Backblast

by Candace Irving

  That day had finally come.

  Whether the translator realized it or not, Tamir Hachemi had discovered it.

  She was the trigger. The reason John had finally vaulted to his feet in that conference room and blindly vented the pain, horror and rage of the past few weeks—hell, the entire past decade—onto his once-trusted colleague.

  Just one blow. But with those massive arms and combat-honed reflexes, that was all it had taken. The translator was dead. And unless she found exculpating evidence—and soon—John would be found guilty. Despite their past and her current feelings for the man, she'd be forced to support that verdict.

  Christ, what a mess. A mess that, ultimately, lay at her feet. John would have been better off having never met her in that off-post bar back in Germany. But he had. Not only had she used his attraction, she'd ruthlessly exploited it. And now, he was trapped in a compartment a deck away, alone and tortured by what he'd done.

  What he believed he'd finally become.

  Because of her.

  But she wasn't the only one at fault. The Army shouldered a good deal of the responsibility too. Perhaps not as much as she did, but definitely more than John.

  To the military, the mission was everything. And the way those missions were accomplished was through skills, to the extent that the military's entire branch and occupational specialty sub-structure was based upon them.

  Need to blow up a critical bridge deep inside enemy lines? Task a Sapper team with soldiers who'd been weaned on rigging C4 and det cord since they were privates. Need to ferry an Army CID agent from a sensitive airstrip located on a patch of desert in the UAE to a US Navy warship while that ship was operating in the middle of the Arabian Sea? Task the pilot and crew of one of those mammoth Super Stallions currently strapped to the Griffith's helo deck to fly to that airstrip and bring her here.

  Why?

  Because she was no more qualified to fly that monster than she could drop an entire bridge into a river in ten seconds flat—while the enemy was crossing it.

  In fact, there were a hell of a lot of skills that were critical to the Army and its innumerable missions that she didn't possess and never would. But she was an interrogator. Which the Army knew full well, because it had spent years teaching her to sit across a table, identify the appropriate interrogation technique and slowly but steadily run it—and the detainee on the other side of the table—into the ground, until he or she coughed up whatever information Uncle Sam had deemed vital.

  John, however, was not an interrogator.

  Oh, he might get lucky. And there was always the chance that he'd be able to clear the goalpost by brainpower, patience and combat-honed instincts alone. But the risk was always there. The risk that those same combat-honed instincts could just as easily become triggered and blow up in John's face…as they had this morning.

  Why?

  John simply wasn't trained to do what he'd been ordered to do aboard this ship. It was the same rationale as to why a US Army infantryman, carrying a loaded M4, should never be slotted into a line of civilian police officers at the local county courthouse during a belligerent stateside demonstration. The average infantryman simply didn't possess the knowledge, skills and experience to perform the riot control mission effectively.

  Again and again, history had confirmed that conquering armies made for lousy occupying forces and even lousier police. Peacekeeping just wasn't in their skill set. And professional fortitude and personal control only went so far.

  That wasn't to say that John shouldn't be aboard the Griffith.

  Quite the contrary. Once Hachemi had reversed course and clammed up, John should absolutely have been brought in. Just as someone from the Griffith's audiovisual department should've rigged a camera to broadcast its signal beyond the steel bulkheads that formed that conference room. John should've been in the next compartment, watching the feed.

  Assessing. Advising.

  But he should never have been inside that compartment, let alone serving as the official face of the Army across the table. Because John was not CID; he was Special Forces. In that capacity, the Army had spent years teaching the man to execute two primary missions: kill, and teach others how to kill. Coldly, efficiently, effectively.

  And in some singularly creative ways.

  And then the Army had tasked John with honing those deadly skills, for over a decade—in combat, no less—until they'd become more than second nature.

  They'd been branded into his flesh.

  Muscle memory. The goal was to train a soldier to the point where he could draw on his skill set mere seconds from sleep…or when his back was to the wall and he was fighting the renewed horror of the deaths of no less than seven of his soldiers, two of their wives and a young sergeant's unborn child. Not to mention seven Pakistani women and an equal number of infants in a cave deep within the Hindu Kush.

  The idea was to push at a soldier under increasingly severe stress until his innate skills automatically surfaced and the soldier just…reacted.

  As John had.

  As General Palisade and the general's entire chain of command had to have known John would react. So, why on earth had Palisade and that chain risked it?

  What else was going on?

  And why did she increasingly suspect that Riyad was privy to it?

  And if the NCIS agent was aware of it? Did she keep the real meaning behind that private I saw red explanation to herself? At least for now?

  Or did she inform her newly assigned, so-called partner of the dark depth of John's belief in his own culpability? An NCIS spook who not only openly wanted her off this case so he could investigate it alone, but had done his damnedest to sabotage her initial assignment before she'd even stepped aboard the Griffith.

  Regan was still struggling with the dilemma when the door to her stateroom reverberated with a solid, triple knock.

  The knocks settled it.

  If Riyad was on the other side, she confessed right now. If not, she waited. Bided her time. At least until she and Riyad linked up for the translator's autopsy.

  She hadn't seen or heard from the spook since he'd walked out during her interview with John just over an hour ago. If Riyad was still on his sat phone, that was one heck of a call…the contents of which he didn't appear eager to share with her.

  All the more reason to reconsider sharing the entire range of John's confession—now or later.

  Damn it, move.

  She reached for her pen, ignoring yet another traitorous tremor as it hijacked her hand at the last moment, causing her to knock the pen to the floor. She stood to retrieve the pen, then crossed the stateroom. Relief swamped her as she opened the door.

  It wasn't Riyad.

  It was Staff Sergeant Brandt. The Marine she'd yet to interview regarding Tamir Hachemi's death.

  The staff sergeant's dark-blond, camouflaged bulk dominated the narrow passageway, somehow reminding her painfully of John as he shifted to attention. The man was even sporting a dimple, though Brandt's was smack in the middle of his chin.

  "Good afternoon, Agent Chase. I just returned from escorting the translator's body to the USS Ronald Reagan. Chief Yrle said you needed my statement?"

  That would explain the musical piping that had sounded from the ship-wide, 1MC loudspeaker box hanging in the overhead of her stateroom fifteen minutes earlier—and the terse "helo ops" announcement that had followed.

  Regan nodded as she pulled the door wide. "Come on in, Staff Sergeant." She used her pen to point to the spare chair tucked along the bulkhead beside the sink as she returned to her makeshift desk and the pair of case folders burdening the upper right corner. "Grab that seat and drag it over."

  The Marine complied, dwarfing the stateroom, and especially the second chair, as he moved it to within two feet of hers and sat. He reached for the right cargo pocket of his camouflaged trousers, then changed his mind before breaching the flap. The faint rectangular outline beneath had already given away its contents. />
  "If you need a smoke, feel free."

  His brows lifted. "You don't mind?"

  Honestly? She did. Plus, although the smoking lamp had been relit following the conclusion of the ship's underway refueling, she didn't know if that included permission to light up inside the skin of the ship.

  But if not, she'd take the hit. Mainly because she wanted the staff sergeant relaxed, not preoccupied with an addiction. And since Brandt had been on duty and, hence, not allowed to smoke since the translator's interrogation had commenced five hours earlier, his nicotine craving had to be biting in hard about now.

  "Go for it."

  The Marine retrieved a pack of Pakistani cigarettes and held them out.

  She shook her head and shoved her half-empty Styrofoam cup of coffee across the desk as he settled back to light up.

  "Thanks, ma'am, but I've got something."

  His hand returned to his cargo pocket, this time surfacing with what appeared to be a tin of mints. From the blackened and slightly warped inner base, the tin had served as a recycled ashtray for a while.

  The Marine's lips twisted ruefully as he finished his first, deep drag and leaned forward to tap his ashes into the tin. "Been trying to quit for a couple weeks now—for the third time. This is number two for the day."

  His next drag was deeper still, all but confirming that the earlier cigarette had been consumed well before John's final interview with Hachemi. Add on the translator's death, the bout of futile CPR, the subsequent forensic processing of the conference room, as well as the Marine's recent morbid escort duties, and that probably wouldn't be his last cigarette of the day.

  Smoke clouded the stateroom's air as Regan retrieved the digital recorder she'd stowed inside her own cargo pocket following the conclusion of her interview with John. She activated the machine, its tiny green "on" light gleaming as she verbally tagged this latest interview session's time, place, participating personnel and subject matter, before setting the recorder on the desk.

  She dragged her tablet and pen closer and waited for the Marine to finish.

  Brandt finally balanced the dwindling cigarette over the edge of the tin and sighed. "Where should I start?"

  "Anywhere you'd like." What someone chose to open with often revealed more than they realized. About her current case—and them.

  But instead of choosing a spot, the staff sergeant leaned forward and snagged the cigarette. It didn't take the Commandant of the Corps to recognize the reluctance tightening the cords of Brandt's neck as he studied the glowing tip, much less understand the reason for it. Semper Fidelis: Always Faithful.

  Like most Marines, Brandt appeared to take the Corps' motto seriously. A motto that, given a certain decades-long War on Terror, tended to encompass the remaining military branches. John might not be a jarhead, but he was a soldier. And he was Special Forces. Something this jarhead obviously respected.

  Regan retrieved her lukewarm coffee and took a sip, giving the staff sergeant the time he needed to come to terms with what amounted to ratting out a fellow combat vet.

  Another sigh filled the room, this one heavier than the first. "He's a good man."

  Regan set her tepid coffee on the desk. "Major Garrison?"

  "Yes."

  Despite what had happened today, she thoroughly agreed with the assessment. Still, there was something in that reluctant sigh. Something almost…personal.

  Were the men more than fellow combat vets? "Did you cross paths with the major in Iraq?"

  The staff sergeant blinked.

  Regan glanced at Brandt's Marine Corps woodland utilities. By their nature, they were spartan compared to her ACUs. Although there was no war patch velcroed to the staff sergeant's right sleeve to reflect his seven-month tour in the Anbar Province when he was still a private, Vetter had mentioned it during their interview earlier.

  And there was her personal knowledge. "Major Garrison led a number of missions in Anbar when he was a lieutenant." In fact, Anbar was where John's Humvee had been struck by an IED, resulting in the death of his first sergeant and the creation of the pair of thick, roping scars that tangled down the left side of John's neck and a good eight inches into his chest.

  Surprise had invaded the Marine's dark blue eyes at the revelation. The reluctance to rat returned as well. Strengthened.

  "It's all right, Staff Sergeant. I already know what happened. Major Garrison's own account dovetails into your corporal's. I just need to hear it from you."

  Brandt held her stare for a good ten seconds, then sighed. He took one last drag on the now stunted cigarette and leaned forward to extinguish it. He left the crumpled butt in the tin, shaking his head as he sat back in his chair. "No. I've never run across the major before. And, yeah, he did it. Though I swear to God, he held out longer than I would have."

  "The taunting?"

  Another nod. This one was downright grim. "The bastard was in rare form this morning—and, trust me, I know. I've been stuck on this boat since they brought the two of them here."

  Brandt knew about Durrani then, too.

  Regan wasn't surprised. She simply retrieved her pen so she could make a note in her tablet to that effect before she continued. "So you were there for the earliest sessions that involved just Agent Riyad?"

  "Yes. Not that anything came of them. I guess that's why they brought in the major—personal history, and all."

  This time, Regan nodded. "Sometimes it gets things going."

  "This was definitely one of those times. Just not sure it was a wise choice, at least not this morning."

  "Why not?"

  "'Cause they were both pushing at each other. Granted, the major was pushing harder, at least for a while. Not in a bad way, mind you. Just…smart."

  "How so?"

  "Hachemi wasn't feeling well. I don't think he'd slept well, either. He was rubbing at his neck, and he was sweaty and thirsty. At one point he admitted his head was pounding and that his stomach felt like shit. He was green about the gills—and the seas were rough this morning. But he'd refused the pills the doc offered, so it was his own damned fault. The major must've thought so too, 'cause he finally reamed the guy with it. Said ships weren't his thing either—but that, lucky for him, he was about to leave. But he figured he'd give the bastard one last shot at the most understanding ear he was gonna get. 'Cause the word had come down that we were gonna hand him over to the Pakistanis when all was said and done, and let them deal with him. And if that happened, that bastard was gonna wish he'd died with those women in that cave."

  "Do you know if that was the truth?"

  Given the focus of her interview with John in his stateroom earlier, she hadn't had a chance to ask him. But she suspected not. Not only had General Palisade not mentioned a Pakistani rendition back at Fort Campbell, Agent Riyad hadn't broached the subject either, earlier today aboard this ship or during that recent session with John.

  Though, there was precedent for allowing the Pakistanis to take the lead. Most infamously, the Al Qaeda terror mastermind Ramzi Ahmed Yousef and the first attack on the Twin Towers in '93. Then again, Ramzi Yousef had been in Pakistan when he'd been hunted down and arrested by US Diplomatic Security Service agents. Nor had Ramzi been a recently minted naturalized American citizen.

  Hachemi was—or had been until this morning.

  Brandt shrugged. "I don't know. Like I said, I figured it was smart tactics. 'Cause let's face it, if the guy had ended up in ISI's custody, he would've wished he had died alongside those women."

  True. Pakistan's Inter-Services Intelligence agents had no compunction with regard to full-blown torture. Once the ISI got going, they tended to make the Gestapo look like a gaggle of Girl Scouts. They had with Ramzi Yousef…and others.

  Granted, the ISI wouldn't have gone so far as to kill Hachemi—but Brandt was right. Hachemi would've wished they had. For a very long, painful time.

  As interview techniques went, it was impressive. But ultimately, "It didn't work, did it?"
>
  "Oh, no, it worked. Just not the way the major hoped. The bastard believed him—and he was terrified shitless. It was like a switch went off. I think he decided right then and there to go out on his own terms. You know that phrase: suicide by cop? Only in this case, it was suicide by Special Forces. 'Cause from that moment on, that fucker got in the major's face and he would not let up. Tossed his coffee at him and started going off again on how he'd targeted the major's men personally, then he lit in on how he'd gutted those babies right out of their moms' bellies, while the women were still alive. He kept describing it, over and over—the screaming and the blood. And all the while, that bastard was cackling. Like it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. And then he started in about you. Saying how it was his idea, not Durrani's, to put that shit in your veins. That he and Durrani knew you'd be dead by the time they got to Iran and they didn't care, because they'd planned on draining your blood outta you anyway, by the bucketload. And, hell, it was what a whore like you deserved. That's when—"

  The Marine broke off, took a breath and…nothing. The solidarity had returned, this time with a vengeance.

  "Staff Sergeant?"

  He met her stare, held it—and refused to budge.

  "Please continue." It wasn't a request.

  "Damn it, you said you knew."

  "I do. But you have to say it." She pointed to the digital recorder. "For the record."

  Reluctant blue zeroed in on that gleaming dot of green as the Marine evaded her stare. He dragged his gaze back to hers on a heavy sigh. "Fine. For the record, that goddamned fucker was in his face—laughing about you dying and deserving it—and that's when he snapped."

  "The major?"

  Brandt reached up and slicked his palms over the naked skin above his ears, then scrubbed them through the island of cropped hair that formed the high of the ubiquitous Marine Corps high-and-tight cut. His fury ebbed as he dropped his hands to his lap. Resignation set in. "Yeah. The major. He grabbed the back of Hachemi's head and slammed his face into the bulkhead. Vetter and I shot to our feet and rounded the table to pull him off, but it was too late. One lousy crack, and it was over. Blood was pouring out of the bastard's face. By the time we got him laid out on the deck, he was shaking like he was having a seizure, and then his heart stopped. I'd barely bellowed for help when Chief Yrle vaulted into the compartment. She called the bridge and told them to pass the word for the ship's doc, then took custody of the major and escorted him out of the conference room while Vetter and I did CPR. You know the rest."