Exposure (Jackson Chase Novella Book 1) (4 page)

D
ozens
of small-boat races surround every major yachting event. While my parents worked with captains, owners, and crew on the final fittings before the big events, I spent my time at the tillers of Lasers, 470s, and Finns.

The races were always filled with a strange combination of nomadic sailing kids like myself, locals, and skilled professionals taking time off the big racing yachts to hone their skills.

The three couldn’t be more different, but they came together for what I’ve always felt is the grittiest, fastest, and friendliest form of competition: the single-handed race. It leveled the playing field for everyone, forcing the competition to be solely based on skill and tactics.

It was a race in Naples one summer that truly set the course of my adult life. I, of course, didn’t know it at the time. It often takes distance and perspective for those seminal moments to stand out. All I knew was that it was the final race of the series: myself against an American Navy Captain that everyone had been chatting about all week.

I was having a great series, and was excited and confident I could win this little regatta. But this American officer was an unknown. He wasn’t a regular on the single-handed scene. I eavesdropped on some of the dockside gossip to learn what I could, and suddenly the day was proving to be very interesting.

Apparently, this Captain—Doug Christie was his name—wanted to take advantage of the coincidence of his ship’s stop in Naples and our little regatta to get his hands back on the lines and tiller of a Finn. But what really piqued my interest was the fact that this Captain once won an Olympic gold medal in the Finn class. The last time an American had won it.

To best him would be a dream. The near equivalent of winning a gold medal myself, or so I imagined.

I remember both of us at the dock before being towed out, checking our rigging and getting the boats ready. A small crowd had gathered. The usual motley crew of yachties and deckhands were there, but a few sailors from the American ship had also joined. I heard bits and pieces of their conversation. Mostly about their Captain, but also about the weather coming in and “the boy”. Me. Hearing the slight chuckles made me nervous, and my bravado was fading like the weather.

But I tried to swallow it and put my game face on. It’s hard to scowl at the competition when you’re 13, but I was doing my best. I remember checking my tiller arm to see if it was connected securely when I felt him looking at me.

“Interesting modification you have there,” he said, pointing to the small extension I had just placed on the tiller. His voice was kinder than I thought an American sailor’s would be.

I took a look at him across the stern. Not very tall, somewhat muscular, brown hair showing a hint of gray at the sides. I’ll never forget his eyes, though. They were steel blue, and looked like they could see right through me.

“Made it myself. It’s just a couple of pieces of PVC pipe and a rubber joint.” I tried to sound tough and confident, but it really wasn’t working.

I was surprised to see him smile and hop on the dock to come closer. “Tell me about it,” he said.

I explained how it worked, and that I had made the change because my arms were a bit shorter than the adults the tiller was really designed for. He was genuinely interested, and came across as more of a father-type than the Captain of a ship.

When we were done, he extended his hand. “Best of luck to you, Jackson,” he said.

“Thanks. You, too,” I replied. And with that, we were off.

I remember the race being tight. The start battle was brutal. He put moves on me that I had never seen before, and beat me to the line for an advantage of a couple of boat lengths. Midway through the race, I was able to read the wind shifts a little better, and pulled slightly ahead.

But I couldn’t shake him. He matched every move, and was constantly applying pressure. It was one of the hardest, and most exciting races I ever had as a child.

A low was blowing in, which made the race a bit more interesting, but also more dangerous. We had some stiff gusts, and the chop had bumped up a bit.

Both on starboard, with me in the downwind spot pushing up on him, I remember seeing a vicious gust come across the surface. Looking at me downwind, he couldn’t see it. I came up a fraction so as not to bear the full brunt, and suddenly heard a loud crack!

I checked my gear. Tiller, mast, boom, shrouds, canvas. They all appeared ok. But Captain Christie was no longer next to me. I looked back to see his boat on its side, and him in the water grabbing a halyard to right the boat.

It was the last upwind leg. All I had to do was sail safely, and the regatta would have been mine. Beating a gold medal winner! Nothing is better than that.

I smiled to myself and looked back at the course. But only for a second. I knew I couldn’t win this way. It wasn’t right.

One day, on the cricket pitch when I was quite young, my grandfather had said to me you’re a gentleman first, competitor yes, but a gentleman first. Being in the middle of a tantrum, I didn’t really understand it. But right then, with the finish line on one side of me, and my competitor crashed out on the other, I understood.

I dumped the tiller and came about. He had righted the Finn and dropped his sail, and now sat floundering in the chop. It was clear his rudder had broken free, and there was no way he could carry on.

“Can the Kiwi Coast Guard offer you a tow, Captain?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” he replied.

He sat next to me as we towed his little boat back to the harbor. I remember him looking at me for a few minutes before speaking.“Why’d you stop, son?” he asked.

“Weather coming in. Couldn’t really leave you there waiting for the tender, could I?” I said, looking up at the main so that I wouldn’t have to meet his eyes directly.

“You would have won.”

“Wouldn’t have been right,” I said, feeling his stare.

“Yes, but you wanted it. I could tell on the dock,” he paused. “You’d rather beat me fair and square, wouldn’t you?”

“Mmmm,” was my meager reply.

“I like you, son. A gentleman competitor.”

The low came in and a storm settled over the bay. We were never able to finish the regatta before the American ship had to leave port.

O
ver the years
and through the various ports we visited while my parents made deliveries and refitted boats, there was one constant: U.S. Navy ships. And each time I saw one, I thought of Captain Christie.

When it came time for me to go to university, my first thought was always the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis. I knew I had little in the way of prep school continuity, and perhaps even less in book smarts, to offer. I did, however, have a decent grasp of a half dozen languages thanks to a life spent in all the major ports of the world, exceptional math scores, and could fly or sail just about anything.

While I like to think it was my capabilities that got me into the Academy, I think the sailing coach pulled some strings.

He was Admiral Doug Christie (Ret.), the same Captain I had raced five years prior.

I remember my parents beaming with pride as they watched their only child walk through the stone and iron gates of the U.S. Naval Academy. I remember their praise when I graduated with honors and moved on to Naval Air Station Pensacola for flight school.

And I remember the crushing, hopeless feeling when I learned they were killed in a horrible traffic accident driving to my graduation ceremony.

T
he simplest way to
describe what came over me is darkness.

Outwardly, I was able to function. Members of the extended family were there to help. Sorting the house, bank accounts, Inland Revenue and the like were robotically executed. The business was thankfully simpler, as I gave the reins to Hamish Riddle. As managing director, he was perfectly skilled. He had been close with our family for years, and could not be more trusted to run the business.

But inside, I was a mess. Sadness, anger, and helplessness were my only feelings.

I sat in this old house and fell apart for the better part of the four weeks leave I had been granted. My dinghy and paddle board sat dormant, wondering why their master wouldn’t take them to the sea that was just steps away. The only attention I gave was to a growing pile of empty beer bottles. I simply couldn’t find my way out of the shadow of my parents’ death.

As it turned out, what I needed was a world class ass kicking courtesy of Graeme Ahipara VC.

Uncle Graeme, as I called him as a child, was a member of the New Zealand Special Air Service. The NZSAS is well respected in the world of special forces, and Graeme was one of the best. As the VC after his name indicates, he has been awarded the highest military honor in the nation, the Victoria Cross. And while receiving it didn’t do much for the covert side of his career, it did open doors around the world. Including one door in the Pentagon.

Through the respect shared between warriors who have walked a battlefield together, Graeme was able to have me assigned TDY to the New Zealand Army.

Dropping me off at the All Arms Recruit Course (AARC) in Waiouru, commonly known as boot camp, all he said was, “If you’re going to be fighting side by side with your mates when you go back, you need to get your shit together, boy. I will be back in 16 weeks to pick up the man I know you to be. To pick up the man your Navy needs.”

I wasn’t entered into recruit training as the officer I was. Graeme put me into the program as a walk-in, a regular Joe off the street. I was just another grunt, and the drill sergeants treated me as such.

It was what I deserved.

For that first week, I cursed Uncle Graeme with every pushup, every pull-up, and every kilometer spent marching and running with a 30 kilo ruck on my back. And I cursed every nasty job they gave me, knowing that Graeme had made sure I was assigned the toughest duties possible.

And then I realized he had, in fact, saved me from myself. Over the course of the remaining fifteen weeks, I pushed myself to the limit. Much of the training mirrored what I had done at the Academy. But as NZ Army basic training was for enlisted, it was more physically demanding. I soon found myself stronger than I was before, both mentally and physically.

After the basic training graduation ceremony, when recruits were receiving their assignments, a detailer ordered me to report to one of the adjacent barracks.

I entered, and as I removed my cover, saw Uncle Graeme standing in his civvies next to a NZ Army major. I came up to them, stood at attention and clicked my heels.

“Lance Corporal Chase, reporting as ordered.” I said.

“We all know that’s not exactly accurate, son,” said the major.

“I’m Major Ross,” he continued. “And I believe I should address you as Petty Officer, shouldn’t I?"

I glanced at Uncle Graeme. He nodded, acknowledging that I had righted myself enough that I could reclaim my rank.

“That is correct, sir,” I replied. “Uncle Graeme wanted to set me straight, and sent me in here as a recruit. You’re the first one to know I am an officer.”

Major Ross showed a small smile. “Actually, Petty Officer, all of the sergeants busting your ass here knew.”

I was taken aback, and really didn’t know what to say.

He continued, “And they were all impressed as hell with you. You were, apparently, brilliant out there. Congratulations.”

I brought my chin up. “Thank you, sir!"

“I think you’re ready to go back to the Yanks, son.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Unless, of course, you’re interested in something about a hundred times tougher than what you’ve just been through?” he asked.

“Sir?” I replied, wondering what he meant by that.

And then the light came on. On his right collar was a flaming sword insignia. I didn’t need to look to know that the small ribbon across the sword read “Who Dares, Wins”.

The insignia of the Special Air Service.

“The staff sergeants here have told me that you outperformed this entire class. They have suggested to me that you’d be a good candidate for SAS selection. Major General Wenzel has spoken with US Naval Operations, and they’ve agreed to let you stay with us if you would like to proceed.”

“I will be packed in ten, Major!”

“Easy, Jackson. Basic is nothing compared to Selection,” Graeme interrupted. “It is the most difficult course you can take. It’s demanding — physically, mentally, and emotionally. You’ll be pushed to your absolute limit, and assessed at every turn. Only a small percentage will make it through Selection. And that’s followed by Cycle, which continues to weed the group down. Typically, only four or five candidates receive the sand beret and blue belt. Sometimes none. And if you do make it through, there’s still two more years of training before you’re truly part of the unit.”

“I’m ready, Uncle Graeme. Just promise me that you’ll be at the badging ceremony.”

Uncle Graeme stepped forward and wrapped his thick arms around me. “I will, Jackson. I will.”

The special forces of many countries claim the toughest training, and the best operators. But the NZSAS has a reputation of being one of the best. And they’ve stayed there through rigorous selection, exceptional training, and amazing capabilities.

Graeme telling me that the Selection course was demanding was as big an understatement as I’ve ever heard. I am not entirely sure how I made it through some of the most difficult exercises ever conceived. And it became even more mentally rigorous during the second phase, Cycle.

After a full year, three of us were left out of the original 86. At the badging ceremony, Graeme wrapped me once again in a bear hug. “You’re part of my other family now, Jackson. Welcome to the SAS.”

T
he training continued
for two more years in the squadron.

Maritime skills, amphibious landings on some of the toughest coasts in the world, and all manners of airborne insertion were the entry passes to the more detailed exercises in reconnaissance, counter-terrorism, interrogation, and the use of a broad spectrum of weapons.

I stayed with the squadron for well over three years after that, enduring the humid jungles of Southeast Asia, to the punishing cold of Antarctica, and the harsh mountains and desert of the Middle East.

And I loved every second of it.

But my heart was split. I had allegiance to two countries—two nations that held me as their own—that I had sworn to protect.

It was during a mission to rescue a downed American F-18 pilot that I realized I needed to finish what I had started with the US Navy.

The SAS lads in Papakura would always be my family, and as such, they understood.

O
n the day
I left to return to the US, I remember fighting one of the worst hangovers the world had ever seen.

But, perhaps more importantly, I remember Lieutenant Colonel Ross, the commander of the 1NZSAS Regiment who had recruited me when he was a Major, meeting me at the departure gate.

I was in my US Navy uniform, something he had never seen me in. I could tell it was a bit off-putting to see me in another country's uniform.

“Sir!” I said, coming to attention.

“At ease, Jackson,” he ordered. “You’re not in my chain of command any longer, son.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, trying to smile.

This brutally tough man had seen me during the toughest days of my life. Hell, he had created many of them, and stood by me for all of the others. He was, and always would be, a big part of what I had become.

Seeing him standing there before me as I stood on the precipice of another major life change brought a flood of emotions to the surface. I could feel the pressure of tears pushing behind my eyes.

“Jackson, I know you and the lads had a good piss-up last night, but I wanted to see you off today. I wanted to tell you that it has been an honor to serve with you.”

“Thank you, sir,” I stammered, holding it together for the moment.

“The Yanks are damn lucky to have you. You are, without question, a brilliant soldier.”

He withdrew something from his pocket. A handkerchief, which he unrolled.

“Back when you were just a tike, I was given these at my badging ceremony.”

He held up his handkerchief, revealing two SAS collar insignias: the flaming swords emblazoned with the “Who Dares, Wins” motto of the Special Air Service. The same insignia I had worn for the past five years, but had only this morning dressed without.

But these were different. They were pitted, and bore the patina of far more years than my own pair.

“This pair is one of the original 182, from that set of troops that forged the SAS in the jungles of Malaya in 1955. I would like you to wear one of these on your uniform while you serve in the American Navy as a way to honor your place here.”

He reached to my right collar, removing the Lieutenant’s bars and replacing them with the insignia of the NZSAS.

He continued, “I want you to stand tall, and always remember that you are a distinguished member of the most elite fighting force in the world.”

I pulled my shoulders back. “Yes, sir!”

“This other insignia will remain here, in Papakura, awaiting your return, son. Kia kaha.” Be strong.

He shook my hand. And then in a rare showing of emotion for a Kiwi bloke, much less one in uniform, he embraced me.

T
he insignia
he pinned on just one of my collars, despite the reprimands of more than a few senior US Naval officers, has been a part of my uniform ever since.