China Sea

by David Poyer

  “Sir, I got this here soccer shirt in Singapore—”

  “I don’t want to see it again aboard ship. Bo’s’un. How’s it look in the sonar dome?”

  “We got all the, uh, the material out of it. Best we could, anyway. I got men washing it down with freshwater and buckets.”

  Dan reflected that meant the news would be all over the ship five minutes after the cleanup party was secured. Well, so be it. Maybe it would help, to have everyone on guard now.

  It was the worst nightmare he could imagine, to have a murderer aboard ship.

  “OK, it’s pretty obvious we’ve got about the most serious situation we could have out here. Number two: This is the same son of a bitch who’s been cutting up women in the ports we’ve been hitting. Chief Mellows and I discussed this before. But we had no idea he’d start going after his shipmates.”

  The exec said, “I don’t know if you can assume this is the same guy—”

  “Look at the mutilations,” Dan said harshly, because just thinking about them made him sick to his stomach again. “They’re the same things Interpol told me about in Malta. Genitalia, intestines, but above all, the eyes. It’s the same bastard.” He restrained himself; the men in front of him were not to blame. He went on in a lower tone, “All right, what do we know about Vorenkamp? Who’s his daddy rabbit? He’s not one of our nucleus from Staten Island. Karachi?”

  Topmark cleared his throat. “Right, sir, he came aboard in Karachi. I don’t know too much about him. He didn’t raise the IQ level when he walked into a room. The lights were on, but there wasn’t nobody home. I sent him to mess duty and forgot about him.” He cleared his throat again, fiddled with the marline work sheath on his deck knife, looking into the far corner of the cabin. “I heard he’d suck a dick if the price was right.”

  “Mess deck scuttlebutt?”

  “I don’t know, sir. He didn’t act like he had a lot of hair on his chest.”

  Dan recalled the intimate darkness of the sonar dome, its isolation and distance from the work centers and passageways. It was possible. That the body hadn’t been dragged there, dumped. That the young man had accompanied another willingly, all the way forward, down the narrow little cable-walled trunk, into the tiny intimate space, not understanding till help was out of earshot that there was a point at which their mutual intentions diverged.

  “Chick, you were his department head. Got anything to add to what the bo’s’n said?”

  “No, sir. I knew the kid, but he stayed under your radar.”

  “Greg, you’re pretty quiet. Any comments?”

  The exec just shrugged. Dan stared at him for a moment, then told them all, “OK, I want whoever did this. It can’t be that hard. Vorenkamp went down there, into the dome, with somebody. Someone saw them together. Somebody knows who did this, or can guess. I want names, and I’m not too goddamn particular at this point how you get them.”

  Juskoviac: “I’m not sure what you mean by that, sir.”

  “I mean I want this guy in custody now. We’ve got eight hours till we go to sea detail for Brunei Bay. Before we do, I want a list of the guys who knew this kid and bunked near him, anybody from his hometown, anybody who got it on with him before. This is like state’s evidence: they get a free ride on anything else if they come clean on what they know about him. Understood?”

  They all nodded, quickly, and Dan told them to get out.

  * * *

  BY the time they reported back, Gaddis, last in the line of the now slowly plodding ships of the task force—Malvar having limped away northward, detaching from the formation and heading home for repairs—was threading the coral islands, oil-drilling rigs, production platforms, and coastal traffic on their way in. Dan felt his guts loosen at the smell of gas flare-offs and crude oil. It was the same greasy stink that hovered over the Persian Gulf, where Van Zandt and thirty-two of her crew had died over two hellish days and nights in the water, drifting in the sullen silent heat, torn at by sharks and sea snakes.

  He felt sweat break on his forehead and winched his mind back from that abyss, forcing himself to concentrate on the here and now. The coast ahead was a solid green wedge of rain forest. Low clouds writhed over distant hills. Drops of water stood on the bulkheads, wrung from the air itself by the passage of the ship. But for the moment, it wasn’t actually raining, and he listened in silence from his fold-down seat on the bridge wing as Juskoviac and Mellows briefed him on their investigation. They’d talked with the rest of the messmen and swab pushers on the mess decks, plus the guys who shared the cramped space of the supply berthing with Vorenkamp and one who had known him at boot camp at Great Lakes. They’d identified three suspects, guys who’d been friends with the blond seaman or who had been seen with him after the departure from Singapore.

  When they were done, Dan asked one question. “Any of those three come aboard in Karachi?”

  “One, sir. Seaman Hesey.”

  “Let him go. The guy we want’s been aboard since day one. Who’s that leave us?”

  Chief Mellows told him, “Two suspects, sir. MMFN Pistolesi and EM3 Machias.”

  Dan examined the stern of a large ship they were passing, threading among the anchored behemoths as they neared their assigned berth. It read: KEISHUN. PORT KLANG. He had no idea where Port Klang was. Through a half-open side port he made out rows of hoods, Honda or Kia sedans colorful and identical as M&Ms, swathed in protective plastic like sleeping parrot fish. Then he looked at the two men on the wing with him. They were a study in contrasts, the exec bent forward slim and nervous, his fine-boned greyhound head tilted to one side as he waited for orders. Beside him the chief master at arms stood relaxed, big hands hanging at his sides.

  Dan asked them, “What did they say when you came down on them?”

  Mellows: “Nothing, sir. I read ’em Article Thirty-one and the Tempia warning, and they both clammed right up.”

  “Have you searched their lockers?”

  Juskoviac, sounding injured: “No, you told us to do the interviews and we did those first—”

  Dan called on his patience. “Yes, Greg, I did tell you that. And now I’m telling you to search their lockers. Don’t forget their work spaces, either. Let me know what turns up.”

  “What you want done with ’em, sir?” Mellows asked. “We’re not gonna be at a U.S. shore facility, anyplace we can turn them in for safekeeping, for a while.”

  “Lock them both in a fan room for now. No, make that separate fan rooms. Treat ’em fair, I don’t want them on bread and water or anything, but I want to make sure they’re segregated from the rest of the crew.”

  Juskoviac looked uncertain, as if he was about to object. Dan snapped, “Cough it up, XO.”

  “I’m not sure you can confine people without charges and a formal mast. In fact, I know we can’t, not under the Uniform Code of Military Justice.”

  “I don’t have time for a formal mast, Greg, and I don’t want a serial murderer going over the side and getting away on one of these bumboats. Understand? Call it protective detention if it makes you feel better.” Juskoviac hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. Dan went on, “OK, next, I drafted this message to PACFLEET. It reports the circumstances of the discovery of the body and our steps to date. It requests a Naval Investigative Service agent to meet us ASAP. If they hustle, they can maybe get somebody to the airport here before we shove off in the morning. If not, they ought to be able to hop somebody out from Subic to the Phase Two op area. Meanwhile, Greg, I want you to put together the initial investigation report, what we need to hand over to the NIS when they get here. Marsh can show you the forms. Anything else you guys can think of we ought to be doing?”

  “Are we going to off-load the body here, sir?” Mellows said.

  “I mentioned that in the message, Chief, but if they don’t want us to it should be OK in the reefers till we hit Subic.”

  “’Scuse me, XO. Coming up on our anchoring bearing, Cap’n.”

  “Thanks, Chi
ck. Go ahead and drop when she bears.” He had a moment’s flash-image of clotted blood and tissue, what he’d seen in the sonar dome, took a deep breath, blotted it from his mind.

  His eye, roving along the jumble of cranes and godowns and water towers, snagged on something out of place. The sultan of Brunei didn’t believe in skyscrapers the way Lee Kuan Yew did. There didn’t seem to be a building in Muara over four stories. But it wasn’t the buildings that had caught his eye. He lifted his binoculars. The ships of the TNTF were anchoring out, all except the flagship, which was scheduled to be alongside at the Commercial Port. That fitted him fine, he wasn’t letting a man ashore … but then what was the gray silhouette that lay ahead, already alongside the quay wall? Whatever it was, it was signaling; flashing light was stuttering away on her superstructure, apparently aimed at Nala. He tried to copy, but it came too fast. A rumble shuddered through the ship’s bones, the anchor chain running out. Topmark stepped to the 1MC, lifting his pipe; the call echoed through the ship: “Moored. Shift colors.”

  “Sir, one other question,” said Juskoviac, and Dan realized they were still standing there.

  He said, irritated, “What, damn it?”

  “The port authority people are going to be out pretty soon. Well, about the kid—”

  “What kid?”

  “Vorenkamp. About him, what if they ask, like—”

  “Let’s close hold it for now, till we can get Naval Investigative aboard and maybe some public relations help,” Dan told him. “From here until further notice, I want the ship sealed. Nobody ashore except on official business. No boats alongside. I don’t see why the Brunei authorities need to be told. It didn’t happen in their waters, we’re a foreign-flag ship, and I’m sure they’d be just as happy not to know about it.”

  “Are you going to mention it to Admiral Suriadiredja?”

  “I’m thinking about it, Greg. Along with thirty other things. OK?”

  But Juskoviac still didn’t go away. Instead he said doggedly, “Sir, I realize this might not be the best time to bring this up, but I’ve already had a couple of the men ask me about liberty—”

  “Are you listening to me, Greg? I said official business only. We’re anchoring out, fueling; we’ll be under way again tomorrow. There’ll be no liberty.”

  The XO’s head was lowering, his features taking on the stubborn, petulant cast Dan knew all too well. “I don’t get it. If we got the guys who did it locked up—”

  Lenson slammed his hands down on the chair rests, losing it. Heads snapped around inside the pilothouse; even the line handlers waiting on the forecastle looked up, startled, as he shouted, “God damn it, Greg, how many times do I have to say no! No liberty for anybody! Now get that message off and lock those two up.”

  The XO’s eyes fell, and he backed away. Dan heard the murmur of voices in the pilothouse for a moment or two afterward, a nervously cleared throat, and then came silence.

  * * *

  THE word arrived flashing light from Nala as they secured from sea and anchor detail. COs of the task force were invited aboard the flagship at 1700. They would not return to their ships till 2100. A launch would be sent. Dan grunted as he read it and buzzed for Usmani. After telling the man to get his whites out he stalked the length of the bridge, first regretting his angry outburst at Juskoviac, then admitting the guy had rated having his head ripped off for a long time. The men on anchor watch stood silently as he paced, not looking at him. He felt hot and sticky and desperately tired and abruptly wheeled and plunged down the ladder.

  Beneath a thin sprinkle of tepid water he pondered the likelihood Gaddis had harbored a serial killer since Philadelphia. This would not be a good story from the Navy’s point of view. A U.S. warship voyaging from port to port, bearing with her a ravening monster. It would be raw meat for the media. Raw meat, like in the sonar dome.… He snapped his mind from that image, realizing even as he did so that part of his aversion and disgust was the knowledge that he, too, had once fantasized about such things, perhaps everyone had. When he’d looked down at what had been left of Clay Vorenkamp he’d experienced one swift moment of near-recognition, followed by a revulsion as much physical as emotional.

  He turned the shower off and soaped down. The violence of his emotional response told him more: that the murderer was in the grip of an overwhelming compulsion. Pistolesi, no surprise there, but Machias was an unknown quantity. Dan knew the man, of course. A lanky electrician’s mate, third who had, to the best of his knowledge, kept his record clean aboard Gaddis except for one incident of overstaying liberty. He ought to go down and see them. But not now, not now.… The shower felt good after what he’d seen that morning. He turned it back on guiltily, enjoying another quart of the scarce freshwater.

  When he stepped out, Usmani was bent over by his bunk, peering at the picture of Nan in her tennis whites. The Pakistani straightened guiltily, then dropped his eyes from Dan’s nakedness and hung his freshly pressed trop whites off his locker. “Your uniform, sir. Shall I get the ribbons?”

  Dan told him no, he’d do the rest himself. He dressed and sat impatiently until the squealer sounded off, letting him know the admiral’s barge was en route. He grabbed his cap and headed down to the boat ladder, careful not to wipe out his white bucks on the knee knockers.

  As he waited at the top of the accommodation ladder, he raised his eyes to see dozens of men staring at him. The crew looked down from the top of the helo hangar, the 01 level, the covered gallery beneath the flight deck where the snipes lingered of an evening to smoke a butt and get some air. They watched silently, leaning on the lines, and he noticed suddenly how hardly a man was in a regulation uniform. Colorful shorts, T-shirts, and bare chests were mixed with articles of uniform. The same symptom he’d noticed with Neilsen. As he thought this a sailor stepped out from the weather deck hatch above him, carrying a fishing pole. Dan called up, “Hope you catch something,” but the seaman stared as if he’d addressed him in Malaysian.

  Swell, if they thought he was going ashore to enjoy himself … but their silent regard was not a good sign. An explosive mix was building aboard Gaddis, impalpable yet deadly as methane in a coal mine. Her crew had been Frankensteined together from half a dozen sources over the long trek east. They had no loyalty to the ship and, composed as they were of scrapings and AWOL leftovers, probably not much more to the Navy. Add to that no pay, no liberty, the heat and boredom, their total lack of contact with home … the fights and thefts were an ominous symptom. He had to defuse it before it got out of hand. Either crack down or give them something to do. He decided to think about it later, see what came out of this conference.

  The launch came in, throwing spray like a frisky dolphin, the Indonesian flag fluttering at the stern. He judged the distance and stepped onto the gunwale as it bounded past the platform. The coxswain sheered off skillfully, and Dan composed himself into the captain of USS Gaddis, settling into the seat cushions, forcing a smile to lips that did not feel like smiling at all, nodding with friendly dignity to the other commanders already aboard.

  * * *

  THEY were met with all due ceremony. White-uniformed sideboys stood at taut attention. Pipes shrilled as they pulled themselves out of the launch, mounting the boarding ladder in order of seniority. The flag captain returned their salutes with crisp slashes of his white-gloved hand. Dan was junior and last. He marched between the immobile ranks of sideboys with a strange sensation. He’d rendered honors for senior officers many times, but this was the first time he’d been piped aboard himself. When the group was assembled, he trailed it up ladders and down shining passageways to a curtained space high in the superstructure. The air-conditioning was blessedly icy. Plaques and awards were screwed to the bulkheads, mostly from European and Japanese ships. The flag mess, he guessed, accepting tea and several small, round cookies or biscuits from a steward.

  Suriadiredja came in a few minutes later, weathered cheeks crinkled in greeting. He didn’t waste time, just sh
ook everyone’s hand and invited them to take their seats.

  The flag captain spoke first, reviewing the lessons learned from Phase One. Dan sat flipping his Skilcraft back and forth, only occasionally pressing it to his wheelbook. The flag captain had taken the liberty of preparing a formation steaming guide and signal book, which he distributed. The cover showed the five national flags fluttering above a skull and crossbones. They would evaluate it during Phase Two. If successful, it would be expanded in future exercises. The Indonesian reviewed the unsuccessful intercept of two nights before. In view of their targets’ possession of what appeared to be sophisticated radar warning devices, it would be necessary to fine-tune the emissions plan. However, the craft they would be operating against during Phase Two would be less advanced, so for the moment no change in tactics was recommended. Meanwhile Lenson disassembled the pen, studied the parts, then put it back together.

  When the flag captain was done, Suriadiredja stood. He asked for comments thus far. There weren’t any. He nodded to a lieutenant, who put the first of a series of large charts of the Sulu Sea on an easel.

  At last the briefing was over. The commanders stirred, gathering their materials and notes. Suriadiredja said then, face expressionless, “We have been invited to make a short visit to the vessel forward of us. If you will follow me to the pier?”

  * * *

  THE ship looming over them had been at sea a long time. A glance told Dan that, details he no longer saw consciously: blood rust seeping beneath fresh paint, the shadow of kicked-up water along the boot, the faded flag at her stern. Her hull number was R327. A weak stream spurted from an overboard discharge, splashing onto the pier. Three or four times the displacement of Gaddis, she towered above Nala as well. A bulbous-bodied helicopter of a make he didn’t recognize, roughly the conformation of a U.S. Sea Stallion, squatted with blades drooping on a platform. Men in olive fatigues regarded them from the rail. The superstructure was capped by antenna-laced masts bracketing a single squared-off stack. He didn’t see anything he could positively identify as a weapon. Heat radiated up from the concrete, reflected and concentrated by the steel cliff above them as they paused at the foot of a ladder.