by Jake Bible
They had always stayed in touch, talking almost weekly. So when Darren came to Gunnar with his wild story of seeing a creature that couldn’t exist, the friends took up where they left off. It was as if the ocean became their new neighborhood and they started to compete in a new way. Instead of sports and cars, they competed with who had the most faith in their mission; who had the most drive to see it through.
Darren was heart stricken to have to tell Gunnar that they both just lost.
“You want to kill me?” Darren asked, sitting next to Gunnar at the edge of the dock. He glanced at the Buck knife Gunnar twirled between the fingers of his right hand like a drummer showing off with his stick.
“Nah,” Gunnar said, “too much work. I’m exhausted.”
“Me too,” Darren said. “Sucking ass is hard work.”
“But you’re so good at it,” Gunnar said, finally turning to look at his old friend. “One might say you even excel at sucking.”
“Harsh.”
“Wrong?”
“No,” Darren said, shaking his head, “I do excel at the suckage.”
They looked out at the water, both struggled to bring to words what they felt.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Darren said, “I promise.”
“Don’t,” Gunnar said.
“What? Make it up to you?”
“Promise,” Gunnar said. “It’s one you know you can’t keep.”
“Jesus, man,” Darren said, “why you gotta hate?”
“I could stab,” Gunnar said as he flipped the knife from his fingers and into his palm, the blade reversed so his thumb rested on the end of the handle. While he didn’t do it in a threatening way, the action implied the blade should have been placed to Darren’s throat.
Blade games. Another of their competitions.
But Gunnar kept the blade close to his mid-section, and then lowered his hand into his lap, any aggression he had felt floated away on the sea breeze.
“What really sucks is they didn’t let me grab my binders,” Gunnar said. “I have my drives, so that’s good. But all my binders with my sketches are still on the Hooyah.”
“I’ll get those back,” Darren said. “That’s a promise I can keep.”
Gunnar let out a short bark of a laugh. “Well, then everything is going to be just fine,” he said. “Thanks, man.”
Darren clapped him on the shoulder and then stood up. “Okay, no more moping. Let’s go get shit faced.”
“Who’s buying?” Lake asked from a few feet away. The rest of the crew was right behind him. “Wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, just wanted to make sure you two didn’t kill each other.”
“Good call,” Gunnar said as he took Darren’s offered hand and stood up. “Looks like I’m buying. Yay to a trust fund.”
“Is that trust fund hiring?” Popeye asked.
“Doesn’t work that way, Pop,” Gunnar said, “I’ve explained that to you a million times.”
“Then what’s the point of the damn thing?” Popeye asked. “It just gives you money? You don’t work for it? More like lazy fund.”
Half the crew snorted; Gunnar didn’t mind, he was used to it.
“Wouldn’t happen to have enough to buy a new boat, would you?” Bach asked.
“Doesn’t work that way either,” Gunnar said, “smart ass.”
“So…drinks?” Darren asked. “Who has the van keys?”
The crew all looked at each other, and then looked at Lake.
“Shit,” Lake said, looking out into the dark water, “they’re on the Hooyah.”
“Nice,” Darren says, “who knows how to hotwire?”
Everyone raised their hands, including Darren.
“That’s why I love you guys,” Darren said, then took off running, the migraine easing up finally. “Last one to the van is designated driver!”
The race was a great way to let off steam; all the crew loved a good competition. But it backfired as soon as they hit the parking lot.
“Where’s the van?” Beau asked. “Who moved it? I parked it here this morning after picking up groceries.”
They all looked at the almost empty parking lot, and then turned to Darren.
“Shit,” he said, “I thought the van was paid off.”
“Son of a bitch,” Bach said, pointing his stump at Darren. “What the hell, Captain?”
A horn honked twice, and then headlights blinked on across the parking lot. The crew watched as a brand new Ford passenger van with tinted windows pulled up in front of them. Ballantine’s driver got out, walked around to the side, and opened the double doors, gesturing for them to get in. The passenger’s window rolled down and Mr. Ballantine was smiling at them.
“Hello, gentlemen,” Mr. Ballantine said, “I figured you’d need a lift so I went and got my van. Care to hop in?”
“Man, you don’t take fuck off for an answer, do you?” Darren said, the crew all looking from him to Ballantine and back.
“I said I’d be seeing you soon,” Mr. Ballantine said, “and a good thing since you seem to be missing your ride.”
Darren just glared, so Ballantine shifted his focus to the crew.
“Who’s up for a drink or two?” The men just stood there. “I’m buying. And when I say a drink or two, I mean as much as you can hold.”
“I’m in,” Cougher said.
“Yep, me too,” Jennings said.
They both hopped into the van, giving Ballantine’s driver lecherous grins. She ignored them.
“Anyone else?” Mr. Ballantine asked.
“By as much as I can hold, do you mean before I puke or after I rally and start drinking again?” Popeye asked.
“Drinker’s choice,” Mr. Ballantine said.
Popeye slapped Darren on the shoulder and got in also. He was quickly followed by the rest of the crew, leaving Darren standing on the curb with Gunnar.
“Something I should know about this guy?” Gunnar asked. “Is he going to ass rape me if I get in there?”
“I don’t know him,” Darren said. “Never saw him until tonight when he started getting all stalker cryptic with me.”
“You going to try to touch my swimsuit area?” Gunnar asked Mr. Ballantine.
“Would you like me to?” Mr. Ballantine asked.
The crew all leaned forward and stared at Gunnar.
“Not tonight,” Gunnar said, “but I’ll let you buy me a drink. I need one. Or ten.”
“Whatever,” Darren said as he followed Gunnar into the van.
The driver shut the doors and quickly walked around front. She opened the driver’s door and pulled herself into the seat in one fluid motion, and Darren couldn’t help notice how well she carried herself.
“Where’d you serve?” Darren asked.
“Darby doesn’t speak much until she gets to know you,” Mr. Ballantine said, turning in his seat so he could face Darren and the rest. “But she has spent some time with the Institute.”
“Israel?” Gunnar asked, leaning forward towards Darby. She slowly turned her head and Gunnar quickly backed off, unable to read her eyes behind the dark sunglasses.
“A little time in Mossad,” Mr. Ballantine replied, “until I obtained the privilege of her services.”
“Mossad is intelligence,” Darren said as Darby turned her head back around, put the van in drive, and pulled away from the curb. “You’re trained for more than that.”
“Yes,” Mr. Ballantine said, turning back around also, “she is.”
They were all silent for a minute, wondering what they’d gotten themselves into.
***
“There’s a bar just up the---,” Cougher started to say, but was cut off.
“road and on the left,” Mr. Ballantine said. “Yes, I’ve watched you all frequent it often when in port.”
“We are so getting ass raped,” Gunnar said.
Mr. Ballantine laughed heartily, his hands slapping the dashboard.
“Mr. Peterson, please,” Mr. Ballantine s
aid. “You are not going to get ass raped. I have business to discuss with all of you. I think you’ll be quite happy with what I have to offer.”
“No ass rape?” Popeye asked.
“Disappointed?” Jennings asked, elbowing Popeye.
“Cram it, dickhead,” Popeye said.
The van slowed and pulled into the small parking lot of a bar that looked more like a rundown shack than a drinking establishment. A neon sign in the window blinked erratically.
“The Plank,” Mr. Ballantine said, “Quaint.”
Darby stopped the van, got out, and opened the side doors.
“Wait here, please, Darby,” Mr. Ballantine said, “but keep in touch.”
Darby nodded and went back to the driver’s side once the van was unloaded of its confused and wary passengers.
“Drink what we want and it’s all on you?” Bach asked. “No tricks?”
“What tricks could I pull?” Mr. Ballantine asked. “Drinks on me, gentlemen! Have fun!”
The crew whooped and whistled as they barreled through the door. Lake hung back, but Darren nodded to him and he followed after the rest, leaving Darren, Gunnar, and Mr. Ballantine standing in the parking lot as Darby drove off to park and wait with the van.
“Before we go in I want your story,” Darren said. “No more cloak and dagger cocking bullshit. Play me straight or you don’t walk away from this parking lot.”
“Always straight to the threats, eh Mr. Chambers?” Mr. Ballantine asked. “Not that I disagree. I believe the direct route is always the best. Why waste time?”
“You’re wasting mine right now,” Darren said.
“Fine, I’ll explain,” Mr. Ballantine said.
“You want me to go inside?” Gunnar asked.
“No, no, Mr. Peterson,” Mr. Ballantine said, “this concerns you as much as anyone.”
Darren and Gunnar stood and waited while Mr. Ballantine looked up at the night sky. Just as their patience was about to give out, he looked back at both of them.
“I work for a company that specializes in solving problems,” Mr. Ballantine said. “Until now, those problems were strictly of a technological, intellectual, and logistical nature. It appears we are going to branch out into problems a little more…substantial.”
“So?” Darren asked. “What does that have to do with us?”
“Well, Mr. Chambers, you have a skill set and a temperament that fits a specific profile I’m looking for,” said Mr. Ballantine. “Your skills as a former SEAL make you just what I need.”
“For what?” Darren asked, crossing his arms.
“For rescuing hostages and killing pirates,” Mr. Ballantine smiled. “Hooyah.”
“Yeah, sounds like hooyah,” Darren said.
Mr. Ballantine frowned. “I’m sorry, but I thought hooyah meant hell yeah or fuck yeah. Am I mistaken?”
“It also means fucked up, fuck you, and oh shit,” Darren said. “I think they all apply.”
Mr. Ballantine’s smile faltered. He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the van then looked back at Darren. “Well, that’s why I need you. You can set me straight when I get it wrong.”
“Listen, I appreciate the trouble you’re going through to impress my crew,” Darren said, “they deserve a little relaxation after the bullshit I put them through, but they aren’t SEALs. Even if I was crazy enough to hear the rest of your spiel, I don’t have a Team to do what you need. Not that I want to. I’m out of the guns and ammo game.”
“Except for the Walther on your ankle,” Mr. Ballantine said.
“Personal protection,” Darren said, “and good eyes.”
“This isn’t just about pirates and hostages,” Mr. Ballantine said, “this is also about your research.” He looked at Gunnar. “And yours. This is a scratch my back and I scratch yours deal. You sign on and you get all of your equipment back plus almost unlimited funds to continue your search for Livyatan Melville. Care to hear more?”
Gunnar and Darren stood there, stunned. Mr. Ballantine’s smile returned, wider than before.
“How about we join your crew?” Mr. Ballantine said. “Sit down, have a few drinks, get to know each other on a personal level and then you can decide if you are interested. I don’t expect an answer tonight, at least not right now. We have another stop after this.”
Darren shook his head, looked at Gunnar, looked back at Mr. Ballantine, and then burst out laughing.
“This is totally fubar,” Darren said, “but what the fuck, right? Hooyah.”
“Hooyah,” Mr. Ballantine smiled gesturing to the door. “After you.”
The Plank was fittingly, for a bunch of sailors, a dive. A long bar ran the length of one side and a long counter with stools ran the length of the other side. The crew was seated along the counter, joining the already shitfaced, and apparently passed out, two other patrons. A bored bartender with a large, bulbous alcoholic’s nose slammed down a row of glasses and proceeded to fill them with the house brown. The crew cheered while he did it, which briefly roused one of the patrons.
“Shut your poes,” the man slurred then lowered his head back to the counter.
“Did he just tell us to shut our pussies?” Cougher asked.
“Just you, Cougher,” Jennings said, “since your pussy is always gaping open.”
“It needs to air out or it gets stanky,” Cougher said.
“We appreciate that,” Popeye said, “now grab my fucking drink for me.”
“Why do I have to grab it?” Cougher asked. “Get it yourself, bitch.”
“How about we take a seat down there?” Mr. Ballantine asked, pointing towards three stools open at the very end of the counter towards a corner with an obviously busted jukebox shoved into it. He grabbed a glass of brown and the bottle from the bartender’s hand and just kept walking.
“Oy!” the bartender shouted.
“He’s paying,” Darren said, picking up two glasses and handing one to Gunnar. “We’ll need another bottle.”
Gunnar smiled at the bartender as he followed Darren to the stools and a waiting Mr. Ballantine.
“What do you know of Livyatan Melville?” Gunnar asked as soon as he sat down. He knocked back the entire glass of brown and tried not to choke. “Fucking hell! That shit is nasty.”
“But it does the trick,” Mr. Ballantine said, knocking his own back and refilling both his and Gunnar’s. “And to answer your question, Mr. Peterson, I know a great deal about that improbable whale. I even know what its skin feels like.” He lifted a hand and waved it slowly in the air. “From lip to tail.”
“You’ve seen it?” Darren asked, leaning forward. He hadn’t touched his drink yet. “In person?”
“I have,” Mr. Ballantine said, draining his glass again. Gunnar joined him. Darren left his on the counter. “I had to throw away my wetsuit after that encounter. Can’t get the shit smell out of neoprene. I tried. Too bad since my father had given me that wetsuit for my fifteenth birthday.”
“You were just a kid when you saw it?” Darren asked. “That was what? Thirty years ago?”
“Close enough. Sent me on my current career path,” Mr. Ballantine smiled. His glass emptied, Gunnar’s glass emptied, they were refilled. “Not a drinking man tonight, Mr. Chambers?”
“Not yet,” Darren said, “someone has to make sure Gunnar doesn’t get ass raped.”
“Thanks,” Gunnar said, “I appreciate that.”
“I am beginning to think this is an inside joke between you two,” said Mr. Ballantine. “A reference to your younger days as neighbors?”
“Goes to our grave,” Darren said. “Tell me what you saw.”
“I will,” Mr. Ballantine said. Glass emptied. Refilled.
Mr. Ballantine proceeded to describe almost exactly what Darren had seen those years before. Darren studied the man, looking for the tells, for the signs he was full of shit. Part of being a SEAL, a major part, was observation. There was no such thing as an insignificant detail to a SEAL. He
watched Ballantine’s eyes, the corners of his mouth, the pulse in his neck. He listened for hesitation, for stutters, for the hollow sound of a story repeated by rote.
Nothing.
Either Ballantine was the best of liars, or he was telling the truth.
“So you’ve seen it,” Darren said.
“Hooyah,” Gunnar said, raising his glass.
“Hush, you,” Darren said. “You have my interest, Mr. Ballantine. In regards to the whale, but the other part? The problem solving? Not my business anymore. Not my crew’s business. We’re a research team, not a combat Team. And no way I’m going by myself.” Darren lifted his glass, drank it down, and then leaned back in the stool, resting his back against the counter. “Even if I agreed to help, you aren’t going to get what you need. And that’s a full Team. Combat ready and trained.”
“Then you put together a Team,” Mr. Ballantine said. Empty glass, full glass.
Darren barked laughter and some of the crew glanced his way. It was his laugh he gave when someone said something stupid. When combined with a bar it usually meant a brawl was close behind. Darren saw them and gave a thumbs up so they’d go back to getting shit faced and not worry.
“Put together a Team? How the hell will I do that?” Darren said. “I’m not exactly welcome in the community. I’d be lucky to get anyone to answer their phones, let alone agree to work with me. I’m the Moby Dick nutjob, get it?”
“Yet, there is one number you could call and it would be answered on the first ring,” Mr. Ballantine said. Empty, full. Empty, full.
“Slow down,” Darren said, taking the bottle from Ballantine and filling his own glass. “You don’t have to prove anything, Mr. Ballantine. You won’t impress me by puking your guts out. Or bleeding from your ass.”
“This shit’ll do that,” Gunnar said, his words slurred, “been there, shat that.”
“He has,” Darren said. “What’s this magic number you’re talking about? It’s news to me.”
“Commander Vincent Thorne,” Mr. Ballantine said, a wicked smile on his face. He killed another glass and then slammed it onto the counter. “He’ll answer.”
“Shit, man,” Gunnar said as he tried to take the bottle from Darren. Darren blocked him from taking the bottle, but poured him another. “He wants you to call your father-in-law.”