It was hard fucking work, but all those years back, I made it through training, formed friends in BUD/S—good men who had my back as I’d had theirs. I achieved my dream and became a SEAL. But I didn’t stop there, continuing training in whatever opportunity came my way, specialising in explosives and obtaining college credits in computer science. I’m also the best damn sniper on the team, aided by my steady hand, good co-ordination and the way my brain has no problem calculating wind speed and distance. I make the most of all the chances given to me, knowing I’ll pay it all back in spades as I’ve no desire other than being part of the teams so long as I’m physically fit enough or still alive. I’m a lifer. I can think of no other way I’d prefer to spend my days on this earth.
I’m proud to be one of the best, working with the best, always striving for the highest accolades in anything I do. Not for public recognition of course, there’s no chance of that, but for the sense of a job well done, and the knowledge that we’ve all come through. As part of the teams, I’ve worked ops all around the world, essentially living the life I’ve always dreamed.
I might not get the thanks, cheers or praise, or the adulation and money that would come from being a professional football player but I don’t give a fuck about that.
On a rare occasion, I might think back to where I’ve come from, but never with regret that I’d embarked on the wrong path. I didn’t come from a happy home, but as it’s turned out, I’ve found a far better one instead.
A few months back I was transferred to a new team to take the place of a man who hadn’t re-upped. While I’ve worked on a number of continents, I’ve done a few tours in Afghanistan, and my fluency in Dari and Pashto, the two main languages of the region, was the main reason I was chosen. I’d learned as a challenge to myself, finding learning the alien tongue not too dissimilar to my first attempts to speak to a computer in program code.
To date, this deployment has been fairly easy, though we’re working behind enemy lines. The op is helping to train the Afghans so hopefully, in time, they can take on the battle themselves. That I can talk to them in their own language smooths much of the way.
I’m still learning the strengths of my new team, never being one to take men at face value. That they’re also SEALs means I don’t have to question the inherent trust we’re all on the same side. But as to each individual, well, I can’t help reserving judgement. In my eyes, a man has to prove himself. I’ll have their six, and know they’ll have mine, but a designation means shit until you’ve got the measure of a man through experience. A therapist would say my distrust stems back to my dad. He was my parent, but nothing he did earned the title he wore.
If I’ve got the reputation of being standoffish, then I don’t give a damn. I’ll be cautious until I’ve reason not to be and dislike joining new teams for that reason. That said, I’m slowly coming to appreciate the strengths of my new team members. They’re a good bunch of men, and I’ve discovered I like them.
Take Pooh, named because he looks just like a teddy bear, well, I’ve reached the stage to believe he’s a real friend of mine. We couldn’t be more different in background—he’s still got parents who are as proud as fuck of how he earns a living, together with a wife and a new baby born just a few weeks ago. Me? I’m very much single, and happy to remain so.
Buster was harder to get to know. Unlike Pooh, he keeps his personal shit to himself. I’ve learned as much from his interactions with others as I have from the actual man. He prefers hand-to-hand combat, hence picking up his handle. We’d been ambushed a week or so back, and he hadn’t hesitated to have my back. It was that incident that solidified my admiration for him.
Tailor? He’s the unofficial leader of our group, the oldest and most experienced. The origin of his name is a bit blurred. Sure, he’s great with a needle and thread, including in the absence of the platoon’s combat medic happy to stitch up a wound, but the shortened version Tail works as well, as chasing it is one of his specialities. He’s an open book, never keeping anything back, and always ready with his booming laugh. He kind of adopted me and while my natural instinct was to resent it, I tend to gravitate toward him.
No one knows why Gun got his name, the story’s been lost in the mists of time. But he’s a crack sniper, almost as good as myself. And Slice, well, his wet work is to be admired, and a silent death has been delivered many a time.
Years back when I’d joined my first team, I’d just been Finn, appropriately kept because of scuba diving. By the time I joined this unit, everyone was using my new handle, my reputation for being impatient with anyone not giving one hundred percent or issuing some bullshit command just to keep us on our toes had preceded me. When faced with a fuckup, the storm clouds came rolling in, covering my expressive face and betraying me. Apparently, they knew when to step back as my features would grow dark. At that point, I became Storm, or Stormy.
When you’re named, you’re stuck with it whether you like it or not. Sometimes in the dead of night the name gives me pause. Am I more like my old man than I’d like? On too short a fuse and liable to lose my temper? It’s a notion I prefer to dismiss. I don’t get angry for no reason, nor use my fists when I’m in a rage, or not often. Instead, words are my weapon of choice. I’m adept at leaving no one in any doubt as to what I’m thinking.
Truth is, I don’t suffer fools gladly. Luckily, in the platoon of my fellow elite SEALs, we haven’t many of those.
Never once did I regret not following my father’s dreams instead of my own. I had more excitement in my life, and more than that, my life had a purpose. I wasn’t entertaining wannabe experts sitting in the stands, I’ve amassed no fortune, though the pay for a SEAL isn’t bad. The life I live has me fulfilled. I’m wired for this, far more than I would have been as a football player. Receiving the Navy SEAL Trident pin had been the proudest day of my life.
“Any questions from the briefing?” Lieutenant Commander Smythe stops by my side. I jump to my feet. “No, Sir.”
Smythe’s new. A week or so back, he replaced our previous task unit leader who’d taken a bullet to his leg. I’m still feeling him out, but so far I’m not impressed, and at times have silently questioned how he’d ever made the grade. Sure, the words out of his mouth sounded right, but he didn’t have the mental agility which I admire. Once a plan’s in place, he seems slow to change it up as the situation demands.
I’ve kept my thoughts to myself, but tonight, as our team leader walks off, I leave my reminiscing behind and go over to join my team, reaching them just as Pooh brings the very same thing up.
His eyes stare in the direction Smythe disappeared. “I worry he won’t bend if it’s necessary.”
As I nod my agreement, Gun shows he disagrees.
“See? There’s something to be said for sticking to your, well, guns.” He grins self-deprecatingly. “I’d rather know what I’m heading into and what I’m doing, then have someone constantly changing it about. Smythe is someone I respect.”
“Patton was better,” I observe, referencing our previous leader. “I trusted him.”