Clint Emerson - 12 Nov

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR THE RIGHT KIND OF CRAZY

Emersons book is a must-read. After rebellious years as a youth, he persevered to become a U.S. Navy SEALhis journey reads like fiction, but its a satisfying nonfiction narrative of a credible operator, and besides doing the gritty work of a SEAL in combat zones, Emerson refined the art and tradecraft of sensitive operations elsewhere in the Middle Easta euphemism for high risk, quiet operational workin the shadows.

Chris Costa, Executive Director, International Spy Museum Deputy Commander SMU, former Special Assistant to the President for Counterterrorism

You have to be a bit crazy to be a SEAL and Clint Emerson takes us on a roller-coaster ride through his career as he demonstrates the right kind of craziness thats required. Buckle your seat belt and be prepared.Clint doesnt mince words or suffer fools kindly, and cares even less about being politically correct. Fortunately, such men still exist, and our country owes Clint and his colleagues a never-ending debt of gratitude.

H. Keith Melton, author ofUltimate Spy

ALSO BY CLINT EMERSON

100 Deadly Skills

100 Deadly Skills: Survival Edition

An Imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

www.SimonandSchuster.com

Copyright 2019 by Clint Emerson, LLC

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Atria Books hardcover edition November 2019

and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or .

The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information, or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

Interior design by Jason Snyder

Illustrations by Tom Mandrake

Color Artist Sian Mandrake

Jacket design by Ervin Serrano

Jacket photographs by Robert Sebree

Author photograph by Shane Kislack

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 978-1-5011-8416-1

ISBN 978-1-5011-8418-5 (ebook)

DEDICATION

MOM

January 1953January 2019

DAD

February 1951July 1997

THE BOOK YOURE ABOUT TO read is the culmination of a twenty-year career. To the best of my memory, everything in its pages is true. The text was reviewed for sensitive material by the Department of Defense, and with the exception of public figures, a few friends and family members, and SEALs whose names have been previously released, names have been changed.

Every SEAL who writes a book takes some degree of shit from the community. That guy shouldnt be cashing in on the trident. But show me a business run by a special operator who doesnt advertise his service, and Ive got a unicorn to sell you.

A lot of those public smackdowns are just bluster, if you ask me. The same guy who gets a million-dollar job in New York talks shit about the guy who writes a book. The guy who writes books talks shit about the guy who teaches shooting and tactics. The guy who teaches shooting and tactics makes fun of the guys running boot camps. The guy with the podcast makes fun of the guy with a T-shirt company. Theyre all cashing in.

Until the guy with the podcast starts selling T-shirts.

I played the role of the silent professional for twenty years, and Ive been careful not to reveal information that could compromise my peers or future missions. The protocol I used during the second half of my career was unique to me, was developed by me, and, as far as I know, is no longer in use. Same goes for the training programs I stood upcasualties of the shifting priorities of a changing leadership structure.

Some of my peers will hate me for this anyway. But SEALs are hard on one another, and thats nothing new.

To each their own. I dont give a single, solitary fuck about what all the other guys are doing.

Except for the guy who serves for four years and then spends the rest of his life cashing in. Fuck that guy.

. Youll be hearing lots, lots more about this in a bit.

. The guy with the book plugs the guys with the podcasts (check out Mike Drop and the Jocko Podcast), the T-shirts (check out Forged and Industry Threadworks), the gnarly handcrafted knives (check out SH9 Edge Works), and the badass tactical courses (check out AMTAC and Dynamis Alliance).

THERES A STRETCH OF THE I-10 in west texas where the posted speed limit is eighty mph, the fastest in the fifty states. Doing the thirty-six-hour drive from San Diego to Fort Bragg had me hitting that stretch in the middle of the night, buzzed on a steady supply of canned Starbucks.

I was going ninety in a new Lexus when some lights popped up in my rearview mirror on one of my trips along that highway. We were the only two vehicles on the road for miles, so when the blacked-out Camaro rolled up right next to me and stayed there, I let off the accelerator. Probably just some idiot teenagers having a bit of fun. Only when I slowed down, the other driver did, too.

I sped back up.

He cruised right back into position next to me.

We repeated that routine several times.

The driver of that vehicle was deliberately trying to fuck with me, a game of cat-and-mouse that kept up for around fifteen minutes. Which, with your cortisol starting to jack up and your heart rate accelerating, can feel like a lot longer. By the time the Camaro started swerving into my lane and forcing me onto the shoulder, my speedodometer needle was deep into the triple digits and I was definitely fully awake.

I kept my foot on the gas and did some quick math. Tinted windows. One to four occupants in the vehicle. Four would be bad. One would be preferable. Two could be manageable. But the car was a two-door. Anyone in the backseat would be delayed in exiting the vehicle. If the occupants of that vehicle were packing heat, odds were pretty good that Id have my gun out of my holster before theyd even had the chance to think about drawing theirs.

The other thing was, all the high-speed maneuvering was whittling down my gas supply, and the nearest exit was thirty miles away.

Fuck it.

Without warning, I yanked my wheel over to the right and got out of my car as quickly as possible. A couple of beats later, the Camaro came to a screeching, swerving halt up ahead.

By the time the drivers left foot hit the ground, I was already slamming his car door against his shin. His lower leg might have made a crunching sound when the bone shattered in several places. I wouldnt know, since I was taking in only sounds that represented an immediate threat. By the time Id thrown him to the ground and landed a couple of punches, passenger number two was coming around from the rear of the car.