Chapter Three
Duck Power
'It's a good thing this place is so big', Siobhan McGee reflects as she walks hand in hand with her husband through a ballroom on the second floor. This is one of the four given over to wildly eclectic dealers selling mind-bending varieties of Comic / Sci-Fi / Fantasy paraphernalia and memorabilia. The ballrooms, two pair facing one another across a long wide corridor, are tremendous yet she's overheard that over 15,000 people from all corners of the world have booked some combination of up to four day tickets. She hopes that total won't try to besiege these four Dealers' rooms at once.
For this evening they're Siobhan and Tim, relaxing as normal people, only half of those guests they see being classed as such. Though they brought costumes, more as indulgences than anything else, those are for tomorrow. Tonight is tourist time, tomorrow she'll spend a near hour putting on the scarlet face makeup and black wig that, with the green, black and white overly affectionate costume, will transform her into Katma Tui, Green Lantern of Space Sector 1417.
She half envies Timmy. All he needs to do is work his way into Captain America's classic red, white and blue costume, pull up the cowl, retrieve the round star and red/white/red/blue bull's-eye shield and he's set. Even if she gets a good head start he'll be waiting for her while she's still putting on her scarlet lipstick.
Seems strange, she thinks again; so much red for her face and yet she'll cover with a black wig her natural red.
For now, however, they're normal humans; very normal for her for she's left her white collar, light blue shirt and black skirt in her dresser drawer on 22. She wouldn't bring them at all except she feels naked when too distant from them and can't predict Sunday morning; though the thought of saving time on Sunday by going to nearby Saint Andrew's in make-up does bring a smile to her face.
'Maybe I will,' she grins. She does like to surprise people and shake them out of their expectations, so this might be fun.
Then George Donaldson will hear about it, get her declared deranged, tell Bishop Metcalf she's unfit to perform her duties and she can get some real rest.
"What are you grinning about?" Timmy asks, pulling her back to Earth.
"Oh, vacation."
x
Tim puts his arm around Shav to pull her close, enjoying the feel of her body against his and takes in the room as a whole, breathes in the creative ambiance and feels his Writer's soul nourished as it hasn't been in months. Everyone here shares the creative spark, either as a creator or a fan of same and he's enjoying every millisecond of it - far more this year than last for he has his lovely wife of two and a half months to share it with.
This evening the room is hardly used, so large that the hundreds of people who shop early in the rows or examine the various displays still make the room seem sparsely populated. Tomorrow, Sunday and Monday this and the other eleven rooms will be packed, so he's determined to enjoy the evening while he can.
Standing here, Shav so close and her arm about his waist, he can feel Thom E. Gemcity come to life, energized by gestalt imagination and ready to create. Here he can find the inspiration, the spark for his next adventure in the annals of L. J. Tibbs. Or maybe it's time to have Special Agent McGregor step to the forefront and be the hero.
Things with Forensic Scientist Amy Sutton haven't worked out as he'd hoped. Even ignoring the nightmare of Landon's deranged quasi-reality, in his book the pair broke up just as they'd been on the verge of declaring their love for one another. Maybe it's time to take the series in a new direction. McGregor might find a new love interest, perhaps a vivacious Irish lass. Maybe he'll make her a Prie–
"Timmy?" Shav's stopped, and with their arms about one another that alone was enough to snag his attention.
"Hmmm?"
"I was wondering if you'd like that pin."
Attention broken, he notices the tall, four sided revolving corkboard set atop the table beside them. It displays scores of pins on each side taken from every imaginable and some unimaginable sources. The one Shav is pointing to is an inch-wide replica of Captain America's shield.
"Nice," he admits, though the $9 sticker on top of the display dims his enthusiasm, "but I'm not really the pin kind of guy."
"That's not how you were upstairs," she reminds him with a salacious grin.
Tim flinches at the pun. "Well, may– Oh my God..."
x
Siobhan's surprised as Timmy pulls out of her grip and steps past her. She has to follow quickly two table lengths to a six foot tall glass tower display case - though only the upper four feet above the high black base contains the display: an apparently perfect replica of the 'Rocketeer's' jet pack.
Unlike any number of scale models of Science Fiction or Superhero movie props they've seen this evening, and which she expects they'll see many more of, this is obviously no tin and wire replica.
Timmy's staring at it like he's in love, circling the case that stands upon a black pedestal so he can inspect all sides. He bends over to minutely inspect some detail. "Shav, this looks like it could work."
Before she can even say anything - Timmy's fascination with personal rocket technology is legendary - the woman behind the table beside the display says "It does work."
Timmy looks to her and his head does an impressive imitation of a double projector lighthouse. "It does?"
"Oh, yes. I've taken it for several flights."
He straightens. "Where'd you get this?"
"I built it."
"You built this?" When he looks to her, Siobhan imagines she's about to find out how it feels to be two-timed by a rocket. "Shav, she built this."
'Careful, a 'that's nice' now is going to be my death knell.' "Really." Was that intrigued enough?
He bends closer, looking like he wouldn't need Sherlock Holmes' magnifying glass. "Isn't this exciting?"
"'If God had intended us to fly, he wouldn't have taken away our wings'."
Tim looks back to her. "Nice 'Howard the Duck'."
"Thank you."
His attention again firmly clamped on the bronze pack, he barely drags his gaze off for an instant's glance at the woman behind the table.
"How does it work?"
"I had to make some changes," she admits, hearing the depth of his question. "The left hand controls the igniter, right handles the thrust."
He examines these as though he wants to squeeze into the case. "What's the fuel?"
"95 percent hydrogen peroxide. I can get two hundred pounds thrust for 81 seconds."
He straightens, surprise breaking him away. "That's incredible for something this size. 1/10 millisecond conversion, 5000 times expansion, you must use a significant constriction to get such a long burn." He bends down again. If it were a woman it'd be yelling for the police by now.
"You sound like you know rocket packs."
He doesn't pull his eyes from the casing. "I've thought a little bit about them."
Siobhan laughs until her ribs ache.
xxx
Bethesda Hospital has never been Gibbs' favorite place and one look into Hollis Mann's eyes tells him she shares the opinion. This place always sets his teeth on edge, whether it be Jessica Smith when the young woman had been driven to madness and apparent suicide to his team's own 'Elf Lord' debacle. The only thing he enjoys about Bethesda is leaving it.
As DSAIC he's here to take a crack at one or more of the four terrorists who stole nuclear fuel from the Theodore Roosevelt, almost dooming themselves in the process. They're culpable in the murder of Special Agent Afloat Christopher Drakis, whose death he's certain was used to distract the Agency's attention from the theft.
Holly - okay here she has to be back in his mind as Colonel Hollis Mann - has come as back-up. He's glad of her company; they've worked well together in interrogations, especially when playing the classic 'bad agent, worse agent'.
This late evening he's in the mood for scary agent.
x
He does, however, have a bad second when they get to the Security section and discover only three of the four prisoners are present.
He looks through the glass slot in the door where three men share the space intended for one, itself still a violation of his Rule #1 but it's too late now, then turns to the Security guard on duty in the ward of eight rooms, automatically checking the man's ID. "Where's Seaman Sparks?"
"Gone, sir."
Gibbs steps directly in front of him, makes sure by glare, tone and height that the man knows that was the worst thing he could have said. "Gone, Officer Broadler?"
"Yes, sir. Since Wednesday morning."
"Where?"
"Continuous Interrogation by NCIS Agents. In the basement. Any staff elevator down, Room 033."
Two and a half days. Good. "Go in, bring out Cotto and Sosa. Put them somewhere in two different rooms. Leave Hodge."
xx
Kevin Cotto and Carlos Sosa, like Frank Hodge, are cuffed and shackled, locked to a chain wrapped snugly about their waists. Their shackles allow them only to hobble in six inch steps. They're unlikely to give Broadler any effective resistance and Gibbs doesn't care that they're put in a room further down the ward and not marched directly to the morgue. He's interested in Hodge.
"Do I foresee a head slap in someone's future?"
"If grilling Sparks for this long doesn't work."
She'd read the case report he'd brought home while on the way here. "The same weakness that makes Sparks look like the one most likely to break first–"
"is why he won't know anything important."
"Rule 53?"
He considers for a moment. She's never created a rule for him but "Yes."
x
Regardless of any other development, he'll make certain the other three are kept sequestered. After nearly three days, they'll believe anything about their erstwhile friend Sparks that Higgins wants them to when he decides to tell them that the sailor broke.
Since their treatment for severe doses of radiation poisoning, Hodge and his now two cohorts have shared a single twelve by twelve room. They're fed, given water and bathroom breaks, but beyond these essentials they're subjected to constant bouts of isolated interrogation by various agents of all shifts while otherwise given nothing of stimulation or distraction save their own company. They're not tortured or inconvenienced, that is if they enjoy one another's unwashed presence, through days of questions and mind numbing routine.
When he leads Mann into the room - something she's wisely getting used to - Hodge turns defiant, bloodshot eyes to them.
They almost draw back out again. The stench is stunning.
Whoever gave the order for this sequestering is going to get that head slap. Any experienced agent knows the nose - or olfactory senses as Ducky would say - shuts down from overwhelming assault only a few minutes after being exposed to such intense odor as this. Cotto, Sosa and Hodge haven't smelled each other or themselves in days but he and Mann must endure this until their own senses succumb to the battery.
x
Gibbs takes a chair immediately before Hodge - he'd rather the man were thrown into the Potomac for several reasons now - while Mann stands behind him, present but an invisible, looming presence. He tries not to look at her pinched face and focuses on his job, not the abuse to his nose.
"Hodge, Francis," the man says as sharply as days of fatigue will allow him, "Petty Officer Second Class, United States Navy, Service Number 061374926."
"Know all that," Gibbs' bland tone dismisses the grand play.
"Allah is Great. Allah is Good."
"Got that too. What I don't have is the names of the people you handed the uranium off to and where they are."
"The skies will burn with fire and the clouds of death will engulf all."
"Why?"
x
It's clear Hodge wasn't expecting the question, particularly not when delivered so calmly, as though America weren't going to be destroyed by fire. He's stolen the materials for making several atomic bombs or even more dirty bombs, so he'd probably expected fireworks in getting him to give up his secrets. Rule 49: When interrogating a prisoner, never do what he expects.
It takes Hodge a moment to rally his own fervor. "Why do you invaders come to our country and ravage it for 500 years?"
"Frank Hodge, born July 16, 1989 in Kokomos, Indiana."
"I have rejected that false life, as have many of my Muslim brethren. My real name is Abdul el Fadil."
Why do they always give themselves boasts rather than names? Abdul the Great indeed. "Practicing Lutheran, of Salem Church, Logansport Indiana, according to your OMPF, last updated March 11 of this year."
There's a vast amount of information in each of their Official Military Personnel Files and he intends to use it all.
"Allah is the only God, and Mohammad is His Prophet."
Gibbs' voice maintains that same calm, not just to throw the bastard off but because he doesn't want to breathe too deeply. "I don't care."
Again derailed, this time by the utter dismissal, it takes Hodge a moment more. "What?"
"You can be a Roman Catholic Methodist Orthodox Presbyterian for all I care. I care about the uranium."
"Then you shall see justice meted out from the sky, and you shall be cast into the lake of fire for your sins and the sins of your people."
"Maybe." He's not sure Muslims believe in the 'lake of fire' vision of hell, sounds more Zoroastrian to him, but he doubts Hodge knows the distinction.
x
A half hour more of this quasi-religious verbal fencing passes but Gibbs, whose sense of smell finally abandoned all effort at survival, doesn't shift away from it. He doesn't care about Hodge's dodges, he's in no hurry. He's waiting for what turns out to be a diffident knock that finally comes at the locked door. Colonel Mann steps around the table and answers it, accepts a large manila envelope from Agent Jacobson, tells him to go upstairs and have a dinner break, closes and locks the door, carries the envelope to Gibbs.
He opens it, pages through the contents without drawing them out, selects the set he wants, pulls them out and closes the envelope again.
"I have bad news for you, Hodge. The treatment failed."
It takes several long moments for Hodge, fatigued by days of unrelenting interrogation, to absorb this. Since it has nothing to do with religion or questions about the uranium or his accomplices he's derailed. "What do you mean?"
"They tried to get the radiation out of you. It didn't work."
"No." Hodge tries to rise, to protest, but the cuffs attached to the band about his waist don't allow him to reach the leverage of the table so he can't get very far out of the chair.
"You're going to die," Gibbs says without a trace of sympathy, grateful he can no longer smell anything because the man's about to start sweating. He pulls out an 8x10 image of Hodge taken at his booking. The Seaman stands before a measuring chart painted on the wall, his expression defiant, so much so that he'd smiled. "Just thought you'd like to see what the radiation is doing to you."
Upon the original Gibbs lays another. Hodge is still in front of that chart but this isn't a copy. He's notably thinner and his hair is gray at the base of each strand. "That's a month out."
"What're you–?" he fidgets uncomfortably in his seat. "What're you talking about?"
"The radiation from that uranium, it's spreading through your body, attacking every cell." He lays another image down. Special Agent Jacobson has done an excellent job with Morph-Pro. Hodge is thinner, the flesh has fallen from his lower eyes, his hair is thinned and the gray is twice as extensive. That's inaccurate, but very effective to the tired man. His face also has a notable gray tinge to it. "Two months out. The radiation's destroying your kidneys, liver, spleen…. You'll develop renal failure even before your teeth start to drop out."
x
The next picture includes just such devastation to his mouth. The lips have receded, three upper teeth and four lower ones are gone, the hair that remains splotches his head in uneven clumps and his skin molds close to the bones of his skull. "Three months out, you've lost over a quarter your body weight, you're probably in Intensive Care in some hospital, being kept alive by feeding tubes inserted through your navel."
Atop that horror Gibbs lays another. The gaunt face is gray as asphalt, the eyes have sunk back into the skull, the lips have drawn further back from the less than a dozen teeth that are left.
"You - you gotta do something. You can't let me…."
"Well, Hodge, I'd like to help… but my hands are tied. You won't even admit you were infected, let alone what you did with the uranium."
"No, no I'll… we were infected but the doctors, the doctors said they…."
Gibbs has laid down the last picture and wonders if even Ducky could look at this one without shying away.
