Deepkill

by Michael Kilian

  “I can’t tell you anything new, Captain Schilling,” he said, deciding not to treat the old man as a civilian, but as a military person of inferior rank. “This is a very old business, and nothing’s changed, has it? This is just jettisoned ordnance. Ocean’s full of it. Nothing in the record to indicate any danger or threat. Hasn’t caused any kind of problem in nearly forty years. Everything’s fine.”

  Burt opened his own file folder to its few contents. On top was a Xerox copy of the letter from his deceased copilot. He shoved it across the table. “Not fine. Sir.”

  Baker briefly studied it, then pushed it back.

  “Right,” he said. “You referred to this man in your other letters.”

  “My copilot, and he says the last bomb to go out had the plutonium core in it.”

  “He waited a long time to write you this.”

  “Yes, he did, but that doesn’t change anything.”

  “And now he’s dead.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  Baker leaned back in his chair. “You say you’ve found one of these bombs? Just off Cape Henlopen?”

  “To the southeast of it. We’ve had it marked with a float. You can come and get it.”

  “You have a picture?” the major asked.

  Cat cursed herself. It would have been easy to have taken a photograph. A simple little detail she’d overlooked. And now it might cost them the Air Force’s help.

  “No, sir,” she said. “Not yet.”

  The colonel’s eyebrows lifted. “Do you have it marked on a chart?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s near Deepkill Slough.”

  “And you’re sure this is the bomb that has the plutonium core?”

  Burt shook his head. “Haven’t gotten to the nose housing—yet. It’s hard to tell.”

  Baker glanced at Cat, his eyes lingering.

  “And you were the one who found the bomb?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He glanced at the visitor list Baldessari had given him. “Just who are you, Miss, er, McGrath?”

  “She’s my neighbor,” Schilling said. “She’s been helping me. She’s a former Navy Tomcat pilot.”

  Baker seemed interested—too much so. Cat wished Burt hadn’t brought that up.

  “You a professional diver, miss?” said the major in the corner.

  “No,” said Cat. “It’s just something I used to do.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I fly advertising banners along the beach. I may be taking a job with an airline in the Midwest.”

  “And you?” he asked Westman, taking an interest in him for the first time.

  Westmant met the man’s gaze. “I’m a friend.”

  “It says here you’re with the Coast Guard.”

  “Coast Guard Investigative Service.”

  “You have jurisdiction in this case?”

  “I’m just here as a friend. Nothing official. But I have some knowledge in the field of sea-bottom recovery and their contention sounds entirely reasonable. It’s hardly the first time nuclear weaponry has gone into the ocean.”

  “Is that so?” the colonel said.

  “And I can vouch for these people. They’ve been assisting me with a case I’m working on.”

  “And what is that, Warrant Officer Westman?”

  “The attack on the Bay Bridge.”

  There was a silence. “Are you saying there’s a connection?” the colonel asked.

  “No, sir. But if there’s a chance there could be in the future, I’d like to do everything possible to prevent that from happening.”

  Baker leaned back. “All right, Captain Schilling, what is it you’d like us to do?”

  “You mean you’ll help us?”

  “Didn’t say that. Don’t know if I can. Tell me what you think we can do.”

  Burt scowled. “Like I said in all my letters. Get the goddamn thing out of the water. Help me find the other one and get that out too. We had no choice when we dropped them into the bay, but they shouldn’t have been left there.”

  “Have you been in contact with the Navy?” said the major in the corner.

  Burt scowled at him. “No.”

  Baker ignored Schilling’s folder. “Our records indicate there’s no problem. You say no one removed the trigger housing. All you have is a letter from a dead man, who had a hard-on against the Air Force for years.” He grinned, but with no friendliness. “Just like you, Captain.”

  “Look, Colonel. That bomb came from this base. I flew it out of here. It’s up to the base to get it back. It’s up to you.”

  “Maybe if you could establish there’s a nuclear core.”

  “You’d want me to come back here with a couple pounds of fissionable plutonium and dump it on your desk?”

  “Captain, it’s time to face facts. There is no plutonium. The Air Force would not have left these bombs down there if there was.”

  “You were going to leave a bomb with plutonium in it in the water at Palomares.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” said the colonel. “Long before my time.”

  Burt gripped the edge of the table a moment, as if fighting back pain. Then wiped his eyes and turned them back on the colonel. “What if I were to go to the Wilmington paper with this?”

  Baker colored. Before he could speak, the major in the corner intruded again.

  “They’d call this base to check it out, being a responsible publication,” the major said, “and we’d tell them that you’re being treated at the Veterans Hospital for an alcohol-related medical condition.”

  Burt swore.

  “It’s true,” the major said to Baker. “It’s all in the records.”

  Cat stood up, putting her hand on Schilling’s shoulder.

  “Come on, Burt,” she said. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

  The colonel rose, relieved that the conversation seemed to be over. He’d try to leave them happy, or at least happier.

  “Look, Captain. I understand your concern. I appreciate it. You’re worried about the welfare of the local community, and so are we at this base. So is the entire Air Force.”

  Burt got to his feet, shoving his chair back. Westman was still seated.

  “All right,” Baker said. “I’ll do this for you. I’ll take it up with my boss. If he says okay, we’ll make another check of the records.”

  “Records? You don’t need records. Check out the bomb.”

  “Let us follow proper procedure, okay? Go through channels. This is the military, remember, Captain?”

  Schilling just turned his back and started for the door.

  “The papers in the file,” said the major. “Those are originals?”

  “Copies,” snarled Burt, going through the door.

  When the visitors had gone, the major came around to Baker’s side of the table, taking up the file folder Captain Schilling had left.

  “I’d better take that,” he said. He nodded toward the thicker folder Baldessari had in front of him. “That one too.”

  Baldessari slid it to the other man carefully. It didn’t matter. Following habit, he’d made copies of everything. Never once in his military career had he ever gotten chewed out for losing something.

  “What next?” Baker asked.

  “Nothing next,” said the major. “Not for you. We’ll take over from here. As far as this base is concerned, it’s a dead issue. Case closed.”

  “But that guy’s been hassling us for months. He’s not going to stop.”

  “Colonel. We checked his records. He hasn’t got long to live.”

  Chapter 24

  Westman said good-bye to Cat and Schilling at the main gate of the base and drove north toward the Memorial Bridge, using his cell phone to call Dewey on the Manteo.

  “Where are you?” he asked when the lieutenant came on the line. The connection was bad.

  “Corson’s Inlet,” Dewey said.

  “That’s up the Jersey shore by Sea Isle City.”


  “Right.”

  “Something going on?”

  “Rescue.”

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t be bothering you when you’re busy.”

  “Not busy. We recovered the boaters. Everybody survived.”

  “Where are you headed? I’d like to come aboard. I think our bad guys may hit something up Delaware Bay. The Wilmington police think so too.”

  Dewey hesitated. “Buzzard’s Point was looking for you. They flashed me a few minutes ago.”

  “Who at Buzzard’s Point?”

  “Admiral dePayse.”

  “Did she say what’s up?”

  “No. Just that it’s important.”

  Westman pulled off to the side of the road. “Thank you, Tim. Talk to you soon.”

  “Roger that.”

  Erik sat there, unwilling to make the call, for many minutes. But this was cowardice as bad as flinching under fire. Finally, irritably, he punched in the number, grateful when there was no answer.

  Checking his own messages, he found two from Joan dePayse and a later one from his director.

  The CGIS chief answered after only one ring. “Erik. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “That’s why I’m calling, sir.”

  “You’re being transferred.”

  “Sir?”

  “TDY. To Portsmouth.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Cargo-container case. Fifth District headquarters’ll give you a fill.”

  “Where does this order come from?”

  There was a pause as the director looked for something. “Admiral dePayse,” he said.

  When he called the lady again, her secretary answered. He was very blunt in his request.

  Cat heard her phone ringing in the house as she turned off the Wrangler’s engine. She ignored it for a moment, then leapt out of the car and bounded up her wooden steps—thankful for once that her caller was persistent. She answered after the sixth ring.

  Her happiness at hearing Westman’s voice did not last long. She spoke with him briefly, then returned the phone to its hook clumsily. Going to the door, she called to Schilling to come in. When he had taken a seat on the couch, she slumped down next to him, taking a deep breath before speaking. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Burt. But the Air Force isn’t going to help us.”

  “What are you talking about? We only just left them. They couldn’t get through to the right people in the Pentagon in this short a time.”

  “That was Erik. They phoned the Coast Guard to check on his bona fides and the call got kicked up to this woman admiral who seems to rule his life. She told them the bomb story was fraudulent. She said we were crackpots who had hoodwinked him and that they shouldn’t listen to us. Said we’d both been kicked out of the service and were trying to get back at the powers that be. And she’s had him transferred to Portsmouth to work a case that has nothing to do with our bombs or even the bridge case or anything at all of any real consequence.”

  Burt mouthed an obscenity, sinking back, his sense of defeat overwhelming him completely. He seemed too weary even to speak.

  “I’m sorry, Burt. He didn’t make this up.”

  Schilling remained silent, his eyes turning to the kitchen, but lacking the will even to ask for a drink.

  “Do you want a whiskey?” she asked. She rose, anticipating an affirmative answer.

  “No. Not now.” He recalled his manners. “Thanks, though.”

  She went to her front window. “What are you going to do?”

  “We don’t need them, Cat. All we have to do is get the thing to the surface. The water’s not that deep. It’s …”

  “I’m not going back down there, Burt. Not for anything. I hate to say that. I don’t want to make you any unhappier than you are now. But I just can’t handle it. Landing F-14’s on boats, that I think I can go back to. But hugging hydrogen bombs, I’m afraid not.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “As sure as death.”

  She wished she hadn’t chosen those words, but appreciated their effect. He ceased further argument.

  “I’ll hire that salvage outfit. I can still sell the boat.”

  “You neither like nor trust that guy.”

  “Yeah. Well.”

  “What about you and Amy?”

  “What do you mean?” He was becoming animated now—the color of life returning to his face.

  “Aren’t you two going to get married?”

  “I said that?”

  “You needn’t have. It’s seemed pretty clear to me you would.” She put a hand on his arm. “I think it’s great. But live or die, Burt, you’ve got to provide a means of support. And that’s the Roberta June. Amy runs that boat better than you do. Certainly better than I do. Leave it to her, and she’s got a chance. Otherwise, she’ll be cutting bait the rest of her life. Maybe, if she’s lucky, she might get a job waitressing. The Bridgeville diner or something.” She shook his shoulder gently. “Burt, you can’t sell your boat.”

  “And you won’t help me. So what do I do?”

  “You found the bomb. You told the Air Force where it is. You’ve done your job.”

  “Saying that won’t get the damn thing off the sea bottom.”

  “Maybe that’s the best place for it.”

  “I don’t think you understand, Cat.”

  “Maybe not. But right now I’ve got a fight on my hands getting back into the Navy, and I may have another trying to keep my pilot’s license. And I’ve got to get a job that will actually put food on the table. To put it simply, Burton Schilling, I’ve got better things to do.” She stood up. “I’ll get you that drink now.”

  “He’s the guy who fucked this up, you know. Your pal Westman. Hadn’t been for him, we might have gotten somewhere with those Air Force people.”

  “Not in a million years, Burt. They were just indulging you.” She went into the kitchen.

  “That Colonel Baker is a pilot. You and I are pilots. He would have helped us. Your friend Westman is what put him off—him and that lady admiral.”

  “He was trying to help you, Burt. Let’s leave it at that.”

  She filled a glass half-full of bourbon, then added water from her tap. He never used ice.

  He nodded thanks, then stood contemplating this refreshment, as though it played a role in some momentous decision. Then, to her amazement, he set that glass down on the counter.

  “Later maybe,” he said. “I appreciate it, Cat. Everything.” He moved toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “See a man about fishing nets.”

  Orders were orders, whoever gave them. With reluctance that bordered on a painful affliction, Westman drove the coast road back down to Ocean City, following a route that would take him to the southern end of the Delmarva Peninsula and across the mouth of Chesapeake Bay via the long bridge and tunnel. He’d be in Portsmouth in an hour.

  He knew the commander there—a man he’d worked with in the Caribbean on drug cases years before. The container case he’d been assigned to now involved drugs as well. It was as routine as anything the Coast Guard had ever handled. The shipper of the containership was legitimate and respectable, well known to U.S. Customs. The drug shipment, nearly a million dollars’ worth of coccaine, had obviously been placed in the container by someone else. It had turned up in a random search.

  The investigation was to discover the intended recipient of the shipment, a discovery that Westman doubted would ever be made. Portsmouth could easily handle the case without him. It was a pointless misdirection of CGIS resources. It was an exile.

  Coming to a familiar crossroads, he on impulse turned off the main highway onto an access road that led across the small Verrazano Bridge and the causeway to Assateague Island. Once on the other side, he drove past the Maryland state park that occupied the northern end of the long barrier-reef island. The state facility banned dogs, a prohibition that had long annoyed him. The National Park Service’s Assateag
ue Island National Seashore just to the south welcomed them. He continued on to the entrance to that substantial holding, pulling into a parking lot near the dune and beach.

  There were few people in attendance, and only two dogs. Curiously, three of the wild ponies who inhabited the island had come down to the beach and settled down in the sand near the farthest reach of the waves, looking for all the world like vacationers. Westman smiled, the first time he had done so since talking to his director.

  Moving down the beach a bit, he seated himself in the sand, drawing up his knees and resting his chin on his folded arms as he contemplated the sea—and his dilemma.

  His relationships with Catherine McGrath and Joan dePayse were simple matters. He was not going to let the Navy lady slip out of his life and he was not going to let Joan interfere with that—no matter what.

  The question he had to resolve was his relationship with the Coast Guard, which he loved as well. He had never knowingly disobeyed an order in all his time in service. But the Coast Guard Investigative Service was conceived as an independent agency, and its investigators were properly not subject to outside orders. The transgression here was Admiral dePayse’s. It was she who had crossed a line.

  But it was she who could cause him and his agency considerable pain and suffering. Westman had to do what he thought best and right, but somehow without directly violating dePayse’s instructions. He rang back his director, using his cell phone.

  “You owe me thirty days leave, sir,” he said. “I’d like to take it.”

  “Erik, you can’t do that. Not now.”

  “Two weeks ago, you all but ordered me to do that—because I hadn’t taken leave due me last year at all.”

  “Yes, but with this Bay Bridge attack, everything’s changed. We’re on a stop-loss order. Every available man and woman is on this terrorist case.”

  “Except me, remember? Sending me down to Portsmouth is as good as letting me take leave. Worse actually—because you’re sending me out of the area. On leave, I’ll be here in Delaware, handy to everything.”