by Dan Ames
“Yes I do, son.”
Samuel knows Purgitt probably hasn’t seen the inside of a gym since he attended his teenage son’s last basketball game. He pauses as if the thought just came to him.
“Can I ask a question?”
“Yes?”
Samuel makes his expression wide and open. The very picture of boyish innocence. “I heard what happened to Wilkins, that it was an accident. That’s what the guys were saying. Is that true or…?” Samuel hopes he isn’t overplaying it. He’s got to keep his newfound confidence in check as much as he can—if he can.
The Internal Affairs man shakes his head. “No, no. We’re simply double-checking the whereabouts of his crew, of anyone he may have had…differences…with.”
“If I may ask, why are you talking to me? We got along fine.”
“Yes, well…”
Samuel can see he’s making Purgitt uncomfortable. Samuel wants to laugh. He knows that Wilkins had a file on him, that he probably had written down some negative stuff.
“His preliminary review of your performance in ordnance, even though you’d just gotten started really, noted a need for…improvement.”
Samuel adopted a hangdog expression: the good sailor hurt that his best just wasn’t good enough. He held it for several seconds, then let a glint return to his eye, the kind that said, goddamn, I’ll just try harder then. These officious pricks ate it up.
Purgitt proved to be no exception. “Nothing to worry about, sailor. Your alibi checked out perfectly. You’re doing a good job and things are going to be back to normal in no time. Pretty soon you’ll be loadin’ bombs faster than the flyboys can drop ’em.”
“Glad to hear it,” Samuel says and lets a carefully executed smile beam across his face. “I’ll do everything I can to make that happen.”
“I know you will. I got an eye for these things.”
Chapter 30
The overworked and understaffed San Diego Police Department begins the Larry Nevens murder investigation with the steadfast routine in which they began all murder investigations since the Homicide Division was officially created back in 1956.
The homicide chief checks the “board” and sees what team is up. Two detectives, Markey and Lavin, are assigned the case via a cell phone call that alerts them to the location of an unidentified body. The body was discovered in the early morning hours of Tuesday by an elderly man and woman, who, on their regular walk, happened upon the remains.
The investigators arrive at the beach and examine the body of Larry Nevens.
Forensic work begins immediately, and by the third full day of their investigation, the SDPD homicide detectives are awash in information: Nevens was seen leaving a bar called The Outer Bank with one Rhonda McFarland the night of the murder. Miss McFarland is still missing. No one remembers seeing Nevens or the woman after they left the bar together. Nevens’ truck was found in the parking lot near the murder scene.
They have learned that the woman was a secretary at an accounting firm. Single, never married. An outgoing, sociable woman with a considerable appetite for men. A good-time girl with a heart of gold and few qualms about one-night stands.
Nevens was a BUD/S instructor. He had a reputation for pushing weak recruits hard. The DNA tests came back on the semen found on the scene. There are two types: one is Nevens’ and the other is unknown.
Markey and Lavin seek cooperation from the Navy and get it. They speak to colleagues, friends, anyone having contact with Nevens. They request blood samples from all of the recent BUD/S recruits. Since all recruits must submit a blood sample once a year as part of a Navy physical, all recruits have blood samples on file. The samples are forwarded to the SDPD, and tests are run.
There are no matches.
They question Nevens’ colleagues in the BUD/S program but can find no evidence of ill will. They also find no evidence of recruits with a grudge against Nevens. They learn that most who drop out of the BUD/S program feel they are better for the experience.
Because of the lack of DNA matches, the detectives focus on Nevens’ personal life. They learn he is divorced, a hard drinker, and a womanizer. They interview friends and family members, but can establish no credible suspects. At a dead end, the team decides to wait for new information or for the body of Rhonda McFarland to show.
In the meantime, the homicide chief has assigned the team two more homicide cases, and a week after being initially assigned the case, the Larry Nevens file is quickly shuttled to the bottom of their in-baskets.
Chapter 31
Something was bubbling at the back of Lowry’s mind. It was an odd sensation, although not entirely unfamiliar. He hated loose ends. Some called it anal retentive. He called it having your act together.
It was the end of a very bad week.
He looked through the report again on the death of Wilkins: it was bad. Accidents happened, but rarely did they result in someone’s death. And never someone under his command.
The gruesome and horrifying aspect of Wilkins’ death aside, Lowry focuses on how it will affect his career. A bit cynical—yes, he supposes it is. But the military doesn’t just wage wars on battlefields. The corporate aspect of the Navy can be just as bloody. You kick ass and take names. That’s how you get ahead.
Lowry looks again at the report. A chain slipped here, a safety lever wasn’t thrown there, and bam! You’ve got a dead man. Lowry sets aside the report and inspects the last official papers Wilkins had completed. His weekly log, preparations for a speech he was going to give on the future efficiency prospects of naval ordnance, several assessment reports. One of the reports catches his eye for two reasons: a) it’s got a lot of below-average checkmarks, and b) it’s the name of the newest recruit.
Ackerman, Samuel F.
Lowry skims the report. He’s about to fold the report up and put it away when it hits him—the thing he couldn’t remember, hanging out on the fringe of his consciousness.
Ackerman.
Lowry fishes through the papers on his desk and comes up with the latest edition of All Hands. He flips through the pages until he finds the article he’s looking for. Larry Nevens. BUD/S instructor. Murdered.
Lowry checks the date.
He sits back in his chair.
Ackerman was in the BUD/S program but didn’t make it. Nevens was most likely one of his instructors.
Lowry checks the date again, then flips to his personal calendar and pinpoints the day he met with Ackerman.
It fits but has to be a coincidence. Two dead men, both of whom probably interacted with Ackerman?
Even if he went ahead with reporting his thoughts to someone, who would that be? One of the JAGs?
What evidence does he have? What motivation will he point to? Is he, Lowry, really prepared to suggest something this sinister? If he’s wrong and Ackerman finds out, maybe even sues him, his career would be over.
Twenty-five years of solid duty he’s contributed to the Navy. Does he really want to risk it all on some half-cocked theory?
He thinks for a moment and then it comes to him. He’ll make an official entry in his journal, dated, stating his suspicions. He’ll send an email to the JAG knowing full well it will never get read. It’s called passing the buck. Nothing will ever happen. But if it does, he’ll be able to say, “I passed my suspicions on to the right people. THEY were the ones who didn’t handle it.”
And now for the most essential part of the plan.
Get rid of Samuel F. Ackerman as fast as possible.
Chapter 32
In the late afternoon, Florida’s thunderclouds act like schoolyard bullies: they threaten often, but rarely follow through.
Above the open sea near the Pensacola naval base, a bank of dull orange spreads out beneath the gray clouds, and a stiff breeze turns the bay next to the Navy yard into rough chop. On the far horizon, a few fishing boats are scattered along a deep shelf. Crab traps, marked by a single white spherical buoy, follow the shoreline.
&nbs
p; Under the fading intensity of the afternoon sun, Samuel is on his ninety-seventh pull-up and feeling good. Shaky. Exhausted. His body screaming in agony. But good.
He’s never done one hundred pull-ups in a row. The highest he’s ever gotten is ninety. Sweat is streaming from his face, and his arms are quivering, but he feels strong. He tightens his muscles and raises himself, his triceps hot and angry, his hands in agony. He lifts his chin over the bar—ninety-eight—and drops back down, his feet locked behind him.
He hangs his head, resting.
A motorboat speeds by on the bay, its hull pounding into the waves with hollow booms. An egret pokes its beak into the shallow water looking for mullet.
Samuel lifts his head up and looks at the bar just as he hears footsteps approaching on the sidewalk behind him. His shoulders constrict, his abs tighten, and he lifts himself, slowly but powerfully. His chin is inches from the bar when a voice calls out to him.
“Ackerman?”
Samuel thrusts his chin forward, but it isn’t quite over the bar, and he feels a stab of pain as the skin breaks. His head snaps back, and he nearly lets go of the bar, but manages to hold on. Come on! he yells at himself. He pulls and his body slowly rises. The pain in his arms and chest are joined by the throbbing of the cut along his chin. He closes his eyes and heaves, using the pain to help him lunge upward, and he clears the bar—ninety-nine!—then slowly eases back down, hanging from the bar as if in sacrifice.
Blood streams from the cut on his chin. The sweat from his face pours down, works its way into the cut, and stings like small needles.
Samuel pushes aside the pain, the fatigue, and focuses on the voice. He knows it. Knows to whom it belongs.
Lowry.
“One more,” Samuel says, his voice a ragged gasp.
Samuel begins the pull. His hands are shaking, his triceps are on fire, and his entire body screams in pain. His focus begins to waver. Why is Lowry here? What does he want? Did the Internal Affairs guy, Purgitt, talk to him?
His head momentarily blanks, and his left hand slips from the bar.
“Whoa, Nellie,” Lowry says, his voice faintly mocking.
The words register in Samuel’s mind and like a match to gasoline, fill his head with an explosive fury. He thrusts his left hand back up, grabs the bar, and pulls. His body rises, a shuddering Phoenix, and the bar comes into view. One hundred, one hundred, one hundred. The number is a mantra in Samuel’s mind. And then, just like that, he’s over.
One hundred.
Samuel lowers himself back down and drops from the bar. His hands feel like gnarled roots. His arms, back, and chest ache.
His knees buckle and he sits in the sand.
“How many?” Lowry’s voice is still amused, but the mocking tone is gone. It better be, Samuel thinks.
“One hundred.”
Lowry whistles. “Good show.”
The sweat is pouring from Samuel. His shirt drips with perspiration. He needs a drink.
Lowry clears his throat then says, “Listen, normally I would do this in my office, but I needed to track you down right away. There’s been a change of plans.”
Samuel studies Lowry’s face. The big glasses, the weak chin. He looks like a weasel, Samuel thinks. And like a weasel, he’s about to squirm out of something. Samuel has a fair idea of what it’s going to be.
“There are some changes in ordnance due to Wilkins’ death. Things are going to be reshuffled a bit. These changes are going to affect a lot of people. Including you.”
“How so?” Samuel asks.
“You’re being rotated out.” Lowry gives him a good ol’ boy smile.
“Where to?”
“You’re going home, son.”
Samuel’s heart drops into his shoes. He’s being discharged? Impossible! He’s not eligible for BUD/S training—
Samuel sees the look on Lowry’s face. It’s not the face of a man kicking someone out of the Navy. Samuel realizes what he’s going to say a split second before Lowry utters it. He looks out over the water, sees the egret spear a mullet and swallow it whole.
“I’m going to be—”
Lowry claps his hands together.
“—the best damn recruiter Silver Lake, Wisconsin, has ever seen!”
Samuel keeps his gaze out toward the water. The waves have grown bigger, the swells more intense with white water foaming at their peaks.
“Best of all, “ Lowry continues, “you can head out to Coronado in less than a year for BUD/S training if you’re approved. Maybe this time you’ll make it.”
Samuel smiles back at Lowry.
“Oh, I’ll make it. Or die trying.”
Chapter 33
The physical therapist is a moderately portly woman with a big smile and eyes that Beth thinks have seen a lot of pain. Her name is Judy, and she gets right to work.
“We’ve got a lot to do, Beth. How’s the drainage?”
“It’s been seeping like a Vermont maple with a bucket slung around it.”
Judy smiles and says, “A sense of humor is going to be very important for you to get through this.”
“I promise to be a barrel of laughs.”
“Now did they drain it recently?”
“Yesterday,” Beth says. A terribly horrible procedure that Beth would like to block from her mind forever. For now, the brace is back on, and Judy is pulling Beth to her feet. The crutches are leaning against the wall in the physical therapy room—an odd little space full of mats and pads and exercise bicycles and weights. A bright room Beth views as a torture chamber. She knows instinctively that she will grow to hate this room, Judy, and probably herself.
Judy instructs her on the proper way to stand and then says, “Okay, let’s apply just a little bit of pressure.”
Beth complies, and the pain shoots through her body. She gasps, feels the blood drain from her face. She starts falling, and Judy catches her, but a wrenching pain rockets up her leg and she screams.
Judy eases Beth into a chair.
The fury and anguish rise up in Beth, and she holds her face in her hands, tears streaming between her fingers.
“It’s all right, honey,” Judy says. “That was good.”
Beth snorts, a wet, sloppy sound that she instantly recognizes as perhaps the most pathetic sound she’s ever made.
Judy takes it in stride. “Maybe just a little too much pressure too soon. Okay?” Judy pats her on the back.
And then Beth hears the words that she knew were coming and that she knows she will dread for the next nine to twelve months.
“Let’s try it again.”
Chapter 34
Beth looks down at her leg on the ottoman. A year, she thinks. A year before you’ll let me play ball.
Only one school had been willing to give her a scholarship. And now that scholarship is in the quick little hands of the Tank. She’ll be there for four years. Why would they give another scholarship to a point guard? Answer: they won’t.
A commercial comes on the television. It features a ship slashing through the wide-open ocean. A helicopter lowers a stretcher into the water. Men and women in uniform stand on the deck of an aircraft carrier.
The Navy.
Beth immediately flashes to memories of her father. He was in the military.
Could she follow in his footsteps? She almost laughed. What a joke. A ruined knee, can’t play basketball. So join the military? A friend of hers had done it—through something called DEP, the delayed entry program. She could join and then wait almost a year before she actually got shipped out.
Yeah, but the Navy?
No, Beth thinks. Not for me.
She looks around the living room. The dingy carpet, the ugly walls.
She visualizes the picture of her father.
What would he think of her joining the Navy?
She sits there, the pain in her leg momentarily forgotten. The cheap clock on the wall chimes the hour.
Beth hears none of it.
; Instead, she reaches for her cell phone.
Chapter 35
Samuel waits in line with fifty or so other sailors who have completed the recruiter training. Their grades (pass/fail) are posted on a single sheet of paper on the second floor of the Alfred P. Knox Building. Most of them are anxious to see that they’ve passed and can then apply for where they’ll be posted.
Samuel already knows where he’ll be going.
Silver Lake, Wisconsin. A suburb of Milwaukee.
It is warm in the hallway. No windows are cracked, the air hangs flat and heavy and wet. A thin line of sweat has broken out along Samuel’s forehead, and he wipes it off with the back of his hand. His shoulders are tense, and he rotates his head, feeling the muscles pull and relax with the effort.
It’s been a dreary two weeks for him. Day after day of classes, sitting in a big room with two hundred people going over endless information on salesmanship. Learning how to master the art of luring young people into the eternally grasping hands of the Navy. Not really an art though. A science.
Samuel, waiting in line and tired of staring at the neck of the sailor in front of him, unconsciously reviews the tenets.
1. Opening. Be positive. Friendly, but in an honest way. Move promptly to the business at hand.
2. Probing. Use open probes to help discover the needs of the potential recruit.
3. Acknowledging. Build empathy by acknowledging the potential recruit’s needs.
4. Supporting. Show how benefits of Navy meet expressed needs of potential recruit.
5. Closing. Review next steps.
Five professional selling skills designed to swell the ranks of the Navy and guarantee more funding. It is all about money, Samuel thinks. Well, he can’t blame them. After all, he has his own agenda.
The line moves forward, and Samuel can almost make out the paper ahead of him. Ackerman should be the first on the list, as usual. There’s little doubt in his mind that he’s made it. The principles were easy. He’s always hated salesmen, but their tactics are easy to learn, understand, and use.
