Chapter 6 - The C-40 on the Tarmac
At 12:45 PM, the tarmac at Naval Air Station North Island was shimmering beneath the intense California sun.
The blue-and-white C-40 Clipper—the military passenger transport variant of the Boeing 737 assigned to the Navy’s executive transport fleet—sat on the apron with its auxiliary power unit whining a high-pitched, steady scream.
A line of junior enlisted crew members was loading heavy aluminum transit cases into the forward cargo bay, while two naval pilots in green flight suits conducted their pre-flight exterior walk-around with flashlights and clipboards.
I sat in the passenger terminal lounge, wearing my service dress whites, a steaming cup of black navy coffee resting on the low laminate table beside my leather flight bag.
The heavy glass security doors of the terminal clicked open.
Captain Thomas Miller walked into the lounge, holding a manila folder with a bright red SECRET / NOFORN cover sheet. He sat down in the vinyl armchair opposite mine, setting the folder on the table.
"Your brother just left the gate, Emily," Miller said quietly, watching my face. "He drove out with your parents in their rental SUV. He didn't say a word to them the entire way to the parking lot."
I took a slow sip of the scalding coffee, feeling the bitter warmth sink into my throat. "Ryan will be fine, Captain. BUD/S breaks a man down to the bone and rebuilds him. Today just happened to be the day his family illusions got broken down too."
Miller chuckled softly, shaking his head with the deep, scarred wisdom of a man who had seen thirty years of young operators pass through his command.
"The hardest lesson a SEAL ever learns, Emily," Miller murmured, "is that the people who cheer the loudest when you put the Trident on are rarely the people who would sit with you in the dark when the boat is taking on water."
He tapped the manila folder with his forefinger.
"The Pacific deployment schedules were revised an hour ago by Fleet Forces Command," Miller continued, his tone shifting into professional operational focus. "Your detachment is being attached directly to the Carrier Strike Group Nine staff aboard the Lincoln. You’ll be operating out of Yokosuka and Guam for the next seven months."
"And SDVT-1?" I asked, setting my coffee mug down with a soft click.
"They deploy on the amphibious transport dock Green Bay three weeks behind you," Miller said. "Your brother will be conducting submerged diver-propulsion operations along the northern perimeter. He will be receiving his mission orders directly from your intelligence shop."
I looked out the panoramic plate-glass window toward the shimmering runway, where a twin-engine maritime patrol aircraft was lifting into the blue Pacific sky.
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"He's a good operator, Captain," I said softly. "His swim scores were in the top five percent of the class. His hydrographic mapping logs were precise."
"He has good genetics, Lieutenant Commander," Miller smiled, standing up and buttoning his khaki blouse. "Now, finish your coffee. The Admiral’s staff is boarding."
