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“Roger that,” replied Chase as he turned to the mirror and tried, with one hand, to straighten the knot Harvath had tied in his tie. Staring at his reflection as he struggled, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was what so many of America’s disabled vets went through. He didn’t like needing somebody else’s help getting dressed.

In fact, it pissed him off and reminded him of the IED videos the jihadists had been laughing at back at their safe house. That only made him angrier.

The Swedish airport authorities stamped the group’s passports and waved them out toward the tarmac where they boarded their waiting aircraft.

Sentinel Medevac was a private company the Carlton Group hired jets from on occasion. Their normal clientele were humanitarian groups and international NGOs. Sentinel was viewed as something akin to the Red Cross, and that was why the Old Man liked working with them. Their planes were an excellent means of covertly moving personnel and equipment in and out of foreign countries.

What Harvath liked about them was that in addition to their fleet of extensive, high-end aircraft, Sentinel’s owner—a successful young doctor out of North Carolina—was a patriot who was more than happy to assist the Old Man and his operators. The doctor always sent the best jets and the galleys were always well stocked.

Normally, Harvath waited until the plane had taken off before fixing himself a drink. Not this time. Losing all those men had been devastating. He walked straight to the back of the plane, dropped a handful of ice cubes into a glass, and poured several fingers of Maker’s Mark.

He was halfway finished with his first drink before the plane had even been cleared for takeoff. When its wheels finally left the ground, he settled back in his seat and tried to make sense of what had happened.

Operationally, they had played their cards very close to their vest. The Old Man had kept the need-to-know circle tight, working long hours and doing several jobs himself. Nevertheless, the operation had been a total failure, worse than Yemen. In Yemen all they had lost was a high-value target. In Uppsala, a high-value target and his second in command had gotten away and five members of the operation’s assault team had been killed.

From a straight scorecard perspective, it had been very, very bad. Coming on the heels of the failed Yemen op only made it worse.

Karami, the cell leader, was a serious player who truly knew what he was doing. Requiring his safe-house to be completely sterile while cell phones were left in a secondary operations center of some sort across the street showed both discipline and intelligence. Picking up on Chase’s signal via the windows and blinds showed an amazing attention to detail. Having prewired the secondary location to detonate showed an ability to think several steps ahead. Harvath and his team had been incredibly lucky to have gotten as close to Karami as they had. It would be very difficult to do so again.

But Uppsala didn’t appear to have failed for the same reason Yemen had. Did Yemen happen because of a leak or was there another reason? Despite how careful he had been, could Harvath have been followed by Aazim Aleem’s people? Would they kill their own man by blowing up the car he was in via an RPG rather than let him be extradited and interrogated by the Americans? It was possible. Anything was possible. Harvath made a mental note to be even more diligent in the future.

It made him think about the whirlwind of events that had just occurred. Technically, as badly as the Uppsala operation had gone, it hadn’t been a total failure. They had Mansoor Aleem in custody and they had successfully inserted Chase into the cell long enough for him to ID its leader and pick up some minor intelligence on some supposed Sheikh from Qatar.

Their newest problem was Chase’s certainty that Karami was about to activate some sort of attack. Harvath had witnessed firsthand Aazim’s previous attacks by his European and Chicago cells. Very few nights went by that Harvath didn’t picture the faces of the screaming children in the Chicago train station who had come so close to being killed. After that kind of trauma, he had no idea how they could ever grow up to lead normal lives. It was incredibly sad.

Sadder still was the number of innocent people who had been killed around the world by Muslim terrorists. People who had been doing nothing more than going about their daily lives. The majority of these victims had been Muslims themselves. In fact, for all the propaganda to the contrary, the biggest killers of Muslims were other Muslims.

If it were up to Harvath, he’d drop all the supporters of a worldwide Islamic caliphate onto an island and let them battle it out. He’d also include all those who supported Islamic charities knowing full well their money was going to finance terrorism. That you weren’t blowing yourself up or hijacking aircraft didn’t mean you weren’t participating in the jihad. There was jihad of the pocketbook as well.

There was also public relations jihad. It was active daily in the American press. Either media figures denied entirely that there was a Muslim terrorism problem, or they tried to play the false moral equivalency card and paint Christian fundamentalists as equally dangerous and prolific in their violence. When asked for examples, they often cite the Oklahoma City bomber, Timothy McVeigh, though McVeigh never claimed to be a Christian and never cited the Bible, or any other religious text, for that matter, as his reason for carrying out his horrific act of terrorism. It was amazing how many people believed the disinformation.

Then there were those media figures who actually tried to put a happy face on Muslim extremism and Sharia law under the banner of cultural diversity. Surely the victims of honor killings, and those beaten and killed for not wearing headscarves, for dating men from outside their faith, or for trying to convert to another religion would strongly disagree.

Harvath was stunned at times by how uncommon common sense was. As far as he was concerned, all of the media figures and the politicians who enabled that kind of barbarism could go to the island, too. Better yet, he would have loved to have flown them all over to Waziristan and dropped them off. Anyone who made it back alive could then spout off about anything they wanted. Until they had seen the evil done in the name of that religion and how good Muslims were brutalized by the people of their own faith, he’d rather not hear them opine on the subject.

He’d seen the worst of what was being done in the name of Islam and it needed more attention, not less. For good Muslims to be able to reform their faith and live peacefully with the rest of the world, they needed American media and politicians on their side, not the side of their enemies.

There were times when Harvath wondered why he continued to do what he did. Why defend a country that included many who thought their nation was arrogant and deserved to be humbled and brought low? Why defend these people? Better yet, agree or disagree, why risk everything, including your life, over and over again, for over 300 million people you would never meet?

These were good questions and went to the core of who he was and why he did what he did.

Harvath had become a SEAL after his father had died in part because he felt guilty about how rocky their relationship had been at the end. But making your dead father somehow happy, or proud of you, wasn’t enough fuel to have propelled a career like Harvath’s. There had to be something deeper, and there was.

Harvath had no brothers or sisters. Because of his career, his father had spent a lot of time on assignments in places he couldn’t talk about. He often left without even being able to say good-bye. Though his mother tried to compensate for his father’s lengthy absences, he carried an emptiness that he had never been able to fill. He always wanted to feel needed, that he was worth coming home to, or better yet, was worth never leaving.

Growing up on Coronado Island, his best friend had been his nextdoor neighbor, a developmentally delayed boy with an enlarged head, named Fred. Other children taunted him mercilessly and called him “egghead.” Though not particularly big, Harvath stood toe to toe with all comers to defend his best friend. Without his father around to teach him to fight and his father’s pals stopping by only occasionally to take him fishing and check up on his mom, he had to learn how to defend himself and Fred. He became street-tough real fast, often fighting several other children at the same time. Never once was he afraid to do what had to be done to defend his friend. He was the boy’s ever-present protector, a role nobody played in his own life.

It was a void Harvath wouldn’t have filled until he joined the SEALs and had teammates, comrades in arms, to whom he would entrust his life on a regular basis and who always had his back.

Was there a need in Harvath to take risks and would that need have been there regardless of the amount of time his father spent deployed? Most likely. That need to take risks in order to feel alive, to do the impossible, to face one’s fears and not back down, was present in every single warrior he’d ever met. They also shared a sense of honor in being chosen to stand and defend the country and people they held dear. Protecting them and protecting America, making sure no harm came to either, meant they were defending that which they cherished more than their very lives.

Harvath willingly defended those he didn’t agree with, even those who loathed the very existence of men like him, because as Americans or allies, he believed passionately in their rights as individuals to think and do what they wished. It didn’t matter how he might disagree with them or vice versa. He felt it made him stronger to defend their rights—without any expectation, any recognition, or any reward.

In part, he and other warriors like him did it for themselves, to have a better sense of self-worth. It was who they were and what they did best. They did it for the man next to them, the men who had come before them, and the men who had been taken from them on dangerous missions in dirty little places no one would ever hear about. It was simple and it was complicated all at the same time, much like Harvath himself.

Harvath lived by the adage that the measure of a man was what he did when no one else was looking. He also knew, having learned it with Fred, that very few people will stand up and put themselves in harm’s way to protect those who cannot protect themselves. At its root, protecting people was his calling in life. It was something he couldn’t ignore. His honor wouldn’t let him. And in a sense, it was because he had devoted himself to protecting the American dream for others, that he had never been able to fully enjoy it for himself.

Harvath couldn’t stop thinking about the assaulters who had been killed. He wondered how many of them had families. Most likely several of them. Maybe even all of them. How many wives were they leaving behind? How many children? What kind of impact would losing their fathers have on them? The stories that would never be read. The hugs that would never be given. The right piece of fatherly advice at the right time that now wouldn’t be offered. The impact was incalculable.

Opening his eyes, Harvath lifted his head and looked toward the rear of the aircraft. Riley was trying to remove the hillbilly Band-Aid from around Chase’s arm. It wasn’t going well. Almost as if she knew he was watching her, she glanced up, shook her head, and went back to what she was doing.

Harvath had no idea what that was supposed to mean and at this moment, he didn’t care. He tried to focus his mind on rolling up the rest of Aazim’s network before they could carry out any further attacks.

To stop them, though, Harvath was going to have to predict where lightning was going to strike. He was going to have to be in the right place at the right time, or as the father of hockey great Wayne Gretsky taught his son, skate to where the puck is going to be, not where it has been.

The puck had been in Sweden. Was it still there, or had it moved someplace else? If it had moved, where would it be next? Those questions were still at the forefront of Harvath’s mind as he closed his eyes once more and his exhausted body slipped off into the regenerative unconsciousness of a deep, black sleep.

The flight from Stockholm to the former United States Naval Air Station in Keflavik, Iceland, took just more than three hours. Harvath was still asleep when the wheels of the private jet touched down and jolted him awake.

Though on paper the Naval Air Station had been turned over to the Icelandic Defense Agency in 2008, there was still a heavy American presence at the facility.

The aircraft taxied into a large hangar where an ambulance was waiting to take Mansoor to the base’s hospital. Riley had insisted that Chase, his arm in a sling, come along as well so that they could take a better look at him.

Chase could have hopped a flight back home if he had wanted to and gotten patched up back there. Riley had already irrigated the wound, redressed it, and started him on a course of antibiotics. It hurt like hell, though, and he figured the sooner he knew the extent of the damage the sooner he’d know how soon he could get back in the fight.

He also didn’t want to go anywhere until he knew what Mansoor’s prognosis was. If the guy was going to be ready for interrogation again soon, Chase wanted to be there for it. He knew the most about the network and he wanted to help guide some of the questions, if not do a portion of the interrogation himself. Riley was going to stick around and wait for the prognosis as well. Even though she’d be handing him over to a new doctor, she still felt responsible for him.

Harvath was the only one without a reason to stay in Iceland. The only thing he could think of was that if Karami or Sabah popped up somewhere in Europe, he’d be a lot closer and get to them a lot faster from Iceland than he would from D.C.

Something told him that Europe was where the puck had been. America was where he needed to skate to now. That’s where the puck was going to be. He couldn’t help but think that if Aazim Aleem had come to Chicago in advance of those attacks, and had planned on sending Chase to New York while he went to L.A. to oversee additional strikes, the Uppsala cell leader would have to do the same thing. He had nothing to back that up, though. It was just a gut feeling.