teenager and had gotten jumped by some punks from a gang in Miami. That old scar made Felix stand out in a crowd, and made him look much meaner than he was. Felix could be mean, but only when forced to be or provoked; he thought of himself as the archetypal happy warrior. He loved being in the SEAL teams almost as much as he loved his family or God.
“Excuse please,” someone said to Felix in a thick accent he didn’t recognize. “Is this for shuttle van to navy base?”
Felix nodded. He too was waiting for the van. The Norfolk base was eastward, across the river from the hospital. Felix usually lived and worked at the separate amphibious warfare base, but had business now at the main navy base, where big ships including cruisers and supercarriers tied up, some nuclear subs were home-ported—and major command headquarters was located.
The foreigner, in casual civilian clothes, was Felix’s height, five feet five, not tall. Unlike Felix, built like a tree trunk, muscled as heavily as ever thanks to physical therapy plus hard daily workouts he did on his own, this stranger was skinny, almost malnourished looking. He sported a black mustache so bushy it looked as if it needed a serious trim.
The man opened his mouth to start to say something.
Felix didn’t feel like idle chitchat. He turned halfway away and tried to scowl.
The white navy shuttle van pulled up, and Felix boarded. He flashed his ID to the marine who was riding shotgun. Felix worked his way to the back of the van and sat in the far corner of the last bench seat.
The foreigner was the only other passenger, and he followed Felix and sat right next to him. The van drove away from the curb.
“I know your face,” the other man said. “I bet you not know mine.” The man caressed his own chin. “A nice new face, no?”
Felix sighed distractedly; the guy was talking nonsense. This comes with the publicity of being a Medal of Honor winner who didn’t get the thing posthumously. “Please don’t ask for my autograph. Not today. Please.” But then his radar went off. Who the hell is this person?
The other man laughed, and his laugh was infectious. He winked at Felix. “If you knew things what I do, you want my autograph too, maybe.”
The man reached for his wallet and showed Felix a smart ID card, bright blue with a gold stripe down the middle. It showed the man’s recent digital photo, not as a still but a video that panned from full face to profile and back again while Felix watched. This ID verified its owner as a U.S. government employee with a very high security clearance. The man’s name was listed as “XXXX” and the card gave little further information—at least without being plugged into a computer reader.
Very few people have such cards. Only very special people.
“You can call me Mr. Smith, or Mr. Brown, or Johnny Appleseed.”
“Johnny Appleseed doesn’t fit you, somehow.” Felix was already engaged by the man’s irresistible charm. He seemed only slightly older than Felix, who was in his mid-thirties, but he moved and talked with an assurance that normally came with many more years.
The man leaned close to Felix. “I think, you, me, we go to same meeting now.”
Felix was suddenly cautious again. He didn’t comment.
“I know another name. Friend of yours. He’s a good friend of mine also.” The man leaned close and whispered in Felix’s ear, “Jeffrey Fuller.” Then he started rolling up his shirtsleeve. Felix expected him to show off a tattoo.
Felix was unimpressed, and impatient. Everyone knew the name Jeffrey Fuller. And it was an occupational hazard, being a Navy SEAL, to be accosted by people who wanted to either adore or impress you, or buy you a beer, or sometimes—foolishly—pick a fight. The gold officer’s Special Warfare qualification badge on Felix’s khaki uniform, centered above his spread of colorful ribbons, was enough to guarantee that much.
Then Felix saw the man’s bare arm. There was no
“Excuse please,” someone said to Felix in a thick accent he didn’t recognize. “Is this for shuttle van to navy base?”
Felix nodded. He too was waiting for the van. The Norfolk base was eastward, across the river from the hospital. Felix usually lived and worked at the separate amphibious warfare base, but had business now at the main navy base, where big ships including cruisers and supercarriers tied up, some nuclear subs were home-ported—and major command headquarters was located.
The foreigner, in casual civilian clothes, was Felix’s height, five feet five, not tall. Unlike Felix, built like a tree trunk, muscled as heavily as ever thanks to physical therapy plus hard daily workouts he did on his own, this stranger was skinny, almost malnourished looking. He sported a black mustache so bushy it looked as if it needed a serious trim.
The man opened his mouth to start to say something.
Felix didn’t feel like idle chitchat. He turned halfway away and tried to scowl.
The white navy shuttle van pulled up, and Felix boarded. He flashed his ID to the marine who was riding shotgun. Felix worked his way to the back of the van and sat in the far corner of the last bench seat.
The foreigner was the only other passenger, and he followed Felix and sat right next to him. The van drove away from the curb.
“I know your face,” the other man said. “I bet you not know mine.” The man caressed his own chin. “A nice new face, no?”
Felix sighed distractedly; the guy was talking nonsense. This comes with the publicity of being a Medal of Honor winner who didn’t get the thing posthumously. “Please don’t ask for my autograph. Not today. Please.” But then his radar went off. Who the hell is this person?
The other man laughed, and his laugh was infectious. He winked at Felix. “If you knew things what I do, you want my autograph too, maybe.”
The man reached for his wallet and showed Felix a smart ID card, bright blue with a gold stripe down the middle. It showed the man’s recent digital photo, not as a still but a video that panned from full face to profile and back again while Felix watched. This ID verified its owner as a U.S. government employee with a very high security clearance. The man’s name was listed as “XXXX” and the card gave little further information—at least without being plugged into a computer reader.
Very few people have such cards. Only very special people.
“You can call me Mr. Smith, or Mr. Brown, or Johnny Appleseed.”
“Johnny Appleseed doesn’t fit you, somehow.” Felix was already engaged by the man’s irresistible charm. He seemed only slightly older than Felix, who was in his mid-thirties, but he moved and talked with an assurance that normally came with many more years.
The man leaned close to Felix. “I think, you, me, we go to same meeting now.”
Felix was suddenly cautious again. He didn’t comment.
“I know another name. Friend of yours. He’s a good friend of mine also.” The man leaned close and whispered in Felix’s ear, “Jeffrey Fuller.” Then he started rolling up his shirtsleeve. Felix expected him to show off a tattoo.
Felix was unimpressed, and impatient. Everyone knew the name Jeffrey Fuller. And it was an occupational hazard, being a Navy SEAL, to be accosted by people who wanted to either adore or impress you, or buy you a beer, or sometimes—foolishly—pick a fight. The gold officer’s Special Warfare qualification badge on Felix’s khaki uniform, centered above his spread of colorful ribbons, was enough to guarantee that much.
Then Felix saw the man’s bare arm. There was no
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