by Brandon Webb
So it wasn’t Papadakis. It was never Papadakis. It was always the SEAL.
The motherfucking SEAL.
He quickly wrapped the goggles and bugging contraption inside the jersey, jammed the whole mess under his arm, stepped out into the passageway.
And stopped.
Stepped back inside, shut the door again, and stood, thinking through his next move. He was taking this straight to the captain. Of course he was.
“Fuck,” he said again. “Fuck.”
He was torn.
Duty told him to bring this evidence to the captain so they could bury that prick for good. But as pissed off as he was at Jackson, he couldn’t deny the fact that he felt some tug of loyalty there.
Jackson had fucked up royally, but as much as it was that stubborn old Creole motherfucker’s own fault, he deserved this shot at redemption. He should be the one who got the credit for reopening an investigation and burying that psychotic, fucked-up piece of US Naval Special Warfare dogshit.
“Fuck!” he whispered.
He opened the door once more and headed out, making his way below toward the CMC’s office to put the incriminating evidence in the man’s hands so he could bring it up to the captain himself.
115
0556 hours.
Jackson stared at the thing sitting on his desk, wondering exactly what he was waiting for. Or avoiding.
That damn incident file had sat there unopened for a few hours now, ever since Indy gave it to him, while Jackson attempted to catch some sleep jammed into one of his little couches, his feet jutting out over one end like a victim on Procrustes’ bed.
Finally he’d gone over to his desk and read the whole bloody, horrifying thing, all five single-spaced pages of it.
How Indy managed to get hold of it he’d never know, didn’t want to know. Wished he’d never read it. But he had, and he couldn’t unread it now.
What to do with it: that was the question.
Madone.
He looked up at the God’s eyes on the bulkhead. Jackson thought about the slender little fingers that made them, about his two daughters bent over their craft tables at school, frowning in concentration. His daughters, now grown women with lives of their own. Lives that existed only because they had survived childhood—because they had not been cut short, had not known the horrible intimacy of deadly violence.
There were eight kids in that little farm settlement in Mukalla, eight kids killed along with the rest. Slaughtered. Dismembered. Defiled.
Just five pages, but dear God. The whole massacre was there in all its ugly detail, and while the file didn’t name Chief Finn, they did place a “rogue SEAL” at the center of the whole bloody mess.
Their own Lieutenant Calley.
Why Finn wasn’t arrested right there in Yemen, or later in Bahrain, was beyond Jackson. Probably Indy was right: they wanted to keep him under wraps, keep the entire damn thing from going public. Some mediocre mind had decided the navy couldn’t afford the exposure. So they dropped him on a boat in the middle of the Pacific while they worked out some antiseptic way of making the thing go away.
Maybe SOCOM got it wrong. Maybe Finn wasn’t involved.
And maybe the moon was made of green cheese.
No, SOCOM was right, and Scott was right. Chief Finn had committed unspeakable crimes in Mukalla, and when he came aboard Jackson’s ship he kept on committing them. Chief Finn was the psychotic Lew had described to them, the twisted bastard cooking up his theater of horror. Hadn’t Finn told him as much? A start signal.
He was guilty as sin.
Everything rational told Jackson that.
He pushed back his chair and stood.
He should be turning the file over to Eagleberg. Should, but wouldn’t. He’d lost all trust in the captain’s capacity to act rationally.
But he could take it to the admiral.
He picked up the file and headed for the door.
116
0556 hours.
Tap-tap, tap-tap. There was a gentle knock at Lew’s door, which he’d left open a crack. “Open,” he said. He swiveled in his chair and saw Indy’s face poking in.
“Hi,” she said. “Got a moment?”
He smiled and put his monitor to sleep. “Of course. What brings you out at this hour?”
She stood just inside the door, holding a sheet of paper. “I saw your light was on. I know you’re in early sometimes.” She sounded apologetic, almost embarrassed.
Lew nodded. “So. What’s on your mind?”
“I…I need to talk to you about something. It’s about Lieutenant Shiflin.”
“Indy,” said Lew patiently. “I hate to say this, but you know as well as I, we’re officially off the case. No more moonlight sleuthing for us nerds.”
Indy gave a soft laugh. “I know. It’s just, there’s something that’s just a little puzzling.”
Lew nodded. “This whole thing has been unsettling, to say the least. I suspect there are a thousand questions we’ll never know the answers to.”
“I know. You’re right. But…”
Despite his best effort to gently close the topic it was clear that Indy was going to persist, so he relented. “All right,” he said. “Come on in. Let’s see what you’ve got.” He gestured to the other seat and pulled it closer to his so they could sit at his desk side by side.
Indy sat, still holding the sheet of paper.
“Early this morning,” she began, “Master Chief Jackson asked me to take one more look at Lieutenant Shiflin’s schedule the week before she disappeared. So I did.”
“And?” said Lew.
“I went back over transcripts of all the interviews and noticed something. Lieutenant Halsey and her roommate both mentioned Shiflin skipping breakfast a few times. I checked once more. Shiflin wasn’t at work on those days, or in the squadron ready room. Or in her stateroom. So where was she?”
Lew thought for a moment, then shook his head and shrugged. “I’d imagine she could have been almost anywhere. Off by herself? Time to think?”
“Maybe,” said Indy. “But this is where it gets curious…”
117
0600 hours.
When Jackson reached the door to the admiral’s suite he met Arthur on his way out.
Both men nodded their greetings.
Not a word passed, but Jackson knew why Arthur was there. He was putting his concerns on record. Putting some daylight between himself and the captain. Covering his rear. Arthur was no fool. He could sense as well as Jackson that something on the USS Abraham Lincoln was not going to end well.
“Reveille, rev—nds heave out and—”
The speaker barked its fractured wake-up call, then fell silent.
Jackson shook his head and sighed. The red lights should be switching over to normal daytime lighting right now, but of course, they weren’t. Delayed again. Engineering going to crap.
He turned and looked down the short passageway through the open porthole at the end, out at the sea. He couldn’t quite make out the horizon. Dawn had long since broken but it was still dark out there, the roiling cloud cover pressing down like a thousand gnarled black hands, angry ocean rising to meet it.
Getting darker by the moment. Summed up their whole situation.
Summed it up like poetry.
He turned back and stepped through the door, where he was met by an aide. The admiral was tied up for a bit. Could he wait a few minutes?
The aide retreated back inside the admiral’s war room.
Jackson took a seat and waited.
118
0600 hours.
“Reveille, rev—nds heave out and—”
Scott waited for the 1MC speaker to go silent, then reached out and gave the door three quick raps. No answer. Tried the handle. Locked.
Not in
his stateroom, and not here. Must be out on his rounds already, doing his den mother/beat cop thing.
Should he let himself in? He had the pass code to Jackson’s office; everyone on the team had it.
Or should he come back later?
No, this couldn’t wait.
He should take it to the captain.
“Fuck!” he said quietly.
He let out a breath and nodded to himself. He’d take it to the captain.
Fuck!
He took another breath. Then punched in the sequence of digits on the door’s keypad and stepped inside the darkened compartment.
No one there.
He went into the inner office and sat down to wait for the master chief to show.
After a moment, he picked up Jackson’s phone.
119
0600 hours.
“Reveille, rev—nds heave out and—”
Lew looked at Indy and smiled. “I suppose it’s official now: we’re all awake.”
She gave a soft laugh. “Yes.”
“Anyway,” he said, and he nodded at the sheet of paper in her hand.
“Right,” she said. She laid it down on Lew’s desk so he could take a look. On it she’d hand-scribbled a quick chart of dates and times. “I remembered a co-worker mentioning that a few days earlier Shiflin had skipped breakfast for a doctor’s appointment, but there was no record of her seeing anyone at medical. Which was no surprise. Pilots hate having medical visits on their record. Makes them seem mortal.”
“Tell me about it,” Lew agreed.
“So I thought—”
She was interrupted by Lew’s desk phone ringing. They both glanced at it. “Sorry,” said Lew. He touched a switch that shut off the ringer, letting the call go to voicemail. He looked up at Indy again. “You were saying.”
“So,” Indy said, “I thought perhaps she had arranged to see her doctor privately, off the record. Meeting in a private office, say, over coffee. Which would explain the missed breakfasts.”
“Huh.” Lew nodded, intrigued. “Go on.”
“But I double-checked on the actual whereabouts of medical personnel on those mornings Lieutenant Shiflin skipped breakfast. I’ve accounted for everyone in the medical department. Everyone but you.”
Lew frowned. “That is strange.”
“Lew, this could be important. I know those sessions would be privileged, but she might have said something significant, perhaps without your realizing it at the time. And besides, I don’t think that privilege would apply anymore. So I’m just wondering, if Lieutenant Shiflin was seeing you for counseling, off the record, before office hours…why didn’t you say something?”
“Well,” he began, then stopped. Smiled at her.
Then drove his right fist hard into her solar plexus.
120
0600 hours.
“Reveille, rev—nds heave out and—”
Finn sat up, planted his feet on the deck, and stood.
It was time.
VII
The Storm
121
He grabbed her by the hair with his left hand, forcing her head back, and with his right delivered a vicious jab to the throat, crushing her larynx.
He saw her eyes fly open as she fought to take a breath. Nothing but a muffled, strangled choking. No more oxygen would be going down that pretty throat. He released her hair and watched as she collapsed forward like a rag doll—
Ow!
SHIT!!
Lewis stared at her in disbelief. That witch! He didn’t know how, but she’d managed to lash out with one hand and rake her fingernails across his face.
His face!
Sonofabitch, that hurt!
For an instant they glared at each other—she, still struggling to breathe, hands flailing; he, momentarily stunned that she’d had the audacity to fight back—
Then he moved.
In one quick motion he snatched at her head with both hands, right hand grabbing the back of the head by the hair, left hand on the chin, and gave it a hard yank. Then he gave it a second violent twist and felt Indy pop open like a jar of vacuum-sealed pickles. With a loud crack! her neck snapped, fracturing two cervical vertebrae and severing her spinal cord.
He placed her back in the chair, vaguely upright, head lolling.
He touched one finger to his cheek, still in disbelief. The witch drew blood. His blood. She scratched a gouge across his face! He wanted to kill her all over again. He heard panting and a low growl, realized it was coming from himself.
Control, Lewis.
Assess, formulate, execute.
He looked at Indy.
He sat back in his chair for a moment, too, making his posture just like hers, even lolling his neck a little, waiting for his own breathing to slow. It took no more than eight or nine seconds.
He picked up the phone, punched in a number.
“Brig. Hawkins,” hacked the voice on the other end.
He sat up straight and put a friendly-but-concerned look on his face as he spoke into the phone. Voice pattern conveys physiognomy.
“Lew Stevens here. Hey, I need to have a word with the prisoner. Yes. It’s sensitive, I’ll need a few minutes alone. That’s fine. All right, I’ll be right over.”
He set the phone down, stood, took his jacket down off a hook and put it on, rehearsing as he did.
“As I was speaking with the prisoner he produced a weapon—no idea how he got it—then he overpowered me and shot the security team. Forced me at gunpoint back to my office, where we were surprised by Lieutenant Desai. The SEAL snapped her neck—and I, I grabbed at his gun and it just, it just went off…”
Lewis unlocked the bottom side drawer of his desk, pulled it open, and slid out three items, carefully laying each on his desk: hypodermic needle, pistol, set of zip ties.
Could he make that story work? He smiled as he rose from his chair.
Of course he could.
122
The Sheriff hung up, spat “Butthole!” at the now silent phone.
“Shrink’s coming over to talk to shithead for five,” she announced.
Endgame, thought Finn.
The Sheriff glanced up at the wall clock, pushed back her chair, and got to her feet—0605 on the button. Gotta get in line early if you want to be first at Jittery Abe’s.
“Keep ’im honest, boys,” she rasped as she walked to the door. “Five minutes, no more.” She opened the door and headed out for her triple mocha.
Frank followed her to the door and shut it behind her, locking them in.
Finn slowed his breathing.
Like the tides.
Pulling in. Rolling out.
Frank turned, ambled back in the direction of his seat. As he passed Finn’s cell, the prisoner’s dinner tray from the night before slipped out of the feeding slot in the door and clattered to the deck.
Pulling in. Rolling out.
“Oh, fer cryin’ out…” muttered Frank. He bent down to retrieve the tray.
An arm snaked out and wrapped around his neck.
Before he could react Frank was pinned to the door, the tip of Finn’s ring knife kissing the flesh of his left temple.
“Dewitt.”
Frank’s partner was already scrambling to his feet and reaching for his sidearm—but something in Finn’s voice froze him in place, hand still on the butt of the holstered weapon.
“Wh-what?” he stammered.
“This is the getting-out part.”
Without warning, the red safety lights switched off and the full white lights flashed on.
Then there was a loud POP, and everything went to black.
123
He was just leaving his office when the lights blew.
The blackness lasted no more t
han a moment, at which point the emergency lights kicked in, their glow about as strong as a few candles. In the ghostly light Indy’s sagging figure looked like a poorly made wax mannequin.
Standing at the door, fingers on the handle, Lewis remembered the call that came in while he and Indy were talking. The caller left a voicemail. He made a mental note to retrieve it as soon as possible, as soon as he’d gotten this other business out of the way.
No, now.
Something deep in his reptile brain sparked and sizzled. Lisssten now.
He’d learned to heed his reptile brain.
He went back to his desk and played the message.
“Lew, Scott Angler. I’m in Jackson’s office waiting for him to show. Listen, I just spoke with Lieutenant Halsey, the helo pilot who roomed with Shiflin. She’s got a hell of a story. I think she can ID our killer—and it’s definitely not Papadakis.”
He sank back into his chair and spun it slowly back and forth for a moment.
In the pale glow of the emergency lights the little compartment looked like a cave, the masks on his wall like cave paintings, records of ancestral exploits.
I think she can ID our killer.
Well, that changed things a bit, didn’t it.
He thought quickly, processing the implications as his chair swung to and fro.
Now he needed to go find Halsey and silence her. Right away, before she shared her insights further. If she really could finger him, that was. Which he doubted. But he didn’t have the luxury of hoping otherwise.
Finn X could wait; he wasn’t going anywhere.
Finding Halsey was now priority one.
But exactly where would she be right now? Wardroom? Ready room? Maintenance office? He didn’t have time to check all possible spots. He needed to know now. And there was someone who could tell him—someone sitting in Master Chief Jackson’s office, just a one-minute walk down the passageway.
Lewis Stevens unlocked his bottom drawer again and took out three more items.
