Brendan smiled. “Sure, Rick.”
They took a long walk through a cubicle farm, passing through two security checkpoints along the way. Just when Brendan’s knee was hurting enough to ask for a break, they arrived at a conference room. Baxter gestured at a small refrigerator with a glass front, then busied himself with a laptop and projector. Brendan took a bottle of water from the fridge and sank into a chair, gritting his teeth as he bent his knee to a ninety-degree angle.
Baxter fired up the overhead projector. The image had the ONI seal and the title, Project Briefing: FEISTY MINNOW. Below that it said TOP SECRET, followed by a paragraph of legalese. Baxter cleared his throat.
“First things first,” he said, opening up a manila folder. He slid a single sheet of paper across the table. “Before I can brief you into the program, I need you to sign this. Read it first — I mean it, this is not your ordinary nondisclosure form.”
Brendan accepted the sheet and scanned it. Baxter was right, it was much more stringent than the typical NDAs Brendan was used to, but it basically came down to one thing: he could never, ever, under any circumstances, talk to anyone about the program. Ever.
His pen made a scratching sound in the quiet room as he signed the form. Baxter looked strangely relieved when Brendan passed the sheet back across the table.
Baxter stayed seated as he triggered the next slide. It was a world map with seven red dots sprinkled across it. Brendan scanned the locations: Eastern Med, Baltic Sea, Sea of Japan near North Korea, South China Sea, Caribbean, Indian Ocean, and the Med off North Africa.
“Intel is about collecting and analyzing information,” Baxter began. “These are all places where we’d like to have more information than we’re currently able to gather. SIGINT, ACINT, MASINT, IMINT — you name, we need it.”
Brendan held up his hand. “Come again, Rick? I’m not sure I’m following all your INTs. I know SIGINT is signals intelligence, comms and stuff like that, but what are the others?”
Baxter gave another deep laugh. “Sorry, we’re just like any other agency with our acronyms. ACINT is acoustics, and MASINT is measurement and signatures, which is a catchall term for everything else, like nuclear detectors—”
“It was you!” Brendan exclaimed. “The sensor we put on the North Korean TEL, when I got injured. You were on the other end of the line.”
Baxter gave him a look full of meaning. “That program is outside the scope of this briefing, Brendan, but that type of operation could fall under my purview.” He turned back toward the screen.
“Sorry,” Brendan replied, blushing. “It’s just that ever since we met, I felt like I knew you somehow.”
“Continuing,” Baxter said, without turning around. “These are all places where we would like to have more information to supply to our intelligence services, but lack ways to gather it. Naval ships and submarines are too obtrusive, and frankly most nations these days are just more aware of their EM footprint. The Chinese, for example, are pretty savvy. They simply shut down all comms when there is a US Navy ship within twenty miles of their coast.” He smiled as he flipped to the next slide. “What we need is a less obvious way to gather information.”
A picture of a sailing ship filled the screen. Brendan scanned the image. A forty-some-foot sloop, a real beauty, a more current model of the ones he’d sailed at the Academy.
“Operation Feisty Minnow will commission seven sailing vessels as clandestine intelligence-gathering platforms. The ships have been specially configured with the latest hardware, all of it hidden onboard. The crews are all trained intel officers, but they pose as rich people with money to burn and a passion for sailing.”
Brendan sat back in his chair. “So they sail along the coast of these countries and gather intel along the way?”
Baxter nodded. “They’re very careful to stay outside the twelve-mile boundary, in international waters, but yes, that’s pretty much the idea.”
“How does it work? For the crew, I mean.”
“Well, you get a new identity, a cover story with a bank account, and a platinum credit card that never runs out of money.”
Brendan whistled. “No expense reports? What’s the downside?”
Baxter frowned. “Brendan, this is serious. If you’re discovered, some of these countries won’t give a rat’s ass about international waters, and the chances of a Navy ship being able to intervene is nil. You’re on your own. Each ship in the Minnow fleet is equipped with an automatic scuttling system. If you’re taken by a foreign power, there are no extract options and the US will deny all knowledge of your existence.”
Brendan looked at the picture of the sailing ship for a long time. “And you want me to do what?”
“I want you to skipper one of these boats, probably the one in the IO. You’d have a crew of five, plus yourself, but four of them are likely going to be IT techs. They may know nothing about sailing. You and one other person are in charge of all sailing and navigation.”
“How long is the cruise?”
Baxter shook his head. “You’re not hearing me, Brendan. This is a command. Do you understand? You’d be the captain of a naval command. This will be your ship, your life, your responsibility, for the next three years.”
Brendan sat back in his chair, for once forgetting about the throbbing of his knee. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from Baxter, but this was not it. A sailboat as an intelligence spy boat? His own command? What if he got captured? He’d be held as a spy. What did that even mean?
Baxter scratched at his jawline, his eyes scanning Brendan’s face. “Look, I’ve laid a lot of information on you today. Think about it. This is a commitment every bit as serious as Special Operations, maybe even more so. It’s not something to take lightly. You’re due back in DC on March first, right?”
Brendan nodded.
“Think about it and call me when you get back in town.”
The phone in Brendan’s pocket buzzed, interrupting his reverie. He flipped open the clamshell of the prepaid mobile phone and shielded it from the sunlight. Very few people had this number.
He recognized Marjorie’s home number.
“Marjorie?”
“Happy Valentine’s Day! How’s my favorite SEAL?”
Brendan gave a wry smile. “Still with a broken flipper. How’d you get this number?”
“Brendan, Don works for the CIA,” she said in a serious tone. “He can get me anything I want.” She paused. “Just kidding, I called your mother.”
Brendan laughed. “Well, it’s good to hear your voice anyway.”
“How are you doing, honey?” Marjorie’s tone took on a concerned note.
“I’m good, Marje. Really, I am.”
“You’re full of shit, Brendan. It’s the middle of the day and you answered the phone like I just woke you up.”
“Marjorie, I’m good.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “When are you back in DC?”
“A week from Monday. My convalescent leave ends March first.”
“Okay, I want you to come visit me when you get back. Come for dinner. I’ll invite Liz and Don, if they’re in town.”
“Sure,” Brendan said. He swallowed. “Is Liz still in DC?” He tried to keep his tone casual.
“Why don’t you call her and find out?”
Brendan started to answer, but Marjorie cut him off. “Brendan, call her. It’s Valentine’s Day, for Pete’s sake. Let her know you’re thinking about her.”
“Marje, she’s married—”
“Call her. Now. Promise me.”
Brendan took a deep breath. “Alright, I’ll call her.”
“Finally,” Marjorie said. “And dinner, too. Let me know when you get settled in DC.”