“Why?” Coleman said.
“Do you know what the Department of Agriculture does?”
Coleman shook his head. “Not really.”
“Exactly. So why in the hell should some bean counter from a nonsense government agency be directing our Afghanistan wartime strategy?”
Coleman didn’t have an answer. Rather than try to come up with one, he looked from his friend to the wooden B-hut that served as the combination TOC and conference room for the infantry brigade’s leadership team.
The structure was still standing.
This was not always a given after Rapp lost his cool. On the other hand, the two guards posted on either side of the entrance were giving Rapp serious side-eye. The soldiers weren’t reaching for their sidearms, but their fingers were fluttering close to the black matte pistol grips.
This could be because moments earlier Rapp had exploded out of the B-hut’s front door while dragging a sputtering man by the nape of his neck. To his credit, Rapp hadn’t hit the man, but he did deposit the civilian on the dusty ground in a tangled heap of arms, legs, and freshly pressed khakis. The pair of guards had seemed unsure how to read the situation, especially after he got to his feet and took a swing at Rapp.
That had been a mistake.
Now the man was recovering at the J-Bad aid station and Rapp and Coleman were persona non grata inside the brigade headquarters. The head of the guard detail had delivered this news with the calm, soothing voice a circus trainer might use with a lion that had escaped his cage. Rapp had taken the pronouncement in stride, but judging by their rigid body language, the soldiers were still uneasy.
Coleman could sympathize.
If he had a dollar for every panic attack Rapp had induced in a protective detail, he’d be a rich man.
A very rich man.
“I take it the ground pounders aren’t going to help us find the missing Iranian?” Coleman said.
The look of disgust on Rapp’s face was answer enough.
“I really think we might lose this thing,” Rapp said, turning to Coleman.
“What?” Coleman said. “Our chance to find the Quds Force officer?”
Rapp shook his head. “The war, Scott. The whole goddamn war. The special operations boys and girls across the street are still getting after it, but the jihadis aren’t going to be crushed by spies and snake eaters alone. Look, I’m all for giving the local populace a reason to support us, but we’ve got leaders who think that it’s a better use of our soldiers’ time to build schools instead of kill shitbags.”
Coleman was nowhere near old enough to have experienced Vietnam, but as a young frogman he’d known several senior chiefs who had. While he hadn’t doubted their observations on what it was like to serve in the long, unpopular, and ultimately unsuccessful war, Coleman had never been able to come to terms with the conflict’s outcome. How could America piss away the lives of fifty-five thousand of her sons and daughters over seven bloody years and still settle for defeat?
It had never made sense to him then.
It was starting to now.
“My team is reloaded and ready to go, but I’m not sure where to point them,” Coleman said.
In a situation that was as unique as it was unsettling, Coleman was unsure about a number of things. While working with Rapp gave new meaning to the phrase ready, fire, aim, the SEAL always took it on faith that Rapp had a plan even if what he was thinking wasn’t abundantly clear.
To anyone.
But this felt different.
Rapp felt different.
Coleman eyed his friend, trying to find the source for the verdict his subconscious had just rendered. Rapp was still Rapp, but he seemed… distracted. One of the things Coleman admired most about Rapp was his ability to compartmentalize.
No, that wasn’t quite right.
Compartmentalize suggested that Rapp locked away pieces of himself while operating. That wasn’t accurate. Rapp brought all of himself to every operation. All of his anger, all of his intuition, and all of his experience. It wasn’t that he turned into an emotionless killing machine as much as he became hyperfocused in a manner that superseded distraction. But if Coleman were pressed to describe his friend right now, that would be the word he’d choose.
Distracted.
“This whole thing has me second-guessing myself,” Rapp said.
Coleman stared at Rapp, unsure if he’d heard correctly.
Rapp second-guessing himself?
They were in uncharted territory.
“About rescuing Saxton?” Coleman said.
Rapp shook his head. “That was the right play, even if it meant missing Ashani. We don’t leave our people behind. No, I’m second-guessing a decision I made a couple of years ago. Some shitheads I didn’t kill but maybe should have.”
Coleman nodded as if he understood.
He didn’t.
When it came to killing bad guys, Rapp was both decisive and effective. His moral compass, while calibrated differently than the average person’s, never pointed anywhere but Rapp’s version of true north. Rapp was one of the most vicious operatives Coleman had ever worked with. Rapp had no issue climbing into the gutter with his nation’s enemies if that’s what it took to end a threat to his countrymen.
What made Rapp unique wasn’t just his skill at waging death. It was that it didn’t morally or psychologically stain him. Rapp slept soundly at night, not because he was a psychopath, but because he believed in the absolute righteousness of his cause and the undeniable depravity of those he hunted. Rapp never killed a man who didn’t deserve to die any more than he allowed a threat to his nation to continue to draw breath.
