24

INTERLUDE 1

WHITE SQUADRON

Al-Tanf Garrison (US Military Base)

Southern Syria

1240 Local Time

(Three days after First Contact)

“Have you ever looked at a barren desert and said, Man, I want to live in that?” Kyle Rodriguez muttered as he shifted on the stretcher, fiddling with his shirt underneath his ACU, damp with sweat. “Because I can’t stand this fucking heat.”

Samson “Smitty” Schmidt grinned and wiped the sweat on his brows. “What? Not spicy enough for you, Kyle? Thought you grew up in middle-of-nowhere Nevada.”

“Jesus, Smitty, I’m not a cactus. I have air conditioning in my house.”

“Like you said, a cactus.”

Kyle ignored the jab. He tended to spout whatever came into his mind, but he did not care who was on the receiving end. He didn’t want to waste his energy minding other people’s feelings. Too much oxygen was wasted for good manners when you could spend it doing something else. “And it’s the same thing anyway. People have a hard-on for living in the most inhospitable places. I can’t believe our ancestors used to live like this.”

“Speak for yourself. You live in fucking Nevada. And besides, it’s not their fault. You get the hand you are dealt with.”

“Bullshit. They can move.”

“Easy for you to say. You can hop on a plane or a car. All they have is their legs.”

“At least this is better than being under fire, sir,” said the Marine of no more than twenty years old lying five feet beside him. He and his partner, another Marine of the same age, were busy following the MEDEVAC sheet dangling around his neck. The intense desert heat gave them a little trouble concentrating on the joint exercise with forty other Marines of India Company 3rd Battalion, a squad of Syrian Democratic Forces, and fourteen Navy SEALs like Kyle and Smitty.

Kyle smirked and pointed at the white index card on the Marine’s chest. He caught the name tag velcroed on his ACU: CPL. MILLER. “You’re dead, Miller. You shouldn’t be talking, remember?”

Miller flinched and closed his eyes. “Uh, sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to talk.”

“Uh-huh. And don’t call me sir. We don’t pull rank.” Kyle held a laugh. He was grateful SEALs weren’t as uppity with ranks during training exercises. Shit was awkward to call in ranks when you shared a drink with your superiors at a bar days ago and saw them motor-boating a stripper. They were more like close friends who went into dangerous situations for fun (and it’s nice to get paid for it, too). They’d only call in ranks for Tactical Ops to figure out who’s who during the mission. Respect the rank when appropriate. That shit you didn’t fuck around with, especially when your life was on the line.

“Ignore the idiot,” Smitty said to the Marine. “One day, his big mouth’s gonna get him killed.”

“Or tequila. Don’t forget that little detail. Let a woman sit on my face, too.”

“One way or another, as my momma used to say.”

“Hey. Mrs. Schmidt happens to be a nice, lovely woman.”

“Don’t talk about my mother like you know her more than me, Rodriguez.”

“Just sayin’. I’d be happy to take her on a date.”

Smitty scoffed. “Fuck you.”

And how did I end up here anyway? Thought Kyle, shifting again on his back for a more comfortable position. The earliest thing he remembered was sipping Margaritas in Mazatlan with beautiful babes in each arm. This was after he left the Marine Corps and recently graduated from a grueling months-long training through BUD/S to become a full-blooded SEAL. The next thing he knew, eight years had passed working on the Teams with a few broken ribs and half a dozen scars to show for it. Sometimes, he wondered if it was all some fever dream. It wasn’t like the movies where you’re sent to some action set piece every mission, Schwarzenegger-style. Sometimes, you sit around for six months and occasionally release a bullet. Mainly to warn off some Rambo-wannabe dimwit.

Kyle and his Team got dragged all over the world to act as glorified bodyguards for coked-out politicians and ambassadors or whisked into training after training until the big man showed up, deploying them to hunt down some bad hombres. Better yet, when the shooting did happen, it was usually because of a few idiots who thought they could stand against the US of fucking A with a baseball bat, a machete, and an ugly M1911.

And yet he loved every minute of it.

Kyle still had a few years to look forward to. His body wasn’t broken enough to force him into early retirement. Still, the private security sector always looked for SEALs like him, especially those that worked under DEVGRU’s Task Force Blue, or as the world famously knew them unofficially, SEAL Team Six. Half of their operations were so top secret that any book a SEAL from the unit tried to publish required the approval of the Department of Defense, making sure they didn’t blabber about something that was supposed to be classified or divulged techniques or procedures that gave their enemy an edge. Much more if you were an operator under Task Force Blue. As was the tradition of a SEAL in retirement, Kyle might write a memoir once his Teams days were over, not that he had any interesting to say. He’d definitely complain about his deployments in the desert. And who didn’t like having “best-selling author” stamped under their name next to “former Drill Sergeant of the fucking Marine Corps” and “former Navy SEAL” in a conversation?

That’d be the fucking dream.

Kyle scratched his goatee. Unlike the Marines, who were only allowed a mustache, SEALs were fortunate to keep their hair long and their facial hair thick. They were even allowed to have tattoos. Not because the Teams were a bunch of pogonophiles and had a lack of discipline (the opposite, actually), but it allowed them to blend into the crowd during an op. He couldn’t help it that he actually looked good with facial hair. He stood at five-foot-eight, with black curly hair, brown eyes, light brown skin, and a black goatee he had groomed meticulously for years. He might be an operator, but he was no savage. You might as well look good during a firefight.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

And for the ladies back home.

Smitty was the opposite: short red hair, pale skin, a scraggly red beard with freckles beneath his green eyes, and he stood at six-foot-two. They both went through BUD/S together and became roommates, and he was his swim buddy for phases one and two. Though, he was no Smurf, unlike Kyle. Fortunately, they worked all these years in SEAL Team Three as snipers before DEVGRU selected them for Green Team (basically the audition group). There, they’re evaluated if they have the brains, the instinct, and the cojones to join their exclusive club of warriors. Naturally, both passed for DEVGRU’s White Squadron’s sniper team.

“When do you think this exercise is gonna be over?” Kyle asked.

“If you shut up, maybe I’ll finish administering first-aid on your dumb ass,” Smitty said.

“You’re supposed to call it, remember?”

Smitty blinked at the sheet. “Ah, fuckin’ hell!” A sweltering week in the desert had taken a toll on him, not that he wanted to admit it. Even a SEAL couldn’t get used to such conditions, no matter how many trainings they attended. Fake it ‘till you make it, after all. Endurance was the name of the game for a special operator.

A week ago, the Alpha platoon of the White Squadron arrived on Al-Tanf base for an op against Fayez Al-Masry, the notorious mastermind behind the half a dozen Beirut bombings three months ago. He killed four hundred civilians, eighty of whom were from different nationalities, including forty elementary students from an International School that the American Ambassador’s children attended. Unfortunately, one of his children perished, along with two secret service members and three Marines. Of course, the United States and the whole of Europe wanted payback.

And here we are, stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere, cooking under the heat.

Kyle sighed. “We’re all tired, bro.”

“Stop distracting me. I’m working.”

Footsteps behind them, and both men stiffened and shut their mouths. Lieutenant Commander Nathan Segerstrom strode toward them with a five-by-five index card and a red pen marker. He sucked in a breath, placed his boots between Kyle’s head, and looked down at him. He shouldn’t have taken a peek, but the guy looked disappointed. Also amused but disappointed nevertheless.

“You’re supposed to be bleeding in the throat, Rodriguez. Why the hell are you talking?” Nathan shook his head and wrote on the card. “Penetrated carotid artery widens. You’re bleeding out fast. And…now you have sixty seconds until you bleed to death.” He threw the card on Kyle’s chest, but a mild gust of wind caused it to land on his face instead. “Two minutes until evac, Smitty. Good luck.”

Both men groaned loudly. Kyle opened his eyes wide and didn’t blink, sticking his tongue out to the side for extra measure. Stifling a laugh, Smitty raised a fist. Nathan grinned, bumped Smitty’s fist, and turned toward the others across the field, barking another order. “If you lessen the distractions and any unnecessary chit-chat, boys, the faster we can get home for chow. So, get to it!”

The two Marines whispered to each other. They were clearly talking about Nathan, and Kyle knew gossip when he saw one.

“Out with it,” Kyle said lowly, making sure Nathan did not hear him.

The other Marine crouched beside Miller; his tag read: CPL. PLATT tilted his head toward the lieutenant commander. “That him?”

“That who?” Smitty asked without looking up, but he already knew the answer.

“The Wolf.”

Kyle glanced over at Nathan. Even with his back turned, Nathan looked like he could rip someone’s head off. He wore a desert digital camouflage tactical shirt with sleeves rolled under the elbows, matching pants with knee pads, and a boonie hat with black Oakley sunglasses. He’s the walking stereotype of a spec op: a six-foot-five, muscle-bound goliath with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and a well-trimmed beard. Nathan always had trouble blending into a crowd, especially when their mission took them to parts like Southeast Asia, where he towered like a monolith. Like Kyle, Nathan’s very particular about his grooming habits, but his handsome and intimidating stature didn’t change the fact that the commander was a massive theater geek with a repertoire for show tunes; a big Lady Gaga, Ariana Grande, and Elton John fan; and the enormous appetite for Italian and French cuisine.

Although many in the Teams called him a big teddy bear, no one said that to his face. No one dared.

Although Kyle had thought about writing a book about his time with the Teams, if Nathan-fucking-Segerstrom wrote about his experience, no doubt Hollywood would be lapping over his heels getting it in theaters, just like many famous SEALs’ books turned into movies and TV shows. Kyle called it the Bradley Cooper effect. Who wouldn’t want to play your horrible and traumatizing experience in the military but an A-list and extremely good-looking leading man? He’d make Kyle’s life worthy of an Oscar.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to mess around with these Marines’ heads on such a dull day. Kyle let out a mischievous grin. “Don’t let him hear you say that, else you’d be singing a different song after this deployment, Marine.” Or worse, get a song stuck in your head from Jesus Christ Superstar or Bye Bye Birdie for months. God help us.

Platt’s eyes widened. “I—I didn’t mean anything by it!”

“At ease, Marine. So, whatcha boys know about The Wolf then? It seems like you’ve heard through the grapevine all sorts of things….”

“Nothing much,” said Miller. Platt was too nervous to say anything. “There was that civil war in Yemen. We know about a SEAL who killed a dozen armed insurgents on his own with just a tomahawk trying to rescue those Red Cross doctors that got stuck in the city. It was on the news a few years ago. We heard a couple of our sergeants talking. He said something about The Wolf saving his nephew, a Marine just like us. They turned to that guy when your plane landed.”

“That…guy? Ain’t just some guy. That’s Lieutenant Commander Nathaniel “The Wolf” Segerstrom. Nathan’s the motherfucker you want on your side when the fighting’s thickest, bro, and watch lots o’ heads rolling. We’re not calling him The Wolf for shits and giggles. You’ll see. You do not want to get on his bad side.” Kyle revealed a scar on his shoulder. “Got this on a sparring match with him during a Kali Exercise in Mindanao. He’s one tough son of a bitch.” Technically not the truth. Kyle got it from falling off a rope climbing exercise back in BUD/S. He had never stepped foot in The Philippines, but these kids didn’t need to know that.

“Seriously?” Miller asked, narrowing his gaze at him.

“Honest. We SEALs don’t have the time to fuck around with lying about our war stories, corporal. We see a lot of ’em; I lost count.” It was true. Kyle had lost count of how many training exercises he had been in since he joined the Teams. However, he could count close-quarters combat, or CQC, with two hands. Most of them he did not want to relive again. Honestly, he’s surprised he even survived them.

Kyle caught Smitty shaking his head, amused. He enjoyed teasing about the secretive nature of their work. All you gotta say was, “Can’t talk about it if I want the powers that be to take me out,” and then follow that with a smug smile and a knowing wink. It worked like a charm. Secrecy was an addicting drug, and anyone wanted to be a part of it. It didn’t matter if it was true or that most of their deployment in Yemen was guarding a fence and a building and ensuring no one jumped over it. The Red Cross doctors came way after, and Kyle only saw the aftermath of what Nathan had done. And so much blood, it was hard to forget about it.

“So…was it true? Did he kill a dozen men alone with just an axe?” Miller asked, almost eager. He tried to hide it. He failed.

Kyle rolled his eyes and scoffed. “What, Nathan? Nah, of course, it’s not true!”

“Oh.” Miller and Platt shared a look of disappointment.

But Kyle never let his smile drop. “It was three dozen men with a tomahawk, four bullets, and a land mine.”

The two Marines waited for the joke, but he was not kidding. He didn’t want to explain where Nathan found the land mine since it was scattered throughout the city during the war. Lucky son of a bitch.

Kyle let out a heavy sigh. “Now, stop eye-fucking the commander, and let’s play dead until this exercise is over.”