SAFE HAVENS: Shadow Masters (A Sean Havens Black Ops Novel Book 1) (20 page)

“What if they make me bleed?”

“Then you didn’t hit them hard enough and you probably deserved it. But never ever let them see you cry.”

“Will you be mad? The principal may get mad if you aren’t mad at me.”

“Good. I’ll make him bleed.”

Sean smiled. “Thanks, Dad.”

His dad kept the paper raised. “Why don’t you go see what Kent is doing?”

Fights ensued for a few months. Sean’s dad was right. The fights came, the blood flowed, and in short time few would pick on Sean Havens. The students still didn’t like Kent, but they allowed him to hang out. It was better than a bloodied nose.

Backyard wars continued after school, on weekends, and throughout the summers for Kent and Sean. Innocent neighborhood games like kick the can and ghost in the graveyard became opportunities for Sean and Kent to demonstrate their unconventional skills to the local indigenous forces.

By age thirteen they had hidden homemade sniper ghillie suits in the bushes that they would don to free jailed neighbors, then run back to their safe haven in the camouflaged attire. Stealth, freedom of movement, decisive action, and Hi-C was their formula for success.

Parents started to caution young kids against playing the neighborhood games after a kick the can incident when Kent and Sean covered their movement by lighting a homemade smoke bomb made of cooked potassium nitrate and sugar made in the Havenses’ kitchen. The smoke bomb had been cooked in an old pot that Sean’s mom had given them. They made three pounds that was laced with a waterproof waxed rocket fuse from the hobby shop. The smoke had filled an entire cul-de-sac and fire engines were called. When the smoke cleared, the kid who was “it” had been renditioned by Sean and Kent and tied up by the can. A fire truck had braked just in time.

Sean and Kent escaped to their forward operating base under a neighbor’s canoe. Their SERE training failed them as their adversary parents beckoned them home with the false flag of dinner. The boys were each confined to their bedrooms over the weekend. Escape was not an option. Kent broke before dinner was over. Sean’s mom, the unwitting accomplice who provided initial support and enablement to weapon’s manufacturing in her kitchen, broke the grasp of the boy’s hearts and minds campaign. They suffered the hard labor of making Christmas cookies with her—until she found a pan of dough shaped into AK’s, triangle straw Vietnamese hats, and Claymore mines. Mr. Havens destroyed them over a tall glass of whole milk.

Sean’s life changing moment came three years later on Kent’s sixteenth birthday. Sean, still his only friend, was invited over for a small party. Sean’s parents had been told that this could be an emotional day for Kent due to a family present that they had to give their son, and they were hoping he could have a friend over.

After hot dogs, cake, and the start of a Rambo movie, Kent’s mom and dad came downstairs to the basement with a box. The TV was turned off and the box was opened. Kent’s mom started to cry.

“Kent, I have some news that I have to share with you. It could be upsetting, but I hope that you will understand that nothing changes. Your father and I still love you and your father will always love you.”

“What is it? What is in the box?”

“Your biological father’s name was Robert Laughlin. He was an officer in the United States Army Special Forces. He was killed in Vietnam due to a series of what they called intelligence failures, but his actions led to him saving his entire team. He was a hero.”

Sean’s jaw dropped as Kent’s mom lifted the triangular folded flag from the box and set it on the long coffee table. She reached back into the box and pulled out a purple heart, a bronze star, a bronze statuette of a Green Beret soldier, and Robert Laughlin’s green beret, laying them on the table for Kent to take in.

Wow, Fifth group.
Sean recognized the flash on the beret.
Daaamn.

Kent looked up from the memorial display on the table. “I don’t understand, why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Kent, your father, well your father Jack, and I thought it would be best if you were old enough to understand a little better.”

“I can’t believe you hid this from me and that you are not even my dad.”

“I SURE THE HELL AM YOUR DAD YOU UNGRATEFUL…YOUR DAD LEFT YOUR MOM TO RUN AROUND THE FUCKING JUNGLE AND GOT HIMSELF KILLED!”

“JACK! Language for God’s sake! We discussed this!”

Kent stormed off upstairs as he started to melt down. His mom trailing behind.

“Shit.” Jack kicked at the air.

Jack, a hippie in the ‘60s and ‘70s who still played his share of Moody Blues and the Grateful Dead, picked up the statuette and read the inscription.

“Nice job, LT Laughlin, KIA 20 March 1968 SVN 5th SFG B-52, whatever the hell that all means.”

Sean, still sitting in a chair ten feet away, was stunned.

Jack picked up the beret and put it on his head. With his beard and glasses, he looked more like a French artist. He pulled up his hands and fingers as if he were holding a machine gun that he fired in automatic mouth bursts at Sean.

“Take it off,” Sean said.

“What? Why you want it?”

Jack took off the hat and frisbee’d it over Sean’s head into the wall where it fell behind the TV. Sean looked at Jack in horror. Emotions were building. He felt like he could cry. Sean got up and walked to the TV where he wedged his body and stretched his arm as far as he could to grab the green beret.

“Leave it, Sean!”

Sean ignored Jack and continued to stretch. He retrieved it by willing his body to conform to the tight space, lengthening his digits by sheer heart. Sean tried to pull off the dust bunnies and lint that had adhered to the fabric behind the television stand. He couldn’t get it off. He rubbed and the dust and cobwebs only seemed to go into the green felt fabric more. Sean couldn’t hold back the tears, the frustration, and the hurt. He was panicking. The beret symbolized everything he wanted to be. To this point he had only dreamed of what it would be like to hold a real green beret.

“How could you?” Sean questioned Jack in utter contempt and ran towards the door with the beret. Jack picked up the Purple Heart award still encased in the jewel box and hurled it at Sean’s back.

Sean continued to the door but Jack had caught up while Sean fumbled with the lock latch. Jack grabbed Sean’s right arm pulling it away from the top chain.

Sean spun.

With a left open palm heel strike Sean connected with the lower part of Jack’s nose and upper lip. The surprise and pain caused Jack to release the grip and in no time Sean was running home clutching the beret to his chest with both arms.

Sean’s father had just come home and nearly collided in the entryway of their house with his bawling son.

“What’s gotten into you? Stop crying. SEAN! What’s wrong?”

Through sobs and heavy breathing, Sean managed to gasp and form words between breaths conveying to his father what happened. His mother came out of a room to see what was going on.

“I have it under control, hon. Go back to whatever you were doing.”

“Sean, come with me.”

Sean followed his dad into the laundry room where his father pulled out a clean white hand towel that had been recently folded, ready to be put away in the off-limits guest bathroom. Sean’s dad dabbed some water on the towel and gently stroked off the debris. Moments later the green beret was clean. Sean’s dad folded the towel so only the dry end was exposed and he continued to brush Robert Laughlin’s beret so all water droplets were off. He admired his work and showed it to his son for final approval.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“We’re not done yet. How’s your wrist?”

“Red. Sore.”

“Get in the car.”

Though only houses away they drove to Kent’s and went up to the front door. Sean’s dad knocked on the screen door frame and within seconds Jack, his wife, and Kent appeared. Kent’s mom had her arm around her son. Both of their eyes were red and swollen from crying. Jack had a fat lip. Dried blood was visible in his nostrils.

Jack was still furious and immediately went on the offensive.

“Don, your son just stole my boy’s hat and nearly ripped the screen door right out of the frame. I tried to stop him and he took a punch at me. This is unacceptable, and I am afraid he is no longer welcome here.”

Ignoring Jack, Don Havens, his own son also under his arm, said calmly, “Cheryl, Kent, while I know this is hardly timely, please accept my condolences for the passing of LT Laughlin in the line of duty.”

“Don, you don’t have to…”

“Please, Cheryl, we had no idea. I’m merely here because Sean was concerned with your husband’s lack of reverence to this symbol of service and honor, which we have now restored to a more proper condition.”

“Thank you, Don, but…”

Don continued his little speech now back in a formal military voice, “Please accept my apologies for Sean’s heartfelt motive to flee and seek safe haven in our home. He only meant to rectify the situation. I’m sorry he wasn’t able to better communicate his intentions. We didn’t mean to add to this rather heavy day.”

Cheryl knew there was no stopping Don and appreciated the formal words that had seemed lacking when she first received the news of her late husband’s demise so many years ago.

With that, Don Havens opened the screen door and handed the folded green beret with its flash patch up to Kent. Don snapped back, heels together, and saluted Kent who was holding his late father’s beret like a ring bearer holding a silk pillow.

“Kent, you are still welcome in our home whenever you wish.” As Don turned to Jack his demeanor changed. “Jack, as a former serviceman myself, if your wife and boy were not standing here, I’d pound you to a pulp. You owe my boy an apology. Now.”

Don Havens wasn’t a big man, but he was a righteous man. At that moment in time, Don Havens represented himself as a father, the military service, and LT Laughlin KIA. Even Jack could not deny the force and power emanating from Don and Sean and offered them both the most sincere apology of his life.

“And Jack, you touch my boy again and I will rip your arms right from your body. Mark my words. Never question if I would.”

Sean and his father walked away while Jack closed the door in shame.

Sean wondered what Kent’s birth dad would have thought of the scene. Because he was killed in the line of duty, some asshole got to marry his widowed wife and raise his son. Would LT Laughlin have approved of how life moved on after his death? Sean concluded no. Sean decided then and there that someone needed to protect the men in Special Forces and he would be that person.

Chapter 26

S
ean went to the fridge and pulled out some more beers.

Lars had slowed his drinking. He really knew nothing of Sean’s childhood and now a lot was making sense about his brother-in-law’s personality and interests. He still needed the bottom line of his profession. Lars remained silent and looked around the room feigning boredom.

Sean knew what Lars wanted and continued.

Soon after the incident with Kent’s father, Sean heard about the Police Junior Rifle Team program. Having been a crack shot with a pellet gun he received the Christmas before, the .22 caliber match rifles felt natural.

Detective Doug Shiller, an ex-Marine sniper in Vietnam, was in charge of the police program and took Sean under his wing. Havens won every match he entered.

Shiller tried his hardest to recruit Havens towards a career in law enforcement, but understood Havens’ passion for special operations.

Havens shared with Lars a particular conversation he had with Doug that was yet another stepping stone to who he was today.

“Sean, special operations may seem glamorous, but I think you have something different to offer the world.”

Havens just shrugged. His father had said the same things. So did his beach-landing Iwo Jima uncle. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before, but it’s what I want to do.”

“Why? Do you like the guns, the adventure, the foreign lands, the idea of killing?”

“No. I want to help the other spec ops guys like Kent’s dad.”

“Why do you think you could help other team members better than someone else?”

“I think I may be smarter and more adaptable than some. I want to be Special Forces so I can speak a lot of languages and get good intel to make sure everyone is safe and we kill the right bad guys.”

“Hmmm. That’s pretty noble. And who do you think is going to give YOU the right intel so you can do your job?”

“I’ll get it.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Sean.”

“Well you did it, Doug, when you weren’t shooting guys.”

“Yeah, I did plenty of recon and close observation, but here is the thing. Sometimes we traveled in decent sized groups. My group was wiped out with the exception of me and a couple other guys.”

“So who was giving you the intel?”

“The Navy and another observation group.”

“And who wiped out your group?”

“The Navy and another observation group.”

“Huh?” Sean wondered if it was a conspiracy theory of the government whacking its black hit team. He knew Doug had done some dark stuff with the Marines.

“They fucked up, kid. That’s the thing about intel. Someone high enough up believes it is true, then it is. We got shelled from the ships at sea who were getting our position from another observation group, who in turn was cutting us down as soon as we tried to evac from our position.”

“Fratricide, right?”

“That’s a pretty polite way of saying it, but yeah.”

“Sean, the down and dirty in the weeds stuff can be fun but I would much rather have had a guy like you telling folks where to point the guns. It’s not always going to be fighting in jungles. And tanks are done. Someday it will be more about mixing with people and understanding them. We were starting to do that better in Vietnam. You could have done it well.”

“So what should I do?”

“If you want to help cops and catch crooks and killers, I’d rather see you with the Bureau. If you want to help soldiers and still see the world and speak your languages and eat nasty food in nasty places, be a spook.”