Weapons of choice

She'd enjoyed the luxurious surrounds for about thirty seconds, until she realized how close she was to the flight deck and how poorly insulated were Kolhammer's quarters; not that she was going to get a lot of sleep while he was away. The giant flatscreen on his desk was completely blocked out with files flagged for her immediate attention. Until she muted the speakers, a tone announced the arrival of a new "highest priority" e-mail every few seconds, and her schedule apparently contained more meetings than the day had minutes. Her paternal grandmother had a saying that seemed appropriate.

"Let's not try and eat the elephant in one whole bite," Halabi muttered to herself.

She was about to open a report detailing distribution of the fleet's remaining war stocks when a window opened on the screen, displaying the rather drawn features of Captain Margie Francois.

Halabi was on site, grimly shaking hands with the combat surgeon twenty-five minutes later.

The scene looked chaotic from the air, with helicopters, Humvees, Honolulu PD cars, old-fashioned jeeps, and at least a hundred or more individuals all buzzing around the victims. When she touched down and exited the chopper, Halabi got an even stronger sense of barely controlled mayhem. A small group of Colonel Jones's marines was butting heads with the local police and MPs, trying to keep them from stomping all over the crime scene. Jones himself stood as still and silent as a black granite obelisk while a heavyset white man in a bad suit turned beet red, screaming and gesticulating at him.

"What the hell is going on?" the acting task force commander asked.

"Nothing good," said Francois. She took Halabi by the arm and walked her away a little. "One of our platoons was out on a run this morning when they found the bodies, and they called us before the locals. Well, of course, Honolulu PD's tear-assing around with an atomic wedgie over that and…"

Halabi's puzzlement must have been written all over her face, because Francois backed and filled for the Englishwoman.

"They've got their knickers in a twist," she explained.

"Oh right. Thanks."

It was going to be a scorching hot day. Halabi noticed that even at so early an hour she didn't cast much of a shadow. She could hear another siren approaching, possibly two, as the marine went on. Francois didn't seem to care who overheard her.

"We can't have these dumbass crackers all over our crime scene," she complained, sweeping a hand in the general direction of the local authorities. "Granted we're not a homicide squad, but we've got a lot of expertise in war crimes investigation and we sure as hell got better procedures and equipment. These guys don't even know what DNA is. You gotta get them to step back, Captain. Let us take care of our people."

Halabi ran her eyes over the beach again. A hundred meters away Jones was still doing his stone face. The suit was still screeching at him and flapping his arms like a giant flightless bird. The marines and the cops and military police were getting even more muscular with each other.

And the corpses of Captain Daytona Anderson and Sub-Lieutenant Maseo Miyazaki had begun to stiffen with rigor mortis.

"What were they doing out here?" the British officer asked.

Francois squinted at the bodies. She shrugged.

"We don't even know they got whacked out here. Could have been hit in town and dumped. There's a team from the War Crimes Unit coming over to work the grid."

"Was it working out, having Anderson and her people on the Siranui?"

Francois shrugged again. It seemed to be a compulsive gesture with her this morning.

"Far as I know, but I couldn't tell you for sure. I wasn't there. But I didn't hear anything. Why? Did you?"

Halabi shook her head. "No. Just wondering."

"Well, they had good reason to be together," said Francois. "It can't have been easy, integrating the two crews. Language difficulties and so on. If I had to take a guess, I'd say they were having a drink at the Moana, probably just sorting some shit that was better handled through back channels. Maybe they went for a walk. I doubt they'd have strayed too far, though. We're not encouraging any of our people to mix it up with the locals yet."

"Looks like they did," said Halabi.

"Maybe," the marine surgeon agreed. "But it's all guesswork and that's all it's ever going to be if we don't quarantine this site and let the CSI team go to work."

Halabi nodded. She checked her watch.

"Okay. I'll call Nimitz. I'm sure he can sort out the turf war. And then I'd better see if I can raise Kolhammer, but I'll be buggered if we can contact him so far. I'll tell you what, Captain, I'd sell my arse for just one little satellite."

20

GORMON FIELD, LOS ANGELES COUNTY, 0406 HOURS, 9 JUNE 1942