Cartwright shook his head. “There’s also the matter of you showing up in the laundry storeroom to discuss blackmail with someone who claimed to know what you did to Seaman Bonadio. That does not suggest innocence in the matter. Commander Bainbridge’s theory is not unsupported.”
Cartwright stepped closer, his hand out, palm up. “Commander Rose, as the ship’s Security Officer I am obligated to relieve you of command until this matter can be tried by the appropriate authorities. Your gun, please, sir.”
Rose stared at him open-mouthed. “You can’t be serious!”
“Please hand over your gun, sir.”
Rose unsnapped the cover of the leather holster at his hip, and removed his pistol. Then he spun and aimed the gun at Doug’s face.
Doug froze. Major Cartwright started to raise his sidearm, but Rose shouted at him, “Put your gun away, or I’ll shoot him. This is a mutiny! As commanding officer of this ship, I will shoot anyone who tries to remove me from command.”
Doug’s heart started beating again, pounding against the wall of his chest. He was afraid his voice would crack if he spoke.
“I’m putting my gun on the floor,” Major Cartwright said, his voice surprisingly gentle. He crouched down and set his pistol between his feet. “Commander Bainbridge, back away slowly.”
“Stay where you are,” Rose said. He moved around Doug, toward the door, keeping his gun squarely aimed at Doug’s face. He opened the door and shouted, “Guards!”
Several officers gathered at the open door, both navy and marines, and stared at the commanding officer holding a gun on the Intelligence Officer and the Security Officer.
“I have apprehended Commander Bainbridge and Major Cartwright engineering a mutiny to seize command of this ship,” Rose said. “Take them to the brig, to be held for court martial.”
27
Shanghai
Eight AM
Jonesy wouldn’t take no for an answer.
He’d arrived at the U.S. Navy office on the Bund at ten minutes before eight o’clock, and he followed the front desk lieutenant in when he unlocked the front door at five ‘til. He asked to speak to the officer in charge, “about an urgent matter on the USS Valparaiso.” When he was asked to leave a message for Captain Jansen, he insisted on speaking with him personally.
A man in a white uniform, a captain’s hat under his arm, strode through the door at precisely eight o’clock, and everyone in the room stood and saluted him.
“You must be Captain Jansen,” Jonesy said, loud enough to echo off the ceiling. “I need to speak with you about the USS Valparaiso.”
The captain gave the front desk lieutenant a stern stare. “Have the gentleman make an appointment to see me later.” He started to walk away, but Jonesy shouted after him.
“It’s really an urgent matter. A man’s life could be in danger.”
The captain turned around slowly, and stared at Jonesy for several long seconds, appraising him. He was about Jonesy’s age, or maybe a few years older, judging by the lines on his tanned face. There was only a little gray scattered in his brown hair. He spoke with a voice that carried through the room, “There is a war waging around us. Our ships are patrolling combat areas to protect American lives. Many of our men are in danger.”
“You’ve lost one seaman from that ship already, and it wasn’t from the war—no matter what it looked like.” Jonesy let that last part sink.
Jansen stared at him for several more seconds. Then he looked at the front desk lieutenant and said, “Hold my calls.” He motioned Jonesy forward. “Come with me.”
The captain marched down a hall, to the large office at the end. Jonesy hurried to keep up with him. A lieutenant at a desk in front of the captain’s office stood and saluted, and when the captain returned the salute, the lieutenant picked up an open notebook and hurried into the office after him.
“Your first ap—”
“Hold my schedule for the next ten minutes, Harmon,” the captain said.
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said, looking a bit startled. He hurried out, and closed the door.
“Have a seat, Mister...?”
“Jones. Art Jones.” Jonesy handed him a business card. “I’m with the Associated Press.”
The captain looked at the card with obvious distaste, and tossed it in the waste bin, marked with a large “G.I.” on the side. “I didn’t realize you were a reporter. I’m not going to give you a quote, or any ‘scoop,’ so you’re wasting your time.” He reached down for the intercom button.
“No, this isn’t for a story,” Jonesy hurriedly said, before the captain could push the button. “I meant what I said when I said a man’s life is in danger. Commander Douglas Bainbridge.”
The captain exhaled hard through the nose. “Have a seat, Mr. Jones.”
Jonesy took the cushioned chair in front of the captain’s desk. Evidently, the captain received important visitors, to have such a comfortable chair for guests.
Before the captain could speak first, Jonesy hurried to lay out his bona fides. “I’ve previously worked with Commander Bainbridge in an official capacity—for ONI, on matters we can’t discuss.”
He was disappointed to see no change in Captain Jansen’s expression. Shouldn’t he be at least a little impressed? Undaunted, he plunged on, but careful not to implicate Doug in giving him any information that the captain might disapprove of.
“I know Seaman Bonadio was found shot at the edge of a battle zone, where active shooting had recently taken place—but the autopsy showed it wasn’t a Chinese or Japanese military weapon that killed him, he was shot with a Colt .45. That’s all public record.
“I heard Commander Bainbridge was asking a lot of questions around town about Seaman Bonadio and his connections. Naturally, that made me awfully curious, since Commander Bainbridge works for Naval Intelligence. And I’ve learned some things that lead me to believe Commander Bainbridge is in danger aboard the Valparaiso.”
He explained point-by-point everything he’d learned about Commander Rose and his activities, and his involvement with Nick Bonadio, being especially thorough given Captain Jansen’s stern demeanor.
Jansen listened in silence, elbows on the arms of his chair, hands tented in front of his chin, an occasional blink his only movement. After Jonesy finished, Jansen looked down at his desk, frowning in thought for several seconds.
“While it’s not quite beyond a reasonable doubt, as they say, it is convincing,” he said, looking back at Jonesy. Then he pressed the button on his intercom. “Harmon, have instructions radioed to the Valparaiso right away, calling them back to Shanghai.”
**
USS Valparaiso
Eight-ten AM
The collected officers were arguing amongst themselves about what to do with Commander Bainbridge and Major Cartwright—the marine officers, in particular, were reluctant to let their CO be taken into custody when he was “the frickin’ Security Officer for the ship”—when a young petty officer came running down the corridor.
“Commander Rose, sir!” he said, snapping a salute when he stopped, and then his eyes grew wide at the sight of the commander’s gun pointed at someone hidden from his view in the captain’s quarters.
“What is it? Can’t you see we’re in the middle of an officers’ consult?” Rose snapped.
“I’m sorry, sir. Lt. Wharton sent me from the bridge to notify you right away that Captain Jansen has ordered us back to Shanghai immediately. Lt. Wharton has already set the new course.”
Commander Rose’s face reddened, and he shooed the petty officer away. The young man snapped a salute and hurried back the way he’d come.
“We don’t have time to go back to Shanghai!” Rose grumbled. “We have to get these men to Manila to face charges.”
The assembled officers looked at one another. It was the XO, Lt. Commander DeVries, who finally spoke. “Sir, we have to follow Captain Jansen’s order. If we go to Manila now, it would be fifteen days before we co
uld return to Shanghai as ordered.”
Rose exhaled hard. “No more discussion—take them to the brig at once. I’m needed on the bridge.” He put his gun back in the holster, and stormed off.
*
“This wasn’t a mutiny,” Doug said to the marine lieutenant who came into the room to bind his wrists. “There is credible evidence that Commander Rose is guilty of a crime, and Major Cartwright and I were confronting him with that evidence.”
“I’m sorry, sirs,” the lieutenant said. He and another marine lieutenant led them away.
**
Shanghai
Ten-fifteen AM
Lucy and Jonesy were standing by the docks along the Bund at the Peking Road intersection, watching the boat traffic on the Huang Po River, when the Valparaiso came into view. “There it is!” Lucy said, pointing.
“They’re not going to be able to moor her anywhere near here,” Jonesy muttered, sweeping his arm over the crowded docks, and the crowded river beyond them. “We should move down some.”
Lucy shook her head. “They’ve always moored across from the Shanghai Gardens.”
“I’m tellin’ you, those spots are all full.”
The ship slowed, taking several minutes to drift toward their position, and Lucy’s heart rose into her throat. It finally came to a stop across from them—but at a distant pontoon a full quarter-mile away, by the village of Pudong on the opposite shore.
“I guess we were both right,” Lucy said with a shrug.
“Well, lookey there!” Jonesy said, pointing down the Bund and grinning.
A sleek yacht flying the Stars & Stripes and the U.S. Navy Banner backed away from a dock two blocks down, engineered a tight turn, and sped across the Huang Po at a sharp angle toward the Valparaiso.
“Only head honchos get to use the Navy Yacht,” Jonesy said. He craned his neck and squinted, then nodded with apparent satisfaction. “Yep, I see Captain Jansen himself on deck. He’s going out there personally!”
Jonesy’s enthusiasm was contagious, and even though Lucy didn’t really understand all the protocols involved, she couldn’t help but smile.
**
Doug was aware that the ship’s motion had stopped, though the sensory deprivation of the plain metal walls of his cell left him confused about what was happening. He wasn’t even sure how long he’d been in there, but he was absolutely certain they hadn’t been sailing long enough to have gotten from the mouth of the Yangtze to any other port along the coast.
Except Shanghai.
The thought electrified him, and he sat up straight. He thought hard, playing different scenarios in his mind. Unless the Japanese and Chinese had arranged a cease-fire—which seemed unlikely—there was no reason he could think of for Rose to have taken the ship back to Shanghai, given the security concerns for American shipping interests that were raised by the fighting.
Unless the Japanese army had already reached the city from the banks of the Yangtze. Doug’s heart sank. That would mean a total collapse of the Chinese 87th and 88th Divisions, the cream of the Nationalist crop. And if the Valparaiso were back to protect the International Settlement, that raised the specter of danger to Lucy and their friends.
He broke out in cold sweat. The roller coaster of emotions made his head spin, and he lay back on the hard metal bench and stared at the ceiling.
Muffled voices, loud enough to carry through the thick metal door, roused him, and he sat up again, staring at the door.
The metallic clang of a key turning the locking mechanism echoed through the chamber, and the door swung open.
And Captain Jansen himself stood in the doorway.
“As you were, Bainbridge,” he said when Doug scrambled to stand. “It seems we owe you an apology for this. It’s all cleared up, and you’re free to go.”
“Thank you, sir. But how did you—?”
“A reporter came to see me this morning, said he’d worked with you before on classified assignments, and he had some interesting information he dug up concerning Commander Rose—which connects Rose to the murder of Seaman Nick Bonadio.”
Jonesy! Doug’s mouth opened, but it was a second before he could get his voice to work. “I came to the same conclusion last night. Major Cartwright and I were attempting to detain Commander Rose this morning, and he had us arrested for mutiny.”
The captain scowled. “Mutiny? That’s preposterous. I will deal with that, once we locate Commander Rose.”
A chill ran up Doug’s back. “He’s missing?”
Jansen frowned. “I wouldn’t say ‘missing,’ but we are not aware of his current whereabouts. When I boarded, I went directly to the bridge, and the lieutenant in charge there—Wharton, I believe that was his name—he said Commander Rose had only just departed a couple of minutes before. Wharton assumed Rose was coming to meet me. He did not.”
A sense of dread sank into Doug’s belly like a stone. “I’ll help you look for him, sir.”
“No need, Bainbridge,” Jansen said, walking back into the corridor. “The marines are searching every part of the ship as we speak. They’ll locate him any moment now, and will arrest him. I want you to collect your things, and be ready to depart the ship with me in twenty minutes. I’m going to want a full report by this afternoon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Meet me on the bridge when you’re ready,” the captain said, and strode away.
Ensign Scott Farnsworth was standing outside of his cell, and saluted the captain as he passed. Then he turned toward Doug, and a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders. “Thank you, Commander.”
“My pleasure,” Doug said. “You headed back to quarters? I’ll walk with you.”
“I meant, thank you for everything,” Farnsworth said as they went up two levels to the officers’ corridor. “Including not saying anything about my personal interactions.”
“It’s nobody’s business, Scott. Your secret is safe with me.”
“I appreciate that, Commander.”
“There’s no one around, you can call me Doug.”
A grin spread across Farnsworth’s face, and a relieved laugh escaped his mouth. “I will, thanks.”
When they reached the officers’ corridor, they passed Farnsworth’s door first. Farnsworth unlocked it, then looked back at Doug and said, “See you next time you’re onboard, sir.”
Doug waved, and a few seconds later, when he put the key into his own lock, a crash came from down the corridor—roughly the direction of Scott Farnsworth’s quarters.
He ran back. The door wasn’t locked, and he rushed into the small stateroom.
Scott Farnsworth was on the floor, Commander Rose’s knee on the middle of his back. He struggled, and Rose brought his elbow down on the taller young man’s shoulder. Then he started to pull his pistol from its holster.
Doug leapt at Rose without thought, striking him before the gun came into position behind Farnsworth’s head.
Rose tumbled into the dresser, and the gun skittered under the bed. Doug landed half on top of Rose, his legs unfortunately landing hard on Scott Farnsworth’s back.
Rose’s face contorted, bright red. “Fool!” he shouted, and put his hands around Doug’s throat. Doug just managed to get his right arm up in time to block Rose’s left hand, but the other gripped the side of Doug’s neck like a vice, fingers digging deep into his skin.
Doug swung his legs around, hoping to land his knees in Rose’s ribs, but the legs of the dresser got in the way.
Farnsworth crawled out from under him, moving toward the door; from the corner of his eye, Doug detecting him using it to heave himself up. Doug twisted, trying to get out of Rose’s grip, but the commander only tightened his fingers more. Blood dripped down Doug’s neck from where Rose’s fingernails dug in.
The sounds of running feet and shouting came to them from the corridor.
“I’m a respected officer, and you’ve ruined my career!” Rose spat, droplets landing on Doug’s cheek. “And for what?
For that pervert over there?”
Scott Farnsworth’s face went pale. He stuck his head out the door and shouted, “We need assistance!”
A short but big-shouldered figured pushed past Farnsworth and jumped over Doug in a blur. His elbow came down on Rose’s forearm, and a sickening crack splintered the air a split second before the commander’s fingers opened and fell from Doug’s neck. Rose wailed, grabbing with his left hand at his right arm, which was bent at an unnatural angle, blood soaking the shirt fabric.
“You okay, Commander?” Doug’s eyes flew up to Ben Trebinski’s face, barely a foot from his, eyes heavy with worry.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Doug mumbled, slightly dazed. Big hands reached under his arms and pulled him backward, while several men moved past him in the tight space and surrounded Commander Rose. Those hands lifted him to his feet, and pulled him out into the hall.
Doug twisted in the unfamiliar grip, and stared up into the face of Ensign Scott Farnsworth.
“You’re safe, Doug,” Scott whispered, his face just inches away. The tone and the words were so intimate, a flutter flew through Doug’s stomach, and he looked away quickly. “But I need to get you to the infirmary. We need a medic to look at your neck.”
Doug nodded. “I can walk, thanks.”
Even so, Scott kept his arm around his shoulders the entire way.
28
It was more than an hour later when the Navy yacht docked in front of the building that housed the squadron office. Doug’s back had grown stiff since the struggle with Commander Rose, and he walked with a slight gimp down the ramp to the wharf.
Lucy and Jonesy stood waiting for him on the short. Lucy said his name and ran forward, reaching him at the entrance to the pier and throwing her arms around him.
“I was so worried,” she said. “Are you ok? What is this bandage?”
No Accidental Death Page 27