Deepkill

by Michael Kilian

  “Yeah. Probably. But do you think that’s what this is about?”

  He puzzled over this. “Seems to me, what this is about is that Burt’s kinda like a little nuts.”

  “I used to think that myself,” she said, swiveling her chair to face the stern. “But look at that damned thing. No way Burt’s nuts.”

  It began to rain.

  Chapter 27

  “We’re going through a protected wildlife habitat,” Cat said. “Nesting ground for shore birds.”

  They walked huddled together, arm in arm, against the rain that had appeared from nowhere and was falling relentlessly. Burt walked apart from them, lost in his own thoughts, but was keeping up the pace.

  They had reached the point of the cape, and were now following the curving shore of the bay beyond. A sign warned them that these were nesting grounds. Westman, whom she’d thought such a straight arrow, ignored it.

  “Cat. When we get to your house, I think you should just get into your Jeep and head for Washington. Burt and I can handle everything.”

  “That’s a two-thousand-pound bomb hanging on the back of his boat.”

  “We have the winch—and there’s Joe Whalleys. You need to be at your lawyer’s office in the morning.”

  She hunched her shoulders against the downpour. “We’ll see.”

  Westman’s cell phone began ringing. He was going to ignore it, but remembered the message he had left Tim Dewey. He took the device from his pocket, shielding it from the rain. The lady or the tiger. In this case, Admiral dePayse was the tiger. He clicked it on.

  “Erik? It’s Tim Dewey. Sorry to get back to you so late. I left my cell in my cabin, and we’ve got our hands full here. What’s up?”

  “Hands full with what?”

  “Major alert. The FBI expects a strike against one of the Delaware River bridges. We’re patrolling locked and loaded.”

  “They give any reason?”

  “No. What did you call about?”

  Westman hesitated. “I’m with some civilians who have recovered a 1960’s nuclear weapon from the sea bottom south of Henlopen. They’re looking for help transporting it to a place of safety.”

  “Nuclear weapon?”

  “That’s what it appears to be.”

  “It’s out of the water?”

  “On the stern of their boat, but the propeller’s fouled and they can’t get under way. I was requesting assistance.”

  A pause. “Erik, with this alert, I can’t go anywhere without orders from the District. Why don’t you try for one of the forty-sevens at Indian River?”

  “Roger that.”

  “Check in later. Maybe we’ll be standing down.”

  Before Westman could reply, Schilling reached and took hold of the cell phone, clicking it off. He returned it to Westman. “I don’t want the Coast Guard. I told you that. We’ll do it ourselves.”

  “Just trying to help.”

  “I know. I respect that. But this’ll work. You’ll see.”

  Dewey stared at his now-silent cell phone a moment, then clipped it back on his belt. “I talked to Westman,” he said to DeGroot. “What a wild story.”

  The master chief’s eyes were focused ahead, where the twin spans of the Delaware Memorial Bridge had come into view. “How wild?”

  “He says he’s with some civilians who pulled a nuclear bomb out of the ocean.”

  “What strength line were they using?” DeGroot grunted, his form of laughter.

  “Actually, he sounded pretty serious. If it weren’t for this alert, I might go down the shore for a look-see. I gather these are the head-boat people we ran into before.”

  The rain increased, lowering visibility still further. DeGroot could see only one of the bridge towers now. “Including maybe that tall blond.”

  “Probably so.”

  “That guy gets nothing but trouble out of his women.”

  Dewey thought of his Sally, who had never in any way been trouble for him. “Thing about Erik,” Dewey said. “I think he likes trouble.”

  “Well, he’s got the job for it.”

  A small motorboat appeared abruptly out of the fog bank to port, coming across the Manteo’s bow.

  “What the hell is he up to?” DeGroot asked.

  “Let’s find out,” said Dewey, sounding his horn in rapid succession as a signal to heave to. When the smaller craft did not, he ordered a sharp turn to starboard to pursue.

  Leaving the Uzbeks by the main highway in the rental truck he’d stolen, Turko drove with the Iraqi down the road to the marina in his latest acquisition—a Toyota sedan. Two cars were parked outside the office shack—a sign they were open for business, though the rain was pelting down hard.

  There were three pontoon boats at the dock, all with canvas canopies up and in place. Turko supposed it would not be too wet underneath, at least if the wind remained light.

  The sliding door opened, and they went into the office, finding no one behind the counter. They waited quietly for several minutes, with the Iraqi looking at some pictures of sport fishermen and their catches that had been tacked to one wall.

  Finally, Turko heard some stirring in a room to the rear he took to be used for storage. He could see piles of life preservers through the partially opened door.

  “Hello!” he said.

  “We’re closed,” came a female voice he presumed to be that of the woman they had rented the boat from previously.

  “Your door is open,” he replied. “We need a boat.”

  “We’re closed!”

  “You have three pontoon boats. We want to rent one. We want to go fishing.”

  A male voice responded now. “You can’t go fishing in this weather. Now get the hell out of here. We’re closed!”

  “It’s those weird foreign guys,” Turko heard the girl say, more quietly.

  A decision was required, and very soon. They could just as easily steal one of the boats, but the couple would report them and the police or Coast Guard would then be looking for them. Alternatively, they could tie up and gag the couple and put them in the back of the rental truck—maybe deposited in some woods along the way.

  The Iraqi made Turko’s decision for him. Taking out the automatic pistol Turko had given him, he went behind the counter and stepped through the open door.

  The two had made a sort of bed with life preservers on the floor and were lying upon it, both completely naked, obviously waiting for Turko and his friends to go. The girl attempted to cover herself with one of the life jackets.

  “Who the fuck are …” began the boy.

  The Iraqi shot him through the face. The girl attempted to worm herself away under the life preservers. It took three shots—two in the back and one below—before she stopped moving.

  “You like doing that, don’t you?” Turko said.

  “You object?”

  He was in no position to object. He left the office and started toward the dock, leaving the Iraqi to bring down the two Uzbeks.

  Bear Gergen had been watching Schilling’s head boat on the radar as it did absolutely nothing for nearly an hour. It had moved shoreward, so close in it had to have run aground, and then sat there, stuck. It would likely have to go through the entire tide cycle before floating again.

  All that was obvious. What perplexed Gergen was why they had done this. A logical answer was that they wanted to go ashore. But they could have done that with the inflatable he’d seen aboard.

  He figured there was something they wanted to unload on the beach. He was oddly put in mind of the books he had read as a kid—pirates carrying chests of loot and treasure ashore.

  Maybe that’s what they were doing, only with something far more valuable than a box of gold coins. He couldn’t wait any longer. If they’d all left the boat, he could claim salvage. If someone was still aboard, he would be within his rights to investigate. Either way, he meant to find out if they had on board what he thought they did.

  “Head for that boat,” he
said to Roy Creed. “But keep an eye on the depth finder.”

  Schilling insisted on driving his pickup truck to Georgetown. It had a bench seat, and Cat rode between the two men, sitting closest to Westman.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Sure. I’ve made carrier traps in weather like this.”

  “You didn’t have to mess with the bombs yourself.”

  “I guess that’s the difference between Navy and civilian life.”

  Schilling laughed. He thought that over a moment, then laughed even harder, his face a picture of supreme content in the flare of headlights of oncoming cars. This had become a very strange journey. She hoped she’d be able to see it through to the end.

  Westman put his arm around her. She rested her head against his shoulder. “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “You’re putting your career on the line here.”

  “I’m doing my job.”

  Turko had the Uzbeks carry the bodies, the clothing, and the bloodstained life jackets to one of the pontoon boats, and then had them douse the pile of flesh and cloth with gasoline from the dockside fuel pump.

  “You’ll go out in the third boat with these two in tow,” he said in Russian. “When you get out mid-river, you light this flare, throw it into the boat with the bodies, and then cast them off.”

  “Why?”

  “It will catch fire and float downstream. A lot of people will see it and call the Coast Guard. Their attention will be drawn to it—and away from what you’re going to do at the power plant.”

  The smarter Uzbek began chewing his lip. “It’s raining.”

  “Yes. It is raining.”

  “It will put out the fire.”

  “It won’t put out the flare when you throw it and it will not put out the gasoline explosion.”

  “This will not kill us?”

  “Not if you do it right.”

  Turko had promised the Iraqi and the Uzbeks something no one else in Pec’s group had been offered—a chance not to die for Allah. They were to make their attack, then head upriver to the marshy landing that was to be their rendezvous point. Turko had little interest in being there to greet them, even if able. But they had no idea of that.

  “Hurry now,” he said.

  He helped them start the big outboard engine. “When you cut loose the other boat, come close to shore and stay there until it’s time.”

  “We will,” said the smarter Uzbek. The other was staring at the bodies.

  “Go,” said Turko.

  He hopped back on the deck and cast them off. Their departure was clumsy, but they managed to keep the other two pontoon boats in train. He watched them until they disappeared into the rain and mist, waiting. Perhaps fifteen minutes later, there was a sudden flare. Its glow continued. Turko hurried to the Toyota. When he returned to the main road, he was half-surprised to find the Iraqi and the rental truck still there.

  The distress call broke into the other marine radio chatter like an uninvited guest. Fire on the water was the worst possible search-and-rescue mission situation. Dewey knew they’d not be relieved from his bridge patrol to attend to the call, but he went through the calculations of how long it would take them to reach the stricken vessel nonetheless. The coal-freighter skipper who’d called in the sighting had described the boat as small and fully aflame.

  It was hopeless. There would likely be nothing but charred flotsam by the time he got there.

  There was a chopper at Cape May. Dewey radioed in a request for a search-and-assist. The reply was affirmative.

  DeGroot was observing him.

  “Something wrong, Master Chief?”

  “What kind of fire do you get in a downpour like this?” DeGroot said. “Who would be out in the river in this weather?”

  “Seems a little strange, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. I would like to know the answer.”

  “I’ve got my orders, Hugo. Maintain the patrol.”

  DeGroot made a face, then nodded. “The people aboard those boats, they must be dead by now.”

  The rain abated just as they were turning onto the road to Lewes, and stopped altogether by the time they reached their neighboring houses. Cat, who had driven Burt’s pickup from Georgetown, parked it in front of Schilling’s place. Then they joined him in the big flatbed truck he’d borrowed.

  He gunned the engine. “Let’s go.”

  “Do you think this rig is going to make it over all that wet sand?”

  “Sure,” Burt said. “How do you think all those trucks got off the beach at Normandy?”

  She smiled. “Wasn’t around for Normandy. And this isn’t an Army deuce-and-a-half.”

  “It has a better gear ratio. Anyway, if we get stuck, we can winch her out.”

  Cat looked to Westman, but he offered no counsel. “The only good way into that stretch of shoreline from here is through the State Park,” she said.

  “The gate extends only across the road,” Burt said. “Plenty of space to drive around it.”

  “There must be a half-dozen park rangers who live around there. And they patrol it regularly, looking for kids and pot parties.”

  “They won’t be expecting intruders on a night like this,” Westman offered.

  Burt nodded. “We’ll kill the headlights. I know that access road. We’ll make it.” He tossed his cigarette end out the window. “Look, Cat. We don’t have any choice. Amy and Joe are out there waiting for us. Sit here much longer, and we’ll lose the low tide.”

  Westman was deferring to Cat on this. “Okay,” she said, “but let’s take the Wrangler too. There’s all kinds of trouble we can get into over there, Burt. It could come in handy. Four-wheel drive.”

  He lighted another cigarette. “I’m not objecting. You take the lead.”

  She had forgotten to put up her side curtains. The seats were wet and there were a couple of inches of water on the floor. She removed her shoes and got in. Westman climbed in beside her, making no complaint.

  They had trouble getting the truck over a deep sandy rise, accomplishing this feat only with a tow from the Wrangler. But once down on the tidal flat of the beach, they rolled along smoothly. In the lightening sky, the Roberta June was clearly visible, sitting canted over to one side very close to the shore.

  Cat stopped the Wrangler just short of the furthest reach of wave. Burt pulled the big truck up behind her, turning it toward the sea. He flashed the headlights on and off three times.

  There was no response from the boat. Cat turned off her engine and stepped out on the sand. Westman, and then Burt, came up beside her.

  Burt tried shouting, but his whiskey-and-smoke-damaged voice wasn’t up to it. Cat managed better, calling Amy’s name twice.

  No answer.

  “Maybe they’re asleep,” Burt said.

  Cat and Westman both shouted for Amy, with the same result.

  “Maybe they got tired of waiting and came ashore,” Burt said.

  “Amy wouldn’t do that,” said Cat. “And I don’t see the inflatable.”

  “It’s almost shallow enough to wade out there,” Burt said.

  “I’ll do that,” Westman said. He pulled off his shirt and shoes and set his wallet and pistol on top of them.

  Cat removed her shoes and moved into the water ahead of him. “Let me go first. I know the boat.”

  Westman hesitated, then retrieved his pistol. “Lead on.”

  The ladder was still in place at the port side. The Roberta June was leaning in that direction and the climb was difficult. Cat scraped her calf getting over the rail. Westman came up silently behind her.

  There was something very wrong. Cat thought at first it was a trick of the eye in the night’s darkness, but it wasn’t. She had excellent night vision. What she saw was fact.

  The bomb was gone. She could not imagine how it had been removed. It was as though the hand of God had reached down and taken the evil thing. It was as th
ough it had never existed, and was only a wild imagining.

  “Look aft,” she said to Westman.

  “I see.”

  “Amy!” Cat realized she sounded angry. She was.

  Again no reply.

  The deck was deserted. With Westman following, Cat moved into the main cabin, finding nothing untoward.

  She said it again, more gently now. “Amy?”

  Only the surf responded. “Erik?”

  “Right behind you.”

  She started up the companionway, the metal cold against her bare feet.

  Good pilots could tell when something was amiss before it registered on their instruments. Cat had that feeling now.

  Everything seemed normal up on the flying bridge, until she noticed the dark form beneath the captain’s chair. Burt kept a flashlight in the bin to the side. Cat groped for it and turned it on. With sudden reluctance, she pointed the beam at the motionless shape on the deck.

  It was Amy, facing away and utterly still, as though in deep sleep. She’d been wearing a white T-shirt. Now it was red, except for the right shoulder.

  “Amy? Are you all right?”

  The question was absurd. She was speaking to someone who could not ever answer. Cat looked down at a face still contorted with surprise and fear and shock. There was an odd suggestion of a grin, but that came not from Amy’s mouth. Her throat had been cut in a thick crimson line running all the way to her ear.

  Cat realized she was standing in the poor girl’s blood.

  She backed away, incautiously, almost slipping on the steps. “Erik?”

  He took a while to answer. “I’m down below.”

  “Have you found Joe Whalleys?”

  Another hesitation. “Yes.”

  Her head reeling, she somehow got back down the steps to the main deck, but could go no farther. “Is he alive?” she asked.

  “No.”

  An instant later, the lower cabin lights came on. “Amy’s dead,” she said. “They cut her throat.” She tried to speak matter-of-factly, but could not keep the fear and anguish out of her voice.

  Nothing from him. For a moment, she feared something might have just happened to Erik as well. And might be about to happen to her.