In the first shot, though Sullivan was hard to identify, a “masseuse” had her hands wrapped around Sullivan’s not-insignificant member as he sat upright during what might have been referred to as a massage. In the second, Sullivan’s face was clearly recognizable, the navy man’s neck flexed and his trim waist slightly blurred as, in the picture, he fucked his masseuse, doggie style, one knee atop the table for balancing purposes.

Sullivan didn’t quite spit out his first bite of risotto, but did halt mid-chew. He coughed gently and set down his fork, then lifted his glass, took a sip of water, set it down, rested his elbows on the table, looked at Cooper without moving his head, and said, “Who the hell are you and what is it you want.”

After telling Sullivan he was merely a colleague on the federal payroll who might, someday, call upon him for a favor, Cooper raised his glass and toasted the unfaithful future CINCLANTFLT.

“May we all achieve happy endings,” he said.

Cooper was hearing Sullivan’s voice tonight for the first time since the lunch. Laramie watched him from her cross-legged position on the deck of the Apache.

“What I want, Admiral,” Cooper said, “is a favor. The favor I’m looking for shouldn’t present much of a challenge-not considering your rank, anyway. Congratulations, by the way, on your rise to glory.”

“What is it, then,” Sullivan said. “Tell me. I’ve been waiting for your call for nine years, you sadistic prick!” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I haven’t committed marital infidelity since our lunch. You’ve driven me into a born-again, self-imposed puritanical hell. I see cameras everywhere I go-even looking up some slut’s skirt from across a conference room. At least you’ve called-maybe now I can get you and your little cameras out of my head.”

“I’d like to know the selection of nuclear submarines currently at sea in the vicinity of the Windward Islands. Martinique, specifically. I’m fairly certain you’ve got three, maybe four down here with the feature I’m looking for, provided my bedtime reading is accurate. Which it probably is, since I wouldn’t be reading it if I didn’t have the twenty-first-highest security clearance in the United States. What’s your ranking?”

Sullivan remained quiet.

“Basically, Admiral, I could use a UUV and an MSLC. Both of which I assume you understand come as standard equipment in your typical SEAL Hole.”

Sullivan again said nothing.

“We both know how the Holes work-as a result, and fortunately for you, nobody will know a thing. Hell, Admiral, for a man like you, that might have a couple of meanings.”

“I’ll take a look at the available inventory,” Sullivan said.

Cooper said, “Do it in the next ten minutes and deliver the submarine by dawn.”

“Fine.”

“Got a pen? I’ll give you directions.”

When the pizza, and most of Cooper’s stash of beer, was gone, Laramie curled up on the deck beside the copilot’s seat and dozed off. Cooper set a hand on her shoulder.

“There’s a bed downstairs,” he said. “All yours if you want it. Probably isn’t a bad idea for me to stick around topside. Muscle-head may still send friends.”

A combination hum and grunt came from Laramie’s throat, but she only curled into a tighter ball. Cooper pulled a jacket from the compartment beside the box where he kept the charts and draped it over her shoulders and back. He found one of the Apache’s life preservers, slipped it beneath her shoulders and head, and sat upright on the deck beside her. He leaned his back against the railing along the copilot’s side of the boat.

He’d just begun to realize how uncomfortable a position he’d chosen for his lookout duties, and lifted a foot to stand, when Laramie, asleep, repeated her hum-grunt sound, pulled herself a few inches off the life preserver, moved it aside, then resettled her head and shoulders on his thigh. With Laramie’s cheek against his leg, Cooper reconsidered the discomfort he was feeling in his back muscles.

In another hour it began to rain. It came the way it did in the Caribbean, a few fat drops, then nothing, followed by a curtain blast of water hurtling downward. Laramie woke up sputtering, slightly confused, maybe even a little perturbed, he thought, after realizing she’d been sleeping on his leg.

When she put her weight on one arm to lean up and get her bearings, Cooper leaned down and kissed her. He did it hard, pushing through the rain that had already coated the smooth skin of her face. Oddly, considering they’d both been drinking beer, she tasted to him like the distant fruit of white wine. She also tasted like coolness, and warmth. As she kissed him back he could feel that her tongue was smooth, like her skin, Cooper getting the overwhelming sensation he’d been engulfed by wet flower petals.

As they fell back onto the fiberglass deck, the torrential rain soaking through their clothes, Laramie pulled her lips from Cooper’s, leaned her mouth against his ear, and said, “What about keeping an eye out?”

Cooper pulled her on top of him, pressing her lips back against his by grasping the back of her head with his palm. Through their cemented lips, he said, “Fuck it.”

The way their mouths muffled the words, he wasn’t sure whether she’d been able to understand what he’d said, but he soon developed a theory that Laramie didn’t really care.

He had those lie detector powers down to a science now.

The rotors of the helicopter shot a streaming gust of wind against the quiet harbor, compressing a circular section of the ocean’s surface, the water churning, then breaking into white spray as the chopper cleared the lagoon’s edge and settled on the soft white sand of the Sainte-Anne marina. It continued to rain hard. A spotlight roved around the marina, directing its beam from one boat to the next, finding, leaving, then returning to Cooper’s Apache, the boat’s registration number highlighted in the center of the blinding white cone of light. The chopper was a UH-1N “Huey,” standard U.S. Navy issue, its olive exterior at peace with the moonless Caribbean night.

Ignoring the pounding rain, Cooper rose on the deck of his boat, hand shielding his eyes from the searchlight. Laramie emerged from the cabin door behind him wearing a pair of Cooper’s sweat pants and a T-shirt that didn’t come close to fitting. The black shirt had the words FEEL ALRIGHT emblazoned in white across her chest.

“Our ride,” Cooper said, yelling to be heard over the roar of the Huey. The two of them, he decided, had been doing too much yelling.

Laramie looked up at him. Cooper decided she looked like a very appealing wet rat.

“Nice night for one,” she yelled.

When Cooper and Laramie boarded, the Huey’s copilot turned in his seat, formed a rectangle with his hands, and confirmed that Cooper was the man they’d come for when Cooper handed him one of his identification cards. The copilot then rose and distributed a pair of wireless headsets to his passengers. Once he saw they’d put them on, he said, “Good morning, sir. Ma’am. Please take a seat and buckle up. I assume you’re aware that our instructions are to deposit you in the open ocean on a safety raft approximately fifteen miles due south of Diamond Rock. That would be the southwestern corner of this island. The rain will continue, but we expect calm seas. The trip should take approximately twenty-five minutes. I’m Lance Corporal Miller, and I’ll be conducting the drop once we reach our destination. Any questions?”

Laramie looked around the cabin. Cooper saw her doing it.

“Got any barf bags?” he said to Miller.

Miller produced a pair and nodded.

“Even I use ’em sometimes, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” Laramie said. Cooper wasn’t sure who she was talking to when she said it.

“Appreciate the lift,” Cooper said.