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“Yes.” Coleman hung up and pulled away from the curb. He had made up the part about the Stingers, but Stansfield didn’t know that. Coleman was on his own with no backup, but if his gut feeling was right, Stansfield could be trusted. The Naval Academy had its own private harbor located at the east end of the campus. Coleman worked his way down the narrow streets and parked in a small lot adjacent to the harbor. Standing next to the plain gray harbormaster’s hut was his old friend and former Navy SEAL Sam
Jarvi.
Jarvi was the current dive master at the Academy. Coleman got out of the car with the scramble phone and metal trunk in hand and walked over to Jarvi. Jarvi tossed his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his foot. The menacing little pit bull, as
Coleman used to call him, was no taller than five six. If one counted his bristly, short, gray hair he may have been five seven. Back when Coleman was trying to become a
SEAL, Jarvi was one of his instructors, or tormentors, depending on how you looked at it.
When Coleman went through BUDS, the twelve-week boot camp that the Navy uses to make sure only the toughest of the toughest become SEALS, Jarvi was there every step of the way screaming and yelling.
Jarvi stuck out his hand. “So you got some bad guys on your ass?”
“Yep.”
Coleman set both cases down and the two men hugged each other tightly.
Jarvi picked the larger Coleman off the ground, then set him back down.
“It’s good to see you, brother.”
“It’s good to see you, too.” Jarvi motioned toward the selection of boats in the harbor.
“You need a little transportation?”
“Yeah, if you can spare one.”
“Anything for a buddy. I already cleared it with the harbormaster.
He’s an old crusty frog. He said as long as it’s going to a SEAL, it’s okay.”
A large smile broke across Jarvi’s face. Coleman tried to return the smile, but failed.
Jarvi picked up on his old friend’s unease and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, just some business I have to take care of.” Jarvi went from jovial to no—
nonsense in a second. “Do you need some help?” Coleman shook his head. “No, but thanks. I’m running solo on this one.”
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Jarvi showed his displeasure with a furrowed brow. SEALS didn’t like to hear other
SEALS use the word solo. They were trained and conditioned to do everything in pairs and teams. The solo concept was foreign to them.
“Scott, you say the word, and I’m in.”
“Thanks, Sam, but this is something I have to do on my own.” Coleman slapped
Jarvi’s shoulder.
“I’ll be all right.” Jarvi nodded solemnly. “I won’t keep you waiting.
Follow me.” Bending over, Jarvi picked up the heavy trunk. “Shit, what in the hell do you have in this thing?”
“Tools.” Coleman grinned. “I don’t wanna know, do I?”
“No.” Jarvi led the way down one of the docks.
“I gassed up a twenty-eight-foot Whaler. She’s got a one-hundred-fifty hp outboard on her, and she’s loaded with all the new navigational crap.” Jarvi waved a hand in the air.
“Global-positioning system, depth finder, the works. These little shits around here can’t find their ass without a computer and a satellite.” Coleman .jumped into the Whaler and grabbed the trunk from Jarvi. He primed the engine and fired up the motor. Jarvi untied the bow and aft lines and nudged the bow away from the dock with his foot. “If you break it, you buy it.”
“I’ll bring her back in one piece.” Coleman slipped the boat into gear and started to pull away. Over his shoulder he said, “Hey, Sam, if the FBI comes looking for me, tell them you never saw me.”
“Whatever you say, brother.” Jarvi gave his old friend a curt salute.
Coleman stood behind the small center console of the Whaler and pushed the throttle to the stops. The whine of the outboard matched the increase in speed. The small white boat kicked up a foamy wake as it sped out of the harbor and toward the expansive
Chesapeake. When Coleman cleared Greenbury Point, he headed southeast across the channel. There was a slight chop on the water, but as the wind died down, the bay would get smoother. Once he reached the other side of the channel, he called Stansfield and gave him the final location of the meeting place. Coleman had picked a small sandbar just outside of the channel that appeared during low tide. He pulled the throttle back as he neared the hump of sand. The sandbar was crowned in the middle and at its widest point was fifty feet across. The strip ran north-south with the current of the channel. He brought the Whaler in on the north end and beached her.
Coleman knew the Chesapeake as well as one could expect for such a large and shapely expanse of water. When he ran SEAL Team Six, they had spent countless hours
