He examined the square item he had taken from his jacket pocket just before burying the jacket with his boots and socks. The mini-disk rested inside a clear plastic container.
“I hope this thing stays dry,” he said to himself, glancing at the six miles of dark water between the sandy strip of beach on which he now stood and the distant island. “Shit! Now I’m just stalling. Let’s get this over with!”
Buttoning the disk into the side pocket of his fatigue pants, he jogged briskly down the sandy slope toward the lapping water below. As the first wave of frigid salt water stung into the half dozen burns across his face, it revived him. His training quickly took over, and within seconds he had reached his cruising stroke.
The weather is clear and the water is calm, he kept thinking to himself. Just a nice early morning swim is all this is.
Rear Admiral Quentin Chappell hated it whenever the two men in brown suits showed up, barging into his office like they owned the place. And who wore a suit in Hawaii, anyway? But, of course, they were not from Hawaii. They were from Virginia, and their stay in the islands would be brief. It always was.
“You don’t look happy to see me, Admiral,” the older of the two said, as he plopped down on one of the chairs opposite Chappell’s desk, his younger counterpart doing the same.
“Of course I’m glad to see you,” Chappell lied. “You’ve just caught me at an inopportune time. Perhaps if you’d called first—”
“Ah, yes,” interrupted the older one. “But then, that’s not the way we operate. After five years in this post, you should know that.”
“Of course,” Chappell said. Then, assuming a false smile, he added, “Mister Sinclair.”
Over the years he’d learned to call the gray-haired man that, but who knew what his real name was. His visits were always unannounced, for that was the nature of his work. Like now, he was always accompanied by some muscular, flawless youth who said nothing and looked like a castaway from some lost colony of androids.
“We need your services again, Admiral,” Sinclair continued. “We need one of your fast attacks for a mission.”
“Who doesn’t?” Chappell mumbled.
“Excuse me?”
“I said who doesn’t?” Chappell grunted. “ComSubPac’s got every damn boat in the fleet committed right now. We’ve got boats off Korea, off China. We’ve got boats in the Gulf. We’ve even got boats under the ice! This isn’t the good old days, you know, when we had more than enough to do the job. Your knowledgeable people back in Washington decided to gut our sub fleet ten years ago, and now we’re facing the fucking consequences.”
Staring blankly at Chappell over the miniature submarine models adorning his desk, the austere Sinclair appeared unmoved, and Chappell began to wonder if he’d gone too far. His predecessor had warned him never to piss off the men in brown.
Don’t ask stupid questions! his predecessor had told him. When they come by, just make sure they’ve got the national security advisor’s signature, then carry out whatever orders they might have for you. I’m not joking, Quentin, if you get in their way, they’ll have you sacked before you get back from your next head call. Those guys have connections. Hell, they’ll do it with one damn phone call. How do you think I got this job?
“Anyway,” Chappell said in a more conciliatory tone. “Needless to say, we’re stretched a bit thin right now. I doubt ComSubPac could part with a single boat at the moment. At least, not until things quiet down in Korea.”
“Are you forgetting what your job is, Admiral?” Sinclair asked as he picked up and examined a model of a German U-boat.
My job? Chappell thought. What the hell does this fucking civilian from Virginia know about my job?
“Of course not,” Chappell finally said. “But even the Special Ops Deputy to ComSubPac has his limitations.”
Sinclair rose from his chair and walked over to observe an elaborate painting of the USS Nautilus on a windswept sea as she completed the first nuclear-powered circumnavigation of the globe. The painting commanded the entire western wall of Chappell’s office, but it fit in well with the various other submarine trinkets and paintings covering every other square inch of wall space.
“Are you feeling tired, Admiral?” Sinclair said as he stared at the painting. “Worn out? Like you need a rest?”
“Now wait just one damn minute, Sinclair!” Chappell barked, rising from behind his desk, and beating on the gold dolphins and the mass of ribbons adorning his left chest. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand here and take threats from the likes of you, a fucking civilian who doesn’t know a fucking ballast tank from a snorkel mast! I’ve seen too much fucking action in my career to take that from anybody! So, why don’t you and your cyborg brute here go fuck yourselves!”
Sinclair turned slowly with his hands behind his back, and Chappell could see the small sliver of a smile on his face. As he collapsed back into his chair, Chappell inwardly cursed his own short temper. What the hell had he just done? His career was over now, for sure. Thirty-five years of slogging it out in the dog-eat-dog world of the submariner, only to be ruined at the end by smarting off to a fucking spook!
Sinclair walked slowly back to Chappell’s desk and resumed his seat, glancing once at his counterpart.
“No,” he said, expressionlessly. “No, I don’t think we’ll do that, Admiral. Now, if you’re quite through with your pointlessly dramatic displays of bravado, we can get down to the business at hand.”
Chappell breathed a sigh of relief, though his pride kept him from showing it. Apparently, Sinclair was going to give him another chance.
“Now,” Sinclair intoned, continuing as if the outburst had never happened. “You say that you don’t have any boats available for this mission, while I and my associate here counted no fewer than five attack submarines moored at the pier during our drive over.”
Chappell shook his head. “Those boats are in a refit and training status, right now, and are not available for missions. Refit and training may not be important to you people back in Washington, but it’s damn well important to us. It’s what brings our boys home safely from those missions you send
them on. All of the other boats are already spoken for, either on deployment, or sitting off the coast of who knows where.”
“You have boats coming off deployment, surely.”
“Well, yes, of course. There’s usually one boat headed home at any given moment, but—”
“Excellent!” Sinclair interrupted. “That’s just what we need!”
“Wait a minute, Sinclair. Those boats are coming home for a reason. They’re coming home because they’ve been at sea for six months and the crews need a rest. Do you know what it feels like to spend six months at sea? Do you have the foggiest idea?”
“No. I can’t say that I have, Admiral. But I think your boat coming off deployment will suit our purpose, just the same.”
“I’m telling you, I won’t fucking stand for it, Sinclair!”
“That would be impressive, Admiral, if it were your decision to make. Thankfully, though, it’s not. Your submarines exist to serve the National Command Authority in the defense of this country, and the orders I carry with me bear their signatures.”
Fuming, Chappell squeezed the arms of his chair and did his best to contain his anger. He hated this damn supercilious civilian who seemed to always draw out his orders like a trusty trump card.