Chapter 4 - Unopened Secrets
Miller stared down at the leather pouch like it was an unexploded ordnance.
"I’m not touching your garbage," he sneered. "Shore Patrol can search your belongings when they process you into the brig."
"Open it, Lieutenant," I repeated, not shouting, but with the quiet, unquestionable command of an officer who had issued orders under live fire. "Unless you're afraid of what's inside."
Miller’s jaw clenched. The taunt struck a nerve. Under the watchful eyes of the entire galley, his pride wouldn't let him back down from an old man’s dare.
With two fingers, he reached out and flicked the rawhide knot undone. He pulled the flap back, peering down into the interior.
For a second, the sneer on his face didn't change. Then, his eyes narrowed.
Inside the pouch lay an object wrapped in faded, oil-soaked cheesecloth. Beside it was a tarnished metal card, the edges beaten and scraped, bearing an old-style stamped serial number and a red-and-blue military seal that hadn't been issued since the late 1960s.
Miller pulled the metal card out, holding it up to the fluorescent light.
"What is this?" he muttered, his tone shifting slightly from open hostility to irritated confusion. "UDT-11? Underwater Demolition Team?"
"Before your grandfather was shaving," I replied quietly.
Miller flipped the card over. There was a black-and-white photograph laminated into the metal base—a picture of a young man, barely twenty years old, with hollow, sun-scorched cheeks, salt-caked hair, and the unmistakable, haunted stare of a man who had walked out of the surf behind enemy lines.
Miller’s fingers twitched.
"This is ancient history," he said, trying to recover his sneer, but the venom had lost some of its bite. "UDT isn't the Teams. You guys blew up coral reefs so the Marines could land. You were demolition divers. You weren't operators. You never fought in direct-action counter-terrorism."
"We cleared the beaches of Inchon with knives and grease guns while North Korean artillery tore the water apart around us," I said, looking him dead in the eyes. "We didn't have GPS. We didn't have night-vision goggles. We didn't have satellite radios to call in close air support when things went bad. We had our lungs, a compass, and each other."
"That doesn't give you clearance to walk onto this base without an escort," Miller shot back, his voice rising, fighting to regain control of the narrative. "You're an unauthorized civilian. The rules apply to everybody, even old frogmen."
Just then, the heavy double doors at the entrance of the galley swung open with a resounding bang.
Two Shore Patrol officers rushed in, duty belts rattling, hands hovering near their tasers.
"Lieutenant Miller!" the lead patrolman called out, scanning the dining area. "Where's the suspect?"
Miller pointed a triumphant finger directly at my chest. "Right here, Officer. Detain him. He resisted and laid hands on an officer."
The two Shore Patrol sailors took two brisk steps forward, their boots squeaking against the polished floor.
Before they could close the distance, the galley doors opened once more.
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And this time, the entire world stopped spinning.
***
