“Fine.” He couldn’t say more since they were about to enter the locker room area where they’d get changed for the run.
“This will be your locker.” The senior chief gestured at one without a lock on it. He was a few years older than Dustin—probably mid-to-late thirties with a big barrel chest and ruddy red cheeks. “Used to be Tomlin’s. A first-rate SEAL and a hell of an explosives technician. Don’t mind telling you, you’ve got big shoes to fill.”
Great. For the millionth time, Wes wanted to know why in the hell he was here, filling the hole this Tomlin had left. He’d been...well, happy wasn’t entirely accurate, but settled at Little Creek after almost five years there. He’d been out west here for BUD/S training and hated it. Hated the dry weather. Hated the tan people and the particular shade of sunlight out here. He knew the East Coast, liked it better, and needed to be near his family. He’d been damn relieved to get orders to the team at Little Creek after his SEAL training was complete. The possibility of a transfer hadn’t even been on his radar, even though maybe it should have been.
But the navy said jump, and he said how high, and that was just the way of it. The brass hadn’t given him a choice about the transfer, nor the speed at which they’d pushed it through. They’d said that this team needed someone like him, while his old team had a younger guy coming up who was also good with explosives. Not quite to Wes’s level, but few were, and his teammate was still damned good. But why couldn’t the navy have sent him to California? Why did it have to be Wes?
The same questions that had batted around his brain for weeks made it hard to focus as the senior chief made the introductions. Most of the sixteen-member team were enlisted men like Wes, then the LT and the XO as officers along with a young ensign whose name Wes promptly forgot. Like at Little Creek, this platoon was part of a larger team made of many platoons with a complicated command structure, but most of his day-to-day work would be with these sixteen men, like it or not.
So, he tried to be friendly even if he felt like dog crap—he hadn’t slept well at all on the plane, wanted his old team back, hated making small talk, and didn’t like how reverently everyone talked about this Tomlin whom he was replacing.
“You’ll be right down the hall from me in the barracks,” said a burly guy who everyone seemed to call Curly but whose real name was Carl or Kurt or something like that. “I’ll keep a lookout for you at the chow hall, okay?”
Wes nodded, hoping he seemed encouraging enough even if the faces were starting to blur together.
“And you let me know if I can help out with anything until your stuff arrives. I’ve got an Xbox and things that you’re welcome to come use.”
“Thanks.” The bulk of Wes’s belongings were being shipped by the navy’s moving company and would arrive sometime in the next few weeks. He’d stored some stuff with his parents too, not that he had a ton of crap to start with. Barracks rooms were small, but thank God they were singles and he wouldn’t be sharing, and he wasn’t a guy who needed a lot of possessions. Hell, he didn’t even have a car at the moment—that too was being shipped by the navy.
“Have you eaten?” The senior chief looked him over with a critical eye, like he was already expecting Wes to fail at the run.
“On the plane, sir.” Wes knew better than to lie, but he added. “I’ll be fine.”
“Here.” He stuck a protein bar in Wes’s hand. “Curly? You make sure Lowe here has extra portions after we’re done, and you get him and his stuff into the barracks.” To Wes he added, “No heroics, kid. Just run, but you don’t gotta impress anyone.”
Ha. Wes knew they were all sizing him up against this mythical Tomlin, waiting for him to fall short. They set out on the run along the Coronado beach—heavy boots pounding the sand, passing other teams as they went. Slowly, Wes let his shock at seeing Dustin wear off, let the run chase away some of his anger. Fuck, what would he even say to Dustin when they talked later? How were they supposed to deal?
He’d missed Dustin something awful since DC, and while he hadn’t had a ton of time to chat, he’d been working up to telling him that he was going to be on the same coast as him now...and wasn’t that plan all shot to hell now? Fucking lieutenant. Fucking lying lieutenant. And okay, maybe his anger wasn’t quite gone. He kicked it up another notch, moving ahead to the middle of the pack. Forget food. He was fueled by all the regrets in the world, the SNAFU that was his life currently, and the bitter reality that nothing was as he thought.