The Cocoon Trilogy

by David Saperstein

  “Women’s work, huh?” Frank commented, understanding Art’s desire to leave.

  “I guess. It’s certainly not ours anyway.” He was nervous himself.

  “They’ve got things under control.” Frank waved to his St. Louis friends, the Messina’s and Erhardt’s, and left the delivery room with Art.

  The babies were born within seven minutes of each other. The Messina’s had a girl, the Erhardt’s twin boys once again. The first Earth-humans born aboard an Antarean spaceship - any spaceship for that matte. They were perfectly normal and healthy, if a little premature. But they didn’t appear premature. They looked full term, fully developed, strong, alert and hungry. All aboard the Watership greeted the babies with cheers and love. Their arrival and condition gave everyone a tremendous emotional lift and quashed the fears of the remaining expectant parents. The two Earth-human mothers, both close to eighty but looking much younger, nursed their infants - a sight never before seen in the galaxy.

  The cries of the newborns echoed throughout the Watership as it now sped past Jupiter, slowing imperceptibly again as the Parman guides slowed down their solar ultra-violet absorption rate. Their arrival on the far side of Earth’s single moon would take place within the week.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – FEDS AND COPS

  “I think it’s time we reeled in those two fish,” Secret Service Agent Benton Fuller remarked as he adjusted his chaise to catch a more direct exposure to the late afternoon sun.

  “I hear you,” Gary McGill, FBI Special Agent from the Miami office agreed. His job was to coordinate security clearances for presidential visits to the southeastern United States. He was a personal friend of Benton Fuller, which is why the Chief of the White House detachment had requested that McGill be brought into Operation Earthmother. “The last thing we want is a couple of loaded pistolas floating around out there just waiting to go off.”

  The federal agents were discussing the status of Detective Sergeant Matthew Cummings and his partner, Detective Coolridge Betters. The Antarean Watership was scheduled to arrive within five to six days, and the two Coral Gables cops were going to be in the way. They were at McGill’s home - a modest pastel-pink stucco house located adjacent to a canal that ran west out of Perine. The local claims to fame were the Parrot Jungle and Monkey Jungle, tourist attractions that brought mobs of visitors twice a year when the schools up north closed for winter and spring vacations. But these days, Perine was just a sleepy South Florida town, the perfect location for the headquarters of Operation Earthmother. The house next to McGill’s had been taken over by Navy Undersecretary Captain Thomas Walkly and his staff of three. They were coordinating naval operations with the special maneuvers to ostensibly increase the interdiction of drug traffic in the waters between the Bahamas and Florida’s east coast.

  “I’m amazed they’ve kept this investigation of theirs to themselves,” McGill said. He wore a bright-flowered Hawaiian bathing suit and sipped on a Bloody Mary diluted from melting ice. Both men were in their late forties, tall and trim. They worked hard at keeping in shape as their jobs demanded. In South Florida, with the burgeoning drug trade claiming the lives of all manner of law enforcement people as well as traffickers, Special Agent McGill knew the value of having his reflexes and muscles toned and sharp.

  Likewise, given the responsibility of protecting the president in a country where there were more privately held arms than there were citizens, and a world teeming with radical, religious and politically motivated terrorists intent on becoming martyrs for their causes, Secret Service Agent Fuller kept also himself in top shape, although these days as he neared fifty the task became more and more difficult. He turned over onto his back and reached for his own drink, a gin and tonic.

  “Those two cops have an agenda all their own. I checked out their files. They were involved with our uh, shall we say ‘visitors’ the last time they were here. In the end there was a DA who made them look like jerks. I think they’re motivated to set the record straight.”

  “Yeah,” McGill interjected, “I checked that out myself. They’ve been onto that Fischer guy and his buddies like flypaper.”

  “Mr. Bright is concerned. He adamant about keeping those cocoons out there safe.”

  “I hear that. S, how do you want to do it?”

  “I’m not sure yet. One think I do know is I don’t want the Coral Gables Sheriff involved. The last thing we need is a local yokel knowing what we know.”

  “That would be a circus. You want another?” McGill asked, motioning toward Fuller’s empty glass.

  “No thanks. Anyway, here’s where I ‘m heading. I think maybe the best way is to involve the two detectives in the pickup.”

  “The Navy cover exercise?”

  “I’ll have to check it out with Walkly.”

  “He seems to be wound a little tight.”

  “He’s okay. Just military. He doesn’t want his end screwing up.”

  “Assuming he says okay, when do you want to move on them?”

  Agent Fuller thought for a moment, considering the few secret service agents he had been authorized. In the end, after pressure from the Secretary of Defense, he had been authorized to brief only three of his most trusted people, two men and a woman, on the extraordinary events that were unfolding. They were now spread around - one man was with the President, another with Mary and Ben Green in Houston, and the female agent assigned to Alma Finley who would soon arrives with her husband, Joe. But for now, it was up to McGill and Fuller to handle the two snooping detectives.

  “I think ASAP.” Fuller looked up at the sun turning orange-gold as it sank lower in the western sky. No more sunning himself today. “As a matter of fact,” he said, getting out of the comfortable chaise, “there’s no time like the present. Let’s get clean up and pay the good Captain Walkly a visit.”

  The same setting sun turned the waters of the Inland Waterway into a rich golden liquid that reflected onto the crisp white hull of the Manta III as it rocked slightly in its Boca Raton slip. Jack Fischer, Phil Doyle and Madman Mazuski lounged on the fantail, sipping beers in full sight of Detectives Cummings and Betters.

  Below the waterline of Jack’s broad-beamed vessel, the Antarean Probeship was alive with activity. Amos Bright finished transmitting new data regarding the cocoon chambers to the Watership. He then coordinated a telepathed conference between Alma Finley in Washington, Joe Finley in Roscoe and the Green’s in Houston. He related how Secretary Mersky’s people, Margolin and Sanchez, had presented Joe Finley with a viable solution for bringing the Watership and its passengers to Earth. Amos agreed with Joe’s assessment and had forwarded the plan to the Watership’s flight crew as well as the Brigade commanders on board. Joe Finley and Mersky’s team would pack up and leave the Catskill cabin. They would return to Washington and join Alma to make a presentation to the President.

  The Green’s reported progress with the NASA Space Hospital facility and medical teams that were carefully being assembled. The problem of manufacturing four different atmospheres for the off-planet fathers was under study. The engineers were having a problem in keeping Panatoy’s atmosphere stable under the pressure and temperature conditions required. They needed a precise molecular and subatomic breakdown of the inert gasses for the Subaxian chamber. Amos had passed their request to the Watership. It would take a few hours for the reply.

  Operation Earthmother seemed to be progressing well. All involved were aware that some of their movements in Florida were being monitored by the two aging detectives, Cummings and Betters. Benton Fuller and the FBI were on the case but Amos Bright had not heard from the Secret Service agent for a while and was acutely aware that the two Miami detectives were lurking nearby.

  “We finished preparation of all the cocoons today,” Amos said. “Jack and his friends have been invaluable.”

  “And you’re sure those two cops are no problem?” Ben Green asked.

  “We’re watching them,” Amos said.

  “Persis
tent, aren’they?” Alma remarked.

  “Obsessed is more like it,” Amos answered. “The Secret Service and FBI are watching.”

  “Have they followed you out to sea?” Mary Green asked.

  “Once last week. They rented a helicopter.”

  “Rented?” Ben questioned.

  “One of those that take people for rides out in the Everglades, I think. But they had some , uh, let’s say engine trouble and had to turn back.”

  “That was convenient,” Joe said, laughing. He understood that Amos had caused it.

  “I take it that’s a sign they haven’t said anything to their superiors,” Alma said. “Otherwise they’d have used a police aircraft.” The others agreed.

  They were right. But barely. Matthew Cummings and Coolridge Betters had not shared their suspicions with their fellow police officers or the District Attorney. They had, however, hired an old friend who was an ex-underwater cameraman, now the owner of a small engineering company that manufactured underwater housings and lights for professional motion picture cameras. The man, Hans Leiter, had hidden underwater near the Boca Raton outlet to the ocean late one afternoon. He used a special underwater camera and high-speed film to photograph the Manta III below her waterline. Hen Leiter gave the undeveloped film to the two detectives he mentioned that here seemed to something lashed to the hull of the Manta III, But the Inter-coastal water as murky and he couldn’t see what it was. He suspected it had something to do with drug smuggling, and knew that when you lived in Miami, the less you knew about those things the safer you were.

  That afternoon, Cummings had the film developed. Although both detectives had no idea what the Probeship actually was, they concluded that it must be a submarine for smuggling drugs. They discussed the possibility that it was perhaps time to bring in help.

  Jack, Phil and Madman Mazuski were made aware that the detectives from the Coral Gables sheriff’s office were watching them. The white one, Cummings, was in his car at the corner of the marina parking lot. The black cop, Betters, was across the waterway on a houseboat moored at the private dock of a high-rise condominium.

  “Like living in a fishbowl,” Jack remarked after he spotted Betters watching them through binoculars.

  Mazuski gulped diligently on his fourth beer and grunted. “Mr. Bright should have fixed that chopper to ditch. That would have discouraged them.”

  ‘And brought an investigation down all around us,” Phil said. He had ceased taking out the Terra Time each day as a ploy to keep one of the detectives occupied. “Betters is a smart old cop. He caught on that my boat was just a diversion after the second day. Even if Cummings always took what happened five years ago personally, we’re not sure they haven’t left some information about us around somewhere. . .you know…in case something happens to them.”

  “Jesus, Phil,” Mazuski said. “You’ve been watching too much Miami Vice, on TV.“

  “Phil’s right,” Jack said. “And Mr. Bright agrees. We can’t take any chances. That’s why he just gave their chopper a small problem. But I wonder how long those two are going to be satisfied just watching us.”

  “Why don’t the old guys and Amos go into their heads and scramble their brains?” Mazuski suggested, chuckling.

  “Because it’s not their way,” Jack responded. “But they’d better do something soon. The Finley’s are due back soon, and I don’t think Cummings will hold much longer when they show up.”

  At that moment a blue Ford Taurus pulled into the parking lot and stopped in the spot next to Cummings’s Olds. The detective paid little as the driver got out, locked the door and then went to his trunk. Probably a boat owner, Cummings surmised, checking the man’s casual clothes. Had he seen the similar car parking in the condo lot across the waterway, with a similar-looking, similarly dressed man getting out and approaching Betters on the houseboat, he might have been suspicious. As he refocused his attention on the fantail of the Manta III the passenger door of his car opened and the man leaned in and flashed his United States Treasury Department ID that identified him as Secret Service Special Agent Benton Fuller. Across the Inter-coastal at the same moment, Detective Betters was staring at ID belonging to FBI Special Agent Gary McGill.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – THE STRIP CLUB DEAL

  Cummings had chosen the “quiet” place where they could talk without attracting attention. He’d radioed over to Betters, who by that time had been briefed by McGill, to meet at Marty’s Cozy Nest on Biscayne Boulevard in North Miami Beach. It was a twenty-four-hour club featuring pole dance strippers and a steady clientele ranging from truck drivers to businessmen in suits to horny retirees.

  Cummings and Fuller took I-95 and arrived a twenty minutes ahead of Betters and McGill. “You call this quiet?” Fuller asked, amazed at Cummings’s choice of a meeting place.

  “You wanted a place to talk privately, right? We won’t be disturbed here. I know the owner. He’s a retired fruit and vegetable man from Philly.” Cummings pointed Fuller to the rear of the dark, smoke-filled strip joint. They settled into a booth. He gestured for Fuller to be seated across the blue marbleized Formica table. A tall, glassy-eyed, bleached-blonde girl with bare silicone-filled breasts approached. Shed wore nothing but a checkered apron and a sequined G-string.

  “Hiya, Sarge. I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age.”

  “How’s it going, Midge?”

  “It’s goin’. . . It’s comin’. Where’s your cute black buddy?”

  “He’ll be along. Gimmie a Coors.” He turned to Fuller. “You want something?” he asked.

  “Coke.”

  “In a glass or on a glass?” Midge asked. Fuller looked confused. Cummings laughed.

  “He wants a Coca-Cola.”

  “Then he should say so,” she muttered, doing an about-face so that her ample buttocks, still wet with perspiration from her performance on the runway, brushed against Benton Fuller. Cummings enjoyed the federal agent’s discomfort. It was why he’d chosen to come to this place. Like many local Florida policemen he wasn’t impressed with the federal law enforcement people. They were supposed to come into Florida to close down the drug traffic, but they kept their information and operations to themselves, placing little trust in local police departments. The fed’s theory was that the drug kingpins had the local police on their payrolls. In some cases that was probably true, but it gave a bad name to all the police. The honest cops resented it. Deep down, when Cummings had suspected the old men and Fischer were in the drug business, he dreamed about a major bust without the feds. Now that they had shown up he was sure he would lose the collar and they would take the glory.

  “Is there a telephone here?” Fuller asked.

  “Next to the toilet in back.”

  “I’ve got to call someone to meet us. Does it really have to be here?”

  “You wanted quiet and safe, right?”

  “He’s a naval officer.”

  “Tell him to leave his sailor suit home. Hey, maybe he’s a customer.”

  Fuller got up and went to the phone. There were just a few patrons in the club, and they were gathered at the wide bar that served as runway for the strippers. As Fuller walked away, one of the girls, a dark Cuban named Carla, was doing her act. Marta, one of the other Cuban girls, watched Fuller walk toward the back of the club. She got up from her bar stool and threw a questioning glance at Cummings. The cop smiled and nodded for Marta to follow the man. She did, thinking she was about to make a few extra dollars on a slow afternoon.

  While Fuller was making his call, and, Cummings hoped, having difficulty with a Cuban hooker who wasn’t used to taking no for an answer, the drinks arrived along with Betters and McGill. Midge set the drinks down and gave a warm welcome to Betters.

  “You want a bourbon, Hon?”

  “Neat. Some branch water on the side. How about you, McGill?”

  “Coca-cola. Ice.”

  “At least this dick’s local,” Midge said, moving her act away toward the bar. Bette
rs and McGill sat down opposite one another.

  “Where’s Fuller?” McGill asked.

  “On the phone. He said he had to call a sailor.”

  Betters looked at his partner questioningly. On the ride down neither detective had learned what was going down. All they had been told was that Jack Fischer, his friends and the old people were now under federal surveillance and that the cooperation of the two Coral Gables cops was required.

  There was a sudden ruckus from the rear, excited raised voices and then the distinct sound of a man’s voice saying, “Get your hands off me and back off!.” A moment later Marta came stomping past the booth, her bare breasts bouncing with each angry strut. She stopped across from the table and glared at Cummings.

  “That ain’t no John. That’s a maricone. He don’t want no woman.” She continued her angry march until she disappeared behind the bar into the backstage dressing area. Benton Fuller returned to the table.

  “Trouble?” Cummings asked innocently. Betters fought to keep a straight face.

  “Goddamned hooker tried to grab me back there. Right in the middle of a phone call.”

  “To Walkly?” McGill asked.

  “Yeah. I told him to meet us here.”

  “And how to dress, I hope,” Cummings interjected.

  Fuller glared at Cummings. “He’ll be up in forty minutes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  Midge returned with the rest of the drinks. She placed them gently on the table. “Now darlin’s, will that be it for y’all?” she asked with a sudden, sweet Southern voice.

  “I’ve got this,” Fuller offered, reaching into his pants pocket. Betters, who was sitting next to The Secret Service agent tried to stop him, but it was too late. “Holy shit!” the Fuller exclaimed, “my money’s gone!”

  Cummings grabbed Midge’s wrist. “Move your butt on the double and tell Marta I want the wallet NOW!” He spun her with one swift movement and slapped her rear end hard. “And everything that was in it!” He turned to Fuller. “Not to worry. It’ll be back in a moment.”