The Black Bullet so-1

by Tom Lowe

  “Cool. I really appreciate you hiring me. I know you didn’t have to do it.”

  “We’ll make a good band of brothers. For your own good, don’t tell anyone what we found out there today. Not even your mom. Promise me you can keep a secret. I need to notify the proper authorities at the right time. The worst thing that could happen is for the media to know about this. It’d be a circus out there.”

  “It’s just an old World War II U-boat. I’d read there were a bunch of them in the Battle of the Atlantic during the early part of the war. Looks like you and Nick found one that wasn’t lucky enough to limp back to Germany.”

  “Just keep it under your hat.” He watched Jason’s eyes, the wavered movement, the licking of lips, tightening of hands on the wheel. “Want to talk about it? What’s on your mind, Jason?”

  “Before you told me not to say anything to anybody, Dave Collins called on the marine radio. You and Nick were down on the bottom. Dave was asking me how fishing was. I told him we hadn’t caught much, a few snappers. Then I said we might have caught an old submarine with skeletons in it. He was like real cool, you know? He said he was looking forward to Nick making Greek submarine sandwiches when we got back to the dock. I said we ought to be coming through Ponce Inlet in a few hours, but he’d already gone off the radio. I don’t think he heard me.”

  “I wonder how many others did. Which channel?”

  “What?”

  “The frequency. Which channel did you use?”

  “Thirty-six, I think.”

  “On the bridge or below?”

  “Below.”

  “You sure? Go check. See what channel the radio’s set to.”

  “Okay, sorry. I didn’t-”

  Jason got out of the captain’s seat and started down the ladder. Nick opened one eye and grunted. “Jason hit a buoy?” he asked.

  “We’re not that close in yet. But he might as well have hit an iceberg.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dave Collins called on the radio when you and I were underwater. Jason told him we’d found a submarine with bodies. Dave, with all his years of training, ignored it with a casual comeback about you making submarine sandwiches.”

  Nick leaned back in the cabin, rubbed his chest. “We could be screwed.”

  Jason, cheeks flamed, breathing heavy, flew back up the steps. He made a dry, forced swallow. “It’s channel thirty-six.”

  Nick said, “If you and Dave talked on thirty-six, that’s good. Not many people on that frequency.”

  O’Brien said, “It’s the channel used by some of the commercial boats. Maybe a drug runner or two. Which means it’s monitored by the Coast Guard.”

  Nick stood and stepped closer to one of the rolled up isinglass windows, the breeze in his face, his hair rising like bird wings flapping on the side of his head. He lifted binoculars from the console and looked at the horizon in all directions. “You ever feel like uninvited company’s comin,’ you just don’t know when?”

  “Let’s get something straight from this point forward,” O’Brien said. “We saw nothing. The casual remark you made was because we couldn’t figure out what snagged the anchor and you were goofing around, joking. It could have been a submarine or any ship or plane wreck on the bottom of the ocean. Understand?”

  Jason nodded. “I apologize. I didn’t think … just being dumb.”

  O’Brien couldn’t help but feel sorry for the kid. He said, “The genie’s out of the bottle. Don’t beat yourself up, okay? You got the call from Dave before I saw what was down there and told you not to say anything.”

  “You’re right about that ol’ genie,” Nick said. “Looks like we got a boat coming north outta Jacksonville. That’s where the Navy keeps the real subs.”

  “Is it Navy?” asked O’Brien.

  Nick stared through the binoculars for a long moment. “Don’t think it’s Navy. Still way too far off. But whoever it is, they’re in a big hurry.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  It took O’Brien less than twenty minutes to get within a half mile of Ponce Inlet. The lighthouse, highest in the Southeast, stood like a sentry near the inlet. Jason and Max stepped up to the bowsprit, the water spray keeping them both cool. O’Brien and Nick remained in the wheelhouse.

  Nick said, “Looks like, whoever and whatever that boat was, it’s laying way the hell back. Maybe just some kind of research vessel, or maybe we got a bad case of paranoia since we walked around that underwater graveyard.” He pulled a bottle of Corona out of the ice chest. “Fuck it. We haven’t done anything wrong? It is what it is.”

  O’Brien said, “I’m thinking about what it is and what it can be.”

  “You got worry in your DNA. That’s why you were a cop so long.”

  “You think that’s it?”

  A casino gambling boat, on a daily “trip to nowhere,” was coming out of Ponce Inlet and heading for international waters as O’Brien slowly guided Jupiter into the mouth of the pass. Fishing boats chugged by and two people on jet skis zipped through the inlet. O’Brien used his cell to call his friend, Dave Collins.

  “I was expecting to hear from you,” Dave said.

  “I wish I could have reached you before Jason did.”

  “I terminated the conversation when I heard him mention what you found.”

  “It’s definitely a German U-boat.”

  “I heard you found bodies, some skeletal remains.”

  “But you didn’t hear about a cargo that could be highly enriched uranium.”

  “What! If it’s yellow cake, the stuff is as dangerous now as it was then. Maybe more so, considering today’s global climate of terrorism. The Germans may have been further along that we knew at the time.”

  “I’m debating whether to give the coordinates to the Coast Guard and forget it, or let an old sleeping dog lie.”

  “Sometimes old dogs have a damn mean bite if you get close enough. I’d let the secret remain one until we can offer the intelligence to someone who’s got a higher clearance than a reservist. All we need is a weekend guardsman with an active Facebook page to create a viral mess for the world to see.”

  “You have a good point. We’re coming through the pass now. See you at the docks.”

  Max ran around the deck barking at the big gambling boat as it plowed through the choppy pass, its diesels belching acrid black smoke, retirees sipping free cocktails on deck, the captain and crew pushing toward the open sea and total unaccountability.

  “What’d we do if you forget the GPS numbers?” asked Nick, sipping his beer.

  O’Brien eased Jupiter through Ponce Inlet, keeping to the right of the channel markers. He said, “Maybe I’ve already forgotten them.”

  “You remember details and shit most people never see. You’ll remember those numbers as long as you want. Probably take ‘em to your grave.”

  O’Brien smiled. “Let’s hope the ‘grave’ part is far in the future.”

  Nick laughed. “If you get amnesia or something … that old sub will be hangin’ out there on the bottom of the ocean. Long as nobody wakes up that giant locked in those canisters-that HEU, no problem, right?”

  “Like you said, it could be canisters for another sub … or mislabeled.”

  Jason climbed the ladder to the bridge. “Want me to bring Max up?” he asked.

  “She’s fine down there,” O’Brien said. “She loves the breeze and the scenery. Max likes to bark at the dogs that people bring to the Lighthouse Park.”

  Nick grinned and added, “Scenery’s getting better.” He pointed to a bikini-clad woman lying on her beach towel. She sat up and sipped from a water bottle as Nick leaned out the open wheelhouse, raised his beer bottle in a toast, and yelled, “To the most beautiful lady on the beach!” The woman smiled and returned the wave. Nick, grinning, turned to O’Brien. “She thinks I’m Yanni and this is my yacht.”

  O’Brien laughed. “You’d better sell some more music on PBS and get a bigger boat. She looks like the m
ega-yacht type.”

  Nick reached across the console and turned on satellite radio. John Mellencamp filled the speakers with Little Pink Houses. “I always like music when I come back to the harbor. We celebrate now ‘cause we caught a few fish. Every time I bring my boat in, I’m out there a week or more, I always crank the music goin’ by the fishermen, the babes, restaurants, and the bars leading up to the marina. Kinda like Nick’s parade.”

  “If you want to go out on the deck and do a little Greek dance, don’t be shy.”

  “Shy? Sean, I’m the one tryin’ to get you to come outta your shell. I tried to introduce you to Shelia-”

  “The stripper?”

  “Doesn’t matter how she makes a livin,’ it’s what she’s made of, you know?”

  O’Brien started to respond, but stopped when he saw what awaited them just around the rock jetties. A Coast Guard cutter. The distinctive orange stripe from the lip of the bow to below the waterline. At least five men on deck. Two holding rifles. O’Brien said, “Gentlemen, company has arrived.”

  “Whoa, holy-” Jason said.

  “No shit,” Nick said, his voice dropping.

  O’Brien brought Jupiter to a slow speed. “Jason, where’d you put the camera?”

  “Lower station. Next to the wheel, right where I keep my cell and keys.”

  “Hide the camera in a milk carton inside the rear of the fridge. The carton has its backside partially cut out. Put the camera in there, and put the carton in the same place.”

  Jason nodded, his nostrils wide, a vein jumping in the side of his neck.

  From the Coast Guard boat, a voice came booming over a loudspeaker, “This is the United States Coast Guard. Pull the vessel west of marker seventeen and anchor. Prepare for boarding.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “We’re rolling,” said the Channel Nine cameraman.

  Reporter Susan Schulman, a Julia Roberts look-alike, waited for a beat. She smiled and said, “So now motorists won’t have to make the long trek to drive from New Smyrna Beach to Daytona Beach. The new ferryboat service will operate seven days a week ferrying people and their cars across Ponce Inlet from seven a.m. until six p.m. In South Daytona Beach … this is Susan Schulman reporting.”

  “Got it,” the cameraman said.

  “Get a shot of the first cars driving onto the ferry. We can edit when we get back to the truck. It’s one feature piece too many today for me.”

  The cameraman’s eyes squinted in the late afternoon sun looking across the inlet. “You might have a real story over there. Coast Guard’s busting someone. That’s one of their fastest cutters. Could be a load of drugs.”

  Schulman bit her lower lip for a second, watching the Coast Guard approach the boat. She said, “They’re fully armed.” She looked around and saw a man sitting in a small boat and fishing near the jetties. Schulman, still holding her microphone, started walking quickly towards him.

  Jason lowered the anchor when O’Brien shut off the engines. The voice over the loud speaker said, “All occupants of the vessel, Jupiter, report to the cockpit.”

  O’Brien and Nick climbed down from the bridge. Jason, Max running in front of him, came around the deck and stood in the cockpit. They said nothing as three members of the Coast Guard approached in a Zodiac. One held a rifle, the others wore side arms.

  The oldest man, square-jawed, early forties, precision-cut salt and pepper flattop, crisp white uniform, tied a line to the swim platform and stepped out of the Zodiac. His men followed. They opened the transom door and entered the cockpit. Max barked.

  “I’m Chief Carl Wheeler,” he said. “Petty Officers Johnson and Kowalski.” The men said nothing. Wheeler looked at O’Brien and asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Sean O’Brien.”

  “Mr. O’Brien, have you been fishing?”

  “We got a few snapper. A slow day.”

  “Who’s the captain of this vessel?”

  O’Brien smiled. “Don’t know if I’ve earned the title of captain, yet, but I’m the owner. What’s this about?”

  Chief Wheeler looked at O’Brien like he was about to inspect his hair for lice. “We’ll need to see your registration. Do you men have anything to declare?”

  Max barked.

  “Confine that dog, please.”

  “I declare Max is no threat,” O’Brien said. “Come on, Max. Hang out inside.” She trotted into the salon and O’Brien closed the door. “Declare? We’ve been fishing.”

  “So, I take it your answer is no?” asked Chief Wheeler.

  Nick said, “All we got on this boat is fish, man. Wanna take a look at ‘em?”

  “We do,” the chief said.

  Nick pulled open the big ice chest on the far right side of the cockpit. Chief Wheeler gestured with his head and one of the men began searching through the ice and catch. He said, “Looks like fish only, sir.”

  To both petty officers, Wheeler said, “Search this vessel.”

  “Wait a minute,” O’Brien said. “I have no problem with a search of Jupiter. But I do have a problem with a lack of explanation as to why.”

  “Sir,” said Chief Wheeler. “This is an issue of Homeland Security, and we’re within our authority to search this vessel.”

  O’Brien felt the anger rise in his chest. He said nothing as the petty officers began their search. When the men entered the salon, Max barked. Nick started to walk inside to get her. “Halt!” ordered the chief. To O’Brien he said, “Sir, call your dog outside.”

  “Come on, Max. Stay out here with us while our guests make themselves at home. If you want my papers, Chief, I have to go inside to get them.”

  “I’ll escort you.”

  O’Brien said nothing. He entered the salon with the chief close behind him. O’Brien opened a cabinet beneath the lower control station, sorted through papers and pulled out the boat’s title and registration. He handed them to the chief who spent a minute reading them, gave the papers back to O’Brien and said, “They look in order. Do you have diving equipment on board this vessel?”

  “I do.”

  “I need to see it.”

  “It’s outside.”

  “Let’s take a look.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “At this point, I ask the questions. Where’s the dive gear?”

  “When I left for a fishing trip this morning, I remembered leaving America.”

  “You’d be smart to dispense with the editorial comments, Mr. O’Brien.”

  “If you’re looking for drugs, why don’t you just say so?”

  Petty Officer Kowalski popped his head up from the galley. “Sir, clean down here. Ron’s looking through the master. Want me to go topside?”

  “Affirmative. Check the engine compartment, outside storage areas, too.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Chief Wheeler stepped back onto the cockpit as Petty Officer Kowalski scampered up the ladder to the bridge. “Where’s the dive gear?” Wheeler asked.

  “Over here,” said O’Brien, stepping to a storage area. O’Brien opened the compartment. Chief Wheeler removed the tanks and fins. He knelt, feeling the inside of the fins. “Wet. When did you last dive?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Who dove?”

  “Nick and I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Had an anchor stuck. Didn’t want to lose it.”

  “Caught on something, was it?”

  “Rocks.”

  “What were the GPS numbers?”

  “Don’t know. In all the commotion, we didn’t jot them down.”

  Petty Officer Johnson emerged from the salon. “Open the engine compartment,” ordered the chief. To Nick he said, “What kind of rocks had your ground tackle?”

  “Blue rock,” said Nick gesturing with his arms. “Big ones. Down there it’s kinda hard to tell what kind they are. Everything looks blue, you know?”

  “What I know is about three hours ago someone used marine channel t
hirty-six and talked about finding a submarine on the bottom of the Atlantic. Said there were bodies, skeletons. This person said they were fishing in the Gulf Stream when they got their ground tackle stuck, stuck on a submarine, maybe a German U-boat. We heard they were heading back into port, Ponce Inlet. I figured this vessel travels at about eighteen to twenty knots. You’ve already said you were fishing the stream. If you left close to after the time we intercepted the call that would put you here about now.”

  O’Brien said, “Dozens of boats come in and out of this inlet every hour.”

  “Yes, but none came from the exact direction you came from.” Chief Wheeler dropped the fin he held, stood, and turned to Jason. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Jason Canfield.”

  “Did you dive today?”

  “No sir.”

  “Were you the one who radioed in the find of the German submarine?”

  Jason glanced at O’Brien. “I was just saying that we might have found a U-boat. I’d read about some of them sinking off the east coast of America in 1942. I guess my imagination got the best of me.”

  “Quite an imagination, I’d say. In monitoring the radio frequency, one of our officers heard you mention human remains, maybe munitions on the site, too. Is that what was seen?”

  “I’ve played too many video games. I’d guess that if a U-boat was ever found, one that went down with its crew, there would be skeletons and stuff.”

  “I bet that’d be a good guess,” Chief Wheeler said. “Did any of you see a submarine today?”

  Nick grinned and said, “I’m making grouper submarine sandwiches. You and your posse are welcome to stop by.”

  O’Brien said, “Chief, unless you have a public affairs person on board, it looks like you might be asked for a comment from a TV news crew. If you want to tell them you’re questioning us about finding a German U-boat out there, I’d like to hear their follow-up question.” O’Brien pointed to the boat heading their way, cameraman standing, legs slightly open, camera on his shoulder.