Sea Devil

by Richard P. Henrick

“The wife just started a new job down at the linen mill, and I’m a little new at babysitting.”

  The Highlander smiled.

  “There’s no need to explain, Mr. Rayburn. I’ve got some youngsters back home myself.

  Why don’t we talk out in the backyard, if that’s okay with you.”

  “That would be fine,” said Patrick Rayburn, who stepped outside and squinted at the bright sun shining forth from the heavens.

  “Looks like the good weather’s still holding,” he matter-of-factly observed as he led the way around the cottage.

  The tree line extended to the very edge of the backyard, which was filled with broken furniture, partially burnt trash, and a rusted-out Ford. Well aware that his men were hidden close by, Colin Stewart inhaled a deep breath and turned to face the pilot directly, his forced smile suddenly absent.

  “Mr. Rayburn, I’d like to know the identity of the passenger whom you flew back from Dumbarton, Scotland, several nights ago.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?” asked the puzzled pilot.

  The Highlander’s glance turned deadly serious.

  “Oh, come off it, Rayburn! I’m in no mood for games!”

  The redfaced pilot gathered himself and exploded in rage.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, mister. But I do know that I want you off my property this instant!”

  “It’s not going to be that easy to get rid of me,” said Stewart as he reached into his jacket and pulled out the bloodstained map.

  “Where did you get that?” snapped the flight instructor.

  “You know damn where, Rayburn… from your smelly cockpit. So quit the b.s. and tell me whose blood it is that stains this chart.”

  “I don’t have to say one word to you,” retorted the Irishman.

  “In fact, I think I’m going to call the police.”

  As Rayburn turned for the house, Colin Stewart spoke up firmly.

  “Do you really think that’s wise, Mr.

  Rayburn? After all, abetting a known IRB operation is a felony in this country that will earn you a minimum three-year stay at the Long Kesh Prison.”

  Halted by this revelation, the pilot pivoted abruptly.

  “I’m not associated in any way with the IRB, mister,” he said, his voice quivering.

  “That may be so,” Stewart replied.

  “But the individual you flew back from Scotland most definitely is. So unless you start talking right now, I don’t have any choice but to go to the Republic authorities.”

  With any anger on his part long vented, Patrick Rayburn emotionally collapsed, on the verge of tears.

  “I’m nothing but a hardworking family man, mister.

  Do you have any idea what organizations like the Brotherhood do to squealers?”

  “Just tell me the name of this fellow you flew back from Scotland,” urged Stewart.

  “And the IRB never has to be any the wiser.”

  Knowing full well that he had been caught red handed the pilot began whimpering.

  “I never thought I was doing anything wrong, I swear to you. So I didn’t file an official flight plan. Big deal. With all that cash he was waving in my face, I really didn’t think it would matter.”

  “Who was waving that cash, Mr. Rayburn?” continued Colin Stewart resolutely.

  “He told me that he got shot in a hunting accident,” reflected the pilot.

  “I should have known that the bastard’s cash was tainted.”

  “For God’s sake, man, what was. his name?”

  “It’s Sean Lafferty,” offered the emotionally drained pilot.

  “Though I had never laid eyes on him before, he said that he grew up nearby and could produce some local references, if needed.”

  With the great tension of the moment finally dissipated, Stewart felt his tone soften.

  “Did you get any of these references?”

  “Are you kidding?” returned the pilot.

  “The only references he needed was that wad of punts he was soon shoving into my hand.”

  With the name of the suspected terrorist now firmly embedded in his mind, Colin Stewart nodded appreciatively.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rayburn. You’ve been most helpful. And I realize it’s not much, but you can rest assured that neither Sean Lafferty nor any other member of the IRB will ever learn what you shared with me this afternoon.”

  There was an expression of defeat in the pilot’s dark eyes as he looked up and sighed.

  “Mister, it really doesn’t matter. I was a marked man the moment I put that cash in my pocket.”

  The last Colin Stewart saw of the dejected pilot was as he somberly made his way back into the cottage. It took only a single snap of the Highlander’s fingers to cause his men to suddenly materialize out of the surrounding forest. Flashing them a thumbsup, he beckoned them to join him beside their automobile.

  “We’ve got the bastard, all right,” revealed the relieved senior officer.

  “His name’s Sean Lafferty, and since he supposedly grew up in this area, he shouldn’t be too hard to track down. Angus, how about driving us into Dundalk, and seeing if the local postal exchange office has a listing for Mr. Lafferty in their directory?”

  “You’ve got it Major,” replied the brawny corporal, who slid into the driver’s seat while his coworkers climbed in behind him.

  The Rose-and-Thistle Pub, on the shores of Dundalk, was on the southern outskirts of the city. Because it was so close to the docks, it was frequented mainly by fishermen and longshoremen, though an occasional tour bus stopped by from time to time to give its passengers an authentic taste of the real Ireland.

  Liam Lafferty had originally stopped by the pub to get a quick pint before dinner. He was halfway through his third Guinness of the evening when Billy Kelly and Henry Morrison entered the bar and sat down beside him. Like Liam, both individuals were weather-faced fishermen who had been plying their ancient trades for too many decades to count.

  They were in the midst of a spirited argument regarding the wisdom of purchasing one of the new LORAN directional finders when a late-breaking television news story caused the grizzled bartender to signal them to be quiet. All three fishermen looked up to the set in time to see the photograph of an attractive middleaged women and two young girls flash up on the screen. It was accompanied by the voice of the newscaster.

  “The Maguire’s bullet-ridden bodies were found on the banks of the Royal Canal near Ashtown. Dr. John Maguire, the noted nuclear physicist and director of Dublin’s Shamrock nuclear power station, is still missing.

  Yet there is no reason to believe he was in any way responsible for the tragic deaths of his family, though the gardia have still not ruled out that such a link exists.

  “In other news, three English soldiers lay dead in Armagh this evening, the victims of an exploding mine.

  The incident took place on the anniversary of…”

  As the bartender turned down the volume, Liam Lafferty somberly shook his head.

  “Can you imagine such a horrible thing? Why, those two little girls never even had a chance to make it out of preschool.”

  “It certainly is a tragic waste,” observed Billy Kelly.

  “Who could be so twisted as to do such a thing?”

  “I say it was the father,” offered Henry Morrison, as he sipped off the creamy head of his stout.

  “Now what leads you to say such a ridiculous thing,

  Henry Morrison?” countered Liam.

  The bald-headed fisherman retorted, “It’s the radiation that did it. Dr. Maguire was so overloaded with the stuff from working at that power plant that he went crazy and did away with his family just for spite’s sake. They’ll be finding his body next, all glowing and green with decay, floating in a bog. You’ll see.”

  Liam grimaced.

  “Henry Morrison, I always thought you were a wee bit daft, but now I’m certain.”

  “It’s all that sun that did it t
o him,” explained Billy Kelly.

  “I say it’s from drinking too much poteen,” suggested the grinning bartender.

  Henry Morrison would have no part of this kidding as he continued.

  “You guys, might laugh at me, but I’m serious. That radiation’s bad stuff. They don’t know half of its side effects, and who knows how much of the world’s current insanity is caused by it?

  “You’d better listen closely, gents, because this world’s too full of toxic chemicals and radioactive pollutants.

  Who knows what that flier that they tacked up by the pier side this afternoon was referring to. If you ask me, the Yanks most probably lost some kind of dangerous chemical that for all we know could have fallen right over our heads.”

  Puzzled by this statement, Liam interrupted him.

  “What flier are you talking about, Henry?”

  Billy Kelly provided an answer.

  “That’s right, Liam, you had already left when those two soldiers tacked it up. Seems the Americans want to know if any of us saw anything suspicious in the night skies last week.

  They’re even willing to offer a cash reward for any information that they deem relevant.”

  Shocked by this revelation, Liam fought to hold his tongue.

  “A reward, you say? That’s incredible!”

  “Lord only knows what they lost out there,” reflected Henry Morrison.

  “Probably next, we’ll be pulling in fish with two heads on them. Though speaking of the devil, did I ever tell you gents about the time I came across a cod that had no dorsal fin on it? Why, it was unbelievable. I had just anchored off Carlingford Lough when I…”

  Barely paying this story any notice, Liam pondered the content of the flier that his coworkers had just mentioned. Per his promise to Dr.

  Blackwater, he had yet to tell anyone about the mysterious object that he had fished from the seas and the fantastic light in the heavens that had accompanied it.

  Surely this same incident was what the flier was referring to. To see it with his own eyes, he hurriedly finished off his stout and excused himself.

  By the muted light of dusk, Liam hurried down to the main pier. Sure enough, tacked to the bulletin board there was an official-looking flier. With the sea gulls crying in the distance, he read the poster and was somewhat surprised to find it signed by the United States Navy. So they were the owners of the elongated capsule that had floated down from the heavens, thought Liam, whose next step was quite obvious..

  he would have to inform Dr. Blackwater of this at once!

  He needed to get change from a stranger in order to use one of the dockside telephones. Yet much to his frustration, all that he got when he dialed the physician’s number was one of those infernal answering machines.

  Supposing that he was still up at his clinic in Cootehill with Sean, Liam decided to return home, where Dr. Blackwater had left his County Caven telephone number on the back of one of his business cards.

  Liam splurged on a taxi. This got him back to his cottage in a little under fifteen minutes. It was almost pitch dark outside as he paid off the driver and began the long hike up his walk. A brisk wind howled in from the northwest. The stars had long since been blotted out by a low mantle of fast-moving clouds, and Liam was expecting the rain to begin falling any minute. He was grateful as he climbed up the last step and breathlessly made his way onto the porch. It was at that moment that he first heard the male voices inside and realized that his wife wasn’t alone.

  He entered anxiously and found Annie seated on the couch, with five burly young men surrounding her.

  Though they were all dressed in civilian garb, there was no doubt in the fisherman’s mind that they were military, as a sandy-haired, square-jawed individual stood and flashed Liam an official looking ID card.

  “Mr. Lafferty, we’re with the authorities, and we wish to know …”

  Before the stranger could continue, Liam interrupted him.

  “I know what you’re here for, young man. And I’m sorry to say that it’s no longer in my possession.”

  Confused by this response, Major Colin Stewart looked vainly to Mrs. Lafferty, and was prepared to question anew, when Liam spoke again.

  “I feel truly horrible about it. I really do. I should have reported fishing it from the sea the minute I got back. I still don’t know why I ever listened to the doc like I did.”

  Though the Highlander still didn’t know what Liam was going on about, he couldn’t help but express his curiosity.

  “Just what exactly are you referring to, sir?”

  “Why, the piece of satellite, of course,” retorted Liam.

  “What else would I have fished from the sea on that fated night when the heavens caught fire?”

  Fearful that her husband had either had too much to drink or had gone completely insane, Annie Lafferty interceded.

  “Liam, these men are here inquiring about Sean. They say that his life could be in danger, and they want to speak to him at once.”

  The confused fisherman scratched his stub bled chin.

  “Then you’re not with the United States Navy?”

  Colin Stewart shook his head.

  “Most definitely not, Mr. Lafferty. We’re here solely concerning your son. So if you value his life at all, you’ll tell us where we can find him.”

  “Of course I value his life. And though I don’t know what all this fuss is about, you can find him at Dr. Blackwater’s clinic at Cootehill House,” returned Liam matter-of-factly. Suddenly realizing how close he had come to breaking his promise to the physician, Liam added, “In fact, I was just about to call up there and talk to the doc. Shall I tell him that you’re going up there?”

  “Most definitely not,” returned Colin Stewart emphatically.

  “Come on, lads, we’ve got some traveling to do.”

  The five strangers stood up and hurriedly exited.

  This left the confused fisherman alone in the living room with his wife. His thoughts dulled by the alcohol he had consumed earlier and by his mind-boggling discovery down at the docks, Liam scratched his chin.

  “Well, don’t just sit there with that worried look on your face, Annie. Sean will be just fine. He’s in Doc’s care now, and these lads who just paid us a visit will soon see that for themselves. So since that’s settled, what’s for supper?”

  “How can you even think about food at a time like this, Liam Lafferty? I think those men were holding something back. I bet it concerns how Sean got that gunshot wound. Who knows, maybe they’re the ones who did it to him.”

  With the realization that he wasn’t going to be getting any peace of mind this evening until he got to the bottom of this mystery, he decided to get on with his call to Cootehill. Then he’d tell Dr. Blackwater about the flier he had seen down at the pier, and the visit of the five brawny strangers, with or without their blessings.

  One thing that he could be sure of was that the doc would know what to make of these intruders.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mac found himself spending most of his time aboard the submarine with the Bowfin’s navigator. Together they charted the rapidly expanding debris field that was being conveyed to them via underwater telephone from the hydrographic ship. They also constantly updated the positions of the search fleet topside. This conglomeration of sonar platforms was recently augmented by the arrival of the two minesweepers. Their high-density sensors swept every inch of the sea bottom with a probing sonic beacon, and they had already located a large part of the B-52’s fuselage that had previously eluded them. Currently searching adjoining sectors were the Sea Stallion helicopters with their towed sonar sleds, and the powerful sensors of the sub rescue ship USS Pigeon. A welcome addition were two frigates that took up positions at the edge of the debris field to keep out unwanted trespassers, such as the Russian intelligence trawler that briefly brushed by them earlier.

  It was the Bowfin’s navigator who had the idea of trying to figure out the basic tra
jectories of the survivors of the crash in order to pin down the likely path of the missing bombs. Mac was impressed with the bespectacled lieutenant, who had recently graduated from the University of Michigan with a degree in advanced mathematics. After receiving the exact coordinates where the crew were plucked from the seas and making an adjustment for drift due to the current, Tim Murray constructed an intricate formula of drag coefficients and wind speeds.

  Since the two bombs that had already been located were found miles apart, it was determined that they were ripped out of the plane’s fuselage one by one, not pulled out together, as was originally supposed.

  This could make their difficult job even harder, since there was no telling if the parachutes of the missing devices even deployed correctly.

  Mac realized that their job could take weeks. That’s why it was so important to organize the initial search efficiently. Otherwise they’d end up wasting valuable hours backtracking over quadrants that had already been scanned. Consigned to just such a time-consuming operation, Mac was pleasantly surprised when word was passed down to them that one of the minesweepers had made a promising discovery in the debris field’s southernmost sector.

  Quick to mark the coordinates of this find on the chart, the sub’s navigator calmly observed, “Taking into consideration the location of the two bombs that have already been found, this sector was one of the more interesting ones. Yet the object they’ve spotted could be any number of things.”

  “It looks like we’re just going to have to go down there and eyeball it for ourselves,” said Mac.

  “Thank goodness K-l arrived from Woods Hole last night.”

  “And don’t forget, we’ve always got the DSRV Mystic,” added the navigator, who looked up from the chart as his CO entered the control room from the aft hatchway.

  “I just got word that we’ve tagged something topside,” greeted Captain Foard.

  “What do you make of it, gentlemen?”

  “It’s certainly worth checking out more closely, sir,” answered the navigator.

  “Though I wouldn’t get my hopes up just yet.”

  “Who knows, maybe we got lucky,” offered Mac.

  “Keep the good thought. Commander. Because I was also informed that the Mystic is going down to take a look at it, and that Command would like you to ride shotgun as its official observer.”