“Your plan would be to work the bridge case in that event?”
“Sir, should I come upon any information while on leave that would be helpful in that investigation, I would of course contact you immediately.”
The director sighed. A brief silence followed. Westman listened to the man’s breathing. “Send me your request for leave in writing—by e-mail,” he said finally. “While I’m considering whether to grant it, you’ll be exempt from having to go to Portsmouth.”
“How many days do you think I’ll have before you come to a decision?”
“Enough. Erik, are you really onto something?”
“I believe so, sir.” Westman told him of the stolen-car reports.
“I’ll alert the Delaware River units. You carry on. I’ll see to it all your orders come directly from me.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“We’ll get through this, Erik. And we’ll get those people.”
Chapter 25
Westman was relieved to see the white Wrangler parked in front of her house. When there was no response to his knock, he opened the screen door and stepped inside, calling her name.
She was at her kitchen table, a cup of coffee in front of her. All he got from her was a glance.
He took the chair opposite. “You don’t seem particularly pleased to see me.”
“Normally, I would be, but you’ve done an unfortunate thing. I was sitting here trying to make up my mind about something. By turning up now, you’ve done it for me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I told Burt I wasn’t going to help him with this anymore—not if it involves diving underwater to wrestle bare-handed with the bomb. He took it badly. I feel crummy doing this to him. But there it is.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you could take my place.”
“Cat, I’m already in trouble with my chain of command. We’re onto something with the Bay Bridge case. I’m happy to help you as much as I can, but I can’t devote full-time to Burt’s quest. I know you got a raw deal from the Air Force—and my admiral. I’m terribly sorry about that. But I can’t cut loose from this terrorist thing.”
“I know that, Erik. I was in the Navy. First things first.”
“How have I helped you make up your mind?”
“You can’t take the time to do the dive for Burt. I don’t want to. So that’s that.”
He could not tell if she was being facetious or just brutally frank. There was a very great deal about this woman he had yet to learn.
“Let me think about it,” he said. “Let’s see what happens today.”
“Let’s go see what Burt’s up to.”
They pulled the Wrangler to a stop just forward of the Roberta June’s bow. Despite the season, it was a clammy day, with the temperature hovering around sixty. The river mist was thick, and looked persistent.
Amy was up on the flying bridge, seated by the controls and drinking from a disposable container of coffee.
“Burt’s below—sleeping,” she said. “He’s had a hard night of it.”
“Drinking?” Cat asked.
“No. Working. Come aft. I’ll show you.”
Descending the ladder as they stepped aboard, she led them to the aft deck. A large piece of machinery had been installed where the soft-drink cooler had been.
“What in hell is that?” Cat asked.
Amy patted the thing as she might a pet. “Can’t you tell, Navy? It’s a winch.”
“It’s all beaten up and rusty.”
“It’s the original that used to be on this boat. Burt sold it to a commercial fisherman upriver when he turned the Roberta June into a head boat. The guy got a new one a couple of years ago but he still had this sitting out back. Burt got it back cheap.”
“Does it run?” Westman asked.
“Yup. We tested it twice. Got a hundred fifty feet of heavy-duty line on it, plus some cable and shackle. We’re good to go.”
She turned to Cat, a hint of challenge in her voice as she said, “You coming?”
Cat looked at Westman, expressing nothing.
“Yes,” he said. “Both of us.”
After a remarkably enjoyable evening of drinking and fellowship with his cousin-in-law, Gergen had taken his crew back aboard the tug and cast off a little past midnight. They were anchored now well out into Delaware Bay near the Roosevelt Inlet. The fog was heavy, but he had good radar.
Nothing much was moving on the water. Two large inbound ships had entered the estuary and anchored. Otherwise, the screen was blank. None of the fishing vessels that usually worked this end of the bay appeared to be out.
He’d wait.
Mary Lou entered the pilothouse, carrying two beers. “Morning.” Her voice was a little dreamy.
“Does Leonard know where you are?”
“He probably thinks I’m on the Moon. Or would, if he knew there was a Moon.”
“I’ll be out on the water a while.”
“That’s all right. I like it here.” She handed him one of the beers, and took a big swallow from the other.
“When we’re done here, I’ll run you down home to Ocean City.”
“Isn’t this tug too big for the bay down there? People Leonard rents to even run aground on those Jet Skis.”
“The channel’s deep enough. Anyway, I want to talk to Leonard about something.”
She gave him a quick, nervous glance, then returned her attention to her beer.
“You think he’ll still be stoned?” Bear asked.
She shrugged. “I never know.”
An unexpected swell rocked the tug a little, causing her to reach out to him for support.
“It’ll be a while, getting down to OC from here,” she said.
He grinned. “I know.”
There was a flicker on the radar screen, hard by the line marking the coast. It showed again, a sizable boat emerging from the inlet. With an unhappy look at Mary Lou, Bear called to Roy Creed to start the engines.
Burt had stirred from his bunk, looking as bleary from his night’s work as if he had been on a bender. Amy was at the helm, her eyes on the radar. They were heading out to sea at a careful ten knots.
“Any traffic?” Burt asked.
“All behind us,” she said.
“Okay, you keep the helm.” Amy gave every indication that she would in no way be willing to relinquish it.
Burt looked to Cat and Westman, smiling, not quite understanding why they were there, but glad of it. Oddly, in that moment, his old handsomeness returned. Cat could imagine him in some pilots’ hangout, a half century before, catching every lady’s eye.
Then he ruined it by taking a coffee mug and going over to a storage compartment on the other side, taking out a full bottle of Jim Beam.
“Is this the right time for that, Burt?”
“Didn’t touch a drop last night. Time to celebrate.”
“Again,” she said.
Westman observed the old pilot carefully. He sensed that the girl at the controls was very competent and that there would be no problem as long as Schilling stayed away from them. Were he officially on duty, he’d be compelled to make the man turn back, and possibly place him under arrest. But he was on leave.
Cat went to the windscreen, looking forward. They were moving into a perpetual curtain of whitish gray that after a moment began to hypnotize her. She turned away, her eyes on Westman. She was wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and a Navy windbreaker—willing to assist but making no preparations to go into the water. Holding Burt to his word.
After finishing his whiskey, Burt went to stand behind Amy, holding on to the back of her chair, observing the radar screen as intently as she was. He remained that way until they had rounded Cape Henlopen—largely invisible in the mist. He then went to the navigation gear, unrolling a plastic-covered chart and consulting both the GPS and his Loran readings.
“South by southeast, five points off the bow,” he said.
She responded w
ith precision. Westman thought that, in their strange way, they’d make a good team. He briefly pondered the notion of Catherine McGrath and himself working a boat in the future. There were worse ways to spend a life.
They proceeded perhaps a mile in this fashion, then Burt called for full stop. At his command, Joe Whalleys deployed the anchor. The shackle and chain rattled unpleasantly through the cleat; then quiet returned as the hemp line ran through and stopped. Whalleys bent over to make it fast around the cleat as the Roberta June began to swing stern-first to the shore, the bow pointing seaward.
He searched the sea surface in all directions. They all did. Without success.
“It’s only an hour off low tide,” Burt said. “That float ought to be showing.”
“Maybe it sank,” said Amy. “Coulda been leaky.”
“I should have bought a new one,” Burt said.
“Maybe we’re off the mark,” said Cat, staring ahead. “With this ground fog, it could be fifty yards away and we’d miss it.”
“Visibility’s better than that, Catherine,” Burt said. “Give us a break.”
No one spoke; the tension slowly abated.
“Someone could have run over it,” Westman said. “There are all manner of explanations.”
Schilling lost his balance momentarily as another large swell moved the boat. Grasping for support, he flung himself into the seat opposite the controls. “So what do we do now?” he asked after taking a few deep breaths. “Make another search of the grid?”
Westman eyed the small inflatable dinghy tied to the bulkhead just aft of the flying bridge. “You have a motor for that?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me use it—and the magnetometer.”
“Look, Westman, this is my …”
“Burt! Chill! We’re all after the same thing here,” said Cat.
“I thought you said you were out of it.”
“One more time. Today. Then all bets are off.”
She went out with Westman, acting out of an impulse she couldn’t quite explain to herself, keeping the metal detector’s float clear of the outboard’s prop wash. Westman steered the inflatable in a slow, careful zigzag pattern out to the front of the Roberta June, stopping when the big boat became enveloped in mist behind them.
He idled the engine. “Let’s look to the south.”
Another zigzag pattern, equally without success.
“The other side?” she asked.
He nodded, then moved the throttle forward, crossing behind the Roberta June’s stern. She bent over her instrument. He observed her happily a moment: the tan, trim but muscular arms, a few strands of her long blond hair falling over her face. Then, noting that the big boat had disappeared from view again, he corrected his course, heading closer.
“Wait!” she said. “Stop!”
Before he could move the throttle back into neutral, he heard a loud “Bopff” as the bow of the inflatable struck the metal float.
“We’re stern to,” said Burt. “This is perfect. We’ll just come aft another fifty yards and re-anchor. Then the winch can do all the work.”
“It’s stuck fast in the sand,” Cat said. “You’ll need more power than that winch engine to shake her loose.”
“What do you suggest?”
She gestured at the control console. “Forget the winch. Use the Roberta June.”
Schilling thought upon this. “Okay. We’ll wind the cable around a couple of the stanchions and then haul it out like a horse team pulling a stump.”
Leaving Schilling and Joe Whalleys to attend to that task, Westman went below to get into diving gear. He was strapping on a weight belt when he sensed someone behind him, and turned to see Cat standing completely naked.
But she was pulling on a wet suit.
“I thought you didn’t want any more of what’s down there,” he said.
“It’s different, working with two. Working with you.”
“The bomb’s no different.”
“I’ll help you. I just don’t want to touch it.”
“Okay.”
“Do you mind?”
“I mind like hell, but let’s just do it.”
They heard someone coming down the stairs from above deck.
“Are you guys ready?” Amy asked.
Cat really wasn’t. She doubted she would ever be. But it was like her first carrier landing. The trick was to get into the air. Then she could worry about getting down again.
“Yes,” she said.
Westman stood aside. “After you.”
Bear Gergen was tired of watching the radar screen and the motionless blip that was the head boat. The old pilot was either fishing—which seemed doubtful—or going after his bomb, if there really was one.
If there was, and its nomenclature was what Bear figured, it would be one fucking valuable hunk of metal—to someone. The Pentagon had spent millions recovering these things in the past. Maybe they’d be happy to spring for one or two now to get this back. That was surely what the C-130 pilot had in mind—a little nest egg for his retirement, enough to keep that little dark-haired broad happy. Otherwise, he would have told the Feds about the bomb long before.
Who the eventual buyer might be was something Bear could work out later. The recovery was a trickier business. If these head boat people couldn’t manage it, Bear’s crew would do it. And if Schilling’s crew did accomplish it by themselves—well, Bear’s work would be all the easier.
He’d marked their location on his chart. Hovering this close any longer was a bad idea. Checking his onboard computer, which he’d clicked to the National Weather Service website, he saw that it was clearing to the west.
Bear gave the helm to Roy Creed. “Take her up the shore maybe a mile. But keep that head boat on the radar screen.”
“Okay, Bear.”
Going below, he found Mary Lou on a bunk, wearing nothing and smoking a joint. She eyed him through the smoke.
“Working,” he said, going by. Opening his arms locker, he took inventory: seven handguns, all automatics; a short-barreled .22-caliber rifle; and an M-16 that had left the service with him, along with much else. He stuck an eleven-millimeter Sig Sauer in his belt under his T-shirt, then went back to Mary Lou. Removing the joint from her hand, he took a long drag from it, then squashed it out on the deck with his shoe. “Get some sleep. You’ll need it.”
“I thought you were taking me home.”
“I am, but we got some business first.”
With the anchor weighed, Amy backed the Roberta June to within fifty feet of the float, and dropped anchor again. Once they were underwater, the plan was to have Cat and Westman yank three times on the float line when they had located the exposed rear section of the bomb, at which time Burt was to lower the winch cable and wait for them to attach the hook. When that was accomplished, they were to yank three times on the float again and then surface. What happened next was to be up to Burt.
He stood watching Westman and Cat, his coffee mug in hand. Cat kept her eyes elsewhere.
Westman smiled at her before pulling on his mask, but he seemed very serious. She touched his arm, to show she was still willing. When both were fully ready, she took hold of his hand as they got onto the aft platform, and both went backward into the water. Like thrown-back fish, they headed for the depths immediately.
The murk oppressed her as before. She followed Erik as he moved forward over the bottom sand, though she had little idea of what direction they were following. Looking up, she vaguely perceived a long shadow she presumed to be the Roberta June’s hull, but it was hardly comforting.
Westman turned on his light, prompting her to do the same. The effect was to render the murk to complete darkness but for the cones of illumination, but they could see clearly a few feet ahead. Zigzagging slightly, then lunging to the right, Westman stopped, pulling free of her hand.
She looked around him, seeing first the float line and then following it down to the strange shape on the sea bott
om. Westman crouched by the tail of the bomb, feeling as much as looking. He began scraping sand away with his hands, removing enough to reveal the angle at which the weapon lay imbedded. He stepped back, studying the thing further, then reached and yanked on the line three times.
He took her by the arm and they began backing away.
The hook, shackle, and winch cable came down in a silent whoosh, stirring bubbles and then sand as the hook struck bottom. The uncoiling line followed quickly. Burt apparently wasn’t too deep into his whiskey, for the line halted in its descent only a few seconds after. Westman moved toward it, his headlamp swinging from side to side.
Cat hurried after, not wanting to lose sight of him. With work now to be done, she pushed her fear aside. She was tired of being afraid. She now saw a point to all this. The several and sundry imbeciles and idiots they had dealt with had to be shown they were wrong. You couldn’t just leave a great lump of nuclear material on the sea bottom and treat it as an inconvenience to be ignored or forgotten. They weren’t going to let it be forgotten, whatever the cost.
She went to Westman’s side. He had taken the big heavy hook into hand and dragged the shackle and cable forward as he returned to the bomb. Kneeling beside him, she took hold of the cable while he worked the hook through the opening between the tail flange and the metal bar connecting the fins. When it seemed secure, he stood up. Without instruction, she began backing up, keeping tension on the hook and preventing the line from looping. It was heavy and bristly against the flesh of her palms, but she persevered, her eyes fixed on Erik through her increasingly cloudy mask.
He motioned to her to continue backing, and she did, though a moment later he disappeared from view. In another moment, the slack in the heavy cable vanished and it pulled taut. She saw him coming at her, as fast as he could manage. He flung an arm across her chest, pulling her away, making her drop the cable.
They heard the boat’s engine increase in RPMs, causing a whirl of bubbles. The shadow above began to move. The cable was only vaguely visible in the propeller wash. The hook appeared to be holding. They could see waves and flurries of sand spreading out to either side of the bomb’s midsection from the stress of the pull.
Deepkill Page 25
