by Brandon Webb
“Yes,” the voice said. “Finn. I know about him.”
“Good,” said Jackson. “I’m wondering if you could dig a little into the man’s background. What exactly he’s doing here, last known assignments, anything unusual in his CV, and so on.”
“On it already, Master Chief.”
“Great. Thanks, Indy—”
“No,” she broke in, “I mean, I’m already on it. I’ve been looking at him since he came on board.” Bean looking, she pronounced it, the Bengali accent a distant residue from British rule.
Jackson raised his eyebrows at Angler.
Scott nodded. Indy was good.
“Would you mind stopping over here for a minute, give us a quick sense of what you’ve got?”
“Copy. Be there in two.”
Jackson clicked off the phone and they waited in silence for a moment. Then he turned to Scott. “So this was the first time you two met face-to-face? I thought you’d have some kind of kindred spirit thing going. SEAL to SEAL.”
Scott shrugged. “He’s lying.”
Jackson grunted. “So you said. Corroborated the hell out of Lieutenant Halsey’s story, though.” He frowned again. “Think we should talk with Commander Papadakis again?”
“For what? On suspicion of being mean?”
There was a soft knock on his door. “Open,” called Jackson.
A slight woman with dark eyes stepped inside.
“I was curious,” Indy said once she’d pulled a seat up to Jackson’s desk. “Once I started digging, I got more curious. It’s more opaque than I expected, even for a Six.”
“Enlighten us.”
“Chief Petty Officer Finn, no last name. Orphan, no family name on record. Only living relative an older brother, no contact info. Enlisted age eighteen in 2001, BUD/S class 251 in ’04. Deployed more or less continuously ever since. Officially speaking, Chief Finn has been recalled to Coronado ‘on special assignment,’ no further details.”
“But?” put in Jackson.
“According to a guy on the ground in Bahrain, he’s out on medical leave.”
That made both men sit back. “Medical?” said Scott. “What’s he got, a tummy ache?” SEALs were not known to leave the field for any reason, least of all anything medical, unless they were gravely wounded. As Scott knew better than most. And the SEAL they’d just interviewed certainly didn’t seem to be bearing any mortal wounds.
“I can’t tell if special assignment is Bravo Sierra and some medical issue the real story, or the other way around,” said Indy. Bravo Sierra: BS.
“Either way,” said Angler, “why didn’t they just stick him on a C-130 and fly him home?”
“No idea. No one knows. Or at least, no one’s saying. My guess? They yanked him because he’s toxic. And they didn’t fly him home because they don’t want him home just yet. They haven’t figured out what to do with him. They’re stalling.”
“Stalling,” Jackson repeated, and then once more: “Stalling.” He thought for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “Thanks, Indy. Keep me in the loop if anything else shows up?”
“You bet,” she said. “Commander,” she nodded at Scott as she rose and left the office.
“Toxic,” said Scott. “Well that’s…disturbing.”
Jackson was lost in thought, frowning at his desk.
“Master Chief?” said Scott.
Jackson looked up at Angler. Then opened a side drawer and withdrew a small plastic baggie. Opened it and tipped its contents out onto the desk.
Scott leaned in and took a close look at the item that tumbled out.
“Looks like a hypo cap.”
“It is a hypo cap,” said Jackson. Using a pencil, he nudged it back into the little bag, resealed it, and handed it to Angler. “Can you find out where it came from?”
“Sure.” Scott reached out but hesitated before picking the thing up. “Where’d we get this?”
“FOD walk.” Jackson didn’t mention he’d been sitting on it for two days. Or who gave it to him.
Scott frowned. “What’s this about, Robbie?”
Jackson opened his top drawer, took out two sheets of paper, and slid them over to Angler.
The first was Lieutenant Schofield’s brief yet rambling suicide note. Just another clod, washed away, and so on. Scott had already seen it. He now picked up the second sheet and read aloud.
I thought I could do this, but I can’t. It doesn’t matter how fast I go or how hard I fly, it all still comes crashing back down to the same ugly fucking place. I just don’t want to be here anymore. Please tell everyone I am so so sorry to cause them pain, but shit happens.
“Shiflin’s note?”
Jackson nodded. “See anything odd there?”
Scott squinted, cocked his head. “Odd? Not really. Hell of a thing, though. Tragic.” He was silent for a moment. Then looked up at Jackson. “Something I should be looking for?”
“Any similarity between the two?”
Scott read both notes again, then shook his head. “Not really.” He looked at Jackson again. “Something in common I’m not seeing?”
“Nothing whatsoever,” said Jackson. “Except they’re both typed. And unsigned.”
Scott put the notes down. “So?”
“So,” said Jackson. “Who types and prints out a suicide note?”
Angler looked at the two notes again, then at the hypo cap. Then at Jackson. “What are you thinking?”
Jackson hesitated. He really didn’t want to give voice to this thought. Merde. He nodded at the little plastic item. “I’m thinking, what if that had something to do with Lieutenant Shiflin’s unscheduled departure.”
Scott’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a hell of a leap, Master Chief.” He looked from the hypodermic cap to Shiflin’s note, then at the other note, then jerked his thumb toward the closed door. “Is this because of what he said? About Schofield?”
“No.” Jackson shook his head slowly. “No, I was already wondering about this.”
In truth, the SEAL’s unexpected comment about Schofield was part of it, but the thought had already crept into Jackson’s mind the moment he’d laid eyes on that hypo cap two mornings earlier.
“Honestly? I doubt there’s anything to it,” he added. “But it needs to be looked into.”
“Whatever you think,” said Angler. “Seems far-fetched to me.” He picked up the little baggie and pocketed it as he stood. “I’ll check this out.” He stepped to the door.
“And Scottie?” When Scott looked back, Jackson nodded toward his pocket. “Be discreet?”
“No shit.” The JAG officer stepped out and closed Jackson’s door behind him.
That’s a hell of a leap, Master Chief. Yes it was.
Made no rational sense.
His thesis advisor had always hated it when he used that phrase. That’s a tautology, Mister Jackson. Rational sense? There is no other kind.
Oh, no? Robbie would think. You’ve never lived in the bayou. You’ve never met Sister Mae.
He swirled his cup and took a cold, bitter swallow, then set the cup down and rose from his chair. Time to bring this shit sandwich of a problem to the captain. And he already had a pretty good sense how Eagleberg was going to react.
“Ah, crap,” he said.
47
She didn’t hear his approach, didn’t even realize he was there until she stirred in her seat and caught a glimpse of that titanium blade leg. For the past hour, Monica had been sitting up near the front of the little chapel, head bowed, lost in a swirl of thoughts and half-formed prayers. Now she looked up and nodded a silent greeting.
Scott slid into the pew next to her and touched her shoulder. When his fingers made contact she jumped as if zapped by a spark of static electricity. “Whoa,” he said, his voice gentle. S
he leaned in against him and softly began to cry. He put his other arm around her and held her like that in silence while she wept.
The SAR effort had shut down hours ago. The pair of warrant officers had already moved through their stateroom, silent as ghosts, to remove her best friend’s things. Kris was gone. She knew this, yet it still hadn’t felt real—not until she collapsed against Scott and took the space to weep.
Do you cry when things go wrong on the job? That dick reporter at Sally Ride’s press conference. Fuck you, she thought. Fuck you and the hobbyhorse you rode in on. Goddamn right I do.
In fact she didn’t, not typically. She hadn’t cried back when Gram died, and not when they got the news about Dad, either. They’d both been ill for months, everyone saw it coming both times. Their deaths were, in Monica terms, a known.
Not this time. Kris’s disappearance had come out of left field, no one saw it coming. It was a total X.
An X Monica didn’t know to solve for.
“Shit. Shit,” she muttered, wiping her cheeks with her fingers. She pulled away from him. “Thanks. I’m good now.”
“So, I talked with CAG and your flight surgeon.” CAG: Commander, Air Group, the top of the air wing food chain. “They’ve both agreed that the situation calls for erring on the side of leniency. Command is waiving any further action, and you can resume normal duties tomorrow.”
Thank God. She felt guilty even thinking about it, but she’d been agonizing over whether her brief insurrection in the ready room might have cost her that HAC.
“Thank you,” she said. “That was…above and beyond.”
This was true. Scott had gone way out on a limb for her, injecting himself into a routine disciplinary action that was clearly outside his province. There was nothing inappropriate about their relationship; friendship was hardly fraternization. Still, his butting in on her behalf could well have raised an eyebrow or two.
“Monica,” he said gently. “What the hell were you thinking?”
She felt herself bristle. “Listen, that whole situation got blown way out of—”
“Really. ’Cause the way I heard it you practically told your CO to go fuck himself.”
She dug out a Kleenex and blew her nose, then peered at him. “You’re angry.”
“Damn straight I am. You could have put your whole career in jeopardy.”
“You know what, Scott, that is really not the salient point here. My best friend’s life was in jeopardy, and I didn’t do a damn thing to help!”
Scott backed away a few inches so he could look her in the face. “You’re angry.”
She put her fingers to her cheeks and felt how hot they were. Took a breath and blew her nose again. “At myself, mostly. I knew something was wrong. I kept meaning to sit her down and get her to really talk. That night, when she went off by herself—to ‘get some air,’ she said…” Monica choked up for a moment. Scott waited. “I told her not to be long, that I really wanted to talk to her.” She looked at him, tears streaming again. “I said I’d wait up. But I fell asleep!”
He said nothing, just listened.
“Shit, shit!” She scrubbed at her face, furiously wiping off the tears. “Every night I lie there listening to that godawful racket up on the flight deck and I can’t get to sleep to save my life, and the one night—the one night I needed to stay awake—”
“Hey,” he said.
“What if I’d followed her out there, forced her to talk to me?”
Scott sat back against the pew next to her and nodded. “I know,” he said.
Which was so Scott.
Don’t beat yourself up, she would have expected anyone else to say. You can’t blame yourself. None of this is your fault. All those useless clichés. But he didn’t say any of those things. I know. That was all. And he really did. Strange how it gave her comfort, just hearing that.
“Took a bit of doing, finding you,” he said after a moment.
“I couldn’t stay in my stateroom. Couldn’t go down to the hangar, the place feels like a mausoleum. The whole ship feels like a mausoleum.”
“Yes, well,” he said. “That we can change when we put in at Port Klang.”
“Thank God,” she breathed. Port Klang, Malaysia. Their first port call in nearly half a year, just a few days away now. The whole ship was looking forward to it. Lord knew they needed it.
Port call was to a carrier crew what spring break was to college freshmen, and it didn’t get much more Daytona Beach than Malaysia. On the way out to the Gulf they’d stopped at Hawaii and Luzon, then threaded their way straight through the Malay Peninsula without stopping. It seemed like a decade ago. Now they were all worn and sea-weary, hungry to get out of their steel prison and see land. The prospect of even three days in Malaysia seemed like a ten-week vacation in Heaven.
“Ever been to Malaysia?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never been anywhere.”
“I’ll show you the sights. Eat amazing seafood, maybe ride the ferry to Sumatra. Walk on surfaces that don’t pitch and yaw. Get sand between our toes.”
She nearly smiled.
He stood, looked down at her, and put out a hand. “You gonna be okay?”
She nodded, gave his hand a squeeze, and let go.
After Scott left, the space seemed even more silent than before.
Ever been to Malaysia? I’ll show you around.
She gave a quiet laugh. From anyone else, that might seem like a classic pickup line. But not with Scott. She thought about how she’d jumped when he touched her. And the hand squeeze when he left. His holding her while she cried. Had they ever actually touched before, physically? No, she was sure they hadn’t.
“Oh, Lord,” she said aloud to the empty chapel.
48
“We could arrange to take on a team from NCIS when we reach Port Klang,” said Jackson. “But I’m not sure we want to wait that long. We might want to consider launching our own interim investigation.”
Captain Eagleberg nodded thoughtfully, as if giving the information careful consideration. But said nothing.
The three of them—CMC, captain, and Arthur Gaines, the captain’s XO—sat together around the parquet mahogany coffee table in the captain’s parlor, what Eagleberg referred to as “the Lincoln Room.” Jackson had just laid out the bare bones of his concerns: the two suicides, both bodies unfound; the two notes, both typed, both unsigned; the oddly out-of-place hypo cap on the flight deck.
Gaines absorbed it all with mute concern.
Jackson couldn’t read the skipper’s face at all.
“Of course, I’d suggest we proceed as discreetly as possible,” he added. “No point in spooking the crew.”
The captain nodded again, paused, then finally spoke. “Thank you, Robbie. I’m glad you brought this to my attention.” He tapped one forefinger on his lips a few times. And still said nothing more.
Jackson glanced around the room so as not to seem impatient. Took in the crown moldings and coffered ceiling, the muted slate-green silk-print Colonial diamond-pattern wallpaper, the polished mahogany sideboard with its crystal decanter and matching glasses. The space had received a makeover modeled after the sets on Stephen Spielberg’s epic film Abraham Lincoln. Spielberg had already spent Hollywood-scale research money making his sets historically accurate. The navy saved taxpayer dollars by simply copying what was in the movie.
Your box office dollars at work.
The captain’s voice finally broke the silence. “I don’t think that will be possible, Robbie. I’m afraid we’ll have to forgo port call on this leg. I’ve already given our new heading to the bridge. We’re making straight for Perth.”
Jackson slumped back in his chair, stunned speechless. Changing the ship’s itinerary without bothering to inform his own CMC, the individual most responsible for ship-wide mora
le? This was a gross breach in protocol!
On a ship at sea even the slightest disruption in chain of command could pose an existential threat. A carrier’s skipper-CMC relationship was central to the ship’s smooth functioning. If that trust fell apart it was as catastrophic as a torpedo ripping open a hole in the hull. It would send tremors of concern right up the chain of command. A serious confrontation between the two could wreck both their careers.
The captain turned to his XO. “Artie,” he said mildly, “can you give us a moment here?”
Arthur rose from his chair and melted from the parlor.
“Robbie,” the captain began, “I’m sensing hesitation. Let’s put rank aside for a moment. Please, express yourself freely.” He extended an open palm.
Dieu, what a patronizing prick he could be.
“I appreciate that, Skipper. Bill. The thing is…” Invitation to speak freely notwithstanding, Jackson knew he needed to tread carefully here. “As I’m sure you know, the crew is really looking forward to a break. And honestly, I’m a little puzzled at the change in plans. What’s our rush?”
The captain nodded agreeably. “I’ll be straight with you, Robbie. I know they’ll be disappointed, I understand that. But we just don’t have the luxury of time. We need to haul ass down to Perth to replenish and ready ourselves.”
Replenish and ready themselves? For what? This deployment was basically over.
The captain leaned in and clapped his hands on his knees, a coach wrapping up his halftime talk.
“Listen, Robbie, we cross the line tomorrow, right? Equator by oh nine hundred! We’ll put the announcement out shortly so everyone can prepare for the festivities. This may be the Age of PC, but they haven’t taken that one away from us yet, eh?” He grinned and slapped Jackson on the knee. “A Line Crossing, Robbie! Good God, how long has it been since we’ve done one of those?” He got to his feet, as if the disagreement were now behind them, everything settled and happy. “That’ll take people’s minds off the skipped port call—and before you know it, we’ll all be ashore in Australia.”
