SEAL Team 666: A Novel

Laws shook his head. “Nah, I call bullshit on the Man of Steel. Look … he’s so powerful because of Earth’s yellow sun, right? He doesn’t even have to try, as soon as he landed here, he was all-powerful.”

“And Batman has no powers. He had to do everything himself. Okay. I see.”

“Do you? Because the folks at DC went miles trying to hide the obvious.”

“Okay, now you lost me. What is this conspiracy involving Superman?”

“Hey, don’t roll your eyes at me. You’re the one who couldn’t sleep and had to keep talking.” Laws paused, flashing a menacing grin. “And yes, ‘conspiracy’ is a good word. It’s simple. The fact is that Superman should be fat. He should he a lard-assed superhero with flabby arms, a beer gut, and soft muscles.”

Walker laughed softly as he imagined that version of Superman. “Okay, man. You gotta explain that one. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Okay. Look at Batman. He’s buff, right?”

Walker nodded.

“And why is that?”

“Like I said, because he works out.”

“Like U.S. Navy SEALs, right?”

“Right.”

“Great. But when Superman bench-presses a Cadillac, he doesn’t even break a sweat. It’s like picking up a bag of feathers. Would Batman be buff if he bench-pressed feathers? Because that’s essentially what Superman does every day.”

Walker thought about it. The stronger you were, the more you had to do to keep that strength. SEALs weren’t muscle mammoths, but they were in elite shape, much like Batman. They went for strength rather than size. He did know that if he didn’t keep up the exercise, he’d lose it faster than it took to gain.

Walker thought on this for a moment. “Holy shit, you’re totally right. Why doesn’t anyone ever talk about this?”

“Conspiracy,” Laws whispered. “Now sleep.”

Walker laughed, then turned over and forced himself to close his eyes. Soon he was dreaming of Batman as a U.S. Navy SEAL, embracing old Stumpy with the rest of them.

26

SPECIAL OPERATIONS HANGAR. CORONADO.

They landed at 1 P.M., taxiing down the runway beneath an overcast sky. The Starlifter rolled to a stop at the restricted end of the base, where a formation of SEALs stood waiting. No sooner was the ramp lowered than six of the SEALs peeled away and came aboard with a wooden stretcher. They carefully slid it beneath Fratty, lifted him, and carried him out the ramp. Hoover kept close, sniffing the high-held body. The surviving SEALs followed, tiredly carrying their gear with them.

Billings met them on the tarmac. She wore a smart black business suit with a Wounded Warrior Project pin prominently on her lapel beside the U.S. Senate pin. Her eyes and nose were red, the only concession to her sorrow. She put a hand on Holmes’s forearm, stopping him and the other SEALs. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Everyone nodded to her, acknowledging their shared loss; then she lifted her arm and the procession continued.

A hangar had been prepared. The only piece of furniture in it was a long table with a white sheet draped over it. At the head of the table was a helmet with an M4 rifle in a stand. Fratty’s dog tags hung from the front sights. Unlike most other service members, SEALs weren’t allowed to take them on operations. A tan U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer cap with a glistening black bill and gold anchor rested atop the barrel.

Once Fratty was laid on the table, his wound covered by a piece of linen, a door opened at the far end of the hangar.

Walker knew what to expect. He’d made the same walk during his training. All SEALs, those in training and those who’d already graduated, including those who’d retired and were close enough to the base to make it, would walk past their departed brother. Those who’d served with the departed were asked to leave something that could be shared with the family. A picture. A memory. Anything. Those who’d never met the SEAL filed by silently.

As it began, music started on the hangar’s speaker system. Every SEAL chose the song they wanted to have played. It took Walker a few moments to recognize the old Aldo Nova song. When the sounds of the helicopters kicked in, the song suddenly seemed perfect. “Fantasy” was the name of the song and the electronic music filled the hangar to the rafters, the whining guitar like an anthem for the living.

The team stood solemnly at the foot of the table during the entire viewing. They never put down their gear. They remained covered in mission grime that even the ocean hadn’t washed away. Part of Walker felt devastated that he’d let Fratty down. That was a part of this, to vow never to let it happen again. But another part was to acknowledge the mission, the sacrifice, and the men who’d brought back their team member.