by David Reid
“I know you are,” Grey answered.
“Those drinks were meant for you, buddy. Talk about taking one for the team.” Rogers’s body went limp, and he immediately began sawing deep, snuffling breaths. Grey climbed behind the wheel and wound his way through an upper-class neighborhood before turning back toward the hotel. He pulled the car into the underground lot and looked back at Rogers. Drool stains covered his shirt, and his eyes darted back and forth in the rapid eye movements usually reserved for deep sleep. His body was so deprived of rest that it skipped the initial stages of the sleep cycle, carrying him straight into dreamland. Grey opened the back door and cradled Rogers in his arms. Carting him to the elevator took all of his energy.
Grey knocked loudly on the door to his room with his elbow. After waiting several seconds, he knocked again. No response. He gently set Rogers on the ground and dug his key card out of his pocket. The lights were off and the shades drawn, but Grey could clearly make out two human forms on top of the two beds. Jackson lay wrapped in a thick comforter, shaking gently in his sleep. Jones slept swaddled in a white towel, beads of perspiration running down his face in tiny rivulets. Grey glanced back and forth between the two students, deciding whom to wake. Rogers clearly needed his own bed. Grey finally decided on Jones. Still cradling Rogers in his pulverized arms, Grey nudged Jones with his knee. The Tennessee Wonder instantly sprang into a sitting position and swung at Grey’s head, nearly missing his nose.
“Easy, Tennessee,” Grey said gently. “I need your help, buddy.”
“What? What?” Jones glanced around in confusion. The anger in his face gradually subsided. “Sorry, boss. I thought you were gonna send me to the surf.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you, Jones,” Grey said. “But I need you to give up your bed for a while. Rogers is hurting bad.”
“What’s going on?”
“We ran into a bunch of instructors at McP’s.”
“You’re kidding,” Jones drawled, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re full of it, sir. Ain’t no way.”
“I’m quite serious. They made Rogers take five double shots of tequila in about twenty seconds. It wasn’t pretty. He needs sleep bad.”
Jones stiffly crawled out of bed. “Here. Set him down nice and easy.” He limped to the bathroom and came back holding two glasses of water.
After dumping Rogers onto the bed, Grey forced the water down his throat, ensuring that he was well hydrated before he passed out again. Rogers instantly curled into a fetal position and pulled the comforter up around his neck.
“Who was at the bar?” Jones asked.
“Redman, Furtado, and Osgood.”
“This gets weirder by the minute, sir,” Jones said. “Redman and Furtado were there? Ain’t they the ones we think messed with Murray?”
Grey nodded. “Give me second. I need to make a call.” He picked up the phone, pulled the napkin from his pocket, and dialed the number scrawled across the soiled paper. After six rings a woman answered the phone.
“Yeah.”
“Is Mr. O’Dell there?”
“Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Mark Grey. I got referred to him by Jake, the bartender at McP’s. I need to talk to him about a friend of mine.”
“Hold on.” Grey could hear her yelling in the background. Nearly a minute later, a man with a gravelly voice picked up.
“What?”
Grey waited a second. Is that it? When he realized that was the only greeting he would receive, he said, “Your buddy Jake told me to give you a call. I’m looking for a friend of mine by the name of Armstrong—retired SEAL chief, lives in Imperial Beach, served on Team Four.”
“Don’t know him,” O’Dell growled. “In fact, I don’t recall anyone by that name from Team Four. Are you sure you have his name right?”
“Pretty sure.”
“If he was your friend, I imagine you’d know his name.”
“I’m just tired. My class finished Hell Week yesterday.”
“So you’re a fucking tadpole?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you.” O’Dell paused, then said, “In the unlikely event that you make it through training, remember to listen to your chief. Ignore your chief and you’re fucked. I’m sure my boys at McP’s told you the same thing, but it’s the damn truth. Your officers won’t know shit. Your chief should be your role model. If you can’t tolerate one of your junior officers, or he just gets too uptight, duct-tape him to a table and leave him behind.”
Grey snorted a quick laugh. O’Dell clearly had no idea he was talking to an officer. “Thanks for the advice.”
The phone line went dead.
“Figure it out?” Jones asked, opening one eye. His sat slumped in a plush blue chair, his skin still shiny with sweat.
“No. But I’m not discouraged yet.” Grey faked enthusiasm, but he felt horrible. The “grinder reminder” on his ass cracked open as he rose from his chair. Sticky blood oozed from the newly opened wound, soaking through his underwear. To make matters worse, Murray’s SEAL contact was starting to seem like an illusion. “I think we should get some food, but I need to clean up first.”
“Whatever you say, boss. I’m ready whenever you are.” Jones forced a smile and immediately closed his eyes and let his head roll back. Within seconds he was out cold.
Grey gingerly stepped into the bathroom and stripped off his clothes. He hesitated twice before summoning the courage to turn on the water. The first splatters of chilly water on his hand took his breath away. After climbing into the bathtub, he wrapped his arms around his chest and shook gently. Gradually warmth flooded into his stiff limbs, and he laid back and closed his eyes. Grab some food, come back and sleep. Wake up and find out more about Armstrong. It seemed straightforward. Then what? Grey’s world melted away, replaced by the familiar salty coastal breeze and frigid ocean of the Silver Strand. Redman and Furtado stood on the berm above him, their bodies silhouetted against an endless bank of gray clouds. A wave washed over his face, then another, and another.
* * *
Grey gagged violently. His eyes shot open as he spat liquid from his mouth. Water cascaded over the side of the tub and rolled across the tile floor, saturating his clothes as it moved toward the door. Grey lunged for the water and shut it off. After opening the drain, he stripped a towel off the rack and threw it on the vast puddle that had formed. Grey stepped out of the tub and pushed the towel around with his foot. Fuck it. He stumbled out the door and found everything as he had left it. Jones snored noisily in the big blue chair as beads of sweat trickled down his face. Rogers slept under the comforter of one bed, while Jackson lay curled in the comforter on another.
“Jones,” Grey said, shaking him gently. “Tennessee, wake up.”
Jones swung, but Grey was ready this time. He stepped aside, and the punch sailed past his head.
“Is it morning already?”
“No, but we need to get some food for our shipmates. And I don’t think we should go anywhere on the island. We’re way too noticeable.”
“I agree,” Jones said. “I have to admit, some chow sounds damn good right now, sir.”
“You’ve got to get up first,” Grey said. “Let’s go.”
Jones eased himself to his feet and hobbled toward the door. Grey followed him into the elevator. They walked across the underground parking lot and climbed into Rogers’s old Toyota. Grey’s jeep was far too conspicuous; a Toyota would blend into traffic nicely. Minutes later they were cruising down the Silver Strand Boulevard past the BUD/S compound. Jones looked over at the obstacle course and shook his head.
“Hate that damn thing.”
They raced toward Mexico, paralleling the beach they had run up and down countless times over the week.
“Hate that damn beach.”
Grey smiled. “I sense a theme here. Why don’t you take a nap? I’ll wake you up when we get there.”
“Don’t need no damn sleep.�
�� Jones flashed his snaggletoothed smile and closed his eyes.
As they reached the sound end of the bay, the density of tired one-story houses increased. Grey shifted uncomfortably in his seat as they pulled into the McDonald’s parking lot. His ass was bleeding again, and it kept sticking to his shorts. They cruised through the drive-in and ordered a dozen Big Macs and six large fries. Grey forked out the money, and they continued north toward Coronado, hungrily stuffing French fries into their mouths. Between swallows, Jones looked over at Grey and opened his mouth as if to speak.
“What?” Grey asked.
“It’s silly, boss.”
“Nothing’s silly at this point. Life couldn’t get stranger. Go ahead and say what you have to say.”
Jones swallowed his next mouthful of French fry. “I was just gonna ask you a question.” He looked out the window and studied the churning ocean. “Where would you be if you could be anywhere in the world right now?”
“Easy,” Grey answered quickly. “I can think of the exact spot. I used to run up to a field in the hills above Stanford. There’s a lookout near a small lake nestled below a ridge. It’s always quiet, and the whole Bay Area is spread out below. The hills are amazing. They roll down toward the university like a green carpet.” Grey smiled to himself. “In the distance Hoover Tower rises up from campus. And at the northern edge of the bay, San Francisco sparkles against the flawless sky.” Grey paused. “I think the day I discovered that place was one of the happiest in my life. I found the lake in the middle of a perfect three-hour run; it was also the day Vanessa finally agreed to go out with me. I honestly can’t remember being happier.”
“It’s not fair, is it?”
“What?”
“Finishing Hell Week is supposed to be one of the best darn days of our lives. Instead, it’s just more of the same. Only instead of getting beat, we’re playing with our lives.”
“True,” Grey agreed, “but even if everything worked out like it was supposed to and we were sleeping happily in our beds, it still wouldn’t compare to the day Vanessa agreed to go out with me. I can still picture her face at that exact moment. God, I miss her.”
“You really like that gal, don’t you?” Jones asked.
“I do,” Grey agreed. “More than I ever wanted to like anyone.” He looked over at Jones and slapped his leg. “What about you, Tennessee? Where would you be, if you could be anywhere at this exact moment?”
Jones closed his eyes. “My favorite fishin’ spot. I used to spend hours there. Sometimes when my mom would get mad at my dad and start yellin’, my brothers and I would run there. Rain or shine, we always ended up at the same place. It’s just a perfect pool below a waterfall. Each of my brothers had his own sittin’ rock, and I swear them rocks got smooth from us sittin’ around so much. Of course, we pretty much fished that little stream out, so it became more of a tradition than anything else. No one ever bothered us there, which is probably why it’s still so special to me.”
“Sounds nice,” Grey said. “I would love to go there someday.”
“And I’d like to take you,” Jones said. “You’ve earned the right.”
“I’ve earned the right?”
“Yeah, I don’t go tellin’ everybody that comes around about my secret fishin’ spot. This is a big deal where I come from.”
“Well, I’m honored then,” Grey said. He looked over at Jones, who was searching Grey’s face for a hint of sarcasm. “I’m serious, Jones. I mean it.”
“Then I’m glad I told you,” Jones said.
They drove on in silence. Minutes later Grey pulled the old Toyota into the hotel’s underground parking lot. Grey picked up the bag of hamburgers and fries and rode the elevator up to their room. He pushed into the room and nudged Jackson and Rogers with his foot. Jackson woke up slowly, reluctantly prying himself from a deep sleep. Rogers bolted into a sitting position, his eyes darting back and forth wildly, sweat streaming down his face in tiny rivulets.
“This is outrageous,” Rogers quipped. “My hypothalamus is really angering me.” He touched the damp skin on his arm. “Am I hot? No. I am not hot, but my body seems to think it needs to purge every ounce of liquid directly through my skin.” Looking forty years older than his actual age, he clumsily rose to his feet and tottered into the bathroom. “Good God, what happened in here? Who tried to flood us out?”
“Sorry,” Grey said. “I fell asleep in the tub.”
“Quite all right,” Rogers said. “It happens to the best of—” A gagging sound cut off his sentence midstream. Grey heard a gush of liquid stream into the toilet.
“You okay?”
“Just purging out the last of that Mexican poison,” Rogers said. “I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t forget to hydrate.”
“I won’t.”
Jackson gradually pried his eyes open and leaned up on his elbows. “What you got there, sir?” he asked, eyeing the bag in Grey’s hand.
“Three Big Macs with your name on them. How does that sound?”
“Hallelujah,” Jackson murmured. “I could use some food. I’m starved half to death.”
While Rogers showered, the three of them sat on the beds and wolfed down their hamburgers and fries. Grey found himself barely satiated after 2,000 fat-filled calories.
“So what’s next?” Jackson asked, wiping his hand across his mouth. “What’s the plan, sir?”
“We’re done for the day. I’m in no condition to stay up much longer, and I’d just assume we all get some more sleep. Tomorrow morning I’ll take someone to check out the gun store with me. Hopefully we’ll pick up some more info.”
Rogers emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. “Let’s hear it. Give me the scoop.”
“What scoop?” Grey asked. “You’ve already heard everything. We just got some food.”
“Oh,” Rogers said, his brow furrowing in concentration. “My God, I think I’m losing my mind.”
“And that’s why I think we’re useless tonight,” Grey said. “Playing Sherlock Holmes on no sleep is idiotic. Everyone should hit the rack.”
“I get to share a bed with the Good Reverend,” Jones drawled, nudging Jackson in the ribs. “He don’t sweat as much as you, Mr. Rogers.”
“I wouldn’t want an officer and a sailor sharing a bed anyway,” Rogers sniffed, feigning snobbishness. “You might dirty my linens.”
Jones snorted a laugh and flopped back on the bed. Grey found a dry spot on his own bed and instantly fell into a restless sleep.
SEVENTEEN
“MARK, WAKE UP. IT’S three o’clock.” Rogers gently shook Grey’s arm.
“Three?”
“That’s fifteen hundred, military time, sailor.”
“Shit.” Grey sat up and surveyed the dimly lit room. Jackson and Jones sat side by side on the edge of their bed, dressed and ready for action.
“Shit ain’t an order I understand, sir,” Jones drawled. “You’re gonna have to do a little better than that.”
Grey frantically sorted through the contents of his foggy head. Assorted bits of information flashed into his mind and then disappeared before he could assemble them into any semblance of order. He pulled the thin comforter up around his shoulders.
“I’ll help you out,” Rogers offered. “First of all, we have almost no leads. We know Redman might have killed Murray because he hated him, and on top of that, Murray supposedly knew Redman demonstrated a propensity for pilfering explosives, gun parts, and ammunition at his last command. I’m just not sure the pieces fit together.”
“So where does that leave us?” Jones asked. “We don’t got a dang thing.”
“Circumstantial evidence,” Rogers said. “That’s all we’ve got. But I think Mark was right when he suggested that a visit to the gun shop might bring up a few interesting leads. However, I think we need to do a little preparation before we go there.”
“Like what?” Grey asked.
“If we want to have someone at the gun s
hop positively ID an instructor who’s been making visits, we need pictures.”
“And where will we find pictures?” Grey asked.
“Back behind the Second Phase area at BUD/S there’s a filing room that has a picture of every SEAL,” Rogers explained. “I think we can manage to pilfer a picture or two without getting caught.”
“Sounds good. We’ll hit the compound first and then the gun shop.” Grey picked up the TV remote and handed it to Jackson. He wasn’t comfortable having his enlisted men risk their careers by sneaking around on base. “You and Jones will stay here. Take advantage of the rest.”
“Aw c’mon,” Jones protested. “I feel like the dang little brother again. Feels like I’m being left behind while you big boys go on a huntin’ trip.”
“Sorry Jones,” Grey said. “You can come next time.”
Jones shook his head sadly. “And I get the same old line. Next time,” he muttered.
“Get some rest,” Grey placed his hands on Jones’s shoulders and gently pushed him down into a sitting position on the bed. “Relax, but watch your phone.”
Grey grabbed a complimentary notepad and pen from the dresser and headed for the door. After a short drive, Rogers and Grey limped the quarter mile from the student parking lot to the BUD/S compound. A seamless wall of gray obscured the sun, casting a dull light over the sandy pavement. The side gate to the compound was locked shut, so Grey walked around to the quarterdeck.
“What’s up?” It was Rupert, an enlisted trainee who had been medically dropped from Grey’s class during Indoctrination. He leaned over the counter and smiled. “What are you two doing here anyway? Shouldn’t you be passed out somewhere?”
“Should be,” Grey replied, “but I’ve got other things on my mind. I need to ask a big favor.”
Rupert raised an eyebrow. “A favor? What’s on your mind?”
“I need to get into the storage room back behind Second Phase.”
“Why?”
“I can’t say. But trust me, you’d be breaking the rules for a very good reason.”
“I’m just supposed to take that on faith?” Rupert asked skeptically.