CHAPTER 3

captured pakistani cargo ship

pier at vopak horizon fujairah ltd.

united arab emirates

0645 local time

Chunk watched the team of five CIA “Smiths” exit the ship down the gangway dressed in gray cargo pants and black polo shirts. They carried matching coyote-tan backpacks and wore sunglasses despite the sun not yet having broken the horizon.

“Jesus, why don’t they just wear dark blue windbreakers with spook stenciled on the back in bright yellow letters?” Saw, leaning against the rail, spit into a plastic Coke bottle already half full of dark tobacco juice.

“I know, right?” Riker laughed and spun his stained and worn ball cap backward. Scratching at his beard, he looked at Chunk. “No, no, no, dude. Don’t do it . . . don’t do it.”

Chunk, who was packing a fresh wad of tobacco into his lower lip, tried desperately to resist the urge . . . but couldn’t. “Hey, hold up a second,” he called after the spooks, who’d left without a parting word to Chunk or his team.

The lead guy, a quiet, clean-shaven forty-something case officer who’d introduced himself as J. P. Jones, stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“A quick word,” Chunk said, waving him back aboard.

The spook debated for a beat whether to grant this request for a conversation he most certainly didn’t want to have; his shoulders sagged a little. “I’ll be just a minute,” he said to his team, then reversed course and headed back up the brow.

Chunk moseyed over to where the brow met the ship’s deck. “Given what happened on this op, I figured you’d at least provide me with some sort of after-action debrief,” he said with a play-nice smile.

The CIA man made a face that Chunk interpreted to mean, What can I tell this guy to get him off my back without picking a fight? but all he said was, “What do you want to know?”

“Well, for starters, nobody said shit about us hitting a freighter with Chinese operators on board. I know the Chinese supply hardware to the Pakistani military, but your people told my people this cargo vessel was carrying weapons bound for terrorists. That’s a pretty different scenario than the one we encountered.”

“Who says they were Chinese?” the spook said.

“Well, nobody, but I think it’s pretty obvious they weren’t Pakistanis, you know what I’m sayin’?”

“If they were Chinese SOF, don’t you think the resistance you and your team faced would have been more robust? Or are you just that good?”

Chunk felt heat flare in his chest, but he put out that fire quick. “Yeah, that’s what’s been bugging me. They were outfitted like special operations, but they didn’t move or shoot like it.”

The spook touched his index finger to his temple and pointed it at Chunk with an accompanying condescending wink.

“Still doesn’t explain what Chinese mercenaries, or contract security, or whatever you want to call them, were doing on a Pakistani freighter.” Chunk clapped his meaty paw on the man’s shoulder. “Next time it’d be nice to know what we’re walking into . . . if you know what I’m sayin’.”

The CIA man, still wearing his sunglasses, looked at Chunk’s hand on his shoulder, then met his gaze. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind. Wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Chunk smiled, removed his hand, and spit tobacco juice on the deck beside them. “What was in those crates by the way?”

“You know, you sure do ask a lot of questions for a SEAL.” J. P. Jones clapped Chunk hard on his shoulder and turned to leave. “You guys need to wait at least fifteen minutes before disembarking, otherwise you’ll draw too much attention to us. I mean really, Commander, you guys look like a casting call for a Peter Berg movie.”

Chunk felt the flare of heat resurge in his chest, but he laughed anyway. “Don’t forget your umbrellas,” he fired back. “I hear there’s a chance of rain this afternoon.”

“What was that all about?” Riker asked as Chunk watched the CIA man head to an idling SUV whose front passenger door was hanging open for him.

“Just busting his spooky chops,” he said dismissively. “C’mon, time to help Carla and the rest of the boys pack our stuff so we can get the hell off this tub.”

“Don’t gotta ask me twice,” Trip said.

“Hold up, boss,” Riker said, nodding at the pier. “Something’s going on.”

Chunk swiveled back around to see two new black SUVs pulling up, followed a few seconds later by a third.

“Looks like the spooks aren’t done here after all,” Saw said.

“These guys must be the cleanup crew,” Riker said, as a group of different spooks unloaded big black duffels, hard cases, and a roller gurney.

I was right . . . We interrupted something major on this tub, and now somewhere out there, some serious shit is hitting a big-ass fan.

As if thinking it made it happen, Chunk’s sat phone rang. Annoyed, he pulled it from his cargo pocket and took the call. “Redman,” he said, holding up a finger to the boys.

“Make yourself private,” said the gruff voice of Commander Bowman, the Skipper of SEAL Team Four.

“Yes sir,” Chunk said, turning his back to his men and walking along the gunwale.

“Chunk, the bulk of this conversation will need to happen in a SCIF, but here’s what I can tell you. Half the team will head back to the Reagan as planned, but I want you to pick three of your best operators—a sniper, a breacher, and TAC guy. I’ve arranged for you and your guys to meet me at Naval Support Activity Duqm. I’ll read you in there. Clear?”

Chunk felt his head spin. He knew better than to press, but he couldn’t help himself. “New tasking, sir?”

“We talk when you get here,” Bowman said. “There’s a fleet Seahawk waiting on the runway at Fujairah International Airport as we speak. Don’t miss that flight.”

The line clicked dead.

He didn’t know if it had anything to do with the Chinese dudes they’d taken out, but any decent SEAL was up for a super-
secret mission anytime, except for weddings and the births of their children—and even those were sometimes negotiable.

Chunk turned back to where three SEALs were now waiting for him, Trip having joined the group during his short absence. Bring it on, he thought with a grin.

Three hours later they approached NSA Duqm from the sea, aboard the helo Bowman had promised. Saw slept during the two-hour ride in the MH-60S Seahawk—an antisubmarine variant of the Blackhawk that, as SEALs, they’d spent hundreds of hours being shuttled around in. Even with just the four of them it was cramped, however, as this helicopter’s cabin contained workstations for two sensor operators, launch tubes for sonobuoys, and a winch in the center of the aircraft for working the AQS-13F dipping sonar that was lowered from a 1,600-foot cable and used to prosecute underwater threats. Riker spent most of the ride showing Trip something on his tablet that they both laughed at, while Chunk stared out the large rectangular window on the port side, watching white caps drift by while he noodled on last night’s op and his parting conversation with J. P. Jones.

John Paul Jones, he thought with a chuckle, just now connecting the dots that the lead spook had named himself after the father of the American Navy. What a dick.

It hadn’t surprised Chunk that Jones wasn’t willing to share any tidbits of value; there was an intentional demarcation between operations and intelligence. Worrying about why those Chinese dudes were onboard the ship and what type of illicit shit was in the CONEX boxes wasn’t his responsibility. He was a SEAL, a door kicker . . . a weapon. Understanding the what, why, and how of the bad guys’ operations wasn’t part of his job description. He’d always been fine with that. But that was before he and the boys had augmented the DNI’s super-secret black ops unit, Task Force Ember, a couple of times over the past two years. He’d been given a peek behind the curtain, and now he couldn’t help himself.

Someone kicked his boot.

“We’re here,” Trip said, snapping Chunk out of his head.

On that cue, the Seahawk flared and landed on a large brown tarmac. Duqm was a walled compound on the bay side of a narrow man-made spit of land at the western edge of the Arabian Sea. Chunk looked out the open crew door and scanned the horizon. Every damn structure in sight was painted the same coyote tan as the desert. White pickup trucks dotted the compound, and other than a ghost-gray frigate flying a Union Jack on its stern a few hundred yards to the south, the facility felt like a graveyard.

The US Naval Support Compound they were visiting—three trailers in a U around a flagpole flying the Stars and Stripes—was technically located on property leased by the British Navy from Oman. As far as Chunk knew, it was a joint task force compound that functioned as a command-and-control point for American, British, Australian, and German Special Forces units operating in the area. Chunk had never actually been to Duqm, but this quick glance around confirmed he hadn’t missed much.

They slung their rifles over their heads and grabbed their bags as the helo kicked up dust before its twin turbine engines shut down with a long whining sigh. Chunk jumped out the door and his guys fell into a loose group behind him as a rail-thin soldier dressed in British SAS cammies approached and extended a hand.

“Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton, mates,” he said with the easy smile that confirmed he was an operator.

“Great to be here,” Chunk said. “Lieutenant Commander Redman, but you can call me Chunk.”

“Patch,” the man replied, squeezing and releasing his hand with his worn paw. “Doesn’t look like you chaps are coming in from leave.”

“Ha,” Chunk laughed. “Not leave, but way more fun.”

“Fuck yeah,” Trip added.

“I hear that,” the British commando said. “Maybe you can get me an’ my boys into some scraps. Going crazy doing PP up and down nowhere,” he added. Operators sometimes got roped into personal protection details during slow times on deployment. “Even willing to operate next to you SEAL wankers if we can get into some scraps.”

Chunk laughed. He liked this guy.

Brotherhood.

“I’ll see what I can do, bro,” he said as the man punched a code into the steel barrier gate. Once inside, the four SEALs followed the Brit through the middle of the compound. At the rear, a stubbier building had a hand-painted sign beside the door that read Joint Special Operations Task Force 288. Patch punched in a code, the door clicked open, and they entered a small lobby where a picture of a British Special Forces operator—full beard and fully kitted up in the desert somewhere—sat on a table beside a framed letter telling the fallen warrior’s story. Beyond was a long room with workstations and computers.

Commander Bowman came from beyond the work area, no doubt from inside a Tactical Operations Center. His presence instantly filled the room.

“Lieutenant Commander Redman,” the senior SEAL officer said, gripping Chunk’s hand in a powerful, short shake.

“Sir,” Chunk replied. “This is—”

The skipper cut him off before he could introduce his guys. “Saw . . . Riker . . . Trip.” Bowman nodded at each man, knowing not only who they were, but their platoon nicknames for God’s sake.

Impressive.

“Sir,” they responded in unison.

“Why don’t you fellas get some chow while I talk to Chunk? Patch, can you take these guys over to the canteen?”

“Delighted, sir,” the SAS operator replied with a genuine smile.

While his teammates left, Chunk followed his boss to the rear of the TOC, where the CO pressed a code into a punch lock. The lock clicked open, and Bowman waved Chunk into a secure briefing room with a conference table and multiple flat-screen TVs on the walls. The SCIF was smaller than what was typical back home and modestly equipped but soundproof and stout enough to block all electronic emissions. Bowman dropped into the chair at the head of the table, then gestured for Chunk to take a seat.

Chunk followed suit and fixed his attention on Bowman, careful not to let his gaze drift to the right side of the senior officer’s head, which was riddled with scar tissue. Before the IED explosion, he’d had a full head of thick black hair. Now it had gone silver-fox gray, and he wore it high and tight so the left side matched the hairless right. The VA had reconstructed an ear for him and done a pretty damn good job—but as Bowman himself was fond of joking, “The docs gave me back an ear, just not one that matches.” That simple quip summed up the man in spades. Bowman wore his disfigurement like he did his trident. He was a son of valor, and his scars were overt proof that he’d answered his nation’s call of duty.

“Before I begin, I can see from your expression that you’ve got something on your mind,” Bowman said.

“Yes, sir. I’m assuming you brought me here for an after-
action debrief on the op.”

Bowman looked surprised. “Actually, no, but go on.”

It was Chunk’s turn to be surprised. “I assume you were listening in on comms or Aveda briefed you?”

“Both.”

“Okay, so I’m not sure what happened, but obviously we fucked up.”

“Hold on.” Bowman raised a hand. “We didn’t fuck anything up. We got a mission package and we executed it brilliantly. OGA is the one who dropped the ball.”

“I hear you, sir, but we capped ten Chinese nationals. There’s going to be consequences. And what the hell were they doing on that boat in the first place?”

“Not your problem. Your job is to execute your tasking. When reality does not match the package—which it invariably doesn’t—you are expected to adapt and overcome. That’s exactly what you did. Bravo Zulu, end of story.”

Chunk opened his mouth to try again, but Bowman beat him to the punch.

“Not a Team Four problem,” he repeated.

Chunk took a deep breath and let it go. “Yes, sir. Sorry, it’s just the disconnect between ops and intel makes me . . . You know, never mind.”

Bowman nodded. Then he leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “Now, that being said, what if I gave you an opportunity to close that disconnect, to operate with a higher level of autonomy and integration with the spooks? Would you take it?”

“Sir?” Chunk said, confused . . . but intrigued.

“After the massacre of Operation Crusader in Yemen, JSOC has been without a Tier One SEAL element, leaving a heavy burden for Delta to shoulder. But that’s about to change.”

Chunk felt his pulse quicken.

“About damn time, sir,” he said, keeping his voice as subdued as the moment would allow.

“At sixteen hundred hours yesterday, the Tier One SEAL Team was officially and confidentially reconstituted,” Bowman said, with a little theater in his voice. “Commander Redman, you’ve been personally recommended by someone whose opinion carries a lot of weight to lead one of the two squadrons.”

“Captain Jarvis?” he murmured, unable to contain himself. Kelso Jarvis was the former Director of National Intelligence, now Vice President of the United States, but before his rapid rise in the DC power circles he’d spent his career at the Tier One, finishing his Naval Special Warfare career as the CSO.

“All those joint-mission boondoggles we lent you out for must have made an impression. ‘Unflappable under pressure,’ I believe were the Vice President’s exact words.” Were the corners of the intense old frogman’s mouth bending upward? Chunk suspected Bowman knew far more about those Task Force Ember missions than he was letting on, but this was about as close to a smile as the man was capable of.

“But I want you to know, that even without the VP’s input, you would have been on my short list to screen for the unit anyway. You’re a natural-born operator, Chunk, but more importantly you’re a helluva leader. Your guys would follow you to hell and back if you asked them to, and that sort of loyalty and respect is only earned one way—by the blood, sweat, and tears you’ve given for them. That’s the kind of officer I want in my unit.”

“Your unit, sir?” Chunk asked.

Bowman leaned back, his smile now exposing teeth. “I’ll be commanding the new unit, so you’d be stuck with me for another few years. Hell, maybe the rest of your career—the Tier One units are hard to leave . . .” The SEAL’s eyes went to the middle distance and his mind to another place and time. Then, he blinked and was back, focused hard on Chunk. “The Tier One’s not for everyone, and this offer is on a strictly volunteer basis.”

Chunk leaned back in his chair, needing a second to take this all in. The Tier One had always been his dream billet. Just as Naval Aviation had Top Gun, Naval Special Warfare had Green Team—a screening process to train the “best of the best” in the SEAL community for service in the covert JSOC-run Tier One SEAL Team. Less than 5 percent of all Navy SEALs ascended to the Tier One level, and now he was being tapped to lead a squadron.

Then, out of nowhere, an unexpected dread washed over him. “If I say yes, who would take over my role at Team Four?”

“What?” Bowman said, clearly confused by the question.

“It’s just that my guys depend on me.”

“Well, first of all, in case you haven’t connected the dots, you’re bringing Saw, Riker, and Trip with you. They each had by-name recommendations as well. And second, while I appreciate your loyalty and commitment to Team Four, your country is giving you an opportunity to serve at a higher level. Now if you want to stay at Team Four, that’s fine; there’s a long list of guys who would kill for this opportunity. But I think that commitment to the brotherhood and the well-being of your men will play an even more important part in the Tier One. The operational tempo, and the physical and mental toll this job exacts, will be significantly higher than what you and your guys are accustomed to. So yes, you may be leaving one family behind, but you’re stepping in to lead another.”

Bowman’s words resonated with him. The idea that it was somehow a betrayal to leave Team Four for this opportunity was silly. But it was also a statement about how strong the bonds of brotherhood inside the SEAL community were. The truth was, he wasn’t abandoning his family; they were just getting reshuffled—something that was going to happen with or without his blessing. That was how the military worked.

“Count me in, sir, and thank you for the opportunity.”

Bowman laughed like Chunk had just figured out that jumping in a pool would make him wet.

“Now look, Chunk, this ain’t gonna be like the last few decades. We lost the entire unit in Yemen. We’re bringing back a few guys who served at the Tier One before Operation Crusader for staff and instructor positions, but when I say we’re starting from scratch, I mean we’re standing up two squadrons of guys entirely from white side teams. Green Team screening won’t be like it was—we’ll train the squadrons hard, but simultaneously. Only two platoons per squadron. We’re going to be smaller, leaner, and meaner than before. And we’re going back to being black. All the old monikers are being retired and JSOC’s official policy is to deny any and all reporting that the unit has been reconstituted.”

“I understand.”

“And we’re standing up a dedicated intel shop to support you twenty-four seven, so you won’t have to be as reliant on CIA and the Activity as you’ve been so far in your career.” Bowman raised a hand. “Don’t get me wrong, we’re still going to have to lean heavily on the establishment, but you’re gonna have your own in-house spooks who will report to you and be an integral part of mission planning.”

Chunk nodded. “I like the sound of that, but how exactly is that supposed to work?”

“We’ll figure it out as we go, but one of the lessons learned from the tragedy that put us here is that intel isn’t prescient. Last night’s op is a perfect example. Somebody missed something and now ten Chinese nationals are dead, and that somebody has to figure out why. As a white side SEAL at Team Four, that somebody is not you. In fact, asking those questions and chasing the answers only throws sand in the gears of the machine. At the new Tier One, you’ll still be a door-kicker, Chunk, but now it’s okay if you question which door you’re supposed to kick and why.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“All right then. I’m heading back to Virginia to meet with Lieutenant Commander Derek Malkin from Team Five. You know him?”

Chunk nodded. “Our paths have crossed. Academy grad. Good guy. Solid operator is his reputation.”

“If he says yes, Malkin will take the other squadron—assuming everyone makes it through Green Team. You’ll be operating out of the compound on MacDill. So pack your bags and prep for the move to Tampa.”

“Roger that.”

Bowman stood and extended his hand. Chunk followed suit and clasped his CO’s strong weathered fingers. “Welcome to the new Tier One, Commander,” Bowman said.

“Thank you, sir.”

“So which of your guys do you want in here first for the good news?”

“Oh that’s easy. Senior Chief ‘I make my BDUs into board shorts’ Riker. But if you don’t mind, sir, let’s start by telling him we’ve decided it’s time he retires from Team Four.” Chunk was unable to suppress an evil grin. “I owe him one.”

“Start the screening with a stress test, huh?” Bowman replied with a grin of his own.

“Exactly.” Chunk turned to fetch the SEAL.

A little payback for “Baby Shark” . . . This is going to be fun.