Dave and I had settled into a rhythm—beer runs, late-night escapades, and, of course, spontaneous trips to Tijuana. That night was no different. He had swung by to pick me up, insisting we make a quick stop at North Island to see some friends before heading south. It’d been a long time since I set foot on base, let alone crossed the Colorado Bridge. The nostalgia hit me the moment we passed through the gates, the checkpoint barely glancing at Dave’s ID. The ocean’s familiar salt-tang mixed with jet fuel and the faint hum of barracks life. It was a sensory time warp.
We made our way to Dave’s old squadron quarters. Same layout as always: a cluster of three-person rooms surrounding a common lounge. It smelled of stale beer and musty carpet, but the camaraderie was palpable. Guys were crushing cans of cheap beer, stacking them into makeshift pyramids on the table. It was like stepping into a past life, a fleeting return to the days when I wore the uniform and lived this same routine.
I downed Bacardi and Coke like water, chasing it with the occasional drag of a clove cigarette. A little meth buzzed through my veins, enough to keep my energy sharp as the night unfolded. Tijuana was the plan, but this pit stop had its own gravity. Amid the laughter and drunken chatter, a question clawed its way out of me, almost involuntarily.
“Where does McDaniel live?” I asked one of the younger guys, casually, as if it were an afterthought.
“Oh, McDaniel?” The kid replied, oblivious. “He’s over in Unit 103.”
The answer hit me like a jolt. McDaniel. The name lingered, heavy and electric. I dragged hard on my cigarette, letting the clove’s spice bite my throat. While everyone’s attention drifted to someone recounting a wild WestPac story, I quietly slipped out.
The hallway was dimly lit, lined with identical doors and peeling paint. My steps echoed faintly, each one propelling me closer to a reckoning I hadn’t fully planned. When I reached Unit 103, I paused. The number stared back at me, and I placed my knuckle on the door as if feeling for its pulse. Faint snoring vibrated through the thin wood. It was him.
Something primal clicked into place, a dark autopilot that I barely recognized but fully embraced. I pulled out an old, worn ID card from my wallet, wedging it between the door and its frame. I’d done this before—many times before. With each subtle nudge and twist, the lock gave way, and the door creaked open.
The room was pitch black, heavy with the sour musk of stale sweat and saliva. I eased the door shut behind me, careful not to let it click. My eyes adjusted, and there he was: McDaniel. Mouth open, snoring loudly, completely unaware.
This was the man who testified against me at the court-martial. The man who handed me a bad conduct discharge, derailing my life forever. The man who sold me out so he could stay in the Navy while I was left to rot, struggling to survive. This was him—the face I had imagined in my darkest moments, the neck I envisioned my hands wrapped around. This was the man I wanted beneath me, my knees pressed into his chest as I loomed over him, a towel in hand, ready to muffle his cries.
I wanted him to feel it—the fear, the helplessness, the panic. I wanted him to see me in his final moments, to recognize that retribution had a face. His face haunted me, and now it was right in front of me. Words weren’t enough for this piece of shit. Words would fail. Only something primal, something raw, would suffice. A universal language—one spoken through fists, pressure, and pain.
So I crouched beside his bunk, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his sleeping body. For a moment, I just watched. He looked smaller than I remembered, vulnerable. My fingers itched with anticipation. Slowly, deliberately, I sat down on the edge of his bed. The mattress creaked, but his rhythmic snores continued undisturbed.
I reached out and ran my fingers through his hair—short on the sides, thick on top. His peaceful oblivion enraged me, and I tightened my grip, yanking his head back. His eyes snapped open, wide with terror. Before he could scream, I clamped my other hand over his mouth, leaning in close.
“Do you remember me?” I hissed through clenched teeth. My voice was low but venomous, each word slicing through the dark.
He tried to shake his head, to plead, but I tightened my grip, my knuckles white with the force. “Do you remember me?” I repeated, my fingers digging into his scalp. His eyes bulged, panicked and darting. He knew. He didn’t need to say it—I saw the answer written all over his face.
I grabbed the towel hanging off the bunk post and quickly wrapped it over his face, muffling any sound he might attempt to make. His muffled cries only ignited something darker within me. Tightening the towel behind his head as he struggled, I gained full control, dictating every second of the moment to come.
Open-handed slaps alternated with backhands, each strike sharp and deliberate, punctuated by the question that dripped with venom: “Do you remember me? Do you remember me?” His body writhed beneath me, but there was no escape. The towel began to darken, soaked with the blood from his face.
Finally, I tore the towel away, letting his terror-stricken face meet the dim light. His eyes were wide with panic, tears mixing with sweat and blood, the unmistakable expression of a man who knew he was entirely at my mercy.
With my hand around his neck, me leaning into his throat as his face turned shades—red, blotchy white, then a sickly blue as oxygen became a luxury I controlled. I would do this several times, his struggles weakened, his body trembling as he teetered on the edge of unconsciousness. I could feel the pulse in his neck, frantic and fading, a metronome ticking down to an inevitable silence.
For an hour, I kept him there, hovering between terror and despair. When I finally let go, his body slumped, drenched in sweat, his breathing ragged. He lay there, eyes wide and hollow, staring at me like a ghost had just paid him a visit.
Neither of us spoke. The silence stretched, broken only by his shallow gasps. I stood over him, towering, ready to push him over the edge if I so chose. But something in me shifted. The primal urge dissipated, leaving a hollow emptiness in its wake. Without a word, I turned and left, closing the door quietly behind me.
Walking back to Dave’s room, I felt lighter, almost euphoric. The air outside was cool and bracing, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat of McDaniel’s musky little room. When I stepped into the lobby, Dave looked up from his drink.
“Ready to hit Tijuana?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “Let’s go.”
We piled into the Trans Am and headed south, the hum of the engine a soothing balm to the chaos I’d just unleashed. Dave didn’t ask about my bloody knuckles or why I couldn’t stop smiling. Some things didn’t need explaining.
McDaniel couldn’t conceal the damage to his face or the lingering fear in his eyes—the unmistakable look of a man who knew someone out there had the ability to dismantle him completely. When asked why he didn’t press charges, his response was chilling in its simplicity: “I’d rather have one madman after me than an entire squadron.”
Though no charges of attempted murder were filed, my actions would inevitably come back to haunt me, a shadow I would carry for years to come.
