by David Reid
Grey shook his head. “Murray was worse off than I thought. I should have sent him to medical.”
The room was silent. Rogers face flushed red.
“That’s such a load of horseshit!” he blurted. “Goddamn it, Mark, that’s absolute crap, and you know it!”
Grey reeled in the face of Rogers’s uncharacteristic outburst.
“Yeah, that’s a bunch of bull,” Jones added.
Jackson shook his head slowly. “Ain’t no way, sir.”
Grey held up his hand to stop the stream of objections. “He was my responsibility. I knew he was sick. I kept it a secret. End of discussion.”
Rogers pushed Grey with surprising strength, knocking his head against the windowsill. “Fuck you, Mark! You’re not going to be a martyr! Not while I’m around! You protected Murray at every turn! If Redman and Furtado didn’t kill him, then he effectively killed himself!”
Grey pushed himself back into a sitting position and rubbed his head. Jackson and Jones were speechless. They watched Rogers with thinly disguised fascination.
“Fuck this place. Fuck it.” Rogers stood up. “They took Murray, and they broke all of us, including you. You might have survived the night, but they planted some evil seed in your head. They broke your insides.”
Grey winced as he rose to his feet. He grasped Rogers’s shoulders firmly. “Murray’s death is for me to deal with. I called you in here to tell you that you’re not done.” He shook Rogers. “Do you hear me? You’re not broken. You’re back in training, starting tomorrow.”
Rogers broke free from Grey’s grasp and leaned heavily against the wall. His voice caught in his throat. “What did you say?”
“You’re in. All of you.”
“All of us?” Jones asked.
“That’s what I said.”
“But why?” Rogers asked softly.
“Redman acknowledged that last night was bullshit. We had a talk, and we came to an understanding. He has always hated my guts. Always will. But he realizes the shit he put us through last night was unreal. He agreed to let all of you back in.”
“But why?” Rogers repeated. “Because he couldn’t break you?”
Grey remembered his threat to call the CO from a pay phone at the Mexican border, and Redman’s incredulous reaction. “He did it because he knew he was wrong. That’s all.”
“He didn’t say anything else? He didn’t talk about Murray?” Rogers asked.
“Murray made a bad call,” Grey said quietly. “A very bad call.”
The room was silent as his crew waited expectantly. “Well?” Jackson asked. “How about it, sir?”
Grey sat on his bed and cradled his head in his arms.
“What did he do?” Jackson asked.
“Leave him be,” Jones said. “He’ll answer when he’s good and ready.”
Grey closed his eyes and conjured up an image of Murray with a seabag slung over his shoulder in the middle of the night, eyes wide with surprise. Stupid fuck. Stupid fuck. I should have known.
“He tried to frame Redman,” Grey mumbled. “He stashed weapons and ammo in his trunk and then tipped off the NCIS.”
“What?” Rogers’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “Why would he do that? Why would Murray do an asinine thing like that?”
“He thought Redman was going to force him out. He wanted him out of the picture.”
“Well, I’ll be.” Jones whistled. “Damn crazy fool.”
“You didn’t know that while we were getting tortured, did you?” Rogers asked.
Grey shook his head. “No way.”
Rogers sat down next to Grey and put an arm around his shoulder. “That only furthers my point, Mark. This wasn’t your fault. None of it was.”
Grey changed the subject. “We need to do something for Murray. I’ll need your help tonight.”
“With what?” Rogers studied Grey’s face.
“It’s time to say good-bye in our own way. I thought a burial at sea would be appropriate.”
“Without the body?” Rogers asked.
“Without the body.”
After a long silence, Rogers nodded in affirmation. “Brilliant. You see, Mark, I’m not the only one with a sense of the beautiful. I’m sure Murray will be delighted.”
“I’ll bet he laughs,” Jones said. “Murray was like that, always laughin’ and carryin’ on.”
* * *
Clad in freshly pressed camouflage uniforms, Grey, Rogers, Jones, and Jackson trudged through the sand toward the back gate of the BUD/S compound. Their movements were unhurried, and with the exception of Jackson, who had a canvas seabag slung over his shoulder, they walked unencumbered. A faint squeak interrupted the still night as an opening appeared in the twelve-foot chain-link fence. They walked past the sentry wordlessly. Working in unison, they pulled a black inflatable boat from a metal rack and laid it on the concrete. Jones pulled four wooden paddles from the rack and placed them in the boat. At a signal from Grey, they hoisted the rubber craft onto their heads and slipped back through the gate.
The coastal breeze picked up as they climbed over a steep sand berm and marched toward the sea. They continued past the ocean’s edge, their pace never slowing as they waded into waist-deep water. With a nod from Grey, they lowered the craft into the frothy surf and climbed aboard. Their synchronized strokes eased them over the mounds of whitewash rolling toward shore. The gusty wind whipped trails of spray into their faces as they coaxed the craft out to sea, and the outline of the base grew distant, finally blending into the horizon.
“Here.”
Jackson opened the seabag and pulled out a life jacket, a dive mask, and a sheathed knife. Working quickly with nimble fingers, he secured the mask and knife to the orange jacket with a length of line. After a moment of silence, he spoke:
“Never have I known a man with more determination and a greater love for life. I know he rests with the Lord, and his spirit will live with us forever. The Good Book says there is life beyond death for the righteous.” He lowered the jacket into the rolling sea and gave it a gentle push. “We’ll miss you, brother. See you on the other side.”
“You were a good friend,” Grey added, “even if you were a pain in the ass.”
Jones spoke softy in his backwoods drawl. “Keep smilin’, you silly bastard. Don’t have too much fun without me.”
Precariously balancing himself at the bow of the boat, Rogers rose to his feet and addressed the dark sky.
Did my eyes once seek solace in the night sky,
stars falling with every breath?
Have I not shivered in offshore winds,
salt and iron bitter on my tongue?
Without a backward glance, I faced the tide.
It was a chance I had to take, and took.
* * *
Grey sat on the berm behind the barracks, his eyes trained on the rolling surf. He compulsively scooped up handfuls of sand and let the grains sift through his fingers. The fog crept in, blanketing the beach in damp silence. He clenched his jaw and tightened the muscles in his throat—anything to fight the tears welling up in his eyes. BUD/S. Goddamn beautiful place.
Grey shuddered as the evening breeze whipped past his exposed torso. He had stripped off his shirt, hoping the discomfort would keep his emotions in check. A car door slammed in the parking lot next to the barracks, shattering his solitude. He was too tired to turn his head. Tomorrow it starts again. Just you and me, buddy. Just you and me.
Grey ignored the hushed footsteps in the sand behind him. He tracked the progress of a well-lit freighter as it silently steamed out of the bay. He didn’t flinch when he felt two soft hands close over his shoulders.
“Mark?”
The voice was warm, familiar. The dam of tears threatened to break. He couldn’t answer.
“You poor baby. You look terrible.”
Grey’s insides warmed as a pair of lips grazed his neck.
“And you smell like crap.”
He wiped a
bare arm across his eyes. Hear that? I smell like crap. He reached behind his head and stroked a smooth cheek. The freighter sounded its horn twice as it steamed into the open ocean. He closed his eyes. Class 283 was already moving on. His crew was a day late. You said it best, buddy. This shit is paradise.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
SUFFER IN SILENCE. Copyright © 2011 by David Reid. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Reid, David, 1976–
Suffer in silence : a novel of navy SEAL training / David Reid.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-69943-7
1. United States. Navy. SEALs—Fiction. 2. Extortion—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3618.E5343S84 2011
813'.6—dc22
2011019508
First Edition: August 2011
eISBN 978-1-4299-8768-4
First St. Martin’s Press eBook Edition: August 2011