“Why?” Pacino asked.
Quinnivan shrugged. “No idea, lad. We don’t have the need to know. We involve ourselves more in the ‘how’ than the ‘why.’ Valid, authenticated orders came in from the president, and we went to work.”
The 1MC clicked again, and Quinnivan paused. “Vermont, departing!” Another click.
“Captain’s left the ship,” Quinnivan noted, then continued. “And in this case, the ‘how’ involved finding this yacht, stalking her, popping up to periscope depth and locking out some very rough blokes, your Navy calls them SEALs, who got aboard the yacht in the middle of the night.”
Quinnivan picked up his desk phone, dialed a number. “Yeah, George, XO here. Send up a pot of coffee, service for two, willya?” He hung up and continued. “You ever met any of those SEALs?”
Pacino nodded. “I went to airborne school at Fort Benning between plebe and youngster year and met half a dozen of them. Pretty closed-off group of guys, never talked to anyone outside their unit. Capable people, did phenomenally well at the physical stuff, you know, the six mile runs in combat boots, twenty chin-ups, fifty push-ups. I can tell you, I wouldn’t want to meet any one of them in a dark alley.”
Quinnivan laughed as a knock sounded on his door. He quickly flipped his pad computer on its face and called, “come in.” A mess cook entered with a tray with a coffee carafe and two cups with milk and sugar service on the side. “Thanks, George,” Quinnivan said as the messman took his leave. Quinnivan poured for them both, dumping milk and three sugars in his and looking up at Pacino while waving the milk container. Pacino shook his head, taking his coffee black.
“Damn,” Quinnivan said, sipping loudly, “American coffee. I never thought I’d like it until I’d stood about three command duty watches with no sleep in between, and Mr. Dankleff introduced me to the stuff. My eyes were opened. I had no idea how I’d survived before coffee. And just like a hotdog is better at a ballpark, yeah? Coffee is fantastic on a submarine, at sea and at depth. Just magical.” He sipped the coffee. “Where were we?”
“SEALs,” Pacino prompted.
“Right. So the SEALs sneak aboard, find Sotheby in his stateroom, immobilize him with zip ties, find and pack up all the computer hard drives, cell phones, pad computers and documents for transport, scour the yacht for anyone aboard, but he was alone, these computer techies relying on their AI to drive their yachts, plus Sotheby was a notorious loner. They set the yacht on fire, bring Sotheby back to the boat, we observe through the periscope until the yacht founders and then sinks, and meanwhile we interrogate Sotheby in the wardroom — well, the SEALs interrogate him. We didn’t have the need to know. But I imagine most of the questions went to the passwords for his electronics, account numbers of offshore accounts, what he was really up to, who was controlling him and whom he was controlling. You know, the usual.”
Pacino put down his cup. “And afterward, they just shot him? In the wardroom?”
Quinnivan laughed. “No, son, that would have made a mess. We broach the sail, just enough that they can get Sotheby’s body out of the ship. SEALs do the deed, take the kill photo, weigh him down and toss him over. The sounding read nineteen hundred fathoms under the keel — well over eleven thousand feet. I guarantee no one will hear from Mr. Sotheby again, unless they get a double of him made up with plastic surgery to be a ‘new’ Elias Sotheby, a puppet to say what they want him to say and do what they want him to do.”
Pacino looked at his cup sadly. The brew had gone cold.
Quinnivan nodded in understanding as if he knew what was going through the junior officer’s mind. “Yeah, young Mr. Pacino, this is what being on a project boat means. Doin’ secret but nasty stuff like this, yeah?”
Pacino opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. Quinnivan shut down the pad computer, put it into his safe, then turned to look at Pacino.
“So, young lad, this ship is a three-hundred-and-seventy-seven-foot-long blunt instrument of presidential policy. We are assassins. We put the killer in hunter-killer. We do as we’re told, and what we’re told is sometimes very ugly. But I suppose the bright side is, by doing so we can change world politics, perhaps even the course of history.” Quinnivan wasn’t smiling now, Pacino noted. Quinnivan picked up his phone and dialed it. “Duty Officer, secure the rig for class alpha air gap and come pick up Mr. Pacino.”
Click, from the 1MC system. “The class alpha air gap is secured. Rig ship communications for in-port.” Click.
Quinnivan absently found his VHF walkie-talkie, put the battery in it and turned it back on. “I’ll see you later at the party at my house, lad, yeah? The DCA — Mr. Dankleff — will give you the address and time.”
The wardroom, a combination of conference room and mess table for the officers, was empty.
“Where is everyone?” Pacino asked Dankleff. Since Pacino had been with Dankleff, the man hadn’t stopped smiling. In fact, he seemed to be having such a good time that Pacino was tempted to ask him what drugs he was on.
Dankleff smiled even wider. “Pre-lubricating for the ship’s party at the XO’s house. Hail-and-farewell ceremony. You’re one guest of honor, the hail part. The farewell is for the officer you’re replacing, Duke ‘Man-Mountain Squirt Gun’ Vevera, who’s leaving the ship early due to medical issues. Let me show you to the three-man stateroom where you’re assigned. It’s half of a sixpack in the upper level. In a way you’re lucky. It’s the only junior officer stateroom not shared with a department head.”
Dankleff led the way down the narrow passageway, turned at the steep athwartships stairway to the upper level, emerging into a passageway with more plywood laid on top of the twelve-inch diameter cans, the wood-and-can loading stretching all through the ship’s upper level deck surfaces.
“I see we’re loaded out for deployment,” Pacino said, hunching over to walk down the passageway.
“Oh, yeah, part of being on alert status,” Dankleff said. “Can’t have a sudden emergent mission fucked up by the boat running out of food. Anyway, bunking in with the engineer, navigator or weapons boss is no holiday, let me tell you. But this three-man bunkroom is half the size, so when there’s an emergency and all three of you have to vault out of bed and get dressed in fifteen seconds in a space half the size of Mommy’s powder room back home, it’s a total cluster-fuck. Normally, as your sea-daddy, I’d give you a full tour of the boat, but the party is coming up in a couple hours, so I’ll do it Monday.” Dankleff handed Pacino a card with handwriting on it. “Here’s the Irishman’s address. Party starts at nineteen hundred sharp. Do not be fashionably late. XO takes roll and latecomers, well, they suffer. XO explicitly told me to tell you to have your ass there at nineteen hundred. On the fuckin’ dot. You know what they say, Patch—‘If you’re early, you’re on time; if you’re on time, you’re late; if you’re late, you’re off the team.’ So I’ll see you there.”
Dankleff clapped Pacino on his shoulderboard, turned and headed back to the ladderway to the middle level. Pacino rubbed his eyes a moment, his head still spinning from some of the things Quinnivan had told him. He had thought Piranha’s combat mission was eye-opening. But Vermont had done things Pacino could barely believe.