The Black Bullet (Sean O'Brien 1)

by Lowe, Tom

  The oldest man, square-jawed, early forties, precision-cut salt and pepper flattop, crisp white uniform, tied a line to the swim platform and stepped out of the Zodiac. His men followed. They opened the transom door and entered the cockpit. Max barked.

  “I’m Chief Carl Wheeler,” he said. “Petty Officers Johnson and Kowalski.” The men said nothing. Wheeler looked at O’Brien and asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Sean O’Brien.”

  “Mr. O’Brien, have you been fishing?”

  “We got a few snapper. A slow day.”

  “Who’s the captain of this vessel?”

  O’Brien smiled. “Don’t know if I’ve earned the title of captain, yet, but I’m the owner. What’s this about?”

  Chief Wheeler looked at O’Brien like he was about to inspect his hair for lice. “We’ll need to see your registration. Do you men have anything to declare?”

  Max barked.

  “Confine that dog, please.”

  “I declare Max is no threat,” O’Brien said. “Come on, Max. Hang out inside.” She trotted into the salon and O’Brien closed the door. “Declare? We’ve been fishing.”

  “So, I take it your answer is no?” asked Chief Wheeler.

  Nick said, “All we got on this boat is fish, man. Wanna take a look at ‘em?”

  “We do,” the chief said.

  Nick pulled open the big ice chest on the far right side of the cockpit. Chief Wheeler gestured with his head and one of the men began searching through the ice and catch. He said, “Looks like fish only, sir.”

  To both petty officers, Wheeler said, “Search this vessel.”

  “Wait a minute,” O’Brien said. “I have no problem with a search of Jupiter. But I do have a problem with a lack of explanation as to why.”

  “Sir,” said Chief Wheeler. “This is an issue of Homeland Security, and we’re within our authority to search this vessel.”

  O’Brien felt the anger rise in his chest. He said nothing as the petty officers began their search. When the men entered the salon, Max barked. Nick started to walk inside to get her. “Halt!” ordered the chief. To O’Brien he said, “Sir, call your dog outside.”

  “Come on, Max. Stay out here with us while our guests make themselves at home. If you want my papers, Chief, I have to go inside to get them.”

  “I’ll escort you.”

  O’Brien said nothing. He entered the salon with the chief close behind him. O’Brien opened a cabinet beneath the lower control station, sorted through papers and pulled out the boat’s title and registration. He handed them to the chief who spent a minute reading them, gave the papers back to O’Brien and said, “They look in order. Do you have diving equipment on board this vessel?”

  “I do.”

  “I need to see it.”

  “It’s outside.”

  “Let’s take a look.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “At this point, I ask the questions. Where’s the dive gear?”

  “When I left for a fishing trip this morning, I remembered leaving America.”

  “You’d be smart to dispense with the editorial comments, Mr. O’Brien.”

  “If you’re looking for drugs, why don’t you just say so?”

  Petty Officer Kowalski popped his head up from the galley. “Sir, clean down here. Ron’s looking through the master. Want me to go topside?”

  “Affirmative. Check the engine compartment, outside storage areas, too.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Chief Wheeler stepped back onto the cockpit as Petty Officer Kowalski scampered up the ladder to the bridge. “Where’s the dive gear?” Wheeler asked.

  “Over here,” said O’Brien, stepping to a storage area. O’Brien opened the compartment. Chief Wheeler removed the tanks and fins. He knelt, feeling the inside of the fins. “Wet. When did you last dive?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Who dove?”

  “Nick and I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Had an anchor stuck. Didn’t want to lose it.”

  “Caught on something, was it?”

  “Rocks.”

  “What were the GPS numbers?”

  “Don’t know. In all the commotion, we didn’t jot them down.”

  Petty Officer Johnson emerged from the salon. “Open the engine compartment,” ordered the chief. To Nick he said, “What kind of rocks had your ground tackle?”

  “Blue rock,” said Nick gesturing with his arms. “Big ones. Down there it’s kinda hard to tell what kind they are. Everything looks blue, you know?”

  “What I know is about three hours ago someone used marine channel thirty-six and talked about finding a submarine on the bottom of the Atlantic. Said there were bodies, skeletons. This person said they were fishing in the Gulf Stream when they got their ground tackle stuck, stuck on a submarine, maybe a German U-boat. We heard they were heading back into port, Ponce Inlet. I figured this vessel travels at about eighteen to twenty knots. You’ve already said you were fishing the stream. If you left close to after the time we intercepted the call that would put you here about now.”

  O’Brien said, “Dozens of boats come in and out of this inlet every hour.”

  “Yes, but none came from the exact direction you came from.” Chief Wheeler dropped the fin he held, stood, and turned to Jason. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Jason Canfield.”

  “Did you dive today?”

  “No sir.”

  “Were you the one who radioed in the find of the German submarine?”

  Jason glanced at O’Brien. “I was just saying that we might have found a U-boat. I’d read about some of them sinking off the east coast of America in 1942. I guess my imagination got the best of me.”

  “Quite an imagination, I’d say. In monitoring the radio frequency, one of our officers heard you mention human remains, maybe munitions on the site, too. Is that what was seen?”

  “I’ve played too many video games. I’d guess that if a U-boat was ever found, one that went down with its crew, there would be skeletons and stuff.”

  “I bet that’d be a good guess,” Chief Wheeler said. “Did any of you see a submarine today?”

  Nick grinned and said, “I’m making grouper submarine sandwiches. You and your posse are welcome to stop by.”

  O’Brien said, “Chief, unless you have a public affairs person on board, it looks like you might be asked for a comment from a TV news crew. If you want to tell them you’re questioning us about finding a German U-boat out there, I’d like to hear their follow-up question.” O’Brien pointed to the boat heading their way, cameraman standing, legs slightly open, camera on his shoulder.

  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 shac
k 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 commitme
nt. 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.