by Brandon Webb
He stopped, seeing Finn in the doorway, and stood stock-still, looking guilty as a tipsy husband caught on a 3:00 a.m. staircase.
A few seconds ticked by. Then Finn tilted his head a degree and raised his eyebrows in silent interrogation.
“I’m supposed, I’m supposed to clean the officers’ staterooms,” the sailor stammered.
Couldn’t have been over nineteen. Looked about twelve. The lack of stripes on his sleeve said he was an undesignated E-1, no assigned rating. Bottom of the food chain. Got all the crap jobs.
Finn pointed to himself. “Not an officer.”
“And guests. Officers and guests, I mean.” The boy’s face went crimson.
He had to be the worst liar Finn had ever seen.
“I’m not an officer, this is not a stateroom, and you don’t clean it. I clean it. Me. Nobody else.”
The boy looked stricken. As Finn held open the door, he collected his cleaning supplies and started toward the door.
“Hey,” said Finn. “Can you keep a secret?”
The boy froze again, seeming unsure whether to reply.
Finn did the head-tilt, eyebrow-raise thing again.
“A secret. Yeah, sure.” The boy spoke quickly and quietly now.
“You’re probably wondering who I am, why I’m here. What my mission is, who sent me. That sort of thing.”
The boy shook his head in vague denial.
“It’s okay,” Finn said. He nodded slowly.
The boy stopped shaking his head and began slowly nodding, too. He hadn’t been wondering any of those things, of course, but he nodded along with Finn just the same. Interrogation 101.
“Well, I’m a SEAL, here on a secret mission. Super secret. International stuff. No one knows. Just you now.” None of it true, of course. But exciting. “Don’t tell anyone, right?”
The boy’s face relaxed into a sly grin.
“Right?” repeated Finn.
The boy nodded, hard. “Right! No one.”
Finn took a step back and gave a brisk nod toward the door.
The E-1 suddenly remembered where he was standing: in a cabin this SEAL didn’t want him to clean. “Right! Right.” He pushed his mop and bucket out the door. Turned back and gave Finn a confidential look. Put his thumb and index finger to his lips and turned them like a key. “Not a word,” he whispered, and he gave a conspiratorial nod.
“What’s your name, sailor?”
“Luca. Luca Santiago.”
“Finn,” said Finn.
“Finn,” repeated Luca softly, like an incantation. “Vaya con Dios, Finn.”
Finn nodded and closed the door.
Another friend.
Luca Santiago. Dances With Mops. The last romantic. Clearly the guy lived in his own world. Didn’t we all.
Finn got to work. Eleven minutes later he’d inventoried and examined all his possessions. Three of his brand-new charcoal pencils were missing. Nothing else.
He sat on his rack and considered the implications.
Who would have sent an E-1 to go through his stuff?
And why take a few pencils?
29
General mess. The prevailing mood was a strange brew today, as it had been since they transited the Strait. Relief at having finally left the Gulf, curdled by a sense of gloom brought on by the failed search for Schofield. Finn had seen this kind of confused, depressed morale before. He knew it could sink an entire operation.
He also knew it wasn’t that hard to change. All it took was a little leadership.
Good morning, shipmates, this is your captain speaking! You acquitted yourselves with excellence in the Gulf, made me proud. But don’t let that create complacency! We still have a long transit ahead of us, a mission to run, jobs to do. Stay focused! Stay clear! Keep making me proud!
That would have done it. That would have cut through the fog and moved the emotional rudder. But they weren’t getting that here.
And it was in leadership vacuums like this one, he knew, too, that incompetents and bad actors so often stepped in to fill the void.
“Hey, mornin’, Chief! Mind if I…?”
Stickman, the lanky rescue swimmer from Finn’s helo ride.
“Morning, Mister Stickman,” said Finn, nodding a be my guest at the seat across from him. “How you gettin’ on?”
Stickman set his tray of pancakes, sausages, and reconstituted eggs down with a loud clank. “All good, Chief, all good.” Reaching into an inside pocket he pulled out a thin red bottle, set it down on the table, unscrewed the tiny hexagonal top, and began shaking out drops over his eggs. He grinned at Finn. “Best piece of advice I got from my recruiter. ‘When you go to sea, Stickman, bring your own Tabasco.’ ”
Finn nodded. “Good to have friends who know.” He slipped a small flat can from one pocket, pulled the pop-top lid, and forked half a dozen smelts onto his plate next to his mango slices.
This was why he’d chosen this particular seat, at this hour, in general mess. Stickman’s table. People were creatures of habit. Completely predictable.
This was something that never ceased to amaze Finn: people who followed precisely the same routine every day. He couldn’t think of anything more foolish. That was how burglars cleared your house. How pirates took down a ship. How Russia hijacked American elections. All they had to do was observe your routine. Once they knew that, they owned you. As if people were trained rats. Which, in Finn’s observation, they mostly were.
“Hey,” said Finn. “I wonder if I could ask a favor.”
“You serious? Shoot.”
Finn explained what he was after. To pass the time in the days ahead, he thought he might amuse himself by building a little shortwave radio receiver set. Given that Stickman knew his way around the avionics shop, could he lay his hands on a few components Finn needed?
The rescue swimmer once again told him to “shoot.”
Finn shot. Laid out his short wish list and specs.
Stickman frowned, shook his head. “I don’t know, that won’t give you much range.”
Finn said that was okay, he wasn’t looking for range. Just looking to pick up the local stuff when they got close enough to whatever land mass. Did Stickman think there’d be any problem with the list?
Stickman laughed. “Seriously? No problem at all, Chief.” Stickman was casual about it, but the gleam in his eyes said he was thrilled at the chance to do their esteemed guest a quid pro bro. “Might take a week or so.”
“No rush,” said Finn. “Got no place else to be.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Finn heard footsteps coming toward him from behind, someone with a heavy tread. Heard a voice bark like a seal. Ark-ark-ark. Finn didn’t look around.
Tucker walked past them with his tray, chuckling. Heading back to the food line.
Stickman watched him go, incredulous. “You know that guy?”
Finn nodded without looking up. “Tucker. Works down in the nukes. We’re buddies.”
Stickman leaned in. “Was he…mocking you?”
“Private joke.”
They chowed down in silence again for a minute.
Then Finn spoke up again, quieter this time.
“Heard about that helo that went down.”
Stickman stopped chewing. Paused, then swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, his voice gone husky. “That was bad. You know it was way out, right, just off one of our destroyers?”
Finn nodded. Completely out of their control, in other words: no way Stickman or anyone else from the squadron could have participated in the rescue effort.
“They got a good crew down in the water, what I heard, and fast. Still…” Stickman shook his head. “I was pretty tight with Diego. And his co-pilot, Micaela Katz? She was bunked out in the same stateroom as L
ieutenant Halsey. The one on the stick the night we came to pick you up?”
Finn nodded again.
“Roommates. Tore her up pretty bad. She didn’t show it, though, just kept on keeping on.”
Finn set his fork down and spoke even more quietly.
“So, what happened? I mean, did they figure out what went wrong? Anyone in command go on the block?”
“Not really. Nothing mechanical, far as they could see. They called it ‘pilot error.’ ” Stickman shook his head. “Whatever.” He stood up with his empty tray. Finn did likewise.
“You know,” Stickman said, then he leaned close and confidential. “It was supposed to be her flying. Lieutenant Halsey. CO yanked her at the last minute and put in Diego.”
Finn whistled and said, “Ouch.”
Stickman nodded, solemn. “Got that right, Chief. Ouch, big-time.”
30
Jackson eased back into his chair and frowned. He’d just gotten an earful from Jimmy Suzuki, the ship’s chief engineer, who’d stopped in to say his goodbyes. Suzuki was much beloved among the troops and had den-mother instincts second only to Jackson’s. He’d met with the captain that morning to give him “some honest feedback.” Shared his views on the decision to call off the search for Schofield and its impact on morale.
“You’re a braver man than me, Jimmy,” he muttered.
Within the hour, Suzuki was reassigned to one of the other ships in the strike group.
Jackson sat back and looked around his office.
The place was surprisingly chaotic for a man so fiercely dedicated to order. His desk was covered with crude clay ashtrays, tie tacks, and paperweights, his bulkheads papered with crayon drawings, grade-school achievement awards, diplomas, and half a dozen God’s eyes of various sizes. He especially loved the God’s eyes, more for the little hands that had made them than for the supernatural protection they were alleged to impart.
Kids.
As the highest-ranking enlisted man on the ship, Jackson was responsible for the health, welfare, and morale of five thousand–plus men and women. The majority of these sailors were still kids, barely out of high school. Regular contact with family was next to impossible. Life on the carrier could feel impossibly busy, a blur of action and hustle. It could also be the loneliest place on earth. Sometimes people cracked.
Suicide was a major issue in the navy, growing worse each year. Active duty military were nearly 50 percent more likely to commit suicide than the national average.
How had they gotten to the point where they were losing more sailors each year to suicide than to combat?
He gazed over at the God’s eyes.
Decisions like canceling that SAR sure don’t help, they seemed to whisper back.
In the nineteenth century, so Jackson learned during his Master’s studies, some bright social theorists came up with this concept, the Great Man theory of history. Heroes emerged from time to time, so they said, individuals of exceptional virtue who singlehandedly shaped the course of human events. Others argued that this idea was naïve, simplistic. Great men, the critics said—and it was always men in these theories—were simply the products of their time, not the other way around.
Call it the “Great Societies theory.”
Jackson was a pragmatist. In his experience, the normal fabric of events would always give rise to thugs and petty tyrants. Influential, charismatic men—and yes, almost always men—of outsized ego and destructive impulse. Who, left to their own devices, would wreak unmitigated havoc.
Call it the “Terrible Man theory.”
Jackson did not believe in the Great Man theory because he did not believe in Great Men. He did not expect nor want his sailors to become Great. He wanted them to become decent, effective human beings. Lymphocytes of the body politic.
Like Jimmy.
“Miss you already, Suzuki,” Jackson murmured.
The chief engineer had also told him there was a rumor making the rounds, that a large shark had followed them out of the Gulf. That there was talk of the ship being under some kind of curse.
“Mère Marie,” Jackson murmured. This was exactly the kind of superstitious crap that messed with the societal immune system.
That made people do crazy things.
31
Finn had been sitting out on the CIWS catwalk for close to ninety minutes, watching the ocean and sketching, when he became aware of someone trying to observe him without his knowledge.
“You might as well come sit down,” he called out as he continued sketching.
His stalker stepped out from around the corner, sat down a few meters off, and followed his gaze out at the ocean.
West Texas, the helo pilot.
After a while she spoke. “What’s that, some kind of meditation?” Nodding at his sketch pad.
Finn made no reply.
“I didn’t know SEALs meditated. Guess it takes all kinds.”
Finn wondered where this was going.
“You have some kind of special mantra or something?”
“No, ma’am.” He hesitated, then added, “No mantra.”
They were silent. The wind rose and fell, moaning faintly as it slipped across the flight deck above.
The pilot spoke up again. “If you did have a mantra, what would it be?”
Finn thought, She’s good. She’d picked up on the brief hesitation.
“I don’t have a mantra,” he said.
She looked over at him. “I see you everywhere. Are you stalking us?” Her voice suddenly sharp as the edge of a flint knife.
“Us?”
“Me. My roommate. Are you?”
Finn turned to a fresh page and continued sketching. “No ma’am. I’m not stalking anyone.”
“You’re talking to my guy. Stickman.”
Finn nodded. “Good kid. Solid operator.”
“He’s my guy,” she said. “On my crew, which you have zero business going anywhere near. As of now you’re going to quit talking to him, quit distracting him. He doesn’t need it.”
In his mind, Finn smiled. “If I don’t?”
“Then I kick your skinny ass and throw you off the boat.”
Finn nodded. He could see her doing that. Kicking some guy’s ass and throwing him off the boat. Tucker, maybe.
“I was sorry to hear about your roommate and her crew,” he said.
A lie with a basis.
“Yeah,” she said after a minute. Her voice had gone quiet and lost the hard edge. “Sucks.”
After a few minutes of silence, she got up and slipped back inside without another word.
Finn continued sketching.
If you did have a mantra, what would it be?
“Still here, Ray,” he murmured into the wind.
Ssssssstillhhhheeeeeerrrrrre the wind replied.
32
The guy in the yellow windbreaker ran the length of the rooftop six stories up as he chased the helicopter. When he reached the edge of the roof he jumped right off, grabbing onto the rope ladder as the helo bore him up and over the Kuala Lumpur skyline…
Twenty-five sailors sent up a lusty cheer.
Finn was back in the library again. Time to check the traps. As usual there was a line for the next free PC, so he was waiting, sitting at one of the long tables, viewing the big screen along with everyone else.
No talking heads today. Today it was Supercop, the nineties Jackie Chan comedy-action-crime flick. Cheesy, but a classic—and the last half hour was set in Malaysia.
Malaysia! Their next port of call. Still a week away, but the crew were practically counting the hours. Three sweet days of tropical freedom!
Supercop had just reached the climactic sequence over the city, where the helo flew its rope-ladder hitchhiker straight into a stone tower atop one of Malays
ia’s tallest buildings. Jackie slammed into the tower with a resounding whack, but refused to let go.
Twenty-five sailors laughed and groaned.
Jackie crashed through a huge billboard advertising Stuyvesant cigarettes but hung on to that rope ladder as the helo flew him higher and higher over the city.
Twenty-five sailors hooted and hollered.
The kid on the PC pushed away from the table, stood up, and walked away. Finn stepped over to the machine and turned it, repositioning the screen so that it faced the bulkhead. Then pulled the chair over and sat, his back to the bulkhead. Restarted the PC, reopened the browser.
Nothing in his regular Gmail accounts.
Opened one of his three new anonymous accounts. Nothing.
Closed that account, opened the next. Nothing.
Closed that account, opened the third.
Something.
A message, from [email protected]. No subject line. In the email’s single brief paragraph, Stan L. had this to say:
Hey man, good to hear from you. Smitty sends his regards, says when you hit port in Hawaii have a Molokai Mike on him!
Finn read it twice.
Then deleted it, emptied the email account’s trash, deleted the account, quit the browser. And sat still.
Hey man, good to hear from you.
Stan L. had not heard from him. Stan L. was not among the nine teammates he’d emailed. Stan L. wasn’t a teammate.
He didn’t know anyone named Stan.
He didn’t know anyone named Smitty.
And he didn’t drink.
Not Molokai Mikes or anything else.
The message, though. The message was definitely for him.
“Holy shit!” exclaimed the guy behind him. Now Jackie was fighting it out with the bad guys on top of a speeding train—and here came Michelle Yeoh out of nowhere, racing alongside on a motorcycle, pacing with the train! “Yeoh’s doing her own stunts, man!” the seaman said to his neighbor as the actress took her Steve McQueen moment and jumped, her bike roaring into the air and slamming down right on top of the freaking train!
