Deepkill
Page 40
“No. Your lady friend attracted attention.”
“Do you want to go to my tent?”
“No, thanks,” said the Navy man. “Let’s go find a shady tree.”
As they walked to a nearby cluster of three palms, the mystery man still said nothing, even as they lowered themselves into a semicircle on the sand. He’d been wearing a Panama straw hat. He removed it, revealing little hair.
“Are you here to arrest us?” Westman said finally.
“No,” said Marantes. “Not you, not her—though back in the States she’d probably get picked up for indecent exposure.”
“This is not the States.”
“We’re here after some information,” Marantes said. “You may have an idea what it is.”
Marantes looked to the mystery man, who loosened his tie before speaking.
“We have gone through a great many files and a great deal of data,” he said. “It now seems highly probable—in fact, almost certain—that Captain Schilling was correct in his conviction that one of the bombs he jettisoned back in the sixties contained its nuclear core and triggering device.”
“He wouldn’t have gone through all that he did if he wasn’t sure,” Westman said. “None of us would have.”
“I appreciate that,” said the mystery man. “But there’s a problem. The bomb you recovered. The one that was pulled out of the wreck at Dover. It contained no plutonium, no nuclear trigger.”
“Are you sure?” Erik was stunned.
“Sent it to Los Alamos. They’re the experts. They said no.”
“So it has to be in the other bomb,” said Marantes. “The one that’s still down there.”
“You know our equipment,” said Holm, the Navy man. “We’re prepared to throw in all our resources to recover the other one.”
“But we need a location, a starting point,” said the mystery man. “We need to know where you found the one you pulled out of the sea.”
“Did Schilling use a GPS?” Holm asked.
“Yes,” said Westman. “Loran too. Every kind of navigational aid and every calculation he could. That’s how he found it.”
“He wrote this information down?” asked the mystery man.
“Yes.”
“And you have it?”
“I know where it is.”
“Well, then. That’s what we’d like to know.”
Westman watched a motor launch come around the side of the next cay. It had two black men forward, an older white man and two boys in the back—a tourist boat heading out to the flats to go bone fishing.
“Chief Warrant Officer Westman,” said the mystery man. “You are still a serving member of the armed services of the United States. Please cooperate.”
Erik picked up a handful of sand and let it pour through his fingers. “I would have thought my military status open to question,” he said. “Certain breaches of discipline. Disobedience of standing orders—and direct orders.”
Marantes grinned. “If that’s what’s worrying you, forget it. You’re a certified hero now. So are Lieutenant Dewey and Master Chief DeGroot. The Homeland Security Secretary has so decreed.”
“Those bad guys you bagged included a really big fish—Jozip Pec,” said the mystery man. “We’re sure it was his guys who were behind the Bay Bridge attack, and the one at the Farmingdale nuclear plant. The White House is very pleased with the way things turned out.”
Westman ran a finger through the sand. “I was expecting a court-martial. And separation.”
“You’ve never been taken off the active duty rolls,” Marantes said. “There are no charges. DePayse’s been after us to find you now so you can be flown back to Washington with the others for a medal ceremony. DePayse and Dewey are getting promotions out of this. DeGroot didn’t want one.”
“Promotion for you too,” said Holm.
“I don’t want one.”
“He’d have to leave the CGIS,” Marantes explained to the others.
A large brown pelican swooped and flapped overhead, then abruptly dived with a crash into the water, emerging a few seconds later with a large fish in its bill.
“So,” said the mystery man. “Are you going to help us?”
Westman grimaced. “You know, you could have had the information you want in a trice—if someone in your vast, almighty military had just listened to Burt Schilling. He went to Dover and begged them to listen to him. There was a colonel there.…”
“Baker,” said the mystery man. “He’s now commanding a string of radar stations in Alaska.”
“We haven’t been following the news much down here,” Erik said. “Does the general public know about the bomb?”
“No,” said Marantes. “All that was released to the press was that there was a fight with terrorists and a hijacking of a C-130.”
“Foiled by Captain Schilling,” Holm added.
“And if the truth were to get out?” Westman asked.
“It won’t,” said the mystery man. “It’s highly classified information.”
Westman smiled, looking each one of them in the eye, then picking up another handful of sand. “There were two FBI agents killed, I think by one of the terrorists. Was he ever arrested?”
“Nope,” Marantes said. “No one was ever arrested. It was written up as another terrorist strike. Do you know anything more about it?”
“That’s not what you came down here to ask me about.”
The three looked at each other, then back to Westman. “We need the coordinates, Westman,” said Holm. “Schilling’s charts. Do you have them?”
“I have them available.”
“All right, Erik,” said Marantes, getting the idea. “What do you want?”
Westman let go of all the sand. “We lost a Coast Guard crewman that night—Machinists Mate Aboud Dourai—and two Air National Guard people. They were killed in action fighting the terrorists. Saved the rest of us. I think that’s worthy of Arlington, if their families wish.”
“DOD already made arrangements for that,” said Holm. “One of the families took them up on it.”
“Schilling too,” Erik said.
“That’s another matter,” said Holm. “According to his 201 file, he was run out of the service for being drunk on the flight line.”
“I’d say he’s redeemed himself.”
“I’m sorry,” said Holm. “The requirements for Arlington are pretty strict. You need your twenty years in, or to lose your life in the line of duty. Schilling qualifies for neither.”
“There are waivers. I know of at least one son of a bitch with a phony military record who got a presidential waiver for Arlington because of the size of his campaign contribution.”
“That was an anomaly,” said Holm. “And they dug him up again.”
“Come on, Erik,” Marantes said. “Don’t complicate things.”
“It’s all right,” said the mystery man. “It can be arranged. No problem.”
Westman nodded. “And then there’s the matter of Lieutenant Catherine McGrath.” He looked to Holm. “She deserves to be reinstated. She risked her life in this, from beginning to end. She flew carrier jets when she was on active duty. You’ve got officers putting in their twenty who never touched anything more lethal than a supply manifest.”
“Her reinstatement was in the works,” Holm said. “No reason the process can’t be resumed, especially since all the evidence in that case now seems to favor her.”
“I’m talking about her getting back into a Tomcat cockpit.”
Holm shook his head. “The decision by the evaluation board to ground her was unanimous and irreversible. Those things never get overturned. There was demonstrable pilot error in that mishap. Her weapons officer was killed. Sorry. Can’t be done.”
The mystery man nodded.
Erik pondered this, staring at the sand before him. Then he got to his feet.
“Well?” said Marantes, rising also. The other two did the same.
“You’re n
ot going to stiff us, are you, Westman?” Holm asked. “You’re not going to shake us down for something else?”
“Where are you staying?” Westman asked Marantes.
“On Provo. At the Ramada.”
“Do you have a cell phone?”
“Of course. Regulation.”
“Give me the number. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”
The other two were eyeing him darkly. “You’re not thinking of wandering away again?” Holm asked.
Westman shook his head. “I like it here. And my Laser isn’t about to outrun you.”
They turned to go. Erik stopped them. “There was a suspect we identified as an Anthony Bertolucci. Was he ever found?”
The mystery man shook his head. “No. He wasn’t taken prisoner. He wasn’t among the bodies.”
“No trace of him? No word?”
“Nothing. You have something on him?”
Westman considered this. “No.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Marantes said. “We’ve busted the whole operation.”
“There’ve been no other incidents? No attacks?”
“None.”
“I’ll call tomorrow,” Erik said.
They moved on down to the other side of the island, where a black man was lounging against the bow of a runabout hauled up on the sand. Westman remained at the top of the dune, watching them go. As they got under way, Marantes turned and waved.
Cat was lying on a towel in front of their tent, sipping a soft drink.
“They’ve gone,” Westman said.
“Who were they?”
“Gentlemen from the federal government.” He sat down beside her.
“You’re frowning,” she said. “Did they give you a hard time?”
“In a way.”
“What did they want?”
“I don’t know if you’re ready to hear this, but there was no nuclear core in that bomb we recovered. It’s in the other one.”
She set down her drink and lay back on the towel, looking straight up at the limitless blue sky. “They want Burt’s charts. The GPS coordinates.”
“Right. I’m going to turn them over. I’m pretty sure they can find it, with the equipment they have today.”
“What’s going to happen to us?”
“If you can believe them—and I believe one of them—I’m being given back my career. And they’re probably going to let you back in the Navy.”
“How was this miracle achieved?”
“A brief negotiation.”
“Back into Tomcats?”
He looked at her sadly. “No. Reinstatement, surface ships—I think they’ll be happy to grease the skids for that. But no flying. They won’t overturn a ruling by an evaluation board.”
“That’s for certain?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She rolled over again, looking at the sand. “I should have expected it. A lot of people feel something like that would poison the whole system—you undercut evaluators.”
“There’s no malice here. I think they’re doing their best for us.”
“I don’t want reinstatement then, Erik.”
“You’re sure?”
“I did my best by my dad and my uncle. I gave it my best shot. But I’m a flier. I can’t walk a deck or ride a desk. I’d go crazy. You know that.”
“I guess I do.”
“Besides, I like it down here. There are little Twin Otter and floatplane airlines all over these islands. I don’t think it would be that hard for me to get a right-hand seat. A friend of my dad’s used to run a seaplane line in the British Virgins. Maybe he’s still around.”
“Well, that makes things very simple for me.”
“And how is that, my love?”
“They want me to go to Washington and take part in a medal ceremony. Dewey and me, the master chief, and Admiral dePayse, we’re all to be honored for taking down the terrorists.”
“Admiral dePayse.”
“She owes me.”
Cat turned to face him. They were very close to each other. “And how do you propose to collect?”
“I was thinking of asking for a transfer out of Washington. I’m pretty sure they’d give me any place I want—as things stand. Be happy to have me out of the way probably.”
“And?”
He kissed her. “Now I know exactly where I want to go.”
Acknowledgments
I am indebted to Dr. Robert Ballard, the legendary deep-sea explorer who discovered the wreck of the Titanic, for contributing immensely to my knowledge of the sea. I am grateful also to Steve Shlopac, onetime swordfish boat skipper and now proprietor of the Greenwich Village literary saloon Chumley’s, and to Morris Kohler and Tom Haley of the Keena Dale IV, for adding similarly to my maritime knowledge. I want to thank Special Agent Marty Martinez of the Coast Guard Investigative Service for educating me on the workings of one of the least known but most valuable law enforcement, intelligence, and defense agencies in the federal service, and to thank my good friend and former Air Force test pilot Richard Locher for instructing me on military cargo aircraft. Thanks, too, to my editor, Gail Fortune, and literary representative, Dominick Abel, for their years of splendid service. I am grateful to my wife, Pamela, and sons, Eric and Colin, as only they can know.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by Michael Kilian
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1926-2
This 2015 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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