[Jake Adams 01.0] Fatal Network

by Trevor Scott

  Jake moved closer to Leo. “Is there a place we can talk freely?”

  “About what?” Leo asked skeptically, obviously searching his mind for a motive.

  “I’ll tell you in a minute.”

  Leo turned and went through a few more compartments, opened a hatch with a Z on it, and directed Jake to enter. Once inside, Leo battened the hatch and dogged it tight with a metal tube. It was a small compartment with two work benches, a gray metal desk, a file cabinet, and a book shelf with Navy Regulations in black binders. A few aircraft black boxes sat on the benches among an array of test equipment and tools.

  Jake sat down on an old pilot’s ready room chair that had probably been replaced by something much better. The blue vinyl cover had cracked and been repaired with wide green duct tape. Leo remained standing with his arms crossed.

  “Tell me about your friend, Kurt Lamar,” Jake said, looking up at the tall, black sailor.

  Leo was caught off guard. That had to be the last name he expected to come out of the Senator’s mouth.

  “Sir, what the hell does Kurt have to do with Denver or Colorado? Shit, he’s from Wisconsin. In fact, he’s probably back there right now freezing his ass off.” Leo laughed at the thought.

  Jake laughed too. “No...no he’s not in Wisconsin,” Jake said shaking his head. “Not that he probably doesn’t wish he were there from time to time.”

  Leo looked more seriously at Jake now. “Do you know Kurt?”

  “Yeah, and I know you. At least I’ve had a thorough background check done on you.”

  Leo looked more concerned. “What the hell do you want from me?”

  “Information. Just information. Without it, your friend Kurt could be in a lot of trouble. In fact, he could be charged with four counts of murder.”

  “Murder? What in the hell are you talking about? Kurt got hit by a fuckin’ car in Naples while we were in port in Genoa.”

  “Why did he go all the way to Naples if he wasn’t trying to set up an alibi? A bit convenient wouldn’t you say?” Jake asked, stretching his legs out and crossing his boots.

  “Convenient? Even Kurt isn’t crazy enough to let himself get hit by a car. I mean, we might not like living aboard this floating city working twelve-hour shifts ‘till we drop, but I sure as hell ain’t going to let some car fuck up my body just to get out of it. And I know Kurt wouldn’t either. Who the fuck are you anyway? You ain’t no Goddamn senator.”

  Jake didn’t want to push any further, but knew he had to. He had to be sure that Leo was a safe risk. “Your buddy didn’t get hit by a car. I saw him in Rome this morning.”

  “You’re fulla shit,” Leo shouted. “I saw the message saying he went home on convalescent leave.” He was becoming visibly angry now.

  “He must have had it sent,” Jake said, fighting to keep a straight face. “The Italians have questioned him more than once about the Genoa bombing. They think he did it, and won’t allow him to leave Italy until someone proves otherwise.” Jake paused for a minute to think of which direction to move next. The entire conversation was extemporaneous. He had planned the concept, but not the details. “What can you tell me to prove that your buddy is innocent?”

  “Out at sea, it doesn’t take long to get to know people. You have to trust your shipmates. You choose those who you feel you can count on. Kurt is that kind of guy.”

  Kurt was right. Leo could be trusted. Judging character was the most important aspect of human intelligence. Schools can only partially prepare someone for this work, Jake thought. But experience is what really counted. Time to come clean.

  “Sit down, Leo,” Jake said. Leo sat in a chair across the small compartment. “My name is Jake Adams. I’m not a senator from Denver. I’m a corporate investigator from Oregon. I’m working with Ensign Kurt Lamar of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service.” Jake paused for a response.

  “Kurt’s NCIS? Ensign?”

  Jake nodded. “Yes. He was working undercover in your squadron to find out who was taking computer technology from the new avionics retrofit.”

  “Son of a bitch. That’s why he kept looking over the supply records.”

  “That’s right,” Jake said. “He had the leak figured out to a certain level before his services became more important in Italy. Petty Officer Shelby Taylor, Lt. Stephen Budd, and those two others who died in the bombing in Genoa were all involved with the transfer of technology to an unknown source.”

  “Shelby was a spy? Shit, he couldn’t even keep his own shoes tied,” Leo said with a slight laugh.

  “Maybe so, but he was the one putting the stuff aboard the A-7s for Lt. Budd to bring ashore.”

  “What kind of stuff are you talking about?” Leo asked.

  Jake thought for a moment about the elaborate diversion by Lt. Budd. “Leo, I came aboard without being searched. Is that normal practice?” Jake asked, and then pressed his left arm against his CZ-75.

  “No. They assumed you were a senator, so wouldn’t dare search you. I’ve been strip searched, spread the cheeks and all, coming aboard and going ashore. The Marines do the searching, and seem to enjoy pissing you off with the inconvenience. They don’t search everyone. It’s mostly random. So you never know when it might happen.”

  “That makes sense with six thousand people coming and going,” Jake said. “But what about civilians? Do they get searched?”

  “Yes. At least I think so. I haven’t actually seen one picked to be searched, but I’m guessing they could be.”

  “I’ve got a problem, Leo. I need to talk with the Teredata tech rep, Burt Simpson. Do you know him?” Jake asked.

  “Yeah, I know him,” Leo said derisively. “He doesn’t know shit about electronics.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Every time I ask him a technical question, he doesn’t have the answer. He just says he doesn’t have time, and he’ll get back with me. What that means to me is he doesn’t know shit. If he ever gets back to me at all, he gives me some bullshit answer that I could have gotten out of the tech manual.”

  Jake smiled. He could see why Kurt liked Leo. “I need to talk with him. Could you bring me to his shop?”

  “No problem.”

  Leo unlatched the hatch and led Jake through the winding passageways, up and down ladders, and finally to a hatch with a sign that read: “Teredata International Semiconductors.”

  “He’s probably inside,” Leo said. “Otherwise the hatch would be locked.”

  Jake looked closely at Leo. He didn’t want to get him involved. “Stay out here, Leo. I need to talk with him alone.”

  Jake entered through the hatch and closed it snugly behind him. A man sitting in a gray metal chair looked up at Jake, obviously startled by his presence. Neither said a word. The man glanced toward a small wooden box on the desk next to him.

  “May I help you?” the man finally asked.

  Jake noticed he was wearing an expensive leather coat and black pants with a recent crease. He was younger than Jake expected. Probably early thirties. His long, thin face and skinny nose made him look like a rat. “Are you Burt Simpson?”

  “Yes. Who are you?” he asked bluntly, his eyes shifting from Jake to the box on the bench.

  “I’m with NCIS investigating the deaths of the four sailors blown up in Genoa,” Jake lied.

  “I’ve already answered all the questions from your buddies,” Simpson said, rising from his chair, and squaring himself to Jake.

  “That’s nice...but I want the truth.”

  “Fuck you. You squids don’t have any jurisdiction over me.”

  “That’s true. But people do have a tendency of slipping on the wet deck on dark, cold evenings. The Mediterranean may seem warm compared to the air at first, but after bobbing around for a half hour or so, it becomes quite cold.”

  Simpson looked directly at Jake.

  “What’s the matter, smart ass, you can’t come up with a quick answer now?” Jake said.

  “I don’t know
shit about the bombing,” Simpson said, and then turned toward the work bench, picked up the small box and placed it gently in a small black satchel.

  Jake quietly stepped a few feet to his right. He was across the shop, but still only about ten feet from Simpson.

  Without warning, Simpson turned and shot toward Jake. The sound of the gun echoed loudly throughout the small compartment.

  Jake hit the ground. The world around him blackened for a moment as he lay on the cold, gray metal. His face, smashed against the deck, felt the percussion of steps as Simpson ran to the hatch. And then the hatch slammed with a hard clang and reverberated back and forth against the steel walls as if some giant had blown through a metal pipe. Jake tried to lift his head, but couldn’t.

  Finally, he opened his eyes and stared directly at a pair of black leather boots.

  “Son of a bitch,” Leo said, standing over Jake. “He shot your ass.”

  Jake wanted to talk, to say anything, to know he was still among the living and not just dreaming Leo standing in front of him. But his lips wouldn’t move yet either. Then he felt strong hands grab him under his arms and pull him to his feet and hold him in place until he could stand on his own.

  Jake felt the side of his head. There was barely enough blood to feel moist. But his head ached and he could still see stars. His knees buckled slightly. It seemed as though the ship was swaying back and forth in heavy seas, but he knew that his equilibrium must have been disjointed. He remembered the last time he felt this way. He was a running back in high school. He hit a hole at full speed, stuck his head down at the last second, and bashed head on with a linebacker helmet to helmet. The next thing he knew, he was on the sidelines sniffing some nasty chemical. He had hoped that feeling would never return.

  “Are you okay?” Leo asked, still holding onto Jake.

  “I think so. Where is the bastard?”

  “He came flying out the hatch, nearly knocked me to my ass. I heard what I thought was a shot. So I was getting ready to open the hatch. Come on. He’s probably heading off the ship.”

  Jake shook his head and started to follow Leo through the passageways. Leo was wasting no time. It was as if he too had been shot at and felt violated.

  “I know a short cut,” Leo said.

  They had to be at least two or three minutes behind Simpson. Jake had no idea how long he had been lying on the deck before Leo picked him up, nor did he have time to ask the question.

  When they reached the first downward ladder, Leo swung his arms outward over the railings and quickly slid to the bottom. Jake tried this too, but his leather jacket stuck to the railings slowing him down. Heading aft, Jake followed Leo through a long passageway with open hatches. Jake felt as he had running the low hurdles in his youth. The difference was the unforgiving knee knockers and the low metal overhead. One mistake, one slight lifting of the head at the wrong second, and he knew that the pain from the bullet hitting his left temple would be minor in comparison to his head bashing into the heavy curved door frame.

  Leo stopped quickly. He turned to Jake and put his index finger to his lips.

  Jake heard the pounding of footsteps coming from a cross passageway. He slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled out his 9mm automatic. Leo looked surprised.

  Jake pushed Leo behind a door frame and motioned for him to stay put.

  Jake jumped through the door to the cross passageway with his pistol pointed ahead. “Stop, Simpson.”

  Simpson stopped dead in his tracks looking shocked to see Jake. He slid to the nearest bulkhead behind a narrow door frame. Then Simpson’s pistol appeared and shot once.

  The bullet echoed loudly and pinged as it ricocheted down the passageway. Jake smashed himself against the gray bulkhead and took cover. There was a hatch about six feet in front of him. He knew he had to reach that, or he would be an easy target. He slithered along the bulkhead to the wide hatch. The hatch was hooked to the wall with a small metal latch. Jake unhooked it and waited for a second. Peeking around the edge, it appeared to Jake that Simpson was reloading. He could make out just part of his body, not enough to place a bullet, but maybe enough to force return fire.

  Jake shot once, narrowly missing Simpson’s jacket. Then he quickly closed the hatch halfway.

  Simpson returned fire, hitting the hatch.

  Jake checked his side of the hatch for damage. Nothing. Nice shield, he thought. Now came the waiting game. Who had more bullets and the better aim? Just as Jake was about to take another shot, he heard the swishing sound like that of water smashing against a hard surface. He poked his head around the hatch and saw a thick stream of water plastering Simpson, and the muffled sound of a man being battered from the salt water of an inch and a half fire hose opened wide. The hose went from Simpson’s lower body then quickly upward bashing his skull against the hard metal bulkhead. Then the water stopped.

  “Take that, mother fucker,” Leo said smiling. He had gone up the nearest ladder and slid up behind Simpson.

  Jake quickly ran out and pushed Simpson’s gun away from his wet, crumpled form lying in the corner unconscious.

  “Quick,” Jake said. “We’ve got to get him out of here.”

  “Why? NCIS will take it from here,” Leo assured him.

  “No. It will take too much time to fill them in on the case, and Kurt said that the Navy wasn’t sure who was involved. We can’t trust anyone. I can only trust you, Leo. Please?” Jake knew he had no jurisdiction to conduct an investigation onboard a U.S. Navy ship, and his false entry aboard the ship could land him in the brig.

  “What the fuck. I haven’t had this much fun in a long time,” Leo said.

  Jake and Leo carried Simpson back to the Teredata shop and found some dry clothes for him. Then Jake pulled a small brown wallet from inside his leather jacket. Flipping the wallet open, Jake exposed what looked like a set of three darts. He unscrewed the tip from one and replaced it with a needle from a different pouch in the wallet. Then, pushing on one of the metal vanes on the other end that was supposed to be the dart’s feather, a small amount of liquid squirted out.

  Jake examined Simpson’s limp body lying on the cold metal surface that his own body had already been introduced to. Simpson had a large bump on the back of his head with a small amount of blood already drying to form a clump in his hair. Jake pulled Simpson’s mouth open, curled his lip over, and shot the needle and the drug into his already flaccid body.

  “Shit. I’m glad we’re on the same side,” Leo said.

  Jake smiled. “The needle is so small he shouldn’t even feel the hole when he wakes up for good. And, it won’t leave a mark like it would on an arm or leg.”

  “Maybe. But it sure looks crude.”

  “Leo, could you hand me that bag,” Jake said, pointing to Simpson’s small satchel.

  Leo handed it to Jake. He looked through it. A pair of leather gloves, a watch hat, a change of underwear and socks, and the small wooden box. He opened the box. It was empty. Something didn’t fit, Jake thought. The depth of the box seemed too shallow. He shook it. Nothing. The bottom looked normal. Then he twisted the latch ninety degrees and the bottom popped up. Jake pried the false bottom upward to reveal the hidden contents. Four computer chips were encased in Styrofoam, and a computer CD lay over the top of them. Jake knew that he had found the source of the Italian link, but he still had no idea who Simpson worked for, or whom he was selling the chips and information to. He had to interrogate Simpson.

  “What did you find?” Leo asked.

  Jake looked up slowly, feeling a little weak still from the bullet graze to his temple. “Nothing much, Leo. Just the fastest chip in Europe.” Jake closed the box and placed it back in the bag. “How can I get Simpson off the ship without waking him?”

  Leo thought for a second and then smiled. “You’re the senator. You outrank the captain of the ship. We should be able to just walk off onto a liberty launch with any bullshit story.”

  Jake realized that Leo was prob
ably right. His cover had worked to get aboard, so pulling this off should be fairly easy. Jake and Leo prepared their story, and then set out with Simpson’s semi-limp body between the two of them.

  32

  BONN, GERMANY

  The cobbled streets of the old town were crowded with raucous people heading from one Gasthaus Fashing party to the next. Half of the people were in costume. A lion, Cowboys, a voluptuous wench, and the others wore nice slacks and sweaters. But they all weaved as though they were slightly drunk.

  Herbert Kline watched the fat man slide from the driver’s side of the dark blue Fiat van and swing the door shut. When the door failed to latch completely, the man slammed his shoulder into it.

  “Bastard’s already drunk,” Herb said softly to himself. He reached into the glove box and pulled out his standard issue Walther 9mm automatic. He slid the bolt back slowly and then released it allowing a round to set firmly into the chamber. Then he disengaged the hammer and let it slide forward carefully. After placing the gun in its brown leather case, he clipped it to the Polizei belt on his right hip. He grasped the green hat with short black brim and placed it squarely on his head. Not a perfect fit, but it would have to do.

  Herb was convinced that most of the people on the sidewalk wouldn’t take a second glance at his mustard yellow shirt and dark green trousers that signified he was a Polizei officer. He walked with authority to the door of the Gasthaus that the fat man had entered. Then he hesitated for a moment to assure his mind that what he was about to do was not only necessary, but essential to his case. To sleep with swine you had to get used to the smell, he thought.

  He entered through the glass door and stood for another moment in the foyer. Large floor plants lined the walls and accented thick tan ceramic tiles. Loud voices echoed through the brick walls. Herb pulled open the heavy wooden inner door and a cloud of smoke billowed from the crowded bar area. He walked over to the end of the bar and searched for his target.

  “Bier?” the bartender asked, pointing to Herb.

  “Nay, danke. Ich mochte, aber haben Sie arbeit.”