Grabbing a six-pack, or sometimes something stronger, he would head down to his dock. Watching the boats pass by, he would drink until whatever was bothering him no longer bothered him. Once it was locked in an iron box and shoved into the darkest corner of his mind, he would reengage the civilized world, ready for the next challenge its uncivilized inhabitants were preparing to throw at him.
Today, though, felt different. He’d been successful, but the task was far from over. Worse still, he had no idea what, if any, role he was going to have going forward. His trip had technically been a success, but it felt a lot like failure. There had to be more he could do.
As they rolled up to the gate, Carlton fished out his set of keys from his pocket and handed them to Harvath. The Old Man was one of the few people Harvath trusted with keys to his property.
Hopping out of the air-conditioned Suburban, Harvath was greeted with all of the sights, sounds, and smells that he associated with being home.
Home was a small, renovated eighteenth-century stone church known as Bishop’s Gate. It stood on several acres of land overlooking the Potomac River, just south of George Washington’s Mount Vernon estate, and technically belonged to the United States Navy.
The mothballed property had been contracted to Harvath on a ninety-nine-year lease for one dollar per year. It was a prior president’s way of thanking him for his service to the nation. The Secretary of the Navy had agreed, finding it fitting that the house would be occupied by a U.S. Navy SEAL.
In typical Harvath fashion, he had been reluctant to accept such a generous gift. It didn’t matter that the President made the case that he’d be doing the Navy a favor by living in and maintaining the property. When Harvath politely refused, the President said, “Just go look at it and then make up your mind.”
Harvath had driven out to Bishop’s Gate with anything but an open mind. There was no way he could imagine himself accepting such largess. It didn’t seem right. Then he drove up the long drive and his mind began to change. It was an incredible property.
Despite the fact that it needed lots of work, he began to envision himself living there. When he discovered the sign with the motto of the Anglican missionaries—I go overseas to give help—he knew he was home.
Even though this time he returned with the weight of the world on his shoulders, it still felt good to be home. Unlocking the gate, he swung it open and climbed back in the SUV.
Carlton parked at the top of the drive and the two men went inside. After turning off the alarm, Harvath fired up the air-conditioning and led Carlton back to the kitchen.
He opened up the windows to pull a cross breeze, and then looked to see what he had in his fridge. “Are you hungry?”
“I ate before I picked you up.”
“How about something to drink?”
Carlton looked at his watch. He knew he wasn’t being offered a soft drink. “A bit early, don’t you think?”
“I’m still on Karachi time and I’ve been dying for a beer all week.”
“Is that all you have? Beer?”
“Beer and debutante heroin,” said Harvath as he pulled a six-pack and a bottle of chardonnay from the fridge.
Carlton gave him a look and asked, “When did you start drinking white wine?”
“It’s not mine. Lara and Marco were here for a visit before I left. I’ve got juice boxes, too, if you want one.”
The Old Man smiled. Harvath had dated some terrific women, but he really liked Lara and her little boy. It was a shame they lived all the way up in Boston. “Is that Lone Star beer?” he asked.
Harvath nodded, grabbed one for each of them, and put everything else back in the fridge. He opened the bottles, flicked the caps into the sink, and joined Carlton at the kitchen table. “Cheers.”
The Old Man took his beer, clinked it against Harvath’s, and returned the toast.
Harvath took a long swallow. There was nothing like a cold beer on a hot day. Scratch that. There was nothing like a cold beer on a hot day when you have been overseas dreaming of nothing but.
Carlton settled back in his chair. “I’m guessing you’ve got fifteen, maybe twenty minutes tops before you fall asleep on me. What do you want to know?”
Finally, thought Harvath, answers. “Everything. Let’s start with who’s in charge?”