by Brandon Webb
One of the other red shirts nodded to Tom, who turned to Finn and ushered him out the big door, speaking quietly as they went. “Everyone down here’s pretty shook up about Lieutenant Shiflin.”
“Biker,” said Finn.
Tom nodded.
“You guys all knew her?” said Finn. Already knowing the answer. This was the sole reason he’d asked for the tour. He wanted to see where Biker worked.
“Oh yah. She was our assistant O. In here every morning, oh-seven-hundred, like clockwork. Rain or shine, like we say.” Tom forced a grin. Ordie humor. As if rainfall or sunlight could penetrate down into these spaces.
Finn understood how this worked. In times of grief, turn up the spigot on irony. It was one way people coped. Hence the term “gallows humor.”
Not that it was working right now. Tom’s normal good cheer had fizzled like a sparkler dropped in a mud puddle.
“There’s a couple dozen smaller magazines all over the ship,” said Tom once they were out in the passageway. “I can take you down one of those.”
“Down?”
“Trunk line. Only way in or out.”
Finn hesitated.
No alternative egress.
“Okay,” he said.
44
Up in hangar bay 1, Tom led them to a small opening set into the deck. “This one’s for the flares the pilots use to decoy heat-seeking missiles.” He pried open the little circular hatch, stepped down through the deck, looked up at Finn, and grinned. “Here we go.”
Finn waited until Tom’s head had disappeared before following him down into the narrow trunk line. The two descended, vertical handhold by handhold, Tom narrating as they went.
“There’s thirty-four different magazines on the ship. Everything is stowed separate, according to type. You got your primary magazines, universal magazines, missile magazines, magazines for the little stuff—small arms and ammo, smoke guns, flares, distress signals, things like that…”
Despite their physical proximity, the vertical tunnel’s acoustics made the ordie’s voice oddly distant.
“We’re passing deck two now. Most of our magazines are located down here below the waterline so they can flood them in an emergency, like a fire on board…”
Speaking of fire, it felt really hot in there to Finn. As if they were climbing down through the Earth’s mantle.
Tom didn’t seem to notice. “No bomb components in here per se, but there’s still a ton of explosive material. If something bad happened here we’d just flood it. Every magazine is equipped with its own sprinkler system. In an emergency you could top this one up with seawater inside ninety seconds.”
They got down inside, stepped off the ladder, and looked around. There was barely room for the two of them.
Finn stopped, stood still. Cocked his head for a moment. Looked at Tom. “What’s that?”
Tom looked puzzled. “Chief?”
“That sound.” It was a faint, high hum. Growing.
Tom frowned. Slowly shook his head. “Not hearing it,” he whispered.
Finn cocked his head the other way, then back the first way. Slowly worked his jaw, the way he would if he were popping his ears on a plane on takeoff. The sound began to diminish.
It was in his head. His ears were ringing. That was all.
He looked back at Tom. “So people are pretty upset about Biker.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Tom. “Everyone liked her. She was a good boss. Intense lady.”
“Intense how?”
“Man, dedicated. She was down here, in and out of all these spaces, every single day, for hours. More than the O himself. Never missed a day…” He went silent again.
Finn could practically hear the sentence finish itself: until she did.
“How did she seem that morning?”
Tom rubbed his nose. “Just normal, pretty much. She was kind of distracted that morning. Wound up.” His face fell. “Maybe she was depressed or something.” Upset with himself for not having noticed.
“Wound up, what, like jacked up on coffee?”
“Oh no, Chief Finn, not a chance. Biker didn’t touch the stuff.”
“Not a coffee drinker? Not at all?” Interesting. Gauging by the long lines at Jittery Abe’s, Finn had thought he must be the only one on the boat who didn’t load on the almighty bean.
“Matter of fact, there’s quite a few guys work down here who watch their caffeine intake. With her, though, it was like a religion. She said she was born wired, an’ if she drank coffee like we did she’d probably blow up the magazine.”
Tom’s young face lit up as he laughed, but it lasted only a second or two, and in the silence his face fell once more.
“Sucks,” said Finn.
“Got that right, Chief. Sucks the big one.”
“Hey, Tom!”
A voice calling down from above.
“Yo!”
“Got a message up here for yer guest.”
Tom nodded to Finn. Time to go. “Yo!” he called up again. “Right up!” He gestured at the vertical ladder. You first.
Finn slapped one hand up onto an eye-level rung, then the other onto the next, and pulled to hoist himself up—
And to his astonishment both hands slipped off the rungs, sending him crashing to the deck.
“Whoa!” Tom cried out. He jumped back a step, then quickly bent down to help Finn to his feet. “Man, you okay?”
Finn sat on the deck for a moment. Looked at his hands, working them both, making and unmaking fists.
He couldn’t feel his fingers.
Completely numb.
It was as if they weren’t there.
“You okay, Chief?” Tom repeated, worried now.
Finn was on his feet, shaking his hands, trying to wring circulation back into them. He turned to Tom. “No problem. Hands fell asleep.”
“Okay. Wow.” Tom looked uncertain. “You sure? You good to climb?”
“No problem,” Finn repeated. He put a Tom-Sawyer-the-ordie grin on his own face to show that everything was right as rain.
Everything was not right as rain.
“Okay,” said Tom again, clearly not knowing what to do.
Finn grabbed a handhold to recommence the climb. Ignoring the painful sensation of pins and needles as his fingers started coming back to life, he willed his hands to keep enough of a grip that they would at least partially stabilize his position as he propelled his body upward with his feet. It was like doing rope climbs using only his hands, something he’d done thousands of times—only in this case using only his feet. Basically impossible. Still, he made it up the first six or seven rungs, and by then he’d got enough feeling back into his hands that they could take over their share of the effort.
When Finn finally emerged, like a tunnel rat in a prison escape movie, he found a red-shirted colleague of Tom’s standing over him.
“You’re Chief Finn?” the guy said.
Finn nodded.
“Master Chief Jackson would like to speak with you.”
Finn got to his feet, Tom coming up next to him. “Hey, thanks,” he said to Tom.
“No problem,” Tom replied. His face was still etched with suppressed alarm. Finn could see it was a struggle not to ask again, You okay?
“No problem,” Finn echoed back to the boy.
The ordie nodded, looking the opposite of reassured.
45
When Finn was ushered into the CMC’s inner office he saw the big man at his desk, a JAG officer seated to his right, sporting a golden trident at his left collarbone. Former SEAL. A mustang, probably: former enlisted man who came back through on the officer track. A prosthetic leg, judging by the drape of his trousers. Finn’s guess, the same action that took his leg also ended his SEAL career.
“C
ome in, Chief Finn,” said the master chief, but Finn was already in. The CMC rose halfway, probably meaning to gesture toward the empty chair across from him and say Please, sit or something of that nature—but Finn was already in the chair. The big man lowered himself back down into his seat.
“Chief Finn, Lieutenant Commander Scott Angler, JAG Corps,” said the master chief. “I’m Jackson.”
He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and read from it.
“BUD/S class 251, ranked first in NSW sniper school. SEAL Alpha platoon, seven tours in Iraq, Afghanistan, and I imagine a few more in places we won’t mention. DEVGRU Silver Squadron, then Black Squadron. Silver Star, Combat Action Ribbon.” He put the sheet down. “And so forth. A distinguished guest among us.”
Finn didn’t know what to say to that, so said nothing. His fingers still ached, but it was receding.
“You know what they say ‘SEAL’ stands for, Chief Finn?”
That sounded like a rhetorical question, so Finn made no reply.
“This would go better if you answered back,” the master chief said equably. “You know, back and forth. I ask something, then you offer something in reply. Call and response. Like in church.”
Finn gave a single nod, then added, “Okay.” Noticing the crayon drawings, school achievement awards, and God’s eyes. Taking the measure of the man.
“So, let’s go again. You know what they say ‘SEAL’ stands for?” the master chief repeated.
“It sounded like a rhetorical question.”
“See, there you go, Mister Finn,” said Jackson. “Back and forth. That’s what we call a ‘conversation.’ ”
“Just Finn.”
“ ’Scuse me?”
“Not Mister. Just Finn.”
“So, Finn: first name?”
“Only name.”
The command master chief stared at Finn for a moment, then half turned to the JAG officer. “Scott, I believe you were a SEAL before JAG Corps. You know what they say ‘SEAL’ stands for?”
Angler kept his eyes steady on Finn as he replied. “What’s that, Master Chief?”
“Sleep, Eat, And Lift. Only you don’t really seem to be doing any of those things, Chief Finn. If you sleep, no one’s quite sure where or when. Since your quarters seem as virginal as the day you arrived. You don’t seem to eat much. And when you hit the gym you don’t do anything except maybe piss people off.”
Jackson waited for a beat.
Finn said, “Okay.”
Jackson gave a visible sigh. “Aren’t you guys supposed to stay in shape?”
“No real point to weights on a ship.”
Jackson regarded him for a moment. “All right, not exactly an answer, but I’m feeling some flow here.” He took a sip from his coffee mug, swished the cup around a little, his eyes never leaving Finn. “And why is that?”
“It’s not a question of static strength,” said Finn. “On a ship you’ve got continuous fine movements happening around the clock. Even if you’re not aware of it, you’re making constant microadjustments. Which builds muscular strength automatically.”
The JAG officer couldn’t hold himself back. “Of what, then?” Like a challenge.
Finn glanced over at him. “Of what?”
“You said it’s not a question of static strength. So, what is it a question of?”
“Endurance. Sir.”
Finn felt hostility emanating from Angler like summer heat off a city street. Why, anyone’s guess.
Jackson glanced down at the file again. “Doesn’t say much in here about where you came from. Parents deceased. No childhood history. Like you got sprung full-grown outta the forehead of Zeus. You like a little mystery, Chief Finn?”
Finn gave no reply.
Jackson sighed again. “Yes, that was in fact a rhetorical question.” He closed the folder that contained the single sheet of paper and leaned back in his chair. “What are you doing here, Mister Finn?”
“Just—”
“Just Finn, yes, we got that. The mystery I’m interested in at this moment is why you are interrogating my crew. When you’re not spending hours at a stretch out on gun turrets staring at the horizon. Looking for answers to life’s great questions? Why is there evil in the world? What was God’s purpose in creating mosquitoes? Why do officers with perfectly good careers jump off the ships they’re serving?”
So many rhetorical questions there.
Jackson picked up his coffee cup, looked inside it, then set it down again. “What are you doing on my boat, Mister I Don’t Give a Three-Foot Shit What Your Last Name Is?”
“I can’t really say,” said Finn.
Jackson nodded. “All right. Why can’t you really say?”
“Because I don’t know.”
Jackson glared at him. “I find this hard to believe.”
Finn looked back, unblinking. “Me too.”
The big man considered that, then nodded once more, slowly. “You’re a sniper, right?” He put up a hand. “Rhetorical again.” He looked over at Angler. “You know, Commander, most people think snipers are homicidal trigger-pullers. What they don’t realize is that a sniper is first and foremost an intelligence asset. They’re not paid just to shoot. They’re paid to observe.” He swiveled his gaze back to Finn. “Am I right?”
“One hundred percent.”
“Good,” said Jackson. “I like being right.” Finn could see him trying to decide whether or not this SEAL was actively trying to piss him off. He didn’t seem like he would take the bait if the answer was yes, but Finn thought it irked him not to know. “You’ve been here for almost two weeks. What have you observed?”
Finn glanced at Angler, then back at Jackson.
“One of your corpsmen is dealing,” he said. “Crushed-up pills, probably Adderall, in little homemade envelopes. Your deck-status LSO is banging one of your Penny Press photographers. And your XO hates it when the captain calls him ‘Artie,’ but he’ll never say so, because his ambition is bigger than his ego. Rare in an officer.”
A cumulus of tension settled over the little space. Finn could feel the JAG officer bristle at that last comment.
Though he was taking care not to show it, Finn could see Jackson was impressed. He hadn’t known any of those particulars. He gazed back at Finn. “Anything else?”
“Such as?”
“Such as, anything unusual in Lieutenant Shiflin’s general comportment, the day or so before she went missing?”
“Yes.”
“Care to illuminate?”
“She’d had a hard time landing that night, on the roof. Outside her squadron’s ready room, she ran into a helicopter pilot, don’t know his name, short, olive skin, curly hair…” Testing the master chief a little, seeing if he could prod him into giving up some information, but Jackson didn’t fall for it. Now it was Finn’s turn to be impressed. “They had an exchange.”
“Any idea what about?”
“He taunted her about the run.” Now Finn modulated his voice, giving them a precision playback of Movie Star’s delivery. “ ‘You know you’re supposed to fly those things, right? Not play hopscotch with them.’ ”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Angler.
Finn’s impression was pitch-perfect, as if the helo pilot himself had just stepped into their midst.
“And she said?” queried Jackson.
Finn shook his head. “Just took it. Didn’t reply. He said more. ‘For a while there, I thought we were going to have to power up the Knighthawk and go sort through some Hornet wreckage.’ ”
The silence in Jackson’s office stretched out a good ten seconds.
The CMC hadn’t yet mentioned the hypo cap Finn had handed him up on the flight deck a few days earlier. He wondered why.
“And that was it?�
�� Jackson finally said.
“That was it.”
Jackson paused for a moment, then said, “Thank you, Chief Finn. That’ll be all, for now.” He began to rise from his chair.
But Finn didn’t move. He looked at Jackson and said, “I don’t think Schofield jumped.”
Jackson stared at him, then slowly sat back down. “Come again?”
“Schofield,” repeated Finn. “The ATO officer.”
“I know who you’re talking about,” said Jackson. “You don’t think he jumped?” He put up a hand again before Finn could reply. “Rhetorical again.” He regarded Finn through half-lidded eyes. “So, what do you think happened?”
Finn looked over at the JAG officer, then back at Jackson. “Don’t know. Maybe he was clumsy.”
And with that he rose, slipped to the door, and was gone.
46
The office was silent for a moment after the SEAL’s departure. Finally Angler spoke up. “He’s lying, obviously.”
Jackson grunted. “About what?”
The JAG officer shook his head slowly. “Don’t know. But he won’t say why he’s here, and that doesn’t pass the sniff test.”
“Says he doesn’t know himself,” mused Jackson.
“Right, well that’s obviously a pile of horseshit.”
Jackson frowned at his desktop. The SEAL was a strange one, no doubt about that. Jackson believed him, though, and that bothered him. Pissed him off, in fact. Because it makes no rational sense.
He punched a set of four digits on his J-Dial desk phone, then hit the button for speaker. After two rings the phone on the other end picked up. “Lieutenant Desai.” A woman’s voice, low and musical. Indira Desai, in Jackson’s estimation the smartest intel officer on the ship.
“Indy, Master Chief Jackson. I have Scott Angler from JAG here with me. We just spent a few minutes in the company of a SEAL, goes by Finn, no last name. Or maybe that’s Finn, no first name. Apparently rerouted here on some sort of ‘special assignment.’ ”