Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection (54 page)

AFTER THE STORM

May 3, 2200

FOR THE NEXT day and a half after the squall, the sea was calm. Spurs and North were flown to the
Enterprise
to meet with the Sixth Fleet Commander, Admiral Pierce, to give a complete account of the incident that had taken four lives—five according to Spurs. The Fleet Operations Officer, Captain Novacek and the Fleet Legal Officer, Captain Chang sat in. The two NCIS agents stationed on the flagship did not. If the assumption were that there had been no criminal activity involved, NCIS would not be responsible to investigate. Even if this incident had involved a murder and an attempt on her life, the NCIS investigators would not want to let the cat from the bag yet. She didn’t bring Chief Franken up. Reeves had instructed her not to, concerned that it could jeopardize the Jap Rap investigation. She had to bite her lip. After three hours of grueling questioning in separate rooms, they were heloed back to the
Atchison
.

The fleet passed through the seven-mile wide Strait of Gibraltar at sunset. Evening chow had stuck in a lump in Spurs’ gut. She was glad that the ocean had settled, hoping it would ease her stomach, but even the mild rocking kept her nauseated.

She spent the rest of the evening in her stateroom analyzing what little clues she had. She laid them out in front of her on the small metal desk; a photo of Ensign Nader on the Bridge with Commanders Naugle and Reeves, eight letters to his parents and girlfriend, notes taken at the Nader’s, and the message left by SCPO Franken.

Nader was a happy young man, a wonderful life ahead of him. His parents attested to that. So did his girlfriend. They’d spoken of marriage. He’d looked forward to a long exciting career in the Navy. His letters said nothing to indicate that he was depressed or had problems. He had always spoken out against drugs.

The last letter to his parents postmarked five days before his death hinted at some kind of danger. It was what he said in the last couple of sentences that was troublesome:

I’m anxious to try out the new weapon’s system. It’ll be exciting to get them on line and snapped in. I’ve only seen them fired in training films, but this time, I’ll get to push the button.

There is something strange about the Tomahawks’ mission that I can’t put my finger on, though. It’d be better if I didn’t speculate about something that’s probably just my imagination. But in the event that something should happen, I’d like you to always remember I was fully aware that honor sometimes demands a high price.

Spurs rubbed her finger across the young man’s picture. An intelligent looking guy. He would have gone far.

“‘Honor sometimes demands a high price,’” she said aloud.

The Tomahawks. He said there was something strange about their mission. What could he have meant? The mission of the cruise missiles set by the Navy—the ship—Commanders Naugle and Reeves?

She placed the letters back into their plastic container and picked up the note from Franken and looked it over again. She remembered the description he’d given of the men who had confronted Nader that night. He couldn’t be one hundred percent sure who they were, but he had a good idea. He’d never told her. All he’d had time to say was that one was very large. Chardoff’s size. She’d noticed only one other man nearly as big on the ship. It was one of the cooks. She figured that by now she’d seen about every crewmember. If she could rule the cook out, she could be relatively sure that Chardoff was her man. Not positive enough to arrest him, but sure enough to watch his every move. Maybe it was time to pay the cook a little visit.

She stood up from the desk and slipped the rest of her slim clues into the shallow Tupperware container while considering the possible motives for Murder. Reeves was sure it was an international drug ring headed up by Arab terrorists to introduce a new, deadly drug into the United States on US Navy vessels. Franken seemed to think that the drugs were used as a cover up. Spurs tucked the container under her mattress and went out the door. As she walked the passageway from officers’ country to the crew’s quarters below, she heard what sounded like a muffled moan.

She staggered slightly, still not completely in control of her equilibrium. Using her right hand to steady herself against the wall, she pushed away from it lightly when the stateroom door ahead of her popped open.

The door stood ajar about six inches, then creaked lightly as it closed with the next rock. Once again a low moan came from inside the stateroom as she stepped closer.

The nameplate on the door read
Captain R. D. Chardoff.
A light shone from inside. The ship rocked the door open once again. This time she could see in.

She stepped further down the hallway, watching the door while she passed. It closed quietly as the ship tilted back. She stopped in front of it, knowing well that her curiosity was overruling good judgment.

The hatch opened again and she could see a lit television screen. Her first thought was that Captain Chardoff was watching some sort of training films on his VCR, but as she leaned closer she saw that it was something much different. On the screen was a nude woman gagged and tied to a pole. He was watching some sort of sick bondage film. She heard another deep moan and put her face to the doorway’s four inch opening. Chardoff stood with his back to her in front of the TV, naked, his massive thighs driving fervently into what Spurs could only guess was his own hand. She frowned in revulsion. He was in the midst of feverish, passionate sex—with himself. Henry Dubain was right, the entire ship was nuts.

The door rocked closed and she had to pull her head back. When it opened, the hinges mewed louder. She didn’t need or wish to see more and she began to leave, but this time she wondered if what Chardoff was watching was just a “B” movie or even XXX porno.

A man came into the picture on the TV wearing nothing but a black silk hood. He carried a huge, serrated hunting knife. The woman’s face contorted in fear as she cringed against her bindings. If this was acting, it was deserving of an Academy Award. Chardoff’s muscular backside worked wildly, glistening with sweat. The hooded man on the TV screen raised the weapon. The bonded woman’s eyes widened and she struggled against the cord that tied her.

At the same time that the sharp blade sliced, Chardoff’s body went into spasms and he groaned like a rutting bull.

The woman’s throat gushed red and Spurs winced and jerked her head back, glancing her cheek against the door. It swung wide, creaking loudly. She turned and bumped into a fire extinguisher hanging nearby and knocked it to the floor, then ran for the steps down to the next deck without looking back.

As she descended in leaps, Chardoff’s voice boomed through the passageway, “Little bitch!”

She heard the door slam as she cleared the landing.

WHAT’S COOKING

SPURS FOUND PETTY Officer Second Class Johnny Big Track in the galley, butchering chicken. When she entered the hatchway, he looked up from his work, standing with his left side to her, his left arm raised, a large meat cleaver in his hand.

The huge man stared at her lethargically with sad, dark eyes. His large body was remarkably similar in size to Chardoff’s, except the Native American had a little bit of a paunch. His hair was short but thick and black and he had a broad face. He brought the cleaver down with a sharp
whack
without looking at the fowl.

Spurs stood eyeing him back. Big Track turned away.

“Something I can do for you, miss?” His voice was low, slow and gruff.

“Yeah,” she said, stepping closer. “I was wanting to check next week’s menu. I’m allergic to apricots. I was going to ask if the choice hadn’t been made, to not have apricots. Maybe pears or apples instead.”

The big Native American raised the knife again. He slammed it down, focused on his work. She moved around to his front.

“Don’t have apricots anyway,” he said, sounding irritated. “You want pears, it’ll be pears.”

She saw the big man’s right arm bandaged and in a sling.

“What happened to your arm?”

“Grease fire.”

“When?”

“Five days ago. Just before evening chow.”

“Was it bad?”

“Bad enough to take me to sick bay on the
Enterprise
. Spent two days there on my back. Went nuts. Had to get back to work.”

Spurs considered what he was saying. His grease fire would have been the evening before Nader fell.

Big Track seemed to be having trouble positioning a fryer on the cutting board in order to cut off its drumstick. She reached over and pulled back on the chicken leg for him.

“You a good cook?” she asked, still analyzing. He could be lying about the timing.

He raised the cleaver and she noticed a heart-shaped tattoo on his arm with
MOM
printed in big, red letters.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Spurs had a frightening thought. “You are left handed, aren’t you?”

“Nope,” he said, staring into her eyes as he slammed the cleaver down.

The huge kitchen knife struck, chopping the chicken leg off two inches from her fingers.

Cook Big Track replied, “Terrible with my left hand.”

Spurs gaped. She looked at her fingers, the cleaver buried in the cutting board. She raised her undamaged member and looked up at Big Track. He stared back then gave her a hand towel and grinned. It took effort but she grinned back.

Her little interview was inconclusive. Chardoff was definitely top on her bad guy list, but she wasn’t sure on what list to place Petty Officer Second Class Johnny Big Track.

HEAD START

AFTER LEAVING BIG Track in the galley, Spurs took the time to check out the new women’s restroom. She went one deck below, saw the hatch she thought was the correct one and entered without looking.

Undoing her belt as she stepped in, she looked up to see two sailors standing with their backs to her at the urinals.

Her face reddened, first with embarrassment, then with anger.

“What in the hell are you men doing in here!”

The sailors turned their heads looking surprised. One glanced at the other and began smiling. The other smiled back.

“I asked what you’re doing in here, sailors. This is the women’s head!”

Still no answer, but the man that had smiled first turned to her without zipping up. The other crewman did the same, both of them snickering.

“Attention, men,” the smiley one said.

There were more giggles as they stood with their flies open, hands on their members.

Spurs suddenly realized that she hadn’t looked before entering. Maybe she had gotten the wrong head. On a ship they all look the same. She wasn’t used to the vessel yet and all of the decks and hatchways were similar.

“At ease!” she said and turned, st
epping back out as the two seamen burst into laughter.

She hurried away but then stopped and turned back around to examine the stenciled letters above the head entrance.

WOMEN’S HEAD
it said in big, black letters.

“Dirty bastards!”

ALONE IN A CROWD

THEY DROPPED ANCHOR in Barcelona harbor early in the afternoon. Spurs was given all night liberty and took the time to sightsee by herself. She opted to wear her summer whites instead of her civilian attire or
civvies
thinking she wouldn’t spend more than a couple of hours ashore.

The bullfights didn’t appeal to her, and she didn’t know much Spanish. She spent the afternoon and early evening browsing in the markets and shops.

Darkness found her at a window table in a small cafe, sipping on a tiny cup of thick Spanish coffee. She decided it was one of those acquired taste sorts of things, but topped with whipped cream, it wasn’t bad.

She looked out onto the small street lined with quaint cafes, bars and small shops. A number of Spaniards walked along the sidewalks, but few Americans that she could tell for sure. Some sailors wore their uniforms. Occasionally, she recognized a couple of sailors from the ship wearing their street clothes.

She sipped on her coffee as the twilight’s purple shadows grew along the narrow brown brick street until a familiar figure caught her attention. He walked in her direction but across the street and wore civvies, sunglasses and a Kansas City Royals ball cap. It was Lieutenant North. She ducked behind the window edge and peeked out just far enough to see.

A small, white Volvo coming from the same direction passed him and slowed, then parked at the curb. He glanc
ed up and down the street and then stepped into a doorway. A dark-haired woman wearing a beige overcoat, black scarf and sunglasses got out of the car, scanned around her, then hurried to the same entrance.

A tryst with a lover or hooker? With what she knew about North’s sexual preference, probably not, but perhaps he was bisexual. Spurs bit her lip. A meeting with a foreign agent?

Spurs stared at the doorway for a full fifteen minutes before North came out, stood briefly, then walked back the direction he’d came. About fifty feet down the sidewalk, he paused by a streetlight and looked back. The woman soon emerged and trotted to her car. After she was safely inside, North continued on and the Volvo sped away.

“Suspect number two,” Spurs said, then licked the cream from her third coffee off her lips.

She watched North until he was out of sight but stared blankly at where he’d disappeared around the corner of a building.

Now she had at least two prime suspects. North and Chardoff. Like Reeves had said, one was probably the Chameleon. They were either involved in some sort of illicit drug operation or selling cruise missile secrets, possibly even Tomahawk parts to God knows who.
Allah’s Jihad
? Drugs—maybe? Weapons? Both? And what about Commander Reeves? Was he really to be trusted? A phone call to her NCIS boss— and uncle—Deputy Assistant Director Paul Royse would do no harm.