PMadriani 12.5 - The Second Man

by Steve Martini

  “I think I recognize one of them,” says Herman.

  Before I can turn to look, he walks toward one of the tables. “Hey, how you doin’?” Herman is smiling, big and broad. It’s hard to miss a man who is built like a mountain, black, bald, shiny dome and all.

  Three young guys are sitting at the table, none of them smiling. You get the sense there is something clannish in the gathering.

  “You remember me? Met you the other day. I was with Cam Akers.”

  “Oh, yeah! Yeah, I remember. Your name’s, ahh . . .”

  “Herman.”

  “That’s right. How you doin’? Why don’t you pull up a chair and join us?” The guy talking is eyeing me as I draw up behind Herman. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Name’s Paul,” I tell him.

  “How you doin’?” Still seated, he holds out a hand.

  I shake it. He has a grip that feels like a vise. He nearly crushes my knuckles before he gives the hand back to me.

  “Actually, we’re lookin’ for Cam,” says Herman. “You haven’t seen him, have you?”

  The guy shakes his head, looks at his companions. Now there’s a chorus of shaking heads. “No, haven’t seen him for several days now.”

  One of the other guys says: “He comes and goes. Leaves town every so often. May not see him for a week or more. Since he rotated out, he’s become sort of a ghost, if you know what I mean.”

  “Not exactly,” I tell him.

  “No place to belong,” he says. “Sort of floats, here, there. Feel sorry for him. Don’t tell him I said that.”

  “Of course not,” I say.

  “He’s a good man. Good SEAL. Lot of service,” he says. “It’s a tough situation.”

  “Do you know him well?” I ask.

  “I know him.”

  “He came to my office, said he needed a lawyer. I’d like to talk to him again if I could.” I figure if I keep them talking, maybe I’ll learn where I can find him.

  The three of them look at each other. The one Herman knows finally looks up at me and says: “Why would he need a lawyer?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” I tell him. “But I would like to talk to him.”

  “He’s not talkin’ that second-man shit again, is he?”

  “What shit is that?” says Herman.

  “That he was the second man up the stairs at Abbottabad. That he’s the one who actually shot bin Laden.” The guy looks at me as he says it.

  “No. Nothing like that,” I say.

  “Good,” he says. “You just want to be careful. You go talkin’ that shit, you get yourself killed.”

  “How’s that?” I ask.

  “Crazies out there. Lone wolves or worse. You start talking like that, one of them might come lookin’ for you. Word is Akers may have blabbed to the media that he was the one who pulled the trigger. I told him that was dangerous. Shouldn’t do it.”

  I am thinking this is how Akers got himself in trouble with the brass.

  “Was he the second man?” I ask.

  “Says he was. But who knows? I wasn’t there. Another guy says he’s actually the one. He’s been all over the airwaves with it. Conventional wisdom, for what it’s worth, says he’s the shooter, not Akers. But then, this man’s aware of the other claims.”

  “Other claims?”

  “By Akers and one or two others.” The guy shrugs. “Who knows what really went down? The shooter didn’t seem to take offense from what I heard. Passed it all off as the fog of war. People see different things, believe what they want to believe. You ask me,” he says, “I’d want to remain the unknown sailor.”

  I laugh. “That’s great.” I stand there feeling as if I’ve been punched in the stomach, staring out into the darkness beyond the lighted patio. Cam Akers may have made himself a prized target for some crazed lunatic out there, and for all I know, at this moment he might be riding in a car with Joselyn sitting right next to him.

  Chapter 8

  “TELL ME,” SAID Joselyn. “No beating around the bush. No happy-horseshit military hype. What was it really like at Abbottabad?” They were back in the car, early morning. They spent the night in a seedy little motel at a wide spot in the road called Buttonwillow.

  “Like any other mission,” said Akers.

  “Really?”

  “Only more so if you know what I mean.”

  “No. Tell me?”

  “We knew it was important the minute they called us in. It was like your dad calling you in to tell you he has a present for you, busting out with smiles, big fucking box shaped like a bicycle in the middle of the floor, but he won’t tell you what’s in it. Minute we saw the mock-up in North Carolina of the actual compound, we knew. Why take all the time to build this mock-up unless the man inside is pretty damn important. And that’s a short list. Any one of us would have given odds at Vegas it was UBL. Of course, we didn’t know for sure until later in Afghanistan.”

  “But what was it really like?” said Joselyn.

  “It was more intense. We knew the stakes were high. They were taking a chance flying us in without approval from the Pakistan government. We all knew that ISI, Pakistani Intelligence, was riddled with leaks. If they found out about the raid, the compound would be empty by the time we got there. We were willing to take the risk. I was! I think we all were. Anybody wanted out, there were a hundred other SEALs waiting to take his place. They would have jumped at the chance to go. How many operations do you get like this in a lifetime? One, maybe? It’s like being on the beach at D-Day. You might get killed, but you don’t want to miss the party. It’s what you do. It’s why you tolerate all the training, take all the pain. Once the action starts, you pretty much go on autopilot. You do your job. It’s over so fast, sometimes you have trouble remembering parts of it. That’s when it goes good. When everything works out right. You hope you don’t get killed, or worse, screw up and kill somebody else. The difficult parts are before and after. Waiting to go in can be nerve-racking. Lot of things going through your head. The only thing worse is thinking about it afterwards.”

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  “When things don’t go well,” said Akers. “You can’t go back and change them.”

  “Because it’s over,” said Joselyn.

  “It’s never over.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about it,” she said.

  “You can’t understand unless you’ve been there,” said Akers. “You see your friends go down. People you’ve been with for years. You know their families, their wives. Your kids play with their kids. You’re like brothers, then suddenly they’re gone. Sometimes you ask yourself ‘did I do something wrong’? You always try to tell yourself no. But you’re never sure. And there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re helpless. Do you know what it is to be helpless?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

  “All the fucking training in the world is useless. But the worst part—the worst times are when you’re free. When you’ve got nothing to do. That’s when the devil comes visiting,” said Akers.

  “You mean when you’re off duty?”

  “No. I mean when you’re done. When they’ve used you up, turned you out,” said Akers. “That’s when you sit around thinking. Because there is nothing else to do. As long as you have another mission, you’re fine. You’re busy. Your mind is focused on trying to survive, trying to keep your friends alive. It’s when they take that away from you, that’s when you descend into hell. It’s the random nature of all of it that drives you crazy. You wonder why them and not you? Why did they have to die? Why do I deserve to live?”

  “You can’t think that way,” said Joselyn.

  “Oh, yes, you can.”

  “Is that why you got out? Left the Navy?”

  “I don’t know. Some of the guys used to do the Clint Eastwood thing. Remember the movie, the Western, the line before he blows the guy’s head off . . . ‘deserve’s got nothing to do with it.’ But he was wrong,
” said Akers. “Deserve has everything to do with it. A foot this way, a yard that way with a bullet or a hot piece of shrapnel makes all the difference in the world.”

  “You’re not God,” said Joselyn. “You can’t change fate or the fact that a bullet and another man shared the same space at the same time. That’s physics.”

  “Is that what it is?”

  Joselyn looked over at him. He was gripping the steering wheel with both hands, animated, muscled arms flexed as if he might rip the steering column from the firewall of the car by its roots. A rivulet of a tear ran down his cheek from under the dark glasses. She couldn’t see his eyes.

  “I didn’t mean to raise subjects that are painful,” said Joselyn.

  “From my experience, there’s not a whole lot in life that doesn’t come with some kind of pain.”

  “It’s been that bad?”

  “At times. But they tell me it’s good to talk about it.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “People. Friends. You know.”

  “Maybe we need to find something happier to talk about,” said Joselyn.

  “Agreed.”

  Akers took one hand off the wheel, settled back into the seat, and relaxed a little. He glanced into the rearview mirror, then goosed the accelerator until the speedometer reached seventy-five, where he set the cruise control.

  As the car settled in, open road and empty lanes, he said: “You know, I find it very easy to talk to you.”

  “I’m glad.”

  He reached over and put his hand on her thigh. “You’re a very nice lady.”

  She picked it up by one finger and handed it back to him. “And you’re married, and I’m in a relationship,” said Joselyn. “Let’s not forget that.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?” he smiled.

  Joselyn took out her sunglasses, saw they were smudged, and exhaled on the lenses. She looked about for something to wipe them with. Seeing nothing, she reached forward to open the glove box to see if there was some Kleenex. Instead, what she saw inside was an Avis rental-car envelope with the contract sticking out of it. “You didn’t rent the car?”

  He looked over, saw the open glove box, and quickly reached across to slap it closed.

  “There was no need to spend the money on a rental.” Joselyn knew he was out of work and probably short of cash.

  “My car wasn’t up to the trip—pretty beat-up,” he told her.

  “We could have taken mine,” she said.

  “My party. I invited you. It’s all right. Don’t worry about it,” he told her.

  “At least let me pay for it,” said Joselyn.

  “NO!” The way that he said it, the tone in his voice made it clear this was not negotiable.

  “Then I’m buying lunch, and dinner,” she told him. “And gas. I have an expense account, and this is business. Remember? The foundation. You’re doing me a favor, so please let me help.”

  “You are,” he said. “You’re here. That’s a big help. I enjoy your company.”

  “And I yours. But that’s not the point. This is costing you money.”

  “I don’t mind. In fact, I’m enjoying it. Tonight we can save a little by sharing a suite,” he said.

  “I’ll be paying for my own room tonight, just like last night. I thought that was understood. That was the deal.”

  “Don’t get angry. It’ll give you a chance to cheat,” said Akers.

  “What do you mean, cheat?” Joselyn shot him a look to kill.

  “On your expense account.” He turned and smiled. “What did you think I meant?”

  She took a deep breath. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Sure. Whatever you want.”

  “Let’s talk about your wife. What’s she like? What’s her name? I don’t think you’ve told me.”

  The question dissolved the smile from his face.

  “Allyson.”

  “What’s she like? Tell me about her.”

  Akers didn’t respond. He just sat there, hand on the wheel, eyes forward.

  “And your children. You have two kids, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “Tell me about your family.”

  He nibbled a bit on his upper lip, put his other hand back on the wheel, and said: “Sore subject. Don’t really want to talk about it if you don’t mind.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Akers reached over, turned on the radio, and plugged his cell phone into the receiver on the console. He pushed a few buttons until a sound track came on. It was edgy music, loud enough that the vibration of the base reached inside Joselyn’s rib cage and rattled her.

  Chapter 9

  “TOLD ME THEY had no choice but to let him go,” says Herman.

  “Did they say why?” I ask.

  “No.” Herman is talking about the Orange County Sheriff’s Office. He called a contact, someone he knows inside the department and checked Akers’s story out regarding his job, the reason he was fired.

  We talk as I drive. Herman and I are headed to Akers’s house, trying to find his wife. Maybe she knows where he is.

  “My guy couldn’t say much. Being it’s a personnel matter. If he says too much, or the wrong thing, he could lose his job. But he did confirm that the FBI had contacted them about Akers. Wouldn’t say way, not in so many words, but it’s pretty clear,” says Herman.

  “What’s that?”

  “Cam’s been working his mouth,” he says. “What the guys at ‘McP’s’ told us last night, that Akers claimed to be the shooter, second man up the stairs. Think about it. The FBI comes knocking, making inquiries. If Akers made himself a target for some Muslim-warrior wannabe, the sheriff’s gotta have serious concerns about the danger this poses to other personnel. Say nothing of the public. Then think of the liability if he knows about it, and the department gets sued cuz somebody got killed or seriously hurt.”

  None of this makes me any more comfortable with the thought that Joselyn, at this moment, may be with him. “So now you’re thinking your buddy is a loose cannon?”

  “Sorry I brought him to your office. What can I say?”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “Let’s assume for the moment she’s not with him,” says Herman. “Where else would she go? Any thoughts?”

  I shake my head. I was on the phone late last night and early this morning calling her relatives, all the ones I know, her sister, her mother, and a cousin who lives up in L.A. I didn’t want to worry them, so I told them she left town on the spur of the moment without telling me where she was going, and I need to reach her. I told them her phone must be on the blink. They hadn’t seen or heard from her. The same with her friends. It’s not like her. She would call somebody unless there was a reason. And the only reason I can think of is that she’s with Akers and doesn’t want to discuss it with anyone.

  “You’re working yourself into a hole on this,” says Herman.

  “I don’t know what else to do.”

  Chapter 10

  AKERS FINALLY TURNED off the music in the car and asked Joselyn: “How’d you sleep?”

  “You mean except for the trucks rolling through town all night and the occasional bedbug chewing on my leg?”

  Buttonwillow sported an Olympic-class truck stop, two small motels, and an oasis of gas stations. Miss it, and you might not get where you’re going. Highway Five through the Central Valley was an octane desert and had been since its completion in the late 1970s. There were long stretches between gas stations and even fewer places to eat.

  “I warned you. You should have slept with me. I’d have protected you from the bugs, and my bite’s not that bad.”

  Joselyn didn’t ask him how he slept because she knew. Twice during the night, he woke her up shouting in his sleep from the next room. The place had thin walls, but even if it had been solid concrete, she would have heard him. Then in the morning, on the way to the car, he turned back. He forgot something. He went back inside his ro
om. Through the open door, Joselyn saw him lift the pillow off his bed and grab an unsheathed knife, a heavy seven-inch blade, what the military called a Ka-Bar. He slipped it into his backpack. She wondered if he was carrying a gun.

  “How about tonight maybe we share a room?” he said.

  “You don’t quit, do you?”

  “No, and you want to know the truth? I don’t think you want me to.” He looked over at her and gave her a full dental set, pearly whites. He hadn’t shaved. The forest of even dark stubble gave his face a more rugged appearance if that was possible. “Quit, that is.”

  “If it makes you happy, you go on thinking that,” said Joselyn.

  “I will.”

  “If anybody ever accuses you of lacking self-esteem, you just send them to me. I’ll set them straight,” she told him.

  “Thank you.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment,” she said. “Does the ego come with the turf?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean people who deal in death on a daily basis, dishing it out and risking it, sooner or later I suppose must develop a fairly strong God complex.”

  “So you think I look like Apollo?”

  She gave him a smirk. “Tell me, what does it feel like to kill someone?”

  “Do you have anyone specific in mind?”

  “Stop it!”

  “I mean, if you and Madriani had a fight, I can take care of him for you.” He was smiling.

  “Seriously, I’d just like to know. How do you deal with it?”

  “I knew this was coming.”

  “What?”

  “Analysis,” he said. “Are you a pro or is this amateur hour? If you’re a pro, I want to see your head-shrinking license.”

  “So you prefer not to talk about it,” said Joselyn.

  “As long as the right people get killed, I don’t have any problem with it.”

  “Some people get off on it,” said Joselyn.