Scott McEwen - Hell Week and Beyond

Copyright 2021 by Scott McEwen

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First Edition: May 2021

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Library of Congress Control Number: 2021935539

ISBNs: 978-1-5460-8497-6 (hardcover), 978-1-5460-8495-2 (ebook)

E3-20210324-JV-NF-ORI

I n the mid- to late 2000s, two major wars raged on the far side of the world, one in the craggy mountains and valleys of Afghanistan, and the other on the urban streets of Iraq, in cities like Fallujah, Baghdad, and Ramadi. These wars were fought between the militaries of Western nations against hordes of terrorists and deranged Muslim extremists hell-bent on destroying the world by waging no-holds-barred guerrilla-style combat, using shit-caked IUDs (bombs literally painted with human fecal matter to cause infection after injury), suicide vests wrapped around impressionable teenagers, and human shields made up of women and children. The cowardly zealots used these deplorable tactics not to win battles, but to inflict maximum suffering and devastation on the United States of America and her allies, as we tried desperately to end the suffering of the populations of nations held hostage. U.S. forces, our men and women, took on the lions share of the fighting, along with that of the dead and the wounded. Our sons and daughters gave up life and limb, village by village and block by block, in an effort to liberate these nations and bring peace to the land. Every week, accounts of U.S. engagements were reported in the media, along with the butchers bill tallying the shocking loss of American lives. Twenty of the most highly trained U.S. Special Forces fighters died in a single day. It was U.S. Special Forces, especially the Navy SEALs, who fought behind enemy lines, experiencing close-quarters engagements at a level not seen since World War II.

Back in the comfort of our homeland, I thought I was going through my own personal hell. My second marriage had ended bitterly and a far more insidious battle with my ex-wife had begun, presumably over custody of our son. Of course, the battle was really about money and revenge. At work, I spent my days in airless courtrooms across the United States stuffed into a monkey suit, downing caffeine to fight off the effects of sleepless nights and hangovers while listening to the clacking of court reporters as I litigated wrongful death cases for deep-pocketed clients, usually in gruesome circumstances.

For example, a van full of intoxicated illegals is hit on a train track and the vans gas tank explodes, tearing six bodies apart and burning them all at once. I am called in to defend the railroad. I win. Brakes, which allegedly malfunction one morning when a bank executive is on her way to work and is literally lobotomized when she is flung through the windshield of her car and smashes headfirst into a concrete divider. I am called in to defend the automaker. I win. A fire alarm fails to sound in a nursing home and smoke inhalation and flames take lives. I am called in by the private equity fund that owns the nursing home. And I win.

I was the legal mercenary who helped big corporations avoid taking massive losses when their products maimed or killed. Killing was better for my clients. The dead dont need lifelong medical attention.

With my life being grim at home and gruesome at work, I felt a burning need to bring light into this world, to give back to our valiant troops fighting real wars overseas. After work I offered pro bono legal advice to local military service members. I just wantedno, I neededto help others, to do something good for good people and perhaps to find redemption for myself.

Since I lived near the Naval Amphibious Base at Coronado Island, California, the home to West Coastbased Navy SEALs and training ground for all of BUD/S (Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL Training), I was blessed with the honor of offering help to these finest of warfighters. Mostly I advised on civil matters: property issues, bad loans, and the occasional domestic dispute. Ironically, I excelled at helping my clients shore up their lives while mine crumbled underneath me. And the SEALs needed the help. Sadly, many of our military fall victim to unscrupulous lenders and conmen who often prey on military spouses when service members are overseas.

In the fall of 2009, I went to Coronado to meet an active-duty SEAL in a bar. He needed to talk to a lawyer and had heard I could be trusted. A mutual friend, a former Vietnam-era SEAL, named LZ, wanted to introduce us. LZ was more than a warrior of the old school; he was a stone-cold maniac. He had a taste for cheap whiskey, even cheaper Mexican prostitutes, knives, and dangerous situations, and he absolutely despised anything resembling regular old quiet life. Simply stated, if you chose to drink with this man, you were best off bringing bail money. I met LZ when a neighbor recommended him as a jack-of-all-tradesan honest trade he tried his hand at when he ran out of cash. Id been warned by my neighbor, Hes a very good stonemason when he shows up.

While sitting at a side table drinking a vodka soda with LZ in a bar that smelled like stale beer and salt air, I saw a man approach our table from behind. Pantera blared from inside the bar out toward the patio where we sat. The man moved light on his feet, silent on stone. Careful to stay out of LZs sight, he crept up behind him and slipped him into a headlock, saying, When you gonna finish my patio? I paid you six damn months ago! LZ could not get a word out. He turned a dark shade of purplish red as the blood was expertly cut off to his brain, and then he passed out. The man gently laid LZ on the floor, then slid his butt into LZs now empty stool, smiling at me.

Hey bud, you must be the lawyer LZ suggested I meet, he said, grinning and speaking in an easy Texas drawl. This guy, who had just choked my friend like you might stub out a cigarette, then reached across the table for a handshake and added, Im Chris Kyle. How you doin?

Better than LZ, I guess, I told him. A quiet second passed and we both burst out laughing.

Chris had the energy and temperament of a pit bullstrong, quiet, deeply loyal, and serene, almost gentleyet he was extremely physically powerful, built of solid compact muscle that was coiled tight and ready to rumble. He was someone you could wrestle with, if you wanted or dared. Yet a look in his somewhat sleepy eyes warned you that if you wanted to fuck with him, youd better be prepared to fight to the death. Instinct told me that if this man, or those who entrusted him to defend them, were threatened, he was capable of killing with ease.