Page 45 of Luck Be Mine
Hunt shifted his right hand across the table and shook Quaid’s. “Same.”
“Good. She can start immediately.”
Hunt smiled, not his professional one, his personal one. “Enough sap for this visit. I have to get out to base. Ask if you need anything, please.”
“You want to come work for us?”
Hunt shook his head and rose. “Not yet.”
“All you have to do is say the word, and you’re hired.”
“Good to know.”
Quaid walked him out.
On the freeway, he couldn’t stop laughing. He went to ensure Cait’s safety and walked away with a job offer.
Friends. They were freaking crazy.
Chapter Seven
October 2020
Pacific Ocean, 3 Nautical Miles West of Coronado
Training Operation – 0100 Hours PDT
In the dark of an October night, Hunt stood next to LT Jack Brennan and LT Gil Stemmons on the catwalk of a Navy vessel used for mockup drills. Doogie hovered on the end. Hunt’s balance shifted with the swaying ship. Ocean sounds might lull civilians to sleep, but not SEALs. Alertness was not the problem.
A practice training mission was in progress – a live-fire, nighttime boarding drill on a freighter with a similar size to the M/V Aman. With a length akin to a Boeing 747 wing-to-wing and a deck the size of a soccer field, the mockup was perfect for the planned simulation of an interdiction on a rogue freighter.
The objective was for A and B teams to board on opposite sides of the ship and move to their individual objectives while improving their speed, stealth, cohesion, and teamwork. Watching via helmet cams, thermal overlays and eavesdropping on team channels, Hunt had his evaluation points firmly in place – inter-team cooperation, concise communication under pressure, muzzle awareness and action sequencing with professional management of friction.
Currently, the two teams struggled to integrate, missed signals, and were out of sync – an utter fuck up that would cause injuries and mission failure. The only team member performing to precise standard was Baxter.
Hunt pulled off his headset, tempted to snap but instead going silent. His promotion to lieutenant commander would happen within the month. Lieutenant Commander Scott would retire at the same time. Hunt’s new rank came with all Scott’s responsibilities.
Command continued to fill empty slots and make recommendations. Upon approval, Jack Brennan would take Hunt’s place, a fact Gil Stemmons had gleaned with animosity. His unofficial request to Hunt had been passed over, and the denial had resurrected Stemmons’s asshole persona.
Hunt never failed to do the job handed to him. It stayed a personal objective throughout his entire career. This would be no exception, but the headache throbbing at his temples did not help his mood.
The ocean would never care if an action was mission or drill – gear still jammed, boots slipped, and one bad fall meant someone got hurt or didn’t go home. Many missions were reruns of past actions causing a bit of done-this-before lag. But Hunt didn’t rely on those repetitions. The teams ran fast and hard, not because the Navy said so, but because keeping the skills flexible was a necessity. The fact they were fucking up only defended the need.
Jack’s crew, his team, stayed controlled, smooth, and precise, knew the layout and exactly what they had to do to get aboard unseen and take it over. They’d used this scenario before in team practice and on missions. Stemmons’s crew should have trained enough with similar tactics to be in lockstep. They were currently mired in showboating and taunting. Chief Riaz was trying for cohesion without success.
Stemmons’s team had large personalities pushing back against every detail of the execution. The only thing standing between their screwups and his team blowing was Senior Chief Hernandez. The man had an iron will and a stern countenance. He didn’t take any shit, but he was doing the same as Hunt. Testing the bonds to see where the problems were. Deter from B team didn’t help. He was a contrary son of a bitch who didn’t like anyone telling him what to do no matter the rank involved.
He made eye contact with Mateo and correctly identified the tight control the Senior Chief had on his temper. He gave Hunt a hand signal that over the years had come to mean fucked.
“Gentlemen, this isn’t working.” Hunt worked to hide his own irritation. “Fix it, Lieutenants.”
Stemmons lifted a brow in challenge. “I usually let them work through their ideas.”
Hunt turned to him, putting Brennan at his back. “I don’t. This is basic. Your team should be able to integrate with any other team at a minute’s notice.
“You get what I mean about personalities.” Their long-ago conversation in the parking lot reared again. Hunt gave himself a few seconds to draw a breath and swallow the curse words. “Not an excuse.”
He walked away from Stemmons and went down the ladder to Hernandez, who had moved to the base of the command deck. Doogie followed. “Give me your assessment. What’s not working?”
