Warrior Soul: The Memoir of a Navy SEAL Read Free

profile,” or real-world operation, it would not be unusual for a SEAL jumper to leave the airplane with 100 or even 150 pounds of gear. Satellite radios, night-vision equipment, antitank rockets, breaching demolitions, and diving gear are a few such pieces of “optional” equipment. Tonight we wore and carried only our shooting gear. This drop was considered a “Hollywood jump,” the stuff of sissies.
    We donned our baggy, light-gray jumpsuits. Over them we strapped on inflatable UDT life jackets, pistol belts, and low-draw holsters. This gear was considered our safety equipment. It included a .40-caliber Glock model 17 pistol, four magazines, a K-bar knife, a Mark-13 flare, and an infrared strobe light. Heckler & Koch MP-5 machine pistols were strapped to our thighs. This first line of gear would be our last line of defense—if it came down to life jackets, pistols, and smoke flares, we would be in a world of hurt.
    The second line, our assault gear, was loaded into backpacks and cinched down tight. It consisted of Zainer waterproof body armor, a first-aid kit, a CamelBak water canteen, an encrypted radio, a Madonna-style headset, a ballistic helmet, an assault vest, and sixteen magazines for our MP-5s. Even on this practice mission, each man carried 480 rounds of .40-caliber Teflon-coated hollowpoint ammunition. These rounds were specially designed to pass through all known types of body armor, including our own.
    Why carry live ammunition on a peacetime jump? In the SEALs, we train like we fight. It is essential that each jumper practices with the same equipment he would use on a combat jump. Learning how to exit the airplane, deploy your parachute, and land your rig with a combat load is not something you want to practice over downtown Baghdad.
    We strapped on our parachutes, then connected the heavy backpacks to D rings on the front of each harness. All of our gear was secured with quick-release fittings. Within seconds of landing, we would be fully equipped and ready to rock.
    As the riggers laid their cables, the air force combat controllers established radio communications with Landing Zone Green, a soccer field in Virginia Beach that would be our jump target. On LZ Green were parked three unmarked Chevy Suburbans from the Team. The drop zone crew was our reception committee, playing the role of friendly agents who would meet us as we touched down. In a real-world op, they would drive us to the target area or a safe house. Tonight all they had to do was hang out, make radio communications with the airplane, and wait for us to float to earth. Our exercise would end when my twelve-man assault element got to the ground.
    As we completed equipment checks, one of the air force combat controllers came up to me. He didn’t look happy. “The DZ reports winds northeast, twenty knots and gusting to thirty. Visibility is less than half a mile in heavy rain. Do you want to abort?”
    “No,” I said, “we can handle it.”
    As I said those words, lightning lit the sky around us, and the plane buffeted sharply. The air force guy grabbed a seat back to steady himself. He smirked. “Very studly.”
    The conditions were marginal, actually outside of parameters, but the parameters were guidelines. We had all jumped in worse. Besides, if we got this over with, we could make it to the Raven and grab a few beers before closing time. This would be my last op, and I was buying when we got to the bar. Although I wasn’t looking forward to the tab, I was anxious to get on the ground before the weather got worse.
    Nearly twenty months before, I had submitted a letter to the secretary of the navy, asking to resign my commission and leave the Teams. It had taken the navy almost two years to answer my request. When you hold a commission in the armed forces, you serve at the pleasure of the president. It had apparently not pleased the White House to let me go any sooner. The navy took its time in processing my letter, and I had been