The latter rolled several inches to the right atop the table, then to the left, repeating the pendular motion with each progressively more powerful surge of the ship. But for the lipped edges of the conference table, it would've hit the deck a while ago.
Had the Griffith changed course, then?
The speaker hanging from a corner of the overhead sparked to life. The piercing trill from a boatswain's pipe filled the compartment, followed by a disembodied voice briefing the crew on what appeared to be the imminent underway refueling Chief Yrle had mentioned upon Regan's arrival. The announcement ended with an admonishment that the smoking lamp was out throughout the ship.
Regan could only hope they relit that lamp soon. She might not be yearning for nicotine, but the resulting course change was playing havoc with her newfound equilibrium. At least her stomach was holding fast. That was something.
Given the bloodied and shattered features of her pending photographic subject—and who appeared to be responsible—it was everything.
To her horror, her right hand visibly shook for the first time in almost two days as she raised the camera to snap her opening shot of the body.
So much for her brag to Gil. And damn him for getting it right. Because there was no escaping the obvious. That tremor might be in her hand…but it was also in her head.
And it was back.
Fortunately, Riyad was behind her.
Regan waited for the tremor to pass, then raised the camera again. This time she managed to hold the camera steady and photograph the body. Intent on completing the task before her hand started shaking again, she adjusted the lens for a close-up, only to shift her attention as the door to the compartment opened behind her.
The ship's doc entered.
"Ready for the bag?"
"Not yet. But we are ready for you."
The doc nodded. Unlike Riyad, Lieutenant Mantia had been through the death drill at least once before, because he set the plastic body bag on the deck just inside the space. He also had his own booties and latex gloves in hand and paused to don both sets before he bent to retrieve the thermometer and several paper evidence bags from her kit. Regan snapped a succession of close-ups of the body as she waited for Mantia to reach her side. Riyad wisely remained at the table.
"Finished?"
She nodded. "Go for it, Doc."
They hunkered down together. Regan opened the largest of the evidence bags and waited as Mantia eased the O2 mask, balloon and tubing from Hachemi's face. She bagged the medical gear and labeled it as the doc inserted the thermometer into Hachemi's liver, waited for, then recorded the results.
"Done."
Fortunately, her hand remained steady. Regan quickly photographed the translator's battered face without the obscuring O2 mask—and bit down on her shock. If Corporal Vetter was correct and John had landed just one blow, it had been a doozy. Unfortunately, it had also been more than enough to kill him. Even she—sans four-year college and follow-on medical degree—knew that.
She tamped down on her dwindling hope. There was always a chance she was wrong. "Well, Doc?"
"It's as bad as it looks." He drew his gloved fingers alongside what was left of Hachemi's features. "The nose has been shattered. As have several teeth. I'm also fairly certain—" Mantia slipped his fingers lower and gently manipulated the coarsely bearded lower jaw. "You hear that crunch?"
"Yes."
"The chin feels as though it's been fractured too—right here, and clean through."
She resisted the urge to close her eyes and pray. "Recently?"
"Yes. However—" Mantia drew her attention to the three middle fingers of the translator's right hand. They were splinted. "These fractures are older by a good—"
"Two weeks."
Mantia nodded. "You have good instincts, Agent Chase."
Not instinct, memory. She'd been nearby when those three fingers had been broken, too. Again, by John.
At the time she'd been handcuffed to a sink in a darkened bathroom while John and half a dozen Special Forces soldiers and her two fellow CID agents had been fighting off the effects of the anesthetic gas that Hachemi had used to knock them out. John had recovered first. He'd methodically snapped those now-splinted digits one by one as Hachemi had refused to offer up her whereabouts and other intel.
Given that her mentor Art Valens had never regained consciousness, Hachemi had been lucky that she hadn't been the one asking questions.
Though if she had, they wouldn't be here now—with John's career, freedom and quite possibly his very life on the line.
"Cause of death?" Riyad.
Regan bit down on her tongue as the doc stiffened. Surprise furrowed Mantia's brow as he twisted around to focus on the spook leaning against the edge of the conference table. It appeared she should've added ill-timed queries to his "don'ts" list.
Riyad shrugged. "I won't hold you to it. I'm just looking for a best guess, given the injuries in front of you."
"Injuries can be misleading, Agent Riyad."
Mantia might have voiced the rebuke, but she was in complete agreement.
Riyad was not. The murky frost had returned, and this time it was blowing toward the doc.
Regan mirrored Mantia's movements as he came to his feet. There was no need. Not only did the doc have no need of backup, he'd definitely been through this drill before—complete with interfering, impatient rubberneckers—because he held firm.
"We'll wait, Agent Riyad. I received word that, in an effort to keep a lid on the situation as long possible, the Pentagon has decided against shipping the body to Bahrain. We'll be flying it to one of our aircraft carriers. A pathologist from Detrick has been rerouted to the carrier to conduct the postmortem. You may have your answer by tonight, possibly
