Contents

Prologue

1ToAfghanistan...inaFlyingWarehouse

2BabySeals...andBigOleGators

3ASchoolforWarriors

4WelcometoHell,Gentlemen

5LiketheRemnantsofaRavagedArmy

6‘Bye,Dudes,Give’EmHell

7AnAvalancheofGunfire

8TheFinalBattleforMurphy’sRidge

9Blown-up,Shot,andPresumedDead

10AnAmericanFugitiveCorneredbytheTaliban

11ReportsofMyDeathGreatlyExaggerated

12“Two-two-eight!It’sTwo-two-eight!”

Epilogue:LoneStar

Afterword

Acknowledgments

AbouttheAuthors

Copyright©2007byMarcusLuttrell

Allrightsreserved.ExceptaspermittedundertheU.S.CopyrightActof1976,nopartofthispublicationmaybereproduced,distributed,ortransmittedinanyformorbyanymeans,orstoredina

databaseorretrievalsystem,withoutthepriorwritten

permissionofthepublisher.

Little,BrownandCompanyHachetteBookGroupUSA237ParkAvenue,NewYork,

NY10017VisitourWebsiteat

www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.comFirsteBookEdition:June

2007

ISBN:0-316-00752-8

ThisbookisdedicatedtothememoryofMurph,Axe,andDannyBoy,Kristensen,

Shane,James,Senior,Jeff,Jacques,Taylor,andMac.

TheseweretheelevenmenofAlfaandEchoPlatoonswho

foughtanddiedinthemountainsofAfghanistantryingtosavemylife,and

withwhomIwashonoredtoservemycountry.ThereisnowakinghourwhenIdonotrememberthemallwiththedeepestaffectionandthe

mostprofound,heartbreakingsadness.

Prologue

Would this ever becomeeasier? House to house,freeway to freeway, state tostate?Not so far.And here Iwas again, behind the wheelofahiredSUV,drivingalonganotherMain Street, past theshopsandthegasstation,thistime in a windswept little

town on Long Island, NewYork, South Shore, down bythe long Atlantic beaches.Winter was coming. Theskies were platinum. Thewhitecaps rolled in beneathdark, lowering clouds. Soutterly appropriate, becausethis time was going to beworse than the others. Awholelotworse.I found my landmark, the

local post office, pulled inbehind the building, and

parked.Weallsteppedoutofthe vehicle, into a chillNovember day, the remainsof the fall leaves swirlingaround our feet. No onewantedtoleadtheway,noneof the five guys whoaccompanied me, and for afew moments we just stoodthere, like a group ofmailmenontheirbreak.I knew where to go. The

house was just a few yardsdown the street. And in a

sense, I’d been there before— in Southern California,northern California, andNevada.Inthenextfewdays,IstillhadtovisitWashingtonand Virginia Beach. And somanythingswouldalwaysbepreciselythesame.There would be the

familiar devastated sadness,thekindofpainthatwellsupwhen young men are cutdown in their prime. Thesame hollow feeling in each

of the homes. The sameuncontrollable tears. Thesamefeelingofdesolation,ofbrave people trying to bebrave, lives which haduniformlybeenshottopieces.Inconsolable.Sorrowful.Asbefore,Iwasthebearer

of the terrible news, as if noone knew the truth until Iarrived, so many weeks andmonths after so manyfunerals. And for me, thissmallgatheringinPatchogue,

LongIsland,wasgoingtobetheworst.I tried to get a hold of

myself.ButagaininmymindI heard that terrible, terriblescream, the same one thatawakensme,bullyingitswayintomysolitarydreams,nightafter night, the confirmationof guilt. The endless guilt ofthesurvivor.“Helpme,Marcus!Please

helpme!”Itwasadesperateappealin

the mountains of a foreignland. It was a scream criedout in the echoing highcanyons of one of theloneliest places on earth. Itwas the nearlyunrecognizable cry of amortally wounded creature.AnditwasapleaIcouldnotanswer. I can’t forget it.Because it wasmade by oneof the finest people I evermet, amanwhohappened tobemybestfriend.

Allthevisitshadbeenbad.Dan’s sister and wife,propping each other up;Eric’s father, an admiral,alone with his grief; James’sfiancéeandfather;Axe’swifeand family friends; Shane’sshattered mother in LasVegas.Theywereallterrible.Butthisonewouldbeworse.I finally led the way

through the blowing leaves,out into the cold, strangestreet, and along to the little

housewithitstinygarden,thegrass uncut these days. Butthe lights of an illuminatedAmericanflagwerestillrightthere in the front window.They were the lights of apatriot, and they still shonedefiantly, just as if he werestill here.Mikeywould havelikedthat.We all stopped for a few

moments, and then weclimbed the little flight ofsteps and knocked on the

door.Shewaspretty,theladywho answered thedoor, longdark hair, her eyes alreadybrimming with tears. Hismother.She knew I had been the

last person to see him alive.Andshestaredupatmewitha look of such profoundsadness it damn near brokeme in half and said, quietly,“Thankyouforcoming.”I somehow replied, “It’s

becauseofyoursonthatIam

standinghere.”Aswe allwalked inside, I

looked straight at the halltable and on it was a largeframed photograph of a manlooking straight at me, halfgrinning. There was Mikey,all over again, and I couldhear his mom saying, “Hedidn’t suffer, did he? Pleasetellmehedidn’tsuffer.”Ihadtowipethesleeveof

my jacket across my eyesbefore I answered that.But I

did answer. “No, Maureen.Hedidn’t.Hediedinstantly.”I had told her what she’d

asked me to tell her. Thatkind of tactical responsewasturning out to be essentialequipment for the lonesurvivor.I tried to tell her of her

son’s unbending courage, hiswill, his iron control.AndasI’d come to expect, sheseemed as if she had not yetacceptedanything.NotuntilI

related it. I was the essentialbearerofthefinalbadnews.In the course of the next

hour we tried to talk likeadults. But it was toodifficult. Therewas somuchthatcouldhavebeensaid,andsomuch thatwouldneverbesaid. And no amount ofbackup from my threebuddies, plus the New YorkCity fireman and policemanwho accompanied us, mademuchdifference.

But this was a journey Ihad to complete. I hadpromised myself I would doit, no matter what it took,becauseIknewwhatitwouldmean to each and every oneof them. The sharing ofpersonal anguish withsomeone who was there.Housetohouse,grieftogrief.I considered it my sworn

duty.Butthatdidnotmakeitany easier. Maureen huggedus all as we left. I nodded

formallytothephotographofmy best friend, and wewalked down that sad littlepathtothestreet.Tonightitwouldbejustas

bad, because we were goingto see Heather, Mikey’sfiancée, in her downtownNewYorkCity apartment. Itwasn’tfair.Theywouldhavebeen married by now. Andthedayafterthis,Ihadtogoto Arlington NationalCemetery to visit the graves

oftwomoreabsentfriends.Byanystandardsitwasan

expensive, long, andmelancholy journey acrosstheUnitedStatesofAmerica,paid for by the organizationfor which I work. Like me,likeallofus,theyunderstand.And as with many bigcorporations which have adedicatedworkforce,youcantell a lot about themby theircorporate philosophy, theirwritten constitution, if you

like.It’s the piece of writing

which defines theiremployees and theirstandards. I have for severalyearstriedtobasemylifeontheopeningparagraph:“In times of uncertainty

there is a special breed ofwarrior ready to answer ourNation’scall;acommonmanwith uncommon desire tosucceed.Forgedbyadversity,he stands alongside

America’s finest specialoperationsforces toservehiscountry and the Americanpeople, and to protect theirwayoflife.Iamthatman.”My name is Marcus.

MarcusLuttrell.I’maUnitedStates Navy SEAL, TeamLeader, SDV Team 1, AlfaPlatoon. Like every otherSEAL, I’m trained inweapons, demolition, andunarmed combat. I’m asniper, and I’m the platoon

medic.Butmostofall,I’manAmerican.Andwhenthebellsounds, I will come outfighting for my country andfor my teammates. Ifnecessary,tothedeath.Andthat’snotjustbecause

the SEALs trained me to doso;it’sbecauseI’mwillingtodo so. I’m a patriot, and Ifight with the Lone Star ofTexas on my right arm andanother Texas flag over myheart. For me, defeat is

unthinkable.Mikey died in the summer

of 2005, fighting shoulder toshoulderwithme in thehighcountry of northeastAfghanistan.Hewas thebestofficer I ever knew, an iron-souled warrior of colossal,almost unbelievable courageinthefaceoftheenemy.Twowhowould believe it

were my other buddies whoalsofoughtanddiedupthere.That’s Danny and Axe: two

American heroes, twotoweringfiguresinafightingforce where valor is acommon virtue. Their livesstand as a testimony to thecentral paragraph of thephilosophy of the U.S. NavySEALs:“I will never quit. I

persevere and thrive onadversity.MyNationexpectsme to be physically harderand mentally stronger thanmy enemies. If knocked

down, I will get back up,every time. I will draw onevery remaining ounce ofstrength to protect myteammatesand toaccomplishourmission.Iamneveroutofthefight.”As I mentioned, my name

is Marcus. And I’m writingthisbookbecauseofmythreebuddies Mikey, Danny, andAxe.IfIdon’twriteit,noonewill ever understand theindomitable courage under

fireofthosethreeAmericans.Andthatwouldbethebiggesttragedyofall.

1

ToAfghanistan...inaFlyingWarehouse

ThiswaspaybacktimefortheWorldTradeCenter.Wewerecomingaftertheguys

whodidit.Ifnottheactualguys,thentheirbloodbrothers,thelunaticswhostillwishedusdeadandmighttryitagain.

Good-byes tend to be curtamongNavySEALs.Aquickbackslap,afriendlybearhug,nooneutteringwhatwe’reallthinking:Here we go again,guys,goingtowar,toanothertrouble spot, another half-

assed enemy willing to trytheir luck against us...theymustbeoutoftheirminds.It’s a SEAL thing, our

unspoken invincibility, thesilent code of the elitewarriors of the U.S. ArmedForces. Big, fast, highlytrained guys, armed to theteeth, expert in unarmedcombat, so stealthy no oneeverhearsuscoming.SEALsare masters of strategy,professional marksmen with

rifles, artists with machineguns,and,ifnecessary,prettyhandywithknives.Ingeneralterms, we believe there arevery few of the world’sproblemswe could not solvewithhighexplosiveorawell-aimedbullet.Weoperateonsea,air,and

land.That’swherewegotourname. U.S. Navy SEALs,underwater, on the water, oroutofthewater.Man,wecandoitall.Andwherewewere

going, it was likely to bestrictlyoutofthewater.Wayout of the water. Tenthousand feet up sometreeless moonscape of amountain range inoneof theloneliestandsometimesmostlawless places in the world.Afghanistan.“ ’Bye, Marcus.” “Good

luck, Mikey.” “Take it easy,Matt.” “Seeyou later, guys.”I remember it like it wasyesterday, someone pulling

openthedoortoourbarracksroom, the light spilling outinto the warm, dark night ofBahrain, this strange desertkingdom, which is joined toSaudi Arabia by the two-mile-long King FahdCauseway.The six of us, dressed in

our light combat gear— flatdesert khakis with Oakleyassault boots — steppedoutside into a light, warmbreeze. It was March 2005,

notyethotterthanhell,likeitis in summer. But stillunusually warm for a groupof Americans in springtime,even for a Texan like me.Bahrain stands on the 26°north line of latitude. That’smorethanfourhundredmilesto the southofBaghdad, andthat’shot.Our particular unit was

situated on the south side ofthe capital city of Manama,way up in the northeast

corner of the island. Thismeant we had to betransported right through themiddleoftowntotheU.S.airbase on Muharraq Island forall flights to and fromBahrain.Wedidn’tmindthis,butwedidn’tloveiteither.That little journey, maybe

fivemiles, took us through acitythatfeltmuchaswedid.The locals didn’t love useither. There was a kind ofsullenlooktothem,asifthey

were sick to death of havingtheAmericanmilitaryaroundthem. In fact, there weredistrictsinManamaknownasblack flag areas, wheretradesmen, shopkeepers, andprivate citizens hung blackflags outside their propertiesto signifyAmericans are notwelcome.I guess it wasn’t quite as

vicious as Juden VerbotenwasinHitler’sGermany.Butthere are undercurrents of

hatred all over the Arabworld, and we knew thereweremanysympathizerswiththeMuslimextremistfanaticsof the Taliban and alQaeda.The black flags worked. Westayed well clear of thoseplaces.Nonetheless we had to

drive through the city in anunprotected vehicle overanother causeway, the SheikHamad, named for the emir.They’re big on causeways,

and I guess they will buildmore, since there are thirty-two other much smallerislandsformingthelow-lyingBahrainian archipelago, rightoff the Saudi western shore,intheGulfofIran.Anyway, we drove on

through Manama out toMuharraq,where theU.S.airbase lies to the south of themain Bahrain InternationalAirport.Awaitinguswas thehugeC-130Hercules,agiant

turbo-prop freighter. It’s oneof the noisiest aircraft in thestratosphere, a big, echoing,steel cave specificallydesigned to carry heavy-dutyfreight — not sensitive,delicate, poeticconversationalists such asourselves.Weloadedandstowedour

essential equipment: heavyweaps (machine guns), M4rifles, SIG-Sauer 9mmpistols, pigstickers (combat

knives), ammunition belts,grenades, medical andcommunication gear. Acouple of the guys slung uphammocks made of thicknetting.Therestofussettledbackintoseatsthatwerealsomade of netting. Businessclass this wasn’t. But frogsdon’t travel light, and theydon’t expect comfort. That’sfrogmen, by the way, whichweallwere.Stuck here in this flying

warehouse, this utterlyprimitive form of passengertransportation, there was acertain amount of cheerfulgriping and moaning. But ifthe six of us were insertedinto some hellhole of abattleground, soaking wet,freezing cold, wounded,trapped, outnumbered,fighting for our lives, youwould not hear one solitarywordofcomplaint.That’sthewayofourbrotherhood.It’sa

strictly Americanbrotherhood,mostlyforgedinblood. Hard-won,unbreakable. Built on ashared patriotism, sharedcourage, and shared trust inone another. There is nofighting force in the worldquitelikeus.The flight crew checked

we were all strapped in, andthenthosethunderousBoeingengines roared. Jesus, thenoise was unbelievable. I

might just aswell have beensitting in the gearbox. Thewhole aircraft shook andrumbledaswechargeddownthe runway, taking off to thesouthwest, directly into thedesertwindwhichgustedoutof the mainland Arabianpeninsula. There were noother passengers on board,justtheflightcrewand,intherear, us, headed out to doGod’s work on behalf of theU.S. government and our

commander in chief,PresidentGeorgeW.Bush.Inasense,wewereallalone.Asusual.We banked out over the

Gulf of Bahrain and made along, left-hand swing ontoour easterly course. It wouldhave been a whole hell of alot quicker to head directlynortheastacross thegulf.Butthatwouldhavetakenusoverthe dubious southern uplandsof the Islamic Republic of

Iran,andwedonotdothat.Instead we stayed south,

flying high over the friendlycoastal deserts of the UnitedArab Emirates, north of theburning sands of the Rub alKhali, the Empty Quarter.Astern of us lay the feveredcauldrons of loathing in Iraqand nearby Kuwait, placeswhere I had previouslyserved. Below us were themore friendly, enlighteneddesert kingdoms of the

world’s coming natural-gascapital, Qatar; the oil-soddenemirate of Abu Dhabi; thegleaming modern high-risesof Dubai; and then, farthereast, the craggy coastline ofOman.Noneofuswereespecially

sad to leave Bahrain, whichwas the first place in theMiddle East where oil wasdiscovered. Ithad itshistory,and we often had fun in thelocalmarketsbargainingwith

local merchants foreverything.Butwenever feltat home there, and somehowas we climbed into the darkskies,wefeltwewereleavingbehindallthatwasgod-awfulinthenorthernreachesofthegulf and embarking on abrand-new mission, one thatweunderstood.In Baghdad we were up

against an enemy we oftencould not see and wereobliged to get out there and

find. And when we foundhim, we scarcely knew whohe was — al Qaeda orTaliban,ShiiteorSunni,Iraqior foreign, a freedom fighterfor Saddam or an insurgentfighting for some kind of adifferentgodfromourown,agodwhosomehowsanctionedmurder of innocent civilians,a god who’d effectivelybooted the TenCommandments over thetouchlineandoutofplay.

They were ever present,ever dangerous, giving us aclear pattern of totalconfusion,ifyouknowwhatImean. Somehow, shiftingpositions in the big Herculesfreighter, we were leavingbehind a place which wassystematically tearing itselfapartandheadingforaplacefull of wild mountain menwhowerehell-bentontearingusapart.Afghanistan.Thiswasvery

different.Thosemountainsupin the northeast, the westernend of the mighty range ofthe Hindu Kush, were thevery same mountains wheretheTaliban had sheltered thelunaticsofalQaeda,shieldedthe crazed followers ofOsama bin Ladenwhile theyplotted the attacks on theWorld Trade Center in NewYorkon9/11.This was where bin

Laden’s fighters found a

hometrainingbase.Let’sfaceit, al Qaeda means “thebase,” and in return for theSaudi fanatic bin Laden’smoney, the Taliban made itall possible.Right now theseverysameguys,theremnantsof the Taliban and the lastfew tribal warriors of alQaeda,werepreparingtostartover,tryingtofighttheirwaythrough themountain passes,intent on setting up newtraining camps and military

headquarters and, eventually,their own government inplace of the democraticallyelectedone.They may not have been

the precise same guys whoplanned 9/11. But they weremost certainly theirdescendants, their heirs, theirfollowers. Theywere part ofthesamecrowdwhoknockeddown the North and Southtowers in the Big Apple onthe infamous Tuesday

morning in 2001. And ourcoming task was to stopthem, right there in thosemountains, by whatevermeansnecessary.Thus far, those mountain

men had been kicking someseriousassintheirskirmisheswithourmilitary.Whichwasmore or less why the brasshad sent for us.When thingsget very rough, they usuallysend for us. That’s why thenavy spends years training

SEAL teams in Coronado,California, and VirginiaBeach. Especially for timeslikethese,whenUncleSam’svelvet glove makes way forthe iron fist ofSPECWARCOM (that’sSpecialForcesCommand).Andthatwaswhyallofus

were here. Our mission mayhave been strategic, it mayhave been secret. However,one point was crystallineclear, at least to the six

SEALs in that rumblingHercules high above theArabian desert. This waspayback time for the WorldTrade Center. We werecoming after the guys whodid it. If not the actual guys,then their bloodbrothers, thelunatics who still wished usdead and might try it again.Samething,right?We knew what we were

coming for. And we knewwhere we were going: right

up there to thehighpeaksofthe Hindu Kush, those samemountains where bin Ladenmight still be and where hisnew bands of disciples werestillhiding.Somewhere.Thepureclarityofpurpose

was inspirational tous.Gonewere the treacherous, dustybackstreets of Baghdad,where even children of threeand four were taught to hateus. Dead ahead, inAfghanistan, awaited an

ancient battleground wherewe could match our enemy,strength for strength, stealthforstealth,steelforsteel.This might be, perhaps, a

little daunting for regularsoldiers. But not for SEALs.AndIcanstatewithabsolutecertainty that all six of uswereexcitedby theprospect,looking forward todoingourjob out there in the open,confident of our ultimatesuccess, sure of our training,

experience, and judgment.You see, we’re invincible.That’s what they taught us.That’swhatwebelieve.It’s written right there in

blackandwhiteintheofficialphilosophy of the U.S. NavySEAL, the last twoparagraphsofwhichread:Wetrain forwarandfight towin.Istandreadytobringthefull spectrum of combatpower to bear in order to

achieve my mission and thegoals established by mycountry.Theexecutionofmyduties will be swift andviolent when required, yetguidedby theveryprinciplesIservetodefend.

Brave men have foughtand died building the proudtradition and fearedreputationthatIamboundtouphold. In the worst ofconditions, the legacy of myteammates steadies my

resolve and silently guidesmyeverydeed.Iwillnotfail.Each one of us had grown

abeardinordertolookmorelike Afghan fighters. It wasimportant for us to appearnonmilitary, to not stand outinacrowd.Despitethis,Icanguarantee you that if threeSEALs were put into acrowdedairport,Iwouldspotthemall,justbytheirbearing,their confidence, their

obvious discipline, the waythey walk. I’m not sayinganyone else could recognizethem. But I most certainlycould.The guys who traveled

from Bahrain with me wereremarkably diverse, even bySEAL standards. There wasSGT2 Matthew GeneAxelson, not yet thirty, apetty officer fromCalifornia,married toCindy, devoted toherandtohisparents,Cordell

and Donna, and to hisbrother,Jeff.I always called him Axe,

and I knew him well. Mytwinbrother,Morgan,washisbest friend.He’dbeen toourhome inTexas, and he and Ihad been together for a longtime in SEAL DeliveryVehicle Team 1, AlfaPlatoon.HeandMorganwereswim buddies together inSEAL training,went throughSniperSchooltogether.

Axe was a quiet man, sixfoot four, with piercing blueeyes and curly hair. He wassmart and the best TrivialPursuit player I ever saw. Iloved talking to him becauseof how much he knew. Hewouldcomeoutwithanswersthat would have defied thelearning of a Harvardprofessor. Places, countries,their populations, principalindustries.In the teams, he was

always professional. I neveronce saw him upset, and healways knew precisely whathe was doing. He was justoneof thoseguys.Whatwasdifficult and confusing forotherswasusuallyapieceofcake for him. In combat hewas a supreme athlete, swift,violent, brutal if necessary.His family never knew thatside of him. They saw onlythe calm, cheerful navy manwho could undoubtedly have

been a professional golfer, aguywho loveda laughandacoldbeer.You could hardly meet a

better person. He was anincredibleman.Then there was my best

friend, Lieutenant MichaelPatrickMurphy, also not yetthirty, an honors graduatefrom Penn State, a hockeyplayer, accepted by severallaw schools before he turnedthe rudder hard over and

changedcoursefortheUnitedStates Navy. Mikey was aninveteratereader.HisfavoritebookwasStevenPressfield’sGatesofFire,thestoryoftheimmortal stand of theSpartansatThermopylae.Hewas vastly experienced

in the Middle East, havingserved in Jordan, Qatar, andDjibouti on the Horn ofAfrica.Westartedourcareersas SEALs at the same time,and we were probably flung

togetherbyashareddevotiontothesmart-assremark.Also,neitherofuscouldsleepifwewere under the slightestpressure. Our insomnia wasshared like our humor. Weusedtohangouttogetherhalfthenight,andIcantruthfullysay no one ever made melaughlikethat.I was always razzing him

about being dirty. We’dsometimes go out on patrolevery day for weeks, and

there seems to be no time toshower and no point inshoweringwhenyou’relikelyto be up to your armpits inswamp water a few hourslater. Here’s a typicalexchange between us, pettyofficer team leader tocommissionedSEALofficer:“Mikey, you smell like

shit, for Christ’s sake. Whythe hell don’t you take ashower?”“Right away, Marcus.

Remind me to do thattomorrow,willya?”“Rogerthat,sir!”Forhisnearestanddearest,

he used a particularly largegiftshop,otherwiseknownasthe U.S. highway system. Iremember him giving hisvery beautiful girlfriendHeatheragift-wrappedtrafficcone for her birthday. ForChristmas,hegaveheroneofthose flashing red lightswhich fit on top of those

cones at night.Gift-wrapped,ofcourse.Heoncegavemeastopsignformybirthday.Andyou shouldhave seen

his traveling bag. It wasenormous, a big, cavernoushockey duffel bag, the kindcarried by his favorite team,the New York Rangers. Thesingle heaviest piece ofluggage in the entire navy.But it didn’t sport theRangerslogo.Onitstopweretwosimplewords:Pissoff.

Therewas no situation forwhichhecouldnotsummonareally smart-ass remark.Mikeywasonceinvolvedinaterrible and almost fatalaccident,andoneoftheguysasked him to explain whathappened.“C’mon,” said the New

York lieutenant, as if itwerea subject of which he wasprofoundly weary. “You’realways bringing up that oldshit.Fuggeddaboutit.”

The actual accident hadhappened just two daysearlier.He was also the finest

officer I ever met, a naturalleader, a really terrificSEALwho never, ever bossedanyonearound.ItwasalwaysPlease. Always Would youmind?NeverDothat,dothis.And he simply would nottolerate any other high-ranking officer,commissioned or

noncommissioned, reamingoutoneofhisguys.He insisted the buck

stoppedwithhim.Healwaystook the hit himself. If areprimand was due, heacceptedtheblame.Butdon’teventrytogoaroundhimandbawl out one of his guys,because he could be aformidable adversary whenriled.Andthatriledhim.He was excellent

underwater, and a powerful

swimmer. Trouble was, hewas a bit slow, and thatwastrulyhisonlyflaw.Onetime,he and Iwere on a two-miletraining swim, and when Ifinally hit the beach Icouldn’t find him. Finally Isaw him splashing throughthewaterabout fourhundredyardsoffshore.Christ,he’sintrouble — that was my firstthought.So I chargedback into the

freezing sea and set out to

rescuehim.I’mnotarealfastrunner,butI’mquickthroughthewater, and I reached himwithnotrouble.Ishouldhaveknownbetter.“Get away from me,

Marcus!” he yelled. “I’m arace car in the red, highestrevsontheTAC.Don’tmesswith me, Marcus, not now.You’re dealing with a racecarhere.”Only Mike Murphy. If I

toldthatstorytoanySEALin

our platoon, withheld thename, and then asked whosaidit,everyonewouldguessMikey.Sitting opposite me in the

Hercules was Senior ChiefDaniel Richard Healy,another awesome NavySEAL, six foot three, thirty-seven, married to Norminda,father of seven children. Hewas born in NewHampshireand joined the navy in 1990,advancing to serve in the

SEAL teams and learningnear-fluentRussian.Danny and I served in the

sameteam,SDVTeam1,forthree years. He was a littleolder than most of us andreferredtousashiskids—asifhedidn’thaveenough.Andhe loved us all with equalpassion,bothbigfamilies,hiswife and children, sisters,brothers,andparents,andtheeven bigger one hithertobased on the island of

Bahrain.DanwasworsethanMikey in his defense of hisSEALs. No one ever daredyellatanyofuswhilehewasaround.He guarded his flock

assiduously,researchedeverymission with completethoroughness, gathered theintel, checked the maps,charts, photographs, allreconnaissance.Also,hepaidattention to the upcomingmissions and made sure his

kidswerealways in thefrontline.That’stheplaceweweretrainedfor,theplacewelikedtogo.In many ways Dan was

tough on everyone. ThereweretimeswhenheandIdidnot see eye to eye. He wasunfailingly certain that hiswaywasthebestway,mostlythe only way. But his heartwas in the right place at alltimes. Dan Healy was onehell of aNavy SEAL, a role

modelforeverythingaseniorchief should be, an ironmanwho became a strategist andwhoknewhis job fromA toZ. I talked face to face withbigDan almost every day ofmylife.Somewhere up above us,

swinging in his hammock,headset on, listening to rock-and-roll music, was PettyOfficer Second Class ShanePatton, twenty-two-year-oldsurfer and skateboarder

originally from Las Vegas,Nevada. My protégé. As theprimary communicationsoperator, I had Shane as mynumber two. Like a muchyoungerMikeMurphy,hetoowas a virtuoso at the smart-assremarkand,asyouwouldexpect, an outstandingfrogman.It was hard for me to

identify with Shane becausehe was so different. I oncewalked into the comms

center, and he was trying toorder a leopard-skin coat ontheInternet.“Whatthehelldoyouwant

thatfor?”Iasked.“It’sjustsocool,man,”he

replied, terminating furtherdiscussion.A big, robust guy with

blond hair and a relativelyinsolent grin, Shane wassupersmart.Ineverhadtotellhimanything.Heknewwhattodoatalltimes.Atfirst,this

slightly irritated me; youknow, telling a much juniorguywhatyouwantdone,andit turnsouthe’salreadydoneit. Every time. Took me awhiletogetusedtothefactIhad an assistant who wasdamn near as sharp as MattAxelson.And that’s as sharpasitgets.Shane, like a lot of those

beach gods, was hugely laidback. His buddies wouldprobably call it supercool or

some such word. But in acomms operator, that qualityis damn near priceless. Ifthere’s a firefight going on,and Shane’s back at HQmanning the radio, you’relistening to one ultracalm,very measured SEALcommunicator.Sorry,Imeantdude.Thatwasanall-purposewordforShane.EvenIwasadude,accordingtohim.Eventhe president of the UnitedStateswas a dude, according

to him.Actually he accordedPresident Bush the highestaccolade, the gold-platedCongressional Medal ofHonor awarded by the surfgods:He’sarealdude,man,arealdude.Hewas the son of aNavy

SEAL, and his quiet, rarelyuttered ambition was to bejust like his dad, James J.Patton. He wanted to be amember of the navy jumpteam, as his father had once

been. He completed basicairborne training at FortBenning, Georgia, before hepassed his SEALqualification exams andacceptedorderstoSDVTeam1,Alfa Platoon. FivemonthslaterhejoinedusontheflighttoAfghanistan.Everything Shane did, all

through his short life, wasoutstanding.Inhighschoolhewas the star pitcher and thebestoutfielder.Hecouldplay

the guitar really well, ran aband called True Story, thequalityofwhichremainsabitofamystery.Hewasasuperphotographer and a skilledmechanic and engineer; he’dsingle-handedly restored andcustomized two old Volks-wagenBugs.Hehadacquiredanother one that he told mewould become “the ultimatecustomizedBug,dude.That’swhatI’mallabout.”Shane was as good on a

computer as anyone at thebase. He spent hours on it,some Web site calledMySpace, always keeping intouch with his friends: Hey,dude,howyabeen?The sixth member of our

group was James Suh, atwenty-eight-year-old nativeofChicagowhowasraisedinsouthFlorida.Jameshadbeenwith SDV Team 1 for threeyears before we left forAfghanistan, and during that

time he became one of thebest-liked guys on the base.He had only one sibling, anolder sister,buthehadaboutthree hundred cousins, everyoneofwhomhewassworntoprotect.James,likehisclosebuddy

Shane, was anotherinordinately tough SEAL, apetty officer second class.Like Shane, he’d gonethrough basic airbornetraining at Fort Benning and

gone forward to join AlfaPlatoon.His early ambition had

been to become aveterinarian, a dog specialist.But James was born to be aSEAL and was passionatelyproud of his membership inone of themost elite combatoutfitsintheworldandinhisability to defy the limits ofphysical and mentalendurance.Like Shane, he was a star

high school athlete,outstandingonboththeswimand tennis teams.Academically, he wasconstantly in the gifted andadvanced classes. In ourplatoon, James was right uptherewithAxe andShane asa SEAL of high intelligenceand supreme reliabilityunderfire. I never met one personwithabadwordtosayabouthim.

It took us almost three hoursto reach the Gulf of Oman.We’d cut south of the StraitofHormuz,stayingwellawayfrom the superhighway ofworld oil and gas tankersmoving to and from themassive loadingdocksof theGulf of Iran. The Iraniannavydoes its exercisesdownthere, operating out of theirmain base at Bandar Abbasand also farther down thecoast, at their increasingly

activesubmarinebase.Notthatweimaginedsome

trigger-happy Iranian missiledirector might take a pop atus with some fast heat-seeking weapon. But cautionwasusually advisable aroundthere,despitethefactwehada very tough man in theWhite House who’d madeclear his policy of harshretaliation at the merestsuggestion of an attack onU.S. air traffic, civilian or

military.You had to serve out here

in the Middle East tounderstand fully the feelingof danger, even threat, thatwas never far away, even incountries generally regardedas friendly to America. LikeBahrain.The rugged part of the

Omani coast I mentionedearlier is around the point ofland at RasMusandam, withits deep fjords. This most

northerly rocky shelf whichjuts out into the Gulf ofHormuzistheclosestforeignpoint to the Iranian base atBandarAbbas.Thestretchofcoastline running south fromthat point is much flatter,sloping down from theancient Al Hajar Mountains.We began our long oceancrossing somewhere downthere, north ofMuscat, closetotheTropicofCancer.And as we crossed that

coastline heading out towardthe open ocean, it reallywasgood-bye,frommeatleast,totheArabianPeninsulaandtheseething Islamic states at thenorthendofthegulf,Kuwait,Iraq,Syria,andIran,thathaddominated my life andthoughts for the past coupleofyears.EspeciallyIraq.I had first arrived there to

joinTeam5backonApril14,2003, coming into the U.S.airbasefifteenminutesoutof

Baghdad with twelve otherSEALs from Kuwait in anaircraftjustlikethisC-130.Itwas one week after the U.S.forceslaunchedtheiropeningbombardment against thecity, trying to nail Saddambefore thewar really started.The Brits had just takenBasra.OnthesamedayIarrived,

U.S. Marines took Tikrit,Saddam’s hometown, and afew hours later the Pentagon

announcedthatmajorcombathad concluded. None ofwhich had the slightestbearing on our mission,which was to help root outandifnecessarydestroywhatlittle opposition was left andthen helpwith the search forweaponsofmassdestruction.IhadbeeninBaghdadjust

onedaywhenPresidentBushdeclaredSaddamHusseinandhis Ba’ath Party had fallen,and my colleagues swiftly

captured, thatsameday,AbuAbbas, leader of thePalestinian Liberation Front,which attacked the Italiancruise ship Achille Lauro intheMediterraneanin1985.Forty-eight hours later, on

April17,U.S.forcescapturedSaddam’s half brother theinfamous Barzan Ibrahim al-Tikriti. That was the kind ofstuff Iwas instantly involvedin. I was one of 146,000American and coalition

troops in there, under thecommandofGeneralTommyFranks. It was my firstexperience of close-quartercombat. It was the placewhere I learned the finerpointsofmytrade.Itwasalsothefirstinkling

we had of the rise from theashes of Osama bin Laden’sfollowers. Sure, we knewthey were still around, stilltrying to regroup after theUnited States had just about

flattened them inAfghanistan. But it was notlongbeforewebegantohearofanoutfitcalledalQaedainIraq, a malicious terroristgroup trying to causemayhemateveryconceivableopportunity, led by thederanged Jordanian killerAbuMusab al-Zarqawi (nowdeceased).Our missions in the city

were sometimes interruptedby intense searches for

whatever or whoeverhappened to be missing. Onmyfirstday, fourofuswentout to some huge Iraqi lakearea lookingforamissingF-18 Super Hornet fighterbomber and its U.S. pilot.You probably remember theincident. I’ll never forget it.Wecameinlowoverthelakein our MH-47 Chinook heli-copter and suddenly wespotted the tail of an aircraftjuttingoutofthewater.Right

after that,we found thebodyofthepilotwashedupontheshore.I remember feeling very

sad, and it would not be forthe last time. I’d been in thecountry for less than twenty-fourhours.AttachedtoTeam5, we were known asstraphangers, extra muscledrafted in for particularlydangerous situations. Ourprimary mission was specialsurveillance and

reconnaissance,photographing hot spots anddanger areas usingunbelievable photographiclenses.We carried out everything

under the cover of darkness,waiting patiently for manyhours, watching our backs,keeping our eyes on thetarget, firing computerizedpictures back to base fromvirtually inside the jaws oftheenemy.

We worked usually in avery small unit of fourSEALs.Outonourown.Thiskindofclose-quarterreconisthemostdangerousjobofall.It’slonelyandoftendull,andfraught with peril should webe discovered. Sometimes,with a particularly valuableterrorist leader, we might goinandgethim,tryingtoyankhimoutoftherealive.Brutal,no mercy. Generallyspeaking, the Navy SEALs

train the best recon units intheworld.It always makes me laugh

whenIreadabout“theproudfreedom fighters in Iraq.”They’re not proud. They’dsell their own mothers forfifty bucks. We’d go intosomehouse,grabtheguywebelieved was the ringleader,and march him outside intothestreet.Firstthinghe’dsaywas “Hey, hey, notme.Youwantthoseguysinthathouse

down the street.” Or “Yougive me dollars, I tell youwhatyouwanttoknow.”Theywould, and did.And

what they told us was veryoften extremely valuable.Most of those big militarycoups, like theeliminationofSaddam’s sons and thecapture of Saddam himself,were the result of militaryintel. Somebody, someonefromtheirownside,shoppedthem, as they had shopped

hundredsofothers.Anythingfor a buck, right? Pride?Those guys couldn’t evenspellit.And that grade of

intelligence is often hard-won.We’dgoinfast,drivinginto the most dangerousdistrictsinthecity,screamingthrough the streets inHumvees,orevenfast-ropingin from helicopters ifnecessary. We’d advance,city block by city block,

moving carefully through thedark, ready for someone toopen fire on us from awindow, a building,somewhere on the oppositeside of the street, even atower. It happened all thetime.Sometimeswe returnedfire, always to much moredeadlyeffect thanourenemycouldmanage.Andwhenwe reached our

objective, we’d either go inwith sledgehammers and a

hooley— that’s a kind of acrowbar that will rip a doorrightoffitshinges—orwe’dwrap the demo around thelock and blast that suckerstraight in.We always madecertain the blast was aimedinward, just in case someonewas waiting behind the doorwith an AK-47. It’s hard tosurvive when a door comesstraightatyouatonehundredmiles an hour from point-blankrange.

Occasionally, ifwehadanelement of doubt about thestrength of the oppositionbehind that door, we wouldthrow in a few flash-crashes,which do not explode andknock down walls oranything but do unleash aseries of very loud, almostdeafeningbangsaccompaniedby searing white flashes.Very disorienting for ourenemy.Right then our lead man

wouldhead thecharge insidethe building, which wasalways a shock for theresidents.Evenifwehadnotusedtheflash-crashes,they’dwake up real quick to face agroup of big masked men,their machine guns leveled,shouting, daring anyone tomakeamove.Althoughthesecityhousesweremostlytwo-story, Iraqis tend to sleepdownstairs, all of themcrowdedtogetherintheliving

room.There might be someone

upstairs trying to fire downon us, which could be amassive pain in the ass. Weusually solved that with awell-aimed hand grenade.That may sound callous, butyour teammates areabsolutely relying on thecolleague with the grenade,because the guy upstairsmightalsohaveone,andthatdangermustbetakenout.For

your teammates. In theSEALs, it’s always yourteammates.Noexceptions.However, in the room

downstairs, where the Iraqiswere by now in surrendermode, we’d look for theringleader,theguywhoknewwhere the explosives werestored, the guy who hadaccess to the bomb-makingkitortheweaponsthatwouldbeaimedstraightatAmericansoldiers. He was usually not

thatdifficulttofind.We’dgetsomelightinthereandmarchhimdirectlytothewindowsotheguysoutsidewiththeintelcould compare his face withphotographs.Often the photographs had

been taken by the team Iworked in, and identificationwas swift. And while thisprocess happened, the SEALteam secured the property,which means, broadly,makingdarnedsuretheIraqis

under this sudden housearrest had no access to anyform of weaponrywhatsoever.RightthenwhattheSEALs

call A-guys usually showedup, very professional, verysteely, steadfast in theirrequirements and thenecessary outcome of theinterrogation. They cared,aboveall,aboutthequalityofthe informant’s information,the priceless data which

might save dozens ofAmerican lives. Outside weusually had three or fourSEALs patrolling wide, tokeep the inevitable gatheringcrowdatbay.When thiswasunder control, with the A-guidance,wewould questionthe ringleader, demanding heinform us where his terroristcellwasoperating.Sometimes we would get

anaddress.Sometimesnamesof other ringleaders. Other

timesamanmight informusabout arms dumps, but thisusuallyrequiredmoney.Iftheguy we’d arrested wasespecially stubborn, we’dcuff him and send him backto base for a moreprofessionalinterrogation.But usually he came up

with something. That’s theway we gathered theintelligence we needed inorder to locate and take outthose who would still fight

for Saddam Hussein, even ifhis government had fallen,even if his troops hadsurrendered and the countrywas temporarily underAmericanandBritishcontrol.Theseweredangerousdaysatthe conclusion of the formalconflict.Firedonfromtherooftops,

watching for car bombs, welearnedtofightliketerrorists,nightafternight,movinglikewild animals through the

streets and villages. There isno other way to beat aterrorist. Youmust fight likehim, or he will surely killyou. That’s why we went inso hard, taking houses andbuildings by storm, blowingthe doors in, chargingforward,operating strictlybythe SEAL teams’ tried-and-trustedmethods, ingrained inusbyyearsoftraining.Because in the end, your

enemy must ultimately fear

you, understand yoursupremacy. That’s what wewere taught, out there in theabsolute front line of U.S.military might. And that’sprobably why we never lostone Navy SEAL in all mylongmonths in Iraq.Becauseweplayeditbythebook.Nomistakes.At least nothing major.

Although I admit inmy firstweekinIraqweweresubjectto...well...a minor lapse in

judgment after we found anIraqi insurgent ammunitiondumpduringapatrolalongariver as sporadic shots werefiredatusfromtheotherside.There are those militaryofficers who might haveconsidered merely capturingthedumpandconfiscatingtheexplosive.SEALs react somewhat

differentlyandgenerallylookfor a faster solution. It’s notquite, Hey, hey, hey...this

lot’sgottago.Butthatwilldofor broad guidelines. Weplantedourownexplosivesinthebuildingandthendeferredto our EOD guy (explosiveordnance disposal). Hepositioned us a ways back,butacoupleofusdidwonderifitwasquitefarenough.“No problem. Stay right

where you are.” He wasconfident.Well, that pile of bombs,

grenades, and other

explosives went up like anuclear bomb. At first therewasjustdustandsmallbitsofconcrete flying around. Buttheblastsgrewbiggerandthelumps of concrete from thebuilding started to rain downonus.Guys were diving

everywhere, into trucks,undertrucks,anywheretogetout of the way. One of ourguys jumped into the Tigris!We could hear these rocks

andlumpsofhardmudwallsraining down on us, hittingthetrucks.Itwasamazingnoone was killed or hurt outthere.Eventuallyitallwentquiet,

andIcrawledout,unscathed.The EOD maestro wasstanding right next to me.“Beautiful,” I said. “Thatwentreallywell,didn’t it?”Iwished Mike Murphy hadbeen there. He’d have comeupwithsomethingbetter.

We worked for almostthree months with SEALTeam 5 out in the Baghdadsuburbs. That was reallywhere we were blooded forbattle, combing those urbanstreets, flushing outinsurgentswherevertheyhid.We needed all our skill,moving up to the cornerblocks,openingfireouttherein the night as we roundedthese strange, dark, foreignstreetjunctions.

Thetroublewas,theplacesoften looked normal. But upcloseyourealized therewereholes straight through thebuildings. Some of them justhad their front façade, theentire rear area having beenblown out byU.S. bombs asthetroopsfoughttorundownthe murderous SaddamHussein.Thus we often found

ourselvesinwhatlookedlikerespectable streets but which

were in fact piles of rubble,perfect hiding places forinsurgents or even SunniMuslimterroristsstillfightingfortheirerstwhileleader.On one such night I was

almost killed. I had movedout onto the sidewalk, myrifle raised, as I fired toprovide cover for myteammates. I remember itvividly.Iwasstandingastrideabomb,directlyoverit,andIneverevensawit.

One of the guys yelled,“Marcus! Move it!” and hecame straight towardme, hitmewith the full force of hisbody,andthepairofusrolledinto themiddle of the street.He was first up, literallydraggingme away.Momentslater, our EOD guys blew itup.Thankfullywewerebothnowoutofrange,sinceitwasonly a small improvisedexplosivemade insomeone’skitchen. Nevertheless, it

would have killed me, or attheveryleastinflictedseriousdamage on my weddingtackle.Itwasjustanotherexample

of how amazingly sharp youneed to be in order to wearthe SEAL Trident. Over andoverduringtraining,weweretold never to be complacent,reminded constantly of thesheer cunning andunpredictability of ourterrorist enemy, of the

necessityfortotalvigilanceatall times,of theendlessneedto watch out for ourteammates. Every nightbeforeourmission,oneofthesenior petty officers wouldsay, “C’mon now, guys. Getyour game faces on. This isfor real. Stay on your toes.Concentrate.Thatwayyou’lllive.”Ilearnedalotaboutmyself

out there with Team 5,moving through the dark,

zigzaggingacrosstheground,never doing anything thesameway twice.That’swhatthearmydoes,everythingthesame way. We operatedifferently, becausewe are amuch smaller force. Evenwith a major city operationwe never travel in groups ofmore than twenty, and therecon units consist of onlyfourmen.Itallcausesyoursensesto

go up tenfold, as you move

quietly,stealthily through theshadows, using the deadspace, the areas into whichyour enemy cannot see.Someone described us as theshadow warriors. He wasright. That’s what we are.And we always have a veryclear objective, usually justone guy, one person who isresponsible for making theproblem: the terrorist leaderorstrategist.And there’s a whole code

ofconducttorememberwhenyoufinallycatchupwithhim.First of all, make him drophisgunandgethisassontheground.He’ll usually do thatwithoutmuchprotest.Shouldhe decide against this, wehelp him get on the ground,quickly.Butwenever,never,turn around, even for a splitsecond.We never give theseguys one inch of latitude.Because he’ll pick that rifleup and shoot you at point-

blank range, straight in theback.Hemightevencutyourthroat ifhehadachance.Noone can hate quite like aterrorist. Until you’veencountered one of theseguys, you don’t understandthemeaningofthewordhate.We found half-trained

terrorists all over the world,mostlyunfittohandlealethalweapon of any kind,especially those Russian-madeKalashnikovs they use.

Firstofall, thedamnthingisinaccurate, and in the handsofanhysteric,whichmostofthem are, the guns spraybullets all over the place.When these guys go after anAmerican, they usually fireblindly around a corner,aiming at nothing inparticular, and endupkillingthree passing Iraqi civilians.Onlybypurechancedo theyhit theAmericansoldier theywanted.

OnMay1,2003,PresidentBush announced the militaryphase of the war was over.Four days later it wasrevealedSaddamandhis sonhadheisted$1billionincashfrom the Central Bank.Around that time, with thesearch for weapons of massdestruction still under way,we were detailed to thegigantic Lake Buhayrat athTharthar,wheresupposedlyalarge cache had been hidden

bySaddam.Thiswasamajorstretchof

water,nearly fiftymiles longand in some places thirtymiles wide, set on a flat,verdant plain between theEuphrates and the Tigris,south of Tikrit. There’s ahugedamatoneend,andwewere stationed just to thesouth at a place named Hit.Seemedfitting.Sowejockedup and combed the deep,clear waters of that lake for

about a week, every inch ofit.Wewere operating out ofZodiacs and found nothingexcept for a bicycle tire andanoldladder.As the weeks went by the

weather grew hotter,sometimeshitting115°F.Wekept going, working awaythrough the nights. Thereweretimeswhenitallseemedto grow calmer, and then onJuly 4, a taped voice, whichal-Jazeera televisionsaidwas

Saddam, urged everyone tojoin the resistance and fightthe U.S. occupation to thedeath.We thought that was kind

ofstupid,becauseweweren’ttrying to occupy anything.We were just trying to stopthese crazy pricks fromblowing up and wiping outthe civilian population of thecountrywehad just liberatedfrom one of the biggestbastardsinhistory.

Didn’t much matter whatwe thought. The very nextday a serious bombwent offat a graduation ceremony forthe new Iraqi police class,trained by the United States.Seven new cops were killedand seventy more werewounded. God aloneunderstood those to whomthatmadesense.We continued our

operations, looking for thekey insurgents, forcing or

bribingtheinformationoutofthem. But it already seemedtheirrecruitingnumberswerelimitless. No matter howmanywerantoground,therewere always more. It wasaround this time we firstheard of the rise of thissinister group who calledthemselves al Qaeda in Iraq.Itwasanundisguisedterroristoperation, dedicated tomayhem and murder,especiallyofus.

However, the wholemovement received a severeblowtoitsmoraleonJuly22,when Saddam’s sons, UdayandQusay,whowereatleastas evil as their dad, werefinally nailed at a house inMosul. I’m not allowed tospeakofthishighlyclassifiedoperation,savetomentionthepairofthemwerekilledwhenU.S. Special Forces flattenedthe entire building. Theirdeaths were entirely due to

the fact thatacoupleof theirdevoted, loyal comrades, fullof pride in their fight forfreedom, betrayed them. Formoney. Just as they wouldlater betray Abu Musab al-Zarqawi.Despite all our efforts, the

suicide bombers justcontinued, young Iraqisconvincedbytheteachingsofthe extremist ayatollahs thatthemurderof theirperceivedenemies would open the

gateway toparadise for them— that the three trumpetswould sound and theywouldcrossthebridgeintothearmsof Allah and everlastinghappiness.So they just went right

back at it. A bomb killed aU.S. soldier on August 26,which meant there had nowbeen more U.S. lives lostsince the conflict ended thanduring the battle. OnAugust29, a massive car bomb

exploded outside a Shiitemosque in Najaf and killedeighty people, including therevered and greatly lovedShiite leader AyatollahMohammadBaqiral-Hakin.In our opinion, this was

rapidlygettingoutofhand.Itseemed no matter what wedid, no matter how many ofthese nuts we rounded up,howmuch explosive, bombs,orweaponswe located, therewas always more. And

alwaysmoreyoungmenquitehappytotakethatshortcut tothe trumpets, get right overthat bridge and plug intosomequalityhappiness.By now, late August, the

question of the missingWMDs was growing moreurgent.HansBlix,theUnitedNations’ chief weaponsinspector, had retired frompublic life, and the U.S.Armed Forces were nowkeeping a careful watch. In

our view, the question ofwhetherSaddamHusseinhadbiological and chemicalweapons was answered. Ofcourse he did.He used theminHalabja,right?Iguessbynowtheissuein

the minds of the Americanpublic was, Did he have anuclear weapon, an atombomb?But,ofcourse, that isnot the most significantquestion.Theonethatcountsis, Did he have a nuclear

program?Because that would mean

he was trying to produceweapons-grade uranium-235.You get that from using acentrifuge to spin uranium-238, thus driving the heavyneutrons outward, like wateroff the lettuce in a saladspinner. It’s a hell of aprocessandtakesuptosevenyears, at which time, ifyou’vehadatrouble-freerun,youcutoff theoutsideedges

of theuraniumand thereyouhave a large hunk of heavy-molecule uranium-235. Cutthatinhalfandthenslamthetwo pieces together by highexplosive in a confined steelspace, like a rocket or abomb, and right there it’sHiroshimaalloveragain.And that’s the issue: Was

Saddam spinning foruranium-235,andifso,wheredidheget theuraniumin thefirstplace?Andwherewashe

conducting his program?Remember, there is no otherreason on this earth to wanturanium-235 except to makeanatombomb.We knew the American

intelligenceagenciesbelievedhe had such a program, thatsomewhere in this vastcountry — it’s bigger thanGermany, nearly as big asTexas — there werecentrifuges trying tomanufacturetheworld’smost

dangeroussubstance.That was all the

information we had. But weknew what to look for, andwewouldmostcertainlyhaverecognizeditifwehadfoundit. Did Saddam actually ownthecompletedarticle,afinelytuned atomic bomb ormissile?Probablynot.Nooneever thought he did. But asformer defense secretaryDonald Rumsfeld onceremarked,“Whatdoyouwant

todo?Leavehimtheretillhedoes?”You may remember the

CIA believed they haduncovered critical evidencefrom the satellite pictures ofthose enormous governmenttrucks rolling along Iraq’shighways: four of them,usuallyinconvoy,andallbigenough to house twocentrifuges. The acceptedopinionwasthatSaddamhada mobile spinning program

which could not easily befound, and in fact could beeither lost and buried in thedesert or alternatively drivenacrosstheborderintoSyriaorevenJordan.Well, we found those

trucks, hidden in the desert,parked together. But theinside of each one had beenroughly gutted. There wasnothing left. We saw thetrucks, and in my opinionsomeone had removed

whatever theyhadcontained,andinaverygreathurry.I also saw the al Qaeda

training camp north ofBaghdad. That had beenabandoned, but it was starkevidence of the strong linksbetweentheIraqidictatorandOsamabinLaden’swould-bewarriors. Traces of thecamp’smilitarypurposewereall around.Someof theguyswhohadbeeninAfghanistansaiditwasjustaboutadirect

replica of the camp theUnited States destroyed after9/11.There were many times

whenwe reallywerechasingshadows out there in thatburning hot, sandywilderness. Especially in ourcoastal searches. Out there,often in uncharted desertwasteland near the water,we’d see rocket launchers inthe distance and drive rightonto them, only to find they

were just decoys, huge fakemissile containerspointingatthe sky, made out of scrapmetalandoldironbars.Aftera two-daydriveover

roughcountryinunbelievableheat, that counted as a verygrave inconvenience. If ourteam had ultimately foundSaddam in his hidey-hole,we’dprobablyhaveshothimdead for a lot of reasons butespecially on the strength ofthose wasted desert runs.

(Justjoking.)I’ll say one thing. That

Iraqi president was one wilydevil, ducking and divingbetween his thirteen palaces,evadingcapture,making taperecordings, urging the dregsof his armed forces to keepkilling us, encouraging theinsurgentstocontinuethewaragainstthegreatSatan(that’sus).Itwastoughoutthere.But

inmanywaysI’mgratefulfor

the experience. I learnedprecisely how seditious andcunninganenemycouldbe.Ilearned never tounderestimate him. And Ilearnedtostayrightontopofmy game all of the time inorder to deal with it. Nocomplacency.Looking back, during our

long journey in theC-130 toAfghanistan, I was moreacutely aware of a growingproblem which faces U.S.

forces on active duty intheaters of war all over theworld. For me, it began inIraq, the first murmuringsfrom the liberal part of theU.S.A. that we weresomehowinthewrong,brutalkillers, bullying othercountries; that we who putour lives on the line for ournation at the behest of ourgovernment should somehowbe charged with murder forshootingourenemy.

It’s been an insidiousprogression, the criticisms ofthe U.S. Armed Forces frompoliticians and from theliberal media, which knowsnothingofcombat,nothingofour training, and nothing ofthe mortal dangers we faceout there on the front line.Each of the six of us in thataircraft en route toAfghanistanhadconstantlyinthe back of our minds theever-intrusive rules of

engagement.These are drawnup for us

to follow by some politiciansitting in some distantcommittee room inWashington,D.C.And that’sa very long way from thebattlefield, where a sniper’sbullet can blast your head,where the slightest mistakecancostyourlife,whereyouneed to kill your enemybeforehekillsyou.And those ROE are very

specific: we may not openfireuntilwearefireduponorhavepositively identifiedourenemy andhave proof of hisintentions. Now, that’s allverygallant.Buthowaboutagroup of U.S. soldiers whohave been on patrol forseveraldays;havebeen firedupon; have dodged rocket-propelled grenades andhomemade bombs; havesustainedcasualties;andwhoareverynearlyexhaustedand

maybeslightlyscared?How about when a bunch

of guys wearing coloredtowelsaroundtheirheadsandbrandishing AK-47s comecharging over the horizonstraight toward you? Do youwait for them to start killingyourteam,ordoyoumowthebastardsdownbeforetheygetachancetodoso?That situation might look

simple inWashington,wherethehuman rightsof terrorists

are often given high priority.And I am certain liberalpoliticianswoulddefendtheirpositiontothedeath.Becauseeveryoneknowsliberalshavenever been wrong aboutanything. You can ask them.Anytime.However, from the

standpointoftheU.S.combatsoldier,Ranger,SEAL,GreenBeret, or whatever, thoseROErepresentaveryseriousconundrum. We understand

we must obey them becausethey happen to come underthelawsofthecountrywearesworn to serve. But theyrepresentadangertous;theyundermineour confidenceonthe battlefield in the fightagainst world terror. Worseyet, theymakeusconcerned,disheartened, and sometimeshesitant.I can say from firsthand

experiencethat thoserulesofengagement cost the lives of

threeof the finestU.S.NavySEALswhohaveeverserved.I’mnotsayingthat,giventheserious situation, those eliteAmericanwarriorsmight nothave died a little later, butthey would not have diedright then, and in my viewwould almost certainly havebeenalivetoday.I am hopeful that one day

soon, the U.S. governmentwill learn that we can betrusted. We know about bad

guys, what they do, and,often, who they are. Thepoliticians have chosen tosendusintobattle,andthat’sour trade. We do what’snecessary. And in my view,once those politicians haveelected to send us out to dowhat 99.9 percent of thecountrywould be terrified toundertake,theyshouldgetthehell out of the way and staythere.This entire business of

modern war crimes, asidentifiedbytheliberalwingsof politics and the media,began in Iraq and has beenrunning downhill ever since.Everyone’s got to have hislittlehandsinit,blatheringonabout the public’s right toknow.Well, in the view of most

NavySEALs,thepublicdoesnot have that right to know,not if it means placing ourlives in unnecessary peril

because someone inWashington is drivinghimself mad worrying aboutthe human rights of somecold-hearted terrorist fanaticwhowouldkillusassoonaslook at us, as well as anyother American at whom hecould point that wonky oldAKofhis.If the public insists it has

the right to know, which Iverymuchdoubt,perhapsthepeopleshouldgoandfacefor

themselves armed terroristshell-bent on killing everysingleAmericantheycan.I promise you, every

insurgent, freedom fighter,andstraygunmaninIraqwhowe arrested knew the ropes,knewthatthewayoutwastoannounce he had beentorturedbytheAmericans,illtreated, or prevented fromreading the Koran or eatinghis breakfast orwatching thetelevision. They all knew al-

Jazeera, the Arabbroadcasters, would pick itup,anditwouldberelayedtothe U.S.A., where the liberalmedia would joyfully accuseall of us of being murderersor barbarians or something.Those terrorist organizationslaugh at theU.S.media, andtheyknowexactlyhowtousethesystemagainstus.I realize I am not being

specific, and I have nointention of being so. But

these broad brushstrokes aredesigned to show that therules of engagement are aclear and present danger,frightening young soldiers,who have been placed inharm’s way by theirgovernment, into believingthey may be charged withmurder if they defendthemselvestoovigorously.Iamnotapoliticalperson,

and as a Navy SEAL I amsworn to defend my country

and carry out the wishes ofmy commander in chief, thepresidentoftheUnitedStates,whoever he may be,Republican or Democrat. Iam a patriot; I fight for theU.S.A.andformyhomestateof Texas. I simply do notwant to see someof the bestyoung men in the countryhesitating to join the elitebranches of the U.S. ArmedServices because they’reafraid theymight be accused

of war crimes by their ownside, just for attacking theenemy.And I know one thing for

certain. If I ever rounded amountainside in Afghanistanand came face to face withOsama bin Laden, the manwho masterminded thevicious,unprovokedattackonmy country, killing 2,752innocent American civiliansin New York on 9/11, I’dshoot him dead, in cold

blood.At which point, urged on

by an outraged Americanmedia, the military wouldprobably incarcerate meunder the jail, nevermind init. And then I’d be chargedwithmurder.Tell you what. I’d still

shootthesonofabitch.

2

BabySeals...andBigOleGators

Iwrestledwithoneonceandwasprettygladwhenthatsuckerdecidedhe’dhad

enoughandtookoffforcalmerwaters.Buttothisdaymybrotherlovestowrestlealligators,justforfun.

We flew on, high over thesouthern reaches of the Gulfof Oman. We headed east-northeast for four hundredmiles, forty-five thousandfeet above the Arabian Sea.Wecrossedthesixty-firstlineof longitude in the small

hours of the morning. Thatput us due south of theIranian border seaport ofGavater, where the Pakistanfrontier runs down to theocean.ChiefHealysnoredquietly.

Axe did a New York Timescrossword. And the miraclewas that Shane’s headsetdidn’texplode,asloudashisrock-and-roll music wasplaying.“Doyoureallyneedtoplay

that shit at that volume,kiddo?”“It’s cool, man...dude,

chill.”“JesusChrist.”The C-130 roared on,

heading slightly morenortherlynow,up toward thecoast of Baluchistan, whichstretches470milesalong thenorthern shoreline of theArabian Sea and commands,strategically, the inward andoutward oil lanes to the

PersianGulf.Despitealotofvery angry tribal chiefs,Baluchistan is part ofPakistan and has been sincethe partition with India in1947. But that doesn’t makethe chiefs any happier withthearrangement.And it’s probably worth

remembering that no nation,not theTurks, theTatars, thePersians, the Arabs, theHindus, or theBrits has evercompletely conquered

Baluchistan.Those tribesmeneven held offGenghisKhan,and his guys were the NavySEALs of the thirteenthcentury.They never tell us, or

anyoneelse,thepreciserouteof U.S. Special Forces intoanycountry.Butthere’sabigAmerican base in theBaluchistan coastal town ofPasni. I guess we made ourlandfall somewhere alongthere, long before first light,

and then flew on over fourmountain ranges for 250miles up to another U.S.militarybasenear the cityofDalbandin.We never stopped, but

Dalbandin lies only fiftymiles south of the Afghanborder, and the airspace issafe around there. At least,it’sassafeasanythingcanbein this strange, wild country,whichiskindofjammedintoa triangle among Iran,

Pakistan,andAfghanistan.Baluchistan, its endless

mountainsasafehavenforsomany fleeing al Qaedarecruits and exiled Talibanfighters, currently providesshelterforuptosixthousandof these potential terrorists.And even though ChiefHealy,me,andtheguyswerenine miles above this vast,underpopulated,andsecretiveland, it still gave me thecreeps, and I was pleased

when the aircrew finally toldus we were in Afghanistanairspace, running north foranother four hundred miles,uptowardKabul.I fell asleep somewhere

overtheRegestanDesert,eastof one of Afghanistan’sgreatest waterways, the 750-mile-long Hel-mand River,which flows and irrigatesmost of the southernfarmlands.I cannot remember my

dreams, but I expect theywere of home. They usuallyare when I’m servingoverseas. Home for us is asmall ranch out in the pineywoods of East Texas, nearSam Houston NationalForest.We livedowna long,red dirt road in a lonely partof the country, close byanother twoor three ranches,one of which, our adjoiningneighbor, is about fourthousand times bigger than

oursandsometimesmakesusseemawhole lotbigger thanweare.Ihaveasimilareffectonmy identical twinbrother,Morgan.He’s about seven minutes

older than I am, and aroundthe same size (six feet fiveinches, 230 pounds).Somehow I’ve always beenregarded as the baby of thefamily.Youwouldn’tbelieveseven minutes could do thattoaguy,wouldyou?Well,it

did, and Morgan isunflagging in his status asseniorman.He’saNavySEALaswell,

a little behind me in rank,because I joined first.Buthestill assumes a loosecommand whenever we’retogether. And that’s prettyoften,sinceweshareahouseinCoronado,California,hardbytheSEALteams.Anyway, there’s two or

three houses on our Texas

property, themain one beinga single-story stone ranchsurroundedbyalargecountrygarden, which contains onelittle plantation for corn andanothercoupleforvegetables.All around us, just about asfar as you can see in anydirection, there’s pasture,studded with huge oak treesand grazing animals. It’s apeaceful place for a God-fearingfamily.Right from kids, Morgan

and I were brought up tobelieve in the Lord. Weweren’t compelled to go tochurch or anything, and tothis day the family are notchurchgoers. In fact, I’m theonly one who does go tochurchonasomewhatregularbasis. On Sunday morningswhen I’mhome, I driveovertotheCatholicchurch,wherepeople know me. I was notbaptized a Catholic, but itsuits me, its beliefs and

doctrines sit easily with me.Since I was young, I havealwaysbeenabletorecitetheTwenty-third Psalm andseveralothersfrombeginningtoend.Also, I thought the late

Pope John Paul was theholiest man in the world, anuncompromising Vicar ofChrist, a man whoseguidelines were unshakable.Tougholdguy, JohnPaul.AlottootoughfortheRussians.

I’ve always thought if hehadn’tbeenavicar,he’dhavemadeagoodNavySEAL.Down home, in our quiet

backwoodsarea, it looks likean untroubled life. There areafewminorirritants,mostofthosebeingsnakes.However,Dad taught us how to dealwith them long ago,especially the coral snakesand those copperhead vipers.There’s also rattlesnakes,eastern diamondbacks, and

king snakes, which eat theothers. In the local lake youcanfind theoccasionalwatermoccasin,andheisonemeanlittlesonofabitch.He’llchaseyou, andwhile I don’tmuchlike ’em, I’m not scared ofthem.Morgangoesafterthemasasport,likestohustle’emup,keep’emalert.A mile or so up the road

from us, there’s a mightyherd of Texas longhorns.Beyond the house there’s a

half dozen paddocks for mymom’s horses, some of thembelonging to her, othersboardersfromotherpeople.People send horses to her

for her near-mystical powertobringsickorweakanimalsbacktofullfightingform.Noone knows how she does it.She’s plainly a horsewhisperer. But she has somespecialwaysoffeedingthem,including, for a certain typeofailingracehorse,somekind

of a seaweed concoction sheswearstoGodcanturnacowpony into Secretariat. Sorry,Mom.Didn’tmean that. Justjoking.Seriously,HollyLuttrell is

a brilliant horsewoman. Andshe does turn horses thatseem very poorly intogleaming, healthy runnersagain. I guess that’s whythosehorseskeeponcoming.Shecanonlycopewithaboutten at a time, and she’s out

thereinthebarnatfiveeverymorning looking after them.Ifyou take the time,youcansee the effect she has onthem,theveryobviousresultsofherveryobviousskills.My mom’s a seventh-

generation Texan, althoughshe did once immigrate toNewYorkCity.Aroundhere,that’s like moving toShanghai, but Mom hasalways been a ratherglamorous blonde and she

wantedtomakeacareerasanair stewardess. Didn’t lastlong,though.ShewasbackinthebigcountryofEastTexasreal quick, raising horses.Likeallofus,shefeelsTexasis a part of her spirit. It’s inmine,inDad’s,anditsureashell is the very essence ofMorgan.None of us would live

anywhereelse.We’rerightathomedownhere,withpeoplewe have known and trusted

for many years. There’s noonelikeTexansforaspiritofexpansiveness, optimism,friendship, and decency. Irealize that might not beacceptable to everyone, butthat’s how it seems to us.We’reoutofplaceanywhereelse. It’s no good pretendingotherwise.That might mean we just

get real homesick quickerthan other people. But I willcomeback to liveherewhen

I’m finished in the military.And I intend, sometime, todie here. Hardly a day goesby, wherever I am in theworld,when I don’t think ofour little ranch andmy hugecircle of family and friends,ofhavingabeeron the frontporch and telling tall storiesfull of facts, some of ’emtrue,allof’emfunny.SowhileI’monthesubject

I’ll explain how a farm boyfrom the backwoods of East

Texas came to be made apetty officer first class and ateamleader in theU.S.NavySEALs.The short explanation is

probably talent, but I don’thave any more of that thanthe next guy. In fact, mynatural-born assets are veryaverage. I’m pretty big,which was an accident ofbirth. I’m pretty strong,because a lot ofotherpeopletook a lot of trouble training

me, and I’m unbelievablydetermined, because whenyou’re as naturally ungiftedas I am, you have to keepdrivingforward,right?I’ll outwork anyone. I’ll

just go on and on until thedust clears.Then I’musuallytheonlyoneleftstanding.Asan athlete, I’m not very fast,butI’mkindofsharp.Iknowwhere to be, I’m good atanticipating things, and Iguess that’s why I was a

halfwaydecentsportsman.Give me a golf ball and I

can hit that sucker a countrymile.That’sbecausegolfisagame that requires practice,practice, and more practice.That’s my brand ofdoggedness. I can do that. Iplaytoareasonablehandicap,althoughIwasn’tbornaBenHogan or anything. But BencamefromTexaslikeme.Wewere born about ninety-fourmiles apart, and in my

country that’s the equivalentof a sand wedge. Ben, ofcourse,wasknowntopracticemore than any other golferwho had ever lived.Must besomethinginthewater.Iwas born inHouston but

raised up near theOklahomaborder. My parents, Davidand Holly Luttrell, owned afair-sized horse farm, about1,200 acres at one time. Wehad125headupthere,mostlyThoroughbreds and quarter

horses. My mom ran thebreeding programs, and Dadtookchargeoftheracingandsalesoperation.MorganandIwerebrought

up with horses, feeding,watering, cleaning out thebarns, riding. Most everyweekendwe’dgointhehorsevantotheraces.Wewerejustkidsatthetime,andbothourparentswereexcellent riders,especially Mom. That’s howwe learned. We worked the

ranch, mended fences,swinging sledgehammerswhen we were about nineyears old. We loaded thebales into the loft, workedlikeadultsfromayoungage.Dadinsistedonthat.Andfora lot of years, the operationdidverywell.At the time, Texas itself

was in a boom-time hogheaven. Out in West Texas,where the oil drillers andeveryone surrounding them

were becomingmultimillionaires,thepriceofoil went up 800 percentbetween 1973 and 1981. Iwasbornin1975,beforethatwave even started to crest,andIhave tosay theLuttrellfamilywasridinghigh.Itwas nothing formy dad

tobreedagood-lookinghorsefrom a $5,000 stallion andsell the yearling for $40,000.Hediditallthetime.Andmymom was a pure genius at

improving a horse, buying itcheapanddevotingmonthsoftender loving care andbrilliant feeding toproduceayoung runner worth eighttimeswhatshepaid.And breeding horses was

precisely the right line to bein.Horseswererightuptherewith Rolex watches, Rolls-Royces, Learjets, Gulfstream1s,palacesratherthanregularhouses,andboats,damngreatboats. Office space was at a

premium all over the state,and massive new high-riseblocks were underconstruction. Retail spendingwas at an all-time high.Racehorses, beautiful. Giveme six. Six fast ones, Mr.Luttrell. That way I’ll winsomeraces.Thatoilmoneyjustwashed

right off, and people weremaking fortunes in anythingthat smacked of luxury,anything to feed the egos of

the oil guys, who werespending and borrowingmoney at a rate never seenbeforeorsince.It wasn’t anything for

banks tomake loansofmorethan $100 million to oilexplorers and producers. Atonetimetherewere4,500oilrigs running in the U.S.A.,most of them in Texas.Credit?Thatwaseasy.Bankswould lend you a millionbuckswithoutbattinganeye.

Listen, Iwasonlyakidatthetime,butmyfamilyandIlived through the trauma tocome, and, boy, I’ve donesomeseriousreadingaboutitsince.Andinaway,I’mgladI lived through it, because ittaught me to be careful, toearnmymoneyandinvest it,getitsomewheresecure.And it taught me to think

very carefully about theelement of luck, when it’srunning, and how to keep

yourlifeundercontrol.Ihavelong since worked out thatwhen the crash came inTexas, its effects weremagnified a thousandfold,because the guys in the oilindustry sincerely believedmoneyhadnothingtodowithluck. They thought theirprosperity came from theirownsheerbrilliance.No one gave much

considerationtotheworldoilmarketbeingcontrolledinthe

Middle East by Muslims.EverythingthathappenedhaditsrootsinArabia,assistedbyPresident Carter’s energypolicyand thefact thatwhenIwasfiveyearsoldthepriceperbarrelofcrudewas$40.The crash, when it came,

was caused by the oilembargo and the Iranianrevolution, when theayatollah took over from theshah. The key to it wasgeopolitical.AndTexascould

only stand and watchhelplessly as the oil glutmanifesteditselfandthepriceper barrel began to slidedownwardtoanultimatelowofaround$9.That was in 1986, when I

was not quite ten. In themeantime, the giant FirstNational Bank of Midland,Texas, collapsed, judgedinsolvent by governmentfinancialinspectors.Thatwasonehugebanktogobelly-up,

and the ripple effect wasstatewide.An era of recklessspending and investing wasover. Guys building palaceswere forced to sell at a loss.You couldn’t give away aluxuryboat,andRolls-Roycedealers darned nearwent outofbusiness.Alongwiththecommercial

giants felled by the oil crashwentthehorsefarmofDavidand Holly Luttrell. Hard-running colts and mares,

which Dad had valued at$35,000 to $40,000, weresuddenly worth $5,000, lessthan they cost to raise. Myfamily lost everything,includingourhouse.But my dad’s a resilient

man, tough and determined.And he fought back, with asmaller ranch and the tried-and-trusted techniques ofhorse raising he and Momhad always practiced. But itall went wrong again. The

family wound up living withmy grandfather, Morgansleepingonthefloor.My dad, who had always

kept one foot in thepetrochemical business eversince he came back fromVietnam,wentback towork,and in a very short time hewasonhisfeet,withacoupleofhugedeals.WemovedoutofGrandfather’s place into agrand four-story house, andthe good times seemed to be

back.Thensomegiantdealwent

southandwesomehowlostitallagain,movedbackouttoakind of rural skid row. Yousee, my dad, though bornovertheborderinOklahoma,isaTexaninhissoul.Hewasas brave as a lion when hewas a navy gunner inVietnam. And in Texas, realmendon’tsitontheirmoney.Theygetbackout there, takerisks, and when they hit it

big, they just want to hit itbigger.Mydad’sarealman.You could tell a lot about

him just by the names hegavetheranches,bigorsmall— Lone Star Farms, NorthFork Ranch, Shootin’ Star.Like he always said, “I’drathershootforastarandhita stump than shoot for astumpandmiss.”Icannotdescribehowpoor

we were during the timeMorgan and I were trying to

get through college. I hadfour jobs to pay tuition andboard and make my truckpayment. I was the lifeguardin the college pool and Iworked with Morgan onconstruction, landscaping,cuttinggrass, andyardwork.In the evening I was abouncer in a rough local barfullofredneckcowboys.AndI was still starving, trying tofeed myself on about twentydollarsaweek.

Onetime,Iguesswewerearound twenty-one, Morgansnapped his leg playingbaseball, sliding into second.When they got him to thehospital Morgan just toldthem we didn’t have anymoney. Eventually thesurgeonagreedtooperateandset the leg on some kind oflong-term credit. But theanaesthetist would notadminister anything toMorganwithoutpayment.

No one’s tougher thanmybrother. And he eventuallysaid, “Fine. I don’t needanaesthetic. Set the legwithout it. I can take thepain.” The surgeon wasaghast and told Morgan hecouldnot possiblyhave suchan operation withoutanaesthesia. But Morganstuck to his guns. “Doc, Idon’t have any money. Fixmy leg and I’ll handle thepain.”

No one was crazy aboutthat, especially the surgeon.But then Jason Miller, acollege buddy of Morgan’s,turnedup,sawthathewasinabsoluteagony,andgavehimevery last dollar of hissavings to pay theanaesthetist. At which pointthey put Morgan backtogether.But I’m getting ahead of

myself. When we wereyoung, working the horses,

mydadwasvery,verytoughon us. He considered thatgoodgradeswereeverything,bad ones were simplyunacceptable. I once got a Cin conduct, and he beat mewithasaddlegirth.Iknowhewas doing it for our owngood, trying to instilldiscipline in his sons, whichwould serve them well inlaterlife.Butheruledourliveswith

anironfist.Hewouldtellus:

“One day I’m not gonna behere.Then it’s gonna be youtwo, by yourselves, and Iwant you to understand howrough and unfair this worldis. I want you both preparedfor whatever the hell mightcomeyourway.”He tolerated nothing.

Disobedience was out of thequestion.Rudenesswasdamnnearahangingoffense.Therewas no leeway. He insistedon politeness and hardwork.

And he didn’t let up evenwhenwewereallbroke.Dadwas the son of an Arkansaswoodsman, anotheramazingly tough character,andhebroughtthatstand-on-your-own-feet ruggednessinto our lives at the earliestopportunity.Wewerealwaysout in the

woods, in rough country intheEastTexas pines, the redoaks, and the sweet gumtrees.Dad taught us to shoot

straight at the age of seven,boughtusa.22rifle,aNylon66. We could hit a movingMiller High Life beer canfrom 150 yards. Now that’sredneckstuff,right?Redneckkids in redneck country,learninglife’sskills.He taught us how to

survive out there. What youcould eat and what youcouldn’t. He showed us howto build a shelter, taught ushow to fish. He even taught

ushowtoropeandkillawildboar: drop a couple of longloops around his neck andpull, then hope to hell hedoesn’t charge straight atyou! I still know how tobutcherandroastone.At home, on any of the

ranches,Dadshowedushowto plant and grow corn andpotatoes, vegetables andcarrots. A lot of times whenwe were really poor we justabout lived on that. Looking

back, it was importanttraining for a couple of farmboys.But perhaps most

importantofall,he taughtustoswim.Dadhimselfwasanall-American swimmer andthis really mattered to him.He was superb in the waterandhemademethatgood.Inalmosteverything,Morgan isnaturally better than I am.He’sverygiftedasarunner,afighter, a marksman, a

navigator on land or water.He always sails through hisexams,whereasIhavetoslogit out, studying, practicing,trying to be firstman in andlast man out. Morgan doesnothavetostrive.Hewashonormanafterhis

SEALBUD/Sclass,votedforbyhispeers.Iknewhewouldbe before he even started.There’sonlyonedisciplineatwhich he can’t beat me. I’mfasterinthewater,andIhave

the edge underwater. Heknowsit,thoughhemightnotadmitit.Therewasahugelakenear

where we lived, and that’swhere Dad trained us. Allthrough the long Texassummers we were out there,swimming, racing, diving,practicing.Wewere just likefish,thewayDadwantedit.He spent months teaching

us to dive, deep, first on ourown,thenwithourscubagear

on. We were good, andpeople would pay us to tryand retrieve keys andvaluables thrown into deepwater. Of course, Dadconsidered this might be tooeasy, and he stipulated weonlygotpaidifwefoundthecorrectobject.During this time we had

the occasional brush withpassing alligators, but one ofmygreatTexas friends,TrayBaker,showedushowtodeal

with them. I wrestled withoneonceandwasprettygladwhen that sucker decidedhe’dhadenoughandtookoffforcalmerwaters.Buttothisday my brother loves towrestlealligators,justforfun.He is, of course, crazy. Butwe sometimes take an oldflat-bottomed boat fishing inthelake,andoneofthosebigole gators will come slidingupalongsidetheboat.Morgan makes a quick

assessment—Nostrils abouteightornine inches fromhiseyes,sohe’seightorninefeetlong. Morgan executes aramrod-straight low-angleddiverightontopofthegator,clamping its jaws shut withhisfists, thenhetwistsitandturns it, gets on its back, allthewhile holding those hugejaws tight shut and laughingat the panic-stricken beast ofthedeep.After a few minutes they

both get fed up with it, andMorgan lets it go. I alwaysthink this is the mostdangerous part. But I neversaw a gator who felt likehavinganothergoatMorgan.Theyalways just turnaroundandswimawayfromthearea.He only misjudged it once,and his hand bears a line ofalligator-teethscars.You know, I think Dad

alwayswantedustobeNavySEALs. He was forever

telling us about those elitewarriors, the stuff they didand what they stood for. Inhisopiniontheywereall thatis best in theAmericanmale— courage, patriotism,strength, determination,refusal to accept defeat,brains, expertise in all thatthey did. All through ouryoung lives he told us aboutthose guys. And over theyears, it sunk in, I suppose.MorganandIbothmadeit.

Iwasabout twelvewhen Irealized beyond doubt that Iwasgoing tobecomeaNavySEAL.AndIknewalotmoreaboutitthanmostkidsofmyage.Iunderstoodthebrutalityof the training, the level offitnessrequired,andtheneedforsuperskillsinthewater.Ithought I would be able tohandle that. Dad had told usof the importance ofmarksmanship, and I knew Icoulddothat.

SEALsneedtobeathomein rough country, able tosurvive, live in the jungle ifnecessary. We were alreadygood at that. By the age oftwelve, Morgan and I werelikeacoupleofwildanimals,athomeinthegreatoutdoors,at home with a fishing poleand gun, easily able to liveofftheland.But deep down I knew

there was something morerequired to make it into the

world’s top combat teams.And that was a level offitnessandstrengththatcouldonlybeattainedbythosewhoactively sought it. Nothingjust happens. You alwayshavetostrive.In our part of East Texas,

there are a lot of past andpresent special forces guys,quiet, understated iron men,most of them unsung heroesexcept among their families.But they don’t serve in the

U.S. Armed Forces forpersonalrecognitionorglory.Theydoitbecausedeepin

theirgranitesouls theyfeelaslight shiver when they seeOld Glory fluttering abovethem on the parade square.The hairs on the backs oftheir necks stand up whenthese men hear the nationalanthem of the United States.Whenthepresidentwalksoutto the strains of a U.S.military band’s “Hail to the

Chief,” there’s a moment ofsolemnity foreachandeveryone of them — for ourpresident, our country, andwhat our country has meantto the world and the manypeople who never had achancewithoutAmerica.These men of the special

forceshavehadotheroptionsin their lives, other paths,easier paths they could havetaken. But they took thehardest path, that narrow

causeway that is not for thesunshine patriot. They tookthe one for the supremepatriot, the one that mayrequire them to lay downtheir lives for the UnitedStates of America. The onethat issuitableonlyfor thosewho want to serve theircountry so bad, nothing elsematters.That’s probably not

fashionable in our celebrity-obsessed modern world. But

specialforcesguysdon’tgivea damn about that either. Iguessyouhavetoknowthemtounderstandthem.Andeventhen it’s not easy, becausemost of them are shy, ratherthan taciturn,andgettinganyof them to say anything self-congratulatory is close toimpossible. They are ofcourse aware of a highercalling, because they aresworn to defend this countryand to fight its battles. And

when the drum sounds,they’re going to come outfighting.And when it does sound,

theheartsofathousandlovedonesmissabeat,andtheguysknow this aswell as anyone.But for them, duty andcommitmentarestrongerthananyone’s aching heart. Andthose highly trained warriorsautomatically pick up theirriflesandammunitionandgoforwardtoobeythewishesof

theircommanderinchief.General Douglas

MacArthur once warned thecadets of West Point that ifthey should become the firstto allow theLongGrayLineto fail, “a million ghosts inolive drab, brown khaki, inblue and gray, would risefrom their white crossesthundering those magicwords, Duty, Honor, andCountry.”Noneedforghostsin the U.S. Navy SEALs.

Those words are engraveduponourhearts.And many such men way

down there in East Texaswerewilling to give up theirtimeforabsolutelynorewardto showkidswhat it takes tobecomeaSEAL,aRanger,oraGreenBeret.Theoneweallknew about was a formerGreen Beret sergeant wholivedcloseby.HisnamewasBilly Shelton, and if he everseesthis,he’llprobablydieof

embarrassment, seeing hisname in print on the subjectofvalor.Billyhadaglitteringarmy

career in combat with theGreenBeretsinVietnamand,later, serving on agovernmentSWAT team.HewasoneofthetoughestmenIever met, and one afternoonjust before my fifteenthbirthday, I plucked up mycourageandwenttohishousetoaskifhecouldtrainmeto

become a Navy SEAL. Hewas eating his lunch at thetime, came to the door stillchewing. Hewas a bull of aman, rippling muscles, fairskin, not carrying one ounceof fat.Tomyeyeshe lookedlike he could have chokeslammedarhino.Imademyhesitantrequest.

Andhejustlookedmeupanddown and said, “Right here.Four, tomorrow afternoon.”Then he shut the door inmy

face.Iwasabityoungatthetime, but the phrase I wasgroping for wasNo bullshit,right?Now, everyone in the area

knew that Billy trained kidsfor the special forces. Andwhen he had a group of usrunningdown the street, carsdriving by would blow theirhornsandcheeruson.He always ignored that,

and he showed us nomercy.Our program included

running with heavy concreteblocks on our shoulders.WhenBilly thoughtwewerestrongenough,westeppedupthepace,runningwithrubbertires, which felt like they’djust come off the spaceshuttleorat least thatbigoletractoroutback.Billy did not hold an

exercise class; he operated afull pre-SEAL trainingprogram for teenagers. Overthe years he had us in the

gym pumping iron, haulingthe torture machine, theergometer, pounding theroads, driving our bodies,sweatingandstraining.Morgan and I were

terrified of him. I used tohave nightmares when wewereduetoreporttohimthenext morning, because hedrove us without mercy,never mind our extremeyouth.Wewere in a classofmaybe a dozen guys, all

midteens.“I’m gonna break you

down, mentally andphysically,” he yelled at us.“Break you down, hear me?Then I’m gonna build yourightbackup,asonefightingunit — so your mind andbody are one. Understandme? I’m gonna put youthrough more pain thanyou’veeverbeenin.”Right about then, half the

classranfortheirlivesrather

than face this bulldog, thisex–Texas Tech tailback whocould run like a Mack truckgoing downhill. He had thesupport of a local highschool,whichallowedhimtouse their gym free of chargeto train future special forcesfromourpartoftheworld.“I’mnotyourfriend,”he’d

shout. “Not right here in thisgym.I’mheretogetyouright— fit, trained, and ready forthe SEALs, or the Berets, or

the Rangers. I’m not gettingone dime from anyone to dothis. And that’s why you’regonnado it right, justsoyoudon’twastemytime.“Becauseifanyoneofyou

failstomakethegradeinthespecial forces, it will not bebecause you were too weak.Because thatwouldmeanI’dfailed, and I’m gonna makesure that cannot happen,because right here, failure’snot an option. I’m gonna get

you right. All of you.Understand?”He’d take us on twelve-

mile runs, hauling theconcreteblockstillwenearlycollapsed. Guys would haveblood on the backs of theirheads from the chafing. Andhenevertookhiseyesoffus,never tolerated idleness orlackofconcentration.Hejustmadeusgrinditout,takingittothelimit.Everytime.That’s what built my

strength, gave me my basis.That’s how I learned thefitness creed of the SEALs.Billywasextremelyproudofthat; proud to pass on hisknowledge.And he asked only for

undying devotion to thecause, the discipline of asamurai warrior, and lungslike a pair of bagpipes. Hewasabsolutelyrelentless,andhe really loved Morgan andme,twoofonlysixsurvivors

intheclass.Once, when I came back

froma tourofduty in Iraq, Iwenttoseehimafteracoupleof weeks’ easy living andMom’scooking,andhethrewmeoutofthegym!“You’re a goddamned fat,

pitiful excuse for a SEAL,and I can’t stand to look atyou!” he yelled. “Get out ofmy sight!” Holy shit! I wasout of there, ran down thestairs,anddidn’tdaregoback

until I’d dropped eightpounds. No one around hereargueswithBillyShelton.The other skill I needed

was still to come. No NavySEAL can operate without ahigh level of expertise inunarmed combat. Billy toldme I’d need to take martial-arts classes as soon aspossible. And so I found ateacher to work with. Allthroughmygradeschoolandcollege career, I studied and

learned that strange, rathermysticalAsianskill.Iworkedatitformanyyearsinsteadofbecoming involved in othersports. And I attained all ofmygoals.Morgan says the real truth

is I don’t know my ownstrength and should beavoidedatalltimes.By any standards, I had a

head start in becoming aNavy SEAL. I was madeaware of the task at a young

age, and I had two strongengines driving me forward:my dad and Billy Shelton.Everything I learned beyondthe schoolroom, down frommyearlyyears,seemstohavedirectedme to Coronado. Atleast, looking back now itseemsthatway.Everyoneunderstandswhy

there’s a huge rate ofdropouts among applicantsfor the SEALs. And when Ithinkofwhat Iwent through

intheyearsbeforeIgotthere,I can’t even imagine what itmustbelikeforguyswhotryout with no prior training.Morgan and I were groomedtobeSEALs,butitwasnevereasy. The work is brutallyhard, the fitness regimes areasharshanduncompromisingas any program in the freeworld. The examinations aresearching and difficult.Nothing but the highestpossible standard is

acceptable in the SEALteams.And perhaps above all,

your character is under amicroscope at all times;instructors, teachers, seniorchiefs, and officers arealways watching for thecharacter flaw, the weaknesswhich may one day lead tothe compromise of yourteammates. We can’t standthat.Wecanstanddamnnearanything,exceptthat.

Whensomeonetellsyouheis in the SEAL teams, itmeans he has passed everytest, been accepted by someof the hardest taskmasters inthemilitary.Anda shortnodofrespectisinorder,becauseit’sharder tobecomeaNavySEAL than it is to get intoHarvard Law School.Different,butharder.When someone tells you

he’s in a SEAL team, youknowyouareinthepresence

ofaveryspecialcat.Myself,I was just born lucky,somehow fluked my way inwithaworkethicbequeathedtomebymydad.TherestofthoseguysarethegodsoftheU.S. Armed Forces. And infaraway foreign fields, theyservetheirnationasrequired,on demand, and mostlywithout any recognitionwhatsoever.They would have it no

other way, because they

understand no other way.Accoladesjustwashoffthem,they shy away from thespotlight, but in the end theyhave one precious reward—whentheirdaysofcombatareover, they know preciselywho they are and what theystandfor.That’srare.Andnoonecanbuyit.

Back in the C-130, crossinginto the southern wastes of

theRegestanDesert,thegodsof the U.S. Armed Forceswith whom I traveled wereasleep, except for the beachgod Shane, who was stillrockin’.Somewhere out in the

darkness, to our starboardside,wasthePakistanicityofQuetta, which used to bequite important when theBrits ran theplace.Theyhadabigarmystaffcollegedownthere, and for three years in

themid-1930s,FieldMarshalViscount Montgomery, laterthe victor of the Battle ofAla-mein, taught there.Whichproves,Isuppose,thatI’m as much addicted tomilitary trivia as I am to thesmart-assremark.However,westayedonthe

left-hand,Afghanistansideofthe border, I think, andcontinued on above the highwestern slopes of the greatrange of the Hindu Kush

mountains. The mostsoutherly peak, the onenearest the desert, is 11,000feet high. After that it getspretty steep, and it was tothose mountains we wereheaded.Way below us was the

important city of Kandahar,which a few weeks later, onJune 1, 2005, was the sceneof one of the most terribleTaliban attacks of the year.Oneof their suicidebombers

killed twenty people inKandahar’sprincipalmosque.In that central-city disaster,they killed the security chiefofKabul,whowas attendingthefuneralofananti-Talibancleric who had been killedthreedaysearlierbyacoupleofguysonamotorbike.I think that Chief Healy

and myself, in particular,were well aware of thedangers in this strife-torncountry.Andwe realized the

importance of our comingmissions, to halt the ever-burgeoning influx of TalibanrecruitsstreaminginoverthehighpeaksoftheHinduKushand to capture their leadersforinterrogation.The seven-hour journey

fromBahrainseemedendless,andwewere still an hour ormore south of Kabul,crawlingnorthhighabovethetreacherous border that leadsdirectly to the old Khyber

Pass and then to the colossalpeaks and canyons of thenorthern Hindu Kush. Afterthat, the mountains swerveinto Tajikstan and China,later becoming the westernendoftheHimalayas.I was reading my

guidebook, processing anddigestingfactslikeanAgathaChristie detective. Chaman,Zhob,keyentrypointsfortheTaliban and for bin Laden’sal Qaeda as they fled the

American bombs and groundtroops. These tribesmendrovetheirwayoversixteen-thousand-foot mountains,seeking help from thedisgruntled Baluchistanchiefs, who were now boredsideways by Pakistan andAfghanistan, Great Britain,Iran, the U.S.A., Russia, andanyone else who tried to tellthemwhattodo.Our area of operations

wouldbewellnorthof there,

andIspent thefinalhoursofthe journey trying to gleansomedata.Butitwashardtocome by. Trouble is, there’snotmuchhappening in thosemountains, not many smalltowns and very few villages.Funny, really.Notmuchwashappening, and yet, inanother way, every damnthing in the world washappening: plots, plans,villainy, terrorism, countlessschemes to attack the West,

especiallytheUnitedStates.TherewerecellsofTaliban

warriorsjustwaitingfortheirchance to strike against thegovernment. There werebands of al Qaeda swarmingaround a leader hardlyanyone had seen for severalyears. The Taliban wantedpower in Afghanistan again;bin Laden’s mob wanteddeathanddestructionofU.S.citizens, uniformed or not.One way or another, they

were all a goddamnednightmare, and one that wasgrowingprogressivelyworse.Whichwaswhytheysentforus.In the weeks before our

arrival, there had beenwidespread incidents ofviolence, confirmingeveryone’s dread that thegenerally hated Taliban wasonce more on the rise and aserious threat to the newgovernment of Afghanistan.

Even with the support ofthirty thousand U.S. andNATO troops, PresidentHamid Karzai struggled tocontrol thecountryanywhereoutsideofKabul.A few weeks earlier, in

February, the Taliban flatlyannounced they wereincreasingtheirattacksonthegovernment as soon as theweather improved.And fromthenontheylaunchedaseriesof drive-by shootings and

bombings,usuallydirectedatlocal officials and pro-government clergy. In thesouth and over to the east,they started ambushingAmericansoldiers.It’s a strange word,

Taliban. Everyone’s heard it,like insurgent, Sunni,ayatollah, or Taiwan. Butwhat does Taliban reallystand for? I’ve suffered withthem, what you mightdescribe as close encounters

of the most god-awful type.And I’ve done a lot ofreading. The facts fit thereality. Those guys are evil,murderous religious fanatics,each one of them with anAK-47 and a bloodlust. Youcantrustmeonthatone.The Taliban have been in

prominencesince1994.Theiroriginal leader was a villageclergyman named MullahMohammad Omar, a toughguy who lost his right eye

fighting theoccupying forcesof the Soviet Union in the1980s. By the mid-’90s, theTaliban’s prime targets inAfghanistan — before Ishowed up — were thefeuding warlords who (a)formed the mujahideen and(b) threw the Soviets out ofthecountry.The Taliban made two

major promises which theywould carry out once inpower: to restore peace and

security, and to enforcesharia, or Islamic law.Afghans, weary of themujahideens’ excesses andinfighting, welcomed theTaliban,whichenjoyedmuchearly success, stamping outcorruption, curbinglawlessness, and making theroads safe for commerce toflourish. This applied to allareas that came under theircontrol.Theybegan theiroperation

in the southwestern city ofKandaharandmovedquicklyinto other parts of thecountry. They captured theprovince of Herat, whichborders Iran, in September1995. And one year later,their armies took theAfghancapital of Kabul,overthrowing the regime ofPresident BurhanuddinRabbani and his defenseminister, Ahmed ShahMassoud.By1998,theywere

in control of almost 90percentofthecountry.Once in power, however,

theTalibanshowedtheir truecolors.Theysetuponeofthemost authoritarianadministrations on earth, onethattoleratednooppositiontotheir hard-line policies.AncientIslamicpunishments,like public executions forconvicted murderers andamputations at the wrist forthosechargedwiththeft,were

immediately introduced. Icannot even think about thepenalty a rapist or anadulterermightanticipate.Television, music, sports,

and cinema were banned,judgedbytheTalibanleaderstobefrivolities.Girlsagetenand above were forbidden togotoschool;workingwomenwereorderedtostayathome.Men were required to growbeards, women had to wearthe burka. These religious

policies earned universalnotoriety as the Talibanstrived to restore the MiddleAges in a nation longing tojoin the twenty-first century.Their policies concerninghumanrightswereoutrageousand brought them into directconflictwiththeinternationalcommunity.But there was another

issue, which would bringabout their destruction. Andthatwas their role inplaying

hosttoOsamabinLadenandhis al Qaeda movement. InAugust 1998 Islamic fanaticsbombedtheU.S.embassiesinKenya and Tanzania, killingmore than 225 people.Washington immediatelypresented theTaliban leaderswith a difficult choice —either expel bin Laden, whowas held responsible for thebombings by the U.S.government, or face theconsequences.

The Taliban flatly refusedtohandovertheirSaudi-bornguest, who was providingthem with heavy funding.PresidentBillClintonordereda missile attack on the mainbin Laden training camp insouthern Afghanistan, whichfailed to kill its leader. Thenin 1999 the United Statespersuaded the U.N. SecurityCouncil to impose sanctionsonTaliban-ruledAfghanistan.Twoyearslater,evenharsher

sanctionswereputinplaceinanother attempt to force theTaliban to hand over binLaden.Nothing worked. Not

sanctions nor the denial ofAfghanistan’sU.N. seat. TheTaliban were still in power,and they were still hidingOsama bin Laden, but theirisolation, political anddiplomatic, was becomingtotal.But the Talibanwould not

budge. They took theirisolationasabadgeofhonoranddecided togowholehogwith an even morefundamentalist regime. Thepoor Afghan people realizedtoo late what they had done:handed over the entirecountrytoagroupofbeardedlunatics who were trying toinflictuponthemnothingbutstark humanmisery andwhocontrolled every move theymade under their brutal,

repressive, draconian rule.The Taliban were so busytrying toenslave thecitizens,they forgot about thenecessity for food, and therewas mass starvation. Onemillion Afghans fled thecountryasrefugees.All of thiswasunderstood

by the West. Almost. But ittookhorrificshock,deliveredin March 2001, to causegenuine inter-nationaloutrage. That was when the

Taliban blasted sky-high thetwo monumental sixth-century statues of theBamiyan Buddhas, one ofthem180 feethigh, theother120 feet, carved out of amountain in centralAfghanistan, 143 milesnorthwestofKabul.ThiswastantamounttoblowingupthePyramidsofGiza.The statues were hewn

directly fromsandstonecliffsright in Bamiyan, which is

situated on the ancient SilkRoad, the caravan routewhich linked the markets ofChina and central Asia withthose of Europe, the MiddleEast, and south Asia. It wasalso one of the reveredBuddhist religious sites,dating back to the secondcentury and once home tohundredsofmonksandmanymonasteries. The two statueswere the largest standingBuddhacarvingsonearth.

And their summarydestruction by the Talibanrulers of Afghanistan causedmuseum directors andcuratorsallover theworld tohave about four hemorrhagesapiece. The Talibaneffectively told thewhole lotof them to shove it. Whosestatues were they, anyway?Besides, they were planningto destroy all the statues inAfghanistan, on the groundstheywereun-Islamic.

The Bamiyan Buddhasweredestroyedinaccordancewith sharia law. Only Allahthe Almighty deserves to beworshipped, not anyone oranything else.Wraps that upthen, right? Praise Allah andpassthehighexplosive.The blasting of the

Buddhas firmed up worldopinionthatsomethinghadtobe done about Afghanistan’srulers. But it took anotherexplosion to provoke savage

action against them. Thattook place on September 11,the same year, and was thebeginning of the end for theTaliban and bin Laden’s alQaeda.Before thedusthadsettled

on lower Manhattan, theUnited States demanded theTaliban hand over binLadenfor masterminding the attackon U.S. soil. Again theTaliban refused, perhaps notrealizing that the new(ish)

U.S. president, George W.Bush, was a very differentcharacterfromBillClinton.Less thanonemonth later,

onOctober7,theAmericans,leading a small coalitionforce,unleashedanonslaughtagainst Afghanistan thatshook that area of the worldto its foundations. U.S.military intelligence locatedall of the alQaeda camps inthe mountains of thenortheast part of the country,

and the military let fly withone of the biggest aerialbombardments in modernwarfare.It began with fifty cruise

missiles launched from U.S.warships and Royal Navysubmarines. At the sametime, long after dark inAfghanistan, twenty-fivecarrier-based aircraft andfifteen land-based bomberstook off and destroyedTaliban air defenses,

communicationsinfrastructure, and theairports at Kabul, Jalalabad,Kandahar, and Herat. TheU.S. bombs blasted the bigradar installations andobliterated the control towerin Kandahar. This was thecity where Mullah Omarlived, and a navy bombermanaged todroponedead inthe middle of his backyard.That one-eyed ole bastardescaped,though.

The Taliban, its militaryheadquartersnowonfire,didownasomewhatinsignificantair-strike capacity, just a fewaircraft and helicopters, andtheU.S.AirForcewipedthatrightoutwithsmartbombsasamatterofroutine.Navy bombers taking off

from the carriers targeted theTaliban’s other militaryhardware, heavy vehicles,tanks,andfueldumps.Land-based B-1, B-2, and B-52

bomberswerealso in theair,theB-52sdroppingdozensoffive-hundred-pound gravitybombs on al Qaeda terroristtraining camps in easternAfghanistan, way up in theborder mountains where wewouldsoonbevisiting.One of the prime U.S.

objectives was the smallinventory of surface-to-airmissiles and shoulder-firedantiaircraft missiles, stolenfrom either the Russians or

the old mujahideen. Thesewere hard to locate, andvariouscacheswereremovedby the tribesmen and hiddenin the mountains. Hidden,sadly,foruseanotherday.One hour after that

nighttime bombardmentbegan, theNorthernAllianceopened firewith a battery ofrockets from an air basetwenty-five miles north ofKabul. They aimed themstraight at Taliban forces in

the city. There were fivethunderousexplosionsandallelectric power was knockedoutthroughoutthecapital.ButtheUnitedStatesnever

took its eye off the ball. Thetrue objective was the totaldestruction of al Qaeda andthe leader who hadengineered the infamousattackontheTwinTowers—“the Pearl Harbor of thetwenty-first century,” as thepresident described it. And

thatmeantamassivestrikeonthe sinister network of cavesand underground tunnels upin the mountains, where binLadenmadehisheadquarters.The cruise missiles had

softenedup thearea,but thatwas only the start. The realheavyweight punch from theworld’s only superpowerwouldcome in the formof agigantic bomb — the BLU-82B/C-130, known asCommandoVaultinVietnam

and now nicknamed DaisyCutter.Thisisahigh-altitude,fifteen-thousand-poundconventionalbombthatneedstobedeliveredfromthehugeMC-130aircraftbecause it isfar too heavy for the bombracks on any other attackaircraft.This thing is awesome. It

was originally designed tocreate instant clearings forhelicopter landings in thejungle. Its purpose in

Afghanistan was as anantipersonnel weapon up inthose caves. Its lethal radiusis colossal, probably ninehundred feet. Its flash andsound is obvious fromliterally miles away. TheBLU-82B is the largestconventionalbombeverbuiltand, of course, leaves nonuclear fallout. (For therecord, the Hiroshima atombomb was a thousand timesmorepowerful.)

On the upside, the DaisyCutter is extremely reliable,noproblemswithwindspeedor thermal gradient. Itsconventional explosivetechnique incorporates bothagent and oxidizer. It is notfuel-airexplosive,liketheoldFAE systems used formuch,much smaller bombs. It’snearly twelve feet long andmorethanfourfeetwide.The BLU-82B depends on

precise positioning of the

delivery aircraft, coordinatesgotten from fixed groundradar or onboard navigationequipment. The aircraftmustbe perfectly positioned priorto final countdown andrelease. The navigator needsto make dead-accurateballistic and windcomputations.Themassiveblasteffectof

thebombmeans it cannotbereleased below an altitude of6,000 feet. Its warhead,

containing 12,600 pounds oflow-cost GSX slurry(ammonium nitrate,aluminum powder, andpolystyrene), is detonated bya38-inchfuseextenderafewfeetabovegroundlevel,soitwon’tdigacrater.Theentireblast blows outward,producing overpressure of1,000poundspersquareinch.Hence the nickname DaisyCutter.The United States has

never specifiedhowmanyofthesethingsweredroppedonthe Tora Bora area of theWhite Mountains, where thealQaedacampswerelocated.But there were at least four,maybe seven. The first one,according to a publicannouncement by thePentagon,wasdroppedafterareported sighting of binLaden.We can only imaginethe crushing effect such ablast would have inside the

caves where the al Qaedahigh command and seniorleadership operated.Wouldn’thavebeentoogoodeven if youwere standing inthemiddleofafield—butacave! Jesus, that’s brutal.That thing wiped outhundreds of the enemy at atime.The United States really

didanumberon theTaliban,flattened their stronghold inKunduz in the north, shelled

them out of the ShomaliPlains north ofKabul, carpetbombed them anywhere theycould be located around theBagramairbase,where, fouryears later, we were headedintheC-130.In the fall of 2001, the

Taliban and al Qaeda weremostly fleeing the U.S.offensive or surrendering. Inthe subsequent years, theydrifted together on the otherside of the Pakistani border,

reformed, and began theircounteroffensive to retakeAfghanistan.Somehow these hickory-

tough tribesmen not onlysurvived the onslaught ofAmerican bombing andescaped from the advancingNorthern Alliance, but theyalsoevadedoneofthebiggestmanhunts in the history ofwarfare as an increasinglyfrustrated United Statesmoved heaven and earth to

capture bin Laden, MullahOmar, and the rest. I guesstheir propensity to run likehell from strong oppositionand their rapid exit into thePakistani mountains on theother side of the borderallowed them to limit theirhuman and materialresources.It also bought them time.

And while they undoubtedlylost many of their followersafterafront-rowviewofwhat

the American military couldand would do, they also hadmany months to beginrecruiting and training abrand-new generation ofsupporters. And now theywere back as an effectivefighting army, launchingguerrilla operations againstthe U.S.-led coalition forcesonly four years after they’dlost power, been driven intoexile, and had nearly beenannihilated.

As we prepared for ourfinal approach to the great,sprawling U.S. base atBagram, the Taliban wereonce again out there, killingaid workers and kidnappingforeign constructionworkers.Parts of eastern and southernAfghanistan have beenofficially designated unsafedue to increasingly daringTaliban attacks. There wasevidencetheywereextendingtheir area of influence,

working closely again withbinLaden’salQaeda,forgingnewallianceswithotherrebelgroups and anti-governmentwarlords. Same way they’dgrabbed power last time,right?Backin1996.Onlythistimetheyhadone

principal ambition beforeseizing power, and that wasto destabilize the U.S.-ledcoalition forces andeventually drive them out ofAfghanistanforever.

I ought to mention thePashtuns, the world’s oldestliving tribal group; there areabout forty-two million ofthem. Twenty-eight millionlive in Pakistan, and 12.5million of them live inAfghanistan;that’s42percentof the entire population.Thereareabout88,000livingin Britain and 44,000 in theU.S.A.In Afghanistan, they live

primarilyinthemountainsof

the northeast, and they alsohave heavily populated areasin the east and south. Theyare a proud people whoadheretoIslamandlivebyastrict code of honor andculture, observing rules andlawsknownasPashtunwalai,which has kept them straightfortwothousandyears.They are also the

quintessential supporters ofthe Taliban. Their warriorsform the backbone of the

Taliban forces, and theirfamilies grant those forcesshelter in high mountainvillages, protecting them andproviding refuge in placesthat would appear almostinaccessible to the Westerneye. That, by the way, doesnot include U.S. NavySEALs,whodohaveWesterneyes but who don’t doinaccessible. We can get inanywhere.It’s easy to see why the

Pashtuns and the Taliban getalong just fine.ThePashtunswerethetribewhorefusedtobuckle under to the army ofthe Soviet Union. They justkept fighting. In thenineteenth century, theyfoughttheBritishtothevergeof surrender and then drovethem back into Pakistan.Three hundred years beforethat,theywipedoutthearmyofAkbar theGreat, themostfearsome of India’s Mogul

rulers.Those Pashtuns are proud

of their stern militaryheritage, and it’s worthremembering that in all thecenturies of bitter, savagewarfare in Baluchistan,duringwhich time theywerenever subdued, half thepopulation was alwaysPashtun.The concept of tribal

heritage is very rigid. Itinvolves bloodlines, amazing

lineages that stretch backthrough the centuries,generation after generation.You can’t join a tribe in theway you can become anAmerican citizen. Tribesdon’thandoutgreencardsorpassports. You either are, oryouaren’t.Language, traditions,

customs, and culture play apart, but, I repeat, you can’tjoin the Pashtuns. And thatgives them all a steel rod of

dignityandself-esteem.Theirvillages may not bestraightforward militarystrongholds as the Talibandesire, but the Pashtuns arenoteasilyintimidated.The people are organized

strictlybyrelationships;malerelationships, that is. Thetribal lineage descends fromthe father’s side, the maleancestors. I understand theydon’t give a damn for Momand her ancestors.

Inheritances are strictly forthe boys, and land rights godirectlytosons.They have a proverb that

says a lot: I against mybrothers; my brothers and Iagainst my cousins; mybrothers, my cousins, and Iagainsttheworld.That’showthey do it. The tightmilitaryformation has, again andagain,allowedthemtoknockeight bells out of moresophisticatedinvaders.

The tribal code,Pashtunwalai, has heavydemands: hospitality,generosity, and the duty toavenge even the slightestinsult. Life among thePashtuns is demanding — itdepends on the respect ofyour peers, relatives, andallies. And that can bedangerous. Only the tribe’sprinciples of honor stand inthe way of anarchy. Atribesman will fight or even

killinordertoavoiddishonortohimselfandhisfamily.And killing throws the

whole system intoconfusion,because death must beavenged; killers and theirfamilies are under permanentthreat. Which puts a big airbrakeonviolence.Accordingto the learned CharlesLindhorn, a professor ofanthropology at BostonUniversity, homicide ratesamong the Pashtun tribes are

way lower than homiciderates in urban areas of theUnitedStates.Iamgratefultotheprofessorforhisteachingsonthissubject.The Taliban creed comes

right out of the Pashtunhandbook: women are thewombs of patrilineage, thefountainheads of tribal honorandcontinuity.Theirsecurityand chasteway of life is theonly guarantee of the purityof the lineage.Thisseclusion

of women is known aspurdah, and it is designed tokeep women concealed,maintaining the household,anditgivesthemahighsenseofhonor.Purdah represents the

status of belonging. Awoman’s husband can gofight the invaders while shecontrols the household,enjoyingtheloveandrespectof her sons, expecting oneday to rule asmatriarchover

herdaughters-in-lawandtheirchildren. That’s the basis ofthe Taliban view of women.And I guess itworks fineupin the Hindu Kush, but itmightnotgoovertoowellindowntownHouston.Anyway,there’sbeenalot

of terrible fighting on thePashtuns’ lands, mostly byoutsiders. But the olePashtunwalai has kept themintact. Their tradition ofgenerous hospitality, perhaps

their finest virtue, includesthe concept of lokhaywarkawal. It means “givingof a pot.” It impliesprotection for an individual,particularly in a situationwhere the tribe might beweaker than its enemies.When a tribe accepts lokhay,itundertakestosafeguardandprotect that individual fromanenemyatallcosts.I, perhaps above all other

Westernvisitors,havereason

tobeeternallygratefulforit.

We were on our finalapproach to the enormousU.S. base at Bagram.Everyone was awake now,seven hours after we leftBahrain. Itwas daylight, anddown belowwe could see atlast the mountains we hadheard so much about andamong which we would beoperational in the coming

weeks.Therewasstillsnowonthe

highpeaks,glitteringwhiteintherisingsun.Andbelowthesnow line, the escarpmentslooked very steep. We weretoo high to pick up villageson themiddle slopes, butweknew they were there, andthat’s where we wereprobablygoinginthenot toodistantfuture.The huge runway at

Bagram runs right down the

side of the complex, pasthundredsandhundredsofbeehuts, lines and linesof them.On the ground we could seeparked aircraft and a wholelot of Chinook helicopters.Wedidn’tworryaboutwhomwe’d have to share with.SEALs are always billetedtogether, separate fromanyone else, thus avoidingloose talk about highlyclassifiedmissions.Allofourmissions are, of course,

highly classified, and we donot talk loosely, but otherbranches of the services arenot so stringently trained asweare,andnoonetakesanychances.Herewewereatlast,inthe

Islamic Republic ofAfghanistan, a country thesize of Texas, landlocked onall sides, protected by thegranite walls of mountains,war torn for years and yearsandstillatit.Justlikealways,

warlordswere trying todriveout theusurpers.Us.Andweweren’t even usurping, justtrying to stopanotherbloodytribal upheaval and anotherregime change from theelectedtothedictators.Boy. It seemed like a hell

of a task. But we wereexcited. This was what wejoined for. In truth,wecouldhardlywaittogetdownthereand get on with it. And in asense, it was pretty simple.

We somehow had to get outintothoseinfamousmountainpasses and put a stop to thisclandestine infiltration offaceless tribal warriorsmaking their way across theborder, doggedly, silently,prepared to fight at the dropofaturban.We knew their track

record, and we knew theycould move around themountainsveryquickly.Theyhad dominated those slopes,

caves, and hideouts forcenturies, turning them intoimpregnable militarystrongholds against allcomers.Andtheyhadalreadyfaced

theSEALsinopencombatupthere,becausetheSEALshadbeen first in. Theywould beprepared, we knew that. Butlike all SEAL operationalteams, we believed we werebetter than everyone else, sothe goddamned Taliban had

betterwatchit.Danny,Shane,James,Axe,

Mikey, and I.We were hereon business, trained to theminute,armedtotheteeth,allset todrive thearmiesof theTaliban and al Qaeda rightback to where they camefrom, seize the leaders, andget rid of anyone toodangeroustolive.Andrestoreordertothemountains.Iwaseight thousandmiles

fromhome,butIcoulde-mail

my family and loved ones. Iwas a bit light on homecomforts, but I had in myrucksackaDVDplayerandaDVD of my favorite movie,The Count of Monte Cristo,from the novel byAlexandreDumas père. It’s always aninspiration to me, alwaysraisesmyspiritstowatchonebrave, innocentman’s lonelyfight against overpoweringforces of evil in anunforgivingworld.

That’s my kind of stuff.Backstothewall.Nevergivein. Courage, risks, daringbeyond compare. I neverthought my own problemswould very shortly mirror,albeit briefly, those ofEdmond Dantès and thehopelessness of his years inthe grim island fortress ofChateaud’If.And I never thought those

unforgettable words hecarved with flintstones, into

the granite walls of thecruelest of jails, would alsoprovide me with hope; aforlorn hope, but hopenonetheless. During the perilof my own darkest hours, Ithought of those words overand over, more times than Icare to admit:God will givemejustice.

3

ASchoolforWarriors

Itwaspitchdark,andhewaswearingsunglasses,wraparound,shinyblack...“Mostofyouaren’t

goingtobehereinacoupleofmonths,”saidInstructorReno...“Ifyouguysdon’tstartpullingtogetherasateam,noneofyouwillbehere.”

ThesixSEALsfromBahrainlanded in Bagram, innortheastAfghanistan,shortlyafter first light. I realize Ihave just spent two entirechapters essentially pointing

outwhat amomentous eventthatwas, our arrival toworkwiththeelitemountaintroopsof the U.S. Army. It hasoccurredtomethatyoumightbe wondering why wethought we were sogoddamned superior toeveryone else, why we feltentitled to our own privatebrandofarrogance.Notwishing to behaunted

byanyone’sdoubtsaboutmeandmyteammates,Ipropose

to explain right now, beforewegetmoving,preciselywhywe felt this way about theworld. It’s not some form ofpremature triumph, and itwould be absurd to call itmereconfidence.ThatwouldbelikecallingthePacificwet.It’s a higher form of

consciousness, and I do notmean that to be pretentious.It’s been said that only thevery rich understand thedifference between

themselvesand thepoor, andonly the truly brilliantunderstand the differencebetween themselves and therelativelydumb.Well, only men who have

gone through what we wentthrough can understand thedifferencebetweenusandtherest. In themilitary,even therest understand what it takestoscaletheheightsofcombatexcellence.Andinmycase,itstarted inauspiciously. Way

down on the ranch, withMom in tears, refusing toleavethehousetoseemego.March7,1999.Iwastwenty-three.To say that I was not

making amazing headway inmy hometown would be anunderstatement. ThereputationMorgan and I hadwasnotassistingeitherofus.There were always guysshowing up wondering howtoughwereallywere.Iguess

mydadconsidereditamatterof timebeforeoneofuswasfaced with a low-flyingpugilist and either hurtsomeone badly or got badlyhurt himself. And so Idecided to get out of townand join the U.S. NavySEALs. Morgan thought itwas a great idea, and heintroducedme toa recruitingofficer in a nearby town,PettyOfficerFirstClassBeauWalsh. He steered me down

to the military enlistmentprocessing station inHouston; that’s navyrecruitment.Naturally, I told them

immediately there was noneed for me to attend bootcamp. Iwas alreadyway tooadvancedforthat.Yessir,I’llgo straight to Coronado,wherethebigdogseat.That’swhat I’m all about, I’m ahalf-trainedSEALalready.They sent me directly to

boot camp. I signed thepapersandpreparedtoreportfor duty in a few days. As Ileft the ranch, it was not areal ceremony of departure,but everyone was there,including Beau Walsh andBilly Shelton. As previouslystated, Mom caved in andretreatedtothehouse,unableto witness the departure ofherbaby.Thatwasme.My destination was more

than a thousand miles to the

north,NavyRecruitTrainingCommand (RTC) in GreatLakes, Illinois. And I cantruthfully say, itwaswhere Ispent the most miserableeightweeksofmyentirelife.I had never even seen snow,andIarrivedinthemiddleofthe worst blizzard that bootcamp had seen in elevenyears. It was like sending aZulutotheNorthPole.Thatwind and snow came

howling in across Lake

Michigan, blasting its wayontothewesternshorewherewe were situated, thirty-fivemilesnorthofChicago.Righton the water. I could notbelieve the sheer misery ofthat freezing weather. Thecamp was a gigantic place,with hundreds of recruitstrying to make thatmiraculous transformationfrom civilian to U.S. Navysailor. It was a drasticmetamorphosis, both mental

and physical, and it wouldhavebeendifficultenoughinfineweather.But in that ice,snow,andwind,Jesus.Wordsfailme.I’d never needed winter

clothes, and I had none. Iremember being extremelypleasedwhenthenavyissuedeveryone the right gear —thick socks, boots, dark bluetrousers, shirts, sweaters, andcoats. They told us how tofold and store everything,

showed us how to make ourbunks every morning.Withoutmissing a beat, theyput us straight into physicaltraining, running, workingout, marching, drilling, andmanyclasses.Ididn’thavemuchtrouble,

and I excelled in theswimming pool. Therequirements were to enterthe water feetfirst from aminimumheight of five feet,remain afloat for five

minutes, and then swim fiftyyards using any stroke. Icould have done that in mysleep, especially withouthaving to worry about theoccasional alligator or watermoccasin.The running would not

have been that bad in decentweather, but the campuswasabsolutely frigid, and thewindoffthelakewascutting.A penguin would have hadtrouble out there. We ran

through snow, marchedthrough snow, andmade ourwaytoclassesthroughsnow.Inthatfirstweek,whilewe

were trying toavoid freezingto death, they instilled in usthreewordswhichhavebeenwith me ever since. Honor,Courage, Commitment, themotto of the United StatesNavy, the core values thatimmediately became theideals we all lived by. I canremember to this day an

instructor telling us, “Whatyou make of this experiencehere at Great Lakes is whatwill make you as a person.”Hewasright.Ihope.In the second week, they

put us through theConfidence Course. This isdesigned to simulateemergency conditions in aU.S. Navy warship. Theytaught us to be sharp, self-reliant, and, above all, tomakekeydecisionsonwhich

our lives and those of ourshipmatesmightdepend.Thatword:teamwork.Itdominatesand infiltrates every singleaspect of life in the navy. Inbootcamp,theydon’tjusttellyou, they indoctrinate you.Teamwork. It was the newdriving force in all of ourlives.Weekthree,theyputuson

board a landbound trainingship. Everything was hands-on training. We learned the

nameofnearlyeveryworkingpartof thatship.Theytaughtus first aid techniques,signaling ship to ship withflags (semaphore). We spentalotoftimeintheclassroom,where we focused on navycustoms and courtesies, thelaws of armed conflict,shipboard communication,ship and aircraftidentification, and basicseamanship.All this was interspersed

with physical training tests,sit-ups,sit-reaches,andpush-ups. I was fine with all ofthose,buttheone-and-a-half-mile run in that weatherwouldhavetestedthestaminaof a polar bear.They told usanyone who failed couldcomebackandtakeitagain.Idecided I would rather runbarefoot across the Arcticthantakeitagain.Gaveitmyall.Passed,thankGod.During week four, we got

ourhandsonsomeweaponryfor the first time— theM16rifle. Iwas pretty quickwiththat part of the course,especially on the live-firerange. After that, the navyconcentrated on which paththrough the service everyonewantedtotake.Thatwasalsoeasy for me. Navy SEALs.Nobullshit,right?The firefighting and

shipboard damage-controlcoursecamenext.Andweall

learned how to extinguishfires, escape smoke-filledcompartments, open andclose watertight doors,operate the oxygen breathingapparatus, and move firehoses around. The last partwas the worst — theConfidence Chamber. Youget in there with your classandputonagasmask.Thensomeoneunleashesa tear-gastablet, and you have to takeoff your mask, throw it in a

trashcan,andreciteyourfullname and Social Securitynumber.Every single recruit who

joins the navy has to endurethat exercise.At the end, theinstructorsmake itclear:youhavewhat it takes.There’s aplaceinthenavyforyou.The final task is called

battle stations. Teams arepresented with twelvesituations, all of which havebeen addressed during the

previousweeks.Thisiswherethey grade the recruits,individually and as teams.Whenyou’vecompleted this,thetrainerspresentyouwithaU.S. Navy ball cap, and thattellstheworldyouarenowasailor. You have proved youbelong, proved you have therightstuff.The following week, I

graduated, in my brand-newdress uniform. I rememberpassingthemirrorandhardly

recognizing myself. Standingtall, right there. There’ssomething about graduatingfrom boot camp; I guess it’smostly pride in yourself.Butyoualsoknowalotofpeoplecouldn’thavedone it.Makesyou feel pretty good.Especially someone like me,whosemajoraccomplishmentthus farhad involvedhurlingsome half-drunk cowboy outofanEastTexasbarandintothestreetonhisear.

After I graduated, I flewimmediately to San Diego,headed to Coronado Islandand the navy amphibiousbase. I made my way therealone, a couple of weeksearly, and spent my timeorganizing my uniforms,gear,androoms,andtryingtogetintosomesortofshape.Mostofushadlostalotof

condition at boot campbecause the weather was sobad. You couldn’t just jog

outside and go for a runbecause of the blizzards andthe deep snow. Perhaps yourememberthatverybraveguywhomade the journey to theSouth Pole with the RoyalNavy officer, Robert FalconScott,in1912.Hebelievedhewashinderingtheentireteambecause of his frostbite.CaptainOateswas his name,and he crawled out into aragingblizzardonenightwiththe immortal words, “I am

going outside now. Imay begoneforsometime.”Theyneverfoundhisbody,

and I have never forgottenreading his words. Guts-ball,right?Well, going outside atGreatLakeswouldhavebeena bit like that, and almost asbrave. Unlike the gallantcaptain, we stayed by theheater.And now we were going

for runs along the beach,trying to get in shape for the

first week of Indoctrination.That’s the two-week courseknown as Indoc, where theSEALs prepare you for thefabled BUD/S course (BasicUnderwater Demolition/-SEALs). That one lasts forseven months and is a lotharder thanIndoc.But ifyoucan’t get through the initialpretraining endurance test,then you ought not to be inCoronado, and they don’twantyouanyway.

Theofficialnavy literatureabout the reason for Indocreads: “To physically,mentallyandenvironmentallyprepare qualified SEALcandidates to begin BUD/Straining.”Generallyspeaking,the instructorsdonot turnonthe pressure during Indoc.You’re only revving up fortheupcomingtrialbyfire.But they stillmake it very

tough for everyone, officersand enlisted men alike. The

SEAL programs make nodistinction betweencommissioned officerscoming in from the fleet andthe rest of us.We’re all in ittogether, and the first thingthey instill inyouat Indoc isthatyouwillliveandtrainasaclass,asateam.Sorry.DidI say instill in you? Imeant,ram home with a jack-hammer. Teamwork. Theyslam that word at you everyother minute. Teamwork.

Teamwork.Teamwork.Thisisalsowhereyoufirst

understand the concept of aswimbuddy,which inSEALethosisanabsolutelygiganticdeal. You work with yourbuddy as a team. You neverseparate,noteventogotothejohn. In IBS (that stands for“inflatable boat, small”)training, if one of you fallsoverthesideintothefreezingocean, the other joins him.Immediately.Inthepool,you

arenevermorethananarm’slength away.Lateron, in theBUD/S course proper, youcan be failed out of hand,thrown out, for not stayingclose enough to your swimbuddy.Thisallcomesbacktothat

ironclad SEAL folklore —weneverleaveamanbehindon the battlefield, dead oralive. No man is ever alone.Whatever the risk to theliving, however deadly the

opposing fire, SEALs willfight through the jaws ofdeath to recover the remainsof a fallen comrade. It’s amaxim that has survivedsince the SEALs were firstformed in 1962, and it stillappliestoday.It’s a strange thing really,

but it’s not designed to helpwidows and parents of lostmen. It’s designed for theSEALs who actually do thefighting. There’s something

about coming home, and weall want to achieve that,preferably alive. But there isacertainprivatehorroraboutbeing killed and then leftbehind in a foreign land, nograveathome,nolovedonesto visit your final restingplace.Iknowthatsoundskindof

nuts, but nonetheless, it’strue. Every one of ustreasures that knowledge:Nomatterwhat,Iwillnotbeleft

behind,Iwillbetakenhome.We are all prepared to giveeverything.And in the end itdoes not seem too much toask in return, sincewe fight,almostwithout exception, onthe enemy’s ground, not ourown.ThatWorldWar I English

poet and serving soldierRupertBrookeunderstoodtheBrits do not traditionallybring home their war dead.Andheexpresseditright:“If

Ishoulddie,thinkonlythisofme: / That there’s somecorner of a foreign field /That is forever England.”There’s not a Navy SEALanywhere in the world whodoes not understand thoselines and why Brooke wrotethem.It’s a sacredpromise tous

from our high command.That’s why it gets drummedintousfromtheveryfirstdayinCoro-nado— you are not

going tobealone.Ever.Andyou’re not going to leaveyourswimbuddyalone.I suffered aminor setback

in the early part of thatsummerwhen Iwas inClass226. I managed to fall fromaboutfiftyfeetupaclimbingropeandreallyhurtmythigh.The instructor rushed up tome and demanded, “Youwanttoquit?”“Negative,”Iresponded.“Then get right back up

there,” he said. I climbedagain, fell again, butsomehow I kept going. Theleg hurt like hell, but I kepttrainingforanothercoupleofweeks before the medicsdiagnosedacrackedfemur! Iwas immediately on crutchesbut still hobbling along thebeach and into the surf withthe rest of them. Battleconditions,right?Eventually, when the leg

healed, I was put back and

thenjoinedBUD/SClass228in December for phase two.We lived in a small barracksright behind the BUD/Sgrinder. That’s the blacktopsquarewherea successionofSEAL instructors have laidwaste to thousands of hopesanddreamsanddrivenmentowithinaninchoftheirlives.Those instructors have

watched men drop, watchedthemfail,watchedthemquit,and watched them quietly,

with ice-cold, expressionlessfaces. That’s not heartless;it’s because they were onlyinterested in the others, theones who did not crack orquit. The ones who wouldratherdiethanquit.Theoneswithnoquitinthem.Itwasonlythefirstdayof

Indoc,andmylittleroomwaspositioned right next to theshowers. Showers, by theway, is a word so polite it’sdamn near a euphemism.

Theywereshowers,okay,butnot in the accepted, civilizedsense.Theywereawholelotclosertoagoddamncarwashand were known as thedecontamination unit.Someone cranked ’em up ataround0400,andthehowlofcompressed air and freezingcold pressurized waterforcingitswaythroughthosepipes sounded like someonewastryingtostrangleasteamengine.

Jesus.First timeIheard it,I thought we were underattack.But I knew the drill: get

into my canvas UDT swimtrunks and then get underthoseice-coldwaterjets.Theshock was unbelievable, andtoamanwehatedit,andwehated it for as long as wewere forced through it. Thedamn thing was actuallydesigned to power wash oursand-covered gear when we

returned from thebeach.Theshockwasreducedsomewhatthen because everyone hadjust been in the PacificOcean.Butrightoutofbedatfour o’clock in the morning!Wow! That was beyondreason,andIcanstillhearthesound of those screaming,hissingwaterpipes.Freezing cold andwet,we

reported to the training poolto roll and stow the covers.Then,shortlybefore0500, in

thepitchdark,welineduponthe grinder and sat in rows,chest to back, very close, toconserve body heat. Therewere supposed to be 180 ofus, but for various reasonsthere were only 164 of usassigned.We had a class leader by

now, Lieutenant DavidIsmay,aNavalAcademymanand former Rhodes Scholarwho’d had two years at seaand was now a qualified

surfacewarfareofficer.Davidwas desperate to achieve hislifelongdreamofbecomingaSEAL. He had to do thisright. Officers only got oneshot at BUD/S. They weresupposedtoknowbetter thantowasteanyone’stimeiftheyweren’tuptoit.The man we all awaited

was our proctor. That’s theinstructor assigned to guideus, teach us, torture us,observeus,andget ridofus,

if necessary. He wasInstructor Reno Alberto, afive-foot-six man-mountainof fitness, discipline, andintelligence. He was aruthless, cruel, unrelentingtaskmaster. Andwe all grewto love him for two reasons.Hewasscrupulouslyfair,andhe wanted the best for us.You put out for InstructorReno, he was just a superguy. You failed to give himyourabsolutebest,he’dhave

you out of there and back tothe fleet before you couldsay,“Aye,aye,sir.”He arrived at 0500 sharp.

Andwe’dhavearitualwhichwas never broken. This washowitwent:“Feet!” shouted the class

leader.“Feet!” An echoing roar

ripped into the still night airasnearly164ofusrespondedand jumped to our feet,attempting to move into

ranks.“InstructorRee-no!”called

theclassleader.“Hooyah, Instructor Ree-

no!” we bellowed as onevoice.Get used to that: hooyah.

We don’t say yes, or rightaway, or thanks a lot, orunderstand and will comply.Wesayhooyah.It’saBUD/Sthing, and its origins are lostinantiquity.There’ssomanyexplanations,Iwon’tevengo

there. Just so you know,that’s how students respondtoaninstructor,ingreetingorcommand acceptance.Hooyah.Forsomereason,Instructor

Reno was the only one whowas unfailingly addressed byhis first name.All the otherswere Instructor Peterson orMatthews or Henderson.Only Reno Alberto insistedon being called by his firstname.Ialwaysthoughtitwas

good they didn’t call himFredorSpike.Renosoundedgoodonhim.When he walked onto the

grinder that morning, wecould tell we were in thepresenceofamajorman.AsImentioned, it was pitch darkand he was wearingsunglasses, wraparound,shiny black. It seemed henever took themoff,nightorday.Actually, one time Ididcatch himwithout them, and

as soon as he saw me, hereached into his pocket andimmediately put ’em onagain.I think it was because he

never wanted us to see theexpression in his eyes.Beneath that stern, relentlessexterior, he was asuperintelligent man — andhecouldnothavefailedtobeamusedatthedailyAttilatheHunactheputonforus.Butheneverwantedustoseethe

amusement in his eyes, andthat was why he nevershowedthem.Onthisdark,slightlymisty

morning he stood with hisarms foldedandgazedat thetrainingpool.Thenhe turnedbacktousandstaredhard.We had no idea what to

expect. And Instructor Renosaid without expression,“Drop.”“Drop!” we roared back.

Andweallstruggleddownto

the concrete and assumed aposition for push-ups, armsextended, bodiesoutstretched,rigid.“Push’emout,”saidReno.“Push-ups,” snapped the

classleader.“Push-ups,” we

responded.“Down.”“One.”“Down.”“Two.”We counted out every one

ofthetwentypush-upsintheset then returned to the restposition, arms outstretched.The class leader called out,“InstructorRee-no.”“Hooyah, Instructor Ree-

no,”weroared.He ignored us. Then said

quietly, “Push ’em out.” Ashe did twice more, at whichpointhe left uswithmuscleson fire in the straight-arm,outstretched restposition.Heactually left us there for

almost five minutes, andeveryone’s arms werethrobbing. Eighty push-upsand now this new kind ofagony, which ended onlywhen he said, very slowly,veryquietly,“Recover.”We all yelled, “Feet!” in

response, and somehow westoodupwithoutfallingover.ThenDavid Ismaycalledoutthe wrong number of menpresent. Not his fault.Someone had simply

vanished. Reno was ontoyoungDaveinaflash.Idon’tquiterememberwhathesaid,but his phrase contained theloud pronunciation of thewordwrong.AndheorderedLieutenant

Ismay and our leading pettyofficer student, “Drop, andpush ’em out.” I rememberthatfirstdaylikeithappenedthis week. We sat andwatched Dave complete hispush-ups. And when they’d

doneit,damnnearexhausted,they called out, “Hooyah,InstructorReno!”“Push ’emout,” saidReno

softly. And, somehow, theyset off on twenty morerepetitions of this killerdiscipline. Finally theyfinished, doubtlesswondering,liketherestofus,what the hell they had letthemselves in for. But I betthey never called out thewrongnumberofmenpresent

everagain.I now understand that

SEALethos—everyofficer,commissioned ornoncommissioned, mustknow the whereabouts ofevery single one of hismen.No mistakes. At that earlystageinourtraining,ourclassleader, David Ismay, did notknow.Reno,who’donlybeenwith us for about fifteenminutes,did.Again, he surveyed his

kingdom and then spokeflatly. “Most of you aren’tgoing to be here in a coupleof months,” said InstructorReno. And, as if blamingeach and every one of usindividually for the wrongheadcount,headded,“Ifyouguys don’t start pullingtogether as a team, none ofyouwillbehere.”He then told us we were

again about to take the basicBUD/S screening test. I

graphically recall himremindinguswe’dallpasseditonceinordertomakeitthisfar.“Ifyoucan’tpassitagainthis morning,” he added,“you’llbebackinthefleetassoonaswecanshipyouout.”At this stage, no one was

feeling...well...wanted. Infact, we were beginning tofeelabandonedinthisworld-renowned military coliseum—acoliseumwheresomeonewas about to bring on the

lions.Beforeuswasthefive-pointscreeningtest:

1. A 500-yard swim,breaststroke or sidestroke, in12minutes,30seconds

2.Aminimumof42push-upsin2minutes

3. A minimum of 50 sit-upsin2minutes

4. A minimum of 6 dead-hangpull-ups

5. A 1.5-mile run in 11minutes, 30 seconds, donewhilewearingbootsandlongpantsOnly one guy failed to

complete. In fact,most of usdid markedly better than wehad the first time. I recall Imanaged close to eightypush-ups and a hundred sit-

ups. Iguess theapparitionofBilly Shelton was standinghard by my shoulder, tryingto frighten the life out ofmeandreadytothrowmeoutofthenavyifIblewit.More important, Instructor

Reno was watching us witheyeslikeafighterjet’sradar.He told me several monthslater he knew I was puttingout for him. Made up hismindaboutmerightthenandthere. Told me he’d never

changed it either. Gooddecision.Igiveiteverything.On time. Every time. Mightnot always be good enough,but it’s always my very bestshot.Lookingback,I’mnotsure

that early test showed verymuch. There were a lot ofheavily muscled,bodybuilding types wholooked pretty ferocious. Iremember they were amongthe very first to go, because

they just couldn’t hack it.Their legs and upper bodieswerejusttooheavy.The SEALs do place a

premium on brute strength,but there’s an even biggerpremium on speed. That’sspeed through the water,speed over the ground, andspeed of thought. There’s noprizes for a gleaming set ofwell-oiled muscles inCoronado. Bulk just makesyou slow, especially in soft

sand,and that’swhatwehadto tackle every day of ourlives,mileaftermile.On this first morning of

Class 226, we immediatelylearnedanothervaluepeculiarto BUD/S. We don’t stroll,walk, or even jog. We run.We actually run like hell.Everywhere. All day.Remember that great TomHanks line in A League ofTheir Own, “There’s nocryinginbaseball”?Well,we

have a line in Coronado:There’s no walking inBUD/S.Our first encounter with

this cruel and heartless rulecame when it was time forbreakfast.Thechowhallwasamileaway,sowehadtoruntwomiles— there and back— for a plate of toast, eggs,and bacon. Same for lunch.Same for dinner. For anyonemathematically challenged,that’ssixmileseverydayjust

to find something to eat,nothingtodowithourregulardaily training runs, whichoften added up to anothereightmiles.That morning we ran in

formation all the way acrossthenavalamphibiousbase tothe Special Warfare Center.And there Instructor Reno,after about a thousand push-ups and God knows whatelse,finallyhadusseatedandpaying attention in amanner

whichsatisfiedhim.Thiswasnoteasy,becausehehadeyeslike a sea eagle and somekindofahigh-flyingbusinessdegree from USC. He knewprecisely what was required,andhemissednothing.And righthere Ineeded to

remember a lesson drummedintomefromanearlyagebyBillyShelton:whenaspecialforces commander makeseven a slight reference to anissue that may be helpful,

listen and thendo it. Even ifit was an aside, not a propercommand, maybe evenstarting with I think it mightbeagoodidea...Always pay attention and

then carry out the task, nomatter how minor it mayseem. Billy’s point was thatthese SF instructors werelooking for the best, and itmight be only small thingsthat separate guys who areverygoodfromguyswhoare

absolutely excellent,outstanding. “Listen,Marcus,” Billy told me,“always listen, and alwaysjump all over anything yourinstructortellsyou.Getoutinfront. Fast. Then make sureyoustaythere.”Well, that morning,

Instructor Reno pulledhimself up to his full heightof about fifteen feet, in myeyes,andtoldushewantedtotalk to us briefly, and we

better pay attention. “Betteryet,takenotes.”I was into my zipper bag

instantly, getting hold of adrynotebookandacoupleofpencils, the lesson of BillyShelton ringing in my ears:even an aside, even asuggestion,doit.I looked around the room,

and a few others were doingthe same as I was, but noteveryone, by no meanseveryone. Some of them just

sat there gazing at InstructorReno, who suddenly said,mildly, “How many of youhavepencilandpaper?”I stuckmy hand up, along

with the other guyswho hadthem. And suddenly therewasalooklikeastormcloudonReno’sface.“Drop! All of you!” he

bellowed. And there was anunbelievable commotion aschairswerescrapedbackandwe all hit the floor in the

straight-arm rest position.“Push’emout!”hesnapped.Andwemadethetwentythenwereleftintherestposition.He stared at us and said,

“Listen. You were told tohaveapencil andpaperwithyouatalltimes.Sowhydon’tyou? Why the hell don’tyou!”The room went stone

silent.Renoglared.AndsinceIwasnotabletowritewhileIwas prostrate on the floor

supporting myself with thepalms of my hands, I can’tsayverbatimtheexactwordshe said,but Ibet I cancomedamnclose.“This is a school for

warriors,understand?Thisisthe most serious businessthere is. And if you don’twanttodoit,thengetthehelloutrightnow.”Christ. Hewas not joking,

and I just hoped to hell heknew who had pencil and

paperandwhodidn’t.Monthslater I reminded him of thatday and asked him. “Ofcourse I knew,” he said,adjusting his sunglasses. “Itwas your first test. I had thenames of the guys who paidattentionwrittendownbeforeyou’ddoneyour first twenty.And I still remember youwereonthatlist.”Anyway, that first

morning, we did anothercouple of sets of push-ups

and somehow gasped out aloud Hooyah, InstructorReno! And then he let us sitdownagain.What followed was

probably the most sternlecture in SEAL ethos andethics I’ve ever attended. Idid take notes, and I recalleverythinghetoldus,andI’lltry to relate it as I believeRenowouldwish.“This is high-risk training.

And we define that as

anywhere there is potentialfor serious injury or loss oflife.Anyofyouseeanythingunsafe,oranysituationwhereyou may be in unnecessarydanger, speak upimmediately.We do not likemistakes,understandme?”“Hooyah!”“Always remember your

own accountability, toyourselves, your superiors,and your teammates. Thechain of command is sacred.

Use it. Keep your boat-crewleadersandyourclassleadersinformed of any digressionfrom the normal. And staywith your swim buddy. Idon’t care if you’re going tothe head, you stay rightwithhim.Understood?”“Hooyah!”“Respect. I expect you to

showcompleterespectfortheinstructor staff, the classofficers, and the senior pettyofficers. You are in the

military. You will becourteous at all times.Understood?”“Hooyah!”“Integrity, gentlemen.You

don’tlie,cheat,orsteal.Ever.Youloseanitemofgear,youput in a chit and report it.You do not take someoneelse’s gear. I won’t pretendthathasnothappenedhereinthe past. Because it has. Butthose guys were instantlyfinished. Their feet never

touched the ground. Theywere gone. That day. Youwill respect your classmate.Andhisgear.Youdonottakewhat is not yours.Understood?”“Hooyah!”“I’myourclassproctorfor

the next twoweeks.And I’llhelp you, if you need help,over matters of pay, family,andpersonalconcerns.Ifyougetinjured,gotomedicalandget it fixedandgetback into

training. I’m your proctor.Notyourmother.I’mheretoteach you. You stay in thebox, I’ll help you. You getoutside the box, I’ll hammeryou.Understood?”“Hooyah!”“Finally, reputation. And

your reputation begins righthere. And so does thereputationofClassTwo-two-six.Andthat’sareflectiononme.It’saresponsibilityItakevery personally. Because

reputation is everything. Inlife, andespecially righthereinCoronado.Sostayfocused.Keep your head right in thegame. Put out a hundredpercent at all times, becausewe’llknowifyoudon’t.Andnever, ever, leave your swimbuddy.Anyquestions?”“Negative!”Who could ever forget

that?Notme. I can still hearinmymindthesharpcrackasInstructorReno snapped shut

his notebook. It sounded tome like Moses, hammeringtogether the granite slabswhich held the 10Commandments. That Renowasafive-foot-six-inchgiant.Hewassomepresenceinourlives.That day we bailed out of

theclassroomandwent forafour-mile run along thebeach. Three times hestoppedus and toldus togetin the surf and “get wet and

sandy.”Our boots were

waterloggedandeachpassingmile was murder. We nevercouldget the sandoutofourshorts.Ourskinwaschafing,andRenodidn’tgiveadamn.At the end of the run, heordered us to drop and startpushing ’emout.He gave ustwo sets of twenty, and righttowardtheendofthefirstset,I noticed he was doing theexercise with us. Except he

wasusing only one arm, andhe didn’t even look like hewasbreathinghard.That guy could have arm

wrestled a half-ton gorilla.And just the sight of himcruisingthroughthepush-upsalongside us gave us a fairideaofthestandardoffitnessandstrengthrequiredforustomakeitthroughBUD/S.As we prepared to make

themile run to thechowhallaround noon, Reno told us

calmly, “Remember, there’sjust a few of you here whowe’d probably have to killbefore you’d quit. We knowthat, and I’ve alreadyidentifiedsomeofyou.That’swhat I am here to find out.Which of you can take thepain and the cold and themisery. We’re here to findout who wants it most.Nothing more. Some of youwon’t,someofyoucan’tandnever will. No hard feelings.

Justdon’twasteourtimeanylongerthannecessary.”Thanksabunch,Reno.Just

can’t understand why youhavetosugarcoateverything.Whynotjusttellitlikeitis?Ididn’t say that, of course.Four hours with the pocketbattleship of Coronado hadslammed a very hefty lid onmypersonalwellofsmart-assremarks. Besides, he’dprobably have broken mypelvis, since he couldn’t

possibly have reached mychin.We had a new instructor

for thepool,andwewerealldriven through the ice-coldjets of the decontaminationunit toget ridof the sandonour skin. That damn thingwouldhaveblastedthescalesoff a fresh haddock. Afterthat,we piled into thewater,split into teams, and beganswimming the first of abouttenmillion lengthswewould

complete before our years ofservice to the navy werecomplete.They concentrated on

buoyancycontrolandsurfaceswimming for the first fewdays, made us stretch ourbodies,madeuslongerinthewater,timingus,stressingthegolden rule for all youngSEALs—youmustbegoodin thewater, nomatterwhat.And right here the attritionbegan. One guy couldn’t

swimatall!AnothersworetoGod he had been told byphysicians thathe shouldnotput his head underwaterunder any circumstanceswhatsoever!That was two down. They

made us swim withoutputting our heads up, taughtustorollourheadssmoothlyin thewater and breathe thatway, keeping the surfacecalm, instead of sticking ourmouths up for a gulp of air.

Theyshowedus the standardSEAL swim method, a kindof sidestroke that is ultra-efficient with flippers. Theytaught us the technique ofkick, stroke, and glide, thebeginning of the fantasticSEALunderwatersystemthatenablesustogaugedistancesandswimbeneaththesurfacewithastoundingaccuracy.They taught us to swim

like fish, not humans, andthey made us swim laps of

the pool using our feet only.They kept telling us that forotherbranchesofthemilitary,waterisapainintheass.Forus, it’s a haven. They wererelentlessabouttimes,alwaystrying to make us faster,hitting thestopwatchesa fewseconds sooner every day.They insisted brute strengthwas never the answer. Theonly way to find speed wastechnique, and then moretechnique. Nothing else

would work. And that wasjustthefirstweek.In the second, they

switchedustotrainingalmostentirely underwaterthroughout the rest of thecourse.Nothingserious.Theyjust bound our anklestogether and then bound ourwrists together behind ourbacks and shovedus into thedeep end. This caused acertain amount of panic, butour instructions were clear:

Take a huge gulp of air anddroptothebottomofthepoolinthestandingposition.Holdit there for at least aminute,bobupfornewair,thendropback down for anotherminute,ormoreifyoucould.The instructors swam

alongsideuswearingfinsandmasks, looking likeporpoises,kindoffriendly,inthe end, but at first glance alotlikesharks.Theissuewaspanic. If amanwasprone to

losing it under the waterwhenhewasboundhandandfoot, then he was probablynevergoing tobea frogman;the fear is too deeplyinstilled.Thiswasahugeadvantage

for me. I’d been operatingunderwater with Morgansince I was about ten yearsold. I’d always been able toswimonorbelowthesurface.And I’d been taught to holdmy breath for two minutes,

minimum. I worked hard,gave it all Icould,andneverstrayed more than about afoot from my swim buddy.Unlessitwasarace,whenheremainedonshore.I was leader in the fifty-

yard underwater swimwithout fins. I already knewthe secret to underwaterswimming:getrealdeep,realearly.You can’t get paid forfinding the car keys if youcan’tgetdownthereandstay

down.Attheend,theygradedusunderwater.Iwasupthere.Throughout this week we

took ropes with usunderwater. There was aseriesofnavalknots thathadto be completed deep belowthe surface. I can’t actuallyrememberhowmanyguyswelost during thatdrownproofing part of theIndoc training, but it wasseveral.Thatsecondweekwasvery

hardforalotofguys,andmymemory is clear: theinstructors preachedcompetence in all techniquesand exercises. Because thenextweek,whenphaseoneoftheBUD/S coursebegan,wewere expected to carry it allout. The BUD/S instructorswould assume we couldaccomplish everything fromIndocwithease.Anyonewhocouldn’twasgone.TheIndocchiefs would not be thanked

for sending up substandardguysforthetoughestmilitarytrainingintheworld.And while we were

jumping in and out of thepoolandthePacific,wewerealso subjected to a stringentregime of physical training,high-pressure calisthenics.Not for us the relativelysmoothsurfaceofthegrinder,the blacktop square in themiddle of the BUD/Scompound. The Indoc boys,

notyetqualifiedeven to jointhe hallowed ranks of theBUD/S students, werebanished to the beach outbehindthecompound.And there Instructor Reno

and his men did their levelbest to level us. Oh, for thegoodolddaysoftwentyarm-tearing push-ups. Notanymore. Out here it wasusually fifty at a time, allinterspersed with exercisesdesignedtobalanceandhone

various muscle groups,especially arms and abs. Theinstructors were consumedwith abdominal strength, thereasons for which are nowobvious: the abdomen is thebedrock of a warrior’sstrength for climbing rocksand ropes, rowing, lifting,swimming, fighting, andrunning.BackthereinIndoc,wedid

not really get that. All weknew was the SEAL

instructors were putting usthroughhellonadailybasis.My personal hell was theflutterkick:lieonyourback,legs dead straight and sixinches off the sand, pointyour toes,andthenkickas ifyou were doing thebackstroke in the pool. Anddon’t even consider puttingyourlegsdown,becausetherewere instructorswalkingpastat all times, like they weremembers of a firing squad

undertheordersofthePrinceofDarkness.Onetimeearlyon,thepain

in the nerves and tendonsbehind my thighs and backwas so intense, I letmy feetdrop. Actually, I droppedthem three times, and you’dhave thought I’d committedmurder. The first time, therewasaroarofanguishfromaninstructor; the second time,someone calledme a faggot;andthethirdtime,therewasa

roar of anguish and someoneelsecalledmeafaggot.Eachtime, I was ordered to gostraight into the ice-coldPacificthencomeoutandrollinthesand.It wasn’t until the third

time I realized that nearlyeveryone was in the Pacificand then rolling in the sand.We all looked like creaturesfrom theBlackLagoon.Andstill they drove us forward,making us complete those

exercises.Itwasfunnyreally,but within four or five days,those flutter kicks were noproblem at all.Andwewereallawholelotfitterforthem.All?Well,most.Twoorthreeguysjustcouldnottakeitandfluttered their way right outof there with smiles on theirfaces.Me? I hung in there,

callingouttheexercisecount,doing the best I could,cursing the hell out of Billy

Shelton for getting me intothis nuthouse in the firstplace, even though it wasplainlynothisfault.I completed the exercises

with obviousmotivation, notbecauseIwastryingtomakea favorable impression butbecause I would do nearlyanything to avoid runninginto the freezing ocean andthen rolling in the sand.Andthat was the consequence ofnot trying. Those instructors

nevermissedaslacker.Everycoupleofminutes somepoorbastard was told, “Get wetandsandy.”Wasn’t that bad, though.

RightafterwefinishedthePTclass and staggered to ourfeet, Instructor Reno, god ofallthemercies,wouldsenduson a four-mile run throughthe soft sand, runningalongsideusathalfspeed(forhim), exhorting us to greatereffort, barking instructions,

harassing, cajoling. Thoserunswere unbelievably hard,especially for me, and Ilabored in the secondhalf ofthe field trying to force mylonglegstogofaster.Reno knew damn well I

was trying my best, but inthoseearlydayshe’dcalloutmy name and tell me to getgoing. Then he’d tell me toget wet and sandy, and I’drun into theocean,bootsandall. Then I’d have to try and

catch up with boots full ofwater. I guess he knew Icould take it, but I cannotbelieve he was not laughinghisassoffbehindthoseblacksunglasses.Still,eventuallyitwouldbe

lunchtime, and it was onlyanothermiletogetsomethingto eat. And all the time theywere telling us about diet,whattoeat,whatnevertoeat,howoftentoeat.Jesus.Itwasamiracleanyofusevermade

it to the chow hall, nevermindstudyourdiets.Therewasalsotheobstacle

course,knowntousastheO-course, and a place of suchbarbaric intensity that reallive SEALs, veteran combatwarriors from the teams,came over to supplementtheirtraining,oftenpreparingfor overseas deployment to atheater of war: jungle,mountain,ocean,ordesert.The Coronado O-course

was world famous. And if ittestedthebloodedwarriorsofthe teams, imagine what itwas like for us, ten-daywonders, fresh out of bootcamp, soft as babiescomparedtotheseguys.I stared at the O-course,

first day we went there. Wewere shownaround, the ropeclimbs, the sixty-foot cargonet, thewalls, the vaults, theparallelbars,thebarbedwire,theropebridges,theWeaver,

theBurmaBridge.For the first time Iwished

tohellI’dbeenafootshorter.Itwasobvioustomethiswasa game for little guys.InstructorRenogaveacoupleofdemonstrations.Itwaslikehe’d been born on the ropebridge. It would be moredifficult forme.Allclimbingis,because,intheend,Ihaveto haul 230 pounds upward.Which iswhyall theworld’sgreat climbers are tiny guys

with nicknames like the Fly,or the Flea, or Spider, all ofthem 118 pounds soakingwet.I assessed rightly this

wouldbeamajortestforme.But there were a lot of verybig SEALs, and they’d alldoneit.ThatmeantIcoulddoit. Anyway,mymindset wasthe same old, same old. I’meither going to do this right,or I’ll die trying. That lastpartwasclosertothereality.

Therewerefifteenseparatesections of the course, andyou needed to go through,past, over, or under all ofthem.Naturallytheytimedusright from the get-go, whenguysweretrippingup,fallingoff, falling down, gettingstuck, or generally screwingup.AsIsuspected,thebiggerguys were instantly in themosttrouble,becausethekeyelements were balance andagility. Those Olympic

gymnastsaremostlyfourfeettall. And when did you lastseeasix-foot-five,230-poundicedancer?It was the climbing which

put the big guys at themostdisadvantage.Oneofourtestswas called slide for life, athick eighty-foot nylon ropeattached to a tower andlooped down to a verticalpoleabouttenfeethigh.Youhad to climb up the towerhanging on to the rope then

slide all the way back downor pull yourself, whicheverwaseasier.For the record, on the

subject of Instructor Reno,whenwehadtoclimbvariousropes, he would amusehimself by climbing to thesameheightasuswhileusingtwo ropes, one in each hand,never losing his grip andneverlettinggoofeitherone.Tothisday,IbelievethatwasimpossibleandthatRenowas

some kind of a mirage insunglassesonthesand.I struggled through the

ropeloop,makingthetopandsliding down, but one guylost his grip and fell down,straight onto the sand, andbrokehisarmand,Ithink,hisleg.Hewasaprettybigguy,and there was another onegone. The other disciplinethatsticksinmymemorywasthatcargonet.Youknowthetype of thing, heavy-duty

rope knotted together insquares,thekindofstuffthathas come straight from ashipyard. It was plainlyimperative we all got damngoodatthis,sinceSEALsusesuch nets to board anddisembark submarines andshipsandtogetinandoutofinflatableboats.But it was hard for me. It

seemed when I shoved myboot in and reached upward,the foothold slipped

downward, and my intendedhandhold got higher.Obviously,ifI’dweighed118pounds soaking wet, thiswouldnothavebeenthecase.First time I climbed the net,ramming my feet into theholes, I got kind of stuckabout forty-five feet off theground, arms and legsspreadeagled.IguessIlookedlikeCaptainAhab trapped inthe harpoon lines after a triptotheoceanfloorwithMoby

Dick.But like all the rest of our

exercises, this one wascompletely about technique.And Instructor Reno wastheretoputmestraight.Fourdayslater,Icouldzipupthatnet like a circus acrobat.Well...okay, more like anorangutan. Then I’d grab thehugelogatthetop,clearthat,andclimbdowntheothersidelike Spider-Man. Okay,okay...likeanorangutan.

I had similar struggles onthe rope bridge, whichseemed always to be out ofkilterforme,swingingtoofarleft or too far right. ButInstructor Reno was alwaysthere, personally, to help meregain my equilibrium bysending me on a quick rushinto theocean,whichwas socold it almost stopped myheart.Thiswasfollowedbyaroll in the sand, just tomaketherestofthedayanabsolute

itching,chafinghelluntilIhitthe decontamination unit toget power washed down,same way you deal with amud-cakedtractor.Naturally, the newly clean

tractor had it all over usbecausenoonethendumpsitinto the deep end of aswimming pool and more orless leaves it there until itstarts to sprout fins. It wasjustanotherhappyday in thelife of a fledgling student

going through Indoc.Understandably, Class 226shrankdaily, andwehadnotevenstartedBUD/S.And you think it was a

great relief finally to getthrough the day and retire toour rooms for peace andperhaps sleep? Dream on.There’s no such thing aspeaceinCoronado.Theplaceis a living, breathingtestimony to that Romanstrategist who first told the

world, “Let himwho desirespeaceprepareforwar”(that’stranslatedfromtheLatinQuidesiderat pacem, praeparetbellum — Flavius VegetiusRenatus, fourth century). Or,as a SEAL might say, Youwant things to remain cool,pal? Better get your ass ingear.IknewIwasclose.That old Roman knew a

thing or two. His militarytreatise De Rei Militari wasthebibleofEuropeanwarfare

for more than 1,200 years,and it still applies inCoronado, stressing constantdrilling, training, and severediscipline. He advised theRomancommanderstogatherintelligence assiduously, usetheterrain,andthendrivethelegionnaires forward toencircle their objective.That’s more or less how weoperate in overseasdeployment against terroriststoday. Hooyah, Flavius

Vegetius.Coronado, likeNewYork,

is a city that never sleeps.Those instructors are outthere patrolling the corridorsof our barracks by night intothesmallhours.Oneof themoncecameintomyroomafterI’d hot mopped it and highpolished the floor till youcouldalmostseeyourfaceinit. He dropped a trickle ofsand onto the floor andchewedmeoutforlivingina

dust bowl! Then he sent medown to the Pacific, in thecompany ofmy swim buddyandofcoursehimself,to“getwetandsandy.”Thenwehadto go through thedecontaminationunit,andtheshrieking of those coldhydraulic pipes and theferocious jets of waterawakened half the barracksandnearlysentusintoshock.Never mind the fact that itwas 0200 and we were due

back under those showersagain in another couple ofhours.I think it was that time. I

can’t be absolutely sure. Butmyroommatequit thatnight.He went weak at the kneesjust watching what washappening to me. I don’tknowhowthehellhethoughtIfelt.One time during Indoc

while we were out on nightrun, one of the instructors

actually climbed up theoutside of a building, camethroughanopenwindow,andabsolutely trashed a guy’sroom, threw everythingeverywhere, emptieddetergent over his bed gear.He went back out the wayhe’d come in, waited foreveryone to return, and thentappedonthepoorguy’sdoorand demanded a roominspection. The guy couldn’twork out whether to be

furiousorheartbroken,buthespent most of the nightcleaningupandstillhadtobein the showers at 0430 withtherestofus.I asked Reno about this

weeks later, and he told me,“Marcus, the body can takedamn near anything. It’s themindthatneedstraining.Thequestion that guy was beingasked involved mentalstrength.Canyouhandlesuchinjustice?Canyoucopewith

that kind of unfairness, thatmuchof a setback?And stillcomebackwithyourjawset,still determined, swearing toGod you will never quit?That’s what we’re lookingfor.”As ever, I do not claim to

quote Instructor Reno wordforword.ButIdoknowwhathesaid,andhowIrememberit. No one talks to him andcomes away bemused. Trustme.

Thus far I’ve only dealtwith that first two weeks oftrainingonthelandandinthepool, and I may not haveexplained how muchemphasis the instructors puton the correct balanced dietfor everyone. They ranclasses on this, drilling intous how much fruit andvegetables we needed, thenecessity for tons ofcarbohydratesandwater.Themantrawas simple—

you take care of your bodylike the rest of your gear.Keepitwellfedandwatered,betweenoneand twogallonsa day. Start no disciplinewithout a full canteen. Thatwayyourbodywill takecareofyouwhenyoubegintoaskserious questions of it.Because there’s no doubt inthe coming months you willbeaskingthosequestions.This was an area, I

remember, where there were

a lot of questions, becauseevenafterthosefirstfewdayshere, guys were feeling theeffects: muscle soreness,achesandpains in shoulders,thighs,andbackswheretherehadbeennonebefore.The instructor who dealt

with this part of our trainingwarnedusagainstverystrongdrugslikeTylenol,exceptforafever,butheunderstoodwewould need ibuprofen. Heconceded it was difficult to

get through the coming HellWeekwithout ibuprofen, andhe told us the medicaldepartment wouldmake surewe received a sufficientamount to ease the pain,thoughnottoomuchofit.I remember he said flatly,

“You’re going to hurt whileyou’rehere.That’sourjob,toinduce pain; not permanentinjury,ofcourse,butweneedtomakeyouhurt.That’sabigpart of becoming a SEAL.

We need proof you can takethepunishment.Andthewayoutof that ismental, inyourmind. Don’t buckle under tothe hurt, rev up your spiritand your motivation, attackthe courses. Tell yourselfpreciselyhowmuchyouwanttobehere.”The final part of Indoc

involved boats— the fabledIBS (inflatable boat, small)or, colloquially, itty-bittyship.Theseboatsare thirteen

feet long and weigh a littleunder 180 pounds. They areunwieldy and cumbersome,and for generations the crafthas been used to teachBUD/S students to pull apaddle as a tight-knit crew,blast their way through theincoming surf, rig properly,and drag the thing into placein a regimented line forinspectiononthesandybeachabout every seven minutes.At least that’showitseemed

tous.Atthatpointwelinedupin

full life jackets right next toourboats.Insidetheboat,thepaddles were stowed withgeometricprecision,bowandsternlinescoiledcarefullyontherubberfloor.Inchperfect.Westartedwithaseriesof

races.Butbeforethat,eachofour teamshad a crew leader,selected from the mostexperienced navy personnelamongus.And they linedup

with their paddles at themilitary slope-arms position,the paddles resting on theirshoulders. Then they salutedtheinstructorsandannouncedtheir boat was correctlyrigged and the crew wasreadyforthesea.Meanwhile, other

instructors were checkingeach boat. If a paddle wasincorrectly stowed, aninstructorseizeditandhurledit down the beach. That

happened on my first day,andoneof theguys standingvery near to me raced offafter it, anxious to retrieve itand make amends.Unhappily, his swim buddyforgottogowithhim,andtheinstructorwasfurious.“Drop!” he yelled. And

every one of us hit the sandand began to execute theworst kind of push-up, ourfeet up on the rubbergunwales of the boats,

pushing ’em out in our lifejackets. The distantwords ofReno sung in my ears:“Someone screws it up, theconsequences affecteveryone.”Weracedeachotherinthe

boatsoutbeyondthesurf.Weraceduntilourarmsfeltas ifthey might fall off. Wepulled, each crewagainst therest, hauling our grotesquelyunstreamlined little boatsalong.AndthiswasnotYale

versus Harvard on theThamesRiverinConnecticut,allpulling together.Thiswastheclosest thing toa floatingnuthouse you’ve ever seen.Butitwasmykindofstuff.Boatdrillisagameforbig,

strong guys who can pull.Pulllikehell.It’salsoagameforheavylifterswhocanhaulthat boat up and run withtheirteam.Let me take you through

one of these races. First, we

got the boat balanced in theshallowsandwatchedthesurfroll in toward us. The crewleader had issued a one-minute briefing, and we allwatched the pattern of thosefive- to six-foot breakers.This part is called surfpassage, and on thecommand,wewerewatchingfor our chance. Plainly, wedidn’twanttochargeintothebiggest incoming wave, butwedidn’thavemuchtime.

The water was only afraction above sixty degrees.We all knewwe had to takethat first wave bow on, butwedidn’twantthebiggest,sowe waited. Then the crewleader spotted a slacker one,and he bellowed, “Now!Now! Now!” We chargedforward, praying to God wewouldn’t get swept sidewaysand capsize. One by one wescrambled aboard, diggingdeep, trying to get through

the overhanging crest, whichwas being whipped by anoffshorebreeze.“Dig! Dig! Dig!” he

roared as we headed for twomore incoming walls ofwater. This was the PacificOcean, not some Texas lake.Close to us, one of the nineboats capsized, and therewerepaddlesandstudentsallin thewater.You could hearnothing except the crash ofthe surf and shouts of “Dig!

Stroke!Portside...starboard...straightenup!Let’sgo!Go!Go!”I pulled that paddle until I

thought my lungs wouldburst,untilwehaddrivenoutbeyond the breakers. Andthen our class leader yelled,“Dump the boat!” The bow-side men slipped overboard,the others (including me)grabbed the strap handlesfixed on the rubber hull,stood up, and jumped over

the same side, dragging theboatoverontopofus.As the boat hit the water,

threeofusgrabbed the samehandlesandclimbedbackontheupturnedhullof theboat.I was first up, I remember.Weightless in the water,right?Justgivemeachance.We backed to the other

side of the hull and pulled,dragging the IBS upright,flipping it back on its lines.Everyonewas aware that the

tide was sweeping us backinto the breakers. Feelingsomethingbetweenpanicandfrenzy, we battled back,grabbed our paddles andhauled out into flatter waterandtookabeadonthefinishline. We paddled like hell,racingtowardthemark,sometoweron thebeach.Thenwedumped the boat again,grabbedthehandles,carrieditthroughtheshallowsontothebeach, and hauled it into a

headcarry.We ran up the dunes

around some truck, still withthe boat on our heads, andthen, as fast as we could,back along the beach to thepoint where we had started,and the instructors awaitedus, logging the positions wefinished and the times weclocked. They thoughtfullygave the winning crew abreak to sit down andrecover.The loserswere told

to push ’em out. It was notunusual to complete six ofthese races in one afternoon.By the end of Indoc weektwo, we had lost twenty-fiveguys.The rest of us, somehow,

had managed to showInstructor Reno and hiscolleagueswewereindeedfitand qualified enough toattempt BUD/S training.Which would begin the nextweek. There would be just

one final briefing fromRenobefore we attacked BUD/Sfirstphase.I saw him outside the

classroom, and, still with hissunglasses on, he offered hishand and smiled quietly.“Nice job, Marcus,” saidReno. He had a grip like acrane. His hand might havebeenboltedontobluetwistedsteel,butIshookitashardasIcould,andIreplied,“Thankyou,sir.”

Weallknewhe’dchangedus drastically in those twoweeksinIndoc.He’dshowedusthedepthofwhatwemustachieve, guided us to thebrink of the forthcomingunknown abyss of BUD/S.He’dknockedawaywhatevercocksureedgeswemightstillhavepossessed.We were a lot tougher

now, and I still toweredoverhim. None-theless, RenoAlberto still seemed fifteen

feettalltome.Andhealwayswill.

4

WelcometoHell,Gentlemen

Battlefieldwhistledrillswereconductedinthemidstofhigh-pressurewaterjets,totalchaos,deafeningexplosions,

andshoutinginstructors...“Crawltothewhistle,men!Crawltothewhistle!Andkeepyourgoddamnedheadsdown!”

We assembled in theclassroom soon after 1300that last afternoon of Indoc.Instructor Reno made hisentry like a Roman caesar,head held high, andimmediately ordered us to

push’emout.Asever,chairsscraped back and we hit thefloor, counting out the push-ups.At twenty, Reno left us in

therestpositionandthensaidcrisply,“Recover.”“Hooyah, Instructor Ree-

no!”“Give me a muster, Mr.

Ismay.”“One hundred and thirteen

men assigned, InstructorReno.Allpresentexcept two

menatmedical.”“Close, Mr. Ismay. Two

menquitafewminutesago.”All of us wondered who

they were. My boat’s crewmembers? Heads whippedaround. I had no idea whohad crashed at the finalhurdle.“Notyourfault,Mr.Ismay.

You were in the classroomwhen they quit. Two-two-sixwill class up in BUD/S firstphase with a hundred and

elevenmen.”Hooyah!I realized we had been

losing guys fairly steadily.But according to thesenumbers, Class 226 had had164menassignedonthefirstday,andwe’dlostmorethanfifty of them. I know a fewnever showed up at all,mostly through sheerintimidation.But theresthadsomehow vanished into thevoid.Ineversawanyofthem

leave, not even myroommate.AndIstillcannotworkout

quite how it happened. Iguess they just reachedsometype of breaking point, ormaybe they anguished fordays over their own inabilityto cut themustard. But goneis gone in thisman’s navy. Idid not entirely comprehenditat thetime,butmeandmy110 cohorts were witnessingthe ruthless elimination

process of a U.S. fightingforce that cannot tolerate asuspectcomponent.InstructorRenonowspoke

formally. “You’re on yourway to first phase BUD/S.And I want each and everyoneofyoutomakemeproud.Those of you who surviveHell Week will still have tofacethepoolcompetencytest— that’s in second phase—and then the weaponspracticalsinthirdphase.ButI

wanttobeatyourgraduation.And right there I want toshake your hand. I want tothinkofyouasoneofReno’swarriors.”The Hooyah, Instructor

Ree-no! with our clenchedfists in the air could havelifted the roof off theclassroom.Welovedhim,allof us, because we all sensedhe truly wanted the best forus. Therewas not a shred ofmalice in the guy. Neither

was there a shred ofweakness.He repeated the orders he

had been giving us for twoweeks. “Stay alert. Be ontime.Andbeaccountable foryour actions at all times, inand out of uniform.Remember,yourreputationiseverything.Andyouallhavea chance to build on thatreputation, beginning righthere on Monday morning,zero five hundred. First

phase.“For those of you who

make the teams, rememberyou’re joiningabrotherhood.You’llbeclosertothoseguysthanyoueverweretofriendsin school or college. You’lllive with them...and, incombat,someofyoumaydiewith them.Your familymustalways come first, but thebrotherhood is a privilegedplace. And I don’t want youevertoforgetit.”

And with that, he left us,walkedawayandslippedoutof a back entrance, leavingbehindaverylongshadow:abunch of guys who wererevved up, gung ho, andready to give everything topass the challenging testsahead. Just the way Renowantedit.EnterInstructorSeanMruk

(pronouncedMUR-rock), ex-SEAL from Team 2, veteranof three overseas

deployments, native ofOhio,a cheerful-looking characterwe had not encounteredduring Indoc. He wasassistant to our new proctor.Weheardhimbeforewesawhim, his quiet command,“Drop and push ’em out,”before he had evenmade hisway to the front of theclassroom.In the following few

minutes he ran through themyriad of tasks we must

complete after hours in firstphase.Stufflikepreparingtheboats and vehicles, makingsure we had the rightsupplies. He told us heexpected 100 percent at alltimes, because if we did notput out, we’d surely pay forit.He made sure we had all

moved from our Indocbarracks, behind the grinder,over to the naval specialwarfare barracks a couple of

hundred yards north of thecenter. Prime real estate onthe sandy beach, and it’s allyours— just as long as youcan stay on the BUD/Sbandwagon and remain inClass 226, the numbers ofwhichwillshortlybeblockedin stark white on either sideofyournewgreenphaseonehelmet. Those numbers staywithyouaslongasyouservein the Navy SEALs. Myclass’s three white-painted

numbers would one daybecomethesweetestsoundsIeverheard.Instructor Mruk nodded

agreeably and told us hewould be over to the newbarracks at 1000 Sunday tomake sure we knew how toget our rooms ready forinspection. He gave us onelast warning: “You’re anofficialclassnow.Firstphaseownsyou.”And so to the cloudless

Mondaymorningof June18,all of us assembled outsidethebarrackstwohoursbeforesunrise. It was 0500 and thetemperature not much abovefifty degrees. Our newinstructor, a stranger, stoodthere silently. LieutenantIsmay reported, formally,“Class Two-two-six isformed, Chief. Ninety-eightmenpresent.”DavidIsmaysaluted.Chief

Stephen Schulz returned the

salute without so much as a“Good morning” or “Howy’doing?” Instead, he justsnapped,“Hitthesurf,sir.Allof you. Then get into theclassroom.”Herewewentagain.Class

226 charged out of thecompound and across thebeach to the ocean. Wefloundered into the ice-coldwater, got wet, and thensquelched our way back tothe classroom, freezing,

dripping, already full ofapprehension.“Drop!” ordered the

instructor. Then again. Thenagain. Finally, Ensign JoeBurns, a grim-looking SEALcommander,tookhisplaceinfront of us and informed ushewasthefirstphaseofficer.Afewofusflinched.Burns’sreputationasahardmanhadpreceded him. He laterproved to be one of thetoughestmenIevermet.

“Iunderstandyouallwanttobefrogmen?”Hooyah!“I guess we’ll see about

that,” said Ensign Burns.“Findouthowbadyoureallywantit.Thisismyphase,andthese are my staffinstructors.”Each of the fourteen

introduced himself to us byname.AndthenChiefSchulz,presumably terrifiedwe’d allgosoftonhimafteranentire

two minutes of talk,commanded, “Dropandpush’em out.” And again. Andagain.Then he ordered us out to

the grinder for physicaltraining. “Move! Move!Move!”And finallywe formedup,

forthefirsttime,onthemostnotorious square of blacktarmac in the entire UnitedStates Armed Forces. It was0515, and our places were

marked by little frog flipperspaintedontheground.Itwashardlyworththevisit.“Hit the surf. Getwet and

sandy!” yelled Schulz.“Fast!”Our adrenaline pumped,

our legs pumped, our armspumped, our hearts pumped.Every goddamn thing therewaspumpedaswethunderedoff theblacktop, still dressedin our squelching boots andfatigue pants, went back

downtothebeach,andhurledourselvesintothesurf.Jesus, it was cold. The

waves broke over me as Istruggled back into theshallows, flung myself ontothesand,rolledoveracoupleof times, and came uplooking like Mr. Sandman,except I wasn’t bringinganyoneadream.Icouldhearthe others all aroundme, butI’d heard Schulz’s lastword.Fast.AndIrememberedwhat

BillySheltonhadtaught:payattention to even the merestsuggestion...and I ran formygoddamned life straight backto the grinder, right up withtheleaders.“Too slow!” bellowed

Schulz. “Much tooslow...drop!”Schulz’s instructors

roamed among us, beratingus,yelling,harassingusaswesweatedandstrainedtomakethe push-ups...“Like a

goddamned fairy.” “Get agrip on yourself.” “ForChrist’s sake, look as if youmean it.” “C’mon, let’s go!Go! Go!” “You sure youwanna be here? You wannaquitrightnow?”I learned in the next few

minutes there was a sharpdifference between “get wetandsandy”andjustplain“getwet.”Parkedatthesideofthegrinder were two of theinflatable boats, laden to the

gunwaleswith iceandwater.“Getwet”meantplungeoverthe bow, under the water,under the rubber seat struts,andouttotheotherside.Fiveseconds, in the dark, in theice, under thewater.Akillerwhalewouldhavebeggedformercy.Now,I’dbeencoldbefore,

in the freakin’ Pacific, right?But the water in that littleboat would have frozen theballs off a brass monkey. I

cameoutoftherealmostbluewith thecold, ice inmyhair,andblunderedmywaytomylittle frogman’s marker. Atleast I’d gotten rid of thesand, and so had everyoneelse. Two instructors weregoing down the lines withfreezing cold power hoses,spraying everyone from theheaddown.By0600Ihadcountedout

morethan450push-ups.Andthere were more, I just

couldn’t count anymore. I’dalsodonemore thanfiftysit-ups. We were ordered fromoneexercisetoanother.Guyswho were judged to beslacking were ordered tothrowinasetofflutterkicks.Theresultof thiswaspure

chaos. Some guys couldn’tkeep up, others were doingpush-ups when they’d beenordered to do sit-ups, menwere falling, hitting thegroundfacedown.Intheend,

halfofusdidn’tknowwherethe hellwewere orwhatwewere supposed tobedoing. Ijust kept going, doing myabsolute best, through theroars of abuse and the flyingspray of the power hoses:push-ups, sit-ups, screwups.It was now all the same tome.Everymuscleinmybodyachedtohell,especiallythoseinmystomachandarms.And finally Schulz offered

us mercy and a quiet drink.

“Hydrate!” he yelled withthat Old World charm thatcamesonaturallytohim,andwe all reached for ourcanteensandchuggedaway.“Canteens down!”

bellowed Schulz, a tone ofpained outrage in his voice.“Nowpush’emout!”Oh, yes. Of course. I’d

forgotten all about that. I’djusthadanine-secondbreak.Down we all dropped againand went back to work with

the last remnants of ourstrength, counting the push-ups.Weonlydid twenty thattime. Schulzmust have beenseized by an attack ofconscience.“Get in the surf!” he

bawled.“Rightnow!”Weflounderedtothebeach

and darn near fell into thesurf.Wewerenowsohot,thecold didn’t even matter.Much.Andwhenwesplashedback to the beach, Chief

Schulzwasthere,rantingandyellingforus to formupandrunthemiletothechowhall.“Get moving,” he added.

“Wedon’thavemuchtime.”When we arrived, I was

justaboutdeadonmyfeet. Ididn’t think I had the energytochewasoft-boiledegg.Wewalked into that chow halllike Napoleon’s army on theretreat from Moscow, wet,bedraggled,exhausted,outofbreath, toohungry toeat, too

batteredtocare.It was, of course, all by

design. This was not somekind of crazed Chinese firedrill arranged by theinstructors.Thiswasadeadlyserious assessment of theircharges, a method used tofind out, in the hardestpossible way, who reallywantedtodothis,whoreallycared enough to go throughwith it, who could face thenext four weeks before Hell

Week, when things gotseriouslytough.It was designed to compel

us to reassess ourcommitment.Couldwereallytakethispunishment?Ninety-eightofushadformeduponthegrinder twohoursearlier.Only sixty-six of us made itthroughbreakfast.And when that ended, we

werestill soaked,boots, longpants,andT-shirts.Andoncemorewesetoffforthebeach,

accompaniedbyan instructorwho showed up fromnowhere, running alongsideus, shouting for us to getmoving. We had been toldwhatawaitedus.Afour-milerun along the beach, goingsouth, two down and twoback. Thirty-two minutes onthe stopwatch was allowed,and God help anyone whocould not run eight-minutemilesthroughthesand.I was afraid of this,

because I knew I was not areal fast runner, and Ipsyched myself up for amaximum effort. I seem tohave spent my whole lifedoing that. And when wearrivedatthebeach,IknewIwouldneed thateffort.Therecould not have been aworsetimetomaketherun.Thetidewas almost full, still runningin, so there was noappreciable width of dryinghard sand. This meant

running in either shallowwater or very soft sand, bothof which were a completenuisancetoarunner.Our instructor Chief Ken

Taylor lined us up andwarned us darkly of thehorrors to come if thirty-twominutesproved tobebeyondsome of us. And sent usaway, with the sun nowclimbingoutofthePacifictoour right. I picked the line Iwould run, right along the

high point of the tide,wherethe waters first receded andleftaslimstripofhardsand.This meant I’d be splashingsomeof the time,butonlyintheshallowestsurffoam,andthat was a whole lot betterthan the deep sand thatstretchedtomyleft.Troublewas,Ihadtostick

tothisline,becausemybootswould be permanently wetandifIstrayedupthebeach,I’dhavehalfapoundofsand

stuck to each one. I did notthink I could layupwith theleaders,but I thought Icouldhang in there in the groupright behind them. So I putmy head down, watched thetidelinestretchinginfrontofme, and pounded my wayforward, staying right on thehardestwetsand.The first two miles were

notthatawful.Iwasuptherein the first half of the class,andIwasnotfeelingtoobad.

On the way back, though, Iwas flagging. I glancedaround and I could seeeveryone else was alsolookingreallytired.Andrightthen I decided to hit it. Iturned up the gas andthumpedmywayforward.The tidehad turnedduring

the first twenty minutes andthere was just a slight widthof wet sand that was nolonger being washed by theocean. I hit this with every

stride,runninguntilIthoughtI’ddrop.EverytimeIcaughta guy, I treated it as apersonalchallengeandpulledpast him, finally clocking atime well inside thirtyminutes, which wasn’t halfbadforapackhorse.I forget who the winner

was, probably some hickory-tough farmboypetty officer,but he was a couple ofminutes better than I was.Anyway, theguyswhomade

thetimeweresentupintothesoftsandtorestandrecover.Therewere about eighteen

guys outside thirty-twominutes,andonebyonetheyweretold,“Drop!”Thenstartpushing ’em out. Most ofthemwereontheirkneeswithexhaustion, and that kindasavedthemastepin thenextevolution, which was a bearcrawlstraightintothePacific,directly into the incomingsurf. Instructor Taylor had

them go in deep, until thefreezingcoldwaterwasuptotheirnecks.They were kept there for

twenty minutes, verycarefully timed, Inowknow,to make sure no onedeveloped hypothermia.Taylorandhismenevenhada pinpoint-accurate chart thatshowedpreciselyhow longaman could stand that degreeofcold.Andonebyonetheywerecalledoutandgiventhe

most stupendous hard timefor failing to achieve thethirty-two-minutedeadline.Iunderstandsomeof them

may have just given up, andothers just could not go anyfaster. But those instructorshad a fair idea of what wasgoingon,andonthis,thefirstday of BUD/S training, theywereruthless.As those poor guys came

outof the surf, the restofuswerenowdoingregularpush-

ups, and since this was nowsecondnaturetome,Ilookeduptoseethefateoftheslowguys. Chief Taylor, theGenghis Khan of the beachgods,orderedthesehalf-dead,half-drowned, half-frozenguys to lie on their backs,their heads and shoulders inandunder thewaterwith therhythmofthewaves.Andhemade them do flutter kicks.Therewereguyschokingandspluttering and coughing and

kickingandGodknowswhatelse.And then, only then, did

Chief Taylor release them,andIremember,vividly,himyelling out to them that we,dry and doing our push-upsup the beach, were winners,whereas they, the slowpokes,were losers! Then he toldthem they better start takingthis seriously or they wouldbe out of here. “Those guysup there, taking it easy, they

paidthefullprice,”heyelled.“Rightupfront.Youdidnot.Youfailed.Andforguyslikeyou there’s a bigger price topay,understandme?”He knew this was

shockingly unfair, becausesomeofthemhadbeendoingtheirgenuinebest.Buthehadto find out for certain. Whobelievedtheycouldimprove?Whowasdeterminedtostay?Andwhowashalfwayoutthedooralready?

Next evolution: log PT,brand-new to all of us. Welinedupwearingfatiguesandsoft hats, seven-man boatcrews, standing right by ourlogs,eachofwhichwaseightfeet long and a foot indiameter. I can’t remembertheweight,butitequaledthatofasmallguy,say150to160pounds. Heavy, right? I wasjust moving into packhorsemode when the instructorcalled out, “Go get wet and

sandy.” All in our nice dryclothes, we charged oncemore toward the surf,upandover a sand dune, and downintothewater.Werushedoutofthewavesandbackupthesand dune, rolled down theother side, thenstoodup likethe lost company from theU.S. Navy’s SandcastlePlatoon.Then he told us to get our

logs wet and sandy. So weheaved them up, waist high,

andhauled themup the sanddune.Werandowntheotherside,dumped thegoddamnedlogintheocean,pulleditout,went back up the sand dune,and rolled it down the otherside.The crew next to us

somehow managed to droptheir log on the downwardslope.“You ever, ever drop one

of my logs again,” theinstructor bellowed, “I can’t

even describe what willhappen to you. All of you!”He used the enraged,vengeance-seeking tone ofvoice that might have beenspecially reserved for “Youguysever,evergang-rapemymother again . . .” Ratherthan just dropping the stupidlog.Weallstoodthereinaline,

holdingourlogsstraight-arm,above our heads.They try tomake the teams a uniform

height, but my six foot fiveinches means I’ll always becarryingatleastmyfairshareoftheburden.More andmore guyswere

accusedofslacking,andmoreandmoreofthemwereontheground doing push-upswhilemeandacoupleofotherbigguys on the far end werebearing theweight.Wemusthave looked like the threepillars of Coronado,sandstone towers holding up

the temple, eyes peeringgrittilyoutatasandscapefullof weird, sandy, burrowingcreaturesfightingforbreath.Rightafter thistheytaught

us all the physical trainingmoves we would need:squats, tossing the logoverhead, and awhole lot ofothers. Then, still information, we were told,“Fallinonyourlogs,”andwechargedforward.“Slow! Too slow! Get wet

andsandy!”Backdowntothesurf,into

the waves, into the sand. Bythistime,guysreallywereontheir last legs, and theinstructors knew it. Theydidn’t really want anyone tocollapse, and they spent awhile teaching us the finerpoints of log teamwork. Toour total amazement, theyconcluded the morning bytelling us we’d done a damnnice job, made a great start,

andtoheadoffnowforchow.Alotofusthoughtthiswas

encouraging. Seven of ournumber,however,werenottobeconsoledby these sudden,calming words uttered byguys who should have beenridingwithSatan’scavalryinLordoftheRings.Theywentstraight back to the grinder,rang thehangingbelloutsidethe first phase office, andhanded in their helmets,placingtheminalineoutside

the CO’s door. That’s theway it’s done in first phase:the exit ritual. There werenow a dozen helmetssignifying resignation, andwehadn’tevenhad lunchondayone.Most of us thought they

were a bit hasty, becauseweknew a certain part of theafternoonwastakenupbytheweekly room inspection.Most of us had spent all daySunday getting into order,

cleaningthefloorwithamopand then high polishing it.SomehowIhadfoundmyselfway down thewaiting list touse one of the two electricbuffers.I had had to waitmy turn

and did not get finishedbefore about 0200. But thetimehadnotbeenwasted.I’dfixed my bed gear, pressedmy starched fatigues, andspit-shined my boots. Ilooked better, not like some

darned sand-encrustedbeachcomber, the way I hadmostoftheday.The instructors arrived. I

cannot remember which ofthem walked into my room.But he gazed upon it, thispicture of military order andprecision, and atmewith anexpression of undiluteddisgust. Carefully he openedmy chest of drawers andhurledeverythingallovertheroom.Heheavedthemattress

off the bed and cast it aside.He emptied the contents ofmy locker into a pile andinformed me that he wasunused to meeting traineeswhowere happy to live in agarbage dump. Actually, hiswords were a bit morecolorful than that,more...well...earthy.Beyondtheconfinesofmy

room, there was absolutebedlam; stuff was hurled allover the place in room after

room. I just stood theregaping as the entire barrackswas ransacked by our owninstructors. Outside in thecorridor, I could hearsomeone bawling outLieutenant David Ismay, theclass leader. The soft, dulcettones of Chief Schulz wereunmistakable.“What kind of rathole are

yourunninghere,Mr.Ismay?I’ve never seen rooms likethese in my life. Your

uniforms are a disgrace. Hitthesurf...allofyou!”There were, by my count,

thirty rooms. Only three ofthemhadpassedmuster.Andeven those guys were notexempt from our first oceanplunge of the afternoon. Inour shiny boots and pressedfatigues, we pounded backdown to the beach, leaving ascene of total chaos behindus.We raced into the water,

deep, right into the waves.Then we turned andflounderedbacktothebeach,formed up, and headed backto the BUD/S area. ChiefTaylorwas back in our liveswith amajor rush, obviouslypreparing for the lastevolution of the day, on thebeachorinthewater.Wedidnotknowwhich.All day long we had been

wondering precisely who hewas, but our inquiries had

yielded little save that thechiefwasatrueveteranoftheteams who had seen combatin overseas deployment fourtimes, including the GulfWar.Hewasamedium-sizedmanbutimmenselymuscular;he looked likehecouldwalkstraight through a wallwithout breaking stride. Butyoucouldseehehadasenseof humor, and he was notaverse to telling us we weredoing okay. Sweet of him,

right? Half of us werehangingintherebywillpoweralone.And we needed all the

willpowerwehad,becauseina few moments we werepreparing to take the boatsinto the water again. I havenever forgotten that surfdrillon that first day becauseChiefTaylormadeuspaddlethe boats out backward,facingaft.Whenwereturnedthroughthesurftothebeach,

we faced aft again, but nowwewerepaddlingforward.When we first started, the

journey out beyond thebreakers seemed impossibleto dowhile facing the beachand holding the oar soawkwardly,butwegotbetter.Andsomehowwegotitdone.But not before all kinds ofchaos had broken out. Wecapsized, flipped over,crashed backward trying todrive head-on into a big

wave.And therewasa lotofspluttering and coughingwhen we attempted ChiefTaylor’s finale,whichwas todump boat, right it again,stow the oars correctly, andthen swim the boat back inthrough thesurfandonto thebeach.Before we left, we were

taken through an exercisecalled surf observation, inwhich two-man teamsobserve the condition of the

seaandmakeareport. Ipaidstrict attention to this, whichwasgood,sincefromnowon,every morning at 0430, twoof our number would godowntothewater’sedgeandcome back to make thatreport.ChiefTaylor,smiling,as he was prone to do,dismissed us with the words“And don’t screw up thatreport. I want nodiscrepancies about seaconditions, or there’ll be hell

topay.”We sharpened up our

rooms that evening, and ondaytwowereunderwaywiththe normal morning grind ofpush-ups, running, andgetting wet and sandy. Ourfirst classroom involvedmeeting our leading pettyofficer instructor, Chief BobNielsen, another Gulf Warveteran of several overseasdeployments. He was tall,slim for a SEAL, and, I

thought, a bit sardonic. Hiswordstouswerepackedwithmeaning,edgedwithmenace,butnonethelessoptimistic.He introduced himself and

tolduswhathe expected.Asif we didn’t know.Everything, right? Or die inthe attempt. He gave us aslide presentation of everyaspect of first phase. Beforethe first picture had beentaken off the screen, he toldustoforgetallabouttryingto

put one over on theinstructors.“Guys,” he said, “we’ve

seen itall.Youcan try iton,if you like, but it won’t doanyoneanygood.We’llcatchyou, andwhenwedo,watchout!”I think everyone in the

roommadeamentalnotenotto“tryiton.”WealllistenedcarefullywhileChiefNielsenran quickly through the firstfour weeks and what we

could expect — morerunning, log PT boats, andswimming, the fullcatastrophe.Purelytofindouthowtoughwereallywere.“Conditioning,” he said.

“Conditioning and a wholelotofcoldwater.Getusedtoit.Thenextmonthrepresentsa hard kick in the crotch.Because we’re going tohammeryou.”Istillhavemynotes of Bob Nielsen’sspeech.

“You fail to meet thosestandards, you’re out. Ofcourse most of you will endup being dropped. Andmostofyouwillnotbeback.Youmust make that four-milethirty-two-minute run, andyoumustmake the two-mileswims in an hour and a half.You’ll get a tough writtentest. There’s pool standards,there’s drownproofing. Withandwithout the fins—kick,stroke,andglide.

“You may be thinking,Whatdoesittake?WhatmustIdo tomake it through?Thecold truth is, two-thirds ofyou sitting right here willquit.”I remember him standing

next to my row and saying,“There’s seven rows of yousitting here. Only two rowswill succeed.” He seemed tolook straight at me when hesaid,“Therestofyouwillbegonzo, history, back to the

fleet.That’sthewayitis.Theway it’s always been. So tryyour best to prove mewrong.”He issued one further

warning. “This training doesnot suit everyone. We get alotofverygoodguysthroughhere who just decide this isnotforthem.Andthat’stheirright. But they will walkaway fromherewithdignity,understand?Wecatchoneofyou laughing or making fun

of a man who has requestedDOR, we’ll hammer youwithoutmercy.Bigtime.Youwill regret thosemoments ofridicule for a long time. Iadvise you not even toconsiderit.”Heclosedbytellingusthe

realbattleiswoninthemind.It’s won by guys whounderstand their areas ofweakness, who sit and thinkaboutit,plottingandplanningto improve. Attending to the

detail. Work on theirweaknesses and overcomethem.Becausetheycan.“Your reputation is built

righthere in first phase.Andyou don’t want people tothink you’re a guywhodoesjustenoughtoscrapethrough.You want people tounderstand you always try toexcel, to be better, to becompletely reliable, alwaysgiving it your best shot.That’s the way we do

businesshere.“And remember this one

last thing. There’s only oneguy here in this room whoknows whether you’re goingtomakeit,orfail.Andthat’syou.Gotoit,gentlemen.Andalwaysgiveiteverything.”ChiefNielsenleft,andfive

minuteslaterwestoodbyforthe commanding officer’sreport. Six instructors filedinto the room, surrounding anavy captain. And we all

knewwho he was. This wasCaptain Joe Maguire, thenear-legendary Brooklyn-bornHonorManofClass93and onetime commandingofficer ofSEALTeam2.Hewas also the future RearAdmiral Ma-guire,Commander,SPECWARCOM, a supremeSEALwarrior.Hehadservedall over the world and wasbeloved throughoutCoronado, a big guy who

neverforgotafellowSEAL’sname,nomatterhowjunior.He talked to us calmly.

Andhegaveustwopiecesofpriceless advice. He said hewas addressing those whoreallywantedthiskindoflife,thosewho could put upwithevery kind of harassmentthose instructors at the backof the room could possiblydishout.“Firstofall, Idonotwant

youtogiveintothepressure

of the moment. Wheneveryou’re hurtingbad, just hanginthere.Finishtheday.Then,if you’re still feeling bad,think about it long and hardbefore you decide to quit.Second, take it one day at atime.Oneevolutionatatime.“Don’t let your thoughts

runawaywithyou,don’tstartplanning to bail out becauseyou’re worried about thefutureandhowmuchyoucantake.Don’t lookaheadtothe

pain.Justgetthroughtheday,and there’s a wonderfulcareeraheadofyou.”ThiswasCaptainMaguire,

a man who would one dayserve as deputy commanderof the U.S. SpecialOperations in PacificCommand (COMPAC).Withhis twin-eagles insigniaglintingonhiscollar,CaptainMaguire instilled in us theknowledge of what reallycounted.

I stood there reflecting fora fewmoments, and then theroof fell in. One of theinstructors was up andyelling. “Drop!” he shoutedand proceeded to lay into usforthesinsofoneman.“Isawoneofyounodding

off, right here in the middleofthecaptain’sbriefing.Howdare you! How dare you fallasleep in the presence of amanofthatcaliber?Youguysaregoingtopayforthis.Now

push’emout!”He drilled us, gave us

probably a hundred push-upsand sit-ups, and he drove usup and down the big sanddune in front of thecompound. He raved at usbecauseourtimesovertheO-courseweredown,whichwasmostlyduetothefactthatwewereparalyzedwithtirednessbeforewegotthere.And so it went on, all

week. There was a swim

acrossthebay,onemilewitha guy of comparableswimmingability.Therewereevolutions in the pool, inmasks, wearing flippers andwithout.Therewasonewherewe had to lie on our backs,masks full of water, flipperson, trying to do flutter kickswith our heads out over thewater. This was murder. Sowas the logPTandour four-mile runs. The surf work intheboatswasalsoastrength-

sapping experience, runningthe boats out through thewaves, dumping boat,righting boat, paddling in,backward, forward, boatbeing dragged, boat on ourheads.It never ended, and by the

close of that first week wehad lost more than twentymen, one of them in tearsbecause he could not go on.His hopes, his dreams, evenhis intentions had been

dashed to bits on thatCoronadobeach.That was more than sixty

rings on the big bell rightoutside the office door. Andevery time we heard it,without exception, we knewwe’d lost anessentiallygoodguy. There weren’t any badguys who made it throughIndoc.And as the daysworeon and we heard that bellover and over, it became averymelancholysound.

Could I be standing thereoutside the office door, abrokenman,afewdaysfromnow? It was not impossible,because many of these menhad had no intention ofquitting a few hours or evenminutes before they did.Something just gave waydeepinsidethem.Theycouldnolongergoon,andtheyhadnoideawhy.Asknot forwhom thebell

tolls, Marcus. Because the

son-ofabitch might toll forthee. Or for any one of thesixty-oddothersstillstandingafter the brutal reality ofweek one, first phase. Everytime we crossed the grinder,we could see the evidenceright therebeforeour eyes, atotaloftwentyhelmetsontheground, lined up next to thebell. Each one of thosehelmetshadbeenownedbyafriend,oranacquaintance,orevenarival,butaguywhom

wehadsufferedalongside.That line of lonely hard

hatswasastarkremindernotonlyofwhat thisplacecoulddo to a man but also of thespecial private glory it couldbestow on those who wouldnot give in. It drove meonward. Every time I lookedatthatline,Igrittedmyteethand put some extra purposeintomy stride. I still felt thesameasIhadonmyveryfirstday. I’d rather die than

surrender.The third week of first

phase brought us into a newaspect of BUD/S training,calledrockportage.Thiswasdangerous and difficult, butbasicallywehadtopaddletheIBS along to an outcrop ofrocks opposite the world-famous Hotel del Coronadoandlanditthere.Idon’tmeanmoorit,Imeanlandit,getitupthereondrylandwith thesurf crashing all around you,

theoceanswelltryingtosuckthatboatrightbackoutagain.Ihadtofigureprettybigin

this because of my size andability to heave.But none ofmy crewwas quite ready forthis desperate test. It wassomething we just had tolearn how to do. And so wewent at it, paddling hard infrom the sea, driving intothosehugerocks,straightintowaves which were breakingeverywhichway.

The bow of our boatslammed into the rocks, andthe bowline man, not me,jumpedforwardandhungon,making the painter firmaroundhiswaist.Hisjobwastogetsecureandthenactlikeahumancapstanandstoptheboat being swept backward.Ourmanwasprettysharp;hejammed himself between acouple of big boulders andyelled back to us, “Bowlinemansecure!”

Werepeatedhiscalljustsoeveryone knew where theywere. But the boat was nowjammed bow-on against therocks. It had no rhythmwiththewavesandwasvulnerabletoeveryswellthatbrokeoverthe stern. In this staticposition, it cannot ride withthewaves.Our crew leader’s cries of

“Water!” were little help.Thesurfwascrashingstraightat us and then through the

boat and up and over therocks. We had on our lifejackets, but the smallestmanamongushadtohopoverthebow, carry out all of thepaddles, and get them safelyontodryground.Then we all had to

disembark, one by one,clambering onto the rocks,with the poor old bowlineman hanging on for his life,jammed between the rockswith the boat still lashed to

historso.Bynowwewereallontherope,tryingtograbthehandles,butthebowlinemanhad to move first, headingupward into a new position,with us now taking theweight.He set off. Bowline man

moving!Ihauledassdownintheengineroom,pullingwithall my strength. A waveslammed into the boat andnearly took us all into thewater,butwehungtough.

Bowline man secure! Andthen we gave it everything,knowing our crewmate couldnot come catapultingbackward right into us.Somehow we heaved thatbaby onward and upward,dragged it clean out of thePacific, cheated the GrimReaper, and manhandled itrightup thereonto the rocks,highanddry.“Too slow,” said our

instructor. And then he went

into a litany of details as towhat we’d done wrong. Toolong in the opening stages,bowline man not quickenoughuptherocks,toolongon the initial pulls, too longbeingbatteredbythewaves.He ordered us onto the

sandwiththeboat,gaveusaset of twenty push-ups, thenordered us straight back theway we’d come — up andover the rocks, boat into thewater, bowline man making

ussecurewhilewedamnneardrowned...get in, get going,shut up and paddle. Simplereally.That first month ended

much like it had begun,withasoakingwet,cold,tired,anddepleted class. At theconclusionofthefourweeks,the instructors made someharshdecisions,assessingtheweakestamongus,guyswhohad failed the tests, perhapsone test, maybe two. They

looked hard at verydetermined young men whowouldratherdiethanquitbutsimply could not swim wellenough, run fast enough, liftheavy enough, guys wholackedendurance,underwaterconfidence,skillsinaboat.These were the hardest to

dismiss from the program,becausethesewereguyswhohadgiventheirallandwouldgo on doing so. They justlacked some form of God-

given talent to carry out thework of a U.S. Navy SEAL.Years later I knew severalinstructors quite well, andthey all said the same aboutthat fourth week first phaseassessment, the week beforeHell Week — “We allagonized over it. No onewantstobeinthebusinessofbreakingakid’sheart.”But neither could they

allow the weak and thehopeless to go forward into

themostdemandingsixdaysof training in any fightingforceintheworld.That’snotthe free world, by the way,that’s thewholeworld.OnlyGreat Britain’s legendarySAS has anything evencomparable.The results of the four-

weekassessmentmeant therewerejustfifty-fourofusleft;fifty-four of the ninety-eightwho had started first phase.And Class 226 would start

early, as all Hell Weekclassesdo,Sundayatnoon.Late that last Friday, we

assembledintheclassroomtobe formally addressed oncemore by Captain Maguire,who was accompanied byseveral instructors and classofficers.“Everyone ready for Hell

Week?” he asked uscheerfully.Hooyah!“Excellent,” he replied.

“Because you are about toexperience a very searchingandpainful test.Each one ofyouisgoingtofindoutwhatyou are really made of. Andevery step of the way, youwill be faced with a choice.Do I give in to the pain andthecold,ordoIgoon?Itwillalwaysbeup toyou.There’sno quotas, no numbers. Wedon’tdecidewhopasses.Youdo.ButI’llbethereonFridaywhenHellWeek ends, and I

hope to shake the hand ofeachandeveryoneofyou.”We all stood in some awe

for the exit of CaptainMaguire, the quintessentialCoronado man, whounderstood the pride ofachievement athaving scaledthe heights and who knewwhat really counted, in theSEALs and beyond. He wastheeverlastingchief.Theybriefedusaboutwhat

to bring to class on Sunday

— our gear, equipment,change of clothes, dryclothes, and some off-dutyclothes, which would beplaced in a paper bag so thesuccessful guys would havesomething to wear when itwasallover.GuyswhowentDOR (dropped on request)would also have dry clothesavailable anytime during theweek when they prepared toleave.Ourinstructortoldustoeat

plenty, right through theweekend, but not to worryabout sleep gear on Sundayafternoon, duringwhich timewe would be incarcerated intheclassroom.“You’llbetookeyedup to sleep,”he addedbrightly. “So just get in hereandrelax,watchmovies,andgetready.”On the notice board was

the official doctrine of theU.S.NavySEALs,weekfive,first phase: “Students will

demonstrate the qualities andpersonal characteristics ofdetermination, courage, self-sacrifice, teamwork,leadership, and a never-quitattitude, under adverseenvironmental conditions,fatigue, and stress through-outHellWeek.”That’slayingitontheline,

right? Almost. Hell Weekturned out to be a lot worsethanthat.We spent the weekend

organizing ourselves, andweassembledintheclassroomatnoon on Sunday, July 18.Two dozen in-structors fromall over the compound, guyswe’d never evenmet before,were in attendance. It takesthat many to get a classthrough Hell Week, plusattendingmedics and supportand logistics guys. I guessyouneedafullstafftomarchmen into the ultimatephysical tests of the navy’s

warriorelite.This is known as the Hell

Week Lockdown. No oneleaves; we sit and wait allafternoon; we have ourseabags; and the paper bagswithourdryclothesarelinedup, our nameswritten on theoutsideinblackmarker.Theyserveduspizza,awholestackofit,inthelateafternoon.And outside you could

sense it was quiet. No onepassed by, no patrols, no

wanderingstudents.Everyoneon the base knew that HellWeek for 226 was about tobegin. It was not exactlyrespect for the dead, but IguessyouunderstandbynowmoreorlesswhatImean.Irememberhowhotitwas,

must have been ninetydegreesintheroom.We’dallbeen goofing off, wearingSunday casuals most of theday, and we all knewsomething was going to

happen as the evening woreon.Somemoviewasrunning,and the hours ticked by.There was an atmosphere ofheightened tension as wewaitedforthestarter’spistol.Hell Week begins with afrenzy of activity known asBreakout.Andwhen it camefor us, therewere a lotmoregunsthanthestarter’s.I can’t remember the

precise time, but it was after2030 and before 2100.

Suddenly there was a loudshout, and someone literallykicked open the side door.Bam! And a guy carrying amachine gun, followed bytwoothers,camechargingin,firingfromthehip.Thelightswent off, and then all threegunmenopenedfire,sprayingtheroomwithbullets(blanks,Ihoped).There were piercing blasts

from whistles, and the otherdoor was kicked open and

three more men camecrashing into the room. Theonly thing we knew for sureright now was when thewhistles blew, we hit thefloorandtookupadefensiveposition, prostrate, legscrossed,earscoveredwiththepalmsofthehands.Hitthedeck!Headsdown!

Incoming!Thenanewvoice,loudand

stentorian. It was pitch darksave for the nonstop flashes

of themachine guns, but thevoice sounded a lot likeInstructor Mruk’s to me —“Welcome to hell,gentlemen.”For the next couple of

minutestherewasnothingbutgunfire, deafening gunfire.They were certainly blanks,otherwise half of us wouldhave been dead, but believeme,theysoundedjustlikethereal thing, SEAL instructorsfiringourM43s.Theshouting

wasdrownedbythewhistles,and everything was drownedbythegunfire.Bynowtheairintheroom

was awful, hanging with thesmell of cordite, lit only bythemuzzleflashes.Ikeptmyhead well down on the floorasthegunmenmovedamongus, taking care not to let hotspent cartridges land on ourskin.I senseda lull.And thena

roar, plainly meant for

everyone. “All of you, out!Move, you guys! Move!Move!Move!Let’sgo!”I struggled tomy feet and

joined the stampede to thedoor. We rushed out to thegrinder,whereitwasabsolutebedlam. More gunfire,endless yelling, and then,again, thewhistles, and oncemore we all hit the deck inthecorrectposition.Inbarrelsaround the grinder’s edge,artillery simulators blasted

away. I didn’t know whereCaptain Maguire was, but ifhe’d been here he’d havethoughthewasback insomeforeign battle zone. At least,if he’d shut his eyes, hewouldhave.Then the instructors

openedfireforreal,thistimewith high-pressure hosesaimedstraightatus,knockingusdownifwetriedtogetup.The place was awash withwater, andwe couldn’t see a

thing and we couldn’t hearanything above the small-armsandartilleryfire.Battlefield whistle drills

were conducted in the midstof high-pressure water jets,total chaos, deafeningexplosions, and shoutinginstructors...“Crawl to thewhistle, men! Crawl to thewhistle! And keep yourgoddamnedheadsdown!”Some of the guys were

suffering from mass

confusion.Oneof’emranforhis life, straight over thebeachand into theocean.HewasaguyIknewreallywell,and he’d lost it completely.This was a simulated scenefrom theNormandy beaches,and it did induceadegreeofpanic, because no one knewwhat was happening or whatweweresupposedtobedoingbesideshittingthedeck.The instructors knew this.

They understoodmany of us

would be at a low ebb. Notme. I’m always up for thiskind of stuff, and anyway Iknew they weren’t reallytrying to kill us. But theinstructors understood thiswould not be true ofeveryone, and they movedamong us, imploring us toquitnowwhiletherewasstilltime.“All you gotta do is ring

thatlittlebellupthere.”Lyingthereinthedarkand

confusion, freezing cold,soaked to the skin, scared tostand up, I told one of themhe could stick that little bellstraight up his ass, and Iheardaloudroaroflaughter.ButIneversaiditagain,andIneverletonitwasme.Untilnow, that is. See that? Evenin the chaos, I could stillmanagethesmart-assremark.Bynowwewereinastate

of maximum disorientation,just trying to stay on the

grinder with the others. Theteamworkmantrahadsetin.Ididn’twanttobebymyself.Iwantedtobewithmysoakingwet teammates,whatever thehellitwasweweresupposedtobedoing.Then I heard a voice

announcing we were a manshort. Then I heard anothervoice,sharpanddemanding.Idon’tknowwhoitwas,butitwas close to me and itsounded like the Biggest

Bossman, Joe Maguire, witha lot of authority. “What doyoumean?Amanshort?Getacountrightnow.”Theyorderedustoourfeet

instantly, andwecountedoffonebyone,stoppingatfifty-three.We were a man short.Holy shit! That’s bad, andvery serious. Even Iunderstood that.A partywasdispatchedimmediatelytothebeach, and that’s where theyfound the missing trainee,

splashing around out in thesurf.Someone reported back to

the grinder. And I heard ourinstructorsnap,“Send’emallinto the surf.We’ll sort ’emout later.” And off we wentagain, running hard to thebeach,awayfromthegunfire,away from this madhouse,into the freezing Pacific inwhat felt like the middle ofthe night. As so often, wewere too wet to worry, too

coldtocare.But when we were finally

summoned out of the surf,something new happened.The whistles began blastingagain,andthismeantwehadto crawl toward the whistlesall over again, but this timenot on the smooth blacktop.Thistimeonthesoftsand.Inmomentswelookedlike

sand beetles groping aroundthe dunes. The whistles keptblowing, oneblast, then two,

and we kept right oncrawling, and by now myelbows were really gettinghot and sore, and my kneeswere not doing that greateither.Allfourjointsfeltred-raw.ButIkeptmoving.Thenthe instructors ordered usback into the surf, deep, sowecouldstaythereforfifteenminutes, maximumimmersion time in waterhovering just under sixtydegrees.Welinkedarmsuntil

wewereorderedout tomorewhistlesandmorecrawling.Then theysentusdown to

the surf for flutter kicks,heads in the waves. Thenmore whistles, morecrawling, and back into thewater for another fifteenminutes. Right next to me,one of the top guys in theclass, an officer and a boat-crew leader, great runner,good swimmer, quitunconditionally.

This was a real shaker.Another officer in his crewwent running up the beachafter him, imploring him notto go, telling the attendinginstructor, on his behalf, theguy did notmean it.No, sir.The instructor gave himanother chance, told him itwasn’t too late and if hewishedhecouldgorightbackintothewater.But the man’s mind was

made up, closed to all

entreaties. He kept walking,andtheinstructor toldhimtoget in the truck right next totheambulance.Thenheaskedtheguydoing thepleading ifhewantedtoquittoo,andweall heard the sharp“Negative,” and we saw theguyrunninglikeascaldedcatdown the beach to join us inthewater.Thetemperatureseemedto

grow colder as we joggedaround in the freezing surf.

Andfinallytheycalledusoutand the whistles blew again.We all dived back onto thesand. Crawl-ing, itching, andburning. Five guys quitinstantly andwere sentup tothe truck. Ididn’tunderstandany of that, because we haddone this before. It was bad,but not that bad, forchris’sakes. I guess thoseguys were just thinkingahead, dreading theforthcomingfivedaysofHell

Week, the precise wayCaptainMa-guirehadtoldusnotto.Anyway, right now we

were ordered to grab theboatsandgettheminthesurf,which we did without muchtrouble. But they made uspaddlehundredsofyards,digandrow,liftandcarry,dumpboatandrightboat,swimtheboat, walk the boat, run theboat, crawl, live, die. Wewere so exhausted it didn’t

matter. We hardly knewwhere we were. We justfloundered on with bloodyknees and elbows until theyorderedusoutofthewater.I think it was just before

midnight, but it could havebeenChristmasmorning.WeswitchedtologPTinthesurf.No piece of wood in all ofhistory, except possibly themassive wooden Crosscarried to Calvary by JesusChrist,waseverheavier than

our eight-foot hunk of woodthat we manhandled in thePacific surf. After all of ourexertions, it was a purebackbreaker.Threemoremenquit.Then the instructors came

up with something new andimproved. They made uscarry the boats over the O-course and manhandle themover the goddamnedobstacles. Another man quit.Weweredowntoforty-six.

Right then we switched torock portage and chargedback down the beach to getthe IBS into the water. Wecrashed through the lightincoming waves likeprofessionals and paddledlike hell, using the remnantsof our strength, to the rocksopposite the Hotel delCoronado. My swim buddy,Matt McGraw, was callingtheshotsinourboatbynow,and we drove forward,

crashed straight into therocks, and the bowline manleaped for his life andgrabbedontothepainter.Westeadied the boat with theoars, and I thought we weredoingrealgood.Suddenly the instructor,

standingupon the topof therocks right there at damnednear two o’clock in themorning, bellowed at ourcrew officer,“You! You, sir.You just killed your entire

squad! Stop getting betweentheboatandtherocks!”Wehauled the boat out of

thewater,overtherocks,andonto the sand. The instructorgaveus two setsofpush-upsand sentusback thewaywecame. Twice more weassaulted the rocks, slowlyand clumsily, I suppose, andthe instructor never stoppedyelling his freakin’ head offatus.Intheendwehadtorunthe boat back along the

beach, drop it, and get rightback into the surf for flutterkicks with heads andshoulders in the water, thenpush-upsinthesurf.Thensit-ups.Twomoremenquit.These DORs happened

right next to me. And Idistinctlyheard the instructorgive them another chance,askingthemiftheywantedtoreconsider. If so, they werewelcome to press on and getbackinthewater.

Oneofthemwavered.Saidhe might, if the other guywouldjoinhim.Buttheotherguy wasn’t having it. “I’mdonewith this shit,” he said,“andI’mouttahere.”They both quit together.

Andtheinstructorlookedlikehe could not give a flyingfuck.Ilaterlearnedthatwhena man quits and is givenanother chance and takes it,he never makes it through.All the instructorsknowthat.

If the thoughtofDORentersa man’s head, he is not aNavySEAL.I guess that element of

doubt forever pollutes hismind.Andpuffing,sweating,and steaming down there onthatbeachonthefirstnightofHellWeek,Iunderstoodit.I understood it, because

thatthoughtcouldneverhaveoccurredtome.Notwhilethesun still rises in the east.Allthe pain in Coronado could

not have inserted that poisoninto my mind. I might havepassedout,hadaheartattack,or been shot before a firingsquad. But I never wouldhavequit.Soon as the quitters had

gone,wewereputrightbacktowork.Liftingtheboatsintoaheadcarry for the runovertothechowhall,onlyanothermile.When Igot there Iwasas close to collapse as I’deverbeen.Buttheystillmade

uspush’emout,lifttheboat,to work up an appetite, Isuppose.Eventuallytheyfreedusto

getbreakfast.Wehadlosttenmen during the nine hoursthat had passed since HellWeekbegan;ninehourssincethose yelling, shootinggunmenhaddrivenClass226out of their classroom, ninehours sincewe had been dryandfeltmoreorlesshuman.Theywere nine hours that

had changed the lives andperceptions of those whocould stand it no more. Idoubt the rest of us wouldeverbequitethesameagain.Inside the chow hall some

of the guys were shell-shocked.Theyjustsatstaringat their plates, unable tofunction normally. I was notoneof them. I felt like Iwasontheedgeofstarvation,andI steamed into those eggs,toast, and sausages, relishing

the food, relishing thefreedom from the shouts andcommandsoftheinstructors.Just as well I made the

most of it. Sevenminutes onthe clock after I finishedmybreakfast, the new shift ofinstructors was up andyelling.“That’s it, children — up

and out of here. Let’s getgoing. Outside! Right now!Move! Move! Move! Let’sstartthedayright.”

Starttheday!Wasthisguyout of his mind? We werestill soaked, covered in sand,andwe’dbeenuphalfkillingourselvesallnight.Right then I knew for

certain: there was indeed nomercy in Hell Week.Everything we’d heard wastrue.You think you’re tough,kid?Thenyougorightaheadandproveittous.

5

LiketheRemnantsofaRavagedArmy

Wehelpedoneanotherbackoverthesanddunes,pickingupthosewhofell,supporting

thosewhocouldbarelywalk...ThebaptismoffirethathadreducedClass226bymorethanhalfwasover...Noonehadeverdreameditwouldbethisbad.

Welinedupoutsidethechowhall and hoisted the boatsonto our heads. It was nowapparent we would gonowhere without them. Asbankerscarrytheirbriefcases,

as fashion models walkaroundwith their photographportfolios, we travel aroundwith our boats on our heads.It’saHellWeekthing.I have to admit that after

the first straight thirty hours,my memory of those fivedays begins to grow a littlehazy. Not of the actualevents, but of the sequence.When you’re moving ontoward forty hours withoutsleep, themindstartsplaying

tricks, causing fleetingthoughts suddenly to becomereality. You jerk yourselfawakeandwonderwhere thehell you are and why yourmom, holding a big, juicyNew York sirloin, is notpulling the paddle right nexttoyou.It’s the forerunner to

outright hallucination. Kindof semi-hallucinations. Theystart slowly and getprogressively worse. Mind

you, the instructors do theirlevelbesttokeepyouawake.We were given fifteenminutes of hard physicaltraining both when wereached the chow hall andwhen we left. We were sentinto the surf fast and often.The water was freezing, andevery time we carried outboatdrills,racingthroughthebreakers with the fourremaining teams, we wereordered to dump boat, pull

thatsuckeroverontopofus,thenright it,getback in,andcarry on paddling to ourdestination.Therewardforthewinners

was always rest. That’s whywe all kept trying so hard.Same for the four-mile run,during which we got slower,times slipped below thethirty-two-minute standard,and the instructors feignedoutrageasiftheydidn’tknowwe were slowly being

battered to hell. By that firstMonday evening, we’d beenup for thirty-six hours plusandwerestillgoing.Most of us ate an early

dinner, looking like a groupof zombies. And rightafterward we were marchedoutside to await furtherorders. I remember that threeguys had just quit.Simultaneously.Whichputusdowntosixofficersoutoftheoriginaltwelve.

Judging by the one guy Iknew, I didn’t think any ofthe ones who quit were inmuch worse shape than theyhadbeentwelvehoursbefore.They might have been a bitmore tired, but we had donenothingnew,itwasallpartofour tried-and-tested routines.And in my view, they hadacted in total defiance of theadvice handed to us byCaptainMaguire.They weren’t completing

each task as it came, livingfortheday.Theyhadallowedthemselvestoliveindreadofthepainandanguishtocome.Andhe’d toldusnever todothat, just to take it hour byhour and forget the future.Keep going until you’resecured. You get a guy likethat, a legendary U.S. NavySEAL and war hero, I thinkyouought topayattention tohiswords.Heearnedtherightto say them, and he’s giving

youhisexperience.LikeBillyShelton told me, even themerestsuggestion.But we had no time to

mourn the departure offriends. The instructorsmarched us down to an areaknown as the steel pier,whichused tobe the trainingarea forSDVTeam1 beforetheydecampedforHawaii. Itwas dark now and the waterwas very cold, but theyorderedustojumpstraightin

andkeptustreadingwaterforfifteenminutes.Then they let us out back

onto dry land and gave us afierce period of calisthenics.Thiswarmedusabit.Butmyteeth were chattering almostuncontrollably, and they stillordered us straight back intothe water for another fifteenminutes, theverylimitof thetimewhenguysstarttosufferfrom hypothermia. That nextfifteen minutes were almost

scary.Iwassocold,IthoughtI might pass out. There wasan ambulance right there incasesomeonedid.ButIheldon.Sodidmost

of us, but another officerclimbedoutofthewaterearlyand quit. He was the bestswimmer in the class. Thiswas a stunningblow,both tohim and the rest of us. Theinstructor let him goimmediately and just carriedon counting off the minutes

the rest of us weresubmerged.Whenwewerefinallyback

onshore,Iwasnotreallyableto speak and neither wasanyoneelse,butwedidsomemore PT, and then theyorderedusbackintothewaterfor another period, I forgethow long. Maybe five, tenminutes.Buttimehadceasedto matter, and now theinstructors knew we wereright on the edge, and they

came around with mugs ofhot chicken broth. I wasshaking so much I couldhardlyholdthecup.But nothing ever tasted

better. I seem to remembersomeoneelsequit,buthell, Iwas almost out of it. Iwouldn’t have known ifCaptainMaguirehadquit.AllI knew was, there were halfas many still going as therehad been at the start of HellWeek.Thehourwasgrowing

later, and this thing was notover yet. We still had fiveboats in action, and theinstructors reshuffled thecrews and ordered us topaddleover toTurnersField,the eastern extension of thebase.There they made us run

around a long loop, carryingthe boat on our heads, andthen they made us racewithoutit.Thiswasfollowedbyanother longperiod in the

water,attheendofwhichthismember of the crew of boatone,atough-as-nailsTexan(Ithought), cracked up withwhat felt like appendicitis.Whatever it was, I wasabsolutely unreachable. Ididn’t even know my name,andIhadtobetakenawaybyambulanceandrevivedat themedicalcenter.When I regained

consciousness, I got straightout of bed and came back. I

would not discuss quitting. Iremember the instructorscongratulatingmeonmynewwarm, dry clothes and thensendingmestraightbackintothe surf. “Better get wet andsandy.Justincaseyouforgetwhatwe’redoinghere.”Startingataround0200,we

spent the rest of the nightrunningaround thebasewiththe goddamned boat on ourheads. They released us forbreakfast at 0500, and

TuesdayproceededmuchlikeMonday. No sleep, freezingcold, and tired to distraction.We completed a three-milepaddleuptoNorthIslandandback, at which time it waslate in the evening andwe’dbeen up for more than sixtyhours.Theinjurylistgrewlonger:

cuts,sprains,blisters,bruises,pulled muscles, and maybethreecasesofpneumonia.Weworked through the night,

making one long six-milepaddle, and reported forbreakfast again at 0500 onWednesday. We’d had nosleep for three days, but nooneelsequit.And all through the

morning we kept going,swim-paddle-swim, then arun along the beach. Wecarried the boat to chow atnoon,andthentheysentustogosleep.We’dhaveonehourand forty-fiveminutes in the

tent. We had thirty-six guysleft.Troublewas,someofthem

could not sleep. I was one.Themedicalstafftriedtohelpthewoundedgetbackintothefray. Tendons and hipsseemed to be the mainproblems, but guys neededmuscle-stretchingexercisestokeep themsupple for thedayahead.Thenewshiftofinstructors

turned up and started yelling

for everyone towake up andgetbackoutthere.Itwaslikestanding in the middle of agraveyardandtryingtowakethe dead. Slowly it dawnedon the sleepers: their worstnightmare was happening.Someone was driving themforwardagain.They ordered us into the

surf, and somehow we fell,crawled, or stumbled overthat sand dune and into thefreezingwater.Theygaveus

fifteenminutesofsurftorture,exercises in the waves, thenorderedusout and toldus tohoist the boats back on ourheads andmake the elephantwalktochow.They worked us all night,

in and out of the surf; theywalked us up and down thebeach for God knows howmanymiles. Finally, they letussleepagain.Iguess itwasabout 0400 on the Thursdaymorning. Against many

pessimistic forecasts, we allwokeupandcarriedtheboatsto breakfast. Then theyworked us without mercy,hadusracingtheboatsinthegigantic pool withoutpaddles, just hands, and thenswimming them, one crewagainsttheother.Wednesday had run into

Thursday,butwewereinthefinal stages of Hell Week,and before uswas the fabledaround-the-world paddle, the

lastofthemajorevolutionsofthe week. We boarded theboats at around1930 and setoff, rushing into the surf offthespecialwarfarecenterandpaddling right around thenorth end of the island andbackdownSanDiegoBaytothe amphibious base. Nonight in my experience haseverlastedlonger.Some of the guys really

were hallucinating now, andall three of the boats had a

systemwhereonecouldsleepwhile the others paddled. Icannot explain how tired wewere; every light looked likea building dead in our path,every thought turned intoreality. If you thought ofhome, likeIdid,youthoughtyouwererowingstraightintothe ranch. The only savinggracewas,weweredry.But one guy in our boat

was so close to breakdown,he simply toppled into the

water, still holding hispaddle, still stroking, kickingautomatically,andcontinuingto row the boat.We draggedhimout,andhedidnotseemto understand he’d just spentfive minutes in San DiegoBay. In the end, I think wewere all paddling in oursleep.After three hours, they

summoned us to shore formedical checks and gave ushot soup. After that we just

keptgoing,untilalmost0200on Friday, when they calledus in from the beach with abullhorn. No one will everforget that. One of thosebastards actually yelled,“Dumpboat!”Itwaslike takingakickat

a dying man. But we keptquiet. Not like an earlierresponsefromastudent,whohad earned everlastingnotoriety by yelling back themost insubordinate reply

anyonehadevergivenoneofthe instructors. Never mind“Hooyah, Instructor Pat-stone!” (Because TerryPatstone was normally asuper guy, always harsh butfair.) That particular half-crazed paddler bellowed,“Ass-h-o-o-ole!” It echoedacross themoonlitwater andwas greeted by a howl oflaughter from the night-shiftinstructors. They understood,andnevermentionedit.

So we crashed over theside of the boat into thefreezing water, flipped thehull over and then back,climbedbackin,soakingwet,ofcourse, andkeptpaddling.I lockedone thought intomybrain and kept it there:everyone else who everbecame a U.S. Navy SEALcompleted this, and that’swhatwe’regoingtodo.We finally hauled up on

our home beach at around

0500 on Friday. InstructorPatstoneknewwejustwantedtohoistboatsandgetover tothechowhall.Buthewasnothaving that. He made us liftand then lower. Then he hadus push ’em out, feet on theboat.Hekeptusonthebeachfor another half hour beforewe were loosed to make theelephantwalktobreakfast.Breakfastwas rushed. Just

a fewminutes, and then theyhadusrightoutofthere.And

the morning was filled withlongboatracesandaseriesofterribleworkoutsinthedemopits — that’s a scum-ladenseawaterslime,whichwehadto traverse on a couple ofropes, invariably fallingstraight in. To makeeverything worse, they kepttelling us it was Thursday,not Friday, and the entireexercisewasconductedunderbattle conditions —explosions, smoke, barbed

wire — while we werecrawling, falling into theslime.Finally,Mr. Burns sent us

into the surf, all the timetellingushowslowwewere,howmuchmore therewas toaccomplishthisday,andhowdeeplyheregrettedtherewasas yet no end in sight forClass 226. The water almostfroze us to death, but itcleanedusofffromtheslimepits, and after ten minutes,

ChiefTaylororderedusbacktothebeach.We now didn’t know

whether it was Thursday orFriday. Guys collapsed ontothe sand, others just stoodthere, betraying nothing butin dread of the next fewhours, too many of themwondering how they couldpossiblygoon.Includingme.Knees were buckling, jointsthrobbing. I don’t thinkanyone could stand up

withouthurting.Mr.Burnssteppedforward

and shouted, “Okay, guys,let’s get right on to the nextevolution.Atoughone,right?ButIthinkyou’reupforit.”We gave out the world’s

weakest hooyah. Hoarsevoices,disembodiedsounds.Ididn’t know who wasspeaking for me; it sure ashell sounded like someoneelse.Joe Burns nodded curtly

and said, “Actually, guys,there is no other evolution.All of you. Back to thegrinder.”No one believed him. But

Joe wouldn’t lie. He mightfoolaround,buthewouldnotlie. It slowly dawned on usthatHellWeekwasover.Wejust stood there, zonked outwith pure disbelief. AndLieutenant Ismay, who wasreally hurting, croaked, “Wemade it, guys. Sonofabitch.

Wemadeit.”I turned toMattMcGraw,

andIremembersaying,“Howthehelldidyougethere,kid?You’re supposed to be inschool.”ButMattwason theverge

of exhaustion. He just shookhis head and said, “ThankGod,thankGod,Marcus.”Iknowthissoundscrazyif

you haven’t gone throughwhat we went through. Butthis was an unforgettable

moment. Two guys fell totheir knees and wept. Thenwe all began to hug oneanother. Someone wassaying,“It’sover.”Like the remnants of a

ravagedarmy,wehelpedoneanother back over the sanddunes, picking up those whofell, supporting those whocould barely walk. Wereached the bus that wouldtake us back to base. Andthere, waiting for us, was

Captain Joe Maguire, theSEAL commanding officers,andtheseniorchiefs.Alsoinattendance was the ex-SEALgovernorofMinnesota, JesseVentura,whowould performthe official ceremony whenwereturnedtothegrinder.Butrightnow,allweknew

was the baptism of fire thathad reduced Class 226 bymore than half was over. Ithadn’t beaten thirty-two ofus. And now the torture was

completed. In our wildestimaginations,noonehadeverdreameditwouldbethisbad.Godhadgivenusjustice.Welineduponthatsacred

blacktop, and GovernorVentura formallypronouncedthe official words thatproclaimed we never had totackle another Hell Week:“Class Two-two-six, you’resecured.” We gave him arousing “Hooyah! GovernorVentura!”

Then Instructor Burnscalled us to order and said,“Gentlemen, for the rest ofyour lives there will besetbacks. But they won’taffectyouliketheywillaffectother people. Because youhave done something veryfew are ever called upon toachieve. This week will livewithyouforallofyourlives.Not one of you will everforget it. And it means onething above all else. If you

can takeHellWeekandbeatit,youcandoanydamnthingintheworld.”I can’t pretend the actual

words are accurate in mymemory.Butthesentimentisprecise. Those words signifyexactly what Instructor JoeBurnsmeant,andhowhesaidit.And it affected us all,

deeply. We raised our tiredvoices,andtheshoutsplitthenoontimeairabovethatbeach

inCoronado.“Hooyah, Instructor

Burns!” we bellowed. Anddidweevermeanit.The SEAL commanders

and chiefs stepped forwardand took each one of us bythe hand, saying,“Congratulations,” andoffering words ofencouragement about thefuture, telling us to be sureand contact their personalteamsoncewewerethrough.

Tell the truth, it was all abit of a blur for me. I can’treally recall who invited meto join what. But one thingremains very clear in mymind.Ishookthehandofthegreat SEAL warrior JoeMaguire, and he had awarmwordforme.And thusfar inmy life, there had been nogreaterhonorthanthat.

We probably devoured a

world-record amount of foodthat weekend. Appetitesreturnedand thenacceleratedas our stomachs grew moreused to big-sized meals. Westillhad threeweeks togo infirst phase, but nothingcompared to HellWeek.Wewereperfecting techniques inhydrology, learning tidelevels and demographics ofthe ocean floor. That’s realSEAL stuff, priceless to theMarines. While they’re

planning a landing, we’re inthere early, moving fast,checking out the place insecret, telling ’em what toexpect.Therewereonly thirty-two

membersoftheoriginalclassleft now, mostly because ofinjury or illness sustainedduringHellWeek.Butthey’dbeen joined by others,rollbacks from other classeswho’dbeenpermittedanothergo.

This applied to me,because I had been on anenforced break when I hadmy broken femur. And sowhen I rejoined for phasetwo, Iwas inClass 228.Webegan in the diving phase,conducted in the water,mostly under it. We learnedhow to use scuba tanks, howto dump them and get ’emback on again, how to swapthem over with a buddywithout coming to the

surface. This is difficult, butwehadtomasteritbeforewecould take the major poolcompetencytest.I failed my pool

competency, like awhole lotofothers.This test is a royalbastard. You swim down tothe bottom of the pool withtwin eighty-pound scubatanks on your back, a coupleof instructors harassing you.Youarenot allowed toput afoot down and kick to the

surface. If you do, you’vefailed,andthat’stheendofit.Firstthingtheseguysdois

rip off yourmask, then yourmouthpiece, and you have tohold your breath real quick.You fight to get themouthpiecebackin,thentheyunhook your airline intake,andyouhavetogetthatbackin real fast, groping aroundover your shoulder, behindyourback.Somehow you find

yourself able to breathe inpure oxygen, but the onlyway you can breathe out isthrough your nose. A lot ofguys find the cascade ofbubbles across their facesextremely disconcerting.Then the instructorsdisconnect your airlinecompletely and put a knot init. And you must try to getyour inhalation andexhalation lines reconnected.Ifyoudon’torcan’teventry,

you’re gone. You need agoodlungfulofairbeforethisstarts, then you need to feelyourwayblindtotheknotinthelinebehindyourbackandstart unraveling it. You canmoreorlesstellbythefeelifit’s going to be impossible,what the instructors call awhammy. Then you run theflatedgeofyourhandacrossyour throat and give theinstructor the thumbs-up.Thatmeans“I’mnevergoing

to get that knot undone,permission to go to thesurface.” At that point, theycease holding you down andletyougoup.Butyoubetterberightinyourassessmentofthatknot.In my case, I decided too

hastily that the knot in myline was impossible, gavethem the signal, ditched mytanks over my shoulder, andfloateduptothesurface.Butthe instructors decided the

knot was nothing likeimpossible and that I hadbailed out of a dangeroussituation.Failed.Ihadtogoandsitinaline

in front of the poolsidewall.It would have been a line ofshame, except there were somany of us. I was instructedto take the test again, and Ididnotmake themistake thesecond time. Undid thesonofabitch knot and passedpoolcomp.

Several of my longtimecomrades failed, and I feltquitesad.Exceptyoucan’tbea SEAL if you can’t keepyour nerve underwater. Asone of the instructors said tome that week, “See that guyin somekindof apanicoverthere? There’s confusionwritten all over him. Youmight have your life in hishands one day, Marcus, andwe cannot, will not, allowthattohappen.”

Pool comp is the hardestone of all to pass, justbecauseweallspentsomuchtime in the water and rightnowhadtoprovewehadthepotential to be true SEALs,guys towhom thewaterwasalwaysasanctuary.Itmustnotbeathreatoran

obstaclebutaplacewherewealonecouldsurvive.Someofthe instructors had knownmany of us for a long timeand desperatelywanted us to

pass.Buttheslightestsignofweakness in poolcompetency, and theywouldn’ttakethechance.Those of us who did stay

moved on to phase three.Witha few rollbackscomingin, we were twenty-one innumber.Itwaswinternowinthe Northern Hemisphere,early February, and weprepared for the hard slog ofthe land warfare course.That’swheretheyturnusinto

navycommandos.This is formally called

DemolitionsandTactics, andthe training is as strict andunrelenting as anything wehadsofarencountered.It’saknown fact that phase threeinstructorsare thefittestmenin Coronado, and it took uslittle time to find out why.Even the opening speech byour new proctor was edgedwithdirewarnings.His name was Instructor

Eric Hall, a veteran of sixSEAL combat platoons, andbefore we even started onFriday afternoon, he laid itright on the line. “We don’tput up with people who feelsorry for themselves. Anyproblems with drugs oralcohol,you’regone.There’sfour bars around here thatguys from the teamssometimesvisit.Staythehellout of all of ’em, hear me?Anyonelies,cheats,orsteals,

you’re done, because that’snot tolerated here. Just sowe’reclear,gentlemen.”He reminded us it was a

ten-week course and weweren’t that far fromgraduation.He tolduswherewe’d be. Five weeks righthere at the center, with daysatthelandnavigationtrainingareainLaPosta.Therewouldbe four days at CampPendleton on the shootingranges. That’s the 125,000-

acre Marine Corps basebetweenLosAngelesandSanDiego. We would finish atSan Clemente Island, knowntoSEALsastheRockandthemain site for more advancedshooting and tactics,demolitions, and fieldtraining.Eric Hall finished with a

characteristic flourish. “Givemeahundredandtenpercentatalltimes—anddon’tblowit by doing something

stupid.”Thus we went at it again

for another two and a halfmonths, heading first for thegroup one mountain trainingfacility, three thousand feetup in the rough, jaggedLaguna Mountains at LaPosta, eighty miles east ofSanDiego.That’swheretheytaughtusstealth,camouflage,and patrolling, the essentialfield craft of the commando.The terrainwas really rough,

hard to climb, steep, anddemanding. Sometimes wedidn’t make it back tobarracks at night and had tosleep outside in the wildcountry.They taught us how to

navigateacross the landwithmaps and compass. At theend of the week, we allpassed the basic courses,three-mile journeysconducted in pairs across themountains. Then we headed

back to the center to prepareforCampPen-dle-ton,wherewe would undergo our firstintensive courses inweaponry.Notimewaslost.Wewere

out there with submachineguns, rifles, and pistols,training for the not-too-distant days when we wouldgo into combat armed withthe M4 rifle, the principalSEALweaponofwar.Firstthingwassafety.And

we all had to learn by heartthefourcriticalrules:

1.Considerallweaponstobeloadedatalltimes.

2. Never point a weapon atanything you do not want toputabulletthrough.

3. Never put your finger onthetriggerunlessyouwanttoshoot.

4. Know your target andwhat’sbehindit.They kept us out on the

shooting range for hours. Inbetween times we had todismantle and assemblemachinegunsandtheM4,allunder the eyes of instructorswho timed us withstopwatches. And the brutalregime of fitness neverwavered. It was harder thansecond phase, because now

wehadtoruncarryingheavypacks,ammunition,andguns.We also had a couple of

weeks at the center to studyhigh explosives anddemolition. This mostlyinvolved straightforwardTNTandplastic,withvariousfiring assemblies. Thepracticalworkhappenedonlyon the island of SanClemente.Andbeforewegotto do that, we had anotherrigorous training schedule to

complete, including onefourteen-mile run along thebeachandback.Thiswas the first timewe

had run any race withoutbeing wet and probablysandy. Just imagine, dryshortsandrunningshoes.Wefloated along, not a care intheworld.It was mid-March before

we decamped to SanClemente for four weeks oftraining, long hours, seven

days a week until wefinished. This ruggedmoonscape of an island issituated off the Californiacoast,sixtymileswestofSanDiego, across the Gulf ofSantaCatalina.For almost fifty years, the

U.S. Navy has been incommand here, using theplaceasanextensivetrainingarea. There are no civilians,but parts of the island are animportant wildlife sanctuary.

There are lots of rare birdsandCaliforniasea lions,whodon’t seem to care aboutviolentexplosions,shells,andnaval air landings.Up in thenortheast, right on the coast,youfindSEALs.And there we learned the

rudimentsoffastandaccuratecombat shooting, the swiftchanging of magazines,expert marksmanship. Wewereintroducedtothedeadlyseriousbusinessofassaulting

anenemypositionandtaughthow to lay down coveringfire. Slowly, then faster, firstin daylight, then through thenight. We were schooled inall the aspects of modernwarfare we would one dayneed in Iraq or Afghanistan— ambushes, structuresearches, handling prisoners,planning raids.This iswherewegotdowntoalltheserioustechniquesofreconnaissance.We moved on to really

heavy demolition, setting offchargesonagrandscale,thenhand grenades, then rockets,and generally causing majorexplosions and practicinguntil we demonstrated amodicumofexpertise.Our field training tasks

were tough, combat missionsimulations. We paddled theboatstowithinafewhundredyards of the shore anddropped anchor. From thatholding area, we sent in the

scout recon guys,who swamto the beach, checked theplace out, and signaled theboatstobringusin.Thiswasstrict OTB (over the beach),andwe hit the sand running,burrowing into hides justbeyond the high-water mark.This is where SEALs aretraditionally at their mostvulnerable, and theinstructors watch like hawksfor mistakes, signs that willbetraythesquad.

We practiced these beachlandings all through thenights, fighting our way outof thewaterwithfullcombatgearandweapons.Andattheendofthefourthweekweallpassed, every one of thetwenty trainees who hadarrived on the island. Wewould all graduate fromBUD/S.I asked one of our

instructors if this was in anyway unusual. His reply was

simple. “Marcus,” he said,“when you’re training thebest of the best, nothing’sunusual. And all the BUD/Sinstructorswanttheverybestforyou.”They gave us a couple of

weeks’leaveaftergraduation,and thereafter for me it washigh-density education. FirstjumpschoolatFortBenning,Georgia, where they turnedmeintoaparatrooper.Ispentthree weeks jumping out of

towers and then out of a C-130,fromwhichweallhadtomakefivejumps.That aircraft is a hell of a

noisy place, and the firstjump can be a bit unnerving.Butthepersoninfrontofmewas a girl from West Point,andshedivedoutofthatdoorlike Superwoman. Irememberthinking,Christ! Ifshe can do it, I’m definitelygonna do it, and I launchedmyself into the clear skies

aboveFortBenning.Next stop for me was the

Eighteenth Delta Forcemedical program, conductedat Fort Bragg, NorthCarolina. That’s where theyturned me into a battlefielddoctor.Isupposeitwasmorelike a paramedic, but thelearning curve was huge:medicine, in-jections, IVtraining, chest tubes, combattrauma, wounds, burns,stitches,morphine.Itcovered

just about everything awounded warrior might needunder battle conditions. Onthe first day I had tomemorize 315 examples ofmedical terminology. Andtheynever took their footoffthe high-disciplineaccelerator. Here I was,working all day and half thenight, and there was still aninstructor telling me to getwetandsandyduringtrainingruns.

Iwent straight fromNorthCarolina to SEALqualification training, threemoremonthsofhardlaborinCoronado, diving, parachutejumping, shooting,explosives, detonation, along, intensive recap ofeverything I had learned.Rightafterthat,Iwassenttojoin the SDV school(submarines)atPanamaCity,Florida. I was there on 9/11,and little did I realize the

massive impact those terribleevents in New York Citywouldhaveonmyownlife.I remember the pure

indignation we all felt.Someone had just attackedtheUnitedStatesofAmerica,the beloved countryweweresworntodefend.Wewatchedthe television with mountingfury, the fury of young,inexperienced, but supremelyfit andhighly trainedcombattroopswhocouldnotwait to

getat theenemy.Wewishedwe could get at Osama binLaden’s al Qaeda mob inIraq, Iran, Afghanistan, orwherever the hell theselunatics lived.But be carefulwhatyouwishfor.Youmightgetit.AlotofguyspassedSEAL

qualification training andreceived their Tridents onWednesday afternoon,November 7, 2001. Theypinned it right on in a short

ceremony out there on thegrinder. You could see itmeant all the world to thegraduates.Therewere in factonly around thirty left fromthe original 180 who hadsigned up on that long-agofirstdayofIndoc.Formyself,because of variouseducational commitments, Ihad towait until January 31,2002,formyTrident.But the training never

stopped. Right after I

formally joined what ourcommanders call thebrotherhood, I went tocommunication school tostudy and learn satellitecomms, high-frequency radiolinks, antenna wavelengthprobability, in-depthcomputers,globalpositioningsystems,andtherest.Then I went to Sniper

School back at CampPendleton, where,unsurprisingly, they made

sure you could shoot straightbeforeyoudidanythingelse.This entailed two very toughexamsinvolvingtheM4rifle;the SR-25 semiautomaticsniper rifle, accurate to ninehundredyards;andtheheavy,powerful 300WinMag bolt-action .308-caliber rifle.Youneeded to be expert with allof themifyouwereplanningtobeaNavySEALsniper.Then the real test started,

theultimateexaminationofa

man’s ability to movestealthily, unseen andundetected, across rough,enemy-heldgroundwheretheslightestmistakemightmeaninstant death or, worse,lettingyourteamdown.Our instructor was a

veteran of the first wave ofU.S. troopswhohad gone inafterOsama.HewasBrendanWebb, a terrific man.Stalking was his game, andhis standards were so high

they would have made anApache scout gasp.Workingright alongside himwas EricDavis,anotherbrilliantSEALsniper, who was completelyruthlessinhisexaminationofour abilities to stayconcealed.The final “battleground”

was a vast area out near theborder of Pendleton. Therewas not much vegetation,mostly low, flat bushes, butthe rough rocks-boulders-

and-shale terrain was full ofundulations, valleys, andgullies. Trees, the sniper’snearest and dearest friends,were damn sparse, obviouslybydesign.Before they let uslooseinthisbarren,dustyno-man’s-land,theysubjectedusto long lectures stressing theimportance of payingattentiontoeverydetail.Theyretaughtus thenoble

art of camouflage, thebrownandgreencreams,thewayto

arrangebranches inyourhat,thedangersofagustofwind,which might ruffle yourbranches alone if theyweren’t set tight, betrayingyour position. We practicedall the hours Godmade, andthentheysentusoutontotherange.It’savastsweepofground,

and the instructors survey itfrom a high platform. Ourstalk began a thousand yardsfrom that platform, upon

which the gimlet-eyedWebbandDavisstood,scanningtheacres like apair of revolvingradars.The ideawas togetwithin

two hundred yards of themand then fire through thecrosshairs at the target. Wehadpracticeddoingthisaloneand with a partner, and boy,does this ever teach youpatience. It can take hoursjusttomoveafewyards,butiftheinstructorscatchyouas

they sweep the area withhigh-poweredbinoculars,youfailthecourse.For the final test I was

working with a partner, andthis meant we both had tostay well concealed. In theend, he finds the range andcallstheshot,andIadheretohis command. At this stagethe instructors have installedwalkers all over the place,and they’re communicatingbyradioswiththeplatform.If

the walker gets within twostepsofyou,you’vefailed.Even if you get your shot

offunseenand hit the target,if they find you afterward,you still fail. It’s a hard,tough, thinking man’s game,and the test is exhaustive. Intraining, an instructor standsbehind both of you whileyou’recrossing theforbiddenground. They’re writing aconstant critique, observing,for example, that my spotter

hasmadeawrongcall,eitherincorrect distance ordirection. If I thenmisswiththe shot, they know themistake was not mine. Asever, you must operate as ateam. The instructor knowsfullwellyoucannotposition,aim,andfiretheriflewithouta spotter calling down therange,andJesus,hebetterberight.There was just one day

during training where they

walked on me, which Ithought was pretty damnednervy. But it taught mesomething.Our enemy had adamn good idea where wemight head before we evenstarted, a kind of instinctbased on long experience ofrookie snipers looking forcover. They had me in theirsights before I even gotmoving, because they knewwhere to look, the highestprobabilityarea.

That’salifetimelessonforthe sniper: never, ever gowhere your enemy mightexpect you to be. My onlysolaceonthatruefuloccasionwas that the instructorswalkedoneverysingleoneofusthatday.Inthefinaltest,Ifacedthat

thousand-yard barren desertonce again and began myjourney, wriggling andscuffling through the dustyground,my head well down,

camouflage branches firm inmy hat, groveling my waybetween theboulders. It tookmehourstomakethehalfwaypointandevenlongertoeasemy way over the last threehundred yards to my chosenspot for the shot. I was notseen, and I moved deadslowly through the rocks,from gully to gully, stayinglow,pressingintotheground.When I arrived at my finalpoint, I scuffled together a

little hide of dirt and sticks,and tucked down behind it,my rifle carefully aimed. Isqueezed the trigger slowlyanddeliberately,andmyshotpinged into the metal target,rightinthemiddle.Ifthathadbeenaman’shead,he’dhavebeenhistory.Isawtheinstructorsswing

around and start looking forthe place my shot had comefrom. But they wereobviouslyguessing. Ipressed

my face into the dirt andnever moved an inch for ahalf hour. Then I made myslow and careful retreat, stilllying flat, disturbing not atwignorarock.Anunknownmarksman, just the way welikeit.It had taken threemonths,

and I passed Sniper Schoolwithexcellentmarks.SEALsdon’tlookforpersonalcredit,andthusIcannotsaywhotheclassvotedtheirHonorMan.

The last major school Iattendedwasjoint tacticalaircontrol. It lasted one month,out in the Fallon NavalAirbase,Nevada.Theytaughtus the basics of airborneordnance, five-hundred-pound bombs and missiles,what they can hit and whattheycan’t.Wealsolearnedtocommunicate directly withaircraft from the ground —getting them to see what wecan see, relaying information

through the satellites to thecontrollers.I realize it has taken me

some time to explainpreciselywhataNavySEALisandwhatittakestobeone.But as we are always told,youhave toearn thatTridentevery day. We never stoplearning, never stop training.TostatethatamanisaNavySEAL communicates about aten thousandth of what itreallymeans.Itwouldbeasif

General Dwight D.Eisenhower mentioned he’donceservedinthearmy.Butnowyouknow:whatit

took, what it meant to all ofus,and,perhaps,whywedidit. Okay, okay, we do haveour own little brand ofarrogance. But we paid forevery last drop of that sin insweat, blood, and brutallyhardwork.Because above all, we’re

patriots. We will willingly

carry the fight to whoevermay be the enemies of theUnited States of America.We’re your front line,unafraid and ready to go inagainst al Qaeda, jihadists,terrorists,orwhoeverthehellelsethreatensthisnation.Every Navy SEAL is

supremelyconfident,becausewe’re indoctrinated with abeliefinvictoryatallcosts;aconviction that no earthlyforce can withstand our

thunderous assault on thebattlefield. We’re invincible,right? Unstoppable. That’swhat Ibelieved to thedepthsof my spirit on the day theypinned the Trident on mychest. I still believe it.And Ialwayswill.

6

’Bye,Dudes,Give’EmHell

Thefinalcallcame—“Redwingisago!”Thelandingcontrollerwascallingtheshots...“One

minute...Thirtyseconds!...Let’sgo!”Therampwasdown...thegunnerwasreadywiththeM60machinegun...Nomoon...Dannywentfirst,outintothedark.

Asdaybrokeoverthemightysprawl of the U.S. base atBagram in Afghanistan onthatmorning inMarch 2005,we checked into our bee hut

and slept for a few hoursbefore attending a generalbriefing. Dan Healy, Shane,James,Axe,Mikey,andI,thenewarrivalsfromSDVTeam1, were immediatelyseconded to SEAL Team 10out of Virginia Beach, ledright now by the teak-hardLieutenant Commander EricKristensen,standinginfortheabsentCO,whowasondutyelsewhere.Eric was funny as hell,

always one of the boys, somuch so it might haveimpededhisprogressthroughthe higher ranks in lateryears. These days 75 percentof all SEALs have collegedegrees,andthelinebetweenofficers and enlisted men ismoreblurred than ithaseverbeen.ButEricwasthirty-twoand the son of an admiralfrom Virginia. Despite hissenseofhumorandhisoftenwry look at higher authority,

he was a very fine SEALcommander, and he presidedover one of the best fightingplatoons in the entire U.S.Navy. Team 10 wasbrilliantlytrainedforthekindof warfare we were nowentering. LieutenantCommanderKristensenhadacouple of right-hand men,Luke Newbold and MasterChief Walters, very specialguys. I canonly say itwasapleasuretoworkwiththem.

Our briefing, likeeverything associated withTeam10,wastopoftheline,a kind of grim educationallecture on what washappening up on thenorthwest frontier, whichdivides Afghanistan andPakistan. The steep, stonymountaincrevassesandcliffs,dust-colored, sinister places,were now alive with theburgeoning armies of theTaliban. Angry, resentful

men,regroupingallalongtheunmarked high border,preparing to take back theholy Muslim country theybelieved the infidelAmericans had stolen fromthemand thenpresented to anew,electedgovernment.Up there, complex paths

emerge and then disappearbehind huge boulders androcks. Every footstep thatdislodges anything, a smallrock, a pile of shale, seems

like it might cause anearthshaking avalanche.Stealth,weweretold,mustbeour watchword on the high,quiet slopes of the HinduKush.Thesepaths, troddendown

for centuries by warringtribesmen, were the veryroutes taken by the defeatedTalibanandalQaedaafterthewithering U.S. bombardmenthad all but annihilated themin 2001. We would find out

allaboutthemsoonenough.Within literally hours, we

began our first mission. Noone regarded us as rookies;we were all fully trainedSEALs, ready for action,ready to get up there intothose mountain passes andhelp slow the tide of armedwarrior tribesmen movingback across the border fromPakistan.We flew by helicopter up

into those passes, into the

hillsaboveadeepvalley.Wearrived, maybe twenty of us,including Dan, Shane, Axe,and Mikey, and fanned outaround the mountain. Axe,Mikey, and James Suh (callsign Irish One) werepositioned about one and ahalfmiles fromChiefHealy,Shane,andme(callsignIrishThree).Thiswasaborderhotspot,

wheremultipleTaliban troopmovementsweretakingplace

on a weekly, or even daily,basis.WeexpectedtoobservetheTalibanwaybelowusonthat narrow, treacherous paththrough the mountains,moving along with theirswaying camels, many ofthem loaded up withexplosives, grenades, andGodknowswhatelse.I was walking with great

caution. We had all beenwarned these gloweringAfghanistan tribesmenwould

fight, andnoneof themwerelikely tobepushovers. I alsoknew that one false step, adislodged rock, howeversmall, would betray ourpositions. Those tribesmenhad lived up here forcenturies, and they had eyeslike falcons. If they heard usor saw us, theywould attackimmediately. Our highcommandhadleftnodoubtinour minds. This wasdangerous stuff, but we had

to stop the influx of armedterrorists.Carefully I moved along

the ridge, occasionallystoppingtoscanthemountainpass with my binos. I waswalking silently. Everythingwas clear in my mind. If atroop of wild tribesmenwithcamels and missiles camerolling into the pass, I mustinstantly whistle upreinforcements on the radio.If it was a lesser force,

somethingwecoulddealwithright here, we’d swoop andtry tocapture the leadersandtake care of the rest bywhatever means werenecessary.Anyway, I continued my

silent patrol, hunkered downbehind a couple of hugeboulders, and again scannedthe pass. Nothing. I steppedout once more, into steep,barren, open country, andbelow me I suddenly saw

three armed Afghanistantribesmen. My brain raced.There was seventy yardsbetweenmeandShane.Do Iopenfire?Howmanymoreofthemwerethere?Too late.Theyopened fire

first, shooting uphill, and avolley of bullets from theirAK-47s slammed into therocksall aroundme. Ihurledmyselfbackbehindtherocks,knowing Shane must haveheard something. Then I

steppedout and let ’emhaveit. I saw them retreat intocover. At least I’d pinnedthemdown.Buttheycameatmeagain,

andagainIreturnedfire.Butrightthen,theyunleashedtworocket-propelled grenades(RPGs),andthankGodIsawthem coming. I dived forcover, but they blew out oneof the boulders which hadgiven me shelter. Now therewerericochetingbullets,dust,

shrapnel, and flying rockparticleseverywhere.It felt like Iwas fightinga

one-man war, and Christknows how I avoided beinghit.But suddenly, the echoesof the blast died away, and Icould hear sporadic gunfirefrom these three maniacs. IwaitedquietlyuntilIbelievedthey had broken cover, andthenIsteppedoutandhitthetrigger again. I don’t knowwhat or who I hit, but it

suddenly went very quietagain. As if nothing hadhappened. Welcome toAfghanistan,Marcus.This was one type of

patrol, standing guard upthere over the passes andtrying to remain concealed.Theotherkindwasastraightsurveillance andreconnaissancemission (SR),where we were tasked withobserving and photographinga village, looking for our

target.Itwasalwaysexpectedwe would locate him sinceour intelwas excellent, oftenwith good photographs. Andwewere always in search ofsome sonofabitch in a turbanwho had for too long beenindulging in his favoritepastime of blowing up U.S.Marines.On these sorties into the

mountains,wewereexpectedtopickoutourquarry, eitherwithhigh-poweredbinoculars

or the photo lens of one ofourcameras, and then swoopdownintothevillageandtakehim.Ifhewasalone,thatwasalways the primary plan ofthe SEALs: grab the target,get him back to base, andmake him talk, tell uswherethe Taliban were gathered,locate for us the hugeammunition piles they hadhiddeninthemountains.That high explosive had

only one use, to kill and

maimU.S.troops,upthereinsupport of the electedgovernment.Wefounditwellto remember those Talibaninsurgents were the verysameguyswhoshelteredandsupported Osama bin Laden.We were also told, no ifs,ands, or buts, that particularmass murderer was rightwhere we were going,somewhere.Generally speaking, we

were to grab our man in the

villageifhewasprotectedby,say, only four bodyguards.Noproblem.Butifthereweremore of them, some kind ofTaliban garrison crawlingwith armedmen,wewere tocall for a proper fightingforcetoflyinandtakecareofthe problem. Either way,when we arrived, thingsceased to look great foryoungAbdultheBombmakermeasuring out his dynamitedown there in Main Street,

Mud Hut Central, NortheastAfghanistan.Our next mission was a

huge operation, around fiftyguys dropped into themountains, in the worstterrain you’ve ever seen.Well, maybe not if there areany mountain goats ormountain lions among myreaders,butitsureashellwastheworstI’deverseen.Therewere steep cliff faces, loosefooting, sheer drops, hardly

any bushes or trees, nothingto grab, nowhere to takecoverifnecessary.I have explained how

supremely fit we were. Wecould all climb anything, goanywhere. But— you’re notgoing to believe this — wetookeighthours towalk oneand a half miles. Guys werefalling down the goddamnedmountain,gettinghurt,bad.Itwas hotter than a Texasgriddle, and one of my

buddies told me later, “I’dhavequittheteamsjusttogetoutofthere.”I know he didn’t mean it.

But we all knew the feeling.We were tired, frustrated,roped together in teams,crawling across the face ofthisdangerousmountainwithfull rucksacks and rifles. Tothis day it remains the worstjourney of my life. And weweren’t even facing theenemy. It was so bad we

made up a song about it,which our resident expertbanjoplayerput tothemusicof the Johnny Cash song“RingofFire”:

Ifellintoahundred-footravine,

Wewentdown,down,down,andbustedupmyspleen,

Anditburned,burned,

burned—thatRingofFire...

Our dual targets on that

next mission were twoAfghan villages set into themountainside, one above theother.Wehadnoclueswhichone harbored the mostTaliban forces, and it hadbeen decided we needed totake them both at gunpoint.No bullshit. The reason for

this was a very young guy.We had terrific intel on him,from both satellites and theFBI. We did not, however,havephotographs.Ineverknewwherehewas

educated, but this youngTalibankidwasa scientist, amasterofexplosives.Wecallthem IED guys (improvisedexplosivedevices),andinthispartofthemountains,thiskidwas King IED. And he andhis men had been wreaking

havoc on U.S. troops,blowing stuff up all over theplace.He’drecentlyblownupa couple of U.S. Marineconvoys and killed a lot ofguys.Foxtrot Platoon regrouped

in the small hours of themorning after the trek acrossthemountains andpositionedourselves high above theupper village. As the suncame up, we moved swiftlydownthehillsideandcharged

into the village, crashingdownthedoorstothehouses,arresting anyone andeveryone. We were notshooting, but we were veryintimidating, no doubt aboutthat.Andnooneresisted.Butthekidwasn’tthere.Meanwhile themainforce,

SEAL Team 10, was in andplaying hell in the bigger,lower village. It took them awhile, because this requiredinterrogation,askillatwhich

we were all very competent.In these circumstances, wewere grilling everyone,looking for the liar, the guywho changed his story, theguy who was somehowdifferent.Wewanted theguywho was obviously not agoatherd, as the rest of themwere; a young guy wholacked the gnarled, roughlook of the native mountainfarmer.Wegotourman.Itwasmy

first close-up encounter withafanaticalTalibanfighter.I’llnever forget him. He wasonlyjustoldenoughtohaveadecentbeard,buthehadwild,crazy eyes, and he stared atme like I’d just rejected theentireteachingsoftheKoran.Iknewinthatinstantthatif

he could have killed me, hewouldhave.Noonehadeverlooked at me before, or hassince,withthatmuchhatred.

That second operation inAfghanistan, the snatch-and-grab of Abdul theBombmaker or whatever thehell his name was, broughthome two aspects of thisconflict to us newly arrivedSEALs.First,therabidhatredthese Muslim extremists hadfor all of us; second, theawkwardness of complyingwithourrulesofengagement(ROE)inthistypeofwarfare.SEALs, by our nature,

training, and education, arenot very stupid. And alongwith everyone else, we readthenewspaperheadlinesfromall over the world aboutserving members of thearmed forces who have beencharged with murder inciviliancourtsfordoingwhatthey thought was their duty,attackingtheirenemy.Ourrulesofengagementin

Afghanistanspecifiedthatwecouldnotshoot,kill,orinjure

unarmed civilians. But whatabout the unarmed civilianwhowasaskilledspyfortheillegal forces wewere tryingto remove? What about anentire secret army, diverse,fragmented, and lethal,creeping through themountains in Afghanistanpretending to be civilians?Whataboutthoseguys?Howabout the innocent-lookingcamel drovers making theirway through the mountain

passes with enough highexplosive strapped to thebacks of their beasts to blowup Yankee Stadium? Howaboutthoseguys?We all knew that we’d

chosen to do what 999Americans out of everythousand would not eventhink about doing. And wewere taught that we werenecessary for the security ofour nation. We were sent toAfghanistan to carry out

hugely dangerous missions.Butwewerealsotoldthatwecould not shoot that cameldrover before he blew up allofus,becausehemightbeanunarmed civilian just takinghisdynamiteforawalk.Andhowabouthisbuddy?

The younger guy with thestick, running along behind,proddingthefreakin’camels?How about him? How aboutifhecan’twaittoscamperupthosemountains and find his

brother and the rest of theTaliban hard men? The oneswiththeRPGs,waitinginthehiddencave?We wouldn’t hear him

reveal our position, andneither would the politicianswhodraftedthoseROEs.Andthose men in suits won’t beon that mountainside whenthe first grenade explodesamong us and takes offsomeone’sleg,orhead.Should we have shot that

littlesonofagunrightoffthebat,beforehehadachancetorun? Or was he just anunarmed civilian, doing noharm to anyone? Just takinghisTNTforawalk,right?These terrorist/insurgents

knowtherulesaswellastheydid in Iraq.They’re not theirrules. They’re our rules, therules of the Westerncountries,thecivilizedsideoftheworld.Andeveryterroristknows how to manipulate

them in their own favor.Otherwise the camel droverswouldbecarryingguns.But they don’t. Because

they know we are probablyscaredtoshootthem,becausewe might get charged withmurder, which I actuallyknow they consider to be onthe hysterical side oflaughable.And if we did shoot a

couple of them, they wouldbe on their cell phones with

the speed of ten thousandgigabytes, direct to the Arabtelevisionstational-Jazeera:BRUTALUSTROOPSGUNDOWN

PEACE-LOVINGAFGHANFARMERS

USMilitaryPromisesSEALs

WillBeChargedWell, something like that.

I’m sure you get my drift.The media in the UnitedStates of America would

crucify us. These days, theyalways do.Was there ever agreater uproar than the onethat broke out over AbuGhraib?Inthebiggerschemeofthings,inthecontextofallthedeathanddestructionthatMuslim extremists havevisited upon this world, abunchofIraqiprisonersbeinghumiliated does not ring mypersonal alarm bell. And itwouldnotringyourseitherifyou ever saw firsthand what

these guys are capable of. Imean, Jesus, they cut offpeople’s heads, Americanheads, aid workers’ heads.They think nothing ofslaughtering thousands ofpeople; they’ve stabbed andmutilated young Americansoldiers, like something outoftheMiddleAges.Thetruthis,inthiskindof

terrorist/insurgentwarfare,noone can tell who’s a civilianandwho’snot.Sowhat’s the

point of framing rules thatcannot be comprehensivelycarriedoutbyanyone?Rulesthat are unworkable, becausehalf the time no one knowswho the goddamned enemyis, and by the time you findout, it might be too late tosave your own life. Makingsense of the ROEs in real-time situations is almostimpossible.Also, no one seems clear

onwhatwe should be called

in Afghanistan. Are we apeace-keeping force?Arewefighting a war againstinsurgents on behalf of theAfghan government, or arewefightingitonbehalfoftheU.S.A.?Arewetryingtohuntdown themaster terrorist binLaden,orarewejusttryingtoprevent the Taliban fromregaining control of thecountry, because they werethe protectors of bin Ladenandallwhofoughtforhim?

Search me. Buteverything’s cool with us.Tell us what you want, andwe’ll do it. We’re loyalservants of the U.S.government.ButAfghanistaninvolves fighting behindenemy lines.Nevermindwewere invited into ademocratic country by itsowngovernment.Nevermindthere’snoshootingacrosstheborder in Pakistan, theillegalityoftheTalibanarmy,

theGenevaConvention,yada,yada,yada.When we’re patrolling

those mountains, tryingeverything we know to stopthe Taliban regrouping,striving to findandarrest thetop commanders andexplosive experts, we arealwayssurroundedbyawell-armed, hostile enemy whoseavowed intention is tokillusall. That’s behind enemylines.Trustme.

And we’ll go there. Allday. Every day. We’ll dowhatwe’resupposedtodo,tothe letter, or die in theattempt. On behalf of theU.S.A.But don’t tell uswhowe can attack. That ought tobeuptous,themilitary.Andif the liberal media andpolitical community cannotaccept that sometimes thewrong people get killed inwar, then I can only suggestthey first grow up and then

serve a short stint up in theHindu Kush. They probablywouldnotsurvive.The truth is, any

governmentthatthinkswarissomehow fair and subject torules like a baseball gameprobably should not get intoone.Becausenothing’sfairinwar, and occasionally thewrong people do get killed.It’sbeenhappeningforabouta million years. Faced withthe murderous cutthroats of

the Taliban, we are notfighting under the rules ofGeneva IVArticle4.Wearefighting under the rules ofArticle 223.556mm— that’sthe caliber and bullet gaugeofourM4rifle.And if thosenumbersdon’t lookgood, tryArticle .762mm, that’s whatthe stolen RussianKalashnikovs fire at us,usually in deadly, heavyvolleys.Intheglobalwaronterror,

we have rules, and ouropponents use them againstus.We try to be reasonable;they will stop at nothing.They will stoop to any formof base warfare: torture,beheading, mutilation.Attacksoninnocentcivilians,women and children, carbombs, suicide bombers,anything the hell they canthink of. They’re right upthere with the monsters ofhistory.

And I ask myself, Who’spreparedtogofurthesttowinthis war? Answer: they are.They’ll willingly die to gettheirenemy.Theywilltakeitto the limit, any time, anyplace,whatever it takes.Andthey don’t have rules ofengagement.Thus we have an extra

element of fear and dangerwhen we go into combatagainst the Taliban or alQaeda—thefearofourown,

thefearofwhatourownnavyjudgeadvocategeneralmightruleagainstus,thefearoftheAmerican media and theirunfortunate effect onAmerican politicians. We allharbor fears about untrained,half-educated journalistswhoonly want a good story tojustify their salaries andexpense accounts. Don’tthink it’s just me. We alldetest them, partly for theirlack of judgment, mostly

because of their ignoranceand toe-curling opportunism.The first minute an armedconflict turns into a mediawar, the news becomessomeone’s opinion, not hardtruths. When the media getsinvolved, in the UnitedStates, that’s a war you’vegotadamnedgoodchanceoflosing, because therestrictions on us areimmediately amplified, andthat’s sensationally good

newsforourenemy.Every now and then, a

news reporter or aphotographergets in thewaysufficiently to stop a bullet.And without missing a beat,thosehighlypaidnewspeoplebecome national heroes,laudedbackhomeinthepressandon television.SEALsarenot churlish, but I cannotdescribe how irksome this isto the highly trained but notverywell paid guys who are

doing the actual fighting.These are superbprofessionals who saynothingandplace themselvesinharm’swayeveryday,toooften being killed orwounded. They are silentheroes, unknown soldiers,except in equally unknown,heartbroken little homecommunities.We did one early mission

up there in the passes atcheckpoint 6 that was worse

than lethal. We’d justmanaged toget intoposition,about twenty of us, whenthese Afghan wild menhidden in the mountainsunleashed a barrage ofrockets at us, hundreds andhundredsofthem,flyingoverour heads, slamming into themountainside.We couldn’t tell whether

theywereclassifiedasarmedcombatantsagainsttheUnitedStatesorunarmedcivilians.It

took us three days to subduethem, and even then we hadtocallinheavyairsupporttoenable us to get out. Threedays later, the satellitepictures showed us theTaliban had sent in twelvecutthroats by night, armedwith Kalashnikovs and tribalknives,whocreptthroughthedarkness intent on murder,directlytoouroldposition.But you can’t prove their

intentions! I hear the liberals

squeal. No. Of course not.They were just headed upthereforacupofcoffee.ThoseTalibannightattacks

weretheverysametacticsthemujahideen used against theRussians, sliding through thedarkness and cutting thethroatsofguardsandsentriesuntil the Sovietmilitary, andtheparentsofyoungsoldiers,could stand it no more. Themujahideenhasnowemergedas the Taliban or al Qaeda.

And their intentions againstus are just as bloodthirsty asthey were against theRussians.TheNavySEALscandeal

withthat,aswecandealwithany enemy. But not ifsomeone wants to put us injail for it back home in theU.S.A. And we sure as helldon’twant tohangaround inthe mountains waiting forsomeone to cut our throats,unable to fight back just in

casehemightbeclassifiedasanunarmedAfghanfarmer.But theseare theproblems

of the modern U.S. combatsoldier, the constant worryabout overstepping the markand an American media thatdelightsintryingtoknockusdown. Which we have donenothing to deserve. Except,perhaps,loveourcountryandeverythingitstandsfor.In the early weeks of our

duties in Afghanistan, the

fightwenton.Platoonsofuswent out night after night,trying to halt the insurgentscreeping through themountain passes. Every timethere was a full moon, welaunched operations, becausethatwas really the only timewecouldgetasweepoflightoverthedarkmountains.Following this lunar cycle,

we’d send the helicopters upthere to watch these beardedfanatics squirting over the

border into Afghanistan, andthenwe’droundthemup,thehelos driving them likesheepdogs, watching themrun for their lives, straighttowardus and the rest of thewaiting U.S. troops forcaptureandinterrogation.I realize it might seem

strange that underwaterspecialistsfromSDVTeam1should be groping aroundnine thousand feet above sealevel. It isgenerallyaccepted

in thenavythat theswimmerdelivery vehicle (SDV), theminisubmarine that brings usinto our ops area, is thestealthiest vehicle in theworld.Anditfollowsthatthetroops manning the world’sstealthiest vehicle are theworld’s sneakiest guys.That’s us, operating deepbehind enemy lines,observing and reporting,unnoticed, livingon theedgeof our nerves. And our

principal task is always tofindthetargetandthencallinthedirect actionguys.That’sreallywhateveryonewantstodo, direct action, but it can’tbe done without the deadlybusinessweconductuptherein those lonely peaks of theHinduKush.Lieutenant Commander

Eric Kristensen was alwaysaware of our value, and infactwasaverygoodfriendofmine. He used to name the

operations for me. I was aTexan, which, being as hewas a Virginia gentleman,somehowamusedthelifeoutof him. He thought I wassome kind of cross betweenBilly the Kid and BuffaloBill, quick on the draw andDang mah breeches! Nevermind both those cowboyswere fromway north of me,Kansasorsomewhere.SofarasEricwasconcerned,Texasandallpointswestandnorth

ofitrepresentedthebadlands,lawless frontiers, Colt .44s,cattlemenandRedIndians.Thus we were always

flying out on OperationLonghorn or Operation LoneStar. Naming the ops for hisTexas boy really broke himup. The vast majority of ourmissionswereveryquietandinvolvedstrictsurveillanceofmountain passes or villages.We were always trying toavoid gunfire as we

photographed and thenswooped on our target.Invariably we were lookingforthemisfit,theonemaninthevillagewhodidnotfitin,the hit man of the Talibanwhowasplainlynotafarmer.Sometimeswe’drunacross

a group of these guys sittingaround a campfire, bearded,sullen, drinking coffee, theirAK-47sattheready.Ourfirsttask was to identify them.Were they Pashtuns?

Peaceable shepherds,goatherds?Orarmedwarriorsof the Taliban, the ferociousmountain men who’d slityourthroatassoonaslookatyou? It tookonlya fewdaysto work out that Talibanfighters were nothing like sorough and dirty as Afghanmountain peasants. Many ofthem had been educated inAmerica,andheretheywere,carefully cleaning their AK-47s,gettingreadytokillus.

And it did not take usmuch longer to realize howimpressive they could be inactionuphereon their homeground.Ialwaysthoughttheywould turn and run for itwhen we discovered them.But they did nothing of thekind. If they held or couldreach the high ground, theywould stand and fight. If wecame down on them they’dusuallyeithergiveuporheadright back to the border and

intoPakistan,wherewecouldnotfollowthem.Butcloseupyou could always see thedefiance in their eyes, thathatredofAmerica,thefireofthe revolutionary that burnedintheirsouls.It was pretty damn creepy

for us, because this was theheartland of terror, the placewhere the destruction of theWorldTradeCenterwasbornand nourished, perfected bymen such as these. I’ll be

honest, it seemed kind ofunreal, not possible. But weallknewthatithadhappened.Righthereinthisremotedustbowlwastherootofitall,thehomeland of bin Laden’sfighters,theplacewheretheystillplotandschemetosmashthe United States. The placewhere the loathing of UncleSam is so ingrained, a brandof evil flourishes that isbeyond the understanding ofmost Westerners. Mostly

because it belongs to adifferent, more barbariccentury.And here stood Mikey,

Shane,Axe,me,andtherest,ready for a face-off anytimeagainst these silent, sure-footed warriors, masters ofthe mountains, deadly withrifleandtribalknife.Tomeettheseguysinthese

remote Pashtun villages onlymade the conundrum moredifficult. Because right here

we’retalkingPrimitivewithabigP. Adobe huts made outof sun-dried clay brickswithdirtfloorsandanawfulsmellof urine and mule dung.Downstairs they have goatsand chickens living in thehouse.Andyethere, in thesecaveman conditions, theyplanned and then carried outthemostshockingatrocityonatwenty-first-centurycity.Sanitationinthevillagesis

as rudimentary as it gets.

Theyhaveacommunalhead,a kind of a pit, out on theedge of the houses. And weare all warned to watch outforthem,particularlyonnightpatrols. I misjudged it onenight, slipped, and got myfoot in there. That causedhuge laughterup there in thedeadofnight,everyonetryingnot toexplode.Wasn’t funnytome,however.Thenextweekitwasmuch

worse. We were all in the

pitch dark, creeping throughthisveryroughground,tryingto set up a surveillancepointaboveavery smallclusterofhutsandgoats.Wecouldnotsee a thing without NVGs(night-vision goggles), andsuddenly I slipped into agapinghole.Idarednotyell.ButIknew

Iwasonmywaydown,andIshuddered to think where Iwas going to land. I justrammed my right arm rigid

straight up, holding on tightto the rifle, and crashedstraight into thevillagehead.I went right under, vaguelyhearing my teammates hiss,“Lookout!Luttrelljustfoundtheshitteragain!”Never has there been that

much suppressed laughter onan Afghan mission. But itwas one of the worstexperiences of my life. Icould have given typhoid totheentireBagrambase.Iwas

freezingcoldbut Icheerfullyjumped into a river in fullcombat gear just to getwashedoff.Sometimes there was real

trouble on those border postcheckpoints, and weoccasionally had to load upthe Humvees and transportabouteighteenguysoutthereand thenwalk formiles.Theproblem was, the Pakistanigovernment has obvioussympathy with the Taliban,

and as a result leaves theborder area in the northeastuncontrolled. Pakistan hasdecreed its authorities canoperate on tarmac roads andthen for twenty meters oneither side of the road.Beyond that, anything goes,sotheTalibanfighterssimplyswerveofftheroadandenterAfghanistan over the ancientpathways.Theycomeandgoas they please, the way theyalways have, unless we

prevent them.Many of themonly want to come in andrustlecattle,whichwedonotbother with. However, theTaliban know this, and theymove around disguised ascattle farmers, and we mostcertainlydobotherwith that.And those little camel trainsladen with high explosive,theyreallygetourattention.And every single time,we

came under attack. Theslightest noise, any betrayal

of our position, someonewould open fire on us, oftenfrom thePakistan sideof theborder, where we could notgo. So we moved stealthily,gathered our photographs,grabbed the ringleaders,stayedintouchwithbase,andwhistled up reinforcementswheneverweneededhelp.It was the considered

opinion of our commandersthat the key to winning wasintel, identifying the

bombmakers, finding theirsupplies, and smashing theTaliban arsenal before theycoulduseit.Butitwasnevereasy. Our enemy was brutal,implacable, with nodiscernible concern abouttime or life. As long as ittakes, was their obviousbelief.Intheendtheyassumethey will rid their holyMuslim soil of the infidelinvaders. After all, theyalways have, right? Sorry,

nyet?Sometimes,while thehead

sheds (that’s SEALvernacular for our seniorcommanders)werestudyingaspecific target, wewere kepton hold. I volunteered myspare time working in theBagram hospital, mostly intheemergency room,helpingwith the wounded guys andtrying to become a bettermedicformyteam.And that hospital was a

real eye-opener, because wewere happy to treat Afghansas well as our own militarypersonnel. And they showedup at the emergency roomwith every kind of wound,mostly bullets, butoccasionallystabbings.That’sone of the real problems inthat country— everyone hasa gun. There seems to be anAK-47 in every living room.And there were a lot ofinjuries. Afghan civilians

would show up at the maingatessobadlyshotwehadtosend out Humvees to bringthemintotheER.Wetreatedanyone who came, at theAmericantaxpayer’sexpense,and we gave everyone asgoodcareaswecould.Bagram was an excellent

place for me to improve myskills, and I hoped I wasdoingsomegoodat thesametime.Iwas,ofcourse,unpaidfor this work. But medicine

has always been a vocationforme, and those long hoursinthathospitalwerepricelesstothedoctorIhopedonedaytobe.AndwhileItendedthesick

and injured, thenever-endingwork of the commanderscontinued, filtering the intelreports, checking the CIAreports, trying to identify theTaliban leaders so we couldcut the head off theiroperation.

There was always a verybig list of potential targets,some more advanced thanothers.BythatImeancertaincommunitieswherethereallydangerous guys had beenlocated, identified, andpinpointedbythesatellitesorby us. It was work thatrequired immenseperseverance and the abilityto assess the likelihood ofactually finding the guywhomattered.

TheteamsinBagramwereprepared to go out there andconduct this very dangerouswork, but no one likes goingon a series of wild-goosechases where the chances offindingatopTalibanterroristareremote.Andofcoursetheintelguyshavetobeawareatalltimesthatnothingisstaticup there in the mountains.Those Taliban guys are verymobile and very smart. Theyknowalotbutnotallthereis

to know about Americancapability. And they surelyunderstand the merit ofkeeping it moving, fromvillage to village, cave tocave, never remaining in oneplace long enough to getcaught with their stockpilesofhighexplosive.Our senior chief, Dan

Healy, was outstanding atseeking out and finding thegood jobs forus, oneswherewehad a better than average

chanceof findingourquarry.He spent hours poring overthose lists, checking out acertainknownterrorist,wherehe spent his time, where hewaslastseen.Chief Healy would comb

through the photographicevidence, checking maps,charts,workingouttheplaceswe had a real chance ofvictory,ofgrabbing themainman without fighting an all-out street battle. He had a

personal short list of theprime suspects and where tofind them. And by June, hehad a lot of records, thevarious methods used bythese kingpin Taliban guysand their approximate accesstoTNT.And one man’s name

popped right out at him. Forsecurityreasons,I’mgoingtocall him Ben Sharmak, andsufficetosayhe’saleaderofa serious Taliban force, a

sinistermountainmanknowntomakeforays into thecitiesandknownalso tohavebeendirectly responsible forseveral lethal attacksonU.S.Marines, alwayswithbombs.Sharmak was a shadowyfigure of around forty. Hecommanded maybe 140 to150 armed fighters, but hewasaneducatedman,trainedinmilitarytacticsandabletospeakfivelanguages.Hewasalso known to be one of

Osama bin Laden’s closestassociates.Hekept his troopsmobile,

moving into or camping onthe outskirts of friendlyPashtun villages, acceptinghospitality and then travelingon to the next rendezvous,recruiting all the way. Thesemountain men wereunbelievably difficult totrace, but even they need torest, eat and drink, andperhaps evenwash, and they

need village communities todoallofthat.Almost every morning

Chief Healy would run themain list of potential targetspastMikey,our teamofficer,and me. He usually gave uspapers with a list of maybetwenty names and possiblelocations, and we made ashort list of the guys weconsidered we should goafter. We thus created arogues’gallery,andwemade

our mission choicesdepending on the amount ofintel we had. The name BenSharmakkeptonshowingup,andtheestimatesofhisforcesize kept going up just asoften.Finally there was a

tentative briefing about apossible Operation Redwing,whichinvolvedthecaptureorkilling of this highlydangerous character. But hewas always elusive. First he

washere, then there, like thefreakin’ Scarlet Pimpernel.And the photos availablewerejustheadandshoulders,not great quality and verygrainy. Still, we knewapproximately what thesonofabitch looked like, andon the face of it, this wasstacking up to be like anyother SR operation — getabove the target, stalk him,photographhim,and, ifatallpossible,grabhim.

We had very decent intelon him, which suggested theCIA and probably the FBIwere also extremelyinterested in his capture ordeath. And as the variousbriefings went on, BenSharmak seemed to getprogressivelymoreimportant.Therewerenowreportsofaneighty-troop minimum and atwo-hundred-troop maximumin his army, and thisconstituted a very big

operation. And Chief Healydecreedthatmeandmythreebuddies inAlfaPlatoonwerethe precise guys to carry itout.We were not expected to

take on this large bunch ofwild-eyed killers. Indeed,wewereexpected tostayquieterthanwehadeverbeeninourlives. “Just find this bastard,nail him down, his locationandtroopstrength,thenradioin foradirectaction force to

come in by air and take himdown.”Simple,right?Ifwe thought hemight be

preparing an immediateevacuation of the village inwhich he resided, then wewouldtakehimoutforthwith.That would be me or Axe.ThechanceswereI’dgetonlyoneshotatSharmak,justonetimewhenIcouldtraphiminthe crosshairs and squeezethat trigger, probably fromhundreds of yards away. I

knewonlyone thing: Ibetternot miss, because theapparitions of Webb andDavis, not to mention everyother serving SEAL, wouldsurelyriseupandtearmyassoff. This was, after all,precisely what they hadtrainedmefor.And in case anyone’s

wondering, I had absolutelyno qualms about putting abullet straight through thisbastard’s head. He was a

fanatical swornenemyof theUnited States of Americawho had already murderedmanyofmycolleaguesintheU.S. Marines. He was alsothe kind of terrorist whowouldlikenothingbetterthanto mastermind a new attackontheU.S.mainland.IfIgota shot, he’d get no mercyfrom me. I knew what wasexpected of me. I knew theteam boss wanted thischaracter eliminated, and

whenIthoughtaboutit,Iwasdamned proud theyconsidered me and mybuddies the men for the job.As ever, we would doeverythingpossiblenot to letanyonedown.Every daywe checked the

intelofficetoseewhatfurtherdata there was on Sharmak.ChiefHealywas righton thecase, working with the opsofficer and our skipper,Commander Pero. The

problem was always thesame: where was our target?He was worse than SaddamHussein, disappearing,evadingthepryingeyeofthesatellites,keepinghisidentityandlocationsecretevenfromthemanyCIAinformerswhowereclosetohim.There was of course no

point in charging into themountainsarmed to the teethwith weapons and camerasunless we were absolutely

sure of hiswhereabouts. TheTalibanwere a serious threattolow-flyingmilitaryaircraft,andthehelopilotsknewtheywere in constant danger ofbeing fired upon, even onnight ops. These mountainmen were as handy withmissile launchers as theywerewithAK-47s.There is ahuge amountof

backuprequiredforanysuchoperation: transportation,communications,availableair

support, not to mentionammunition, food, water,medical supplies, handgrenades,andweapons,allofwhich we would carry withus.At one point, quite early

on, we had a very definite“Redwing is a go.” Andpreparationswerewell underway when the entire thingwas suddenly called off.“Turn one!” They’d lost himagain. They had data, and

they had reason to believetheyknewwherehewas.Butnothing hard. The guys inintelstudiedthemapsandtheterrain, ringed probabilityareas, made estimates andguesstimates. They thoughtthey had him pinned downbut not sufficiently narrowlyto place him in an actualvillageoracamp,nevermindwiththeaccuracyrequiredforasnipertogetoffashot.Intelwasjustwaitingfora

break, and meanwhile, meand the guys were out onother SR missions, probablyOperation Goat Rope orsomething. We’d just comebackfromoneof thesewhenweheardthere’dbeenabreakinthehuntforBenSharmak.It was very sudden, and weguessed one of our sourceshadcomeupwithsomething.Chief Healy had maps andstudies of the terrain underway, and it looked like we

weregoingstraightoutagain.We were called into a

briefing: Lieutenant MikeMurphy, Petty OfficerMatthew Axelson, PettyOfficer Shane Patton, and I.We listened to the data andthe requirements and stillregardeditasjustanotherop.But at the last minute therewas a big change. Theydecided thatShaneshouldbereplaced by Petty OfficerDanny Dietz, a thirty-four-

year-oldIhadknownwellforyears.Danny was a short (well,

compared with me), verymuscularguyfromColorado,but he lived with hisspectacularly beautiful wife,Maria, known to all of us asPatsy,justoutsidethebaseinVirginiaBeach.Theyhadnochildrenbuttwodogs,bothofthem damn near as tough ashe was, an English bulldogandabullmastiff.

Dannywaswithme at theSDV school in PanamaCity,Florida. We were both thereon9/11.Hewasheavily intoyogaandmartialartsandwasa very close friend ofShane’s. Guess those beachgodsandthemysticironmenhave stuff in common. Iwasglad to have Danny on theteam.Hewasalittlereserved,but underneath he could bevery funny andwas a sweet-natured person. It was not a

great plan to upset him,though. Danny Dietz was acaged tiger andagreatNavySEAL.Now it seemed Redwing

was again given the greenlight.Thefour-manteamwasnaileddown.Thetwosniperswould be Axe and me; thetwo spotters, Mikey andDanny. Command control,Mikey. Communications,Danny and me. The finalshoot-on-target, me or Axe,

either one of us spotting,whichever way it fell on theterrain.Theplanwastositupthere

and hide above the place webelieved Sharmak wasresident, ifnecessaryforfourdays, probably not able tomove more than a foot,remaining deadly still in adeadly place — high in thehills.At no time would we be

anything but carefully

concealed, watching theseheavilyarmedmountainmen,whowere lifelongexpertsonthelocalterrain,awaitingourchance to gun down theirleader.Itdoesn’tgetawholelotmoredangerousthanthat.We were actually in the

helicopter, dressed andorganized, ready to leave,“Redwing is ago,”when themissionwascalledoff again.“Turn two!” It was not somuch that we’d lost track of

Sharmak as the fact that theslippery little son of a gunhad turned up somewhereelse.We disembarked and

wandered back to ourquarters.We shed our heavypacks and weapons, changedout of our combat gear,cleaned the camouflagecream off our faces, andrejoined thehumanrace.Thebreak lasted for two weeks,during which time we did a

couple of minor missions upin the passes and nearly gotour heads blown off at leasttwice.Isurpassedmyselfonceby

nailingdownoneofthemostdangerous terrorists innortheast Afghanistan. I hadPOSIDENT, and I actuallysaw himmake a break for iton his own, riding a freakin’bicycle along the track. Ididn’t shoot him because Idid not wish to betray our

position by opening fire oreven moving. We wereexpectinghiscompletecameltrain of high explosive tomove along this routeanytime,andwewantedbothhim and his munitions. Atleast I didn’t emulate theactionsofaformercolleague,who, according to SEALfolklore, fired up the directlink and advised a cruisingU.S. fighter/bomber of theGPS position. Then he

watched a five-hundred-pound bomb demolish theterrorist, his camel, andeverything within fifty yardsof him. On this mission, wehalted the camel train andmanaged to capture theterrorist and unload theexplosivewithoutresortingtosuchwild-and-woollyaction.Sorry, lefties.But, likewe

say back home in Texas, aman’sgottadowhataman’sgottado.

Andsothedayspassedby,until on Monday morning,June 27, 2005, they locatedSharmak again. This time itlooked really good. By noonthedetailedmapsandphotosoftheterrainwerespreadoutbefore us. The intel wasexcellent, the maps weren’tbad, the photographs of theterrain passable. We stilldidn’t have a decent pictureofSharmak,justthesameoldhead and shoulders, grainy,

indistinct. But we’d locatedotherkillersupherewithalotless, and there was no doubtthistime.“Redwingisago!”Right after the briefing,

ChiefDanHealy said tome,quietly, “This is it, Marcus.We’regoing.Gogettheguysready.”I gave the crisp reply

expected from a team leaderto a SEAL CPO. “Okay,Chief.We’reouttahere.”And I walked out of the

briefing room and headedbacktoourquarterswithaloton my mind. I can’t quiteexplain it, but Iwas assailedbydoubts,andthatfeelingofdisquietneverleftme.I’dseenthemaps,andthey

were clear. What I couldn’tsee was a place to hide.Wedidnothavegoodintelonthevegetation. It was obviouslybad and barrenway up therein the Hindu Kush, aroundten thousand feet. You don’t

need to be a Fellow of theRoyalGeographicInstitutetoknow this is arid countryabovethetreeline,notmuchgrowing. Great for climbers,a goddamned nightmare forus.The village we were

surveying had thirty-twohouses.Icountedthemonthesatellite picture. But we didnotknowwhichoneSharmakwas in.Neitherdidweknowif the houseswere numbered

in case we got better intelwhilewewereupthere.We had some pictures of

the layout but very little onthe surrounding country. WehadgoodGPSnumbers,veryaccurate.Andwehadashortlistofpossiblelandingzones,unnecessary for the insert,becausewe’dfast-ropein,butcriticalfortheextract.Iwascertainwe’dneed to

blow down a few trees on alowerlevelofthemountainin

order tohavecoverwhenweleft and to bring thehelicopters in with the DAforce if it was required.Barren, treelessmountainscapes are no placeto conduct secretive landingsandtakeoffs,notwithTalibanrocket men all around.Especially the highly trainedgroup that surroundedSharmak.Hewasgoddamnedlethal, and he’d proved it,more than once, blowing up

theMarines.The one aspect of the

mission that dominated mythoughts as Iwalked back tomeet the guyswas that therewasnoplacetohide,noplacefrom which to watch. Yousimply cannot do effectivereconnaissance if you can’tgetintogoodposition.Andifthose mountain cliffs thatsurrounded the village wereas rough and stony as Isuspected, we’d stick out on

those heights like a diamondinagoat’sass.Andtherewerelikelytobe

between eighty and twohundred armed warriorskeeping a very carefullookoutonallthelandaroundtheirboss.Iwasworried,notabout the numbers of ourenemy but about theproblems of stayingconcealed in order tocompletethemission.Iftherewas a very limited selection

of hiding places, we mighthave to compromise ourangle on the village, not tomentionourdistancefromit.I met Mikey back at the

bee hut. I told him we weregoing in, showed him themaps and what photographswe had, and I remember hisreply.“Beautiful.Justanotherthree days of fun and sun.”But I saw his expressionchange as he looked at thepictures,attheobviouslyvery

steepgradients, trulyhorribleterrain,amountainwewouldhave to clomp up and downinordertofindcover.By this time Axe and

Danny had appeared. Webriefedthemandwandered,abit apprehensively, over tothechowhallforlunch.Ihada large bowl of spaghetti.Rightafterwardwewentbackto dress and get organized. Iwore my desert bottoms andwoodland top, mostly

because intel had said thelandingzonewasfairlygreenand we would drop into anarea of trees. I also had asniperhood.MikeyandDannyhadtheir

M4 riflesplusgrenades;Axehad theMark12 .556-caliberrifle, and I had one as well.Weall carried theSIG-Sauer9mmpistol.Weelectednottotakeaheavyweapon, thebigtwenty-one-pound machinegun M60, plus its

ammunition. We werealready loaded down withgear,andwethoughtitwouldbetooheavytohaulupthosecliffs.I also took a couple of

claymores, which are a kindofhigh-explosivedevicewitha trip wire, to keep anyintruder from walking up onus. I’d learned a hard lessonabout that on my first day,when two Afghans got a lotcloser than they should have

and might easily havefinishedme.We took a big roll of

detonator cord to blow thetreesfortheincominglandingzone when the mission wascompleteorfortheinsertofadirectactionforce.Atthelastmoment, still worried aboutthis entire venture, I grabbedthree extramagazines,whichgave me a total of eleven,each holding thirty rounds.Eightwas standard,but there

was something aboutOperationRedwing. It turnedout everyone felt the same.We all took three extramagazines.IalsocarriedanISLiD(an

acronym for imagestabilization and lightdistribution unit) for guidinginanincominghelo,plusthespotting scope, and sparebatteries for everything.Danny had the radio, andMikey and Axe had the

camerasandcomputers.We tookpackedMREs—

beef jerky, chicken noodles,power bars, water — pluspeanuts and raisins. Thewhole lot weighed aboutforty-five pounds, which weconsidered traveling light.Shane was there to see usaway: “ ’Bye, dudes, give’emhell.”All set, we were driven

down to the special opshelicopter area, waiting to

hear if there was a change.Thatwould have been “Turnthree!” The third timeRedwing had been aborted.But this time there was only“Rolex, one hour,” whichmeantweweregoingassoonasitwasdark.Weputdownourloadsand

lay on the runway to wait. Iremember it was very cold,with snowcaps on the not-too-distantmountains.Mikeyassured me he had

rememberedtopackhisluckyrock, a sharp-pointed bit ofgranitewhichhadjabbedintohisbacksideforthreedaysona previous mission when wewereinaprecarioushideandnone of us could move evenan inch. “Just in case youneed to stick it upyour ass,”he added. “Remind you ofhome.”And so we waited, in

company with a couple ofother groups also going out

thatnight.Thequickreactionforce (QRF) was going toAsadabad at the same time.Wehadjustdoneafullphotorecon of Asadabad, whichthey carried with them. Thedeserted Russian base wasstill there, andAsadabad, thecapital city of KunarProvince, remained a knowndangerous area. It was ofcourse where the Afghanmujahideenhadalmosttotallysurrounded thebaseand then

proceeded to slaughter all ofthe Russian enlisted men. Itwas thebeginningof theendfor the Soviets in 1989, onlyone range ofmountains overfromthespotweweregoing.Finally, the rotor blades

began to howl on the helos.Apparently themanymovingparts of Operation Redwing,so susceptible to change,were still in place. The callcame through,“Redwing is ago!,” and we hoisted up our

gearandclamberedonboardtheChinook47fortheinsert,forty-five minutes away tothe northeast. “Guess thisfucker Ben Sharmak is stillwhere we think he is,” saidMikey.We were joined by five

other guys going in toAsadabad,and theotherhelotook off first. Thenwe liftedoff the runway, followingthem out over the base andbankingaroundtoourcorrect

course.Itwasdarknow,andIspent the time looking at thefloor rather than out of thewindow. Every one of thefour of us, Mikey, Axe,Danny,andme,madeitclear,eachinhisownway,thatwedid not have a good feelingabout this. And I cannotdescribe how unusual thatwas.Wegointoopsareasfullof gungho bravado, thewaywe’re trained — Bring ’emon,we’reready!

No SEAL would everadmit to being scared ofanything. Even if we were,we would never say it. Weopen thedoorandgooutsideto face the enemy, whoeverthe hell he might be.Whatever we all felt thatnight, it was not fear of theenemy, although I recognizeitmighthavebeenfearoftheunknown, because we reallywere unsure about what wewould encounter in the way

ofterrain.When we reached the ops

area, the helicopter madethree false inserts, severalmiles apart, coming in verylowandhoveringoverplaceswehadno intentionofgoinganywhere near. If theAfghanswerewatching, theymust have been veryconfused — even we wereconfused! Going in, pullingout, going back in again,hovering, leaving. I’m damn

sure, ifSharmak’sguyswereoutthere,theycouldnothavehad the slightest clue wherewewere, ifwewere,orhowtolocateus.Finally, we were on the

way into our real landingzone. The final call came—“Redwing is a go!” Thelandingcontrollerwascallingthe shots: “Ten minutesout...Three minutes out...Oneminute...Thirtyseconds!...Let’sgo!”

The ramp was down, wewere open at the rear, thegunner was ready with theM60machine gun in case ofambush. It was pitch blackoutside, no moon, and therotorbladesweremakingthatfamiliar bom-bom-bom-bomon the wind. So far no onehadfiredanythingatus.The rope snaked from the

rear of the aircraft to theground, positioned expertlyso our guns could not get

caught aswe left.Right nowno one spoke. Loaded withour weapons and gear, welined up. Danny went first,out into the dark, I followedhim, then Mikey, then Axe.Each one of us grabbed therope and slid down fast,wearing gloves to avoid theburn. It was a drop of abouttwenty feet, and there was astiff,bitingwind.We hit the deck and

spread, moving twenty yards

away from one another. Itwas really coldup there, andthe downward gale from therotors, beating on us,whiskingupthedust,madeitmuch worse. We did notknow if we were beingwatchedbyunseentribesmen,but it was plainly apossibility, out here in thislawless rebel-held territory.We heard the howl of thehelicopter’s engines increaseas it lifted off. And then it

clattered away into thedarkness, gaining speed andheight rapidly as it left thisgodforsakenescarpment.We froze into the

landscape for fifteenminutesoftotalsilence.Therewasnota movement, not a singlecommunication among us.Andtherewasnotasoundonthe mountain. This wasbeyond silence, a stillnessbeyond the concept ofsilence, like being in outer

space. Way down below uswe could see two fires, orperhaps lanterns, burning,probably about a mile away,goatherds,Ihoped.Thefifteenminutespassed.

Tomyleftwasthemountain,a great looming masssweeping skyward. To myright was a group of huge,thick trees. All around uswere low tree stumps andthickfoliage.We were way below the

place where we wouldultimatelyoperate,anditwasveryunnerving,becauserighthere anyone could hide out.Wecouldn’tseeadamnthingand had no idea if therewasanyonearound.Sixteenyearsago, not too far away fromhere, I guess those Russianconscripts sensed somethingvery similar before someoneslashedtheirthroats.Finally,we climbed to our

feet. Iwalked over toDanny

and told him to get thecomms up and let thecontrollers know we weredown. Then I walked up thehill towhereMikeyandAxehad the big rope which had,absurdly, been cut down anddroppedfromthehelicopter.This was definitely a

mistake. That helo crewwassupposed to have taken therope away with them. Godknowswhat they thoughtweweregoingtodowithit,and

I was just gladMikey foundit.Ifhehadn’tandwe’dleftitlyingon theground, itmighteasily have been found by awandering tribesman orfarmer,especially if theyhadheard thehelicoptercome in.That rope might have rungourdeathknell,signifying,asit surely must, that theAmericaneaglehadlanded.We did not have a shovel,

and Mikey and Axe had tocover the rope with trees,

weeds, and foliage. Whilethey were completing this, IopenedupcommstotheAC-130Spectregunship,whichIknew was way up theresomewhere monitoring us. Ipassed my messagesuccinctly:“Sniper Two One, this is

Glimmer Three— preparingtomove.”“Rogerthat.”ItwasthelasttimeIspoke

to them. And now we were

assembledforourjourney—about four miles. Our routewas preplanned, along amountain ridge that stretchedout into a long right-handdogleg. Our waypoints weremarked on our map, and theGPS numbers, detailing theprecise position from thesatellite, were clear,numbered1,2,and3.That was just about the

only thing that wasstraightforward. Because the

terrain was absolutelyhorrible, the moonless nightwas still pitchblack, andourroute was along a mountainface so steep, it was agoddamnedmiraclewedidn’tall fall off and break ournecks. Also, it was raininglike a bastard and freezingcold. Within about tenminutes we were absolutelysoaked,likeHellWeek.It was really slow going,

clambering and slipping,

stumbling and looking forfootholds, handholds,anything.Allofus felldownthemountain in the first halfhour. But it was worse forme, because the other threewere all expert mountainclimbers and much smallerand lighter than Iwas. Iwasslower over the groundbecauseofmysize,andIkeptfalling behind. They had arestwhile Iwas catching up,and then when I got there,

Mikeysignaledtogostraighton.NorestforMarcus.“Fuckyou,Murphy,” Isaidwithouteven a pretense of goodnature.In fact, conditionswere so

baditwasalousyideatorestup.Youcouldfreezeuphere,soaked to the skin as wewere, in about five minutes.So we kept going, alwaysupward, keeping our bodyheat as high as possible. Butit was still miserable. We

never stopped ducking downunder the trees and hanginglimbs,holdingonifwecould,trying not to fall off themountainagain.In the end we reached the

topoftheclifffaceandfounda freshly used trail. It wasobvioustheTalibanhadbeenthrough here recently insubstantial numbers, and thiswas good news for us. Itmeant Sharmak and his mencould not be far away, and

right now we were huntingthem.At the top, we suddenly

walkedout intoanenormousflat field of very high grass,and the moon came outbriefly.Thepasture stretchedawayinfrontofuslikesomekind of paradise lit up in thepale light.We all stopped inour tracks because it lookedamazinglybeautiful.Butanenemycouldeasily

have been lurking in that

grass,andan instant laterweducked down, staying silent.Axe tried to find a paththroughit,thentriedtomakehis own path. But he simplycould not. The pasture wastoo thick, and it nearlycovered him. Before long hereturned and told us,poetically, there in thesoutheastAsianmoonlight,inthese ancient storied landsright up near the roof of theworld,“Guys,thatwastotally

fuckinghopeless.”To our right was the deep

valley, somewhere downwhich our target village waslocated. We’d already hitwaypoint 1, and our onlyoption was to find anothertrail and keep moving alongthe flank of the escarpment.And then, very suddenly, agreat fog bank rolled in anddrifted off the mountaintopbeneath us and across thevalley.

I remember looking downat it, moonlit clouds, sowhite,sopure,itlookedasifwe could have walked rightacrossittoanothermountain.Through the NODS (nightoptic device) it was aspectacular sight, a visionperhaps of heaven, set in aland of hellish undercurrentsandflaminghatreds.While we stood up there,

transfixed by oursurroundings, Mikey worked

out thatwewere justbeyondwaypoint 1, and we stillsomehow had to proceed onour northerly course, thoughnot through the high grass.We fanned out and Dannyfound a trail that led aroundthe mountain, more or lesswherewewantedtogo.Butitwasnoteasy,becausebynowthe moon had disappearedand it was again raining likehell.Wemust have gone about

another half mile acrossterrainthatwasjustasbadasanythingwehadencounteredallnight.Then,unexpectedly,I could smell a house andgoat manure, even throughthe rain; an Afghanfarmhouse. We had nearlywalkedstraight into the frontyard.Andnowwehad to bevery careful. We duckeddown,crawlingonourhandsand knees through thickundergrowth, staying out of

sight, right on theescarpment.Miserable as all this was,

conditionswerereallyperfectforaSEALoperationbehindenemy lines. Without night-vision goggles like ours,people couldn’t possibly seeus. The rain and wind hadcertainlydriveneveryoneelseunder cover, and anyone stillawake probably thought onlya raving lunatic could be outthere in such weather. And

theywereright.Allfourofushad taken quite heavy falls,probably one in every fivehundred yards we traveled.Wewerecoveredinmudandas wet as BUD/S phase twotrainees. It was true. Only alunatic, or a SEAL, couldwillingly walk around likethis.We could not see that

much ourselves. Nothingexceptthatfarmhouse,really.Andthen,quitesuddenly,the

moon came out again, verybright, and we had to moveswiftly into the shadows, ourcover stolen by that pale,luminouslightinthesky.We kept going, moving

away from the farm, stillmoving upward on themountainside, through quitereasonable vegetation. Butthen all of my own personaldreadscameoutandwhackedus.Wewalkedstraightoutofthe trees intoabarren,harsh,

sloping hillside, the mainescarpment set steeply on anorthernrise.Therewasnotatree.Nota

bush. Just wet shale, mud,small rocks, and boulders.The moon was directly infront of us, casting our longshadowsontotheslope.This was my nightmare,

ever since I first stared atthose plans back in thebriefing room: the four of usstarkly silhouetted against a

treeless mountain above aTaliban-occupiedvillage.Wewere an Afghan lookout’sfinest moment, unmissable.We were Webb and Davis’sworst dream, snipersuncovered, out in the open,trapped in nature’s spotlightwithnowheretohide.“Holyshit,”saidMikey.

7

AnAvalancheofGunfire

Downthemountain,fromeveryangle.Axeflankedleft,tryingtocutoffthedownwardtrail,firing

nonstop.Mikeywasblastingaway...shouting,...“Marcus,nooptionsnow,buddy,kill’emall!”

We edged back the way wehad come, into the shadowscastbythelastofthetrees.Itwasnot farback towaypoint2,andwetookaGPSreadingright there. Mikey handedover navigational duties toAxe, and I groaned. Moving

upanddownthesesteepcliffswas really tough forme, butthe streamlined, expertmountaineer MatthewAxelson could hop aroundlike a fucking antelope. Ireminded him of those twocorrelatingfacts,andallthreeof my teammates startedlaughing.For some reason best

knowntoourresidentkingofTrivial Pursuit, he led us offthe high mountain ridge and

down toward the valleywhich spread out from theelbowofthedogleg.Itwasasifhehaddecidedtoeliminatethe dogleg entirely and takethe straight line directlyacross to waypoint 3.Whichwas all fine and dandy,except it meant a one-milewalk going steeplydownward, followed,inevitably, by a one-milewalk going steeply upward.That was the part I was not

builtfor.Nonetheless that was our

new route. After about fiftyyards I was struggling. Icouldn’tkeepupwhilegoingdown, never mind up. Theycould hear me sliding andcursing in the rear, and Icould hear Axe and Mikeylaughing up front. And thiswas not a fitness problem. Iwasasfitasanyofthem,andI was not in any way out ofbreath. I was just too big to

track a couple of mountaingoats.Lawsofnature,right?Our path was inescapably

zigzagged because Axe wasalways trying to find cover,stay out of themoonlight, aswegrappledourwaybackupthe cliff to waypoint 3. Wereached the topapproximately one hourbefore daylight. Our GPSnumbers were correct, asplanned back at home base.And right up there on top of

this finger of pure granite,Mikey picked a spot wherewecouldlayup.He chose a position over

the brow of the summit,maybeeightyfeetdown,rightontheuppermostescarpment.There were trees, some ofthem close together, butdirectly beyond them wasmore barren land. Wedroppedour heavy loads, thefour-mile journey complete,andtippedthegritandstones

outofourboots.Theyalwaysfindawayin.Medically, we were all

okay, no injuries. But wewere exhausted after ourgrueling seven-hour hike upand down this freakin’mountain. Especially Mikeyand me, because we bothsuffered from insomnia,particularly prepping for anoperation like this, and wehadn’t slept the night before.Plusitwasfreezingcold,and

we were still soaked to theskineventhoughtherainhadstopped. So, for that matter,was everything we carriedwithus.Dannyhadtheradioupand

he informed HQ, and anypatrolling aircraft, that wewere in position and good togo.Butthiswasalittlehasty,because right after thatcommunication, the mooncameout oncemore, andweswept the area with our

NODs and couldn’t see adamn thing. Not even thevillage we were supposed tobe surveying in search ofSharmak. The trees were inthe way. And we could notmoveoutofthetreesbecausethat put us back on exposedbarren ground, where therewere a few very small treestumpsstillinthegroundbutzero decent cover. JesusChrist.Thiswasplainlya logging

area,maybeabandoned,butaplacewherealotoftreeshadbeen cut down.Away to ourright,thenightskyabovethehighest peaks wasbrightening.Dawnwasnear.Danny and I sat on a rock

in deep conversation, tryingto work out how bad thisreallywasandwhat todo. Itwas every frogman’s dread,anoperationwheretheterrainwas essentially unknown andturnedout tobe asbad asor

worse than anyone had everdreamed. Danny and Ireachedidenticalconclusions.Thisreallysucked.Mikey came over to talk

briefly. And we all stared atthe brightness in the sky tothe east. Lieutenant Murphy,ascommandcontroller,calledthe shot. “We’re moving infive.” And so we picked upour heavy loads once moreandsetoffbackthewaywe’dcome. After a hundred yards

wefoundadowntrailon theother side of the ridge,walked below the waypoint,and selected a prime spot inthe trees overlooking thevillage,whichwasmorethanamileandahalfaway.We settled in, jamming

ourselves against trees androcks, trying to get into apositionwherewe could reston this almost sheerescarpment. I glugged frommywatercanteenand, to tell

thetruth,Ifeltlikeaplantonthe Hanging Gardens ofBabylon. Danny was in hisyoga position, sitting cross-legged like a goddamnedsnake charmer, his backagainsthistree.Axe, ever alert, stood

guard, blending into themountain tomy left, his rifleprimed despite the quiet. Hewas probably doing a NewYork Times crossword whichhe’d memorized word for

word inhishead.Hedidnotget much peace, though.Mytree turned out to be sometypeofamulberry,andsinceI could not even doze off, Ispent the time hurling theberries at Axe on account ofhis shaky attitude during theclimbbackupthemountain.Then another major fog

bank rolled in and settledover all of us and the valleybelow. There was again nowaytoseethevillage,andthe

troublewithfogbanksistheyare likely to turn up in thesameplaceoften.Itwasplainwe could not remain here ineffective operational mode.Oncemorewehadtoleave.Mikey and Axe were

poring over the maps andscanningthemountainterrainabove us, where there wasless fog.Danny and I had tokeep looking toward thevillage, trying to use theglass, peering at whatever

there was to be seen.Whichwas nothing. Finally Mikeysaid he was leaving, alone,just takinghisrifle, insearchof a better spot. Then hechanged his mind and tookAxe with him. And I didn’tblame him. This place wasenough to give anyone thecreeps, because you neverknewwhomightbewatching.Danny and I waited, and

thesunclimbedhighoverthepeaks and began to dry our

wetclothes.Theotherscameback after maybe an hour,and Mikey said they hadfound an excellent place forobserving thevillagebut thatcover was sparse. I think heconsidered there would besome heightened risk in thisoperation, no matter what,because of the terrain.But ifwedidnottakethatriskwe’dlikely be up here tillChristmas.And once more we all

hoistedourpacks and setoffto the new hiding place. Itwas only about a thousandyards,but it tookusanhour,moving along, and then up,themountain, right onto thatgranite finger at the end ofthe ridge. And when we gotthere, I had to agree it wasperfect, offering a brilliantangle on the village for thelens, the spotting scope, andthe bullet. It had sensationalall-aroundvision. IfSharmak

andhisgangofvillainswerethere, we’d get him. AsMikey observed, “That guycouldn’t get to thegoddamnedcommunalshitterwithoutusseeinghim.”Danny’s reply was not

suitable for a family storysuchasthis,entailingasitdidthepossibleblastingofoneofSharmak’s principal workingparts.I stood theregazing at our

new mountain stronghold

with itsmassive, sheer dropsallaround.Itwasperfect,butitwasalsohighlydangerous.Ifanattackingforcecameupon us, especially at night,we’d have no choice but tofightourwayout.Ifsomeonestarted firing RPGs at us,we’d all be blown to pieces.Therewasonlyonewayout,the way we had come. AskilledstrategistlikeSharmakcould have blockaded us outhere on this barren, stony

point, andwe’d have neededtokillalotofguystogetout.And there was the everpresent, disquieting thoughtthat Sharmak’s buddy binLaden might also be in thearea — with probably thebiggest al Qaeda force we’deverfaced.But in its way, this place

was perfect, with the mostcommanding views anysurveillance team couldwishfor.We just somehowhad to

burrow into this loose, rockyshale, keep our heads down,stay camouflaged, andconcentrate.We’dbeokayaslongasnoone sawus.But Istill had a very uneasyfeeling.Sodidtheothers.We all had something to

eat,morewater, and thenwelay there facedown, quietlysteamingasthesundriedourclothes. It was now hotterthan hell, and I was lyingunder a felled log, jammed

into the curve right againstthewood,myfeetoutbehindme. But unhappily, Iwas ontop of a stinging nettle thatwas drivingmemad. I couldnot, of course, move onemuscle. Who knew if a pairof long-range binocularswastrained on us at this verymoment?I was on glass, silently

using the scope and binos.Murphwas fifty yards away,positioned higher than me

among some rocks.Axewastomyright,perchedinanoldtree stump hollow. Dannywas down to the left in thelast of the trees with theradio, hunkered down, theonlyoneofuswithanyshadefrom the burning sun. It wasapproaching noon, and thesunwasdirectlyinthesouth,high, really high, almoststraightaboveus.Wecouldnotbeseenfrom

below. And there was

definitely no human beinglevel with or above us. Atleast, not on this SEAL’smountain. We only had towait, stay very still, shut up,and concentrate, fourdisciplines atwhichwewereallexpert.It was deathly quiet up

there, just as silent as thenight. And the silence wasbrokenonlybytheoccasionalterse exchange between oneSEAL and another, usually

aimed toward Danny’sprivileged position in theshade, out of the direct raysof the sweltering mountainsun. They were notparticularly professionalexchanges either, lackinggraceandunderstanding.“Hey, Danny, wanna

switchplaces?”“Fuckyou!”Thattypeofthing.Nothing

else. Not another sound todrift into the mountain air.

But suddenly I did hear asound,which carried directlyto the southwest side of myfelled tree.The unmistakablenoise of soft footsteps rightaboveme.JesusChrist!IwasluckyIdidn’tneedtochangemypants.Andjustassuddenly,there

was a guy, wearing a turbanandcarryingafuckingax.Hejumpedoffthelog,rightoverthe top of me. I damn nearfainted with shock. I just

wasn’texpectingit.Iwheeledaround,grabbedmyrifle,andpointed it straight at him,which I considered might atleast discourage him frombeheadingme.Hewasplainlymorestartled than Iwas,andhedroppedtheax.And then I saw the other

Axe, standing up and aiminghis rifle right at the guy’sturban. “Youmust have seenhim,”Isnappedathim.“Whythe hell didn’t you tell me?

He nearly gave me a heartattack.”“Just didn’t want to make

anynoise,”saidAxe.“Idrewa bead on him and kept himinmysightsuntilhe reachedyourlog.Onefalsemove,I’dhavekilledhimrightthere.”I told the guy to siddown,

against the log. And thensomething ridiculoushappened. About a hundredgoats, all with little bellsaround their necks, came

trotting up the mountain,swarmingall around the spotwherewewerenowstanding.Then up over the hill cametwo more guys. All of uswere now surrounded bygoats. And I motioned forthem to join their colleagueonthegroundagainstthelog.That’s the Afghans, not thegoats.Finally,Mikey and Danny

made their way up throughthe bleating herd and saw

immediately what was goingon. Like me, they noted thatone of the three was just akid, around fourteen yearsold.Itriedtoaskthemiftheywere Taliban, and they allshook their heads, the oldermen saying, in English, “NoTali-ban...noTaliban.”I gave the kid one of my

powerbars,andhescowledatme.Justputitdownonarocknexttohim,withnothanksornodof appreciation.The two

adultsglaredatus,making itobvious they disliked usintensely. Of course, theywere probably wonderingwhat the hell wewere doingwandering about their farmwith enough weapons andammunition to conquer anentireAfghanprovince.The question was, What

did we do now? They werevery obviously goatherds,farmers from the highcountry.Or,asitstatesinthe

pages of the GenevaConvention, unarmedcivilians. The strictly correctmilitary decision would stillbetokillthemwithoutfurtherdiscussion,becausewecouldnotknowtheirintentions.How could we know if

they were affiliated with aTaliban militia group orsworn by some tribal bloodpact to inform the Talibanleaders of anythingsuspicious-looking they

foundinthemountains?And,oh boy, were we suspicious-looking.Thehard factwas, if these

three Afghan scarecrows ranoff to find Sharmak and hismen,weweregoing tobe inserious trouble, trapped outhere on this mountain ridge.The military decision wasclear: these guys could notleave there alive. I just stoodthere, looking at their filthybeards, rough skin, gnarled

hands, andhard, angry faces.These guys did not like us.They showed no aggression,but neither did they offer orwantthehandoffriendship.Axelson was our resident

academic as well as ourTrivial Pursuit king. AndMikey asked him what heconsidered we should do. “Ithink we should kill them,because we can’t let themgo,”hereplied,withthepure,simple logic of the born

intellect.“Andyou,Danny?”“I don’t really give a shit

what we do,” he said. “Youwantme to kill ’em, I’ll kill’em.Justgivemetheword.Ionlyworkhere.”“Marcus?”“Well, until right now I’d

assumed killing ’emwas ouronly option. I’d like to hearwhatyouthink,Murph.”Mikey was thoughtful.

“Listen, Marcus. If we kill

them,someonewillfindtheirbodiesrealquick.Forastart,these fucking goats are justgoing to hang around. Andwhen these guys don’t gethome for their dinner, theirfriends and relatives aregoing to head straight out tolook for them, especially forthis fourteen-year-old. Themain problem is the goats.Becausetheycan’tbehidden,and that’s where people willlook.

“When they find thebodies, the Taliban leaderswill sing to the Afghanmedia. The media in theU.S.A.will latchonto itandwrite stuff about the brutishU.S. Armed Forces. Veryshortly after that, we’ll becharged with murder. Themurder of innocent unarmedAfghanfarmers.”I had to admit, I had not

really thought about it quitelike that. But there was a

terrible reality aboutMikey’swords.Was I afraid of theseguys? No. Was I afraid oftheir possible buddies in theTaliban?No.Was I afraidofthe liberalmedia back in theU.S.A.?Yes.AndIsuddenlyflashed on the prospect ofmany, many years in a U.S.civilian jail alongsidemurderersandrapists.And yet...as a highly

trained member of the U.S.Special Forces, deep in my

warrior’s soul I knew it wasnutstoletthesegoatherdsgo.I tried to imagine what thegreat military figures of thepast would have done.Napoleon? Patton? OmarBradley?MacArthur?Wouldthey have made the ice-coldmilitary decision to executethesecatsbecausetheyposeda clear andpresentdanger totheirmen?If these Afghans blew the

whistleonus,wemightallbe

killed, right out here on thisrocky, burning-hotpromontory, thousands andthousands of miles fromhome, light-years from help.Thepotentialforceagainstuswas too great. To let theseguys go on their way wasmilitarysuicide.AllweknewwasSharmak

had between 80 and 200armed men. I remembertaking the middle number,140,andaskingmyselfhowI

liked the odds of 140 to 4.That’s 35 to 1. Not much. Ilooked at Mikey and toldhim, “Murph, we gotta getsomeadvice.”We both turned to Danny,

whohad fired up the commssystem and was valiantlytrying to get through to HQ.We could see him becomingvery frustrated, like allcomms operators do whentheycannotgetaconnection.He kept trying, andwewere

rapidly coming to theconclusion the goddamnedradiowasupthecreek.“That thing need new

batteries?”Iaskedhim.“No. It’s fine, but they

won’tfuckinganswerme.”Theminuteswent by. The

goatherds sat still, Axe andMurphwiththeirriflesaimedstraightatthem,Dannyactinglikehecouldhavethrownthecomms system over thegoddamnedcliff.

“They won’t answer,” hesaid through gritted teeth. “Idon’t knowwhy. It’s like noone’sthere.”“There must be someone

there,” said Murph, and Icould hear the anxiety in hisvoice.“Well, there isn’t,” said

Danny.“Murphy’s god-awful

law,” I said. “Not you,Mikey, that other prick, thegodofscrewups.”

No one laughed.Not evenme. And the dull realizationdawned on us: we were onourownandhadtomakeourowndecision.MikeMurphy saidquietly,

“We’vegotthreeoptions.Weplainly don’t want to shootthese guys because of thenoise. So, number one, wecould just kill them quietlyand hurl the bodies over theedge. That’s probably athousand-foot drop. Number

twoiswekillthemrighthere,cover ’emup as bestwe canwithrocksanddirt.“Eitherwaywegetthehell

outandsaynothing.Notevenwhen the story comes outabout the murdered Afghangoatherds.Andsomefuckingheadline back home whichreads, ‘Navy SEALs UnderSuspicion.’“Number three, we turn

’em loose, and still get thehell out, in case the Taliban

comelooking.”He stared at us. I can

remember it just like it wasyesterday. Axe said firmly,“We’re not murderers. Nomatterwhatwedo.We’reonactive duty behind enemylines, sentherebyour seniorcommanders.Wehavearightto do everything we can tosave our own lives. Themilitary decision is obvious.To turn them loosewouldbewrong.”

Ifthiscametoavote,asitmight, Axe was going torecommend the execution ofthethreeAfghans.Andinmysoul,Iknewhewasright.Wecould not possibly turn themloose. But my trouble is, Ihave another soul. MyChristian soul. And it wascrowding in on me.Somethingkeptwhisperinginthebackofmymind,itwouldbe wrong to execute theseunarmed men in cold blood.

And the idea of doing thatand then covering our tracksand slinking away likecriminals, denyingeverything, would make itmorewrong.To be honest, I’d have

beenhappier tostand’emupand shoot them right out infront. And then leave them.They’d just be three guyswho’d found themselves inthewrongplaceat thewrongtime. Casualties of war. And

we’d just have to defendourselves when our ownmediaandpoliticiansbackintheU.S.A.triedtohangusonamurdercharge.None of us liked the

sneaky options. I could tellthat. I guess all four of uswere Christians, and if wewere thinking like ordinarylaw-abidingU.S.citizens,wewould find it very hard tocarry out the imperativemilitary decision, the

overriding one, the decisionany great commander wouldhave made: these guys cannever leave this place alive.Thepossibleconsequencesofthat were unacceptable.Militarily.Lieutenant Murphy said,

“Axe?”“No choice.”We all knew

whathemeant.“Danny?”“As before. I don’t give a

shitwhatyoudecide.Justtell

mewhattodo.”“Marcus?”“Idon’tknow,Mikey.”“Well, letme tell you one

more time. If we kill theseguys we have to be straightabout it.Reportwhatwedid.We can’t sneak around this.Just so you all understand,theirbodieswillbefound,theTalibanwilluseittothemax.They’ll get it in the papers,and the U.S. liberal mediawill attackuswithoutmercy.

We will almost certainly bechargedwithmurder. I don’tknow how you guys feelabout that...Marcus, I’ll gowithyou.Callit.”I just stood there. I looked

again at these sullen Afghanfarmers. Not one of themtried to say a word to us.They didn’t need to. Theirglowering stares said plenty.We didn’t have rope to bindthem.Tying them up to giveus more time to establish a

new position wasn’t anoption.IlookedMikeyrightinthe

eye,andIsaid,“Wegottalet’emgo.”It was the stupidest, most

southern-fried, lamebraineddecision I ever made in mylife. Imust have been out ofmymind.IhadactuallycastavotewhichIknewcouldsignour deathwarrant. I’d turnedinto a fucking liberal, a half-assed, no-logic nitwit, all

heart, no brain, and thejudgmentofajackrabbit.At least, that’s how I look

backon thosemomentsnow.Probably not then, but fornearly every waking hour ofmylifesince.Nonightpasseswhen I don’twake in a coldsweat thinking of thosemoments on that mountain.I’llnevergetoverit.Icannotgetoverit.Thedecidingvotewas mine, and it will hauntmetilltheyrestmeinanEast

Texasgrave.Mikeynodded.“Okay,”he

said,“Iguessthat’stwovotesto one, Danny abstains. Wegottalet’emgo.”I remember no one said

anything.We could just hearthe short staccato sounds ofthe goats: ba-aaaa...baaa...baaa. And thetinkling of the little bells. Itprovidedafittingbackgroundchorus to a decision whichhad been made in fucking

fairyland. Not on thebattlefieldwherewe,likeitornot,mostcertainlywere.Axesaidagain,“We’renot

murderers.Andwewouldnothave been murderers,whateverwe’ddone.”Mikey was sympathetic to

his view. He just said, “Iknow, Axe, I know, buddy.Butwejusttookavote.”I motioned for the three

goatherds to get up, and Isignaledthemwithmyrifleto

go on their way. They nevergave one nod or smile ofgratitude. And they surelyknew we might very wellhavekilledthem.Theyturnedtoward the higher groundbehindus.I can see them now. They

put their hands behind theirbacksinthatpeculiarAfghanway and broke into a veryfastjog,upthesteepgradient,the goats around us nowtrotting along to join them.

From somewhere, a skinny,mangy brown dog appeareddolefully and joined the kid.That dog was a gruesomeAfghan reminder ofmy ownrobust chocolate Labrador,Emma, back home on theranch, always bursting withhealthandjoy.Iguessthat’swhenIwoke

up and stopped worryingabout the goddamnedAmerican liberals. “This isbad,”Isaid.“Thisisrealbad.

Whatthefuckarewedoing?”Axeshookhishead.Danny

shrugged. Mikey, to be fair,looked as if he had seen aghost.Likeme,hewasamanwhoknewamassivemistakehad just been made. Morechillingthananythingwehadever done together. Wherewere those guys headed?Werewecrazyorwhat?Thoughtsracedthroughmy

mind. We’d had no comms,no one we could turn to for

advice. Thus far we had nosemblance of a target in thevillage. We were in a veryexposed position, and weappearedtohavenoaccesstoairsupport.Wecouldn’tevenreport in.Worse yet,we hadno clue as to where thegoatherdswereheaded.Whenthings go this bad, it’s neverone thing. It’s every damnthing.We watched them go,

disappearing up the

mountain, still running, stillwith their hands behind theirbacks.And the sense thatwehad done something terribleby letting them go was all-pervading. I could just tell.Not one of us was able tospeak. We were like fourzombies, hardly knowingwhether to crash back intoour former surveillance spotsorleaverightaway.“What now?” asked

Danny.

Mikey began to gather hisgear.“Moveinfive,”hesaid.We packed up our stuff,

andrightthereinthenoondaysun, we watched thegoatherds, far on the highhorizon, finally disappearfrom view. By my watch, itwas precisely nineteenminutes after their departure,andthemoodofsheergloomenvelopedusall.We set off up the

mountain, following in the

hoofprints of the goats andtheir masters. We moved asfast as we could, but it tookusbetweenfortyminutesandone hour to cover the samesteep ground. At the top, wecould no longer see them.Mountain goats, mountainherders. They were all thegoddamned same, and theycouldmovelikerocketsupinthepasses.Wesearchedaroundforthe

trailwehadarrivedby,found

it,andsetoffbacktowardtheinitial spot, the one we hadpulled out of because of thepoorangleonthevillageandthen the dense fog bank.Wetried the radioandstill couldnot make a connection withhomebase.Our offensive policy was

in pieces. But we wereheaded for probably the bestdefensive position we hadfound since we got here, onthe brink of the mountain

wall,maybefortyyards fromthe summit, with tree coverand decent concealment.Right now we sensed wemust remain in strictlydefensivemode,lielowforawhile and hope the Talibanhadnotbeenalertedoriftheyhadthatwewouldbetoowellhidden for them to locate us.We were excellentpractitionersoflyinglowandhiding.We walked on along the

side of the mountain, and Ihave to say the place lookedkind of different in broaddaylight.But its virtueswerestill there.Even from the topof the escarpment we wouldbe damn near impossible tosee.Weclimbeddownandtook

up our precise old positions.We were still essentiallycarryingout ourmission, butwe remained on the highestpossible alert for Taliban

fighters. Below me, maybethirty yards to my right,looking up the hill, Dannyslipped neatly into his yogatree, cross-legged, stilllookinglikeasnakecharmer.I gotmyselfwedged into theold mulberry tree, where Ireapplied my camouflagecream and melted into thelandscape.Belowmeontheleft,same

distance as Danny, was Axewithourheaviestrifle.Mikey

was right below me, maybetenyards,jammedintotheleeof a boulder. Above us themountain was nearly sheer,then it went flat for a fewyards, then it angled sharplyuptothetop.I’dtriedlookingdown from there, so hadMurph, and wewere agreed,you could not really seeanything over the smalloutward ridge whichprotectedus.For the moment, we were

safe. Axe had the glass fortwenty minutes, and then Itookoverfor thenext twentyminutes. Nothing stirred inthe village. It had now beenmore thananhourandahalfsinceweturnedthegoatherdsloose. And it was still quietandpeaceful, hardly a breathofwind.AndbyChristitwashot.Mikey was closest to me

whenhesuddenlywhispered,“Guys,I’vegotanidea.”

“What is it, sir,” I asked,suddenly formal, as if oursituation demanded somerespectforthemanwhomustultimatelytakecommand.“I’m going down to the

village, see if Icanborrowaphone!”“Beautiful,”saidAxe.“See

if you can pick me up asandwich.”“Sure,” said Mikey.

“What’ll itbe?Muledungorgoat’shoof?”

“Hold themayo,” growledAxe.The jokes weren’t that

great,Iknow.Butperchedupthere on this Afghan rockface, poised to fend off anattackingarmy,Ithoughttheywere only just shy of grade-onehilarity.Itwas,Isuppose,asignof

nerves, like cracking a one-lineronyourdeathbed.Butitshowedweallfeltbetternow;not absolutely A-OK, but

cheerfulenough toget toourwork and toss out theoccasionallightremark.Morelike our old selves, right?Anyhow, I said I was justgoing to closemy eyes for ashort while, and I pulledmycamouflage hat down overmyeyesandtriedtonodoff,despite my pounding heart,whichIcouldnotslowdown.Around ten minutes more

passed. Suddenly I heardMikey make a familiar alert

sound...Sssst! Sssst! I liftedup my hat and instinctivelylooked left, overmyportsidequarter, to the spot where IknewAxewouldbecoveringour flank. And he was rightthere,rigid,infiringposition,hisrifleaimedstraightupthemountain.I twisted around to look

directly behind me. Mikeywasstaringwide-eyedup thehill,callingorders,instructingDanny to call in immediate

backup fromHQ if he couldmaketheradiowork.HesawIwasonthecase,lookedhardatme,andpointedstraightupthehill,urgingmewithhandsignalstodothesame.I fixed my Mark 12 in

firing position, pulled myhead back a few inches, andlooked up the hill. Linedalong the top were betweeneightyandahundredheavilyarmedTalibanwarriors, eachone of them with an AK-47

pointing downward. Somewere carrying rocket-propelled grenades. To therightandtothelefttheywerestarting to move down ourflanks.Iknewtheycouldseepastme but not atme. Theycould not have seen Axe orDanny. IwasunsurewhethertheyhadseenMikey.My heart dropped directly

into my stomach. And Icursed those fuckinggoatherds to hell, andmyself

for not executing themwheneverymilitarycodebookeverwritten had taught meotherwise.Nottomentionmyown raging instincts, whichhad told me to go with Axeandexecutethem.Andlettheliberals go to hell in a mulecart,andtakewiththemalloftheir fucking know-nothingrules of etiquette in war andhuman rights and whateverother bullshit makes ’emhappy.Youwanttochargeus

with murder? Well, fuckingdo it. But at least we’ll bealive to answer it. This wayreallysucks.I pressed back against my

tree. Iwasstill sure theyhadnot seen me, but theirintention was to outflank uson both wings. I could seethat. I scanned the grounddirectlyaboveme.Thehilltopstill swarmed with armedmen. I thought there weremore than before. Therewas

no escape by going straightup, and no possibility ofmoving left or right.Essentially they had ustrapped, if they had spottedus.Istillwasunsure.And so far not a shot had

been fired. I looked up thehill again at one single treeabove and tomy left,maybetwenty yards away. And Ithought I saw a movement.Then it was confirmed, firstby a turban, then by anAK-

47, its barrel pointed in mygeneral direction though notdirectlyatme.I tightenedmygrip on the

trusty rifle and moved itslightlyinthedirectionofthetree. Whoever it was stillcould not see me because Iwas in a great spot, wellhidden. I kept perfectly still,that’sgoddamnedmotionless,likeamarblestatue.IcheckedwithMikey,who

also had not moved. Then I

checked the tree again, andthis time that turban wasaround it. A hook-nosedTaliban warrior was peeringstraight at me through blackeyes above a thick blackbeard. The barrel of hisAK-47 was pointed right at myhead. Had he seen me?Wouldheopenfire?Howdidthe liberals feel about myposition?No time, I guess. Ifiredonce,blewhisheadoff.Andatthatmomentallhell

broke loose. The Talibanunleashed an avalanche ofgunfire at us, straight downthe mountain, from everyangle.Axeflankedleft,tryingtocutoffthedownwardtrail,firing nonstop. Mikey wasblasting away straight overmy head with everything hehad. Danny was firing atthem, trying to aimwith onehand, desperately trying torev up the radio with theother.

I could hear Mikeyshouting,“Danny,Danny,forChrist’ssake,getthatfuckingthing working...Marcus, nooptions now, buddy, kill ’emall!”Butnowtheenemygunfire

seemed to center on our twoflank men. I could see thedust and rock shards kickingup all around us. The soundof AK-47s absolutely filledtheair,deafening.Icouldseethe Taliban guys falling all

along the ridge. No one canshoot like us. I stayed rightwhere I was, in my originalposition,andIstillseemedtobe taking less fire than theothers.Butinthenextcoupleofminutestheyhadidentifiedmy position, and the volumeof fire directly at me wasincreasing. This was bad.Verybad.I could see Axe was

acquiring his targets quickerthanIwasbecausehehadan

extra scope. I should havehad one too, but for somereasonIhadnotfittedit.Right now all four of us

were really amped up. Weknew how to conduct afirefight like this, but weneeded to cut down theenemynumbers,nailafewofthesebastardsrealquick,giveourselves a better chance. Itwas hard for them to get usfrom directly above, whichmeant the flanks were our

danger. I could see two ofthemmakingtheirwaydown,rightandleft.Axe shot one of them, but

itwas bad to the right. Theywere shooting in a kind offrenzy but, thank Christ,missing.Iguessweweretoo.And suddenly I was takingheavy fire myself. Bulletswere slamming into the treetrunk,hittingrocksallaroundme. The bullets weresomehowcominginfromthe

sides.I called down to Mikey,

“We’ll take ’em, but wemightjustneedanewspot.”“Roger that,” he yelled

back. Like me, he could seethespeedatwhich theyweremoving up into the attack.We’dbeenshootingthemforalloffiveorsixminutes,butevery time we cleared thatridge high above us, it filledupagain.Itwasasiftheyhadreinforcements somewhere

overtheridge,justwaitingtocome up to the front line.Whicheverwaywe lookedatit, they had a ton of guystryingtokillfourSEALs.At this point our options

were nonexistent. We stillcould not charge the top ofthemountain,because they’dcut us down like dogs. Theyhad us left, and they had usright. We were boxed in onthree sides, and there wasnever, not even for a couple

of seconds, a lull in thegunfire. And we could noteven see half of them or tellwhere the bullets werecomingfrom.Theyhadeveryangleonus.All four of us just kept

banging away, cutting ’emdown, watching them fall,slamming a new magazineinto the breech, somehowholdingthematbay.But thiswas impossible. We had togiveupthishighground,and

I had to get close enough toMikeytoagreeonastrategy,hopefullytosaveourlives.I started to move, but

Mikey, like the brilliantofficer he was, hadappreciated the situation andalready called it. “Fallback!”Fallback!Morelikefalloff

—thefreakin’mountain,thatis; a nearly sheer drop, rightbehind us, God knows howfar down. But an order’s an

order.Igrabbedmygearandtook a sideways step, tryingto zigzag down the gradient.Butgravitymadethedecisionfor me, and I fell headlongdown the mountain,completingafullforwardflipand somehow landingonmyback, still going fast, heelsflailingforafoothold.At least I thought I was

going fast, but Murphy wasrightbehindme.Icouldtellitwashimbecauseofthebright

redNewYorkCityfireman’spatch he’d worn since 9/11.ThatwasactuallyallIsaw.“Seeyouat thebottom!” I

yelled. But right then I hit atree,andMikeywentpastmelike a bullet. I was goingslower now, and I tried totake a step, but I fell again,andonIwent,catchinguptoMikey now, crashing,tumblingoverthegroundlikewe were both bouncingthroughapinballmachine.

Aheadofuswasacopseoftrees on a slightly less steepgradient,andIknewthiswasour last hope before weplungedintothevoid.Ihadtograb something, anything.Sodid Mikey, and I could seehim up ahead, grabbing attreelimbs,snappingthemoff,and still plummetingdownward.In a split second I knew

thatnothingcouldsaveeitherof us, we’d surely break our

backs or necks and then theTaliban would shoot uswithout mercy, as we wouldexpect. But right now,entering the copseof trees atwhat felt like seventy milesan hour, my mind was inoverdrive.Almost everything had

beenrippedawayfrommeinthefall,everythingexceptmyammunition and grenades—all my packs, the medicalstuff, food, water, comms,

phone. I’d even lost myhelmetwiththeflagofTexaspaintedonit.IwasdamnedifI wanted some fuckingterroristwearingthat.I’d seen Mikey’s radio

aerial ripped off as wecrashed downward. And thatwas not good. My gun straphad been ripped off me andmy rifle whipped away. Thetrouble was, the terrainbeyond the tree copse wascompletely unknown to us,

because we could not see itfrom above. If we had, wemightneverhavejumped;thegroundjustsweptupwardandthenduckedawaydownward,inverted, like a goddamnedskijump.Irocketedupthelipofthat

back slope making abouteighty knots, on my back,feetfirst.IntheairImadetwocomplete backflips and Ilandedagainfeetfirst,onmyback, still coming down the

cliff face like a howitzershell. And at that moment IknewtherewasaGod.First of all, I appeared not

to be dead, which was rightup there with Jesus walkingon thewater. But evenmoreamazingwas I could seemyrifle not two feet from myrighthand,asifGodHimselfhad reacheddown tomeandgiven me hope. Marcus, IheardHimsay,you’regonnaneed this. At least, I think I

heardHim.Infact,IsweartoGod I heard Him. Becausethis was a miracle, no doubtin my mind. And I had noteven had time to say myprayers.I didn’t know how far

downwe’dfallen,butitmusthave been two or threehundred yards.Andwewereboth still going very fast. Icould see Mikey up ahead,and I honestly did not knowwhetherhewasdeadoralive.

Itwas just a person crashingthroughthedirtandboulders.If he had not broken everyboneinhisbody,thattoowasamiracle.Me? I was too battered to

hurt, and Icouldstill seemyrifle tumbling down besideme. That rifle never strayedmore than two feet frommyhand throughout this death-defying fall. And I’ll alwaysknow it was guided by thehandofGod.Becausethereis

nootherexplanation.Wehit thebottom,bothof

us landing with terrificimpact, likewe’d jumpedoffa goddamned skyscraper. Itshook the wind out of me,and I gasped for breath,tryingtoworkouthowbadlyinjured I was. My rightshoulder hurt, my back hurt,and on one side of my face,the skin had been more orless scoured away. I wascovered inbloodandbruised

tohell.But I could stand, which

wasactuallyareallybadidea,becausethentheRPGsbegantoarrive,landingclose,andIwent down again. Theyexploded more or lessharmlesslybutsentupcloudsof dust, shale, and woodshards from the trees.Mikeywasnexttome,maybefifteenfeet away, and we pickedourselvesupfromtheground.He still had his rifle

strappedon.Minewasrestingatmyfeet.Igrabbedit,andIheard Murphy shout throughthe din of explosions, “Yougood?”I turned to him, and his

entire face was black withdust. Even his goddamnedteeth were black. “You looklike shit, man,” I told him.“Fixyourselfup!”Despite everything, Mikey

laughed, and then I noticedhe’dbeenshotduringthefall.

Therewasbloodpumpingoutof his stomach.But just thenthere was a thunderousexplosion from one of thegrenades,tooclose,muchtooclose. We both wheeledaround in the swirling dustand smoke, and there behindus were two large logs,actuallyfelledtrees.Theywere crossed over at

the ends, like a pair of giantchopsticks, facing up themountain, and we turned

simultaneously and sprintedforcover.Weclearedthelogsand crashed down behindthem,safefromgunfireattackfor the moment. We wereboth still armedand ready tofight. I took the right-handside, Mikey center left,guarding both the head-onapproachandtheflank.Wecouldsee themplainly

now, swarming down theflanksofthecliffwehadjustcrashed down. They were

movingvery fast, thoughnotnearly as fast as we had.Mikeyhadaprettygood lineon them, and mine wasn’tbad.We opened fire straightatthem,pickingthemoffoneby one as they moved in onus. Trouble was, there weresomany,anditdidn’tseemtomatter how many we killed,they just kept coming. Iremember thinking that thetwo hundred estimate was alot closer than the eighty

minimum we had beenadvised.And this must have been

Sharmak’s work. Becausethese guys were not reallymarksmen, were usingmarginal rifles prettyrecklessly, but nonethelessfollowedthemilitaryrulesforthis type of assault. Theyadvanced down the side ofthe battlefield, trying tooutflank their enemy, alwaysattempting to get a 360-

degree cover on their target.Weweresurelyslowingtheirprogress down, but weweren’tstoppingthem.The fire never slackened

for five minutes. They hadsustained, nonstop, thatopening volley, the one firedway back up the mountainwhentheycouldnotseetheirtarget.Theyhadblastedawayat us all the way down tothese logs, and they hadaugmented their fire with

aimed rocket-propelledgrenades. These guys werenot being led by some mad-eyed hysteric, they werebeing led by someone whounderstood the rudiments ofwhat he was doing.Understood them well. Toowell. The fucker. And nowthey had us pinned downbehindthelogs,and,asever,the bullets were flying, butweweresomehowgettingthebetteroftheexchanges.

Mikey was ignoring hiswound and fighting like aSEAL officer should,uncompromising, steady,hard-eyed,andprofessional.Icouldseetheguysonthatleftflank dropping down in theirtracks as they raced towardus. On my side, over on theright, the ground was just alittle flatter, with trees, andthere did not seem to be somany of them. Every timetheymoved,Ishot’em.

It was probably clear tothem thatMikey and I couldnot be dislodged as long asthe big logs covered us.Andthat’swhentheywenttotheirbiggest barrage ofRPGs yet.These damn things, trailingthat familiar white smoke,were unleashed at us fromfartherupthemountain.Theylanded to the front and thesidebutnotbehind,and theycaused a tidal wave of dirt,rocks, and smoke, showering

us with the stuff, robbing usofourvision.Ourheadswentdown,and

IaskedMikeywherethehellwereAxeandDanny, andofcourseneitherofusknew.Allwe knew was they were upthemountain, not yet havingjumped,aswehad.“GuessAxemusthavedug

in and kept fighting out onthe left,” he said. “Danny’sgot a better chance of radiocontacthighupthanhewould

downhere.”We risked a look up

through the gloom, and wesaw a figure plummetingdown the mountain, just tothe left of where we hadfallen. Axe, no doubt, butcouldhesurvivethatfall?Hewas on the first slope beforethe trees, and a second laterhehurtledover the ski jump,flipped,andcrashedondownthe almost sheer cliff face.Thegradient savedhim,as it

hadsavedMikeyandme,thewaythesteepmountainsavesaskijumper,enablinghimtocontinue down at high speedwithout a terminal collisionwithflatground.Axe arrived in one piece,

stunned and disoriented. Butthe Taliban could see himnow,andtheyopenedfireonhimashe layon theground.“Run,Axe...righthere,buddy,run!” yelled Murph, top ofhislungs.

And Axe recovered hissenses real quick, bulletsflying around him, and hecleared those logs andcrashedintoourhide,landingonhisback.It’sunbelievablewhat you can do when thethreattoyourownlifeisthatbad.He took the far left,

slammed a new magazineinto the breech, and startedfighting,nevermissedabeat,hammeringawayatourmost

vulnerable point of enemyattack. The three of us justkept going, shooting themdown, hoping and prayingtheir numbers would lessen,thatwehadpunchedaholeintheir assault. But it sure ashell never seemed like it.Those guys were stillswarming, still firing. Andthenoisewasstilldeafening.The question was, Where

was Danny? Was that littlemountain lion still fighting,

stilltryingtomakecontact,ashe pounded away atSharmak’s troops? Was hestill trying to get through toHQ? None of us knew, butthe answer was not long inarriving.Fromhighupontheright on the main cliff facethere was a sudden, unusualmovement. Someone wasfalling, and it had to beDanny.The flailing body crashed

through the high woods and

flipped at the ski jump,tumbling, tumbling, all theway to the bottom, where itlanded with a sickeningthump.Justasweallhad.ButDanny nevermoved, just laythere, either stunnedordead.And the folklore of thebrotherhood stood starklybefore both Mikey and me:NoSEALwas ever left aloneto die on the battlefield. NoSEAL.I dropped my rifle and

clearedtheloginonebound.Mikey came right after me.Axekeptfiring,tryingtogiveuscover,asweduckeddownand ran fast across the flatgroundtothebaseofthecliff.Mikeywasstillpouringbloodfrom his stomach, and I feltlikeIhadabrokenback,lowdown,baseofmyspine.We reached Danny

together,hoistedhimup,andmanhandled him back to thelogs, dragging him intowhat

passedforsafetyaroundhere.They fired at us from theheightsallthewayacrossthatlethalground,butnoonegothit, and somehow, againsttruly staggering odds, wewereallstillgoing,allinonepiece, except for the shotMikeytook.As the resident medic, I

should have been able tohelp, but all my stuff hadbeen ripped away in the fall,and there was no time to do

anything except shoot thesebastardswho carriedAK-47sand hope to Christ they’dgiveup.OratleastrunoutofthoseRPGs.They couldhurtsomeone if they weren’tcareful.Fuckers.Rightthen,Iwasconfident

we were going to make it.The ground fell away quitesharply behind us, but waybelowwasour target village,and it was on flat ground,with sturdy-looking houses.

Cover, that was all weneeded, with our enemycaught flat-footed on flatground. We’d be all right.We’dget’em.Dannyfoughtback,cleared

his head, and tried to get up.But his face was rigid. Hewasinterriblepain.AndthenI saw the blood pouring outofhishand.“I’ve been shot, Marcus,

canyouhelpme?”hesaid.“We’ve all been shot,”

replied Mikey. “Can youfight?”I stared at Danny’s right

hand. His thumb had beenblown right off. And I sawhim grit his teeth and nod,sweat streaming down hisblackened face. He adjustedhis rifle, banged in a newmagazinewiththebuttofhishand, and took his place inthe center of our little gunline. Then he turned to facetheenemyoncemore.Hewas

a bullmastiff, glaring up themountain,andheopenedfirewitheverythinghehad.Danny, Mikey, and Axe

blasted that left flankwhile Iheld the right. The fire wasstillfierceonallsides,butwesensed thereweremore deadAfghanstotheleftthantherewere to the right. Murphshouted,“We’regoingforthehigher ground, this side.”And with all four barrelsblazing,wetriedtostormthat

left flank, get a foothold onthe steep slope, maybe evenfightourwaybackto thetopif we could kill enough ofthem.But they also wanted the

higher ground, and theyreinforced their right flank,driving down from the top,anything to stop us gettingthat upper hand. We musthave killed fifty or more ofthem,andall fourofuswerestill fighting. I guess they

probably noticed that,because they were preparedtofighttothelastmantoholdourleft,theirright.There were so many of

them,andwefoundourselvesslipping inexorably backdownthehillas the turbanedwarriors closed in on us,driving us back by sheerweight of numbers, sheervolume of fire. When theyloosed off another battery ofRPGs,wehadnootheroption

but to retreat and dive backbehind the crossed logsbefore they blew our headsoff.Godonlyknew the sizeof

whatever arms cache theyweredrawingordnancefrom.Butwewere just finding outwhataforceSharmakandhisguys really were: trained,heavily armed, fearless, andstrategically on the ball. NotquitewhatweexpectedwhenwefirstlandedatBagram.

Back behind the logs, wekept going, mowing themdownontheflankswheneverwecouldgetaclearshot.Butagain, the inflexible,unswerving progress ofSharmak’s forces comingdowntheescarpmentafteruswas simply toooverwhelming. Not so muchdue to thevolumeof firebutbecause of their irresistibledrive down the left and rightofourposition.

The logs gave us goodcover from the front and notbad to ninety degrees. Butoncetheygotpastthat,firingfrom slightly behind us, onboth sides — well, that wasthe reason we jumped fromthe heights in the first place,risking our necks, notknowingwhenor even ifwewould land on reasonableground.There were not enough of

us to protect our flanks. We

were too occupied defendingourpositionagainstahead-onattack. I suppose thegoatherds had told them wewereonly four, andSharmakswiftly guessedwewould bevulnerableonthewings.I’m guessing a dozen

SEALs could have held andthendestroyed them,but thatwould have been odds ofaround ten or eleven to one.We were only four, and thatwas probably thirty-five to

one. Which is known, inmilitary vernacular, as aballs-to-the-wall situation.Especiallyaswenowseemedincapable of calling up thecavalryfromHQ.Right here was a twenty-

first-century version ofGeneral Custer’s last stand,Little Bighorn with turbans.Buttheyhadn’tgottenusyet.And if I had my way, theywere never going to. I knowall fourofus thoughtexactly

that. Our only option,however,wastogettoflatterground.Andtherewasn’tanyof that up here. There wasonly one way for us to go,backward and down, straightdown.Mike Murphy called it.

“They’ll kill usall ifwe stayhere! Jump, guys, for fuck’ssake,jump!”Andoncemore all four of

us clutched our rifles, stoodup, braved the flying bullets,

andheaded for theprecipice.We leaped into the void,Mikey first, me next, thenAxe, then Danny. The dropmust have been about thirtyor forty feet, down into athicket of shrubs alongside alittlestream.We were by no means at

the base of this littleescarpment, but at least wewere oncemore on a flat bitandnotclingingtosomecliffface. I landeddirectlyon top

of Mikey, then Axe andDanny landed on both of us.Therewasn’teventimetoletripwithafewcurses.Wespreadoutandtookup

firing position again,preparing oncemore to blastthe enemy away from ourflanks, where they would besuretobegintheiradvanceinthe next stage of the battle.They were clambering downthe rocks to our right, and Iwastryingtomakesurenone

of them made it to thebottom.My rifle felt red-hot,and I just kept loading andshooting, aiming and firing,wishing tohell IstillhadmyTexashelmet.We were trying to move

into a decent position,jumping between the rocks,working our way out intoopen ground. But we werepicking up fire now. TheTalibanhadseenusandwereraining bullets down, firing

from a prime overhead spot.We moved back against therocks, and Danny was shotagain.They hit him in his lower

back,and thebulletblewoutof his stomach. He was stillfiring,Christknowshow,buthe was. Danny’s mouth wasopen, and there was bloodtricklingout.Therewasbloodabsolutelyeverywhere.Itwashot, and the stench of it wasunmistakable,thecorditewas

heavy in the air, and thenoise, which had not abatedsince they first opened fire,wasdeafening.Ourearswereringing from the blasts likewewerewearingheadphones.And then they opened up

with the grenades again.Wesaw the white smokestreaking through theair.Wesaw them coming, wingingdown that canyon right ontous.Andwhen they blew, theblast was overpowering,

echoing from the graniterocks that surrounded us onthreesides.It was like the world was

blowing up around us, withthe flying rock splinters,some of them pretty large,clattering off the cliff walls;the ricocheting bullets; theswirling dust cloudenveloping the shrapnel andcovering us, choking us,obscuringeverything.Murph was trying to

reassess the situation,desperately trying to makethe rightdecisiondespiteourlimited options. And let’sface it, the options had notchanged very much since Ifirst slammed a bulletbetweenthatguy’seyesfrombehindthetree.Rightnowwewere not hemmed in on ourflanks; our enemy was deadahead. That, and straight up.Overhead.Andthat’sbad.I guess the oldest military

strategy in the world is togainthehigherground.Inmyexperience, no Talibancommander had ever orderedhis men to fight fromanything other than the highground. And did they everhaveitnow.Ifwe’dbeeninacornfield, itwouldhavebeennothing like so dangerous,because the bullets wouldhave hit the earth and stayedthere. But we were in agranite-walled corner, and

everything bounced off ataboutazillionmilesperhour,which is more or less thedefinition of a ricochet.Everything, bullets, shrapnel,and fragments, came zingingoff those rocks. It seemed tous like the Taliban weregettingdoublevalueforeveryshot. If the bullet missed,watch the hell out for thericochet.And howmuch longer we

could go on taking this kind

of bombardment, withoutgetting ourselves killed, wasanyone’s guess. Murph andDanny had picked up thefightontheleftandwerestillfiring,stillhittingthemprettygood. I was firing upward,trying to pick them offbetween the rocks, and Axehad jammed himself into agood spot in the rocks andwas blazing away at theoncomingturbans.Both Murph and I were

hoping for a lull in the fire,which would signify we hadkilled a significant number.But that never came. Whatcame were reinforcements.Taliban reinforcements.Groups of guys moving up,replacing their dead, joiningthe front line of this wide-ranging, large force on theirhome ground, armed to theteeth, and still unable to killevenoneofus.Wetriedtotakethefightto

them, concentrating on theirstrongest positions, pushingthemtoreinforcetheirlineofbattle. No three guys everfought with higher couragethan my buddies up there inthose mountains. And damnnear surrounded as wewere,we still believed we wouldultimately defeat our enemy.We still had plenty ofammunition.But then Danny was shot

again. Right through the

neck, and he went downbeside me. He dropped hisrifle and slumped to theground. I reached down tograbhimanddraghimcloserto the rock face, but hemanaged to clamber to hisfeet, trying to tellmehewasokay even though he’d beenshotfourtimes.Dannycouldn’tspeaknow,

but he wouldn’t give in. Hepropped himself up against arock for cover and opened

fire again at the Taliban,signaling he might need anew magazine as his verylifebloodpouredoutofhim.Ijuststoodthereforamoment,helplessly, fighting back mytears, witnessing a brand ofvalorIhadneverbeforebeenprivilegedtosee.Whataguy.Whatafriend.Murph called out to me,

“Theonlyway’sdown,kid,”as if I didn’t know. I calledback,“Rogerthat,sir.”

I knew he meant thevillage, and itwas true.Thatwas our chance. If we couldgraboneof thosehousesandmake a stand, we would behardtodislodge.FourSEALsfiring from solid cover willusually get the job done.AllweneededtodowascoaxtheTalibandownthere.Althoughif things didn’t get a wholelot better in the next fewminutes, we might not makeitourselves.

8

TheFinalBattleforMurphy’sRidge

Thegroundshook.Theveryfewtreesswayed.Thenoisewasworsethananyblastall

day...ThiswasonegiganticTalibanefforttofinishus.Wehitthedeck...toavoidthelethalflyingdebris,rockfragmentsandshrapnel.

Lieutenant Mike Murphybellowed out the command,thethirdtimehehaddonesointhebattle.Samemountain.Same command.“Fall back!AxeandMarcusfirst!”AgainhereallymeantFall

off! And we were all gettingreal used to it. Axe and Isprinted for the edge, whileMurph and Danny, tuckedinto the rocks, drew fire andcovered our escape. I had noidea whether Danny couldevenmoveagain,withallhiswounds.Lyingrightalongthetopof

thecliffwasatreetrunkwitha kind of hollow underneathit, as if it had been washedout by the rains. Axe, who

could think quicker on hisfeet than most people I’veever met, made straight forthat hole because the treetrunk would give him coveras he plunged down towhatever the hell was overthegoddamnedcliff.TheslimlybuiltAxehitthe

groundlikeajavelin,skiddedfast into the hollow, shotstraightunderthelog,andoutinto space. I hit the groundlike a Texas longhorn and

cametoagrindinghalt,stuckfast under the log. Couldn’tgoforward,couldn’tgoback.Fuckme.Wasthisabummerorwhat?The Taliban had seen me

by now. I was the only onetheycouldsee,and Iheardavolley of bullets screamingaroundme.Oneshotsmackedinto the tree just tomy right.The restwere hitting the dirtandsendinguppuffsofdust.I heaved at the log. I heaved

withallmymight,butIcouldnot move that sucker. I waspinneddown.I was trying to look

backward, wondering ifMikeyhadseenmeandmighttryarescue,whensuddenlyIsaw the stark white smoketrail of an incoming RPGagainst the mountain. TheRPG smashed into the treetrunk right next to me andexploded with a shatteringblast as I tried frantically to

turnawayfromit.Ican’ttellwhat happened next, but itblew the goddamned trunkclean in half and shot mestraightoverthecliff.Iguessitwasaboutfifteen

feet down towhereAxewasmoving into firing position,and I landed close.Considering I’d just beenblown over the ledge like afreakin’ human cannonball, Iwas pretty lucky to be stillstanding.Andthererightnext

tomeon thegroundwasmyrifle, placed there by theHandofGodHimself.I reached down to pick it

upand listenedagain forHisvoice.Butthistimetherewasno noise, just one briefsecondofsilenceinmymind,amid all the chaos andmalevolence of thismonstrous struggle forsupremacy, apparently beingconducted on behalf of HisHolyProphetMuhammad.

I was not sure whethereither of them would haveapproved. I don’t know thatmuchaboutMuhammad,but,by all that’s holy, I don’tthinkmyownGodwishedmeto die. If He had beenindifferent to my plight, Hesurely would not have takensuch good care of my gun,right? Because how on earththatwas still withme, Iwillneverknow.Thatriflehadsofarfought

threeseparatebattles in threedifferent places, been rippedout of my grasp twice, beenblown over a cliff by apowerful grenade, fallenalmost nine hundred feetdown a mountain, and wasstill somehow right next tomyoutstretchedhand.Fluke?Believe what you will. Myownfaithwillremainforeverunshaken.Anyhow,Ipickeditupand

moved back into the rocks

where Axe was now pickingup fire from the enemy. Buthe was well positioned andfighting back, blazing awayon the left, the flank forwhich he’d fought sodesperately for so long.Actually it had been aboutforty minutes, but it seemedlike ten years, and we werebothstillgoing.So, for that matter, were

Mikey and Danny, andsomehowtheyhadbothmade

the leap down here to thelower level, near the stream,wheretheTalibanassaultwasnot quite so bad. Yet. Welooked,bytheway,shocking,especially Danny, who wascoveredheadtotoeinblood.Axe was okay but badlybattered, and Mikey wassoaked in blood from thatstomachwound;notasbadasDanny,butnotpretty.When that grenade blew

meover the cliff, it probably

shouldhavekilledme,buttheonly new injury I hadsustainedwas a brokennose,which I got when I hit thedeck semiconscious. To behonest,ithurtlikehell,alongwith my back, and I wasbleeding all over my gear.However, I had not beenseriously shot, as two of myteamhad.Axe was holding the

tribesmenoff, leaningcalmlyon a rock, firing up the hill,

the very picture of an elitewarrior in combat.No panic,rocksteady,firingaccurately,conserving his ammunition,missing nothing. I was closetohiminasimilarstance,andwe were both hitting thempretty good. One guysuddenly jumped up fromnowherealittleaboveus,andI shot him dead, about thirtyyardsrange.Butweweretrappedagain.

Therewerestillaroundeighty

of these maniacs comingdownatus,andthat’saheckof a lot of enemies. I’m notsure what their casualty ratewas,becausebothMikeyandI estimated Sharmak hadthrown 140 men minimumintothisfight.Whatever,theywerestillthere,andIwasnotsure how long Danny couldkeepgoing.Mikey worked his way

alongside me and said withvintage Murphy humor,

“Man,thisreallysucks.”I turned to face him and

told him, “We’re gonnafucking die out here — ifwe’renotcareful.”“Iknow,”hereplied.And the battle raged on.

Themassed,wildgunfireofavery determined enemyagainst our more accurate,better-trained response,superior concentration, andwar-fighting know-how.Once more, hundreds of

bullets were ricochetingaround our rockysurroundings. And oncemore,theTalibanwenttothegrenades, blasting the terrainaround us to pieces. Jammedbetween rocks, we keptfiring, but Danny was in allkinds of trouble, and I wasafraid he might loseconsciousness.That was when they shot

himagain,rightatthebaseoftheneck. Iwatched inhorror

as Danny went down, thisbeautiful guy, husband ofPatsy, a friend of mine forfour years, a guy who hadalways been last away whilewe retreated, a guywho hadprovided our covering fireuntil he couldn’t standanymore.And now he lay on the

ground, blood pouring fromhis five wounds. And I wassupposed to be a fuckingSEALmedic,andIcouldnot

do a damn thing for himwithoutgettingusallkilled.Idroppedmyrifleandclimbedover the rock, runningacrossopen ground to get to him.All right. All right. No herobullshit. I was crying like ababy.Danny was saturated in

blood, still conscious, stilltrying to fire his rifle at theenemy. But he was in afacedownposition.Itoldhimto take it easywhile I turned

him over. “C’mon, Dan,we’regonnabeallright.”Henodded, and I knewhe

could not speak and wouldprobably never speak again.WhatIreallyrememberis,hewouldnotletgoofhisrifle.Iraised him by the shouldersandhauledhimintoanalmostsitting position. Then,graspinghimunder thearms,I started to drag himbackward,towardcover.Andwould you believe, that little

iron man opened fire at theenemy once again, almostlying on his back, blastingawayup thehillwhile Ikeptdragging.We’d gone about eight

yards when everything Idreaded came true. Here Iwas, just about defenseless,tryingtowalkbackward,bothhands full, when a Talibanfighter suddenly loomed upout of the rocks to our right.He was right on top of us,

lookingdown,asmileonhisface as he aimed thatAK-47straightatmyhead.Neither of us saw him in

time to returnfire. I justsaida quick prayer and staredback at him. Which wasprecisely when Axe bangedtwo bullets right between hiseyes, killed that tribesmanstone dead instantly. I didn’thave time to thank him,because the grenades werestillcomingin,andIjustkept

trying to drag Danny tosafety.And, likeAxe,Dannykeptfiring.I got him to the rock face

justafewyardsfromMikey.And it was clear the enemyhad nearly managed tosurround us for the fourthtime today.We could tell bythe direction of the gunfireand occasionally the RPGs.Danny was still alive andwilling to fight, and Mikeywasnowfightingshoulder to

shoulder with Axe, and theywere inflicting heavydamage.I still thought we had a

chance of getting out, butonce more the only optionwasdown,towardthatvillageand onto the flat ground.Fighting uphill, as we hadbeen doing since this battlestarted, did, in the words ofour mission officer, reallysuck.I yelled out loudly, “Axe!

Moving!” He had time toshout back, “Roger that!”before they shot him in thechest. Iwatched his rifle fallfrom his grasp. He slumpedforwardandslippeddowntherockhe’dbeenleaningon,allthewaytotheground.I absolutely froze. This

couldnotbehappening.MattAxelson, a family fixture,Morgan’s best friend, a partof our lives. I started callinghis name, irrationally, over

and over. Privately I thoughtDanny was dying, and all Icouldseewasastainofbloodgathering in the red dirtwhereAxewasslumped.Fora brief moment I thought Imightbelosingit.But then Axe reached for

his rifle and got up. Heleveled the weapon, got ahold of another magazine,shoveditintothebreech,andopened fire again, bloodpumpingoutofhischest.He

heldhis same firingposition,leaning against the rock. Heshowed the same attitude ofsolidNavySEALknow-how,the same formidablesteadiness,staringthroughhisscope, those brilliant blueeyes of his scanning theterrain.When Axe got up, it was

the bravest thing I ever saw.ExceptforDanny.ExceptforMikey, still commanding usafter taking a bullet through

his stomach so early in thebattle.And now Murph was

masterminding a way downthe escarpment. He hadchosen the route and calledupAxe to follow him down.And still the bullets werehumming around us as theTaliban started their pursuit.Mikey and Axe were aboutseventy-five yards in front,and I was dragging Dannyalongwhilehedideverything

he could to help, trying towalk, trying to give uscoveringfire.“It’s okay, Danny,” I kept

saying. “We just need tocatch upwith the others. It’sgonnabeallright.”Right then a bullet caught

him full in the upper part ofhisface.Iheardithithome,Iturned to help him, and theblood from his head woundspilled over us both. I calledout to him. But it was too

late. He wasn’t fighting theterriblepainanymore.Andhecouldn’t hear me. DannyDietz died right there in myarms. I don’t know howquicklyheartsbreak,but thatnearlybrokemine.And still the gunfire never

abated. I dragged Danny offthe open ground maybe fivefeet,andthenIsaidgood-byeto him. I lowered himdown,andIhadtoleavehimorelsedie out here with him. But I

knew one thing for certain. Istill had my rifle and I wasnot alone, and neither wasDanny, a devout RomanCatholic.IlefthimwithGod.AndnowIhadtogetback

to help my team. It was thehardest thing I’ve ever doneinmylife.To this day I have

nightmaresaboutit,achillingdream where Danny’s stilltalking to me, and there’sbloodeverywhere,andIhave

to walk away and I don’teven know why. I alwayswake up in tears, and it willalways haunt me, and it’snevergoingtogoaway.And now I could hear

Murph yelling to me. Igrabbed my rifle, duckeddown, slipped and fell off arock, then started to runtoward him and Axe whiletheyprovidedheavycoveringfire nonstop aimed at theTaliban’s rocky redoubt,

maybe another forty yardsback.I reached the edge, ran

almost blindly into a tree,bounced off, skidded downtheslope,whichwasnotverydeep,andlandedonmyheadright in the fucking stream.Likeanygoodfrogman,Iwasseriously pissed off becausemy boots got wet. I reallyhatethat.Finally I caught up with

them. Axe was out of

ammunitionandIgavehimanewmagazine.Mikeywantedto know where Danny was,and I had to tell him thatDanny had died. He wasappalled, completelyshocked, and so was Axe.Although Mikey would notsayit,Iknewhewantedtogoback for the body. But webothknew therewasno timeand no reason. We hadnowhere to take the remainsofa fallen teammate,andwe

could not continue thisfirefight while carryingaroundabody.Danny was dead. And

strangely, I was the first topull myself together. I saidsuddenly, “I’ll tell youwhat.We have to get down thisgoddamnedmountainorwe’llallbedead.”And as if to make up our

minds for us, the Talibanwere again closing in, tryingto make that 360-degree

movement around us. Andthey were doing it. Gunfirewas coming in fromunderneathusnow.Wecouldsee the tribesmen stillswarming,andItriedtocountthem as I had been trying todoforalmostanhour.I thought there were now

onlyaboutfifty,maybesixty,but the bullets were stillflying. The grenades werestillcomingin,blastingclose,sending up dust clouds of

smoke and dirt with flyingbitsof rock.Therehadneverbeen a lull in the amount ofordnance the enemy waspilingdownonus.Right now, again tucked

lowbehindrocks,thethreeofus could look down and seethe village one and a halfmilesdistant,anditremainedourobjective.AgainItoldMikey,“Ifwe

can just make it down thereand get some cover, we’ll

take ’em all out on the flatground.”I knew we were not in

greatshape.ButwewerestillSEALs. Nothing can evertakethataway.Wewerestillconfident.Andwewerenevergoingtosurrender.Ifitcamedowntoit,wewouldfighttothe death with our knivesagainsttheirguns.“Fuck surrender,” said

Mikey. And he had no needto explain further, either to

Axe orme. Surrender wouldhave been a disgrace to ourcommunity, like ringing thebellattheedgeofthegrinderandputtingyourhelmetintheline.Noonewhohadmadeitthrough this far, to this no-man’s-land in the Afghanmountains, would havedreamedofgivingup.Remember the philosophy

of the U.S. Navy SEALs: “Iwill never quit...My Nationexpects me to be physically

harder and mentally strongerthanmyenemies. If knockeddown, I will get back up,every time. I will draw onevery remaining ounce ofstrength to protect myteammates...Iamneveroutofthefight.”Those words have

sustained many brave mendown the years. They wereengraved upon the soul ofevery SEAL. And they wereinthemindsofallofus.

Mikey suddenly said,above the rage of the battle,“Remember,bro,we’reneveroutofit.”Inoddedtersely.“It’sonly

about another thousandyardsto flatground. Ifwecan justget down there, we got achance.”Trouble was, we couldn’t

get down there, at least notright then. Because oncemore we were pinned down.And we faced the same

dilemma:theonlyescapewasto go down, but our onlydefensive strategy was to goup.Oncemore,wehadtogetoff this ground, away fromthericochets.Backuptheleftflank.Weweretryingtofightthe

battle our way. But eventhough we were still going,we were battered half todeath. I led theway back upthe rocks, blasting away,shooting down anyone I

couldsee.Buttheycaughtonto that real quick, and nowthey really unloaded on us,Russian-made rocketgrenades. Coming straightdown their right flank, ourleft.The ground shook. The

very few trees swayed. Thenoise was worse than anyblast all day. Even the wallsof this little canyon shook.The stream splashed over itsbanks.Thiswasonegigantic

Taliban effort to finish us.We hit the deck, jammingourselves into our rockycrevasse, heads down toavoidthelethalflyingdebris,rock fragments and shrapnel.As before they did not killanyone with this type ofthunderous bombardment,andasbefore theywaited tillthedusthadclearedandthenopenedfireagain.Above me I could see the

treeline.Itwasnotclose,but

itwasnearerthanthevillage.But the Taliban knew ourobjective, and as we tried tofight our way forward, theydrove us back with sheerweightoffire.We’d tried, against all the

odds,andjustcouldnotmakeit. They’d knocked us backagain. And we retreateddown,makingalongpatheticloop, back the way we’dcome. But once more welanded up in a good spot, a

sound defensive position,well protected by the rockfaceoneitherside.Againwetriedtotakethefighttothem,picking our targets anddriving them back, makingsomegroundnowtoward thevillage.They were up and

screamingatus,yellingasthebattle almost became closequarters.Weyelledrightbackand kept firing. But therewere still so many of them,

and then they got into betterposition and shot MikeyMurphythroughthechest.He came toward me,

asking if I could give himanothermagazine.AndthenIsaw Axe stumbling towardme, his head pushed out,bloodrunningdownhis face,bubbling out of the mostshockingheadwound.“They shot me, bro,” he

said. “The bastards shot me.Can you help me, Marcus?”

What could I say? Whatcould I do? I couldn’t helpexcept by trying to fight offthe enemy. And Axe wasstanding right in my line offire.I tried to help him get

down behind a rock. And Iturned to Mikey, who wasobviously badly hurt now.“Can you move, buddy?” Iaskedhim.And he groped in his

pocket for hismobile phone,

theonewehaddarednotusebecause it would betray ourposition.AndthenLieutenantMurphy walked out into theopenground.Hewalkeduntilhe was more or less in thecenter, gunfire all aroundhim, and he sat on a smallrock and began punching inthenumberstoHQ.I could hear him talking.

“My men are taking heavyfire...we’re getting pickedapart.Myguysaredyingout

here...weneedhelp.”AndrightthenMikeytook

abulletstraightintheback.Isaw the blood spurt fromhischest. He slumped forward,dropping his phone and hisrifle. But then he bracedhimself, grabbed them both,sat upright again, and oncemoreputthephonetohisear.I heard him speak again.

“Roger that, sir.Thankyou.”Then he stood up andstaggered out to our bad

position,theoneguardingourleft, and Mikey just startedfighting again, firing at theenemy.He was hitting them too,

having made that one lastdesperatecalltobase,theonethatmightyetsaveus if theycould send help in time,before we wereoverwhelmed.Only I knew what Mikey

had done. He’d understoodwe had only one realistic

chance,andthatwastocallinhelp.Healsoknewtherewasonlyoneplacefromwhichhecouldpossiblymake thatcellphonework:out in theopen,awayfromthecliffwalls.Knowing the risk,

understanding the danger, inthefullknowledge thephonecall could cost him his life,Lieutenant Michael PatrickMurphy, son of Maureen,fiancé of the beautifulHeather, walked out into the

firestorm.Hisobjectivewasclear: to

makeonelastvaliantattemptto save his two teammates.He made the call, made theconnection. He reported ourapproximate position, thestrength of our enemy, andhowseriousthesituationwas.When they shot him, Ithought mortally, he kepttalking.Rogerthat,sir.Thankyou.

Will thosewordseverdimin

mymemory,even if I live tobe a hundred? Will I everforget them? Would you?Andwas there ever agreaterSEAL team commander, anofficerwhofought tothelastand, as perhaps his dyingmove, risked everything tosavehisremainingmen?I doubt there was ever

anyone better than Mikey,cool under fire, alwaysthinking, fearless aboutissuing the one-option

command even if it wasnearly impossible. And thenthe final, utterly heroic act.Not a gesture. An act ofsupreme valor. LieutenantMikey was a wonderfulpersonandavery,verygreatSEALofficer. If theybuildamemorial to him as high asthe Empire State Building, itwon’t ever be high enoughforme.Mikey was still alive, and

hecarriedon,holdingtheleft.

I stayedon the right,bothofus firing carefully andaccurately. I was still tryingto reach slightly higherground. But the depletedarmy of the Taliban wasdetermined that I should notget it, and every time I triedtoadvanceevena fewyards,get even a few feet higher,they drove me back. Mikeytoo was still trying to climbhigher, and he actuallymadeit some of the way, into a

rockstrataabovewhereIwasstanding. It was a good spotfrom which to attack, butdefensivelypoor.AndIknewthis must surely be Mikey’slaststand.Justthen,Axewalkedright

by me in a kind of a daze,making only a marginalattemptatstayinginthecoverof the rocks. Then I saw thewound, the right side of hishead almost blown away. Ishouted, “Axe! Axe! C’mon,

old buddy. Get down there,rightdownthere.”I was pointing at the one

spot in the rocks we mightfind protection. And he triedto raise his hand, an act ofconfirmation that he’d heardme.But he couldn’t.And hekept walking, slowly,hunched forward, no longerclutching his rifle. He wasdown to just his pistol, but Iknew he could not hold that,aim,andfire.Atleasthewas

headed for cover, eventhoughnoonecouldsurviveaheadwoundlikethat.IknewAxewasdying.Mikeywas still firing, but

suddenly I heard him screammy name, the most bone-chilling primeval scream:“Help me, Marcus! Pleasehelp me!” He was my bestfriendinalltheworld,buthewas thirty yards up themountain, and I could notclimb to him. I could hardly

walk, and if I’d moved twoyards out of my protectedposition, theywouldhavehitmewithahundredbullets.Nonetheless, I edged out

aroundtherockstotrytogivehim covering fire, to forcethesebastardsback,givehimabreatheruntilIcouldfindaway to get up there withoutgettingmoweddown.And all the time, he was

screaming, calling out myname, begging me to help

him live. And there wasnothingIcoulddoexceptdiewith him. Even then, withonly a couple of magazinesleft, I still believed I couldnail these fuckers in theturbans and somehow savehim and Axe. I just wantedMikey to stop screaming, forhisagonytoend.But every few seconds, he

cried out for me again. Andevery time ithappened, I feltlike I’d been stabbed. There

were tears wellinguncontrollably out of myeyes,notforthefirsttimeonthis day. I would have doneanything forMikey, I’d havelaid down my own life forhim.Butmydeath rightherein this outcrop of rocks wasnot going to save him. If Icould save him, it would bebystayingalive.Andthen,assuddenlyasit

began,thescreamingstopped.There was silence for a few

seconds, as if even theseTaliban warriors understoodthatMikeyhaddied.Imovedslightly forward and lookedup there, in time to see fourof them come down and fireseveral rounds into his fallenbody.The screaming had

stopped.Foreveryoneexceptme. I still hearMikey, everynight. I still hear that screamabove all other things, evenabove the death of Danny

Dietz. For several weeks IthoughtImightbelosingmymind, because I could neverpushitaside.Therewereoneor two frightening occasionswhen I heard it in broaddaylight and found myselfpressed against a wall, myhandscoveringmyears.I always thought these

kindsofpsychiatricproblemswere suffered by otherpeople, ordinary people, notbyNavySEALs.Inowknow

the reality of them. I alsodoubt whether I will eversleepthroughthenightagain.Danny was dead. Mikey

wasnowdead.AndAxewasdying. Right now there weretwo of us, but only just. Iresolved to walk down towhereAxewashidingandtodie there with him. Therewas, Iknew,unlikely tobeaway out. There were stillmaybe fifty of the enemy,perhapsbynowhuntingonly

me.It took me nearly ten

minutes, firing back behindme sporadically to try to pinthem down...just in case. Iwasfiringonthewildchancethat there was a shot atsurvival, that somehowMikey’sphonecallmightyethavetheguysuphereintimeforalast-ditchrescue.When I reached Axe, he

was sitting in a hollow, andhe’d fixed a temporary

bandage on the side of hishead. I stared at him,wondering where those coolblue eyes of his had gone.The eyes in which I couldnow see my own reflectionwerebloodblack,thesocketsfilledfromtheterriblewoundinhisskull.I smiled at him because I

knewwewouldnotwalkthisway again, at least nottogether, not on this earth.Axedidnothavelong.Ifhe’d

been in the finest hospital inNorth America, Axe wouldstill not have had long. Thelife was ebbing out of him,andIcouldsee thispowerfulsuper-athletegrowingweakerbythesecond.“Hey,man,”Isaid,“you’re

all fucked up!” And I tried,pitifully,tofixthebandage.“Marcus,theygotusgood,

man.” He spoke withdifficulty, as if trying toconcentrate. And then he

said,“Youstayalive,Marcus.AndtellCindyIloveher.”Thosewerehis lastwords.

I just sat there, and that waswhereIplannedtostay,rightthere with Axe so hewouldn’t be alone when theend came. I didn’t give aflyingfuckwhathappenedtomeanymore.Quietly,Imademy peace with God, and Ithanked Him for protectingme and saving my rifle.Which, somehow, I still had.

InevertookmyeyesoffAxe,who was semiconscious butstillbreathing.Along with the other two,

Axewillalwaysbeahero tome.Throughoutthisbriefbutbrutal conflict, he’d foughtlike a wounded tiger. LikeAudieMurphy, like SergeantYork. They shot away hisbody, crippled his brain butnothis spirit.Theynevergotthat.Matthew Gene Axelson,

husbandofCindy,firedattheenemy until he could nolonger hold his rifle.Hewasjust past his twenty-ninthbirthday. And in his dyingmoments, I never took myeyesoffhim.Idon’tthinkhecould hear me any longer.But his eyes were open, andwe were still together, and Irefused to allow him to diealone.Rightthen, theymusthave

seenus.Becauseoneofthose

superpowerful Russiangrenades came in, landedclose,andblewmesideways,rightoutofthehollow,acrossthe rough ground, and overthe edge of the goddamnedravine. I lost consciousnessbefore I hit the bottom, andwhen I came to, I was in adifferenthollow,andmyfirstthoughtwasI’dbeenblindedby the explosion, because Icouldn’tseeathing.However, after a few

seconds, I gathered my witsand realized I was upsidedown in the freakin’ hole. Istill had my eyesight and afew other working parts, butmyleft legseemedparalyzedand,toalesserdegree,sowasmy right. It took me Godknows how long to wriggleoutontoflatgroundandclawmy way into the cover of arock.My ears were zinging, I

guess from the blast of the

grenade.IlookedupandsawIhadfallenaprettygoodwaydown, but I was toodisoriented to put a numberon it. The main differencebetween now and when I’dbeen sitting with Axe wasthatthegunfirehadceased.Ifthey’dreachedAxe,who

couldnotpossiblyhavelivedthrough the blast, theymightnot have bothered to go onshooting.Theyobviouslyhadnot found me, and I would

havebeenrealhardtolocate,upsidedown in thehole.Butwhatever, no one seemed tobe looking.For the first timeinmaybeanhourandahalf,Iwas apparently not beingactivelyhunted.Asidefrombeingunableto

stand, I had two other veryserious problems. The firstwasthetotallossofmypants.They’d been blown right offme. The second was thecondition of my left leg,

which I could scarcely feelbut which was a horrificsight, bleeding profusely andfullofshrapnel.Ihadnobandages,nothing

medical.Ihadbeenabletodonothing for my teammates,and I could do nothing formyself, except try to stayhidden. It was not apromising situation. I wasdamn sure I’d broken myback and probably myshoulder;I’dbrokenmynose,

andmyfacewasatotalmess.I couldn’t stand up, nevermind walk. At least one legwaswrecked, andmaybe theother.Iwasparalyzedinboththighs, and the only way Icould move was to bellycrawl.Unsurprisingly, I was

dazed. And through thispersonal fog of war, therewasyetonemoremiracleformetorecognize.Nottwofeetfromwhere Iwas lying, half

hiddenbydirtandshale,wellout of sight of my enemy,wasmyMark 12 rifle, and Istill had one and a halfmagazines left. I prayedbeforeIgrabbedit,becauseIthought it might be just amirage and that when I triedto hold it...well, itmight justdisappear.But it did not. And I felt

thecoldsteelinthehotairasmy fingers clasped it. IlistenedagainforHisvoice.I

prayed again, imploringHimfor guidance. But there wasnosound,andallIknewwasthat somehow I had tomakeit out to the right, where I’dbesafe,atleastforawhile.My God had not spoken

again. But neither had Heforsakenme.Iknewthat.Fordamnedsure,Iknewthat.I knew one other thing as

well.Forthefirsttime,Iwasentirely alone. Here in theseTaliban-controlled, hostile

mountains, there was noearthlyteammateforme,andmy enemy was all around.Hadtheyheededthewordsofthe goatherds? That therewerefourofus,andthatrightnow they had only threebodies?OrdidtheyassumeIhad been blown to pieces bythe blast of the finalRussianRPG?I had no answer to those

questions, only hope. Withabsolutely no one to turn to,

noMikey,noAxe,noDanny,I had to face the final battleby myself, maybe lonely,maybe desolate, maybeagainst formidable odds. ButIwasnotgivingup.I had only one Teammate.

And He moved, as ever, inmysteriousways.ButIwasaChristian, and He hadsomehow saved me from athousand AK-47 bullets onthisday.Noonehadshotme,which was well nigh beyond

allcomprehension.AndIstillbelievedHedid

not wish me to die. And Iwould still try my best touphold the honor of theUnitedStatesNavySEALsasI imagined they would havewished. No surrender. Fuckthat.When I judged I had fully

gathered my senses andchecked my watch, it wasexactly1342localtime.Forafew minutes there was no

gunfire, and Iwas beginningtoassumetheythoughtIwasdead. Wrong, Marcus. TheTaliban AKs opened upagain, and suddenly therewere bullets flyingeverywhere, all around, justlikebefore.Myenemywascomingup

onme from the lower levelsand from both sides, firingrapidly but inaccurately.Their bullets were rippingintotheearthandshaleacross

a wide range, most of them,thankChrist,wellawayfromme.Itwas clear they thought I

might be still alive butequallycleartheyhadnotyetlocated me. They wereconductingakindofreconbyfire, trying to flush me out,blazingawayrightacross thespectrum, hoping someonewould finally hit me andfinishme.Orbetteryet,thatIwould come out with my

hands high so the murderinglittle bastards could cut myheadoffor indulge inoneoftheir other attractive littleidiosyncracies before tellingthat evil little televisionstation al-Jazeera how theyhadconqueredtheinfidels.I think I’vementionedmy

view about surrender. Irammed another magazineinto the breech of mymiraculous rifle andsomehow crawled over this

little hill, through the hail ofbullets, right into the side ofthe mountain. No one sawme.Noonehitme.Iwedgedmyself into a rocky crevassewithmylegsstickingoutintoaclumpofbushes.There were huge rocks to

both sides, protecting me.Overall I judged I wasjammed into a fifteen-foot-wide ledge on the mountain.Itwasnotacave,notevenashallowcave,becauseithada

kind of open top way aboveme. Rocks and sand keptfalling down on me as theTaliban warriors scrambledaround above my position.But this crevasse providedsensational cover andcamouflage.EvenIrealizedIwouldbeprettyhard to spot.They’dhavetogetreallucky,even with their latest policyoftryingtoflushmeoutwithsheervolumeoffire.My line of vision was

directly ahead. I realized Icouldn’t move or changeposition, at least in broaddaylightIcouldn’t,anditwasimperative I hide the bloodwhich was leaking from mybatteredbody.Itookstockofmy injuries.My left legwasstillbleedingprettybad,andIpackedthewoundswithmud.I had a big cut on myforehead,whichIalsopackedwith mud. Both legs werenumb. I was not going

anywhere. At least not for awhile.I had no medical kit, no

maps, no compass. I hadmybullets, and I had my gun,and I had a decent view offmy mountain, straight aheadover the canyon to the nextmountain.Ihadnopants,andnobuddies,butnoonecouldsee me. I was wedged intight,my back to thewall ineverypossiblesense.I eased myself into a

relatively comfortableposition, checked my rifle,andlaiditdownthelengthofmy body, aiming outward. Ifenough of them discoveredme, I guess I’d quickly begoing to join Danny, Axe,andMikey.ButnotbeforeI’dkilled a whole lot more ofthem. I was, I knew, in aperfect position for astubborn, defensive militaryaction,protectedonallsides,vulnerabletoafrontalassault

only, and thatwould have tobebyweightofnumbers.I could still hear gunfire,

and it was growing closer.They were definitely comingthisway.Ijustthought,Don’tmove, don’t breathe, do notmakea sound. I think it wasabout then I understood howutterly alone I was for thevery first time. And theTaliban was hunting me.They were not hunting for aSEAL platoon. They were

huntingmealone.Despitemyinjuries,IknewIhadtoreachdeep. I was starting to losetrack of time. But I stayedstill. I actually did notmoveoneinchforeighthours.Asthetimepassed,Icould

see the Taliban guys rightacrossthecanyon,runningupand down, seemed likehundreds of them, plainlysearching, scouring themountain they knew sowell,looking for me. I had some

feelingbackinmylegs,butIwas bleeding real bad, and Iwas in a lot of pain. I thinkthe loss of blood may havestartedtomakemefeellight-headed.Also,Iwasscaredtodeath.

It was the first time in myentire six-year career as aNavySEALIhadbeenreallyscared. At one point, late inthe afternoon, I thought theywere all leaving. Across thecanyon, the mountainside

cleared, everyone runninghard to the right, swarms ofthem,allheadedforthesameplace. At least that’s how itseemed to me across mynarrowfieldofvision.I now know where they

were going. While I waslying there inmy crevasse, Ihadnoideawhatthehellwasgoing on. But now I shallrecount, to the best of mygathered knowledge, whathappened elsewhere on that

saddest of afternoons, thatmost shockingmassacrehighin theHinduKush, theworstdisaster ever to befall theSEALs inanyconflict inourmorethanforty-yearhistory.Thefirstthingtoremember

is that Mikey had succeededin getting through to thequickreactionforce(QRF)inAsadabad, a couple ofmountain ranges over fromwhereIwasstillholdingout.That last call, the one on his

cell phone that essentiallycost him his life, wassuccessful.Fromallaccounts,his haunting words — Myguys are dying out here...weneed help — ripped aroundour base like a flash fire.SEALs are dying! That’s afive-alarm emergency thatstops only just on the northsideoffrenzy.Lieutenant Commander

Kristensen, our acting CO,sounded the alarm. It’s

always a decision for theQRF, to launch or not tolaunch. Eric took a billionthof a second to make it. Iknowthevisionofusfour—his buddies, his friends andteammates, Mikey, Axe,Danny, and me, fighting forourlives,hurt,possiblydead,surroundedbyahugefightingforce of bloodthirsty Afghantribesmen— flashed throughhismindashesummonedtheboystoactionstations.

And the vision of terriblelossstoodstarkbeforehimashe roared down the phone,ordering the men of 160thSpecial Operations AviationRegiment(SOAR),thefabledNightStalkers, toget thebigarmyMH-47heloready,rightthere on the runway. It wasthe same one that had takenoff just before us on theprevious day, the one wetrackedintoouropsarea.Guys I’ve already

introduced charged intoposition, desperate to help,cramming as muchammunition as they couldinto their pouches, grabbingrifles and running for theChinook, its rotors alreadyscreaming.MySDVTeam1guys were instantly there.PettyOfficersJamesSuhandShanePattonreachedthehelofirst. Then, scramblingaboard, came the massivelybuiltSeniorChiefDanHealy,

the man who hadmasterminded OperationRedwing, who apparentlylookedasifhe’dbeenshotasheleftthebarracks.Then came the SEAL

Team 10 guys, LieutenantMike McGreevy Jr. of NewYork, Chief Jacques Fontanof New Orleans, PettyOfficers First Class JeffLucas from Oregon andJeffTaylor from WestVirginia. Finally, still

shoutingthathisboysneededevery gun they could get,cameLieutenantCommanderEricKristensen,themanwhoknew perhaps better thananyone that the eight SEALsinthathelowereabouttoriskalethaldaytimeinsertioninahighmountainpass,rightintothe jaws of an enemy thatmight outnumber them bydozenstoone.Kristensenknewhedidnot

havetogo.Infact,perhapshe

shouldnot havegone, stayedinstead at his post, central tocontrol and command. Rightthen, we had the skipper intheQRF,whichwas, at best,a bit unorthodox. But EricKristensenwasaSEALtohisfingertips.Andwhatheknewaboveallelsewasthathehadjustheardadesperatecryforhelp.Fromhisbrothers,froma man he knew well andtrusted.TherewasnowayEricwas

notgoingtoanswerthatcall.NothingonGod’searthcouldhavepersuadedhimnottogo.Hemusthaveknownwewerebarelyholdingon,prayingforhelp to arrive. There were,afterall,onlyfourofus.Andto everyone’s certainknowledge, there were aminimum of a hundredTaliban.Eric understood the

stupendousnatureoftherisk,and he never blinked. Just

grabbed his rifle andammunition and raced toboard that aircraft, yelling ateveryone else tohurry...“Move it, guys! Let’sreally move it!” That’s whathe always said underpressure. Sure, he was acommanding officer, and ahellofagoodone.Butmorethan that, he was a SEAL, apart of that brotherhoodforged in blood. Even moreimportant,hewasaman.And

right now he was answeringan urgent, despairing cryfrom the very heart of hisown brotherhood. There wasonlyonewayEricKristensenwas headed, straight up themountain, guns blazing,commandornocommand.InsidetheMH-47,themen

of 160th SOAR waitedquietly, as they had done somany times before on thesehair-raising air-rescue ops,oftenatnight.Theywere led

byaterrificman,MajorSteveReich of Connecticut, withChiefWarrantOfficersChrisScherkenbach ofJacksonville, Florida, andCorey J. Goodnature ofClarksGrove,Minnesota.Master Sergeant JamesW.

Ponder was there, withSergeants First ClassMarcusMuralles of Shelbyville,Indiana, andMikeRussell ofStafford, Virginia. TheirgroupwascompletedbyStaff

Sergeant Shamus Goare ofDanville,Ohio, and SergeantKip Jacoby of PompanoBeach, Florida. By anystandards,itwasacrackarmyfightingforce.The MH-47 took off and

headed over the twomountain ranges. I guess itseemedtotakeforever.Thosekind of rescues always do. Itcame in to land at just aboutthe same spot we had fast-roped in at the start of the

mission, around five milesfrom where I was nowpositioned.Theplanwasfortherescue

team to rope itdown just thesame, and when the “Thirtyseconds!” call came, I guessthe lead guys edged towardthe stern ramp.What no oneknew was the Taliban hadsome kind of bunker backthere,andastheMH-47tiltedback for the insert and theropesfellawayfortheclimb-

down, the Taliban fired arocket-propelled grenadestraight through the openramp.Itshotcleanpasttheheads

of the lead group and blewwithashatteringblastagainstthe fuel tanks, turning thehelointoaninferno,sternandmidships.Severaloftheguyswere blown out and fell,some of them burning, totheir deaths, from aroundthirtyfeet.Theysmashedinto

themountainsideandtumbleddown. The impact was soviolent,oursearch-and-rescuepartieslaterfoundgunbarrelssnapped in half among thebodies.Thehelicopterpilot fought

for control, unaware of thecarnage behind him butcertainly aware of the ragingfires around and above him.Of course, therewas nothinghe could do.The bigMH-47just fell out of the sky and

crashed with thunderousimpact onto themountainside, swayed, andthen rolled with brutal forceoverandover,smashingitselfto pieces on a long two-hundred-yard downward trailtoextinction.There was nothing left

except scattered debris whenour guys finally got up theretoinvestigate.And,ofcourse,no survivors.My close SDVTeam1buddiesJames,Chief

Dan, and young Shane wereallgone. Itwasaswell IdidnotknowthisasIlaythereinmy crevasse. I’m not sure Icould have coped with it. Itwas nothing less than amassacre.WeekslaterIbrokedown when I saw thephotographs, mostly becauseitwasmetheywerealltryingtorescue.As Iexplained,at the time

Iknewnothingofthis.Ionlyknew something had

happened that had caused alot of Taliban to get veryobviouslyexcited.AndsoonIcould seeU.S. aircraft flyingright along the canyon infront of me, A-10s and AH-64Apachehelicopters.SomeofthemweresocloseIcouldseethepilots.IpulledmyPRC-148radio

outofmypouchand tried tomakecontact.ButIcouldnotspeak.My throat was full ofdirt, my tongue was sticking

to theroofofmymouth,andI had nowater. Iwas totallyunable to transmit. But Iknew I was in contactbecause I could hear theaircrew talking.So I firedupmy emergency distressbeacon on the radio andtransmittedthat.They picked it up. I know

theydidbecauseIcouldhearthem plainly. “Hey, yougetting that beacon?” “Yeah,we got it...but no further

information.” Then they justflew off, over to my right,where I now know the MH-47hadgonedown.The trouble was, the

Taliban steal those radios iftheycan,andtheyoftenusedthem to lure the U.S.helicopters down. I wasunaware of this at the time,but now it’s obvious to me,the American pilots wereextremelyjumpyabouttryingto put down in response to a

U.S.beaconbecausetheydidnot know who the hell wasaiming that beacon, and theymightgetshotdown.Which would have been,

anyway, little comfort tome,lying there on themountainside only half alive,bleeding to death and unableto walk. And now it wasgrowing dark, and I wasplainly running out ofoptions. I guessed my onlychance was to attract the

attention of one of the pilotswho were still flying downmy canyon at pretty regularintervals.Myradioheadsethadbeen

ripped away during my falldownthemountain,butIstillhad the wires. And Isomehow rigged up two ofmy chem lights, which glowwhenyoubreaktheminhalf,andfixedthemtothedefunctradio wires. And then Iwhirled this homemade

slingshotaroundmyheadinakind of luminous buzz sawthe first moment I saw ahelicopterinthearea.I also had an infrared

strobe light that I could fireup, and I had the laser frommyrifle,whichItookoffandaimed at the regular U.S.flyby. Jesus Christ! I was aliving, breathing distresssignal. There’s got to besomeone watching thesemountains. Someone’s got to

see me. I was using thisprocedure only when Iactually saw a helicopter.And soon my optimismturned to outright gloom.Noone was paying attention.From where I was lying, itlooked like I’d beenabandonedfordead.By now, with the sun

declining behind themountains,Ihadalmostallofthe feeling back in my legs.AndthisgavemehopethatI

might be able to walk,although I knew the painmight be a bit fierce. I wasgetting dangerously thirsty. Icouldnotgetthecloggeddustand dirt out of my throat. ItwasallIcoulddotobreathe,never mind speak. I had tofind water, and I had to getthehelloutofthisdeathtrap.But not until the veil ofdarkness fell over thesemountains.IknewIhad togetmyself

out,firsttowaterandthentosafety,becauseitsureashelldidn’t look like anyone wasgoingtofindme.IrememberAxe’s finalwords. They stillrang clearly in my mind:“Youstayalive,Marcus.Andtell Cindy I love her.” ForAxe, and for Danny, andaboveallforMikey,IknewImuststayalive.Isawthelast, longraysof

the mountain sun cast theirgigantic shadows through the

canyon before me. And justascertainly,IsawtheglintofthesilverbarrelofanAK-47right across from me, deadahead, on the far cliff face,maybe 150 yards. It caughtthe rays of the dying suntwice, which suggested thesonofabitchwhowasholdingitwasmakingasweepacrossthe wall of my mountain,right past the crevasse insideof which I was still lyingmotionless.

And now I could see thetribesmaninquestion.Hewasjust standing there, hisshirtsleeves rolled up,wearing a blue and whitecheckered vest, holding hisrifleinthefamiliarlow-slunggrip of the Afghans, a splitsecond short of raising it tothe firing position. The onlyconclusion was he waslookingforme.I did not know howmany

of his buddies were within

shouting range. But I didknow if he got a clear sightacross that canyon andsomehow spotted me, I wasessentially history. He couldhardly miss, and he keptstaring across, buthedidnotraisehisrifle.Yet.I decided this was not a

risk I was prepared to take.Myownriflewasloadedandsuppressed. There would belittle noise to attract anyoneelse’s attention. And very

carefully, hardly daring tobreathe, I raised theMark12into the firing position anddrew down on the little manonthefarridge.Hewasbangin the crosshairs of mytelescopicsight.I squeezed the trigger and

hit him straight between theeyes.Ijusthadtimetoseetheblood bloom out into thecenter of his forehead, andthen I watched him toppleover the edge, down into the

canyon. Hemust have fallentwo hundred feet, screamingwith his dying breath all theway. I was not in any waymoved, except to thank Godtherewasoneless.Almostimmediatelytwoof

his colleagues ran into theprecise spot where he hadbeenstanding,directlyacrossfromme. Theywere dressedmoreorlessthesame,exceptfor the different colors oftheir vests. They stood there

staringdown into thecanyonwhere the first man hadfallen. They both carriedAKs, held in the firingpositionbutnotfullyraised.I thought they might just

takeoff,buttheystoodthere,now looking hard across thevoid which separated mymountain from theirs. Fromwhere Iwas, they seemed tobe looking right at me,scanningtheclifffaceforanysign of movement. I knew

they had no idea if their palhad been shot, simply fallen,orperhapscommittedsuicide.However, I think option

one was their instinct. Andrightnowtheyweretryingtofind out precisely who hadshot him. I remainedmotionless, but those littleblack eyes were lookingstraight atme, and I realizedif they both opened fire atonce on my rocky redoubt,the chances of an AK-47

bullet, or bullets, hitting meweregood toexcellent.Theyhadtogo.Bothofthem.Oncemore,Islowlyraised

my rifle and drew a bead onan armed Taliban tribesman.My first shot killed the oneon the right instantly, and Iwatchedhimtumbleover theedge. The second one,understanding now therewasan enemy at large, raised hisgunandscannedtheclifffacewhere I was still flat on my

back.I hit him straight in the

chest, then I fired a secondtime in case he was stillbreathingandabletocryout.He fell forward without asound and went to join histwo buddies on the canyonfloor.Whichleftmeallaloneandthusfarundiscovered.Just a few hours

previously, Mikey Murphyand I had made a militaryjudgment which cost three

lives,thelivesofsomeofthebestSEALsIevermet.Lyinghereonmyledge,surroundedonallsidesbyhostileTalibanwarriors, I could not affordanother mistake. I’dsomehow, by the grace ofGod, been spared from theconsequencesofthefirstone,made way up there on thatgranite outcrop which oughtto be named for Mikey, oursuperb leader. TheBattle forMurphy’sRidge.

Every decision I madefrom now on would involvemy own life or death. Ineeded to fight my way out,and I did not give a damnhow many of the TalibanenemyIhadtokillinordertoachieve that. The key pointwas,Icouldnotmakeanothermistake. I could take nochances.The far sideof the canyon

remained silent as the sundisappeared behind the high

western peaks of the HinduKush. I figured the Talibanhad probably split theirsearchparty in thisparticularareaandthatI’dgottenridofone half. Out there,somewhere, in the deathlysilence of the twilight, therewould almost certainly bethree more, looking for theonesurvivingAmericanfromthatoriginalfour-manplatoonthat had inflicted suchdamageontheirtroops.

The friendly clatter of theU.S.Apacheshadgonenow.No one was looking for me.And by far my biggestproblem was water. Asidefrom the fact I was stillbleeding and couldn’t standup, the thirst was becomingdesperate. My tongue wasstill clogged with dust anddirt, and I still could notspeak. I’d lost my waterbottleonthemountainduringthe first crashing fall with

Mikey, and it had now beennine hours since I’d had adrink.AlsoIwasstillsoakingwet

fromwhenIfellintheriver.Iunderstood I was very light-headed from loss of blood,butIstilltriedtoconcentrate.And the one conclusion Ireached was that I had tostandup.IfacoupleofthoseTaliban came around thatcorner to my left, the onlywaytoapproachme,andthey

hadany formof light, I’dbelike a jackrabbit caught insomeone’sheadlights.Myredoubthadservedme

well,butIhadtogetoutofitright now. When the bodiesof those three guys werefound at first light, thismountainwouldbeswarmingwith Taliban. I draggedmyself to my feet and stoodthere in my boxers in thefreezing coldmountain air. Itested my right leg. Not too

bad. Then I tested my left,and thathurt like thedevil. Itried to brush some of theshale and dirt away fromwhere I’dpacked thewound,buttheshardsoftheshrapnelwere juttingoutofmy thigh,andeverytimeItouchedone,I nearly jumped through theceiling.AtleastIwouldhave,ifthere’dbeenone.One ofmymain problems

was I had no handle on theterrain.OfcourseIknewthat

the mountain reared upbehind me and that I wastrappedon thecliff facewithno way to go except up.Which from where I stood,almostunable tohobble,wasa seriously daunting task. Itestedmy left leg again, andatleastitwasn’tworse.Butmybackhurtlikehell.

I never realized how muchpain three cracked vertebraecould inflict on a guy. Ofcourse,IneverrealizedIhad

threecrackedvertebraeeither.I could move my rightshoulderdespiteatornrotatorcuff, which I also didn’trealizeIhad.Andmybrokennose throbbed a bit, whichwas kid’s stuff comparedwiththerest.Iknewonesideof my face was shredded bythe fall down the mountain,and the big cut on myforeheadwasprettysore.Butmy overriding thought

was my thirst. I was only

slightly comforted by theclosenessofseveralmountainstreamsuphere.Ihadtofindone, fast, both to clean mywounds and to drink. Thatway I had a shot at yellingthroughtheradioandlocatingan American helicopter orfighter aircraft in themorning.I gathered up my gear,

radio, strobes, and laser andrepacked them into mypouch. I checked my rifle,

which had about twentyrounds left in the magazine,with a full magazineremaining in the harness Istillworeacrossmychest.Then I stepped out of my

redoubt, into the absolutepitch black and deathlysilence of the Hindu Kush.There was no moon, and itwas just starting to rain,which meant there wasn’tgoing to be a moon in theforeseeablefuture.

I tested the leg again. Itheld my weight withoutgiving way. I felt mydirection around the hugerock which had beenguarding my left flank allday. And then, with thesmallest,most timid strides Ihadever taken, I steppedoutontothemountain.

9

Blown-up,Shot,andPresumedDead

RightbehindmeIheardthesoftfootstepsofthechasinggunmen...thereweretwoof

them,justabovemeintherocks.Searching.Ihadonlysplitsecondstowork,becausetheywerebothonme,AKsraised...Iwentformygrenades.

Eveninthepitchblackofthenight,Icouldfeeltheshadowof the mountain loomingaboveme.IactuallythoughtIcould see it, a kind of darkforce, darker than everything

else, blacker than the rockwalls upon which I wasleaning.I knew it was a hell of a

long way to the top, and Iwouldhavetomovesidewayslike a delta crab if I wasgoing tomake it. Itwas alsogoingtotakemeallnight,butsomehow I had to get upthere,allthewaytothetop.Ihadtwoprimereasonsfor

mystrategy.First,itwouldbeflat up there, so if it came

down to another firefight, Iwould have a good chance.No guys firing down onme.Every SEAL likes hischancesofwinningafightonflatground.The second issue was

calling inhelp.Nohelicopterever built could land safelyon these steep Afghan cliffs.The only place within themountain range where anMH-47 could put down wasin the flat bowl of the fields

below, where the villagersraisedcrops.Dope,thatis.And there was no way I

wasgoingtoriskhangingoutnearavillage.Iwasgoingup,to the upper flatlands, wherea helo could get in and thenget out. Also, my radioreception would be better upthere. I could only hope theAmericanswerestillscouringthemountains,lookingforthemissingRedwings.Meanwhile, I thought I

might be dying of thirst, andmy parched throat wasdriving me onward to waterandperhapssafety.SoI tookmyfirststeps,guessingIwasprobably going to climbaround five hundred feetstraight up. But I’d travel awhole lot farther on thezigzag course I’d have tomakeupthemountain.Ibeganmyclimb,outthere

in the dark, by movingdirectly upward. I jammed

myrifleintomybeltsoIhadtwohands togrip,butbeforeI’dmadethefirst twentyfeetgoing slightly right, I slippedbadly,whichwasaveryscaryexperience.Thegradientwasalmostsheer,straightdowntothevalleyfloor.InmyconditionIprobably

would not have survived thefall, and I somehow savedmyselffromfallinganymorethan about ten feet. Then Ipicked it up again, clawing

my way up, facing themountain and grabbing holdof anything I could with agriplikeamechanicaldigger.You’d have needed a chainsaw to pry me off that cliffface.AllIknewwas,ifIfell,I’dprobablyplummetseveralhundred feet to my death.Which was good for theconcentration.So I kept going, climbing

mostly sideways, grabbingrocks, vines, or branches,

anything for a grip. Everynow and then I’d dislodgesomething or snap a branchthat would not bear myweight. And I guess I musthave made more noise thanthe Taliban army has evermadeinmountainmaneuvers.I’dbeengoingforacouple

of hours when I sensed Iheardsomethingbehindme.Isaysensedbecausewhenyouare operating in absolutedarkness,withnosightatall,

everythingelseisheightened,allofyoursenses,particularlysound and smell. Not tomention the sixth one, sameoneagoatoranantelopeorazebrahas, theone thatwarnsvulnerablegrazinganimalsofthepresenceofapredator.Now, I wasn’t that

vulnerable.AndIsureashellwasn’tgrazing.ButrightthenI was in Predator Central.Those cutthroat tribalbastards were all over my

case and, for all I knew,closinginonme.I lay flat, stock-stillon the

mountain.AndthenIhearditagain, the distinct snap of atwig or a branch. I estimatedit was maybe two hundredyards behind me. Right thenmyhearingwasatsomekindof a peak in this ultraquiethigh country. I could havepicked up the soft fart of abillygoatamileaway.ThenIhearditoncemore.

Not the billy goat, the twig.And I knew for absolutecertain Iwasbeing followed.Fuck! There was still nomoon, and I could still seenothing. But that would notbetrueoftheTaliban.They’dbeenstealingequipmentfromthe Russians, and then theAmericans, for years.Everything they had wasstolen, except for what binLaden had purchased forthem. And their supplies

certainlyincludedafewpairsofNVGs.TheRussianswere,after all, pioneers of thatparticularpieceofbattlegear,andweknewthemujahideenhad stolen everything fromthem when the Soviet armyfinallypulledout.Thepresenceofanunseen

Afghanitrackerwasverybadnewsforme,notleastfortheremnants of my morale. Thethought that there was agroup of killers out there,

stalking me across thismountain, able to see mewhen I could not seethem...well, that was asonofabitch in any man’sarmy.I decided to press on and

hope they did not decide toopenfire.WhenIreachedthetop,I’dtakethemout.Justassoon as I could see the littlebastards. First sign of light,I’d stake my positionunderneath some bushes

where no one could see me,and then I’d deal with themas soon as they got withinrange. Meantime, I was sothirsty I thought I might diebeforethathourapproached.I was trying everything. I

wasbreakingthethinnesttreebranches off and sucking atthem for liquid. I sucked atthegrasswhenIfoundsome,hoping for a few drops ofmountaindew.Ieventriedtowring out my socks to find

justa tasteofwater.There isnothing quite so terrible asdying of thirst. Believe me.I’vebeenthere.As the night wore on, I

began to hear the occasionalU.S. military aircraft abovethemountains, usually flyinghigh. And when I heard onein time, I was out therewhirlingmybuzz-saw lights,transmitting the beacon aswellasIcould,stillawalkingdistress signal. But no one

heard me. It occurred to methat no one believed I wasalive. And that was a verygrim thought. It would bepretty hard to find me uphere, even if the entireBagram base was searchingfor me in these endlessmountains. But if no onebelievedIwasstillbreathing,well, that was probably theend forme. I experienced aninevitable feeling of utterdesolation. Worse yet, I was

so weakened, and in suchpain, I realized,once and forall,Iwasnevergoingtomakeit to the topof themountain.Actually, I might havemadeit,butmy left leg,blastedbythatRPG,wasnevergoingtostand the climb. Iwould justhavetokeepgoingsideways,struggling across the steepface of the mountain,sometimes down, sometimesup, and hope to get mychance.

Iwasstilllosingblood,andI still could not speak. But Icould hear, and I could hearmy pursuers, sometimescalling to each other. Iremember thinking this wasvery strange because theynormally moved around intotalsilence.Rememberthosegoatherds? Ineverheard thatfirstonecominguntilhewasabout four feet from me.That’s just theway they are,treading softly, lean, light

men with no encumbrances—notevenwater.When those Afghans

travel, they carry their gunsand ammunition and nothingelse. One guy carries thewater for everyone; anotherhauls the extra ammunition.And this leaves the mainforce free tomove very fast,very softly. They are borntrackers, able to pick up atrail across the roughestground, and they can walk

rightuponyou.Of course, that assumes

they are only after one oftheirown.Tryingtofollowagreat 230-pound hulk likemyself, slipping and sliding,crashing and breakingbranches, causing minoravalanches on the looseground— I must have beenan Afghan tracker’s dream.EvenIrealizedmychanceofactually losing them wasclosetozero.

Maybe those calls I heardamong them were not reallycommands.Maybe theywereoutbursts of suppressedlaughter at my truly horriblerock-climbing abilities. Waituntil it gets light, I thought.Thisplayingfieldwouldevenout real quick. That’s if theydidn’t shoot me first, in thedark.I kept skirting around the

mountain.WaybelowIcouldsee the lights from a couple

of lanterns, and I thought Icouldseetheflickeringflameofafire.Thatmusthavebeenthe valley floor, and it gavememyfirstguidanceastotheterrain,butnotmuch.Infact,itgavemetheimpressionthegroundwhere Iwas standingwas flat, which it really wasnot.Istoppedforaminutetoseeiftherewasanythingelsedown in that valley, anyfurthersignofmyenemy,butI could still see just about

nothing except for thelanterns and the fire, all ofthemaboutamiledown.Igatheredmyselfandtook

a step forward. And in thatsplit second I realized I hadstepped into the void. I justfell clean off that mountain,straightdown,fallingthroughtheair,notovertheground.Ihit the side of the mountainwith a terrific bang, knockedthe breath right out of me.Then I rolled, crashing

through a copse of trees,trying to grab something toslowmedown.ButIwasmovingtoofast,

and gathering speed. I fellhelplessly down a steep bit,which leveled out for a fewyardsandallowedmetoslowdown. Finally I stopped onthe edge of yet anotherprecipice, which I sensedratherthansaw.AndIjustlaytheregaspingforbreathforagood twenty minutes, scared

to death I’d find myselfparalyzed.ButIwasn’t.Icouldstand.

I still hadmy rifle, althoughmy strobe light had gone.And somehow I had to getback up tomy highest point.The lower I was positioneddown thismountain, the lessmychanceofgettingrescued.Imustgoupward,andsoIsetoffagain.I climbed, slipped, and

scrambled for two more

hours, until I thought I wasmoreorlessbacktothepointwhere I’d fallen off themountain. It was 0200 now,andI’dbeengoingforalongtime, maybe six or sevenhours. The pain wasbecomingdiabolical,but inawayIwasrelievedIstillhadfeelinginthatleftleg.TheTalibanarmywasstill

following me. I heard them,louderasIclimbedhigher,asifthey’dbeenwaitingforme.

Theywere certainly a biggerforcenowthantheyhadbeentwo hours ago. I could hearthem all around, more andmore people searching forme, dogs barking, maybe ahalfmileback.By now I could hear the

river, which I knew was thesame one I’d fallen in thepreviousafternoon.Thesameriver on whose banks mythree buddies lay dead.Thirsty as Iwas, I could not

bring myself to go in searchofits ice-coldflowingwatersgushing down themountainside. That was theonly water on this earth Icould not drink, water fromthe river which flowed rightby the bodies of Mikey,Danny,andAxe.Ihadtofindadifferentone.Withnocompass,onlymy

watch, I had to revert tonavigationbythestars,whichmercifullywerenowout, the

thick high banks of cloudshaving passed over. I foundthe Big Dipper and followedthe long curveof its stars alltheway to the right angle atthe end, where the shapeangles upward, pointingdirectlyatthepolestar.That’stheNorthStar.We learned itinBUD/S.If I turned directly toward

itandheldoutmyleftarmata right angle, that way waswest,thewayIwasheaded.I

thinkatthispointImayhavebeen suffering fromhallucinations, that very oddsensation when you cannotreally tell reality from adream.Like most SEALs, I’d

experienced it before, at theback end of HellWeek. Butright now I was becomingvery light-headed. I was ahunted animal all alone inwild country, and I tried topretendmybuddieswerestill

alive.Iinventedsomekindofa formation with Dannyclimbing out on my rightflank,Axeup to the left,andMikeycallingtheshotsintherear.I pretended they were

there, I just couldn’t seethem. I think I was reachingthe end of my tether. But Ikept reminding myself ofHell Week. I kept tellingmyself this was just HellWeek all over again; I’d

suckeditupthen,andIcouldsuck it up now. Whateverthese bastards threw atme, Icould take it. I’d comethrough. I might have beenlosingmymarbles,but IwasstillaSEAL.Icouldnot,however,deny

the fact Iwas also becomingdisheartened.Forthemomentmypursuerswerequiet,andIsuddenly came upon a hugetreewithacoupleofbiglogsrestingdirectlyunderneath it.

I crawled under one of themand rested for a while, justlying there, feeling damnedsorryformyself.In my head I played over

and over again one of theverses of Toby Keith’scountry and western classic“American Soldier.” Iremember lying there quietlysinging the words to myself,thepartthatsaidImighthaveto die...“I’ll bear that crosswithhonor.”

I sang those words allnight. I can’t tell you howmuchtheymeanttome.Icantell you, it’s little things likethat, the words of a song,which can give you thestrength to go on.Nonetheless, the fact was Ihadnoideawhattodo.It occurred to me I could

just settle in right here andmake it my last stand. But Iquickly dismissed this as astrategy. In my mind I was

still committed to Axe’s lastrequest: “You stay alive,Marcus.AndtellCindyIloveher.” Helluva lot of good itwoulddoCindyAxelson if Iendedupshottopiecesontheslopes of this godforsakenmountain. And who thenwould ever know what mybuddies had done? And howhard and bravely they hadfought? No. It was all up tome. I had to get out and tellourstory.

I was comfortable andvery, very tired, but thirstdrove me on. Screw this, Idecided,andIdraggedmyselfup again and kept walking,hobbling, that is, making themostofthisapparentexpanseof flatter ground. It was justbeginningtogetlight,around0600. I knew that six hoursfrom now, the sun would beinthesouth,butitwassuchahigh sun out here, almostdirectly overhead, and it

made navigation that muchmore difficult. I rememberwondering where the hell Iwouldbenext timeIsawthefriendlypolestar.Almost immediately I

foundmyselfonatrailwhichwas going my way. I couldtell by the tight feel of theground it was pretty wellused, which meant I wouldhave to move with immensecare. Trails frequentlytraveled invariably lead to

people,andbeforelongIsawa house up ahead, maybeeven three or four. At thisdistanceitwashardtotell.My first thought was of a

tapor awell. If I had to, I’dgetintooneoftheseprimitiveresidences and get rid of theoccupants somehow. Then Icould clean up my woundsand drink. But as I grewcloser I could see therewerefour houses, very closetogether. To get their water

I’d probably have to killtwenty people, and that wastoomuchforme.Ielectedtokeep going, praying I’dstumble upon a river or amountainstreambeforemuchlonger.Well,Ididn’t.Thesunwas

up,anditwasgrowinghotter.I kept going for another fouror five hours, and thehallucinations were gettingworse. I kept wanting to askMikey what we should do.

Mymouthandthroathadjustabout seized up. I couldbarely move my parchedtongue, which was nowfirmlystucktotheroofofmymouth. Iwas afraid if I triedtomove it, it would tear theskinoff.Icannotdescribethefeeling.Ihadtogetwater.Every bone in my body

wascryingout for rest, but Iknew if I stopped, andperhaps slept, I would die. Ihad to keep going. It was

strange, but the thirst whichwas killing me was also thedriving force keeping me onthislong,desperatemarch.I recall thinking there was

no water this high up, and Iresolved to go back down toslightly lower slopes wherehopefully a stream mightcome cascading out of therocks, the way it does uphere. Right then the sunwasburning down on me, reallyhot, and way above me, the

high peaks were stillsnowcapped. Something hadto be melting, for Christ’ssake. And all that water hadtobegoingsomewhere.Ijusthadtofindit.Downintheselowerareas,

I found myself in the mostbeautiful green forest, sobeautiful Iwonderedwhetherit might be a mirage. Therewere soft ferns, deep greengrasses, and tall shadyevergreens, a scene of

verdant, lush mountaingrowth. Jesus Christ, therehad to be water down heresomewhere.I paused often, listening

intently for the sound of arunningstream.Buttherewasonly silence, that shattering,merciless silence of the highcountrywherenoroadscarveinto the landscape, where nomachines disrupt and pollutethe air. Where there are noautomobiles or tractors; no

television, radio, or evenelectricity. Nothing. Justnature, the way it’s been forthousandsofyearsuphereinthis land of truly terriblebeautyandravenoushatred.Don’t get me wrong. The

gradients were still verysteep, and Iwasworkingmyway through the forest,through the gutters of themountain.MuchofthetimeIwas just crawling, hands andknees, tryingtoeasethepain

inmyleftleg.Tobehonest,Ireally thought I might befinished now. I was full ofdespair,wondering if Imightblackout,beggingmyGodtohelpme.

Yea,thoughIwalkthroughthevalleyoftheshadowofdeath,

Iwillfearnoevil:ForThouartwithme;ThyrodandThy

stafftheycomfortme...

That’s the Twenty-third

Psalm,ofcourse.WethinkofitasthePsalmoftheSEALs.It is repeated at all of ourreligious ser-vices, allfunerals. Too many funerals.I know it by heart. And Iclung to its message, thateven indeath Iwouldnotbeabandoned.

Thoupreparestatablebeforemeinthepresenceofmineenemies:Thouanointestmyheadwithoil;mycuprunnethover.

Surelygoodnessandmercyshallfollowmeallthedaysofmylife:andIwilldwellinthehouseoftheLordforever.

It was all I had, just a

plaintive cry to a God Who

was with me, but Whosewayswere becoming uncleartome.Ihadbeensavedfrommore or less certain death,andIwasstillarmedwithmyrifle.ButIdidnotknowwhatto do anymore, except keeptrying.I left the trail and once

more went upward, headingfor high ground again. Iwaslistening,strainingtohearthesound of the water I knewmust be here somewhere. I

was on a steep escarpment,hangingon toa treewithmyright hand, leaning out awayfrom the cliff face. Would Ieverhear the tumblingsoundofamountainstream,orwasI really destined to die ofthirst up here where noAmerican would ever findme?I kept repeating the

Twenty-third Psalm in myhead,overandover,tryingtostop myself from breaking

down. I was scared, freezingcold, without shelter orproperclothes,andIjustkeptsayingit...

TheLordismyshepherd;Ishallnotwant.

Hemakethmetoliedowningreenpastures:Heleadethmebesidethestillwaters.

Herestorethmysoul:He

leadethmeinthepathsofrighteousnessforHisname’ssake...

That’showfarIwasinthe

prayerwhenIheardthewaterfor the first time. I couldnotbelieve it. There it was,unmistakable,waybelowme,a brook,maybe even a smallwaterfall. In this puremountain air, amid thisawesome silence, that was

swiftly flowing water. I hadtofindawaydowntoit.I guess I knew in that

moment, I was not going todie of thirst, whatever elsebefellme. It was just one ofthose moments that makeyour life spin right out infront of you. I thought ofhome, andmymom andmydad, and my brothers andfriends. Did any of themknow about me? And whathad happened? Maybe they

thought I was dead. MaybesomeonehadtoldthemIwasdead. And in those fleetingseconds I was overwhelmedby the sadness, theheartbreaking, crushingsadness of what this wouldmean to my mom, the ladywho always told me I wasMama’sangel.

What I did not know at thetimebutlearnedlaterwasthat

everyone thought Iwasdead.Backhome itwasnowsometime in the small hours ofWednesday morning, June29, and several hourspreviouslyatelevisionstationhad announced that a four-man SEAL reconnaissanceteamthatwasonamissioninthe northeast mountains ofAfghanistan had all beenkilled in action. My namewasamongthefour.Thestation,liketherestof

the world’s media, had alsoannounced the loss of theMH-47 helicopter witheveryone on board, eightSEALsandeightmembersofthe 160th SOAR NightStalkers.Whichmade twentyspecialforcesdead,theworstspecial ops catastrophe ever.Mymomcollapsed.By themiddle part of that

Tuesday evening, people hadbegun to arrive at the ranch,local people, our friends,

peoplewhowantedtobewithmymomanddad,justincasetherewasanythingtheycoulddo to help. They arrived intrucks, cars, SUVs, and onmotorbikes, a steady streamoffamilieswhoallsaiddamnnear the same thing:We justwanttobewithyou.Outside the door of the

main house, the front yardwas like a parking lot. Bymidnight therewere seventy-five people in attendance,

including Eric and AaronRooney, from the family thatowns one of the big EastTexas constructioncorporations; David andMichael Thornberry, localland, cattle, and oil people,with their father, Jonathon;Slim,Kevin,Kyle,andWadeAlbright, my boyhoodfriends,alotofthemAggies.TherewasJoeLord;Andy

Magee; Cheeser; Big Roon;my brother Opie and our

buddy Sean; Tray Baker;Larry Firmin; RichardTanner; Benny Wiley; thestrengthcoachatTexasTechinLubbock.Thosebig toughguyswereallingradeschoolwithme.Another of our local

construction moguls, ScottWhitehead, showed up. Henever even knew us, but hewantedtobethere.Heturnedout to be a tower of strengthfor my mom, still calls her

every day. Master SergeantDaniel,highlydecoratedU.S.Army, showed up in fulluniform,knockedonthefrontdoor, and told my dad hewantedtohelpinanywayhecould. He still shows upnearlyeveryday,justtomakesureMom’sokay.And of course there was

my twin brother, Morgan,makingallspeedtotheranch,refusingpoint-blanktoacceptthebroadcaster’s“fact”thatI

was dead. My other brotherScottiegottherefirst,butnotbeing an identical twinbrother tome, he could onlyknow what he was told, notwhat the telepathicwavelengthstoldhim.HewasalmostasdevastatedasMom.My dad hit the Internet to

check if there was furthernews or any officialannouncement from theSEAL HQ in Hawaii, myhomebase.Allhefoundwas

confirmation of the MH-47crash and four other SEALsmissing in action. However,one of the Hawaiiannewspaperswasreportingthedeath of all four of us. Atwhich moment I guess hebelieveditwastrue.Shortly after 2:00 a.m. in

Texas, the SEALs began toarrive at the ranch fromCoronado. Lieutenant JohnJones (JJ) in company withChief Chris Gothro flew in,

withBosun’sMate TegGill,one of the strongest men Iknow.LieutenantDavidDuf-field arrived from Coronadoright afterward, with JohnOwens and Jeremy Franklin.Lieutenant Josh Wynn andLieutenant NathanShoemaker came in fromVirginia Beach. Gunner’sMate First Class JustinPitman made the journeyfrom Florida. I should stressthatnoneofthiswasplanned

or orchestrated. They justcame, strangers minglingwith friends, united, Isuppose, in grief for a lostbrother.Andtheretogreetthemall

with my mom and dad wasthe mighty figure of BillyShelton. No one had everseen him in tears before. It’soften that way with thetoughestofmen.Chief Gothro immediately

told my parents he did not

give a damn what the mediasaid. There was noconfirmation that any of theoriginalfour-manSEALteamwas dead, although it washighly likely theyhadnotallsurvived. He knew aboutMikey’s last call: My guysaredyingouthere.But therewasnocertaintyaboutanyofit.HetoldMomtohavefaith,told her no SEAL was deaduntiltherewasabody.And then Morgan arrived

and told themall straight-outI was alive, and that was anendtoit.Hesaidhe’dbeenincontactwithme, had feltmypresence. He thought I mayhave been injured, but I wasnot dead. “Goddamn it, Iknowhe’snotdead,”hesaid.“Ifhewas,I’dknow.”By now there were 150

people in the front yard, andthe local sheriffs hadsomehow cordoned off theentire ranch. No one could

enter the property withoutpassing through theseguardians. Therewere policecruisers parked along thewidedirtroadwhichleadstothe house. Some of theofficers were inside theperimeter fences, praying, atshort services conducted bytwonavalchaplainswhohadarrivedfromCoronadointhesmall hours. Just in case, Iguess.Sometimebefore0500my

momansweredthefrontdoortoseeSEALlieutenantAndyHaffele, with his wife,Kristina, standing there. “Wewanted to help, any way wecould,” said Andy. “We justgotherefromHawaii.”“Hawaii!” said Mom.

“That’s halfway around theworld.”“Marcus once saved my

life,”saidAndy.“Ihadtobehere. I know there’s stillhope.”

Ican’texplainwhatallthismeant toMom. She hoveredsomewherebetweenhopeandtotal despair. But she’salways said she’ll neverforget Andy and the longjourneyheandKristinamadetobewithourfamily.Itbegan, Isuppose, justas

neighborlyvisits,interspersedwith more professionalarrivals fromSPECWARCOM. But itwould turn into a vigil. No

one went home, they juststayed, day after day, nightafter night, all night, prayingtoGodthatIwasstillalive.When I think about it,

thesemanymonths later, I’mkind of overwhelmed: thatmuch love, thatmuchcaring,that much kindness to myparents.And I thinkabout it,allofit,everyday,andIstillhave no idea how to expressmy gratitude, except to say Iknowthedoorofourhomeis

opentoeachandeveryoneofthem, no matter the hour orthe circumstance, for all thedaysofmylife.

Meantime, back up thegoddamned mountain,unaware of the mightygathering still building athome, I was listening to thedistant flow of water.Hanging on to the tree,leaning out, wondering how

to get down there withoutkillingmyself in theprocess.That’s when the Talibansnipershotme.Ifeltthestingofthebullet

rippingintothefleshhighupat the back of my left thigh.Christ, that hurt.Really hurt.And the impact of the AKbullet spun me around,knocked me into a completebackflipcleanoffthefuckingmountain. When I hit, I hithard, but facedown, which I

guess didn’t do my bustednosealotofgoodandopenedupthegashonmyforehead.Then I started rolling,

sliding very fast down thesteepgradient,unabletogetagrip, which may have beenjust as well. Because theseTaliban bastards reallyopeneduponme.Therewerebullets flying everywhere,pinging and zinging into theground all around me,ricocheting off the rocks,

slammingintothetreetrunks.Jesus Christ, this wasMurphy’s Ridge all overagain.Butit’salothardertohita

movingtargetthanyoumightthink,especiallyonetravelingas quick as I was, out ofcontrol,racingbetweenrocksand trees. And they keptmissing. Finally I came to astop in a flatter area, and ofcourse my pursuers had notmade the downward journey

nearly as fast as I had. I hadhad a decent start on them,and to my amazement I hadcometo littleharm. Iguess Imissed all the obstacles, andthe earth beneath me wassoftish and loose packed.Also, I still had my rifle,which to my mind was abiggermiraclethanOurLadyofLourdes.Ibegantocrawl,goingfor

coverbehindatreeandtryingtoassesstheenemypositions.

I could see one guy, thenearestofthem,juststandingandpointingatme,yellingattwo others, who were out totheright.BeforeIcouldmakeany kind of a decision, theybothopenedfireonmeagain.Ididnothavemuchofashotat them, because they werestill maybe a hundred yardsuptheclifffaceandthetreeswereshieldingthem.Trouble was, I could not

stand properly, and aiming

the riflewas a problem, so Idecided to make a break forit, on my hands and knees,and wait for a better spot totake themout. I crawled,notfast but steady, over terribleterrain, full of little hills anddipping gullies. It couldhardly have been bettercountryforafugitive,whichInowwas, except I could notwalk down the gullies, and Isureashellcouldn’tgetdownthose steep slopes on all

fours,nothavingbeenbornafreakin’snowleopard.So every time I reached

oneofthosesmallprecipices,I just threw myself straightoff and hoped for areasonablelanding.Ididalotof rolling, and itwas a long,bumpy, and painful ride.Butit beat thehell out of gettingshotuptheassagain.Ikeptitupforaboutforty-

five minutes, crawling,rolling, and falling, staying

out in front of my pursuers,gaining ground on thedownward falls, losing itagain as they ran up on me.AndnowhereonthatsnakingroutedownthehillsdidIfindadecentspottogetridofthegunmen who were huntingme down. The bullets keptflying, and I kept moving.But finally I hit some flatterground and all around mewerebigrocks.IdecidedthiswouldbeMarcus’slaststand.

Or theirs. One way oranother. Although I did notknow exactly how many ofthemtherewere.I remember thinking,Now,

how the hell would Morganget out of this? What wouldhe do? And it gave mestrength,themassivestrengthof my seven-minutes-olderbrother. Idecided that in thisposition,he’dwaittillhesawthe whites of their eyes. Nomistakes.SoIcrawledbehind

this big rock, checked mymagazine,thenflippedoffthesafety catch ofmyMark 12.Andwaited.I heard them coming but

notuntiltheywerevery,veryclose. They were nottogether, which wasunnerving, because I couldnotaccountforthemall.ButIcouldseethespotternow,theguy who was literallytrackingmedown,not tryingto shoot me; he didn’t even

carry a rifle. His job was tolocate me and then call theothers to bring fire down onme.Cheekylittleprick.But it’s the Afghan way.

This Sharmak was anexcellent delegator. One guycarries thewater, another theextra ammunition, and themarksmen don’t have tospendtheirtimesearchingtheterrain.Theyhaveaspecialisttodothis.This particular specialist

wasnothavingmuch troubletracking me, probablybecause I was leaving trackslike a wounded grizzly,scuffing up the ground andbleedinglikeastuckpigfromboth my forehead and mythighallovertheshale.I moved carefully on my

knees around the rock, nowwithmyrifleraised,andtherewas the Taliban spotterstanding right in frontofme,not ten feet away — but he

hadnotspottedme.In that instant I fired,

dropped him dead in histracks. And the force of thebullet knocked himbackward, with bloodpumping out of his chest. Ithink I got him straightthroughtheheart,andIheardhim hit the deck. Butsimultaneously right behindme I heard the soft footstepsof the chasing gunmen. Iturnedaroundandtherewere

twoofthem,justabovemeinthe rocks. Searching. I hadonly split seconds to work,because they were both onme,AKsraised.Fuck!Icouldgetone,butnotboth.I went for one of my

grenades, ripped out the pin,andthrewitstraightatthem.Ithink they got a couple ofshotsawaybutnot in timetogetmebeforeIplungedbackbehind the rock.Thiswasupclose and personal, not five

feet between us. I was justimploring theLord to letmygrenade explode, and it did,blasting the two Afghans tosmithereens, splitting rocks,sending up a sandstorm ofearth and sand. Me? I justkeptmyheadwelldownandhopedtoChristtherewerenomoreofthem.It was around this time I

begantoblackoutalittle,notfromtheblastofthegrenade,just a general blacking-out

situation. Everything wascatchingupwithme,andasIlay there waiting for thedebris to stop falling out ofthesky,Istartedtofeelprettyrotten, dizzy, unsure ofmyself, shaky. I think IhungarounddowntherebehindtherockforafewminutesbeforeIventuredout, still crawling,trying to see if the otherTalibanguyswerefollowing.Buttherewasnothing.Obviously, I had to get

awayfromhere,because thatexplosion from the grenademust have attracted someattention somewhere. I satthereforafewmoreminutes,marveling at the silence, andpondered theworld.And theconclusion I reached was Ineeded to learn to fight allover again, not like a NavySEAL, but like a secretiveAfghan mountain man. Atleast, if I planned to stayalive.

The last hour had taughtme a few major lessons, themain one being I must gainthe ability to fight alone, indirectcontrasttoeverythingIhadeverbeentaught.SEALs,as you now know, fight inteams, only in teams, eachman relying entirely on theothers todoexactly the rightthing. That’s how we do it,fighting as one in a team offour or maybe ten or eventwenty, but always as one

unit, onemind, one strategy.We are, instinctively, alwaysbacking up, always covering,always moving to plug thegap or pave the way. That’swhatmakesusgreat.But up here, being hunted

down, all alone — this wasentirely another game. Andfirst I had to learn to movelike an Afghan mountainman,stealthily,stayingoutofsight, making no sound,causing no disturbance. Of

course, we had learned allthat back in California, butnot on the heightened scalewhich was required up here,against a native enemy evenmore stealthy, quiet, andunseenthanweare.Crawling around on all

fourswasnotgoingtohelp.Ihad to concentrate, workmyself into the correctmilitary position before Ipouncedonmyprey.Ihadtoconserve ammunition, make

certain I was going to killbefore Icarriedout thedeed,and above all try to stay outofsightandnotbetraymyselfby lumberingaround like thewoundedgrizzlyIwas.IresolvedthatwhenInext

had to strike out against myenemy, it would be with ourcustomary deadly force,always ensuring I held theelementofsurprise.Thosearethetacticsthatinvariablywinconflictsforthetrulyruthless

underdog like themujahideen, al Qaeda, and,fromnowon,me.I dragged myself back up

onto my hands and knees. Ilistened carefully, like aneager hounddog, turningmyhead sideways to the wind.Nothing.Notasound.Maybethey’d given up or perhapsthey considered I wasprobably dead. Either way Iwasoutofthere.With my rifle jammed in

mybeltIbeganmovingwest,toward thewater. Itwas stillway below me, and since Iwas trying to avoid fallingdown this freakin’ mountainagain,Iwouldzigzagmywaydown the steep slopes until Ifoundit.I’ve long lost count of the

distance, but it felt like threeorfourmiles,crawlingalong,resting, praying, hoping,tryingmybest, just likeHellWeek.I thinkIdidblackout

twoorthreetimes.ButfinallyI heard thewaterfall. I heardit hissing in the afternoonsun,tumblingoffahighrockand into a deep pool beforerunning down to the lowerlevelsofthestream.SomehowIarrivedrighton

the top of that waterfall,maybe twenty feet above theflow. It really was beautiful,thesunglintingonthesurfaceandall around it the treesonthemountain,highabove the

valley, on the edge ofwhichwas an Afghan village, way,waybelowme,maybeamile.For the first time for as

longasIcouldremember,noone was trying to hunt medown.Icouldhearnothing,Icould see no one, everythingseemed tranquil. I’d plainlytaken out the scouting party,because if there’d beenanyone sneaking alongbehindme, I’dhaveheard it,believe me. I might not yet

move like a tribesman, but Ihaddeveloped thehearingofone.I’d beenwithoutwater for

solong,Ifiguredanotherhalfa minute would not makemuch difference, and so Ipulled out my rifle scope totake a look down at thevillage from this excellentvantagepoint.Iforcedmyselfup,hangingontoarockwithmy lefthand, rightabove thewater.

The view from there wasoutstanding, and I could seethe village, its upper housesclinging to the mountain,built right into the rock faceby guyswhowere obviouslycraftsmen. It was likesomething out of a child’spicturebook,likethehomeofthe wicked witch orsomething, gingerbreadhouses on a big rock-candymountain.I put the scope away, and,

notdaringtolookatthestateof my left leg, I took a stepforward, trying to finda spotwhere I could begin to slidedown onmy backside to thewaiting ice-cold pool belowme.That’swhen that left legfinally gave way. Perhaps itwas the newly shot part, ormaybetheblown-upparts,orjust the tendons which couldtake nomore strain.But thatleg buckled and flung meforward,reallybadly.

I twistedandfellheadlongdownward,slidingoverloose,smooth ground, shale andsand, gaining speed rapidly,tumblingover,feetintheair,sometimesdiggingthetoesofmy boots in, fighting for afoothold, any hold would befine. I rocketed straight pastthatlowerpoolandkeptrighton going. I can’t evenimagine the speed I wasgoing,butIcouldseeitwasahell of a long way to the

bottom,andIcouldnotstop.Up ahead of me was a

sapling,andIlungedatitasIshot headlong past, trying togetaholdofanythingtoslowme down.My fingers closedon its thin,whippy trunkandItriedtopullmyselfup,butIwasjustgoingtoofast,anditflipped me right over andlandedmeonmyback.Forafleeting moment, I thought Iwasdead.Didn’t make much

differencewhetherIwasdeador alive, my battered bodyjust kept going for almost athousand feet, then themountain kind of swervedand I went with it, tumblingand sliding for another fivehundred feet to what wasmore or less the bottom ofthatescarpment.Ilandedinaheap, feeling like I’d brokeneveryboneinmybody.Iwasout of breath, blood wastrickling downmy face from

thecutonmyforehead,andIgenerally felt just about assorry for myself as it’spossibletobe.You’re probably not going

to believe this, but my riflewas again right beside me,and once more it was thethirst that saved me. Insteadof just lying there, abloodstained heap in the hotafternoon sun, I thought ofthat water, now right aboveme.Atleastithadbeenwhen

I’d flashed past it a fewmomentsago.IknewIhadtoclimbback

up thereordie.So Igrabbedmy rifle and began the longcrawltothedrinkthatshouldrestore my life. I scrambledand slipped over the looseground, and I am certain bynowyouhavecomprehendedwhat a truly horriblemountaineer I am. Icanonlyplead the gradient. It wasunbelievably steep, not quite

sheerbutalmost.Agreatrockclimberwouldprobablyhavetaken full gear in order toscaleit.Personally I’m not sure

which I was worse at, goinguporfallingdown.Butitwastwo hundred feet to thatwater. It took me two morehours. I blacked out twice,and when I reached it, Iplunged my head in, just tofreeupmytongueandthroat.Then I washed my burning

face, cleaned the gash justbelow my hairline, and triedto get the blood to wash offthebackofmyleg.Icouldn’ttell whether the sniper’sbulletwasstilllodgedinthereornot.AllIknewwasIneededto

drink a lot ofwater and thentrytoattractattentionandgettoahospital.OtherwiseIdidnot think I would survive. Idecided to move up a fewyardstowherethewaterwas

lapping off a rock andsplashing intoa smallpool. Ilowered my head and drank.It was the sweetest water Ihadevertasted.AndIwasjustgettinginto

this real luxury when Inoticedtherewerethreeguysstanding rightaboveme, twoof them with AKs. For amoment I thought I washallucinating. I stoppeddrinking. And I remember Iwas talking to myself, just

mumbling really, flickingbetweenrealityanddream.ThenIrealizedoneofthem

was yelling at me, shoutingsomething Iwas supposed tounderstand, but in mybefuddledstateIjustcouldn’tget it. I was like a badlywounded animal, ready tofight totheend.Iunderstoodnothing, not the hand offriendship,not thepossibilityof human decency. The onlysensationIcouldreacttowas

threat.And everythingwas athreat. Cornered. Scared.Suddenly afraid of dying.Readytolashoutatanything.Thatwasme.TheonlythoughtIhadwas

I’ll kill these guys...just givememy chance. I rolled awayfrom the pool and held myrifleinmyget-readyposition.Then I began to crawl awayover the rocks,bracedall thetime for a volley of AKbullets to rip into me and

finallyfinishmeoff.But I “reasoned” I had no

choice. I would have to riskgetting killed by these guysbefore I could hit back.Dimly I recall that firstcharacterwasstillyellinghishead off, literally screamingat me. Whatever the hell hewassayingseemedirrelevant.But he sounded like theoutraged father of one of themany Afghani tribesmenwho’d been removed from

the battlefield by the menseconded to SEALTeam10.Probablybyme.AsImademyway,slowly,

painfully, almost blindly tothe bigger rocks up ahead, itdid cross my mind that ifthese guys really wanted toshoot me they could havedone it by now. In fact, theycould have done it any timetheywanted.But theTalibanhad been hunting me downfortoolong.AllIwantedwas

coverandafairpositionfromwhichtostrikeback.I flicked off the safety

catch on my rifle and keptcrawling, straight intoadeadend surrounded by hugeboulders on all sides. Thiswas it. Marcus’s last stand.And, slowly, I half rolled,halfturnedaroundtofacemyenemy once again. Theproblem was, right here myenemy had kind of fannedout.Thethreeguyssomehow

hadgotten abovemeandyetsurrounded me, one to theleft,oneto theright,andonedeadahead.Christ,Ithought.I’ve only one hand grenadeleft. This is trouble. Bigtrouble.Then I noticed there was

evenbiggertroubleoutintheclearing. There were threemoreguysmovinguponme,all armed with AKs slungover their backs. And theytoo fannedout and somehow

climbed higher, but theypositioned themselves behindme.Noonefired.Iraisedmyrifle and drew down on theone who was doing thescreaming. I tried to draw abead on him, but he justmovedswiftlybehindahugetree, which meant I wasaimingatnothing.Iswungaroundandtriedto

locate the others, but theblood frommy foreheadwasstill trickling down my face,

obscuringmy vision.My legwasturningtheshalebeneathme toadarkred. Ino longerknew what the hell washappening except that I wasinsomekindofafight,whichIwasveryobviouslyabouttolose. The second three guysweremovingdown the rocksinrearofme,quickly,easily,rightontopofme.The guy behind the tree

wasnowbackoutintheopenand still yelling at me,

standing there with his riflelowered, I guesseddemandingmysurrender.ButIcouldn’tevendothat.I justknew that I desperatelyneededhelporIwasgoingtobleed to death. Then I didwhatIneverthoughtIwoulddointhewholeofmycareer.I loweredmy rifle.Defeated.My whole world wasspinning out of control inmore ways than one. I wasfightingtoavoidblackingout

again.I just lay there in the dirt,

blood seeping out, stillclutching my rifle, still, in asense, defiant, but unable tofight.Ihadnomorestrength,I was on the edge ofconsciousness, and I wasstrugglingtounderstandwhatthe screaming tribesman wastryingtocommunicate.“American!Okay!Okay!”FinallyIgotit.Theseguys

meant me no harm. They’d

juststumbledontome.Theyweren’t chasing me and hadno intention of killingme. Itwas a situation I wasrelatively unused to this pastcoupleofdays.Butthevisionof yesterday’s goatherds wasstillstarkinmymind.“Taliban?” I asked. “You

Taliban?”“NoTaliban!” shouted the

man who I assumed was theleader.Andherantheedgeofhis hand across his throat,

saying once more, “NoTaliban!”From where I was lying,

this looked like a signal thatmeant“DeathtotheTaliban.”Certainly he was notindicating thathewasoneofthem or even liked them. Itried to remember whetherthe goatherds had said, “NoTaliban.” And I was nearlycertaintheyhadnot.Thiswasplainlydifferent.But I was still confused

and dizzy, uncertain, and Ikept on asking, “Taliban?Taliban?”“No!No!NoTaliban!”I guess if I’d been at my

peak, I’d have accepted thisseveral minutes ago, beforeMarcus’s Last Stand and allthat.ButIwaslosingitnow.I saw the leader walk up tome. He smiled and said hisname was Sarawa. He wasthe village doctor, hesomehow communicated in

rough English. He wasthirtyish, bearded, tall for anAfghan,withanintellectual’shigh forehead. I recallthinkinghedidn’t lookmuchlike a doctor to me, notwandering around on theedge of this mountain like anativetracker.But there was something

about him. He didn’t looklike a member of al Qaedaeither. By now I’d seen awholelotofTalibanwarriors,

and he looked nothing likeany of them. There was noarrogance, no hatred in hiseyes. If he hadn’t beendressed like a leading manfromMurder up the KhyberPass, he could have been anAmerican college professoronhiswaytoapeacerally.Helifteduphisloosewhite

shirt to show me he had noconcealedgunorknife.Thenhe spread his arms wide infront of him, I guess the

international sign for “I amhereinfriendship.”Ihadnochoicebuttotrust

him. “I need help,” I said,uttering a phrasewhichmusthave shed an especiallyglaring light on the obvious.“Hospital—water.”“Hah?”saidSarawa.“Water,” I repeated. “I

musthavewater.”“Hah?”saidSarawa.“Water,” I yelled, pointing

backtowardthepool.

“Ah!” he exclaimed.“Hydrate!”I could not help laughing,

weakly. Hydrate! Who thehell was this crazy-assedtribesman who knew onlylongwords?He called over a kid who

had a bottle. I think hewentand filled itwith freshwaterfrom the stream. He broughtit back to me and I keptchugging away, gluggingdown the water, two good-

sizedbottlesofit.“Hydrate,”saidSarawa.“Yougot that right,pal,” I

confirmed.Atwhichpointwebeganto

converse in that no-man’s-land of language, the onewherenooneknowshardlyaword of the other’s nativetongue.“I’vebeenshot,”Itoldhim

and showed him my wound,which had never reallystoppedbleeding.

Heexamineditandnoddedsternly, as if he understoodthe clear truth that I badlyneeded medical attention.Heaven knows how severelymyleftlegwouldbeinfected.All the dirt, mud, and shaleI’d inflicted on it couldn’thavedoneitmuchgood.I told him I was a doctor

too, thinking it might helpsomehow.Iknewtherewouldlikely be savage retributionfor a non-Taliban village

sheltering an Americanfugitive, and I was prayingtheywouldnot just leavemehere.Iwished to hell I still had

some of my medical gearwith me, but that was lost alifetime ago on themountainwithMikey,Axe,andDanny.Anyway, Sarawa seemed tobelieve I was a doctor,although he seemed equallycertain he knew where I’dcomefrom.Withasuccession

of signals and a very fewwords,heconveyedtomeheknew all about the firefightonthemountain.Andhekeptpointing directly atme, as ifto confirm he absolutelyknew I had been one of thecombatants.The tribal bush telegraph

up here must be fantastic.They have no means of fastcommunications, no phones,cars, nothing. Just oneanother,goatherdswandering

themountainside, passing onthe necessary information.And here was this Sarawa,who had presumably beenmiles away from the action,informingmeaboutthebattlewhich I had helped fight thepreviousday.He patted me reassuringly

on the shoulder and thenretreated into a kind ofconference with his fellowvillagerswhileItalkedtothekid.

He had only one question,and he had a lot of troubleasking it, trying to make anAmerican understand. In theend I got his drift:Were youreally the lunatic who felldownthemountain?Veryfar.Very fast.Very funny.Allmyvillage saw you do it. Verybigjoke.Ha!Ha!Ha!Jesus Christ! I mean,

Muhammad! Or Allah!Whoever’s in charge aroundhere.Thiskidreallywasfrom

agingerbreadvillage.Sarawa returned. They

gave me some more water.And again he checked overmy wound. Didn’t look onebit happy. But there weremore important things todiscuss than the state of mybackside.Ididnot,ofcourse,realize

this.But thedecisionSarawaand his friends were makingcarried huge responsibilitiesand, possibly, momentous

consequences: They had todecidewhethertotakemein.Whether to help me, shelterme, and feed me. Mostimportant,whether to defendme.These people were

Pashtuns.Andthemajorityofthe warriors who foughtunder the banner of theformer rulersofAfghanistan,plus a vast number of binLaden’s al Qaeda fighters,were members of this strict

and ancient tribe, almostthirteenmillionofwhomliverighthereinAfghanistan.That steel core of the

Talibansect,thatironresolveand deadly hatred of theinfidel, is unwaveringlyPashtun. The backbone ofthat vicious little tribal armyis Pashtun. The Talibanmoves around thesemountains only by theunspoken approval and tacitpermission of the Pashtuns,

who grant them food andshelter. The twocommunities, the warriorsand the general mountainpopulace, are irrevocablybound together. Themujahideen fighting theRussians were principallyPashtun.Nevermind “NoTaliban.”

Iknewthebackground.Theseguys might be peace-lovingvillagers on the surface, butthe tribal blood ties were

wrought in iron. Faced withan angry Taliban armydemanding the head of anarmed American serviceman,you would essentially notgive a secondhand billy goatfortheAmerican’schances.And yet there was

something I did not know.We’re talking lokhaywarkawal — an unbendingsection of historic Pashtun-walaitriballawaslaidoutinthe hospitality section. The

literal translation of lokhaywarkawal is “giving of apot.”I did mention this briefly

when I outlined the Pashtuntribal background muchearlier. But this is the partwhereitreallycounts.Thisiswhere the ole lokhaywarkawal gets shoved intocontext.Righthere,whileI’mlyingon thegroundbleedingto death, and the tribesmenarediscussingmyfate.

ToanAmerican,especiallyoneinsuchterribleshapeasIwas, the concept of helpingout a wounded, possiblydying man is pretty routine.You do what you can. Forthese guys, the conceptcarried many onerousresponsibilities. Lokhaymeans not only providingcare and shelter, itmeans anunbreakable commitment todefend that wounded man tothe death. And not just the

death of the principaltribesman or family whomade the originalcommitmentforthegivingofa pot. It means the wholedamnedvillage.Lokhay means the

populationofthatvillagewillfight to the last man, honor-bound to protect theindividual they have invitedin to share their hospitality.And this is not something tohave a chitchat about when

things get rough. It’s not apointofrenegotiation.Thisisstrictlynonnegotiable.Sowhile Iwas lying there

thinking these cruel heartlessbastards were just going toleavemeouthereand letmedie, they were in factdiscussing a much bigger,life-or-death issue. And thelives they were concernedwith had nothing to do withmine.ThiswasLokhay, boy,spelled with a big L. No

bullshit.For all I knew, they were

deciding whether to put abullet through my head andsave everyone a lot oftrouble. But by now I wasdrifting off, half asleep, halfalert, and the distinctionwasminimal. Sarawa was stilltalking.Ofcourseitoccurredtomethatthesemenmightbejust like the goatherds, loyalspies for the Taliban. Theycould easily take me in and

then send their fastestmessengers to inform thelocal commanders they hadme,andIcouldbepickedupand executed anytime theywanted.Iwishedferventlythiswas

not the case. And though Ithought I understood Sarawawas a nice guy, I couldn’tknowthetruthabouthim;noone could, not under thosecircumstances.Anyway,therewasnothingmuchIcoulddo

about it, exceptmaybe shootthem all, and a fat chance Iwould have had of gettingaway.Icouldhardlymove.So I just waited for the

verdict.Ikeptthinking,Whatwould Morgan do? Is thereany way out of this? What’sthecorrectmilitarydecision?Do I have any options? Notso you’d notice. My bestchance of living was to tryand befriend Sarawa, trysomehowtoingratiatemyself

withhisfriends.Disjointed thoughts were

blundering throughmymind.Whataboutallthedeaththerehadbeeninthesemountains?What if these guys had lostsons, brothers, fathers, orcousins in the battle againsttheSEALs?Howwouldtheyfeel about me, an armed,uniformed member of theU.S.military,stagingvariousgunbattles,blowingAfghanisup on their very own tribal

lands?Iobviouslydidn’thaveany

answers, nor could I knowwhat theywere thinking.Butit couldn’t be good. I knewthat.Sarawa came back. He

sharply ordered two men toraise me up, one of themunder each of my arms togiveme support, and lift meoff the ground. He orderedanothertoliftmylegs.As they approached me, I

tookoutmy lastgrenadeandcarefully pulled the pin,which placed that littlebastardrightinfiringmode.Iheld it in one hand, claspedacross my chest. Thetribesmen did not seem tonotice. All I knew was, iftheytriedtoexecutemeortieme up or invite theirmurderousTalibancolleaguesin, I would drop that thingrightonthefloorandtakethewhole fucking lot of them

withme.They lifted me up. And

slowly we began to headdowntothevillage.Ididnotunderstand,not then,but thiswasthebiggestbreakI’dhadsincetheBattleforMurphy’sRidge first started. Thesefriendly Pashtun tribesmenhad decided to grant melokhay.Theywerecommittedto defend me against theTaliban until there was nooneleftalive.

10

AnAmericanFugitiveCorneredbytheTaliban

ThenIfoundapieceofflintyrockonthefloorofthecave,and,lyingpainfullyonmy

leftside,IspenttwohourscarvingthewordsoftheCountofMonteCristoontothewallofmyprison:Godwillgivemejustice.

Sarawa and his friends didnot attempt to take awaymyrifle.Yet.Icarrieditwithmeinonehandwhiletheyslowlyliftedmedownthesteeptrackto the village of Sabray, adistance of around two

hundred yards and home toperhaps three hundredhouseholds.InmyotherhandIclutchedmylastgrenade,nopin, ready to take us all toeternity. It was a little after1600, and the sun was stillhigh.We passed a couple of

local groups, and both ofthem reacted with obviousastonishment at the sight ofanarmed,woundedAmericanholding his rifle but being

givenhelp.Theystoppedandthey stared, and both times Ilockedeyeswithoneofthem.Eachtimehestaredback,thathardglareofpurehatredwithwhich I was so familiar. Itwas always the same, a gazeof undisguised loathing fortheinfidel.They were, of course,

confused. Which was notaltogether surprising. Hell, Iwas confused. Why wasSarawa helping me? The

worrying part was Sarawaseemed to be swimmingagainst the tide. This was avillagefullofIslamicfanaticswhowantedonly toseedeadAmericans. Up here in theselawlessmountains,theplantosmash New York’s TwinTowershadbeenborn.At least, those were my

thoughts. But Iunderestimated the essentialhuman decency of the seniormembers of this Pashtun

tribe. Sarawa and manyothers were good guys whowished me no harm, andneither would they permitanyone else to do me harm.Nor would they kowtow tothebloodlustofsomeoftheirfellow mountain men. Theywanted only to help me. Iwould grow to understandthat.The hostile,wary looks of

the goatherds on the trailweretypical,buttheydidnot

reflect the views of themajority. We continued ondown to the top house inSabray. I say top housebecause the houses were setoneabovetheotherrightintothe almost sheer face of themountain. Imean, you couldstep off the trail and walkstraightontotheflatroofofahouse.Youhadtodescendfarther

to reach the frontdoor.Onceinside,youweremoreorless

underground in a kind ofman-made cave of mud androcks with a plain dirt floor,obviouslybuilt bycraftsmen.There were rock stairs goingdown toanother level,wheretherewasanotherroom.This,however, was an area bestavoided, since the villagerswere likely to keep goats inthere. And where there aregoats, there isgoatdung.Allover the place. The smell isfiendish, and it pervades the

entiredwelling.We arrived outside this

house,andI tried to let themknow I was still dying ofthirst. I remember Sarawahanded me a garden hosewith a great flourish, as if ithadbeenacrystalgoblet,andturnedonatapsomewhere.Ireplaced the pin in my handgrenade, a process deeplyfrowned upon by the U.S.military,andstuckitsafelyinthebattleharnessIstillwore.

Now I had two free handsagain,andthewaterwasverycold and tasted fabulous.Then they produced a cotfrom the house and set it upfor me, four of them raisingme up and lowering mecarefully onto it under thesupervisionofSarawa.AbovemeIcouldseeU.S.

warplanes screaming throughthe high mountain sky.Everyone except me waspointing up at them. I just

stared kind of wistfully,wonderingwhenthehelltheywouldcomeforme.By now the entire

population of Sabray wassurroundingmycot,watchingas Sarawa went to work. Hecarefully cleaned thewoundstomy leg, confirmingwhat Ihad suspected, that therewasno bullet lodged in my leftthigh. Indeed, he located thebullet’s exit hole. Christ! I’dbeen bleeding from both

places. No wonder I didn’thavemuchbloodleft.Then he took out a small

surgicalinstrumentandbeganpullingthemetalshrapneloutof my leg. He spent a longtime getting rid of everyshardfromthatRPGhecouldfind. That, by the way, hurtlike hell. But he kept going.And then he cleaned it allagain, thoroughly, appliedantiseptic cream, and boundmeup.

I just lay there, totallyexhausted. Pretty soon, Iguess around six o’clock,they came back and movedme inside, four of themcarrying the cot. They gaveme clean clothes, which wasthe best thing since my firstdrink of water. They weresoftAfghangarments,alooseshirt and those baggy pants,unbelievably comfortable. Ifelt damn near human.Actually, they gave me two

sets of clothes, identical,white for daytime, black fornight.The only hitch came as I

changed from my batteredU.S. battle dress, really onlymycammytop,intothetribalgarments. My shoulder stillachedlikethedevil,andtheyhad to give me a hand. Andwhentheysawthesomewhatextravagant tattoo I have onmyback—ahalfofaSEALTrident(Morganhastheother

half) — they damn nearfainted.They thought it was some

kind of warlike tribalemblem, which I suppose itwas.AndthentheythoughtImight be the devil incarnate,andIhadtokeeptellingthemI was a doctor, anything tostop them believing I was aspecialwarrior fromtheU.S.Armed Forces, a man whosported a symbol of apowerfulvoodooonhisback,

which was surely evil andwould definitely, one day,wipe themallout.Happily, Imanaged to win thatargument, but theywere realpleased that I now had myshirt on, and they pulleddownmysleeve tocovermyupperarm,whereapartofthedesignwasvisible.By the time they began to

leave, theyweresmiling,andI had become, for the rest ofmy stay in the village and I

suppose far beyond, Dr.Marcus.Myfinalrequestwastobe

taken out to the communalheadforapee,andtheytookme but made me adopt thetraditional Afghan bodyposition for this operation. Iremember falling overbackward, which made themalllaughhelplessly.However, they carried me

back safely to my cot, stillgiggling, and I suddenly

realizedwithhorror theyhadremoved my rifle. Idemanded to know where itwas, and the tribesmen triedhardtoexplaintheyneededtotake it away, lokhay or nolokhay,becauseiftheTalibanever did get into this room,theywouldnotbelieve Iwasawoundeddoctor,notwithasniper rifle like that. Lokhayornolokhay.At that stage I did not

understandthem,andanyhow

there was little I could doaboutit.SoIjustcastitfrommymind. And I lay there inthe fading light when theyfinallyleftmeentirelyalone.I had had water and I’d

eaten some of that flat breadthey bake in the East. Theyhadofferedmeadish fullofwarmgoat’smilk intowhichIwassupposed todip it.Butthe combination was withoutdoubt the worst-tastingsensation I’d ever had. I

damn near threw up, and Iasked them to take the milkaway, telling them it wasagainst my religion! I thustackledthathard,awfulbreadbonedry.But Iwasgrateful,andItriedtomakethatclear.Hell, I could have been deadup the mountain. But forthem,Iwouldhavebeen.AndnowonceagainIwas

alone. I stared around me,looking for the first time atmy surroundings. A thick,

loose-woven Afghan carpetcoveredthefloor,andcoloredcushionswere placed againstthe wall. There were carvedhanging ornaments but nopictures. There was glass inthe windows, and below thishouse I could see others hadthatched roofs. They weredefinitely skilled builders uphere, but I was uncertainwheretherawmaterialscamefrom, the rocks, glass, andstraw.

Inside my room there wasone very large, lockedwooden box. In there, Ilearned,werethemostvaluedpossessionsof everymemberof the household. And therewas not much. Trust me onthat. But what they had theyseemed prepared to sharewithme.I’dbeengivena coupleof

blankets, and as the nightdrew in, I discovered why.The temperature plummeted

from the searing heat of thedaystraightintothethirties.Inoticedtherewasalsoan

old iron woodstove in onecorner of the room, where Ilaterlearnedtheybakedbreadevery day. The system uphere is for the two mainhouses, like this one, to dothe baking for everyone, andthebreadisthendistributed.Ilaytherewonderingwhereallthesmokewentwhentheylitthe stove, since therewas no

chimney. But that was adiscovery yet to come.Answer:nowhere.Thatwoodsmoke stayed right in mybedroom.I drifted into a half sleep,

mywoundsstillthrobbingbutthankfully not becominginfected. Hooyah, Sarawa!Right?The door to my new

residencewasquite thickbutill fitting. It would keep outthewindandtherain,butthe

guys had to give it amightyshove to open it. I’d alreadynoticed that, and I knew noone could enter the roomwithoutwakingme, so I hadnoneedtosleeponhighalert.What happened next,

however, took me bysurprise. The door gave wayto a kick that shattered thesilence. I openedmy eyes intime to see eight armedTalibanfighterscomebarginginto the room. The first one

came straight over tomy cotand slapped me across theface with all his force. Thatreally pissed me off, and hewas a very lucky boy that Icould not move and waseffectivelyaprisoner. Ifhe’deven thought about puttinghis hands onmewhen Iwasfit, I’d have ripped hisfuckingheadoff.Littleprick.I knew they were Taliban

because of their appearance,very clean cut, manicured

beards, clean teeth, hands,and clothes. They were wellfed and could speak brokenEnglish. None of them wasvery big, maybe around fivefeet eight on average, andtheyallworethoseoldSovietleather belts, the ones withthe red star in the middle ofthe buckle. They woreAfghanclothes,buteachonehad a different-colored vest.EverymancarriedaknifeandaRussianpistol jammed into

his belt. Everything made inMoscow.Everythingstolen.Therewas nothing I could

get my hands on to defendmyself. I had no rifle, nogrenade, just my ownpersonal badge of courage,theLoneStarofTexasonmyarmandchest.Ineededsomeofthatcouragebecausethesebastardslaidintome,kickingmy left legandpunchingmyface andupper body, beatingmetohell.

Ididn’tgivethatmuchofashit. I can suck this kind ofcrap up, like I’ve beentrained. Anyway, they didn’thave a decent punch amongthem. Essentially they wereall very lucky boys, becausein normal circumstances, Icouldhavethrownanyoneofthem straight through thefreakin’ window. My mainworrywas theymightdecidetoshootmeor tiemeupandmarch me off somewhere,

maybe over the border toPakistan,tofilmmeandthencutoffmyheadoncamera.If I’d thought for one

moment that was theirintention, itwouldhavebeenbadnews for allofus. Iwashurt, but not sobad as Iwasmaking out, and I wasformulating a fallback plan.Upaboveme in therafters, Icould see a four-foot-longiron bar, just resting there.Could I get it if I stood up?

Yes.Ina life-or-death situation,

I’d grab that bar, carefullyselect the most violent ofthem, and smash it rightthrough him. He’d never getup again. Then I’d lay intothe front two, taking thementirely by surprise. At thesame time, using the bar, I’dram the whole group into acorner, crushing themtogether, as per standardSEAL combat strategy,

making it impossible foranyonetodrawdownonme,pullaknife,orgetout.I’d probably have to

obliterate the skulls ofanothercoupleofthembeforeusing one of those Russianpistols to finish anyone stillalive.CouldIhavedoneit?Ithinkso.MybuddiesbackinSEAL Team 10 would havebeen mighty disappointed inmeifI’dfailed.My absolute fallback

position would have been tokill them all, grab theirweapons and ammunition,then barricade myself in thehouse until the Americanscametogetme.The problem was, where

would all this get me in theshort term? What was thepoint of being a bad-assSEAL, the way some guyswould be? The house wassurrounded bymore Taliban,all of themwith AKs. I saw

those guards come in andthen go out again. Some ofthe little creeps were rightoutsidethewindow.Anyway,the entire sprawl of thevillage of Sabray wassurrounded by the Taliban.Sarawahadtoldmeso,anditbeat me why I’d been leftalone...unless theyknew...unless they wereindoctrinated...unless I reallywas in the hands of off-dutyTalibanwarriors.

Buttheguysatmybedsidewerenotoffduty.Theywereright onmycase, demandingto know why I was there,what the American planeswere doing, whether theUnited States was planningan attack on them, who wascoming to rescue me (goodquestion, right?). I knew thatrightnowdiscretionwas,byalong way, the better part ofvalor, because my objectivewas simply to try and stay

alive, not to get into a brawlwith knife-wieldingtribesmen or, worse, getmyselfshot.I kept telling them I was

justadoctor,outheretohelpwithourwounded.Ialsotoldthem a huge lie, that I haddiabetes.Iwasnotamemberof the special forces, and Ineeded water, which theyignored. The main troublewas, strangely, my beard,because they knew the U.S.

Army did not permit beards.Only theU.S.SpecialForcesallowsthat.I managed to persuade

them I needed to go outside,and they gave me this onesingle opportunity, one lastdesperate try to slip away.But I could not move fastenough,andtheyjustdraggedmeback inside, threwmeontheground,andbeatmeevenmore seriously than they hadbefore. Broke the bones in

mywrist.Thathurt, and I’vesince needed two operationstocorrectit.By now they had lit their

lanterns, maybe three ofthem,andtheroomwasquitelight. And their inquisitionwentonformaybesixhours.Yelling and beating, yellingandkicking.Theytoldmemybuddies were all dead, toldme they’d already cuteveryone’sheadoffandthatIwasnext.Theysaidtheyhad

shot down an Americanhelicopter, killed everyone.They were just full ofbravado, shouting, boastingthey would in the end killevery American in theircountry and then some...Wewillkillyouall!Deathto theSatan!Deathtotheinfidel!Theypointedoutwithhuge

glee that I was their maininfidel and I had meremoments to live. I took asidelong glance at that iron

bar, perhaps my last hope.ButItoldthemnothing,stuckto my guns, kept on tellingthemIwasonlyadoctor.At one stage, one of the

village kids came in, aboutseventeen years old. I waspretty certain he had been inone of the groups I’d passedon the way down here. Andhe had what I now call theLook.Thatsneeringhatredofmeandmycountry.The Taliban guys let him

come in and watch themknocking me around. Hereallylikedit,andIcouldtelltheyregardedhimas“oneofus.”Hewasallowedtositonthe bed while they kicked atthebandageonmyleftthigh.Hejustlovedit.Keptrunningtheedgeofhishandoverhisthroatandlaughing,“Taliban,heh?...Taliban!” I’ll neverforget his face, his grin, histriumphant stare. And I keptlooking right up at that iron

bar.Thekid, too,wasaveryluckyboy.Then my interrogators

foundmyriflelasersightandmy camera and wanted totakepicturesofoneanother.Ishowed them how to use thelasertoachievetheirpictures,butIshowedthemthewrongwayaroundand told them tostareintothebeamwiththeirnaked eye. I guess the lastfavorIdidthemwastoblindthewholefuckinglotof’em!

Because that beam wouldhaveburnedtheirretinasrightout.Sorry,guys.That’sshowbusiness.Rightafter that,musthave

beenaroundmidnight, anewfigure entered the room,accompanied by twoattendants. I knew this wasthevillageelder,asmallmanwith a beard, a man whocommanded colossal respect.The Taliban immediatelystoodupandsteppedasideas

the old man walked to thespot where I was lying. Hekneeleddownandofferedmewater in a little silver cup,gave me bread, and thenstood up and turned on theTaliban.I was not certain what he

was saying, but I found outlater hewas forbidding themtotakemeaway.Ithinktheyknew that before they came,otherwise I’d probably havebeengoneby then.But there

was no mistaking theauthorityinhisvoice.Itwasasmall,quietvoice,calm,firm,and no one spoke while hespoke. No one interruptedeither.They hardly said a word

while this powerful littlefigure laid down the law.Tribal law, Iguess.Whenheleft, he walked out into thenightveryupright,thekindofposture adoptedbymenwhoare unused to defiance. You

could spot him a mile off,kind of like an AfghanInstructorReno.Christ!Whatifhecouldseemenow?Upon the departure of the

village elder, six hours afterthey had arrived, at around0100, the Taliban suddenlydecided to leave. Painfuleyes,Ihoped.Their leader, the chief

talker, was a thin characteralmost a head taller than alltherest.Heledthemoutside,

and I heard them walk off,moving softly up to the trailwhich led out of Sabray andinto the mountains. Oncemore I was left, bleedingbadly and very bruised,eternally grateful to thevillageelder,driftingoff intoa form of half-awake sleep,scared, really scared thosebastards would somehowcomebackforme.Bang! Suddenly, there

wentthatdooragain.Inearly

jumped out of my newAfghannightshirtwithfright.Were they back? With theirexecution gear? Could I getup and fight again for mylife?But this time it was

Sarawa. And I had to askmyself, Who was he really?Had he tipped someone off?Washein theclutchesof theTaliban? Or had they justcome for me and broken inwhennoonewaslooking?

I still had not beeninformed of the concept oflokhay.Possiblybecausetheyhadnowaytoinformme,andanywayIhadnochoicebuttotrust them. It was my onlyshotatsurvival.Sarawa was carrying a

small lantern, accompaniedby a few of his friends. Isensed them but could notreally see in the pitch dark,not in my condition in thisflickeringlight.

Threeofthevillagersliftedme off the floor and carriedme toward the door. Iremember seeing theirsilhouetteson themudwalls,sinister, shadowy figureswearing turbans. Honestly, itwas like something out ofArabian Nights. Big Marcusbeing hauled away by AliBabaandhis forty thieves tomeet the fucking genie. Icould not, of course, knowtheywereactingonthedirect

orders of the village elder,whohad told them togetmeout of there in case theTalibandecidedtoignoretheancient rules and takemebyforce.Once outside, they doused

the light and set up theirformation.Twoguys towalkinfrontwithAK-47sandoneguy in the rear also carryinganAK.The same three guysas before carriedme,Sarawaincluded, and began to walk

out of the village, downwardalonga trail.We traveled foralongway,theguyswalkingformorethananhour,maybeeven two. And they walkedtirelessly, like Bushmen orBedouins.Intheendweheadeddown

a new trail all the way to ariver—IguessthesameonewhereI’dmetthem—bythewaterfall,onahigherreach.Imust have been a completedead weight, and not for the

first time I was amazed bytheirstrength.Whenwereachedtheriver,

they stopped and adjustedtheir grip on me. Then theywalked straight into it and innear total silence carried meacross,inthedarknessofthismoonless night. I could hearthe water rippling past butnothing more as they wadedsoftlythroughit.Ontheotherside, they never broke strideandnowbegan tomake their

way up a steep gradientthroughthetrees.Itwaslushandbeautifulin

the daylight. I’d seen it, andeven in this cold night, Icouldfeelitssoft,darkgreenisolation, heavy with fernsand bushes. Finally wereached what I took to be acave set deep into themountainside. They loweredme to theground,and I triedtotalktothem,buttheycouldnot see my signals or

understand my words, so Idrew a blank. But I didmanage to make Sarawaunderstand I suffered fromdiabetesandrequiredwateratalltimes.Iguessthedreadofdying of thirst remaineduppermost in my mind, andright then IknewIcouldnotgetdowntothatriver,notbymyself.They carried me to the

back of the cave and set medown. I think it was around

0400 when we got there. ItwasThursday,June30.Theyleftmewithnofood,buttheydid come up with a watercontainer, an aged Pepsibottleactually, themostevil-smellingpieceofglassonthisplanet.Ithoughtitmusthavebeen used for goat shit in aprevious life.But itwasall Ihad, a bottle from a sewer,butfilledwithwater.Iwasafraidtoputittomy

lips, in case I contracted

typhoid. Somehow I held itabovemyfaceandpoureditscontents into my mouth likeone of those Spanish guystending their bulls, orwhatevertheydo.I had no food or weapon,

andSarawaandhisguyswereon their way out. I wasterrified they’d never comeback and had just made adecisiontodumpme.Sarawatoldme he’d be back in fiveminutes,but Iwasnot sure I

could believe him. I just laythere on the rocky floor, inthe dark, all alone, shiveringinthecold,uncertainofwhatwouldbefallmenext.In the remains of that

night, I fell to pieces, finallylost my mind and sobbedhopelessly out of pure fear,offering no further resistancetoanything.IthoughtIcouldnot take it any longer. Renowould have kicked my ass,for sure and certain.

Hopefully on the right side,nottheleft.I kept on thinking of

Morgan, crazily trying tocommunicate with him,trying to get my thoughtwaves tuned in with his,begging God to let him hearme.Andsoonitbegantogetlight. Sarawa had been gonefor over two hours. JesusChrist! They’d dumped meoutheretodie;Morgandidn’tknowwhereIwasorwhether

I was dead or alive; and mySEAL buddies had givenmeupfordead.Mybrainwouldhavebeen

racing but for the fact that Ihad suddenly been attackedbyatribeofbigblackAfghanants, and that really got myattention. Imight have givenup,but Iwasfucked if Iwasgoing to be eaten alive bythese little sonsa-bitches. Igotmyself raisedupand laidinto ’em with my Pepsi

bottle.Most of them probably

died from the smell, but Ikilledenoughtobeatthemofffor a while. And the hoursticked by. Nothing. NoPashtun tribesmen. NoSarawa. No Taliban. I wasgetting desperate. The antsweretricklingback.AndInolonger had the strength tomountafullassaultonthem.I went into selective-killingmode, going for the leaders

withmyPepsibottle.Then I found a piece of

flintyrockonthefloorofthecave, and, lying painfully onmy left side, I spent twohours carving the words ofthe Count of Monte Cristoonto the wall of my prison:Godwillgivemejustice.I wasn’t sure I quite

believed it anymore. He’dbeen out of touch for sometime now. But I was stillalive. Just. And maybe there

was help on the way. Heworks in awful mysteriousways.Still,evenmyriflewasgone now, like most of myhope.Iwasjustbeginningtodrift

off again, maybe a littlebefore 0800, when the placeseemedtocomealive.Icouldhearthelittlebellsaroundthenecks of the goddamnedgoats, and they seemed tobeabove me. When sand androcksstartedrainingdownon

me, I realized there was noroof tomy cave. I was opentothesky,Icouldhear thosegoat hooves pounding awayup there somewhere, and thesand kept pouring down onme.The good news was it

buried the ants, but I wastryingtostopitgettinginmyeyes, and so I turnedfacedown, shieldingmy eyeswithmyhands,myrightwristaching like hell from that

Taliban gun butt. Suddenly,tomycompletehorror,IsawthebarrelofanAK-47easinground the corner of the rockwhichguardedmyleftside.Icouldn’thide,Icouldn’teventakecover,and I sureashellcouldn’tfightback.The barrel kept coming,

then the rest of the rifle, thehands, and the face — theface of one of my buddiesfrom Sabray, grinningcheerfully. I was in such

shock I could not even bringmyself to call him a crazyprick, which he plainly was.Buthebroughtmebreadandthatappallinggoat’smilkandfilled my water bottle. Theonefromthesewer.Half an hour later Sarawa

came,fivehoursafterhesaidhe would. He looked at mybullet wound and gave memorewater.Thenhepostedaguard at the entrance to myrooflesscave.Theguardwas

thirtyish and, like the rest ofthem,whip-thinandbearded.He sat on a rock a littlewayabove my entrance, his AK-47slungoverhisshoulder.I kept drifting off, lying

there on the floor, and everytime I came awake I leanedout to see if the guard wasstill there. His name wasNorzamund, and he alwayssmiledreal friendlyandgavemeawave.Butwecouldnotspeak,nocommonwords.He

came down once to fill mywaterbottleandItriedtogethimtosharehiswithme.Nodice.So I lifted the evil Pepsi

bottleand splashed thewaterdirectlyintomymouth.ThenIchuckedittothebackofthecave. Next time Norzamundbrought water, he went backand found the goddamnedthingandfilledityetagain.I was alone in the late

afternoon, and I saw the

goatherds come by a coupleof times. They never wavedor made contact, but neitherdid they betray my position.If theyhadIdonotbelieveIwouldbehere.EvennowI’mnot sure whether lokhayworksforaguywho’sleftthevillage.Norzamund had left me

somefreshbread,forwhichIwas grateful. He went homeshortly after dark, and forseveralhours Isawnoone. I

triedtostaycalmandrationalbecause it seemed Sarawaand his men were intent onsaving me. Even the villageelderwasplainlyonmyside.That’snothingtodowithmycharm, by the way. That’sstrictlylokhay.I sat there by myself all

throughthatlongeveningandinto the night. June 30becameJuly1;Icheckedmywatch around midnight so Iknew when that happened. I

triednottothinkofhomeandmymomanddad,triednottogive in to self-pity, but Iknewitwasaround3:00p.m.back home in Texas, and Iwondered if anyone had theslightest clue about howmuch trouble I was in andwhether they realized howbadlyIneededhelp.

What I definitely did notknow was that there were

now well over two hundredpeople gathered at the ranch.Noonewenthome.Itwasasif they were willing ahopeless situation to becomehopeful,asiftheirprayersforme could somehow beanswered,asiftheirpresencecould somehow protect mefrom death, as if theybelieved that if they juststayedinplace,noonewouldannounceIhadbeenkilledinaction.

Mom says she waswitnessingamiracle.SheandDadwereservingthreemealsadaytoeverypersononthatranch, and she never knewwhere the food came from.Butitkeptcoming,bigtrucksfrom a couple of fooddistributors were arrivingwith steaks and chicken foreveryone, maybe twohundredmeals at a time. Nocharge. Local restaurantswere trucking stuff in,

seafood, pasta, hamburgers.There was Chinese food forfifty, then for sixty. Eggscame, sausage, ham, andbacon. Dad says thebarbecuesneverwentout.Everyone was there to

help, including the Herzoggfamily, big local cattleranchers, churchgoers,patriots,readytostepupforafriend inneed.Mrs.Herzoggshowedupwithherdaughtersandwithout asking justwent

toworkcleaningtheplaceup.Andtheydiditeveryday.The navy chaplains made

everyone recite the Twenty-third Psalm, just like I wasdoing. During the open-airservices, everyone wouldstand up and solemnly singthenavyhymn:

EternalFather,strongtosave,

Whosearmhathboundtherestlesswave,

Whobid’stthemightyoceandeep

Itsownappointedlimitskeep...

Andofcourse theyalways

ended with the special verseexclusively for the NavySEALs, the everlasting

anthemforSPECWARCOM:

EternalFather,faithfulfriend,

Bequicktoanswerthosewesend,

Inbrotherhoodandurgenttrust,

Onhiddenmissionsdangerous,

OhearuswhenwecrytoThee,

ForSEALsinair,onland,andsea.

People just sleptwhenever

andwherevertheycould.Wehavealargewoodguesthouseat the entrance to theproperty, and people justwent in there. The SEALscameintothehouseandslept

wheretheycould,onbeds,onsofas, in chairs, wherever.And every three hours, therewasa telephonecall,patchedindirectlyfromthebattlefieldinAfghanistan.Itwasalwaysthesame:“Nonews.”Nooneever leftMomalone, but shewas beside herself withworry.As June turned into July,

manywere beginning to losefaith and believe Iwas dead.Except for Morgan, who

wouldnotbelieveitandkeptsaying he’d been incommunication, mentally. Iwashurtbutalive.Ofthathewascertain.TheSEALsalsowouldnot

even consider the possibilitythatIwasdead.He’smissingin action, MIA. That wastheir belief. And untilsomeone told them different,that’s all they would accept.Unlike the stupid televisionstation, right? They thought

they could say any damnthing they felt like, true ornot, and cause my familyemotional trauma on a scaleonlyacommunityascloseaswe are could possiblyunderstand.

Meanwhile back in the cave,Norzamund came back withtwo other guys, againfrighteningthelifeoutofme.Itwas about0400onFriday,

July 1, and they had nolantern. They communicatedwith whispers and hissingsignals for silence. Oncemore they lifted me up andcarried me down the hill tothe river. I tried to throw thefoul-smelling water bottleaway, but they found it andbrought it right back. Guesstherewasaheavyshortageofwater bottles in the HinduKush. Anyway, they lookedafter that bottle like it was a

rarediamond.We crossed the river and

turned up the escarpment,backtothevillage.Itseemedto take a real long time, andat one point I flicked on thelight on my watch, and theyalmost went wild with fury:No! No! No! Dr. Marcus.Taliban!Taliban!Of course I didn’t know

whattheyweretalkingabout.The light was tiny, but theykept pointing at it. I soon

realized that light was anacutedangertoallofus,thatthe village of Sabray wassurrounded by the Taliban,waiting for their chance tocaptureorkillme.MyarmedbearershadthesamePashtunupbringing and knew theslightest flickerofa light,nomatter how small, wasunusual out here on themountain and could easilyattracttheattentionofanalertwatchman.

I switched that sucker off,real quick. And one of myguys, walking out in frontwith his AK, had someEnglish.Hecamebacktomeand whispered: “Taliban seelight, they shoot you, Dr.Marcus.”Finally we reached high

ground, and I picked up theword helicopter. And righthereIthoughtsomeonemightbe coming to rescueme.Butit was just a false alarm.

Nothingcame.Istretchedouton the concrete, and sometime before dawn, Sarawashowed up with his medicalbag and attended to my leg.Heremovedtheblood-soakeddressings, washed out thewounds, and appliedantiseptic cream and freshbandages. Then, to myastonishment, he producedsomeinsulinforthediabetesIdidn’thave.Guess I was a better liar

than I thought. And Iobviously had to take it.Thestuff I do for my country.Unbelievable,right?They moved me into a

houseuptherenearthetopofthe village, and soon after Iarrived I met my first realfriend, Mohammad Gulab,the thirty-three-year-old sonof the village elder, and theresident police chief.Everyone called him Gulab(pronounced Goo-larb), and

hispositioninthecommunitywas very strong. Hemade itclear the Taliban were notgoingtotakemewhilehehadanythingtodowithit.He was an extremely nice

guy, and we became goodfriends, or as close to goodfriends as it’s possible to bewhen the language barrier isalmost insurmountable.Mostly we tried tocommunicate about families,and I understood he had a

wifeandsixchildrenandGodknowshowmanycousinsanduncles. Conveying newsabout my identical twinbrother was a tough one, sowe just settled for brother,mainly because Gulabunfailingly thought Morganwas me. Like a lot of otherfolk have done down theyears.Gulab had a friend with

him who was also a solidman, plainly an appointed

relief guard. Between themthey never leftme alone. Bythis time I knew why. Thevillage was entirelyembarrassed when theTaliban had crept in herearmed to the teeth andconducted an interrogationregardless of the wishes ofthe people. Those warriorshad been on the verge ofcausing the ultimateretribution under the laws oflokhay, which would have

obliged the village to go towar to the last man on mybehalf.I did not yet comprehend

thefullimplicationsoflokhaybut I knew it was importantand that I would not besurrendered.AndnowIhadafull-time guard detail in myroom. This did not preventothervisitorsfromcomingin,andmy first on thatmorninginmynewhousewasa littleboy, maybe eight or nine

yearsold.He sat on the edge of my

cot and tried to teach me aMuslim prayer: La La e LaLa — Muhammad del la suLa La. I pretty soon got thehangofitandrepeateditwithhim.Hewasthrilled,clappedhis hands and laughed, andchargedout through thedoorto round up a posse of otherkids. Gulab tried to informme that the repetition of thatprayermeantthatIwasnowa

Muslim. And almostimmediately the first littleboycameracingbackintotheroom with all his buddies,about twenty of them, alleager to pray with the newTexanconvert.I tried to explain I was a

doctor, and they understoodthis pretty quickly, startedsayingoverandover,“Hello,Dr. Marcus,” laughing likehell and falling about likekids do. I could tell they

really liked me, and Iborrowedamarkerpenoneofthem had and wrote each oftheir names in English ontheir arms. Then I let themwritetheirnamesonmine.We exchanged words for

ears, nose, and mouth. Thenforwater (uba) and forwalk(ducari), both of which Ifounduseful. In the end theyleft,butotherlocaltribesmencame in to speak to Gulab,and I began, with his

encouragement, to conversewiththeguyswhowalkedthegoats, the men who wouldunderstand distance. Slowly,during the course of the day,we established there was asmall American base twomilesaway.They pointed out the

window directly at amountainwhichlookedlikeaspare part from the Rockies.It towered above us, a greatwall of granite that would

have caused amountain goatto back off. “Over there,Dr.Marcus, far side,” one ofthem managed to say. Andsince I probably could nothave reached the window,never mind the mountain, Iput that plan on the backburnerforthemoment.Theyhadbeenreferring to

thevillageofMonagee,inthedistrict ofManrogai,where Iknew the U.S. military hadsomekindofanoutpost.But

it was out of the questionrightnow.Icouldn’tgetthereoranywhereelseuntilmylegimproved. Nonetheless, thegoatherds had some goodinformation about the terrainand the distances to variousvillages and U.S. bases.These guys walk around themountains fora living.Localknowledge. That’s key toevery serving SEAL,especially one who wasplanning a kind of soft

jailbreak,likeme.With the goatherds, I was

abletoworkoutthatfromthescene of the originalbattlefield where the othersdied,on that terriblenightofJune28Ihadtraveledaroundseven miles, four walking,three crawling. Seven miles!Wow! I couldn’tbelieve that.But these herders knew theirland.Andthey,likeeveryoneelse,knewallabouttheBattleforMurphy’sRidge,whereit

hadbeenfoughtandtheverybad losses sustained by theTaliban...“You shoot, Dr.Marcus?Youshoot?”Me? Shoot? Never. I’m

justawanderingdoctortryingtolookaftermypatients.ButIwas real proud of travelingseven miles over themountain in my beat-upconditionafterthebattle.Itookmyballpointpenand

markeddistances,drewmaps,made diagrams of the

mountainsonmy right thigh.When that got a littlecrowded,Ihadtousemyleft.(Shit! That hurt. That reallyhurt!)At noon the kids came

back for prayers, bringingwith them several adults,clearlyeagertomeetthenewAmerican convert, no longeran infidel. We prayedtogethertoAllah,kneeling—painfully, in my case — onthe floor.Afterwhichwe all

shookhands,andIthinktheywelcomed me to theirprayers. Never told ’em, ofcourse, I slipped in a quickone to my own God while Iwas at it, respectfullywondering, if itwas all rightwithHim,whetherIcouldgetmyriflebackanytimesoon.They all came back for

afternoon prayers at 1700,andagainatsunset.Thelittlekids,my first friends, had toleave for bed right after that,

butIremembertheyallcameand hugged me before theyleft,and,nothavingmastered“Good-bye” or “Good night”yet, they repeated their firstAmerican phrase again andagain as they left the room:“Hello,Dr.Marcus.”The older kids, the young

teenagers, were allowed tostay and talk with me for awhile. Gulab helped them tocommunicate and we partedasfriends.Thetroublewas,I

was getting sick now, and Iwas beginning to feel prettyropy,not just thepainofmywounds but kind of like flu,onlyabitworse.When the kids had finally

left, I received a visit fromthe village elder himself. Hebrought me bread, gave mefreshwater,thensatdownformaybe three hours while wediscussed, as best we could,how I could get to anAmericanbase.ItwasclearI

was a major problem to thevillage. Threats were alreadybeing received from theTaliban, informing thevillagers how urgent it wasfor their cause that I besurrendered to themimmediately.The oldman imparted this

tomebuttooktheviewIwasinnoshapeto travelandthatit would simplifymatters foramemberofhisPashtuntribetomake the journey,onfoot,

to the big U.S. base atAsadabadandinformthemofmy whereabouts. I had noclue at the time he waspreparingtomakethejourneyhimself, some thirty to fortymilesaloneinthemountains.Heaskedmetowriteouta

letter for him to take toAsadabad. Iwrote,Thismangavemeshelterandfood,andmustbehelpedatallcosts.Atthe time I was under thedistinct impression that he

andIweregoingtomakethejourney together, possiblywithanescortandafewguysto help carry me. Departuretime was set for 1930, rightaftereveningprayers.But I had misunderstood.

Theoldmanhadnointentionof traveling with me,correctly reasoning I’d be afargreaternuisanceonsuchatrekoverthemountainsthanIwouldbe lyinghere.Also, ifthe Taliban found out we’d

gone, we would be highlysusceptible to ambush. Ineversawhimagain,tothankhimforhiskindness.I waited all afternoon and

halfthenightforhimtocomeandhavemecollected.Butofcourse he never did. Iremember being hugelydisappointed,not for the firsttime,thatmoredefiniteplanswerenotbeingformulatedformyevacuation.At one point during the

evening, the tribal leaderscame and had a meeting inmyroom.Theyjustsatonthefloor and talked, but theybrought me back the littlesilver cup I’dhad in the firsthouse. And they poured meseveral cups of that chai teatheydrink and, I think,growonasmallscaleuphere.Theceremony included sweetcandy, which you eat whileyou drink your tea.And thattastedgreataftermyenforced

diet of very, very dry bakedflatbread.Gulab stayed withme and

was cheerful as ever, but heeithercouldnotorwouldnotanswer questions about hisfather and his immediateplans. I think the triballeaders felt it was better formenottoknow—classified,Pashtun-style, FYO and allthat. The work of the elderwas information provided ona need-to-know basis only. I

wasgettingusedtooperatingoutside the loop, everyone’sfreakin’loop,thatis.Gulab spent much of the

evening trying to explain tome the complex threads thathold together the Pashtuntribes and al Qaeda, stillworking in conjunction withtheTalibanarmy.TheUnitedStateshadbeenbusytryingtoclear all of them the hell outofAfghanistanfor fouryearsbutwithonlylimitedsuccess.

The jihadists seem tohavesomekindofhammerlockontriballoyalties,usingawholespectrum of Mafia-styletactics, sometimeswith gifts,sometimes with money,sometimes promisingprotection, sometimes withoutright threats. The truth is,however,neitheralQaedanorthe Taliban could functionwithoutthecooperationofthePashtunvillages.Andoften,deepwithin the

communities, there are oldfamily ties and young menwho sympathize with thewarlike mentality of theTaliban and al Qaeda chiefs.Kids barely out of gradeschool — joke, they don’thavegradeschoolsuphere—are drawn toward theromanticcutthroatswhohavedeclared they’ll fight theAmerican army until there isnooneleft.I guess there’s something

very alluring about that tosomekids.Youcanseethesepotential Taliban recruits inanyof thevillages. I’ve seendozensofthem,tooyoungtohave that much hate andmurder in their eyes andhearts.Christ,oneofthelittlebastards had sat on my bedurging eight armed men totortureme.Nice.Hecouldn’thave been more thanseventeen.Butthereisanothersideto

this. Sabray was obviouslygoverned wisely by Gulab’sfather.Andtherewasasenseof law and order anddiscipline in an essentiallylawless land. Al Qaedaeffectivelyownsgreatswathsof land in Kunar Province,which had now been myhome for the better part ofthree months. And this ismostlybecauseoftheterrain.I mean, how the hell do

you impose national

government on a place likethis? With no roads, noelectricity, no mail, littlecommunication, where theprincipal industry is goats’milk and opium, the mainwatercompanyisamountainstream, and all freight ismoved by mule cart,including the opium. You’rewhistling Dixie. It’s nevergoingtohappen.Al Qaeda are running

around in broad daylight,

mostly doing what the hecktheywant, until we show upand chase the little pricksback over the border toPakistan. Where they stay.Forabouttenminutes,beforelaunching their next forayinto these tribal mountains,which their ancestors haveruledforcenturies.These days there are less

giftsandalotmorefear.TheTaliban is a ruthless outfit,with instincts about killing

their enemies which havebarely changed in twothousand years. They shouldsomehow by now havefrightened the bejesus out ofmy buddy Gulab and hisfather, but they had notsucceeded, so far as I couldsee. There’s just somethingunbreakableaboutthemall,agrim determination to followthe ancient laws of thePashtuns— lawswhichmayyetprove toostrongevenfor

theTalibanandalQaeda.But from where I was

sitting, in the smoky mainroomofoneofSabray’shighhouses, talking to the villagecop, that’s not the way thetide was running. And untilthe United States decides towield a very large stick uphereinsupportof theelectedgovernment of the people, inKabul, I’m not looking foranyseriouschangerealsoon.The enemy is prepared to go

to any lengths to achievevictory, terrorizing its ownpeople, if necessary, andresortingtobarbaricpracticesagainst its enemy, includingdecapitating people orbutcheringthem.Wearenotallowedtofight

them on those terms. Andneither would we wish to.However,wecouldfightinamuch more ruthless manner,stop worrying if everyonestill loved us. Ifwe did that,

we’d probably win in bothAfghanistanandIraqinaboutaweek.But we’re not allowed to

do that. And I guess we’dbetterstartgettingusedtotheconsequences and permit theAmerican liberals to squeakand squeal us to ultimatedefeat. I believe that’s whatit’s calledwhenyoupackupand go home, when a warfought under your own“civilized” terms is

unwinnable.We’re tougher, better

trained, better organized,better armed, with access toweapons which cannot beresisted. The U.S. ArmedForces represent the greatestfighting force this world hasever seen, and we keepgetting our butts kicked by abunch of illegal thugs whooughttobeeliminated.Look at me, right now in

my story. Helpless, tortured,

shot, blown up, my bestbuddies all dead, and allbecausewewereafraidoftheliberals back home, afraid todo what was necessary tosaveourownlives.AfraidofAmerican civilian lawyers. Ihaveonlyonepieceofadvicefor what it’s worth: if youdon’t want to get into a warwhere things go wrong,where the wrong peoplesometimes get killed, whereinnocent people sometimes

havetodie,thenstaythehelloutofitinthefirstplace.Because that’s what

happens.Inallwars,downallthe years of history. Terribleinjustices, the killing ofpeoplewhodidnotdeservetodie. That’swhatwar is.Andif you can’t cope with it,don’tdoit.Meantime, I was stuck in

thehousewaiting for theoldmantoshowup,whenhewasalready miles away, walking

through the mountains, thethirty or so miles toAsadabad. Once I wanderedoutside when no one waslooking, and I tried to findhim. But he seemed to havegone missing. Even then Inever dreamed that little oldguywaswalkingtoAsadabadbyhimself.I couldn’t really tell, but I

sensed something wasmakingmyguys jumpy.Andabout ten or eleven o’clock

that night, we moved. Theyhad just brought me freshwater and bread, which Iconsumed gratefully, andthen Iwas instructed topackupandleave.Bythistimemyleg was a little better, eventhoughithurt,andwithsomeassistanceIwasabletowalk.We made our way in the

dark down to a differenthouseandsteppedoffthetraildirectlyontotheroof.Wehadsomekindofasheet,andthe

three of us laid down closetogether for warmth. It wasvery, very cold, but I guessthey felt there was somedanger if I’d remained inmyold spot. Maybe they hadsuspicion of someone in thevillage, worry that someonehad tippedoff theTaliban asto my precise whereabouts.But whatever, these guyswere taking no chances. IfTaliban gunmen burst intomyoldhouse,theywouldnot

findme.I was up here on the

freakin’ roof, huddled withGulabandhisbuddy,freezingto death but safe. And oncemore I was amazed by thesilence,thatmountainsilence.There was not one singlesound in the entirevillageofSabray, and for a Westernerthat’sreallyhardtoimagine.Gulabandhispalmadeno

sound. I could scarcely hearthembreathing.Wheneverwe

did anything, they werealways telling me shhhhh,when I had thought I wasbeing silent as thegrave. It’sanother world up here, soquiet it defies the logic ofWestern ears. Maybe that’swhy no one has everconqueredthesehighlandsoftheAfghantribesmen.I slept on and off through

the night, up there on theroof.Once I dared to changeposition, and you’d have

thought I’d set off a firealarmfromthereactionofmynew friends. “Shhhhh, Dr.Marcus...Quiet.” It justshowed how jumpy theywere, how nervous of thehushed killers of the Talibanarmy.Atdawnwepackedupand

returned to the house. Iwanted to sleep some more,but therewasabig tree rightoutsidethewindowthathadaviewdownthemountain,and

in that tree lived the world’sloudest rooster. That suckercould have awakened agraveyard. And he did notgiveadamnaboutdawn,firstlightandallthat.Heletitflyrightaftermidnightandneverlet up. There were severaltimeswhen,ifithadcometoa straight coin toss betweentaking out Sharmak or therooster, I could easily havesparedSharmak.Thetribalchiefscameback

againaround0700toconducttheirearlymorningprayersinmy room.Of course I joinedtheminrecitingthebitsIhadlearned, and then, when theadultsleft,thedoorflewopenand a whole bunch of kidscame charging through thedoor, shouting, “Hello, Dr.Marcus.”They never knocked, just

came tumbling in, grabbingme and hugging me. And itwent on intermittently

throughout the day. Sarawahad left his medical bag inmyroom,andIfixeduptheircuts and scrapes, and theytaught me bits of theirlanguage. Those kids weregreat.I’llneverforgetthem.By that Saturdaymorning,

July 2, Iwas still in a lot ofpain;my shoulder, back, andleg were often killing me.Gulabknew this, andhesentan old man from the villageto see me. He came with a

plastic pouch containingtobacco opium, which lookslike green bread dough. Hegavemethepouch,andItookapinch of the stuff, put it inmylip,andwaited.I’m here to tell you, that

was a miracle. The painslowly vanished, completely.It was the first time I’d everdone drugs, and I loved it!That opium restored me, setme free. I felt better than Ihadsinceweallfelldownthe

mountain. What with theMuslim prayers and nowmybecoming a devotee of thelocaldope,IwasdriftingintothelifeofanAfghanpeasant.Hooyah,Gulab,right?The old man left the bag

withme,andithelpedmegetthrough the next hours morethan I can say.Whenyou’velivedthroughalotofpainfora few days, the relief isterrific. For the first time Iunderstood the power of that

drug,whichis,ofcourse, theonetheTalibanandalQaedafeed to suicide bombersbefore they obliteratethemselvesandeveryoneelsewithinrange.There’s nothing heroic

about suicide bombers.They’re mostly just dumb,brainwashed kids, stoned outoftheirminds.Outside the house, I could

seetheU.S.helicoptersflyingoverhead, Black Hawk 60s

and MH-47s, obviouslylooking for something.Hopefully me. I knew fromwhattheTalibanhadsaidthatone of our helos was down,but not, of course, who hadbeen on board, that eightmore of my buddies fromAlfa Platoon were dead,including Shane Patton,JamesSuh,andChiefHealy.I also did not know that

neitherMikey’s,Danny’s,norAxe’s body had been found

and that the helos werecirclingtheareatryingtopickup any trace of the originalfour who had set off on theill-fated Operation Redwing.The aircrew did not knowwhetheranyofuswerealiveordead.Andbackhome, themedia were vacillatingbetween dead and missing,whichever made the beststory on the day, I guess.Didn’t help any in EastTexas,Icansaythat.

Anyway,whenIsawthosehelos, I charged outside. Itook offmy shirt andwavedit over my head, yelling,“Here I am, guys! I’m righthere. It’s me, Marcus! Righthere,guys!”But they just flew off,

leaving me a somewhatforlorn figure standingoutside the house, trying toput on my shirt, andwondering again whetheranyonewouldevercomeand

rescueme.In the fullness of time I

understood the quandary forthe American military. FourSEALs, fighting for theirlives, had made one finalcommunication that we weredying up here. Since then,there had been neither sightnorsoundofthefourofus.Militarily, there were

several possibilities, the firstbeingwewere all nowdead.The second was we were all

stillalive.Thethirdwastherewere survivors, or at least asurvivor, and they weresomewhere on the loose,possibly wounded, in steepcountrywherethereisalmostno possibility of making asafelandinginanyaircraft.I guess the last possibility

was that we had been takenprisoners and that in timethere would be either aransom note demanding anenormous cash payment or a

television film showing usfirst as prisoners and thenbeingexecuted.The last option was

unlikely when the missingwereNavySEALs.Wedon’thabitually get captured.Either we kill our enemy orour enemy kills us. SEALsdon’t put their hands up orwavewhiteflags.Period.Thecommand post knew thatback in Asadabad, orBagram.

Theywouldnothavebeenexpecting a communiquéfrom the Taliban sayingSEALs had been captured.There’s an old SEALmotto:Never assume a frogman’sdead unless you find hisbody.Everyoneknowsthat.The most likely scenario,

aside fromall dead,was thatoneormoreof theRedwingswas hurt, out ofcommunication, and unabletomakecontact.Theproblem

was location. Where werewe?Howcouldwebefound?Plainly, the Taliban were

not saying a thing; therefore,they had no prisoners.Equally, the missing SEALsweren’t saying anything.Dead?Probably.Woundedinactionandstillholdingoutinthemountains,outofcontact?As the days went by, thismust have seemedincreasinglylesslikely.BynowGulabhadtoldme

thathisfatherhaddepartedtowalk to Asadabad alone. Allmy hopes rested in the softtreadofthispowerfulyettinyoldman.

11

ReportsofMyDeathGreatlyExaggerated

Heliterallydraggedmeintoastandingposition,andthen...Hewasrunningand

tryingtomakemekeepupwithhim,andhekeptshouting,signaling,againandagain:Taliban!Talibanarehere!Inthevillage!Run,Dr.Marcus,forGod’ssake,run!

Gulab had now become theprincipalfigureinmylife.Hecalled the security shots,made sure I had food andwater, andwas, inmymind,the link between us and his

father as the old man toiledthrough the mountains toAsadabad.The Afghani policeman

betrayednosignofstress,buthe did reveal to me that aletter had been receivedearlier from the commanderoftheTalibanforces.Itwasawritten demand that thevillagersofSabrayhandovertheAmericanimmediately.Thedemandcamefromthe

rising officer of the Taliban

army in the northeast, thefirebrand “CommodoreAbdul,” right-hand man toSharmakandacharacterwhoplainly saw himself as somekindofEasternCheGuevara.Hisreputationwasapparentlygrowingasanambush leaderand as an officer who wasexpert at bringing in newrecruitsthroughthepasses.Ineverknew,but itwould

nothavesurprisedmetolearnhe had been in the front line

of the army that confrontedtheteamontheridge,thoughI have no doubt the strategywas planned by the seniorman,Sharmak,whohaddonesomuchdamagealready.They did not, however,

fazeGulab.Heandhisfatherhad replied that it made nodifference how bad theTaliban wanted theAmerican, they were notgoing to get him. WhenGulab told me, he made a

very distinct, brave,dismissive gesture. And hespent some time trying toconvey his personal position:They can’t frighten me. Myvillageiswellarmed,andwehave our own laws andrights. The Taliban need oursupport a lot more than weneedtheirs.He was a gallant and

confidentman,atleastonthesurface.ButInoticedhetookno chances when there was

any kind of suggestion theTaliban were coming in. Iguessthat’swhyweendedupsleepingontheroof.Also, he had not the

slightest interest in a reward.I offered to give him mywatch in return for hisunending decency to me. Iimplored him to take mywatch, because it was all Ihad to offer. But he alwaysrefused to accept it. As formoney, what use could that

havebeentohim?Therewasnothing to spend it on. Noshops, thenearest townmilesand miles away, a journeythathadtobemadeonfoot.A couple of the sneering

kids did ask for money,teenagers, maybe sixteen- orseventeen-year-olds.Buttheywere planning to join theTaliban and leave Sabray, tofight for “freedom.” Gulabtoldmehehadnointentionofleaving here. And I

understood that. Hewas partof the fabric of the village.One day he would be thevillage elder. His familywould grow up here. It wasallhehadeverknown,allhehad ever wanted. This verybeautifulcornerof theHinduKushwaswherehebelonged.What use was money toMohammadGulabofSabray?Thelastofthekidshadleft

my room, and I was lyingthere contemplating the

world,whentherewasakickonthedoorthatnearlytookitoffitshinges.Noonekicksadoor inquite like that excepta Taliban raiding party. Thatwas all I could imagine. Butaround here, where doorsdon’t fit, a good bang withyour sandal isabout theonlyway to get the sonofabitchopen, short of a full-bloodedshouldercharge.But the sudden shock of a

door being kicked in about

five feet fromyour head is anerve-racking experience.And I’m neurotic about it tothis day. Because the soundofthecrashonthedooristhesound I heard before I wastortured. It sometimesdominatesmydreams.Iwakeup sweating, a tremendouscrash echoing in my mind.Andnomatterwhere I am, Ineed to check the door lockbefore I can sleep again. It’spretty goddamned

inconvenientattimes.Anyway, this was not the

Taliban. It was just my ownguysopeningthedoor,whichmust have been shut firmlyby the kids. I restarted myheart, and my room stayedkind of quiet untilmidmorning, when the doorcatapultedopenwithaviolentbang! that shook thegoddamned mountain, nevermind the room. And oncemore I almost jumpedout of

my Afghan jumpsuit. Andthis time they were shoutingatme.Icouldnotunderstandwhat, but something hadbroken out, things were onthemove.JesusChrist!Ihadto steady this group down.There were adults and kids,all mixed up, and they wereall yelling the same thing—“Parachute! Parachute!Parachute!Dr.Marcus,comequick!”I made my way outside,

aching tohighheavenall theway. I resolved to haveanother shot of that opiumsoon as I returned, but fornow it was all eyes upward,straight at the clear blue,cloudless skies. What couldwe see? Nothing. Whateverhad landed was down, and Istood there trying to makethem understand I needed toknowiftherehadbeenamanon the end of that parachute,and if so, how many

parachutes there had been.Was this a drop zone formybuddies to come right in andgetme?Theupshotofthiswasalso

nothing. The tribesmensimply could not understandme.Thekids,whoIdetectedwere the ones who hadactually spotted theparachute, or parachutes,werejustasmystified.Allthehours of study we had donetogetherhadcometonothing.

There was a suddenconference, and most of theadults upped and left. Iwentbackin.Theyreturnedmaybefifteen minutes later andbrought with them all mygear, which they had hiddenaway from the eyes of theTaliban. They gave me backmyrifleandammunition,myH-gear (that’s my harness),and in its pocket, my PRC-148 intersquad radio, theonefor which I’d lost the little

microphone earpiece. It stillhaditsweakishbatteryanditsstill-operational emergencybeacon.I was aware that if I

grabbedthebullbythehornsandwentrightoutsideandletripwith this communicationsgear,Iwouldoncemorebealiving, breathing distresssignal,which theAmer-icansmight catch from a cruisinghelo. On the other hand, theTaliban, hidden all around in

the hills, could scarcelymissme. I found this a bit of adilemma.But the rearmament guys

ofSabrayalsobroughtmemylaser and the disposablecamera. I grabbed my rifleand held it like you mightcaressa returning lover.Thiswas the weapon God hadgrantedme. And, so far as Icould tell, stillwantedme tohave. We’d traveled a longway together, and I probably

deserved some kind of anawardformountainclimbing,maybe theGrandPrixHinduKush presented to SherpaMarcus.Sorry,forgetallthat,Imeantmountain falling, theGrand Prix Hindu Crash,awarded unanimously toSherpaMarcustheUnsteady.Outside, I put on my

harnesss, locked and loadedthe rifle, and prepared forwhateverthehellmightawaitus.Butwithmyharnessback,

I was not yet done with thekids. That harness containedmy notebook, and we hadaccesstothevillageballpointpen.I marched them back into

the house and carefully drewtwoparachutesonthepage.Idrew a man swinging downfrom the first one. On thesecond one, I drew a box. Ishowed both pictures to thekids and asked them, Whichone? And about twenty little

fingers shot forward, allaimed directly at theparachutewiththebox.Beautiful. I had intel.

Therehadbeensomekindofa supply drop.And since thelocal tribesmen do not useeither aircraft or parachutes,those supplies had to beAmerican. They also had tobe aimed at the remnants ofmy team. Everyone else wasdead.Iwasthatremnant.I asked the kids exactly

where the chutes haddropped, and they justpointedtothemountain.Thenthey got into gear and racedout there, I guess to try andshowme.Istoodoutsideandwatched them go, still a bitbaffled. Had my buddiessomehowfoundme?Hadtheold man reached Asadabad?Eitherway,itwasonehellofa coincidence the Americanshadmadeasupplydropafewhundred yards from where I

was taking cover. Themountainswereendless,andIcouldhavebeenanywhere.Iwentback into thehouse

to restmy leg and talk for awhilewithGulab.Hehadnotseen the parachute drop, andhehadnoideahowfaralongthe road his father hadjourneyed. In my mind, Iknew what every activecombat soldier knows, thatNapoleon’s army advancedonMoscowatonemileevery

fifteen minutes, with fullpacks and muskets. That’sfour miles an hour, right?That way, the village eldershouldhavemadeitinmaybeelevenhours.Except for two mitigating

factors:(1)hewasabout twohundred years old, and (2)from where I stood, themountainhewascrossinghada gradient slightly steeperthan the WashingtonMonument.IftheVEmadeit

by Ramadan 2008, I’d bekindalucky.One hour later, there it

goes again. Bang! Thatgoddamned door went offlike a bomb. Even Gulabjumped.But not as high as Idid. In came the kids,accompanied by a group ofadults. They carried withthem a white document,whichmust have looked likeasnowball inacoalmineuphere where the word litter

simplydoesnotexist.I took it from them and

realized it was an instructionpamphlet for a cell phone.“Where the hell did you getthis?”Iaskedthem.“Right out there, Dr.

Marcus. Right out there.”Everyonewaspointingat themountainside, and I had notroublewiththetranslation.“Parachute?”Isaid.“Yes, Dr. Marcus. Yes.

Parachute.”

I sent them right out thereagain, trying tomake it clearthat I needed themountainside searched foranything like this, anythingthat might have come in ontheparachutes.My guys don’t drop cell

phone pamphlets, but theymight have been trying todropmeacellphoneandthepamphlet just came with it.Either way, I could not findoutformyself,soIhadtoget

the guys to do it for me.Gulab stayed, but the otherswentwiththekids,likeagolfcrowd fannedout to look forTiger’sballindeeprough.Gulab and I settled down.

Wehadacupofteaandsomeof those delicious littlecandies,thenloungedbackonour big cushions. Suddenly,bang! The door nearlycannonedoffitshinges.Ishottea all over the rug, and incameeveryoneagain.

Thistimetheyhadfounda55-90 radio battery and anMRE(mealreadytoeat).TheguysmusthavethoughtIwasstarving. Correct. But thebattery did not fit my PRC-148 radio, which sucked,becauseifithad,Icouldhavefired up a permanent distresssignal straight into the skyabove the village. As thingswere, I had no idea if mypresent weak radio beaconwould reach much higher

thantherooftops.Ihadnoneedtointerrogate

the kids further. If there hadbeen anything else out thereon themountain, they’dhavefound it. There obviouslywasn’t. Whatever the drophad contained, the Talibanhadbeatenthekidstoit.Theonebitof reversegoodnewswas they clearly had the cellphone or phones, and theywould probably try to usethem. And the entire U.S.

electronicsurveillancesystemin the province of Kunarwould be listening, ready tolocatethecaller.But then I noticed

something which made mybloodboil.Almosteveryoneofthekidshadbeenbattered.They had bruises on theirfaces, cut lips, and bloodynoses. Those little pricks outtherehadbeatenupmykids,punched them in their faces,to stop themgetting the stuff

from the drop. There is noend to the lengths thesepeoplewill go to towin thiswar.And I’ll never forgetwhat

theydidtothekidsofSabray.I spent the rest of the daypatching them up, all thosebravelittleguystryingnot tocry. I nearly wiped out theentire contents of Sarawa’smedicalbag.WheneverIhearthe word Taliban, I think ofthatdayfirst.

More strategically, it didseem the American militarybelieved there was at leastone SEAL still alive downhere.Thequestionwas,Whatnow? No one wanted to risksending in another MH-47helicopter, since the Talibanseemed to have become veryadroit at knocking themdown. Mind you, they havehad a lot of practice, rightback from when they wereusing those old Stinger

missiles to knock theRussiansoutofthesky.And we all knew the

danger point was landing,when the ramp was down,ready for an insert. That’swhen the mountain menaimed the RPGs straight inthe back, to explode right inthe fuel-tank area. And Iguess the U.S. flight crewscould never be sure of anyAfghanvillage,whomightbeinit,whatweaponstheyhad,

andhowskilledtheymightbeatusingthem.Iknewthey’dneedapretty

good aerial group to softentheplaceupbeforetheycouldcome in and get me. And Iwas desperate to give themsomekindofaguide.Iriggedup my radio emergencybeacon to transmit throughthe open window. I had noidea howmuchbattery I hadleft, so I just turned it on,aimedithigh,andleftitthere

on the window ledge,hopefully pinpointing mywhereabouts to any overheadflightsby theair forceor theNightStalkers.To my surprise, U.S.

reactionhappenedawholelotquicker than I thought itwould. That afternoon. TheU.S. Air Force camethundering in, droppingtwelve-hundred-poundbombson the mountainside beyondthe village, right where the

Taliban had picked up thestufffromtheparachutedrop.Theblastswere incredible.

Inmy house,well, I thoughtthe whole building wascomingdown.Rocksanddustcascaded into the room. Oneofthewallssustainedamajorstructural fault as blast afterblast shook the mountainfrom top to bottom. Outside,peoplewerescreamingasthebombs hit and exploded;thatched roofs were blown

off; there was a dust stormoutside. Mothers and kidswere rushing for cover, thetribesmenwereatacompleteloss. Everyone had heard ofAmerican airpower, but theyhadnotseenitfirsthand, likethis.Infactnoneofthebombs,I

guess by design, hit Sabray.Buttheycameclose.Damnedclose. All around theperimeter. There must havebeen a big lesson right here,

andaverysimpleone.Ifyouallow the Taliban and alQaeda to make camp in andaroundyour village, nogoodcanpossiblycomeofit.However,thatwasn’tmuch

comfort to my villagers asthey tried to clean up themess,rebuildwallsandroofs,and calm down frightenedkids,mostofwhomhadhadaverybadday.Andallbecauseof me. I looked out at thehavocaroundmeandfelt the

most terrible sadness. AndGulabunderstoodwhatIwasfeeling.Hecameoverandputhis arm aroundme and said,“Ah, Dr. Marcus, Talibanvery bad. We know. Wefight.”Jesus. Justwhat I need.A

brand-new battle. We bothretreated into the house andsatdownforawhile,tryingtoplot a course for me whichwouldcausetheleastpossibletrouble to the farmers of

Sabray.Itseemedapparentthatmy

presence here was causing amore and more threateningattitudefromtheTaliban,andthelastthingIwantedwastocause pain and unhappinessamong thesepeoplewhohadshelteredme.Butmyoptionswere narrow, despite theAmericans being, it seemed,hot on my trail. One of themain problems was thatGulab’s father had not made

contactwithus,becausetherewasnowayhecould.Andwehad no way of knowingwhether he had made it to amilitarybase.TheTalibanwereprobably

not overwhelmingly thrilledat being bombedby theU.S.Air Force and had probablysustainedmanycasualtiesoutthere on the mountain. Itoccurred to both Gulab andme that the word revengemight not be far from the

curledlipsofthesehate-filledMuslim fanatics and that Imightbethemostconvenienttarget.That meant a major

problemandprobablylossoflife for thepeopleofSabray.Gulab himself was underpressure since he’d receivedthat threat from the Taliban.He had a wife, children, andmanyrelativestothinkabout.Intheend,thedecisionmadeitself.Clearly,Ihadtoleave,

just to keep the village frombecoming a battleground.Lokhay hadworkedwell,butwe both wondered if itsmystical tribal folklore couldhold out indefinitely in theface of the wounded andsomewhat embarrassedTalibanandalQaedafighters.The U.S. bombardment of

the mountainside had for awhile raised my hopes andexpectations. After all, hereweremyownguys,swooping

overthesetribesmenfromtheMiddle Ages, hitting themhard with high-tech modernordnance. That’s got to begood,right?Butnot everything’sgood.

Retribution, against me andmy protectors, was nowuppermost in my mind. Ithink it was the tight-fistedoldoilbaronJohnPaulGettywho once observed that foreveryplus that takesplace inthis world, there is,

somewhere, somehow, aminus.Hegotthatright.The question was, Where

should I go? And here, myoptions were very limited. Icould never make the longwalktothebaseatAsadabad,andanyhowthatwouldseeminane since the village elderwas either in there or verynearly.Andtheonlyplaceofrefuge close bywas theU.S.outpost at Monagee, twomiles away over a steep

mountain.I did not relish the plan,

and neither would the guyswhowouldneed toassistmeon the journey.But so far asGulab and I could tell, therewasnothingelsewecoulddoexcept hunker down andprepare for a Taliban attack,and I really did not want toput anyone through that.Especiallythekids.We thus resolved that I

should walk with him and

twoothersoverthemountainto the village of Monagee,which sounds Irish but isstrictly Pashtun and iscooperative with the U.S.military.Theplanwastowaituntil longafterdarkandthenslipoutintothehighpasturesaround eleven o’clock,stealthily passing right underthe noses of the probablysleepingTalibanwatchmen.I could only hope my left

leg would stand up to the

journey. I’d lost a ton ofweight,but Iwas still averybigguytobehalfcarriedbyacouple of slender Afghantribesmen, most of whomwere five foot eight and 110pounds soaked to the skin.But Gulab did not seem tooworried,andwesettleddownto wait out the long darkhoursbeforeeleven,whenwewouldmakeourbreak.Night fell, quite abruptly,

asitdoesuphereinthepeaks

when the sun finally slipsbehind them. We lit nolanterns, offering no clue totheTaliban.Wejustsattherein the dark, sipping tea andwaiting for the rightmomenttoleave.Suddenly,fromrightoutof

the blue, there was the mostcolossal thunderstorm. Therain came swiftly, lashingrain, driving sideways overthemountain.Itwasrainlikeyou rarely see, the kind of

stuff usually identified withthose hurricanes they keepreplaying on the WeatherChannel.It belted down on the

village of Sabray. Allwindows and doors wereslammed tight shut, becausethis was monsoon rain,driving in, right across thecountry from the southwest.No one would have set footoutside home because thatwind and rain would have

swept anyone away, straightoffthemountain.Outside, great gushes of

water cascaded down thesteep main trail through thevillage. It sounded like wewereinthemiddleofariver,thewaterracingpastthefrontdoor.Anarealikethiscannot,ofcourse, flood,notuphere,becausethegradientisfartoosteeptoholdwater.Butitcansureashellgetwet.We had a rock-and-mud

roofthatwassound,butIdidwonder how some of thehouseholds down below uswere getting along.Everythinghereiscommunal,including the cooking, so Iguess everyone was justcrowded in together in theundamagedhouses,outoftherain.Up above us, the

mountaintops were lit up bygreat bolts of forkedlightning, ice blue in color,

jagged, electric neon in thesky.ThunderrolledacrosstheHinduKush.GulabandIgotdown close to the thick rockwall at the back of the roombecause our own house wasby no means watertight. Butthe rain was not drivingthrough thegaps in therocksand mud. Our spot was dry,but we were still deafenedanddazzledbythisatrocityofnatureragingoutside.That levelof stormcanbe

unnerving, but when it goesonforaslongasthisone,youbecome accustomed to itsfury.EverytimeIlookedoutthe window, the lightningflashed and crackled abovethe highest peaks. Butoccasionallyitilluminatedthesky beyond our immediaterange of hills, and that wasjust about the creepiest sightyou’ve ever seen, like thewickedwitchoftheKushwasabout to come hurtling

through the sky on abroomstick.Lightning out in front,

naked and violent, is onething. But similar boltshiddenfromview,turningtheheavens intoaweird,electricblue, made a landscape likethislookunearthly,enormousblack summits, stark againstthe universe. It was aforbidding sight for awounded warrior more usedto the great flat plains of

Texas.But slowly I became used

to it and finally fell into adeep sleep flat out on thefloor. Our departure time of2300cameandwentandstillthe rain lashed down.Midnightcame,andwithit,anew calendar date, Sunday,July3,whichthisyearwouldbethemidpointoftheFourthof July weekend, a time forcelebration all over theU.S.A.,atleastinmostparts,

except for those in profoundmourning for the lost specialforces.

While I was sitting out thestorm, the mood back homeon the ranch, according toMom, was very depressed. Ihadbeenmissinginactionforfive days. The thronggathered in our front yardnow numbered almost threehundred.Theyhadneverleft,

but the crowd was growingverysolemn.There was still a police

cordon around the property.The local sheriffs had beenjoinedby the judges, and thestate police were busyproviding personal escorts inthe form of cruisers toaccompany the SEALs ontheir twice-daily trainingruns,frontandrear.Attendingthedailyprayers

were local firemen,

construction men, ranchers,bookstore owners, engineers,mechanics, teachers, twocharter-boat fishing captains.There were salesmen,mortgage brokers, lawyersfrom Houston, and localattorneys. All of themfightingoffmydemiseinthebestwaytheyknewhow.Momsays thewholeplace

was lit up all night by thelights from the automobiles.Someone had brought in

portacabins,andthereseemedlittle point in people goinganywhere. Not until theyknew whether I was stillalive. According to Mom,they separated into groups,one offering prayers everyhour, others singing hymns,others drinking beers. Localladies who had knownMorgan andme all our liveswere unable to hold backtheir tears. All of themwerein attendance for only one

reason,tocomfortmyparentsif the worst should beannounced.I don’t know that much

about other states, becausemy experience in Californiahas been strictly sheltered inthe SPECWARCOMcompound. But in myopinion,thatnearlyweeklongvigilcarriedoutinanentirelyimpromptu manner by thepeople of Texas says a hugeamount about them, their

compassion, their generosity,and their love for theirstrickenneighbors.Mom and Dad did not

know all of them by anymeans, but no one will everforget the single-mindedpurpose of their visits. Theyjust wanted to help in anyway they could, just wantedto be there, because one oftheir own was lost on thebattlefieldfar,faraway.And as the weekend wore

on,noStarsandStripeswereflying. I guess theywere notsurewhether to raise themtohalf-mastornot.Mydadsaysit was obvious people werebecomingdisheartened—thesheer regularity of the signalby phone from Coronado:“No news.” The grimness ofthe media announcing stufflike: “Hope is fading for themissingNavySEALs...seemslikethoseearlyreportsofthedeath of all four will be

proved accurate...Texasfamily mourns theirloss...Navy still refusing toconfirmSEALsdeaths...”Itbeats thehelloutofme.

In the military, if we don’tknow something, we say wedon’t know and proceed toshut up until we do. Somehighly paid charlatans in themedia think it’s absolutelyfine to take a wild guess atthe truth and then tell acouple of million people it’s

cast-iron fact, just in casetheymightberight.Well, Ihope they’reproud

of themselves, because theynearlybrokemymom’sheart,and if ithadnotbeenfor thestern authority of SeniorChief Petty Officer ChrisGothro, I think she mighthave had a nervousbreakdown.Thatmorninghefoundher

inthehouse,privatelycrying,and right then Senior Chief

Gothro stepped in. He stoodherup,turnedheraround,andordered her to look himstraight in the eye. “Listen,Holly,” he said, “Marcus ismissinginaction.That’sMIAin our language. That’s all.Missing means what it says.Itmeanswecannotatpresentlocate him. It does notmeanhe’sdead.Andhe’snotdeaduntil I tell you he’s dead,understand?“We do not have a body.

Butwedohavemovementonthe ground. We cannot tellright now who it is, or howmany there are. But no one,repeat, no one inSPECWARCOM believes heis dead. I want you tounderstandthat,clearly.”The austere words of a

professional must have hithome.Momralliedafterthat,aided and comforted byMorgan,whostillclaimedhewas in contact with me and

that whatever else washappening,Iwasnotdead.Therewerenowthirty-five

SEALs on the property,including Commander JeffBender, Admiral Maguire’spublic relations officer and afantastic encouragement toeveryone. Navy SEALchaplain Trey Vaughn fromCoronado was a spiritualpillar of strength. Everyonewantedtotalktohim,andhedealtwithitallwithoptimism

and hope. When the moodwas becoming morbid andthere were too many peoplein tears, hewould urge themto be positive. “Stop thatcrying right now...we needyou...we need yourprayers...and Marcus needsyourprayers.Butmostof allwe need your energy. Nogivingup,hearme?”NoonewilleverforgetTreyVaughn.Therewere also two naval

chaplains from the local

command who just showedup out of nowhere. ChiefBruce Misex, the navyrecruiter boss from Houston,who’dknownmealongtime,turned up and never left. Asthe days had worn on,shipments of seafood startedto arrive from the gulf portsto the south: fresh shrimp,catfish, and other white fish.One lady brought anenormous consignment ofsushieveryday.Andfamilies

whohadspentgenerations inthe South stuck hard by thatold southern tradition ofbringing covered dishescontaining pots of chickenanddumplingstoafuneral.Dad thought thatwasabit

premature, but there were alot of people to feed, and heassumedaloosecommandofthe cooking. Everyone wasgrateful for everything. Hesays it was strange but therewas never any question of

anyone going home. Theywere justgoing to stay there,forbetterorforworse.

Meanwhile, back in thefreakin’ thunderstorm, morethan thirty pounds lighterthan when I first set off onthis mission, I was sleepinglike a child. Gulab said at0300 it had been raining fornearlysixhourswithouteverslowing up. I was out to the

world, the first time I hadslept soundly for a week,oblivious to the weather,oblivioustotheTaliban.I slept right through the

night and woke up in broaddaylight after the rain. Ichecked my watch androunded on Gulab. I wassupposed to be in Monagee,for chris’sakes, why the hellhadn’t he made sure I was?Whatkindofaguidewashe,allowingmetooversleep?

Gulab was sanguine. Andsince we were growing veryefficient at communicating,he was able to tell me heknew it was the first time Ihad been able to sleep for along time, and he thought itwould be better to leaveme.Anyway, he said, we couldnotpossiblyhavegoneoutinthat weather because it wastoodangerous.Theovernightwalk to Monagee had beenoutofthequestion.

One way and another, Itook all this pretty badly. Iactually stormed out of thehouse, racked by yet anotherdisappointment; after thehelicopters that never came,Sarawa’s sudden vanishingwhile I was in the cave, thevillage elder taking offwithoutme.Andnowthetripto Monagee in ruins. Christ.Could I ever believe agoddamned word thesepeoplesaid?

I’dbeenasleepforsolong,Idecidedtoindulgemyselfina luxurious and prolongedpee.Iwalkedoutsidewearingmy harness and a very sourexpression, temporarilyforgettingentirelythatIowedmy life to the people of thisvillage. I leftmy riflebehindandwalked slowly down thesteep hill,whichwas now asslipperyasallhellbecauseoftherain.At the conclusion of this

operation, I took myself upthe hill a little way and satdown on the drying grass,mainlybecauseIdidnotwishtobeanyrudertoGulabthanI already had been, but alsobecause I just wanted to sitalone for a while and nursemythoughts.I still considered my best

betwouldbetofindawaytoget to the nearest Americanmilitary base. And that wasstill Monagee. I stared up at

the towering mountain Iwouldhave to cross, the rainanddewnowglintingoffitinthe earlymorning sun, and IthinkIvisiblyflinched.Itreallywouldbeoneheck

of a climb, and my leg wasaching already, not at thethought of it but because I’dwalked a hundred yards;bullet wounds tend to take awhile to heal up. Also,despiteSarawa’sboldefforts,thatlegwas,Iknew,stillfull

ofshrapnel,whichwouldnotbe much of a help toward apain-freestrolloverthepeak.Anyway,Ijustsatthereon

the side of themountain andtried to clear my mind, todecide whether there wasanything else I could doexceptsitaroundandwaitforanewnightwhenGulab andthe guys could assist me toMonagee.Andall the time, Iwas weighing the possibilityof the Taliban coming in on

some vengeful attack inretribution for yesterday’sbombardment.The fact was, I was a

living, breathing target aswell as a distress signal.There sat the mightySharmak, with his second incommand, “CommodoreAbdul,” and a large, trainedarmy, all of them withessentiallynothingelse todoexcept kill me. And if theymanaged to make it into the

village and hit the house Iwasstayingin,I’dbeluckytofend them off and avoid ashort trip to Pakistan forpublicityandexecution.Christ, those guys would

have loved nothing more inall theworldthantograbmeand announce to the Arabtelevision stations they haddefeated one of the top U.S.Navy SEAL teams. Not justdefeated, wiped them out inbattle, smashed the rescue

squad, blown up thehelicopter, executed allsurvivors, and here they hadthelastone.The more I thought about

it, the more untenable myposition seemed tobe.CouldthegoatherdsofSabraybandtogetherandfightshouldertoshoulder to save me? Orwould the brutal killers of alQaedaand theTaliban in theendgettheirway?Itwasodd,but I still did not realize the

fullpowerofthat lokhay.Noone had fully explained it tome. I knew there wassomething, but that ancienttribal lawwasstill amysterytome.I stared around the hills,

butIcouldseenooneoutsideof the village.Gulab and hisguysalwaysbehavedasifthevery mountainside was alivewith hidden danger, andwhile hedidnot inmymindmake much of an alarm

clock,hehad tobeanexperton the bandit country whichsurroundshisownSabray.It was thus with rising

concern that I saw Gulabracing down the hill towardme. He literally dragged meinto a standing position andthenpulledmedownthetrailleading to the lower reachesof the village. He wasrunning and trying to makemekeepupwithhim,andhekept shouting, signaling,

again and again: Taliban!Taliban are here! In thevillage!Run,Dr.Marcus, forGod’ssake,run!He pushed his right

shoulder up under my leftarmtobearsomeofmyfast-dwindling weight, and I halfhobbled, half ran, half felldown the hill. Of course bymyownrecentstandards thiswaslikeastrollonthebeach.I suddenly realized we

might have to fight and I’d

left my rifle back in thehouse. I hadmy ammunitionintheharness,butnothingtofire it with. And now it wasmy turn to yell, “Gulab!Gulab! Stop! Stop! I don’thavemygun.”He replied something I

took tobeAfghan for“Whata complete fucking idiotyou’veturnedouttobe.”But whatever had put the

fearofGodintohimwasstillright there, and he had no

intentionof stoppinguntilhehad located a refuge for us.Weduckedanddivedthroughthe lower village trails untilhe found the house he waslookingfor.Gulabkickedthedoor open, rammed it shutbehind him, and helped medown onto the floor. Andthere I sat, unarmed, largelyuseless, and highlyapprehensive about whatmight happen in the nexthour.

Gulab, without a word,opened the front door andtook off at high speed. Hewent past the window like arocket, running hard up thegradient, possibly going forthe Hindu Kush all-comers100-meters record. Godknows where he was going,buthe’dgone.Three minutes later he

kicked open the door andcame charging back into thehouse. He was carrying my

rifle aswell as his ownAK-47. Ihadseventy-fiveroundsleft. I think he had more inhis own ammunition belt.Gravely he handed me theMark12sniper rifleandsaidsimply,“Taliban,Dr.Marcus.Wefight.”He looked more serious

than I’d ever seen him. Notafraid, just full ofdetermination. Up on thatmountain, when he had firstseen me, Sarawa had made

thedecisionwithhisbuddiesthat I, a wounded American,shouldbegrantedlokhay.Thedoctor knew perfectly wellfromthefirstmomentbythatgushing mountain river thatthesituationmightultimatelycometothis.EvenifIdidn’t.Itwasadecisionthat,right

from the start, had affectedeveryone in the village. Ithink most people hadaccepted it, and it hadobviously been endorsed by

the village elder. I’d seen afewangryfacesfullofhatred,but they were not in themajority.Andnowthevillagechief of law and order,Mohammad Gulab, wasprepared to stand by thatunspokenvowhispeoplehadgiventome.He was doing it not for

personal gain but out of asense of honor that reachedback down the generations,two thousand years of

Pashtunwalai tradition: Youwill defendyourguest to thedeath. I watched Gulabcarefullyasherammedanewmagazine into his AK. Thiswas a man preparing to stepright up to the plate. And Isaw that lightofgoodness inhis dark eyes, the way youalways do when someone ismaking a brave and selflessaction.I thanked Gulab and

banged a newmagazine into

my rifle. I stared out thewindow and assessed thebattlefield. We were lowdown on almost flat terrain,but the Taliban’s attackwould be launched from thehigher ground, the way theyalways preferred it. Iwondered how many otherrock-and-mud houses inSabray were also shieldingmenwhowereabouttofight.The situation was serious

butnotdire.Wehadexcellent

cover, and I didn’t think theenemy knew preciselywhereI was. So far as I could see,the Battle for Murphy’sRidge represented a two-edged sword.First of all, thetribesmen could be seethingwithfuryaboutthenumberoftheir guyskilled in actionbyMikey,Axe,Danny,andme.This might even mean asuicide bomber or an attackso reckless they’d risk anynumberofwarriorsjusttoget

me. I wasn’t crazy abouteitheroption.On the other hand, they

mightbeslightlyscaredattheprospect of facing even oneof that tiny American teamthat had wiped out possibly50 percent of a Talibanassaultforce.Sure, they knew I was

wounded,but theyalsoknewIwouldbewellarmedbythevillagers, even if I had lostmy own rifle. I guessed they

would either throweverything at me, the hellwith the expense, or take itrealsteady,fightingtheirwaythrough the village house byhouse until they had Gulabandmecornered.But an impending attack

requires quick, expertplanning. Ineeded tooperatefast and make Gulabunderstand our tactics. Heimmediatelygaveway tomyexperience, which made me

think he had never quiteaccepted my story aboutbeing a doctor. He knew I’dfoughtontheridge,andrightnow he was ready to do mybidding.Wehadtwoareastocover,

the door and the window. Itwouldn’t have been muchgood if I’d been blastingaway through the window atTalibandownthestreetwhenacoupleofthosesneakylittlebastards crept through the

frontdoorandshotmeintheback.I explained it was up to

Gulab to cover the entrance,to make sure I had the splitsecondIwouldneedtoswingaround and cut ’em downbefore they could open fire.Ideally I would havepreferred him to issue anearlywarning that theenemywas coming. That way Imight have been able to getinto the shadows in the

corners and take ’em outmaybesixatatimeinsteadofjustgunningdowntheleader.Ideally Iwould have liked

a heavy piece of furniture toram in frontof thedoor, justto buyme a little extra time.But there was no furniture,justthosebigcushions,whichwere obviously notsufficientlyheavy.Anyway,Gulabunderstood

the strategy and noddedfiercely, the way he always

did when he was sure ofsomething. “Okay, Marcus,”hesaid.Anditdidnotescapeme, he’d dropped the Dr.part.When battle began, Gulab

would man the end of thewindow that gave him thebest dual view of the door. Iwould concentrate onwhatever frontal assaultmight be taking place. I’dneed to shoot steadily andstraight,wastingnothing,just

like Axe and Danny did onthe mountain while Mikeycalledtheshots.I triedto tellGulabtostay

calm and shoot straight,nothing hysterical. That waywe’dwinor,atworst,causeadisorderlyTalibanretreat.He looked a bit vacant. I

could tell he was notunderstanding. So I hit himwithanoldphrasewealwaysuse before a conflict: “Okay,guys,let’srock’n’roll.”

Matter of fact, that wasworse. Gulab thought I wasabout to give him dancinglessons. It might have beenfunny if thesituationhadnotbeensoserious.Andthenwebothheardtheopeningburstsof gunfire, high up in thevillage.Therewas a lot of it. Too

much. The sheer volume offirewasridiculous,unlesstheTaliban were planning towipeouttheentirepopulation

of Sabray. And I knew theywould not consider thatbecause such a slaughterwould surely end all supportfrom these tribal villages uphereinthemountains.No,theywouldnotdothat.

They wanted me, but theywould never kill anotherhundred Afghan people,including women andchildren, in order to get me.The Taliban and their alQaeda cohorts were

mercilessly cruel, but thisBenSharmakwasnotstupid.Besides, I detected no

battlefield rhythm to thegunfire. It was not beingconducted with the short,sharp bursts of trained mengoing fora target. It came inprolonged volleys, and Ilistened carefully. There wasnoobviousreturnoffire,andright then I knew what washappening.These lunatics had come

rolling out of the trees intothe village, firing randomlyinto the air and aiming atnothing, the way they oftendo, all jumpingup anddownand shouting, “Death to theinfidel.”Stupidpricks.Their loose objective is

alwaystofrightenthelifeoutofpeople,andrightnowtheyseemed to be succeeding. Icouldhearwomenscreaming,childrencrying,butnoreturnof fire from the tribesmenof

Sabray.Iknewpreciselywhatthat would sound like, and Iwasnothearingit.I looked atGulab.Hewas

braced for action, leaning inthewindowwithme,oneeyeon the front door. We bothclicked our safety catchesopen.Up above we could still

hear the screaming, but thegunfire subsided. Littlesonsabitches were probablybeating up the kids. Which

mighthaveinspiredmetogetright back up there and takeon the whole jihadist armysingle-handed, but I heldback, held my fire, andwaited.We waited for maybe

forty-fiveminutesandthenitwas quiet. As if they hadneverbeenhere.Thatunseenvillage calm had returned,therewasnosenseofpanicorsignofinjuredpeople.Ileftitto Gulab to call this one.

“Taliban gone,” he saidsimply.“What happens now?” I

askedhim.“Bagram?”Gulab shook his head.

“Bagram,” he said. Then hesignaled for the umpteenthtime,“Helicopterwillcome.”I rolled my eyes

heavenward. I’d heard thishelicopter crapbefore.And Ihad news for Gulab.“Helicopter no come,” I toldhim.

“Helicopter come,” hereplied.As ever, I could not really

know what Gulab knew orhow he had discovered whatwashappening.Butrightnowhe believed the Taliban hadgone into the house where IhadbeenstayingandfoundIwas missing. No one hadbetrayedme,andtheyhadnotdared to conduct a house-to-house search for fear offurther alienating the people

and, in particular, the villageelder.This armed gang of

tribesmen, who were hell-bent on driving out theAmericans and thegovernment, could notfunction up here in theseprotective mountains entirelyalone. Without local supporttheir primitive supply linewouldperish,andtheywouldrapidlybegin to loserecruits.Armiesneedfood,cover,and

cooperation, and the Talibancould only indulge in somuch bullying before thesepowerful village leadersdecided they preferred thecompanyoftheAmericans.That’s why they had just

evacuated Sabray. Theywould still surround thevillage,awaiting theirchanceto grab me, but they wouldnot risk causing majordisruption to the day-to-daylives of the people. I’d been

here for five nights now,including the night in thecave, and the Taliban hadcrossed the boundaries ofSabrayonlytwice,onceforafewhours of violence late inthe evening, and once justnowformaybeanhour.Gulabwascertaintheyhad

gone, but he was equallycertainwe could not dare goback to the house. It wasalmost ten in themorningbynow, and Gulab was

preparing to leave and takemewith him, oncemore outintothemountains.

It had passed midnight backinTexas and the vigil at ourranch continued. The mediawas still voicing its opinionthat the SEAL team wasdead,and the latestcall fromCoronado had been received.There was still no news ofme. They all knew there

would be another call at0400, and everyone waitedoutthereinthehotJulynight,their hopes diminishing,according to Mom, as thehourstickedby.People were starting to

speculate how I couldpossibly have survived if noone at the American baseknewwhere Iwas.Butnewswas really scarce, except forthepartsomemembersofthemedia invented. And people

werebeginningtoloseheart.Except, apparently, for

MorganandtheotherSEALs,none of whom would evenconsider Iwasdead.At leastthat’s what they always toldeveryone. “MIA,” they keptrepeating. “MIA. He’s notdeadtillwesayhe’sdead.”Morgan continued to tell

everyonethathewasthinkingaboutme and Iwas thinkingabouthim.Hewasincontact,evenifnooneelsewas.And

Senior Chief Gothro kept acareful eye on my mom incaseshedisintegrated.But she remembers that

night to this day, and howthere were people growingsadder by the minute. Andhow the SEALs held it alltogether, the chaplains, theofficers, the noncoms, someordering,someimploring,butasking everyone to keep thefaith.“Marcus needs you!”

Chaplain Trey Vaughn toldthis large and disparategathering. “And God isprotecting him, and nowrepeat after me the words ofthe Twenty-third Psalm.‘Yea, though I walk throughthe valley of the shadow ofdeath, Iwill fear no evil: forThou art with me; Thy rodand Thy staff they comfortme.’”Solemnly, some of the

toughest men in the U.S.

ArmedForcesstoodshoulderto shoulder with the SEALchaplain, each of themthinkingofmeasanoldand,I hope, trusted friend andteammate. Each of them, atthose moments, alone withhisGod.AsIwaswithmine,halfaworldaway.At 0400 the call came

through to the ranch fromCoronado.Stillnonews.AndtheSEALsstartedtheprocessall over again, encouraging,

sharing their optimism,explaining that I had beenespecially trained towithstand such an ordeal. “Ifanyonecangetoutofthis,it’sMarcus,” Chaplain Vaughnsaid. “And he’ll feel theenergyinyourprayers—andyouwillgivehimstrength—andIforbidyoutogiveuponhim — God will bring himhome.”Out there in the dry

summer pastures, surrounded

by thousands of head ofcattle, the words of theUnited States Navy Hymnechoed into the night. Therewere no neighbors to wake.Everyone for miles aroundwas in our front yard. Momsays everyone was out therethat night, again nearly threehundred. And the policemenand the judges and thesheriffs and all the othersjoinedMomandDadandtheiron men from

SPECWARCOM, juststanding there, singing at thetop of their lungs, “ ‘O hearuswhenwe cry to Thee, forSEALsinair,onlandandsea...’”

Back in Sabray,Gulab and Iwere making a break for it.Clutching our rifles, we leftour little mud-and-rockredoubt in the lower streetand headed farther down the

mountain. Painfully, I madethe two hundred yards to aflat field which had beencultivated and recentlyharvested. It was strictly dirtnow, but raked dirt, as ifreadyforanewcrop.Ihadseenthisfieldbefore,

from the window of housetwo, which I could just seemaybe350yardsbackupthemountain. I guess the fieldwas about the size of twoAmerican football fields; it

had a dry rock border allaround. It was an ideallanding spot for a helicopter,I thought, certainly the onlysuitable area I had ever seenupthere.ItwasaplacewhereapilotcouldbringinanMH-47withoutriskingacollisionwith trees or rolling off aprecipice or landing in themiddleofaTalibantrap.For a few moments, I

considered writing a largeSOS in the dirt, but Gulab

was anxious, and he halfcarried, half manhandled meoutofthefieldandbackontothelushmountainslopes,andthere he found me a restingplace at the side of the trailwhere I could take coverunderabush.Andthiscarrieda bonus, because the bushcontained a full crop ofblackberries.And I laydownthereintheshadeluxuriouslyeatingtheberries,whichwerenot quite ripe but tasted

damnedgoodtome.It was very quiet again

now,andmy trained sniper’sear,honedperhapsbetterthanever before, detected nounusual sound in theundergrowth. Not a snappedtwig, not an unusual rustlingin the grass. No unusualshadow behind a tree.Nothing.Wewaitedthereforashort

while before Gulab stood upandwalkeda littleway, then

turned and whispered, “Wego now.” I got hold of myrifle and twisted onto myright side, ready to heavemyself upward, a movementthatthisweekhadtakenalotofconcentrationandeffort.I don’t know why it

happened.Butsomethingtoldme to lookup,andIcastmyeyes to the slope behind us.And right there sitting veryquietly, his gaze steadyuponme and betraying nothing,

was Sharmak, the Talibanleader,themanIhadcometocaptureorkill.I’d seenonly agrainy,not

verygoodphotographofhim,but it was enough for me. Iwascertainitwashim.AndIthink he knew I knew. Hewas a lean character, like allofthem,fortyish,withalong,black, red-flecked beard. Hewore black Afghan garb, areddish vest, and a blackturban.

I seem to recall he hadgreen eyes, and they werefilled with a hatred whichwould have melted a U.S.Army tank. He stared rightthroughmeandspokenotoneword. I noticed he wasunarmed, and I tightenedmygripontheMark12andveryslowly turned it on himuntilthe barrel was aimed rightbetweenhiseyes.He was not afraid. He

never flinched, nevermoved,

and I hadapowerful instinctto shoot that bastard dead,right here on the mountain.After all, it was what I hadcomefor;thatorcapturehim,andthatlastpartwasn’tgoingtohappen.Sharmak was surrounded

byhisarmy.IfI’dshothim,Iwouldnothavelastedtwentyseconds.Hisguyswouldhavegunned down both me andGulab and then, minus theirbeloved commander in chief,

probably would havemassacred the entire village,including the kids. Iconsidered that and rejectedshootinghim.I also considered that

Sharmak was clearly notabout to shoot me. Thepresence of Gulab made it acomplete standoff, andSharmakwasnotabouttocallinhisguystoshoottheoldestsonofSabray’svillageelder.Equally, I did not feel

especially inclined tocommitsuicide. Everyone held theirfire.Sharmakjustsatthere,and

then Gulab nodded to theTaliban boss, who I noticedmade an infinitesimal inclineof his head, like a pitcheracknowledging a catcher’ssignal. And then Gulabwalked slowly across to talkto him, and Sharmak stoodup, and they turned theirbacks on me and moved

farther up the mountainside,outofmysight.Therewasonlyonesubject

they could possibly bediscussing.Would thepeopleof Sabray now agree to givemeup?AndIcouldnotknowhow farGulabandhis fatherwouldstillgotodefendme.I just slumped back under

the blackberry bush,uncertain of my fate,uncertain what these twomountain tribesmen would

decide. Because each ofthem, in his way, had so farprovedtobeunbendinginhisprinciples. The relentlesskiller,amanwhosawhimselfas the warrior-savior ofAfghanistan, now inconference with the villagecop, a man who seemedprepared to risk everythingjusttodefendme.

12

“Two-two-eight!It’sTwo-two-eight!”

Inhermind,therecouldbeonlyonepossiblereasonforthecall...They’dfoundmy

bodyonthemountain...Avoicecamedownthelineanddemanded,“Isthefamilyassembled?”

They were gone for fiveminutes, and they camebacktogether. Ben Sharmak stoodfor a fewmoments staring atme, and then he climbedaway, back to his army.Gulab walked down the hillto me and tried to explain

Sharmak had handed him anote that said, Either youhandovertheAmerican—oreverymember of your familywillbekilled.Gulab made his familiar

dismissive gesture, and weboth turned and watched theTaliban leader walking awaythrough the trees. And thevillage cop offered me hishand, helped me to my feet,and once more led methroughtheforest,halflifting

me down the gradients,always considerate of myshattered left leg, until wereachedadried-upriverbed.And there we rested. We

watched for Talibansharpshooters, but no onecame. All around us in thetrees, their AKs ready, werefamiliar faces from Sabrayreadytodefendus.We waited for at least

forty-fiveminutes.And then,amidtheunholysilenceofthe

mountain, two more guysfrom my village arrived. Itwas obvious they weresignalingforustoleave,rightnow.Each of them gave me

support under my arms andled me up through the treeson the side of this steepescarpment.IhavetoadmitIno longer knew what wasgoing on, where we weregoing, or what I wassupposed to be doing. I

realizedwecouldnotgobacktothevillage,andIreallydidnot like the tone of that noteGulab had shoved in hispocket.AndhereIwas,alonewith

these tribesmen, with nocoherent plan. My leg waskillingme,Icouldhardlyputit to the ground, and the twoguys carrying me werebearing the whole of myweight. We came to a littleflightof roughrockstepscut

into the gradient. They gotbehind pushing me up withtheirshoulders.I made the top step first,

andasIdidso,Icamefacetoface with an armed Afghanifighter Ihadnot seenbefore.HecarriedanAK-47,heldintheready-to-fireposition,andwhenhesawme,heraisedit.I lookedathishat, and therewas a badge containing thewords which almost stoppedmy heart — BUSH FOR

PRESIDENT!He was Afghan special

forces, and I was seized bypanic because I was dressedin the clothes of an Afghantribesman, identical to thoseof the Taliban. But rightbehind him, bursting throughthe undergrowth, came twoU.S. Army Rangers incombatuniform,riflesraised,the leader a big black guy.Behindme,withunbelievablepresenceofmind,Gulabwas

roaring out my BUD/S classnumbers he’d seen on myTridentvoodootattoo:“Two-two-eight! It’s Two-two-eight!”The Ranger’s face

suddenly lit up with agigantic smile. He took onelook at my six-foot-five-inchframe and snapped,“American?” I just had timetonodbeforeheletoutayellthat ripped across themountainside — “It’s

Marcus,guys!Wegothim—wegothim!”And the Ranger came

running toward me andgrabbedmeinhisarms,andIcouldsmellhissweatandhiscombatgearandhisrifle,thesmells of home, the smells Ilivewith.American smells. Itriedtokeepsteady,notbreakdown,mostlybecauseSEALswould never show weaknessinfrontofaRanger.“Hey, bro,” I said. “It’s

goodtoseeyou.”By this time there was

chaosonthemountain.Armyguyswere coming out of theforestfromallovertheplace.I could see they were reallybeat up, wearing batteredcombatgear,allofthemwithseveral days’ growth ofbeard. Theywere covered inmud, unkempt, and allgrinning broadly. I guessed,correctly as it happened,they’d been out here

searching for my team sinceearly last Wednesdaymorning. Hell, they’d beenout all night in thatthunderstorm. No wondertheylookedabitdisheveled.It was Sunday now. And

Jesus,wasitgreattoheartheEnglish language again, justthe everyday words, thediverseAmericanaccents,thefamiliarity. I’m telling you,when you’ve been in ahostile, foreign environment

for a while with no one towhom you can explainanything, being rescued byyour own kind — tough,confident, organized guys,professional, hard-trained,armed to the teeth, ready foranything, bursting withfriendship — well, it’s afeelingofthehighestpossibleelation. But I wouldn’trecommend the preparationforsuchamoment.They moved into action

immediately. An armycaptainordereda teamtogetmeupoutof the forest, ontohigher ground. They carriedme up the hill and sat medownnexttoagoatpen.U.S.CorpsmanTravisinstantlysetabout fixing up my wounds.Heremovedtheolddressingswhich Sarawa had given meand applied new antisepticcreamandfreshbandages.Hegave me clean water andantibiotics. By the time he’d

finished I felt damn nearhuman.The atmosphere was

unavoidably cheerful,becausealltheguysfelttheirmission was accomplished.All Americans in combatunderstand that feeling ofcelebration, reflecting, as weall do, that so much couldhave gone wrong, so muchwe had evaded by our ownbattlefield know-how, somany times it could have

goneeitherway.These Rangers and Green

Berets were no different.Somehow, in hundreds ofsquare miles of mountainousterrain, they’d found mealive.ButIknewtheydidnotreallyunderstandtheextremedanger we were all in. Iexplainedtothemthenumberof Taliban warriors therewere out here, how manythere had been against us onMurphy’sRidge,thepresence

of Sharmak and his entirearmy, so close, maybewatching us...no, forget that.Most certainly watching us.Wewerealltogether,andwewould make a formidablefightingforce ifattacked,butwe would be badlyoutnumbered, and we werenow all inside a Talibanencirclement.Notjustme.I debriefed them as

thoroughlyasIcould,firstofall explaining that my guys

were all dead, Mikey, Axe,and Danny. I found thatespeciallydifficult, because Ihad not told anyone before.Therehadbeennooneformetoreportto,definitelynoonewho would understand whatthose guys meant to me andthegapinghollowtheywouldleaveinmylifefortherestofmydays.I consulted my thighs,

where I still had my clearnotesofroutes,distances,and

terrain. I showed them theareas where I knew theTaliban were encamped,helped them mark up theirmaps.Here, here, and here,guys, that’s where they are.The fact was, the bastardswere everywhere, all aroundus,waitingfortheirchance.Idid have a feeling thatSharmak might have grownwary of facing heavyAmerican firepower head-on.He’dhadhalfhisarmywiped

out on the ridge by just fourof us.Therewere a lotmoreof us now, gathered aroundthegoatpenswhileTravisdidhisnumber.I asked theRangercaptain

howmanyguys he had.Andhe replied, “We’re good.Twenty.”In my view that was

probably a bit light, sinceSharmakcouldeasilybebackto his full strength ofmaybe150 to 200 warriors,

reinforcedbyalQaeda.“Wegotgunships,Apache

Sixty-fours, standing by,” hesaid. “Whatever we need.We’regood.”I stressed once more that

we were undoubtedlysurrounded, and he replied,“Roger that, Marcus. We’llactaccordingly.”Before we left, I asked

them how the hell they’dfound me. And it turned outto be my emergency beacon

in the window of the littlerock house in the mountain.Theflightcrewshadpickeditup when they were flyingoverand then tracked itbackto the village. They werepretty certain the owner ofthat PRC-148 radio was oneof the original SEAL teambuthadtoconsiderthefactitmighthavebeenstolenbytheTaliban.They did not, however,

thinkithadbeenoperatedby

Afghan tribesmen in thisinstance, and they thought itunlikely thebeaconhadbeenswitched on and aimedskywardbyguyswhohadnotthe slightest ideawhat itwasfor.They thus reasoned that

one of the SEALs was rightdown there in thatvillage,orin any event pretty damnedclose.Sotheguysjustclosedin on me, somehow movingtheir own dragnet right past

the Taliban dragnet. AndsuddenlythereIwas,dressedup like Osama bin Laden’ssecond in command, armswrapped around a couple oftribesmen likewewere threedrunksfallingupthehill, thevillage policeman rightbehind yelling, “Two-two-eight!”Led by Gulab, we set off

for the village and movedback into my second house,the one where we’d sat out

the storm. The army threw asecurityperimeterallthewayaround Sabray, and theycarried me up past that bigtreeandintothemainroom.Inoticed that roosterwasrightthereinthetree;hewasquietforachange,butthememoryofhimstillmademewant toblowhisfreakin’headoff.The guys rustled up some

teaandwesettleddownforadetailed debriefing. It wasnoon in Sabray, and in

attendancewasaveryseriousgroup of army personnel,from captains on down,mostly Rangers and GreenBerets. Before we started, Iwas compelled to tell ’em Ihad hoped to be rescued bythe SEALs — because nowI’d definitely have to put upwith a lot of bullshit fromthem, telling me, “See that,theSEALsgetintrouble,andthey gotta send for the armytoget’emout,likealways.”

Thatgotaloudcheer,butitdid not disguise my eternalgratitude to them and whatthey had risked to save me.They were really good guysand took total control in themost professional way. Firstthey radioed into base that Ihad been found, that I wasstableandunlikelytodie,butregretfully, the other threeteam members had died inaction. I heard them confirmtheyhadmesafebut thatwe

were still in a potentiallyhostile Afghan village andthat we were surrounded byTaliban and alQaeda troops.They were requestingevacuation as soon as nightfell.Thedebriefingwentonfor

a long time as I tried toexplain details ofmy actionson and off the battlefield.Andallthetime,thekidskeptrushing in to see me. Theywere all over the place,

hanging on to my arm, theirown arms around my neck,talking, shouting, laughing.The adults from the villagealso came in, and I had toinsist they could stay,especially Sarawa, who hadreappeared, and Gulab, whohadneverleft.Iowedmylifetoeachofthem.So far, no one had found

the bodies ofMikey, Danny,andAxe.Andwespentalongtime going over satellite

photographs for me topinpoint the precise placestheyhaddied.Thearmyguyshad some data on the battle,but Iwas able to fill in a lotof stuff for them. Especiallytoexplainhowwehadfallenback under Mikey’scommand, and then keptfalling back, how we neverhad any option but toestablish our defense fartherdown the mountain, alwaysfartherdown.

I recounted how Axe hadheld our left flankwith suchoverwhelming gallantry, andhow Danny, shot so manytimes, kept firing, trying tohold our right flank until hisdyingbreath.Andhow,intheend,therewerejusttoomanyof them, with too muchfirepower, toomanyof thosebig Russian-made grenades,theonesthatfinallyblewAxeandmecleanoutofthebattle.Taliban casualties had

been, of course, high. Itseemedeveryoneknewthat.Ithink all of us in that littleroom, including Gulab,thought the Taliban wouldnot risk another frontalassault on the Americans.And so we waited until thesun began to slip behind themountains, and I said good-byetoall thekids,severalofwhom were crying. Sarawajust slipped quietly away. Ineversawhimagain.

Gulab led us down to theflat field at the base of thevillage, and with the commsup and running,wewaited itout. The Ranger securityguard was in formationaround theperimeter, in casetheTalibandecidedtogiveitone last shot. I knew theywere out there, and I nevertook my eyes off thatmountain slope as we all satthere, around twenty armypersonnel and maybe ten

villagers, the guys who hadstuck by me from thebeginning.We all sat in the dark,

backs to the stone wall,looking at the field, justwaiting. Way over the highhorizon, shortly before 2200,we could hear theunmistakabledistantbeatofabig U.S. military helicopter,clattering in over themountains.We saw it circling, far

awayfromtheslopeswhereIbelieved the main Talibanand al Qaeda forces werecamped. And then suddenlyGulab grabbed my arm,hissing, “Marcus! Marcus!Taliban!”I stared up at the

escarpment and there in thedarkness I could see whitelights,movingquickly,acrossthe face of the mountain.“Taliban,Marcus!Taliban!”I could tellGulabwas really

uneasy, and I called over thearmycaptainandpointedoutthedanger.We all reacted instantly.

Gulab, who was unarmed,grabbedmy rifle, andhe andtwoofhisbuddieshelpedmeclimb the wall and jumpdown the much deeper dropon the other side. Several ofthe villagers ran like hell upthehill to their rockyhomes.Not Gulab. He took upposition behind that wall,

aiming my sniper riflestraight at the enemy on thehillside.The army comms guys

moved into action, calling inthe United States air armadawe knew was out there —fighter bombers andhelicopters, ready to attackthat mountain if there wasevenasuggestiontheTalibanmight try tohit the incomingrescuehelo.Iconsidereditwasobvious

that they were planning onelast offensive, one last-ditchattempttokillme.IgrabbedapairofNVGsandtookupmypositionasspotterbehindthewall, trying to locate themountainmen, trying to nailthemonceandforall.We could still see the

rescue helo way out in thedistance when the U.S.ArmedForces,who’dplainlyhad it up to their eyeballswith this fucking Ben

Sharmak, finally let it rip.They came howling acrossthose pitch-black crevassesandblastedthelivinghelloutof those slopes: bombs,rockets, everything they had.It was a storm of murderousexplosive.Noonecouldhavelivedoutthere.Thelightswentoutfor the

Taliban that night. All thoselittlewhite beams, their firesand lanterns — everythingwentout.AndIjustcrouched

there, calling out theinformation to the commsguy next to me, identifyingTaliban locations, the stuffI’m trained to do. I wasstandingupnowwithasmileon my face, watching myguys pulverize those littlebastardswhobeatupmykidsand killed my teammates.Fuck’em,right?It was a grim smile, I

admit, but these guys hadchased me, tortured me,

pursued me, tried to kill meabout four hundred times,blown me up, nearlykidnapped me, threatened toexecute me. And now myguyswere sticking it right to’em.Beautiful.Isawareportconfirmingthirty-twoTalibanand al Qaeda died out therethatnight.Notenough.The shattering din high in

the Hindu Kush died away.The U.S. air offensive wasdone. The landing zone was

cleared and made safe, andthe rescue helo camerocketinginfromthesouth.TheGreenBeretswerestill

in communication, and theytalkedthepilotdown,intothenewly harvested villageopium field. I remember therotors of the helo made agreenbioluminescentstaticinthenightair.And I could hear it

droppingdowntowardus,anapparition of howling U.S.

airpower in the night. It wasan all-encompassing,shattering, deafening din,thundering rather thanechoing, between the highpeaksoftheHinduKush.Nohelicopter ever smashed thelocal sound barriers withmore brutality. The eeriesilence of those mountainsretreated before the seconddecibel onslaught of thenight.Thegroundshuddered.The dust whipped up into a

sandstorm. The rotorsscreamed into the puremountainair.ItwasthemostbeautifulsoundIeverheard.The helo came in slowly

and put down a few yardsfrom us. The loadmasterleaped to the ground andopened the main door. Theguys helped me into thecabin, and Gulab joined me.Instantly we took off, andneitherofuslookedoutattheblackness of the unlit village

of Sabray. Me, because Iknew we could not see athing;Gulab,becausehewasuncertainwhenhewouldpassthis way again. The Talibanthreatstobothhimselfandhisfamilywereverymuchmoreserious than he had everadmitted.He was afraid of the

helicopter and clung to myarm throughout the shortjourney to Asadabad. Andtherewebothdisembarked. I

wasgoingon toBagram,butforthemomentGulabwastostayonthisbase,outthereinhis own country, and assistthe U.S.military in anywayhecould.Ihuggedhimgood-bye, this rather inscrutabletribesmanwhohadriskedhislife for me. He seemed toexpect nothing in return, andIhadonemoreshotatgivinghim my watch. But herefused, as he had done fourtimesinthepast.

Our good-bye was painfulfor me, because I had nowords in his language toexpressmy thanks. I’ll neverknow, but perhaps he toowouldhavesaidsomethingtome, if he’d only had thewords. It might even havebeen warm or affectionate,like...well...“Noisy bastard,footsteps like an elephant,ungrateful son of a gun.” Or“What’s the matter with ourbestgoat’smilk,asshole?”

But therewas nothing thatcould be said. I was goinghome. And hemay never beable to go home. Our paths,which had crossed sosuddenly and so powerfullyin a life-changing encounterforbothofus,wereabout todiverge.IboardedthebigC-130for

Bagram,backtomybase.Wetouched down on the mainrunway at 2300, exactly sixdays and four hours since

Mikey, Axe, Danny, and Ihad occupied this very samespot, lying here on thisground, staring up at thedistant snowcapped peaks,laughing, joking, alwaysoptimistic, unaware of thetrialbyfirewhichawaitedushighinthosemountains.Lessthan a week. It might havebeenathousandyears.I was greeted by four

doctors and all the help Icould possibly need. There

was also a small group ofnurses, at least one ofwhomknewme frommy volunteerwork in the hospital. Theothers were stunned at thesightofme,butthisonenursetookone lookatmestandingat the top of the ramp andburstintotears.That’s how terrible I

looked. I’d lost thirty-sevenpounds,myfacewasscouredfrom the crash downmountain one, my broken

nose needed proper setting, Iwas racked with pain frommy leg, my smashed wristhurt like hell and so did myback, as it will when you’vecracked three vertebrae. I’dlost God knows how manypintsofblood.Iwaswhiteasa ghost, and I could hardlywalk.The nurse just cried out,

“Oh, Marcus!” and turnedaway, sobbing. I declined astretcher and leaned on the

doctor,ignoringthepain.Butheknew.“Comeon,buddy,”hesaid.“Let’sgetyouonthestretcher.”ButagainIshookmyhead.

I’d had a shot of morphine,and I tried to standunassisted.Iturnedtothedocand looked him in the eye,and I told him, “Iwalked onhere,andI’mwalkingoff,bymyself.I’mhurt,butI’mstilla SEAL, and they haven’tfinishedme.I’mwalking.”

The doctor just shook hishead.He’dmet a lotofguyslikeme before, and he knewitwouldn’t do a damn bit ofgood arguing. I guess heunderstoodtheonlythoughtIhad in my mind was WhatkindofaSEALwoulditmakeme if theyhad tohelpmeoffthe plane? No sir. I won’tagreetothat.AndsoIenteredmyhome

baseoncemore,movingveryslowly down the ramp under

myownsteamuntilItouchedthe ground. By this time, Inoticedtwoothernurseswerein tears. And I rememberthinking, Thank Christ Momcan’tseemeyet.Right about then I think I

caved in. The doctors andnursesranforwardtohelpmeandgetmestretchered intoavananddirectly toahospitalbed. The time for personalheroics had passed. I’dsucked up every goddamned

thing this fucking countrycould throw at me, I’d beenthroughanotherHellWeektothe tenth power, and now Iwassaved.Actually, I felt particularly

rough.ThemorphinewasnotasgoodastheopiumI’dbeengiven.Andeverygoddamnedthinghurt.Iwasmetformallyby the SEAL skipper,Commander Kent Pero, whowas accompanied by mydoctor,ColonelCarlDickens.

He came with me in thevan,CommanderPero,averyhigh-ranking SEAL officerwho had always rememberedmyfirstname,ever since theday we first met. He satbesideme, grippingmy arm,askingmehowIwas.Irecalltelling him, “Yes, sir, I’mfine.”But then I heard him say,

“Marcus.” And he shook hishead. And I noticed thisimmensely tough character,

my boss’s boss, had tearsstreaming down his face,tears of relief, I think, that Iwas alive. It’s funny, but itwas the first time in so longthatIwaswithsomeonewhoreally cared about me, thefirst time since Mikey andAxeandDannyhaddied.And I found it

overwhelming, and I brokedown right there in the van,and when I pulled myselftogether, Commander Pero

was asking me if there wasanythingIneeded,becausenomatterwhat itwas,hewouldgetit.“Yes,sir,”Ireplied,drying

my eyes on the sheet. “Doyou think I could get acheeseburger?”ThemomentIwassecured

in Bagram, they made newsofmy rescueavailable. Ihadbeenin thehandsof theU.S.militaryforsomehours,butIknow the navy did not want

anyone to start celebratinguntil I was well and trulysafe.The call went around the

world like a guided missile:Bagram — Bahrain —SATCOM toSPECWARCOM, Coronado— direct phone link to theranch.The regular call had come

inon timeataroundone thatafternoon, and they wereexpecting another “no news”

update at four. But now thephone rang at three. Early.And according to my dad,when Chief Gothro cameoutside and walked throughthecrowdtocollectmymom,telling her there was a callfrom Coronado, she almostfainted. In her mind, therecould be only one possiblereason for the call, and thatwas the death of her littleangel(that’sme).Chief Gothro half carried

her into thehouse, andwhenthey arrived at the bedroomwhere the phone wasinstalled, the first thing shesaw was Morgan and myother brother, Scottie, withtheirarmsaroundeachother,sobbing uncontrollably.Everyone thought they knewthe military. There could beonlyone reason for the earlycall. They’d found my bodyonthemountain.Chief Gothro walked my

mom to the phone andinformedher thatwhatever itwas, she had to face it. Avoicecamedownthelineanddemanded, “Chief, is thefamilyassembled?”“Yessir.”“Mr.andMrs.Luttrell?”“Yes,”whisperedMom.“We got him, ma’am. We

gotMarcus.Andhe’sstable.”Mom started to collapse

right there on the bedroomfloor. Scottie moved swiftly

to save her from hitting it.LieutenantJJJonesboltedforthedoor, stoodon theporch,andcalled forquiet.Thenheshouted,“Theygothim,guys!Marcushasbeenrescued.”Theytellmetheroarwhich

erupted over those lonelypastures way down there inthe back country of EastTexascouldhavebeenheardin Houston, fifty-five milesaway.Morgan says it wasn’tjustyouraverageroar.Itwas

spontaneous. Deafening.Everyone together, top oftheirlungs,apureoutpouringofreliefandjoyforMomandDadandmyfamily.It signaled the conclusion

ofafive-dayvigilinwhichazillion prayers had beenoffered by God-fearing folk;they understood in that splitsecond after theannouncement that thoseprayers had been asked andanswered.For them, itwas a

confirmation of faith, of theunbreakable hope and belief,of the SEAL chaplain TreyVaughnandalltheothers.Immediately, they raised

the flag, and the Stars andStripes fluttered in the hotbreeze. And then the SEALslinked arms with my familyand my friends and myneighbors, people who theymight never see again but towhom they were nowirrevocably joined for all the

days of their lives. Becauseno one, according to Mom,could ever forget that onebrief moment they shared,that long-awaitedmoment ofrelease, when fears anddreadswerelaidtorest.I was alive. I guess that’s

all it took. And all theseamazing guys,with hearts aswide as the Texas prairies,burst suddenly into song:“GodblessAmerica,landthatIlove...”

That’s Mrs. Herzogg andher daughters; Billy Shelton;ChiefGothro;MomandDad;Morgan and Scottie;LieutenantAndyHaffele andhis wife, Kristina; EricRooney; Commander JeffBender; Daniel, the mastersergeant;LieutenantJJJones;and all the others I alreadymentioned.Fivedaysandfivenights,they’dwaitedforthis.And here I was, safe in ahospital bed eight thousand

milesaway,thinkingofthem,astheywerethinkingofme.Matteroffact,atthetimeI

was just thinking of a smart-ass remark to make toMorgan, because they’d toldmeIwasabouttobepatchedthrough tomy family, on thephone. I guessed Morganwouldbethere,andifIcouldcome up with somethingsufficiently slick andnonchalant, he’d know forsureIwasgood.Ofcourse,it

wasn’tasimportanttotalktohim as it was to speak toMom.MorganandIhadbeenin touch all along, the wayidenticaltwinsusuallyare.Right around this time, I

was assigned aminder,PettyOfficer First Class JeffDelapenta (SEAL Team 10),who would never leave myside. And remember, damnnear everyone on the basewanted to come and have achat. At least that’s how it

seemed to me. But Jeff washaving none of it. He stoodguard over my room like aGerman shepherd, taking theviewthatIwasverysickandneeded peace and rest, andhe, PO1 Jeff, was going tomakegoodandsureIgotit.Doctors and nurses, fine.

High-ranking SEALcommanders,well...okay, butonlyjust.Anyoneelse,forgetit.JeffDelapentaturnedawaygenerals! Told ’em I was

resting, could not bedisturbed under anycircumstances whatsoever.“Strict orders from hisdoctors...Sir, it would bemore thanmy career’sworthto allow you to enter thatroom.”I spoke privately to my

family on the phone andrefrained frommentioning toMom that I had nowcontracted some kind ofAfghan mountain bacteria

thatattackedmystomachlikeMontezuma’s revenge getsyou in Mexico. I swear toGod, it came from thatfucking Pepsi bottle. Thatsucker could have poisonedthe population of the HinduKush.Didn’t stopme loving that

first cheeseburger, though.And as soon as Iwas rested,the real intensive debriefingbegan.ItwasrightherethatIlearned, for the first time, of

the full ramifications oflokhay, that the people ofSabraywere indeed preparedto fight for me until no onewasleftalive.Oneoftheintelguys told me those details,which I had suspected butneverknewforsure.These debriefing meetings

revealed sufficient data topinpoint precisely where thebodies of my guys werelying. And I found it reallydifficult. Juststaringdownat

the photographs, reliving, asnoonecouldeverunderstand,the place where my bestbuddy fell, torturing myself,wondering again if I couldhavesavedhim.CouldIhavedone more? That night, forthe first time, I heardMikeyscream.On my third day in the

hospital, thebodiesofMikeyand Danny were broughtdown from the mountains.They were unable to find

Axe.Iwastoldthis,andlaterthatdayIdressed,justinshirtand jeans, so Dr. Dickenscould drive me out for theRamp Ceremony, one of themostsacredSEALtraditions,in which we say a formalgood-byetoalostbrother.Itwasthefirsttimeanyone

had seen me outside of myimmediate entourage, andthey probably received amajor shock. I was scrubbedand neat, but not much like

theMarcustheyknew.AndIwas ill from my brutalencounter with thatgoddamnedPepsibottle.The C-130 was parked on

the runway, ramp down.There were around twohundredmilitarypersonnelinattendance when theHumvees arrived bearing thetwocoffins,eachdrapedwiththeAmericanflag.Andallofthem snapped to attention,instantly, no commands, as

the SEALs stepped forwardtoclaimtheirbrothers.Veryslowly,withimmense

dignity,theyliftedthecoffinshigh, and then carried thebodies of Mikey and Dannythefiftyyards to therampoftheaircraft.Ipositionedmyselfrightat

the back and watched as theguys carefully bore mybuddies on their first stepsback to the United States. Athousand memories stood

before me, as I guess theywould have done to anyonewho’d been at Murphy’sRidge.Danny, crashing down the

mountain, his right thumbblown off, still firing, shotagain and again and again,rising up as I dragged himaway, rising up to aim hisrifleattheenemyoncemore,still firing, still defiant, awarriortohislastbreath.Andhere he comes in that

polishedwoodcoffin.Outinfrontwasthecoffin

that carried Mikey Murphy,our officer, who had walkedoutintothefirestormtomakethat last call on his cellphone, the one that placedhiminmortaldanger,theonechance, he believed, to saveus.Gunned down by the

Taliban, right through theback,bloodpouringoutofhischest, his phone in the dust,

and he still picked it up.“Roger that, sir.Thankyou.”Wasanyoneeverbraver thanthat? I remember beingawestruck at the way hesomehow stood up andwalked toward me, tall anderect, and carried right onfiring until they finally blewhalfhisheadaway.“Marcus,thisreallysucks.”Hewas right then.Andhe

wasstillrightatthismoment.It did suck. As they carried

Mikey to theplane, I tried tothink of an epitaph for mygreatest buddy, and I couldonly come up with somepoem written by theAustralian Banjo Paterson, Iguessforoneofhisheroes,asMikeywasmine:

Hewashardandtoughandwiry—justthesortthatwon’tsaydie—

Therewascourageinhisquick,impatienttread;

Andheborethebadgeofgamenessinhisbrightandfieryeye,

Andtheproudandloftycarriageofhishead.

That was Lieutenant

Michael Patrick Murphyprecisely. You can trust me

on that. I lived with him,trainedwithhim,foughtwithhim, laughed with him, anddamn near died with him.Everywordofthatpoemwasinscribedforhim.And now they were

carrying him past the crowd,past me, and suddenly mysenior commanders cameoverand toldme itwouldbefitting for me to stand rightby the ramp. So I movedforward and stood as rigidly

toattentionasmybackwouldallow.Thechaplainmovedupthe

ramp, and as the coffinsmoved forward,hebeganhishomily. I know it was not afuneral, not the one theirfamilies would attend backhome in theStates.Thiswasourfuneral,themomentwhenwe, his other family, allserving overseas together,would say our final good-byes to two very great men.

The voice of the priest, outthere on the edge of theaircraft hold, was soft. Hestoodtherespeakinginpraiseof their lives and asking onelast favor from God — “Toletperpetual lightshineuponthem...”I watched as around

seventy people, SEALs,Rangers, and Green Berets,filed forward and walkedslowly into the aircraft,paused, saluted with the

greatest solemnity, and thendisembarked. I stayed on theground until last of all. Andthen I too walked slowlyforward up the ramp, to theplace where the coffinsrested.Inside, beyond the SEAL

escort to the coffins, I saw avery hard combat veteran,Petty Officer Ben Saunders,one of Danny’s closestfriends, weepinguncontrollably. Ben was a

tough mountain boy fromWestVirginia, expert trackerandclimber,kindof spiritualabout the wild lands. Andnow he was pressed againstthe bulkhead, too upset toleave, too broken up to godownthesteps.(HewasSDVTeam2,sameasDanny.)Ikneltdownbythecoffins

and said my good-bye toDanny. Then I turned to theone that contained Mikey,and Iputmyarmsaround it,

andIthinkIsaid,“I’msorry.I’m just so sorry.” I don’treally remember it veryclearly.But I remember howI felt. I remember notknowing what to do. Iremember thinking howMikey’s remainswould soonbetakenaway,andhowsomepeoplewouldforgethim,andothers would remember himslightly, and a few wouldremember him well and, Iknow,withaffection.

But the death of Mikeywould affect no one as itwould affect me. No onewould miss him in the waythat I would. And feel hispain,andhearhisscream.Noone would encounter Mikeyin the small hours, in theirworstnightmares,asIwould.Andstillcareabouthim,andstillwonder if theyhaddoneenoughforhim.AsIdo.Isteppedoutoftheaircraft

and walked unaided to the

bottom of the steps. Dr.Dickens met me and droveme back to the hospital. Istood there and listened fortheC-130totakeoff, tohearit roar off the runway andcarry Mikey and Dannywestwardintothesettingsun,afewmilesclosertoheaven.And the words from a

thousand memorial servicesflickered through my mind:“Age shall not weary them,nor the years condemn. / At

the going down of the sunandin themorning/Wewillremember them.” Right herein bed in Bagram,Afghanistan, I wasconducting my own militaryservice for my two fallenbuddies.My new worry was Axe.

Where was he? Surely hecouldnothavelived?Buttheguys couldnot findhim, andthat was bad. I’d pinpointedthat hollow where we both

had rested and waited fordeath while the unseenTaliban rained fire down onusfrombehindtherocksandfinally blew us both acrosstheopengroundtooblivion.I’d survived, but I had not

beenshotfivetimeslikeAxe.AndIknewtotheinchwherehewaslast timeIsawhim.Italked to the guys again, andthe SEAL commandwas notabout to leave him up there.They were going in again,

this time with more intel ifpossible,more searchers, andmorelocalguidance.I suggested they find the

village elder from Sabray, ifhe was still in residence.Because he of all peoplecouldsurely lead themto thedead SEAL. I learned rightthen from the intel guys thatthe gentleman I referred towas the headman of all thethree villages we hadobserved. He was a man

hugely revered in the HinduKush, because this is aculture thatdoesnotworshipyouth and cheap televisioncelebrity. Those tribesmentreasure, above all things,knowledge, experience, andwisdom.We did contact him

immediately, and a few dayslater, the same old man,Gulab’s father,my protector,walked through themountains again for maybe

four or fivemiles. This timehe was at the head of anAmerican SEAL team, theAlfa Platoon, whichcontained many of mybuddies, Mario, Corey,Garrett,Steve,Sean,Jim,andJames. (No last names.Active special ops guys,right?)There was also a group

from Echo Platoon. All daythey tramped over the steepmountainside, and they took

extra water and food withthem, in case it took longer.But this time they were notcomingbackwithoutAxe.Nosir. We never leave anyonealone.Theelderhardlyspokeone

wordtothem.Buthewalkeddirectly to the exact placewhere the body of MatthewGeneAxelsonwas lying.Hisface had been blasted byclose-range gunfire, in thatquaint,old-fashionedwaythe

Taliban have when they finda mortally woundedAmerican. By the way, ifanyone should dare to utterthewordsGenevaConventionwhile I’m writing this, Imight more or less losecontrol.Anyway, they found Axe,

with the bullets the Talibanrifles had emptied into hisface as he lay dying, just asthey had done toMikey.ButAxe was in a different place

fromwhereIthought.Iknowwe were both blown out oftheholebytheRPG,becauseIwentovertheprecipice.ButAxewasafewhundredyardseven farther away. No onequiteknowshowhegotthere.Axe still had three

magazines left for his pistolwhen the grenade hit us.Butwhentheyfoundhim,hewason the last one. And thatcould mean only one thing:Axe must have fought on,

recovering consciousnessafter the blast and going forthose bastards again, firingmaybe thirty more rounds atthem;musthavedriven themmad. I guess that’s why,when he inevitablysuccumbed to his mostshocking injuries, they hadaccorded him that barbarictribalfinale.I used to think Audie

Murphy was the ultimateAmericanwarrior.I’mnotso

sureaboutthat.Notnow.Notanymore. And it upsets memorethanIcansay,thinkingwhat they did, in the end, toMikey and Axe. It upsetsMorgan so bad, no one caneven mention Axe’s namewithout him having to leavethe room. Iguessyouhad toknowhimtounderstand that.There were not many likeMatthewAxelson.Well, by the time they

brought Axe down, I was

gone. They flew me out onthe night of July 8, in a bigmilitary Boeing, the C-141,on a long journey toGermany. Jeff Delapentaaccompanied me, never leftmy side once. And there Ichecked in to the regionalmedicalcenterattheU.S.AirForce base at Landstuhl, upnear the western border withFrance, about fifty-fivemilessouthwestofFrankfurt.I was there for about nine

days, recovering andreceiving treatment for mywounds and therapy for thehealing bones in my back,shoulder, and wrist. But thatPepsi bottle bug wouldn’tbudge from my stomach. Itshowed major resistance forlongmonthsandmadeithardtoregainmylostweight.But I came through it and

finally left Germany for thefour-thousand-mile ride backto the U.S.A. This time

Lieutenant Clint Burk, myswim buddy in BUD/S,accompanied me, along withDr.Dickens.ClintandIhavebeen closest friends forever,andthejourneypassedprettyquickly.We traveled in a C-17 cargo plane, upstairs infirst class...well, nearly. Butinseats.Itwasgreat.Andwetouched down nine hourslater in Maryland. Then thenavyhitchedarideforusinaGulfstreamprivate jet owned

byasenator.AndIguess Iarrivedback

insomestyle toSanAntonioAirport, Texas, which standsalmost two hundred mileswest of Houston, right alongRoute 10 and over theColoradoRiver.BackhomeIguess there had been sometalk that Imight be taken onto SanDiego, but apparentlyMorgan just said, “You canforget all about that. He’scoming home, and we’re

goingtogethim.”Theysaddledupthefamily

Suburban, Morgan and mykid brother, Scottie, plus theSEALsLieutenantJJ,andJT.And they set off across theLoneStarState tocollect thebrothertheyhadbeentoldbythe media was dead. Icouldn’tbelieveitwhenIsawthem all waiting there whenmyprivatejetlanded.There were a few tears

from all of us. Just tears of

happiness, I guess, becausethey had all lived with thedarkest of threats, that wewould not see one anotherever again. I have to say thethought had also crossed mymindafewtimesaswell.ButmostlyIrememberthe

laughter. “Jesus, you lookawful,” said Morgan.“Mom’ll have a nervousbreakdown when she seesyou.”ItremindedmeofwhatI’d said to Axe when he’d

been fatally wounded on themountain — “Hey, man,you’reallfuckedup.”It’sjustthewaywetalkto

each other. Remember,MorganwasaSEAL,andhiswords, even to his twinbrother, were tempered withhumor, like all of our wordsamong ourselves. One day itcould be Morgan trapped onthemountainandmewaitingfor him, beside myself withworry and fear for his life. I

recallhedidtellmehelovedme, though, and so didScottie.And thatmeant a lottome.In the absence of

Commander Pero, Scottierustled up a bagful ofcheeseburgers for the five-hour journey home, and weguffawed our way acrossTexas;memakinglightofmyordeal, telling ’em it wasn’tmuch really, none of thembelieving me. I guess it’s

impossibletolookasbadasIdid when it wasn’t muchreally.Butwehad some fun, and

in theend, I told thema fewof the bits that were on theserious side of horrendous.Morgan wept like a childwhen I told him about Axe.We all went pretty quietwhile that was happening,because therewere nowordswhich could comfort him,nothing that could ever be

said to ease his sadness. Inmy view, nothing ever will.SamewithmeandMikey.Eventuallyweran intoour

little corner of East Texas.Everyone pulled together aswedrovedownthatwide,reddirt road to the ranch, thehomeIthoughtImightneverseeagain.Thosebigoaksstilltowered over the place, andDad’sdogscamerunningouttomeet us, barking like hell,with Emma unusually out in

the lead,waggingher tail, asif she knew something theothersdidn’t.Mom predictably broke

down at the sight of me,becauseIwasstillmore thanthirty pounds lighter thanwhenshe lastsawme.AndIguessIstilllookedprettyill.Inever told her about thegoddamned typhoid-ladenPepsi bottle.A ton of peoplewere there, from all aroundthe neighborhood, to greet

me.I didn’t know at the time

that these people had formedthe bedrock of the five-dayprayer vigil that had takenplaceon thepropertywhile Iwasmissing.Avigiltowhichnoonehadbeen invited, andno one knew if anyone elsewould be there; a vigil bornof pure friendship andconcern, which started withsuch melancholy prophesiesof doom and tenuous hopes,

but ended on the sunlituplands of answered prayers.I could scarcely believe itwhen I heard what hadhappened.And yet, standing right

before me, was the cast-ironevidence of the love thoseTexansmusthavehadformeandforwhatIhadtriedtodoon behalf of my country. Itcame in the formofabrand-new stone house standingacrossanewpavedcourtyard,

maybe twenty feet from themainhouse.Itwastwofloorshigh, with a wide, timberedupper deck around thebedrooms, which abutted atall, stone-walled shower,custom-made for me. Inside,the house was perfectlydecorated, carpeted, andfurnished, with a big plasmatelevision.“How the hell did that get

here?” I asked Mom. Andwhat she then told me blew

me away. It started with avisit, after the vigil hadended, from a marvelousTexanlandownercalledScottWhitehead. He was just oneof somanywho came to seemy parents and express hisdelightthatIhadbeenfound.He’d never, by theway,metanyofthefamilybefore.And before he went, he

explained he had a closefriend who owned aconstruction company in

Houston and wondered ifthere was anything Marcusmight like when he camehome.Momexplainedhow I had

always wanted a little spaceof my own where Icould...well...chill, as the lateShane Patton wouldundoubtedly have expressedit. And perhaps a smallextension off my lower-floorbedroommightbereallynice.Shewasthinkingrock-bottom

price,andmaybesheandDadcouldmanagethat.Next thing that happened,

she said, two of the biggesttrucks she’d ever seen camerolling into the drive,accompaniedbyacraneandamechanical digger, a coupleof architects, site engineers,and God knows what else.Then, Mom says, a team ofaround thirty guys, workingtwenty-four hours a day inshifts over three days, built

meahouse!Scott Whitehead just said

hewasproud tohavedoneasmall favor for a very greatTexan(Christ!Hemeantme,I think). And he still callsMomeveryday,justtocheckwe’reallokay.Anyway, Morgan and I

moved in, freeing up spaceforthestreamofSEALswhostill kept coming to see us.And I stayed home with thefamily,restingfortwoweeks,

during which time Momfoughta fiercerunningbattlewith the Pepsi bottle bug,trying toget someweightonme.Scott Whitehead’s boys

had thought of everything.They even had the housephone wired up in my newresidence, and the first call Ireceivedwasarealsurprise.Ipickeditupandavoicesaid,“Marcus,thisisGeorgeBush.Iwasforty-one.”

Jesus! This was the forty-first president of the UnitedStates.Iknewthatrealquick.President Bush lives inHouston.“Yessir,” I replied. “Ivery

definitely know exactly whoyouare.”“Well, I just called you to

tellyouhowproudweallareof you. And my son’s realproud, and he wants you toknow the United States ofAmericaisrealproudofyou,

your gallantry, and yourcourageunderfire.”Hell,youcouldtellhewas

a military man, right off. Iknew about his record,torpedo bomber pilot in thePacific, World War II, shotdown by the Japanese,Distinguished Flying Cross.The man who appointedGeneral Colin Powell asChairmanoftheJointChiefs.VictoroftheGulfWar.Are you kidding! “I’m

George, forty-one, callingyou to let you know howproud we are of you!” Thatreally broke me up. He toldme if I needed anything, nomatter what, “be sure to callme.” Then he gave me hisphone number. How aboutthat? Me, Marcus? I mean,Jesus, he didn’t have to dothat. Are Texans the greatestpeople in theworldorwhat?Maybe you don’t think so,butIbetyouseemypoint.

I was thrilled PresidentBush had called. And Ithanked him sincerely. I justtold him at the end,“Anything shakes loose, sir,I’llbesuretocall.Yessir.”Bymid-August, still being

intheU.S.Navy,Ihadtogoback to Hawaii (SDV Team1). During my two weeksthere I had a visit from thechief of Naval Operations,Admiral Mike Mullin, directfromthePentagon.

Heaskedmetocomeoverto the commanding officer’sofficeandpromotedmerightthereon thespot,mademeaPetty Officer First Class, nobullshit.He’s the head of the U.S.

Navy. And that was thegreatest honor I had everreceived. It was a moment Iwill never forget, juststandingthereinthepresenceof Admiral Mullin. He toldmehewasveryproudofme.

Anditdoesn’tgetawholelotbigger than that. I nearlycrackedup.Perhapsciviliansmightnot

appreciatewhyanhonor likethatmeansalltheworldtoallofus; that sacred recognitionthat you have served yourcountry well, that you havedoneyourdutyandsomehowmanaged to live up to thehighestpossibleexpectations.Even though it may seem

like a strange ritual in a

foreign tribe, kinda likelokhay,probably,Ihopey’allgetmydrift.Anyway, he asked me if

there was anything he coulddoformeandItoldhimtherewasjustonething.Ihadwithme theTexaspatch I’dwornon my chest throughout myservice in Afghanistan,fighting the Taliban and alQaeda. This is the patch thatbears the Lone Star. It wasburned from the blast of that

last RPG, and it was stillblood-spattered, though I’dtriedtogetitcleaned.ButI’dwrappeditinplastic,andyoucould see the Star of Texasclearly.And I askedAdmiralMullin if he could give it tothe president of the UnitedStates.He replied that he most

certainly would and that hebelieved that PresidentGeorge W. Bush would behonoredtohaveit.

“Wouldyou like to sendabrief letter tothepresident toaccompany thebattlepatch?”AdmiralMullinaskedme.But I told him no. “I’d be

gratefulifyou’djustgiveittohim, sir. President Bush is aTexan.He’llunderstand.”I had another request to

makeaswell,but I restrictedthat to my immediatesuperiors.Iwantedtogobackto Bahrain and rejoin myguys from SDVTeam 1 and

ultimately bring them homeattheconclusionoftheirtourofduty.“Ideployedwiththem,and

I want to come back withthem,” I said, and my verygoodfriendMario,theofficerin charge of Alfa Platoon,considered this to beappropriate. And onSeptember 12, 2005, I flewback to the Middle East,coming in to landat theU.S.air base onMuharraq Island,

same place I’d left withMikey, Axe, Shane, James,and Dan Healy, bound forAfghanistan,fivemonthsago.Iwastheonlyoneleft.Theydrovemeoutoverthe

causeway, back to theAmerican base up in thenortheast corner of thecountry on the westernoutskirtsofthecapitalcityofManama. We drove throughthe downtown area, throughtheplaceswherepeoplemade

it soplain theyhatedus,andthistimeIadmittherewasanedgeofwari-nessinmysoul.I knew now, firsthand, whatjihadisthatredwas.I was reunited with my

guys,andIstayedinBahrainuntil late October. Then weallreturnedtoHawaii,whileIprepared for another arduousjourney, the one I hadpromised myself, promisedmy departed brothers in myprayers, and promised the

families,whenever I could. Iintended to see all therelatives and to explainwhatexemplaryconductalloftheirsons, husbands, and brothershad displayed on the frontline of the battle againstworldterror.Isuppose,inasense,Iwas

filling inapartofme,whichhad missed seeing theoutpouringofgriefas,onebyone, my teammates returnedfrom Afghanistan. I had

missed the funerals, whichmostly took place before Ireturned. And the memorialservices immaculatelyconductedbythenavyformyfallencomrades.Forinstance,thefuneralof

LieutenantMikeyMurphyonLong Island,NewYork,wasenormous.Theycloseddownentire roads, busy roads.There were banners hangingacross the highway on theLong Island Expressway in

memory of a Navy SEALwho had paid the ultimateprice in our assault on thewarriorsofalQaeda.There were police escorts

for the cortege as thousandsofordinarypeopleturnedouttopay their last respects to alocal son who had giveneverything for his country.Andtheydidnotevenknowaquarterofwhathehadgiven.Neither did anyone else.Exceptforme.

I was shown a picture ofthe service at the cemeterygraveside. It was held in aslashing downpour of rain,everyone soaked, with thestone-faced Navy SEALsstanding there in dressuniform, solemn, unflinchingin the rainstorm, as theylowered Mikey into theendlesssilenceofthegrave.Every one of the bodies

was flown homeaccompanied by a SEAL

escortwhoworefulluniformand stood guard over eachcoffin, which was draped inthe Stars and Stripes. As Imentioned,evenindeath,weneverleaveanyonebehind.They closed Los Angeles

International Airport for thearrival of JamesSuh’s plane.Therewerenoarrivalsandnotakeoffs permitted while theaircraft was making itsapproach and landing.Nothing, until the escort had

brought out the coffin andplaceditinthehearse.The State of Colorado

damn near closed down forthe arrival of the body ofDanny Dietz, because thestory of his heroism on themountain had somehowbeenleaked to the press. But likethe good citizens of LongIsland, the people ofColorado never knew even aquarter of what that mightywarrior had done in the face

of the enemy, on behalf ofournation.They actually did close

downtheentirecityofChico,in northern California, whenAxe camehome. It’s a smalltown, situated aroundseventy-five miles north ofSacramento, with its ownmunicipal airport. The escortwas met by an honor guardwhich carried out the coffininfrontofahugecrowd,andthefuneraladaylaterstopped

the entire place in its tracks,so serious were the trafficjams.Itwasalljustpeopletrying

topaytheirlastrespects.Thesame everywhere. And I amleft feeling that no matterhow much the drip-drip-dripof hostility toward us isperpetuated by the liberalpress, the American peoplesimplydonotbelieveit.TheyarerightlyproudofthearmedforcesoftheUnitedStatesof

America. They innatelyunderstandwhatwe do.Andno amount of poison aboutour alleged brutality,disregard of the GenevaConvention,andabuseof thehuman rights of terrorists isgoing to change what mostpeoplethink.I doubt any editor of any

media outfit would get areception like the SEALsearned, even though thesecombat troops had achieved

their highest moments in theenforcedprivacyoftheHinduKush. Perhaps the mediaofferedtheAmericanpublicapoisoned chalice and thenchuggeditbackthemselves.Some members of the

media might think they canbrainwashthepublicanytimethey like, but I know theycan’t. Not here. Not in theUnitedStatesofAmerica.Certainly on our long

journey to visit the relatives,

we were met only withwarmth, friendship, andgratitudeasrepresentativesofthe U.S. Navy. I think ourpresence in those scatteredhomes all over the countrydemonstratedonceandforallthat the memories of thosebeloved men will be forevertreasured, not only by thefamilies,butbythenavytheyserved. Because the U.S.Navycaresenormouslyaboutthese matters. Believe me,

theyreallycare.ThemomentIsuggestedto

my superiors that theremaining members of AlfaPlatoon should make thejourney, the navy offeredtheirsupportandimmediatelyagreed we should all go andthattheywouldpayeverylastdollarthetripmightcost.We arrived back in San

Diego andhired threeSUVs.Then we drove up to LasVegas to meet the family of

my assistant Shane Patton,who died in the helicoptercrash on the mountain. Wearrived on Veterans Day.Theymadeusguestsofhonorat the graveside for thememorialservice.Itwasveryupsettingforme.Shane’sdadhad been a SEAL, and heunderstood how well I knewhisson.IdidthebestIcould.ThenweflewtoNewYork

to see Mikey’s mother andfiancée, and after that Iwent

to Washington, D.C., to seethe parents of LieutenantCommander Eric Kristensen,our acting commandingofficer, the veteran SEALcommanding officer whodropped everything thatafternoon and rushed out tothe helicopter, piling in withthe guys, slamming amagazine into his rifle, andtelling them Mikey neededevery gun he could get. Ithink it was Eric to whom

Mikey spoke when he madethatlastfatefulphonecall.I told Admiral Kristensen,

his father, that Eric wouldalwaysbeaherotome,ashewas to all of thosewho diedwith him on the mountain.Our CO was buried at theU.S. Naval Academy inAnnapolis.We went to Arlington

National Cemetery afterwardto visit the graves ofLieutenant Mike McGreevy

Jr. and Petty Officer FirstClass Jeff Lucas, of Corbett,Oregon.Theybothdiedinthehelicopter and were laid torest shoulder to shoulder inArlington,astheyhaddiedintheHinduKush.Next we flew back across

the country to visit the hugefamilyofPettyOfficerJamesSuh. Everyone came to thecemetery to say a prayer foroneof themostpopularguysintheplatoon.

ChiefDanHealy is buriedin the military cemetery atPoint Loma, San Diego, notfar from Coronado. We allmade the journey tonorthernCalifornia to see his family.ThenwedrovetoChico,andItoldAxe’swife,Cindy,howhard he had fought, what ahero he was, and how hisfinal words to me were “tellCindyIloveher.”Danny Dietz was from

Colorado,andthat’swherehe

was buried. But his familylivedinVirginianearthebaseat Virginia Beach. I went tosee his very beautiful, dark-haired wife, Patsy, and triedthe best I could to explainwhat a critical role he hadplayed in our team and how,in the end, he went downfighting as bravely as anyman who ever served in theU.S.ArmedForces.But grief like Patsy

suffered is very hard to

assuage. I know she felt herloss had smashed her lifeirrevocably, though shewould try to put it together.ButshesatwithDanny’stwobig dogs, and before I went,shesaidsimply,“I justknowthere will never be anothermanlikeDanny.”No argument from me

aboutthat.Astheyeardrewtoanend,

my injuries improved butremained, and I was posted

backtoCoronado.Idetachedfrom SDVT 1 and joinedSEAL Team 5, where I wasappointed leading pettyofficer(LPO)toAlfaPlatoon.Like all SEAL platoons, ithas anear-clockworkengine.Theofficerisresponsible,thechief is in charge, the LPOrunsit.Theyevengavemeadesk, and the commandingofficer, Commander RicoLenway, instantly becamelike a father to me, as did

MasterChiefPeteNaschek,asuper guy and veteran ofdamnneareverywhere.Butitwasaveryreflective

time for me, returning toCoronado, where I had notlived since BUD/S sevenyears ago. I walked backdown to the beachwhere I’dfirst learned the realities oflife as a Navy SEAL andwhatwasexpectedandwhatImust tolerate; the cold, thefreezing cold and the pain;

the ability to obey an orderinstantly, without question,without rancor, the bedrocksofourdiscipline.RighthereI’drun,jumped,

heaved, pushed ’em out,swum, floundered, andstrived to within an inch ofmy life. I’d somehow keptgoingwhileothersfellbythewayside.Amillionhopesanddreams had been smashedrighthereonthistide-washedsand.Butnotmine,andIhad

a funny feeling that for methis beach would forever behaunted by the ghost of theyoung, struggling MarcusLuttrell,laboringtokeepup.I walked back to my first

barracks and nearly jumpedout of my boots when thathowling decom plantscreamed into action. And Iwent and stood by thegrinder, where the SEALcommanders had finallyofferedmewarmwishesafter

presenting me with myTrident. Where I had firstshaken the hand of AdmiralJoeMaguire.I looked at the silent bell

outsidetheBUD/Sofficeandat the place where thedropouts leave their helmets.Soon there would be morehelmets, when the newBUD/Sclassbegan.LasttimeI was here I’d been in dressuniform, along with a groupof immaculately turned-out

newSEALs,manyofwhomIhadsubsequentlyservedwith.And itoccurred tome that

any one of them, on anygiven day, would have doneallthesamethingsIhaddoneinmy lastcombatmission intheHinduKush.Iwasn’tanydifferent. Iwas just, Ihoped,the same Texas country boywho’d come through thegreatest training system onearth,withthegreatestbunchof guys anyone could ever

meet. The SEALs, thewarriors, the front line ofUnited States militarymuscle. I still get a lump inmy throat when I think ofwhoweallare.Iremembermybackached

a bit as I stood there on thegrinder, lost in my ownthoughts, and my wrist, asever, hurt, pending anotheroperation. And I suppose Iknew deep down I wouldnever be quite the same

physically, never as combat-hardasIoncewas,becauseIcannot manage the runningand climbing. Still, I neverwasOlympicstandard!But I did live my dream,

and then some, and I guessI’ll be asked many timeswhetherithadallbeenworthitintheend.AndmyanswerwillalwaysbethesameoneIgavesooftenonmyfirstday.“Affirmative,sir.”Because

Icamethroughit,andIhave

mymemories,andIwouldn’thave tradedanyof it,not forthe whole world. I’m aUnitedStatesNavySEAL.

Epilogue:LoneStar

On September 13, 2005,Danny Dietz and MatthewAxelson were awarded thehighest honor which eithertheUnitedStatesNavyortheMarineCorps can bestow onanyone—theNavyCrossforcombat heroism. I wassummoned to the White

House to receive mine onJuly18thefollowingyear.I was accompanied bymy

brothers,MorganandScottie,my mom and dad, and myclose friend Abbie. SEALTeam 5’s CommanderLenway and Master ChiefPeteNaschekwerealsothere,with Lieutenant Drexler,AdmiralMaguire’saide.Attired in full dress blues,

my new PurpleHeart pinnedon my chest, close to my

Trident, I walked into theOvalOffice.ThepresidentoftheUnitedStates,GeorgeW.Bush,stooduptogreetme.“It’sanhonortomeetyou,

sir,”Isaid.Andthepresidentgaveme

thatlittlesmileofhis,whichItook to mean, We’re bothTexans,right?Andhesaid,alittle bit knowingly, “It’smypleasuretomeetyou,son.”He looked at the cast on

myleftwrist,andI toldhim,

“I’m just trying to get backintothefight,sir.”I shook his hand, and he

had a powerful handshake.Andhelookedmerightintheeyewithahard, steadygaze.Last time anyone looked atme like that was BenSharmak inAfghanistan.Butthatwasbornofhatred.Thiswas a look betweencomrades.Our handshake was

prolonged and, for me,

profound. This was mycommanderinchief,andrightnow I had his total attention,asIwouldhaveeverytimehespoke to me. President Bushdoes that naturally, speakingas if there is no one else inthe room for him. This wasonepowerfulman.IrememberIwantedtotell

himhowallmybuddies lovehim,believe inhim, and thatwe’reout there ready tobustourasses forhimanytimehe

needs us.But he knows that.He’sourguy.EvenShane inhis leopard-skin coatrecognized our C in C as “arealdude.”President Bush seemed to

know what I was thinking.And he slapped me on theshoulder and said, “Thankyou, Marcus. I’m proud ofyou,son.”Ihavenowordstodescribe

what that meant to me, howmuch it all mattered. I came

to attention, and LieutenantDrexler readoutmy citation.And the president oncemorecame towardme. Inhishandhe carried the fabled NavyCross, with its dark blueribbon that’s slashed downthe center by a white stripe,signifyingselflessness.The cross itself features a

navy ship surrounded by awreath.The president pinnedit directly belowmyTrident.And he said again, “Marcus,

I’mveryproudofyou.AndIreallyliketheSEALs.”Again I thanked him.And

thenhesawmeglanceathisdesk,andonitwasthebattlepatch I’d asked AdmiralMullintopresenttohim.Thepresident grinned and said,“Rememberthis?”“Yessir.” Did I ever

remember it. I’d hidden thatbaby inmyAfghan trousers,just to make sure thoseTalibanbastardsdidn’tget it.

And now here it was again,right on the desk of thepresidentoftheUnitedStates,theLoneStarofTexas,battlewornbutstillthere.We talked privately for a

fewminutes,anditwasclearto me, President Bush knewall about the firefight onMurphy’sRidge.And indeedhowIhadmanagedtogetoutofthere.At the end of our chat, I

reached over and picked up

the patch, just for old times’sake. And the presidentsuddenly said, in that richTexan accent, “Now you putthat down, boy!That doesn’tbelongtoyouanymore.”We both laughed, and he

told me my former battlepatchwasgoing tohis futuremuseum. As I left the OvalOfficehetoldme,“Anythingyou need, Marcus. That’sanything. You call me righthere, on that phone,

understand?”“Yessir.”Anditstillfeltto

me like two Texans meetingforthefirsttime.Oneof’emkinda paternal,understanding. The otherabsolutely awestruck in thepresence of a very greatUnited States president, andmycommanderinchief.

Afterword

byPatrickRobinson

In the fall of 2006, MarcusLuttrell was redeployed withSEAL Team 5 in Iraq. At0900 on Friday, October 6,thirty-sixof them tookoff in

amilitary Boeing C-17 fromNorthAir Station,Coronado,bound for Ar Ramadi, theU.S. base which lies sixtymiles west of Baghdad— anotorious trouble spot, ofcourse. That’s why theSEALsweregoing.The fact that the navy had

deployed their wounded,decoratedherooftheAfghanmountainswasaconsiderablesurprisetomanypeople,mostof whom thought he would

leave SPECWARCOM forthe less dangerous life of acivilian. Because even aftermore than a year, his backwas still painful, his batteredwrist was less than perfect,andhestillsufferedfromthatconfounded Afghan stomachbug he had contracted fromthePepsibottle.But the deployment of

Marcus Luttrell was apersonal matter. He alonecalledtheshots,notthenavy.

His contractwith the SEALsstillhadmanymonthstorun,andtherewasnowayhewasgoing to quit. I think wementioned,thereain’tnoquitin him. Marcus wanted tostay, to fulfill his newobligations as leading pettyofficer (Alfa Platoon), aposition which carries heavyresponsibilities.To me, he said, “I don’t

want my guys to go withoutme. Because if anything

happened to them and Iwasn’t there, Iguess Iwouldnotforgivemyself.”And so Marcus Luttrell

went back to war. The C-17was packed with all theworldly goods of SEALTeam 5, from machine gunsto hand grenades. On boardthe flight was Petty OfficerMorgan Luttrell (BravoPlatoon), a new posting notabsolutely guaranteed todelighttheirmother.

Marcushadanewpatchonhischest, identical totheoneonthepresident’sdeskintheOvalOffice.“That’swhoI’mfightingfor,boy,”hetoldme.“My country, and the LoneStarState.”The lastwords tomefrom

thisconsummateNavySEALwere“I’mouttaherewithmyguys for a few months. Godhelp the enemy, and GodblessTexas.”

Acknowledgments

Manythankstomycoauthor,Patrick Robinson, whoseadmirationandrespectfortheSEALs is reflected in somany of his novels. Heunderstood I had made asolemn, private vow to theguys that I would somehow

getoutandrelatethestoryoftheir gallantry and unendingcourage. Patrick made thispossible,beyondmyhopes. Icouldnotpossiblyhavedoneitwithouthim.I also owe thanks to the

senior commanders ofSPECWAR-COM, whograntedmepermission to tellmy story: in particular toAdmiral JoeMaguire; to ourjudge advocate general,Captain Jo King; and to

Captain Barbara Ford, whohelped me through thenetwork of navaladministration prior topublication.MyskipperinSEALTeam

5,CommanderRicoLenway,and Master Chief PeteNaschek unfailinglyunderstood my requests forlatitude during the longprocess of writing the book.As their leading petty officer(AlfaPlatoon)Iowethemmy

thanks, not only for theircooperationbutalso for theircertainty that the storyof theguyson themountain shouldbemadepublic.Iwouldalsoliketoexpress

my appreciation to ex–NavySEALDickCouch,authorofthe excellent book TheWarriorElite,thestoryofthetrainingofBUD/SClass228.I, of course, was there andappear inhisbookfromtimeto time, but I referred to

Captain Couch’s well-keptlog of events for accuratetimes, dates, sequences, andrateofdropouts. I hadnotes,but not as good as his, andI’mgrateful.Thanksarealsodue tomy

mom and dad, David andHolly Luttrell, for so manythings, but especially, in thiscontext, for sitting down andrelating, chapter and verse,the extraordinary events thattook place back at the ranch

in the early summer of 2005whileIwasmissinginaction.Finally, my fellow SEAL

and twin brother, Morgan,who came storming into theranch within hours of theBattle for Murphy’s Ridge,sworetoGodIwasalive,andnever stopped encouragingeveryone. Devastated by thedeath of his great friendMatthew Axelson, still tooupset to talkabout it,hewasnonetheless there for me,

helping to correct andimprove the manuscript...stillwithme,ashe’salwaysbeenandIhopealwayswillbe.Justlikewesay,bro,From

the womb to the tomb! Andnoone’severgoingtochangethat.

—MarcusLuttrell

AbouttheAuthors

PettyOfficerMarcusLuttrellwas raised on his parents’horse ranch in Texas. HejoinedtheUnitedStatesNavyinMarch1999,was awardedhis Trident as a combat-trained Navy SEAL inJanuary 2002, and joined

SEALTeam5inBaghdadinApril 2003. In the spring of2005 he was deployed toAfghanistan.Hewasawardedthe Navy Cross for combatheroismin2003byPresidentBush.Patrick Robinson is knownforhisbestsellingU.S.Navy–based novels, most notably,NimitzClass,Kilo-Class,andSeawolf. His autobiographyof Admiral Sir Sandy

Woodward, One HundredDays, was an internationalbestseller. He lives inEngland but spends hissummers on Cape Cod,Massachusetts, where he andMarcus Luttrell wrote LoneSurvivor.