0545 hours.
Finn squeezed his eyes shut in the darkness, gazing inside his mind at the Beer Day scene, trying to zoom in on the man’s face. Impossible. At the time, he’d been positioned way back and to the left and had only a momentary glimpse of him from behind.
Still, he thought he recognized him.
From where? When? He couldn’t quite pull it up.
He slowed his breathing down.
Slowly at first, then picking up speed, he began flipping through thousands of mental files, one by one: his walks through the ship, forward and aft, starboard to port, deck by deck, starting back at his first full day on the Lincoln. Jittery Abe’s. Yo, Billy, you in? FOD walkdown. Library. Midrats. Scanning, scanning, watching the faces, the shoulders, the gaits. Searching for the guy.
Day 2. The lower decks, The Jungle, Tucker, Jittery Abe’s again, Tom the ordie, Frank and Dewitt. CIWS mount. Library again. Flight deck. Searching, sorting, cataloging. Midrats at general mess. Mukalla memories. A hot prickling up the back of his neck. This was the night Schofield went missing. The people he saw passing in the passageways. Unrated E-1s and E-2s, swabbing and polishing. Air traffic and intel crew heading to their berthing compartments after a long day. Flight deck crew and mechanics heading above to the flight deck or below to the hangar deck to service their aircraft. There went Schofield himself, heading in the direction of the fantail. A pair of yellow shirts, laughing quietly over some private joke. Another handler in his green jersey and goggles. Dozens of faceless individuals all going their separate ways yet all—
Wait.
He hit the PAUSE button in his head and scrubbed backward, frame by frame, then hit STOP.
Another handler in his green jersey and goggles.
Why was an aircraft handler wearing deck goggles when he was below, on the gallery deck, well after flight ops were done for the night?
And with that it all snapped into place.
He remembered where and when.
He knew the face behind the goggles.
“Hey, Frank!” he called. “Need to get another message out.”
He needed to warn Jackson. The lead Finn gave him might have put him and his intel person in jeopardy.
“Sorry, Chief, no can do,” Frank called back. “No more messages. Sheriff’s orders.” He sounded fried. Half the security staff was still out sick. He and Dewitt had been on duty now for more than twelve hours.
Finn lay back on the hard bunk, felt the heave and pitch of the boat.
He had to get to Jackson.
He consulted the clock in his head: 0556.
Four minutes to go.