The Mercenary Option Page 2

  This was not the first time Garrett had pounded himself back into shape after major surgery. He had been wounded in the Gulf War, taking a round in his elbow that had sent him into a series of reconstructive surgeries. Then there was the incident three years ago with his brother. His twin brother had lost his kidneys, and Garrett had been flown back from an overseas deployment to provide his brother with one of his own organs. Apparently you could do the job with only one kidney, but not with a partial right lung.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Walker said to himself. And he again thought about all those years and all those deployments. Now the real thing was here, and men like him, men with combat experience, were desperately needed. His country was at war—from the looks of it, a long war where there would be a premium on special operations. And he was out of it!

  It had been real enough last year when his platoon was on a reconnaissance mission in northern Iraq, looking for evidence that Saddam was hiding weapons of mass destruction in the northern desert. The Iraqi ambush of his platoon had almost worked. Since they were in Kurdish-controlled territory, the Iraqis had taken them completely by surprise. But the rear element of his squad had immediately flanked the enemy position. So intent had the Iraqis been at shooting at the point element of his squad that they neglected to note the movement of the rest of his squad until it was too late. While he and the lead members of the squad had been pinned down, the guys bringing up the rear of the file made it look like a training exercise. When it was over, his men had killed a dozen of them. But there was a cost to the skirmish. Lieutenant Williamson had been killed in the first volley; a single AK-47 round had entered his left eye and opened the back of his head like a melon. And Garrett had also taken a bullet in his right lung. An inch or two lower, and it would have missed the lung, but it didn’t. A second round had punched a perfect hole in his right ear. Involuntarily, he raised a fingertip to the ridge of his ear and felt the scar tissue. It was now a notch, as the outer portion of skin had died off and left him a U-shaped cleft instead of a circle. He smiled to himself, thinking that had the bullet been an inch or two to the left, he wouldn’t be on a bar stool in the Brigantine feeling sorry for himself. But a firefight, like life itself, is unpredictable. Their Kurdish point man, closest to the ambush, had five bullet holes in his clothes and equipment, but amazingly didn’t get a scratch to himself. Garrett sipped his drink and permitted himself a slight grin. But the squad, his squad—the men Garrett Walker had personally trained—had performed flawlessly, which allowed them to turn the ambush into a killing zone for the Iraqi patrol. The engagement was just one of the many unreported engagements in Kurdish-controlled northern Iraq—and Garrett Walker’s last firefight. His smile quickly faded as he realized again that he would never again lead men in harm’s way.

  It’s unfair, he told himself for the hundredth time; I’ve never felt better or been more fit. He tried to be philosophical about it, for Garrett Walker was a man who knew all too well that life is not always fair. Afghanistan had shown that special operations was now a pivotal element in modern warfare. And now he was about to become a civilian; he felt so frustrated.

  He went back to his drink, trying to shake off the events of the recent past he couldn’t change. As he did, two men stepped through the entrance and to either side of the door, scanning the bar and the nearby tables. They were dressed in blue jeans, T-shirts, and Nikes. Without a word, the two began to work their way through the crowd. They had the same hard, athletic look as the man at the end of the bar, as if all three belonged to the same professional sports team. In many ways they did; all were members of SEAL Team Three.

  “Thought we might find you hiding out in here,” said one of the new arrivals. “A few of the guys down at Greg’s would like to buy you a beer.” Of the two, he was the younger but a powerfully built man. He glanced around at the “civilians” crowded along the bar with a measure of disdain. “C’mon, Master Chief, you don’t belong here.”

  Garrett swung around on his stool to face them. “Now that’s where you’re wrong, Lieutenant. I do belong here. You’re team guys, and I’m a civilian—almost.” He gave a helpless gesture that revealed an intricately tattooed dragon on his forearm.

  The second man gave a quick snort and smiled. “Yeah, right, and I’m a fuckin’ social worker.” He was older, with a touch of gray at his temples and a hard, gravelly voice. “Look, Tag, they can put a man out of the teams, but they can’t take the teams out of the man. The day you can’t call yourself a SEAL, none of us can. Now are you gonna sit there like a bottle of urine and drink with these weenies, or are you gonna come have a beer with us?”

  Garrett gave them both an even stare that caused the younger man to look away and smile. “You know, Master Chief, there’s close to a full platoon of your men down at Greg’s, and they’ll follow just about any order I give them. Now, you can un-ass that stool and come along with us peaceably, or I’ll send them in here to get you.” He again glanced around the bar. “It won’t be pretty, ’cause I know you can be a little recalcitrant when you want to be, but they will drag your sorry butt out of here.”

  Garrett regarded the two intruders for a moment, then knocked back his drink. He set the empty glass on the bar and slid from the stool. He waved to the bartender to keep the change. “Looks like we’re all going to Greg’s for a drink.”

  As they threaded their way out, they raised a few eyebrows, but not many. Coronado, California, was considered home base for the West Coast Navy SEAL teams. The SEAL complex occupied a stretch of Pacific beachfront less than a half mile south of Coronado on the Silver Strand, a thread of sand that connected Coronado to Imperial Beach, just above the Mexican border. They didn’t have to be in uniform to be positively identified as Navy SEALs.

  McP’s Irish Pub was on Orange Avenue, less than a block east of the Brigantine on the same side of the street. The owner, Greg McPartland, was a Vietnam-era SEAL, and over the years McP’s had become the off-duty hangout for nondeployed Navy SEALs. Greg served good sandwiches, thick Irish stews, and plenty of beer and stout. Promotions, wakes, and even wedding receptions of team members were held at McP’s. The main bar area seated thirty or more, with standing room for four times that many. Tables crowded along one wall up to a small bandstand and an even smaller dance floor along the back wall. A large SEAL insignia, an eagle clutching a trident and flintlock pistol superimposed on an anchor, hung over the bar. On most weeknights, the crowd spilled out from the main bar area onto the patio, a large walled area that was twice the size of the interior. The lieutenant led Garrett and the other SEAL around to the back entrance of the patio.

  “Hooyah, Master Chief!” shouted a young SEAL standing at a bar set in an alcove to the main building. He was drawing a beer from the tap of an iced keg of Bass Ale resting on the counter.

  “Yo, Tag.”

  “Good job, Lieutenant.”

  “Bong-bong; E-nine, arriving.”

  The three new arrivals were absorbed into the group. Someone handed Garrett a fresh schooner of beer that sent a wave of foam cascading down across his hand and fingers. There were about twelve of them, all in jeans or shorts and T-shirts. Some wore sandals, others sneakers. He quickly surveyed them with a measure of pride and sadness. This was his last platoon. He had trained these men, worked them hard, and made them into a combat team. Most of them he had taken on deployment. Soon all of them would be back in the thick of it, but he would not be with them. Navy SEALs are tough and smart, but they’re also very independent. Teamwork sometimes comes hard to them. Often, getting these individuals to function as a unit requires advanced ego-management skills. Garrett did this well. He knew when to push, when to pull, and when needed, when to threaten. For the most part he had led by quiet example, but not always. As he took a long pull on the ale, he realized that was what he would miss the most: taking a bunch of rowdy, freewheeling, independent Navy SEALs and hammering them into a fighting unit—a team.

  “Here, Master Chief, l
et me top that off for you.” A young SEAL refilled his glass and quickly returned it. “Don’t know what we’re gonna do without you, Master Chief. Who’s gonna teach us how to loot and shoot?”

  Garrett smiled. Barnes was young, just out of training and new to the platoon, but already a solid performer. “How many times do I have to tell you, Barnes—first comes the shooting, then the looting.”

  “Oh, yeah, Master Chief.” He grinned. “I always get them backward. So what are you going to do now?”

  Garrett put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “You know, Barnes, I’m going to deck the next guy who asks me that.” Then, in a quieter tone, “Because I really have no fuckin’ idea. And why don’t you lose the ‘Master Chief’ and just call me Garrett, or Tag, if you like.”

  The young man stepped back and drew himself upright. “Oh, I don’t know about that, Master Chief.”

  “Well, you work on it, Barnes.”

  Garrett moved about, taking a moment with each of his platoon mates. Gradually he worked his way to the side of the patio, where several senior enlisted SEALs were seated around a table.

  “Well, look what the cat, I mean, look what the lieutenant dragged in.”

  “Have a seat, Tag.”

  “Yeah, Tag. An old guy like you shouldn’t try to stand up and drink beer at the same time.”

  Garrett “Tag” Walker had grown up in Arkansas and had gone to the University of Michigan on a football scholarship. He was there for only two years, but gained a reputation as a vicious hitter. During his freshman year, he sidelined a star Ohio State wide receiver, knocking him unconscious. It was a clean but devastating tackle. “I only tagged him,” he was heard to say as they wheeled the fallen Ohio State man from the field, and the name stuck.

  Garrett kicked a chair out, spun it around, and sat down, resting his forearms across the backrest. “You know, my forced retirement does have an upside. I won’t have to sit around and listen to you old ladies whine all the time.”

  “You know, Frank,” one of them said, turning to his companion, “even though Tag here is something of a no-load and a sea lawyer, I’m gonna kind of miss him.”

  “I hear you, Bobby,” Frank replied. Frank was one of the few black men in the teams, built like a wall but with an easy grin. “He is kind of a lightweight, but I’ve grown a little fond of him over the years, just a little, mind you.”

  The comments around the table continued at Garrett’s expense, but it was a forced bonhomie. These were senior SEAL operators and all chief petty officers. They were the best of their breed, which meant they were among the elite of the world’s special operations forces. Each could only imagine his own personal trauma if he were to be suddenly separated from the teams. Unlike the young SEAL, none of them asked about Garrett’s plans. They all knew he would talk about his future in his own good time.

  “Well it’s not going to be an easy adjustment,” Garrett said reflectively as he finished his beer. “No more long deployments, no more lousy Navy chow, no more weekend duty, no more night training exercises, no more long cold-water ocean swims. I’ll just have to find some other way to spend my time.” He signaled to a passing waitress. “Cindy, could you bring myself and these other pretenders each a double shot of tequila.” A slight grin played on his lips as he surveyed the other SEAL chiefs around the table. “I don’t suppose you heroes object to having a drink with a lightweight, do you? Certainly not on his last night in the teams on active duty, right?”

  When Cindy arrived with a tray of double shots, Garrett immediately sent her back for another round. Two more chief petty officers joined them, along with the lieutenant who had corralled Garrett at the Brigantine. They pulled a chair up to the table before they realized what was up; all were honor-bound to drink with Master Chief Garrett Walker, USN, soon-to-be USN retired. While the younger SEALs wandered into the main bar at McP’s to check out the girls who invariably appeared when the music started, the others sat with the lame-duck Master Chief and drank shot after double shot of Jose Cuervo. At closing time, about 1:00 A.M., Garrett pushed himself up from the table and surveyed his glassy-eyed companions.

  “Well, gentlemen, it’s about that time.” He studied his wristwatch. “I see by my deep-diving, washer-proof Navy SEAL chronometer, we have quarters in about six hours. I’ll be very dish-appointed if I don’t see you all in formation. Good night.”

  With that he left the patio at McP’s and walked out onto Orange Avenue. It took him no more than five minutes to cover the six blocks to his studio apartment that overlooked the Coronado Yacht Club. He let himself in, carefully set the alarm clock, and fell onto the sofa, fully clothed.

  Friday morning, February 22,

  Pokhara, Nepal

  While it was Thursday evening on the West Coast, it was late Friday morning in Nepal. It was a clear day, but there was still a bitter chill in the air. The mountain village was now buzzing with activity as bundled women moved among the street vendors in search of daily produce. Across from the marketplace, Bijay sat at a table outside the café enjoying the morning sunshine in spite of the cold. The tea had been properly served to his specification, but it needed to steep for several more minutes before it reached the rich proportion he relished. He had not grown up in Pokhara, but several kilometers to the northwest, almost in the shadow of Annapurna. He had only been back six months, and already he was restless. Restless was too strong a term for Bijay; he was far too disciplined to become restless from inactivity, yet he knew that his spirit was not entirely at peace, and the inactivity did not help. Still, the sunshine and the prospect of enjoying the warm brew steaming in the pot in front of him helped to settle him.

  Bijay was in much the same situation as Garrett Walker, but his circumstance could not have been more different. Garrett was rated by his peers as one of the best, but outside the small fraternity of Navy SEALs he was an unknown. In the kingdom of Nepal, Bijay Gurung was a national hero.

  As the last vestiges of the British Empire were snuffed out, Britain’s need for a large standing military force decreased. This was especially true for her light infantry and expeditionary forces. Perhaps the most expendable of those units, although those best loved by the British people, were the Gurkhas. The British Army and the tough little men from the hills had carried on a mutual-admiration affair for close to two centuries. The Gurkha regiments had served under the Union Jack in both world wars and numerous conflicts before and since. But when the Brits returned Hong Kong to the Chinese, the last of the British Army Gurkhas were brought home to England. At one time, more than 120,000 Gurkhas served in the British military. Today there is a single brigade of less than 6,000 men. All are now garrisoned in England, with a small contingent in Singapore and a battalion in Brunei. It was in Brunei, where Bijay served as battalion sergeant major, that the unfortunate incident had taken place—the incident that sent Bijay from that desert kingdom back to his home in the hill country.

  “Mr. Gurung? Bijay Gurung?”

  Bijay looked up. “Yes?”

  “May I please have a moment of your time?” The speaker was dressed in a Western-style business suit, but he was clearly a man out of uniform. He had close-cropped, shiny black hair and rounded features. His complexion was smooth and dark, almost as dark as that of Bijay himself. Bijay could see that he was Hindu, and as he moved closer, could also smell that he was Hindu. The faint distinctive odor that Bijay recognized was not, however, unpleasant. Bijay felt that in some previous life, he too had been Hindu.

  “Your presence is most welcome. It is a fine day, and there is room at the table for more than myself.”

  “Thank you,” the newcomer replied, and as a show of courtesy and respect, he inclined his head with hands folded, fingers straight under his chin.

  Another cup appeared immediately. The proprietor kept close watch on his most important patron and assumed that his new companion might be equally important. He also knew he could learn little from Bijay’s manner, for he w
ould treat a king or a beggar with the same polite respect.

  “For my own taste, the tea has reached its proper time.” He poured for the stranger. “I hope you find it pleasing.”

  The man murmured his thanks. Courtesy required that they first attend to the tea, each taking the next few minutes to sniff, blow, and sip at the pungent brew. After an appropriate interval, Bijay’s guest cleared his throat.

  “Without my having to state my business, I am sure you know who I am and why I have come to see you.” For an Indian, his Gurkhali was very good. Gurkhali was not Bijay’s native speech, but few outside his home village spoke his dialect of Gurungkura. “And I am sure,” he continued, “that I am not the first to seek you out.” Bijay inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. “My name is Mikki Singh, Major Mikki Singh. I serve as adjutant with the 9th Indian Gurkha Rifles.” He lowered his head. “My colonel sent me personally to speak with you, both as a gesture of his respect and as a tribute to the esteem with which you are held by the men in my regiment.”

  Bijay also lowered his head. “You have traveled far, Major Mikki Singh,” he said neutrally, “and you do this humble soldier honor. But I fear you have made your journey to no avail; I will not again serve in the regiments.” As a show of respect, Bijay was careful to make no distinction between the British Gurkha regiments and the Indian Army Gurkha regiments.

  British Raj began the custom of hiring Gurkha mercenaries in 1814, following a bloody border war with Nepal. They found the tough little tribesmen a formidable enemy. After the fighting, the British quickly sought them as retainers. Thus began the long attachment that the British have for the doughty, reliable Gurkhas. While the British were drastically reducing the size of their Gurkha brigade, as well as their forward-deployed forces, the Indian Army still paid for close to a hundred thousand Gurkha troops, a complement of eight full regiments. India paid their Gurkhas less than the British, and the Indian Gurkha regiments were considered inferior to those of the British brigade. Moreover, the Gurkhas genuinely liked the British, due to the quality of the British officer corps, while they often only tolerated the Indians. Still, the Indians needed Gurkhas. India has a long border with Pakistan and China, and the Gurkha regiments, even under Indian officers, were more reliable than native troops. America’s pursuit of terrorists had done little to quiet tensions on the Indian-Pakistani border. More than a million men were under arms in and around the disputed state of Kashmir. If fighting broke out, India wanted as many Gurkhas under arms as possible.