by Scott Cook
“Oh, is that all?” Andrea asked playfully. “That’s as easy as pie. The boat has an advanced computer control system. Everything is run through the software. I can access it via satellite phone if need be and enter a command to shut down her engines. Would that be of any use?”
“That would be fabulous,” I stated with a grin.
“It’ll be my pleasure,” the voice cooed on the other end of the line. “And when I say my pleasure, Scott… I do mean that one of these days, I’m going to expect repayment for all these favors I’m doing you.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
She laughed and asked to be given back to Lisa. Lisa listened for a moment, flushed beet red and then hung up. She cleared her throat.
“What?” I asked.
“She… nothing,” Lisa commented. “Joe, you need to get ready, the yacht is about to shut down her engines.”
Suddenly the yacht’s running lights glowed to life and her speed began to fall off noticeably. Brody looked back at Lisa and gave her a thumbs up.
“Well, that’ll help,” Dillan mused. “Okay, let’s launch the rib.”
The Ballard’s rigid inflatable, a replacement for one that had been destroyed back in February, was twenty-four feet long. It had twin Yamaha two hundreds mounted and could do sixty knots, according to Brody. With the center console design, Turner, Hightower, Dillan, Jackie, Santino and I all fit comfortably.
“Since she’s dead in the water,” Dillan said from the wheel. “I’m going to nose up to that beach club platform thing. I could probably drive her right up onto it, but I say we nose up and you all jump aboard one at a time. I’ll stay with the rib just in case. I can always tie off and join you if need be.”
“Standard procedures,” Turner said and then numbered us from one to six. He was one and I was six. Probably put me last just to tweak me but I didn’t care. “Activate earwigs.”
We all reached up and turned on the tiny communications devices with the bone conducting mic. After a quick com check, Turner said we’d go aboard in numerical order. Not counting Dillan of course.
Although the sea state was running high, it was a fairly regular and gentle swell. So that when Dillan nosed the rubber boat’s bow up to the low-slung platform, we only had to wait for the boats to match up before practically stepping off the bow of the rib and onto the large platform. It took several rollers before all five of us were on board, however.
We all stood with weapons at the ready. There was no response at all. No one rushed out from any of the hatches, nobody fired on us from a higher vantage point… nothing.
“Two, One… you and I go to port,” Turner said, indicating Hightower. “Six, Three and Four, you go starboard. Sweep the main deck and then Six’s team makes their way to the upper level. My team will clear the main deck interior and work our way up as you work your way down, Six. Then we’ll worry about clearing below decks.”
“Understood,” I replied crisply. Jackie was three and Santino four. They acknowledged with thumbs up and we began to move forward past the pool area.
Again, we found no resistance. Both teams met on the sundeck portion of the bow ahead of the center console I’d arrived in. Hightower checked it quickly and shook his head.
Turner frowned but motioned for us to move aft again. He and Hightower moved to either side of the main deck structure and my team ascended outdoor companions up to the highest level where the bridge was situated.
We entered from multiple angles, weapons at the ready and tensed for action. Once again, we were met with a complete absence of enemies.
“What the hell is going on, Six?” Santino asked with a frown on his face.
“I’m starting to think I know,” I said. “One, Six… no tangos on upper deck.”
“Negative contact on main deck as well,” Turner said.
“I don’t think anybody’s here,” I offered. “I think this ship is running on remote control.”
A pause, “Could be… if that Wellesley woman could deactivate the ship’s engines remotely… and nobody has started them back up again… let’s clear the ship just to make sure.”
“Roger that, One,” I replied.
A complete sweep of the next deck down revealed nothing as well. I’d just about convinced myself that this entire vessel was one giant red herring when Hightower’s voice broke in over the comms.
“One… Six… Two,” He sounded tense. “I’m in the engine room… think you guys had better see this.”
“Aww… shit…” Brody’s voice said over the channel. “I don’t like the sound of that, Chief.”
“I don’t like the looks of it, either, Chief,” Hightower said tersely.
Brody had retired from the U.S. Navy as a Chief petty officer.
Chief Brody… that still tickled me.
We made our way down to the engine room where Hightower was standing near the after end of one of the sedan sized engines. He pointed to a thick length of pipe to which an odd metal box was attached. The box was about four feet on a side and just as tall. It was made of steel and had a short length of pipe protruding from the bottom which had been tied into the horizontal piping that seemed to be connected to the two engines and then turned downward and disappeared through the deck.
“That the raw water outflow?” I asked no one in particular.
Hightower nodded grimly.
“Tony has a degree in mechanical and electrical engineering,” Turner explained.
I frowned at the big box that was secured to the bulkhead as well as the pipe, “So what do you think this thing… oh, holy shit nuggets…”
“What is it?” I heard Lisa ask nervously.
“A numeric keypad and timer,” Turner growled. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this…”
Hightower saw that the top of the metal box had a lid. He flipped it open and whistled, “Commander… this look familiar to you?”
He didn’t indicate which Commander, so Turner and I both looked in. I gulped when I saw what lay within.
There were four concrete canisters, each about four feet long and twenty inches wide. Stamped into each end was a swastika.
“Oh boy…” I breathed. I felt an odd itching sensation all over my body. A psycho-somatic reaction to what my mind knew was inside those four canisters. Each one held a cargo of flesh-eating death.
41
“Is that what I think it is?” Jackie asked quietly, as if speaking too loud would release the billions of tiny microbes inside the seventy-five year old canisters.
“Yup, full of Meisterbrau,” I confirmed.
“That’s not what I think they are,” She said, elbowing me.
“This isn’t funny,” Turner glummed.
I shrugged, “Gallows humor, Commander… okay, anybody here a demolitions expert?”
“Me,” Turner said, examining the contraption. “And Tony understands the wiring, I hope… does that look like a tamper switch, Tony?”
The burly SEAL was peering in over the lid, getting as close as he could without actually touching anything, “I’d say so, Commander… there’s the det cord… and that looks a lot like a small shaped charge of Semtex.”
“So let me see if I have this right,” I said. “At a certain time, or maybe by remote control, that shaped charge explodes, cracking open the canisters and releasing what… forty or fifty gallons of streptococcus into the water through the raw water outlet?”
“Jesus Christ…” I heard Brody say over the com link. “How much damage might that do?”
“No idea,” I said. “But this is only about twenty-five percent of what Bolivar got his hands on. In a semi-closed environment like the Mississippi, this much bacteria could probably thrive and multiply quite a bit before running through its life cycle I’d imagine. I don’t know much about this stuff except for what I learned when we originally found the U-boat back in February. From what Ariel explained, this is a virulent strain. If it’s still active after all these years, then this much could dev
astate a wide area. Release it in Saint Louis and it could make it all the way to Memphis. Maybe new Orleans.”
“So let’s just disarm it,” Jackie suggested.
Hightower blew out his breath, “I could, given time… but one mistake and this bomb goes off.”
“So what?” Lisa asked from the Ballard. “If it dumped the bacteria out here, it wouldn’t do that much harm, right? It’d probably die off before it hit land, right?”
“We don’t know that,” Turner answered. “We’re only a couple of hundred miles from the Keys or the Yucatan peninsula. We can’t in good conscience take the risk.”
“How about just removing the whole device and putting it someplace where if it went off, the stuff couldn’t escape?” Jackie asked.
“A good thought Gunny,” Hightower replied thoughtfully. “But again, there’s an anti-tamper mechanism. Even moving it might set it off.”
“There’s another option,” Santino said. “Bolivar must have the disarm code. He must also have control over the device. If the Ballard can patch me in through my phone, then I think we might be able to negotiate this.”
Turner scowled. He was obviously not comfortable with the idea. Or maybe he was uncomfortable letting somebody else take charge, “I don’t know if I like the idea of putting this in the hands of… of a civilian. How do I know I can trust you, Mr. Santino?”
Santino met Turner’s eye with a steely gaze. He held it for a long moment and said: “You wouldn’t be here at all without me, Commander. I have Bolivar’s family. Do we do this or not? There’s no time for your chest beating.”
Turner’s jaw worked but he finally nodded, “Go ahead, Ballard.”
“Lisa, you have my phone with you, correct?” Santino asked. “Please give it to Jack.”
A minute or so went by before Brody announced that the call was connected and that it would be piped into our comms. Santino met my eyes.
“Who is this?” Came the annoyed voice of Antonio Bolivar.
“I think you know who we are, Mr. Bolivar,” Santino said in his cool no-nonsense tone. “We’re the ones who are currently holding your wife Anita and your children Alfredo and Monica.”
A long pause and then: “Who are you? What do you want?”
“We want the disarming code for your bio-bomb, Bolivar,” I said sternly. “We’re aboard the yacht now.”
“Jarvis… I should have known. Manuel told me you made some vague threat,” Bolivar sounded very angry. “I didn’t want to believe it… until I tried to get in touch with my family and learned of your… treachery.”
“Treachery indeed,” Santino cut in. “From a man who intends on poisoning and killing hundreds or thousands of people?”
“I do what I must! This is war, and in war—“
“Spare us your bullshit, Bolivar!” I snapped. “I heard the same garbage from your brother already. Give us the code, Goddamn you!”
He laughed cruelly, “Jarvis, Jarvis… you are a strong, brave and resourceful man. Would that we were on the same side… however, you’re also an honorable man. I know you wouldn’t harm innocents. I have no fear for my family.”
“Scott doesn’t have them,” Santino said. “I do. My name is Santino, Mr. Bolivar. I run an organization based in New York… but who’s Black Hand reaches far and wide. Do you understand my meaning?”
A very pregnant pause, “You… you are with the Italian Mafioso?”
“I am,” Santino said. There was something in his voice that sent a mild shiver rippling over my spine. A note of deadliness that I hoped was making it to Bolivar’s ears as well.
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I will order them executed and their bodies displayed on the front porch of your home if you don’t give me that code now,” Santino said harshly.
I saw Turner’s eyes grow wide and his mouth open. I shook my head and held up a single finger for him to wait.
“You are a liar!” Bolivar shouted defiantly.
“Jack, please patch in the contact labeled Carzento’s Special Deliveries, Santino said, still in that deadly tone of voice.
Another half a minute went by and then a woman’s voice filled our ears, “Antonio? Antonio, are you there?”
At first there was no answer. For a long moment, all that could be heard was the heavy silence of multiple radio transceivers connected together. A very faint hiss that was barely audible and yet seemed to roar like thunder.
“Anita…?”
“What is happening, Antonio?”
Again, a long silence before Bolivar answered. When he did, his voice sounded sluggish and defeated, “It’s going to be all right, Anita. How are the children?”
“Fine… but the man says that if you don’t do something…” the woman sounded worried but not panicked.
“All right, you bastards,” Bolivar finally said through clenched teeth, “You leave me no choice.”
“Antonio!” This was Garcia’s voice from the background. “You can’t—“
“That’s enough!” Bolivar roared. “The code is seven one eight four two seven. This will disarm the bomb.”
“I warn you, Bolivar,” Santino said. “If this doesn’t work. If this sets off the device… your family will pay the price.”
A string of Spanish curses filled our ears, “It is the code. But mark me, Jarvis… you may have won this battle, but I will still win the war! Those canisters are but a sample of what I have in my power!”
“Believe me, Bolivar,” I said softly. “I know.”
“Everybody out of here,” Turner said, going to the keypad.
We all moved out into the corridor and shut the watertight door to the engine room. After a few seconds, Turner announced that the code worked and the bomb had been disarmed. He’d tested it by yanking the wires that ran from the battery to the det cord attached to the Semtex.
“Now what of my family?” Bolivar asked.
“Let them go,” Santino simply said.
A voice that was familiar to me as that belonging to Charles Conklin replied, “Your family is in room two oh four of the Sofitel Legend de Santa Clara. You may visit them whenever you wish.”
“They’ve been disconnected,” Jack Brody stated.
We all let out a breath. The crisis was over. Although I wouldn’t exactly call it a victory, seeing as how Bolivar still had the majority of the germs, the map and deed to the Columbian land and the medallion as proof of ownership. The war, as he so aptly said, didn’t seem to be over yet.
“So what happens now?” Lisa asked.
“We’ll arrange for the vessel to be brought into a port,” Turner said. “And a Hazmat team to deal with the canisters.”
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” I said. “But I’m tired of this shit. Can we go home now?”
It was the first Friday of December and the weather just before sunset was clear and about seventy-five. Perfect for sitting outside on a large deck overlooking the water and the Gulf for a sunset meal.
Apparently a large number of Saint Petersburg residents agreed with this assessment and the Spindrift Bar and Grill was hopping when Lisa and I arrived around five p.m. The restaurant, which had formerly been called Gator’s, was located on the south side of John’s Pass. It commanded a large section of waterfront and in spite of the John’s Pass Bridge, a great view of sunset. It was also mine, or at least partially so. My friends the Arguses had purchased and renovated the place and it was now receiving the popularity it deserved. This was thanks in part to a great menu… to which I’d contributed… and a great drink menu… to which I’d contributed.
We also always had live music every single night. From solo musicians to local bands well known in the area such as Storm Bringer and The Black Honkeys. Tonight, we had one of our regulars, Rob Berry. Rob was a solo guitarist who played an eclectic mix of classic rock and newer artists. His stuff ranged from Neil Young to Ray LaMontagne, from The Doors to Chris Stapleton and from The Beatles t
o The Lumineers. I wished he’d play more Buffett, though.
As Lisa and I walked out onto the deck, Rob was just finishing up The Island Song by the Zach Brown Band. I walked up and dropped a fiver into his tip jar.
“Nice one, man,” I said, shaking his hand. “Soundin’ good.”
“Scotty!” Rob enthused. “Welcome back… hey Lisa! Here, come say hi to my family real quick.”
At a table along the railing sat a whole passel of family. His parents, Bob and Donna and his brother Mike were there along with Rob’s youngest and oldest sons and Mike’s son who was a little older than Rob’s youngest.
“Check it out,” Rob said, jerking a thumb at me. “This is the guy who owns the place. Scott Jarvis, my family. Part of them anyway.”
Rob’s dad, in his early sixties I guessed stuck out a hand, “Bob Berry, damned glad to meetcha. And especially glad to meet you, Lisa.”
Rob’s mother rolled her eyes but laughed, “Don’t staht, Bob Berry.”
Mike laughed along with Rob and they both had the same laugh. I chuckled and then realized what I’d just heard.
“Donna… did you just say staht?” I asked with a grin.
“Yeah, sorry, they talk funny where she’s from,” Bob said.
“Rhode island,” Donna put in.
“Oh, here we go…” Lisa pretended to moan and jabbed me in the ribs.
I laughed, “Me too. Lisa loves it, though. She loves to hear about coffee cabinets and Del’s lemonade and Bess Eaton.”
Donna laughed gleefully, “I know it, huh?”
One of the outdoor servers approached with a runner in tow. They both carried trays full of food apparently for the Berry table. Lisa and I stepped aside.
“Looks like din din time,” I said with a grin. “You guys enjoy, hah?”
Lisa and I continued further down the deck where several tables had been pushed together. At them sat my party, which included Clay and Missy Delaney and their three kids, Wayne Jackson, Sharon and Juan Fuente. By the look of things, they’d already gotten started.
