Spurs glanced at the others with her and could see that they weren’t about to attempt a rescue of either man. The torching crewman was past hope. She bolted toward North, reminded as soon as she did of her drained strength. She tumbled, got up, and then ran to him using her hands on the deck to keep from falling.
She reached North as Jesus’ limp body hooked the lifeline on the opposite side of the ship. The young, dead crew chief acted as the chopper’s anchor, as the Atchison’s fantail pitched high, then dove deep, waves washing the entire topside and everyone on it, aft of the superstructure. The forceful water shoved down on Spurs, almost taking her with it, but she managed to hold onto North’s harness.
The tangled helo was yanked back like a yo-yo. It engulfed in flames. The rotored fireball struck the edge of the fantail, teetered momentarily, then flipped into the ocean, popping, crackling and sizzling.
North sat dazed, tangled in the lifeline and safety tether. He looked up at Spurs hopelessly, his arms limp, then at the rapidly disappearing safety cable he was attached to as it snaked across the deck following the helicopter into the deep.
Within seconds the steel tether would drag North under with the helo. Spurs tugged on the harness, attempting to lift it over North’s head but his dead weight didn’t cooperate. She fumbled with it, but it seemed stuck, finally yanking it with all of the strength she could gather.
No good.
“A knife!” North said feebly, “Something sharp!”
Spurs thought of the fingernail file she always carried. She’d sharpened it to a nice sharp edge in case of an emergency—you never know when something like that might come in handy to a girl. It certainly had less than two days ago with Henry Dubain. She fished into her drenched pocket and was surprised to find it still there as the slack in the line pulled tight. She took the file out.
North’s eyes bugged and his body jolted. Spurs’ hand came up with her homemade knife. She slashed at the nylon harness. It frayed but didn’t come in two. The cable suddenly yanked him around the stanchion and he skidded across the deck. He followed the chopper, which had now completely submerged, lighting the abyss with metal burning fire. Halfway across the landing platform, the harness broke loose and disappeared over the side.
Chapter 25
TIT FOR TAT
SPURS RAN TO North, but not to comfort or save him. She drew her fist back, glaring. He was the man that had just saved her life, but now they were even. He was her prime suspect involved in Nader’s death. He was also the bastard whose arm she’d grabbed when she was thrown overboard. He’d tried to kill her and why he had saved her later didn’t matter. She was upset at herself for needing saving, for showing her weakness, especially to North.
Lieutenant North’s face showed pure surprise. She caught him in the mouth with her first weary strike and raised her fist for another when she lost balance and rolled backwards. Two men grabbed her arms and another two made their way to North as the ship turned back into the storm.
* * *
Within ten minutes Spurs and North sat wrapped in blankets in front of Reeves inside the lieutenant commander’s stateroom. Doc Jolly had just left after attending to them. Corporal Sanders stood by the hatchway, trying to maintain parade rest against the rocking ship. The two soaked sailors glared at each other, North feeling his chin. His nose was already beginning to swell from the head butt she’d given him.
“What in the hell happened out there?” Reeves asked.
Spurs was exasperated. She raised her voice. “I told you, the son-of-a-bitch tried to kill me.”
North rolled his eyes.
“Calm down,” Reeves said. “Let’s not jump to conclusions here, Ensign. What you’re accusing Mr. North of is a very serious matter. If you insist on this claim, there’ll be a very extensive investigation. This ship could be in port for weeks, possibly leave the fleet.”
Spurs caught what Reeves was saying. If she raised a stink about what happened, the Jap Rap investigation could be compromised. That was a much bigger matter, affecting many more lives.
“Just tell me what happened, Ensign Sperling,” Reeves said.
Spurs cleared her throat. She glanced at North. North looked away, shaking his head.
“I was on the signal bridge, and. . . .”
“What in the hell were you doing on the signal bridge during a force eight storm?” North asked, his voice weak, speech slurred.
“Getting fresh air, okay . . . ,” Spurs nipped, then remembered his rank, as her head became light and she leaned back against the bulkhead, “. . . sir?”
“Mr. North,” Reeves said, “I’ll ask you to hold your questions and comments until the Ensign is finished. I’ll listen to your side of the story then. Go ahead, Ensign Sperling.”
“I saw Chief Franken. . . .”
Now, it was Reeves doing the interrupting. “What? You mean Senior Chief Petty Officer Gus Franken?”
“Yes, sir,” Spurs said. “He went overboard, too. He’s dead.”
“I don’t know if Chief Franken is dead or not, but you couldn’t have seen him on this ship tonight.”
“Sure I did, sir. I talked to him. Somebody . . . ,” she began, then thought about what Reeves had said of the investigation. If what had happened appeared purely accidental, there was sure to be a simple inquiry, but a full-fledged felony investigation that would surely spoil their mission, wouldn’t be necessary, “. . . that is, he slipped and fell over.”
“I don’t know who you saw and talked to, but it wasn’t Franken. Our chief didn’t report back from liberty in Rota yesterday. He’s AWOL.”
Spurs glanced at North, then back to Reeves.
“But, sir,” she began, “he. . . .”
“Okay, so you thought it was Franken. Had you met him before? How did you know it was him?”
“No, sir, he said that was his name.”
“I see.” He turned to the corporal and said, “Sanders, have Mr. Goodman muster the crew and account for all hands.” He turned back to Spurs as the corporal acknowledged and left the room. “We’ll see who, if anyone is missing. Go on with your story. How did you end up overboard?”
Spurs took time to consider. “It felt like someone threw me.”
“Threw you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you think that someone was Mr. North?”
“Yes, sir.” She frowned at North, then looked back to Reeves and said, “May I ask where you might have been when all of this took place?”
He looked straight faced at her and said, “Although I hardly see how that’s relevant, I was in my stateroom in the middle of trying to figure out what to do with you and the rest of the WINS when one of Lieutenant Chardoff’s men, Sergeant Krebs, reported an emergency on the fantail. Said the tarp had come off of the Tomahawk missile station and he was afraid someone might have tampered with the missiles. The man overboard sounded while I was aft.”
“And did something happen to the missiles?”
“No. By the time I got there, the Marines had them covered back up and they said nothing had been damaged.”
Spurs glared at him and his lame but possible excuse. She wanted to ask him why the hell he hadn’t been watching the signal deck as he was supposed to. He paid no attention and turned to North.”
All right Lieutenant North, what’s your story?”
North wiped away the droplets of water trickling down his face. “I stepped onto the quarterdeck to check the storm, and I heard a commotion overhead. When I went up the port side ladder, I saw Miss Sperling about to fall over the bulwarks. I reached for her and she grabbed me and pulled me over with her.”
“Did you see anyone else on the signal bridge with the Ensign?”
North paused. Spurs couldn’t tell if he was trying to make up a story to cover up something or that he too was choosing his words carefully to avoid a nasty investigation.
“No, sir, I did not.”
Chapter 26
AFTER THE
STORM
May 3, 2200
FOR THE NEXT day and a half after the squall, the sea was calm. Spurs and North were flown to the Enterprise to meet with the Sixth Fleet Commander, Admiral Pierce, to give a complete account of the incident that had taken four lives—five according to Spurs. The Fleet Operations Officer, Captain Novacek and the Fleet Legal Officer, Captain Chang sat in. The two NCIS agents stationed on the flagship did not. If the assumption were that there had been no criminal activity involved, NCIS would not be responsible to investigate. Even if this incident had involved a murder and an attempt on her life, the NCIS investigators would not want to let the cat from the bag yet. She didn’t bring Chief Franken up. Reeves had instructed her not to, concerned that it could jeopardize the Jap Rap investigation. She had to bite her lip. After three hours of grueling questioning in separate rooms, they were heloed back to the Atchison.
The fleet passed through the seven-mile wide Strait of Gibraltar at sunset. Evening chow had stuck in a lump in Spurs’ gut. She was glad that the ocean had settled, hoping it would ease her stomach, but even the mild rocking kept her nauseated.
She spent the rest of the evening in her stateroom analyzing what little clues she had. She laid them out in front of her on the small metal desk; a photo of Ensign Nader on the Bridge with Commanders Naugle and Reeves, eight letters to his parents and girlfriend, notes taken at the Nader’s, and the message left by SCPO Franken.
Nader was a happy young man, a wonderful life ahead of him. His parents attested to that. So did his girlfriend. They’d spoken of marriage. He’d looked forward to a long exciting career in the Navy. His letters said nothing to indicate that he was depressed or had problems. He had always spoken out against drugs.
The last letter to his parents postmarked five days before his death hinted at some kind of danger. It was what he said in the last couple of sentences that was troublesome:
I’m anxious to try out the new weapon’s system. It’ll be exciting to get them on line and snapped in. I’ve only seen them fired in training films, but this time, I’ll get to push the button.
There is something strange about the Tomahawks’ mission that I can’t put my finger on, though. It’d be better if I didn’t speculate about something that’s probably just my imagination. But in the event that something should happen, I’d like you to always remember I was fully aware that honor sometimes demands a high price.
Spurs rubbed her finger across the young man’s picture. An intelligent looking guy. He would have gone far.
“‘Honor sometimes demands a high price,’” she said aloud.
The Tomahawks. He said there was something strange about their mission. What could he have meant? The mission of the cruise missiles set by the Navy—the ship—Commanders Naugle and Reeves?
She placed the letters back into their plastic container and picked up the note from Franken and looked it over again. She remembered the description he’d given of the men who had confronted Nader that night. He couldn’t be one hundred percent sure who they were, but he had a good idea. He’d never told her. All he’d had time to say was that one was very large. Chardoff’s size. She’d noticed only one other man nearly as big on the ship. It was one of the cooks. She figured that by now she’d seen about every crewmember. If she could rule the cook out, she could be relatively sure that Chardoff was her man. Not positive enough to arrest him, but sure enough to watch his every move. Maybe it was time to pay the cook a little visit.
She stood up from the desk and slipped the rest of her slim clues into the shallow Tupperware container while considering the possible motives for Murder. Reeves was sure it was an international drug ring headed up by Arab terrorists to introduce a new, deadly drug into the United States on US Navy vessels. Franken seemed to think that the drugs were used as a cover up. Spurs tucked the container under her mattress and went out the door. As she walked the passageway from officers’ country to the crew’s quarters below, she heard what sounded like a muffled moan.
She staggered slightly, still not completely in control of her equilibrium. Using her right hand to steady herself against the wall, she pushed away from it lightly when the stateroom door ahead of her popped open.
The door stood ajar about six inches, then creaked lightly as it closed with the next rock. Once again a low moan came from inside the stateroom as she stepped closer.
The nameplate on the door read Captain R. D. Chardoff. A light shone from inside. The ship rocked the door open once again. This time she could see in.
She stepped further down the hallway, watching the door while she passed. It closed quietly as the ship tilted back. She stopped in front of it, knowing well that her curiosity was overruling good judgment.
The hatch opened again and she could see a lit television screen. Her first thought was that Captain Chardoff was watching some sort of training films on his VCR, but as she leaned closer she saw that it was something much different. On the screen was a nude woman gagged and tied to a pole. He was watching some sort of sick bondage film. She heard another deep moan and put her face to the doorway’s four inch opening. Chardoff stood with his back to her in front of the TV, naked, his massive thighs driving fervently into what Spurs could only guess was his own hand. She frowned in revulsion. He was in the midst of feverish, passionate sex—with himself. Henry Dubain was right, the entire ship was nuts.
The door rocked closed and she had to pull her head back. When it opened, the hinges mewed louder. She didn’t need or wish to see more and she began to leave, but this time she wondered if what Chardoff was watching was just a “B” movie or even XXX porno.
A man came into the picture on the TV wearing nothing but a black silk hood. He carried a huge, serrated hunting knife. The woman’s face contorted in fear as she cringed against her bindings. If this was acting, it was deserving of an Academy Award. Chardoff’s muscular backside worked wildly, glistening with sweat. The hooded man on the TV screen raised the weapon. The bonded woman’s eyes widened and she struggled against the cord that tied her.
At the same time that the sharp blade sliced, Chardoff’s body went into spasms and he groaned like a rutting bull.
The woman’s throat gushed red and Spurs winced and jerked her head back, glancing her cheek against the door. It swung wide, creaking loudly. She turned and bumped into a fire extinguisher hanging nearby and knocked it to the floor, then ran for the steps down to the next deck without looking back.
As she descended in leaps, Chardoff’s voice boomed through the passageway, “Little bitch!”
She heard the door slam as she cleared the landing.
Chapter 27
WHAT’S COOKING
SPURS FOUND PETTY Officer Second Class Johnny Big Track in the galley, butchering chicken. When she entered the hatchway, he looked up from his work, standing with his left side to her, his left arm raised, a large meat cleaver in his hand.
The huge man stared at her lethargically with sad, dark eyes. His large body was remarkably similar in size to Chardoff’s, except the Native American had a little bit of a paunch. His hair was short but thick and black and he had a broad face. He brought the cleaver down with a sharp whack without looking at the fowl.
Spurs stood eyeing him back. Big Track turned away.
“Something I can do for you, miss?” His voice was low, slow and gruff.
“Yeah,” she said, stepping closer. “I was wanting to check next week’s menu. I’m allergic to apricots. I was going to ask if the choice hadn’t been made, to not have apricots. Maybe pears or apples instead.”
The big Native American raised the knife again. He slammed it down, focused on his work. She moved around to his front.
“Don’t have apricots anyway,” he said, sounding irritated. “You want pears, it’ll be pears.”
She saw the big man’s right arm bandaged and in a sling.
“What happened to your arm?”
“Grease fire.”
“When?”
“Five days ago. Just before evening chow.”
“Was it bad?”
“Bad enough to take me to sick bay on the Enterprise. Spent two days there on my back. Went nuts. Had to get back to work.”
Spurs considered what he was saying. His grease fire would have been the evening before Nader fell.
Big Track seemed to be having trouble positioning a fryer on the cutting board in order to cut off its drumstick. She reached over and pulled back on the chicken leg for him.
“You a good cook?” she asked, still analyzing. He could be lying about the timing.
He raised the cleaver and she noticed a heart-shaped tattoo on his arm with MOM printed in big, red letters.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
Spurs had a frightening thought. “You are left handed, aren’t you?”
“Nope,” he said, staring into her eyes as he slammed the cleaver down.
The huge kitchen knife struck, chopping the chicken leg off two inches from her fingers.
Cook Big Track replied, “Terrible with my left hand.”
Spurs gaped. She looked at her fingers, the cleaver buried in the cutting board. She raised her undamaged member and looked up at Big Track. He stared back then gave her a hand towel and grinned. It took effort but she grinned back.
Her little interview was inconclusive. Chardoff was definitely top on her bad guy list, but she wasn’t sure on what list to place Petty Officer Second Class Johnny Big Track.
Chapter 28
HEAD START
AFTER LEAVING BIG Track in the galley, Spurs took the time to check out the new women’s restroom. She went one deck below, saw the hatch she thought was the correct one and entered without looking.
Undoing her belt as she stepped in, she looked up to see two sailors standing with their backs to her at the urinals.
Her face reddened, first with embarrassment, then with anger.
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