“Wilson!”
“Sorry, sir.”
Stephenson gave Wilson a moment of silence to ponder his mistake.
“Nobody should be talking about their commanding officer that way, especially to their executive officer.”
“I know, but she didn’t even give me a chance, sir. As soon as I said I wasn’t ready to get married, she went cold. Next thing I know, a month later she’s crossing the brow to visit. I’m thinking she’s going to give me a second chance, and she’s here to surprise me. Then rumor spreads like wildfire about the skipper’s new girl.”
“I understand. That’s tough.”
“Excruciating, sir. If you haven’t been through it, you have no idea.”
“Fair enough. But I’m surprised that news about you having dated her first didn’t spread just as fast.”
“I didn’t tell a soul,” Wilson said. “The other girls I’ve dated, sure. I play basketball with kids half my age, and that buys me quality time with the younger ladies. But that’s just fun with bragging rights. I could tell from the moment I met Farah that she was all business. Classy, intelligent, strong. I didn’t take her to Navy hangouts.”
“Why not?”
“Maybe I was afraid she was too hot, even hot enough to attract the younger guys. I mean really just attractive in every way.”
“But if she was so intent on getting married, she wouldn’t start flirting with other guys,” Stephenson said. “And I’ve met her many times for lunch with the commanding officer and multiple guests, and she’s never once taken her attention away from him.”
“But she can turn it on and off like a switch. The night I met her, she sat at one bar stool, made eyes at a bunch of guys, and each one came to her on command. She gets a free drink and then brushes them off. When she catches my eye, I’m thinking I’m no sucker, I’m gonna resist. Next thing I know, I’m saying hello and slapping a twenty on the counter. Then I’m thinking it’s my lucky day because she’s letting me stick around.”
“What made you different from the others?”
Wilson scratched his head and smiled.
“Well, sir, I’m older and more mature than most of those kids, but I’m in better shape. Plus, I ain’t too bad looking, got a bachelor’s degree and a full head of hair. Not to mention, I have a pretty good career. When I told her what I did, she perked up.”
“Somebody must’ve known that you were dating her.”
“Nope. Guys knew I was going out and that I had a girlfriend, but I never mentioned her name. It’s so uncommon and she’s sort of a public figure, being on faculty at Old Dominion. I wanted to protect her privacy.”
“How did she like being kept a secret?”
Wilson’s brow furrowed.
“Heck, I hadn’t thought of that. She never made it an issue. In fact, she seemed to like it that way. Never pushed to meet my Navy friends.”
“But you were considering marriage.”
“She was. Looking back, she played me like a fiddle. I’m pushing forty, and she practically had me all gooey in puppy love. Now she’s doing it to the skipper.”
“That’s your judgment, senior chief, and best not to be repeated. But I’m glad you shared. It’ll help me understand his mindset and give him the support he needs. Commanding officer is a lonely job. I have to imagine it’s an emotionally vulnerable one, too.”
“Still stinks, seeing a woman I loved or at least think I loved with my skipper.”
“I know that hurts, but it’s no excuse to call your commanding officer a jackass.”
Wilson curled forward and plopped his head back into his palms. He sounded defeated.
“Hell, you’re right, sir. I’ll put myself on report and—”
“No, I’ve got a better idea.”
Eyes peered over fingertips, and Stephenson noticed a spark of hope cracking through knuckles.
“I’ll take any advice you’ve got, sir.”
“A new focus. Your mind is somewhere between a rock and a hard place thinking about your lost love and a commanding officer with whom you share — call it a personality clash — getting ready to marry her. That’s tough if you brood over it, but maybe it’s better to think that you’re better off this way.”
“I can’t think how it could get any worse.”
“Well, you were having a pretty good time with your playboy phase, right? Instead of thinking about your loss, focus on your freedom. Maybe you need to go back into that mode, have a little bit more fun, and see if the real Miss Right steps up.”
Wilson stirred and sat up straight.
“Maybe you’re on to something. Or maybe I can think that they deserve each other. I mean, she was pushy and manipulative, and he’s—”
“Your commanding officer.”
“Right, sir. Thanks.”
“No problem. That’s what I’m here for.”
“I feel a little better.”
“Great! You’ll need the energy, because I think a just response for expressing disrespect towards the captain is to come up with the five most effective traits you admire about his leadership and steps you can take to promote that respect throughout the ship.”
“Sir!”
“Would you prefer an official report?”
Wilson’s head landed again in his hands. He mumbled.
“How long do I have to come up with my answers?”
“Before we take over anti-ballistic missile defense coverage.”
“That’s only three days.”
“You’re a sharp guy,” Stephenson said. “You’ll think of something.”
Olivia McDonald gulped tepid coffee from a Styrofoam cup and gazed at her wristwatch. Fatigue blurred her vision, and she strained to focus on the hands that indicated three o’clock.
The windowless room lined with egg carton, sound-proofing foam gave no hint of the sun’s absence overhead, and the stench in her armpits provided the best clue that it was early morning, almost forty hours after Rickets had offered her the project.
She led a team of analysts in studying the personal histories of the entire crew of the Leviathan. Half of her team held greater tenure within the CIA, and a few approached the ages of her parents.
The analysts worked with zeal — while awake — but only a handful of the fifteen joined her at a table. The remaining members sprawled across the floor in blankets and cots, catching a few hours of cortex-recharging sleep.
A portly man with a balding scalp and penetrating eyes seemed impervious to fatigue. Tapping his fingers, he jammed his thumb into the deeper pages of the dossier for the Leviathan’s captain. He periodically reminded Olivia that he had dissected Khrushchev, Castro, and Khomeini before she was born.
“Shall we move on?” he said.
Olivia disliked his condescending tone but accepted it in exchange for his brilliance. She thought she could dissect dossiers fast, but he was lightening. She appreciated his backup in reading that of the captain.
“Sure,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Let’s wrap it up.”
The other elder man at the table was in his late fifties and lean, and thick glasses made his head appear misshapen with an undersized jaw. He seemed detached from reality, living in the abstract of his mental machinations. He cleared his throat, nodded, and pointed his nose into a folder.
The other two at the table were young twenty-somethings of either sex who seemed too nervous around agency veterans to do anything but answer questions.
The portly CIA veteran opened the dossier for the captain of the Leviathan.
“I’ve been through this guy’s file twice, and I don’t see it,” he said. “Israeli officers are loyal to a fault, the country is filled with patriots, and the military has a sense of duty that rivals ours. There’s nothing to suggest that the captain was susceptible to treason.”