Couples sat together at smaller tables around the perimeter. The air hadn’t turned chilly yet, and the sky was clear. A large bachelorette party had taken up the long picnic table at the far side and were boisterous, at times drowning out conversations on the whole patio. The bride-to-be wore a short white veil with plastic penises attached, a crown, and a sash. Falling victim to drinks purchased for her by several of the guy groups, she was thoroughly smashed and had to be helped out when the party decided to move. Brandy sensed the entire place was relieved.
“Remember when we’d come down here in high school?” queried Dorie.
“Well, you came down. I was your comic relief.” Brandy thought about how long ago it was. “And for the record, you weren’t a sloppy drunk at your bachelorette party, either.”
“Thank you,” Dorie said, and clinked her water glass with Brandy’s beer.
“You ever see the girls? The bridesmaids?”
“Not really. Funny how you know who your true friends are.” She grasped Brandy’s hand. “You’ve always been the one there for me, Brandy. I appreciate it.”
Brandy remembered the wedding and how the other girls in the wedding party had treated her, made her feel excluded. How they stared when Tucker spilled the punch all over her. She’d been so embarrassed she almost left the reception. But she stayed, and it changed her whole life. She couldn’t help but break out in a wicked grin.
“What the devil are you thinking, Brandy Hudson?”
She loved to gloat, especially when it felt like justice done. “They all went to the wedding to pick up one of Brawley’s friends, didn’t they?”
“Oh, it was the only thing they talked about!”
“Even your married bridesmaid—her guy is on Team 5?”
“Oh, Marsha. Yes, she’s a slut.”
Brandy pushed aside her soup bowl and leaned onto the table. “But I’m the one who went home with one. I’m the one who got the SEAL!”
“Poetic justice. As it should be. You got the best one of the bunch, too, except for Brawley, of course.” Dorie winked.
Brandy was glad some of the darkness of their relationship seemed to be fading. She wished for more of that magic for Dorie and Brawley she’d envied when they first fell in love and became engaged.
A group of slightly older ladies sat at the table nearby without paying attention to anything in the room but the men scattered across the patio. Dorie studied them with a frown. Brandy could tell the ladies were trying to hook attention from one particular group of well-built guys she guessed were SEALs.
Dorie leaned forward. “You want to go?”
Brandy agreed and slipped her purse over her shoulder. One of the ladies at the next table called out to Dorie, who didn’t look especially happy to see her. The woman scampered over and gave her a hug.
“You old married lady, you. Congratulations! Why didn’t you invite me to the wedding? And how the heck is Brawley?”
The dark-haired woman was beautiful and very well-endowed, but she used a little too much eye makeup, Brandy thought. Her comparison engine had kicked in, and she sucked in her tummy, allowing anyone who wasn’t blind to see that her chest was bigger than this woman’s. Brandy also noticed that her eyes were hard.
“He’s fine,” answered Dorie, turning to go. Brandy thought it was odd she didn’t offer an introduction but dutifully followed after her friend, turning to go, when they heard the woman ask a question.
“And how’s Tucker?” Her sexy voice was laced with a growl.
Dorie closed her eyes, bit her lower lip, and then mouthed “sorry” to Brandy before she turned and addressed the woman. “Tucker married Brandy about two years ago, Shayla.”
Shayla’s head whipped to the side as she thoroughly studied Brandy up and down. After gaining her composure, the woman tilted her head back and whispered her reply. “Oh my.” She leaned closer to Brandy with a smirk. “Tucker and I were married seven years,” she said as she extended her hand. “I’m Shayla.” The smile followed her greeting instead of preceding it.
“Nice to meet you.” Brandy’s handshake was short. In the next few awkward seconds, she had the urge to wipe her hand on her dress. Out of nowhere, she threw in a comment she knew she’d burn in hell for. Tucker would be furious with her, but she just couldn’t hold her tongue—why she’d been fired from her last two jobs. Adjusting her stance, she said, “Thanks for divorcing him.”
Before Shayla could respond verbally, Dorie interjected that they were late to pick up her daughter. She grabbed Brandy’s arm and dragged her back into the protection of the bar.
As she disappeared, Brandy gave a taunting wave at the woman she knew instantly she hated. She suspected it would come back to haunt her.
But it was worth it.
Chapter 11
While the rest of the team was having dinner, Tucker was selected to take the river trip with Jean, Kyle, and the two boat crew guys.
The Zodiac was inflated while Wilson lovingly wiped down the compact motor he’d boosted, carefully attaching it to the craft. Everyone helped position the craft into the water, carrying it over the debris-laden and rocky bank. One tug on the starting rope and the engine kicked over and purred, sounding more like a small chainsaw than an outboard motor.
Everyone boarded, stashing their duty bags at their feet. They were instructed to pack light, which meant no heavy firepower and nothing a local businessman or government contractor wouldn’t normally carry for a trip of this nature. Jean handed Kyle a sat phone for security since it would be impossible to trace and would give him direct access to the SOF command as well as Jean and his team, at all times.
They pushed off, heading upriver. Tucker felt just like when he and his dad went hunting in Oregon when he was a boy. The water was filled with debris, including plastic wrappers, floating foam cups, and occasionally an article of clothing. Depending on how close to the center of the waterway they were, the color of the river went from shit brown to brownish green. He was glad he wore his goggles around his neck, since, if he had to swim in the water, his eyes would most likely get infected.
Even though he’d applied repellant, the mosquitos had found him. He fought off the first few but then ignored them in time, like Jean did.
The French former Spec Ops guy searched the banks with his binoculars. Birds were at full play, chattering up a storm. They motored past a squabbling family of medium-sized brown and yellow monkeys moving along the treetops with ease. Several of the males began to follow along the trajectory of the boat and then broke off.
Carson was point, holding a long pole and sounding the river floor, on the lookout for large boulders or any other impediment to travel. Wilson manned the motor, steering to keep them in the center of the river and away from water plants that hugged the sides and could interfere with the small motor.
“I’m assuming we are to watch for crocs?” asked Kyle.
“To be sure,” said Jean. “Not too many in these areas as many of them are harvested for their meat and sold at market.”
“Appreciate the head’s up, Chief,” Carson shouted over his shoulder.
They continued upstream for several more minutes and then followed a sharp bend to the right.
Jean sat straight up with a command. “Carson, sometimes the Ogun dries up overnight, so be especially vigilant for shallow straights.” he barked.
Carson gave him a thumbs-up in answer, not taking his eyes off the water.
Tucker took another admiring appraisal of the tiny diesel engine and smiled up at Wilson. “That thing sure does sound pretty,” he said. “That a fifty-five?”
“Yup, but we got twenty percent more torque. Best little twenty-five-pound bundle out there. I can stick it in my backpack and carry the darned thing all day if I had to.”
“I’m impressed. You do all the work?”
“I don’t let anyone else touch this baby. Can’t wait to demonstrate how she’ll do full out. Covers the bank with waves about eight f
eet or more.”
“Cool beans.”
Jean was checking his phone and then spoke to someone on the other end in French. He put his binoculars up and checked the bank ahead while he continued the conversation, finishing it off with, “Qui. Bon.”
Kyle was waiting for an explanation.
“We have a camp around the bend here that appears abandoned, but we’re supposed to check it out on foot. Then I think we’ll head back. I was going to try for the city, but I don’t want to take a chance and get caught after dark.”
“What kind of camp?” asked Kyle.
“My guy thinks they’re smugglers.”
Several minutes later, a clearing was visible where the jungle foliage had been hacked down and piled up. Evidence of off-road trails led into the thick foliage at the perimeter. Jean pointed to a fallen tree that was jutting out into the river, and Wilson positioned the boat to come in close, reducing the engine to a near stop. Jean searched the bank for evidence of inhabitants and then finally gave Wilson the okay to shut down the motor.
Carson guided the boat, acting as the bumper to avoid brushing up against anything sharp. He braced for the landing, secured the craft to the fallen stump, and then was the first to jump out into the shallow water where he attached another line.
Everyone hopped out, fanning into position around the clearing. Tucker first explored the tall grasses at the perimeter, looking through debris scattered in the brush as Jean and Kyle slipped in and out of the jungle, exploring the recently-made trails.
Carson called Kyle over to the riverbank.
“What you got?”
“Just showing you there’s been another boat here recently, sir. It’s a solid hull, probably a metal jitney. See how it left grooves in the mud?”
“Thanks for pointing that out, Carson. Good observation.” Kyle returned to the camp perimeter.
Tucker found a plastic lidded box that had been tossed aside and then covered with branches. He put on his gloves and carefully set the container down at his feet. Inside were miscellaneous pill bottles, some vials of antibiotic, gauze, and some sports wrap tape. An opened box of latex gloves had spilled at the bottom. Kyle was at his side in an instant.
“I could use some of these things, leave them at the compound,” Tucker advised.
“Are they still good? What are they?” Kyle wondered.
Tucker rummaged through the bottles carefully. “We got penicillin tablets, something for malaria, some aspirin, and these vials of antibiotic. Nothing to inject with and no pain killers, though.”
Jean had joined the little circle.
“What do you think, Tucker?” asked Kyle.
“Looks like a medic kit, but without the pain killers and the needles. My guess is someone kept them and discarded everything else.”
“Does the lid have a label?” asked Jean.
Tucker held it up, showing a label had been removed.
“You have a problem if he keeps this?” Kyle asked Jean.
Jean shrugged. “If you can use it, no.”
Tucker set the box near the shore and moved on to the firepit, kneeling to see if he could recognize anything that had been burned there. He could still feel heat coming up, but there were no embers or fire. Jean dug around in the ash with a long stick. He hooked a wafer-thin piece of fabric a few inches long, holding it in front of Tucker’s face.
“Someone’s been burning bandages,” he told Jean. “See the borders here? Those are blood stains.”
Jean nodded solemnly. “See if you can find more. I’m going to alert the others.”
Tucker removed the surface debris with his Ka-Bar then dug into the soft ash. He immediately encountered an article he thought at first was a piece of buried food, stabbing it with his knife. But when he laid it on a smooth rock and poured water over it, he discovered that what he’d uncovered was a charred human hand. It was small but not small enough to be that of a child. It appeared to belong to a woman and was severed cleanly. He noticed the smooth surface of the two cleaved bones above the wrist and associated circular saw marks, which confirmed his suspicions.
“Over here!” Tucker shouted.
Kyle and the others ran to join him.
“This was removed by a surgeon’s tool, a portable circular saw,” he told Kyle.
Jean knelt down to examine the hand. “Doesn’t appear to be an amputation for an infected wound, am I correct?” he asked Tucker.
Tucker nodded. With his gloves still on, he examined the fingers, carefully. He noted a slight indentation, indicating the owner might have worn a ring on the fourth finger. “You see it?” he asked Jean.
The former commando agreed.
Tucker tried to straighten the curled fingers. The nails were charred completely off, leaving black flaky residue, but Tucker discovered that a portion of the little finger had been removed between the second and third joints. This was not done with precision but by hacking the end of the finger off with a small hatchet or knife, perhaps a pair of wire cutters. He looked up at Kyle.
“Proof of life,” his chief murmured.
“Or, a trophy perhaps?” added Jean.
Tucker applied more water until he sloughed off the burned flesh and found enough remaining to make a stunning pronouncement.
“This woman, or young girl, was white.”
The hand was wrapped in gauze and bagged after Tucker took pictures. The day’s light was rapidly disappearing, and Jean requested they hustle their way home. Tucker tossed the bagged evidence in the plastic kit and carried it to the raft. Jean tapped his shoulder before they fired up the engine.
“Don’t leave it in there. Put that in your duty bag and keep it zipped, just in case we get stopped.”
“Roger that.”
The images of the camp and the torture or possible loss of life haunted him during the return. He suspected it affected the boat guys as well. No one said a word, but they all kept a vigilant eye out for anyone in the brush. When the familiar shore and their building came into view, Tucker breathed a sigh of relief. Together, they carried the raft inside the gated compound, where it was covered in a large green tarp and strapped down.
“Tucker,” Jean said after they unpacked their gear. “Go get some dinner, if you’re hungry, but put your sample in the freezer for now.”
“Will do.”
“Oh and, Tucker, be sure to label it.”
Tucker gave the former commando a grin. “I think I’ll double bag it, too.”
Jenn shrugged. “Would sure be a shame if your mates took that thing out and barbequed it, now wouldn’t it?”
Tucker laughed on the outside, but privately recalled stories of some of their Desert Storm Ranger brethren who had gone over the bend in Iraq and created a whole ceremony surrounding roasting ears of the enemy. As a newbie SEAL, he’d had nightmares about it for weeks afterwards.
Later that evening, Tucker was catching up in his journal when Brawley came to bed.
“Was wondering where you went,” he said.
“Ollie and I watched a couple movies in the stash Wilson brought. Someone went to the trouble to bring us some world-class porn.”
A red flag launched in Tucker’s brain. Maybe it was his imagination, but he smelled alcohol.
“I hope Kyle didn’t catch you drinking.”
“Just a couple of shots of Jack. No biggie.” Brawley didn’t make eye contact.
Tucker decided to let it slide since the hour was still early for a normal working day. But he still didn’t like it.
Brawley grabbed his towel and headed to the showers.
Tucker refocused on his notebook which had become a welcomed nighttime routine. He found it easier to write than to talk about his feelings. He figured it was safe, because if he got disgusted with himself for getting gushy, he could just burn the damn book. But without any way of knowing how to post a letter to her, or even knowing if it was allowed, it was all he had available.
He also wanted to purge his brain
of the images of the severed hand they’d found today.
Today’s trip made me feel grateful we live where we do. I see the violence, the way some people live, and the poverty. It’s the same all over the world. One thing for adults to have to fend for themselves, but seeing the little kids having to live in these conditions really gets to me.
I used to think it would be a good idea to think of home and all the wonderful things I’d get back to, but I’ve changed my mind. I think about those barefoot kids, running around dirty streets, tugging at their mother’s skirts, and playing with dusty plastic pans and sticks instead of toys. I think of the killings going on and the danger lurking in the jungle and wonder: when do those kids get to be kids? And it’s not war that’s doing it. It’s desperate poverty and a power struggle that has been going on for centuries. Seems like a crying shame.
We’re staying in a large bunker, sort of a safe house. I can’t tell you any more about it, but you’d be pleased to know I’m safe at night, rather than hanging out in a tent in the bush. We even got hot showers and flush toilets!
But you don’t care about all that. You just want to know how I’m doing, and let me tell you, I miss you more tonight than ever before.
Now, if I was king of the world, I’d command everyone to fall in love, like I have. I’d make sure they grabbed someone for a hug, not out of fear, but because they wanted to express that love. That would be a perfect world. And it has nothing to do with politics or power.
I guess I have to settle for the fact that what I’m doing is helping some place become more stable so those tiny flames of opportunity and freedom can get kindled, fostered, and become a bonfire. I don’t want to run it, and God knows we shouldn’t either.
Okay, enough philosophy. I know you can feel my words, Brandy. There’s no doubt in my mind about that. You’re here with me.
Always.
He put away his light and the notebook, tucking it under his pillow, and slipped down under the covers just before Brawley returned. He tried to push the visions of today from his head, bringing Brandy’s smiling face into view, but he fell asleep before her lips could touch his.
SEALed Forever Page 8