Demon (22 page)

He checked out of the hotel and walked toward the airfield. He already regretted throwing Katherine's card away, but he didn't have a choice. In his world, he had sworn off attachments. He'd already lowered his guard and allowed himself to get too close to someone in just a passing night. Now, though, he had to steel his heart and prepare himself for what was required of him.

“I am what I am,” he said. He had no room in his life for women like Katherine. He barely had room in it for himself.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

M
ike glanced at his watch, the numbers bouncing with the movement of the helicopter. If he stared too long, he got dizzy. Almost noon. He lowered his wrist.

The engines of the CH-53 were loud, but the cranial helmet with earmuffs he wore blocked the noise enough to make it bearable. He had tried sleeping but failed. Instead, he read up on the specifications of the navy ship he flew toward. Glenn had e-mailed the document to him an hour ago.

The print on his cell phone screen was small and bounced with the helo as well, no matter how much he attempted to steady his arm. Every so often, Mike looked away to regain his focus.

From what he'd managed to read so far, the
Rushmore
was an amphibious ship, type LSD (landing ship dock), hull number 47. Mike remembered the Marines in Iraq had arrived there on similar ships, off-loading in Basra. They called them “Marine Ferries” and “Gator Freighters.”

The Marines on the
Rushmore
, though, had not gone to Iraq. Instead, they had debarked in Djibouti for several weeks of training and possible operations against al Qaeda in North Africa.

Which meant only the ship's crew was on board, along with one platoon of Marines used for vessel boarding and anti-piracy operations. Mike took some comfort in that. The crew size approached four hundred. Keeping that many people silent would be hard. Throw in another four hundred Marines and silence became impossible.

Mike looked at some of the other specs. The ship had four diesel engines with a top speed of twenty-two knots. Slow boat.

It had no offensive weapons other than a few mounts for .50 cals and M60s. The bulk of the ship consisted of a huge well deck for carrying high-speed Landing Craft, Air Cushions (or LCACs) and other Marine amphibious assault platforms. The LCACs had also remained in Africa for training. So cross one way of evacuating the crew off the list.

The
Rushmore
could ballast down to a point where eight feet of water filled the well deck. Mike shook his head as he realized why the Marines referred to it as a “ferry.” The damn thing was nothing but a slow truck on the water.

It also had a flight deck capable of supporting two helicopters, but none were permanently stationed because the ship did not have a hangar in which maintenance could be performed. Mike frowned. His helo would drop him off, refuel, and then leave. With the Marines' toys on the beach and the helo not sticking around, ways to evacuate personnel in bulk looked slim. The
Rushmore
carried a couple of small boats but nothing four hundred people could leave on. Other than life rafts, they were hurting if they had to flee the ship.

The letters bounced in his hand and Mike looked away. He'd read enough anyway. He slipped the cell phone in his pocket and closed his eyes.

Not much longer,
he thought.

T
he CH-53 touched down on the flight deck, bounced, and then hit the deck again. Mike looked out the window next to him and saw several flight deck personnel wearing blue life vests running toward the helicopter, carrying landing gear chocks and chains.

Mike turned away as the back of the helicopter lowered, sunlight flooding the fuselage. He squinted until his eyes adjusted. Then he stood, grabbed his bag, and walked toward the exit. An escort wearing a cranial helmet, goggles, and a khaki uniform met him there, shook his hand without saying anything, and then motioned him to follow.

On the deck, Mike saw other people in colored vests and jerseys. People in purple hooked up fuel hoses to the CH-53, its rotors still spinning. A guy in yellow held paddles for directing the aircraft. A couple of others wore red and stood near fire hoses lying on the deck. Finally, he saw two people in suits that looked like they had been made from aluminum foil. Firefighters in hot suits.

Mike followed the escort down a ramp to another deck, a few feet below the flight deck but still outside the skin of the ship. On his right was a large crane. On his left was a hole. He looked over the railing and below saw into the well deck.

“We'll wait here a minute,” the guy yelled over the whine of the engines. “The captain is on her way down.”

Mike nodded. He turned and saw the CH-53 lifting off the deck. It rose to about ten feet, lowered its nose, and flew off to the left of the ship, climbing higher as it did.

Everything quieted as the sounds of the engines and the rotors faded. His escort removed the cranial helmet and muffs and handed them to one of the guys wearing red. Mike did the same, as well as removing his life jacket. He heard the voices of the flight deck crew gabbing about what was for lunch. He heard the diesel engines of the ship and saw the smoke of their exhaust rising from a stack near the crane. He heard the sound of the sea lapping the sides of the hull.

Mike had never been on a navy ship and had not been to sea on anything in years. His legs wobbled as the ship rocked gently to the right and then the left. His escort next to him flexed and adjusted naturally with the movement.

“Need your sea legs,” he said.

Mike nodded. “I guess so.”

“Lieutenant Schiffer, ship's operations officer.” Schiffer extended a thin hand. “Call me Bob.”

Mike shook it and realized he didn't know what name to use for a moment: his real one or the alias. Then he decided it really didn't matter.

“Mike Caldwell.”

“Welcome aboard the
Rushmore
, Mike. Wish you could have come under better circumstances.”

“Me, too.”

Bob walked over to the starboard side, spat into the ocean, and walked back. “Do you dip?”

“No.”

Bob pushed his hands into his pockets. “Captain should be down soon.”

“Any reason why you're keeping me out here?”

Bob smiled. “No. But the captain wanted to meet you down here and show you around. If I take you in, she'll come a different way and we'll miss her and then I'll get my ass chewed.”

“Ah,” Mike said. “Don't want that.”

“Definitely not.”

Mike looked at a serene blue sky. The little puffs of white cloud seemed to move back and forth above them. He smelled exhaust and salt and fuel.

Feeling suddenly lightheaded, Mike turned his attention back to the hole above the well deck. He leaned on the gray-painted rail. The sides of the well deck and bottom were lined in wood.

“Why wood?” Mike said.

“What?”

Mike pointed down into the hole. “Why are the sides of the well deck wood? Why not metal?”

Bob leaned on the rail next to him. “Because when we ballast down, the wood acts as a natural barrier to corrosion.”

Mike nodded, realizing his question was sort of stupid once he'd heard the obvious answer.

“Plus,” Bob said, “there's a lot of wear and tear down there, and wood has a lot of give. The Marines tend to bump into things when they come on and go off. The LCACs, the AAVs, and tanks they have would get torn up. Wood is more forgiving than steel.”

Mike looked from the hole to the crane behind him. “So the crane lifts stuff from a pier and lowers it through the hole into the well deck and vice versa?”

“Yeah, mainly smaller vehicles and equipment. Right through the Hell Hole. Everything else comes on board via LCAC transport or other cargo craft.”

Mike nodded. “Hell Hole, huh?”

Bob chuckled. “Yeah. If a sailor can give a nickname to something, he will.” Bob turned away. “Here comes the captain.”

Mike pushed off the rail and turned. Rather than a khaki uniform like Bob, the captain wore a blue-gray camouflage. Her hair was a shoulder length. Her frame was athletic but built more like a gym rat than a runner. If he were to guess, she probably did crew in college. Or mixed martial arts. Her height, average.

“Welcome aboard,” the captain said and extended her hand. “Commander Sandra Temms.”

“Mike Caldwell.” he shook her hand. “If you're a commander, why does everyone call you captain?”

“Commander is my rank.” Her hand squeezed Mike's a little harder. “Every ship, though, has a captain. Follow?”

Mike didn't answer the increased grip, instead choosing to let go. His observation that she was a gym rat was accurate. “Appreciate you allowing me on board.”

Temms nodded. “Orders are orders. Been a bit crazy around here the last few hours. Hopefully you can shed some light on some of the mystery.”

Mike smiled. “Hope so.”

“So, where's the rest of your team?”

Mike shook his head. “It's just me, Captain.”

“I was led to believe—”

“I know, Captain. And I have some explaining to do. If you don't mind, is there a place we can talk in private?”

Temms's right cheek twitched a little but then smiled. “Of course. Let's go up to my cabin.”

M
ike followed Temms up a few metal ladders and down passageways painted bright white with blue flooring. The Captain's Cabin was on the O-6 level, five decks above where Temms had met Mike and directly behind the ship's pilothouse. The last ladder they climbed had thin white rope wrapped around the rails in fancy twists, marking it as the Captain's Ladder. At the top, they turned a sharp right and walked into the cabin.

The cabin had a wraparound blue Naugahyde couch in the left corner and a round coffee table with the ship's crest emblazoned on its surface. On the right side of the cabin was a small oak conference table with room for eight people to sit at it. An oak wraparound desk with a computer and several phones on the surface and on the wall behind it sat on the opposite side of the cabin.

“Where do you sleep?”

Temms laughed and pointed at a closed door near the desk. “Through there. But I haven't made my bed yet.”

Bob walked in and stood with his hands behind his back.

“Ma'am, Mr. Caldwell's room is ready.”

Temms nodded. “Mr. Caldwell, we have you set up in the Marine CO stateroom on the deck below. Ops will take your bag down there for you if you like.”

Mike shrugged and handed his bag to Bob. “Here you go.”

Bob took it and started to turn away.

“Ops,” Temms said, “go ahead and send word to AFRICOM and Fifth Fleet that Mr. Caldwell has arrived and we are awaiting further tasking.”

Bob nodded and shut the door behind him.

Temms motioned to the couch. “Please, have a seat.”

Mike did. Temms pulled a seat from the conference table and sat across from him.

Temms sighed. “This is one hell of a mess.”

“Yes, it is.”

“My crew spent six hours pulling a bunch of Arabs off life rafts from a half-sunken ship. We were then ordered to quarantine the survivors and allow no one with the exception of medical personnel near them once on board. Then we were ordered to turn around and gun it toward the West African shore to close the distance on an investigative team being flown out here. Now you show up—alone.

“I've been in the navy eighteen years, grew up a navy brat, and have never seen decisions get made on so little information so quickly as this one. I'd like to know what is going on.”

Mike took a few breaths before he started. “It has to do with why that ship, the
al-Phirosh
, sank.”

“I figured as much.”

Mike kept his voice low. “Do you have a secure satellite phone?”

Temms nodded.

“May I use it?”

“Why?”

“Because my boss wanted to explain this to you once I arrived here.”

“And who's your boss?”

“Glenn Cheatum, deputy director for operations of the Central Intelligence Agency.”

Temms rocked back in her seat. “CIA. Well great; this is terrorist shit, isn't it?”

“I'll let him explain,” Mike said. “The phone please, Captain.”

Temms stood up and walked over to her desk. She grabbed a black handset off it and walked back over and handed it to Mike. Mike took the satphone and turned it on and dialed Glenn once he had a signal.

After a few rings, Glenn's gravelly voice came over the speaker. “Deputy Cheatum.”

“It's Mike.” He placed the satphone on the coffee table and put it on speaker. “I'm on board
Rushmore
. I have Captain Temms here with me.”

“Captain,” Glenn said, “sorry to conduct business in this manner.”

Temms leaned forward over the coffee table. “I appreciate the apology but must warn you, sir, my patience in this matter is wearing thin.”

“I understand.”

“Now, can you explain to me what's going on?”

“Yes. But I must emphasize this conversation is above top secret: eyes-only-level stuff. You will not repeat what I tell you to anyone.”

Temms seemed to swallow a mouthful of frustration and said, “Very well.”

“Three days ago a biological attack was executed in the city of Basra in Iraq.”

“I haven't seen any reports.”

“The long and short of it is the biological weapon used has never been seen before, and its origin is unknown. A lot of people died as a result of it, and to maintain control in the southern part of Iraq and Kuwait, the lid is being kept on what really happened until more can be deduced. In the meantime, the press is being told a dirty bomb was used and the area is radioactively contaminated, to prevent them from slipping in and investigating.”

“Won't a dirty bomb cause as much panic as an unknown biological weapon?” Temms said.