Tom Grace: Spyder Web

‘Are you ready to swim some laps?’ Kelsey asked.

‘I can wait until practice is done.’

‘It’s not a problem, I can clear a lane for you.’

Kelsey walked over to the pool’s edge and waited in front of the far lane. As the first swimmer from the relay team approached, she blew the whistle that dangled from a yellow cord around her neck.

Startled, the girl’s head popped out of the water. ‘What’s up, coach?’

‘You guys are done for the day. Hit the showers.’ One by one, the swimmers stopped at the end of the pool.

‘Lisa,’ Kelsey called out as the bruised swimmer emerged from the water, ‘have the trainer take a look at your leg. Maybe he can loosen it up a little.’

‘Sure, Kelsey,’ the swimmer replied as she gingerly climbed the ladder. ‘Is this your new boyfriend?’

‘No,’ Kelsey replied, in a tone that said the matter was none of the girl’s business. The girl joined her teammates and a few giggles were heard as they entered the locker room.

‘What happened to your last boyfriend-what’s his name?’

‘Scott,’ Kelsey answered. ‘Scott and I broke up over a month ago.’

‘I thought you said he had real potential, that he might even be the one.’

‘There were glimmers of hope there. In the end, though, he was intimidated by me. For some reason, he felt that my accomplishments made him less of a man.’

‘Doesn’t sound like much of a man to start with.’

‘How about you? Any luck?’

‘Nope, my social life is just as barren as always. I’ve dated a lot of women, but there was no depth to them. I guess I’m looking for someone who is more than the sum of her fashion accessories.’

‘Well, quit moping and hit the water. I’ll join you in a few minutes.’

Nolan tossed his towel against the wall, where the floor was dry, adjusted his goggles, loosened up his arms, and dove in. The water was brisk, deliberately cool to keep the swimmers moving. His heart rate quickened as he pulled himself through the water, accelerating to match his muscles’ increased demand for oxygen.

He swam four miles every day, an effort more a mental exercise than a physical one. Then again, so much of Kilkenny’s life over the past six years had been that way. As a Navy SEAL, his life was designed to be that way.

This was Kilkenny’s eighth day home, his eighth day as a civilian. ‘Technically a civilian,’ his captain had cautioned. Kilkenny had returned to Ann Arbor on a compassionate leave to help care for his ailing mother. ‘Technically a civilian’ meant that he could still be called back to duty should a crisis arise. Thankfully, the world looked calm on this November day in Ann Arbor.

He counted off the distance in his mind, tuning out the world beyond. The rhythm of his stroke and the surging of the water around his body had an almost hypnotic effect, allowing him to enter a calm, meditative state. Kilkenny found that he did his best thinking while swimming long distances, and today he had a lot on his mind.

Death had always been an abstraction for him-something he had understood intellectually but not emotionally. Prior to his mother’s death from cancer, he’d never lost anyone so close as to feel the hurt of death, to understand its meaning. Until he became a SEAL, he’d never known how it felt to be the cause of death.

Kilkenny’s entire tour of duty with the navy had been spent training and working with the SEALs. In their company, he had mastered the skills necessary to achieve military objectives, skills that would keep himself and his squad alive behind enemy lines, skills that included killing.

The medals and ribbons on Kilkenny’s dress uniform bespoke his leadership on missions recorded only in the classified files of the Pentagon, but they also served as reminders of those he had killed. Each of those deaths was a necessity required by either the mission’s objectives or the safety of his squad. Killing was a part of his job, but he took no pleasure from it. He had never boasted of his kills, never bragged about how many of the enemy he’d ‘taken out’ on a mission, but he also felt no emotion, no connection to those who died.

In reaching out to take his mother, death had taken on a new meaning for Nolan Kilkenny, one that numbed his heart with cruel grief and denied his mind a sensible reason. And for the first time in his life, death was personal. Kilkenny wanted to strike out against his mother’s killer, but the disease was as efficient and unemotional about death as he had been. In another part of his mind, Kilkenny now questioned whether or not he could again take another life.

Nearing the end of the pool, he reached out for the side and prepared to flip-turn into another lap. Instead of touching the smooth tile wall, his hand grazed a warm, firm leg. Startled, he abruptly stopped and lifted his goggled face out of the water. On the pool’s edge sat Kelsey Newton, smiling back at him.

‘I’ve been trying to get your attention for the last two laps. If this didn’t work, I was going to jump in after you. You’ve got a phone call,’ she said, her voice both sympathetic and concerned. ‘It’s Captain Dawson.’

Kilkenny nodded and stripped off his goggles as Newton pulled her supple legs from the water and walked back to the pool office.

He pulled himself from the cool water and quickly ran a towel over his dripping body before entering the office and picking up the phone. ‘Kilkenny here, sir.’

‘Nolan, I know you’re on leave, but a situation has developed that requires our immediate attention. Tickets have already been cut and are waiting for you at the airport.’

Part of his mind cursed at the thought of being pulled back, but he knew Dawson wouldn’t have called unless he’d had to. I hope it’s a quick one, Nolan thought as he copied down the flight information, knowing he couldn’t refuse the summons. Next month, I’m a full-time civilian.

‘I’m under way, sir.’

Kilkenny followed the yeoman into Capt. Jack Dawson’s office. Kilkenny stood two inches taller than his commanding officer, but the difference in their physiques exaggerated the distance. Dawson’s sturdy, well-muscled ebony frame and severely cropped hair often caused complete strangers to mistake him for one of the Washington Redskins. In contrast, Kilkenny’s taut, lean carriage and freckled Irish skin reminded people of nothing more than a marathon runner in need of a strong sun-block.

An unexpected wave of nostalgia swept over Dawson as Kilkenny reported for duty. They’d first met six years earlier, when Ens. Nolan Kilkenny reported to Coronado for BUD/S, Basic Underwater Demolition/ SEALs training. Dawson had taken one look at this wiry redhaired college kid and saw nothing more than a future Pentagon technoweenie who’d wash out before the gruelling middle-stretch of the nine-week program known as Hell Week. Dawson had been wrong.

‘Take a seat, Lieutenant,’ Dawson ordered as he returned Kilkenny’s salute. ‘Nolan, do you remember why you became a SEAL?’

Kilkenny knew this wasn’t small talk, and he wondered about the motivation behind Dawson’s question. ‘Yes, sir, it was the challenge. I knew that command of the SEAL squad would test my limits, both physically and mentally.’

‘And do you remember who encouraged you to undertake this challenge?’

‘Yes, sir. Rear Adm. Roger Hopwood.’

Like Kilkenny, Rear Admiral Hopwood was a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy. Hopwood had also swum for the Academy, and Kilkenny’s performance with the team during his senior year caught the admiral’s attention. The admiral was also a decorated SEAL, and he now served as NavSpecWarGruCom, commander of the navy’s Special Warfare Group.