by F Stone
Inside the captain’s office, both men stood at attention on either side of Sidney.
“Captain Butchart reporting with the prisoner, Sidney Davenport, sir,” called out Bridges.
Behind a massive desk, the captain sat stiffly in his chair. He glanced at Sidney, then gave an almost imperceptible nod to his lieutenant. His gaze shifted to Butchart. A tense silence followed. It stirred Sidney’s reserves. She noticed that Butchart’s breathing became shallow and his hand gripping her arm was sweating.
Neither Butchart nor Waterhouse spoke the usual words of greeting. The silence troubled Sidney. Finally, Waterhouse rose from his chair. “At ease,” he ordered. His voice was crisp and deep. “Frank, it looks like you’ve been rather busy.” He eyed Sidney’s tangled hair, filthy clothes, and bare feet. “Who or what have you delivered to the Nonnah?”
“Nothing you’ll have to be bothered with for long. She’s to be executed this evening. The details are on this file.” Butchart pulled out a memory rod from his tunic and tossed it onto the desk. “I’ll remain on board until after her execution.”
Waterhouse walked up to Butchart and smiled. “You want to watch, Frank? You’re short of blood on the naval base?”
Butchart snorted. “This is a special case. She’s quite dangerous.”
Waterhouse raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”
Sidney sensed that under the military fiber of their equal rank something wanted to be unleashed. She felt it in Butchart’s tightening grip and saw it in Waterhouse’s dark eyes. But she felt a warmth in him even though he held his mouth in a firm expression of cold indifference. While every cell of the ship’s captain screamed authority, she felt the word “safe” when she looked at him. And there was something more behind those eyes, something that reminded her of Greystone. But she had no energy to inspect his aura, was no longer able to focus for more than a few seconds at a time. The room’s floor swayed, and her mind began to drift. More and more, an adversary more lethal than Butchart took hold of her body.
Waterhouse walked to a counter behind Sidney. “Coffee, Frank?”
“Coffee would be fine once this prisoner is stowed away in a cell. You’ll need to post someone in front of her door continuously. I’ll escort her there now.”
“She looks pretty sick. Or have you just been hard to please?” Waterhouse chuckled as he returned to stand in front of Sidney.
“Captain Waterhouse, she’s tougher than she looks. And I wouldn’t trust her.”
“Carla Smart,” Waterhouse called into the comlink on his tunic. He continued to stare into Sidney’s face, studying her.
She tried to speak to him with her aura and telepathic gift. I surrender, my friend, and place my body in your good wisdom and care.
In seconds, a reply was heard from the captain’s comlink speakers. “Lieutenant Smart here, Captain.”
“Carla, commence heading to Acapulco.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Sam,” protested Butchart, “we’re to remain near New Seattle Naval Base until after this evening’s execution. I need to return immediately after this business is finished.”
Sidney slumped toward the floor.
“Put her in a chair, Bridges, before she makes a mess on my floor.”
Sidney felt a chair pushed against the back of her knees, and she collapsed into it.
“A storm’s brewing out near the California coast. I hope to sail past it before it gets too fired up. Lieutenant Bridges has your room ready for overnight. Will you join my officers and me for dinner at eighteen-hundred hours?”
Butchart hesitated as he sorted his thoughts. “Of course. Perhaps we can discuss the execution protocol in more detail. Lieutenant Bridges, take her to her cell.”
Bridges looked to his captain for confirmation.
Addressing the lieutenant, Waterhouse asked, “Did she give you any trouble, Bridges?”
“She just had trouble walking, sir.”
“On your way to the cells, have Dr. Duncan look at her. I want a report on her medical condition in twenty minutes. Carry her, if you have to. Understood?”
Butchart frowned. “She’s merely reacting to the truth serum. Administered well within protocol, I assure you.”
“I’m quite familiar with the protocol on Admiral Garland’s home naval base. Procedure on my ship is also strict. I don’t tolerate disorder. This prisoner is in obvious disorder.”
Waterhouse nodded to the lieutenant, who lifted Sidney to her feet and picked her up as she collapsed into his arms. As he left, Waterhouse motioned toward the two chairs in front of his desk.
“Have a seat, Frank. Tell me about Miss Davenport. How did that little thing outfox your security systems?”
He knew the electronic file provided details — the truths mixed in with whatever was required to arrive at the desired outcome. But he was betting a verbal response from Butchart would reveal fabricated knots that might easily unravel under his scrutiny.
“John and I believe she had an accomplice on the base.” Butchart used the admiral’s first name to emphasize his casual familiarity with him. “So far, we have no leads there.”
Waterhouse returned to his desk and popped the memory rod into his computer. “Computer, download file with security codes.” With his back still turned to Butchart, he asked, “Another unsolved mystery?” He threw out the taunt as a stinging reminder that his wife’s murder hadn’t been solved. “If this woman didn’t reveal her accomplice during your interrogation, then none exists.” Waterhouse winked and grinned. “I’m aware of your techniques. You know she didn’t have an accomplice. Why the smoke screen?”
“Christ, Sam, you’re paranoid. There are no more pertinent details. I’ll help myself to that coffee now,” Butchart said, walking to the coffee machine. “I see you’ve let your hair grow. Didn’t notice until I saw how it was fastened at the back of your neck. Not exactly protocol. How interesting to see there’s a bit of a rebel in the meticulous Captain Waterhouse.” Butchart chuckled. “It’s been nearly a year since we last met. How’s life as captain of the Nonnah? All the pretty ladies in the ports have broken hearts, Sam?” he asked, deliberately stirring more than just his coffee.
Waterhouse sat down in front of his computer and focused on the reports. “Why the rush to execute the prisoner?”
Butchart waved his free hand in the air. “Why not! Truth serum filled in the blanks. We’ve found her guilty of committing an attack on the U.S. Navy.”
Waterhouse sat back in his chair. “This isn’t the admiral’s usual style. No, the activities of the previous seven prisoners were well-documented with supporting evidence. Terrorists and ruthless military spies. Lives had been lost or gravely threatened.”
His comlink beeped.
“Captain Waterhouse, Dr. Duncan here.”
“Yes, go ahead with your report.”
“The prisoner is rapidly deteriorating, Captain. She should be immediately returned to the mainland. We don’t have the capability to manage her.”
“What’s your diagnosis?”
“Her kidneys are shutting down. The buildup of poison is causing a cascading collapse of all her organs. Anything on her file to explain this, Captain?”
“She’s been interrogated using a potent truth serum. Dosage may have exceeded the recommended limits.” He winked at Butchart, who made no attempt to disguise a threatening glare. “Has she said anything?”
“No. She’s not coherent.”
“Do you what can. I’ll get back to you in a few minutes.” The comlink was disconnected. “Frank, you heard the doctor. The prisoner has to return to the base.”
Butchart slammed his cup down on Waterhouse’s desk, spilling the coffee. “She’s never to leave this ship alive.”
Waterhouse watched Butchart regain his composure as quickly as his anger had flared. He wondered what he was afraid of.
“Computer, initiate standby mode. Security on,” Waterhouse said. Ignoring Butchart, he pulled a
napkin from a drawer and meticulously mopped up the spilled coffee. Tossing the soiled napkin into a wastebasket, he turned to Butchart. “It’s time to see if the prisoner will reveal more of her secrets, Waterhouse style.” He grinned.
“Waste of time. You heard the doctor.”
Waterhouse was already heading out of the office. Butchart swung around to keep in step with him. “This isn’t your business. Just execute the damn bitch.”
Waterhouse stopped abruptly. In complete control, he replied. “Everything that occurs on my ship is my business. I alone determine precisely when the execution will occur.”
He and Butchart continued to the infirmary in silence. Inside the isolation unit, Dr. Duncan and his three assistants hovered over the unconscious prisoner.
“Frank, stay out of her visual range,” Waterhouse ordered.
Butchart momentarily glared at him but had to comply. Waterhouse stepped into the isolation unit and moved to the prisoner’s bedside.
“Do you have a more definitive assessment on her condition, Doctor?” he asked.
Dr. Duncan smoothed down his disheveled, thinning brown hair. It was obvious the doctor preferred to maintain as much space as possible between himself and the man who managed to find fault with everything from his untidy office to his incomplete and illegible reports. The doctor anxiously glanced from the scanner unit to the heart and respiratory monitors. He thumped a screen impatiently.
“Damn thing,” he muttered.
Waterhouse stepped toward Dr. Duncan. Without saying a word, his body communicated with clarity his impatience. Dr. Duncan placed his hands on his hips and began the report, speaking more to the wall behind Waterhouse rather than making contact with the dark eyes.
“Um, simply put, she’s severely dehydrated. Yes, sir, that seems to have been her undoing. Electrolytes are way off kilter. Kidneys are shutting down. No life threatening injuries. Her wrists and ankles are pretty much battered from restraints.”
Dr. Duncan hesitated and picked up his patient’s file and read over his notes before continuing.
“Yes, and there’s a lot of serum residue left in her system. Lethal dose, perhaps. Quite remarkable, really. Should have died last night.” He glanced up from the chart records. Seeing the stern expression of the captain, he quickly returned to his notes. “Took a bullet in her left hand. Healing is fairly advanced so she must have been shot at least a week ago. Let’s see, yes, that’s about it.”
“What’s her general health? Can you tell where she might’ve come from?”
“Good muscle tone throughout, probably runs a lot. Perhaps she lives in high altitude, has the lung capacity of an athlete. Maybe she’s a climber. Yes, and very little air pollution particles in her tissues, so she probably doesn’t live in or near a city. Figure she’s in her late teens. Doesn’t appear she has any bad habits, such as illegal drugs. She takes good care of herself. Took a sample of blood. Cells appear abnormal.”
“Explain.”
“There’s a luminescence, almost a glow or halo around each red blood cell. Figure it’s a reaction to the truth serum. Can’t think of any other explanation for it.”
“Show me her clothes.”
The medical staff retrieved Sidney’s clothes and handed them to Waterhouse. He checked for labels and any other identifying markers. There were none. Her panties and bra were simple. The white silk blouse, stained with blood, had been cut in half. Her faded blue jeans were slightly frayed at the cuffs. Her faded denim jacket was also blood stained and frayed at the cuffs.
He pondered the character of the person who owned these clothes. With the exception of the silk blouse, these were not the clothes of a well-to-do person. He smelled the clothes, almost unconsciously searching for the wearer’s scent, markers of fear or hatred. There was only the odor of sweat and blood. The sickening sweet smell of the blood reminded him of Joy’s face and her blood soaked dressings. He stood up straight and threw the clothes back into the laundry bag.
“The blood stains still have a strong odor. How old is that wound in her hand, exactly?” he asked Butchart.
“She was shot trying to escape. Nearly got away,” Butchart said in an attempt to sidetrack Waterhouse. “Like the doc said, she’s pretty fit. Good runner.”
Waterhouse merely waited for an answer and held onto Butchart’s eyes.
“When?” responded Butchart. “She was shot yesterday, shortly before noon.”
“Impossible,” retorted Dr. Duncan. “That wound is nearly healed.”
Waterhouse stepped closer to Sidney’s bed. She was unconscious.
“Her blood pressure is borderline,” Dr. Duncan said. “What’s really strange is that our drugs and fluid therapy are having no effect on her. I just don’t understand it. It’s like she completely rejects everything we give her. I can tell you, Captain, she’s not following the rules.”
“Uh huh. Sounds like that could be a habit of hers.” Waterhouse took Sidney’s hand into his and studied the bullet wound on her palm. He could see that the bullet had traveled cleanly through. Little swelling remained, and the wound had almost completely healed over. He gently squeezed her hand, not expecting any response.
She responded. Ever so slightly, her fingers wrapped around his.
He bent down to her ear and whispered, “Hope you’re not leaving, Sidney. You should see the sun outside. It’s a beautiful day. Better stick around.”
Sidney took a deep breath and opened her eyes. It shocked everyone. Waterhouse didn’t know what had possessed him to say what he had. The words had come tumbling out of his mouth. For a few seconds, Sidney gazed at his face and held onto his hand. Then she closed her eyes.
The comlink badge on Waterhouse’s coat sounded an alarm. He let go of Sidney’s hand and activated the device.
“Captain Waterhouse.”
“Sir, Lieutenant Commander Smart. We’re well on our way to Acapulco. Weather report update indicates severe weather heading our way. We’ll be in rough seas by thirteen-hundred hours, sir. Gives us two hours to ready the ship and crew. Readings predict gale force winds by twenty-one-hundred hours, sir.”
“Any chance of going around the storm?”
“No, sir. It’s affecting the entire Pacific, right to Hawaii.”
“Notify the on duty officers. I’ll meet with you in half an hour. Waterhouse out.” He flicked off the voice link and stepped into the main infirmary. “Number one, Captain Butchart, there will be no execution tonight. Number two, you’re welcome to remain on board for the duration of the sail to Acapulco. Is there anything you require in the meantime?”
Butchart was momentarily stunned by Waterhouse’s decision. He lowered his voice so only Waterhouse could hear. “Careful, Sam. There’s more at stake than just that broad.”
Waterhouse let the remark go. He waited for Butchart to ramble on, knowing the officer’s ego was likely to reveal more than he intended.
Butchart glanced in Sidney’s direction momentarily. “Lieutenant Bridges, I’ll be disembarking. Notify my pilot. Captain Waterhouse, until notified by myself, you’re not to send any communication to the base about this prisoner.” He stepped up close to Sidney’s room, turning his back to Waterhouse. Watching her through the glass window, he fidgeted with something in his pocket.
Waterhouse casually moved to Butchart’s side. Together they stood, watching Sidney. “What’s happening on the base?” Waterhouse prodded.
Butchart smirked. “Important visitor.” He puckered his mouth as if restraining further explanation. “You may live to regret your decision today, Captain.”
“I’ll risk it.” Waterhouse smiled at the insinuation of a threat.
Butchart remained focused on Sidney’s face. “If she survives, she won’t tell you a damn thing; I promise you.”
It seemed to Waterhouse that Butchart was counting on the prisoner remaining silent.
“You haven’t tried my methods.” Waterhouse spoke softly. “I plan to be nice, win her confid
ence. You know what I mean?” He winked and began to leave the infirmary. At the door, he turned to Bridges. “Lieutenant, from now on only Commander Moon, you, medical personnel, and myself have access to the prisoner.”
“Yes, sir,” called out the lieutenant.
Returning to his office, Waterhouse verbally entered the familiar coded numbers into his comlink.
“Lieutenant Weir here. Who’s calling?”
“Sam Waterhouse. Is this still a secure line, Chris?”
“Still private, sir. Things could change. Word is the brass is hunting for a traitor. Today the admiral was strutting around with some civilian woman demonstrating our security systems. Never seen him look so pumped up. We were ordered not to mention anything about the prisoner. In fact, all records of the incident have been destroyed.”
Over the past year, Waterhouse had privately cultivated a relationship with Lieutenant Chris Weir. Lieutenant Weir kept a look out over his sons, and through the lieutenant, he was able to secretly remain in contact with the New Seattle Police Force’s attempt to hunt down Joy’s killer.
“Interesting. Do you have any interesting information about her that I might not find in the official report?”
“Plenty. That night she was here all kinds of strange stuff happened. One of the elevators went to the admiral’s floor, then later on it went down to the subbasement when no one was in it. A light had been found on in Admiral Garland’s office. There was a major power failure in the missile room. Every computer and security system was shut down. Nowhere else, just in that room. And there were no marks in the dust or fingerprints on the missiles. She’d have had to touch them to open the locked electrical compartment. You explain that one, sir.”
“Interesting, Chris. See if you can get Butchart’s interrogation staff to talk. Maybe something was said during the interrogation that’s not in the report.”
“Yes, sir. That shouldn’t be a problem with those two.”
“Use discretion, Chris. Has Clay got information on Joy’s killer?”