Onslaught

by David Poyer

  “That’s fine, but the rest of us got other priorities, you know?” Ryan waited for an answer, but when Aisha had none, said, “Okay, let’s go get you something to eat.”

  * * *

  THE girls at the mess table looked tired. The ship leaned alarmingly, and a tremor ran through the decks. It sounded like a bus on a gravel road. They discussed the war in worried voices. Colón asked Aisha if she was making any progress. She said, “I’m still investigating.”

  “I’d look at that fucking Peeples again,” said one of the women. “He gives me the creepy-crawlies.”

  “Or it could be three separate guys,” another said, tearing apart a dinner roll.

  Aisha smiled. “It’s possible, but the modus is so much the same, I’m pretty sure there’s one actor.”

  “Actor?” Colón said irritably. “Actor?”

  “Perpetrator, if you prefer. I think we’re dealing with one man, with a grudge against women.”

  “Every guy on this fucking ship has a fucking grudge,” one of the other girls said. “Either somebody slept with him and dumped him, or she wouldn’t sleep with him, or she wanted to sleep with him and she wasn’t hot enough.” Snickers ran around the table.

  Aisha looked at her watch. “Dunk, if you don’t mind—”

  More snickers. “You let her call you Dunk?”

  “Dunkie’s got a new girlfriend,” singsonged around the table.

  “Shut the fuck up, you whores.” The slight redhead grabbed her tray, but there was no real anger in her voice. Just fatigue. “You wanted to go down to the Goat Locker? They’ll be on their desserts now. Probably the best time to step into the den.”

  * * *

  “GOAT Locker” was Navy slang for the chief’s mess and berthing area. Ryan tapped on a door. “It’s fuckin’ open,” a gruff voice yelled from inside.

  Middle-aged men in coveralls and faded khakis surrounded a picnic-bench-style table crowded with plates. Another room, probably a bunking area, was screened off by a faded curtain. They blinked up at Aisha. “Oh,” one said, and she recognized the leathery visage: Tausengelt, the command master chief. He rose so quickly a half-gnawed ear of corn leapt off his plate to land on the deck; a much younger man went after it, trapped its roll with a boot. Tausengelt muttered, “It’s the custom, Special Agent, to call before you come down here. Basically, get an invite. You didn’t know that?”

  “Like you said, it’s a custom. Not a regulation. The XO gave me access throughout the ship. I go where I have to.”

  His beaky face crimped like a discontented tortoise’s, but he just waved at the others. She noted that, unlike on the carrier, there were no female senior enlisted here. “Who exactly you looking for?” Tausengelt murmured, not meeting her gaze.

  “I’d like to address you all, if I may.”

  “Address us all. Here? Now?”

  “If that’s all right.”

  He held up both hands. “Guys! Listen up. The agent here wants a word.”

  They fell silent, but it didn’t feel like an attentive silence. More like a resentful, even hostile one. She cleared her throat. “As you all know, I’m here to investigate a rape. Petty Officer Beth Terranova. It took place up in the Equipment Room, third deck. But previous incidents of sexual assault have taken place elsewhere: in the aviation area, the supply spaces. We have DNA evidence collected from the … victim, but we need to narrow down the pool we’ll take samples from.

  “So I’m assembling a short list.

  “What I’d like from you, as the leaders aboard ship, is to let me know, in confidence, if you know any individuals who fit a certain profile.”

  They’d stopped eating, and stared up. She crossed her arms and paced between the bug juice machine and the door. “We’ve dealt with crimes like this before. By ‘we’ I mean the federal investigative agencies—FBI, NCIS, Army Criminal Investigation, Secret Service. We’ve built up a list of characteristics, a profile, if you will, of serial rapists—which is how I’m classifying our suspect.”

  She began with the typical rapist. Most usually attempted to lure the victim into a remote location using verbal blandishments, though sometimes force was used. Threats and often a weapon were used to maintain control. “Many of the offenders display sexual dysfunction during the crime. We think this might have occurred during the attack on Seaman Colón, in the supply spaces. It doesn’t mean the rapist is impotent, just that he’s building up to the full display or enactment he ultimately has in mind. Or was interrupted, or feared interruption.

  “Some don’t seem concerned with protecting their identities or preventing apprehension. But every rapist’s different. Their motives, fantasies, the ways they try to satisfy drives.

  “The one we’re dealing with here appears smarter than those I’ve investigated before. The crimes were preplanned, with the locations set up in advance. He brings certain objects to the scene and removes them afterward. He seems to pick venues that are heavily trafficked but deserted at the moment he needs them. I suspect, to lower the possibility of leaving personal traces, such as fingerprints. This leads me toward a further insight—”

  A chief lifted a finger. “So we’re looking for a single guy, somebody oversexed and—”

  “Rape isn’t about virility, or lack of available sex outlets,” she put in. “It’s about control. Deep down, rapists hate women. Their relationships are based on dominance. They show histories of conflict and stalking, and an inability to relate to women as human beings rather than objects.”

  The chiefs looked uneasy. Probably reviewing their own relationships, she thought. “That’s pretty goddamn general,” one finally grunted. “Can you lay a few more groups on us, about that?”

  “We know a little more, but I’d rather not reveal all those details now.”

  “So you’re saying, you got nothing right now,” another said. “Just comin’ to us to … give up whoever we think might have done it.”

  “You know the crew better than anyone else. Certainly better than the wardroom.”

  “Okay. What, exactly, are we looking for?” said a small white man. He seemed familiar, in a weaselly way. She couldn’t recall his name, but had seen him checking her out furtively in CIC.

  “Okay, as I was saying, we can subclassify this guy. We call it the Ted Bundy type, because this brand of serial rapist and the serial killer are very similar in personality.

  “This man is highly organized. Even anal. He likes everything in its place, everything just right. Often, a loner. He doesn’t identify with others. He feels he’s superior, with higher standards. For exactly those reasons, he may be a good military man, if you will. Because those characteristics, in moderation, aren’t bad. Until they get twisted around and attached to violence against women.”

  “Sounds like a nuke,” one of the chiefs said. The others chuckled.

  “Since he plans ahead, covers his tracks, we’re going to have to dig deep, and think the way he does, to catch him.

  “I would say this: We’re looking for someone who obsessively stalks and eavesdrops on certain women. He may have their pictures up at his workstation, or hidden near his bunk. He may keep a ‘rape diary,’ a score sheet, or souvenirs. We think he’s taller than average. We also have reason to believe he has electrical expertise, and owns a knife.

  “Please search your minds. If you have anyone who fits this profile, bring him to my attention. In total confidence.”

  She paced again. “But don’t fool yourselves. You already had trouble aboard this ship. Lieutenant Singhe probably strikes you as a pain, but she has a legitimate grievance about the work environment for your enlisted women. I’m not here to investigate that. But the longer this guy runs loose, the more frightened and unsure your women are going to be.”

  She halted and took a breath, gazed at the bubbling purple fluid in the drink machine. Not wanting to say this, but they had to be warned. “Also … these type of crimes tend to escalate. Especially with the structured g
uys. Since it’s about control and anger, they need to push harder each time to get their high. So things progress from simple rape … to darker acts. Beating. Cutting. Torture. Then, finally, murder.

  “I want to catch him before he gets to that stage.”

  The chiefs glanced at one another. One held up a hand. “Yes,” she said.

  “I think you know we’re with you. We want to get this guy too.”

  They stirred, some glancing at watches, or at a bulkhead clock. “But we got a bigger problem, you know,” another said. “Not to say this isn’t important, but we’re in a freakin’ war zone. Any day, the Chinese could come through our operating area. This is important to you, and, yeah, to the girls. But we got a fight to concentrate on.”

  She nodded. “I understand. And I’m trying not to disrupt operations. But the rule of law, protecting the innocent—that’s part of what we’re fighting for. Isn’t it?”

  Their expressions didn’t give her a very positive answer.

  * * *

  SHE climbed the ladder slowly, fatigued, heavy. Her ankles were swelling. The food was so salty. She needed to cut down on eggs, cheese, milk. But there were no fresh vegetables. Everything was frozen or canned. Well, they’d been out a while. She patted her purse, which also weighed heavy. Camera? Yes. Flashlight? Yes. SIG? In the side pocket.

  She halted outside the Equipment Room. Yes, this was the right time. Night. The ladderwell echoed with distant creaks and groans. She was fifty, sixty feet above the sea, but the passageway felt like some buried tomb, Pharaonic. She rubbed a finger on a stain on the bulkhead. Something oily … Yellow tape still blocked the door. She ducked under it.

  The lights came on when she entered. Cold air streamed from the overhead diffusers. The walls were stark white, lined with electronic gear in steel racks, thick cables twisting away behind them. Tools, racked parts, and binders of schematics waited as if abandoned by some vanished civilization. The wordless patience of things … A soldering gun in a tabletop holder teetered uneasily as the ship rolled. A clock ticked above a maintenance chart.

  So far, the short list included Benyamin, Peeples, and now Wenck. Carpenter she could probably cross off. A dirty old man, a peeper, but no rapist. All talk. But she still needed to develop the case. Fortunately they had DNA. And she’d put the word out, to the women, the officers, the chiefs. Someone would come in with something.

  Something outside creaked, popped, reverberated. A ship could be spooky. She patted her mouth, shoulders tensed. Something about the silence … Why was she so tense?

  Then she had it.

  It was like the Stairwell.

  The stairs outside her friend Rina’s apartment always smelled like pee, or worse. Men from the street would come in to go to the bathroom. It was painted lime green, or had been once; now brown stains ran up above her head. A fruit shop out front, run by Koreans or Chinese. They shouted and jabbered above her, ignoring a small black girl with her library books hugged to her chest. And the boys, on the benches, the bikes. Weaving out into traffic to make a delivery, pedaling the money back to the sharp-eyed, gold-chained man on the corner. Never talk to the dope man, her mother told her. Stay away from those bad boys. But she had to walk between them every day to school. Carefully not looking up. Just recently, they’d started to notice her. “Wear your long skirt, your hijab,” her mother told her. “Then they won’t bother you.”

  No one had answered at Rina’s apartment. She’d waited, and knocked again.

  The man had gone by her, then, on his way down the stairs from somewhere in the dark floors above. “Lookin’ for that li’l Reena? She gone,” he’d said. “They done moved up to 125th.”

  “Thank you,” she’d whispered.

  He’d clattered down a few steps, then stopped. Climbed slowly back, looking around at the empty landing, the echoing silence, broken only by the far-off noise of the street three floors down.

  “You a pretty little thing,” he’d said, smiling.

  * * *

  SHE collapsed on the work stool lashed to the work table. Not wanting to remember. Unable not to.

  Then she frowned.

  Voices echoed down the ladderway, with the dead clunks of watertight doors behind them. They were coming down, from the bridge, probably. She went into the passageway and stood working her BlackBerry as if not wanting to be interrupted. No signal, of course, but the best way to avoid being noticed was to act as if you didn’t notice anything. In reality, she was noting each face, each slouch or start of surprise as the offcoming watchstanders straggled past, rounded the landing, and descended, boots scuffling, the heavy cast-aluminum ladders clanking under their weight. No one on her list, so far.

  Then, a face she knew. Worried. Withdrawn. Preoccupied, and deeply tired.

  The commanding officer paused across from the Equipment Room. He was in ship’s coveralls. Heavy black boots. Cold gray eyes examined her. “Agent Ar-Rahim.”

  “Captain Lenson.” Right, that was his at-sea cabin. Where he slept when they were underway.

  Right across from the crime scene.

  Lenson looked down at his fingers, where they gripped the knob of the door to his cabin, the skin pale white. He seemed to sigh, though she didn’t hear a sound. “We haven’t had a chance to talk yet. Stateroom okay? You’re in unit commander’s, right?”

  “Yes, Captain. It’s very comfortable. Thank you.”

  “We got you off Stuttgart just in time.” He blinked. The skin under his eyes sagged. She noticed that, along with the fact that he was not heavily muscled, but looked strong. A little gray around the ears, but still fit. “How’s it going? The investigation?”

  “I’ve kept Commander Staurulakis informed,” she said. “I hope she’s sharing that with you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, we’ve got a lot on our plates right now but…” He coughed, as if he too had suffered from what everyone referred to as the Crud. “I’ve had experiences with NIS in the past.”

  “We’re a different agency now, Captain. Even got different initials.”

  “I hope so. I hear you’re being very thorough.”

  “I try to be.”

  “I want this asshole. But I also don’t want this investigation to hurt my ship, Special Agent.”

  “I appreciate your position, Captain.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Do you? I have a leading Aegis petty officer who’s on the verge of a breakdown. The chiefs distrust the JOs. The women have to go buddy-system after lights-out. There was supposed to be a battle group here. Instead we’ve got cruisers and destroyers to hold the line. My gut feeling, the enemy won’t wait. They’ll try to punch through while we’re still flailing around.

  “Close this case, Special Agent. Wrap it up. So we can concentrate on what we’re here for.”

  “I understand. Investigations can be disruptive. I want to close. But in the right way. With solid evidence. We really don’t want to nail the wrong guy.”

  “Well … no. Who’ve you got so far? Any opinions, guesses?”

  She half smiled. They always asked that. And she always gave the same answer. “I don’t have opinions, Captain. Only facts.”

  “You must suspect somebody. Cheryl says you’ve been interviewing.”

  “Sir, we’re the Investigative Service, not the Judging Service. Yes, I’ve been interviewing. And gathering physical evidence.”

  “We sent DNA to the … oh, shit.” His face fell. “Stuttgart.”

  “Your corpsman kept backups.”

  “Grissett did? Excellent. That’s great.” Lenson glanced at the doorknob again. He sighed and scrubbed his face with flattened palms. “But we can’t send it back until we get a logistics linkup. So, what next?”

  “I’m trying to narrow the suspect pool. Once I have a small number of potentials, ideally no more than three or four, I’ll ask you for what’s called a ‘command authorization for search and seizure.’ We’ll take swabs from each suspect, and forward them along with the remaining
samples from the rape kit. Hopefully, that’ll solve our case.”

  “Meanwhile, he’s loose?”

  “Meanwhile, we take precautions.”

  “Which you’ve discussed with the chief master-at-arms?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “All right, keep Cheryl informed. Tell her if you need anything. If she can’t make you happy, come see me.”

  He nodded, once, slid inside, and closed the door. The lock snicked. So he too locked himself in.

  Leaving her standing again alone in the leaning, creaking passageway, looking at the spot where the commanding officer of USS Savo Island had ducked his head slightly, to avoid the low jamb.

  13

  IT was going for his throat. Dan tried to fend it off with bare hands, but its black, slavering muzzle kept coming in. He threw an elbow into its jaws, but it evaded him. And darted in again, growling.

  Sinking its teeth into his throat—

  He woke, heart hammering, flinching and struggling. To catch Singhe’s astonished look, her hand on his shoulder. “Captain! You okay?”

  “Yeah. What—”

  “You were having a bad dream, I guess.”

  Dan blinked at the time readout above the main displays. Stretched, until the vertebrae in his neck cracked. He rubbed grit and crap from his eyes. God. Had he been drooling on the command desk?

  Suddenly he was terrifically hungry.

  Pancakes, coffee, and sausage in the wardroom fixed that. In his sea cabin, he shaved, showered, and changed into fresh coveralls. He showed his face on the bridge, and went over the nav plot with Van Gogh. The navigator was also on as OOD. They were getting half-hourly radar fixes off three distinctive land features on Miyako Shima. Dan nodded, satisfied they didn’t have to rely on celestials anymore. But glad he had them in reserve, in case the radar went down.

  When he clattered down the ladder back to Combat, a bearlike man-shape waited at the command desk. Bart Danenhower, chief engineer, complete with striped locomotive-driver’s cap. After discussing the rotating assembly on fire pump number four, the CHENG threw down a clipboard of graphs.

  “We’re burning more than usual,” Dan noted.