“Not sure what you’re talking about,” I said calmly.
“I’m talking about the incident with Petty Officer White.” He watched me closely as he said the name to see if I’d react.
The reaction I wanted to have was to laugh. As if he would ever be able to read me. It was a joke. Neither this man behind his big impressive desk, nor any man behind a desk at the Pentagon understood the hard, split-second decisions we made every time we put ourM40on our shoulder and moved through the shadows. We had to stay invisible no matter where we were, and we were damn good at it. I was damn good at it. Give me a completely treeless, bushless surrounding, and I still could blend in. It was more possible than people thought, blending in. But it took time and skill and patience.
“I didn’t hit White,” I said. I might have if Mac hadn’t been in the room with us. I might have put my hands around his neck and squeezed until there was no life left in his spineless body.
“There're more ways to hit someone than the physical, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I’m sorry, Doc. You’ll have to come out and say it. Us SEALs aren’t really into all the word games.”
“Another lie. SEALs are some of the smartest men in the military. They have to be.”
The surprise registered deep inside, but I still didn’t react. We stared each other down before the doctor sighed and filled in the blanks himself.
“It says here that White filed a formal complaint because you threatened his life and those of everyone he knew and loved. Is that not what happened?”
White wasn’t in the military anymore. He was a private Joe. He’d gone to work for the same Congressional representative who’d been giving him kickbacks all along. The one who’d wanted to deal with the anti-tyrant party in Africa for the gold and recently discovered oil. That bargain had required the tyrant himself be put out to pasture.
I moved slowly, adjusting my posture so it fit the image he wanted: a man with regrets I didn’t feel. “Well now, I’m sure I did. I’d just buried my best friend and three other brothers because of him. I’d just pounded Tridents into four coffins while he’d soaked up money for having Onewabi murdered. Seemed like someone had to assign some consequences to his actions.”
“And you’re the one to do it? Assign consequences to those who you feel aren’t living by the same code of ethics you live by?”
“If everyone lived by our code, I’d be out of a job,” I said with a small shrug.
We both sat there, staring at each other, waiting for someone to blink. It wasn’t me.
“I have one more question for you today,” he said, tugging at his tie. “What’s your plan for after the SEALs?”
My heart came to a complete and utter stop. “After?”
He nodded. “You don’t expect to stay in forever, do you?”
I didn’t respond. Being a SEAL was who I was. Had been who I was before I’d ever signed on the dotted line. Before I’d attended the BUD/S training. Before the Naval Academy. Before Pierce Military School. But his question was the same one that haunted me from another male behind a big desk in a home I no longer called mine.
He flipped through my file again. “You're listed as a board member on your family’s business. Do??”
“Just stop. Don’t go there.”
He looked at me with surprise. It was the closest I’d ever come to losing my shit with him, and it was still far away. For now, it was a simple warning. I didn’t talk about this with anyone in the military. End of story. If I didn’t discuss it with my uncle, I sure as hell wasn’t going to discuss it with him.
Inez stared at me some more, and I still wasn’t the one to blink.
“I’m recommending you be put on temporary medical leave.”
“Say that again?”
“It isn’t just losing your team or losing your cool with Dainty and White that’s bothering me, Nash. Your whole life has been a series of traumas ripe for developing and stimulating PTSD effects. I don’t think you’ve dealt with any of it. My suggestion: use the time to go back and reconnect with the people at home. Make connections with people who give you a reason to live. Otherwise, I can’t, with a good conscience, put a man out in the field who is looking for death.”
“I don’t have a death wish,” I said calmly. Inside, I was slowly boiling. Pissed that this skinny-assed man who’d never even seen real sacrifice up close was trying to push me out. Trying to break me. Trying to get me to quit.
It was a joke. He didn’t understand that BUD/S wasn’t even the worst of the SEAL training. I hadn’t quit any of it. I hadn’t cried like a baby at survival training. I hadn’t rung a bell, set down a rifle, or walked away. SEALs didn’t quit.
Except Bull and Runner had.
“You may not be wishing for death, but you certainly aren’t wishing for life, either.”
He stood up, ending our session as his words whooshed around in my brain.
