Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection

by Gordon Kessler

  Spurs shuddered. She didn’t know for sure if it was the cool of the evening or the danger she sensed. The suspects were almost half of the other officers on the ship.

  Reeves looked at her. “You’re not to contact anyone concerning this investigation or speak to anyone about it except me. Do you understand?” His face was stern. This was an order.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll relay anything we dig up to our agents on the Enterprise. Any radio communication is out. We have no idea who all is involved. It could be anyone from ship’s captains to radiomen.” He paused. “Scared?”

  She shook her head too meekly to be convincing.

  “You’d be a fool if you weren’t.”

  “There’s something I’d better tell you,” she said.

  Reeves raised his eyebrows in the diminishing light.

  “There was a note left in my stateroom earlier. I didn’t see who left it, but it said. . . .” She stared at the sunset. “ . . . ‘I saw what happened—Signal bridge—0100 tonight—Tell no one.’ It was unsigned,” she said and turned, frowning at Reeves. “How should I handle it?”

  “Meet him.”

  Chapter 15

  CAPTAIN CONFUSION

  LIEUTENANT COMMANDER REEVES stopped at Commander Naugle’s stateroom after Doc Jolly left the skipper with some ibuprofen for the pain. Reeves left something that magnified Naugle’s suffering—the name of his ship’s new weapons officer.

  The captain was trying to compose a letter to Ensign Nader’s parents offering his condolences, but his throbbing brain wouldn’t allow him to think of the appropriate things to say. He would be glad when the mess was over.

  After Reeves left, Naugle soaked a washcloth with cool water and placed it on his forehead. He glanced around his stateroom where his many awards, medals and trophies were displayed. His eyes rested on a 10"x13" portrait standing on the desk. The sixty-two-year-old sailor gave a deep sigh, gazing at the picture of his son wearing an Annapolis football uniform. Kelly Naugle had been one of the all-time best quarterbacks to wear the Navy blue. He’d graduated in the top ten percent of his class. It was his destiny to receive more—many, many more accolades.

  But one man spoiled all of that. Admiral Oliver T. Sperling.

  Captain Naugle reached slowly toward his son’s two-dimensional face. His eyes welled with tears and he clenched his teeth before making contact with the picture glass. He remembered the tragic day. The impersonal phone call he’d received from a young Naval personnel officer. Not from the boy’s commander, then Captain Sperling. That bastard hadn’t had the guts.

  Lieutenant Junior Grade Kelly Naugle had flown his A-6 attack fighter into the frigid waters of the Norwegian Sea near Greenland with an empty fuel tank. It took the USS Constellation six hours to find the downed airman and recover his frozen body. It should not have happened. Naugle’s son should not have died as he did. Sure, there was a fuel leak, a sudden storm, a Swedish tanker in distress and an ocean full of icebergs, but still, something could have been done. It had been then Captain Oliver T. Sperling’s decision to assist the swamped tanker instead of holding course in the squall to wait for Kelly to return. Captain Sperling didn’t know the A-6’s fuel pump would fracture and leak like a fountain. But damn it, Sperling could have—should have done something. That was nearly twenty years ago.

  Naugle’s cheeks streamed with tears. His breath caught. Two fingers of his right hand glanced off the glass as an involuntary whine came from his soul. He slapped his palms against his crew-cut skull, fingers spread wide. The whine grew louder, gradually erupting into a tormented wail. He pulled his hands down the sides of his face, the washcloth falling to the desk, his fingers furrowing his fleshy cheeks. Then, balling his fists, he slammed them on the desk conceding to a blubbering, grief-ridden fit.

  The Navy wanted him to retire. The admiral of the Sixth Fleet had told him that he’d served his country with honor and the highest commitment to duty for the past forty-five years and now it was time to serve himself.

  But Naugle knew there was more to it than that. He knew of the rumors that had been spreading over the last several weeks. His people were talking. “Naugle is losing his grip,” they said, “He’s not in control”—making errors, forgetting which port they were heading for, forgetting orders he’d just made and making them a second and even a third time.

  The last incident seemed to have been the kicker. He’d called the Sixth Fleet commander, claiming he had an emergency, interrupting an important call Admiral Pierce had been having with the Secretary of the Navy. Pierce had put the secretary on hold to answer Naugle’s call, but Naugle forgot what he’d wanted to discuss with him.

  Pressure, pressure, there was always so much pressure. But he couldn’t retire. The Navy was his life. The memory of his son was his life. A man in his position could not be found out to be a human marshmallow. He must control himself. But he couldn’t. The grief he felt for the loss of his son was back in full force, as if it had just happened and it grew stronger every day. The worry of being forced to retire nagged every day.

  He was losing his grip. But before he did, maybe he could get even. Maybe he could make Sperling pay. With his daughter on board, revenge was his if he wanted it. Then he could concentrate. Then he would be in command again. Revenge.

  Moments passed. A soft knock came on Captain Naugle’s door, startling him as he sobbed softly in the wake of his tantrum.

  He pushed his face up from his crossed arms on the desk and wiped his cheeks.

  The soft tap came again. He got up from the desk and went to his bunk and lay down before answering.

  Chapter 16

  MEETING THE CAPTAIN

  AFTER LEAVING THE XO, Spurs went to Commander Naugle’s stateroom and tapped on the door.

  There was no response and she tapped again.

  “Enter,” came the low reply.

  She stepped in the door and found the skipper, fully dressed, lying on his bunk, holding a wet washcloth across his forehead. In his late-fifties, he was of medium build, had thick Popeye forearms, chipmunk cheeks and a head full of short, sandy stubble.

  “Ensign Janelle Sperling, reporting as ordered, sir,” she said, standing at attention.

  “Relax, Miss Sperling,” he said, glimpsing from the corner of his eye. His voice came out raspy like from a mouthful of pebbles. He gave three phlegmy coughs. “Have a seat.” He motioned to a chair next to his desk.

  Spurs obeyed and sat, waiting for his next words.

  “Sorry I haven’t been able to greet you more formally,” he said. “These damn migraines. Anyway, Nick, uh, Commander Reeves, told me all about you. You sure surprised us.”

  “I was surprised, too, sir.”

  “Yes, I guess you probably were,” he said, still holding his head, his eyes only slits. “I don’t believe in beating around the bush—are you NCIS?”

  Spurs hoped the captain didn’t notice her cringe.

  “NCIS, sir?”

  “I know you can’t answer. I just thought I’d try. I hope you’re not here to investigate me—my alleged alcoholism.”

  Spurs sat quiet. She was sure her silence and feigned ignorance were giving her away. Nervously looking around the stateroom, she wished to tell the man that he was not under investigation. That, as far as she was concerned, he could ride out this last voyage and retire without incident. Still, as she scanned the room, she found herself looking for a bottle or a flask. There was a picture of an attractive, middle-aged lady on the skipper’s desk. Next to it was a picture of a young man in a football uniform. She saw no container and smelled no liquor. But he knew she was coming and had plenty of time to hide his hooch.

  “Sir, even if I were with NCIS, I don’t believe they investigate alcohol problems. Don’t they just deal with criminal investigations?”

  “A drunken skipper wouldn’t be criminal?” He grunted. “If it’s about Nader, I don’t think you’ll find any wrong doing aboard this ship. We had a f
ormal investigation and we’ve been cleared. His death and the other problems we’ve been having are all coincidental. No less terrible, of course. Nader was a fine young officer. His death was a tragedy. But then, my entire crew is a group of outstanding individuals. I’m a lucky captain.” His jaw clenched as if he was in pain. “Speaking of such, my son was lucky enough to serve with your father on his first cruise on the Constellation. Kelly was a lowly ensign like you.”

  She was about to ask him where his son was now, but Naugle spoke first.

  “Anyway, I hope you’ll be comfortable aboard this vessel. We’re pleased to have you.” He held out a hand, still not looking.

  Spurs took it as her cue to be dismissed. She stood and took a couple of steps to him and shook his hand. He winced and squeezed his forehead. The headache seemed relentless. He coughed twice more.

  “Pleased to be on this fine ship, sir. And, sir, I’d like to stay on for the extent of my orders.”

  “If that’s what you wish, then I see no reason not to allow you. I’ll make it so. But you’ll let me know if there’re any problems or anything I can do for you, won’t you, Miss Sperling?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, releasing his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

  Chapter 17

  A BRIEF TOUR

  AFTER LEAVING THE captain’s stateroom, Spurs decided to have a look about the ship. She descended five decks to check out the engine room, taking a quick look at the two steam turbines that propelled the vessel. They appeared smaller than she’d expected, even for the Atchison, possibly even inadequate. It gave her an insecure feeling looking at them. She was impressed by their spotless appearance, however. The only grease she saw in the compartment was on the four leering sailors manning their stations. She wanted to take them aside and tell them why she was able to handle her job, why she could do it as well as anyone else. She felt the need to convince them, but telling wouldn’t help. She would have to show this crew. Somehow, she would show the whole damn crew that she was not an anchor to this Navy but as much of a propellant as both of the engines before her.

  Three decks above on the way back up, she noticed a sailor on a four-foot stepladder painting some-thing above a hatchway with stencils, a brush and a can of paint. She stepped up to the little oriental seaman and saw that he was painting WOMEN’S HEAD in large black letters.

  She smiled, finally feeling like there was something actually being done to acknowledge she was on board. The hatch stood open about a foot, but she couldn’t see inside and the curiosity finally overcame her. She reached up and tapped the seaman on the arm.

  “Sailor,” she said.

  Startled, the sailor gasped, the ladder tipped and the paint and man fell.

  “Stupid son-of-a-bitch!” he said, falling back.

  She grabbed him from behind, under his arms, preventing injury, but the paint spilled and now oozed out into a widening puddle.

  The sailor’s dark blue cap ended up sideways, covering his left eye.

  “Dammit!” he said trying to stand as he looked at the mess of black enamel, “Stupid son-of-a-bitch!” He turned to Spurs with his teeth clenched. “You are one. . . .” He paused as he straightened his cap and gaped wide. “Woman—lady.” He looked at her uniform. “WINS, officer . . . and I’m a stupid son-of-a-bitch. Sorry, sir—ma’am.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for. I’m most of those things,” she said, then looked at the paint. “I’m the one that should be sorry. Here, let me help you clean that up.”

  She reached for some rags beside the ladder.

  “No!” he said. He snatched up all of the rags. His English was perfect as he said, “That wouldn’t do, ma’am. It was my fault. I’m just kind of goosy. We weren’t expecting any female crew members for a couple weeks.”

  “I’m here early, kind of an advanced party.” She smiled. “May I go inside?”

  The young sailor looked at the hatch to the head then back to Spurs. “Oh, uh, sure.”

  “Just for a look,” she said, feeling the need to qualify her request.

  He nodded and smiled and she did the same.

  She was disappointed when she stepped through the hatchway. Along one bulkhead were eight urinals. On the adjacent wall to her right were two toilets without stalls sitting out in the middle of nowhere, next to a double, curtain-less shower stall. On the opposite wall were two sinks with a small mirror above each.

  She turned back to see the sailor watching her then looked back at the urinals.

  “What’s your name, sailor?” she asked.

  “Hwa, ma’am. Seaman first class. The guys call me Jitterbug, cause I’m so jumpy.”

  “Well—Jitterbug. I’m Ensign Sperling. Tell me,” she asked still staring at the pissers, “where are the other women’s heads going to be?”

  “This will be the only one, as far as I know, ma’am.”

  “How about mirrors, stalls, more toilets and sinks?”

  “Don’t know anything about toilet stalls or more sinks, ma’am. But as far as I know the mirrors stay,” he said.

  “But when are those coming out?” she asked, pointing at the urinals.

  “No plans for that, ma’am. My understanding was that the, uh, necessary adjustments would be temporary.”

  Spurs twisted around to see if he was for real.

  He smiled back sincerely. He was serious.

  She stepped out of the head and grinned back. She held out her hand.

  “Thanks for the tour, Jitterbug.”

  He looked surprised and wiped his right hand on his blue shirt making long black streaks.

  “It was a pleasure, ma’am.”

  Chapter 18

  PROUD PARENTS

  2230

  SPURS SAT UP in the bottom bunk as the rocking of the world around her increasingly worsened. She’d moved her linen to that lower bunk, not wishing to be any further away from the ship’s center than necessary. She had lain down at 2130 but couldn’t sleep. Two things kept her from dozing: anticipation for the meeting she was to have at 0100 with the mysterious note writer and the increasingly rough seas.

  Clinging to the top bunk above her, she swallowed several times trying to keep down the mostly bread supper she’d eaten. She wasn’t able to suppress it very long. The urge to vomit soon became overpowering and she staggered to the head, making it to the porcelain throne just in time to expel the two dinner rolls, a small chew of meat and the spoonful of green beans she’d had for the evening meal. Tomorrow she would only have crackers, she thought. Now her stomach was empty, but she was not hungry. A sip from a water glass was all she could consume. At first light, she’d ask Doc Jolly for some Dramamine patches.

  There was no use trying to sleep any longer. Soon, it would be time to go to the signal bridge for the meeting.

  She glanced at a Tupperware container in her locker. Inside it was a bundle of letters. Her thoughts drifted to the visit she had with Ensign Charles Nader’s parents back in DC, two short days ago.

  * * *

  The tall, elegantly dressed black woman stood in the doorway fingering a large, gold shamrock broach as she stared at Janelle Sperling.

  “Mrs. Nader?” Spurs asked.

  “Yes. Are you one of Charlie’s friends?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m an investigator for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service.” She pulled out an ID card that had been made up with her assumed name on it and showed it to her. “My name is Jill Smith.”

  “Please come in,” Mrs. Nader said, pulling the door wide and stepping back.

  Spurs walked in and followed her into a sitting room of the large, ornate, turn-of-the-century vintage, Victorian home. On a small tapestry upholstered sofa with Queen Ann legs was a graying, black gentleman and a pretty young black woman holding hands.

  “This is my husband, Mike, and Charlie’s girlfriend, Sheryl,” she said, looking to them. “Honey, Sheryl, this is Miss Smith.”

  “Jill,” Spurs said.

  After being invited t
o sit, offered tea or coffee, and some pleasantries about the weather, Spurs got down to business.

  “We’re not sure of the cause of your son’s death,” she said, setting a large tumbler of iced tea on a doily on the hand rubbed walnut coffee table in front of her. But officially, we’re calling it a suicide. . . .”

  “Suicide!” Mike Nader leaped from his seat and rubbed his thick hair. He turned away. “My son would not—could not commit suicide.”

  “We don’t think he did, either,” she said calmly.

  He spun around to her seeming bewildered. “What do you mean?”

  “He had cocaine in his nostrils. . . .”

  “My son did not use drugs!” Mr. Nader blurted.

  “Oh, not Charlie,” Mrs. Nader said.

  Spurs sighed and nodded slowly, then continued what she’d started to say, “ . . . but none of the cocaine had been absorbed into his system.”

  “Meaning?” Mr. Nader said. His tone was still harsh and defensive.

  “Mike,” Mrs. Nader softly scolded, patting her husband’s hand.

  Spurs said, “There should have been at least traces of cocaine found in his blood if he’d snorted it while he was alive. In other words, we are relatively sure that someone wanted it to look like he’d been on drugs. That someone put it in his nostrils after he fell to his death.”

  The Naders and their son’s girlfriend glanced at one another.

  “This still doesn’t rule out suicide, but it makes it a lot less likely.”

  Mr. Nader looked puzzled. “So why are you calling it a suicide without finding out for sure?”

  “We’re not, sir—that is unofficially. We feel that if we officially call it suicide, we can put an agent undercover and no one will suspect that we’re still investigating. It may give us a better chance to find out exactly what happened.”