Leviathan. Joaquin De Torres

Speak of the Devil

      Naval Base Guam

      Commander Naval Forces Marianas

      COMNAVMAR

      The air in the conference room seemed thick and humid despite the chill of the air conditioners. It was also thick with apprehension and tension. All but a few were aware of the reason for the uneasiness that stirred among the individuals from the moment they filed in. Lieutenant Brightman was amazed at how much Navy brass was actually present. She was equally amazed at how many of those flag officers neither shook hands with, nor made an effort to greet Salas or his staff. They greeted each other, took one look at Salas and moved to their places at their tables. This was highly unprofessional and highly disrespectful given the fact that they were the ones who needed his help.

      Even the room set-up was secular and divisive in her assessment. Three long tables were set up in a U-shape. The admiralty and their staffs sat on one side; Salas and his staff across the divide on the opposite side. On the table that made the base of the U, sat a laptop and miscellaneous documents. Behind that table were two massive wall screens, already powered on, waiting for some video presentation, thus the laptop.

      With less than five minutes before the meeting’s official start, Kira looked around the room. All the seats on the Navy side of the conference table were taken. Two admirals and two captains took up the table seats, while commanders and their staff members took up chairs behind them. Salas had brought only five members of his staff with him, so she and the seven shared an entire table. It appeared like an old-school military tribunal with the tight-jawed judges on one side, and the accused on the other. The cold reception, the separated seating and the scrutinizing stares were obviously the barbed points of a message for Salas, that although he was needed, he was not welcomed.

      She looked down her table. Salas was at the far end, inaccessible to her. Between them sat his prized technical colleagues: Miguel Santos, Nu’u Pali, Ian Camacho; Sakura Funihashi and PRAS’ PR and military liaison Kelly Genero. She

      leaned over to the young woman next to her, Funihashi, one of Salas’ newest but technically brilliant understudies. Half Japanese and half Chamorro, Funihashi looked more like a runway model than a scientist. Her long black hair, dark skin and exotic almond eyes turned the heads of everyone in the room when she entered.

      “This place has all the cheer of a Turkish prison,” Kira said sardonically. “They hate us already and no one’s said anything!”

      “Not us, Kira; Dr. Salas,” whispered Funihashi. They both looked at Salas who had his gaze fixed on one of the admirals across from them.

      “Who’s that?” Kira asked. The man next to Funihashi, Ian Camacho, leaned over and whispered.

      “That’s Admiral Stone. He and Joe are mortal enemies.”

      “Why?”

      “Joe exposed him two years ago for environmental dumping in the ocean. Subs under his command were jettisoning waste that was washing up on our beaches. Not just paper and metal trash but broken equipment, parts and chemicals. Joe tried to go through Navy channels to take care of it, but because of his anti-Navy reputation, he was blown off. He wrote 15 letters to the Secretary of the Navy, with photos and measurements, but nothing. Joe then went to the EPA, but ocean dumping isn’t covered under their restrictions.”

      “Then what?”

      “So, Joe went to the press and accused SUBPAC and the Navy of covering up the mess. This triggered a global outcry and a month-long protest of sub base at Pearl Harbor. It didn’t stop him from keeping his job, but Stone’s reputation as an environment killer was sealed, which also gave the Navy a huge black eye. One of the many.”

      This was the first time in two years that Joe Salas was in the same room with Admiral Tom Stone, commanding officer of the Pacific Fleet’s submarine headquarters, and the animosity between both men lingered still. The man next to Stone looked at Salas with even more disgust, but turned his head each time Salas looked at him.

      “Now that guy,” Camacho continued, pointing subtly at the full-bird captain next to Stone. “Joe cost that guy his star.”

      “Dude!” exhaled Funihashi. “What happened!?”

      “Joe had been lobbying for years to end or limit the use of the Navy’s hyper-strong Low Frequency Active Sonar or LFAS.”

      “Hyper-strong sonar?” asked Kira.

      “The LFAS blasts sonic waves in the water so strong that it not only confuses the internal navigation of whales and dolphins, making them herd onto beaches; but destroys their eardrums, nervous system and hemorrhage their internal organs,” added Funihashi.

      “Yes, over hundreds of whales were stranded and died on beaches all around the world where Navy subs tested the sonar in the early 2000s. At that time, that guy--Captain Stu Brewer--was in charge of sonar testing. He knew the bio frequencies were killing marine animals, but continued testing the model because he had stock in the defense contractor who produced it. Joe sent letters to the Navy Subsurface Research lab, not only warning them about the dangers, but that he intended to go over their heads if they didn’t respond. Well, when they brushed him off, he contacted a few friends at NOAA and in Congress who invited him to present his findings.”

      “Oh man! That’s when Dr. Salas became a legend!” said Funihashi with a smug smile.

      “The Navy was again crushed, but this time politicians were involved which meant the media was all over it. Talk shows, science forums, the works. Salas stood like a vigilante against the Navy’s cover-ups and arrogance. Several of those pro-Salas politicians were even re-elected for taking his side.”

      “So what happened to Brewer?”

      “He was transferred from sonar testing and stricken from the Admiral selection board. No matter what he does until he retires, he’ll never be promoted again.”

      Kira sat back with a smile of satisfaction.

      “Yet, here he is.”

      “He’s Director of Operations at SUBPAC now. Imagine that, two officers eviscerated by Joe, now working together.”

      “Sitting across the man who put their balls in a mason jar!” Funihashi spat, hiding her smile with her hand. “And now on the same side. What could be any more humiliating? This could get ugly.”

      “Who’s the other admiral at their table?”

      “That’s Terrell Glass; Commander, Pacific Fleet. Great man,” answered Camacho.

      “Admirals Glass and Stone!” snickered Funihashi. “Perfect couple!” Kira smiled and looked at Camacho with a more studious expression.

      “Ian, you look familiar to me. And your name--”

      “Don’t ask. He’s my brother.”

      “Really! Alex is your brother? He’s one of WEPS super studs! He did some dynamite work for the Deep Strike project in Japan a year back.”

      “Yeah, I heard about that. That’s my bro; he’s way better than me.”

      “I wouldn’t say that,” said Salas, finally breaking his stare with Stone. “If I didn’t have you, I couldn’t have done half of what we’re famous for.” He smiled proudly at Camacho.

      “ATTENTION ON DECK!” someone announced out loud. Everyone in the room stood up as four officers and one civilian entered the room.

      “Carry on,” answered the officer who entered first. As everyone sat down, this man--tanned, islander-looking and nearing 60--stopped to shake hands with Admiral’s Glass and Stone. He then came around the tables towards Salas, who remained standing.

      “Hello, Jody,” said the admiral. “Good to see you.”

      “Hello, Sir. It’s always good to see you, too.” They exchanged warm smiles. The admiral nodded to the rest of the crew and moved back to an