Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection

by Gordon Kessler

  Royse glared at the Director.

  Surprised by Royse’s unusual, intense eye contact, Burgess didn’t wait for a reply. “Must be tough on the poor woman, being a paraplegic, but still having all her mental faculties. Wondering how her husband can remain faithful. Wondering if he has. Hoping he has.” He stared back at Royse’s glaring eyes. “It must be even harder on you, Paul. Having to help her with her bedpan. Watch her wither away. All the while trying to keep your hands out of the cookie jar.”

  Royse’s eyes narrowed as he listened. Burgess drove the point home.

  “I hear there’s a new bar maid over at the Globe and Anchor, Paul. I hear you’ve got cookie crumbs on your fingers. It’d be a shame if Katherine found out.”

  The intercom buzzed again breaking the stare down between the two men, and Burgess’ secretary spoke, “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s an Admiral Sperling on the phone. He says it’s urgent.”

  Burgess raised his eyebrows then glared at Royse. “You called Sperling?”

  Royse turned away, his jaw set, ruddy face reddening even more, ready to explode.

  Burgess looked to the intercom speaker. Retired Admiral Oliver T. Sperling was Royse’s stepbrother. Sperling’s father had married Royse’s mother when Paul Royse was five.

  “Thanks, Barbara,” he said, holding his anger at bay. He punched the line one button on the speakerphone. “Oliver. Long time. How’s Oklahoma?”

  “Don’t give me any of your bullshit. You know why I’m calling!” Admiral Sperling’s voice boomed, loud and raspy.

  “I think maybe I do. Paul Royse is in my office now and we were just discussing the misunderstanding.”

  “Misunderstanding my ass! I don’t care to hear your excuses or explanations. You just get my daughter off of this Chameleon investigation. You know better than to pull this kind of shit. If you don’t have her mainside in forty-eight hours, you’ll wish you’d retired while you still had some dignity.”

  His threat was enough to light Burgess’ fuse. He fired back. “Now you listen here, you pompous bastard. You’re not going to tell me what to do. You may still have some influence, but you’re retired, remember. Cool your engines. First of all, your daughter is not assigned to the Chameleon investigation. Hers is a simple suicide, only for show, just to get her feet wet. It’s only coincidence she’s on the same ship. The other investigation is wrapping up and she is in no danger.”

  “Don’t try to whitewash this, Burgess. How then do you explain her being the only woman assigned to the ship? You’re setting her up.”

  Burgess regained his composure. He’d expected both confrontations but not at the same time. “It was a simple mistake. Someone in personnel shuffled the orders and the other twenty-three women were put aboard the Ticonderoga. She should have her work done and be off the ship in their next port.”

  Burgess noticed Royse roll his eyes.

  The Admiral said, “You’d better be right Burgess. I’m not beyond coming up there and ringing your neck, personally.”

  “I’ll pretend you didn’t threaten me, Admiral Sperling. Now, is there anything else I can do for you today?”

  “Don’t screw up, Burgess. If my daughter gets so much as a broken nail from this I’ll hunt you down and rip your fuckin’ head off!”

  “Goodbye, Admiral.”

  Burgess disconnected. He smiled at Royse and it seemed to shove him out of his seat. Burgess watched the tall, lean man’s back as he walked to the door and opened it.

  “Give my regards to Katherine,” Burgess said like scooping saccharine.

  Royse looked over his right shoulder as he passed through the doorway. He narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

  “I’ll be second in line if anything happens to Janelle Sperling,” he said and closed the door behind him.

  So far, so good, Burgess thought. But he wished he hadn’t been forced to such extreme measures. Agent Sperling was an unwitting game piece in a very deadly game.

  Chapter 10

  GANGWAY!

  1635 - USS Atchison

  SPURS WAS AN obvious surprise to the crew. As she made her way through the maze of passageways to the mailroom, every face she met seemed astonished, then insincerely polite after they snapped to. At this point she wished the XO could have piped over a preparatory, “Now hear this; there is a woman aboard. I repeat, we have a female on this ship. Zip your flies and pick up your dirty socks!”

  Since writing one of those having-a-good-time, wish-you-were-here-type notes on the back of a post card in Rota, she figured she’d better mail it. There didn’t seem to be a whole lot else to say to her father, the Admiral. They didn’t talk that much anymore. Not knowing exactly why, she suspected the Admiral’s part in the silence had something to do with her being a woman wishing to do a man’s job.

  She recalled the time she’d called him from her baccalaureate, all happy and smiles, excited about graduating from OU with honors, eager to tell him of her plans to join the Navy and be an officer aboard an aircraft carrier or destroyer. He’d reduced her to tears with one word. Ludicrous. He’d told her it was “ludicrous” to even think there could be a good reason for women to serve aboard military ships, let alone warships. He and his beliefs were so “old Navy.” But she had respected his opinions and had adopted most of them when she was younger and more impressionable. Now at twenty-five, she had discovered a few views of her own. But for the most part she was her father’s daughter. She did not go along, however, with such an archaic attitude toward women. The Admiral resented that and she resented his resentment. Someday, maybe they could be friends again.

  According to the first gaping mouth she’d run into after leaving her stateroom, the mailroom was one deck below and six compartments forward. At least she thought that was what the young seaman vacuuming the carpeted halls of officer’s country had said. He’d just kind of mumbled and stood to the side leaving her enough room to steer a landing craft through.

  She went down one ladder and then forward, stepping through two of the small, oval hatchways.

  The cold gray belly of this unfamiliar ship was a lonely, hard place. She could easily become claustrophobic. She felt abandoned and betrayed as she proceeded, and the loneliness ached in her heart.

  A detail of five sailors met her as they moved briskly in the opposite direction. A petty officer first class was in the lead. They had brought with them a rush of air smelling of floor cleaning disinfectant.

  The old warship, although rusting and obsolete on the outside, was kept spotless inside.

  The detail stepped to the side courteously, the petty officer in the lead saying, “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

  “Good afternoon, sailors,” she answered as they hurried past.

  Then she heard their whispered remarks.

  “What’s she doing aboard?” “Oh God, not us too!” “They’re like a cancer. What the hell do they want?”

  The last comments came from the petty officer and it was louder than the others. “Get used to it boys,” he said. “There are more coming aboard next month and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. We’re stuck with them until they prove to the brass that they can’t hack it.”

  Soon three more sailors passed carrying mops, buckets and other cleaning supplies. Only the last man that scooted by had taken the time to recover from his surprise and ask respectfully to pass with, “By your leave, ma’am?” They all seemed to be in a very big rush. She sensed Commander Naugle ran a very tight ship.

  A commotion and voices came from the forward compartments. Spurs frowned as she paused in the third hatchway, trying to make out what was happening. She heard running. More voices. Some close, sounding frantic. These weren’t the sounds of men stepping quickly to get a job done like the others. These men were escaping like gazelle from a pride of lions. A gaggle erupted several compartments ahead, words unclear. What was it? It was hard to make out over the din of footsteps and blurted exclamations.

  “G
angway!”

  This time she heard the call as the noise came closer. Suddenly, bodies appeared shoving through the small hatch two at a time from the next compartment. Half a dozen young enlisted Marines stampeded toward her, their faces fearful, showing some surprise as they saw Spurs but seeming to care much less than the previous sailors had. These young men were running from something they obviously felt threatened them. The six fled in a pack from the hatch and slowed little as they approached her.

  “He’s right behind us!” one said. “God, I don’t want any more PT,” said another. “Hell, I don’t want to get stomped!” said a third. “You see the shiner on Peterson?”

  “By your leave, ma’am?” they asked in unison to pass. But not waiting even for an instant for her answer, they forced their way past.

  Spurs had to step aside or be trampled. But she said nothing, more curious than annoyed by their lack of manners and military courtesy.

  More frightened voices came from forward compartments, nearing her.

  “Gangway! Make a hole! Gangway!” they called out.

  Spurs proceeded through the passage, taking guarded steps. The chaos of scattering men seemed unending.

  Another group of three jarheads met her at the fourth hatch, and she had to swing back to avoid harm as this bunch sprinted past.

  These young Marines seemed frightened half to death by someone—or something.

  Spurs’ shuddered with a sudden chill as she also considered retreat. Whoever—whatever was making its way toward her must be a terrible thing. But what kind of incredible occurrence was this? She hadn’t seen anything in comparison since the morning her detail had gotten their Marine drill instructors in Officer’s Candidate School.

  “Make a hole! Move it! Look out! Gangway!” came the frantic shouts now only a couple of compartments away.

  Spurs stopped at the sixth hatch in view of the mail room service window. The passageway had become still, like the eye of a hurricane. Nothing moved. The corridor seemed empty, lifeless.

  As she grabbed the right side of the hatchway with her right hand, the postcard slipped from between her fingers and fell back to her side of the opening.

  She bent to pick it up and suddenly found herself staring at what had to be at least a size fifteen, spit-shined shoe inches from her face.

  The sight jarred her. She rose slowly, not knowing what to expect, her face coming up cautiously, nearly touching the leg in front of her.

  This was the terrible thing from which the crew had just fled. Huge calves behind perfectly pressed, tan slacks. Enormous thighs. Clenched fists. Trim, but still remarkably large waist, angling up to a massive chest. Thick, bulging biceps.

  Spurs stood erect, eyes level and looked at the giant’s sternum. Inches away from her nose was a pair of gold jump wings and a silver SCUBA badge. Her sight inched to a name tag reading Capt. R. D. Chardoff. Below the short, wide neck hung a pair of silver Marine-captain’s bars, then a square, jutting jaw. His glaring eyes, gray and unflinching, seemed to burn into hers. His chiseled face, pocked with acne scars, was topped with the short stubble of a leatherneck’s high and tight haircut.

  He stood, one leg on each side of the hatchway, head bent forward, his predator eyes inspecting the prey before him.

  Spurs gaped, looking into the huge man’s menacing, hypnotic, gray eyes. Her lips tried to form words.

  The mammoth Marine’s mouth spread into a huge toothy smile. His harsh breath seeped out smelling like hot crankcase oil, making her eyes water.

  “Buh . . . ,” she swallowed, blinked her eyes, tried again, the request finally coming out. “By—your leave, sir?”

  She waited for him to speak to prove he was human, but then found herself hoping he wouldn’t for fear of wetting herself.

  He scrutinized her like the big bad wolf examining Little Red Riding Hood. He leaned back against the side of the small hatch, moving no more than an inch, but indicating she was to pass. His enormous body still blocked free and unmolested passage.

  Spurs felt no choice. She stepped right leg first through the hatchway, brought her body to his, her breasts rubbing against the Marine captain’s steel plate belly. She felt his lungs taking in and expelling air and even the pulse from the pump under his tremendous chest that must also have been huge to deliver nourishment over such a colossal area. The iron ridge around the hatch opening scraped painfully against her spine, but she forced her way past, still looking up into the man’s intense, gray eyes.

  Finally, she popped through and stumbled forward, then looked over her shoulder to see the monster still staring malevolently, unmoved. A wave of fear finally hit Spurs’ body and she trembled, staggering to the mailroom window. Reaching the small counter extending from the opening, she leaned against it and felt a vibration come over the ship as if it were trembling also, and a resonating hum filled the passageway. The ship’s engines had come to life. They would shove off soon.

  She looked back to the hatchway. It was empty.

  Chapter 11

  SURPRISE PUNCH

  IT TOOK SPURS several minutes to stop shaking. The meeting with Captain Chardoff had left her feeling like a rabbit face-licked by a coyote. He was so huge. She easily understood why his men were running if the discipline he dished out was half as malevolent as his looks. But why should she fear him? After all he was a fellow officer. Although a superior one, he still lived by the same code of honor and integrity as she did. Even though they belonged to different branches under the Department of the Navy, they were on the same side.

  She had forgotten all of that while squeezing past him in the hatchway.

  Spurs dropped the post card to her father through the mail slot in the door instead of bothering the busy yeoman sorting mail with his back to her. She didn’t wish to surprise any more crewmembers than necessary. It’d be nice when the scuttlebutt got around and everyone on the ship knew she was aboard. Maybe then she’d feel more comfortable, more a member of the team instead of an outsider—instead of a turd in the punch bowl. After that her next task would be to convince the crew that she was as much of an asset as any male crew member and being female did not make her a liability.

  With twenty minutes left before shoving off, Spurs decided to take a brief tour of the Combat Information Center, which was to be her duty station. After the climb of five stairways, she introduced herself to the four astonished sailors manning the radar and weapons systems. They were busy readying the units to get underway. Petty Officer Second Class Manny Jabrowski was in charge as he had been since Ensign Nader’s death.

  Spurs took the time to look over each of the fire controls. The enormous destructive capabilities of even this, one of the smallest active ships in the US Navy, still amazed her.

  She gazed over the sailors’ shoulders at the one red sonar screen and five green radar and target designator screens. Several small, green computer screens lined the wall. Numerous keyboards, some with lighted green and red buttons, were within easy reach of the four men on watch at their stations. In seconds, with the flick of a few switches, they could arm and fire eight ASROC antisub rockets, launch six 12.75-inch torpedoes or shoot a pair of three-inch antiaircraft guns. She hoped she could remember her weapons training well enough to bluff an adequate job while conducting the investigation. She was sure she’d have to rely on Jabrowski’s hands-on experience.

  As she walked to the hatchway to go to chow, she noticed an unmanned station, covered with a white drop cloth. She paused in front of it. “What’s this?” she asked Jabrowski.

  He glanced at her, looking almost cross-eyed over his large nose and answered, “The new weapons system, ma’am.”

  She raised the cloth and immediately recognized the state of the art technology underneath. “This is a cruise missile fire control center. This ship doesn’t have cruise missiles.”

  Jabrowski looked back at his computer screen. “Evidently the Ensign hasn’t had time to see what’s covered up just forward of the fantail. T
omahawks, ma’am. Four of those bad babies. We’ve had the system installed for a couple of months, but we haven’t tested it yet. We’re supposed to have a team of specialists coming aboard soon to get us on line so we can fire them.”

  “But why? I mean, why aboard the Atchison instead of one of the guided missile frigates.”

  “The skipper talked them into it—Commander Reeves helped with his weapons background,” he said proudly. “And it took a lot of talking, too.”

  “I still don’t understand?”

  “Well, the way I got it figured, the captain kind of got the Secretary of the Navy in a sort of Catch-22. See, they were planning on scuttling this old girl after this cruise. She ain’t much good to the new high-tech Navy. Everything’s faster, has more firepower. The Navy wants to build all these new ships that can carry new weapons, Tomahawks and such. But they don’t have the money like they used to. Anyway, the old man told his plan to a congressman friend of his who serves on the Armed Forces Sub Committee. With all the military spending cuts Congress wants to make, it didn’t take long for the Secretary of the Navy to order Admiral Pierce, our fleet admiral, to try us out with cruise missiles. If we can handle it, they won’t scuttle her. Instead they’ll retrofit her with new, faster engines and new equipment, modify her hull a bit, and not have to build an entirely new ship. Then if it works for us, there’s a whole slug of small frigates and escort ships that can be converted too. It’ll save the Navy a ton of money. The old man’s pretty aware, don’t you think ma’am?”

  Spurs listened, still digesting her discovery. “Yeah, pretty aware,” she repeated.

  “It’s funny though, Ensign Sperling, how one hand doesn’t know what the other’s doing.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, I mean, with you coming aboard and all. I’m sure that it wasn’t in the plans to initiate a new weapons system the same time that we’re receiving twenty-four inexperienced WINS. That’s a perfect example of how things get SNAFUed. Personnel not knowing what Operations is doing. Then I heard about the mix up with your orders, saying you were a male officer and all and putting you aboard by yourself at a port of call ahead of the rest. And now, I hear the other women aren’t coming aboard and they’re talking about dumping you at the next port. It’s typical. And besides that, we have these crewmembers disappearing and getting killed, you know. I’m surprised NCIS dropped their investigation so soon—I mean, without putting someone aboard undercover.”