Ghost Ship

The NMCC has three main missions, all serving the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff in his role as the principal military advisor to both the secretary of defense and the president. It was often staffed by dozens of high-ranking military officers, politicians, and civilian experts.

The NMCC is operated by five teams on a rotating watch system. Each team typically has seventeen to twenty personnel on duty performing a wide variety of functions including communications. Teams are led by a Deputy Director for Operations and an Assistant Deputy Director for Operations, and are divided into five duty officer positions.

Today, those numbers were reduced to just three — General Louis C. Painter, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Margaret Walsh, the Secretary of Defense, and Craig Martin, the Director of the CIA.

The Secretary of Defense looked toward the back, where tired-looking aides and staffers, in civilian clothing, cradled laptops and tablets, talking quietly among themselves. Most of them looked like they hadn’t had a chance to change their clothes in the past twenty-four hours.

The Secretary watched the replay of the live aerial footage of the events unfolding at Vernazza, Italy.

She stared at the digital feed coming from the elite team on the ground. Her jaw was set firm, her emerald eyes narrow and piercing. “Captain Borrows, do you mind telling me what the hell went wrong?”

“I’m sorry, Madam Secretary. We were delayed on the road into Vernazza. By the time we reached him, someone else had already attempted to take him out. We tried to intervene, but he ran, and we haven’t been able to make contact since. And then…”

“He jumped into the ocean.”

“That’s right, ma’am. The Italian Polizia have been searching for him with a police search and rescue helicopter — I’m afraid he might be dead. I’m very sorry.”

The Secretary’s mouth was set hard. “If Sam Reilly jumped into the sea, I’m willing to bet everything we have, he’s still alive — so you’d better hope to hell you find him before the Polizia do!”

Captain Borrows said, “Yes, ma’am.”

Chapter Fourteen

Andre stepped on board the ghost ship.

The rusty steel decking creaked under his footsteps, and for a moment he wondered whether the archaic fishing boat would take his weight. His eyes swept the ship’s topside with curiosity.

If he had to guess, and he was by no means a sailor or in any position to make an educated assessment of such things, he imagined the ship had been drifting at sea for some years, before randomly washing up into the medieval harbor of Vernazza.

The police chief caught his attention. “There’s a hatch over here. You can go inside if you like. It doesn’t look like much. There are no signs of anyone living on board recently. I’m starting to wonder if your red card was even connected to the ghost ship at all.”

Andre made a wry smile. “It’s a possibility. I mean, it’s not like Sam Reilly used this boat to sail here. Of course, that still leaves the question of how he got here in the first place.”

“Maybe someone dropped him off from a mother ship, and he just rowed into the harbor.”

“Sure. But if you’re going to do that, why bring the girl you just murdered? Why not dispose of her body in the sea for God’s sake? He must have known her body would immediately bring with it a crime investigation?”

The police chief held the hatchway open for him. “No idea. If you happen to work that one out, you let me know, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

Andre ducked down, and climbed into the decks below.

The inside of the ship seemed barren, but otherwise in much better shape than she was above decks. It made him wonder whether the hatch had been closed all these years, protecting the inside of the hull, while time and seawater corrosion decimated the outside of the ship.

He shined a small flashlight around the hull.

Careful not to let the hatchway close and somehow trap him inside, he headed deeper into the ship. The place was dry. The air, stale and musky. He walked around for a little while, before stopping to carefully pace out the full length of the internal hull. He reached the end and stopped.

Glancing up at the police chief, he asked, “Where’s the rest of the boat?”

“What rest of it?” the police chief replied, his palms facing upward. “What you see is what you get.”

“No, it isn’t,” Andre said, emphatically. “I’ve never been a sailor and I can’t say I know much about boats, but I do know that this isn’t the entire boat.”

The police chief shot a puzzled look at him. “It isn’t?”

“No. For one thing, where’s the cockpit? Boats, even ghost ships, need a helm or somewhere to steer the boat from. Then there’s the issue of an engine room, sleeping quarters, toilets… there’s nothing in here.”

“Maybe the place has been stripped by salvagers?”