Edge of Valor (55 page)

Boland didn't look to Ingram like a man to run from a fight. “Yeah, I think we should—”

Peoples walked up, checking his watch. “We gotta skedaddle.”

Ingram said, “I agree; let's go.”

Peoples cupped his hands to his mouth. “Everybody aboard!”

“I can take a hint,” said Boland. He turned and howled something to his men. They must have understood because they all gathered their packs and equipment and began boarding.

Ingram was halfway up the ladder when another C-54 whipped over the threshold and flared for a landing. “That's them,” shouted Peoples. “Mr. Lassiter, wind 'em up, if you please.” He twirled a finger over his head.

Lassiter poked his head out the cockpit window. “Yes, sir.” He shouted, “Clear four!” The outboard starboard propeller began turning and caught, the engine belching blue smoke. Soon the other three were going as well.

Ingram stepped into the cockpit and found Hammer and Berne at their usual stations. “Well, hello. You guys don't give up, do you?”

Berne snorted. “Flight pay is flight pay.”

Hammer said, “Good to see you, Commander.” He waved a hand. “Here's your hot seat. We wired it this time in case you give us trouble.”

Ingram said, “Think I'll sit back aft. There's more room this time.”

“Don't tell me we scared you,” said Berne.

They all laughed.

Peoples climbed into the left seat and strapped in. “Cain't believe it. We're all buttoned up. Mr. Blinde is aboard and out of breath. Hey, you not stayin' up here?”

“Going aft to spread out.”

Peoples drawled, “Peace and quiet for a change.”

Ingram smiled. “See you later.” He walked out.

Peoples popped the brakes, and the C-54 worked its way down the taxi strip. Then they stopped to test magnetos.

Ingram walked into the main cabin. Blinde was two rows back, stretched across two seats. The Marines and their gear were scattered throughout the rest of the cabin.

Blind's eyes were closed and his mouth drooped open.

Ingram walked up. “Hello, Colin. Glad you could make it.”

Blinde's eyes snapped open. He blinked for a moment then focused on Ingram. “You!”

“Hell yes, it's me.” Ingram held out a hand. Blinde's hand felt like a damp sponge.

“You okay, Colin?” Ingram asked. “How was your flight?”

Blinde turned a shade between pale white and green. An odor of sweat and exhaustion, and even fear mixed with his Aqua Velva. He turned away and looked out the window as the cockpit crew ran up the engines, making conversation difficult. As the plane taxied onto the active runway Blinde said, “The flight was awful. We lost an engine an hour out. The pilots were worried about fuel. It wasn't fun.”

What the hell is going on?
Ingram sat opposite and strapped in.

Peoples didn't lose time. Engines roaring, the C-54 lunged into its takeoff run. Heavy with fuel and people and equipment, it took a while for the plane to build up speed.

Blinde's mouth moved.

“What?” yelled Ingram over the bellowing engines.

Blinde shouted, “You . . . feel . . . all right?”

Chapter Forty-Four

2 December 1945

ONI Headquarters, Long Beach Naval Station, Long Beach, California

C
dr. Oliver Toliver III rubbed his eyes and looked out the window. Darkness had fallen long ago, and he no longer heard the frantic rush of workers on the street below and out in the shipyard. They'd already knocked off the graveyard shift. Things were slowing down on the home front. This was the first peacetime Christmas since 1940, and people naturally wanted to enjoy it to the hilt with bright lights and everything lit up and good cheer freely flowing.

But he wasn't in the mood for it. The report in his hand was vague and filled with pathological gobbledygook. He'd spent much of the evening looking up multisyllable medical terms. He sighed and laid down the postmortem on Walt Hodges. Toliver was as confused now as four days ago when Commander Hodges died. The Fort MacArthur coroner's report was late. And it was inconclusive. He stood, yawned, and stretched. A glance at the Chelsea clock told him it was 6:42 p.m. He clicked off his desk lamp and reached for his coat and hat. The phone rang. He picked it up. “Toliver.”

“Commander Toliver. It's Doctor Chandler at Fort MacArthur.”

Toliver sat back down and leaned back, his chair squeaking as he put his feet up. “You're working late, Doctor.”

“As are you. Glad I caught you.”

“I was on my way out. Just finished reading your postmortem on Walt Hodges. I have to tell you that was a real test of my college degree. I could only understand every fifth word.”

Chandler laughed. “Well, that report was purposely ambiguous because we really didn't have anything to say.”

“Okay. I feel better.”

“Now we do have something to say.”

Toliver sat up. His feet thumped the floor.

“We're lucky one of our doctors worked at Camp Detrick—the base in Maryland where they study biological warfare. He experimented with some really strange stuff there. They sent him out here because we were so understaffed with all the wounded coming back. Anyway, he got curious when he heard about the Hodges case and ordered special tests.”

“Okay.”

“We examined the body further and found something very interesting.”

“What, Doctor?”

“A tiny iridium-platinum pellet about the size of the head of a pin. It had been injected into Commander Hodges' upper left arm.”

“What did the pellet do?”

“Essentially nothing. It's what was inside that did the trick.”

Toliver drew out a pad and began scribbling. “Go on.”

“It's ricin. A deadly poison made out of castor beans.”

“Ricin?”

“That's right. Ricin. There was a wax plug in the pellet. The wax dissolved when it rose to body temperature, then the ricin flowed out and entered Commander Hodges' body. It doesn't take much of it.”

“Poison. Son of a bitch.”

“Exactly. Somebody injected the pellet into Commander Hodges' left arm seventy-two to ninety-six hours before he died. Essentially, it made his body shut down. There's no real antidote once the poison gets into the system. We're just learning about it, so once again, I'm afraid I must be vague.”

“Ricin.” Toliver spelled it out.

“That's right. Commander Hodges was cruelly murdered. It's not a pleasant way to go.”

Alarm bells went off in Toliver's head and he shot back to his feet. “How was it injected?”

“Something fairly powerful, spring loaded or air pistol possibly; probably through his clothes unless someone caught him without a shirt. We don't know. Camp Detrick has no real delivery system for it. Other countries do, however.”

“Which ones? Do you know?”

Chandler stammered. “Well . . .”

“Doctor, please.”

“The Nazis for sure. Maybe the Japs, but we're not certain. And—” he paused.

“Come on.”

“The Soviet Union has been doing a lot of biomedical research with anthrax and ricin. Soviet scientists have published several papers on it.”

“Okay, Doc, anything else?”

“That's it for now. I'll write it up and send it over.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Toliver hung up and dashed across the room to a clipboard he had scanned that morning—the daily summary of men held in the brig and the charges against them. He ran his finger down a column. Yes, there it was: Karol Dudek, a Polish sailor, had been apprehended by the shore patrol three days ago. They'd come across him as they did their rounds in the Greyhound bus terminal in downtown Long Beach. He looked out of place, and the two SPs became suspicious. They asked for his papers. All he had was a City of Long Beach library card and a USO canteen card. The man didn't speak good English, and they became more suspicious and ordered him to stand for a body search. Dudek pulled a knife and came after them. The man fought hard and almost got away, but a billy club decided the issue and the SPs brought him in.

On his person was the knife, a Whittnauer watch, $5,000 in cash, a life raft inflator, and a seabag with the usual clothing and toiletry items. He carried an out-of-date Polish passport, but the Polish consulate in Washington, D.C., had vouched for him and had turned the matter over to the Soviet embassy in Washington.

ONI had a suite of offices on the second floor. In the basement was one of the two Navy brigs on the Long Beach Naval Station. Toliver phoned the brig downstairs.

“Detention Facility Baker, Chief Derickson, sir.”

“Chief, this is Commander Toliver upstairs in ONI.”

“Oh, yeah, how are you Commander?” They'd met a few times in staff meetings.

“Good. Say, do you still have a prisoner by the name of Dudek?”

“Wait one, sir.” Papers rustled. Then, “Yes, sir, we do. Right now, they're suiting him up for transit to the Soviet embassy in D.C. Flight leaves in two hours out of Long Beach.”

“Belay that transfer, Chief. Under no circumstances let him out of your sight.”

“I . . . uh, . . .”

“What?”

“We have an order from the State Department. There's a Marine captain and sergeant waiting to take custody.”

“Belay the transfer. That's an order. I'll be right down.”

“Yes, sir.”

Toliver slammed down the phone. He grabbed his hat and coat and hobbled down the back stairs to the basement. The Marine captain and sergeant were seated in the anteroom. Both were in greens and wore web belts with .45 pistols in holsters. Both had two rows of campaign ribbons and looked very capable. With a polite nod, Toliver walked past them and into the station office.

Chief Derickson, a barrel-chested man with silver hair, shot to his feet when Toliver walked in. “Evening, Commander. Do you want to see the prisoner?”

“Yes. Now, please.”

“Very good, Commander.” Chief Derickson picked up the phone and made the call. He ended with, “And make sure you have two guys on him, big guys . . . Torres and Vestal? They're good. Send 'em up.” He hung up and turned to Toliver. “All set, Commander.”

“Okay. In the meantime I want to see his belongings.”

“Yes, sir.” Derickson opened a drawer in his desk, pulled out a paper bag, and emptied it. “Can you imagine, a guy sitting in the Greyhound bus terminal with five grand? And look at this. A Whittnauer watch.” He held it up. “I wonder who he rolled.” The chief separated the rest of the sack's contents. “Here's his knife, a beauty.” He picked it up and pushed the action. The blade jumped out with a resounding click.

Toliver pointed. “That. Is that the life raft inflator?”

“Yes, sir.” Derickson pushed it over. The inflator had a black barrel that was about six inches long and an inch and a half in diameter. “That's what he tells me it is, anyway. Have to admit I've never seen one like it.”

Toliver picked it up and unscrewed the main section. A carbon dioxide cartridge was secured against the inside wall. He turned it around but found no nozzle. “How does this inflate a life raft?”

“Damned if I know.”

Toliver screwed the barrel back in place. He heard a click. “What's this?”

“Sir?”

“There's a ridge at the other end—”

“Chief? Here he is.” Two shore patrolmen dressed in blues with web belts and .45s led in a small man in handcuffs. He wore dungarees and a blue chambray shirt, and a peacoat was jammed under his arm. His straw-colored hair was mussed. A fresh bandage was taped over his right forehead.

The man stumbled into the room, his eyes darting about.

“Has he had dinner?” asked Derickson.