Both men were elite US Navy SEALs — the acronym stood for Sea, Air and Land, and represented the environments in which the highly trained and exceptionally fit warriors operated with deadly efficiency — and had been for almost two years, which also happened to be the length of time Dane Maddock had known Uriah Bonebrake. They had met during BUD/S — the Navy was fixated on acronyms; this one stood for Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training, which technically made it a two-stage acronym — and survived the capstone event of the course, a five day long marathon of grueling physical activity and sleep deprivation known affectionately as “Hell Week,” to earn their SEAL trident. There had been some friction between them during the course, culminating in a brawl that might have cost both men their careers if not for the intervention of their commanding officer, Hartford Maxwell. “Maxie” had the brilliant idea of shackling the pair of wayward young SEALs together, figuratively speaking, for a weekend of rest and relaxation that had unexpectedly landed them in the middle of a murder investigation and a search for a priceless relic with the potential to rewrite the nation’s history.
After that, things had gone a lot smoother. Over the weeks and months that followed, they finished their training and were integrated into Maxie’s SEAL team, based out of Coronado Naval Amphibious Station. Dane was put in charge of a platoon, and Bones had been assigned to oversee a squad comprised mostly of guys who had come through BUD/S with them, including Willis Sanders and Pete ‘Professor’ Chapman. With their skills honed to razor sharp perfection, they eagerly embraced the challenge of that first deployment, and everything had gone flawlessly.
And then, it was over and everything had gone right into the toilet. Almost as soon as they were back in the States, Bones had started drinking…a lot.
Bones liked to joke about his heritage, sometimes playing to deeply ingrained stereotypes. Dane was pretty sure he did it as a way of making people feel uncomfortable around him, though why Bones felt the need to do that was anyone’s guess. Maybe it was a defense mechanism, but it was hard to imagine what could possibly make the six-foot six-inch tall Bones feel threatened. Regardless, there was one stereotype that Bones seemed intent on fulfilling: the drunken Indian.
Dane and the rest of the platoon had covered for him to the best of their ability. A lot of the bars around Coronado were on friendly terms with the teams, and knew how to be discreet whenever a sailor tied on one too many. But Bones had blasted through all the familiar watering holes in the first month back, and been 86’d from each and every one. After that, it had been a lot harder to keep tabs on him. Tonight, he’d escalated things…maybe gone too far.
Bones’ drinking was only part of a much bigger problem. The big Indian had, however inarticulately, hit the nail on the head; Dane was becoming more a coach than a player, managing his team rather than leading them. Of course, that was increasingly necessary as Bones and some of the others were constantly pushing the boundaries.
Further complicating the situation was a letter he’d received from Rear Admiral Long — one of his former instructors at Annapolis and currently overseeing the Navy’s Bureau of Personnel — recommending him for a slot as the executive officer of the USS Valley Forge.
When he’d graduated from the Naval Academy, he’d been firm in his decision to become a SEAL and make a name for himself in the elite Special Warfare field, but the Navy was, first and foremost, about ships, and it was expected that the goal of every officer was to one day have a ship of his own. Being recommended for the XO slot on a Ticonderoga-class guided missile cruiser was the equivalent of a career catapult; from there, it might be only a couple more years before he was given his own command.
It wasn’t really what he wanted, but if he refused, there was no telling when or if such an opportunity would come again.
Maybe the universe was trying to tell him something.
Bones stayed quiet for the rest of the drive back to Coronado, his head turned away from Dane, as if to stare out the window. When they arrived back at their team room, Dane discovered that the big man had passed out.
As he got out, Willis and Professor came out to meet him. Both men looked exceptionally subdued, which Dane attributed to being up at two a.m. to cover for their wayward teammate.
“He’s out,” Dane said in a stage whisper. “Come on and help me carry him inside.”
The two SEALs looked at each other and then started forward. “We got this, Maddock,” Professor said. “You should probably head inside.”
“Why?” But even as he asked it, Dane knew the answer, and breathed a curse. Another figure stood in the doorway, watching them…watching him. Dane stiffened his spine and put on his best nonchalant expression as he strode up the walk to meet the team commander. “Evening, sir.”
“Actually, Maddock, I think ‘good morning’ would be the correct greeting.” Maxie’s voice was stern, his visage typically unreadable. “What’s the problem here?”
Dane spread his hand innocently. “No problem that I’m aware of, sir.”
Maxie stared back at him for a moment longer then turned smartly on his heel. “My office,” he said, without looking back. Dane sighed and hustled after his boss. When they reached the utilitarian room, Maxie settled wearily into his chair. “Close the door.”
Dane complied, groaning inwardly. A closed-door meeting was not a good sign.
Maxie didn’t waste time with preamble. “Say the word and Bonebrake is gone.”
Dane shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, sir. He’s a good SEAL. I’d trust him with my life.”
“He’s a sledgehammer,” Maxie corrected. “When you need to smash something, a sledgehammer is a great thing to have. When you need to drive a nail…not so much. I’ve seen dozens of guys like him in my time; they thrive in combat, but can’t handle home port so well. Lord knows, I’ve done my best to straighten him out.”
Dane wasn’t sure if Maxie was offering him a solution or testing his loyalty to his teammates, but either way, despite the friction between them, he wasn’t about to throw Bones under the bus. “He can handle it, sir. We’ll make sure of it.”
“Being in command means making hard choices. I know you think that your first loyalty is to the men in your platoon, but you’re not doing them any favors by covering up a serious problem.”
“I understand, sir.”
“I’m not so sure you do.” Maxie studied him a moment longer, then waved his hand. “Anyway, that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”
“Sir?”
“You didn’t think I was up at this hour just to deal with a drunken sailor, did you?” A rare smile creased Maxie’s face then he was all business again. “Tonight, I received a call from the SECNAV asking a favor of me. A favor of the very hush-hush variety.”
Dane felt his pulse quicken, equal parts excitement and anxiety. “A mission?”
“A training exercise,” Maxie emphasized.
“Training exercise” was shorthand for a highly classified, off-the-books action, one for which there would be only minimal tactical support and complete deniability. If the mission was successful, there would be no official acknowledgement, and if things went south, the team would be on their own.
“It’s an underwater salvage operation,” he continued. “You’ll be looking for a sunken wreck in the South China Sea. Find it, verify it’s really where we think it is, and then come home without attracting any attention. Zero attention, to be precise.”
Dane was pleasantly surprised by that. While it was true that SEALs were arguably the deadliest warriors in the US military, they were also some of the best trained divers anywhere.