by Joe Nobody
No, the lady prosecutor from the backwater district in West Texas had to be addressed. Although small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things, she was still an obstacle in Gravity Well’s critical path. Sebastian’s highest priority was to ensure that weeds like those presented by Ms. Carson were nipped in the bud, and he had never failed.
Griffin eyed the six-pack in the fridge, imagining the tangy bite of the frosty brew as it rolled down the back of his throat. A quick glance at his watch informed him that it wasn’t even noon. “Too early,” he whispered, closing the door.
He had arisen at his normal 5:30 a.m., showered, shaved, and enjoyed a cup of instant coffee. He devoured the wheat bagel with extra cream cheese in record time.
Yesterday afternoon, his boss, after studying Griffin’s greasy, hairless arms and blistered skin, had insisted the marshal take a few days off. There had been a failed attempt at protest, Storm finally acquiescing to his superior’s wishes. Besides, he wanted some time to think things through while the FBI did their best to identify Detective Royce’s mystery man.
Now, he regretted agreeing to the sick leave so readily.
He had completed the prerequisite pushups, despite the exercise pulling his taut, singed skin. Physical conditioning, no matter what the cost in pain, was something that just couldn’t be denied. Tomorrow was gym day, and for a moment, he considered going early. “Give your wounds another day,” he finally conceded.
Next, a series of kata, Griff’s fists and kicks snapping the air as he performed the choreographed exercises to sharpen his focus and keep his skills fresh. Since he had been a small boy, the martial arts had served to balance his life and keep him centered.
Born to a Native American father and Irish mother, young Master Storm realized at an early age that he wasn’t like all the other kids. Rather than the attentions of the pretty girls, he attracted school bullies and wannabe cowboys. “The Indians lost, Storm,” they would tease. “You’re a loser.”
As he grew older, Griffin continued to pursue his martial arts interests, receiving instruction in several different disciplines and excelling at all of them. Part of his devotion was purely defensive, his skin color and facial structure different than the other children. He could still hear their whispers, “Indians are lazy. Indians only want government handouts. Indians are stupid.”
By the time he was old enough to drive a car, Griffin realized that the body he’d been given wasn’t physically exceptional or dominant by any measure. Only six feet tall and weighing less than 185 pounds, he was merely average in size, speed, and strength. From playground hijinks to competitive sports, it was apparent that he would never be the fastest or strongest, and that was an unacceptable dichotomy to the son of a warrior clan.
His father had been one of the few who had managed to escape the encapsulating poverty of the reservation. Granted a special scholarship to university, the older Storm had excelled at accounting and tax law. He’d married his fair-skinned college sweetheart two weeks after graduation. Accepting a job offer in Fort Worth, the young couple had set off to build a middleclass life in white suburbia.
While Griffin’s father wore a suit and tie to work every day, he never abandoned or forgot his heritage. Working a calculator for a paycheck didn’t mean the Storm household couldn’t uphold traditions. Living in suburban Dallas didn’t separate them from the tribe, its legacy, or its lore.
Puberty was difficult enough for most boys, let alone a kid who was trying to straddle two completely different societies. Griff’s parents made sure he saw the best and the worst of both cultures. That division also made him different… strange… an outcast among peers on both sides. That isolation, combined with the warrior spirit of his father’s tribe, demanded that he acquire defensive skills and push his body to the limit.
“That’s why you joined the Marines,” he announced to the empty apartment. “That’s why you’re such a gym rat. That’s why you love the dojo. That’s why you’re the best on the shooting range.” He sighed deeply before continuing. “That’s also why you’re single. That’s why you’re never going to get promoted.”
His mind traveled back to the Marine Corps and his first wife. It seemed so long ago now… like an entirely different life. He’d been happy then, the Apache in him pleased with joining the military, his family fine with another inter-racial marriage on the books.
Even after completing ROTC, graduating in the top 10% of his class at Quantico, and earning an infantry command, the social rejection continued. “He was accepted because he’s a minority,” or, “He’s the token Indian,” were common whispers behand Griff’s back. At one point, he overheard his classmates calling him Geronimo. He let it all slide off. He was on a mission to honor his Native American heritage. The Marine Corps was the one place that would make both sides of his family proud.
Semper Fidelis. Always loyal. Always faithful.
The official name of the operation was Phantom Fury. Most people, however, called it the Second Battle of Fallujah. In late 2004, the insurgency was just getting started in Iraq. Griffin had been there, serving with the 1st Battalion/3rd Marines.
His platoon’s mission had been simple on paper – act as a blocking force to keep insurgents from escaping as the inner city was invaded. Storm and his men were the anvil, several Army and Marine armored columns the hammers.
For 48 hours, Griffin’s unit had been relentlessly probed and attacked, small groups of heavily armed radicals desperate to escape into the Upper Euphrates Valley where they could hide among the population and avoid being captured or killed.
Men fleeing US Abrams battle tanks tended to be frantic, and the hardcore, street fighters slamming headlong into Griff’s position were no exception. Night and day, they snipped, rushed, maneuvered, and tried every tactic in the book to get around the Jarheads.
Griffin and his platoon weren’t greenhorns. First Lieutenant Storm was on his third tour, as were several of his men. They were dug in and had a free-fire zone that stretched 180 degrees to their front. As the battle raged in the inner city, the bodies began to pile up in front of the Marines.
At 50+ hours after the operation began, Griffin finally saw a lull in the action. His men were falling asleep at their posts, exhausted, hungry, and far from combat affective. He wasn’t in much better shape.
He ordered breaks, quickly setting up shifts that would allow the Leathernecks under his command a quick meal and a few hours’ sleep. He ordered his sergeants to make sure the men cleaned their over-used weapons, the local talcum powder the Iraqis called sand a serious threat to the small arms that were keeping them alive.
Griffin’s men respected him because the officer respected them. The LT was always fighting beside them, sleeping in the same filthy holes, eating the same meals, and riding in the same bouncing sardine cans called Humvees. Operation Phantom Fury was no different.
Despite his own exhaustion, Griffin continued to take a place in the line so that another Marine could get some sleep. Just before dusk on that third day, he spotted a small team of insurgents trying to sneak around their position.
This latest group was armed with the typical AK battle rifles, as well as one man who was carrying a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, or RPG. That made them especially dangerous.
The Iraqis spotted the Marine platoon at about the same moment, and a firefight erupted instantly.
Within seconds, another group of Iraqis joined their comrades, exponentially increasing the pitch of the battle. Volley after volley of lead flew between the two sides, Griffin’s men quickly gaining the upper hand due to their superior training and marksmanship.
Griffin spotted the guy with the grenade launcher hiding behind a heap of rubble less than 100 meters away. The LT’s fighting hole was the only one with a good angle.
As the lethal weapon burrowed into the man’s shoulder, Griffin centered the fellow’s chest on his front sight and pulled the trigger. Click. Nothi
ng. His weapon had failed.
Momentarily stunned that his rifle had not fired, it was less than a second before the LT shouted a warning, screaming, “RPG!” at the top of his lungs. His hands were blurs of flesh as he performed what his instructors had called remedial drills to clear his weapon and get back into the fight.
The front post of his M16 was just recovering when Griffin spied the sickening plume of smoke as the Iraqi’s rocket left the launcher. He killed the insurgent with three shots to the chest, but it was too late.
The round impacted 20 meters away from Griffin’s position, sending a blast wave of blistering air and whirling shrapnel over the battlefield. Well out of the kill zone, Griff initially ducked, and then was up and running toward his men.
Corporal Jones, a toothy kid from Denver who wanted to be a lifer in the Corps, died in Griffin’s arms moments later. The RPG’s shrapnel had nearly torn the young Marine in half.
The intense battle for the central Iraq city continued for four more days. Griffin was so absorbed in his duties and the constant fighting that the incident didn’t enter his thoughts again.
Then, three months later, the freshly promoted Captain Storm bolted awake one night, drenched in a coating of his own sweat, gasping for air, and absolutely horrified.
Jones had come to him in a dream, demanding to know why the LT hadn’t cleaned his weapon. “You ordered everybody else to make sure their rifles were ship-shape. Why didn’t you practice what you preached? Why did you let me die?”
Behind the ghostly Marine stood Griffin’s great-grandfather, regal and impressive in the full headdress of a warrior chief. “You came home to safety while the men under your command stayed to fight your battle with their lives. This is not our way. You embarrassed your ancestors. You should have stayed and fought until the end.”
Life had been such a whirlwind for the young officer, he hadn’t slowed down long enough to even think about that fateful day. He had finished his tour, gotten promoted, and was considering starting a family with his wife, Linda.
The nightmares grew in intensity, their nagging aftermath like an anchor around Griffin’s neck. He began drinking more, grew irritable, and for the first time, considered leaving the Marines. He dreaded sack time, feared closing his eyes at night despite always feeling exhausted.
Over and again, Griffin relived those days in Fallujah. Why hadn’t he cleaned his weapon? He knew better than anyone how important that seemingly mundane task could be. If he had taken five minutes to brush and lube that rifle, Corporal Jones would still be alive today. He would have killed the Haji with the RPG before the man could have launched his deadly projectile.
Just like Corporal Jones in that first nightmare, Griffin began to blame his lack of weapon maintenance for everything. He swore to never let sloppiness touch his life again.
In the end, it was his obsession over everything being cleaned and maintained to excessive levels that led to Griffin’s divorce. Linda, no matter how hard she tried, couldn’t keep their off-base condo in line with her husband’s exacting standards. Griffin spent their entire savings on brakes, engine oil, tires, and having other unnecessary maintenance performed on his wife’s car. He obsessed with cleaning everything from their lawnmower to their bicycles.
The men under Captain Storm’s command fared no better. They were constantly being scolded for not keeping their equipment to his expectations. The frequency of complaints against him increased to the point where his commanding officer took notice.
In 2005, the symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome weren’t widely known or accepted, especially in the Marine Corps, and most certainly not within the ranks of officers. Despite the lack of official diagnosis, experienced commanders recognized the signs of a troubled individual.
Griffin’s CO tried to work with him, gently guiding his new captain as best he could. The result was the opposite of what was expected, Storm becoming more and more anxious, eventually existing in a state of perpetual rage.
Linda left him, the combination of his drinking and fanatical behavior too much.
“Maybe you should consider leaving the Corps,” Griffin’s CO eventually suggested. “I have some friends out in the world. I could put in a good word for you, help you get started along a new path.”
Now, years later, Griffin looked back at that conversation with mixed feelings. He had been in bad shape then, a powder keg ready to explode. For his CO to recommend him for anything short of a padded room was lunacy in its own right. Yet, the brotherhood of those that served wouldn’t allow a fellow officer to be tainted, especially a man with a combat record such as Captain Griffin Storm. Documenting his true mental state would have ruined a brother’s life.
“Perhaps a change of scenery will help,” he had concluded, resigning his commission the very next day.
The only law enforcement branch Griffin had ever considered while growing up was the Secret Service. Given his military record, education, and minority status, he quickly landed an interview. Somehow, the man on the other side of the desk sensed a darkness within the candidate, and there was no second call.
The US marshals, however, didn’t pick up on the quiet ex-Marine’s issues. Just five weeks after shipping out, Griffin was hired and on his way to one of nation’s best training programs for those who enforce the law.
Somehow, he managed to keep his nose clean. The requirements for the marshal’s service were nothing compared to what he had endured in the military, Griffin able to meet both the physical and intellectual standards despite consuming serious quantities of alcohol throughout the entire process.
It helped that Griffin knew he was in trouble. Beer and whisky had become his only friends, invitations for everything from the softball team to weekend golf matches drying up quickly.
As his guilt and self-loathing grew, his quirky cleaning and preventive maintenance habits took hold. Even though no psychologist would diagnose him as obsessive-compulsive, he realized his oddities could escalate to disfunction. Alcohol was his way of self-medicating… reducing his stress… mellowing out. Organization and order gave him a sense of control.
Dude, you have got to get a life, someone is going to mistake you for an Adrian Monk wannabe, he chided himself. And with that thought, he scrubbed the sink, cleaned his weapon, folded his underwear, and rearranged his closet. The rest of the kitchen was already spic and span, so he set about spraying every surface of the bathroom using a cleaner laced with bleach.
He had tried to watch the television, but the news was all about fighting. Republicans were fighting the Dems, executive branch battling judicial, the White House engaged with The Hill. It all got so old. Few of the men in Washington knew what real combat was all about. Their petty bickering and overt backstabbing seemed so childish. “They should all be required to serve in a war zone with a Marine infantry unit for a year,” he quipped, “it would provide them with a new perspective on reality.”
Changing the channel to a sports highlight show consumed another 20 minutes of his morning, but then the broadcast started to repeat the same file footage. With an annoyed flick of the remote, the television went dark.
Sitting alone in the quiet room, his mind started to go down its familiar and dark path. He had been waiting for it, knew that yesterday’s attack would eventually come back around to haunt him. The urge was nearly irresistible. He should’ve been more forceful with his boss. Now wasn’t the time to take a few days leave.
The odor of the ointment on his skin didn’t help, nor did the constant, nagging discomfort of the injury. It wasn’t the pain; it was the reminder of a place he didn’t want to go, a route he desperately wanted to avoid. He fought it as hard as he had ever battled anything.
The immediate fix was the beer in the fridge, or if that didn’t work, the bottles of bourbon in the cabinet. “I’m not an alcoholic,” he reasoned. “I’m numbing the wounds suffered in the line of duty.”
He had found an un
comfortable balance between life and its nocturnal horrors. His compulsiveness was a coping mechanism, and he had become quite deft at hiding it from those around him. He drank, a lot, but somehow managed to perform his duties to the satisfaction of his superiors. He buried himself in his work, surviving day to day but constantly feeling like a man teetering on the edge.
As he had during his entire adult life, Griffin embraced physical fitness, constantly stressing his body with weights, running, kickboxing, and judo. It burned stress, and often working out to the point of collapse was the only way he could manage sleep.
The assassination attempt yesterday was drudging up old emotions, the stench of his own scorched flesh surfacing memories that he instinctively knew were best left compartmentalized somewhere in the far recesses of his mind. He had to do something. He had to get out of his apartment; he craved a distraction.
Taking time off from work, his primary therapy, was a bad idea.
As he paced around the minute living room, Griffin kept thinking about Kit. She was his only friend, if you could qualify their relationship with any single word. He wondered what she was doing just then, debated if he would be intruding or out of place if he simply showed up at her office. Calling, with or without a cell phone, was out of the question.
He decided to chance a visit. If she was busy, he’d conduct an orderly retreat.
An hour later, he was feeling relaxed in a favorite pair of faded blue jeans and a casual polo shirt. Strolling into Kit’s workplace, he had his best pickup line ready at the tip of his tongue. The prosecutor owed him a lunch, and he knew of just the right Tex-Mex eatery to satisfy her debt.
“Hi, is Ms. Carson in?” he asked the receptionist.
“Why no, Marshal Storm, she is taking some time off,” the middle-aged woman replied.
Griffin was instantly on alert, yesterday’s attempt on his life still fresh in his mind. “Is she okay?”
With a wave of her hand, Kit’s admin dismissed his concern. “She’s fine, Marshal Storm. After hearing about her day, the lead prosecutor insisted that Ms. Carson take some time off. Is there anything I can help you with?”
