Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection

by Gordon Kessler

  When she came out of the head, she saw Naugle shove something under his pillow. It looked like a bottle.

  She handed him the cup. He pulled the washcloth off and rose to one elbow, winced and took it. She opened the pill bottle.

  “Six,” he said.

  She handed him the pills and he swallowed them as if he were a starving man given M&Ms.

  As he did, she reached under the pillow and snatched out the pint bottle of vodka.

  He stared at her a second, saying nothing.

  “Not wise to mix pain pills and vodka, is it, sir?” she asked.

  He turned away and she slipped the bottle back in its place.

  The captain slowly lowered to the rack, handing her the cup and she set it aside. She didn’t wish to trouble the man any more than necessary now. There were more critical issues.

  After he covered his entire face with the wet cloth, she explained.

  “Terrorists are planning to sink a US Navy warship.”

  “What? What are you talking about?—Oh yes, that treason business.”

  “Sir, it’s going to happen soon. I think Nader was killed as well as all of the other missing crewmembers because they knew too much. There are traitors aboard this ship.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. My crew is the most faithful in this Navy. I’m a lucky man to be their captain.”

  “Don’t you understand, Captain? Don’t you understand that we must act now?”

  “Miss Sperling, I think you’ve gotten in a little over your head and have been involved in some terrible coincidences and maybe you’re jumping to conclusions.”

  “What happened to North, sir?”

  “North? Oh, he was transferred to the Enterprise. Good boy, sorry to see him leave.”

  “Did you see his orders? Did he tell you he was leaving?”

  “No. Captain Chardoff received North’s orders from a courier before we left Tunisia. Must have been very important. Chardoff said he had to leave right away.”

  “Chardoff is one of the traitors, sir! I think they killed North.”

  “Oh please, Ensign,” he said grimacing, “please don’t exaggerate.” His words came slower. “Let me rest for half an hour or so. Then I’ll go with you and we’ll get this all figured out.”

  “But Commander, they could sink one of our ships at any time now. It may even be this ship!”

  “Uh-huh,” he said lethargically. “Let me rest.” He waived one hand slowly, then it went limp.

  * * *

  After Ensign Sperling left his quarters, Commander Naugle forced himself to a sitting position on his bunk.

  They’d had a great idea, retrofitting these old hulks with new equipment that made them faster, more battle ready for half the price of building a new ship. He had a wonderful crew. It would have worked if it weren’t for the rest of the mess. These men going AWOL, the deaths. Craziness. He could have gone out with dignity. Instead. . . .

  He had no choice. He must do it now while he had the courage. It didn’t matter that he’d had a couple of drinks too many. It was now or never. This whole mess had gotten way too far out of hand.

  He rose from bed and stumbled to the oak desk near the center of the stateroom. After plopping into his swivel chair, he opened the side desk drawer for a legal pad to draft a letter to Fleet Admiral Pierce announcing his resignation.

  He found himself focusing on something else he kept in that drawer—in the back. It was blued and hard and cold. He couldn’t take his eyes from it as if it were a king cobra mesmerizing, hypnotizing him, its prey. But it was not a snake, it did not breath, it was not alive. It was cold, hard, blued steel, snub nosed, six shot—a .38 Special made by Smith and Wesson. He pulled the compact revolver out of the drawer and placed it on the desk in front of him, then glanced around his stateroom.

  He heard the voices—again. He’d heard them before. It seemed there was only one way to get rid of them. The booze helped. The pills helped.

  This time, the first voice came from his son’s picture on his desk.

  “Help me, Daddy,” it said. “Please help me.”

  Naugle’s eyes widened.

  Another voice blurted from the other side. A football trophy with the bronze figure on top preparing to pass the ball, twisted toward him.

  “Kill her,” it said. “Kill Sperling’s daughter. Get even. Make him suffer for a change. Kill the little bitch!”

  Now more voices chimed in. Naugle snapped his head around the room, sweat beading on his shiny forehead.

  The globe in the corner spoke. “It’s time,” it said in a sibilant whisper. “You must revenge your son’s death, now!

  The wild boar’s head mounted on the wall to the right bent toward him. Its mouth ruminated as it glared at him. He smelled its breath, sour with decay. “You’d better kill her. Kill her, now,” it said. “Or I’ll kill you. I’ll eat you—and your son, too!”

  “Kill her,” the globe said.

  Naugle picked up the gun, his teeth clenched between open lips. He took short, deep breaths, staring at the pistol.

  “Kill her,” the trophy figure said.

  “Kill her, now!” the wild boar insisted.

  “Now!” the globe said.

  “Now!” the trophy said.

  Naugle’s son came alive in the picture on his desk. The young man stepped out of the picture frame, still in miniature and onto Naugle’s writing pad. The boy still wore his Annapolis football uniform.

  Naugle tucked his chin and pushed back from the desk, the revolver still in his hand. His tears streamed down his face. He smiled at his boy, amazed at what he watched. Kelly was so handsome, even if he were only six inches tall.

  “Please, Daddy,” his son said. “Please, help me.”

  Naugle’s world spun. He would help his son. He stood from his desk, his eyes fixed on the door. But within three steps, he collapsed to the deck like a puppet whose strings were cut.

  Chapter 51

  THE ORKIN MAN

  SPURS HAD TO find out if North was on the Enterprise. If he was, maybe he had everything under control and the danger wasn’t as immediate as she sensed. He surely would have contacted her if something was going to happen soon—that is, if he was still alive.

  A Marine guard stood by the hatch to the communications room. The young lance corporal was dressed in black fatigues and held an M-16 at port arms. He wore a small radio headset over his fatigue cap.

  When she tried to enter, he stepped in her way.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “No one is allowed to enter right now by order of Commander Naugle.”

  “I just left the skipper.”

  “And did he give you a written pass, ma’am?”

  “No, I don’t need one. I am an officer of this ship, Marine.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But I can’t allow you past.”

  “You can at least tell me what’s going on.”

  “We’re receiving top secret messages from CINCU-S-NAV-EUR.”

  Commander In Chief, US Navy, Europe was sending this ship a secret message? Was he for real? Was this some kind of excuse to keep unwanteds from being able to send messages, warnings? Or had North broken the case and CINCUSNAVEUR was about to come down on the bad guys?

  “I have top secret clearance, lance corporal.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, not without permission from the Old Man.”

  The Marine’s stare was intense, his jaw set. He meant business. Something was wrong about all of this. She could feel it. Sure, this may be the way the Navy would handle a case like this. Send a coded message to all ship’s captains involved so that they could prepare to take on security forces to arrest the traitors, since they seemed to be high in numbers. The captain being out of commission, Lieutenant Commander Reeves must have been in charge. They would probably receive a detail of Marines heloed to the flight deck, then head straight to the nearest port. But it just didn’t feel right.

  She went forward toward the bridge and was met by anoth
er guard. She did not ask, but turned away and headed up the port side ladder to the signal bridge. She still remembered her Morse code. A quick message to North on the Enterprise, just to get his acknowledgement couldn’t do harm. She’d say something simple like, “Lieutenant North, acknowledge, Spurs.” That wouldn’t give him away if he were still undercover. If he had control of the situation, he would be apprised even if he didn’t personally view her message and then he would surely return an acknowledgement quickly. The next thing to do would be to check out the Combat Information Center and see if all was well in there.

  Nearing the top, she saw another Marine guard waiting for her. With her head at the signal deck level, she looked across and saw yet another one on the starboard side.

  “Sorry, ma’am, no one’s allowed up here.”

  “But I need to go inside the CIC. I’m the weapon’s officer, damn it!”

  “That’s not possible, ma’am. Orders. All vital areas of the ship are secured. No one is allowed in any of these areas, except by order of the Commander, the XO or Captain Chardoff.”

  This must be it. The ship had been secured against the terrorists. Maybe the nightmare was over. But Chardoff would be under arrest if it were.

  “What’s going on, have they got the terrorist, the traitors?”

  The young Marine looked at her curiously. “Don’t know anything about any terrorist or traitors, ma’am. You’ll have to leave now.”

  “But I’m the weapon’s officer!”

  She moved up one more step.

  He took a step toward her, bringing his M-16 down to the on guard position, directing the muzzle at her middle.

  She backed down, amazed.

  Now what? Things were happening quickly. But she doubted if they were the right things. Where was Reeves? Was he involved? Was North truly who he said he was? Who could help? Who could she trust?

  Jabrowski was probably either guarded at his position or was in with them. There were Doc Jolly and, perhaps the cook, Big Track. They would probably both be below decks.

  As she rushed below, she realized how much sense this scenario was making. Terrorists had taken over the ship and now guarded all vital areas. The Combat Information Center was being guarded. If somehow those Tomahawks had been put on line, they were ready to deep six any of the fleet, maybe even the Enterprise.

  She went down, went inside the hatch to officer’s country and descended the ladders toward sickbay, one level up from the crew’s berthing area, near the bottom of the ship. Jolly wasn’t there. The hatch was open. Sickbay was deserted.

  Sensing danger she moved quietly along the corridor to the companionway down to the next deck. She stopped at the compartment before it and saw another Marine guard stationed next to the ladder with his back to her. He wore a headset like the others. She tried to sneak past, but halfway there, the guard turned and brought his rifle down.

  “Halt!”

  She stopped. “What’s going on here? I need to go below.”

  “Please stand back, ma’am. No one is to go below.”

  Spurs saw the single stripe on the man’s fatigue collar. “Listen, Private. You’d better tell me what’s going on. I am an officer.”

  “Decontamination, ma’am. The crew’s quarters is infested with fleas carrying the pneumonic plague. They’re exterminating.”

  This whole thing was getting wilder by the minute.

  “Exterminating—fleas?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Please get back.”

  “Or what? You’ll shoot me, because I might get fleas?”

  “The pneumonic plague is highly contagious. It’s also deadly and so is the chemical they’re using to kill the fleas. The decon team assigned to fumigate was wearing suits and oxygen. You’d be endangering yourself and the ship. No one is allowed through, down or up.” The young Marine clicked his weapon off safety. “Now please, step back.”

  Spurs backed away once again. No one was being allowed through, down or up? What about the exterminators? Was there anyone else down there? Why wouldn’t they be allowed up?

  She did a quick about face and walked briskly away. Finding the ladder to the decks above, she ascended and went to her stateroom.

  She closed her door quietly, went to her wall locker and pulled out her sea bag. She’d left several extra winter uniforms folded neatly in the bottom, along with her 9mm Beretta. She took it out, pulled the slide back and chambered a round, then shoved it under her belt.

  After descending several ladders down once again to the level two decks above the crew’s quarters, she trotted through eight compartments forward to the other end of the ship and then went down to the next level. There was another companionway to the crew’s quarters on that forward end.

  The decontamination story was more bullshit, she was sure. Clearly something else was going on below decks while most of the crew was kept topside. People were disappearing and dying as she stumbled through this incredible maze of deceit and treason. North and Saber, besides the many others. A ship would be sunk soon. Something had to be done quickly. But what? She had to find out more.

  She was in luck at the other companionway. This guard also had his back to her. She moved, tiptoeing to the ladder behind him, stepped down watchfully and walked back toward the berthing area.

  A muffled scream came from the compartments ahead, then frantic footsteps in the opposite direction.

  She pulled out the Beretta and proceeded. Through the first two compartments she saw nothing but empty bunks, stacked four high. Stepping into the next compartment, she saw a man lying motionless against the bulkhead to the side of the hatchway. He wore a green rubber, decon suit, used primarily for nuclear, biological and chemical warfare decontamination, along with a mask and an oxygen bottle. She thought about the chemicals they were using. Had he inhaled and was overcome? If so, she had made a serious mistake. Could the pneumonic plague story be true?

  She began itching, feeling the fleas crawling on her skin. She looked at her forearms and saw nothing. It was just her mind playing tricks on her. Why not, everything and everyone else seemed to be.

  “Bullshit!” she said under her breath.

  She hurried toward the man, gun pointed, her eyes searching her surroundings for whoever might have put him down. She could see the man’s body was lifeless, holding a pump-type spray bottle and nozzle in his hands, his face turned away. She kneeled and rolled him over to see his relaxed face, eyes open halfway in a death stare. She’d seen this man before but didn’t know his name. One of the crew doing an unnoticed but important duty aboard his ship. Then she saw the three, bloody holes in his suit.

  At least two more voices came from several compartments away. Pleading voices. “God, no, sir!” “No, I won’t talk!”

  Several sharp snaps stopped their words, accompanied by a couple of clicks like a tack hammer striking steel. Spurs had heard the sharp snaps before in NCIS training. Someone was using a silenced gun. Those clicks were the bullets either missing or passing through their targets and hitting steel.

  Spurs bolted up and raced aft. At the next compartment, she found another body laying a couple of yards from the hatchway. His bloody handprints were on the bulkhead. She stepped over him and looked at the crimson stains. On the hatchway, along with more smeared blood, were several small dents in the gray paint, shiny steel showing underneath. She ran her index finger over them. They were made by bullets.

  Looking into the next compartment, she saw four bodies. She eased in cautiously and stepped over the dead men, visually inspecting each one. All had bullet holes in their suits, two with holes in their clear oxygen masks. Those masks were no longer clear, their dead faces hidden by the reddened lenses. The fourth body had only one apparent wound in the shoulder from a bullet, but his throat was cut, laid open from ear to ear.

  Two more silenced shots came from the aft compartments.

  She heard new voices.

  “That’s the last one.”

  “Let’s go back a
nd check the bodies.”

  Spurs turned to make an escape. She didn’t know who or how many were coming.

  She bolted, but felt her ankle being grabbed and fell to the deck, face first. Looking back, she saw the frightened face of one of the men she’d thought was dead.

  “Help,” he said. “Please help me.”

  It was Jabrowski. She’d never seen so much fear on a man’s face before.

  She rolled over, tucked her side arm under her belt and pulled him to her by the collar. He had two wounds in his chest that she could see.

  “Hold on, Ski.”

  She dragged him to the hatchway she’d entered from.

  Now the voices were close.

  “I can’t believe my luck, Sergeant Krebs,” said the deep voice from the opposite hatchway, thirty feet away. “I’m gonna have to kill her now!”

  Spurs looked up to see an enormous white-suited body looking through the hatchway, another man standing behind. They didn’t wear the oxygen masks, their charade being over. Their team of unwitting prey dead.

  It was Chardoff and a Marine sergeant.

  He raised his silenced Beretta.

  “Time to say bye, Bitch!”

  Spurs pulled out her gun before Chardoff had a chance and squeezed off several rounds without aiming. The noise inside the steel compartment pierced her eardrums.

  The bullets struck the metal around the two men and they ducked back. She held her pistol and aimed, waiting for them to look again. When Chardoff’s face peeked out she fired two more, this time narrowly missing his head.

  She yanked Ski through into the next compartment and to the side out of Chardoff’s line of sight.

  “Get her!” Chardoff yelled.

  Spurs realized the sergeant had an M-16 as fully automatic 5.56mm rounds burst in a heavy volley.

  She pointed her pistol through the opening and fired two more rounds. It sounded as though she got lucky.

  “Damn it, I’m hit. Damn that little bitch!” It was Sergeant Krebs’ voice.

  This would be the only chance she’d have to escape with Ski. She tucked the pistol behind her belt, squatted and rolled him over to his stomach, lifted him by the shoulders to face her and pulled his right arm behind her neck, then hefted him over her shoulders holding onto his right arm with her right hand. She pulled the Beretta out and stood up. He was a small man of about one hundred and forty pounds, but still nearly half again her weight. The fireman’s carry she’d learned in OCS worked, but for how long?