by Brandon Webb
Sammy, we need to talk. Can you come meet me? Sponson G, by the fantail, at 0100.
We need to talk—seriously? Where did he think they were, in junior high?
Schofield was a reasonable guy, some might even say overly so. But the petulance, the possessiveness, the petty arguments over nothing! Sam wasn’t used to this kind of drama, and God knew an aircraft carrier on deployment was the last place on earth for it.
Enough.
He arrived at the hatch to the exterior, grasped the handle—and stopped.
Was he overreacting?
Maybe he should blow off this rendezvous altogether, turn himself around and go back to his cabin. Confront Bennett quietly tomorrow in the light of day, when cooler heads prevailed.
Tempting.
He took a long breath in, then let it out again and slowly shook his head. It would be easy to let the anger dissipate, just let it go—but right now he needed to stay a little angry.
Right now, it was time to end this thing.
He pushed open the big steel hatch, bracing himself against the onrush of muggy heat. Ducking his head so he wouldn’t slam it on the steel frame overhead, he walked out into the darkness and stepped to the rail.
He heard the hatch thud shut, felt the presence behind him, but he didn’t turn around, just stood with his hands on the rail breathing in the hot soup of Gulf air. There was the distant schusss of the ship’s prow slicing through the black water, the groans and creaks of great cords up on the flight deck holding their cargo fast. On the distant shoreline, oil derricks poked pinpricks of flame in the thickening dark; the moon’s pale scimitar hung overhead, silently watching.
“I don’t want to make this any more difficult than it needs to be.” Schofield kept his tone calm and even. “But all this drama. It has to stop.”
The presence behind him said nothing at all. Which did not entirely surprise him, because really, what was there to say?
“I don’t mean to be unkind,” he added, then shook his head. For Pete’s sake, why was he apologizing? “Honestly, your note took me by surprise. In fact, I didn’t even think you were on board tonight.” He began to turn and face the other man. “Didn’t you have to fly a run over to Doha—”
A thousand needles stabbed him in the face, his eyes scalded shut by a savage yellow blast of pure pain. Oleoresin capsicum.
Pepper spray.
He staggered back against the rail, clawing at the air, fighting for breath, then felt a single needle stab him in the neck.
Not a metaphor.
An actual needle.
He managed to rake in one ragged breath, then another. Like forcing a cheese grater down his throat.
What the hell, Bennett?
He found himself seated on the catwalk flooring, back to the rail, legs splayed out, zip ties on his wrists, still blinded and fighting to breathe.
Something was happening to him, something taking control of his legs, his arms, his fingers.
Whatever he’d been jabbed with.
It was freezing his body into stone.
Before full paralysis could take effect, he pried open one burning eyelid. Looked in the face of his attacker.
Not the face he expected. But a face he knew.
YOU? Why are you doing this! he wanted to say.
But he couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t breathe.
Couldn’t move.
The face leaned close. Hands held up two objects before his one open eye, so he could see them clearly.
A can of pepper spray.
And a box cutter.
“We don’t have much time,” the voice whispered.
19
“GOOD MORNING, SHIPMATES—IT’S ANOTHER magnificent day at sea! Today we’ll be reviewing the drill procedures for full muster, because, hear ye hear ye, ladies and gentlemen: Elvis has left the building and the shit has hit the fan!”
His third morning aboard the Lincoln, Finn was sitting astride the big Gatling gun, gazing out at the ocean, sketch pad in hand, when Captain Tom’s voice went off in his head.
He abruptly tossed his sketch pad onto the catwalk and slipped down off the big gun, grabbed up pad and blanket roll, and headed inside, making his way to deckhouse 3 on the hangar deck, his assigned station. He was halfway there when the ship’s 1MC erupted in five long whistle blasts.
Here we go. Finn picked up his pace. The voice in his head was right—of course, Captain Tom was always right. The shit had very much hit the fan.
The fifth whistle blast was followed immediately by an announcement:
“Man overboard. Man overboard. All hands to muster, get your shipmates out of the rack. All hands safely and immediately to muster.”
The passageways were jammed with sailors rushing every which way, scattering like a disturbed anthill. Six thousand souls scrambling to get to their muster posts, all at the same time. It was a wonder there were no serious collisions.
Reaching the deckhouse, Finn gave his name to the petty officer with the clipboard, then took up position just inside the door, where he could watch the whole process go down.
The voice came over the 1MC again: “Man overboard, man overboard. All hands to muster. Time plus one.”
The place was filling with staff. Everything was hushed voices and rustling pieces of paper. The XO had come down from the bridge to run the show.
“Time plus two.”
Taking full muster was a complex operation—nearly six thousand individuals to be accounted for—and the crew at each muster station would be sweating right now.
Finn noticed a machine-gun turret of a guy planted a few feet behind the XO, watching everything. His lapel device made him a master chief—no, that was an extra star there: command master chief. CMC. Top dog on the enlisted side, second in stature only to the ship’s captain.
As if hearing Finn’s thoughts, the CMC’s eyes fixed on him with a Who the fuck are you and what are you doing on my ship? look.
Good question.
“Time plus three.”
The seconds ticked by. Around the rustling papers and whispered comparing of notes a silence, pregnant with irritation, swelled like smoke to fill the space.
“Time plus four.”
The XO spoke into his phone handset, his voice simultaneously blasting throughout the ship over the 1MC:
“The following personnel report to deckhouse 3 with their ID cards. LT James Bennett, Air. ET3 Jason Quarry, Combat Systems. ET2 Donna Moore, Supply. AD3 Jed Smalley, Supply. ADAN Kanisha Williams, Air. OSSN Kenny Frye, Operations. LS3 Warren Vincent, Operations. Ensign Melissa Gosling, Safety. LT Sam Schofield, Admin. LT Frank Hatch, Communications.”
Schofield. The ATO officer. Finn didn’t recognize any of the other names.
Another twenty seconds ticked by.
“Man overboard, time plus five.”
A guy showed up at the door, shamefaced and dripping with weak excuses, the defeated look of a sailor knowing he was in for one serious ass-chewing and probably worse than that. Gave his name to the orderly and was ushered to the back of the compartment. Two women filed in, gave their names, and joined him over at the wall of shame.
The XO held out the latest sheet handed to him and spoke into his handset again:
“The following personnel report to deckhouse 3 with their ID cards: LT James Bennett, Air. ET2 Donna Moore, Supply. AD3 Jed Smalley, Supply. ADAN Kanisha Williams, Air. LS3 Warren Vincent, Operations. LT Sam Schofield, Admin. LT Frank Hatch, Communications.”
Seven names now. Once they had every name accounted for they would secure the drill. End of exercise. If not, they would start launching the helicopters and lifeboats.
More rustling papers, more hushed conversations.
A few more showed up, quietly giving their names and l
ining up with the others to await execution. With the next repetition the list shrank to four. At “Time plus seven” there were just two names left: James Bennett and Sam Schofield.
“Bennett and Schofield,” said the XO. “Great. Just great.” He turned to the petty officer with the clipboard. “Randy?”
“Aye, sir?”
“Randy, where the fuck is Lieutenant Bennett?” he said mildly.
“I’m just checking now, sir.” The petty officer spoke into a phone, low and urgent.
“What the hell,” said the XO to no one in particular. “I can get here from anywhere on this ship inside of two minutes.”
Thirty seconds went by, no one else saying a word.
Bennett and Schofield. Great. Just great. Given the XO’s comment it wasn’t hard to work out the math. Bennett would be the pilot Finn had seen with Schofield at midrats his first night on board. Schofield and Bennett were an item. And they were both missing.
An ensign rushed in the door and huddled with the petty officer, who then turned to the XO. “Sir, Lieutenant Bennett flew a run over to Doha yesterday afternoon, return flight down for later today. He’s still there. We just talked to him.”
The XO passed a hand over his face. “Well why in God’s name didn’t we already know that? Never mind. What’s the story with Schofield?”
“He’s still missing, sir. No one’s seen him since he left the ATO shack last night at,” he checked his clipboard, “twenty-three hundred hours, sir.”
“Great,” muttered the XO.
Now Finn spoke up.
“I saw him.”
Everyone turned toward the door to see who’d spoken—except the CMC, Finn noted, who kept his eyes trained on the XO, watching to see how he handled whatever the newcomer had to say.
“This morning,” Finn continued. “About oh forty-five. Heading in the direction of the fantail.” There was a pause in the room, and Finn added, “Sir.”
Now all heads swiveled over to the XO—except for the CMC, who turned his attention to Finn. The two held each other’s gaze for a three-count before the CMC broke off to listen to the XO’s conversation.
Finn felt the shift in the soles of his feet.
The ship was pulling around.
20
By the time the ship had completed its turn their Knighthawk was already in the air, Monica talking with ATC and a squadmate on the stick. Any nearby ships from the strike group were probably on their way to assist, and RHIB teams with their inflatable boats would be on standby as a backup measure—but in a search-and-rescue op like this the Knighthawks were the ship’s first line of defense.
“Defense” in this case against the twin enemies of time and exposure.
The clock was ticking.
So far no one had any idea when the man went over, which made the operation immensely more difficult. The bridge would be working right now with the Combat Information Center to plot their search parameters. There was a tremendous amount of math involved, and Monica understood and appreciated all of it. Wind speed and current. Available manpower, helos and boats, both on the Lincoln and other nearby vessels from the strike group, plus each vessel’s distance and rendezvous ETA. Time window of when the officer most likely went over, which in this case would be quite a large window indeed. Number of daylight hours available for the search. All that and more went into plotting the search grid. Then they would skew the resulting grid into a diamond pattern to account for drift. Which could be considerable.
All of which, given the uncertainties in this case, meant they would be combing an extremely large quadrant. If they didn’t locate him quickly, they would keep searching. It could take days, but they’d find him. They had to.
Monica’s thoughts turned to Schofield himself, his situation and his odds, bobbing out there in the water.
The fall itself was not trivial—as much as a sixty-foot drop, and the water’s surface didn’t compress like a foam mattress or air bag—but it was survivable. The threat magnified once you were in the water. You could easily be pulled under by ocean currents, or worse, pulled under by the ship itself as it passed. Overboards had been known to get sucked into the propeller vortex. No one survived an encounter with four pickup-truck-sized brass propellers in full spin.
On the other hand, Schofield was experienced. If he had fallen in, his body would have flooded with adrenaline. He would have focused instantly on putting some distance between himself and the ship to avoid getting dragged under, then waited for rescue. There was no significant sea state this morning, which would work in his favor. The water was far from freezing, though not as warm as it would be later in the day; probably a surface temperature of 75°F or so. Not frigid. Still, enough to induce mild hypothermia.
Time would be the big factor here.
Each flight suit came equipped with strobe light and whistle. If he were wearing a float coat it would inflate and his strobe would start flashing immediately upon contact with salt water. He would have blown the whistle, if he were able.
Unless of course he had gone over the rail intentionally.
In which case float coats and strobe lights would pretty well defeat the purpose, wouldn’t they.
Which meant all four crew in that Knighthawk were thinking the same question, though none would voice it out loud.
Did he fall, or did he jump?
He’s out there right now, Monica told herself. He’s out there floating, waiting for us. We’ll find him.
* * *
—
They’d been circling for nearly three hours when they got word: someone had found a note in his stateroom. Schofield jumped.
21
Captain William James Eagleberg didn’t like making hasty decisions, nor did he respect those who did. Cautious by nature and made more so by training, he had not arrived at his station in life by acting on impulse. Right now, however, he was exhausted, his patience worn thin as a sheet of goddamn onionskin stationery.
Eagleberg had been up all night getting updates on the Iran situation. Then this morning, just as he had retired to his sea cabin in hopes of a stolen hour of shut-eye, they woke him to tell him some chucklehead had gone missing. Probably tucked away somewhere in a corner asleep. It was the last thing he’d wanted to hear, and the last thing he wanted to do, but he had no choice. After securing the go-ahead from the admiral he issued the orders to mount a search-and-rescue operation.
Then, not three hours later, they informed him a note had been found in the man’s quarters.
A note.
“Balls,” he muttered.
The man was an officer, head of ATO, a position of not inconsiderable responsibility. Also gay, as Eagleberg had been informed. The pressures of his life and station (and lifestyle, no doubt) had evidently got to the man, and he came to the moronic conclusion that he could resolve his issues by going over the rail and gulping down a few quarts of Gulf water. And he’d had neither the respect nor the consideration to hold off on that decision till they’d gotten through the choke point at Hormuz and out into the open sea. No, he just had to execute his drama right then and there, as they all sat at the Gulf’s mouth twiddling their goddamn thumbs.
No impulse control. An officer.
So here they were, holding up the progress of an entire strike group and investing the resources of the US Navy into the futility of a search-and-recover mission for the body of a man who in all probability would just as soon stay unrecovered and unsearched-for.
Captain Eagleberg glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time.
Twelve hundred hours. High noon. Lieutenant Schofield was now occupying the efforts and attentions of William Eagleberg’s 5,750 total crew—make that 5,749—at the zenith of the day.
Twelve oh one hours.
The timing could not be worse. Shortly after learning about Schofield’s note
he’d heard from the admiral again. The international diplomats had apparently worked out solutions to Iran’s hissy fit to everyone’s satisfaction (though for how long was anybody’s guess) and they’d finally gotten the all-clear to transit the Strait.
Except that now they couldn’t.
Commanding officer of one of the most fearsome warships on the seven seas, and he was powerless to move it a foot, for Christ’s sweet sake, because there was still a chance they’d find that belly-flopping officer floating somewhere out here.
Twelve oh two.
Well, to hell with it.
“Artie?”
Commander Arthur Gaines, his executive officer, crossed over from the other side of the bridge to stand by the captain’s side. “Captain?”
“Give it another five hours. Then bring everyone in.”
Gaines’s face was total bafflement. “Sir?”
“I’ll clear it with Selena. She’ll sign off.” Technically speaking, it was the admiral’s decision, but she had her hands full with larger issues and would rubber-stamp Eagleberg’s decisions. “I want my crew fed and rested and ready. We thread the needle tonight.”
Hearing himself say the words, Eagleberg felt his shoulders relax. He took the first full breath he’d drawn in hours.
“We’re getting out of here, Artie.”
“Sir? Tonight, sir?” Gaines seemed unsure he’d heard the captain correctly. Another five hours would take no more than a modest bite out of the full search grid. Were they really going to call off a search without an urgent mission imperative compelling them to?
Eagleberg turned a cold look on his XO. “The man killed himself, Artie. I neither condone nor understand his decision, but he had his choice to make. I have mine. Five hours. Then call it off. Tonight we go on high alert, get those jets in the air, flight ops in full swing. Hormuz is no slow dance.”
Arthur stared at the captain for a moment before remembering himself. He nodded vaguely. “Aye aye, Skipper.”