“They’re moving fast,” Voss said. “Like they’ve got a plan.”
“Maybe they do, but don’t be surprised if it changes when they get a look at the things down there. It isn’t going to be as simple as doing pest control.”
Josh nodded toward Turcotte, Rouleau, and O’Connell. “What about this? If we have orders to secure and wait, where does Turcotte get off boarding the Antoinette?”
“Orders were to stay away from the island, but no one mentioned the Antoinette.”
“And he’s trying to use that loophole to close the case before the new boss shows up.”
“That’s about it.”
Any other time, Josh would not have been surprised. Really, he wouldn’t have blamed Turcotte at all. But the usual parameters did not apply, here. FBI standard operating procedure had to be completely thrown out the window, and so did any concern for individual cases. They had discovered a new and deadly species. The things were smart enough to have used the Mariposa as bait, and Josh had to wonder if they had purposely let the lifeboat escape the night before for the same reason—to lure more prey back to the island. How many had they killed already? How many people had been on board the derelict ships that had been sunk in the island’s shallows?
How did one gun smuggling case matter in the face of that?
But Turcotte hadn’t seen the creatures—the things Tori had called sirens—up close. If he had, he would have understood.
“He’s got to call them back,” Josh said.
“Wait,” Voss replied.
Josh went to the railing and stared across the span of water that separated the Kodiak from the Antoinette. The small Coast Guard launch bobbed beside the massive container ship, waiting for the FBI team to return. No one moved up on the deck. Turcotte’s people had either gone into the accommodations block or belowdecks.
“This is a huge mistake,” he said.
O’Connell’s radio crackled. “Come in, Dan. We’re in.”
“This is O’Connell,” the older agent said into his handheld. “Any sign of survivors?”
“Nada. It’s quiet in here.”
“Do a room by room search for the contraband. If you don’t come up with anything, we’ll start checking the containers out on deck. Check in every fifteen minutes.”
“Will do.”
At least he asked about survivors first, Josh thought. He watched the deck of the Antoinette expectantly, but after they had all stood in silence for several minutes, he began to breathe easier. Maybe the things had all retreated to the island before dawn, once they had gotten what they came for. Once they had fed.
“Maybe—“ Voss started to say, but her words were interrupted by gunfire.
“Shit,” Turcotte snarled.
O’Connell barked into his radio, but the only replies, amidst the static on the handheld, were screams.
~66~
Despite the sun bearing down on her, Rachael Voss felt cold. She stood with her arms crossed, staring across at the Antoinette. Nearly half an hour had passed while Coast Guard personnel boarded the container ship and approached every door without entering, under orders to stay out of any closed area. They were armed and careful and there were no more screams, but those of the FBI team Turcotte had sent over lingered in her mind.
Josh and Pavarotti stood behind her, talking quietly with Nadeau and McIlveen--two other members of their St. Croix field division squad. They were all spooked, eyes blank and haunted, and Voss knew their expressions mirrored her own. Only Josh seemed to have begun to recover, if the storm clouds in his eyes were any evidence. He had tried to warn Turcotte. Gabe Rio and the other survivors of the Antoinette had done the same.
Turcotte and O’Connell had barely moved from the place they had been standing when the shit hit the fan, but they were alone there, now. Voss had moved up to the bow of the Kodiak, where several off duty seamen were taking a cigarette break, and the rest of her team had joined her there. They came together in a crisis, her squad. If anything could make her feel safe under the circumstances, it was that.
She watched Turcotte, observed the slump of his shoulders, and felt sorry for him. The guy could be a total asshole, but he had tried to get clever, following orders to the letter but still attempting to hold onto his case. Voss suspected she might have done the same thing in his shoes, or at least considered it. Now most of Turcotte’s squad was dead; only himself, O’Connell, and two others still lived. And all he could do was wait for the shitstorm that would no doubt result from his colossal fuckup, and grieve for good men.
Voss watched the Coast Guard launch surging in the water, returning from the Antoinette with only five people on board. She glanced across at the container ship and its blocky, rusty cargo, and shivered.
“Special Agent Voss?”
She turned to see Cornelius Sykes coming toward her. Behind her, Josh and the other guys came to attention and huddled close. Whatever news Sykes brought, they wanted in on it.
“Lieutenant Commander?” Voss said.
Sykes had about him the grim air of the consummate soldier. He viewed her as the commanding officer of her squad—which, technically, she was—and so he didn’t even glance at the other agents.
“The captain has asked me to update you, ma’am.”
Any other day she would have chided him for the ma’am, maybe even threatened to hurt him. Today it simply didn’t seem important.
“All right. Let’s have it.”
For once, Sykes’ severe manner seemed to relent and she saw the humanity in his face. “Our men who boarded the freighter called through every open door and window, but received no reply. They do believe they heard movement from at least two passages, but no voices.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “No ordinary voices.”
Josh stepped up beside Voss. “They heard singing.”
“What the hell?” Tim Nadeau said. “Singing?”
They all stared at Josh, who had somehow become pale despite all the sun he’d had while undercover on the Viscaya case, and the dull purple and yellow tints of his bruises. Still, Voss thought he looked strong. Somehow, everything he’d been through had hardened him, burned away some of his cool, civilized exterior to reveal the real agent underneath—a man who finished what he started.
“It isn’t singing,” Josh said. “It only sounds like that. It could be their way of communicating with each other out of the water, or just a noise they make when they’re…I don’t know, hunting.”
“Or hungry,” McIlveen muttered.
“Mac, shut the fuck up,” Voss snapped, and the agent shrugged.
Sykes nodded. “Whatever it is, they heard it. Some of the sirens are still on board the Antoinette.”
“Sirens?” Nadeau asked.
Pavarotti glanced at him. “It’s what the Austin woman and Gabe Rio started calling them when it all started going to hell. I was in with Turcotte and O’Connell when they talked to her this morning. In Greek myths—“
“I know the story,” Nadeau said, waving Pavarotti off. “But they’re not trying to say these things are sirens?”
Voss sighed. “It’s just a word—something to call them. They sing, and they’ve lured enough sailors to their deaths.” She gestured toward the shore of the island, where derelict ships thrust up out of the water at jagged angles. “‘Sirens’ is as good a name as any.”
“So we’re assuming no survivors?” Pavarotti asked, shifting the conversation back to Lieutenant Commander Sykes.
Sykes glanced over his shoulder at Turcotte and O’Connell. “Your colleagues disagree, but Captain Rouleau has reported the incident and his belief that none of the agents who boarded are still alive.”
“For their sake, let’s hope not,” Josh said.
His tone filled Voss with dread. She expected one of her squad to ask him what could be worse than death, and was grateful that none of them did.
“Anything else?” she asked.
Sykes inclined his head in an odd sort of
salute. “Only that the captain will be out to update Special Agent Turcotte in a few minutes.”
“Why tell me instead of Turcotte?”
The Lieutenant Commander wet his lips and blinked, and Voss realized that this part of the message had not really been meant for her. Sykes had his own reasons for passing it along.
“I’ve already informed him,” Sykes said. “I just thought you might like to hear what the captain has to say.”
Voss smiled, feeling the fakery of it and knowing Sykes must see it. “Thank you for that, Lieutenant Commander. I appreciate you keeping us in the loop.”
With that, Sykes turned and strode purposefully back along the starboard deck and vanished through the nearest door, as though he couldn’t wait to get out of there.
“What do you suppose that was about?” Josh asked.
Voss didn’t look at him, or any of her squad. Instead, she focused again on Turcotte, studying the sag of his shoulders.
“I’d say Mr. Sykes is concerned about Turcotte’s leadership and wants to make sure he’s not the only FBI agent on this tub with a clue as to what’s going on.”
Pavarotti leaned over the railing, glancing sidelong toward Turcotte and O’Connell, who were fifty or sixty feet away. “Is Sykes concerned, or is the captain?”
They all looked at him, but quickly turned to Voss. She had seniority on the squad. There were nine of them altogether, but aside from Josh, who’d come on more recently, these guys had been with her the longest. The other four were back on the impounded drug lord’s boat they’d used to get here, awaiting instructions.
Nadeau was a little guy, only 5’5”, whip-smart and whip-thin. Sometimes they called him Timmy because he seemed so young, but he was five years older than Rachael herself, and like the burly, ursine McIlveen, had been on the squad prior to her own arrival. Pavarotti was the only one she had slept with, and the only one who seemed like he wanted more from his life than just being FBI. Voss had screwed him because she wanted to, and because she had known right off that Pavarotti wouldn’t let whatever happened between them interfere with the job. He didn’t love her, so his heart wouldn’t get in the way.
Josh, though…Voss looked in his eyes and knew that he would take a bullet for her, just as she would for him. It wasn’t romance, but love could kill no matter what you wanted to call it. She knew those eyes all too well, and right now, she saw the doubt in them.
“This isn’t going to go well, Rachael,” he said.
Pavarotti leaned in, smiling, trying for some levity. “Special Agent Voss hates being called by her first name.”
“Shut it, opera-boy,” Nadeau said. “No time for games.”
“There’s nothing Ed Turcotte hates more than not being in charge,” Josh went on. “I don’t know who’s going to command this operation, but we’re going to have to make sure Turcotte plays along.”
Voss nodded. “He will. He just wanted to close out our end of things before the…extermination, or whatever, got underway.”
McIlveen cocked his head, cracking his neck as he stretched. “You almost sound like you like him, boss. Did you forget how hard he worked to steal this case from us in the first place?”
“Fuck off, Mac. You really think I could forget that? It’s only been hours since he even let us back into our own goddamn case. But he’s a professional, and we’re all FBI. Anyone they send down here is answering to the Joint Chiefs, and they answer to the President, so I don’t think Turcotte’s going to say anything but ‘yes, sir.’”
“I guess we’ll find out soon,” Josh said, nodding to port.
Voss turned to see the navy ship approaching off the port bow. It looked small in the distance, but it wouldn’t be long before it had joined their little fleet, and they received their orders. She only hoped those orders consisted of something more than sit and wait, or worse, go back to St. Croix.
As far as Voss was concerned, it had started with her squad, and they would see it through to the end.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Captain Rouleau, who emerged from the same door Sykes had vanished into a couple of minutes earlier, nodded to them, then turned to make for Turcotte and O’Connell.
Voss followed him, the squad falling in line behind her.
“Captain,” she said, “any word on what’ll happen next?”
“Not many specifics, I’m afraid,” Rouleau replied as he headed for Turcotte, who nudged O’Connell, both men turning to greet the Kodiak’s captain.
“I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Josh said, addressing the captain. “Any idea who’s on that navy ship? Who’s taking command?”
Rouleau stopped, turning toward them, even as Turcotte and O’Connell strode up to join them all. The captain frowned.
“From what I’ve been told, Agent Hart, the commander of this operation is not on that ship.”
Turcotte caught this and muttered a quiet and profane exclamation. He was frustrated, and Voss couldn’t blame him.
“Then where is he?” Turcotte asked.
Even as the words left his lips, Voss frowned. Without her even realizing it, she had been hearing a new sound added to the mix of wind and ship’s engines for a minute or more, growing from a subtle buzz to a kind of roar.
A second later, a helicopter passed above them and turned to circle around.
Captain Rouleau lifted his face toward the sky. “I believe this is her arriving now.”
~67~
Alena Boudreau swept along a corridor about the USS Hillstrom with David at her side and professors Ridge and Ernst, the four of them surrounded by a cadre of Naval officers. The flight to St. Croix had given her time to think and plan, to spread out papers and focus on her laptop, but the chopper ride out to the location had been hours of wasted anticipation. She was ready to get to work.
A pair of sailors snapped off crisp salutes as they approached the open door to a large conference room—war room, muster room, whatever it really was on board a Naval vessel—and she nodded to them as she went by, though of course the salute had not been intended for her. A pair of Lieutenants—she’d already forgotten their names—led the way, but once inside they crossed the room and took seats in the back. Ridge and Ernst selected vacant spots in the first row.
Chairs had been fixed to the floor at the front of the room, lined up behind a long table. The Hillstrom’s captain, Arthur Siebalt, made for the table even as every Naval officer in the room stood and saluted. The Coast Guard officers rose to attention as well, and even the FBI agents stood out of respect. Alena took note of it, pleased. Right now she needed everyone in that meeting to understand and respond to authority. At the moment they perceived that authority to rest with Captain Siebalt, but she had long since become accustomed to such assumptions, and to shattering them.
“Please, take your seats,” she said as she slid her laptop bag onto the table. “We’ve lost enough time as it is. The clock is ticking. The time is just after thirteen-hundred hours and every minute works against us if we hope to get this thing done today.”
The FBI agents were the first to sit, shifting their focus to her. The Coast Guard and Naval personnel hesitated, looking toward Captain Siebalt for leadership. To her right, David slid into the last chair at the table, reaching over for her laptop bag, unzipping it, and starting to slide it out, as if he were the only person in the room.
“Be seated,” Captain Siebalt said. The man had an air of utter competence about him, and his uniform seemed freshly pressed. A professional officer, used to rank and hierarchy. The Hillstrom was a frigate, most frequently used as a support vessel, accompanying carriers or amphibious strike groups, which was useful in two significant ways. First, the crew understood undersea warfare, including torpedoes, mines, and depth charges, and second, Siebalt was used to answering to a higher authority on missions.
As the meeting’s attendees settled into their chairs, the captain began.
“Those of you who are guests on board th
e USS Hillstrom, welcome aboard. I am Captain Siebalt. This is my first officer, Commander Aaronson,” he said, gesturing to the man on his left, who nodded a greeting to the small audience. “We will be helping to coordinate this operation, and the Hillstrom will be the command vessel for the duration.”
Alena thought he might go on. Officers tended to feel that, when handing over authority, they had to subtly assert it by making a show, giving permission to their subordinates to obey someone else’s orders. Her estimation of Siebalt had been correct, however. He only nodded to her and took his seat, with Aaronson settling into the chair beside him. Several of the Hillstrom’s other officers took their seats at the table, until she was the only one still on her feet and all eyes were upon her. Alena had worn a black, ribbed cotton top and black trousers, which made her silver hair all the more striking. The outfit had been chosen purposefully. It had a kind of uniform-like quality that seemed to make military personnel more comfortable. And it did not hurt that she looked fantastic in black.
“My name is Dr. Alena Boudreau, and I’ll be running this op,” she said, studying their faces, cataloging their emotional responses to her authority in case any of them should become an issue later. Already, she saw that one of the FBI men—she presumed the ranking agent—had a tightness around the eyes and mouth. He’d bear watching.
“The operation will not have a name,” she said. “There will be no log of the events that transpire, except the report that I will be preparing for my superiors. Captain Siebalt and Captain Rouleau will see to it that any log entries already written that make reference to the Antoinette and the situation on this island are eradicated—“
“Regulations are clear—“ the Coast Guard captain, Rouleau, began to sputter.
“From this moment on, captain, I make your regulations. If that makes you uncomfortable, you’re welcome to confirm it with your own superiors. That goes for all of you. I want to have a cooperative, inter-agency effort here, and I encourage you to speak to whomever you need to speak to immediately following this meeting in order to get comfortable with that. After that, you’re either on the team or you’re in the way. And if you’re in the way, you’ll be removed.
The Ocean Dark Page 33
