by Evan Graver
Henry stood. “You’re happy under a full sail on a big blue ocean. Don’t regret not making the leap. You’ve always landed on your feet, you will now. If they say they need you, then they do.”
“You remember me telling you about Greg Olsen?”
“He knew the risks and so do you.”
Ryan gazed out at the forest of aluminum sailboat masts and the sea of gleaming sportfishers, trawlers, and cruisers. A handful of garishly painted offshore high-performance Cigarette-style boats hunched like sleek greyhounds at the starting gate. He loved the big go-fast boats, but for distance and cruising offshore, he’d take a sail any day.
“Thanks, Henry.”
The brogue was back. “Ryan, me lad, you’ve nothing to thank me for. You already knew what you was doin’. Ádh mór.” He wished Ryan good luck as he extended his hand.
Chapter Six
Stationed outside the door to DWR’s inner sanctum was a well-dressed woman in her fifties. Muriel Johnson had worked for the company longer than any other employee, save for Clifford Olsen. She had started as a secretary at age eighteen and knew the ins and outs of the business almost better than the Olsens.
“Good to see you,” Muriel said when Ryan walked up to her desk. “Greg is expecting you. It will just be a few minutes.” Her warm emerald eyes flashed with amusement. She was a favorite of anyone who came through the company. She always had a smile and a welcoming greeting. “Have a seat.” She pointed to the chairs in the waiting room.
Ryan stepped to the coffee maker and poured himself a cup of black coffee. He sipped at the steaming brew. It was strong and smooth. He carried the cup to a chair, took a seat, and pulled out his phone to look at his messages. There was a text from his brother, giving him grief for leaving the remodeling project when it was halfway done and forcing him to pick up the slack.
The phone on Muriel’s desk buzzed and she answered it. She glanced up at Ryan then hung up the phone. “Mr. Weller.”
Ryan was already standing and had slipped his phone into the pocket of his suit jacket. He smoothed the tie of his dark blue Brooks Brothers suit and followed the secretary through a door and down a hallway. He hated this suit. He’d bought it for his sister’s wedding and decided to wear it on this job interview. The tie felt like a garrote, threatening to suffocate him. He should have worn his cargo shorts and flip flops. This suit put an end to one of his favorite diving jokes. The only suit I have is a wet suit.
He searched for exits and possible threats. Old habits died hard.
Muriel opened a door and motioned him in. Ryan stepped into a well-appointed office. Dark hardwood flooring ran to floor-to-ceiling windows, which overlooked the docks fronting Industrial Canal. A large desk anchored the room at the far end. On the wall opposite the desk were three large flat-screen televisions. From left to right they displayed sports, news, and weather. The first two Ryan hadn’t cared about in a long time, although he’d developed an affinity for college football since hanging around with Greg. Even then he didn’t follow it with regularity. The weather was always important to a sailor. Two chairs faced the front of the desk and Cliff Olsen sat on a sofa opposite the windows.
Ryan walked over to Greg, who had wheeled out from behind the desk. The two men gripped each other’s hands in a contest of strength. Ryan snorted to ease the pain in his hand. Greg had caught his fingers and was mashing them together. He grinned down at his friend. “You need to have your grandpa teach you how to shake like a man, LT.” Ryan used an enlisted man’s term synonymous for lieutenant.
“Hands like vise grips.” Greg flexed his fingers. “How you been?”
“Ready for some action.” Ryan glanced over at Cliff.
“Good. Sorry to keep you waiting,” Greg said. “Not everyone in the shop knows we do clandestine work.”
“No problem.” Ryan held up his cup of coffee. “Your secretary makes some good joe.”
“Grandpa trained her right.”
Ryan observed his old friend. His brown hair was short to the scalp and his gray eyes shone with delight at reuniting with his fellow teammate. The man’s shoulders and arms had thickened from constant upper body activity. His gray polo shirt had a brass diving helmet with the words Dark Water arching over it and the word Research under it. The shirt was taut across his torso and swelled around his biceps in what their dive instructors had referred to as “beach muscles.”
Ryan turned to Cliff and shook his hand.
“Glad you could make it, son.”
“Glad to be back in the game, sir.”
“Sir,” Cliff harrumphed. “I work for a living.”
Greg said, “Let’s go upstairs. I’ve got a couple of guys I want you to meet.”
Ryan watched as Greg used his thick arms to propel his wheelchair across the room. The blue jeans he wore couldn’t hide his atrophied legs.
At the door, Greg stopped and pointed to a picture Ryan hadn’t noticed earlier. “Remember that shot?”
Ryan stepped over to the photo and looked at the EOD team in desert tan camouflage, wearing full battle rattle: eighty pounds of body armor, EOD kit, packs, helmets, ammunition, side arms, and rifles. Ryan picked out his own image, holding an M4 by the pistol grip with the collapsible stock resting on his hip. Sunglasses hid his eyes. Greg stood next to him with his gun hanging from a three-point sling across his chest. Around them, three more men and one woman squatted, kneeled, or stood holding their weapons. A bunch of smiling, cocky ‘dirt sailors,’ ⸻the nickname given to naval personal who served in the desert.
A sadness crept over Ryan. “Afghanistan, the day before you got hurt.”
Greg nodded and shoved his chair out of the room. Ryan and Cliff followed him down the hall to an elevator.
“We added this when Greg came home,” Cliff said as they gathered in the lift car. “About five years ago, we bought this hangar from the Corpus Christi Navy base. We moved it up here and turned it into a state-of-the-art management facility.”
The elevator doors opened onto a rooftop deck. Several picnic tables sat under a canopy beside a large, outdoor kitchen.
Greg wheeled under the extended picnic table top. Ryan and Cliff sat down across from two other men. Greg made introductions. The first was Jerry DiMarco, a stout black man of medium height. His bald head glistened with perspiration and his massive arms made Greg’s look puny. DiMarco was a former Navy SEAL who now ran DWR’s diver training, utilizing a two-story dive tank built into a corner of DWR’s building. He tested all divers on underwater welding, cutting, and fabrication to keep them current on certifications and procedures. He promised to bring Ryan current on qualifications.
The second man, Floyd Landis, was in his fifties. He’d let a once solid body go soft around the edges. He wore his steel-gray hair in a brush cut, and his watery blue eyes highlighted what was otherwise a bland face. Ryan suspected he’d bought his wrinkled suit off the rack at Macy’s. Landis acted as the liaison between DWR and the Department of Homeland Security. DWR and DHS worked jointly on maritime security issues in and around the waters of the United States.
“Ryan,” Greg began. “We called you in to help run our government-assigned ops. We get these little jobs because the government doesn’t have the time or the means to investigate them. They fall into our laps, and since we like our legitimate government contracts, we do these favors for them.”
Ryan nodded. He’d suspected something of this nature.
Landis cleared his throat. “When Greg informed me that he wanted you on board, I ran a background check. You’re former EOD.”
DiMarco’s suspicious expression cleared as he listened to Ryan’s credentials. He, like anyone who worked with special operations, understood that Navy Explosive Ordnance Disposal was one of the military’s toughest programs, a grueling year-long course consisting of diving, ordnance disposal, parachuting, small-unit tactics, and firearms training.
Once through the course, the physical conditioning and the education conti
nued so EOD techs could stay abreast of the latest technology and enemy tactics. They operated in the harshest environments to disarm and dispose of all manner of explosive devices, from car bombs to underwater mines.
“Yes, sir,” Ryan answered.
Landis continued. “A silver star and two purple hearts. Then you got out and worked for your father’s construction company.”
Ryan pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it. He avoided talking about his battle scars. Sweat trickled down his back. The early May afternoon was in the eighties. From his vantage point at the table, he could see the five-mile-long dike extending into Galveston Bay, built to protect the Port of Texas shipping channel. Far off in the haze, in the other direction, he could see the Galveston high-rises.
“Am I boring you, Mr. Weller?” Landis asked.
“No, sir. I know what’s in the file, so does Greg. If Mr. DiMarco wants to read it, let him.”
Landis closed the file and stared at Ryan. “You and I will be working closely together, Ryan. We need to have a good rapport. For Jerry’s benefit and for Cliff’s, I was letting them know you’re a highly skilled operative, and I, for one, am impressed. You worked on the Joint IED Task Force in Iraq to determine where the builders of the IEDs were obtaining their materials and then used those materials to track them down and put them and their pipeline sources out of business.”
“Fat lot of good it did us,” Ryan said bitterly.
“Why? Your record with the task force was superb. You guys shut down several major builders.”
Ryan pointed his cigarette at Landis. “We busted our asses to get that intel. We’d put one guy out of business, and two more would pop up. It was like playing whack-a-mole. Notations in files and joint service ribbons and letters of accommodation mean nothing when those bombers are killing and injuring our guys.”
“I know you were with Greg when he was injured,” Landis said in a quiet voice. “He told me about your actions that day as well. You saved a lot of lives. We’re not here to rehash old business or pick at scabs. Greg recommended you for this job. I’ve got no qualms about him hiring you, but if you can’t keep a level head, you might be better off building houses.”
Ryan took a final draw from his cigarette, pulling the cherry all the way to the thin blue line circling the paper just forward of the filter. He stubbed it out in an ashtray full of butts he knew were Cliff’s brand of choice. “I’m capable of keeping a level head, Mr. Landis. I’m disgruntled with the politicians who feel the military-industrial complex is their personal play toy.”
Landis nodded. “I was an Army Ranger, myself, back in the eighties. Jumped into Grenada. I left the Army and became a cop in Las Vegas, then worked my way up to detective and got noticed by the FBI. Later, I converted to Homeland. I understand your frustration all too well.”
“What do you say, Ryan?” Greg asked. “You made the trip over here. Want the job?”
“What will I be doing? Sounds like you get the grunt work dumped on you. Are you the outhouse for the alphabet agencies?”
“No.” Landis shook his head. “These are jobs we need done but for one reason or another, can’t do ourselves. Take this one for instance.” He opened another file folder. “There’s been a rash of sailboat thefts in the Gulf of Mexico. They’re taking place outside our maritime boundary. We have a treaty with Mexico to establish our individual boundaries in the Gulf; however, they’re easily blurred. We try not to infringe on our neighbor’s rights. In these instances, we send in people, such as yourself, to investigate the crimes. Mexico doesn’t care about a little piracy in their waters.”
“Are the sailors being killed or kidnapped?”
“Both, and we suspect the boats are being used to smuggle weapons or drugs into the country.”
Ryan asked, “Do you have evidence of this?”
Landis turned the folder, so Ryan could see them. He continued while Ryan leafed through the pages and looked at the pictures. Landis reached over and tapped the picture of a sailboat. “The Coast Guard captured this guy in Bayou Sale Bay, headed for a little place called Burns Point Park in Louisiana. They found a hold full of guns, cash, and explosives.”
“Any idea who’s behind the thefts?” Greg asked.
“No,” Landis said. “The men on the boat were Hispanic.”
“What happened to the owners?” Ryan asked.
Landis shrugged. “No idea.”
Greg cut in as Ryan lit another cigarette. “If Ryan takes this job, you’ll be in luck. The man’s an accomplished sailor. He spent two years circumnavigating the globe.”
Ryan looked over at DiMarco, who hadn’t said a word. “What’s your place in this?”
“I helped Allen Olsen run government ops.” His voice was deep, reminding Ryan of the actor Michael Clarke Duncan. “I’m available to help, but my focus now is on training”
Greg picked up on DiMarco’s cue. “That being said, Ryan, I want you to look for a partner. Someone you’re compatible with and has other skill sets besides what you bring to the table.”
Ryan nodded. In the Navy, they’d operated in teams of two—swim buddies. It would be nice to have someone to cover his six. “I’ll come up with a list.”
“You haven’t answered the pertinent question,” Cliff said. “Will you take the job?”
All eyes swiveled to stare at Ryan.
“Yeah, I’ll take it.”
“Great!” Greg clapped his old friend on the back. “Now, let me have one of those cancer sticks.”
Ryan pulled the pack of Camel Blues from his pocket and tossed it on the table.
Greg extracted one and examined it. He looked up at the other men. “I never smoked before joining the Navy.” He shook his head in memory of a different time. “Cigarettes, Red Bull, coffee, and nonalcoholic beer got us through fourteen- to eighteen-hour days in Iraq and Afghanistan. I think everyone except the fobbits smoked or chewed.”
Greg’s use of fobbit drew blank stares from Landis and DiMarco.
“Fobbit,” Greg explained, “is a guy who never leaves the safety of the FOB, or forward operating base. It’s a cross between Tolkin’s hobbit and… never mind.” He waved a hand in dismissal.
“Sorry to interrupt you guys.”
Everyone turned to see a woman in khaki capris and a dark blue DWR polo shirt walking toward them. She smiled at Greg, who gave her a grin. Ryan glanced from his friend to the woman and back again. It was clear Greg had fallen in love.
Greg motioned her over to the table. She stopped beside Greg and put her arm around his shoulders. Greg introduced her as Shelly Hughes, DWR’s chief operating officer and his girlfriend. Ryan nodded to her.
Shelly pulled her brunette hair into a ponytail and asked Greg, “When did you start smoking?”
“A long time ago. I quit after I got hurt. I’m just enjoying one with our newest employee.”
Shelly tilted her head and gave Ryan a look he translated to mean, don’t be a bad influence. She patted Greg’s shoulder and said, “I came up to start lunch.”
“I almost forgot.” Greg looked at his watch.
Shelly walked over to the grill and busied herself with cleaning and lighting it.
“Does she know about your DHS ops?” Ryan asked.
“Yes.” Greg let smoke out of his lungs as he spoke. “When we made her COO, we brought her into the loop. She has to know when we allocate resources to certain missions.”
Cliff stood and stubbed out his cigarette. “You staying for lunch, Floyd?”
“No. I need to get back to the office.” He slid the file over to Ryan. “This is what we have so far. Keep me in the loop.”
“Yes, sir,” Ryan replied.
Landis stood. “Good day, gentlemen.” He straightened his suit coat and headed for the elevator.
“I’m going to help Shelly with lunch,” DiMarco said, rising from the table.
“I’ll join you,” Cliff said.
Ryan and Greg sat alone at
the table, smoking.
Ryan broke the silence. “Sorry about your folks.”
“Thanks.” Greg stared off into space.
“Do you have an office I can work from?” Ryan changed the topic to avoid the uncomfortable subject of Greg losing both parents in such a senseless and tragic way. Compounded with his injuries, life had handed Greg Olsen the short straw.
Greg zoned back in and finished his cigarette. He pushed back from the table and called to Shelly, “Do you need help with lunch?”
“No, we got it,” she replied.
Greg turned back to Ryan. “We serve lunch for our employees every Friday. Whoever’s in port or around the office gets fed hot dogs, hamburgers, and brats. Just our way of showing appreciation, and it gets everyone together to network and socialize.”
Ryan followed Greg to the elevator and stepped inside.
“Where are you staying?” Greg asked as the elevator descended.
“Holiday Inn Express on Galveston Beach.”
“I have a house on Tiki Island. You’re welcome to move in with me.”
“I’d like to bring my sailboat over and find a marina near here.”
“You could park it in DWR’s marina,” Greg said. He wheeled out of the elevator. “We keep a Hatteras GT63 there for sportfishing and running around the Gulf. We could clear a berth beside it for your boat. Like I said, until you bring it over, you’re welcome at the house.”
“Thanks,” Ryan said.
“Dad ran DHS ops from a small, commercial, office space not far from here. I’ll have you follow me there.”
They maneuvered through the massive interior of the DWR hangar and exited into the parking lot. Greg led the way to a bright blue Chevrolet SS sedan. Ryan watched Greg throw his legs into the car and then slide into the leather seat. Greg removed the wheels and cushion from the wheelchair, tossed them into the backseat, folded down the chair’s backrest, and drew the chair frame across his chest and into the car before resting it on the front passenger seat.