Prologue
~Gentry~
“Hawkins,” Callahan whispers my last name with his eyes wide as we get the communication in our earbuds that we will cross the threshold into a room with two children and a female before we reach our target. The look is wide-eyed and it’s an automatic tell that he is drowning in the fear.
“Frogmen don’t hesitate,” I remind him just as our team breeches the doorway. “It gets ya killed.”
Callahan is new to the team. Young buck just from BUD/S and on his first small unit mission. I remember my first – a drug bust on a Columbian cartel. It doesn’t compare to the shit we see over here though.
The sandbox isn’t some childhood fun. No, this place is dry, gritty, and leaves a bad fucking taste in your mouth. Get in, get out, and hope like fuck you don’t lose a limb or end up on a plane back to the states in a wooden box.
On a hustle, we file in. There are only four of us on this intel team. We each have our individual skillset we bring to the table, making up one hell of a team. Since we are SEALs, things are slightly different then the regular Navy. While most military personnel use last names, we do that, but we also earn our team name. Shifty, whose last name is Moser, is always our driver and translator, he shifts gears in our ride and the fucker can cuss you out in twelve languages. Daniels goes by Slim because there is a slim chance any of us could kick his ass in hand-to-hand combat. Daniels is also our team leader. Callahan doesn’t have a team name yet. Although, if I had to give him one right now it would be Rabbit. He’s bouncing around like there is a bunny for him to pounce on. They call me Rock, because I am solid, heavy to handle, and hard. My job this mission is back-up and babysitter to Callahan.
The powers that be consider this a simplified procedure with no additional personnel necessary. This is a quick mission to procure answers from a shark in a sea of piranhas to get the information we need on a whale. The bigger the fish, the larger the risk.
Shifty translates to the Iraqi family in front of us, telling them we are here for Akram Malid. The woman wails as the kids point their fingers in gun shapes and pretend to fire at us.
Hate.
The air is thick with it.
Stifling.
These kids don’t know shit about life, death, or war. All they know is a group of Americans geared up with weapons just rushed into their living room asking for their dad.
Children, generally speaking, aren’t born to see race, religion, sex, or hate. They are taught it. Honestly, we could be on their side and wear a red, white, and blue shirt, being an American of any kind, their automatic little reaction would be the same until someone told them we were a friendly. That is life over here. Much like the things many Muslims in America face – it doesn’t matter if they agree with what people of their religion are doing, they find themselves stereotyped. It pisses me off.
America – land of the free because of the brave.
I am one of the brave, but even I get disgusted by the things that happen in my home country. Just because I am in the military doesn’t mean I support what goes on in Washington. I follow orders – that’s my job. It’s all out of my control. Just like this situation.
I search the kids’ eyes. What I’m looking for, I don’t know. Maybe I want to see some sliver of hope we are somehow on their side or they are searching for some trust.
We’re not on their side, though.
Fuck no. There is nothing friendly about us and what we do.
This is a mission. One we will execute regardless of the casualties. These kids should be scared – they aren’t. In fact, if they had a weapon turned on us, they would use it without hesitation. Knowing this, I study them harder.
That has me on high alert.
The missions’ no one can know about – the war before the war – we do it. The United States Navy SEALs. The elite. The ones who run straight into danger and chaos, all to help people who either don’t care for help or like tonight, to gather information to help the higher ups sort out what we do next.
Fuck yeah, it’s me. Badass of the badasses.
Shifty spouts off in their native language that we want him, only him, and then we’re out. The woman doesn’t speak just continues to cry out as if we are causing her physical pain even though not a single one of us has touched her.
The dramatics aren’t typical of women in their culture. No, if we were an Iraqi official she would simply stand to the side and allow us access without a word.
This is a play, a ploy. She is warning her man to get out and trying to pull on our emotions. She should know – we don’t have any.
These people, they play on our weaknesses. They use any antics including women and children to feed their end goal. She could strip down right now with a bomb to her belly and not one of us would be fazed. What is crazy is so many people over here will strap those bombs on with the intention to hit the switch and detonate the explosives, knowing they will die. In their culture, it makes them a martyr. They think they will shake us. It doesn’t.
We can’t be rattled.
Our lives, our team, and our country depend on our ability to be ever steady.
Callahan is focused on the two children as I make my advance deeper into the home. Ignoring the woman, the noises, and the smell of spices from their dinner, I move in. A man emerges from the hallway before I can get to the bedroom. He’s obviously gotten his warning from her wails.
I need to search him, but the area is too narrow to do so safely. “Hands up,” I order and he complies easily.
Too easily.
His eyes.
They hold so much evil.
They flash in defiance. He is playing a game.
One, I hope he understands he will lose.
Casually, the man in front of me moves slowly out into the open room. Again, he’s too calm. It’s all too calm which only makes the hair on my arms stand up. There is this flicker, this unintentional blinking he’s doing that tells me this man is thinking and thinking hard. As soon as I get him into open space securely and give the nod, Callahan will pat him down. Until then, I keep my gun trained on him.
One shot.
One kill.
I will take him out without hesitation.
This man is a leader of a terrorist cell that is growing every day. He has created a cyber world that bases him in the United States while he resides in the safety of his country. War-torn or not, he is safe because he chooses to be against Americans. With his cronies in place, he is like a puppet master controlling them as they meet in libraries using our own public facilities back in the states as a base to give out orders via the internet our tax dollars provide. Video conferences spoken in code have been deconstructed and their plans revealed.
“This fucker is cool as a cucumber for a man who could die tonight,” Slim says to all of us as the man moves into the communal space with his family.
To this, Malid laughs. “You American fucks.”
Shifty looks to Malid from the woman who is suddenly silent. Guess we don’t need to translate to his native tongue.
The sweat trickles down my face, my eyes burn, but I don’t dare blink. In the space of the hallway, I couldn’t check him for weapons. Callahan steps forward away from the kids to pat down Malid. I step to the side keeping my weapon trained on Malid. We are all prepared for him to be armed. It’s a matter of when he will react.
Then it happens, he moves his arm. Callahan moves back putting himself closer to the kids and space between him and Malid.
We wait. The rules of engagement, law of war, law of armed conflict, they are engrained in our brains. Our mission was clear. Our command is to stand down unless fired upon. We cannot simply shoot this man without cause. Seconds are like hours when preparing to engage.
Just like that, Malid pulls a gun from his back.
“Put the weapon down!” I order as I move to stand in front of the two children. Callahan moves with me putting himself closer to the kids and I take two steps to the left where I can grab the kids if necessary but my gun remains steady on Malid. The woman stands silent to the side closer to Shifty and Slim. Callahan looks to the kids and puts himself in an awkward position as it seems he is trying to protect them from Malid. I don’t have time to correct him.
“We’re here to talk,” Shifty says, not lowering his weapon from the woman. “Intel, we just want answers.”
It’s a lie. We don’t want to talk here. Our orders are to pick him up and remove him from the home. At our camp, he will get interrogated until he breaks. He won’t simply return home like Shifty is willing to let him think.
Malid is smart. He probably knows what he’s up against.
We know Malid is tied to a bigger terrorist unit, one that is planning an even bigger take down of two American military bases. Malid’s unit has targeted two government facilities that also house some essential Department of Defense personnel used in intelligence warfare. The parent cell that is over Malid, however, they plan an all out assault on Norfolk, Virginia’s Naval base and Camp Lejeune, North Carolina’s Marine Corp base. Both are training operations and crucial to war response for our country. While taking out Malid and his cell is important, gathering the information on who is on the inside for the base takedowns is mission critical.
“Don’t we all want answers,” Malid counters. “For example, why was the sky not blue today but rather slightly gray?”
Cocky fucker.
My finger is twitching to pull the trigger, but I remain ever steady. It’s what we are trained to do. Everything is about our training.
“Go with us peacefully, answer the questions, and you will be back home tomorrow. Your woman, your kids will be safe.” Shifty tells the man who aims his gun at my teammate.
“And what happens if I don’t comply with the almighty American forces that have broken into my home?”
That’s when the ugly comes out. “We kill your woman. We kill your kids. We kill you.” Slim spouts off knowing damn well we will do what we have to do. Slim spoke the truth, not some idle threat. This is the really hard part of my job. We do whatever is necessary to procure the information – and like they will use their women and children as weapons against us we will use them right back. Then, somehow, we’re expected to push that shit down, swallow it all, and face our own families as if we didn’t just tear apart someone else’s.
“You would kill my woman?” Malid asks with a sickening smirk. My gut churns reading the evil in this man.
“Whatever the fuck it takes!” Shifty says keeping his gun trained on the woman who shows absolutely no emotion.
In a flash, Malid turns the gun and fires. His wife screeches just before her blood splatters Shifty’s face. The smaller of the two children cries out before his older brother squeezes his knee silencing him.
“You have no power over me.” Malid roars as we all react. “Fookin’ kill all them.”
I fire. Callahan fires. Slim fires. Shifty fires. The noise is deafening, the pops, the heat, it’s sensory overload.
Malid hits the floor in a thump, blood pouring out of him. A smile on his sick face.
“Don’t do it,” Slim yells as the older of the two boys pulls out a pistol from under the pillow in front of him. The boy doesn’t listen. He fires.
Callahan cries out when a bullet hits his leg, his gun goes off. Shifty fires, shooting the kid holding the small pistol before he can land another round in our teammate.
I blink.
So much blood.
This little boy’s blood.
The same little boy that shot my brother-in-arms in the leg now lays lifelessly on the floor at my feet with his blood splatter saturating my fatigues.
The communication links click on in my ear, Shifty gives an update. We are ordered out immediately. Leaving the other child in a home with three dead bodies, we give Callahan a quick check to see he can move out. I lift him up and half carry him out. No man left behind.
Before we can be rushed by any of Malid’s associates, we retreat back to our base camp.
Only we don’t leave this mission feeling accomplished.
We leave with blood on our clothes, questions in our mind, and scars on our souls.