The Air Transfer Office was located on the gallery deck, the level directly below the flight deck. Several rows of vinyl-cushioned steel benches for outgoing passengers to sit and wait. Shelves and files lining the bulkheads, where they weren’t cluttered with flight coats and helmets on hooks. Two desks, jammed into the two far corners. The place was crammed. Everything on an aircraft carrier was crammed. The only spaces Finn had ever seen more tightly packed were submarines and New York City apartments. Not that he’d had much experience in either.
There were two staff members, one officer and one enlisted. Neither had noticed him yet. His lightweight combat boots made no sound when he walked. Despite Finn’s awkward appearance, when he moved he was the opposite of awkward. There were people who took up a lot of space when they entered a room. Finn seemed to take up no space at all.
Now the officer looked up and noticed him. Stood, leaned forward, and shook Finn’s hand. “Welcome aboard, Chief Finn. Lieutenant Sam Schofield. Honored to have you as our guest aboard the Abe.”
“Just a passenger, Lieutenant.”
The officer paused. Hadn’t expected that response. “Campion will handle your processing.”
The young airman at the other desk flashed a quick grin and got down to business. Had Finn sign a log sheet. Gave him a slip of paper with a few key locations, including his berthing space and muster location. Explained how to read the “bull’s-eye” location codes posted everywhere around the ship, in case Finn didn’t already know.
The airman paused, then nodded apologetically toward Finn’s gun case.
“We’ll need to hold on to that while you’re here.”
Finn handed over the gun case, then set his kit bag down and dug out his sidearm. He ejected the magazine, racked the slide, and surrendered that as well.
“They’ll be stored in the armory, locked and under guard,” the kid added. “Safer for you, safer for the guns.”
Finn looked over at the officer, Schofield.
“There’s no lock on the door to the compartment where you’ll be berthing,” Schofield explained. He pointed at Finn’s cellphone, which Finn had set on the desk while unearthing his sidearm. “Won’t have much use for that, I’m afraid.”
Finn glanced at the phone, then back at Schofield. “I should be getting a package. From command. How does that work?”
“We’ll put a note on your door.”
Finn nodded. “Okay.” Then added, “Sir.”
Finn’s satphone was busted. It had happened the previous night while Finn slept. How exactly he still didn’t know. When he woke up that morning, the thing was cracked in two. Best guess, someone had slammed a boot or rifle butt down on it in the dark. Probably stone drunk. Nobody owned up to it.
For all he knew, he’d done it himself.
His memory of the night before was blank.
Finn had put in for a replacement right away. Within hours he’d learned he was shipping out. They’d said they would send the replacement satphone out to him. He expected that could take at least a few days, more likely weeks. Military efficiency: hurry up and wait.
Finn had had the sense that he should travel light. He wasn’t sure why but trusted the instinct. So he’d left his other gun case with his bolt-action .308 behind in Bahrain with Kennedy, along with his night vision goggles and a bunch of other tools. And the pieces of his shattered satphone.
The ATO officer ushered Finn through a maze of passageways to his compartment, a tiny space tucked in a portside corner just below the flight deck. Not too much smaller than a broom closet. Across the way, a few meters from the door, was a tiny head with a single toilet. No sink.
“It’s not much,” said the officer, “but you’re probably the only enlisted man on board with a private suite.”
Finn nodded. Officer humor.
Schofield was an interesting one, a mix of soft and wary. Big guy, strength to him, but the hands and musculature of an office worker. Had never done hard physical work. Not exactly street-smart; didn’t have the kind of 360° awareness that came with life on the hustle—but Finn caught his eyes darting to the corners a few times. Habitual defensive posture. He’d been a target, not just once but often enough to grow reflexes for it. Yet he was no weakling. And the man projected something genuine. Not surprising he was an officer. Probably a good one, too; strong enough to lead by example, but he’d been a victim often enough to empathize with the ranks.
Finn had encountered two types of leaders in the military. There were those who grew to fill the high positions they were given. Who became bigger versions of themselves and used their elevated standing to protect the weak. And there were those who used the position to arrogate power to themselves. Who became smaller versions of themselves. Small men in high places.
He thought Schofield was probably the first kind of leader.
The lieutenant was wrapping up his summary brief. “We’ll have a man here for you at 0600, if that works for you.”
“A man?”
“Chief Donnelly, senior guy from the ops department. He’s been assigned to show you around for a few days, point out spaces of interest, Chief’s Mess, that kind of thing. Think of him as your personal tour guide.”
“No need,” said Finn. “Sir.”
“You sure? It’s no trouble. The Abe is a hell of a labyrinth.”
“I’ll find my way.”
The lieutenant didn’t push it, as a purebred bureaucrat would have. Good for him.
“Spent much time on a carrier, Chief?”
“Been a while. First time on a nuke.”
Schofield nodded and looked around, as if weighing how to convey the enormity of the ship. “Chief’s Mess is five levels below, on deck three, aft. Best chow on the boat. And XO says you’ve got an open invitation to the officers’ wardroom on deck two.”
“I’ll find my way.”
Schofield nodded and paused. Then said: “So, special assignment, we’re told.”
Finn looked at him. “Yes,” he said. “Sir.”
Schofield smiled with his eyes and gave a single nod. “Well, it’s an honor to have you on board, Chief,” he repeated.
“Just a passenger,” said Finn.
He closed the steel door between them and stood, alone.
Special assignment.
An antiseptic term, crafted to cover a lot of sins. Could be as simple as briefing a high-level committee. Or as complex as extracting sensitive intelligence from deep inside hostile territory. Sometimes a special assignment concluded when two men walked into a dark alley and only Finn walked out.
Finn set his backpack and kit bag down and glanced around the tiny space.
It felt like he’d been shuffled into a desk drawer.
He pulled the thin regulation wool blanket off the rack, rolled it up, and tucked it under his arm. Opened the door and looked out into the empty passageway. Stepped out and shut the door behind him.
Special assignment. The mother of all military euphemisms.
His best guess?
He was being shipped home in disgrace.