Chapter 30

16:10 Saturday, October 5^th, 1991

139 Meadow Ln

Novato, CA 94947

Even a casual study of Melissa Penley would show that she was tipsy. Deb tsked to herself, knowing the vineyard's guests shouldn't drive themselves home, and equally sure that Melissa would not accept an offer to stay the night.

Melissa had watched the harvest begin early this morning – she'd driven up an hour after the pick had begun – watched from under a large floppy hat she wore on the overcast day, taking photographs and writing on her notepad. Deb was sure Melissa was writing accurate notes, but still, the other woman could have actually helped ... somehow.

Deb and Barbara had taken turns alternating between working between the trellises and cutting bunches of ripe grapes, and running water and sandwiches to everyone picking, and performing general gofer duties for pruning shears, gloves, band-aids, etc. The Collinses, Effy, and some cousins Effy had drive up from Orange County for the weekend were doing the majority of the work. Monday would see some different friends of Effy's coming for the second pick.

With a wry smile, Deb admitted that it was entirely possible that Melissa was helping the only way she knew how. The reporter was key to Deb's hopes and plans, and Deb was honest enough with herself to realize she didn't like pinning so much on the performance of just one person, given this one was one with uncertain commitment. Allowing her to get drunk on the wine Barbara and Deb had brought for after the day's pick was part of the game, though.

Teddy would be the best answer, Deb thought. She's sober, and won't say anything to Melissa at all; she'll listen to her if she rambles, and let me know what Melissa says.

Deb went to find Teddy, to ask her if she'd drive Melissa back to The City.

During the drive from the jetty to ... wherever it was they were going, Lenore learned that their driver was "Leading Petty Officer Delafuente", and the huge man in the front passenger seat was PO2 Hoff, "Heavy Weapons". This was about the sum total of what Lenore learned on the drive, the rest of the conversation from the front seat was an argument over what cards should have been played in a Spades tournament apparently held the night before.

Chief Kostowe looked sour, much to Lenore's consternation. Whatever welcome he'd expected here, this wasn't it, she was sure, and the sour disposition bespoke ill for future events.

With a mental sigh, Lenore relaxed. Whatever was going to happen was out of her hands, as far as she could tell, and for now, she was only a spectator.

17:25 Saturday, October 5^th, 1991

Room 221 Building S-18

NAB Coronado, San Diego, CA 92155

"Kip, you're fucking nuts if you think you're going to derail this train now." Commander Fales was speaking to Commander Muller, Kipling R., commander of the group he'd come to visit. "It's been approved by about eight senior levels of command."

Muller frowned at Fales. "Why, for God's sake, are you bringing a woman to command the boat? Most of these men haven't had a chance to see a woman, especially a good-looking one, in months, for Christ's sake. Look, I get what you're saying about Kostowe being old, and not likely to survive a tour. But why a woman?" Fales had a full year date-of-rank over Muller, and thus was able to call the other man by his first name, a familiarity the other could only return while Fales allowed it.

"I didn't figure you to be a sexist bigot," Fales told the other Commander. Muller had graduated Annapolis a year behind him, and had shown little political clout, or savvy. Fales knew he'd wear stars before the other would, though they both were likely to. Fales was testing Muller, watching carefully to see if he'd succeed in provoking the other into saying something stupid, or taking an extreme position. Avoiding that, Fales knew, would force him to agree to take Lenore Collins on as the boat commander. Doing that would establish Fales as progressive, which would go far in the coming months and years, he knew. Admiral Kelso would integrate the sexes on the surface Navy, and Fales would be an early proponent.

"Fuck you, Walter," Muller answered.

"Alright, Kip. I know damned well she's good looking. She's got a fucking Master Gunny as a boyfriend, and that ought to slow any of them down, make them think twice. But there's more to her – she's an Officer Candidate, for one thing, she's well-connected for another, and she's really pretty damned good. She's going places, especially as a woman, and especially as NROTC, not Academy. Kostowe's just about freaking adopted her, and she's got another spook on her side, as well as Harding, and by extension, all of those straight-fucking arrow aviators, who'll do what Harding says just as a fucking favor to him. Now, I will assure you, this chick can handle herself, Kip. I have been nothing but impressed by her, and that's saying a lot." Fales was telling the truth, but not the whole truth and nothing but the truth – he had still to actually meet Lenore Collins, sometime Petty Officer and Officer Candidate. Though, she has impressed the hell out of me by her actions, if not by my observation.

The other stared at him for a full fifteen seconds. "Goddamn it, Commander. You'd better fucking be right about her ability to handle herself. Think about just who you're letting her loose amongst."

Fales had an answer though. "None of them are going to do shit while Kostowe's around. And that'll set the precedent for them ... they'll be used to taking orders onboard the boat from her. Besides, I have it on great authority that Rudolfs knows and admires her." Seeing Muller's eyes widen slightly, Fales couldn't help but add, "And not in that way, either, asshole." Lieutenant j.g. Rudolfs, so far as Fales knew, did not yet know of Lenore's enlistment and enrollment into NROTC. Well, he'll find out soon enough.

"So tell me why a fucking yacht in the first place, Commander. Why in hell not a SDV?" Muller made reference to the Mk 8 Mod 1 SDV, a submersible vehicle carried on the back of a fast-attack submarine or on a fleet troop carrier or fast assault troop carrier. Not quite a mini-submarine in the traditional sense of having a dry atmosphere contained within, the boat did not have a pressure hull, and the occupants needed wetsuits and SCUBA gear. It was a means to carry a fire team to an assault position, quietly and without observation.

"You know damned well, Kip. No loiter time, no ability to carry stores, no ability to range, and remain on station while servicing an operation, or resupply." It was true; the best Lithium-Ion batteries that could be crammed into the blunt hull could only power the boat for fifteen or so hours at any useful operational speed. "And who the hell can afford to have a fast-attack boat for a mission like this?"

"Okay, Commander. Then why in hell don't we use some Pibber driver of our own?" This time, Muller meant a sailor used to high-speed cruising of a river, deploying teams and conducting interdiction operations from a fast Patrol Boat, River (the Navy's designation for the specific craft is abbreviated PBR). This was the "Brown-water Navy" operator, real "Apocalypse Now" stuff, Fales knew.

"Camouflage, Commander. No one in hell is going to be fooled by a PO-second with a Lieutenant on board, both with crew-cut hair. That's bullshit, and you know it. Collins can play the rich play-toy of some Colombian, or even an American, waiting on her boyfriend and hang out in Central American ports for months. She's got to look like a rich girl, slumming in Central America, or like a kept woman ... anyone else watching the shipping will stand out. I want to keep my operator alive, Muller."

"I'd just feel better if it were Kostowe commanding the boat, Commander." It was a weak position, and Fales recognized it for the retreat action it was.

"Commander, it's been planned for months, and signed off on way above our paygrade. Don't worry - wait until you meet her. You'll love her just as much as I do." Fales had his hopes that this would prove to be true, though he'd kept them hidden well enough, he supposed.

"Welcome to the Special Warfare Command, Special Operations Group Eight," said the man who walked into the small conference room. The building was older, World-War Two vintage, with large-block construction, and had been painted recently. The desks were reminiscent of high schools in the '70's, Lenore thought, four-legged and separate from their chairs, which was definitely unusual in her experience. There was a small lectern, and the "Targeting-slash-Operations Officer", Lieutenant Osterweiss, the name given during the introduction given by the "Targeting-slash-Ops Leading Petty Officer" who'd brought them into the room, stepped behind it.

Lenore looked askance at the room full of Petty Officers, all in uniform, all with little or no rank insignia. What in the hell weren't they all doing on a Saturday that they're here instead? Careful not to let her thoughts show on her expression, she held herself at attention, much as Chief Kostowe seemed to be doing. He's as uncertain about all this as I am. That small fact is definitely causing me worry.

"Now, I'm sure everyone is disappointed that this isn't Team Six, but hell, we can't all be rock stars," the Lieutenant said, and there was low laughter from the other men in the room. "Okay, we're forming a special mission platoon. The normal distribution of skills isn't going to apply, and if you speak Spanish, you're definitely preferred for this one. It'll also help if you're descended from small, dark, swarthy people."

After the general laughter subsided, he continued. "You're now Oscar Platoon, of Task Unit Alpha, Group Eight. We're going to execute an ops plan called 'Keen Image', which will operate in foreign waters and on foreign soil. It is part of the strategic counter-narcotics and counter-narcoterrorism initiatives we have going on in the Caribbean and the Pacific coast of Central America." He paused to let that sink in, and looked around the room. Satisfied with the rapt attention he commanded, he continued. "The operation will be to conduct clandestine ELINT surveillance of private communications traffic of individuals of interest. Secondary will be direct observation of these individuals' movements. The ELINT gathering will be focused on landline telephone and cellular telephone, as well as analog voice radio communications."

He held up some kind of a circuit board. Lenore could not see much detail from her position across the room. "This will fit into a slot in the base station rack at cellular telephone sites equipped with Northern Telecom equipment. It provides upconversion from baseband to SO band zero, eleven-hundred and thirty megahertz, and zero dee-bee-em of push. For you non-radioheads out there, that means we can sniff all the voice conversations on the cell site and squirt them someplace else, close by. Just how close by will be worked out for each site by reconnaissance and our Communicator, former Sonarman Schreyer." One of the men in the middle of the room raised his hand, and waved, identifying himself as Schreyer. "A large part of this operation will be to install these sniffers into base stations, haul the traffic a short distance away as unobtrusively as possible, then from the second, more concealed and more secure, site retransmit the ELINT back home."

He paused for a moment, and asked, "Questions so far?" Receiving none, he launched back into the brief. "Okay. Operations will be in several countries of interest. This means we won't be using many of our more esoteric means of ingress. No SDV, no HALO jumps from thirty thousand feet, no long swims in the dark. You'll be flying commercial airlines into the various countries, under various pretexts, mostly as a mining geologist or an agricultural researcher for Dow Chemical, things that should explain you moving around in the hinterlands of Country X. You will be bringing gear in suitable for your cover mission, and you'll be coming in naked."

The last statement caused a stir. "Yeah, I mean it. No weapons, and for those of you with really obvious 'body art', you're likely going to get passed over for ops in the field."

He said "body art" with an odd inflection, causing Lenore to wonder just what the source of that irritation was. I think he means tattoos, but why should that be an issue? Oh, because people might recognize them as US Navy. But why call them 'body art' with that tone? Lenore filed it for future investigation, recognizing that it was probably minor in the grand scheme of things. For now, she turned her attention back to the incredible briefing – something she'd only seen in movies, before this.

"You'll be getting your gear via any of several options, but all deal with getting it from a motor yacht we'll be using for long-term resupply and movement facilitation. It's possible the bad guys will get suspicious of a mining geologist looking at Bauxite leaving Honduras and showing up in Peru looking for lanthanides a week later, so we'll probably move you around on that motor yacht. It'll also be the local forward ops center, and either your Officer-In-Charge or your AOIC will be on her."

There was a small stir, as a small knot of men entered the room and stood by the door. Lenore spared them a brief glance, and turned back to the man at the lectern. "This will be an ongoing operation, funded for three hundred days of field ops and one hundred days of work-up and training. The clock started with the start of the fiscal year, so there's ninety-five days of work-up left."