Chapter 3
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Then came an incident…
One summer day, a few weeks after Tim's return from FLETC, a tip came in about a potential terrorist threat in Annapolis, Maryland. It sounded fairly weak, with more bluster from the anonymous tipster than usually paid off in these cases. A hoax, no doubt. Nonetheless, NCIS didn't want to turn over the glory of a possible bust to Homeland Security if they didn't have to. Vance sent his best team out to uncover what they could. He knew he didn't have to tell them to be careful. Doing so would only hurt their pride.
The suspected area was near the Naval Academy. The Academy covered substantial ground, almost 340 acres. Bancroft Hall, over 100 years old and one of the larger buildings, was the world's largest dormitory, housing all of the Academy's midshipmen and several other Academy functions.
" 'Mother B' they call it," Tim murmured as he and Gibbs stopped outside the enormous building. "My father talked about Bancroft Hall several times. He loved living there. Loved his time at Annapolis. Would have liked to come back to the Academy as a teacher, but…Sorry, boss; I'm rambling." xoxWhat is wrong with me? Gibbs doesn't care about stuff like this.
Gibbs only grunted, and inclined his head. They'd go inside. The Commandant of Midshipmen had an office here.
The walk through the Rotunda, in the center of the Hall, had Tim impressed. He had a fleeting thought of his father walking these same marble halls, decades ago…and then of a sudden realization that he'd rather be walking next to his father, a twinkly-eyed, quiet but mirthful man, rather than the dour Gibbs. You can't always have what you want.
The next time I call Dad, I'll ask him to tell me more about Bancroft Hall.
"McGee!" Gibbs snapped, quietly, and Tim pulled out of his daydream.
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The commandant had little to offer for the investigation other than concern. "As you can see, the communication we received on this threat made no specific mention of where the threat might lie. I hope to God it isn't here in Bancroft Hall. Our midshipmen are among the military's finest officers-in-training, but even so, even with regular drills, it takes awhile to evacuate a building this size."
"I hope so, too, Commandant," said Gibbs. "But there's no reason to think that it's likely to be here. It could be anywhere on the grounds…if there even is a threat."
"You have free rein here, Agent Gibbs."
"If there were strange things brought onto the grounds…maybe not strange, but unusual…where would they be?"
"We don't have strange things here, Agent McGee. We don't go in for woo-woo. Anything like that would be turned over to the CIA."
"Got a storage facility?" asked Gibbs. "If someone smuggled in weapons, they'd likely hide them somewhere that they wouldn't be noticed quickly. Who would be in charge of your storage?"
"That would be Chief Petty Officer Knowles. The storage hall is over here." He pointed out a building on a map on the wall. "Though you're not going to find any surprises there."
Tim and Gibbs exchanged corner-of-the-eye glances. This wasn't the first time they'd encountered over-confidence in one's fiefdom.
Gibbs phoned Tony and Ziva, who'd been languishing by the gates, and sent them to look at the buildings around the storage hall.
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The storage hall was dreary as was to be expected. Not dirty, or even mildly dusty; you wouldn't find that on a military installation where cleanliness was higher than being a mere virtue. But there were dehumanizing, institutionally efficient arrangements: a lingering scent of old grease and recent paint jobs; the high, high ceiling; a sight of angle bracket shelving going up high that had been repainted too many times; and of dreary identical rows of boxes and crates under bleak institutional fluorescent lighting panels.
"This section is where we take things that are found on the grounds until we can figure out what to do with them," said the Chief Petty Officer. "Could be old settlement pottery, or arrowheads, or something washed up on the shoreline. It might be garbage, it might turn out to be a historical treasure."
"How long does it take you to determine that?" asked Gibbs.
"Could be days, could be months. Or longer. This box has been here since 1957. That's a little unusual." A flash of amusement showed in his eyes.
"You would know if something new was here, though?" asked Tim, eyes sweeping the rows.
"Yes, sir! Nothing gets shelved in this building without my signature."
All of Tim's nerves came alert. "And the security of this building, Chief?"
"No need to make it much more secure than any other installation on the Academy, sir. We trust our midshipmen, provided they sign in and out, and this building is off-limits to visitors. Each container is marked with the date of entry to this building, and a code number signifying the contents and the likely destination."
"There an understandable pattern to the code number, or do you use one of those random things?" asked Gibbs.
"I keep thinking we should use a security-checking randomizer, sir, but old habits are hard to break, and there are those who'd insist that if we started doing that with new containers, then we should redo every blessed box in here. There aren't enough days in the year for that. So it's just a sequential number."
Gibbs only nodded. Tim began slowly moving along the long rows of shelves. He remembered something that an instructor at FLETC had mentioned in class; more of a side note on Observation than anything else. "In supermarkets and convenience stores, they'll place the things they most want you to buy at eye level. So if you're looking for something else, look high and look low:…up, above eye level…or at the shelves nearest the floor."
With care, he walked. The boxes and crates were similar; almost maddeningly so. Though some were marked as being decades older than others, the style varied almost imperceptibly. Either the container was a cardboard box, or it was a plastic crate about the same size as the box. He wondered why some things went into boxes and some went into plastic crates. Weight? It probably wasn't important now.
If someone wanted to hide something in here until a later time, the best way to make it be unnoticed would be to hide it high or low. High, or…
"Chief!" he called, stretching the word out. A box had caught his eye, down on the next-to-the-bottom shelf of his row. "Do you know what the last number was that you used?"
"Well, that depends, Agent McGee. I do have a pretty good memory. For possible historical artifacts, it was…okay; I'll cheat." He drew out a Blackberry and tapped at it. "H1024. For possible Native American artifacts, it was NA031…"
"I'm guessing this isn't on your list." As the other two men approached, Tim pointed to a box that appeared to have been hurriedly marked 20100714 X999. He shook his head. Stupid, stupid. Of all the numbers to make up, don't call attention with something like "999".
"Holy cow! The date's yesterday, but there's no 'X' grouping in our system."
"Let's take a look." Gibbs pulled the box out and sliced open the tape that sealed the box.
Tim bit back the words Careful, boss that wanted to escape his lips. Gibbs wasn't even wearing gloves. Maybe Gibbs wasn't afraid, or even more than mildly suspicious, but Tim was.
"Looks like junk to me," said the Chief as Gibbs opened the lid.
Don't, boss…
"Something washed up on the shore," Gibbs agreed as the scent hit his nostrils. "I can't even tell what it is." Inside the box were five barnacle-covered, sea-stained cylinders, still carrying a whiff of the ocean. They even appeared still slightly damp. Something clicked in Tim's mind…
It was a class in week two at FLETC. He could picture the instructor; a jovial man with an acute interest in the nastiest of weapons. He knew everything used in the last 500 or so years. A Wednesday afternoon. A day like this one: hazy, hot and humid; thunderstorms likely to pop up in late afternoon. A fly had droned near Tim's desk. The air conditioning had a different, low drone. Tim still had rapt attention; finding the subject extremely interesting.
Weapons: World War I era. Both sides used shells that were fired into the enemy's position, containing—
"No, boss!" Tim cried as Gibbs reached in for one. Gibbs and the Chief looked startled as Tim dived for the box, snatching it, and, straightening up, stumbling away with it. Exit! Where's the closest exit? Down that way?
"McGee!"
The cylinders—shells, he now realized—were damp, a doom to the integrity of the box. The weakened bottom fell apart, and the shells started to poke through. Tim scrambled to grab them and keep them from falling…unsuccessfully.
He'd only gotten about 80 feet away from the other two men.
Two shells hit the cement floor, and broke open. They all watched in horror as visible gas arose and yellow-brown oil dribbled onto the floor.
"McGee!"
"Get out!" Tim yelled, halting. "Get out! These are World War One gas shells, with poison gas! Phosegene, chlorine, mustard gas, maybe…"
He saw the other two men rooted, in shock. "Get out!" Tim repeated. "What don't you understand?The gas will spread through this room in no time. Now that the shells have ruptured, I can't leave here without carrying the contamination with me. Run!"
Gibbs made a step towards Tim, and Tim's reaction was to shift the tattered box in his arm and draw his gun. His voice had a slight wobble as he said, "Boss, no! It's too late for me to go. But you still can, if you hurry, and don't get much more exposure."
"Tim…"
"You think I wanted it this way?" Tim laughed without mirth. We're not here to stay. We're on a short holiday. "We don't always get to choose the path we're sent to take. This one…this is what I got. Now," he swallowed, "No one comes near me unless they're wearing a hazmat suit! So go! Now!"
"He's right, Agent Gibbs," the Chief said, grabbing Gibbs' arm. "We can't help him this way. We have to get out!"
Tim saw the stricken look on Gibbs' face, and could almost see the thoughts racing in his head. He was desperately was trying to figure a way to not violate one of his life's tenets, the one about not leaving a man behind. But there wasn't a solution. Not this time.
"We'll be back, McGee. Don't you worry," Gibbs said, as he and the Chief headed back for the entrance.
"I know, boss," Tim forced a smile. But as the other two men left, the heavy metal doors closing with a clang! he thought, Oh, God…
Tim knew it wouldn't be long before his skin erupted in painful blisters... and maybe worse. That's what the poison gases did.
At least, though, Gibbs and the Chief should be safe. Although they were older than he, their exposure had been minimal. Tim was glad he'd gotten as far away from them that he had before the stupid box had fallen apart because some stupid terrorist who probably had been hiding the shells on a boat in the Chesapeake Bay hadn't dried them thoroughly before packing them.
He sank down to the floor, and resisted putting his face in his hands, his gas-stained hands, all the while wondering why doing the right and true thing had to be so terrifying.