Chapter Twenty-Five
Key West, Florida
As the plane was on final approach, Nate turned to Wally.
“This is going to be kind of a rough landing,” he informed him. It wasn’t an exaggeration. Key West sported a shortened runway, which meant pilots had to come in hard and fast and slam on the brakes after touchdown, or they risked running out of road.
“Like a combat landing?” Wally asked, tightening his seat belt.
“Something like that.” Nate winked.
Sure enough, the captain’s voice came over the intercom, warning passengers that those who hadn’t flown into the island before might notice that the landing was a bit more abrupt than they were probably used to.
For the men of special operations it was fairly mild.
They were used to landing in military troop transports in places like Baghdad and Bagram, where the potential to be shot down, or at the very least shot at, was very real.
Because of this, military pilots flew hard, fast, and unpredictably before putting their planes and cargo down on the runway.
For the human cargo in back it was usually quite a wild ride, more akin to a roller coaster than a plane flight.
It was nothing new for Wally, but Nate figured he’d give him fair warning all the same.
The plane landed without incident and taxied toward the newly upgraded terminal on the tiny island. After a short while, the doors opened and they deplaned, walking down the steps to the tarmac. Instantly, the salty air hit Nate’s senses and he was enveloped by nostalgia.
Key West, aside from containing the southernmost point of the contiguous United States and being the endpoint for U.S.
Route 1, was also a party island. Of all the Florida Keys, it was probably best known for the wild parties and outright debauchery that occurred on a near-nightly basis.
It was a place where people from all over came to let loose, and where locals looked to capitalize on those carefree, and usually inebriated, tourists.
It was also home to the United States Army Special Forces Underwater Operations Combat Diver Qualification Course, or CDQC for short.
The course was part of the U.S. Army John F.
Kennedy Special Warfare Center and School and designed for Army Special Forces, though others from the military did occasionally attempt the training.
The length varied, usually hovering around six weeks, but what didn’t change was the fact that it was widely considered the toughest school in the army.
Green Berets, men who had already completed a grueling selection course and an even more grueling training pipeline, failed it regularly.
Many more declined to even try. Of those who did, men of the highest caliber routinely washed out.
Nate had a theory about this. Green Berets were some of the toughest there were and trained extensively on land, becoming experts in land warfare.
Conversely, Special Warfare Operators, better known as Navy SEALs, spent a large chunk of their time in the water.
They were less tested by land-based challenges, such as humping a sixty-five-pound rucksack for miles on end while carrying heavy objects.
Green Berets were similarly inexperienced in the water, and it was the reason different branches of special operations had different specialties.
Every Special Forces Group fielded dive teams that conducted additional training in the water to maintain the capability of using diving as an infiltration method.
But these men weren’t selected for their abilities in the water, and so it was really the luck of the draw whether they possessed the additional innate attributes to be successful.
Something strange happened to mammals when they were deprived of oxygen, and even the strongest men could panic if their will was not sufficiently hardened.
It was a distinction that gave combat divers a chip on their shoulder within the Special Forces community, and a friendly rivalry with their navy counterparts.
The training itself took place in and around Key West, with the dive compound located at the Naval Air Station on Fleming Key.
Students suffered through physically demanding training and punishment, as well as academically challenging lessons and testing on subjects such as dive physiology and decompression tables.
On the weekends, these young, fit commandos would head out on the town and attempt to wash away the suffering of the week with copious amounts of alcohol, often causing a ruckus in the process.
It was just another part of the Key West culture and ecosystem.
The smell of the salt water brought Nate back to those days. Since dive school, his team had traveled to the island several times for requalification training, and he always enjoyed returning, though he doubted he could have lived on the island. It was too small for him.
Nate and Wally retrieved their luggage from one of two carousels and snatched up a taxi outside.
They rode the short distance along Highway A1A with Wally marveling at the beautiful coastline, before turning north and heading into the heart of the tiny town.
In a few minutes they were on Duval Street, the main attraction of Key West, which was lined with bars, restaurants, and tourist trap kiosks.
They paid the driver and exited the vehicle, quickly checking into the La Concha Key West hotel, tossing their bags in their rooms, and changing before emerging out onto the crowded and lively street.
Nate looked down at his watch and checked the time.
They still had a while before their meeting, so they headed north to Mallory Square where the cruise ships docked, and grabbed a bite to eat at Nate’s favorite Cuban restaurant, El Meson De Pepe’s.
Wally had the Cayo Huesco Cuban Mix, the restaurant’s take on a Cubano sandwich, and Nate the Vaca Frita, both of which were delicious.
They washed it all down with a few of the house margaritas on the rocks.
After they finished their meals they walked down Front Street to the water, and then along the boardwalk, admiring the ocean and enjoying the early-evening breeze.
Before long they arrived at their destination, a pool bar named Dante’s.
It was legendary for throwing wild parties almost nightly, and young drunk attractive people congregated here searching for hookups.
Nate’s instructions had been a little vague, being told only to come at sunset.
He looked over at the shoreline as the sun was starting to dip below the horizon and figured it was close enough.
They entered the pool area, looking for a familiar face.
It was already starting to get crowded and would be packed within a few hours.
Eventually, floating on an inflatable raft with a drink in his hand, they spotted the source of their appointment flanked by two very young and very attractive women.
Nate stayed out of sight and crept up behind him.
“I think you might want to check IDs on these ones,” he said from behind.
Shane Price didn’t move a muscle other than to grin, the rest of his expression hidden behind a pair of dark Ray-Ban Aviators that no longer served a purpose as the sun was now halfway down.
“If they serve ’em at the bar, that’s good enough for me!
” He downed the remainder of his drink and flipped off his raft.
He was shirtless and wore a pair of swim trunks covered in the stars and stripes.
He sloshed through the water, stepped out of the pool, and embraced Nate, his long, muscular arms enveloping him in a huge bear hug.
“It’s good to see you, brother,” he said as he squeezed his friend and former teammate.
“You too, buddy.” Shane turned and looked in his British friend’s direction.
“Is that Wally? Holy shit, man! How are you?” It was now Wally’s turn to get a long hug.
“I’m great, mate,” Wally replied. “Good to see you too.”
“Awesome,” Shane said, whipping his sunglasses off and examining his two friends. He turned back to look at the women he had left behind. “I’ll have to take a rain check, ladies. These two heroes take priority.”
“Dante’s, huh?” Nate asked.
“Oh yeah,” Shane replied. “I’ve got a lot of good memories here. Hell, you know that.” Nate did. The two of them were in the same dive class and had spent many a memorable evening in this pool, at this bar, and with a few different ladies.
“Yeah,” Nate laughed, “I do.”
“Come on,” Shane said, yanking his head toward the bar. They sat down at one of the tables under the thatched roof of a tiki hut. Shane caught the bartender’s eye, held up three fingers, and yelled, “Three mojitos!”
“Looks like you’re set up comfortably here,” Nate observed.
“Dude, I love Key West. Even through all the suffering, this place stole my heart.”
“So where do you live?” Wally asked.
“Over there,” Shane said and pointed toward the dock.
There was a yacht moored at the end of the slip that must have been fifty feet long and towered above the rest of the boats. It appeared that Shane was the high roller on the scene.
“Damn, Shane,” Nate said. “That’s impressive. You must be doing pretty well for yourself.”
“I do alright,” he said. Then added with a laugh, “Who am I kidding, I’m killing it, bro.”
Shane went on to describe in detail what he had been up to since leaving the army.
He’d always been fairly well off, having saved up money from his UFC fighting days and investing it wisely.
Once he left the military, he’d gotten together with two other UFC fighters and they had opened a training gym in Miami.
It had done so well that they opened a second in Tampa, a third in Jacksonville, and eventually a fourth in Atlanta.
Once those started bringing in good money, he invested in several fast-food franchises. He even owned a frozen yogurt shop.
“So they basically run themselves?” Wally asked.