Deepkill

by Michael Kilian

  “I don’t recall seeing that when we visited you in Wilmington.”

  Gergen grinned. “As I remember that day, Lieutenant, my cousin’s wife was aboard. You may have been distracted.”

  “We’re not supposed to get distracted.” Dewey made some entries in his notebook, then shoved it into a pocket. He stepped near Gergen. The former SEAL was slightly taller than him, and considerably wider.

  “There was an incident down the shore from Cape Henlopen,” Dewey said. “A head boat from Lewes blew up with two of the crew aboard. It’s down as a suspected arson and homicide. You were in those waters tonight.”

  Master Chief DeGroot had his hand on his holstered automatic.

  “I came alongside ’em—close as I could. They’d run aground on a falling tide. I asked if they wanted assistance, but they declined. As long as someone’s aboard, I can’t do anything on my own, unless they ask me to lay a line on a vessel. I knew that guy—Schilling. Former Air Force. We had a business deal. Anyway, I thought we had a deal, but he bailed out of it. Is he all right? He wasn’t aboard when I came by. Some girl had charge of the boat.”

  “Schilling’s alive. She’s dead.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about any explosion. When did it happen?”

  “Around ten o’clock.”

  “Hell, I was passing the Fenwick Island light by then.”

  Dewey snapped his notebook shut. “The Delaware State Police will be taking over the case,” he said. “They’ll likely be coming around to talk to you.”

  “Always happy to help, Lieutenant.”

  Dewey moved toward the rail. “You’re forbidden north of Bombay Hook until this alert is lifted.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When they were back aboard the Manteo, Dewey turned to DeGroot. “What do you think, Hugo?”

  “I think that man’s a bad actor.”

  “I haven’t sufficient reason to take him into custody. But that tugboat could stand a going-over by a forensics team.”

  “I’ll radio the Wilmington police.”

  Bear stood in his wheelhouse, watching the Coast Guard cutter slip off the radar screen, heading south.

  “Start the engines,” he said to Roy Creed.

  “Where we going?” Creed responded. “He said the river’s closed.”

  “Fuck it.”

  Westman awakened to early light and, once again, a ringing of his cell phone. Without disturbing Cat, he rose and went to the chair by the window of the motel room.

  If it was dePayse, he would click off. This would be a form of insubordination, but he was past worrying about that.

  It was Dewey.

  “Sorry to get back to you so late. We’ve had a busy night.”

  “You get any more terrorists?” Westman asked, speaking softly.

  “There was a dead one. We put him ashore in New Jersey. The live one was taken by helo to the Federal Detention Center in Alexandria. What’s your situation?”

  “We’re in a motel at the north end of Ocean City. Was there a state police report on the Roberta June?”

  Cat had awakened. She made a face and rolled over on her back, looking up at the grubby ceiling. He’d heard her crying during the night, but that was gone now.

  “They’ve opened a homicide investigation,” Dewey said. “They’re trying to identify the two victims. They recovered the remains.”

  “Amy Costa and Joseph Whalleys,” Erik said. “Attribute that to other Lewes mariners.”

  “Roger that.” Dewey paused to give an order to a crewman, then quickly came back on. “We stopped Gergen’s tug last night. Made a thorough search. Found nothing—and I mean nothing.”

  “It’s pretty hard to hide a two-thousand-pound hydrogen bomb.”

  “The starboard rail and bulkhead showed some damage. Could have come from a very heavy object.”

  “Where did you encounter him?”

  “In Delaware Bay—four miles south of Bombay Hook.”

  “Coming from the south?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Cat was watching him intently now. “Could he have been up the Jersey coast?”

  “Maybe. But he said he had stopped by the Roberta June. Found the boat run aground. He said he offered assistance but it was declined.”

  “So he was coming from the south and had been below Cape Henlopen?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Westman pondered the view out the window, which was of the alley and—over a flat rooftop—a glimpse of Assawoman Bay. “I have no map or chart here. How far south could he go last night and still be back to Delaware Bay in time to run into your patrol?”

  “Stand by.”

  Westman watched Cat rise and stretch. She unhappily surveyed their quarters.

  “He could get no farther than Assateague Island,” Dewey said.

  “But he could make the cut into Isle of Wight Bay at the south end of Ocean City.”

  Dewey paused. “Sure. Easy. But that’s mighty shallow water for an oceangoing tug.”

  “Not in the Intracoastal. That channel runs close in shore.”

  “Right along the waterfront.”

  “Tim, can you get down here?”

  “We have orders to maintain patrols until sixteen hundred hours.”

  “And after sixteen hundred?”

  “They may let us stand down. The Justice Department thinks they have all the tangos.” “Tango” was the phonetic alphabet for “T”—as in “terrorist.”

  “Except for Anthony Bertolucci.”

  “Washington says there were only three in the attack. They have two killed, one in custody. He wasn’t among them.”

  “Would you attack a nuclear power plant with three men?”

  “They destroyed the World Trade Center and part of the Pentagon with only nineteen.”

  “There is a hydrogen bomb somewhere out there, Tim. And someone took it off the Roberta June.”

  “I believe you. But I’m under orders.”

  “I could really use your help down here.”

  “I can respond to situations.” Dewey hesitated. “Admiral dePayse had half the Coast Guard looking for you last night. Before the attack on Farmingdale. I don’t know how to put this, but our orders include locating you and having you brought back to Buzzard’s Point.”

  “I hope you’re not going to declare me found.”

  “This is a very unofficial conversation. I’ll check in later.” He was gone.

  Cat was looking through the gym bag they had brought in from the Wrangler. “We have a revolver, two automatics, and no clean clothes.” She stood up straight, looking at herself in the wall mirror with great disapproval. “No toothbrush. No comb. And, more to the point, no food.”

  “I’ll go to an ATM machine. We’ll resupply.”

  Burt was snoring. “I’ll go with you,” Cat said.

  Creed called back to Gergen from the bow. “Got a welcoming committee, Bear.”

  “I see ’em.”

  Some uniformed police and two men in civilian clothes were standing at Gergen’s dock. He kept the tug moving toward them.

  “You think they mean to arrest us?”

  “If they were going to do that, they would have come out after us. Just be cool.”

  The group on the dock did and said nothing as Bear’s crew completed the tie-up. When Bear finally stepped out of the wheelhouse, Customs Agent Elward came aboard, followed by a man in a sport coat Bear presumed to be a local police detective.

  “Good morning, Mr. Elward. What can I do for you?”

  “Few things happened last night I’d like to talk to you about,” Elward said, seating himself on the rail.

  “Yeah, I heard there was an attack on the Farmingdale power plant. But I don’t know anything about that.”

  “We don’t suppose you did. The perps are dead or in custody, though we’re also looking for another suspect.” He took out a four-by-five police print of a driver’s license and photo, the license mad
e out to an Anthony Bertolucci. “You come across this guy anywhere?”

  Bear studied the picture of the man he knew as Skouras carefully. He might buy a little extra consideration for himself if he told what he knew about the fellow. But he’d implicate himself in illegal gun sales and worse. And he’d screw up his big score.

  “Sorry,” Bear said, handing back the photo. “Nobody I know.”

  “They came within an inch of blowing open one of those spent-fuel bunkers. Any idea how many people might have died?”

  Bear edged backward a little, not liking the way his visitors had him encircled. “Haven’t a clue. Was this Bertolucci guy involved in it?”

  “He’s wanted in connection with the Bay Bridge attack,” said the detective. “But it’s a good guess this is all the same terrorist gang we’re dealing with.”

  “You said ‘a few things’ happened last night,” Bear said.

  “That’s right. Which is why we’d like you to come with us.”

  “Come with you where?”

  “To police headquarters,” said the detective.

  “Just to talk,” Elward said.

  They’d bought some new shirts and shorts, and then a breakfast of doughnuts and coffee, bringing an ample amount of both back for Burt.

  He awoke grudgingly.

  “Good morning, Burt,” said Cat. “We’re going to go looking for the bomb.”

  Schilling rubbed his eyes. “What? Where?”

  “Here, in Ocean City,” said Westman. “One of our cutters stopped your friend Gergen’s tug and searched it. Except for a broken railing that I think was damaged taking the bomb aboard, they found nothing. He had to put it somewhere. He couldn’t get much farther south than Ocean City. Either he dropped it back in the water, or put it ashore. A tug that size couldn’t get close in to a beach. We think he used the Intra-coastal channel and took it to Ocean City.”

  Sitting up, Schilling blinked, as though unsure of his surroundings. “Where in hell would they put a two-thousand-pound bomb in Ocean City?”

  “We’re going to take a look.”

  “We brought you doughnuts and coffee,” Cat said.

  Schilling took note of them. “Okay. You go ahead. I need to think.” He rubbed his chin. “Got to shave.”

  They left him to his morning. Theirs took them down every side street the length of Ocean City, from 145th Street down to First. The bay side of the town had many, many harbors, but only a half dozen or so reached by a deep-water channel.

  Below Seventh Street, however, the channel ran parallel to the shore and close to it. Driving by every dock and mooring in that far section of the city, they encountered only what they had along the northern reaches of the resort town—charter fishing boats, runabouts, pontoon boats, and Jet-Skis and other “personal watercraft” as the industry called them.

  Westman parked at the end of the Coastal Highway, near the amusement park and the causeway leading west across Isle of Wight Bay to the mainland.

  Across the cut to the south was the north end of Assateague Island.

  “You were crying last night,” he said.

  “No. I’m done with that. That was Burt.”

  Bear’s crew was invited to come along to police headquarters as well. Roy Creed was taken to a separate interrogation room while the others were made to wait. Bear got special treatment. Elward, the detective, and two men Bear took to be federal agents gathered around him at a table in the main chamber.

  “Wilmington police recovered a vehicle from the Delaware River,” Elward said. “There were four dead men inside. They were shot to death.”

  “Sorry to hear.”

  “The vehicle was a black Lincoln SUV that matched the description you gave us in your drive-by shooting complaint.”

  “Well, I’m glad you got the bastards.”

  “You don’t know how they got into the river?”

  “If it’s the same SUV, all I know is that they came and went. That’s what they do in drive-bys.”

  “They were shot up pretty good,” said the detective.

  Bear shrugged.

  “They were identified as associates of Enrique Diller,” said Elward. “We had agents call on Mr. Diller in Philadelphia. He was not at home but they found several bags of high-grade marijuana and cocaine. They’re a perfect match with the packages we took off the motor-sailor.”

  “We’ve been over that,” Gergen said. “I brought in that vessel. I didn’t mess with any dope. When I ran into these guys in a bar, I called in a tip and you people made a bust.”

  One of the other cops, apparently a narc, leaned in. “How did you run into these guys in a bar?”

  Bear sighed. “I was having a beer and they came in. They asked me about the dope on the boat.”

  “And?”

  “I told them I knew nothing about it.”

  “And?”

  “They gave me a hard time. When they left, I dropped a dime on them. Then they came around for their nasty visit, and now someone has ended their drug sales careers. Happy ending.”

  The homicide detective resumed control of the conversation. “Do you know a Homer Grunz?”

  “Guy that runs a bar?”

  “Yes.”

  “I drink there every once in a while. I never knew his last name.”

  “He was found in a Dumpster near his tavern. He was shot to death.”

  Bear was startled, but worked to keep his cool. “That’s a bad neighborhood.”

  “He had a lot of money on him. Several thousand dollars.”

  “Must be working something on the side.”

  “The money was still on him,” said the detective. “That’s not what you expect when someone gets rolled in a neighborhood like that.”

  Bear shrugged again.

  “You’ve been making a lot of trips up and down the river,” Elward said.

  “I work the coast. Only way to get there.”

  “Did you notice anything suspicious around the Farming-dale power plant?”

  Gergen shook his head. “What’s up with that? Did I sail through radiation?”

  “The National Nuclear Security Administration has the case. They say there’s no danger.”

  Bear shifted in his chair, though his discomfort had nothing to do with his position. “When are you guys going to catch those ratfuckers?”

  “We’ll ask the questions, Gergen,” said Elward. “But since you ask, the Coast Guard took one in custody. Two others turned up dead. We’re looking for this Anthony Bertolucci.”

  “Don’t know him. Can I go now?”

  “There’s another small matter,” Elward said. “A fishing boat out of Lewes blew up last night south of Cape Henlopen. You were on the scene just prior.”

  “I’ve already explained that to the Coast Guard. The boat had gone aground. I know the owner, Burt Schilling. I came alongside to offer assistance.”

  “Or take it under tow as salvage,” said Elward.

  Gergen nodded. “That too. But there was crew aboard. They wanted nothing to do with me. They hadn’t even made a distress call.”

  “They’re dead.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s really too bad. She was a nice-looking kid.”

  Every eye on the room was on him hard. Judgments were being made—by experts.

  “Look,” Bear said. “I’m known to you guys. I’ve helped out law enforcement for years. I’m ex-military. Why are you hassling me?”

  Elward smiled. “We’re just looking for a little more help, Mr. Gergen.”

  “What were you doing down below Cape Henlopen?” the homicide detective asked.

  “I told the Coast Guard. Moving some equipment down to Ocean City.”

  “What kind of equipment?”

  “Welding tools. Acetylene. Some grapples and hooks. My cousin Leonard has a boat rental down there. He’s got some repairs to make.”

  “You couldn’t drive? You have a pickup truck.”

  “We’ve had severe weather. Ne
ver know when a salvage job’ll turn up. Thought I had one with that head boat.”

  The policemen fell silent. Bear sensed this was over.

  “I expect we’ll want to talk to you again, Mr. Gergen,” said Elward. “Don’t go on any long voyages.”

  Roy Creed rode in the cab of the pickup truck with Bear. His other two crew members sat in back. It was a short drive back to the docks.

  “How much you think they know, Bear?” Creed asked.

  Gergen turned to spit out the window, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I think they suspect we’re mixed up with the whack job on the four in the SUV, but that’s all. I don’t think they’re going to push it. If you’re going to be in our line of work, Roy, it pays to be a snitch. Legal bribery, if you know what I mean.”

  Creed nodded. “What now?”

  “We go into the military surplus business.”

  Bear dropped Creed and the two other crew members at the main gate to the dockyard, then continued down the street to a convenience store, where he stopped to pick up two twelve-packs of Budweiser.

  He took his time. When he finally returned to the docks and parked near his tug, he paused to retrieve a black plastic trash bag from behind a container. Inside was a Beretta nine-millimeter, which he removed.

  Climbing aboard, he went immediately below, handgun pointing the way. The man at the foot of the stairs, a pistol in his own hand, stood frozen in place.

  “Mr. Skouras,” said Bear. “We gotta talk.”

  Chapter 30

  Colonel Baker had gone to a meeting on base recreation, which Captain Baldessari took to mean he was getting in a morning round of golf. That left Baldessari more than ample time to ponder the decision he was about to make, but—as matters developed—he didn’t need much time at all.

  He sat watching CNN replay footage from the New Jersey power plant attack, sipping coffee as he calculated the distance from there to Dover Air Force Base. He figured something like twenty miles as the crow flies—and the radioactive particles drifted—but it wouldn’t have mattered if it had been fifty miles. If the terrorists had succeeded—a few feet closer, a different wind direction—finito.

  If they were actually to acquire a useful amount of nuclear material to take where they wished …