Backblast

by Candace Irving

  "Thank you." Regan accepted the sheet of paper, tilting it so she could take advantage of the flood lamps that were still lighting up the flight deck as she scanned the block headers.

  While the message was from USASOC, it wasn't from General Palisade. But it did concern the name Durrani had provided as his Russian bioweapons contact: Aleksi Skulachev, whose father supposedly worked at the Bioprepart facility. Regan kept scanning until she reached the body of the message.

  Both Skulachevs checked out. Her deal with Durrani was a go.

  Yes.

  She was about to turn to share the message's content and subsequent mission directive with Riyad when she realized he'd deftly skirted around her while she was reading. The spook was already halfway across the flight deck, passing the V22 Osprey that was neatly nested up and chained to the deck off her left.

  Within seconds, Riyad had reached the portside aft door in the ship's superstructure. And locked within the fingers of his right hand?

  The handle to the microTLC's case.

  Son of a bitch. He really did not trust her with that thing.

  She forced herself to let the irritation go. As a spook, Riyad wasn't signed off to run the tests. And with his reaction to Hachemi's brain being removed during the autopsy, she seriously doubted he'd logged time with the machine while assisting on a homicide case. Like it or not, he needed her skills, too.

  But with the mood he'd left her in, she'd take her sweet time getting her ass down to the master-at-arms shack…while he waited.

  "Ma'am? Is everything okay?"

  Regan returned her attention to the chief. To the growing list of investigative chores that still needed to be checked off her list.

  In light of those chores, she motioned Yrle toward the nested Osprey to create a bit of distance between the two of them and the sailors who'd begun lashing the Super Stallion to the flight deck. "Everything's fine." Or it would be. Just as soon as the answers on this case started outnumbering her questions. "Chief, did you manage to locate the ship's rat bait?"

  "I did. We have two containers on board, both plastic, industrial tubs. According to the supply chief, the bait was manufactured in the United States and is in block form, not pellets. The main ingredient is bromadiolone. Since the containers were sealed, I simply logged them into evidence."

  "Excellent."

  She'd test the bait anyway, but the fact that it was US made, bromadiolone based and factory sealed all but foreshadowed the results.

  As for the container that had actually held the strychnine that killed Tamir Hachemi, she suspected it had been of the glass-bottle variety and was long gone by now, most likely a hundred-plus nautical miles behind the Griffith's frothing wake and permanently settled into its new home on the ocean floor.

  Regan folded up the USASOC message traffic and tucked the resulting square into the right breast pocket on her camouflaged blouse.

  "Chief, do you know if any of the diplomats made a round trip from the Griffith to any other ship after they were informed that Durrani and the translator were coming aboard?"

  "I don't think so. I do know that today's the first day we've had flight ops since Major Garrison joined us. But I can check on the diplomats."

  "Please do. While you're at it, I'd like to know if anyone received an official, physical pouch from their respective governments via air during the same time frame."

  "Anyone? You want me to check on the communications of the Afghan and Pakistani diplomats too?"

  Regan nodded. "Will that be problem?"

  "No, ma'am. But the ops boss might want to speak to you about the request, possibly the XO too."

  Fine by her. She'd simply direct the lieutenant in charge of operations and his executive officer toward the captain's cabin.

  As for the remainder of her needs, checking those off her list was going to be a bit dicier—for the chief. As Army CID, she'd be leaving the Griffith as soon as she wrapped up her case. Yrle would be staying behind for the rest of the woman's shipboard rotation, to live and work with her fellow sailors…and ship's-company Marines.

  Regan waved her hand toward the behemoth nesting in front of them, then the one behind. "I see two Ospreys on this flight deck in addition to the CH-53E. Major Garrison, his men and I arrested Durrani and his cohort in Charikar on December twenty-eighth. Find out if any of those birds have been in the air since then, including the CH-53E I don't see." She'd noted two Super Stallions upon her departure for the postmortem. The other CH-53E must still be in the air, since the Griffith didn't possess a hanger. "I want a list of the names of all the pilots and crew members who were aboard each flight. Especially those who flew to Al Dhafra. You and I will be searching their quarters first thing in the morning. When we're done, I'll need to interview each Marine pilot and crew member separately. You'll be there as well. I'll also need to reinterview Corporal Vetter and Staff Sergeant Brandt. We'll be searching the guards' quarters too. Naturally, you will keep all taskings, as well as our conversations, to yourself."

  The woman nodded crisply. "Yes, ma'am."

  "Did you get a chance to search both prisoner cells in the brig?"

  "Yes. There was nothing suspicious in either of them. Just the usual items, along with the prayer rugs and the copies of the Qur'an that we provided upon their arrival."

  Regan widened her stance to maintain her balance as the ship rode out a particularly daunting wave. She could hear the ship's bosun shouting behind them, egging on his sailors to hurry and finish securing the CH-53E she and Riyad had disembarked to the deck. Evidently they were in for rough weather tonight.

  No surprise there. The clouds had turned ominous well before her return flight from the carrier. Even now, the surrounding mist had begun to thicken, threatening to coalesce into flat-out rain.

  Hopefully, it would hold off. She'd prefer to finish this conversation outside earshot of the majority of the crew. "Who was with you?"

  "Ma'am?"

  "Corporal Vetter and Staff Sergeant Brandt. Was either Marine with you when you executed the brig searches?"

  The chief was forced to adjust her physical stance as well—along with the obvious mental realization that the coming morning's activities weren't perfunctory. Not only were the quarters searches and interviews serious, one of them just might lead to a court-martial…for murder. "Vetter was in the brig. Brandt had just gone off watch. He looked exhausted. I know the staff sergeant was guarding the prisoners last night and then spent his scheduled rack time dealing with everything that had happened to the translator today. I told him to go straight to his rack and get some shut-eye. Do you need me to wake him up so you can speak to him?"

  "No. It can wait 'til morning. Did Corporal Vetter appear interested in your search?"

  "Not really. He did ask what I was looking for. But he accepted my 'random search' excuse readily enough."

  "What about Durrani? Was he suspicious?"

  "Yes, but he was certain the search was tied to your absence."

  Shit. "Someone shared my destination with him—and the reason for it?"

  "No. He's been asking for you, though. Well, insisting. That's the other reason I came out here to meet you. Durrani's been in rare form tonight. Brandt called up via the sound-powered phone shortly after you left the Griffith for the autopsy. He said Durrani wanted to speak with you—that he was ready to talk. You can hear the 1MC in the brig. Brandt thought that Durrani had figured out that helo ops meant someone had left the ship and was worried that it was you; that you weren't going to complete that bargain you made with him. I agreed—because Durrani's still in a tizzy. He had Vetter phone my office again, after they passed the word to prepare for your return helo ops."

  "Let me guess; the doc still wants to see me."

  "Not exactly. Now he's insisting on it. He actually ordered me to tell you he's ready to deal. I don't think you should trust him though."

  She hadn't planned on it.

  Still, "Why not?"

  "He hur
t someone tonight. One of the hospital corpsmen. It happened just after the strychnine search."

  Now that was unexpected. Nor did it bode well.

  "Is the corpsman okay?"

  Yrle nodded. "She's fine. Just a bit rattled. Petty Officer Nguyen had accompanied Dr. Mantia down to the brig. They were originally scheduled to remove Durrani's second round of stitches this morning, but with everything that happened with the translator and then a mess cook's fall down a ladder, it kept getting pushed back. Mantia was about to start on Durrani when he got called away again. Someone in engineering thought he was having chest pains. It was indigestion. But, anyway, both Vetter and Brandt were still in the brig for the watch turnover, so Nguyen told Mantia that she felt comfortable enough doing the removal on her own. According to Nguyen, everything was fine for a while. Well, except for the fact that Durrani kept trying to flirt with her. She ignored his constant comments and was applying a cream to reduce scarring when Durrani just reared up and head butted her. He hit her so hard he gave her a black eye. Brandt and Vetter gathered her gear and got her out of there immediately, but she was still shaken when I took her statement."

  "And Durrani? How was his mood?"

  The chief snorted in disgust. "Oh, he had that smooth, shit-eating grin on his face that he gets when women are around. I took Vetter's and Brandt's statements, ordered the staff sergeant to his rack, and then I left."

  That sealed it. Durrani definitely knew something was up. And as usual, he was taking out his ire on the women around him.

  Par for the doc's twisted version of Islam.

  That black eye was payback for whatever Durrani believed they'd done to his cohort in crime earlier. No surprise there. The clues had been trickling down to the brig all day. And, unfortunately, Durrani was clever enough to collect them up and add them together. Hachemi had been missing since he'd been removed from the brig that morning. Even if Durrani had initially believed the man was ill and in sickbay, how many times had Durrani heard the word being passed for flight ops since he'd been brought aboard?

  From what Yrle had inferred, not many. Other than John's, possibly none.

  And now, at least three round-trip helicopter flights in one day? And she was at the center of two of them?

  He knew—and he was worried.

  Worried, hell. The man was genuinely terrified. In light of how prisoners were routinely "interrogated" in his neck of the woods, the doc had to be wondering what Hachemi had given up today…and if his remaining plans were about to implode.

  It was why that corpsman was sporting a black eye. And why Durrani was openly showing his hand by insisting on seeing her.

  And, hopefully, it was why she just might have the upper edge when she finally deigned to head down to the brig to speak to him.

  But, first, she needed to secure the distracting presence of the biggest gun and largest caliber ammo that she could brandish.

  She needed John.

  It was time to get moving, anyway. The weather was getting worse.

  Not only had she been forced to readjust her stance again, the mist was beginning to morph into a stiff, buffeting drizzle. The resulting droplets were soaking into her ACUs and the chief's Navy camouflage, puddling up and smoothing out the roughened, nonskid surface of the deck beneath them. A moment later, the flood lights cut out, suffusing the entire visible world in a cold, inky black.

  "We should go inside."

  "Yes, ma'am. Would you like to head to my office to examine the rat bait?"

  What she wanted to do was go directly to John's quarters and let him know that he wasn't guilty of murder. But she wouldn't.

  Instead, she'd do her job.

  "Yes." It was time to fire up that microTLC the ME had loaned her. "I'll need you to serve as a witness while I test the bait, as well as the dregs of coffee from that cup in the conference room this morning."

  And, then she'd see John.

  No matter the results, or any new arguments the spook provided.

  "Certainly." Yrle pointed toward the starboard side door in the Griffith's superstructure. "This way."

  They crossed the deck in darkness and silence. Once they'd passed through the skin of the ship, the chief led the way to her office.

  Halfway there, Regan suspected that whoever was up on that bridge had ordered up a change in course, because the ship's rocking and rolling had eased a bit. The Griffith was also quieter than it had been when she'd left, though the lack of manmade sounds made the hum of machinery and subdued creaking of pipes that much more noticeable.

  Still, the noise was calming, lulling. As was the red lighting of the dimly lit passageways they traversed.

  By the time they reached the master-at-arms shack, the standard white lighting inside was almost too bright. But that wasn't what jarred her.

  It was Riyad.

  The spook stood with his back to her, flush with the waist-high counter, the microTLC kit already open in front of him. A collection of expended plastic developing chambers, stunted cotton swabs and tiny, acetonitrile-mixing baggies were strung out along the top of the counter to the spook's right—along with a turquoise-tinted brick of rat bait and the used coffee cup she'd signed into evidence.

  And something else.

  Was that John's ACU blouse? The one she'd also signed into evidence?

  She stepped closer, spotting the flat-black embroidered, major's oak leaf cluster on the center placket—and more—before Riyad had a chance to turn around.

  It was John's. The implications were downright stunning.

  To her case.

  She could make out the lash of dried coffee and the copious splatters of Hachemi's high-velocity blood across the breast pockets and collar of John's uniform. She'd also noted the three tiny squares of camouflaged fabric that were missing. Given the crisp edges, the fabric squares had been carefully cut out for testing. But the missing fabric wasn't anywhere near that dried lash of coffee.

  They'd been taken from the generous splatter of blood. Blood that had already been tested aboard the carrier during that autopsy.

  There was only one reason. One person. Someone an NCIS agent believed was capable of lying on behalf of the US Army. And it wasn't her.

  Colonel Tarrington.

  Riyad had been actively seeking proof that one of the military's leading and heretofore unimpeachable medical examiners had deliberately falsified evidence.

  For John.

  What the hell was going on?

  13

  By the time the NCIS agent turned around, Regan had instinctively drawn on her father's duplicitous DNA and masked her shock.

  Riyad had not.

  She spotted the spike of guilt that invaded the man's hardened features and opted for furious, proprietary…and downright dumb.

  Leaving Chief Yrle to mark time at the door, Regan stalked up to the counter and jabbed her index finger into the spook's sinewy chest for good measure. "What the hell do you think you're doing? If your ineptitude has tainted my evidence, I'll have your badge pulled so fast they'll be hauling your ass off this boat by dawn—as a civilian."

  It worked.

  Oh, he was still pissed. At her, and at nearly getting caught in the act. Heck, he was unquestionably still livid with John, too. But the man had no idea she'd seen those distinctive, missing squares. From the way Riyad immediately swung back to the counter to smoothly fold the stained ACU blouse in on itself, effectively concealing his handwork as he returned the evidence to its bag, he was willing to do just about anything to keep it that way.

  Once again, there was only one reason. He did not want her knowing he'd doubted Colonel Tarrington's impartiality. At least not yet.

  But why?

  And who, in addition to the spook, shared that doubt? Because someone did. And whoever it was, they were seriously high up on the food chain. Riyad's and hers.

  General Palisade and USASOC?

  Or Palisade's boss, Admiral Kettering, and USASOC's higher headquarters, US
SOCOM?

  At the very least, there was a parallel investigation going on. One to which she and Colonel Tarrington were not privy, much less John.

  Another, even more insidious thought gave her pause.

  Had the NCIS agent gone rogue? The one turning to face her with that familiar scowl leveled her way yet again?

  It was possible. Based on the fine lines that had already begun to set in at the outer corners of the man's eyes, he had roughly ten years on her twenty-six. Riyad might be new to investigations, but he wasn't new to life. To temptation.

  Disappointment.

  Christ. She couldn't afford the distraction of an interagency face-off, let alone a less than forthcoming partner operating with his own hidden—and possibly nefarious—agenda. She had another critical confrontation to prepare for.

  Her showdown with Durrani.

  Despite the hour, it was to her advantage to keep the doc waiting on her for a bit longer. But if she waited too long, she'd blow that advantage.

  And then where would her mission be?

  Regan turned to the counter as Riyad retrieved the remaining evidence bag he'd unsealed. He tucked the coffee cup inside and closed it, then obtained a fresh bag for the turquoise brick of bait he'd tested. He sealed that bag as well, then logged the rat bait into evidence, that dark displeasure of his deepening as he noted her deliberate scrutiny.

  A weighted sigh filled the master-at-arms shack. His. "I do know what I'm doing, Agent Chase. With our evidence and the microTLC. You seem eager to forget that there are two professional investigators aboard this vessel, both capable of working this case."

  The unwavering intensity in that stare, the rigid set of his jaw, not to mention the subtle bunching of muscle taxing the fabric of that long-sleeved polo as he leaned toward her. Together, they spoke volumes, and they were all communicating the same message.

  He might still be pissed, but he wasn't lying.

  Except, it didn't make sense. How had the spook even known how to turn that machine on, let alone prepare the samples and run the chromatography tests?

  Yes, Riyad was NCIS. And, yes, the man had undoubtedly been exposed to the microTLC and other forensic equipment during his paltry forty-six days of Navy special agent training. But by his own admission, he'd also headed up only a single case before he'd arrived aboard the Griffith.