29
Sitting out under the stars, with the waves gently rocking the boat, I felt a sense of calm I hadn’t experienced in a long time. It was very pleasant. Something I wouldn’t mind doing at another time with Jennifer, only with a case of beer and some fishing poles. Not like the ones we’d brought when we’d rented the boat, which were simple props used to convince total strangers we were actually going fishing and not conducting secret missions in their sovereign country. Truth be told, if I did get out on a boat alone with Jennifer, I probably wouldn’t want to spend the time trying to catch some smelly, slimy animal with a brain the size of a pea. Although that would ultimately be her decision. I felt the boat rise again and glanced her way. She was giving me the look again, a painful
She’d come back from her PM with the sonic beacon and a host of different passports, looking a little grim about the information she’d received. I’d listened to her, then told her not to worry about it just yet. If we could penetrate the place, we would, but I wasn’t going to do it in a frontal assault. There’s always a solution. The trick is finding it.
I’d flipped through the documents, recognizing Decoy and Knuckles from their photos, but not their names, which stood to reason, since officially they were still in Tunisia. The third passport belonged to the new guy, Brett, and I was surprised to see he was black. I don’t know why, I just had a different mental image. He was short, at five feet seven inches, but either fat or full of muscle, because he weighed 185 pounds. Given our line of work, I was betting on muscle. He had an open face, with a smile in the photo, like he was enjoying a secret joke. That told me a lot about him. Usually, guys who think they’re some sort of badass try to project power in official photos. Very few will smile. I figured we’d get along fine.
Jennifer checked the GPS to make sure our little sea anchor hadn’t let us drift too far off, then said, “How much longer?”
“Should be here within thirty minutes, if Knuckles doesn’t screw up and head to Egypt.”
She nodded and sat back down, staring at me.
“You didn’t sleep last night.”
We’d stayed at Samir’s house, sleeping on the floor of his living room, which meant she’d had plenty of time to analyze me.
“I slept fine. I’m okay.”
Which wasn’t true. I had some bad dreams reliving the capture, but nothing that was making me catatonic.
“I heard you moaning…. It’s okay to talk about it.”
“Jesus! I’m fucking fine! Let it go. I know you want to play Florence Nightingale, but I don’t need it.”
I saw her snap back at my tone and felt like an ass. She turned to check the GPS again, and I said, “Hey. Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”
She said, “Remember Cairo? What I did?”
“Yeah.” She’d been forced to kill a guy with a lamp, literally beating his brains out.
She took my hand in hers. “Well, I had issues with it like you said I would. And you helped me through it. I’m just returning the favor. I know you. Your capture was more than just a firefight. It hurt. I can tell.”
I was thinking up a witty comeback, something to deflect this little probe into my psyche, when I caught sight of my other hand. The one with less than a full deck of fingers. I realized I just didn’t have the energy.
“Okay. It was more than a firefight. Much more. It’s probably a phobia I’ve had since I joined the Army.”
Her mouth dropped open. I continued. “The problem is I’ve had years to worry about that situation because of my job, building it up in my head, petrified of it ever coming to pass. It did, but truthfully, now that it’s over, my time was less than what Daniel Pearl experienced. Or William Buckley. I’ll be okay.”
She searched my face, trying to ascertain if I was being genuine or just placating her. Her eyes reached mine, and I held fast, daring her to question the veracity of what I had said. We spent a second in silence, then she smiled and patted my hand, apparently convinced we’d turned some corner in our relationship, which confused the shit out of me because I didn’t know what our relationship was.
She said, “I know you’ll be okay. I just wanted to let you know I’m here.”
“Here for what? As my therapist, or something else? We never did have that big talk you kept threatening.”
The smile was replaced by confusion, then embarrassment. Before she could say anything, the beacon squawked.
I grinned. “Saved by the bell. Get ready to pull in some tired swimmers.”
She said, “Pike…I’m not trying to hide anything.”
I checked the sonar echo on the little display attached by wire to the beacon thirty feet below. Two blobs were about five hundred meters out and closing fast.
“Seriously, this’ll have to wait. Get out the clothes and blankets.”
She did nothing for a moment, then turned to a duffel bag at the stern of the boat. I opened up the giant cooler we’d brought, now full of lead weights and a fishnet.
I laid the fishnet on the deck, attaching the weights to the corners. I checked the sonar again and saw the blobs were fairly close. When I was operational, I hated using the sonic beacon because nobody could tell me its effect on marine life. Yeah, it worked fine guiding in clandestine infils, but I wasn’t convinced it didn’t sound like a dinner bell to sharks.
I saw the blobs were right underneath us now. As anal as Knuckles was, I knew he would be concerned about surfacing. He didn’t get to plan any of this, and I’m sure he was convinced during the whole damn trip that he was doomed. Now, he’d be positive I was some haji itching to blow his head off. I toyed with the idea of playing a joke on him, but figured he wouldn’t take it the right way.
I suppose I should have passed along some final bona fides when I’d provided the grid to the link-up, like flashing a light six times followed by two or some other method to prove we were who we said we were, but I always figured that sort of stuff was overkill. I mean, really, if there was a boat out here with a top-secret beacon mated to a Taskforce DPV, didn’t that pretty much say it all? Keep making up signals, and it just creates more chances for screwups when someone makes a mistake. Of course, Knuckles didn’t see it that way. We were complete opposites, with me being all about free-flow and him being the guy who organized his sock drawer alphabetically.
Jennifer came up next to me, saw the sonar, and said, “What are they doing?”
“Probably playing rock-paper-scissors to see who gets to poke their head up first. This is ridiculous.” I decided a joke wasn’t off the table-and to give Knuckles the bona fides he was looking for. “Take off your bra.”
“What?”
“Take it off. You can do it underneath your shirt. I’ve seen you. Wrap it in one of those fishing weights and drop it overboard.”
She caught why I had asked and gave me her disapproving teacher look, but with the hint of a smile. She reached underneath her shirt. I turned and faced the bow until I heard a splash, then looked overboard. Ten seconds later a head broke the surface, followed by two others. One held her bra in the air.
I said, “Man, you guys are careless. Anybody could have known you were meeting a woman out here and brought an American bra to drop overboard.”
One head said, “Fuck you, Pike. Hello, Jennifer. Help me with the bundle.”
I recognized Knuckles’ voice and kicked over the ladder. Within thirty minutes we had the DPVs broken down and the wetsuits shredded, all now lying in the fishnet. While the men got warm under dry clothes and a blanket, Jennifer and I transferred the kit from the bundle to the fish cooler that had held the net.
Most of the equipment in the bundle was the usual weapons and tech gear. Cameras, H amp;K UMPs, Glocks, beacons, and assorted other stuff Knuckles thought we’d need. We reached the bottom, and Jennifer held up an item I’d never seen, saying “What’s this?”
It appeared to be one of those gun-type mounts that held an SLR camera with a long telephoto lens. It had a shoulder stock and a trigger grip with a rail extending out. On top of the rail was a cylinder a foot and a half long
