Free Earth Unaware (First Formic War) by Orson Scott Card, Aaron Johnston

men. Full access to all of our facilities and troops. The highest level of clearance.”
    “I have the official letter here,” said Wit, placing the envelope on the table, “signed by the Chief of Defence Force as well as the Minister of Defence.”
    Napatu didn’t look at the envelope. “You and I both know, Captain, that these signatures don’t mean squat. I can come up with all kinds of legitimate excuses why you shouldn’t take any of my men, all of which the big boys in suits will agree with. Family issues, health issues, emotional issues. They give you these documents because they have to. It would be political suicide to do otherwise. But they don’t mean a damn thing to me. The only way you’re taking any of my boys is if I agree to it.”
    Napatu was right. The signatures were more a formality. Wit was actually relieved to hear that Napatu realized that, too. He preferred that Napatu gave him men because he wanted to and not because someone had forced his hand.
    “What makes you think any one of my men will want to give up their position here to join you?” asked Napatu. “Do you have any idea, Captain, how near impossible it is to get into this unit? Do you know what these men have suffered, the grueling torture we put them through for the chance to wear the tan beret?”
    “I do, sir. I’ve studied your selection process and training cycle. These men go through hell and back, and only a small fraction of them make the cut.”
    “You’ve studied?” said Napatu. “With all due respect, Captain, cracking open a book on our process will hardly give you an accurate perspective of what it means to become an SAS man.”
    It can’t have been more difficult than my SEAL training, Wit thought. But he said nothing. No need turning this into a pissing contest.
    Colonel Napatu jabbed a finger on the table. “These men take themselves to an inch from death to join us, Captain. We push them until we think they’ll break, then we push twice as far. We cull so many in the training process that it’s a miracle we have any men here at all. But somehow a few make it through. Men who have no quit in them. Men who will endure any physical suffering, make any sacrifice. You don’t become an SAS soldier to impress single girls at pubs, Captain. Your motivation has to be rock solid. You have to want it so bad that even the threat of death won’t take it from you. And once they’re here, once these men have joined our ranks, they become part of a brotherhood so strong that nothing can break it. And you think that you, a total stranger, can waltz in here, and convince them to leave behind everything they’ve worked so hard to achieve just so they can join you ? I find that incredibly arrogant.”
    It was the token response Wit got every time. Regardless of what language they spoke or what corner of the world they came from, all commanding officers of Special Forces units had the same reaction. They saw their troops as their own sons. And the idea that any of their sons would consider going elsewhere was unthinkable.
    But Wit knew soldiers better than Napatu did. He understood the warrior mind. The most elite of soldiers didn’t join Special Forces to be part of a brotherhood or for the prestige. Men joined Special Forces because they wanted action. They didn’t sign up to train for fifty-two weeks a year and sleep in comfortable bunks with downy pillows. They signed up to sleep in the rain with their finger on the trigger.
    But Wit had to say this delicately; COs had fragile egos. “Your reservations are warranted, Colonel. Your men are the model of loyalty to their country and their unit. However, MOPs offers these men something more. Action. And lots of it. Since we are so few in numbers, we deploy throughout the world far more often than larger forces like yours, which often requires congressional or parliamentary approval. MOPs is not at the mercy of politicians concerned with self-preservation and what