Weapons of Mass Deception

CHAPTER 25

“I’m sorry, sir. Are you telling me that you gave this person access to your personal information, or that she stole the information?” The woman’s voice had a professional tone, but underneath Brendan could almost hear her saying, You fucking idiot.

“It’s complicated,” he said.

“Which part, sir? If she stole from you, you need to contact the police. If you want to remove her from an account, then you need to contact your bank and get them to remove her from the account. We’re just a credit agency, sir, we just report the data.”

You fucking idiot, Brendan finished for her.

He pressed his free palm against his eye socket. “Can you just make a note that I called, please?” he said, trying to keep the whining tone out of his voice. “Any new credit cards that get opened in my name are not mine. Please.”

Computer keys clicked as she typed. “Are you pressing charges against this woman, sir?”

“No — yes. I don’t know, I haven’t decided yet.” He pressed his palm harder into his face. “I’m still in the hospital right now and I’m on the other side of the country… it’s complicated.”

“Well, I do hope you get better soon, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

“Uh, no, I guess not—”

“Wonderful, if you could take a short survey after this call to tell us about your experience with—”

Brendan slammed the hospital phone down, one of those hard plastic desk jobs with the coiled cord attached. His financial life was so fucked right now he couldn’t even get a goddamned cell phone.

He clenched his eyes shut, afraid that he might actually cry.

How could Amy do this to him? He was her “one and only”—she actually used to call him that, her one and only. She even signed her emails to him with O&O, their own private joke.

And she was gone. Not only was she gone, but she had left his life a financial wreck in the wake of her departure. Brendan was afraid to even think about the list: Car — repossessed. Apartment overlooking Imperial Beach — evicted. Bank accounts — overdrawn. Credit cards — maxed out. She’d even opened new ones in his name and maxed those out, too.

And she was gone.

But that wasn’t even the worst part. He was pretty sure he still loved her. Five-foot-ten, auburn hair, green eyes, and a body that just would not quit, Amy had it all. Okay, maybe he didn’t love her, but he still missed her. If she walked through the hospital door right now, he’d take her back despite all the damage she’d done to his life.

You are a fucking idiot, McHugh.

Brendan shifted in the bed, wincing when he jostled his knee. The heavily bandaged joint was suspended in the traction device over his bed. He was now a veteran of three knee operations, performed by the ortho docs at Walter Reed. They’d considered trying the first operation at Balboa, in San Diego, but his CO had insisted they send him to Walter Reed. The orthopedic surgeons here had the most experience putting kids from Iraq and Afghanistan back together, and his skipper wanted only the best surgeons working on Brendan’s knee.

He needed all the help he could get. The knife the North Korean kid had stabbed him with was a rusty piece of shit that he’d apparently used to gut fish. To say it was crawling with bacteria was an understatement; the little knife was like a direct bacterial injection into his leg.

After the first operation, the infection got so bad the doctor had wanted to take the leg off above the knee. Brendan remembered the whispered argument next to his bed between his CO and the doctor — or maybe he’d dreamed it? Who knew; he was completely out of it by that point, his head swimming in fever from the infection. It was all a foggy half-memory.

The second operation was what the doctors called “stabilization.” They had talked about cutting out the dead tissue and laying down a base of healthy material to build on. Brendan only half listened. What was he going to do, not have the surgery?

His mother came to visit between the second and third operations. She was the one who asked about Amy. Brendan hadn’t fully realized the extent of his girlfriend’s destruction at that point, and he’d laughed off her absence with a “you know Amy” comment.

Mom was full of Minneapolis family gossip and talk about his father’s heart condition, but by the end of the third day, Brendan was ready for her to go home.

And then operation number three, the one where they put his knee all back together again, just like Humpty Dumpty. The third operation was the easiest of the three and the doctors were all smiles afterwards, which Brendan took to be a good sign.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

Dr. Rob Bearon stood in the doorway—filled the doorway was a more apt description. He was a huge man who the nurses called “Bear” behind his back. He had short, thick brown hair, a dense, close-cropped beard of the same color, and squinty eyes.

“Lieutenant McHugh,” he boomed, “how we doing this fine morning, sir?”

Despite his foul mood, Brendan smiled. It was impossible not to smile with Dr. Bear. But his smile faded when he saw that the doctor had company with him.

Rear Admiral Steve “Wiz” Wizniewski was a top dog at the Washington office of US Special Operations Command, or SOCOM, and well known in the SEAL community. He had been CO of BUD/S, Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL school, when Brendan went through the Program. He could still recall Wiz doing PT with the SEAL candidates half his age — and kicking their asses. Wiz had even pinned on Brendan’s Trident — the “Budweiser,” as the SEAL warfare pin was called — after he’d passed both Underwater Demolition and SEAL training.

Wiz crossed the room in two strides and gripped Brendan’s hand. “Good to see you, Brendan. It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, sir.” Brendan tried not to choke. Wiz’s grip said it all: he’s here to let me go. A dark cloud settled over his head as he half-listened to the Bear’s explanation.

The big man had amazingly gentle hands. He lowered the traction line and removed the bandage like he was unwrapping a historical treasure. Brendan’s knee was a greenish-purple lump of cuts and stitches. It didn’t even look like a knee.

“The injury occurred from the rear of the joint, piercing the hamstring and cutting all the way through to the patella.” Brendan gritted his teeth when he thought about the feeling of the knifepoint scraping the inside of his kneecap. Bear took out his pen and pointed to the lumpy right side of the knee.

“The early infection was extensive and resulted in bone loss and tissue decay on this side of the joint. We were able to regrow a section of hamstring using some newer tissue regeneration techniques, and we spliced that new material into the existing hamstring.” He squinted at Brendan. “Physical therapy will not be pleasant, I’m afraid. The new material will need to be stretched into shape slowly — and painfully — but it will work if you stick with it. We tried an experimental bone matrix process to encourage bone regrowth. That was partially successful. We also grafted a metal plate into the left side to stabilize the joint.”

“Alright, doc, let’s cut to the chase,” Wiz said. “What’s the prognosis?”

Bear rewrapped the bandage around Brendan’s knee before he answered. “Well, the lieutenant won’t be running any marathons, but with hard work and lots of PT, he’ll probably be able to manage an easy 10K.”

Brendan looked up, feeling a smile grow on his face. “So I’m going to get cleared for duty again?”

Dr. Bearon held up his hands. “Whoa, cowboy, that’s not what I said. Brendan, you’re lucky you can walk, much less run — you almost lost your leg, remember? I said you would be able to use the knee again, that’s all.”

Brendan gave the admiral a hard look. “So you’re here to put the icing on the cake, sir?”

Wiz’s face softened. “Look, Brendan, you know the rules as well as anyone. You can’t be on the active roster with a bum knee. It’s not fair to the rest of the team. You know that.”

Brendan nodded, not trusting himself to say anything. He gritted his teeth so that his chin wouldn’t tremble.

Wizniewski continued. “I’ve been on the phone with the community manager, as well as Admiral McRaven down at SOCOM HQ in Tampa. Yes, we’re going to have to let you go, but the Navy has lots of options out there, Brendan. Some of them might surprise you.”

“Supply corps, sir?” Brendan said, trying to keep the bitter edge out of his voice. He failed. “C’mon, sir. You know me. How long would I last as a pencil pusher?”

Wizniewski glanced at his watch and stood up. “Brendan, do you trust me?”

Brendan swallowed and nodded his head. His voice failed him again.

“The doc says he’s going to release you next week. You’ve got some medical leave coming to you and the holidays are right around the corner. Take the time, clear your head, and don’t do anything stupid — like resign your commission.”

He put out his hand. His Naval Academy class ring gleamed in the light. Brendan shook his hand. Wiz’s grip was cool, dry, reassuring. “Something will come up, Brendan. And sooner than you think. Trust me.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Brendan stared out the window for a long time. Lunch came and he left the tray untouched. They came back to get the tray, and he ignored them.

His girlfriend, his career, his money, his car — it was all shit. His entire life was shit.

He tried to will himself to call the next company on his list and just could not screw up the gumption to let one more credit agency lady explain to him why he was a fucking idiot. He laughed bitterly, a sharp bark in the quiet room. O&O, my ass.

There was a soft knock at the door. A tall black man stood in the entrance, close-cropped hair with a touch of gray at the temples. He had a tentative smile on his face.

“Lieutenant McHugh?”

“Yes.” Brendan eyed the man. He had a lean build and was dressed in khakis and a blue dress shirt open at the neck. He extended his hand.

“Rick Baxter, Lieutenant.”

“Brendan, call me Brendan.”

“Brendan, then.” Baxter put his hand on a chair. “May I?”

Brendan shrugged. “Suit yourself, Rick. I’ve got nothing but time.” Even as he said it, Brendan could feel the bitterness in his own voice, like acid on his tongue.

Baxter lowered himself into the chair and scooted close to the bedside. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by, Brendan. I run a small office over at ONI. We’ve got a few guys from your community in our group, all solid guys. I’m putting together a new team and your name came up as a candidate.”

Brendan sat up in bed. ONI was Office of Naval Intelligence. But there was more than that; Baxter’s voice seemed so familiar.

“Me? What kind of team, Rick?”

Baxter laughed. “All in good time, Lieutenant, all in good time. For now, I just wanted to stop by and say thank you.”

“I’m not following.”

Baxter’s eyes dropped to Brendan’s knee. “What you did out there, it paid off for us. It was worth it.”

Brendan scowled. Somehow, he knew that voice. His mind struggled to place it through all the pain meds he’d received over the past weeks.

Baxter stood up abruptly. “Well, I think maybe I’ve overstayed my welcome here, Brendan. Tell you what. You think about our conversation, and when you can walk on your own two feet, call me and we’ll have lunch.”

Baxter pulled a card from his breast pocket and laid it facedown on the bedside table. Then he shook Brendan’s hand, replaced the chair where he’d found it, and walked out the door. The whole visit had taken less than five minutes.

Where did he know that voice from? Brendan picked up the card. It was plain white stock with two lines of heavy black text: Rick Baxter and a phone number with a DC area code.