by Brandon Webb
Jackson stared at Eagleberg. Had the man lost his mind? A sophomoric hazing ritual was going to make up for losing three glorious days on the beach in a tropical paradise? Was he really that out of touch?
No. Eagleberg was insufferable, but no fool. Jackson was being played—and it pissed him off.
“Bill, you really think this can wait till Perth? I realize it’s an outside chance that the two disappearances are related, but hypothetically, if these were acts of violence, it’s not unreasonable to suggest it could happen again.”
Eagleberg leaned back against the sideboard and crossed his arms. “Outside chance? Come on, Robbie. Two unrelated notes, a misplaced hypodermic cap, and a hunch?”
So there it was.
Jackson knew very well that this was all, as Scott put it, a hell of a leap, and he wasn’t keen on the idea of spreading a panic, so he could understand the reluctance to bring an NCIS presence on board. But the captain wasn’t talking about being discreet.
He was dismissing the whole damn thing out of hand.
“I see that, Bill,” he said carefully, “and to be honest I have the same concerns. There’s probably nothing to it. Still…I don’t know. Do you think we should bring this to Selena?”
Uttering the admiral’s name was like pulling the pin on a grenade.
For an instant the captain’s face twisted with rage at the veiled threat—and then the features all sucked back into place again. He straightened abruptly, coming up off the sideboard and inadvertently jarring the mahogany piece with a tremor that set the crystal brandy decanter rocking.
Jackson saw the thing teeter and leapt to his feet.
Eagleberg reacted by jerking backward, unaware of the threat to his beloved Baccarat set.
Jackson shot his hand out and managed to arrest the decanter’s fall—but one of the crystal glasses tumbled off and hit the faux-hardwood flooring with a musical crash. He looked up, one hand holding the decanter in midair.
Eagleberg’s eyes bored into him, lips pressed to a slit that could have cut twine. “Careful, Robbie,” he said.
The door flew open and Arthur burst in, alarmed. “Everything all right?” His eyes found the broken glass. “I’ll get this.” Moments later he was crouching by the sideboard, whisking the debris into a dustpan.
Jackson set the decanter down and took a few steps back. “Sorry about the glass, Skipper.”
Eagleberg gave a curt nod. “Could have been worse.”
Yes, it could, thought Jackson. And that seemed about as clear a signal as he was going to get. The audience was over.
He turned and made for the door, exchanging nods with Gaines as he went. “Arthur,” he said quietly, to which the XO murmured, “Robbie,” in reply. As he left he heard the skipper’s brusque “Thank you, Artie.”
The SEAL’s observation was dead-on accurate, wasn’t it.
Gaines really did hate being called “Artie.”
49
“Taps, taps, lights—silence about the decks.”
No problem there. Finn was maintaining silence about the decks just fine, lying right there in his broom closet. Although so far he hadn’t actually spent a single night in this little desk drawer of a stateroom.
You love water, hate ships.
He flexed the fingers of both hands. They still had that strange foreign-object feeling that had overtaken him that morning in the flare magazine. A vestigial numbness.
He glanced over at the door. Got up off the bunk, slipped over, opened it a crack. Left it that way. Lay back down.
Was he losing his mind? Clearly, he was losing pieces of it. Like the night Schofield went missing. And the night Biker disappeared. Both a blank.
Scrotal disaster. As Kennedy would say.
He pressed his fingertips to his thumbs, then did it again.
Kennedy.
Glanced back over at the door.
Got up once again and quietly shut it.
Lay back down on his rack.
Thought about that last encounter with Kennedy, the day he left Bahrain.
He’d just emerged from the commander’s office and come down to the first floor. The place was bustling with activity. In the hallway he bumped into Kennedy, told him he was shipping out that night. “Literally,” he added. “On the Abraham Lincoln.”
Kennedy nodded and said, “Walk with me?”
They stepped outside and walked together on the paved path out through the yard. Then Kennedy said, “Give me twenty-four.” Finn mentioned that his satphone was busted, and he’d put in for a new one. Kennedy nodded again. Then they parted ways, Finn toward his quarters and Kennedy heading off somewhere—
Stop.
Rewind.
Pay attention.
Kennedy nodded and said, “Walk with me?”
What happened next?
They stepped out of the air-conditioned building and Finn was smacked in the face by the sandpaper heat, his eyes half-blinded by dust. Nothing escaped the desert dust there in Bahrain. It found its way everywhere, caking the outsides of windows, creeping up your nostrils, wedging its way into the crack of your ass.
The two men walked the paved path together for a moment in companionable silence—
Correct? Was that brief silence “companionable”? Or “pregnant with something unsaid”? Now that he thought about it, Finn realized he didn’t know.
What next?
They stepped off the sidewalk and onto a sand pathway leading away from the admin building, because Finn was heading back to the hotel where his platoon was billeted.
Kennedy said, “Give me twenty-four.”
Finn mentioned that his satphone was busted and he’d put in for a new one.
Kennedy nodded again.
Like he already knew that.
Then they parted ways, Finn walking on toward town, and Kennedy making a U-turn and heading back to the admin building. Which was where he’d been going in the first place, when the two had crossed paths in the first-floor hallway—
Wait.
Why “nodded again”? When did Kennedy nod the first time?
Rewind.
Pay attention.
Inside, when Finn told him he was shipping out, Kennedy registered no surprise at all. Just nodded. Which meant he already knew Finn was leaving. And his reaction was to say, “Walk with me?”
Why?
At the time it had not occurred to Finn to wonder about this. But if Kennedy already knew Finn’s situation and had only three words to say about it—Give me twenty-four—then why ask Finn to accompany him outside at all?
Why not simply tell him what he had to say right there in the hallway?
Finn stared at his hands, slowly flexing them, methodically working the fingers.
Clench.
Unclench.
Clench.
Unclench.
What was he missing?
50
“Morning, all.” The three sat in a semicircle facing Jackson, their chairs pulled up to ring his desk like megalithic standing stones hauled into place for some dark ancient rite. Scott Angler, JAG Corps. Indira Desai, from Intelligence. And Lew Stevens, the ship psychologist. No introductions were needed; they all knew one another. None of them yet knew why they were there.
They made small talk for a minute or two, mostly about reactions to the news that Malaysia was canceled and to the Line Crossing ceremony rites that were about to get under way. Consensus around the ship: on a scale of 1 to 10, positive anticipation about the ceremonies was about a 3, negative reactions to the port call cancellation an easy 11.
“All right,” said Jackson.
Let the rites begin.
“What I’m about to tell you is confidential. If, after I’ve explained myself, you decide not to participate, you have
my word that there will be no judgment, no further discussion, and we’ll pretend the conversation never happened.”
The other three sat, waiting to hear more.
“All I ask,” he continued, “is that you keep this all to yourselves. Are we clear on this?”
Lew gave a puzzled frown but said, “Fine by me.”
Indy nodded cautiously. “All right,” she said.
Jackson looked at Angler. “Scottie?”
The JAG officer gave a sharp shrug. “Sure, fine. We listen. Then we decide. So what’s it about?”
Jackson looked at them each once more. Then nodded and read them in on the situation. The two suicides, the two notes, the unidentified hypodermic cap.
“We’re looking at the possibility that these suicides may, well, may not exactly be suicides.” He paused. Merde alors. Since when was he squeamish about speaking his mind? “That they may have been homicides.”
There was a sharp intake of breath from Indy. Lew’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief.
Scott’s expression didn’t change at all; he already knew this much. “Have we liaised with NCIS?” he asked.
“No,” Jackson replied evenly. “At this point, there’s no official inquiry. This isn’t a working theory, only a hypothetical.” He paused again.
“Hang on,” said Indy. “You think these two are connected? The same perpetrator?”
“We’re looking at that possibility.”
“Two connected homicides?” Indy said. “Master Chief, you think we’ve got a serial killer on board?”
Serial killer.
He hadn’t yet allowed himself to use that term. Somehow it made the whole proposition seem ludicrously far-fetched.
“No, honestly, I don’t think that. I think Lieutenant Schofield had personal problems he couldn’t live with anymore. I think Lieutenant Shiflin cracked under the stress of a bad night in the barrel, on top of whatever personal issues she was dealing with. And the dropped hypo cap is someone’s careless contribution to topside foreign object debris. I’m saying, we’re just looking at the possibility. I brought you three here to ask if you’d be willing to work with me in an unofficial investigation.”
There was a brief silence. Lew glanced at Indy, who looked over at Scott.
“Unofficial?” said Scott softly.
“Yes,” said Jackson. Then he added, “When I say, ‘We’re looking at the possibility,’ what I mean is, I’m looking.”
There was another moment’s silence as the implications sunk in. The captain was not on board with this.
Jackson was flying solo.
Lew gave a low whistle. “Well, that’s…different.”
“Sure as sweet fuck-all is, pardon my French,” murmured Scott.
Jackson held up one hand. “Before you say anything, let me outline my thoughts. How we do this thing. If we do this thing. Indy would work the data side. Sifting through incoming and outgoing emails, web traffic, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Personnel files…”
“Cross-checking all ship’s schedules in the past ten days,” Indy said.
“Exactly,” Jackson continued. “See who in theory could have been free to commit both crimes, who would be ruled out based on their documented work schedules, that sort of thing. And any other intel aspect you come up with.”
He turned to Stevens. “Lew, I’m hoping you’d be able to pull together whatever evidence and data we have and use it to work up a psychological profile of our perpetrator. If there is, in fact, a perpetrator.”
“So,” Lew said mildly, “you want me to profile a serial killer who may or may not exist, with no bodies, crime scenes, murder methods, weapons, or hard evidence, for homicides we’re not even sure actually happened. Did I miss anything?”
Scott spoke up. “Just the part about no orders or official sanction.” He glanced at Jackson. “Or permission.”
The master chief gave a rueful nod. “That about sums it up. Which brings me to you, Scottie. I’m hoping you’ll conduct whatever interviews and inquiries we might need. Which we’d have to do with tremendous delicacy—”
“Seeing as how this inquiry doesn’t actually exist,” put in Indy.
Jackson looked over at her. “Correct.” Not to put too fine a point on it. “I’d also suggest,” looking back at Scott now, “that you serve as the group’s tactical coordinator and keep a close watch on everything we do, make sure we don’t cross any legal lines in our investigation.”
“You mean,” said Scott, “other than the fact that the entire effort could be construed as somewhat extralegal?”
They were silent for a moment, all with the same thought.
If not flat-out mutinous.
“Right,” said Jackson after a moment. “Other than that.”
He reached into the bottom side drawer—the one that locked—and pulled out a sheet of paper. Placed it on the desk. “Which is why I’ve drafted this.” He turned it around so they could all read it.
The other three crowded close, reading as he summarized.
“It states that I take full responsibility for what we are about to undertake; that it is exclusively and solely by my initiative; and that you three are acting at my request and direction. If this all blows up in our faces, the hope is, this document will offer the three of you at least some measure of protection.”
One by one they finished reading, sat back, and looked at him.
“And, full disclosure,” he added, “I can’t guarantee even that much. Although I do think it should carry some weight in that contingency. Scottie?”
Scott nodded slowly. Reluctantly. “I’d say the same. Should. No guarantee.”
“Well.” The master chief pulled a pen from the pocket of his blouse and placed it on top of the letter. “This is your opportunity to back out. As I said, no repercussions, no further discussion. No harm, no foul.”
One by one, they all signed their names.
Jackson took the executed document, placed it back in the secure drawer, and locked it. Then looked up at his co-conspirators.
“All right, then. Shall we hit the flight deck and spread some good cheer?”
51
Shit fire! Wasn’t this just the very definition of Murphy’s Law: her confinement to quarters now over, Monica was finally back at work—only there was no work. Flight ops were canceled for the day, the flight deck cleared and prepped for the Big Event.
Oh boy, a hazing.
She knew she was supposed to be excited. The Crossing of the Line was a hallowed naval tradition, passed down through the seafaring centuries, something she’d treasure for the rest of her life. Blah, blah, blah. She just didn’t care. Kris was gone, and she was strung out on grief, confused by this pathetic high-school crush she’d just realized she had, and still burning with shame over her three-day banishment.
Halfway up to the flight deck she did an abrupt about-face and headed against the traffic, back into the ship’s interior. The phone down in her maintenance office had outside line access. Not supposed to be for personal use, but hey, this wasn’t personal, this was survival. If she didn’t talk to someone she was going to burst. Or punch someone.
She keyed in the two digits to get an outside line, followed by the US country code and the Pensacola number she knew by heart.
As she listened to the first ring her eye was drawn to the Harry Reasoner quote over her desk:
This is why a helicopter pilot is so different a being from an airplane pilot, and why in general, airplane pilots are open, clear-eyed, buoyant extroverts…
She could certainly use a few words from an “open, clear-eyed, buoyant extrovert” right now.
“Sloane Halsey.”
Monica felt the tightness in her chest relax at the sound of her brother’s voice. “Hey, Chub.”
“Buf
fy! How’re things goin’ with Papa Doc?”
“How’re things going at home?” she asked, ignoring the bait. “How’s Vanessa?”
“Oh, you know. She’s Vanessa.”
That she was. Their mother had always encouraged her children to call her by her first name. Very progressive. Monica had just felt cheated out of the chance to call someone “Mom.” She wished she and her mom could talk right now, woman to woman. Ask her how she coped with it when Gram died, and then when they lost Dad. Fat chance of that.
“How’s she doing, though, really?” she pressed.
“I ever find out, you’ll be the first to know.”
As close to an answer as she would get. All at once a fresh wave of grief swept over her. She realized she couldn’t tell Sloane about Kris, or how she was feeling. As much as she loved him, as close as they were, it wasn’t the kind of thing the two ever shared.
“Hey,” said Sloane. “You’d love it here.”
“Flight school?”
“The bomb,” he said. “You should think about it. Seriously. Much as I love flying, and you know I do, you can make a life here. The kids all look up to you. You’re makin’ a difference—and you’re pullin’ scratch up the caboose.”
She laughed. “Sounds mahvelous. Puhfectly mahvelous, Thurston.”
“SensAYshunal, Lovey. On the green at eleven, gee-and-tees at the club with the Hendersons at four, it’s just busy as beavers here.”
She laughed again. Amazing how quickly you could fall into the old routines.
“Hey,” he said, suddenly serious again. “Speaking of your pal Papa Doc.”
“Hey yourself,” she said. “And you really shouldn’t call him that.”
“Yeah yeah, so listen. One of the senior instructors here knew him from his student days. I got an earful last week over coffee. Guy was a real prick.”
“I’m shocked, shocked to hear that, Thurston,” Monica murmured. “You sure he didn’t say ‘a real prince’?”
“Ha-ha. So apparently the instructors didn’t love him any more than the other cadets did. And he wasn’t all that stellar a student, either—but the man had a ferocious work ethic. This guy, the senior instructor, says they kept trying to find reasons to flush him but he kept clawing his way back.”