General mess. The prevailing mood was a strange brew today, as it had been since they transited the Strait. Relief at having finally left the Gulf, curdled by a sense of gloom brought on by the failed search for Schofield. Finn had seen this kind of confused, depressed morale before. He knew it could sink an entire operation.
He also knew it wasn’t that hard to change. All it took was a little leadership.
Good morning, shipmates, this is your captain speaking! You acquitted yourselves with excellence in the Gulf, made me proud. But don’t let that create complacency! We still have a long transit ahead of us, a mission to run, jobs to do. Stay focused! Stay clear! Keep making me proud!
That would have done it. That would have cut through the fog and moved the emotional rudder. But they weren’t getting that here.
And it was in leadership vacuums like this one, he knew, too, that incompetents and bad actors so often stepped in to fill the void.
“Hey, mornin’, Chief! Mind if I…?”
Stickman, the lanky rescue swimmer from Finn’s helo ride.
“Morning, Mister Stickman,” said Finn, nodding a be my guest at the seat across from him. “How you gettin’ on?”
Stickman set his tray of pancakes, sausages, and reconstituted eggs down with a loud clank. “All good, Chief, all good.” Reaching into an inside pocket he pulled out a thin red bottle, set it down on the table, unscrewed the tiny hexagonal top, and began shaking out drops over his eggs. He grinned at Finn. “Best piece of advice I got from my recruiter. ‘When you go to sea, Stickman, bring your own Tabasco.’ ”
Finn nodded. “Good to have friends who know.” He slipped a small flat can from one pocket, pulled the pop-top lid, and forked half a dozen smelts onto his plate next to his mango slices.
This was why he’d chosen this particular seat, at this hour, in general mess. Stickman’s table. People were creatures of habit. Completely predictable.
This was something that never ceased to amaze Finn: people who followed precisely the same routine every day. He couldn’t think of anything more foolish. That was how burglars cleared your house. How pirates took down a ship. How Russia hijacked American elections. All they had to do was observe your routine. Once they knew that, they owned you. As if people were trained rats. Which, in Finn’s observation, they mostly were.
“Hey,” said Finn. “I wonder if I could ask a favor.”
“You serious? Shoot.”
Finn explained what he was after. To pass the time in the days ahead, he thought he might amuse himself by building a little shortwave radio receiver set. Given that Stickman knew his way around the avionics shop, could he lay his hands on a few components Finn needed?
The rescue swimmer once again told him to “shoot.”
Finn shot. Laid out his short wish list and specs.
Stickman frowned, shook his head. “I don’t know, that won’t give you much range.”
Finn said that was okay, he wasn’t looking for range. Just looking to pick up the local stuff when they got close enough to whatever land mass. Did Stickman think there’d be any problem with the list?
Stickman laughed. “Seriously? No problem at all, Chief.” Stickman was casual about it, but the gleam in his eyes said he was thrilled at the chance to do their esteemed guest a quid pro bro. “Might take a week or so.”
“No rush,” said Finn. “Got no place else to be.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Finn heard footsteps coming toward him from behind, someone with a heavy tread. Heard a voice bark like a seal. Ark-ark-ark. Finn didn’t look around.
Tucker walked past them with his tray, chuckling. Heading back to the food line.
Stickman watched him go, incredulous. “You know that guy?”
Finn nodded without looking up. “Tucker. Works down in the nukes. We’re buddies.”
Stickman leaned in. “Was he…mocking you?”
“Private joke.”
They chowed down in silence again for a minute.
Then Finn spoke up again, quieter this time.
“Heard about that helo that went down.”
Stickman stopped chewing. Paused, then swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, his voice gone husky. “That was bad. You know it was way out, right, just off one of our destroyers?”
Finn nodded. Completely out of their control, in other words: no way Stickman or anyone else from the squadron could have participated in the rescue effort.
“They got a good crew down in the water, what I heard, and fast. Still…” Stickman shook his head. “I was pretty tight with Diego. And his co-pilot, Micaela Katz? She was bunked out in the same stateroom as Lieutenant Halsey. The one on the stick the night we came to pick you up?”
Finn nodded again.
“Roommates. Tore her up pretty bad. She didn’t show it, though, just kept on keeping on.”
Finn set his fork down and spoke even more quietly.
“So, what happened? I mean, did they figure out what went wrong? Anyone in command go on the block?”
“Not really. Nothing mechanical, far as they could see. They called it ‘pilot error.’ ” Stickman shook his head. “Whatever.” He stood up with his empty tray. Finn did likewise.
“You know,” Stickman said, then he leaned close and confidential. “It was supposed to be her flying. Lieutenant Halsey. CO yanked her at the last minute and put in Diego.”
Finn whistled and said, “Ouch.”
Stickman nodded, solemn. “Got that right, Chief. Ouch, big-time.”