Takedown

As Harvath sat there, it was almost as if Bob was speaking to him. Hearing those words, Harvath knew he wasn’t going to quit his job-he couldn’t. As much of a pain in the ass as it often was, Harvath knew why he was doing it. It wasn’t for the politicians he had grown progressively more disenchanted with, it was for the people of this country, brave and good people like Bob who along with their honorable way of life were worth fighting for.

Harvath was going to keep doing what he was doing and he was going to continue doing it the very best he could-for himself and also for the memory of Bob Herrington.

When the service had ended, the reverend asked if everyone would follow the procession outside onto the steps of the church.

The street was still devoid of traffic, the ESU officers dutifully at their posts. Chairs had been set up on the sidewalk for family members and those who needed to sit. It was hot and humid, but a faint breeze blew in from across the river. And though the air had gotten much better, it still wasn’t one hundred percent. The scent of death and destruction still hung over everything. It was a smell Harvath would never be able to forget. Like everyone else in New York, it had become a part of him.

Bob Herrington was given a twenty-one-gun salute by seven Special Forces soldiers from across the street, and as taps was played, the flag covering his coffin was folded and handed to his parents.

The coffin was then placed inside the hearse and the rear door closed. Everyone stood or sat in silence. A minute, maybe two passed, the birds of Brooklyn Heights the only accompaniment to people’s private thoughts and remembrances of Bob Herrington.

There was a faint noise from somewhere off in the distance, and Harvath wrote it off to the ongoing S amp;R efforts on Manhattan, until it began to grow much louder. Looking up from the hearse, Harvath watched as a UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter came in and hovered directly overhead. A heavy black rope was lowered, and it was then that Harvath realized what he was seeing. Someone, probably one of Bob’s teammates, had arranged for a symbolic final extraction.

The helicopter then flared and flew off toward the river as the mourners watched. When it was gone from view, Harvath and everyone else looked down to see that Robert Herrington’s hearse had already driven away.

Ninety-Eight

So are we going to the reception, or not?” asked Harvath as the crowd outside the church began to break up.

“We thought we’d do our own private send-off for Bob,” replied Cates.

“What? You mean just the three of you?”

“No. The four of us,” said Morgan. “After all, we’re a team, right?”

Harvath smiled. As he did, Tracy Hastings removed a bottle of Louis XIII from her bag and said, “Bob mentioned he owed you a drink. We all chipped in and bought this in his honor.”

Harvath smiled even wider.

As they had all paid their respects to the family at the wake last night and had stayed well into the early morning hours drinking, nobody could fault them for missing the reception. In fact, few would probably even notice their absence. Besides, swapping stories while they consumed a $1300 bottle of cognac was the kind of send-off Bob would have approved of.

They decided they’d take the Fulton Landing Ferry back over to Manhattan and find a quiet place in Battery Park where they could look out over the Hudson and maybe forget, at least for a while, about everything that had happened.

A block from the church a black limousine pulled up next to them, and when the tinted window rolled down, Harvath thought he recognized the voice of the man calling his name. As he turned to look, he saw Robert Hilliman, the U.S. secretary of defense, waving.

“Quite a moving ceremony,” he said, beckoning Harvath over to the vehicle. “I need a couple minutes of your time. Would you mind?”

Harvath told the others he’d meet them at the ferry and then climbed inside the limousine.

“How’ve you been, Scot?” said Hilliman once the door was shut.

“Fine, sir,” he replied, not exactly happy to be sitting in a limo in the middle of Brooklyn Heights talking to the secretary of defense.

“Fit for duty? The shoulder’s okay? The ankle?”

“The shoulder’s about eighty percent, but the ankle’s okay now.”

“Good, glad to hear it.”

“Sir, what are you doing here?” asked Harvath.

Hilliman smiled. “I knew Robert Herrington. Not well, but I knew him. He was a good man. He was part of my protective detail the first time I visited Afghanistan. There was a situation. It never made the news, but suffice it to say that if it wasn’t for Bob’s efforts in particular, I might not be here right now.

“I paid my respects to his parents earlier this morning and kept a low profile in the back of the church during the service.”

“And the Black Hawk? Was that your doing?”