The dark man shook his head. His face was severe, but his voice was kind. “Pray. You will be with me in paradise. God is great.”
The other man began to weep.
They talked business, then a few personal things, then a little scuttlebutt, Laura laughing with them. When they got to talking about individuals in the det, Craw laughed — a loud, staccato sound, like a series of backfires — and said, “You know what Mister Soleck did now?”
Alan prepared himself. LTjg Soleck was their idiot savant, their divine fool. He had once managed to miss their departure from CONUS and then spend three days catching up with them because, as he had said quite frankly, there had been a bookstore he had had to visit.
“What’s Soleck?” Laura said.
“My cross,” Alan groaned. “A good kid, but a royal screwup — when he isn’t being brilliant.”
“He’s a doozer,” Craw said.
“So what’d he do?” Alan had a vision of a wrecked aircraft.
“He was trolling for fish from the stern of the carrier.”
“The fantail?”
“No, sir, the CIWS mount.” Craw pronounced it “cee-wiz”—the cee-wiz mount. “Somebody saw him and told me and I didn’t believe it, so I went down and there he was, with a gawd-dam spinnin’ rod, just standin’ there like he was bass fishin’. And the CV makin’ better’n twenty knots!”
“Well—” He looked at Laura. “Soleck is a little, mm, eccentric. He didn’t do anything really, um, stupid, did he?” He had a terrible thought. “He didn’t fall overboard, did he?”
“No, sir. But he caught a fish! A gawd-dam big fish! Which he carried by hand all the way to the galley so’s they could cook it for his dinner.” Craw’s smile became small, almost evil. “And not just his dinner.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He didn’t.”
“Yes, sir. Direct to the flag deck, courtesy of LTjg Soleck and Detachment 424.”
Laura guffawed. They were having a beer now in a crowded bar near the departure lounge. She leaned back to laugh, and conversation in the bar died.
“Was it — edible?”
“It was gawd-dam delicious! Some big red fish I never saw before, spines on it like a cactus, but it cut like steak and tasted like tuna. Admiral said it was the best fish he ever ate!”
Alan let out a sigh of relief. “That’s okay, then.”
“Well, no. Next day, twenty guys was fishin’ there, and the day after, forty, so the ship’s captain put it out of bounds and sent a memo specially to Mister Soleck, telling him to stop having good ideas.”
Alan sighed. “I suppose I got a copy.”
“Yes, sir. Ship’s captain would like a word with you when you’re back aboard.”
Alan nodded. Right. One week away in Washington, back one hour, and he was going to be up to his ass in Mickey Mouse. Welcome to the U.S. Navy. He flexed his hands and glanced down to where the fingers should have been. Welcome to the U.S. Navy.
Then they were moving down the ramp toward the aircraft that would take them to Mombasa. “Don’t worry,” Craw said softly. “Everything’ll be fine.”
“Right.”
“We’ll make things shipshape for the admiral, then we got two weeks on the beach to relax.”
“Right.”
Alan didn’t tell Craw that he had a set of orders that would keep them busy for longer than two weeks, or that his orders had a secret addendum that gave him the responsibility for assessing the consequences if the United States and the UN went back into Somalia. He was returning not only to assess Mombasa as a port of call but to gather information for a war.
The dhow anchored in Kilindini Roads. Ten minutes after she swung to rest on her anchor cable, a boat put over, and six men motored away for the distant shore. On the dhow, the dark man was standing by the landward side, peering through his binoculars. A distant gray vessel was barely visible in the haze at dockside, but he studied it for some minutes, then turned to the only two men left on the dhow with him.
“Now,” he said. “Bring the detonator.”
LTjg Evan Soleck was worried.
The S-3 in whose right-hand seat he rode was mostly older than he was, but that wasn’t what worried him. They were flying at twenty-three thousand feet, two hundred miles from the carrier, and the gauge for the starboard fuel tank wasn’t registering, but that wasn’t what worried him. The man in the left-hand seat was a lieutenant-commander and hated his guts, but that didn’t worry him, either.
What worried Soleck was that in three days he was going to make lieutenant, and he didn’t know what he was going to do about a wetting-down party. It was tradition that you gave a party for your shipmates for a promotion, and you wet down the new bars with the most drinkable stuff available. Not giving a party wasn’t an option. Soleck had heard a story about a new jg in a squadron — nobody ever said what squadron it was, but everybody swore it was true — who had refused to give a party, and his CO had sent him away every weekend for months — courier duty, bullshit trips, hand-carried messages — until he broke and gave a party at last, and nobody went. Soleck couldn’t imagine that degree of isolation. You’d be frozen right out of a squadron. A pariah. He’d kill himself.
So he had to give a party. But it had to be just right. Really phat. Something they’d tell stories about long after he’d been ordered someplace else. So that when he was, let’s say, an old guy — a commander, a squadron CO, even — the nuggets would stare at him and nudge each other and say “The Old Man’s the one that gave a party so cool that—” That what? There was the problem.
“You take it?” the man beside him said.
Soleck snapped out of it. “Yes, sir!”
LCDR Paul Stevens was a difficult man. He didn’t like Soleck, the jg knew, because Soleck hero-worshipped Alan Craik, their CO, and Stevens and Craik didn’t get along. What Soleck didn’t understand was that Stevens never would have liked him anyway, because Soleck was an optimist and a doer and a happy guy, and Stevens went through life with his own personal cloud raining on him all the time. Now he scowled at the much younger man and sneered, “You awake?”
“Yes, sir.”
Stevens grunted. They had both been put up for the Air Medal for flying into a war zone seven weeks ago to pull out Craik and an NCIS agent and a spy they’d captured, and they’d flown back out with two Chinese aircraft pissing missiles at them and had lived to tell about it — but was Stevens happy? No. He’d done brilliantly, evading missiles with the slow, fat S-3, hoarding fuel long past the gauges’ limit, getting two wounded men back to the CV in time to get the blood they needed. But was he happy? No. All he’d said was “That trip gets me O-5 and a medal, and I’m goddamned if I ever do anything that stupid again.” The talk before had been that Stevens would get passed over for commander and would have to leave the Navy, but now he’d made O-5 and got a medal, and he remained as sour as a ripe lemon, a weight on the entire detachment.
“I need to take a piss,” he was saying. “Keep it level on 270 if you can manage it — you’re already three goddamn points off.”
Soleck started to object, then shut up. “Anything you say, sir.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
Stevens headed for the tunnel. Alone in the front end, Soleck brought the S-3 back on course and ran through the things he might have said. He knew what Stevens’s beef was: when Craik had taken over the det several months ago, Stevens had been acting CO and things had been a shambles. Craik had whipped them into a first-class outfit; then, with Craik home on convalescent leave after the wild ride out of Pakistan, Stevens had been made acting CO again, and the CAG had been right on his ass the whole time to keep him up to the mark. The CAG was Craik’s personal friend, Captain Rafehausen. “His asshole buddy,” Stevens had sneered. Yeah, well, I admire both of them a hell of a lot more than I admire you, Stevens, Soleck said inside his head. You don’t even have a friend! Mister Craik gave you the chance that got you the medal and your fucking O-5, and you’re not even grateful! The trouble with you, Stevens, is that you’re—