Kirby McCormick gazed over the wide expanse of Chesapeake Bay, while a cool wind pungent with sea air, diesel oil and creosote tugged at his pea coat. He removed his watch cap, took a deep breath and snapped a farewell salute to the toughest years of his life. Medium height, heavy boned and hard muscled, many women found his intense black eyes appealing; wise men gave him respect. He nodded, thinking he had come a long way from the Stockbridge reservation days in Wisconsin.

Norfolk Naval Base located strategically on the tip of Virginia’s Tidewater Basin, was the largest naval base in the Americas. Commissioned in 1917, it included the headquarters of the Atlantic Fleet, the Second Naval District, NATO’s Allied Command Atlantic, the Armed Forces Staff College and the Navy’s oldest supply center. A few miles east at Little Creek lay the crown jewel of Norfolk, the Navy’s Amphibious Base, home of the U.S. Navy SEALS, the nation’s most elite warriors.

A Cobra helicopter bristling with rockets and a three barrel 20 mm Gatling gun thundered over the bay toward the base, then neatly joined a covey of parked black Cobras, looking like giant locusts.

He watched it and mulled over the past twelve years. Countless faces splashed across his brain; ghostly indistinct images of those he’d killed serving the colors. Drug lords in South America, terrorists in the Near East, guerrillas in Africa, pirates on the China seas; everyone a menace to the free world, but human beings whose lives he had helped to snuff out. The muscles on his face tensed, his right eye twitched; he had enough of it to last for two lifetimes.

There were also sharp images of his SEAL team’s amphibious invasion during the Gulf War that drew an entire Iraqi division away from the main battlefield. The chill breeze off the bay reminded him of Bosnia’s icy Sava River where his team protected bridge builders from live ordnance swept along by a vicious current, and where he’d carried a wounded comrade on his back up a steep embankment. He recalled Hell Week in California, where only 70 out of 706 highly qualified men from various Allied navies survived the tortuous five day training to become the United States Navy’s Sea, Air, and Land Commandos, and at his last assignment there as instructor. He let out a long breath and saluted. He was saying goodbye to the sea and the things he had done so well.

Tires crunched on the gravel behind him. A gray Chevy Suburban, the familiar Navy seal emblazoned on its door, stood waiting. He inhaled one last bit of salt air before sliding into the back seat alongside his superior officer. As the driver headed south toward Hampton Boulevard, Commander Charles Wilson gripped his hand. "Well, Kirby, you got what you wanted. How does it feel?"

Kirby wore his characteristically reserved expression. "Too soon to say, Commander, but I’m looking forward to it." He looked out the window at a training platoon running cadence. "I’ll never regret working with the teams, sir. I hope I made a difference."

Commander Wilson nodded, saddened by losing his best SEAL and a trusted friend. "Nobody ever said being a SEAL would be easy, son; it’s definitely high pressure."

Kirby shrugged. "The physical and mental pressures didn’t bother me, sir, but I’m just tired of the killing. It’s time to pass the baton and get on with my life. This Indian is through circling the wagons." Wilson grinned. "Any idea where you’ll land, Kirby?"

"None at all, sir, but wherever it is, I hope it’ll be on friendly turf for a change."

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Copyright © 2003 by Maas and Mansfield