SEAL Team 666: A Novel

Laws just looked at him. “That’s okay. I know Chinese.”

“Which dialects?”

“All of them … basically. But that doesn’t matter with the characters, now, does it?”

“We’ll get them to you right after the meeting,” Jen said, shaking her head subtly at her assistant.

Musso stood and made his way to the front. He gave Laws a wary eye. “All of them?” he asked again.

“Yep,” Laws responded. “I also speak Spanish, Italian, French, and half a dozen other languages.”

This gave Musso pause. Finally he turned to a map that had been taped to the wall. “Myanmar. It used to be Burma, but that was a colonial derivation of colloquialization of Bamer, which is the written word for the country. Rangoon is now called Yangon. Basically, all the names have changed.”

“What’s their military like?” Holmes asked.

“They’ve been embargoed since 1990, but still get support from rogue nation-states such as North Korea and Syria. Previously, they received support from Equatorial Guinea and Libya, but with the advent of the Arab Spring, we believe that these relationships will be changing, if they haven’t already.”

Walker found himself staring at Jen, who’d taken a position beside Musso. She was leaning against the wall. With three-inch heels, her legs seemed to go on for days. This evening they had plans. Dinner in the Gaslamp Quarter and maybe dancing at one of the clubs catering to upscale tourists. He could almost feel her in his hands.

He felt someone kick him under the table.

He returned his attention to the briefing. Musso was saying something about someone named Karen, or something like that. He listened dutifully for a moment, then noticed the way Jen had her hair pulled back and how a few stubborn strands fell across her eyes.

35

FORT ROSECRANS NATIONAL CEMETERY.

Zagat-rated translated to freaking expensive. They ate at Monsoon Indian Restaurant in the Gaslamp Quarter of San Diego. Lemon chicken, roghan josh, and fish were piled high on their table. After a bottle of wine, the curries and gingers and Far East spices mingled admirably in their palate. Walker was thankful he didn’t ordinarily have enough time to spend his money. The cost of that meal was nearly a week’s pay, but the satisfaction of being fed and pampered reflected in Jen’s eyes made it all worth it.

When they were done, they walked around the Gaslamp Quarter for a while. She wore an orange silk summer dress. He wore tan slacks with a purple Polo. As nice as the cobbled streets and retro-old feel were in the Gaslamp, it soon wore on him. It was like any other shopping district in the world, just polished to a gleaming faux-Victorian shine.

Soon they were in Jen’s Corvette, cruising over to Point Loma and Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery. “This is what it’s all about. This is why we’re here. These people here,” he said, pointing to the geometrically straight rows of white stones, “are the reason I go out and fight.”

“So it’s the dead who inspire you to help the living?”

“Maybe.” They were walking hand in hand between the rows. A gentle offshore breeze spun the bottom of her dress and made her hug close to him. “Or maybe it’s my deep regard for their service and for their sacrifice. Most of those people on the street don’t know what sacrifice is. Going without television? One less trip to the gym? One less Happy Meal for their kid? Every one of these men and women put their life on the line at one time or another. Many of them sacrificed that life so we could go into a nice restaurant and eat mahi mahi with ginger and coconut.”

“It was good mahi mahi with ginger and coconut. Thank you, sailor, for making the sacrifice for me,” she purred into his ear.

He couldn’t help smiling. He knew she understood him. This was just how she acted when she was feeling satisfied. So why wasn’t he acting the same way? It was because his satisfaction manifested in the need to serve. He was convinced it was part of his DNA.

“Do you always take your dates to cemeteries?” she asked after a while.

“Only those who matter.”

“Oh!” She stopped and placed both hands on hips. “And why am I just now mattering?”

“You’ve mattered to me for some time now. With SEAL training and my new command, I’ve been—” He stopped as he saw her shoulders shaking in silent laughter. “You’re messing with me.”

“I only mess with boys who matter.”

They walked for a time, then stopped at a granite memorial to the USS Wasp.

“This was an aircraft carrier in World War Two. It was sunk by Japanese torpedoes supporting Guadalcanal on March 19, 1945.” His finger traced the list of Killed in Action, then stopped. “This was my grandfather. He was an electrician’s mate, second class. He and a hundred and ninety-three men went down that day.”

“You never knew him,” she said, reaching out to touch his hand.

“But I grew up with stories about him.”

“Your father was in the Navy, too, wasn’t he?”

“It’s sort of a family tradition. My brother was in as well.”

“Are they buried here?” she asked softly.