Steel Fear

by Brandon Webb

  “Which would be caused by?”

  “The mind knows how to wall off a traumatic event, encapsulating it to protect the rest of the system. Much like the body cordons off an abscess.”

  “It dissociates,” said Finn.

  “It dissociates,” Stevens agreed. “When something gets close to or touches upon the traumatic event, like some sensory or emotional trigger, the subject might respond with heightened anxiety and a whole range of symptoms without knowing why. It might seem wholly irrational.”

  Finn frowned.

  “I’m sure your friend’s considered the obvious,” said Stevens.

  “PTS.” Shell shock, they used to call it before the age of acronyms. Finn slowly shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

  “That is the logical first place to look. Assuming your friend is, like you, a SEAL who’s probably seen a good deal of war, this wouldn’t be a surprising consequence.”

  Finn put his head down for a moment, thinking. Then looked up.

  “I’ve been in the field for close to two decades,” he said. “More or less continuously. I’ve seen a lot of terrible things. Some too terrible to put into words.”

  “Happens in war,” said Stevens.

  They were silent for a moment.

  They had both seen terrible things.

  “But I can pull up every single one, with total clarity,” Finn added softly. “In detail. I couldn’t honestly describe any as walled off, or buried, or repressed. Some were so horrific, no sane person would want to hear about them, or even know about them. But I can think back over every one, replay each one in my mind. Doesn’t even raise my heartbeat.”

  Stevens nodded. “Well,” he said. “Maybe those are just the ones you remember.”

  59

  Just the ones you remember.

  Finn sat at the foot of his rack and spread out the items Stickman had procured for him. Two little component frames, designed to hold a pair of AAA batteries. A jeweler’s tool kit, including a few tiny screwdrivers, a miniature pair of pliers, wire cutters, and tweezers. A small soldering iron. A jeweler’s magnifying headset. To which he now added a pocket digital recorder he’d brought on board with him and a roll of duct tape from the ship’s store.

  He slipped on the magnifying headset and picked up the first component, a miniature amplifier. Removed each of the tiny screws that held the case together and pulled it gently apart. Removed the circuit board and placed the empty casing pieces to the side.

  An incipient short in the wiring.

  Next he unsoldered the wires leading to the amplifier’s two tiny microphones, extended them several inches and resoldered them, then located the power wires and extended those and connected the free ends to one of the AAA battery frames.

  He set the device down, picked up a second component—a mini-transmitter—and repeated the procedure, removing the board from its case and extending its power wires, then attaching those, too, to the AAA battery holder, using heat-shrink tubing wherever he made connections to prevent shorts.

  He plugged the two components together, then set that whole assembly to the side. Now he turned his attention to the next bit of electronics, a miniature receiver, and began disassembling that one.

  Once the miniature receiver’s innards were exposed, he picked up his little digital recorder and began peeling the electronic meat out of its shell.

  Has your friend had other memory lapses?

  It had started two weeks earlier, with that botched raid in Mukalla. They breached the compound, found themselves staring at nothing but smoke—and his next clear memory was of waking up the following morning at daybreak, lying on the ground on his Gore-Tex blanket back at their base camp.

  Finn’s memory was among his most precious assets, possibly the most powerful weapon in his sniper’s tool kit. Far more than being able to aim and shoot a rifle, it was his abnormal talent for observation, storage, and retrieval that caused SOCOM to pour a small fortune into training, equipping, and deploying him.

  The other guys in Spec Ops training had to work like fiends to develop their powers of observation and recall. Building memory muscle was a critical part of sniper training, and he’d watched his teammates struggle. Not him. For Finn, it was just there. Among the teams he was known for it. Legendary, even.

  A memory prodigy with holes in his memory.

  Fucked-up mass of contradictions.

  He set the finished assembly down on his bunk, went over to his locker, and retrieved a thick, leather-bound volume he’d persuaded Olivia, the writer at the PAO office, to “loan” him from their reference library.

  Did he miss something critical that night in Mukalla? See something critical? Some pivotal footage buried in that hours-long trench between crashing into the empty building and lurching awake the next morning?

  He opened the big book, picked up his steel ring knife, and began slicing into the pages.

  60

  Lew Stevens swiveled slowly in his desk chair, gazing at the anthropological artifacts that graced the bulkheads of his office as he mused about his odd visitor.

  Situated by itself down a short passageway around the corner from the main medical suite, Lew’s office had been dubbed “the museum wing” by some medical wit for the series of tribal masks on display there: a Maori haka mask, an ancient Etruscan death mask, a Japanese ko-omote Noh drama mask, a Hopi ceremonial katsina mask, and a number of others.

  This was Lew’s fascination. Happily for him, it was also his job: decoding masks. Not, as most laymen might assume, to dig behind the mask in hopes of finding the “real person,” but to decipher the mask itself, why it was there, its purpose to the wearer. What Lew understood was that masks were for most people not a way to conceal but a way to express. The “real person” didn’t hide behind the mask so much as he or she sought to make sense of their world and their place in it through the mask.

  And this SEAL wore one seriously intriguing mask.

  Like Indy, Lew had been curious about the SEAL from the day he boarded the Lincoln. He, too, had been poking around, looking into his military record, which was unusual to say the least. But that strange encounter on the flight deck? The man’s bizarre reaction to the line-crossing ritual?

  Just what the heck was that all about? And was it connected to the memory gaps?

  He pulled out a small notebook and looked up the number of a colleague, a Navy psychologist in Coronado. He entered the number, heard two rings, then a familiar voice.

  “Dan Van Ness. Hold for the beep, then state your case.”

  Lew held for the beep.

  “Dan, hi, it’s Lew Stevens. Listen, I’m calling from the USS Abraham Lincoln. Looking for some background on an active-duty SEAL, goes by the singular name of Finn, last posted to Black Squadron Echo Platoon in the Gulf. Looking for any unusual issues, early history, treatments, et cetera. Appreciate it, Dan. You can reach me here on the Lincoln.”

  He hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. Swiveled around, looking again at his collection of masks.

  Lew Stevens had seen a lot of deeply troubled souls in his twenty-odd years as a psychologist. One thing he’d observed consistently was that everyone, no matter how conflicted or scarred, was the hero of their own story. And everyone had a story. One’s story was one’s mask, as expressed over the dimension of time. Or to put it the other way round, the mask was simply the story encapsulated. To unwrap the mask was to unravel the story.

  Most stories, in Lew’s experience, were fairly transparent. A rare few were so opaque they were almost impossible to read. He suspected Finn’s story was such a case.

  Still, he knew early trauma when he saw it.

  61

  Midrats. Act normal.

  Monica moved down the food line, placing a few items on her tray. Taking her time, she wove through the tables an
d found an empty spot next to a quiet, studious-looking pilot.

  Alan Rickards. Flew one of the air wing’s gigantic E-2 Hawkeyes. The E-2 was a long-distance radar detection craft, not a fighter, and the Hawkeye pilots were less showy than their fighter jet cousins. Monica knew Rickards by reputation; a serious but easygoing guy. Well liked by his peers.

  She took the seat next to him, pulled her fat NATOPS manual from under her arm, and plopped it down next to her tray. Took a bite of her late-night snack.

  Rickards nodded at the manual. “Need directions to study hall?”

  She grinned. “I know, it’s a little hard-core.” She took another bite and turned a page.

  “Cramming in every minute you can spare. Remember it well,” he said.

  They went on like that for a few minutes, back and forth. She admitted that she was nervous about getting through the next few weeks leading to her checkride. That her CO was one seriously tough boss. She mentioned his name.

  Rickards laughed. “I’m not surprised.”

  “No?” she said.

  “Papadakis and I were in the same class at the Academy.”

  “Really,” she said—although that was precisely the reason she’d tracked him down. “I had no idea. So you know him.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Rickards.

  “Sometimes it feels like he’s, I don’t know, tougher on those of us who are women.”

  Rickards smiled. “To be honest, that doesn’t surprise me, either. Nikos was never a guy you’d accuse of being woke. Not that we had that term in those days.” Warming to the topic. “Contrary to popular belief, though, we weren’t all Neanderthals. I mean, everyone knows the stories, Tailhook and all that. People assume it was systemic.”

  He took a bite and frowned as he chewed.

  “I’m here to tell you, it was not systemic. There were some jerks. Quite a few jerks, actually.” He swallowed. “But when that kind of ugly stuff went down, you know what, we hated it as much as anyone. Hey, I’ve got sisters. I’ve got a mom.” He shook his head. “That was some ugly stuff.”

  They ate in silence for a moment.

  So far, so good.

  “Was there,” she began, then she paused and started over. “When you were there, was there anything, I don’t know, weird, or off, in terms of how he treated women?”

  Rickards’s demeanor changed instantly. “Off, how?” Cautious.

  “I don’t know,” she said, “just, any scuttlebutt about stuff he did, anything specific you heard about? Off the record?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Such as?”

  It felt like the room temperature had just cooled ten degrees.

  “I just, nothing specific, I guess I just wondered, if there were any rumors, or talk, about how he got along with his female classmates, or—”

  Rickards cut her off. “I’m sure you’ll be judged on merit, Lieutenant. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “Of course,” she said quickly. “I’m sure you’re right.” She felt her face go red. Thank God for the low lights at midrats. “I’ve heard my NATOPS officer is a super-nice guy. What was it like for you, your first checkride?”

  She managed to steer the conversation back to aviation and current events aboard the Lincoln. After a minute or two she even tried to nudge them back toward the Academy days again, but it went nowhere. Rickards had closed up shop, pulled down the steel shutters for the night.

  After another few minutes the Hawkeye pilot stood, bade her a cordial good night, and left.

  Monica felt almost nauseous, in part from the adrenaline aftermath and in part out of sheer relief that the conversation was over. Mostly, though, from that sickeningly familiar sense of boys closing ranks.

  Guys protecting guys.

  Rickards seemed like a decent enough person.

  She didn’t believe him for a second.

  62

  When he didn’t see CMC Jackson at Chief’s Mess the next morning, Finn headed above to check in general mess. Sure enough, there he was, sitting alone: reading, eating, greeting passersby.

  “This seat taken?” said Finn. Without waiting for a reply, he sat down in the next seat over and went to work on his breakfast. Oats, sardines from a can. Spring water.

  They ate in silence for a minute.

  Finn spoke first. “Come here often?”

  Jackson grunted. Finn guessed that was as close as he got to a laugh.

  “Food’s better down in CPO mess,” Finn commented.

  Jackson nodded. “This is true,” he said. He took another bite of whatever it was they were calling “breakfast hash.”

  Finn gestured vaguely at the space with his spoon. “I’m guessing you eat here now and then just to keep your thumb on the pulse.” It was highly unusual for chiefs to eat with the enlisted ranks, practically taboo. The fact that Jackson did it anyway impressed him.

  “No better place,” agreed Jackson. He glanced over at Finn’s tray. Withheld comment. Not a sardine fan, Finn’s guess.

  “Pulse seems like it’s running a little ragged today,” said Finn. “Not so popular, the whole skipping-Malaysia thing.”

  “True again,” said Jackson. “Say, you’re good at this.”

  “This?”

  “Small talk.”

  Finn took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “You too,” he said.

  The two ate in silence.

  Finally Jackson spoke up again. “Tell me something? Why just the one name.”

  Mid-bite, Finn took a moment. “Never knew my parents’ last name.”

  Jackson nodded. “Foster names?”

  “A bunch. None stuck.” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “So Finn it was.”

  “And they let you get away with that?”

  “When I enlisted they said I had to list a last name. So I put ‘X.’ ”

  Jackson looked at him. “You’re shitting me. That’s it? Finn X?”

  “That’s it.”

  Jackson shook his head. “Finn X.”

  Finn heard someone walking toward him from behind. Heavy treads. A single quiet cough: ark!

  Tucker walked by with his tray, glowering at Finn as he passed. Finn figured he didn’t dare bark more overtly with the CMC sitting there.

  “Friend of yours?” said Jackson, without looking up.

  “Sparring partner,” said Finn.

  Jackson grunted. Another few seconds passed in silence. Then Finn said, “So how goes the investigation?”

  “ ’Scuse me?” Now Jackson looked up.

  Finn shook some pepper onto a sardine and popped it in his mouth.

  The CMC sighed. “If I were investigating anyone, I’d probably start with you, Finn X. They say you’re all over the ship, asking questions everywhere. A regular Joe Friday.”

  Finn nodded. “I think your captain thinks I’ve been put here to spy on him.”

  Jackson looked surprised, then thoughtful. “Maybe he’s right.”

  Finn gave a soft chuckle and glanced sideways at the other man. After a moment he said, “You don’t smile much, do you.”

  Jackson took another bite. “So you’re, what, like a wandering samurai? Down these mean streets, and so on? Looking for justice, Finn X?”

  “Justice isn’t really my thing.”

  “Well now that prompts the question, doesn’t it. What exactly is your thing?”

  Finn took a long drink of water. Set the glass down. Then said, “Commodities.”

  “Commodities.”

  Finn went back to his oats and fish.

  “Like orange juice?” prompted Jackson. “Coffee, pork bellies?”

  “Something like that.”

  Commodities.

  He could see Jackson wondering what on God’s green earth that was supposed to mean but no
t about to give Finn the satisfaction of asking. Instead, he put his knife down and pointed at Finn with his fork. “It occurs to me that you were one of the last people to see Lieutenant Shiflin alive. The last person to see Schofield alive, far as we know. You wouldn’t happen to be the angel of death, would you, Mister Finn?”

  “Just—”

  “Just Finn, I know.” Jackson sat, waiting the other man out.

  Finn took another bite. “I see a lot. It’s—”

  “It’s what snipers do?”

  Finn saluted him with his fork, scooped up the last sardine. Stood up with his empty tray, said, “Good talk,” and walked off.

  He’d sunk the hook. That should be enough.

  On to the next op.

  63

  If you observed this passageway often enough, as Finn had, you began to learn its rhythms. Right now mess was over, morning shifts were fully staffed, people had settled into their routines. Traffic on the gallery level was light. It was never fully deserted, but every so often there would come a lull long enough that you could stand in one spot and experience five or six seconds of solitude.

  Finn had timed it in his mind. Five or six seconds was all he needed.

  He strolled down the passageway, past the captain’s suite. A few doors down he reversed course. By the time he passed back that way again he was alone.

  He set his mental timer to zero and clicked into action—

  —reached over and punched in the sequence of digits he’d watched a steward enter on the security keypad

  —quickly glanced up and down the passageway

  —cracked open the door

  —slipped inside

  —pulled the door shut behind him

  —and stopped his mental timer—

  Five and a half seconds.

  He snaked across the small anteroom, oozed through that door and into the captain’s parlor. Took a slow breath, listening to the silence. Looked around, taking it all in.

  He saw why they called it the “Lincoln Room.” The place was decked out like a museum exhibit of nineteenth-century life. Dark hardwood furnishings, period wallpaper, the whole nine yards.