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He shifted slightly and piercing pain shot down his spine. Oh no. Not his back. The two parts of the human body prone to letting down special operators like him were the back and the knees.
He missed the next few platitudes the admiral uttered, something about hoping he got well soon. But then the old man said something that got his full attention. And fast.
“…afraid you’re done in the SEALs, Chief Vance.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This is your third hard landing. Doc tells me your back isn’t looking real good, and apparently you were complaining about it when the medics brought you in. After this incident, it’s unlikely your body’s going to let you return to an operational team.”
“I feel fine,” he lied.
“Doc injected some sort of painkillers around your spine. They tell me those will last a few weeks. But it’s not a permanent fix. According to the doc, you’ve got a couple disks that are completely shot.”
“Since when?”
“Since the Navy got a good MRI of your spine this morning.”
“Sonofabitch.”
“Did you know your back was on its last legs, son?” The admiral stared down at him awkwardly.
Gunner said bitterly, “We all have aches and pains. So what if my back gives me a little discomfort now and then? We all run on missions dinged up.”
The admiral shifted weight uncomfortably. “The doc said he didn’t know how you were walking.”
He snorted. “I’m a SEAL. Pain has no meaning for me.”
“Come now, Chief Vance. That’s a bit of an overstatement. All of you guys have your limits. And it appears you’ve reached yours. The doc was clear. Your back is done for. Your career as a SEAL is over.”
He stared at McCarthy until the man finally looked away.
“I’ll rehab it. Strengthen it—”
“Chief Vance. You don’t understand. I wasn’t offering you a choice. I was giving you an order. You’re finished as a SEAL.”
Goddamn, I’m dense.
“I’ve put in an order for you to get a desk job where you can finish out your twenty years and retire. I can keep you in the SEAL community, but not as an active team member.”
The paperwork had already been filed while he was knocked out. They knew he’d fight it tooth and nail, so the fuckers had gone behind his back.
He rolled onto his side at great cost, stoically bearing the pain of moving his body. But it was worth it to turn his back on the admiral, to silently let McCarthy know he didn’t appreciate being treated like some meathead grunt. He was a senior NCO, for fuck’s sake.
He listened bleakly to McCarthy’s footsteps retreating from his room.
Jesus. Now what?
He’d joined the Navy straight out of high school and gone into the SEALs as soon as he was eligible. He had never done anything else,beenanything else, in his life. And they wanted him to spend the next eight years driving a damned desk? Pushing paper? He wasn’t some damned admin weenie. He despised being cooped up inside. But he was also pushing thirty years old, a lethal special forces operator with an aging back. He had nowhere else to go. Nothing to do. No assignments to save the world. No wars to stop—or start.
He had nothing. He was… nothing.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling in shock. He passed through dismay to rage and from rage to tired, cynical acceptance. He was just passing through cynicism into the cold dread of having to face the real world—a world he’d never really lived in and had no idea how to live in—when his phone rang.
He was inclined to ignore it, but old habits died hard. It could be something important. He reached out painfully to the bedside table and picked it up, looking without interest at the caller ID…
Chasten Reed.
His childhood best friend and worst enemy.