by Weston Ochse
“It’s Keats, by the way,” Laws pointed out.
“What?” Fratty didn’t get it.
“Keach was the actor. Keats was the poet. ‘Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream?’”
Walker stared in wonder. Was there anything that Laws didn’t know? It seemed like he had an answer for everything.
Laws saw Walker’s expression and waved it off. “I have an audiographic memory. Whatever I hear, I remember.” He paused, then added, “It’s a curse.”
12
THE MOSH PIT. NIGHT.
Ruiz led Walker out of the conference room and into the hangar proper for a tour of the Coronado Pest Control facilities, or as the SEALs referred to it, the Mosh Pit. The cavernous interior of the metal building had fifty-foot ceilings and ran half a football field long and wide. Offices ran along the left side as well as the conference room. Five suites along the back wall were designated as living quarters for the members of SEAL Team 666. Each suite had a bedroom, a media/sitting room, a bathroom, and a kitchenette. To the right of the hangar’s door were the armory and the equipment room. Entrance to the building was through a small foyer with a false wall and a reception area, just in case someone came in and actually wanted pest control.
The center of the room was filled with any number of plush leather chairs, leather sectionals, and stools. Tables were arrayed strategically around the room with academic books, supernatural tomes, and magazines of all shape and size including Mother Jones, Jane’s Defense Weekly, Smithsonian, National Geographic, various comic books, Jane’s Intelligence Review, Esquire, and Soldier of Fortune.
Walker noted the broad selection. Mother Jones was a magazine known for its stances on human rights, conservation, and culture, dominated by deep anti-military sentiment. That it was among the selections said a lot about the team.
Ruiz, who saw Walker pick up a copy of the magazine, said, “Holmes likes us to be well versed in everything that’s going on. Sometimes I’ve found leads in there that helped me.”
Walker put Mother Jones down and picked up a comic book with Wolverine on the cover. “And this one? Glean any secrets out of the pages of this stately tome?”
Ruiz chuckled. “No. But it helps pass the time between ops.”
An immense climbing wall took up space near the back of the room. Thick-roped cargo nets could be raised and lowered from the ceiling, along with several rope lines that were most likely used to practice climbing and fast-roping. Windows were set in the eaves near the roof to let light in all the way around the building.
The rooms and the offices were enclosed with drywall and wood. But because they were only standard height, their roofs were repurposed. Above the suites was a full kitchen and a fully stocked bar. An assortment of chrome café tables and chairs were arrayed in front of this. The space above the offices held weight-training equipment, including free weights, treadmills, and StairMasters.
But as incredible as everything was, what amazed Walker the most were the pictures, paintings, and things adorning the walls.
The things were clearly trophies of past ops, including strange horns, clawed hands, one large immense tooth, jaws, the tail of something that had to have been a Buick-sized lizard, and the stuffed head of some kind of demonic creature that had wiry horns, a flat face, and wide-slanted eyes. This memorabilia covered two walls from floor to ceiling. It was as if a big-game hunter had stumbled into the world of the supernatural.
An eye-level platform extended from one of the walls by three feet. Affixed to this stood a taxidermically stuffed creature resembling a muscular Great Dane, albeit this creature had a twisted spine and legs, and twisting ram horns coming from its head. A plaque on the side of the platform read CHUPACABRA, MEXICO, 2004.
Twin clamps held a six-foot-long red worm. Hairs bristled its hard skin. A puckered indentation covered the lower end of the worm, while triple rows of razor-sharp teeth covered the upper end. A plaque read MONGOLIAN BLOOD WORM, 1964.
He could stay and stare at these for hours, but the pictures and paintings drew him to another wall.
Two separate walls had distinct groups of pictures. One wall held photos and paintings of men, and one woman, going back over two hundred years. Their uniforms changed with the times, going backwards from the present through Vietnam, Korea, the World Wars, the Civil War represented by both the Union blue and Confederate gray. Then the photos were replaced by pictures going all the way to a man in a white wig, who was clearly landed gentry from the time of George Washington. The newest one was a handsome Asian lieutenant, the date of his death reading May 2, 2011. Walker knew that date.
“That’s the SEAL you replaced. He was a great man. You want to find out what happened in Abbattobad, check the mission logs. In fact, you’ll find them more interesting than anything else you’ve ever read.”
Walker had seen the glass-enclosed shelves containing the volumes. Where the newest ones had glistening black spines, the older ones were frayed, with pieces of fabric jutting free. He definitely wanted to read them and learn the history of his new unit.
It was funny. Before he’d felt gypped, thinking that he’d not be able to live the life of a SEAL the way he’d wanted. But the more he listened to the others and the more he looked at the sheer magnitude of their missions and history, the more he began to appreciate the fact that he’d been selected to be a member of the most elite organization in the history of the free world.
The other set of photographs were of dogs. The recent dogs were all Belgian Malinois, but there were also German shepherds, a few Great Danes, pit bulls, bulldogs, many unidentified mutts, and finally, the earliest dog on the wall, an oil painting of an English spaniel.
Holmes stuck his head out of the conference room and glanced around, then yelled at Ruiz. “You’re not done yet? Get him his gear and tell the others. We got to prep. We leave in three hours. Special Projects Group got a lead on the ship in Macau. We’re going to investigate.”
Ruiz glanced longingly at the bar atop the living quarters. “Three hours? Hell, that’s barely enough time to shit, shower, and shave. You sure SPG got it right?”
“Get your ass in gear, SEAL,” Holmes growled. “You’ll have a chance to unwind when the world is safe.” He grinned momentarily. “Or at least when this is over. I could use some unwinding myself.” Then he was all seriousness once again. “Now get the FNG his stuff and get ready.” Then he went back into the conference room and shut the door.
Ruiz turned to Walker. “You heard the man. Let’s get your things and I’ll show you your digs. Then we gotta get ready.”
13
SPG OFFICES. NIGHT.
Half an hour later, Walker drove one of the team jeeps across Coronado and pulled in front of a building with a sign out front that read SPECIAL PROJECTS GROUP. The lights were on inside and cars were still parked in the lot. That it was near midnight meant nothing to the mission. He parked, ran up the stairs, opened the door, waved a hand at the secretary, and was down the hall into an office.
A slim woman with red hair and a splash of freckles turned toward him when he entered. She didn’t have time to say anything before she was swept into his arms. Walker kissed her deeply. At first she had her hands on his arms, trying to push him away, but soon she relaxed and hugged him tightly. She returned the kiss and they remained that way for a long passionate minute.
When they separated, her face was so flushed that her freckles were almost hidden. Her blue eyes were wide.
“I was wondering where you were,” she said. “You landed hours ago.”
His mouth opened. “How did you…? I was coming to tell you about my assignment.”
She pushed him away gently and walked to her office door and closed it. “Come on. Since when have I not known what’s going on? SPG has supported SEAL Team 666 off and on for more than a decade.”
“You knew about them, Jen?” But of course she knew about them.
“I know a hundred other secrets that you don�
��t know, Jack. You know how it works. Need to know, and until today, you didn’t need to know.”
“But now—”
“Now you’re the newest member of SEAL Team 666.” Her smile fell as she got serious. “It’s a dangerous assignment.”
“Being a SEAL is dangerous.”
“Not like this. This is more than just run-of-the-mill SEAL danger.”
Walker grinned at the phrase—run-of-the-mill SEAL danger.
His girlfriend of the last twelve months punched him in the chest. “I’m serious, Jack.”
He caught her hand before she could punch him again. “I know you are. I’ll be prepared. That’s what careful really is, right? Being ready for anything.”
She cupped his face and seemed about to kiss him; then her phone rang. “Hold on.” She went behind a desk that held two large-screen monitors and sat down. Three different telephones were arrayed side by side. They were differentiated by colored stickers. Green was for unclassified, red was for secret, and yellow was for top secret, which was the phone she was using now. A nameplate on the desk read JENNIFER COSTELLO, PROJECT CHIEF.
She didn’t say much to the person on the other end, just occasionally acknowledged something that she heard. Once she flicked her gaze at Walker, but otherwise she kept looking at the desktop. After two minutes, she put down the phone.
“Wait here, will you?” She stood. “I have to go do something real quick.”
She pecked him on the cheek, left the room, and closed the door behind her.
Walker decided to sit for a few minutes. He’d been going since first bell, at 5 A.M. Half an hour after a mad scramble to get dressed and in formation, he’d been running on the beach with Class 290, trying desperately to send his shin splints to a place beyond the finish line. The pain had been excruciating but he’d long ago learned to ignore it.
“Screams are just pain leaving the body,” Instructor Reno loved to shout. “Scream all you want, just don’t give in to the pain.”
And Walker never did. He’d known pain before and wouldn’t succumb. Holding out the palm of his left hand, he stared at the starlike scar in the middle of his palm. Like the Patpong hooker had told him as he plowed through a gallon of Mekong whiskey, “Looks like your life line exploded.” That simple statement had meant more than she knew. He could almost remember the pencil that had plunged through his tiny hand, but he didn’t remember how it had gotten there, although sometimes a flash after a night of drinking or in the early-morning hours would reveal that it had been his own demon-spawned inertia that had delivered the blow.
Even now, after more than twenty years, the pain still lingered. Yes, he knew pain. They’d been traveling companions for a long time.
He felt his lids growing heavy as this and a hundred more thoughts tumbled off cliffs in his mind. By his mark, it had been sixteen hours since he’d slept. Three for training, four to travel to San Francisco, four to conduct the operation, four to return to base, two to brief and be introduced to the Mosh Pit, and a half hour to change, shower, and get over here. Now, nearing eleven, he was sitting in his girlfriend’s office while she was out working.…
His eyes slammed closed as his body shut down. His dreams immediately took on an underwater quality. He smelled the sweatshop. Sweat, not only from labor but the vinegar-tinged sweat of fear. A vile stench insinuated itself into everything. Coffee burned somewhere on the bottom of a pot. The scents of Chinese food, old and rotting from the kitchen next door.
Images of women with lips sewn together swam through his mind, merging with his boat crew from Class 290 and the beaching drills.
The orange-skinned homunculus ran roughshod through his childhood, jerking memories of both good and bad into a twisted braid of his life with its long orange arms.
Then suddenly his mind was a flat plane covered with television sets. Not the new flatscreens, but the old boxes, flipping vertically, blizzards of interference making the scenes almost unintelligible. One by one they snapped into focus, revealing a scene of a little boy, dancing like a maniac, barefooted atop a Manila trash dump. Every television displayed the same image. Then somewhere a radio crackled, Culture Club’s “Karma Chameleon” sung by a Filipino with a tenor voice, stumbling over the words, barely intelligible if Walker hadn’t heard it in a hundred thousand other dreams.
He awoke with a start and almost leaped out of his chair.
But he was held in place by Jen’s strong arms. She’d been smiling, but when she saw the fear on his face she quickly grew concerned.
“Another one?”
Walker sat back. He breathed heavily and wiped sweat from his forehead. “Yeah.”
“Didn’t you talk to someone about them?”
“I was too busy, Jen. They don’t care about your bad dreams and bogeymen in SEAL training.”
She removed her hands and stood up straight. She waited a moment for him to say something. When he didn’t, she crossed her arms.
Walker knew he’d been short with her. He couldn’t help it. That fucking dream of the dump, or a version of it, came far too often.
She turned and walked behind the desk, putting the two and a half feet of pressed wood between them. He could reach across and grab her, but each second that passed sent her a mile farther away.
He jerked through the last tendrils of his nightmare and slid quickly around the desk and grabbed her. Her arms were still crossed and she had a frown on her lips, but he could tell it wasn’t full on.
“Sorry,” he whispered, offering her a smile. “It was the trash pile again.”
Her blue eyes dilated. “Where they found you?”
He nodded. “Tommy told me it means I need closure.”
She rolled her eyes. “Tommy? You’re going to listen to your old Navy buddy? The one who has three Filipino wives in three different ports?”
Walker grinned. He knew her feelings for Tommy. He’d never said such a thing, but anytime he invoked Tommy’s name she became so exasperated she forgot what she was really mad about.
“He doesn’t have three wives. He has four now. He married a delightful young Thai girl he found wandering around the streets of Patpong.”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed, and then she punched him in the chest. “Now you’re messing with me.”
He stole a kiss, silencing her.
“Forgiven?”
“For being an ass? Yes.”
He kissed her again.
“Who do you think I am, sailor?” she asked slyly.
“I think you’re my girl and it’s been a long time.”
“And what do you propose?” She glanced at her desk and laughed. “Here?”
Walker raised his eyebrows suggestively and grinned like a kid about to open his Christmas presents.
But just as she opened her mouth to say something, another phone rang. He didn’t recognize the ring. Hell, he didn’t even have a phone, but he was pretty sure it was coming from his jacket pocket. He reluctantly let her go, reached in, and found a cell phone. He flipped it open and put it to his ear. “Uh, hello?”
“Walker, where the hell are you?” came Holmes’s voice.
“I’m—”
“Never mind. Just get your ass back. We’re wheels up in sixty mikes.” Then the connection went dead.
Walker closed the phone slowly.
“I was going to tell you,” Jen said, putting her arms around his neck. “We’re the ones who found your ship.”
He stared at her. “How?”
“I told you that we support you guys. Billings requested immediate analytical and a targeting package. We’re normally here for NAVSPECWARCOM emergencies. When there’s no time to go through official Special Operations Command channels, we’re your support.”
“That’s where you were when you left?”
“Yeah, took us about an hour.”
“How long was I out?”
“About an hour.” She grinned.
Walker shook his head and laughed sour
ly.
“What?”
“Damn Holmes. Even my girl is jumping to his commands.”
“Hey! That’s not fair.”
“Nah, it’s okay. We got some kind of threat and need to find out what it is.” He spared a longing glance at the desk. “Next time for sure.”
She kissed him deeply and let him go.
14
SOMEWHERE OVER THE SOUTH CHINA SEA.
Macau was plus fifteen hours from Coronado’s Pacific time. By the time they reached their target, it’d be 0100 hours the following day, local time.
Macau was an Asian anachronism, originally developed by the Portuguese as a foothold on Asian trading in 1635. The first treaty allowed the Portuguese sole right to anchor ships and conduct trade, but it didn’t allow them the rights to stay onshore. The Dutch East India Company, who saw themselves as the emperors of sea and trade, already had rights to the Cape of Good Hope, the Strait of Magellan, and the Strait of Malacca, and had repeatedly tried to wrest this important foothold from the Portuguese; they failed in all attempts. Macau became the premier place for the transport of Chinese slaves to Portugal and the locus for what would eventually start the Opium Wars. In the Treaty of Amity and Commerce, signed in 1887, the Qing Dynasty ceded to Portugal perpetual rights to occupy and govern Macau in exchange for Portuguese cooperation with Hong Kong to smuggle and tax Indian opium for increased profits all around. The island nation survived World War II and Japanese occupation, but it couldn’t survive Portugal’s own internal political machinations. So when local Portuguese rule was overthrown in 1974, Portugal decided it was time to relinquish all overseas holdings, thus putting in motion the end of a nearly five-hundred-year relationship with Macau. In 1999, formal sovereignty switched to Mainland China, but Macau’s identity as the Las Vegas of Asia continued with the construction of more casinos.
The island, which had subsequently been connected to the mainland by a silt-laden sandbar and landfills, was located sixty kilometers southwest of Hong Kong. Its flat terrain was broken only by a series of central hills, the tallest rising to six hundred feet. Their target ship was moored on an older section of the outer harbor along the newly reinvented Macau Fisherman’s Wharf. Built as a theme park, it included a forty-meter-tall erupting volcano, a replica of a Middle Eastern fort, a Roman-themed shopping center, an outdoor coliseum, Vasco de Gama Waterworld, and associated shops, restaurants, casinos, and offices.
