Straits of Power by Joe Buff

Brazilian immigrants, and Miami summers were baking and steamy. Pausing on the sidewalk twenty yards from the busy entrance, Felix took a few deep breaths to clear his lungs. The odor of wounds and antiseptic inside the tall, white building had been strong.
    It still hurt, in his sides and around the left side of his collarbone, when he inhaled all the way. But Felix was very accustomed to intense and prolonged physical pain; it came with the exertions of his job as a U.S. Navy SEAL.
    Telling lies was something he was much less used to. He’d been a good enough liar to convince the doctors that he had recovered from his broken ribs and bayonet wound and was fit for unrestricted duty. Felix patted the pocket of his crisply starched uniform shirt where he’d put the paperwork. His guilt at lying—about anything, to anyone—was more than offset by his excitement at being ready for action again.
    Clearing his mind of the hospital visit was more difficult than clearing his lungs, because while here Felix had visited those of his men who were still confined to inpatient care. Virginia’s Naval Medical Center Portsmouth was a gruesome place to walk through, heavy with the sights and sounds of the human cost of war. Lost limbs in the orthopedic ward, serious head and spine injuries in the neurology department, the constant agony of treatments for third-degree burns, or of bone-marrow transplants for radiation sickness. Felix had forced a smile for each of his men, and offered encouraging words, but was totally drained in the process.
    What do you say to a kid who was a Navy SEAL a month ago, and lost both legs at the knees? What do you tell another kid, still undergoing skin grafts, who’ll never want to be seen in public in short sleeves and shorts, let alone at the beach wearing nothing but swim trunks? And what do you do for a guy on life support, with grenade fragments through his skull and into his brain? How do you make it up to that guy’s parents, keeping a vigil for him to wake from a coma that’ll probably never end?
    Felix turned and morosely looked back up at the building.
    They’re in there because they took orders from me.
    Felix tried not to notice the steady flow of civilian visitors into and out of the hospital. Those entering would try to be brave, the fathers especially. Family groups would leave, huddled together, dabbing their eyes, walking toward the covered short-term parking garage in a daze. Felix understood their torment, their helplessness, their rage.
    Two months ago Felix had been a master chief in the SEALs, and was satisfied to remain so forever. U.S. Navy master chiefs, as a group, were the best social club in the world. They’d risen as far as an enlisted man could go, through years of hard work and tough hands-on experience, and even admirals paid attention when they had something important to say. Then Felix’s CO announced what to Felix seemed terrible news: a promotion to commissioned officer, with the rank of lieutenant. Felix tried to refuse—he loathed the make-or-break fitness reports and political crap that came with being an officer. His CO made it quite clear that a refusal would not be tolerated. With Felix’s proven field-craft skills and leadership ability, the promotion was thoroughly deserved. More to the point, it was necessary, because Felix had to be an officer to command an urgent mission. . . .
    The memories of that mission were still as painful as Felix’s wounds, inflicted by a German Kampfschwimmer commando who died with Felix’s dive knife deep in his guts. The memories haunted his dreams.
    I got the Medal of Honor, doing what needed to be done, and I made my wife and kids and parents proud. I’d give it away in a heartbeat if it could bring my dead men back to life and restore my maimed teammates to health.
    Felix had another knife scar, on his face, a jagged line from below his left eye down to the jaw—but that was from twenty years before, when he was a