Steel Fear

by Brandon Webb

  “You’re out of your depth,” said Finn.

  Says the SEAL who spent an hour this morning hunched over a steel toilet.

  Now the roiling sea surface, with its flicks and curls, reminded Finn of the icing on a big fat chocolate cake.

  A fat slice of chocolate cake on a plate, left on a card table in a dimly lit kitchen. A faint beam of late afternoon sunlight carving through the room, trapping a silent swarm of dust motes—

  Finn shuddered, then blinked, twice.

  Early memory? Stray fragment in the gaping bomb crater that was his childhood?

  A gust of night breeze stippled the water’s surface, the waxing moon a million tiny echoes like an insect’s mosaic eye.

  Scientists talked about “water memory,” the ability of water molecules to retain the impression of dissolved substances even after exhaustive dilution should have erased all traces. The idea defied all current physical and chemical understanding, but homeopathy worked anyway. And poets were thousands of years ahead of the scientists. They’d been talking about the ocean’s memory for eons.

  Where is your tribal memory? Sirs, in that grey vault, the sea…

  When water turns ice does it remember one time it was water?…

  Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell…

  Finn leaned back against the ship’s steel skin and closed his eyes. Slowly, gingerly, he walked through that morning’s sequence of events.

  Climbing up onto the deck to watch the Line Crossing. Sitting by the rail, watching. Brief exchange with one or two people. Observing sailors as they went through their sophomoric rituals—and then, boom! He was in his broom closet, sitting on his rack and holding his paralyzed jaw.

  Two scenes, side by side in his mind, seamless. Here—there. Nothing in between.

  Like a skip in an old vinyl LP.

  He took another slow breath. Reached into the bucket. This time his fingers found some chicken feet. He tossed them.

  The monster leapt, gulped, crashed back into the water.

  He brought his thoughts back again to the flight deck that morning. The sailors, the rituals. Pol-ly-wog. POL-LY—

  He quickly shut that thought down. Looked out at the ocean, breathing in, breathing out, watching the chocolate cake curls.

  Without permission, the thought crept back in again. Pollywog. What the hell did that mean?

  But he knew, didn’t he.

  It meant death.

  He had no idea why. But that’s what it meant.

  Death.

  The creature with a massive head and no arms or legs.

  Finn reached back in the bucket and his fingers closed on what felt like a slippery, serrated bamboo flute. Chicken neck. He picked it up. This time, instead of tossing it he leaned as far forward as he could and reached out over the water, holding the chicken neck out with his fingertips.

  Tiger sharks could grow to twelve, fourteen feet and longer. A thousand pounds plus. He knew this one could take his arm off if it wanted to. And that fucker could jump, he’d just seen that.

  Suicidal.

  Insane.

  He gripped with his thighs and leaned out a few inches farther.

  Felt a tug, and his hand was empty.

  Splash—CLUMP—crash.

  Finn slowly withdrew his hand and straightened, his back pressing against the ship’s hull again.

  He had not even flinched.

  He could lower himself down into the water, right here and now, come face-to-face with that tiger shark, armed with nothing but his four-inch ring knife—and he would not be afraid. The shark might kill him. Or not. Either way, he still would not be afraid.

  So why was he paralyzed by some childish chant about a tadpole?

  Fingers back in the bucket. Nothing left but a slick of guts. He tossed the mostly empty bucket out in front of him. The big tiger shark reared up one last time, then the chocolate icing melted in around it, and it was gone. Like a bad dream.

  Like a memory.

  56

  “Is there someplace we could talk?”

  She’d been avoiding him for the past day and a half, trying to sort out her feelings. She couldn’t afford a romantic entanglement right now, let alone an illicit one. Her HAC had to be front and center, every waking moment. Eyes on the prize.

  Fine. She knew all that. But right now, this morning, she needed to talk to someone about what Sloane had told her, and who else was there but Scott?

  “Sure,” said the JAG officer. He picked up his breakfast tray and walked with her to an empty table at the back of the wardroom.

  “I talked with my brother last night. In Pensacola…” She stopped.

  “And how is he?”

  She watched Scott take a bite of eggs. The thought of eating nearly made her gag. “He’s great.”

  “Family doing okay? Your mom?”

  “Yeah.”

  She’d lain awake most of the night, waiting for morning so she could come find him and talk. Now that she was here she couldn’t get out the words.

  She put her hands in her lap and took a breath. “Scott…I think I know why Kris was acting weird. I think she’d been assaulted.” She didn’t dare say by whom.

  Scott stopped chewing and stared at her. After a moment he resumed chewing. Then swallowed, speared another bite, and paused. “I’m trying not to say the cliché thing here.”

  “Monica, you have to stop torturing yourself?” she said.

  He smiled. “Monica? You have to stop torturing yourself.”

  She pinched off a bit of toast, balled it up, and threw it at him. “Predictable, Commander.”

  He continued eating. “True, though.” After a moment he set his fork down and wiped his lips with his napkin. “I want to tell you something.” He tapped a knuckle to his titanium leg. “You already know how I got this. You want to hear why I got it?”

  “I know,” she said softly.

  She knew the whole story: how his leg was shredded by 7.62 rounds in the same ambush that killed two of his friends; how the docs said they could save the leg but he’d never regain anything like full function; how he’d made the brave decision to go ahead and take the leg off just below the knee, then pushed himself back into fighting shape with his new titanium leg and worked his way back up the officer track.

  “So you’d have a shot at getting back into the field. So your friends wouldn’t have died for nothing.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Yep,” he said. “That’s the story. Wanna hear the truth?” He paused again. “Once the morphine wore off and I saw where I was, lying on a hospital bed in Frankfurt, I started to cry. And I couldn’t stop. Every time I looked at that chewed-up scrap of leg, all I could see was those two brothers I left behind, and I couldn’t live with the reminder. I begged them to take it off.” He looked up at her. “That’s it. I didn’t need to lose the leg. I got rid of it out of pure guilt.”

  Monica’s heart churned with conflicting reactions. She was moved that he would share such an intensely personal confession with her. There was something broken in Scott, something deep inside. She’d sensed it from the day they met. Maybe that was part of what drew her to him.

  At the same time, she felt placated—and it pissed her off. He was telling her she needed to stop feeling guilty and “move on.”

  Move on? Monica? Whose mantra was Never back down?

  “I get what you’re saying,” she said gently, “and don’t think I don’t appreciate what you just told me. But this is different. The firefight that took your friends was completely beyond your control.”

  Scott sighed.

  “No, listen,” she said. “I knew Kris was in trouble. I knew something was wrong. I should have forced her to talk to me. I can’t be positive that would have changed anything, but I sure as hell can’t be positiv
e it wouldn’t.”

  Scott pushed his plate to the side and set his elbows on the table. “Hey. This was not your fault.” She started to argue but he cut her off. “No, seriously, I mean, factually not your fault.”

  She looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “You just have to trust me on this. You need to let this go.”

  Her face hardened. “Let this go?”

  Scott sighed again. “Shit. Okay, listen.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “The thing with Kris? It may not have been suicide.”

  “Like what, maybe she tripped and fell? Jesus, Scott!” Monica grabbed her tray and got to her feet.

  “No, wait. Wait.” He put out a hand to stop her. “Christ.” He looked around, muttered “Shit” once more, then leaned in close. “Listen, this stays between us. I mean, no-shit classified, heads-will-roll-level stays between us. Okay?”

  Monica sat back down. “What are you talking about?”

  “Okay?”

  She nodded. “Okay. No-shit classified.”

  He leaned closer and whispered. “There’s some thinking in play that it may have been a homicide.”

  Monica’s face went blank. In an instant she was back in her stateroom lying on her rack, staring at the overhead in the semidarkness, Kris’s voice floating up from the lower bunk.

  Do you feel…safe here?

  “Who thinks that?” She spat the words without looking at him. “Based on what?”

  Scott leaned back and ran both hands over his face.

  Monica glanced around the wardroom—and happened to catch a glimpse of her CO striding in with a tray and taking a seat up front near the door. He hadn’t noticed them. She quickly averted her eyes, staring at the wall, the floor, anywhere but in his direction.

  Her mind spinning.

  Papa Doc?

  Papa Doc?

  Oh, Jesus.

  “It’s a working hypothesis, all right?” Scott still talking. “That’s all I can say. Which I never said, okay?”

  Monica didn’t hear him. She was back in that passageway outside Kris’s ready room, watching the two of them face off. You know you’re supposed to fly those things, right? Not play hopscotch with them.

  And what had Monica herself said about that confrontation? That he pushed her too hard. Just like he pushed everyone too hard.

  He pushed her.

  He pushed her.

  “Monica?”

  She saw exactly how the scene would have gone down. Kris goes out to the catwalk to be alone. Papa Doc follows her out. They exchange words. She tells him she’s going to report him for assaulting her. He knows the inquiry will dig up the old Academy rumor. The past will come spilling out. His career is over…he’ll do prison time. He loses his cool. One aggressive shove—

  “Monica?”

  “Mmm?”

  Scott was watching her, wary. “What are you thinking?”

  She finally looked up and met his eyes.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all.”

  57

  They were too far away to hear a word, but Finn didn’t need audio. He saw her face go rigid. The JAG officer—the captain’s own Supercop—had just dropped something major on her. Something highly confidential, judging from his don’t repeat this posture. And judging from her reaction, something heavy.

  He also caught the black look she darted over at Movie Star when he walked in. But she’d controlled herself. Covered her reaction. She might be in love with Supercop, but she didn’t exactly trust him. And she was quietly seething with rage at Movie Star. Finn could feel the heat from over here.

  If looks could kill.

  Finn quietly deposited his breakfast tray and slipped to the exit. As he stepped out of the wardroom a voice called from down the passageway.

  “Chief Finn!” He looked around. Stickman, the SAR swimmer. “Hey, Chief, I got your stuff.”

  The electronic components he’d asked for.

  “Outstanding,” said Finn.

  “If you can swing by avionics in an hour or so, I’ll have it bagged up for you.”

  Finn gave a nod. “Be there in an hour.”

  Up a few ladders to the gallery deck, through a passageway, and over to his broom closet. Closed the door. Lay on his rack, hands folded behind his head.

  Thought his situation through again.

  He’d spent the night thinking about it.

  Somewhere out there was an incident file on Mukalla. He was in that file. He needed to see it. Needed to know what they were saying about him.

  But even if he did work out a way to get through to SOCOM, or WARCOM, or Naval Intelligence, or whomever, they wouldn’t talk to him. “Smitty” had made that clear. He was radioactive. A leper.

  He needed to find someone else to do it for him.

  Master Chief Jackson?

  If there was anyone outside the captain’s immediate sphere who could get his hands on that incident file, it would most likely be the CMC. And a telling detail about Jackson: in their interview, he had never asked Finn anything about that hypo cap he’d handed him. Never even mentioned it.

  Which was interesting.

  Maybe he, like West Texas the helo pilot, didn’t entirely trust Supercop. Which, if so, made Finn more inclined to trust Jackson, not less. Finn wouldn’t have trusted Supercop, either. Too much hostility.

  And here was the clincher: Finn had something Jackson needed. Jackson had said so himself.

  A sniper is first and foremost an intelligence asset.

  Good. Jackson it was.

  He would set it in motion the next morning at chow.

  Meanwhile, he had a second problem to solve. Which called for help on yet another front.

  He needed an expert opinion.

  58

  “How can I help?” Lew Stevens pulled up an empty chair to face his own.

  Finn closed the door to the psychologist’s office and took the offered seat.

  “I have this friend,” he said.

  Stevens sat back. “Tell me about your friend’s issue.”

  Finn told him. A ringing in the ears, numbness of fingers. Disproportionate response to a trivial event. An unexplained gap in memory.

  “My friend is wondering if there could be some organic issue,” he said. “And how one would tell.”

  “Organic, like a brain tumor?”

  “Or MS. ALS. Parkinson’s. Whatever.”

  “Has your friend had other unexplained memory lapses?”

  Finn hesitated. “Once or twice. At least. Probably more like five, six times. Nothing dramatic, just brief time spans with no recall.”

  “Like the tape was erased,” suggested Stevens.

  “More like a lightbulb that’s not fully screwed in. So it occasionally flickers or blinks out for no evident reason. Like an incipient short in the wiring.”

  “Good description. Your friend is observant.” Stevens thought for a moment. “You asked about organic causation. That’s possible. MS, ALS, they’re basically shorts in the wiring. But it could just as easily be psychological.”

  Finn frowned. “The numb fingers?”

  “Psychologically based physical symptoms can follow symbolic rather than anatomical pathways. Someone who can’t bear to see something that evokes a particular trauma, say, may go ‘blind.’ And it’s real, they truly cannot see. Yet if you ask them to walk over to a window and put a chair in the way, they’ll walk around the chair.”

  Finn thought about that, then nodded. “Okay.”

  “Let’s try something. Mind if I run a quick mental status exam, ask a few standard questions?”

  “My friend isn’t here.”

  “You can answer for him.”

  Finn considered that, then nodded again. “Go.”
>
  “Does your friend feel like the room is spinning, or that he is spinning?”

  “No.”

  “Any double vision?”

  “No.”

  “Atypical clumsiness, reeling, falling over, like that?”

  Finn thought about falling from the ladder in the flare magazine. But that wasn’t lack of coordination. His fingers just stopped working.

  “No.”

  “Can your friend tell me what day, month, and year it is?”

  He did.

  “Count backward from one hundred, counting by sevens?”

  Finn did so, stepping back through 93, 86, 59, 52, and 45 before the psychologist stopped him.

  “Okay,” said Stevens. “Question: If I said, ‘A rolling stone gathers no moss,’ and asked for an interpretation, what would your friend say?”

  “He’d probably say it means people who are always on the move never form healthy attachments.”

  Stevens nodded.

  “Proving?”

  “Not proof. It’s a pretty imprecise test. But someone with an organic brain dysfunction might tend to interpret the proverb in a more concrete way. People who move around a lot don’t collect a lot of stuff, maybe. Like college students. Whereas someone with a serious psychiatric disorder, like schizophrenia or psychosis, might interpret it more literally: the stone’s moving too fast for moss to attach to it.”

  Finn thought about that, then nodded once more. “Which leaves us where?”

  “We can’t rule out an organic causation without real testing. Nor the possibility that your friend has a genuine thought disorder, such as schizophrenia.”

  “Or psychosis.”

  “Or psychosis. But if I had to take a running jump at it, I’d say you’re looking at an episodic anxiety associated with some sort of lacunar amnesia.”

  “Lacunar.”

  “Memory lapse over a discrete interval. A gap. Psychologists call them ‘lacunae.’ ”