Last Op

by Jamie Fredric

  The position of the Runnel Stone, one of the most dangerous areas for ships, was currently marked by a buoy with a flashing light and bell that pealed with the movement of the waves.

  Ascending the reef slowly, they encountered a variety of marine life, then with one arm reaching straight overhead, they broke the water’s surface.

  Grant removed his mouthpiece, spitting out seawater. Treading water, he raised the face mask, letting it rest on top of his head. Davis was next to him, waving for the dive boat.

  “That was one helluva dive!” Grant said with a grin, as he shook water from his head, then wiped a hand over his face.

  Davis gave a thumb’s up. “Wait until tomorrow when you see the next spot!”

  The dive boat pulled alongside. The two men handed their swim fins to one of the crew, then they climbed the ladder onto a teak platform on the stern. They sat on the edge, their legs dangling over the side, as a crewman helped them with their tanks.

  Grant pushed his wetsuit hood back, as he was handed a towel. “So, where we going tomorrow?”

  Davis scrubbed his hair with a white towel, as he answered, “Mount’s Bay. There’s a wreck of a steamer down about thirty meters. Her hull is pretty much intact, with the screw and rudder still in place.”

  Grant nodded. “Hey, isn’t that where St. Michael’s Mount is?”

  “It is,” Davis answered. “Want a tour?”

  “When we’ve finished touring underwater!”

  St. Michael’s Mount is the Cornish counterpart to Mont Saint Michel in Normandy, France, with the same wicked tides. It was simply known by the local Cornish as “The Mount.”

  “Ready to head in?” Davis asked, as he stood on the platform.

  “Let’s go,” Grant responded, as he followed Davis into the boat. Grant changed into a pair of jeans, white T-shirt and sneakers. A shower would have to wait until he got back to the hotel.

  Once the boat was docked in the harbor and the gear offloaded, the two men rinsed their wetsuits with fresh water, then Grant stored his in a wetsuit bag.

  Davis walked with him to the rental car, a British racing green MGB roadster. The convertible top was down.

  “Where are you staying in Newquay, Grant?”

  “The Atlantic,” Grant answered, dropping the wetsuit bag in the boot (trunk). He went around the side and reached over the door, lifting his baseball cap from the seat.

  “Have you been to the pub, the Sailor’s Arms?”

  Grant shook his head, as he put on his cap. “No. Something special?”

  Davis laughed. “Well, it was until you Yanks invaded!”

  Arching an eyebrow, Grant asked, “We invaded a pub?”

  “Yank Marines and Navy from St. Mawgan have called it ‘home’ for several years now. Why don’t I drive up and meet you there tonight? We’ll lift a pint or two.”

  “Sounds good! How about 2100 hours? That’s nine p.m. Brit time,” Grant smirked. He eased his 6’1” frame behind the right-hand drive steering wheel, then started the engine, and shifted into first gear.

  Davis slapped the car door. “Stay on the proper side of the road, Yank! That’s the left side to you!”

  Chapter 3

  Newquay, Cornwall

  1930 Hours

  Friday

  Built in 1892, the Atlantic Hotel sat on ten acres of headland, overlooking Newquay Bay, the harbor, Towan Beach, and the rugged Cornish coastline. During World War I, the hotel was transformed into a hospital. After the war, alterations were made and it re-opened as a hotel, having undergone several renovations since.

  Grant’s hotel room was small but comfortable, had simple but new furnishings. A single bed, directly opposite the door, was covered with a plain, dark blue quilt. Next to the bed was a nightstand with a green glass reading lamp on it, the kind with a pull-chain. There was just enough room for a white rotary-dial telephone. There was a wing chair next to the window on the opposite side of the bed, offering him a convenient place to hang his slacks and shirt.

  After showering and shaving, he put on his dark gray slacks, then a light blue, short sleeve shirt. As he was tucking his shirt into his trousers, he drew back one of the white curtains.

  He looked out across the headlands, with a totally unimpeded view of Newquay Bay. Tonight he probably wouldn’t get to see the sunset. He had a feeling his time at the pub would go well beyond that.

  He opened the wardrobe and sorted through his clothes, looking for his windbreaker. Sliding it from a hanger, he stopped for a brief moment, realizing there were only civvies hanging inside. There hadn’t been many times when he wasn’t packing a uniform or two. He closed the door, thinking he didn’t miss seeing them.

  As he started down the staircase, he glanced at his watch, thinking there was still time to grab a bite before meeting Chaz. He thought he’d try a Cornish pasty. A Cornish pasty was made by filling a circle of thick dough with beef, sliced potatoes, turnips, onions, then folded in half with the edges crimped. It was an easy to carry, hearty meal Cornish tin miners brought to the mines for lunch. The thick crust protected the contents and acted as an insulator.

  An hour later, he pushed the heavy glass door open and stood outside the entrance to the brightly lit hotel lobby. As he put on his windbreaker, he breathed in a lungful of clean sea air. Downtown Newquay was less than a third of a mile away, so he decided to walk, avoiding a parking problem.

  Within a few minutes he was at Newquay Harbor, as if he’d been drawn to it. Taking a slight detour onto North Quay Hill, he had a good view of the harbor. To the right, at the bottom of South Quay Hill, was the harbormaster’s office. Next door, tucked behind a multi-pane glass door that opened electronically like a garage door, was a large rubber boat. The Newquay lifeboat was the same color orange as a life vest. It rested on a “dolly” to allow swift movement to the water.

  The lifeboat was owned by RNLI (Royal National Lifeboat Institution) and manned by volunteers. Only the boat coxswain was paid.

  The harbor itself wasn’t considered large. There were two breakwaters, the north and south. The north one jutted out from land running parallel with the beach, while the second extended from the beach toward the bay. A narrow entrance to the harbor separated the two.

  Inside the harbor were small fishing boats, and several private motor craft, all under thirty feet, but most were either simple motor boats, sailboats or rowboats.

  By the time he headed back to the hotel later that evening, street lamps along both breakwaters would light up the entire harbor.

  *

  Sailor’s Arms Pub

  Fore Street

  A cloud of thick, choking cigarette smoke filled every square inch of the pub. Patrons lined up three deep along the bar, clamoring to move closer. Raising a hand, they’d shout their order, trying to get one of two bartenders’ attention. Bottles and glass mugs filled with pints of stout were passed clinking from hand to hand, in exchange for pounds and shillings.

  Next to a side entrance five men were “shooting” darts. A continuous “thump” sounded as each needle nose dart struck the board. Shouts and moans simultaneously erupted with each hit. Tonight was just a friendly game, a practice game. Tomorrow they’d be playing for a trophy and bragging rights. Yanks against Brits. The competition was fierce.

  American military personnel, both Navy and Marines stationed at St. Mawgan, eventually found their way to the pub. Initially, the Brits felt their personal space had been invaded by the foreigners. What began as a mild form of animosity between Brits and Yanks, eventually turned into a special bond between the two.

  Grant walked in and stood briefly by the door. Heads turned, seeing a stranger, already assuming he was another Yank.

  He looked around the room, trying to spot Davis. As he unzipped his windbreaker, he walked toward the bar. No sign of Davis. He pushed through the crowd and went back near the door, standing by an empty table. Looking back toward the bar, he noticed a variety of coasters on display overhead.
Brit and Yank uniform badges were stapled along the overhang.

  Davis walked in, running his fingers through his windblown hair. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a light-colored cable knit sweater. “Hey, mate! Been waiting long?” he asked Grant, as he pulled out a chair from under the table.

  “Just got here,” Grant replied as he shook Davis’ hand. “Glad you could make it. What can I get you from the bar?”

  Davis held up a hand. “This one’s on me. What’ll it be?”

  “Whatever you’re having,” Grant answered, as he took off his windbreaker, hung it on the back of the chair and sat down.

  More patrons arrived. There was practically standing room only. Recorded music, blaring earlier, was drowned out by a continuous babel of loud voices.

  Davis pushed his way through the crowd, finally getting close enough to the thirty-foot-long, curved bar. One of the bartender’s, Sam Pearson, spotted him and came over. They chatted briefly, with Davis turning and pointing in Grant’s direction. Davis disappeared behind more patrons crowding around him.

  After a few minutes, Grant looked up and saw Davis maneuvering his way through a sea of bodies, finally making his way to the table. He handed Grant a large glass of dark ale.

  Davis pushed the chair with his foot then sat. He held up his glass, and Grant tapped his glass against it. “Cheers!” the Englishman smiled.

  Grant took a large swig of warm beer, then wiped a finger across his mouth, swiping away foam. As many times as he’s had the warm brew, he still preferred a cold Budweiser.

  “Well I’ll be damned!” a voice said loudly from within the crowd.

  Grant looked over Davis’ shoulder, seeing someone coming towards him. He recognized the face immediately. “Jack!” he said with a broad smile as he got up. They greeted one another with slaps on the back.

  Jack Henley was 5’9”, had short, jet black hair, hazel eyes. From the left corner of his mouth to mid-cheek was a faded scar, the only scar visible as a result of a VC attack on his patrol boat in the Mekong Delta.

  Backing away, Grant laughed, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same thing!” Henley replied. “Hey, am I interrupting?” he asked looking at Davis.

  “Hell no!” Grant made the introductions. “Chaz, this is Jack Henley. Jack, Chaz Davis.” The two shook hands. “Jack and I were roommates at the Naval Academy.” Grant pulled out another chair. “Come on! Sit! Can I get you something to drink?”

  Henley shook his head. “Just ordered. Waitress will be bringing it.” He leaned back, shaking his head. “Shit! Can’t believe this. All these years and I run into you in Brit territory.” He shot a look at Davis. “Sorry. I meant English territory.”

  Davis laughed. “Not to worry, Yank!”

  “So, what brings you here to jolly old England?” Henley asked, reaching for the glass the pretty blond waitress handed him. He took a sip of his gin and tonic.

  Grant rested his forearms on the table, sliding his glass back and forth between his palms as he answered, “Took a couple weeks leave. Been doing some diving. Chaz has a dive shop and boat down in Porthgwarra. He’s been my dive buddy.”

  “Haven’t done any diving myself,” Henley commented, “but hear Cornwall has some of the best.”

  Grant sipped on his beer, then asked, “So, how’s the personal life? Married?”

  “Divorced once, then got married again eight months ago. Vicky’s British. She’s from St. Ives.”

  “Hey, congratulations!” Grant said, lifting his beer glass. “Here’s to you both!”

  “What about you?” Henley asked. “Married? Single? On the ‘hunt’?”

  “Married once. Been single since Jenny died.”

  “Jesus, Grant. I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too,” Davis said quietly, learning a little more about this American, who he already considered to be a friend.

  Grant gave a quick nod, then changed the subject. “Now it’s your turn, Jack. Still in?”

  “Oh, yeah. Been stationed the past eighteen months at St. Mawgan’s EOD command.”

  Grant wasn’t expecting Henley to expound on his current duty. Nothing had to be added considering the secret St. Mawgan held.

  Grant nodded. “Hey, listen, if you can get away, why don’t you come diving with us? We’re going out again tomorrow. What do you think, Chaz? Would that be okay?”

  “Two Yanks at one time? Might be trouble,” Davis laughed.

  Henley shook his head. “Thanks, but tomorrow might not be good.”

  “Okay,” Grant said, “there’s still time. I’ll be here several more days.”

  Henley pulled the sleeve of his sweater back, looked at his watch, and frowned. “Hmm.”

  “Something wrong, Jack?” Grant asked.

  “I was expecting a friend of mine. He should’ve been here by now.”

  “Need to call him?”

  Henley shook his head. “Nah. He lives right down the street. If he’s not here in awhile, I’ll go check his flat. That damn Cooper of his can usually be heard before he even hits downtown!” He took a sip of his drink, then asked Grant, “So, you’re still working for Uncle Sam, too, huh?”

  Grant swallowed the last mouthful of beer. “Steady paycheck.”

  “Where you stationed?”

  “D.C.,” Grant responded, hoping Henley didn’t want any further details, especially while sitting in this crowded pub.

  “Nice duty!”

  Grant laughed. “Better than a boat!” Then he stood, holding his beer mug toward the two men. “Anybody need a refill?”

  “Not for me,” Henley answered, holding up his half full glass. “I’m gonna have to leave soon. Told Vicky I’d pick her up at her brother’s house in St. Columb Major.”

  Davis threw the last mouthful of stout down his throat, handing the mug to Grant. “Don’t want to get too ‘tanked’ up, but I’ll have one more!”

  While Grant went to the bar, Henley looked at his watch again. He was worried. He finished his drink, then carried on a brief conversation with Davis.

  Grant made it through the crowd without spilling beer or Coke. He handed Davis the beer then sat down. “So, did I miss anything?” He looked at Henley. “You still worried about your friend?”

  “Shouldn’t be, but it’s not like him.”

  “We can go with you to check his apartment, right, Chaz?”

  “Sure. I can always get another pint!” He took another large gulp, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  Finishing their drinks, the three men left the pub then walked down Fore Street toward the clothing shop, passing gift shops, a greengrocer and beach rental gear. The greasy smell of fried fish and chips hung in the air.

  “So, how do you know this friend?” Grant asked, putting on his windbreaker.

  “Actually, we met at Sailor’s playing darts. And because of him I’ve gotten into the racing scene. Derek’s a real car nut. He loves racing that Cooper of his. We’ve been to road rallies, but most of the time we’ll take the car out on some of the quiet Cornish back roads, away from cops!” he laughed. “The old runway at St. Eval is a great place to spin the wheels. He’s been to our house for dinner, but mostly we just hang out.”

  “Does he work here in Newquay?”

  “Yeah. He’s one of the custodians at the base.”

  They were within two blocks of their destination when there was the sound of police car sirens in the distance. They all turned, seeing headlights and blue flashing lights coming into view as two cars sped down Fore Street, passed them, then screeched to a stop in front of the clothing store.

  “Oh, shit!” Henley spat out, breaking into a run, with Grant and Davis not far behind.

  Car doors slammed. Two constables ran to a door next to the clothing store that led to the upstairs flat. Two other constables took positions on either side of the door. One of them broke it down, then both rushed up the stairwell.

  “Jack!” Grant y
elled, catching up to his friend, grabbing his arm. “Hold on!” Both men nearly lost their balance as they stopped just short of the store. “Take it easy!”

  Henley caught his breath. “Okay. Okay.”

  Grant turned to Davis. “Chaz, think you can find out what the hell’s going on?”

  Davis nodded, then walked slowly toward the two officers standing guard, with his hands in full view, showing he wasn’t armed. He said something, then turned and pointed toward Henley and Grant. Both constables shook their heads.

  Davis came back and shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry, mates, but I couldn’t get a bloody word out of them.”

  Grant looked up at the apartment windows, seeing lights. Should he let the police know he worked for NIS? Would it get him anywhere? Maybe since Jack knows this Derek, he’d have a chance at information.

  “What the hell,” he mumbled. He turned toward Henley. “Jack, stay here.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “Just stay here. You, too, Chaz, okay?” Davis nodded with a questioning expression.

  Grant walked toward the two police constables, keeping his back to his friends. “Excuse me, sirs,” he said, while he slowly reached for his wallet in his back pocket, opened it, and displayed his ID card. “I’m Grant Stevens. I work for the Naval Investigative Service in Washington, D.C. One of the gentlemen behind me is an American stationed at St. Mawgan. He’s a friend of mine and of the man who lives up there,” he pointed. “Can you give me any information on what’s happening?”

  Constable Clive Rainey spoke. “I’ll have to speak with my sergeant. Wait here, please.” He left.

  More curious onlookers started gathering across the street, talking among themselves, pointing to the police and the flat. Blue lights on the police cars kept flashing.

  Grant tucked his wallet in his back pocket, then gave a quick glance toward Henley and Davis. He turned away and looked up at the flat, finally hearing footsteps clomping down the stairs.