But it wasn’t his ordinary desk phone that was ringing. It was the other phone, the one that belonged to the United States Navy, his company’s largest client by far. As Corporate Liaison to the Navy, blowing off the call probably wasn’t the smartest move he could make.
He dropped his backpack on the floor and picked up the telephone receiver. “Norton Deepwater, Rick Kramer speaking.”
“Afternoon, Rick. Dan here. Sorry to catch you so late in the day, but I’m going to need you to go Secure.”
‘Dan’ was Commander Daniel Dolan of the Naval Undersea Warfare Center in Newport, Rhode Island.
Rick made an effort to keep his voice cheerful and professional. “Will do, Commander. Give me a sec…”
He unlocked the left middle drawer of his desk, reached in and thumbed a six-digit combination into the cipher lock of a steel lockbox that was welded to the bottom of the drawer. The lockbox contained only one item: a Fortezza-Hyper crypto card.
He extracted the small rectangular circuit module and plugged it into a recess in the faceplate of the phone. After a brief string of low-pitched audio tones, the phone’s ‘SECURE’ light winked on.
“We’re green,” he said.
“Thanks,” said Commander Dolan. “I shouldn’t need to remind you that this entire conversation will be classified.”
“I understand,” said Rick. Coming from anyone else, the reminder might have seemed vaguely insulting. They were having the conversation over an encrypted phone line; of course it was going to be classified. But he was accustomed to the naval officer’s measure-twice, cut-once attitude. Commander Dolan was a man who left very little to chance.
“I want to ask about the Sea Bats you’re working on for NOAA,” the commander said. “You’re building them with an acoustic sensor package for tracking marine mammals, right?”
“Yeah,” said Rick. “Some of them.”
“How many?”
“I don’t have an exact figure,” Rick said. “I can check the—”
The commander cut him off. “Give me a back-of-the-envelope estimate. We’ll figure out exact numbers later.”
“Only the ones with acoustic sensor packages?”
“That’s right. I’m not interested in other configurations.”
Rick considered for a few seconds. “I think it’s around a hundred and thirty. Plus or minus ten or so.”
“Okay. And how many are already built and ready for use?”
“I’m not sure,” Rick said. “The contract calls for a two-phased delivery, and the first consignment isn’t due until next month.”
“Forget the schedule,” Commander Dolan said. “How many are ready to go right now?”
Rick knew the answer to that off the top of his head. “None of them.”
The line was silent for a very long time.
When the commander spoke again, the skepticism in his voice came through loud and clear. “Not one? You’re delivering next month, and you haven’t finished assembly on a single unit?”
“We’ve completed assembly on quite a few of them,” Rick said. “But they’re all still in testing. Not ready for delivery.”
“Alright, let’s try this again,” said the commander. “How many units are in testing?”
Rick racked his brain for the number. “I don’t know… Maybe fifty or sixty?”
“Skip the testing,” the commander said. “We don’t have time for that. We’ll take them as-is. Whatever per-unit cost you negotiated with NOAA, we’ll match it, plus a reasonable fee for rush delivery. Crate up every assembled unit, and get them ready for air travel as soon as possible. I’ll have our logistics team touch base with you to coordinate the pickup. Also, we’d like to borrow your best engineer for the Sea Bat. Somebody who knows the hardware and software inside and out. We’ll be making a few mods to the units, and we need some help to get the details right. Tell them to pack for about a week, warm climate. We’ll cover Per Diem, lodging, travel bonuses, and incidentals.”
“Hold on just a minute there,” Rick said. “I can’t authorize this. We don’t have a contract with the Navy for Sea Bats, and we do have a contract with NOAA. I can’t just hand over equipment that belongs to somebody else. Besides, you know the law. This is not how high-dollar procurement works. There are about seventeen federal codes that prohibit you (or us) from doing business this way.”
“The legal stuff is the least of our problems,” said Commander Dolan. “And don’t worry about NOAA; we’ll smooth things over with them.”
Rick stammered something meaningless, his brain struggling to comprehend how this low-profile project had jumped so wildly the off the rails.
The commander was speaking again. “Your CEO is going to get a call from Admiral Cook at U.S. Southern Command in about fifteen minutes. Have him standing by a secure phone. And get your people started on crating up those Sea Bats. I don’t mean tomorrow, Rick. I mean now.”
There was a click and the green ‘SECURE’ light went dark.
The commander had hung up the phone.
CHAPTER 52
“You’re starting to luff a bit,” Jon said. “Let your helm fall off a couple of degrees.”
“I do not luff,” said Sergeant Olivia Peary. “Especially not with a married man. Mama taught her girls better than that.”
Jon chuckled at the lame joke and gestured toward the moonlit headsail. “See where your sail is starting to flap a little? That’s called luffing. It means you’re steering a tad too close into the wind. Ease the helm off a few degrees to port.”
The Marine followed his instruction and the headsail went properly taut again. “What do you do on nights when there’s no moon, and you can’t see your sails?” she asked.
“You listen for it,” Jon said. “And you get to know the feel of your boat. The Roxy will tell you all kinds of things, if you speak her language.”
“How did you learn all this stuff?” Liv asked.
“My dad taught me,” said Jon. “We had an old Catalina 27 when I was a kid. Held together by epoxy, duct tape, and barnacles. As soon as the weather got warm enough, Dad would take us out on the Chesapeake. So I sort of grew up on sailboats.”
“And you taught Cassy?”
“Kind of. I showed her a few things. Then she read a couple of books, and — before I knew it — she was giving me a run for my money.”
“Well she is a squid,” said Liv. “Swab jockeys probably get lessons in boot camp or something.”
Jon laughed. “Yeah, maybe. But you’re picking it up pretty fast too. All of you guys are.”
And they were. Except for a touch of queasy stomach from the man they called Fris, the four Marines were adjusting to life on the boat with very few hiccoughs. Roxy — the dog, not the boat — had taken a liking to all of them. She didn’t mind the crowding, and there was almost always someone close enough to scratch one of her favorite spots.
The Marines looked the part too. They had probably been selected — at least partially — for that very reason. With their suntans, laidback attitudes, and quick smiles, any of the four could pass for Florida boat bums.
Colonel Dawkins (or someone on his staff) had been wise to send two boy-girl pairs instead of four male Marines. Five men and a single woman on a sailboat would have attracted instant attention from any onlookers; but three couples gave the impression of friends on vacation together. Unthreatening, and not worthy of special notice.