he could get sucked into that line of thinking, the huge aircraft lurched forward and began racing down the ice.
When it seemed it had reached its maximum speed, yet still couldn’t achieve lift, the rockets on the sides kicked in and the nose of the plane began to rise. As the LC-130 became airborne, another cheer went up.
The F-22 Raptors accompanied the plane out of Russia and into Finnish airspace, and then all the way back to Luleå in northern Sweden.
Along the way, it was Christina who convinced Harvath to accept something more than he had already taken to deaden the pain of his injuries.
He had agreed, but on one condition. Turning to Haney and Staelin, he had made them promise that as soon as they landed in Luleå, they would all board The Carlton Group jet and head straight home. No detours to Landstuhl or any other overseas medical centers for treatment. They would fly directly back to the United States and Christina would be coming with them. Haney and Staelin had immediately agreed.
Unbeknownst to Harvath, those had been their specific orders.
CHAPTER 75
* * *
* * *
Death was never easy. It was messy and complicated on the best of days. On the worst of days, it was tragic, heartbreaking, and incredibly unfair.
After arriving in Sweden, Harvath had spent almost the entire plane ride back to the United States asleep, or pretending to be. He wasn’t in the mood to talk. What’s more, his body desperately needed the rest.
When the jet touched down at Andrews Air Force Base, instead of Dulles International, it wasn’t hard to guess who was waiting for him. The amount of security alone gave it away.
Inside the hangar, an enormous American flag had been hung to welcome Harvath and the team home.
Harvath took his time pulling himself together, allowing his teammates to deplane first. He had no idea how many of them, if any, had met the President of the United States before. Finally, when he couldn’t wait anymore, he led Christina down the air-stairs.
The small receiving line was composed of President Paul Porter, CIA Director Bob McGee, Nicholas—minus his dogs—and a fourth man whom Harvath didn’t recognize.
Starting with the President, Harvath shook hands and introduced Christina.
“On behalf of the United States,” Porter said to her, “I want to thank you for helping bring Scot home.”
“It is my honor Mr. President,” she replied, a bit awestruck that the President of the United States had come to meet them personally.
“It’s good to have you back,” Porter then said to Harvath.
“Thank you, sir. It’s good to be back.”
That was all Harvath had in him. The President wasn’t offended. He realized how much the man had been through. The fact that he had walked off the plane under his own power was a testament to how tough he was.
Graciously, Porter p
assed him off to McGee, adding, “You and I will catch up soon.”
“Yes, sir,” Harvath replied, as he thanked the President once more before shaking hands with the CIA Director and introducing him to Christina.
“Welcome home,” said McGee, to both of them.
Next up was Nicholas, who greeted Harvath warmly before engaging Christina in Russian.
Harvath waited a couple beats and when the little man didn’t break off his chat, he reached out and introduced himself to the last man in line.
“Brendan Rogers,” the SPEHA said, shaking hands. “Very glad to have you back home.”
“Thank you for everything you did to make it happen,” Harvath responded. “I owe you and Nicholas a steak dinner at some point.”
“You don’t owe me anything. I was just doing my job. Although I would like to be able to chat with you about your experience, if that would be okay.”
“Now?”
“No,” Rogers said, with an exaggerated shake of his head. “You work on getting acclimated. We can talk when you’re ready.”
“Thank you.”
As Nicholas continued to speak with Christina, Rogers explained what they had arranged for her.
He had come not only to welcome Harvath home, but also to personally escort Christina to a farm in Virginia where she would be looked after while all of her paperwork was being processed. For her role in helping Harvath escape, she was being given full U.S. citizenship, as well as a substantial reward.
“Start-up funds,” Rogers said. “With which she can begin her new life.”
They chatted for a few more minutes before Nicholas finally broke off and introduced her to the SPEHA.
Once they had met, Harvath said to her, “I don’t think I can ever repay you.”
“You don’t have to,” she replied.
“I do, though. You gave up everything to help me.”
“I’m going to be all right.”
“I know you are,” he said, as they hugged.
As their hug ended, she smiled at him warmly.
“For your safety,” Harvath continued, “Rogers and his people are going to keep you out of sight for a while. As soon as I can, I’ll come see you. Okay?”
“That sounds nice. I’d like that. And for your safety, don’t forget to get the rest of your rabies shots.”
With that, the SPEHA led Christina over to the Diplomatic Security Service protective team that would be taking care of her. Once those introductions were made, they all exited the hangar together to a pair of waiting SUVs.
Turning around, Harvath watched as President Porter posed for pictures with the team, eventually waving him over to join in. There, in front of the giant red, white, and blue American flag, they commemorated their successful mission.
After shaking hands with everyone once more, Porter was whisked away by his Secret Service detail.
As the team pulled their gear from the plane, Harvath pitched in and helped. One by one, he thanked them.
Once they had completely unloaded, Nicholas directed them toward the vehicles he had waiting. Harvath, though, wasn’t included. The CIA Director had other plans for him.
“We’d like to get you to the hospital and have you looked over,” said McGee. “After they run some tests, we can—”
“I’m fine,” Harvath interrupted. “I don’t need a hospital. I’d rather just go home.”
“I understand. Unfortunately, we can’t do that. Not yet. I need to debrief you first.”
A debriefing was the absolute last thing he wanted to do. What he wanted was to be left alone. He wanted to go home, get drunk, and not talk to anyone for a week—or maybe forever.
But while he didn’t like the idea of a debriefing, he knew why it had to happen. He had been under the control of and interrogated by a hostile foreign power. The CIA and the President needed to know what questions he had been asked and, more important, what he had said in response. He didn’t have a choice. Better to get it over with.
“Okay,” Harvath said, giving in. “Where? Back at Langley?”
McGee shook his head. “We’d like to make you a little more comfortable than that.”
• • •
“More comfortable” than Langley turned out to be an Agency safe house a short helicopter flight away on Maryland’s Eastern Shore.
It had a nice view of the water, was tastefully decorated in a nautical motif, and smelled like steamed crab. There Harvath, McGee, and a CIA psychiatrist named Dr. Levi, spent the next four days, watched over by a small security contingent.
The home had a large, comfortably furnished den, which was well lit and had been wired for both sound and video. While someone else might have been self-conscious about being under such scrutiny, Harvath didn’t care. He had long lived by the maxim from Mark Twain—as long as you told the truth, you didn’t have to worry about remembering anything.
He answered every question that was put to him and asked many of his own.
McGee and Levi drilled down on everything, endlessly circling back and asking him to repeat details he had provided minutes or even days before.
Both men were impressed that Harvath had held out as long as he had. Everyone, though, breaks. Harvath had been close, but had had the presence of mind to feed them falsehoods that they wouldn’t be able to verify until they were back in Russia. The crash of the military transport plane had turned out to be a blessing in more ways than one.
Beyond learning what techniques the Russians used and what intelligence they had wanted Harvath to reveal, they were deeply interested in his ordeal and how he had survived. No doubt, he was going to end up as a case study at the Agency, as well as in all of the SERE schools.
The questions they continued to ask ran the gamut from his relationship with Kopec and what had happened at the safe house in New Hampshire, to how he had discovered the trapper’s cabin, what he had done after breaking into Christina’s clinic in Nivsky, and why he had chosen to assault the Wagner mercenaries the way he had.
As someone uncomfortable with praise, he was even more uncomfortable with talking about himself. Many times he couldn’t give them a why. He did what he did because it was either the way he had been trained or the only option he saw available. There wasn’t necessarily a lot of high-level thinking going on. In fact, a lot of it was gut-level.
The worst parts were when McGee stepped out of the room and left him alone with Levi. The man loved two things—golf and cars. He used both in an attempt to build a rapport with Harvath. Harvath wasn’t interested.
When the doctor couldn’t get him to open up, he took more direct routes—literally asking Harvath how he was feeling, what regrets he may have had, and what he thought he was going to do moving forward.
It was pretty intrusive stuff and frankly none of Levi’s business. He worked for The Carlton Group, not the CIA. If he chose to throw his hat in the ring for any future contracts, they could discuss his fitness then. Wanting to pick apart his current “emotional well-being,” as Levi put it, was a nonstarter. He made it clear that there was a bright line and that Levi better back up off it.
The only saving grace of the debrief was that one of the men on McGee’s detail, a guy named Preisler, was a hell of a cook. Steaks, pasta, all sorts of breakfasts, it seemed there was nothing he couldn’t pull off. For a former door-kicker, he was a formidable chef.
The other thing Harvath had appreciated was that when the debrief was done for the day, it was done for the day. There were no prohibitions on Harvath’s having a couple of drinks. As long as he wasn’t under the influence when they had him on the record, they didn’t care what he did. In fact, they went out of their way to give him his space and leave him alone.
Though Levi likely had a hand in it, you didn’t need to be a shrink to realize that after everything Harvath had been through, he was going to need some time to be by himself. He was even allowed to leave the house and walk down to the water without anyone accompanying him.
/> While he would have preferred his own house, his own dock, and his own slice of the Potomac, the view of the Chesapeake from here wasn’t terrible. And though he had to put on a coat, at least there wasn’t any ice or snow.
On their last night, Levi walked down lugging a cooler and dropped it on the dock next to Harvath. After helping himself to a beer, he sat down and looked out over the water. Harvath waited for him to say something, but the man didn’t make a sound.
They sat like that for a good ten minutes before Harvath broke the silence. “What else is in the cooler?”
“I wasn’t sure what you were drinking, so I put a little bit of everything in there,” the doc replied.
Leaning over, Harvath flipped up the lid and grabbed the bourbon, plus a couple of fresh ice cubes. He dropped them into his glass and then poured himself several fingers.
“Cheers,” said Levi.
Harvath raised his glass without looking at him.
“Scot, right now we’re off the clock. None of this is official and nothing is going into my notes. Okay?”
Harvath sipped his drink.
“You’ve been through some unbelievable trauma,” the shrink continued. “In my experience, people tend to go in either of two directions from here. They quit and usually fall into a life of substance abuse, which often ends in suicide, or they allow themselves time to grieve, time to heal, and they come back better, stronger.”
It was an observation, not a question, so Harvath didn’t feel compelled to respond.
“With just the little bit I know about you from your file,” offered Levi, “and what I have seen of you here, I think you can come back much stronger. It has to be your choice, though. That’s why if there’s anything you want to talk to me about, anything at all, I want you to know that you can.”
Levi might have been a nice guy, but Harvath wasn’t here to make friends. There was nothing he needed to “get off his chest.” All he wanted to do was to be left alone. In furtherance of that goal, he remained silent.
