Ritchie: “Yes, boss. That’s it.”
He counted his men: Ritchie, Mancini, Davis.
Where was the fourth? Where was Akil?
The next time he opened his eyes, he was shaken by a huge explosion. The Syrena had been replaced by a tremendous ball of orange flames. The Saudi boat rocked; a heavy spray of water hit him in the face.
“What the fuck was that?” he asked, holding on to a metal flange.
“The tanker, boss. The tanker blew.”
“The Syrena? You sure?”
“Gone.”
“Really?”
“It’s all good, boss.”
“Where’s Akil?”
“We left him on the helicopter, remember?”
“That’s right.”
“Mission accomplished!”
It hurt to smile. “Mission accomplished…”
He sighed, and relaxed.
He looked up to see Jim Anders in his light blue suit grinning down at him, sunlight forming a halo around his head.
“Crocker,” he said. “Congratulations.”
Crocker squinted into the sunlight that streamed past the curtains, not sure whether what he was experiencing was a dream or reality.
Anders stepped closer. “You wanted Zaman and you got him. And in the process stopped a major terrorist attack.”
Crocker’s lungs hurt when he took a deep breath. “Where am I?”
“You’re back in Muscat.”
He pulled himself up carefully, pain and stiffness radiating from all areas of his body. “How’s Davis? Where are my men?”
“Davis is recuperating. The rest of your team is resting at a nearby hotel.”
“Is he okay?”
“Davis? Yeah, the doctors patched him up and say he’ll be out of here by the end of the week.”
“Good. And he’s spoken to his wife?”
“Yes. The baby arrived early. It’s a girl.”
Crocker grinned. “A girl. That’s funny.”
“Why?”
“It’s not important.”
Anders kept smiling as though he had more to say. “I’ve got to give you credit, Crocker. You were right all along.”
“About what?”
“The connection between Zaman and Cyrus.”
“Oh, that.” Crocker wanted to sleep.
“Zaman was using the kidnapping operation to fund his terrorist activities. Sheik Rastani was one of his clients. Our people in Marseille have uncovered more evidence linking Cyrus and Zaman. The FBI and Interpol are tracking down additional girls.”
“I’m glad.”
“You saw the connection clearly. We weren’t so sure.”
Crocker had to will his eyes to stay open. “When you’re on the ground, in the middle of the shit, you learn to trust your instincts. They’re always way ahead of your rational mind.”
“But policy decisions have to be justified.”
Crocker wanted to say, “Try it sometime.” But he had already sunk back on the bed and was fast asleep.
Two days later, he was dreaming of being tossed back and forth by two large men dressed in gorilla suits. One of them sounded like Mancini. The sailing through the air made him giggle.
“Stop, you guys! Stop!”
He was laughing so hard he thought he was going to piss his pants.
“That’s an order! I can’t-”
He woke up in the window seat of a passenger jet, smiling. A stewardess with bright eyes leaned toward him and asked him to bring his seat to the upright position.
“Where are we?” he asked, looking out the window. Saw that the airplane was passing through billowy white clouds that reminded him of smoke.
For a few seconds he was back on the bridge of the Syrena, in the chaos and grunting bodies, trying to locate Mancini’s face.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re beginning our approach to Dulles Airport,” the voice over the PA said. “The captain is expecting some minor turbulence.”
He relaxed and, feeling pressure in his bladder, knew what he had to do.
The woman in the business suit in the aisle seat looked annoyed when he asked to get by her. He recalled that earlier in the flight she had asked him if he was a boxer.
He’d answered, “No, ma’am.”
“Then what happened to your face?”
“I fell off a horse.”
Confronting his bruised face in the bathroom mirror, he remembered the last two days in Muscat, mostly spent in the hospital, where he’d been stitched up and treated for smoke inhalation. Then the reunion with his men in Davis’s room, the debriefing from Lou Donaldson, the congratulations from the U.S. ambassador, and, finally, a medal awarded by the sultan of Oman himself.
The Legion of Royal Merit, or something like that. Crocker had stashed it in his luggage. Planned to show it to Jenny when he got home.
The two days since the mission in the Persian Gulf had been a blur of sleep, dreams, and pieces of memories.
All he really cared about was that he and the members of his team had completed their mission and were returning home alive.
He longed to see Holly and Jenny again, to spend time in their company and rest. Maybe take them for a drive into the Shenandoah. Hike. Camp. Maybe book a couple of nights at a nice hotel. Enjoy some good meals. Feed his soul with live music. Work out.
Sonny Rollins’s strong, confident version of “My One and Only Love” played in his head.
Crocker knew himself well enough to understand that in a week or two, he’d start getting antsy and would be ready for another dangerous mission somewhere in the world.
Returning to his seat, he leafed through the front section of the New York Times. Headline stories about political haggling on Capitol Hill, inflation in China, volatility on the stock market, a boy from Korea who had become a millionaire at nineteen.
But no mention of the kidnapped girls, or the dramatic end of the Syrena in the Persian Gulf.
Crocker decided it was better that way.
The last weeks had underlined several important truths. One, all those dedicated to fostering and preserving individual freedom were in this fight together. Two, the world was becoming increasingly complex and interdependent-which meant that the dangers to free people everywhere were growing exponentially. Three, his men hadn’t let him down and never would.
Once again, they’d lived up to the promise they’d made when they received their tridents and became SEALs-to “never quit,” to “persevere and thrive under adversity,” and to “be physically harder and mentally stronger” than their enemies.
Arguably the world’s most lethal, versatile, and highly trained warriors, Crocker and his men had succeeded in defeating the terrorists this time, with the help of dedicated Omanis and Norwegians. But barely.
Maybe next time they wouldn’t be so lucky.
Crocker knew that possibility wouldn’t diminish his enthusiasm for doing what he was driven to do. He also understood that to stay ahead of freedom’s enemies, he and his team would have to get smarter and be more proactive.
He’d make sure they did.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Don and Ralph would like to thank their great editor, John Parsley, as well as William Boggess, Chris Jerome, Miriam Parker, Ruth Tross, and the talented designers and other professionals at Mulholland Books / Little, Brown. They also want to express their appreciation to their outstanding agent, Heather Mitchell. Don also thanks his fellow Navy SEAL teammates who inspired this book. Finally, Ralph wants to salute the brave Navy SEALs past and present, and acknowledge his wife, Jessica, and children, John, Michael, Francesca, and Alessandra.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Don Mann (CWO3, USN) has for the past thirty years been associated with the Navy SEALs as a platoon member, assault team member, boat crew leader, and advanced training officer, and more recently he has been program director preparing civilians to go to BUD/S (SEAL Training). Until 1998 he was on active duty with SEAL Team Six. Since his retirement, he has deployed to the Middle East on numerous occasions in support of the war against terrorism. Many of the active-duty members of SEAL Team Six are the same men he taught how to shoot, conduct ship and aircraft takedowns, and operate in urban, arctic, desert, and river and jungle warfare, as well as close quarters battle and military operations in urban terrain. He has suffered a broken back, two pulmonary embolisms, and multiple other broken bones in training or service. He has twice survived being captured during operations.