A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
Dr. Rob Bearon stood in the doorway—filled the doorway was a more apt description. He was a huge man who the nurses called “Bear” behind his back. He had short, thick brown hair, a dense, close-cropped beard of the same color, and squinty eyes.
“Lieutenant McHugh,” he boomed, “how we doing this fine morning, sir?”
Despite his foul mood, Brendan smiled. It was impossible not to smile with Dr. Bear. But his smile faded when he saw that the doctor had company with him.
Rear Admiral Steve “Wiz” Wizniewski was a top dog at the Washington office of US Special Operations Command, or SOCOM, and well known in the SEAL community. He had been CO of BUD/S, Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL school, when Brendan went through the Program. He could still recall Wiz doing PT with the SEAL candidates half his age — and kicking their asses. Wiz had even pinned on Brendan’s Trident — the “Budweiser,” as the SEAL warfare pin was called — after he’d passed both Underwater Demolition and SEAL training.
Wiz crossed the room in two strides and gripped Brendan’s hand. “Good to see you, Brendan. It’s been a long time.”
“Yes, sir.” Brendan tried not to choke. Wiz’s grip said it alclass="underline" he’s here to let me go. A dark cloud settled over his head as he half-listened to the Bear’s explanation.
The big man had amazingly gentle hands. He lowered the traction line and removed the bandage like he was unwrapping a historical treasure. Brendan’s knee was a greenish-purple lump of cuts and stitches. It didn’t even look like a knee.
“The injury occurred from the rear of the joint, piercing the hamstring and cutting all the way through to the patella.” Brendan gritted his teeth when he thought about the feeling of the knifepoint scraping the inside of his kneecap. Bear took out his pen and pointed to the lumpy right side of the knee.
“The early infection was extensive and resulted in bone loss and tissue decay on this side of the joint. We were able to regrow a section of hamstring using some newer tissue regeneration techniques, and we spliced that new material into the existing hamstring.” He squinted at Brendan. “Physical therapy will not be pleasant, I’m afraid. The new material will need to be stretched into shape slowly — and painfully — but it will work if you stick with it. We tried an experimental bone matrix process to encourage bone regrowth. That was partially successful. We also grafted a metal plate into the left side to stabilize the joint.”
“Alright, doc, let’s cut to the chase,” Wiz said. “What’s the prognosis?”
Bear rewrapped the bandage around Brendan’s knee before he answered. “Well, the lieutenant won’t be running any marathons, but with hard work and lots of PT, he’ll probably be able to manage an easy 10K.”
Brendan looked up, feeling a smile grow on his face. “So I’m going to get cleared for duty again?”
Dr. Bearon held up his hands. “Whoa, cowboy, that’s not what I said. Brendan, you’re lucky you can walk, much less run — you almost lost your leg, remember? I said you would be able to use the knee again, that’s all.”
Brendan gave the admiral a hard look. “So you’re here to put the icing on the cake, sir?”
Wiz’s face softened. “Look, Brendan, you know the rules as well as anyone. You can’t be on the active roster with a bum knee. It’s not fair to the rest of the team. You know that.”
Brendan nodded, not trusting himself to say anything. He gritted his teeth so that his chin wouldn’t tremble.
Wizniewski continued. “I’ve been on the phone with the community manager, as well as Admiral McRaven down at SOCOM HQ in Tampa. Yes, we’re going to have to let you go, but the Navy has lots of options out there, Brendan. Some of them might surprise you.”
“Supply corps, sir?” Brendan said, trying to keep the bitter edge out of his voice. He failed. “C’mon, sir. You know me. How long would I last as a pencil pusher?”
Wizniewski glanced at his watch and stood up. “Brendan, do you trust me?”
Brendan swallowed and nodded his head. His voice failed him again.
“The doc says he’s going to release you next week. You’ve got some medical leave coming to you and the holidays are right around the corner. Take the time, clear your head, and don’t do anything stupid — like resign your commission.”
He put out his hand. His Naval Academy class ring gleamed in the light. Brendan shook his hand. Wiz’s grip was cool, dry, reassuring. “Something will come up, Brendan. And sooner than you think. Trust me.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Brendan stared out the window for a long time. Lunch came and he left the tray untouched. They came back to get the tray, and he ignored them.
His girlfriend, his career, his money, his car — it was all shit. His entire life was shit.
He tried to will himself to call the next company on his list and just could not screw up the gumption to let one more credit agency lady explain to him why he was a fucking idiot. He laughed bitterly, a sharp bark in the quiet room. O&O, my ass.
There was a soft knock at the door. A tall black man stood in the entrance, close-cropped hair with a touch of gray at the temples. He had a tentative smile on his face.
“Lieutenant McHugh?”
“Yes.” Brendan eyed the man. He had a lean build and was dressed in khakis and a blue dress shirt open at the neck. He extended his hand.
“Rick Baxter, Lieutenant.”
“Brendan, call me Brendan.”
“Brendan, then.” Baxter put his hand on a chair. “May I?”
Brendan shrugged. “Suit yourself, Rick. I’ve got nothing but time.” Even as he said it, Brendan could feel the bitterness in his own voice, like acid on his tongue.
Baxter lowered himself into the chair and scooted close to the bedside. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by, Brendan. I run a small office over at ONI. We’ve got a few guys from your community in our group, all solid guys. I’m putting together a new team and your name came up as a candidate.”
Brendan sat up in bed. ONI was Office of Naval Intelligence. But there was more than that; Baxter’s voice seemed so familiar.
“Me? What kind of team, Rick?”
Baxter laughed. “All in good time, Lieutenant, all in good time. For now, I just wanted to stop by and say thank you.”
“I’m not following.”
Baxter’s eyes dropped to Brendan’s knee. “What you did out there, it paid off for us. It was worth it.”
Brendan scowled. Somehow, he knew that voice. His mind struggled to place it through all the pain meds he’d received over the past weeks.
Baxter stood up abruptly. “Well, I think maybe I’ve overstayed my welcome here, Brendan. Tell you what. You think about our conversation, and when you can walk on your own two feet, call me and we’ll have lunch.”
Baxter pulled a card from his breast pocket and laid it facedown on the bedside table. Then he shook Brendan’s hand, replaced the chair where he’d found it, and walked out the door. The whole visit had taken less than five minutes.
Where did he know that voice from? Brendan picked up the card. It was plain white stock with two lines of heavy black text: Rick Baxter and a phone number with a DC area code.
CHAPTER 26
Hashem shifted in his seat. More than anything else in the world, he wanted a cigarette. The pack of Marlboros in the breast pocket of his jacket breathed up a little scent of tobacco every time he moved. He sniffed at it and closed his eyes.
The speaker at the front of the room changed again, but it was the same tired drone of bureaucracy they’d already heard ten times. Everyone felt the need to speak, but no one felt the need to listen. This was why Hashem stayed as far away from politics as possible, these never-ending meetings where everyone said the same thing and no one agreed with anyone else.