WHEN I DROVE THROUGH THE SECURITY CHECKPOINT at the secretive SEAL compound on a memorably balmy day in 1990, I was introduced to a world that had nothing—and I truly mean nothing—to do with the navy white uniform world I had experienced to that point. And I don’t say that in a demeaning way: I love my neat, starched uniform as much as the next serviceman or woman.
But this wasn’t that.
When I got to the base, I couldn’t find the command. You’d think there would be signs, like at every other naval base I’d been to. Nothing. I stopped in building after building—poked my head in the Landing Signal Officers School and a construction office, asked sailors in the courtyards—not one of them could tell me exactly where the command was. They didn’t even ummmm or ahhh or “let-me-think;” they did not know. It was as though I’d asked them to direct me to Mars.
Though it was perplexing, this was the kind of intel-gathering I actually loved. Later, in Iraq, I would remember this experience and refer to it often, remind myself I had to keep hunting calmly but with firm resolve. I would buttonhole every uniform I met, if necessary, but I would achieve my goal.
After about three-quarters of an hour wandering—during which time I’d mentally divided my unexpected field of operations into quadrants—I spotted what looked a lot like an ammunition bunker and an old fountain cigarette boat on a trailer. I drove toward the facility and stopped at a gated fence. The gate opened and I thought, They must know that I am here. I was wrong. The gate opened, but not for me. Two guys on a Harley-Davidson, complete with Ape Hangers, drove out the gate in a cloud of dust. I didn’t say two sailors because they didn’t look like me in my whites, clean shaven and looking like something as pure and clean as Montana air. No sir. They looked like outlaw bikers with scruffy beards, long hair that would have looked more suitable on Axl Rose, and then there were the earrings and tattoos. This was years before everyone except newborns was wearing ink. It was still a relative novelty.
I stopped and looked and wondered how the heck these guys made it through the front gate. All of that I took in at first glance, which took about a half-second. The second half-second—and yeah, you learn to do quick studies that fast—I noticed the guy on back had an M60 machine gun complete with belts of 7.62mm ammo wrapped over his shoulders like Pancho Villa! I invested another second to make an assessment: threat or non-threat. It was not uncommon for gangs to plant members in the military so they could get their hands on sophisticated ordnance. Did these two have an inside man? Do I approach and challenge, or do I report this pair to the shore patrol? As I watched, having eased into the shadow of a nearby shed, the armed men on the Harley-Davidson roared off toward a gun range I spotted earlier.
Before that, I had been on alert. Now I was just confused. I was starting to realize I had just arrived at a different type of command than I had ever been exposed to before. Later, I found out that I had just been introduced to the Pirates. The Pirates also had a reputation as being the “porthole to hell” for officers.
The gate remained open and I drove a few yards to the guard shack. Two guards walked out, looked at my uniform, and asked, “Are you here to check in?” I replied, “Yes, sir.” “The building you want is over there. The last officer didn’t even make it long enough to unpack. Good luck, Lieutenant.” I had arrived at the right place.
Later, after I had checked in, I found myself in a place that looked like a rec room, but was also, I kid you not, a “wrecked” room. There was a white drop-ceiling that looked as though it had never been painted, and with good reason: it had actually split in spots from the weight of the empty beer bottles that had been stuck up there. I could see the necks of the bottles poking out—that is, where said bottles hadn’t fallen to the floor.
Incredibly, as I was about to learn, I found what I had been looking for. This was the “team room,” the gathering and staging area for the assault teams that make up the core fighting unit. And the men who were lounging in vinyl-covered seats were my new colleagues. What I can tell you is that in 1991, the team was carved into different assault teams. It’s changed since, but at the time the three assault teams made up the backbone of our nation’s maritime counterterrorist force. Within the assault teams even their rivals conceded that the Pirates were “the most piratical of all Pirates.” But before one could join one of the assault teams, the first test that all had to pass was the training team. And not every SEAL did. In fact, the attrition of specially screened SEALs who had previously proven themselves was as high as 50 percent at times. The distinguisher was really the ability to quickly identify a threat versus a non-threat and pull the trigger or not. When it came to kill or be killed, the decision to engage and the skill required to hit what you’re aiming at separated those who would be assigned to one of the training teams, and those who would return back to regular SEAL teams. The original assault teams made up the core of the “meat eaters” at the command. There were other personnel attached to the command, affectionately known as “plant eaters,” that provided support in the form of communications, administration, logistics, and a host of other critical tasks. Each group could not survive without the other.
Turned out that the “meat eaters” were similar in capability but distinctly different in personality. One team, known as the Redman or the Indians, was the “train harder not smarter” team—when it went on operations, you could count on those operations being full of explosions and action. They were the knuckle draggers, the over-the-top weight lifters. I started out with the Redman.
Another team, known as the Crusaders, was made up of the “sunshine pretty” boys, triathletes in polo shirts and Dockers but who just happened to be deadly. This team’s temperament was on the quiet side, and their tactics using silent runs and low-light night-vision reflected it. Crusaders were cold, calculating killers.
The last of the teams was also known as the Pirates. True to the Jolly Roger, this crew was amazingly talented and “the most piratical of this team of Pirates.” Many had been at the command since Captain Marcinko had the helm and they were set in their ways. On operations, there were two teams. One was an extraordinary feat of swash-buckling excellence; the other was an unmitigated disaster. The problem was it took a roll of the “bones” to determine which team showed up.
The assault team was my new crew and life was good.
I have seen a lot in my life, especially on the battlefield. But nothing has impacted me quite the same way as seeing the ordinary where I was expecting to find the extraordinary. It would be like going into the locker room at a body-building competition and not finding a single sculpted bicep. Or a bakery without a cake. It was just bizarre. In my experience, even new recruits in civvies had a certain respectful decorum about them. These men? It was like some bizarre roadside bar where Vikings, soccer dads, and blue-collar workers somehow socialized.
Everyone here, men and officers, were in civilian clothes. They were casual and relaxed. Only later did I learn that their appearance was carefully chosen and their “characters” scrupulously rehearsed so that they would be able to blend in with the local populace during covert operations in some of the most unwelcoming and hazardous environments on planet Earth.
Those guys who had biked off when I arrived? Their beards blended in with most biker bars and drug lords south of the border. Today, beards blend in well for the Middle East. (A side note: believe it or not, as you move from province to province in some Middle Eastern countries, you have to be aware of your beard length. In Islamic law, a basic beard of at least a fist-length is wajib, or “mandatory.” But within that there’s a bunch of leeway, and different groups—certain bandit bands, for example—identify themselves by subtle differences in that length. If you’re collecting HUMINT—human intelligence—on the ground, you have to make sure you move through groups that require longest beard to shortest, since it’s faster to trim one than to sit around waiting for one to grow!)
Anyway, I stood there in a naval room in my navy whites with my short blond haircut and squared shoulders, feeling more like an outsider than I had ever felt in my twenty-nine years on sweet Mother Earth. The external qualities that I had always thought defined “navy” made me feel positively out of step in the headquarters of the US Navy’s most elite warriors. Right then and there I traded the uniform for a pair of khaki pants and never looked back.
Yet that was just the first of the many speed bumps I would hit. You want to know what kind of seagoing individual I was about to become?
You guessed it. A rogue warrior. Committed to the mission and committed to make sure that we win. If that is the definition of a rogue warrior, I will take it.
I have worked with the Army’s counterpart and every component within the Special Operations family. Each member of the larger team supports the greater effort of America’s Special Operations Forces. Whether it is Army Special Forces, Rangers, or the Marine Special Operations Component, each is to be respected and feared by the enemy. The SEALs historically have focused on maritime targets and Delta on land targets. Since 9/11 all Special Operations Forces and their Tactics, Techniques, and Procedures (TTP) are nearly interchangeable on land. No unit is more important than any other and every unit is critical to victory on the battlefield.
But the navy’s elite SEAL Team was unique. It was wild and unbroken, at times savage. From day one of this unit’s training, they were told they were special. Making it to the team proved it. They were cocky, confident, and deadly in a fight. From the moment I pulled up to the gate, the throttle was on full. We did everything harder. We trained harder, deployed longer, and viewed the conventional rules as guidance rather than the law.
I quickly learned that the typical military hierarchy was inverted. The senior enlisted men who had come in under Lieutenant Commander Richard Marcinko (the unit’s commanding officer) basically ran the day-to-day operations. That’s different than the way things are done in the conventional navy. Because of the bond that existed among the enlisted ranks—well, let’s just say there was strength in numbers and it was unwise for an officer to go against the will of those who were technically junior in rank but more experienced in warfare. They had been there longer, knew more about tactics, and remained at the command long after an officer departed for other assignments. Being an officer meant that if I didn’t show respect for, and win the respect of, the enlisted personnel under me, my career as an officer would end. That took some getting used to. I probably felt similar to how some of those old industrialists did in the first half of the twentieth century when workers were unionizing and owners found their power diminished. I was there to listen, learn, and provide the men with tools to win. One Master Chief expressed it best when he said, “Officers rent their lockers, we own ours.” Good point.
This is a good place to take a walk around the question of workers unions. Back then, they were needed. They still are. Every system needs its checks and balances. But when a unit—say, a military unit—goes from necessary offense to conquest, it becomes an entity that ceases to function for the good of the community. It becomes what it was conceived to dispel. Too many unions and union leadership have become more interested in power and control over service. I have been a union member and have always believed a principle role of a union is to protect and promote its membership by ensuring that the organization is value-added to industry or society. Unions have the advantage of being able to develop training programs and securing good-paying jobs through collective bargaining. Protecting US jobs and promoting a highly skilled labor force is honorable. A union worker should be better trained and offer better value. The rub is when unions fail their own membership by not providing quality labor at competitive contracts. Our society depends on America being competitive. It’s like any institution that separates itself from society and ceases to be concerned with its role in that society. Can you imagine a school dictating to parents, “You’re asking your children to learn too much,” “We want to serve caviar at lunch,” “We think the school day should be halved to keep the kids from having to actually learn math and then science and then history”?
It’s absurd. Everything in moderation. Many unions have forgotten that and, in so doing, have created an adversarial role with the very people they were formed to protect. Those rifts are not only dangerous to a nation, they are fatal. Especially when you add stranglehold demands to those of other self-interested groups, every hyphenation out there. Instead of having a nation of proud, well-integrated communities, you end up with something akin to the Middle East, a world of warring tribes with greedy warlords. Some of you may remember when we were, say, Irish-American, Italian-American, Polish-American on one big, celebratory day each year. We had a parade and then we went back to being “just” plain old Americans the other 364 days. Talk about “union”? That nationalistic quality is fading. We don’t happily make room and try to learn from the other guy or gal and the group to which they belong. We take offense at the drop of a questionable word or thought. People see a stereotype in an old movie and instead of using it to educate about the way things were and how far we’ve come, they boycott the station that showed it. We are “pro” this or “anti” that but with a completely deaf ear. I don’t like everything unions do, but I want to listen to them, hear from them, consider what they have to say. I want them to extend the same courtesy and concern for their fellow Americans. That’s how reasonable global solutions are achieved.
That said, let me get back to my indoctrination and a guy who broke a lot of those rules I just laid out.
The guy who spoke for the senior enlisted men was Command Master Chief Fred Fritsch, and he was the guy you absolutely did not want to cross. Fred was hard. I mean, like concrete. He was a former member of the Navy’s Olympic bobsled team and looked like he was still competing. The rest of the enlisted men were hard as concrete too, but more forgiving. If you did something wrong, by accident—not maliciously—they took the time to identify why it was a mistake and they made sure you didn’t make it again. If you did, you had to answer to Fred. What that meant, ironically, was that you didn’t answer to him: he didn’t talk to you, period, till you straightened up. The silent treatment made you an outcast.
Mind you, the officer corps with us was no more run-of-the-mill than the enlisted men. Every officer was specially screened and selected. The competition was keen with less than a handful of SEAL officers even getting past the first interview. In many cases you were asked to join them and not the other way around. It was no secret that an officer who was selected to the command and able to make it through the selection process would be promoted faster than his peers. If you were invited back for a second tour of duty you were recognized as the best of the elite. There were many pitfalls for an officer too. If something went wrong, which it often did, it was the officer who took the fall, as he was in charge. An officer was always in charge when anything went wrong and was only present went the operation went right. Those were the terms of being selected and I gladly accepted the condition of service.
And right there was my problem in a thimble: I was in charge by rank but not in action. I had to earn respect in a way that was different from anything I’d experienced in “big navy.” My rank, my uniform, meant nothing to these Pirates. What impressed fellow teammates was a strong work ethic and an ability to get the job done.
My work was cut out for me. That first day, walking into that room, I felt as though I’d been handed a plastic knife to cut marble.
It wasn’t just the enlisted men who represented a challenge, though. It was the collective mind-set against big navy. I’ll give you an example. The facilities were extremely unusual by traditional standards. At my previous command, reflecting what was going on in the “real” world, the US Navy had undertaken a serious effort to get rid of alcohol from its bases. Just as the old “smoke ’em if you got ‘em” mantra was dead and buried—the mind-set that once encouraged combat soldiers to relax and have a cigarette—the higher-ups had decided that drinking and soldiering were not a good fit. Maybe so. I’m an everything-in-its-time-and-place kind of guy myself, and, besides, I don’t like playing nanny to grown men and women. But I wasn’t the secretary of the navy, so the service was trying to phase alcohol out.
Not here.
Among the SEALs, alcohol was used as frequently as firearms and chewing gum. There was a bar in every team room. Despite that, no man drank on duty. Never mind that he could get himself killed by mishandling explosives; he would endanger the life of his teammates. But once that beer lamp was lit, man, these guys drank like Prohibition was right around the corner.
“We drink like it’s our last,” one guy admitted to me that first week I was there. “Because in our line of work, it might very well be.”
Even though Marcinko had departed a couple of years before, the team was still basically an operation living under rules he had laid down. Let me pause here to tell you a little about that man, about the kind of clout his shadow still carried. During the Iran hostage crisis in 1979, when Tehran was holding fifty-two of our embassy personnel—and didn’t relinquish them for a staggering 444 days—Marcinko was one of two Navy guys placed on a Joint Chiefs of Staff task force called the Terrorist Action Team. TAT was tasked with the job of coming up with a plan to free those hostages. The result was Operation Eagle Claw, which foundered in just about every way a military operation could go bad. After that humiliation, the Navy realized they had to have a force that could go into action swiftly, dynamically, and effectively. They asked Marcinko to come up with that team. His response was an elite group of SEAL warriors.
You can begin to get an idea of the tactical brilliance of the man just from that designation. The navy had a pair of SEAL teams: One and Two. That’s it. But Marcinko felt that by jumping up the numeric ladder, he would confuse the Soviet Union and other enemies into believing the navy had such teams. They would not only overestimate our response capabilities, they would also waste precious time and manpower trying to find SEAL Teams Three, Four, and Five. Anytime enemies are exposing themselves to that kind of recon, the greater the likelihood they’ll slip up and you’ll get them. So it was a double stroke of genius.
Marcinko personally chose the team members from the entirety of the navy’s Special Operations commands. He handpicked the best of the best, and his SEAL team became the navy’s standout premiere fighting force.
Dick Marcinko remains controversial even today. There was little doubt that he was a rogue warrior in that he found rules to be “guidance” and was unafraid to run against authority. The navy eventually went after him and he was convicted of taking a small kickback on an ammunition contract. He went to prison. I don’t give judgment, but what I do know is those who served under him remain loyal and would fight with him again given the chance.
This seems like a good place to comment on some of the other responsibilities that come with the uniform. It has nothing to do with risking your life or learning your skills better than any human beings ever have in the history of warfare—which is itself a pretty heady thought. The years of effort you invest are a potent and constant reminder that this is your life. It’s no different than becoming a doctor, except for the number of lives that depend upon you at any given time.
No, this has to do with family and the price they pay being married to a SEAL.
People like to ask government workers, especially government workers in sensitive or essential positions, whether their family or their country comes first. There will always be people who disagree with you, no matter what answer you give. On these shores, ever since that fateful day in 1776 when Nathan Hale uttered his immortal, “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country,”1 the primacy of life or family or country has been an awful choice many patriots have had to make. Another quote, not quite so lofty but no less true: in John Wayne’s The Alamo, Davy Crockett said something about his life before that fateful commission. “None of it seemed a lifetime worth the pain of the mother that bore me. It was like I was empty. Well, I’m not empty anymore.”2
Yes, sir. If we make this commitment, we will never be empty again. But there is a price. Either sadly or reassuringly—depending on your point of view—for most of us in the military, and particularly in special ops, the choice is made when they sign up: “Country comes first.”
Sometimes, though, the choice is worse than simply having to miss a sister’s wedding or a child’s confirmation. Sometimes, you are forced to make a decision that the devil himself must have crafted.