by David Poyer
“An eebie … an emergency breathing device? There’s one in my cabin. They trained me on it, on the carrier. The exec told me to report to her boat amidships, she’d make sure I got taken care of. Fire party … I’m not assigned to anything like that, I don’t think.”
“No, I guess not,” the petty officer said. The way she glanced at Aisha’s middle didn’t make it a compliment.
Aisha sipped from the paper cup. The coffee was bitter, burnt, but hot. “Beth, we’ll nail this guy. Remember those swabs they took? Most went down with the tanker. But the chief corpsman kept some. Enough, I think, to make a positive identification. Once we narrow the list, we’ll take samples. We send those back along with your swabs, and that gives us grounds for a court-martial.”
Of course, it was more complicated. If there was a match, and that was a pretty big if, the case would first go to an Article 32 hearing—like a grand jury. Only if the “32 officer” decided there was enough evidence to move forward would they get a recommendation for a general court-martial.
But she didn’t feel like explaining, and anyway, the young woman didn’t look as thrilled with the news as Aisha had expected. “You’ll take him off the ship?”
“In this case, yes, I’m going to recommend he be removed and kept in custody until the trial. To protect you.”
“To protect me,” Terranova whispered. She was shielding her face, and it took a moment before Aisha understood she was crying. Holding it in, shoulders jerking, but wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I didn’t deserve any of this. Why the fuck me? I asked God. He doesn’t answer.”
Aisha took her hand again, murmuring, “Evil hurts. But sometimes it makes us stronger. Maybe that’s what’s happening to you. Don’t doubt God, whatever name you call Him by. He blesses us with strength when we need it. Do you pray?”
Terranova shook her head. “Maybe you should try it,” Aisha said.
“Aw, fuck it … forget it. Forget I said anything! Jersey girls’re tough. You were telling me about the trial. Once you catch him.”
“Well … it could be delayed. I’ve never tried to do this in wartime. But we’ll get him off the ship, away from you.” She set her silverware down with a clatter. Then flinched back as the monkey-like man in the paper cap reached past her and whisked it away, grinning. A dirty rag slapped down, rastered the tabletop, and whisked away.
“Fuck you, Troll!” Terranova shouted after him. “She wasn’t even done!”
Aisha sat back. The girl shifted gears in seconds. Well, that could be both the strain of imminent combat and sheer fatigue. It didn’t mean she wasn’t a victim. But it might hurt her credibility as a witness, if a defense lawyer rattled her cage. She looked after the attendant. “Who was that?”
“We call him the Troll. Used to be the compartment cleaner, up forward. Guess he got a promotion.”
“He ever hit on you? Annoy you?”
“Hey, he fucking annoys everybody. Forget him.” Terranova flicked her fingers, and a bit of red jelly flew off and stuck to Aisha’s shirt. “Oh, sorry … let me get that off ya.… Look, I got to get back to CIC. There’s only Chief Wenck and me can run ALIS.”
“Wenck. He’s an interesting guy. He ever make a move? Try to force his attentions?”
“Donnie?” Terranova frowned. “He’s more like a big brother. Kind of nuts, but not weird nuts. Just, his mind’s going a million miles an hour. Look, gotta go. Really.” She rose, picking up her tray, and vanished in the direction of the scullery.
Too late, Aisha remembered what she’d wanted to ask. In the first two incidents, there’d been a blanket. Presumably, that the attacker had brought with him, since there were no blankets in fan rooms or darken-ship vestibules. But none had been mentioned in Terranova’s account of the rape itself. She resolved to ask the next time she saw her.
* * *
SHE’D meant to do another interview that morning, but the ship went into lockdown, “Circle William,” which apparently meant she was confined to her cabin. The 1MC kept saying things about biocontamination stations and water washdown. Apparently they expected a chemical or biological attack. If that happened … she might never see her daughter, or her mother, again. She shuddered. But why worry? She couldn’t do anything. There wasn’t that much to occupy herself with, though. They were still in River City, so she still couldn’t send e-mails off the ship. She read her hadith for a while. Said the noon prayers. Shaved her legs, wondering, as she did every time, why she bothered.
Then, sitting at the big desk made for an admiral, she booted up her notebook and read over her notes. She drew a grid on paper and tried to assign a percentage to each suspect. Who was around, who was on watch, who had motive, opportunity. Who just plain raised her hackles.
Carpenter was too old, and too short. Benyamin was tall enough, and seemed to have the predilections, but his berthing assignment and work center were far from the 03 level. Peeples, too, worked far from where Terranova stood watch. Especially if a blanket was involved. Anyone carrying one through the passageways would stick in someone’s mind. And so far, no one had mentioned it. That didn’t rule them out—they could have stashed a “rape kit” in advance—but it lowered their percentages.
In terms of propinquity, Wenck was in the lead. They were together every day. Like boyfriends, work mates were natural suspects. He had the height. And someone with his training would find it simple to take an automatic overhead light out of operation, as the perp apparently had in both the first and second incidents, though it hadn’t been necessary in the radar-maintenance space.
She tapped her pencil, staring at Tashaara’s picture. Bright black eyes, a smiling face, pig-tailed black hair.
Then there was Lenson. Savo Island’s commanding officer.
Also tall. Also working closely with the victim, or at least in CIC with her. And his stateroom was right across from the Equipment Room.
He could rove around the ship at will, anywhere, day or night, without anyone thinking it odd.
She tapped the paper again, but didn’t put his name on it. And at last shoved the matrix away. The shredder whined, scissor-like teeth slicing suspicions and prejudices into ragged ribbons. Maybe she hadn’t cast the net widely enough. Should she do a SCAN process? That might pull in more suspects. But the ship was already on edge. An agent had to think about that, too. Especially in wartime.
Or could Lenson’s warning have been to restrict her from inquiring as deeply as she should?
“Now secure from Circle William. Secure from decontamination drills. Set modified material condition Zebra throughout the ship,” the 1MC announced. “Open Circle Zebra fittings must be guarded. On deck, Condition Three, watch section one. All hands stand clear aft of frame one hundred and fifty two for live fire.”
She turned her computer off. Picked up her carpetbag purse, heavy with camera and notes and pistol, and went out again.
* * *
SHE climbed laboriously all the way to the bridge. The watchstanders were in life jackets and had gas masks strapped to their thighs. Along with the checkered shemaghs, some wore flash gear. She got passing glances, nothing more, until a gnarled little man with a silver pipe hanging around his neck asked what she was doing up there. “Getting a breath of air,” she said. “All right if I go out on the side there?”
“On the wing?” The man glanced out to where the CO and XO were standing, heads together. Lenson had to stoop, he was so much taller than Staurulakis. Past them another gray ship hovered on the horizon, and beyond that, far off, a mountainous land. “No. You can go out on the other side, for a few minutes. But we can’t let extraneous personnel hang around up here, understand?”
Outside, the wind was warm. A seaman in a bulky flak jacket leaned into binoculars, elbows planted on a varnished wooden rail. A heavy black headphone trailed a wire to his feet. Aisha looked out over a flattish sea. Another island floated far off beneath a woolly piling of clouds. A staccato blatting clattered from aft: ma
chine-gun fire. Red comets hovered, then descended. White geysers burst up in a dotted line across the blue. She edged to her left, until she was almost touching the lookout. A brother, younger than she, solidly built, with a heavy, stubbled chin. A strong face, and the smooth caramel skin she’d always thought looked so good on a man.
“What land is that?” she muttered. “Out there?”
He didn’t take his eyes out of the glasses, but lifted one of the earpieces. “Don’t know. Japan, I think.”
“What are you watching for?”
“Missiles. Periscopes. Planes. Small boats. Other ships.”
“You can see missiles?”
“Cruise missiles, yeah. They’ll be little dots with smoke behind them. Better hope I don’t see any.” He spared her a side glance. “You the detective?”
“Detective? I guess so.”
“Where you from?”
“New York. Harlem. Aisha.”
“Mycus. I see you wearing the head scarf. What, you in the Nation?”
“My family was. Not now. All races are the masjid, not just us. You?”
His lips barely moved. “How would you like to go to heaven? Instead of hell.”
Oh help me, Allah. “I hope I’m on my way.”
“Not if you deny Jesus. He said, ‘Anyone who rejects me is rejecting God, who sent me.’”
“Islam doesn’t reject Jesus, upon him be peace. We respect him as a prophet and messenger—”
“There’s only one God, and one truth. That’s Christ Jesus, declared in the written Word, the Bible.”
She tried hard not to grit her teeth. “Allah isn’t another god. ‘Al—Lah’ means ‘the God.’ it’s the same word Arab Christians use. We just—”
“What the hell’s going on out here?”
It was the captain, not looking pleased. “Ar-Rahim. This lookout has a job out here. A very important one. He doesn’t need to be arguing religion with you.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t start—”
“I don’t think you have a reason to be up here. Do you?”
“Um, not really.” She backed away. “All right. Again, sorry. I’m leaving.”
He seemed to unbend, but only slightly. “I can’t have any interference with operations. Wartime, Agent. Could be in combat at any time.” He put a hand on the lookout’s shoulder. “Ammo here could save all our … uh, backsides. Don’t talk to the lookouts, or anybody on watch, okay? Actually, the best place for you would be in your stateroom.”
She kept her eyes lowered before that fierce gray gaze. “Not to contradict you, Captain. But I can’t carry out an investigation from there.”
“Ammo, get your head back in those glasses,” snapped the little man with the silver pipe, from beside the captain. He took her elbow. “I’ll escort the lady off the bridge, Skipper.”
He was leading her to the door she’d come out of when another officer called from across the pilothouse, “Is that the special agent?”
“Yeah, why?” said the boatswain.
“Chief corpsman wants her down in sick bay, ASAP.”
“What for?”
“Won’t say. Just needs her down there right away.”
The last thing she heard before the door sealed behind her was “Cheryl, keep tabs on what that woman’s doing.” It seemed to be the captain’s voice, Lenson’s. But she had to admit, she wasn’t absolutely sure.
* * *
RYAN opened the door to sick bay. The lights glared off scrubbed and waxed tile. The little redhead’s face was so pale the freckles stood out. “I meant to get up with you this morning, but—”
“No problem. What do you need me for?”
Past the seaman hospitalman, Grissett rose from a chair. “Special Agent. Not good news, I’m afraid.” He nodded to the side.
A padlock and a hasp lay on the gleaming tile. Metal shone ragged where rivets had torn free of the refrigerator door. A dogging wrench, a heavy steel pipe, lay nearby.
“We didn’t touch anything,” Ryan said. “Just called you.”
“A break-in? When did it happen?”
“Last night sometime,” Grissett said. “We didn’t open for sick call this morning because of the decon drills.”
“Those were yesterday.”
“We had to restow and re-inventory. We were back in Medical Supply. When we came in, we saw it.” Grissett cleared his throat. He too seemed run-down. Had he had the Crud too?
“You don’t lock medical spaces?”
“Not this outer office, not in wartime steaming—repair parties have to have access. The controlled medications are back in my private office, in the safe. That area, yes, that’s always locked.”
“Is that standard procedure? That these spaces are unlocked?”
“Not much is standard in wartime, Agent. XO told me to leave the outer door cracked. In case we get hit, take casualties, there’ll be no delays getting them taken care of. So I did.”
“I see. So what’s missing?”
“Actually, nothing. That is, it’s all accounted for.” She frowned, puzzled, until he added, “Look in the microwave.”
She reached for it, then stopped herself and pulled a disposable tissue from a dispenser. Touching only the tip of the handle, she unlatched the oven door.
The ziplock had four long wooden-handled swabs sealed inside. The plastic was partially melted, lying in flattened puddles where the contents had heated, then cooled.
“Terranova’s samples,” Grissett added. Unnecessarily, since her name was printed in green Magic Marker on the outside.
Aisha fished the bag out, still using the tissue, and dangled it before her eyes. A tablespoon of clear liquid pooled in the bottom corner. “The heat?”
“Destroys DNA. Actually, denatures it, breaks the hydrogen bonds. If it’s hot enough.”
“Was this hot enough?”
“We don’t know what temperature it was set at, or for how long. But I think we can assume these are history.” Grissett paused, lips compressed.
“So you’re saying we just lost the last physical evidence?” She slapped the tabletop, hissing as her fingers stung. “Because you left the door unlocked? Let him in here?”
“You’re accusing us?” Ryan said.
“Not you, Dunk. But maybe someone else.” She glared at the corpsman. “One of the chiefs. Who don’t think I should be investigating this crime. Who might even be colluding, to protect whoever’s assaulting women.”
“Whoa there.” Grissett didn’t seem upset at the accusation, though. “I don’t mind personal attacks, but leave the other khaki out of it, okay? Saying stuff like that is not gonna help you with anybody aboard.”
“Oh, right. The all-powerful Goat Locker.”
“They could help you, Special Agent. Accuse me if you want, but don’t make enemies, is my advice.” He hesitated, then added, “But that’s not what really is surprising about this. Anybody could have grabbed a dogging wrench, pried open the fridge, nuked the sample. It’s what else is in that bag that worries me.”
She looked at it again. “Water?”
“That’s not water. Or, it is now. It was hydrogen peroxide.” Grissett nodded at a brown plastic bottle beside the oven.
Aisha looked around for a chair, feeling the onset of some dark cold cloud. “What are you telling me, Doctor?”
“Not a doctor. But they do teach us this.” He sat back, tenting fingertips. “DNA’s made up of two linked strands of amino acids. The famous double helix. Above a certain temperature, around a hundred degrees centigrade, boiling water, it unzips. Heat breaks the hydrogen bonds that link the two strands.
“But when it cools, it can zip up again, reconstitute itself. Unless either the heat is high and long enough to completely destroy the nucleotides, or there’s acid present … or lots of oxygen.”
He nodded at the brown bottle again. “Hydrogen peroxide gives off oxygen when heated. Excess oxygen plus high temperature guarantees degradation of DNA.”
“Well, I guess at one time they would have. Actually, all you’d need now would be to Google it.”
“But we don’t have an Internet connection.”
“River City doesn’t mean all connectivity is gone. Only that certain individuals still have access.”
“Who determines that?”
Grissett eyed her as if guessing her weight. “The CO.”
“So he—”
“They could have looked it up before,” Ryan put in. “We weren’t in EMCON for quite a few days after the sample was taken. They could’ve researched it then, but only acted on it now. Or, like you said, Aisha, they could already know.”
She stroked the bridge of her nose, glancing from the oven to the ripped-off handle. Who would know that obscure tidbit of organic chemistry? The chief corpsman. Maybe Ryan. But who else? Then she realized that was the wrong question. “What I don’t understand … why bother to microwave the stuff at all? Walk off with it. Throw it overboard, we’d never see it again. Why something this elaborate? Just to wave it in our faces?”
“Exactly.” Grissett nodded somberly. “‘I’m smarter than all of you put together’—that’s what he’s saying here.”
“Giving us the finger,” Ryan said.
Aisha bent, examining the broken lock. The bright edges of ragged metal. “I doubt we’ll get any prints. I’ll try. But I’d be very surprised.”
“We didn’t touch anything,” Ryan said.
“I believe you … but this guy’s too smart to leave prints. He’s probably wearing soft leather gloves.”
Grissett said, “Gloves?”
“Terranova mentioned them. So did Colón. He leaves no prints. Erases physical evidence.” She took a breath, studying a colorful print on the bulkhead. A human form, flayed of flesh and muscle until only nerves, veins, arteries, guts, remained. Painfully, unnaturally exposed.
“Then how are you going to find him?” Ryan asked.