Fredo's Dream: SEAL Brotherhood: Fredo

by Sharon Hamilton

  “That’s cool,” he said, wandering over to the stove and stealing a piece of bacon with his name on it. “What’re they watching?”

  “Something going on overseas. I guess they know guys in the fight.”

  Fredo saw pictures on the big screen, unmistakably Syria or Iraq. He knew their sister Team, 5, was over there and some of them had deployed to train local militia.

  “What’s on?” Fredo shouted to Coop and Zak.

  “Not sure, but looks like a botched rescue attempt,” said Zak.

  “And it could be propaganda. They’re getting really good at that,” added Coop.

  “Who was being rescued?”

  “One of our embassy staffers. Being held for ransom,” said Coop.

  All SEAL Teams had been briefed about newsfeeds deliberately given to the world press to distribute, showing American Special Forces blunders and mission scrubs. They’d all been warned that this was perhaps the best way to clip the wings of the Spec Ops effectiveness, to show the Americans as either a ruthless bunch of killers or merely incompetent stooges. It was a blatant effort to turn the US population against the Spec Ops community, and it came at a time when the SOF commands were being more effective than ever before.

  But of course they all knew the truth was never seen on American television.

  Coop pointed to the screen. “There. See that? That clip came from their attack in Mosul eighteen months ago. What kind of idiots do they think we are?”

  Pictures of children, injured or dead, covered the screen. The broadcast had numerous disclosures as to the graphic nature of the story.

  “Fuckin’ FBN. They’ll put anything up that makes us look like idiots,” said Zak.

  Fredo completely agreed. Bringing his coffee over to where Coop and Zak had landed, the three of them watched as a white-turbaned mullah came on screen. His name was written in Arabic. An interpreter spoke into the broadcast.

  ‘This message is addressed to the American people, who we recognize as good and decent. You have allowed your government to lie to you about their mission here in Iraq and in Syria, which used to be peaceful countries where Christians and other faiths worshiped in peace and freedom. Now you can see—’ The screen showed the body-lined streets of a bombed-out city impossible to identify. ‘Women and children are among the dead. Innocents paying the price for your aggression. We aim to even the score. Our children suffer. So let the children of the American people suffer.’

  The room was silent. Fredo hadn’t been able to make out the name of the robed leader. He’d heard threats like this from prisoners undergoing interrogation, but never broadcast on a US television station.

  “They’re upping the ante.” Coop muttered, crouching over his cup of tea as if huddled at a camp overseas, “It’s a very definite threat. We’ve been seeing this, haven’t we?”

  The two Teammates and Zak shared glances. The large showy winery attack definitely had the militants’ thumbprint on it. Fredo didn’t think the Center bombing was the same MO. There were probably hundreds more they never heard of.

  Fredo had a new mission: Get the Feds working on the Center bombing without delay. He’d also need Julio’s help in obtaining more information about the group or persons he thought was responsible. It didn’t matter who they were. They’d pay. Fredo would see to it they’d get them.

  He needed to do this to keep Julio and his family safe. He also needed to protect his own little growing family. Suddenly, the issues of paternity weren’t as important as they’d seemed before. Not when taking into account that the war he’d fought overseas was creeping closer and closer and could threaten everyone he loved at home.

  Chapter 9

  ‡

  THE WORK DAY was going fast. Zak and Coop worked on one of the destemming machines, which had jammed and been shut down. That left lugs of fresh-picked grapes stacking up in the shade of the processing shed. Fredo was driving the Kubota out to the fields to collect these lugs and then transport them back to be washed and prepared for the mashing.

  He delivered Zak’s message to the English-speaking crew foreman to give everyone an early lunch break since the process had been halted temporarily. Zak and Amy had employed a dozen workers on contract through the vineyard manager for the next four days or as long as the weather held. So far, they’d been lucky. But skies could be unpredictable in the early fall. Rain was always a possibility.

  Fredo had help loading up the lugs, then drove them back to the shed, noticing Coop had crawled on top of the machine, like he was working on a truck motor. The stainless steel hatch door had been raised, giving him access to the spiraling blades which were now idle.

  Fredo stacked the lugs near the stainless steel sink that housed the water sprayer. A short, rotund woman, wearing a straw cowboy hat tipped at an angle over a red bandana, hoisted one lug into the large sink and hosed them down with a commercial sprayer. She stacked four washed lugs near the crusher and then left.

  Amy exited the house, bringing several sandwiches, some apple slices and a handful of carrot sticks on a large platter, holding it up to Fredo.

  “Let me go wash,” said Fredo, who used the lavender soap scrub at the stainless steel washing tank.

  “Isn’t that dangerous, climbing up on the machine like that?” Amy asked when Fredo rejoined her.

  “Nah,” Fredo said, “Only if he sticks his fingers in there and the machine kicks on, or if he steps in it barefoot when the power’s on.” He took a bite out of his egg salad sandwich. “Wow. These are good.”

  Amy smiled and took the platter to her husband.

  “Not right now, Amy. We need to get this thing up and running.”

  “What’s the problem?” she asked, standing on tiptoes to see down into the machine. Fredo stood next to her, watching the two men work, while holding the sandwich in his left hand.

  Coop was balancing himself on his knees, using a wide plastic spatula to dig out some stubborn stems. Eventually, he put his hands down into the mashers, but before he got inside, he barked a command, “You sure it’s off? Blood and bone don’t do anything for the wine.”

  “Good point,” said Zak, who rolled aside the large stainless steel tub the mashed fruit was depositing in. “Okay, now good to go!” he shouted up to Coop.

  “I want to know the fucker’s off first. Would you double check?”

  Zak grinned. “I knew what you wanted, and yes, it’s off. Power’s off at the breaker for the whole barn, Coop. Not taking any chances.”

  “I thank you, and my fingers thank you!” Coop held up eight fingers and two thumbs, all covered in deep red grape juice.

  Coop leaned toward the innards of the machine, reached into the blades and retrieved a long thick grape stem that had wrapped itself around the blades.

  “Whoever put this batch in here must have been blind.” He held the dripping vein of green up in the air as if it was a foul-smelling alien of some kind.

  “I know who did it. That’s the second time today I’ll have warned him. Too many times. Excuse me.” Zak removed his work gloves and stuffed them in the back pocket of his blue overalls, leaving the area.

  Coop hopped off the destemmer, put a green bucket down on the floor, and flipped the breaker switch. Then he turned on the red button to start the blades, watching the mash exit the machine into the waste bucket until nothing was left.

  Then he moved the stainless steel mash tank back into place. He took fresh grapes from one of the washed lugs, and laid it into the V of the processing tray, allowing the spiral blades to roll over them, squeezing the fruit into one side and the green stems and seeds into another. A couple of leaves surfaced as he added more fruit and he quickly removed them. He followed the stream of purple liquid gold as it continued to fill the tank and nodded his approval.

  “Time for a sandwich,” he grinned as he listened to the purr of the machine and satisfied himself it was fully operational.

  Fredo chuckled. “I gotta hand it to you, Coop. I’ve ne
ver seen anyone who could fix things like you can.”

  The giant shrugged. “I grew up with tractors. They’re way more complicated than this stuff,” he said, nodding to the whirring stainless steel machine spewing purple liquid like an alien.

  ZAPPARELLI ARRIVED JUST after they’d finished their sandwiches. The sun was beginning to get hot and even the three-sided shed was beginning to feel humid. Two workers wheeled the filled tank toward new fermentation tanks stored in an adjacent building.

  “Smells divine,” Zapparelli sang.

  “Well, at least the equipment is working. Up to you guys to do something magic with it,” Coop said to Zak.

  “That’s what it’s about. A little alchemy, science, luck and magic!” His eyes flared behind the black-rimmed glasses he was so known for. Fredo could nearly see flames coming out his ears, he was so excited.

  Amy asked the vintner if he could step to the kitchen to review some contracts and he dutifully followed behind, waving, with a silly grin affixed to his face.

  Fredo knew the crew would have more grapes picked so he ambled over to the Kubota. “I’m headed up,” he said to Zak.

  The afternoon sun was beginning to cool as a stiff breeze floated over the tops of the vines. He watched the rounded backs of the strong vineyard workers, clipping clusters of fruit with sharp curved short-handled knives. Happy banter and light mariachi music floated overhead, a perfect backdrop to his day surrounded with lush green foliage. He understood their Spanish and commented back when one of the women told her girlfriend she liked the shape of Fredo’s ass.

  “I know Gustavo is your boyfriend. Should I tell him?” he answered in Spanish. The four women nearby tittered and placed aprons across their faces, hiding their embarrassment. One of them swatted the perpetrator with her hat.

  Fredo loaded up another cart of lugs, noting how silent the field had suddenly gotten, and drove them back to the wash.

  The next trip over, Zapparelli joined him on the front seat of the Kubota. The big man bounced, and Fredo nearly got him tossed when they hit a protruding capped water pipe on the left side sending the front seat about a foot into the air suddenly.

  Zapparelli hung onto the frame housing the canopy top with his stubby hands and fingers. “You’re a regular cowboy,” he said with his affable grin, the light reflecting off the glass in his huge horn-rimmed frames.

  Fredo thought about the little ATVs the Russians had littered all over Afghanistan, some pieced together creatively with duct tape and wire with modified scooter, outboard, or lawnmower motors. There was also the two-man American Jeeps made in Turkey that were used by their Special Forces. In those days he barreled through neighborhoods where almost everyone wanted to put a bullet in him, learning to avoid everything from dogs, children, goats and donkey carts to militia aiming at them during firefights.

  Going a little faster than he should with the world-famous director at his side giggling and shouting commands and observations while hanging on for dear life, Fredo ground the gears, pivoting to stay in control, and created a dust cloud worthy of any Greek god coming to earth. By the time they reached the row where the workers had brought the lugs, Zapparelli had begun to sing opera.

  “Seriously, Marco. You’re going to scare the natives,” he barked above the high-pitched squeal of the engine.

  “Let them enjoy a little culture.”

  “They got culture. Just look at all this? Who’s the dummy now? Get to work out here on the valley floor, nice warm day like today. This is heaven, man.”

  “That it is, and that’s exactly why they need opera!” Zapparelli launched into another refrain. Fredo appreciated how hard his new friend played as well as worked. Seemingly carefree, life on life’s terms was a good way to describe the flamboyant director.

  Fredo knew that in time he could come to accept Mia’s infidelity. He needed to hear her say that whatever happened it wouldn’t be repeated. He’d even agree if she told him it was a relationship that had gone on for some time, just as long as she told him it was over. That she was sorry. Then, with the pregnancy and even the fact that she was carrying another man’s baby, just as Marco accepted the fate of his paternity, Fredo would forgive Mia. Marco celebrated what was real, right in front of him, not what he didn’t have. He’d been honest and faced it, and then moved on. Zapparelli was more of a role model than Fredo had thought he ever could be.

  He still wondered if recollection of the afternoon the terrorists had nearly killed the director would continue to haunt Zapparelli.

  Of course it will.

  Fredo also knew the man was strong. Forged from warrior stock back over a hundred years in Italy, born of a fighting man—that Fredo could understand. The blood of a warrior in anyone’s veins made them a whole person. Not a perfect person, but a whole one, as if some guiding hand was protecting him and all others like him. That hand kept him alive and gave him the courage to face the demons and visions of pure evil that inserted themselves into his life. It wasn’t what happened to a man, it was what that man did with the evil that showed his metal.

  The world isn’t a warm bubble of happy days.

  But accepting near-death? Seeing others die while you lived? Those were special places in Hell, and only the strong received redemption from it. Those were the ones who could go on and keep fighting.

  Keep loving.

  Keep being human.

  Maybe, Fredo thought, Coop was right. The biggest act of love he could show Mia was to either accept what was there right in front of him, to love Mia and the child, no matter what, or to confront her and accept whatever truth she gave him back. And to trust that the woman he was sure loved him with her whole being, would never stop loving him.

  No matter what his sperm looked like.

  Chapter 10

  ‡

  COOP PUMMELED FREDO with questions about the terrorist attack on Zapparelli Winery and what information he’d gotten from the director. They’d just crossed the San Diego County line, heading home at last.

  Fredo recounted some of what Zapparelli told him.

  “Apparently, the group was traveling north and stopped in town. They found one of the posters for the children’s library event in the shooter’s car. That’s what drew them to the place.”

  “Sick bastards,” mumbled Coop.

  “They’ve been telling us. Looking for targets all over the US. It’s coming, Coop. You know it is.”

  “What, the zombie apocalypse?”

  “Don’t fuck with me. You know what I’m sayin’.”

  “Hold on there, yes, I was just making fun, and of course you had to take it personal. In case you didn’t know, zombies aren’t real.”

  “I’m serious, Coop. I know you are more concerned about it than you let on. You don’t have me fooled. Just wish there was some way we could get these guys.”

  It was one thing to have bad guys overseas, disrupting their own countries or exporting to nearby terrorist-friendly states. But in the US? The probability was increasing with every passing day.

  “So are the Feds on it at all? Marco say if they had any leads about a cell or some coordinated attack?”

  “I don’t think so. Not sure they’re giving him anything, Coop.”

  “He got a name, someone heading the investigation?”

  “Nada. I’m thinking Riverton is our best bet. Of course, I asked Zapparelli about the bombs, if there was any information on how they were constructed, etc. He didn’t have a clue, man. He’s been spending most of his time dealing with families of the victims.”

  Coop silently nodded. “It’s like what you said earlier, not sure the attack on the Center feels the same, man. If they’d wanted to inflict a lot of pain, they’d have done it in the middle of the day when all the kids were there.”

  Coop’s point was well taken.

  “A good idea to check it out, but don’t hold your breath, Fredo. Whoever it was, they don’t want it built, so when we get ready for the grand re-opening, that
’s when we need to worry again. Only this time, I think we’ll be ready for them.”

  “You got some super-surveillance contraptions buzzing around in your brain, Coop?”

  “No End of Days thing. I just want to catch them in the act, and then turn them over to the cops. I don’t want to do anything that would hurt the kids. But we’ll catch them eventually. Of that I’m sure.”

  THEY PULLED UP in front of the house. Fredo sucked in air like his life depended on it. He felt a paw squeeze his left shoulder.

  “Tell her, man. Make sure you take that burden off you. If it’s her story, she has to unburden herself. But you don’t take that on for her. You can’t save her from everything. And you’re tough, Fredo. You’re the toughest motherfucker I’ve ever seen on or off the battlefield.”

  Fredo didn’t know why, but he thought of something funny.

  “Until this thing about the baby, you know what was the toughest challenge I had?”

  “What?”

  “Getting my pants on with a stiffy. Damnedest thing, I’ve been fuckin’ hard ever since she touched me that first time on the cruise. That first time I knew she wanted me for me.”

  “See? Normally, I’d give you a ration of shit for that one. But that’s good. Focus on that.”

  Fredo glanced down at his lap and grinned as his boner came back to life.

  “Some men fuck better scared, so think about that and not what you might find out, either now or later. Doesn’t matter. She loves you. You know—hell, the whole platoon knows—she loves you. Whatever happened, I’m sure there was a good reason. And you know what I think about the testing. Just get yourself goddamned tested, asshole. You’re like those new recruits who cry when they get their first Wompa Shot.”

  “Okay, I’m ready.” Fredo grabbed his duty bag and got out of the Hummer. He leaned back into the window to accept Coop’s final words of advice.

  “Suck it up, Buttercup.”

  Why couldn’t it have been something manly?

  “Fredo, you don’t do this, and I’m gonna get Danny and Kyle and T.J. and Jones, and we’re gonna hold you down and tweeze that fuckin’ unibrow. Who knows, under all that hair, you might be a handsome man!”