Chapter 12

North Pacific Ocean, 18:10 hours—second dogwatch, naval vessel DDG59

Guided-missile destroyer U.S.S. Nalon Vet had been pounding heavy rollers for the past two hours with Captain Egan Fletcher on her bridge for most of the day. The wind maintained a steady fifty-six knots—about ten knots below the classification hurricane force at seventy-five miles per hour.

Captain Fletcher’s concern for his crew and ship went with the territory. If the blow kept up, it would mean a long and sleepless night for him. “Right fifteen degrees rudder,” he patiently ordered. “Steady on course zero-seven-zero.”

“Right fifteen degrees, aye,” the quartermaster replied. “Steer zero-seven-zero, sir.”

Fletcher stared through the spray-spattered glass of Nalon Vet’s bridge window into the closing darkness. He could see the ship’s bow disappear each time the destroyer knifed through another wave, up one side and down the other.

Quartermaster Striplin was Captain Fletcher’s favorite helmsman, perhaps because he enjoyed Jeffrey’s upbeat, boisterous personality or because Striplin reminded him of his own son, Kristian. It made no difference because Fletcher always looked forward to his watch with him. “Jeffrey, do you think we could sneak in a ‘gar before they douse the smoking lamp?”

“I think so, sir.”

Egan Fletcher reached into his shirt pocket, producing a small box of cigarette-sized cigars. After offering one to the others on the bridge, he handed one to Striplin. “Here, son. I have a light.”

“Thank you, sir.” Striplin placed the small cigar in his mouth. Fletcher lit it for him. His cheeks drew the cigar to life.

Fletcher lit his own cigar, then ordered, “Ease your rudder to five degrees.”

“Ease to five, aye.”

“Nothing to the right of zero-seven-zero, sailor.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Nothing to the right of zero-seven-zero.”

“Mark your head, Mister,” Fletcher said.

“Zero-seven-zero, sir. Steady as you go. Course zero-seven-zero.”

“Keep her so, helmsman.” Fletcher took a drag on the cigar. “This damn weather. I’d like to have a calm sea for our last night out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What plans do you have for your leave, Mr. Striplin?”

“After being at sea for a month, I plan on getting reacquainted with my family. My wife is the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“You’ve been married for seven years, and you still feel that way about her,” Fletcher said. “I admire you, son.”

“How about you, sir?”

“I’ll take my son to Hawaii for a sun break.” Fletcher continued to stare out into the black and stormy Pacific Ocean night. The orange tip of his cigar reflected in the dark glass of the Vet’s bridge, a burning eye glowing in the dampened night. Fletcher’s thoughts were somewhere on a Hawaiian beach.

The U.S.S. Nalon Vet had been on sea trials for twenty-eight days. The modified Burke-class guided-missile destroyer had initially been designed as a predecessor to the Zumwalt stealth ships. She had been refitted in the Todd Shipyards in Seattle to modernize her Integrated Power System. The Navy had added some experimental radar jamming electronics and new radar-reflecting, stealth hull paint. The ship’s black hull was more reminiscent of a submarine than the standard gray of other surface vessels.

It was not up to Captain Fletcher to wonder what plans the Navy had in store for the Vet, as she was affectionately called. His concern was for a safe test with no life or property loss. He did know some of his crew consisted of MIT brainiacs, now gainfully employed by the National Security Agency. The NSA was charged with snooping into everyone else’s government affairs worldwide. The agency was affectionately known in the intelligence world as “No Such Agency.”

Like the Air Force stealth bombers, should Nalon Vet’s electronics and radar reflecting paint testing prove a success, the Vet would be invisible to any radar.

How fitting, Fletcher thought. The proverbial ghost ship. For centuries, mariners had told the tale of a mysterious vessel that appeared from nowhere, only to disappear as mysteriously as it had first appeared. He likened himself to a ghost ship’s captain, his crew salted with spooks from “No Such Agency.”

****

20:00 hours

“Good evening, Captain,” Lieutenant Commander Caldwell said. “Commander Martin sends his respects and reports the hour of eight o’clock. I have our position report and equipment status report. Request permission to strike eight bells on time, sir.”

“Permission granted, X-O,” Fletcher said. “Why don’t we see if Cookie left us something to eat in the galley? You can brief me there.”

“Aye, Skipper,” Caldwell responded.

“The OOD is Commander Walker,” Fletcher announced to those on the bridge. “Heading zero-seven-zero, Mr. Walker.”

“Zero-seven-zero, Captain,” Walker confirmed.

“Have a good night, Mr. Striplin,” Fletcher said.

“Aye, Skipper,” Striplin said, accompanied by a slight two-finger gesture that was half salute, half-wave.

Throughout the night, Nalon Vet’s electric engines propelled the destroyer through the foam-tossed sea. Fletcher awoke at 03:15. The ship had stopped bucking, indicating the storm had passed. He picked up the phone near his bunk and rang the bridge.

“Bridge, Commander Martin on, sir.”

“Good morning, Mr. Martin. I trust you are well.”

“Exceptionally well this morning, sir. We’re making good time, now the wind has died.”

“Will we make the Washington State coast by twelve hundred hours, Mr. Martin?”

“Affirmative, Captain. We’re on schedule.”

“Thank you, Commander. Have a pleasant morning.” Fletcher replaced the phone and returned to his nap.

“Six hundred hours reveille. Up all idlers,” were the next words Captain Fletcher heard.

“Six hundred hours. Weather, partly cloudy,” the voice blared over the ship’s speaker system. “Wind fifteen knots. Sea is calm.”

He enjoyed every aspect of his job. It was traditional for Captain Fletcher to eat the last breakfast of the cruise with the enlisted men. He loved to interact with his crew. Fletcher showered, dressed, and went to the galley. As he entered, someone called the room to attention and a chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” began. He felt the honor of having his crew’s admiration, definitely one of his job’s non-monetary rewards.

After making a brief speech about pride and patriotism, Fletcher wished the crew well. He told them he hoped he would have the honor of serving with them again. It was an emotional moment for him. It always was and always would be.

Following breakfast, Fletcher stepped out of the galley and into the salt-laced morning air. He thought the dawn magnificent. He paused to watch the early sunlight as it sparkled in the foam created by the ship’s wake. Sea birds whirled and dove off the fantail as if to salute the ship’s arrival into Washington State coastal waters. Satisfied all was in order on the bridge, Captain Fletcher went to his quarters to prepare for the Nalon Vet’s arrival at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard.

He later returned to the bridge for the noon reports. “The quartermaster sends his regards to the Captain. He reports twelve o’clock,” the OOD said. “Chronometers wound and compared, request permission to strike eight bells, sir.”

Fletcher caught his first glimpse of the Washington coastline through an early afternoon mist. “Cape Flattery light to starboard, Captain,” the navigator report.

“Noted,” he confirmed. “Thank you.”

No matter how many times he had gone to sea, to Captain Fletcher, the sweetest sight of all was the first sight of land. Especially when it was his home state. He realized how much he was looking forward to seeing his son, Kristian.

The wide channel separating Washington State from British Columbia, the Strait of Juan De Fuca, was active with vessels of all shapes and sizes—tankers and cargo ships, fishing vessels, pleasure craft, and military ships—U.S. and Canadian. It had been a long time since a Navy vessel had severed a fishing skiff. It would not happen during his command either. Fletcher spent the balance of the day preparing for port arrival while the Vet slowly traversed Puget Sound.

****

Fay arrived at her office that morning feeling apprehensive. The scale of this investigation was changing too fast. She had an increasing feeling much more was involved in this whole thing than she had first assumed. Pearce’s words kept replaying in her mind.

Fay placed calls to Frank Farmer and Ford Clay. She was particularly interested in getting any feedback Frank had on Howard Carney. She learned Farmer’s men had watched Carney for four days but had observed nothing suspicious. She concluded the private investigator Ford Clay had hired to tail Carney must have alerted him.

****

The phone rang in Vern Towsley’s office. “Vern,” Admiral May said, “I would like you to meet Nalon Vet when she makes port. It looks like we’re going to need the services of Hurricane Fletcher. And I understand Lawrence contacted Faydra.”

“Mission accomplished,” Towsley confirmed.

****

It was 13:30 hours when Fay returned from her lunch.

“Ma’am, Captain Towsley left a message for y’all,” Pearce said as Fay entered the office. “He requests your presence dockside this evening for the arrival of the Nalon Vet.”

“What time?”

“Twenty-one hundred hours, ma’am.”

“Do you have any plans?” Fay asked.

“Sweet! I suspect I’m dockside at twenty-one hundred hours.”

Fay laughed. “Tell Towsley we will join him.”

****

The Vet loomed so quickly out of the darkness, its sudden appearance took Fay by surprise. It took forty-five more minutes for the Vet to moor and disembark her crew. The docking area was filled with laughter and shrieks of joy as individual crewmembers were reunited with their families and friends.

She spotted Captain Fletcher descending the gangplank. He was about forty yards away from her when she noticed a young man run up to greet him. They embraced one another and chatted excitedly for a moment. Fletcher then pointed toward his personal effects, piled neatly on the dock, and then toward Fay. The young man nodded and walked toward the luggage. Fletcher turned and walked toward her. As he approached, Fay recalled their first meeting. It had been at Admiral Wallace’s Christmas party almost one year earlier. He was as she remembered: rugged, handsome, and confident.

The Captain had a stocky build and was approximately her height, although neither fat nor overweight. On the contrary, he had the appearance of a pro football linebacker. She thought back to the party. When she had learned Fletcher was single, she had attempted to flirt with him several times. He had seemed aloof but not rude, as if he simply had not noticed her. She had decided he probably had a woman in his life.

She had made it a point to find out the origin of his nickname, “Hurricane.” Several versions of the story had been offered to her at the party. One version told of Captain Fletcher saving three Marines’ lives during a street brawl in a Persian Gulf port city. It was said a band of Arabs had descended upon three unsuspecting Marines. The Marines, badly outmatched and in need of help, had been rescued when Fletcher drew his sidearm. The body count had been nine dead Arabs, shot by Fletcher, with three more dispatched by his bare hands when his weapon had run out of ammunition.

Fletcher himself had told her the story grew in proportion with each telling. He had claimed the story’s true count included one Marine with a broken leg, three middle-aged and overweight Arabs, high on hashish, and an inebriated Fletcher. The legend had grown out of the embellishment of the story. The “Hurricane” nickname had resulted from the fury he had supposedly unleashed on the multitudes of Arabs lain waste in the path of “Hurricane” Fletcher. He seemed to her to be a modest man. And after hearing his telling of the story, Fay had not known which version to believe. Well, here he is again. Hurricane Fletcher.

The trio saluted as Fletcher approached them. The salutes were crisply returned. “Lieutenant Commander Green,” he said with a smile, extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.” He turned toward Vern Towsley. “Vern, good to see you again.” Next, he turned to acknowledge Pearce, whom he had not met before, by bringing his right hand to the bill of his cap and nodding with a smile. “Evening, ma’am.”

Fay extended her hand. “The pleasure is mine, Captain Fletcher,” she said. “I am flattered the gentleman remembered me.”

“How could I forget the most elegant officer in attendance at the Admiral’s Christmas party?” Fletcher was sincere and smooth.

Pearce sighed.

Fay turned toward her protégée. “This is my Legalman, Petty Officer J. Pearce,” she said proudly. “Meet Captain Egan Fletcher.”

“I’m honored to meet you, Miss Pearce,” he said as he shook her hand. “I’m sorry to hold you up, Lieutenant Commander.” He pointed toward the young man. “That’s my son, Kristian. He came to meet me and to help me with my gear.”

Vern Towsley asked Fletcher if he would meet with him the following day.

Captain Fletcher told Vern he had a debriefing scheduled the entire day with Admiral Wallace and some government people. Still, after that was wrapped up, he would meet him the following day. “Your office, nine hundred hours, your coffee? Vern. Miss Pearce.” Fletcher smiled and nodded again in Fay’s direction. “Miss Green.” He shook her hand more slowly, thoughtfully this time. “Have an enjoyable evening.”

Fay watched as Fletcher returned to the waiting young man. He placed his arm around the young man’s shoulder as they walked away.

“What a hunk,” Fay whispered to Pearce.