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May 1, 1200 EDT Naval Criminal Investigative Service, US Navy Shipyards, Washington, DC

NCIS DIRECTOR HARLEY Burgess leaned back in his leather swivel chair and rubbed his burning eyes as the intercom buzzed on his desk. Already, it had been a long morning.

He pressed the speak button. “What is it, Barbara?”

“Assistant Director Paul Royse is here to see you, sir,” the Director’s secretary said from the outer office.

He rolled his eyes and touched the speak button again, hesitantly. He knew why Royse was there. Special Agent Janelle Sperling was not only one of his subordinates, she was his niece. Royse and his paraplegic wife had just returned from two weeks' vacation touring the Middle East. It had taken Royse less than four hours back on the job to discover his young investigator niece, whom, naturally, he’d put under his wing, had been assigned her first undercover operation while he’d been away.

Burgess cleared his throat.

“Send him in, Barbara,” he said. He swung his chair around and looked out the window with his back to the room.

After a few seconds, he heard the door open and Royse walk in. He thought about Royse—an ex-Navy jet jock, washed out because of an inner ear problem. Royse had spent the next seventeen years of his life in the FBI before coming to NCIS four years ago.

In a way Burgess felt sorry for him, his wife being a paraplegic and all. Except for an occasional moment of weakness at a local pub, Royse spent every waking hour that he was away from work by her side. Over the past couple of years he’d been visiting with doctors at Bethesda and a number of other major hospitals over the country and he’d been saving his pennies. He’d mortgaged his house, sold his ranch in Oklahoma and was looking into loans, trying to come up with enough money to pay for a new experimental surgery to make his wife whole again. Being experimental, the surgery wouldn’t be paid for by the Navy and the estimated three to four million dollar price tag was much too high for even a career Senior Executive Service appointee. The trip to the holy, Christian shrines of the Middle East had been extravagant, but maybe Royse had been hoping for some sort of divine healing for her.

Burgess thought of Royse’s weakness. It may be a tool to this Janelle Sperling thing. He’d allow the Deputy Assistant Director to speak first but maintain control. He’d counter any objections Royse would voice.

“Director Burgess, what in the hell is going on?”

Royse blurted, his voice quavering with anger.

“Welcome back, Paul,” Burgess said, unfazed, still not turning to him. “How was Jerusalem?”

“Burgess, I asked what the. . . .”

The Director’s voice came calm but firm. “You’d better sit down and relax, Paul. Unless you want some more time off. A lot of time off.”

A few seconds passed before Burgess heard the leather upholstery scrunch in the chair to the left of his desk. He swiveled around and looked at the lanky, graying redheaded man, remembering that Royse seldom looked anyone in the eyes.

“I’m not real sure of what you’re so excited about,” he said. “But if you explain it to me respectfully, I’ll listen and try to answer any questions you might have.” He grinned.

Royse glared back, then dropped his eyes to the front of the desk and stared blankly as he spoke. “Why did you assign Janelle Sperling to the Chameleon case? Shit sir, we’re talking international terrorism, possibly treason.”

“I didn’t.”

Royse’s eyes snapped up to meet Burgess’. “She’s on the
Atchison
, isn’t she?”

“Yes, I believe she is,” Burgess said and pulled a pair of reading glasses from their sheath on the desk and put them on. He reached for a stack of folders on his right.

“Good lord, sir, this is her first mission. Hell, she’s only been out of training for three weeks.”

“I realize that, Paul,” he said thumbing the edge of the stack as if searching for a copy of Sperling’s orders. He then lifted the top stapled sheets from the pile, placed them in front of him and pretended to scan them. “She isn’t involved in the Chameleon investigation. Remember, I recruited a crewmember on board to handle that case. It’s something completely unrelated. A young crewman committed suicide and his parents are raising a stink. She’s just there for looks. It’s a pure gravy assignment. Nothing dangerous.”

“If that’s all true, why does personnel say her records have been altered to show that Ensign J. B. Sperling is a male? She’s using her real name instead of an assumed one. It looks like a set up. She couldn’t have been assigned to the
Atchison
alone as a female— there aren’t any other women on board. Now, she’s an obvious target. Anyone with any sense is going to be leery of her, that she’s NCIS, coming on board right after two deaths and two AWOLs. . . .” Paul Royse paused, appearing deep in thought. He frowned as though having a revelation. “Jesus, she’s a decoy, isn’t she?”

Burgess fought to hold his composure. “Good God, no, she’s not a decoy. If you think that I would intentionally put one of our people in jeopardy to solve a case, you are very sadly mistaken. I don’t think I like your implications and as you know, I am not one to take a personal attack well. I assigned her on this case because of her qualifications. She seemed to fit perfectly. She’s a Navy Reservist trained as a weapons officer and that was the position that the
Atchison
needed. We can’t pussyfoot around with her just because she’s your niece, you know that.”

Royse seemed to ignore Burgess, and verbalized his own thoughts, “I’ve got to send her a message, let her know the danger.”

“You’ll do no such thing, Royse,” Burgess said. “You know better than that. You would be risking her life along with the other investigator’s. Besides, our other agent will inform her of the situation. Probably already has. Now, you’d better relax.” Burgess changed the subject. He hated what he was about to do but felt he had no choice. “How’s Katherine?” he asked.

Royse glared at the Director.

Surprised by Royse’s unusual, intense eye contact, Burgess didn’t wait for a reply. “Must be tough on the poor woman, being a paraplegic, but still having all her mental faculties. Wondering how her husband can remain faithful. Wondering if he has. Hoping he has.” He stared back at Royse’s glaring eyes. “It must be even harder on you, Paul. Having to help her with her bedpan. Watch her wither away. All the while trying to keep your hands out of the cookie jar.”

Royse’s eyes narrowed as he listened. Burgess drove the point home.

“I hear there’s a new bar maid over at the Globe and Anchor, Paul. I hear you’ve got cookie crumbs on your fingers. It’d be a shame if Katherine found out.”

The intercom buzzed again breaking the stare down between the two men, and Burgess’ secretary spoke, “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s an Admiral Sperling on the phone. He says it’s urgent.”

Burgess raised his eyebrows then glared at Royse. “You called Sperling?”

Royse turned away, his jaw set, ruddy face reddening even more, ready to explode.

Burgess looked to the intercom speaker. Retired Admiral Oliver T. Sperling was Royse’s stepbrother. Sperling’s father had married Royse’s mother when Paul Royse was five.

“Thanks, Barbara,” he said
, holding his anger at bay. He punched the
line one
button on the speakerphone. “Oliver. Long time. How’s Oklahoma?”

“Don’t give me any of your bullshit. You know why I’m calling!” Admiral Sperling’s voice boomed, loud and raspy.

“I think maybe I do. Paul Royse is in my office now and we were just discussing the misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding my ass! I don’t care to hear your excuses or explanations. You just get my daughter off of this Chameleon investigation. You know better than to pull this kind of shit. If you don’t have her mainside in forty-eight hours, you’ll wish you’d retired while you still had some dignity.”

His threat was enough to light Burgess’ fuse. He fired back. “Now you listen here, you pompous bastard. You’re not going to tell me what to do. You may still have some influence, but you’re retired, remember. Cool your engines. First of all, your daughter is not assigned to the Chameleon investigation. Hers is a simple suicide, only for show, just to get her feet wet. It’s only coincidence she’s on the same ship. The other investigation is wrapping up and she is in no danger.”

“Don’t try to whitewash this, Burgess. How then do you explain her being the only woman assigned to the ship? You’re setting her up.”

Burgess regained his composure. He’d expected both confrontations but not at the same time. “It was a simple mistake. Someone in personnel shuffled the orders and the other twenty-three women were put aboard the
Ticonderoga
. She should have her work done and be off the ship in their next port.”

Burgess noticed Royse roll his eyes.

The Admiral said, “You’d better be right Burgess. I’m not beyond coming up there and ringing your neck, personally.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t threaten me, Admiral Sperling. Now, is there anything else I can do for you today?”

“Don’t screw up, Burgess. If my daughter gets so much as a broken nail from this I’ll hunt you down and rip your fuckin’ head off!”

“Goodbye, Admiral.”

Burgess disconnected. He smiled at Royse and it seemed to shove him out of his seat. Burgess watched the tall, lean man’s back as he walked to the door and opened it.

“Give my regards to Katherine,” Burgess said like scooping saccharine.

Royse looked over his right shoulder as he passed through the doorway. He narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw.

“I’ll be second in line if anything happens to Janelle Sperling,” he said and closed the door behind him.

So far, so good
, Burgess thought. But he wished he hadn’t been forced to such extreme measures. Agent Sperling was an unwitting game piece in a very deadly game.

GANGWAY!

1635
- USS Atchison

SPURS WAS AN obvious surprise to the crew. As she made her way through the maze of passageways to the mailroom, every face she met seemed astonished, then insincerely polite after they snapped to. At this point she wished the XO could have piped over a preparatory, “Now hear this; there is a woman aboard. I repeat, we have a female on this ship. Zip your flies and pick up your dirty socks!”

Since writing one of those having-a-good-time
, wish-you-were-here-type notes on the back of a post card in Rota, she figured she’d better mail it. There didn’t seem to be a whole lot else to say to her father, the Admiral. They didn’t talk that much anymore. Not knowing exactly why, she suspected the Admiral’s part in the silence had something to do with her being a woman wishing to do a
man’s job
.

She recalled the time she’d called him from her baccalaureate, all happy and smiles, excited about graduating from OU with honors, eager to tell him of her plans to join the Navy and be an officer aboard an aircraft carrier or destroyer. He’d reduced her to tears with one word.
Ludicrous
. He’d told her it was “ludicrous” to even
think
there could be a good reason for women to serve aboard military ships, let alone warships. He and his beliefs were
so
“old Navy.” But she had respected his opinions and had adopted most of them when she was younger and more impressionable. Now at twenty-five, she had discovered a few views of her own. But for the most part she
was
her father’s daughter. She did not go along, however, with such an archaic attitude toward women. The Admiral resented that and she resented his resentment. Someday, maybe they could be friends again.

According to the first gaping mouth she’d run into after leaving her stateroom, the mailroom was one deck below and six compartments forward. At least she thought that was what the young seaman vacuuming the carpeted halls of officer’s country had said. He’d just kind of mumbled and stood to the side leaving her enough room to steer a landing craft through.

She went down one ladder and then forward, stepping through two of the small, oval hatchways.

The cold gray belly of this unfamiliar ship was a lonely, hard place. She could easily become claustrophobic. She felt abandoned and betrayed as she proceeded, and the loneliness ached in her heart.

A detail of five sailors met her as they moved briskly in the opposite direction. A petty officer first class was in the lead. They had brought with them a rush of air smelling of floor cleaning disinfectant.

The old warship, although rusting and obsolete on the outside, was kept spotless inside.

The detail stepped to the side courteously, the petty officer in the lead saying, “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

“Good afternoon, sailors,” she answered as they hurried past.

Then she heard their whispered remarks.

“What’s she doing aboard?” “Oh God, not us too!” “They’re like a cancer. What the hell do they want?”

The last comments came from the petty officer and it was louder than the others. “Get used to it boys,” he said. “There are more coming aboard next month and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. We’re stuck with them until they prove to the brass that they can’t hack it.”

Soon three more sailors passed carrying mops, buckets and other cleaning supplies. Only the last man that scooted by had taken the time to recover from his surprise and ask respectfully to pass with, “By your leave, ma’am?” They all seemed to be in a very big rush. She sensed Commander Naugle ran a very tight ship.

A commotion and voices came from the forward compartments. Spurs frowned as she paused in the third hatchway, trying to make out what was happening. She heard running. More voices. Some close, sounding frantic. These weren’t the sounds of men stepping quickly to get a job done like the others. These men were escaping like gazelle from a pride of lions. A gaggle erupted several compartments ahead, words unclear. What was it? It was hard to make out over the din of footsteps and blurted exclamations.

“Gangway!”

This time she heard the call as the noise came closer. Suddenly, bodies appeared shoving through the small hatch two at a time from the next compartment. Half a dozen young enlisted Marines stampeded toward her, their faces fearful, showing some surprise as they saw Spurs but seeming to care much less than the previous sailors had. These young men were running from something they obviously felt threatened them. The six fled in a pack from the hatch and slowed little as they approached her.

“He’s right behind us!” one said. “God, I don’t want any more PT,” said another. “Hell, I don’t want to get stomped!” said a third. “You see the shiner on Peterson?”

“By your leave, ma’am?” they asked in unison to pass. But not waiting even for an instant for her answer, they forced their way past.

Spurs had to step aside or be trampled. But she said nothing, more curious than annoyed by their lack of manners and military courtesy.

More frightened voices came from forward compartments, nearing her.

“Gangway! Make a hole! Gangway!” they called out.

Spurs proceeded through the passage, taking guarded steps. The chaos of scattering men seemed unending.

Another group of three jarheads met her at the fourth hatch, and she had to swing back to avoid harm as this bunch sprinted past.

These young Marines seemed frightened half to death by someone—or something.

Spurs’ shuddered with a sudden chill as she also considered retreat. Whoever—whatever was making its way toward her must be a terrible thing. But what kind of incredible occurrence was this? She hadn’t seen anything in comparison since the morning her detail had gotten their Marine drill instructors in Officer’s Candidate School.

“Make a hole! Move it! Look out! Gangway!” came the frantic shouts now only a couple of compartments away.

Spurs stopped at the sixth hatch in view of the mail room service window. The passageway had become still, like the eye of a hurricane. Nothing moved. The corridor seemed empty, lifeless.

As she grabbed the right side of the hatchway with her right hand, the postcard slipped from between her fingers and fell back to her side of the opening.

She bent to pick it up and suddenly found herself staring at what had to be at least a size fifteen, spit-shined shoe inches from her face.

The sight jarred her. She rose slowly, not knowing what to expect, her face coming up cautiously, nearly touching the leg in front of her.

This was the terrible thing from which the crew had just fled. Huge calves behind perfectly pressed, tan slacks. Enormous thighs. Clenched fists. Trim, but still remarkably large waist, angling up to a massive chest. Thick, bulging biceps.

Spurs stood erect, eyes level and looked at the giant’s sternum. Inches away from her nose was a pair of gold jump wings and a silver SCUBA badge. Her sight inched to a name tag reading Capt. R. D. Chardoff. Below the short, wide neck hung a pair of silver Marine-captain’s bars, then a square, jutting jaw. His glaring eyes, gray and unflinching, seemed to burn into hers. His chiseled face, pocked with acne scars, was topped with the short stubble of a leatherneck’s high and tight haircut.

He stood, one leg on each side of the hatchway, head bent forward, his predator eyes inspecting the prey before him.

Spurs gaped, looking into the huge man’s menacing, hypnotic, gray eyes. Her lips tried to form words.

The mammoth Marine’s mouth spread into a huge toothy smile. His harsh breath seeped out smelling like hot crankcase oil, making her eyes water.

“Buh . . . ,” she swallowed, blinked her eyes, tried again, the request finally coming out. “By—your leave, sir?”

She waited for him to speak to prove he was human, but then found herself hoping he wouldn’t for fear of wetting herself.

He scrutinized her like the big bad wolf examining Little Red Riding Hood. He leaned back against the side of the small hatch, moving no more than an inch, but indicating she was to pass. His enormous body still blocked free and unmolested passage.

Spurs felt no choice. She stepped right leg first through the hatchway, brought her body to his, her breasts rubbing against the Marine captain’s steel plate belly. She felt his lungs taking in and expelling air and even the pulse from the pump under his tremendous chest that must also have been huge to deliver nourishment over such a colossal area. The iron ridge around the hatch opening scraped painfully against her spine, but she forced her way past, still looking up into the man’s intense, gray eyes.

Finally, she popped through and stumbled forward, then looked over her shoulder to see the monster still staring malevolently, unmoved. A wave of fear finally hit Spurs’ body and she trembled, staggering to the mailroom window. Reaching the small counter extending from the opening, she leaned against it and felt a vibration come over the ship as if it were trembling also, and a resonating hum filled the passageway. The ship’s engines had come to life. They would shove off soon.

She looked back to the hatchway. It was empty.