Page 1 of A Moment Never Forgotten
Chapter One
A cold December gust slapped Navy Captain Micah Reid across the face as he followed the Caisson Platoon through Arlington National Cemetery. The hard metallic klomp of steel shoes on the black horses pulling the highly polished carriage with the flag-draped casket through the arch of leafless gray trees under a sky of bruised clouds epitomized the day.
The somber processional followed Petty Officer First Class Mark Schaefer to his final resting place.
The Navy had lost a good man.
The SEALs had lost a good man.
Micah had lost a good man on one of his many teams. As Commanding Officer of Naval Special Warfare Group Two, he oversaw more than seven thousand active duty and civilian men and women. He usually didn’t attend funerals unless they were for an officer or very senior enlisted in his chain of command.
Schaefer was an exception.
Micah had been in the Operations Center at the United States Special Operations Command Operational Center when “Ram”, the squad’s point man and breacher, had been killed. The small team had been ambushed. What was supposed to have been a clean meet-and-greet with a local asset had turned into a clusterfuck. The twenty-six-year-old, on the fast track through promotions, had entered the supposedly empty home designated by the CIA contact. Seconds later the building exploded.
Watching the op live via satellite brought back too many memories of Micah’s only failed mission. Eleven years ago, his coed joint task force team had been ordered to blow up a munitions dump in Syria. A charge had detonated early before his friend, Mason Sinclair, could get out. Army Special Forces had lost a good man that night. His teammate, and good friend, Elizabeth, had lost her new husband.
Thoughts of her, now pregnant and married to the director of the CIA’s covert Special Operations Group, reminded him that he was to have supper with her and Matthew Saint Clare in a few hours. He was going to need a stiff drink after this funeral.
Micah’s mind wandered to the similarities between the death of Mark Schaefer and his friend Mason. Both had been killed because of bad CIA intelligence. Both had been blown to smithereens in what should have been a simple operation. Both had been in SpecOps for years and knew the dangers.
Not for the first time, Micah wondered how he had been so lucky as to have survived over two dozen missions and to have lived such a dangerous life for forty-four years. Even as a child, he’d been a bit of a daredevil.
He hadn’t been nearly so lucky in love, whatever the hell that really was. He certainly didn’t know. He’d never been in love. Lust. Oh, yeah. At least a hundred times a year. Even more when he was younger. As a hotshot SEAL when he’d pinned on that single silver bar for lieutenant junior grade, he thought his dick ought to be bronzed for all the women he’d fucked.
He’d been making up for the four years at the United States Naval Academy where he’d concentrated more on his studies and physical fitness rather than his female classmates. There were a few girls, but none lasted beyond the second date. He didn’t have time for their silly notions of a relationship. He had a silent goal and knew that his brain and body had to be in top shape at graduation.
During his plebe summer, when asked which military occupational specialty he hoped for, he had proudly announced he wanted to become a SEAL. Big mistake. Everyone had ridden his ass that entire hot humid summer.
He had learned a valuable lesson, though, that would follow him the rest of his naval career…keep your mouth shut. Over the next four years, he never told another single person that he desired to become a SEAL. No. He wasgoingto become a SEAL. His roommates had no idea. Neither did the three women he had dated during those days. No one knew until Service Selection Day near the end of his senior year when it was announced that he got his first choice, SEAL.
Graduation week Micah had stood in front of the altar of the famous Naval Academy Chapel as best man while both his roommates saidI do, then as a groomsman for a dozen other friends who tied the knot. Willing bridesmaids had warmed his bed every night until he left for Coronado, California where he discovered base bunnies loved fucking SEALs.
He never had a long-term girlfriend. Over the years, a few women had moved in with him, always her idea, never at his request. Coming home to a hot meal and a hot woman was wonderful, but he’d come to the realization about ten years ago that he truly wasn’t comfortable around women. He never knew what to talk about with them, or what to do when he had that rare day off. Most of the women who followed him home didn’t share his interests. He loved history and read nonfiction constantly. They leafed through fashion magazines and celebrity rags.
Everything was fine as long as they were in bed. He would make sure she was satisfied before he took his own pleasure. The problem was when the woman was living in his apartment, or his house, he couldn’t tell her it was time for her to go. He certainly wasn’t going to leave. It was his home.
Several got upset when he left them sleeping and went into the living room to watch a ballgame or just read the latest historical biography. None of them ever understood that he needed space, quiet time alone, away from her unspoken demands for attention. And why was he a magnet for the clingy ones?
In retrospect, he was thankful they seldom lasted long. That was probably his fault. When he was sent out on a mission, he rarely remembered to call his female roommate-with-benefits and let her know he was leaving. He could never tell her where he was going or how long he would be gone. Operational security was sacred. He was all about the mission, always. He had to be. Lives depended on him.
But there was no way he could have saved either Mason Sinclair or Petty Officer First Class Mark Schaefer.
The caisson came to a stop at the orders of the platoon leader. The pallbearers lined each side and through the solemn ceremony that Micah had seen far too many times, Schaefer’s fellow SEALs slid the casket off the carriage. He knew those men were cold. They had opted not to wear the all-weather coat over the Navy blue crackerjack uniform so they would have easier access to their Trident.
Every SEAL attending the ceremony converged in two straight lines from the caisson to the gravesite. Micah stepped in last alongside Commander Evan Hubbard, Commanding Officer of Team Two, and across from Lieutenant Knox, Schaefer’s Platoon Officer in Charge. By the look on the young officer’s face, he’d been close to Schaefer. Unfortunately, Micah was very familiar with the younger man’s gut-wrenching pain.
The pallbearers stepped slowly through the sentinel of SEALs. Each pulled off his precious Trident pin and pressed it into the lid of the coffin before offering Petty Officer Schaefer a personal salute. Although Micah’s was the last in the line of shiny gold pins, the pallbearers would add theirs after folding of the flag, just before it was presented to his wife along with the bullet casings from the twenty-one-gun salute.
“The Schaefer family would like to thank all of you for attending,” the minister announced as soon as the benediction prayer was completed. “The family will have a private gathering at their home later this evening. May God be with you all and keep you safe.”
The chorus of “amen” was swept away on the frigid breeze.
Micah’s feet were chilly. He hated the shiny corfam shoes that were part of his dress blue uniform. Cold emanated from the earth and seeped through the leather soles and thin patent leather uppers. He was more a boots-on-the-ground comfortable camouflage officer than spit and polished office dweeb.
“Sir, are you staying in D.C. for the night or heading back to Virginia Beach?” Commander Evan Hubbard asked him in a low tone as they walked through the neatly trimmed grass back toward the paved road.
“I’m staying up here for the weekend with old friends.” He grimaced. “I’m taking a few days for house-hunting.”
