Chapter 37

05:25 Friday, October 17th, 1991

Guadalcanal Jetty, Coronado NAB

San Diego, CA 92155

Lenore waited in the predawn twilight for Chief Kostowe. There had been no indication that anyone was in the Dock Master's office when they'd driven up, though the SPs on guard at the base of the jetty let them through without comment.

Kostowe drove the rental up, and stiffly extricated himself from the vehicle. Christ, he's so old. I wonder why I never think about that when other people are around? Lenore shrugged. When the Chief stepped down the ladder onto the small boat, she started it without a word.

"It's probably illegal to bring a weapon onto the post, but fuck it," Kostowe said. "It's a small crime, and we're only going to teach you to shoot. I doubt you'd be Masted for that."

Lenore nodded. Article 15 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice allowed for non-judicial punishment of misdemeanors (Captain's Mast), and it would be a black mark on her record, but like the Chief, she judged the risk to be small. A small part of her wondered at his coarsened language, but she wrote it off as situational stress.

Ten minutes later the small outboard motor chuffed to a stop, and Lenore and the Chief disembarked, back on the jetty.

"Okay, Chief. We're ready to go." The speaker was the only blond in the special platoon, Electrician's Mate Second Chris Novotny. He also seemed to be the only one carrying a notepad with a pen tucked into it's spiral wire binding. Lenore looked over the other three men, all of whom seemed serious in the early morning light.

"Novotny." When the blond looked at him, the Chief asked, "If we anchor the boat, is there a gentle beach we can go up and have a little target practice?"

The other looked quizzical. "Sure, Chief, on the way back, there's a little beach. We can use it for plinking."

"Good. Can you get us any forty-five? I only have one box with me."

Novotny smiled. "Only one box, Chief? What the hell are we gonna shoot?"

Kostowe raised an eyebrow. "These exercises will take until fourteen-hundred, right?"

The other three men simply watched the interchange between the Chief and EM2 Novotny, who was smiling even more broadly. "Yes, Chief."

"Well, then, what the hell will we do until beer-thirty, Novotny?"

"How much forty-five can you shoot, Chief?"

Lenore used the time while the Chief was off fetching water and Gatorade from the Navy Branch Exchange to go over the charts she had to where they were going, Naval Station San Clemente, a long, thin island, the southern end of which was about 50 nautical miles due west of Coronado. Nothing really in the way, no rocks, not until I'm within a mile from shore, until I get a fair way up the coast of that island. South and west, there's a bunch of stuff to look out for. She then spent her time inspecting the boat she'd be driving, while three of the team likewise checked out the boat for purposes unknown to any but themselves, she was sure.

Novotny returned first, with several boxes of what Lenore assumed was .45 ACP ammunition, though she didn't ask, being involved with the electrical system and the various switches on the pilot station console.

Lenore snickered as the Chief returned with two Coleman coolers on wheels with a tote handle, both olive drab in color, obviously brand-new, and obviously filled with ice. The Chief locked a single case of Miller's in the cab of the pickup, and wordlessly handed Lenore a bottle of Coppertone SPF 45 sunblock.

Two of the four sailors jumped overboard to hand the coolers up on board.

"Chief," Lenore whispered. "You check out the filters and drains?" She'd started the boat's diesels, and was listening to the idle. Some sort of fiberglass-hulled boat, it had aluminum on the gunwales and decking, with no-skid tape everywhere, though some was peeling. The engine bay was under a small square area of raised deck, and the pilothouse was up front, sort of like a ship's boat or a whaler design, she thought. Fifty feet long, it would work for what they had planned – simulating operations with the Joy Redux while trying to determine what might be wrong with the preplanning that had gone on before Lenore ever stepped foot on Coronado.

"No," he said out of the corner of his mouth. "If we get delayed a little because you find crap in them, these guys will think better of you. They've probably been stranded someplace once because of crappy fuel."

Lenore nodded, and while the Chief made small talk to the others, she found the filters under a deck cover at the stern. Sure enough, there was water at the bottom of the filters. Lenore, for lack of a better catch can, borrowed the Chief's Buck knife. After pouring its contents overboard, cut off the bottom of a water bottle – each of the coolers carried twenty-four half-liter bottles of water or Gatorade, and six submarine sandwiches, with six large Snickers bars also – she used it to catch the contaminated diesel from the tap at the bottom of the filters. For lack of anyplace else to put it, she dumped it in the thin water of the bilge, and made a mental note to get a roll of paper towels to clean it up with later.

As she straightened, she saw EM2 Novotny writing in his notepad. Lenore felt her eyes narrow. Well, shit. If he's going to take notes, he'll do it at my direction, for things that are actually useful.

"Novotny," she called, the saccharine in her voice apparent to all. "Make a note. Paper towels, and check the filters the day before the boat moves."

Satisfied, Lenore started to make her way to the wheel, when she heard, to her great surprise, Novotny sing out, "Paper towels, and check filters dee-minus-one, Boats, aye aye!" Lenore thought she hid her stumble and surprise well. Dee minus one means 'deployment minus one day', I guess. Well, hell, I think I can keep him occupied taking notes all day long. Lenore was careful to not let anything show beyond her exterior mask, but the Chief winked at her when she reached the controls.

"Chief," she said, "isn't there some sort of checklist that comes with this boat?"

"If there were, Collins, it was lost when the boat was taken out of service in nineteen-seventy-five."

"PO Siglin." When the Petty Officer named looked up, Lenore had fixed her calmest expression on him. "Please, go with the Chief and have him show you how to remove the starboard engine air filter."

The boat moved at fifteen knots toward the Coronado Bay Bridge, and Lenore was in her element. The drive of the boat was steady, but for the last several minutes she'd noticed the starboard throttle was too far advanced to keep the boat going ahead without trim. That motor didn't sound right to her ear.

Chief Kostowe nodded at her, and moved aft to collect his charge.

Minutes later, Lenore felt and heard the difference when the air filter was removed. The engine intake took on a whistling note, but the whole boat suddenly sounded better – deeper, to her ear. She quickly dialed the starboard throttle back toward a position even with the port throttle.

As they approached the Coronado Bridge, Kostowe brought the filter up to her at the helm. Lenore saw it was a large paper element inside a steel wire cage, and she had an inspiration.

"Chief. It won't make a bit of difference to the crap ingested by the engine, but for image, I bet it's a home run. Let me take off my tank-tee shirt and put that outside the cage. It'll probably impress the hell out of them."

Kostowe blinked at her, and then smiled. "Candidate Collins, you make me proud." And then he turned around while Lenore quickly pulled her blue shirt off and doffed the tee-shirt she wore under it.

"Okay, Chief." When he turned back, she handed him the white cloth. "Fruit of the Loom: four-ninety-five for three shirts at K-mart," she assured him.

With a bright smile, he headed aft with the cloth.

"Novotny," she called, and was pleased to see he took a moment longer than before, while he stared at the piece of cloth the Chief and Siglin were installing over the air filter housing. When she was sure she had his attention, she called, "Two spare air filters, the day before."

She was gratified to hear the response. "Two air filters, spare, dee-minus-one, Boats, aye aye."

"Chief, its time to show the civilians driving across that bridge what their taxes are going towards. Twenty-five knots, people." With that, Lenore pushed the throttles ahead, and felt deep satisfaction as the boat leapt forward.

Lenore had throttled back to roughly two-thirds power, and the boat was moving ahead at seventeen knots. Keeping an eye on fuel consumption, she calculated nearly six hundred nautical miles, or, if the charts were right, where she was going, with the fuel she had on board she'd have roughly a quarter-tank to play with and have enough fuel to return. 'Loiter-time' was what the Chief called it when she showed him her math, concerned about having enough fuel to return with. "Bingo" is what he told her to call it when there was only enough fuel to return to the fuel dock at Coronado.