That, of course, presupposed his getting caught, which was something Kevin McCauliff didn’t plan on letting happen.

“So are you in?” asked Harvath.

“Seeing as how I’ve been informed that this is a direct request from the president of the United States,” replied McCauliff, “how can I say no?”

Chapter 99

LATER THAT NIGHT

THE BUCKET OF BLOOD

VIRGINIA BEACH, VIRGINIA

Technically, the bar on the outskirts of Virginia Beach, Virginia, had no name-at least none that could be seen on the outside of the ramshackle structure or on any illuminated signs rising from its dirt parking lot. Like its clientele, this was the kind of place that didn’t want to draw attention to itself.

To the initiated, it was known as the Bucket of Blood, or simply “the Bucket.” How it got the nickname was anyone’s guess. The low profile had been designed to keep out persons who didn’t belong there, be they townies or tourists. The Bucket was a bar for warriors, period.

Specifically, the bar served the local men and women of the United States Navy’s Special Operations community, but its doors were open to any Spec Ops community personnel regardless of which branch of the military they served in.

The Bucket was also a popular watering hole with another group who were every bit the warrior-the off-duty members of the Virginia Beach PD.

It was open seven days a week, and there really was no such thing as a bad night to visit the Bucket. In spite of its somewhat narrow membership focus, it was packed with regulars at the time.

As it was owned, managed, and run by Andre Dall’au and Kevin Dockery, two retired members of SEAL Team Two, the Bucket was considered the Team’s de facto home away from home.

As far as décor, the usual tavern trappings of neon beer signs and liquor-company-sponsored pieces of swag were abundant, but what made the Bucket unique were the items contributed by its customers.

Like the Venetian doge who commanded the merchants of Venice to bring back treasures to enhance the city’s basilica, Dall’au and Dockery made it clear that they expected their patrons to bring back items from missions abroad that would help contribute to the glory of the Bucket.

The challenge was so taken to heart that the Bucket had become a minimuseum, displaying souvenirs from operations all around the world. From the radio Saddam Hussein had been listening to when he was captured, to the knife Navy SEAL Neil Roberts had used in Afghanistan once he’d run out of ammo and hand grenades. The Bucket’s collection was extraordinary.

In fact, the proprietors had put the director of the Navy SEAL museum on retainer to help record and catalog all of the pieces. The mini museum had quite a reputation and was the envy of the nation’s most prestigious war colleges.

Because it was a SEAL establishment, a lot of the items were heavily slanted in that direction. On one wall was a mural from former UDT Frogman Pete “The Pirate” Carolan, of SEALs in action from Vietnam through the present bringing freedom to the far reaches of the globe.

One corner was reserved as a place of deep respect. A UDT/vest, swimmer’s mask, and MK3 dive knife on a guard belt stood behind a small round table with a sailor’s cap, place setting, and empty chair standing in memory of fallen comrades. On the wall were photos of every SEAL killed in action since the beginning of the War on Terror.

Elsewhere, an Iraqi bayonet, an Afghan AK-47, and movie posters from Navy SEALs and The Rock kept company alongside a life-sized Creature from the Black Lagoon and a full color photo of Zarqawi after the bomb had been dropped on his head.

There was a collection of paper money from the Philippines, multiple Middle Eastern countries, Africa, South America, and everywhere else the SEALs had been deployed over the years.

Next to that were pictures from the Apollo Space Program with the UDT Frogmen who were used to recover astronauts after they splashed down into the ocean.

Both the men’s and ladies’ restrooms were adorned with Navy recruiting posters, and above the Bucket’s main doorway, visible only as customers exited, was the motto, “The Only Easy Day Was Yesterday.”

The Bucket’s latest acquisition was something that was bittersweet for Dockery and Dall’au to put on display. It had arrived via DHL from Colorado and it took reading Scot Harvath’s letter to understand what they were looking at.

Two of the men tortured and killed in Afghanistan by Ronaldo Palmera had been Bucket customers. Though the proprietors of the Bucket would have much preferred to have Palmera’s pickled head on display, a photo of him lying dead in a Mexican street along with the Taser used to help put him there and his hideous boots were the next best things.

As a former member of SEAL Team Two, Harvath had been a longtime supporter of the Bucket. The items he contributed to the bar’s museum were legendary. Dockery and Dall’au had often joked that if he kept it up at the current pace, they’d need to build a wing and name it after him.

Outside, in the Bucket’s parking lot, Philippe Roussard closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt the familiar sensation radiating from the farthest points of his body. It was the indescribable excitement that he’d once heard referred to as “the quickening.”

His reverie, though, was short-lived. The scent from the Vicks VapoRub swabbed beneath his nose was almost as bad as the odor rising from the bags of fertilizer stacked behind him. He thanked Allah that he’d stopped noticing the fumes from the fifty-five-gallon drums of diesel fuel and reminded himself that it would all be over soon.

Climbing out of the RV, he closed the door and locked it. He walked around to the rear and smiled at the Save water, shower with aSEAL sticker he’d affixed to the bumper. There was one remembering MIAs and one that read My RV Loves Iraqi Gas. Anyone who doubted that Philippe Roussard’s RV belonged in the parking lot of the Bucket of Blood probably would have changed his mind upon seeing his bumper stickers.

Not that it mattered much. Roussard didn’t plan on being there for too long. In fact, he had just pulled a newly acquired motorbike off the platform attached to the rear of the RV when he was approached by two off-duty Virginia Beach PD officers. Though they weren’t in uniform, they had a distinct law enforcement bearing about them that convinced Roussard they were cops.

“Hey, you can’t park that thing here,” said the taller of the two.

Reflexively, Roussard’s hand began to reach for the 9mm Glock hidden beneath his jacket, but he stopped himself.

“Especially not when it smells like that,” replied his female partner. “When was the last time you emptied the holding tank on that thing?”

“It’s been a while,” said Roussard as he forced a smile.

“I’m just kidding you,” said the male cop as he pointed at the motorbike. “That’s a nice Kawasaki you got there.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re living the dream, aren’t you? Nothing but you and the slab. Boy if the guys from BUDs could see you now, eh?”

Roussard politely nodded his head and pulled the motorbike the rest of the way from its carrier platform.

“You haven’t been drinking, have you?” asked the female officer as Roussard removed a set of keys from his front pocket.

“Not at all,” he replied. “I just have a few errands to run. I’ll be back soon.”

There was something about this guy she didn’t like. Sure, he was well-built and good-looking, but those characteristics alone didn’t make a SEAL. “Doc sure is generous when it comes to you guys parking your rigs here.”

“He sure is,” said Roussard, beginning to sense that something might be wrong.