Warren Murphy - Death Therapy

Remo began to work his way up stairwells, heading for where he knew the captain's cabin would be. After three flights of steps, the steps ended. He turned left into a passageway, then darted quickly back into the opening to the stairwell.

A sailor with a shotgun stood in front of a door in the center of the passageway. That must be the captain's cabin.

Remo thought for a moment, then took a tank-type fire extinguisher down from the wall next to him. Cradling it in his arms like a baby, he began to whistle and quickly stepped off into the passageway, his feet wide apart, affecting the seaman's rolling walk. Up ahead, the sailor sprang to attention as Remo drew near. Remo grinned, nodded at him and kept walking.

"Hold it," the sailor called. "Where are you going?"

"Replacing that fire extinguisher down there," Remo said, holding the tank high in his arms to hide his shirt. "It's got to be recharged."

The man with the gun hesitated, then said, "All right. Step it up."

"Aye, aye," Remo said and then took a step forward, drawing abreast of the man. He spun and tapped him alongside the head with the heavy galvanized tank of the extinguisher. The man dropped heavily to the floor. He would be unconscious for quite a while, Remo thought.

Inside his cabin, Admiral Crust sat up on his bed. He was going to telephone Lithia Forrester. Maybe see her again tomorrow. If need be, even sign up for her stupid therapy program.

Crust's head snapped up as his cabin door flew open and a man slid in, closing the door rapidly behind him.

"Admiral Crust?" the man asked.

"Who'd you expect? John Paul Jones? You've got a hell of a nerve parading in here without knocking."

"Admiral, who I am isn't important. I've come to tell you your life's in danger."

Another nut come to warn him about Remo Donaldson, Crust thought. But then he looked into the hard eyes of the man facing him across the cabin and he knew that this was Remo Donaldson. Best to play it easy and gentle.

"Come in, man," the admiral said. "What's this all about?"

"Admiral, I believe you know a Dr. Lithia Forrester?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Well, she plans to kill you. In fact, she thinks I'm here right now killing you for her.*"

"I've only met this Forrester woman twice," Crust said. "Why would she want to kill me?"

"She's involved in some kind of scheme against our country, Admiral. I don't know all the details of it. But somehow you're in her way and she plans to kill you."

"And who are you? How do you know all this?"

"Just a government employee, Admiral," Remo said, stepping another pace into the room. "And it's my business to know."

"What would you recommend I do?"

"The guards are a good idea on the ship. Double them. And tell them no one is to be allowed access to you. At least for the next couple of days."

"Things will be safe in a couple of days?" Crust asked.

"Things will be over in a couple of days," Remo said, "Admiral, I don't have much time. But believe me. This is important. Stay out of sight. Stay away from Dr. Forrester. Be careful. I'm sorry that I can't tell you any more."

"Secret, hmmm?"

"Top secret, Admiral."

Behind Remo, the door flew open and he felt a gun barrel pressed against the base of his skull.

"Admiral. Are you all right?"

"Yes, Chief, I am. What happened to the man outside the door?"

"Knocked out. We saw him in the hall and decided to take a chance and bust right in."

"Good thing you did," the Admiral said, still sitting on his bed. The phone at his elbow began to ring. He held up a hand to the three sailors behind Remo, indicating they should wait a moment, and lifted the phone to his ear.

"Yes, Lithia," he said. "Just a moment." He smiled at Remo. Deep down in his stomach Remo felt the tension of being trapped. "Men," Admiral Crust said, "I want you to take Mr. Remo Donaldson here back to shore. Make sure he has an interesting voyage," he said, smiling.

"We will, Admiral. Very interesting," said the sailor who held the gun at Remo's neck. "Let's go, you," he said to Remo and jabbed him with the gun barrel.

Goddamn fool, Remo thought. He had been set up by Dr. Forrester, set up like a schoolchild, set into a trap, and he had walked in like the Redcoat Marching Band, noisily and stupidly.

Crust again brought the phone to his ear as Remo was herded away. At the door, Remo glanced back over his shoulder. Admiral James Benton Crust sat there on his bed, but his hard, piercing eyes were melting into pails of insipid mush. Admiral Crust was listening. And then he was humming. The same tune.

Remo could kick himself. The admiral had known his name. Lithia Forrester must have warned him that Remo was coming. She was calling to check on the results of her handiwork. Now these three sailors were going to have to pay the price.

As they stepped from the admiral's cabin, the sailor Remo had knocked out groaned on the floor. But the other three ignored him and marched Remo along the passageway toward the stairs. The one the admiral had called "chief" still held the gun to the back of Remo's neck as they walked quickly down the stairs to the main deck.

"How'd you get here, Donaldson?" asked the chief. He was not Hollywood's idea of a Navy frogman. He was a pudgy pail of fat with wild, thinning, black curly hair. Remo thought he would have been more at home behind the counter of a candy store in the Bronx than aboard the ship.

"I swam."

"Good swimmer, huh?"

"I can splash around a little."

"How come your clothes aren't wet?"

"They dried. I've been here three hours waiting for my chance."

Remo did not want them to know about the small boat tied up under the bow. He might have use for it yet. And if he were lucky—if they were all lucky—he might not have to kill them.

They were on the main deck now, amidships, and the thin salt air laid a coat of damp on everything. The three men herded Remo along to a side ladder and funnelled him down to the water where a small powerboat waited far below.

They sat Remo in the center of the boat. One of the sailors perched on the bow. The chief sat behind

Remo, his rifle still at Remo's neck. The third sailor got into the stern of the small launch, pressed the electric starter and untied the line lashing the boat to the steps.

He opened the throttle and the boat rapidly pulled away from the battleship Alabama, heading out into the inky darkness of Chesapeake Bay, toward the shore some four hundred yards away. The lights of houses and buildings twinkled on the shore in silent invitation.

They had gone only about a hundred yards when the motor was cut and the boat began to drift.

"End of the line for you, Donaldson," the chief said.

"Well, that's life," Remo said. "Don't suppose you'd change your mind if I offered to enlist? No. I guess you wouldn't." And then, in a startled voice, Remo called, "What in the hell is that?"

The man perched on the bow was a sailor, not a policeman. He followed Remo's eyes and turned to look out over the bow and Remo spun his head, sliding it alongside the barrel of the chief's gun. He locked an arm around the chief's blubbery chest and went over the side into the black water, pulling the chief after him. The rifle slid out of the chief's hands and swayed delicately away under the ink-black water.

Chief Petty Officer Benjamin Josephson was a good frogman, although that fact was disguised by his pudgy, bloated shape. He had all the arrogance of a man sure of his skills and it showed in his movements and gestures. His skill in the water had earned him the respect of his men, along with the worthiest kind of respect—his own self-respect.

But he found himself now being treated very disrespectfully with a powerful arm locked around him. With his feet, Remo tried to kick some distance between himself and the boat. As long as he had the chief with him, the sailors in the boat couldn't shoot.