Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-
Diamondhead (13 page)
Mack Bedford understood. His friends were dead. His acquaintances were reluctant. There was no longer much to say right here in this cauldron of military training. This is a place where joy is measured in battlefield triumph, and where defeat has not a friend in the world. Lieutenant Commander Bedford had become the embodiment of that defeat.
He took his meals alone in his room, mostly because it was too awkward for him to engage in conversation. How many times could he hear other SEALs tell him how sorry they were that this had happened and how much he would be missed?
What was there to say? Certainly not the gut-wrenching truth that in the blackness of his own despair he had given very serious consideration to blowing his brains out. And that if he had not been married to the spectacularly beautiful Anne, with a little boy who needed him so badly, he probably would have done so. SEALs don’t bare their souls like that. Self-examination does not sit comfortably in their profession. They are trained to ignore personal feelings and needs, and to complete the mission. They are taught to train physically until they are close to the breaking point. And then to kill. Always to capture or kill the enemy on behalf of the United States. Men like that don’t usually spend a lot of time on self-pity.
“Oh, hell, I’ll be all right.” “Don’t worry about me. I got plenty of options.” “Maybe a security business, or a partnership in a fishing boat back in Maine. I got all kinds of stuff.” “Anyway, I’ve probably been in the navy for long enough.”
Long enough? How could it ever be long enough? What would “long enough” be? Maybe a thousand years? Because it would surely be a thousand years before the ethos of the SEALs could ever be driven into the backwaters of his mind.
Mack Bedford could scarcely remember any other life. He knew only the discipline, the unquestioning code of conduct, what was expected of him, and, as he grew into a field commander, what he expected of those young men who fought alongside him.
He had once read, and never forgotten, a book written by John Bertrand, Australia’s victorious America’s Cup helmsman in 1983. The Aussie wrote of racing yacht crews, men fighting against the odds to defeat the Americans in front of a world audience. “You can get them to go a long way for you by frightening them,” he wrote. “But if you want them to go all the way, they’ve got to love you.”
Mack’s men had always loved him. And they were surely going to miss his steadfast words of command, sometimes cautious, sometimes daring, but always sound. They were going to miss the hell out of him. And most of them did not yet realize how much. All they sensed was an inner anxiety.
What the hell’s it gonna be like out there, without the boss?
What the hell’s it gonna be like out there, without the boss?
The last three days passed slowly. Mack spent most of them alone. He packed and shipped to Maine some books and memorabilia, his uniforms, permanent SEAL equipment, personal mask and flippers, bearing the number he had been given at BUDs. He would travel home in civilian clothes, carrying just his big battle-scarred leather suitcase, the one he’d carried to hell and back, from the Afghan mountains to Baghdad, ar-Ramadi, Qatar, and Kuwait.
First thing tomorrow morning Jack Thomas would drive him to the North Air Station in the middle of San Diego Bay. Meanwhile, with less than twenty-four hours before his departure, Mack would attack the four-mile course along the beach, just one more training run along the edge of the water, straight down memory lane, one more attempt to drive his body to the limit.
He was, of course, no longer doing this in a manic last-ditch effort to hit a peak of fitness before combat duty on some foreign field, as he so often did. This run was not for any reason really. He was doing it, just . . . well . . . for the good times. The only difference was, now Mack would run all alone.
He jogged down to the ocean, and far down the beach he could see a BUDs Class pounding back toward him, strung out, in a long, irregular line, splashing, gasping, striving, driving on, keeping up, dropping out, instructors shouting, demanding to know whose heart wasn’t in it, who wanted to quit, who had nothing more to give. Nothing much changed here on the SEAL training beach at Coronado, where, every week, hearts were broken, reputations forged, and men became such men as they had never dreamed possible.
Mack could see a group of guests at the Hotel del Coronado standing out on the terrace watching the guys running. It looked like the opening scene from
Chariots of Fire,
but these runners were not the carefree young bucks of Cambridge University Athletic Club in 1920s England. These runners, right here in Coronado, wore khaki, the color of violent men.
Chariots of Fire,
but these runners were not the carefree young bucks of Cambridge University Athletic Club in 1920s England. These runners, right here in Coronado, wore khaki, the color of violent men.
This strip of tidal sand represented some kind of Greek tragedy where Navy SEALs prepared to go to war. It was a place of broken dreams, a place where ambitions were ruined, limitations ruthlessly exposed. Where only the best of the best could possibly survive.
My country expects me to be physically and mentally stronger than my enemy. . . . If I am knocked down, I will get up, every time. . . . I am never out of the fight. . . . I am a United States Navy SEAL.
The words of the SEAL creed whispered through the mind of Mack Bedford as he settled into his stride, every pace a stretch, every ten yards of wet sand covered with maximum effort. That was the way to complete the run, the only way, to make every yard of the journey the hardest yard you ever ran—just to be the best, the best, always the best.
Mack passed the BUDs Class a mile up the beach, and then drove himself on to the two-mile mark, where he turned back, running with all of his strength toward his start point. Only a very few of the BUDs students would ever attain fitness like that, because Mack Bedford’s long years of brutal daily training—running, lifting, swimming—had granted him animal strength. He was not like other men. Nothing like other men.
He smiled as he looked across at the BUDs Class, sweating and straining, lifting logs the size of telephone poles, nearly killing themselves hoisting the huge weight above their heads, the bigger guys taking the biggest strain. Mack watched them finally drop the logs down onto the sand, heard the familiar thud that shook the beach, and then the old SEAL ritual.
Class leader
: Instructor Mills!
: Instructor Mills!
Followed instantly by the class roar
: HOO-YAH, INSTRUCTOR MILLS!
: HOO-YAH, INSTRUCTOR MILLS!
No one really remembers precisely how it happened, but U.S. Navy SEALs have this private word: “HOO-YAH.” The BUDs students use it for greeting an instructor, and they use it instead of “Understand and will comply.” They use it instead of “Yes” or “Right away, sir.”
Standing there on the sand, catching his breath, Mack Bedford remembered his own stint as a SEAL instructor, pretending to be Gengis Khan, right here on this very spot. Frightening the living daylights out of the guys, pushing them, humiliating them, testing them, to find how much unfairness each of them could take without cracking. And how moved he was that, in the end, the survivors understood he wanted only the best for them.
HOO-YAH, INSTRUCTOR BEDFORD!
And now it was over. He walked back up the beach, and past the Grinder, the square of blacktop where generations of BUDs trainees had given their all, trying to become full-fledged SEALs. This was the square where they handed out the golden Tridents. The square where Mack Bedford, Honor Man, had received his from a SEAL admiral. That remained the proudest moment of his life.
That night he dined alone in his room. The last supper. He couldn’t face company, understanding, questions, support, and sympathy. Not tonight. He sat in solitude, still trying to accept that in five weeks he had somehow gone from highly regarded SEAL lieutenant commander to civilian, with an official officer’s reprimand forever hanging over his head.
Captain Dunning had mentioned the word “panic.” What a truly shocking allegation. If anyone had asked, Mack would have settled for “blind rage.” But not “panic.” He reached for a pocket dictionary he always kept in his room. And the definition made him feel, if anything, worse:
Panic—a feeling of fear and anxiety.
If anyone had panicked at the bridge, it sure as hell was not him. He could have been accused, probably fairly, of seeking revenge for his dead buddies, or even of using unreasonable force. Those moments had, after all, occurred during his own “hours of the wolf.” But not fear and anxiety. The hell with that.
Panic—a feeling of fear and anxiety.
If anyone had panicked at the bridge, it sure as hell was not him. He could have been accused, probably fairly, of seeking revenge for his dead buddies, or even of using unreasonable force. Those moments had, after all, occurred during his own “hours of the wolf.” But not fear and anxiety. The hell with that.
Mack slept not a wink through his last long night within the confines of his personal alma mater, SPECWARCOM. It was a night he had never dreamed would come. If he slept, he would wake up a civilian. Which was probably why he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, torturing himself over the events that had all proved to be beyond his control. He couldn’t face company, and understanding.
At first light he climbed out of bed, showered, and stepped into his civilian clothes. He put on a clean white shirt, dark-gray slacks, loafers, and a blue blazer. He wore no tie but still looked every inch an officer. He picked up the morning newspaper and had a cup of coffee, black with sugar, and then sat quietly to wait for 0730 when Lt. Barry Mason would arrive to collect him and walk with him to Jack Thomas’s armored vehicle for the drive over to the air base. He felt like a man awaiting the arrival of the executioner.
Barry Mason arrived on time and picked up the leather bag. Neither of them felt like speaking. The young lieutenant just nodded and said, “Mack,” before adding, “This is probably the most God-awful fucking day of my life.”
“Mine too,” said the boss.
They stepped out into the morning light and began the three-hundred-yard walk toward the main gate, and as they did so, both men became conscious of throngs of people crowding around the entrance, beyond which was parked the armored vehicle. It quickly became apparent that it was some kind of formation. It also became apparent that every single member of the SPECWARCOM campus, officers and other ranks, were, on this morning, at the gate.
They stood in silence. It was an unmistakable silent protest at the “justice” that had been handed out to the retiring SEAL officer. As Mack and Barry walked between the two four-deep lines of stone-faced men, a chief petty officer suddenly roared at the top of his lungs,
LT. CDR. MACKENZIE BEDFORD!
That deep-voiced SEAL response split the morning air, echoing up into the clear skies, rehearsed yet at once spontaneous. Every last man from admiral to BUDs student shouted the response—
HOO-YAH, MACK BEDFORD!
It was a cry from the uneasy soul of this stern and dedicated garrison of Special Forces. The last HOO-YAH.
LT. CDR. MACKENZIE BEDFORD!
That deep-voiced SEAL response split the morning air, echoing up into the clear skies, rehearsed yet at once spontaneous. Every last man from admiral to BUDs student shouted the response—
HOO-YAH, MACK BEDFORD!
It was a cry from the uneasy soul of this stern and dedicated garrison of Special Forces. The last HOO-YAH.
Mack Bedford looked to neither his left nor his right. But as he reached the gate and the barrier was lifted, he turned one final time and formally saluted them all. Then he turned away, toward the waiting car. And no one saw him fighting to control his tears as he left them.
They rode in silence out along the familiar road to North Island. When they reached the air station’s administrative building they pulled up and stepped out onto the holding area. The U.S. Navy Lockheed Aries jet was already running, and Lieutenant Mason carried Mack’s bag to the steps that led up into the cabin. He handed it over while Jack Thomas stood to one side, visibly more upset than the other two.
Mack put down the bag and threw his arms around him. “Thanks, Jack,” he said. “Thanks for everything.”
Jack managed to mutter, “Good-bye, sir.”
The lieutenant commander picked up his bag in his left hand and walked toward Barry Mason. “Good-bye, kid,” he said. “It’s been a privilege to serve with you.”
Lieutenant Mason shook Mack’s hand and said softly, “You’ll always be a hero to me, sir.”
And with that, Mackenzie Bedford left them, moving swiftly up the steps and taking his seat on the right side of the aircraft. The door slammed shut, and it immediately taxied to the end of the runway.
Both SEALs stood and watched it race down the blacktop, gathering speed to 200 miles per hour before lifting off to the southwest, leaving the great military cemetery on Point Loma to starboard. Mack stared out at the lines and lines of white and gray headstones, and he thought again of Frank and Charlie and Billy-Ray and the rest, and the aura of sadness rested crushingly on his mind.
Within him once more, he sensed the rising “hours of the wolf,” the anger, the resentment, the desire for brutal vengeance. But it was too late for that. Much too late.
Back on the edge of the runway Barry and Jack stood to attention. As the aircraft left the ground they both snapped one last formal, solemn salute to the departing SEAL commander. Unrehearsed. Then Barry Mason shook his head, and said, “HOO-YAH, Mack. You were some kind of an officer.”
The Aries banked hard left over the western reaches of San Diego Bay and turned onto its course over the southern part of the city and out over the northern peaks of the Sierre Madre. From there the aircraft headed east, straight across Arizona, New Mexico, North Texas, and Oklahoma. They flew at around 500 miles per hour to Tennessee, running north of both Memphis and Nashville. They crossed the Appalachian Mountains and dropped down to 20,000 feet over North Carolina before landing in Norfolk, the great U.S. Navy base that lies hard by the southern coastal border of the state of Virginia.
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