Friedman twiddled a bit more with the push stick controls, moving the sight diagram slightly.
"Yeah, Skipper. I can make that work. The other two are farther out. CPAs at about eight thousand."
Ward let out a long breath and turned to the senior captain who was standing quietly, observing from the back of the control room.
"Captain Hunsucker, we won't be able to launch in the time window. Too much interfering traffic in the area. I'm drafting a message to Pearl now to tell them. I’m also requesting a new launch basket. Just too damn much going on up there."
Mike Hunsucker appeared to be ignoring the captain as he studiously scribbled something in his steno pad, writing with such force his jowls bounded slightly. Now the scratching of his pen point on paper was the only sound in the room. The older man glanced up, looking at Ward over the top of his half glasses.
"Very well, Captain. Let's meet in your stateroom in five minutes."
"Yes, sir."
Mike Hunsucker eased himself into the little fold-down settee in the captain’s stateroom. It had always been a running joke among submariners. The “stateroom” was hardly “stately,” and not what the name might imply aboard a luxury cruise ship. About the only nod to grandeur was the dark walnut-colored Formica that covered the bulkheads. The stateroom was small and Spartan. Jon Ward preferred to call it compact and utilitarian.
The size of a small walk-in closet, the room contained everything that the captain needed in the way of a place to live and from which to command a nuclear attack submarine. The communications equipment next to the settee allowed him to talk with anyone throughout the sub. And, when he was patched to the sub's radios, his voice could reach to anywhere on the planet. The small course, speed, and depth repeater on the forward bulkhead enabled him to keep track of the sub's movements, too. Right now they told him that Spadefish was at periscope depth, and that they were heading slowly out to sea, farther away from the crowded California coast.
Hunsucker didn’t even take a sip of the coffee from the cup in front of him before he began.
"Jon, I’ll be direct. Your boat isn't doing very well. This is supposed to be a Tactical Readiness Examination. So far we haven't seen any tactics at all. My team is not impressed."
Ward slumped back in his chair but he met the senior captain’s direct gaze.
"Mike, be fair for a moment. You just left command of Topeka a couple of months ago. You can't have already forgotten what it's like."
The JA phone buzzed before Hunsucker could respond. Ward instinctively reached to yank it out of its stainless steel holder, then saw the senior captain’s nod that the interruption was okay.
Ward held the handset to his ear and pinched the push-to-talk button in its grip
"Captain."
"Captain, Officer of the Deck. Message sent to SUBPAC reporting the interference and asking for a new launch basket and launch window. Receipt acknowledged."
The ship's Navigator, Lieutenant Earl Beasley, was standing watch as the OOD, controlling all of the operations of the sub.
"Very well. Tell me as soon as they answer. Meanwhile, stay at periscope depth. Continue on to the western boundary of our operations area. We'll bet on them giving us a new area farther out."
Beasley acknowledged and Ward replaced the phone. He turned back toward Hunsucker. The older man had raised the coffee cup to his lips. Ward spoke before the other man could swallow the thick, black liquid, hoping to make his point while he had the chance.
"Well, we asked. Don't know what they'll say. Anyway, back to what I was saying. You want us to do a Tomahawk launch simulating a wartime fight, but also following all the peacetime safety rules. All right, so far we're on the same wavelength. But then you put the launch basket close in-shore off LA…so close we can keep score in the beach volleyball games…and you give us a tiny operating area in one of the most heavily trafficked shipping lanes in the world. How do you expect us to show you anything except how damned proficient we are at not running into shiploads of Toyotas?"
Hunsucker set his cup back down deliberately. He leaned forward, a stern expression on his face. The sparkle in his beady eyes seemed gleeful.
"Jon, remember that you have the proud distinction of having the oldest boat in the fleet. This is the last Sturgeon-class left. Your reactor core is almost exhausted. We set this all up close to shore to save your core as much as possible." He grinned and smacked his lips. "And you still serve some damn fine coffee."
Ward finally breathed and let a small smile play across his face. He doubted he was out of the woods with Hunsucker yet. The tension that had gripped him for the last couple of hours was partially relieved.
"It’s from Kauai. Good Hawaiian stuff. The supply officer gets it from a friend on a boat based in Pearl. I never ask what we’re giving them in return.” Ward could see Hunsucker was not impressed. “I know we have an old boat. We fight that every day. Talk to the Engineer. That is if you can ever catch him with his head out of something else that’s gone on the fritz." Ward sipped his own coffee. Hunsucker was right. Compared to most boats, the Spadefish’s brew was spectacular. "This boat is older than he is. She's still a class act, though. You know that, Mike. She does a lot of things that even those new Virginia-class boats won't be able to. Just give us a chance and we’ll show you a few things."
“All right, Jon, but we need to talk about this next drill.” Hunsucker’s small eyes went steely and Ward felt a slight shiver climb up his spine. “I think we’ll have an opportunity to see what you and Spadefish can do, all right.”
Joe Glass stepped through the door that connected the captain's stateroom with his own, separated only by a head that both men shared.
"Excuse me, Skipper. We've spun down the Tomahawk in tube two. Request permission to back haul it from tube two and load an exercise ADCAP. We need the exercise fish in the tube for the torpedo shoot this afternoon."
Ward glanced in Hunsucker’s direction. The senior captain could tell them to never mind, to wait for word from Pearl Harbor that the test was still a “go.” Hunsucker nodded his agreement that the crew could proceed getting ready, assuming an affirmative from the Pacific submarine command in Hawaii.
"XO, back haul the Tomahawk in tube two and reload with an exercise ADCAP torpedo,” Jonathan Ward ordered, then glanced back at the senior captain. There was something about the expression on the man’s face that bothered him. He had a sudden thought. “And Joe, stick around for a few minutes. I want you to listen to the briefing for this next drill"
Glass didn’t hesitate. He squeezed into a seat at the little settee.
Hunsucker began talking.
3
This was the part of the job Tom Kincaid most dreaded. Back in DC, the victims of those he warred against were anonymous and distant. Mere numbers on some government analyst’s spreadsheet that they used for a kind of clinical, detached scorekeeping. Unlike the analysts, he saw first-hand the results of what the enemy was doing to real human beings. Saw the blank gaze in the lifeless eyes staring up at him in pointed accusation as he walked up. The innocent young face, now cold and gray, that seemed to scream at him: Why didn't you protect me? Why did you fail me?
All that before he had even had a chance to “meet” her. He preferred to call it “meeting” the victims, whether they were alive or dead when their paths ultimately crossed his. Such personalization made it easier for him to fan the embers of hate he kept permanently banked, ready to flame up once it came time. That made it easier for him to conquer discomfort, fear, red tape, or anything else that might hinder him in his battle against those who did this. Those who lured their victims with promises of forbidden pleasure, to draw them in, get them addicted, then steal from them all they had.
Victimless crime? Tom Kincaid knew better. He had seen too many lifeless eyes, too many cold, gray faces staring up at him, pleading for help that was much, much too late coming.
This one had been a lovely young lady not long ag
o. Probably no more than twenty-four years old. Blonde hair still neatly combed but now peppered with dirt and debris and crawling alive with ants. The pretty silver clasp holding the curls back over her left ear so out of place and useless now. Nice complexion but already mottled and bluish. She could have only been dead a few hours. The rats would have gotten to her by now if she had been here longer than that.
How had she ended up here, beneath this bridge, lying on her side, fetus-like? There was no blood that he could see, no visible wounds or bruises, no sign of a struggle in the dust around where she lay so peacefully. It looked as if she might have just curled up to take a nap and never woke up. No doubt, it was an overdose. He would not have gotten the call otherwise. Too much of a party. Somebody panicked. Dropped her off here to be found by a wino or the cops. Nothing about her suggested “druggie.” No needle tracks that he could see on the insides of her arms. None visible between her toes. Nice clothes. Relatively well groomed for somebody who had just turned up beneath a bridge.
She was simply dead.
Tom Kincaid closed his eyes and tried not to think about all the other blank young faces he had seen in the course of what he did for a living. Tried not to hear all the pleading screams for help that always seemed to come much too late. He wondered why he continued to give so much of his life to a war that showed no signs of ever being won. To a conflict whose casualties were so often youthful and full of life until they were sucked into something they were so ill equipped to survive.
Kincaid knew that simply closing his own eyes would not shut the pretty blonde girl’s stare. This was the very reason he continued to fight on. He knew the odds were against him. Even his own side seemed to conspire against him in the battle they all fought.
Kincaid cleared his throat hard and the noise startled the man who had been kneeling over the body. He jumped, then looked up. He was a beefy six-and-a-half-footer. The heavy badge dangling from his jacket pocket identified him as a member of the Seattle police. His wrinkled suit, soiled raincoat, and stained tie confirmed that he was a detective.
“Hey, Tom,” he said.
"What you got, Ken?" Kincaid asked.
Lieutenant Ken Temple got up from his knee. It was a great struggle, his joints creaking noisily. He shook Kincaid’s offered hand.
"Football knees. Sorry to call you out this late at night. Early in the morning. Whichever way you look at it. I know how you DEA cowboys like your beauty sleep. Thought you'd like to see this, though. Wanna take a look?"
Ken Temple had been a friend since the first time they met two years before. He had been one of the first contacts Kincaid developed with the locals when he was transferred in from Miami. They worked a couple of cases. Busted several small time pushers. Mostly local kids growing pot in their back yards and selling it for car money. It was certainly a far cry from the anti-drug network Kincaid once headed for the Drug Enforcement Agency in South Florida. Down there he had a hundred agents fanned out all over Latin America. Each one fed him information on the top cartels, the multinational distributors, the twenty-first century pirates who dealt in tons of cocaine and heroin.
It had been there in Miami where he felt as if they might be turning a corner with this frustrating war, making a difference, closing some of those lifeless eyes. Now it was often only he and this affable over-the-hill detective fighting their war against junior high-schoolers and their apartment window flower boxes of recreational pot.
The rain beat down on the cordon of police cars behind them. Their blue and red lights flashed in the night. In the distance, Kincaid could hear the scream of the ambulance siren on the way to where they stood.
He can take his time, Kincaid could imagine the dead girl saying. I’m in no rush anymore. Too late for me.
Someone was stringing up the yellow tape that he had become so familiar with. Had to inform the innocent civilians that this was now unclean ground. A crime had happened here. Doesn’t concern you, kind citizens of Seattle, so please stay away.
“Um hum,” he answered Temple’s question.
“You okay, cowboy?”
”Hmmm? Oh, no. Just this weather. Kinda depresses me.”
“You miss the beach, huh? All them supermodels in their bikinis gettin’ their skinny little asses suntanned down on South Beach? Don’t blame you. They say that Washington, D. C. gets more rain in a year than we do, though.”
As he talked, Temple snapped on a pair of latex gloves and reached across the body to retrieve a small purse that was lying half underneath the young woman. He fished out a wallet from inside and flicked it open.
“Let me guess,” Kincaid said. “Money’s still in there.”
"Yeah, I’d say fifty…sixty dollars. No robbery. Driver’s license says she is Sandra Michelle Holmes. Age…uh…twenty-two, if my math’s right. Couple of credit cards. Blue Cross Blue Shield. Won’t be needin’ that. Address over in Bellevue. Employee ID card from one of those computer-geek places over there."
Kincaid examined their surroundings. They were in a warehouse district, surrounded mostly by industrial buildings, maybe warehouses. He could just make out the masts…king posts someone called them once…and a little of the hull of a freighter in a gap between two of the buildings. No one around except the cops. This place was really lonesome this time of night. How did she get over here? Long way from Bellevue. Not the normal stomping grounds for a young woman. Not on this side of town.
Temple answered Kincaid’s thoughts.
"I'm guessing she was dumped here. No car or anything around that we can see. Looks like she had quite a party last night. Front of her dress is covered with what I’ll bet are semen stains. No panties on. No sign she put up much of a fight, though. Musta been willing."
Kincaid winced and looked away again, studying the low buildings to the east that were already being silhouetted by the promise of the first light of a new day. It was getting brighter even through the filter of fog and drizzle. This girl lying here in the dirt was young enough to be his daughter. If he had ever taken the time to get married and have one. And not much older than his sister had been.
Too young to die. Too young to throw it all away. Where were you?
A cold gust of wind blew some of the thick mist beneath the shelter of the bridge. Kincaid shivered and pulled his raincoat more tightly around him. A uniformed officer threw a tarp over the body. The ambulance pulled to a stop and turned off the yelping siren and screaming red lights.
He hardly noticed that Temple now stood there right next to him.
"Come on, cowboy. Nothing more here until the forensics boys get done. Let's go get a cup of coffee. I know a good place just down the street. Open all night."
Kincaid stretched, glanced back at the pitiful form beneath the tarp. He stuck his hands into his raincoat pockets and looked up at the cop.
“Lead the way, big man."
Kincaid took a sip from the steaming cup and took pleasure from the way it burned his lips and tongue. He felt its warmth all the way down to his stomach.
"You're right, flat foot. This is pretty good stuff."
Temple reached for a doughnut from the plate on the table between them.
"That's what I told you. You don’t stay in the coffee business long in this town unless you got a pretty tasty cup.” The doughnut was immediately gone, chewed and swallowed in one continuous move. “Now, you wanna know why I woke you up in the middle of that wet dream you were having just to come down here and watch me work a simple homicide? You’ve seen enough of these to know that kid ODed. And you know what else?”
Kincaid had to wait for the answer to the detective’s rhetorical question while he devoured another doughnut then licked the sugary frosting off his fingers.
"I’ve been hearing rumors of a new dealer in town. No hard info yet, just tidbits. Colombian connection, deals only in coke and heroin. High-end operation. This is the first real sign I've seen that it might be something." Another doughnut disappeared from the plate.
"You've seen what this can do to a town more than I have. I don't want any more Sandra Michelle Holmeses dumped on my turf, Tom. I mean to find the son-of-a-bitch that is killing people with this shit and bring him down, hard. And, ‘Mr. DEA hotshot,’ I need your help."
Kincaid looked over the rim of his cup and squinted through the steam off the coffee. "That really is a long speech for such an old man. You maybe want to go lie down for a minute, get your breath back?”
The good-natured cop didn’t even smile. He looked deadly serious. As serious as he could be with a big flake of doughnut sugar clinging to his chin. “Look, Kenny, it's my town now, too. You know I'll help. Let me check around a little. This isn't some kid dealing out of his trunk. He'll be cagey and very, very dangerous, especially if there’s a Colombian connection. These guys play rough. The local guy has to have a source of supply and some backing and that leaves a trail. Maybe I can turn something up."
Temple's cell phone chirped loudly from his jacket pocket.
"Just a minute, let me answer this." He flipped it open, leaving sugar frosting where his fingers touched. "Temple." He listened for a few moments. "You sure?" A few minutes’ pause. "OK, thanks. Owe you one." He flipped the phone shut and pushed it back into an inside pocket of his suit coat. "Field toxicology report. OD all right. Massive dose. And he thinks it’s semen on her dress, too."
Kincaid stood.
"Looks like we've got some work to do. I'll go make some calls. Where you going to be?”
“Office. Filling out paperwork. People knew how much paperwork it takes when they die, nobody would ever get themselves murdered. Then I think I’ll run out to where the girl worked, ask some questions. Good a place as any to start. Uniforms say she lived alone. Nobody there at her place.”
“Maybe I’ll join you there. What was the name of that place?"
Final Bearing Page 3
