by Tom Lowe
CHAPTER TWELVE
The middle-aged fisherman sat with his hand on the Evinrude throttle and three empty Budweiser cans near his feet. His leathery face was the shade of a worn saddle. His eyes glistened from wind and alcohol. Susan Schulman turned in her seat on the boat and asked, “Can you take us closer?”
“Sweetheart, for you, I’d jump overboard and pull this damn boat by holding a rope in my teeth. Guess the Coast Guard will tell us when we’re too close.”
To her cameraman she said, “Make sure you’re rolling when they kick us out.”
“No problem.”
“The party in the boat approaching the detained vessel,” the voice resonated through the bullhorn. “You must keep within one-hundred feet.”
The fisherman said, “We might get our asses shot off.” He looked at Susan and added, “That’d be a real bad loss. I think I recognize that boat, Jupiter, right?”
“Yes,” Susan said.
“That boat’s docked at Ponce Marina. I’ve heard rumors about the ol’ boy that owns her. You hear a lotta shit around marinas ‘cause ever’body talks, you know. Close nit bunch of degenerates. Anyway, I’d heard he sorta showed up one night, paid a year’s lease on a slip and nobody saw him for a few months. Heard later on that he lives in some remote cracker shack on the St. Johns River. The fella is supposedly an ex-Delta Force, ex-cop, and one tough dude. They say he was a homicide cop. Supposedly right in the thick of all that Miami shit. Cocaine cartels, mobsters and whatnot. I heard he got fired ‘cause he crossed the line.”
“What do you mean, crossed the line?” Susan asked.
“Dirty Harry kinda stuff, I guess.”
“Interesting. Maybe he got a little too close to the drug world, crossed over and is working in it. Which one is he?”
The fisherman grinned as he idled his boat in what he guessed was a distance of one hundred feet from Jupiter. “Believe he’s the tallest one, blue shirt to the left. If he’s gettin’ busted for haulin’ drugs, I guess you two done stumbled onto one big ol’ news story, huh?”
Chief Wheeler said, “If you didn’t see something out there, my apologies. We need to know about these kinds of things, potentially so close to our shores, even if it’s been lying out there more than sixty years. In the Gulf of Mexico, not too far from that BP spill, an oil company found a sub in five-thousand feet of water. Some of those enclosed caskets carried dangerous material like mercury.” He pulled three cards out of his shirt pocket, handed one to O’Brien, Nick, and Jason. “Should any of you gentlemen remember something else, here’s my card. Since none of you know the GPS numbers to your last fishing hole, I bet you won’t be going back there. Am I right?”
“Absolutely, Chief,” O’Brien said. “It’s a big ocean. Thirty million square miles, give or take a few.”
Chief Wheeler forced a smile. To his men he said, “Let these fishermen get in port to make their submarine sandwiches.” They climbed off the swim platform, cranked the gasoline engine, and headed back to the cutter.
The small fishing boat followed. Within fifty feet, Susan Schulman stood and yelled, “Excuse me!”
Chief Wheeler looked behind him. “Official business,” he barked.
“Follow them,” said Susan
“Yes maaam,” said the fisherman grinning. “I like a woman who ain’t afraid to say what she wants.” He covered the beer cans with a rain slicker and cranked the engine.
As the Zodiac pulled alongside the cutter, Susan said, “Excuse me. I’m Susan Schulman with Channel Nine news.”
“I know who you are,” Chief Wheeler said, his tone all military business. “You’re risking arrest if you continue to film this. Homeland Security, Patriot Act.”
Schulman smiled. “I’ve seen you on some of the biggest drug busts between West Palm and Jacksonville. Is that what you and your men are doing today, checking that boat for drugs? What did you find?” The camera rolled.
“It was a routine stop. That’s all.”
Susan looked at the rifle and the 9mm pistols the men carried. She glanced up at the fifty-caliber machinegun, its barrel still trained on Jupiter. “If it’s routine, then why all the firepower, Chief?”
“In this day and time, it pays to be very cautious at sea.”
“You had to be looking for something, right? I hear one of the men on that boat is ex-Delta Force military, and a former Miami homicide cop, a person known for fighting crime. Are you holding him and his boat?”
Chief Wheeler felt blood rise in his face. “Absolutely not. They’re free to go. We boarded the vessel because our Mayport station picked up a conversation, if you will, on a marine frequency about a boat getting its anchor stuck in the wreckage of an old World War II vintage submarine. It proved to be false, a prank, we suspect. But we’re obligated to investigate these possibilities. You never know when it’s real.”
“An old submarine? What kind of submarine?”
“Like I said, someone playing games on the radio, sort of like the chatter and rumors that get started on the Internet. It’s hard to trace. The wrong information gets out, and we have to look under rocks. Takes a lot of manpower sometimes, but it’s our job. Thank you for your interest, Miss Schulman. We have to go now.”
Jason secured the anchor when it cleared the water. He waved to O’Brien in the wheelhouse and said, “It’s up.”
Nick reached for a beer. “The TV chick is headin’ our way.”
O’Brien said, “Take the helm, no-wake speed. I’ll go down and bid the lady adieu. If you see me put my hat on, gun Jupiter.” O’Brien climbed down to the cockpit and stood at the transom door as Susan Schulman and her entourage caught up with them.
“Why’d they search your boat?” she asked with a look of concern on her face.
“Got us mixed up with some other boat,” O’Brien said. “A lot of these Bayliners are still on the water. This particular make was one of Bayliner’s best sellers.”
“Did you buy it after you left Miami PD?”
O’Brien wouldn’t let her see surprise in his face. He smiled. “No, I bought it while I was there. Tell your viewers it’s for hire. We offer some of the best half and full-day fishing rates in Daytona Beach.”
She fired right back. “Did you find a sunken submarine out there today?”
Jason walked the side deck to the cockpit, Max following him, tail wagging. He said nothing as the TV camera was pointed toward O’Brien.
“Now wouldn’t that have been a catch,” O’Brien said. “I’d like to be the first to come across one. I’ve always been fascinated by boats, as you can see, especially boats that can travel underwater. Now if you’ll excuse me.” O’Brien pulled a baseball cap on his head, and Nick dropped the hammer on the twin diesels.
Susan Schulman shouted something, her voice silenced by Jupiter’s diesels. The fisherman held his beer to keep it from spilling in the wake. He grinned and said, “Guess he felt the conservation was over. Can’t say I blame him.”
Schulman ignored the comment. “Get me to shore!” she ordered. “Now!”
O’Brien stepped inside the salon and closed the door, picked up his cell phone and punched the keys. “Dave,” he said over the drone of the engines. “We’ve just been searched by the Coast Guard. Didn’t tell them anything yet.”
“Where are you now?”
“Coming into Halifax River. See what you can find out about Germany’s nuclear efforts toward the end of the war.”
“Okay. How fast can you get here?”
“Not fast enough.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A pelican sat on the top of a dock piling and watched as O’Brien backed Jupiter into its slip. “That’s good!” shouted Nick. He tossed ropes to Jason who quickly wrapped them around the boat cleats. O’Brien killed the diesels and Jupiter became silent, the only sound now coming from the slap of a small wake against the barnacle-covered pilings.
As O’Brien zipped up the isinglass in the wheelhouse, he could smell the
scent of blackened fish coming from the grill at the Tiki Bar, smoke drifting across the marina. The rustic restaurant, a place where customers ate off paper plates, sat on pilings a few feet above the high tide mark. It was adjacent to the marina office near the parking lot. O’Brien’s slip was almost at the end of a long dock, more than two hundred feet from the Tiki Bar.
“Jason, let’s clean these fish,” Nick said.
O’Brien said, “Jason will join you in a minute, Nick. I want to show him something in the salon.”
“Cool, I’ll unload the fish from the ice.”
Jason followed O’Brien into the salon. “Have a seat.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Yes. And you know what it is.”
Jason licked his dry lips, silent.
“You’re nineteen. Legally you can’t drink in a bar, and you can’t drink on this boat. I know you had two beers while Nick and I were underwater. Let me make this very clear to you. Your mom and I go way back. I can see the hurt in her eyes, hurt for you. She’s worried sick about you, your health-”
“I’m leaving. I don’t have to take this-”
“Sit down!” O’Brien’s voice was non-negotiable. “You accepted this job. I expect you to honor your commitment. And I expect you to honor your mother.”
Jason looked down at his hands. “How’d you know I drank the beers?”
“Popping breath mints after we came to the surface.”
“How’d you know I drank two?”
“I guessed. Nick and I were down about the time it takes to polish off two, especially if you’re addicted to alcohol.”
“I’m not a drunk!”
“Maybe. But you drink enough to make your mom sick with worry.”
“Why’d she tell you this?”
“Because she loves you.”
“But why you?”
“Because, at one time … years before your dad … she loved me.”
Jason looked up at O’Brien as if seeing him for the first time. “So I got the job because you’re doing a favor for my mother, right?”
“Wrong. You got the job because I believe you can do it. All your mom did was let me know you were available. You can walk out of here and quit on the first day. But if you do, you’d better be man enough to tell your mother why you quit … because you’re making a choice to drink rather than help her by helping yourself. Can you do that? Can you be honest with your mother and tell her why you really walked off the job, or are you going to make the choice to do the right thing by her … and by you?”
Jason’s voice was just above a whisper. “My dad taught me never to quit at anything respectable if I made a decision to do it. I made a decision to work here this summer. I’ll stick with that, and I won’t touch alcohol on the boat again.”
O’Brien nodded. “Think about not touching it anywhere if it has become a problem. And if it has, this time quitting would be honorable. I bet your dad would be the first to agree.”
Jason let out a long breath, his cheeks flush with color. “I look at his picture a lot because my memories of him are kind of fading some. That makes it hard, you know?”
“I know. But you still have them, and the good ones will stay with you.”
“I’d better go help Nick with the fish. Gotta earn my money.”
Jason walked out of the salon as Max trotted inside.
O’Brien went in the galley, found the milk carton in the rear of the refrigerator, got his camera, and called to Max. “Let’s go find a patch of grass for you, little lady, okay?” Max looked up at him through excited brown eyes and barked once.
As O’Brien walked by Nick and Jason, he said, “Jason, take some fish home to your mother. I remember her as a gourmet cook.”
Jason grinned and wiped a fish scale off his eyebrow. “Yeah, she is. Thanks, I’ll see you Saturday for our first customers.”
“Sounds good. I’m really glad you’re aboard. We’ll make it a good summer.”
Nick tossed a fish head to a calico cat, big as a raccoon. “Ya’ll got me in the mood for submarine, Greek-style, grouper sandwiches. Stay for dinner, Jason.”
“I appreciate it, but I promised Nicole we’d hang out tonight. My birthday’s tomorrow. I think she wants to do something special.”
“Happy birthday!” O’Brien said.
“Thanks.”
Nick chuckled. “Women like it when their men come back from the sea.”
“We’ve only been gone a day,” Jason said, dimples popping.
Nick raised both eyebrows, his dark eyes catching the late afternoon light. “I understand, but it’s not how long you’re gone. It’s how you greet them on your return. Trust me, I’m an old sailor. The smell of the sea, it’s something women like to taste. Only thing that makes ‘em more passionate is after a good fight when you make up and then make love like you invented it. The meaning of life is to live it.”
Jason laughed and hosed water inside the stomach of a gutted snapper, the dappled setting sunlight breaking through palm fronds.
“Come on, Max,” said O’Brien. “We’re hearing some real fish tales now. I’ll be on Dave’s boat when you’re done, Nick.”
“Tell Dave I’m bringing over some Ouzo. Need something to chase the ghosts away. I’m still seein’ those bones.”
Almost every stool at the Tiki Bar and Grill was taken by a mix of charter boat captains, deck hands, tourists, and bikers. A teenage girl worked the wooden plank floor and its dozen tables, about half filled with diners.
As O’Brien walked with Max back from the oyster shell parking lot and its grassy places, he looked up and saw Kim Davis working behind the bar. She spotted him at the same time and waved. Kim was in her late thirties, brunette, high cheekbones, her raven hair pinned up, firm body, and eyes that could hypnotize most men. To a college-aged bartender she said, “Tim, I’m taking five.”
“No problem.”
Kim stepped to the end of the bar, next to the open-air ramp leading down to the dock. “Sean O’Brien and his first mate, Miss Max.” She leaned down and petted Max. Kim lowered her voice and took O’Brien aside. “Sean, we have to talk. You okay?”
“Last I checked all was fine.”
Kim smiled. “I bet. Channel Nine had video of your boat, you, and your crew in the inlet. They showed the Coast Guard questioning you. Said something about a local fishing crew catching a German submarine. They said the details are coming up at six. What’s going on, Sean? Did you find a German submarine somewhere out there?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
O’Brien’s cell phone chirped on his hip. He looked at the caller ID, but didn’t recognize the number. “Excuse me a second, Kim. I transferred in-coming charter calls to my cell. Not that I’ve had a lot of calls.” O’Brien answered the phone, “Jupiter Charters,” he said.
“I just saw your boat on the news preview,” the man said. “If you can take me out to catch a submarine, I’ll book your fuckin’ boat for a month.”
O’Brien disconnected. “The nuts are falling and calling.”
Kim smiled. “They saw the news promo on Channel Nine, huh?”
“Looks that way.”
“What’s the news talking about, Sean? Who started it?”
“Coast Guard heard something on one of the marine channels. Probably a practical joker. Said they’d found a lost German submarine out in the Atlantic. We were fishing there today and I guess the Coast Guard got a little jumpy. Could be because of the last scare at Port Canaveral. Can’t blame them for being suspicious these days.”
“That incident at Port Canaveral was a fishing boat with some Middle Eastern types cruising in a restricted area. You guys don’t fit that profile. We’ll, maybe Nick looks a little like a terrorist.” She smiled. “I can’t even begin to imagine Nick being arrested in some mistaken identity thing. He’d start swearing in Greek.” She glanced over toward the TV in the corner of the bar. “There it is again!”
O’Brien looked up and s
aw his face on the screen. Then there was a wide shot of Jupiter and the Coast Guard boat, the shot cutting back to him, Nick and Jason being questioned by Chief Wheeler.
The reporter’s voice said, “Could a local fishing guide have found a German U-boat somewhere in the Atlantic? That’s the question the Coast Guard is asking. The full story on Eyewitness News tonight at six.”
“See!” said Kim. “They’re going to have everybody buzzing about the story.”
“There’s no story. There’s only an over-zealous reporter who wants to accelerate her career by doing inaccurate, sensationalized stories. Trash TV. Junk journalism.”
A man sitting nearest them at the bar laughed at O’Brien’s comments. He held a bottle of beer in a large hand, knuckles thick and scarred. The man, late thirties, had the shoulders and arms of a pro football quarterback, short cropped dark hair, tanned angular face and a Paul Newman nose.
“Eric Hunter, meet Sean O’Brien,” said Kim.
Hunter extended his hand and O’Brien shook it. “Looks like the Coast Guard had a lot of firepower pointed at your boat.”
“You noticed that, too?”
“Hard not to.”
“Overkill.”
“They get jumpy out there in today’s hostile climate.”
O’Brien laughed. “Out there was right here in Ponce Inlet.”
“I see you’ve got Jason Canfield on board. He’s a fine young man.”
“How do you know him?”
“His dad was a friend of mine. We served in the military together. His mother has done a good job raising him after his father died.”
“You knew his father?” O’Brien asked.
“Yes. Frank died a few years ago.”
“How’d he die?” Kim asked.
“He was one of the men killed when the USS Cole was bombed.”
O’Brien was silent.
Hunter said, “I really appreciate you taking the kid on, showing him the ropes, letting him earn some bucks. If you ever need a diver, I’d be glad to help you.”
