“You don’t mean you’re going undercover?” Mrs. Nader asked.
“I can’t say, ma’am. Did Charlie have any enemies, or did he ever talk about being in danger, threatened or anything unusual happening?”
The couple looked at each other and then back to Spurs.
“No,” Mr. Nader said.
Mrs. Nader put her hand on his forearm. “What about the letters?” she asked.
Charlie’s father raised his eyebrows then walked over to a small roll top desk. He took out one of several bundles of letters. He brought them to Spurs and placed them in her lap.
“Whatever he told us since he’d been on that ship is in these,” he said. “He didn’t like to use the phone. Said it was a waste of money. You might find something of interest in one of them. The last one, maybe.”
Spurs smiled up at him. “Thanks.”
“It’s just a loan,” he said. “Charlie’s letters are all that’s left of him besides some pictures and memories.”
“I’ll be sure to take care of them. I’ll bring them back to you as soon as I can.”
He nodded.
Spurs spent the next twenty minutes talking to the Naders and looking at old photos of their son. Charles Nader’s fiancée seemed shy, not speaking unless coaxed, and, even then, her voice was quiet and shaky. It took very little for her eyes to tear up. When the young woman broke into sobs after coming across a photo of her and Charles on senior prom night, Spurs decided she’d imposed upon them enough. She stood up and they accompanied her to the door.
“Be careful, Miss Smith,” Mike Nader told her. He shook her hand. “But see what you can do to clear our son’s good name. It’s very important to us, as you can see.”
Spurs felt a warmth deep in her chest for this grieving family. “I’ll do my best.”
“Yes, do be careful,” Mrs. Nader said. “Charlie wouldn’t want someone getting hurt because of him.”
Spurs smiled back. She noticed Mrs. Nader rubbing the gold shamrock again. A small diamond glistened in the center. “That’s a beautiful broach, ma’am.”
Mrs. Nader looked down at it. “Thank you. Charlie gave it to me when he was in training in San Diego. It’s called Mother’s Medal of Honor. He gave his father a tie tack just like it.”
Spurs looked to Mr. Nader’s dark brown tie. A miniature version of the broach pinned it.
“Charlie was special, Jill,” Mrs. Nader said.
Then, for the first time without being spoken to first, Charles Nader’s fiancée spoke up. “He loved his country. He was a hero to us. Please don’t let him be remembered as some kind of a dope addict.”
Spurs patted the younger woman’s hand, and then hugged Mrs. Nader. “I won’t.” She nodded to Mr. Nader. “You can count on that.”
* * *
Spurs closed her locker and sat back on her bunk, thinking about Charles Nader’s dad. He must have been a very good father. She briefly compared him to her own father, the Admiral, and realized she’d never even shaken his hand. When she was a child, the few times the Admiral was around much, she couldn’t recall him ever kissing her, hugging her— or even touching her except to pick her up and place her in her mother’s arms when he was leaving.
Chapter 19
MEETING THE STORM
00:50
THE WIND-UP Baby Ben clock read ten minutes till one. Spurs sat on the edge of her bunk, swaying from side to side and slipped on her shoes. The signal bridge was only a three-minute walk, but Spurs wanted to be early. She stood, but paused, waiting for the floor to tip toward her cap hanging on the latrine door, then she quick-stepped to it. After spinning around as the deck tipped toward the doorway, she leaned back and took short, halting steps in that direction.
Outside her door, she made her way, zigzagging, pushing off from the bulkheads on either side of the corridor. When she reached Lieutenant Commander Reeves’ stateroom, she hesitated. Reeves was to be waiting in the shadows near the bridge as a witness and as protection, just in case. Mr. Note Writer could be a murderer just as easily as an informant. He could want to get rid of her instead of giving her information as the note implied.
Spurs listened at the door to see if Nick Reeves was stirring, but heard nothing. She tapped softly, not wishing to disturb the captain or any of the other officers in their surrounding staterooms.
With no answer, she tapped again and whispered, “Commander? Lieutenant Commander Reeves, are you awake?”
Still no hint of a reply, she touched the doorknob. Perhaps he was sleeping. He’d better not oversleep. She didn’t wish to do this alone. Looking up and down the empty, dimly lit passageway, she began turning the doorknob.
“Commander?” she whispered a bit louder, “Commander Reeves?”
She opened the door slowly. There was a light on in the room.
“Sir, are you awake?” Gradually, she pushed the door wider.
Now half open, she peeked inside and looked around. A lamp beside his bunk was on, but there was no sign of Reeves. She stepped inside, thinking he could be in the head, not wishing to disturb him, but also not wishing to go topside alone.
She shut the door in case someone might happen by and stepped toward the closed toilet door.
The ship pitched suddenly and Spurs staggered back. The small lamp beside the bunk flickered and went out, throwing the room into complete darkness as the head door began to open. The door banged against the bulkhead and Spurs felt something strike her foot.
The light blinked again and came on. The toilet was empty. The rough seas had caused the simple, hollow-core door to loosen from its jam and swing wide.
On the floor lay a pen, the thing that had struck her foot. She picked it up to set it in a pencil holder on the nearby desk and saw a notepad that Reeves had been writing on. He had made a list of women’s names, all but the last two crossed out; Bridgett, Gina, Carla, Yvonne, Delores, Nikki, Sasha, Kabran, Maria and Janelle. She decided it must be a list of first names of the officers in the WINS detail—her name included—for some kind of nametags, perhaps.
Spurs hoped Reeves was already on the signal bridge or at least on his way. She felt comforted knowing he would be there watching, then uneasy that he might not.
The ship’s rocking increased with every step she took toward the signal deck. Traveling to a higher part of the ship magnified the effects of the growing storm outside exponentially. She remembered how Commander Reeves had spoken about the “squall” just before they met. “It’ll be a good drill for the legs,” he’d said.
Spurs stepped into the Combat Information Center, where three sailors manned the fire-control consoles.
“Anyone been through here lately?” she asked.
Petty Officer Jabrowski was at the controls. He looked to her. “Good evening, miss,” he said. “No, no one’s been through either hatch for the last hour except the Officer of the Deck.”
“Who is that?”
“Lieutenant North, miss,” he said. “Anything I can do?”
Spurs shivered. Could it be North she was to meet and if so, was he a murderer or an informer? If it was North, he might try to do her in. Otherwise, if he just had information to give her, he’d had plenty of opportunities to do so before this.
“No thank you, Jabrowski.”
“Ski, miss,” he said, smiling. “Everyone just calls me plain old Ski.”
She forced a grin and staggered through the room to the hatch leading out onto the signal bridge.
As she placed her hand on the grab handle, Jabrowski rose and walked toward her. He said, “Be careful out there, miss. We’re in a force eight storm.” He took a black slicker swaying from a coat hook near the hatch and held it out. “Only essential personnel are allowed topside.”
“Thanks, Ski.”
As she reached her arms into the raincoat, she wondered about Ensign Nader on the night of his death. He’d been just outside of the CIC on the signal deck when he fell. He may have gone out through the very hatch she
prepared to exit. Maybe Jabrowski knew something. He already seemed to suspect that she was an undercover investigator. She needed to know more. This was no time to be shy.
She turned to him. “Ski, were you on duty the night that Ensign Nader died?”
Ski lowered his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tell me about it, Ski.”
“Pardon me, ma’am,” he said and took her by the arm and pulled her as far away from the others as he could. They stumbled to the bulkhead from the rocking and clung onto a horizontal I-beam support along the middle of the wall.
He whispered, “It was about 0130. The Ensign came in all excited. He seemed scared, worried maybe. He said someone was after him. He had a loaded gun. He kind of scared me, too. I’d never seen him like that before. He was normally real calm, pleasant in a serious sort of way.”
“What happened?”
“He was tired. Said he needed to hide out and get some sleep. That they would get him if he went back to his stateroom. He said he trusted me, but nobody else. He couldn’t be sure of any of the others, not even the captain. I told him to get between those two lockers over there,” he said pointing to a couple of gray wall lockers, “and I’d cover him up with a blanket. He didn’t say a word, he just crashed and I did as I said I would.”
Spurs noticed a kind of guilty look on Jabrowski’s face. “Tell me Ski, what happened?”
“You’ve got to understand me, ma’am, I was scared. There’d been a lot of bad things happening on the ship. It was just too weird.” He looked her eye to eye and swallowed.
“Go on, Ski,” she said.
“I called the captain. I didn’t want to bother him but I thought I’d better go to the top instead of through the OOD. Anyway, the captain didn’t answer. I figured he was probably sick again, so I buzzed Commander Reeves. He told me to try and disarm Ensign Nader when I was sure he was asleep. He said to buzz him back after I did. Nader was out like a light. I guess he hadn’t been sleeping much. I took the ammo clip out of his sidearm and I noticed he had another loaded magazine sticking halfway out of one of his pockets, so I took that out too.” Jabrowski’s eyes teared. “I’m sorry ma’am. I hope what I did didn’t cause Ensign Nader to get killed. He trusted me.”
“I don’t know, Ski,” she said, “but you’re doing the right thing now. What happened next?”
“Well, when I put the blanket back over Ensign Nader, he woke up. He seemed startled like he’d had a bad dream or something and he started babbling.”
“What was he babbling?”
“He said, ‘The Enterprise, it’s going to be the Enterprise!’ He said he had to warn them. That they would overhear the radio. He looked up and said something about the signal light and then jumped to his feet and ran to this hatch and left. I started to follow him, but decided I’d better call Commander Reeves back and tell him first.”
“Keep going,” she whispered, noticing the other sailors taking curious glances at them.
“Well, Commander Reeves told me to sit tight and within a couple of minutes, he came in and asked where Nader was. I told him and so we both went outside and that’s when we heard a bunch of people down below and saw Ensign Nader lying there, dead.”
“Who was down there?”
“Let’s see, there was Doc Jolly, Seaman Wright, Big Track and Stemps, Lieutenant Goodman, Captain Chardoff and . . . ,” he paused, trying to remember, “Lieutenant North.”
“Why didn’t you tell the investigators this before?”
“Commander Reeves told me not to.”
She turned toward the hatch, then curious about one more thing she looked back. “Who was the OOD that night?”
“Same as tonight, ma’am. Lieutenant North.”
Spurs felt that chill again. She turned back to the steel door and opened it to a fire hose-like deluge of water. She stammered back one step with the rising deck, then flung herself out into the howling squall.
Nothing she had ever seen compared.
The Atchison fought the sea’s onslaught fiercely, listing to one side, then the other, pitching up like a rearing bronco, and then slamming down in a shuddering crash, sending white foam spraying. The steel lady finally submitted to a huge, vengeful wall of water pounding her topside and the torturous cycle repeated. The charcoal gray sky was indistinguishable from the sea except when brilliant flashes of lightning scribbled overhead and gave the turbulent sea the look of a giant, boiling caldron of black oil. This was not a good time or place to meet anyone but your maker. She had no choice, almost hoping the mystery crewmember would not show.
After nearly losing her footing on the deck and her hold on the hatch, she welcomed Jabrowski’s arms reaching out and steadying the hatch by the grab handle.
Spurs stepped around and shoved against the hatch—Ski, finally taking the hint, moved back in and closed and secured it.
She pushed herself away from the bulkhead, trying to time her movements, her steps, with the motion of the ship. Impossible. She stumbled to the middle of the bulwarks where she had spoken with Commander Reeves earlier, where Ensign Nader was said to have last stood.
Grabbing the rounded top, she held tight with her right arm, and then looked back at the ladders on each side of the deck. Sea spray splashed her face as she checked the time. The luminous dial of her watch read 0100.
A shadow ducked out of sight on the left ladder. Could it be Reeves or was it the informer? She was surprised to see movement on the right ladder, also. At least she thought she had seen something, possibly the top of a head as it ducked.
She waited, trading glances from one now empty ladder to the other. One must be Reeves, one the informer. Why doesn’t he show himself? She caught a glimpse of movement from the other side while watching the left stairway. Looking right, she thought she had picked up on it. The hatch. Had it moved, begun to open? No. She raised her eyes, then her face.
Thunder cracked. Lightning lit up the gray mass of steel. A man stood looking down at her from the radar mast, twenty feet above the hatch. He stared down with studying eyes, as stiff as a gargoyle, the lightning making his face glow. She hadn’t seen this man before.
Spurs waited for him to move, but he wouldn’t. She glimpsed to the ladders and thought she’d seen movement on the left again. The place was getting too damned crowded.
The man hanging onto the radar mast finally swung around one of the poles and leapt toward her on the mast deck above. She was amazed by his agility. He was no lubber—definitely a salt. He moved as if on stable land. Nearly to the end of the deck above her, he seemed to fall. No, he’d flung himself into a prone position above the hatch to the Combat Information Center and was now peering at her from the edge.
Spurs watched, clinging to the safety wall.
The man reached out with one hand, motioning her to come.
She looked to each ladder, not seeing anyone, hoping who she had thought she had seen before was Reeves or merely shadows and not people. The man that beckoned her didn’t seem to be a threat. He’d have to drop eight feet to the signal deck in order to reach her. It didn’t appear to be his intention.
Spurs released the wall as more sea spray assaulted her and burned her eyes. She took one step, stumbled, fell to her hands and knees, picked herself up nearly to her feet, fell again, staggered up, took short swift steps toward the hatch and finally fell into it. She held tight to the outside grab handle and straightened herself, then lifted her face. The man was directly above, his head, arm and shoulder hanging over the side. His face was frantic.
“NCIS?” he yelled over the wailing storm.
Spurs nodded, blinking the salt water from her eyes. “Who are you?”
“Gus Franken, Senior Chief Petty Officer.”
“Why the secrecy?”
“They’ll kill me if they know I’m talking to you.”
“Why?”
“I know what happened to Na
der.”
“Tell me!”
“Two men, one real big son-of-a-bitch. Couldn’t see their faces, but I think I know who they were.”
Spurs frowned thinking of Chardoff. The ship pitched and hammered the sea with a terrific jolt, the water slapping the hull. She staggered, still gripping the handhold.
“Sounded like they were trying to talk the kid outa snitching. They talked about drugs, but I don’t think that was it. It was like they were using drugs to cover something up. They accused one another of treason.”
“Did they push him?”
“They were fighting over Nader’s gun. He slipped. The big guy grabbed him, but then let him go.”
The wind howled through the radar mast, an eerie prolonged breath.
“Who do you think it was?” she asked, but before the chief had a chance to answer, he suddenly disappeared, apparently pulled away from view.
Some kind of a struggle ensued. Seconds later his body came back, slamming down halfway over the wall. His head bounced against the top of the steel hatch and Spurs had to duck. Momentarily, he looked back at her, upside down, arms hanging limp, eyes wide with fright, blood leaking from his mouth and forehead.
He was yanked back out of sight like a toy.
Spurs thought of Reeves. He could help.
She stepped back, still holding the grab handle, trying to see what was happening above.
Arms flailed. There was a fight. More arms reaching, heading toward the side. She wouldn’t be able to hear a splash due to the mean sea, but it looked like someone went overboard.
“Help!” she screamed, “Somebody help!”
She’d have to go inside and get Jabrowski, not wishing to confront whoever may be on the side ladders.
Just as she began to pull up on the grab handle to un-dog the door, a pain exploded from the back of her head. She lost balance. Fell. The deck tossed. She felt as though she was being dragged. Couldn’t see by whom. A stinging pain came from her ribs as she was slammed against the short safety wall on the side of the signal deck and she saw stars.
Someone was trying to throw her overboard. She struggled, weakly, her arms not cooperating, the pain from her head shooting through her body, burning now. She hit. Grabbed. Kicked.
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