Pacific Storm

by Linda Nagata

  “Check your email,” he said. “You’re taken care of. I got you that seat on a military flight. It leaves in two and a half hours. Time enough to get to your apartment and pack. I’d drive you, but I have to get to Pearl.”

  He really wanted her to go. Because of the storm? Or because Matt’s allegations were real?

  A faint buzz in her ears, a momentary dizziness, consciousness flowing into alternate or impending realities.

  What would it be like at ground zero? Hammered by the wind and torrents of rain, a crack of lightning, a glance up at the roiling clouds, glimpsing a dark shape arcing out of them, too fast to follow—and then light.

  Ava swallowed past a hard lump in her throat, belief and disbelief circling one another. “It’s all right. You don’t need to drive me. I’ll call a taxi.”

  “I’ll do it.” He tapped his phone. “Okay, one’s on the way.”

  He leaned over to kiss her, pushing her smart glasses up into her hair as he did, his lips warm, soft against hers, and then feather kisses across her cheek. He pulled back, gazing at her for a few seconds more.

  She returned his gaze and still she could not see the monster in his eyes.

  Another kiss, as the taxi pulled alongside. “Oh,” she said. “I should go.”

  He got out, walked around the car, hugged her. “I’ll see you again, when it’s over.”

  Last chance, she told herself. Heart pounding, she leaned in and whispered in his ear, “You’re not part of it, are you, Kaden? You’re not part of Sigrún?”

  He jerked back, glared at her. “That’s what you’re thinking? You think that’s possible?”

  “It’s been suggested.”

  “By who?”

  “Just tell me it’s not true.”

  “Of course it’s not true. How could you even—”

  She laid her fingers against his lips. “Stop. I have a duty to consider the evidence presented to me. You know that.”

  “It’s not true, Ava. Someone’s trying to get between us, to use you, against me.”

  She wanted to believe him.

  “Go to your apartment,” he urged. “Then go to Hickam.”

  She nodded. He kissed her forehead. She got into the taxi and he closed the door. As the taxi drove her away, she looked back. He stood watching. Then the taxi turned onto the street, and she couldn’t see him anymore.

  Ava faced forward, drew a deep cleansing breath, then reached to adjust her smart glasses only to discover she was not wearing them. Kaden had pushed them up into her hair, an inactive position, and there they were still, their external sensors asleep.

  HADAFA had been denied the chance to evaluate the truth of his last answers. Belief and disbelief still endured together in her mind, both equally real.

  The taxi advanced another block before she updated the route, instructing it to circle back to the hospital. Kaden might be tracking her. He might be tracking the taxi. If so, he would call again. He wanted her to leave the state.

  She needed to make calls of her own. First, her new friend in hospital security.

  “Eh, sistah,” Hoapili said when he linked in.

  “The white sedan that was out front, is it gone?”

  “Yeah, left right after you. No visitors since. When you takin’ your boy out?”

  “I’ll be back there in a few minutes. We should be leaving right after that.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Next, she called Ivan. It took him almost a minute to link, and when he did, his first words were, “Are you done over there?”

  “No. I’m still working to confirm. I don’t like it, Ivan. I want to call it bullshit. But I can’t.” Ava sketched the plot as she understood it.

  A snort of horrified laughter from Ivan. “No way. Our own guys are not going to nuke Pearl Harbor. Wipe out their own shipmates? It won’t happen.”

  She hadn’t mentioned Kaden’s name. She didn’t intend to. Unless Ivan had seen it in her profile, he wouldn’t know who Kaden was, any more than Akasha would, because Ava had not shared that part of her life.

  “Their shipmates aren’t in port,” Ava reminded him. “The surface ships have already sailed ahead of the hurricane. The subs leave in the morning. The fleet won’t be directly impacted . . . and they were going to lose the harbor in the handover anyway.”

  “Fuck,” he whispered and she could tell he’d been hit by the surreal possibility that it was all real.

  A flashing text on the periphery of her vision indicated another call. Her gaze shifted, taking in the name. Francis Hoapili.

  Hold, she subvoked, and then returned her focus to Ivan.

  “Talk to someone,” she begged him. “I know you have connections with navy brass. Tell them what I’ve told you. Name names. And forward a picture of the woman, Lyric. See if you can confirm she’s legit.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll call you back.”

  Ava shifted her gaze again to pick up Hoapili’s call, but he hadn’t stayed on hold.

  The taxi turned into the hospital driveway. Ahead, there was now a tan-colored van parked under the portico. “Identify and log,” Ava whispered, as the taxi pulled in behind it.

  HADAFA sent a coded request to the van’s transponder, then reported, “The vehicle self-identifies as owned by Bryan’s Truck & Van, a vehicle rental company. VIN and visible license numbers are correct for vehicle make, model, and color.”

  If Ava had a case number, she could submit a request for the identity of the responsible party. But she didn’t have a case number. She didn’t even have any real evidence of a crime.

  A voice mail came in while she was still in the taxi. Hoapili, sounding rumbly and tense: “Got a crew here, sistah. Five sailors, looking for their friend.”

  Matt had too damn many friends.

  She called Akasha, who picked up instantly. “You left!” she accused, speaking under her breath. “I saw you on the security camera.”

  “No choice,” Ava said. “But I’m back now, and we’ve got more trouble downstairs. Five, this time.”

  “Yeah, I saw ’em. Boy-gang. Military. You want me down there?”

  “No. Stay quiet. Stay hidden. But be ready to move. And keep double-oh-seven in sight. I don’t want that duo disappearing on us.”

  “You got it. And I talked to a nurse. I know a back way out.”

  “Thumbs up. Stay tuned.”

  As Ava entered the lobby she saw Hoapili standing on the side, hands on his hips and eyes narrowed, emanating irritation as he glared at a posse of young men hovering around the desk. Presumably they’d been talking with the receptionist, but if so, that conversation broke off when Ava came in. All of them turned to look in her direction.

  To a man, they were lean and fit with neat military haircuts, but no uniforms. Three Caucasian and one Asian, the fifth a mix of both races. Ah, shit. She recognized that last one as Tyrone Ohta, one of Kaden’s officers. His lower lip was cut and swollen as if—maybe—the back of her skull had cracked against it earlier that evening.

  Ava felt sick, as the last of the scaffolding supporting her doubt began to give way. Just minutes ago, Kaden had denied any involvement with a how-could-you-believe-that intensity. But Ohta’s presence transformed his denial into a lie.

  What do you really believe, Kaden?

  The voices on the video had spoken of restored honor, a necessary sacrifice . . . and the world will never be the same again.

  Not long ago, Ava had watched a World War II documentary about the British assault on the city of Caen, in Normandy. For four years the German army had held the city. After D-Day, the British had been assigned to take it, but they could not, despite days of effort and extensive casualties. So they shifted strategy, deciding to bomb the city into ruins, to make a sacrifice of both it and the French civilians who still lived there—because sacrifice is called for, sometimes, on the path to a greater good.

  Did Tyrone see it that way?

  Did Kaden?

  For decades, th
e death cult of right-wing politics had poisoned society, sowing discord and fighting every effort to mitigate climate change. Their leaders—the powerful few—had banked wealth, while pollution and pandemics indiscriminately cut short the lives of ordinary people. Hypocrisy, corruption, willful denial, cowardly decision-making, treason, and lies, lies, lies, had locked the country in a straitjacket of poverty and degradation.

  Did the members of Sigrún really believe they could burn all that away with a glorious war? Did they imagine the Chinese would back down? That the sacrifice would be limited and the conflict controlled?

  War never worked that way.

  She drew herself up, spine straight. If there’d been a choice, she would have ducked back outside into the dark—but Ohta had locked eyes with her, recognized her—and by his expression she knew he had not expected to see her still there.

  Conscious of the weight of her sidearm, she greeted him with a friendly but puzzled smile. “Why are you here, Tyrone?”

  She watched him make a decision. His face went smooth, unreadable. He approached her. Met her halfway.

  “Are you the cop in charge, Ava? The staff says Matt is under police guard and we can’t see him. What’s he supposed to have done?”

  Play acting, just like her, pretending nothing was off.

  “How do you know him?” she asked. “You’re a submariner. I was told he fell off a surface ship.”

  “It’s all one navy.”

  Ava allowed a tone of accusation into her voice: “Is it?”

  “We got a call from Makani. They asked us to do them a favor. They want to keep Matt’s case out of official channels. You know. The embarrassment.”

  “Embarrassment?” she echoed, incredulous—but also outnumbered, as Ohta’s friends circled around. She glanced right, left, taking them in. None familiar to her . . . but surely they were Kaden’s crew, too?

  She said, “In case you haven’t heard, there’s a hurricane on the way and all of you should be at your duty stations, not here. This matter does not concern you.”

  Ohta’s eyes flashed, frustration visible in the curl of his injured lip, in the vertical lines between his brows. He didn’t know how to handle this turn of events, with a tough-looking security guard watching, and surveillance cameras recording every word.

  Doubtless he’d been warned not to make a scene, not to draw the attention of civilian law enforcement.

  Ava decided to help him out. “Go, Tyrone,” she said, hoping he couldn’t hear the hammer beat of her heart, that he wouldn’t notice the sweat sheen on her cheeks. “You and all your friends. Get out of here, before you’re found AWOL.”

  To her surprise, they did as ordered. Ohta signaled them to go, and they left without another word. Ava watched them get into the tan-colored van, with Ohta on his phone even before the door closed.

  The van pulled away, but how long before they came back?

  chapter

  12

  Ava took the elevator up, stepping off into a quiet third-floor hallway. The man staffing the nurses’ desk looked relieved to see her. “There you are. Officer Li said you’d had some trouble out front.”

  “A little drama,” she agreed. “Things quiet up here?”

  “Depends on your definition. She arrested him, the John Doe. Checked him out of the hospital.”

  Ava spoke in a carefully neutral voice. “I didn’t see them leave. You showed them a back way out?”

  He pointed. “Down the hall, on the right. There’s another set of stairs. When you get to ground level, take the staff-only door. Code to shut off the alarm is 9972.” And then, as if an afterthought, “Officer Li said to call her, when you’re free.”

  Nice to know. Why the hell hadn’t Akasha just sent a message? Had Lyric told her not to risk it? Had they worried a message would be seen by the wrong eyes if Ava lost the confrontation downstairs?

  She jogged down the hall, listening to Akasha’s phone ring. The door to Matt’s room stood open. Ava slowed, glanced inside. Empty. An untouched meal tray. An unmade bed.

  She hurried on.

  Four rings, and Akasha still had not picked up. Were they still on their way down? Matt had been unsteady on his feet. He’d be slow on the stairs. Was the stairwell blocking the signal?

  Just as Ava reached the fire door, a flurry of gunshots broke out—pow-pow-pow . . . pow. The reports muffled by walls and the white noise of air-conditioning, but unmistakable.

  Ava shoved the door open. From below, sounds of wind and a distant siren. Someone had killed the alarm and opened the exit door.

  Two more gunshots, far louder, almost on top of each other, echoing in the stairwell.

  The call went to voice mail. Ava dropped it and charged downstairs, making noise as she did, calling out, “It’s me! It’s Ava!” She didn’t want to draw friendly fire. “What the fuck is going on?”

  Two flights to go, when Lyric answered, her voice reverberant against the concrete walls. “Your friends are back, Ava! We’ve got black masks in the parking lot.”

  Tyrone Ohta and company. They must have gotten fresh orders.

  “Right behind you,” Ava warned as she descended the last flight of stairs.

  The exit door hung open, twelve inches or so. Akasha crouched, peering out the gap, her service pistol in hand. “Twelve and two,” she said.

  Matt answered, “I see ’em.”

  He stood over her, holding his own pistol, showing no sign of weakness or disorientation. Rock steady, now, though less than fifteen minutes had passed since Ava had walked out of his hospital room. Matt had used the time well, equipping himself with smart glasses and a tactile mic. Around his hips, a large camouflage waist pack with bulging pockets.

  Lyric lingered two steps behind them and out of the line of fire, a pistol in one hand, the now empty-looking cloth flight bag in the other. A faint illumination of data flickered across the lens of her smart glasses as she eyed Ava.

  “Sit rep!” Ava demanded.

  Lyric answered: “Three individuals arrived as we exited. They called for our surrender. We retreated under fire. They’ve blocked our taxi from coming in, but I’ve got an app cracking the security on their van. It’ll be ours in another minute.”

  “And then we get the fuck out of here,” Matt growled.

  “No,” Ava said. “No way.” This case was careening toward a legal cliff. She had to stomp the brakes now before momentum carried them over. “We stay here. Wait for HPD. I’ve got Ivan working his navy contacts. If this is real, if Sigrún is real—fuck, if you’re real—the navy will take over.”

  “Navy’s not listening,” Matt barked back at her.

  “Make them listen. Jump the chain of command. Put it out in public. DM the goddamn president. No way can this succeed as a wildcat operation.”

  Dual sirens now, getting closer.

  “Lyric?” Matt asked. “How’s our ride?”

  “Stand by.”

  “Stand down,” Ava countered. She moved past Lyric. “Akasha, get that door closed.”

  “Van’s ours,” Lyric said. She caught Ava’s shoulder, fingers squeezing, her gaze intense behind the lens of her smart glasses. “Maybe the chain of command will step up, but right now that’s not happening.”

  Still crouched at the door, Akasha turned her head, shooting Ava a dark look. “You could have stopped this,” she accused.

  “What?”

  “Eyes forward,” Matt instructed. Akasha’s head snapped back around. “On three,” he told her. “One, two, three.”

  Staying low, he kicked the door wide. Akasha fired to the right; he sent a flurry of shots straight ahead. A scream of pain or rage and then a screech of tires. A van came into sight at speed, backing down a narrow lane. It was the same make and model as Tyrone Ohta’s van—except this one was dark-blue.

  Not the same.

  The van reversed all the way to the exit door, rear cargo doors opening as it came.

  Ohta had left in a tan-colored v
an.

  “Identify and log,” Ava whispered.

  At the same time, Lyric barked, “Get inside!”

  Akasha and Matt moved without hesitation, jumping into the van, clambering over the backseat. Lyric let go of Ava’s shoulder and followed. Ava moved too. Herd instinct? A desire to protect Akasha? Fuck it, just go, or you’re going to be left behind. She vaulted into the van.

  HADAFA answered her query: “Vehicle self-identifies as owned by Bryan’s Truck & Van. VIN and visible license numbers are correct for vehicle make, model, and color.”

  Ava crouched in the cargo space, arm hooked over the backseat to secure herself as the cargo doors closed and the van accelerated out of the lane, shooting past ancillary buildings in the medical center.

  Same rental company, same make and model, but blue . . .

  She looked out the rear windows, but saw no one—and saw no bodies. A dizzying sense of surreality washed over her as the van dashed through a parking area beneath a low-rise building, and skidded onto a side street.

  She was being punked, wasn’t she? Ah, it would be so easy to engage in that paranoid, self-centered fantasy! She was being punked. Royally punked. And even Akasha was part of it.

  Absurd, she chided herself.

  On the chance it would help, she shifted her smart glasses to stealth mode, switching off location data, GPS, and sensors that might be used to track her position. She messaged Akasha to do the same.

  Even so, they were far from invisible. Cell tower check-ins would still yield general location along with their direction of movement, and the van’s transponder might already be conversing with a police drone, but she did what she could.

  The van slowed to legal speed as it turned onto Beretania Street. Out the back window, Ava saw two taxis a few blocks behind. Then a police car turned into sight, blue lights flashing—but it turned off at the side street they’d just left, while the van continued on through the capitol district.

  Ava looked up front. “Were the surveillance cameras off for that little engagement?”

  Matt had moved up to the middle seat. Akasha was in front behind the optional steering wheel, with Lyric in the seat beside her. At Ava’s question, Lyric turned. “Yes. I tried to shut them down, but they were already off.”