'Legendary'

21-Sep-2030, 1500T

LCDR Percy Jackson, US Navy, Son of Neptune

Legion XII

Yuma, Arizona, USA

"It's been a while, hasn't it? Haven't seen you since '24. Blackbeard was in a disarray for a time—guys left, guys died. Buck ended up writing a book—remember when he said he'd never do that shit? Thought it was the single biggest problem with NSW today—SEALs writin' books, givin' away a little too much info in the process. He wasn't necessarily against the book part, just the info part of it. But when Switchback ended, the sumbitch went and did it: called it Operation Switchback: the Secret Cleanup of Afghanistan, under the pen name 'Franklin Davis,' if you can believe that shit," I laughed, but with no response, dampening my mood after a few moments. "You woudla found it funny, I think."

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER GREGORY FRANKLIN LAWSON

HUSBAND, FATHER, BROTHER, SON

UNITED STATES NAVY SEAL

VALOR, HONOR, PERSEVERANCE

SEPTEMBER 21, 1984 - MARCH 22, 2024

Those were the words that adorned my former commander's gravestone, standing indomitably yet silently as I sat, two cans of cold beer at my side. It was the cemetery at a local church, where Greg wanted to be buried. As I stared at the slab of stone and words, I remembered the times I shared with the older man.

There was the time Greg flipped a metaphorical bird at a jackass one-star, giving the Army general a respectful dressing-down in front of USASOC's deputy commander—with the dumb general being disciplined by the commander of USASOC himself as a result. Long story short, I guess the one-star had a little too much time behind the desk—and appeared to have been there for most of his career—resulting in some stupid decision-making that nearly got four D-Boys, three SEALs, and an EOD operator killed.

There was the time when Greg bailed out some junior SEALs that were in jail for a bar fight—they kept their Tridents thanks to his words, but he taught them about the importance and ethos of that pin and the organization around it. He busted their asses personally before ensuring their platoon commander and chief did the same, effectively haunting them with threats and discipline. But his hard lesson turned the three idiots into a legendary trio at SEAL Team 8—earning them the moniker of the "Three Caballeros"—with the three still serving to this day.

There was the time when Scout was hospitalized for several weeks, his children left alone for a time, for their mother—Scout's ex-wife—had died from a car accident and the ex-spouses had no other family. Greg and Juanita—his wife—took care of the kids, treating them like their own. The Lawson family lived in a modest house, already snug with themselves and their daughter, but nonetheless opened their doors to the two children, helping maintain some level of normalcy and constantly reassure them that Scout wasn't going to die.

And who could forget when Greg—to some degree—fixed DEVGRU? For those that are confused, there once was a time that the Unit was outperforming the Command in terms of water-based operations (if I recall correctly, they divide up elements to cover different specialties like the UK's Special Air Service, only doing it on the team level rather than the troop level). Criticism and embarrassment arose, pushing us to be better. In 2023, while Blue Squadron was the Trident squadron (i.e., the one between deployments on standby, ready to respond to threats at a moment's notice, like the D-Boys' Aztec squadron), Greg, Preacher, and Buck ended up developing new techniques, tactics, and procedures for maritime operations.

And if that weren't enough, Greg would push them forward, implementing them into our training schedule and even using his downtime to test them. He got the rest of the squadron in on it and even stole (sorry, "commandeered") platoons from Teams 2, 4, 8, and 10 as well as SEALs from SDVT-2 and SWCCs from SBT-20 to test them (with the Three Caballeros being among the testers). Right before his final deployment, he presented a written report of his TTPs to DEVGRU's leadership.

Unfortunately, Greg never got to see those TTPs become doctrine in 2025, not only in the Command, but in the rest of WARCOM, the Marine Corps, even the Coast Guard. DEVGRU's title as the masters of maritime operations had been restored, with the waterborne D-Boys now playing catch-up, some even requesting us to teach them. We did, but they've yet to beat us since Greg's TTPs were implemented.

If this sounds like a military-grade pissing match, then you're absolutely right. Believe it or not, even Tier 1 operators can be petty and prideful. Yes, we're on the same side and we work together plenty, but there's still a pretty big rivalry—some of it's actual animosity (both justified and not), but it's still decently healthy. Hell, from what some older guys told me, there was a time back in the day when Team 6 operators (in '83, I think) were the best shooters in JSOC, defeating Delta in a rifle and pistol competition—in every single phase of it, at that. Delta was humbled, but like us in '23, they forced themselves to get better. I guess it's just like in a free market economy: competition fosters innovation.

It would be an understatement to say Greg was a man of many achievements on and off the battlefield. It's no surprise his funeral was so large. Despite it being in Yuma—his hometown—dozens of operators and enablers were present from DEVGRU, retired, prior service, and active duty alike. But it wasn't just a TF Blue affair, with dozens more from the rest of JSOC paying their respects. I saw SEALs, SWCCs, Night Stalkers, infantrymen, and more—so many people in the military that Greg befriended, trained, helped, or even saved—amounting to troops from all the branches being present, even the Space Force. There were Greg's family, neighbors, and friends—including Kyung and Nai. Even former Secretary of Defense Mattis and former President Trump were among those that came to honor him. I swear to God, those two men actually looked like they might cry, but neither let anyone see tears.

I lost count of how many Tridents were pounded into his casket. By the end of it, it was difficult to see the wood from certain angles—more so when considering that there were other unexpected items on the casket: among others, a SWCC's pin, a PJ's beret flash, a naval aviator's wings, even the red and black shoulder sleeve insignia of a TF Green operator. I'm not ashamed to admit that the sight made me silently cry.

"How the hell did you never get the Medal of Honor, sir?" I mumbled, staring at Greg's gravestone. Suddenly, I began to chuckle. Our squadron operations officer had apparently asked the same question once after Operation Coral Spike, leading the CO and CMC to apparently get a bright idea. One day, while poor Greg is just trying to do his work, the rest of Blackbeard bound and blindfolded him, carrying his ass from the edge of Dam Neck all the way to Blue Squadron's team room while singing "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" and some other stupid songs. When we arrived, the rest of the squadron had broken out some good beer and a "Medal of Honor" made from a crushed beer can, some string, and a crude star made from 9-mil casings and Scotch tape.

Hey, we're SEALs, not artists.

In an uncharacteristically goofy fashion, the squadron CO awarded Greg the "Medal of Honor," with the CMC providing such a bullshit oral award citation, at least half a dozen guys fell down laughing. We all thought we were screwed when DEVGRU's commander himself showed up, wondering what all the hullabaloo from the jam-packed room was. In a fashion somehow goofier than that of the squadron CO and CMC, the captain borrowed a six-inch blade from another operator and "knighted" Greg, dubbing him "Sir Gregariousness VI, Duke of Frogmen."

I began to laugh, remembering how he couldn't shake that name. Hell, the squadron commander even called him that while wishing him luck on our last op in Afghanistan. My laughter grew stronger, almost to the point of delirium, as I remembered the stupid shit he told us on the flight towards our target—some screwed-up versions of Aesop's Fables, dad jokes, war stories. It was so dumb, it was hilarious, especially coming from him. Greg wasn't the troop's resident comedian, but he sure could get some laughs.

Even while flying into the heart of Taliban country, rescuing two spooks, during an operation that shouldn't have happened (wasting human lives, military equipment, and taxpayer dollars like the Russo-Ukrainian War), our morale soared.

By then, I was howling with laughter. If anyone walked by the cemetery, they'd think I went mad. Truth be told, they wouldn't be far off. Here I was, talking with a gravestone as easily as I would a living man, as I recounted the hilarity of past events—including the Ramen Incident. When I added the beer into the mix, the dam burst and I began to ramble, laughing all the while. I told Greg everything that had happened since he died—Cinderella's marriage and pregnancy, Pupper and all those that came to Blackbeard, my jump to O-4 and Kayak's newly gained chief warrant officer status, and more.

I don't know when it happened, but the laughing eventually ceased, my howls reduced to mutterings as I went from retelling comical tales to quietly explaining the past six years—not only at the Command, but regarding me. I found myself recounting an abridged version of my past—the demigods, the gods, the monsters, with more focus on recent events in North Dakota, New York, Nevada, and California. I questioned the four situations, their missions, their outcomes, my own concerns about something big coming.

Greg wasn't just a brilliant commander and SEAL, he was brilliant in general, possessing, among others, a master's degree in military history. Dad may have improved my understanding of the subject, but Greg was on another level. I'm sure that if I explained the situation thoroughly, he'd come up with a hypothesis based on the available data—and it'd probably be right.

But no reply came from the gravestone as my eyes felt wet. Quickly wiping the tears away, I chugged down the rest of my beer before opening the other can and pouring it out—a semi-expensive brand, one he always brought for downtime. Taking a breath, I stood and—in an overly emotional manner—rendered it a crisp salute.

"Thanks, Greg. For everything," I breathed out before patting the gravestone in a final farewell and beginning a slow walk back to the range, where my friends were probably wondering where I'd disappeared off to.

It's strange, really. Before turning the corner, I swung around to take one last look at the cemetery. I saw a figure standing where I sat earlier: a man, looking at me. He had a well-trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, and was slightly shorter and more wiry than me. He wore simple work boots, cargo pants and a collared shirt like he was about to do some home repairs. For a brief moment, his image flickered, his simple clothes replaced with those of a camouflaged operator before it reverted back to the original. It was a bit tricky to tell from a distance, but I could swear that the man smiled, giving me a wink before disappearing.

"Godammit, I'm buzzed," I muttered before turning the corner. I may have made peace with Greg's death, but it didn't take away from the haunting memories.

It's important to never forget the past... but at the end of the day, we move forward.

The information regarding the finer points of Delta Force and SEAL Team 6's rivalry are apparently true—particularly Delta's recent proficiency in the water and Team 6's superior shooting. Both situations have actually happened, according to interviews (can't remember which ones) and Sean Naylor's Relentless Strike. Moreover, according to Relentless Strike, Delta and Team 6 have had quite a bit of a rivalry. I'm not one to judge, being I'm not a military historian/expert/member, let alone a Tier 1 operator, but the rivalry seems to be a weird mix of healthy, bloody, and plain petty (yes, both SMUs). Honestly, when considering all the BS I've seen in relevant interviews and this book, JSOC would fit beautifully in a dumbass TV family drama—Green and Blue are the constantly warring older siblings, Orange is the nerd, Red is the baby, and White is the underappreciated middle child, with JMAU and JCU being adopted brothers.

To quote a comment I saw on YouTube once, "sometimes I think the military is just one big shitpost." But my civilian ass isn't here to judge, just write a story. As of now, I think I've got a total of five seemingly OP characters: Percy (because he's the main man), Preacher (because he's been in DEVGRU for MORE THAN TWO DECADES), Paul (because he served for FORTY-ONE GODDAMN YEARS, HAVING A PROSTHETIC FOR THIRTEEN OF THEM), maybe Buck (because he spent THREE DECADES in the Navy, mostly in the SEAL Teams), and now Greg.

I'm sure if actual operators read this, they'd be laughing their heads off and calling this whole thing bullshit. Yeah, it is, but in a universe where you've got the nonsense that is the Greco-Roman pantheon and all things associated with it, five overpowered servicemen are probably the least crazy things present.

But that aside, this was a short backstory chapter. This whole work is effectively tribute towards service members, but I think this chapter—like a couple of others—is a little more intimate. There are so many hearts of gold, on and off the battlefield: from the medics that brave enemy fire to save the lives of their grunts, to the pilots that fly into contested airspace to protect troops on the ground, to the cooks that work tirelessly to keep the forces going, and many others.

"In war, you are forced to see humanity at its absolute worst and you are also blessed to see humanity in its most glorious moments." - LCDR Jocko Willink

- ADF-2