Karl texted Roddy with a smiley face, saying he was eating dinner with the couple that evening.
Opening the door electronically, Karl wandered into their bedroom. It was dark in the room, but light enough to see the fan above the bed slowly turning. Laying on the bed, completely naked, was Maya.
“I should shower,” Karl said.
Maya moved across the sheets seductively. “After. Take me now.”
How could he say no to her?
16
The new Arleigh Burke class destroyer cruised slowly out to sea, the lights of Old San Juan coming up on the starboard side, and the 16th Century Castle lit by amber lights off the starboard bow. Swarms of massive frigate birds circled overhead like pterodactyls hunting for prey.
The USS John M. McGrath (DDG-129) was the newest ship in the Fourth Fleet, homeported out of Naval Station Mayport, Florida. Her shakedown cruise was completed the previous summer and she was now on her maiden voyage, a short cruise from Florida to South America. The boat was named after Mike McGrath, who had been shot down in his A-4 over North Vietnam in 1967, and housed in the infamous Hanoi Hilton until all prisoners of war were released in 1973. McGrath returned to duty and became commanding officer of VA-97, flying the A-7E. He eventually retired as a captain.
Sitting in the captain’s chair was Commander Randy Wockovich. The McGrath was his first command, but he was cautious leaving San Juan. Less than a year ago, he was the executive officer on another destroyer when it had a minor incident with a civilian craft, which left only minimal damage to the destroyer, but it killed one crew member and injured a couple more on a fishing vessel. As the XO on that boat, Wockovich was cleared of all wrongdoing, as was the captain, but his old boss was still riding a desk until retirement. Wockovich had no intention of early retirement. He was just getting started.
Wockovich was a slight man, a marathon runner, from a prominent Naval family. His father retired as a four-star admiral. His brother was a vice admiral in San Diego, and his sister was a captain currently stationed at the Pentagon. Normally self-assured, if not cocky, Wockovich had lost some of his mojo since the accident. After all, he had been near the top of his class at the Naval Academy, the pedigree for greatness, and had distinguished himself in every way possible as he rose through the ranks in the Navy.
His executive officer had the deck and conn taking them out this evening. Lt. Commander Rita Carlson was nearly the diametric opposite of Wockovich. Rita had grown up on a ranch in Wyoming. She also attended the Naval Academy a couple of classes behind the captain, but her family had no Naval tradition. She traced her heritage as far back as the U.S. Cavalry, which helped tame the west in the 1800s. One evening she told Wockovich that she had been riding horses since she could sit upright in a saddle. At five-six and a hundred and thirty pounds of mostly muscle, he imagined she could still wrangle horses for a living. But she had chosen the sea.
Shortly they cruised past the breakwater and into open water. The captain rose from his chair and the bridge crew went through a series of commands changing control of the boat from the XO to the Officer of the Deck.
“This is Lieutenant Jones. I have the deck and the conn.”
The captain and the XO left the bridge and went out to a starboard catwalk. A number of sailors manned the rails informally, and watched as they cruised along the north shore of Puerto Rico, the lights from the city shimmering off the water. They had been forced to pull out of port a day early, and that never sat well with naval crews.
The captain glanced sideways at his XO to his left and said, “What’s the scuttlebutt from the ship’s company?”
Rita shrugged. “Same old, same old. Truthfully, I think most were ready to get back out to sea. Running low on money.”
“The eagle doesn’t shit for another week,” the captain said.
The XO turned toward the captain. “And they gave us no indication of our mission?”
“You heard what I heard. They gave us the coordinates and orders to steam. That’s it.”
“I’ve checked the charts,” she said. “There’s nothing at that location. No land. Nothing.”
“Then it has to be a rendezvous with another ship,” the captain said. “I’m sure we’ll know more soon.”
“DEFCON hasn’t changed. So, that’s a good thing.”
Commander Wockovich thought the same thing, but he also knew that the Navy didn’t just pull a boat from liberty early for no reason. “Something’s up, Rita. And I don’t like it. Come up with a good story for the crew.”
“I’ve thought about that,” she said. “We could say that pirates have taken a merchant ship.” Rita tried to hold back a smile.
“That might actually work. And it ties in with the whole Pirates of the Caribbean motif.”
“For once I could actually start the scuttlebutt,” she said. “See how it spreads.”
“Make it so. It’s best if you speak with another officer and have a petty officer overhear the conversation.”
They both said the name ‘Miller’ almost simultaneously. Petty Officer Second Class Miller was a first-class gossip. That was a nice way of saying he was the biggest bullshit artist in the Fourth Fleet. The man had a wild-ass theory about damn near everything that happened on the McGrath. But Miller also got shit done, the captain thought. If he needed a shipment of lobster from Maine, Miller would not just get the shipment, but he would come in under budget — probably keeping a little extra for himself.
“Make sure all personal comms have been shut down,” he ordered.
“Aye, aye.”
The captain watched his XO head back through the hatch. He was damn glad he had Rita on his team. She wasn’t much to look at, considering her nose had been broken more than once in her youth as a Golden Gloves boxer, but she made up with her can-do attitude and complete competence. She was a tough young broad, having been a barrel racer in high school. More than that, she was smart. And he would take brains over beauty any day.
Wockovich cast his gaze upon the dwindling lights of Puerto Rico, thinking wistfully about what could have been that evening in port. The officers had been scheduled to go out for food and drinks in Old San Juan. Now, they would have to settle for a makeshift evening mess.
17
Karl and Maya were set to meet with the Russians for dinner in the hotel restaurant. Maya looked nice in her sun dress, her tan already starting to take hold. Karl wore cargo shorts, which were a little baggy to allow him to conceal his Glock in a neoprene sleeve at the small of his back and covered by an equally baggy tropical shirt with a nautical theme.
As they sat and waited for the Russians, Karl said, “Remember. No Russian.”
“They will hear my accent.”
“No getting around that,” he said. “Make them bring it up, though. If they press the issue, only give them your youth and mention nothing about Murmansk.”
“I know. We’ve talked about this. Here they come.”
Karl turned to see the Russians. His eyes first caught a glimpse of the woman, Polina Kotova. Wow. She was also wearing a sun dress, but her breasts overflowed the top and wanted to come out to play. Her red hair flowed over strong shoulders with each graceful step she took toward them.
Introductions all around. First names only. Karl and Maya used these names, and the Russians actually used Sergei and Polina. Then they took seats and viewed menus.