Authors: Keith Douglass
The members of 3rd Platoon had made up a package with letters, mementos, and Budweiser badges. George MacKenzie read the centuries-old service for those lost at sea. The package
slid over the side. SEALs from the other teams tossed wreaths. The LCU headed back to shore.
Kos had left money for an open bar at his favorite drinking establishment. A place where the proprietor didn’t mind a ring of solemn SEALs each tossing a shot of Bacardi 151 onto the bar and setting the liquid ablaze. It was a SEAL tradition—their version of the Viking funeral. Then they all got loudly shit-faced and told Kos Kosciuszko stories long into the night.
George MacKenzie’s drinking days were long over. When the glass fell out of Blake Murdock’s hand while he was in the process of swallowing, Mac thought it was time to take the lieutenant home. Before he did he picked the pockets of all the SEALs in the platoon and removed their car keys. He left cab fare for them with the bartender, along with an unveiled threat that it had better be used for cab fare.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said to Murdock.
“Okay,” Murdock replied. He was well into the zombie mode. If someone had said set yourself on fire, he would have replied, “Okay.” He got off the bar stool.
Mac caught him before he hit the deck. He got Murdock out to his pickup, positioning his head carefully so that any vomiting would take place out the window. Mac wasn’t a Master Chief for nothing.
“I did it, George,” Murdock mumbled drunkenly as they drove along.
“Sure you did,” said Mac. Always humor the drunk.
“I killed him.”
“That you did.”
“I killed Kos.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I killed him. Walked right into the ambush.”
MacKenzie had heard the story from Razor Roselli. He brought Murdock back to his apartment, threw a blanket over him, and positioned a wastebasket next to his head within easy reach.
He waited until afternoon the next day to give Murdock a call and invite him over for dinner.
Murdock showed up on time, still looking a little shaky. Mac’s SEAL wife and SEAL kids had left for the evening. He threw steaks on the grill and offered Murdock a beer.
Murdock shook his head. “I’m on the wagon.”
They ate, and then stretched out on the lawn chairs listening to the bug-zapper.
“You think you’re responsible for getting Kos killed,” said MacKenzie. “You’re full of shit.”
Murdock glared at him.
“If you’re responsible for Kos being dead, then you’re responsible for the other six being alive.”
“Sure,” said Murdock. “For Higgins being in the hospital for the next six months. For Razor maybe never being able to parachute or even run on that ankle again.”
“Saint Murdock,” MacKenzie said scornfully.
“You trying to piss me off, George?”
“You piss
me
off. You’ve lost SEALs before. We’ve lost SEALs before. So what is this bullshit?”
Murdock got up to leave.
“Is it because Kos died and you loved the guy more than you loved the others? Or is it because your dad’s a scumbag politician so you have to be the white knight who carries every decision he makes like a two-ton cross? Sit down, I’m not done yet.”
Murdock was livid. But he stopped, and leaned against the grape arbor.
“I read your after-action report,” said Mac. “Quite a barn-dance card.”
Murdock looked up at him
“You think that report is going to be your revenge against the CIA for leaving you out there. Nail their hides to the wall. Kos died before they left you hanging, so that’s your fault. And
everyone else who got hurt is theirs.” MacKenzie snorted in derision. “You’re a real fucking Boy Scout, you know that?”
“George,” Murdock said angrily, “I’m telling you—”
“You know who that report goes to?” MacKenzie shouted. “The admiral, who is going to question your judgment for writing it up that way. And then it goes to the fucking CIA! And they’re going to take that report and classify it Top Secret You’re-an-Asshole-Lieutenant-Murdock. And they’re going to make sure that the only person cleared for it is the Director of the CIA, and then they’re going to forget to tell him about it. He’s got too much to read already. They’re laughing about it right now!
“Let me tell you something,” said Mac. “And I’m only doing it because you’re a hell of a fine officer and I’d hate to see the community either lose you or get rid of you. Generals and admirals hate Special Forces because they hate covert operations. Politicians love Special Forces because they love covert operations. You’re dreaming if you think a sixteen-man SEAL platoon is ever going to be master of its fate. We are going to get used, occasionally stupidly. And the same stupidity is going to get some of us used
up
every now and then. Let me clue you in. We are professional warriors. We take the King’s shilling and we fight the King’s war. When you, me, Higgins, Razor, and Kos pinned on that Budweiser, we signed a contract of unlimited liability. Kos knew that. You read his letter. You just didn’t understand it.”
“I understood it.”
“All bullshit aside, you do this job because you like to fight. So do I. You’ve got the real license to kill, but you don’t get to pick—they do. Now, those are the facts of life. You’ve got a choice. I made it, so did Razor, and so did Admiral Raymond. You either do the job or you pick up your hat and you go.”
“I can’t,” Murdock said desperately. “You’re right, I love it. I hate the part you talked about, but I love the job.”
“You can’t separate the parts. We tell you to take care of your
men, love them like your own children. We tell you to accomplish the mission. But if you or your men have to die to accomplish the mission, then we expect you to die. Why do you think there are so few SEALs? And there aren’t even that many of them who can talk the talk
and
walk the walk.”
“I guess I have to live with it, then.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that. You’ve got to live with Kos too, because a man can’t take back anything that’s happened in his life. Now, I want you to hang that Boy Scout uniform back up in the closet while I give you some real world. You did the CIA’s work. They’re happy, and they’re going to pay you off. I’ve seen the citations. Navy Cross for you and a posthumous one for Kos. Silver Stars for the rest. DFCs for the helo crews. Bronze Stars with Combat V’s for Miguel and Red. Should do your careers some good. And if you walk into Admiral Raymond’s office and talk to him about it before he forgets all about you, you’ll probably get that posting to the Kampfschwimmers.”
“So that’s how you do it.”
“No, you can be Saint Murdock and get burned at the stake with the rest of the holy men. And while you’re doing that, some political ass-kisser is going to end up being our admiral instead of you.”
Murdock let his breath out hard. “Have dinner with the Master Chief and you’ll never need a psychiatrist. You should be the admiral, George.”
“Now you’re talking like an officer. An admiral can fuck up every hour and it makes no difference. Without Master Chiefs the whole Navy shuts right down. So what are you going to do?”
“I guess I’m going to call Inga tonight, and go see the admiral on Monday.”
“Now that sounds like a plan,” said MacKenzie. Sometimes it took a Master Chief to wrap things up.