Page 1 of The Forever Christmas Tree

Chapter 1

She’ll be home for Christmas . . . unfortunately . . .

The Wet and Wild was hopping tonight with an overflow crowd of military men and women from Coronado, both the North Island Naval Station and the special warfare command center. Sure, it was TGIF, time for blowing off steam, and there was a live band. But, more than that, with only two weeks remaining till Christmas, the air reeked with joy. The Christmas spirit.

Not so much, though, at the long table at the back of the tavern, where Lt. Wendy Patterson, U.S. Navy WEALS, sat with two of her teammates and a half-dozen Navy SEALs.

Started about ten years ago, WEALS (Women on Earth, Land, and Sea) was the female version of SEALs (Sea, Air, and Land). They often bragged that they were as “hard-assed and ever-battle-ready” as their male counterparts “and looked hot-damn-better doing it.” Wendy had been with them for eight years.

The band, with its female singer, was just finishing up their Mariah Carey version of “All I Want for Christmas Is You” for the second time, to the raucous cheers of the mostly male audience.

What is it about Mariah Carey and sailors? I just don’t get the appeal, Wendy thought. It must be a male testosterone thing.

At least the men at her table weren’t hooting and hollering, as they were perfectly capable of doing, she well knew from past experience. And her female friends weren’t rolling their eyes with amusement. You’d think they would be in a happier mood with two-week liberties coming for most of them, starting next week. In her case, it was the first break in six months. For reasons Wendy avoided thinking about, she wasn’t looking forward to her time off. Gazing around the table, she saw that her friends didn’t seem in any better shape.

It was funny how the SEALs and WEALS tended to stick together when out in public, almost like there was a magnetic pull, or they were a bunch of brain-dead homing pigeons. It wasn’t deliberate, and certainly not an act of snobbery, like some people thought. In fact, they looked downright scruffy at times, the powers-that-be having lowered the grooming standards for special forces operatives so they wouldn’t stick out in foreign countries. No high and tight haircuts, no daily shaving requirements, no inflexibility on military attire.

No GI Jane dress code for the women, either. Once, when Wendy was about to go out on a live op in Kabul, she’d been advised not to shave her legs or armpits for several weeks. Not that anyone could tell under the burka she’d worn, but just in case she tripped over a rock and flipped her hem up to her butt, she supposed, or was captured.

No, the reason these teams clung together was because of their shared experiences. They’d seen and done things no one else had. And, frankly, they were a little, or a lot, burned out by the constant missions to curb global terrorism. The images would give the average person nightmares.

Like the recent pink mist involving one of their own.

Like the reason for them being together tonight.

The group of them here at the table had just returned from a memorial service for one of their fallen team members, Master Chief Travis Gordon. Flash had taken a hit from a suicide bomber in Baghdad ten days ago, leaving behind a wife and two kids.

“Can you believe the music playing when they rolled Flash’s casket into the church?” Wendy remarked, attempting to break the silence. “‘Should’ve Been a Cowboy’ is hardly the traditional hymn for a funeral.”

Everyone grinned at her words, mostly somber grins if there was such a thing. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken so loud, but the band had just taken a break. It was one of those odd moments of quiet within a crowd.

Sitting on her right side was Lt. Commander Jacob Alvarez Mendozo, best known by his SEAL nickname JAM. She must have looked confused at the grins because he explained, “Unusual, maybe, but very appropriate. Flash loved country music. That was his favorite song.”

Wendy had known Flash, but not that well. “Guess I’m just surprised that the priest allowed it.”

“The Catholic Church is more lenient these days about what they’ll allow during their services. What surprised me was that they followed the eulogies with the old Roman Rite Mass, the Tridentine Latin Rite. Must have been at the request of his parents. Believe me, that requires a special dispensation.” JAM had been in a seminary at one time; so, he would know about all that religious stuff.

“Remember how he and Cody O’Brien used to go at it over rock versus country, The Boss versus Garth Brooks?” Lt. Merrill Good reminded them. Merrill’s nickname was Geek due to his genius I.Q. Supposedly, he’d gotten his doctorate at age eighteen.

I do not want to think about what I was doing at eighteen. Or where. Or with whom. Damn! How can it hurt so much, even after twelve years? She steeled herself against the pain, willing the shield to come up over old memories. With a self-deprecating laugh, she thought, This is just great. Giving myself another reason to wallow. Get over yourself, Wendy. You survived. The past is no big fat hairy deal. Not anymore.

“Yeah, but did you see how wrecked Cody was today? Even though they were constantly on each other’s asses, they were tight as brothers.” This from Ensign Diane Gomulka, a sharpshooter in WEALS and one of Wendy’s housemates. Diane was from the Northwest where she claimed to have honed her skills on grizzlies and other wild game. No wonder her nickname was Grizz.

Silence followed Diane’s words for a moment as they contemplated the brother-and-sister bond that existed among them, even when they disagreed with each other, even if they didn’t like a particular person. When you worked in such close proximity, whether in a foxhole, or the jungle, or a Kabul stakeout, you came to know the other person very well. In fact, you came to recognize each other’s smell, the sound of their walk, even the way they breathed.

“Well, I’m going on record here. The song I want played at my funeral is ‘Another One Bites the Dust.’ The pallbearers should be Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. You can tap a keg at the reception. On my tombstone you can chisel, ‘He laid one thousand chicks.’” Only Command Master Chief Petty Officer Frank Uxley would come up with this notion. F.U. was the most obnoxious, politically incorrect, horny SEAL in the world, and that was saying a lot, but he was an explosives expert with unmatched skills. You’d want him at your back in a close quarters situation or any live op.

But make a move on me one more time, F.U., and I am going to karate chop your favorite body part. Not that she was special in that regard. F.U. hit on anything with breasts.

“What makes you think we would plan a funeral for you, asshole?” remarked Commander Luke Avenil, the highest-ranking and the oldest of their group at close to forty. In fact, he had a few gray hairs feathering the sides of his dark brown, almost black hair, which was long, but not as long as JAM’s in its usual ponytail. Handsome, in an edgy sort of way, Slick had been in the original Force Squad, part of the infamous Eighth Platoon in SEAL Team Thirteen. “Don’t you have any family?”

“Just my mother.”

“You have a mother?” Slick asked incredulously.

F.U. threw a pretzel at him from across the table.

Slick caught it in one hand and proceeded to chomp on it, noisily.