“Then where is he?” Turcotte asked.
Even as the words left his lips, Voss frowned. Without her even realizing it, she had been hearing a new sound added to the mix of wind and ship’s engines for a minute or more, growing from a subtle buzz to a kind of roar.
A second later, a helicopter passed above them and turned to circle around.
Captain Rouleau lifted his face toward the sky. “I believe this is her arriving now.”
67
Alena Boudreau swept along a corridor aboard the USS Hillstrom with David at her side and Professors Ridge and Ernst, the four of them surrounded by a cadre of naval officers. The flight to St. Croix had given her time to think and plan, to spread out papers and focus on her laptop, but the chopper ride out to the location had been hours of wasted anticipation. She was ready to get to work.
A pair of sailors snapped off crisp salutes as they approached the open door to a large conference room — war room, muster room, whatever it really was on board a naval vessel — and she nodded to them as she went by, though of course the salute had not been intended for her. A pair of lieutenants — she’d already forgotten their names — led the way, but once inside they crossed the room and took seats in the back. Ridge and Ernst selected vacant spots in the first row.
Chairs had been fixed to the floor at the front of the room, lined up behind a long table. The Hillstrom’s captain, Arthur Siebalt, made for the table as every naval officer in the room stood and saluted. The Coast Guard officers rose to attention as well, and even the FBI agents stood out of respect. Alena took note of it, pleased. Right now she needed everyone in that meeting to understand and respond to authority. At the moment they perceived that authority to rest with Captain Siebalt, but she had long since become accustomed to such assumptions, and to shattering them.
“Please, take your seats,” she said as she slid her laptop bag onto the table. “We’ve lost enough time as it is. The clock is ticking. The time is just after 1300 hours and every minute works against us if we hope to get this thing done today.”
The FBI agents were the first to sit, shifting their focus to her. The Coast Guard and naval personnel hesitated, looking toward Captain Siebalt for leadership. To her right, David slid into the last chair at the table, reaching over for her laptop bag, unzipping it, and starting to slide it out, as if he were the only person in the room.
“Be seated,” Captain Siebalt said. The man had an air of utter competence about him, and his uniform seemed freshly pressed. A professional officer, used to rank and hierarchy. The Hillstrom was a frigate, most frequently used as a support vessel accompanying carriers or amphibious strike groups, which was useful in two significant ways. First, the crew understood undersea warfare, including torpedoes, mines, and depth charges, and second, Siebalt was used to answering to a higher authority on missions.
As the meeting’s attendees settled into their chairs, the captain began.
“Those of you who are guests on board the Hillstrom, welcome aboard. I am Captain Siebalt. This is my first officer, Commander Aaronson,” he said, gesturing to the man on his left, who nodded a greeting to the small audience. “We will be helping to coordinate this operation, and the Hillstrom will be the command vessel for the duration.”
Alena thought he might go on. Officers tended to feel that, when handing over authority, they had to subtly assert it by making a show, giving permission to their subordinates to obey someone else’s orders. Her estimation of Siebalt had been correct, however. He only nodded to her and took his seat, with Aaronson settling into the chair beside him. Several of the Hillstrom’s other officers took their seats at the table, until she was the only one still on her feet and all eyes were upon her. Alena had worn a black ribbed cotton top and black trousers, which made her silver hair all the more striking. The outfit had been chosen purposefully. It had a kind of uniform-like quality that seemed to make military personnel more comfortable. And it did not hurt that she looked fantastic in black.
“My name is Dr. Alena Boudreau, and I’ll be running this op,” she said, studying their faces, cataloging their emotional responses to her authority in case any of them should become an issue later. Already, she saw that one of the FBI men — she presumed the ranking agent — had a tightness around the eyes and mouth. He’d bear watching.
“The operation will not have a name,” she said. “There will be no log of the events that transpire, except the report that I will be preparing for my superiors. Captain Siebalt and Captain Rouleau will see to it that any log entries already written that make reference to the Antoinette and the situation on this island are eradicated—”
“Regulations are clear—” The Coast Guard captain, Rouleau, began to sputter.
“From this moment on, Captain, I make your regulations. If that makes you uncomfortable, you’re welcome to confirm it with your own superiors. That goes for all of you. I want to have a cooperative interagency effort here, and I encourage you to speak to whomever you need to speak to immediately following this meeting in order to get comfortable with that. After that, you’re either on the team or you’re in the way. And if you’re in the way, you’ll be removed.
“To continue … I’m sorry, which one of you is Agent Turcotte?”
“I’m Special Agent Turcotte.”
Just the one she’d thought. He sat up straighter in his chair. It did not escape her notice that he had corrected her use of his title. Alena was surprised that he hadn’t gone so far as to use his full title of Supervisory Special Agent in Charge, but apparently he was at least self-aware enough to know how foolish that would have looked. She would have to keep him close, try to make him feel important, bend him to her own purposes. Or she would have to keep him out of it entirely. Attitude would cost lives.
“With apologies, Special Agent Turcotte, that goes for the FBI as well. No record of the Antoinette, case files expunged, et cetera.”
His face darkened and Alena saw the bitterness start to spread to the other three FBI agents in the room. The least affected seemed to be the man wearing a sling on his left arm, his face badly bruised from some kind of altercation. That had to be Agent Hart, who had survived the previous night’s horrors.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you have all worked hard on this case. But at the end of the day, every single person in this room — military, law enforcement, or civilian — works for the same employer, the United States government. Trust me when I say that making this case vanish will have a positive rather than negative impact on your career and future prospects, and that you will have the personal satisfaction of having dealt with a threat to human life and potentially national security.”
That seemed to settle them down, so she forged ahead.
“The only record of this operation will be my own reports to my superiors. In order to reassure you, I am willing to allow Captains Rouleau and Siebalt and Special Agent Turcotte to review those reports before they are submitted.”
Even Turcotte gave a grudging nod at that.
“This is going to be the strangest and probably the most dangerous day of your lives, with the exception of Agent Hart, who has already lived his,” Alena said. They all sat a bit straighter, ready for the challenge or at least curious. “In extreme situations, I am empowered to extend limited intelligence clearance to anyone who I determine is vital to the success of an operation. I am extending that clearance to everyone in this room, effective immediately. When we’re done here, you will not leave without providing your identification to David.”