In other words, get the hell not just out of his office and off the base, but out of California, too.
Jim knew not to push and ask exactly whatoptionsthe doc thought the medical team might come up with. Best case would be more surgery, while the nightmare scenario would be horrific. Desk job A or desk job B. Oh, hey, maybe he could teach. Be a BUD/S classroom instructor.Thatwould be fun…
A tap on his window made him jump. Great, he was already losing his edge.
But it was Thomas King, the young lieutenant who’d taken command during the training op. His buddies Dave and Rio were with him, but they were standing back a bit.
“We’re heading over to the bar, sir,” King said as Jim put his window down. “You up for a burger and a beer?” He smiled. He didn’t smile often, but when he did, it transformed his usually stern visage and made him look more like the twenty-something kid that he was. “Rio’s buying.”
As one of the many men of color in the SEAL Teams—and King’s skin tone was a very dark brown, which meant that to certain parts of white-bread America he was the quintessential image of a “big, scary” black man—Thomas King had earned his right to become both a SEAL and an officer. And yet hestillgot mistaken for an enlisted man, particularly when he was dressed in BDUs, thanks to ingrained assumptions and willful ignorance. On top ofthatinsulting goatfuckery, Lieutenant King could return Stateside from a dangerous mission and get his ass shot and killed simply from walking down the street, or standing in his backyard, or shopping in a department store.
So maybe it made sense that Thomas King was the only man who had the big enough balls to invite him to go out with them, particularly since Jim had been sitting here glowering at the world.
Still, he knew that King and the other tadpoles didn’treallywant his company. And he didn’t want theirs. He was at the end of his career, and they were right at the beginning—with all that hope and promise and excitement in front of them. “Thanks, but no,” Jim said. “I’m heading home.”
King turned away, but then turned back. “You know Senior Chief Duncan, right, sir? Randy Duncan…? Dunk? Left the Teams about two years ago?”
Of course Jim knew Dunk. Everyone knew Dunk—a salty old senior chief, who’d been with Team Two since forever. He was one of those lean, wiry guys who ran marathons for fun. Dunk had lost a leg in Afghanistan while literally saving a busload of nuns and orphans, and had since learned to walk and run with a prosthetic. He’d even had the chance to stay with the Teams, but chose instead to leave. Last Jim had heard, Dunk had hiked out to Machu Picchu with a long-time civilian friend.
“Message received, Lieutenant,” Jim said. Unlike Dunk, he still had both legs, both firmly attached. Time to stop feeling sorry for himself.
But King looked surprised and then dismayed. “Oh, no, sir,” he quickly said. “I haven’t gotten to the message, which is that Dunk started a boot camp for, well, corporate types who want a challenge.”
“Yeah, I’d heard he was doing that,” Jim said.
“Every session’s filled,” King told him, “Even if someone drops out, there’s always someone else ready to take their spot. He’s got a week-long class that starts on Saturday, and one of his regular instructors—Deak Lundlee, you know, Crocodile Lundlee…?”
“I’m well acquainted with Croc,” Jim said.
“Well, Croc’s gotta drop out because Sheila, his wife, got the flu and… Anyway, Dunk called me, to see if maybe I could talk Dave or maybe even Mike Lee into coming with Rio and me, to replace Croc, but…” He shook his head. “Mike’s out of the country and Dave can’t break free. But then I thought of you.”
“Train a group of SEAL wannabes,” Jim said dryly. “Oh, joy.”
“The money’s insane,” King told him bluntly. “And it’s not awful. Like I said, it’s only a week and… well, it’s not exactly fun. But it’s fun-ish.”
Jim looked at him. “Quite the ringing endorsement.”
“Dunk’s great,” King said with a shrug. “And Lieutenant O’Donlon’s an instructor this session, too. Syd, his wife, is going on some kind of writing retreat, so…”
Luke O’Donlon—known by his nicknameLucky—tended to be a walking party.
“Why on earth do you spend your downtime teaching at Dunk’s camp?” Jim had to ask.
King glanced over his shoulder to where Rio and Dave were both checking their phones for email and texts. He lowered his voice. “To be honest, sir, I’ve been avoiding this… well, girl. She’s way too young, so… it helps if I make myself scarce whenever I can.”
That made sense.
“Dunk’s camp is just outside of Sarasota, in Florida. West Coast—Gulf of Mexico. Can’t beat the location. This time of year, the weather’s perfect.”
This time of year, the weather was pretty damn perfect in San Diego, too.
“I’m just saying that you could get restandmake some cash,” King continued. “Dunk’s still got the scooters he used when he first got out of the hospital, and he still gets around in a golf cart—I know he’s got more than one. Plus, he’s a great guy and you’d be helping him out. He told me he’s gonna have to cancel the session if he can’t replace Crocodile. SoI’mbegging you, too—I have the next few weeks free, and Icannotstay here in town.”
Jim sighed. “My grumpy ass presence is gonna cancel out O’Donlon’s blinding golden glee. You know that right?”
King smiled. “Believe me, I’m plenty good with fun-ish. I need distance—and the cash isn’t gonna hurt. Is it okay with you if I text Dunk with your number?”
“He’s already got it,” Jim said. He knew Dunk well. “But yeah. Have him call me.”
