Chapter 6

09:10 EDT Monday, August 5th, 1991
Office of Naval Intelligence
4251 Suitland Road
Washington, DC 20395

"Commander Fales. I hadn't expected to hear from you today, Chief Kostowe, you're a few days early. I didn't think you were scheduled until Thursday."

Commander Fales was a thirty-nine-year-old seventeen-year veteran of Naval Intelligence, and he was proud of his career. Almost a certain lock to be promoted Captain in the coming fiscal year, he was proud of the role his office played in Desert Shield, and in the air-war phase of Desert Storm. His operations had reduced the number of explosive-filled rafts available to be towed and then let loose in the Red Sea dramatically, and he was recognized within the halls of the floor of the Federal Building ONI occupied as master of early intelligence and effective plans to deal with odd requests in strange corners of the world.

He reflected on Kostowe and his boat. Working up a small-unit platform for observation of mobile targets in Central and South America was a good precautionary move, and the asset could be lent (seconded) to CIA for anti-communism activity in Colombia and Peru, but the larger need in Fales' opinion, and the opinion of those who mattered, such as his boss and the Department of the Navy, was for drug interdiction and suppression, as well as monitoring of maritime traffic for weapons, specie (gold and gems), and drugs.

The navy had some observational assets in the Pacific and others in the Caribbean, but Kostowe's boat was unique in that it was intended to be an operations platform. Kostowe had argued that a yacht not obviously packed to the gills with ELINT gear would be avoided less than an 'Alaskan fishing trawler' might be. And given just enough intelligent gear, and a hell of a long range capability with a clean hull and a lot of fuel, it could be speedy enough to rendezvous at sea, with, say, helicopters from DESRON 11 (the Navy's training Destroyer Squadron that seemingly endlessly patrolled the Pacific), or some Task Force or Battle Group. The rendezvous would be over the horizon from land, and the boat would be able to make it to a few dozen sites over the course of a week, clandestinely listening or depositing, say, special warfare team members. Given all the fuel the boat could carry, it could then conduct ferry operations and bring mission supplies – food, mostly – along the Banana Republics' and Fucked-Up Dictatorships' coasts for weeks on station. Joint Task Force 4 was on station off Panama, performing LEOPS (Law Enforcement operations), and that could work out nicely, Fales knew.

Kostowe was blue-water Navy, all starch and regulation, making it surprising when he'd come to them with the proposal. But he'd worked for Cottmann-Hall, that think-tank Beltway Bandit for however many years, and his arguments and plans made sense. It was a need that President Reagan had highlighted with the War on Drugs, and the conventional wars the services were prepared to fight didn't include too much of this kind of small-unit support. The damned CIA had a hard-on for communism, and didn't give a shit about drug trafficking, unless they were doing it to raise clandestine cash, though ONI was never allowed to report on that.

So Delta Force had been created for a similar purpose, maybe, but their means of ingress were kind of ... flashy, for fast operations. ONI wasn't flashy in what they did.

So now Kostowe was on the phone early. "Sir, I'd like to come present the monthly status in person this week. I have an additional agenda item."

"You want to fly here, Chief?" Fales wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. Why would he want to fly here?

"Yes, sir. I had recent occasion to update my will and estate planning, and would like to clarify the disposition of the Joy Redux this visit."

Christ, how old is Kostowe anyway? We knew he was old, that's why we had Brophy and Rudolfs go work up his asset with him. "I don't see that as a problem, Chief. You're flying yourself on your dime?"

Kostowe laughed. "You're a cheap bastard, sir. I can say that, I knew your father was one too. I'll be bringing a guest, a notary and legal representative. She'll be OK to talk about the disposition of the boat in the event of my," Kostowe gave a small dry cough, "untimely demise." Kostowe waited for the expected chuckle, then continued, "It will be all right, she'll only be in the room for that part of the discussion. You know her, it's Admiral Harding's secretary Deb Reineau. And before you say or do anything on what you know or think you know of her, understand that it's wrong. I, and Admiral Harding, will vouch for her."

Interesting, Fales thought, I don't know her, but he felt compelled to tell me that. Aloud he said, "Oh-nine-thirty for your report, and ten-forty-five to eleven-thirty for the will, Wednesday."

"Very good, sir. Thank you for your time," and Kostowe hung up.

Fales sat, looking out the window. Fucking-A wonderful. When will I ever talk to him without him reminding me he did my father a favor on that tin can of his?