One Less - Part 22

by joykatleen

The guy from Pax River showed up just after nine. Gibbs escorted him to interrogation. Like the others they'd run into during this investigation, he was nervous, but Gibbs sensed no guilt. Gibbs started out easy, asking routine questions about his background, his duty, why he'd joined the Navy. He got more specific about the nights in Spain, and the guy was clueless. Gibbs asked about his opinion on gays in the military and got the company line. He dug a little deeper and got the guy's real opinion: he was 'creeped out' by the idea of sharing quarters with homos, but it wasn't hard to deal with it. The Navy's policy was to discharge anyone who admitted they were gay. If someone made it obvious they were gay, all he had to do was report it. The Navy would take care of it.

Gibbs went at it every way he could think of and got nothing. He worked it a little longer than necessary, just to be sure the headache and residual hangover weren't clouding his perception. Not the case. He didn't believe in coincidences, but McGee's statistics showed there were seven guys who could have done it, and only two that had. Unfortunately, this guy wasn't one of the two.

He let the guy go home and went out for coffee before returning to the squad room. The time he'd spent hadn't been a total waste: The odds on identifying one of the dirtbags responsible for the attack on Brisbin and the sailor three years before that had just dropped to two in six. A one-third shot. Couldn't beat those odds with a stick. Next target was the guy in Baltimore. Maybe they'd drive up this afternoon.

"You find Brisbin yet?" Gibbs asked McGee as he rounded his desk.

"Sort of," McGee said. When Gibbs gave him a look, McGee explained. "I found his mother. She hasn't talked to him since Veteran's Day. He's an alcoholic, lives on the streets. She sees him around every once in awhile. He didn't transition well to civilian life."

"She have any way to contact him?"

"She said she'd try to find him, and try to get him to call. She didn't sound hopeful."

Gibbs nodded. They could probably make the case without him. But it would be better to have him.

By the time he left for Andrews, most of Gibbs' hangover symptoms had passed. He still had the headache, so he'd swallowed two of Ducky's pills to try and stabilize it. It had to be the alcohol, he reasoned. He wasn't inclined to examine too closely the fact that he'd had a headache off and on for going on four days now. It was unusual, and a matter of concern, and something he would just ignore.

xoxoxoXOXOXoxoxox

A little after 11:00, Gibbs was standing in the open bay doors of a hangar at the Naval Air Facility on Andrews Air Force Base. As the closest military base to the Capitol capable of handling heavy aircraft, Andrews housed units from all four branches of the service, plus the D.C. National Guard. The base's most famous tenant was the Air Force's 89th Airlift Wing, whose aircraft included the pair of identical VC-25s – the military version of the 747 – known collectively as Air Force One. Gibbs was nowhere near that part of the base. His security clearance was as high as it got for a civilian, but even so he would need an escort and a damn good reason to get anywhere near that operation. He'd actually been aboard Air Force One – both of them – six or seven years ago when someone killed one of the President's Naval aides in an attempt to force circumstances that would allow an assassination of the man himself. Gibbs, with the help of then-Secret-Service-agent Kate Todd, had stopped the attempt. But only barely. He'd gotten a civilian service award and a personal letter of appreciation from President Bush for that one. In a White House ceremony, DiNozzo had accepted the medal on his behalf. It was probably in Tony's desk drawer with the others Gibbs had picked up along the way. The recognition was nice, but truly not something he cared much about. In his mind, the best reward from that case had been that Kate had resigned from the Service and come to work for him. She had been an undeniable bonus to his team, and he hadn't once regretted bringing her over. Well, at least not until she'd been killed.

He sipped at his coffee and watched as an Air Force C-130 Super Hercules came lumbering toward him from the flight line. The gray color of the plane's skin almost matched the sky, making it seem to fade in and out of focus. From this distance, he couldn't read the big aircraft's tail numbers, but he figured it was probably the right one. Gibbs had seen it come in hot about 10 minutes before. The Hercules had taken most of the runway to drop from approach speed to taxi. Gibbs knew it could start and stop in a lot less space, so he figured it must be fully loaded. If he remembered right, it could hold about 45,000 pounds of gear and personnel, which translated into a hundred or so passengers, 75 patients on gurneys, half a dozen pallets of equipment, a couple of Humvees, or even an armored personnel carrier.

As it turned parallel to the hangar and jolted to a stop, Gibbs caught the tail number. Definitely his aircraft. The propellers started to wind down, the ground crew rushed forward to chock the wheels, and a minute later, the rear cargo door began to creak downward. A minute after that, a man in Desert MARPATS walked down the ramp, a large duffel over his shoulder. Gibbs squinted a little. The man looked a little older, a little more stooped, but otherwise exactly as Gibbs remembered him. About six feet tall, broad shoulders, so thin as to be almost gaunt, grizzled face, the same gray 'high and tight' brush cut he'd had 20 years before. He waited to see if Colonel Hatton would recognize him.

"Gunny?" Hatton asked as he strode purposefully toward where Gibbs was standing. He held out a hand and they shook.

"It's good to see you, Colonel," Gibbs said. "Can I get your bag?" He gestured toward the duffel.

"The day I can't carry my own seabag is the day I hang it up for good. Where to?"

Gibbs led him over to where he'd parked the sedan. They made small talk – the weather and the economy – and compared notes on people they'd both known then and where they were now.

As Gibbs had told McGee, they had not been friends. Gibbs had been acquainted with 'the old man' of course. He'd served under him in one capacity or another for more than 10 years while he was with the First Marine Division. But he'd only been in Hatton's presence maybe half a dozen times. Hatton had been there for each of Gibbs' staff promotion ceremonies, Sergeant to Staff Sergeant to Gunnery Sergeant. He'd pinned on Gibbs' Silver Star at the medal ceremony. And he'd come by to visit him in the field hospital after he'd lost his family and then almost lost his life in the mortar attack. Otherwise, it was just Hatton's name rubber stamped on the bottom of the orders he received and in the Division newsletters that Shannon had loved to pour over.

Hatton suggested a hole-in-the-wall deli and café a few miles from Andrews toward the District. Gibbs knew of it, but had only eaten there a few times. Hatton seemed to know it well. The place was busy, but it was mostly take-out orders at the lunch counter. Only a few booths were occupied. They picked one that was by itself near the kitchen door and ordered sandwiches, fries and coffee. The small talk continued until the waitress delivered their meals. The colonel was very good at keeping the conversation away from anything serious, and Gibbs was good at keeping it away from anything personal, so the talk flowed smoothly around the innocuous. Gibbs sensed no nervousness or even anticipation from the man. Whatever it was Hatton had to tell him, he was in no hurry.

"You're working a series of assaults on sailors from the Big Stick," Col. Hatton finally said after he took his first bite of club sandwich. Gibbs had ordered turkey on white.

"We are," Gibbs said.

"Fourteen since 2002," Hatton said.

"Okay," Gibbs said, noting the discrepancy between that and the 12 they now knew of, but choosing to ignore it for now.

"The last victim died."

"He did." There was a pause. Both men ate some. Taking a sip of coffee, Hatton cleared his throat before starting again.

"You know what the motive for the attacks is," he stated.

"We do," Gibbs agreed. "Do you?"

"You've got a guy on board asking questions," Hatton said, ignoring the second half of Gibbs' response.

"Yes I do," Gibbs replied, wondering how Hatton knew about DiNozzo.

"You've got to call him off."

It wasn't what Gibbs expected, and he frowned a little while he chewed.

"Why?" he asked when his mouth was empty.

"He's getting in over his head, and the wrong people have noticed."

"Wrong people?" Gibbs asked.

"He's been targeted," Hatton said and scooped up a handful of fries.

Gibbs gave that some thought. A couple of questions came immediately to mind: why would they target DiNozzo? He wasn't playing it gay. Unless it was an attempt to derail the investigation? Then: who were these 'wrong people'? And more importantly, how did Hatton know about them? How did Hatton know about any of it?

"You know who they are," Gibbs said. It wasn't a question, and Hatton didn't answer it.

"They're planning a move on him after they sail, possibly as early as Charleston, maybe not until they make port in the Azores. It'll depend on how soon they can get the personnel together."

"How do you know?" Gibbs asked.

Hatton took another bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully.

"Times are changing, Gunny," Hatton said after a minute. "This new crop of kids coming up now, it's about fifty-fifty those who care and those who don't give a damn. It's not like when we were young. The Corps has always been the most conservative branch of the military, the Navy as a whole right behind. But even here we're seeing the move toward more liberal ideals."

Gibbs nodded, letting him talk. If there was one thing he remembered about Col. Hatton, it was that when he had a point to make, he didn't waste words. The Colonel was going somewhere important with this.

"It's marginalizing those who still have strong beliefs. Before, when most everyone shared your view, there wasn't any need to press others for theirs, or to prove what you believed. Everyone believed the same thing about those people, and they just stayed out of the way."

Gibbs didn't agree with the last part of Hatton's statement, but the first part was certainly true. He nodded again.

"It makes those with strong values, people who care about the kind of message we're sending, want to fight to maintain the status quo. Makes them more eager to push their views on others. Makes them more likely to resort to force when they truly believe what they hold dear is at risk."

"Don't ask, don't tell," Gibbs said. Hatton nodded.

"Change is coming. The President's asked the Joint Chiefs to start working on a new policy. It's got a lot of people concerned. At the upper levels, we soldier on. You follow the lawful orders of your command, no matter how much you personally believe them to be wrong or just plain stupid. It's for the good of the unit, the good of the service."

Hatton took another bite, seeming to mull his words.

"The problem is the ones in the middle, who've been around long enough to want to maintain the status quo, but not long enough to settle in, the ones who still believe strongly in core Christian values. Some of them are trying to send a message. They believe what they're doing is for the good of the country. They believe that no matter what the policy is and will be, these people are not good for us, and they must be removed."

"Removed," Gibbs said for want of anything better. "So they commit murder. How does that sit with core Christian values?"

Hatton waved a dismissive hand at him. "Petty Officer Ferrara was a mistake. There was never any plan to kill him. Things just got out of hand."

"And Major Ortiz?" Gibbs asked. A shadow passed over Hatton's face and his shoulders seemed to sink a little.

"He was a good man. A good Marine."

"And yet he's dead, too."

"They didn't kill him," Hatton said.

"They might as well have," Gibbs said with a touch of anger.

Hatton looked away and ate more fries. "They might as well have," he finally agreed.

"Who are they, Colonel?" Gibbs asked, his voice harsher that it had ever been with a superior officer.

"You look me up, after I called this morning?" Hatton asked, still avoiding the question.

"Yes," Gibbs said.

"So you know what I'm doing these days?"

"XO at Camp Phoenix, since shortly after your recall in 2004."

Hatton nodded. "That was the easy part. You know what I did after I retired in '94?"

Gibbs shook his head. He should have had McGee look at that, too. Must have been the hangover.

"I went to seminary," Hatton said. For a second, Gibbs was confused. Then the light dawned and he got a sinking feeling in his chest.

"You're a priest," Gibbs said.

"Deacon, actually. But the distinction is pretty much irrelevant for your purpose."

"You can't tell me what you know," Gibbs stated. Hatton shook his head.

"If someone comes to me for spiritual guidance, and during our conversation tells me of a crime of violence that is about to be committed, I can warn the future victim. That's the difference between a deacon and a priest. And it's why I was able to call you. But I can't give you any more details, and I can't tell you who's involved."

"So someone came to you and told you my guy was asking too many questions."

"Correct. He's definitely in danger. You've got to get him off the ship before she sails."

"Can't do that, Colonel. I put him on that ship to find out who killed Petty Officer Ferrara, and to find who's behind the conspiracy. And given the choice, he won't leave until he's found everything he can."

Hatton shook his head dismissively. "You didn't put him anywhere, Gunny. He's been on TR's crew more than four years."

Gibbs blinked at him, then frowned.

"Who are you talking about? My man's only been on the ship since Tuesday."

"Lt. Holbrook?"

Suddenly, Gibbs swore. "Damn it. He's not my guy. He's not supposed to be…" Gibbs trailed off. That wasn't the important thing here. "You say they're going to attack him?"

"As soon as they can put together personnel. Ferrara's death shook them up pretty good. They've had to recruit some new players. Holbrook's not working for you?"

"Hell no. He was…" Gibbs stopped again. This information street was definitely not two-way. "He's not working for me. But I'll see what I can do about getting him someplace safe until we wrap this up. What else can you tell me?"

"Nothing. Since Holbrook's not yours, I've probably already said too much."

Gibbs sighed and went back to his fries. The Priest-penitent privilege was one of the most revered by the court. As a deacon, Hatton was just as protected. They'd never get a subpoena to even bring Hatton to court, much less force him to talk. Gibbs had come up against priests claiming the privilege a couple of times, and he'd always struck out on getting what he needed directly. But sometimes there were ways around it...

"You're serving in a non-clergy position," Gibbs said.

"Of course I am," Hatton said. "You know as well as I do that the Corps doesn't have Chaplains."

"So whoever it was had to invoke the privilege before they started talking to you. It couldn't be assumed."

"That's true," Hatton said.

"Did he?"

"I didn't say I spoke to a male. But we can use that pronoun to make it easier," Hatton said. Gibbs barely refrained from growling at his former CO. Everyone inside this thing was male. Hatton answered the question.

"Yes. He made it absolutely clear he was seeking spiritual guidance and expected our conversation to be privileged."

"Why did you talk to him?" Gibbs asked.

"Excuse me?" Hatton asked.

Gibbs clarified. "You're the Executive Office of a forward military base. Not a military Chaplain. So why would he call you? And when he did, why didn't you refer him to the base chaplain?"

"I tried. He wanted to speak to me," Hatton said. "Personally."

"So you know him," Gibbs said. "Personally." Hatton said nothing.

"You had to know him. And he had to know you. No one who didn't know you personally would know you'd become a Deacon."

"Not necessarily, but a reasonable assumption," Hatton said. He ate the last corner of his sandwich and drank some coffee.

"Either you knew him very well, or he was a high-ranking officer. Otherwise, your adjutant wouldn't have put the call through."

"Again, a reasonable assumption, but not necessarily true. Maybe I answered the phone myself. Or maybe it came in on my cell. I do have one of those, you know."

"Which doesn't work overseas outside of urban areas. Come on, Colonel. Even I know that."

Hatton gave a small smile and granted the point.

"Was he looking for absolution?" Gibbs asked. Hatton shook his head.

"Deacons are not capable of providing it. We don't hear confession, and we can't offer absolution."

"So he just wanted to talk."

"He was seeking spiritual guidance," Hatton repeated. Gibbs knew it was a buzz phrase related to maintaining the privilege.

"Did you know anything about these attacks before he came to you?" Gibbs asked.

"I knew Major Ortiz was assaulted in Dubai. I didn't know why. I didn't know about any of the others."

"So did he feed you this theory about the changing times, or did you come up with it on your own since he talked to you?"

Hatton thought about that, obviously testing his limits in his own mind. Gibbs waited.

"He set it up, to try and explain the events. He felt completely justified in what they were doing, until Petty Officer Ferrara was killed. Then he began to doubt the mission. He was looking for guidance. In order to get it, he had to give me background. About the victims and about what they were up to. And why."

Gibbs stored the reference to 'mission.' Radkoff had used the same word. "And in the process of this, he told you about the others."

"Yes."

"So he knows everything," Gibbs said.

Hatton shrugged. "I don't know what everything is."

"But he knows enough that you decided you had to reach 20 years into the past and warn me."

"So you could warn Holbrook."

"How'd you know it was my case?"

Hatton frowned. "How do you think I knew? I called the Navy Yard and asked who was handling the investigation into Petty Officer Ferrara's death."

"And they told you?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't they?"

"What else did they tell you?"

"I don't follow," Hatton said.

"Did they tell you about the other victims?"

"No."

"So how'd you know I knew?"

"About the others?"

"Yes," Gibbs said. He realized Hatton was stalling. "How did you know that telling me about the other victims wasn't going to break the privilege you're claiming?"

Hatton's eyes narrowed. Gibbs pushed it a little harder.

"And how'd you know that I'd be aware of the motive? Outside of my team, no one at the Navy Yard knows that."

Again, silence.

"So your guy mentioned my name, gave you details from my investigation. Is he inside? A member of my team maybe? I deserve to know that, at least. Don't I?" Gibbs baited him.

"No, he's not anyone you work with," Hatton said.

"But he knows what we're doing. He told you it was me, and told you I knew what was going on. He told you I'd sent a man to the Roosevelt, but he got the ID wrong. So not inside, but watching."

Hatton didn't respond.

"You took a call at your base in Afghanistan from someone in Norfolk. Probably someone on the Roosevelt itself. No one on the military payroll is going to make that call on their own dime, so chances are very good it went through the DSN. Which means there'll be a record of the call. If I look for it, I will find it."

There was another moment of silence. Hatton's eyes narrowed. A mix of anger and dismay, Gibbs thought. The Commanding Officer clearly wanted to order Gibbs to stand down, to do what he was told and damn the consequences. The man just as clearly wanted to pretend he'd never said a word. Finally, he took a deep breath and let it out in a rush.

"If you go to the trouble of checking records from the Afghanistan switchboard for the past week, you won't find anything significant. No outgoing calls from my office long enough to cover the conversation I would have had to have had to get this information. You'll find plenty of calls between my office and personnel from the Roosevelt, both on the ship and ashore. They're headed our way with troops and equipment. Arrangements are being made. It's my job. But I've made no calls that would get your attention.

"Records of DSN calls originating from the Roosevelt will likely get you something more interesting: A single phone call, late evening for them, early morning for us, lasting more than an hour. There won't be any way of tracing who made the call, since all calls leaving the ship go through the central switchboard.

"Based on that, and considering the limitation of the vows I took, I will confirm that sometime in the past week I had a conversation with someone aboard the Big Stick, someone who was in some way involved in a string of assaults on sailors of that ship, who got spooked by the death of Petty Officer Ferrara, and who was having second thoughts about continuing his mission. He mentioned the next target was someone NCIS had aboard asking questions, said the attack was imminent, and he was afraid it would compromise them. After that call, I started making arrangements to move up a planned trip to Washington so I could warn you in person.

"I am not going to tell you who I talked to, and I am not going to give you anything more to help you identify him. I wish I could, but I can't."

The men fell silent again. Around them, the lunch crowd was swelling. The waitress, seeing they were finished eating, came to gather their dishes and offer dessert. When they both declined, she refilled their coffee cups and left them alone again.

"You approve of what they're doing?" Gibbs asked when she'd gone.

"No," Hatton said immediately. Then he continued: "I understand it, though."

"You do?" Gibbs asked with raised brow.

"Of course I do. I understand the marginalization, the fear of the unknown, the desire to hold on to what you believe is right. This country is steadily moving toward center. Apathy is destroying us. When something you believe so strongly in is challenged, I understand the desire to strike out, to stop the change any way you can. Doesn't mean I think they're doing the right thing. Doesn't mean I wish I couldn't just put a name on a post-it and slip it to you."

"So why don't you? I'll never tell." Gibbs smiled a little to soften the words. Hatton sighed again.

"It's important, you know. To stick to a code, even when it's inconvenient."

"Especially when it's inconvenient," Gibbs added. Hatton nodded.

"The vows I took were a covenant between me and God. They are as important to me as Semper Fi," Hatton said. "Can you understand that much?"

"Yes," Gibbs said. "I don't like it, but I understand. Can you talk to him again, convince him to give me something? See if he's interested in a deal?" He mentally cringed as he said it. O'Sullivan had been an exception to his general policy of never making deals unless it was truly his only choice.

Hatton shook his head, but it was in resignation this time, not denial. "I don't know, Gunny. He wasn't looking for a way out. He was just... trying to reconcile what happened to Petty Officer Ferrara with his own beliefs."

"So what counsel did you give him?" Gibbs asked.

"I told him it needed to stop. That what they were doing was not a holy mission. I reminded him that punishing sinners was a job reserved for God. 'Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.' I told him he could not receive absolution if he intended to repeat the sin. I advised him that in order to receive a full measure of God's forgiveness, he should turn himself in."

"You think he's going to?" Gibbs asked.

"Not likely. He still believes strongly in what they're doing. Still thinks it's the most expeditious way of purging the Navy of those who would destroy it. But he did seem open to further conversations. If I talk to him again, I'll try a little harder to convince him. It's the best I can do."

Gibbs nodded. It might be the best Hatton could do, but there had to be something else.

to be continued...