A SEAL at Heart

by Anne Elizabeth

  Gripping the cold bottle of beer like a lifeline, he lifted it to his mouth and drank deeply. God, that tastes good! And it’s predictable. Every swallow is the same.

  Off to the side, he could hear the faint buzz of cars and trucks as they sped down Orange Avenue, confirming that everything was in sync here, normal. That was reassuring to a degree, witnessing the commonplace; this is what “everyday” was supposed to resemble. Calm. Steady. Regular.

  Why isn’t that me? His mind and body couldn’t slow down. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to let this familiar place and a beer soothe him. At least he hoped it would. McP’s was a special home for his kind. Owned by one of his brethren, there was Navy SEAL memorabilia on the walls, a trident on the T-shirts, and oftentimes the bar would fill with sightseers and froghogs—women who hopped from frog to frog. In the Underwater Demolition Team, or UDT—the precursor to the SEAL Team—these Navy sailors were called frogmen. Later on, the name was changed to better show their areas of operation: SEAL—SEa Air Land—but the age-old name for the women who pursued them never got updated.

  Half his Teammates were in committed relationships, and the rest dicked around almost constantly. Lately, his celibacy walk had turned into a preference. It had begun as a way to concentrate on work, and now…

  Maybe he just didn’t have what it took—a crap tolerance—to be in a relationship.

  The back of his head exploded with a sudden and sharp pain. His hand lifted automatically, rubbing over the healing wound and stubbly blond hair.

  “Red Jack!” His eyes whipped open, and for a second, he could have sworn that he’d heard Don. That was impossible. His swim buddy was dead, and there was nothing that could bring him back.

  Pain squeezed his neck. His vision blurred and for a moment an image of his friend flashed before his eyes.

  The rush of emotions for his swim buddy was the kind of tidal wave that could take out a city, and equally as devastating as it crashed over him again and again. He’d have done anything to have Petty Officer Second Class Donald Dennis Kanoa Donnelly alive and well. Sorrow punched his heart, but he’d never show it, especially not in public.

  His phone vibrated. Jack had the cell in his hand before he remembered he was supposed to be on vacation—no one would be calling him for sudden deployment.

  Punching a button, he accessed the email. Appointments had been scheduled for him: group therapy and individual sessions. Can’t this Frankenstein wannabe leave me alone? I don’t need a doctor.

  He just needed to keep it together long enough to go operational again. Being on medical leave was like swallowing two-inch nails whole: it hurt the entire way down and out. He had way too much time on his hands to think. He needed action.

  “Petty Officer First Class John Matthew Roaker.”

  His name was a command that had Jack sitting up straight in his chair. Any other service would have a guy standing at attention before the rank and name had been completely spoken. Spec Ops was different, more laid-back.

  “Taking a trip down memory lane?” commented a gruff man with salt-and-pepper hair and a long bushy mustache. His sideburns were like hairy caterpillars perched on the side of his face. The man took a step closer to Jack and grinned. A fat cigar was clamped between his lips and his voice had lost the hard edge and was warming progressively. “Shit, you look like a newbie jarhead, Jack! We’re going to have to mess you up a bit! So you look like a fucking SEAL.”

  “Good to see you, Commander,” replied Jack, already proffering his hand to greet his former BUD/S Instructor, now mentor. With a grin on his lips that spoke volumes of the man’s capacity for jocularity, Commander Gich didn’t appear to be the kind of guy who could teach you fifty different ways to kill with a knife.

  His gaze connected with the Commander’s. Jack took comfort in the stare. Emotion hung like a bad painting just behind his own eyeballs, but he pushed past the weight of it. “Sir, it’s great to see you.”

  Jack stood and the men embraced, slapping hands on each other’s backs in heavy smacks and then briskly separating. There was a tremendous sense of the familial. Jack needed that right now.

  “You too!” said the Commander. “How’s the brain? Is it still swelling? I can think of better things to make swell.”

  “Christ! They’re not sure. You know docs. Though, I’m pretty sure the fracture’s better.” Jack reseated himself, eager to change the subject. “I was thinking about my first drink here, and then there was the Hell Week celebration, when you and I drank until the kitchen opened for the early birds’ lunch the next morning.” He could practically taste the stale alcohol. Bile threatened to rise, but he shoved it down. Yep, that memory was definitely intact! Why couldn’t he have lost that day, instead of the events from the last Op? He needed those memories.

  “No shit! You were so hungover from those shots that you puked your guts out in the back of my car.” Gich signaled the waitress for a beer. “Still doesn’t smell right. But it’s easy to find Blue Betty in the dark.” His grin could have lit up the darkest depths. “So, how’s it going, Jack? What’s with the shrink-wrap therapy? I may be retired, but I’m still in the loop.”

  Shaking his head, Jack said, “I don’t know. It’s been…” He searched his mind for the word, but he couldn’t even find that. Who really wanted to know the inner workings of a SEAL? They might not like what they find in there, and then what? SEALs had more layers than an artichoke.

  “Hard, complicated, and disillusioning to come back from a mission that’s seriously goat-fucked. You’re not the first, Roaker, and unfortunately, you won’t be the last. Just don’t become a poster boy, it’s not your gig.”

  “Yeah, me a poster boy! Could you see me in Ronald McDonald hair?” cracked Jack without missing a beat. It felt good to have someone giving him shit. Everyone had been so “nice” to him lately that it creeped him out. “Sure I can pull off the look, but all those hands to shake, personal appearances, and then there goes your private life.”

  “Wiseass!” A shapely blond waitress who could easily be a modern-day Marilyn Monroe placed an icy beer in front of Gich. “Thanks, Betsy. I knew you’d remember how I liked it.”

  “Anything for you, Gich.” She winked at him and headed back inside. The bar was pretty empty for a Tuesday afternoon, but it’d pick up tonight and be packed with military personnel on the hunt for hook-ups and single ladies on the quest for the golden ring. That was old hat for him, and he’d rather work out, clean his guns, anything…

  “I can make a few recommendations. There are a couple of medical professionals who use unconventional methods. Alternative healing… it might help.” Gich looked at him over the top of his beer as he drank. “The person I’m thinking of does acupressure. Did wonders for my knees and lower back.”

  “Doctors aren’t my preference.” Jack contemplated getting a pain pill out of his pocket, but he knew it’d be a dicey mix with the alcohol. He preferred to drink, so he left it in his pocket and took another sip.

  “Roaker, you can talk to me,” said Gich, drawing on his cigar and puffing out a long thin stream of smoke.

  Jack sat silently, briefly weighing his thoughts before he shared them. “Six weeks ago when I left here, I was ready for the mission. Even though there were a couple strikes against it. First, Tucker kept getting changing Intel on the location and how it was laid out. Second, the resources seemed underkill for a plan of this magnitude, and whenever I brought it up, they told me to add as much as we needed. So I did, but it never felt like enough. Third, when we got there, nothing was as discussed; the place was a ghost town outside with only a few people inside. Either the information was terrible, or—”

  “You were being set up. Seems unlikely, in the Teams,” said Gich, softly leaning forward. “What happened next?”

  Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I can see my feet hitting the dirt and watching everyone take position, and then… nothing.”

  Gich took the
cigar from his mouth. “Did you see Don die?”

  “I must have…” Pain ripped through his heart as he pushed hard to make it go away. “But I don’t remember any of it. What the hell am I supposed to do? I’m beached like a whale until I can remember, and it’s ripping me apart to be this still. I need help.”

  “You need to get out, have some fun. Don’t think. Just react and let go of everything.” Gich surveyed him with a critical eye before turning his gaze back to watch the shapely blond go through her routine of serving drinks and taking orders. “The watched pot never boils, or in our case, the undrunk beer only gets warm and flat.”

  Jack gave a half smile. “I’m not really in the mood for socializing.”

  “Come on, you’d have to be dead not to appreciate that,” Gich said, motioning toward the waitress.

  He had to admit the bending and reaching of the busty waitress was rather compelling, but he had more important stuff on his mind and couldn’t even consider flirting right now. Shifting in his chair, he found a more comfortable position and said, “What I want to know is how do I… get my warrior mentality back?”

  Those words captured Gich’s attention as his eyes locked on Jack’s. The lesson of finding his equilibrium and balance had been the hardest trick for Jack to learn. Gich had worked doubly hard with him on that one. They’d developed all sorts of techniques to help him out, but right now, Jack felt like his skin was crawling off his body and he had to nail himself to a chair to keep still. Did other SEALs feel like an alien in a human body?

  With a deliberate and slow movement, Gich brought his hand up and rested it gently on Jack’s arm. But no matter how slowly he’d moved, Jack still flinched and had an urge to pull away. Forcing himself to be still took some concentration.

  “Give it time. PTSD happens. Ride it out.” Gich leaned forward and whispered, “And while you’re waiting, go get your whiskers wet and your dick licked. You’re a fucking hero; you should take advantage of it.” He pulled back his hand, grabbed the neck of his beer, and chugged it down. When it was empty, he waved it in the air. “Tonight, Dick’s Last Resort. There are all sorts of SEAL fans there. I’m sure the Naval Special Warfare fund-raiser crowd would benefit from laying eyeballs on you, too. Why not go get your pick of the, uh, ladies? Tour some sweet spots and give your brain some time off.”

  The idea of being surrounded by that many people made Jack’s stomach clench, but he knew Gich was right. He had to get back out there. Going from the Op to the hospital, and now home, had not afforded him the opportunity to decompress, let alone figure out how to socialize with anyone of the fairer sex.

  Maybe getting hot and heavy would help. He could love ’em and leave ’em as easily as the rest of them, though it seriously had been a while. Love just wasn’t a priority the majority of the time, though sex was almost always welcome.

  When Don had been alive—God, those words stuck in his throat—it had been easier to go out for a night on the town. His buddy, though married, was a perfect wingman. He would wrangle the ladies in Jack’s direction and it was a sure thing that his pocket would have a few phone numbers. Sometimes, he’d even take someone for a spin on the town.

  Shit! When the fuck would he feel like himself again?

  “Promise me you’ll go tonight.” Gich was studying him again. A man’s word was a bond that was never broken in the SEAL community. Might as well have said, “Put your balls on the table, and if you don’t do as I say, I’ll slice ’em off and pocket ’em.”

  Gich would badger him until he agreed, and the Commander ten times out of ten knew best. He’d give it a try. What could it hurt? It couldn’t be any worse than spending weeks in a hospital bed.

  “Yeah,” said Jack. “I’ll go.” Though he knew he’d probably not enjoy it.

  The back of Jack’s head squeezed tight again, reminding him that the head injury was still an issue. But as the Commander was fond of saying, “Where the body goes, the mind follows.” Maybe a little interaction—some puss and hoots—would go a long way toward finding some kind of relief or momentary happiness.

  ***

  The beat-up yellow Jeep slid into an empty parking spot only a few blocks from the Naval Special Warfare fund-raiser. Jack didn’t bother securing the torn soft top. There was nothing of value inside, not even a radio. Though he did shove the Bluetooth speaker under the seat.

  The last vestiges of light were slipping from the sky as the ripe smell of seasoned meat filled the air. He was tempted to ditch the NSW event and go to the Strip Club for a steak.

  A memory flashed through his mind of grilling T-bones to perfection with Don, his wife, and their five-year-old daughter. God, it was barely two months ago! They’d feasted and Sheila had announced she was pregnant at the meal. A game ensued of toasting her all evening long until she drove the lot of them home.

  “Shit!” Jack swallowed hard and forced the vivid moment from his mind. Dwelling on the past, especially the loss of his swim buddy, was not helping. He knew he needed to deal with his friend’s death, but until he knew what had happened on that mission, he didn’t know how. Maybe once he remembered, he’d finally be able to look Sheila in the eye.

  Rubbing his hand over his head, he lingered on the scar. If his buddy’s death was his fault, he’d own it. If someone else were responsible for Don’s death, he would bring justice.

  Without that missing bit of knowledge though, he was in limbo.

  Let it go. For at least one night, Jack, you need to be someone else. Take a break from yourself. He nodded his head, deciding his gut was providing good advice.

  Pointing his feet in the direction of Dick’s Last Resort, he set off. The slap of his feet against the pavement felt good. Anything physical seemed to be healing. This morning he’d run six miles and swum for an hour. His body had felt somewhat spent, but his mind was still spinning on the hamster wheel.

  “Hey, Jack, good to see ya!” Hank Franks, a Master Chief in SEAL Team THREE, slapped his back and then enthusiastically shook his hand. His arm felt like a pump trying to pull up water from a rusted pipe. “Are you on your way to Dick’s? Have you met Dan McCullum, our new weapons specialist?”

  Jack nodded and shook Dan’s proffered palm. “Good to see you again, Dan. Been a while.”

  “Yeah,” said Dan warmly. Pointing to his head, he asked, “How’s the noggin? I heard there was some action.”

  “Healing.” Jack withdrew his palm and looked forward. He didn’t want to say anything about the Op.

  Franks wrapped an arm possessively around the woman walking next to him. Her heels clicked a swift staccato on the sidewalk, keeping time with their pace. “Hey, have you met my wife?”

  The lady beside the Master Chief smiled shyly. “I’m Rita. Happy to meet you, Jack.” The emerald dress hugged her body as if she were a pinup girl, but it was the humor and happiness in her eyes when she looked at her husband and then switched that intense gaze to Jack that held him captive for a few seconds. He caught the residual affects of her joy and the strength was Grade A.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” he replied, relieved that he hadn’t blurted out some silly comment about Hank’s wife having a nice rack or the fact they looked good together. His guess was that Hank had already measured those assets for himself. Giving them all a smile and a nod, he slowed his pace and let them surge ahead.

  Social graces weren’t his thing. He hadn’t been to Dick’s Last Resort in years, but his recollection was that the food was tasty and the beer was ample. That had to be enough to work for him tonight.

  After making a show of eyeballing his phone, he pocketed it. Then he looked in the windows of several nearby stores. Stop stalling!

  He forced himself to walk the extra twenty feet, flashed his military ID, and went inside. The din of voices and music was momentarily deafening. A passing waitress pushed a beer into his empty hand. He gripped it gratefully.

  His instincts took charge, taking him to an optimal vantage point, one that
afforded him an overview of the comings and goings of the bar. Nothing could halt either that habit or the training, except a conscious decision to set his back to the door. When that happened, he’d have to trust the expressions of the people around him to alert him to danger. It was a hard-earned skill to be able to utilize ordinary passersby as mirrors.

  As he drank, he watched a couple argue. The wife was seriously pissed. Jack was glad he wasn’t in that guy’s shoes. At another table, a group of ladies were making plans for later. Then there was the small group of retired military men lined up on bar stools, chatting about the good ole days, wearing jackets that read Old Frogs and SEALs. Across the room near the bar, several wives gathered together, laughing and pointing as they discussed the auction items and sipped delightedly on mixed drinks. Jack smiled as their conversation turned a bit more racy. He was glad he could read lips.

  An alarm beeped on his wristwatch. Time to take an antianxiety pill. Anger lanced through him. What was he, some hundred-year-old man who had to take his medication? He would not die without that little pill, and there was no way he’d let himself get in a situation where he was addicted to something… anything or anyone. Unwilling to spend even another minute contemplating it, he stepped toward the closest trash can and dropped the bottle inside. Relief swept through him. He knew he could do better than those “hunt and peck” doctors who were actually using the process of elimination to guess at courses of action. Besides that, he didn’t want to pollute his body with crap.

  Beer was his only vice. Basically, it was his carbohydrates—liquid bread.

  Ah! He swallowed down the rest of the cold brew.

  Another body pushed into his, and suddenly the crowd, the noise, and the smell—everything—was too much. It was overwhelming. And that was his cue to go.

  He placed the empty bottle on a passing waitress’s tray and headed for the door. He’d done his duty. He came, he drank, and now he was leaving.

  The door he had selected as his escape hatch opened before him and a gorgeous brunette stepped through, wearing spikes and a black dress with a very short skirt. Her skin glowed as if she’d just come in from the sun, and she was slightly out of breath. A large basket filled with goodies that she balanced on one hand wavered and then tipped.