No Hero: The Evolution of a Navy SEAL Read online

  One of my first memories of elementary school was fire building. Instead of just teaching us how to read or write, our school taught us survival skills. Each student in my third-grade class got two matches to start a survival fire using bark from trees surrounding the school. We had to build a fire big enough to stay warm during a winter day. The drill was designed to teach us the survival skills that we might need if we ever got lost or became stranded. Alaska’s wilderness can be a very dangerous place if you don’t know what you’re doing, making the walk to and from school hazardous.

  My high school was one hallway with six rooms. It had about seventy kids in grades seven through twelve. My senior class was three students. I graduated as the valedictorian; just don’t ask me what my grade point average was. My interests were mostly outside the classroom.

  I hunted as often as I could. When I was a teenager my father would let me take the family boat up the river for long camping and hunting trips. I wanted to be outside and active, which likely led to my goal of being a SEAL. I never wanted to have to deal with stoplights, traffic, and wearing a suit to work every day. The thought of working in a cubicle sounded like a death sentence.

  I purchased my first assault rifle at school from my history teacher. It was an AR-15, a civilian version of the military’s M-4. I’d earned the money for the rifle doing odd jobs for people in the village and working construction in the summer. Between classes, I paid my teacher seven hundred dollars, then took the rifle and locked it in my locker until the end of school. When the bell rang, I put it on the back of my snowmobile and rode home. Yes, I did ride a snowmobile to school in the winter.

  Anything we couldn’t get from the land, we bought from the two stores in town, or during a semiannual trip to Anchorage to stock up. Because we lived so far from Anchorage, groceries were expensive. Milk was six dollars a gallon in the village, so my parents bought less expensive powdered milk.

  The powdered milk was sold in massive tubs, too big to store on the kitchen counter. To make it easier for daily use, my mother measured out small amounts and put the powdered milk in plastic bags. She did the same thing with the tub of laundry soap and other bulk goods.

  One morning, I fixed myself a big bowl of cereal. My mother was busy at the stove making pancakes for my father. The batter was bubbling up into big, fluffy pancakes as I poured the milk over my cereal.

  Sitting at the table, I took a few bites, but it didn’t taste right. I stirred the cereal around and I swore I saw suds. I started to get up to throw the bowl of cereal away, when my father stopped me.

  “Eat it,” he said. “It’s just the powdered milk, and that is the way it tastes.”

  I tried to protest. “It isn’t that,” I said. “It has a sour taste. It tastes like soap.”

  “You just have to get used to it,” my father said.

  I never liked the taste of powdered milk, but there was something wrong with this batch. I choked down the whole bowl one spoonful at a time. After a while, my taste buds died. I couldn’t taste anything but the sour, soapy flavor of the milk. My father’s pancakes showed up soon after I finished my cereal. He took one bite and spit it out.

  “What is wrong with these?” he asked my mother.

  My mom stopped plating a short stack of pancakes for my sister and gave the batter a quick stir. She then picked up the plastic bag and sniffed it.

  “I think I might have used laundry detergent instead of powdered milk,” she said, with a sheepish smirk on her face. “No wonder the pancakes bubbled up so much.”

  My mother started to laugh, then my father. When they realized I’d eaten a bowl of cereal with soapy water, they laughed harder. I tried to laugh too, until my stomach started to hurt.

  My mother poured out the batter and started fresh. When she offered me a fresh bowl of cereal, I declined. My stomach was doing flips and I had bubble guts the rest of the day.

  Living in Alaska was hard, and it wasn’t always because I had liquid soap in my cereal. There was nothing normal about my upbringing, but my parents knew the sacrifices they were making. They didn’t have to choke down horrible-tasting powdered milk or live in a village deep in the Alaskan wilderness. They chose to live a harder life than most because it was the only way my parents could achieve their purpose in life, to be missionaries and spread their faith. I know their dedication rubbed off on me. It gave me the values I needed to eventually excel in the Navy.

  My parents set me on a course that wasn’t the norm in the village. People didn’t leave the village. They found jobs working construction in the summer and just lived off their savings and the land during the winter. My parents urged me to dream big and find my own way. I was one of the few kids I grew up with who had plans of doing something beyond staying in the village.

  My father was always fair and never pushed me to do anything beyond what he knew I could accomplish. So when he asked me to at least try one year of college before enlisting in the Navy, I had to honor his wish. He was part of the Vietnam generation and didn’t want anything to happen to me, but I think he also understood my passion to serve because he’d felt the same passion for his missionary work.

  So we made a deal.

  After high school graduation, I enrolled at a small college in Southern California and made a commitment to stay for at least a year. But I didn’t plan on being there a day longer than that. After the first year, I planned to enlist and go to BUD/S.

  My first year flew by, and my father was right. College was fun. Experiencing life outside of the village was actually pretty cool. My grade point average wasn’t setting any records, but I was having a great time and making new friends. I’d promised him one year, but I decided to stick it out and finish my degree.

  My school didn’t have a Navy Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (ROTC) program, and the surrounding programs didn’t have a partnership agreement. The Army program at Cal State Fullerton did accept students from neighboring schools, so I signed up.

  ROTC is a college-based program for training officers. Students take military science courses, work out, and drill together. Once a week typically, ROTC students wear uniforms to school. I’d take classes at my school during the day, and then drive across town for events and military science classes at Cal State. My goal wasn’t to become an officer or join the Army. I just wanted to be involved in something military. I liked wearing the uniform; it gave me a sense of pride.

  After my freshman year, the ROTC instructors asked if I wanted to go to the United States Army Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia. I’d excelled in my first semester, and they figured this carrot would not only keep me in the program, but also convince me to take a scholarship and be a future Army officer.

  I accepted the chance to go to jump school, which is what most people call the airborne training program. I’d read enough books to know the SEALs sent guys straight from BUD/S to get airborne qualified. I figured this was a chance to knock out the three-week school early. Before I left, I got a short haircut like the rest of my classmates.

  The first morning, we got up at dawn and lined up in formation on the parade field near our barracks. The sun was just peeking over the pine trees, and the air was already humid and sticky. By the second exercise, my gray Army T-shirt was soaked.

  Everyone looked the same—gray shirts, black shorts, high-and-tight haircuts—except for a small group of guys who had longer hair and brown T-shirts. When I saw the group in their uniforms after physical training, I noticed they had U.S. Navy name tapes over their left pockets. I knew they had to be SEALs.

  The SEALs stuck together during training. I watched as the instructors corrected a SEAL and ordered him to do ten push-ups as punishment. As soon as the SEAL started, his buddies hit the floor too. In unison, they called out the reps. “One, two, three . . .” No one approached them, even though I desperately wanted to pick their brains about BUD/S.

&nb
sp; If I’m being honest, I wanted to be them.

  During the second week of training, I finally got to talk with one of the SEALs. It was lunch and the only seat open was across from me. We didn’t talk at first, except for a nod. I was too intimidated to initiate a conversation. But after a few bites of his lunch, the SEAL finally spoke.

  “Hey, bro, can I ask you a question?” he asked.

  Unlike the SEAL I met in Washington, this one was skinnier, with shorter hair. He was lean and had an air of confidence, not arrogance.

  “Sure,” I said.

  It was kind of exciting to finally be talking to one of the SEALs. In the back of my head, I wanted to be the one asking questions. I had so many, especially since I knew he’d just finished training. But while I saw my future, the SEAL just saw another cadet playing Army for three weeks.

  “What is up with the haircuts?” the SEAL said. “I just don’t get it. Why do you have that haircut?”

  I stopped eating.

  I couldn’t believe this question was directed to me. The question wasn’t asked to be mean or mocking. It felt like he was really curious, which made it worse. If he’d mocked me, I’d at least have been justified in being mad.

  “I don’t know, man,” I said. “I really don’t know.”

  I quickly tried to change the subject to BUD/S. I really didn’t want to be talking about something I didn’t truly understand. And I felt uncomfortable, embarrassed really.

  Before the end of the conversation, I made up my mind. I was done with the Army. I went back to California and turned in my uniforms and boots, no longer shined to a high gloss. My high-and-tight haircut was starting to grow out.

  As I finished up the paperwork, one of the officers at the unit stopped me.

  “Hey, man, are you sure you want to leave?” the officer said. “We need good cadets and would hate to see you go.”

  “I just can’t do this,” I finally said.

  The instructor tried to reason with me.

  “You’re a great cadet,” he said. “We only send the top cadets to jump school.”

  I appreciated the compliment, but I didn’t want to be in the Army.

  “I want to be a SEAL,” I said. “It has been my dream since I was a kid.”

  I knew I was taking a risk. By leaving ROTC, I was giving up the chance of a scholarship. But it was worth it, and I think sometimes you can achieve a goal only if you are willing to risk it all. Take my parents moving out to Alaska, far from family and any support, to achieve their goals. This was no longer some idea I had because I thought it was cool. It had become the beacon that was driving my life decisions.

  I’m confident many of the guys who became my teammates were the same. We all wanted to be part of something bigger. I’d veered off my path and lost focus on what I really wanted.

  When I finally signed my Navy enlistment contract, I had to pick an “A” school, which was basically deciding which job I’d perform if I washed out of BUD/S and didn’t become a SEAL. The recruiter wanted me to go into nuclear power, or “nuke,” to work on the reactors that propelled the subs and aircraft carriers. The school took eighteen months. I knew recruiters probably got a bonus for putting people in the toughest programs, but I didn’t want to wait that long to start BUD/S.

  “What is the shortest school available?” I asked the recruiter.

  He flipped through his files and found a chart with details on all the schools. Running his finger down the list, he stopped and looked up at me.

  “Torpedoman. Seven weeks,” the recruiter said, resigned to the fact he wasn’t going to get me to go nuke and boost his numbers.

  Instead, I’d be waxing torpedoes for a couple months before hopefully getting a chance to go to BUD/S. I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about what would happen if I washed out. Four years as a torpedoman would have driven me crazy, and maybe out of the Navy altogether. For me at that time, there was no backup plan.

  I set my goals higher than most people thought were possible for a kid from Alaska, but I knew in my guts that I’d make it or die trying. I didn’t want to be an old man and regret not trying.

  There was some comfort in finally working toward my ultimate goal of becoming a SEAL. I’d learned sacrifice from my parents. They showed me what it meant to live for something bigger than myself. I got off track when I signed up for ROTC. It took that lunch at jump school to push me back on track. When I looked in the mirror, I saw someone with the drive and discipline to make it happen. I saw someone with a purpose. I just needed a chance to prove I was up to it. I knew nothing in my life would feel right unless I at least gave it my best shot.

  “Seven weeks,” I said. “Sign me up.”

  CHAPTER 2

  How to Swim Fifty Meters Underwater Without Dying

  Confidence

  Ice floated in the water outside of my hotel window as I zipped my dry suit shut.

  I’d been staring out of the window off and on since we’d spotted the bloody sea lion carcass on the shore that morning. The sea lion’s body had a huge gash in its side, and the ice around it was bloodred. A killer whale did it, or that is what the locals told us. I would have appreciated the scene more, but in less than an hour, my SEAL teammates and I were about to get in the same water to plant a bomb on a U.S. Navy ship.

  I took some solace in the fact that at least the killer whale had a full stomach.

  I was a brand-new SEAL, having graduated BUD/S just nine months earlier, and it was cool to be back in Alaska training. The scenario was pretty simple. My SEAL platoon got tapped to play the OPFOR—military jargon for “opposing force,” or the bad guys. It was our job to attack an amphibious assault ship moored at the pier in Ketchikan, Alaska. We had to sneak in close enough to the ship to set tracking devices. Some of the ship’s crew as well as a small contingent of Army soldiers would be guarding the ship and surrounding areas. Their task was to defend against a threat like us.

  There was a foot of snow on the pier and the water temperature was hovering just above freezing as we prepared. I smeared black paint on my face and squeezed all of my warm clothes under my dry suit.

  One of my teammates knocked on my door, and I grabbed the rest of my gear and headed out. We met in the parking lot of our hotel and the four of us on the OPFOR assault team—all dressed in dry suits and painted faces—climbed into the back of a U-Haul truck. We were the brand-new guys in the platoon.

  If the dark, cold water and the seal-eating killer whales weren’t scary enough, we also had to worry about Flipper, a killer dolphin stalking us from the deep.

  I’m not kidding.

  The Navy has bottlenose dolphins trained to attack divers. The dolphins were part of the U.S. Navy Marine Mammal Program, which trained both dolphins and sea lions to detect mines and protect harbors and ships. Both the United States and Russia spent millions on these kinds of training programs, and the dolphins were used in combat during the Gulf War and in operations off the coast of Iraq. The Russian program was disbanded in the late 1990s, and word was their killer dolphins were sold to Iran.

  The Navy had flown three dolphins up to Alaska from San Diego in heated tanks so that they could hunt us. One dolphin was stationed in a cage at each end of the ship that was our target, and the third was free-swimming. The dolphins in the cages were trained to use their sonar to detect divers. When they heard us coming, the dolphins were supposed to surface and ring a bell attached to the cage. The dolphin handlers would then call in via radio that the dolphin had heard something, and the patrol boats would come looking for us.

  When the free-swimming dolphin spotted a swimmer, it attacked, forcing the diver to the surface. We had to deal with a giant dolphin swimming full speed in the dark water repeatedly bashing us with its nose until we swam to the surface. It’s no fun heading into icy, pitch-black water in the dead of night under any conditions, but
the constant possibility of a giant dolphin ramming you at full speed added a little anxiety to the mission.

  A few hours before we hit the water, two of my teammates in plain clothes had made their way along a nearby dock with a pair of dive tanks. When they got near the ship, they opened the valves at the top of the tanks, allowing just enough air to escape to make bubbles. My teammates tied the tanks together and dropped them over the side of the pier, lashing the anchor line to the rail before they walked away. The bubbles were white noise underwater to cover our approach.

  With the tanks in the water, we left the hotel and headed toward the river that ran from the town to the channel. We bounced along the rutted roads of Ketchikan in the back of the U-Haul. I could hear our equipment rattle as tanks banged against the wall. No one spoke. I was nervous. I wasn’t the best swimmer, and navigating underwater in pitch-black darkness while hunted by a killer dolphin wasn’t going to be easy. But it wasn’t the dolphins or the killer whale that scared me the most. It was the swim to the ship.

  Much of the town was built on a wooden dock where the ship was moored. The conventional approach would have been to swim out in the main channel, which is where the dolphins were stationed. We had decided to sneak in from under the immense pier network. If we came in from the river, the large stanchions holding the pier together would mask our movement. But that also meant we’d be swimming in complete darkness through a maze of pylons and debris. We couldn’t use flashlights for fear of attracting the dolphins below or the guards patrolling the dock above us. We would have to silently feel our way from pylon to pylon. This swim was going to be all by touch, as we worked our way through the water.

  The truck coasted to a stop and we could hear the driver—another teammate—talking to a security guard. My heart rate kicked up and we held our collective breath. If they searched the truck, the mission was done. We sat for only a few seconds, likely because of traffic backed up at the checkpoint, but it was a very long few seconds. At last I could hear the engine roar as we headed to the bank of the creek.