Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection (50 page)

“I’ll understand.”

“Good. Now, as far as the investigation goes, according to my sources the Tomahawks aren’t concerned. Their deployment on this ship is routine and not involved. No one knew about them outside of the top Navy brass except the captain, Lieutenant North and myself until we put them on board three months ago.”

“But if North is somehow involved. . . .”

“You’re getting ahead of me. Like I said, according to my sources, the cruise missiles aren’t.”

“What sources are those, sir?”

Reeves took a quick glance around ensuring their privacy. “I have an informant in Barcelona.”

“NCIS?”

“No, a civilian—a woman.”

“Are you sure she can be trusted? I mean, she didn’t just walk up and tell you? You checked her out?”

Reeves frowned. He paused before saying, “Miss Sperling, may I remind you that this is not
my
first rodeo.

Spurs bowed her head. “Sorry, sir.”

“It also coincides with what I’ve been able to piece together. As near as I can tell, Ensign Nader was in the middle of a drug smuggling ring working on US Navy ships. He’d started getting second thoughts and wanted out, but they wouldn’t let him. He either couldn’t take the pressure and jumped to his death or had endangered the drug operation and was given a little help by his cohorts. The crewman that went overboard the week before was in the same fix. The two AWOLs are probably dealing with the druggies on shore somewhere, maybe helping to convince other sailors to join them.”

“But Nader’s parents were so sure he wasn’t involved in drugs. They said he was a clean kid. He was an Annapolis grad.”

“You know that doesn’t matter. Even the most squeaky clean can get muddied up with drugs. It just happens.” Reeves looked at the aircraft carrier. “There seems to be a new synthetic cocaine out on the market called Japanese Rapture, or Jap Rap. It was developed by some Japanese scientists and they sold the formula and processing equipment to a group of Muslim terrorists that call themselves
Allah’s Jihad
. Unknown to our simple-minded American GIs, the terrorists are selling this new high at cut rate prices to flood the market with a cocaine-like substance that is one hundred times as potent, twice as addictive, and ten times deadlier.

“We think that they’ve given samples out to some stateside drug kingpins and those sons-of-bitches ordered a whole shit-load. They’ve devised a plan to transport the stuff back to the US aboard Navy ships. They’re paying off a number of young sailors with some big bucks and getting them to smuggle it aboard several ships of the Sixth Fleet. This stuff’s so potent, a soda straw-f could keep most of Hollywood high for a month—or kill them in a second.”

Spurs felt a rush. She’d wanted to get involved. To do her part in something big. This was big. She hoped she could handle it.

Commander Reeves continued, “The going price for this rat poison is twenty-five thousand a pound. And it’s nearly undetectable, even by dogs. They’re carrying it aboard in their shoes, their skivvies, swallowing it in balloons and stashing it on the ships by the sea bag full. I’m guessing that by the time we steam back to the states, between all of the ships in the fleet we’ll be carrying over ten tons of the shit.”

“Good lord, what can we do? How do we stop them? Can we suspend all shore leave in the ports that we suspect it’s coming from?”

“That’s no good. These guys have a free reign in Europe. They can distribute from anywhere.”

“I don’t get it. It’d seem easier for them to use another method—domestic flights maybe, or merchant ships since it’s so hard to detect.”

“Evidently, using the US’s own military is part of
Allah’s Jihad’s
plan. They corrupt our own people.

Screw up some of our young officers. Cause scandals. Basically embarrass us. That’s worth a lot to these bastards.”

“What can we do?”

“For now, just wait. We have to look for a break. Something to tip us to their leader. If we can get to their boss, we can stop an epidemic of death worse than the plague of the middle ages.”

Spurs stared at Reeves.

“I need you to stay sharp,” he said. “Do exactly as I tell you.
Allah’s Jihad
are bloodthirsty killers. They wouldn’t hesitate to slit your throat.”

Spurs nodded.

“Now for the bad news,” Reeves continued. “I believe the man in charge of the American’s part in the operation is an officer aboard this ship. His code name to them is Chameleon. And he has at least two other people on board.”

It would be someone with connections and influence. Spurs asked, “Not the captain?”

“No, Captain Naugle has problems, but illicit drugs is not one of them. He’s retiring after this cruise. He’d been planning on it since we left the states. That’s all he’d talked about. His trouble came when his wife of thirty years sent him a
Dear John
letter two months ago. I don’t care—drug dealers, terrorists, or
tsunami
, I’m going to see to it that the man makes it through this cruise without incident and gets the retirement he deserves. If Admiral Pierce suspects he’s been drinking while captaining this ship, he’ll lose everything. That’s not going to happen. And, by the way, the skipper wants to see you sometime this evening.”

Spurs acknowledged with another nod. “Do you have any suspects? What about this Marine captain— Chardoff?”

“He’s a definite maybe. If he is in cahoots with the terrorists, he’ll be one dangerous mother.”

Spurs nodded again. “What’re he and his men on board for, anyway?”

“They’re attached to us officially for training purposes. They’ll disembark from the
Atchison
to go on their training missions as if from a troop ship or carrier like they’d normally be attached to. Unofficially they’re here to help us with security for the Tomahawks. I have three other suspects; Ensign Ingrassias, Lieutenant Junior Grade Goodman and Lieutenant North. Be careful around any of these men. I suspect either North or Chardoff is the Chameleon. Whatever you do, don’t trust North for anything. If he’s who we’re after, he’ll kill you just as easy as lie to you. He’ll probably pretend to be an ally if it’s to his advantage.”

Spurs shuddered. She didn’t know for sure if it was the cool of the evening or the danger she sensed. The suspects were almost half of the other officers on the ship.

Reeves looked at her. “You’re not to contact anyone concerning this investigation or speak to anyone about it except me. Do you understand?” His face was stern. This was an order.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll relay anything we dig up to our agents on the
Enterprise
. Any radio communication is out. We have no idea who all is involved. It could be anyone from ship’s captains to radiomen.” He paused. “Scared?”

She shook her head too meekly to be convincing.

“You’d be a fool if you weren’t.”

“There’s something I’d better tell you,” she said.

Reeves raised his eyebrows in the diminishing light.

“There was a note left in my stateroom earlier. I didn’t see who left it, but it said. . . .” She stared at the sunset. “ . . . ‘I saw what happened—Signal bridge—0100 tonight—Tell no one.’ It was unsigned,” she said and turned, frowning at Reeves. “How should I handle it?”

“Meet him.”

CAPTAIN CONFUSION

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER REEVES stopped at Commander Naugle’s stateroom after Doc Jolly left the skipper with some ibuprofen for the pain. Reeves left something that magnified Naugle’s suffering—the name of his ship’s new weapons officer.

The captain was trying to compose a letter to Ensign Nader’s parents offering his condolences, but his throbbing brain wouldn’t allow him to think of the appropriate things to say. He would be glad when the mess was over.

After Reeves left, Naugle soaked a washcloth with cool water and placed it on his forehead. He glanced around his stateroom where his many awards, medals and trophies were displayed. His eyes rested on a 10"x13" portrait standing on the desk. The sixty-two-year-old sailor gave a deep sigh, gazing at the picture of his son wearing an Annapolis football uniform. Kelly Naugle had been one of the all-time best quarterbacks to wear the Navy blue. He’d graduated in the top ten percent of his class. It was his destiny to receive more—many, many more accolades.

But one man spoil
ed all of that. Admiral Oliver T. Sperling.

Captain Naugle reached slowly toward his son’s two-dimensional face. His eyes welled with tears and he clenched his teeth before making contact with the picture glass. He remembered the tragic day. The impersonal phone call he’d received from a young Naval personnel officer. Not from the boy’s commander, then
Captain
Sperling. That bastard hadn’t had the guts.

Lieutenant Junior Grade Kelly Naugle had flown his A-6 attack fighter into the frigid waters of the Norwegian Sea near Greenland with an empty fuel tank. It took the
USS Constellation
six hours to find the downed airman and recover his frozen body. It should not have happened. Naugle’s son should not have died as he did. Sure, there was a fuel leak, a sudden storm, a Swedish tanker in distress and an ocean full of icebergs, but still, something could have been done. It had been then
Captain
Oliver T. Sperling’s decision to assist the swamped tanker instead of holding course in the squall to wait for Kelly to return. Captain Sperling didn’t know the A-6’s fuel pump would fracture and leak like a fountain. But damn it, Sperling could have—should have done something. That was nearly twenty years ago.

Naugle’s cheeks streamed with tears. His breath caught. Two fingers of his right hand glanced off the glass as an involuntary whine came from his soul. He slapped his palms against his crew-cut skull, fingers spread wide. The whine grew louder, gradually erupting into a tormented wail. He pulled his hands down the sides of his face, the washcloth falling to the desk, his fingers furrowing his fleshy cheeks. Then, balling his fists, he slammed them on the desk conceding to a blubbering, grief-ridden fit.

The Navy wanted him to retire. The admiral of the Sixth Fleet had told him that he’d served his country with honor and the highest commitment to duty for the past forty-five years and now it was time to serve himself.

But Naugle knew there was more to it than that. He knew of the rumors that had been spreading over the last several weeks. His people were talking. “Naugle is losing his grip,” they said, “He’s not in control”—making errors, forgetting which port they were heading for, forgetting orders he’d just made and making them a second and even a third time.

The last incident seemed to have been the kicker. He’d called the Sixth Fleet commander, claiming he had an emergency, interrupting an important call Admiral Pierce had been having with the Secretary of the Navy. Pierce had put the secretary on hold to answer Naugle’s call, but Naugle forgot what he’d wanted to discuss with him.

Pressure, pressure, there was always so much pressure. But he couldn’t retire. The Navy was his life. The memory of his son was his life. A man in his position could not be found out to be a human marshmallow. He must control himself. But he couldn’t. The grief he felt for the loss of his son was back in full force, as if it had just happened and it grew stronger every
day. The worry of being forced to retire nagged every day.

He
was
losing his grip. But before he did, maybe he could get even. Maybe he could make Sperling pay. With his daughter on board, revenge was his if he wanted it. Then he could concentrate. Then he would be in command again. Revenge.

Moments passed. A soft knock came on Captain Naugle’s door, startling him as he sobbed softly in the wake of his tantrum.

He pushed his face up from his crossed arms on the desk and wiped his cheeks.

The soft tap came again. He got up from the desk and went to his bunk and lay down before answering.

MEETING THE CAPTAIN

AFTER LEAVING THE XO, Spurs went to Commander Naugle’s stateroom and tapped on the door.

There was no response and she tapped again.

“Enter,” came the low reply.

She stepped in the door and found the skipper, fully dressed, lying on his bunk, holding a wet washcloth across his forehead. In his late-fifties, he was of medium build, had thick Popeye forearms, chipmunk cheeks and a head full of short, sandy stubble.

“Ensign Janelle Sperling, reporting as ordered, sir,” she said, standing at attention.

“Relax, Miss Sperling,” he said, glimpsing from the corner of his eye. His voice came out raspy like from a mouthful of pebbles. He gave three phlegmy coughs. “Have a seat.” He motioned to a chair next to his desk.

Spurs obeyed and sat, waiting for his next words.

“Sorry I haven’t been able to greet you more formally,” he said. “These damn migraines. Anyway, Nick, uh, Commander Reeves, told me all about you. You sure surprised us.”

“I was surprised, too, sir.”

“Yes, I guess you probably were,” he said, still holding his head, his eyes only slits. “I don’t believe in beating around the bush—are you NCIS?”

Spurs hoped the captain didn’t notice her cringe.

“NCIS, sir?”

“I know you can’t answer. I just thought I’d try. I hope you’re not here to investigate me—my alleged alcoholism.”

Spurs sat quiet. She was sure her silence and feigned ignorance were giving her away. Nervously looking around the stateroom, she wished to tell the man that he was not under investigation. That, as far as she was concerned, he could ride out this last voyage and retire without incident. Still, as she scanned the room, she found herself looking for a bottle or a flask. There was a picture of an attractive, middle-aged lady on the skipper’s desk. Next to it was a picture of a young man in a football uniform. She saw no container and smelled no liquor. But he knew she was coming and had plenty of time to hide his hooch.

“Sir, even if I were with NCIS, I don’t believe they investigate alcohol problems. Don’t they just deal with criminal investigations?”

“A drunken skipper wouldn’t be criminal?” He grunted. “If it’s about Nader, I don’t think you’ll find any wrong doing aboard this ship. We had a formal investigation and we’ve been cleared. His death and the other problems we’ve been having are all coincidental. No less terrible, of course. Nader was a fine young officer. His death was a tragedy. But then, my entire crew is a group of outstanding individuals. I’m a lucky captain.” His jaw clenched as if he was in pain. “Speaking of such, my son was lucky enough to serve with your father on his first cruise on the
Constellation
. Kelly was a lowly ensign like you.”

She was about to ask him where his son was now, but Naugle spoke first.

“Anyway, I hope you’ll be comfortable aboard this vessel. We’re pleased to have you.” He held out a hand, still not looking.

Spurs took it as her cue to be dismissed. She stood and took a couple of steps to him and shook his hand. He winced and squeezed his forehead. The headache seemed relentless. He coughed twice more.

“Pleased to be on this fine ship, sir. And, sir, I’d like to stay on for the extent of my orders.”

“If that’s what you wish, then I see no reason not to allow you. I’ll make it so. But you’ll let me know if there’re any problems or anything I can do for you, won’t you, Miss Sperling?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, releasing his hand. “Thank you, sir.”