Page 2 of The Forever Christmas Tree

“Listen up, all of you. I’ve saved your sorry asses more than once by disabling a bomb in your friggin’ laps. You owe me, and I want the whole military funeral shebang. Ten-gun salute, parade with a horse-drawn hearse, and all that. No, wait. Forget the ten-gun salute. A cannon would be better.”

Unbelievable! And he’s probably serious.

Everyone shook their heads at F.U.’s cluelessness.

In an obvious attempt to lighten the conversation, Geek said, “Hey, I got some news yesterday. I was talking to Peach, and—”

“Who’s Peach?” Wendy interrupted.

“Caleb Peachy. He used to be a Navy SEAL. An Amish SEAL.” At her arched brows, Geek shrugged in a “go figure” way, then continued, “For a while, after he left the teams, Peach worked for a treasure-hunting company, Jinx, Inc. The Jinkowsky family business. Its headquarters is in New Jersey.”

“I remember them,” Slick said. “They recovered some kind of pink diamonds from a shipwreck. And then they worked the Louisiana bayous searching for Jean Lafitte’s buried stash.”

“Right.” Geek nodded. “Anyhow, they’re involved in shipwreck salvaging, mostly, but lots of other stuff. Cave pearls and pirate booty, like you said, Slick. Also, Nazi stolen artworks. Buried gold or precious gems. Tomb artifacts. Caves with drawings or hidden items, like those famous Scrolls. That kind of stuff. Anyhow, the company is for sale.”

He had the interest of everyone at the table.

“Why did Peach call you about this?” Slick asked.

Geek blushed a little. A SEAL who blushed? Had to be a first. He was as wild as all the SEALs, but gave the appearance of an innocent because of his boyish features. It was one of his charms. “He figured I have the cash to buy them out, I guess . . . if I was so inclined.”

Everyone knew that Geek was wealthy, probably a millionaire, from all his inventions. Most famous, at least among this crowd, was his “penile glove,” which sold by the thousands on the Internet. Enough said!

“And are you so inclined?” Slick took a long draw on his beer. Everyone at the table was drinking beer. No food had been ordered yet. Probably wouldn’t be in their present moods.

“No. Well, probably not. Oh, hell, maybe,” Geek admitted.

“Wow! Just like Indiana Jones! I’m in,” Hamr Magnusson exclaimed. He was the youngest of their group, although he had spent a few years in the NFL (Can anyone say “The Hammer”?), which probably meant that he, too, had the cash to invest in such a venture. He gave up football during the uproar over concussions and had been about to go into the family vineyard business, but then he’d been lured by his older brother Torolf into joining him in the SEAL teams. Torolf had bet his brother that he couldn’t make it through Hell Week. Hamr had done so, bruised and sore, but no concussion, and too stubborn and prideful to quit.

“Look at it this way,” Geek went on. “I read a blog one time where some Marine said there were only three reasons why any fool would want to become a SEAL. To prove something to someone, to prove something to themselves, or because they’re monkey-ass crazy. Well, I say there are three reasons why a person would become a treasure hunter. Fame, fortune, and monkey-ass adventure. Same thing, in a way.” Geek grinned and raised his bottle, drinking deeply, then set the empty bottle on the table with a clunk, as if making some point.

“Works for me,” Slick said, “but my ex-wife has me in court again. I’m about tapped out.” For years, Slick’s ex-wife had been suing him for more and more alimony. Rumor was that she wanted the Malibu house that Slick had inherited from some relative.

“Did anyone ever watch that Oak Island program on the History Channel?” Delphine Arneaux asked. Delphine was a mocha-skinned former bodybuilder from New Orleans, now a master chief in WEALS, and another of Wendy’s housemates. Her nickname was Arnie, not because of her surname but a play on Arnold Schwarzenegger, the quintessential bodybuilder. “That’s Oak Island in Nova Scotia, not North Carolina, by the way. No one is exactly sure what’s buried on Oak Island, but it’s almost certain that it’s something important. Could be buried treasure, Marie Antoinette’s jewels, some Templars’ secret relic, Shakespeare’s manuscripts, even the Ark of the Covenant. It’s creepy, but exciting.”

They all chuckled at that wide range of potential treasures, mostly unbelievable. And the idea of some venture being both creepy and fun.

“Seriously, you guys,” interjected K-4—that would be Kevin Fortunato, who’d joined the SEALs after his wife died of cancer, “we’re all burned out at the moment. Eventually, we have to give up this life, maybe sooner than later. Unless we have other talents or degrees . . .” He glanced pointedly at Geek. “. . . which I don’t, we usually ease into one of the paid military security companies, like Northbridge or Academi. But think about it. This treasure-hunting gig would be a great alternative, a better transition to civilian life. Still the element of danger. Excitement. And financial reward.”

“And women,” F.U. added. “Betcha the babes would be hot for treasure hunters, just like they are for SEALs. We’d be regular Harrison Fords, younger and tougher versions.”

K-4 rolled his eyes.

And Wendy said, “You are delusional.”

“What? You don’t think I’m a chick magnet, Flipper?”

Flipper was Wendy’s WEALS nickname because she swam and dove like a fish. Years of competitive swim teams and dive meets. She still did a mean swan dive. Actually, she’d had another nickname originally, “Windy,” and not as a play on her name. No, during her first week of WEALS training, she’d accidentally broken wind when doing duck squats, and the SEALs instructors, never ones to be sensitive or politically correct, had slapped that tag on her. Luckily, she’d outgrown that incident and the nickname.

“Like I said, delusional,” she remarked to F.U.

F.U. looked as much like Harrison Ford as she resembled Kim Kardashian. Wendy took a sip of her beer, not really her drink of choice, but asking for a watermelon margarita at the Wet and Wild would be like asking for filet mignon at McDonald’s.

“So, what’s everyone doing for liberty over the holidays?” Delphine asked. “I’m going to spend at least a week with my family. Lots of Creole food. Music. Dancing. A week is more than enough, though. I can only take so much of kids yelling, babies crying, and my aunt Estelle getting drunk on what she calls ‘sweet tea’ but is actually straight bourbon.”

No one spoke while the waitress took away their empties and gave them new bottles, but then Hamr said, “I have to go home to Blue Dragon Vineyard or my father’ll whack me on the head and give me the concussion I didn’t get in football, and that’s no joke. He’d do it with the long sword he keeps in the hall umbrella stand.”

Wendy had met some of the Magnussons, who prided themselves on their Norse heritage. The men all looked like fierce Vikings, perfectly capable of going a-Viking for fun and plunder. Even Hamr, with his long blond hair pulled off the sharp features of his face into a long braid, would look comfortable on the prow of a longship.