Demon (23 page)

“People have been expecting a dirty bomb attack somewhere in the world for a decade now. Now that they have one, it's not a surprise. But tell the world an unknown biological weapon was used, one that causes the people it infects to basically go crazy and kill, and the shit hits the fan. People panic and we've got a worse situation on our hands than the actual weapon. Life gets spooky real quick.”

“I see what you mean,” Temms said. “But what does Basra have to do with the
al-Phirosh
?”

Glenn cleared his throat. “The
al-Phirosh
set sail from Basra the night of the attack.”

Temms rubbed his forehead. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

“If you let me finish—”

“Because if you're going to tell me I just exposed my crew to possible biological contamination by picking up those survivors, if you're going to tell me—”

“Captain Temms,” a different voice said over the phone. It was lighter and sounded tired compared to Glenn's.

Temms's eyebrows narrowed. “Who is this?”

“Captain, this is the president.”

All the color drained from Temms's face. Mike sat back and looked from the captain to the satphone and back to the captain. He couldn't blame Temms for the reaction. Even Mike felt uneasy. He hadn't expected the president to be this personally involved. Which meant Glenn was in the Oval Office, probably with the director and several others of the National Security Council.

Nothing like having the spotlight on you,
Mike thought, realizing everyone on the other end would soon be tracking his progress on terminating the survivors.

“Yes, Mr. President?” Temms said, her voice a lot softer than it had been. Nervous.

“I wasn't planning on involving myself in this conversation,” the president said. “I hoped Mr. Cheatum could steer you toward your next course of action without too much difficulty. Unfortunately, and rightly so, this unusual situation has raised serious questions with regard to the safety of your crew.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Temms said. “My crew is my chief concern, especially if a biological weapon of some kind is involved.”

“It is my chief concern as well, which is why what I'm going to explain to you is extremely delicate. It is why Mr. Caldwell is there. It is why much will be asked of you and your crew. And because of it, time is of the essence.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Temms said.

“Mr. Caldwell,” the president said.

Mike leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Yes, sir.”

“Would you excuse us? You already know what I am going to tell the captain, and I would like her undivided attention, free of anyone else's presence. For what I am going to ask of her needs to be decided between her and her conscience.”

Mike stood and nodded to Temms. “Yes, sir.”

Then he turned and walked out of the cabin and shut the door behind him. In the passageway, he leaned against a bulkhead across from the door. The metal was cool and calmed his nerves. He wished he had a drink, but his flask was in his bag.

Twenty or so minutes later, the door opened and Temms stood there, her face slack and haggard. She motioned Mike back in and moved away.

Inside, Mike stood across from her. “Are you okay, Captain?”

“No, I am not.” Temms walked behind her desk and sat down. “What you are here for, what you will do, is not something easily accepted.”

Mike nodded. “Trust me, I'm still having trouble with it.”

Temms rubbed her face with both hands. “Before you do anything, I want to try and at least talk to the shipmaster of the
al-Phirosh
. I want to know what happened, regardless of what you have to do. I need that much, for my sake.”

Mike held his hands behind his back. “Of course, Captain. When will you do this?”

“Now. The shipmaster is in the quarantined berthing with the rest of the survivors.”

“How many were there?”

“Survivors? Fourteen. Pulled five other bodies out of the water we thought might be alive but were pronounced dead once on board and moved to cold storage. The rest we left in the water to come pick you up. Don't know for sure how many since none of the survivors seem to speak English.”

Mike blinked. Fourteen. That would be a lot of souls on his head in a short amount of time. “Out of how many originally?”

“Probably over thirty based on the size of the ship. Those merchants sail with pretty small crews. Don't know the exact number.”

Half a crew wiped out. If the same thing broke out on the
Rushmore
, the numbers would be staggering in no time.

“Captain, may I accompany you? I speak Arabic.”

Temms nodded and stood. “Let's go. I need an interpreter.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

M
ike followed Temms down the Captain's Ladder and the next one after to the O-3 level. Temms pointed and indicated the berthing was just forward of the ladder on the starboard side. Mike nodded and said nothing.

As they approached the berthing, Mike smelled fried shrimp and French fries. He looked over his shoulder down the passageway aft and saw dozens of crewmembers in the same blue camouflage fatigues Temms wore, standing in line.

Temms must have seen what he was looking at and said, “It's the mess line. Fried shrimp is always popular for lunch.”

Mike felt his own stomach rumble as he turned back forward. He hadn't had anything to eat since yesterday. Between waking up still drunk and having to sober up quickly and catch his flight, Mike hadn't had time to shove anything down his throat. He hadn't thought to grab something, even a protein bar. The idea of killing people made him thirsty for booze, not hungry for food. Now, though, he wished he'd at least snatched a banana from the continental breakfast at the officers' quarters. Smelling the food now fired his hunger up in spades.

S
tanding in front of a closed door leading to the berthing was a Marine holding an M16A4. Temms stopped in front of him.

“Captain.”

“Corporal.” Temms motioned to Mike. “I'm escorting him.”

The corporal nodded and stepped aside and opened the thick steel watertight door. “Doc's inside.”

“Good,” Temms said. “Everything else quiet?”

“So far, ma'am.”

They passed through the open door. The corporal shut it after Mike. He watched as it closed and the quick-acting latch lowered, securing the door shut. Being shut inside with a bunch of survivors of an outbreak did not make him feel good.

“Your crew can still eat and joke around even with an armed Marine standing guard outside a berthing a few feet away?” Mike said.

Temms laughed. “They're sailors. We pick up stranded mariners all the time. It's not unusual. They probably figure the guard is there because the survivors are Arab.”

“Are we going to put on any special suits?”

“No.” Temms stopped and turned to him. “Remember, my people didn't know of any biological weapon when we pulled these guys out of the water. They're in there right now, thinking they're treating some unfortunate merchants. If we walk in with full chem suits on, what effect do you think that's going to have?”

“But you were told to quarantine—”

“Yes but our MOPP level wasn't changed. Quarantine can be for anything from dysentery to Ebola. When no major change to MOPP came with the orders, we assumed this was an isolate-and-tag op. Set positive ventilation, hang the plastic curtains, and check them for parasites and flu. We've done that.”

Mike nodded. “I understand.”

“We're just going to have to risk exposure. Hell, we've all been exposed already. Except you, I guess. Any objections?”

Mike shook his head.
I went in its prison.
“I'm okay.”

Temms resumed walking. They passed a men's bathroom on the left and then went through another door, an aluminum one with a regular knob like in the Captain's Cabin.

“Why the different types of doors?”

Temms's eyebrows arched, as if she didn't understand at first. Then she looked at the doorknob in her hand and nodded. “These are basically just privacy doors. The watertight ones are used for compartmentalization in case of flooding.”

“Do merchant ships have watertight doors?”

“Yes.” Temms moved closer to him. “You're curious why the ship sank, aren't you?”

Mike nodded. “I can understand the deaths based on what I saw in Iraq. But the sinking still confuses me. It's not as if someone gets infected, goes crazy, and smashes equipment and pokes holes in the sides of ships. All the destruction from the biologic has been person on person.”

Temms shrugged. “There are lots of ways for a ship to flood, especially if there's a leak below the waterline.”

Mike didn't pursue his sudden curiosity any further, figuring he'd get his answer once they heard the
al-Phirosh
's master's story. But something about the sinking ate at him, causing him to remain unsettled. How could a hallucinogen sink a ship? If they'd intentionally sunk the ship, that meant they'd tried to sink something with it, and he knew it wasn't a vapor cloud.

Because it's a demon,
he thought.
A fucking demon.

His memory flashed to the prison, the unknown writing, and the man he'd tortured and then killed. Then he shifted to the dream, the insurgent smiling, two holes in his forehead. The sea of bodies. The milk-white eyes. Their hands stretched out. Don't kill me. Please.

“It will kill you,” the insurgent had said. “And there will be no mercy in it.”

Fuck,
he thought.
The sea. The black water. Oil. The tanker. This ship with so many on board. Please God, don't make me kill all these people. Don't put their deaths on my head.

Mike blinked and shook the thoughts and memories away. He didn't have time for them. And he didn't have his flask handy.

Inside the berthing, Mike saw racks filled with the survivors of the
al-Phirosh
. He followed Temms past a couple of rows of metal beds stacked three high, all occupied. A male and two female corpsmen walked between the racks, treating the men. They hooked up IVs, changed dressings, and provided medications. The room smelled of blood, saltwater, and rubbing alcohol.

They reached the back of the berthing where the
Rushmore
's doctor, a lieutenant with a bald head Mr. Clean would envy, stood, a stethoscope hanging around his neck.

“Captain,” Doc said.

“Doc Morris,” Temms said, “this is Mike Caldwell.”

Morris looked at Mike. His brown eyes seemed to size Mike up. “Excuse me if I don't shake hands. Just got done washing them for the eighth time.”

Mike waved the apology away. “No problem.”

“So what brings you on board the
Rushmore
?”

Before Mike could say anything, Temms said, “Mr. Caldwell is an NCIS agent sent by AFRICOM to investigate the sinking of the
al-Phirosh
.”

“Ah,” Morris said. “I see. Well, no one here's talking about it, in English at least. Hope you speak Arabic.”

“I do,” Mike said. “Which one is the shipmaster?”

Morris motioned for them to follow. They passed a couple of racks and then stopped. Morris held his hand over a middle bunk.

“This is Shipmaster Yusuf. Haven't gotten a first name yet.”

Mike moved closer. The captain was a very common-looking man with a moustache and a slight gut. He was unconscious and snoring loudly.

“Will you revive him?” Mike said.

“He's just sleeping,” Morris said. “No drugs.”

“Injuries,” Mike said.

“None.”

Mike nodded and reached out, shook Yusuf by the shoulder. “Captain,” he said in Arabic. “Captain Yusuf, please wake up.”

Yusuf snorted and blinked his eyes rapidly. “What?”

“Captain Yusuf,” Mike said, “can you understand me?”

Yusuf snorted again and his eyes rolled around until they landed on Mike. He stared at Mike for a few seconds and then blinked again and nodded.

“Yes,” Yusuf said. “You speak Arabic well.”

“Thank you,” Mike said. “Do you speak English?”

“Only a few words.”

Mike nodded and smiled. “I am glad you made it off your ship alive.”

“Has anyone else died?”

“Since being rescued?”

Yusuf nodded.

“No,” Mike said. “Should we be expecting any to?”

Yusuf stared at him. Then he shook his head. “I am just worried for my crew.”

“They are being treated well here, yes?”

“Yes,” Yusuf said. “We were quite lucky.”

“You were.”

One of the female corpsmen, a short blonde, carried two metal folding chairs to them and set them up for Mike and Temms. Both took a seat. Morris excused himself to check other patients.

Mike pulled out a digital voice recorder and held it up for Yusuf to see. “Captain, I am investigating the sinking of your vessel on behalf of the American and Iraqi governments. For the sake of accurate record keeping, I would like to commit this conversation to audio. Are you acceptable to this proposal?”

Yusuf nodded.

Mike pressed record.

“My name is Mike Caldwell, Captain. As previously stated, I am investigating the circumstances surrounding the sinking of the
al-Phirosh
. Do you mind if I ask your full name?”

“Omar Yusuf, captain of the
al-Phirosh
.”

“And what was the cargo of the
al-Phirosh
?”

“Oil.”

“How much?”

“Twenty-five-thousand deadweight tons.”

“A small tanker,” Mike said.

“And old.”

“How many crewmen did you set sail with?”

Yusuf looked away and swallowed. “Fifty-five.”

Mike looked at Temms and relayed the number in English.