Onslaught

by David Poyer

  “Our output parameters are within normal limits,” she said softly to the screen.

  “Great. But I meant, how are you doing.”

  “I’m here, sir. Personal … output parameters … are within normal limits.”

  He put out a hand to pat her shoulder, but lowered it without doing so. She might not appreciate a man’s touch right now. He couldn’t imagine what she was feeling, in the aftermath of rape. Surely, still afraid, since they hadn’t caught her assailant. Probably angry, too. “Uh, have you … have you talked to the NCIS agent yet?”

  “No sir. I know she’s aboard. But I haven’t seen her yet.”

  How could they expect her to keep working? But she had to. Chubby cheeks and all, she was their best Aegis operator. “We’ll get this nailed down, Terror. I promise. And I really appreciate your sticking to your station right now. We need our best eyes on these screens.”

  “That’s Petty Officer Terranova, all right,” the civilian scientist said. “She’s about the best you’ve got, Captain.”

  The way Noblos drawled it, it wasn’t really a compliment. As if he’d meant to imply, But best of a not very impressive team. But she didn’t respond to either man. Dan caught a warning shake of the head from Wenck. As he headed back for the command desk, Noblos took his place, and started discussing system calibration.

  Back at the table, Dan took the clipboard a radioman held out. Scanned the message. Taiwan was sending a liaison. A Commander Fang, Republic of China Navy, would arrive by helicopter from Taipei no later than midnight. He passed the clipboard to Singhe. “ROC liaison. On his way.”

  “That’s good. Link us up with their sensor network. Better access to air cover, maybe, too.”

  Dan nodded. “And a couple of their frigates? Perrys, or Knox-class—those are great ASW platforms. Some patrol missile boats, to screen us. And fuel—we could peel off one unit at a time for a run to port. Or even get a tanker out here.”

  He sucked air, heartened, then shook his head at himself. He must really be tired. His emotions were all over the place.

  A clatter by the door. He glanced over to see Wenck and FC3 Eastwood setting down a gray container. The closures clacked as they opened it and began extracting components. He flinched at a sudden pop pop pop. Jesus! It was only bubble wrap. He needed to untensify. Cut back on the coffee. Get more sleep. They could be out here for a long time. He needed to pace himself. And everyone else, too.

  “Jeez, look at this shit.” Wenck shook a switch tube, wincing as something rattled inside. “This is the best they could give us?”

  “What’s the problem, Donnie?”

  “They’re busted already. We’re burning through these fuckers like crap through a goose, and they send us shit.”

  “Give me stock numbers. Hermelinda will put a top priority on it.”

  “She already did. This is what we got.” Wenck pursed his lips as if to spit. “I’m not a fucking magician, Dan. I mean, Captain. We can’t keep ALIS running if the fucking radar goes down.”

  Dan’s earphones said, “TAO, ASW. Chokai reports negative MAD contact, negative screw noises on Datum Alfa.”

  He hit the 21MC. “Sonar, CO. Hear that? What’s your call?”

  Zotcher: “Sounds like a false contact. Whales?”

  “I’m thinking, classify with a Mark 46.”

  “Your call, Skipper. You da boss.”

  After Stuttgart, he didn’t feel like taking any chances. Compared to losing another ship, a torpedo was cheap. “ASW: attack on last suspected datum.”

  “ASW, aye. Pass to Chokai, carry out attack.”

  Wenck stood over him, looking grim. Dan looked up. “Donnie. What we got?”

  “Beth.”

  “She need a break?”

  “The agent wants to meet with her. Can we spare her?”

  “I guess,” Dan said reluctantly. “For an hour. If you’ll be on the console.”

  “Eastwood can take it. I gotta swap out these cards, get the system back up.”

  “I can take the console,” Noblos offered, stepping out of the shadows. “One could argue I’m qualified.”

  Dan all but lifted his eyebrows—the civilian had never offered to help before, other than by offering condescending advice—but just said, “That’d be great, Bill. Yeah, if you could take a trick.”

  “I just can’t do a fire order. Not being part of your command structure.”

  Yeah, that was more like the Noblos he knew. Dan said wearily, “The TAO will give any fire orders, Bill. Just run the radar for us. We’ll take care of business from there.”

  “Coffee, Cap’n?” Longley, by his elbow with a carafe and a plate of cookies. What the hell time was it? He’d missed another meal. The thick black coffee steamed in the cold air. The cookies were chewy and dense, peanut butter, a meal in themselves. Make a note: compliment the bakers, next time he was on the mess decks. Food was a combat-readiness issue too.

  He leaned back in his chair, watching the callouts click forward as Chokai’s helo headed in to the attack.

  7

  AISHA got up early the next morning. Spread out the little rug from her carpetbag, and did her morning salat, her prayers, in her stateroom. The girl she shared it with was gone, on watch, probably.

  No one seemed to know who she was, to judge by reactions in the passageways. She got a couple of double takes, one from an attractive brother. He grinned, seemed about to say something, but then didn’t.

  This ship seemed more subdued than the carrier, where the passageways often rang with shouting and laughter. Or maybe this was simply a wartime atmosphere. She drifted down dead ends, trying to follow the scent of food. Not liking it when she was alone in a deserted passageway. But pressing on.

  The grimy, crowded mess decks weren’t all that different from the carrier’s. Blue terrazzo decks. Glaring fluorescents. Overheated air. A stainless-steel mess line, with the servers in chef’s caps behind Plexiglas sneeze shields. People coughing, clearing their throats, which reminded her of the “hajji cough” everyone seemed to get when she’d gone to Makkah. The smells of coffee, eggs, hot bread, the greasy sizzle of pig meat. She slid her tray along, picking and choosing. No way any of this was halal, but after seventeen years in, she was used to making do. The ship’s roll was different from the carrier’s, too. Faster, sharper, slightly sickening. She got hard-boiled eggs, toast, canned peaches, coffee. Was eating alone at one of the tables, when a dark-haired woman in the blue coveralls they all wore halted abruptly, hands on hips. “And who do we have here?”

  “Special Agent Ar-Rahim.”

  “Oh—our investigator?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “They told me you didn’t make it. Typical. Mind if I—”

  The woman took a seat opposite without finishing her sentence. Toffee-skinned, with gleaming hair and a prominent nose. Like the Pakistanis who occasionally stopped by her home mosque in Harlem. They seldom returned. But even in the baggy uniform, she was striking. Twenty-five, twenty-six? “Amy Singhe,” she said, extending a hand. No wedding ring. “Short for Amarpeet.”

  “Singhe. You are Indian, yes? Sikh?”

  “A lot of Sikh Singhes, but my family’s Hindu.” She slid a notebook from a pocket. “You’re here about the rapist? I want to help.”

  Over the years, Aisha had learned that the first people to approach you about a case were seldom the ones you really wanted to talk to. Those would be more reticent, erect barriers, hide behind the rules. She sipped coffee from a paper cup. “Lieutenant?”

  “Strike officer. Tomahawk, Harpoon. Just recently, started to stand TAO watches.”

  “How are you involved? Did Miss Terranova work for you? Are you her division officer?”

  Singhe leaned in, revealing a sparkle of gold at her cleavage. Aisha caught the scent of sandalwood on the heated air. Caught, too, the glances from the men around them. “I’m not her division officer. I’m involved because I’m in a navy, and aboard a ship,
that doesn’t welcome women. I’ve seen how the enlisted women are mistreated, and gone on record about it. I’ve written for Navy Times and the Naval Institute.”

  “So you’re a … victim advocate? Self-appointed?” Aisha cut her eyes around. The nearest tables were emptying, but that could just be the abaya and head scarf. Though some of the crew wore scarves, too, all in olive and black.

  “If we had one. Yeah.”

  “And you’re telling me the command climate’s hostile, even these days?”

  Singhe said reluctantly, “I don’t think the new CO’s that hidebound. But he’s fighting a middle management that hates change. You know what happened in Naples?”

  Aisha nibbled on a hard-boiled egg. “No. What?”

  “The old CO ran the ship aground. I was on the bridge, trying to anchor. But he kept interfering. Then we had an engine casualty, and by the time that got straightened out we were aground.”

  “Was there a court-martial?”

  “An admiral’s mast. The old CO, the old command master chief, and some others went. Like I said, it’s a little better … but the mind-set’s still there. Women don’t belong. A distraction. Never quite as good.” Singhe sat back, a faint sheen of perspiration glittering on her forehead. “The rape was just the culmination of a lot of things. Verbal harassment. Groping. Exhibitionism. Those were never looked into. Papered over. And there’s a lot more going on that nobody knows about.”

  Aisha kept her tone neutral. “That might be relevant, yes. Though sometimes it’s hard to draw a causal line. I appreciate your introducing yourself, Lieutenant. May we talk in depth later? Once I’ve had a chance to get read on the facts of the case?”

  “Whenever you want. I only want to help make things better.” Singhe rose, stuck out her hand again, then flushed and withheld it. “You’re Muslim, right? Aisha?”

  “I do shake hands, Amy,” Aisha said gently. She held the warm, slightly sweaty palm for just a moment before she nodded and let it go.

  * * *

  AN hour later, she arranged a chair in the wardroom. Facing her was a seamed, leathery visage with deep grooves around the mouth. Hair was combed carefully across a bald spot. His name tag read TAUSENGELT. The largest hands she’d ever seen on a human being lay folded on the table.

  “Basically, your investigation may have to wait,” he said.

  Tausengelt was the command master chief. The CO and XO were both too busy to see her, apparently. Well, she could understand that. A war, and a sinking … interesting that the CO, a Captain Lenson, hadn’t seemed eager to stay around and help. In fact, they were steaming away now. Where, she wasn’t quite certain.

  She pulled her attention back as the senior enlisted explained that the ship had carried out its own investigations of the assaults. “I’ve called our chief master-at-arms, Chief Toan. Unfortunately, Hal’s kind of tied up now too. Since we’re still at general quarters and all.”

  “What happened to the tanker, Master Chief? To Stuttgart?”

  He deliberated, as if pondering if she could be trusted. “She was torpedoed.”

  “I know that. I saw it, from the helo deck. But then what? She went down?”

  “That’s correct, she sank,” Tausengelt said, gaze averted.

  “What happened to the crew? Did you get the sub?”

  “I can’t discuss that.”

  “Master Chief, I hold a top secret clearance.”

  “That may be, ma’am, but with all due respect, you’re here strictly on NCIS business. So, basically, you got no need to know operations, tactics, equipment.” Tausengelt glanced at his watch. “We might be able to get you the victim now.”

  “I’d rather start with the scene,” Aisha told him. “So I can make sense of what she tells me.”

  “All right then.” Tausengelt got up. “I’ll see if I can find you the chief master-at-arms.”

  “If, that is, he’s not on watch?”

  The heavy-lidded, seamed face of an old tortoise regarded her. “Yeah. If he’s not on watch.”

  * * *

  THE crime scene was high in the ship, which left her puffing and dizzy after all the ladders. Hal Toan, the chief master-at-arms, was a slight Vietnamese. He smiled as he held a door for her, and as he updated her on the background of the case. Incongruous, but perhaps that was just his habitual expression. The space was lined with lockers, a work counter, neatly racked tools. The cold air smelled metallic. She unslung her camera. “Where, exactly?”

  “Here. On the floor. On a blanket, the victim said.”

  “Where’s the blanket now?”

  “Didn’t find one. Perp took it with him, I guess.”

  “Has the space been cleaned?”

  “Um, yes … ma’am.”

  “‘Special Agent’ will do.”

  “Yes, Special Agent. We cleaned it.”

  “Did you keep any dust, hairs, blood, fabric threads?”

  “Put a fresh bag in the vacuum, then Baggie’d that. Special Agent.”

  “Okay, good.” She went out in the corridor. Asked how many accesses there were, and made notes. Then went back in, closed the door, and turned the lights off. She took a flashlight from her purse and clicked the infrared LED on. Efflorescence glowed near the workbench, probably from whatever they used to clean the electronics. But nothing that looked like blood. She turned the overheads back on and inspected each sharp corner, where someone might hurt himself. If there was resistance, few assailants came away without some sort of damage. Scrapes, bruises, sprains. Facial scratches were common; women often went for the eyes.

  She’d worked rapes before. The victim usually knew the perpetrator. Not surprising on a ship, but it held true even for air squadrons, Marine regiments. It was usually an acquaintance, not some stranger jumping out and dragging her (or, occasionally, him) into a dark passageway.

  Most rapists weren’t the knuckle-draggers you saw on television. They kept themselves well groomed. Knew how to present an attractive front. They lacked empathy or remorse, but could fake either. They were either openly or secretly contemptuous of women, viewing them as prey or scores. The profiles of sexual predators and acquaintance rapists overlapped. Some went back and forth, from using minimal force on women too intoxicated with drugs or alcohol to resist, to battery, then to torture, mutilation, and murder. It was a spectrum, and given time and opportunity, a perp tended to push his envelope. There were as many white players as black. Class mattered too: when an officer was involved, it was usually less the threat of physical force than of career intimidation—“Play along, or it’ll impact your next evaluation.”

  Hardest of all to get a grip on was the guy who never left a mark, never crossed a line where he couldn’t claim consent. She suspected there were a lot more of these crawling around than ever crossed the door of the criminal justice system. Most of their victims never reported it.

  She blinked, running a finger along the edge of a cabinet. Remembering what the Indian lieutenant had said. There’s a lot more going on that nobody knows about. It was true, some ships seemed to be rotten. It didn’t always seep down from the top. Sometimes it seemed to bleed upward, from some mysterious cancer deep in the bowels of the ship, or its history, or some pivotal individual whose evil bore fruit years after he was gone.

  But then, how did Singhe know?

  A tap from the passageway. “Come in,” she called.

  “Need help?” Chief Toan said from the doorway. A slight white woman with blond hair stood behind him.

  “I’m done for the moment. But please keep this space locked, in case we need to return.”

  “It’s a repair space,” the blonde said. “We may need to give the techs access from time to time. But other than that, we’ll keep it sealed.” She extended a hand. “Cheryl Staurulakis. Executive officer. Sorry we had to meet like this, Special Agent … Aisha?”

  “Aisha works.” She nodded to Toan. “The Chief’s been very helpful. Right now, I’m just looking over the scene
. Then I’ll want to interview the victim. How is she?”

  “The Terror … Petty Officer Terranova … she’s shaken up. It’s a blow.”

  “Is she medicated?”

  “She had a sedative right after. That Army doc, Schell, gave it to her two days ago. Nothing since. That I know of.” Staurulakis wrapped her arms around herself, peering past Aisha into the compartment. “Has the sheriff here told you this wasn’t the only incident?”

  “He said you had two previous. One, a groping up on the hangar deck. Is that an open case?”

  “We handled that with our MA force. We never settled on a … specific suspect. Second, a near rape back in the supply spaces. Different woman. But the victim of the first groping was also Miss Terranova.”

  Aisha asked her, “Who was the second?”

  “Storekeeper Seaman Celestina Colón. She was in the aft passageway, two level, when the lights went out. He shoved her into one of the spaces back there, then pushed her down onto something soft. Undressed her, threatened her with a knife, and used his fingers.”

  “They were interrupted? He would have gone on?”

  “Doesn’t seem to have been. You can ask, but what she told us was, he didn’t actually attempt penetration. With his penis, I mean.”

  “Only with the fingers?” Staurulakis nodded. “This Terranova, Colón. Are they alike, physically? Build, hair color, ethnicity?”

  The exec glanced at the chief. Toan shrugged. “I would say not. Terranova’s kind of heavy. New Jersey Italian. Brown hair. Meek. Colón’s Puerto Rican. Thin. Black hair. Built more like a boy. Kind of hard-looking, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t,” Aisha said. “Explain it to me.”