“I’m Pacino, duty officer under instruction,” Pacino said, looking at the biker. The biker stepped close and held out his hand, his crushing grip dry and sandpapery rough, a slight smile coming to the big man’s lips.
“Commander Fishman,” he said in a deep, sonorous baritone. “Eb Fishman. I’m in charge of SEAL Task Group Eight Zero, the crew detailed to your boat.”
Fishman produced his pad computer from an internal vest pocket on his right side, opposite the holster’s side. “Our orders.”
Pacino read the official message, from the commander of the special warfare command to SEAL TEAM TASK GROUP EIGHT ZERO with a copy to SSN-792 USS VERMONT. Pacino was no expert, but it seemed in order, and the group was expected aboard. Pacino gestured to Petty Officer Miller, the second class machinist’s mate from Auxiliary Gang who was standing topside watch duty.
“Let’s get you signed in.”
As with Pacino on Friday, Miller took Fishman’s identification and biometrics, which had been sent over from SubCom prior to the arrival of the commandos. Miller nodded at Pacino as Fishman’s identification checked.
A tall man dressed in black jeans, a long black ranch coat, and pointy-toed black cowboy boots emerged from behind the truck, dusting off his hands from unloading the equipment crates. He wore a large pistol, a chrome-plated semi-automatic, holstered on one hip, the end of the holster strapped around his thigh above his knee. He looked corn-fed, solid, perhaps an inch taller than Pacino and Fishman, and much younger, perhaps in his mid-twenties. He had trimmed black hair and a salt-and-pepper beard, round and friendly green eyes, pronounced facial features and a face that seemed to relax into a smile. His smile deepened into a grin as he approached Pacino and offered his hand.
“I’m Lieutenant junior grade Elias Aquatong,” he said in a southern Midwest accent, perhaps Kentucky or Tennessee. “My friends call me ‘Autoloader.’ The other SEALs on this team call me ‘Grip,’ the assholes. You drop one lousy crate of grenades and boom, your damned call-sign changes to ‘Grip.’” He leaned over and pointed to Fishman, confidentially stating in a stage whisper, “you can call Fishman ‘Tiny Tim.’ His first name is Ebenezer, but the handle ‘Scrooge’ didn’t fit him. He’s way too sweet and nice to be a Scrooge.”
Fishman tipped his head without smiling, the banter obviously having become banal to him. He withdrew a Camel unfiltered from his inside vest pocket and produced a scratched-up lighter with the emblem of the USS Barracuda. He lit it and blew the smoke in a perfect ring that rolled toward the submarine. The entire time, he cupped his hand around the lit end, as if shielding it from someone watching. He looked at Aquatong with an amused expression, almost like a grizzled uncle at an apprentice nephew. “You know, Grip, I did you a huge favor. Because, you know, ‘Aquatong,’” he paused, “is a stupid and distracting name.” Aquatong just laughed and shook his head.
Pacino looked up as an unmarked black SUV drove up behind the cargo truck. Two men climbed out, one medium height and thin, looking Japanese, wearing a black windbreaker, red baseball cap, black T-shirt and black jeans. None of the clothing had any markings or for that matter, wrinkles, looking like the pants, shirt, jacket and hat just came off a rack at a department store. The other man was a lanky black man of medium height, wearing blue jeans and a starched white button-down shirt under a sport jacket. The Japanese SEAL looked thirty, though he could be older. The thin black SEAL was definitely older, but his exact age was indistinct.
Aquatong pointed to the older man. “That’s Senior Chief Tucker-Santos. He’s a commando and a corpsman. Call him ‘Scooter.’ So named because he dumped an expensive bike on an easy ride.”
Tucker-Santos came over and shook Pacino’s hand, snarling at Aquatong. “It was a hard ride up a New Hampshire mountain through four inches of blowing snow, actually,” he said. “And it was an emergency.” He looked at Pacino. “Story for another day, Lieutenant. Glad to be riding your fine submarine.” As the senior chief leaned over, Pacino could see his holstered pistol beneath his sport jacket. The piece was huge, at least a forty-five. He gestured at the Japanese man. “This is Petty Officer First Class Hoshi Oneida. Just call him ‘Swan Creek.’”
“Not ‘Swan Creek,’” the slender first class petty officer said in a gentle voice, approaching Pacino and shaking his hand. “Just ‘Swan.’” He smiled. “Good to be aboard again with you fine gentlemen of the Silent Service. This should be a good op.”
There it was again, Pacino thought. First the XO’s vague thought that the ship would depart Monday, then Li No’s hints, and now the SEAL operator calling this an ‘op,’ short for operation—Navy slang for a secret mission.
Pacino shepherded the men to the lower level aft of the torpedo room where the SEALs’ berthing room was located. Li No was there with Senior Chief Nygard. Both men met the four commandos and showed them their bunks. Nygard went to help with their equipment load, some of which would go into the lockout trunk, some into the lower-level torpedo room. Pacino and No returned to the wardroom. Pacino brewed a pot of coffee. When it was done, the two SEAL officers came in and plopped down into chairs next to Pacino, facing Li No. Pacino offered coffee and both accepted cups.
“Hot water for me, Mr. Pacino,” No said. Pacino heated a cup and set it in front of Li No, who pulled a teabag from his briefcase. The two commando officers both poured seemingly toxic levels of sugar into their coffees, then sipped from their cups.
“Submarine coffee is the best,” Fishman said. Aquatong nodded. “I don’t know if you know this, Mr. Pacino,” Fishman said. “The Navy has its own coffee plantations in Columbia. Rumor has it we had to make a covenant with the cartels to be able to operate down there.”
It seemed surreal, sitting in the wardroom and drinking coffee with the commando officers in their odd civilian clothes. Fishman still wore his biker vest and shoulder-holstered weapon. Aquatong had lost the long coat, revealing a cowboy-style black shirt with snaps instead of buttons. He still wore the belt with the pistol holstered to his thigh.
“Have you been aboard Vermont before?” Pacino asked the SEALs.
“We just rode, what, Grip, only a month ago?” Fishman asked Aquatong.
“Yeah, Tiny Tim, about then.”
“That one was wild,” Fishman said.
Pacino was tempted to ask if that run had been the superyacht operation, but decided to keep his mouth shut. His mind went to the thought of an upcoming operation, but knew it would require re-rigging the submarine’s communications for an air gap, and it was possible even the commandos didn’t know, or if they did, they might not tell him. After all, he didn’t have the need-to-know. The phone near the captain’s chair buzzed. Li No motioned Pacino to pick it up.