But why?
And what, if any, connection did the mystery victim's identity have to their remaining traitor?
Regan was still pondering both questions when the crew chief caught her gaze. He flashed a thumbs up before directing her attention to the section of chopper window visible between the pilot and copilot as the men began flipping a series of switches in the cockpit's overhead. There—the Griffith.
The crew chief hadn't been exaggerating. The amphibious dock landing ship was massive. Even so, the Griffith's flat-gray silhouette nearly blended in with the atmospheric haze and the increasingly angry waters of the Arabian Sea. The warship's jutting superstructure loomed impressively as they flew down the port side.
Her flight deck did not. Nor did that deck appear particularly stable as the helicopter swung a hundred eighty degrees around.
At least to this Army ground pounder.
Chopper pilots in general tended to impress the hell out of her. She'd seen them perform some amazing maneuvers at times, including an honest-to-God barrel roll. But to land a solid chunk of metal on the equally unforgiving deck of a ship violently riding the waves as the Griffith was currently doing?
Her stomach lurched at the thought. It lurched again as the flight deck disappeared beneath the belly of the bird.
Regan sucked in her breath as the Super Stallion's wheels rudely kissed those twenty thousand tons of Navy steel the crew chief had touted, releasing the air from her lungs only when she was certain the mechanical embrace had held. The pilot powered down the blades as several members of the Griffith's crew converged on the chopper to lash it to the deck. The side door slid open and the crew chief bailed out, motioning for Regan to follow. She removed her ear protection and life vest and left both on the canvas seat before vaulting out onto the non-skid surface of the flight deck.
Another mistake.
The void deep in her inner ears instantly registered the brunt of the ship's motion as the Griffith rode out the waves beneath her combat boots, whipping the paltry contents of her belly into a full-blown roil.
"Agent Chase?"
She spun around. Yet another mistake. Regan fought to regain her equilibrium as an approaching naval officer tugged a pair of rabbit ears down around her neck.
No, not an officer, or even a chief warrant officer like herself—but an enlisted sailor. The center placket of the shorter woman's camouflaged working uniform sported an embroidered anchor, pegging the woman's rank equivalent to that of an Army sergeant first class. Confusing to some outside the military, since she and this Navy non-commissioned officer that she outranked were addressed by the same title: Chief.
The woman popped a salute, then stuck out her hand to offer a firm shake. "Master-at-Arms Chief Michelle Yrle. Welcome aboard. I'll be serving as your escort and right hand for the duration of your stay."
That wide smile would've been infectious if Regan's stomach hadn't chosen that moment to crank up the churn to a near-humiliating level. She forced a weak curve to her lips. "Glad to be here. Just need my gear, and I'm ready to get to work."
A glass of water wouldn't hurt either…so she could swallow the entire box of pills she'd stashed in her bag.
"Here you go, ma'am." The Super Stallion's crew chief held her tan duffel in one hand, her stainless-steel crime scene kit and black, nylon laptop bag in the other as she turned back to the bird—carefully.
"Thanks." Regan retrieved her crime scene gear and laptop, but her new right hand beat her to the tan duffel and pills.
Yrle tipped her cap of sleek raven curls toward the ship's lurching superstructure. "This way. I'll show you to your stateroom. It's got a small bath ensemble, so you can freshen up before we feed you to the head shark—er, captain."
"Wonderful." Forget the pills. Three steps across the rising, then dipping deck, and she'd decided on an immediate visit to the latrine.
"Dying to check out one of our heads, eh?"
Regan offered a limp smile as they moved up the port side of the ship. "That obvious?"
"You've got the proverbial green about your gills. Don't worry; it'll pass—one way or the other. For what it's worth, I prefer the 'other'. Once the genuflecting's over, I feel great. Until then, I do my best to keep my gaze fixed on the horizon." Yrle shrugged. "Either way, hang in there. We'll be riding smoother in about an hour—midway through our rendezvous and pending underway replenishment with the Tippecanoe. We're low on fuel and, hence, riding high. The current sea state's not helping either." A soft laugh floated between them as Yrle stopped beside an oval watertight door with a black 'Z' painted in the middle, inside a larger 'D'. "Welcome to the Arabian Sea in January, Soldier. The Navy part."
Another intimidating wave struck the bow of the Griffith and Regan wished herself anchored firmly on the Army portion as the ship rocked it out.
Her hundredth slow breath of the morning helped—until Chief Yrle swung the door open and waved her over the metal lip protruding up from the deck. The sloshing in her belly returned full force as she passed through the skin of the ship, intensifying as the chief led her down a claustrophobic corridor and up a skeletal ladder. As with the ship's exterior, everything inside was gray, albeit several shades lighter: the walls, the floor, even the ceiling—or bulkhead, deck and overhead, if she remembered correctly.
By the time they'd reached a succession of slim, darker gray doors that were lined up along both sides of the passageway like soldiers awaiting inspection, the acid in her stomach had breached the base of her throat.
Shit. "I gotta—"
"Step aside."
The chief had the door at the end unlocked and open in three seconds flat. Regan shot through the second, slimmer door just inside
