Larry Bond - Exit Plan

Jerry wasn’t buying it. “I’ve lost people, too. It always sucks, but you don’t fall apart. And you’re SEALs. This may be a little harsh, but aren’t you prepared to lose a man when you go on a mission?”

“Not like that, sir. From a freak accident? And when I said lose, I didn’t mean die. SEALs never leave anyone behind, alive or dead. In Afghanistan, we’ve lost more people recovering a brother SEAL’s remains than we have from our direct action missions, and nobody thinks it’s a waste.”

He saw Jerry start to speak, but interrupted. “I’m not kidding, sir. We’ve never left anyone behind before. At all. Ever. This would be the first time.”

Jerry shrugged helplessly. “I’ve thought about almost nothing else since we came ashore. I sent him back to open the breaker. I’m not as familiar with the ASDS as Higgs and Carlson. Was there something else I could have done? Was there some sign that Higgs and I both missed? You can damn well believe an investigating board will be asking those same questions when we get back.

“But Higgs wasn’t severely wounded, he was gone. Doc checked him before we left; he was dead. I’ve been trying to imagine how we could have gotten him out and ashore if he’d only been injured.”

“We would have found a way,” Lapointe answered flatly.

Mitchell nodded as Lapointe continued. “We would have tried our damnedest. Higgs might have died anyway, but the point is we would have tried.

“Maybe it’s the lack of trying that the boss is mad about,” the petty officer reasoned. “You didn’t even try.”

“We couldn’t help him. He was dead, and trying to recover his remains would have risked more lives, and the mission. The batteries had already started exploding. I made the call to preserve as many lives as possible.” Jerry was thinking like an XO now, his thoughts clearing.

“My brain agrees with you, sir, but other parts still need convincing. We just haven’t had a chance to think about it much. There’s something else, too.”

“What? There’s more?” Jerry tried not to sound too dismayed.

“The lieutenant is mission-oriented. Shoot, we all are. But he really takes a job on board, and we’re on ‘Plan C’ at this point. It doesn’t matter what the reason is. A mission failure is a personal failure for him. And he’s never failed.”

“He’s worried about us making it back.” It was a question, but Jerry made it a flat statement.

“He won’t say so, but hell, yes, XO. We planned the bejesus out of this job, but if the pickup tomorrow doesn’t go down, we start winging it. There is no ‘Plan D.

Lapointe paused, and Jerry sensed that he was waiting for something from him. “So what do you want me to do?”

“We need Matt’s, I mean, Mr. Ramey’s head in the game until it’s over. He’s been shaken, and badly, and right now he isn’t firing on all cylinders. He’s starting to make mistakes.”

Jerry’s perplexed expression amused Lapointe. “You haven’t been trained as a SEAL, so you don’t know what to look for. The mistakes are little ones, but they’re mistakes all the same. That has got to change. And the only way I can see that happening is you’ve got to stop being nice. You can’t be oozing with sympathy, no matter how much he may be hurting inside.”

“Are you serious?” Jerry exclaimed.

“Deadly serious, XO. Sympathy is between shit and syphilis in the dictionary, and it’s about as useful. A SEAL doesn’t respond to sympathy. When one of us is down the rest of us don’t tell him everything will be all right, or that he did his best; we kick ‘em in the balls and yell at him to get his ass in gear. Right now Mr. Ramey feels like a loser, and that kind of mentality is fatal. It’s beaten into us from the very first day at BUDS that it pays to be a winner.”

“Yeah, Vernon mentioned that,” admitted Jerry.

“Well, he wasn’t lying. I need — no, correction — we need Mr. Ramey to recalibrate his attitude and start wanting to win again. If the only way that happens is for you to be a flaming asshole, then, oh well. You’re a big boy, you’ll get over it.”

Jerry stepped away from Lapointe as he considered the SEAL’s assessment of the platoon leader’s damaged psyche. It seemed to make sense, when viewed through the contorted lens of a SEAL mind-set. But Jerry knew he wasn’t a “screamer,” he just wasn’t wired that way, and on those rare occasions when he did try, the results were pretty pathetic.

“I hear you, Petty Officer Lapointe,” Jerry said as he turned to face him. “But I have to warn you, I make a lousy flaming asshole. However, I can be a demanding SOB if the situation warrants it.”

Lapointe grinned. “If all you do, sir, is nag his ass, and don’t cut him any slack, I think I can live with that.”

When the two returned to the cave, they found Lieutenant Ramey waiting outside. Ostensibly, he was on lookout, but he motioned to Lapointe and the petty officer went inside,

“XO, sir. I was way out of line.” Ramey’s voice held little emotion, but Jerry could tell by the tightness in his jaw that he was fighting to keep it in check. “There was no excuse for what I said. Please accept my apology.” He was almost at attention, maybe unnecessary for the circumstance but necessary for control.

“It’s accepted, Lieutenant.” Jerry could have said more, but his recent crash course on SEAL psychology told him to keep it short. “Are you able to lead the team?”

“Absolutely,” Ramey answered, but the lieutenant’s voice was strained.

Jerry wasn’t convinced, but really had no alternative but to accept Ramey’s answer. He searched for something else to say or ask, but again decided that less was more. “Let’s get inside, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

Phillips came out to take lookout duty. Inside, the cave seemed bright, and warm, and then Jerry saw that the SEALs had set up a small stove. They were heating water and MREs, and Fazel was cooking. Phillips had finished first, but the others were still eating.

Doc gave a small smile. “It’s only lukewarm, but it’s tasty. It’s my own creation — SEAL stew.”

“Do I want to know what’s in it?” Jerry asked, as he tried to peer into the MRE pouch.

“I can tell you, but it will be different next time. Depends on what’s handy. There’s no recipe, just a set of guiding principles.” Nodding toward the two Iranians, Fazel added, “It is halal. No pork.”

Yousef and Shirin were both eating steadily, if not enthusiastically. “Why is it called seal stew?” she asked. “I don’t think this is what seal tastes like.”

“No, ma’am,” he said, pointing to the others in the team. “We are called ‘SEALs.’ It stands for ‘Sea, Air, Land,’ the different places we can move and fight.”

“But you are commandos, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but that’s like saying your husband is a soldier. There’s more than one kind. We’re U.S. Navy. The best kind.” He grinned.

Fazel handed Jerry a small bowl of the stuff. It smelled okay, but he was glad the light was dim. He’d heard stories of surviving on snakes and tree moss, but the SEALs hadn’t had time to forage, and besides, he could see other open MREs next to the corpsman.

Lapointe nodded at the medic’s explanation. “We specialize,” he said, smiling.

“Is one of your specialties taking people off beaches?” she asked.

“Well, actually, yes,” Lapointe answered. “We practice for this, among many other things. We’ve trained in snow, jungle, urban environments…”

“I have a flash drive,” Shirin said abruptly. “It has over twenty-two gigabytes of files relating to our nuclear weapons program.”