PMadriani 12.5 - The Second Man (4 page)

 

Chapter 8

“
T
ELL ME,” SAID
Joselyn. “No beating around the bush. No happy-­horseshit military hype. What was it really like at Abbottabad?” They were back in the car, early morning. They spent the night in a seedy little motel at a wide spot in the road called Buttonwillow.

“Like any other mission,” said Akers.

“Really?”

“Only more so if you know what I mean.”

“No. Tell me?”

“We knew it was important the minute they called us in. It was like your dad calling you in to tell you he has a present for you, busting out with smiles, big fucking box shaped like a bicycle in the middle of the floor, but he won't tell you what's in it. Minute we saw the mock-­up in North Carolina of the actual compound, we knew. Why take all the time to build this mock-­up unless the man inside is pretty damn important. And that's a short list. Any one of us would have given odds at Vegas it was UBL. Of course, we didn't know for sure until later in Afghanistan.”

“But what was it really like?” said Joselyn.

“It was more intense. We knew the stakes were high. They were taking a chance flying us in without approval from the Pakistan government. We all knew that ISI, Pakistani Intelligence, was riddled with leaks. If they found out about the raid, the compound would be empty by the time we got there. We were willing to take the risk. I was! I think we all were. Anybody wanted out, there were a hundred other SEALs waiting to take his place. They would have jumped at the chance to go. How many operations do you get like this in a lifetime? One, maybe? It's like being on the beach at D-­Day. You might get killed, but you don't want to miss the party. It's what you do. It's why you tolerate all the training, take all the pain. Once the action starts, you pretty much go on autopilot. You do your job. It's over so fast, sometimes you have trouble remembering parts of it. That's when it goes good. When everything works out right. You hope you don't get killed, or worse, screw up and kill somebody else. The difficult parts are before and after. Waiting to go in can be nerve-­racking. Lot of things going through your head. The only thing worse is thinking about it afterwards.”

“Why is that?” she asked.

“When things don't go well,” said Akers. “You can't go back and change them.”

“Because it's over,” said Joselyn.

“It's never over.”

“Maybe we shouldn't talk about it,” she said.

“You can't understand unless you've been there,” said Akers. “You see your friends go down. ­People you've been with for years. You know their families, their wives. Your kids play with their kids. You're like brothers, then suddenly they're gone. Sometimes you ask yourself ‘did I do something wrong'? You always try to tell yourself no. But you're never sure. And there's nothing you can do about it. You're helpless. Do you know what it is to be helpless?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure.”

“All the fucking training in the world is useless. But the worst part—­the worst times are when you're free. When you've got nothing to do. That's when the devil comes visiting,” said Akers.

“You mean when you're off duty?”

“No. I mean when you're done. When they've used you up, turned you out,” said Akers. “That's when you sit around thinking. Because there is nothing else to do. As long as you have another mission, you're fine. You're busy. Your mind is focused on trying to survive, trying to keep your friends alive. It's when they take that away from you, that's when you descend into hell. It's the random nature of all of it that drives you crazy. You wonder why them and not you? Why did they have to die? Why do I deserve to live?”

“You can't think that way,” said Joselyn.

“Oh, yes, you can.”

“Is that why you got out? Left the Navy?”

“I don't know. Some of the guys used to do the Clint Eastwood thing. Remember the movie, the Western, the line before he blows the guy's head off . . . ‘deserve's got nothing to do with it.' But he was wrong,” said Akers. “Deserve has everything to do with it. A foot this way, a yard that way with a bullet or a hot piece of shrapnel makes all the difference in the world.”

“You're not God,” said Joselyn. “You can't change fate or the fact that a bullet and another man shared the same space at the same time. That's physics.”

“Is that what it is?”

Joselyn looked over at him. He was gripping the steering wheel with both hands, animated, muscled arms flexed as if he might rip the steering column from the firewall of the car by its roots. A rivulet of a tear ran down his cheek from under the dark glasses. She couldn't see his eyes.

“I didn't mean to raise subjects that are painful,” said Joselyn.

“From my experience, there's not a whole lot in life that doesn't come with some kind of pain.”

“It's been that bad?”

“At times. But they tell me it's good to talk about it.”

“Who's ‘they'?”

­“People. Friends. You know.”

“Maybe we need to find something happier to talk about,” said Joselyn.

“Agreed.”

Akers took one hand off the wheel, settled back into the seat, and relaxed a little. He glanced into the rearview mirror, then goosed the accelerator until the speedometer reached seventy-­five, where he set the cruise control.

As the car settled in, open road and empty lanes, he said: “You know, I find it very easy to talk to you.”

“I'm glad.”

He reached over and put his hand on her thigh. “You're a very nice lady.”

She picked it up by one finger and handed it back to him. “And you're married, and I'm in a relationship,” said Joselyn. “Let's not forget that.”

“Where's your sense of adventure?” he smiled.

Joselyn took out her sunglasses, saw they were smudged, and exhaled on the lenses. She looked about for something to wipe them with. Seeing nothing, she reached forward to open the glove box to see if there was some Kleenex. Instead, what she saw inside was an Avis rental-­car envelope with the contract sticking out of it. “You didn't rent the car?”

He looked over, saw the open glove box, and quickly reached across to slap it closed.

“There was no need to spend the money on a rental.” Joselyn knew he was out of work and probably short of cash.

“My car wasn't up to the trip—­pretty beat-­up,” he told her.

“We could have taken mine,” she said.

“My party. I invited you. It's all right. Don't worry about it,” he told her.

“At least let me pay for it,” said Joselyn.

“NO!” The way that he said it, the tone in his voice made it clear this was not negotiable.

“Then I'm buying lunch, and dinner,” she told him. “And gas. I have an expense account, and this is business. Remember? The foundation. You're doing me a favor, so please let me help.”

“You are,” he said. “You're here. That's a big help. I enjoy your company.”

“And I yours. But that's not the point. This is costing you money.”

“I don't mind. In fact, I'm enjoying it. Tonight we can save a little by sharing a suite,” he said.

“I'll be paying for my own room tonight, just like last night. I thought that was understood. That was the deal.”

“Don't get angry. It'll give you a chance to cheat,” said Akers.

“What do you mean, cheat?” Joselyn shot him a look to kill.

“On your expense account.” He turned and smiled. “What did you think I meant?”

She took a deep breath. “Let's talk about something else.”

“Sure. Whatever you want.”

“Let's talk about your wife. What's she like? What's her name? I don't think you've told me.”

The question dissolved the smile from his face.

“Allyson.”

“What's she like? Tell me about her.”

Akers didn't respond. He just sat there, hand on the wheel, eyes forward.

“And your children. You have two kids, right?”

“Correct.”

“Tell me about your family.”

He nibbled a bit on his upper lip, put his other hand back on the wheel, and said: “Sore subject. Don't really want to talk about it if you don't mind.”

“That's fine.”

Akers reached over, turned on the radio, and plugged his cell phone into the receiver on the console. He pushed a few buttons until a sound track came on. It was edgy music, loud enough that the vibration of the base reached inside Joselyn's rib cage and rattled her.

 

Chapter 9

“
T
OLD ME THEY
had no choice but to let him go,” says Herman.

“Did they say why?” I ask.

“No.” Herman is talking about the Orange County Sheriff's Office. He called a contact, someone he knows inside the department and checked Akers's story out regarding his job, the reason he was fired.

We talk as I drive. Herman and I are headed to Akers's house, trying to find his wife. Maybe she knows where he is.

“My guy couldn't say much. Being it's a personnel matter. If he says too much, or the wrong thing, he could lose his job. But he did confirm that the FBI had contacted them about Akers. Wouldn't say way, not in so many words, but it's pretty clear,” says Herman.

“What's that?”

“Cam's been working his mouth,” he says. “What the guys at ‘McP's' told us last night, that Akers claimed to be the shooter, second man up the stairs. Think about it. The FBI comes knocking, making inquiries. If Akers made himself a target for some Muslim-­warrior wannabe, the sheriff's gotta have serious concerns about the danger this poses to other personnel. Say nothing of the public. Then think of the liability if he knows about it, and the department gets sued cuz somebody got killed or seriously hurt.”

None of this makes me any more comfortable with the thought that Joselyn, at this moment, may be with him. “So now you're thinking your buddy is a loose cannon?”

“Sorry I brought him to your office. What can I say?”

“You didn't know.”

“Let's assume for the moment she's not with him,” says Herman. “Where else would she go? Any thoughts?”

I shake my head. I was on the phone late last night and early this morning calling her relatives, all the ones I know, her sister, her mother, and a cousin who lives up in L.A. I didn't want to worry them, so I told them she left town on the spur of the moment without telling me where she was going, and I need to reach her. I told them her phone must be on the blink. They hadn't seen or heard from her. The same with her friends. It's not like her. She would call somebody unless there was a reason. And the only reason I can think of is that she's with Akers and doesn't want to discuss it with anyone.

“You're working yourself into a hole on this,” says Herman.

“I don't know what else to do.”

 

Chapter 10

A
KER
S FINALLY TURNED
off the music in the car and asked Joselyn: “How'd you sleep?”

“You mean except for the trucks rolling through town all night and the occasional bedbug chewing on my leg?”

Buttonwillow sported an Olympic-­class truck stop, two small motels, and an oasis of gas stations. Miss it, and you might not get where you're going. Highway Five through the Central Valley was an octane desert and had been since its completion in the late 1970s. There were long stretches between gas stations and even fewer places to eat.

“I warned you. You should have slept with me. I'd have protected you from the bugs, and my bite's not that bad.”

Joselyn didn't ask him how he slept because she knew. Twice during the night, he woke her up shouting in his sleep from the next room. The place had thin walls, but even if it had been solid concrete, she would have heard him. Then in the morning, on the way to the car, he turned back. He forgot something. He went back inside his room. Through the open door, Joselyn saw him lift the pillow off his bed and grab an unsheathed knife, a heavy seven-­inch blade, what the military called a Ka-­Bar. He slipped it into his backpack. She wondered if he was carrying a gun.

“How about tonight maybe we share a room?” he said.

“You don't quit, do you?”

“No, and you want to know the truth? I don't think you want me to.” He looked over at her and gave her a full dental set, pearly whites. He hadn't shaved. The forest of even dark stubble gave his face a more rugged appearance if that was possible. “Quit, that is.”

“If it makes you happy, you go on thinking that,” said Joselyn.

“I will.”

“If anybody ever accuses you of lacking self-­esteem, you just send them to me. I'll set them straight,” she told him.

“Thank you.”

“It wasn't a compliment,” she said. “Does the ego come with the turf?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean ­people who deal in death on a daily basis, dishing it out and risking it, sooner or later I suppose must develop a fairly strong God complex.”

“So you think I look like Apollo?”

She gave him a smirk. “Tell me, what does it feel like to kill someone?”

“Do you have anyone specific in mind?”

“Stop it!”

“I mean, if you and Madriani had a fight, I can take care of him for you.” He was smiling.

“Seriously, I'd just like to know. How do you deal with it?”

“I knew this was coming.”

“What?”

“Analysis,” he said. “Are you a pro or is this amateur hour? If you're a pro, I want to see your head-­shrinking license.”

“So you prefer not to talk about it,” said Joselyn.

“As long as the right ­people get killed, I don't have any problem with it.”

“Some ­people get off on it,” said Joselyn.

“Some ­people might. I don't. It's a job. Has to be done.”

“How may ­people have you killed?”

“Today? None.” He looked over at her and grinned. “But then the day is young.”

“You know what I mean. Over the course of your career? Do you know? Any idea of the number? Or do you just do what they say, shoot 'em and let God sort it out?”

“I thought you said
I
was God.”

“You see, you just keep avoiding the question. I think you have a problem.”

“Tell you the truth, I don't keep a tally in my head. The notches were all carved on my carbine, but I turned that in. So I'd have to check my computer and get back to you on the number,” he told her. “Fair to say there were days when I probably overshot my limit. But then, it's not like fishing, is it? Can't really catch and release after you've pulled the trigger.”

“I imagine it helps to be cavalier about it,” said Joselyn. “OK, so tell me, when you do it, are you usually up close, or are you far away? I suspect it's probably easier to kill them when they're at a distance. Less personal. ”

“Dwarfs and pigmies I shoot up close cuz they're smaller and harder to hit,” said Akers.

Joselyn, who was trying to remain serious, couldn't help but smile.

“Sometimes up close, sometimes far away. It depends on the situation,” he said, “that and how quickly they're trying to kill you or one of your friends.”

“Do you just look 'em in the eye and pull the trigger?”

“I'm beginning to feel like a bug under glass,” he told her.

“Does it bother you to talk about it?”

“Not if it excites you. In that case, I'm happy to discuss it.”

“That's not why I'm asking.”

“I think it is. You know what I think?”

“I don't think I want to know.”

“I think you get off on being with a man who's killed for a living.”

“That's nonsense. I don't! That's not true.”

“Now who's being defensive? So let me ask you, does it repel you?” he said.

“I didn't say that.”

“Well, there you go. You're just sort of neutral on the subject, is that it? That means with a little training, you could probably learn to kill with the best. You and I could go on the road, do a revival as Bonnie and Clyde.”

“Why is it you can't be serious?” asked Joselyn.

“I guess it's just not in my nature.”

“Is it that, or is it just that it hurts too much to talk?”

“Who says?”

“I don't know. I'm asking.”

“What is it with you? I want to talk about us. And all you want to talk about is me.”

“There is no us,” said Joselyn. “This is business. And besides, I've never met a member of DEVGRU, so I'm curious.”

“You don't mind if I crawl off the slide and out from under the microscope.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to pry.”

“You know, you're a strange gal,” he said.

“How is that?”

“Well, for most women, half the fun is being pursued, but that doesn't seem to hold true for you.”

“Maybe it's just that rutting season is over,” she told him.

“That's not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.”

“You and Madriani, is that it?” said Akers.

“Yes. I suppose.”

“What is it he has that makes you happy?” asked Akers.

“What it always is between two ­people.”

“Lust?” said Akers.

“That lasts a nanosecond,” she told him. “There's always a physical side, but it's the comfort level that counts. When we're together, I feel like I'm home if that makes any sense. Do you know what I mean?” She looked over at him.

The expression on his face was not one of understanding. To Joselyn, it looked more like fear, as if he had no clue. She wondered what it must be like to be at such a loss.

“You share the same values I suppose. Two bleeding hearts?” he said.

“Oh, God, no,” said Joselyn. “We argue all the time about politics. It's like pounding sand. I'm a progressive. Paul's a Neanderthal. We gave up on that long ago.”

“Maybe I misjudged your other half,” he said.

“Yeah, the two of you would probably get along.”

“Yesterday you asked me about the CIA. Let me tell you, the old CIA used to keep things in check, making sure that the right ­people got shot so that the wrong ­people didn't get into power in some bad places around the world. Now you folks, you progressives have waved on the Arab Spring. We come to find out this eruption of democracy is nothing but an exchange of tyrants. Getting rid of those who were once friendly to Uncle Sam in favor of those who are not. Excuse me for saying, but this is what love-­in liberals always produce. Don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against love.” He winked at her. “But spineless policy always makes the world a more dangerous place. The thought that if we just love everybody, they'll love us back, is how you get raped. That and the thought that if it doesn't work, you can just bullshit your way through. After all, our fearless leader knows this always works with the voters. The problem is that, for the most part, they're fucking morons,” said Akers. “So when things get out of control, he's gotta call in the masked man.”

“I suppose that's you on a white horse,” said Joselyn.

“Hi Ho Silver!” said Akers.

They rode on in silence for about an hour, then turned west toward 101. Akers occasionally looked over to check her out, a lusty glint in his eye. Joselyn's shapely legs, one draped over the other, outlined in skintight stretch pants, left little to the imagination.

An hour later, they were speeding north up 101, cutting through the military base, what was left of Camp Roberts, now a National Guard training post. A few miles farther on, they came to a sign on the road:
FORT HUNTER LIGGETT
.

The sun was an hour into the sky to the east as they approached the guardhouse. Akers stopped the Escalade at the Army checkpoint, rolled down the window, and told the MP: “We're registered at the Hacienda.”

The guard took a look at Akers's driver's license, made a note, checked the license plate on the car, wrote it down, and waved them through.

“What's the Hacienda?” asked Jocelyn.

“Hearst's old hunting lodge. Military uses it for guests, but it's open to the public. You'll like it. No bedbugs. Least I don't think so.” Moments later, they pulled up in front of a sprawling Spanish Colonial building, gleaming white walls in the morning sun, red-­tile roof with a tower.

“Are you sure they're open?” Theirs was the only car in the parking lot.

“Yep. Best time of the year, off-­season. Got the place to ourselves. Let's go register and check in. We can unload the car and head over to the airfield,” he told her. Akers stepped out and went to the back of the car and opened the rear door. Inside was a large ice chest the size of a footlocker.

“What's that?” she asked.

“Food and supplies,” he told her.

“We're not staying for the month,” she said.

“Never can tell,” said Akers. “And you always want to be prepared.”

“No, really,” she asked.

“It's food. In case you haven't noticed, we're in the middle of nowhere. The nearest restaurant and grocery is over a half hour away. Up to King City. I hope you can cook, cuz I can't boil water.”

Joselyn wasn't looking forward to setting up housekeeping with him, one hand on the frying pan, the other trying to ward him off.

He started to pull the chest out of the back of the car. “Got some steaks for tonight. We can barbecue 'em. Hearst used to have the servants bring food over from the ranch house.”

“Where's that?” asked Joselyn.

“Over there. Other side of those mountains.” Akers nodded toward the Santa Lucia Range in the distance to the west. “State owns it now. William Randolph hated the fuckin' name, Hearst Castle. Insisted they call it the ranch. Now that's a man with a healthy God complex. Unfortunately, he's not here to entertain us. Get the back door,” he told her.

She closed the back door, then grabbed her overnight pack from the backseat, closed that door, and followed him toward to the lodge. “Aren't you going to lock the car?”

“Who's gonna steal anything out here. If the snakes don't get 'em, the fucking MPs will probably shoot 'em out of pure boredom. Only action they're ever gonna see.”

Akers lugged the ice chest into the building. Inside was a large, rustic reception area and a desk with a clerk behind it. The place was dated but clean and beautiful. Like a time capsule, it looked as if it hadn't been touched since Hearst's last visit.

Akers put the ice chest down on the ancient floor. He wrote his name on a slip of paper and handed it to the clerk, who pulled up the reservation.

“It's already paid for on a credit card,” said the clerk.

“I know. We're in the tower suite. I don't imagine you have somebody who can bring up our luggage?”

“Leave it, we'll take care of it,” said the clerk.

“Separate rooms,” said Joselyn, “remember?”

“You're worse than a nun,” said Akers. “Not to worry, there are two bedrooms in the suite.”

The clerk handed him the key. “If you like, I can show you the way.”

“No need. Been here before.” Akers grabbed Joselyn by the hand and almost jerked her off her feet. She was still looking around, up at the beamed ceiling, what money could build. “Wait 'til you see the colonnade out back,” he told her. “You'll feel right at home. Think you're in a nunnery.”

“You could fit an army in this place,” said Joselyn.

“At times they do. Brass abuses the hell out of the place entertaining themselves. Used to hunt in the hills for wild boar,” said Akers. “Don't know if they still do or not.”

They climbed the stairs, got to the top, and Akers opened the door, turned, and said: “Would you like me to carry you over the threshold?”

She smiled and brushed past him into the room. It was the size of a large condo, windows looking out at the gardens at the back of the building. Manicured grounds, green grass and boxed hedges. “It's very nice.”

“And romantic,” said Akers. “Very romantic. There are two bottles of champagne in the ice chest. You cook a candlelit dinner, and I'll get you drunk and do the rest.”

She walked over and glanced in the bedrooms. “Which room do you want?” she asked.

“Don't know. Let me check the beds.”

Joselyn walked over to survey the kitchen. A few seconds later, Akers came out of one of the bedrooms and went into the other. A quick appraisal, and he came back out. He was holding a small pocketknife in his hand, cleaning his nails.

“What's your verdict?” she asked.

“Why don't we wait, and we can draw straws later for sleeping arrangements,” he told her. “First, let's go take care of business. Let's get to the airfield before we miss the bird. They're liable to fly it out of here to Palmdale or Edwards before we can take a gander.”