"I want to send a telegram."
The clerk handed over a blank, and Remo was allowed to transfer the text of Harold Smith's letter to the blank without having to get out of line. When he was done, the clerk processed the telegram, ran his credit card through the charge machine and handed the card back with a receipt and a friendly "Thank you."
"A pleasure doing business with private enterprise," said Remo, stepping out into the light.
Chapter 23
They were waiting for Winston Smith at the escape zone. Three members of SEAL Team Six, loaded for bear, hunkered down over two beached Boston whalers.
A dark hand waved at him. "Hey, Winner!"
"Fuck you," snarled Smith.
The gun echoed his sentiments.
Six gathered around him. "Hey, we heard you nailed the guy."
"He isn't dead," Smith snapped.
"Maybe next time they'll give you live ammo. Ha."
"Fuck you," he said a beat ahead of the gun.
"Where's the XO?" Smith asked.
"Back at the sub."
"You guys were aboard for the ride?"
Beaming grins pierced the dark. "All the time. We watched the mission unfold from the gun camera. "
"What gun camera?"
"The laser, numb-nuts. It wasn't a laser. You shoulda known that. What kind of moron sticks a laser on ordnance already rigged with a night scope?"
"Fuck."
"That's another thing. You gotta watch your language. All manner of clean-minded admirals are gonna be watching your footage. Don't want to embarrass them in front of the spooks."
"Hey, Winston, how do you feel about nailing a target when he's porking his best girl?"
"Conscience bothering you yet?"
"Just shut up everybody," Smith barked. "Shut up."
"Man appears a mite out of sorts," a voice drawled. They returned to the Darter in the whalers.
The XO was there to greet him as Winston Smith climbed down the sail into control.
"Sir I-"
"Not a word, Smith. Not in front of the crew."
They were escorted to a tiny debriefing room. The rest of Team Six were made to wait outside.
"You did a great job," the XO began. "You proved the mission is doable and the BEM gun performs to expectations."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but performing the mission for real would have proved the identical thing. And much more satisfactoraily, sir."
"That wasn't in the mission profile. Not this time, anyway."
"Sir, Six is getting tired of all these dry-fire missions. We're the best the Navy has to offer. We can do the job. Why aren't we sent after the bad guys for real?"
"This is how the JCS wanted it to go down."
"Permission to speak frankly, sir?"
"No. Now take your BEM back to quarters and familiarize yourself with it thoroughly. Next time may be for real."
Winston Smith saluted and stormed back to his cubicle. He ignored the back slapping of his teammates as they followed him down the cramped sub passageways. He shut the door in their laughing faces.
"The Navy sucks," he said bitterly in the confines of his cubicle.
Two hours later someone knocked on the door and said, "Got a sea gram for you, Smith."
"Shove it up the ass of somebody who cares."
"It'll be out here if you want it."
Winston Smith rolled over in his bunk and, when sleep would not come, he got up and fetched the sea gram.
He unfolded it and read the text.
Dear Nephew,
Congratulations. This is the year you reach your twenty-first birthday. You are now ready to take your place in the world and no longer require or are due any further assistance from me, whether financial or spiritual. Please accept my sincere good wishes on your future, and under no circumstances return to visit the place where you were raised.
Dutifully, Uncle Harold
Winston Smith's eyes grew wide, then shocked, then hot.
His fingers shook and the cable trembled between them.
"Fuck," he said softly. "Fuck fuck fuck."
This time the gun said nothing. There was nothing to say. He was all alone in the world now.