"Not in the locker room!"
Twitching, Cleo thumped his shin with her heel.
"You're going down, Gooz."
The ache around Jack's heart eased enough for him to slide into a smile. He'd met Cleo's tattooed trainer during their recent stint in Santa Fe. If Goose went down, he wouldn't go easy.
Dragging his arm out from under his head, Jack checked his watch. He was wiped, but that hot, sweaty session with Cleo had recharged his batteries enough to send him back to work.
She was still fighting her dream battles when he emerged from the shower. Pulling on a pair of jersey sweats and a V-necked exercise shirt, he padded into the kitchen and filled the coffeemaker.
He was at his desk, downing his third cup, when she came out of the bedroom. She'd brushed her hair, scrubbed her face and buttoned herself back into the shirt she'd lifted from his closet.
"Is that real coffee?"
"Starbucks' own."
"Thank God!"
Spinning, she aimed for the kitchen. Jack allowed himself the pleasure of watching his shirttails flap against her bare ass before returning his attention to the screen.
She was back a few moments later, cradling a mug in both hands. "What have you got?"
"The Pitsenbarger's crew registry lists the radio operator as Henry Walls. He was hired just three months ago as a replacement for the operator who had served aboard the Pits for almost four years."
"Four years, huh? Why did he quit?"
"He didn't." Donovan angled her a look. "He was flattened by a hit-and-run driver while on shore leave."
"Well, hell! Why didn't that interesting fact come up when you had your guys run background checks on the crew?"
"Because I had them run the crew. Not their predecessors."
Hitching her hip on the credenza, Cleo downed a slug of caffeine. She could see Jack wasn't happy about the miss.
"You said Radio Man joined the crew of the Pits three months ago. That's about the time Adrian Moore entered the U.S. under a false passport."
"Yeah, it is."
"If they had a man aboard ship, why did they need Moore to get cozy with a Sloan Engineering employee?"
"My guess is they wanted a breakdown on the specific weapons package aboard the Pits. They were probably looking for a way to get into the Afloat Prepositioning database to find out exactly what was in which containers."
"Wouldn't that information be included on the ship's manifest?"
Hands locked behind his head, Jack tipped his chair back. "The exact weapons breakout was classified, remember. The ship's manifest showed only general tonnage and the number of sealed containers."
"So you're guessing they didn't want the entire cargo, only specific portions. That makes sense. It might be kind of difficult to find buyers for five-thousand-pound bunker busters."
"Not as difficult as you think. The GBU-28 hard-target penetrator proved its stuff in the first Iraqi war. It also drove bin Laden out of his hole in Afghanistan. Think what it could do if it was targeted against, say, Moscow's subway system or underground command-and-control facilities."
She knew him too well. His response was too even, too controlled. She thunked her mug down and skewered him with an I-mean-business-dammit glare.
"Okay, Donovan. Spill it. What the hell was aboard that ship?"
He hesitated just long enough for Cleo to know he was trying to find a middle ground between his military security clearances and her civilian, no-need-to-know status.
"The program is still in the research-and-development phase."
"What program?"
Still he hedged. "Have you read anything in the technical press lately about tungsten rods?"
Cleo didn't bother to tell him her main access to technical matters these days was her Simpsons-addicted step-cousin-in-law.
"All I know about tungsten is that it's heavy."
"Very heavy. It also has the highest melting point and lowest vapor pressure of all metals."
"So?"
"So we've been looking at using tungsten rods as space-based weapons that wouldn't violate the no-nukes-in-space treaty."
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, still cautious, still measuring his words. Even with her. That was Donovan for you. Jump your bones one minute, put you on the other side of his shield the next.
"They've been dubbed the Rods from God. They're about twenty feet long, one foot in diameter. The idea is to put them on a high-altitude orbiting platform and satellite guide them to targets. They could be launched within minutes and would strike the earth at speeds of up to twelve thousand feet per second."
Cleo swallowed a sigh. The world ran on numbers. "Is that faster or slower than your everyday, average satellite guided bomb?"
"These aren't bombs. Not in the technical sense. They don't contain any explosives. Their speed and weight alone supply enough force to penetrate and destroy even hardened targets, yet leave everything outside a twenty-five-foot radius untouched."
"Whoa! That's like laser surgery from the sky."
"Exactly. Our aviators tested the no-explosives principle with concrete bombs. They took out tanks hidden behind mosques and hospitals in Iraq."
"So now we're going with tungsten?"
"We were," he said dryly. "The first shipment of test rods is now at the bottom of the Mediterranean."
"Hooo-boy! No wonder the Old Man went apoplectic on me."
Jack grinned. "He wasn't too happy with me, either. His last bit of advice was to find this bastard who engineered the hijacking or forget about pinning on my silver oak leaves."
"Donovan! Are you on the lieutenant colonel list?"
"Yeah, but that's not supposed to be common knowledge."
She wrinkled her brow, struggling with numbers again. "Isn't this early for you?"
"A couple of years."
"That calls for a celebration."
Sliding off the credenza, she landed in his lap. The kiss was loud, smacking and filled with joy for him. Cleo knew how much the air force meant to him. Knew, too, that he was one of the OSI's best and brightest. If anyone deserved to be promoted ahead of his peers, it was Donovan.
One celebration could easily have led to another if Jack's computer hadn't chosen that moment to ping. He darted a look at the monitor, saw the flashing icon and shifted Cleo around in his lap.
She nestled between his thighs while he hit Receive. The plump face that emerged on the screen had her sucking in a breath.
"Little bastard."
The face looked out from a license, she saw. Issued by the Federal Communications Commission.
"What's this?"
"Walls passed himself off as a radio operator for three months aboard the Pitsenbarger. All radiotelephone operators aboard vessels of more than three-hundred gross tons have to be li
censed by the FCC before they can be certified by the U.S. Maritime Authority."
Jack stretched his arms around her waist and scrolled down the screen.
"According to this, Walls qualified for both a GROL and a GMDSS/O. Whatever the hell they are."
Further scrolling revealed GROL stood for General Radiotelephone Operator License. A GMDSS/O was an operator licensed to maintain and operate the newer, satellite-based Global Maritime Distress and Safety Systems intended to phase out the old Morse code radio systems.
"Radio Man could have hacked into the FCC computers and forged those licenses."
"He did," Jack confirmed, still scrolling. "Looks like he hacked into a few other computers, as well."
His chubby face appeared on four additional licenses, all issued under different names on different dates in different countries. A beard covered his cheeks and chin on one. His hair was blond on another. The squidgy eyes and simpering smile were the same, though.
"Australia, Ghana, Dominica, Zimbabwe," Jack read. "Little bugger got around."
Cleo skimmed the list again. "Those are all predominantly English-speaking countries. Our boy must not be fluent enough in other languages to pass himself off as a citizen of another nation."
That set her mind off and running. With Jack's bristly chin scraping her temple, she scowled at the face on the screen.
"You said this Domino character brokered deals on all kinds of contraband, stolen artifacts, human cargo. If Radio Man is one of his key lieutenants, we should run a list of all such incidents involving ships flying the flags of nations where English is the official or predominant language. Maybe we can narrow their field of operations. Or get a vector on their activities to date."
Jack planted a wet, sucking kiss on her neck. "It's a start. How many countries are we talking about?"
"I don't know. Thirty or forty."
"Hell!" He blew out a breath. "I'll have to go through State or the CIA to get the information from thirty or forty different maritime agencies. This could take a while."
She couldn't think of any way to expedite the process. Beanie Doreeny was a near genius when it came to computer games and hacking into databases. But Cleo doubted even she would be able to milk information from forty systems, each with its own architecture, any faster than Jack's pals at State or the CIA could retrieve it.
"Tell you what. You work the world of officialdom and I'll go nuke the leftover kai yang chicken. I think there are some noodles left, too."
"Anything but that beef."
She returned his kiss with a smacking one of her own and pushed off his lap. He was at the keyboard, clicking away, before Cleo hit the door to his office.
The distinctive chime of her cell phone stopped her halfway through the living room. Her purse was still on the chair where she'd dropped it earlier. She got to her cell on the third ring and carried it with her to the kitchen. A quick glance at the number displayed on the LCD screen sent pleasure spurting through her.
"Hiya, Pop."
"Cleo, it's me."
Her pleasure sputtered and went out. "Hi, Wanda. What's up?"
"I just wondered…" The pause was nervous, hesitant, all Wanda. "Where are you?"
"I'm in D.C."
"Could you…could you come home?"
"I'm a little busy at the moment."
Way too busy to grit her teeth while Wishy-Washy Wanda dithered betweens stripes and murals.
"If this is about the paper for the den, why don't you get Doreen to-"
"It's not about the den. It's about your dad."
Cleo went still. "What about Dad?"
When Cleo swooped back into the study five minutes later, she was fully dressed and carrying her tote.
"That call was from my stepmother. My dad's been having chest pains. I'm catching a flight out of National in fifty-five minutes."
"Jesus! Is he in the ER or ICU?"
"Neither. My stepmom says he keeps insisting they're just twinges. He didn't even tell her about them until she caught him popping a nitro. The man is so damned stubborn."
Jack hooked a brow but refrained from comment. Her face was dead white under its tan. She didn't need his smart-ass suggestions that she came by her own hard head naturally.
"I'll drive you to the airport."
She was at the door before he'd shoved out of his chair. "I've already called a taxi. And you've got work to do."
"Cleo! Call me! Let me know how he is."
"Yeah, I will."
The front door slammed. Frowning, Jack stood in the silence she'd left behind.
His laptop sat ready. The queries he'd just begun formulating needed to be sent. He should probably brief Barnes, too, get him to throw the weight of his stars behind the requests to make sure they didn't lie buried on some action officer's computer desktop.
Yet all he could see was that pallor of sick fear under Cleo's tan. She hadn't looked that scared in Honduras, with half a dozen heavily armed dopers chasing her through the jungle. Or aboard the Pitsenbarger's lifeboat, with tons of munitions about to blow right behind them.
"Fuck it."
Whirling, Jack slammed down the lid on his laptop and scooped it off the desk. He hadn't been there for Kate when she needed him. He'd damn well be there for Cleo. He could finish formatting the queries on the plane and zap them off after they landed and she'd taken care of her father.
He'd made it to the front door before he remembered he was still barefoot and in his sweats.
27
Jack caught up with Cleo at the Delta counter at Reagan National. The fact that she showed more relief than surprise at his sudden appearance told him he'd made the right decision.
She kept her hand locked in his for most of the flight to Dallas. The bone-cracking hold and white lines at the corners of her mouth gave Jack a new insight into the complex creature that was Cleo North. Despite her tough outer shell, she had her Achilles heel.
Gently, he probed the soft spot. "Does your father have a history of heart problems?"
"He's had a couple bad bouts of angina. The first led to his retirement and brought him to Texas. He had another episode last year. That's when he had the stent put in."
"A stent is good, isn't it? Better than open-heart surgery, from what I've read."
"That's what they told us. Surgery might come, though, if his cholesterol-lowering medicines don't work and his arteries continue to harden."
Her hand crabbed under his, the knuckles showing white. Jack took the pain without flinching. His laptop was tucked under his seat, but the queries could wait. Cleo needed to talk out the fear that was gnawing at her.
"Your father used to work for the government, didn't he?"
"Right. USAID. We lived in a dozen different countries before I started hi
gh school."
"Must have made filling out the paperwork for your air force security clearances fun."
"Damned form ran to twelve pages."
To Jack's infinite relief, some of the worry left her face. She didn't let go of his hand, but she did slump back against her seat.
"Pop's a lot like you," she said after a moment.
"Big, handsome and sexy as hell?"
She managed a small choke of laughter. "A and B, anyway Wanda will have to vouch for C."
"Wanda being?"
"My stepmother. She and Pop met up and got married last year."
"You and a stepmom." Jack shook his head. "The woman has my sympathy."
"Hey, I've stood on my head to be a good daughter and make her feel welcome."
"As I said," he drawled, "the woman has my sympathy."
Indignant, Cleo proceeded to enumerate her efforts. Most of them centered on what appeared to be Wanda's favorite sport, redecorating her new home. Satisfied he'd brought some color back into Cleo's cheeks, Jack sat back and let her grumble about hours spent choosing curtain rods and carpets.
During the taxi ride from the airport, Cleo tried to call home but got no answer. When no one answered the doorbell at her dad's condo, either, her stomach lurched.
"Do you have a key?" Jack asked calmly.
"Yes."
"Let's check inside. They knew you were on the way. They may have left a note."
Right. Cleo sucked in a steadying breath. Even Waffling Wanda wouldn't depart for the hospital without leaving some kind of word. Disgusted at the way her hands shook, Cleo dug her key ring out of her purse.
"Dad? Wanda?"
The keys cut into her palms as she hurried down the hall. Jack closed the door and followed. Cleo didn't spare a glance at the smirking cherub her stepmother had bought to replace Elmer the croc, a beady-eyed souvenir from her dad's sojourn in Egypt.
THE MIDDLE SIN Page 28
