The sagging report in my hands offered the same kind of inspiration I could have enjoyed if I had been watching mold grow. I skimmed the column on the requisition status for light-blue, six-inch, PVC sewer pipe. It was all I could do to keep from staring at the little scale-model of a Ducati 916 that rested on the corner of my desk and daydreaming of twisting mountain roads.
Then I glanced at the door that led to my secretary’s office. Right and left of the door, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were filled with thick, very expensive professional texts and monographs. The titles included both psychiatric and psychological works; I’m smart enough to mine the best from both fields. If anyone looked closely, they’d see a section on the third shelf, right-hand side, dedicated to famous racing motorcycles.
So sue me.
In addition to my keyboard and monitor, I cluttered my desk with a phone, video cam, a photo of me on my Daytona-blue Ducati Diavel with its white racing stripe, and a single portrait of my son, Eric, at age ten, wearing a baseball uniform. And finally, propped on its side stand, is the aforementioned little red model of a Ducati 916. I’ve always lusted after a 916. The toy had been a gift from a too-many-years-dead friend: the motorcycle I’ll never own for real.
I tossed the maintenance report onto the desk and leaned back, pinching the bridge of my nose. For a man in his late fifties, I’ve somehow managed to keep in good physical condition. It’s the graying temples that get me. I fumbled for the pen in my vest pocket, thumbed to the last page of the report, and scrawled my name.
The buzz from the intercom made me glance at the clock. Chief Petty Officer Karla Raven was right on time. I checked the upper right-hand monitor—the one that showed Janeesha’s office. Outside my door Staff Sergeant Myca Simond—wearing his duty scrubs—stood just back of, and slightly to the left of, Chief Raven. The chief’s hands were manacled behind her. Myca held a chain that he’d attached to the manacles like a leash.
“Silly boy,” I muttered, and pressed the buzzer. Janeesha, wary, opened the door before stepping back to allow Chief Raven to pass.
Chief Petty Officer Karla Raven walked innocently through my door. Level gray eyes met mine, and her delicate eyebrow rose in a way that eloquently asked, “Well, what did you expect me to do?”
I chuckled and pushed back in my chair. “Myca, you can remove the chief’s manacles.”
“Uh, boss, that’s not a good—”
“Myca, if Karla had wanted to, she’d have already knocked you unconscious, lifted your keys, and made her way past the first security ring.”
Myca’s face flushed almost as red as his carrot-top hair. He shot Chief Raven a disbelieving sidelong glance. “You’re kidding, right?”
“You’re new here, Staff Sergeant. Since Chief Raven’s been in the room for all of thirty seconds, and we’re both still upright, that tells me she’s not inclined to cause us trouble today.” I gave her a questioning tilt of the head. “Right, Chief?”
“Yes, sir.”
Simond winced. “But she attacked Lew Fergusson, broke his jaw . . . and four ribs . . . and his right middle finger!”
“Chief? Why the jaw, four ribs, and right middle finger?”
She flipped her midnight-black hair back and pulled herself to attention. “Sir, breaking the jaw kept him from verbally articulating threats against Private Jones. Fracturing the thoracic ribs was a way of limiting the amount of hot air he was spewing to power his damn mouth. And the middle finger, sir?” Her expression hardened. “When I attempted to engage Seaman First Class Fergusson in a conversation detailing certain of the more egregious aspects of his apparent hostility toward Private Jones, he rather pointedly replied that he was contemplating a new and exciting career opportunity . . . and he was going to use said finger in the pursuit of the same.”
“And that career would be?”
“Gynecology, sir. Or so I would assume, since he intimated I would be his first . . . um, patient, sir.”
“Myca?” I made a “do it” gesture with my right hand. “Remove the manacles.”
Myca reached for the manacles. Chief Raven’s lips bent just enough to betray the smile she was hiding.
“Wait!”
Myca froze.
“Karla?” I used her first name. “If I take the chains off, nothing will be missing when you leave? Nothing palmed?”
Her eyelids lowered as she studied me, then she nodded. “No, sir. Nothing missing when I leave the room.”
I repeated the signal to Simond. He reflexively jumped back as the manacles fell free. You know. The same sort of instinctive reaction someone would have when a live grenade was dropped on the floor.
Chief Raven carefully rubbed her wrists, then snapped off a salute and returned to attention.
“At ease, Chief.” I steepled my fingers, searching for words. “I went over the official report, reviewed the video . . . Now, just between you and me, off the record, what happened that day?”
She gave a slight shrug of the shoulders. “OTR? Fergusson was going to hurt ET. Really hurt him. Everybody on the floor knows Fergusson’s file. He beat his CO to death and was sawing the man’s skull open when they caught him. Said he was going to use it for a cup, just like the SEALs do. Now, granted, we’re all a little crazy in here, but, sir, you’ve got him in the wrong ward.”
“Telling me my business, Chief?”
“No, sir.”
I leaned forward, punched the stud on my intercom, and said, “Janeesha, cut a transfer for Seaman Lewis Fergusson to the walls, please. Cite inmate security for the reason.” The “walls” or Ward One was where the violently insane were housed. Which was where I would have put Fergusson in the first place, had I not been under other orders due to the machinations of Fergusson’s civilian lawyer.
“Yes, sir.”
I leaned back and twiddled my pen as I studied Raven. “Sorry I had to lock you up, Chief. Despite the leniency I would have liked to have shown you, there has to be a baseline of discipline.”
“Nothing comes free, sir.”
“Anything else we need to discuss, Chief?”
“No, sir.”
“Meds suiting you well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the food?”
“Couldn’t be better, sir. We’d no idea cube steaks could be cooked to such a remarkable flavor, let alone used to supplement body armor.”
I leaned forward and pressed my stud. “Janeesha?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Give the cook in the Ward Six mess his two-week notice. Inform the personnel office that if they can’t find someone competent, both CNN and Fox News will hear about it.”
“Yes, sir.”
I leaned back, smiling. “Anything else, Chief?”
“Life’s good, sir.”
The way satisfaction crept around those beautiful lips caused me to bite off a chuckle. “Then you’re dismissed, Chief. You can find your way?”
“Yes, sir!” She stepped to attention immediately before my desk and ripped off a letter-perfect salute, her arm flashing down to her side. I’d been expecting it. Even so, I missed it when it happened.
“Chief?” I called, stopping her a stride short of the door.
She turned and gave me a ravishing smile. “I said, ‘when I left the room.’ I still had a whole pace to go before I had to give it back.”
She barely flicked her wrist; the little red Ducati arched high, and I snatched it from the air. By the time I did, she was through the door.
“Got to have a talk with that woman about her sense of humor.”
“Sir!” Staff Sergeant Simond protested, his eyes wide with disbelief.
I leaned back, spinning the little Ducati’s tire with my finger. “Myca, like I said, you’re new. Grantham Barracks is what it is. Ward Six is something else. They’re all unique in one way or another. When it comes to Chief Raven—”
“She’s a kleptomaniac? On top of everything else?”
“We call it an impulse control disorder, and on her current meds, we’ve got her depression and guilt mostly licked. The flashbacks? We’re still working on them.”
Sergeant Simond watched me replace the little red Ducati on its corner of the desk as he asked, “Dr. Ryan, you acted like you trusted her.”
How’d she do that? I was looking right at it.
“She gave up everything, right down to her soul and self, to become the first female SEAL, then to become a SEAL sniper. She racked up fifty-four confirmed kills and finally earned the chance to command a platoon of SEALs. An IED took out most of her platoon. The only person on earth who holds her responsible was—and still is—Karla Raven.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, I suppose you don’t.”