“Please follow me, ma’am,” the corporal said, breaking the brief spell.
Spurs nodded, looking over her shoulder, and then turned back to Reeves, still astonished.
“May I be excused, sir?”
Reeves continued to toy with the compass, then checked his wristwatch. He brought his eyes up to meet Spur’s and raised his eyebrows.
“Muster the crew, Botts,” he said, still watching Spurs.
The young seaman went to the funnel-shaped boatswain’s pipe atop the helm and took down a whistle hanging beside it. He raised it to his lips and sounded an extended, three-toned call and then announced, “Now hear this. Muster the crew!”
The XO delayed his answer just long enough to create a bit more tension.
“Carry-on, miss,” he said, his hand making more of a wave than a salute. “And you might avoid this part of the ship for the next hour and a half or so. It’ll get mighty busy up here, and a little girl like you is liable to get hurt.”
Spurs spun half around and followed the Marine onto the catwalk.
Sexual harassment, she thought, a definite case. How could he possibly expect to get away with such behavior? She wondered if he might not have been on the entertainment committee for the infamous “Tail Hook” convention.
If it weren’t for the mission, she wouldn’t put up with being in such a predicament or her new XO’s conduct. She wished she could report him to Assistant Director Royse now, and make sure Reeves knew that Ensign Janelle B. Sperling did not take favorably to his chauvinistic remarks. In the least, he’d get a harsh reprimand and possibly a little heat from the Judge Advocate General (JAG), but then, that would make her appear as a whiny leg and that she would not be. It would be better to tough it out until after the investigation. Finding out why the Atchison’s crew had been disappearing one by one was the paramount issue now and she didn’t have much time to do it in.
Again, as she walked away, she felt the watching, now even probing, eyes.
Chapter 7
NADER SLEPT HERE
SPURS OPENED THE simple wooden door to her new quarters and stepped in from the corridor. Her Marine escort reached through the doorway, dropped her sea bag inside and set her handbag next to it gently.
She took the doorknob, preparing to thank the Marine and close the door. She noticed there was no lock on the knob. This is bullshit, she thought. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!
Not only was the thought of being the only woman among 216 men on a small ship uncomfortable, as her father the Admiral would say, it made her “stick out like a turd in the punch bowl.” Not something an undercover NCIS special agent should do.
Spurs wondered if she actually had a contact aboard as Director Burgess had said. Maybe that was incorrect, also. She prayed it wasn’t. It may be several hours, even days before her fellow undercover operative made himself known to her. Until then, she couldn’t be sure.
“I’ll bring your linen, ma’am,” the Marine said and rendered a salute. Without waiting for a reply he did an about face and left.
The cabin was small as she expected but neat and with only the necessities in view. A curtained hatchway and a small interior door were on the opposite bulkhead, nothing pinned or taped on the door or wall. She’d expected the room to be like her ex-fiancée’s bachelor apartment back in the world. Playboy pinups lining the bulkheads, dirty skivvies hanging from the door knob and saltine crackers jammed into an open peanut butter jar on the small, gray-metal desk across the room.
The young lieutenant’s stateroom was clean and uncluttered because he was an officer aboard a United States Navy vessel—and, of course, he was gay. That explained it, she thought, never really knowing a homosexual before. She had nothing to base the assumption on except her father’s unswaying opinion. According to the Admiral, gays were out-of-place in this world, freaks of nature. Their lifestyle threatened straights. They were known to coerce younger people into their sick world and were tenacious in forcing their unnatural sexuality on those who didn’t care to participate. They’d be especially out of place in the US Navy. Homosexuals were to be avoided, and the only thing they could possibly be good for was decorating, hairdressing, fashion designing, and of course, be the butt of sick jokes.
Spurs saw that hers would be the top bunk. The bottom was tightly made as if waiting for a dime-bounce inspection. The thin top mattress was rolled up to one end exposing the webbing that supported it.
She gazed at the bedroll. That’s where she was expected to sleep. She was thankful that Lieutenant Commander Reeves hadn’t been serious about her bunking with a man. Thankful that she didn’t have to sleep on top, a man—a queer on the bunk below—snoring, belching, passing gas. No, she thought, correcting herself again, he probably wouldn’t do those things. He’d be more feminine and mannerly. He was gay.
She unrolled the mattress, remembering that this was now her bed, but it used to be someone else’s.
Her hands trembled as they glided over it.
Not long ago it belonged to Ensign Charles Nader, 23, a young black man just beginning his exciting life at sea. Proud parents back home. Spurs had interviewed them only forty-eight hours ago. They’d been a loving mother and father that boasted of their boy-turned-Naval-officer as they shoved his Annapolis graduation picture under friends’ and relatives’ noses, forcing them to look at their young, handsome, full-of-life son. Now they were devastated.
Spurs shook her head.
Such a waste. He’d slept here. Dreamed here. Lived here.
Now he was dead, possibly murdered. The investigation conducted by the two NCIS agents overtly assigned to the fleet determined that it was a probable suicide. That was the official story, but there were still some unanswered questions. Why had he been out at two in the morning when he was to be on watch four hours later, at 0600? Why had he gone to the signal bridge, one of the highest points of the ship, and why without his uniform shirt? Why was cocaine found in his nostrils, but none absorbed into his blood system? Why was he found clutching an empty Beretta pistol?
Then, of course, there were the missing sailors; Petty Officer James McCracken, who fell overboard during rough seas, his body lost, Warrant Officer William Holt and Gunner’s Mate Joel Tippin, who were officially considered absent without leave, never returning from all-night liberty at two different Mediterranean ports. After investigating carefully, the two NCIS agents assigned to the fleet had reported back to Director Burgess that they found no good reason for them to be AWOL, only good ones for them to have returned as expected.
These could be terrible coincidences, but with all of the incidents occurring in the last ten days it looked very suspicious.
“Linen,” a voice blurted from the doorway.
Lieutenant Darren North stepped in with what seemed to be a forced grin. His eyes still smiled, but now, with her knowing his sexual preference, they’d lost some of their luster.
“Corporal Sanders told me about the mix-up,” North said. “I’m sorry about this, but it’ll be straightened out soon. We’ll be making some temporary accommodations for you until you’re transferred. Just have to make do. I’ll bunk with some of the other officers.”
She gave a half grin. She could think of nothing to say to this man.
“Somebody really screwed up your orders. We’ll be getting to the bottom of that, in double time,” he said.
Spurs snorted a laugh. “I’ll bet you will, sir.”
North frowned as he laid her bedding on the bunk.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, then covered her mouth and turned away. She felt like a giddy school-girl. She should control herself, but she felt stressed and humor was her preferred method of dealing with tense and awkward situations. It was normally better than anger, always better than tears.
“There’s the head,” North said, pointing to the interior door. “And there’s the shower.” He pointed to the small hatchway covered with a white plastic curtain. “I just got off duty, but you’d pro
bably like to freshen up, so I’ll wait to get my things. I’ll just go see what the XO wants then catch up on the news in the wardroom.”
Spurs glanced over her shoulder occasionally to North, still pressing her hand to her mouth.
“There’s new soap in that drawer if you need some,” North said, now pointing to the right side of the desk.
Spurs chuckled again. Remembering an old locker-room quip the boys made in high school, she wondered if it was soap-on-a-rope, so she wouldn’t have to bend over if she dropped it.
North raised one eyebrow. “I’ll give you thirty minutes.” He left the compartment not bothering to close the door.
Spurs leaned on a metal wall locker next to the bunks and laughed to herself. Sexual harassment was a problem in nearly every work environment anymore, but at least she didn’t have to worry about that man.
Her humor weakened—left. She stared at the louvers on the locker.
Yes, she did have to worry about him. He’d bunked with one of the dead men, Ensign Nader. He seemed suspicious to Henry Dubain. She might not have to worry about sexual harassment from this man, but Mister North could well be a murderer.
As she considered this new revelation, an uncomfortable sensation flushed through her. Her skin crawled. It was that watched feeling again.
She snapped her head toward the door and caught a glimpse of the spit-shined heels and the back of the tan uniform of a Marine. It wasn’t the young corporal’s. This man was much larger. She hesitated too long before hurrying to the doorway and looking out. The passageway was empty. She closed the door and rested against it.
Chapter 8
THE NOTE
BY 1630, SPURS had showered, changed, and, for the most part, was refreshed and ready to leave her quarters. She’d taken the time to put her things up neatly and felt fairly squared away. Mister North hadn’t returned and she was glad. North seemed nice, but what little she knew about him caused her to question his sincerity, gay or not.
She thought of how awkward she felt and how little privacy she would enjoy on the ship. One thing was certain. Without locks on the doors she would be too leery of who might be lurking outside to take a long, leisurely shower. Every shower would be only the essential, get-it-wet-and-get-out-type Navy showers.
Spurs stood in front of the half-length mirror mounted on the door to the head and straightened her fresh white jacket and skirt. She reached to the bottom bunk to get her cap where she’d left it before her shower. After lifting it into place she fussed with her hair, angling her face from side to side at the mirror. She smiled, thinking how well the Navy’s dress-white uniform complemented her appearance.
Still, but unjustly so according to friends and family, she wished she’d inherited her mother’s ample bosom and her father’s flat hinder, instead of her Mom’s ample rear and the Admiral’s flat chest. It was a curse to be a perfectionist. She sighed. But then, giving herself a wink, she did a snappy about-face and started toward the door to the passageway.
As she passed by, something caught her attention on the bunk where she’d recovered her cap. A folded piece of paper. It must have been placed underneath the cap while she showered. A chill tickled her spine as she considered it.
She leaned down, pausing as she gazed at the paper. Then, reaching for it, she glimpsed back to the closed door and around the stateroom before actually seizing it.
Carefully unfolding the paper as she stood up, she wondered who could’ve placed it there. It could’ve been any number of people; Lieutenant Commander Reeves, Mister North, the mysterious Marine, or even someone she was yet to meet.
She turned toward the door watchfully and discovered that what she’d found was a hand-written note. Could it be from her contact, a witness to the “suicide” or someone who knew about the disappearances?
It simply read; “I Saw What Happened. Tonight— 01:00, Signal Bridge. Tell No One.”
Chapter 9
PAYBACK
May 1, 1200 EDT Naval Criminal Investigative Service, US Navy Shipyards, Washington, DC
NCIS DIRECTOR HARLEY Burgess leaned back in his leather swivel chair and rubbed his burning eyes as the intercom buzzed on his desk. Already, it had been a long morning.
He pressed the speak button. “What is it, Barbara?”
“Assistant Director Paul Royse is here to see you, sir,” the Director’s secretary said from the outer office.
He rolled his eyes and touched the speak button again, hesitantly. He knew why Royse was there. Special Agent Janelle Sperling was not only one of his subordinates, she was his niece. Royse and his paraplegic wife had just returned from two weeks' vacation touring the Middle East. It had taken Royse less than four hours back on the job to discover his young investigator niece, whom, naturally, he’d put under his wing, had been assigned her first undercover operation while he’d been away.
Burgess cleared his throat.
“Send him in, Barbara,” he said. He swung his chair around and looked out the window with his back to the room.
After a few seconds, he heard the door open and Royse walk in. He thought about Royse—an ex-Navy jet jock, washed out because of an inner ear problem. Royse had spent the next seventeen years of his life in the FBI before coming to NCIS four years ago.
In a way Burgess felt sorry for him, his wife being a paraplegic and all. Except for an occasional moment of weakness at a local pub, Royse spent every waking hour that he was away from work by her side. Over the past couple of years he’d been visiting with doctors at Bethesda and a number of other major hospitals over the country and he’d been saving his pennies. He’d mortgaged his house, sold his ranch in Oklahoma and was looking into loans, trying to come up with enough money to pay for a new experimental surgery to make his wife whole again. Being experimental, the surgery wouldn’t be paid for by the Navy and the estimated three to four million dollar price tag was much too high for even a career Senior Executive Service appointee. The trip to the holy, Christian shrines of the Middle East had been extravagant, but maybe Royse had been hoping for some sort of divine healing for her.
Burgess thought of Royse’s weakness. It may be a tool to this Janelle Sperling thing. He’d allow the Deputy Assistant Director to speak first but maintain control. He’d counter any objections Royse would voice.
“Director Burgess, what in the hell is going on?”
Royse blurted, his voice quavering with anger.
“Welcome back, Paul,” Burgess said, unfazed, still not turning to him. “How was Jerusalem?”
“Burgess, I asked what the. . . .”
The Director’s voice came calm but firm. “You’d better sit down and relax, Paul. Unless you want some more time off. A lot of time off.”
A few seconds passed before Burgess heard the leather upholstery scrunch in the chair to the left of his desk. He swiveled around and looked at the lanky, graying redheaded man, remembering that Royse seldom looked anyone in the eyes.
“I’m not real sure of what you’re so excited about,” he said. “But if you explain it to me respectfully, I’ll listen and try to answer any questions you might have.” He grinned.
Royse glared back, then dropped his eyes to the front of the desk and stared blankly as he spoke. “Why did you assign Janelle Sperling to the Chameleon case? Shit sir, we’re talking international terrorism, possibly treason.”
“I didn’t.”
Royse’s eyes snapped up to meet Burgess’. “She’s on the Atchison, isn’t she?”
“Yes, I believe she is,” Burgess said and pulled a pair of reading glasses from their sheath on the desk and put them on. He reached for a stack of folders on his right.
“Good lord, sir, this is her first mission. Hell, she’s only been out of training for three weeks.”
“I realize that, Paul,” he said thumbing the edge of the stack as if searching for a copy of Sperling’s orders. He then lifted the top stapled sheets from the pile, placed them in front of him and pretended to scan t
hem. “She isn’t involved in the Chameleon investigation. Remember, I recruited a crewmember on board to handle that case. It’s something completely unrelated. A young crewman committed suicide and his parents are raising a stink. She’s just there for looks. It’s a pure gravy assignment. Nothing dangerous.”
“If that’s all true, why does personnel say her records have been altered to show that Ensign J. B. Sperling is a male? She’s using her real name instead of an assumed one. It looks like a set up. She couldn’t have been assigned to the Atchison alone as a female— there aren’t any other women on board. Now, she’s an obvious target. Anyone with any sense is going to be leery of her, that she’s NCIS, coming on board right after two deaths and two AWOLs. . . .” Paul Royse paused, appearing deep in thought. He frowned as though having a revelation. “Jesus, she’s a decoy, isn’t she?”
Burgess fought to hold his composure. “Good God, no, she’s not a decoy. If you think that I would intentionally put one of our people in jeopardy to solve a case, you are very sadly mistaken. I don’t think I like your implications and as you know, I am not one to take a personal attack well. I assigned her on this case because of her qualifications. She seemed to fit perfectly. She’s a Navy Reservist trained as a weapons officer and that was the position that the Atchison needed. We can’t pussyfoot around with her just because she’s your niece, you know that.”
Royse seemed to ignore Burgess, and verbalized his own thoughts, “I’ve got to send her a message, let her know the danger.”
“You’ll do no such thing, Royse,” Burgess said. “You know better than that. You would be risking her life along with the other investigator’s. Besides, our other agent will inform her of the situation. Probably already has. Now, you’d better relax.” Burgess changed the subject. He hated what he was about to do but felt he had no choice. “How’s Katherine?” he asked.
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