The Shadows of Power

by James W. Huston

  “You haven’t forgotten Carrie’s ballet recital tonight, have you?” Karen interrupted, glancing at the clock.

  “Nope,” he answered.

  “We need to leave in an hour.”

  “Roger that—” he said just as the doorbell rang. He looked at Karen. She shrugged and shook her head.

  He put Brandon down and walked to the door. He jerked the front door open, hoping to startle whoever was standing on the other side.

  The person wasn’t startled at all and was intent on startling him. He charged in, grabbed Stovic behind his left knee and in one swift and deceptive movement threw Stovic to the ground on the woven rug by the door. He moved around on top of him and pinned him to the ground. “Give, Animal?” he growled.

  “Rat!” Stovic exclaimed, with his shoulders on the rug and his legs and boots dangling in midair.

  “Give?” Rat insisted.

  “Yes!” he said, trying to get it out forcefully through his bent neck. “I’d have surrendered before you took me down! You don’t need to bother pinning me!” Both knew that Stovic could have reversed the situation on Rat in two moves. Wrestling with Stovic was something Rat knew not to do. Stovic outweighed him by at least fifteen pounds, especially now that he wasn’t wearing plastic jogging suits and throwing up in the locker room to get down to one eighty-five before weigh-ins. Stovic had grown accustomed to seeing his weight start with a two for some time.

  At Annapolis they had carried on a four-year competition for the title Toughest Man in the Company. Stovic had been the Tennessee State wrestling champion and won more matches than he lost wrestling for the Naval Academy. But Stovic knew not to cross Rat in any form of personal combat other than wrestling. Rat had some hand-to-hand skills that he never talked about. He arrived at the Naval Academy with moves no one had ever seen before. He wouldn’t acknowledge them as martial arts nor would he say where he had obtained such skills at eighteen years of age. But after some halfhearted challenges by various curious members of the battalion, word quickly spread not to mess with Rat. A broken wrist or elbow was likely to be the result. Everyone thought he was destined to be a SEAL.

  Rat laughed and let Stovic out of his cradle hold. “How the hell you been?” he asked as they scrambled up and as Karen came from the kitchen to see what the commotion was.

  “Great,” Stovic replied. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hey, Karen!” he said as he crossed to her, kissing her on the cheek.

  “Rat! I thought you were off somewhere. You’re always gone.”

  “I’m off all right,” he replied. “I’m CIVLANT,” he said smiling, using an acronym that was well recognized in the Navy for both mocking the Navy’s obsession with acronyms and conveying his exact meaning. CIVLANT meant CIVilian, AtLANTic: out of the Navy and living on the East Coast.

  “You got out?” Stovic asked, shocked.

  “Bigger than hell,” Rat said.

  “But I saw you before cruise. You were in that supersecret DEV GROUP, or whatever.”

  “Shhhh,” Rat said, putting his finger to his lips. “Whatever SEAL group I was in, I am now a business tycoon.”

  “We were just about to sit down for dinner. Can you join us?”

  “Sure.”

  “I just can’t believe you got out. Why didn’t you tell me?” Stovic asked as they walked into the family room and toward the kitchen table. “You never even e-mailed me on cruise. Not once.”

  “Yes I did—”

  “Oh yeah, yeah,” Stovic said, recalling. “A video clip of some major league baseball game. The pitcher hit a bird with a fastball right over home plate—”

  “That was a cool video,” Rat laughed out loud, remembering the image of the bird’s feathers exploding from the ball’s impact. “But I couldn’t tell you I was getting out. I knew you’d bust my balls, plus I’d owe you a hundred bucks.”

  “That’s right!” Stovic remembered. “First one out gives the other one a hundred bucks. Pay up.”

  “Don’t have the denarii with me. I’ll get it to you.”

  “Like I figured. Not good for your bet. What a dog. So you didn’t like being a SEAL? I thought you were the personification of a SEAL, except for being fat and all,” Stovic joked.

  “Yeah, I liked it. But what with my family . . . I didn’t want to be on the road all the time.”

  Karen frowned. “Family? Is this new?”

  “No. Just seeing if you’re listening. I’m not surrendering my independence for anybody. And no kids. I hate kids. Too much complaining.” He looked at their two kids. “Except yours, of course. They’re perfect.”

  “Very funny,” she said. In addition to telling anyone who would listen that he was going to be a SEAL, he always told everyone he wasn’t going to marry. He didn’t want to be hampered by having a family. Being a SEAL was going to be his life.

  “I don’t know,” he said, taking a long drink. “I just got tired of being a superhero all the time.”

  “Right, so . . . what, you slept with the Admiral’s daughter?”

  “I’m saving myself for marriage.”

  Stovic rolled his eyes. “So what are you doing now, and what brings you to our humble house unannounced?”

  “I’ll tell you about it, but first I’ve got to hear about this shoot-down thing! You’re famous!”

  Stovic smiled. “No big thing, really. The Algerians pulled a stunt that didn’t work out. They shot at my CO, and I fired back. My missile guided, and theirs didn’t.”

  “A MiG-25, no less.”

  “Believe that?”

  “You going to get a Silver Star or something?”

  “I don’t know. The Skipper and the CAG are conspiring to do something.”

  “That’s outstanding—”

  “They now say they fired by accident.”

  “What else are they going to say? They intended to shoot you down but were too incompetent to pull it off? Anyway, you wanted to know what I’m doing. I’ve started a company. Security company. Lots of evil people out there scaring the shit out of a lot of good people who are willing to pay top dollar—actually, above top dollar—for high-quality security analysis and protection. We do mostly training and planning. It’s a blast. I travel all over the place and do all kinds of fun things. I was just going out to eat, heading down to the beach to go to that shrimp place, and I said, hey, why pay for a good meal when you can mooch one from your friend and his wife instead?” He chuckled as they smiled at him. “Actually, I saw the Truman was back from cruise.”

  Stovic didn’t believe him. He wasn’t sure why, but in studying Rat’s face he saw something more serious than just “dropping by,” though he couldn’t imagine what it was. And to hear that Rat had gotten out of the Navy was so surprising that it was unbelievable. Not even a letter or some angst-filled e-mail wondering whether he was doing the right thing? This just didn’t fit. Stovic watched Rat’s face as they sat down with the children opposite Rat at the table. They talked about friends, classmates, the Navy, and Ed’s pursuit of the Blue Angels. Rat ate like a starved man. As he sat back he asked casually, “How’s the neighborhood?”

  Stovic looked at Karen, who gave him an immediate “what’s up with him?” look. He replied, “Fine. Why? Thinking of moving in?”

  “Actually, yeah. I’ve never owned a house. I lived in the BOQ for so long I forget what it’s like to actually have a house. I lived in one room full of camouflage uniforms and greasepaint. A house would be cool,” he said, examining the ceiling and floors.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Friend’s condo. He’s deployed. I’m house-sitting.”

  Stovic nodded.

  “It’s great here. Quiet, pretty, very nice,” Karen replied.

  “Any weirdos?”

  “Just us,” Stovic replied.

  “Any crime? Anybody look out of place, anything like that?”

  “You’re worried about criminals?” Stovic laughed. “I figured you’d love a
little crime.”

  “I hate having to get up to pound some criminal.” He was obviously probing. “Seriously, ever see anything that made you suspicious or anything?”

  “Just today,” Karen said casually.

  Stovic looked at her. “What happened today?” he asked, suddenly concerned.

  “What happened?” Rat asked, sitting forward.

  “I was out in front of the house, and this guy drove by.”

  “What guy?” Stovic asked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because it wasn’t significant, and you’d only been home about ten minutes when Rat got here.”

  Rat pressed. “What guy?”

  “I don’t know. Some loser.”

  “Just once?”

  “No. Three times.”

  Rat was focused. “How do you know it was the same guy?”

  “How many Ford Contours come down our street?”

  “A Ford Contour?” Stovic asked. “Who the hell drives a Ford Contour? Maybe it was a real estate agent looking for houses to put up for sale. The market’s hot—”

  “Rental car,” Rat said. “Did you see the driver?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Young—”

  “You doing your security thing?” Stovic asked.

  “Always practicing. Maybe you guys’ll hire me. What did he look like?”

  “Dark hair. Young. That’s about all I saw.”

  “How do you know he was looking at you?”

  “He seemed to be looking over the entire neighborhood. All the houses.”

  “Probably some burglar, casing all the houses. Seeing who’s home during the day,” Stovic said.

  “No doubt,” Rat said in agreement, but clearly not believing it. “See anything else like that?”

  “No. Why?” Karen asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m a believer in vigilance.” He looked at the two children. They weren’t paying attention. “Ed, you guys got a weapon in the house?”

  “Sort of,” he replied. “I had a handgun, but when we had kids, I put a trigger lock on it and put it in the attic. I couldn’t get to it in less than about fifteen minutes.”

  “What kind is it?”

  “It’s a .22 Magnum. I taught Karen to shoot it.”

  “Why are you asking about that?” Karen interjected, looking grave.

  “No reason. Just security conscious. I’m a big believer in having a gun in every house.”

  “With small kids?”

  He screwed up his mouth in understanding. “Makes it a lot tougher. A lot tougher. But if you’re interested, I can give you something with a lot more horsepower. It’ll stop a truck.”

  Stovic shook his head. “Nah. Chances of me having to whack some burglar with a large-caliber handgun are a lot less than me dropping it and blowing my toe off.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m sure it was nothing.”

  They finished dinner in near silence. Stovic and Karen ate slowly, the rest of their conversation now tainted with the same lingering anxiety that had settled into their stomachs.

  “Rat,” Karen said for the second time. “Hello, Rat,” she repeated.

  “Yeah?”

  “We’ve got to go to Carrie’s ballet recital. Want to come?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Can I bring my camera?” he asked. “I’ve sort of gotten into photography. A new hobby.”

  “Sure,” Karen said. She couldn’t imagine why he would want to take pictures of Carrie’s ballet recital. Until that moment and throughout their entire lives he had expressed exactly zero interest in what their children were doing. She wondered if he could even name them without prompting. “We need to get going in about ten minutes.”

  “No problem. I’ll be right back,” Rat said as he got up quickly from the table. As soon as he was in the living room he began peering through the windows from behind the blinds. It was nearly dark. He looked for any movement or signs of anything being disturbed. He walked quickly out the front door and stopped on the porch. He looked quickly around, taking everything in.

  He went to his van, which was parked in the driveway, and retrieved a small digital camera as well as two handguns that he put in their holsters, one on his hip under his baggy Surf Company T-shirt, the other on his ankle under his loose khaki pants. He turned on the two infrared cameras that pointed out from the front quarters of his van and were triggered by motion detectors. They would record anything that moved within a hundred feet. He grabbed what appeared to be an ordinary digital camcorder. He turned on one of the miniature cameras he was going to place under the eaves of their house. It transmitted a perfect signal of his face that showed up clearly on the small two-and-a-half-inch screen on the side of the camcorder. He closed the door of the camera, threw the strap over his shoulder, and said to his squad, through the microphone in the invisible earpiece he was wearing, “Groomer, you guys get all that?”

  “Got it,” came the quick response.

  “I want cameras everywhere. As soon as we leave, install whatever you need. And I don’t want any of it discovered. Got it?”

  “We’re set.”

  “And Groomer, don’t get carried away with that new gun.”

  “Come on, Rat. Let me take out a couple of cats at least. The sound suppressor on this thing is awesome.” Groomer, Ted Groome, worked for Rat. He had come to the SAS from DEVGRU with Rat.

  “Check in with me every fifteen minutes. I’m getting good images on this camcorder. We’ll see how much range we have.”

  “Roger that. Robby said they’d work out to five clicks.”

  “I don’t know where this ballet thing is. We’ll see how it goes.”

  * * *

  Ismael waited at the Navy Exchange parking lot outside the gates of Oceana Naval Air Station in his rental car. He had traded the white Contour in on a Red Taurus, claiming the Contour smelled funny. Karen had in fact seen him. He had seen her too. But no one had seen him that morning, including Lieutenant Ed Stovic, when he had followed Stovic to work in his green Explorer with the Ragin’ Bulls sticker on the back window. He had followed Stovic from the quiet neighborhood all the way to the gate at Oceana, where Ismael had found the Navy Exchange parking lot a convenient place to turn in without having to show any identification whatsoever—no awkward moment at the gate of the air station.

  Ismael had spent the night considering his plan. It was plain and direct, the kind that was most likely to succeed. He didn’t want to die, but this direct action made his death almost sure. He was prepared to accept that to accomplish his goal. He had been waiting at the Navy Exchange parking lot for over an hour. If he sat in his car much longer he would draw attention. The lot was busy, and the street running toward the base was full of traffic leaving for the afternoon. It was 4:00 P.M., and most of the sailors were heading home. Ismael had noticed the day before that the pilots usually left later than many of the enlisted sailors, because they were flying later in the day.

  He gripped the steering wheel tightly, reflexively, as a dark green Explorer drove in front of him past the gas station. He craned his neck to see if the Ragin’ Bulls squadron sticker was in the lower left corner of the rear window. He glimpsed something but couldn’t be sure. He pulled out of the lot into the traffic and kept his eye on the Explorer several cars ahead. They got to the end of the road and waited at the stoplight.

  The light changed, and he turned left down the two-lane country road toward Virginia Beach. He maneuvered through the traffic, trying to get close to the Explorer. He was going to have an “accident” with Stovic, and when the Lieutenant got out to express his outrage at the carelessness of whoever’d hit him, Ismael would be waiting with the handgun that was jammed in his belt. It would make headlines, and everyone in the world would know about it by tomorrow.

  The traffic opened slightly as they accelerated ahead. He was three cars behind Stovic. He followed, watching Stovic’s Explorer as he turned
down Virginia Beach Boulevard, a four-lane road with a large grass median. Ismael could now clearly see the squadron sticker on the rear window. He knew that if he was going to make his move it had to be on a larger road where his movements wouldn’t be as obvious. The left lane was empty between him and Stovic. He pulled into it and accelerated to pass the three cars between them. He was closing on Stovic and would come up on him from his left, in his blind spot. He would turn into him at the last moment, as if he were driving too fast to change lanes. He accelerated toward Stovic as the light in front of them turned red.

  “You seeing that?” Rat said forcefully on his radio from ten cars back.

  “I got it,” Groomer replied from his.

  “If you let him hit our man—”

  “Relax,” Groomer said as he jammed the gearshift of his Toyota 4Runner down to second gear, glanced in his side mirror at Ismael’s car, and slammed the accelerator to the floor. He was in the right lane, two cars behind Stovic. The lane to his left was clear. He threw his wheel to the left and headed into the other lane. His 4Runner careened directly in front of Ismael’s car.

  Ismael was focused on the Explorer. He never saw the Toyota coming. He slammed into Groomer’s Toyota just over the left rear tire. The Toyota spun around violently and came to rest in the left lane facing the wrong way, blocking Ismael’s Taurus.

  Stovic heard the loud bang and looked in his rearview mirror as he glided through the intersection. Holy shit! he thought as he saw the Toyota spin around. The guy changed lanes right in front of that red car. What an idiot. He thought of stopping to help but saw that already five or six cars had stopped. He couldn’t do anything they couldn’t do. He drove on.

  In the Taurus Ismael struggled to free himself from the shoulder harness and the deflating air bag. His face hurt from where he had plowed into the air bag, and his left shoulder felt numb from the shoulder harness. The entire inside of the car was covered with some kind of white dust, like talcum powder. He couldn’t understand what had happened. Stovic had been right in front of him. Everything had been working perfectly.