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“You know everyone at this table with the exception of three, I believe,” Admiral Carlson says. He motions first to the man sitting next to Animal. “This is Commander Kennan. He leads SEAL Team One in San Diego.”

Commander Kennan's scrutinizing gaze hasn't changed. His black hair matches Animal's, but is worn short and close to the head.

“Lieutenant Colonel Tyson,” he continues, pointing to the Australian seated across the table from Commander Kennan, “leads the SAS Regiment.”

The Australian, a more darkly tanned version of Commander Kennan, regards me with a cool expression.

“And finally, Commander Eichorn,” Admiral Carlson says. “Commanding officer of the
Leftwich
.”

Although I've never met him personally, I certainly remember Commander Eichorn from the Operation Low Level brief. He's a hard one to forget—completely bald, with a permanent scowl etched on his face.

“I know this is confusing for you, but you'll understand why we're meeting here in just a moment. I need to let you know right up front that the information presented here today is classified Top Secret. Absolutely nothing that is said here will leave this room. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I do. But, sir, I only hold a Secret clearance.”

“Not anymore. Your new security clearance has already been approved.”

My eyes shift again quickly to Eric, who maintains his neutral expression.

“I'm going to let Commander Amicus give you a brief overview of our purpose here,” Admiral Carlson says.

I turn my head to the right to look at Animal, but I can't take my eyes off of the SEAL insignia he wears.

He points to his pin. “You're looking at this.…”

And suddenly, every question I've ever had about the SEAL flights—the scheduling, my role as the pilot at the controls, the flight hours discrepancies, Eric's involvement, the high-level interest in training missions, the tension with the arrival of the Aussies, evaluations, metrics, all of it—comes to a head. My stomach drops because I realize I'm about to learn the answers, and I'm not really sure I want to.

 

33

The unique design of the Navy SEAL trident makes it one of the most recognizable insignia found in all branches of U.S. military service. Comprising four symbols—an eagle, an anchor, a trident, and a pistol—the gold pin is also one of the largest insignia, just under the size of a standard business card.

Animal is right. I
am
looking at his pin, my brain turning a thousand miles an hour as I attempt to reconcile what I'm seeing.

“I was sent to evaluate you for flying our missions,” Animal says. “Not training, but actual missions.”

The air strains from the awkward silence, while I remain staring. Maybe it's that I'm trying to digest the fact that Animal is in fact a SEAL, because a silly question leaves my mouth. “You mean you're not a pilot, sir?”

“You think my flying's that bad? Thanks a lot.” He laughs, thankfully relieving some of the oppressive tension I feel. “Yes, I'm a pilot. I'm part of an experimental program that puts SEALs in a position to fly, and evaluate potential pilot candidates for our missions. Due to the highly classified nature of what we do, we don't wear the insignia and only our squadron skippers know our primary designation.”

He stops for a moment, while I look at his pin again and then back to his face.

“Normally, every aspect of a SEAL mission is covered in-house. Demolition, parachuting, diving, everything,” he says. “The only thing that falls outside our purview is air transport. And you've heard it too many times—the aircraft that goes down, taking the entire SEAL squad with it. Sometimes it's mechanical failure, sometimes it's due to enemy fire, but we realized that in all cases, we were at the mercy of whoever happened to be on the flight schedule. So we decided we needed to be proactive. Pick the best pilots for the job to ensure our teams have the greatest chance of success.

“We take the selection of our pilots very seriously, now hand-picking each of them. Once I realized you were the best-qualified West Coast candidate, we began your training in Hawaii. It was no accident that you were the pilot at the controls on the fast roping missions we completed together, nor that you've worked with Mike's team so often. Mike and his squad needed to feel confident that you were the one for the job. They've given you the highest marks, just as I have. And now, Captain Martin has added his highest recommendation.”

I glance at Mike first, who gives a small nod of approval. And then beyond him, to Jonas. His blue eyes are bright with energy, victorious almost. And the smile that goes with it, just as bright … yet so out of place among the serious faces here.

“Commander Kennan is here because your selection would impact every member of his team, including Mike and his platoon. The same is true for Lieutenant Colonel Tyson and, in this case, Second Squadron.”

My eyes shift to Commander Kennan and then to Lieutenant Colonel Tyson. Their keen eyes regard me so sharply, I feel as if they're looking straight through me. Maybe they're not so sure about me. That's what it feels like.

“But one thing stands out uniquely in your case and that's why we have so much high-level interest at this table. You're a helicopter second pilot. Normally, the flying skills we require are those of a seasoned aircraft commander with far more hours under his belt.”

Captain Magruder, Admiral Carlson, Captain Plank, and Commander Eichorn wear the same serious, yet undecided expressions as Commander Kennan and Lieutenant Colonel Tyson. It's then that I realize that Mike, Jonas, and Animal have given these six their recommendation for a pilot and they're not sure if they agree.

“In my opinion, skills are skills. If you're one of the few, regardless of flight hours, who can get one of our teams transitioned to a hostile deck within a matter of seconds, then you're the pilot I want.”

He takes a purposeful look around the room.

“But there are some in this room who wanted to meet you and get to know you better, before they gave their approval. You might think of this as a bit of an interview.”

An interview?

Wait a minute …

An unexpected anger flares from somewhere, because I know what this is.

So they're evaluating me right now. Evaluating how I'm sitting, responding, reacting. I take consolation in the fact that Animal thinks a pilot is a pilot. He's gotten past the female part, saying he thought I was the best qualified candidate. Mike and Jonas are okay with it, too. And Eric has been unfailingly supportive since the first time I met him. There's a comfort in this, in having Eric by my side in this meeting.

Animal looks to the others at the table, inviting them to speak.

Captain Plank, so still, glances briefly at a sheet of paper in front of him and then returns his gaze to me. “Tell me about your experience working with GMG2 Franklin,” he says in the same no-nonsense way I remember from the
Lake Champlain
.

Gunners Mate Guns Second Class Franklin. He must have some sort of background sheet about my previous naval experience. I look around quickly. Every man here has this same sheet.

“Sir, Petty Officer Franklin served as my running mate on Third Class Midshipman Cruise aboard the ammunition ship USS
Flint
. We cleaned and maintained the weaponry stored in the
Flint
's arsenal. Forgive me, sir, but there isn't much to report. We just stripped and cleaned guns for hours on end that summer.”

“What guns?” he asks.

What guns…? He's asking me what guns?

“M9s, M16s, .50 cals, M60s…” I say.

“It says here you have an Expert marksmanship rating in both pistol and rifle.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In the most recent marksmanship quals on the
Kansas City,
” and he briefly glances at Captain Magruder before turning his attention back to me, “you achieved the highest scores of any shooter on the ship. And by a good margin.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is this something you practiced during your time on the
Flint
?”

“Yes, sir, we did get to shoot quite a bit during my time onboard.”

“According to Captain Magruder, after the completion of the pistol quals, the chief master-at-arms reported that he was surprised with your familiarity with the weapon.”

“Well, sir, I am. I could field strip those weapons in my sleep, I did it so often. Petty Officer Franklin always tested me, too. How fast could I strip the M9? How fast could I do it blindfolded? We played games like that all the time. So I don't know, sir. I suppose it's like riding a bike. All the muscle memory is still there.”

“Could you do it now?” Captain Plank asks.

Could I do what now?
I wonder silently.

“Field strip an M9, sir?” I ask to make sure.

“Yes,” he says.

“I don't know, sir. It's been years.”

“Why don't you try?” he says sternly.

I turn my head slightly as I glance around the table, meeting the eyes of each man present. What the hell is going on here?

I watch as Captain Plank produces the Beretta M9 he wears at his side from underneath the table and hands it to Animal.

Animal rises, walks to where I'm sitting, engages the manual safety, removes the empty magazine, pulls back the slide to show me the chamber is empty, and lays it on the table before me.

I turn to Eric, trying to hide the shock I feel. I just wish I was getting something back. What's wrong with him? But I obviously can't think about that now. I look briefly at the other nine expectant faces. I can't believe this.

I pick up the weapon with the custom wood grip, noting for the first time the carved initials,
RP
, on the side. Everything about the sidearm is intimately familiar. My mind drifts back to a broad wooden worktable in the weapons hold seven decks below the weather decks, the one you had to ride a special elevator to reach. Guns in piles on the floor, on workbenches, stacked in the corner. Lightbulbs dangling in midair, hung from ten-foot-long cords to light the space. A dented old CD player supplying Petty Officer Franklin's favorite eighties pop music. Bore brushes and toothbrushes scattered across the table. The smell of gunpowder, the black on my hands, and Petty Officer Franklin joking that I looked like a chimney sweep because of the soot on my face.

I'm remembering and my hands are moving, automatic movements so ingrained, it's like watching someone else performing the actions—depressing the disassembly latch button, rotating the latch lever, pulling the slide forward and off the frame, setting the frame aside, removing the recoil spring and guide rod, sliding them apart and setting them aside, and finally, pressing down on the locking block button and removing the barrel. The reassembly happens just as quickly, just as automatically. When finished, I release the slide and it cracks back into place. I lay the gun on the table, just as I did at the end of my timing games with Petty Officer Franklin.

When I look up, there has been a change. The expressions shown are different now.

“Sara, I'm curious,” Animal says. “Is that something you practice? That took you twenty-two seconds.”

“No, sir, I don't practice. The time is slow, I realize. When I did it with Petty Officer Franklin, I could do it blindfolded at that speed. I could normally hit fifteen seconds with my eyes open. But I didn't know I was going to have to do this today. I would have practiced, had I known.”

I'm not sure, but it almost seems like the men at the table are amused. All of them, including the SEALs and the members of the SAS, shake their heads slightly. I suppose compared to them, my performance isn't that impressive.

“That wasn't a criticism,” Animal says. “Not even close.”

“But sir, why…?” I ask, motioning to the gun with my hand.

“If you're given the go-ahead to fly these missions, you'll need to wear one on your person,” he says. “It's good that you're familiar with it and know how to use it.”

I'm thinking I really
don't
know how to use it. I can hit a target in practice, but that's not going to be the case in any real-life scenario. And how would I end up in a position to use it anyway? I mean, it's hard to shoot when your hands are on the controls.

I shift my attention to Commander Kennan, who speaks for the first time. “Lieutenant Denning, I observed your flying firsthand two weeks ago. Quite frankly, I was shocked at your speed of delivery over
Birmingham
.”

“But I've never flown with—Wait. Was that you? That night? There were eleven.”

“I needed to see it for myself and so did Lieutenant Colonel Tyson,” he says, nodding to the Australian commander.

I'm sort of glad I didn't know I was undergoing an in-flight evaluation. But he thought I was fast, so I guess that goes in the
good
column. I bite the inside of my cheek, though, as Commander Kennan scans the paperwork in front of him, wondering what he's going to hit me with next.

“You're obviously a talented aviator,” he says. “But while your exceptional piloting skills are a great strength, I'd be curious to know what you consider your greatest weakness.”

Interesting. It's just like Animal said—a “job” interview. I just wish I'd had some heads up so I could have prepared to field a question like this. But who am I kidding? I already know the answer. I've worked on that weakness every day since that horrible day nine years ago.

In my hesitation to answer, he adds, “We understand you nearly drowned once.”

A shiver runs through me.

“You were with your brother,” Commander Kennan prompts.

Wait. How could they know this? My gaze shifts to Eric, whose remains expressionless.