“That’s not too far from the truth, but again, I’m not at liberty to-”

“Discuss your patients,” said Harvath, finishing Hardy’s sentence for him. “I understand.”

“Actually, I don’t think you do.”

“Then why don’t you help me?”

“I’m a psychologist.”

“That’s it? Just plain old psychologist?”

“There’s nothing that plain about psychology. Old, maybe, but nothing is ever plain in my work.”

Harvath wasn’t a big fan of circumlocution. He got his fill of it on a daily basis working in Washington. “Let me cut to the chase,” he said. “Up until five minutes ago, I thought Bob Herrington was putting together a team of ex-service people that I could rely on. Now I’m not so sure, so forgive me for being blunt, but what exactly do you do here?”

The doctor reached into his lower desk drawer and pulled out a black-and-white photograph of four soldiers. They were standing along a riverbank wearing vintage Vietnam-era tiger-stripe camouflage. “That’s a much younger me there on the left,” he said. “That picture was taken at Nha Trang when I was with the 5th Special Forces Group.”

“You were a Green Beret?” asked Harvath.

“Yup.”

“How’d you end up a psychologist?”

“When I got out of the Army, I was dealing with a lot of issues.” Hardy paused a moment and then said, “Bob told me you were a SEAL, is that right?”

“Technically, I still am,” replied Harvath. “I’ve just been on loan to a couple of different government agencies.”

“Well, then you may be able to appreciate some of the problems I was facing. I burned through a lot of doctors when I got home from Vietnam -both psychologists and psychiatrists alike. They all had one fundamental thing in common that made it impossible for them to truly help me-none of them had ever been in combat. Their code as human beings was based upon the Judeo-Christian ethic, while mine was based upon the warrior ethic. They couldn’t even begin to understand the things I had been asked to do, and which I had done so willingly for my country. That’s why I decided to go into psychology.”

“So you specialize in helping treat people who have been in combat?”

“Not just anybody,” replied Hardy. “Only the best of the best. My area of expertise is with Special Operations personnel.”

“Like Bob,” remarked Harvath, whose brain then took the next step, “and Rick Cates, Paul Morgan, and Tracy Hastings.”

Hardy allowed his silence to serve as his answer.

“What are we talking about here? High-end PTSD?” asked Harvath.

“Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is a relatively common issue for combat veterans, but less so for our elite warriors. What we see in them, especially when they’ve been forced to leave active duty prematurely, because of an injury or whatever, is an inability to reconcile the ‘real’ world-a place not often governed by loyalty and honor, with the world they have just left behind-a brotherhood that prides itself on character and integrity.”

Harvath was intrigued, but he was still having trouble deciphering what exactly the doctor’s role was. “So your job is to help them adjust to life outside the Spec Ops community?”

“More or less,” replied Hardy. “Every combat vet has issues-no matter who they are. But people in the Special Operations community often share several in common and that’s why group therapy in some cases can be so helpful in making a smooth and productive transition back into the civilian world.”

Harvath let the idea tumble around in his brain for a few moments and wondered if there were any issues he might be keeping at bay, which he had never really taken a good look at. Bob’s words from the Pig amp; Whistle about letting Meg Cassidy get away rang in his ears, but he tried to ignore them. Dr. Hardy was talking about deep psychological issues, not his decision to place his career over a healthy interpersonal relationship with a member of the opposite sex.

Pushing that thought from his mind, Harvath asked the one question that was most pressing at the moment. “Without violating doctor-patient confidentiality, is there anything going on with any of them that I should be concerned about?”

“That depends. How well do you know them?”

“Bob has told me about each of them in his e-mails, but this is the first time I’ve ever met any of them in person.”

“Without knowing the details of what you’re asking them to do,” replied Hardy, “it’s very hard for me to answer your question.”

That was a fair enough response. “I may not be asking them to do anything,” said Harvath. “In fact I hope that turns out to be true. But the flipside is that I may be asking them to step up to the plate in a way they haven’t been asked to in a little while.”

“The terrorists aren’t done yet, are they?” asked Hardy.

Harvath shook his head. “We don’t think so.”

“Well, each person reacts to the stress of combat in different ways. What I can say is that Bob Herrington is an exceptional leader. If Rick, Tracy, and Paul are the people he wants on your team, then I’d take that as a serious endorsement.”

“But what if things get ugly?”

“There’s no way to predict. Unfortunately, you won’t know until something happens.”

“At which point it could be too late.”

Hardy nodded. “Many symptoms exhibited by soldiers outside the realm of combat have more to do with adjusting to the real world than anything else. Put them back into the stresses of battle and nine out of ten times their symptoms disappear.”

“And that tenth time?” asked Harvath. “How do I deal with that?”

“You can’t. Only that soldier can. It comes down to facing his or her personal demons, and that’s a battle that requires more courage than anything you might ever face on the other end of a gun.”

It was an answer that Harvath not only understood, but could appreciate. The only problem was that the possibility that one of the people on his team could very well freeze up when they were needed most scared the hell out of him.

Tell me what’s going on in New York,” said the DHS secretary, Alan Driehaus, as he walked in to Gary Lawlor’s office unannounced and pulled the door shut behind him.

Lawlor had never cared much for the man in either his U.S. Attorney role or the position he now occupied at DHS. As diplomatic as he was, it was becoming harder and harder for Gary to hide his dislike. “Apparently there’s been some sort of terrorist attack in New York. It’s all over the news.”

“Don’t give me your condescending bullshit. What’s your involvement in this?”

“Me? I swore off terrorism years ago. It was a prerequisite for getting this job.”

The continual lack of respect he was shown throughout the department galled Driehaus to no end. “Shortly before all of this happened, one of your people grabbed a Muslim immigrant whom the Canadians had granted political asylum to and dragged him back across our border. True or false?”

“Who the hell told you that?” replied Lawlor, stunned that somebody was leaking classified information, and to of all people the pinhead secretary of the DHS.

“I’ve got my sources.”

“Well they’re wrong.”

“Like hell they are,” replied Driehaus. “None of you people get it, do you? We can’t hold ourselves out as a country that cherishes the rule of law only when it suits our purposes. We play right into our enemies’ hands when we do that. It’s hypocritical.”

“What would you have us do, Alan? Wait for the bad guys to make their move and then throw them in jail?”

“No. I have no qualms with preemption, but there have to be limits. We have to obey the rules.”

“Really? Tell that to the families of the people who died today and see if they give a rat’s ass about limits or the rule of law. PC or not, we’re smack-dab in the middle of a crusade, and the only way Western civilization is going to survive is if we meet radical Islam’s force with overwhelming force of our own.”