A Tide in the Affairs of Men

By Brian Alm

After his stint in the U.S. Navy, Stan Olsson has made a comfortable life as an American literature teacher in Minneapolis. But that all changes when he gets a mysterious phone call and ends up meeting a man who will change the course of his life.

The Coast Guard and the DEA cannot control drug trafficking in the Caribbean, and an organization of zealous vigilantes has something stealthier to put into play. That something is a ghost ship, a vessel that has been surreptitiously acquired and armed with the specific intent to intercept vessels smuggling drugs in the Caribbean. Olsson has the chance to command it. Against his better judgment, he accepts.

Olsson is told that hes not working for the CIA or the military, but for a small, undercover group that will take direct and forceful action against the drug trade. But how will Olsson and his crew respond when violent events force them to confront their innermost selves?

As the clandestine operation travels through the labyrinths of the federal bureaucracy and the whirlpools of power in Washington, the interwoven network of complicity, both active and unwitting, raises a chilling question: Are men molded by duty, or do they mold duty to their own will?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475954531

Brian Alm

Brian Alm served as an engineering officer in the U.S. Navy in Vietnam and for the recovery of Apollo 13; he later earned his graduate degree in English at the University of Chicago. A former university teacher and magazine editor, he is now retired and studies ancient Egypt. Alm lives in Rock Island, Illinois.

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CONTENTS

1. THE LIGHT BEFORE DAWN

2. A CALL AT THE OFFICE

3. DEAD SERIOUS

4. A LOW-PROFILE SHIP

5. REUNION WITH GRACE

6. WHIRLPOOLS

7. ALCHEMIES OF THE MODERN AGE

8. CONVERSATIONS

9. WE ARE READY, GENTLEMEN

10. THE SHIP

11. A PRIZE CREW

12. POWER AND MARBLE

13. DR. DANZIG

14. PASSING THE WORD

15. FIRST BLOOD

16. MORE QUESTIONS THAN ANSWERS

17. THE HUMANITIES

18. LUNCHEON CONVERSATIONS

19. PAULA WELLES

20. WHAT THE HELL IS THIS… ?!

21. BLESSED ARE THE HESITANT

22. A MATTER OF COURSE

23. JUST THINK ABOUT IT

24. MESSAGES FROM OLSSON

25. PROS AND CONS

26. THE SINKING

27. OH, WHAT A TANGLED WEB

28. VISCERAL FEARS

29. LIABILITIES AND ARRANGEMENTS

30. ON SUCH A FULL SEA

31. THE MIRROR OF THE SOUL

32. WORDS SPOKEN AND SILENT

33. A CAT’S CRADLE

34. THE PICK OF THE LITTER

APPENDIX

For my family

and shipmates:

fair winds and following seas

1

THE LIGHT BEFORE DAWN

Stan Olsson was only distantly aware of the men on watch, muttering from time to time in low voices — disembodied, indistinguishable murmurs, like the low whispers overheard in a funeral parlor. Now and then, an intelligible phrase… Right standard rudder . . . Right standard rudder, aye . . . Steady up on new course zero-seven-five . . . Zero-seven-five, aye, aye, sir . . . Olsson drifted back out of the stream, the words once again lapsing to gray impressions of sound enveloped in darkness.

It was that time of the morning when the predawn light is still an expectation, more imagined than real. Before long, full light would burst through — the tropical day would leap from the wings, straight for center stage. But first this silent fanfare, poised at the moment between night and day. And it had its own beauty — a beauty known only to those who go to sea, Olsson thought dreamily. Softly glowing pinpoints of red light on the control console in front of him were the only competition for the darkness spread out beyond the expanse of glass.

It was May, and still cool at this hour. The breeze off the Atlantic was light, but Olsson expected it would be enough to whiten the wave tops when it pinched down through the Dominica Passage to the north. The eastern face of the island behind them would begin to show light before they could see it on the horizon, Olsson knew, so he kept looking east, out toward the black sea, to preserve this quiet, dark time as long as possible.

A voice broke his trance and he swiveled left on his stool.

Excuse me, Captain. I was wondering if you would like some coffee.

Oh, uh, yes, thank you, Sherwood.

You’re welcome, sir, said the quartermaster, handing him a china mug. Anything in it, sir?

Black’s fine, thanks.

Sherwood returned to the chart table, switched on a red light and picked up a pair of dividers as he bent over a chart covering the eastern Caribbean from the Guadeloupe Passage to the northern tip of Martinique. Mr. Stahl, sir, we should come to new course one-one-zero in… ten minutes.

Thank you, quartermaster, replied the officer of the deck.

Again the bridge was silent but for the hum of a fan motor, an occasional cough, the clink of a coffee cup on the stainless-steel chart table. Whitman, thought Olsson. Whitman should have been a sailor. Whitman could have captured this. Not the loud, brash Whitman, the Whitman of the barbaric yawp, but the Whitman who wander’d off by myself, in the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time, look’d up in perfect silence at the stars. That Whitman, thought Olsson, that Whitman could have been a sailor.

They had left the cove at St. Peter Island at midnight for a couple of days of sea trials, testing the engines at various speeds, testing the ship’s systems, testing the crew. The machinery and systems had been located in various warehouses and cobbled together to create this unique ship, and it all needed a good shakedown. The ship had been out a few times with a partial crew, just enough to man it, so the civilian technical reps could check out the systems and make sure everything was functioning perfectly before signing off. The crew had been assembled likewise: hand-picked, each billet filled with meticulous care. Now the agenda was to get this crew up to speed on this ship, and waste no time doing it.

Mr. Stahl, sir…

Lieutenant (junior grade) Rolf Stahl, the officer of the deck, turned to the quartermaster. Yes, what is it, Sherwood?

Time to change course, sir.

One-one-zero, was it?

Yes, sir.

Make it so, O’Keefe. Right standard rudder, Stahl said to the helmsman, O’Keefe, a seaman striking for bo’sun’s mate third-class and determined to hold the straightest course that had yet been steered by the hand of man.

Aye, aye, sir, my rudder is right standard… steadying up on new course one-one-zero, sir.

True or magnetic, helmsman? Stahl asked.

Why, true, sir, said O’Keefe, a little surprised at the question.

Very well. Steady as you go.

Steady as I go, aye, aye, sir.

Sherwood, said Stahl, scanning the horizon with the 20x50s he had slung around his neck, I make a white light, about a point off the port bow. Bearing and range.

Bearing zero-nine-six degrees, range… Sherwood paused as he peered through the rubber hood over the radar scope, twelve thousand yards, sir.

True or relative bearing, Sherwood?

True, sir, said Sherwood, glancing somewhat nervously in Olsson’s direction and then back at Stahl, who had turned around to wait for the answer.

Thank you. Keep me posted on his track.

Aye, sir, said Sherwood.

What’s with this guy Stahl? thought Olsson, stirring from his reverie. What quartermaster would report the relative bearing in normal steaming? And what watch officer, knowing his own heading was 110 degrees, would not recognize that a bearing reported as 096 and ahead of them was a true bearing? He guessed Stahl was playing some kind of mind game with the watch, or maybe Stahl was trying to impress him, the new CO who had just come aboard the afternoon before — but he said nothing and scanned the horizon with his own binoculars for the glimmer of light Stahl had spotted.

Sherwood, if the contact closes to eight thousand yards, please advise and plot a CPA, ordered Stahl.

Aye, aye, sir.

Olsson put down his coffee cup and looked over at Stahl, who was intent on the lights six nautical miles off.

Mr. Stahl, do you suspect a problem with that contact?

No, Captain, said Stahl. Can’t be too careful.

Carry on, replied Olsson.

Sir, acknowledged Stahl.

Olsson slid off the high captain’s chair, picked up the binoculars and went out through the starboard door to the open bridge. Let Stahl take a breath without being watched for a few minutes, Olsson thought, if that’s what it was. Besides, out here he could enjoy the night breeze. The purity of salt air always invigorated him. In transits across the Pacific or the Indian Ocean, often he would go out to the very tip of the fo’c’sle and stand in the spray, licking the salt off his lips. Even as an ensign, his gold-braid chinstrap, the brass anchors and the eagle were so green from salt that, back in San Diego, men from other ships assumed he had spent much more time at sea than he had.

In his first ship, Olsson had spent countless hours crawling through the maze of machinery and piping with a flashlight and a clipboard, tracing systems and making drawings labeled with pressures, temperatures and capacities. He would then take his drawings to his stateroom and stare at them until a light went on in his mind — say, the sudden dawning of a relationship between the discharge pressure of the main feed pump and the normal operating pressure of the steam drum. Then he would check the Bureau of Naval Ships Technical Manual to see if he was right. He was determined to protect himself from error, embarrassment and insult by making himself immune to failure. One by one, he had cracked the mysteries, and the demons left him — ignorance, inexperience, the fear of proving inadequate.

So he wore the tarnished hat until some shore-bound senior officer stateside would tell him he looked like hell and order him to get a decent cover. And he would do that, but only when he figured he would run into the same officer again before his ship went back to sea.

Before he was married, he hated the time in port. Later on, he simply disliked it. His wife, however, soon grew impatient with his sea duty, and berated him all the more for his attitude toward it, which he could not hide. This, coupled with her near-violent stand on peace and the atrocity of getting involved in other countries’ affairs, as she put it, led to a trial separation which, of course, was just a soft-failure mode of saying they were already washed up, and led rapidly to the official papers, which caught up with Olsson in Japan. Later, he heard that she had died — of an overdose, alone, in Minneapolis.

Captain? Stahl had come out onto the open bridge.

Yes, Mr. Stahl?

The contact’s closest point of approach turned out to be nine thousand yards, sir. He turned — apparently headed for the Dominica Passage.

Well, good, Mr. Stahl. Thank you for your diligence.

Yes, sir, thank you, Captain. Stahl paused and then added, I don’t want you to think I’m, well, that I’m a horse’s ass for demanding a precise accounting from the men, sir.

Let’s just treat them as men, Mr. Stahl, and they’ll be as happy to have us around as we are to have them.

Yes, sir.

First light, Mr. Stahl, said Olsson, after a pause, looking up at the faint glow starting to creep into the eastern sky, then back astern to the jagged peaks of Dominica — barely visible in the mist, but already brightening in the first light of morning.

Yes, sir. Beautiful.

My word exactly, Mr. Stahl. Morning is my time.

He’d read that the ancient Egyptians had a word for this moment, this glimmer of light before dawn — akhet, the place of becoming effective. What could be more appropriate? he mused to himself, and filled his lungs with the fresh, salt breeze.

Stahl disappeared back inside the bridge and Olsson faced east to watch the first edge of sun creep over the horizon. The place to meet the dawn, he thought, is the open bridge of a ship at sea. Then an afterthought… let’s hope it loses none of its wonder over the weeks or months ahead.

The sudden image of Goodwin intruded on his thoughts. Was it possible? Could he actually be here, now, more than three thousand miles from Minneapolis? He glanced at his watch. Could it really have been only thirty-six hours ago?

2

A CALL AT THE OFFICE

Olsson was peering at his computer screen and biting on the eraser of a pencil he had been meaning to sharpen for ten minutes. The phone broke his concentration, and on the third ring, irritated at the interruption, he picked it up. Olsson.

Mr. Olsson? Stanford Olsson? The voice was flat, almost metallic. Computer-like, yet he detected a tinge of humanity in it. Boston, maybe. Not Minneapolis, in any case.

Yes, speaking. Olsson semiconsciously tried not to offer any more animation than the voice coming through the wire.

Mr. Olsson, I wonder if I could stop by and take a few moments of your time…

Insurance? Investments? . . .

No, no, I can assure you, nothing like that.

What, then? His tone was slightly testy, Olsson realized, but what the hell? No time for games. He had work to do. Balanced against the computer was a pile of student papers, each one reaching for some obscure discovery or other in the bowels of American Transcendental poetry, and he was painfully aware of how few papers he had made it through thus far on this afternoon when he had vowed to himself to have the ordeal over with. Instead he had decided to put in a little time on a paper he was preparing on Whitman, so now he was sandwiched between obligation and inclination, and it was not a situation that ever gave him much comfort.

At home he sometimes entertained himself by surprising the jerk doing dinnertime cold calls with a preemptive strike, beating him to the punch… Okay, tell me, he would say, cutting the caller off in midstream, is it carpets, home repairs, replacement windows, roofing, basement waterproofing or driveway sealing? This was his ploy if the caller had said, Do you own your home… or do you rent? If the caller simply oozed, How are you this evening? then Olsson would respond: Let me guess, a marketing survey with a nifty free gift or some grand investment opportunity that’s come my way.

But this time he simply said, What, then? He was curious. No telemarketer could last long with a tone and manner no more insistent or compelling than this metallic monotone.

I can’t really tell you much over the phone. It would be best if we could talk over a cup of coffee. Or a drink, if you prefer. I can assure you…

That I can assure you phrase again. Olsson felt slightly uneasy. It sounded a lot like the used-car salesman’s Trust me. Still, he could not overcome his growing curiosity. The mystery monotone Someone on the other end. Who? What was it all about? Why all the secrecy? Why was this metallic Whoever calling him? He felt he should be annoyed, but curiosity nudged him closer to the brink.

. . . I can assure you, you will at the very least find what I have to say interesting, and it has nothing to do with investments.

Look, I get calls all the time from people I don’t know who always turn out to be selling snake oil, and I’m sure you get those calls, too. I grant that you sound different, enough to make me mildly curious, but phone pollution has reached critical mass in this country, and you’re going to have to do better than ‘assure’ me, as you say, if you expect me to continue this conversation. Now, what’s it about?

There was the slightest pause, in which Olsson had the sense the caller was momentarily amused.

You raise a valid point, of course. But I say again, I regret that I cannot be more expressive on the phone but you may be sure that what I have to say will be of interest.

‘Say again’? Olsson smiled slightly, sniffing a subtle clue that had been carelessly surrendered. Navy man, huh? What, Naval Intelligence? He heard a little more wicked cynicism in his tone than he had really intended, but what the hell, this guy was playing some sort of cloak-and-dagger act and it all seemed just a little ridiculous. If he wanted to be taken seriously, it was time to ante up.

Navy, yes. ONI, no. Let’s at least get together and tell some sea stories.

How did you happen to call me, in particular? We didn’t serve on a ship somewhere together, did we?

No, but I did meet your old roommate… David Grace.

No kidding! Well, now, there’s a name to reckon with.

So, can we get together? Have a little chat?

Are you nearby?

Half an hour, forty minutes, I’d guess.

The Boston r was a little more obvious, but it lacked the urban edge. Marblehead, maybe. Dialects were one of the little intrigues that Olsson always ran through his mind, to try to get a picture of people before they consciously disclosed anything voluntarily. An advantage, of sorts. As his mental dossier developed, Olsson took some glee in seeing how close he had come to pre-assessing the person accurately. It also occurred to him that the caller must know where he was.

Do you know Minneapolis?

I can manage. I’ve navigated strange waters before.

Navigator, huh?

Long time back, of course. Hours are bad, and no real margin for error. But when you get a command, you’re glad to have been one once.

You have a command?

Retired. Look, let’s get together for a face-to-face. You name the time and place.

Tell you what, Olsson said, skrunching the phone against his neck as he twisted his wrist around to see his watch. If you really want to talk to me in person, meet me at the Cocked Hat. Nicollet Mall, near Orchestra Hall. Sort of a quaint, colonial-themed place, restaurant upstairs but go downstairs, down the spiral staircase, into the bar. You’ll like it — it’s sort of a replica of the wardroom in the Constitution. Old Ironsides. You’ll think you’re in Quincy Market.

Crowded?

Not this early, especially on a weeknight.

Do they have booths?

Yes. Odd question, thought Olsson.

Good. An hour, say. Give you time to finish up what you’re doing.

How will I recognize you?

I’ll find you. By the way, name’s Captain J. W. Goodwin.

Captain, no disrespect, but old Navy or not, I do hope you’re shooting a straight ball. I’m up to my eyebrows here, and…

You be the judge.

Olsson held the phone in his hand for a moment, oblivious to the faint burr in the wake of the Mystery Monotone from Marblehead. Now, at least Monotone had a name. Captain J. W. Goodwin. The name struck no bells, but Olsson knew more than he had known a few minutes earlier. Navy, and a four-striper at that. Not from the Office of Naval Intelligence, but close enough to it, whatever his game was, to give him the creeps, especially with that metallic, robotic voice. Yet he had seemed to grow a little more human as he went on, somewhat reluctantly revealing more than he had apparently intended.

Or did he? Would Goodwin have liked it best if he had agreed right off the bat to meet? Or wouldn’t he? What game had they been playing? Was it a game? And if so, for what purpose? Olsson realized that he really didn’t know anything for certain — far from it. He couldn’t even be sure that his impressions were his own and not manipulated to seem like his own.

But he did know the man’s name, and Captain Goodwin was obviously not a local, so he had come into town for — for what? For this? Just to meet with him? Could that be? Yet if not, why was he so insistent? It was not as if Olsson had had any choice in the matter. Almost from the beginning he had the feeling, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he was being given an order that he would not be able to ignore.

And what was that about Dave Grace? His favorite roommate of the two dozen or so he’d lived with in school and on various ships during his years of active duty and the few years he’d stayed in the Naval Reserve. It had been five or six years since he had last seen Dave Grace, when Grace was stationed at Whidbey Island, Washington, doing something with Tomahawk missiles. He wouldn’t say much about it, other than muttering his usual suspicions about civilian tech reps. Olsson had gone to Seattle for a seminar and had skipped the afternoon session to meet Grace for lunch and then a ride on the ferry over to Bremerton, to the mothball fleet, where a ship they’d served in together was tethered. They could only hook their fingers through the squares of the chain-link fence and stare at the row of haze-gray hulks, but off in the distance, mostly hidden behind other faded ladies of the forgotten past, was the bow of a frigate they’d ridden through the blackness of a typhoon off Okinawa and the brilliant blue of the South China Sea, years ago now but suddenly the image was again fresh, as the wire of the fence dug deep into their clenched fingers.

Chilly, Grace had said, and quietly the two men had released their grip and returned to the ferry. They had said little on the trip back across Puget Sound.

Hearing Dave Grace’s name from this strange, metallic voice brought that forlorn picture back. And again, Olsson thought to himself, it seemed that Goodwin had known that it would.

One thing was certain: he wasn’t selling siding.

* * *

Olsson left his office immediately and drove over to the Cocked Hat so he could be there well before Goodwin was likely to arrive. He didn’t want to know so much whether Goodwin really could recognize him — somehow he had no doubt of that — but he did want to see if Goodwin could pick him out immediately, as if he were an old acquaintance. Maybe that would say something about Goodwin’s preparation. Olsson felt compelled to put these strange goings-on in some kind of context, but so far he didn’t really have a clue. He prided himself on his ability to analyze — literature, rhetorical argument, the real facts behind the crap in newspaper accounts of court cases and politicians’ public statements, telemarketers, peoples’ true motives, engineering problems, whatever. It was all analysis, which depended on a close observation of evidence and the imagination to identify cogent relationships and draw some tentative conclusions — which, more often than not, turned out to be valid. But this, this had him baffled. Just bits and pieces that refused to come together.

A man in his late fifties, leaning on the bar at the far end, suddenly looked up and smiled broadly, but briefly, and hailed him with a quick wave of the hand, dislodging himself from the casual attitude he had assumed and already freeing a hand to greet an old friend. So much for preemptive one-upmanship, thought Olsson.

Goodwin fastened Olsson’s hand in a quick, dry handshake and in the same gesture, pulled him toward a booth beyond the end of the bar — a booth that was always the last to be taken because it was always in the way of waitresses coming in and out of the kitchen, and normally no one wanted to put up with the constant intrusion on their privacy. But it was barely five o’clock on a Tuesday, and the place was virtually empty. A man and woman five booths away, another couple at a table half-way across the room, two or three waitresses and the barkeeper. You could hold confession in this booth, Olsson thought. Interesting choice.

Olsson followed Goodwin to the booth and Goodwin slid in first, his back to the kitchen wall, facing the rest of the room.

Goodwin delivered a couple of excessively loud pleasantries, as if to take up again on a conversation left off at their last meeting, nodding as if in fraternal agreement with Olsson’s tacit response, then glanced around the room and leaned forward, as if to tell about a great stock buy or share the latest locker room joke, or, with conspiratorial brotherhood, to ask how it was going with The Other Woman. The Cocked Hat was used to such scenarios, and even those few who were present just glanced toward the booth once and dismissed the conversation as more of the same, and too far off to try to eavesdrop anyway.

It will be better if I call you Stan, so I hope that’s all right. We’re old friends, as you see.

All right, Captain J. W. Goodwin.

Jack.

A slight smile drifted across Goodwin’s lips. Olsson nodded once in acknowledgement. He could hardly be calling his old friend Captain Goodwin. All right, then, Jack, what’s it all about?

Just a moment. Miss? Their waitress was just emerging from the kitchen. Could we get a bottle of wine?

Sure. There’s the wine list.

I’ve seen the wine list. The Columbia Valley chardonnay.

Right away, sir.

Goodwin turned back to Olsson. I hope you like chardonnay. The Washington state wines are surprisingly good, as you may know… from your visit with Dave Grace. And if we order a bottle, they won’t be interrupting us all the time.

Fine. Olsson was a little surprised, and also impressed in a curious way. Preparation — the prime virtue of the naval officer, and also of the intelligence agent and the burglar. Which was Goodwin?

Stan, I have reason to think that what I am about to share with you, you will hold in absolute confidence. But I — and I have to apologize for this — I really have to have your assurance that my belief is justified. He raised his eyebrows, soliciting confirmation. Olsson nodded.

Goodwin shifted in the booth, taking up position to deliver himself of this burden he had traveled to Minneapolis to lay on Olsson. The drama of it all nearly made Olsson smile, but instead he leaned closer, sharing in the delicious conspiracy of the moment — and, he realized, in fact fascinated, whatever it was Goodwin had to say.

The wine came. Goodwin poured both glasses and sat back. Stan, he began, almost pained in his expression, this country, as you certainly know, is in desperate straits. He broke off and again raised his eyebrows, seeking agreement. Olsson met Goodwin’s eyes, saying nothing, waiting.

Desperate straits… and that’s no exaggeration. Oh, I don’t mean the moral decay or the crisis in education or the balance of trade. He paused. I mean drugs.

Drugs? Drugs? A senior naval officer has called me out, thought Olsson, under the guise of conspiratorial skullduggery or whatever the hell this is all about, to talk about drugs?

Yes, drugs, said Goodwin, reading his mind. He paused, watching Olsson’s expression for any sign of levity. Once, he continued, we worried about being destroyed by the Soviet Union. The Soviet Union is history. If the USSR were still around, we’d be preparing to blow it up, just like we did for forty years. But what we’re up against now is every bit as potentially lethal to the American society as any MIRVed missile the Soviets ever built. Don’t you agree?

I guess so. Go on.

And a lot more likely. Do you agree with that?

Go on.

You know, we — none of us, not you, not me, no one in the military and no one in civilian society, either, with any sense — none of us ever had any thought that we could deal with all of the Soviet missiles aimed at us. But we still had our bombers in the air all the time, and our missiles manned twenty-four hours a day, and our submarines out there somewhere, all within striking distance of any point on any land mass on the face of the Earth.

Yes, well… Olsson began, starting to think he was talking to a crackpot.

Bear with me, Stan. I assure you, I am not, uh, deranged. Olsson sat in silence. Again Goodwin seemed to be reading his mind. There are things that can be done. Goodwin paused, watching Olsson’s face. There are things that can be done, he repeated, and stopped briefly to sip his wine. We are not helpless. In fact, we are far less helpless, far less helpless, than we were when we were worried about being blown up by the Russians.

Okay, so what do we do about drugs? Olsson said, almost wearily. He guessed Goodwin might think he was humoring him. Well, in fact he was.

Hear me out, Stan, and make no mistake, I am dead serious about this and I do have something to tell you that you’re going to want to hear.

All right, go ahead, then. Goodwin’s intensity rekindled his curiosity. His trust, too? Perhaps. He leaned forward. I’m listening.

Now, you know, I’m sure, Goodwin began, that there’s a problem in Castilla Leon. They’re shooting judges, kidnapping and torturing anybody who interferes with the drug business, and exporting hundreds of tons of drugs to American streets, virtually without hindrance.

Yes, so I’ve read. Small country with big appetites, and a pretty straight shot from the north coast of South America to here. TIME had a thing on it a week or two ago — called it ‘Cocaine Central.’

Yes. Well, that activity can be, ah, hindered, shall we say.

How?

That’s what we’re here to talk about.

Go on. This seemed unreal, some sort of talk on a Tuesday night in May in a colonial-themed bar in Minneapolis about Castilla Leon and how we could mess up the drug trade. Olsson shook his head and said again, with a hint of impatience, Go on, Captain.

Make it Jack, said Goodwin. We can do something about it, and what we have in mind involves you. Another pause. But I need to know if you share my view that something has to be done, and done soon, and done decisively.

Okay, yes, I agree, but I can’t imagine what, and I can’t begin to imagine how it would involve me, whatever it is. I teach American literature for a living.

Yes, but you were once a naval officer and your fitness reports were excellent — among the best of the junior officers — and the Navy asked you to stay. You decided to go to grad school instead.

And I suppose you’re telling me the Navy hasn’t forgotten…

Yes, that’s right. The Navy hasn’t forgotten.

You want me back so I can help save America from the drug peril.

Yes. And belay the sarcasm, Stan. Do I look like I’m kidding?

Olsson had to admit that he didn’t. He said nothing.

Again, Goodwin paused briefly to refill their glasses. We have a ship. A rather special ship. One of a kind.

Navy ship?

You wouldn’t think so, looking at it. It’s dark gray, almost black, but dull. Flat charcoal. You might say it’s a ghost ship — officially, it doesn’t exist… not exactly, anyway.

Fascinating.

And it’s well-armed — very well-armed.

Sounds like you’re operating somewhat above the law.

I suppose you could say that’s why it’s a ghost ship. Goodwin sipped his wine and held it up to the swag light over the booth, twisting the glass to see the clarity and color. The crew is hand-picked: the very best available people, in every function. They’re all at the top of their game.

So what are you going to do with this mystery ship?

Interdict the drug traffic coming out of Castilla Leon.

The point-blank impact of Goodwin’s answer stunned Olsson.

Oh yeah, how? Just shoot the drug-runners?

Well, it could come to that, yes, I suppose. I mean, we do have the means to apply lethal force. But at least force them to heave-to, then go aboard and destroy their cargo.

And their vessels, I presume.

If necessary. But of course that would be an extreme measure.

But don’t we already have forces doing that — DEA or Coast Guard or somebody?

Yes, but not very effectively. They’re too high-profile. Too visible. Ineffective.

Olsson thought he was beginning to understand the situation. Too legal? he ventured.

I suppose you could put it that way, yes, answered Goodwin, with a chuckle.

Sounds interesting. But what does your ship have to do with me?

We need somebody to command it.

3

DEAD SERIOUS

G ood God! You can’t be serious! You have obviously pulled out the wrong service record. I was an engineering officer, not a ship driver. I was never in special ops, much less anything even remotely clandestine. I never worked with the CIA. I wasn’t on a SEAL team…

Dead serious. Goodwin stared at him, level and unblinking, pinning him like an insect.

Now, look, Captain… sir, uh, Jack…

Goodwin cut him off: You were a good officer because you cared about your mission. I know you care about this drug problem. I know you have wished you could do something about it. Well, now is when you get your wish.

Captain, I’m a civilian! I teach American literature! The hairiest thing I’ve been through in the last fifteen years is a tenure review. And in the five years before that, God, I don’t know — getting stopped for speeding, I suppose…

Bored? The confidence of a man in command was written in block letters on Goodwin’s face.

What? Olsson felt hot flashes that were somehow shocking and refreshing at the same time, like the first sip of a peaty, single-malt Scotch. A sense of unreality swept over him. Panic. And yes, fascination.

I said, aren’t you bored?

Moments passed. Olsson sat stunned, unbelieving. Then reason returned. Look, Captain, I’ll say it again: I was an engineering officer, for God’s sake! And that was a very long time ago.

You were a line officer in the United States Navy. An officer of the line, not an engineering specialist, not a limited-duty officer. You carried the 1100 designator. You were unrestricted line — trained and commissioned for command at sea.

‘Were.’ Were, damn it… sir.

Goodwin sat silently, waiting. In command. Whatever happened to the Marblehead Monotone? When was that, two hours ago? What in the hell was going on here?

Stan, can you tell me you have no wish to go back to sea?

What is this man’s power? How could he punch that button with such assurance? How could he have done his homework that well? Olsson repeated the logic, wearily, feeling himself sinking into the quicksand: I was an engineering officer…

Can you tell me — and look me in the eye while you do it — that you have no desire to go to sea in command of a ship on a mission of lethal force? Goodwin waited.

Olsson felt transfixed by Goodwin’s expressionless stare, as if pinned to the booth.

Can you?

No. Olsson reached for his wine glass and looked away. He felt defeated. Yet there was an element of excitement in this bizarre situation that began to insinuate itself in him, down deep, at a place past reason, past the conventionality that had become his life. The papers on American Transcendentalism, back on his desk, seemed a strangely distant memory.

Goodwin waited a moment. A deal had been struck. Good. As I thought. Now, as for your concerns… Goodwin signaled for another bottle of the chardonnay and turned back to Olsson. You like the wine, I trust.

Yes, it’s fine. Olsson felt the weariness of the powerless, wilted, and obedient to superior force.

Good. Now, the first and most obvious question is why we would want to pull a former officer from civilian life, and one who has been away from active duty for twenty years, instead of just finding an active officer whose skills are fresh.

You admit, Captain, that it is a valid question.

Of course, and like all valid questions, it has a valid answer. Quite simply, we don’t want any record of this officer’s existence on any active list of any kind, anywhere — we don’t want him to pop up in the files of Naval Personnel, or the Reserves, CIA or Army Intelligence or ONI or State or anywhere, and not on any foreign intelligence lists, either. As you pointed out, it is possible that some of his activities may be, uh, above the law.

The wine came. Goodwin waved off the waitress and refilled their glasses.

What you’re saying, Olsson paused, then went on, what you’re saying is that if anything goes haywire or anybody finds out about this operation, nobody in Washington wants to be tied to it — you all want to be in a position to disavow it.

Yes, that’s about it, said Goodwin, twirling his wine stem and peering absently at the light rippling through it.

Well, go on. All this still seemed surreal, but at least, Olsson thought, the picture that had been so blank was gaining some definition, bizarre though it was.

Obviously, we need an officer we can be sure of. I mean, one who can command. Make decisions, make them fast and make them stick. No matter what. So we scoured the old service records until we found a few that we thought would work out acceptably. Then we simply cross-referenced against current activities, occupation, availability…

I thought you said your first priority was that there were no old records around to tie the guy to the Navy.

There aren’t — anymore. The records lapse after a period of years, of course, and we looked for our man in those lists that were about to be dumped out of the computer permanently. Then we waited a little longer to be sure the database was cleared completely of the people we were looking at, and here we are. Oh, I should also clear up one other thing — this is not a Navy operation.

Olsson looked up, questioning.

It’s a special sort of arrangement. I won’t bore you with all the minor details. All you need to know is that you will have full support, anything you need.

You say you won’t ‘bore’ me with the details. You mean, there are things I won’t be told — even if I’m in command of the operation.

I hope you won’t take that to indicate any lack of confidence in you — I can assure you, we are behind you fully. Of course, we would expect you to vest similar confidence in us.

‘We,’ you say. ‘Us.’ Who are you, if not the Navy? Olsson asked.

I am director of a small office in Washington that is responsible for coordinating certain research activities with a field implementation team that can conduct effective, short-term operations — sort of an ad-hoc committee, if you will.

Well, said Olsson, even more cynically than he intended, that certainly clears things up, Captain.

I hear your tone, Stan. You asked me a question and you may not be pleased with my answer, but it is an answer, and I suggest you try to be satisfied with it.

Olsson shrugged, stung slightly by the reproach, and began again on a different tack. You said you direct this small office in Washington. Not Langley?

No, not Langley. It’s not CIA. A thin smile crossed Goodwin’s lips. Quit fishing.

Tell me this, said Olsson. How do you expect me, after twenty years — and even then, primarily an engineering officer — to handle a ship at sea? I nearly flunked navigation in school. If it hadn’t been for that kid down the hall who tutored me every night for a month, I would never have passed the celestial nav final. Once on a test I navigated across a hundred and thirty miles of land, fifteen miles inland, and I can’t tell you to this day how I managed to come up with the right position at the end of the track and pass the exam.

Goodwin smiled and rolled his eyes, as if enjoying a good bar room joke.

And ship-handling, Olsson went on. I nearly nailed a flashing light on a pile of rocks the first time I tried conning a YP training craft. I never really did get any better at it, either, because I spent almost all my active duty time in engineering.

Goodwin hadn’t stopped smiling. Yes, I know. The training officer assigned to yard patrol craft at the time — Lieutenant Broward, I believe, wasn’t it? — he still breaks out in a sweat, talking about it. Goodwin chuckled. Goodwin was clearly trying to impress him, Olsson thought, and he was succeeding. He had actually talked to an instructor Olsson had had more than twenty-five years before. Then suddenly, Goodwin sat forward, almost lunged, and stopped smiling. Broward remembers it well. He remembers that you ordered hard-right and all ahead full, and when he jumped up and countermanded the order, you made it clear that you thought he was a sissy. The smile returned to Goodwin’s lips as he