| |
Deputy Conway had been right about one thing; the drunken prisoner was indeed an Indian—not an “India, Indian” but rather a Native American, a Cherokee to be precise. He had the unlikely name of Uriah Bonebrake, but most of his friends—those few who were willing to tolerate his acerbic, politically incorrect, and too often unfunny jokes, not to mention his weakness for strong drink—simply called him “Bones.”
More than three hours had passed since his arrest, slightly more since his last drink, and the passage of time had lowered his blood alcohol level a little; he was no longer falling-down-drunk, but merely just mean and disinhibited.
“I suppose you think I’m supposed to get down on my knees and thank you, right?” he snarled at the man in the officer’s uniform behind the steering wheel. “Keep dreaming, Your Holiness.”
The driver, who was in the process of removing the plastic name tag from his shirt pocket, looked over at Bones with thinly disguised contempt. “I don’t want thanks or anything else from you, Bones.” He braced the steering wheel of the moving sedan with one knee, quickly affixed a different name plate to his uniform; this one read: Maddock. “I didn’t do this for you. Personally, I would have been happy to let you rot in there, but unfortunately, when you make an ass of yourself, it embarrasses the whole team.”
Bones snorted. “You’re one to talk about the team.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Bones gave him a long hard stare. “The team is the guys on the field. You don’t want to be part of the team; you want to be the star. An army of one, or a navy of one. Whatever.”
Dane Maddock stifled his impulse to deny the accusation, partly because he knew that Bones was still half-plastered and that any argument would be wasted on him, and partly because the big man’s underlying premise wasn’t entirely incorrect.
Bones wasn’t finished. “Dude, don’t you get what it means to be part of a SEAL team? Work hard and play hard...only you’re so uptight that you can’t ever just let down and relax with the rest of us when the mission is done. That’s what being part of a team is all about; if you’re gonna be willing to die for your swim-buddy, you’ve got to be willing to hang out with him. We all get that. Except for you, mister tight ass. I thought I’d managed to chill you out on our trip to Boston, but you wouldn’t stay loosened up.”
“We were off-duty.” Dane shifted in his seat. “Besides, I’m impersonating an officer for you. I should get some credit for that. Do you know what will happen if Maxie finds out?”
Bones stared at him for several long seconds and then broke into a guffaw.
Dane hadn’t meant it as a joke, but decided he was glad Bones had interpreted it that way and happier still with the silence that followed.
Bones wasn’t wrong. Dane had been questioning his place among the hard-fighting, hard-playing SEAL team, particularly since their return from a four-month deployment.
Both men were elite US Navy SEALs—the acronym stood for Sea, Air and Land, and represented the environments in which the highly trained and exceptionally fit warriors operated with deadly efficiency—and had been for almost two years, which also happened to be the length of time Dane Maddock had known Uriah Bonebrake. They had met during BUD/S—the Navy was fixated on acronyms; this one stood for Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training, which technically made it a two-stage acronym—and survived the capstone event of the course, a five day long marathon of grueling physical activity and sleep deprivation known affectionately as “Hell Week,” to earn their SEAL trident. There had been some friction between them during the course, culminating in a brawl that might have cost both men their careers if not for the intervention of their commanding officer, Hartford Maxwell. “Maxie” had the brilliant idea of shackling the pair of wayward young SEALs together, figuratively speaking, for a weekend of rest and relaxation that had unexpectedly landed them in the middle of a murder investigation and a search for a priceless relic with the potential to rewrite the nation’s history.
After that, things had gone a lot smoother. Over the weeks and months that followed, they finished their training and were integrated into Maxie’s SEAL team, based out of Coronado Naval Amphibious Station. Dane was put in charge of a platoon, and Bones had been assigned to oversee a squad comprised mostly of guys who had come through BUD/S with them, including Willis Sanders and Pete ‘Professor’ Chapman. With their skills honed to razor sharp perfection, they eagerly embraced the challenge of that first deployment, and everything had gone flawlessly.
And then, it was over and everything had gone right into the toilet. Almost as soon as they were back in the States, Bones had started drinking...a lot.
Bones liked to joke about his heritage, sometimes playing to deeply ingrained stereotypes. Dane was pretty sure he did it as a way of making people feel uncomfortable around him, though why Bones felt the need to do that was anyone’s guess. Maybe it was a defense mechanism, but it was hard to imagine what could possibly make the six-foot six-inch tall Bones feel threatened. Regardless, there was one stereotype that Bones seemed intent on fulfilling: the drunken Indian.
Dane and the rest of the platoon had covered for him to the best of their ability. A lot of the bars around Coronado were on friendly terms with the teams, and knew how to be discreet whenever a sailor tied on one too many. But Bones had blasted through all the familiar watering holes in the first month back, and been 86’d from each and every one. After that, it had been a lot harder to keep tabs on him. Tonight, he’d escalated things...maybe gone too far.
Bones’ drinking was only part of a much bigger problem. The big Indian had, however inarticulately, hit the nail on the head; Dane was becoming more a coach than a player, managing his team rather than leading them. Of course, that was increasingly necessary as Bones and some of the others were constantly pushing the boundaries.
Further complicating the situation was a letter he’d received from Rear Admiral Long—one of his former instructors at Annapolis and currently overseeing the Navy’s Bureau of Personnel—recommending him for a slot as the executive officer of the USS Valley Forge.
When he’d graduated from the Naval Academy, he’d been firm in his decision to become a SEAL and make a name for himself in the elite Special Warfare field, but the Navy was, first and foremost, about ships, and it was expected that the goal of every officer was to one day have a ship of his own. Being recommended for the XO slot on a Ticonderoga-class guided missile cruiser was the equivalent of a career catapult; from there, it might be only a couple more years before he was given his own command.
It wasn’t really what he wanted, but if he refused, there was no telling when or if such an opportunity would come again.
Maybe the universe was trying to tell him something.
Bones stayed quiet for the rest of the drive back to Coronado, his head turned away from Dane, as if to stare out the window. When they arrived back at their team room, Dane discovered that the big man had passed out.
As he got out, Willis and Professor came out to meet him. Both men looked exceptionally subdued, which Dane attributed to being up at two a.m. to cover for their wayward teammate.
“He’s out,” Dane said in a stage whisper. “Come on and help me carry him inside.”
The two SEALs looked at each other and then started forward. “We got this, Maddock,” Professor said. “You should probably head inside.”
“Why?” But even as he asked it, Dane knew the answer, and breathed a curse. Another figure stood in the doorway, watching them...watching him. Dane stiffened his spine and put on his best nonchalant expression as he strode up the walk to meet the team commander. “Evening, sir.”
“Actually, Maddock, I think ‘good morning’ would be the correct greeting.” Maxie’s voice was stern, his visage typically unreadable. “What’s the problem here?”
Dane spread his hand innocently. “No problem that I’m aware of, sir.”
Maxie stared back at him for a moment longer then turned smartly on his heel. “My office,” he said, without looking back. Dane sighed and hustled after his boss. When they reached the utilitarian room, Maxie settled wearily into his chair. “Close the door.”
Dane complied, groaning inwardly. A closed-door meeting was not a good sign.
Maxie didn’t waste time with preamble. “Say the word and Bonebrake is gone.”
Dane shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, sir. He’s a good SEAL. I’d trust him with my life.”
“He’s a sledgehammer,” Maxie corrected. “When you need to smash something, a sledgehammer is a great thing to have. When you need to drive a nail...not so much. I’ve seen dozens of guys like him in my time; they thrive in combat, but can’t handle home port so well. Lord knows, I’ve done my best to straighten him out.”
Dane wasn’t sure if Maxie was offering him a solution or testing his loyalty to his teammates, but either way, despite the friction between them, he wasn’t about to throw Bones under the bus. “He can handle it, sir. We’ll make sure of it.”
“Being in command means making hard choices. I know you think that your first loyalty is to the men in your platoon, but you’re not doing them any favors by covering up a serious problem.”
“I understand, sir.”
“I’m not so sure you do.” Maxie studied him a moment longer, then waved his hand. “Anyway, that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”
“Sir?”
“You didn’t think I was up at this hour just to deal with a drunken sailor, did you?” A rare smile creased Maxie’s face then he was all business again. “Tonight, I received a call from the SECNAV asking a favor of me. A favor of the very hush-hush variety.”
Dane felt his pulse quicken, equal parts excitement and anxiety. “A mission?”
“A training exercise,” Maxie emphasized.
“Training exercise” was shorthand for a highly classified, off-the-books action, one for which there would be only minimal tactical support and complete deniability. If the mission was successful, there would be no official acknowledgement, and if things went south, the team would be on their own.
“It’s an underwater salvage operation,” he continued. “You’ll be looking for a sunken wreck in the South China Sea. Find it, verify it’s really where we think it is, and then come home without attracting any attention. Zero attention, to be precise.”
Dane was pleasantly surprised by that. While it was true that SEALs were arguably the deadliest warriors in the US military, they were also some of the best trained divers anywhere.
Maxie slid a file folder across the desktop and Dane scooped it up, eager to learn the details of the mission. Would they be looking for an experimental stealth drone that crashed to close to Chinese waters? An illegal arms shipment bound for North Korea?
There was a single sheet of paper inside and most of it was blank, but even after reading it three times, Dane still couldn’t make sense of what was written there. “Is this correct sir? I’m supposed to find a Japanese ship from World War II?”
“The Awa Maru,” Maxie said.
The sheet of paper included a brief excerpt detailing the sinking of the Awa Maru, an ocean liner that had been impressed into Japanese naval service, running supplies and personnel between the island nation and her colonies in the South Pacific and Indonesia. On April 1, 1945, an American submarine, the USS Queenfish, under the command of Elliot Loughlin, had sunk the ship with torpedoes.
Dane lowered the brief and met Maxie’s impassive stare. “Sir, maybe it’s not my place to ask why, but...why?”
“Correct. It’s not your place to ask,” Maxie agreed in a clipped tone, but then his lips twitched into a smile. “Nor was it my place to ask the SECNAV, but I did anyway. What do you know about Admiral Loughlin?”
Dane faintly recalled Loughlin’s name from his classes at Annapolis. Loughlin had been something of a legend during the war, and in the years that followed had become one of the most decorated officers in US Naval history, twice earning the prestigious Legion of Merit award. The incident with the Awa Maru was the only black spot on his record; the ship had been purportedly transporting supplies for POW camps, under the auspices of the Red Cross, and all US ships had been ordered not to engage her. After the sinking, Loughlin was immediately relieved of command, court-martialed, and found guilty of negligence, though ultimately his career had survived and he had gone on to earn the rank of rear admiral.
Maxie nodded as Dane finished his recollection. “The Awa Maru went down with all hands, except for one lone survivor; over two thousand dead, mostly civilian businessmen, diplomats and merchant marines. The Navy brass feared that it would be a public relations disaster, generating sympathy for Japan, but strangely the incident was mostly hushed up. Loughlin received a slap on the wrist—a Letter of Admonition in his permanent record—and the US agreed to pay the Japanese reparations for the loss of the ship. But it turns out, there’s a lot more to the story. To begin with, the Awa Maru had already dropped off its supplies in Singapore. It was transporting cargo back to Japan, cargo which would have aided in their war effort.”
“Which would have made it a legitimate military target,” Dane said. “No wonder the Japanese didn’t make more of a fuss. If word got out that they were using Red Cross designated ships to smuggle contraband, it would have been an even bigger PR disaster for them.”
“And if the Awa Maru had reached its destination, it would have been a military disaster for us. She was carrying enough war loot—gold, platinum, diamonds—to finance the war for several more years. It’s also believed that the ship was carrying the bones of the Peking Man, which went missing during the war and have never been found.”
Dane shook his head. “Let me get this straight. The SECNAV wants us to go treasure hunting?”
“I asked him the same question. As I said, there’s more to the story. Rumors about the Awa Maru’s cargo have been circulating for years; people don’t just give up when there’s five billion dollars worth of treasure out there for the taking. In 1976, the American astronaut Scott Carpenter, and Jon Lindbergh—the son of Charles Lindbergh and a former Navy frogman—discovered the Queenfish’s log, which pinpointed the location where the sinking occurred, and a few years later the Chinese government announced that they had found the wreck, but no treasure.”
“They had the wrong wreck?”
“According to the SECNAV, the Queenfish’s log book was a fake, part of an elaborate ruse to probe China’s defensive posture in the Taiwan Strait. Carpenter and Lindbergh were part of the deception. The Chinese ran them off the site, which was not completely unexpected, and then took over. Whatever ship they found, or claim to have found, wasn’t the Awa Maru. Loughlin’s actual log book indicates that the ship was sunk several hundred miles away and remains undiscovered.”
“Which brings me back to my original question: why does the Secretary of the Navy want us to go looking for buried treasure? Budget cuts?”
“It’s political.” Maxie’s nose wrinkled, as if saying the word had been distasteful, but then he continued. “China has the best claim for the treasure, particularly the Peking Man, which is an invaluable piece of history. And in case you haven’t been reading the news, China holds our markers. Our national credit rating isn’t what it used to be. If China calls that debt in, we’re done, and a lot of folks think maybe that’s what the Chinese want. The President believes that pointing them to the real treasure would earn us some political capital with Beijing, but since we hoodwinked them once before, he wants to make sure that the ship is actually there before passing on the location. That’s why your job will be to find it and make sure it’s really the Awa Maru. Recon only. Under no circumstances are you to attempt recovery of the ship or its cargo.”
“And then when it’s politically expedient, the President can hand the Awa Maru to China, wrapped up in a bow. But why now? Why a middle of the night phone call?”
“SECNAV didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.” Maxie crossed his arms, signaling that he was done entertaining questions. “He made it very clear that this is a favor, Dane. It’s not such a bad thing to have the Secretary of the Navy owe you one, if you catch my drift. Particularly at this crossroads in your career.”
It took a moment for the significance of the last statement to sink in. “You know about the Valley Forge?”
“I may have mentioned your name in passing to Admiral Long.”
Dane suddenly felt numb. “I don’t understand, sir. You want me to leave the team?”
Maxie recoiled a little. “Hell no. You’re an excellent officer. I’m not cutting you loose. I’m trying to set you free to realize your potential. If you stay with the teams, the best you can hope for is to someday have my job. And in case you haven’t noticed, my job amounts to pushing papers, riding herd on drunken sailors, and taking late night phone calls from political appointees. If you ever want to wear a star on your collar, you’ve got to seize every opportunity that comes your way. That’s just the way the Navy works, and I don’t want to be responsible for holding you back. Or, I might add, depriving the service of a damned fine leader.”
Dane wanted to protest, tell Maxie that he wasn’t interested in being an admiral, much less playing the political games necessary to achieve that goal. But there was a part of him that wondered if maybe that was exactly what he should be doing.
A good leader knew the importance of listening to what his NCOs had to say, but sometimes—particularly with guys like Bones—that tested the limits of military discipline. Not to mention his patience. It wouldn’t be like that on a ship, that little voice inside told him.
Maxie seemed to sense his internal conflict. “It’s not as if you have to decide right now. In fact, right now, you’ve got a ‘training exercise’ to do. I want you wheels up by dawn and running a search grid over the target zone ASAP.”
Dane put the matter of his career on a mental back burner. “I’ll tell the guys.”
“Good. Pour some coffee down Bonebrake’s throat. Maybe getting back out in the field will help him straighten up. Oh, and one other thing...”
“Sir?”
“I’ll need my name tag back.”