But all the retrofits and upgrades weren’t enough to overcome the warship’s most obvious wartime disadvantage—slowness to maneuver. There was nothing nimble about a 1940s era dreadnaught compared to warships built in modern times.
Perry had gathered together a small group with whom he entrusted some what he had talked about with Ensign Powell. Six separate times the group met in secret, which was as often as feasible due to the ever-watchful scrutiny of Commander Greco. Perry was more than cognizant that they needed to avoid receiving undue attention from the ever-suspicious second-in-command. The truth was, Perry had no actual proof that untoward workings were in process. The growing group’s private meetings, held at various locations throughout the ship, included the elderly Ensign Powell, the young Seaman Miller, and the highly excitable reporter, Ms. Hill. The latest addition to their small band was Chief Engineer Morley Longines. Presently, they huddled together in the forward anchor’s windlass compartment that was noisy—its standby hydraulic systems whirred loudly in the background. Perry had been extremely careful not to fully share his suspicions about the Montana’s true mission, only saying he didn’t like to be second-guessed by Greco, that several times his orders were countermanded in front of other bridge officers.
Seaman Miller, Ms. Hill, and Chief Longines had come to him separately—privately—sharing their own suspicions that something wasn’t right. Only then did Perry feel he could share his own thoughts on the matter. When it came to Terry Hill, she was gung-ho, of course, to let the whole world know—wanting to immediately inform her editor in New York of their mutual suspicions. Hell, there were four other prime-time TV journalists on board, and getting the jump on something as newsworthy as that would be pure gold for her.
“Come on! What do we have to lose?” Hill asked. “If what we’re talking about here is even remotely true, we not only have the right to go public with it … we are obligated to.”
Chief Longines, a slender man in his late thirties, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a thin, Errol Flynn-style mustache, said, “That’s easy for you to say. But we have careers … pensions to think about. Not to mention, the very good possibility that we’d face a court martial.”
“And I have my reputation to uphold,” she flared back. “Look, I’m not suggesting we do anything to jeopardize our livelihoods. Not yet, at least. As of right now, it may be only the five of us have genuine suspicions. Are we willing to go down … sink … die … for what we believe is planned here? For what’s probably intended for this stupid old boat?”
“It’s a ship,” Miller corrected.
“Boat … ship, who gives a crap? Let’s take a good look at all the facts we’ve got to date.” She held up an index finger. “One, a fifty-year-old mothballed, top secret warship, has been re-commissioned; millions and millions of dollars spent, and for what? A single voyage? To be paraded in front of allies and enemies alike? That alone seems weird.” She held up a second finger: “Two, there’s absolutely no verification that some kind of stateside maritime museum has been prepared for the Montana’s arrival. Sure, there’s been a certain amount of PR, but that’s not the same thing. My sources tell me that the berth allocated for the Montana’s arrival is twenty-two feet too shallow to accommodate her draft, whatever that means.”
Perry listened intently. He wasn’t aware that she’d already spoken to outside ‘sources’ about their mutual suspicions, and he felt his irritation with her growing by the minute. He’d already made the mistake of letting their harmless, early flirtatious relationship migrate into something physical. The woman, beautiful—clearly career-driven—was on the scent of a story and Perry suspected matters may have already gone too far.
“Three, there are seven officers on this ship,” she glanced over at Miller, “that we’ve uncovered so far, who actually work directly for the Chief of Naval Operations. No offense to the captain here, but it seems clear that they actually have command of this ship.” Holding up a fourth finger, she continued, “Adding to that fact, the chief here, according to him, has been given orders to take two of the ship’s engines offline once we reach certain coordinates inside the Taiwan Strait. Doesn’t the timing of that seem extremely fishy?”
Seaman Miller said, “Similar orders have been given to other ship personnel. Both our Tomahawk and Harpoon systems have been scheduled for maintenance that very same timeframe.”
Ensign Powell turned to Perry, looking tired and all of his seventy-something years. “There’s more. I’ve been informed that I’m to be transported off the ship.”
“I saw the paperwork come through for that,” Perry said. “I didn’t sign it. Apparently, it’s a cost-cutting thing. The other original crewmember, Lieutenant Mansfield, is younger than you by three years and Greco saw no reason, at this point, to have you both here. We’ve gone back and forth on it, but apparently Greco’s letting the matter rest now. You’ll be allowed to stay. Although, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”
“There’s something else,” Seaman Miller said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “and this comes from far off in left field.”
“What is it?” Terry Hill asked.
“I’m friends with one of the med-techs in sick bay.” Miller suddenly looked like he was having second thoughts on what he’d planned to say.
“Just go ahead,” Perry said, knowing they were all running late reporting back to their stations.
“Well, a month ago, Commander Greco slipped when going down a ladder. He fell ten feet—smacked his head on a pipe. They carted him off to sick bay where he was pronounced dead.” Miller nodded his head. “I kid you not. But that’s not the strangest part. They used the paddles on him and on the fifth try they got his heart going.”
“That’s too bad,” the chief said.
Miller fished through his pocket and came out with a folded piece of paper. Once unfolded, it became a three-to-four-foot-long strip. He held it up for the others to see.
“What are we looking at, Miller?” Perry asked.
“According to what my buddy says, Greco has two, out-of-synch, hearts beating in his chest. Not one enlarged heart, but two separate hearts. Greco made the med-tech destroy the tape feeding-out on the cardiac monitor.”
The five looked around at each other.
“Then what’s that paper in your hand?” Terry asked.
“Part of that strip got torn off … it was found lying on the deck beneath the gurney.”
Chapter 14
Entering the Taiwan Strait from the South China Sea
USS Battleship, Montana
__________________________
Summer, 1995 …
Perry sat in the captain’s chair, staring out at the bleak skies through the forward window. His thoughts lingered on the impromptu anchor windlass compartment meeting, held two hours earlier.
“We have three separate interview requests from news crews, to take place here on the bridge when we intercept with the Fifth Fleet, at 1100 hours, Captain.” Seaman Miller, entering through the portside hatch, looked cold under his wet navy peacoat.
Perry nodded, “Go ahead and schedule them, Seaman.”
A new storm was brewing—coming in from the south—and winds were buffeting the Montana’s flags outside.
“Let’s alter course to a heading of five degrees west,” Perry said to the new officer on watch—Norman Taggard. A junior officer, he had sleepy eyes and a bland personality. Perry heard his orders repeated and bells rang. 1MC announcements ensued. But a moment later, Perry first felt, then saw the bow of the ship slowly swing back again to its earlier heading. He gritted his teeth. At least Greco hadn’t made it too glaringly obvious that all his orders were being systematically reversed.
Truth be told, that was the least of his worries right then. Two things had him concerned: One, Ensign Powell had been due, earlier, on the bridge to say his last goodbyes—and he hadn’t showed. Second, Powell’s ride had never arrived. According to Powell, he was scheduled
for transport via an MH-6-S Sea Hawk helicopter, at 0600. That bird never arrived.
Perry hadn’t seen the actual orders come through—but that was the new normal. His title—ship captain—held little meaning; his was only a figurehead position. Orders, such as Powell’s, went straight to Commander Greco. The humiliation he felt weeks earlier had long since turned to resentment. Although he tried to ignore the mind’s persistent probing, his thoughts quickly turned to self-doubt: Why me? Why was I chosen to be the puppet captain of this mission? Am I such an inadequate officer … so malleable … that I was the perfect choice?
Perry retrieved the long strip of paper from his top pocket and studied the strange lines—a dual Richter scale of jagged mountains and valleys. Two fucking heartbeats?
Perry looked up as the port hatch opened, seeing Commander Greco staring back at him. Their eyes briefly locked before Greco’s eyes moved lower, to what Perry was holding in his left hand. Greco licked his wet, protruding lips, slick with saliva, and—for the first time—no longer seemed smug. In fact, he looked nervous.
Perry turned his attention toward the open sea, cresting under the bow, as he casually refolded the strip of paper and returned it to his top right pocket. He stood, squaring his shoulders, and passed by Commander Greco. “You have the conn, Commander.”
“I have the conn, Captain,” Greco replied back, though it was apparent he wanted to say something else. Perry grabbed up his wool peacoat and hurried from the bridge.
* * *
He found Terry Hill on the deck below—her back was to the wind as she smoked a cigarette. As Perry approached, she flicked it overboard.
“What took you so long?” she said, holding her raincoat’s hood down with well-manicured fingers.
“What do you mean? How long have you been out here?” he asked, noting her lips had turned almost blue from the cold.
“Too long. You’re not exactly accessible, Captain, you know. I saw Miller … asked him to tell you I was down here. The reason I’m asking is I’ve noticed sailors transferring more than a few duffle bags … some of the officers’ luggage, I think. Seem to be moving them back toward the helipad. There’s definitely an exodus taking place. Aren’t we approaching the coordinates? Where something’s supposed to happen to the ship?”
Miller obviously forgot to relay him the message. Perry saw him emerge—descending the same metal stairs he’d taken a few minutes before. Terry gave him a perturbed look.
“Sorry, Ms. Hill … I meant to tell him,” said Miller.
Perry said, “I don’t know what to tell you about the transfer of bags. We’ll check it out.” Perry looked to Miller, who acknowledged he’d find out.
“Let me ask you something, Terry, do you have one of those handheld tape recorders with you?”
“Of course … never without it.” She pulled the small rectangular device from her coat pocket and held it up.
Perry nodded. “Good. Things are about to heat up around here and I’m betting more eyes will be focused on me than is normal. Keep that thing where everyone can see it. And let’s make sure it looks like you’re interviewing me; that I’m simply providing you with a ship tour.”
“Okay, where are we going?” she asked.
“To find out what happened to Ensign Powell.”
She looked at her watch. “He should be long gone by now.”
Perry and Miller exchanged a glance.
“Only thing is, he never came up to the bridge … and his ride never showed. Let’s start below … in his quarters.”
* * *
As directed, Terry Hill kept her tape recorder visibly in view. Every so often she noticeably asked Perry a question about this or that: a closed, unmarked hatchway, or an assemblage of pressure gauges on pipes, or how many women were currently assigned to the ship?
By the time they reached the officers’ quarters, where Ensign Powell had a cabin, Perry was regretting the whole fake interview aspect. Terry, as beautiful as she was, was really starting to annoy him.
“Here we are,” Perry said, gesturing to Miller. Miller, after giving a perfunctory two-knuckle knock, opened the door into the ensign’s quarters. The three stepped inside the cramped space and looked around. It was obvious his cabin had been cleared out—his kit was gone and no clothes were hanging in the closet.
“See … he probably left. Maybe you missed seeing the helicopter land,” Terry said.
“A ship’s captain doesn’t miss something like that. C’mon, I have another idea.” Perry, hurrying, was the first to exit the small cabin, almost tripping over the eighteen-inch-high knee knocker—–the raised section of metal situated along the lower portion of ship hatchways—used to slow the progression of seawater—in the case of a hull breach.
* * *
The sickbay on the Iowa-class battleship was roomy compared to most navy ships. There was an assortment of stacked bunk beds and some free-standing beds—sixteen in all, as well as a few small other adjacent compartments. That morning, as Perry, Seaman Miller and Terry Hill—her tape recorder in hand—entered the medical facility, only three beds were occupied. A doctor, leaning over his patient, scowled at them as he looked over his shoulder. “I’ll be with you in a moment.” Then, as if to catch himself, added, “Oh … sorry, Captain. Are one of you sick?”
Before Perry could answer, Terry nodded her head and patted her belly: “Uhhg … the boat’s constant swaying. Maybe you have something that can help?”
“Sure … give me a minute.” The doctor continued to administer what looked like cough medicine to the prone sailor.
Perry leaned across to Miller. “Where’s the morgue on this vessel?”
Miller stared blankly, then motioned with his chin to a closed hatchway, left of Perry’s shoulder. “In there, sir.”
Perry took a quick glance at the engrossed doctor before scurrying over to the hatch and opening it up. All three went inside. The space was just as Perry expected: cold, sterile, smelling of disinfectant. A single autopsy table was positioned against the far bulkhead, along with a double row of refrigerated storage lockers—eight in all.
“You think the ensign’s in one of those?” she asked, a grossed-out expression on her face. “Maybe I should wait outside.”
Perry and Miller ignored her and began opening the metal doors—Perry took the top row and Miller the bottom.
“Bingo, I’ve got feet,” Miller said, when opening the last door on the bottom row. They huddled together and peered inside the dark space. Two exposed bare feet, one with a red toe-tag, were the only parts of the body not covered under a white sheet. Miller found the release catch and pulled the sliding metal drawer all the way out.
Terry Hill took a hesitant step backward as Perry pulled the sheet partially down, exposing the corpse’s head and upper chest. Her quick intake gasp startled both Perry and Miller.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Perry said, looking down at the old man. Ensign Powell was naked, his skin a bloodless gray-blue. The cause of death wasn’t apparent.
“Well, he looks … peaceful, at least,” she said, stepping in closer. “How do you think he …”
The voice answering her came from behind.
“Heart attack … happened this morning.”
The threesome turned, seeing the ship’s doctor framed in the open hatchway. “Captain, this section of the ship is off limits to …” he gestured toward Terry, “non-military personnel.”
“Why wasn’t I notified immediately of the ensign’s demise?”
The doctor looked from Perry to the corpse, then at Terry Hill. “I’m sorry … it’s been a crazy morning. Busy.”
“Yes, I can see how administering cough medicine trumps telling your captain about an officer’s sudden death,” Terry said sarcastically.
In that moment, watching the annoyed expression on the physician’s face, Perry became one hundred percent certain the man was anything but human. He didn’t understand how he knew, he just knew. Perry’s
eyes, leveling on the doctor’s chest, envisioned two hearts beating within.
An announcement erupted over an 1MC squawk box mounted to the bulkhead, “Battle stations! All hands … battle stations!”
Glory for Sea and Space (Star Watch Book 4) Page 8
