Brad Thor - Takedown

Harvath let that guilt simmer, and it invariably turned to anger, which he focused directly on the bureaucracy back in Washington. Like most people, he wanted answers, but not even Gary Lawlor had them for him. He urged Harvath to be patient, but Harvath had no patience left. He called his pal at Valhalla and began negotiating the terms of his new job.

Inside the church, the guilt, the anger, and the sheer exhaustion with the system still weighed heavily on Harvath as he sat alongside Tracy Hastings, Rick Cates, and Paul Morgan, who had told the VA doctors to go to hell when they refused to discharge him for Bob’s funeral. In the end, it was Sam Hardy who finally stepped in and made it happen.

It was good to be there with them, and Harvath tried to let go of everything he was stewing over so he could say a proper good-bye to his friend.

As the reverend introduced both himself and the military chaplain who had come from Fort Bragg to assist in the service, he informed the mourners that the program was going to be short and simple-marked not by saying good-bye, but by saying hello as Bob was welcomed into the kingdom of heaven. With a smile on his face, the man then apologized for not having enough holy “water” or wine on hand to make his service as enjoyable as the Irish wake from the night before. The crowd, many of who were still hung over, chuckled good-naturedly.

The invocation was given and then came the readings, most of which were given by Bob’s teammates. The final reading was one Harvath had heard umpteen times, but which had never really hit him as hard as it did today: There is no greater love than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.

As Harvath turned to look at Tracy, Rick, and Paul, he could see they were each fighting a losing battle to hold back their tears.

When the priest finished his sermon, one of Bob’s teammates, a man named Jack Kohlmeyer, was invited to share some of his reflections. Kohlmeyer was the perfect speaker and spoke eloquently and with the right degree of humor to help ease the sadness everyone was feeling.

“I only knew Bob for a short time. He and I met about three years ago in a valley beneath the mountains of Afghanistan. There I was at eight thousand feet, packing an eighty-pound rucksack, about to head up into the mountains, and Bob just sat on his cot laughing at me-in front of everyone, ‘Nope, you don’t need that,’ he’d say. ‘Or that. Or that. Nope, you don’t need that either.’ ”

Harvath had had the same experience with Bob just days earlier and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“But Bob could get away with it,” continued Kohlmeyer. “He could get away with laughing at us for looking silly. Bob’s trick was that he laughed not at us, but with us. He didn’t laugh to make us look foolish, he laughed to win us over and to make us his friends. And in that he was successful.

“It’s a testament to his success with people that so many of us have traveled so far to be with him today, for the sum of the miles traveled by all of us reach into the tens of thousands.

“Bob loved people and we loved him back. We sustained him and he sustained us. Especially, when we were down.

“Bob reminded me on more than one occasion that life isn’t fair so get over it and keep doing the best that you can do.

“A few weeks before Bob left to come home, the team that I had been assigned to suffered several casualties. The job of packing their bags was given to me. It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. Bob, though, sat with me and talked-and he talked, and he talked, and he talked. He knew what he was doing. He was keeping my mind off the job at hand. He was a natural with people and he knew it.

“So, Bob kept my mind occupied and when I was done, he put his arm around my shoulder and reminded me once more, Life isn’t fair. Keep doing what you’re doing and make sure you’re doing the very best you can.”

As Harvath sat there, it was almost as if Bob was speaking to him. Hearing those words, Harvath knew he wasn’t going to quit his job-he couldn’t. As much of a pain in the ass as it often was, Harvath knew why he was doing it. It wasn’t for the politicians he had grown progressively more disenchanted with, it was for the people of this country, brave and good people like Bob who along with their honorable way of life were worth fighting for.

Harvath was going to keep doing what he was doing and he was going to continue doing it the very best he could-for himself and also for the memory of Bob Herrington.

When the service had ended, the reverend asked if everyone would follow the procession outside onto the steps of the church.

The street was still devoid of traffic, the ESU officers dutifully at their posts. Chairs had been set up on the sidewalk for family members and those who needed to sit. It was hot and humid, but a faint breeze blew in from across the river. And though the air had gotten much better, it still wasn’t one hundred percent. The scent of death and destruction still hung over everything. It was a smell Harvath would never be able to forget. Like everyone else in New York, it had become a part of him.

Bob Herrington was given a twenty-one-gun salute by seven Special Forces soldiers from across the street, and as taps was played, the flag covering his coffin was folded and handed to his parents.

The coffin was then placed inside the hearse and the rear door closed. Everyone stood or sat in silence. A minute, maybe two passed, the birds of Brooklyn Heights the only accompaniment to people’s private thoughts and remembrances of Bob Herrington.

There was a faint noise from somewhere off in the distance, and Harvath wrote it off to the ongoing S amp;R efforts on Manhattan, until it began to grow much louder. Looking up from the hearse, Harvath watched as a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter came in and hovered directly overhead. A heavy black rope was lowered, and it was then that Harvath realized what he was seeing. Someone, probably one of Bob’s teammates, had arranged for a symbolic final extraction.

The helicopter then flared and flew off toward the river as the mourners watched. When it was gone from view, Harvath and everyone else looked down to see that Robert Herrington’s hearse had already driven away.

So are we going to the reception, or not?” asked Harvath as the crowd outside the church began to break up.

“We thought we’d do our own private send-off for Bob,” replied Cates.

“What? You mean just the three of you?”

“No. The four of us,” said Morgan. “After all, we’re a team, right?”

Harvath smiled. As he did, Tracy Hastings removed a bottle of Louis XIII from her bag and said, “Bob mentioned he owed you a drink. We all chipped in and bought this in his honor.”

Harvath smiled even wider.

As they had all paid their respects to the family at the wake last night and had stayed well into the early morning hours drinking, nobody could fault them for missing the reception. In fact, few would probably even notice their absence. Besides, swapping stories while they consumed a $1300 bottle of cognac was the kind of send-off Bob would have approved of.

They decided they’d take the Fulton Landing Ferry back over to Manhattan and find a quiet place in Battery Park where they could look out over the Hudson and maybe forget, at least for a while, about everything that had happened.

A block from the church a black limousine pulled up next to them, and when the tinted window rolled down, Harvath thought he recognized the voice of the man calling his name. As he turned to look, he saw Robert Hilliman, the U.S. secretary of defense, waving.

“Quite a moving ceremony,” he said, beckoning Harvath over to the vehicle. “I need a couple minutes of your time. Would you mind?”