Two hundred miles off the northern coast of Israel, they detected a small UAV droning slowly at five thousand feet. Apparently as soon as it had had a good look, it banked to the north and disappeared. Twenty minutes later, an Israeli F-16 flying thirty feet above the water roared past, fifty yards off the port beam, with only a slight dipping of its wings lest they catch the swell. Then it climbed almost straight up, its tailpipe clearing the surface by about five feet and blasting the sea into foam. Rolling to level flight upon completing its loop, it returned east.
“They don’t fool around, do they?” Movius asked rhetorically.
Hesitating briefly while wondering what his Jewish XO might be feeling, eventually Rensselaer replied. “No, they don’t. They never did.”
“You mean the Liberty?”
“I suppose so.”
“But the Liberty . . .” Movius began.
Rensselaer stopped him. “I understand. It was a war for their survival; the Liberty looked like an Egyptian ship; they warned us and everyone else away from the war zone; and they broke off the attack and offered aid. We’ve killed vastly many more of our own in friendly fire, thousands actually, yet we find it hard to accept that someone else can do it. It’s just a question of being in or out of the family. I believe them, but I can’t help being reserved.”
“Are you reserved about the Brits?” Movius asked.
“Apart from being descended from the Dutch—Britain wrested the Hudson Valley from us—no.”
“In the Revolution they fought us a lot harder and meaner.”
“True, but it was two hundred plus years ago.”
“The Liberty was half a century ago, and it wasn’t on purpose.”
“Mr. Movius.”
“Sir?”
“I agree. Take yes for an answer. What’s more, they’re our allies, and for a very long time now we’ve been fighting the same enemies.”
They slowed to twenty knots so as to arrive at I.N.S. Haifa just after dawn. At 0500 the next morning, as the stars had begun to fade, they saw a light in the distance and dead ahead. Rensselaer was summoned from his cabin. After announcing that the captain had the con, the officer of the deck told him that they had made contact with a Shaldag-class patrol boat from the I.N.S. 914th Patrol Squadron, and that it would escort them in. “They’re not much for formalities, although I suppose they were correct enough. The commanding officer goes by Rav-Seren Hanok. A Rav-Seren, I believe, is a lieutenant commander. Hanok, a first name.”
“Very well. Hailing frequency.” With microphone in hand, Rensselaer hesitated before depressing the switch. “What’s the name of the vessel?” he asked.
“They just said Eight Forty-One.”
“I.N.S. Eight Forty-One, this is Captain Stephen Rensselaer of United States ship Athena, PC 15. Rav-Seren Hanok, thank you for your escort. Kindly guide us in.”
“You’re welcome. No worry,” was the reply.
“Do we need a pilot?”
Rensselaer heard, “I don’t think so,” in heavily accented English. “We are two very small guys. No problem. Just follow me.”
The Shaldag, which was not even half the size of Athena, loitered in wait, and, just after Athena passed it, turned and came up behind her, like the F-16 that had thundered off the port beam. Everyone on deck and on the bridge of Athena stood at attention and rendered passing honors, although not only did they not play the Hatikvah, Israel’s national anthem, they had no such music aboard for any country, and it would have been ridiculous. Among other things, the sound of the Shaldag’s engines was tremendous and would have drowned it out. The Shaldag, 841, was heavily gunned for a boat its size, but with neither missiles nor torpedoes.
The five sailors visible on its flying bridge and deck wore army fatigues and helmets. Though 841 was a much smaller craft, the bow gun was similar to Athena’s.
Without coming to attention the Israelis gave quick salutes. Then they sped up and rooster-tailed ahead as if to impress with their great speed.
“Oh really?” said Rensselaer. “Full ahead.”
The helmsman repeated the command as he pushed the levers, and Athena lurched forward, knocking some people off their feet. In short order, it shot past the Israeli boat, approaching sixty miles per hour. A sailor on the port bridge wing was heard to say, “Un-fucking-believable,” and once Athena reduced speed so 841 could pass it and take the lead, the Israelis were seen to be smiling. Over the hailing frequency came, “Kol hakavod l’chem.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Someone on Athena’s bridge asked.
“Who knows?” was the answer.
It meant, “All the honor to you.”
*
As the sun rose behind it, Mount Carmel appeared dark and not as high as it actually was, but when the light increased and revealed the shape of houses and office buildings all the way up the steep slope, the scale became apparent. When Athena was close in and then beyond the breakwater, thousands of lights were seen briefly before either they were switched off or, as the sun crested the eastern part of Carmel, they were overpowered in its light.
The Shaldag escorted Athena to her berth and turned back out to sea. On the wharf were half a dozen Israelis, the American naval attaché, and a woman ostensibly from the embassy’s political section. She was as purposefully attractive as, in Rensselaer’s experience, female CIA officers with official cover often were. The waiting Americans and an Israeli naval officer crossed the brow and were piped aboard by one of the chiefs while four sailors stood at attention as sideboys. After that, nothing was formal except that the Israeli was an Aluf-Mishne, a captain, his rank commensurate with Rensselaer’s. He had three gold oak leaves on each of his shoulder boards, so that, in American terms, he looked like a triple lieutenant commander.
The first thing he said after he introduced himself—as Tzvi Rechtman—was, “Look, you have ten hours, so come to my house for dinner tonight. I’ll get you back to the ship on time.” Rensselaer could only accept. The American naval attaché, a commander, then explained the provisioning and taking on of fuel. Trucks would arrive with pallets flown in from the U.S. to the Ramat David Air Base, east of Haifa, and the I.D.F. would provide a supply of fresh food. A fueling barge was already pulling alongside.
When everything was arranged, including work parties, security parties, and liberty, Rensselaer, the naval attaché, and Patricia, of the “political section,” went to the wardroom as the Israeli captain stayed on the quarterdeck and began a conversation with Holworthy.
“Do you want anything to eat? Coffee?” Rensselaer asked them.
They declined. The attaché opened his attaché case and took out a sealed manila envelope. “Put this in your safe.”
“What is it?”
“New orders. You’re not going to the Gulf.”
Rensselaer was disappointed. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Why haven’t we received them directly?”
“I don’t know. It’s kind of a joint thing.” He glanced at his colleague.
“Joint or not, it should come through channels,” Rensselaer said.
“Maybe it will, but evidently this is a joint thing with CIA. It came from Langley and the station chief in Jerusalem gave it to me. I don’t know what’s in it and nor should you until you pull out.”
“But you know what’s in it, don’t you, Patricia,” Rensselaer asked rhetorically.
“Maybe.”
“So why can’t we discuss it?”
Enjoying the whole thing, Patricia replied, “What if you get kidnaped today and you spill the beans? CIA is just what the Navy thinks it is. A bit off. They make a big thing of secrecy—way overboard.” She found this amusing.
“We’re not taking on any of their personnel, are we?” This had a seductive double or triple meaning.
“No,” the attaché said. “I don’t understand it, either. You’re a naval ship, obvious to all eyes. It’s probably just a normal pre-assignment but they’ve dressed it up, perhaps out of habit.”
“If our not going to the Gulf is so secret, how do you know?”
“It’s so secret that the station chief, in forwarding it, said to me, ‘Here, give this to your guys on the Athena. They’re not going to the Gulf.’”
“I can’t open it now? In the Gulf War we were tasked by CIA, but never on a ship. And when they did it, it wasn’t so great.”
“You can’t open it,” the attaché said, wagging his finger, “until Christmas morning. It’s the Navy. Get used to it.”
*
The first to be released on liberty was Movius. Rensselaer figured that since he was Jewish and had never been to Israel, he should be allowed as much time as possible. He would have done the same for a crew member of Jamaican origin in Kingston, of Latvian origin in Riga, and so on. The chiefs would supervise the loading, and Rensselaer told the XO that he would fill him in on the briefing Rensselaer was to receive that morning from the Israelis.
“Do you know anyone here?” he asked Movius.
“Not in the whole country.”
“Rechtman should have invited you, too.”
“He did.”
“That’s good, even if it’s not exactly according to protocol.”
“As they might say, from protocol they know nothing. I’ll see you there.”
Everyone on liberty wore whites. Haifa was a navy town, and merchant seamen were common as well. Although they would never do this in Alexandria or even Istanbul, here it was safe. Rensselaer headed to the briefing, walking fast down the long breakwater. To his left were a busy harbor, and a city climbing up the mountainside toward a pure blue sky. It was rapidly getting hotter, and to the right of the breakwater the sea surged and receded, perfuming the air with the scent of minerals and life as waves swept to and fro stroking the seaweed-covered rocks.
In a building on the base, Rensselaer was escorted into an austere classroom where he took a seat facing the blackboard, which was actually green. After a few minutes, a middle-aged man with three bars on his shoulder came in and apologized for being late. “The cows were making trouble,” he said. “They always do when I have an appointment.”
“The cows?”
“Yes. To milk them.”
“You milk cows?”
“In the morning, yes. If you don’t, it’s very bad.”
“Navy cows?”
“No no. Kibbutz cows. I’m a miluimnik, a reservist. I had to go home because a cow went completely mishuga, and he broke the machine, which is I’m the only one who knows how to fix him.”
“The machine.”
“Yes.”
“What is your rank?” Rensselaer inquired. “Your insignia are unlike ours.”
“Seren, lef’tenant. I’m a reservist in modi’in, intelligence.”
“And you’re a farmer.”
“I live on kibbutz, and everyone has to do many kind of work. I’m in charge of autonomous systems.”
Rensselaer’s expression gave away his puzzlement.
“We make things for the military and self-driving vehicles. It’s mainly software and servomechanics.”
“How did you learn to do this?”
“Here, and I studied in America—with Rechtman in fact, who you will see later. Same year, Caltech, doctorate. I love Pasadena. My English is not so good for a while, except for technical things.”
“Oh,” Rensselaer said.
“So, would you like some juice, some coffee, cookies, a Coke?”
“Thank you, I’m fine.”
“Okay. So. You must take precautions when going through the Canal. You must have guidance.”
“We do.”
“But since the war started, things change every day. We help the Egyptians, as everyone know but don’t say, in ISR. As you probably hear, Ansar Bayt-al-Maqdis has become Islamic State Sinai Province, and with the start of hostilities in the Gulf all Islamic State cells everywhere activated to the highest degree.
“The Egyptians are sending assets to the Gulf, and they are busy on their western borders with Libya, and on the Gaza border, in their cities, and even Aswan Province. What used to be their bad security in Sinai is now more bad. Insurance rates for transiting the Canal are now very hard. Some ISSP have rockets, others just RPGs and machine guns.
“The Sinai is very big, they seem to know when surveillance is over their head, so they move at night, make holes to hide in, sometimes right in the banks of the Canal. They even pretend to be Bedouin. They have tricks. Depending upon the management of your convoy when you go through, the hundred and ninety-three kilometers at eight knots will take from ten to sixteen hour.
“We advise that you man all guns and lookouts, port and starboard, the whole length. It’s not likely to come from the western side, but it could. The Egyptians react after the fact, so if you are attacked you will have to do your fighting by yourself. The Canal pilot will be telling you as you approach areas of past attacks, but attacks could happen even in Port Said or Ismailia. An American warship is a big target. Questions?”
“The last attack?”
“Yesterday, fourteen kilometers south of Lake Timsah, heavy machine guns and two RPGs against a Maersk container ship, no casualties. If we pick up anything while you or anyone is in transit, we relay it to CENTCOM, and you will hear—without attribution.”
“Okay. Thank you. Is that it?”
“Is it what?”
“I mean, is there anything else?”
“No, not really. Going back to the ship?”
“Going to see Haifa.”
“My recommendation?”
“Shoot.”
“See the Hadar, see the Technion—I teach there and at Haifa University—good ice cream at the zoo, sit in the late afternoon near the top of the Baha’i Gardens, and then have a nice dinner at Rechtman’s, which is close. If you walk the whole way, you will be tired.”
“How high is the hill?”
“Five hundred something meters. Some people, they can’t do it. But, for military, not difficult.”
*
The SEALs, being SEALs, stuck close to the water, walking west roughly along the shore until they got to a little beach in the Haifa neighborhood of Bat Galim, daughter of the waves. The sea close to shore was rocking in the wind and green in the morning light. To the wonderment of the ancient retirees who, like clockwork, came to this beach every day, the first thing the SEALs did was put on their fins and swim out into Haifa Bay until they could no longer be seen.
Israeli naval commandos never came in a group to the beach at Bat Galim, and these were foreigners. A white-haired octogenarian who had been trying to do pull-ups told the group of grandmas sitting half-submerged at the edge of the surf that, for reasons of national security, he was going to inspect the things the swimmers left behind.
“Americans,” he announced after his inspection. “You don’t have to worry.”
“Who’s worried?” asked one of the grandmothers.
“That’s what you say!” the old man said, and went back to the pull-up bar, where he did . . . one, and called it a day.
Several miles out, in lovely water just the right temperature, amid crests that sometimes were brushed white by the warm wind, the SEALs headed for a container ship anchored in the bay and awaiting entrance to the port. When they reached it they took turns going hand over hand up the anchor chain until they reached the hawsehole, and then descended, arm muscles burning, far enough so that they could drop into the water and stay clear of the projection under the bow. When this was accomplished, they swam the several miles back to the beach, got an enormous lunch from a stand on the street, and sat down at a picnic table to eat.
The sun was extraordinarily hot, but they were situated so as to be in the wind.
O’Connor said, “The hawsehole was too far from the railing. We couldn’t have boarded.”
“Grappling hook,” said one of the SEALs in a short interruption between him and his sandwich.
“We didn’t have a grappling hook. I’m thinking, what if we had to do it this way?”
“Something to ponder,” Holworthy said, “although I don’t see another way.”
“Ask the captain,” another of the SEALs proposed.
“Why?” Holworthy asked. “You think he’s magic?”
“No, I think he’s weird.”
“I’ll let that pass.”
“But he is.”
“You don’t want it to pass? Why?”
“He says weird things.”
“Yeah,” O’Connor added. “He does. He references things that no one knows about, because he’s old. I’ll give you an example. You know that skinny blond kid who looks like he’s fifteen? They were making fun of him because he threw a bucket into the sea and the line pulled him from amidships to the stern, where Halloran here grabbed it and pulled the bucket in. The captain saw this and went to see what had happened.”
“So, by this time,” Halloran told the others, “everyone was making fun of the kid.
“Someone says, ‘He doesn’t have the brain to know not to rope a bucket into the sea at thirty knots, or the balls to pull it in if he does.’ And another guy adds, ‘And he had a lot of dating problems in high school.’ So then the captain chimes in and says, ‘Yeah, carbon for teens.’ Everyone looks at him blankly. ‘Sir?’ someone asks, and the captain says, ‘Carbon—for teens. Dating,’ laughs, and walks away.”
“Okay,” O’Connor allowed, “they never heard of carbon 14. So what? That’s their problem.”
“He should have explained,” the insistent SEAL pressed on. “And it was lame anyway. You don’t just walk away. That makes people think you’re touched. And, then, some sort of message came in: I don’t know what it was. He reads it, tears it up, and says, ‘Fuck you. Toast my pretzel.’ That’s not normal.”
“Look,” Holworthy told him. “Maybe that was an expression when he was young. I don’t know. When we’ve been on PCs, or even DDGs, there was no one of his rank, or if on a larger ship there was, we were never that close to him. They’re human, you know. And, being old, he knows things we don’t and we know things he doesn’t.”
“Like what?”
“Singers, movie stars, video games. He told me he’s never played a video game.”
“He hasn’t?”
Holworthy shook his head in confirmation.
“Commander,” another SEAL said, very soberly, “he’s a prude. Remember the bikinis? What’s wrong with looking? You think he’s gay?”
“He has a fiancée.”
“A man.”
“No, her name is Katy.”
“Maybe it’s a man named Katy. On his planet, birds bark and dogs sing.”
“Yeah?” Holworthy said. “On your planet, birds vomit.”
“Has anyone ever seen her? He has no engagement ring.”
“Moron, men don’t wear engagement rings. And do you know how many thousands—tens of thousands—of men have died because of the glint of a watch or ring?”
“He could take it off.”
“Not everyone wears jewelry. Do you wear jewelry, Stocker? Earrings? A nose ring? You should wear a nose ring. It would make it easier for the farmer.” Stocker was built like a bull.
As if it were a competition, O’Connor added even more soberly than Stocker, “Still, Commander, you’ve gotta admit. . . .”
“I do admit. He’s a wild card. I’ll keep watch.”
“Meaning?”
“Just that this is my team, and I’m not going to get anyone killed because of stupid or crazy. That’s not in the deal, never was.”
No one said anything. There was nothing further to be said.
*
Rensselaer ascended the almost eighteen hundred feet of Mount Carmel, and then hundreds more as he went up and down on the sides of the hills, looking at the recommended areas and academic institutions before he had ice cream near the zoo, and then walked to the promenade that overlooks city, bay, gardens, and sea.
He took immense pleasure from the unfamiliar way things presented themselves: views, streetscapes, a patch of evergreen forest framing the sea, a torrent of rosebushes tumbling over a fence. The glowing blue of the sea seen from high on a hill in north light was tranquilizing, hypnotic, and reassuring.
Little was left of Ottoman or Mandate Haifa. Now the predominantly modern city stretched for miles around the curve of the bay, which in the deep, north light held dozens of huge ships riding at anchor. As high as if flying, he looked out from the promenade and saw not only the whited metropolis below but the spectacular descent of the gardens. All along the coast were beaches and parks, and he had a clear, port-beam view of Athena resting beautifully, he thought, in her berth.
In the hour before he was expected for dinner, he sat still amid the flowers, mesmerized by the radiant blue spreading out before him all the way to Lebanon. The Mediterranean as it embraced the city was like a cool breeze comforting a fever. He would bring Katy to this spot when the war was over. After climbing Mt. Carmel and walking the hills they would be tired and would sit on the very bench he was sitting on, and look outward, lightly touching, breathing slowly, without a word. That is, were he lucky enough to return from this, his last run. It was time to stand down. She understood even better than he did, though she was younger and not ready to cross into the part of life that—although the young cannot know it—is the period of reflection necessary to reconcile and judge the action-driven years that precede it.
The stresses, dangers, and disappointments he had suffered had led him first to search for answers the way physicists search for a unified field theory, and then to conclude that there weren’t any. That is, until he fell in love with Katy and discovered that she was the answer, plain and simple, inexplicably. Almost hypnotized by the exquisite blue light, he imagined her face again and again, never tiring of it, and he saw her moving—her stiff but explosive walk, because in a sheath dress and heels she was so strong and straight, and could hardly contain her power and energy. For a full hour he thought of her, he pictured her, he loved her.
Then, with a bit of arthritis, he rose and walked one street down to Rechtman’s house, which from the road seemed like a pillbox, because one entered over a concrete bridge to a single-storey, block-like building. But this was only the top floor of a house of three levels set into the hillside. Every room and several terraces afforded a great view and the sense of safely floating over everything.
Before he had turned onto the little bridge, he had noticed a girl moving toward him. Now she came up behind him. She was in a gray uniform, and she wore a dark hat. In American terms it would be called an overseas cap, but it was felt, far more substantial, and rigid. It’s rakishness would have made any woman look beautiful, as she was anyway because it’s difficult not to be if you are a young woman of twenty, and for her it would have been exceedingly difficult. On the hat was a silver badge, and on her blouse above her rolled up sleeves were three white bars.
“Air Force?” he asked.
“Yes. You don’t have to ring the bell. I know who you are. Rensselaer. I know before my father.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I have the key.” She began to open the door. “I work at Ramat David. We sent the F-16.”
“And you knew my name?”
“We were expecting you, you know.”
“And who are you?”
“Hava,” she said, shyly.
As soon as the door opened, they were swept up by Rechtman, his wife, two beagles, and a boy of about eight who then found Movius at the door and added him to the group, which, as Rensselaer discovered when he looked toward the terrace, included Patricia, standing at the rail, drink in hand, alone.
“The dinner is made,” Mrs. Rechtman said. “We just have to go to the kitchen and serve it to ourselves. But Hava, bring some cookies and juices.”
Only cookies, seltzers, and juice. No liquor was about, and none was mentioned. It seemed to have been largely left out of the culture. And dinner was a fusion of Eastern Europe and the Levant—matzah ball soup, hummus be-techina, lamb, and roasted potatoes. No wine, just seltzer. And for dessert, moan cake, and tea in glasses.
Whatever the formula, it made for easy conversation. Apparent to all except the little boy was the undeniable attraction between Rensselaer and Patricia, of the kind that consumes business travelers and men and women on deployment, and can so often make them forget whom they love. Patricia—red hair, green eyes, statuesque, and young—had fallen with Rensselaer into a reciprocal cycle of intensifying signals as pleasurable and irresistible in their touch-and-go as anything physical that might come after. But Rensselaer had determined to lash himself to the mast. Movius, however, was totally smitten with Hava: almost, Rensselaer thought, to the point of desertion. Nor was she uninterested, although she was almost painfully more contained.
Seeing this, her mother said, “Hava was born in Pasadena. She has an American passport, and when her service is over she got already in and is going to Caltech, like her father.”
Movius nearly expired. (Rensselaer would not know the full reason until much later.)
“What will you study, Hava?” Rensselaer asked. Very much aware of her extraordinary charm, he felt a glow much like paternal love.
“Physics,” she answered. “I try to make the right decision. Everything here is, underneath, so serious. So, you do your best.”
“Yes,” Rensselaer said. “You’re always at war. No safe place.”
“That’s true,” Rechtman added. “In the full light,” he pointed out the window, “you can see Lebanon. Nasr’allah has two hundred thousand rockets, and the only thing between them and this room is air.”
“Even though we’re going to the war,” Movius said, “it’s not the same for us, because we can go home, where there is no war. Our families are protected.”
“It’s not so bad,” Hava said, almost as if to comfort him. “It makes you feel very alive all the time.”
At that moment, Movius really fell in love, and although it was hardly a sure thing, he knew he would do everything he could to get back to her.
Everyone could sense this, now even the little boy, and, not least, Hava herself. After they left, Rensselaer, Movius, and Patricia stood in the street at the end of the Rechtman’s little bridge. Patricia said to Rensselaer, her gaze isolating him from Movius, “The Israelis have a disdain—allergy? I don’t know—for alcohol. Embassy parties here are cheaper than almost anywhere else, even in Arab countries where they come to the embassy to cheat. All they want here is seltzer. So, anyway, I’m staying at the Dan Carmel. There.” She pointed. “Would you like to have a drink?”
“I would so like to,” Rensselaer replied, “but I’ve ordered”—he had done no such thing—“my XO to lash me to the mast, because we have to get underway.”
“At least that’s a compliment,” Patricia said.
“Absolutely. Maybe someday I’ll run into you at Langley.”
“Langley? Oh no, I’m a political officer.”
*
As the captain and his XO approached Athena they heard and felt her engines at idle. Brash lights illuminated the wharf and the black water. “You like her, don’t you,” Rensselaer said.
“More than that.”
“I think she was deeply affected. You’re going to come back to her, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
“If I can. I’ve never seen anything like that—her charming, outgoing yet shy femininity, framed in a military uniform offering enough of a contrast to heighten her beauty, while giving rise to great admiration for a girl in such circumstances. I don’t know. I’ve never been as knocked over as I am now. I can hardly breathe. In that rakish overseas cap, with the sterling silver badge, she has me forever.”
“Would you leave the Navy?”
“There are more things in life than the Navy.”
“I wish I had known that.”
After the brow was pulled back, but before they cast off lines, they made sure that everyone was on board. Then they concentrated on the complex maneuvers and commands for getting underway. Slowly moving through the harbor, the lookouts and deckhands who were in the open air felt the particular sensations of a Mediterranean port at night—the way the lights reflect on the water, sound echoes against stone, and scents rise from a slowly turned wake. This time they had a pilot, who transferred to his launch somewhere between Bat Galim and Stella Maris as Athena headed southwest 240 degrees to Port Said. As the dark of the sea reclaimed the ship, Israel’s lighted coast disappeared.
Though Athena was primed and ready in a fairly relaxed Condition III, everything was going so smoothly it felt like a yachting cruise. Approaching Port Said, readiness would be increased, and going through the canal and thenceforward they would maintain a full Condition III at the very least.
Finishing the second dog watch, Rensselaer returned to his quarters for the night. After preparing for bed, but still dressed, he sat at his desk and took out a picture of Katy. Unbeknownst to her, he had taken it as she was waiting for him at the streetcar. Then he switched on the golden light of a little incandescent lamp above the built-in desk, and without getting up from his chair reached to the safe and opened it, first with a key that only he and Movius carried, and then with the combination. He took out the manila envelope with his new orders, and closed the safe. Although of course he could not know for sure, the involvement of CIA led him to guess that Athena was going to be tasked in an evacuation, an assassination, perhaps a raid on a surveillance post somewhere in the Horn of Africa or on Socotra—something, as such things tended to be, messy, dangerous, of no doubt dubious legality and inconclusive, but necessary.
So it was with some dread that he broke the seal, pulled out the orders, and began to read, at first sitting back but then moving forward and placing the papers on the desk as if in recognition of their gravity.
When he finished reading, he aligned the pages neatly, stared at them, and read them again. Then he slowly placed them on the desk. Simply put, without great luck or divine intervention Athena and everyone aboard were to be sacrificed. But were he to state it that way to the crew, the likelihood of survival would be greatly diminished. He dared not show anything but confidence—the steadiness of which would give them the best chance of coming out alive and returning home.