“There was no way for this woman to make a controlled ascent to the surface before the BCD inflated?” Ambler asked.
“The ME noted severe swelling in the area of the second cervical vertebrae, which he felt was the result of a compression injury. She was also bound around the wrists and ankles.”
“So Tillerman whacked her over the head before he threw her into the narrows. Temporary paralysis?”
“That’s what the ME suspects,” Gus said. “The big Russian’s neck was snapped as well—it goes to his MO.”
“So we have another murder, and I suppose another medallion will be delivered to FBI headquarters shortly,” Ambler said.
“The victim’s incisors were removed postmortem,” Gus added. “The SOB waited for the body to surface to cut her teeth out. He put the regulator back in her mouth and reapplied tape.”
“Why?” Ambler snapped. “Why go to the trouble?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No, Chalice, it’s not,” Ambler retorted. “Explain.”
“He was afraid that she’d choke on blood if he cut out her teeth while she was still alive and that’s not how he wanted her to die. His method is so specific. He thought it through well in advance.”
“Then he replaces the regulator and tapes it again?” Ambler asked. “Why?”
“Because he was being a good little psycho—he didn’t want the body to fill with sea water. He preserved the evidence. He’s helping us with our case.”
Chapter Forty-seven
Fallujah, Iraq, November 24, 2004: Eight hours before Thanksgiving.
PFC Tom Babocci dove for cover. He buried his face in the sand when he heard the whistle he knew preceded a mortar explosion. He was thirty meters from the blast, barely beyond the effective blast radius of the 60mm Iraqi mortar round. Despite being out of range, he could feel the pressure waves from the explosion pummel his body. Sand sprayed his face with such intensity that grains became embedded in his skin. He remained motionless for a moment, despite knowing that he was a sitting duck should another mortar round drop nearby. He could feel his heart pound forcefully within his chest. He thanked God for sparing his life. It took another moment before he could will his body to move.
An M35 cargo truck had fallen to enemy fire. The remains of the overturned transport seemed to him like a good spot to take shelter from the sun and the wind. Babocci scrambled over to the metal skeleton and drank from his canteen. The water was warm and unappealing. He had filled his canteen from a PVC storage tank that was left out in the sun—it had imparted a miserable taste to the unfiltered water. The troops were warned about the perils of dehydration on a daily basis. He drank as much as he could stand.
Another mortar round exploded much farther away than the last. A third round landed still further west. The Iraqi attack was moving away from him, providing a momentary opportunity for him to catch his breath. He sat for several minutes looking out at the vast and unremarkable desert. Before him, shades of tan and sienna played in the wind, exchanging colors and mixing to become one. Oh, how I’d love to see something green, a bush, a weed . . . anything. He found the monotony of the desert depressing. It was almost as bad as the solitude. His troop would be along soon to pick him up, but until then . . .
He kept her picture with him always. Looking at Luisa’s picture, he could not remember a time when he did not love her. He had fallen for her before they had ever exchanged a word. He had admired her in school and in the neighborhood and had noted every detail of her appearance: her silky, long, black hair and her slender waist, the profile of her nose, and her long eyelashes . . . the reserved exchanges they shared. Thank God she noticed me. He was fatally bashful, and they would have never spoken had Luisa not made the first move. It was easy after that, easy and natural. They were meant for each other.
He ached when he saw her picture, knowing she would not be in his arms for another year. “I can’t wait for you to come back to me,” she said the last time they spoke. The wait was torturous. She was on his mind every conscious second of the day.
A gust of wind kicked up unexpectedly. The rusted truck creaked. Sand blew into his mouth. He spit out as much as he could and then rinsed his mouth with more foul water. He wiped his mouth and took a deep breath of the arid Iraqi air. All was quiet for a moment. He allowed the silence to calm him. His mind was just beginning to settle down when he heard a cry for help. It was coming from somewhere nearby. Babocci got to his feet and cautiously took a look around. He walked around the truck and saw the remains of a few ramshackle homes in the distance. “Help.” He heard the voice again, a soft plea that disappeared behind the rushing wind. “Is someone there?” It was not an American’s voice. He paused for a moment while he considered the possibility of stumbling into an enemy trap. He scanned the landscape and then his focus returned to the bombed-out homes in front of him. “Please. Someone help us, please.”
The troop will be along soon. Better to wait.
He heard a woman’s voice crying out in anguish. “Dear God, save us.” He ventured closer. The cries for help had stopped for a moment. As he got closer, he could hear the muted sound of Hebrew prayers.
All that was left of the decimated home were shattered walls and a few cooking pots. The house had a sand floor. The wind whipped up again. The sand near his feet swirled, and he saw that it covered wooden boards. He heard the wood boards creaking beneath his boots. “Help us!” Voices came to life beneath him, crying for help. “Our prayers have been answered. Dear God thank you. Are you American?”
Babocci was silent for a moment while he considered his next move. He brushed the sand on the floor with his boot until he found the outline of the cellar door. The hasp that held the door closed was secured with a rusted metal bolt. He kicked the bolt free, stepped back, and aimed his rifle at the door. “Come on out,” he said. He waited for someone to emerge. The door lifted slowly. A small child was visible in the opening. Babocci looked into the cellar and saw that the little girl was standing on a man’s shoulders. The man was dressed in civilian clothing. Babocci lowered his rifle and then slung it over his shoulder. He reached down and lifted the child up out of the cellar. As he did, he could see that the man was crying. “It’s all right,” Babocci said. “I’m American.”
“God bless you,” the man said. He bent down and lifted a second small girl toward the opening.
The family that Babocci rescued was standing around him and crying with relief. “I am Rabbi Asa Borach. I don’t know how to thank you—you saved my family.” He stepped forward and hugged Babocci. His wife did the same. “What is your name, soldier? I want to say a prayer in your honor.”
“PFC Tom Babocci. How long have you been down there?”
“Almost three days. Do you have any water? The children . . . please if you can spare a sip.”
Babocci handed him the canteen. “It’s not very good.”
Borach unscrewed the cap and held the canteen while the smallest girl drank. “Not too much,” he said. “Just take what you need.”
“Finish it,” Babocci said. “My troop will be along soon.”
Borach waited for his second daughter and wife to drink before he took any water for himself. “Thank you,” he said. “This is the best water I have ever tasted.”
“You’re working with Israeli intelligence?” Babocci asked.
Borach nodded. “We are on the same team.”
“Until the Iraqis discovered your true identity. I’m surprised you weren’t shot immediately.”
“The Iraqis left us down there with no food and water. They wanted me to watch my children wither and die. A bullet would have been more humane.”
~~~
Babocci lifted Borach’s youngest daughter and placed her in the U.S. Army transport vehicle. The transport was full—there was barely room for the small child to squeeze in between her parents. She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered in her small voice.
The transport driver slapped Babocci on the shoulder. “You okay here until the rest of the troop comes by? Shouldn’t be too long.”
Babocci nodded. He was still looking at the little girl and marveling at the way a child can warm your heart. “Yeah, I refilled my canteen. I’ll be all right.”
“You’re a good man, Tommy,” the transport driver said. “These rabbis risk their lives for us. This one would have become a martyr if you hadn’t found them.” He reached into his shirt pocket and handed Babocci a pack of gum. “Here, enjoy. I’ll see you back at camp.”
Rabbi Borach and his family were still waving to Babocci as the transport disappeared into the distance.
Babocci continued to look out at the horizon long after the transport was gone. He was reaching for his canteen when a sniper round hit him in the chest. The velocity of the bullet knocked him to the ground. He was still dazed when the Iraqi sniper raced over to him and leveled his rifle to finish the job.
Chapter Forty-eight
US Military Hospital, Balad, Iraq, November 30, 2004.
Major General Randolph Clemmens, the head of Joint Special Operations Command, followed Brigadier General Ralph Totem through the hospital complex on their way to the pulmonary care unit. Totem stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he hit the area. “Here it is. See for yourself,” Totem said. “Every bed is full. I’ve got others spread out all around the hospital.”
Clemmens rubbed his chin. “Look, Ralph, are you absolutely sure that all of these cases are coming from the burn pits?”
“With all due respect, General, we use an area the size of a football field to burn waste for a thirty-thousand-soldier military base. We’re using jet fuel to burn plastics, truck batteries, chemicals, tires, munitions, mess hall waste, and every other possible kind of garbage imaginable in an open-air pit. What did you think was going to happen?”
“Are you sure that some of them aren’t malingerers? You know how it goes. Every goldbrick knows how to play the game. They hear how a couple of troops got sick, and they jump on the bandwagon.”
“Malingerers? No, they’re not malingerers. If you like, I can take a few of them off their oxygen and you can listen to them wheeze.”
“You’re out of line, Ralph. You see me standing here. I know that you’re serious.”
“Randy, I’ve been petitioning to close the burn pits since the day I got here. You’re exposing tens of thousands of military personnel to dangerous airborne toxins every day. The troops have asthma, emphysema, and COPD. Stick around and watch. The sky fills with black acrid smoke, and we’re all breathing it in . . . including me!”
“And I’ve been trying to allocate the funds to replace them, but it hasn’t been easy. We have eighty goddamn burn pits in operation throughout the Middle East, and it will cost millions to replace them with high-temperature incinerators.”
“What do you think it will cost when the class action lawsuits start rolling in? These kids are over here risking their lives. They have to survive enemy attack day after day. They’re lucky enough if they make it out of the desert alive. It’s not right that their own government puts them at risk over something like this. I don’t give a shit that these burn pits are operated by giant defense contractors with half of the US Senate in their pockets. This-has-got-to-stop.”
Clemmens came face to face with Totem, his eyes were red with anger. “I-have-got-the-message. Now unless you’re ready to be relieved of your command—”
“I’ve had enough. I’m putting in for a transfer,” Totem said.
“And I’ll approve it. I’m doing the best I can.” A tense moment passed. “I want to see the boys that have been injured in the field.” Clemmens walked off. He came upon Babocci’s bed. Babocci was unconscious and on life support. His amputated arm and leg stumps were visible for Clemmens to see. “What happened to this soldier?”
Totem still looked angry as he read Babocci’s chart. “PFC Tommaso Babocci—I heard about this one. He took a sniper round in the chest. He had just rescued an Israeli family who had been imprisoned by the Iraqis.”
“Israeli intelligence?”
“Ya, the Mossad plants families behind enemy lines. They act to inform the US military and keep the opposition from taking root.”
“This man is a hero. I’ll see that he’s decorated for his valor.”
I’m sure he’d rather have his limbs back. Don’t say that, Ralph. Keep your mouth shut.
“You said he took a round in the chest. What happened to his arm and leg?”
“The sniper was a real motherfucker. Babocci was alone. He came back and made chop meat out of his arm, leg, and genitals.” Clemmens winced. “We had no choice but to amputate. He’s lucky to be alive. We’re keeping him under heavy sedation until he gets stronger. He’s still critical.”
Clemmens covered his mouth and was silent for moments. He leaned over and stroked Babocci’s hair. “I’m sorry this happened to you, son. I’m truly sorry.”
“He took eighteen rounds, one in the chest and seventeen in his left arm and leg. He was conscious when his troop picked him up.”
“Eighteen? Why eighteen? The Iraqis use Russian Tabuks, don’t they?”
“That’s right, Randy, they do.”
“Well, don’t the Tabuk magazines hold twenty rounds? I can’t believe the son of a bitch didn’t empty the clip.”
“That’s right, the clip holds twenty,” Totem said. “Every Arab knows that eighteen is the Jewish number for good luck.”
Chapter Forty-nine
Gus and I stopped for a dinner break. We found this enormous diner on Highland Boulevard. Now diners aren’t normally my thing, but this one was a real find. The service was quick, the food was fresh, and the portions were large enough to choke a horse . . . or a ravenous pregnant woman. The diner looked like it had recently been redecorated. My maternity-heightened senses were still hard at work. I took a whiff and determined that the vinyl the booth was upholstered with was brand spanking new.
The place was packed. I wasn’t surprised. The prices were dirt cheap. My tuna melt came with an avalanche of toasty golden onion rings. Onion rings are like heroin to me—deep-fried, batter-coated heroin. “Want some?” Gus reached for one but I blocked him with my hand. “I think it’s only fair to warn you that I’m hoarding these.” Gus snatched one and smirked while he chewed it. I picked up a butter knife. “I wouldn’t try that again if I were you!”
The guy sitting across the way from us was bald but had a huge wad of hair growing out of his ear. He slurped his soup so loudly I wanted to hand him a straw. “Jesus,” I said to Gus. “Please, put me out of my misery.”
“Relax, it’s only a cup of soup—he’s almost done.”
I glanced over at his cup of soup and did a quick calculation. “He’s got about ten spoonfuls left. I’ll never make it.”
Gus held my hand and pretended to be serious. “You can do it. Stay with me, Stephanie. I’ll talk you through it.”
Our tableside guest did it again—he emitted a slurp so loud that the window shades rattled. “I can’t take it, I tell you. I’ve become intolerant of bad manners.”
“Easy girl.”
I reached into my bag and found my Etymotic shooters plugs. I stuffed them in my ears.
“Now that’s ridiculous,” Gus said.
“What?”
“I said that’s ridiculous.”
“I still can’t hear you.” I started to giggle. The waitress came over with two plates of baklava. I removed the earplugs. Her name badge read Cathy. “Are those for us, Cathy?”
“On the house,” she said.” “She leaned over the table. “It’s the least I can do. Old Stavros over there slurps so loudly it makes me feel like I’m at the dentist’s office. You know, when they stick the suction tube in your mouth so that you don’t drool on yourself.”
I glared at Gus. “See, I told you it was bad.” Cathy put the dishes down in front of us. “Gee, this looks awesome. Th
anks.”
“You’re cops, right?” Cathy asked.
“It’s that obvious?” Gus said.
Cathy nodded. “Can I ask you a question? What the hell is going on around here? I read all the papers. Staten Island is starting to sound like Fort Apache. There are bodies turning up all over the place . . . another one this morning, floating in the narrows, right?”
I nodded as I took a forkful of baklava. “I won’t lie to you, it’s not good, but I think we’re getting close. Oh wow, this is delicious.”
“We do all the baking on premises,” Cathy said. “So you’re looking for this guy Tillerman, right?”
“That’s right.” I sensed that Cathy had something to tell us, and that perhaps her need to chat was the real reason for the free dessert. “You want to sit down?”
Cathy looked toward the front counter, presumably to see if her boss was watching. “Okay, only for a moment. Scoot over.” I made room for Cathy but took my dessert with me. I can eat and listen at the same time—I’m a magnificent multitasker. “I used to live on Arden Avenue. I knew his wife, Barbara. We used to volunteer at the JCC soup kitchen on Manor Road.”
“Did you ever meet him?” Gus asked.
“Sure. Big guy. Didn’t talk much though. They have two adorable little boys, Mark and Stephen.”
“How long ago was that?”
Cathy shrugged. “I don’t know . . . several months, a year maybe?”
“So what happened?”
“She stopped coming down to the JCC. The next thing I knew they were boarding up the house. Times are hard—I figured they couldn’t afford the upkeep on the house. I guess the bank owns it now.”
“Actually the house used to belong to his parents. He took it over. There’s no mortgage. He’s in arrears on the taxes, but you know how quickly the county moves,” I said facetiously. “I’m afraid that house will be an eyesore for a long time to come. It was boarded up to keep out looters.”
“Too bad,” Cathy said. “Barbara kept a loving home.”
Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4) Page 16