Full Black - Brad Thor [60]
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