Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(24)
Chapter Five
12:24 p.m.…
“Never thought we’d be doing this again,” Wolf said.
Bran Pallidino glanced across the table bolted in the middle of the computer room aboard Wayfarer-I to find Wolf checking the firing mechanism on his M4 rifle. They’d each taken one of the sawguns with them when they waved sayonara to the Navy. And even though, technically, they were supposed to return Uncle Sam’s hardware—after all, there was a law against civilians owning full automatics—their commander had understood their desire to keep the Colts that’d put a whole hell of a lot of rounds downrange.
Most guys had a lucky pair of socks or a lucky set of golf clubs. SEALs had lucky sidearms or full autos, or both.
“Welcome back, Kotter,” Bran replied, adjusting the M203 grenade launcher—simply called a 203—that was attached to his M4. He didn’t know if it was awesome or awful, but the gas-operated, magazine-fed assault rifle felt like an extension of himself. And he hadn’t realized he’d been bereft without it until he once more held it firmly in his grip. The metal was…familiar. The weight…comforting. “Shoulda known ol’ Uncle Sam wouldn’t let us get away that easy.”
Mason looked up from fiddling with a hose on one of their dive tanks. He’d already readied his weapon and was now preparing their gear for the deep dive. “Don’t go blaming this f*ckfest on anyone but those chowderheads at Langley.”
Bran grimaced, nodding. “Yo, is it just me, or do you guys feel like any time they take the lead on something we get bent over and screwed without first being kissed?”
“It’s not just you,” Wolf agreed.
For a few minutes, nothing more was mentioned. The steady hum of Wayfarer-I’s big engines and the occasional beep or buzz from the wall of computers and sonar equipment were the only sounds to breach the silence of the room. Bran breathed deeply of air that was ripe with marine anti-fouling paint and gun black. One odor reminded him of the future they were all trying so hard to grab onto, while the other brought back memories of the past they all shared.
Glancing around, he made a quick perusal of the room. This cabin was where they were supposed to map the ocean floor around their salvage site. This table was where they were supposed to lay out the old documents and charts that would hopefully lead them to the final resting place of the legendary Santa Cristina. These chairs were where they were supposed to sit and count their gold coins and uncut emeralds.
Instead, what were they doing? Well, just like the not-so-good ol’ days, they were cleaning weapons and readying ammo. Bada-bing, bada-boom. Here we go again.
“Did you see the look on LT’s face when he realized we had Agent Mortier with us?” Mason murmured.
Bran flicked his gaze to the ceiling. Above them, Leo was in the pilothouse, doing what Leo did best. Namely, taking charge, leading the way, and getting them where they needed to go.
And though Bran would never tell anyone this, there was a time back in BUD/S when he’d been green with jealousy over Leo’s rank of officer, furious at the military’s custom of putting guys like him in charge just because he had some college courses and a couple of bars on his collar. But that had only lasted a week. Because it soon became obvious that Leo Anderson was born to command.
That was why Bran hadn’t hesitated to agree when Leo reluctantly said, back in the kitchen on Wayfarer Island, I reckon if we have any hope of keepin’ our promise, of cleanin’ up this mess the CIA has caused and keepin’ innocents safe, and of havin’ better luck findin’ the Santa Cristina than my ol’ man did, we should take Agent Mortier up on her offer of a big bag of cash.
“Yeah, it looked like he was seconds away from swallowing his tongue,” Wolf said. “I don’t know why he hasn’t tried to contact her since Syria. Maybe it’s a case of ‘From passion arises fear.’”
“And what’s that?” Bran frowned over at the guy. “Some more Buddhist bullshit?” Wolf prided himself on being a student of the religions of the world and, as such, was always quick with an esoteric quote—much to the irritation of the rest of them.
“It’s the truth,” Wolf said simply.
Bran begged to differ. “Dude, the only thing that arises from my passion is centered directly behind my fly.”
“Maybe he hasn’t called her because this transition has been hard as f*ck for him,” Mason speculated, ignoring their exchange. He tapped the gauge on another tank before setting it aside. Bran knew for a fact those tanks were heavy as shit, but Mason—a.k.a. their resident Incredible Hulk—handled them like they were made of goose down. “He may’ve taken off that f*ckin’ uniform, but he still feels responsible for all of us. Still feels like he has to put us first. And since we’ve got all our eggs in his basket and are depending on him to come through with this big score…” He let the sentence dangle.
Wolf let out a deep, weary-sounding sigh before adding, “‘Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.’”
“Now that one I’m familiar with,” Bran mumbled. For a few more minutes, they attended to their tasks in silence, the gentle bob and sway of the ship a constant reminder they were sailing toward uncertain waters.
And that was something Bran hadn’t missed. That feeling that things would either come up dog shit or daisies, and there was nothing he could do to steer his destiny toward one or the other. Maybe it’d been growing up on the mean streets of Newark, New Jersey, after his son-of-a-bitching alcoholic father killed his mother and was sent to prison, leaving Bran all alone. Or, hell, perhaps it had to do with the number of times some armchair commander back at the Pentagon had sent them out on a mission without having firsthand knowledge of what was happening on the ground. But feeling like his immediate future was completely out of his hands…well…not to put too fine a point on it, but it made his ass twitch. Like, seriously.