by Mims, Lee
“You know what?” I said, rearranging my expression. “I like it a lot. You’ve done well. But there’s a little problem. Can you still use the Fountain?”
“Absolutely!”
“How about tomorrow? All day?”
“How about tonight?” he said, clasping the front of my T-shirt and pulling my face to his. “All night?”
Dim light filtering through the plantation shutters of my bedroom along with the chirps and twitters of a dozen sparrows in the branches of a massive live oak outside my window let me know that Thursday was dawning. Soft breathing from young Viktor Kozlov told me he was catching a few winks before coming back for more. My first thought: Why not?
As I had told Henri, families change. That’s the nature of a family, isn’t it? Kids grow up and move away. At least half of all parents find new mates. Bud had. It was in the open now. Everyone moves on.
So what if Viktor was so much younger than me? One, I wasn’t going to marry him, just enjoy a little diversion to help me over the hump during this change in my relationship with Bud. And two, I’d be discreet. This little romp wouldn’t last long, I’d see to that, and no one would ever know.
As for my relationship with Bud, I’d always care for him and worry about him. I was worried about him now, about his interview with Detectives Pierce and Myers. As I lay listening to the world wake outside my window, I came to a conclusion. If I didn’t think Bud had anything to do with the death of the Voyager pilot—and I didn’t—the best thing I could do was to move faster in my search for the real killer. You know, in case the police did think Bud was involved.
That was assuming, of course, that there was a killer, and it hadn’t just been an accident incurred by a drunk would-be rapist. My next move toward that end? Find out how a wheel valve from a U-boat got wedged between the rail on the ROV and its cage. Don’t ask me why I thought it had anything to do with the possible murder—maybe because I’d found it at the site of my attack—I just did. The two were linked in my head. Perhaps closure about one thing would help me find closure on the other. Thinking back to what I’d been doing at the moment of the attack brought a blank. I closed my eyes, envisioned the ROV, concentrated, and then it came to me.
I’d been on my hands and knees, of course. I had to have been to reach between the ROV rail and its cage. Was there something there my attacker was trying to stop me from seeing? I had limited knowledge regarding ROVs, but that didn’t seem logical. Still, it was something to ponder, and the perfect partner to help me answer this question—and plenty of others in my quest—lay right beside me. If I dared to trust him.
Viktor stirred. I slipped from the bed, tiptoed into the bathroom, and sought the refuge of the shower. I suspected some of the previous night’s gyrations might have required double-joints, which, I, in fact, don’t have. As the hot water soothed my body, I smiled smugly, wondering if Bud had sore abs and gluts this morning from the same kind of workout. But, of course, that was childish. Right now, I had some important decisions to make, primarily about just how much I wanted to trust Viktor.
Cascades of white lather coursed down my body as I vigorously shampooed my hair. Closing my eyes, I tilted my head back for a rinse, thinking maybe it would be better if I just played the trust thing with Viktor by ear for a while. After all, I barely knew him. Then I felt a waft of air and his body, still cool from the air-conditioned bedroom, wrapped around my hot steamy one. A fresh jolt of sexual energy shot through me. I started to protest that I wanted to get on with the day and my trip to the museum. Instead, I just rested my face against the tile wall, closed my eyes, and soaked up the pleasure.
Later, all squeaky clean but with slightly rubbery legs, I stepped out and tossed Viktor a fluffy white towel. “Tell me again why we’re going to this museum today?” he asked.
“No real reason except that recently I took a scuba-diving tour of shipwrecks not far off our coast and saw my first German U-boat. I think they’re fascinating, and this museum’s website says they’ve got a display devoted to one of them.”
“Do you know the way?”
“I do. While you switch boats, I’ll run up the street and grab a couple of cups of coffee for now and a few subs so we can have a picnic later.”
SIXTEEN
Even with the Fountain’s engines at near-idle speed, Viktor and I moved swiftly out to the Intercoastal Waterway. On this dead calm day, it stretched ahead of us like silk. Slowing only for no-wake zones, we sped smoothly along, taking in the beauty of our surroundings. Herons of every size, great blues, common and great whites, little blues, and egrets left their roosts for their favorite feeding grounds. Shrimpers headed out to sea to catch dinner for vacationers, and all around us, pelicans dove headlong into the water like kamikazes, sending up little plumes of spray.
Soon I was directing Viktor to the channel markers leading us across the broad expanse of Pamlico Sound toward the town of Hatteras on Hatteras Island. At about half its maximum speed of 60 knots, the boat easily skimmed the water. About midway across, we slowed to idle again, pulled out of the channel, dropped anchor, and enjoyed an early lunch and each other … again.
After finding dockage within walking distance of the museum, I told Viktor I needed to make a few calls before we set off. He was patient as I checked in with Powell on the Magellan and Phil in Houston. When I was ready, he took my hand to steady me as I stepped from the boat. I had to admit, this chivalry was something I could probably get used to.
Somewhat resembling the bow of a ship with exposed timbers and soaring masts, the museum covered a time period from the early 1500s to the end of World War II. Shipwrecks resulting from weather, piracy, warfare, trade, and exploration made up the majority of its exhibits.
We made a quick tour of them all first, watched a few videos, and then gravitated back to the exhibit on U-85, the first German submarine in their Eastern Seaboard offensive of Operation Drumbeat. Viktor was fascinated with the Enigma machine, one of the famous encoders used by the Germans to send secret wartime messages, so I moved on to read the first-person accounts of residents who’d lived on the Outer Banks back then.
An elderly volunteer who’d been watching me stepped over and offered some personal insight. She said her name was Lucy and she’d been a little girl living on the banks in the town of Avon during the war. She was an eyewitness to the devastation the subs had wrought. I listened, fascinated.
“Sometimes we’d hear big explosions late in the night and next morning, the bodies of seamen would wash up on the beach. No one knows how many crew members survived a sub attack only to drown later or just drift out to sea on wreckage and die of thirst. Horrible. Bits and pieces of wreckage would wash up too, and googy black oil coated everything on the beach. One summer we couldn’t even go swimming. You can still see streaks of it buried in the sand if you dig down deep enough.”
“Were there ever any survivors?” I asked.
“Yes, sometimes a lifeboat would make it to shore …” Viktor joined us. “Oh my!” Lucy said. “Who is this handsome young man?”
Viktor grinned. “Afanasy Viktor Kozlov, at your service. I’m her—”
“Colleague,” I interjected firmly.
Did I see Lucy wink? I wasn’t sure. “Well, you just let me know if I can help you further.” She waggled her fingers at us and moved over to a school group.
Viktor moved to my side, and it wasn’t long before he slipped his arm around me. We read the exhibit’s labels quietly for the next few minutes. Then his hand slid under my T-shirt.
“Stop it,” I said. “This place is crawling with kids.”
Viktor made a humorous gesture of disgust, looked left and right, and said, “In that case, I suggest we leave before we catch something. You didn’t touch anything, did you?”
“No,” I laughed.
“Anyway,” he cut in, “if we leave now, we can make it
back in time to … umm … rest a little before watching the sun go down. Then I’ll take you out for a nice supper.”
As informative and thought-provoking as the museum was, I didn’t mind leaving. It lacked what I was hoping for, which was a detailed account of all the subs operating off the East Coast during World War II. Further online research was needed.
Before departing, we wandered over to the gift shop, where I bought a World War II documentary video. Then I stepped outside to wait for Viktor, who was still shopping. When he came out, he handed me a small felt bag. “For you,” he said. “As a souvenir of today.”
It was heavy for its size and opening the drawstrings, a beautiful glass paperweight slid into the palm of my hand. It was a replica of a wrecked wooden schooner laying on its side on a sand dune.
“Thank you,” I said simply. And I couldn’t help feeling a little guilty that I’d bought nothing to offer in return.
Later—much later—after we’d fallen asleep, a trill from my iPhone woke me. I groped for it on the nightstand. “Hello,” I croaked.
“Oh, damn, Cleo,” said Duncan Powell. “I forgot the rest of the world sleeps between the hours of midnight and six. I guess I woke you.”
The glowing blue lighted numbers on my clock said 2:34 a.m, Friday. “Uh, that’s okay. What’s up?”
“The drillbit is what’s up. It’s hanging over the moonpool right now, and we’re just about ready to send it back down. The borehole is clear, finally, and there was no damage to the casing. Anyway, we’re just about to start drilling again. Sorry about the hour!”
“No problem. I’m on my way.” I gently replaced the phone and eased out of bed, not wanting to wake Viktor. But he wasn’t asleep.
“This will work out well,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“You have to go in today, and I’ll be gone all day too. Maybe tomorrow as well.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I must return the boat to Davy and the boys. They are taking it to Fort Myers on the west coast of Florida in preparation for the long run across the eastern Gulf to Port Fourchon. After that, I’m going to Durham. A friend sent me a lead on an apartment for the fall, and I need to negotiate with the owner now, before someone else rents it.”
“At least you don’t have to get up this minute. Go back to sleep. Just remember to lock the back door when you leave.”
An hour later, I’d already slipped past the small crowd of protestors to the side gate of the port, boarded a support vessel to the Magellan, and was on my way. I’d intended to use the trip to jot down a few notes regarding what I’d learned about U-boats in general. My plan involved coming up with a direction beyond digging through endless data about each boat.
However, that’s not what I did.
Four hours later, I jerked awake to someone shaking my shoulder. “We’re here, ma’am,” a round-faced crewman said.
Thinking I absolutely had to get over my distaste for helicopters, I rubbed the back of my hand over my mouth and hoped I hadn’t been drooling.
“We’ll be heading back to port sometime after lunch. Listen for the chime on the speakers.”
The scene on the bridge was pretty much the same as before, with a certain amount of attention focused on the horizon. I didn’t see Powell, so I checked in with his first officer. The man barely acknowledged me, so intent was he on studying the activity on the Able Leader with binoculars.
I asked, “Can you tell what they’re doing?”
“Getting ready to drill,” he said, his voice betraying his amazement.
“No way!”
“Yep. We’re pretty sure they’re preparing to lower the bit anytime now.” Resisting the temptation to pick up a pair of nocks myself, I remembered my limited time and instead headed for the logging lab. Nevertheless, I just couldn’t help stopping at the moonpool on my way for a quick look over the side.
No matter how many times I do it, I’m still awed by this extraordinary technology. The din of the drillfloor enveloped me as I gazed down into the square cutout the size of a swimming pool smack in the middle of the ship. While the Atlantic is often turbid inshore, offshore it is deep blue and clear as glass, so that when viewed in the small enclosed area of the moonpool, it looks, well, just like a swimming pool.
It simply was stunning to imagine that around two thirty this morning, the slender thread of drill pipe had again been successfully lowered through the riser pipe to the seafloor and was now grinding its way to our target in the ancient coral reef. Moreover, that all of this had been accomplished by robots, giant machines, computers, and satellites—basically untouched by human hands—seemed to me, as it would anyone, utterly amazing.
One of the loggers I’d met earlier, Tom was his name, said, “Hey, Cleo,” in a friendly but distracted manner. Before I could respond, he turned to a coworker: “Go back to the pit and make sure that agitator is working. If the readings don’t get any better than this, Phil’s gonna have a cow.”
Standing behind him, I read the chromatograph, a device that analyzes the drilling mud circulating from the ship to the bottom of the well and back. The chromatograph gives readings for its gas content, and it showed a minimal reading, just a few units above normal.
“How far down are we?” I asked.
Tom checked the chart. “Twelve thousand one hundred ninety-two feet. This limestone’s very fast, they’re cutting a foot every five minutes. Driller’s riding the brakes, it’s cutting so quick. Soon’s we get some show over the background gas, we’ll run a log.”
“Well, there you go,” I said. “It’s early yet, they’ve barely cut into it. You’re letting Phil get you all wired up. ”
Now the other mudlogger returned, and before Tom could ask, he blew out a frustrated sigh and said, “I told you, man, it’s all working fine. Elton’s down there and he’s checked everything. The reason the chromatograph says there’s no gas beyond the normal background is because there isn’t any. I swear, you’re starting to act like an old woman.”
Hearing this, I made my next stop a check in with Elton down at the shaker. Together we satisfied ourselves that the readings were correct. I collected more samples, resolving to remain positive, then spent the next hour or so washing, drying, and studying them under the microscope and in the ultraviolet light box. I made my own notes of what I intended to discuss with Phil later.
Leaving the logging lab, I dropped by Elton’s office to pick up my copy of his daily log. Since I still had time, I decided to head for the ROV area, where I hoped to borrow a computer so I could go back to the U-boat website and come up with a faster research method.
Approaching Voyager’s van, I looked for the warning sign that would let me know there was no admittance to the area because the ROV was in operation. Since it wasn’t there, I knocked on the door and pushed it open.
“Hey, Ms. Cooper,” the tech I remembered as Barry from one of my first visits said. “You’re back.”
“No, Barry,” Ricky said sarcastically, “she’s really still over on the mainland, that’s only a virtual Ms. Cooper.”
“Children, children,” Ray said. “Play nice in front of company. What can we do for you today, Cleo? Unfortunately we aren’t filming any footage for Sea Hunt today.”
“That’s quite all right,” I said. “Actually, I was wondering if you have a spare computer I might use. If not, I can run up to the internet room.”
“You can use Hunter’s,” said Barry, pointing to the dead man’s computer at the end of a long shared worktable. “He isn’t going to need it anymore.”
“Use mine instead,” Ray said. “Hunter’s won’t be wiped clean until after we finish this job and the van’s moved back to Texas. Besides, we don’t know his password. I’ll be done in maybe thirty … forty-five minutes. You can hang out while we’re running diagnostics on Scooter.”
“I’m surprised the police didn’t confiscate it as part of their investigation,” I said.
“Actually they cloned it,” Ray explained. “Same thing. But they did take his personal computer from his room. The other crew was still here when they came. One of the twins told us that the police interviewed them individually when the company flew them over to Chapel Hill to identify his body.”
“Yeah,” Barry said. “They also tossed his bunk and his locker and checked out the ROV platform. They think he fell from there.”
“They said he probably hit his head on the railing first, then fell over,” Ricky said.
“Whatever,” Ray said in his deep Texas drawl. “ He was one dumb SOB. Now you boys get back to work or we’ll never get done here.”
I looked at the dead man’s computer then said to Ray, “You mind?”
“No. Help yourself,” Ray said, never looking up. “You think you can figure out his password?”
“Well,” I said, “you said he was a … simple man. Maybe he left himself a reminder. I’ll check around in his work area while I wait for you to finish what you’re doing.”
Finding only company-related material in his workspace—no scraps of paper with a snappy word jotted on it, nor any personal notebook—I was about to give up. Then I reminded myself that this was his company computer as opposed to his personal one; he’d naturally be less inclined to worry about his password being found. I contemplated further, then tilted the computer up and looked under it. Sure enough, right on the bottom for all the world to see was a dirty strip of masking tape on which workingcomputer2014 was scrawled in ballpoint. Naw … it couldn’t be. Still, I typed it in.
His desktop magically appeared. “Hot damn,” I said out loud, to no one in particular. “You’re right. He was a simple man.”
Fortunately the computer screen faced the wall and the small workspace allowed for some privacy. I got online, but before pursuing my original task—continuing my research into German U-boats—I found myself distracted by other thoughts.
