The USS New York’s Commanding Officer looked at Gwyn as if she had two heads. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re a psychic and you can help us free the hostages? Would that be by intuition, Lieutenant Pritchard, or do you strip down to reveal a superhero costume?” He didn’t wait for a response. “This is what was so important you got us out of bed?”
Thank God Adam had accompanied her to Captain Littleton’s at-sea cabin. Especially with the muscle-bound Colonel McLachlan standing behind the seated CO, arms crossed, eyes boring into Adam with a what the fuck look on his face. Thank goodness Helen, Frank, and the other two firefighters flanked her as she sat across from the CO at his desk.
He continued. “In case you didn’t know, my crew and the Landing Team are up to our asses in alligators in a bona fide international crisis and we do not have time for this…” He wiggled his fingers at her.
“Rubbish, sir?” Gwyn suggested.
“Yes, a perfect word for it.”
“Perhaps you could assign someone to Google Cecily Pritchard. That’s my mum in Wales. She’s been solving cases for over twenty-five years. And this gift runs in families, sir. Especially through the women.”
Adam jumped in. “Sirs, if you’ll pardon the interruption, I think you need to hear the Lieutenant out.” He flashed the Colonel a be-patient-and-trust-me-on-this-one look.
Colonel Mac rolled his eyes and shook his head, obviously disappointed in Adam. “And just how in the hell did you get mixed up in this, Gunny?”
Gwyn answered for him. “I know Gunny Connor from working on the well deck together and from the fitness center. I’ve watched him counsel numerous Marines and I felt I needed to share what I know with a Marine. He listened and apparently does not think I’m crazy. He’s the one who encouraged me to talk with you. Feel free to test me, sir.”
The CO leveled her with his eyes. “How many terrorists are we dealing with?” he asked, looking a bit disgusted.
She shut her eyes and listened to Helen whispering in her ear. Gwyn opened her eyes and announced, “Nineteen, sir. Eighteen men and one female. She’s there because she’s fluent in English.”
Without taking his eyes off Gwyn, he asked the Marine CO, “Colonel, how many terrorists are we dealing with?”
“Nineteen we know of, sir. Eighteen males and one female interpreter.” Was there suddenly a bit of respect in the Colonel’s dark brown eyes? No, more like suspicion. “Are all the hostages together in one location, Lieutenant Pritchard?” Colonel Mac asked.
“I’ll need paper for this one, sir.” The CO handed her a pad and pencil. Again she closed her eyes and waited for Bud to tell a praying Frank, who passed it on to Helen, who spouted numbers at her. Gwyn opened her eyes and drew a map of the consulate with Xs and Os where the various hostages were held, along with the locations of the guards. She tore off the sheet and handed it to the Captain, whose mouth dropped open.
The CO’s eyes flickered to the Marine Colonel’s. Volumes appeared to be spoken between them. The Colonel crossed his muscular arms across his chest, rubbing his biceps as he scrutinized Gwyn. He nodded toward the map. “Where did you get this information, Lieutenant?”
She tapped her head.
He squinted at her, then walked around her chair, never taking his eyes off her. “How do I know the number of people in each room is correct?”
“How do you know it’s not, sir? Surely you can check it against your heat-seeking drone intelligence.”
Now it was Captain Littleton’s turn. “The hostages were captured thirty-six hours ago. What took you so long to come to us?”
“Sir, if you saw things happening in another dimension, would you share the information? I was certain you’d think I was bonkers. Besides, the closer we sailed to Tangiers, the clearer my images became. Psychic powers often work that way.” Gywn had no idea if it was true, but it sounded good.
“So why did you come forward now? Surely you know psychic abilities don’t meet our combat policy.”
She leaned across the desk and spoke in a low voice. “Because there are forty American and British lives to save, sir—plus the Marines in our Landing Teams—and if we spend any more time fucking around with policy, they all may die.”
He nodded his head in agreement and almost broke into a smile.
“I will tell you everything I know as long as the source remains confidential. I have a reputation and a career to protect, Captain, and I do not want ‘Does not have both oars in the water’ showing up on my fitness report.”
“Agreed.”
“Thank you, sir.” Gwyn extended her hand to shake on the deal. He looked at it briefly, then extended his own. She then shook with the Colonel, who drew up a chair and invited Adam to do the same.
Gwyn inched her chair up to the Captain’s desk. She turned to the Marine CO. “Do you have a map of the area, Colonel Mac?” She was certain she heard Adam snicker when she called the Landing Team Commander by his nickname. “On the surface, gentlemen, the British consulate in Tangiers is a local office supporting the greater diplomatic mission out of the capital, Rabat. What you see is all high tea and fine antiques and la-di-dah diplomats and a few lost passports.” She engaged the senior officers’ eyes, before dropping her first little bomb. “But it’s a cover.” Recognition flashed in their eyes. They tamped it down, but she knew she’d hit the nail on the head.
Helen must have noticed it too, because she cried out, “Good show, Gwyn. I think they’re coming ’round.”
“Below the building is an Operations Center, called the Basement, that was used by the Office of Special Investigations, and eventually the CIA during the Cold War.” The senior officers looked stunned. She was certain they already knew this, but they were probably shocked she did as well. Hopefully it meant the information was correct.
“Toward the end of the last century, when things started heating up with al-Qaeda and their North African arm, Ansar al-Sharia, the Brits and the Americans re-opened the Basement. It is now a state-of-the-art complex used to monitor drone feeds of terrorists in not just Morocco, but also Mali, Tunisia, and Libya.”
Colonel Mac turned to Adam. “Gunny, maybe you need to step outside.”
“She’s told me this and more, sir. It’s why I encouraged her to come to you.”
“Okay, but nothing leaves this room.”
“You know it, sir.”
The Colonel pulled out a pen and a small notebook. “Continue, Lieutenant.”
If he was taking notes, then she must be spot-on. “The terrorists have been tipped off as to the importance of the building and the secret center below. They are planning to use it as part of a greater trap.” She registered surprise in the Colonel’s face, right before he shared a private look with the ship’s CO. “Getting their hands on MI-6 and CIA agents operating secretly in Tangiers—with the approval of the Moroccan king—represents a propaganda coup for Ansar-al-Sharia. They believe this takeover will do two things.”
Gwyn worked overtime to tune out Helen and Frank, who had meandered behind the CO and were looking over his shoulder at the map of Tangiers.
“One: it will embarrass the king, turn street level sentiment against him, and hopefully incite riots. And two: it will draw an immediate response from the Brits and Americans, which it already has. The New York is here and the Royal Navy’s Amphibious Task Group is due to arrive soon. The terrorists expect the Allies to fly in their Marines to raid the facility and try to minimize the fallout.”
Colonel Mac rubbed his hand over his short, cropped hair repeatedly while he looked at the map.
“However,” Gwyn paused to ensure she had everyone’s rapt attention before she delivered the next bit of news. “The terrorists will be waiting for us, with the intent of blowing the Americans and Brits out of the sky with four dozen ANZA MKII MANPADS.”
Colonel Mac’s eyes flew up to meet Gwyn’s, his hair forgotten.
“Where would they get Surface to Air Missiles?” Captain Littleton wondered out loud.
“The SAMs are most likely from Benghazi, sir,” Colonel Mac said. “Our guys were there accounting for weaponry left by the Khadafy regime. Trying to get it destroyed or moved out of country, just so something like this couldn’t happen. It’s possible it’s all here in Tangiers. With our Allied Marines’ names on them.”
Gwyn continued. “Not only would this take out our troops and litter Tangiers with burning aircraft, but it would turn a bad situation into a regime-changing embarrassment. They hope to de-throne the king while simultaneously sending a message to the Allies to get the hell out of Africa.”
The Colonel’s eyes darted to the CO, who returned the glance, concern etched deeply in his face. Except for Helen’s squeal of “Touché!” there was stunned silence.
Finally, the Landing Team Commander spoke in a low voice, his eyes drilling into Gwyn’s. “And you know all of this from…being psychic?”
“It’s all right here, Colonel.” Gwyn touched her temple. “A trap has been laid for our Marines—using forty American and British citizens as bait. And they plan to massacre the prisoners and escape while the city responds to the chaos.”
Colonel Mac exhaled deeply and paced in the tight space of the captain’s cabin. It was all Gwyn could do not to laugh out loud when he walked right through Helen, who could not get her old body out of his way in time. The CO swiveled in his chair, watching the Landing Team Commander walk back and forth, deep in thought. Then the Captain turned to Gwyn, set his forearms on his desk, and leveled her with his eyes. “Lieutenant Pritchard, how do we know you’re not working for Ansar al-Sharia and giving us bogus intelligence?”
Gwyn gasped. The thought had never occurred to her.
Adam flew out of his chair and slapped his palms down on the CO’s desk. “Sir, you’ve got to believe her! It all makes sense!”
Colonel Mac pivoted. “Back off, Gunny! You’re speaking to a Navy Captain. Now sit down and show some respect or I’ll throw your ass out of here.”
Adam blanched. He seemed surprised that he’d gotten in the CO’s face. Gwyn could see he was barely holding in his frustration by the pulse throbbing in his neck. He backed into his chair. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, his voice tight. I apologize for losing my temper. But I’ve heard all Lieutenant Pritchard has to say and much of it can be verified. I firmly believe our Marines—and the hostages—will be in grave danger if you don’t look into her predictions.” He glanced at Mac as if to say, I’ll apologize but I’m still right.
The Marine Colonel’s eyes burned into Adam’s. A strong message was passed between them, but Gwyn couldn’t decipher it. After all, she wasn’t psychic.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Pritchard,” the Captain said to her. “We’ll take all of this into consideration. I’d like to meet with Colonel McLachlan alone now and, as soon as the Royal Marines arrive, we’ll speak with their commander.” He looked at his watch. “They are expected within six hours. We’ll let you know if we need to talk with you further.”
Bully for Adam coming to her defense, but Gwyn carried her own ammunition. She tipped her head and smiled ever so slightly. “Does this mean you’re not interested in the secret tunnel leading to the underground Operations Center, sir?”
The Captain’s eyes went wide. Colonel Mac’s mouth dropped open. Otherwise they were frozen in place. Neither took a breath. Helen and Frank appeared to be watching a tennis match as their gazes shifted back and forth between the two senior officers.
“The one the spies snuck in and out of during the Cold War?” Gwyn added for effect.
The two officers glanced at one other. Then looked back at her, dumbstruck.
She allowed another hint of a smile to escape her lips before adding her coup de gras. “The tunnel the terrorists do not know exists?”
Colonel Mac’s jaw dropped further and the CO’s eyes went even wider.
“Jolly good show, Gwyn!” Helen cried. Uncle Frank actually grinned, and the other two firefighters high-fived each other over the Captain’s head.
Gwyn didn’t move a muscle. “If you’re interested, I have specifications for this passageway and I’d be glad to sketch out the entire Ops Center before I’m dismissed.”
Colonel Mac swallowed hard, then found his voice. “We would appreciate that, Lieutenant, wouldn’t we, sir?” he said turning again to the ship’s CO.
Gwyn damn well bet they’d appreciate it. She reached for the paper and pencil, all the while wondering if she was still being perceived as some kind of Gypsy sideshow. Frank had knelt by the Captain’s desk and appeared to be meditating on Bud’s incoming words. Whatever he passed on to Helen was then whispered into Gwyn’s ears. She pretended to meditate, with her fingertips to her forehead. Then, taking dictation from the elderly ghost, Gwyn sketched out the details of the underground center and the tunnel that led from the outside.
She could practically feel the heat of the senior officers’ stares as they zeroed in on her drawing. They were probably dying to walk around behind her so they wouldn’t have to decipher it upside down, but were too professional—or too stubborn—to do it. She sensed Adam’s solid support at her side, and noticed the Colonel continued to look over at him, trying to ascertain whether Gywn Pritchard was to be trusted or was several cards shy of a full deck.
When she finished drawing, she slid the diagram toward Colonel Mac and the CO. “There you are, sirs.” Gwyn pointed to a spot on the map. “Here is the entrance. It’s in the basement of the al-Yamama Carpet Shop just outside of the consular property. There is a false wall covering the opening.” Gwyn indicated the other end of the tunnel. “And here is the entrance to the Basement. It’s concealed behind some kind of electrical access panel and leads into a large room that is chock-a-block with old furniture and file cabinets.”
Colonel Mac picked up the map and tucked it into his clipboard. “Thank you, Lieutenant. We’ll have someone look into this.”
“Will that be all, Colonel?” she asked.
“For now. We’ll let you know if we have any questions. Thank you for your time.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Gwyn and Adam turned to leave, but she looked back when Captain Littleton started laughing. “See, Mac? Didn’t I tell you there was something special about this ship?”
Gwyn glanced at the four dancing ghosts, slapping each other’s palms and silently whooping it up. “You can say that again,” Gwyn mumbled under her breath. “You can certainly say that again.”
* * *
It happened the instant Adam and Gwyn left them in the Captain’s cabin. Like a watercolor painting, the ash and the years dripped away from the three firefighters’ faces. Helen watched open-mouthed as their heavy, fireproof FDNY jackets dissolved and were replaced by Viet Nam-era green fatigues with USMC on the breast pocket. The gray at their temples, along with the ashy residue had been replaced by dark, glossy, brown hair. She was stunned at how much Frank resembled his young, handsome nephews.
Colonel Mac broke the silence. “Sir, I can’t tell if the Brit officer is psychic or psycho. What do you think?”
“Hell if I know, Mac.” The Captain smiled and opened his palms in submission. “Seriously, I told you weird stuff happens aboard this ship. The last CO told me that in confidence right before the change of command. Everyone stationed here knows it. Anyway, I’d say our Lieutenant Pritchard situation is a trust-but-verify scenario. It’ll be easy enough to have our assets in Tangiers take a peek because, damn it all, if the tunnel is there, it changes the whole ball game.”
Helen laughed at them. Here Gwyn had given them valuable information on a silver platter and they were still second guessing her. All they had to do was find the tunnel to know she’d told them the truth. Bud obviously knew secret things about the consulate—and who knew what else. She was still having difficulty processing that he’d been a spy, but there would be plenty of time to question him when she got her hands on him. And didn’t that bring a smile to her face—the thought of getting her hands on him once again?
She let the officers continue their debrief as she sashayed around the Marine firefighters. They were young and handsome and all comparing their youthful skin and hair. Gracious, it must feel good to rid themselves of those heavy jackets and all that ash.
And then, they were pointing at her. And she realized she had sashayed around them. The stiffness in her hips was gone. How she wished she could see herself in mirrors or windows or toasters for that matter. Unfortunately, spirits could not. She felt her face. The skin was soft and tight. She touched her hair and found it covered with some kind of hat. Removing it, she held her WRN combination cap from 1943.
Captain Littleton rose from his desk and stretched. “So what do we tell the Brits, Mac?”
Mac gave a half laugh. “At least she’s one of theirs. We’ll label it Top Secret Strap Two. That way we don’t need to identify our source. The Brits call it ‘In Channels.’ Whatever you wanna call it, are we on the same page?”
“Agreed,” Captain Littleton said as he ushered Colonel Mac out of his cabin.
“Well, at least they’re going to check it out,” said Helen, reaching up to touch her hair.
“They better,” said Frank, obviously mesmerized by how much weight he’d lost since the transformation. “Bud was adamant about the tunnel. It could be the difference between success and failure.”
“Frank,” Helen said. “What color is my hair?”
“Red,” he replied. “And it’s long and tied up on your head. Look at us. We’re all young again.” Joy lit the three firefighters’ faces as they continued to examine themselves.
Helen pulled a strand of hair down and was astounded to see the thick, vibrant red hair of her youth had replaced the short, wispy, white hair of old age. Where her warm-up suit and trainers had been, she was now sheathed in a fitted Navy blue jacket and skirt with one and a half gold stripes around her cuffs.
“Why do you think we look like our younger selves?” Dominic asked.
Frank replied, “Maybe you get to be young again once you go to heaven—or are eligible to go to heaven. I mean, we’re still here.”
“I agree,” Helen added. “I think if you morph back into your youthful self, it means you’ve accomplished what you needed to do on earth and are free to move on to the next world.”
“So you think we stayed behind to get Gwyn to give up the Intel?” Dominic asked.
“I believe so,” Helen said, still checking out her clothing. “I mean, we got her to share the information and voila, we’re our young selves again.” She tipped her black oxford-clad foot and grinned when she saw the seam of her stocking running up the back of her leg. “Aha, we must have reached heaven. Lord knows there was no silk for stockings during the war. It all went for parachutes.”
“I never knew heaven would look like the CO’s cabin on an amphibious assault ship,” Angelo said. “I spent a tour on an amphib before and I thought it was hell.”
They all laughed at that until Helen turned serious. “Frank, do you think this means we’re free to go?”
“I don’t know about you, Helen, but I’m not going anywhere until the hostages are safe. You don’t think I’d leave these Marines to fend for themselves, do you? And the embassy workers and Royal Marines, too?” Angelo and Dominic muttered their agreement.
“No, Frank, not to leave and pass to the other side. But to leave the ship. To go to the consulate.”
All three firefighters-turned-Marines looked at one another. Could it be? After all this time, were they free to leave the USS New York?
“There’s only one way to find out,” Frank said. “If I can travel with the troops and help out first hand, I’m sure going to try. I’m heading down to the well deck to see if I can hitch a ride with Colonel Mac on an LCAC. If I can disembark with the Marines, I’ll find Bud and see what I can do to help.”
“Frank, you could help me with something first. I’m feeling a bit betrayed that I never knew my husband was a spy. I mean, I know he did secret missions he couldn’t talk about as a Marine, but…”
“If his own wife didn’t know, it means he performed his job exceptionally well.”
“I suppose, but blimey, you live with a man for over forty years, you think you’d know everything about him.”
“Helen, did he ever give you cause to mistrust him?”
“No, never.”
“Then leave it be, Helen. The man kept the secrets he was sworn to keep and he took them to his grave. From what you’ve told us and what we now know, he sounds like an honorable man.”
“He was. Thank you, Frank.” Suddenly the thought of seeing her husband overwhelmed her and she broke into an uncontrollable smile. She fluffed her hair. “Do I look alright?”
Frank grinned—a rarity for the Marine-turned-firefighter-turned-Marine. “You look beautiful.” He offered his arm to her. “Let’s go. I got a mission to accomplish.”
“We’re going with you, Frank,” said Dominic. “We’re Marines. We stick together.”
“Semper Fi,” they all cried as they slapped palms.
Helen Monroe had become a twenty-four year-old sub-lieutenant in the Women’s Royal Naval Service. She felt lithe and beautiful and was likely going to be reunited with her husband very soon. She smiled and stood proudly with the three virile American Marines in green. All were young and strong once again.
And all were ready for battle.
* * *
Nick shaved, dressed, and grabbed a snack in the wardroom before reporting to the engine room at 0400. Simon was monitoring the Operations Control Panel. “Why don’t you go grab some sleep, Simon? I’ll call you if there’s a problem.” Nick glanced around the spaces. “Looks like Trudy’s still not feeling well. Guess the rough seas got to her or she ate something dodgy, as you would say. I told her we could handle things down here.”
Simon didn’t even look up from the screen. “Must have been seriously dodgy, mate. They shipped her home just after midnight.”
Nick’s heart leapt from his chest. “Home?”
“Yeah, some kind of medical emergency. Who knows? Maybe her appendix.”
“She’s gone?” Nick’s eyes flew around the expansive engine room as if she might pop up from behind one of the engine monitors. “When did she go? How did she go?”
“Doc put her on a flight to your Naval base at Rota, Spain. Better check with him.” Simon stretched and rubbed the back of his neck. “Think I’ll take you up on that offer and get some shut-eye. The leading chief and the warrant will be here if you need them.” He yawned. “Can’t be leaving a Yank in charge of one of the Queen’s finest.” He winked at Nick. “Damn Trudy for getting sick.”
Nick had to reign in his frustration. Talking to Doc wouldn’t do any good. He’d be forbidden to tell him anything, even if he knew Trudy’s plans. The Brits had already collected all cell phones since they were in a hot zone, and he doubted the server was up for email. Surely they were in a communications lockdown by now. Didn’t want sailors and Marines sending battle plans home to Manchester. Wouldn’t the BBC get a kick out of that?
Trudy left without saying good-bye? She couldn’t have left him a note? Or didn’t he matter? He shuddered when he realized his hands were utterly and totally tied. He couldn’t leave his workspace and even if he could, there was no way to communicate with her. If he could just talk to her or get to her, maybe he could make her change her mind. Nick felt completely empty inside. Hollow. Gutted. Hopeless.
And then he knew his only recourse. As soon as he could take a break, he’d head to the chapel, get on his knees, and pray like hell. He hadn’t done it since the days of Sister Regina, but unlike high school, this time he would mean it.