He leaned back in his chair, watching the callouts click forward as Chokai’s helo headed in to the attack.
7
Aisha got up early the next morning. Spread out the little rug from her carpetbag, and did her morning salat, her prayers, in her stateroom. The girl she shared it with was gone, on watch, probably.
No one seemed to know who she was, to judge by reactions in the passageways. She got a couple of double takes, one from an attractive brother. He grinned, seemed about to say something, but then didn’t.
This ship seemed more subdued than the carrier, where the passageways often rang with shouting and laughter. Or maybe this was simply a wartime atmosphere. She drifted down dead ends, trying to follow the scent of food. Not liking it when she was alone in a deserted passageway. But pressing on.
The grimy, crowded mess decks weren’t all that different from the carrier’s. Blue terrazzo decks. Glaring fluorescents. Overheated air. A stainless-steel mess line, with the servers in chef’s caps behind Plexiglas sneeze shields. People coughing, clearing their throats, which reminded her of the “hajji cough” everyone seemed to get when she’d gone to Makkah. The smells of coffee, eggs, hot bread, the greasy sizzle of pig meat. She slid her tray along, picking and choosing. No way any of this was halal, but after seventeen years in, she was used to making do. The ship’s roll was different from the carrier’s, too. Faster, sharper, slightly sickening. She got hard-boiled eggs, toast, canned peaches, coffee. Was eating alone at one of the tables, when a dark-haired woman in the blue coveralls they all wore halted abruptly, hands on hips. “And who do we have here?”
“Special Agent Ar-Rahim.”
“Oh — our investigator?”
“That’s correct.”
“They told me you didn’t make it. Typical. Mind if I—”
The woman took a seat opposite without finishing her sentence. Toffee-skinned, with gleaming hair and a prominent nose. Like the Pakistanis who occasionally stopped by her home mosque in Harlem. They seldom returned. But even in the baggy uniform, she was striking. Twenty-five, twenty-six? “Amy Singhe,” she said, extending a hand. No wedding ring. “Short for Amarpeet.”
“Singhe. You are Indian, yes? Sikh?”
“A lot of Sikh Singhes, but my family’s Hindu.” She slid a notebook from a pocket. “You’re here about the rapist? I want to help.”
Over the years, Aisha had learned that the first people to approach you about a case were seldom the ones you really wanted to talk to. Those would be more reticent, erect barriers, hide behind the rules. She sipped coffee from a paper cup. “Lieutenant?”
“Strike officer. Tomahawk, Harpoon. Just recently, started to stand TAO watches.”
“How are you involved? Did Miss Terranova work for you? Are you her division officer?”
Singhe leaned in, revealing a sparkle of gold at her cleavage. Aisha caught the scent of sandalwood on the heated air. Caught, too, the glances from the men around them. “I’m not her division officer. I’m involved because I’m in a navy, and aboard a ship, that doesn’t welcome women. I’ve seen how the enlisted women are mistreated, and gone on record about it. I’ve written for Navy Times and the Naval Institute.”
“So you’re a… victim advocate? Self-appointed?” Aisha cut her eyes around. The nearest tables were emptying, but that could just be the abaya and head scarf. Though some of the crew wore scarves, too, all in olive and black.
“If we had one. Yeah.”
“And you’re telling me the command climate’s hostile, even these days?”
Singhe said reluctantly, “I don’t think the new CO’s that hidebound. But he’s fighting a middle management that hates change. You know what happened in Naples?”
Aisha nibbled on a hard-boiled egg. “No. What?”
“The old CO ran the ship aground. I was on the bridge, trying to anchor. But he kept interfering. Then we had an engine casualty, and by the time that got straightened out we were aground.”
“Was there a court-martial?”
“An admiral’s mast. The old CO, the old command master chief, and some others went. Like I said, it’s a little better… but the mind-set’s still there. Women don’t belong. A distraction. Never quite as good.” Singhe sat back, a faint sheen of perspiration glittering on her forehead. “The rape was just the culmination of a lot of things. Verbal harassment. Groping. Exhibitionism. Those were never looked into. Papered over. And there’s a lot more going on that nobody knows about.”
Aisha kept her tone neutral. “That might be relevant, yes. Though sometimes it’s hard to draw a causal line. I appreciate your introducing yourself, Lieutenant. May we talk in depth later? Once I’ve had a chance to get read on the facts of the case?”
“Whenever you want. I only want to help make things better.” Singhe rose, stuck out her hand again, then flushed and withheld it. “You’re Muslim, right? Aisha?”
“I do shake hands, Amy,” Aisha said gently. She held the warm, slightly sweaty palm for just a moment before she nodded and let it go.
An hour later, she arranged a chair in the wardroom. Facing her was a seamed, leathery visage with deep grooves around the mouth. Hair was combed carefully across a bald spot. His name tag read TAUSENGELT. The largest hands she’d ever seen on a human being lay folded on the table.
“Basically, your investigation may have to wait,” he said.
Tausengelt was the command master chief. The CO and XO were both too busy to see her, apparently. Well, she could understand that. A war, and a sinking… interesting that the CO, a Captain Lenson, hadn’t seemed eager to stay around and help. In fact, they were steaming away now. Where, she wasn’t quite certain.
She pulled her attention back as the senior enlisted explained that the ship had carried out its own investigations of the assaults. “I’ve called our chief master-at-arms, Chief Toan. Unfortunately, Hal’s kind of tied up now too. Since we’re still at general quarters and all.”
“What happened to the tanker, Master Chief? To Stuttgart?”
He deliberated, as if pondering if she could be trusted. “She was torpedoed.”
“I know that. I saw it, from the helo deck. But then what? She went down?”
“That’s correct, she sank,” Tausengelt said, gaze averted.
“What happened to the crew? Did you get the sub?”
“I can’t discuss that.”
“Master Chief, I hold a top secret clearance.”
“That may be, ma’am, but with all due respect, you’re here strictly on NCIS business. So, basically, you got no need to know operations, tactics, equipment.” Tausengelt glanced at his watch. “We might be able to get you the victim now.”
“I’d rather start with the scene,” Aisha told him. “So I can make sense of what she tells me.”
“All right then.” Tausengelt got up. “I’ll see if I can find you the chief master-at-arms.”
“If, that is, he’s not on watch?”
The heavy-lidded, seamed face of an old tortoise regarded her. “Yeah. If he’s not on watch.”
The crime scene was high in the ship, which left her puffing and dizzy after all the ladders. Hal Toan, the chief master-at-arms, was a slight Vietnamese. He smiled as he held a door for her, and as he updated her on the background of the case. Incongruous, but perhaps that was just his habitual expression. The space was lined with lockers, a work counter, neatly racked tools. The cold air smelled metallic. She unslung her camera. “Where, exactly?”