Warning for language
1992
McGarrett Home
Steve walked through the living room and toward his dad's office. He noticed a half-empty glass of bourbon on the desk.
"Your Uncle Joe got you into the Army/Navy Academy," Dad told him as he walked in. "And I'm sending Mary to stay with your aunt."
It took a moment to process what Steve just heard. The Army/Navy Academy was a boarding school on the mainland. It didn't make any sense. "What are you talking about? I just started my junior year."
"It's not safe for you here."
Steve stared as a million thoughts ran through his brain. He knew his father's cases involved organized crime. That it was dangerous. "Are you going to stay?"
"I can't leave."
Dad was sending him and Mary away, but wouldn't go with them. Confusion became raw hurt. Steve's voice shook. "You know what? Mom would have never sent us away."
"In a couple of years, you're going to be eighteen. Pretty soon, you're going to need to decide what kind of man you're going to be."
"Yeah? What kind of man are you?"
"The kind who puts his family's safety above his own. I just hope someday you'll be able to understand it."
Carlsbad, California
Two years in military boarding school gave Steve focus. A path. All roads led to Annapolis. The United States Naval Academy was one of the most prestigious schools in the country. Tuition was paid by the Navy in exchange for an active duty service obligation. And if he graduated, he'd become a commissioned officer.
Fifteen thousand men and women had applied to Annapolis. He read in recent stats that only a thousand would probably be accepted.
Steve's 4.0 grade average wasn't a guarantee for success, even in Advanced Placement classes. He'd excelled at math and science. His SAT scores were in the top ninety-five percentile. But he still worried. The Army/Navy Academy should give him an academic edge. But he still needed professional and teacher recommendations. He knew which one would have the most value.
It took three weeks to get an appointment to see Joe at Camp Pendleton. Steve didn't have a car. He used the Christmas money his dad sent to pay for the taxi.
Joe traveled between teaching assignments; he was often gone for months at a time. Steve suspected on secret missions. Joe never said a word. Steve stood at attention in front of his desk.
Joe stared at his laptop for five minutes before looking up at Steve. "Tell me. Do you want to kick down doors and shoot people your whole career?"
Steve blinked at the impact of the question. "Sir?"
Joe leaned back in his chair. "Both enlisted personnel and officers are leaders. Both take orders. Enlisted sailors stay active longer. Hell, they have less responsibility than most officers. If your purpose is to become a SEAL, why not just skip the Annapolis all together?"
"I want to realize my full purpose."
"You can do that as an enlisted sailor."
Steve stood ramrod straight. He never thought Joe would doubt his capabilities. Anger laced his voice. "Do you think I'm not officer material?"
"What I think doesn't matter."
"I think it does."
"No, it doesn't. Never allow other people's opinions influence your own." Joe locked eyes with Steve. "Do you have what it takes to make the hard choices? Can you make others look up to you, trust you, and follow you to hell back? Will you be able to lead people and still bring them home?"
"Yes, sir."
Steve never believed anything more in his life. For the first time in years, he had a goal. Something to work toward, fight for, make himself stand tall. He was eighteen; he was an adult now.
"I know I have what it takes to become an exceptional officer. I can lead others. And I will do whatever it takes to ensure successful missions and bring everyone back safely."
Joe narrowed his eyes, studying Steve's face. And after the longest minute of Steve's life, Joe pressed his lips together, nodding. "Then I'll write a letter to the Naval Academy. And I'll make sure you can get the needed congressional recommendation as well."
Steve grinned ear to ear. "Thank you, sir."
Annapolis, Maryland
Steve graduated from The United States Naval Academy when he was twenty-two. He was an Ensign.
The sun beat down on his uniform; sweat itched his brow under his cap. Freddie sat in the chair next to his. He wiped his forehead and blew an annoyed breath. There were a lot of speeches. Even the Secretary of Defense gave one.
He knew his father, Aunt Deb, and Mary were among the families in the crowd. Steve couldn't wait to see them. It had been four years. Steve had gained twenty pounds of muscle. He'd be curious to Dad's reaction upon seeing him.
Joe was a dot in the crowd of special guests to the side of the stage. Steve imagined he might be smiling.
It took forever to leave the stage and move among the crowds to locate his family.
Mary whistled. "Steve, you're looking all Top Gun"
She took a picture of him with her cell phone. Mary snickered. If Steve didn't know any better, he would think she was a little tipsy. He gave her a warm hug.
Steve stood at attention when his father approached, nervous. "Dad."
John wore his dress police uniform. "Today was quite the ceremony." His father wrapped an arm around Steve's shoulders and squeezed them before dropping his arm. He took a step back and nodded. "You look good, son."
"So, are we gonna eat or what?" Mary asked. "I'm starving."
"Sounds like a good idea" his father said. "My treat."
Steve led them away. They walked around happy reunions of hugging families and teary-eyed moms and dads. The air was filled with high emotion and overwhelming jubilation.
His fleet assignment was burning a hole in his back pocket. In seventy-two hours, Steve would be on board The USS Theodore Roosevelt. Destination: the Mediterranean Sea. Scuttlebutt said they were joining a battle group operating with the current NATO campaign against Serbia.
He might see action in his first week on active duty. But he decided it wasn't worth sharing during dinner.
Norfolk, Virginia
Steve liked dive bars. They served cheap beer and the patrons mostly kept to themselves.
It had been two years since graduation and six months since he'd been on dry land. He remained standing while Joe sat on a stool furthest from the pool tables.
"You're antsy," Joe commented over his drink. "And you've also been a pain in the ass. Did you really think it was a bright idea to take helo lessons during your down time?"
"Where did you hear that?"
"Around."
It figured. Joe ran in classified circles.
Steve sipped his beer. He hung around pilots all the time. It seemed only practical. And it would give him an advantage over his future classmates. Freddie would shit a brick when he found out.
"You're nearing the end of your first stint on a ship," Joe said after a moment. "You gonna try to run your own department next?"
Joe was fishing; he knew exactly what Steve's plans were. He could have entered BUD/s right out of Annapolis. It was the most direct path for SEAL officers.
But Steve wanted to gain his sea legs and diversify his knowledge. To have actual experience on board a carrier, support Special Forces missions, and broaden his skills.
Steve had seen things. He'd supported SEAL Teams between ship and onshore operations. It was nothing like the movies.
He finished his beer. "I got accepted to BUD/s. I report next month."
Something told Steve that Joe was already aware.
"You've got four weeks of down time," Joe said. "You might want to go home for a little while. There's no telling when you might get the next chance."
Steve wanted to use those extra weeks to improve his time on the SEAL Fitness Test. He would fly to Coronado over the weekend to begin his own personal training. His dad had been busy the last time Steve had checked in. Some new drug gang, some new case. It was fine. They would catch up some other time.
Naval Amphibious Base Coronado
Week 4
Steve completed the first twenty-one days of BUD/s. Hell Week would begin tomorrow. All of his training, energy - his purpose - would be determined by the endurance and mental fortitude over the next five days.
His class consisted of ninety-five students. By the end of the week, less than half would probably remain.
He lay on his bunk in a barrack with two dozen other classmates. Sleep wouldn't come. Every muscle was coiled in anticipation. It was 2100 hours; they would be up at the crack of dawn. Steve flexed his fingers to keep them from twitching. He could do this.
Freddie was in the bunk above him. Steve wondered if he was as wide awake, too.
He thought he heard something outside.
Someone kicked open the side door. Steve's head shot up. He watched three guys carrying M16s charge inside and spray the room with bullets.
Above the sound of gunfire, his ears filled with the piercing sounds coming from several whistles. The exit door was kicked open and three more men stormed inside.
"Hit the deck! Heads down! Incoming!" Someone shouted.
Steve hit the floor and took up a defensive position, covering his ears with the palms of his hands. He tracked their movements.
It was pitch dark save for flashes from the M16s. A new voice that sounded a lot like Master Chief White boomed, "Welcome to hell, gentlemen."
The room had turned into a nightmare; the air was filled with the smell of cordite, darkness lit only by the muzzle flashes.
Steve kept his head down on the floor as the gunmen moved among the rest of the guys.
"All of you, out! Move! Move! Move! Let's go!"
Steve grabbed his khakis shorts and boots and put them on. Freddie did the same. Then they both joined the stampede out the door and onto asphalt.
Outside was a bedlam of gunfire and shouting. Steve gathered with the others, standing outside on the grinder where they conducted their calisthenics workouts.
"You think you belong here?" One of the instructors yelled. "Prove it!"
They were between the barracks and the ocean. At the beach's edge, mounted artillery simulators blasted away.
Steve hit the deck again, tasting asphalt.
The instructors used high-pressure hoses on them. Anytime Steve tried to get up, he was knocked down by the water pressure.
The asphalt was awash with water, soaking through his t-shirt, all the way through his shorts and boxers. Steve couldn't see a thing, couldn't hear anything above the small-arms and artillery fire. He kept his eyes closed from the harsh spray against his face.
"Crawl to the whistle, men! Crawl to the whistle! And keep your goddamned heads down!"
Some guys suffered from mass confusion. Johnson ran for his life, straight over the beach and into the ocean.
Steve recognized this: a simulated scene from the Normandy beaches, created to induce panic.
"All you gotta do is ring that little bell up there."
Steve would never ring that damn thing.
Freddie shared a glance with Steve and moved his head up and out of the water. "You can stick that bell up your ass!"
Joe White and the instructors burst into laughter.
"Move it!"
Freddie let out a loud whoop as he scrambled to his feet. They ran toward the beach, away from the gunfire and chaos and into the bone-freezing surf. It was the middle of the night, but Steve was too wet and cold to give a fuck.
The whistles blasted again.
"Back to the beach! On your hands and knees, assholes!"
Steve crabbed over the sand toward the sounds.
The whistles blew again.
"Into the ocean!"
Steve ran back, waves of icy water soaking him to the bone, the ocean swirling up to his waist.
And he waited…waited for the order to return to shore, to run, to keep running. But nothing.
He shivered, limbs shaking, his teeth clattering together. He couldn't feel his legs, his feet, his face.
"Lock arms, locks arms," someone yelled.
Was that Freddie? He'd lost track of him.
Steve looped each arm around a fellow classmate, elbow to elbow, forming a human chain as the waves crashed into their backs.
They stood there, freezing. Steve's skin was numb, his thoughts scrambled. He counted the seconds, the minutes, and tried to keep his brain focused.
Fifteen minutes was the maximum immersion survivable in water below sixty degrees.
Another whistle.
"Back to the grinder! Give me a hundred flutter kicks!"
Elbows and knees were rubbed raw as Steve crawled back to shore and onto the asphalt again.
Flipping onto his back, Steve kicked until it felt like his legs might fall off.
Whistles.
"Back into the ocean!"
Bailey quit on the spot.
The temperature grew colder as Steve jogged into the freezing ocean, water splashing against his body. He locked arms with his classmates again, biting his lips, body stiff, ignoring the pain, focusing on the beating of his heart.
Whistles.
He dived back onto the sand, crawling on sore and bloody knees.
Five more guys quit.
Steve didn't understand. It was too early to admit defeat. What did they expect? This is what they'd trained for. How could they give up so early?
"Grab your boats, move it!"
Boats? Where?
There.
Steve ran toward the Inflatable Boat Small. Grabbing one of the handles, he and three others hauled it into the waves. The IBS held up to six people and weighed 170 pounds.
With a boat handle in one hand and paddle in the other hand, Steve raced with his trainees into the water. Climbing inside, Steve dug his paddle deep into the waves and pulled back as hard as he could.
"Dig!" he shouted at the others.
After a shaky start; four people who didn't know each other two minutes ago, rowed in sync. They worked as a team, riding over the breakers and conquering the surf.
They paddled a hundred yards. It felt like forever. Steve's arms quivered from the effort.
Eventually, the ocean spit them onto the beach along with most of the other boat crews.
Whistles.
"Get me fifty push-ups!"
Steve threw himself onto the wet sand and began mentally counting off each one. He didn't even know which instructor had barked the order.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Freddie a few meters away. They shared a determined look. Grinning, Steve picked up his pace.
Whistles.
"Back into the water!"
Dig and row, lift and carry. Dump the boat, right the boat, swim the boat, walk to the boat.
Steve was exhausted, cold, and hungry. Move, move, move.
Dig and row, lift and carry.
Where was he? His legs kept moving, into the water, onto the sand, over and over and over again.
Whistles.
He floundered onto the sand.
Steve waited for the order to return to the sea.
"Store those boats and grab a log."
His legs felt like rubber when they moved.
"Move it! That wasn't a suggestion, assholes!"
Steve grabbed the front end of a freaking heavy log. "One, two, three!"
He and six other shivering-cold and salt-soaked trainees pick up a 150-pound log, pressed it over their heads, and carried it into the Pacific.
For a second Steve thought he might drop it, but he forced his heavy boots into the water, one foot in front of the others.
Whistles.
They returned the log and set it on the beach.
Whistles.
Three more men quit.
Steve carried the soaked hunk of wood back through the wet sand and did it all over again. After the third trip, Steve wasn't sure if he could lift up his arms again.
"Take your boats to the O-course."
Steve stared off toward the obstacle course forty yards away.
"What are you waiting for?" Joe shouted.
At least they didn't have to carry the fucking tree anymore.
Grabbing their boats again, they ran over and dropped them off. Then completed the obstacle course from yesterday.
Whistles.
Two more men quit.
"Take your boats back into the ocean!"
His strength fading, Steve and three others took their boat back to sea.
"We can do this," Freddie panted behind him.
They paddled like hell, all the way to the rocks opposite the Hotel del Coronado.
Time was meaningless. They rowed into the sea again then brought the boat back to shore.
Steve hauled the boat out of the water with his classmates, over the rocks, and onto the sand. It felt like his lungs would explode. When he stood up, Steve was hit with a head rush.
Joe White strode toward them. "Give me fifty push-ups."
Steve cursed him with every push and pull of his arms, his muscles burning, his body trembling from exertion.
Joe never stopped yelling.
Twice more they assaulted the rocks in their boats and ran them up and down the beach. Then back into the waves.
"Give me fifty push-ups."
"Give me a hundred flutter kicks."
"Give me a hundred push-ups."
Three more men quit.
Steve never thought of quitting.
He stood in a line with his exhausted classmates as the morning sun beat down on their heads.
Joe walked up and down the line then stopped with his hands behind his back. "Lift your boats and carry them over to the chow hall!"
One more mile. It was the longest one of his life.
In nine hours they'd lost ten men.
It was like a stampede to get in line for chow. Steve almost ripped the ladle from the cook's hand in line.
Once he sat down, he wolfed down six eggs and started in on the bacon, eyeing the stack of toast on his plate.
Freddie slumped in the chair across the table. He groaned when he started in on the sausage.
Some of the guys stared at their plates as if shell-shocked.
"Come on, eat," Steve encouraged them. They needed fuel.
He was fucking starving. Steve ate four more eggs.
"That's it, children—up and out of here," Joe yelled. "Let's get going. Outside! Right now! Move! Move! Move! Let's start the day right."
Start the day? Was he out his mind?
Joe walked toward his table and glared at Steve. "You got something to say, squid?"
"No, sir! Where do we start, sir?"
"Back on the beach."
Joe blew his whistle right in Steve's face.
Soaked and covered in sand, Steve got up from his chair, and headed back toward the water.
Only one hundred hours to go.
Week Nine
Steve never took anything granted. Eating, sleeping. Taking a moment to think. Training was a mental struggle as much as a physical one. Steve had spent many nights preparing for this, learning to focus, to endure all pain. Life was a demanding teacher. It had taught him well since the death of his mom.
After Hell Week, only forty-three of his ninety-eight classmates remained.
Steve only slept four hours a night. But during the day he was good at catching ten minutes here, five minutes there. He learned to sleep whenever, wherever; it didn't matter.
Last night he'd only slept for an hour. He didn't think any of his classmates had gotten much shuteye, even Freddie. Not when they all knew what they would begin the next day.
Steve and his classmates arrived at the pool and stripped down to their UDT swim shorts. The SEAL instructors watched them with neutral expressions. One of them whispered something in Joe's ear, making him laugh.
One by one they grouped themselves in pairs with their swim buddies. Freddie stood beside Steve. No one said a word.
They lined up in front of the pool and waited for their instructions. Steve knew asking any questions risked getting chewed up for five minutes straight. Restless, he looked around at those remaining. Most of the men in his class were about twenty-one years old. Steve was twenty-five.
Freddie fiddled with the rope in his hand. "Do you want to go first or should I?"
"I'll go first."
"Probably a good idea. You need me topside so I can save you."
Steve rolled his eyes. "You just want to gain as many tips as possible."
"I recommend the doggie paddle."
Steve opened his mouth to tell Freddie what he thought of that suggestion when all the instructors began walking toward them.
All the hair over his arms and legs stood up. Freddie bent down and tied Steve's feet together.
"Tie it good," Steve said. "I don't want to have to do this twice."
After finishing, Freddie tied Steve's hands behind his back.
Joe scanned everyone in line then he climbed up a lifeguard chair and loomed over them. "You are all going to love this. Drown-proofing is one of my favorites. Sink or swim, sweet peas."
Half the class walked over and stood at the edge of the deep end. Steve wiggled his wrists, testing the strength of the cord. Freddie stood behind him, guarding his back.
Steve focused on calming his respiration and heartbeat. Panicking meant failure.
"When I give the command, hop into the deep end of the pool," Joe began. "Bob up and down twenty times. Not a second less. Then float for five minutes. Once you're done, swim to the shallow end of the pool; turn around without touching the bottom and swim back to the deep end. Complete forward and backward somersaults underwater then retrieve a face mask from the bottom of the pool."
"If your ropes come undone. You must start over from the beginning. If your ropes come undone a second time, you fail."
Steve focused his mind on how peaceful the water was. It reminded him of the lanai in the back of his family home.
"First group," Joe yelled.
Steve jumped into the pool.
Breathe. Control the rhythm.
Bottom bounce.
His toes touched the concrete bottom. It would be the only time allowed. Steve pushed off, jumping hard, building momentum.
His head cleared the surface. Steve sucked in a gulp of oxygen, drawing it into his lungs.
He slowly sunk back to the bottom. It was all about buoyancy. Physics. He kept his body straight.
His head broke through the water. Steve looked over at a commotion at the other side of the pool.
One of the guys began thrashing. "Help! I'm drowning!"
Joe used a long metal pole to push him away from the edge, "If you were drowning, you wouldn't be yelling about it."
Steve sucked in another gulp of air and sank back down.
When he returned to the surface, the panicked trainee was being helped out of the pool.
Float.
After bobbing, Steve inflated his lungs and floated in a near-vertical position. Only the top of his head remained above the surface. He bent at the waist, allowed his lungs to keep at the surface. He remained adrift for five minutes.
Steve began his dolphin kick along the length of the pool. Keeping it slow. Keeping the rhythm.
Travel.
The only way to swim with your hands and feet tied was with a dolphin kick. Steve whip kicked from the knees, propelling himself through the water. He turned his head to breathe.
Kick-and-breathe, kick-and-breathe.
Steve reached the shallow end of the pool and made a dolphin-turn right. If he touched the bottom of the pool, he'd fail.
Front/ Backflip.
Steve swam along the surface, turning his head to the side to breathe. When he turned his head back, he saw another swimmer veer into his lane. Fuck.
Steve dived, avoiding a collision by inches. He lost his momentum.
Steve dolphin-kicked his way back to the deep end. He bobbed once, then performed a forward somersault.
He hadn't recovered his breathing rhythm after the near-collision. Seconds mattered. Most of his classmates had already finished their forward and backward somersaults. Nineteen face masks lay on the bottom of the pool. One-by-one the masks disappeared as each of his buddies grabbed one with their teeth.
Steve returned to the surface, turning his head to breathe. He was the last one in the pool. He could feel Joe's eyes following him. It didn't matter.
Steve completed the backward somersault, but his breathing and movements became uncoordinated. He would not fail.
His burning eyes searched the blurry bottom for his face mask. Steve spotted one on the bottom at the far end of the pool. He couldn't make it that far. There. His vision blurred, but he spotted another mask down to his left.
Steve's feet almost touched the bottom—his toes almost brushed the surface. He bent his knees.
He tried leaning over to grab the mask with his teeth. But he'd swallowed too much air during his somersaults and his body floated up before he could bite the mask. Physics betrayed him.
His body stopped halfway up. There was no air in his lungs to float back to the top and too much air in his stomach to allow him to sink to the bottom.
Fear succumbed to discouragement. Discouragement was more powerful than fear ever could be.
Steve wouldn't allow it to end this way. He would not fail.
Anger burned inside his chest. Anger at his fear, at his discouragement. At Joe. At anything that got in his way of success. Its heat and power rumbled throughout his limbs.
He kicked his feet, propelling him upward. Steve surfaced, half of his body shooting out of the water. He flipped and dived head first into the water, frantically kicking his tied feet.
He shot down toward the mask so hard that his forehead smashed into the bottom. Pain lashed through him, but Steve twisted his head and clenched the black strap with his teeth. Yes. Steve kicked without oxygen, moving toward the top. He felt so damn dizzy.
Complete the mission.
Steve struggled halfway to the surface. His body was heavy, his peripheral vision graying. Steve kicked harder. Every part of him craved oxygen, his vision becoming smaller, darker. His limbs started to tingle. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate.
He poked his head out of the water. He kept kicking. Some classmates started to applaud.
"Shut up!" Joe barked.
Steve refused to stop kicking. Bobbing at the surface, he kept his head in the air. Freddie started pacing, waiting on Joe's order to help Steve. But Joe remained silent, watching.
Steve refused to let go of the strap. He sucked air and water through his teeth. Steve figured Joe could either let Freddie help him out of the pool, or let Steve succumb to unconsciousness and sink to the bottom.
Either way, Steve wasn't going to let go of the fucking mask.
"Pull him out," Joe ordered.
Relief rushed through him as Freddie and another student pulled Steve out.
The ground felt strange. Steve had to sit down because his legs couldn't support him anymore. His classmates untied his hands. He felt like a fish. His head ached.
Joe climbed down his chair and stood in front of him, face neutral. "I've never seen anyone pull their mask out like that. You'll have to explain your technique."
The other instructors laughed.
"Next group!" Joe yelled.
Freddie helped untie Steve's feet. "That was fucking crazy, dude."
Joe stared at Steve before blowing his whistle.
Steve no longer thought drowning was one of the worst ways to die. Failure without trying everything possible was far worse.
Week 28
San Diego, California
Steve stood at attention with the rest of his classmates during their first report to Parachute Jump School.
Chief Petty Officer Henson stalked back and forth. "Listen up children; you may have been hot shit in your former life, but in here, you are bottom dwellers. You will get only one set of advice from me, so fucking pay attention!"
Henson stopped and stood in the middle of the barracks. "We're here to leap out of god damn planes. So, pick the brains of your instructors. Don't be a kiss ass. They are here to look out for you and mentor you. Listen and obey them, especially your chief."
Steve was lucky in that regard; his was a family friend. Although all signs of Uncle Joe had disappeared the second Steve put on a uniform. In fact, Joe had been tougher on Steve than anyone. But it only made Steve mentally stronger.
LINE
There were not many quiet places on base and even fewer moments to actually seek them out. But the small library provided both. Rifling through his rucksack, Steve pulled out a three-ring binder.
He flipped the book that his Chief Petty Officer told him to keep at the beginning of BUD/s. It had copies of his qualifications and awards, things that admin could lose but was his responsibility to keep up.
A shadow appeared over the third page. Steve looked up and saw Joe standing beside him.
Steve jumped to his feet. "Master Chief White, sir."
"At ease, Jaygee."
It'd been the first time Joe had used Steve's rank even though he'd been a Junior Lieutenant for a year now. He'd gotten used to all the derogatory nicknames.
Steve allowed his shoulders to relax, but he remained mostly at attention.
"I see you're keeping all your paperwork in order. That's good. Do you still have your Thrift Savings plan documents?"
"Yes, sir. And my retirement accounts. Began those a few years ago."
"Of course. You probably even picked better funds than I did."
"I've haven't really checked. Although payroll screwed up my leave and earning statements. But I got it straightened out."
"That's what they're best at."
It was weird talking to Joe this way. Steve had grown accustomed to all the yelling.
Joe cleared his throat. Steve knew Joe wasn't much of a talker and it was probably not appropriate for him to be speaking with him for any length of time.
Steve glanced at his binder on the table. "I've got a HALO jump at 0400 and I need to finish reviewing everything for the next inspection."
The ends of Joe's mouth turned up. "Most guys are so focused on shining their boots, they forget about the small stuff. You never do."
He watched Joe walk out, unsure what he just heard. Sitting back down in his chair, Steve allowed himself a moment to beam.
Week 34
San Clemente Island
As soon as Steve and his classmates stepped off their boat and stood in line, they were greeted by four instructors. Steve recognized Joe. Standing beside him was their CO, Commander Hightower. But everyone called him The General.
"Welcome to The Rock, where no one can hear you scream," Hightower barked. "If you're standing here, it means you have successfully completed the first two phases of SEAL training. You're finally deemed trustworthy enough to deal with weapons and explosives powerful enough to kill your entire class."
Hightower waited a beat before speaking again. "This is your chance to prove yourselves. On the island, you will practice the skills learned during the last eighteen weeks. The days will be longer and more work-intensive. It will mirror the hours you'll spend in the field. You will train seven days a week with little sleep, all while handling live explosives and ammunition."
Steve had waited for this. The prospect was pure adrenaline. His performance for the next thirty days and thirty nights would be done under the most scrutiny.
After this was SEAL Qualification Training. And a chance to earn his trident.
Niland, California
Steve had a short break after completing Naval Special Warfare basic training. But he stuck around.
"Dude, we should check out some of the waves." Freddie tossed his swim trunks into his duffle and looked over at him. "Are you going to come with me?"
"I think I might stay here and sleep all week."
"You are such a liar. You're going to sit around and study."
"We're going to be conducting day and night static line jumps from a C-130. I kind of want to read up on it. Got to be prepared, man."
"Awesome, you're ready for the Boy Scouts now. Dude, we survived The Rock. The next twenty-six weeks is going to be all hands on tactical shit. Believe me, you'll be prepared. By the time we're done we'll be fucking commandos."
"My dad is calling soon." Steve glanced at his cell phone. "I want to be here when he does."
"Or you could go visit him."
Steve had mentioned his upcoming leave more than once during their last phone call. "He's working on a big case. Besides, I've got to study. And I freaking need to protein up, I lost eight pounds last month. Not everyone is a walking redwood."
"When's the last time you've seen him? Because I don't even remember the last time you flew back home."
Steve couldn't remember. The difference in time zones made it a challenge to catch-up. At least that was what he told himself.
He looked up at Freddie who was staring at him too seriously. Steve waved his hand. "Go surf. I'll see you next week."
"You just want to graduate top five so you can have your pick of assignments."
"You mean the top spot out of five," Steve said.
Freddie threw a dirty t-shirt at Steve's head and walked out of their room.
Steve fell asleep studying. The phone never rang.
SEAL Qualification Training (SQT)
Week 40
"Close quarters combat does not mean fighting someone inside a house, or at close range. CQB is not urban fighting." Commander Hightower stopped pacing and glared at the class. "It's not fucking Metal Gear. You are not fucking Solid Snake carrying a knife and gun."
Nostrils flaring, Hightower nodded at Steve. "What is CQB, LTJG McGarrett?"
"It is surprise, speed, and violent action."
"Go on."
"The goal is to achieve surprise over the enemy, using rapid, unexpected, dynamic entry. And it must be done in a way that achieves complete domination over the enemy, both physically and mentally, while minimizing friendly casualties."
Hightower regarded Steve like he was the dirt under his boot. "You were chosen as the head of your platoon, McGarrett. We'll see if your classmates made the right decision. Your shit better be wired tight or your stint here is going to be a nightmare."
"Yes, sir." Steve would prove his worthiness.
"Very good, McGarrett. Now lead your team through the next drill."
Steve stood outside the door, three of his team stacked behind him, preparing to make entry.
He knew what was coming, but the people on the other side of the door didn't have a clue. There might be a single combatant, or maybe six. Steve was trained to respond to whatever waited on the other side of the door.
Adjusting his night vision goggles, he gave the signal.
Freddie battered the door with one giant swing of the sledge hammer, breaching the room.
Steve tossed a flashbang, looking away to avoid the effects, then stormed inside, his teammates behind him.
He pushed his way through the smoke, the first man in the stack, leading with his body. He triggered the IR floodlight to illuminate the room.
Crossing the threshold, aggression was a tangible thing within his body.
Steve was hyper-aware of everything within the 45-degree angle of his responsibility. And only his 45 degrees, his sector. He forced himself to ignore the movement to his left. It wasn't his sector. Trust your team.
A human figure emerged between Steve and his corner. His goal for the next few milliseconds was figuring out if he was going to end their life or not.
He saw the AK in their hands. His left shoulder muscles clenched as he aimed the rifle muzzle in line with the center of their chest. Steve watched the red dot of his optics come in line and then disappear in a muzzle flash as he sent two rounds into the target's chest.
A rumbled to his left distracted him. He looked in that direction and bright starburst of light filled his vision. It was like a million flashbulbs burning in the back of his retinas.
A voice yelled out in the midst of the chaos. "LTJG McGarrett you and you platoon are dead. Gather your gear and return to check point bravo."
Someone in his platoon had triggered a bobby trap. But Steve was the platoon leader, it was his responsibility.
Pulling off his night vision goggles, Steve marched back outside, walking past the instructors. Standing, he waited for the rest of his platoon to gather around him.
Commander Hightower stood next to Joe. He glanced at Steve. "McGarrett, I expect your after-action report by 1800."
"Permission to re-war game the drill and go through it again."
"This isn't a video game, McGarrett," Hightower growled. "You don't get an extra life."
"Permission to take my team through Bravo's morning drill."
"You have classroom work from 0700 to 1800 tomorrow," Joe reminded him.
"Then permission to begin at 0400."
Hightower glanced at Joe then back at Steve. "Permission granted."
"Thank you, sir."
Not a single member of his team complained.
Week 48
Key West, Florida
Closed-circuit diving equipment consisted of a compact, lightweight rebreather. Steve spent his childhood in the water; he learned how to scuba dive when he thirteen. It only took him half the time as his classmates to get used to a rebreather. It was cool. It used his exhalations and recycled the unused oxygen back to him to breathe.
There were no bubbles. The system was undetectable from the surface. Pure stealth.
This was his 10th night dive. Tomorrow, he would progress to conducting a full mission of a combat swimmer. His team would practice attacks against Naval Vessels.
After completing his latest dive and the rest of his team left, Steve remained in the equipment room, thinking. The Supply Officer waited patiently.
He noticed Joe walk inside, casually inspecting the team's gear, nodding his head like he was pleased at the condition. "Your team set a new record tonight. Congratulations."
"Oh, did we, sir?"
Joe snorted. Steve didn't brag out loud.
"Better get some shuteye. Tomorrow we'll be setting improvised booby traps."
Joe actually had a gleam in his eye. It was infectious.
Week 54
Niland, California
On his third to last night of Land Warfare training, Steve and his squad went through the final live fire drill.
Steve lead his platoon in a "L" shaped formation, closing in on the camp, searching for fighters. Over a dozen small makeshift houses loomed on the horizon.
Listening to the radio in his ear, he kept up with the other assault teams. Drones circled above just outside of audible range. An AC 130 was on stand-by for needed immediate close air support.
After listening to an update from one of the drone operators, Steve scanned to where the drones reported seeing several targets sleeping. It was a cool night. He could make out about ten bedrolls on the ground.
Steve watched as several of the targets moved, grabbing for their Ak-47's. He communicated the movements to Bravo Team.
Multiple IR lasers popped on and zeroed in on the chests of the fighters as his team's snipers went to work. Seconds later, three of the enemy dropped.
The other targets panicked and started running back toward the camp.
"Okay, Alpha Team," Joe said over the radio. "Take it."
Steve's team began slowly bounding forward in pairs. McKean and Jackson slowly made their way forward with guns at the ready. After moving ahead, Steve signaled for them to take a knee.
Both men kept watch, ready to provide cover while the rest of the unit bounded past them.
They were about to enter the camp when Steve saw four men run in dead sprint toward one of the houses.
Steve was less than one hundred yards from them. He raised his gun and zeroed in on the first guy in the group.
The first man turned around, aiming a rifle.
Steve moved his laser onto the man's chest and fired. He dropped like a dead weight.
"Let's keep moving," Steve ordered.
His team spent the next thirty minutes clearing house after house. Steve scanned every doorway and window, watching for a fighter to pop out.
Two fighters ran from one house to another, yelling. Then all hell broke loose.
Fighters popped out of doorways from various buildings, firing at them with AK-47's.
"Take cover," Steve ordered.
The sound of an RPG went off near his left flank. It was bedlam - bullets flying everywhere, his team communicated over the noise, moving forward, avoiding the kill-zone, while smoke grenades went off and pop flares lit up the night sky.
The battle raged for six minutes, and as soon as it started, it stopped.
Breathing heavy, Steve removed his night vision goggles. His team gathered around him. Freddie appeared next to his side.
"Let's do it again," Steve ordered.
"You heard the man," Freddie yelled. "Let's do a gear check."
And they would do it a fourth, fifth, and sixth time. Analyzing their reactions, war-gaming solutions. Enduring sweat, fear, exhilaration and confusion over and over again. Because of the ever-present desire to perform the drill better each time. Because Steve and his men knew that their life depended upon the level of competence of the team in a real firefight.
That's why they trained. It was the reason they never accepted defeat.
BUD/s Grinder Coronado
Navy SEAL graduation ceremony
After more than two years of training, thousands of miles of swimming and running, and hundreds of thousands of pushups, pull ups, and bear crawls. Steve had earned a spot at the starting line. After today, he would receive an assignment to a SEAL subordinate platoon for deployment.
He would be the New Guy. To those who were already on a team, a trident meant little until at least one deployment.
But for now, in this moment, Steve basked. Graduation was awesome.
Friends and family gathered under a white tent on the grinder where Steve and his team mates mustered for 57 weeks. Steve stood tall in his immaculate dress whites while a small military brass band played.
The crowd was much smaller than the ceremony at Annapolis, the graduating class a fraction of the size. Only thirty-seven of the original ninety-eight members of his BUD/s class stood with him.
"There is no splendid ceremony or fuss," said the retiring Navy SEAL who addressed Steve's class. "The education you have and will continue to receive is better than any Ivy League College or University can offer. Through the crucible of this training you will gain an inkling of self-awareness. You will learn to seek your own strengths and weaknesses; your boundaries and your fear."
"A good SEAL is a leader who understands that leadership is not given but honed through experience. A good SEAL embraces the concept not of one leader and many followers, but of leaders leading leaders, and of being part of a team bound by their tridents."
On his way to the podium, Steve walked by the brass bell that he refused to ring. He walked by the line of helmets of the men who had dropped out during training. Each and every one of his classmates passed under the inscriptions on the wall that read, "The only easy day was yesterday."
With the new trident on his uniform, Steve greeted Freddie's dad and mom. He hugged his family then finally, Freddie.
"We did it," Freddie said, clapping Steve on the back.
Steve's father walked over and shook his hand, his grip strong.
"I'm glad you made it," Steve told him.
"Of course. I wouldn't miss it for the world."
It had felt like a lifetime. Steve couldn't even remember when the last time they had talked. He wondered where he should start.
Steve looked around for Mary, but knew she wasn't there. He missed his mother.
Steve wasn't sure what to do next, so he kept his arms at his side. John mirrored him. After a moment they made plans for dinner later.
When graduation was over and everyone left, Steve walked out to the edge of the great blue Pacific Ocean, watching the ongoing training exercises on the beach. After a few minutes, a familiar figure stood next to him.
"Congratulations, Steve. You are one out of only two thousand. The elite of the elite," Joe said. "I'm proud of you, son."
Breathing in the salt-tinged air, Steve released a heavy breath, his chest warm. His voice warbled in his throat. "Thank you, sir. For everything."
Steve and Joe watched the newest BUD/s class as they heaved 170-pound inflatable boats up over their heads and start a five-mile run down the beach. They stood for almost half an hour in comfortable silence.
Fini-
This story did not come out as planned. It became it's own thing and I thought it deserved to stand alone. I mentioned to a few friends that I wasn't sure anyone would be interested in reading something like this. They told me I was wrong. I hope you enjoy it.
**Part of the gradation speech taken from the 2012 BUD/s Class ceremony.**