11:38 A.M.
WASHINGTON NAVY YARD
NAVAL SUPPORT ACTIVITY—ANTITERRORISM
716 SICARD STREET, S.E.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Dewey Andreas was a proficient swimmer. He grew up near the ocean and learned how to swim in the bitter-cold water of Penobscot Bay, off a small Maine town called Castine, where currents ripped across the headlands of the remote, pine-crossed peninsula with fury and might.
At ten years old, Dewey and his older brother, Hobey, were out sailing and got caught up in a sudden summer squall. It turned into a microburst, on what had seemed like a perfect, sunny July afternoon. Winds from a rapidly approaching steel-black sky cut overhead and moved in an attack pattern toward Castine, like a tornado. The 420 the Andreas brothers were sailing was like a leaf in a hurricane, thrown about as they attempted to tack back to shore. But the boat capsized and threw both boys into a bitter-cold, swirling, purple-blue, current-crossed, ferocious ocean. Hobey managed to hold on to a line attached to the sailboat but Dewey was thrown under the roiling sea. They were only a few hundred yards offshore, but the sudden winds, the overwhelming waves, the frigid temperatures, and the chaos of the swirling whitecaps soon had the ten-year-old struggling simply to get back to the surface each time a wave took him under.
All Dewey could remember was struggling to get enough air—to get kicked under and then swim back up to the surface for one more breath, thinking in those last moments only about his favorite horse, a black mare named April. Then he blacked out under the violent water.
Mr. Gilliam, a lobsterman from Stonington, had seen the Andreas boys get flipped into the water by the storm’s first gale winds. Gilliam’s lobster boat came out of nowhere alongside where he knew Hobey and Dewey had gone down. Gilliam’s stepson, Matt, leaned down off the side of the boat with a long wooden pole usually used to retrieve lobster pots, and grabbed Dewey from the unforgiving waters with a hook at the end of the pole, catching Dewey’s life preserver at the back of his neck as Dewey lay facedown in the crest of a deep wave, before rescuing Hobey, who was still clutching to the small sailboat.
Dewey was a competent swimmer, but ever since that July day he preferred to feel the ground beneath his feet.
After graduating from Boston College, Dewey joined the U.S. Army Rangers, despite the fact that a recruiter from the Navy SEALs tried to get him to head out to Coronado. The recruiter was an alumnus who’d watched Dewey run the football for BC for four years, during which time Dewey broke several BC rushing records including the most important one, most touchdowns during a single season. But as much as Dewey respected the Navy SEALs, and even longed to be one, he knew he would have a hard time with the water. At the very least, he knew it would bring back memories, memories of nearly drowning, and he didn’t want to earn a living doing something he wouldn’t enjoy. He had a deep-seated fear of the ocean that he couldn’t shake, though he’d spent plenty of time on the water, near the water, in the water, and underwater.
So, he joined the U.S. Army Rangers. Dewey learned how to operate on land, to jump from airplanes and helicopters, to use all manner of weapons, to climb with rope and without, but mostly how to distance himself from all distractions and all competition in virtually every challenge placed in front of him and his fellow class of Rangers by the hard-driving trainers at Fort Benning.
Which was why it seemed unusual that, at this very moment, Dewey was in a building at the Washington Navy Yard in southeast Washington, in a windowless building that housed a large swimming pool. The pool was designed for training purposes only. It was twenty feet deep, and surrounded by equipment used to test and train individuals in various forms of water survival.
Dewey was here because Polk ordered it. Bill Polk, the head of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service, which included Special Operations Group, believed Dewey needed to understand how to survive in water.
At this particular moment, Dewey wasn’t showing a lot of progress. He was in the water, submerged deep. His hands were tied together—bound tight behind his back—and his ankles were bound as well. In addition, a blindfold was tied tight across his eyes. He appeared lost, halfway to the bottom of the pool, already having made a fatal mistake in the calibration between air inside the lungs, body weight, and gravity. The goal was to learn how—while shackled and blindfolded—to survive by bobbing to the surface for a breath of air then sinking so as to be able to kick the bottom and reach the surface for another breath of air. Dewey was trying to exhale so that he could sink all the way down and kick his feet against the concrete pool bottom in order to push himself back to the surface for a breath of air, but he was horizontal, several feet above the bottom of the pool, and had lost his equilibrium and therefore where he was in the pool, and he was out of air. He stopped struggling and drifted listlessly toward the bottom.
A tall man in a mid-thigh red-and-white tactical wet suit was watching from the side of the pool. Rob Tacoma’s hair was wet. His only accouterment was a fixed-blade combat knife, sheathed to his outer thigh. Tacoma had had to jump into the water twice already in order to help get Dewey back to the surface.
Tacoma was an ex–Navy SEAL. He was also Dewey’s closest friend. After Polk spoke to Dewey, Dewey asked Tacoma to help him learn how to survive in water. Tacoma could never teach Dewey even half of what he knew, but he’d been trying to teach him the basics. This exercise was about understanding the relationship between water and the human body, specifically about oxygen and its impact on body weight, as well as determining one’s position in the water relative to the surface in simulated nighttime or hostile conditions. Another goal of the exercise had to do with managing emotion and controlling panic, which the blindfold only exacerbated. Ideally, Dewey should have by now fallen into a steady pattern of up and down, getting air from the surface then slowly exhaling, thus decreasing the amount of oxygen in the lungs and rendering his body less buoyant.
Of course, some believed there was an even deeper meaning to the exercise.
Dewey was nearly sideways near the bottom of the pool. His legs made one last attempt at a kick then went still. He was clearly struggling. Tacoma shook his head as he realized he would have to jump in again.
“Wow,” Tacoma muttered aloud.
He dived into the pool, descending quickly. He grabbed Dewey’s arm, shaking Dewey. Dewey’s arms were like tree trunks, and Tacoma shook, then pinched Dewey near his elbow, trying to open up another level. When Dewey still didn’t respond, Tacoma went to remove the blindfold. But as he did, he saw Dewey’s hands lurch to his thigh and grab the blade. Before Tacoma could react, Dewey had the knife out of the sheath. He slashed the blade to his feet, cutting the thin rope around his ankles, then twisted his hands and severed the ties around his wrists. Before Tacoma knew what was happening, Dewey had his arm around Tacoma’s neck, where he shoved the blade, locking Tacoma down.
Tacoma didn’t bother fighting back. He showed a two-fingered peace sign, indicating that he’d given up. Dewey dropped the blade and kicked off the bottom of the pool, swimming back to the surface.
By the time Tacoma picked up his knife and swam back up, Dewey was already out of the pool, on all fours, coughing up water and trying to catch his breath.
Dewey looked at Tacoma as Tacoma climbed slowly and calmly out of the pool.
“Fuckhead,” said Tacoma with a hint of anger in his voice. “That’s not the point of the goddam exercise!”
“I thought you said it was about survival,” coughed Dewey, still on all fours, struggling to get air.
“It is.”
“Well, I survived. Theoretically, you didn’t.”
“You asked me to fucking train you, asshole!” yelled Tacoma, standing up. He resheathed the SEAL Pup.
Dewey sat down, looking up at Tacoma. He started to catch his breath, though he was still breathing heavily. He couldn’t help looking up at Tacoma with a shit-eating grin.
“I guess that settles it,” said Dewey, breathing heavily and grinning.
“Settles what?” said Tacoma.
“The age-old debate: who’s tougher, Delta or SEALs.”
“The only debate that settled is who’s a bigger asshole,” said Tacoma.
Dewey laughed. He put his hand out and Tacoma pulled him up.
“So, what’s next?” said Dewey.
“What’s next?” said Tacoma. “Glad you asked. I’m going to teach you about waterboarding.”
Dewey and Tacoma lifted weights for an hour and showered in the locker rooms. Dewey got dressed before Tacoma and went out to the parking lot. He had on a pair of khaki shorts that had hems that were fraying. He wore worn-down L.L.Bean boots and a white short-sleeved button-down. He stood and waited next to a motorcycle—a black Suzuki Hayabusa. It was parked next to a bright red Ferrari 488 Pista with black racing stripes.
When Tacoma came out of the building, he looked stylish. He had on light gray pants, a blue button-down, and a pair of white suede loafers. It was an outfit most human beings could not come close to pulling off, but Tacoma looked as if he was stepping off a Hollywood set. His hair was short, thick, and neat-looking. He was still buttoning his shirt as he approached Dewey.
Dewey squinted as Tacoma approached.
“What time is the croquet tournament?” said Dewey.
“I’m meeting someone,” said Tacoma. “Someone female. I realize you don’t know too many of them, but I do.”
Dewey nodded, smiling, though it was obvious—at least to Tacoma—that he’d struck a nerve. He hadn’t meant to.
“Cool. What’s her name?” said Dewey.
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
Dewey looked at Tacoma.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Dewey.
“Yeah, well, I do worry about it. When was the last time you went on a date? It’s been over a year. You’re thirty-nine years old.”
“Forty,” said Dewey.
“Oh, Jesus,” said Tacoma. “Really? I’m not even thirty yet.”
Dewey laughed.
“So, what’s her name?” said Dewey.
“Something. I can’t remember. She’s Canadian. I met her in Miami.”
“Weight Watchers?” said Dewey, climbing onto the motorcycle.
“On the beach,” said Tacoma, winking. “She needed help removing her bikini.”
“What’s the plan?” said Dewey.
“I’m flying up to New York,” said Tacoma.
“Nice,” said Dewey as he turned on the Hayabusa and revved the engine, then hit the kickstand as he pulled on a helmet.
“She probably has a friend,” said Tacoma. “You can fly up with me. My place has like four or five bedrooms. Seriously, why don’t you come up? Double date. I’m telling you, she’s seriously smoking hot and I’ll tell her to bring a friend just as hot. We’ll go out dancing and then spend some time showing them Manhattan, in particular the bedrooms of my condo. It has an indoor pool.”
Dewey smiled.
“Sounds fun,” said Dewey, “but unfortunately I’m getting fitted for orthopedic shoes in the morning.”
“Fine, be a lame ass,” said Tacoma. “I’ll be back in a few days and we’ll continue our lessons. Next up is what to do when one of your floaties pops.”