Chapter 1

Pasco County, Florida

Mack Turner and E.J. Lonetree downshifted, signaled, and eased their bikes off the coastal two-lane into a crushed-shell parking lot. The sounds of Florida rushed in to fill the void the now-silent engines created. 

The buzzing cry of cicadas singing for a mate, their incessant whee-ah, whee-ah, created the background soundtrack while pileated woodpeckers, blue jays, and Carolina wrens competed to see which could make the most noise.

Thomas Macaulay ‘Mack’ Turner removed his helmet, balancing it on the tank. He briefly rubbed the scar on his face, which itched like crazy, but he supposed that was part of the healing. He took a moment while straddling the restored ’69 Norton Commando. Resting his forearms on the handlebars, he turned his face to the sun and inhaled.

A fresh breeze soughed through the boughs of the live oaks, bringing with it the myriad smells typical of late summers in the sunshine state. The humid air was redolent with the earthy scent of freshly turned soil prepared for fall planting, and the mouthwatering fragrance of Frank’s fresh grouper cooking on the open grill on the back porch of the rustic eatery filled the air.

Mack smiled and stretched his six-foot frame. “Ahhh, now that’s worth stopping for.” He pointed toward the small restaurant and got off his motorcycle. “The best grouper sandwich around, and I’m buying.”

“Sounds good to me.” E.J. Lonetree climbed off his ’93 Harley Fat-Boy and placed his helmet on the seat.

Mack clapped his teammate on the shoulder. “Come on, the proprietor is someone I want you to meet.”

The single-story building sat back from the road, nestled in the shade of three live oaks. A rusty corrugated metal roof dripping with Spanish moss protected the three-room establishment. Faded whitewashed clapboard siding added to its country charm.

Mack led the way up the wooden steps, past porch rockers and pickle barrels topped with checkerboards. He stopped and held open one of the batwing doors, allowing E.J. to enter first. 

The interior décor was typical coastal Florida, heavy on the fishing theme, with crab traps and marker buoys hanging from the ceiling rafters. Several trophy-sized fishes mounted on the walls stared at the patrons. Photographs of the man who caught them accompanied each one. That man was Frank McKiernan, a retired U.S. Navy commander, Master Explosive Ordnance Disposal technician, and, most recently, restauranteur.

Mack hailed his old navy buddy who stood behind the bar, an oyster knife in his hand. “Hey, Frank.”

Frank, a solidly built man in his mid-fifties with a full head of gray hair, still cut to military specs, and a perpetual tan that would be the envy of George Hamilton, glanced up as they approached. His short, crooked nose and rugged, square jaw emphasized his drill instructor appearance. 

Frank finished shucking a dozen raw oysters, slid the platter of sliders to the three University of Florida frat boys sitting at the end of the bar, and turned to face Mack and E.J.

“Hey, shipmate,” Frank said before offering his right hand. 

Mack looked at Frank’s soiled shucking glove with distaste and lifted his right forearm instead. 

The two men bumped forearms, and Frank nodded toward two barstools.

“Have a seat. The usual?” Frank wiped the dripping oyster knife on his apron.

“As long as the Friday Special is still grouper sandwiches and Corona,” Mack said and took his usual seat at the bar.

Frank nodded. “With lime, right?” 

Mack gave a wink. “Times two.”

“And your friend?” Frank indicated E.J. with the oyster knife.

“Funny,” Mack said. 

Frank pointed at Mack’s face and grimaced. “That’s new. Hope you got a good story to go with it?”

Mack traced the pink line of healing flesh that began at his right temple, missed his eye—a miracle—and faded at his jawline. “Operational mishap. Got slapped when a wire rope parted while trying to save some dumb Canuck up in the Great White North.”

“Well, all you need is an eye patch and you’d be a ringer for Sergeant Fury.”

Mack put his hand over his right eye. “Wrong side, but I’ll keep it in mind for Halloween.” He clapped E.J. on the shoulder shoulder. “Frank, I’d like to introduce you to a good friend of mine—”

“Lieutenant E.J. Lonetree,” Frank said. “If I’m not mistaken.” He slipped the glove off and offered his clean right hand to E.J., who shook it firmly.

“That’s right,” E.J. affirmed.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” Frank said. He covered E.J.’s hand with his left, then withdrew. He replaced the glove and said, “Anyone ever tell you, you resemble—”

“Sonny Landham?” E.J. shook his head. “Yeah, I get that a lot. But I’m Shoshone, Sonny’s Cherokee & Seminole.”

Frank shrugged. “Well, be that as it may, I heard good things about you from a mutual friend.”

“Who would that be?” he asked.

“Master Chief Vic Chalmers.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” E.J. said with a laugh. “How is that old seadog?”

“Ole Ass-Chapper? He’s doin’ all right, I guess. He’s not as happy now though, as he was when he was still an operator. I know he felt bad about how the Navy treated you. If it’s any consolation, I feel the same.”

Frank stuck his hand into a cooler, withdrawing two dripping bottles of the requested cerveza, opened them, and sat them in front of Mack and E.J. 

“Where did he wind up?”

“Oh, he stayed up in the Chesapeake Bay area. Had to be close to the action, even if he couldn’t be a part of it any longer.”

“I miss the old guy. I should try to get back up there to see him someday soon.”

“Take some time off,” Mack said. “It’s not very busy right now. We’ve settled in, and it’s just routine maintenance and the like. If we get a call, I’ll notify you.”

“Maybe I will.”

Frank said, “Chalmers told me you guys formed a team of your own. He said you saw some action in the Big Apple a while back.”

Mack nodded. “Trouble started in Scotland, passed through New York City, and finished in Richmond.”

“He didn’t go into details—OPSEC, he said, which I understand. Anything worth sharing?”

Mack shared a glance at E.J., who shrugged. “It’s old business now. I suppose it’s all right.”

“Then start at the beginning,” Frank said.

So, Mack told of how, while deployed during Desert Storm two years earlier, he met E.J. and his SEAL platoon. Their orders were to rescue civilians being held hostage by the Iraqis at an oil refinery on Ras al Faylakah—a small island near the Iraqi / Kuwaiti border. Mack went along to assist with any booby traps they might encounter, which they did.

The hostages turned out to be employed by the Carstairs Environmental Technologies (CET) Corporation. It had the maintenance contract for the refinery and the employees were there in a support capacity. The situation changed when Operation Desert Shield started. The invading Iraqi troops killed the Kuwaiti workers and held the CET employees captive.

After the successful rescue, one hostage—Theresa Sullivan—impressed with Mack’s handling of the explosive situation, shared that CET was searching for a team leader to head up a newly conceived Global Emergency Response Team. 

“GERT?” Frank snickered.

Mack shook his head. “Nah, we shitcanned that name right outta the gate. We call ourselves the GREEN Team.”

Frank raised one eyebrow.

“Global Response to Emergency Environmental Need.”

Frank nodded. “Oh, that’s much better. I like it.”

“Anyway, on the strength of Ms. Sullivan’s recommendation, the corporation’s owner, Mr. Carstairs, chose me as the team leader,” Mack said. “And shortly after, I recruited E.J.” 

He shared how the fledgling team had their mettle tested early on when a madman from Mack’s past tried to kill him, his family, and the rest of the team at the corporate headquarters of CET in Richmond, Virginia. 

“Hazslip? That asshat?” Frank said.

“The same,” Mack said. “Fortunately, E.J.’s friends came to help.” Mack looked at E.J. “Chalmers and the others really pulled my fat out of the fire that day.”

He said to Frank, “Did I tell you what E.J. did down in South America earlier this year?”

“Mack,” E.J. stopped him. “Don’t.”

“I was just going to mention that you rescued your teammates from certain death.”

“That’s old news. I’ve moved on.” He jammed the lime through the neck of the bottle.

“It’s okay, E.J.,” Frank said. “I understand.”

“Yeah, all right,” Mack said. “Let the past stay in the past.”

E.J. smiled and lifted his beer. “To the Navy; there ain’t no better job.”

“Hoo yah,” Frank intoned.

“That goes double for me,” said Mack. “Although, our new jobs come pretty close.”

“I’ll concede your point,” E.J. said and drained his beer. He set the bottle on the bar and seemed to stare at nothing for a moment. “You know, I think I will take a trip to Little Creek.”

“That was your last duty station, before the ugly happened?” Frank asked.

“It was. I’ve still got friends there.”

“You should go. You’ve earned it,” Mack said.

Their food came, and they had ice water to wash it down. The ex-naval officers knew how to party when the time was right, but one beer was the agreed-upon limit whenever they rode.

Mack watched E.J. pick at the fries on his plate and appear to observe the customers. “Are you always on alert?”

“What’s that?” E.J. said, looking at Mack.

“You’re scoping things out, aren’t you?”

E.J. grinned. “Habit, I guess. I’m always conducting threat assessments, evaluating egress routes, and potential weapon locations.”

“Well, you can relax here,” Mack said. “Frank’s place has never been a target. No one would dare.”

“Are you a bona fide badass, Frank?” E.J. asked good-naturedly.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Frank said.

“Show him your parlor trick,” Mack said.

“Nah, I’m too old for that.”

“Who you kiddin’?” said Mack.

“Fine,” Frank said. He pointed a thick index finger at Mack. “But you’re paying for it.”

Mack slapped a Lincoln on the bar.

Frank pulled a beer from under the bar and set it on the counter. “Been a while,” he said, gripping the can with one large hand.

Frank squeezed the can. Mack noticed the man’s forearm muscles bulge, knew what was coming, and leaned back.

The pop-top ruptured, spraying a geyser of warm beer. Frank released the crushed can and stepped back, wiping his hands on his apron.

The three Gators at the end of the bar applauded and whistled their approval.

“Never seen that done before,” said E.J. “Nice grip.”

Frank wiped up the spilled beer with a bar towel. “Raised on a dairy farm. You squeeze enough cow teats and, well…” he shrugged.

Mack laid a hand on E.J.’s shoulder. “Did I ever tell you about the time Frank here was on the Mine Countermeasures Readiness Inspection team with a certain diminutive Master Chief?”

Frank had moved away to serve another patron at the bar but cocked his head in their direction. “If you go where I think you’re going, I’ll charge you double for the meal.”

Mack continued. “Well, during some rare downtime, the Master Chief was entertaining a lady-of-the-evening in their hotel room while Frank here was out. Hey, Frank,” Mack called. “Where were you on that fateful evening?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mack. And it’s gonna cost ya triple.”

“Well, as I was saying, the Master Chief was ‘entertaining’ this working girl, and after concluding their business, him being a gentleman and all, invited the girl to use a toothbrush to freshen up before she left. Only thing was, he let her use Frank’s toothbrush.”

“No. You’re shittin’ me,” E.J. said, glancing at Frank.

“Oh, he’s serious enough,” Frank chimed in, moving back to face them. “The bastard told me about it while I brushed my teeth. I was spitting toothpaste and chasing him around the hotel room while he laughed so hard that tears were squirting out his eyes.”

“That’s disgusting.” E.J. took a tentative bite of his sandwich.

“I planned and orchestrated my revenge later. Afterward, I told Master Chief that we were even concerning the toothbrush issue and that what happened would remain between us.”

“But you’re telling us now,” E.J. noted.

“Well, the little prick couldn’t control his urges. He tried to get me again a few years later with another practical joke. When he did, I produced a photograph of him in an uncompromising position with a ladyboy on Bugis Street in Singapore. That was the last practical joke he ever pulled on me or anyone else.”

E.J. shook his head in disbelief. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Frank just smiled and refilled E.J.’s water glass. “That was a lifetime ago. I’ve mellowed a bit in my retirement.”

Over the next hour, the three men discussed many subjects and shared memories of their military days. 

Upon returning from a head call, E.J. asked Frank about the Wall of Honor he passed on his way.

Frank wiped his hands on a towel, draped it over the edge of the sink, and turned shucking duty over to the redheaded co-ed working the bar.

“See anybody you know?” Frank asked as he emerged from behind the bar.

E.J. shook his head. “Before my time. Besides, it looks like mostly EOD guys. Didn’t see any frogs.”

“C’mon,” Frank said. “Let me introduce you.”

E.J. and Mack stood beneath recessed lighting that shone on the wall as Frank reminisced about battles fought, friends lost, and memories forged. Framed photographs and unit plaques filled the wall. As Frank tapped each one, he briefly described the circumstances of the photo.

Some were of a much younger Frank during his enlisted days—before receiving his commission. In one, his arm was around the shoulder of another sailor, both smiling and unquestionably drunk, leaning against one another in front of the Bamboo Grove—a popular EOD bar in Olongapo City, Philippines. 

“Hey, I’ve been there,” E.J. said, touching the photo. “Crazy place.”

“Oh, yeah.” Frank pressed his hands to the sides of his head. “I still get headaches from the memories of too many San Miguel beers.”

 One photo was of armed men in fatigues, floppy hats, and green faces, and Frank laid a hand against it reverently. “Vietnam, 1968.”

“Tet?” asked E.J.

Frank nodded. “Mini-Tet, actually. May of ’68. Command deployed our team to clear a minefield so our boys could advance. Lost two close friends over those damnable bloody days.”

They moved along the wall where more recent photos showed Mobile Unit Detachments from both coasts and Hawaii and operations worldwide. 

The last section highlighted Frank’s retirement. A framed photo showed him in his dress uniform adorned with a chest full of medals, his gold master blaster badge, and jump wings. A folded American flag bracketed the picture on one side. The shadowbox on the other side held several snapshots chronicling a thirty-year career. 

“Impressive,” said E.J.

“Just fortunate to have served with so many heroes.” Frank saluted the wall and headed back to the bar.

E.J. and Mack followed. 

Mack pointed at the brass ship’s clock on the wall. “We gotta be going.”

E.J. offered his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Frank. I hope we can do this again soon.”

“Anytime, pal.” Frank took E.J.’s hand in a firm grip and smiled. “Be careful out there.”

“Always,” Mack assured him, laying down a twenty to cover the bill.

“Put that away, shipmate,” Frank ordered. “This was on the house.”

“That’s not necessary,” Mack insisted.

“Don’t insult me,” Frank said, his brows knitted, eyes narrowed. Then, a beaming smile replaced the frown, and he said, “Next time, you can pay and buy me a beer.”

“All right,” Mack picked up the twenty. “Thanks again. We’ll be back.”

Frank saluted his two friends with a wave and then returned to business at the bar.

As Mack and E.J. walked toward the doors, a new song started on the sound system. They both smiled as the strains of Aerosmith’s Dude (Looks Like a Lady) filled the rustic shack. 

“Let’s ride,” Mack said.