Wave of Death

by Charlie Vogel

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good! I’m transferring you to my administrative staff and you’ll be on your own. You can take all the time you need. But, of course, I’ll have to set up a chain of command. For the time being, you report to Captain Baker, the Marine who escorted you here.”

  “With your permission, Sir, I would rather have Mister Holcomb transferred with me.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know this Captain Baker. I do know my Executive Officer.”

  “But Marinous, the way you explained things to me, Mister Holcomb may be involved with some sort of conspiracy. Didn’t he screw up your goddamn investigation from the beginning?”

  “I know that, sir, but I think . . . Mister Holcomb might be attempting to save the CO’s skin for promotion. He made the murders appear less important, almost coincidental, so the review board could overlook them. For the XO’s safety, I would rather see him off the ship for a short time.”

  “All right, I’ll have an office set up for him. You can work under him.”

  “Excuse me, Sir, but I don’t feel a permanent office is necessary. Could we be assigned for Temporary Additional Duty?”

  “You want to end up back on the STEVENS?”

  “Yes, Sir, and I think the XO would like that, too.”

  “Your ship will be in dry dock for three months. I’ll have the TAD orders cut for that period of time.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Now, let’s get to the most serious matter. Let me have those documents.”

  My jumper and tee shirt draped the back of the chair as I pulled the masking tape from my body. Each hair on my chest painfully stretched the skin three inches before giving way. Finally, edged with the tape and some of my chest hairs hanging from it, the envelope sat on the ink blotter in front of Admiral Collins. As I tucked in my tee shirt, I watched his hands attack the package. His fingers were like a powerful machine ripping and tearing, until he gently removed the document. Typical of a perfectionist, he placed the one inch thick, secret manifesto squarely in the middle of the green blotter before him. I pulled the jumper over my head and replaced my neckerchief, watching his brow furrow as he began to intently read the classified contents.

  Waiting for him to finish reading, I passed the time by walking circles in front of the desk. The room’s features had the feel of the sea. A large oil painting of John Paul Jones standing at the helm with the storm roaring past him faced the Admiral’s desk from the far wall. Another wall displayed the Admiral’s collection of crossed swords, commissioning pennants, a thirteen star American flag, and numerous photographs of him in uniform from a Boatswain Mate Seaman to a two star Admiral.

  I discovered soft drinks in the refrigerator and finished a bottle before he finally looked up with a grim expression.

  “Marinous, the future doesn’t look good. The CIA wants military occupation in Vietnam and that means a full scale war. It looks like the President . . .”

  “Excuse me, Sir,” I awkwardly interrupted, “but, I don’t think I need to hear this.”

  He stared into my eyes for a moment, then nodded “Yes, you’re right. And what you heard will be appropriately forgotten. Let me know when you get your things packed and moved to your office. Yeoman Allison will have everything ready for you and your orders cut. Captain Baker should be right outside my door. Advise him to come in as you leave.”

  “Sir, I have . . . one more request.”

  Admiral Collins placed a clean envelope over the documents. “Yes, what is it?”

  “I wish to take a flight to the Philippines and check a company called Chung’s Import. I feel I must search for the origin of the necklace and acquire as much information as possible of why the Storm of Pearls was important to Lieutenant Barnes.”

  Standing, he leaned over his desk with both fists pressed down on the documents. He studied my face as intently as he had the information I had delivered. His voice came across in crisp, military fashion. “Permission granted. I’ll have someone get the necessary paperwork. Wait! I have a better idea. I’ll make this a priority mission, with a classification as ‘Secret.’ Furthermore, I’ll authorize you to assume an identity as a commissioned officer. Only Captain Baker will be privy to the details. No one else in my office will hear about it. Would that be to your satisfaction?”

  I started to say “Yes,” but he waved me away, with “Carry on, Marinous. Have the Captain step in.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  Motioning the Marine Captain through the door, I continued towards the desk with the pretty WAVE, whose name plate read “Allison.” Waiting for the WAVE to look up, I heard the Admiral’s voice calling me. Returning, I stood at attention just inside the large door.

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “The Captain suggested you may need an escort if you’re returning to your ship.”

  I knew what the Marine concept of escort meant and swallowed my groan.

  * * *

  Although I tried to dismiss the five jar-heads surrounding me, they insisted I carry-out the Admiral’s orders and put up with their presence. With two helmeted guards in front and three behind, I felt as if I had been arrested.

  Our small parade tramped across the wooded gang-plank where the XO stood with a stunned look on his face. His suitcases surrounding him.

  After an exchange of salutes, he nervously asked, “Pencils, what in hell’s going on?”

  I shrugged. “The Admiral called you?”

  “His office did. They advised I have orders cut and I will report ASAP. What did you tell Admiral Collins?”

  “Sir, I’ll explain everything to you later. I’ve got a sea bag to pack.”

  “Wait, Pencils. Why did you lie to me about the documents? And, please explain the Marine guards. Are you under arrest?”

  Talking loud enough to let the quarter deck messenger hear me, I responded, “Yes, Sir. The Admiral had me arrested for losing the documents. I’m sure the commies are reading them right at this minute.”

  His face pinked and his lips trembled, “No, I don’t think so, Pencils. I haven’t granted liberty to the crew, so I assume the documents are probably still aboard. I ordered Chief Berry to do a search, but, since I’m being transferred, someone else will have to follow up on his efforts.”

  “Has anyone been ashore since I’ve been gone?”

  “Ah, yes. Several people from the duty section have been back and forth to base supply and the commissary.”

  “If possible, we should get a list of names who has been ashore since we tied up.”

  “You’re right, Pencils. While you pack your sea bag, I’ll have the OOD work on the list, and I’ll also have him get a list of people who came aboard. Should I contact Base Security?”

  “No, Sir. Hold onto the list of names and give it to a Captain Baker once you report to your new duty station.”

  “What? Wait a minute. What do you know about where I’m reporting to?”

  “Your staff car is coming up now, Sir. I’ll keep in touch with you.”

  * * *

  Seabag in hand, I climbed under the awning at the rear of a half-ton pickup truck. I returned to the same seat I had occupied earlier, the escort seated on each side of me.

  A few minutes later, the truck stopped. I peeked through an opening in the canvas awning and saw a gas pump. Spreading the gap apart with my fingers, I discovered we had stopped at the motor pool. When I shifted my weight and leaned forward, a sergeant held his arm out, blocking my movement. “Stay seated. We’ll only be here for a few minutes.”

  “You can stay in your seat, Sarge, but I want to ask a few questions while we’re here. It’ll save me a trip later.”

  “Coleman, you don’t understand,” he spoke in that flat, cold voice of authority. “I’m ordering you to sit still.”

  “You’re doing what?”

  “I have orders to take you to your ship and return you safely, and that’s what I will do.”

  “Sarge,” I l
eaned closer to his face. “I’m telling you to get your fat ass out of my way. You can follow me or stay here, but I’m going inside to ask a few questions. So . . . move it!”

  All five Marines followed me into the Quonset hut, the motor pool’s office. After everyone had crowded inside the door, I leaned against the wooded counter and pounded my palm on the surface. A desk cluttered with papers and reports filled a wall below a small window. Oblivious to us, a heavy-set sailor in dungarees sat facing that wall. His butt folded over the seat of the desk chair making the chair’s stem look like it had been shoved up his ass.

  I cleared my throat loudly. “Hey, get your finger out of your nose and give me some service!”

  Keeping his back to me, the sailor responded in total boredom, “Look, swab breath, if you wear a uniform, you know the procedures. The request forms are on the counter. Fill one out, get your CO’s signature . . . and then we’ll get you a vehicle.”

  “Hey, Fat Ass, the last car you gave me blew up.”

  His back straightened. In slow motion, he placed papers into a file folder. I could almost see the cogs in his brain chugging a click at a time. “Pencils?” he whispered.

  “That’s right, Corkie.”

  The three hundred pounds attached to the five-foot-nine frame raised like a hot air balloon. As he wobbled closer to the desk, his eyes widened as if he looked at a ghost. His bottom lip quivered when he said, “Pencils, I had nothing to do with that bomb. You know I wouldn’t hurt you.” Those wide eyes scanned my escort as if expecting one of them to aim a weapon at him.

  “I know that, Corkie. Now these guys know it. Relax. No one’s the enemy here. Do you remember any strangers who came in and maybe asked about the car being assigned to me?”

  “No. I told the Base Security no one came in this office or near that car . . . ah, that I know of.”

  I remembered when Mister Holcomb called. The order had been processed quickly, too fast for someone outside to get to the car. I couldn’t see how someone could have planted a bomb in a car assigned and delivered in a matter of minutes.

  “Where’s the seaman who drove the car to me?”

  “Turner’s back in the garage doing an oil change. Base Security already talked to him.”

  “Do you mind if I talk to him?”

  “Hey, it was your butt that almost . . . Go right ahead, Pencils.”

  I led the Marines into the garage area. Turner’s reaction was similar to Corkie’s when he saw me then the armed guard. Blinking rapidly, he went back to loosening the bolt to the oil pan as the cogs in his brain moved over my question. He let the oil flow into a large bowl over a funnel before stepping from under the rack and answering, “No, I didn’t see anyone come in here. We don’t allow strangers inside the bay area, just like you don’t allow them aboard ship, right?”

  I decided the Marines had prompted him to call up a little spine he probably didn’t really have. I ignored his tone. “How about the fenced area outside where the cars are kept?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, Turner, then tell me everything from the moment you picked out my car to the time you delivered it to me.”

  He blinked rapidly then cleared his throat and let the cogs move again. “Well, I drove the car out of the lot and down Nimitz Street.” He frowned. “No, wait a minute. I first stopped at the gas pump . . . then I went down Nimitz.”

  “Did you stay with the car while it was at the pumps?”

  “Yeah, I pumped. Then . . . Oh, before I left, I talked to this guy who needed a tire gauge.”

  “Tire gauge? Tell me about this guy.”

  “He was local, Chinese or something. He asked me where I was going with the car and then he said he needed a gauge to check his tire pressure.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “Tell him what?” I heard a Marine snicker, but ignored him.

  “Did you tell him where you were taking the car?” I tried not to speak too fast or use big words.

  “Yeah, and when I came back out he was talking to some skinny guy off a ship.”

  “What do you mean when you came back out?”

  “I had to go inside and get the tire gauge.”

  I stifled a groan. “What did this other guy look like and what ship was he from?”

  “I don’t know what ship! He was short and skinny.” He glared at the Marines.

  “So how do you know he was off a ship?”

  “He was here to get a two ton. He needed to pick up stores at the commissary. Only the fleet gets stuff at the commissary.”

  I sighed heavily working on my patience. “How long did you leave this oriental alone with my car?”

  “Only a couple of minutes. Corkie had a tire gauge.”

  “Have you ever seen this guy before?”

  “Yeah, he works at the NCO club. He’s a civilian authorized to be on base. That’s why I didn’t think anything of it. He stops in once in a while before the club opens. You know authorized civilians can get gas cheaper here.”

  “He drives a government vehicle?”

  “Naw, he parks his car in the lot across the street and walks to the club. Sometimes he just drops by and talks.”

  “Who does he talk to?”

  “Whoever’s outside. He likes the ships. Knows them all. Listen, I’ve got work to do, a schedule, you know.”

  The parade of Marines and I followed the fidgeting Turner as he stepped to the control levers. Air escaped from the pipes. I watched the car as Turner gasped the lower section of the rack, turned it, and guiding it as it lowered to the oil stained floor. He opened the car’s hood and unscrewed the cap at top of the engine.

  I raised my voice impatiently. “What exactly does this guy talk about?”

  “Who?”

  “The goddamn oriental!”

  Turner looked at the jar-heads all staring as if challenging him to irritate me more. I decided I didn’t mind them so much. “Same-same thing all the time,” he stuttered. “Corkie says he’s been stopping in for the past two years. Like I said, he knows each ship assigned to the base, and he can tell you when each ship’s going to tie up and where it’s been. He’s a regular guy and wanted a tire gauge, for crying out loud!”

  “What did he say about the STEVENS?”

  Turner shook his head in defeat. “I don’t remember him saying anything about that ship. He just wanted a goddamn tire gauge. Is that now a military crime?”

  Chapter 7

  Carrying enough clothing in a small cloth bag to last three days in Subic Bay, I stepped lively across the apron from the terminal’s exit doors at Hickam Air Force Base. While I used my right hand to return the numerous salutes, my other hand grasped the suitcase handle and carried an envelope containing my phony personnel service-jacket and travel orders.

  A tow tractor and a long string of baggage trailers rapidly followed the marked safety lanes that separated me from the plane. While I waited, the heat of the concrete radiated up through the soles of my new shoes. I felt like I stood on a hot burner. My armpits itched from the officer’s service dress blues I had been ordered to wear as part of my masquerade. Sweat slithered down my back. Being forced to wear a jacket and tie made me feel as if I had been dressed for dinner, as the waiter.

  Engines running, a Boeing C-135 blocked the end of a taxiway, its wings stretched over each side of the concrete. A universal step had been placed under an open door.

  An Airman approached, saluted, and asked, “May I take your bag, Sir?”

  Glancing out of the corner of my eye as I handed him my suitcase, I assumed an pride, grateful for the Admiral’s decision to give me the twin gold stripes of a Navy Lieutenant.

  I tucked my chin in and pushed my shoulders back. “Yes, Airman, please do.”

  “This way, Captain,” he said as he took my luggage.

  “I . . . I’m a Lieutenant, a Navy Lieutenant.”

  “Sorry, Sir. I get confused with the Navy’s rank.”

  I followed the Airm
an up the steel steps and boarded an empty plane. The seats faced the rear of the cabin. I quickly decided to be close to the flight deck. Except for the first six rows, the rest of the seats had been removed.

  Behind me, the Airman asked, “Coffee, Sir?”

  After removing my hat, I looked over my shoulder with, “Yes, thank you.”

  A moment later he handed me a filled, steaming paper cup. “Cream or sugar?”

  “No, I’ll have it black, thank you.” I took a sip. Placing the cup into the holder on a fold-out, I asked, “How soon will the rest of the passengers be boarding?”

  “You are it, Sir. This is an unscheduled MAC’s flight to Clark Air Force Base. We’re waiting for the crew and then we’ll be off.”

  “I can’t be the only reason for this flight. The government wouldn’t spend money just to send me to the Philippines.”

  “I can’t say, Sir, but here’s the pilot coming aboard now.”

  A hand extended over my shoulder, followed by a curious face. A slender man in a green flight suit announced in a deep Texas drawl, “I’m Captain Jerry Moore. I’ll be your driver for the next twelve-hours, Lieutenant.”

  Quickly remembering the name on my identification, I responded, “I’m . . . ah . . . ah Lieutenant Mat Fisher.”

  “Good to meet you, Mat. I see you’re one of them Navy line officers. What do you do aboard them boats?”

  “I’m a staff officer with Admiral Collins.”

  “I know. I seen your high priority papers, but the way you walked across the tarmac, I swear you been to sea all your life.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been to sea for a few years, but recently I’ve been station ashore. When are we leaving?”

  “Just as soon as the gear is stored. Better fasten your seat belt.”

  “One more question, Captain. Am I the only reason you’re flying to Clark?”