Spyder Web

17

The unassuming working-class bar known simply as Mike’s was closed on the busiest drinking night of the year, as it was every New Year’s Eve. Closed to the public, that is. Inside, the bar that was best described as ‘a dive’ was standing room only with members of the nation’s elite Special Warfare fraternity. Mike was one of the first SEALs, having signed on after President Kennedy authorized the formation of the teams in 1962. Before that, he’d been a frogman with the navy’s Underwater Demolition Teams.

Mike’s bar was a reflection of his personality; at first glance, it was gruff, surly, and intimidating, but to those who got to know it, like those here tonight, it was an old friend. The beer was cold and the drinks straightforward and unpretentious. The jukebox by the back wall blared out a new song that combined hyperactive guitars with an amped-up drumbeat in a mixture that the music magazines described as ‘industrial jungle.’ This selection was made by one of the younger revelers in attendance.

The front half of the bar held small circular tables and chairs; four battered pool tables filled the back. At the end of the bar, Jack Dawson and Max Gates sat with Nolan Kilkenny.

‘Another round?’ Dawson asked rhetorically as he held up his empty beer bottle and three fingers for the bartender to see.

A moment later, three icy longnecks replaced the empties.

‘Thanks, Mike,’ Dawson said.

Mike nodded and returned to his post behind the bar, where he was holding court for some of the younger men who eagerly listened to his stories from the old days. Mike Roark was an old navy-enlisted man who topped out at five feet eleven and was shaped like an anvil. He was thickset, and the ten years since his retirement from the navy hadn’t softened his physique by much. Mike had never married, and the men in his bar tonight were his sons and brothers-in-arms.

‘I spoke with Hopwood’s widow a couple days ago, about the time when you guys got back. She got discreet word via the admiral-wives’ grapevine, that the score regarding her husband’s death has been settled. She sends her thanks.’

‘To the admiral,’ Kilkenny offered.

‘Here, here,’ Gates seconded before draining another inch from the longneck bottle.

‘So, Nolan,’Dawson asked,’did the Bureau of Personnel get all your paperwork taken care of?’

‘Yeah, and at midnight I became something I haven’t been since I was eighteen years old.’

‘What, a virgin?’ Gates asked jokingly, elbowing Kilkenny in the ribs.

‘No, scarier than that. A civilian.’

Dawson scratched at the paper label on his bottle. ‘Nolan, do you know what made you a good SEAL? It was your mind. You were able to cut through the bullshit and the chaos of battle and reach your objective. It was your mind that kept you alive. It’s also the one thing that will keep you from being a great SEAL.’

‘What do you mean, Cap’n?’ Gates said defensively. ‘Nolan’s a hell of a SEAL.’

‘Stand down, Master Chief. It’s not an insult, just a fact.’

Kilkenny spoke up. ‘Max, what the captain means is, my heart’s not in it.’

‘You can only go so far on brainpower in this profession. Max, for guys like us, this is more than our job; it’s our way of life.’Dawson threw an arm around Kilkenny’s shoulder. ‘Nolan’s heart is elsewhere, and it’s time for him to get out. For him to stay would be a waste of talent, like using a Porsche to haul trash.’

‘Well, it’s true that this life ain’t for everybody, but you made a hell of a go at it while you were here.’ Gates took a long draw from his bottle. ‘Shit, heart or no heart, I just hope the next officer I’m paired with is half as good as you.’

‘Last call!’ Mike bellowed out from behind the bar. It was going on three in the morning and was well past the bar’s normal closing time.

‘Drink up, Nolan, and let’s get the hell out of here,’ Dawson ordered. ‘I need my beauty rest, and you’ve got a long trip ahead of you. I just hope my wife hasn’t locked me out of the house.’