Reeves’ words were just more bullshit. But this time she wouldn’t believe his lies.
“No,” she said, “I won’t listen to your crap. Get away from me!”
Spurs swam around the wing of the sinking plane. Reeves came for her, the preserver still around him, as she struggled toward the jet’s nose. The hundred-foot line that tethered the two together floated behind them, looping back to the tail. Her only hope was to keep the plane between her and Reeves until help came.
“Come on Spurs, don’t you get it?”
He was on her, suddenly, grabbing, the huge knife still in his grip.
She reached for the nose of the jet to pull herself away. No use. Nothing to hold on to and he was too strong.
He grabbed the line that linked them together. He took part of it and quickly wrapped it around her neck.
“You little bitch,” he spat. “You know, don’t you?”
His face distorted maniacally as he twisted the line tight around her throat with his right hand that was already full of the big knife handle.
He pulled her close. His wild expression faded. He loosened the line.
“We could make it. Together. You and I.”
What was he saying? She didn’t understand. Had he already given up on his little lie?
“You’re the only one left alive that knows about me.” He took the line away from her neck and smiled. “I won’t hurt you. I promise. It could be like it never happened.”
He was crazy. Completely and certifiably insane. Spurs looked for an escape. Anything. A way out.
North’s eyes blinked. Still alive. Dying. Too far away on the other side of the wing to help. Too weak.
“Come on. We were so close to having a good thing together,” Reeves said.
She was sure he was toying with her.
He wiped water from his face and she saw his Annapolis ring. She remembered what North had said about the man that had thrown her overboard. That the man had been wearing an Annapolis ring.
He pulled her to him again, both arms wrapping around her, his left hand pressing the back of her head. He forced his lips to hers.
She fought to push away, but couldn’t.
His right arm released her, but his left hand still pushed against her head..
What was he doing? That knife. He still had that knife. He was going to kill her as they kissed, she was sure of it. Any second, she would feel the huge, cold blade stab into her belly. He’d twist it to make sure. It was all clear, now. She knew everything about this man. His clever ways. His seemingly sympathetic and understanding behavior. He could turn his emotions on in a snap. Be what he wanted in order to get what he wanted. He truly was a “Chameleon”. And now, what he wanted was to get her to submit and then die in his arms, the sick son-of-a-bitch.
Spurs jerked her mouth away from his lips.
She saw North raise his head weakly.
To Reeves she said, “You’re a traitor.”
He clenched his teeth.
His pause gave her just enough time.
Spurs brought her knee up to his groin forcefully and shoved away.
He released the knife, in favor of the more cherished but now painfully damaged possession.
She turned, looking frantically for an escape, swimming away, perpendicular from the plane. But there was nowhere to hide, and only a few feet in front of her the water flamed. She was cornered, exhausted. When Reeves came for her again, he would not be playing. He would surely kill her.
Spurs glanced back at North, behind the Harpoon. Her sight fixed on the cannon plug connector just behind the pylon that the missile was attached to. She didn’t know why at first. Her subconscious seemed to be telling her that this was the way to stop Reeves. She remembered Doug had teased Cards, calling him, Ol’ No Shot because his pickle button had been sticking. The button that fired the weapons. It’d been sticking, allowing only one weapon to be fired. If Cards had selected and armed the missile and then pushed the sticking pickle button—and it did stick in the “fire” position—maybe properly connecting the cannon plug would fire the missile. That is, if that troublesome button had stayed depressed even after the crash.
Reeves had recovered. He came for her again.
Chapter 72
SADDLE UP
SPURS GRABBED AT the water to get far enough away from Lieutenant Commander Reeves to attempt her plan. Her limbs ached, weakened from the physical exertion she’d endured. She finally stopped, drained of nearly all energy and emotion, and turned toward Reeves.
Taking the line closest to his end, she pulled the slack from between them as he swam methodically toward her. He took his time, taking slow wide strokes, obviously confident that he had her.
Spurs looped the line, making a quick lasso. She couldn’t make a conventional one, with both ends of the line tied off to each of their bodies, and she didn’t have time to untie it from around her waist. She raised her nylon lariat, waving it above her head and hoped when thrown, it would cinch down well enough to be effective. Hitched to the wing twenty feet away, her finned, white bronco waited.
“We’d already be dead if it wasn’t for a loose cannon plug,” she said, loud enough for North to hear.
Reeves smiled at her, apparently not caring to understand.
She looked behind and to the left of Reeves and her eyes met North’s. He looked back hopelessly, his face pale, head limp to one side, mouth gaping. His was the face of a man with not long to live. He’d lost so much blood before from the gunshot wound— now a knife in the back.
She continued to swing the line in circles above her, glaring back at Reeves.
He came closer, gazing comically at her.
Could it possibly work? What would happen if it did? Even if North did understand, would he be strong enough to make the connection? And if he did, could she lasso the missile in one try, before it launched and not too soon to give Reeves enough time to pull it free? She’d never thrown a lasso while being held up to her armpits by an undulating sea. Using shoulders, upper torso and even hips were essential in the accurate roping of livestock.
“Yep, just a loose cannon plug,” she said, again looking to North, then to the loose connector.
North finally traced her sight and looked to the tail of the missile. He eyed the pylon. The cannon plug. He glanced back at Spurs and she gave him a nod. He reached slowly, touched the connection with one hand, grabbed with the other.
Not seeming to understand what she was doing, Reeves let up and treaded water, only eight feet away.
“Come on, Spurs,” he said. “Go along with me. You and me.”
“All right,” she said mildly, smiling back. “I’ll go along with you.” She then gritted her teeth. “But it’s going to be a quick and explosive trip. Hit the trail, Asshole!” she ordered, glaring into his face.
Reeves scowled at Spurs, then looked back to North. He saw the loose connection, looked to Spurs again. His eyes lifted to the nylon line being slung above her head, looked back to her face.
Spurs slung her lasso at the nose of the missile, following through, extending her weakened arms. It sailed as they all watched.
A perfect shot. It caught the Harpoon with a slap and slid over the first set of fins.
Reeves gawked at the line wrapped around the death’s messenger before him, as North shoved the connecting plug together.
Spurs fumbled with the knot on the line around her waist. She must get free. If the Harpoon fired, she might have just committed suicide.
The tail of the missile sparked. Commander Reeves gaped at Spurs, then jerked frantically on the line to free himself and, at the same time, tried to slip out of the life preserver.
Spurs pulled and yanked at the nylon rope attaching her to the missile and Reeves. She had secured it too well. She had killed herself.
The Harpoon’s turbojet engine ignited. Flames torched from the back. Smoke plumed. It launched.
With only fifteen feet of slack line between i
t and Reeves, he left quickly. The horrified expression on his face was almost worth suicide.
The surface-skimming missile yanked him from the water as it streaked away. It dragged him backwards, his arms reaching limply, rag doll-like. His heels kicked up salt-water rooster tails as his body skipped across the rolls of sea.
Spurs was tied to that line, also. No use, too tight. Not enough time. She would be dragged away also. Her body became rigid, but as soon as it did, she reasoned that the rope was only one hundred feet long and it had been shortened considerably. If she’d been leaving on the Harpoon Missile Express with Reeves, she would have been gone long ago.
The turbo jet assisted bomb disappeared through the smoke and rolling flames. Within five seconds, it blasted thunderously, prematurely dragged down by Reeves’ added weight.
Why had she not been taken along? And what of North? Had he been fried from the turbo jet’s flame?
Spurs looked to the other side of the F-18. The missile’s ignition had left a steamy fog. Through the steam she could only see North’s blackened arm protruding from the water. In his hand was the smoking, burnt end of the line. His head popped from the water as waves from the explosion rocked them like buoys. A faint smile came over his face, but then he grimaced with pain as the low drone of a boat motor approached. A rescue launch from the Enterprise neared, four of its six occupants showing the business ends of their M-16s.
She saw something small bobbing in the water. The Tupperware container filled with Nader’s letters was pushed toward her from the boat’s wake. She smiled at the men in the boat.
There would be one hell of a lot of explaining to do.
Chapter 73
DEAD RECKONING
May 16, 1300 USS Enterprise, anchored fifty miles west of Rota, Spain
THE TERM DEAD reckoning took on a whole new meaning in the days that followed the turmoil aboard the USS Atchison. The answers to a multitude of questions seemed as fragmented as the bodies of the dead.
Taps played.
The afternoon sky shown bright and cloudless over an iridescent, royal blue sea.
A casket, weighted with brass casings, but empty of human remains, slid from under its red, white and blue drape and fell overboard splashing into the ocean. A small contribution to Davy Jones’ locker—a symbol for the many dead US Navy and Marine heroes of days past.
More than five thousand sailors and marines saluted in silent respect atop the gigantic aircraft carrier’s deck. They stood in reverence, many teary eyed. Along with them were the survivors of the Atchison’s crew, including Doc Jolly, Sanders, Botts, Hwa and Big Track. Numbness still gripped every soul.
The last note came from the bugler’s horn and the ship’s lieutenant called out, “To!”
All saluting arms snapped to their sides.
“Detail, dismissed!”
Most of those topside reverently drifted away. It was a quiet crowd of five thousand.
Three, however, would not be dismissed so quickly. Special Agent Janelle B. Sperling, still dressed in her Navy ensign uniform, stood to the left of Lieutenant Darren North’s wheelchair. In one hand, she held the plastic container full of Nader’s letters to his loved ones. North still wore his Navy uniform to keep his cover, even though Spurs found out Lieutenant Darren North was actually CIA Senior Special Agent Darren Hunter. Lieutenant, JG Victor Bowser was on her other side, left arm in a sling.
Deputy Assistant Director Paul Royse had surprised Spurs and Hunter by flying in from the states for the ceremony. He came by as the deck cleared and patted them on the backs.
“Thanks for coming, Uncle Paul,” Spurs said.
Royse nodded solemnly and walked away.
The brief but emotional ceremony had honored all those who lost their lives in the terrorists’ Operation Dead Reckoning. The names of United States Marines Lieutenants Douglas A. Smith and Robert E. Stedman were singled out during the memorial for serving their country honorably and making the ultimate sacrifice.
There would be another ceremony within the next week to award medals for heroism and valor. Many honors would also be bestowed on the three now gazing out at the horizon.
Sixth Fleet Admiral Wayne Pierce would not be present to bestow the awards, nor was he attending, now. A good part of the debacle had been his doing, indirectly. He’d handpicked the crew of the Atchison. Every misfit he could find in the fleet—in the Navy— he put aboard her. A strong advocate for new and modern warships he’d wanted desperately to prove the unworthiness of Captain Naugle’s idea to retrofit old ships with new weapons, guidance and propulsion. He’d done his best to derail the plan, but at the same time he’d created the catalyst for the deaths of dozens of Americans. The Navy’s Judge Advocate General had flown him back to Washington, DC to face criminal charges. They included more than two dozen counts of manslaughter and 6,000 counts of criminal endangerment for the unwitting part he’d played in the terrorist plot. His misplaced passion had left the door wide open for what could have been the worst disaster in US Navy history, dwarfing even the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.
Spurs shook her head and sighed, thinking of it.
“He loved you, you know—right up to the end,” Vic Bowser said out of the side of his mouth while staring out to sea. “He was so confused.”
His words broke her spell. She felt Hunter’s bandaged hands clasp around her right hand. She turned to him, a tear escaping down her cheek.
He smiled up with one of those, nothing-to-smileabout-but-its-better-than-crying-everything’s-going-tobe-all-right smiles. And his eyes still smiled, too. It made her lips curl up just enough to acknowledge him. She softly squeezed his hands then looked back at Vic Bowser.
“But he loved you more,” she said.
“No, just differently. Ours was a forbidden love,” he said, “destined to fail.” He looked to his shoes.
Spurs felt his sorrow now, not only her own. She felt his loss.
“He was a good man,” Vic said. “His confusion was my fault.”
“Nobody’s fault,” she said, almost not believing the words came from her. “You were right to want what came natural to you—to Doug. The hell with everyone else who couldn’t understand or accept it. If it was anyone’s fault, it was God’s, and God doesn’t make mistakes. He just tests people to see if they’re good enough for something better.”
Hunter had been noticeably silent since the melee. Now he spoke, “Your friend Doug passed with honors.”
Chapter 74
SOMEDAY
June 30, 1500 NSIC Headquarters, Navy Shipyards, Washington, DC
SIX WEEKS PASSED. Special Agent Janelle Sperling had become bored of the paperwork piled high on her desk. She was eager for her first thirty-day leave, starting tomorrow. When she returned, perhaps another undercover assignment would await her.
That didn’t matter now. Darren Hunter did. She stared at the fabric wall of her cubicle. They’d stayed in constant touch by phone since May, him from his hospital room in Rota, Spain, she from her office in Washington, DC. He was to be released today, then fly over, where she would meet him at Baltimore Washington International airport tomorrow morning at 0800. From there, they would see the sights from Baltimore to New York for the next month. It would be a wonderful time, and yes, she was sure they would be lovers.
The last time they had talked, the day before yesterday, everything was going according to plan.
Spurs smiled. She missed that jerk. She loved that jerk.
A soft knock came from around the corner of her cubicle.
It was the Director’s secretary, requesting that she report to Burgess’ office immediately.
With a curious smirk, she followed the woman to his office, fifty feet down the hall.
In his office, Director Burgess told her in an unusually grave tone to have a seat to the left of his desk. Her uncle, Paul Royse, sat to the right. Royse did not smile at her as was his usual custom. Neither did Burgess.
It would be
about Hunter—she could sense it like a cloud of doom over her head. He’d been killed in an airplane crash, or maybe a car wreck on the way to the airport in Spain.
She gaped alternately at the two men, waiting for the inevitable. They said nothing, their faces solemn, seeming to study her. Why wouldn’t they just come out and tell her? She could wait no longer.
“What?” she asked. “It’s Hunter, isn’t it?”
Royse answered. “Yes, Spurs, it’s Hunter.”
She hung her head trying to hold her tears. Unsuccessful, she tried to cry silently.
“How?”
Burgess said, “What we want to know is why.”
Spurs wiped her eyes with her hands.
“What do you mean, sir?”
Royse stood from his chair and took two steps toward her, holding out a Western Union Mailgram envelope. She accepted it, noticing it was addressed to her—and that it had been opened. The return address read Darren Hunter, nothing more.
“What is this, Uncle Paul?” she asked, looking up as he sat back in his seat. “Why is my personal mail being opened?”
“We had suspicions,” Royse answered.
“Open it,” Burgess said. “I think then you’ll understand.”
She spread open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper, not big enough to need folding for it to fit inside.
She read it out loud.
“Dearest Spurs, You’ll never know how much this hurts. Things have happened, and I won’t be going with you to New York. I can’t explain. I know you won’t understand, but I love you more than anyone I’ve ever met. And, although seeing each other again someday could be deadly for both of us, I do hope we will.”
There was more on the back, but Spurs looked up before reading it.
They watched her sternly.
Royse explained. “We’ve pieced together what we think actually happened. We believe Hunter had been contacted by Allah’s Jihad during his last case, a theft bust on the Syracuse. Over the past five years, he’s been the CIA’s top investigator in the Med and he’s made a lot of contacts and has a number of informants. When he found out what they were offering for the operation from one of his informant connections, he couldn’t pass it up. He was sly, though. Neither the terrorists nor even his fellow traitors knew for sure that he was the Chameleon.”
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