Onslaught

by David Poyer

  “Haven’t met the right girl yet. She’s deaf and dumb, with no teeth, and a flat head to set your beer on.”

  Ryan chuckled, and Carpenter shared a grin with her. Aisha said, “Let’s get back on track. You could be helpful, you know. Any ideas? Somebody who talks about rough trade, a woman hater. Knife fetish, talks about teaching the sluts a lesson? Trigger any thoughts?”

  The sonarman shrugged again. “I’d like to. I really would. But, see, everybody gets weird, this long at sea. It’s the DSB.”

  Beside her Ryan sniggered. “The what?” Aisha said. “This is the legionello—?”

  “Deadly sperm buildup. Drives guys over the edge. To where they get their rocks off taking pictures through the Sea Whiz cameras.” Looking at the screen, he sobered. “Hey, I come across flip, I know. But maybe it wasn’t exactly like she said. You think there’s no guy-girl hanky-panky going on in this ship, you’re just closing your eyes. She gets it on with some swingin’ dick, he dumps her, she blows the whistle. Only makes it like, she didn’t know who it was, so you have to nail him for her. Whaddya think, corpsperson? Am I blowin’ smoke through my asshole, or what?”

  Ryan didn’t answer, arms folded as she leaned against a rack of amplifiers. Her expression said it all. Amused disgust. Aisha cleared her throat, then got up. The chair creaked and flipped forward as her weight came off it, almost propelling her into Carpenter. “Please keep this talk between us. If a name, or a conversation, occurs to you later, let me know.”

  “Feel free to come back and visit,” Carpenter told Ryan. “I’m down here alone most of the time. Or, we could arrange to be alone.” He winked at Aisha. “Goes for you too, honey. We can keep it all between us. You bet.”

  * * *

  AISHA felt like taking a shower, but put it aside. She’d had her own problems as a new female agent, not to mention being a Muslima, but nothing like what the first women aboard ship must have had to put up with. With three hundred, five hundred sailors with Carpenter’s mouth and mind-set. Ryan had seemed to find him cute, or at least amusing. Maybe he was, but she didn’t see it. If he’d been younger, he’d have been on her short list, based just on that last talk.

  She was squirming up through the last scuttle, into the main deck passageway, when it connected in her mind. She snorted. “What?” said Ryan.

  “Never mind.”

  “Where you want to go next? It’s almost noon. Mess line’s open.”

  She usually ate in the wardroom, but sitting down with the crew now and then both increased your visibility and, in apparent contradiction, helped you fit in. Her tray followed Ryan’s down the stainless rails. She had to keep her diet in mind. Vegetables. Fruit. Protein kept you filled up.… She followed her white shadow out into the crowded messroom. Not as noisy as some she’d seen, with flying food and pushing. In fact, it seemed subdued. The lingering effects of the shipwide illness? Or simply the weight of war? Ryan wended toward a table of women, who shoved over to accommodate them. “Guys, this’s Aisha. She’s looking for whoever did the Terror.”

  “Hi, Aisha. Ginnie.”

  “Celestina.”

  “Maie.”

  “That’s a pretty wrap, Aisha. I like the—dogwood flowers? Is that Chinese?”

  “I think that’s what they are. Got it in New York. Could be Chinese.” She sipped the sweet colored fluid the Navy called bug juice, noting the dark-haired woman with the mole. Celestina. Could this be Colón, the victim of the second incident, the one that might have been intended as a rape—but was aborted at the last moment by some failure of will or resolve?

  “Any progress, uh, Aisha? I work with Beth. She’s really taking this hard.”

  Aisha dissected a chicken breast and set aside the greasy brown delicious-looking crackling. She yearned for a taste, but it was pure fat. “I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation. But you could all help me.”

  “Tell us.” Colón, if it was her, leaned forward. “Next time, he’s going to cut whoever he drags off.”

  She gave them the litany she’d just given the sonarman. “Guys who harass women. Who talk rough. Or the other extreme—women haters. Somebody weird, with a knife fetish. Who says stuff like ‘teach the cunts a lesson.’ Or ‘You won’t hook up with me, you’ll be sorry.’ Sound like anybody you know?”

  Furrowed brows. Slow chewing. “There’s a snipe, this asshole in Engineering, used to bad-mouth his petty officer like that. Just skating what he could get away with.”

  “This wouldn’t be…”

  “Peeples. Art Peeples.”

  “On my list. Who else?”

  But they couldn’t come up with any others. Aisha frowned. Either this ship’s company was composed of total gentlemen, or the girls were already wary of her. Of “ratting out” shipmates. “Well, that’s all right,” she said at last. “I’m in the unit commander’s stateroom, if anyone wants to come and see me. On the QT.” They looked puzzled. “Totally confidential. Your name will never be mentioned.”

  They nodded. Then Maie asked Ginnie, who worked in CIC with Terranova, where they were. Ginnie said, “We’re headed for Taiwan. To take station there, defend the islands. The captain thinks the Chinese may try to break through there.”

  “Which means we’ll be up to our asses in torpedoes and missiles. Air attacks, too.” Colón fingered the dark mole on her cheek.

  Ryan shoved her tray away, muttering, “You all better make damn sure your ee-beedies work, you have to get out in a smoke-filled environment.”

  The girls moved on to their home lives. They complained about not being able to check their bank accounts, e-mail their parents, log on to Facebook. “I just know he’s seeing her again,” Colón murmured, pushing pudding around on her tray. “It’s real simple. She’s there, I’m out here. And I can’t even Skype with him.”

  Aisha finished her meal and looked at the soft-ice-cream machine. Started to leave, but found herself mesmerized by the thick chocolate and creamy white, light and dark, intertwined and braiding endlessly as they oozed from the angled nozzles. She got in line.

  * * *

  CIC was smaller than she remembered from the cruisers she’d been on before. Or maybe, just more crowded. Icy cold. The ice cream rumbled uneasily in her stomach. The screens up front were milling, contacts being tracked to the accompaniment of a susurration of muttered conversation. A white officer was hunched at the front table, a red-bound binder open. He was rubbing his chin as he glanced from it to the screens. Eagles glittered on the points of his collar. The CO, Lenson. He was tall, all right. Sandy hair, graying at the temples. Lean. Fit-looking. She started to approach, but he looked too busy to interrupt. So she asked a woman at a console, “Is there a CIC officer here?”

  “Uh, the CIC watch officer? Over in that right-hand seat.”

  The chief she pointed to was facing the displays too. His name tag read SLAUGHENHAUPT. He listened stone-faced as she explained who she was and what she wanted. He pondered, blinking at the rapidly changing symbology on the screens. Finally he grunted, “Let’s go over by the scuttlebutt.”

  In a dark corner, he leaned in. “We’re in Condition Three, Agent. Might have to launch ordnance at any time. Do you really need to be here right now?”

  “I have a job to do, Chief.”

  “Well, so do we, ya know? Like, executing an operational mission. You got any idea what’s going on?”

  She said she didn’t, and that it was outside her need to know. This halted him; he’d been going to pull that card himself, but having it thrown down on him took him aback. “Uh, okay. Yeah, so you see.”

  “But can you just tell me about the cameras. They’re gun cameras, I think.”

  Slaughenhaupt coughed into a fist, squinting past her as the mingled soft voices grew momentarily louder . “Uh … there aren’t any ‘gun cameras’ on a CG. Not for the forward or aft five-inches, if that’s what you mean. There are cameras that survey the fore and aft missile decks. You can pivot those with that bl
ack joystick, between me and where the TAO sits. But they’re not stabilized. They’re mainly to be able to monitor the hatches, the launch cells.”

  “I don’t think that’s what I was asking about. These have sights on them. Like gunsights.”

  “Like…? Oh. You mean the 25mm video sights. Port and starboard on the aft missile deck. They’re gyroed. Or, from here, you could look through the port or starboard Phalanx camera at the RCS. But keep in mind, the Phoenix mount has to move in train and elevation to point the lens.” He hesitated. “Any of that help you out? What, you’re trying to find some kind of recordings?”

  “I’d rather not discuss why. But since you mention it, those are videotaped, right? How long are the recordings kept?”

  “I’m not sure. If it’s during an engagement, we keep those forever. Upload the video via the uplink, and file backups. But day to day … I doubt we keep those long. I’ll have to check, get back to you on that.”

  “Please do. I’d be particularly interested in anything about one month ago.” It had crossed her mind that if she had video, or even stills, before or after that shot of a reclining, relaxed Terranova, she might glimpse whoever had fondled her in the vestibule. The very first incident. Slaughenhaupt was eyeing her suspiciously, when someone called him from the desk. “Chief? Let’s get eyes on around two six five. Make sure the EWs are listening on that bearing.”

  Past him, she caught the gaze of the captain. Gray eyes fixed on her, a faint frown, a doubtful look. Then it vanished, absorbed back into that intense concentration as he pressed a mike button and, looking up at the screen, began to speak.

  * * *

  SHE called it a day after that. A decent start on the investigation. It didn’t look as if there was any particular hurry. From what the girls had said at lunch, she wouldn’t be getting off the ship anytime soon. And whoever had attacked Terranova, and Colón, then Terranova again, wouldn’t be leaving either. They were locked down together.

  And maybe headed into combat … She’d been shot at and car-bombed in Yemen. Never yet been in an all-out war, though. NCIS wasn’t supposed to be aboard ship in wartime. Their wartime missions mostly had to be done from shore bases. But they didn’t want her. They said they wanted to understand the Faithful, yet had no use for her? Well, it was all Allah’s will. Or, the Navy way of saying it, she guessed, “It all counts on twenty.”

  “Want me to stick around?” Ryan leaned in, holding the door open.

  “No, thanks. I appreciate your helping out today, Duncanna.”

  “The guys call me Dunk.”

  “Thanks, Dunk. Maybe meet up again tomorrow, after breakfast?”

  The corpsman said she had sick call early, plus there might be GQ again. If there wasn’t, she’d try to meet her around 07. Then eased the door closed.

  Aisha made sure it was locked. It wasn’t unknown for someone feeling unjustly suspected, or threatened for other reasons, to barge in.

  The case had been a two-victim shooting at Parris Island, the Marine boot camp in South Carolina. Two bodies had been found at the BEQ, one the senior sergeant major, the other a female drill instructor. Both had been shot with a target-grade .45 registered to the drill sergeant, which had been found on the bed.

  At first, it had been unclear if the sergeant major’s wounds had been self-inflicted, or if a third party had been involved in the shooting. Spatter patterns on the cinder-block walls had been inconclusive. No one had seen anyone enter or exit the BEQ during the early-morning hours the autopsy indicated had been the time of death. But traffic was sparse then, and the night desk clerks watched movies in the back office. The local resident’s preliminary investigation hadn’t cleared the air, leaving the possibility of a double murder instead of a murder-suicide. The pistol was very oily, which made the absence of fingerprints explainable two ways: either all had been dissolved by the military-issue preservative, or it was a murder weapon, wiped down by the killer.

  Aisha had interviewed the sergeant major’s wife, the other decedent’s husband, an air side chief on active duty aboard USS Essex, and six of the female victim’s male workmates, almost all of whom she’d apparently slept with at one time or another. She’d suspected one, a base armorer with a history of violence and jealousy. He could have had access to the sergeant major’s private weapon, or known where it was kept. But she’d never been able to link him to the scene. His wife, a cowed first-generation Filipina, had sworn he was with her that night. The case had finally cleared as murder-suicide, but she’d never felt comfortable with that conclusion.

  She’d been staying at that same quarters, to get a sense of the nighttime traffic, when the armorer had knocked on her door, and forced his way in when she’d opened it. Drunk, of course. He felt she needed to hear more, as a black sister. She’d managed to get him out, but ever since had locked her door.

  She changed and showered in the bare cold WC off the little bedroom. Everything looked unused. She couldn’t find any soap, and had to use her shampoo to shower with.

  Toweled off, in bathrobe and flip-flops, she parked herself in front of the desk. First, she updated her notes, on her laptop. This was a running diary of the investigation: a messy collection of documents, interview notes, and affidavits that by the end of a case sometimes stretched for hundreds of pages. She recapped hints, links from the victim to others. Usually she tried to assign a percentage of suspicion to each suspect, ranking them, but it was too early yet to do that.

  Notes completed, she turned the ship’s computer on. Booted up, logged on, and accessed the LAN.

  There, though, she found her access restricted. No personnel files. Just the plan of the day and an e-mail account blazoned with a warning about discussing classified information. When she went to e-mail, a popup informed her the ship was in River City: no Internet access unless cleared in advance by the CO or his designated representative.

  Her mother was digitally challenged, but she’d managed to set up a Skype account. She’d Skyped with Tashaara from the carrier, logging on during the 0100–0200 time frame so as not to overload the broadband. It wasn’t like the old days, when all you had was a letter every week or so. But then this had all started, the mess with China. Her family was still safe, though. She felt sure of that. Whatever happened in the Pacific, they’d be all right, back in New York.

  A chill wormed up her spine. Unless … but no. The United States still held the advantage, in nuclear weapons.

  She looked at the photo in the little gold frame, propped by her bed with her clock and the cup her bridge went in at night. She rubbed her face, exhausted. Climbing ladders, wriggling through scuttles. She was getting too old for this. No … not too old … just too damn fat.

  She laid the rug she’d bought in Makkah on the tiled deck, guessing at the direction, and knelt and did her salat. She said an extra du’a, asking for strength to resist temptation, in the form of ice cream and other forbidden lusts.

  Then sat back on her heels, looking up at the photo.

  She’d wanted to save just one child from drought-stricken, war-torn Ashaara. The Consular Report of Birth Abroad had documented the out-of-wedlock birth of one female child, Tashaara Ar-Rahim, to one Aisha Ar-Rahim, U.S. federal employee on duty abroad.

  The thump of a rubber stamp, and an orphan had become a U.S. citizen.

  She touched the photo, smiling back at the little girl’s happy grin. Then set it down gently, and crawled into bed. Said the Talbiyah quietly, the prayer pilgrims said on the hajj, giving herself to sleep.

  Here I am at your service, O Lord, here I am.

  Here I am, no partner do you have, here I am.

  Truly all the praise and goodness is yours, and the kingdom.

  Amin.…

  10

  THE helicopter came in fast out of the night, braking mere feet from Savo’s upperworks. It flared out with a shrieking whine and planted itself with a thump that Dan, on the bridge wing looking aft, could hear even this far away.

>   The next morning, but barely. 0100. Outside, the sea was dead black, the windows fathomless mirrors that returned only the firefly glows of pilot lamps and nav screens.

  Cheryl was back there to welcome the liaison. Dan had wavered on where to receive him. Asians liked ceremonial welcomes. Finally, he’d decided on the bridge. He made sure they had hot coffee. A plate of fresh Savo cookies teetered on one of the radar repeaters, where an exhaust fan blasted warm air into the chill.

  A rising clatter again from aft. Both Savo and the aircraft were running darkened, though Dan had ordered the deck-edge lights turned on for the last seconds of the approach. The flare of the turbine exhaust burned in the near infrared, lifting as it veered off to starboard, then winked out.

  Dan’s Hydra crackled. “Skipper? Captain Fang is aboard.”

  Captain? The messages had said he was a commander. Dan nodded to the boatswain, hidden in the darkness. “Hangar area only,” he cautioned.

  The 1MC crackled, then intoned, “Commander, Korean navy, arriving.”

  The angry murmur of someone recalibrating the boatswain was followed by, “Belay my last. Captain, Republic of China Navy, arriving.” Dan counted the muffled bells that followed. Six. Good.

  Minutes later the door creaked open. Bodies filed into the darkened space. Dan led them into the nav room and closed the door.

  When the deep red lights blinked on he faced a tall, thin Asian with a jutting chin. “I am Captain Fang,” he murmured, gripping Dan’s hand with more than the usual strength one got in this part of the world. Some kind of birthmark, or rash, on either side of his nose appeared black in the scarlet light. He looked as tired as Dan felt.

  “Dan Lenson. Commanding Task Group 779.1. How was your flight, um, Captain? Where’d you fly out of, anyway?”

  “Hualien Naval Airfield. We went fast and low,” Fang said. “It was … exciting. In the dark.” He looked pale. His insignia sparkled. Still new. The guy had just been fleeted up, to match Dan’s rank as his opposite number.