The Ericksen Connection

by Barry Becker

  Pulaski threw the first punch at his head and missed, and in less than a tenth of a second, Ericksen delivered a swift, powerful kick, buckling Pulaski’s knee. Pulaski momentarily lost his balance when Ericksen’s right-hand punch landed flush on his temple, knocking him to the ground. The former All-American college wrestler took Pulaski down with a burst of speed, pummeled him with vicious shots to his head and face, smashing his nose, cutting his right eye, and splitting his lip open. Blood flowed freely, covering his entire face. Ericksen continued pounding his face, and then finally stopped. He stood up and looked down at Pulaski. “Go to hell, you lying bastard!” Pulaski groaned in pain as Ericksen turned and walked toward the mess hall.

  Several hours later, he entered the field hospital searching for Templeton. An Army doctor and a nurse approached him. “What can we do for you, lieutenant?”

  “I heard Major Templeton is scheduled to be on the afternoon

  flight to Ramstein Air Base, and I would like to see him.” Both of them looked at the lieutenant and thought the major could use some cheering up.

  “His left leg below the knee was amputated yesterday. He’s still groggy. Five minutes, okay?” the doctor said. He nodded, followed her into a partitioned section of the tent, and looked at Templeton’s bandaged shoulder.

  “Hi, Jeb.”

  Templeton pointed to his leg under the sheets. “Mark, they ampu- tated my leg below my knee. There goes my fucking military career.” He knew any words he expressed would not change his friend’s mental condition, but he made up his mind to try. “Jeb, I’m proud to have served under your command.”

  The West Point grad nodded. “Thanks for pulling my ass to safety.”

  “Bashir and I were only doing our duty.” He didn’t want to mention anything regarding Sadozai. “Let’s hope for a speedy recovery.”

  “I’ll be at Landstuhl for a week, and then I’ll be off to Walter Reed for rehab.” “Let’s stay in touch,” said Ericksen.

  He went back to his tent and reached into his footlocker. He retrieved the photo of Sadozai’s wife and children, stared at the picture, and shook his head. He thought how morally wrong it was to kill another human being in cold blood, even under orders. He closed his eyes. The image of Sadozai appeared in his mind, “I’m not a Talib. Please, I beg you.” The memory of killing an innocent man sent chills down his spine. He placed his face in his hands and whispered, “God, please forgive me.”

  He retrieved a large picture of his wife from his foot locker. Why her and not me? Reflecting again on the last words she spoke to him a week before she was killed in June 2001: I’m proud of you for protecting our country, but I want you back home in one piece. I love you. She was four months’ pregnant, and the ultrasound indicated they were going to have a girl. He promised her that when he reached his tenth Navy anniversary in December 2002, he would resign his naval commis- sion and find a new career in civilian life. They both agreed being

  away on long deployments wasn’t good for marriage. That memory was freshly etched in his mind like it had happened yesterday.

  After her death, the glue that held him together emotionally, physically and spiritually was a renewed dedication to SEAL Team- Six. In August of 2001, he made up his mind to make a lifetime career commitment to the Navy.

  He couldn’t get Dawkins out of his mind. He knew if he demanded a military hearing, Pulaski would serve as a prosecution witness against him in a court-martial. Dawkins might also bring in Delgado as a witness to testify. The likely outcome would be a first- degree murder conviction and a lengthy prison sentence at Fort Leav- enworth. Besides the conviction, the dishonorable discharge would devastate him and his family. Right then and there, Ericksen made a decision on the only course of action available to him.

  5

  n May 9, 2002, Ericksen arrived at his condo in Virginia Beach. He shaved off his beard and mustache and drove his Silverado pickup truck down Virginia Beach Blvd for

  his appointment at Ship Ahoy Hair Salon. The hair stylist led him to chair number one. The middle-aged woman said with a strong Southern accent, “Wow! You sure need a haircut honey. What would you like?”

  He looked in the mirror. “I need a trim, Ma’am.”

  “Okay honey,” she said with a smile. Her name was Sallie Mae.

  She stared into his blue eyes and turned to another hair stylist. “Doesn’t this young man look a lot like the New England Patriots’

  quarterback Tom Brady?

  The woman replied, “I’ll be darned! He certainly does.”

  “Has anyone ever mentioned you look like Tom Brady?” Sallie Mae asked.

  “Some of my Navy buddies have mentioned it a few times, but personally, I think I look more like myself, Ma’am.”

  She smiled and asked, “Would you like a shampoo too?” “Yes, Ma’am.”

  The next day he left the US Naval Special Warfare Development

  Group’s building at Dam Creek, Virginia, dressed in his white summer service uniform, his military separation papers in hand. He had officially resigned his commission from the US Navy. When he entered his master bedroom, he glanced at the top of his dresser at their framed wedding photograph stood. They were married in May 2000, at a church in Charlottesville, Virginia. His wife had brown shoulder-length hair and sparkling brown eyes. She looked stunning in an elegant bridal gown. He wore his full Navy white dress uniform, his Navy SEAL Trident breast insignia over his service badges and below, the Naval Parachutist insignia.

  For a few seconds, he rubbed his eyes and lowered his head. She had been a certified maternity nurse at a Virginia Beach Hospi- tal. She loved her job. They both were looking forward to the arrival of their baby girl when tragedy struck and robbed their future. On June 24, 2001, her car got hit head-on by a drunken driver on the road from Richmond to Virginia Beach. She died instantly.

  He whispered to the photograph, “My God, I loved you very much.” He didn’t have time to bereave during his deployment time, and each time he entered the condo he felt a deep sadness and loneliness.

  The next two weeks were spent fixing up his two-bedroom-two- bath condominium and selecting a realtor to sell the unit. He and his wife had purchased the oceanfront condo on Atlantic Avenue in November 2000, for close to $400,000. Between his wife’s death in June 2001, and his current deployment from the end of December 2001, till now, his clothing, furniture, and personal effects had remained in the condo. He gave her clothing away to a charity, except two dress outfits and a pair of her high-heel shoes.

  The handsome ex-Seal wore a designer blue sports shirt, khaki tan slacks, and shiny, Sperry Top-Sider loafers. He could easily pass for a yachtsman. He sat down by the computer and printed out a letter thanking the Admiral for his efforts in getting him accepted at The Naval Postgraduate School, and explained his decision to enter civilian life. He couldn’t risk telling him the truth as long as Dawkins and Pulaski were willing to seek a hearing and ultimately a court-

  martial against him. He dropped off the letter at the post office an hour later.

  A few days later, he got into his pickup truck and headed to Char- lottesville, to the Monticello Memorial Garden Cemetery. He glanced at all the graves in her section and finally approached her gravesite. Looking down at the inscription on her headstone, he read: Karen Graham Ericksen, December 10, 1974 – June 24, 2001. His in-laws lived in Charlottesville and maintained the gravesite on a regular basis. Ericksen held a bouquet of red roses, knelt down on the grass, placed the flowers on the right side of the headstone, and closed his eyes.

  He thought about Karen, remembering one summertime when they went backpacking in the North Cascades of Washington State. They had laughed and enjoyed each other’s company on that special vacation, smelled the food they cooked over a campfire stove, drank fine wine, and held hands while they hiked along paths in the forest and mountains. Those memories captured love, the serenity, being part of nature, and sharing the natural beauty of the old growth trees, plant
s, and flowers that created a glowing, calm within their hearts.

  Tears rolled down his cheeks as he continued thinking about her kindness, her sense of humor, and holding her in his arms. He removed a picture of her from his wallet and glanced at her kind and beautiful face. In one moment Karen was full of life, and in a split second, she left his world forever. Now he confronted life without her. The numb feeling and emptiness compounded his other problems.

  He remembered a profound anonymous quote etched on a tomb- stone in Ireland that appealed to him:

  Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, Love leaves a memory no one can steal.

  He stared down at the headstone, closed his eyes for a few seconds, then turned and walked away.

  He contacted a moving company to pick up the furniture and personal belongings and place them in storage until he decided where his next move would be in the DC area. While in Virginia Beach, he didn’t want to meet any of his old SEAL buddies. His night- mares and flashbacks had begun taking a toll on him, and his only thoughts centered on going back home to visit his family. He jumped

  into his Chevy Silverado and left town. He figured it would take several days before he finally reached his parents’ home in Wash- ington State.

  He gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Heading toward home at last.” Dating was the furthest thing from his mind. It was like being submerged in ice, frozen without feelings.

  He didn’t have any desire to discuss his PTSD or his nightmares. He hoped for the day to come when he could manage them, but right now all that mattered was the love and warmth of being with family.

  Six days later, at 7 pm, he pulled up the driveway to his parents’ Tudor-style home on SE 61st street in an upper-middle class neigh- borhood on Mercer Island, Washington. Ericksen and his sister Mia had immigrated to the United States from Denmark in 1981 with their parents. His father accepted a position with a Danish shipping company in Seattle. In the privacy of their home, the family spoke Danish.

  His mother enjoyed being a homemaker. Over the years she had taken him to Boy Scout meetings, judo, soccer, football and swim- ming practice as well as taking his sister Mia to soccer, piano and ballet lessons. Both he and Mia were well-behaved children.

  He made the varsity football, wrestling, and swim teams at Mercer Island High School and graduated in the top one percent of his class. He received All-State honors in football and wrestling. When he received a full scholarship for wrestling at Oregon State University, he and his family celebrated at the Space Needle Restau- rant in Seattle.

  When he walked up to the door carrying his luggage, his parents’ eight-year-old German shepherd dog Bjorn started barking. When his father opened the door, Bjorn jumped up on him, and he immedi- ately dropped his luggage and gave the dog a hug. He walked into the living room and embraced his parents. Over the next several minutes they shared a teary-eyed reunion and updated each other on the latest news.

  On the mantel above the fireplace in the living room were several family pictures, including him catching a football in the end zone

  against their biggest rival, Bellevue High School, and one of him with Karen on their wedding day.

  “We only hope one day you’ll find the right woman again and start a family,” his mother said in Danish, as she smiled and looked right into her son’s eyes. “Maybe one day, Mor,” said Ericksen. By the time he left for college he had begun answering them in English, with only one exception, he still called his Mom by the Danish word Mor, and his Dad, Far.

  He heard several knocks on the door and advanced towards it, and opened it. He smiled and overjoyed at the sight of his sister Mia, her husband, and their two boys, seven and nine. They entered the house and immediately hugged each other. Mia looked at her younger brother. “I hope you’re going to stay awhile,” said Mia in English.

  “I’m planning to stay a few weeks and then head back to DC to search for a job.” She looked directly into his eyes and said, “We missed you all those years and more than ever, we need you back home.” She gently placed her right hand on his shoulder, as tears began flowing from her eyes, “Why not submit your resume to one of those tech companies like Microsoft or Amazon?”

  “Mia, I’m not interested in being a computer programmer or soft- ware engineer.” He knew his parents, sister, and her family was precious to him, but he recognized his JSOC and SEAL Team-Six background would generate more career opportunities as a defense contractor. His father walked toward him and spoke in Danish as he escorted him into the dining room, “You’re home now, and that’s what counts.”

  6

  awkins hunkered down on the couch in his hotel room in Geneva, Switzerland, on June 5, 2002, reading a novel enti- tled Absolute Power by David Baldacci. He heard four

  knocks on the door and walked up to the peephole. He viewed a slim, tall man in his mid-thirties, with light brown hair, wearing a business suit.

  “The code.”

  “Andromeda,” the man said.

  He turned the knob and opened the door. The man carried a small suitcase with a combination lock on it and handed it to Dawkins. “Timberwolf gave it to me yesterday at Ramstein Air Force Base. He told me it’s a present from Shogun.” The man removed a large envelope from his portfolio. “This is for you too.”

  “Thanks, Randy,” he said, as he shook the hand of a former British SAS officer who had served as a junior military attaché for Great Britain in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, from 1998 to 2000. He had resigned his commission in 2000 and worked as a freelancer.

  Randy didn’t know the contents of the briefcase or the letter in the envelope. He just followed orders, and like some of his duties, he didn’t have a need to know. Dawkins had flown to Nassau, the

  Bahamas, to set up a private numbered account for his company, The Conestoga Fund. This procedure provided him with another shield of security in protecting his identity at the Swiss bank he intended to use in opening up a private numbered account.

  The room overlooked Lake Leman and offered a panoramic view of the majestic mountains. The clear blue skies with daytime highs in the upper seventies created a perfect day for the average tourist strolling along the lake’s promenade. However, Dawkins focused more on the contents of the small suitcase. Shogun was the code name for the leader of their group. His secure smartphone rang and he picked it up. “Iron Fist.”

  “Shogun,” the booming voice said. “The combination number is 0502. Two months ago I deposited four million dollars into Banque Matthias Reiter. From this point on you’ll be our sole contact for depositing funds in our Swiss and Liechtenstein banks. I’ve made an appointment for you to meet Jurgen Reiter at 1400 hours today. The Swiss respect punctuality, so don’t be late.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Banque Matthias Reiter SA was located on the Rue du Rhône in Geneva’s business section. The building had five floors of office space, and global financial investors considered the Bank one of the leading small private banks in Switzerland. Founded in 1907 by Jurgen’s great- grandfather Matthias Reiter, the bank had started in Geneva and added branches in Lugano, Lucerne, Zurich, and Bern. By 1990, the bank established offices in Vaduz, Sao Paolo, Frankfurt, London, Paris, Tokyo, Singapore, Grand Caymans, and Dubai. Their total assets reported in 2000 exceeded thirty billion dollars, and they had over 1,000 employees.

  Dawkins faced Jurgen Reiter, an athletic-looking man in his mid- forties, who served as executive vice-president of wealth management at the bank. Two older brothers held the top positions, CEO, and COO, respectively.

  The conference room conveyed exquisite paintings: pictures of

  30BARRY L. BECKER

  racing cars, seascapes, abstract art, Zermatt and Jungfrau Mountains, and a portrait of the founding father of the bank. Reiter sat at the head of the table with Dawkins to his left. Behind Reiter hung a beautiful stained-glass painting on the wall. It was about ten-feet-in- height by seven-feet-wide and featured a scene of Bellagio, Italy.

  Dawk
ins opened up his suitcase; counted one-million-two- hundred-thousand dollars in $10,000 packets of shrink-wrapped one hundred dollar bills. After a few minutes of counting the money, Reiter issued him a form to sign and gave him a card with only the private number of the account on it.

  “Please read this carefully, Mr. Dawkins, because this form explains our bank operations and instructions on how to make deposits, wire-transfers-of-funds, and withdrawals, either in person, by phone, or online. Please excuse me; I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Three minutes later, Reiter re-entered the conference room and sat down. Dawkins looked at the card and read the numbers BMR7073385JR/1.

  “Please memorize your company’s private bank number. BMR stands for the name of our bank. After the seven numbers, you’ll notice my initials JR and 1 represents our headquarters location where you opened your account. I will be your primary contact. If you call me, you’re to ask for my employee number and my grand- mother’s maiden name. My number is 0145, and the name is Keller. I will respond by asking you for your account number, your date of birth, passcode and an access code. We will provide a new access code to you every three months. Your new access code will be Jungfrau.”

  After ten minutes of further discussions regarding private numbered accounts, filling out the bank terms, bank intranet access, personal and corporate information, he signed the agreement and gave it back to Reiter.

  “Excellent. We have your date of birth and your passcode. I find it interesting you would choose Terminator for your passcode,” said Reiter, cupping his chin with his hand.

  “It has a ring of finality, don’t you agree?”