Spurs curled one corner of her mouth weakly. “Yeah.”
Jabrowski frowned, his lips parted. He looked around at the other three crewmen at their stations and they glanced back, then all looked to Spurs.
Oh, great! she thought. If these guys already suspected she was undercover, how long would it take for the murderer?
Not wishing the conversation to go further, she stepped through the hatchway as nonchalantly as possible and found the Atchison’s topside alive. The bridge piped orders, loud and tinny, from the speaker overhead, “Single up all lines.” Crewmembers fore and aft stepped briskly as they pulled huge ropes from four giant steel turnbuckles along the port side of the ship.
She descended the staircase-like ladder from the signal deck and saw Commander Reeves in his traditional white dress uniform standing forward, his back to her, on the catwalk next to the bridge’s port hatchway. He surveyed the commotion, his eyes scanning continuously from the dock to a small tug. The tiny boat blasted steam-powered warnings, while spewing thick, oil-black smoke from its wide stack. It trudged further out into the harbor, chugging, pushing through the water as if it were all it could do to shove forward another five meters. Immediately, the pungent diesel’s exhaust overwhelmed the fresh salt air as the world around Spurs seemed to be put into motion. It was as if the ship were being released from the arms of its au pair, reaching for its mother as they broke away from the pier and headed out toward a wide expanse of ocean.
Spurs remembered Commander Reeves’ warning and heeded it, not wishing to get in the way. She turned aft and walked toward the fantail, but stopped and leaned on the lifeline facing the stern when she saw a large canvas covered cube amidships near the helo flight deck. Some of the most frightening weapons the world had known waited underneath like sleeping cobras. Tomahawk cruise missiles.
She stared at it for a moment, wondering if it could possibly have anything to do with Ensign Nader’s death. To this point, she’d thought it was more likely drug related, that maybe he’d stumbled into the middle of a drug deal and was snuffed to keep him from talking. This was a new angle that needed to be investigated. And there was still the possibility of his death being suicide.
She thought about what Jabrowski had said— about crewmembers disappearing and getting killed. He’d said “getting killed” not committing suicide, or dying. It could be that he perceived a different meaning of “getting killed” than she did. Or, it could be that he knew more than he was saying. Leave no stone unturned, that’s what Deputy Assistant Director Paul Royse had taught her. There seemed to be a number of boulder-sized stones.
Chapter 12
COLD NORTH
SPURS FELT THE lifeline she leaned against swing slightly as though someone else had pushed against it. She looked to her right and saw Lieutenant Darren North.
“Tomahawks,” he said looking at the covered cube. Even in his khakis, North looked like he’d just stepped out of a recruiting poster; handsome, clean, perfectly pressed.
“Yessir,” she said, turning away to face aft. “I’ve been told.”
“You can call me Darren when we’re not on watch and the enlisted men aren’t around.”
“No thank you, sir.”
“It’s no special treatment, Spurs. You’re out of training. You’re in the real Navy now.”
She knew this wasn’t some kind of move the lieutenant was making on her. It was customary for the officers of a ship, excluding the captain, to call each other by their first names. Besides, he couldn’t be coming on to her—with his sexual preference there could be no other motive.
“I’d still rather not, sir.”
“You don’t like me, do you Ensign?” North said, still gazing to the stern.
He’d taken her by surprise. She didn’t know how to respond. Shifting her eyes around the ship, she looked for an answer. The huge dock they’d just embarked from now appeared as only a thin line that separated the water from the shipyard structures along Rota’s seafront. Still the feeling of motion had not come over her, as if the rest of the world were moving, leaving her, abandoning her. North’s words rang true. She was in the real Navy now.
Not finding the appropriate answers around her, she began looking for an escape. It may not be good to tell the ship’s lieutenant her true feelings. She’d never really known a gay before. She relied on her father’s brash opinion of them.
“Ensign Sperling, we can be friends or we can be enemies,” he said. “But I asked you a question, and I expect an answer.”
The ship seemed to bolt and she gripped the lifeline. Water off the fantail turned into a turbulent foaming stream. The little tug fell back on the starboard side and started a turn back to the shipyards, making its way past other moorings.
Sea spray misted the back of Spurs’ neck and for the first time she heard the calling of the gulls that saturated the sky as the noisy tug departed. Drawing in a deep breath, she considered her answer. The sea air was even thicker now, more humid than along the pier. Laced within it was the briny scent of life, as if it were the breath of something enormous and living.
She heard a hatch clank closed and saw the black Marine corporal she’d met earlier coming up from the ladder one deck below. She was thankful for the distraction.
As he stepped up he smiled and saluted. “Sir, ma’am.”
Spurs and the lieutenant saluted back.
“Afternoon, Corporal Sanders,” North answered.
Sanders walked past, going forward toward the bridge.
They were alone again. Spurs felt cornered against the lifeline, nothing around her but cold steel. How’d she get into this? She knew of only one way to deal with it. Honesty.
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that I’ve never been around a gay man before. I don’t understand or approve of the lifestyle and I don’t feel comfortable around you.”
North’s face tightened. He watched over his shoulder as Sanders stepped into a hatchway. The ship rocked lightly as the world full of moored ships drifted away and became gradually smaller.
“Who told you that I was gay?”
“Commander Reeves, sir,” Spurs answered. She felt a sudden urge to expound and quote the commander. “He said that you were queerer than a three-winged sea bat.”
North puffed. The side of his mouth curled. “Lieutenant Commander Reeves and I don’t exactly see eye to eye, Ensign. I think you’ll discover that soon enough.”
He turned to her and she felt inclined to look to him. He continued, “Besides, if you can’t understand, how can you approve or disapprove?”
Spurs straightened and looked away without an answer.
“You will ensure that your personal opinions of me and gays will not impede your performance or effectiveness to do your duty on this ship.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
“Off the subject, you should feel a little more comfortable. I moved into the stateroom across the passageway. You have your own private quarters now.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him.
He turned away but then looked back and said, “By the way, you’d better hold onto your bunk tonight. Looks like we’ll be steaming into one hell of a storm.”
Lieutenant North paused and seemed to study her. Over his shoulder she could see a wall of dark clouds hugging the horizon. An occasional flash of lightning muted by the distance highlighted them.
North smiled for a moment then shook his head before heading toward the bridge.
It suddenly occurred to her—when he’d greeted her, he’d called her Spurs.
Chapter 13
THE LAST SUPPER
SPURS LEANED FORWARD on the lifeline, looking toward the hinder of the ship and thought of the possible suspects she had for any wrongdoing—murder. She’d gleaned little information from the summarizing print-outs of each of the crew’s personal records given to her by Director Burgess. She’d studied them well on the long trip from DC to Rota.
North was on her suspect list, e
ven without good reason. His PR file was clean. She tried to convince herself that her suspicion of him wasn’t because he was gay. For now, the smart-ass XO was second for being such an asshole to her. His record was also clean. The huge Marine, Captain Chardoff, was third because of his size and malevolent looks—and he had a few blemishes besides the ones pockmarking his face, including assault on a fellow officer for which he had been busted down from the rank of Major.
That was everybody. Just about every officer she’d actually met, so far. Three suspects in who knows what for being gay, chauvinistic or ugly. It sounded like an old spaghetti western—The Gay, the Chauvinistic and the Ugly. But to suspect an officer—they were the guys in the white hats—the good guys. The usual suspects should come from the enlisted men. It would be rare that US Navy officers would take part in any kind of conspiracy, illicit drugs, murder.
It’ll just take time, she thought. She had to be patient. The puzzle pieces were sure to fall into place after she’d been on the ship a few days. This investigation could even take weeks. It would be three months before this float would be over and the fleet was due back stateside. And they were set to transfer her off of the ship at the next port, a couple of days away. She’d have to somehow convince them to keep her aboard to be sure she’d have time. Surely she could crack this case within a week or two. If she lived that long.
She thought of her contact aboard ship. Had she met him already? Director Burgess said that her undercover companion would make himself known to her as soon as he could do so safely and without causing suspicion that might jeopardize the investigation. She hoped he would do so soon.
The loneliness she’d felt earlier now gave way to the feeling of being outnumbered, causing her to study everyone she passed in the corridors and on the catwalks, wondering not only if they might be involved in Nader’s death and the disappearances but also which one might be her contact.
At 1740 Spurs sat at the large table in the wardroom along with six of the other eight officers on board. They waited for Commander Miles Naugle, the ship’s skipper. By the talk at the table in the room that doubled for the officer’s mess, this was not unusual—”past practice,” one of them called it.
The Atchison’s rocking had been expected, but expecting it did little to ward off the twinge of nausea in her stomach. The sea hadn’t been rough—far from it, but still she rocked. Spurs found herself watching the clear water glass in front of her, the liquid inside tipping an inch from one side to the other about every five seconds. Soon she realized that visualizing the rocking magnified the affect to her gut and she looked away.
She’d been introduced to all of the other officers except the remaining absentee, who was now serving a watch as Officer of the Day. That man she had not cared to see again and was glad that he was not in the wardroom. It was the Marine, Captain Chardoff.
The officer’s reactions were as expected. Insecure thoughts behind insincere greetings and smiles. Bright, cheery eyes that questioned her face then seemed to become unbearably heavy and drop to her chest, occasionally bobbing back up, but mostly attending to her breasts. The officers were not admiring her military medals. This was especially true of the younger men. She wondered what they would do if she had a large bosom—probably drool uncontrollably down their uniforms. It was some sort of syndrome experienced mostly by men at sea and in bars. She was glad the syndrome hadn’t come over her yet. What would these jerks think if suddenly her eyes became transfixed on their crotches?
Other than their wandering gazes, all of the officers seemed to give the young ensign every bit of the courtesy and respect that a fellow officer should receive, but there was an awkwardness at the table.
Spurs couldn’t put her finger on it for sure but it seemed the feeling was a cross between “mind your manners around mother,” Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, and “who brought the bitch to the stag party?”
But she was nicely surprised that Lieutenant Commander Reeves had lightened up some. He sat to the left of the empty chair at the far end of the table waiting for Commander Naugle. He glanced to her occasionally with a pleasant smile and spoke a kind word or two like, “how’s your quarters?” and “if there’s anything you need, just ask.” His concern seemed somehow genuine, so she answered him, “Fine” and “Okay”. Maybe she should try to get along with him since he was apparently trying to get along with her. It certainly wouldn’t hurt the investigation. But it hadn’t changed her opinion of the man. He was still an asshole. Just that now, he was a two-faced asshole.
Next to Reeves sat Lieutenant Mike Daniels, the African-American operations officer, a tall, muscular man. From his PR file, Spurs remembered he’d done poorly on his last two years of fitness reports seemingly contributed to some domestic problems at home. Right of him was her old “bunky,” Darren North. Lieutenant Junior Grade Brad Goodman, the chubby faced engineer wearing an Annapolis ring, sat across from her. He’d been AWOL twice, keeping him from promotion to full Lieutenant.
On Spurs’ side of the table was the empty seat of Captain Chardoff next to Commander Naugle’s. Then, Lieutenant Tell Jolly, with skin the color of fresh licorice, the small, sinewy ship’s medical officer seemed to wear an eternal smile. He had been charged with dereliction of duty because one of his patients, having stepped on a nail, had to eventually have his leg amputated due to a rapidly spreading infection. The charges didn’t stick. Next to Spurs was quiet, droopy eyed, Ensign Benjamin Ingrassias, the Atchison’s supply officer. On his record was a drug bust that nearly got him discharged.
The chatter at the table grew to an incomprehensible clamor between the men as they grew impatient. Spurs said little, and only when asked a question.
After more than ten minutes of waiting, one of the orderlies that had served them water and tea returned and stepped to Lieutenant Commander Reeves’ side, leaned to the officer’s ear, and then said something in a whisper that cleared a smile from the commander’s face. Reeves rose from his seat and followed the attendant out of the room.
“Oh God, not again,” said Lieutenant Junior Grade Goodman from across the table.
Beside Spurs, Ensign Ingrassias said, “What’s this make, five?”
“Six,” said Lieutenant Daniels.
Spurs turned to the ensign on her right and asked, “What’s going on?”
“It’s the skipper,” Goodman said before Ingrassias could speak. “He’s drunk again. This is it. If no one else has the balls to report him, I will.”
Lieutenant North had been quiet since sitting at the table. Spurs could tell that he felt as much of an outcast as she. He said, “You’d better not let Reeves hear you say that.”
“Too late,” came a loud voice from the hatchway. Reeves stepped in.
All heads bowed. He hadn’t had much time to do anything but turn around in the passageway, perhaps at most, peek in on the captain.
Reeves paused a moment then said, “Gentlemen—and Miss Sperling, the captain has a migraine and regrets that he will be unable to join us for the evening meal.” He walked toward his seat. “He has asked that we forgive him and enjoy our supper.” He looked to Doc Jolly as he pulled his chair from the table, motioning the attendants to begin serving. “Doc, please attend to the skipper after our meal.” He sat and scooted to the table. “Mister Goodman, you’ll relieve the watch.”
Goodman looked up from his plate as a large rib eye was served.
“Now!” said Reeves, watching his own plate being filled.
“But sir,” Goodman said, “I have the midnight watch.”
“And the present watch, Mister Goodman. And if you say another word, you’ll be watching sunrise.”
Spurs expected a tantrum, a fit of some kind. But there was none. Mister Goodman obviously knew better. He stood from his seat, pulling his eyes away from the anxiously awaited meal, laid his cloth napkin beside it and left the table quietly.
The meal passed uneventful and somber. Spurs tasted her steak, had a spoon of green be
ans, half a glass of Seven Up, and two dinner rolls without butter, hoping the bread would give her the necessary sustenance without irritating her churning stomach. She was relieved when the officers were excused, and she was able to slip away. Half expecting her strict new XO to make her finish her plate, she covered it with her napkin and left through the hatchway before any of the others.
Chapter 14
LOOSE LIPS
AT SUNSET, SPURS stood alone on the signal deck and watched as a tinny, prerecorded version of taps sounded colors and the sun dipped into the darkening sea. The sway of the ship was more than she had experienced before, even on the short trip aboard the Spartanburg County steaming to Nassau. She had felt queasy then and was told to just deal with it. She now held tight to the bulwarks from where it was said that Ensign Nader had jumped— and dealt with it, the motion shifting her weight from one leg to the other. The event she now experienced seemed to help her forget the twinge of seasickness in her abdomen.
She watched as the Atchison’s stem dipped into the turquoise sea before her and cut through, laying it open in white slices that curled away from the bow and sizzled past the hull. The frigate’s screws churned in a rhythmic hum as she gazed past the bow to the last quenching gold and white rays of sunlight. She smiled, the sea-freshened air in her hair, light ocean spray on her face. This was the ecstasy her father had spoken about—the solitude, the wonderful emptiness that filled the soul, stretching it to the point of bursting with an awe-inspiring realization of insignificance in the enormity of the world.
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