Highest Law: A Gripping Psychological Thriller

by R. J. Pineiro

  “Beatriz? What the hell’s going on?” I ask, wondering if Uncle D. had something to do with this, though I really haven’t seen the man since he brought me back from Germany and set this up as his way of getting me reintegrated with the civilized world. Though I have to say that what just went down in there is anything but civilized. At least in country—up to that dreadful day—I knew who the enemy was and who my brothers were. Here, I’m not so sure anymore after watching a certified Master-at-Arms officer turn on his fellow sailors and citizens.

  Last thing Uncle D. told me was to get my head screwed on straight and make something out of this opportunity. Then he literally rode off into the SAP sunset.

  “Apparently, it didn’t take long for my verbal report of what went down here to make it from the Hampton RU to the Norfolk Field Office and then up to the DD’s office,” she says.

  “What the hell am I going to do over there if Ledet doesn’t have a team?”

  She tilts her head. “If I had to guess, he’s probably wanting to discuss what happened here directly with you. But a call like this from Quantico usually means a reprimand or reassignment. Given what happened here, I’m guessing it’s the latter.”

  “Reassignment?” I say. “To where?”

  “Law, does it look like I own a fucking crystal ball?”

  I just stare at her. That’s another thing about Beatriz. She curses like a sailor, though I read somewhere that women who curse a lot tend to also be more trustworthy. So, there you go.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Just not happy about this. And it doesn’t make sense for Quantico to call this fast. Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  Frowning again, she hits the speed dial and steps away out of ear shot for a minute or so.

  I stay by the SUV watching more vehicles reach the hospital, including another SWAT unit, this one from Virginia Beach, and two more news vans. I’m trying to process what she’d just told me. Norfolk is across the bay, and to get there I have to take IH-64, which is a bridge-tunnel-bridge covering the six miles of the waterway used by the ships going in and out of the naval base. Traffic always sucks there. And besides, I’ve just signed a new lease on a stall at the Tidewater Yacht Marina right next door in Portsmouth with a view of Elizabeth River, where I keep my Catalina sailboat and—

  “I knew it!” Beatriz shouts while returning with an even bigger scowl and a vein now bulging down the middle of her forehead that reminds me of Olga back at Landstuhl. “It’s Mia!”

  “Mia?”

  “Mia-Fucking-Patel,” she groans, walking right up to me without realizing she’s infringing into my personal space, her face just inches from mine, her lips quivering slightly as she adds, “The ASAC at the Norfolk Field Office Agency. She was my mentor when I was a junior agent at Quantico. I guess the little Indian bitch wants you all for herself.”

  “Oh. Do I have a say in this?”

  “Basically, no. Mia’s got her head so far up Roy’s ass she pretty much gets anything she wants. And since Roy outranks every agent in the region, it means that what Mia wants, Mia gets.”

  “I see.”

  “So, Law,” she says, inhaling deeply while briefly batting her eyelashes, before placing a hand on my shoulder, which is the first physical contact I’ve had with her that didn’t involve a CQB lessons. “It was nice working with you.” And then she gives me a very unexpected hug.

  I’m surprised but feel compelled to return it. Last woman I hugged was Kate, and before that, Franky, and they’re both quite a bit shorter than me, fitting snuggly under my chin. With Beatriz, we’re cheek to cheek, and I don’t realize just how firm she is until I wrap my arms around her. The woman’s body fat percentage has to be lower than mine, and mind you, I’m pretty buffed.

  “So, just like that?” I say as she pulls away a bit, but still holding me.

  “Yeah. Just like that,” she replies, meeting my gaze. There is definite disappointment glinting in her stare as her lips twist into a frown, though for a moment I also see something else as we stand there facing each other.

  Man, she is very attractive and I’m damn lonely, but since I still suck at reading women—and since we’re still working together, at least until tomorrow—I just let the moment pass.

  “And don’t be a stranger,” she adds, slowly releasing me while backing away. Then making a fist, she gives my shoulder a friendly punch while forcing the frown into a smile. “Stop by sometime and say hi, okay?”

  Before I can reply, she pivots and walks away, leaving me trying to process everything that just took place.

  Chapter 11

  I dump the personal stuff from my desk at the Hampton Resident Unit into a brown cardboard box and toss it in the rear seat of my 10-year-old Ford F-150. I then make the short drive to the marina, reaching it at just past three in the afternoon.

  I have to admit that I’m in a bit of a haze. For better or for worse, I have grown to enjoy my time with the Hampton RU, and my sudden forced departure is starting to weigh on me. And if I were to be honest, I would admit that parting ways with Beatriz has troubled me more than I would have expected. Perhaps I should take her up on her offer to visit sometime soon.

  The sky is clear, and there’s a nice breeze sweeping in from the bay as I pull into my designated parking spot. Leaving the box in the back and locking the truck, I make my way across the parking lot and through the security gate separating it from the gangway leading to the boats. I walk straight for my old but rugged Catalina sailboat, which I purchased four months ago. Large enough to sleep four comfortably, the 31-footer is moored on my newly-leased stall near the end of the floating catwalk.

  Yeah. I live on a boat.

  Why, you ask?

  The answer has nothing to do with being cool.

  In the time since my return, I discovered that sailing isn’t just fun but surprisingly therapeutic. I get fewer nightmares and of less intensity when I spend the night aboard the Catalina, and more so when I’m actually sailing Chesapeake Bay. It seems the wind and the ocean have a positive effect on my damaged mind, which this afternoon is stained with the unexpected sadness of losing my new team just as we were finally clicking as a CQB unit. Though, unlike my prior team, at least Beatriz and her agents didn’t get blown up.

  There are boats to either side of me as I reach the second to last one on the left.

  I stare at the words COMBAT SWIMMER painted in blue across the boat’s white stern. A thick 50-amp cable tethers the boat to shore power. Next to it, a clear plastic hose connected to a dedicated outdoor faucet provides fresh water for my kitchen and bathroom sinks, as well as my toilet and shower. And included in my monthly rental fee, since I’m a full-timer, is a pump-out service for my gray and black water tanks, which I only need once per week since I live alone and spend most of my time out and about.

  Breathing deeply, I look around. My boat is flanked by a small catamaran and a large Sea Ray, though not as large as the beautiful Cobalt yacht across from me, a forty-six-footer. It’s owner, a hedge fund manager, is the guy who sold me the Catalina before he upgraded to the Cobalt. He rarely takes it out but spends most weekends living in it, and with different girls—which I’m certain he pays by the hour or the weekend. He’s even invited me over a few times but that’s not my thing. Call me old fashioned, but I need more than just a hired body next to me. Though I have to admit that today I might have gone for it, so I’m glad he isn’t here.

  I step off the catwalk and onto the swim deck running along the aft section of the Catalina, feeling the vessel give slightly under my weight. A walk-through transom separates it from the large covered cockpit. Clear plastic walls that I keep rolled down when docked, protect the cockpit section. A long zipper runs from the deck to the ceiling in front of the walk-through. I tug the heavy-duty handle up and unzip it enough to get through, before zipping it back down behind me.
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  The familiar smells of seawater mixed with the plastic from the walls and that of fiberglass fill my nostrils.

  The boat’s large stainless steel wheel and instrument panel monopolize the center of the cockpit and are flanked by long bench seats to port and starboard that continue forward until framing the companionway’s bulkhead leading belowdecks.

  I walk past the wheel and reach the companionway’s hatch, which is locked and made of the same durable fiberglass as the hull and most surfaces that are not layered in either teak or polished stainless steel.

  I unlock it and go down four steps into the main cabin. Down here it’s actually a little cooler than in the cockpit, where the sun shining through the clear plastic walls creates a greenhouse effect. But it’s still stuffy, so I turn on the AC unit. The system starts humming, and cold air streams through round overhead vents. I actually enjoy its steady droning as it blocks out most external sounds.

  I flip on the overheads and stare at the honey-toned teak bulkheads, ceiling, and trim, which gives this sailboat the feel of a luxurious and much larger yacht. Today, though, everything seems duller, shrouded in my tired and also borderline-depressed state of mind.

  To starboard of the steps is the L-shaped galley that includes a refrigerator, two-burner stove, and microwave, plus a deep sink. And there’s just enough counter space to make a sandwich—which happens to be the extent of my culinary skills. On the wall next to the galley hangs a fire extinguisher. There’s another one in the cockpit, right by my feet when I’m at the helm. And in the cabinet next to the fridge, inside its own water-tight compartment, I keep a flare gun and a half-dozen cartridges.

  Uncle D. instilled in me a lifetime ago that when it comes to sailing at sea, or even in the bay, safety is always a priority.

  To port is the door to the head followed by the dining area facing the galley with a bench seat that wraps around a table and a leather loveseat facing a 32-inch flat screen TV. It’s connected to a small satellite dish above the cockpit, along with assorted antennas for communication, GPS navigation, weather radar, and even two independent emergency beacons. And to continue with Uncle D.’s safety influence, there are assorted lifejackets under the bench seats in the cabin and also in the cockpit. On top of that, I spent the money to purchase a 4-person life raft that even has a roof, extensive first-aid kits, and enough supplies to last a couple of weeks, including desalination tablets and fishing gear. It’s stored in a bulky orange sack in the cockpit and can be fully deployed in seconds by simply pulling on a lanyard.

  I’m tired, and my eyes shift to the main stateroom at the forward end of the cabin. In the Catalina 310, the owner’s retreat is truly luxurious with more of the same teak trim, an island double berth that can be accessed from both sides, and a second, smaller TV.

  I fire up the Keurig, which I filled with water yesterday, when I also stocked the fridge in anticipation of going sailing this weekend.

  I fill a cup from the cupboard with milk a third of the way and heat it up in the microwave for thirty seconds. I then place it under the Keurig’s spout, drop a coffee pod into the receptacle on top, pull down the handle to close the lid, and depress the “Large Mug” button.

  I leave my bag on the table and settle in the wrap-around bench seat while listening to the machine go through its brewing cycle and gazing about the cabin, quite large for a boat this size. But my mind is replaying the shooting.

  I’ve gone through it a couple of times to see if there was something we could have done better, but nothing really comes to mind. We did it by the book. Still, the images of those bodies littering the halls bother me more than they should. They’re really nothing compared to the horror I witnessed in country. Yet, they weigh on me, and I can’t wait to see how my PTSD is going to cut that footage into my nightly filmic experience.

  The smell of coffee fills the cabin as it starts to drip into the mug, and I pull out the meds I now need to take every day.

  I inhale the sweet aroma and even feel my body tingling in anticipation of the caffeine boost. I line the bottles like little soldiers on the table, the orange warriors that are supposed to fight off my demons.

  I glare at them while waiting for the machine to finish, feeling like a drill sergeant who’s pissed off at his underperforming grunts. The drugs work good enough to keep me functioning during the day, preventing me from lapsing into unwanted flashbacks. But they do very little to manage my dreams. Only the ocean seems to work there, and only marginally, shaving off the edge of those horrific images.

  I’d always believed that earning my trident would be the hardest thing I’d ever accomplished in my life. Now, that pales in comparison to simply getting through the day without letting those around me know how hard I have to work at controlling my terrors.

  Sometimes it feels as if there are two people living inside of me. The one everyone sees and the one holding back the darkness threatening to swallow the one everyone sees.

  I take another whiff of that coffee, but instead of having its desired soothing effect, I suddenly can’t breathe, feeling that familiar force squeezing my chest. And I realize it’s been just over twenty-four hours since I took my meds.

  That’s another thing: my demons are quite the efficient bastards, always on the clock, waiting for the chance to turn me into a veteran statistic. And they feed on emotions such as grief and my utter need for justice for what’s happened me, to Murph, to Dix, Chappy, and Cope.

  But today is hitting me harder than usual. Maybe it’s because I just lost my new team, or perhaps it’s the aftereffect of the shooting—my first active one since Afghanistan. But it isn’t just the anger swelling inside of me that’s compressing my throat, my lungs, even my very soul. It is also the feeling of utter helplessness at having failed to get to the bottom of what happened.

  And the demons get big and fat feasting on that.

  I look again at my Rx platoon standing at attention, and it makes me think of the many veterans who sat here before me, alone, beaten, contemplating their stark future after bouncing from place to place, from lost relationships, forgotten by their friends, by their families, even by their country.

  Before capitulating into the darkness.

  Perhaps the feelings overwhelming my senses are the reason the number of suicides among the veteran community is so far greater than the number of combat deaths, confirming that the journey home is indeed the hardest. Everyone can shoot a gun in combat, and do so quite efficiently with the right training. But not everyone can manage the aftermath of having shot that gun in combat.

  I regard my little formation of pharmaceuticals prescribed to help me get through my own journey.

  I’ve grown quite familiar with them. There’s Fluoxetine, a.k.a. Prozac, to handle my bouts with depression and anxiety, like what’s happening now. It’s augmented by Sertraline, a.k.a. Zoloft. Doing so is supposed to lessen my social phobia, the panic attacks when I’m surrounded by too many people, plus unwanted images, like that of Dix grabbing me and pulling me into the darkness swallowing him.

  I shake the thought away and return to my little soldiers.

  The irony is that Zoloft is also supposed to help me sleep, but it doesn’t say anything about keeping me from my nightmares.

  Then there’s Paroxetine, sold as Paxil, also to manage nervousness and panic. And finally, my favorite beta blocker: Zilopronol-B.

  I stare at them as if they were a firing squad, each armed with enough ammunition to kill me.

  Oh, how easy it would be.

  Simply quadruple each dose, enjoy the coffee, and lay down on that comfy mattress in the forward stateroom until the hedge fund manager across the gangway starts complaining about the stench.

  How easy it would be indeed.

  For a moment, I wonder how long it would take them to find me. A few days? A week? There would be the usual commotion. The emergency vehi
cles. The sad looks from people like Murph, Adanna, Franky, Dix, and maybe Uncle D., if he happens to be around. Plus, some of the folks at NCIS, especially Beatriz.

  But within a week, I would be forgotten, lost in the ocean of white tombstones at Arlington National Cemetery, where my years of service has secured me a spot. I would become just another number added to the daily count of veteran suicides. No one would really miss me. The world would get up the next morning just as it does every morning and move on without a clue of what I went through as a result of protecting the very freedom that allows that indifferent world to go on.

  The coffee is ready, and I down my pills and chase them with this bold brew, closing my eyes as the caffeine jolts my system

  Luckily, I’m not the type to sit on my thumb the rest of the day feeding my demons by feeling sorry for myself, plus there’s actually someplace else I need to be in a couple of hours. And not only that, I need to be in the best possible mood when I get there.

  I continue sipping my coffee and staring at the floor. That last thought gives me pause.

  If you think I have issues, just wait. One interesting thing about life is that there will always be people better off than you and also worse off than you.

  And then, there are those who are… beyond worse.

  Chapter 12

  After getting cleaned up and grabbing a quick bite at a local deli, I take the short drive to a small duplex on 34th Street in Newport News, just east of Chestnut Avenue. I park behind another truck, a new and shiny black Chevy Colorado already hugging the curb. A Toyota Siena minivan fitted with a wheelchair lift occupies the driveway.

  The driver of the Colorado steps out when he sees me. He’s carrying a six pack of Budweiser, and so am I. But I also have a paper bag with a 375 ml, or half bottle, of Cava de Oro Tequila Reposado I spotted at the liquor store next to the deli.