Pacific Storm

by Linda Nagata

  But even with the rush, it took only a few minutes to reach the Queen’s Medical Center. Ava waved goodbye to Ikaika. She took a minute to brush the spattered sand off her legs and stomp her boots clean. Then she went inside.

  An eight-inch-high ornamented Christmas tree decorated the reception desk. The receptionist behind it wore a festive woven-ribbon lei. Ava smiled, identified herself, and asked for the room number of her John Doe.

  ◇

  A few minutes later, Ava huddled in an eighth-floor hallway with Dr. Banerjee—a tiny woman who looked altogether too young to have an MD after her name. Even so, she wielded a brusque and polished businesslike manner that must have served to intimidate most of her patients.

  “This is a strange case,” Dr. Banerjee explained in a low, conspiratorial voice. “The patient was recovered from the ocean and his physical condition concurs with that history. He arrived dehydrated and suffering a mild hypothermia—of course we have treated both conditions—and he has significant fresh bruising on his face. Also, his blood tested positive for traces of a synthetic cathinone—a party drug—so it would not be illogical to assume he became incapacitated and fell overboard.”

  “But?” Ava asked.

  “We have not been able to identify him, not by facial analysis or fingerprints—but he does have a chip.”

  Embedded identity chips were not unusual. Every branch of the military required them, and they were popular with civilians too.

  “So you got a name from that?” Ava asked.

  “No. As I said, this is a strange case. A scan of his chip produced nonsense. Encrypted data, I suspect. The only coherent string was a ten digit number.”

  “Oh,” Ava said with a sinking feeling.

  Dr. Banerjee went on, “I would ask him about it, but he’s asleep. My staff is convinced it’s a phone number.”

  “Yes. They’re probably right.”

  Chips had just been coming into general use when Ava was in the army, but even then there had been a standing order that if a body was found with a scrambled chip and only one coherent number, they were to call it on a secure line. No explanation of why, but the absence of an explanation served just as well. John Doe was a spook. A spy. And the reality of that, along with the unreality and stress of recent events, caused Ava’s adrenaline to surge again, kicking her heart into a thready beat and sending a quiet shiver up her spine.

  What the hell had she fallen into?

  Aloud, keeping her voice deliberately low and calm, she asked Dr. Banerjee, “Did you try calling the number yet?”

  The doctor’s eyes narrowed combatively, as if the question constituted veiled criticism. “Do you want me to?”

  “No,” Ava said. “That’s on me.”

  ◇

  Ava pushed open the room door. Inside, dim baseboard lighting picked out the shape of a single bed, a nightstand with two drawers beside it. Cloth rustled, followed by the anxious incoherent murmur of a troubled dreamer.

  She slipped inside, her presence triggering the overhead lights to slowly brighten, revealing the John Doe. Caucasian, possibly Hispanic, Limbaco had said. Maybe. A tanned face with smooth, low-relief features. Tape across the compact nose, one eye socket swollen, and a darkening bruise running diagonally from right forehead to left cheek. A baton could have done that as easily as the rail of a boat.

  He had black hair in a short military cut, and the stubble of a heavy beard. His sunken eyes visibly darted beneath closed lids thinned by the dehydration that followed hours in the ocean. The skin of his face and neck remained blotchy from the remembered cold, despite the thermal blanket that covered him to his shoulders.

  Dr. Banerjee still had him hooked up to an IV line that disappeared beneath the blanket.

  Every few seconds, slurred words slipped past his lips. Ava could make out only a fraction of his ramblings—stay alive . . . has to know . . . now . . . stop it now—and though she wasn’t sure of even those, their suggestive nature sent her heart racing again.

  She moved in along the wall, maintaining a wary distance from the bed and its restless occupant. His dreamlike murmurs had gone on for over a minute already, leading her to wonder: Was he really asleep? Or was he still caught in the effects of the drug he’d taken?

  More broken phrases rising at intervals out of the incoherent baseline murmur: ’s real . . . ’ere in place . . . ready . . . es Sigrún.

  Ava froze. That name again, the same name she’d seen in her own profile’s hidden field. Had she heard it right?

  “HADAFA,” she murmured, “what is Sigrún?”

  “That information is not available at your security rating,” the system answered in its gentle male voice.

  She grimaced in frustration. But an absence of information was information. Easy to guess Sigrún was a subversive organization, likely with sensitive connections, and possibly violent, or with the potential for violence.

  Her body flushed with an anxious heat as she recognized that every syllable she’d gleaned from the John Doe’s drug-hazed speech suggested a terrorist action, one that was real, in place, ready now.

  Or was she piecing together coincidence and misunderstandings to develop an entirely fictitious scenario?

  An inner voice urged, Call the number.

  Yes. Call it, and add one more data point to the puzzle.

  HADAFA had already absorbed the hospital record. At Ava’s instruction, it recovered the number from the scanned data and analyzed it, affirming it as a working number, one of a catalog of federal government phone numbers.

  “Call it, then,” she whispered.

  Silence followed, a three-second interval. No sound of ringing before a woman’s voice spoke out of the void. “Is he alive, Ava?”

  Ava flinched at the use of her name, but recovered quickly. “Yes. Who is he?”

  “Stand by. I’m accessing your current working files . . .”

  Ava tensed, as if by physical effort she could hold off the intrusion. But HADAFA controlled access.

  A soft, frustrated hiss from the nameless woman. “He’s not talking yet.”

  Not coherently, Ava thought.

  “You need to hold him, Ava. Protect him for me.” The woman’s voice, naggingly familiar. “It’s a matter of national security.”

  Ava caught her breath as she recognized the voice of Lyric from the surveillance tape. “You,” she whispered, the hair on the back of her neck standing up.

  “Yes,” Lyric confirmed.

  “Something’s going down, isn’t it?”

  “Why do ask that?”

  “He’s restless. Murmuring.”

  “What has he said?”

  “Not without authorization,” Ava warned.

  A sharp tsk, and then, “Sent.”

  In its familiar soothing voice, HADAFA announced, “New orders have been received.”

  “Source of orders,” Ava demanded.

  “Your security clearance does not allow you to access that information.”

  “Confirm legitimacy of orders, then. Am I obligated to obey?”

  “Affirmative. The orders are legitimate. Compliance is required. Orders read: You will answer questions posed to you by the individual you know as Lyric, whom you are currently conversing with. And you will guard and protect the person of Matthew Domanski, who is presently in the room with you. Database identification number: 67678311055.”

  A slow, shaking breath. Ava knew for sure she’d wandered well out of her depth. “All right,” she whispered.

  “What did he say to you?” Lyric asked.

  “Not to me. He’s just murmuring, talking in his sleep. Stuff like, ‘It’s real. They’re in place. Sigrún.’” Ava hesitated. “Sigrún,” she repeated. “You wanted me to see that name, didn’t you? Why?”

  “I’ll hold off on that explanation for now. Let’s see what turns up. Stay with Matt. Keep him safe. If anyone comes looking for him, do not allow them in that room. Anyone, no matter who they say they are.”
<
br />   “Where are you?”

  “I’m close. And I’m watching.”

  Stone cold. A predator, on the trail of prey.

  “You’re expecting someone to come,” Ava said. “You’re using him as bait.”

  The call icon winked out.

  “Shit,” Ava whispered. She took off her smart glasses, folded them, slid them into a pants pocket. But she didn’t feel like Lyric was gone.

  What the actual fuck have I stumbled into?

  She paced the room, while Matthew Domanski—doubtless a pseudonym—continued his restless murmuring. After a minute, she asked HADAFA for Matthew Domanski’s profile. To her surprise, the system complied.

  He was a twenty-eight-year-old naval officer recently assigned to the patrol ship Makani, based out of Pearl Harbor. Unmarried. Living in base housing. How the hell had he ended up in the water? Going by his bruised face, she guessed he’d had help with that.

  She went to the room’s intercom. Identified herself. Put the staff on notice that their nameless patient was under guard, visitors not allowed. Then she tapped her tactile mic to activate it: “Call Ivan.” When he picked up, she told him, “I’ve got a situation here. Federal bullshit. Need to know.”

  “Damn it, not now.”

  “No choice, boss. I’m going to get Akasha in here, as back up.”

  Akasha was fearless, and though Ava hadn’t known her long, she trusted her to have her back.

  “How long is this going to take?” Ivan asked.

  “I can’t answer that. Not yet. But I’m in contact with a handler, and I’m hoping it’ll wind down soon.”

  “See that it does.”

  “In the meantime, I want firearms authorization, for me and Akasha. Better safe than sorry.”

  “Don’t make me sorry,” Ivan grumbled. He ended the call.

  Outside, the wind began to wail around the corner of the building.

  ◇

  Akasha arrived half an hour later, in uniform, with a pistol on her hip. Ava’s call to her had been brief: “I need you for guard duty. Armed duty. Check out a weapon and come to Queen’s. I’ll fill you in when you get here.”

  Crossing her arms, Akasha eyed Matt Domanski, who had finally subsided into a quiet sleep. “Don’t tell me,” she said. “Let me guess. He’s a navy officer who gets clumsy at night and managed to fall overboard from the Makani not long after the ship evacuated from Pearl Harbor.”

  Shock lanced through Ava at the accuracy of this assessment. Had Akasha talked to Ivan? That didn’t seem likely. Primed for suspicion, her gaze flickered involuntarily to Akasha’s pistol.

  The young officer noticed. “Hey, I’m on your side,” she said with a cool, teasing smile.

  “Then how?”

  “I came in behind three uniformed MAs.” MAs—masters-at-arms—sailors responsible for policing duties. “They’re downstairs at the reception desk. I listened for a minute. They heard we recovered a John Doe. They want to know if he’s their missing man.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “I don’t think so. They were working the receptionist pretty hard when I slipped past—and I came up the stairs, not the elevator.”

  “All right. This is Matthew Domanski. He’s a spook who came to us courtesy of evening shift. They pulled him out of the water. I took the case as a favor to Ivan, but now I’ve got orders from on high to hold him here, guard him, and keep him isolated.”

  “For how long?”

  “I wasn’t told. But I want you to stay here, while I go talk with our visitors.”

  ◇

  Ava took the elevator down. The doors opened, allowing her a view across the lobby to the registration desk. The three sailors were still there, dressed in their khaki service uniforms, all men, and all with a master-at-arms badge glinting on their chests. One stood on the side, arms crossed, watching as the other two engaged in an arm-waving argument with a pair of husky hospital security guards. The receptionist had retreated, to stand nervously in the doorway of a back office.

  As Ava stepped off the elevator, everyone turned to look at her. One of the arguing MAs, the shorter of the two, immediately broke off his debate and came to meet her. He wore a chief’s rank insignia.

  “We’re told you’re holding one of our men,” he barked in a command voice that was not quite a shout, but was far too loud for a hospital lobby. HADAFA whispered his identity: “Noel Walters, age 31, stationed at Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam.”

  “Am I?” Ava asked him, meeting him at the halfway point between elevator and registration desk. Chief Walters stood only an inch or so taller than her, but he was broad in the shoulders, with a weight lifter’s arms. Her right hand shifted casually to the shockgun on her belt as she calculated that he probably had fifty pounds on her. “What makes you think so?”

  Walters lowered the booming volume of his voice. “Word gets around. Look, I don’t want trouble. Domanski’s supposed to be a decent guy, an okay officer. But he’s had some . . . personal stuff, lately. No reason to end a career over that.”

  Meaning this was a face-saving visit, off the record despite the uniforms.

  “Who sent you here?” Ava asked with a thoughtful frown. “Not Domanski’s captain. Surely Makani is still at sea.”

  “We look out for each other, you know?”

  She held his gaze as her hand tightened on the shockgun. If it came to it—if Walters had been told to collect Domanski no matter what—she would have to take him down. She could do it. She didn’t doubt that. But were the two security guards ready to handle the others?

  Quietly, so only he could hear, she asked, “You’re not here officially, are you? You’re doing a favor for someone. What were you told? Pick this guy up, get him on a plane out of here? What were you promised in return?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Let me do you a favor,” she said. “Take your crew and go. Leave now, and I won’t file a report on this incident. If anyone asks, I’ll call it a misunderstanding. How does that sound to you?”

  His gaze shifted uneasily, the muscles of his jaw tight with frustration. Then he asked, with honest curiosity, “Do you know what this is about?”

  “No. But I do have official orders that tell me I’m going to hold on to this guy.”

  He weighed this. Maybe he weighed the value of his career, too. After a few seconds, he nodded. “Yeah, all right. This one’s yours.” He turned and strode for the door, signaling his two companions to follow.

  Ava held her position, watching through the glass doors as they got into a white SUV with federal insignia, parked just outside in the drop-off zone.

  One of the security guards strolled over to her, the older of the two. He stood tall, with powerful shoulders. His eyes small in a wide face. A broad nose, full lips, buzz-cut hair gray, and his complexion a deep dark brown that testified to years in the sun. He carried himself like he knew what he was doing. A retired cop, maybe. Or former military. HADAFA offered no details. It just identified him as Francis Hoapili, social rating +12.

  “Those the visitors you were expecting?” he asked as the car pulled away.

  Ava shrugged and told him, “There may be more.”

  ◇

  The elevator required only a few seconds to ascend, but that was time enough for Ava to contend with an impenetrable tangle of questions. Her orders were clear: Guard Matt Domanski. Presumably, Lyric was his handler. But why had Lyric frequented Ben Kanaele’s bar, presenting herself with a theatrical demeanor that insisted on notice? Why had she compromised Ben’s phone? Or had someone else done that? Had Lyric been at the bar because she was on the case, investigating The Predator Network and she’d already worked out the connection to Ben?

  Sure. Maybe. But why draw Ava into her web? And what did The Predator Network have to do with Matt Domanski, and with national security?

  Oh.

  Shit.

  A disappointed sigh as the elevator doors opened. Had
she misinterpreted Domanski’s murmurings? Could this be just another navy sex scandal?

  Akasha flashed a thumbs up when Ava returned to the room. “HADAFA let me link to a lobby camera. You de-escalated that nicely.”

  “Thanks.” A glance assured her that Matthew Domanski remained quietly asleep. “Turn off your AR.”

  A flash of surprise, but Akasha complied without asking questions.

  Ava took off her own smart glasses and used a fingernail to work the tiny slide that switched off the power. She slipped the glasses into a pocket. Privacy laws dictated there must be no fixed cameras or microphones in patient rooms so they ought to be secure here.

  Fairly secure.

  The window was double-paned, but Ava signaled Akasha to step away from it anyway.

  “What’s up?” Akasha whispered.

  Ava answered in the same hushed tone, “I don’t really know, but I want you prepared. We’re in deep water, and Huko is not the only incoming storm.”

  ◇

  Ava sent Akasha an image of Lyric Jones, captured from the Sandalwood Lounge security video. Then she filled her in on most of what she’d discovered: Lyric’s presence in the bar on the three nights with EP4 incidents, the way HADAFA had briefly reset, giving her a glimpse into Lyric’s account, and the phone call she’d made, answered by Lyric herself.

  Ava did not reveal that she’d looked at her own profile while she’d had access to Lyric’s account, and she didn’t mention her supposed second-degree associations with Hōkū Ala and the mysterious Sigrún.

  “I think part of Lyric’s assignment is to track hidden relationships,” Ava mused. “Who knows who, how many degrees apart persons-of-interest might be, and who’s close enough to be corrupted. Showing me that must have been a little demonstration of her reach . . . maybe, to get me on her side.”

  “Aren’t we all on the same side?” Akasha asked with faux innocence.

  Ava smiled. “Right.” She turned to look at Matt, noting his IV bag was nearly empty. A nurse would come in soon. “Listen, I don’t know if this is a sex scandal, a terrorist operation, or something altogether different. But he was talking in his sleep before, and it sounded like maybe something was going down.” She met Akasha’s gaze. “If you’ve heard anything at all about Hōkū Ala kicking off their rumored insurgency . . .”