But there were no diaries. No letters. Most serial sexual offenders kept some sort of score sheet, or trophies, so they could reenact their fantasies. Unless the disks contained that. But then, wouldn’t they have names, or dates?
Maybe she was assuming too much. “Longley, where did you see the blanket? You said it was his. Are you absolutely sure of that?”
“Right there at the foot of his bed. I started to take it once, to get it cleaned. He shouted at me to leave it there.”
Aisha studied the foot of the bunk. She put her hands behind her back and bent closer, studying the seam where the frame abutted the bulkhead.
Then, with a yank, pulled it outward.
Metal clattered to the deck, and light spun from chromed steel. Staurulakis sucked air audibly. Toan murmured something under his breath in Vietnamese, and crossed himself.
The blade shone in the overhead glare. Aisha fitted the evidence bag around it, not touching it. “Chief, sign this form? Commander? This confirms you were present when I searched the room, and lists what we found. Four recordable DVDs. One Case-brand hunting knife, four-inch blade, chrome or nickel plated, with a bone handle.”
Staurulakis signed the form and handed it to Toan. “Okay. What now?”
“Run prints on the jewel boxes. Check out what’s on the DVDs.”
“Confront him? Get a confession?”
She glanced at the door. “Chief, keep an eye on that passageway, will you?… It might be better to wait for him to notice they’re missing. Then he has to find out if we have them, or if someone else does. I’ve done that before. Somebody this smart, he won’t be easy to intimidate.”
Staurulakis said, “I have to report this to the captain. He needs to know before we take any action.”
Aisha looked around the space one last time. Spotless, almost sterile, filled with reflecting, polished surfaces. Like the blade that had almost killed her.
She nodded. “Then we’d better see him as soon as we can.”
Dan lay exhausted in his sea cabin, listening to the mumble of voices from the next deck up. He longed to sleep, but worry kept hauling him back. He sat up, picked up the J-phone to ask the corpsman for something. Then hung up again without hitting the call buttons. He was groggy enough without meds. His chest felt tight. The cough was worse. Some of the crew had reported relapses. Legionellosis was notorious, Grissett had told him, for hanging on. Sometimes for months.
They were back off Miyako Jima, in nearly the same defensive positions as before the task group’s incursion into the Taiwan Strait. But with a smaller and less capable force posture.
Mitscher had been hit hard during the action, with seven dead and many more injured. One missile had punched through the side by the boat deck, and torn a great hole just aft of CIC. Another had impacted aft. The third had struck the water close aboard and bounced into the hull. She had fire damage, antenna damage, and casualties from blast, burns, and smoke inhalation. Stony Stonecipher had reported he was no longer combat ready. Dan had detached her, and she was limping back to Guam.
He’d inspected Savo’s own damage as they departed the strait. Looked over the forecastle by the shielded light of a flashlight, at twisted, smoking steel, peeled back like the skin of an orange.
The skimmer had come in from astern, most likely from the sub they hadn’t localized. Though Mills had pointed out it could also have been air-launched, programmed to loop the ship and approach from astern to maximize surprise.
At any rate, it had come in so fast — transonic, or even supersonic — and so low that they’d picked up on it only seconds before impact. Savo’s electronic countermeasures had managed to spoof it away from the centroid, the center of area most seekers calculated as their target. But not far enough to miss entirely.
Hitting at an angle, the warhead had penetrated to the paint locker before going off. The blast had blown off everything forward of the wildcat. Lifelines, bow bulwarks, bullnose, ground tackle, and both anchors. One entire anchor chain, which had run out with a grating rumble for several minutes after the hit. And the upper part of the stem, down to six feet above the waterline. When they’d gotten the fire under control, Dan had ordered them to cut away the damage. This left Savo with a gaping hole up forward, like a syphilitic’s missing nose. “We’ll have to call her Old Shovelnose from here on,” Pardees had remarked. The damage-control teams were busy welding and shoring interior bulkheads, but he’d have to avoid taking any heavy seas head-on.
Lying in his bunk, Dan wondered how many more surprises the enemy had.
On the way out, the Japanese had reported receiving new orders. “Mount Shiomi” and “Mount Yari” had been withdrawn from his task force. Losing Chokai and Kurama left a big hole in his defenses. He couldn’t help suspecting a lessening resolve on Tokyo’s part.
The Koreans had lost a frigate. But, in a truly heroic action, Admiral Jung had ordered his flagship to stop dead in the water where it had gone down. He’d rescued every man before heading north again.
From what little Dan had heard, they’d scored hits. Whether with Harpoon or torpedo, he wasn’t sure. Or so Fleet had said. Oh, not at first. The first message had dressed him down for leaving station and exceeding orders. An hour later, PaCom had congratulated him on a daring action. The next message from Seventh Fleet had grudgingly withdrawn its condemnation, citing losses among the invasion transports and escorts, but left a sense that he was still on the carpet for leaving station.
The J-phone trilled. He flinched; unsocketed it. “Captain.”
It was Singhe. “Sorry to wake you, sir—”
“Wasn’t asleep. Talk to me, Amy.”
“Uh, yessir. We’re seeing more transports crossing.”
“Reinforcements. More divisions.”
“Uh, yessir, looks like it.”
“What else?”
“They’re beefing up on the Senkakus. We’re also seeing increased air activity in the Wenzhou-Ningbo region. Across from Okinawa.”
This was new. “How much? What kind? Significant?”
“I’m not sure. Just… increased activity.”
“Set GQ early if you see a threat coming. Everybody’s tired. We’ll need more time to man up.”
“Uh, I don’t see any movement our way yet. But there seem to be a lot of aircraft transiting from south to north along the coast.”
His fatigued brain gnawed at this. “Keep an eye on it. Is Captain Fang there? Anything on the fighting ashore?”
“He’s here. Stand by, I’ll put him on.”
Fang said the fighting on the beach was fierce. The ROC had sent in tanks against the perimeter. The mainlanders had heavy air cover, and were proving more adept at close air support of the beachhead than anyone had anticipated. They were also landing airborne troops at the airfield. He finished, “What is your intent, Dan? Are you going to reattack?”
A tickle in his throat; he cleared it. “Uh, not possible, Chip. We’re down to the bottom of the shot locker on ordnance. The Japanese have pulled out. I’m standing by for orders, whether to hold on till the battle group gets here, or what.”
“Roosevelt is due soon, correct?”
“That was the plan. They should arrive tomorrow.”
“Their fighters will help us regain air superiority. Push the invaders back into the sea.”
The tickle grew. He cleared his throat again, then started to cough. Uncontrollably, curling in his bunk like a deep-fried shrimp. White flares shot through his brain. “Crap,” he whispered, unable to draw a full breath. His fucking trachea was closing up. Where had he put the fucking inhaler?