None were, so Flame—using his Brian Kelly ID, checked into the BOQ and got to work.

  He knew that the doctors didn’t want to clear him for duty—that had been made perfectly clear to him in early in his stay at the Balboa Naval Hospital. The doctors had been terrified to allow him to run or work out with free weights—they were sure that he was too weak for such activity and would hurt himself further.

  Flame had, of course, ignored them and started running in the hospital halls and doing pull-ups with the aid of his bed frame. The screeching nose of metal on wall bothered some of the other patients, several of whom were senior officers. When they complained, the doctors suddenly decided to allow Flame to run outside the building—safe in his little plastic helmet.

  Home now (in SEAL terms) there was not a soul who could tell him what he could—and could not—do in his exercise routine. He used that to his advantage.

  He started with easy runs—ten miles along the beach followed by an hour of weight training, lunch and then another ten miles up along the roads that surrounded the base. He did his best to work himself to the edge of exhaustion before hitting the sack.

  It didn’t work. He kept having the dreams. Always the same. Always inside that same Mexican shithouse and always ending up in front of the same damn door. The door into blackness.

  The door of death.

  He moved to thirty miles a day—fifteen in the morning and fifteen in the evening. He spent the remainder of his time utilizing the base’s fully equipped weight room (doing so during off-hours, both to avoid having SEAL trainees asking questions, and to avoid going to sleep and suffering through the dream again).

  It took time but eventually he regained most of the muscle mass he had lost while in the hospital and rounded into the kind of shape that many of the trainees would have traded everything they owned to match.

  But he still wasn’t sleeping.

  He began to prowl the internet, looking through online stores to find things that interested him or might be cool to send to his buddies on the other side of the world. He purchased large quantities of various chocolate bars (which he could no longer enjoy) and sent them to the team who, he had learned, were somewhere in Afghanistan where such items were considered ‘luxury goods’ and hard to come by.

  He found a place in Texas selling Dragon Skin armor and conductive cooling vests. He’d heard of such things—you wore them tight against your skin and they drew heat away from your body, slowing dehydration.

  He knew the guys could use the gear. He also knew that the Navy wouldn’t be buying anything like it for years. He ordered one for each of his buddies and included the man called Priest who, in his absence, had become part of the team.

  He ordered a final set in his own size—although he had begun to doubt that he would ever use it. If he didn’t kick the dreams he was sure he’d be kicked from the military—no matter what kind of shape he worked himself into.

  By the beginning of his third week of leave he decided to try something different—he began to take time away from the sameness of beach runs and weight rooms. He made his way to Virginia Beach where he could prowl the sands and bars for willing little playmates for a night of rest and recreation in a rented room at the Sea Breeze Motel.

  They were easy to come by—and always went away contented after a night of athletic sex.

  Oddly, not one of them had red hair.

  The change in routine helped a little—Flame still had the dream most nights but now it wasn’t quite so intense. He still found himself in front of that door, but now he always knew it was a dream—one which he could escape by willing himself back to consciousness and away from whatever waited for him on the other side of that dark portal.

  -4-

  Dana Morton was bored. This was her third night at the Calypso and her target had yet to show up.

  My contacts must have been wrong, she told herself as she sipped a glass of ginger ale. There are no SEALs here—just a bunch of wannabes and a lot of college kids who aren’t old enough to know the difference!

  She been propositioned a couple of times—her youthful blonde looks practically guaranteed that would happen—but she’d fixed the offending males with her best withering glare and they’d melted back into the crowd, licking their wounds.

  I can’t stay here forever. She finished her drink and motioned for another one. If he doesn’t show up soon, I’ll have to try a different…

  A tall, redheaded man wearing jeans and a t-shirt stepped into the bar.

  That’s him! Dana let her eyes roam over the six foot four mass of alpha male who strode into the room. He looks healthy enough… She fixed her gaze on his face and head, looking for… There’s the scar! She bit her lower lip. Not too bad—it’d be worse if he had more of a tan…

  She studied his gait. No sign of a limp. Her source had informed her that the target was running twenty to thirty miles a day and dead-lifting quite a lot of weight. He certainly looks like he’s ready to go. She nodded to herself. Yeah, I think he’ll do.

  Dana dumped a bill on the table and stood, just as the redheaded man picked his target—a nineteen-year-old college girl in skin-tight short-shorts and halter top.

  Yeah, she watched him say a few words to the girl who seemed a little weak in the knee as she stood and took his arm. He’ll do.

  Dana left the bar moments before Flame and the girl did.

  ***

  Flame noticed the girl eyeing him as he walked into the Calypso. Not bad looking, he told himself as he gave her the once-over. Real blonde—not a bleach job—good figure. Her blue eyes swept over him—then pointedly turned away.

  Flame was used to women checking him out. He was a good-looking man and knew that the ladies liked both his face and his muscular build.

  This one was different. She looks as if she’s sizing up a prize bull. Flame didn’t like that look—and found another girl not far away—another blonde, much younger and much more skimpily dressed. By the time he reached his new target, the laser-eyed girl had disappeared from sight.

  Flame and his new, curvy blonde conquest-to-be followed mere moments after.

  Flame had the dream again that night—reacting violently enough that the girl fled the room before he was completely awake.

  ***

  Another week passed. Labor Day was on the horizon and afterwards, most of the girls would disappear from the beach until next summer. Flame’s leave was nearly over—and he knew that he would have to face a future that seemed to promise nothing but boredom.

  They’re never going to let me back in the Teams, he told himself. I could lie about the dreams, lie about everything going on in my head—but if I did that I’d be putting my brothers in jeopardy.

  He knew he couldn’t do that no matter what it cost him to avoid it.

  I’ll have to accept whatever the doctors say. He shook his head. And that means I have no future in the Teams.

  He got his orders that day—orders to report to the Naval Hospital in San Diego for final evaluation.

  Should I go? Maybe bring a lawyer and a doctor of my own?

  He wished Manny was around—Manny would know what to do—but the big Jewish SEAL was in action with the rest of the team In fact, unknown to Flame, Manny was dead—killed by a Taliban bitch deep in the wilds of Afghanistan.

  Flame tossed the orders on the bed and took a long walk. The base was active enough, with at least two bricks training and a new bunch of recruits working up alongside them.

  Abruzzi! Flame thought. Chief Abruzzi will know what to do.

  It didn’t take long to find the old salt. He was hectoring a bunch of new recruits when Flame tracked him down on the beach. At the sight of the younger man’s face, Abruzzi sent the newbies off on a five-mile run so he could give Flame his undivided attention.

  The veteran SEAL deserved that much.

  “So that’s the story, Chief,” Flame said as he looked the old man in the eyes a few minutes later. He had been careful not to tell the trainer anything classified—only filled him in the injury he’d suffered (without telling him where, when or how he got it) and his certainty that the Navy would decide to discharge him from the service.

  “Is there any way I can beat this?”

  “Damn, boy!” the old man looked into Flame’s eyes. “I thought you were a SEAL.” He spit into the sand and turned to walk away. “I thought you knew better than that.”

  Flame sat for a long moment—then nodded slowly. He did know better. SEALs did what they were told—even when they didn’t like the orders. He watched the old salt trot up the beach, then turned and walked back toward his room.

  A plan formed in his mind—a sure way to avoid the empty life that he knew was waiting for him.

  Much later that night, Flame had the beach all to himself. He looked out to sea and saw his first target. It was a platform floating some fifty yards from the beach. Flame knew that it was held in place with chains and concrete anchors that had enough slack to let the thing rise and fall with the incoming tide. He’d swum to and from the thing for as long as he’d been a SEAL—after all, SEALs swam—and this platform was one of the places they learned how to swim properly.

  He took a long moment to survey the scene. It was quiet and very peaceful. A sliver of moon lit the unmoving face of a very calm stretch of water. Flame remembered how it had looked when they’d dropped Bin Laden into the sea. It had been a rougher sea then—only to be expected since they were far out at sea—where this was just a protected bay.

  I’m wasting time, Flame thought. It’s time to get to it. He sat down on the sand and pulled off his trainers and sweats, neatly folding the pants and shirts before laying his shoes on top of them and pushing himself upright. Time to go. He walked toward the water, breathing deeply, filling his lungs with the air they would need for the first part of the swim. When he was sure he was fully oxygenated, he blew his lungs flat and slipped into the water, taking one last gulp of air just before his fingertips hit the water.

  He grimaced a bit when as the liquid slid over him—it was colder than he’d expected this close to the end of summer—but then he felt a wry smile cross his lips. What does it matter?

  Cold was good; it would give him focus.

  He stretched and began the pull into the dark water ahead. He didn’t look from side to side—SEALs never did—they trusted their brothers to keep up.

  Twenty yards in and the muscles in his arms were starting to warm up with the exertion. He knew the platform was another twenty or thirty yards away—and he trusted himself to stay on line for the thing. Orienteering underwater is a bitch without any guidelines or lights but Flame had always had the knack. He had the direction firmly planted in his mind and he knew he wouldn’t miss the platform—he had never missed in any of the training swims he had done over the years and he wasn’t about to start now.

  Sure enough, his fingers touched one of the chains holding the platform in place just about the time his brain said they should. He climbed up the chain and onto the platform, drawing in a deep breath and looking at the calm waters that surrounded him. To one side he could see the lights of Norfolk and, closer, Virginia Beach. He wondered if any of the pretty girls he had smiled at would remember him—and decided it didn’t really matter.

  I wasn’t made for that, he told himself. I was made to be a killer of men—a defender of my country. He had spent years forging himself into the weapon that now stood on the platform—a weapon that his superiors had decided was no longer capable of accomplishing its missions.

  There was nothing left for him to do.

  He dove back into the water and began to swim—away from the beach.

  Just over an hour later he stopped for a breath, treading water as he looked around. I’m pretty far out. He could barely make out the beach he had started from. I wonder if I can make it to the other side. He didn’t think so—and he had no idea what he would do if he suddenly discovered he could.

  He continued his swim, putting more space between him and the beach. It was almost out of sight now—a mere glimmer of sand in the dim moonlight.

  I’ve almost got this done, Flame nodded to himself. Just keep on going and sooner or later, I’ll get too tired to continue and just quietly sink down into the sea…

  An altogether fitting end for a failed Navy SEAL.

  “What the hell are you doing, buddy?”

  The voice came from somewhere close. Flame stopped and treaded water as he searched for the source.

  “Don’t you know that SEALs always swim with a buddy?”

  “Where are you?” Flame tried to pinpoint the voice. “I can’t see you!”

  “Doesn’t matter, does it.” The voice had a hint of humor. “Question is, why the hell are you just giving up?”

  “I’m not giving up!”

  “Don’t give me that shit.”

  Flame heard the disapproval in the voice, and thought for a moment that he recognized it. It sounds like Manny, he thought. But Manny’s on the other side of the world!

  “Now get yourself turned around and head back to shore.” There was that familiar hint of humor again. “SEALs—especially SEALs from Team Six, do not—I repeat—do not give up!”

  He’s right, Flame realized suddenly. I shouldn’t give up. He still didn’t know where the voice came from—but it really didn’t matter. I can’t give up—it would dishonor the rest of the guys. He shook his head. What was I thinking? He found the moon, used it to orient himself, then began the long pull back to the beach.

  Abruzzi was waiting for him. The old chief didn’t say a word, just handed Flame his clothes and turned away.

  -5-

  Flame checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Not too bad, he thought. He’d had his hair cut before leaving Dam Neck, leaving it a little longer than regulation so it covered all but a tiny white ‘V’ of the scar tissue on his forehead—something that was hardly noticeable now that his tan had faded. He’d shaved very carefully and put on a brand new set of khakis—none of his older uniforms fit anymore. He carefully attached the bars, which identified him as a Warrant Officer W-2, and pinned the trident of the Teams on his breast.

  Nothing else—SEALs did not wear brag rags.

  Flame had been careful to choose a hotel situated close to the Pentagon so, when his watch showed that his appointment was only thirty minutes away, he used the time to walk to the designated entrance, taking a moment to look over the newly-dedicated Air Force memorial that stood nearby.

  Nice enough, he thought as he looked over the soaring metallic sculpture. If you like this kind of thing. He turned his back on the statue and continued his walk to the Pentagon, effortlessly falling into a controlled pace that would get him to the proper door with plenty of time to spare.

  A few minutes later—right on schedule—he was inside the heart of the US Military, being guided to the ‘B’ ring by a rather young lieutenant JG. “Did you know that you can get to any point in the Pentagon in seven minutes or less?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s a byproduct of the shape.” The young officer motioned to the building around him. “There’s a complicated formula that explains it all,” he grinned. “But I don’t really understand it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The office you’re looking for is right ahead.” The lieutenant came to a halt and showed his pass to a Marine manning a security checkpoint. “Do you know who you’re to see, Mr. Kelly?”

  Flame was still using his cover name—and showed the visitor pass with that name to the Marine. “All I know is what’s in my orders, sir.”

  “I see.” They stepped through a metal detector and, when it didn’t react, turned to the right. “Well,” the lieutenant motioned to a door just ahead. “This is the office indicated on your papers.” He stopped and smiled at Flame. “I hope they treat you well,” he held out his hand. “I figure you probably deserve it.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Flame shook the man’s hand. “I’m not so sure of that—but it’s nice of you to say.”

  “Smooth sailin’, SEAL.” The man stepped away, tossed a salute at Flame. “And keep your head down.”

  Flame returned the salute before turning to the office door. There was no metallic plaque alongside to indicate who resided here.

  Doesn’t really matter, Flame told himself. I don’t know anyone in the Pentagon anyway.

  He was wrong—as he discovered when he pushed the door open and entered a small, ten by ten foot room.

  “Good morning, Flame.” Lt. Commander Michael ‘Bone’ Ballard rose from the desk. He’d been a chopper jockey at Bagram during the Team’s first deployment to Afghanistan and had flown Flame and his brothers out of a few hot spots. Bone was scarecrow thin—but that’s not where his nickname came from. No indeed. Then Lieutenant Mike Ballard had received it when his crew chief—a rather well built blonde E-6—noticed how quickly parts of him came to attention when she walked by.

  The fact that the same thing happened any time a pretty woman—or a not-so-pretty but well-endowed woman—appeared ensured that the name would stick.

  And stick it did.

  “Morning, sir.” Flame stood loosely in the middle of the room. He could have come to a precise brace if he wanted to—but didn’t really see the need. SEALs weren’t much on ceremony—and the Bone knew that. “Nice of them to assign someone like you to take care of this.”

  “You know why you’re here?”

  “Orders are clear.” Flame caught and held the other man’s eyes. “They’re putting me on the Beach although I don’t really know why.”

  “There’s no choice, son.” Ballard touched the pile of papers on his desk. “The doctors say that the plate they put in your head could cause all kinds of problems. You already know about the problems with your taste buds—that’s brain damage all by itself. Then there’re the dreams which you admit you’re having nearly every night.” He shrugged. “That could mean you’re susceptible to aural and visual hallucinations, which, all by themselves, would disqualify you from active duty.”