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

by Tom Lowe

  The lights panned across shattered wires, pipes, pressure gauges frozen in time, and valves resembling small steering wheels, locked with barnacles. O’Brien thought it looked as if the insides of the U-boat were coated in volcanic lava.

  Even with the veneer of ossified sea life, O’Brien could tell the long objects in front of them were torpedoes. They had entered the torpedo room. Four of the deadly cylinders had never been fired. A partial skeleton, missing one leg, was resting on the floor, half buried in residue.

  The men could find no evidence of the U-235 canisters anywhere in that half of the submarine. O’Brien pointed toward the entrance and motioned to leave. He thought he caught a glimpse of relief in Nick’s eyes through his mask.

  They swam by the remains of an eighty-caliber deck gun, blown off the area near the conning tower when the sub was hit. They tied the rope to a piece of metal shard at the opening, connecting it to the other half of the sub. Nick secured his spear gun at the entrance, and they slowly entered. Everything was as they’d left it.

  Within a minute, O’Brien and Nick were back at the place where they originally found the U-235 canisters. They spent another ten minutes searching through the remainder of the sub. Nothing. Nothing but bones and bent metal. Then O’Brien spotted something on the floor about two feet from what looked like human pelvic bones. The object was a leather holster, caked in corrosion. O’Brien heard Glenda Lawson’s voice echoing off the walls of the U-boat. “All three gunshots sounded the same … and I’d heard Billy shooting lots of times at cans he’d set up in our backyard. His gun didn’t sound like the shots I heard that awful night.”

  O’Brien lifted the gun out of the sediment, the move causing a soup of rust colored water to swirl in a vortex, a small red ghost dancing down the center of the submarine before melting to the floor.

  They swam back to the cage that held the U-235, opened it and together lifted out each canister. O’Brien motioned for Nick to help him swim with the first canister to the blown-out entrance of the sub. Nick nodded, held a flashlight under his armpit, and swam beside O’Brien with the canister between them.

  At the entrance, they turned and looked back toward the cage that held the remaining canister, the water murky, rust and sea mud in a thick broth. O’Brien shined a light on his watch. Eleven minutes of air left. He motioned for Nick to follow him to the cage for the other canister.

  Nick’s eyes popped behind his mask. He reluctantly followed O’Brien back into the sea of tarnish, reaching for one of O’Brien’s fins for a connection. Using their sense of touch, the men lifted the remaining canister and walked it toward the entrance.

  Nick stepped on something hard and round, like a bowling ball under his fin. The object, a human skull, cracked under the weight of the canister. Then Nick felt a pain across his shoulders as he backed into a sharp metal shard, the rusty edge slicing through his wetsuit, blood mixing with the decay in the water.

  O’Brien tied the canisters to the end of the rope. He looked at his watch. Less than eight minutes of air left. O’Brien checked the slash across Nick’s back. Blood drifted from it, creating an eerie image of red smoke floating around his shoulders. O’Brien pointed to the surface. Nick nodded as they started a slow ascent.

  Something shot through a flashlight beam. It could have been a shadow out of the corner of his Nick’s eye. But there are no shadows ninety feet down in the ocean at night. There are only predators.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Nick grabbed his flashlight and spear gun at the same time. Within a second, O’Brien had his knife off his belt. Nick looked at O’Brien and motioned toward the left. Both men aimed their flashlights into the dark void. Squid and needlefish swam by them.

  Nick panned a few feet to the right, his shoulder bleeding.

  A monster bull shark, at least ten feet long, circled the men.

  O’Brien knew the bull shark was one of the most aggressive. One this size feared nothing, especially when there was blood. He looked at Nick, whose eyes were wide behind the face mask. O’Brien gestured, moving Nick’s back against his and pointing toward the surface. Nick nodded, keeping the spear gun in front of him as his flashlight swept the murky sea. Back-to-back, both men began moving the beams of light in half-circles as they ascended. They followed the anchor rope. To rise too quickly would risk a dangerous case of the bends. To stay where they were any longer would put them at risk of more sharks arriving and attacking.

  O’Brien looked at his depth gauge. At fifty feet they stopped, held onto the rope and breathed slowly. They would have to decompress here for two minutes, purging the trapped nitrogen from their bloodstreams.

  The shark circled again. Each orbit closer. An aggressive twist of the head. Eyes watching the men. Closer. O’Brien and Nick followed it with their lights. Then it was gone. Vanished. O’Brien looked at his watch. Thirty seconds more to decompress. Two minutes of air left. For thirty long seconds they would have to stay right where they were. He tapped his watch and showed Nick who nodded, his eyes darting back to the moving light. Then Nick aimed the flashlight beneath them.

  The image was frightening. The bull shark rose like a torpedo from the inky depth. Mouth open. Rows of one-inch teeth expanding. Nick fired the spear gun. The spear grazed the shark’s side. It was like hitting a dinosaur with a dart. But it was enough to confuse the shark. It cut to the right and swam off into the dark.

  O’Brien pointed toward the surface. Nick nodded and they followed the rope. Another twenty feet and they’d be at the dive platform. Could they clear the water before the shark turned around and charged? O’Brien tried not to think of the odds. Within ten feet of the boat’s dive platform, they broke the surface. Nick spit out his regulator and blurted, “Swim! Fuckin’ swim!”

  They both reached the wooden platform at the same instant. Hands slapping wood. Fingers gripping the half-inch slots. Feet and fins grappling for the ladder rungs. Nick stood. He grabbed O’Brien’s hand and helped pull him up from the top rung of the ladder. Under the moonlight, they saw the shark swim closer. Just beyond the dive platform, the shark’s steal gray dorsal fin slicing the surface.

  “It’s following us up on the stand!” Nick yelled. He pushed the transom door so hard the lock flew across the cockpit floor. Both men stood in the cockpit, the boat rocking in the swells, the sound of water dripping from dive suits, breathing heavy.

  “That’s it!” Nick yelled. “That place is cursed! I tried to tell you that. We came within an inch of being chum meat.”

  “Thought you said you didn’t miss with the spear when they were close.”

  “That devil shark came up straight from hell. I had one second to shoot.”

  “It bought us time to get to the boat.” O’Brien leaned down and picked the brass bolt lock off the floor. “But did you have to kick the transom door in?”

  “Rather kick it in then have a pissed-off bull shark with a scratch across its back come and take me off the dive stand like I was a piece of fish on a plate.”

  “Let me see your shoulder.” Nick turned around and O’Brien examined the wound. “Nasty cut. How’d that happen?”

  “Something in that freaking sub stuck me. After I stepped on what felt like a human skull, BAM! Right across my spine. Maybe Nazi ghost sailors stabbed me.”

  “It might need stitches.”

  “Sean, you gotta listen to me. There’s real evil down there. I feel it! We weren’t supposed to find that thing. When we go back down there it’s like daring the devil to step across a line. Devil’s cursed that place.”

  O’Brien was silent, his eyes looking across at the horizon.

  “We need to get outta here,” Nick said.

  “Let’s pull up the canisters and move. We have to work in the moonlight. We need the winch.”

  Nick grunted. “If that shark cuts this rope with his teeth, that shit can stay down there.”

  Soon the canisters were to the surface. O’Brien said, “Let’s be very careful.
Swing them over the platform, and we’ll secure them in the bilge.”

  “Dave said this stuff had to have some kinda super electrical spark to blow up.”

  “Let’s hope Dave’s right. Get some blankets. We’ll wrap each cylinder separately, store them in different sides of the bilge and move on before first light.”

  Nick looked toward the east. It was still more than two hours before sunrise. The moon was straight overhead. Lightning popped far out at sea. Then Nick saw another light. This one was a boat, coming from the southeast. A tiny wink in the distance. “We got company,” Nick said. “Somebody’s out in the stream.”

  O’Brien looked up. “They’re a long way off. Maybe they’re fishing.”

  Nick studied the light for a second. “No, they’re not fishing. They’re moving too fast. Let’s get the shit outta here, Sean. Could be the Coast Guard again. They might be the ones tracking us with that damn bug you found.”

  “Or it could be somebody else. We can’t stick around to find out.”

  They quickly wrapped the canisters and stowed them. O’Brien cranked the diesels and got the boat on a fast plane, both three hundred horsepower engines at full bore. He glanced down at the old holster he’d set on the bridge floor. He picked it up, turned a small bridge light on and tried to unsnap the metal button. The top flap of the holster fell apart like wet cardboard. He reached in and pulled out a German Luger. The pistol was in good condition despite the fact it had been sitting on the bottom of the ocean for sixty-seven years. The magazine was too corroded to remove.

  He knew the clip held eight bullets. If four were missing, he would contact Abby and Glenda Lawson. Maybe the German sailor who owned this had put a bullet through the head of his comrade and three into the body of Billy Lawson.

  O’Brien wondered what the autopsy performed on Billy Lawson would show, if they even did an autopsy. Would bullets removed from the body have been stored?

  Nick climbed the steps, holding two bottles of Corona in one hand. He gave one to O’Brien and toasted. “Sean O’Brien, ever since you pulled into the marina a couple years ago, I’ve never been bored.” Nick took a long pull off the bottle and flopped down on the bench seat, his wet hair in dark curls. “You are only at the marina a couple weeks a month. If I had your old river house, I’d be up there, too. But when you do come in, don’t take this wrong, Sean. Shit happens. That time that crazy cop was tryin’ to frame you. Put that dead girl’s hair in your bed. It’s never boring, my brother.”

  O’Brien sipped his beer. “Glad you like excitement because the people in that boat you spotted definitely aren’t fishing. I’m hoping your boat has bigger engines, because it looks like we’re being followed.”

  Nick whirled around. He saw the running lights in the distance. “Oh shit! Did you hide those rifles in the closet behind the head?”

  “Yes, and it might be smart to go below and get them.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Dave Collins poured his first glass of scotch at 4:02 a.m. He walked from Gibraltar’s galley to the salon where Max slept on the couch. She opened her eyes. Dave sat next to her and caressed her back. “They’ll be back soon, girl. Go to sleep.”

  Dave sipped the scotch and thought about his thirty-year career with the CIA. He thought about the costs, the gains and the compromises, the slow disintegration of his marriage. The inability to tell his wife anything about what he did, what he had to do, or where he was. The world in which he had to exist was a world of no illusions and yet so artificial. It was so deceptive that the reality of exposure was more frightening than the plausible denial of who he was and for what he stood.

  Sometimes, alone late at night, surrounded by shadows and deception, far away from his wife and sleeping children, he had to remind himself of exactly what he did stand for and why his personal sacrifices were less important than a successful mission.

  He sipped the scotch, his mind drifting to the last phone call he’d received from Hamilton Van Arsdale, his former director at the Agency. Van Arsdale had another two years until retirement, and he planned to go out with the arrival of the new administration. Van Arsdale agreed that the HEU should be locked in Collins’ storage unit until it could be secured and removed.

  He looked at his watch: 4:20. Where were they? They should have checked in by now. Were they okay?

  The marine radio above his desk crackled to life. The sound of static caused Dave to sit up straight. O’Brien said, “ETA ... seventy minutes tops.”

  Max lifted her head, a slight whine from her throat.

  Dave picked up the microphone and keyed the button. “How’s fishing?”

  “We got a couple of grouper.”

  Dave half smiled, fatigue knotting the muscles in his shoulders. “That’s good. We’ll keep the light on for you.”

  “We have a light about two miles to our east. Seems to be gaining. Don’t know if they’re following us or just heading into the pass.”

  “I’ll make a call.”

  “I don’t know if that’d be good or bad. Could be the Coast Guard. Stay tuned.”

  ***

  ANDREI KELTZIN LOOKED AT HIS WATCH as he walked through Miami’s international airport. He traveled with no luggage. Everything he needed would be purchased in Miami. He stepped outside, the warm breeze full of humidity and scents of flowers. He liked Florida. He liked coming to Miami. Women. Weapons. Both so easy to find and buy. But he knew on this trip he’d have limited time. Yuri Volkow had sounded more urgent that usual. Whatever it was, the job would require his immediate attention. Keltzin new something would happen within hours. He could smell the odor of a hunt in the warm Florida air. These things a man comes to know, like a change in weather before it happens. Only Yuri, a man who saw more abuse than he had under the old regime, understood the consequences of action and inaction. None moved faster than Yuri to seize opportunity.

  His cell rang. “Where are you?” asked Yuri Volkow.

  “Airport. Outside. Near the taxi stand.”

  “Meet me where we met last. Things have changed much since we spoke.”

  “How?”

  “I will tell you when you arrive. We are not the first here. I have been working to eliminate another threat. They had men placed here in Miami previous to our arrival. However, before the sun rises, the immediate competitor should be removed.”

  “Zakhar is here for the job?”

  The phone call ended. Keltzin stepped to the curb, raising a hand to signal a taxi.

  ***

  O’BRIEN WATCHED THE BOAT gaining in the distance. “Nick, take the wheel a minute.”

  “I was born with a boat wheel in my hands.”

  O’Brien held up a marine infrared night telescope and spotted the boat. He was quiet for a moment. “What do you see?” asked Nick.

  “I’m not sure. At least two men. One has a moustache. Boat’s a Sea Ray. Probably twenty-six feet. No outriggers. Doubt they were fishing.” O’Brien lifted one of the rifles off the bench seat. Remington M-24. Bolt action with a scope. He chambered a round and sat the rifle back on the bench.

  Nick looked at the gun. “I might have been born with a boat wheel in my hands, but I have a feelin’ you came outta your mama with a gun in yours. You handle that thing like it’s part of your body.”

  “During the war it was.”

  “Did you use a gun like that over there?”

  “No, it was a Remington 700.”

  “All the troops carry them, I guess, huh?”

  “Some do.”

  “Which ones.”

  O’Brien held the night-scope back to his eye. “Snipers.”

  “Shit, you were a sniper?”

  “I was whatever I had to be. Those guys are gaining on us.”

  “Bet they put the bug on my boat!”

  O’Brien lowered the night-scope. “They have a gun. Looks like a shotgun.”

  “A fuckin’ shotgun can kill you!”

  “But they have to get in range.”


  “How close is this range thing?”

  “They’re probably using buckshot. About thirty yards.”

  Nick pushed the throttles. “We aren’t gonna go any faster. How far can you take somebody out with that gun?”

  “From an elevated position, like a hill in Afghanistan, maybe a mile. On the sea, bouncing like this, I don’t know.”

  “How long you gonna give them?”

  “Before what?”

  “Before you shoot?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sean, they’re less than a quarter mile behind us.”

  “I know.”

  “You gonna just let ‘em run up and blow a hole in my boat?”

  “They won’t do that because they probably want what we collected.”

  “So, you gonna let ‘em fire at you and me before you shoot? We have two rifles. I’m not an ex-sniper, but if that boat gets much closer, I can sure as hell hit it.”

  “I don’t want to see you facing a murder charge.”

  “It sure as hell would be self-defense! Them or us, Sean.”

  “Closer we get to shore, Nick, the greater our odds are that there’ll be other boats and these guys will just go away”

  “In another couple of miles, they gonna be caught up with us. What then?”

  “When they get within shotgun range, we’ll cut the engines back to half speed, do a three-sixty move around their boat, and have a little conversation with them on the PA. If they choose to start firing, we’ll do the same. They won’t win.”

  ***

  DAVE COLLINS KEYED his marine radio. “Checking on your ETA. Before I start mixing the pancakes, wanted to know when the kitchen can expect you?”

  “Should be about twenty-five minutes,” O’Brien’s voice came over the radio speaker.

  “Is the fishing party still with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hanging close?”

  No answer.

  “How close is close?”

  No answer.

  “Shit!” Dave keyed the microphone, “Are you okay?”

  No answer. Max whined.