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Arthur “Art” Frankle, Senior Case Officer, Defense Clandestine Service, Defense Intelligence Agency, stopped for a moment to take in the view down Pier B of the Naval Station. Frankle was tall for a field agent at six-foot-one and still remarkably fit for a man in his late fifties. Only his graying hair and the deepening wrinkles on his face hinted he was approaching the time for retirement. He had done his time in the field, trained dozens of junior agents, and still mentored many of them. His current assignment was mainly desk work, a well-earned break from stress and fear. Still, he enjoyed getting out of the building, even if it was only courier work.
It was feast or famine here at Gitmo: either the ships were few or, like today, the harbor was a beehive of activity. With the latest mass migration from Haiti in full swing, it was beehive time. Unlike the grim days of the Cold War, the ships crowding the docks were not haze gray-painted frigates and destroyers, but white-hulled Coast Guard cutters with their red “racing stripes” ducking in for fuel, replenishment, and what passed for recreation inside the forty-five square mile navy base parked on the coast of a hostile communist country.
Several smaller patrol boats were among the larger ships, sleek and fast compared to their larger sisters, but with shorter legs. The large, blunt ships were built for endurance and could hang offshore for two to three weeks at a time without replenishment. The most the patrol boats could endure was one week, and that was stretching it. In a high-tempo operation like this, darting back and forth at high speed in response to migrant vessels spotted by aircraft, their cycle time diminished to only three or four days.
Still, Frankle liked the patrol boats better. Their looks and speed appealed to him more as a former U.S. Marine Gunnery Sergeant than the larger ships. And, he admitted to himself, he was biased, having worked with one of those boats before. He scanned the dockside and picked her out. Her name was not visible from this perspective, but the number 1351 painted on her bow marked her as Kauai.
He had never set foot on the patrol boat, just seen her from a distance at the end of that near fiasco in the Florida Keys last January. Pete Simmons, a former mentee of Frankle’s in the DSC, had sold the bosses that a Russian nuclear-tipped cruise missile accidentally fired after a midair collision between a Russian bomber and U.S. fighter hadn’t flown harmlessly off into the Gulf of Mexico, but crashed somewhere in the Keys. The subsequent hunt for the live nuclear warhead overlapped a 252 Syndicate narcotics smuggling operation. After spending several days on Kauai during the search, Pete shifted ashore with the boat’s young XO, Ben Wyporek, in tow as a liaison. The 252s launched a dandy snatch operation to grab Pete, tying down his backup in another location while they cornered him and Ben on the northern tip of Resolution Key. If it hadn’t been for Kauai’s skipper driving the boat at flank speed through fog and shoal water to arrive in the nick of time to provide gunfire support, Pete and Ben would have been killed or captured. As usual, Pete’s luck paid off, and, besides finding and securing the nuke, they disrupted a 252 scheme to import narcotics to the U.S. and wiped out a team of killers.
Frankle had only associated with Ben on two occasions on that operation, for a couple of hours during the first meeting after he and Pete had come ashore and for a few minutes after the fight on Resolution Key. He liked what he saw that first meeting—a bright, modest, and earnest young man. Frankle’s esteem jumped an order of magnitude after Ben stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Pete in a fight to the death against five times their number of 252 soldiers. And when he saw how close Ben and Victoria had grown, he respected the man even more. Frankle and Victoria had worked together for several years, and he admired the woman’s smarts and intuition. Since her resignation, he missed working with her and was delighted that Ben had seized the crucial laptop he had come to Gitmo to retrieve. Frankle looked forward to sitting with him to get the story and catch up with Victoria’s life.
The TCO Section of the DIA, in which Frankle headed the 252 desk, had picked up a significant increase in chatter involving the setup of a major syndicate hub somewhere in the western hemisphere, but the location was a mystery. The chance meeting of the Miho Dujam with the Coast Guard confirmed these suspicions. It was regrettable that the crew could destroy the ship and its arms cargo and escape while the Coast Guard was occupied with saving the embarked sex trafficking victims. Frankle could not argue with the decision—although he would gladly break the rules to wipe any 252 member out of existence, he would not sacrifice innocent lives to do it. Saving twenty-two young women from death, or even worse fates, was a good day’s work in anyone’s book.
Frankle had arrived that morning on the daily logistics flight the Coast Guard ran from their air station at Miami-Opa Locka to Leeward Point Field across the bay from the piers. A twenty-minute ferry ride had brought him across to the deepwater part of the bay and resurfaced memories, good and bad, of the time he was posted here as a Marine. He had hated it then, like everyone else stationed here. Now, it was a nice, warm place to visit while Washington descended into winter.
After arriving, Frankle’s first stop had been the base hospital, where the women rescued by Kauai were being treated for their ordeal and processed by Immigration and Customs Enforcement. A couple of his people had come with him and were waiting to interview the women about their 252 captors. Frankle wasn’t hopeful—even if they knew something, they were unlikely to share it out of fear for themselves or their families. The initial report from the ICE people was that the victims, some as young as fourteen, came from various backgrounds in Poland, Moldova, Croatia, Romania, and Bulgaria. Some had been abducted, others duped into thinking they were going to housekeeping or au pair jobs. Heartbreakingly, the two youngest girls had been sold to traffickers by their families. Frankle pulled his agents aside and directed that those two girls and anyone else in a comparable predicament be classified as government witnesses and detained in foster care. It was not by the book, but he was damn sure not going to let them be deported straight back into the situation that brought them here.
After reviewing the situation of the victims with the ICE agents and his people, Frankle drove his government vehicle loaner the four and a half miles over the rough base roads to the docks. He could not contact the ship and hoped the officers were not ashore, seeing to the many needs of turning around a warship during a short port break. He walked over to what passed for a quarterdeck, a small standup desk with a phone manned by a young seaman, and presented his ID. Within a minute, Ben and two other officers stepped out of the boat’s superstructure and walked over to meet him.
“Art, it’s good to see you again,” Ben said, offering his hand.
“Likewise, Lieutenant,” Frankle said, shaking his hand firmly.
“Senior Case Officer Arthur Frankle, this is my CO, Lieutenant Sam Powell, and our incoming CO, Lieutenant Haley Reardon,” Ben said, introducing his companions.
“How do you do, Captain, Ma’am,” Frankle said, shaking hands with each.
“Welcome aboard,” Sam said. “It’s pretty tight in my cabin for all of us. Will we be discussing anything too sensitive for the messdeck?”
“That should not be a problem, sir,” Frankle said. After they were inside and seated at one of the mess tables, he continued. “I wanted to congratulate you on a magnificent piece of work yesterday. I stopped by the base hospital this morning, and those poor gals are still being treated and cleaned up, but their outlook has improved tremendously since yesterday.”
“Yes, we were lucky we ran into them. That area is not regularly covered,” Sam said with a nod. “Was it as bad as it looked?”
“At least. Some were near to losing their minds. Several of them were raped, that one you guys brought off on the stretcher repeatedly. She is still just staring at the ceiling right now. It seems she pushed back when one guard started getting fresh with the children, so they shot her with their paralysis drug. You know the one I’m talking about, Ben.”
“Yes, that I do,” Ben replied, his face darkening.
“As soon as she locked up with the drug, they took turns raping her while the other women were made to watch. No one pushed back after that. I didn’t think I could hate those 252 guys any worse than I already did—I was wrong. Well, that’s a few off their hook.” He shook his head. “OK, I know you’re busy, so we might as well get to it. What can you tell me about yesterday?”
Sam and Ben took turns relating the story, leaving out the details of Ben’s near-fatal experience in the Miho Dujam’s capsizing. As they finished, Frankle said, “Yes, it’s a pity they got away, since they had plenty of time to sanitize the boat before you guys got on board. Still, the laptop could be a gold mine for us.”
“I’m not so sure,” Ben said. “Given how thoroughly they were clearing up their personal items, it is surprising they would leave behind a PC. Could it be a red herring?”
“Possibly, but I think and hope they tucked it there at the beginning of the trip and forgot about it. Even if it is a ruse, the metadata in the files could offer opportunities for us to penetrate their networks, email, finances, et cetera. I’ll get this over to the cyber-ninjas as soon as I get back to DC,” Frankle said.
“I am surprised by the interest and quick response,” Haley spoke for the first time. “What is going on that puts a senior DIA guy on a plane from DC?”
Frankle smiled in response. This one is sharp. Good looking too. “Good question. We’ve been picking up chatter that the 252s have worked a deal with someone over here to arrange a permanent depot for the transshipment of drugs and arms. That crowd you picked up yesterday was the staff for a new brothel there. After the Barbello deal, they realized they needed a base of their own to play over here. Our challenge is finding it.
“The problem for the 252s is that after they annihilated the Salinas Cartel, none of the other established outfits want to touch them. If they try to grab some territory of their own, the other gangs will do what it takes to evict them, even if it means working together to do it. So, we think they might try to work through one of the corrupt governments in the region. That’s about all I can say outside of a secure space.”
Haley nodded. “It seems strange that they didn’t resist us, given what they had at stake on that ship. They could have caused actual harm during the boarding, maybe even sunk us if they carried any rockets.”
“Not really,” Frankle said. “Knocking you guys off would make it a whole new ballgame. Right now, they are a big law enforcement problem for Europol and a minor national security issue for us. They sink a Coast Guard cutter or other warship, and that’s war. We would not only come down on them kinetically and financially but also put them on the Terrorist List and mess up everyone they do business with. They may eventually decide that’s worth the risk if they can work a major government to cover for them, but not right now.”
“Man, I hope I don’t live to see that,” Sam said, shaking his head.
“You and me both, brother,” Frankle agreed. After a pause, he said, “I might as well grab the box and get going. Any chance of getting a tour while I’m here? I haven’t seen the boat since Resolution, and that was from the beach.”
“Not a problem,” Sam said. “Haley and I will excuse ourselves to resume our handoff discussions if you don’t mind. Ben can show you around and give you two a chance to catch up. It’s worth your time—we’ve had quite an upgrade since Resolution.”
“Excellent!” Frankle said as they all stood. After shaking hands with Sam and Haley, he turned to Ben and said, “After you, sir.”
Frankle was surprised by what he found on the tour. He knew Kauai was among the last in her class still in commission and expected to see an aging, patched-up set of diesels in the engine room. With its clean and modern diesel generators and Ben’s description of their new diesel-electric battery drive capabilities, Kauai’s powerplant was more like a modern conventional submarine than an obsolescent patrol boat. Now the account of the Barbello operation he had read made much more sense. The Bridge was another wonder, with capabilities beyond even the newest patrol boats coming into service. “I thought the Coast Guard was the mendicant of the federal government. How did you guys manage to get all this?” Frankle asked after Ben finished his presentation of the FC3 system.
“The DNI dug our performance at Resolution and wrote the Coast Guard a big check for upgrades; Barbello was the first payback.”
“Wow. The DNI wasn’t stingy, was he?”
“Nope, the total was at least four times what the Coast Guard originally paid to build the boat, even adjusted for inflation. Still, it was less than they’re paying for the new ones.”
“Nice,” Frankle said. This was good information in his pocket, and he would know for whom to ask if they were ever facing another challenge like Resolution. “Well, this was fascinating. On a personal note, how are you doing? I heard you got roughed up at Barbello.”
“Just shot in the head—no damage to anything of value,” Ben joked.
“You’re shitting me,” Frankle said with astonishment.
“The bullet didn’t penetrate my helmet, but it did mess me up badly enough that my parents almost got the dreaded ‘we regret to inform you’ call. On the whole, I was lucky, considering the DEA guy standing next to me was killed,” Ben said, his smile disappearing.
“Man.” Frankle shook his head. “That’s rough.”
“Yes, I do draw a lot of fire whenever I’m with you DIA guys.”
“Hey, that’s Pete. Most of us go our entire career without shooting outside of the gun range. Heard from him lately?”
“Not since I got hit at Barbello. Victoria says he’s been detailed to the DNI’s staff. Is that a promotion for him?”
Frankle shook his head. “More of a place of refuge. He tangled with the DIA director over how Barbello was run in front of the JUBILEE committee, and she does not forgive and forget. The DNI is giving him cover until she moves on to another job. It’s a nice gig, but he can’t wait to get back in the field.”
“He seems to have a bug up his ass about the 252s.”
“Yes, well, when it’s that personal, even the hardest among us can get obsessive.”
Ben looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Personal? How so?”
“You know about Julie, right?” Frankle asked.
“His fiancée? She was Victoria’s big sister. They’ve only mentioned that she died.”
“Not exactly. The 252s murdered her.”
“What?”
“Yep. Julie was ‘collateral damage’ in a car bomb assassination they pulled in Paris. Pete wasn’t even in the service then, just a smart-alecky postdoc at Princeton with a talent for martial arts. It crushed him. He’d probably have killed himself if it hadn’t been for Victoria. Pete hung on, but he’s been on a crusade to eradicate them since joining us.”
“He didn’t tell me, and neither did Victoria, which is surprising considering she’s an open book. I guess I should have asked about Julie, but I didn’t want to dredge up painful memories for her.” Ben said, hanging his head.
“Don’t beat yourself up, kid,” Frankle said as he patted his arm. “When she feels the need to talk about that, she will. We’re all pretty happy she got hooked up with you, you know. Real-life Dudley Do-rights are rather rare these days.”
Ben cocked his head and said, “I can’t figure out if I should be pleased or insulted.”
“Take your pick,” Frankle said with a grin. “Now, how are you and Victoria doing? We sure miss having her around, both personally and professionally.”
“I’ll share that with her. Actually, we’re awesome. She seems happy, and I can’t believe my good luck.”
“Better and better. So, will you make an honest woman out of her?”
“What, are you relieving Pete of the ‘Dad Watch’ or something? Please pass the word to call off the hit squads—I’m working up to it.”
Frankle smiled warmly. “Good for you. And I mean that. Now, how about you hook me up with that laptop, and I’ll let you get back to the regular job?”
“Suits me,” Ben said.
After retrieving the laptop from Ben’s safe and signing an evidence receipt, Frankle followed Ben to the quarterdeck and stepped ashore. Shaking hands with the young officer, he said, “Thanks again, Coast Guard. Take care of yourself and our girl.”
“I will, Art. Stay safe.”
As Frankle turned and started walking along the pier in the warm sunshine, he glanced at his watch: 16:18. He had time for a round of Gitmo Golf before sunset. Not that he was an avid golfer, he just wanted to tell the tale when he got home. The naval base had a nine-hole course of sorts. Its only grass was the artificial greens around each hole. The rest was rocky dirt—golfers carried a piece of Astroturf on which to drop and hit the ball for “fairway” shots. Gitmo Golf, iguanas, and the up to two-foot-long gray Hutias, known locally as “Banana Rats” wandering around, were part of the storied charm of Guantanamo Bay.
The truth was that Frankle needed the distraction before returning to the grind of Washington. The women from that 252 ship got to him, particularly that poor Polish woman who was raped into madness simply for standing up for a child. Maybe the laptop could provide something that would make a difference in the fight against the 252s, or maybe not. All he knew was that he needed to seriously consider pulling out of the game once this case concluded. He was beginning to hate too much, which can get you and your teammates killed.
They had been on station for a full day, with three more to go. This time, it would be back home to Port Canaveral, not just another fuel, water, and food top off at Guantanamo Bay. This first day had been as uneventful as their patrol had been before the Miho Dujam’s arrival. Haley had used this respite to complete the last of her technical familiarization. A few frank, one-on-one discussions with Sam about individual crewmembers remained, a vital part of the handoff on a unit this small. The talks gave her essential insight into the strengths and weaknesses of each individual and how they understood, anticipated, and played off each other, much like a championship basketball squad.
Haley also used these sessions to benchmark herself against Sam, professionally and personally. Although they had come to this common point in their careers from different paths—Sam via the enlisted ranks and OCS and Haley through the Academy—they shared a similar worldview and upbringing. Both were highly intelligent and came from wealthy families who disapproved of their career choice. They were also aligned in their love for the Service and a desire to stay operational on ships if possible. But that was where the similarities ended.
Sam was a devoted family man, married with two young children, and, thanks to a very understanding wife, he successfully balanced the competing demands of job and family. His wife had been a navy brat and served as a navy petty officer before completing her bachelor’s degree—Joana understood and embraced the nomadic life associated with being a military spouse and was Sam’s partner in every sense. Haley could see that Sam missed his family terribly when he was on this long patrol, as much as he enjoyed the job and the company of his crew.
Haley could not have been more different in this respect. She’d had relationships at school and after getting her commission, but determined that the benefits did not cover the costs. Haley found out early that you didn’t hook up with other officers in the Service—the job was too competitive for any relationship to work, and the wreckage afterward was bad for everyone, not just the couple. Likewise, she had no success with men outside the Service. The interesting ones moved on when they learned what her career entailed, and those who did not move on were inevitably needy. Haley was single and comfortable with the choice—the occasions when she missed having someone to unload on were rare. She treasured the freedom to go after opportunities wherever and whenever they presented themselves without worrying about pulling kids out of school or her partner’s job or preferences.
In their two weeks together on this patrol, Haley grew to admire Sam and was impressed by his leadership talent and history. The crew liked and trusted Sam as a man and the captain. Haley suspected his having made his way up to chief petty officer before being commissioned lent him more credibility in their eyes than the typical junior officer. But it clearly went beyond that. Her brief exposure led her to believe Sam was one of those rare people possessing the total package: knowledge, judgment, experience, and “people sense.” It wasn’t just the crew—it was clear Ben’s admiration for Sam was unbounded. The two men were the closest of friends, despite their superior-subordinate positions in the military hierarchy. Haley thought their talks would reveal insights into whatever secret sauce Sam used to build this much personal power.
Haley had hoped to get some detail on what was behind that last operation, but Sam had to decline, citing the codeword restrictions. He did share that the Resolution Key mission culminated with him driving Kauai at flank speed through fog and the shoal water north of the Florida Keys to rescue Ben and DIA Agent Simmons from a deadly 252 trap. Sam shared his intense dislike of Simmons for his recklessness that endangered Ben and his crew and warned Haley to be very wary whenever the agent was involved in an operation.
“I’m not saying he’s corrupt or evil or anything like that,” Sam said in summation. “He just has a different calculus for risking the lives of the people around him. You need to keep that thought in your mind whenever you work with him.”
“Not much chance of that, is there?” Haley said.
“Au contraire,” Sam replied. “He was behind the Barbello mission, too, although he wasn’t responsible for the damage or injuries we suffered. Keep in mind this boat was practically rebuilt using DNI money, and the Intel Community will be looking for a return on investment. Simmons is one of those people.”
“I see,” Haley said. “So, does Ben share this view?”
Sam smiled sadly and said, “Yes and no. I think Ben was awed enough by Simmons to go along with some decisions he came to regret. That fight he was dragged into on Resolution scared the bejesus out of him. He’s been much more cautious since then. I have to admit that I miss the old happy-go-lucky Ben sometimes.” He paused and grinned. “But I treasure the new Ben.”
Haley nodded. “Off the record; tell me about him.”
Sam sat back and put his hands behind his head. “He’s the XO of your dreams. Super smart and capable, but he doesn’t seem to know it. At least, he is extraordinarily modest. Ben has an amazing grasp of what’s needed and makes it happen with patience and humor. There isn’t a member of the crew, from Drake on down, who wouldn’t take a bullet for him or follow him straight into a hurricane. And he is as courageous as they come. Let me tell you a story that captures Ben to a tee.
“When he was on his way from Virginia during his transfer from Dependable, he called to tell me he had been held up by a traffic accident. His vehicle was not involved, but he was set back for a few hours. I told him to play it safe and report in the afternoon rather than driving all night. Good headwork, right? So he reports in the next day, and we’re off to the races. Well, a few weeks later, the Sector Commander comes knocking to pin a Commendation Medal on him. He saw the accident alright, then climbed into an SUV about to fall off a cliff to rescue an unconscious woman and her two little kids. He stuck around long enough to give a statement to the cops and make sure the kids were safely in the hands of their aunt, then got back on the road. The only reason the Coast Guard learned of it was that the woman’s husband was an army officer—he found out Ben was in the military and put him in for an award.”
“What was Ben’s reaction?”
“He was surprised and embarrassed. Ben saw the act as something that needed to be done, so he did it. He did not want to call attention to it because he did not want to admit how scared he was. It was the same way on the Resolution and Barbello deals—said all he did was get himself shot.”
“Still off the record. Can Ben make the tough calls?”
“Yes,” Sam said, then tilted his head. “Why would you ask that?”
“He strikes me as being too friendly for an XO, first names, touching, that sort of thing.”
“Hmm. Ben plays by the rules in the ballpark. If you want to step things up, he’ll make it happen.
“You disagree?”
“No, Haley. Even if I did, it will be your boat, not mine. We have been a little loose with things because of where we started and the lack of risk with the people here. I would probably play it tighter if I came on board now.”
“I’m relieved it’s not just me, and I’ll break it in gently. Is there anything else I should know, as in personally?”
“Again, why would you ask that?”
“I have heard his girlfriend has ‘issues.’ Have you had any concerns about his focus?” She hated bringing this up, but Zuccaro had used the word “creepy” regarding Victoria in an informal discussion Haley had had with the women a few nights ago.
The meeting was one of those “seemed like a good idea at the time” mistakes. Haley wanted to get a read on the gender relations climate before her ascension to command would make that impracticable. The atmosphere had turned decidedly frosty when she asked point-blank whether any male crew had done anything to make them uncomfortable. Zuccaro had been the only one to say anything but an emphatic negative. Haley suspected it was cattiness based on the silent death stares Zuccaro received from Hopkins and Lee, but she had to be sure.
Sam leaned forward with a frown. “I won’t ask who suggested that, but I recommend you consider them unreliable sources. Victoria is, I guess the polite word is ‘neurodiverse.’ She is a fully functioning adult with a genius IQ and an eidetic memory. I mean, this woman is world-class smart. She is also the warmest, most charming individual I have ever met. She does have an unusually formal way of speaking and an intense curiosity about whomever she is talking with that some may find a little odd. Victoria is the one net positive from our involvement with Simmons—she was his protégé, and Ben first met her on the Resolution op. About her effect on Ben, he is a better, more mature man because of her. Believe me; I’ve seen the before and after versions.”
“Thank you. I suspected as much, but I had to make sure.”
“I understand. There is one other thing I’ll tell you off the record related to this topic. I hate doing it, but I’d prefer you get the straight story from me instead of someone spreading scurrilous rumors.”
Uh-oh. Haley leaned forward. “OK, let’s have it.”
“Hopkins has hugged Ben on two occasions; both were as he was heading into those two fights. There was nothing sexual, just her matronly instinct overruling convention in extraordinary circumstances. I saw no harm in it and did not feel the need to make it an issue. If it would make you more comfortable, I can write a formal statement you can keep on file that I dealt with the matter appropriately.”
Haley blinked and said, “No, that won’t be necessary. I am going to put a stop to that, though.”
Sam shrugged and said, “Your call. Is there anyone else you want to discuss?”
“No, I think that will do. If I come across anything else, mind if I pick your brain again?”
“Anytime. Please grab me for any questions. I’ve been at this for so long that there’s stuff I don’t even think of any more that might be important.”
“Thanks, Sam. Good night.”
“Good night, Haley.”
Haley closed her notebook and stepped over to Ben’s stateroom. She and Ben were “hot bunking”—alternating occupying the room for sleeping on this patrol. It was awkward, both in terms of the gender mixing and their soon-to-be respective positions.
This latest revelation regarding Hopkins was a particular concern. Haley was shocked that Hopkins found that kind of behavior appropriate, even more, that Ben did. And yet, Sam did not have a problem with it. Is it just me? Am I “that guy,” the one looking for an excuse to throw his weight around? Haley shook her head. No, I get now why Mercier wants to move Sam along. He’s gotten too close to everyone. If he can’t put a stop to something like this, how will he make the hard choice when the time comes?
She spread her sleeping bag out on Ben’s bunk and checked her watch—she needed to be dressed to turn the room over to Ben in just under six hours. As she disrobed, her mind went to how she would manage the transition from the current situation on board to the one that needed to be. I’ll break it in gently. Easier said than done.
