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Payback was so close,I could taste its metallic tinge on the tip of my tongue.
In the SEALs, we had an unspoken ethos. All of us were common men driven by an uncommon resolve.
It steered you forward, pushed and motivated you to become the best version of the man you could be.
It took men and made them into warriors willing to spend nights staring into the gaping face of danger.
Because what we did—that was what would keep our people sleeping soundly back home.
It would be wrong to say I was eighteen when I joined the SEALs.
I was born the day I turned eighteen,two years after September 11, 2001.
I was an American, risen from the urge to avenge everything we had lost to Al Qaeda.
The country was already reeling, buried under the weight of rubble, smoke, and cinder.
It took my parents from me. And it pushed me from one course to another.
Until all roads led to this very moment, almost fifteen years later.
The recent onslaught of hijackings weighed heavily on our hearts.
This time around, our op was to rescue a high-profile, state-of-the-art C-32 aircraft and everyone inside it.
Including our Secretary of Defense.
Our team had been on high alert ever since Jacob Holden's visit to Arg Palace, Kabul.
Gut instinct became second nature once you joined the Navy SEALs. In fact, it was born on the very first day of your BUD/S training.
You needed to survive. It had to be more than just a limbic function.
It had to be as hot as the blood inside you, a pounding hammer beating down on your heart, an echoing call to push, push, push.
I remembered the training day that had molded me to this point, where I was now the commander of Unit Four.
I'd gasped for air as I surfaced from God-knows-how-many-feet of icy water. The sound of my own breathing echoed in my ears as I struggled to stay afloat.
All young blood and lit with that obnoxious pride that was so common at that age, I felt pretty sure I'd ace BUD/S training, which was the first thing we had to do as new recruits.
Heck, I'd prove all the people who told me, "You're not cut out for that shit!" wrong.
Turned out they hadn't been all too far from the truth.
My instructor stood on the pool's edge, staring down at me with his face dripping with disdain.
"Reed, you pathetic excuse for a SEAL. You'll never be anything but an S-1 at this rate. Forget being a frog," he spat, his nostrils flaring as he spoke, "so just get out of the pool."
I'd climbed out, my muscles burning like fire. Training non-stop for hour after hour would do that to you.
The sun had long set, and the only light came from the dimly lit course area. I huddled with other trainees, all of us shivering, some on the brink of going back home.
Our instructor paced in front of us like a restless shark. His narrow eyes scanned each of our faces.
"This is the toughest training in the world," he said, his voice low and cold. "Only the strongest of you will survive—and that is how it should be. Think of the purpose here.
"You've all come here with one dream. To defend your country. Do not expect to do it if you cannot survive BUD/S. You'll either make it, or you'll quit.There is no middle ground."
