A SEAL at Heart (16 page)

The sweat and oil had congealed on her body and a wish for a squeaky-clean body was her first priority. The rest would undoubtedly sort itself out.

The showerhead was one of those high-tech ones. As she turned on the spray, she tried to figure out how to get it set to her height. “Jack!”

An arm stretched past her and adjusted the water. On its way back, fingers pinched her.

“Eek!”

She looked over her shoulder and there he stood. Naked. Sexy. And oh, so desirable. He was wired for stealth, even at home.

He grinned at her with boyish charm.

“Hey, gorgeous, let me adjust the water for you,” he said with that wicked gleam shining again. “Just so you know, I’d be happy to wash your, uh, back, too. I’m a full-service guy.”

“Such a gentleman,” she replied, silencing her internal sound track and preparing for a little more fun. “Do you have any references?”

“I don’t like to rely on others for my praise. Let me show you my talents.” His grin had her smiling back. The spray came out strong, but soft—as if they were caught in a rainstorm. He adjusted the heat and then drew her close, running his hands over her shoulders and arms.

“Oh, boy,” she sighed as he kissed her. She couldn’t stop the shiver—it was half anticipation and half excitement—and it only made him draw her closer until their bodies were rubbing together. Skin on skin, and tantalizing every nerve ending.

“Not quite, honey.” His hands pushed her hair over her shoulders and his lips caressed her neck. “I’m all man, and I’m all yours.”

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she wiggled in his embrace. His touch drove her wild and his teasing words touched her heart.
All
mine.

Nuts!

—General Anthony McAuliffe,
surrounded in Bastogne, Belgium

Jack dropped into his chair with one minute and fifty-three seconds to spare. Being in the psychiatry department of Balboa Naval Hospital made his stomach clench, though he’d never reveal the depth of his discomfort to any of the men in white. Some day these guys would learn to lose the office and meet their patients at the beach or in a pub for a chat. The doctor’s secretary poked her head around the door and said, “The doctor will be with you in a moment, Petty Officer.” Then she was gone.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, going over his strategy for the session. The best method would be to act calm, cool, and collected, which in all truth was the exact opposite of how he felt. Show him a guy who was comfortable talking about his emotions, and Jack would be amazed. He’d rather have bamboo shoots shoved under his fingernails, and since that had actually happened to him, he knew how torturous the pain could be.

His preference was for
this
appointment to be his final visit. He had a sinking feeling that he was not that lucky.

Heavy footsteps approached. Had to be the doc—sounded like he carried the weight of the hospital with him or perhaps a mega-sized ego to go with his know-it-all attitude.

“You’re here.” Strolling in with a pile of file folders in his hand, the doctor sat down at his desk. “I had my misgivings, especially given how many sessions you have actually made. Glad to see you didn’t violate your orders, Petty Officer First Class Roaker. Now, where should we begin?”

“Officially, I only rescheduled them,” commented Jack with a single raised eyebrow.

“On that topic, let’s clarify the rest of your attendance issues. When last we spoke, you had walked out of group,” Dr. Derek Johnson, the chief headshrinker, began. The man smelled of rubbing alcohol and cigarettes. Seemed like this doc had at least one bad habit and probably a few issues, too. Who was he—or anyone else—to judge?

“Correction, I was
excused
from group by the doctor, as were many other participants. With all due respect, there is a difference,” Jack replied in a monotone voice. He could maintain his blank expression forever, if necessary. It was too bad, really, that the doctors had become the enemy to him.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly. Only two minutes had passed. “Yes, of course, that particular group leader will not be providing that option next time around. I see your next group session is on Tuesday morning. I believe the topic is love and relationships and the importance of creating balance in a soldier’s and sailor’s life. I’m sure it will be fascinating.”

Good
Lord, kill me now!
Jack used every bit of control he had not to groan in misery. He would rather spend a month in a mosquito-infested jungle than talk about his interest in Laurie and the uncertainty about the future.

Wasn’t he allowed to keep anything private?

Tick. Tick. Tick.
The clock pronounced each grueling second.

“Patients with acute psychological suppression and/or post-traumatic stress disorder can exhibit a number of symptoms, including but not limited to paranoia, persecution complexes, anxiety, mood swings, depression, and…” Dr. Johnson’s words droned on. Jack had heard the litany several times before—at the hospital when he first woke up and every time he was in group therapy. He had even read the pamphlet on PTSD and had no interest in tuning in to the lecture again.

Jack needed to redirect the topic and get this guy and the rest of the psych team off his back. “I was thinking about the breakthrough I had. You know, the missing information. I’ve been able to fill in some of it.”

Dr. Johnson looked surprised. He pushed his glasses up and leaned forward. His voice held a hint of excitement, too. “Excellent news. What have you learned, and how?”

Jack held his smile in check and began his buildup. He leaned in the doctor’s direction and used his hands to illustrate the experience. “I’ll begin with the how. As you know, I’m a down-to-earth guy, and I am partial to a natural approach. I went to a physical therapist who has been using a number of alternative therapies to help me dislodge the barriers.”

The head doctor was hooked. Now, control of the conversation was in Jack’s hands.
Ha
ha
ha! Come into my crosshairs, Doc Johnson!

“Together, we have succeeded in piecing together several of the steps in the Op.” As Jack spoke, the doctor scrawled hurried notes. When he reached the end of his narrative, the doctor continued writing for at least ten more minutes. Was that a good sign or a bad one?

Then Dr. Johnson looked up and asked, “Is that it?”

“For now, yes. Doc, this is what I wanted, to know the details of what happened. I have more work to do, and I know this is an excellent beginning.” Jack grinned as he leaned back in the chair. His arms settled on the chair’s armrests.

Taking his glasses off, the doctor studied the nose guard on his glasses. His body language suggested that there was going to be some kind of heavy-duty chat about something. When he put the glasses back on, the doctor’s eyes were hard and dark. “This therapist you speak of… was she on the approved list for working with the military personnel?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t check her out, if that’s what you’re asking me.” Jack crossed his legs. “Why?”

“We have very strict rules when it comes to civilians working with military personnel, especially when that sailor has Top Secret Clearance.” Dr. Johnson’s words were clipped. “While I am pleased to learn several of your barriers to memory have been removed, a physical therapist is for body movement and healing, and a psychoanalyst or psychiatrist is for mental recuperation. Do you understand the difference?”

Is
he
kidding
me?
“I’m not a child. I get it. But what does it matter how I found answers, as long as I have them?”

Johnson looked angry. “Because you’re missing important steps. You have to walk each one! It’s important. Otherwise, how did you learn the answers?” He sucked in air greedily and continued. “Were they told to you? How can you be sure these are your words and memories? By going through our system, you will be exploring your own mind in controlled circumstances. What if you have a break from reality—are you taking into account that you are a lethal weapon?”

“Why are you doing this, cross-examining me? Making me feel like a bad guy for finally learning the truth?” Frustration flared inside of him, but Jack tamped it down.

“I’m not making you feel anything, Jack. Emotion is a choice, and you are choosing to be upset by this conversation.” The doctor spoke very evenly and softly as if he was speaking to a child. Looking down at his pad of paper, he made a few notes. “How are you feeling now, Jack?”

“A little pissed off, Doc, because it seems like the fact that I didn’t find the answers while I was sitting in
this
chair or out
there
in group therapy means that the information is less valuable or accurate. Am I right about you… feeling threatened by
your
lack of success, Doc?” Jack’s temper was rising, though he was trying desperately to hold it at bay. Unfortunately, he was losing the battle and his usual steady finesse was gone.

Jack continued. His voice was growing quieter and more stoic. This was pure white anger for him. He had never been a shouter. “Or are you afraid of me babbling about some Op that would bring the whole country down? You know we don’t get that much information. SEALs only get enough information to operate, to perform the necessary tasks or duties. We rarely, as in almost never, get to see the whole picture. That’s a privilege for the upper brass.”

“Petty Officer, I am simply saying that I cannot approve you to work with a person unless you give me a name and make sure this is a legitimate consultant for our program.” The tone of Dr. Johnson’s voice was extremely condescending. “Do you understand?”

“I understand that you want the inside track on what’s going on in my head. This is real life, Doc. It doesn’t unfold in a textbook manner.” Jack uncrossed his legs. His eyes automatically checked the clock, and he smiled.

The alarm on the clock buzzed loudly.
Thank
God!

Jack unfolded his body and stood in a single movement. “Good day, Dr. Johnson. See you next week.”

He hustled double-time out of the man’s presence.

Before he rounded the door, he looked back. The image of the doctor sitting—unmoving behind his desk, with his mouth gaping wide—was reminiscent of a stunned fish on a dock.

Jack was both elated and sad. If this had been a different man, one who was secure in his own abilities and ego, they might have worked together. He would have been willing to give a guy like that a chance to help him.

Instead, being the progressive guy he was, Jack had called the doctor on
his
shit. Another SEAL, or someone secure in his or her sense of self, would have appreciated it and owned up to his or her responsibility. But Dr. Johnson was the head of the department and the team leader on his case, and nothing short of the man’s obvious blunder was going to have him admitting that this PTSD program was flawed in terms of addressing the type of issues Navy SEALs faced. There needed to be a more specialized program that had the doctors working out with them and becoming a part of their world. Then a SEAL might take treatment more seriously.

Jack had heard about and personally knew SEALs who had sustained life-threatening injuries and were told they would never walk again, swim again, or be fully operational again. Ninety-three percent of the time, SEALs overcame their issue and went on to play an important role in another Op. Doctors should never underestimate the human will, or rather, a SEAL’s fortitude and desire.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Jack moved quickly through the building and out the front door. When the fresh air hit his face, he breathed deeply, incredibly grateful to be outside. He nodded at a few familiar faces.

Heading around the side of the building, he saw a group of men gathered there. In the center was a medium-build guy in a Hawaiian shirt, with scruffy fuzz on his cheeks and chin, laughing with patients, many of whom looked like they had been injured by IEDs. Stumps were bandaged and taped, and there was dried blood on some of the ends. Jack stopped and listened.

“So, I told the nurse I didn’t want to eat. My nurse wouldn’t back down. She told me that she would sit right next to me until I did. Honestly, I wasn’t going to do it for myself, but the look on her face—for her, I had to eat. I got better too for her, and it took a long time before I was getting better for me. I had to learn that I’m still here, on this earth, because there are things for me to do. People to talk to and pie to eat. Does anyone want some more Julian apple pie?” The man caught Jack’s eyes. “Hi, I’m John.”

He thrust his hand out and the crowd parted like a wave. Jack caught it and shook hands with a man he knew and could identify as a Medal of Honor recipient, and who was a regular visitor to the soldiers at the hospital. “Jack Roaker. We’ve met before, at the Wounded Warriors Dinner last year. I’ve seen you in the halls, too.”

“Yeah, had to drag the spiffy rags out for that event. Nice to see you again, Jack.” John clasped his hand around both of Jack’s holding tight for several seconds. Before he let go, he said, “Stay strong.” It was like a punch of energy to his spirit.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” When Jack pulled away, all of his anger was gone, at the doctor and at the situation. Instead, there was a sense of peace. He was somehow part of a larger picture, and though he might not understand it, he would have to keep going forward to see it all.

“I’m John. Just John,” said the MOH recipient.

Jack nodded back at him and waved. “See you around, John.” The fact that man would say such thing—that he was just an ordinary guy, soldier, man like the rest of them—showed how truly extraordinary he was. His greatness was in his words, his kindness, and the time he took to listen to others, to support them, and to share his own story.

As Jack neared his car, he spied two people whom he had been trying to get hold of for weeks now. Seeley’s and Pickens’s body language toward each other was aggressive. For the first time in his life, Jack didn’t know if he could trust members of his Team.

“What are you deadbeats up to? Nothing good, from the look of it.” Jack came upon them from an odd angle and caught them on their blind side. Ah, the looks on their faces, pure shock and a little bit of horror. Not the nicest greeting for a brother who had recently saved their asses.

The men froze for a few seconds, obviously caught in the act of talking about something that Jack wasn’t supposed to hear. “So, what the fuck is going on? Are you bastards hanging around the hospital parking lot to pick up chicks?” Jack was prepared to lay it all on the line to find out the truth. The only trick was that he needed to be stealthy.

“It’s Croaker! Nice to see you, old man. Looks like you’re healing up just fine,” said Seeley, pasting a grin on his face. “How’s the noggin doing? Seen any more mermaids?”

Pickens said nothing. His face was blank and he looked past Jack as if he weren’t even there. This, from a guy who claimed to be a Teammate and friend. Obviously there was an issue here.

Jack stared at them, waiting for them to make accusations to his face or to let something slip. It was like talking to statues.

“Aren’t you in a speaking mood, Pickens?” asked Jack as he stepped closer to the silent man. “I’ve heard that you have a lot to say about me… lately. Anything you want to say to my face?”

“Hey, now, Jack, it isn’t what you think. We only gave our reports. You know how it is, we have to be up-front.”

Seeley stepped in between the two men. “Don’t give us any trouble here, we’re brothers.”

Jack glared at them. “Team guys don’t set each other up. Why do I get the feeling that the two of you are hiding something?”