Fearless (34 page)

Though he suffered a life-threatening post-op complication—a medication-induced drop in blood pressure that landed him in the hospital—a week following the surgery, Adam was back to studying for his college courses. Now, however, instead of tears he had to dab at the bloody fluid draining from the socket.

After two months he was fitted with a prosthetic eye. Outwardly, Adam made light of it, joking with Nathan and Savannah by holding it in his hand and “peeking” in their rooms, saying, “You’d better be good—I’ve got my eye on you.” But “quietly, he was insecure,” says Kelley. “He’d look in the mirror a lot and always asked me if it looked okay. If it was daytime, he wore sunglasses and not always for the sun.”

Indeed, the first eye Adam was fitted with “looked like they’d colored it with crayon,” she says. “I went down there and had them make him another one we were both happy with.”

Shortly after Adam had gotten his new eye, he and Kelley were teaching the second-grade Sunday school class when a boy said, “Mr. Adam, are you looking at me? Because your eye is not.”

“He can take it out,” seven-year-old Savannah piped up proudly.

“Really?” another boy asked. “You can take that thing out?”

“Sure,” Savannah answered. “It’s so cool. He can take it out and he can spin it all around.”

“You want me to do it?” asked Adam.

“No!” Kelley jumped in. She walked Adam away from the children and “straightened” his eye with her finger so that it was tracking properly. Then she firmly whispered, “Do
not
take your eye out—you’ll traumatize these kids.”

The chanting began: “Take it out! Take it out! Take it out!”

“It was hilarious,” says Kelley. “One of Adam’s biggest concerns about getting the eye removed was that it might freak the kids out, and here it was, a novelty. But I didn’t let him take it out, not without their parents’ permission.”

As 2009 played out, Adam knocked off college course after college course, racing against the clock before his next—what he planned to be his final—deployment in February 2010. Yet he still managed to volunteer as a coach for ten-year-old Nathan’s football season. “I loved it,” says Nathan. “Best coach ever. He taught us to do things we didn’t think we could. I like that. And if we complained because we had to run around the goalpost, he’d run with us, and when he got there he jumped up and did pull-ups. My other coaches would watch us run; my daddy ran
with
us.”

History repeated itself that fall when Jeff transferred to a local Naval base in Virginia, and Adam, in addition to insisting that Jeff stay at his home, proceeded to introduce “Busch” to his SEAL buddies. Adam made it a point to brag about Jeff as he recounted stories from their youth. “Making me feel good about myself,” says Jeff, “which showed me Adam had not changed in all those years. He was still the same humble kid who knew it was important to be nice to people.”

One afternoon Adam received special clearance to bring Jeff along when he went to DEVGRU’s shooting range to test out some experimental weapons. After shooting a box of ammo, Adam turned to the attendant and said, “Hey, you want to try this gun?” The attendant was taken aback by the unusual request. “Most of these guys work hard and it goes unnoticed,” says Jeff, “but Adam, being who he was, insisted the attendant shoot an entire box of ammo, and we all had a blast.”

Respect for others—no matter their rank or social standing—was a theme throughout Adam’s life. When fellow SEAL Brian Bill first joined DEVGRU, he was tasked with a new-guy job of emptying the trash cans around the squadron’s team room. “Let me get that,” Adam told him at one point, taking the can from Brian.

“At first I thought, okay, this guy is messing with me,” says Brian. “He’s gonna take the trash can and turn it upside down and ask me why I dumped all the trash on the floor. It was
that
weird to have a senior guy like Adam helping a new guy with the trash. But Adam never degraded the new guys—he mentored them. He mentored me.”

Two days before Christmas 2009, the Browns hit the road for Hot Springs, driving through a massive snowstorm on the way. They stopped off at a restaurant with Internet service long enough for Adam to fire off a final college paper that Kelley had proofread in the car. Adam was only two classes away from his bachelor’s degree, and with two months left before his deployment, it looked as if he would reach his goal.

The family of four arrived at Janice and Larry’s home on Christmas Eve, Adam decked out in his finest attire: tight black pants and an even tighter white V-neck polyester sweater covering a black dickey. Complete with hair slicked back and holding a glass shaped like a moose head, he had become Cousin Eddie from National Lampoon’s
Christmas Vacation
.

He rapped loudly on the door before heading inside to the living room, where he announced to Janice, Larry, Shawn, and Manda, “You surprised to see us, Clark?”

“Oh, Eddie,” Manda and Shawn recited in unison the next line from the movie they’d all watched together every Christmas for over a decade, “if I woke up tomorrow with my head sewn to the carpet, I wouldn’t be more surprised than I am now!”

“The house was full of laughter,” says Janice. “Everything was perfect, with
our
kids, and
their
kids, and the laughter, and the stories. I remember thinking how blessed we were as a family. Adam was heading to Afghanistan soon, and he’d told me, as he’d told me before, ‘Momma, don’t worry. We are so well trained, we just go in and do our job, and come out …’

“I don’t like to think about that, though. I’d rather just think of that Christmas.”

I
T WAS
F
EBRUARY
5, 2010, and Nathan and Savannah were giggling as Adam blew out all thirty-six candles on his favorite cake, cookies and cream. “What are y’all laughing at?” he asked, grinning, and they pushed a present in front of him.

Soon Adam was laughing too at the adult-size black-and-yellow Batman briefs he’d unwrapped. Pulling them on over his pants, he paraded around the kitchen, striking superhero poses. “I love them,” he said, which made Kelley and the kids laugh even harder.

“I’m serious.” He got down face to face with Nathan and Savannah. “I’m going to make y’all a promise: I promise these are going to be my undercover underwear. I’m going to wear them on every op I go out on, and”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“nobody will ever know my superhero capabilities. The bad guys will never know it’s really Batman showing up.”

“You dork,” said Kelley, and the kids cracked up again.

“They were just eating it up,” she says. “Daddy’s job wasn’t real back then. They knew Navy SEALs killed pirates because it had been on the news, and they knew they hunted bad guys—but it was like make-believe.”

“Really, Daddy?” Savannah said. “You’ll wear them?”

“I will,” said Adam. “I promise.”

On February 26, Kelley and Adam dropped Nathan and Savannah at school, then drove around town picking up last-minute odds and ends for his deployment—which included an encyclopedia-size study guide for the GMAT exam, the initial step toward
gaining acceptance into Harvard’s MBA program. In spite of a hectic training and pre-deployment schedule, Adam had earned his bachelor’s degree.

Adam promised Nathan and Savannah he would wear this superhero underwear they gave him on every mission.

At noon they lunched with the kids in the school cafeteria and Adam shot hoops with them on the playground. After school let out, the family headed to Adam’s choice of Chili’s and his favorite queso dip appetizer.

Kelley watched Nathan’s and Savannah’s little hands digging into the chips alongside their daddy’s, all three laughing as they jockeyed for the biggest chips. If Adam landed on one, he would immediately turn it over to Savannah. Though savoring this sweet moment of family life, Kelley picked at her own food. She had no appetite.

From dinner they went straight to the base, where Adam flashed his ID, still in the Wal-Mart badge holder. They drove through the main gate, then along the familiar tree-lined stretch of woods. They skirted the chain-link fences, the manicured lawns, and a system of interior gates and finally stopped alongside a curb where a few other families were saying their good-byes, respectfully distanced from each other. While Adam piled his gear on the sidewalk, Nathan and Savannah—even as they tried mightily to be strong—began to cry.

Adam picked Nathan up first, and Kelley remembered vividly those first deployments when Nathan was so small; now his legs were long and lanky. He sobbed on his daddy’s shoulder, and Adam closed his eyes and squeezed him tight. Then he pulled
back and looked Nathan in the eye. “This is the last time, buddy,” he said, a tear trickling down his cheek. “Last time.”

When Adam turned to Savannah and lifted her into a hug, he knew she could see his tears. “Bye, Little Baby, it’s all fine,” he said to reassure her. He held her for a long time, gave her a big daddy squeeze, and pushed her nose as he set her down.

“Beeeep,” she responded instantly.

“I love you, Little Baby,” he said and walked over to Kelley, who held his face in her hands.

“You come home,” she said.

“I promise,” Adam replied, and they kissed—long and sweet and perfect. “But different,” says Kelley. “I can’t explain; it was just different than the other times.” The second they pulled apart, Kelley touched her lips, as if pressing on them would keep Adam’s kiss there longer.

“Let’s get this done,” she said to Adam, attempting to sound strong. “Get home.”

Right before Adam carried his gear through the gate into DEVGRU, Kelley felt compelled to ask the guard to snap a photo of the family together, there in the twilight—something they’d never done before. A final wave from Adam and he was gone.

Saying good-bye was hard on all the SEALs and their loved ones, but even more poignant for the family men on the team, the ones with children. Inside DEVGRU’s restricted zone, Adam and his teammate Heath Robinson, also a father, met up with each other, the sadness apparent on both their faces. Side by side they walked.