The couples bit was an act, of course. Unless they were exceptionally good at concealing their feelings, neither of the Marine pairings had any actual romantic chemistry going on. They put on a convincing act when they were topside and within sight of shore: standing close together, holding hands, and exchanging flirty banter.
All of that stopped below decks, though. When they were out sight down in the cabin, the playful lovey-dovey stuff vanished and they became four Jarheads on a mission.
Jon was continually fascinated by how their faces changed when they shifted into Jughead mode. Topside, they could be mistaken for a bunch of vacuous and over-privileged college students, spending their parents’ money without a care between them. Down below, everything about the four seemed different, from their posture, to the set of their jaws, to the grim determination in their eyes.
Relieved of the need to play airhead tourists, they became visibly harder in affect. They spent most of their time memorizing maps of the Cuban countryside from a ruggedized data tablet, talking over the mission in low tones, or cleaning their weapons. There always seemed to be one or the other of them in the forepeak, where an open stretch of deck provided room for pushups, sit-ups, and crunches.
Jon wondered if his own transitions to Leatherneck mode had been this obvious. Maybe so. When it came time to throw down, you rolled up your sleeves and you put on your warrior face. As he’d heard Gunny Bachman say a hundred times, ‘you get hardcore, or you get dead.’
These Marines looked like they knew how to get hardcore. The proof of that could only come when the bullets were flying, but they had all the right earmarks. If they were lucky, they might never find out how they would stand up under real combat conditions.
Jon had finally gotten their names straight, something he’d never been very good at with new people. His lack of skill in this area had not been much of a problem in the Corps, where everyone wore name tags or embroidered name tapes on their uniforms. But these newcomers had come aboard dressed in civies, without a tag or tape in the lot. So putting names with the faces had taken a deliberate effort on Jon’s part, one that had eventually paid off.
The tall hatchet-faced man was Staff Sergeant Adam Webb, generally referred to by his last name. Webb was senior in rank, and in charge of the detachment.
Second in command was Sergeant Olivia Peary — vaguely Scandinavian looking, and about an inch shorter than Webb. She answered to Liv.
The shorter man was Corporal Sean Bisbee, who made up in muscle mass what he lacked in height. The others called him Frisbee, or just Fris. He had some prankster in him, a tendency that Webb worked to keep under a tight rein. Fris was the one slightly prone to seasickness, which probably also helped with keeping a lid on his practical joking.
The fourth — and smallest — member of the team was Corporal Elvie Lynch. Quiet and lean, with the greyhound musculature of a ballerina, and a thousand-yard stare that could probably kill a man with unshielded eyes. The other Marines called her as Elf, although Fris had referred to her as Kegel two or three times, until Webb took him aside for a private counseling session.
There was sure to be a story behind the Kegel thing, but Jon wasn’t going to ask about it. He’d seen the hardening of Elf’s features when the unwelcome nickname was used, and he figured that Fris was at dire risk of having his face kicked in by the female corporal.
Jon didn’t doubt that she could do it, either. Fris was taller and more muscular than Elf, but she carried an aura that conveyed a willingness to endure great bodily harm in order to crush her enemies.
None of that was visible when the pair went topside. Out where they were potentially exposed to curious eyes, Elf gave every outward sign of attraction and affection for her make-believe boyfriend. She was clearly able to swallow her feelings and remain in-character. But Fris had better watch his mouth if he wanted to come out of this with all organs intact.
Jon was smiling at the thought when he realized that Liv was talking to him.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was off in La La Land.”
“Colonel Dawkins says you got the Star,” said Liv.
“Classic case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Jon said. “And the Corps was handing out Bronzes like jelly beans that day. I was with some Marines who deserved the medal, but I wasn’t one of them.”
“That’s not how Colonel D tells it…”
Jon sighed. “With all due respect to your colonel, he wasn’t there. I was. And I know what I know.”
“If you say so,” said Liv. “But Cassy tells pretty much the exact same story.”
“I usually try not to contradict my wife,” Jon said, “but she wasn’t there either. And — let’s face it — squids are easily impressed.”
“If you say so,” Liv said again.
“I should relieve you at the helm,” said Jon. “You need to lay below and catch a few hours of sleep. We’ll be anchoring off Playa La Playita when the sun comes up. Then Cassy and I will get in some lazy civilian time while you kids go off and do your Marine thing.”
“Aye-aye, Captain Bligh,” Liv said. “I stand relieved.”
Jon took her place at the wheel.
A minute later, she was through the companionway and into the cabin, leaving him alone with sky, and sea, and uninvited thoughts.
CHAPTER 53
Nathan Nguyen took another slug of caramel macchiato and trudged across the concrete apron behind the Navy commander, trying vainly to remember the man’s name.
“You must be jet lagged to death,” said the commander over his shoulder.
It was Dolan, or Roland, or something that sounded like that. The introductions had happened a little too quickly and Nathan was half asleep.
“Desynchronosis,” he said to himself.
The commander flashed an ID card and walked past a pair of armed guards in camouflage uniforms through the partially open door of an unused aircraft hangar. “Could you repeat that? I didn’t quite catch it.”
Nathan followed into the cool semidarkness of the empty hangar. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Talking to myself. Desynchronosis. The technical term for jet lag. It’s also known as circadian dysrhythmia, but that usage is falling out of fashion with doctors.”
“I didn’t know that,” said the commander.
And Nathan mentally kicked himself. Why did he have to say every stupid thing that popped into his head? These were serious and important people, and he must be coming across like a complete idiot.
The commander continued walking, crossing the open floor toward a steel door flanked by a second pair of guards in the far corner.
“Sorry,” said Nathan again. “That’s how my mind works. Interesting facts get filed away, and they pop up at random times.”
Damn it! He was doing it again. Babbling like a moron.
“You must be exhausted,” said the commander. “It’s only a little after four a.m. by your internal clock. Did you get any sleep on the flight?”
“I don’t sleep on aircraft,” Nathan said. “Never have. Inner ear thing. Hyperkinesthesia.”
Jesus! Was there any way to keep stupid nonsense from coming out of his mouth?