But as incredible as everything was, what amazed Walker the most were the pictures, paintings, and things adorning the walls.
The
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—
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,
