Authors: James L. Ferrell
He lifted one of
the wall phones and spoke into it. “CIC, give me a countdown over the bridge
speaker."
“Aye, Captain,
counting on my
mark…….C
minus 60, 59, 58…” Tarnowski’s
voice came over the speaker.
Ahead, the
Sidney James
continued on her course,
seemingly oblivious to her impending collision with the destroyer.
"28, 27,
26…."
“Standby, Jimmy,”
Lloyd
said to Hicks.
Hicks moved to the
center of the bridge where he inserted a key into a waist-high pedestal with a
half-dozen toggle switches on top. The action caused LED’s beneath the toggles
to light up. He flipped up a red plastic cover over one of the switches and
placed his finger on it.
"10, 9,
8…"
The
Sidney James
loomed dead ahead of them,
a wall of gray steel towering over the smaller ship.
"Now!"
Lloyd commanded.
Hicks flipped the
switch just as Lloyd shouted to the helmsman, "Hard left rudder!"
An instantaneous blaze of green radiance lit up the
Talon's
bridge, the
Sidney
James
, and the sea around them. Three seconds later the light was gone and
both ships had vanished, leaving only the churning sea.
Eighty miles to
the east, a Russian surveillance aircraft whose job was to track the activities
of certain elements of the U.S. Navy's Pacific Fleet, made a sharp turn to the
southwest. Its crew had been monitoring the
Talon's
course ever since she had detached herself from the main fleet some nine hours
before. At one of her tracking consoles, a Russian officer gazed intently at
the
radar scope
from which the
Talon
and another unidentified ship had just disappeared. He had
watched the two blips draw closer and closer until they merged, then blinked
out. The aircraft was now proceeding to the location of their last known
position. The officer made some adjustments to his equipment, but was unable to
reacquire the image.
"What do you
think happened, sir?" a technician sitting at an adjacent console asked.
"It appears
they collided," the officer answered. "At the speed of the destroyer
it would have been a devastating impact. Both vessels probably sank
immediately." He tried a few more adjustments, but found nothing. "Too
bad," he mused. "That is the second collision the Americans have
suffered this year." He gazed at the blank screen for a long moment then
said, "I will notify our naval forces in the area to proceed to the
location and see if there are any survivors."
The technician
nodded, and quietly resumed his duties.
After he had made
notification of the incident to the proper authorities, the officer leaned back
in his chair and stared at the blank radar screen. It was improbable that such
an accident could occur between the only two ships in a two hundred mile
radius, but if his instruments were to be believed, it had happened. Less than
six months ago he had been tracking two British ships in the same area when a
similar incident had occurred. A tropical storm had been in full blow at that
time, too. He knew the vessels that were proceeding to the location of the American
collision would find nothing, just as they had found no trace of the British
ships. He picked up a pen and began tapping absently on the console table. Yes,
it was damned strange. After a long moment he dismissed the incident and
returned to his routine duties.
A
n irritating buzz drilled its
way into the subconscious mind of Detective Lieutenant Matt Leahy. The dark
mist surrounding his brain cleared as he awoke. After a few seconds he opened
his eyes and focused on the white stucco pattern of the ceiling. He reached
over and punched off the alarm clock on the night table. It read 7:00 AM. He
swung his legs off the bed, walked to the bathroom and switched on the light. The
image that stared back at him with a blank expression from the sink mirror wore
a two-day stubble of beard. Although he had just celebrated his thirty-ninth
birthday, the unlined face belied his age. The eyes were clear blue, and sandy
brown hair topped his head. A faint cleft chin and lips perpetually turned up
at the corners contributed to a charming, swashbuckling appearance. Though he
had never considered himself particularly handsome, most women would argue in
his favor. He gave the reflection a dour look, bent over the sink, splashed
cold water into his face, and brushed back his hair with wet fingers.
Two days before,
he had been in Nashville working with FBI agents and local detectives to bring
one of the most publicized cases on record with the Atlanta police department
to a successful conclusion. The Atlanta mayor's seven-year-old daughter, Lisa,
had vanished from the playground of her exclusive private school. Though his
expertise was in homicide cases, Leahy had been chosen to head the
investigation. He knew this was primarily because of his reputation for perseverance
and attention to detail, but he had felt uneasy handling a case of such
magnitude.
He and his team of
four detectives had spent countless hours reviewing case files and interviewing
known pedophiles and sex offenders. Prison records were checked and rechecked
for information concerning the recent release of kidnappers or child molesters.
Some had returned to prison and some were dead; others were cleared by the time
and circumstances surrounding the child's disappearance. For various reasons,
each man had eventually been eliminated as a suspect.
Circulars with the
girl's photograph and details of the crime had been forwarded to police
departments and newspapers nationwide asking for information and assistance. The
mayor and his wife were given television airtime where they made a desperate
plea for their daughter’s safe return. Friends and wealthy supporters
established a hundred thousand dollar reward for information leading to Lisa’s
whereabouts and the arrest of the person responsible for her abduction. Their
only lead was the testimony of her six-year-old playmate, Brian Greer, who had
witnessed the kidnapping. Brian had seen her talking to a man in a red car. He
had not seen Lisa get into the car but remembered the man’s ‘shiny eyes.’ Leahy
had been unable to get any better description of the suspect, and remained
nonplussed at the child's reference to the shiny eyes.
Their break
finally came from an unexpected source. Three weeks after the investigation
began,
Leahy received a telephone call from a doctor at a
mental hospital in Tennessee who had been following the story in the
newspapers. He remembered that one of the patients he was treating drove a red
car. Though he refused to release any information concerning the nature of the
treatment, he identified the man and provided his address in Nashville. For
reasons he would not disclose, he urged Leahy to act as quickly as possible. Within
hours the suspect’s photograph was obtained from the driver's license bureau in
Nashville, and FBI agents were checking the address. Leahy arrived by late
afternoon, and was met by two Nashville police officers
who
had been assigned to assist with the investigation. The detectives and FBI
agents had already been to the address, a run-down apartment complex on the south
side of the city. No one was home, but neighbors reported having recently seen
the man in the company of a female juvenile. Leahy recalled the thrill of
excitement that had coursed through him when he had received that information.
The stakeout of
the apartment had lasted for three days, each longer and more miserable than
the last. Then, in late afternoon of the third day, the red car pulled into the
complex and stopped directly in front of the apartment. From his position,
Leahy could see the child sitting in the front seat beside the driver. In
breathless anticipation he had watched as they exited the car and the suspect
took the girl by the hand. At a predetermined signal, Leahy and the other
officers had rushed forward and jerked the girl away. Two officers had knocked
the suspect to the ground and pinned his arms behind his back.
On his knees,
Leahy had taken Lisa in his arms and held her for a long moment. Finally,
assured she was unhurt, he had taken a closer look at the kidnapper. He was a
man of about his own age, balding, and trembling with fear. Then he remembered
Brian Greer's description of the shiny eyes and understanding dawned on him. On
the walkway where they had fallen from the kidnapper’s shirt pocket, lay a pair
of sunglasses with mirror lenses.
They were greeted
by
a media
frenzy upon their return to Atlanta. Electronic
camera flashes and TV floodlights were blinding, and the reporters were
relentless with their questions. Lisa was unharmed, and her abductor was safely
behind bars in Nashville awaiting extradition. The publicity following her safe
return was enormous, and Leahy became an instant hero. Even though dozens of
detectives from departments all over the southeast had participated in the case
and helped bring it to fruition, the media needed a focal point for their
stories, and he had been elected. He smiled and shook his head. Paper heroes
were always forgotten when another story broke. However, the main thing was
Lisa’s safe return, and that had been accomplished. Now he was looking forward
to a long overdue vacation.
The apartment felt
chilly as he put on his robe and walked into the kitchen. The coffee maker had
been set up the night before and he switched it on. His personal case file
covering the investigation was lying on the kitchen table where he had left it
before going to bed. He picked it up and pulled out an eight-by-ten photo of
Lisa. Soft brown eyes smiled up at him from beneath dark curls. He thought of
Richard Howell, her abductor. Without really knowing why, Leahy felt sorry for
him. He had not mistreated the girl, and had cried like a child when they had
arrested him. Howell’s own daughter, who bore a striking resemblance to Lisa,
had died two years earlier at the hands of a drunk driver, and he had never
recovered from the loss. One evening following a therapy session intended to
ease the shock of his daughter's death, he had seen Lisa on television. Her
father was running for Mayor at the time, and she had been present during a
news conference. It was then that his sick mind finally snapped. From that
moment his dead child began to live in Lisa's image. For months he had shadowed
her family until he was familiar with every facet of their daily routine. It
had been a simple matter to abduct her from the schoolyard during an unguarded
moment.
Leahy looked at
the photograph again and traced the outline of the girl's face with his finger.
He winked at her and put the picture back in the folder. He removed a second
photograph and stared at the face of Richard Howell. It showed a man in the
throes of mental anguish. The face, lined with pain, showed a deep,
soul-killing agony. He tossed the photo onto the table and resolved not to let
it destroy his mood. It was over now and he felt good. He got up, poured
himself a cup of coffee, and went into the living room. He flipped on the TV,
leaned back in his favorite chair, and tuned in the local news.
There were the
usual reports about murders, robberies, and some political corruption in
Washington. After a few minutes the scene switched to Harold Calloway, one of
the station's field reporters. He was on location outside a service station
where traffic was lined up into the street waiting to buy gas. A light rain was
falling and tempers were short. Horns blew in the background as Calloway walked
along the line of cars, doing interviews with the drivers. Most were furious
with OPEC’s latest decision to cut back on crude production, causing the price
of gasoline to rise to its highest level in over a year. He watched Calloway
stick the microphone inside the window of a pickup and ask the driver for his
opinion of the situation.
"Sir, do you
think the government will do anything to roll back these prices?"
The man appeared
to be in his mid-thirties, checkered shirt, and reddish-brown beard. "I
don't think the government knows how to do anything but raise taxes. Between
that and these stinking gas prices it's hard to make ends meet. Everybody I
know is really getting sick of this crap."
Calloway did a
couple of other interviews with the same basic results. He turned the program
back over to the anchor,
who
then made a report about
truckers converging on Washington to stage a protest against fuel taxes. Leahy
sipped his coffee and settled back in his chair. He was still feeling good when
the doorbell rang.
Now who the devil could that be at this time
of morning
, he thought with irritation. He walked over to the door and
looked through the peephole. Two men in dark overcoats stood in the hallway. With
a police officer’s caution, he opened the door part way and braced his foot
against it.
"Lieutenant
Leahy?" asked one of the men through the partially open door. When Leahy
did not answer right away, the man reached into his coat and pulled out a black
identification case. He flipped it open and held it up. “I’m Charles Feldon,
and this is Mike Summerhour,” he nodded toward the other man, who gave him a
phony looking smile. “We’re with the National Security Agency. We'd like to
speak with you for a few minutes if we could."
Leahy reached out,
took the ID, examined it for a few seconds,
then
handed it back. Feldon was about forty-five, six feet and heavy set. He
regarded Leahy from behind wire-rimmed glasses. The other man was shorter,
slightly balding, and about the same age as Feldon. His pale blue eyes glanced
nervously around the room behind Leahy. Leahy noticed a few drops of water
standing on his forehead, and saw the overcoats of both men were damp across
the shoulders from rain.