Hell Ship (3 page)

“
He’s Pakistani,” the SEAL insisted.

Conway didn’
t pass along the correction. Instead, he added: “Wait for me. This guy could be trouble.” He set the handset back in the cradle and turned to Maxwell. “You want to come along?”

“
Right behind you.”

Conway pushed a button on his desktop to temporarily disable the electronic door locks, and led the SEAL into one of the holding areas.
They’d given the Indian—or rather, the Pakistani—his own cell instead of locking him up in the drunk tank. Once the responding deputies—four of them in all—had subdued the man, he’d been cooperative enough. Now, a few hours closer to sober, he appeared completely docile, offering no resistance as a deputy ushered him out of the cell. But when the tall prisoner caught sight of the man in the Navy duds, his expression hardened. He locked his gaze on the SEAL. “You.”

Before the prisoner could elaborate, the lieutenant spoke. “Deputy, if he so much as looks at me cross-eyed, you have my leave to use your baton on him until he’s a quivering puddle of Jello on the floor. Do I make myself clear?”

Although he was addressing the deputy, his eyes never left the prisoner.

“It would be my pleasure,” Conway answered, resting a hand on the grip of his nightstick.

The big man raised his hands, but his swarthy face twisted into something that looked almost like a smile.
“You win, paleface. Let’s bury the tomahawk, or whatever the hell that saying is.”

Conway threw a perplexed glance at the SEAL; he was pretty sure that wasn’t the sort of thing a Pakistani would say.
Maxwell however kept his stare fixed on the prisoner. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your trap shut.”

The prisoner barked
a derisive laugh, but the SEAL was done talking to him. He gestured toward the exit. “Put him in my car. I’ll take it from there.”

He led the procession
through the building and out the visitor’s entrance to a non-descript sedan with government motor pool license plates. Once there, he opened the rear door and gestured for the prisoner to get inside.

Conway frowned.
“Sir, I know you SEALs are all badass and everything, but are you sure it’s safe for you to escort him by yourself?”

Lieutenant Maxwell cast an appraising eye at the hulking prisoner.
“I don’t think he’s going to be any trouble. But on second thought, maybe you’d better put him up front where I can keep an eye on him.”

Once more, Conway got the sense that the SEAL had missed the point, but surely the guy knew his business, and despite being a little unsteady on his feet, the big drunk Indian—
Pakistani
, Conway corrected himself—did not resist in the least as he was guided into the passenger seat. With the door firmly closed, the officer donned his hat and circled around to the driver’s side.

He lingered behind the open car door for a final exhortation to Conway.
“Thanks for your assistance, deputy. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that what happened here tonight needs to be kept under wraps. National security, you know.”

Conway
nodded. “Where you taking him? Leavenworth?”

The SEAL’s craggy expression cracked into something almost like a wry smile.
“Trust me, where I’m taking him makes Leavenworth look like a vacation resort.”

Deputy Conway had
been right about one thing; the drunken prisoner was indeed an Indian—not an “India, Indian” but rather a Native American, a Cherokee to be precise. He had the unlikely name of Uriah Bonebrake, but most of his friends—those few who were willing to tolerate his acerbic, politically incorrect, and too often unfunny jokes, not to mention his weakness for strong drink—simply called him “Bones.”

More than three hours
had passed since his arrest, slightly more since his last drink, and the passage of time had lowered his blood alcohol level a little; he was no longer falling-down-drunk, but merely just mean and disinhibited.

“I suppose you think I’m supposed to get down on my knees and thank you, right?” he snarled at the man in the officer’s uniform behind the steering wheel.
“Keep dreaming, Your Holiness.”

The driver, who was in the process of removing the plastic name tag from his shirt pocket, looked over at Bones with
thinly disguised contempt. “I don’t want thanks or anything else from you, Bones.” He braced the steering wheel of the moving sedan with one knee, quickly affixed a different name plate to his uniform; this one read: Maddock. “I didn’t do this for you. Personally, I would have been happy to let you rot in there, but unfortunately, when you make an ass of yourself, it embarrasses the whole team.”

Bones snorted.
“You’re one to talk about the team.”

“What
is that supposed to mean?”

Bones gave him a long hard stare.
“The team is the guys on the field. You don’t want to be part of the team; you want to be the star. An army of one, or a navy of one. Whatever.”

Dane Maddock
stifled his impulse to deny the accusation, partly because he knew that Bones was still half-plastered and that any argument would be wasted on him, and partly because the big man’s underlying premise wasn’t entirely incorrect.

Bones wasn’t finished.
“Dude, don’t you get what it means to be part of a SEAL team? Work hard
and
play hard…only you’re so uptight that you can’t ever just let down and relax with the rest of us when the mission is done. That’s what being part of a team is all about; if you’re gonna be willing to die for your swim-buddy, you’ve got to be willing to hang out with him. We all get that. Except for you, mister tight ass. I thought I’d managed to chill you out on our trip to Boston, but you wouldn’t stay loosened up.”

“
We were off-duty.” Dane shifted in his seat. “Besides, I’m impersonating an officer for you. I should get some credit for that. Do you know what will happen if Maxie finds out?”

Bones stared at him for several long seconds and then broke into a guffaw.

Dane
hadn’t meant it as a joke, but decided he was glad Bones had interpreted it that way and happier still with the silence that followed.

Bones wasn’t wrong.
Dane had been questioning his place among the hard-fighting, hard-playing SEAL team, particularly since their return from a four-month deployment.

Both men were
elite US Navy SEALs—the acronym stood for Sea, Air and Land, and represented the environments in which the highly trained and exceptionally fit warriors operated with deadly efficiency—and had been for almost two years, which also happened to be the length of time Dane Maddock had known Uriah Bonebrake. They had met during BUD/S—the Navy was fixated on acronyms; this one stood for Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training, which technically made it a two-stage acronym—and survived the capstone event of the course, a five day long marathon of grueling physical activity and sleep deprivation known affectionately as “Hell Week,” to earn their SEAL trident. There had been some friction between them during the course, culminating in a brawl that might have cost both men their careers if not for the intervention of their commanding officer, Hartford Maxwell. “Maxie” had the brilliant idea of shackling the pair of wayward young SEALs together, figuratively speaking, for a weekend of rest and relaxation that had unexpectedly landed them in the middle of a murder investigation and a search for a priceless relic with the potential to rewrite the nation’s history.

After that, things
had gone a lot smoother. Over the weeks and months that followed, they finished their training and were integrated into Maxie’s SEAL team, based out of Coronado Naval Amphibious Station. Dane was put in charge of a platoon, and Bones had been assigned to oversee a squad comprised mostly of guys who had come through BUD/S with them, including Willis Sanders and Pete ‘Professor’ Chapman. With their skills honed to razor sharp perfection, they eagerly embraced the challenge of that first deployment, and everything had gone flawlessly.

And then, it was over and everything had gone right into the toilet.
Almost as soon as they were back in the States, Bones had started drinking…a lot.

Bones liked to joke about his heritage, sometimes playing to deeply ingrained stereotypes.
Dane was pretty sure he did it as a way of making people feel uncomfortable around him, though why Bones felt the need to do that was anyone’s guess. Maybe it was a defense mechanism, but it was hard to imagine what could possibly make the six-foot six-inch tall Bones feel threatened. Regardless, there was one stereotype that Bones seemed intent on fulfilling: the drunken Indian.

Dane and t
he rest of the platoon had covered for him to the best of their ability. A lot of the bars around Coronado were on friendly terms with the teams, and knew how to be discreet whenever a sailor tied on one too many. But Bones had blasted through all the familiar watering holes in the first month back, and been 86’d from each and every one. After that, it had been a lot harder to keep tabs on him. Tonight, he’d escalated things…maybe gone too far.

Bones’ drinkin
g was only part of a much bigger problem. The big Indian had, however inarticulately, hit the nail on the head; Dane was becoming more a coach than a player, managing his team rather than leading them. Of course, that was increasingly necessary as Bones and some of the others were constantly pushing the boundaries.

Further complicating the situation was a letter he’d received from
Rear Admiral Long—one of his former instructors at Annapolis and currently overseeing the Navy’s Bureau of Personnel—recommending him for a slot as the executive officer of the
USS Valley Forge
.

When he’d graduated from the Naval Academy, he’d been firm in his decision to become a SEAL and make a name for himself in
the elite Special Warfare field, but the Navy was, first and foremost, about ships, and it was expected that the goal of every officer was to one day have a ship of his own. Being recommended for the XO slot on a
Ticonderoga
-class guided missile cruiser was the equivalent of a career catapult; from there, it might be only a couple more years before he was given his own command.

It wasn’t really what he wanted, but if he refused, there was no telling when or if such an opportunity would come again.

Maybe the universe was trying to tell him something.

Bones stayed quiet for the rest of the drive back to Coronado, his head turned away from Dane, as if to stare out the window. When they arrived back at their team room, Dane discovered that the big man had passed out.

As he got out, Willis and
Professor came out to meet him. Both men looked exceptionally subdued, which Dane attributed to being up at two a.m. to cover for their wayward teammate.

“He’s out,” Dane said in a stage whisper.
“Come on and help me carry him inside.”

The two SEALs looked at each other and then started forward.
“We got this, Maddock,” Professor said. “You should probably head inside.”

“Why?”
But even as he asked it, Dane knew the answer, and breathed a curse. Another figure stood in the doorway, watching them…watching him. Dane stiffened his spine and put on his best nonchalant expression as he strode up the walk to meet the team commander. “Evening, sir.”

“Actually, Maddock, I think ‘good morning’ would be the correct greeting.” Maxie’s v
oice was stern, his visage typically unreadable. “What’s the problem here?”

Dane spread his hand innocently.
“No problem that I’m aware of, sir.”

Maxie stared
back at him for a moment longer then turned smartly on his heel. “My office,” he said, without looking back. Dane sighed and hustled after his boss. When they reached the utilitarian room, Maxie settled wearily into his chair. “Close the door.”

Dane complied, groaning inwardly.
A closed-door meeting was not a good sign.

Maxie didn’t waste time with preamble.
“Say the word and Bonebrake is gone.”

Dane shook his head.
“That won’t be necessary, sir. He’s a good SEAL. I’d trust him with my life.”

“He’s a sledgehammer,” Maxie corrected.
“When you need to smash something, a sledgehammer is a great thing to have. When you need to drive a nail…not so much. I’ve seen dozens of guys like him in my time; they thrive in combat, but can’t handle home port so well. Lord knows, I’ve done my best to straighten him out.”

Dane wasn’t sure if Maxie was offeri
ng him a solution or testing his loyalty to his teammates, but either way, despite the friction between them, he wasn’t about to throw Bones under the bus. “He can handle it, sir. We’ll make sure of it.”

“Being in command means making hard choices.
I know you think that your first loyalty is to the men in your platoon, but you’re not doing them any favors by covering up a serious problem.”

“
I understand, sir.”

“I’m not so sure you do.”
Maxie studied him a moment longer, then waved his hand. “Anyway, that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”