McEwen Scott - Eyes on target: inside stories from the brotherhood of the U.S. Navy SEALs

T he skinny guy on the bar stool was a minute away from being mauled.

It was already getting late in the dimly lit bar in Lakeside, California, a place where tattooed men buy beer for a dollar and drink from the bottle. It was a favorite of bikers and recent parolees, morose cowboys, and sailors waiting to be discharged. It had seen its share of bar fights.

As Don Zub, who had served in the Navy SEALs, downed another shot, his eye zoomed in on the skinny guys T-shirt. He spotted a small black raven insignia. A semisecret symbol of the SEALs. It was like a Crip eyeing a Blood.

The only thing that SEALs hate more than terrorists is fake SEALscivilians, or even other service members, who pretend to be a part of their sacred brotherhood. Fake SEALs can get their ribs broken, their noses smashed, and, if the bouncers are not quick-footed enough, their windpipes flattened.

Zubs temperature was already rising. One of usScott McEwenhad seen it happen before, and now he was watching it again.

If the short, skinny guy and his brunette girlfriend knew what was coming, they didnt let on. They pretended not to see Zubs bulging eyes or hear the menace in his voice. I think I recognize that shirt. Where did you get it?

The skinny guy hardly looked up. I got it from the owner of the bar.

The Raven is a Virginia Beach barand more than a bar, it is a symbol. A SEAL bar where male outsiders arent welcome. A secret cave where SEALs commune.

The brunette said nothing. She had seen this kind of thing before.

Oh yeah? said Zub, doubt creeping into his voice. Where is it located?

The skinny guys voice was still carefully casual. Virginia Beach.

Zub wasnt backing down. To the bartender or any passersby, this might have seemed like an ordinary conversation. But it wasnt. It was a verbal dogfight. One wrong answer and fists would fly. How do you know the owner?

I used to work with him.

Where did you work with him?

In the military.

How long did you work with him?

Fifteen years. I used to babysit his kids.

Zub was more certain than ever that he had spotted a fake SEAL. His fingers were balling into fists. I used to work with the same guys as him.

The skinny guy said nothing. What was there to say?

Zub pressed. What kind of work did you do together?

I really dont want to talk about it.

Zub pulled out a new Spyderco knife, flipped it open, and locked the blade. It flashed in the overhead light.

The skinny guy pretended not to notice the knife. At one time, it was a standard-issue tactical blade among the SEALs, who used it to cut away parachute cords and underwater entanglements. It, too, was a kind of totem.

Zub reached over and slammed the blade into the bar.

The knifepoint landed between the brunettes small hands and stayed there, planted into the wood of the bar. The knife was a challenge. No one moved. The brunette did not even move her hands. She had seen this kind of thing before.

McEwen had noticed both the skinny guys nonreaction and the brunettes careful nonchalance. Urgently, he turned to face his SEAL friend. Don, hes real. The chicks real. Back off!

Zub looked at him and then eyeballed the skinny guy.

Then the skinny guy spoke. My name is Johnny Walker. I was a Plank Owner in SEAL Team Six with Dick Marcinko.

Marcinko founded SEAL Team Six, perhaps the worlds best-known elite fighting unit, and Marcinko frequented the Raven, the legendary bar in Virginia Beach that was a longtime SEAL hangout. It was the kind of bar where no one called the cops. A Plank Owner is a founding member of the U.S. Navy SEAL unit. It meant that Walker was handpicked by the founder of SEAL Team Six and had hung out at Marcinkos favorite bar. And he literally got the coveted T-shirt. He was, therefore, SEAL royalty.

Zub gave his name and announced that he was a member of SEAL Team One, sometimes called No Fun One. He had served from 1975 to 1979 on the West Coast. Walker had joined the teamsas the SEALs call themselveslater and had served on the East Coast.

The tension rushed away, like steam streaming from a pinhole in a pipe.

Zub bought drinks, and the men swapped stories. Two Navy SEALs had met and challenged each other and the bonds of brotherhood were established.

* * *

This was one of the greeting rituals of the worlds smallest and strangest fraternities, the U.S. Navy SEALs. If you are a member, it doesnt matter where or when you served. You can show up uninvited at the funerals of the youngest or oldest veterans and be hailed as a brother by total strangers. You can phone another SEAL whom youve never met and be taken for a drink. You might show up to mow the lawn of a widow whose husband died before you served. The bonds are strong partly because the group is so small. There have been fewer than three thousand U.S. Navy SEALs in the history of the world and about half of them are still alive. They all know, or know of, each other. The SEALs call themselves a brotherhood, and they actually are one.