Suffer in Silence

by David Reid

  “You’d ‘appreciate it if I’d lay low,’” Vanessa repeated. “What in God’s name is going on? Murray died? How did that happen?”

  Grey leaned his head against the wall. “It was during Hell Week. He was sick, but he shouldn’t have died. He drowned in his own blood, and the only people around were two instructors. I don’t know much at this point, but I won’t let them sweep this whole thing under the rug. Just please stay somewhere else this weekend. I don’t know what I’m dealing with here, and I don’t want to take any chances.”

  “Mark, this is ridiculous.”

  “Trust me. Please.” Grey’s tone shifted from impatience to anger. “Just do it.” He usually loved Vanessa’s headstrong ways, but today he was in no mood to argue.

  “Fine.” Her voice was uneasy. “Call me when you’re done with this crap.”

  “I will,” Grey said. “I’ll call as soon as I can.” He limped back to his room. His crew had already assembled.

  Jones lay sprawled out on Grey’s bed. He lifted his head. “Give it to us straight, boss.”

  Grey sat on the edge of the bed and relayed the events of the last few weeks, starting with Murray’s decision to blackmail Redman. He covered the murder of the gun-store owner, the inventory problems at BUD/S, the disappearance of the retired SEAL, and finally, the details of his last moments with Murray.

  “I don’t like this at all,” Jackson said, shaking his head. “This is nothing but trouble, plain and simple. But if someone thinks he can get away with taking down one of my shipmates, he’s mistaken. I don’t care what we’re up against. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “Grey,” Rogers said gently. “You mentioned that Murray had pulmonary edema. That’s a very serious condition. Isn’t it possible he essentially died of exposure?”

  No. No way. Grey was on the defensive. He shook his head.

  “That lung stuff is serious business,” Jones chimed in, “but Murray shouldn’t have died from it. He didn’t look that weak.”

  “It’s not that I doubt you,” Rogers added, placing a hand on Grey’s shoulder. “I’ve never doubted your judgment for a second. I just think that we’re all fatigued and famished and generally lacking lucidity.”

  “Lacking what?” Jones asked. “Dang it, sir, we’re too tired for your Princeton-speak.”

  “We’re just tired,” Rogers said. “I question our collective judgment.”

  “I’m behind Mr. Grey all the way,” Jackson said. “He may be wrong about Murray’s death, but we need to find out for sure. If that means we lose some more sleep, well then, that’s just God’s plan.”

  Rogers searched Grey’s face. “You know I’ll support you.” He shrugged. “What’s another few days of suffering?”

  “So you’re in?” Grey asked.

  “I’m in.”

  “Good. I think our first order of business should be to get out of here,” Grey said. “We’re not safe in the barracks. We need to relocate.”

  “Hold on,” Rogers said. “From what you’ve said, I’m still not sure that staying in the barracks puts us in danger. If Redman was after anyone, it was Murray, right?”

  “But he knows we were buddies,” Grey countered. “If Murray was going to confide in anyone, Redman knows it would have been me. And who knows what kind of attention he drew when he was poking his nose into that arms-dealing crap in Imperial Beach.”

  Rogers shrugged. “Either way, I could use a night away from this place. My sheets are drenched with sweat.”

  “Then let’s get out of here.” Grey opened a dresser drawer and pulled out a worn running shoe. He shook it, and a wad of cash fell to the floor. “I’ll pay for the room. There’s a place down the road, across the street from the Hotel del Coronado,” Grey said. “It’s close enough to be convenient, and the parking is underground. No one would think to look for us there.”

  “We need to make sure everyone has a cell phone,” Rogers said. “That way we can split up.”

  “I’ll take care of the phones,” Jones said. He rolled off the bed and moved toward the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll search Murray’s room,” Grey offered. “We might need some of his phone numbers.” He walked outside and followed the hallway to Murray’s room. The door was locked. Grey knocked loudly before remembering that Murray’s roommate had dropped out before Hell Week. Since then, Murray had been living alone. He tried the sliding-glass window, and it slid open with a satisfying thunk. Grey glanced around quickly then pulled himself through the window and dropped onto Murray’s bed. The sheets had been stripped off the ratty mattress and thrown in a heap in the corner. The lock on Murray’s closet was gone, and his desk drawers had been hastily pulled open. Grey sat down at the desk and filtered through the jumbled contents of each drawer. Nothing but old receipts, magazines, and a well-worn copy of J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit. Grey turned his attention to the closet. The pockets of Murray’s jeans had been turned inside out. Grey halfheartedly searched through the pile of clothes in the corner before moving on to the bathroom. Nothing. No phone numbers, no links to the outside world. He glanced through the window then stepped outside and pulled the locked door shut behind him.

  * * *

  The elderly woman behind the reservations counter at the hotel regarded Grey suspiciously. She was clearly revolted by his appearance. Like everyone else in his crew, he wore a T-shirt and shorts, which did little to hide his oozing leg wound. Grey smiled, picked up the key card she pushed across the counter, and walked back to the elevator. He descended into the basement, where the rest of his crew waited in Rogers’s battered Toyota. In the ten minutes he’d been gone, they’d already fallen into a deep sleep, their faces mashed against the car’s windows. Grey woke them up and herded them back into the elevator. Ten minutes later, they were all seated on the floor of the hotel room, formulating a plan.

  “Murray apparently made contact with a retired SEAL. We need to find out where he lives,” Rogers stated matter-of-factly. “It would be a step in the right direction.”

  “And how do you suggest we find his address?” Grey asked.

  “Where would you go if you wanted to gather info about a salty old SEAL?”

  “McP’s,” Jones drawled. “Every SEAL passes through that bar at one time or another.”

  “Exactly. Someone there will know how to get in touch with our contact,” Rogers said. “What was his name again? Armstrong?”

  “That’s it,” Grey said. “Retired chief, served with Redman.”

  “Why don’t you and I go check it out?” Rogers asked.

  “I’m game,” Grey said. “But what if the instructors are there?”

  “At three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon? They’re not that pathetic. If we leave now we should beat the crowd.”

  “You gents have fun,” Jones drawled. “The Good Reverend and I will guard the fort.” He crawled on top of a bed and closed his eyes. “Wake us up when you get back.”

  “We will,” Grey said. “Get some rest.”

  Even though the bar was only a few blocks away, Rogers pulled his car out of the underground garage and drove the distance. Grey didn’t want an instructor to recognize them walking out the front door, and in reality, any kind of physical movement still presented an extremely painful challenge. Every step sent a firestorm of raw pain rushing up his legs.

  With its pleasant white walls and green awning, McP’s looked the part of a respectable Irish pub. A gated outdoor seating area flanked a well-appointed walnut bar, and a number of tourists happily sipped beers in the soft sunlight. Grey followed Rogers through the main door and scanned his surroundings. A middle-aged man with bushy brown hair and the massive shoulders and soft belly of a linebacker whose glory days had expired sat at the bar, chatting with a silver-haired bartender. They both looked up in annoyance and frowned at Grey and Rogers.

  “Don’t come back until you graduate,” the brown-haired man said. “We don’t need any t
adpoles stinking up our joint.”

  Grey looked at Rogers in surprise. How do they know?

  “Oh, come on, it’s written all over your face, the way you walk.… I know a case of ‘grinder reminder’ when I see it,” the man explained, shifting his hulking body so that he faced the intruders. “What are you guys? Class Two-eighty-three? You’ve got Hell Week Survivor written all over your face.”

  “You guessed correctly,” Rogers answered politely. “But don’t worry, we’re not trying to claim a spot in your bar. I know we still have a long way to go before we earn our tridents. We just need to get in touch with an old SEAL, and we thought you gentlemen might know where to find him.”

  “We’re not gentlemen,” Mr. Linebacker shot back. “I hate that goddamn word. We’re fighters. We work for a living.”

  The bartender reached across the counter and placed a hand on the large man’s arm. “Bill, no need to be so hard on these guys. They just finished Hell Week. Remember how shitty that was? All they want is some info.”

  “Exactly,” Grey said. “We’re not trying to intrude prematurely into your world; we just need to talk to someone who knows their stuff. You two served in Vietnam, didn’t you?”

  “Fuckin’ A, we did,” Bill said. “Mekong Delta.” He rolled his neck. “None of this pansy-ass shit they do these days.”

  The bartender stepped out from behind the bar and extended his hand. “Jake Davidson’s the name.” He nodded toward his friend. “Bill can barely walk because of all the shrapnel in his thigh. He’s a little bitter.”

  “Am not.”

  “And he hates Hollywood SEALs. I don’t feel quite as strongly as he does about it, but I have to admit the number of pretty-boy Team guys has grown exponentially in the last few years. I think they’re more concerned with appearing in documentaries than they are about operating. You two aren’t Hollywood types, are you?”

  “Far from it,” Rogers piped up, “although we know a few.”

  “Fucking pretty boys,” Bill scoffed. “What an embarrassment. Can’t even wipe their ass without a TV camera in their face.”

  “Bill, you’re generalizing now,” Jake said. He smiled, and the skin around his eyes erupted into a web of deep wrinkles. A small scar ran up from the edge of his eyebrow, lending him a ruggedly handsome appearance. “I’m sure you guys will do fine. What rank are you, anyway?”

  “We’re officers,” Grey stated reluctantly.

  “Goddamn!” Bill yelled, a little too loudly. “Cake eaters! Résumé builders!”

  Jake angrily stormed back behind the bar, poured a double shot of tequila, and slammed it down in front of Bill. “Drink it and shut up, Bill. I’m trying to run a bar here.”

  Bill threw back his head, and the yellow liquid disappeared down his throat. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Sorry. I’ll quiet down.”

  “Thank you,” Jake said. “I don’t have any problem with officers. Just remember, always take care of your men. Take care of your men, and they’ll do anything for you. Sell them out, and you’re finished. I had a damn good OIC in Vietnam.” His green eyes moved away from Grey’s face. He shook his head, his mind clearly occupied with old memories. “Damn good.”

  “And listen to your chief,” Bill muttered. “Listen to your chief or you’re dead in the water. Chiefs run the navy, and it’s the same in the Teams. If they take you under their wing, you’re set.”

  “And don’t get carried away in your search for glory,” Jake added. “Don’t be afraid to turn down a mission if you think the lives of your men are in jeopardy. Stay cool, think clearly. Your chance to prove yourself will come along. Pick your battles wisely.”

  Bill belched loudly. “Confucius say, ‘He who kill opponent first always get last laugh.’”

  “I told you to be quiet,” Jake scolded. “Stop with your Confucius crap.” He turned his attention back to Grey. “Now remind me, why are you here again? Not to soak up our wisdom, I’m sure.”

  “Actually, we lost contact with a friend of ours recently. He’s a retired chief. Armstrong’s his name.”

  “Goddamn Armstrong!” Bill yelled. “I know that pig fucker. Team Three, right?”

  Jake reached over and boxed Bill on the ear. “For Christ’s sake, quiet down, Bill.”

  Bill rubbed his ear and frowned at his empty shot glass. “Well, what about it? Am I right or am I right?”

  “The Armstrong we’re thinking of was an East Coast guy. Team Four, I think,” Grey said. “But he retired out here. Lives somewhere in Imperial Beach.”

  “Armstrong, Armstrong.” Jake repeated the name quietly to himself. “Don’t know of anyone East Coast by that name.”

  “And trust us, if this Armstrong character really lived here in Imperial Beach, we’d know about him,” Bill said. “Especially a retired chief.” He shook his head. “I know of one Armstrong who served here on the West Coast his entire career before retiring in Montana, but I have to say, I think you guys must be confused. There’s no East Coast Armstrong.”

  The door to the bar swung open, and the color drained from Rogers’s face. Grey slowly turned around.

  “What the fuck do we have here?” Osgood yelled. “What in the hell is this? You think you’re SEALs now?” He chuckled merrily. “Oh boy. Oh boy.”

  Instructor Furtado and Instructor Redman pushed through the door and stopped short in surprise. They eyed the two battered students hungrily.

  “You believe this crap?” Osgood asked. “Look who came to hang out with the big boys.”

  “Well, if it isn’t my two favorite homos,” Furtado said pleasantly. “Have a seat.” He politely gestured toward two of the empty bar stools.

  “We actually have to get going,” Rogers said. “We’re pretty exhausted—no condition to imbibe.”

  “Pretty exhausted?” Redman snarled. “Not exhausted enough, apparently. I’ll fix that later.”

  Jake smiled at the instructors’ antics. “These young lads actually came to ask me about a friend of theirs.”

  Grey’s heartbeat increased dramatically. He looked at Jake pleadingly. Please be quiet. Please.

  “Armstrong’s his name. He’s a retired chief, right?”

  Grey nodded. He was too mortified to speak.

  “You ever heard of a guy named Armstrong?” Jake asked, looking at the group of instructors. “Seal Team Four? Retired in Imperial Beach.”

  “Never heard of him,” Furtado said quietly.

  “No fucking clue,” Osgood said.

  “No such guy,” Redman grunted. “If he was retired Team Four, I would know him.”

  “No matter.” Osgood put an arm around Grey’s shoulder. “Why don’t you have a seat, sir? You can spare a few minutes with your future teammates, can’t you?” His eyes sparkled merrily.

  Grey nervously sat down at the bar and shot Rogers a terrified look.

  “Jake, fix my friend a drink,” Osgood said. “I think you know what he wants.”

  “I can’t, really,” Grey said. “I’m driving.”

  “Pussy,” Osgood snarled. His eyes flashed dangerously for a brief instant. He smiled, and his tone became pleasant again. “Well then, Mr. Rogers, I guess it’s just you and us.”

  Jake filled the bottom of a double shot glass with Tabasco sauce, then filled it to the rim with tequila.

  “One for each day of Hell Week,” Osgood said.

  Jake shot him an annoyed look.

  “I’m paying,” Osgood said. “Don’t worry so much, shipmate.” He pulled a twenty from his pocket and handed it to Jake. “Like I said, five shots.”

  Four more shots appeared on the table. The two other instructors gathered around and looked on with interest.

  “This will put some hair on your homo chest, Plato,” Osgood said. “Rapid succession. No puking, no complaining. Take it like a man.”

  Rogers sat down, rolled his shoulders, and breathed deeply.

  “Cut the melodrama, fag boy,” Furtado said.

 
Rogers threw back the first double shot, then the second, then the third. His eyes watered, but he managed to keep from gagging. He held the fourth shot in his hand and looked at it hesitantly.

  “Get on with it,” Osgood said. “You’re only to Wednesday.”

  Rogers gulped down the fourth shot, and then with trembling hands, the fifth. His Adam’s apple continued to work reflexively, and for a moment Grey was sure he would puke. He tottered unsteadily and cringed.

  “Good stuff,” Rogers croaked. “Nectar of the gods.”

  Osgood clapped him on the back. Even Redman smiled. Furtado clicked his tongue stud against his teeth and regarded Rogers coolly with his icy blue eyes.

  “Not bad, sir,” Osgood said, genuinely pleased. “Taken like a man. We might make something out of you after all.”

  “He’s still a pussy in my book,” Redman growled, “and I’m getting tired of looking at these two cake eaters. Don’t you think it’s about time they crawled home?”

  “Feel free to leave, esteemed sirs,” Osgood said. “Mr. Grey, I’m gonna kick the crap out of you on Monday for being a pussy. And I still haven’t forgiven you for your Hell Week bullshit. Mr. Rogers, you just earned a one-day vacation. Good job.”

  “Thanks for the drinks,” Rogers groaned as he lurched for the door.

  “Hold up,” Jake called out. He scrawled a name and phone number on a napkin and handed it to Grey. “Call this number and say that Jake referred you. The guy is an old buddy of mine. He knows everyone around here. If there really is an Armstrong from Team Four around here, he’ll know how to find him.”

  “Thanks, Jake.” Grey turned to leave and felt Furtado’s icy stare burning through him. He stopped and returned the instructor’s look. The hint of a smirk pulled at the corners of Furtado’s mouth.

  “Sleep well, pussy.”

  Grey turned and followed Rogers onto the street. Rogers made it halfway to the car before he fell to his knees and emptied his stomach into a tidy planter next to an upscale shop. The nicely dressed patrons looked on in shock, clearly horrified by the spectacle. Grey scooped Rogers up and laid him across the backseat of the old Toyota.

  “I’m a good friend,” Rogers stated matter-of-factly.