by Peter Telep
There was no doubt that Willie’s father-in-law and brother-in-law could use his help and expertise in the business, and Willie was torn between leaving the Marine Corps before retiring or doing his last three years in Okinawa so he could collect a pension. Every operator knew that Force Recon was a mistress with whom few women could compete. Indeed, the strain on his marriage was the second huge factor he took into account. It was money versus family. In the end, he realized he owed it to Ivonne and to the rest of his loved ones to remain behind and help them build that business. He had served proudly with the United States Marine Corps, and he would always be a Marine, but the time had come to move on and allow that recon mistress to go off and seduce another, younger man.
Once the Sportsman’s Lodge was established and began to grow, Willie was getting offers from outside contractors who did business with the Marine Corps. They wanted to bring him on as a shooting instructor. Willie decided to further help the family by no longer drawing a salary from the lodge and volunteering his services to help when needed. Meanwhile, he would pick up paid work from these contractors. He spent a few years working for a small firm as a recon and sniper instructor at Camp Lejeune, then was hired by Professional Solutions as the lead civilian contractor at the Special Operations School for Close Quarters Battle and Explosive, Mechanical, and ballistic Breaching. This school was run by Marine Special Operations Command (MARSOC). He became the instructor and wrote curriculum for the use of Special Operations Modified (SOPMOD) equipment by MARSOC operators. From there he smoothly transitioned to Triton 6 to work with Johnny and Corey. However, he still missed the adrenaline rush of combat. The next best alternative was to continue honing his shooting skills through competitions all over the United Sates, where he could network with veteran military operators, make new friends both personal and professional, and clear all of life’s stresses from his head. His preference was “3-Gun,” where he would fire a rifle, handgun, and shotgun while shifting through different stages and engaging various targets in different positions. Transitioning swiftly between weapons and reaching the next shooting position without falling down were just a few of the challenges. The competitions were part of his professional development and allowed him to set personal goals, not to mention the bragging rights he earned when his aim held true.
Sadly, Willie’s goal at the moment had nothing to do with shooting. He was at the wheel of Johnny’s car and taking him home. During the ride, he wanted to ensure that Johnny did not blame himself, because that was a natural instinct of all sheepdogs who lost one under their protection.
They drove the first quarter mile in silence before Johnny blurted out: “I should have gone in to say hi to Reva.”
“What’re you talking about? She was already dead.”
Johnny hesitated. “The son of a bitch never learned to fight.”
Willie took a deep breath and spoke more deliberately. “Can’t blame yourself.”
“Want to hear something crazy? I was telling him about the break-ins at the Cottages. I said every man should own a gun. You believe that?”
“I believe you were a good brother, and you did everything you could.”
Johnny looked at him strangely. “What could it be?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“The thing he had to do. He was coming for help, but he changed his mind.”
“He needed your help?”
“He said he did, and then he changed his mind. You know, I was always telling him to get busy. Stop whining about all the shit in your life. Get out there and shake some trees.”
“Don’t forget, your brother schooled his way to the top. He was running the show over there. Old Mad Dog Mattis said the most valuable real estate on the battlefield is the six inches between your ears.”
“Right on.”
“So don’t be saying that shit. Your brother Daniel Johansen was a man. And he was a hell of a lot smarter than you and me. We’re just knuckle-draggers. He needed help with something outside his envelope.”
“Son, don’t piss down my back and tell me it’s raining.”
“I’m serious, Johnny. Give him some credit.”
“All right, look here, he said it was time to step up to the plate. What does that mean?”
“Good question. Maybe it had something to do with Reva? What about her?”
“I went over that with the detective. They were just bored. They didn’t have any problems. He wasn’t leaving her.”
“What if she had a secret?”
“Like what?”
“Like we all got our homeowners and car insurance through her, right? Maybe there was a fraud case. Some kind of retaliation. Maybe she was stealing from the company? Maybe she was having an affair?”
“We talking about the same lady? You know how she was, a real classy broad, nothing crude or redneck about her. I can’t imagine her doing something like that. She served us ice cream is those fancy bowls.”
“She was born in India, right?”
“So?”
“So maybe this has something to do with her country. Maybe it’s payback from some family member. Some shit we didn’t know about.”
“Look, if she was into something and got my brother killed, then our boy Columbo will be all over it. But you know, we wouldn’t be sitting here with all these questions if I had called him once in a while and asked how he was doing.”
“Everybody does the same thing, Johnny. We lose touch. That doesn’t make us bad people.”
“Every time I talked to him, I felt like I was pissing him off.”
“You probably were. Because you remind him of the old man. And he had issues with the old man. So anyway, we’ll keep thinking about it. And maybe the police will find something at his house.”
They stopped at a light, and Willie glanced over at Johnny, whose eyes were burning. Johnny met his gaze and said, “Sorry about all this. Sorry for putting you out.”
Willie frowned. “Shut up.”
The light turned green, and Willie stomped on the pedal. His phone rang. “What’s up, Josh?”
“He all right?”
“You want to talk to him?”
“Yeah.”
Willie handed the phone to Johnny. “Hey.”
Trying to give Johnny a bit of privacy, Willie focused on the days to come and the nights soaked in alcohol.
Rest in peace, Daniel and Reva Johansen. Rest in peace.
Chapter Five
“After the funeral, I caught Johnny staring at my tattoo: I am my brother’s keeper. He believed those words, and nothing would change his mind. Thank God for that.”
—Josh Eriksson (FBI interview, 23 December)
Johnny and his wife lived in a white, three-story deck house with hints of Victorian architecture. Two staircases rose from the left and right garage doors, joined at the center, then swept up to the grand second story entrance. Johnny had purchased the home from a man whose grown daughters often came to visit, so each of the six bedrooms had its own en suite. Out back stood a private dock on the canal for Johnny’s twenty-one foot Kencraft Bay Rider, along with a commercial-sized flagpole atop which Johnny proudly displayed the stars and stripes. From the second-story back porch, where they often ate meals, Waters Bay would shimmer to the south, and they could just catch a glimpse of Permuda Island State Reserve to the northeast.
Willie pulled into the driveway, and Johnny dragged himself out. He crossed to the tailgate and released the dogs so they could run across the street, head down to the canal bank, and do their business. Elina had been driving her car behind them, and she wanted to give Johnny a long hug, but he said he needed to take a shower. He spent nearly thirty minutes under the hot spray, staring blankly at the pink whirlpool at his feet. He leaned on the wall several times and fought against a powerful ache that pressed on his ribs. He would not allow himself even a moment of weakness. One chink in his armor would be one too many. Instead he focused on the problem. On the solution.
Stepping out of the shower, he found Elina on the edge of their bed, wiping tears from her eyes. He collapsed beside her and slid a wet arm over her shoulder.
“Johnny...”
“I’m all right.”
“We’re here.”
All he could do was nod.
“I know you’re not hearing this, but if we talk, it’ll help. I’ll wait. I don’t care how long.”
Elina knew him better than anyone. He dealt with grief on his own time, in his own way, and she was always there when he was ready. Was it like this between Daniel and Reva? Johnny could not be sure. His brother never shared intimate details about his marriage; in fact, Daniel had spoken more about Reva in the past twenty-fours than he had in the past ten years, making his confession about seeing her for only an hour a day and saying, “That’s no life,” all the more troubling.
Johnny closed his eyes and thanked God he was not alone in this. He clutched Elina a little tighter. This was the woman who would get him through. This was the woman who had been with him for the better part of his life, and their story began more than twenty years ago when he was down in Key West, Florida attending the Special Forces Combat Dive Supervisors Course. After a long day of travel, he checked into the school and then headed for the ville to link up with the boys—marines who had come from other recon units. With orders to rescue some college girls from their innocence, they dropped in on the world famous Sloppy Joe’s bar on Duval Street. The place was packed wall-to-wall with empty-headed blondes, none of who caught Johnny’s eye. But then this exotic-looking woman with auburn hair and iridescent green eyes floated to the edge of the dance floor, and as Johnny was about to make eye contact, some other clown asked her to dance. Like any good 0321 worth his salt, Johnny waited patiently, reconnoitering the situation. When the time came, he broke from his covered and concealed position and met this woman at the bar. He asked what she was drinking. Corona. He offered to buy her the beer. She declined. He insisted, reaching into his smelly sock where he kept his money. He paid for the drink. Her name was Elina, and she was born in Finland but living in Miami. She was on vacation with her friend, Debbie, who was at her apartment nursing a hangover from a previous day’s cruise. Johnny was so taken by this woman with the accent that he kept her talking and dancing until the wee hours. He created an elaborate story about having no place to go and needing to collect his gear from the airport the next day. Elina allowed him to spend the night at Debbie’s place but warned that he would not be getting lucky.
Ironically, they stood each other up for a second date but crossed paths soon thereafter. They spent more time together, and when Johnny was away, they began writing letters. As their relationship grew, Johnny did everything he could to see her, if only for a weekend. One Friday he and his buddy packed up the car and headed from North Carolina to Miami. These were the days before cell phones, and along the way Johnny realized he had lost Elina’s address and phone number. He did remember where Debbie lived in Key West, so he and his buddy drove all the way down there, just so they could find Debbie and she could put them in touch with Elina. They called Elina from Key West, and she left Miami at midnight, arriving some three hours later but shrugging off the long drive. That was when Johnny thought she was falling in love. He knew he was. A year later they stood at the altar of a small white chapel on the grounds of Camp Geiger and exchanged their vows.
During those early days of their marriage, Johnny worried a lot. Would Elina be strong enough to handle so much time alone? He made sure to stay in touch. They had to number their letters because he would receive them in bundles and wanted to read them in the correct order. He began to marvel over how independent she was—independent enough to remain happy while he was gone, but never forgetting that they were a team. She understood the challenges he faced as a Marine and the challenges they faced as a married couple. She joked that the toughest part was putting up with his stupid jokes. When he came home from a deployment, they were always nervous. He understood that the last thing she needed was him barging in to disrupt her routine. He would always ease back into it, complimenting the changes she might have made to their home and to her personal appearance. They would get used to being around each other again, and before they knew it, they were back to normal—a married couple for over twenty years who were all that and a bag of chips.
“I need to get dressed,” Johnny said, rising from the bed. “I’ll have the boys take me back to the station.”
“Okay,” she said. “You must be starving.”
“Last thing on my mind, but now that you mention it.”
“I’ll talk to Jada and Ivonne. We’ll see if we can have something ready by the time you get back.” She rose and put her hands on his cheeks. “You know I love you.”
“Yeah. And do me a favor when you go down there. Tell Willie I got some birds in a bag that are probably stinking up the truck.”
“I’ll let him know.” She reached the doorway.
“Hey.”
She glanced back at him.
“Love you, too.”
* * *
Josh was waiting with Corey in the man cave located on the ground floor behind the garages. He had drawn a tall can of Michelob Ultra from the mini fridge and now leaned on the semi-circular bar, staring at the Claymore mine propped up on the shelving unit behind the counter. Embossed on the rectangular-shaped explosive were the words FRONT TOWARD ENEMY. Marines never needed that admonishment, Josh mused; they were always leaning toward the danger.
Above the Claymore sat a powder horn that Johnny had commissioned from a gifted artist. Carved on the horn was a map of North Carolina during the 1800s. The map included the “Johnson Land Grant,” marking an area where Johnny’s family had settled. The carver had done all the research and had surprised Johnny with this discovery. Along with the map was an early emblem of the Marine Corps, and below it was Johnny’s name. In the center of the horn was a compass ringed by twenty-three stars, each one representing a year that Johnny had served his country. Indeed, the horn was a unique piece of art commemorating Johnny’s past, but Josh knew it symbolized much more. It spoke of Johnny’s generosity and of his care and concern for others, as evidenced by the tale of how he had acquired it.
Johnny had been attending a civil war reenactment with a friend who had brought along his eight year old boy. Times were tough, a divorce was on the horizon, and the boy was caught up in all of it. Feeling for the kid, Johnny slipped him a twenty dollar bill to buy a souvenir from one of the vendors. The boy had his heart set on a powder horn, the cheapest of which were 100 dollars. The boy left that tent disappointed. At the end of the day, Johnny spoke alone with the vendor and told him, “I want you to make this kid believe he negotiated you down to twenty bucks for that horn, and I’ll pay you the difference.” The vendor was on board, and the boy left with his powder horn, feeling like a master negotiator. Meanwhile, Johnny realized that he, too, had been struck by the artistry and craftsmanship of the horns, and he wound up ordering one for himself.
Wearing a melancholy grin, Josh lifted his gaze away from the horn to the bottles of Jack Daniels whose dusty shoulders would soon gain many fingerprints. Off to his left rose the straight limb of an oak tree mounted on a stand, the branches filed down to nubs upon which Johnny hung his ball caps and jackets. Displayed across the surrounding maple beadboard walls were various placards and scrolls, one depicting sailors’ knots, another noting how Marines were your best friend or your worst nightmare. A 2nd Force Reconnaissance banner with gold fringe trim towered above the leather sofa, and mounted beside it was a gleaming Mameluke sword. Over one hundred challenge coins lined a rack near the door and were a testament to the many friends Johnny had made .
Johnny’s most prized possession was a green paddle mounted on the wall across from the bar. This keepsake had been given to him at r
etirement during his recon sendoff ceremony. The paddle was polished to a rich luster by the men in his unit and decorated with ribbon racks, the 2nd Force emblem, and a metal plaque that noted his insert and extract dates. Below those dates was as a quote (“You’re either on the train or under it”) and a thank you “From the Men of Force Recon’s past, present, and future.” The paddle tradition among reconnaissance Marines dated back to World War II, when “Marine Raiders” engaged in clandestine raft operations to secure beaches, relying solely on their paddles for propulsion when near the shoreline. They carried these paddles everywhere, and soon the wood became worn and scarred, as did the men.
The paddles were the reason Johnny had built the man cave in the first place. He was never one to have such a room because it reminded him of people who had nothing else in their lives except for who they had been in the Corps. But then Marcus, one of Johnny’s old buddies, had come and asked why his paddles were tucked away in a closet when so many men had put their hearts and souls into making them. It was then that Johnny realized how selfish he had been. Marcus was right. It was time to honor the men who had given him so much. It was time to create a room about them, not just him, and everything on display should be a gift from a warrior, with the powder horn being a very rare exception.
Like Johnny, Josh had a few paddles himself. He hung them in his office at Warrick Marine, and one in particular came from the Navy and marked a major change in his life.
After nine rigorous years in the Corps, Josh had been lured away to the Naval Amphibious Base in Little Creek, Virginia, home of the U.S. Navy Center for Anti-Terrorism and Navy Security Forces. He took all of a week off before assuming his new duties. He transitioned from wearing a uniform to wearing a suit, from being a Staff Sergeant to being a GS-12, and not long after, a GS-13—the federal employee equivalent of lieutenant colonel. He was brought in as a program manager and functional team leader. He was given just twelve months to create the entire U.S. Navy’s Riverine Program so that Navy personnel could go tear-assing around the Euphrates just like Small Craft Company had.
