Deepkill

by Michael Kilian

  Nodding to the others, he seated himself and prepared to take his turn. It was more than an hour before he was summoned.

  Cabinet secretaries went nowhere without a dozen aides, it seemed. The conference room was crowded with them and various high-ranking Coast Guard personnel, including Admiral dePayse. Westman stood before the table, as he might before any superior officer, but the Homeland Secretary motioned to him to sit down.

  The man had a friendly but lined and weary face. He smiled at Westman, then consulted a paper someone had apparently prepared for him.

  “It says here you were onto this Bertolucci fellow before the FBI,” he said, looking up. “Is that true?”

  “I just got lucky interviewing a waitress, sir.”

  “The FBI claims they made the identification.”

  “I can’t say that they didn’t, sir. We share information. Everything I told them I put in my report to Coast Guard headquarters—and vice versa.”

  The secretary read further. “It says the special agent in charge of the joint task force asked for you to be reassigned.”

  This was not the way Westman had hoped to begin his day.

  “His privilege, sir.”

  “But you’re still on the case.”

  “We often work alone, sir. There’s not a jurisdiction problem. The waters around the Delmarva Peninsula are Coast Guard territory.”

  “We all have to get along with the FBI, Westman, just as I have to get along with the Attorney General. We’re all in this together.”

  “Yes, sir. That would be my wish as well, sir.” Westman could feel Joan dePayse’s eyes burning into him.

  The secretary leaned back in his chair. He wore a regulation Washington pinstriped suit, which was slightly too big for him.

  “What do you make of these subsequent killings out there? They’re definitely tied to the bombing?”

  “Yes, sir. I think there was a fairly large group of these people, and for whatever reason, there’s been a falling out.”

  The TSA man leaned forward to ask a question. “This Bertolucci, or whatever his real name is, do you suppose he’s still alive?”

  “None of the bodies that have been recovered was his.”

  “What would they have a falling out over?”

  “Failure to accomplish the mission. The President’s adviser is still alive. The Bay Bridge is still standing. It’s all the same as the first attempt on the World Trade Center in 1993.”

  The TSA man leaned back. His name was also dePayse. He’d been a legal officer in the Coast Guard before turning civilian.

  “You think they’re still out there?”

  “Yes, sir. Not far.”

  The Homeland Security Secretary frowned and leaned forward, resuming his proprietorship of the proceeding.

  “On this side of the bay, do you think?” he asked.

  “Probably not, sir. Washington has the most serious security in the country. These people tend to avoid hard targets.”

  “But what can they hit out on the Eastern Shore? Bean fields? Beach boardwalks?”

  “I wish I knew, sir.”

  The secretary came forward again, resting his elbows on the table. He looked to either side of him. “Anyone else have any questions?” There was a shaking of heads. “Anything else you want to tell us, Westman?”

  Here was an opportunity that would not be repeated. Perhaps he could spare Lieutenant McGrath her ordeal with a few simple words.

  “I don’t believe this is a major concern, sir,” Westman said. “But it should be looked into. The captain of a fishing boat out in Delaware claims there are two jettisoned hydrogen bombs underwater southeast of Cape Henlopen and that one of them may have a nuclear core in it. He’s been trying to locate them.”

  The secretary became fully alert. “Hydrogen bombs? I didn’t know they still made those things.”

  “The mishap apparently happened back in the 1960’s. An Air Force cargo plane lost two engines and had to jettison its load. The fishing boat captain was the pilot.”

  “And he waited until now to do something about it?”

  “Yes, sir. He was worried about nuclear material being that close to shore. And he thinks one of these weapons can be detonated.”

  “Didn’t he report it to anyone?”

  “Yes, sir. The Air Force. By letter. Several times.”

  The secretary’s facial muscles relaxed. A smile followed. “Well, then. We should leave the matter to them. Of all the agencies in Homeland Security, yours is the only one that’s part of the military, Mr. Westman, but let’s not take that too seriously.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.” He was dismissed.

  Stunned by the swiftness of his failure, Westman turned to leave. Admiral dePayse’s suddenly metal-hard voice stayed him. “Warrant Officer Westman, I would like to speak to you after this meeting. Would you please wait outside?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She was only a few minutes more in the meeting. When she emerged, she nodded to him without speaking, indicating he was to follow her. It was not until they were seated in the cafeteria downstairs, coffee in hand, that she broke her silence.

  “Why in hell did you bring up those damned bombs?” she asked, glancing quickly to make certain no one could hear her.

  “It’s something I think should be looked into.”

  “It’s crazy.”

  “No crazier than anything else going on over there.”

  “Erik. I’m trying to get us a seat at the table in this thing. We rightfully should be part of this. Wild tales about mysterious bombs no one’s seen for forty years are no help. The secretary will think that boob of an FBI agent was right to separate you from the task force. You’ll have our people back doing pollution patrols.”

  “That’s supposed to be part of the job too.”

  Her gray eyes appeared to darken. “These terrorists are our top priority. We have auxiliarists to handle the rest.”

  “We’ve been making good progress. We have an ID on the one guy.”

  “We don’t have the one guy. And until we do get him, I want no more nonsense about old hydrogen bombs, do you understand?”

  Rank was rank. Westman nodded.

  “Who are those hydrogen bomb people anyway? How did you get mixed up with them?” she asked.

  “We stopped a head boat that was anchored offshore. The old pilot’s. He and his people were looking for the bombs.”

  “With what?”

  “Some sort of underwater metal detector.”

  “Who else is involved?”

  “The head boat captain has a sort of crew on the boat, a couple of kids. And a Navy woman who helps out.”

  “Navy woman?”

  “Ex-Navy. She used to fly Tomcats off a carrier.”

  “A woman carrier pilot, and she’s working on a head boat?”

  Westman glanced about the room. No one was paying much attention to them. “I don’t know that much about it.”

  She sighed. “All right. We all have to get back to work. The Homeland Security Secretary’s going to meet with the President today. Perhaps we’ll get an honorable mention.”

  The admiral finished her coffee. Westman did the same. He noticed her husband approaching. “What would you like me to do?” he asked.

  “Get back on the case. I’ll try to get you hooked up with the FBI again.”

  “All right. I’ll head back for Cape May.”

  He started to get up, but the look in her eyes stayed him. “I don’t want you on a boat anymore, Erik. I want you on land where the bad guys are.”

  “Very well.”

  “Do you need help?”

  He shook his head. “There are police and FBI agents all over the Eastern Shore.”

  Her husband was standing at the table. “I thought that went well,” he said, smiling down at his wife.

  She smiled back. “Hope so.” She stood up, prompting Westman to do the same.

  “Go
od morning, Mr. dePayse,” Westman said.

  Her husband nodded in reply. “Good work out there.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  DePayse took his wife’s arm. “Ready?”

  “Yes.” She looked to Westman. “I’d like a report from you tonight. Do you have my cell phone number?”

  Erik hesitated, but not too long. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The Roberta June lay listlessly at anchor off the south end of Deepkill Slough. It was mid-morning on what had become a muggy day and Cat was feeling the heat, and her own trepidation. But there was no longer any avoiding it. The time had come to take the plunge.

  It seemed quite a different prospect now that it was at hand, and Cat didn’t like it much. She’d come to realize she didn’t want to be near a nuclear device—not staring it in the face, not coming within a mile of it—no matter how old it was.

  But she’d promised. There was nothing for it.

  She had marked the spot where they’d detected the underwater metal, using a Global Positioning System device Burt had rented to get an exact satellite reference. From here on, they could never lose their place.

  Underwater, though, things might not be so neat and easy.

  Cat went belowdecks to remove her shorts and bathing-suit top and put on her wet suit. The air temperature was in the eighties, with humidity to match. But the seawater at depth would be cool, even cold, and that would wear on her if she was working any length of time.

  Amy Costa helped her get into the suit.

  “You have a nice bod,” she said.

  “Thanks.” Compliments like that from women made Cat uncomfortable. Her bosom was modest, proportionate to her slender form. Though small, Amy was very buxom.

  Cat hurried the completion of her task. She had run water through the inside of the wet suit to ease her way into it, but the top was still a tight go. It caught at her hair, painfully, as she pulled it on.

  “You have nice hair too,” Amy said.

  Cat ran her fingers through it, combing it free. “Such as there remains of it after that.”

  “Burt likes you, you know.”

  “I like him too.”

  “I mean, he likes the way you look.”

  Cat strapped on her weight belt. “Burt is kind of what my father was to me, except my father didn’t drink so much.”

  “I don’t think that’s the way Burt looks at it.”

  “However he looks at it—and me—that’s the way it is.”

  “Why are you doing this for him then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought—I mean, like you two are neighbors, and you spend so much time together.”

  “That’s all we are. Neighbors, good friends. I’m doing this for Burt so he won’t have to spend so much money finding what he’s looking for.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Amy, I think Burt’s pretty sick.”

  “He’s been talking like that ever since I went to work for him. And that’s been two years now.”

  She tugged Cat’s weight belt around.

  “I think it’s a bit more serious now,” Cat said. “Anyway, I don’t want him wasting money on some high-priced salvage crew that could be better spent on medical care. I also think he shouldn’t sell this boat.”

  “Same here.”

  “Amy, if Burt does get really sick, could you and Joe Whalleys run the boat on your own? Till he gets well. Or …”

  “Sure. Burt doesn’t like to think so, but I can handle the boat easy.”

  “It may come to that. You’d get more money. I’d see to that.”

  “Sure.”

  Cat was fiercely hot inside the wet suit. “Okay, let’s get on with this.”

  “You know, I suppose it really could be kinda dangerous down there.”

  “In spots. I’m not exactly a neophyte.”

  “A what?”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  That could turn out to be a lie.

  Tumbling backward off the aft rail of the Roberta June was quite like jumping into night.

  In the Caymans—when the sun was high—there was enough light along the reefs to read by a hundred feet down. You could look in any direction and within a few minutes count a thousand kinds of sea life around you.

  Here in northern Delaware, this far out from the shore, only twenty feet down, she could see not a single creature. She had a handheld light and another on her head affixed to her mask strap, but neither penetrated much beyond a few feet. Whatever it might be like along the beach, the water here at Deepkill Shoal and Slough was filthy—a dark murk like a bad fog.

  Floating just above bottom, turning ever so slowly from side to side to gain a true picture of the underwater topography, Cat thought hard upon the matter and decided the project might still be doable—somehow. It had to be.

  On the screen aboard the Roberta June, the metal object had been showing clearly. Down here—nothing, no matter where she looked.

  A remotely operated undersea vehicle with high-intensity lights and a pinger-locator system would be really nice to have. Unfortunately, she had nothing of the kind at her disposal—only Burt’s small magnetometer and the sonar device, which she’d left waiting up on the Roberta June until she first reconnoitered the area a little.

  She urged herself on. She could see the huge dark shadow of the Roberta June right enough, just over her shoulder, as well as its anchor line, running from leeward down to the bottom. It was a little past low tide. If she followed the anchor line forward toward the top of the shoal, the water should get shallower.

  With a kick, she began slowly moving ahead through the dark green gloom. Kick, float, pause. Kick, float, pause. Keeping the handheld lamp steady, she moved her head slowly from side to side, scanning the murk. Slightly below her, she glimpsed the shadowy silhouettes of three or four fish, then two more. Then there was nothing. Suddenly, a grotesque shape darted before her eyes, staring hard at her, then vanishing.

  Her brain overcame the adrenaline. It was only a sea robin, its small size amplified by proximity. The little thing had spooked her, Cat McGrath, who had swum with barracuda and sharks when she was only a ten-year-old kid. She was losing her nerve.

  The ocean bottom was now rising in grade, the dim light becoming a trifle brighter as she followed the upward slope.

  There was something ahead and to the right in the sand, something metal. She could see the faint gleam—a sharp angle.

  For the briefest imaginable fraction of a moment, she permitted herself the exhilarating rush of idiotic optimism, tantalizingly harboring the wish-fueled assumption that this could be one of the bombs, that their labored calculations had been spot on, that they were the deserving recipients of extraordinary good luck. She imagined herself saying years afterward, “Think of it. We found one of the bombs first time down and not a hundred feet from the boat.”

  She pushed herself nearer.

  Foolish, foolish girl. The metallic object was nothing but a goddamned lawn chair! What kind of people lived here, dumping trash like that into the water? She could just imagine a big fat tubby motor cruiser, captained by some big fat tubby suburbanite with too much money. One of his deck chairs collapses under his weight and so he angrily tosses it overboard. In the Caymans, try something like that near a fragile offshore reef, and they’d run you into the nick.

  Cat kicked still closer, reached down, and tried to lift the chair, discovering it was in large part imbedded in the sand. Trying again, she felt something rip across the side of her hand. A big fish lure. The chair frame was cluttered with snagged tackle.

  Abandoning it, she moved away and back onto her intended path along the sea bottom, which continued upward. Finally, it leveled off.

  She needed to orient herself. Kicking her way to the surface, she turned slowly around, spotting the boat standing off maybe a hundred feet from her. Amy and Burt were on the bridge. He was looking elsewhere, but Amy saw her, perhaps having noticed the spl
ash Cat made rising.

  Cat waved.

  “You okay?” Amy called.

  Burt had lifted his head in Cat’s direction, but said nothing.

  “Fine!” said Cat, after removing her mouthpiece, sounding like someone who’d gone for a dip at summer camp.

  She had to get on with this. She waved a last time to the boat, reinserted her mouthpiece, then reluctantly returned to the water.

  The bottom began to slip away from her now as she proceeded, a gentle grade at first—sloping down about ten feet, then more steeply. Swimming boldly into the darker area, she followed the decline to twenty-five or thirty feet, where the sea bottom leveled. Swiveling her lamp, she saw that she was on an apron. Bearing left, she moved to its edge, noting a very steep drop. She did not want to be there.

  But she had come to look, to search. There was an investment here in time and risk that she must amortize.

  The lamplight helped guide her a little, but with no certainty. She turned again, and this time she saw it—a long metallic object, maybe fifteen or sixteen feet. It had to be what they’d seen on the sonar screen. At last.

  Kicking hard, she propelled herself to it, reaching to touch its hard edge. But there was something wrong—too many straight lines and sharp angles. Nothing round or cylindrical.

  It was a boat! A skiff from the look of it. Sunk and overturned—fairly recently. Parts of the metal gleamed, even in this murk.

  She was about to cry. She swore instead.

  Her head burst above the surface, this time with a very large splash. The Roberta June was directly in front of her.

  She headed toward home. It infuriated her that their prospects now seemed so overwhelmingly hopeless, that the sea had betrayed them so teasingly. She feared she was losing her courage. Terrified by a sea robin. How the macho men on the carrier would have laughed over that.

  Amy was standing on the platform aft, and helped her swing aboard and up to the main deck. Removing her belt and web gear and tank, pulling off the mask, and then her flippers, Cat sat down on the deck and leaned back against the rail, closing her eyes.