“What’s wrong with Cal?”
“Mommy issues.”
“What?”
“I can never quite make out what he’s saying. He mumbled something under his breath about his mother.”
Crocker found Cal sitting in the living room next to a bag filled with weapons. The components of an MP5 lay on loose newspaper on the floor—the carrier, bolt head rollers, blast bore, and chamber. As Crocker watched, Cal spread some Tetra Gun Action Blaster on the chamber and scrubbed it with a wire brush.
Without looking up he said, “Big mash-up last night, huh, boss?”
“Turned out that way, yeah.”
“Sorry I missed the fireworks.”
The SEAL sniper, who was never very communicative, looked lost in his own thoughts as he wiped down the bore, barrel, and trigger pack.
Crocker said, “Ritchie said you want to speak to me. You okay?”
Cal raised his head and looked toward the window, which was covered with dusty yellow curtains. Crocker noticed puffiness around his eyes.
Cal spoke in a whisper. “I think so.”
“That scorpion bite still bothering you? Sometimes the effects of the venom can linger for weeks.”
“It’s not that.”
“What, then?”
“My mom.”
“Your mother?”
“Weird, huh? I dreamt about her the other night. Today I find out she’s in a hospice, dying.”
Crocker was so tired he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Your mother’s dying, and you just found out?”
“Yeah. Stage three lung cancer.”
Crocker knew there was almost zero chance of recovering from that. “Cal, I’m so sorry.”
“Doctor says she only has a few days left.”
Crocker flashed back to his own mom, suffering from cancer and hooked to a respirator. “You speak to her?” he asked.
“Weird how things change. She’s always been the most energetic woman, running businesses, doing all kinds of things, always in a hurry. Never stopped, until now.”
Crocker had left his mom one afternoon when she wanted him to stay. She died the next day.
“Where’s your mother now?” he asked, feeling the guilt wanting to punish him again.
“San Mateo.”
“You’ve got to visit her, Cal. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
Cal looked down at the tile floor and nodded. “I guess I will. Soon as this mission is over.”
“We’re likely to be here a week at least. That might be too late. I don’t think you should risk it.”
“Yeah.”
Cal put a drop of oil on the locking piece, then reassembled the bolt head and carrier. The emotional side of him that was never much in evidence seemed completely shut down.
“Cal?” Crocker asked.
“Yeah.”
“Soon as I get my hands on a laptop that’s working, I’ll e-mail our CO. Tell him you’re taking emergency medical leave effective immediately. You should get ready to leave first thing in the morning. When you’re done in San Mateo, report back to Virginia Beach.”
Cal pointed at the weapons on the floor. “I’ll check and clean the rest of them tonight before I go.”
“We can do that, Cal.”
“Not as good as I can.”
“Okay, Cal. Then pack your gear.”
“Yes, sir.”
An important part of Crocker’s job was to look out for the emotional welfare of his men. As highly trained and disciplined as they were, they were human beings, not machines. They needed to be able to focus and think clearly.
He had learned from personal experience that family roots run deeper than some people realize. Early in his career Crocker had missed both his sisters’ weddings and his uncle’s funeral because he was working 24/7 with ST-6. He deeply regretted that now.
As Cal checked the reassembled mechanism, Crocker saw him stop to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. He placed a hand on Cal’s shoulder, then left him in peace.
Minutes later Crocker found Davis in the back bedroom, sitting on the edge of a double bed, flipping through the channels with the TV remote. The left side of his head and his left ear were covered with a white bandage.
“Akil said that you were back here beating off.”
Davis said, “Thirty-some channels, and all but one of them is in Arabic. The only one in English is BBC World News.”
“No Criminal Minds or CSI, huh?”
“No, nothing.”
“We’ll survive.”
“I’d rather read anyway.”
“How’s your head?”
“Hurts, but it seems to be working.”
Crocker held up the fingers of his right hand. “How many digits?”
“Seventeen.”