by David Bruns
The computer gave off a soft ping and the bold letters of a new email showed up at the top of his inbox. The header said “undeliverable message.” He opened the message and scrolled past the meaningless text to the link at the bottom of the screen.
The link took him to a one-time-use chatroom, with a countdown timer in the lower right corner. The space was active for only five minutes, then it would be wiped off both computers.
He watched the cursor blink at the top of the blank screen.
Are you there? he typed.
Two agonizing minutes went by.
Yes.
I know about the situation at home.
I’m sorry for your loss.
So it’s true, she’s gone?
Yes. I confirmed this just two hours ago.
I must go back.
Absolutely not. Remain in place.
Rafiq looked at the timer. Less than a minute remained.
I need to make funeral arrangements.
I will take care of it. You must stay.
Fifteen seconds.
Rafiq clenched his teeth together so hard he heard ringing in his ears. I understand, he typed.
The timer ran to zero and the screen closed automatically. The computer rebooted itself and ran a program to remove all traces of the chatroom event.
But he didn’t understand. Seven years he had done what his brother—half brother, he reminded himself—had asked of him. Without question. Now his own mother, his true flesh and blood, was dead, and his half brother expected him to sit on his ass in South America drinking wine and riding horses while his boyhood home was attacked by the Sunnis.
He reached into the drawer and pulled out the last letter he had received from her. It was dated three months ago. Their communications were sporadic, mostly letters hand-delivered through the Lebanese Arab network. He leafed through the spidery handwriting to the last page. His mother had always been an artist. He had sent her a snapshot of her grandchildren, and she had reproduced the picture in pencil for him, just as she used to draw Rafiq when he was young.
He traced the outline of the drawing with his finger. The anger and the grief settled in his chest, making it hard to breathe. Hot tears stung his eyes.
There was a knock at the study door. Rafiq took a deep breath to compose himself. He stored the codebook in the safe before he opened the door to the study. Jamil and Farid stood in the hall, worry written on their faces.
“It’s true,” he said.
The brothers exchanged glances. They were from the same village as Rafiq. He knew what they were about to ask him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. The brothers’ eyes fell to the floor. “Only one of you may return home to make arrangements.” The twins looked up, surprised. Rafiq smiled to himself. Fuck his half brother and his stupid mission. Hashem had told him he was not allowed to return to Arsal. He said nothing about the brothers.
“I will go,” Farid said. It was clear that the twins had already decided this in advance.
Rafiq nodded, and he embraced each man before they left.
Nadine waited for him in the hallway. Her face was white and drawn, making her dark eyes look even larger.
“My love,” she said, opening her arms. “I am so sorry.”
Rafiq buried his face in her shoulder and cried.
CHAPTER 29
Naval Station, Annapolis, Maryland
21 November 2014 – 1700 local
Brendan held his breath as the mast lifted free of the Arrogant.
The crane operator halted the lift when another gust of November wind whipped in off the Chesapeake Bay. The shipyard worker tending the line leaned back to counter the force of the stiff breeze. The mast steadied.
Slowly, moving inches at a time, they landed the butt end of the mast into the customized holder and lowered the top end down into a waiting cradle.
Brendan expelled a long breath.
“You and me both, sir,” said the man to his left. Chief Petty Officer Timothy Scott, aka Scottie, rubbed his hands together. In the military, with a name like Scott, you were invariably connected to the iconic Star Trek character. He affected a Scottish accent. “I’ll have a wee look inside tonight, sir, and see what’s the problem with the blasted receiver.”
“Scottie,” Brendan replied, “we’ve talked about this. No ‘sirs’ around here.”
Scottie blushed. “Sorry, skipper—Brendan—won’t happen again. Old habits, you know.”
“I know, Scottie. Don’t I know it.” It was true. Although he still retained his commission as a naval officer and had even been promoted to Lieutenant Commander, the idea of forgoing naval etiquette had hit him harder than he’d expected. The fact that the Naval Academy was visible across the windswept Severn didn’t make it any easier. So many memories, some of them even military.
He shifted the conversation back to work topics. “I just hope you can fix this thing. Having to order a new mast will completely screw up our schedule.”
They watched the long mast being driven away slowly toward the secure hangar. The fifty-four-foot Arrogant—she would be the largest of the Minnow fleet—looked strangely small and denuded without the pole towering over her deck.
The mast was probably one of the most advanced pieces of electronic surveillance equipment in the world. Built into the aluminum structure was a host of receivers designed to pluck any electronic transmission out of the air. Without a functional mast, the Arrogant was basically just another sailboat full of millions of dollars of worthless electronics.
“Don’t worry, Brendan,” Scottie assured him. “If anyone can fix her, it’s me. She’ll be good as new by Monday morning. This will not impact our date with the IO.”
Brendan took comfort in the fact that Scottie’s assurance had a basis in fact. As part of the Feisty Minnow program, Baxter had insisted that at least one crew member personally build each piece of specialty equipment. Scottie was their mast expert. He’d spent six months at Raytheon and at Fort Meade building and testing two masts. In fact, Scottie’s new design was so good the other sailboats in the secret fleet would be refitted with the new mast as soon as Baxter found the budget for it.
Brendan checked his watch. Another fifteen minutes and he needed to leave to change before dinner at Marjorie’s. The thought of seeing Liz again—and Don, he reminded himself, Don would be there, too—made him excited and nervous at the same time.
Easy, Tiger. She’s a married woman now.
He brought himself back to the moment. Time to check in with Rick. He pulled out his phone and thumbed through the speed dial until he found the number.
“Baxter.”
“Hi, Rick. It’s Brendan. I wanted to let you know we had to pull the mast again. The high-band receiver is still acting funky. Scottie says he’s sure he can fix it this weekend and have it replaced on Monday.”
“Hmmm. Well, if anyone can fix it, it’s Scottie. You’re lucky to have him.”
“You can say that again,” Brendan replied. He hesitated. “What about the rest of the crew? How’s that looking?”
Recruiting for Brendan’s team had been slow. Besides Scottie, they had only one other tech to run the specialized equipment, and time was running out. The Arrogant and her crew were scheduled to deploy to the Indian Ocean—the IO—in March. Brendan mentally ran through the list of major items that needed to be fixed between now and then, and that didn’t even include shakedown cruises and live testing of the receivers before they left. He shivered. Sailing the Chesapeake in January and February was not for the faint of heart.
Baxter made a snorting noise. “I’ll get you candidates as soon as I have them, Brendan. If you didn’t keep rejecting them, you’d have a full crew by now.”
Brendan held his tongue. Their IO deployment was planned for eighteen months, and he wanted to make damn sure he was bringing on a crew that wouldn’t kill each other during that time. Baxter thought he was being too picky.
“Anyway,” Baxter con
tinued, “I’m sending another over on Monday. Ex-Navy gal turned analyst, USNA Class of 2007. Name’s Magdalena Ambrose. Smart as a whip and she’s done embedded tours in Afghanistan and Iraq, too. Might fit the bill.”
Brendan’s hopes rose. The double combination of Naval Academy graduate and field experience gave him confidence that Magdalena—he hoped she went by Maggie, because her full name was a mouthful—would work out.
“I hope so, Rick. I’m getting worried about the schedule.” Getting electronics experts who didn’t look like electronics experts was a major part of the job description. If they were supposed to be rich dilettantes, they needed to look and act the part.
“Son, that’s why you get paid the big bucks—so you can worry about the schedule and I can go home early on Friday night. Speaking of which, don’t you have a date tonight?”
Brendan sputtered. “What? How did you know about that? And, anyway, it’s not a date. It’s a couple of Academy friends having an early Thanksgiving dinner—”
“I don’t know, Brendan. Master Chief says she’s hot.”
“She might be, but she’s also married.”
Baxter’s voice took on a teasing tone. “C’mon, Brendan, a woman has a right to change her mind.”
“Not this woman, Rick. Once she does something, it’s for good. I had my chance a long time ago, and I blew it. End of story.”
“Well, have a good time, all the same.” Baxter laughed.
Brendan ended the call, gritting his teeth. The Master Chief had found out about Liz when Don visited one afternoon in the summer. Now all the old man wanted to talk about was Brendan’s “Navy gurl,” as he called her.
The teasing had gotten out of hand; he needed to talk to the Master Chief about it. He hurried to his locker to get his coat. When he opened the door, a white bottle of Old Spice aftershave sat on the top shelf.
A deep gravelly laugh came from behind him. “I figured you needed to call out the big guns for your date tonight with your Navy gurl, sir. So I got you a little present.”
Brendan whirled around to face the Master Chief. A wide smile wreathed the old man’s face. He reached out to pat Brendan’s arm. “Just joshin’ you, sir. Have a good time tonight with your friend.” He walked out the door with his peculiar rolling gait, leaving Brendan somewhere between speechless and touched.
Traffic on the bridge was heavy heading back into Annapolis. He cut off Route 450 and made his way onto the back roads, passing the back gate of the Naval Academy and setting off another round of nostalgia.
He maneuvered into the narrow streets of old town and found a lucky parking spot on the street. Brendan took the stairs two at a time up to his apartment, feeling the twinge in his knee as he did so. The joint had healed enough that he could run now, but like the ortho doctor had said, his knee had nowhere near the same strength as before.
The apartment was the size of a closet and cost more than he could afford, but he liked living in the old town section of Annapolis. He took a quick shower in the tiny stall and burrowed into his closet for some fresh clothes. After a few trips to the mirror, he settled on a pair of khakis, a crisp white shirt, and a blue blazer. Pretty much what a Navy guy would wear when out of uniform. Screw it, it’s just dinner.
He jogged to the end of the street and picked up a bouquet of flowers for Marjorie. The traffic was just as heavy going back over the bridge, and he arrived a few minutes late. A new BMW was already parked in Marjorie’s driveway. Don must have gotten a new car; Liz would be driving a rental.
The walk to the front door brought back more memories of being a midshipman—and his June Week mistake with Liz. He shook his head. He’d be glad when they finally deployed and he could move on with his life. By hanging around the Academy and all its memories, he was turning into a maudlin loser.
He paused at the front door. In the old days, he would have just walked in and called out to Marjorie, but that was a long time ago. The rules had changed.
Just as he reached for the brass knocker, the door opened.
* * *
Liz took a long sip of her Chardonnay. She put the glass down. Go easy, you need a clear head, girl.
She noticed Marjorie was watching her, her eyebrows raised expectantly.
“I’m sorry, Marjorie. I spaced out for a moment. What were you saying?”
Marjorie smiled at her. “He’ll be here soon. You know Bren, always a few minutes late. It’s a wonder that boy made it through Plebe Year at the Academy.”
Liz colored. “I’m not—I wasn’t—it will be nice to see him again.” She took another sip of wine. They’d helped each other make it through Plebe Year. They’d just been friends then, of course, but theirs had been a partnership, the kind of partnership that should have lasted—if only she’d given it a fighting chance.
She looked down at her left hand. The engagement ring and matching wedding band sparkled up at her. Her conscience prickled, and she covered the rings with her other hand.
James was kind, attentive, a good partner. Sure, he worked too much, but what successful person building his career these days didn’t work too much? She didn’t even need to work and she worked too much. Besides, their extended separations actually helped their marriage by letting her see his good qualities anew each time they reconnected.
But for all James’s many good qualities, he lacked the one she needed the most: Liz did not love him.
What is wrong with me?
Liz took another sip of wine. The sound of a car crunching down the gravel drive got her attention, and her heart gave a little jump.
“Why don’t you get the door, Liz?” Marjorie’s silver-gray hair gleamed as she jerked her chin toward the front of the house. She smiled. “Just remember, it might be Don.”
Liz stepped into the front hall and smoothed her skirt over her thighs. She’d selected this outfit carefully: a plum-colored pencil skirt that hugged her in all the right places and a creamy silk blouse, open at the neck, that did wonderful things for the olive tone of her skin.
She could hear him on the porch, waiting. She took a deep breath and pulled the door open.
His dark hair was still wet from a recent shower, his face leaner than the last time she’d seen him.
“Bren . . . hi,” she said. Her voice sounded breathy to her ears, as if she was gasping for air.
Brendan was having his own troubles. She felt his eyes sweep over her and he swallowed hard. He pointed over his shoulder at the BMW. “The car . . . I thought . . . Don.”
Liz gave an embarrassed laugh. “Yeah, even though the FBI rents me a car for work, James—my husband—insists that I drive a BMW when I travel for more than a day or two. He’s like that.” She winced as she said it. Why bring up James in the first sentence?
“Come here, you big lug. Give me a hug.” She stepped into him, burying her face into his shoulder. The scent of him took her back to a simpler time, a time when she’d felt more in control, happier. His arms circled her, completing the feeling. “I’ve missed you,” she whispered.
Brendan didn’t say anything. Behind her, the phone rang and she used that as an opportunity to break their embrace.
Liz stepped away and snatched the flowers from his grip. “I’ll put these in water.”
She took time in the laundry room to compose herself before she reentered the kitchen.
“Don called,” Marjorie announced. “He says he’ll be late and to start without him.” She nodded to the stack of plates and silverware on the counter. “Would you and Bren set the table for me, please?”
Brendan seemed anxious to keep the table between them while they laid out plates and silverware. Then Marjorie called out for him to carve the turkey and Liz to carry the food in. She poured the wine while he carved the bird, and before she knew it, they were seated for dinner and Brendan had not said another word to her.
Marjorie sat at the head of the table, flanked by Liz and Brendan. Brendan raised his glass toward Mark’s picture on the w
all. “To absent friends,” he said, with a catch in his voice. They all took a sip of wine.
Marjorie wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I still miss him so . . .” She took a deep breath and sat up in her chair. “But enough of that—Liz, tell me about the FBI.”
“Well, I’m with JTTF in LA—”
“English, please. I’m a civilian, Liz,” Marjorie cautioned.
Liz laughed. “Okay, JTTF is the Joint Terrorism Task Force. We lead a multiagency group in charge of responding to any sort of terrorism threat. I—we—took the assignment because of James’s work.” She looked at Brendan. “My husband’s a maxillofacial surgeon at Cedars-Sinai in LA. He travels a lot, so we don’t get much time together.”
“Anyway,” she continued, “I’m just glad I was in DC for this little shindig, Marje. James is in South America for the next month, so this is my Thanksgiving.”
Marjorie looked over at Brendan. “And what about you, Bren? How’s the knee?”
“Good enough for government work, I guess,” Brendan said. “I’m over at the naval station, refitting sailboats for the Academy sailing team.”
Liz shot him a meaningful look. “Nice work if you can get it, I guess.” She didn’t believe for a moment that a decorated SEAL was a Program Manager for refitting sailboats, but she knew better than to ask.
Liz took another sip of wine and relaxed, letting the sound of Marjorie’s voice flow over her as she told a Mark story, one they’d heard a hundred times before. Brendan laughed at the expected punchline, a deep belly laugh. With a pang, Liz realized she didn’t laugh much anymore.
“Liz?”
She jolted in her seat. “I’m sorry. What?”
Marjorie smiled at her. “I’m going to clear the table. How about you take Brendan into the study and pour some drinks, please?”