“Just a couple more, Sergeant Hennessey,” said Levine, stooping to plug the power cord into the cracked and yellowed wall socket. “Your memory being what it is, we need to go through this as many times as possible. You added some details the second and third times through. Maybe you’ll remember something more this time.” As Levine busied himself with the camera, his partner, Henry Parker, unpacked the files and laid them out on the card table in front of Sergeant Hennessey, like he was dealing out a game of solitaire.
Hennessey angrily gripped the arms of his wheelchair with trembling hands. “It’s been seventy years! That’s more years than the both of you and ‘Sambo’ stacked together. You can’t know what it’s like trying to remember that far back.”
“You’re right about that,” Levine said as he laid his jacket over the back of a folding chair and loosened his tie. The staff kept the veterans’ hospital uncomfortably warm. But, that’s why people retire to Florida, Levine thought. To warm their bones. “Of course, some things are harder to forget than others.”
“Seventy years,” Hennessey sighed as he ran a gnarled hand over his snow-white hair. “Why the hell is the Navy interested again after seventy years?”
“They didn’t tell us,” Levine lied as he sighted the video camera on Hennessey and hit the record button. “‘Need-to-know’ means they don’t need us to know.” Levine checked to see that the camera was running and then took his seat across the table from Hennessey. “After a lifetime in the Marine Corps, you must’ve learned that if you’re not cleared for the answer, don’t ask the question.”
“I suppose,” Hennessey said, eyeing the pair of men as they settled into their seats and continued unpacking their files. Levine, the younger of the two, was thin, with glasses like an accountant and fingers like a pianist. As part of his cover, Levine had cut his hair to military regulation for this op, but he figured Hennessey could tell he wasn’t really Navy. Levine was a civilian from his scuffed shoes to his J.C. Penney suit. Parker, on the other hand, was military to the bone, thick-featured and barrel-chested, his ebony scalp cleanly shaven, but nonetheless a “landlubber.” If he was getting steamed about Hennessey calling him “Sambo,” he wasn’t showing it.
As he pulled out his notepad and pen, Levine could feel Hennessey dissecting them with his eyes, trying to figure out what they were really up to and who’d really sent them. Being kept in the dark was grating to Hennessey. Levine supposed it was almost ironic. Seventy years ago Hennessey and the rest of the 3rd Battalion walked into a small town in Massachusetts without a clue as to what they were facing. Somewhere up the chain of command somebody, probably someone who hadn’t joined Hennessey and his fellow Marines on their little excursion, made the decision that the guys on the ground just weren’t cleared to know what was going on. And here they were, seventy years later, debriefing Hennessey about a mission he never learned the particulars about and lying to him about who was asking the questions. The more things change, the more they remain the same.
Of course, thought Levine, if those men had told the truth, told Hennessey and the other Marines what was waiting in those rotting piles of moldy stone, he never would have believed them. But if he had…if he had believed the unbelievable, he would have deserted before ever setting foot in Innsmouth. Levine wondered what Hennessey would do if he knew the truth about why he and Parker were there.
“So? Ready to begin?” Levine asked without much enthusiasm.
“Ready?” Hennessey spit back. “Ready to dredge up the worst fucking night of my entire life? Ready to get the shakes and not be able to keep down the swill they serve here or even close my eyes all night ’cuz if I do I’ll be right back there in the middle of it all killing those things in the snow?” Hennessey tried his best to rivet the two of them with a withering stare. It may have worked on Marine recruits forty years ago, but it had lost much of its power since then.
Embarrassed and resigned, Levine quickly glanced to Parker. Parker remained as inscrutable as one of those Easter Island statues. With no apparent support from Parker, Levine answered weakly, “Uh, yeah.”
Hennessey rolled his eyes. He bowed his head to pinch the bridge of his nose, as if warding off an impending migraine. “Sure,” he mumbled. “Of course. Let’s get to it then.”
“When did you first get wind that your battalion was being tasked for something special?” asked Levine.
Hennessey shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair. “We knew something was up when the entire battalion was assembled in Punta Gorda. Companies and platoons that were dispersed all over the country chasing Sandino were suddenly called back to the coast and immediately herded onto a Navy transport. Everyone knew the big brass had something in mind. Rumor was, even the Colonel didn’t know.”
Levine scribbled a few notes. “Do you remember the ship’s name?”
“No. I told you that the last time. I thought Jews were supposed to be smart.”
“I’m not Jewish,” Levine said without looking up from his notes. Levine figured it was the only way the old bastard could get back at the two of them for making him go through the story over and over again. Since he couldn’t intimidate them, he would suffice with insults.
“Yeah. Next you’re going to tell me he ain’t a nigger either.” Hennessey laughed mirthlessly. One again, Parker didn’t even blink. Something in Parker’s poker face told Levine the big man was thinking, ‘I bet you’re going to die soon, old man.’
“Where were you first briefed on the details of the Innsmouth operation?”
“The Boston Naval Annex; the same day our ship docked.”
“And that day was?” Levine volleyed.
“It was February 23rd, 1928. They marched the entire battalion into a warehouse in the Annex and sat us down on these wooden benches. There were already about a hundred guys in suits in there, T-men we were told, and nearly a dozen Navy officers in their faggoty dress whites. They had this big map of the town and all the approaches. Plus a screen set up for the movie and slides they showed later.”
“Do you remember the name of the operation? What was it code-named?” Levine interrupted.
“Just what I told you before,” Hennessey said irritably. “It was something biblical, like Project Moses, or Pharisees, or something. Y’know, Old Testament.”
“And who gave the briefing?” Levine prodded.
“There was a Captain from Naval Intelligence and a T-man. I got the impression he was Secret Service. I don’t remember their names ’cuz I never saw ’em again. There was one fella, though, I seen plenty of since.”
“We know,” interrupted Levine. “You already mentioned Hoover.”
Hennessey glared at Levine and leaned forward onto the table. “Are you going to let me tell the damn story or not?”
“Sorry,” said Levine, leaning back to keep the distance between them. “Please continue.” Levine felt a flush of embarrassment at the clumsiness of his questions. He was an Elint Specialist, not an interrogator. Listen in while the Kremlin orders out for pizza? No problem. But interrogation? And Parker? As far as Levine could figure, he was some DOD mechanic currently on loan to the Company. If this was the best debriefing team Alphonse could put together, it meant that either this was a low priority op, or things at Delta Green were well and truly fucked.