"Sit down, Leo," Jake said. Leo sat in a chair across the small compartment. "My name is Jake Adams. I'm not a senator from Denver. I'm a corporate investigator from Oregon. I'm working with Ensign Kurt Lamar of the Naval Investigative Service." Jake paused for a response.
"Kurt's NIS? Ensign?"
Jake nodded. "Yes. He was working undercover in your squadron to find out who was taking computer technology from the new avionics retrofit."
"Son of a bitch. That's why he kept looking over the supply records."
"That's right," Jake said. "He had the leak figured out to a certain level before his services became more important in Italy. Petty Officer Shelby Taylor, Lt. Stephen Budd, and those two others who died in the bombing in Genoa were all involved with the transfer of technology to an unknown source."
"Shelby was a spy? Shit, he couldn't even keep his own shoes tied," Leo said with a slight laugh.
"Maybe so, but he was the one putting the stuff aboard the A-7s for Lt. Budd to bring ashore."
"What kind of stuff are you talking about?" Leo asked.
Jake thought for a moment about the elaborate diversion by Lt. Budd. "Leo, I came aboard without being searched. Is that normal practice?" Jake asked, and then pressed his left arm against his CZ-75.
"No! They assumed you were a senator, so wouldn't dare search you. I've been strip searched, spread the cheeks and all, coming aboard and going ashore. The Marines do the searching, and seem to enjoy pissing you off with the inconvenience. They don't search everyone. It's mostly random. So you never know when it might happen."
"That makes sense with six thousand people coming and going," Jake said. "But what about civilians? Do they get searched?"
"Yes! At least I think so. I haven't actually seen one picked to be searched, but I'm guessing they could be."
"I've got a problem, Leo. I need to talk with the Teredata tech rep, Burt Simpson. Do you know him?" Jake asked.
"Yeah, I know him," Leo said derisively. "He doesn't know shit about electronics."
"Why's that?"
"Every time I ask him a technical question, he doesn't have the answer. He just says he doesn't have time, and he'll get back with me. What that means to me is he doesn't know shit. If he ever gets back to me at all, he gives me some bullshit answer that I could have gotten out of the tech manual."
Jake smiled. He could see why Kurt liked Leo. "I need to talk with him. Could you bring me to his shop?"
"No problem."
Leo unlatched the hatch and led Jake through the winding passageways, up and down ladders, and finally to a hatch with a sign that read: "Teredata International Semiconductors."
"He's probably inside," Leo said. "Otherwise the hatch would be locked."
Jake looked closely at Leo. He didn't want to get him involved. "Stay out here, Leo. I need to talk with him alone."
Jake entered through the hatch and closed it snugly behind him. A man sitting in a gray metal chair looked up at Jake, obviously startled by his presence. Neither said a word. The man glanced toward a small wooden box on the desk next to him.
"May I help you?" the man finally asked.
Jake noticed he was wearing an expensive leather coat and black pants with a recent crease. He was younger than Jake expected. Probably early thirties. His long, thin face and skinny nose made him look like a rat. "Are you Burt Simpson?"
"Yes! Who are you?" he asked bluntly, his eyes shifting from Jake to the box on the bench.
"I'm with NIS investigating the deaths of the four sailors blown up in Genoa," Jake lied.
"I've already answered all the questions from your buddies," Simpson said, rising from his chair, and squaring himself to Jake.
"That's nice…but I want the truth."
"Fuck you. You squids don't have any jurisdiction over me."
"That's true. But people do have a tendency of slipping on the wet deck on dark, cold evenings. The Mediterranean may seem warm compared to the air at first, but after bobbing around for a half hour or so, it becomes quite cold."
Simpson looked directly at Jake.
"What's the matter, smart ass, you can't come up with a quick answer now?" Jake said.
"I don't know shit about the bombing," Simpson said, and then turned toward the work bench, picked up the small box and placed it gently in a small black satchel.
Jake quietly stepped a few feet to his right. He was across the shop, but still only about ten feet from Simpson.
Without warning, Simpson turned and shot toward Jake. The sound of the gun echoed loudly throughout the small compartment.
Jake hit the ground. The world around him blackened for a moment as he lay on the cold, gray metal. His face, smashed against the deck, felt the percussion of steps as Simpson ran to the hatch. And then the hatch slammed with a hard clang and reverberated back and forth against the steel walls as if some giant had blown through a metal pipe. Jake tried to lift his head, but couldn't.
Finally, he opened his eyes and stared directly at a pair of black leather boots.
"Son of a bitch," Leo said, standing over Jake. "He shot your ass."
Jake wanted to talk, to say anything, to know he was still among the living and not just dreaming Leo standing in front of him. But his lips wouldn't move yet either. Then he felt strong hands grab him under his arms and pull him to his feet and hold him in place until he could stand on his own.
Jake felt the side of his head. There was barely enough blood to feel moist. But his head ached and he could still see stars. His knees buckled slightly. It seemed as though the ship was swaying back and forth in heavy seas, but he knew that his equilibrium must have been disjointed. He remembered the last time he felt this way. He was a running back in high school. He hit a hole at full speed, stuck his head down at the last second, and bashed head on with a linebacker helmet to helmet. The next thing he knew, he was on the sidelines sniffing some nasty chemical. He had hoped that feeling would never return.
"Are you okay?" Leo asked, still holding onto Jake.
"I think so. Where is the bastard?"
"He came flying out the hatch, nearly knocked me to my ass. I heard what I thought was a shot. So I was getting ready to open the hatch. Come on. He's probably heading off the ship."
Jake shook his head and started to follow Leo through the passageways. Leo was wasting no time. It was as if he too had been shot at and felt violated.
"I know a short cut," Leo said.
They had to be at least two or three minutes behind Simpson. Jake had no idea how long he had been lying on the deck before Leo picked him up, nor did he have time to ask the question.
When they reached the first downward ladder, Leo swung his arms outward over the railings and quickly slid to the bottom. Jake tried this too, but his leather jacket stuck to the railings slowing him down. Heading aft, Jake followed Leo through a long passageway with open hatches. Jake felt as he had running the low hurdles in his youth. The difference was the unforgiving knee knockers and the low metal overhead. One mistake, one slight lifting of the head at the wrong second, and he knew that the pain from the bullet hitting his left temple would be minor in comparison to his head bashing into the heavy curved door frame.
Leo stopped quickly. He turned to Jake and put his index finger to his lips.
Jake heard the pounding of footsteps coming from a cross passageway. He slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled out his 9mm automatic. Leo looked surprised.
Jake pushed Leo behind a door frame and motioned for him to stay put.
Jake jumped through the door to the cross passageway with his pistol pointed ahead. "Stop, Simpson!"
Simpson stopped dead in his tracks looking shocked to see Jake. He slid to the nearest bulkhead behind a narrow door frame. Then Simpson's pistol appeared and shot once.