made him worry. She needed direction, goals. Like Crocker had before he joined the navy at nineteen.
He knew there wasn’t much he could do now except tell her he loved her and hoped to see her soon.
“Sure, Dad. When do you think that will be?”
“Probably in two weeks, when the race is over.”
“What race is that?”
ST-6 operators weren’t allowed to tell their families where they were or what they were doing. But in addition to his SEAL commitments, Crocker competed in long-distance endurance events. So he told her, “I’m running in an ultramarathon, the Sahara, that starts in a few days.”
“Isn’t that, like, in the desert?”
“It is a desert.”
“You’re running in a race in the Sahara desert?”
“That’s right.”
“Won’t everyone just, like, burn up and die?”
He laughed. “I hope not.”
“You’re so crazy, Dad.”
He’d considered the possibility sometimes. Yes, the choices he made were extreme. Even abnormal. But he blamed that on his thirst for adventure and the wild energy he’d possessed since he was a little boy. During different phases in his life that energy had been both a blessing and a curse.
“Everything okay with you?” he asked.
“Fine, Dad.”
“When did Holly say she’s getting back?”
“A week from Friday.”
He remembered Francesca’s last name. “Say hi to the Novaks and thank them again for me. Be good.”
“You, too, Dad. And one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I hope you win!”
He hung up and asked for directions to the ship’s mess. Noticing photos of famous visitors, including his favorite NFL quarterback, Joe Montana, as he entered, Crocker found Ritchie and Mancini sitting at a corner table chowing down on eggs, ham, and hash browns.
He filled a plate, grabbed a cup of coffee, and sat. Mancini—the combination weight lifter and tech geek—was talking about a whole new generation of drones the air force was developing, some of which were the size of insects and birds.
“Insects and birds? You’re exaggerating like a motherfucker,” Ritchie said.
Bull-necked, crew-cut Mancini held his ground. “In another five to ten years max, war is gonna be fought by geeks at video screens.”
“No way.”
“Yeah.” Mancini sniffed at a slice of bacon on his plate and pushed it aside. His wife, Carmen, had him on a strict diet to keep his cholesterol down.
“I’ve seen photos of one they’re testing now that looks like a hummingbird. Flapping wings and all. Flies at about twelve miles per hour and can perch on a windowsill.”
“You hear this, boss?”
Crocker listened as he filled his stomach.
“In the future, the government wants to take out some terrorist leader, they dispatch one of these little suckers equipped with a camera and a weapon. Flies in the window, IDs the bad guy, then puts a bullet in his head. Maybe even tickles him first.”
Ritchie, part Cherokee, ex-rodeo rider, shook his head. “That’s when I’m retiring to Montana to raise horses.”
“You ever see a Raven?” Mancini asked.
Crocker had, near the western border of Pakistan. He nodded.
Mancini continued. “It’s about three feet long. Right, boss? You want to see something on the other side of a hill, you toss this thing like a model airplane that’s equipped with an electric engine and an infrared camera. It beams images back.”
Crocker was thinking that change was a law of the universe. Even the planet was shifting as they spoke. He cleared his throat. “Where’s Akil?”
“In the infirmary getting his hand attended to. Davis is getting his hair cut.”
“Soon as I’m done here, I’ll call the CO.”
“Oh, and the captain wants to see you. He’s in his office on the bridge.”
Crocker finished his breakfast and hurried up the seven flights of steps. Whereas the bridge of the MSC Contessa had been cramped, blood-splattered, and chaotic, this one was vast, orderly, and serene. Alert clean-cut officers manned various
He knew there wasn’t much he could do now except tell her he loved her and hoped to see her soon.
“Sure, Dad. When do you think that will be?”
“Probably in two weeks, when the race is over.”
“What race is that?”
ST-6 operators weren’t allowed to tell their families where they were or what they were doing. But in addition to his SEAL commitments, Crocker competed in long-distance endurance events. So he told her, “I’m running in an ultramarathon, the Sahara, that starts in a few days.”
“Isn’t that, like, in the desert?”
“It is a desert.”
“You’re running in a race in the Sahara desert?”
“That’s right.”
“Won’t everyone just, like, burn up and die?”
He laughed. “I hope not.”
“You’re so crazy, Dad.”
He’d considered the possibility sometimes. Yes, the choices he made were extreme. Even abnormal. But he blamed that on his thirst for adventure and the wild energy he’d possessed since he was a little boy. During different phases in his life that energy had been both a blessing and a curse.
“Everything okay with you?” he asked.
“Fine, Dad.”
“When did Holly say she’s getting back?”
“A week from Friday.”
He remembered Francesca’s last name. “Say hi to the Novaks and thank them again for me. Be good.”
“You, too, Dad. And one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I hope you win!”
He hung up and asked for directions to the ship’s mess. Noticing photos of famous visitors, including his favorite NFL quarterback, Joe Montana, as he entered, Crocker found Ritchie and Mancini sitting at a corner table chowing down on eggs, ham, and hash browns.
He filled a plate, grabbed a cup of coffee, and sat. Mancini—the combination weight lifter and tech geek—was talking about a whole new generation of drones the air force was developing, some of which were the size of insects and birds.
“Insects and birds? You’re exaggerating like a motherfucker,” Ritchie said.
Bull-necked, crew-cut Mancini held his ground. “In another five to ten years max, war is gonna be fought by geeks at video screens.”
“No way.”
“Yeah.” Mancini sniffed at a slice of bacon on his plate and pushed it aside. His wife, Carmen, had him on a strict diet to keep his cholesterol down.
“I’ve seen photos of one they’re testing now that looks like a hummingbird. Flapping wings and all. Flies at about twelve miles per hour and can perch on a windowsill.”
“You hear this, boss?”
Crocker listened as he filled his stomach.
“In the future, the government wants to take out some terrorist leader, they dispatch one of these little suckers equipped with a camera and a weapon. Flies in the window, IDs the bad guy, then puts a bullet in his head. Maybe even tickles him first.”
Ritchie, part Cherokee, ex-rodeo rider, shook his head. “That’s when I’m retiring to Montana to raise horses.”
“You ever see a Raven?” Mancini asked.
Crocker had, near the western border of Pakistan. He nodded.
Mancini continued. “It’s about three feet long. Right, boss? You want to see something on the other side of a hill, you toss this thing like a model airplane that’s equipped with an electric engine and an infrared camera. It beams images back.”
Crocker was thinking that change was a law of the universe. Even the planet was shifting as they spoke. He cleared his throat. “Where’s Akil?”
“In the infirmary getting his hand attended to. Davis is getting his hair cut.”
“Soon as I’m done here, I’ll call the CO.”
“Oh, and the captain wants to see you. He’s in his office on the bridge.”
Crocker finished his breakfast and hurried up the seven flights of steps. Whereas the bridge of the MSC Contessa had been cramped, blood-splattered, and chaotic, this one was vast, orderly, and serene. Alert clean-cut officers manned various
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