"We're all in agreement with that," Torrinson answered. "Do what you must to get things rolling."
Torrinson walked closer to Edmunds. "Listen, Sid, I know you're just one person trying to cover an entire 'city' by yourself, but we've got to find out what the hell's going on, and before any more men die. Tear this ship apart if you have to."
"Any suggestions where he should begin?" Conklin asked.
Torrinson sat down, then leaned back, linking his fingers behind his head. "I'll leave it up to him, but it looks as though he'll be needing assistance."
"Sure could use the help, Admiral, especially if it means an investigation on land, and I have a feeling we're headed in that direction."
"Let me see what I can do. The NSA and CIA should have 'eyes and ears' on this part of the world. Maybe they can zero in and take a closer look and listen."
"Except for Sid, you're probably the only one on board who has any knowledge of how those groups operate, Admiral," XO Carl Justine remarked with a slight smile.
"Had plenty of opportunities to work with those gentlemen, Carl. I just hope they don't hold it against me. Oh, Sid, Jim, have either of you discovered any pattern to all this?"
Conklin answered, "The only pattern I see so far is the incidents have only affected enlisted men — no chiefs or officers."
"Same for me, Admiral," Edmunds commented. "It sounds like the 'pusher' was specifically targeting men below E-7. That's pure guess on my part, but I don't have any other explanation."
Conklin ran a hand over his hair, commenting, "The younger crowd who wants to experiment, or those who think they need 'help' completing their duties. But it might be the direction we need to go for further investigation."
The phone rang. Every officer in the room locked his eyes on it. XO Justine answered. The conversation was very brief, and as he cradled the receiver, the expression on his face was positive proof of more bad news. "Petty Officer Helmon just died."
Torrinson lost his composure and pounded a fist on the table. "Dammit!" He lowered his head and quietly muttered, "All young men." He looked toward Conklin. "Jim, I assume the bodies have been stored in the 'chill' room."
"Yes, sir."
"If this were a time of war, we would bury them at sea. But it isn't, so we must do what's necessary, respecting those men and their families."
"Admiral, if you're thinking we need to fly them off the ship soon, a chopper can transport them to Diego Garcia. It's the closest base from our current position. From there a transport can take them to the States."
"It'd be best if we did, Jim."
"I'll make arrangements, then notify the families when those arrangements are finalized." Conklin shifted in his chair. "Admiral, what about the men in sickbay? Do you want to send them to the hospital in Subic?"
"Let's have Doc Palmer make that decision."
XO Justine had just sat down when the phone rang again. Everyone remained quiet, keeping their eyes on the XO. "Say again?!" He spun around, facing the men at the table. "Very well." He hung up, then quietly said, "Petty Officer Jacob Ahrens failed to report for his watch this morning. They just found one of his dog tags near the fantail."
"Holy Christ!" Conklin slowly shook his head, staring at his XO.
"There's more, sir," Justine said. "He left a note hidden under his pillow. He said he was sorry, but he didn't know this would happen."
"That's it?!" Torrinson asked, rubbing his hands briskly together.
"Yes, sir, except, he was a storekeeper."
"Supply," Edmunds commented. "I guess we know who our dealer was." But then he thought about the sailor who committed suicide. "I guess there's not much chance he could still be alive, floating out there somewhere."
XO Justine replied matter of factly, "If he went off the fantail, the churning of the screws would've sucked him under in a heartbeat. If he survived that, he wouldn't stand much of a chance being out there any length of time — or survive whatever else was swimming around."
"Jesus! What a way to die," Edmunds commented quietly.
"I'll order a search and rescue chopper to head out now," Conklin said, as he rolled his chair back, then went to the phone. "We have to at least try."
"I hate to add this to the uncertainties already 'on the table,'" Torrinson began, "but why are we only considering there's one dealer? Or, were you all thinking the same?" Heads bobbing up and down proved the men agreed.
"He, or they could've hidden the supply anywhere," Edmunds commented, "and even if Petty Officer Ahrens wasn't working alone, he could've dumped it before jumping. It's not likely he let anyone know of his … intentions."
Torrinson agreed. "True, but it's possible he didn't have time to trash all of it."
"If anything came in during replenishment or on a COD, the hangar bay could've been the quickest place to stash the goods. I could start searching there," Edmunds said. "A few extra men should make the search go quicker."
Conklin came back to the table. "I'll see that it happens, Sid."
Torrinson looked at his watch again. "Hmm. Twenty-three hundred in D.C." He rolled his chair away from the table. "Unless there's anything else, gentlemen, it's time for me to wake up Vice Admiral Gamble, then he can send the data up the chain of command. Washington will have the responsibility of deciding when and if information is released to the outside world. In the meantime, we've all got work to do."
Chapter 3
President Andrew Carr read the report one last time, then placed it inside a folder. He leaned against the black leather swivel hair, as he smoothed down his blue and gold checkered tie. The incidents aboard the USS Preston set the intelligence community on its ear, and yet, none of the major networks had reported anything. He'd been down to the Situation Room, looking at the news, and questioned the men in the National Security Council room (Watch Room). Even they hadn't seen or heard any civilian reports coming out of the Pacific. Nothing. Absolutely nothing had reached the press or civilian population. But a verbal "lockdown" went into effect almost immediately aboard every ship under Admiral Torrinson's flag.
"Possible terrorism," he mumbled. "Christ!"
A knock at his door, then it opened. His secretary, Rachel Jacobsen, announced, "Mr. President, everyone is here. Shall I send them in?"
"Please, Rachel." He picked up the folder then walked across the Oval Office, dropping the folder on the coffee table. As he stood in front of his rocking chair, he mulled over the information he had, as the morning meeting attendees walked in.
"Morning, gentlemen," Carr said, motioning with a hand. "Have a seat."
Vice President Evan Forbes, SecDef Jerry Daniels, National Security Advisor Stan Hillman, General Trevor Prescott (NSA), and CIA Director Ray Simmons filed into the room. Simmons, 58 years old, had been the director for less than three months, assuming the position after Director Hank Bancroft and Deputy Director George Platt were asked to resign by the President.
Forbes and Hillman adjusted two wing chairs near the end of the coffee table then sat down, while the other three men sat on the two couches on either side of the coffee table. Files were removed from briefcases.
Carr rocked back and forth. "You've all been briefed, but let me start by saying as of twenty minutes ago the Watch Room still hadn't seen reports or heard any leaks. Amazingly, nothing's come across the news media about this. Have you heard anything, Stan?"
"No, sir. But I'd like to suggest that we consider putting something out there before we're 'caught with our pants down.' The media will be all over us once they get wind of the situation."