Sons of Valor Read online

  “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.

  CHAPTER 4

  twenty kilometers east of jalalabad, afghanistan

  one month later

  1032 local time

  “Well, how does it feel?” Eshan asked, interrupting Qasim’s train of thought as he stared out the passenger window of the SUV at the lush green fields and trees of the Kameh Valley.

  “It’s a very comfortable ride,” Qasim replied.

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” Eshan laughed. “I meant how does it feel to be home?”

  “Oh,” Qasim said, stupefied by his own thickheadedness. “Strange. On the one hand, it feels like I’m visiting an alien planet, but on the other hand, this road is so familiar to me it’s like I never left.”

  When they pulled into the front yard of the modest house he had once called home, he saw a small crowd gathered. His aunt and u
ncle on his father’s side waved at him, along with his four cousins, who’d grown so much he barely recognized them. Also present was a close friend from primary school who Qasim had lost touch with; his aunt Char, of sweet kaddo fame; and lastly Diba, as pretty and bashful as the last time he’d seen her.

  “I assume I have you to thank for this?” Qasim said, turning to Eshan.

  His friend said nothing, just turned off the engine and smiled as he climbed out of the driver’s seat.

  The surprise reunion morphed into a family brunch. Aunt Char had prepared an elaborate spread with all of Qasim’s favorites, including spiced walnut cookies drizzled in honey. The little cousins played and squabbled, while the adults—both young and middle-aged—told nostalgic stories. When the reminiscing ran its course, the conversation pivoted to Qasim and London. They peppered him with questions about his travels, his work, and what it was like to live in the most expensive and intriguing city in the world. To his surprise, he found himself embellishing many details and outright lying about others. How could he tell them he worked on developing the very machines and weapons of war deployed against his countrymen and women? When he faltered, his tongue going to knots in his mouth, Eshan waltzed into the conversation and rescued him. Ebullient and witty, his best friend assumed the role of charming moderator, asking Qasim leading questions to get the conversation back on track while bolstering the fantasy.

  The reunion ended with hugs and tear-rimmed eyes, but not before Qasim carved out a few minutes for a walk and private conversation with Diba. To his great surprise, she did not squander the opportunity with small talk as he intended to do. When he asked her why she had not married, she bluntly told him that she was promised to him, that she had always loved him, and that she wanted—more than anything else in this world—to live in London with him. She went on to confess that on the night of Saida and Eshan’s wedding, her father had spoken with Qasim’s and a marriage agreement had been made.

  “My father intended to revisit the conversation with you after the funeral proceedings,” Diba said, her gaze fierier than he’d ever seen before. “But you left and never came back.”

  “And what about now? Is he still of the same mind?” Qasim asked.

  “My father is dead. He died last year, caught in the middle of a skirmish between the Taliban and Americans working with the Afghan Army,” she said, her jaw set. “I speak for myself now; that is, until the Taliban decides to speak for me. Please Qasim, take me with you.”

  “Okay, I will marry you,” he heard himself say, and it felt both exciting and terrifying. He blushed. “What I mean to say is, Diba, will you marry me?”

  “Oh, Qasim,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “Yes, yes, yes . . .”

  He left her there at his childhood home—with a promise of marriage and no means to contact him—standing amid a gaggle of extended family waving goodbye. As he watched her disappear in the rearview mirror, a single thought replayed over and over again in his head.

  My God, what have I done?

  “Don’t worry. The family has agreed to look after her,” Eshan said, breaking the silence at last.

  Qasim’s jaw dropped open. “Is that what this was? Some ploy to guilt-trip me into marrying Diba?”

  “Of course not,” Eshan said with a wry grin. “This was a family reunion with a special guest. You did the proposing all on your own.”

  “You’re a sneaky bastard, you know that?”

  “Like you said in London, my job is to put you in an impossible situation and watch you squirm until you rise to the occasion. In this case, that occasion just happens to be reuniting you with the girl you’re destined to marry.”

  “Do you really believe in destiny?”

  “Of course, and you don’t?”

  “Destiny hasn’t been a great friend to me,” Qasim said. “I’d choose you over destiny every time.”

  “Thank you, my friend. That means a lot to me.”

  “After Saida died,” Qasim said, turning to look out the window, “I ran away as fast as I could. I tried to forget this place and everyone in it. I thought if I started over, it would be easier to move on. But that’s the irony. I moved away, but I never moved on. I abandoned the people who loved me in their time of need. Thank you for reminding me of who and what I walked away from.”

  “You’re welcome,” Eshan said and reached over and gave Qasim’s shoulder a squeeze.

  They drove in comfortable silence for several kilometers until Eshan turned off the main road.

  “This is not the way,” Qasim said.

  “I know. We have one more quick detour. It won’t take long, I promise.”

  Qasim checked his watch but didn’t argue. Whatever Eshan wanted to show him, he would not complain. A few minutes later, the gravel road terminated at the charred and scattered remains of what was once a wood-and-stone farmhouse. Eshan parked the SUV but did not shut off the engine.

  “What is this?” Qasim asked.

  “This was Tef Magrab’s family home. Turned to ash by an American drone strike.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was sheltering three Taliban lieutenants.”

  “What about his family? Were they present when it happened?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters.”

  “So if I say yes, then it is a tragedy. If I say no, then it’s not? It wasn’t a tragedy that your father and Saida were killed because he happened to be riding in a car with two Taliban?”

  Qasim consider the question. “I don’t know . . .”

  Eshan shook his head. “Tef was a pragmatist. He told his wife to take the children to her family home and stay with her parents as a precaution. Thankfully, they were not present at the time of the attack.” He gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands. “But it doesn’t diminish the fact that he was murdered by the Americans, making a widow of his wife and leaving his children fatherless. He was a good man, Qasim. A good man put in an impossible situation, forced to choose between capitulating to a cause he didn’t support to safeguard his family and livelihood, or standing up for his principles and risking the loss of everything. He chose as your father did. What would you have done in his shoes?”

  Qasim said nothing, just stared out the window at the rubble that had once been a home.

  Eshan shifted the transmission into drive and executed a U-turn, spraying dust and gravel behind the SUV as they left the property for the main road. They drove in silence all the way back to Jalalabad, where Eshan piloted the Toyota onto the N-5, heading east toward Pakistan. After a long bout of silence, Qasim finally broke.

  “Do you think we’ll have any trouble at the border?” he asked.

  “Well, it’s possible, but I know how to handle these things,” Eshan said, his eyes fixed on the road.

  “I don’t like that answer,” Qasim said, shaking his head. “Explain, please.”

  “Pakistan discontinued the practice of issuing on-arrival travel visas for Afghans. Crossing at Torkham is not like it used to be.”

  “What?” Qasim fired back, his voice full of outrage. “Open travel for Afghan Pashtuns has been a standing policy for decades! Khyber Pakhtunkhwa is our people’s land. We do not need permission to cross some imaginary border down the middle of our tribal home.”

  “Listen to you,” Eshan said with a chuckle. “One day home and you already sound like a bitter old man from the village. You know it’s not that simple when nations, money, and security are concerned.”

  “So what’s your plan?”