The Black Bullet so-1

by Tom Lowe

  O’Brien said, “If there’s any poetic irony in this, it’s using nuclear material made in Nazi Germany bound for Japan to use on America. It gives Dante’s Inferno a different perspective.”

  “Hell with it,” Nick said. “Sean, let’s get this shit outta my galley and out of sight. I’m done with lookin’ at the end-of-the-war time bombs on my breakfast table. Good morning America, guess what’s for breakfast? Nukes, baby, that’s what!”

  Dave said, “It’s still dark. Let’s get these in my inflatable. We’ll off-load them at the parking lot and into Sean’s Jeep, and then take them to my storage unit near the bridge.”

  O’Brien said, “We could be followed.”

  “Doubt it considering what happened at sea.”

  “They’ve already proved to me they’re quicker than I’d have expected.” O’Brien lifted a pillow off the sofa, picked up the transponder, and handed it to Dave.

  “So this is how they located Nick’s boat out there?”

  “Yeah, I found it when I was pulling rope out of the storage hole on the cockpit.”

  “How’d it get there?”

  “I’m guessing, that so-called reporter, the guy with the dark hair and dark-rimmed glasses, who said he was from the A.P. He was here first, right before the others. You saw him walking around, chatting with boat owners. He could have hidden it on Nick’s boat in ten seconds. But because of the angle, you couldn’t see if he was knocking on the salon door or slipping something in a storage bin. This guy had the tall photographer with him. Wore a Tigers’ cap. Two cameras around his neck. Carried a red nylon backpack for cameras. Now I believe it held a GPS transponder or two. I’m checking Jupiter.”

  Nick said, “When Sean showed it to me, I wanted to smash the thing like hittin’ a hockey puck. But he said ‘no,’ we may need it later to send theses bad dudes where we want them to go. Maybe they went straight to hell out there at sea.”

  Dave exhaled loudly and said, “We’ve just entered the first ring of hell.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Rashid Aamed arrived at the Starbucks fifteen minutes early. It was mid-morning, and he had changed rental cars twice since leaving Miami on his trip to Orlando. He knew he was not followed. The Americans were not very good at even locating people. Following him would be a challenge to them. He always knew when someone was watching, following. Could feel their presence like a cold wind on his neck.

  He paid for his espresso, bought a copy of the New York Times, and walked back outside, taking a seat at the most remote table in front of the coffee shop. He kept his sunglasses on as he read the latest print story about the discovery of the German U-boat and its potential deadly cargo off the coast of Florida. There was no mention of the explosion. The men had died a martyr’s noble death. They were in a better place, paradise. Their deaths would be avenged.

  Aamed lit a Turkish cigarette, turned on his small laptop, and waited for his appointment to arrive. Checking the websites for major U.S. news organizations, he could find no mention of the explosion. He scanned his e-mail. One new message arrived in the last five minutes. In Arabic, the message said: “The deaths of Ata and Mansur were believed to have been ordered by a Russian arms dealer, Yuri Volkow. We know Volkow is in Florida. At least one of his men is there, probably more. You must find the material before they do.”

  Aamed typed: “Will not fail.”

  Abdul-Hakim made no eye contact with Aamed when he entered the Starbucks to buy a double espresso. He was tall and rail thin. Short-cropped black, wiry hair. He wore a black sports coat and a white button-down shirt that hung outside his pants. Soft loafers. No socks. His hard eyes took in the room. Two businessmen discussed the housing market. A female college student sat surfing the web on her laptop as American music entered her brain through the iPod earpieces. A housewife, the diamond in her ring the size of a garbanzo bean, chatted with another woman. A man sat in one corner, facing the entrance, reading a newspaper.

  Hakim paid for his coffee and walked toward the door, looking at the reflection of the room off the glass door. He could see the man sitting alone in the corner, and he could see that the man did not look away from the newspaper.

  “My friend, it has been too long,” Hakim said, sitting down at an outdoor table.

  “Yes,” said Aamed, looking up from his laptop. “How is your business here in Orlando, this home of the Mickey fucking Mouse?”

  “Good, my gift shop is small, but it allows me more legitimacy.”

  “Ata and Mansur were killed early this morning.”

  Hakim glanced down, his eyes returning back to Aamed. “How did this happen?”

  “When their boat got near the vessel operated by the Americans who found the HEU, the boat we hired exploded in the sea approximately fifty kilometers east of Daytona Beach. We think the Americans retrieved the HEU.”

  Hakim sipped his coffee, glanced through the storefront glass into the shop. The man in the corner continued reading the newspaper. Hakim said, “So they have it … who killed Ata and Mansur? Was it the Americans?”

  “Mohammed Sharif tells me it is most likely the Russian mafia. The operative’s name is Yuri Volkow. He’s known to sell weapons to the highest bidder. He and his men have no allegiance to anyone or anything. He is a Russian whore. He stands for nothing, nor does his country. At least with Lenin, they had an identity, a history.”

  Hakim sipped his espresso and nodded. “That is one of the many things this American government refuses to realize. They do not understand our history. How can a people do what they are trying to do in the homeland without understanding a history that goes back fourteen centuries?”

  “A Muslim’s sincerity is that he will pay no attention to those things that are not his business. But circumstances make it our business. It was first told in the Hadith. This Russian, like the Americans, this Volkow, is entering a place where he should not tread.”

  “How do we get the HEU before he does? Or how do we stop him?”

  Aamed felt a slight chill. He looked around, his dark eyes searching parked cars in the lot. He closed his laptop. “Let us drive. We can talk. We can plan. Mohammed is arriving tonight. He has conferred with others and will know how we shall triumph.”

  Inside the coffee shop, Eric Hunter lowered the newspaper to the table, punched numbers on his cell and said, “They just left. Heading toward the parking lot.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  O’Brien felt like he was free-falling backwards. He had completed dozens of successful night parachute jumps. Free-falling from a high altitude. Waiting until he was less than five hundred feet over enemy terrain before deploying his chute. This was different. The sensation was a gravitational pull without a sense of perspective. He simply fell through a world of darkness. Then the killer’s face appeared. Oily dark hair combed into a pompadour, like a wet bird’s nest above the forehead. Eyes electric with light. A muscle quivering beneath his left eye. Rapid blinking. The girl’s blood on his chin and hands. Head swaying like a hyena over dead prey. “You’re not going to shoot me!” he mocked.

  O’Brien raised his pistol, the sights locked on the killer’s forehead.

  “You can’t kill me, Detective! If you do, you are me.”

  O’Brien felt the trigger against his finger, the bile rising in his chest.

  There was movement. Jupiter rocked. Slightly, but it was enough to jog O’Brien out of sleep. He lay in his cabin, the sheets damp from sweat. He tried to sit up. But something held him to the bed. Something pressing both his shoulders. Something strong. Something mocking. O’Brien shook his head, not fully conscious. Had he been restrained? Was he dreaming?

  Jupiter moved again. That was real. He reached under the pillow for his Glock. Max, sleeping at the foot of the bed, opened her eyes. O’Brien whispered, “Shhhh … we have company.” He looked at his watch: 3:30 p.m. He’d fallen asleep at noon. Three and a half hours. His mind felt drugged from sleep deprivation. O’Brien stepped into the salon. J
ason Canfield stood outside in the cockpit, leaning against the glass door, his hands on the glass and cupped around his eyes so he could see inside.

  “Come in,” O’Brien said.

  “Can’t. It’s locked.”

  O’Brien set the Glock on the bar and opened the door. “Been out there long?”

  “Couple of minutes. Looks like you were taking a nap.”

  “More like a coma. Didn’t get any sleep last night.”

  “My sleep’s been kinda weird, too. Since we found that stuff, everything is different. Our pictures are all over the news, the web, people are tweeting and re-tweeting like crazy. It’s freakin’ crazy. I had like five hundred new friend requests on Facebook in a couple of hours. Nicole’s got hundreds of new friends on her page, and like a thousand new followers on Twitter. She took the pictures of the sub and stuff off there.”

  “Good. Listen, Jason. You’re like a son I never had. I care about what happens to you. That’s why I want you to understand what I say, it’s for your own good. I want to keep you safe-”

  “It’s okay. I understand, but you don’t-”

  O’Brien held up one hand. “Listen to me. We’ve stepped into a hornet’s nest. Be careful. If you even suspect you’re being followed, you call me. Understand?”

  “Okay. Mom told me you told her, too. This is about the stuff in the sub, huh?”

  O’Brien leaned over the wet-bar sink and splashed cold water in his face. “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t notice anybody following me from my house to the marina.”

  “Just be very aware. Chances are nothing will happen. Thanks for waking me. If I sleep during the day, my clock gets out of whack.”

  “You’d wanted me to pick up some stuff for the charter.”

  “I’ll write up a short list. You should be able to get what we need at the grocery store. Go to Chapman’s to pick up the bait. Get it last thing. It’s frozen. Don’t need it thawing out in your truck.” O’Brien handed Jason the list and money. “Call me when you get to the store and call me when you’re headed back. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. I just think this is kinda paranoid, maybe.”

  O’Brien’s cell rang. He answered as Jason nodded and left. Dave Collins said, “Sean, the team will be here in a little while for a debriefing. They’ll need to talk with you, Nick and Jason. Where are they?”

  “I just sent Jason to pick up some stuff for a charter. He’s going to the grocery store, then Chapman’s Fish House. Nick’s probably on his boat.”

  “Tried his cell before I called you. No answer. Maybe he’s napping.”

  “I’ll see if I can find him. What time are they arriving?”

  “Couple of hours, tops.”

  Nicole Bradley sat in her cubicle at Channel Nine and read her e-mails. Since she was interviewed on CNN, her e-mail and text messaging was so heavy she sent her Twitter followers an update telling people she couldn’t begin to answer them.

  This is wild! I WILL answer everyone!!! One person she corresponded with immediately was a new friend, a USC grad student who was in Orlando with his family for a vacation. He was waaay cute, she thought, pulling up his picture again and reading his bio. He was a film student, and he’s written two original screenplays. Had a super great idea for a journalism-based new reality TV show for the Internet. He could have been Robert Patterson’s twin brother. God, what a smile. He texted that he’d like to meet her. Wanted to talk about an online TV show. Thought she would be perfect for the host’s job.

  Nicole couldn’t stop smiling. They agreed to meet at 4:00 p.m. at a place with lots of people, the Starbucks on the corner of International and Riverside. “How will I recognize you?” she’d asked.

  “Just check out the guy that looks like Patterson. I’ll be wearing a USC shirt.”

  Nicole glanced at her watch, shutting off the computer. She picked up her purse and headed for the channel nine parking lot.

  She parked next to a tree in the shopping center lot, hoping the shade would keep her car cooler. Nicole tilted the rearview mirror in her direction. As she applied lip gloss, she saw his reflection. A fast walk. His head darting right to left.

  Lock the door. But he was at her door before she could lock it. He yanked it open with one hand and pressed the barrel of a gun to her ribs. “You scream you die.”

  “Please don’t hurt me!” Please-”

  “Silence! Bring your purse and your cell phone. Come with me to the van. Get in the side door. If you even think of running, we will kill you on the spot.” He pulled her up and put his one arm around her shoulder as he escorted her to the waiting van. He opened the door, and they both got inside. In Russian, he said to the driver, “Find a quiet place. A place where no one can hear if she screams.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Nick Cronus stood at the small bar in O’Brien’s boat, Jupiter, and sipped from his fifth bottle of Corona. He touched the center of the water ring his beer bottle left on the bar. Nick looked up as O’Brien entered the galley. “Sean, you ever think about the circle of life?”

  “Not in the last few minutes.”

  Nick gestured toward the condensation ring. He said, “Once you play in the circle of evil you can’t get out ‘cause it never ends. Unlucky sailors get sent to Davy Jones locker. Sean, we hooked it. We caught evil like we picked up a psycho hitchhiker. And now, about a mile from this barstool, the devil got his cocaine in those U-235 cans.”

  O’Brien shook his head. “Nick, you need to eat something, the beer’s talking.”

  Nick sipped his beer and raised his voice louder. “Listen to me. Maybe you and I are the ones tapped to be led down into hell for some reason. Some kinda punishment-or a test. That submarine is a cursed place, just like Davy Jones locker. Some old-time Greeks told me Davy Jones was really Davy Jonas, you know, the guy who was eaten by the whale. We were almost swallowed by a bull shark last night.”

  Jason Canfield stepped onto Jupiter’s cockpit. He walked toward the open door leading into the salon and stopped, overhearing Nick’s voice. It was loud, a little slurred, and Nick was arguing with Sean. Jason held back at the door, partially because he didn’t want to intrude, and also because what he was hearing stopped him in his tracks.

  Nick drained his beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked over at O’Brien and said, “I’ve been on the ocean all my life, and I have never seen a boat blown clean outta the damn water like we saw last night. Who bombed it? We never should have gone back out there and dove down to bring up those two canisters of magic dust.”

  “We were asked to do it because we knew where the U-boat was and could get to it before someone else could in international waters. It’s done, Nick. Let’s move on.”

  “Bullshit! It’s just starting. Now that stuff is stored less than a mile from here off Dunlawton Road in Dave’s storage unit. Kinda funny, the word unit. Stored in U-236, same damn number as on the side tower of the U-boat. Now I challenge you to tell me that is just coincidental. It might as well be stored in Davy fuckin’ Jones locker. The devil got his cocaine in those U-235 cans. You gotta be able to see that.”

  “That’s enough! Lower your voice, Nick.”

  Jason Canfield cleared his throat and walked in through the salon’s open door. Max trotted over to greet him as Nick spun around on his barstool. He said, “Jason, you’re quiet as mouse with laryngitis. Where’d you come from?”

  O’Brien cut his eyes to Nick and then looked over to Jason. He said, “Thought you were on your way to run the errands.”

  “I was, but I forget my truck keys.” Jason stepped to the coffee table next to the couch and bent down to pick up his keys. “Sorry, Sean. I’ll be back soon.”

  Jason was almost out the door when O’Brien said, “Hold it! Come back in here, Jason. What’d you hear? Trust me on this. I really need to know.”

  Jason turned around, his face flushing. He swallowed dryly, looked down at Max a second before looking up at Nick and O’Brien.
“I didn’t hear anything, really. Just you and Nick arguing about something. I guess I should have knocked, sorry.”

  O’Brien walked around the bar, stopping next to the coffee table. A horsefly darted in through the open door. Max waited a second and snapped at the fly. O’Brien said, “Jason, if you overheard us, you need to tell me right now. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be prepared … others can find out, and they’ll do things to make you talk, things you can’t imagine. Now, what did you hear?”

  “Nothing, Sean. I better get going.” Jason turned and stepped out the door. As he walked quickly down the dock, a flock of sea gulls flew over the boats, their calls like choppy laughter rolling over the smooth surface of the quiet marina water.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Nicole Bradley sat as far away from Andrei Keltzin as possible. On the passenger bench seat behind the driver, she sat with her back against the van’s panel wall. They used duct tape to bind her hands. She didn’t want to look at the man. Wanted to close her eyes, open them and hope he’d disappear, like a bad dream.

  The driver stopped the van behind an abandoned warehouse. He parked next to a dumpster. He left the motor running, the air conditioner blowing cold air, a slight smell of moldy newspaper, exhaust, and sour wine seeping through the system.

  “Zakhar,” said Keltzin, sitting next to Nicole. They spoke English.

  “Yes.”

  “Hand me the blade-the one you worked so hard to sharpen.”

  Zakhar Sorokin lifted a straight razor from a pocket inside his sports coat and handed it to Keltzin.