Lone survivor: the eyewitness account of …1.droppdf.com/files/VJQCV/lone-survivor-the-eyewitness-account-of...equipment for the lone survivor. I tried to tell her of her son’s

Contents

Prologue

1ToAfghanistan...inaFlyingWarehouse

2BabySeals...andBigOleGators

3ASchoolforWarriors

4WelcometoHell,Gentlemen

5LiketheRemnantsofaRavagedArmy

6‘Bye,Dudes,Give’EmHell

7AnAvalancheofGunfire

8TheFinalBattleforMurphy’sRidge

9Blown-up,Shot,andPresumedDead

10AnAmericanFugitiveCorneredbytheTaliban

11ReportsofMyDeathGreatlyExaggerated

12“Two-two-eight!It’sTwo-two-eight!”

Epilogue:LoneStar

Afterword

Acknowledgments

AbouttheAuthors

Copyright©2007byMarcusLuttrell

Allrightsreserved.ExceptaspermittedundertheU.S.CopyrightActof1976,nopartofthispublicationmaybereproduced,distributed,ortransmittedinanyformorbyanymeans,orstoredina

databaseorretrievalsystem,withoutthepriorwritten

permissionofthepublisher.

Little,BrownandCompanyHachetteBookGroupUSA237ParkAvenue,NewYork,

NY10017VisitourWebsiteat

www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.comFirsteBookEdition:June

2007

ISBN:0-316-00752-8

ThisbookisdedicatedtothememoryofMurph,Axe,andDannyBoy,Kristensen,

Shane,James,Senior,Jeff,Jacques,Taylor,andMac.

TheseweretheelevenmenofAlfaandEchoPlatoonswho

foughtanddiedinthemountainsofAfghanistantryingtosavemylife,and

withwhomIwashonoredtoservemycountry.ThereisnowakinghourwhenIdonotrememberthemallwiththedeepestaffectionandthe

mostprofound,heartbreakingsadness.

Prologue

Would this ever becomeeasier? House to house,freeway to freeway, state tostate?Not so far.And here Iwas again, behind the wheelofahiredSUV,drivingalonganotherMain Street, past theshopsandthegasstation,thistime in a windswept little

town on Long Island, NewYork, South Shore, down bythe long Atlantic beaches.Winter was coming. Theskies were platinum. Thewhitecaps rolled in beneathdark, lowering clouds. Soutterly appropriate, becausethis time was going to beworse than the others. Awholelotworse.I found my landmark, the

local post office, pulled inbehind the building, and

parked.Weallsteppedoutofthe vehicle, into a chillNovember day, the remainsof the fall leaves swirlingaround our feet. No onewantedtoleadtheway,noneof the five guys whoaccompanied me, and for afew moments we just stoodthere, like a group ofmailmenontheirbreak.I knew where to go. The

house was just a few yardsdown the street. And in a

sense, I’d been there before— in Southern California,northern California, andNevada.Inthenextfewdays,IstillhadtovisitWashingtonand Virginia Beach. And somanythingswouldalwaysbepreciselythesame.There would be the

familiar devastated sadness,thekindofpainthatwellsupwhen young men are cutdown in their prime. Thesame hollow feeling in each

of the homes. The sameuncontrollable tears. Thesamefeelingofdesolation,ofbrave people trying to bebrave, lives which haduniformlybeenshottopieces.Inconsolable.Sorrowful.Asbefore,Iwasthebearer

of the terrible news, as if noone knew the truth until Iarrived, so many weeks andmonths after so manyfunerals. And for me, thissmallgatheringinPatchogue,

LongIsland,wasgoingtobetheworst.I tried to get a hold of

myself.ButagaininmymindI heard that terrible, terriblescream, the same one thatawakensme,bullyingitswayintomysolitarydreams,nightafter night, the confirmationof guilt. The endless guilt ofthesurvivor.“Helpme,Marcus!Please

helpme!”Itwasadesperateappealin

the mountains of a foreignland. It was a scream criedout in the echoing highcanyons of one of theloneliest places on earth. Itwas the nearlyunrecognizable cry of amortally wounded creature.AnditwasapleaIcouldnotanswer. I can’t forget it.Because it wasmade by oneof the finest people I evermet, amanwhohappened tobemybestfriend.

Allthevisitshadbeenbad.Dan’s sister and wife,propping each other up;Eric’s father, an admiral,alone with his grief; James’sfiancéeandfather;Axe’swifeand family friends; Shane’sshattered mother in LasVegas.Theywereallterrible.Butthisonewouldbeworse.I finally led the way

through the blowing leaves,out into the cold, strangestreet, and along to the little

housewithitstinygarden,thegrass uncut these days. Butthe lights of an illuminatedAmericanflagwerestillrightthere in the front window.They were the lights of apatriot, and they still shonedefiantly, just as if he werestill here.Mikeywould havelikedthat.We all stopped for a few

moments, and then weclimbed the little flight ofsteps and knocked on the

door.Shewaspretty,theladywho answered thedoor, longdark hair, her eyes alreadybrimming with tears. Hismother.She knew I had been the

last person to see him alive.Andshestaredupatmewitha look of such profoundsadness it damn near brokeme in half and said, quietly,“Thankyouforcoming.”I somehow replied, “It’s

becauseofyoursonthatIam

standinghere.”Aswe allwalked inside, I

looked straight at the halltable and on it was a largeframed photograph of a manlooking straight at me, halfgrinning. There was Mikey,all over again, and I couldhear his mom saying, “Hedidn’t suffer, did he? Pleasetellmehedidn’tsuffer.”Ihadtowipethesleeveof

my jacket across my eyesbefore I answered that.But I

did answer. “No, Maureen.Hedidn’t.Hediedinstantly.”I had told her what she’d

asked me to tell her. Thatkind of tactical responsewasturning out to be essentialequipment for the lonesurvivor.I tried to tell her of her

son’s unbending courage, hiswill, his iron control.AndasI’d come to expect, sheseemed as if she had not yetacceptedanything.NotuntilI

related it. I was the essentialbearerofthefinalbadnews.In the course of the next

hour we tried to talk likeadults. But it was toodifficult. Therewas somuchthatcouldhavebeensaid,andsomuch thatwouldneverbesaid. And no amount ofbackup from my threebuddies, plus the New YorkCity fireman and policemanwho accompanied us, mademuchdifference.

But this was a journey Ihad to complete. I hadpromised myself I would doit, no matter what it took,becauseIknewwhatitwouldmean to each and every oneof them. The sharing ofpersonal anguish withsomeone who was there.Housetohouse,grieftogrief.I considered it my sworn

duty.Butthatdidnotmakeitany easier. Maureen huggedus all as we left. I nodded

formallytothephotographofmy best friend, and wewalked down that sad littlepathtothestreet.Tonightitwouldbejustas

bad, because we were goingto see Heather, Mikey’sfiancée, in her downtownNewYorkCity apartment. Itwasn’tfair.Theywouldhavebeen married by now. Andthedayafterthis,Ihadtogoto Arlington NationalCemetery to visit the graves

oftwomoreabsentfriends.Byanystandardsitwasan

expensive, long, andmelancholy journey acrosstheUnitedStatesofAmerica,paid for by the organizationfor which I work. Like me,likeallofus,theyunderstand.And as with many bigcorporations which have adedicatedworkforce,youcantell a lot about themby theircorporate philosophy, theirwritten constitution, if you

like.It’s the piece of writing

which defines theiremployees and theirstandards. I have for severalyearstriedtobasemylifeontheopeningparagraph:“In times of uncertainty

there is a special breed ofwarrior ready to answer ourNation’scall;acommonmanwith uncommon desire tosucceed.Forgedbyadversity,he stands alongside

America’s finest specialoperationsforces toservehiscountry and the Americanpeople, and to protect theirwayoflife.Iamthatman.”My name is Marcus.

MarcusLuttrell.I’maUnitedStates Navy SEAL, TeamLeader, SDV Team 1, AlfaPlatoon. Like every otherSEAL, I’m trained inweapons, demolition, andunarmed combat. I’m asniper, and I’m the platoon

medic.Butmostofall,I’manAmerican.Andwhenthebellsounds, I will come outfighting for my country andfor my teammates. Ifnecessary,tothedeath.Andthat’snotjustbecause

the SEALs trained me to doso;it’sbecauseI’mwillingtodo so. I’m a patriot, and Ifight with the Lone Star ofTexas on my right arm andanother Texas flag over myheart. For me, defeat is

unthinkable.Mikey died in the summer

of 2005, fighting shoulder toshoulderwithme in thehighcountry of northeastAfghanistan.Hewas thebestofficer I ever knew, an iron-souled warrior of colossal,almost unbelievable courageinthefaceoftheenemy.Twowhowould believe it

were my other buddies whoalsofoughtanddiedupthere.That’s Danny and Axe: two

American heroes, twotoweringfiguresinafightingforce where valor is acommon virtue. Their livesstand as a testimony to thecentral paragraph of thephilosophy of the U.S. NavySEALs:“I will never quit. I

persevere and thrive onadversity.MyNationexpectsme to be physically harderand mentally stronger thanmy enemies. If knocked

down, I will get back up,every time. I will draw onevery remaining ounce ofstrength to protect myteammatesand toaccomplishourmission.Iamneveroutofthefight.”As I mentioned, my name

is Marcus. And I’m writingthisbookbecauseofmythreebuddies Mikey, Danny, andAxe.IfIdon’twriteit,noonewill ever understand theindomitable courage under

fireofthosethreeAmericans.Andthatwouldbethebiggesttragedyofall.

1

ToAfghanistan...inaFlyingWarehouse

ThiswaspaybacktimefortheWorldTradeCenter.Wewerecomingaftertheguys

whodidit.Ifnottheactualguys,thentheirbloodbrothers,thelunaticswhostillwishedusdeadandmighttryitagain.

Good-byes tend to be curtamongNavySEALs.Aquickbackslap,afriendlybearhug,nooneutteringwhatwe’reallthinking:Here we go again,guys,goingtowar,toanothertrouble spot, another half-

assed enemy willing to trytheir luck against us...theymustbeoutoftheirminds.It’s a SEAL thing, our

unspoken invincibility, thesilent code of the elitewarriors of the U.S. ArmedForces. Big, fast, highlytrained guys, armed to theteeth, expert in unarmedcombat, so stealthy no oneeverhearsuscoming.SEALsare masters of strategy,professional marksmen with

rifles, artists with machineguns,and,ifnecessary,prettyhandywithknives.Ingeneralterms, we believe there arevery few of the world’sproblemswe could not solvewithhighexplosiveorawell-aimedbullet.Weoperateonsea,air,and

land.That’swherewegotourname. U.S. Navy SEALs,underwater, on the water, oroutofthewater.Man,wecandoitall.Andwherewewere

going, it was likely to bestrictlyoutofthewater.Wayout of the water. Tenthousand feet up sometreeless moonscape of amountain range inoneof theloneliestandsometimesmostlawless places in the world.Afghanistan.“ ’Bye, Marcus.” “Good

luck, Mikey.” “Take it easy,Matt.” “Seeyou later, guys.”I remember it like it wasyesterday, someone pulling

openthedoortoourbarracksroom, the light spilling outinto the warm, dark night ofBahrain, this strange desertkingdom, which is joined toSaudi Arabia by the two-mile-long King FahdCauseway.The six of us, dressed in

our light combat gear— flatdesert khakis with Oakleyassault boots — steppedoutside into a light, warmbreeze. It was March 2005,

notyethotterthanhell,likeitis in summer. But stillunusually warm for a groupof Americans in springtime,even for a Texan like me.Bahrain stands on the 26°north line of latitude. That’smorethanfourhundredmilesto the southofBaghdad, andthat’shot.Our particular unit was

situated on the south side ofthe capital city of Manama,way up in the northeast

corner of the island. Thismeant we had to betransported right through themiddleoftowntotheU.S.airbase on Muharraq Island forall flights to and fromBahrain.Wedidn’tmindthis,butwedidn’tloveiteither.That little journey, maybe

fivemiles, took us through acitythatfeltmuchaswedid.The locals didn’t love useither. There was a kind ofsullenlooktothem,asifthey

were sick to death of havingtheAmericanmilitaryaroundthem. In fact, there weredistrictsinManamaknownasblack flag areas, wheretradesmen, shopkeepers, andprivate citizens hung blackflags outside their propertiesto signifyAmericans are notwelcome.I guess it wasn’t quite as

vicious as Juden VerbotenwasinHitler’sGermany.Butthere are undercurrents of

hatred all over the Arabworld, and we knew thereweremanysympathizerswiththeMuslimextremistfanaticsof the Taliban and alQaeda.The black flags worked. Westayed well clear of thoseplaces.Nonetheless we had to

drive through the city in anunprotected vehicle overanother causeway, the SheikHamad, named for the emir.They’re big on causeways,

and I guess they will buildmore, since there are thirty-two other much smallerislandsformingthelow-lyingBahrainian archipelago, rightoff the Saudi western shore,intheGulfofIran.Anyway, we drove on

through Manama out toMuharraq,where theU.S.airbase lies to the south of themain Bahrain InternationalAirport.Awaitinguswas thehugeC-130Hercules,agiant

turbo-prop freighter. It’s oneof the noisiest aircraft in thestratosphere, a big, echoing,steel cave specificallydesigned to carry heavy-dutyfreight — not sensitive,delicate, poeticconversationalists such asourselves.Weloadedandstowedour

essential equipment: heavyweaps (machine guns), M4rifles, SIG-Sauer 9mmpistols, pigstickers (combat

knives), ammunition belts,grenades, medical andcommunication gear. Acouple of the guys slung uphammocks made of thicknetting.Therestofussettledbackintoseatsthatwerealsomade of netting. Businessclass this wasn’t. But frogsdon’t travel light, and theydon’t expect comfort. That’sfrogmen, by the way, whichweallwere.Stuck here in this flying

warehouse, this utterlyprimitive form of passengertransportation, there was acertain amount of cheerfulgriping and moaning. But ifthe six of us were insertedinto some hellhole of abattleground, soaking wet,freezing cold, wounded,trapped, outnumbered,fighting for our lives, youwould not hear one solitarywordofcomplaint.That’sthewayofourbrotherhood.It’sa

strictly Americanbrotherhood,mostlyforgedinblood. Hard-won,unbreakable. Built on ashared patriotism, sharedcourage, and shared trust inone another. There is nofighting force in the worldquitelikeus.The flight crew checked

we were all strapped in, andthenthosethunderousBoeingengines roared. Jesus, thenoise was unbelievable. I

might just aswell have beensitting in the gearbox. Thewhole aircraft shook andrumbledaswechargeddownthe runway, taking off to thesouthwest, directly into thedesertwindwhichgustedoutof the mainland Arabianpeninsula. There were noother passengers on board,justtheflightcrewand,intherear, us, headed out to doGod’s work on behalf of theU.S. government and our

commander in chief,PresidentGeorgeW.Bush.Inasense,wewereallalone.Asusual.We banked out over the

Gulf of Bahrain and made along, left-hand swing ontoour easterly course. It wouldhave been a whole hell of alot quicker to head directlynortheastacross thegulf.Butthatwouldhavetakenusoverthe dubious southern uplandsof the Islamic Republic of

Iran,andwedonotdothat.Instead we stayed south,

flying high over the friendlycoastal deserts of the UnitedArab Emirates, north of theburning sands of the Rub alKhali, the Empty Quarter.Astern of us lay the feveredcauldrons of loathing in Iraqand nearby Kuwait, placeswhere I had previouslyserved. Below us were themore friendly, enlighteneddesert kingdoms of the

world’s coming natural-gascapital, Qatar; the oil-soddenemirate of Abu Dhabi; thegleaming modern high-risesof Dubai; and then, farthereast, the craggy coastline ofOman.Noneofuswereespecially

sad to leave Bahrain, whichwas the first place in theMiddle East where oil wasdiscovered. Ithad itshistory,and we often had fun in thelocalmarketsbargainingwith

local merchants foreverything.Butwenever feltat home there, and somehowas we climbed into the darkskies,wefeltwewereleavingbehindallthatwasgod-awfulinthenorthernreachesofthegulf and embarking on abrand-new mission, one thatweunderstood.In Baghdad we were up

against an enemy we oftencould not see and wereobliged to get out there and

find. And when we foundhim, we scarcely knew whohe was — al Qaeda orTaliban,ShiiteorSunni,Iraqior foreign, a freedom fighterfor Saddam or an insurgentfighting for some kind of adifferentgodfromourown,agodwhosomehowsanctionedmurder of innocent civilians,a god who’d effectivelybooted the TenCommandments over thetouchlineandoutofplay.

They were ever present,ever dangerous, giving us aclear pattern of totalconfusion,ifyouknowwhatImean. Somehow, shiftingpositions in the big Herculesfreighter, we were leavingbehind a place which wassystematically tearing itselfapartandheadingforaplacefull of wild mountain menwhowerehell-bentontearingusapart.Afghanistan.Thiswasvery

different.Thosemountainsupin the northeast, the westernend of the mighty range ofthe Hindu Kush, were thevery same mountains wheretheTaliban had sheltered thelunaticsofalQaeda,shieldedthe crazed followers ofOsama bin Ladenwhile theyplotted the attacks on theWorld Trade Center in NewYorkon9/11.This was where bin

Laden’s fighters found a

hometrainingbase.Let’sfaceit, al Qaeda means “thebase,” and in return for theSaudi fanatic bin Laden’smoney, the Taliban made itall possible.Right now theseverysameguys,theremnantsof the Taliban and the lastfew tribal warriors of alQaeda,werepreparingtostartover,tryingtofighttheirwaythrough themountain passes,intent on setting up newtraining camps and military

headquarters and, eventually,their own government inplace of the democraticallyelectedone.They may not have been

the precise same guys whoplanned 9/11. But they weremost certainly theirdescendants, their heirs, theirfollowers. Theywere part ofthesamecrowdwhoknockeddown the North and Southtowers in the Big Apple onthe infamous Tuesday

morning in 2001. And ourcoming task was to stopthem, right there in thosemountains, by whatevermeansnecessary.Thus far, those mountain

men had been kicking someseriousassintheirskirmisheswithourmilitary.Whichwasmore or less why the brasshad sent for us.When thingsget very rough, they usuallysend for us. That’s why thenavy spends years training

SEAL teams in Coronado,California, and VirginiaBeach. Especially for timeslikethese,whenUncleSam’svelvet glove makes way forthe iron fist ofSPECWARCOM (that’sSpecialForcesCommand).Andthatwaswhyallofus

were here. Our mission mayhave been strategic, it mayhave been secret. However,one point was crystallineclear, at least to the six

SEALs in that rumblingHercules high above theArabian desert. This waspayback time for the WorldTrade Center. We werecoming after the guys whodid it. If not the actual guys,then their bloodbrothers, thelunatics who still wished usdead and might try it again.Samething,right?We knew what we were

coming for. And we knewwhere we were going: right

up there to thehighpeaksofthe Hindu Kush, those samemountains where bin Ladenmight still be and where hisnew bands of disciples werestillhiding.Somewhere.Thepureclarityofpurpose

was inspirational tous.Gonewere the treacherous, dustybackstreets of Baghdad,where even children of threeand four were taught to hateus. Dead ahead, inAfghanistan, awaited an

ancient battleground wherewe could match our enemy,strength for strength, stealthforstealth,steelforsteel.This might be, perhaps, a

little daunting for regularsoldiers. But not for SEALs.AndIcanstatewithabsolutecertainty that all six of uswereexcitedby theprospect,looking forward todoingourjob out there in the open,confident of our ultimatesuccess, sure of our training,

experience, and judgment.You see, we’re invincible.That’s what they taught us.That’swhatwebelieve.It’s written right there in

blackandwhiteintheofficialphilosophy of the U.S. NavySEAL, the last twoparagraphsofwhichread:Wetrain forwarandfight towin.Istandreadytobringthefull spectrum of combatpower to bear in order to

achieve my mission and thegoals established by mycountry.Theexecutionofmyduties will be swift andviolent when required, yetguidedby theveryprinciplesIservetodefend.

Brave men have foughtand died building the proudtradition and fearedreputationthatIamboundtouphold. In the worst ofconditions, the legacy of myteammates steadies my

resolve and silently guidesmyeverydeed.Iwillnotfail.Each one of us had grown

abeardinordertolookmorelike Afghan fighters. It wasimportant for us to appearnonmilitary, to not stand outinacrowd.Despitethis,Icanguarantee you that if threeSEALs were put into acrowdedairport,Iwouldspotthemall,justbytheirbearing,their confidence, their

obvious discipline, the waythey walk. I’m not sayinganyone else could recognizethem. But I most certainlycould.The guys who traveled

from Bahrain with me wereremarkably diverse, even bySEAL standards. There wasSGT2 Matthew GeneAxelson, not yet thirty, apetty officer fromCalifornia,married toCindy, devoted toherandtohisparents,Cordell

and Donna, and to hisbrother,Jeff.I always called him Axe,

and I knew him well. Mytwinbrother,Morgan,washisbest friend.He’dbeen toourhome inTexas, and he and Ihad been together for a longtime in SEAL DeliveryVehicle Team 1, AlfaPlatoon.HeandMorganwereswim buddies together inSEAL training,went throughSniperSchooltogether.

Axe was a quiet man, sixfoot four, with piercing blueeyes and curly hair. He wassmart and the best TrivialPursuit player I ever saw. Iloved talking to him becauseof how much he knew. Hewouldcomeoutwithanswersthat would have defied thelearning of a Harvardprofessor. Places, countries,their populations, principalindustries.In the teams, he was

always professional. I neveronce saw him upset, and healways knew precisely whathe was doing. He was justoneof thoseguys.Whatwasdifficult and confusing forotherswasusuallyapieceofcake for him. In combat hewas a supreme athlete, swift,violent, brutal if necessary.His family never knew thatside of him. They saw onlythe calm, cheerful navy manwho could undoubtedly have

been a professional golfer, aguywho loveda laughandacoldbeer.You could hardly meet a

better person. He was anincredibleman.Then there was my best

friend, Lieutenant MichaelPatrickMurphy, also not yetthirty, an honors graduatefrom Penn State, a hockeyplayer, accepted by severallaw schools before he turnedthe rudder hard over and

changedcoursefortheUnitedStates Navy. Mikey was aninveteratereader.HisfavoritebookwasStevenPressfield’sGatesofFire,thestoryoftheimmortal stand of theSpartansatThermopylae.Hewas vastly experienced

in the Middle East, havingserved in Jordan, Qatar, andDjibouti on the Horn ofAfrica.Westartedourcareersas SEALs at the same time,and we were probably flung

togetherbyashareddevotiontothesmart-assremark.Also,neitherofuscouldsleepifwewere under the slightestpressure. Our insomnia wasshared like our humor. Weusedtohangouttogetherhalfthenight,andIcantruthfullysay no one ever made melaughlikethat.I was always razzing him

about being dirty. We’dsometimes go out on patrolevery day for weeks, and

there seems to be no time toshower and no point inshoweringwhenyou’relikelyto be up to your armpits inswamp water a few hourslater. Here’s a typicalexchange between us, pettyofficer team leader tocommissionedSEALofficer:“Mikey, you smell like

shit, for Christ’s sake. Whythe hell don’t you take ashower?”“Right away, Marcus.

Remind me to do thattomorrow,willya?”“Rogerthat,sir!”Forhisnearestanddearest,

he used a particularly largegiftshop,otherwiseknownasthe U.S. highway system. Iremember him giving hisvery beautiful girlfriendHeatheragift-wrappedtrafficcone for her birthday. ForChristmas,hegaveheroneofthose flashing red lightswhich fit on top of those

cones at night.Gift-wrapped,ofcourse.Heoncegavemeastopsignformybirthday.Andyou shouldhave seen

his traveling bag. It wasenormous, a big, cavernoushockey duffel bag, the kindcarried by his favorite team,the New York Rangers. Thesingle heaviest piece ofluggage in the entire navy.But it didn’t sport theRangerslogo.Onitstopweretwosimplewords:Pissoff.

Therewas no situation forwhichhecouldnotsummonareally smart-ass remark.Mikeywasonceinvolvedinaterrible and almost fatalaccident,andoneoftheguysasked him to explain whathappened.“C’mon,” said the New

York lieutenant, as if itwerea subject of which he wasprofoundly weary. “You’realways bringing up that oldshit.Fuggeddaboutit.”

The actual accident hadhappened just two daysearlier.He was also the finest

officer I ever met, a naturalleader, a really terrificSEALwho never, ever bossedanyonearound.ItwasalwaysPlease. Always Would youmind?NeverDothat,dothis.And he simply would nottolerate any other high-ranking officer,commissioned or

noncommissioned, reamingoutoneofhisguys.He insisted the buck

stoppedwithhim.Healwaystook the hit himself. If areprimand was due, heacceptedtheblame.Butdon’teventrytogoaroundhimandbawl out one of his guys,because he could be aformidable adversary whenriled.Andthatriledhim.He was excellent

underwater, and a powerful

swimmer. Trouble was, hewas a bit slow, and thatwastrulyhisonlyflaw.Onetime,he and Iwere on a two-miletraining swim, and when Ifinally hit the beach Icouldn’t find him. Finally Isaw him splashing throughthewaterabout fourhundredyardsoffshore.Christ,he’sintrouble — that was my firstthought.So I chargedback into the

freezing sea and set out to

rescuehim.I’mnotarealfastrunner,butI’mquickthroughthewater, and I reached himwithnotrouble.Ishouldhaveknownbetter.“Get away from me,

Marcus!” he yelled. “I’m arace car in the red, highestrevsontheTAC.Don’tmesswith me, Marcus, not now.You’re dealing with a racecarhere.”Only Mike Murphy. If I

toldthatstorytoanySEALin

our platoon, withheld thename, and then asked whosaidit,everyonewouldguessMikey.Sitting opposite me in the

Hercules was Senior ChiefDaniel Richard Healy,another awesome NavySEAL, six foot three, thirty-seven, married to Norminda,father of seven children. Hewas born in NewHampshireand joined the navy in 1990,advancing to serve in the

SEAL teams and learningnear-fluentRussian.Danny and I served in the

sameteam,SDVTeam1,forthree years. He was a littleolder than most of us andreferredtousashiskids—asifhedidn’thaveenough.Andhe loved us all with equalpassion,bothbigfamilies,hiswife and children, sisters,brothers,andparents,andtheeven bigger one hithertobased on the island of

Bahrain.DanwasworsethanMikey in his defense of hisSEALs. No one ever daredyellatanyofuswhilehewasaround.He guarded his flock

assiduously,researchedeverymission with completethoroughness, gathered theintel, checked the maps,charts, photographs, allreconnaissance.Also,hepaidattention to the upcomingmissions and made sure his

kidswerealways in thefrontline.That’stheplaceweweretrainedfor,theplacewelikedtogo.In many ways Dan was

tough on everyone. ThereweretimeswhenheandIdidnot see eye to eye. He wasunfailingly certain that hiswaywasthebestway,mostlythe only way. But his heartwas in the right place at alltimes. Dan Healy was onehell of aNavy SEAL, a role

modelforeverythingaseniorchief should be, an ironmanwho became a strategist andwhoknewhis job fromA toZ. I talked face to face withbigDan almost every day ofmylife.Somewhere up above us,

swinging in his hammock,headset on, listening to rock-and-roll music, was PettyOfficer Second Class ShanePatton, twenty-two-year-oldsurfer and skateboarder

originally from Las Vegas,Nevada. My protégé. As theprimary communicationsoperator, I had Shane as mynumber two. Like a muchyoungerMikeMurphy,hetoowas a virtuoso at the smart-assremarkand,asyouwouldexpect, an outstandingfrogman.It was hard for me to

identify with Shane becausehe was so different. I oncewalked into the comms

center, and he was trying toorder a leopard-skin coat ontheInternet.“Whatthehelldoyouwant

thatfor?”Iasked.“It’sjustsocool,man,”he

replied, terminating furtherdiscussion.A big, robust guy with

blond hair and a relativelyinsolent grin, Shane wassupersmart.Ineverhadtotellhimanything.Heknewwhattodoatalltimes.Atfirst,this

slightly irritated me; youknow, telling a much juniorguywhatyouwantdone,andit turnsouthe’salreadydoneit. Every time. Took me awhiletogetusedtothefactIhad an assistant who wasdamn near as sharp as MattAxelson.And that’s as sharpasitgets.Shane, like a lot of those

beach gods, was hugely laidback. His buddies wouldprobably call it supercool or

some such word. But in acomms operator, that qualityis damn near priceless. Ifthere’s a firefight going on,and Shane’s back at HQmanning the radio, you’relistening to one ultracalm,very measured SEALcommunicator.Sorry,Imeantdude.Thatwasanall-purposewordforShane.EvenIwasadude,accordingtohim.Eventhe president of the UnitedStateswas a dude, according

to him.Actually he accordedPresident Bush the highestaccolade, the gold-platedCongressional Medal ofHonor awarded by the surfgods:He’sarealdude,man,arealdude.Hewas the son of aNavy

SEAL, and his quiet, rarelyuttered ambition was to bejust like his dad, James J.Patton. He wanted to be amember of the navy jumpteam, as his father had once

been. He completed basicairborne training at FortBenning, Georgia, before hepassed his SEALqualification exams andacceptedorderstoSDVTeam1,Alfa Platoon. FivemonthslaterhejoinedusontheflighttoAfghanistan.Everything Shane did, all

through his short life, wasoutstanding.Inhighschoolhewas the star pitcher and thebestoutfielder.Hecouldplay

the guitar really well, ran aband called True Story, thequalityofwhichremainsabitofamystery.Hewasasuperphotographer and a skilledmechanic and engineer; he’dsingle-handedly restored andcustomized two old Volks-wagenBugs.Hehadacquiredanother one that he told mewould become “the ultimatecustomizedBug,dude.That’swhatI’mallabout.”Shane was as good on a

computer as anyone at thebase. He spent hours on it,some Web site calledMySpace, always keeping intouch with his friends: Hey,dude,howyabeen?The sixth member of our

group was James Suh, atwenty-eight-year-old nativeofChicagowhowasraisedinsouthFlorida.Jameshadbeenwith SDV Team 1 for threeyears before we left forAfghanistan, and during that

time he became one of thebest-liked guys on the base.He had only one sibling, anolder sister,buthehadaboutthree hundred cousins, everyoneofwhomhewassworntoprotect.James,likehisclosebuddy

Shane, was anotherinordinately tough SEAL, apetty officer second class.Like Shane, he’d gonethrough basic airbornetraining at Fort Benning and

gone forward to join AlfaPlatoon.His early ambition had

been to become aveterinarian, a dog specialist.But James was born to be aSEAL and was passionatelyproud of his membership inone of themost elite combatoutfitsintheworldandinhisability to defy the limits ofphysical and mentalendurance.Like Shane, he was a star

high school athlete,outstandingonboththeswimand tennis teams.Academically, he wasconstantly in the gifted andadvanced classes. In ourplatoon, James was right uptherewithAxe andShane asa SEAL of high intelligenceand supreme reliabilityunderfire. I never met one personwithabadwordtosayabouthim.

It took us almost three hoursto reach the Gulf of Oman.We’d cut south of the StraitofHormuz,stayingwellawayfrom the superhighway ofworld oil and gas tankersmoving to and from themassive loadingdocksof theGulf of Iran. The Iraniannavydoes its exercisesdownthere, operating out of theirmain base at Bandar Abbasand also farther down thecoast, at their increasingly

activesubmarinebase.Notthatweimaginedsome

trigger-happy Iranian missiledirector might take a pop atus with some fast heat-seeking weapon. But cautionwasusually advisable aroundthere,despitethefactwehada very tough man in theWhite House who’d madeclear his policy of harshretaliation at the merestsuggestion of an attack onU.S. air traffic, civilian or

military.You had to serve out here

in the Middle East tounderstand fully the feelingof danger, even threat, thatwas never far away, even incountries generally regardedas friendly to America. LikeBahrain.The rugged part of the

Omani coast I mentionedearlier is around the point ofland at RasMusandam, withits deep fjords. This most

northerly rocky shelf whichjuts out into the Gulf ofHormuzistheclosestforeignpoint to the Iranian base atBandarAbbas.Thestretchofcoastline running south fromthat point is much flatter,sloping down from theancient Al Hajar Mountains.We began our long oceancrossing somewhere downthere, north ofMuscat, closetotheTropicofCancer.And as we crossed that

coastline heading out towardthe open ocean, it reallywasgood-bye,frommeatleast,totheArabianPeninsulaandtheseething Islamic states at thenorthendofthegulf,Kuwait,Iraq,Syria,andIran,thathaddominated my life andthoughts for the past coupleofyears.EspeciallyIraq.I had first arrived there to

joinTeam5backonApril14,2003, coming into the U.S.airbasefifteenminutesoutof

Baghdad with twelve otherSEALs from Kuwait in anaircraftjustlikethisC-130.Itwas one week after the U.S.forceslaunchedtheiropeningbombardment against thecity, trying to nail Saddambefore thewar really started.The Brits had just takenBasra.OnthesamedayIarrived,

U.S. Marines took Tikrit,Saddam’s hometown, and afew hours later the Pentagon

announcedthatmajorcombathad concluded. None ofwhich had the slightestbearing on our mission,which was to help root outandifnecessarydestroywhatlittle opposition was left andthen helpwith the search forweaponsofmassdestruction.IhadbeeninBaghdadjust

onedaywhenPresidentBushdeclaredSaddamHusseinandhis Ba’ath Party had fallen,and my colleagues swiftly

captured, thatsameday,AbuAbbas, leader of thePalestinian Liberation Front,which attacked the Italiancruise ship Achille Lauro intheMediterraneanin1985.Forty-eight hours later, on

April17,U.S.forcescapturedSaddam’s half brother theinfamous Barzan Ibrahim al-Tikriti. That was the kind ofstuff Iwas instantly involvedin. I was one of 146,000American and coalition

troops in there, under thecommandofGeneralTommyFranks. It was my firstexperience of close-quartercombat. It was the placewhere I learned the finerpointsofmytrade.Itwasalsothefirstinkling

we had of the rise from theashes of Osama bin Laden’sfollowers. Sure, we knewthey were still around, stilltrying to regroup after theUnited States had just about

flattened them inAfghanistan. But it was notlongbeforewebegantohearofanoutfitcalledalQaedainIraq, a malicious terroristgroup trying to causemayhemateveryconceivableopportunity, led by thederanged Jordanian killerAbuMusab al-Zarqawi (nowdeceased).Our missions in the city

were sometimes interruptedby intense searches for

whatever or whoeverhappened to be missing. Onmyfirstday, fourofuswentout to some huge Iraqi lakearea lookingforamissingF-18 Super Hornet fighterbomber and its U.S. pilot.You probably remember theincident. I’ll never forget it.Wecameinlowoverthelakein our MH-47 Chinook heli-copter and suddenly wespotted the tail of an aircraftjuttingoutofthewater.Right

after that,we found thebodyofthepilotwashedupontheshore.I remember feeling very

sad, and it would not be forthe last time. I’d been in thecountry for less than twenty-fourhours.AttachedtoTeam5, we were known asstraphangers, extra muscledrafted in for particularlydangerous situations. Ourprimary mission was specialsurveillance and

reconnaissance,photographing hot spots anddanger areas usingunbelievable photographiclenses.We carried out everything

under the cover of darkness,waiting patiently for manyhours, watching our backs,keeping our eyes on thetarget, firing computerizedpictures back to base fromvirtually inside the jaws oftheenemy.

We worked usually in avery small unit of fourSEALs.Outonourown.Thiskindofclose-quarterreconisthemostdangerousjobofall.It’slonelyandoftendull,andfraught with peril should webe discovered. Sometimes,with a particularly valuableterrorist leader, we might goinandgethim,tryingtoyankhimoutoftherealive.Brutal,no mercy. Generallyspeaking, the Navy SEALs

train the best recon units intheworld.It always makes me laugh

whenIreadabout“theproudfreedom fighters in Iraq.”They’re not proud. They’dsell their own mothers forfifty bucks. We’d go intosomehouse,grabtheguywebelieved was the ringleader,and march him outside intothestreet.Firstthinghe’dsaywas “Hey, hey, notme.Youwantthoseguysinthathouse

down the street.” Or “Yougive me dollars, I tell youwhatyouwanttoknow.”Theywould, and did.And

what they told us was veryoften extremely valuable.Most of those big militarycoups, like theeliminationofSaddam’s sons and thecapture of Saddam himself,were the result of militaryintel. Somebody, someonefromtheirownside,shoppedthem, as they had shopped

hundredsofothers.Anythingfor a buck, right? Pride?Those guys couldn’t evenspellit.And that grade of

intelligence is often hard-won.We’dgoinfast,drivinginto the most dangerousdistrictsinthecity,screamingthrough the streets inHumvees,orevenfast-ropingin from helicopters ifnecessary. We’d advance,city block by city block,

moving carefully through thedark, ready for someone toopen fire on us from awindow, a building,somewhere on the oppositeside of the street, even atower. It happened all thetime.Sometimeswe returnedfire, always to much moredeadlyeffect thanourenemycouldmanage.Andwhenwe reached our

objective, we’d either go inwith sledgehammers and a

hooley— that’s a kind of acrowbar that will rip a doorrightoffitshinges—orwe’dwrap the demo around thelock and blast that suckerstraight in.We always madecertain the blast was aimedinward, just in case someonewas waiting behind the doorwith an AK-47. It’s hard tosurvive when a door comesstraightatyouatonehundredmiles an hour from point-blankrange.

Occasionally, ifwehadanelement of doubt about thestrength of the oppositionbehind that door, we wouldthrow in a few flash-crashes,which do not explode andknock down walls oranything but do unleash aseries of very loud, almostdeafeningbangsaccompaniedby searing white flashes.Very disorienting for ourenemy.Right then our lead man

wouldhead thecharge insidethe building, which wasalways a shock for theresidents.Evenifwehadnotusedtheflash-crashes,they’dwake up real quick to face agroup of big masked men,their machine guns leveled,shouting, daring anyone tomakeamove.Althoughthesecityhousesweremostlytwo-story, Iraqis tend to sleepdownstairs, all of themcrowdedtogetherintheliving

room.There might be someone

upstairs trying to fire downon us, which could be amassive pain in the ass. Weusually solved that with awell-aimed hand grenade.That may sound callous, butyour teammates areabsolutely relying on thecolleague with the grenade,because the guy upstairsmightalsohaveone,andthatdangermustbetakenout.For

your teammates. In theSEALs, it’s always yourteammates.Noexceptions.However, in the room

downstairs, where the Iraqiswere by now in surrendermode, we’d look for theringleader,theguywhoknewwhere the explosives werestored, the guy who hadaccess to the bomb-makingkitortheweaponsthatwouldbeaimedstraightatAmericansoldiers. He was usually not

thatdifficulttofind.We’dgetsomelightinthereandmarchhimdirectlytothewindowsotheguysoutsidewiththeintelcould compare his face withphotographs.Often the photographs had

been taken by the team Iworked in, and identificationwas swift. And while thisprocess happened, the SEALteam secured the property,which means, broadly,makingdarnedsuretheIraqis

under this sudden housearrest had no access to anyform of weaponrywhatsoever.RightthenwhattheSEALs

call A-guys usually showedup, very professional, verysteely, steadfast in theirrequirements and thenecessary outcome of theinterrogation. They cared,aboveall,aboutthequalityofthe informant’s information,the priceless data which

might save dozens ofAmerican lives. Outside weusually had three or fourSEALs patrolling wide, tokeep the inevitable gatheringcrowdatbay.When thiswasunder control, with the A-guidance,wewould questionthe ringleader, demanding heinform us where his terroristcellwasoperating.Sometimes we would get

anaddress.Sometimesnamesof other ringleaders. Other

timesamanmight informusabout arms dumps, but thisusuallyrequiredmoney.Iftheguy we’d arrested wasespecially stubborn, we’dcuff him and send him backto base for a moreprofessionalinterrogation.But usually he came up

with something. That’s theway we gathered theintelligence we needed inorder to locate and take outthose who would still fight

for Saddam Hussein, even ifhis government had fallen,even if his troops hadsurrendered and the countrywas temporarily underAmericanandBritishcontrol.Theseweredangerousdaysatthe conclusion of the formalconflict.Firedonfromtherooftops,

watching for car bombs, welearnedtofightliketerrorists,nightafternight,movinglikewild animals through the

streets and villages. There isno other way to beat aterrorist. Youmust fight likehim, or he will surely killyou. That’s why we went inso hard, taking houses andbuildings by storm, blowingthe doors in, chargingforward,operating strictlybythe SEAL teams’ tried-and-trustedmethods, ingrained inusbyyearsoftraining.Because in the end, your

enemy must ultimately fear

you, understand yoursupremacy. That’s what wewere taught, out there in theabsolute front line of U.S.military might. And that’sprobably why we never lostone Navy SEAL in all mylongmonths in Iraq.Becauseweplayeditbythebook.Nomistakes.At least nothing major.

Although I admit inmy firstweekinIraqweweresubjectto...well...a minor lapse in

judgment after we found anIraqi insurgent ammunitiondumpduringapatrolalongariver as sporadic shots werefiredatusfromtheotherside.There are those militaryofficers who might haveconsidered merely capturingthedumpandconfiscatingtheexplosive.SEALs react somewhat

differentlyandgenerallylookfor a faster solution. It’s notquite, Hey, hey, hey...this

lot’sgottago.Butthatwilldofor broad guidelines. Weplantedourownexplosivesinthebuildingandthendeferredto our EOD guy (explosiveordnance disposal). Hepositioned us a ways back,butacoupleofusdidwonderifitwasquitefarenough.“No problem. Stay right

where you are.” He wasconfident.Well, that pile of bombs,

grenades, and other

explosives went up like anuclear bomb. At first therewasjustdustandsmallbitsofconcrete flying around. Buttheblastsgrewbiggerandthelumps of concrete from thebuilding started to rain downonus.Guys were diving

everywhere, into trucks,undertrucks,anywheretogetout of the way. One of ourguys jumped into the Tigris!We could hear these rocks

andlumpsofhardmudwallsraining down on us, hittingthetrucks.Itwasamazingnoone was killed or hurt outthere.Eventuallyitallwentquiet,

andIcrawledout,unscathed.The EOD maestro wasstanding right next to me.“Beautiful,” I said. “Thatwentreallywell,didn’t it?”Iwished Mike Murphy hadbeen there. He’d have comeupwithsomethingbetter.

We worked for almostthree months with SEALTeam 5 out in the Baghdadsuburbs. That was reallywhere we were blooded forbattle, combing those urbanstreets, flushing outinsurgentswherevertheyhid.We needed all our skill,moving up to the cornerblocks,openingfireouttherein the night as we roundedthese strange, dark, foreignstreetjunctions.

Thetroublewas,theplacesoften looked normal. But upcloseyourealized therewereholes straight through thebuildings. Some of them justhad their front façade, theentire rear area having beenblown out byU.S. bombs asthetroopsfoughttorundownthe murderous SaddamHussein.Thus we often found

ourselvesinwhatlookedlikerespectable streets but which

were in fact piles of rubble,perfect hiding places forinsurgents or even SunniMuslimterroristsstillfightingfortheirerstwhileleader.On one such night I was

almost killed. I had movedout onto the sidewalk, myrifle raised, as I fired toprovide cover for myteammates. I remember itvividly.Iwasstandingastrideabomb,directlyoverit,andIneverevensawit.

One of the guys yelled,“Marcus! Move it!” and hecame straight towardme, hitmewith the full force of hisbody,andthepairofusrolledinto themiddle of the street.He was first up, literallydraggingme away.Momentslater, our EOD guys blew itup.Thankfullywewerebothnowoutofrange,sinceitwasonly a small improvisedexplosivemade insomeone’skitchen. Nevertheless, it

would have killed me, or attheveryleastinflictedseriousdamage on my weddingtackle.Itwasjustanotherexample

of how amazingly sharp youneed to be in order to wearthe SEAL Trident. Over andoverduringtraining,weweretold never to be complacent,reminded constantly of thesheer cunning andunpredictability of ourterrorist enemy, of the

necessityfortotalvigilanceatall times,of theendlessneedto watch out for ourteammates. Every nightbeforeourmission,oneofthesenior petty officers wouldsay, “C’mon now, guys. Getyour game faces on. This isfor real. Stay on your toes.Concentrate.Thatwayyou’lllive.”Ilearnedalotaboutmyself

out there with Team 5,moving through the dark,

zigzaggingacrosstheground,never doing anything thesameway twice.That’swhatthearmydoes,everythingthesame way. We operatedifferently, becausewe are amuch smaller force. Evenwith a major city operationwe never travel in groups ofmore than twenty, and therecon units consist of onlyfourmen.Itallcausesyoursensesto

go up tenfold, as you move

quietly,stealthily through theshadows, using the deadspace, the areas into whichyour enemy cannot see.Someone described us as theshadow warriors. He wasright. That’s what we are.And we always have a veryclear objective, usually justone guy, one person who isresponsible for making theproblem: the terrorist leaderorstrategist.And there’s a whole code

ofconducttorememberwhenyoufinallycatchupwithhim.First of all, make him drophisgunandgethisassontheground.He’ll usually do thatwithoutmuchprotest.Shouldhe decide against this, wehelp him get on the ground,quickly.Butwenever,never,turn around, even for a splitsecond.We never give theseguys one inch of latitude.Because he’ll pick that rifleup and shoot you at point-

blank range, straight in theback.Hemightevencutyourthroat ifhehadachance.Noone can hate quite like aterrorist. Until you’veencountered one of theseguys, you don’t understandthemeaningofthewordhate.We found half-trained

terrorists all over the world,mostlyunfittohandlealethalweapon of any kind,especially those Russian-madeKalashnikovs they use.

Firstofall, thedamnthingisinaccurate, and in the handsofanhysteric,whichmostofthem are, the guns spraybullets all over the place.When these guys go after anAmerican, they usually fireblindly around a corner,aiming at nothing inparticular, and endupkillingthree passing Iraqi civilians.Onlybypurechancedo theyhit theAmericansoldier theywanted.

OnMay1,2003,PresidentBush announced the militaryphase of the war was over.Four days later it wasrevealedSaddamandhis sonhadheisted$1billionincashfrom the Central Bank.Around that time, with thesearch for weapons of massdestruction still under way,we were detailed to thegigantic Lake Buhayrat athTharthar,wheresupposedlyalarge cache had been hidden

bySaddam.Thiswasamajorstretchof

water,nearly fiftymiles longand in some places thirtymiles wide, set on a flat,verdant plain between theEuphrates and the Tigris,south of Tikrit. There’s ahugedamatoneend,andwewere stationed just to thesouth at a place named Hit.Seemedfitting.Sowejockedup and combed the deep,clear waters of that lake for

about a week, every inch ofit.Wewere operating out ofZodiacs and found nothingexcept for a bicycle tire andanoldladder.As the weeks went by the

weather grew hotter,sometimeshitting115°F.Wekept going, working awaythrough the nights. Thereweretimeswhenitallseemedto grow calmer, and then onJuly 4, a taped voice, whichal-Jazeera televisionsaidwas

Saddam, urged everyone tojoin the resistance and fightthe U.S. occupation to thedeath.We thought that was kind

ofstupid,becauseweweren’ttrying to occupy anything.We were just trying to stopthese crazy pricks fromblowing up and wiping outthe civilian population of thecountrywehad just liberatedfrom one of the biggestbastardsinhistory.

Didn’t much matter whatwe thought. The very nextday a serious bombwent offat a graduation ceremony forthe new Iraqi police class,trained by the United States.Seven new cops were killedand seventy more werewounded. God aloneunderstood those to whomthatmadesense.We continued our

operations, looking for thekey insurgents, forcing or

bribingtheinformationoutofthem. But it already seemedtheirrecruitingnumberswerelimitless. No matter howmanywerantoground,therewere always more. It wasaround this time we firstheard of the rise of thissinister group who calledthemselves al Qaeda in Iraq.Itwasanundisguisedterroristoperation, dedicated tomayhem and murder,especiallyofus.

However, the wholemovement received a severeblowtoitsmoraleonJuly22,when Saddam’s sons, UdayandQusay,whowereatleastas evil as their dad, werefinally nailed at a house inMosul. I’m not allowed tospeakofthishighlyclassifiedoperation,savetomentionthepairofthemwerekilledwhenU.S. Special Forces flattenedthe entire building. Theirdeaths were entirely due to

the fact thatacoupleof theirdevoted, loyal comrades, fullof pride in their fight forfreedom, betrayed them. Formoney. Just as they wouldlater betray Abu Musab al-Zarqawi.Despite all our efforts, the

suicide bombers justcontinued, young Iraqisconvincedbytheteachingsofthe extremist ayatollahs thatthemurderof theirperceivedenemies would open the

gateway toparadise for them— that the three trumpetswould sound and theywouldcrossthebridgeintothearmsof Allah and everlastinghappiness.So they just went right

back at it. A bomb killed aU.S. soldier on August 26,which meant there had nowbeen more U.S. lives lostsince the conflict ended thanduring the battle. OnAugust29, a massive car bomb

exploded outside a Shiitemosque in Najaf and killedeighty people, including therevered and greatly lovedShiite leader AyatollahMohammadBaqiral-Hakin.In our opinion, this was

rapidlygettingoutofhand.Itseemed no matter what wedid, no matter how many ofthese nuts we rounded up,howmuch explosive, bombs,orweaponswe located, therewas always more. And

alwaysmoreyoungmenquitehappytotakethatshortcut tothe trumpets, get right overthat bridge and plug intosomequalityhappiness.By now, late August, the

question of the missingWMDs was growing moreurgent.HansBlix,theUnitedNations’ chief weaponsinspector, had retired frompublic life, and the U.S.Armed Forces were nowkeeping a careful watch. In

our view, the question ofwhetherSaddamHusseinhadbiological and chemicalweapons was answered. Ofcourse he did.He used theminHalabja,right?Iguessbynowtheissuein

the minds of the Americanpublic was, Did he have anuclear weapon, an atombomb?But,ofcourse, that isnot the most significantquestion.Theonethatcountsis, Did he have a nuclear

program?Because that would mean

he was trying to produceweapons-grade uranium-235.You get that from using acentrifuge to spin uranium-238, thus driving the heavyneutrons outward, like wateroff the lettuce in a saladspinner. It’s a hell of aprocessandtakesuptosevenyears, at which time, ifyou’vehadatrouble-freerun,youcutoff theoutsideedges

of theuraniumand thereyouhave a large hunk of heavy-molecule uranium-235. Cutthatinhalfandthenslamthetwo pieces together by highexplosive in a confined steelspace, like a rocket or abomb, and right there it’sHiroshimaalloveragain.And that’s the issue: Was

Saddam spinning foruranium-235,andifso,wheredidheget theuraniumin thefirstplace?Andwherewashe

conducting his program?Remember, there is no otherreason on this earth to wanturanium-235 except to makeanatombomb.We knew the American

intelligenceagenciesbelievedhe had such a program, thatsomewhere in this vastcountry — it’s bigger thanGermany, nearly as big asTexas — there werecentrifuges trying tomanufacturetheworld’smost

dangeroussubstance.That was all the

information we had. But weknew what to look for, andwewouldmostcertainlyhaverecognizeditifwehadfoundit. Did Saddam actually ownthecompletedarticle,afinelytuned atomic bomb ormissile?Probablynot.Nooneever thought he did. But asformer defense secretaryDonald Rumsfeld onceremarked,“Whatdoyouwant

todo?Leavehimtheretillhedoes?”You may remember the

CIA believed they haduncovered critical evidencefrom the satellite pictures ofthose enormous governmenttrucks rolling along Iraq’shighways: four of them,usuallyinconvoy,andallbigenough to house twocentrifuges. The acceptedopinionwasthatSaddamhada mobile spinning program

which could not easily befound, and in fact could beeither lost and buried in thedesert or alternatively drivenacrosstheborderintoSyriaorevenJordan.Well, we found those

trucks, hidden in the desert,parked together. But theinside of each one had beenroughly gutted. There wasnothing left. We saw thetrucks, and in my opinionsomeone had removed

whatever theyhadcontained,andinaverygreathurry.I also saw the al Qaeda

training camp north ofBaghdad. That had beenabandoned, but it was starkevidence of the strong linksbetweentheIraqidictatorandOsamabinLaden’swould-bewarriors. Traces of thecamp’smilitarypurposewereall around.Someof theguyswhohadbeeninAfghanistansaiditwasjustaboutadirect

replica of the camp theUnited States destroyed after9/11.There were many times

whenwe reallywerechasingshadows out there in thatburning hot, sandywilderness. Especially in ourcoastal searches. Out there,often in uncharted desertwasteland near the water,we’d see rocket launchers inthe distance and drive rightonto them, only to find they

were just decoys, huge fakemissile containerspointingatthe sky, made out of scrapmetalandoldironbars.Aftera two-daydriveover

roughcountryinunbelievableheat, that counted as a verygrave inconvenience. If ourteam had ultimately foundSaddam in his hidey-hole,we’dprobablyhaveshothimdead for a lot of reasons butespecially on the strength ofthose wasted desert runs.

(Justjoking.)I’ll say one thing. That

Iraqi president was one wilydevil, ducking and divingbetween his thirteen palaces,evadingcapture,making taperecordings, urging the dregsof his armed forces to keepkilling us, encouraging theinsurgentstocontinuethewaragainstthegreatSatan(that’sus).Itwastoughoutthere.But

inmanywaysI’mgratefulfor

the experience. I learnedprecisely how seditious andcunninganenemycouldbe.Ilearned never tounderestimate him. And Ilearnedtostayrightontopofmy game all of the time inorder to deal with it. Nocomplacency.Looking back, during our

long journey in theC-130 toAfghanistan, I was moreacutely aware of a growingproblem which faces U.S.

forces on active duty intheaters of war all over theworld. For me, it began inIraq, the first murmuringsfrom the liberal part of theU.S.A. that we weresomehowinthewrong,brutalkillers, bullying othercountries; that we who putour lives on the line for ournation at the behest of ourgovernment should somehowbe charged with murder forshootingourenemy.

It’s been an insidiousprogression, the criticisms ofthe U.S. Armed Forces frompoliticians and from theliberal media, which knowsnothingofcombat,nothingofour training, and nothing ofthe mortal dangers we faceout there on the front line.Each of the six of us in thataircraft en route toAfghanistanhadconstantlyinthe back of our minds theever-intrusive rules of

engagement.These are drawnup for us

to follow by some politiciansitting in some distantcommittee room inWashington,D.C.And that’sa very long way from thebattlefield, where a sniper’sbullet can blast your head,where the slightest mistakecancostyourlife,whereyouneed to kill your enemybeforehekillsyou.And those ROE are very

specific: we may not openfireuntilwearefireduponorhavepositively identifiedourenemy andhave proof of hisintentions. Now, that’s allverygallant.Buthowaboutagroup of U.S. soldiers whohave been on patrol forseveraldays;havebeen firedupon; have dodged rocket-propelled grenades andhomemade bombs; havesustainedcasualties;andwhoareverynearlyexhaustedand

maybeslightlyscared?How about when a bunch

of guys wearing coloredtowelsaroundtheirheadsandbrandishing AK-47s comecharging over the horizonstraight toward you? Do youwait for them to start killingyourteam,ordoyoumowthebastardsdownbeforetheygetachancetodoso?That situation might look

simple inWashington,wherethehuman rightsof terrorists

are often given high priority.And I am certain liberalpoliticianswoulddefendtheirpositiontothedeath.Becauseeveryoneknowsliberalshavenever been wrong aboutanything. You can ask them.Anytime.However, from the

standpointoftheU.S.combatsoldier,Ranger,SEAL,GreenBeret, or whatever, thoseROErepresentaveryseriousconundrum. We understand

we must obey them becausethey happen to come underthelawsofthecountrywearesworn to serve. But theyrepresentadangertous;theyundermineour confidenceonthe battlefield in the fightagainst world terror. Worseyet, theymakeusconcerned,disheartened, and sometimeshesitant.I can say from firsthand

experiencethat thoserulesofengagement cost the lives of

threeof the finestU.S.NavySEALswhohaveeverserved.I’mnotsayingthat,giventheserious situation, those eliteAmericanwarriorsmight nothave died a little later, butthey would not have diedright then, and in my viewwould almost certainly havebeenalivetoday.I am hopeful that one day

soon, the U.S. governmentwill learn that we can betrusted. We know about bad

guys, what they do, and,often, who they are. Thepoliticians have chosen tosendusintobattle,andthat’sour trade. We do what’snecessary. And in my view,once those politicians haveelected to send us out to dowhat 99.9 percent of thecountrywould be terrified toundertake,theyshouldgetthehell out of the way and staythere.This entire business of

modern war crimes, asidentifiedbytheliberalwingsof politics and the media,began in Iraq and has beenrunning downhill ever since.Everyone’s got to have hislittlehandsinit,blatheringonabout the public’s right toknow.Well, in the view of most

NavySEALs,thepublicdoesnot have that right to know,not if it means placing ourlives in unnecessary peril

because someone inWashington is drivinghimself mad worrying aboutthe human rights of somecold-hearted terrorist fanaticwhowouldkillusassoonaslook at us, as well as anyother American at whom hecould point that wonky oldAKofhis.If the public insists it has

the right to know, which Iverymuchdoubt,perhapsthepeopleshouldgoandfacefor

themselves armed terroristshell-bent on killing everysingleAmericantheycan.I promise you, every

insurgent, freedom fighter,andstraygunmaninIraqwhowe arrested knew the ropes,knewthatthewayoutwastoannounce he had beentorturedbytheAmericans,illtreated, or prevented fromreading the Koran or eatinghis breakfast orwatching thetelevision. They all knew al-

Jazeera, the Arabbroadcasters, would pick itup,anditwouldberelayedtothe U.S.A., where the liberalmedia would joyfully accuseall of us of being murderersor barbarians or something.Those terrorist organizationslaugh at theU.S.media, andtheyknowexactlyhowtousethesystemagainstus.I realize I am not being

specific, and I have nointention of being so. But

these broad brushstrokes aredesigned to show that therules of engagement are aclear and present danger,frightening young soldiers,who have been placed inharm’s way by theirgovernment, into believingthey may be charged withmurder if they defendthemselvestoovigorously.Iamnotapoliticalperson,

and as a Navy SEAL I amsworn to defend my country

and carry out the wishes ofmy commander in chief, thepresidentoftheUnitedStates,whoever he may be,Republican or Democrat. Iam a patriot; I fight for theU.S.A.andformyhomestateof Texas. I simply do notwant to see someof the bestyoung men in the countryhesitating to join the elitebranches of the U.S. ArmedServices because they’reafraid theymight be accused

of war crimes by their ownside, just for attacking theenemy.And I know one thing for

certain. If I ever rounded amountainside in Afghanistanand came face to face withOsama bin Laden, the manwho masterminded thevicious,unprovokedattackonmy country, killing 2,752innocent American civiliansin New York on 9/11, I’dshoot him dead, in cold

blood.At which point, urged on

by an outraged Americanmedia, the military wouldprobably incarcerate meunder the jail, nevermind init. And then I’d be chargedwithmurder.Tell you what. I’d still

shootthesonofabitch.

2

BabySeals...andBigOleGators

Iwrestledwithoneonceandwasprettygladwhenthatsuckerdecidedhe’dhad

enoughandtookoffforcalmerwaters.Buttothisdaymybrotherlovestowrestlealligators,justforfun.

We flew on, high over thesouthern reaches of the Gulfof Oman. We headed east-northeast for four hundredmiles, forty-five thousandfeet above the Arabian Sea.Wecrossedthesixty-firstlineof longitude in the small

hours of the morning. Thatput us due south of theIranian border seaport ofGavater, where the Pakistanfrontier runs down to theocean.ChiefHealysnoredquietly.

Axe did a New York Timescrossword. And the miraclewas that Shane’s headsetdidn’texplode,asloudashisrock-and-roll music wasplaying.“Doyoureallyneedtoplay

that shit at that volume,kiddo?”“It’s cool, man...dude,

chill.”“JesusChrist.”The C-130 roared on,

heading slightly morenortherlynow,up toward thecoast of Baluchistan, whichstretches470milesalong thenorthern shoreline of theArabian Sea and commands,strategically, the inward andoutward oil lanes to the

PersianGulf.Despitealotofvery angry tribal chiefs,Baluchistan is part ofPakistan and has been sincethe partition with India in1947. But that doesn’t makethe chiefs any happier withthearrangement.And it’s probably worth

remembering that no nation,not theTurks, theTatars, thePersians, the Arabs, theHindus, or theBrits has evercompletely conquered

Baluchistan.Those tribesmeneven held offGenghisKhan,and his guys were the NavySEALs of the thirteenthcentury.They never tell us, or

anyoneelse,thepreciserouteof U.S. Special Forces intoanycountry.Butthere’sabigAmerican base in theBaluchistan coastal town ofPasni. I guess we made ourlandfall somewhere alongthere, long before first light,

and then flew on over fourmountain ranges for 250miles up to another U.S.militarybasenear the cityofDalbandin.We never stopped, but

Dalbandin lies only fiftymiles south of the Afghanborder, and the airspace issafe around there. At least,it’sassafeasanythingcanbein this strange, wild country,whichiskindofjammedintoa triangle among Iran,

Pakistan,andAfghanistan.Baluchistan, its endless

mountainsasafehavenforsomany fleeing al Qaedarecruits and exiled Talibanfighters, currently providesshelterforuptosixthousandof these potential terrorists.And even though ChiefHealy,me,andtheguyswerenine miles above this vast,underpopulated,andsecretiveland, it still gave me thecreeps, and I was pleased

when the aircrew finally toldus we were in Afghanistanairspace, running north foranother four hundred miles,uptowardKabul.I fell asleep somewhere

overtheRegestanDesert,eastof one of Afghanistan’sgreatest waterways, the 750-mile-long Hel-mand River,which flows and irrigatesmost of the southernfarmlands.I cannot remember my

dreams, but I expect theywere of home. They usuallyare when I’m servingoverseas. Home for us is asmall ranch out in the pineywoods of East Texas, nearSam Houston NationalForest.We livedowna long,red dirt road in a lonely partof the country, close byanother twoor three ranches,one of which, our adjoiningneighbor, is about fourthousand times bigger than

oursandsometimesmakesusseemawhole lotbigger thanweare.Ihaveasimilareffectonmy identical twinbrother,Morgan.He’s about seven minutes

older than I am, and aroundthe same size (six feet fiveinches, 230 pounds).Somehow I’ve always beenregarded as the baby of thefamily.Youwouldn’tbelieveseven minutes could do thattoaguy,wouldyou?Well,it

did, and Morgan isunflagging in his status asseniorman.He’saNavySEALaswell,

a little behind me in rank,because I joined first.Buthestill assumes a loosecommand whenever we’retogether. And that’s prettyoften,sinceweshareahouseinCoronado,California,hardbytheSEALteams.Anyway, there’s two or

three houses on our Texas

property, themain one beinga single-story stone ranchsurroundedbyalargecountrygarden, which contains onelittle plantation for corn andanothercoupleforvegetables.All around us, just about asfar as you can see in anydirection, there’s pasture,studded with huge oak treesand grazing animals. It’s apeaceful place for a God-fearingfamily.Right from kids, Morgan

and I were brought up tobelieve in the Lord. Weweren’t compelled to go tochurch or anything, and tothis day the family are notchurchgoers. In fact, I’m theonly one who does go tochurchonasomewhatregularbasis. On Sunday morningswhen I’mhome, I driveovertotheCatholicchurch,wherepeople know me. I was notbaptized a Catholic, but itsuits me, its beliefs and

doctrines sit easily with me.Since I was young, I havealwaysbeenabletorecitetheTwenty-third Psalm andseveralothersfrombeginningtoend.Also, I thought the late

Pope John Paul was theholiest man in the world, anuncompromising Vicar ofChrist, a man whoseguidelines were unshakable.Tougholdguy, JohnPaul.AlottootoughfortheRussians.

I’ve always thought if hehadn’tbeenavicar,he’dhavemadeagoodNavySEAL.Down home, in our quiet

backwoodsarea, it looks likean untroubled life. There areafewminorirritants,mostofthosebeingsnakes.However,Dad taught us how to dealwith them long ago,especially the coral snakesand those copperhead vipers.There’s also rattlesnakes,eastern diamondbacks, and

king snakes, which eat theothers. In the local lake youcanfind theoccasionalwatermoccasin,andheisonemeanlittlesonofabitch.He’llchaseyou, andwhile I don’tmuchlike ’em, I’m not scared ofthem.Morgangoesafterthemasasport,likestohustle’emup,keep’emalert.A mile or so up the road

from us, there’s a mightyherd of Texas longhorns.Beyond the house there’s a

half dozen paddocks for mymom’s horses, some of thembelonging to her, othersboardersfromotherpeople.People send horses to her

for her near-mystical powertobringsickorweakanimalsbacktofullfightingform.Noone knows how she does it.She’s plainly a horsewhisperer. But she has somespecialwaysoffeedingthem,including, for a certain typeofailingracehorse,somekind

of a seaweed concoction sheswearstoGodcanturnacowpony into Secretariat. Sorry,Mom.Didn’tmean that. Justjoking.Seriously,HollyLuttrell is

a brilliant horsewoman. Andshe does turn horses thatseem very poorly intogleaming, healthy runnersagain. I guess that’s whythosehorseskeeponcoming.Shecanonlycopewithaboutten at a time, and she’s out

thereinthebarnatfiveeverymorning looking after them.Ifyou take the time,youcansee the effect she has onthem,theveryobviousresultsofherveryobviousskills.My mom’s a seventh-

generation Texan, althoughshe did once immigrate toNewYorkCity.Aroundhere,that’s like moving toShanghai, but Mom hasalways been a ratherglamorous blonde and she

wantedtomakeacareerasanair stewardess. Didn’t lastlong,though.ShewasbackinthebigcountryofEastTexasreal quick, raising horses.Likeallofus,shefeelsTexasis a part of her spirit. It’s inmine,inDad’s,anditsureashell is the very essence ofMorgan.None of us would live

anywhereelse.We’rerightathomedownhere,withpeoplewe have known and trusted

for many years. There’s noonelikeTexansforaspiritofexpansiveness, optimism,friendship, and decency. Irealize that might not beacceptable to everyone, butthat’s how it seems to us.We’reoutofplaceanywhereelse. It’s no good pretendingotherwise.That might mean we just

get real homesick quickerthan other people. But I willcomeback to liveherewhen

I’m finished in the military.And I intend, sometime, todie here. Hardly a day goesby, wherever I am in theworld,when I don’t think ofour little ranch andmy hugecircle of family and friends,ofhavingabeeron the frontporch and telling tall storiesfull of facts, some of ’emtrue,allof’emfunny.SowhileI’monthesubject

I’ll explain how a farm boyfrom the backwoods of East

Texas came to be made apetty officer first class and ateamleader in theU.S.NavySEALs.The short explanation is

probably talent, but I don’thave any more of that thanthe next guy. In fact, mynatural-born assets are veryaverage. I’m pretty big,which was an accident ofbirth. I’m pretty strong,because a lot ofotherpeopletook a lot of trouble training

me, and I’m unbelievablydetermined, because whenyou’re as naturally ungiftedas I am, you have to keepdrivingforward,right?I’ll outwork anyone. I’ll

just go on and on until thedust clears.Then I’musuallytheonlyoneleftstanding.Asan athlete, I’m not very fast,butI’mkindofsharp.Iknowwhere to be, I’m good atanticipating things, and Iguess that’s why I was a

halfwaydecentsportsman.Give me a golf ball and I

can hit that sucker a countrymile.That’sbecausegolfisagame that requires practice,practice, and more practice.That’s my brand ofdoggedness. I can do that. Iplaytoareasonablehandicap,althoughIwasn’tbornaBenHogan or anything. But BencamefromTexaslikeme.Wewere born about ninety-fourmiles apart, and in my

country that’s the equivalentof a sand wedge. Ben, ofcourse,wasknowntopracticemore than any other golferwho had ever lived.Must besomethinginthewater.Iwas born inHouston but

raised up near theOklahomaborder. My parents, Davidand Holly Luttrell, owned afair-sized horse farm, about1,200 acres at one time. Wehad125headupthere,mostlyThoroughbreds and quarter

horses. My mom ran thebreeding programs, and Dadtookchargeoftheracingandsalesoperation.MorganandIwerebrought

up with horses, feeding,watering, cleaning out thebarns, riding. Most everyweekendwe’dgointhehorsevantotheraces.Wewerejustkidsatthetime,andbothourparentswereexcellent riders,especially Mom. That’s howwe learned. We worked the

ranch, mended fences,swinging sledgehammerswhen we were about nineyears old. We loaded thebales into the loft, workedlikeadultsfromayoungage.Dadinsistedonthat.Andfora lot of years, the operationdidverywell.At the time, Texas itself

was in a boom-time hogheaven. Out in West Texas,where the oil drillers andeveryone surrounding them

were becomingmultimillionaires,thepriceofoil went up 800 percentbetween 1973 and 1981. Iwasbornin1975,beforethatwave even started to crest,andIhave tosay theLuttrellfamilywasridinghigh.Itwas nothing formy dad

tobreedagood-lookinghorsefrom a $5,000 stallion andsell the yearling for $40,000.Hediditallthetime.Andmymom was a pure genius at

improving a horse, buying itcheapanddevotingmonthsoftender loving care andbrilliant feeding toproduceayoung runner worth eighttimeswhatshepaid.And breeding horses was

precisely the right line to bein.Horseswererightuptherewith Rolex watches, Rolls-Royces, Learjets, Gulfstream1s,palacesratherthanregularhouses,andboats,damngreatboats. Office space was at a

premium all over the state,and massive new high-riseblocks were underconstruction. Retail spendingwas at an all-time high.Racehorses, beautiful. Giveme six. Six fast ones, Mr.Luttrell. That way I’ll winsomeraces.Thatoilmoneyjustwashed

right off, and people weremaking fortunes in anythingthat smacked of luxury,anything to feed the egos of

the oil guys, who werespending and borrowingmoney at a rate never seenbeforeorsince.It wasn’t anything for

banks tomake loansofmorethan $100 million to oilexplorers and producers. Atonetimetherewere4,500oilrigs running in the U.S.A.,most of them in Texas.Credit?Thatwaseasy.Bankswould lend you a millionbuckswithoutbattinganeye.

Listen, Iwasonlyakidatthetime,butmyfamilyandIlived through the trauma tocome, and, boy, I’ve donesomeseriousreadingaboutitsince.Andinaway,I’mgladI lived through it, because ittaught me to be careful, toearnmymoneyandinvest it,getitsomewheresecure.And it taught me to think

very carefully about theelement of luck, when it’srunning, and how to keep

yourlifeundercontrol.Ihavelong since worked out thatwhen the crash came inTexas, its effects weremagnified a thousandfold,because the guys in the oilindustry sincerely believedmoneyhadnothingtodowithluck. They thought theirprosperity came from theirownsheerbrilliance.No one gave much

considerationtotheworldoilmarketbeingcontrolledinthe

Middle East by Muslims.EverythingthathappenedhaditsrootsinArabia,assistedbyPresident Carter’s energypolicyand thefact thatwhenIwasfiveyearsoldthepriceperbarrelofcrudewas$40.The crash, when it came,

was caused by the oilembargo and the Iranianrevolution, when theayatollah took over from theshah. The key to it wasgeopolitical.AndTexascould

only stand and watchhelplessly as the oil glutmanifesteditselfandthepriceper barrel began to slidedownwardtoanultimatelowofaround$9.That was in 1986, when I

was not quite ten. In themeantime, the giant FirstNational Bank of Midland,Texas, collapsed, judgedinsolvent by governmentfinancialinspectors.Thatwasonehugebanktogobelly-up,

and the ripple effect wasstatewide.An era of recklessspending and investing wasover. Guys building palaceswere forced to sell at a loss.You couldn’t give away aluxuryboat,andRolls-Roycedealers darned nearwent outofbusiness.Alongwiththecommercial

giants felled by the oil crashwentthehorsefarmofDavidand Holly Luttrell. Hard-running colts and mares,

which Dad had valued at$35,000 to $40,000, weresuddenly worth $5,000, lessthan they cost to raise. Myfamily lost everything,includingourhouse.But my dad’s a resilient

man, tough and determined.And he fought back, with asmaller ranch and the tried-and-trusted techniques ofhorse raising he and Momhad always practiced. But itall went wrong again. The

family wound up living withmy grandfather, Morgansleepingonthefloor.My dad, who had always

kept one foot in thepetrochemical business eversince he came back fromVietnam,wentback towork,and in a very short time hewasonhisfeet,withacoupleofhugedeals.WemovedoutofGrandfather’s place into agrand four-story house, andthe good times seemed to be

back.Thensomegiantdealwent

southandwesomehowlostitallagain,movedbackouttoakind of rural skid row. Yousee, my dad, though bornovertheborderinOklahoma,isaTexaninhissoul.Hewasas brave as a lion when hewas a navy gunner inVietnam. And in Texas, realmendon’tsitontheirmoney.Theygetbackout there, takerisks, and when they hit it

big, they just want to hit itbigger.Mydad’sarealman.You could tell a lot about

him just by the names hegavetheranches,bigorsmall— Lone Star Farms, NorthFork Ranch, Shootin’ Star.Like he always said, “I’drathershootforastarandhita stump than shoot for astumpandmiss.”Icannotdescribehowpoor

we were during the timeMorgan and I were trying to

get through college. I hadfour jobs to pay tuition andboard and make my truckpayment. I was the lifeguardin the college pool and Iworked with Morgan onconstruction, landscaping,cuttinggrass, andyardwork.In the evening I was abouncer in a rough local barfullofredneckcowboys.AndI was still starving, trying tofeed myself on about twentydollarsaweek.

Onetime,Iguesswewerearound twenty-one, Morgansnapped his leg playingbaseball, sliding into second.When they got him to thehospital Morgan just toldthem we didn’t have anymoney. Eventually thesurgeonagreedtooperateandset the leg on some kind oflong-term credit. But theanaesthetist would notadminister anything toMorganwithoutpayment.

No one’s tougher thanmybrother. And he eventuallysaid, “Fine. I don’t needanaesthetic. Set the legwithout it. I can take thepain.” The surgeon wasaghast and told Morgan hecouldnot possiblyhave suchan operation withoutanaesthesia. But Morganstuck to his guns. “Doc, Idon’t have any money. Fixmy leg and I’ll handle thepain.”

No one was crazy aboutthat, especially the surgeon.But then Jason Miller, acollege buddy of Morgan’s,turnedup,sawthathewasinabsoluteagony,andgavehimevery last dollar of hissavings to pay theanaesthetist. At which pointthey put Morgan backtogether.But I’m getting ahead of

myself. When we wereyoung, working the horses,

mydadwasvery,verytoughon us. He considered thatgoodgradeswereeverything,bad ones were simplyunacceptable. I once got a Cin conduct, and he beat mewithasaddlegirth.Iknowhewas doing it for our owngood, trying to instilldiscipline in his sons, whichwould serve them well inlaterlife.Butheruledourliveswith

anironfist.Hewouldtellus:

“One day I’m not gonna behere.Then it’s gonna be youtwo, by yourselves, and Iwant you to understand howrough and unfair this worldis. I want you both preparedfor whatever the hell mightcomeyourway.”He tolerated nothing.

Disobedience was out of thequestion.Rudenesswasdamnnearahangingoffense.Therewas no leeway. He insistedon politeness and hardwork.

And he didn’t let up evenwhenwewereallbroke.Dadwas the son of an Arkansaswoodsman, anotheramazingly tough character,andhebroughtthatstand-on-your-own-feet ruggednessinto our lives at the earliestopportunity.Wewerealwaysout in the

woods, in rough country intheEastTexas pines, the redoaks, and the sweet gumtrees.Dad taught us to shoot

straight at the age of seven,boughtusa.22rifle,aNylon66. We could hit a movingMiller High Life beer canfrom 150 yards. Now that’sredneckstuff,right?Redneckkids in redneck country,learninglife’sskills.He taught us how to

survive out there. What youcould eat and what youcouldn’t. He showed us howto build a shelter, taught ushow to fish. He even taught

ushowtoropeandkillawildboar: drop a couple of longloops around his neck andpull, then hope to hell hedoesn’t charge straight atyou! I still know how tobutcherandroastone.At home, on any of the

ranches,Dadshowedushowto plant and grow corn andpotatoes, vegetables andcarrots. A lot of times whenwe were really poor we justabout lived on that. Looking

back, it was importanttraining for a couple of farmboys.But perhaps most

importantofall,he taughtustoswim.Dadhimselfwasanall-American swimmer andthis really mattered to him.He was superb in the waterandhemademethatgood.Inalmosteverything,Morgan isnaturally better than I am.He’sverygiftedasarunner,afighter, a marksman, a

navigator on land or water.He always sails through hisexams,whereasIhavetoslogit out, studying, practicing,trying to be firstman in andlast man out. Morgan doesnothavetostrive.Hewashonormanafterhis

SEALBUD/Sclass,votedforbyhispeers.Iknewhewouldbe before he even started.There’sonlyonedisciplineatwhich he can’t beat me. I’mfasterinthewater,andIhave

the edge underwater. Heknowsit,thoughhemightnotadmitit.Therewasahugelakenear

where we lived, and that’swhere Dad trained us. Allthrough the long Texassummers we were out there,swimming, racing, diving,practicing.Wewere just likefish,thewayDadwantedit.He spent months teaching

us to dive, deep, first on ourown,thenwithourscubagear

on. We were good, andpeople would pay us to tryand retrieve keys andvaluables thrown into deepwater. Of course, Dadconsidered this might be tooeasy, and he stipulated weonlygotpaidifwefoundthecorrectobject.During this time we had

the occasional brush withpassing alligators, but one ofmygreatTexas friends,TrayBaker,showedushowtodeal

with them. I wrestled withoneonceandwasprettygladwhen that sucker decidedhe’dhadenoughandtookoffforcalmerwaters.Buttothisday my brother loves towrestlealligators,justforfun.He is, of course, crazy. Butwe sometimes take an oldflat-bottomed boat fishing inthelake,andoneofthosebigole gators will come slidingupalongsidetheboat.Morgan makes a quick

assessment—Nostrils abouteightornine inches fromhiseyes,sohe’seightorninefeetlong. Morgan executes aramrod-straight low-angleddiverightontopofthegator,clamping its jaws shut withhisfists, thenhetwistsitandturns it, gets on its back, allthewhile holding those hugejaws tight shut and laughingat the panic-stricken beast ofthedeep.After a few minutes they

both get fed up with it, andMorgan lets it go. I alwaysthink this is the mostdangerous part. But I neversaw a gator who felt likehavinganothergoatMorgan.Theyalways just turnaroundandswimawayfromthearea.He only misjudged it once,and his hand bears a line ofalligator-teethscars.You know, I think Dad

alwayswantedustobeNavySEALs. He was forever

telling us about those elitewarriors, the stuff they didand what they stood for. Inhisopiniontheywereall thatis best in theAmericanmale— courage, patriotism,strength, determination,refusal to accept defeat,brains, expertise in all thatthey did. All through ouryoung lives he told us aboutthose guys. And over theyears, it sunk in, I suppose.MorganandIbothmadeit.

Iwasabout twelvewhen Irealized beyond doubt that Iwasgoing tobecomeaNavySEAL.AndIknewalotmoreaboutitthanmostkidsofmyage.Iunderstoodthebrutalityof the training, the level offitnessrequired,andtheneedforsuperskillsinthewater.Ithought I would be able tohandle that. Dad had told usof the importance ofmarksmanship, and I knew Icoulddothat.

SEALsneedtobeathomein rough country, able tosurvive, live in the jungle ifnecessary. We were alreadygood at that. By the age oftwelve, Morgan and I werelikeacoupleofwildanimals,athomeinthegreatoutdoors,at home with a fishing poleand gun, easily able to liveofftheland.But deep down I knew

there was something morerequired to make it into the

world’s top combat teams.And that was a level offitnessandstrengththatcouldonlybeattainedbythosewhoactively sought it. Nothingjust happens. You alwayshavetostrive.In our part of East Texas,

there are a lot of past andpresent special forces guys,quiet, understated iron men,most of them unsung heroesexcept among their families.But they don’t serve in the

U.S. Armed Forces forpersonalrecognitionorglory.Theydoitbecausedeepin

theirgranitesouls theyfeelaslight shiver when they seeOld Glory fluttering abovethem on the parade square.The hairs on the backs oftheir necks stand up whenthese men hear the nationalanthem of the United States.Whenthepresidentwalksoutto the strains of a U.S.military band’s “Hail to the

Chief,” there’s a moment ofsolemnity foreachandeveryone of them — for ourpresident, our country, andwhat our country has meantto the world and the manypeople who never had achancewithoutAmerica.These men of the special

forceshavehadotheroptionsin their lives, other paths,easier paths they could havetaken. But they took thehardest path, that narrow

causeway that is not for thesunshine patriot. They tookthe one for the supremepatriot, the one that mayrequire them to lay downtheir lives for the UnitedStates of America. The onethat issuitableonlyfor thosewho want to serve theircountry so bad, nothing elsematters.That’s probably not

fashionable in our celebrity-obsessed modern world. But

specialforcesguysdon’tgivea damn about that either. Iguessyouhavetoknowthemtounderstandthem.Andeventhen it’s not easy, becausemost of them are shy, ratherthan taciturn,andgettinganyof them to say anything self-congratulatory is close toimpossible. They are ofcourse aware of a highercalling, because they aresworn to defend this countryand to fight its battles. And

when the drum sounds,they’re going to come outfighting.And when it does sound,

theheartsofathousandlovedonesmissabeat,andtheguysknow this aswell as anyone.But for them, duty andcommitmentarestrongerthananyone’s aching heart. Andthose highly trained warriorsautomatically pick up theirriflesandammunitionandgoforwardtoobeythewishesof

theircommanderinchief.General Douglas

MacArthur once warned thecadets of West Point that ifthey should become the firstto allow theLongGrayLineto fail, “a million ghosts inolive drab, brown khaki, inblue and gray, would risefrom their white crossesthundering those magicwords, Duty, Honor, andCountry.”Noneedforghostsin the U.S. Navy SEALs.

Those words are engraveduponourhearts.And many such men way

down there in East Texaswerewilling to give up theirtimeforabsolutelynorewardto showkidswhat it takes tobecomeaSEAL,aRanger,oraGreenBeret.Theoneweallknew about was a formerGreen Beret sergeant wholivedcloseby.HisnamewasBilly Shelton, and if he everseesthis,he’llprobablydieof

embarrassment, seeing hisname in print on the subjectofvalor.Billyhadaglitteringarmy

career in combat with theGreenBeretsinVietnamand,later, serving on agovernmentSWAT team.HewasoneofthetoughestmenIever met, and one afternoonjust before my fifteenthbirthday, I plucked up mycourageandwenttohishousetoaskifhecouldtrainmeto

become a Navy SEAL. Hewas eating his lunch at thetime, came to the door stillchewing. Hewas a bull of aman, rippling muscles, fairskin, not carrying one ounceof fat.Tomyeyeshe lookedlike he could have chokeslammedarhino.Imademyhesitantrequest.

Andhejustlookedmeupanddown and said, “Right here.Four, tomorrow afternoon.”Then he shut the door inmy

face.Iwasabityoungatthetime, but the phrase I wasgroping for wasNo bullshit,right?Now, everyone in the area

knew that Billy trained kidsfor the special forces. Andwhen he had a group of usrunningdown the street, carsdriving by would blow theirhornsandcheeruson.He always ignored that,

and he showed us nomercy.Our program included

running with heavy concreteblocks on our shoulders.WhenBilly thoughtwewerestrongenough,westeppedupthepace,runningwithrubbertires, which felt like they’djust come off the spaceshuttleorat least thatbigoletractoroutback.Billy did not hold an

exercise class; he operated afull pre-SEAL trainingprogram for teenagers. Overthe years he had us in the

gym pumping iron, haulingthe torture machine, theergometer, pounding theroads, driving our bodies,sweatingandstraining.Morgan and I were

terrified of him. I used tohave nightmares when wewereduetoreporttohimthenext morning, because hedrove us without mercy,never mind our extremeyouth.Wewere in a classofmaybe a dozen guys, all

midteens.“I’m gonna break you

down, mentally andphysically,” he yelled at us.“Break you down, hear me?Then I’m gonna build yourightbackup,asonefightingunit — so your mind andbody are one. Understandme? I’m gonna put youthrough more pain thanyou’veeverbeenin.”Right about then, half the

classranfortheirlivesrather

than face this bulldog, thisex–Texas Tech tailback whocould run like a Mack truckgoing downhill. He had thesupport of a local highschool,whichallowedhimtouse their gym free of chargeto train future special forcesfromourpartoftheworld.“I’mnotyourfriend,”he’d

shout. “Not right here in thisgym.I’mheretogetyouright— fit, trained, and ready forthe SEALs, or the Berets, or

the Rangers. I’m not gettingone dime from anyone to dothis. And that’s why you’regonnado it right, justsoyoudon’twastemytime.“Becauseifanyoneofyou

failstomakethegradeinthespecial forces, it will not bebecause you were too weak.Because thatwouldmeanI’dfailed, and I’m gonna makesure that cannot happen,because right here, failure’snot an option. I’m gonna get

you right. All of you.Understand?”He’d take us on twelve-

mile runs, hauling theconcreteblockstillwenearlycollapsed. Guys would haveblood on the backs of theirheads from the chafing. Andhenevertookhiseyesoffus,never tolerated idleness orlackofconcentration.Hejustmadeusgrinditout,takingittothelimit.Everytime.That’s what built my

strength, gave me my basis.That’s how I learned thefitness creed of the SEALs.Billywasextremelyproudofthat; proud to pass on hisknowledge.And he asked only for

undying devotion to thecause, the discipline of asamurai warrior, and lungslike a pair of bagpipes. Hewasabsolutelyrelentless,andhe really loved Morgan andme,twoofonlysixsurvivors

intheclass.Once, when I came back

froma tourofduty in Iraq, Iwenttoseehimafteracoupleof weeks’ easy living andMom’scooking,andhethrewmeoutofthegym!“You’re a goddamned fat,

pitiful excuse for a SEAL,and I can’t stand to look atyou!” he yelled. “Get out ofmy sight!” Holy shit! I wasout of there, ran down thestairs,anddidn’tdaregoback

until I’d dropped eightpounds. No one around hereargueswithBillyShelton.The other skill I needed

was still to come. No NavySEAL can operate without ahigh level of expertise inunarmed combat. Billy toldme I’d need to take martial-arts classes as soon aspossible. And so I found ateacher to work with. Allthroughmygradeschoolandcollege career, I studied and

learned that strange, rathermysticalAsianskill.Iworkedatitformanyyearsinsteadofbecoming involved in othersports. And I attained all ofmygoals.Morgan says the real truth

is I don’t know my ownstrength and should beavoidedatalltimes.By any standards, I had a

head start in becoming aNavy SEAL. I was madeaware of the task at a young

age, and I had two strongengines driving me forward:my dad and Billy Shelton.Everything I learned beyondthe schoolroom, down frommyearlyyears,seemstohavedirectedme to Coronado. Atleast, looking back now itseemsthatway.Everyoneunderstandswhy

there’s a huge rate ofdropouts among applicantsfor the SEALs. And when Ithinkofwhat Iwent through

intheyearsbeforeIgotthere,I can’t even imagine what itmustbelikeforguyswhotryout with no prior training.Morgan and I were groomedtobeSEALs,butitwasnevereasy. The work is brutallyhard, the fitness regimes areasharshanduncompromisingas any program in the freeworld. The examinations aresearching and difficult.Nothing but the highestpossible standard is

acceptable in the SEALteams.And perhaps above all,

your character is under amicroscope at all times;instructors, teachers, seniorchiefs, and officers arealways watching for thecharacter flaw, the weaknesswhich may one day lead tothe compromise of yourteammates. We can’t standthat.Wecanstanddamnnearanything,exceptthat.

Whensomeonetellsyouheis in the SEAL teams, itmeans he has passed everytest, been accepted by someof the hardest taskmasters inthemilitary.Anda shortnodofrespectisinorder,becauseit’sharder tobecomeaNavySEAL than it is to get intoHarvard Law School.Different,butharder.When someone tells you

he’s in a SEAL team, youknowyouareinthepresence

ofaveryspecialcat.Myself,I was just born lucky,somehow fluked my way inwithaworkethicbequeathedtomebymydad.TherestofthoseguysarethegodsoftheU.S. Armed Forces. And infaraway foreign fields, theyservetheirnationasrequired,on demand, and mostlywithout any recognitionwhatsoever.They would have it no

other way, because they

understand no other way.Accoladesjustwashoffthem,they shy away from thespotlight, but in the end theyhave one precious reward—whentheirdaysofcombatareover, they know preciselywho they are and what theystandfor.That’srare.Andnoonecanbuyit.

Back in the C-130, crossinginto the southern wastes of

theRegestanDesert,thegodsof the U.S. Armed Forceswith whom I traveled wereasleep, except for the beachgod Shane, who was stillrockin’.Somewhere out in the

darkness, to our starboardside,wasthePakistanicityofQuetta, which used to bequite important when theBrits ran theplace.Theyhadabigarmystaffcollegedownthere, and for three years in

themid-1930s,FieldMarshalViscount Montgomery, laterthe victor of the Battle ofAla-mein, taught there.Whichproves,Isuppose,thatI’m as much addicted tomilitary trivia as I am to thesmart-assremark.However,westayedonthe

left-hand,Afghanistansideofthe border, I think, andcontinued on above the highwestern slopes of the greatrange of the Hindu Kush

mountains. The mostsoutherly peak, the onenearest the desert, is 11,000feet high. After that it getspretty steep, and it was tothose mountains we wereheaded.Way below us was the

important city of Kandahar,which a few weeks later, onJune 1, 2005, was the sceneof one of the most terribleTaliban attacks of the year.Oneof their suicidebombers

killed twenty people inKandahar’sprincipalmosque.In that central-city disaster,they killed the security chiefofKabul,whowas attendingthefuneralofananti-Talibancleric who had been killedthreedaysearlierbyacoupleofguysonamotorbike.I think that Chief Healy

and myself, in particular,were well aware of thedangers in this strife-torncountry.Andwe realized the

importance of our comingmissions, to halt the ever-burgeoning influx of TalibanrecruitsstreaminginoverthehighpeaksoftheHinduKushand to capture their leadersforinterrogation.The seven-hour journey

fromBahrainseemedendless,andwewere still an hour ormore south of Kabul,crawlingnorthhighabovethetreacherous border that leadsdirectly to the old Khyber

Pass and then to the colossalpeaks and canyons of thenorthern Hindu Kush. Afterthat, the mountains swerveinto Tajikstan and China,later becoming the westernendoftheHimalayas.I was reading my

guidebook, processing anddigestingfactslikeanAgathaChristie detective. Chaman,Zhob,keyentrypointsfortheTaliban and for bin Laden’sal Qaeda as they fled the

American bombs and groundtroops. These tribesmendrovetheirwayoversixteen-thousand-foot mountains,seeking help from thedisgruntled Baluchistanchiefs, who were now boredsideways by Pakistan andAfghanistan, Great Britain,Iran, the U.S.A., Russia, andanyone else who tried to tellthemwhattodo.Our area of operations

wouldbewellnorthof there,

andIspent thefinalhoursofthe journey trying to gleansomedata.Butitwashardtocome by. Trouble is, there’snotmuchhappening in thosemountains, not many smalltowns and very few villages.Funny, really.Notmuchwashappening, and yet, inanother way, every damnthing in the world washappening: plots, plans,villainy, terrorism, countlessschemes to attack the West,

especiallytheUnitedStates.TherewerecellsofTaliban

warriorsjustwaitingfortheirchance to strike against thegovernment. There werebands of al Qaeda swarmingaround a leader hardlyanyone had seen for severalyears. The Taliban wantedpower in Afghanistan again;bin Laden’s mob wanteddeathanddestructionofU.S.citizens, uniformed or not.One way or another, they

were all a goddamnednightmare, and one that wasgrowingprogressivelyworse.Whichwaswhytheysentforus.In the weeks before our

arrival, there had beenwidespread incidents ofviolence, confirmingeveryone’s dread that thegenerally hated Taliban wasonce more on the rise and aserious threat to the newgovernment of Afghanistan.

Even with the support ofthirty thousand U.S. andNATO troops, PresidentHamid Karzai struggled tocontrol thecountryanywhereoutsideofKabul.A few weeks earlier, in

February, the Taliban flatlyannounced they wereincreasingtheirattacksonthegovernment as soon as theweather improved.And fromthenontheylaunchedaseriesof drive-by shootings and

bombings,usuallydirectedatlocal officials and pro-government clergy. In thesouth and over to the east,they started ambushingAmericansoldiers.It’s a strange word,

Taliban. Everyone’s heard it,like insurgent, Sunni,ayatollah, or Taiwan. Butwhat does Taliban reallystand for? I’ve suffered withthem, what you mightdescribe as close encounters

of the most god-awful type.And I’ve done a lot ofreading. The facts fit thereality. Those guys are evil,murderous religious fanatics,each one of them with anAK-47 and a bloodlust. Youcantrustmeonthatone.The Taliban have been in

prominencesince1994.Theiroriginal leader was a villageclergyman named MullahMohammad Omar, a toughguy who lost his right eye

fighting theoccupying forcesof the Soviet Union in the1980s. By the mid-’90s, theTaliban’s prime targets inAfghanistan — before Ishowed up — were thefeuding warlords who (a)formed the mujahideen and(b) threw the Soviets out ofthecountry.The Taliban made two

major promises which theywould carry out once inpower: to restore peace and

security, and to enforcesharia, or Islamic law.Afghans, weary of themujahideens’ excesses andinfighting, welcomed theTaliban,whichenjoyedmuchearly success, stamping outcorruption, curbinglawlessness, and making theroads safe for commerce toflourish. This applied to allareas that came under theircontrol.Theybegan theiroperation

in the southwestern city ofKandaharandmovedquicklyinto other parts of thecountry. They captured theprovince of Herat, whichborders Iran, in September1995. And one year later,their armies took theAfghancapital of Kabul,overthrowing the regime ofPresident BurhanuddinRabbani and his defenseminister, Ahmed ShahMassoud.By1998,theywere

in control of almost 90percentofthecountry.Once in power, however,

theTalibanshowedtheir truecolors.Theysetuponeofthemost authoritarianadministrations on earth, onethattoleratednooppositiontotheir hard-line policies.AncientIslamicpunishments,like public executions forconvicted murderers andamputations at the wrist forthosechargedwiththeft,were

immediately introduced. Icannot even think about thepenalty a rapist or anadulterermightanticipate.Television, music, sports,

and cinema were banned,judgedbytheTalibanleaderstobefrivolities.Girlsagetenand above were forbidden togotoschool;workingwomenwereorderedtostayathome.Men were required to growbeards, women had to wearthe burka. These religious

policies earned universalnotoriety as the Talibanstrived to restore the MiddleAges in a nation longing tojoin the twenty-first century.Their policies concerninghumanrightswereoutrageousand brought them into directconflictwiththeinternationalcommunity.But there was another

issue, which would bringabout their destruction. Andthatwas their role inplaying

hosttoOsamabinLadenandhis al Qaeda movement. InAugust 1998 Islamic fanaticsbombedtheU.S.embassiesinKenya and Tanzania, killingmore than 225 people.Washington immediatelypresented theTaliban leaderswith a difficult choice —either expel bin Laden, whowas held responsible for thebombings by the U.S.government, or face theconsequences.

The Taliban flatly refusedtohandovertheirSaudi-bornguest, who was providingthem with heavy funding.PresidentBillClintonordereda missile attack on the mainbin Laden training camp insouthern Afghanistan, whichfailed to kill its leader. Thenin 1999 the United Statespersuaded the U.N. SecurityCouncil to impose sanctionsonTaliban-ruledAfghanistan.Twoyearslater,evenharsher

sanctionswereputinplaceinanother attempt to force theTaliban to hand over binLaden.Nothing worked. Not

sanctions nor the denial ofAfghanistan’sU.N. seat. TheTaliban were still in power,and they were still hidingOsama bin Laden, but theirisolation, political anddiplomatic, was becomingtotal.But the Talibanwould not

budge. They took theirisolationasabadgeofhonoranddecided togowholehogwith an even morefundamentalist regime. Thepoor Afghan people realizedtoo late what they had done:handed over the entirecountrytoagroupofbeardedlunatics who were trying toinflictuponthemnothingbutstark humanmisery andwhocontrolled every move theymade under their brutal,

repressive, draconian rule.The Taliban were so busytrying toenslave thecitizens,they forgot about thenecessity for food, and therewas mass starvation. Onemillion Afghans fled thecountryasrefugees.All of thiswasunderstood

by the West. Almost. But ittookhorrificshock,deliveredin March 2001, to causegenuine inter-nationaloutrage. That was when the

Taliban blasted sky-high thetwo monumental sixth-century statues of theBamiyan Buddhas, one ofthem180 feethigh, theother120 feet, carved out of amountain in centralAfghanistan, 143 milesnorthwestofKabul.ThiswastantamounttoblowingupthePyramidsofGiza.The statues were hewn

directly fromsandstonecliffsright in Bamiyan, which is

situated on the ancient SilkRoad, the caravan routewhich linked the markets ofChina and central Asia withthose of Europe, the MiddleEast, and south Asia. It wasalso one of the reveredBuddhist religious sites,dating back to the secondcentury and once home tohundredsofmonksandmanymonasteries. The two statueswere the largest standingBuddhacarvingsonearth.

And their summarydestruction by the Talibanrulers of Afghanistan causedmuseum directors andcuratorsallover theworld tohave about four hemorrhagesapiece. The Talibaneffectively told thewhole lotof them to shove it. Whosestatues were they, anyway?Besides, they were planningto destroy all the statues inAfghanistan, on the groundstheywereun-Islamic.

The Bamiyan Buddhasweredestroyedinaccordancewith sharia law. Only Allahthe Almighty deserves to beworshipped, not anyone oranything else.Wraps that upthen, right? Praise Allah andpassthehighexplosive.The blasting of the

Buddhas firmed up worldopinionthatsomethinghadtobe done about Afghanistan’srulers. But it took anotherexplosion to provoke savage

action against them. Thattook place on September 11,the same year, and was thebeginning of the end for theTaliban and bin Laden’s alQaeda.Before thedusthadsettled

on lower Manhattan, theUnited States demanded theTaliban hand over binLadenfor masterminding the attackon U.S. soil. Again theTaliban refused, perhaps notrealizing that the new(ish)

U.S. president, George W.Bush, was a very differentcharacterfromBillClinton.Less thanonemonth later,

onOctober7,theAmericans,leading a small coalitionforce,unleashedanonslaughtagainst Afghanistan thatshook that area of the worldto its foundations. U.S.military intelligence locatedall of the alQaeda camps inthe mountains of thenortheast part of the country,

and the military let fly withone of the biggest aerialbombardments in modernwarfare.It began with fifty cruise

missiles launched from U.S.warships and Royal Navysubmarines. At the sametime, long after dark inAfghanistan, twenty-fivecarrier-based aircraft andfifteen land-based bomberstook off and destroyedTaliban air defenses,

communicationsinfrastructure, and theairports at Kabul, Jalalabad,Kandahar, and Herat. TheU.S. bombs blasted the bigradar installations andobliterated the control towerin Kandahar. This was thecity where Mullah Omarlived, and a navy bombermanaged todroponedead inthe middle of his backyard.That one-eyed ole bastardescaped,though.

The Taliban, its militaryheadquartersnowonfire,didownasomewhatinsignificantair-strike capacity, just a fewaircraft and helicopters, andtheU.S.AirForcewipedthatrightoutwithsmartbombsasamatterofroutine.Navy bombers taking off

from the carriers targeted theTaliban’s other militaryhardware, heavy vehicles,tanks,andfueldumps.Land-based B-1, B-2, and B-52

bomberswerealso in theair,theB-52sdroppingdozensoffive-hundred-pound gravitybombs on al Qaeda terroristtraining camps in easternAfghanistan, way up in theborder mountains where wewouldsoonbevisiting.One of the prime U.S.

objectives was the smallinventory of surface-to-airmissiles and shoulder-firedantiaircraft missiles, stolenfrom either the Russians or

the old mujahideen. Thesewere hard to locate, andvariouscacheswereremovedby the tribesmen and hiddenin the mountains. Hidden,sadly,foruseanotherday.One hour after that

nighttime bombardmentbegan, theNorthernAllianceopened firewith a battery ofrockets from an air basetwenty-five miles north ofKabul. They aimed themstraight at Taliban forces in

the city. There were fivethunderousexplosionsandallelectric power was knockedoutthroughoutthecapital.ButtheUnitedStatesnever

took its eye off the ball. Thetrue objective was the totaldestruction of al Qaeda andthe leader who hadengineered the infamousattackontheTwinTowers—“the Pearl Harbor of thetwenty-first century,” as thepresident described it. And

thatmeantamassivestrikeonthe sinister network of cavesand underground tunnels upin the mountains, where binLadenmadehisheadquarters.The cruise missiles had

softenedup thearea,but thatwas only the start. The realheavyweight punch from theworld’s only superpowerwouldcome in the formof agigantic bomb — the BLU-82B/C-130, known asCommandoVaultinVietnam

and now nicknamed DaisyCutter.Thisisahigh-altitude,fifteen-thousand-poundconventionalbombthatneedstobedeliveredfromthehugeMC-130aircraftbecause it isfar too heavy for the bombracks on any other attackaircraft.This thing is awesome. It

was originally designed tocreate instant clearings forhelicopter landings in thejungle. Its purpose in

Afghanistan was as anantipersonnel weapon up inthose caves. Its lethal radiusis colossal, probably ninehundred feet. Its flash andsound is obvious fromliterally miles away. TheBLU-82B is the largestconventionalbombeverbuiltand, of course, leaves nonuclear fallout. (For therecord, the Hiroshima atombomb was a thousand timesmorepowerful.)

On the upside, the DaisyCutter is extremely reliable,noproblemswithwindspeedor thermal gradient. Itsconventional explosivetechnique incorporates bothagent and oxidizer. It is notfuel-airexplosive,liketheoldFAE systems used formuch,much smaller bombs. It’snearly twelve feet long andmorethanfourfeetwide.The BLU-82B depends on

precise positioning of the

delivery aircraft, coordinatesgotten from fixed groundradar or onboard navigationequipment. The aircraftmustbe perfectly positioned priorto final countdown andrelease. The navigator needsto make dead-accurateballistic and windcomputations.Themassiveblasteffectof

thebombmeans it cannotbereleased below an altitude of6,000 feet. Its warhead,

containing 12,600 pounds oflow-cost GSX slurry(ammonium nitrate,aluminum powder, andpolystyrene), is detonated bya38-inchfuseextenderafewfeetabovegroundlevel,soitwon’tdigacrater.Theentireblast blows outward,producing overpressure of1,000poundspersquareinch.Hence the nickname DaisyCutter.The United States has

never specifiedhowmanyofthesethingsweredroppedonthe Tora Bora area of theWhite Mountains, where thealQaedacampswerelocated.But there were at least four,maybe seven. The first one,according to a publicannouncement by thePentagon,wasdroppedafterareported sighting of binLaden.We can only imaginethe crushing effect such ablast would have inside the

caves where the al Qaedahigh command and seniorleadership operated.Wouldn’thavebeentoogoodeven if youwere standing inthemiddleofafield—butacave! Jesus, that’s brutal.That thing wiped outhundreds of the enemy at atime.The United States really

didanumberon theTaliban,flattened their stronghold inKunduz in the north, shelled

them out of the ShomaliPlains north ofKabul, carpetbombed them anywhere theycould be located around theBagramairbase,where, fouryears later, we were headedintheC-130.In the fall of 2001, the

Taliban and al Qaeda weremostly fleeing the U.S.offensive or surrendering. Inthe subsequent years, theydrifted together on the otherside of the Pakistani border,

reformed, and began theircounteroffensive to retakeAfghanistan.Somehow these hickory-

tough tribesmen not onlysurvived the onslaught ofAmerican bombing andescaped from the advancingNorthern Alliance, but theyalsoevadedoneofthebiggestmanhunts in the history ofwarfare as an increasinglyfrustrated United Statesmoved heaven and earth to

capture bin Laden, MullahOmar, and the rest. I guesstheir propensity to run likehell from strong oppositionand their rapid exit into thePakistani mountains on theother side of the borderallowed them to limit theirhuman and materialresources.It also bought them time.

And while they undoubtedlylost many of their followersafterafront-rowviewofwhat

the American military couldand would do, they also hadmany months to beginrecruiting and training abrand-new generation ofsupporters. And now theywere back as an effectivefighting army, launchingguerrilla operations againstthe U.S.-led coalition forcesonly four years after they’dlost power, been driven intoexile, and had nearly beenannihilated.

As we prepared for ourfinal approach to the great,sprawling U.S. base atBagram, the Taliban wereonce again out there, killingaid workers and kidnappingforeign constructionworkers.Parts of eastern and southernAfghanistan have beenofficially designated unsafedue to increasingly daringTaliban attacks. There wasevidencetheywereextendingtheir area of influence,

working closely again withbinLaden’salQaeda,forgingnewallianceswithotherrebelgroups and anti-governmentwarlords. Same way they’dgrabbed power last time,right?Backin1996.Onlythistimetheyhadone

principal ambition beforeseizing power, and that wasto destabilize the U.S.-ledcoalition forces andeventually drive them out ofAfghanistanforever.

I ought to mention thePashtuns, the world’s oldestliving tribal group; there areabout forty-two million ofthem. Twenty-eight millionlive in Pakistan, and 12.5million of them live inAfghanistan;that’s42percentof the entire population.Thereareabout88,000livingin Britain and 44,000 in theU.S.A.In Afghanistan, they live

primarilyinthemountainsof

the northeast, and they alsohave heavily populated areasin the east and south. Theyare a proud people whoadheretoIslamandlivebyastrict code of honor andculture, observing rules andlawsknownasPashtunwalai,which has kept them straightfortwothousandyears.They are also the

quintessential supporters ofthe Taliban. Their warriorsform the backbone of the

Taliban forces, and theirfamilies grant those forcesshelter in high mountainvillages, protecting them andproviding refuge in placesthat would appear almostinaccessible to the Westerneye. That, by the way, doesnot include U.S. NavySEALs,whodohaveWesterneyes but who don’t doinaccessible. We can get inanywhere.It’s easy to see why the

Pashtuns and the Taliban getalong just fine.ThePashtunswerethetribewhorefusedtobuckle under to the army ofthe Soviet Union. They justkept fighting. In thenineteenth century, theyfoughttheBritishtothevergeof surrender and then drovethem back into Pakistan.Three hundred years beforethat,theywipedoutthearmyofAkbar theGreat, themostfearsome of India’s Mogul

rulers.Those Pashtuns are proud

of their stern militaryheritage, and it’s worthremembering that in all thecenturies of bitter, savagewarfare in Baluchistan,duringwhich time theywerenever subdued, half thepopulation was alwaysPashtun.The concept of tribal

heritage is very rigid. Itinvolves bloodlines, amazing

lineages that stretch backthrough the centuries,generation after generation.You can’t join a tribe in theway you can become anAmerican citizen. Tribesdon’thandoutgreencardsorpassports. You either are, oryouaren’t.Language, traditions,

customs, and culture play apart, but, I repeat, you can’tjoin the Pashtuns. And thatgives them all a steel rod of

dignityandself-esteem.Theirvillages may not bestraightforward militarystrongholds as the Talibandesire, but the Pashtuns arenoteasilyintimidated.The people are organized

strictlybyrelationships;malerelationships, that is. Thetribal lineage descends fromthe father’s side, the maleancestors. I understand theydon’t give a damn for Momand her ancestors.

Inheritances are strictly forthe boys, and land rights godirectlytosons.They have a proverb that

says a lot: I against mybrothers; my brothers and Iagainst my cousins; mybrothers, my cousins, and Iagainsttheworld.That’showthey do it. The tightmilitaryformation has, again andagain,allowedthemtoknockeight bells out of moresophisticatedinvaders.

The tribal code,Pashtunwalai, has heavydemands: hospitality,generosity, and the duty toavenge even the slightestinsult. Life among thePashtuns is demanding — itdepends on the respect ofyour peers, relatives, andallies. And that can bedangerous. Only the tribe’sprinciples of honor stand inthe way of anarchy. Atribesman will fight or even

killinordertoavoiddishonortohimselfandhisfamily.And killing throws the

whole system intoconfusion,because death must beavenged; killers and theirfamilies are under permanentthreat. Which puts a big airbrakeonviolence.Accordingto the learned CharlesLindhorn, a professor ofanthropology at BostonUniversity, homicide ratesamong the Pashtun tribes are

way lower than homiciderates in urban areas of theUnitedStates.Iamgratefultotheprofessorforhisteachingsonthissubject.The Taliban creed comes

right out of the Pashtunhandbook: women are thewombs of patrilineage, thefountainheads of tribal honorandcontinuity.Theirsecurityand chasteway of life is theonly guarantee of the purityof the lineage.Thisseclusion

of women is known aspurdah, and it is designed tokeep women concealed,maintaining the household,anditgivesthemahighsenseofhonor.Purdah represents the

status of belonging. Awoman’s husband can gofight the invaders while shecontrols the household,enjoyingtheloveandrespectof her sons, expecting oneday to rule asmatriarchover

herdaughters-in-lawandtheirchildren. That’s the basis ofthe Taliban view of women.And I guess itworks fineupin the Hindu Kush, but itmightnotgoovertoowellindowntownHouston.Anyway,there’sbeenalot

of terrible fighting on thePashtuns’ lands, mostly byoutsiders. But the olePashtunwalai has kept themintact. Their tradition ofgenerous hospitality, perhaps

their finest virtue, includesthe concept of lokhaywarkawal. It means “givingof a pot.” It impliesprotection for an individual,particularly in a situationwhere the tribe might beweaker than its enemies.When a tribe accepts lokhay,itundertakestosafeguardandprotect that individual fromanenemyatallcosts.I, perhaps above all other

Westernvisitors,havereason

tobeeternallygratefulforit.

We were on our finalapproach to the enormousU.S. base at Bagram.Everyone was awake now,seven hours after we leftBahrain. Itwas daylight, anddown belowwe could see atlast the mountains we hadheard so much about andamong which we would beoperational in the coming

weeks.Therewasstillsnowonthe

highpeaks,glitteringwhiteintherisingsun.Andbelowthesnow line, the escarpmentslooked very steep. We weretoo high to pick up villageson themiddle slopes, butweknew they were there, andthat’s where we wereprobablygoinginthenot toodistantfuture.The huge runway at

Bagram runs right down the

side of the complex, pasthundredsandhundredsofbeehuts, lines and linesof them.On the ground we could seeparked aircraft and a wholelot of Chinook helicopters.Wedidn’tworryaboutwhomwe’d have to share with.SEALs are always billetedtogether, separate fromanyone else, thus avoidingloose talk about highlyclassifiedmissions.Allofourmissions are, of course,

highly classified, and we donot talk loosely, but otherbranches of the services arenot so stringently trained asweare,andnoonetakesanychances.Herewewereatlast,inthe

Islamic Republic ofAfghanistan, a country thesize of Texas, landlocked onall sides, protected by thegranite walls of mountains,war torn for years and yearsandstillatit.Justlikealways,

warlordswere trying todriveout theusurpers.Us.Andweweren’t even usurping, justtrying to stopanotherbloodytribal upheaval and anotherregime change from theelectedtothedictators.Boy. It seemed like a hell

of a task. But we wereexcited. This was what wejoined for. In truth,wecouldhardlywaittogetdownthereand get on with it. And in asense, it was pretty simple.

We somehow had to get outintothoseinfamousmountainpasses and put a stop to thisclandestine infiltration offaceless tribal warriorsmaking their way across theborder, doggedly, silently,prepared to fight at the dropofaturban.We knew their track

record, and we knew theycould move around themountainsveryquickly.Theyhad dominated those slopes,

caves, and hideouts forcenturies, turning them intoimpregnable militarystrongholds against allcomers.Andtheyhadalreadyfaced

theSEALsinopencombatupthere,becausetheSEALshadbeen first in. Theywould beprepared, we knew that. Butlike all SEAL operationalteams, we believed we werebetter than everyone else, sothe goddamned Taliban had

betterwatchit.Danny,Shane,James,Axe,

Mikey, and I.We were hereon business, trained to theminute,armedtotheteeth,allset todrive thearmiesof theTaliban and al Qaeda rightback to where they camefrom, seize the leaders, andget rid of anyone toodangeroustolive.Andrestoreordertothemountains.Iwaseight thousandmiles

fromhome,butIcoulde-mail

my family and loved ones. Iwas a bit light on homecomforts, but I had in myrucksackaDVDplayerandaDVD of my favorite movie,The Count of Monte Cristo,from the novel byAlexandreDumas père. It’s always aninspiration to me, alwaysraisesmyspiritstowatchonebrave, innocentman’s lonelyfight against overpoweringforces of evil in anunforgivingworld.

That’s my kind of stuff.Backstothewall.Nevergivein. Courage, risks, daringbeyond compare. I neverthought my own problemswould very shortly mirror,albeit briefly, those ofEdmond Dantès and thehopelessness of his years inthe grim island fortress ofChateaud’If.And I never thought those

unforgettable words hecarved with flintstones, into

the granite walls of thecruelest of jails, would alsoprovide me with hope; aforlorn hope, but hopenonetheless. During the perilof my own darkest hours, Ithought of those words overand over, more times than Icare to admit:God will givemejustice.

3

ASchoolforWarriors

Itwaspitchdark,andhewaswearingsunglasses,wraparound,shinyblack...“Mostofyouaren’t

goingtobehereinacoupleofmonths,”saidInstructorReno...“Ifyouguysdon’tstartpullingtogetherasateam,noneofyouwillbehere.”

ThesixSEALsfromBahrainlanded in Bagram, innortheastAfghanistan,shortlyafter first light. I realize Ihave just spent two entirechapters essentially pointing

outwhat amomentous eventthatwas, our arrival toworkwiththeelitemountaintroopsof the U.S. Army. It hasoccurredtomethatyoumightbe wondering why wethought we were sogoddamned superior toeveryone else, why we feltentitled to our own privatebrandofarrogance.Notwishing to behaunted

byanyone’sdoubtsaboutmeandmyteammates,Ipropose

to explain right now, beforewegetmoving,preciselywhywe felt this way about theworld. It’s not some form ofpremature triumph, and itwould be absurd to call itmereconfidence.ThatwouldbelikecallingthePacificwet.It’s a higher form of

consciousness, and I do notmean that to be pretentious.It’s been said that only thevery rich understand thedifference between

themselvesand thepoor, andonly the truly brilliantunderstand the differencebetween themselves and therelativelydumb.Well, only men who have

gone through what we wentthrough can understand thedifferencebetweenusandtherest. In themilitary,even therest understand what it takestoscaletheheightsofcombatexcellence.Andinmycase,itstarted inauspiciously. Way

down on the ranch, withMom in tears, refusing toleavethehousetoseemego.March7,1999.Iwastwenty-three.To say that I was not

making amazing headway inmy hometown would be anunderstatement. ThereputationMorgan and I hadwasnotassistingeitherofus.There were always guysshowing up wondering howtoughwereallywere.Iguess

mydadconsidereditamatterof timebeforeoneofuswasfaced with a low-flyingpugilist and either hurtsomeone badly or got badlyhurt himself. And so Idecided to get out of townand join the U.S. NavySEALs. Morgan thought itwas a great idea, and heintroducedme toa recruitingofficer in a nearby town,PettyOfficerFirstClassBeauWalsh. He steered me down

to the military enlistmentprocessing station inHouston; that’s navyrecruitment.Naturally, I told them

immediately there was noneed for me to attend bootcamp. Iwas alreadyway tooadvancedforthat.Yessir,I’llgo straight to Coronado,wherethebigdogseat.That’swhat I’m all about, I’m ahalf-trainedSEALalready.They sent me directly to

boot camp. I signed thepapersandpreparedtoreportfor duty in a few days. As Ileft the ranch, it was not areal ceremony of departure,but everyone was there,including Beau Walsh andBilly Shelton. As previouslystated, Mom caved in andretreatedtothehouse,unableto witness the departure ofherbaby.Thatwasme.My destination was more

than a thousand miles to the

north,NavyRecruitTrainingCommand (RTC) in GreatLakes, Illinois. And I cantruthfully say, itwaswhere Ispent the most miserableeightweeksofmyentirelife.I had never even seen snow,andIarrivedinthemiddleofthe worst blizzard that bootcamp had seen in elevenyears. It was like sending aZulutotheNorthPole.Thatwind and snow came

howling in across Lake

Michigan, blasting its wayontothewesternshorewherewe were situated, thirty-fivemilesnorthofChicago.Righton the water. I could notbelieve the sheer misery ofthat freezing weather. Thecamp was a gigantic place,with hundreds of recruitstrying to make thatmiraculous transformationfrom civilian to U.S. Navysailor. It was a drasticmetamorphosis, both mental

and physical, and it wouldhavebeendifficultenoughinfineweather.But in that ice,snow,andwind,Jesus.Wordsfailme.I’d never needed winter

clothes, and I had none. Iremember being extremelypleasedwhenthenavyissuedeveryone the right gear —thick socks, boots, dark bluetrousers, shirts, sweaters, andcoats. They told us how tofold and store everything,

showed us how to make ourbunks every morning.Withoutmissing a beat, theyput us straight into physicaltraining, running, workingout, marching, drilling, andmanyclasses.Ididn’thavemuchtrouble,

and I excelled in theswimming pool. Therequirements were to enterthe water feetfirst from aminimumheight of five feet,remain afloat for five

minutes, and then swim fiftyyards using any stroke. Icould have done that in mysleep, especially withouthaving to worry about theoccasional alligator or watermoccasin.The running would not

have been that bad in decentweather, but the campuswasabsolutely frigid, and thewindoffthelakewascutting.A penguin would have hadtrouble out there. We ran

through snow, marchedthrough snow, andmade ourwaytoclassesthroughsnow.Inthatfirstweek,whilewe

were trying toavoid freezingto death, they instilled in usthreewordswhichhavebeenwith me ever since. Honor,Courage, Commitment, themotto of the United StatesNavy, the core values thatimmediately became theideals we all lived by. I canremember to this day an

instructor telling us, “Whatyou make of this experiencehere at Great Lakes is whatwill make you as a person.”Hewasright.Ihope.In the second week, they

put us through theConfidence Course. This isdesigned to simulateemergency conditions in aU.S. Navy warship. Theytaught us to be sharp, self-reliant, and, above all, tomakekeydecisionsonwhich

our lives and those of ourshipmatesmightdepend.Thatword:teamwork.Itdominatesand infiltrates every singleaspect of life in the navy. Inbootcamp,theydon’tjusttellyou, they indoctrinate you.Teamwork. It was the newdriving force in all of ourlives.Weekthree,theyputuson

board a landbound trainingship. Everything was hands-on training. We learned the

nameofnearlyeveryworkingpartof thatship.Theytaughtus first aid techniques,signaling ship to ship withflags (semaphore). We spentalotoftimeintheclassroom,where we focused on navycustoms and courtesies, thelaws of armed conflict,shipboard communication,ship and aircraftidentification, and basicseamanship.All this was interspersed

with physical training tests,sit-ups,sit-reaches,andpush-ups. I was fine with all ofthose,buttheone-and-a-half-mile run in that weatherwouldhavetestedthestaminaof a polar bear.They told usanyone who failed couldcomebackandtakeitagain.Idecided I would rather runbarefoot across the Arcticthantakeitagain.Gaveitmyall.Passed,thankGod.During week four, we got

ourhandsonsomeweaponryfor the first time— theM16rifle. Iwas pretty quickwiththat part of the course,especially on the live-firerange. After that, the navyconcentrated on which paththrough the service everyonewantedtotake.Thatwasalsoeasy for me. Navy SEALs.Nobullshit,right?The firefighting and

shipboard damage-controlcoursecamenext.Andweall

learned how to extinguishfires, escape smoke-filledcompartments, open andclose watertight doors,operate the oxygen breathingapparatus, and move firehoses around. The last partwas the worst — theConfidence Chamber. Youget in there with your classandputonagasmask.Thensomeoneunleashesa tear-gastablet, and you have to takeoff your mask, throw it in a

trashcan,andreciteyourfullname and Social Securitynumber.Every single recruit who

joins the navy has to endurethat exercise.At the end, theinstructorsmake itclear:youhavewhat it takes.There’s aplaceinthenavyforyou.The final task is called

battle stations. Teams arepresented with twelvesituations, all of which havebeen addressed during the

previousweeks.Thisiswherethey grade the recruits,individually and as teams.Whenyou’vecompleted this,thetrainerspresentyouwithaU.S. Navy ball cap, and thattellstheworldyouarenowasailor. You have proved youbelong, proved you have therightstuff.The following week, I

graduated, in my brand-newdress uniform. I rememberpassingthemirrorandhardly

recognizing myself. Standingtall, right there. There’ssomething about graduatingfrom boot camp; I guess it’smostly pride in yourself.Butyoualsoknowalotofpeoplecouldn’thavedone it.Makesyou feel pretty good.Especially someone like me,whosemajoraccomplishmentthus farhad involvedhurlingsome half-drunk cowboy outofanEastTexasbarandintothestreetonhisear.

After I graduated, I flewimmediately to San Diego,headed to Coronado Islandand the navy amphibiousbase. I made my way therealone, a couple of weeksearly, and spent my timeorganizing my uniforms,gear,androoms,andtryingtogetintosomesortofshape.Mostofushadlostalotof

condition at boot campbecause the weather was sobad. You couldn’t just jog

outside and go for a runbecause of the blizzards andthe deep snow. Perhaps yourememberthatverybraveguywhomade the journey to theSouth Pole with the RoyalNavy officer, Robert FalconScott,in1912.Hebelievedhewashinderingtheentireteambecause of his frostbite.CaptainOateswas his name,and he crawled out into aragingblizzardonenightwiththe immortal words, “I am

going outside now. Imay begoneforsometime.”Theyneverfoundhisbody,

and I have never forgottenreading his words. Guts-ball,right?Well, going outside atGreatLakeswouldhavebeena bit like that, and almost asbrave. Unlike the gallantcaptain, we stayed by theheater.And now we were going

for runs along the beach,trying to get in shape for the

first week of Indoctrination.That’s the two-week courseknown as Indoc, where theSEALs prepare you for thefabled BUD/S course (BasicUnderwater Demolition/-SEALs). That one lasts forseven months and is a lotharder thanIndoc.But ifyoucan’t get through the initialpretraining endurance test,then you ought not to be inCoronado, and they don’twantyouanyway.

Theofficialnavy literatureabout the reason for Indocreads: “To physically,mentallyandenvironmentallyprepare qualified SEALcandidates to begin BUD/Straining.”Generallyspeaking,the instructorsdonot turnonthe pressure during Indoc.You’re only revving up fortheupcomingtrialbyfire.But they stillmake it very

tough for everyone, officersand enlisted men alike. The

SEAL programs make nodistinction betweencommissioned officerscoming in from the fleet andthe rest of us.We’re all in ittogether, and the first thingthey instill inyouat Indoc isthatyouwillliveandtrainasaclass,asateam.Sorry.DidI say instill in you? Imeant,ram home with a jack-hammer. Teamwork. Theyslam that word at you everyother minute. Teamwork.

Teamwork.Teamwork.Thisisalsowhereyoufirst

understand the concept of aswimbuddy,which inSEALethosisanabsolutelygiganticdeal. You work with yourbuddy as a team. You neverseparate,noteventogotothejohn. In IBS (that stands for“inflatable boat, small”)training, if one of you fallsoverthesideintothefreezingocean, the other joins him.Immediately.Inthepool,you

arenevermorethananarm’slength away.Lateron, in theBUD/S course proper, youcan be failed out of hand,thrown out, for not stayingclose enough to your swimbuddy.Thisallcomesbacktothat

ironclad SEAL folklore —weneverleaveamanbehindon the battlefield, dead oralive. No man is ever alone.Whatever the risk to theliving, however deadly the

opposing fire, SEALs willfight through the jaws ofdeath to recover the remainsof a fallen comrade. It’s amaxim that has survivedsince the SEALs were firstformed in 1962, and it stillappliestoday.It’s a strange thing really,

but it’s not designed to helpwidows and parents of lostmen. It’s designed for theSEALs who actually do thefighting. There’s something

about coming home, and weall want to achieve that,preferably alive. But there isacertainprivatehorroraboutbeing killed and then leftbehind in a foreign land, nograveathome,nolovedonesto visit your final restingplace.Iknowthatsoundskindof

nuts, but nonetheless, it’strue. Every one of ustreasures that knowledge:Nomatterwhat,Iwillnotbeleft

behind,Iwillbetakenhome.We are all prepared to giveeverything.And in the end itdoes not seem too much toask in return, sincewe fight,almostwithout exception, onthe enemy’s ground, not ourown.ThatWorldWar I English

poet and serving soldierRupertBrookeunderstoodtheBrits do not traditionallybring home their war dead.Andheexpresseditright:“If

Ishoulddie,thinkonlythisofme: / That there’s somecorner of a foreign field /That is forever England.”There’s not a Navy SEALanywhere in the world whodoes not understand thoselines and why Brooke wrotethem.It’s a sacredpromise tous

from our high command.That’s why it gets drummedintousfromtheveryfirstdayinCoro-nado— you are not

going tobealone.Ever.Andyou’re not going to leaveyourswimbuddyalone.I suffered aminor setback

in the early part of thatsummerwhen Iwas inClass226. I managed to fall fromaboutfiftyfeetupaclimbingropeandreallyhurtmythigh.The instructor rushed up tome and demanded, “Youwanttoquit?”“Negative,”Iresponded.“Then get right back up

there,” he said. I climbedagain, fell again, butsomehow I kept going. Theleg hurt like hell, but I kepttrainingforanothercoupleofweeks before the medicsdiagnosedacrackedfemur! Iwas immediately on crutchesbut still hobbling along thebeach and into the surf withthe rest of them. Battleconditions,right?Eventually, when the leg

healed, I was put back and

thenjoinedBUD/SClass228in December for phase two.We lived in a small barracksright behind the BUD/Sgrinder. That’s the blacktopsquarewherea successionofSEAL instructors have laidwaste to thousands of hopesanddreamsanddrivenmentowithinaninchoftheirlives.Those instructors have

watched men drop, watchedthemfail,watchedthemquit,and watched them quietly,

with ice-cold, expressionlessfaces. That’s not heartless;it’s because they were onlyinterested in the others, theones who did not crack orquit. The ones who wouldratherdiethanquit.Theoneswithnoquitinthem.Itwasonlythefirstdayof

Indoc,andmylittleroomwaspositioned right next to theshowers. Showers, by theway, is a word so polite it’sdamn near a euphemism.

Theywereshowers,okay,butnot in the accepted, civilizedsense.Theywereawholelotclosertoagoddamncarwashand were known as thedecontamination unit.Someone cranked ’em up ataround0400,andthehowlofcompressed air and freezingcold pressurized waterforcingitswaythroughthosepipes sounded like someonewastryingtostrangleasteamengine.

Jesus.First timeIheard it,I thought we were underattack.But I knew the drill: get

into my canvas UDT swimtrunks and then get underthoseice-coldwaterjets.Theshock was unbelievable, andtoamanwehatedit,andwehated it for as long as wewere forced through it. Thedamn thing was actuallydesigned to power wash oursand-covered gear when we

returned from thebeach.Theshockwasreducedsomewhatthen because everyone hadjust been in the PacificOcean.Butrightoutofbedatfour o’clock in the morning!Wow! That was beyondreason,andIcanstillhearthesound of those screaming,hissingwaterpipes.Freezing cold andwet,we

reported to the training poolto roll and stow the covers.Then,shortlybefore0500, in

thepitchdark,welineduponthe grinder and sat in rows,chest to back, very close, toconserve body heat. Therewere supposed to be 180 ofus, but for various reasonsthere were only 164 of usassigned.We had a class leader by

now, Lieutenant DavidIsmay,aNavalAcademymanand former Rhodes Scholarwho’d had two years at seaand was now a qualified

surfacewarfareofficer.Davidwas desperate to achieve hislifelongdreamofbecomingaSEAL. He had to do thisright. Officers only got oneshot at BUD/S. They weresupposedtoknowbetter thantowasteanyone’stimeiftheyweren’tuptoit.The man we all awaited

was our proctor. That’s theinstructor assigned to guideus, teach us, torture us,observeus,andget ridofus,

if necessary. He wasInstructor Reno Alberto, afive-foot-six man-mountainof fitness, discipline, andintelligence. He was aruthless, cruel, unrelentingtaskmaster. Andwe all grewto love him for two reasons.Hewasscrupulouslyfair,andhe wanted the best for us.You put out for InstructorReno, he was just a superguy. You failed to give himyourabsolutebest,he’dhave

you out of there and back tothe fleet before you couldsay,“Aye,aye,sir.”He arrived at 0500 sharp.

Andwe’dhavearitualwhichwas never broken. This washowitwent:“Feet!” shouted the class

leader.“Feet!” An echoing roar

ripped into the still night airasnearly164ofusrespondedand jumped to our feet,attempting to move into

ranks.“InstructorRee-no!”called

theclassleader.“Hooyah, Instructor Ree-

no!” we bellowed as onevoice.Get used to that: hooyah.

We don’t say yes, or rightaway, or thanks a lot, orunderstand and will comply.Wesayhooyah.It’saBUD/Sthing, and its origins are lostinantiquity.There’ssomanyexplanations,Iwon’tevengo

there. Just so you know,that’s how students respondtoaninstructor,ingreetingorcommand acceptance.Hooyah.Forsomereason,Instructor

Reno was the only one whowas unfailingly addressed byhis first name.All the otherswere Instructor Peterson orMatthews or Henderson.Only Reno Alberto insistedon being called by his firstname.Ialwaysthoughtitwas

good they didn’t call himFredorSpike.Renosoundedgoodonhim.When he walked onto the

grinder that morning, wecould tell we were in thepresenceofamajorman.AsImentioned, it was pitch darkand he was wearingsunglasses, wraparound,shiny black. It seemed henever took themoff,nightorday.Actually, one time Ididcatch himwithout them, and

as soon as he saw me, hereached into his pocket andimmediately put ’em onagain.I think it was because he

never wanted us to see theexpression in his eyes.Beneath that stern, relentlessexterior, he was asuperintelligent man — andhecouldnothavefailedtobeamusedatthedailyAttilatheHunactheputonforus.Butheneverwantedustoseethe

amusement in his eyes, andthat was why he nevershowedthem.Onthisdark,slightlymisty

morning he stood with hisarms foldedandgazedat thetrainingpool.Thenhe turnedbacktousandstaredhard.We had no idea what to

expect. And Instructor Renosaid without expression,“Drop.”“Drop!” we roared back.

Andweallstruggleddownto

the concrete and assumed aposition for push-ups, armsextended, bodiesoutstretched,rigid.“Push’emout,”saidReno.“Push-ups,” snapped the

classleader.“Push-ups,” we

responded.“Down.”“One.”“Down.”“Two.”We counted out every one

ofthetwentypush-upsintheset then returned to the restposition, arms outstretched.The class leader called out,“InstructorRee-no.”“Hooyah, Instructor Ree-

no,”weroared.He ignored us. Then said

quietly, “Push ’em out.” Ashe did twice more, at whichpointhe left uswithmuscleson fire in the straight-arm,outstretched restposition.Heactually left us there for

almost five minutes, andeveryone’s arms werethrobbing. Eighty push-upsand now this new kind ofagony, which ended onlywhen he said, very slowly,veryquietly,“Recover.”We all yelled, “Feet!” in

response, and somehow westoodupwithoutfallingover.ThenDavid Ismaycalledoutthe wrong number of menpresent. Not his fault.Someone had simply

vanished. Reno was ontoyoungDaveinaflash.Idon’tquiterememberwhathesaid,but his phrase contained theloud pronunciation of thewordwrong.AndheorderedLieutenant

Ismay and our leading pettyofficer student, “Drop, andpush ’em out.” I rememberthatfirstdaylikeithappenedthis week. We sat andwatched Dave complete hispush-ups. And when they’d

doneit,damnnearexhausted,they called out, “Hooyah,InstructorReno!”“Push ’emout,” saidReno

softly. And, somehow, theyset off on twenty morerepetitions of this killerdiscipline. Finally theyfinished, doubtlesswondering,liketherestofus,what the hell they had letthemselves in for. But I betthey never called out thewrongnumberofmenpresent

everagain.I now understand that

SEALethos—everyofficer,commissioned ornoncommissioned, mustknow the whereabouts ofevery single one of hismen.No mistakes. At that earlystageinourtraining,ourclassleader, David Ismay, did notknow.Reno,who’donlybeenwith us for about fifteenminutes,did.Again, he surveyed his

kingdom and then spokeflatly. “Most of you aren’tgoing to be here in a coupleof months,” said InstructorReno. And, as if blamingeach and every one of usindividually for the wrongheadcount,headded,“Ifyouguys don’t start pullingtogether as a team, none ofyouwillbehere.”He then told us we were

again about to take the basicBUD/S screening test. I

graphically recall himremindinguswe’dallpasseditonceinordertomakeitthisfar.“Ifyoucan’tpassitagainthis morning,” he added,“you’llbebackinthefleetassoonaswecanshipyouout.”At this stage, no one was

feeling...well...wanted. Infact, we were beginning tofeelabandonedinthisworld-renowned military coliseum—acoliseumwheresomeonewas about to bring on the

lions.Beforeuswasthefive-pointscreeningtest:

1. A 500-yard swim,breaststroke or sidestroke, in12minutes,30seconds

2.Aminimumof42push-upsin2minutes

3. A minimum of 50 sit-upsin2minutes

4. A minimum of 6 dead-hangpull-ups

5. A 1.5-mile run in 11minutes, 30 seconds, donewhilewearingbootsandlongpantsOnly one guy failed to

complete. In fact,most of usdid markedly better than wehad the first time. I recall Imanaged close to eightypush-ups and a hundred sit-

ups. Iguess theapparitionofBilly Shelton was standinghard by my shoulder, tryingto frighten the life out ofmeandreadytothrowmeoutofthenavyifIblewit.More important, Instructor

Reno was watching us witheyeslikeafighterjet’sradar.He told me several monthslater he knew I was puttingout for him. Made up hismindaboutmerightthenandthere. Told me he’d never

changed it either. Gooddecision.Igiveiteverything.On time. Every time. Mightnot always be good enough,but it’s always my very bestshot.Lookingback,I’mnotsure

that early test showed verymuch. There were a lot ofheavily muscled,bodybuilding types wholooked pretty ferocious. Iremember they were amongthe very first to go, because

they just couldn’t hack it.Their legs and upper bodieswerejusttooheavy.The SEALs do place a

premium on brute strength,but there’s an even biggerpremium on speed. That’sspeed through the water,speed over the ground, andspeed of thought. There’s noprizes for a gleaming set ofwell-oiled muscles inCoronado. Bulk just makesyou slow, especially in soft

sand,and that’swhatwehadto tackle every day of ourlives,mileaftermile.On this first morning of

Class 226, we immediatelylearnedanothervaluepeculiarto BUD/S. We don’t stroll,walk, or even jog. We run.We actually run like hell.Everywhere. All day.Remember that great TomHanks line in A League ofTheir Own, “There’s nocryinginbaseball”?Well,we

have a line in Coronado:There’s no walking inBUD/S.Our first encounter with

this cruel and heartless rulecame when it was time forbreakfast.Thechowhallwasamileaway,sowehadtoruntwomiles— there and back— for a plate of toast, eggs,and bacon. Same for lunch.Same for dinner. For anyonemathematically challenged,that’ssixmileseverydayjust

to find something to eat,nothingtodowithourregulardaily training runs, whichoften added up to anothereightmiles.That morning we ran in

formation all the way acrossthenavalamphibiousbase tothe Special Warfare Center.And there Instructor Reno,after about a thousand push-ups and God knows whatelse,finallyhadusseatedandpaying attention in amanner

whichsatisfiedhim.Thiswasnoteasy,becausehehadeyeslike a sea eagle and somekindofahigh-flyingbusinessdegree from USC. He knewprecisely what was required,andhemissednothing.And righthere Ineeded to

remember a lesson drummedintomefromanearlyagebyBillyShelton:whenaspecialforces commander makeseven a slight reference to anissue that may be helpful,

listen and thendo it. Even ifit was an aside, not a propercommand, maybe evenstarting with I think it mightbeagoodidea...Always pay attention and

then carry out the task, nomatter how minor it mayseem. Billy’s point was thatthese SF instructors werelooking for the best, and itmight be only small thingsthat separate guys who areverygoodfromguyswhoare

absolutely excellent,outstanding. “Listen,Marcus,” Billy told me,“always listen, and alwaysjump all over anything yourinstructortellsyou.Getoutinfront. Fast. Then make sureyoustaythere.”Well, that morning,

Instructor Reno pulledhimself up to his full heightof about fifteen feet, in myeyes,andtoldushewantedtotalk to us briefly, and we

better pay attention. “Betteryet,takenotes.”I was into my zipper bag

instantly, getting hold of adrynotebookandacoupleofpencils, the lesson of BillyShelton ringing in my ears:even an aside, even asuggestion,doit.I looked around the room,

and a few others were doingthe same as I was, but noteveryone, by no meanseveryone. Some of them just

sat there gazing at InstructorReno, who suddenly said,mildly, “How many of youhavepencilandpaper?”I stuckmy hand up, along

with the other guyswho hadthem. And suddenly therewasalooklikeastormcloudonReno’sface.“Drop! All of you!” he

bellowed. And there was anunbelievable commotion aschairswerescrapedbackandwe all hit the floor in the

straight-arm rest position.“Push’emout!”hesnapped.Andwemadethetwentythenwereleftintherestposition.He stared at us and said,

“Listen. You were told tohaveapencil andpaperwithyouatalltimes.Sowhydon’tyou? Why the hell don’tyou!”The room went stone

silent.Renoglared.AndsinceIwasnotabletowritewhileIwas prostrate on the floor

supporting myself with thepalms of my hands, I can’tsayverbatimtheexactwordshe said,but Ibet I cancomedamnclose.“This is a school for

warriors,understand?Thisisthe most serious businessthere is. And if you don’twanttodoit,thengetthehelloutrightnow.”Christ. Hewas not joking,

and I just hoped to hell heknew who had pencil and

paperandwhodidn’t.Monthslater I reminded him of thatday and asked him. “Ofcourse I knew,” he said,adjusting his sunglasses. “Itwas your first test. I had thenames of the guys who paidattentionwrittendownbeforeyou’ddoneyour first twenty.And I still remember youwereonthatlist.”Anyway, that first

morning, we did anothercouple of sets of push-ups

and somehow gasped out aloud Hooyah, InstructorReno! And then he let us sitdownagain.What followed was

probably the most sternlecture in SEAL ethos andethics I’ve ever attended. Idid take notes, and I recalleverythinghetoldus,andI’lltry to relate it as I believeRenowouldwish.“This is high-risk training.

And we define that as

anywhere there is potentialfor serious injury or loss oflife.Anyofyouseeanythingunsafe,oranysituationwhereyou may be in unnecessarydanger, speak upimmediately.We do not likemistakes,understandme?”“Hooyah!”“Always remember your

own accountability, toyourselves, your superiors,and your teammates. Thechain of command is sacred.

Use it. Keep your boat-crewleadersandyourclassleadersinformed of any digressionfrom the normal. And staywith your swim buddy. Idon’t care if you’re going tothe head, you stay rightwithhim.Understood?”“Hooyah!”“Respect. I expect you to

showcompleterespectfortheinstructor staff, the classofficers, and the senior pettyofficers. You are in the

military. You will becourteous at all times.Understood?”“Hooyah!”“Integrity, gentlemen.You

don’tlie,cheat,orsteal.Ever.Youloseanitemofgear,youput in a chit and report it.You do not take someoneelse’s gear. I won’t pretendthathasnothappenedhereinthe past. Because it has. Butthose guys were instantlyfinished. Their feet never

touched the ground. Theywere gone. That day. Youwill respect your classmate.Andhisgear.Youdonottakewhat is not yours.Understood?”“Hooyah!”“I’myourclassproctorfor

the next twoweeks.And I’llhelp you, if you need help,over matters of pay, family,andpersonalconcerns.Ifyougetinjured,gotomedicalandget it fixedandgetback into

training. I’m your proctor.Notyourmother.I’mheretoteach you. You stay in thebox, I’ll help you. You getoutside the box, I’ll hammeryou.Understood?”“Hooyah!”“Finally, reputation. And

your reputation begins righthere. And so does thereputationofClassTwo-two-six.Andthat’sareflectiononme.It’saresponsibilityItakevery personally. Because

reputation is everything. Inlife, andespecially righthereinCoronado.Sostayfocused.Keep your head right in thegame. Put out a hundredpercent at all times, becausewe’llknowifyoudon’t.Andnever, ever, leave your swimbuddy.Anyquestions?”“Negative!”Who could ever forget

that?Notme. I can still hearinmymindthesharpcrackasInstructorReno snapped shut

his notebook. It sounded tome like Moses, hammeringtogether the granite slabswhich held the 10Commandments. That Renowasafive-foot-six-inchgiant.Hewassomepresenceinourlives.That day we bailed out of

theclassroomandwent forafour-mile run along thebeach. Three times hestoppedus and toldus togetin the surf and “get wet and

sandy.”Our boots were

waterloggedandeachpassingmile was murder. We nevercouldget the sandoutofourshorts.Ourskinwaschafing,andRenodidn’tgiveadamn.At the end of the run, heordered us to drop and startpushing ’emout.He gave ustwo sets of twenty, and righttowardtheendofthefirstset,I noticed he was doing theexercise with us. Except he

wasusing only one arm, andhe didn’t even look like hewasbreathinghard.That guy could have arm

wrestled a half-ton gorilla.And just the sight of himcruisingthroughthepush-upsalongside us gave us a fairideaofthestandardoffitnessandstrengthrequiredforustomakeitthroughBUD/S.As we prepared to make

themile run to thechowhallaround noon, Reno told us

calmly, “Remember, there’sjust a few of you here whowe’d probably have to killbefore you’d quit. We knowthat, and I’ve alreadyidentifiedsomeofyou.That’swhat I am here to find out.Which of you can take thepain and the cold and themisery. We’re here to findout who wants it most.Nothing more. Some of youwon’t,someofyoucan’tandnever will. No hard feelings.

Justdon’twasteourtimeanylongerthannecessary.”Thanksabunch,Reno.Just

can’t understand why youhavetosugarcoateverything.Whynotjusttellitlikeitis?Ididn’t say that, of course.Four hours with the pocketbattleship of Coronado hadslammed a very hefty lid onmypersonalwellofsmart-assremarks. Besides, he’dprobably have broken mypelvis, since he couldn’t

possibly have reached mychin.We had a new instructor

for thepool,andwewerealldriven through the ice-coldjets of the decontaminationunit toget ridof the sandonour skin. That damn thingwouldhaveblastedthescalesoff a fresh haddock. Afterthat,we piled into thewater,split into teams, and beganswimming the first of abouttenmillion lengthswewould

complete before our years ofservice to the navy werecomplete.They concentrated on

buoyancycontrolandsurfaceswimming for the first fewdays, made us stretch ourbodies,madeuslongerinthewater,timingus,stressingthegolden rule for all youngSEALs—youmustbegoodin thewater, nomatterwhat.And right here the attritionbegan. One guy couldn’t

swimatall!AnothersworetoGod he had been told byphysicians thathe shouldnotput his head underwaterunder any circumstanceswhatsoever!That was two down. They

made us swim withoutputting our heads up, taughtustorollourheadssmoothlyin thewater and breathe thatway, keeping the surfacecalm, instead of sticking ourmouths up for a gulp of air.

Theyshowedus the standardSEAL swim method, a kindof sidestroke that is ultra-efficient with flippers. Theytaught us the technique ofkick, stroke, and glide, thebeginning of the fantasticSEALunderwatersystemthatenablesustogaugedistancesandswimbeneaththesurfacewithastoundingaccuracy.They taught us to swim

like fish, not humans, andthey made us swim laps of

the pool using our feet only.They kept telling us that forotherbranchesofthemilitary,waterisapainintheass.Forus, it’s a haven. They wererelentlessabouttimes,alwaystrying to make us faster,hitting thestopwatchesa fewseconds sooner every day.They insisted brute strengthwas never the answer. Theonly way to find speed wastechnique, and then moretechnique. Nothing else

would work. And that wasjustthefirstweek.In the second, they

switchedustotrainingalmostentirely underwaterthroughout the rest of thecourse.Nothingserious.Theyjust bound our anklestogether and then bound ourwrists together behind ourbacks and shovedus into thedeep end. This caused acertain amount of panic, butour instructions were clear:

Take a huge gulp of air anddroptothebottomofthepoolinthestandingposition.Holdit there for at least aminute,bobupfornewair,thendropback down for anotherminute,ormoreifyoucould.The instructors swam

alongsideuswearingfinsandmasks, looking likeporpoises,kindoffriendly,inthe end, but at first glance alotlikesharks.Theissuewaspanic. If amanwasprone to

losing it under the waterwhenhewasboundhandandfoot, then he was probablynevergoing tobea frogman;the fear is too deeplyinstilled.Thiswasahugeadvantage

for me. I’d been operatingunderwater with Morgansince I was about ten yearsold. I’d always been able toswimonorbelowthesurface.And I’d been taught to holdmy breath for two minutes,

minimum. I worked hard,gave it all Icould,andneverstrayed more than about afoot from my swim buddy.Unlessitwasarace,whenheremainedonshore.I was leader in the fifty-

yard underwater swimwithout fins. I already knewthe secret to underwaterswimming:getrealdeep,realearly.You can’t get paid forfinding the car keys if youcan’tgetdownthereandstay

down.Attheend,theygradedusunderwater.Iwasupthere.Throughout this week we

took ropes with usunderwater. There was aseriesofnavalknots thathadto be completed deep belowthe surface. I can’t actuallyrememberhowmanyguyswelost during thatdrownproofing part of theIndoc training, but it wasseveral.Thatsecondweekwasvery

hardforalotofguys,andmymemory is clear: theinstructors preachedcompetence in all techniquesand exercises. Because thenextweek,whenphaseoneoftheBUD/S coursebegan,wewere expected to carry it allout. The BUD/S instructorswould assume we couldaccomplish everything fromIndocwithease.Anyonewhocouldn’twasgone.TheIndocchiefs would not be thanked

for sending up substandardguysforthetoughestmilitarytrainingintheworld.And while we were

jumping in and out of thepoolandthePacific,wewerealso subjected to a stringentregime of physical training,high-pressure calisthenics.Not for us the relativelysmoothsurfaceofthegrinder,the blacktop square in themiddle of the BUD/Scompound. The Indoc boys,

notyetqualifiedeven to jointhe hallowed ranks of theBUD/S students, werebanished to the beach outbehindthecompound.And there Instructor Reno

and his men did their levelbest to level us. Oh, for thegoodolddaysoftwentyarm-tearing push-ups. Notanymore. Out here it wasusually fifty at a time, allinterspersed with exercisesdesignedtobalanceandhone

various muscle groups,especially arms and abs. Theinstructors were consumedwith abdominal strength, thereasons for which are nowobvious: the abdomen is thebedrock of a warrior’sstrength for climbing rocksand ropes, rowing, lifting,swimming, fighting, andrunning.BackthereinIndoc,wedid

not really get that. All weknew was the SEAL

instructors were putting usthroughhellonadailybasis.My personal hell was theflutterkick:lieonyourback,legs dead straight and sixinches off the sand, pointyour toes,andthenkickas ifyou were doing thebackstroke in the pool. Anddon’t even consider puttingyourlegsdown,becausetherewere instructorswalkingpastat all times, like they weremembers of a firing squad

undertheordersofthePrinceofDarkness.Onetimeearlyon,thepain

in the nerves and tendonsbehind my thighs and backwas so intense, I letmy feetdrop. Actually, I droppedthem three times, and you’dhave thought I’d committedmurder. The first time, therewasaroarofanguishfromaninstructor; the second time,someone calledme a faggot;andthethirdtime,therewasa

roar of anguish and someoneelsecalledmeafaggot.Eachtime, I was ordered to gostraight into the ice-coldPacificthencomeoutandrollinthesand.It wasn’t until the third

time I realized that nearlyeveryone was in the Pacificand then rolling in the sand.We all looked like creaturesfrom theBlackLagoon.Andstill they drove us forward,making us complete those

exercises.Itwasfunnyreally,but within four or five days,those flutter kicks were noproblem at all.Andwewereallawholelotfitterforthem.All?Well,most.Twoorthreeguysjustcouldnottakeitandfluttered their way right outof there with smiles on theirfaces.Me? I hung in there,

callingouttheexercisecount,doing the best I could,cursing the hell out of Billy

Shelton for getting me intothis nuthouse in the firstplace, even though it wasplainlynothisfault.I completed the exercises

with obviousmotivation, notbecauseIwastryingtomakea favorable impression butbecause I would do nearlyanything to avoid runninginto the freezing ocean andthen rolling in the sand.Andthat was the consequence ofnot trying. Those instructors

nevermissedaslacker.Everycoupleofminutes somepoorbastard was told, “Get wetandsandy.”Wasn’t that bad, though.

RightafterwefinishedthePTclass and staggered to ourfeet, Instructor Reno, god ofallthemercies,wouldsenduson a four-mile run throughthe soft sand, runningalongsideusathalfspeed(forhim), exhorting us to greatereffort, barking instructions,

harassing, cajoling. Thoserunswere unbelievably hard,especially for me, and Ilabored in the secondhalf ofthe field trying to force mylonglegstogofaster.Reno knew damn well I

was trying my best, but inthoseearlydayshe’dcalloutmy name and tell me to getgoing. Then he’d tell me toget wet and sandy, and I’drun into theocean,bootsandall. Then I’d have to try and

catch up with boots full ofwater. I guess he knew Icould take it, but I cannotbelieve he was not laughinghisassoffbehindthoseblacksunglasses.Still,eventuallyitwouldbe

lunchtime, and it was onlyanothermiletogetsomethingto eat. And all the time theywere telling us about diet,whattoeat,whatnevertoeat,howoftentoeat.Jesus.Itwasamiracleanyofusevermade

it to the chow hall, nevermindstudyourdiets.Therewasalsotheobstacle

course,knowntousastheO-course, and a place of suchbarbaric intensity that reallive SEALs, veteran combatwarriors from the teams,came over to supplementtheirtraining,oftenpreparingfor overseas deployment to atheater of war: jungle,mountain,ocean,ordesert.The Coronado O-course

was world famous. And if ittestedthebloodedwarriorsofthe teams, imagine what itwas like for us, ten-daywonders, fresh out of bootcamp, soft as babiescomparedtotheseguys.I stared at the O-course,

first day we went there. Wewere shownaround, the ropeclimbs, the sixty-foot cargonet, thewalls, the vaults, theparallelbars,thebarbedwire,theropebridges,theWeaver,

theBurmaBridge.For the first time Iwished

tohellI’dbeenafootshorter.Itwasobvioustomethiswasa game for little guys.InstructorRenogaveacoupleofdemonstrations.Itwaslikehe’d been born on the ropebridge. It would be moredifficult forme.Allclimbingis,because,intheend,Ihaveto haul 230 pounds upward.Which iswhyall theworld’sgreat climbers are tiny guys

with nicknames like the Fly,or the Flea, or Spider, all ofthem 118 pounds soakingwet.I assessed rightly this

wouldbeamajortestforme.But there were a lot of verybig SEALs, and they’d alldoneit.ThatmeantIcoulddoit. Anyway,mymindset wasthe same old, same old. I’meither going to do this right,or I’ll die trying. That lastpartwasclosertothereality.

Therewerefifteenseparatesections of the course, andyou needed to go through,past, over, or under all ofthem.Naturallytheytimedusright from the get-go, whenguysweretrippingup,fallingoff, falling down, gettingstuck, or generally screwingup.AsIsuspected,thebiggerguys were instantly in themosttrouble,becausethekeyelements were balance andagility. Those Olympic

gymnastsaremostlyfourfeettall. And when did you lastseeasix-foot-five,230-poundicedancer?It was the climbing which

put the big guys at themostdisadvantage.Oneofourtestswas called slide for life, athick eighty-foot nylon ropeattached to a tower andlooped down to a verticalpoleabouttenfeethigh.Youhad to climb up the towerhanging on to the rope then

slide all the way back downor pull yourself, whicheverwaseasier.For the record, on the

subject of Instructor Reno,whenwehadtoclimbvariousropes, he would amusehimself by climbing to thesameheightasuswhileusingtwo ropes, one in each hand,never losing his grip andneverlettinggoofeitherone.Tothisday,IbelievethatwasimpossibleandthatRenowas

some kind of a mirage insunglassesonthesand.I struggled through the

ropeloop,makingthetopandsliding down, but one guylost his grip and fell down,straight onto the sand, andbrokehisarmand,Ithink,hisleg.Hewasaprettybigguy,and there was another onegone. The other disciplinethatsticksinmymemorywasthatcargonet.Youknowthetype of thing, heavy-duty

rope knotted together insquares,thekindofstuffthathas come straight from ashipyard. It was plainlyimperative we all got damngoodatthis,sinceSEALsusesuch nets to board anddisembark submarines andshipsandtogetinandoutofinflatableboats.But it was hard for me. It

seemed when I shoved myboot in and reached upward,the foothold slipped

downward, and my intendedhandhold got higher.Obviously,ifI’dweighed118pounds soaking wet, thiswouldnothavebeenthecase.First time I climbed the net,ramming my feet into theholes, I got kind of stuckabout forty-five feet off theground, arms and legsspreadeagled.IguessIlookedlikeCaptainAhab trapped inthe harpoon lines after a triptotheoceanfloorwithMoby

Dick.But like all the rest of our

exercises, this one wascompletely about technique.And Instructor Reno wastheretoputmestraight.Fourdayslater,Icouldzipupthatnet like a circus acrobat.Well...okay, more like anorangutan. Then I’d grab thehugelogatthetop,clearthat,andclimbdowntheothersidelike Spider-Man. Okay,okay...likeanorangutan.

I had similar struggles onthe rope bridge, whichseemed always to be out ofkilterforme,swingingtoofarleft or too far right. ButInstructor Reno was alwaysthere, personally, to help meregain my equilibrium bysending me on a quick rushinto theocean,whichwas socold it almost stopped myheart.Thiswasfollowedbyaroll in the sand, just tomaketherestofthedayanabsolute

itching,chafinghelluntilIhitthe decontamination unit toget power washed down,same way you deal with amud-cakedtractor.Naturally, the newly clean

tractor had it all over usbecausenoonethendumpsitinto the deep end of aswimming pool and more orless leaves it there until itstarts to sprout fins. It wasjustanotherhappyday in thelife of a fledgling student

going through Indoc.Understandably, Class 226shrankdaily, andwehadnotevenstartedBUD/S.And you think it was a

great relief finally to getthrough the day and retire toour rooms for peace andperhaps sleep? Dream on.There’s no such thing aspeaceinCoronado.Theplaceis a living, breathingtestimony to that Romanstrategist who first told the

world, “Let himwho desirespeaceprepareforwar”(that’stranslatedfromtheLatinQuidesiderat pacem, praeparetbellum — Flavius VegetiusRenatus, fourth century). Or,as a SEAL might say, Youwant things to remain cool,pal? Better get your ass ingear.IknewIwasclose.That old Roman knew a

thing or two. His militarytreatise De Rei Militari wasthebibleofEuropeanwarfare

for more than 1,200 years,and it still applies inCoronado, stressing constantdrilling, training, and severediscipline. He advised theRomancommanderstogatherintelligence assiduously, usetheterrain,andthendrivethelegionnaires forward toencircle their objective.That’s more or less how weoperate in overseasdeployment against terroriststoday. Hooyah, Flavius

Vegetius.Coronado, likeNewYork,

is a city that never sleeps.Those instructors are outthere patrolling the corridorsof our barracks by night intothesmallhours.Oneof themoncecameintomyroomafterI’d hot mopped it and highpolished the floor till youcouldalmostseeyourfaceinit. He dropped a trickle ofsand onto the floor andchewedmeoutforlivingina

dust bowl! Then he sent medown to the Pacific, in thecompany ofmy swim buddyandofcoursehimself,to“getwetandsandy.”Thenwehadto go through thedecontaminationunit,andtheshrieking of those coldhydraulic pipes and theferocious jets of waterawakened half the barracksandnearlysentusintoshock.Never mind the fact that itwas 0200 and we were due

back under those showersagain in another couple ofhours.I think it was that time. I

can’t be absolutely sure. Butmyroommatequit thatnight.He went weak at the kneesjust watching what washappening to me. I don’tknowhowthehellhethoughtIfelt.One time during Indoc

while we were out on nightrun, one of the instructors

actually climbed up theoutside of a building, camethroughanopenwindow,andabsolutely trashed a guy’sroom, threw everythingeverywhere, emptieddetergent over his bed gear.He went back out the wayhe’d come in, waited foreveryone to return, and thentappedonthepoorguy’sdoorand demanded a roominspection. The guy couldn’twork out whether to be

furiousorheartbroken,buthespent most of the nightcleaningupandstillhadtobein the showers at 0430 withtherestofus.I asked Reno about this

weeks later, and he told me,“Marcus, the body can takedamn near anything. It’s themindthatneedstraining.Thequestion that guy was beingasked involved mentalstrength.Canyouhandlesuchinjustice?Canyoucopewith

that kind of unfairness, thatmuchof a setback?And stillcomebackwithyourjawset,still determined, swearing toGod you will never quit?That’s what we’re lookingfor.”As ever, I do not claim to

quote Instructor Reno wordforword.ButIdoknowwhathesaid,andhowIrememberit. No one talks to him andcomes away bemused. Trustme.

Thus far I’ve only dealtwith that first two weeks oftrainingonthelandandinthepool, and I may not haveexplained how muchemphasis the instructors puton the correct balanced dietfor everyone. They ranclasses on this, drilling intous how much fruit andvegetables we needed, thenecessity for tons ofcarbohydratesandwater.Themantrawas simple—

you take care of your bodylike the rest of your gear.Keepitwellfedandwatered,betweenoneand twogallonsa day. Start no disciplinewithout a full canteen. Thatwayyourbodywill takecareofyouwhenyoubegintoaskserious questions of it.Because there’s no doubt inthe coming months you willbeaskingthosequestions.This was an area, I

remember, where there were

a lot of questions, becauseevenafterthosefirstfewdayshere, guys were feeling theeffects: muscle soreness,achesandpains in shoulders,thighs,andbackswheretherehadbeennonebefore.The instructor who dealt

with this part of our trainingwarnedusagainstverystrongdrugslikeTylenol,exceptforafever,butheunderstoodwewould need ibuprofen. Heconceded it was difficult to

get through the coming HellWeekwithout ibuprofen, andhe told us the medicaldepartment wouldmake surewe received a sufficientamount to ease the pain,thoughnottoomuchofit.I remember he said flatly,

“You’re going to hurt whileyou’rehere.That’sourjob,toinduce pain; not permanentinjury,ofcourse,butweneedtomakeyouhurt.That’sabigpart of becoming a SEAL.

We need proof you can takethepunishment.Andthewayoutof that ismental, inyourmind. Don’t buckle under tothe hurt, rev up your spiritand your motivation, attackthe courses. Tell yourselfpreciselyhowmuchyouwanttobehere.”The final part of Indoc

involved boats— the fabledIBS (inflatable boat, small)or, colloquially, itty-bittyship.Theseboatsare thirteen

feet long and weigh a littleunder 180 pounds. They areunwieldy and cumbersome,and for generations the crafthas been used to teachBUD/S students to pull apaddle as a tight-knit crew,blast their way through theincoming surf, rig properly,and drag the thing into placein a regimented line forinspectiononthesandybeachabout every seven minutes.At least that’showitseemed

tous.Atthatpointwelinedupin

full life jackets right next toourboats.Insidetheboat,thepaddles were stowed withgeometricprecision,bowandsternlinescoiledcarefullyontherubberfloor.Inchperfect.Westartedwithaseriesof

races.Butbeforethat,eachofour teamshad a crew leader,selected from the mostexperienced navy personnelamongus.And they linedup

with their paddles at themilitary slope-arms position,the paddles resting on theirshoulders. Then they salutedtheinstructorsandannouncedtheir boat was correctlyrigged and the crew wasreadyforthesea.Meanwhile, other

instructors were checkingeach boat. If a paddle wasincorrectly stowed, aninstructorseizeditandhurledit down the beach. That

happened on my first day,andoneof theguys standingvery near to me raced offafter it, anxious to retrieve itand make amends.Unhappily, his swim buddyforgottogowithhim,andtheinstructorwasfurious.“Drop!” he yelled. And

every one of us hit the sandand began to execute theworst kind of push-up, ourfeet up on the rubbergunwales of the boats,

pushing ’em out in our lifejackets. The distantwords ofReno sung in my ears:“Someone screws it up, theconsequences affecteveryone.”Weracedeachotherinthe

boatsoutbeyondthesurf.Weraceduntilourarmsfeltas ifthey might fall off. Wepulled, each crewagainst therest, hauling our grotesquelyunstreamlined little boatsalong.AndthiswasnotYale

versus Harvard on theThamesRiverinConnecticut,allpulling together.Thiswastheclosest thing toa floatingnuthouse you’ve ever seen.Butitwasmykindofstuff.Boatdrillisagameforbig,

strong guys who can pull.Pulllikehell.It’salsoagameforheavylifterswhocanhaulthat boat up and run withtheirteam.Let me take you through

one of these races. First, we

got the boat balanced in theshallowsandwatchedthesurfroll in toward us. The crewleader had issued a one-minute briefing, and we allwatched the pattern of thosefive- to six-foot breakers.This part is called surfpassage, and on thecommand,wewerewatchingfor our chance. Plainly, wedidn’twanttochargeintothebiggest incoming wave, butwedidn’thavemuchtime.

The water was only afraction above sixty degrees.We all knewwe had to takethat first wave bow on, butwedidn’twantthebiggest,sowe waited. Then the crewleader spotted a slacker one,and he bellowed, “Now!Now! Now!” We chargedforward, praying to God wewouldn’t get swept sidewaysand capsize. One by one wescrambled aboard, diggingdeep, trying to get through

the overhanging crest, whichwas being whipped by anoffshorebreeze.“Dig! Dig! Dig!” he

roared as we headed for twomore incoming walls ofwater. This was the PacificOcean, not some Texas lake.Close to us, one of the nineboats capsized, and therewerepaddlesandstudentsallin thewater.You could hearnothing except the crash ofthe surf and shouts of “Dig!

Stroke!Portside...starboard...straightenup!Let’sgo!Go!Go!”I pulled that paddle until I

thought my lungs wouldburst,untilwehaddrivenoutbeyond the breakers. Andthen our class leader yelled,“Dump the boat!” The bow-side men slipped overboard,the others (including me)grabbed the strap handlesfixed on the rubber hull,stood up, and jumped over

the same side, dragging theboatoverontopofus.As the boat hit the water,

threeofusgrabbed the samehandlesandclimbedbackontheupturnedhullof theboat.I was first up, I remember.Weightless in the water,right?Justgivemeachance.We backed to the other

side of the hull and pulled,dragging the IBS upright,flipping it back on its lines.Everyonewas aware that the

tide was sweeping us backinto the breakers. Feelingsomethingbetweenpanicandfrenzy, we battled back,grabbed our paddles andhauled out into flatter waterandtookabeadonthefinishline. We paddled like hell,racingtowardthemark,sometoweron thebeach.Thenwedumped the boat again,grabbedthehandles,carrieditthroughtheshallowsontothebeach, and hauled it into a

headcarry.We ran up the dunes

around some truck, still withthe boat on our heads, andthen, as fast as we could,back along the beach to thepoint where we had started,and the instructors awaitedus, logging the positions wefinished and the times weclocked. They thoughtfullygave the winning crew abreak to sit down andrecover.The loserswere told

to push ’em out. It was notunusual to complete six ofthese races in one afternoon.By the end of Indoc weektwo, we had lost twenty-fiveguys.The rest of us, somehow,

had managed to showInstructor Reno and hiscolleagueswewereindeedfitand qualified enough toattempt BUD/S training.Which would begin the nextweek. There would be just

one final briefing fromRenobefore we attacked BUD/Sfirstphase.I saw him outside the

classroom, and, still with hissunglasses on, he offered hishand and smiled quietly.“Nice job, Marcus,” saidReno. He had a grip like acrane. His hand might havebeenboltedontobluetwistedsteel,butIshookitashardasIcould,andIreplied,“Thankyou,sir.”

Weallknewhe’dchangedus drastically in those twoweeksinIndoc.He’dshowedusthedepthofwhatwemustachieve, guided us to thebrink of the forthcomingunknown abyss of BUD/S.He’dknockedawaywhatevercocksureedgeswemightstillhavepossessed.We were a lot tougher

now, and I still toweredoverhim. None-theless, RenoAlberto still seemed fifteen

feettalltome.Andhealwayswill.

4

WelcometoHell,Gentlemen

Battlefieldwhistledrillswereconductedinthemidstofhigh-pressurewaterjets,totalchaos,deafeningexplosions,

andshoutinginstructors...“Crawltothewhistle,men!Crawltothewhistle!Andkeepyourgoddamnedheadsdown!”

We assembled in theclassroom soon after 1300that last afternoon of Indoc.Instructor Reno made hisentry like a Roman caesar,head held high, andimmediately ordered us to

push’emout.Asever,chairsscraped back and we hit thefloor, counting out the push-ups.At twenty, Reno left us in

therestpositionandthensaidcrisply,“Recover.”“Hooyah, Instructor Ree-

no!”“Give me a muster, Mr.

Ismay.”“One hundred and thirteen

men assigned, InstructorReno.Allpresentexcept two

menatmedical.”“Close, Mr. Ismay. Two

menquitafewminutesago.”All of us wondered who

they were. My boat’s crewmembers? Heads whippedaround. I had no idea whohad crashed at the finalhurdle.“Notyourfault,Mr.Ismay.

You were in the classroomwhen they quit. Two-two-sixwill class up in BUD/S firstphase with a hundred and

elevenmen.”Hooyah!I realized we had been

losing guys fairly steadily.But according to thesenumbers, Class 226 had had164menassignedonthefirstday,andwe’dlostmorethanfifty of them. I know a fewnever showed up at all,mostly through sheerintimidation.But theresthadsomehow vanished into thevoid.Ineversawanyofthem

leave, not even myroommate.AndIstillcannotworkout

quite how it happened. Iguess they just reachedsometype of breaking point, ormaybe they anguished fordays over their own inabilityto cut themustard. But goneis gone in thisman’s navy. Idid not entirely comprehenditat thetime,butmeandmy110 cohorts were witnessingthe ruthless elimination

process of a U.S. fightingforce that cannot tolerate asuspectcomponent.InstructorRenonowspoke

formally. “You’re on yourway to first phase BUD/S.And I want each and everyoneofyoutomakemeproud.Those of you who surviveHell Week will still have tofacethepoolcompetencytest— that’s in second phase—and then the weaponspracticalsinthirdphase.ButI

wanttobeatyourgraduation.And right there I want toshake your hand. I want tothinkofyouasoneofReno’swarriors.”The Hooyah, Instructor

Ree-no! with our clenchedfists in the air could havelifted the roof off theclassroom.Welovedhim,allof us, because we all sensedhe truly wanted the best forus. Therewas not a shred ofmalice in the guy. Neither

was there a shred ofweakness.He repeated the orders he

had been giving us for twoweeks. “Stay alert. Be ontime.Andbeaccountable foryour actions at all times, inand out of uniform.Remember,yourreputationiseverything.Andyouallhavea chance to build on thatreputation, beginning righthere on Monday morning,zero five hundred. First

phase.“For those of you who

make the teams, rememberyou’re joiningabrotherhood.You’llbeclosertothoseguysthanyoueverweretofriendsin school or college. You’lllive with them...and, incombat,someofyoumaydiewith them.Your familymustalways come first, but thebrotherhood is a privilegedplace. And I don’t want youevertoforgetit.”

And with that, he left us,walkedawayandslippedoutof a back entrance, leavingbehindaverylongshadow:abunch of guys who wererevved up, gung ho, andready to give everything topass the challenging testsahead. Just the way Renowantedit.EnterInstructorSeanMruk

(pronouncedMUR-rock), ex-SEAL from Team 2, veteranof three overseas

deployments, native ofOhio,a cheerful-looking characterwe had not encounteredduring Indoc. He wasassistant to our new proctor.Weheardhimbeforewesawhim, his quiet command,“Drop and push ’em out,”before he had evenmade hisway to the front of theclassroom.In the following few

minutes he ran through themyriad of tasks we must

complete after hours in firstphase.Stufflikepreparingtheboats and vehicles, makingsure we had the rightsupplies. He told us heexpected 100 percent at alltimes, because if we did notput out, we’d surely pay forit.He made sure we had all

moved from our Indocbarracks, behind the grinder,over to the naval specialwarfare barracks a couple of

hundred yards north of thecenter. Prime real estate onthe sandy beach, and it’s allyours— just as long as youcan stay on the BUD/Sbandwagon and remain inClass 226, the numbers ofwhichwillshortlybeblockedin stark white on either sideofyournewgreenphaseonehelmet. Those numbers staywithyouaslongasyouservein the Navy SEALs. Myclass’s three white-painted

numbers would one daybecomethesweetestsoundsIeverheard.Instructor Mruk nodded

agreeably and told us hewould be over to the newbarracks at 1000 Sunday tomake sure we knew how toget our rooms ready forinspection. He gave us onelast warning: “You’re anofficialclassnow.Firstphaseownsyou.”And so to the cloudless

Mondaymorningof June18,all of us assembled outsidethebarrackstwohoursbeforesunrise. It was 0500 and thetemperature not much abovefifty degrees. Our newinstructor, a stranger, stoodthere silently. LieutenantIsmay reported, formally,“Class Two-two-six isformed, Chief. Ninety-eightmenpresent.”DavidIsmaysaluted.Chief

Stephen Schulz returned the

salute without so much as a“Good morning” or “Howy’doing?” Instead, he justsnapped,“Hitthesurf,sir.Allof you. Then get into theclassroom.”Herewewentagain.Class

226 charged out of thecompound and across thebeach to the ocean. Wefloundered into the ice-coldwater, got wet, and thensquelched our way back tothe classroom, freezing,

dripping, already full ofapprehension.“Drop!” ordered the

instructor. Then again. Thenagain. Finally, Ensign JoeBurns, a grim-looking SEALcommander,tookhisplaceinfront of us and informed ushewasthefirstphaseofficer.Afewofusflinched.Burns’sreputationasahardmanhadpreceded him. He laterproved to be one of thetoughestmenIevermet.

“Iunderstandyouallwanttobefrogmen?”Hooyah!“I guess we’ll see about

that,” said Ensign Burns.“Findouthowbadyoureallywantit.Thisismyphase,andthese are my staffinstructors.”Each of the fourteen

introduced himself to us byname.AndthenChiefSchulz,presumably terrifiedwe’d allgosoftonhimafteranentire

two minutes of talk,commanded, “Dropandpush’em out.” And again. Andagain.Then he ordered us out to

the grinder for physicaltraining. “Move! Move!Move!”And finallywe formedup,

forthefirsttime,onthemostnotorious square of blacktarmac in the entire UnitedStates Armed Forces. It was0515, and our places were

marked by little frog flipperspaintedontheground.Itwashardlyworththevisit.“Hit the surf. Getwet and

sandy!” yelled Schulz.“Fast!”Our adrenaline pumped,

our legs pumped, our armspumped, our hearts pumped.Every goddamn thing therewaspumpedaswethunderedoff theblacktop, still dressedin our squelching boots andfatigue pants, went back

downtothebeach,andhurledourselvesintothesurf.Jesus, it was cold. The

waves broke over me as Istruggled back into theshallows, flung myself ontothesand,rolledoveracoupleof times, and came uplooking like Mr. Sandman,except I wasn’t bringinganyoneadream.Icouldhearthe others all aroundme, butI’d heard Schulz’s lastword.Fast.AndIrememberedwhat

BillySheltonhadtaught:payattention to even the merestsuggestion...and I ran formygoddamned life straight backto the grinder, right up withtheleaders.“Too slow!” bellowed

Schulz. “Much tooslow...drop!”Schulz’s instructors

roamed among us, beratingus,yelling,harassingusaswesweatedandstrainedtomakethe push-ups...“Like a

goddamned fairy.” “Get agrip on yourself.” “ForChrist’s sake, look as if youmean it.” “C’mon, let’s go!Go! Go!” “You sure youwanna be here? You wannaquitrightnow?”I learned in the next few

minutes there was a sharpdifference between “get wetandsandy”andjustplain“getwet.”Parkedatthesideofthegrinder were two of theinflatable boats, laden to the

gunwaleswith iceandwater.“Getwet”meantplungeoverthe bow, under the water,under the rubber seat struts,andouttotheotherside.Fiveseconds, in the dark, in theice, under thewater.Akillerwhalewouldhavebeggedformercy.Now,I’dbeencoldbefore,

in the freakin’ Pacific, right?But the water in that littleboat would have frozen theballs off a brass monkey. I

cameoutoftherealmostbluewith thecold, ice inmyhair,andblunderedmywaytomylittle frogman’s marker. Atleast I’d gotten rid of thesand, and so had everyoneelse. Two instructors weregoing down the lines withfreezing cold power hoses,spraying everyone from theheaddown.By0600Ihadcountedout

morethan450push-ups.Andthere were more, I just

couldn’t count anymore. I’dalsodonemore thanfiftysit-ups. We were ordered fromoneexercisetoanother.Guyswho were judged to beslacking were ordered tothrowinasetofflutterkicks.Theresultof thiswaspure

chaos. Some guys couldn’tkeep up, others were doingpush-ups when they’d beenordered to do sit-ups, menwere falling, hitting thegroundfacedown.Intheend,

halfofusdidn’tknowwherethe hellwewere orwhatwewere supposed tobedoing. Ijust kept going, doing myabsolute best, through theroars of abuse and the flyingspray of the power hoses:push-ups, sit-ups, screwups.It was now all the same tome.Everymuscleinmybodyachedtohell,especiallythoseinmystomachandarms.And finally Schulz offered

us mercy and a quiet drink.

“Hydrate!” he yelled withthat Old World charm thatcamesonaturallytohim,andwe all reached for ourcanteensandchuggedaway.“Canteens down!”

bellowed Schulz, a tone ofpained outrage in his voice.“Nowpush’emout!”Oh, yes. Of course. I’d

forgotten all about that. I’djusthadanine-secondbreak.Down we all dropped againand went back to work with

the last remnants of ourstrength, counting the push-ups.Weonlydid twenty thattime. Schulzmust have beenseized by an attack ofconscience.“Get in the surf!” he

bawled.“Rightnow!”Weflounderedtothebeach

and darn near fell into thesurf.Wewerenowsohot,thecold didn’t even matter.Much.Andwhenwesplashedback to the beach, Chief

Schulzwasthere,rantingandyellingforus to formupandrunthemiletothechowhall.“Get moving,” he added.

“Wedon’thavemuchtime.”When we arrived, I was

justaboutdeadonmyfeet. Ididn’t think I had the energytochewasoft-boiledegg.Wewalked into that chow halllike Napoleon’s army on theretreat from Moscow, wet,bedraggled,exhausted,outofbreath, toohungry toeat, too

batteredtocare.It was, of course, all by

design. This was not somekind of crazed Chinese firedrill arranged by theinstructors.Thiswasadeadlyserious assessment of theircharges, a method used tofind out, in the hardestpossible way, who reallywantedtodothis,whoreallycared enough to go throughwith it, who could face thenext four weeks before Hell

Week, when things gotseriouslytough.It was designed to compel

us to reassess ourcommitment.Couldwereallytakethispunishment?Ninety-eightofushadformeduponthegrinder twohoursearlier.Only sixty-six of us made itthroughbreakfast.And when that ended, we

werestill soaked,boots, longpants,andT-shirts.Andoncemorewesetoffforthebeach,

accompaniedbyan instructorwho showed up fromnowhere, running alongsideus, shouting for us to getmoving. We had been toldwhatawaitedus.Afour-milerun along the beach, goingsouth, two down and twoback. Thirty-two minutes onthe stopwatch was allowed,and God help anyone whocould not run eight-minutemilesthroughthesand.I was afraid of this,

because I knew I was not areal fast runner, and Ipsyched myself up for amaximum effort. I seem tohave spent my whole lifedoing that. And when wearrivedatthebeach,IknewIwouldneed thateffort.Therecould not have been aworsetimetomaketherun.Thetidewas almost full, still runningin, so there was noappreciable width of dryinghard sand. This meant

running in either shallowwater or very soft sand, bothof which were a completenuisancetoarunner.Our instructor Chief Ken

Taylor lined us up andwarned us darkly of thehorrors to come if thirty-twominutesproved tobebeyondsome of us. And sent usaway, with the sun nowclimbingoutofthePacifictoour right. I picked the line Iwould run, right along the

high point of the tide,wherethe waters first receded andleftaslimstripofhardsand.This meant I’d be splashingsomeof the time,butonlyintheshallowestsurffoam,andthat was a whole lot betterthan the deep sand thatstretchedtomyleft.Troublewas,Ihadtostick

tothisline,becausemybootswould be permanently wetandifIstrayedupthebeach,I’dhavehalfapoundofsand

stuck to each one. I did notthink I could layupwith theleaders,but I thought Icouldhang in there in the groupright behind them. So I putmy head down, watched thetidelinestretchinginfrontofme, and pounded my wayforward, staying right on thehardestwetsand.The first two miles were

notthatawful.Iwasuptherein the first half of the class,andIwasnotfeelingtoobad.

On the way back, though, Iwas flagging. I glancedaround and I could seeeveryone else was alsolookingreallytired.Andrightthen I decided to hit it. Iturned up the gas andthumpedmywayforward.The tidehad turnedduring

the first twenty minutes andthere was just a slight widthof wet sand that was nolonger being washed by theocean. I hit this with every

stride,runninguntilIthoughtI’ddrop.EverytimeIcaughta guy, I treated it as apersonalchallengeandpulledpast him, finally clocking atime well inside thirtyminutes, which wasn’t halfbadforapackhorse.I forget who the winner

was, probably some hickory-tough farmboypetty officer,but he was a couple ofminutes better than I was.Anyway, theguyswhomade

thetimeweresentupintothesoftsandtorestandrecover.Therewere about eighteen

guys outside thirty-twominutes,andonebyonetheyweretold,“Drop!”Thenstartpushing ’em out. Most ofthemwereontheirkneeswithexhaustion, and that kindasavedthemastepin thenextevolution, which was a bearcrawlstraightintothePacific,directly into the incomingsurf. Instructor Taylor had

them go in deep, until thefreezingcoldwaterwasuptotheirnecks.They were kept there for

twenty minutes, verycarefully timed, Inowknow,to make sure no onedeveloped hypothermia.Taylorandhismenevenhada pinpoint-accurate chart thatshowedpreciselyhow longaman could stand that degreeofcold.Andonebyonetheywerecalledoutandgiventhe

most stupendous hard timefor failing to achieve thethirty-two-minutedeadline.Iunderstandsomeof them

may have just given up, andothers just could not go anyfaster. But those instructorshad a fair idea of what wasgoingon,andonthis,thefirstday of BUD/S training, theywereruthless.As those poor guys came

outof the surf, the restofuswerenowdoingregularpush-

ups, and since this was nowsecondnaturetome,Ilookeduptoseethefateoftheslowguys. Chief Taylor, theGenghis Khan of the beachgods,orderedthesehalf-dead,half-drowned, half-frozenguys to lie on their backs,their heads and shoulders inandunder thewaterwith therhythmofthewaves.Andhemade them do flutter kicks.Therewereguyschokingandspluttering and coughing and

kickingandGodknowswhatelse.And then, only then, did

Chief Taylor release them,andIremember,vividly,himyelling out to them that we,dry and doing our push-upsup the beach, were winners,whereas they, the slowpokes,were losers! Then he toldthem they better start takingthis seriously or they wouldbe out of here. “Those guysup there, taking it easy, they

paidthefullprice,”heyelled.“Rightupfront.Youdidnot.Youfailed.Andforguyslikeyou there’s a bigger price topay,understandme?”He knew this was

shockingly unfair, becausesomeofthemhadbeendoingtheirgenuinebest.Buthehadto find out for certain. Whobelievedtheycouldimprove?Whowasdeterminedtostay?Andwhowashalfwayoutthedooralready?

Next evolution: log PT,brand-new to all of us. Welinedupwearingfatiguesandsoft hats, seven-man boatcrews, standing right by ourlogs,eachofwhichwaseightfeet long and a foot indiameter. I can’t remembertheweight,butitequaledthatofasmallguy,say150to160pounds. Heavy, right? I wasjust moving into packhorsemode when the instructorcalled out, “Go get wet and

sandy.” All in our nice dryclothes, we charged oncemore toward the surf,upandover a sand dune, and downintothewater.Werushedoutofthewavesandbackupthesand dune, rolled down theother side, thenstoodup likethe lost company from theU.S. Navy’s SandcastlePlatoon.Then he told us to get our

logs wet and sandy. So weheaved them up, waist high,

andhauled themup the sanddune.Werandowntheotherside,dumped thegoddamnedlogintheocean,pulleditout,went back up the sand dune,and rolled it down the otherside.The crew next to us

somehow managed to droptheir log on the downwardslope.“You ever, ever drop one

of my logs again,” theinstructor bellowed, “I can’t

even describe what willhappen to you. All of you!”He used the enraged,vengeance-seeking tone ofvoice that might have beenspecially reserved for “Youguysever,evergang-rapemymother again . . .” Ratherthan just dropping the stupidlog.Weallstoodthereinaline,

holdingourlogsstraight-arm,above our heads.They try tomake the teams a uniform

height, but my six foot fiveinches means I’ll always becarryingatleastmyfairshareoftheburden.More andmore guyswere

accusedofslacking,andmoreandmoreofthemwereontheground doing push-upswhilemeandacoupleofotherbigguys on the far end werebearing theweight.Wemusthave looked like the threepillars of Coronado,sandstone towers holding up

the temple, eyes peeringgrittilyoutatasandscapefullof weird, sandy, burrowingcreaturesfightingforbreath.Rightafter thistheytaught

us all the physical trainingmoves we would need:squats, tossing the logoverhead, and awhole lot ofothers. Then, still information, we were told,“Fallinonyourlogs,”andwechargedforward.“Slow! Too slow! Get wet

andsandy!”Backdowntothesurf,into

the waves, into the sand. Bythistime,guysreallywereontheir last legs, and theinstructors knew it. Theydidn’t really want anyone tocollapse, and they spent awhile teaching us the finerpoints of log teamwork. Toour total amazement, theyconcluded the morning bytelling us we’d done a damnnice job, made a great start,

andtoheadoffnowforchow.Alotofusthoughtthiswas

encouraging. Seven of ournumber,however,werenottobeconsoledby these sudden,calming words uttered byguys who should have beenridingwithSatan’scavalryinLordoftheRings.Theywentstraight back to the grinder,rang thehangingbelloutsidethe first phase office, andhanded in their helmets,placingtheminalineoutside

the CO’s door. That’s theway it’s done in first phase:the exit ritual. There werenow a dozen helmetssignifying resignation, andwehadn’tevenhad lunchondayone.Most of us thought they

were a bit hasty, becauseweknew a certain part of theafternoonwastakenupbytheweekly room inspection.Most of us had spent all daySunday getting into order,

cleaningthefloorwithamopand then high polishing it.SomehowIhadfoundmyselfway down thewaiting list touse one of the two electricbuffers.I had had to waitmy turn

and did not get finishedbefore about 0200. But thetimehadnotbeenwasted.I’dfixed my bed gear, pressedmy starched fatigues, andspit-shined my boots. Ilooked better, not like some

darned sand-encrustedbeachcomber, the way I hadmostoftheday.The instructors arrived. I

cannot remember which ofthem walked into my room.But he gazed upon it, thispicture of military order andprecision, and atmewith anexpression of undiluteddisgust. Carefully he openedmy chest of drawers andhurledeverythingallovertheroom.Heheavedthemattress

off the bed and cast it aside.He emptied the contents ofmy locker into a pile andinformed me that he wasunused to meeting traineeswhowere happy to live in agarbage dump. Actually, hiswords were a bit morecolorful than that,more...well...earthy.Beyondtheconfinesofmy

room, there was absolutebedlam; stuff was hurled allover the place in room after

room. I just stood theregaping as the entire barrackswas ransacked by our owninstructors. Outside in thecorridor, I could hearsomeone bawling outLieutenant David Ismay, theclass leader. The soft, dulcettones of Chief Schulz wereunmistakable.“What kind of rathole are

yourunninghere,Mr.Ismay?I’ve never seen rooms likethese in my life. Your

uniforms are a disgrace. Hitthesurf...allofyou!”There were, by my count,

thirty rooms. Only three ofthemhadpassedmuster.Andeven those guys were notexempt from our first oceanplunge of the afternoon. Inour shiny boots and pressedfatigues, we pounded backdown to the beach, leaving ascene of total chaos behindus.We raced into the water,

deep, right into the waves.Then we turned andflounderedbacktothebeach,formed up, and headed backto the BUD/S area. ChiefTaylorwas back in our liveswith amajor rush, obviouslypreparing for the lastevolution of the day, on thebeachorinthewater.Wedidnotknowwhich.All day long we had been

wondering precisely who hewas, but our inquiries had

yielded little save that thechiefwasatrueveteranoftheteams who had seen combatin overseas deployment fourtimes, including the GulfWar.Hewasamedium-sizedmanbutimmenselymuscular;he looked likehecouldwalkstraight through a wallwithout breaking stride. Butyoucouldseehehadasenseof humor, and he was notaverse to telling us we weredoing okay. Sweet of him,

right? Half of us werehangingintherebywillpoweralone.And we needed all the

willpowerwehad,becauseina few moments we werepreparing to take the boatsinto the water again. I havenever forgotten that surfdrillon that first day becauseChiefTaylormadeuspaddlethe boats out backward,facingaft.Whenwereturnedthroughthesurftothebeach,

we faced aft again, but nowwewerepaddlingforward.When we first started, the

journey out beyond thebreakers seemed impossibleto dowhile facing the beachand holding the oar soawkwardly,butwegotbetter.Andsomehowwegotitdone.But not before all kinds ofchaos had broken out. Wecapsized, flipped over,crashed backward trying todrive head-on into a big

wave.And therewasa lotofspluttering and coughingwhen we attempted ChiefTaylor’s finale,whichwas todump boat, right it again,stow the oars correctly, andthen swim the boat back inthrough thesurfandonto thebeach.Before we left, we were

taken through an exercisecalled surf observation, inwhich two-man teamsobserve the condition of the

seaandmakeareport. Ipaidstrict attention to this, whichwasgood,sincefromnowon,every morning at 0430, twoof our number would godowntothewater’sedgeandcome back to make thatreport.ChiefTaylor,smiling,as he was prone to do,dismissed us with the words“And don’t screw up thatreport. I want nodiscrepancies about seaconditions, or there’ll be hell

topay.”We sharpened up our

rooms that evening, and ondaytwowereunderwaywiththe normal morning grind ofpush-ups, running, andgetting wet and sandy. Ourfirst classroom involvedmeeting our leading pettyofficer instructor, Chief BobNielsen, another Gulf Warveteran of several overseasdeployments. He was tall,slim for a SEAL, and, I

thought, a bit sardonic. Hiswordstouswerepackedwithmeaning,edgedwithmenace,butnonethelessoptimistic.He introduced himself and

tolduswhathe expected.Asif we didn’t know.Everything, right? Or die inthe attempt. He gave us aslide presentation of everyaspect of first phase. Beforethe first picture had beentaken off the screen, he toldustoforgetallabouttryingto

put one over on theinstructors.“Guys,” he said, “we’ve

seen itall.Youcan try iton,if you like, but it won’t doanyoneanygood.We’llcatchyou, andwhenwedo,watchout!”I think everyone in the

roommadeamentalnotenotto“tryiton.”WealllistenedcarefullywhileChiefNielsenran quickly through the firstfour weeks and what we

could expect — morerunning, log PT boats, andswimming, the fullcatastrophe.Purelytofindouthowtoughwereallywere.“Conditioning,” he said.

“Conditioning and a wholelotofcoldwater.Getusedtoit.Thenextmonthrepresentsa hard kick in the crotch.Because we’re going tohammeryou.”Istillhavemynotes of Bob Nielsen’sspeech.

“You fail to meet thosestandards, you’re out. Ofcourse most of you will endup being dropped. Andmostofyouwillnotbeback.Youmust make that four-milethirty-two-minute run, andyoumustmake the two-mileswims in an hour and a half.You’ll get a tough writtentest. There’s pool standards,there’s drownproofing. Withandwithout the fins—kick,stroke,andglide.

“You may be thinking,Whatdoesittake?WhatmustIdo tomake it through?Thecold truth is, two-thirds ofyou sitting right here willquit.”I remember him standing

next to my row and saying,“There’s seven rows of yousitting here. Only two rowswill succeed.” He seemed tolook straight at me when hesaid,“Therestofyouwillbegonzo, history, back to the

fleet.That’sthewayitis.Theway it’s always been. So tryyour best to prove mewrong.”He issued one further

warning. “This training doesnot suit everyone. We get alotofverygoodguysthroughhere who just decide this isnotforthem.Andthat’stheirright. But they will walkaway fromherewithdignity,understand?Wecatchoneofyou laughing or making fun

of a man who has requestedDOR, we’ll hammer youwithoutmercy.Bigtime.Youwill regret thosemoments ofridicule for a long time. Iadvise you not even toconsiderit.”Heclosedbytellingusthe

realbattleiswoninthemind.It’s won by guys whounderstand their areas ofweakness, who sit and thinkaboutit,plottingandplanningto improve. Attending to the

detail. Work on theirweaknesses and overcomethem.Becausetheycan.“Your reputation is built

righthere in first phase.Andyou don’t want people tothink you’re a guywhodoesjustenoughtoscrapethrough.You want people tounderstand you always try toexcel, to be better, to becompletely reliable, alwaysgiving it your best shot.That’s the way we do

businesshere.“And remember this one

last thing. There’s only oneguy here in this room whoknows whether you’re goingtomakeit,orfail.Andthat’syou.Gotoit,gentlemen.Andalwaysgiveiteverything.”ChiefNielsenleft,andfive

minuteslaterwestoodbyforthe commanding officer’sreport. Six instructors filedinto the room, surrounding anavy captain. And we all

knewwho he was. This wasCaptain Joe Maguire, thenear-legendary Brooklyn-bornHonorManofClass93and onetime commandingofficer ofSEALTeam2.Hewas also the future RearAdmiral Ma-guire,Commander,SPECWARCOM, a supremeSEALwarrior.Hehadservedall over the world and wasbeloved throughoutCoronado, a big guy who

neverforgotafellowSEAL’sname,nomatterhowjunior.He talked to us calmly.

Andhegaveustwopiecesofpriceless advice. He said hewas addressing those whoreallywantedthiskindoflife,thosewho could put upwithevery kind of harassmentthose instructors at the backof the room could possiblydishout.“Firstofall, Idonotwant

youtogiveintothepressure

of the moment. Wheneveryou’re hurtingbad, just hanginthere.Finishtheday.Then,if you’re still feeling bad,think about it long and hardbefore you decide to quit.Second, take it one day at atime.Oneevolutionatatime.“Don’t let your thoughts

runawaywithyou,don’tstartplanning to bail out becauseyou’re worried about thefutureandhowmuchyoucantake.Don’t lookaheadtothe

pain.Justgetthroughtheday,and there’s a wonderfulcareeraheadofyou.”ThiswasCaptainMaguire,

a man who would one dayserve as deputy commanderof the U.S. SpecialOperations in PacificCommand (COMPAC).Withhis twin-eagles insigniaglintingonhiscollar,CaptainMaguire instilled in us theknowledge of what reallycounted.

I stood there reflecting fora fewmoments, and then theroof fell in. One of theinstructors was up andyelling. “Drop!” he shoutedand proceeded to lay into usforthesinsofoneman.“Isawoneofyounodding

off, right here in the middleofthecaptain’sbriefing.Howdare you! How dare you fallasleep in the presence of amanofthatcaliber?Youguysaregoingtopayforthis.Now

push’emout!”He drilled us, gave us

probably a hundred push-upsand sit-ups, and he drove usup and down the big sanddune in front of thecompound. He raved at usbecauseourtimesovertheO-courseweredown,whichwasmostlyduetothefactthatwewereparalyzedwithtirednessbeforewegotthere.And so it went on, all

week. There was a swim

acrossthebay,onemilewitha guy of comparableswimmingability.Therewereevolutions in the pool, inmasks, wearing flippers andwithout.Therewasonewherewe had to lie on our backs,masks full of water, flipperson, trying to do flutter kickswith our heads out over thewater. This was murder. Sowas the logPTandour four-mile runs. The surf work intheboatswasalsoastrength-

sapping experience, runningthe boats out through thewaves, dumping boat,righting boat, paddling in,backward, forward, boatbeing dragged, boat on ourheads.It never ended, and by the

close of that first week wehad lost more than twentymen, one of them in tearsbecause he could not go on.His hopes, his dreams, evenhis intentions had been

dashed to bits on thatCoronadobeach.That was more than sixty

rings on the big bell rightoutside the office door. Andevery time we heard it,without exception, we knewwe’d lost anessentiallygoodguy. There weren’t any badguys who made it throughIndoc.And as the daysworeon and we heard that bellover and over, it became averymelancholysound.

Could I be standing thereoutside the office door, abrokenman,afewdaysfromnow? It was not impossible,because many of these menhad had no intention ofquitting a few hours or evenminutes before they did.Something just gave waydeepinsidethem.Theycouldnolongergoon,andtheyhadnoideawhy.Asknot forwhom thebell

tolls, Marcus. Because the

son-ofabitch might toll forthee. Or for any one of thesixty-oddothersstillstandingafter the brutal reality ofweek one, first phase. Everytime we crossed the grinder,we could see the evidenceright therebeforeour eyes, atotaloftwentyhelmetsontheground, lined up next to thebell. Each one of thosehelmetshadbeenownedbyafriend,oranacquaintance,orevenarival,butaguywhom

wehadsufferedalongside.That line of lonely hard

hatswasastarkremindernotonlyofwhat thisplacecoulddo to a man but also of thespecial private glory it couldbestow on those who wouldnot give in. It drove meonward. Every time I lookedatthatline,Igrittedmyteethand put some extra purposeintomy stride. I still felt thesameasIhadonmyveryfirstday. I’d rather die than

surrender.The third week of first

phase brought us into a newaspect of BUD/S training,calledrockportage.Thiswasdangerous and difficult, butbasicallywehadtopaddletheIBS along to an outcrop ofrocks opposite the world-famous Hotel del Coronadoandlanditthere.Idon’tmeanmoorit,Imeanlandit,getitupthereondrylandwith thesurf crashing all around you,

theoceanswelltryingtosuckthatboatrightbackoutagain.Ihadtofigureprettybigin

this because of my size andability to heave.But none ofmy crewwas quite ready forthis desperate test. It wassomething we just had tolearn how to do. And so wewent at it, paddling hard infrom the sea, driving intothosehugerocks,straightintowaves which were breakingeverywhichway.

The bow of our boatslammed into the rocks, andthe bowline man, not me,jumpedforwardandhungon,making the painter firmaroundhiswaist.Hisjobwastogetsecureandthenactlikeahumancapstanandstoptheboat being swept backward.Ourmanwasprettysharp;hejammed himself between acouple of big boulders andyelled back to us, “Bowlinemansecure!”

Werepeatedhiscalljustsoeveryone knew where theywere. But the boat was nowjammed bow-on against therocks. It had no rhythmwiththewavesandwasvulnerabletoeveryswellthatbrokeoverthe stern. In this staticposition, it cannot ride withthewaves.Our crew leader’s cries of

“Water!” were little help.Thesurfwascrashingstraightat us and then through the

boat and up and over therocks. We had on our lifejackets, but the smallestmanamongushadtohopoverthebow, carry out all of thepaddles, and get them safelyontodryground.Then we all had to

disembark, one by one,clambering onto the rocks,with the poor old bowlineman hanging on for his life,jammed between the rockswith the boat still lashed to

historso.Bynowwewereallontherope,tryingtograbthehandles,butthebowlinemanhad to move first, headingupward into a new position,with us now taking theweight.He set off. Bowline man

moving!Ihauledassdownintheengineroom,pullingwithall my strength. A waveslammed into the boat andnearly took us all into thewater,butwehungtough.

Bowline man secure! Andthen we gave it everything,knowing our crewmate couldnot come catapultingbackward right into us.Somehow we heaved thatbaby onward and upward,dragged it clean out of thePacific, cheated the GrimReaper, and manhandled itrightup thereonto the rocks,highanddry.“Too slow,” said our

instructor. And then he went

into a litany of details as towhat we’d done wrong. Toolong in the opening stages,bowline man not quickenoughuptherocks,toolongon the initial pulls, too longbeingbatteredbythewaves.He ordered us onto the

sandwiththeboat,gaveusaset of twenty push-ups, thenordered us straight back theway we’d come — up andover the rocks, boat into thewater, bowline man making

ussecurewhilewedamnneardrowned...get in, get going,shut up and paddle. Simplereally.That first month ended

much like it had begun,withasoakingwet,cold,tired,anddepleted class. At theconclusionofthefourweeks,the instructors made someharshdecisions,assessingtheweakestamongus,guyswhohad failed the tests, perhapsone test, maybe two. They

looked hard at verydetermined young men whowouldratherdiethanquitbutsimply could not swim wellenough, run fast enough, liftheavy enough, guys wholackedendurance,underwaterconfidence,skillsinaboat.These were the hardest to

dismiss from the program,becausethesewereguyswhohadgiventheirallandwouldgo on doing so. They justlacked some form of God-

given talent to carry out thework of a U.S. Navy SEAL.Years later I knew severalinstructors quite well, andthey all said the same aboutthat fourth week first phaseassessment, the week beforeHell Week — “We allagonized over it. No onewantstobeinthebusinessofbreakingakid’sheart.”But neither could they

allow the weak and thehopeless to go forward into

themostdemandingsixdaysof training in any fightingforceintheworld.That’snotthe free world, by the way,that’s thewholeworld.OnlyGreat Britain’s legendarySAS has anything evencomparable.The results of the four-

weekassessmentmeant therewerejustfifty-fourofusleft;fifty-four of the ninety-eightwho had started first phase.And Class 226 would start

early, as all Hell Weekclassesdo,Sundayatnoon.Late that last Friday, we

assembledintheclassroomtobe formally addressed oncemore by Captain Maguire,who was accompanied byseveral instructors and classofficers.“Everyone ready for Hell

Week?” he asked uscheerfully.Hooyah!“Excellent,” he replied.

“Because you are about toexperience a very searchingandpainful test.Each one ofyouisgoingtofindoutwhatyou are really made of. Andevery step of the way, youwill be faced with a choice.Do I give in to the pain andthecold,ordoIgoon?Itwillalwaysbeup toyou.There’sno quotas, no numbers. Wedon’tdecidewhopasses.Youdo.ButI’llbethereonFridaywhenHellWeek ends, and I

hope to shake the hand ofeachandeveryoneofyou.”We all stood in some awe

for the exit of CaptainMaguire, the quintessentialCoronado man, whounderstood the pride ofachievement athaving scaledthe heights and who knewwhat really counted, in theSEALs and beyond. He wastheeverlastingchief.Theybriefedusaboutwhat

to bring to class on Sunday

— our gear, equipment,change of clothes, dryclothes, and some off-dutyclothes, which would beplaced in a paper bag so thesuccessful guys would havesomething to wear when itwasallover.GuyswhowentDOR (dropped on request)would also have dry clothesavailable anytime during theweek when they prepared toleave.Ourinstructortoldustoeat

plenty, right through theweekend, but not to worryabout sleep gear on Sundayafternoon, duringwhich timewe would be incarcerated intheclassroom.“You’llbetookeyedup to sleep,”he addedbrightly. “So just get in hereandrelax,watchmovies,andgetready.”On the notice board was

the official doctrine of theU.S.NavySEALs,weekfive,first phase: “Students will

demonstrate the qualities andpersonal characteristics ofdetermination, courage, self-sacrifice, teamwork,leadership, and a never-quitattitude, under adverseenvironmental conditions,fatigue, and stress through-outHellWeek.”That’slayingitontheline,

right? Almost. Hell Weekturned out to be a lot worsethanthat.We spent the weekend

organizing ourselves, andweassembledintheclassroomatnoon on Sunday, July 18.Two dozen in-structors fromall over the compound, guyswe’d never evenmet before,were in attendance. It takesthat many to get a classthrough Hell Week, plusattendingmedics and supportand logistics guys. I guessyouneedafullstafftomarchmen into the ultimatephysical tests of the navy’s

warriorelite.This is known as the Hell

Week Lockdown. No oneleaves; we sit and wait allafternoon; we have ourseabags; and the paper bagswithourdryclothesarelinedup, our nameswritten on theoutsideinblackmarker.Theyserveduspizza,awholestackofit,inthelateafternoon.And outside you could

sense it was quiet. No onepassed by, no patrols, no

wanderingstudents.Everyoneon the base knew that HellWeek for 226 was about tobegin. It was not exactlyrespect for the dead, but IguessyouunderstandbynowmoreorlesswhatImean.Irememberhowhotitwas,

must have been ninetydegreesintheroom.We’dallbeen goofing off, wearingSunday casuals most of theday, and we all knewsomething was going to

happen as the evening woreon.Somemoviewasrunning,and the hours ticked by.There was an atmosphere ofheightened tension as wewaitedforthestarter’spistol.Hell Week begins with afrenzy of activity known asBreakout.Andwhen it camefor us, therewere a lotmoregunsthanthestarter’s.I can’t remember the

precise time, but it was after2030 and before 2100.

Suddenly there was a loudshout, and someone literallykicked open the side door.Bam! And a guy carrying amachine gun, followed bytwoothers,camechargingin,firingfromthehip.Thelightswent off, and then all threegunmenopenedfire,sprayingtheroomwithbullets(blanks,Ihoped).There were piercing blasts

from whistles, and the otherdoor was kicked open and

three more men camecrashing into the room. Theonly thing we knew for sureright now was when thewhistles blew, we hit thefloorandtookupadefensiveposition, prostrate, legscrossed,earscoveredwiththepalmsofthehands.Hitthedeck!Headsdown!

Incoming!Thenanewvoice,loudand

stentorian. It was pitch darksave for the nonstop flashes

of themachine guns, but thevoice sounded a lot likeInstructor Mruk’s to me —“Welcome to hell,gentlemen.”For the next couple of

minutestherewasnothingbutgunfire, deafening gunfire.They were certainly blanks,otherwise half of us wouldhave been dead, but believeme,theysoundedjustlikethereal thing, SEAL instructorsfiringourM43s.Theshouting

wasdrownedbythewhistles,and everything was drownedbythegunfire.Bynowtheairintheroom

was awful, hanging with thesmell of cordite, lit only bythemuzzleflashes.Ikeptmyhead well down on the floorasthegunmenmovedamongus, taking care not to let hotspent cartridges land on ourskin.I senseda lull.And thena

roar, plainly meant for

everyone. “All of you, out!Move, you guys! Move!Move!Move!Let’sgo!”I struggled tomy feet and

joined the stampede to thedoor. We rushed out to thegrinder,whereitwasabsolutebedlam. More gunfire,endless yelling, and then,again, thewhistles, and oncemore we all hit the deck inthecorrectposition.Inbarrelsaround the grinder’s edge,artillery simulators blasted

away. I didn’t know whereCaptain Maguire was, but ifhe’d been here he’d havethoughthewasback insomeforeign battle zone. At least,if he’d shut his eyes, hewouldhave.Then the instructors

openedfireforreal,thistimewith high-pressure hosesaimedstraightatus,knockingusdownifwetriedtogetup.The place was awash withwater, andwe couldn’t see a

thing and we couldn’t hearanything above the small-armsandartilleryfire.Battlefield whistle drills

were conducted in the midstof high-pressure water jets,total chaos, deafeningexplosions, and shoutinginstructors...“Crawl to thewhistle, men! Crawl to thewhistle! And keep yourgoddamnedheadsdown!”Some of the guys were

suffering from mass

confusion.Oneof’emranforhis life, straight over thebeachand into theocean.HewasaguyIknewreallywell,and he’d lost it completely.This was a simulated scenefrom theNormandy beaches,and it did induceadegreeofpanic, because no one knewwhat was happening or whatweweresupposedtobedoingbesideshittingthedeck.The instructors knew this.

They understoodmany of us

would be at a low ebb. Notme. I’m always up for thiskind of stuff, and anyway Iknew they weren’t reallytrying to kill us. But theinstructors understood thiswould not be true ofeveryone, and they movedamong us, imploring us toquitnowwhiletherewasstilltime.“All you gotta do is ring

thatlittlebellupthere.”Lyingthereinthedarkand

confusion, freezing cold,soaked to the skin, scared tostand up, I told one of themhe could stick that little bellstraight up his ass, and Iheardaloudroaroflaughter.ButIneversaiditagain,andIneverletonitwasme.Untilnow, that is. See that? Evenin the chaos, I could stillmanagethesmart-assremark.Bynowwewereinastate

of maximum disorientation,just trying to stay on the

grinder with the others. Theteamworkmantrahadsetin.Ididn’twanttobebymyself.Iwantedtobewithmysoakingwet teammates,whatever thehellitwasweweresupposedtobedoing.Then I heard a voice

announcing we were a manshort. Then I heard anothervoice,sharpanddemanding.Idon’tknowwhoitwas,butitwas close to me and itsounded like the Biggest

Bossman, Joe Maguire, witha lot of authority. “What doyoumean?Amanshort?Getacountrightnow.”Theyorderedustoourfeet

instantly, andwecountedoffonebyone,stoppingatfifty-three.We were a man short.Holy shit! That’s bad, andvery serious. Even Iunderstood that.A partywasdispatchedimmediatelytothebeach, and that’s where theyfound the missing trainee,

splashing around out in thesurf.Someone reported back to

the grinder. And I heard ourinstructorsnap,“Send’emallinto the surf.We’ll sort ’emout later.” And off we wentagain, running hard to thebeach,awayfromthegunfire,away from this madhouse,into the freezing Pacific inwhat felt like the middle ofthe night. As so often, wewere too wet to worry, too

coldtocare.But when we were finally

summoned out of the surf,something new happened.The whistles began blastingagain,andthismeantwehadto crawl toward the whistlesall over again, but this timenot on the smooth blacktop.Thistimeonthesoftsand.Inmomentswelookedlike

sand beetles groping aroundthe dunes. The whistles keptblowing, oneblast, then two,

and we kept right oncrawling, and by now myelbows were really gettinghot and sore, and my kneeswere not doing that greateither.Allfourjointsfeltred-raw.ButIkeptmoving.Thenthe instructors ordered usback into the surf, deep, sowecouldstaythereforfifteenminutes, maximumimmersion time in waterhovering just under sixtydegrees.Welinkedarmsuntil

wewereorderedout tomorewhistlesandmorecrawling.Then theysentusdown to

the surf for flutter kicks,heads in the waves. Thenmore whistles, morecrawling, and back into thewater for another fifteenminutes. Right next to me,one of the top guys in theclass, an officer and a boat-crew leader, great runner,good swimmer, quitunconditionally.

This was a real shaker.Another officer in his crewwent running up the beachafter him, imploring him notto go, telling the attendinginstructor, on his behalf, theguy did notmean it.No, sir.The instructor gave himanother chance, told him itwasn’t too late and if hewishedhecouldgorightbackintothewater.But the man’s mind was

made up, closed to all

entreaties. He kept walking,andtheinstructor toldhimtoget in the truck right next totheambulance.Thenheaskedtheguydoing thepleading ifhewantedtoquittoo,andweall heard the sharp“Negative,” and we saw theguyrunninglikeascaldedcatdown the beach to join us inthewater.Thetemperatureseemedto

grow colder as we joggedaround in the freezing surf.

Andfinallytheycalledusoutand the whistles blew again.We all dived back onto thesand. Crawl-ing, itching, andburning. Five guys quitinstantly andwere sentup tothe truck. Ididn’tunderstandany of that, because we haddone this before. It was bad,but not that bad, forchris’sakes. I guess thoseguys were just thinkingahead, dreading theforthcomingfivedaysofHell

Week, the precise wayCaptainMa-guirehadtoldusnotto.Anyway, right now we

were ordered to grab theboatsandgettheminthesurf,which we did without muchtrouble. But they made uspaddlehundredsofyards,digandrow,liftandcarry,dumpboatandrightboat,swimtheboat, walk the boat, run theboat, crawl, live, die. Wewere so exhausted it didn’t

matter. We hardly knewwhere we were. We justfloundered on with bloodyknees and elbows until theyorderedusoutofthewater.I think it was just before

midnight, but it could havebeenChristmasmorning.WeswitchedtologPTinthesurf.No piece of wood in all ofhistory, except possibly themassive wooden Crosscarried to Calvary by JesusChrist,waseverheavier than

our eight-foot hunk of woodthat we manhandled in thePacific surf. After all of ourexertions, it was a purebackbreaker.Threemoremenquit.Then the instructors came

up with something new andimproved. They made uscarry the boats over the O-course and manhandle themover the goddamnedobstacles. Another man quit.Weweredowntoforty-six.

Right then we switched torock portage and chargedback down the beach to getthe IBS into the water. Wecrashed through the lightincoming waves likeprofessionals and paddledlike hell, using the remnantsof our strength, to the rocksopposite the Hotel delCoronado. My swim buddy,Matt McGraw, was callingtheshotsinourboatbynow,and we drove forward,

crashed straight into therocks, and the bowline manleaped for his life andgrabbedontothepainter.Westeadied the boat with theoars, and I thought we weredoingrealgood.Suddenly the instructor,

standingupon the topof therocks right there at damnednear two o’clock in themorning, bellowed at ourcrew officer,“You! You, sir.You just killed your entire

squad! Stop getting betweentheboatandtherocks!”Wehauled the boat out of

thewater,overtherocks,andonto the sand. The instructorgaveus two setsofpush-upsand sentusback thewaywecame. Twice more weassaulted the rocks, slowlyand clumsily, I suppose, andthe instructor never stoppedyelling his freakin’ head offatus.Intheendwehadtorunthe boat back along the

beach, drop it, and get rightback into the surf for flutterkicks with heads andshoulders in the water, thenpush-upsinthesurf.Thensit-ups.Twomoremenquit.These DORs happened

right next to me. And Idistinctlyheard the instructorgive them another chance,askingthemiftheywantedtoreconsider. If so, they werewelcome to press on and getbackinthewater.

Oneofthemwavered.Saidhe might, if the other guywouldjoinhim.Buttheotherguy wasn’t having it. “I’mdonewith this shit,” he said,“andI’mouttahere.”They both quit together.

Andtheinstructorlookedlikehe could not give a flyingfuck.Ilaterlearnedthatwhena man quits and is givenanother chance and takes it,he never makes it through.All the instructorsknowthat.

If the thoughtofDORentersa man’s head, he is not aNavySEAL.I guess that element of

doubt forever pollutes hismind.Andpuffing,sweating,and steaming down there onthatbeachonthefirstnightofHellWeek,Iunderstoodit.I understood it, because

thatthoughtcouldneverhaveoccurredtome.Notwhilethesun still rises in the east.Allthe pain in Coronado could

not have inserted that poisoninto my mind. I might havepassedout,hadaheartattack,or been shot before a firingsquad. But I never wouldhavequit.Soon as the quitters had

gone,wewereputrightbacktowork.Liftingtheboatsintoaheadcarry for the runovertothechowhall,onlyanothermile.When Igot there Iwasas close to collapse as I’deverbeen.Buttheystillmade

uspush’emout,lifttheboat,to work up an appetite, Isuppose.Eventuallytheyfreedusto

getbreakfast.Wehadlosttenmen during the nine hoursthat had passed since HellWeekbegan;ninehourssincethose yelling, shootinggunmenhaddrivenClass226out of their classroom, ninehours sincewe had been dryandfeltmoreorlesshuman.Theywere nine hours that

had changed the lives andperceptions of those whocould stand it no more. Idoubt the rest of us wouldeverbequitethesameagain.Inside the chow hall some

of the guys were shell-shocked.Theyjustsatstaringat their plates, unable tofunction normally. I was notoneof them. I felt like Iwasontheedgeofstarvation,andI steamed into those eggs,toast, and sausages, relishing

the food, relishing thefreedom from the shouts andcommandsoftheinstructors.Just as well I made the

most of it. Sevenminutes onthe clock after I finishedmybreakfast, the new shift ofinstructors was up andyelling.“That’s it, children — up

and out of here. Let’s getgoing. Outside! Right now!Move! Move! Move! Let’sstartthedayright.”

Starttheday!Wasthisguyout of his mind? We werestill soaked, covered in sand,andwe’dbeenuphalfkillingourselvesallnight.Right then I knew for

certain: there was indeed nomercy in Hell Week.Everything we’d heard wastrue.You think you’re tough,kid?Thenyougorightaheadandproveittous.

5

LiketheRemnantsofaRavagedArmy

Wehelpedoneanotherbackoverthesanddunes,pickingupthosewhofell,supporting

thosewhocouldbarelywalk...ThebaptismoffirethathadreducedClass226bymorethanhalfwasover...Noonehadeverdreameditwouldbethisbad.

Welinedupoutsidethechowhall and hoisted the boatsonto our heads. It was nowapparent we would gonowhere without them. Asbankerscarrytheirbriefcases,

as fashion models walkaroundwith their photographportfolios, we travel aroundwith our boats on our heads.It’saHellWeekthing.I have to admit that after

the first straight thirty hours,my memory of those fivedays begins to grow a littlehazy. Not of the actualevents, but of the sequence.When you’re moving ontoward forty hours withoutsleep, themindstartsplaying

tricks, causing fleetingthoughts suddenly to becomereality. You jerk yourselfawakeandwonderwhere thehell you are and why yourmom, holding a big, juicyNew York sirloin, is notpulling the paddle right nexttoyou.It’s the forerunner to

outright hallucination. Kindof semi-hallucinations. Theystart slowly and getprogressively worse. Mind

you, the instructors do theirlevelbesttokeepyouawake.We were given fifteenminutes of hard physicaltraining both when wereached the chow hall andwhen we left. We were sentinto the surf fast and often.The water was freezing, andevery time we carried outboatdrills,racingthroughthebreakers with the fourremaining teams, we wereordered to dump boat, pull

thatsuckeroverontopofus,thenright it,getback in,andcarry on paddling to ourdestination.Therewardforthewinners

was always rest. That’s whywe all kept trying so hard.Same for the four-mile run,during which we got slower,times slipped below thethirty-two-minute standard,and the instructors feignedoutrageasiftheydidn’tknowwe were slowly being

battered to hell. By that firstMonday evening, we’d beenup for thirty-six hours plusandwerestillgoing.Most of us ate an early

dinner, looking like a groupof zombies. And rightafterward we were marchedoutside to await furtherorders. I remember that threeguys had just quit.Simultaneously.Whichputusdowntosixofficersoutoftheoriginaltwelve.

Judging by the one guy Iknew, I didn’t think any ofthe ones who quit were inmuch worse shape than theyhadbeentwelvehoursbefore.They might have been a bitmore tired, but we had donenothingnew,itwasallpartofour tried-and-tested routines.And in my view, they hadacted in total defiance of theadvice handed to us byCaptainMaguire.They weren’t completing

each task as it came, livingfortheday.Theyhadallowedthemselvestoliveindreadofthepainandanguishtocome.Andhe’d toldusnever todothat, just to take it hour byhour and forget the future.Keep going until you’resecured. You get a guy likethat, a legendary U.S. NavySEAL and war hero, I thinkyouought topayattention tohiswords.Heearnedtherightto say them, and he’s giving

youhisexperience.LikeBillyShelton told me, even themerestsuggestion.But we had no time to

mourn the departure offriends. The instructorsmarched us down to an areaknown as the steel pier,whichused tobe the trainingarea forSDVTeam1 beforetheydecampedforHawaii. Itwas dark now and the waterwas very cold, but theyorderedustojumpstraightin

andkeptustreadingwaterforfifteenminutes.Then they let us out back

onto dry land and gave us afierce period of calisthenics.Thiswarmedusabit.Butmyteeth were chattering almostuncontrollably, and they stillordered us straight back intothe water for another fifteenminutes, theverylimitof thetimewhenguysstarttosufferfrom hypothermia. That nextfifteen minutes were almost

scary.Iwassocold,IthoughtI might pass out. There wasan ambulance right there incasesomeonedid.ButIheldon.Sodidmost

of us, but another officerclimbedoutofthewaterearlyand quit. He was the bestswimmer in the class. Thiswas a stunningblow,both tohim and the rest of us. Theinstructor let him goimmediately and just carriedon counting off the minutes

the rest of us weresubmerged.Whenwewerefinallyback

onshore,Iwasnotreallyableto speak and neither wasanyoneelse,butwedidsomemore PT, and then theyorderedusbackintothewaterfor another period, I forgethow long. Maybe five, tenminutes.Buttimehadceasedto matter, and now theinstructors knew we wereright on the edge, and they

came around with mugs ofhot chicken broth. I wasshaking so much I couldhardlyholdthecup.But nothing ever tasted

better. I seem to remembersomeoneelsequit,buthell, Iwas almost out of it. Iwouldn’t have known ifCaptainMaguirehadquit.AllI knew was, there were halfas many still going as therehad been at the start of HellWeek.Thehourwasgrowing

later, and this thing was notover yet. We still had fiveboats in action, and theinstructors reshuffled thecrews and ordered us topaddleover toTurnersField,the eastern extension of thebase.There they made us run

around a long loop, carryingthe boat on our heads, andthen they made us racewithoutit.Thiswasfollowedbyanother longperiod in the

water,attheendofwhichthismember of the crew of boatone,atough-as-nailsTexan(Ithought), cracked up withwhat felt like appendicitis.Whatever it was, I wasabsolutely unreachable. Ididn’t even know my name,andIhadtobetakenawaybyambulanceandrevivedat themedicalcenter.When I regained

consciousness, I got straightout of bed and came back. I

would not discuss quitting. Iremember the instructorscongratulatingmeonmynewwarm, dry clothes and thensendingmestraightbackintothe surf. “Better get wet andsandy.Justincaseyouforgetwhatwe’redoinghere.”Startingataround0200,we

spent the rest of the nightrunningaround thebasewiththe goddamned boat on ourheads. They released us forbreakfast at 0500, and

TuesdayproceededmuchlikeMonday. No sleep, freezingcold, and tired to distraction.We completed a three-milepaddleuptoNorthIslandandback, at which time it waslate in the evening andwe’dbeen up for more than sixtyhours.Theinjurylistgrewlonger:

cuts,sprains,blisters,bruises,pulled muscles, and maybethreecasesofpneumonia.Weworked through the night,

making one long six-milepaddle, and reported forbreakfast again at 0500 onWednesday. We’d had nosleep for three days, but nooneelsequit.And all through the

morning we kept going,swim-paddle-swim, then arun along the beach. Wecarried the boat to chow atnoon,andthentheysentustogosleep.We’dhaveonehourand forty-fiveminutes in the

tent. We had thirty-six guysleft.Troublewas,someofthem

could not sleep. I was one.Themedicalstafftriedtohelpthewoundedgetbackintothefray. Tendons and hipsseemed to be the mainproblems, but guys neededmuscle-stretchingexercisestokeep themsupple for thedayahead.Thenewshiftofinstructors

turned up and started yelling

for everyone towake up andgetbackoutthere.Itwaslikestanding in the middle of agraveyardandtryingtowakethe dead. Slowly it dawnedon the sleepers: their worstnightmare was happening.Someone was driving themforwardagain.They ordered us into the

surf, and somehow we fell,crawled, or stumbled overthat sand dune and into thefreezingwater.Theygaveus

fifteenminutesofsurftorture,exercises in the waves, thenorderedusout and toldus tohoist the boats back on ourheads andmake the elephantwalktochow.They worked us all night,

in and out of the surf; theywalked us up and down thebeach for God knows howmanymiles. Finally, they letussleepagain.Iguess itwasabout 0400 on the Thursdaymorning. Against many

pessimistic forecasts, we allwokeupandcarriedtheboatsto breakfast. Then theyworked us without mercy,hadusracingtheboatsinthegigantic pool withoutpaddles, just hands, and thenswimming them, one crewagainsttheother.Wednesday had run into

Thursday,butwewereinthefinal stages of Hell Week,and before uswas the fabledaround-the-world paddle, the

lastofthemajorevolutionsofthe week. We boarded theboats at around1930 and setoff, rushing into the surf offthespecialwarfarecenterandpaddling right around thenorth end of the island andbackdownSanDiegoBaytothe amphibious base. Nonight in my experience haseverlastedlonger.Some of the guys really

were hallucinating now, andall three of the boats had a

systemwhereonecouldsleepwhile the others paddled. Icannot explain how tired wewere; every light looked likea building dead in our path,every thought turned intoreality. If you thought ofhome, likeIdid,youthoughtyouwererowingstraightintothe ranch. The only savinggracewas,weweredry.But one guy in our boat

was so close to breakdown,he simply toppled into the

water, still holding hispaddle, still stroking, kickingautomatically,andcontinuingto row the boat.We draggedhimout,andhedidnotseemto understand he’d just spentfive minutes in San DiegoBay. In the end, I think wewere all paddling in oursleep.After three hours, they

summoned us to shore formedical checks and gave ushot soup. After that we just

keptgoing,untilalmost0200on Friday, when they calledus in from the beach with abullhorn. No one will everforget that. One of thosebastards actually yelled,“Dumpboat!”Itwaslike takingakickat

a dying man. But we keptquiet. Not like an earlierresponsefromastudent,whohad earned everlastingnotoriety by yelling back themost insubordinate reply

anyonehadevergivenoneofthe instructors. Never mind“Hooyah, Instructor Pat-stone!” (Because TerryPatstone was normally asuper guy, always harsh butfair.) That particular half-crazed paddler bellowed,“Ass-h-o-o-ole!” It echoedacross themoonlitwater andwas greeted by a howl oflaughter from the night-shiftinstructors. They understood,andnevermentionedit.

So we crashed over theside of the boat into thefreezing water, flipped thehull over and then back,climbedbackin,soakingwet,ofcourse, andkeptpaddling.I lockedone thought intomybrain and kept it there:everyone else who everbecame a U.S. Navy SEALcompleted this, and that’swhatwe’regoingtodo.We finally hauled up on

our home beach at around

0500 on Friday. InstructorPatstoneknewwejustwantedtohoistboatsandgetover tothechowhall.Buthewasnothaving that. He made us liftand then lower. Then he hadus push ’em out, feet on theboat.Hekeptusonthebeachfor another half hour beforewe were loosed to make theelephantwalktobreakfast.Breakfastwas rushed. Just

a fewminutes, and then theyhadusrightoutofthere.And

the morning was filled withlongboatracesandaseriesofterribleworkoutsinthedemopits — that’s a scum-ladenseawaterslime,whichwehadto traverse on a couple ofropes, invariably fallingstraight in. To makeeverything worse, they kepttelling us it was Thursday,not Friday, and the entireexercisewasconductedunderbattle conditions —explosions, smoke, barbed

wire — while we werecrawling, falling into theslime.Finally,Mr. Burns sent us

into the surf, all the timetellingushowslowwewere,howmuchmore therewas toaccomplishthisday,andhowdeeplyheregrettedtherewasas yet no end in sight forClass 226. The water almostfroze us to death, but itcleanedusofffromtheslimepits, and after ten minutes,

ChiefTaylororderedusbacktothebeach.We now didn’t know

whether it was Thursday orFriday. Guys collapsed ontothe sand, others just stoodthere, betraying nothing butin dread of the next fewhours, too many of themwondering how they couldpossiblygoon.Includingme.Knees were buckling, jointsthrobbing. I don’t thinkanyone could stand up

withouthurting.Mr.Burnssteppedforward

and shouted, “Okay, guys,let’s get right on to the nextevolution.Atoughone,right?ButIthinkyou’reupforit.”We gave out the world’s

weakest hooyah. Hoarsevoices,disembodiedsounds.Ididn’t know who wasspeaking for me; it sure ashell sounded like someoneelse.Joe Burns nodded curtly

and said, “Actually, guys,there is no other evolution.All of you. Back to thegrinder.”No one believed him. But

Joe wouldn’t lie. He mightfoolaround,buthewouldnotlie. It slowly dawned on usthatHellWeekwasover.Wejust stood there, zonked outwith pure disbelief. AndLieutenant Ismay, who wasreally hurting, croaked, “Wemade it, guys. Sonofabitch.

Wemadeit.”I turned toMattMcGraw,

andIremembersaying,“Howthehelldidyougethere,kid?You’re supposed to be inschool.”ButMattwason theverge

of exhaustion. He just shookhis head and said, “ThankGod,thankGod,Marcus.”Iknowthissoundscrazyif

you haven’t gone throughwhat we went through. Butthis was an unforgettable

moment. Two guys fell totheir knees and wept. Thenwe all began to hug oneanother. Someone wassaying,“It’sover.”Like the remnants of a

ravagedarmy,wehelpedoneanother back over the sanddunes, picking up those whofell, supporting those whocould barely walk. Wereached the bus that wouldtake us back to base. Andthere, waiting for us, was

Captain Joe Maguire, theSEAL commanding officers,andtheseniorchiefs.Alsoinattendance was the ex-SEALgovernorofMinnesota, JesseVentura,whowould performthe official ceremony whenwereturnedtothegrinder.Butrightnow,allweknew

was the baptism of fire thathad reduced Class 226 bymore than half was over. Ithadn’t beaten thirty-two ofus. And now the torture was

completed. In our wildestimaginations,noonehadeverdreameditwouldbethisbad.Godhadgivenusjustice.Welineduponthatsacred

blacktop, and GovernorVentura formallypronouncedthe official words thatproclaimed we never had totackle another Hell Week:“Class Two-two-six, you’resecured.” We gave him arousing “Hooyah! GovernorVentura!”

Then Instructor Burnscalled us to order and said,“Gentlemen, for the rest ofyour lives there will besetbacks. But they won’taffectyouliketheywillaffectother people. Because youhave done something veryfew are ever called upon toachieve. This week will livewithyouforallofyourlives.Not one of you will everforget it. And it means onething above all else. If you

can takeHellWeekandbeatit,youcandoanydamnthingintheworld.”I can’t pretend the actual

words are accurate in mymemory.Butthesentimentisprecise. Those words signifyexactly what Instructor JoeBurnsmeant,andhowhesaidit.And it affected us all,

deeply. We raised our tiredvoices,andtheshoutsplitthenoontimeairabovethatbeach

inCoronado.“Hooyah, Instructor

Burns!” we bellowed. Anddidweevermeanit.The SEAL commanders

and chiefs stepped forwardand took each one of us bythe hand, saying,“Congratulations,” andoffering words ofencouragement about thefuture, telling us to be sureand contact their personalteamsoncewewerethrough.

Tell the truth, it was all abit of a blur for me. I can’treally recall who invited meto join what. But one thingremains very clear in mymind.Ishookthehandofthegreat SEAL warrior JoeMaguire, and he had awarmwordforme.And thusfar inmy life, there had been nogreaterhonorthanthat.

We probably devoured a

world-record amount of foodthat weekend. Appetitesreturnedand thenacceleratedas our stomachs grew moreused to big-sized meals. Westillhad threeweeks togo infirst phase, but nothingcompared to HellWeek.Wewereperfecting techniques inhydrology, learning tidelevels and demographics ofthe ocean floor. That’s realSEAL stuff, priceless to theMarines. While they’re

planning a landing, we’re inthere early, moving fast,checking out the place insecret, telling ’em what toexpect.Therewereonly thirty-two

membersoftheoriginalclassleft now, mostly because ofinjury or illness sustainedduringHellWeek.Butthey’dbeen joined by others,rollbacks from other classeswho’dbeenpermittedanothergo.

This applied to me,because I had been on anenforced break when I hadmy broken femur. And sowhen I rejoined for phasetwo, Iwas inClass 228.Webegan in the diving phase,conducted in the water,mostly under it. We learnedhow to use scuba tanks, howto dump them and get ’emback on again, how to swapthem over with a buddywithout coming to the

surface. This is difficult, butwehadtomasteritbeforewecould take the major poolcompetencytest.I failed my pool

competency, like awhole lotofothers.This test is a royalbastard. You swim down tothe bottom of the pool withtwin eighty-pound scubatanks on your back, a coupleof instructors harassing you.Youarenot allowed toput afoot down and kick to the

surface. If you do, you’vefailed,andthat’stheendofit.Firstthingtheseguysdois

rip off yourmask, then yourmouthpiece, and you have tohold your breath real quick.You fight to get themouthpiecebackin,thentheyunhook your airline intake,andyouhavetogetthatbackin real fast, groping aroundover your shoulder, behindyourback.Somehow you find

yourself able to breathe inpure oxygen, but the onlyway you can breathe out isthrough your nose. A lot ofguys find the cascade ofbubbles across their facesextremely disconcerting.Then the instructorsdisconnect your airlinecompletely and put a knot init. And you must try to getyour inhalation andexhalation lines reconnected.Ifyoudon’torcan’teventry,

you’re gone. You need agoodlungfulofairbeforethisstarts, then you need to feelyourwayblindtotheknotinthelinebehindyourbackandstart unraveling it. You canmoreorlesstellbythefeelifit’s going to be impossible,what the instructors call awhammy. Then you run theflatedgeofyourhandacrossyour throat and give theinstructor the thumbs-up.Thatmeans“I’mnevergoing

to get that knot undone,permission to go to thesurface.” At that point, theycease holding you down andletyougoup.Butyoubetterberightinyourassessmentofthatknot.In my case, I decided too

hastily that the knot in myline was impossible, gavethem the signal, ditched mytanks over my shoulder, andfloateduptothesurface.Butthe instructors decided the

knot was nothing likeimpossible and that I hadbailed out of a dangeroussituation.Failed.Ihadtogoandsitinaline

in front of the poolsidewall.It would have been a line ofshame, except there were somany of us. I was instructedto take the test again, and Ididnotmake themistake thesecond time. Undid thesonofabitch knot and passedpoolcomp.

Several of my longtimecomrades failed, and I feltquitesad.Exceptyoucan’tbea SEAL if you can’t keepyour nerve underwater. Asone of the instructors said tome that week, “See that guyin somekindof apanicoverthere? There’s confusionwritten all over him. Youmight have your life in hishands one day, Marcus, andwe cannot, will not, allowthattohappen.”

Pool comp is the hardestone of all to pass, justbecauseweallspentsomuchtime in the water and rightnowhadtoprovewehadthepotential to be true SEALs,guys towhom thewaterwasalwaysasanctuary.Itmustnotbeathreatoran

obstaclebutaplacewherewealonecouldsurvive.Someofthe instructors had knownmany of us for a long timeand desperatelywanted us to

pass.Buttheslightestsignofweakness in poolcompetency, and theywouldn’ttakethechance.Those of us who did stay

moved on to phase three.Witha few rollbackscomingin, we were twenty-one innumber.Itwaswinternowinthe Northern Hemisphere,early February, and weprepared for the hard slog ofthe land warfare course.That’swheretheyturnusinto

navycommandos.This is formally called

DemolitionsandTactics, andthe training is as strict andunrelenting as anything wehadsofarencountered.It’saknown fact that phase threeinstructorsare thefittestmenin Coronado, and it took uslittle time to find out why.Even the opening speech byour new proctor was edgedwithdirewarnings.His name was Instructor

Eric Hall, a veteran of sixSEAL combat platoons, andbefore we even started onFriday afternoon, he laid itright on the line. “We don’tput up with people who feelsorry for themselves. Anyproblems with drugs oralcohol,you’regone.There’sfour bars around here thatguys from the teamssometimesvisit.Staythehellout of all of ’em, hear me?Anyonelies,cheats,orsteals,

you’re done, because that’snot tolerated here. Just sowe’reclear,gentlemen.”He reminded us it was a

ten-week course and weweren’t that far fromgraduation.He tolduswherewe’d be. Five weeks righthere at the center, with daysatthelandnavigationtrainingareainLaPosta.Therewouldbe four days at CampPendleton on the shootingranges. That’s the 125,000-

acre Marine Corps basebetweenLosAngelesandSanDiego. We would finish atSan Clemente Island, knowntoSEALsastheRockandthemain site for more advancedshooting and tactics,demolitions, and fieldtraining.Eric Hall finished with a

characteristic flourish. “Givemeahundredandtenpercentatalltimes—anddon’tblowit by doing something

stupid.”Thus we went at it again

for another two and a halfmonths, heading first for thegroup one mountain trainingfacility, three thousand feetup in the rough, jaggedLaguna Mountains at LaPosta, eighty miles east ofSanDiego.That’swheretheytaughtusstealth,camouflage,and patrolling, the essentialfield craft of the commando.The terrainwas really rough,

hard to climb, steep, anddemanding. Sometimes wedidn’t make it back tobarracks at night and had tosleep outside in the wildcountry.They taught us how to

navigateacross the landwithmaps and compass. At theend of the week, we allpassed the basic courses,three-mile journeysconducted in pairs across themountains. Then we headed

back to the center to prepareforCampPen-dle-ton,wherewe would undergo our firstintensive courses inweaponry.Notimewaslost.Wewere

out there with submachineguns, rifles, and pistols,training for the not-too-distant days when we wouldgo into combat armed withthe M4 rifle, the principalSEALweaponofwar.Firstthingwassafety.And

we all had to learn by heartthefourcriticalrules:

1.Considerallweaponstobeloadedatalltimes.

2. Never point a weapon atanything you do not want toputabulletthrough.

3. Never put your finger onthetriggerunlessyouwanttoshoot.

4. Know your target andwhat’sbehindit.They kept us out on the

shooting range for hours. Inbetween times we had todismantle and assemblemachinegunsandtheM4,allunder the eyes of instructorswho timed us withstopwatches. And the brutalregime of fitness neverwavered. It was harder thansecond phase, because now

wehadtoruncarryingheavypacks,ammunition,andguns.We also had a couple of

weeks at the center to studyhigh explosives anddemolition. This mostlyinvolved straightforwardTNTandplastic,withvariousfiring assemblies. Thepracticalworkhappenedonlyon the island of SanClemente.Andbeforewegotto do that, we had anotherrigorous training schedule to

complete, including onefourteen-mile run along thebeachandback.Thiswas the first timewe

had run any race withoutbeing wet and probablysandy. Just imagine, dryshortsandrunningshoes.Wefloated along, not a care intheworld.It was mid-March before

we decamped to SanClemente for four weeks oftraining, long hours, seven

days a week until wefinished. This ruggedmoonscape of an island issituated off the Californiacoast,sixtymileswestofSanDiego, across the Gulf ofSantaCatalina.For almost fifty years, the

U.S. Navy has been incommand here, using theplaceasanextensivetrainingarea. There are no civilians,but parts of the island are animportant wildlife sanctuary.

There are lots of rare birdsandCaliforniasea lions,whodon’t seem to care aboutviolentexplosions,shells,andnaval air landings.Up in thenortheast, right on the coast,youfindSEALs.And there we learned the

rudimentsoffastandaccuratecombat shooting, the swiftchanging of magazines,expert marksmanship. Wewereintroducedtothedeadlyseriousbusinessofassaulting

anenemypositionandtaughthow to lay down coveringfire. Slowly, then faster, firstin daylight, then through thenight. We were schooled inall the aspects of modernwarfare we would one dayneed in Iraq or Afghanistan— ambushes, structuresearches, handling prisoners,planning raids.This iswherewegotdowntoalltheserioustechniquesofreconnaissance.We moved on to really

heavy demolition, setting offchargesonagrandscale,thenhand grenades, then rockets,and generally causing majorexplosions and practicinguntil we demonstrated amodicumofexpertise.Our field training tasks

were tough, combat missionsimulations. We paddled theboatstowithinafewhundredyards of the shore anddropped anchor. From thatholding area, we sent in the

scout recon guys,who swamto the beach, checked theplace out, and signaled theboatstobringusin.Thiswasstrict OTB (over the beach),andwe hit the sand running,burrowing into hides justbeyond the high-water mark.This is where SEALs aretraditionally at their mostvulnerable, and theinstructors watch like hawksfor mistakes, signs that willbetraythesquad.

We practiced these beachlandings all through thenights, fighting our way outof thewaterwithfullcombatgearandweapons.Andattheendofthefourthweekweallpassed, every one of thetwenty trainees who hadarrived on the island. Wewould all graduate fromBUD/S.I asked one of our

instructors if this was in anyway unusual. His reply was

simple. “Marcus,” he said,“when you’re training thebest of the best, nothing’sunusual. And all the BUD/Sinstructorswanttheverybestforyou.”They gave us a couple of

weeks’leaveaftergraduation,and thereafter for me it washigh-density education. FirstjumpschoolatFortBenning,Georgia, where they turnedmeintoaparatrooper.Ispentthree weeks jumping out of

towers and then out of a C-130,fromwhichweallhadtomakefivejumps.That aircraft is a hell of a

noisy place, and the firstjump can be a bit unnerving.Butthepersoninfrontofmewas a girl from West Point,andshedivedoutofthatdoorlike Superwoman. Irememberthinking,Christ! Ifshe can do it, I’m definitelygonna do it, and I launchedmyself into the clear skies

aboveFortBenning.Next stop for me was the

Eighteenth Delta Forcemedical program, conductedat Fort Bragg, NorthCarolina. That’s where theyturned me into a battlefielddoctor.Isupposeitwasmorelike a paramedic, but thelearning curve was huge:medicine, in-jections, IVtraining, chest tubes, combattrauma, wounds, burns,stitches,morphine.Itcovered

just about everything awounded warrior might needunder battle conditions. Onthe first day I had tomemorize 315 examples ofmedical terminology. Andtheynever took their footoffthe high-disciplineaccelerator. Here I was,working all day and half thenight, and there was still aninstructor telling me to getwetandsandyduringtrainingruns.

Iwent straight fromNorthCarolina to SEALqualification training, threemoremonthsofhardlaborinCoronado, diving, parachutejumping, shooting,explosives, detonation, along, intensive recap ofeverything I had learned.Rightafterthat,Iwassenttojoin the SDV school(submarines)atPanamaCity,Florida. I was there on 9/11,and little did I realize the

massive impact those terribleevents in New York Citywouldhaveonmyownlife.I remember the pure

indignation we all felt.Someone had just attackedtheUnitedStatesofAmerica,the beloved countryweweresworntodefend.Wewatchedthe television with mountingfury, the fury of young,inexperienced, but supremelyfit andhighly trainedcombattroopswhocouldnotwait to

getat theenemy.Wewishedwe could get at Osama binLaden’s al Qaeda mob inIraq, Iran, Afghanistan, orwherever the hell theselunatics lived.But be carefulwhatyouwishfor.Youmightgetit.AlotofguyspassedSEAL

qualification training andreceived their Tridents onWednesday afternoon,November 7, 2001. Theypinned it right on in a short

ceremony out there on thegrinder. You could see itmeant all the world to thegraduates.Therewere in factonly around thirty left fromthe original 180 who hadsigned up on that long-agofirstdayofIndoc.Formyself,because of variouseducational commitments, Ihad towait until January 31,2002,formyTrident.But the training never

stopped. Right after I

formally joined what ourcommanders call thebrotherhood, I went tocommunication school tostudy and learn satellitecomms, high-frequency radiolinks, antenna wavelengthprobability, in-depthcomputers,globalpositioningsystems,andtherest.Then I went to Sniper

School back at CampPendleton, where,unsurprisingly, they made

sure you could shoot straightbeforeyoudidanythingelse.This entailed two very toughexamsinvolvingtheM4rifle;the SR-25 semiautomaticsniper rifle, accurate to ninehundredyards;andtheheavy,powerful 300WinMag bolt-action .308-caliber rifle.Youneeded to be expert with allof themifyouwereplanningtobeaNavySEALsniper.Then the real test started,

theultimateexaminationofa

man’s ability to movestealthily, unseen andundetected, across rough,enemy-heldgroundwheretheslightestmistakemightmeaninstant death or, worse,lettingyourteamdown.Our instructor was a

veteran of the first wave ofU.S. troopswhohad gone inafterOsama.HewasBrendanWebb, a terrific man.Stalking was his game, andhis standards were so high

they would have made anApache scout gasp.Workingright alongside himwas EricDavis,anotherbrilliantSEALsniper, who was completelyruthlessinhisexaminationofour abilities to stayconcealed.The final “battleground”

was a vast area out near theborder of Pendleton. Therewas not much vegetation,mostly low, flat bushes, butthe rough rocks-boulders-

and-shale terrain was full ofundulations, valleys, andgullies. Trees, the sniper’snearest and dearest friends,were damn sparse, obviouslybydesign.Before they let uslooseinthisbarren,dustyno-man’s-land,theysubjectedusto long lectures stressing theimportance of payingattentiontoeverydetail.Theyretaughtus thenoble

art of camouflage, thebrownandgreencreams,thewayto

arrangebranches inyourhat,thedangersofagustofwind,which might ruffle yourbranches alone if theyweren’t set tight, betrayingyour position. We practicedall the hours Godmade, andthentheysentusoutontotherange.It’savastsweepofground,

and the instructors survey itfrom a high platform. Ourstalk began a thousand yardsfrom that platform, upon

which the gimlet-eyedWebbandDavisstood,scanningtheacres like apair of revolvingradars.The ideawas togetwithin

two hundred yards of themand then fire through thecrosshairs at the target. Wehadpracticeddoingthisaloneand with a partner, and boy,does this ever teach youpatience. It can take hoursjusttomoveafewyards,butiftheinstructorscatchyouas

they sweep the area withhigh-poweredbinoculars,youfailthecourse.For the final test I was

working with a partner, andthis meant we both had tostay well concealed. In theend, he finds the range andcallstheshot,andIadheretohis command. At this stagethe instructors have installedwalkers all over the place,and they’re communicatingbyradioswiththeplatform.If

the walker gets within twostepsofyou,you’vefailed.Even if you get your shot

offunseenand hit the target,if they find you afterward,you still fail. It’s a hard,tough, thinking man’s game,and the test is exhaustive. Intraining, an instructor standsbehind both of you whileyou’recrossing theforbiddenground. They’re writing aconstant critique, observing,for example, that my spotter

hasmadeawrongcall,eitherincorrect distance ordirection. If I thenmisswiththe shot, they know themistake was not mine. Asever, you must operate as ateam. The instructor knowsfullwellyoucannotposition,aim,andfiretheriflewithouta spotter calling down therange,andJesus,hebetterberight.There was just one day

during training where they

walked on me, which Ithought was pretty damnednervy. But it taught mesomething.Our enemy had adamn good idea where wemight head before we evenstarted, a kind of instinctbased on long experience ofrookie snipers looking forcover. They had me in theirsights before I even gotmoving, because they knewwhere to look, the highestprobabilityarea.

That’salifetimelessonforthe sniper: never, ever gowhere your enemy mightexpect you to be. My onlysolaceonthatruefuloccasionwas that the instructorswalkedoneverysingleoneofusthatday.Inthefinaltest,Ifacedthat

thousand-yard barren desertonce again and began myjourney, wriggling andscuffling through the dustyground,my head well down,

camouflage branches firm inmy hat, groveling my waybetween theboulders. It tookmehourstomakethehalfwaypointandevenlongertoeasemy way over the last threehundred yards to my chosenspot for the shot. I was notseen, and I moved deadslowly through the rocks,from gully to gully, stayinglow,pressingintotheground.When I arrived at my finalpoint, I scuffled together a

little hide of dirt and sticks,and tucked down behind it,my rifle carefully aimed. Isqueezed the trigger slowlyanddeliberately,andmyshotpinged into the metal target,rightinthemiddle.Ifthathadbeenaman’shead,he’dhavebeenhistory.Isawtheinstructorsswing

around and start looking forthe place my shot had comefrom. But they wereobviouslyguessing. Ipressed

my face into the dirt andnever moved an inch for ahalf hour. Then I made myslow and careful retreat, stilllying flat, disturbing not atwignorarock.Anunknownmarksman, just the way welikeit.It had taken threemonths,

and I passed Sniper Schoolwithexcellentmarks.SEALsdon’tlookforpersonalcredit,andthusIcannotsaywhotheclassvotedtheirHonorMan.

The last major school Iattendedwasjoint tacticalaircontrol. It lasted one month,out in the Fallon NavalAirbase,Nevada.Theytaughtus the basics of airborneordnance, five-hundred-pound bombs and missiles,what they can hit and whattheycan’t.Wealsolearnedtocommunicate directly withaircraft from the ground —getting them to see what wecan see, relaying information

through the satellites to thecontrollers.I realize it has taken me

some time to explainpreciselywhataNavySEALisandwhatittakestobeone.But as we are always told,youhave toearn thatTridentevery day. We never stoplearning, never stop training.TostatethatamanisaNavySEAL communicates about aten thousandth of what itreallymeans.Itwouldbeasif

General Dwight D.Eisenhower mentioned he’donceservedinthearmy.Butnowyouknow:whatit

took, what it meant to all ofus,and,perhaps,whywedidit. Okay, okay, we do haveour own little brand ofarrogance. But we paid forevery last drop of that sin insweat, blood, and brutallyhardwork.Because above all, we’re

patriots. We will willingly

carry the fight to whoevermay be the enemies of theUnited States of America.We’re your front line,unafraid and ready to go inagainst al Qaeda, jihadists,terrorists,orwhoeverthehellelsethreatensthisnation.Every Navy SEAL is

supremelyconfident,becausewe’re indoctrinated with abeliefinvictoryatallcosts;aconviction that no earthlyforce can withstand our

thunderous assault on thebattlefield. We’re invincible,right? Unstoppable. That’swhat Ibelieved to thedepthsof my spirit on the day theypinned the Trident on mychest. I still believe it.And Ialwayswill.

6

’Bye,Dudes,Give’EmHell

Thefinalcallcame—“Redwingisago!”Thelandingcontrollerwascallingtheshots...“One

minute...Thirtyseconds!...Let’sgo!”Therampwasdown...thegunnerwasreadywiththeM60machinegun...Nomoon...Dannywentfirst,outintothedark.

Asdaybrokeoverthemightysprawl of the U.S. base atBagram in Afghanistan onthatmorning inMarch 2005,we checked into our bee hut

and slept for a few hoursbefore attending a generalbriefing. Dan Healy, Shane,James,Axe,Mikey,andI,thenewarrivalsfromSDVTeam1, were immediatelyseconded to SEAL Team 10out of Virginia Beach, ledright now by the teak-hardLieutenant Commander EricKristensen,standinginfortheabsentCO,whowasondutyelsewhere.Eric was funny as hell,

always one of the boys, somuch so it might haveimpededhisprogressthroughthe higher ranks in lateryears. These days 75 percentof all SEALs have collegedegrees,andthelinebetweenofficers and enlisted men ismoreblurred than ithaseverbeen.ButEricwasthirty-twoand the son of an admiralfrom Virginia. Despite hissenseofhumorandhisoftenwry look at higher authority,

he was a very fine SEALcommander, and he presidedover one of the best fightingplatoons in the entire U.S.Navy. Team 10 wasbrilliantlytrainedforthekindof warfare we were nowentering. LieutenantCommanderKristensenhadacouple of right-hand men,Luke Newbold and MasterChief Walters, very specialguys. I canonly say itwasapleasuretoworkwiththem.

Our briefing, likeeverything associated withTeam10,wastopoftheline,a kind of grim educationallecture on what washappening up on thenorthwest frontier, whichdivides Afghanistan andPakistan. The steep, stonymountaincrevassesandcliffs,dust-colored, sinister places,were now alive with theburgeoning armies of theTaliban. Angry, resentful

men,regroupingallalongtheunmarked high border,preparing to take back theholy Muslim country theybelieved the infidelAmericans had stolen fromthemand thenpresented to anew,electedgovernment.Up there, complex paths

emerge and then disappearbehind huge boulders androcks. Every footstep thatdislodges anything, a smallrock, a pile of shale, seems

like it might cause anearthshaking avalanche.Stealth,weweretold,mustbeour watchword on the high,quiet slopes of the HinduKush.Thesepaths, troddendown

for centuries by warringtribesmen, were the veryroutes taken by the defeatedTalibanandalQaedaafterthewithering U.S. bombardmenthad all but annihilated themin 2001. We would find out

allaboutthemsoonenough.Within literally hours, we

began our first mission. Noone regarded us as rookies;we were all fully trainedSEALs, ready for action,ready to get up there intothose mountain passes andhelp slow the tide of armedwarrior tribesmen movingback across the border fromPakistan.We flew by helicopter up

into those passes, into the

hillsaboveadeepvalley.Wearrived, maybe twenty of us,including Dan, Shane, Axe,and Mikey, and fanned outaround the mountain. Axe,Mikey, and James Suh (callsign Irish One) werepositioned about one and ahalfmiles fromChiefHealy,Shane,andme(callsignIrishThree).Thiswasaborderhotspot,

wheremultipleTaliban troopmovementsweretakingplace

on a weekly, or even daily,basis.WeexpectedtoobservetheTalibanwaybelowusonthat narrow, treacherous paththrough the mountains,moving along with theirswaying camels, many ofthem loaded up withexplosives, grenades, andGodknowswhatelse.I was walking with great

caution. We had all beenwarned these gloweringAfghanistan tribesmenwould

fight, andnoneof themwerelikely tobepushovers. I alsoknew that one false step, adislodged rock, howeversmall, would betray ourpositions. Those tribesmenhad lived up here forcenturies, and they had eyeslike falcons. If they heard usor saw us, theywould attackimmediately. Our highcommandhadleftnodoubtinour minds. This wasdangerous stuff, but we had

to stop the influx of armedterrorists.Carefully I moved along

the ridge, occasionallystoppingtoscanthemountainpass with my binos. I waswalking silently. Everythingwas clear in my mind. If atroop of wild tribesmenwithcamels and missiles camerolling into the pass, I mustinstantly whistle upreinforcements on the radio.If it was a lesser force,

somethingwecoulddealwithright here, we’d swoop andtry tocapture the leadersandtake care of the rest bywhatever means werenecessary.Anyway, I continued my

silent patrol, hunkered downbehind a couple of hugeboulders, and again scannedthe pass. Nothing. I steppedout once more, into steep,barren, open country, andbelow me I suddenly saw

three armed Afghanistantribesmen. My brain raced.There was seventy yardsbetweenmeandShane.Do Iopenfire?Howmanymoreofthemwerethere?Too late.Theyopened fire

first, shooting uphill, and avolley of bullets from theirAK-47s slammed into therocksall aroundme. Ihurledmyselfbackbehindtherocks,knowing Shane must haveheard something. Then I

steppedout and let ’emhaveit. I saw them retreat intocover. At least I’d pinnedthemdown.Buttheycameatmeagain,

andagainIreturnedfire.Butrightthen,theyunleashedtworocket-propelled grenades(RPGs),andthankGodIsawthem coming. I dived forcover, but they blew out oneof the boulders which hadgiven me shelter. Now therewerericochetingbullets,dust,

shrapnel, and flying rockparticleseverywhere.It felt like Iwas fightinga

one-man war, and Christknows how I avoided beinghit.But suddenly, the echoesof the blast died away, and Icould hear sporadic gunfirefrom these three maniacs. IwaitedquietlyuntilIbelievedthey had broken cover, andthenIsteppedoutandhitthetrigger again. I don’t knowwhat or who I hit, but it

suddenly went very quietagain. As if nothing hadhappened. Welcome toAfghanistan,Marcus.This was one type of

patrol, standing guard upthere over the passes andtrying to remain concealed.Theotherkindwasastraightsurveillance andreconnaissancemission (SR),where we were tasked withobserving and photographinga village, looking for our

target.Itwasalwaysexpectedwe would locate him sinceour intelwas excellent, oftenwith good photographs. Andwewere always in search ofsome sonofabitch in a turbanwho had for too long beenindulging in his favoritepastime of blowing up U.S.Marines.On these sorties into the

mountains,wewereexpectedtopickoutourquarry, eitherwithhigh-poweredbinoculars

or the photo lens of one ofourcameras, and then swoopdownintothevillageandtakehim.Ifhewasalone,thatwasalways the primary plan ofthe SEALs: grab the target,get him back to base, andmake him talk, tell uswherethe Taliban were gathered,locate for us the hugeammunition piles they hadhiddeninthemountains.That high explosive had

only one use, to kill and

maimU.S.troops,upthereinsupport of the electedgovernment.Wefounditwellto remember those Talibaninsurgents were the verysameguyswhoshelteredandsupported Osama bin Laden.We were also told, no ifs,ands, or buts, that particularmass murderer was rightwhere we were going,somewhere.Generally speaking, we

were to grab our man in the

villageifhewasprotectedby,say, only four bodyguards.Noproblem.Butifthereweremore of them, some kind ofTaliban garrison crawlingwith armedmen,wewere tocall for a proper fightingforcetoflyinandtakecareofthe problem. Either way,when we arrived, thingsceased to look great foryoungAbdultheBombmakermeasuring out his dynamitedown there in Main Street,

Mud Hut Central, NortheastAfghanistan.Our next mission was a

huge operation, around fiftyguys dropped into themountains, in the worstterrain you’ve ever seen.Well, maybe not if there areany mountain goats ormountain lions among myreaders,butitsureashellwastheworstI’deverseen.Therewere steep cliff faces, loosefooting, sheer drops, hardly

any bushes or trees, nothingto grab, nowhere to takecoverifnecessary.I have explained how

supremely fit we were. Wecould all climb anything, goanywhere. But— you’re notgoing to believe this — wetookeighthours towalk oneand a half miles. Guys werefalling down the goddamnedmountain,gettinghurt,bad.Itwas hotter than a Texasgriddle, and one of my

buddies told me later, “I’dhavequittheteamsjusttogetoutofthere.”I know he didn’t mean it.

But we all knew the feeling.We were tired, frustrated,roped together in teams,crawling across the face ofthisdangerousmountainwithfull rucksacks and rifles. Tothis day it remains the worstjourney of my life. And weweren’t even facing theenemy. It was so bad we

made up a song about it,which our resident expertbanjoplayerput tothemusicof the Johnny Cash song“RingofFire”:

Ifellintoahundred-footravine,

Wewentdown,down,down,andbustedupmyspleen,

Anditburned,burned,

burned—thatRingofFire...

Our dual targets on that

next mission were twoAfghan villages set into themountainside, one above theother.Wehadnoclueswhichone harbored the mostTaliban forces, and it hadbeen decided we needed totake them both at gunpoint.No bullshit. The reason for

this was a very young guy.We had terrific intel on him,from both satellites and theFBI. We did not, however,havephotographs.Ineverknewwherehewas

educated, but this youngTalibankidwasa scientist, amasterofexplosives.Wecallthem IED guys (improvisedexplosivedevices),andinthispartofthemountains,thiskidwas King IED. And he andhis men had been wreaking

havoc on U.S. troops,blowing stuff up all over theplace.He’drecentlyblownupa couple of U.S. Marineconvoys and killed a lot ofguys.Foxtrot Platoon regrouped

in the small hours of themorning after the trek acrossthemountains andpositionedourselves high above theupper village. As the suncame up, we moved swiftlydownthehillsideandcharged

into the village, crashingdownthedoorstothehouses,arresting anyone andeveryone. We were notshooting, but we were veryintimidating, no doubt aboutthat.Andnooneresisted.Butthekidwasn’tthere.Meanwhile themainforce,

SEAL Team 10, was in andplaying hell in the bigger,lower village. It took them awhile, because this requiredinterrogation,askillatwhich

we were all very competent.In these circumstances, wewere grilling everyone,looking for the liar, the guywho changed his story, theguy who was somehowdifferent.Wewanted theguywho was obviously not agoatherd, as the rest of themwere; a young guy wholacked the gnarled, roughlook of the native mountainfarmer.Wegotourman.Itwasmy

first close-up encounter withafanaticalTalibanfighter.I’llnever forget him. He wasonlyjustoldenoughtohaveadecentbeard,buthehadwild,crazy eyes, and he stared atme like I’d just rejected theentireteachingsoftheKoran.Iknewinthatinstantthatif

he could have killed me, hewouldhave.Noonehadeverlooked at me before, or hassince,withthatmuchhatred.

That second operation inAfghanistan, the snatch-and-grab of Abdul theBombmaker or whatever thehell his name was, broughthome two aspects of thisconflict to us newly arrivedSEALs.First,therabidhatredthese Muslim extremists hadfor all of us; second, theawkwardness of complyingwithourrulesofengagement(ROE)inthistypeofwarfare.SEALs, by our nature,

training, and education, arenot very stupid. And alongwith everyone else, we readthenewspaperheadlinesfromall over the world aboutserving members of thearmed forces who have beencharged with murder inciviliancourtsfordoingwhatthey thought was their duty,attackingtheirenemy.Ourrulesofengagementin

Afghanistanspecifiedthatwecouldnotshoot,kill,orinjure

unarmed civilians. But whatabout the unarmed civilianwhowasaskilledspyfortheillegal forces wewere tryingto remove? What about anentire secret army, diverse,fragmented, and lethal,creeping through themountains in Afghanistanpretending to be civilians?Whataboutthoseguys?Howabout the innocent-lookingcamel drovers making theirway through the mountain

passes with enough highexplosive strapped to thebacks of their beasts to blowup Yankee Stadium? Howaboutthoseguys?We all knew that we’d

chosen to do what 999Americans out of everythousand would not eventhink about doing. And wewere taught that we werenecessary for the security ofour nation. We were sent toAfghanistan to carry out

hugely dangerous missions.Butwewerealsotoldthatwecould not shoot that cameldrover before he blew up allofus,becausehemightbeanunarmed civilian just takinghisdynamiteforawalk.Andhowabouthisbuddy?

The younger guy with thestick, running along behind,proddingthefreakin’camels?How about him? How aboutifhecan’twaittoscamperupthosemountains and find his

brother and the rest of theTaliban hard men? The oneswiththeRPGs,waitinginthehiddencave?We wouldn’t hear him

reveal our position, andneither would the politicianswhodraftedthoseROEs.Andthose men in suits won’t beon that mountainside whenthe first grenade explodesamong us and takes offsomeone’sleg,orhead.Should we have shot that

littlesonofagunrightoffthebat,beforehehadachancetorun? Or was he just anunarmed civilian, doing noharm to anyone? Just takinghisTNTforawalk,right?These terrorist/insurgents

knowtherulesaswellastheydid in Iraq.They’re not theirrules. They’re our rules, therules of the Westerncountries,thecivilizedsideoftheworld.Andeveryterroristknows how to manipulate

them in their own favor.Otherwise the camel droverswouldbecarryingguns.But they don’t. Because

they know we are probablyscaredtoshootthem,becausewe might get charged withmurder, which I actuallyknow they consider to be onthe hysterical side oflaughable.And if we did shoot a

couple of them, they wouldbe on their cell phones with

the speed of ten thousandgigabytes, direct to the Arabtelevisionstational-Jazeera:BRUTALUSTROOPSGUNDOWN

PEACE-LOVINGAFGHANFARMERS

USMilitaryPromisesSEALs

WillBeChargedWell, something like that.

I’m sure you get my drift.The media in the UnitedStates of America would

crucify us. These days, theyalways do.Was there ever agreater uproar than the onethat broke out over AbuGhraib?Inthebiggerschemeofthings,inthecontextofallthedeathanddestructionthatMuslim extremists havevisited upon this world, abunchofIraqiprisonersbeinghumiliated does not ring mypersonal alarm bell. And itwouldnotringyourseitherifyou ever saw firsthand what

these guys are capable of. Imean, Jesus, they cut offpeople’s heads, Americanheads, aid workers’ heads.They think nothing ofslaughtering thousands ofpeople; they’ve stabbed andmutilated young Americansoldiers, like something outoftheMiddleAges.Thetruthis,inthiskindof

terrorist/insurgentwarfare,noone can tell who’s a civilianandwho’snot.Sowhat’s the

point of framing rules thatcannot be comprehensivelycarriedoutbyanyone?Rulesthat are unworkable, becausehalf the time no one knowswho the goddamned enemyis, and by the time you findout, it might be too late tosave your own life. Makingsense of the ROEs in real-time situations is almostimpossible.Also, no one seems clear

onwhatwe should be called

in Afghanistan. Are we apeace-keeping force?Arewefighting a war againstinsurgents on behalf of theAfghan government, or arewefightingitonbehalfoftheU.S.A.?Arewetryingtohuntdown themaster terrorist binLaden,orarewejusttryingtoprevent the Taliban fromregaining control of thecountry, because they werethe protectors of bin Ladenandallwhofoughtforhim?

Search me. Buteverything’s cool with us.Tell us what you want, andwe’ll do it. We’re loyalservants of the U.S.government.ButAfghanistaninvolves fighting behindenemy lines.Nevermindwewere invited into ademocratic country by itsowngovernment.Nevermindthere’snoshootingacrosstheborder in Pakistan, theillegalityoftheTalibanarmy,

theGenevaConvention,yada,yada,yada.When we’re patrolling

those mountains, tryingeverything we know to stopthe Taliban regrouping,striving to findandarrest thetop commanders andexplosive experts, we arealwayssurroundedbyawell-armed, hostile enemy whoseavowed intention is tokillusall. That’s behind enemylines.Trustme.

And we’ll go there. Allday. Every day. We’ll dowhatwe’resupposedtodo,tothe letter, or die in theattempt. On behalf of theU.S.A.But don’t tell uswhowe can attack. That ought tobeuptous,themilitary.Andif the liberal media andpolitical community cannotaccept that sometimes thewrong people get killed inwar, then I can only suggestthey first grow up and then

serve a short stint up in theHindu Kush. They probablywouldnotsurvive.The truth is, any

governmentthatthinkswarissomehow fair and subject torules like a baseball gameprobably should not get intoone.Becausenothing’sfairinwar, and occasionally thewrong people do get killed.It’sbeenhappeningforabouta million years. Faced withthe murderous cutthroats of

the Taliban, we are notfighting under the rules ofGeneva IVArticle4.Wearefighting under the rules ofArticle 223.556mm— that’sthe caliber and bullet gaugeofourM4rifle.And if thosenumbersdon’t lookgood, tryArticle .762mm, that’s whatthe stolen RussianKalashnikovs fire at us,usually in deadly, heavyvolleys.Intheglobalwaronterror,

we have rules, and ouropponents use them againstus.We try to be reasonable;they will stop at nothing.They will stoop to any formof base warfare: torture,beheading, mutilation.Attacksoninnocentcivilians,women and children, carbombs, suicide bombers,anything the hell they canthink of. They’re right upthere with the monsters ofhistory.

And I ask myself, Who’spreparedtogofurthesttowinthis war? Answer: they are.They’ll willingly die to gettheirenemy.Theywilltakeitto the limit, any time, anyplace,whatever it takes.Andthey don’t have rules ofengagement.Thus we have an extra

element of fear and dangerwhen we go into combatagainst the Taliban or alQaeda—thefearofourown,

thefearofwhatourownnavyjudgeadvocategeneralmightruleagainstus,thefearoftheAmerican media and theirunfortunate effect onAmerican politicians. We allharbor fears about untrained,half-educated journalistswhoonly want a good story tojustify their salaries andexpense accounts. Don’tthink it’s just me. We alldetest them, partly for theirlack of judgment, mostly

because of their ignoranceand toe-curling opportunism.The first minute an armedconflict turns into a mediawar, the news becomessomeone’s opinion, not hardtruths. When the media getsinvolved, in the UnitedStates, that’s a war you’vegotadamnedgoodchanceoflosing, because therestrictions on us areimmediately amplified, andthat’s sensationally good

newsforourenemy.Every now and then, a

news reporter or aphotographergets in thewaysufficiently to stop a bullet.And without missing a beat,thosehighlypaidnewspeoplebecome national heroes,laudedbackhomeinthepressandon television.SEALsarenot churlish, but I cannotdescribe how irksome this isto the highly trained but notverywell paid guys who are

doing the actual fighting.These are superbprofessionals who saynothingandplace themselvesinharm’swayeveryday,toooften being killed orwounded. They are silentheroes, unknown soldiers,except in equally unknown,heartbroken little homecommunities.We did one early mission

up there in the passes atcheckpoint 6 that was worse

than lethal. We’d justmanaged toget intoposition,about twenty of us, whenthese Afghan wild menhidden in the mountainsunleashed a barrage ofrockets at us, hundreds andhundredsofthem,flyingoverour heads, slamming into themountainside.We couldn’t tell whether

theywereclassifiedasarmedcombatantsagainsttheUnitedStatesorunarmedcivilians.It

took us three days to subduethem, and even then we hadtocallinheavyairsupporttoenable us to get out. Threedays later, the satellitepictures showed us theTaliban had sent in twelvecutthroats by night, armedwith Kalashnikovs and tribalknives,whocreptthroughthedarkness intent on murder,directlytoouroldposition.But you can’t prove their

intentions! I hear the liberals

squeal. No. Of course not.They were just headed upthereforacupofcoffee.ThoseTalibannightattacks

weretheverysametacticsthemujahideen used against theRussians, sliding through thedarkness and cutting thethroatsofguardsandsentriesuntil the Sovietmilitary, andtheparentsofyoungsoldiers,could stand it no more. Themujahideenhasnowemergedas the Taliban or al Qaeda.

And their intentions againstus are just as bloodthirsty asthey were against theRussians.TheNavySEALscandeal

withthat,aswecandealwithany enemy. But not ifsomeone wants to put us injail for it back home in theU.S.A. And we sure as helldon’twant tohangaround inthe mountains waiting forsomeone to cut our throats,unable to fight back just in

casehemightbeclassifiedasanunarmedAfghanfarmer.But theseare theproblems

of the modern U.S. combatsoldier, the constant worryabout overstepping the markand an American media thatdelightsintryingtoknockusdown. Which we have donenothing to deserve. Except,perhaps,loveourcountryandeverythingitstandsfor.In the early weeks of our

duties in Afghanistan, the

fightwenton.Platoonsofuswent out night after night,trying to halt the insurgentscreeping through themountain passes. Every timethere was a full moon, welaunched operations, becausethatwas really the only timewecouldgetasweepoflightoverthedarkmountains.Following this lunar cycle,

we’d send the helicopters upthere to watch these beardedfanatics squirting over the

border into Afghanistan, andthenwe’droundthemup,thehelos driving them likesheepdogs, watching themrun for their lives, straighttowardus and the rest of thewaiting U.S. troops forcaptureandinterrogation.I realize it might seem

strange that underwaterspecialistsfromSDVTeam1should be groping aroundnine thousand feet above sealevel. It isgenerallyaccepted

in thenavythat theswimmerdelivery vehicle (SDV), theminisubmarine that brings usinto our ops area, is thestealthiest vehicle in theworld.Anditfollowsthatthetroops manning the world’sstealthiest vehicle are theworld’s sneakiest guys.That’s us, operating deepbehind enemy lines,observing and reporting,unnoticed, livingon theedgeof our nerves. And our

principal task is always tofindthetargetandthencallinthedirect actionguys.That’sreallywhateveryonewantstodo, direct action, but it can’tbe done without the deadlybusinessweconductuptherein those lonely peaks of theHinduKush.Lieutenant Commander

Eric Kristensen was alwaysaware of our value, and infactwasaverygoodfriendofmine. He used to name the

operations for me. I was aTexan, which, being as hewas a Virginia gentleman,somehowamusedthelifeoutof him. He thought I wassome kind of cross betweenBilly the Kid and BuffaloBill, quick on the draw andDang mah breeches! Nevermind both those cowboyswere fromway north of me,Kansasorsomewhere.SofarasEricwasconcerned,Texasandallpointswestandnorth

ofitrepresentedthebadlands,lawless frontiers, Colt .44s,cattlemenandRedIndians.Thus we were always

flying out on OperationLonghorn or Operation LoneStar. Naming the ops for hisTexas boy really broke himup. The vast majority of ourmissionswereveryquietandinvolvedstrictsurveillanceofmountain passes or villages.We were always trying toavoid gunfire as we

photographed and thenswooped on our target.Invariably we were lookingforthemisfit,theonemaninthevillagewhodidnotfitin,the hit man of the Talibanwhowasplainlynotafarmer.Sometimeswe’drunacross

a group of these guys sittingaround a campfire, bearded,sullen, drinking coffee, theirAK-47sattheready.Ourfirsttask was to identify them.Were they Pashtuns?

Peaceable shepherds,goatherds?Orarmedwarriorsof the Taliban, the ferociousmountain men who’d slityourthroatassoonaslookatyou? It tookonlya fewdaysto work out that Talibanfighters were nothing like sorough and dirty as Afghanmountain peasants. Many ofthem had been educated inAmerica,andheretheywere,carefully cleaning their AK-47s,gettingreadytokillus.

And it did not take usmuch longer to realize howimpressive they could be inactionuphereon their homeground.Ialwaysthoughttheywould turn and run for itwhen we discovered them.But they did nothing of thekind. If they held or couldreach the high ground, theywould stand and fight. If wecame down on them they’dusuallyeithergiveuporheadright back to the border and

intoPakistan,wherewecouldnotfollowthem.Butcloseupyou could always see thedefiance in their eyes, thathatredofAmerica,thefireofthe revolutionary that burnedintheirsouls.It was pretty damn creepy

for us, because this was theheartland of terror, the placewhere the destruction of theWorldTradeCenterwasbornand nourished, perfected bymen such as these. I’ll be

honest, it seemed kind ofunreal, not possible. But weallknewthatithadhappened.Righthereinthisremotedustbowlwastherootofitall,thehomeland of bin Laden’sfighters,theplacewheretheystillplotandschemetosmashthe United States. The placewhere the loathing of UncleSam is so ingrained, a brandof evil flourishes that isbeyond the understanding ofmost Westerners. Mostly

because it belongs to adifferent, more barbariccentury.And here stood Mikey,

Shane,Axe,me,andtherest,ready for a face-off anytimeagainst these silent, sure-footed warriors, masters ofthe mountains, deadly withrifleandtribalknife.Tomeettheseguysinthese

remote Pashtun villages onlymade the conundrum moredifficult. Because right here

we’retalkingPrimitivewithabigP. Adobe huts made outof sun-dried clay brickswithdirtfloorsandanawfulsmellof urine and mule dung.Downstairs they have goatsand chickens living in thehouse.Andyethere, in thesecaveman conditions, theyplanned and then carried outthemostshockingatrocityonatwenty-first-centurycity.Sanitationinthevillagesis

as rudimentary as it gets.

Theyhaveacommunalhead,a kind of a pit, out on theedge of the houses. And weare all warned to watch outforthem,particularlyonnightpatrols. I misjudged it onenight, slipped, and got myfoot in there. That causedhuge laughterup there in thedeadofnight,everyonetryingnot toexplode.Wasn’t funnytome,however.Thenextweekitwasmuch

worse. We were all in the

pitch dark, creeping throughthisveryroughground,tryingto set up a surveillancepointaboveavery smallclusterofhutsandgoats.Wecouldnotsee a thing without NVGs(night-vision goggles), andsuddenly I slipped into agapinghole.Idarednotyell.ButIknew

Iwasonmywaydown,andIshuddered to think where Iwas going to land. I justrammed my right arm rigid

straight up, holding on tightto the rifle, and crashedstraight into thevillagehead.I went right under, vaguelyhearing my teammates hiss,“Lookout!Luttrelljustfoundtheshitteragain!”Never has there been that

much suppressed laughter onan Afghan mission. But itwas one of the worstexperiences of my life. Icould have given typhoid totheentireBagrambase.Iwas

freezingcoldbut Icheerfullyjumped into a river in fullcombat gear just to getwashedoff.Sometimes there was real

trouble on those border postcheckpoints, and weoccasionally had to load upthe Humvees and transportabouteighteenguysoutthereand thenwalk formiles.Theproblem was, the Pakistanigovernment has obvioussympathy with the Taliban,

and as a result leaves theborder area in the northeastuncontrolled. Pakistan hasdecreed its authorities canoperate on tarmac roads andthen for twenty meters oneither side of the road.Beyond that, anything goes,sotheTalibanfighterssimplyswerveofftheroadandenterAfghanistan over the ancientpathways.Theycomeandgoas they please, the way theyalways have, unless we

prevent them.Many of themonly want to come in andrustlecattle,whichwedonotbother with. However, theTaliban know this, and theymove around disguised ascattle farmers, and we mostcertainlydobotherwith that.And those little camel trainsladen with high explosive,theyreallygetourattention.And every single time,we

came under attack. Theslightest noise, any betrayal

of our position, someonewould open fire on us, oftenfrom thePakistan sideof theborder, where we could notgo. So we moved stealthily,gathered our photographs,grabbed the ringleaders,stayedintouchwithbase,andwhistled up reinforcementswheneverweneededhelp.It was the considered

opinion of our commandersthat the key to winning wasintel, identifying the

bombmakers, finding theirsupplies, and smashing theTaliban arsenal before theycoulduseit.Butitwasnevereasy. Our enemy was brutal,implacable, with nodiscernible concern abouttime or life. As long as ittakes, was their obviousbelief.Intheendtheyassumethey will rid their holyMuslim soil of the infidelinvaders. After all, theyalways have, right? Sorry,

nyet?Sometimes,while thehead

sheds (that’s SEALvernacular for our seniorcommanders)werestudyingaspecific target, wewere kepton hold. I volunteered myspare time working in theBagram hospital, mostly intheemergency room,helpingwith the wounded guys andtrying to become a bettermedicformyteam.And that hospital was a

real eye-opener, because wewere happy to treat Afghansas well as our own militarypersonnel. And they showedup at the emergency roomwith every kind of wound,mostly bullets, butoccasionallystabbings.That’sone of the real problems inthat country— everyone hasa gun. There seems to be anAK-47 in every living room.And there were a lot ofinjuries. Afghan civilians

would show up at the maingatessobadlyshotwehadtosend out Humvees to bringthemintotheER.Wetreatedanyone who came, at theAmericantaxpayer’sexpense,and we gave everyone asgoodcareaswecould.Bagram was an excellent

place for me to improve myskills, and I hoped I wasdoingsomegoodat thesametime.Iwas,ofcourse,unpaidfor this work. But medicine

has always been a vocationforme, and those long hoursinthathospitalwerepricelesstothedoctorIhopedonedaytobe.AndwhileItendedthesick

and injured, thenever-endingwork of the commanderscontinued, filtering the intelreports, checking the CIAreports, trying to identify theTaliban leaders so we couldcut the head off theiroperation.

There was always a verybig list of potential targets,some more advanced thanothers.BythatImeancertaincommunitieswherethereallydangerous guys had beenlocated, identified, andpinpointedbythesatellitesorby us. It was work thatrequired immenseperseverance and the abilityto assess the likelihood ofactually finding the guywhomattered.

TheteamsinBagramwereprepared to go out there andconduct this very dangerouswork, but no one likes goingon a series of wild-goosechases where the chances offindingatopTalibanterroristareremote.Andofcoursetheintelguyshavetobeawareatalltimesthatnothingisstaticup there in the mountains.Those Taliban guys are verymobile and very smart. Theyknowalotbutnotallthereis

to know about Americancapability. And they surelyunderstand the merit ofkeeping it moving, fromvillage to village, cave tocave, never remaining in oneplace long enough to getcaught with their stockpilesofhighexplosive.Our senior chief, Dan

Healy, was outstanding atseeking out and finding thegood jobs forus, oneswherewehad a better than average

chanceof findingourquarry.He spent hours poring overthose lists, checking out acertainknownterrorist,wherehe spent his time, where hewaslastseen.Chief Healy would comb

through the photographicevidence, checking maps,charts,workingouttheplaceswe had a real chance ofvictory,ofgrabbing themainman without fighting an all-out street battle. He had a

personal short list of theprime suspects and where tofind them. And by June, hehad a lot of records, thevarious methods used bythese kingpin Taliban guysand their approximate accesstoTNT.And one man’s name

popped right out at him. Forsecurityreasons,I’mgoingtocall him Ben Sharmak, andsufficetosayhe’saleaderofa serious Taliban force, a

sinistermountainmanknowntomakeforays into thecitiesandknownalso tohavebeendirectly responsible forseveral lethal attacksonU.S.Marines, alwayswithbombs.Sharmak was a shadowyfigure of around forty. Hecommanded maybe 140 to150 armed fighters, but hewasaneducatedman,trainedinmilitarytacticsandabletospeakfivelanguages.Hewasalso known to be one of

Osama bin Laden’s closestassociates.Hekept his troopsmobile,

moving into or camping onthe outskirts of friendlyPashtun villages, acceptinghospitality and then travelingon to the next rendezvous,recruiting all the way. Thesemountain men wereunbelievably difficult totrace, but even they need torest, eat and drink, andperhaps evenwash, and they

need village communities todoallofthat.Almost every morning

Chief Healy would run themain list of potential targetspastMikey,our teamofficer,and me. He usually gave uspapers with a list of maybetwenty names and possiblelocations, and we made ashort list of the guys weconsidered we should goafter. We thus created arogues’gallery,andwemade

our mission choicesdepending on the amount ofintel we had. The name BenSharmakkeptonshowingup,andtheestimatesofhisforcesize kept going up just asoften.Finally there was a

tentative briefing about apossible Operation Redwing,whichinvolvedthecaptureorkilling of this highlydangerous character. But hewas always elusive. First he

washere, then there, like thefreakin’ Scarlet Pimpernel.And the photos availablewerejustheadandshoulders,not great quality and verygrainy. Still, we knewapproximately what thesonofabitch looked like, andon the face of it, this wasstacking up to be like anyother SR operation — getabove the target, stalk him,photographhim,and, ifatallpossible,grabhim.

We had very decent intelon him, which suggested theCIA and probably the FBIwere also extremelyinterested in his capture ordeath. And as the variousbriefings went on, BenSharmak seemed to getprogressivelymoreimportant.Therewerenowreportsofaneighty-troop minimum and atwo-hundred-troop maximumin his army, and thisconstituted a very big

operation. And Chief Healydecreedthatmeandmythreebuddies inAlfaPlatoonwerethe precise guys to carry itout.We were not expected to

take on this large bunch ofwild-eyed killers. Indeed,wewereexpected tostayquieterthanwehadeverbeeninourlives. “Just find this bastard,nail him down, his locationandtroopstrength,thenradioin foradirectaction force to

come in by air and take himdown.”Simple,right?Ifwe thought hemight be

preparing an immediateevacuation of the village inwhich he resided, then wewouldtakehimoutforthwith.That would be me or Axe.ThechanceswereI’dgetonlyoneshotatSharmak,justonetimewhenIcouldtraphiminthe crosshairs and squeezethat trigger, probably fromhundreds of yards away. I

knewonlyone thing: Ibetternot miss, because theapparitions of Webb andDavis, not to mention everyother serving SEAL, wouldsurelyriseupandtearmyassoff. This was, after all,precisely what they hadtrainedmefor.And in case anyone’s

wondering, I had absolutelyno qualms about putting abullet straight through thisbastard’s head. He was a

fanatical swornenemyof theUnited States of Americawho had already murderedmanyofmycolleaguesintheU.S. Marines. He was alsothe kind of terrorist whowouldlikenothingbetterthanto mastermind a new attackontheU.S.mainland.IfIgota shot, he’d get no mercyfrom me. I knew what wasexpected of me. I knew theteam boss wanted thischaracter eliminated, and

whenIthoughtaboutit,Iwasdamned proud theyconsidered me and mybuddies the men for the job.As ever, we would doeverythingpossiblenot to letanyonedown.Every daywe checked the

intelofficetoseewhatfurtherdata there was on Sharmak.ChiefHealywas righton thecase, working with the opsofficer and our skipper,Commander Pero. The

problem was always thesame: where was our target?He was worse than SaddamHussein, disappearing,evadingthepryingeyeofthesatellites,keepinghisidentityandlocationsecretevenfromthemanyCIAinformerswhowereclosetohim.There was of course no

point in charging into themountainsarmed to the teethwith weapons and camerasunless we were absolutely

sure of hiswhereabouts. TheTalibanwere a serious threattolow-flyingmilitaryaircraft,andthehelopilotsknewtheywere in constant danger ofbeing fired upon, even onnight ops. These mountainmen were as handy withmissile launchers as theywerewithAK-47s.There is ahuge amountof

backuprequiredforanysuchoperation: transportation,communications,availableair

support, not to mentionammunition, food, water,medical supplies, handgrenades,andweapons,allofwhich we would carry withus.At one point, quite early

on, we had a very definite“Redwing is a go.” Andpreparationswerewell underway when the entire thingwas suddenly called off.“Turn one!” They’d lost himagain. They had data, and

they had reason to believetheyknewwherehewas.Butnothing hard. The guys inintelstudiedthemapsandtheterrain, ringed probabilityareas, made estimates andguesstimates. They thoughtthey had him pinned downbut not sufficiently narrowlyto place him in an actualvillageoracamp,nevermindwiththeaccuracyrequiredforasnipertogetoffashot.Intelwasjustwaitingfora

break, and meanwhile, meand the guys were out onother SR missions, probablyOperation Goat Rope orsomething. We’d just comebackfromoneof thesewhenweheardthere’dbeenabreakinthehuntforBenSharmak.It was very sudden, and weguessed one of our sourceshadcomeupwithsomething.Chief Healy had maps andstudies of the terrain underway, and it looked like we

weregoingstraightoutagain.We were called into a

briefing: Lieutenant MikeMurphy, Petty OfficerMatthew Axelson, PettyOfficer Shane Patton, and I.We listened to the data andthe requirements and stillregardeditasjustanotherop.But at the last minute therewas a big change. Theydecided thatShaneshouldbereplaced by Petty OfficerDanny Dietz, a thirty-four-

year-oldIhadknownwellforyears.Danny was a short (well,

compared with me), verymuscularguyfromColorado,but he lived with hisspectacularly beautiful wife,Maria, known to all of us asPatsy,justoutsidethebaseinVirginiaBeach.Theyhadnochildrenbuttwodogs,bothofthem damn near as tough ashe was, an English bulldogandabullmastiff.

Dannywaswithme at theSDV school in PanamaCity,Florida. We were both thereon9/11.Hewasheavily intoyogaandmartialartsandwasa very close friend ofShane’s. Guess those beachgodsandthemysticironmenhave stuff in common. Iwasglad to have Danny on theteam.Hewasalittlereserved,but underneath he could bevery funny andwas a sweet-natured person. It was not a

great plan to upset him,though. Danny Dietz was acaged tiger andagreatNavySEAL.Now it seemed Redwing

was again given the greenlight.Thefour-manteamwasnaileddown.Thetwosniperswould be Axe and me; thetwo spotters, Mikey andDanny. Command control,Mikey. Communications,Danny and me. The finalshoot-on-target, me or Axe,

either one of us spotting,whichever way it fell on theterrain.Theplanwastositupthere

and hide above the place webelieved Sharmak wasresident, ifnecessaryforfourdays, probably not able tomove more than a foot,remaining deadly still in adeadly place — high in thehills.At no time would we be

anything but carefully

concealed, watching theseheavilyarmedmountainmen,whowere lifelongexpertsonthelocalterrain,awaitingourchance to gun down theirleader.Itdoesn’tgetawholelotmoredangerousthanthat.We were actually in the

helicopter, dressed andorganized, ready to leave,“Redwing is ago,”when themissionwascalledoff again.“Turn two!” It was not somuch that we’d lost track of

Sharmak as the fact that theslippery little son of a gunhad turned up somewhereelse.We disembarked and

wandered back to ourquarters.We shed our heavypacks and weapons, changedout of our combat gear,cleaned the camouflagecream off our faces, andrejoined thehumanrace.Thebreak lasted for two weeks,during which time we did a

couple of minor missions upin the passes and nearly gotour heads blown off at leasttwice.Isurpassedmyselfonceby

nailingdownoneofthemostdangerous terrorists innortheast Afghanistan. I hadPOSIDENT, and I actuallysaw himmake a break for iton his own, riding a freakin’bicycle along the track. Ididn’t shoot him because Idid not wish to betray our

position by opening fire oreven moving. We wereexpectinghiscompletecameltrain of high explosive tomove along this routeanytime,andwewantedbothhim and his munitions. Atleast I didn’t emulate theactionsofaformercolleague,who, according to SEALfolklore, fired up the directlink and advised a cruisingU.S. fighter/bomber of theGPS position. Then he

watched a five-hundred-pound bomb demolish theterrorist, his camel, andeverything within fifty yardsof him. On this mission, wehalted the camel train andmanaged to capture theterrorist and unload theexplosivewithoutresortingtosuchwild-and-woollyaction.Sorry, lefties.But, likewe

say back home in Texas, aman’sgottadowhataman’sgottado.

Andsothedayspassedby,until on Monday morning,June 27, 2005, they locatedSharmak again. This time itlooked really good. By noonthedetailedmapsandphotosoftheterrainwerespreadoutbefore us. The intel wasexcellent, the maps weren’tbad, the photographs of theterrain passable. We stilldidn’t have a decent pictureofSharmak,justthesameoldhead and shoulders, grainy,

indistinct. But we’d locatedotherkillersupherewithalotless, and there was no doubtthistime.“Redwingisago!”Right after the briefing,

ChiefDanHealy said tome,quietly, “This is it, Marcus.We’regoing.Gogettheguysready.”I gave the crisp reply

expected from a team leaderto a SEAL CPO. “Okay,Chief.We’reouttahere.”And I walked out of the

briefing room and headedbacktoourquarterswithaloton my mind. I can’t quiteexplain it, but Iwas assailedbydoubts,andthatfeelingofdisquietneverleftme.I’dseenthemaps,andthey

were clear. What I couldn’tsee was a place to hide.Wedidnothavegoodintelonthevegetation. It was obviouslybad and barrenway up therein the Hindu Kush, aroundten thousand feet. You don’t

need to be a Fellow of theRoyalGeographicInstitutetoknow this is arid countryabovethetreeline,notmuchgrowing. Great for climbers,a goddamned nightmare forus.The village we were

surveying had thirty-twohouses.Icountedthemonthesatellite picture. But we didnotknowwhichoneSharmakwas in.Neitherdidweknowif the houseswere numbered

in case we got better intelwhilewewereupthere.We had some pictures of

the layout but very little onthe surrounding country. WehadgoodGPSnumbers,veryaccurate.Andwehadashortlistofpossiblelandingzones,unnecessary for the insert,becausewe’dfast-ropein,butcriticalfortheextract.Iwascertainwe’dneed to

blow down a few trees on alowerlevelofthemountainin

order tohavecoverwhenweleft and to bring thehelicopters in with the DAforce if it was required.Barren, treelessmountainscapes are no placeto conduct secretive landingsandtakeoffs,notwithTalibanrocket men all around.Especially the highly trainedgroup that surroundedSharmak.Hewasgoddamnedlethal, and he’d proved it,more than once, blowing up

theMarines.The one aspect of the

mission that dominated mythoughts as Iwalked back tomeet the guyswas that therewasnoplacetohide,noplacefrom which to watch. Yousimply cannot do effectivereconnaissance if you can’tgetintogoodposition.Andifthose mountain cliffs thatsurrounded the village wereas rough and stony as Isuspected, we’d stick out on

those heights like a diamondinagoat’sass.Andtherewerelikelytobe

between eighty and twohundred armed warriorskeeping a very carefullookoutonallthelandaroundtheirboss.Iwasworried,notabout the numbers of ourenemy but about theproblems of stayingconcealed in order tocompletethemission.Iftherewas a very limited selection

of hiding places, we mighthave to compromise ourangle on the village, not tomentionourdistancefromit.I met Mikey back at the

bee hut. I told him we weregoing in, showed him themaps and what photographswe had, and I remember hisreply.“Beautiful.Justanotherthree days of fun and sun.”But I saw his expressionchange as he looked at thepictures,attheobviouslyvery

steepgradients, trulyhorribleterrain,amountainwewouldhave to clomp up and downinordertofindcover.By this time Axe and

Danny had appeared. Webriefedthemandwandered,abit apprehensively, over tothechowhallforlunch.Ihada large bowl of spaghetti.Rightafterwardwewentbackto dress and get organized. Iwore my desert bottoms andwoodland top, mostly

because intel had said thelandingzonewasfairlygreenand we would drop into anarea of trees. I also had asniperhood.MikeyandDannyhadtheir

M4 riflesplusgrenades;Axehad theMark12 .556-caliberrifle, and I had one as well.Weall carried theSIG-Sauer9mmpistol.Weelectednottotakeaheavyweapon, thebigtwenty-one-pound machinegun M60, plus its

ammunition. We werealready loaded down withgear,andwethoughtitwouldbetooheavytohaulupthosecliffs.I also took a couple of

claymores, which are a kindofhigh-explosivedevicewitha trip wire, to keep anyintruder from walking up onus. I’d learned a hard lessonabout that on my first day,when two Afghans got a lotcloser than they should have

and might easily havefinishedme.We took a big roll of

detonator cord to blow thetreesfortheincominglandingzone when the mission wascompleteorfortheinsertofadirectactionforce.Atthelastmoment, still worried aboutthis entire venture, I grabbedthree extramagazines,whichgave me a total of eleven,each holding thirty rounds.Eightwas standard,but there

was something aboutOperationRedwing. It turnedout everyone felt the same.We all took three extramagazines.IalsocarriedanISLiD(an

acronym for imagestabilization and lightdistribution unit) for guidinginanincominghelo,plusthespotting scope, and sparebatteries for everything.Danny had the radio, andMikey and Axe had the

camerasandcomputers.We tookpackedMREs—

beef jerky, chicken noodles,power bars, water — pluspeanuts and raisins. Thewhole lot weighed aboutforty-five pounds, which weconsidered traveling light.Shane was there to see usaway: “ ’Bye, dudes, give’emhell.”All set, we were driven

down to the special opshelicopter area, waiting to

hear if there was a change.Thatwould have been “Turnthree!” The third timeRedwing had been aborted.But this time there was only“Rolex, one hour,” whichmeantweweregoingassoonasitwasdark.Weputdownourloadsand

lay on the runway to wait. Iremember it was very cold,with snowcaps on the not-too-distantmountains.Mikeyassured me he had

rememberedtopackhisluckyrock, a sharp-pointed bit ofgranitewhichhadjabbedintohisbacksideforthreedaysona previous mission when wewereinaprecarioushideandnone of us could move evenan inch. “Just in case youneed to stick it upyour ass,”he added. “Remind you ofhome.”And so we waited, in

company with a couple ofother groups also going out

thatnight.Thequickreactionforce (QRF) was going toAsadabad at the same time.Wehadjustdoneafullphotorecon of Asadabad, whichthey carried with them. Thedeserted Russian base wasstill there, andAsadabad, thecapital city of KunarProvince, remained a knowndangerous area. It was ofcourse where the Afghanmujahideenhadalmosttotallysurrounded thebaseand then

proceeded to slaughter all ofthe Russian enlisted men. Itwas thebeginningof theendfor the Soviets in 1989, onlyone range ofmountains overfromthespotweweregoing.Finally, the rotor blades

began to howl on the helos.Apparently themanymovingparts of Operation Redwing,so susceptible to change,were still in place. The callcame through,“Redwing is ago!,” and we hoisted up our

gearandclamberedonboardtheChinook47fortheinsert,forty-five minutes away tothe northeast. “Guess thisfucker Ben Sharmak is stillwhere we think he is,” saidMikey.We were joined by five

other guys going in toAsadabad,and theotherhelotook off first. Thenwe liftedoff the runway, followingthem out over the base andbankingaroundtoourcorrect

course.Itwasdarknow,andIspent the time looking at thefloor rather than out of thewindow. Every one of thefour of us, Mikey, Axe,Danny,andme,madeitclear,eachinhisownway,thatwedid not have a good feelingabout this. And I cannotdescribe how unusual thatwas.Wegointoopsareasfullof gungho bravado, thewaywe’re trained — Bring ’emon,we’reready!

No SEAL would everadmit to being scared ofanything. Even if we were,we would never say it. Weopen thedoorandgooutsideto face the enemy, whoeverthe hell he might be.Whatever we all felt thatnight, it was not fear of theenemy, although I recognizeitmighthavebeenfearoftheunknown, because we reallywere unsure about what wewould encounter in the way

ofterrain.When we reached the ops

area, the helicopter madethree false inserts, severalmiles apart, coming in verylowandhoveringoverplaceswehadno intentionofgoinganywhere near. If theAfghanswerewatching, theymust have been veryconfused — even we wereconfused! Going in, pullingout, going back in again,hovering, leaving. I’m damn

sure, ifSharmak’sguyswereoutthere,theycouldnothavehad the slightest clue wherewewere, ifwewere,orhowtolocateus.Finally, we were on the

way into our real landingzone. The final call came—“Redwing is a go!” Thelandingcontrollerwascallingthe shots: “Ten minutesout...Three minutes out...Oneminute...Thirtyseconds!...Let’sgo!”

The ramp was down, wewere open at the rear, thegunner was ready with theM60machine gun in case ofambush. It was pitch blackoutside, no moon, and therotorbladesweremakingthatfamiliar bom-bom-bom-bomon the wind. So far no onehadfiredanythingatus.The rope snaked from the

rear of the aircraft to theground, positioned expertlyso our guns could not get

caught aswe left.Right nowno one spoke. Loaded withour weapons and gear, welined up. Danny went first,out into the dark, I followedhim, then Mikey, then Axe.Each one of us grabbed therope and slid down fast,wearing gloves to avoid theburn. It was a drop of abouttwenty feet, and there was astiff,bitingwind.We hit the deck and

spread, moving twenty yards

away from one another. Itwas really coldup there, andthe downward gale from therotors, beating on us,whiskingupthedust,madeitmuch worse. We did notknow if we were beingwatchedbyunseentribesmen,but it was plainly apossibility, out here in thislawless rebel-held territory.We heard the howl of thehelicopter’s engines increaseas it lifted off. And then it

clattered away into thedarkness, gaining speed andheight rapidly as it left thisgodforsakenescarpment.We froze into the

landscape for fifteenminutesoftotalsilence.Therewasnota movement, not a singlecommunication among us.Andtherewasnotasoundonthe mountain. This wasbeyond silence, a stillnessbeyond the concept ofsilence, like being in outer

space. Way down below uswe could see two fires, orperhaps lanterns, burning,probably about a mile away,goatherds,Ihoped.Thefifteenminutespassed.

Tomyleftwasthemountain,a great looming masssweeping skyward. To myright was a group of huge,thick trees. All around uswere low tree stumps andthickfoliage.We were way below the

place where we wouldultimatelyoperate,anditwasveryunnerving,becauserighthere anyone could hide out.Wecouldn’tseeadamnthingand had no idea if therewasanyonearound.Sixteenyearsago, not too far away fromhere, I guess those Russianconscripts sensed somethingvery similar before someoneslashedtheirthroats.Finally,we climbed to our

feet. Iwalked over toDanny

and told him to get thecomms up and let thecontrollers know we weredown. Then I walked up thehill towhereMikeyandAxehad the big rope which had,absurdly, been cut down anddroppedfromthehelicopter.This was definitely a

mistake. That helo crewwassupposed to have taken therope away with them. Godknowswhat they thoughtweweregoingtodowithit,and

I was just gladMikey foundit.Ifhehadn’tandwe’dleftitlyingon theground, itmighteasily have been found by awandering tribesman orfarmer,especially if theyhadheard thehelicoptercome in.That rope might have rungourdeathknell,signifying,asit surely must, that theAmericaneaglehadlanded.We did not have a shovel,

and Mikey and Axe had tocover the rope with trees,

weeds, and foliage. Whilethey were completing this, IopenedupcommstotheAC-130Spectregunship,whichIknew was way up theresomewhere monitoring us. Ipassed my messagesuccinctly:“Sniper Two One, this is

Glimmer Three— preparingtomove.”“Rogerthat.”ItwasthelasttimeIspoke

to them. And now we were

assembledforourjourney—about four miles. Our routewas preplanned, along amountain ridge that stretchedout into a long right-handdogleg. Our waypoints weremarked on our map, and theGPS numbers, detailing theprecise position from thesatellite, were clear,numbered1,2,and3.That was just about the

only thing that wasstraightforward. Because the

terrain was absolutelyhorrible, the moonless nightwas still pitchblack, andourroute was along a mountainface so steep, it was agoddamnedmiraclewedidn’tall fall off and break ournecks. Also, it was raininglike a bastard and freezingcold. Within about tenminutes we were absolutelysoaked,likeHellWeek.It was really slow going,

clambering and slipping,

stumbling and looking forfootholds, handholds,anything.Allofus felldownthemountain in the first halfhour. But it was worse forme, because the other threewere all expert mountainclimbers and much smallerand lighter than Iwas. Iwasslower over the groundbecauseofmysize,andIkeptfalling behind. They had arestwhile Iwas catching up,and then when I got there,

Mikeysignaledtogostraighton.NorestforMarcus.“Fuckyou,Murphy,” Isaidwithouteven a pretense of goodnature.In fact, conditionswere so

baditwasalousyideatorestup.Youcouldfreezeuphere,soaked to the skin as wewere, in about five minutes.So we kept going, alwaysupward, keeping our bodyheat as high as possible. Butit was still miserable. We

never stopped ducking downunder the trees and hanginglimbs,holdingonifwecould,trying not to fall off themountainagain.In the end we reached the

topoftheclifffaceandfounda freshly used trail. It wasobvioustheTalibanhadbeenthrough here recently insubstantial numbers, and thiswas good news for us. Itmeant Sharmak and his mencould not be far away, and

right now we were huntingthem.At the top, we suddenly

walkedout intoanenormousflat field of very high grass,and the moon came outbriefly.Thepasture stretchedawayinfrontofuslikesomekind of paradise lit up in thepale light.We all stopped inour tracks because it lookedamazinglybeautiful.Butanenemycouldeasily

have been lurking in that

grass,andan instant laterweducked down, staying silent.Axe tried to find a paththroughit,thentriedtomakehis own path. But he simplycould not. The pasture wastoo thick, and it nearlycovered him. Before long hereturned and told us,poetically, there in thesoutheastAsianmoonlight,inthese ancient storied landsright up near the roof of theworld,“Guys,thatwastotally

fuckinghopeless.”To our right was the deep

valley, somewhere downwhich our target village waslocated. We’d already hitwaypoint 1, and our onlyoption was to find anothertrail and keep moving alongthe flank of the escarpment.And then, very suddenly, agreat fog bank rolled in anddrifted off the mountaintopbeneath us and across thevalley.

I remember looking downat it, moonlit clouds, sowhite,sopure,itlookedasifwe could have walked rightacrossittoanothermountain.Through the NODS (nightoptic device) it was aspectacular sight, a visionperhaps of heaven, set in aland of hellish undercurrentsandflaminghatreds.While we stood up there,

transfixed by oursurroundings, Mikey worked

out thatwewere justbeyondwaypoint 1, and we stillsomehow had to proceed onour northerly course, thoughnot through the high grass.We fanned out and Dannyfound a trail that led aroundthe mountain, more or lesswherewewantedtogo.Butitwasnoteasy,becausebynowthe moon had disappearedand it was again raining likehell.Wemust have gone about

another half mile acrossterrainthatwasjustasbadasanythingwehadencounteredallnight.Then,unexpectedly,I could smell a house andgoat manure, even throughthe rain; an Afghanfarmhouse. We had nearlywalkedstraight into the frontyard.Andnowwehad to bevery careful. We duckeddown,crawlingonourhandsand knees through thickundergrowth, staying out of

sight, right on theescarpment.Miserable as all this was,

conditionswerereallyperfectforaSEALoperationbehindenemy lines. Without night-vision goggles like ours,people couldn’t possibly seeus. The rain and wind hadcertainlydriveneveryoneelseunder cover, and anyone stillawake probably thought onlya raving lunatic could be outthere in such weather. And

theywereright.Allfourofushad taken quite heavy falls,probably one in every fivehundred yards we traveled.Wewerecoveredinmudandas wet as BUD/S phase twotrainees. It was true. Only alunatic, or a SEAL, couldwillingly walk around likethis.We could not see that

much ourselves. Nothingexceptthatfarmhouse,really.Andthen,quitesuddenly,the

moon came out again, verybright, and we had to moveswiftly into the shadows, ourcover stolen by that pale,luminouslightinthesky.We kept going, moving

away from the farm, stillmoving upward on themountainside, through quitereasonable vegetation. Butthen all of my own personaldreadscameoutandwhackedus.Wewalkedstraightoutofthe trees intoabarren,harsh,

sloping hillside, the mainescarpment set steeply on anorthernrise.Therewasnotatree.Nota

bush. Just wet shale, mud,small rocks, and boulders.The moon was directly infront of us, casting our longshadowsontotheslope.This was my nightmare,

ever since I first stared atthose plans back in thebriefing room: the four of usstarkly silhouetted against a

treeless mountain above aTaliban-occupiedvillage.Wewere an Afghan lookout’sfinest moment, unmissable.We were Webb and Davis’sworst dream, snipersuncovered, out in the open,trapped in nature’s spotlightwithnowheretohide.“Holyshit,”saidMikey.

7

AnAvalancheofGunfire

Downthemountain,fromeveryangle.Axeflankedleft,tryingtocutoffthedownwardtrail,firing

nonstop.Mikeywasblastingaway...shouting,...“Marcus,nooptionsnow,buddy,kill’emall!”

We edged back the way wehad come, into the shadowscastbythelastofthetrees.Itwasnot farback towaypoint2,andwetookaGPSreadingright there. Mikey handedover navigational duties toAxe, and I groaned. Moving

upanddownthesesteepcliffswas really tough forme, butthe streamlined, expertmountaineer MatthewAxelson could hop aroundlike a fucking antelope. Ireminded him of those twocorrelatingfacts,andallthreeof my teammates startedlaughing.For some reason best

knowntoourresidentkingofTrivial Pursuit, he led us offthe high mountain ridge and

down toward the valleywhich spread out from theelbowofthedogleg.Itwasasifhehaddecidedtoeliminatethe dogleg entirely and takethe straight line directlyacross to waypoint 3.Whichwas all fine and dandy,except it meant a one-milewalk going steeplydownward, followed,inevitably, by a one-milewalk going steeply upward.That was the part I was not

builtfor.Nonetheless that was our

new route. After about fiftyyards I was struggling. Icouldn’tkeepupwhilegoingdown, never mind up. Theycould hear me sliding andcursing in the rear, and Icould hear Axe and Mikeylaughing up front. And thiswas not a fitness problem. Iwasasfitasanyofthem,andI was not in any way out ofbreath. I was just too big to

track a couple of mountaingoats.Lawsofnature,right?Our path was inescapably

zigzagged because Axe wasalways trying to find cover,stay out of themoonlight, aswegrappledourwaybackupthe cliff to waypoint 3. Wereached the topapproximately one hourbefore daylight. Our GPSnumbers were correct, asplanned back at home base.And right up there on top of

this finger of pure granite,Mikey picked a spot wherewecouldlayup.He chose a position over

the brow of the summit,maybeeightyfeetdown,rightontheuppermostescarpment.There were trees, some ofthem close together, butdirectly beyond them wasmore barren land. Wedroppedour heavy loads, thefour-mile journey complete,andtippedthegritandstones

outofourboots.Theyalwaysfindawayin.Medically, we were all

okay, no injuries. But wewere exhausted after ourgrueling seven-hour hike upand down this freakin’mountain. Especially Mikeyand me, because we bothsuffered from insomnia,particularly prepping for anoperation like this, and wehadn’t slept the night before.Plusitwasfreezingcold,and

we were still soaked to theskineventhoughtherainhadstopped. So, for that matter,was everything we carriedwithus.Dannyhadtheradioupand

he informed HQ, and anypatrolling aircraft, that wewere in position and good togo.Butthiswasalittlehasty,because right after thatcommunication, the mooncameout oncemore, andweswept the area with our

NODs and couldn’t see adamn thing. Not even thevillage we were supposed tobe surveying in search ofSharmak. The trees were inthe way. And we could notmoveoutofthetreesbecausethat put us back on exposedbarren ground, where therewere a few very small treestumpsstillinthegroundbutzero decent cover. JesusChrist.Thiswasplainlya logging

area,maybeabandoned,butaplacewherealotoftreeshadbeen cut down.Away to ourright,thenightskyabovethehighest peaks wasbrightening.Dawnwasnear.Danny and I sat on a rock

in deep conversation, tryingto work out how bad thisreallywasandwhat todo. Itwas every frogman’s dread,anoperationwheretheterrainwas essentially unknown andturnedout tobe asbad asor

worse than anyone had everdreamed. Danny and Ireachedidenticalconclusions.Thisreallysucked.Mikey came over to talk

briefly. And we all stared atthe brightness in the sky tothe east. Lieutenant Murphy,ascommandcontroller,calledthe shot. “We’re moving infive.” And so we picked upour heavy loads once moreandsetoffbackthewaywe’dcome. After a hundred yards

wefoundadowntrailon theother side of the ridge,walked below the waypoint,and selected a prime spot inthe trees overlooking thevillage,whichwasmorethanamileandahalfaway.We settled in, jamming

ourselves against trees androcks, trying to get into apositionwherewe could reston this almost sheerescarpment. I glugged frommywatercanteenand, to tell

thetruth,Ifeltlikeaplantonthe Hanging Gardens ofBabylon. Danny was in hisyoga position, sitting cross-legged like a goddamnedsnake charmer, his backagainsthistree.Axe, ever alert, stood

guard, blending into themountain tomy left, his rifleprimed despite the quiet. Hewas probably doing a NewYork Times crossword whichhe’d memorized word for

word inhishead.Hedidnotget much peace, though.Mytree turned out to be sometypeofamulberry,andsinceI could not even doze off, Ispent the time hurling theberries at Axe on account ofhis shaky attitude during theclimbbackupthemountain.Then another major fog

bank rolled in and settledover all of us and the valleybelow. There was again nowaytoseethevillage,andthe

troublewithfogbanksistheyare likely to turn up in thesameplaceoften.Itwasplainwe could not remain here ineffective operational mode.Oncemorewehadtoleave.Mikey and Axe were

poring over the maps andscanningthemountainterrainabove us, where there wasless fog.Danny and I had tokeep looking toward thevillage, trying to use theglass, peering at whatever

there was to be seen.Whichwas nothing. Finally Mikeysaid he was leaving, alone,just takinghisrifle, insearchof a better spot. Then hechanged his mind and tookAxe with him. And I didn’tblame him. This place wasenough to give anyone thecreeps, because you neverknewwhomightbewatching.Danny and I waited, and

thesunclimbedhighoverthepeaks and began to dry our

wetclothes.Theotherscameback after maybe an hour,and Mikey said they hadfound an excellent place forobserving thevillagebut thatcover was sparse. I think heconsidered there would besome heightened risk in thisoperation, no matter what,because of the terrain.But ifwedidnottakethatriskwe’dlikely be up here tillChristmas.And once more we all

hoistedourpacks and setoffto the new hiding place. Itwas only about a thousandyards,but it tookusanhour,moving along, and then up,themountain, right onto thatgranite finger at the end ofthe ridge. And when we gotthere, I had to agree it wasperfect, offering a brilliantangle on the village for thelens, the spotting scope, andthe bullet. It had sensationalall-aroundvision. IfSharmak

andhisgangofvillainswerethere, we’d get him. AsMikey observed, “That guycouldn’t get to thegoddamnedcommunalshitterwithoutusseeinghim.”Danny’s reply was not

suitable for a family storysuchasthis,entailingasitdidthepossibleblastingofoneofSharmak’s principal workingparts.I stood theregazing at our

new mountain stronghold

with itsmassive, sheer dropsallaround.Itwasperfect,butitwasalsohighlydangerous.Ifanattackingforcecameupon us, especially at night,we’d have no choice but tofightourwayout.Ifsomeonestarted firing RPGs at us,we’d all be blown to pieces.Therewasonlyonewayout,the way we had come. AskilledstrategistlikeSharmakcould have blockaded us outhere on this barren, stony

point, andwe’d have neededtokillalotofguystogetout.And there was the everpresent, disquieting thoughtthat Sharmak’s buddy binLaden might also be in thearea — with probably thebiggest al Qaeda force we’deverfaced.But in its way, this place

was perfect, with the mostcommanding views anysurveillance team couldwishfor.We just somehowhad to

burrow into this loose, rockyshale, keep our heads down,stay camouflaged, andconcentrate.We’dbeokayaslongasnoone sawus.But Istill had a very uneasyfeeling.Sodidtheothers.We all had something to

eat,morewater, and thenwelay there facedown, quietlysteamingasthesundriedourclothes. It was now hotterthan hell, and I was lyingunder a felled log, jammed

into the curve right againstthewood,myfeetoutbehindme. But unhappily, Iwas ontop of a stinging nettle thatwas drivingmemad. I couldnot, of course, move onemuscle. Who knew if a pairof long-range binocularswastrained on us at this verymoment?I was on glass, silently

using the scope and binos.Murphwas fifty yards away,positioned higher than me

among some rocks.Axewastomyright,perchedinanoldtree stump hollow. Dannywas down to the left in thelast of the trees with theradio, hunkered down, theonlyoneofuswithanyshadefrom the burning sun. It wasapproaching noon, and thesunwasdirectlyinthesouth,high, really high, almoststraightaboveus.Wecouldnotbeseenfrom

below. And there was

definitely no human beinglevel with or above us. Atleast, not on this SEAL’smountain. We only had towait, stay very still, shut up,and concentrate, fourdisciplines atwhichwewereallexpert.It was deathly quiet up

there, just as silent as thenight. And the silence wasbrokenonlybytheoccasionalterse exchange between oneSEAL and another, usually

aimed toward Danny’sprivileged position in theshade, out of the direct raysof the sweltering mountainsun. They were notparticularly professionalexchanges either, lackinggraceandunderstanding.“Hey, Danny, wanna

switchplaces?”“Fuckyou!”Thattypeofthing.Nothing

else. Not another sound todrift into the mountain air.

But suddenly I did hear asound,which carried directlyto the southwest side of myfelled tree.The unmistakablenoise of soft footsteps rightaboveme.JesusChrist!IwasluckyIdidn’tneedtochangemypants.Andjustassuddenly,there

was a guy, wearing a turbanandcarryingafuckingax.Hejumpedoffthelog,rightoverthe top of me. I damn nearfainted with shock. I just

wasn’texpectingit.Iwheeledaround,grabbedmyrifle,andpointed it straight at him,which I considered might atleast discourage him frombeheadingme.Hewasplainlymorestartled than Iwas,andhedroppedtheax.And then I saw the other

Axe, standing up and aiminghis rifle right at the guy’sturban. “Youmust have seenhim,”Isnappedathim.“Whythe hell didn’t you tell me?

He nearly gave me a heartattack.”“Just didn’t want to make

anynoise,”saidAxe.“Idrewa bead on him and kept himinmysightsuntilhe reachedyourlog.Onefalsemove,I’dhavekilledhimrightthere.”I told the guy to siddown,

against the log. And thensomething ridiculoushappened. About a hundredgoats, all with little bellsaround their necks, came

trotting up the mountain,swarmingall around the spotwherewewerenowstanding.Then up over the hill cametwo more guys. All of uswere now surrounded bygoats. And I motioned forthem to join their colleagueonthegroundagainstthelog.That’s the Afghans, not thegoats.Finally,Mikey and Danny

made their way up throughthe bleating herd and saw

immediately what was goingon. Like me, they noted thatone of the three was just akid, around fourteen yearsold.Itriedtoaskthemiftheywere Taliban, and they allshook their heads, the oldermen saying, in English, “NoTali-ban...noTaliban.”I gave the kid one of my

powerbars,andhescowledatme.Justputitdownonarocknexttohim,withnothanksornodof appreciation.The two

adultsglaredatus,making itobvious they disliked usintensely. Of course, theywere probably wonderingwhat the hell wewere doingwandering about their farmwith enough weapons andammunition to conquer anentireAfghanprovince.The question was, What

did we do now? They werevery obviously goatherds,farmers from the highcountry.Or,asitstatesinthe

pages of the GenevaConvention, unarmedcivilians. The strictly correctmilitary decision would stillbetokillthemwithoutfurtherdiscussion,becausewecouldnotknowtheirintentions.How could we know if

they were affiliated with aTaliban militia group orsworn by some tribal bloodpact to inform the Talibanleaders of anythingsuspicious-looking they

foundinthemountains?And,oh boy, were we suspicious-looking.Thehard factwas, if these

three Afghan scarecrows ranoff to find Sharmak and hismen,weweregoing tobe inserious trouble, trapped outhere on this mountain ridge.The military decision wasclear: these guys could notleave there alive. I just stoodthere, looking at their filthybeards, rough skin, gnarled

hands, andhard, angry faces.These guys did not like us.They showed no aggression,but neither did they offer orwantthehandoffriendship.Axelson was our resident

academic as well as ourTrivial Pursuit king. AndMikey asked him what heconsidered we should do. “Ithink we should kill them,because we can’t let themgo,”hereplied,withthepure,simple logic of the born

intellect.“Andyou,Danny?”“I don’t really give a shit

what we do,” he said. “Youwantme to kill ’em, I’ll kill’em.Justgivemetheword.Ionlyworkhere.”“Marcus?”“Well, until right now I’d

assumed killing ’emwas ouronly option. I’d like to hearwhatyouthink,Murph.”Mikey was thoughtful.

“Listen, Marcus. If we kill

them,someonewillfindtheirbodiesrealquick.Forastart,these fucking goats are justgoing to hang around. Andwhen these guys don’t gethome for their dinner, theirfriends and relatives aregoing to head straight out tolook for them, especially forthis fourteen-year-old. Themain problem is the goats.Becausetheycan’tbehidden,and that’s where people willlook.

“When they find thebodies, the Taliban leaderswill sing to the Afghanmedia. The media in theU.S.A.will latchonto itandwrite stuff about the brutishU.S. Armed Forces. Veryshortly after that, we’ll becharged with murder. Themurder of innocent unarmedAfghanfarmers.”I had to admit, I had not

really thought about it quitelike that. But there was a

terrible reality aboutMikey’swords.Was I afraid of theseguys? No. Was I afraid oftheir possible buddies in theTaliban?No.Was I afraidofthe liberalmedia back in theU.S.A.?Yes.AndIsuddenlyflashed on the prospect ofmany, many years in a U.S.civilian jail alongsidemurderersandrapists.And yet...as a highly

trained member of the U.S.Special Forces, deep in my

warrior’s soul I knew it wasnutstoletthesegoatherdsgo.I tried to imagine what thegreat military figures of thepast would have done.Napoleon? Patton? OmarBradley?MacArthur?Wouldthey have made the ice-coldmilitary decision to executethesecatsbecausetheyposeda clear andpresentdanger totheirmen?If these Afghans blew the

whistleonus,wemightallbe

killed, right out here on thisrocky, burning-hotpromontory, thousands andthousands of miles fromhome, light-years from help.Thepotentialforceagainstuswas too great. To let theseguys go on their way wasmilitarysuicide.AllweknewwasSharmak

had between 80 and 200armed men. I remembertaking the middle number,140,andaskingmyselfhowI

liked the odds of 140 to 4.That’s 35 to 1. Not much. Ilooked at Mikey and toldhim, “Murph, we gotta getsomeadvice.”We both turned to Danny,

whohad fired up the commssystem and was valiantlytrying to get through to HQ.We could see him becomingvery frustrated, like allcomms operators do whentheycannotgetaconnection.He kept trying, andwewere

rapidly coming to theconclusion the goddamnedradiowasupthecreek.“That thing need new

batteries?”Iaskedhim.“No. It’s fine, but they

won’tfuckinganswerme.”Theminuteswent by. The

goatherds sat still, Axe andMurphwiththeirriflesaimedstraightatthem,Dannyactinglikehecouldhavethrownthecomms system over thegoddamnedcliff.

“They won’t answer,” hesaid through gritted teeth. “Idon’t knowwhy. It’s like noone’sthere.”“There must be someone

there,” said Murph, and Icould hear the anxiety in hisvoice.“Well, there isn’t,” said

Danny.“Murphy’s god-awful

law,” I said. “Not you,Mikey, that other prick, thegodofscrewups.”

No one laughed.Not evenme. And the dull realizationdawned on us: we were onourownandhadtomakeourowndecision.MikeMurphy saidquietly,

“We’vegotthreeoptions.Weplainly don’t want to shootthese guys because of thenoise. So, number one, wecould just kill them quietlyand hurl the bodies over theedge. That’s probably athousand-foot drop. Number

twoiswekillthemrighthere,cover ’emup as bestwe canwithrocksanddirt.“Eitherwaywegetthehell

outandsaynothing.Notevenwhen the story comes outabout the murdered Afghangoatherds.Andsomefuckingheadline back home whichreads, ‘Navy SEALs UnderSuspicion.’“Number three, we turn

’em loose, and still get thehell out, in case the Taliban

comelooking.”He stared at us. I can

remember it just like it wasyesterday. Axe said firmly,“We’re not murderers. Nomatterwhatwedo.We’reonactive duty behind enemylines, sentherebyour seniorcommanders.Wehavearightto do everything we can tosave our own lives. Themilitary decision is obvious.To turn them loosewouldbewrong.”

Ifthiscametoavote,asitmight, Axe was going torecommend the execution ofthethreeAfghans.Andinmysoul,Iknewhewasright.Wecould not possibly turn themloose. But my trouble is, Ihave another soul. MyChristian soul. And it wascrowding in on me.Somethingkeptwhisperinginthebackofmymind,itwouldbe wrong to execute theseunarmed men in cold blood.

And the idea of doing thatand then covering our tracksand slinking away likecriminals, denyingeverything, would make itmorewrong.To be honest, I’d have

beenhappier tostand’emupand shoot them right out infront. And then leave them.They’d just be three guyswho’d found themselves inthewrongplaceat thewrongtime. Casualties of war. And

we’d just have to defendourselves when our ownmediaandpoliticiansbackintheU.S.A.triedtohangusonamurdercharge.None of us liked the

sneaky options. I could tellthat. I guess all four of uswere Christians, and if wewere thinking like ordinarylaw-abidingU.S.citizens,wewould find it very hard tocarry out the imperativemilitary decision, the

overriding one, the decisionany great commander wouldhave made: these guys cannever leave this place alive.Thepossibleconsequencesofthat were unacceptable.Militarily.Lieutenant Murphy said,

“Axe?”“No choice.”We all knew

whathemeant.“Danny?”“As before. I don’t give a

shitwhatyoudecide.Justtell

mewhattodo.”“Marcus?”“Idon’tknow,Mikey.”“Well, letme tell you one

more time. If we kill theseguys we have to be straightabout it.Reportwhatwedid.We can’t sneak around this.Just so you all understand,theirbodieswillbefound,theTalibanwilluseittothemax.They’ll get it in the papers,and the U.S. liberal mediawill attackuswithoutmercy.

We will almost certainly bechargedwithmurder. I don’tknow how you guys feelabout that...Marcus, I’ll gowithyou.Callit.”I just stood there. I looked

again at these sullen Afghanfarmers. Not one of themtried to say a word to us.They didn’t need to. Theirglowering stares said plenty.We didn’t have rope to bindthem.Tying them up to giveus more time to establish a

new position wasn’t anoption.IlookedMikeyrightinthe

eye,andIsaid,“Wegottalet’emgo.”It was the stupidest, most

southern-fried, lamebraineddecision I ever made in mylife. Imust have been out ofmymind.IhadactuallycastavotewhichIknewcouldsignour deathwarrant. I’d turnedinto a fucking liberal, a half-assed, no-logic nitwit, all

heart, no brain, and thejudgmentofajackrabbit.At least, that’s how I look

backon thosemomentsnow.Probably not then, but fornearly every waking hour ofmylifesince.Nonightpasseswhen I don’twake in a coldsweat thinking of thosemoments on that mountain.I’llnevergetoverit.Icannotgetoverit.Thedecidingvotewas mine, and it will hauntmetilltheyrestmeinanEast

Texasgrave.Mikeynodded.“Okay,”he

said,“Iguessthat’stwovotesto one, Danny abstains. Wegottalet’emgo.”I remember no one said

anything.We could just hearthe short staccato sounds ofthe goats: ba-aaaa...baaa...baaa. And thetinkling of the little bells. Itprovidedafittingbackgroundchorus to a decision whichhad been made in fucking

fairyland. Not on thebattlefieldwherewe,likeitornot,mostcertainlywere.Axesaidagain,“We’renot

murderers.Andwewouldnothave been murderers,whateverwe’ddone.”Mikey was sympathetic to

his view. He just said, “Iknow, Axe, I know, buddy.Butwejusttookavote.”I motioned for the three

goatherds to get up, and Isignaledthemwithmyrifleto

go on their way. They nevergave one nod or smile ofgratitude. And they surelyknew we might very wellhavekilledthem.Theyturnedtoward the higher groundbehindus.I can see them now. They

put their hands behind theirbacksinthatpeculiarAfghanway and broke into a veryfastjog,upthesteepgradient,the goats around us nowtrotting along to join them.

From somewhere, a skinny,mangy brown dog appeareddolefully and joined the kid.That dog was a gruesomeAfghan reminder ofmy ownrobust chocolate Labrador,Emma, back home on theranch, always bursting withhealthandjoy.Iguessthat’swhenIwoke

up and stopped worryingabout the goddamnedAmerican liberals. “This isbad,”Isaid.“Thisisrealbad.

Whatthefuckarewedoing?”Axeshookhishead.Danny

shrugged. Mikey, to be fair,looked as if he had seen aghost.Likeme,hewasamanwhoknewamassivemistakehad just been made. Morechillingthananythingwehadever done together. Wherewere those guys headed?Werewecrazyorwhat?Thoughtsracedthroughmy

mind. We’d had no comms,no one we could turn to for

advice. Thus far we had nosemblance of a target in thevillage. We were in a veryexposed position, and weappearedtohavenoaccesstoairsupport.Wecouldn’tevenreport in.Worse yet,we hadno clue as to where thegoatherdswereheaded.Whenthings go this bad, it’s neverone thing. It’s every damnthing.We watched them go,

disappearing up the

mountain, still running, stillwith their hands behind theirbacks.And the sense thatwehad done something terribleby letting them go was all-pervading. I could just tell.Not one of us was able tospeak. We were like fourzombies, hardly knowingwhether to crash back intoour former surveillance spotsorleaverightaway.“What now?” asked

Danny.

Mikey began to gather hisgear.“Moveinfive,”hesaid.We packed up our stuff,

andrightthereinthenoondaysun, we watched thegoatherds, far on the highhorizon, finally disappearfrom view. By my watch, itwas precisely nineteenminutes after their departure,andthemoodofsheergloomenvelopedusall.We set off up the

mountain, following in the

hoofprints of the goats andtheir masters. We moved asfast as we could, but it tookusbetweenfortyminutesandone hour to cover the samesteep ground. At the top, wecould no longer see them.Mountain goats, mountainherders. They were all thegoddamned same, and theycouldmovelikerocketsupinthepasses.Wesearchedaroundforthe

trailwehadarrivedby,found

it,andsetoffbacktowardtheinitial spot, the one we hadpulled out of because of thepoorangleonthevillageandthen the dense fog bank.Wetried the radioandstill couldnot make a connection withhomebase.Our offensive policy was

in pieces. But we wereheaded for probably the bestdefensive position we hadfound since we got here, onthe brink of the mountain

wall,maybefortyyards fromthe summit, with tree coverand decent concealment.Right now we sensed wemust remain in strictlydefensivemode,lielowforawhile and hope the Talibanhadnotbeenalertedoriftheyhadthatwewouldbetoowellhidden for them to locate us.We were excellentpractitionersoflyinglowandhiding.We walked on along the

side of the mountain, and Ihave to say the place lookedkind of different in broaddaylight.But its virtueswerestill there.Even from the topof the escarpment we wouldbe damn near impossible tosee.Weclimbeddownandtook

up our precise old positions.We were still essentiallycarryingout ourmission, butwe remained on the highestpossible alert for Taliban

fighters. Below me, maybethirty yards to my right,looking up the hill, Dannyslipped neatly into his yogatree, cross-legged, stilllookinglikeasnakecharmer.I gotmyselfwedged into theold mulberry tree, where Ireapplied my camouflagecream and melted into thelandscape.Belowmeontheleft,same

distance as Danny, was Axewithourheaviestrifle.Mikey

was right below me, maybetenyards,jammedintotheleeof a boulder. Above us themountain was nearly sheer,then it went flat for a fewyards, then it angled sharplyuptothetop.I’dtriedlookingdown from there, so hadMurph, and wewere agreed,you could not really seeanything over the smalloutward ridge whichprotectedus.For the moment, we were

safe. Axe had the glass fortwenty minutes, and then Itookoverfor thenext twentyminutes. Nothing stirred inthe village. It had now beenmore thananhourandahalfsinceweturnedthegoatherdsloose. And it was still quietandpeaceful, hardly a breathofwind.AndbyChristitwashot.Mikey was closest to me

whenhesuddenlywhispered,“Guys,I’vegotanidea.”

“What is it, sir,” I asked,suddenly formal, as if oursituation demanded somerespectforthemanwhomustultimatelytakecommand.“I’m going down to the

village, see if Icanborrowaphone!”“Beautiful,”saidAxe.“See

if you can pick me up asandwich.”“Sure,” said Mikey.

“What’ll itbe?Muledungorgoat’shoof?”

“Hold themayo,” growledAxe.The jokes weren’t that

great,Iknow.Butperchedupthere on this Afghan rockface, poised to fend off anattackingarmy,Ithoughttheywere only just shy of grade-onehilarity.Itwas,Isuppose,asignof

nerves, like cracking a one-lineronyourdeathbed.Butitshowedweallfeltbetternow;not absolutely A-OK, but

cheerfulenough toget toourwork and toss out theoccasionallightremark.Morelike our old selves, right?Anyhow, I said I was justgoing to closemy eyes for ashort while, and I pulledmycamouflage hat down overmyeyesandtriedtonodoff,despite my pounding heart,whichIcouldnotslowdown.Around ten minutes more

passed. Suddenly I heardMikey make a familiar alert

sound...Sssst! Sssst! I liftedup my hat and instinctivelylooked left, overmyportsidequarter, to the spot where IknewAxewouldbecoveringour flank. And he was rightthere,rigid,infiringposition,hisrifleaimedstraightupthemountain.I twisted around to look

directly behind me. Mikeywasstaringwide-eyedup thehill,callingorders,instructingDanny to call in immediate

backup fromHQ if he couldmaketheradiowork.HesawIwasonthecase,lookedhardatme,andpointedstraightupthehill,urgingmewithhandsignalstodothesame.I fixed my Mark 12 in

firing position, pulled myhead back a few inches, andlooked up the hill. Linedalong the top were betweeneightyandahundredheavilyarmedTalibanwarriors, eachone of them with an AK-47

pointing downward. Somewere carrying rocket-propelled grenades. To therightandtothelefttheywerestarting to move down ourflanks.Iknewtheycouldseepastme but not atme. Theycould not have seen Axe orDanny. IwasunsurewhethertheyhadseenMikey.My heart dropped directly

into my stomach. And Icursed those fuckinggoatherds to hell, andmyself

for not executing themwheneverymilitarycodebookeverwritten had taught meotherwise.Nottomentionmyown raging instincts, whichhad told me to go with Axeandexecutethem.Andlettheliberals go to hell in a mulecart,andtakewiththemalloftheir fucking know-nothingrules of etiquette in war andhuman rights and whateverother bullshit makes ’emhappy.Youwanttochargeus

with murder? Well, fuckingdo it. But at least we’ll bealive to answer it. This wayreallysucks.I pressed back against my

tree. Iwasstill sure theyhadnot seen me, but theirintention was to outflank uson both wings. I could seethat. I scanned the grounddirectlyaboveme.Thehilltopstill swarmed with armedmen. I thought there weremore than before. Therewas

no escape by going straightup, and no possibility ofmoving left or right.Essentially they had ustrapped, if they had spottedus.Istillwasunsure.And so far not a shot had

been fired. I looked up thehill again at one single treeabove and tomy left,maybetwenty yards away. And Ithought I saw a movement.Then it was confirmed, firstby a turban, then by anAK-

47, its barrel pointed in mygeneral direction though notdirectlyatme.I tightenedmygrip on the

trusty rifle and moved itslightlyinthedirectionofthetree. Whoever it was stillcould not see me because Iwas in a great spot, wellhidden. I kept perfectly still,that’sgoddamnedmotionless,likeamarblestatue.IcheckedwithMikey,who

also had not moved. Then I

checked the tree again, andthis time that turban wasaround it. A hook-nosedTaliban warrior was peeringstraight at me through blackeyes above a thick blackbeard. The barrel of hisAK-47 was pointed right at myhead. Had he seen me?Wouldheopenfire?Howdidthe liberals feel about myposition?No time, I guess. Ifiredonce,blewhisheadoff.Andatthatmomentallhell

broke loose. The Talibanunleashed an avalanche ofgunfire at us, straight downthe mountain, from everyangle.Axeflankedleft,tryingtocutoffthedownwardtrail,firing nonstop. Mikey wasblasting away straight overmy head with everything hehad. Danny was firing atthem, trying to aimwith onehand, desperately trying torev up the radio with theother.

I could hear Mikeyshouting,“Danny,Danny,forChrist’ssake,getthatfuckingthing working...Marcus, nooptions now, buddy, kill ’emall!”Butnowtheenemygunfire

seemed to center on our twoflank men. I could see thedust and rock shards kickingup all around us. The soundof AK-47s absolutely filledtheair,deafening.Icouldseethe Taliban guys falling all

along the ridge. No one canshoot like us. I stayed rightwhere I was, in my originalposition,andIstillseemedtobe taking less fire than theothers.Butinthenextcoupleofminutestheyhadidentifiedmy position, and the volumeof fire directly at me wasincreasing. This was bad.Verybad.I could see Axe was

acquiring his targets quickerthanIwasbecausehehadan

extra scope. I should havehad one too, but for somereasonIhadnotfittedit.Right now all four of us

were really amped up. Weknew how to conduct afirefight like this, but weneeded to cut down theenemynumbers,nailafewofthesebastardsrealquick,giveourselves a better chance. Itwas hard for them to get usfrom directly above, whichmeant the flanks were our

danger. I could see two ofthemmakingtheirwaydown,rightandleft.Axe shot one of them, but

itwas bad to the right. Theywere shooting in a kind offrenzy but, thank Christ,missing.Iguessweweretoo.And suddenly I was takingheavy fire myself. Bulletswere slamming into the treetrunk,hittingrocksallaroundme. The bullets weresomehowcominginfromthe

sides.I called down to Mikey,

“We’ll take ’em, but wemightjustneedanewspot.”“Roger that,” he yelled

back. Like me, he could seethespeedatwhich theyweremoving up into the attack.We’dbeenshootingthemforalloffiveorsixminutes,butevery time we cleared thatridge high above us, it filledupagain.Itwasasiftheyhadreinforcements somewhere

overtheridge,justwaitingtocome up to the front line.Whicheverwaywe lookedatit, they had a ton of guystryingtokillfourSEALs.At this point our options

were nonexistent. We stillcould not charge the top ofthemountain,because they’dcut us down like dogs. Theyhad us left, and they had usright. We were boxed in onthree sides, and there wasnever, not even for a couple

of seconds, a lull in thegunfire. And we could noteven see half of them or tellwhere the bullets werecomingfrom.Theyhadeveryangleonus.All four of us just kept

banging away, cutting ’emdown, watching them fall,slamming a new magazineinto the breech, somehowholdingthematbay.But thiswas impossible. We had togiveupthishighground,and

I had to get close enough toMikeytoagreeonastrategy,hopefullytosaveourlives.I started to move, but

Mikey, like the brilliantofficer he was, hadappreciated the situation andalready called it. “Fallback!”Fallback!Morelikefalloff

—thefreakin’mountain,thatis; a nearly sheer drop, rightbehind us, God knows howfar down. But an order’s an

order.Igrabbedmygearandtook a sideways step, tryingto zigzag down the gradient.Butgravitymadethedecisionfor me, and I fell headlongdown the mountain,completingafullforwardflipand somehow landingonmyback, still going fast, heelsflailingforafoothold.At least I thought I was

going fast, but Murphy wasrightbehindme.Icouldtellitwashimbecauseofthebright

redNewYorkCityfireman’spatch he’d worn since 9/11.ThatwasactuallyallIsaw.“Seeyouat thebottom!” I

yelled. But right then I hit atree,andMikeywentpastmelike a bullet. I was goingslower now, and I tried totake a step, but I fell again,andonIwent,catchinguptoMikey now, crashing,tumblingoverthegroundlikewe were both bouncingthroughapinballmachine.

Aheadofuswasacopseoftrees on a slightly less steepgradient,andIknewthiswasour last hope before weplungedintothevoid.Ihadtograb something, anything.Sodid Mikey, and I could seehim up ahead, grabbing attreelimbs,snappingthemoff,and still plummetingdownward.In a split second I knew

thatnothingcouldsaveeitherof us, we’d surely break our

backs or necks and then theTaliban would shoot uswithout mercy, as we wouldexpect. But right now,entering the copseof trees atwhat felt like seventy milesan hour, my mind was inoverdrive.Almost everything had

beenrippedawayfrommeinthefall,everythingexceptmyammunition and grenades—all my packs, the medicalstuff, food, water, comms,

phone. I’d even lost myhelmetwiththeflagofTexaspaintedonit.IwasdamnedifI wanted some fuckingterroristwearingthat.I’d seen Mikey’s radio

aerial ripped off as wecrashed downward. And thatwas not good. My gun straphad been ripped off me andmy rifle whipped away. Thetrouble was, the terrainbeyond the tree copse wascompletely unknown to us,

because we could not see itfrom above. If we had, wemightneverhavejumped;thegroundjustsweptupwardandthenduckedawaydownward,inverted, like a goddamnedskijump.Irocketedupthelipofthat

back slope making abouteighty knots, on my back,feetfirst.IntheairImadetwocomplete backflips and Ilandedagainfeetfirst,onmyback, still coming down the

cliff face like a howitzershell. And at that moment IknewtherewasaGod.First of all, I appeared not

to be dead, which was rightup there with Jesus walkingon thewater. But evenmoreamazingwas I could seemyrifle not two feet from myrighthand,asifGodHimselfhad reacheddown tomeandgiven me hope. Marcus, IheardHimsay,you’regonnaneed this. At least, I think I

heardHim.Infact,IsweartoGod I heard Him. Becausethis was a miracle, no doubtin my mind. And I had noteven had time to say myprayers.I didn’t know how far

downwe’dfallen,butitmusthave been two or threehundred yards.Andwewereboth still going very fast. Icould see Mikey up ahead,and I honestly did not knowwhetherhewasdeadoralive.

Itwas just a person crashingthroughthedirtandboulders.If he had not broken everyboneinhisbody,thattoowasamiracle.Me? I was too battered to

hurt, and Icouldstill seemyrifle tumbling down besideme. That rifle never strayedmore than two feet frommyhand throughout this death-defying fall. And I’ll alwaysknow it was guided by thehandofGod.Becausethereis

nootherexplanation.Wehit thebottom,bothof

us landing with terrificimpact, likewe’d jumpedoffa goddamned skyscraper. Itshook the wind out of me,and I gasped for breath,tryingtoworkouthowbadlyinjured I was. My rightshoulder hurt, my back hurt,and on one side of my face,the skin had been more orless scoured away. I wascovered inbloodandbruised

tohell.But I could stand, which

wasactuallyareallybadidea,becausethentheRPGsbegantoarrive,landingclose,andIwent down again. Theyexploded more or lessharmlesslybutsentupcloudsof dust, shale, and woodshards from the trees.Mikeywasnexttome,maybefifteenfeet away, and we pickedourselvesupfromtheground.He still had his rifle

strappedon.Minewasrestingatmyfeet.Igrabbedit,andIheard Murphy shout throughthe din of explosions, “Yougood?”I turned to him, and his

entire face was black withdust. Even his goddamnedteeth were black. “You looklike shit, man,” I told him.“Fixyourselfup!”Despite everything, Mikey

laughed, and then I noticedhe’dbeenshotduringthefall.

Therewasbloodpumpingoutof his stomach.But just thenthere was a thunderousexplosion from one of thegrenades,tooclose,muchtooclose. We both wheeledaround in the swirling dustand smoke, and there behindus were two large logs,actuallyfelledtrees.Theywere crossed over at

the ends, like a pair of giantchopsticks, facing up themountain, and we turned

simultaneously and sprintedforcover.Weclearedthelogsand crashed down behindthem,safefromgunfireattackfor the moment. We wereboth still armedand ready tofight. I took the right-handside, Mikey center left,guarding both the head-onapproachandtheflank.Wecouldsee themplainly

now, swarming down theflanksofthecliffwehadjustcrashed down. They were

movingvery fast, thoughnotnearly as fast as we had.Mikeyhadaprettygood lineon them, and mine wasn’tbad.We opened fire straightatthem,pickingthemoffoneby one as they moved in onus. Trouble was, there weresomany,anditdidn’tseemtomatter how many we killed,they just kept coming. Iremember thinking that thetwo hundred estimate was alot closer than the eighty

minimum we had beenadvised.And this must have been

Sharmak’s work. Becausethese guys were not reallymarksmen, were usingmarginal rifles prettyrecklessly, but nonethelessfollowedthemilitaryrulesforthis type of assault. Theyadvanced down the side ofthe battlefield, trying tooutflank their enemy, alwaysattempting to get a 360-

degree cover on their target.Weweresurelyslowingtheirprogress down, but weweren’tstoppingthem.The fire never slackened

for five minutes. They hadsustained, nonstop, thatopening volley, the one firedway back up the mountainwhentheycouldnotseetheirtarget.Theyhadblastedawayat us all the way down tothese logs, and they hadaugmented their fire with

aimed rocket-propelledgrenades. These guys werenot being led by some mad-eyed hysteric, they werebeing led by someone whounderstood the rudiments ofwhat he was doing.Understood them well. Toowell. The fucker. And nowthey had us pinned downbehindthelogs,and,asever,the bullets were flying, butweweresomehowgettingthebetteroftheexchanges.

Mikey was ignoring hiswound and fighting like aSEAL officer should,uncompromising, steady,hard-eyed,andprofessional.Icouldseetheguysonthatleftflank dropping down in theirtracks as they raced towardus. On my side, over on theright, the ground was just alittle flatter, with trees, andthere did not seem to be somany of them. Every timetheymoved,Ishot’em.

It was probably clear tothem thatMikey and I couldnot be dislodged as long asthe big logs covered us.Andthat’swhentheywenttotheirbiggest barrage ofRPGs yet.These damn things, trailingthat familiar white smoke,were unleashed at us fromfartherupthemountain.Theylanded to the front and thesidebutnotbehind,and theycaused a tidal wave of dirt,rocks, and smoke, showering

us with the stuff, robbing usofourvision.Ourheadswentdown,and

IaskedMikeywherethehellwereAxeandDanny, andofcourseneitherofusknew.Allwe knew was they were upthemountain, not yet havingjumped,aswehad.“GuessAxemusthavedug

in and kept fighting out onthe left,” he said. “Danny’sgot a better chance of radiocontacthighupthanhewould

downhere.”We risked a look up

through the gloom, and wesaw a figure plummetingdown the mountain, just tothe left of where we hadfallen. Axe, no doubt, butcouldhesurvivethatfall?Hewas on the first slope beforethe trees, and a second laterhehurtledover the ski jump,flipped,andcrashedondownthe almost sheer cliff face.Thegradient savedhim,as it

hadsavedMikeyandme,thewaythesteepmountainsavesaskijumper,enablinghimtocontinue down at high speedwithout a terminal collisionwithflatground.Axe arrived in one piece,

stunned and disoriented. Butthe Taliban could see himnow,andtheyopenedfireonhimashe layon theground.“Run,Axe...righthere,buddy,run!” yelled Murph, top ofhislungs.

And Axe recovered hissenses real quick, bulletsflying around him, and hecleared those logs andcrashedintoourhide,landingonhisback.It’sunbelievablewhat you can do when thethreattoyourownlifeisthatbad.He took the far left,

slammed a new magazineinto the breech, and startedfighting,nevermissedabeat,hammeringawayatourmost

vulnerable point of enemyattack. The three of us justkept going, shooting themdown, hoping and prayingtheir numbers would lessen,thatwehadpunchedaholeintheir assault. But it sure ashell never seemed like it.Those guys were stillswarming, still firing. Andthenoisewasstilldeafening.The question was, Where

was Danny? Was that littlemountain lion still fighting,

stilltryingtomakecontact,ashe pounded away atSharmak’s troops? Was hestill trying to get through toHQ? None of us knew, butthe answer was not long inarriving.Fromhighupontheright on the main cliff facethere was a sudden, unusualmovement. Someone wasfalling, and it had to beDanny.The flailing body crashed

through the high woods and

flipped at the ski jump,tumbling, tumbling, all theway to the bottom, where itlanded with a sickeningthump.Justasweallhad.ButDanny nevermoved, just laythere, either stunnedordead.And the folklore of thebrotherhood stood starklybefore both Mikey and me:NoSEALwas ever left aloneto die on the battlefield. NoSEAL.I dropped my rifle and

clearedtheloginonebound.Mikey came right after me.Axekeptfiring,tryingtogiveuscover,asweduckeddownand ran fast across the flatgroundtothebaseofthecliff.Mikeywasstillpouringbloodfrom his stomach, and I feltlikeIhadabrokenback,lowdown,baseofmyspine.We reached Danny

together,hoistedhimup,andmanhandled him back to thelogs, dragging him intowhat

passedforsafetyaroundhere.They fired at us from theheightsallthewayacrossthatlethalground,butnoonegothit, and somehow, againsttruly staggering odds, wewereallstillgoing,allinonepiece, except for the shotMikeytook.As the resident medic, I

should have been able tohelp, but all my stuff hadbeen ripped away in the fall,and there was no time to do

anything except shoot thesebastardswho carriedAK-47sand hope to Christ they’dgiveup.OratleastrunoutofthoseRPGs.They couldhurtsomeone if they weren’tcareful.Fuckers.Rightthen,Iwasconfident

we were going to make it.The ground fell away quitesharply behind us, but waybelowwasour target village,and it was on flat ground,with sturdy-looking houses.

Cover, that was all weneeded, with our enemycaught flat-footed on flatground. We’d be all right.We’dget’em.Dannyfoughtback,cleared

his head, and tried to get up.But his face was rigid. Hewasinterriblepain.AndthenI saw the blood pouring outofhishand.“I’ve been shot, Marcus,

canyouhelpme?”hesaid.“We’ve all been shot,”

replied Mikey. “Can youfight?”I stared at Danny’s right

hand. His thumb had beenblown right off. And I sawhim grit his teeth and nod,sweat streaming down hisblackened face. He adjustedhis rifle, banged in a newmagazinewiththebuttofhishand, and took his place inthe center of our little gunline. Then he turned to facetheenemyoncemore.Hewas

a bullmastiff, glaring up themountain,andheopenedfirewitheverythinghehad.Danny, Mikey, and Axe

blasted that left flankwhile Iheld the right. The fire wasstillfierceonallsides,butwesensed thereweremore deadAfghanstotheleftthantherewere to the right. Murphshouted,“We’regoingforthehigher ground, this side.”And with all four barrelsblazing,wetriedtostormthat

left flank, get a foothold onthe steep slope, maybe evenfightourwaybackto thetopif we could kill enough ofthem.But they also wanted the

higher ground, and theyreinforced their right flank,driving down from the top,anything to stop us gettingthat upper hand. We musthave killed fifty or more ofthem,andall fourofuswerestill fighting. I guess they

probably noticed that,because they were preparedtofighttothelastmantoholdourleft,theirright.There were so many of

them,andwefoundourselvesslipping inexorably backdownthehillas the turbanedwarriors closed in on us,driving us back by sheerweight of numbers, sheervolume of fire. When theyloosed off another battery ofRPGs,wehadnootheroption

but to retreat and dive backbehind the crossed logsbefore they blew our headsoff.Godonlyknew the sizeof

whatever arms cache theyweredrawingordnancefrom.Butwewere just finding outwhataforceSharmakandhisguys really were: trained,heavily armed, fearless, andstrategically on the ball. NotquitewhatweexpectedwhenwefirstlandedatBagram.

Back behind the logs, wekept going, mowing themdownontheflankswheneverwecouldgetaclearshot.Butagain, the inflexible,unswerving progress ofSharmak’s forces comingdowntheescarpmentafteruswas simply toooverwhelming. Not so muchdue to thevolumeof firebutbecause of their irresistibledrive down the left and rightofourposition.

The logs gave us goodcover from the front and notbad to ninety degrees. Butoncetheygotpastthat,firingfrom slightly behind us, onboth sides — well, that wasthe reason we jumped fromthe heights in the first place,risking our necks, notknowingwhenor even ifwewould land on reasonableground.There were not enough of

us to protect our flanks. We

were too occupied defendingourpositionagainstahead-onattack. I suppose thegoatherds had told them wewereonly four, andSharmakswiftly guessedwewould bevulnerableonthewings.I’m guessing a dozen

SEALs could have held andthendestroyed them,but thatwould have been odds ofaround ten or eleven to one.We were only four, and thatwas probably thirty-five to

one. Which is known, inmilitary vernacular, as aballs-to-the-wall situation.Especiallyaswenowseemedincapable of calling up thecavalryfromHQ.Right here was a twenty-

first-century version ofGeneral Custer’s last stand,Little Bighorn with turbans.Buttheyhadn’tgottenusyet.And if I had my way, theywere never going to. I knowall fourofus thoughtexactly

that. Our only option,however,wastogettoflatterground.Andtherewasn’tanyof that up here. There wasonly one way for us to go,backward and down, straightdown.Mike Murphy called it.

“They’ll kill usall ifwe stayhere! Jump, guys, for fuck’ssake,jump!”Andoncemore all four of

us clutched our rifles, stoodup, braved the flying bullets,

andheaded for theprecipice.We leaped into the void,Mikey first, me next, thenAxe, then Danny. The dropmust have been about thirtyor forty feet, down into athicket of shrubs alongside alittlestream.We were by no means at

the base of this littleescarpment, but at least wewere oncemore on a flat bitandnotclingingtosomecliffface. I landeddirectlyon top

of Mikey, then Axe andDanny landed on both of us.Therewasn’teventimetoletripwithafewcurses.Wespreadoutandtookup

firing position again,preparing oncemore to blastthe enemy away from ourflanks, where they would besuretobegintheiradvanceinthe next stage of the battle.They were clambering downthe rocks to our right, and Iwastryingtomakesurenone

of them made it to thebottom.My rifle felt red-hot,and I just kept loading andshooting, aiming and firing,wishing tohell IstillhadmyTexashelmet.We were trying to move

into a decent position,jumping between the rocks,working our way out intoopen ground. But we werepicking up fire now. TheTalibanhadseenusandwereraining bullets down, firing

from a prime overhead spot.We moved back against therocks, and Danny was shotagain.They hit him in his lower

back,and thebulletblewoutof his stomach. He was stillfiring,Christknowshow,buthe was. Danny’s mouth wasopen, and there was bloodtricklingout.Therewasbloodabsolutelyeverywhere.Itwashot, and the stench of it wasunmistakable,thecorditewas

heavy in the air, and thenoise, which had not abatedsince they first opened fire,wasdeafening.Ourearswereringing from the blasts likewewerewearingheadphones.And then they opened up

with the grenades again.Wesaw the white smokestreaking through theair.Wesaw them coming, wingingdown that canyon right ontous.Andwhen they blew, theblast was overpowering,

echoing from the graniterocks that surrounded us onthreesides.It was like the world was

blowing up around us, withthe flying rock splinters,some of them pretty large,clattering off the cliff walls;the ricocheting bullets; theswirling dust cloudenveloping the shrapnel andcovering us, choking us,obscuringeverything.Murph was trying to

reassess the situation,desperately trying to makethe rightdecisiondespiteourlimited options. And let’sface it, the options had notchanged very much since Ifirst slammed a bulletbetweenthatguy’seyesfrombehindthetree.Rightnowwewere not hemmed in on ourflanks; our enemy was deadahead. That, and straight up.Overhead.Andthat’sbad.I guess the oldest military

strategy in the world is togainthehigherground.Inmyexperience, no Talibancommander had ever orderedhis men to fight fromanything other than the highground. And did they everhaveitnow.Ifwe’dbeeninacornfield, itwouldhavebeennothing like so dangerous,because the bullets wouldhave hit the earth and stayedthere. But we were in agranite-walled corner, and

everything bounced off ataboutazillionmilesperhour,which is more or less thedefinition of a ricochet.Everything, bullets, shrapnel,and fragments, came zingingoff those rocks. It seemed tous like the Taliban weregettingdoublevalueforeveryshot. If the bullet missed,watch the hell out for thericochet.And howmuch longer we

could go on taking this kind

of bombardment, withoutgetting ourselves killed, wasanyone’s guess. Murph andDanny had picked up thefightontheleftandwerestillfiring,stillhittingthemprettygood. I was firing upward,trying to pick them offbetween the rocks, and Axehad jammed himself into agood spot in the rocks andwas blazing away at theoncomingturbans.Both Murph and I were

hoping for a lull in the fire,which would signify we hadkilled a significant number.But that never came. Whatcame were reinforcements.Taliban reinforcements.Groups of guys moving up,replacing their dead, joiningthe front line of this wide-ranging, large force on theirhome ground, armed to theteeth, and still unable to killevenoneofus.Wetriedtotakethefightto

them, concentrating on theirstrongest positions, pushingthemtoreinforcetheirlineofbattle. No three guys everfought with higher couragethan my buddies up there inthose mountains. And damnnear surrounded as wewere,we still believed we wouldultimately defeat our enemy.We still had plenty ofammunition.But then Danny was shot

again. Right through the

neck, and he went downbeside me. He dropped hisrifle and slumped to theground. I reached down tograbhimanddraghimcloserto the rock face, but hemanaged to clamber to hisfeet, trying to tellmehewasokay even though he’d beenshotfourtimes.Dannycouldn’tspeaknow,

but he wouldn’t give in. Hepropped himself up against arock for cover and opened

fire again at the Taliban,signaling he might need anew magazine as his verylifebloodpouredoutofhim.Ijuststoodthereforamoment,helplessly, fighting back mytears, witnessing a brand ofvalorIhadneverbeforebeenprivilegedtosee.Whataguy.Whatafriend.Murph called out to me,

“Theonlyway’sdown,kid,”as if I didn’t know. I calledback,“Rogerthat,sir.”

I knew he meant thevillage, and itwas true.Thatwas our chance. If we couldgraboneof thosehousesandmake a stand, we would behardtodislodge.FourSEALsfiring from solid cover willusually get the job done.AllweneededtodowascoaxtheTalibandownthere.Althoughif things didn’t get a wholelot better in the next fewminutes, we might not makeitourselves.

8

TheFinalBattleforMurphy’sRidge

Thegroundshook.Theveryfewtreesswayed.Thenoisewasworsethananyblastall

day...ThiswasonegiganticTalibanefforttofinishus.Wehitthedeck...toavoidthelethalflyingdebris,rockfragmentsandshrapnel.

Lieutenant Mike Murphybellowed out the command,thethirdtimehehaddonesointhebattle.Samemountain.Same command.“Fall back!AxeandMarcusfirst!”AgainhereallymeantFall

off! And we were all gettingreal used to it. Axe and Isprinted for the edge, whileMurph and Danny, tuckedinto the rocks, drew fire andcovered our escape. I had noidea whether Danny couldevenmoveagain,withallhiswounds.Lyingrightalongthetopof

thecliffwasatreetrunkwitha kind of hollow underneathit, as if it had been washedout by the rains. Axe, who

could think quicker on hisfeet than most people I’veever met, made straight forthat hole because the treetrunk would give him coveras he plunged down towhatever the hell was overthegoddamnedcliff.TheslimlybuiltAxehitthe

groundlikeajavelin,skiddedfast into the hollow, shotstraightunderthelog,andoutinto space. I hit the groundlike a Texas longhorn and

cametoagrindinghalt,stuckfast under the log. Couldn’tgoforward,couldn’tgoback.Fuckme.Wasthisabummerorwhat?The Taliban had seen me

by now. I was the only onetheycouldsee,and Iheardavolley of bullets screamingaroundme.Oneshotsmackedinto the tree just tomy right.The restwere hitting the dirtandsendinguppuffsofdust.I heaved at the log. I heaved

withallmymight,butIcouldnot move that sucker. I waspinneddown.I was trying to look

backward, wondering ifMikeyhadseenmeandmighttryarescue,whensuddenlyIsaw the stark white smoketrail of an incoming RPGagainst the mountain. TheRPG smashed into the treetrunk right next to me andexploded with a shatteringblast as I tried frantically to

turnawayfromit.Ican’ttellwhat happened next, but itblew the goddamned trunkclean in half and shot mestraightoverthecliff.Iguessitwasaboutfifteen

feet down towhereAxewasmoving into firing position,and I landed close.Considering I’d just beenblown over the ledge like afreakin’ human cannonball, Iwas pretty lucky to be stillstanding.Andthererightnext

tomeon thegroundwasmyrifle, placed there by theHandofGodHimself.I reached down to pick it

upand listenedagain forHisvoice.Butthistimetherewasno noise, just one briefsecondofsilenceinmymind,amid all the chaos andmalevolence of thismonstrous struggle forsupremacy, apparently beingconducted on behalf of HisHolyProphetMuhammad.

I was not sure whethereither of them would haveapproved. I don’t know thatmuchaboutMuhammad,but,by all that’s holy, I don’tthinkmyownGodwishedmeto die. If He had beenindifferent to my plight, Hesurely would not have takensuch good care of my gun,right? Because how on earththatwas still withme, Iwillneverknow.Thatriflehadsofarfought

threeseparatebattles in threedifferent places, been rippedout of my grasp twice, beenblown over a cliff by apowerful grenade, fallenalmost nine hundred feetdown a mountain, and wasstill somehow right next tomyoutstretchedhand.Fluke?Believe what you will. Myownfaithwillremainforeverunshaken.Anyhow,Ipickeditupand

moved back into the rocks

where Axe was now pickingup fire from the enemy. Buthe was well positioned andfighting back, blazing awayon the left, the flank forwhich he’d fought sodesperately for so long.Actually it had been aboutforty minutes, but it seemedlike ten years, and we werebothstillgoing.So, for that matter, were

Mikey and Danny, andsomehowtheyhadbothmade

the leap down here to thelower level, near the stream,wheretheTalibanassaultwasnot quite so bad. Yet. Welooked,bytheway,shocking,especially Danny, who wascoveredheadtotoeinblood.Axe was okay but badlybattered, and Mikey wassoaked in blood from thatstomachwound;notasbadasDanny,butnotpretty.When that grenade blew

meover the cliff, it probably

shouldhavekilledme,buttheonly new injury I hadsustainedwas a brokennose,which I got when I hit thedeck semiconscious. To behonest,ithurtlikehell,alongwith my back, and I wasbleeding all over my gear.However, I had not beenseriously shot, as two of myteamhad.Axe was holding the

tribesmenoff, leaningcalmlyon a rock, firing up the hill,

the very picture of an elitewarrior in combat.No panic,rocksteady,firingaccurately,conserving his ammunition,missing nothing. I was closetohiminasimilarstance,andwe were both hitting thempretty good. One guysuddenly jumped up fromnowherealittleaboveus,andI shot him dead, about thirtyyardsrange.Butweweretrappedagain.

Therewerestillaroundeighty

of these maniacs comingdownatus,andthat’saheckof a lot of enemies. I’m notsure what their casualty ratewas,becausebothMikeyandI estimated Sharmak hadthrown 140 men minimumintothisfight.Whatever,theywerestillthere,andIwasnotsure how long Danny couldkeepgoing.Mikey worked his way

alongside me and said withvintage Murphy humor,

“Man,thisreallysucks.”I turned to face him and

told him, “We’re gonnafucking die out here — ifwe’renotcareful.”“Iknow,”hereplied.And the battle raged on.

Themassed,wildgunfireofavery determined enemyagainst our more accurate,better-trained response,superior concentration, andwar-fighting know-how.Once more, hundreds of

bullets were ricochetingaround our rockysurroundings. And oncemore,theTalibanwenttothegrenades, blasting the terrainaround us to pieces. Jammedbetween rocks, we keptfiring, but Danny was in allkinds of trouble, and I wasafraid he might loseconsciousness.That was when they shot

himagain,rightatthebaseoftheneck. Iwatched inhorror

as Danny went down, thisbeautiful guy, husband ofPatsy, a friend of mine forfour years, a guy who hadalways been last away whilewe retreated, a guywho hadprovided our covering fireuntil he couldn’t standanymore.And now he lay on the

ground, blood pouring fromhis five wounds. And I wassupposed to be a fuckingSEALmedic,andIcouldnot

do a damn thing for himwithoutgettingusallkilled.Idroppedmyrifleandclimbedover the rock, runningacrossopen ground to get to him.All right. All right. No herobullshit. I was crying like ababy.Danny was saturated in

blood, still conscious, stilltrying to fire his rifle at theenemy. But he was in afacedownposition.Itoldhimto take it easywhile I turned

him over. “C’mon, Dan,we’regonnabeallright.”Henodded, and I knewhe

could not speak and wouldprobably never speak again.WhatIreallyrememberis,hewouldnotletgoofhisrifle.Iraised him by the shouldersandhauledhimintoanalmostsitting position. Then,graspinghimunder thearms,I started to drag himbackward,towardcover.Andwould you believe, that little

iron man opened fire at theenemy once again, almostlying on his back, blastingawayup thehillwhile Ikeptdragging.We’d gone about eight

yards when everything Idreaded came true. Here Iwas, just about defenseless,tryingtowalkbackward,bothhands full, when a Talibanfighter suddenly loomed upout of the rocks to our right.He was right on top of us,

lookingdown,asmileonhisface as he aimed thatAK-47straightatmyhead.Neither of us saw him in

time to returnfire. I justsaida quick prayer and staredback at him. Which wasprecisely when Axe bangedtwo bullets right between hiseyes, killed that tribesmanstone dead instantly. I didn’thave time to thank him,because the grenades werestillcomingin,andIjustkept

trying to drag Danny tosafety.And, likeAxe,Dannykeptfiring.I got him to the rock face

justafewyardsfromMikey.And it was clear the enemyhad nearly managed tosurround us for the fourthtime today.We could tell bythe direction of the gunfireand occasionally the RPGs.Danny was still alive andwilling to fight, and Mikeywasnowfightingshoulder to

shoulder with Axe, and theywere inflicting heavydamage.I still thought we had a

chance of getting out, butonce more the only optionwasdown,towardthatvillageand onto the flat ground.Fighting uphill, as we hadbeen doing since this battlestarted, did, in the words ofour mission officer, reallysuck.I yelled out loudly, “Axe!

Moving!” He had time toshout back, “Roger that!”before they shot him in thechest. Iwatched his rifle fallfrom his grasp. He slumpedforwardandslippeddowntherockhe’dbeenleaningon,allthewaytotheground.I absolutely froze. This

couldnotbehappening.MattAxelson, a family fixture,Morgan’s best friend, a partof our lives. I started callinghis name, irrationally, over

and over. Privately I thoughtDanny was dying, and all Icouldseewasastainofbloodgathering in the red dirtwhereAxewasslumped.Fora brief moment I thought Imightbelosingit.But then Axe reached for

his rifle and got up. Heleveled the weapon, got ahold of another magazine,shoveditintothebreech,andopened fire again, bloodpumpingoutofhischest.He

heldhis same firingposition,leaning against the rock. Heshowed the same attitude ofsolidNavySEALknow-how,the same formidablesteadiness,staringthroughhisscope, those brilliant blueeyes of his scanning theterrain.When Axe got up, it was

the bravest thing I ever saw.ExceptforDanny.ExceptforMikey, still commanding usafter taking a bullet through

his stomach so early in thebattle.And now Murph was

masterminding a way downthe escarpment. He hadchosen the route and calledupAxe to follow him down.And still the bullets werehumming around us as theTaliban started their pursuit.Mikey and Axe were aboutseventy-five yards in front,and I was dragging Dannyalongwhilehedideverything

he could to help, trying towalk, trying to give uscoveringfire.“It’s okay, Danny,” I kept

saying. “We just need tocatch upwith the others. It’sgonnabeallright.”Right then a bullet caught

him full in the upper part ofhisface.Iheardithithome,Iturned to help him, and theblood from his head woundspilled over us both. I calledout to him. But it was too

late. He wasn’t fighting theterriblepainanymore.Andhecouldn’t hear me. DannyDietz died right there in myarms. I don’t know howquicklyheartsbreak,but thatnearlybrokemine.And still the gunfire never

abated. I dragged Danny offthe open ground maybe fivefeet,andthenIsaidgood-byeto him. I lowered himdown,andIhadtoleavehimorelsedie out here with him. But I

knew one thing for certain. Istill had my rifle and I wasnot alone, and neither wasDanny, a devout RomanCatholic.IlefthimwithGod.AndnowIhadtogetback

to help my team. It was thehardest thing I’ve ever doneinmylife.To this day I have

nightmaresaboutit,achillingdream where Danny’s stilltalking to me, and there’sbloodeverywhere,andIhave

to walk away and I don’teven know why. I alwayswake up in tears, and it willalways haunt me, and it’snevergoingtogoaway.And now I could hear

Murph yelling to me. Igrabbed my rifle, duckeddown, slipped and fell off arock, then started to runtoward him and Axe whiletheyprovidedheavycoveringfire nonstop aimed at theTaliban’s rocky redoubt,

maybe another forty yardsback.I reached the edge, ran

almost blindly into a tree,bounced off, skidded downtheslope,whichwasnotverydeep,andlandedonmyheadright in the fucking stream.Likeanygoodfrogman,Iwasseriously pissed off becausemy boots got wet. I reallyhatethat.Finally I caught up with

them. Axe was out of

ammunitionandIgavehimanewmagazine.Mikeywantedto know where Danny was,and I had to tell him thatDanny had died. He wasappalled, completelyshocked, and so was Axe.Although Mikey would notsayit,Iknewhewantedtogoback for the body. But webothknew therewasno timeand no reason. We hadnowhere to take the remainsofa fallen teammate,andwe

could not continue thisfirefight while carryingaroundabody.Danny was dead. And

strangely, I was the first topull myself together. I saidsuddenly, “I’ll tell youwhat.We have to get down thisgoddamnedmountainorwe’llallbedead.”And as if to make up our

minds for us, the Talibanwere again closing in, tryingto make that 360-degree

movement around us. Andthey were doing it. Gunfirewas coming in fromunderneathusnow.Wecouldsee the tribesmen stillswarming,andItriedtocountthem as I had been trying todoforalmostanhour.I thought there were now

onlyaboutfifty,maybesixty,but the bullets were stillflying. The grenades werestillcomingin,blastingclose,sending up dust clouds of

smoke and dirt with flyingbitsof rock.Therehadneverbeen a lull in the amount ofordnance the enemy waspilingdownonus.Right now, again tucked

lowbehindrocks,thethreeofus could look down and seethe village one and a halfmilesdistant,anditremainedourobjective.AgainItoldMikey,“Ifwe

can just make it down thereand get some cover, we’ll

take ’em all out on the flatground.”I knew we were not in

greatshape.ButwewerestillSEALs. Nothing can evertakethataway.Wewerestillconfident.Andwewerenevergoingtosurrender.Ifitcamedowntoit,wewouldfighttothe death with our knivesagainsttheirguns.“Fuck surrender,” said

Mikey. And he had no needto explain further, either to

Axe orme. Surrender wouldhave been a disgrace to ourcommunity, like ringing thebellattheedgeofthegrinderandputtingyourhelmetintheline.Noonewhohadmadeitthrough this far, to this no-man’s-land in the Afghanmountains, would havedreamedofgivingup.Remember the philosophy

of the U.S. Navy SEALs: “Iwill never quit...My Nationexpects me to be physically

harder and mentally strongerthanmyenemies. If knockeddown, I will get back up,every time. I will draw onevery remaining ounce ofstrength to protect myteammates...Iamneveroutofthefight.”Those words have

sustained many brave mendown the years. They wereengraved upon the soul ofevery SEAL. And they wereinthemindsofallofus.

Mikey suddenly said,above the rage of the battle,“Remember,bro,we’reneveroutofit.”Inoddedtersely.“It’sonly

about another thousandyardsto flatground. Ifwecan justget down there, we got achance.”Trouble was, we couldn’t

get down there, at least notright then. Because oncemore we were pinned down.And we faced the same

dilemma:theonlyescapewasto go down, but our onlydefensive strategy was to goup.Oncemore,wehadtogetoff this ground, away fromthericochets.Backuptheleftflank.Weweretryingtofightthe

battle our way. But eventhough we were still going,we were battered half todeath. I led theway back upthe rocks, blasting away,shooting down anyone I

couldsee.Buttheycaughtonto that real quick, and nowthey really unloaded on us,Russian-made rocketgrenades. Coming straightdown their right flank, ourleft.The ground shook. The

very few trees swayed. Thenoise was worse than anyblast all day. Even the wallsof this little canyon shook.The stream splashed over itsbanks.Thiswasonegigantic

Taliban effort to finish us.We hit the deck, jammingourselves into our rockycrevasse, heads down toavoidthelethalflyingdebris,rock fragments and shrapnel.As before they did not killanyone with this type ofthunderous bombardment,andasbefore theywaited tillthedusthadclearedandthenopenedfireagain.Above me I could see the

treeline.Itwasnotclose,but

itwasnearerthanthevillage.But the Taliban knew ourobjective, and as we tried tofight our way forward, theydrove us back with sheerweightoffire.We’d tried, against all the

odds,andjustcouldnotmakeit. They’d knocked us backagain. And we retreateddown,makingalongpatheticloop, back the way we’dcome. But once more welanded up in a good spot, a

sound defensive position,well protected by the rockfaceoneitherside.Againwetriedtotakethefighttothem,picking our targets anddriving them back, makingsomegroundnowtoward thevillage.They were up and

screamingatus,yellingasthebattle almost became closequarters.Weyelledrightbackand kept firing. But therewere still so many of them,

and then they got into betterposition and shot MikeyMurphythroughthechest.He came toward me,

asking if I could give himanothermagazine.AndthenIsaw Axe stumbling towardme, his head pushed out,bloodrunningdownhis face,bubbling out of the mostshockingheadwound.“They shot me, bro,” he

said. “The bastards shot me.Can you help me, Marcus?”

What could I say? Whatcould I do? I couldn’t helpexcept by trying to fight offthe enemy. And Axe wasstanding right in my line offire.I tried to help him get

down behind a rock. And Iturned to Mikey, who wasobviously badly hurt now.“Can you move, buddy?” Iaskedhim.And he groped in his

pocket for hismobile phone,

theonewehaddarednotusebecause it would betray ourposition.AndthenLieutenantMurphy walked out into theopenground.Hewalkeduntilhe was more or less in thecenter, gunfire all aroundhim, and he sat on a smallrock and began punching inthenumberstoHQ.I could hear him talking.

“My men are taking heavyfire...we’re getting pickedapart.Myguysaredyingout

here...weneedhelp.”AndrightthenMikeytook

abulletstraightintheback.Isaw the blood spurt fromhischest. He slumped forward,dropping his phone and hisrifle. But then he bracedhimself, grabbed them both,sat upright again, and oncemoreputthephonetohisear.I heard him speak again.

“Roger that, sir.Thankyou.”Then he stood up andstaggered out to our bad

position,theoneguardingourleft, and Mikey just startedfighting again, firing at theenemy.He was hitting them too,

having made that one lastdesperatecalltobase,theonethatmightyetsaveus if theycould send help in time,before we wereoverwhelmed.Only I knew what Mikey

had done. He’d understoodwe had only one realistic

chance,andthatwastocallinhelp.Healsoknewtherewasonlyoneplacefromwhichhecouldpossiblymake thatcellphonework:out in theopen,awayfromthecliffwalls.Knowing the risk,

understanding the danger, inthefullknowledge thephonecall could cost him his life,Lieutenant Michael PatrickMurphy, son of Maureen,fiancé of the beautifulHeather, walked out into the

firestorm.Hisobjectivewasclear: to

makeonelastvaliantattemptto save his two teammates.He made the call, made theconnection. He reported ourapproximate position, thestrength of our enemy, andhowseriousthesituationwas.When they shot him, Ithought mortally, he kepttalking.Rogerthat,sir.Thankyou.

Will thosewordseverdimin

mymemory,even if I live tobe a hundred? Will I everforget them? Would you?Andwas there ever agreaterSEAL team commander, anofficerwhofought tothelastand, as perhaps his dyingmove, risked everything tosavehisremainingmen?I doubt there was ever

anyone better than Mikey,cool under fire, alwaysthinking, fearless aboutissuing the one-option

command even if it wasnearly impossible. And thenthe final, utterly heroic act.Not a gesture. An act ofsupreme valor. LieutenantMikey was a wonderfulpersonandavery,verygreatSEALofficer. If theybuildamemorial to him as high asthe Empire State Building, itwon’t ever be high enoughforme.Mikey was still alive, and

hecarriedon,holdingtheleft.

I stayedon the right,bothofus firing carefully andaccurately. I was still tryingto reach slightly higherground. But the depletedarmy of the Taliban wasdetermined that I should notget it, and every time I triedtoadvanceevena fewyards,get even a few feet higher,they drove me back. Mikeytoo was still trying to climbhigher, and he actuallymadeit some of the way, into a

rockstrataabovewhereIwasstanding. It was a good spotfrom which to attack, butdefensivelypoor.AndIknewthis must surely be Mikey’slaststand.Justthen,Axewalkedright

by me in a kind of a daze,making only a marginalattemptatstayinginthecoverof the rocks. Then I saw thewound, the right side of hishead almost blown away. Ishouted, “Axe! Axe! C’mon,

old buddy. Get down there,rightdownthere.”I was pointing at the one

spot in the rocks we mightfind protection. And he triedto raise his hand, an act ofconfirmation that he’d heardme.But he couldn’t.And hekept walking, slowly,hunched forward, no longerclutching his rifle. He wasdown to just his pistol, but Iknew he could not hold that,aim,andfire.Atleasthewas

headed for cover, eventhoughnoonecouldsurviveaheadwoundlikethat.IknewAxewasdying.Mikeywas still firing, but

suddenly I heard him screammy name, the most bone-chilling primeval scream:“Help me, Marcus! Pleasehelp me!” He was my bestfriendinalltheworld,buthewas thirty yards up themountain, and I could notclimb to him. I could hardly

walk, and if I’d moved twoyards out of my protectedposition, theywouldhavehitmewithahundredbullets.Nonetheless, I edged out

aroundtherockstotrytogivehim covering fire, to forcethesebastardsback,givehimabreatheruntilIcouldfindaway to get up there withoutgettingmoweddown.And all the time, he was

screaming, calling out myname, begging me to help

him live. And there wasnothingIcoulddoexceptdiewith him. Even then, withonly a couple of magazinesleft, I still believed I couldnail these fuckers in theturbans and somehow savehim and Axe. I just wantedMikey to stop screaming, forhisagonytoend.But every few seconds, he

cried out for me again. Andevery time ithappened, I feltlike I’d been stabbed. There

were tears wellinguncontrollably out of myeyes,notforthefirsttimeonthis day. I would have doneanything forMikey, I’d havelaid down my own life forhim.Butmydeath rightherein this outcrop of rocks wasnot going to save him. If Icould save him, it would bebystayingalive.Andthen,assuddenlyasit

began,thescreamingstopped.There was silence for a few

seconds, as if even theseTaliban warriors understoodthatMikeyhaddied.Imovedslightly forward and lookedup there, in time to see fourof them come down and fireseveral rounds into his fallenbody.The screaming had

stopped.Foreveryoneexceptme. I still hearMikey, everynight. I still hear that screamabove all other things, evenabove the death of Danny

Dietz. For several weeks IthoughtImightbelosingmymind, because I could neverpushitaside.Therewereoneor two frightening occasionswhen I heard it in broaddaylight and found myselfpressed against a wall, myhandscoveringmyears.I always thought these

kindsofpsychiatricproblemswere suffered by otherpeople, ordinary people, notbyNavySEALs.Inowknow

the reality of them. I alsodoubt whether I will eversleepthroughthenightagain.Danny was dead. Mikey

wasnowdead.AndAxewasdying. Right now there weretwo of us, but only just. Iresolved to walk down towhereAxewashidingandtodie there with him. Therewas, Iknew,unlikely tobeaway out. There were stillmaybe fifty of the enemy,perhapsbynowhuntingonly

me.It took me nearly ten

minutes, firing back behindme sporadically to try to pinthem down...just in case. Iwasfiringonthewildchancethat there was a shot atsurvival, that somehowMikey’sphonecallmightyethavetheguysuphereintimeforalast-ditchrescue.When I reached Axe, he

was sitting in a hollow, andhe’d fixed a temporary

bandage on the side of hishead. I stared at him,wondering where those coolblue eyes of his had gone.The eyes in which I couldnow see my own reflectionwerebloodblack,thesocketsfilledfromtheterriblewoundinhisskull.I smiled at him because I

knewwewouldnotwalkthisway again, at least nottogether, not on this earth.Axedidnothavelong.Ifhe’d

been in the finest hospital inNorth America, Axe wouldstill not have had long. Thelife was ebbing out of him,andIcouldsee thispowerfulsuper-athletegrowingweakerbythesecond.“Hey,man,”Isaid,“you’re

all fucked up!” And I tried,pitifully,tofixthebandage.“Marcus,theygotusgood,

man.” He spoke withdifficulty, as if trying toconcentrate. And then he

said,“Youstayalive,Marcus.AndtellCindyIloveher.”Thosewerehis lastwords.

I just sat there, and that waswhereIplannedtostay,rightthere with Axe so hewouldn’t be alone when theend came. I didn’t give aflyingfuckwhathappenedtomeanymore.Quietly,Imademy peace with God, and Ithanked Him for protectingme and saving my rifle.Which, somehow, I still had.

InevertookmyeyesoffAxe,who was semiconscious butstillbreathing.Along with the other two,

Axewillalwaysbeahero tome.Throughoutthisbriefbutbrutal conflict, he’d foughtlike a wounded tiger. LikeAudieMurphy, like SergeantYork. They shot away hisbody, crippled his brain butnothis spirit.Theynevergotthat.Matthew Gene Axelson,

husbandofCindy,firedattheenemy until he could nolonger hold his rifle.Hewasjust past his twenty-ninthbirthday. And in his dyingmoments, I never took myeyesoffhim.Idon’tthinkhecould hear me any longer.But his eyes were open, andwe were still together, and Irefused to allow him to diealone.Rightthen, theymusthave

seenus.Becauseoneofthose

superpowerful Russiangrenades came in, landedclose,andblewmesideways,rightoutofthehollow,acrossthe rough ground, and overthe edge of the goddamnedravine. I lost consciousnessbefore I hit the bottom, andwhen I came to, I was in adifferenthollow,andmyfirstthoughtwasI’dbeenblindedby the explosion, because Icouldn’tseeathing.However, after a few

seconds, I gathered my witsand realized I was upsidedown in the freakin’ hole. Istill had my eyesight and afew other working parts, butmyleft legseemedparalyzedand,toalesserdegree,sowasmy right. It took me Godknows how long to wriggleoutontoflatgroundandclawmy way into the cover of arock.My ears were zinging, I

guess from the blast of the

grenade.IlookedupandsawIhadfallenaprettygoodwaydown, but I was toodisoriented to put a numberon it. The main differencebetween now and when I’dbeen sitting with Axe wasthatthegunfirehadceased.Ifthey’dreachedAxe,who

couldnotpossiblyhavelivedthrough the blast, theymightnot have bothered to go onshooting.Theyobviouslyhadnot found me, and I would

havebeenrealhardtolocate,upsidedown in thehole.Butwhatever, no one seemed tobe looking.For the first timeinmaybeanhourandahalf,Iwas apparently not beingactivelyhunted.Asidefrombeingunableto

stand, I had two other veryserious problems. The firstwasthetotallossofmypants.They’d been blown right offme. The second was thecondition of my left leg,

which I could scarcely feelbut which was a horrificsight, bleeding profusely andfullofshrapnel.Ihadnobandages,nothing

medical.Ihadbeenabletodonothing for my teammates,and I could do nothing formyself, except try to stayhidden. It was not apromising situation. I wasdamn sure I’d broken myback and probably myshoulder;I’dbrokenmynose,

andmyfacewasatotalmess.I couldn’t stand up, nevermind walk. At least one legwaswrecked, andmaybe theother.Iwasparalyzedinboththighs, and the only way Icould move was to bellycrawl.Unsurprisingly, I was

dazed. And through thispersonal fog of war, therewasyetonemoremiracleformetorecognize.Nottwofeetfromwhere Iwas lying, half