Chapter 2
My punishment will be...WHAT?...
Zach had been back in the USA for two weeks, but this was the first time he’d been summoned to discuss his “problem” in detail since the original, not-too-pleasant debriefing, which had been more like a “Chew Floyd’s Ass” session.
He pushed open the office door in the training compound, knowing full well that he was late.
Lt. Commander Ian MacLean ran his fingers through his receding hairline, which had been recently trimmed into the traditional military high and tight, and glared with disbelief at him.
“I swear, you would arrive late for your own funeral. Do you have any clue what kind of trouble you’re in, Lieutenant Floyd? ”
“Yes, commander, sir,” Zach answered, standing at attention before the commander’s desk. “But there was an accident involving my...uh, babysitter, and—”
“Lieutenant Floyd!” the commander interrupted.
Protocol required his speaking to a higher-ranking officer only in response to questions or when given permission to speak freely. “Sorry, Commander, sir.”
MacLean breathed in and out, clearly trying to calm his temper, which Zach knew was formidable. MacLean had been his BUD/S instructor, and he hadn’t been known as “Lean-Mean” for nothing. “At ease, lieutenant.”
Zach relaxed his stance and folded his hands behind his back.
“What happened?”
“Here or in Afghanistan?”
MacLean literally growled. “Don’t screw with me, dickhead. I can make that hot water you’re dog paddling through turn to boiling and peel your stupid skin off. While I’m at it, I might as well burn off that wayward dick of yours.”
Okaaaay!
Picking up a pile of pink telephone message slips, he began to flick through them, making a comment about each:
“John Sylvester from the State Department. Wants a meeting with you ASAP.
“Mullah Ahmed Bejah from the L.A. chapter of Muslims for Peace. They’re demanding that the boy be returned because of his religious background.
“Admiral George Wilson, CentCom. He wants your ass in the brig.
“Your grandfather, General Floyd, is trying to make it all go away, which is of course impossible.
“A representative of the Afghan Embassy is demanding immediate and unconditional return of Samir.
“Al-Jazeera TV. Five calls from them.
“One each from the Today Show, Good Morning America, and both CNN and Fox News. Not to mention People Magazine and the New York Times.
“If you dare talk to any media, I swear, I will personally take the hide off you. Oh, and did I mention some image consultant at the Pentagon thinks you would make a great poster boy for recruitment...once this brouhaha all dies down?”
Zach was about to make a joke about Mac using the word “brouhaha”, like maybe asking “What kind of Ha Ha?” Luckily, he caught himself in time, and instead tried to look suitably surprised and outraged, but, frankly, he’d had just as many calls, some even wackier, and some downright scary.
Like death threats. How they’d gotten his unlisted number was even scarier.
That didn’t count the two attempts to kidnap Sammy, once in D.C.
when he first came back to the States, and again several days later at the airport in San Diego.
That was before he’d taken security measures.
The commander inhaled and exhaled deeply, presumably to tame his temper. “What happened today?”
“My son kicked the babysitter, who already had a bruised hamstring. We had to call an ambulance because he was unable to walk, a possible shin fracture, and then I had to get a back-up babysitter. By that time, I was already late, and I did call in, but—”
Commander MacLean raised a halting hand. “The babysitter with the bruised hamstring? You wouldn’t be referring to Ensign Omar Jones, would you?”
“Roger that. Omar has custody of his little girl, you know, but she’s visiting his parents in Arizona this week.
I figured he has experience with kids. Hah!
Lotta good that did. Actually, I begged Omar after the first five babysitters quit.
My son is not the most pleasant gremlin on the planet.
Omar is multilingual, as you know, and a SEAL, both attributes when dealing with an Afghan version of Attila the Five-Year-Old Hun. ”
His humor...his whole frickin’ monologue...didn’t go over big with MacLean who continued to frown at him. “I thought your mother came here from Florida to help with the kid.”
“She did, but she quit two days ago. Her exact words were, ‘You made your bed, sonny, now sleep in it.’ Besides, she had a modeling gig...something for the AARP magazine, I think.”
Still not a hint of a smile.
So, he blathered on, “My brother Danny is on leave from his Iraq deployment. He’s an Air Force pilot. But he just laughs at me. People do that a lot lately.”
MacLean frowned. “Who’s the back-up babysitter?”
Zach hesitated before revealing, “Your wife.”
“Madrene?” MacLean’s eyes about bulged from their sockets.
“I couldn’t think of anyone else to ask.”
“And the kids?” The commander and his wife had two children: one-year-old and three-month-old sons, Ivan and Ranulf.
“They are there, too. My son seems to behave better in their company, under your wife’s iron control.”
The commander gave him “the look,” the one that put him in the same class as dipwad newbie tadpoles. “Your babysitting woes...in fact, your being late...are the least of your worries, boy.”
Zach knew things were bad when MacLean referred to him as “boy,” seeing as how the commander had only a few years on him.
“I will not send him back...Commander, sir.” It was telling how often he referred to his son as “him” or “the kid,” he realized with an odd sadness.
“I understand that. You’d better have bodyguards around the kid, though, because, believe me, Mullah Arsallah has friends in low, as well as high places. He won’t give up.”
“Two of SEAL Team Thirteen’s inactive members are stationed outside my building, sir, for the time being. Including Scary Larry Wilson.”
His boss didn’t find that reference as amusing as Zach did. Scary Larry watching over Sammy the Snot. Whoo-boy! Actually, Wilson was a nice guy...a thirty-something SEAL who was on temporary suspension for breaking some ass-backwards Navy rule. He’d hired him in the interim to help guard his son.
“I promise I’ll get this resolved soon.”
MacLean rested his elbow on the desk and put his chin in one hand, staring at him as if he were mud under his boondockers. “The Pentagon wants to know why...and how...you had sex during a live op in Afghanistan six years ago.”
Zach grinned. “Under a tarp in the mess tent.”
“Pfff! I’ll be sure to tell them that. Not!”
“I didn’t ask for this situation, sir, but I take responsibility for all of it. And I will resolve all the...issues.”
“Floyd, you’ve got as much sense as an armadillo crossing a four-lane highway.” MacLean shook his head at him. “What a cluster fuck! I hope you have a good lawyer.”
“I do, sir. My grandfather retained Jack Delaney for me.” His grandfather, Army General Frank Floyd, retired, was a famous World War II ace pilot who still served in the Pentagon as a consultant, despite his advanced age. Delaney was a D.C. attorney with a reputation for winning at all costs.
The bill, which would be monumental, was being footed by his father, an aging Lothario who still thought he was Hollywood’s answer to Cary Grant, playing just such a role, Dr. Lawrence Bratton, in one of the long-running TV soap operas, Light in the Storm.
Incredibly, the old blowhard thought he could still give George Clooney a run for the money.
His mother, who’d divorced his father about twenty affairs ago, back when they all still lived in Bangor, Maine, had her own life as a senior citizen model. She’d kill Zach if she ever heard him refer to her that way.
His family, dysfunctional as it was, were there for each other in times of need. And, man, oh man, Zach sure was needy now.
MacLean nodded at the mention of Delaney. “Well, for the time being, you’re assigned here at Coronado as an instructor.”
Zach had expected that. In fact, he’d expected far worse punishment as he’d worked out every day, waiting for his sentence...uh, assignment. Gig Squad, at the least.
“Don’t look so smug, Floyd.”
Uh-oh! Zach didn’t like the smirk on his commander’s face. Incoming bomb about to zing me.
“You are the brand-new assistant commander of the Navy’s half-assed, bird-brained, in-your-face WEALS, boy.”
“WEALS? Oh, no! No, no, no! Not that SEAL wannabe bunch of women!”
“Exactly. Women on Earth, Air, Land and Sea. The latest BUD/S class just ended and another won’t start for three months in order to accommodate this program.”
“What the hell do I know about teaching SEALs or WEALS or anyone, for that matter?”
“SEAL instructors aren’t professional teachers, as you well know. It’s a temporary duty billet like any other. Behave yourself, and you might be put back on the teams.”
So much for that argument! “Who’s the commander?”
Lt. MacLean’s face flushed a bright red. Even his partially bald head was red.
“You? Wa-hoo! What did you do wrong to get this assignment?”
“Nothing. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Zach knew how that could happen. Best to make yourself as invisible as possible in the military. “Man, I never thought I’d see the day that they’d allow women into the teams.”
“They’re not. Listen, terrorism has escalated so much in the past five years that we can’t keep up with the demand for SEALs out in the field. Same with all the other special forces units in other branches of the military. Women can fill a need.”
“You’re talking about lowering the standards, aren’t you?”
MacLean nodded. “Let’s face it. There’s no way a woman, no matter how strong, would be able to withstand a real Hell Week. For example, I think we’ll pass on Log PT. Those telephone pole buggers weigh three to four hundred pounds each.”