Page 23 of Rising Tiger

A former Green Beret in the Fifth Special Forces group, Staelin had been a medical sergeant known as an 18D before moving on to Delta Force and ending up at the Carlton Group. As such, he was immediately voted in as the team’s medical officer.

“No change. All good,” Harvath replied. Staelin had checked him over shortly after they had lifted off from Kabul. He had been concerned about the force of impact Harvath had experienced at the roundabout.

“Sure,” said Haney as he and another operative named Preisler passed, carrying an even larger case. “?‘All good’ until the incontinence and erectile dysfunction set in.”

“Yeah,” Preisler stated. “That much trauma, mixed with that much adrenaline, can be downright debilitating for a man your age.”

Harvath used his free hand to give them both the finger.

“At least we know what to get him for his wedding gift,” added yet another operative named Johnson. “Adult diapers and a case of Viagra.”

Harvath kept his middle finger up and kept giving it to everyone as they laughed good-naturedly at the joke.

The only time the team stopped busting each other’s chops was when they were in the thick of an operation, and sometimes not even then.

Harvath took it all in stride. They could make fun of him all they wanted. The fact that he was engaged to a younger, extremely intelligent, and very attractive woman gave him the last laugh. His teammates not only envied him, they also thought she was fantastic.

As an original member of Norway’s first all-female special forces team and now a deputy director at its premier intelligence agency, Sølvi Kolstad could go toe-to-toe with any of them. She also had a fabulously dark sense of humor, which only endeared her to them more. Harvath had definitely won the lottery with her.

He and Sølvi were planning to get married in a couple of months—between Christmas and New Year’s, when things would hopefully be slow and no one would have to take any extra time off.

The plan was to throw two parties—one for friends and family in the United States and one for friends and family in Norway. After that, Scot and Sølvi would take a short honeymoon.

With neither quitting their job anytime soon, that meant they would still be bouncing back and forth between the two countries.

Harvath, however, was working on a plan to establish a quick reaction force in Europe.

Because the Carlton Group was a private organization, it would continue to allow the White House plausible deniability, while providing a highly skilled, forward-deployed team that could carry out assignments, from reconnaissance and surveillance all the way to direct action.

The plan was still in its infancy, and there were a lot of kinks to be ironed out, but he was making headway.

After loading their gear aboard the G700, Harvath made sure Topaz and his family were comfortable and then headed straight for the bar. A friend in Kentucky had helped him source one of the best bourbons he had ever tasted.

The fifteen-year-old Pappy Van Winkle was expensive, but it was worth every penny, especially as Harvath had found a way to dip into the team fund and essentially let the office pay for it.

The “bribe box” was a locked footlocker in the forward closet that contained everything from cigars, cash, and sports watches to cigarettes, gold coins, and cognacs. Whether it was an overzealous customs official or a greedy warlord, the Carlton Group prided itself on being prepared to deal with any situation. Baksheesh, after all, made the world go round.

A little creative accounting opened up the money for more high-end liquor, and the friend from Kentucky was even kind enough to provide a receipt.

It was, admittedly, several orders of magnitude above pilfering office supplies. But it wasn’t like Harvath was sneaking a Cadillac out of the factory one day at a time, one part at a time, in his lunchbox. They had been sent into Afghanistan—one of the worst and most dangerous places he could imagine them having to go—and they had successfully achievedtheir mission. His team deserved a little Pappy Van Winkle, and then some. It was time to celebrate.

Lining up glasses for everyone, he uncorked the bottle and carefully poured. Spilling even a single drop would have been an unforgivable sin. Then, calling his teammates to the bar, he handed one to each of them.

Fans of the Viking toast, they raised their glasses in unison and proclaimed, “Till Valhalla,” before savoring the rich, brown liquid.

“The first person who asks for a Coke to mix with this gets a bullet in the mouth,” declared another operator on the team, ex-SEAL Tim Barton.

Matt Morrison, a former Force Reconnaissance Marine like Haney, said, “There’s one problem with bourbon: you can never drink down. Thanks a lot, Harvath. When we get back, I guess I’m going to have to start robbing banks.”

“Or you could stop dating strippers,” said Johnson.

“Or,” offered Preisler, “maybe glue a bunch of razors to an ice scraper instead of paying the salon for all those back waxes?”

This time, it was Morrison’s turn to give everyone the finger.

Harvath smiled. They were the best team he had ever worked with. He couldn’t think of anyone else he would want in a battle.

Once the pilots had completed their preflight, the hangar doors were opened and a tug pushed the aircraft out onto the tarmac.

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