by Eddie Jones
“I think I see something silver and shiny over there,” Anna said, adjusting course.
“That night, them fish, they came calling. We formed ourselves into tight groups, you know, kind of like those old squares you see on calendars of the battle of Waterloo. Except there were seven of us, so we built two triangles with me the odd man out.”
Anna raised her head and squinted for a better look. “Yeah, that’s definitely a sailboat mast.” She kicked harder for their boat.
“You know the thing about those fish is they have no eyes. It’s like they’re not even living. Just kind of floating along, trolling, waiting. That is, until one latches on and then—ah, then you hear that terrible high pitched screaming. The ocean turns red and purple and in spite of all the thrashing and the hollering, you can’t get free.”
“OK, you need to stop talking, now. You’re scaring me.”
“Sometimes the fish would leave. Other times they wouldn’t. Lost two men the first day. Don’t know how many fish, maybe a hundred. They averaged six a minute. Around noon, I bumped into a friend of mine, Herbie Fletcher, from Cleveland, Tennessee. Shrink-wrap specialist. Had a national account with a big pharmaceutical company. I thought he was asleep. Wanted to ask him about some discount pricing. Well…when I touched his shoulder he just rolled over and bobbed up and down in the water, kind of like a dead whale. Herbie weighed three hundred pounds. That’s when I saw the welts all over his back. Looked like he’d been scourged with a cat-of-nine-tails.”
“Would you just shut up and swim?”
“A few hours after dusk a Coast Guard helicopter came flying in low and began dropping life rafts. You know, that was the time I was scared? Waiting for my turn to get into one of them floats. No, I’ll never swim after another life jacket again.”
“Sharks!” screamed Anna.
“Good guess,” said Sonny. “But it was Portuguese Man-of-Wars that got us. Whole pods of ‘em. Jellyfish were thick as jam that day.”
“No!” yelled Anna, locking her arms around his neck. “In the water, ahead! Sharks!”
25
Inside the Situation Room at the White House, members of the National Security Council talked in hushed tones. The Washington Redskins had received the opening kick to start the game (and regular season play) and fumbled the ball.
Tommy wasn’t surprised. The rookie from Notre Dame, while blazing fast, had fumbled the ball five times in pre-season play. With mistakes like that, he’d be cut, put on waivers before the Dallas game.
The Assistant to the President for Economic Policy drummed her fingers on the table. The rest of the Security Council anxiously watched while game officials pulled players from the pile. The doors swung open.
“Atten-hut!”
The President strode in, wiping something off the cuff of his blazer.
“As you were.” The President sat.
“How’d the meeting go with the Bishop from Bongo?” asked the Secretary of State.
“He took sick. Must’ve been something he ate. Do we have the CIA director on the line yet?”
The Chief of Staff nodded and then punched the speakerphone. A face appeared on the monitor at the far end of the room.
“How are you doing, Chuck?”
“Can’t complain, Mr. President.”
“You should have my job. What can you tell us?”
“About?”
“The situation with our nuke going AWOL. I’m getting all kinds of questions from the Brits and French wanting to know what we’re doing over here.”
“It appears to be a bold move by the Cubans.”
“The Cubans? How’d they get in the picture?”
“I’d rather not say just yet. Not until it’s confirmed.”
“Chuck?”
“Yes?”
“It wasn’t so much a question as an order.”
The CIA Director shift nervously in his chair. “Ah, it appears that an enemy combatant we had in custody, an operative who goes by the code name Martinez, escaped. Our sources think he may be on the Wicked Witch, a Soviet-made mine sweeper converted into a cruise ship. If that’s true, then it could be a dicey situation.”
“How so?”
“Cruise ships are considered safe havens for freedom fighters. Part of the Geneva Convention.”
“Of all the stupid bylaws. Whose idea was that?”
“The French. Who else?”
“Do you have any thoughts on why Castro and his boys would try something like this?”
“We think they may be trying to goad us into starting a regional conflict in our own back yard.”
“Sneaky commies. Can’t we just nuke ‘em?”
The Secretary of Defense spoke up. “Ah, that’s a negative, Mr. President. There are no good targets in Cuba.”
“None?”
“Despite Castro’s posturing and propaganda, they’re a very impoverished people. Not so much third world as second tier.”
“How about that cigar factory? Can’t we just lob a few HAWK missiles down there and see what we flush out?”
“We could do that, but then we risk sparking all-out war with Venezuela. An attack like that could lead to pretty heavy casualties.”
“But not ours, right?”
The Director looked confused. “Excuse me?”
“The casualties. They wouldn’t be ours.”
“No, Mr. President. Most likely, our allies. Brazil, Mexico, the Jamaicans.”
“War is hell. I forget who said that.”
“General Sherman,” the Secretary of Defense said.
The room went silent. On the monitor, the CIA Director sipped from a water glass. Around the room, nothing but blank stares.
The President leaned over and whispered into Tommy’s ear. “What was I talking about?”
“The Cuban crisis, sir,” said Tommy in a hushed voice.
“Oh, yeah.” The President looked at his National Security Advisor. “Connie, I want to announce that our anti-ballistic missile defense system is up and running.”
“Star Wars, Mr. President? But won’t that upset our allies in Europe?”
“The public needs reassurance. This is their bedtime blankie. Leak it to the networks that we’ve flipped the switch. Detonate a few atmospheric bombs. I want to show Castro’s boys that I’m serious about protecting the passengers on our cruise ships.”
“Yes, Mr. President, but I’m not sure what we could blow up that—”
“Don’t we have that space station up there still siphoning away tax dollars from my military budget?’
“I think so.”
“Then torch it. Make it showy. I want a fireball so big it’ll look like Armageddon. You understand?”
“I’m on it, sir.”
“Chuck, what can you tell me about the breach in our national security? Any leads on who shot off that missile of ours?”
“My guys tell me it was an inside job. The command to detonate came from a PDA.”
“You mean a smart phone.” He addressed the Director. “So Chuck. Are you telling me that by selecting the right song on a play list any kid in America can start a nuclear war?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Sure sounds like it. What idiot allowed some kid with a cell phone to get our launch codes?”
“Not a kid, sir. A presidential candidate. Someone, and I think you know who,” said the Director, shifting his gaze toward Tommy, “accidentally uploaded the wrong file.”
A wry smile spread across the President’s face as he asked, “Which candidate?”
“Congressman Boggs.”
Whether the Director would name names, place blame, and try to abdicate responsibility was one of the things Tommy and the President had discussed.
“Wild Bill Boggs?” the President, continued. “That bozo?”
“Afraid so, sir.”
“Chuck, doesn’t your agency have him under surveillance?”
“We do, Mr. President. Or did.” The D
irector glared at Tommy. “I think we all know who dropped the ball, there.”
“Speaking of dropped balls, are you watching the game? That dumb rookie fumbled another kick-off. How many does that make this year?” The President cut his gaze towards Tommy’s legal pad where Tommy had scribbled the numeral SIX. “Six!” the President said, pounding his fist on the table. “And the coach still has him in the line-up. I can’t believe it. And I can’t believe the CIA could lose a congressman running for president. Heads are gonna roll over this, you hear me?”
The director smiled. “I couldn’t agree more, Mr. President.”
“Starting with yours.”
“Mine, sir? But why?” the director stammered, obviously stunned. “I can think of any number of people under me who—”
“You want to kill a snake you chop off his head, not his tail. That’s what heads are gonna roll means.”
“Couldn’t I just resign?”
“Sends the wrong signal. I’m a tough man doing a tough job and sometimes I have to dish out tough love. No, to put this behind us we’ll need a congressional hearing with you on the hot seat.”
The door to the Situation Room opened. “Hang on, Chuck. The Chairman of the JCOS just arrived.” The President waved down the table. “What’s up, kimosabe?”
“Mr. President, we have confirmation that the Rough Riders are in place and awaiting your orders. I’ve got a call coming in from SysOps, now.”
“SysOps.”
“Systems Operations.”
The Chairman pressed the hold button and opened a second line on the speakerphone. On the wall display, a grainy, black and white image replaced the face of the director. Ninja-dark soldiers sat crowded together.
“Go ahead, commander,” said the Chairman.
Static blasted from the speakerphone and then came the crackled voices of men shouting, followed by a loud boom. The camera tilted.
Tommy heard screams and cursing, and then silence.
“What happened, Fritz?”
“I don’t know, Mr. President. They may have gone dark. Might be weather related, sir. There’s a hurricane brewing down there. It makes communicating hard. Want me to get them back on the line?”
“Where’s this hurricane in relation to Boggs?”
“Moving directly towards them. It was a tropical storm heading into the Atlantic but then it stalled, picked up strength and now it’s backtracking. Could be a category two storm by this evening. The north coast of Cuba could begin to feel the effects within the next few hours.”
“Do we have any idea where Boggs and the cruise ship are?”
“Directly in its path. There’s a small island at the edge of the Old Bahama Channel. We think the cruise ship will probably try to ride out the storm there.”
“And if they don’t? If that ship tries to sail back to the States and gets pushed into Cuban waters?”
“The CIA Director can better answer that question, Mr. President.”
The President punched the first line and brought up the CIA Director again. “Chuck? What’s the fallout from this if the Cubans get their hands on Boggs?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“That’s about what I expected you’d say. Fritz?”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Tell your men to saddle up, assuming of course, you can get them back on the line. And Chuck?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Clean out your desk. Then get yourself some good legal counsel. You’re going to need it.”
26
“Sharks,” said Sonny. “You sure?”
“All around us! Look!”
There were, in fact, lots of fins slicing through the water. Not that Sonny minded. He liked the way Anna hugged him, arms locked on his neck, legs around his waist. It reminded him of their spring break pool party.
“Don’t worry,” said Sonny. “According to the latest studies there were sixty-one confirmed shark attacks last year but only seven of the victims died. I’d say our chances of surviving are good. Then again, those were confirmed attacks. You have to wonder about the other victims who never made it to shore.”
Another gray dorsal fin broke the surface.
Anna squealed in his ear.
“Just think happy thoughts,” said Sonny, allowing his hand to ride up her back. “And stay away from rivers and deltas after heavy rains. Sharks love feeding on trash. And never ever swim near schools of fish.”
“You mean like those over there?”
Behind them, the water erupted as panicked fish jumped, dove and darted around.
“Hey, you want to know what I’m thinking?” Sonny asked.
“That you should have set the anchor better?”
“That it’s not too late for us to start over. Pretend we’re in one of those romantic comedy movies where two people are on vacation in the islands and they bump into each other, sparks fly, hearts heat up, and tiki torches burn into the night as the pair frolics on the beach under the stars.”
“Let me guess. You’ve been reading Stu Summer’s latest romantic thriller.”
“On the flight down. Someone left it in the backrest compartment.”
“We’re about to be attacked by sharks and all you can do is think about us? I told you already. It’s too late for us. Besides…” she said, unwrapping her legs. “I’m not that kind of girl. Wasn’t in high school, wasn’t in college. And I’m definitely not, now.”
Sonny eased onto his back and began to swim quietly toward the boat, trying not to splash too loud or move too quickly. “What kind of girl?”
“A home-wrecker. The kind who sleeps around with a married man. I’m not stupid, Sonny. I know you’re married and have kids.”
His heart dropped. He’d hoped she hadn’t found out. And if she had, she wouldn’t bring it up. Thinking about his family was the last thing he wanted to do right now.
“How—did you know?”
“It’s my job, remember? Or did you forget that I work for a government intelligence agency? Let’s see…two years ago, you failed to file your taxes on time and were hit with a fine. You carry the maximum balance on your credit cards, are upside down on a truck payment and have an outstanding speeding ticket from Montgomery County in Maryland. Did I miss anything?”
Sonny peeked. The fins were following them. “That speeding ticket was bogus. I had the cruise set on sixty-five when I got pulled. Those troopers in Maryland must make their living ticketing cars with out-of-state tags. It never occurred to me that you’d check.”
“It wasn’t my idea. One of the girls on our high school reunion committee put me in charge of tracking down classmates. Your name was on my list.”
“How convenient.”
“So you can see why, even if I wanted to get back together with you, I couldn’t.”
“You’re reading this wrong.”
“As I recall, Sonny, you’re a short read and not that interesting.”
“Those aren’t sharks behind us. They’re dolphins… or porpoises. I can never remember which is which. And you know I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
“I wish I could believe you, but you forget. I’ve seen the collateral damage of adultery. I’m one of its victims. You’d get tired of me after our fun and games and I’d end up wondering why I let myself get caught up in something that was so clearly wrong. I appreciate you wanting to make the most of the time you have left. If I was in your condition I might—and understand I’m saying might—be tempted to have one last fling, too. But I wouldn’t. Dying doesn’t give us the excuse to destroy others and that’s all we’d end up doing if we let this happen. We had some good times, Sonny. The best. Let’s not ruin that memory.”
She pushed away and kicked for the boat.
By the time he reached the swim ladder, she’d already pulled herself aboard. He floated a few yards off the stern, watching her towel off.
When she shook her head droplets of salt water fell like diamonds. A crescent e
dge of pink below the elastic band of her bathing suit marked the beginnings of a new tan line. He could still see the curved impression where the scuba straps had cut into her shoulders and, when she turned, the faint outline of a raccoon face where the front of the mask had pressed against her cheeks and forehead. Salt granules clung to her brown skin, auburn hair glistening. She wrapped a thick beach towel around her chest, tucking the ends tight. Gone was the gangly girl he remembered from biology class. She’d blossomed into a fine woman.
Sonny pulled himself up the swim ladder and held the backstay for balance. “I’m not sure if it makes any difference since you seem to have your mind made up. But I wasn’t asking you to sleep with me. This wouldn’t be a one-time fling.”
“Oh? You going to divorce your wife?”
“It wouldn’t be like that.”
“Go home, Sonny. You’re dying, for God’s sake. Wouldn’t you rather be with your wife and kids than chasing some fantasy that’s never going to happen?” She gestured toward the black band spreading across the water. “We better get moving before those clouds reach us.” She hurried below and slammed the hatch boards in place.
He stretched out on the cockpit, allowing the sun to dry him. He hadn’t expected it to be this hard—her to be so hard-hearted. He heard the snap of elastic and the swish of fabric gliding across bare skin. She was right there just a few feet away.
He pulled the starter cord on the outboard. With his shirt off and the sun burning the tops of his shoulders, he pointed the boat toward the tiny island.
She’s concerned about my wife and kids. How funny is that?
27
Standing in the forward cabin of the sailboat with the door closed, Anna rolled her swim suit into the beach towel. The tropical air wafting through the forward hatch felt cool against her skin. For a few moments, she stood there with arms upraised, her wet and tangled hair falling heavy onto her shoulders. She felt both alive and vulnerable, exposed, yet secure, in the small cabin. Maybe she’d been too quick to judge. Maybe it was her who left. Maybe he’d done all he could to make it work.
