Twenty-four Days Page 22

  "Good, but I can do better. ’Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!" Lieutenant Howell Maurice Forgy, USN, serving on the heavy cruiser USS New Orleans Pearl Harbor on 7 December 1941"

  They broke into gales of laughter.

  When Eitan got back to Sean's hospital room, Duck had left and Kali was asleep. Eitan tiptoed into the hall and called Zeke, told him about the apartments and his tour of Bunker Hill.

  “Taggert’s involved, Zeke."

  "I'll get Duck to check him."

  As Eitan hung up, Kali yawned. “If you had a tail, you’d be wagging it. What’d you find?"

  Eitan repeated what he told Zeke and then settled into a chair, eyes on Kali.

  "The nurses bathe him, change his tubes, smooth his sheets, but no reaction." She wore a half-smile, as though it could protect her from pain.

  Outside, the occasional after-hours visitor slipped down the hall and doctors updated patient instructions. The omnipresent stench of antiseptic and sickness flooded the air.

  "What bad guys use their own names, Eitan?”

  “Bad guys who expect to die, who are the leaders. We need the monster’s head.”

  Kali nodded. "I better check us into the hotel,” and she left.

  Eitan opened his computer. His bots had uncovered hundreds of hits. He read through the first fifty to get a sense of Taggert, then delimited for pictures. He found dozens showing Taggert racing cars, rappelling down mountains, bungee jumping and hang gliding. It built a profile of Kevin Taggert, thrill seeker, adventurer, and big spender. On a hunch, Eitan added ‘Las Vegas’ and found Taggert often with scantily-clad women—the perk of chronic gamblers.

  So where did he get that kind of money on a Navy salary? It took twenty minutes to find the PayPal account funding Taggert’s gambling—under the name Nivek Treggat. Six weeks ago, someone began regular deposits which Taggert quickly withdrew. To date, it amounted to $24,587.00. Whoever set it up made it easy to find, presumably so Taggert would take the fall for whatever happened. Eitan banged away for three hours, barely noticing Kali’s return, trying to track back to the depositor with no luck.

  He had to warn Paloma.

  When he called her, she sounded wide awake. "Hey, would you like an early breakfast? I have a few more questions."

  "Meet me downstairs."

  When he got to the Lobby, Paloma was leaning against the wall, keys slapping against her hand. Her hair was pulled into a long tail that stopped midway down her back. She wore a tight sleeveless tunic over crop pants, a light sweater and sandals, and a smile. Eitan’s heart raced. The room sparked with electricity.

  "Do you always call women at this hour?"

  He clasped his hands together and dropped them to his side. He bounced twice, but stopped and lowered to his heals. "Actually, well, I never call women."

  She took a deep breath. "I'll drive."

  They jumped into a well-maintained ’67 Mustang and drove to Seaport Village, an upscale collection of eateries and shops that catered to tourists. Paloma parked and pointed. "We’ll go over there."

  Eitan squinted into the gloom and saw only the black expanse of ocean with the twinkling lights of boats moored off the coast. Overhead, a web of clouds, backlit by the full moon, hung like filigree over the water. Cool sea air enveloped him as a lone seagull called its mate.

  "Have a seat. I'll get coffee."

  Eitan found a few picnic tables and sat as Paloma pulled a thermos from her bag, poured two earthenware mugs, and placed a steaming cup in front of him.

  "Great ambiance and no one bothers you about staying too long."

  Eitan thought he might be falling in love.

  As they started their second cup, Paloma asked, "So what's on your mind?"

  Eitan avoided the topic of Anchor and asked about Taggert’s career, his relationship with people on Bunker Hill, friends off the ship, girlfriends, and trips to Vegas. Paloma answered between sips of coffee, her voice calm and relaxed, gaze switching between Eitan and the first faint yellow sunlight creeping over the horizon.

  “Did Taggert get along with Anchor?”

  "Anchor asked lots of questions about XO." Paloma focused out to sea, face tense.

  Before Eitan knew it, they were no longer talking about terrorists, but favorite books, college experiences, friends, and whatever else came to mind. He couldn’t stop laughing when Paloma shared a Midshipman contest about swallowing goldfish and spitting them up — live. Eitan didn’t want this to end.

  But Paloma’s phone rang. "Good morning, Sir... Yes, sir... Immediately, sir.”

  Eitan knew. "You're deploying to North Korea."

  No one who knew that North Korea had weaponized the upcoming launch, that the President expected Bunker Hill to stop the missile, that the cruiser might also battle one of the most advanced subs in the world, would take this deployment lightly.

  But Eitan had to keep those to himself.

  "I have to report at 0600. We’re part of a Surface Action Group monitoring the launch."

  Eitan pivoted away, not wanting Paloma to see his sadness, or fear. The ocean lay before them, edged in light. Eitan heard the water rustle against the rocks. A thin line of pink rose from a distant horizon, offering a hint of the day to come. He stood, hands damp. He knew this time would come and still he wasn’t ready.

  "Why your ship?"

  "Only two cruisers are in San Diego right now and Princeton is in the Yard. Even so, Bunker Hill is the logical choice because we're shifting homeports to Yokosuka."

  Eitan choked. "Japan? Who knew you'd be moving homeports?"

  She shrugged and started the car. "Everyone."

  The entire drive back to the hospital, Eitan wanted to warn her, but doing so would breach national secrets. As he got out of the car, he settled for, "Be careful, Paloma. Something’s off about Taggert."

  She laughed. "Oh, Eitan, I'm sorry Sean's injured, but I'm so happy he brought you to me. Will you remember me when I return?" She gave him a long deep kiss and fled.

  Two policemen approached him, flaps open on weapons, faces tense.

  “Dr. Eitan Sun? Please come with us.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Day Thirteen, Saturday, August 19th, early morning

  UCSD Medical Center

  Kali turned panicked eyes to Eitan. “Duck’s been shot!”

  Eitan froze, big brain unable to make sense of her words, when Duck shouted from somewhere, “I’m fine. Just a scratch. How’d someone get a gun in the hospital?”

  Duck appeared in the doorway, a ragged hole in his left arm, blood dripping on the t-shirt that had started the night so pristine. His face was livid, cheeks ruddy. “Someone tried to get into Sean’s room.”

  “Sir, you have to let us check your wound.”

  “It’s a through-and-through. I got hours before it gives me problems, though I wouldn’t mind some pain pills and antibiotics. Save me a trip back.”

  “Duck, you saved Sean’s life.” Kali’s voice was raw. She pushed her palms into her eyes with a vengeance.

  Eitan looked from Duck to Kali and back. “Would someone start at the beginning?”

  A man shouldered his way inside the room, his well-fitting suit rumpled, loafers scuffed, and eyes weary. “What have you gotten yourself into, Peterson?”

  “Duck, Charlie. Call me Duck. If you’ll—“

  “Hold on. Let us go where we’ll have privacy and then tell me everything.”

  Kali refused to leave Sean, and Eitan worried about leaving her with a madman lose. He faced Kali, his back to Duck and the Detective.

  “Kali, I need to tell you something about the attacker, how he knows you.”

  She offered a wan smile. “I know al-Zahrawi is alive. He threatened me. I don’t care about that, but he went a step too far when he threatened Sean. Do what you need to and so will I.”

  Eitan galloped after Duck and the Detective.

  “Eitan, Detective Charlie Ruiz.” Duck gestured between the two.
“He found Sean after the attack and thinks it may be connected to a series of murders which include the Parisher boys and a female Princeton officer.”

  Ruiz paced a moment, stuck his hands in his pockets, and then turned full face toward the two men. “Let’s start with what happened tonight, Duck.”

  “Someone pulled a weapon on Sean. I yelled. He shot me and fled.

  “If he shot you, why not finish what he came to do?”

  Duck gave a disdainful glare.

  They spent forty minutes reviewing what happened, Duck insisting on police protection for Sean, Detective Ruiz agreeing to the occasional stop-over. “What can our guys do a Navy SEAL can’t?” Duck had to agree. When Eitan and Duck returned to Sean’s room, Kali was holding Sean’s hand, mouth set in a tight line, not a tear in her eye.

  “Duck, when you find this gentleman, don't worry about taking him alive.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Day Thirteen, Saturday, August 19th, early morning

  Englewood, New Jersey, Zeke's House

  The clock read one a.m. when Rowe got home. He went for a run and then worked the weights in his garage. That made him hungry so he wolfed down a Glad container of frozen lasagna Kali had made last week and settled into his favorite Adirondack chair. There, he spent the next two hours listening to the night sounds and wondering how Krakhower was gunned down outside the FBI and nobody saw a thing.

  Even without Krakhower’s confirmation, Rowe would have recognized the work of Salah Mahmud al-Zahrawi. No one but the charismatic psychopath could persuade an internationally-recognized Muslim to blow a cover he spent twenty years building and put his network of brilliant jihadists at the disposal of a non-Muslim nation like North Korea.

  And that was the easy part. He also hijacked two nuclear submarines and framed the West. Whatever the next step, it would be unexpected. Rowe learned last time he tangled with this madman, one hand distracted you while the other went for the throat.

  His phone burred as dawn broke over the horizon. He stirred, groggy and stiff from sleeping outside, checked the caller ID.

  "Bobby. You couldn't sleep either?"

  "I won’t sleep until America’s sub is home. How's Kali?"

  "Why? Something going on?"

  "Get over here as soon as you can.”

  Rowe put the same clothes on he’d worn yesterday, mixed a cold cup of double-strong instant coffee, swallowed it in one gulp, then mixed another and jumped into his Benz. He sped through the empty residential streets and fourteen minutes later parked in front of the FBI satellite office.

  James's floor was lit up like an accountant’s brain during tax season. The entire team stood in hunched groups, faces tense and eyes hooded, fear palpable. Rowe waved at Tess and slumped into a seat across from his friend.

  James kept clean shirts and a razor in his office, so you could never tell if he was finishing the day or starting out but today, his white shirt was wrinkled, his tie was at half mast, shirt sleeves were rolled back twice, his beard should have been trimmed long ago, and he was drumming his fingers on the desk as he snarled into the phone. For the first time since this case started, he'd tossed his jacket over a chair rather than hung it on the back of the door.

  “You see it too, huh?" Tess appeared at his elbow. “Like the world falling apart’s his fault.”

  Rowe peeked over at James’s assistant. “How are you handling it?”

  "He woke me at four a.m. No one wakes a grandma at that hour, Zeke. If I can wash my face and put on some lipstick, I'd be 90%."

  "Go. I’ve got this."

  She took Rowe's face between her big calloused hands and kissed him on the cheek. "You are a saint. 90%. That's all I need," and she sprinted for the restroom.

  James snarled, “I need it yesterday.” Usually, he hid emotion behind a neutral face. Today, the line between mellow and maelstrom was a hair-trigger. "Another dead sailor from Virginia.”

  Rowe’s stomach lurched. “How?”

  James threw his glasses onto the desk and rubbed his eyes. "For reasons I’ll explain later, we believe Virginia surfaced during the window of time our satellites weren’t overhead, ejected the body while taking care of other business, and submerged again.”

  “Body?” A heaviness descended on Rowe. He hurt for these guys, trying to save their sub, losing one of their own, but he had no doubt everyone in the crew would die before allowing Virginia to attack their country.

  “This next is speculation, but we think Virginia’s crew made sure the corpse would float to the surface sooner rather than later with the note in his jacket telling us they failed to switch the polarity, so will try to damage the CO2 filters."

  "Messing with those filters is deadly, Bobby. A sub’s air is cleaned by running it through scrubbers and charcoal filters. If those are damaged, the air fouls and the boat must surface."

  The corners of James’s mouth edged up. "Soon would be preferable. The longer the enemy has our sub, the more likely they break the codes.”

  “How many nuclear warheads on Virginia?”

  “Who cares? The difference between having one and twenty is like falling from the fifteenth or sixteenth floor. They both kill you. When the hijackers surfaced, they called Al Jazeera on a sat phone.”

  “No one blocked personal sat phones?” Though, how would you block signals from ‘somewhere’ and ‘someone’?

  James played Al Jazeera’s news flash. A well-dressed Middle Eastern man spoke earnestly into the camera:

  We received this message from gentlemen who purport to be the hijackers of America’s nuclear submarine. Attempts to verify the sender have failed, but we relay this out of compassion for the lives at stake on that submarine. Yaa Allah. May Allah watch over them: ‘Send only Bunker Hill to North Korea or blood from the next deaths will be on your hands.’

  “That’s the second time they referenced DPRK’s missile launch. We’re on the right track.”

  James slurped coffee. “You’re going to find this out anyway, so I’ll start with everyone’s OK.

  Rowe stiffened and brought a number up on his cell. "Duck. You with Kali?"

  "Yeah. She's sleeping. We had a bit of excitement,” and told Rowe about the shooting.

  Rowe’s body went rigid and bile rose in his throat. “You OK?”

  “Everyone’s fine.” He spit the words out as though rotten food. “But they shouldn’t get this close. I’m getting Sean out tomorrow.”

  “How’s Kali holding up?”

  “She’s been running tests nonstop in this place called Second Life. She’s mad as hell and I tell you, an angry brainiac ain’t pretty. She told me not to worry about taking al-Zahrawi alive.”

  “She knows he’s alive?”

  Duck grunted. “Says he contacted her.”

  Rowe hung up, then dug a broken stub of a pencil out of his pocket and flipped it. His guts were churning so hard he felt the ulcer forming.

  "Hunh." James lumbered out the door and returned minutes later carrying two coffees, one he dropped in front of Zeke. The coffee tasted bitter and burnt his tongue. He set it down to cool.

  “Remember the call I got from London? The Brits tracked it to Penbury's office. The guards logged a complaint from Najafian about odd noises right before he called the FBI and ended up dead. Someone knew he was about to spill it."

  A chill ran down Rowe’s spine. "They’re getting rid of loose ends—Najafian, Sean, Krakhower. No one will live who can give away the plot.”

  “Eitan says Paloma and Bunker Hill are on their way to the Sea of Japan. Any chance al-Zahrawi can get the cruiser?”

  Rowe got up, paced, sat down, crossed his legs and uncrossed them a moment later. His brain buzzed, trying to tell him something. “An ultra-modern Aegis cruiser would be a hell of a bartering chip, but no—unless she’s alone, which won’t happen. She’ll be part of a SAG—Surface Action Group—backed by the 7th Fleet. Those combined combat systems will stop anything."

  Rowe’s
brain buzzed louder. “So what are they up to?”

  James got on the phone. "SA James here. How big is the SAG assigned to the North Korean missile launch? ... Four warships—… You’re kidding, right? Who the hell thinks that’s a good idea? ... Need to know my ass— They hung up on me.

  "Our government is taking this Al Jazeera message seriously. Suck-up with an ‘f’. And by the way, where the Hell is Virginia, Santa Claus?"

  "Gentlemen. I believe I know."

  James jerked and spilled his coffee.

  This time, Rowe was ready. “We need a bell on you, Otto."

  "I can arrange that, Zeke. May I proceed?"

  "Speak."

  "Virginia is opening her torpedo doors."

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Somewhere in the Pacific between California and Hawaii

  The Bunker Hill

  USS Bunker Hill CG 52 pulled out of San Diego at 0800, right on schedule. Rain threatened to the south, but a cloudless blue sky spread north and west as far as the mechanical eye reached. It took two hours to clear to sea and another four hours to reach the first stop, the Seal Beach munitions depot where they loaded Tomahawks, Harpoons, SMs, ESSMs and ASROC torpedoes for anti-submarine warfare. The senior enlisted said they’d never been aboard a ship that received a full weapons complement.

  Late Saturday, the ship transited west-southwest. The weather was clear, the wind soft and seas light, with good visibility all the way to the horizon. Bunker Hill served as SAG commander because she had the most senior captain. He arranged a destroyer to their south, a frigate to the north, and a hidden sub on the theory the best way to find a submarine was with another.

  Paloma as OOD—Officer of the Deck—stood toward the front of the Bridge, arms crossed, ears alert to calls from the Bridge crew, eyes scanning the variegated blue spreading like a silk sheet in front of her. Speed had been steady at seventeen knots for three hours.