The Recruiter (A Thriller) (7 page)

“What the fuck are you doing, Ackerman?”

“Loading ordnance, sir,” Samuel says.

“Ackerman.” Petty Officer Third Class Wilkins is a lanky black man from Alabama. His voice is like a rusty saw. His huge nostrils are flared.

“Yes sir.” The four sailors surrounding the bomb rack fall silent.

“No, you’re not. You are definitely not loading ordnance. You
are
fucking up the ordnance, sailor. You
are
creating a dangerous situation, Ackerman. Loading ordnance is about the only thing you are
not
doing.”

Samuel throws cold water on the fire that’s starting to burn in the pit of his stomach.

Wilkins looks at Samuel in wonderment. “A very dangerous situation. You see this here clasp? You gotta lock that down, Seaman.” Wilkins uses his long fingers to fold the metal hinge in place. It slams into place with a satisfying
chunk
. “Otherwise, ordnance pushes against it, it fails, and we got a live warhead clattering around the deck of our ship. Ready to blow your best buddy to hell and back. You understand the situation you could have created, Ackerman?”

“Yes sir.” The anger, the fire, is doused. But it is replaced by a bubbling thrill that shoots up Samuel’s spine. It’s a tingle of adventure, spurred by the memory of slitting Nevens’ throat.

“Dummy,” he says.

Wilkins turns back to him. “What did you say?”

“I said dummy. Good thing the bomb is a dummy. Not the real thing. Sir.” He can barely hold back the smile that’s fighting to get out of his throat and spread across his face. What’s wrong with him? He’s gotta keep things under control. Focus, he tells himself. Focus.

“Are you being a smartass, Ackerman?”

“No sir.”

“Good.” He backs away from Samuel. “Come on, let’s see you do this right.”

Samuel turns back to his task, as do the others, and snaps the clasps, locks the ordnance in place. It is a simple task. The only reason he didn’t do it right the first time is because he was daydreaming.

Imagining his return to the beach in Coronado, California.

•

The small meeting room is stark and bare. A table and four chairs sit under a single light fixture. There is a wastebasket in the corner.

Seated at the table is Petty Officer Third Class Wilkins.

“Sit down, Ackerman.”

“Yes sir.” Samuel takes a seat across from Wilkins. He sees the black man’s brown eyes, a little bit yellow in the corners. The black man eases back in his chair and smiles at Samuel.

“Any idea why I called you here?’

“No sir.”

“I checked your ass out. You couldn’t handle BUD/S, could you?”

Samuel doesn’t respond.

“I read up on you, boy. Know you wanna be a Navy SEAL. Put it right down when you first joined the Navy. So let me ask you again. You wanna be a Navy SEAL?”

“Yes sir.” Samuel’s face is getting hot. But inside, an icy cold has sunk into his body. He sits absolutely still.

“I was just wondering about you because you don’t seem to be too impressed with what we do in ordnance. Maybe you’re thinkin’ that in comparison to that bullshit out in California that you think this ordnance training is a bunch of little piddly shit. That right, Seaman Ackerman?”

Dead on
, Samuel thinks. The icy feeling is washed away by Wilkins’ words. The anger returns. Seeps back into his blood. Heats it.

“No sir.”

“No?”

“No sir.”
Samuel’s head is pounding. He stares straight ahead, over Wilkins’ shoulder. Instead of seeing the wall, he sees long rows of missile drones. The large bombs hanging from thick chains. The pulley rack with its many nip points.

“You know I can scrub you from this program?” Wilkins leans forward, getting in Samuel’s face. It reminds Samuel of Nevens. Wilkins’ teeth are yellow, the front one chipped. His breath smells like stale coffee.

“Yes sir.”

“You get scrubbed enough, maybe you get your ass scrubbed right out of the Navy.”

Samuel stares straight ahead, but says nothing.

“Bye-bye, Navy SEAL.”

“Yes sir.” The words come from his mouth, choked.

“Keep it in mind. Are we clear?”

“Crystal, sir.”

The last rays of the day are gone, replaced by the first stars of the night as Samuel walks to the on-base fitness center. He opens the glass door to the fitness center and steps inside. Like everything associated with keeping sailors fit, it’s state of the art. It’s a huge room, over three thousand square feet. Treadmills, elliptical trainers, rowing machines, stationary bikes, free weights, Nautilus equipment, all of it new and impeccably maintained. Samuel walks through the doorway, the blare of televisions and treadmills filling the air. He has on shorts, tennis shoes, and a gray Navy T-shirt. Wrapped inside the towel is another T-shirt, blue, a naval baseball cap, and a pair of sunglasses.

He glances around the giant room and sees that most of the bikes are being used. Samuel asks the woman behind the desk, a stern-faced, tall woman with black hair, for the bike form. The fitness center allows 60 minutes per machine, longer if no one’s waiting. Samuel signs his name clearly and puts the time next to it.

He crosses the room, glances back over his shoulder and sees that the woman behind the counter has turned her back on him, and he quickly veers away from the exercise bicycles and slips into the locker room. There is a mist in the air and it’s very hot as Samuel walks through the locker area and finds the exit door next to the bathrooms. Shrouded in the room’s mist, Samuel pauses by the door, strips off his gray T-shirt and puts on the blue one. Then he puts on the baseball cap and the sunglasses. He opens the door and steps out into a small corridor that leads to the pool. There is also an exit door next to the pool entrance that leads to the rear entrance of the fitness building.

Samuel steps outside and walks purposefully toward the ordnance hangar. Everything should be on schedule. After several weeks of constant surveillance, Samuel knows that Wilkins should be running final checks on the ordnance supply, an exercise he performs by himself every night.

Alone.

Samuel hears voices and changes direction, keeping his face hidden from two sailors heading for the living quarters. He readjusts his course and, a minute later, is standing at the door to the Ordnance Training Center. He takes off his sunglasses and walks in. The faint metallic squeal of the door is lost in the cavernous silence of the big hangar.

Samuel lets his eyes adjust to the darker interior, then spots Wilkins. He’s standing near the small metal desk at the rear of the hangar. In his hands is a clipboard.

Samuel’s cross-trainer tennis shoes make no noise on the cement floor as he advances toward the petty officer.

He passes a small worktable and silently scoops up the biggest crescent wrench of the bunch. It feels good in his hands. He walks toward Wilkins, his blood pounding. Samuel thinks of Nevens at the beach. The beauty of it. The thrill of it.

The efficiency of it.

Nevens gone.

Wilkins gone.

Eighteen months and a clear path to the goal.

Samuel’s eyes drill into the back of Wilkins’ brown skull. It seems to be suspended in midair, like a perfectly set volleyball just waiting to be spiked. Samuel steps forward smoothly, confidently, and raises the wrench over his head.

But his tennis shoe makes the slightest squeak.

And Wilkins turns. He raises his hand, but Samuel twists his body, his legs push, his shoulders torque. All the weightlifting, all the working out, he puts it all into that one big swing.

The wrench whistles through the air. It drives through Wilkins’ arm, knocking it down and then sinks into Wilkins’ head. The petty officer drops to his knees, and his arms go around Samuel’s waist. Samuel drops the wrench and drags Wilkins quickly, before the blood pouring down Wilkins’ face can get on the floor, placing him beneath the big bomb hanging from the chain.

It’s a big one, called a Fatboy.

Samuel goes to where the chain is pegged to the wall. He disengages the pulley and throws the latch wide open. The bomb drops to the floor, squashing Wilkins’ head like an overripe melon. Samuel puts the wrench on the table and takes a quick look at Wilkins.

Perfect.

•

Samuel is pumping iron. Hefting fifty-five-pound dumbbells with ease. The adrenaline is pouring through his body. The weights feel like feathers. He is watching the exercise bikes. He’s waiting for the perfect opportunity. At last, the woman he’d seen when he first came in climbs off her bike. As soon as she steps off and is a few steps away, Samuel drops the dumbbells and climbs on the bike. Samuel knows that the exercise bikes have a five-second pause—if you stop pedaling, it will keep your clock running, unless you cancel the program. He’s depending on this handy feature.

This program is still running.

Samuel hops on and starts pumping. The clock continues from where the girl who just finished riding left off. Samuel pushes himself hard, gets the sweat pouring from his face, and he’s riding like he’s never going to stop. He looks at the digital readout: it shows he’s been on the bike for fifty-four minutes.

Perfect.

Samuel pushes harder, his legs flying. He works the controls, puts the resistance as high as it goes, and pushes, his legs never slowing down. Sweat cascades form his forehead, drenches his T-shirt.

Finally, the stern-faced girl with the black hair walks toward the TV and changes the channel.

Samuel forces a big grin on his face and waves her over.

She approaches.

Samuel points at the readout.

“My PR.”

She looks at him, a blank expression.

“Personal Record.” It isn’t. It isn’t even close. Pretty pathetic, in fact, if you look at the distance and calories burned. But she won’t notice.

“Uh-huh,” she said. Uncertainty in her voice.

“I’ve gone twenty-five miles in less than an hour. See?” He points to the readout but she’s already moving away. Not good enough. She has to see, and later if necessary, she must swear that she saw the clock read forty-five minutes.

“Look.” His voice is more cutting than he intended. But she stops. He waves her back and she comes. Leans over him and looks closely at the clock.

“That’s…great,” she says. “Really great.”

“It’s an important accomplishment for me,” he says. He hops off the bike and follows her to the desk.

A siren sounds not too far away.

She takes her seat behind the desk, and Samuel finds his name on the exercise bike sheet. He fills in the time.

Clearly. And legibly.

He sticks his hand out.

“What a great workout. My name’s Samuel, by the way.”

She shakes hands. “That’s why we’re here,” she says. “Great workouts.”

Samuel wipes his face with the towel.

“I feel great.”

With the aid of crutches and her latest installment of painkillers, Beth makes her way from the driveway to the house. It’s a cold, gray day with heavy mist in the air.

Beth looks at the house, a squat brick structure devoid of any charm. No flowers. No tidy shrubbery. Just brown grass and a cement porch with a black wrought iron gate.

Anna drove the rusted-out Pontiac Sunbird home from the hospital. The trip was nerve-wracking for Beth, not only because her mother is a terrible driver, but she is also drunk. Normally, she will do anything to avoid riding in a car with her mother, but her only hope, Peter, was nowhere to be found.

Her mother fumbles with the keys, and Beth takes them gently from her hand, unlocks the door, and steps inside. She looks at the keys in her hand. A cheap piece of plastic with the figures of black men dancing and the word Jamaica on it.

It’s a small house. Just an eat-in kitchen, a small living room, and a bedroom downstairs. One small bedroom upstairs.

The smell of dust combined with old food is nearly overpowering after the sterile atmosphere of the hospital.

“I’m going to my room,” Beth says.

“Do you need anything?” her mother asks. The words slurring to sound like: d’ya nee ’sing?

Beth doesn’t bother answering; instead, she walks up the stairs to her room with difficulty, a few awkward moments that send shafts of pain deep into her knee.

Beth bangs open the door to her bedroom, makes her way to the bed, and sits down. Her room hasn’t changed from the way she left it Friday night before the game. It’s neat. No clothes on the floor.

But it seems different.

A single bed with a white comforter with pink flowers on it, a worn throw rug, a dresser and night table. A small boom box on top of the dresser, a few CDs next to it. A reading lamp and a book on the night table. There’s a bookshelf with a few pictures of her teammates. One of her mom and dad. Another of her as a young girl with a ring of flowers around her head.

On the walls are pictures of basketball players. Nothing like the posters they sell at Nike shoe stores, though. These are action photos from
Sports Illustrated
. Gritty, real-life stuff. Beth closes her eyes to their images. She can see them in her mind’s eye. She’s looked at them for so long, they’re burned onto the hard drive of her dreams.

She wants to lie down and sleep, but she can’t.

It’s all gone, she thinks, looking at the athletes in the pictures. Basketball was her way out. A small school, she herself so small that only one school showed any real interest. And then her knee…gone, just like her chance of escaping.

What was it the doctor had said? They’re performing miracles in rehab now.
Miracles.
Fuck miracles. I need money
, she thinks.

Can she conceivably recover, go through rehab, get back into shape, and get a scholarship next year? Next season?

Maybe. But can she realistically wait around here for another year, while all her friends go off to college?

Tears come to her eyes.

She grabs for her crutches, knocks them to the floor, and struggles to pick them up. Her vision is blurred by the tears, but she gets a hold of the crutches and tucks them into her armpits, then lurches to her feet.

She hobbles to the wall of pictures. Slowly at first, then with gathering speed and intensity, she tears the photos from the wall, ripping them in half and into quarters, leaving them to drop on the floor.

When she’s done, she’s out of breath and the tears have stopped. The anger is gone, replaced by…nothing. She feels empty.

Empty, like her future.

She flops back onto her bed, her gaze drawn to the night table, to the small picture of her father. It’s one of him spinning a basketball on his fingertip, a goofy grin on his face. She stares at it for a long time. It’s her favorite picture of him.

“I really fucked this one up, didn’t I, Dad?”

Beth hears a small gasp from the doorway.

Her mother is watching.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Beth says. “That I might want a drink too?”