Twenty-four Days (Rowe-Delamagente series Book 2)

by Jacqui Murray

  “Stockdale. This is Admiral Xibon. From the CNO. Shoot down that Tomahawk.”

  “Roger, Admiral. Fire!”

  Stockdale’s SM-2 lifted off. Cruising at just over 1.0 Mach, it would be close. Rowe held his breath. The hijackers hoped the Navy with their political bosses couldn’t react fast enough. Rowe hoped they were wrong.

  “Captain. TAO. Tomahawk destroyed.”

  Kali threw her arms around Zeke and crushed him to her chest.

  “Kali, you saved lives today and kept Sean safe."

  Even he heard the wobble in his voice. Kali put her hands on his chest and tilted her head up until she looked directly into his eyes.

  “But we lost one who will forever be sorely missed.”

  Kali walked home, instructing Otto to find everything on the paint’s formula. Rowe promised to come over after he and James wrapped things up, but he wouldn’t, His still needed to bring Virginia’s crew home.

  As Kali turned into the alley behind her apartment, a hand wrapped over her mouth. She tried to remember what she learned long ago in a self-defense class and ended up scratching the mugger’s covered arms and face and stomping on his foot, none of which bothered him.

  “Do not scream. I will not hurt you. I am here to make a deal.” The voice was soft and cultured, and uncomfortably familiar. “Suspend your assistance to the FBI and MI-6. Do anything else and you will cause not only the demise of your son, but two hundred submariners. Do not tell anyone about my visit.” He slammed her into the wall and left.

  Her head exploded, stars dancing where sight should be. She tried to focus, staring in the direction of footsteps, not believing what had to be true. The man who owned that voice was dead. All she could make out was a medium height figure sheathed in black from head to toe. He glanced back once, but sunglasses hid his eyes. His cheek was red and mottled even in the dim alley light, like the man who knocked her purse out of her hands on campus and dropped in on Mr. Winters. Then nausea overtook her and she retched. By the time she recovered, he had turned the corner.

  She stumbled into her apartment, petted Sandy because he would not leave her alone, washed the blood off her scalp, and collapsed on the couch, an ice pack over her throbbing head.

  Al-Zahrawi lived. Kali shivered. She saw Zeke kill him.

  She popped three Advil and climbed into bed, exhausted and hurting. Sandy leaped up with her, circled three times, and plopped against her legs. Within minutes, he was asleep on his back, paws dangling, chest moving softly up and down, yipping as he chased some dreamland prey, knowing as only children and dogs know, their parents will protect them. Kali, though, didn’t sleep. Every time she drifted off, her brain reran the evening. Something bothered her. Sure, al-Zahrawi knew Otto could find the submarines, but how did he know where she was? After rejecting every idea she came up with, she dumped her purse over and found a flat shiny disk the size of a quarter. A tracker, but closer inspection revealed a tiny microphone. The man who must be al-Zahrawi had heard everything from the moment he dropped it in her purse. She went outside and threw it, not caring if he knew. At 4 am, Kali took another half Imitrex for the headache that threatened to blow the top off her skull, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Day Eight, Monday morning, August 14th

  New York, New York, Kali’s Apartment

  A paw nudged Kali though darkness still shrouded the room. She ignored him. Undeterred, Sandy bounced off the bed and out of the room. She groaned, swung her legs over the side of the bed, paused to let her body adjust, and then shuffled blindly to the kitchen.

  “It’s 5 am, you crazy mutt.”

  Her head ached. She touched the Band-Aid and remembered last night. In the warmth of a new day, she doubted al-Zahrawi had risen from the dead to again hunt her. She poured Sandy’s breakfast feeling strangely content, and then turned on the morning news. One talking head after another blamed Britain for not only the loss of two hundred submariners, but the near-death of thousands in Syria. Kali sighed. A nuclear threat had been averted and all the media could do was whine about blame.

  She poured a cup of coffee and got dressed. Truth, the man who might be al-Zahrawi would have no reason to object to her actions because she was finished helping Bobby and Haster. Otto would be no assistance finding a sub that had been degaussed. Besides, now that she had destroyed the surveillance disk, he couldn’t track her.

  She called Zeke and invited him to lunch, put a Band-Aid over the gash in her forehead, downed two Advil, dressed in freshly-pressed crop pants, a stretch white blouse with cap sleeves, and open-toe woven sandals she bought on sale from Nordstrom. As she splashed cologne on the inside of her wrists and behind her ears, Sandy snuffled and lay down.

  “Ready for an after-the-nap nap, Pup?”

  Coffee in one hand and instant oatmeal in the other, Kali stopped to tell Mr. Winters she had seen a stranger last night and would he keep an eye on Sandy.

  The sun beat down and the windless heat left a glistening sheen on her neck and forehead. The Sheltering Arms, one of the area’s free swimming pools, would be busy today. She took Sean there until he got to high school and started using the school’s pool. She ate her oatmeal as she walked, working out how to explain to the Dean why Otto lost Saturday. Fifteen minutes later, she was working on her dissertation. By ten, she emailed an update to the Dean.

  "Done."

  "Are you talking to me, Kali?"

  "No, Otto. To myself."

  Otto churbled. "Humans do that. I may have to incorporate it into my processes. I have some information on the paint.”

  “Paint?”

  “You asked me to investigate the new coat of paint applied to Triumph. Two submarines were repainted as a joint experiment—their words, not mine—between the British Navy and DARPA—the research arm of the United States military.”

  Triumph and Virginia?

  As though he read her thoughts, which Otto could do in a manner of speaking, he continued, “Logic dictates the second sub is Virginia. I also found information on the prisoner list."

  Her phone buzzed. Instead of Zeke, Otto announced Special Agent Haster. “I see his outgoing call.”

  He started without waiting for Kali’s greeting. "Please, Ms. Delamagente, ask Otto to stop. I provided him with top-level passwords to show good faith and will be in frightful trouble if anyone finds out he’s reading my email."

  Kali fluttered her hand. "Oh, that. No one around here falls for it anymore."

  Haster squeaked, "What does that mean?"

  Before Kali could answer, Zeke arrived. Today he wore work clothes—light-weight sweat pants with a cut off pullover and sandals. He pointed to her head and arched an eyebrow. She shrugged—Nothing important. His eyes were dark and brooding and tension had etched new lines in his face. He kissed her and she mouthed, Haster.

  She finished quickly and asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “First, what happened? And he gently moved her bangs aside to look closer at her head.

  “Nothing. I banged into something in the dark, walking Sandy… Let me ask you something.” Her mind bounced back to the man she thought was al-Zahrawi and his threat last night. “Do you have any thoughts on who is behind this?”

  Zeke paced, slowly. A handful of steps covered the available space in her office and then he pivoted. “Someone who is a lot smarter than the average terrorist.”

  Kali dug through a stack of papers on her desk. “Like who?”

  “Someone like Salah Al-Zahrawi. If he weren’t dead, he’d be at the top of my list.”

  Kali felt the color drain from her face. She turned quickly so Zeke wouldn’t notice and then changed the subject.

  “Otto found something—things,” and she deferred to Otto.

  The AI whirred into position between the two. “The coordinates you gave me appear to be a rock wall in the vicinity of Wonsan. Second, Wonsan does show an interesting level of activity customarily associated with the
launch of a rocket. Soldiers staff the Main Gate. The graded dirt path leading to the facility is clogged with jeeps. The trails that cut the back country behind it have been widened. A variety of machinery surrounds the rocket engine Test Pad, the High Bay Processing Building, and the Horizontal Processing Building.

  "As for the prisoners Triumph requested be released,” he whirred as though paging through a reef of documents, “here is some background: Abu Doha, rumored to be al Qaeda’s main recruiter in Europe and wanted in America for his alleged role in the 2000 plot to blow up Los Angeles airport; Abu Hamza, called the 'preacher of hate' and convicted in 2006 of inciting racial hatred as imam of Finsbury Park mosque in north London; Rachid Ramda, the Algerian leader of the Paris Métro bomb plot; Adel Abdel Bary, leader of the UK branch of the Egyptian Islamic Jihad; Dhiren Barot, leader of the so-called “dirty bomb” plot—"

  "Dirty bomb? What d’you have on that?"

  “He tried but failed to turn one of Britain’s nuclear subs into a dirty bomb."

  Kali knew the term referred to nuclear, but nothing else. "What's a dirty bomb, Zeke?"

  "It combines radioactive material with conventional explosives. Its purpose is to contaminate the area around the explosion.”

  "You think they want him released so they can use his plan?”

  “No. He probably agreed to trade the information for his release.”

  “So why not lead with the prisoner swap?”

  Zeke paced in the small room. “Can I take a rain check on lunch?”

  Without waiting, he kissed Kali, promised to be back shortly, and left.

  “No problem. I wasn’t hungry anyway,” Kali muttered to herself. “Otto. Find anything you can about Salah al-Zahrawi. Develop a model for his methodology and match it to whatever terrorist actions or intel you can find. If he’s out there, I want to know. And confirm the name of the second sub painted with the chemical paint.

  “Oh, also locate Barot’s dirty bomb-from-submarine plans.”

  At 5 pm, Kali left. The day's heat had faded to tolerable, so she changed into shorts and a tank top, looped a collar around Sandy's neck, and jogged the perimeter of Riverside Park, avoiding the families barbecuing, students hanging out after classes, and dogs barking. Forty-five minutes later, she stopped to invite Mr. Winters to share a pizza. He declined.

  "I have a date."

  Kali did a double take. "I've never known you to go on a date."

  "Doesn't mean I can't. Eighty-five's the new sixty."

  "Soon you'll be younger than me," and she went in to change.

  Around 10 pm, Kali could stand it no longer. If things were OK, Zeke would have come over. Sean answered on the first ring.

  "Sean. I know what you’re doing."

  Finally, Sean said, “Paloma’s in more danger than she knows. Someone needs to help her.”

  Kali smiled. “It’s over, Sean. The sub Mohammed targeted was destroyed last night. He failed.”

  “Then why is Mohammed still following Paloma? And I think he killed the other woman. This thing’s not over, Mom, and Paloma has no idea how dangerous her ex-boyfriend is.”

  Kali was stunned. “Then you’re in danger, too. You have to leave this for the police!"

  "You taught me, Mom, to look after each other. It finally made sense last year when Cat almost died trying to help me, Sandy almost got killed following me, that Detective risked his life saving mine, and Zeke and you rescued me. Then I got it. We do what we have to do."

  She was hit by one of those tidal waves that sneak up on parents and make them want to wrap their children in protection and never let go. God, she loved her son.

  Kali coughed, her voice hoarse. “Be careful. Please.”

  Sean’s attitude made it easier to do what she had to do.

  Monday evening

  San Diego, CA, Sean Delamagente's apartment

  Sean believed everyone must look after each other. Paloma never talked about family or received calls from friends. She was alone.

  He finished his ice cream and gulped down a cola, for the caffeine. Yeah. To unravel this mystery, he had to tell Paloma the truth and ask for her help. He knew how to make that happen.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Day Eight, Monday evening, August 14th

  San Diego, CA, USS Bunker Hill

  Paloma felt like the only fire hydrant at the San Diego Dog Show as she fielded questions from fifty sailors about the upcoming Tiger Cruise. For many, this would be their first experience with this Open House-like event, where invited friends and family toured the warship, went out to sea, took part in a weapons test, and asked questions. In short, experienced the world their loved ones inhabited every day.

  "We're finished, Ma'am."

  She breathed out. "Good job."

  She tried to cancel her date with Anchor, but he insisted. Every day since they met, he made an excuse to see her. Yesterday, he was lurking in the produce aisle of her grocery store without a cart. She ignored him. Was it supposed to flatter her?

  Tonight, she would end it.

  "Ma'am, can I ask you a question?"

  His coveralls said, Shaw. Paloma couldn’t come up with his first name, only that he arrived onboard three days ago. She forced the weariness from her voice. “Absolutely."

  "What will I do at the Tiger Cruise, Ma-am?"

  Why hadn’t his Chief explained this? She disregarded her aching feet and the buzz of fatigue that threatened to engulf her mind. "Is your family coming?"

  She wished. Anchor had invited himself.

  "Oh, sure, ma'am,” he grinned proudly, then tilted his head up, letting the rain splash onto his broad farm boy face.

  “Your job is to ensure they have a great time.”

  "What do we do if it rains?"

  Paloma laughed, remembering the first time she thought rain affected the Navy's plans. It was the summer before her senior year in high school. The Naval Academy invited her to spend a week with them to see if she liked military life. It poured the day she arrived. The schedule called for a jog around campus and she asked one of the Cadre—a Midshipman responsible for training—what they would do instead. He chuckled. "We plan all our wars for sunny days!"

  "We get wet. Go check in with your Chief, see if you’re done for the day."

  By the time she left the ship, only an annoying drizzle splattered the streets. Ten minutes later she was home, ran a blow dryer over her damp hair, and wriggled into her little black dress and pumps.

  "Trisha! You coming?"

  "You're meeting Anchor? Nah. I'll read my book, go to bed early. You kids have fun."

  “Trish—please! I need someone there.”

  Trisha was deaf to her plea. “You’ll do fine, girlfriend.”

  Paloma took the elevator down to the lobby, turned left at G Street and wended her way toward a downtown rooftop bar Anchor had suggested. She had to be back aboard at oh-six-hundred, which gave her an excuse for limiting this to a quick drink.

  Why did she need an excuse? Just tell him.

  "Hey! You made it." Anchor handed her a beer and pecked her cheek.

  He looked great in Citizen jeans, a tailored embellished button-down that set off his dark skin. When he smiled, it lit up the room. Several girls sighed as he guided her through the crowd.

  "Come back tomorrow night. He’ll be available," she mumbled under her breath."

  They found a small table in the back.

  "Tell me about your day, Kali. You look tired."

  Between sips of beer and handfuls of peanuts, she told him about preparations for the Tiger Cruise. He soaked it up, asking questions, curious about all the details, letting her blather on. Before she knew it, she told him her concerns about Taggert talking out of school.

  “That is not acceptable, is it?"

  Paloma laughed. "To put it mildly!"

  Anchor took her hand and wrapped it between his warm palms. "You must turn him in."

  She fidgeted. "He might get thrown off t
he ship. I want to be sure first."

  Anchor smiled. "You, Paloma Chacone, are a caring person."

  She forced a smile. Another reason she was tired of Anchor, she always had to talk about herself. She knew nothing about him. When she asked, he deflected. What was he hiding?

  "And you are a great listener. You never talk about your job."

  "I live vicariously through you and your Bunker Hill."

  She tried again. "Why’s an Air Force guy so interested in cruisers?"

  "My great grandpa’s friend served on the HMS Invincible. 17,373 tons with eight 12-inch guns in four twin-gunned turrets. One of the first battle Cruisers in the world. At top speed, it went a blistering twenty-five knots. The German’s sank it in WWI at the Battle of Jutland."

  Anchor started to say more when a news alert flashed across the TV about Triumph attacking an Iranian sub. He nodded toward the screen. "What do you think?" He sounded upset.

  "Do you have friends on that sub?"

  He shrugged, eyes on her. “I bet you Americans believe a hijacking could never happen here."

  She bristled. "Damn right.” She remembered the 9/11 terrorists who planned to fly Flight 93 into the White House only to be stopped by a passenger uprising. “God help the terrorists who try to take an American sub from its crew.”

  “How do you think this happened? Are the British worse sailors than Americans?”

  Paloma took a swallow of beer. “My friends on a Virginia-class sub say there'd have to be an insider. Maybe Triumph had a mole."

  Anchor let out a violent cough, spitting beer over the table. “Sorry. I swallowed wrong.” He wiped up the table, and then fiddled with his drink before continuing. "Or the Brits made it up as a ploy to attack my homeland with impunity."

  The remark came out of left field and she stared at him, aghast. Until now, she had never considered Anchor’s nationality. She tried to put herself in his position.