In Such a World

Deep in the rain forests of northern Colombia, Pierson was deployed with his four-man fireteam from SEAL Team 3, Echo platoon. They were to provide rearguard support for the heavy hitters—an eight-man squad dispatched from Development Group, DEVGRU. They would perform the actual hostage rescue. As the newest member of the team and still a virgin in that he had no confirmed kills to his credit, it was decided without words that his unit would be placed where he could do the least amount of damage if stuff were to hit the fan. In the teams, especially in the field, rank meant little compared to experience and reputation. Though a lieutenant, Pierson didn’t protest, but inside he hungered for the opportunity to prove himself. Not only green, in BUD/S he had been saddled with the nickname “Preacher” due to the bachelor’s degree in religious studies he earned before receiving his naval commission. For many in the teams, religion equaled ethics; ethics equaled hesitation. Pierson knew that all the veterans in his platoon were wondering about him. Would he pull the trigger when needed or have that split second of hesitation of ethical doubt? Though he admitted it to no one, he wondered the same thing about himself. Their mission that night required a level of precision and expertise. Locals in nearby villages had been complaining of atrocities at the militia’s hands following recent regional votes in favor of anti-cartel candidates. Though normally such operations as tonight’s would be either turned over to or conducted with Colombian national forces, this particular band of militia had abducted several Western journalists, specifically CNN’s Colombian affiliate reporter, Camila Laureano, and her film crew. When the mutilated body of her videographer washed ashore on the west bank of the Cauca River, just north of Cali, the Joint Special Operations Command had decided to take matters into their own hands. Another eight-man squad from SEAL Team 3 was positioned three klicks downriver to the east, prepared to provide a distraction and ambush to draw militia forces away from the compound and annihilate them while the DEVGRU boys did their dirty work. The plan was that by morning, Camila Laureano would be freed and every member of the militia dead. Positioned approximately fifteen meters apart, Pierson and his unit were deployed in a square with a small trail running down its middle, one man on each side, one pair guarding the trail from the east, the other from the west. All four were hidden in the foliage, waiting for their mates to launch the distraction, each frustrated that, as on other missions, they would be on the sidelines while others got the action. They had been in position for two hours, and their muscles ached for motion. Then Pierson heard voices coming from the forest to the west of him. He whispered into the microphone of his in-ear conduction headset. “We’ve got company. No visual. At least two bogies,” Pierson concluded, having detected at least two distinct voices. His eyes strained through his night vision binoculars, but he could see nothing through the dense jungle undergrowth. “Copy that,” the man on his starboard side whispered first, followed in sequence by the two others to the east. Each man knew they could not let anyone pass their position. They had no idea the size of the force coming their way or even if they were militia or civilians. Whatever the case, they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. As trained, Pierson and his forward teammate let the first two pass by. They wore farmworker clothes and were whispering too loudly to each other as they passed. Each had an AK47 slung over his shoulders. Sloppy and undisciplined, definitely militia. Two more followed ten paces behind, also whispering to each other, completely unaware they were about to die. There didn’t seem to be more coming. Pierson tensed his muscles like a snake coiling to strike. He listened for the sound behind him indicating his rear teammates were engaging their targets. Four harsh, rapid spits, two thuds as the bodies collapsed to the ground. Instantly, Pierson fired his SIG-Sauer P226, the weapon making a sharp spit as it sent the bullet through the attached sound suppressor. The militia man's head snapped back sharply as the bullet exploded through the opposite side of his skull. The SEAL to his right instantly fired, and the fourth militiaman was blown off his feet and thrown to the ground, the body landing just two meters from Pierson. Each SEAL remained concealed, silent again, ready to engage if more militia appeared on the trail. A tension-filled five minutes passed before Pierson whispered into his microphone. “Rat, hold position. Mouse, Hammy, get the bodies off the trail,” he ordered, using the rodent-based call signs assigned to certain members of his fireteam. Somehow, when assigning call signs, the three of his team had been saddled with the rodent theme. As ordered, operators Mouse and Hammy broke cover and dragged the first two bodies from the trail, concealing them beneath the undergrowth. They returned for the second pair. “Contact,” Pierson whispered urgently. Four more militia suddenly appeared on the trail, bunched together, jogging as though trying to catch up to their comrades, AK47s cradled in their arms. Rayes and Daw dropped the bodies and instantly sank to a squatting position, unable to shoulder their weapons for fear of being seen. But it was too late; they had already been spotted. The joggers almost collided with each other as the first militiaman saw them and froze in his tracks. With his sound-suppressed Mk18 pressed firmly into his shoulder, Pierson fired twice, the bullets striking center mass, throwing the first militiaman back into the others. Shifting to his second target, Pierson fired again, two more quick shots, another tango down. His third target was starting to turn to run away, his face awash with panic. Again, Pierson fired twice. The man staggered back but did not fall, momentarily blocking Pierson’s view of his fourth target. The fourth militiaman, fully panicked, spun and began sprinting down the trail he had just moments ago traveled. Rounding the bend in the trail, he disappeared from Pierson’s view. “We’ve got a runner. I’m going after him,” Pierson huffed into his com unit as he sprinted after his prey. Drawing his combat knife, closing the distance between them, he saw the man look back over his shoulder. Pierson saw the terror in his eyes. The gap between them closed, and Pierson tackled the militiaman, wrapping his leg around his victim’s legs, his left arm grabbing the man’s head and yanking it back violently, exposing the man’s neck. With his SOG SEAL Strike combat knife in his right hand, he plunged it into his tango’s throat. Withdrawing the blade, he rapidly stabbed twice more into his exposed ribs and side, lungs and liver, as trained. Blood erupted from the neck wound and sprayed Pierson’s face and soaked into his uniform. Clutching the dying man, he felt every tremor, heard every sound of his final gurgling breaths as his victim died in his arms. Now, years later, the memory engulfed him to such a degree he could remember every detail—the smells of the rainforest, cordite, and blood. He remembered his consciousness protesting and the deliberate decision to shut it down and silence it. He remembered the next morning, when one of the DEVGRU operators approached him. “Five confirmed kills, not one bullet wasted. Not bad for a preacher,” he said with a devilish grin. It was the first time he met Chief Warren Pepper Adler, who would go on to recommend him for the selection process for DEVGRU.