That this fellow Motter was a lieutenant commander, not a major, meant that Unit 13 was, like the SEALs, a navy thing. You couldn’t tell from the man himself, all geared up in mushroom-cap helmet, his Kevlar strapped with frags and flares and fighting knives and various kits and packs that might come in handy, a Glock Kydexed to his chest, his face smeared black to match the night. He looked like any special ops jock, from SEAL to Delta to Pointe du Hoc Ranger to Spartan at the Hot Gates—same war, different day—to the horse raiders under Sergeant Major Odysseus outside Troy that fateful evening. He smoked a cigarette, listened impassively, as the Director spoke to him. His eyes were dead, his emotional engagement somewhere between calm preparedness and existential meaninglessness.

“Sergeant Swagger,” he said. “I read the accounts of Sniper Team Romeo-Two-Bravo against the North Vietnamese Second Battalion, Third Shock Army, in the highlands outside Nha Trans in 1974. That was a hell of a fight. But you were twenty-six then. Now you’re seventy-two.”

“The only thing I can’t do now that I did then is win at hopscotch. A weapon will equalize me out just fine.”

“To be frank, I’d much rather go drinking with you, hear your stories and learn your lessons, than lead you into combat. But let me ask the fellows. We’re tight in battle, but I like democracy in the unit.”

The young man turned, wandered off to where a dozen or so other guys were arrayed on the tarmac, all identical helmeted dogs of war. They gathered and talked, quietly and briefly, and finally Motter waved Bob over.

“Welcome to the team, brother.”

Men crowded, slapped him on the back. One guy kissed him. Names came at him, and he kept nodding as if able to remember them while answering “Bob, Bob.” Like the SEALs, 13 was clearly a first-name-only kind of outfit.

“Too late for gear,” said Motter. “We’re airborne in three.” He turned. “You, sentry, over here please.”

Swagger hadn’t even noticed air force security guards at the perimeter of the loading area. The fellow loped over.

“Last-minute addition. Don’t have time to check an M4 out of the armory. Sergeant”—he looked closely at the name tag on the sentry’s Kevlar vest—“Sergeant Mappa, he needs your vest, your Uzi, and your ammo.”