The Black Bullet (Sean O'Brien mystery/thriller)

by Tom Lowe

  O’Brien said, “As a sailor, you have reverence for ships and those who went down with them. Nick dove down there, found the sunken U-boat. We figured the sub and its sailors had been lying out there since World War II, so we might as well leave them alone. I’m sure the families back in Germany would appreciate that. Thank you, we’ve got to be moving on and get ready for a charter.”

  ***

  RASHID AAMED STOOD IN HIS POSH Miami Beach condo and turned the sound up on the television. He was tall, with dark hair perfectly parted, and eyebrows like wire stitched in his coffee-colored skin. He watched the conclusion of the live interview from the marina, his black eyes following every word, every gesture from the men being interviewed. Two are lying, he thought. However, the tall one, the one who did most of the talking, his body language was too natural to indicate deceit. Aamed scribbled notes on a piece of paper and punched numbers into a cell phone. “Listen closely,” he began in Arabic. “There may be an opportunity to retrieve what we’ve been waiting for.”

  “I understand,” said a staccato voice.

  “I will explain in detail later. But for now the place is called Ponce Marina, near Daytona Beach. Go there. The boat is named Jupiter. You know what to do.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  It was mid afternoon when Dave Collins finally had more than he could stomach of the all-news cable channels. “Hitler’s last sub,” said a voice-over with an image of the conning tower that had the number 236 on it. “Could Hitler’s last U-boat have carried nuclear bomb material? We’ll have more on the find off the coast of Florida and whether you and your family could be at risk today. Stay tuned for Fox Report tonight at six.”

  Dave lifted the remote and turned off the small television in Gibraltar. Five seconds later his cell phone rang. No caller ID. The man said, “Dave, there’s been some internet chatter that concerns us.”

  “What kind of chatter, Hamilton?”

  “In reference to the find your friends stumbled upon.”

  “Who’s talking?”

  “We suspect an Iranian connection through an extremist, a man by the name of Abdul-Hakim. He has strong ties to Hezbollah. Suspected connections to those who took over after bin Laden was killed.”

  Dave was quiet a beat. “Oh, what a lovely bunch. They can’t make their own stuff so they want to steal it from Nazi ghosts. I appreciate your help earlier in sending the documents to me. I know some are still classified.”

  “No problem. Sixty-seven years ago, the Navy suspected the sub was Germany’s last. Its’ cargo was suspect, too. A similar cargo on one of the two surrendered subs confirmed what was listed on the manifest. They were carrying HEU. Your marina pals found what the Navy never did after they dropped depth-charges on it.”

  “Maybe, in recent years, one of these underwater burps, a small quake or a storm, shook the sand off it. A lucky find, I suppose.”

  “Not lucky if it falls into the wrong hands. The chatter indicates movement is happening right now. We don’t have time to immediately neutralize the area and remove the material. It’s not dangerous unless it’s opened, and it can’t ignite unless it’s detonated with high-speed electrical switches.”

  Dave nodded. “I understand.”

  “Can we trust the two men who found the HEU to deliver it to us, all of it?”

  “Sean O’Brien and Nick Cronus are standup guys. Both come with a strong sense of ethics and patriotism. O’Brien’s a former homicide detective. The guy can read people, faces, the most minuscule stain on a shirt, even a trace of grease in a knuckle that wasn’t washed off. He can replay a crime backwards in his mind, retrace the trajectory of bullets, and formulate quickly where perpetrators stood—the talent to see what others often don’t.”

  “Sounds like the remote viewing we did at the agency in the nineties.”

  “Similar, I think. I believe people like O’Brien can somehow perceive things on a near subconscious level and make them rise up to connect with the conscious mind.”

  “Most of us try to go the opposite direction, regress in some way to tap into the subconscious by various mediation techniques. You said he’s a former homicide detective, did he retire?”

  “Resigned. The very talent he has to sense a crime scene, I think, allowed him to get so close to the criminal mind, to evil, he often found himself in a place he didn’t want to be.”

  “The evil in the minds of people like Hitler and his band, some of whom I’m sure are buried in that sub, isn’t a place to dwell too long. Let’s have them quickly get back down there and remove the U-235; we’ll come pick it up for secure storage. We need it done immediately, and I mean tonight. This is of utmost national security”

  “I understand. I’ll contact them.”

  “Keep us posted. Sort of like old times, eh, Dave? Remember, you’re supposed to be drawing a pension and fishing in Florida.”

  “I’ll get back to that. Contact you when I have something.” Dave disconnected, called O’Brien and Nick, and explained the conversation he had with the CIA and the urgency to retrieve the canisters marked U-235.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  When Nick stepped into Gibraltar’s salon, Max trotted over and greeted him, tail wagging. “Little Max, even in that tiny head of yours, you have more brains than the people on this boat.” Nick looked at Dave and added, “The only reason I’d go back out there, back to that ocean graveyard, middle of the freakin’ night, is ‘cause I don’t want to see Sean try to do it alone. Too dangerous. Currents. Sharks.”

  O’Brien said, “Can’t say I’m overjoyed to be working for the CIA.”

  Dave said, “They’ve done more good than bad.”

  “I’d rather give this stuff to the CIA than the FBI, considering the FBI might possibly have a sixty-plus-year connection with the incident on the beach with Billy Lawson.”

  Dave grinned, “Who knows what Hoover did or didn’t do. Regardless, you found the sub in international waters anyway. It’s in the jurisdiction of the Agency.”

  “Wait a minute,” Nick said, folding his arms across his chest. “When Sean and I start pulling that H-E-U stuff outta there … what if it blows up in our faces?”

  Dave said, “It can’t be ignited unless it’s detonated in a way that delivers a very fast charge to the material.”

  O’Brien said, “I don’t know how much each canister weighs, but I do know this: it’s probably not a good idea to take Jupiter back to the spot. Somebody could be watching it. Nick, let’s take your boat. It’s got a winch, which we’ll need to lift the canisters on board. You’ve got dive gear. Do you have guns aboard?”

  Nick’s eyes popped. “I don’t even own a BB gun.”

  O’Brien nodded. “I’ll bring mine. Dave, did your CIA contact say what the chatter was about? Who’s talking and what they’re saying?”

  “I’d answer that if I knew. Internet chatter. Arabic. One person is a guy named Abdul-Hakim whom, I was told, helped supply Hezbollah with bombs it used against Israel in a skirmish.”

  “A weapons’ broker? I imagine they’ve heard about all of this, of course.”

  “A good guess is they’re on their way. Between the Internet and satellite TV, it’s a world without borders. Many young Islamic extremists are recruited via the Internet, including the ones who strap bombs to themselves. They’re recruited by the top echelon. The so-called martyrs do live forever on these websites where a new generation can see and hear why they do what they do. It’s all about perception. You can bet Abdul-Hakim and his group probably aren’t alone in their desire to possess weapons-grade uranium.”

  Nick mumbled, “That TV chick don’t know the shit she’s got us into.”

  “Probably doesn’t care,” said O’Brien. “I’ve got three good underwater flashlights. Plenty of batteries. Nick, are your dive tanks filled?”

  “Yeah, man. Always.”

  “Okay, we’ll have about an hour to comb through what we can.”

  “Good,” said Dave. “
I checked the weather. No storms. Seas are about two feet in the stream. Can you find it again, Sean?”

  “Yes.”

  “No doubt. You’re about ninety minutes away from it, an hour on the bottom and ninety minutes returning. Should put you back at the marina before sun-up. We can off-load it and store the stuff in a secure area.”

  O’Brien smiled. “Outside of Fort Knox, what do you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know yet. We’ll hear soon. Let me fix you two a big thermos of coffee.”

  “Don’t need any caffeine down there,” Nick said. “When you’re in the devil’s den, your heart’s goin’ a mile a minute. I imagine one of those skeletons tapping on my shoulder as I swim by. If I had too much caffeine, I might shoot up outta the ocean like a rocket. Maybe I come down on the lovely island of Mykonos.”

  ***

  ANDREI KELTZIN WALKED OUT of the Kiev, a Ukrainian restaurant and bar in Midtown Manhattan, at a little past midnight. When in New York, it was where he always went on Tuesday nights. This night of the week they provided two-for-one Stolichnaya and his favorite, Zapechona, a dish of braised lamb and garlic-roasted potatoes. Although the restaurant was Russian-owned, they adopted some of the American marketing. Two-for-one called a “happy hour.” Then why are the Americans such unhappy people? His small ears were pink, and they protruded from a round, bald head that seem to sit on a neck too long to be attached to such wide shoulders. His hard eyes looked liked black beads surrounded by too much white.

  Rain fell over the city as he stood to hail a cab. A Ford Excursion gunned through a changing traffic light, splashing water across Keltzin’s shined black wingtips. “Fuck you,” he grumbled in Russian. The Americans and their giant fucking cars, SUVs—a stupid name. Automobiles a poor Russian couple could live in and call home.

  His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He slipped back into the shadows beneath an awning, the rain popping against the canvas, the odor of diesel exhaust in the air. “There is a plane leaving for Miami in two hours,” said the deep monotone voice in Russian. “From LaGuardia. Be on it.”

  “Will you meet me in Miami for further instructions?”

  “Yes. Same place as last time.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Dimitri will be there as well, and others very soon.”

  The caller disconnected and Keltzin stopped the next cab. “LaGuardia. You get a tip of one hundred dollars if you can get me there in twenty minutes.”

  “No problem,” said the man in a Moroccan accent. “This time of night, not much traffic. You might get lucky.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Nick Cronus stood near his boat’s bowsprit as clouds parted and a near full moon rose above the dark ocean. He watched O’Brien in the bridge read the GPS and slowly bring the boat somewhere over the lost submarine. “Drop it!” yelled O’Brien above the throttle of the diesels. Nick pressed a button on the deck, and the anchor slid into the inky water.

  O’Brien cut the engines and climbed down to the cockpit. The boat rocked gently on the surface, the slap of waves lapping against the hull, the stars like twinkling ornaments in the sky. O’Brien pulled out the SCUBA tanks, fins, knives, wetsuits, and underwater flashlights.

  Nick got a spear gun from the salon. “Might need this down there.”

  “What do you think you’re going to shoot?”

  “Hope I don’t have to shoot a shark. You can get great whites out here. Tiger sharks. This is the freakin’ Gulf Stream, a flowing smorgasbord for things to eat things.”

  “Let’s hope they’ve all eaten and gone to sleep it off?”

  “Sharks don’t sleep at night. They eat at night. I’m not gonna be their meal.”

  “You don’t have to go down there, you know.”

  “If I don’t, who will? Jason? That kid would go just to say he’d gone, but he’d suck up so much air outta the tank seeing those skeletons he’d be no help. If he saw a shark swim through the light beam, bet he’d panic and pop to the top. He’d die from the bends.”

  “I’m glad you’re here, Nick. I mean that.”

  “I’m not out here ‘cause I’m still payin’ you back for pulling those three bikers off me. But when a man saves another man’s life … well, that kinda friendship is about as deep as you can get. You know?”

  “I know. I just don’t want you to think you owe me something. You don’t.”

  Nick grinned. “Let’s dive, brother!” He strapped on his tank, braced himself against the transom to slip the fins on his feet and shook his head. “Did I ever tell you what happened to me one night off Cedar Key?”

  “No.”

  “One time, ‘bout an hour before sunset, I was diving off Cedar Key, more than one hundred feet down. Found a lot of sponges. I stayed down too long. Come up too fast. Got back on my boat. Dropped the anchor and started fixing dinner. Looked at my chest, stomach, and I was getting blue spots all over. Felt weak. Dizzy. I knew I’d got hit, you know, the bends. Couldn’t get to a hospital for decompression. The old Greek way is to go back down, at least thirty-three feet … just hang there on the anchor rope ‘till the nitrogen is outta the system. Maybe an hour. So, that’s what I did.”

  “Looks like it worked, you’re here.”

  “Yeah man, but as I was floatin’ on my back like an astronaut in space, I see nothing but the lights from my boat above me. Then the lights went dark. Like a blanket was tossed over them. Know why?”

  “Generator quit?”

  “No. A huge shark was between me and the lights. Then it circled me, round and round. From dark to light to dark. I’ve never been so damn scared in my life.” Nick held up the spear gun. “But I had one of these. When the beast from hell opened his mouth to try and take off my leg, I say a quick prayer, stick this spear down his throat, and pulled the trigger. This saved my life that night, Sean. Could save ours tonight.”

  O’Brien tossed a knife in a sheath to Nick. “Wear this on your belt in case you miss with the spear.”

  “I won’t miss close. And sharks are only dangerous when they’re close.”

  “Where’s your extra rope?”

  “Storage bin behind you.” Nick pointed.

  O’Brien opened the bin on the cockpit and pulled out rope, arranging it in a neat figure-eight loop that would allow for it to easily slide into the sea without becoming knotted. As he reached in to tie off the remaining few feet, he noticed something about the size of a small hockey puck. Black. Stuck on the side wall of the compartment. “Nick, shine one of the lights over here.”

  Nick clicked on one of the flashlights, the beam falling on the object. “What the hell’s that?”

  “O’Brien carefully removed the object and studied it in the light. “It’s a GPS transponder, Nick. Somebody knows we’re out here.”

  “This is my boat! Not Jupiter. How the hell do they know?”

  “Because they’re good, damn good. Turn off the light.”

  Nick shut off the light and looked in a 360 circle. Nothing. Miles of dark sea and silence. “Who put that there, Sean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’re way the hell out in this big ocean, and now I feel like we’re not alone.”

  O’Brien scanned the horizon, the reflection of the moon on the water as clouds parted. “I don’t see another boat in site. If they’re coming, they could be running with lights out. Let’s beat the bastards. There may be no time for a two-tank dive. I just hope whoever put this here doesn’t surprise us when we come back to the surface.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  O’Brien climbed to the fly bridge and used a pair of binoculars to scan the horizon in all directions. He came back down the steps, binoculars in hand. “Nothing,” he said. “We have three-hundred feet of rope. When we get down there, let’s look in the other half of the sub we didn’t enter. If there are no canisters marked as U-235, we’ll go back in the half where we saw the stuff. We’ll tie both of them onto this rope, move them to a spot on t
he bottom, swim back to the boat, and use the winch to haul the stuff to us. Got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it,” Nick said.

  They stepped onto the dive platform. Before putting the regulator in his mouth, O’Brien said, “Turn the lights on underwater. Okay, let’s do it.” He slapped a high-five against Nick’s hand and stepped off the platform, the flashlight descending in the clear water like a meteor fading in the night sky.

  Nick made the sign of the cross and looked up at the heavens. “If you get us outta this one, I won’t ask for nothin’ else, and I take back those thoughts I had today of Ralph Jenson’s wife.” Nick gripped the spear gun in one hand, the flashlight in the other, and fell backwards into the dark sea.

  At thirty feet down, O’Brien adjusted his buoyancy and waited for Nick. Within a few seconds, Nick appeared next to O’Brien, and they began to swim the remaining seventy feet to the floor of the ocean. Nick panned his flashlight beam left to right as they descended, occasionally looking toward the surface, the light illuminating jellyfish and squid. O’Brien kept his light pointed in the direction they were heading. A minute later, they could see the dark gray hull, most of it encrusted with barnacles and algae.

  O’Brien tapped Nick on the arm and motioned toward the long remnant of the sub they had not entered on their first exploration. Nick nodded and followed O’Brien as he swam for the opening, a twisted cavity of metal so thick with sea growth it looked like a dark entrance to an underwater cave.

  The spotlights crisscrossed as the men entered, the light illuminating plankton, small fish, and shrimp flittering across the floor of the broken U-boat like mice scurrying for shelter. Nick pointed to a human skull, decapitated from the rest of the body, the skull wedged under a shard of metal. The skull had a small hole above one eye socket. A moray eel, mouth slightly parted, dogteeth visible in the light, backed into the dark crevice beside the skull. The men swam by, careful not to disturb the sediment, their bubbles rising to the ceiling of the broken U-boat.