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

by Tom Lowe

  ***

  O’BRIEN FOLLOWED THE BOAT through the night scope. One hundred yards.

  “Whatcha gonna do?” Nick yelled. “I don’t feel like getting shot!”

  O’Brien was silent. He looked up from the scope for a moment as the boat behind them exploded in a ball of white and orange fire.

  “Holly shit!” Nick yelled. The light from the explosion illuminated the dark sea.

  “What’s going on?” Dave’s voice came across the radio.

  ***

  DAVE PACED HIS SALON. The radio crackled. O’Brien said, “The boat following us just blew up.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The beam from Ponce Lighthouse punched through a fog stretching a half mile out to sea. O’Brien watched the light pierce the mist while Nick brought his boat toward the inlet. Nick had been quiet since witnessing the explosion.

  As they entered Ponce Inlet, swells bounced off the rock jetties and crashed into the boat’s hull from left and right angles. A night heron called out from the blanket of fog, the cry an unseen mariner’s siren, a warning in sync with the rotation of the light.

  Along the jetties, the fog wafted in backlit shadows, moving like spirits of Indians crawling down to the water’s edge to spear fish that no longer swam into the river to spawn. On the wind was the smell of a saltwater tide breaking against dry rocks, Australian pines, and a smoldering campfire burping up the taste of charred pine sap. O’Brien looked at his watch: 5:27 a.m. “Almost home, Nick. You okay?”

  Nick held the wheel, fighting the turbulent water. “That coulda been us back there. Who killed the men who probably wanted to kill us?”

  “I don’t know.” O’Brien looked at the holster and Luger on the bench seat. “Nick, you still pull a few crab traps?”

  “Yeah, man. Why?”

  “I want a place to park this Luger in its own salty environment until I need it.”

  ***

  DAVE COLLINS SPOTTED Nick’s running lights through the fog. He sat in Gibraltar’s wheelhouse with Max lying on the bench seat. “Here they come, girl. Your papa and his pal Nick were almost toast out there. And, now, they may be carrying material that could turn cities into toast. I know that gentle creatures like you don’t relate to the concept of absolute power and mass killing. It’s an evil unique to the animal kingdom of man.”

  She lifted her head, cocked her ears before Dave could hear the rumble of the diesels coming through the mangroves and onto the docks. “Ahhh, you know that sound, don’t you, girl? Uncle Nicky’s big boat, right?”

  Dave carried Max down the steps to the cockpit then placed her on the dock so she could walk with him to Nick’s slip. They watched him work the bow thrusters and reverse the engines, bringing the boat to a perfect stop. Dave fastened the bow rope and stepped aboard with Max.

  “You two are a sight for scorched eyes,” O’Brien said, coming down from the bridge, careful to keep his voice low. He petted Max. “Hi, lady.” O’Brien looked at the eastern sky. “Dawn’s coming soon. Let’s go inside. We’ll show you what we found out there.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Dave watched as Nick and O’Brien gently set the blanket-covered canisters on the galley table and unwrapped them. Dave looked at the labels and released a low whistle. “U-235. Germany had plans in the last days of the war. If it’s the real thing, these two alone are probably enough to make a dirty bomb.”

  “That’s what we saw tonight,” Nick said. “A dirty freakin’ bomb.”

  “What you saw probably was five pounds of C-4, remotely detonated or wired to explode at a certain time. The stuff on this table would destroy this marina and life within an immediate quarter mile from it.”

  O’Brien said, “From our perspective, what Nick and I saw a hundred yards off our stern was very dirty. What’s your chatter tell you now? Who the hell’s behind this?”

  “Don’t know. And, unfortunately, this stuff in front of us is highly enriched and highly desired by the world’s most undesirables. As you just witnessed first-hand, they’ll do anything to get it.”

  “That narrows it down,” O’Brien said dryly. “We were almost taken out by a bull shark that must have weighed a thousand pounds. Then we were chased forty miles in open sea by some unknown undesirables who were killed by some other unknown undesirables.”

  Nick shook his damp, shaggy head and said, “I need a drink.”

  “How many hostiles were taken out tonight?” Dave asked.

  “I saw two on the boat,” O’Brien said.

  Dave inhaled loudly and exhaled slowly, his eyes studying the canisters. “If we knew where the chase boat came from, it’d be easier to check marinas and boat rentals. We now know that there are at least two rivals desperate to get their hands on this stuff. We know that one rival just lost two members. We’ll hide this while we search for the rest of it.”

  “What do you mean by the rest of it?” O’Brien asked.

  Dave touched the damp barnacles on one of the canisters. “If these are all that were left on the sub, the rest are indeed missing. I’ve done more research. U-boat 234, which was the sub that surrendered a week earlier than the one spotted by Billy Lawson and found by you two, had more than two lead canisters. Inside the canisters, they were lined with gold, and the cake baking in them was more than enough to make a bomb the size of the one that leveled Hiroshima.”

  Nick whistled. “So what we pulled out of the sub tonight is only part of it?”

  “Correct. I suspect the rest could be still buried somewhere on that beach. The area, Sean, where the old woman and her granddaughter told you about, the place where Billy Lawson saw enough to get him killed.”

  “If it’s near Fort Matanzas, that’s been federally protected property. Land left undisturbed. The FBI or OSS must have done a check of the beach in 1945. Who’s to say it was never found? Maybe the two Japanese men that Billy Lawson saw leaving on foot returned for the HEU. The mystery man who met them, maybe he came back for it.”

  “And did what with it?” Dave asked.

  “The extent of my crime solving was always as a homicide detective. This seems more aligned with your old beat. What happened to the uranium on that other sub, the one that was escorted by Navy destroyers into Portsmouth?”

  “That’s a question I can’t find the answer to. There are those who believe Robert Oppenheimer, the director of the Manhattan Project, had permission from President Truman to remove the U-235 and use it, or some of it, in the atomic bombs we dropped over Japan. Hitler may have been about to give Japan ‘the big gift’ in the war, material to build atomic weapons. Imagine what could have happened.”

  O’Brien said, “If there’s any poetic irony in this, it’s using nuclear material made in Nazi Germany bound for Japan to use on America. It gives Dante’s Inferno a different perspective.”

  “Hell with it,” Nick said. “Sean, let’s get this shit outta my galley and out of sight. I’m done with lookin’ at the end-of-the-war time bombs on my breakfast table. Good morning America, guess what’s for breakfast? Nukes, baby, that’s what!”

  Dave said, “It’s still dark. Let’s get these in my inflatable. We’ll off-load them at the parking lot and into Sean’s Jeep, and then take them to my storage unit near the bridge.”

  O’Brien said, “We could be followed.”

  “Doubt it considering what happened at sea.”

  “They’ve already proved to me they’re quicker than I’d have expected.” O’Brien lifted a pillow off the sofa, picked up the transponder, and handed it to Dave.

  “So this is how they located Nick’s boat out there?”

  “Yeah, I found it when I was pulling rope out of the storage hole on the cockpit.”

  “How’d it get there?”

  “I’m guessing, that so-called reporter, the guy with the dark hair and dark-rimmed glasses, who said he was from the A.P. He was here first, right before the others. You saw him walking around, chatting with boat owners. He coul
d have hidden it on Nick’s boat in ten seconds. But because of the angle, you couldn’t see if he was knocking on the salon door or slipping something in a storage bin. This guy had the tall photographer with him. Wore a Tigers’ cap. Two cameras around his neck. Carried a red nylon backpack for cameras. Now I believe it held a GPS transponder or two. I’m checking Jupiter.”

  Nick said, “When Sean showed it to me, I wanted to smash the thing like hittin’ a hockey puck. But he said ‘no,’ we may need it later to send theses bad dudes where we want them to go. Maybe they went straight to hell out there at sea.”

  Dave exhaled loudly and said, “We’ve just entered the first ring of hell.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Rashid Aamed arrived at the Starbucks fifteen minutes early. It was mid-morning, and he had changed rental cars twice since leaving Miami on his trip to Orlando. He knew he was not followed. The Americans were not very good at even locating people. Following him would be a challenge to them. He always knew when someone was watching, following. Could feel their presence like a cold wind on his neck.

  He paid for his espresso, bought a copy of the New York Times, and walked back outside, taking a seat at the most remote table in front of the coffee shop. He kept his sunglasses on as he read the latest print story about the discovery of the German U-boat and its potential deadly cargo off the coast of Florida. There was no mention of the explosion. The men had died a martyr’s noble death. They were in a better place, paradise. Their deaths would be avenged.

  Aamed lit a Turkish cigarette, turned on his small laptop, and waited for his appointment to arrive. Checking the websites for major U.S. news organizations, he could find no mention of the explosion. He scanned his e-mail. One new message arrived in the last five minutes. In Arabic, the message said: “The deaths of Ata and Mansur were believed to have been ordered by a Russian arms dealer, Yuri Volkow. We know Volkow is in Florida. At least one of his men is there, probably more. You must find the material before they do.”

  Aamed typed: “Will not fail.”

  Abdul-Hakim made no eye contact with Aamed when he entered the Starbucks to buy a double espresso. He was tall and rail thin. Short-cropped black, wiry hair. He wore a black sports coat and a white button-down shirt that hung outside his pants. Soft loafers. No socks. His hard eyes took in the room. Two businessmen discussed the housing market. A female college student sat surfing the web on her laptop as American music entered her brain through the iPod earpieces. A housewife, the diamond in her ring the size of a garbanzo bean, chatted with another woman. A man sat in one corner, facing the entrance, reading a newspaper.

  Hakim paid for his coffee and walked toward the door, looking at the reflection of the room off the glass door. He could see the man sitting alone in the corner, and he could see that the man did not look away from the newspaper.

  “My friend, it has been too long,” Hakim said, sitting down at an outdoor table.

  “Yes,” said Aamed, looking up from his laptop. “How is your business here in Orlando, this home of the Mickey fucking Mouse?”

  “Good, my gift shop is small, but it allows me more legitimacy.”

  “Ata and Mansur were killed early this morning.”

  Hakim glanced down, his eyes returning back to Aamed. “How did this happen?”

  “When their boat got near the vessel operated by the Americans who found the HEU, the boat we hired exploded in the sea approximately fifty kilometers east of Daytona Beach. We think the Americans retrieved the HEU.”

  Hakim sipped his coffee, glanced through the storefront glass into the shop. The man in the corner continued reading the newspaper. Hakim said, “So they have it … who killed Ata and Mansur? Was it the Americans?”

  “Mohammed Sharif tells me it is most likely the Russian mafia. The operative’s name is Yuri Volkow. He’s known to sell weapons to the highest bidder. He and his men have no allegiance to anyone or anything. He is a Russian whore. He stands for nothing, nor does his country. At least with Lenin, they had an identity, a history.”

  Hakim sipped his espresso and nodded. “That is one of the many things this American government refuses to realize. They do not understand our history. How can a people do what they are trying to do in the homeland without understanding a history that goes back fourteen centuries?”

  “A Muslim’s sincerity is that he will pay no attention to those things that are not his business. But circumstances make it our business. It was first told in the Hadith. This Russian, like the Americans, this Volkow, is entering a place where he should not tread.”

  “How do we get the HEU before he does? Or how do we stop him?”

  Aamed felt a slight chill. He looked around, his dark eyes searching parked cars in the lot. He closed his laptop. “Let us drive. We can talk. We can plan. Mohammed is arriving tonight. He has conferred with others and will know how we shall triumph.”

  ***

  INSIDE THE COFFEE SHOP, Eric Hunter lowered the newspaper to the table, punched numbers on his cell and said, “They just left. Heading toward the parking lot.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  O’Brien felt like he was free-falling backwards. He had completed dozens of successful night parachute jumps. Free-falling from a high altitude. Waiting until he was less than five hundred feet over enemy terrain before deploying his chute. This was different. The sensation was a gravitational pull without a sense of perspective. He simply fell through a world of darkness. Then the killer’s face appeared. Oily dark hair combed into a pompadour, like a wet bird’s nest above the forehead. Eyes electric with light. A muscle quivering beneath his left eye. Rapid blinking. The girl’s blood on his chin and hands. Head swaying like a hyena over dead prey. “You’re not going to shoot me!” he mocked.

  O’Brien raised his pistol, the sights locked on the killer’s forehead.

  “You can’t kill me, Detective! If you do, you are me.”

  O’Brien felt the trigger against his finger, the bile rising in his chest.

  There was movement. Jupiter rocked. Slightly, but it was enough to jog O’Brien out of sleep. He lay in his cabin, the sheets damp from sweat. He tried to sit up. But something held him to the bed. Something pressing both his shoulders. Something strong. Something mocking. O’Brien shook his head, not fully conscious. Had he been restrained? Was he dreaming?

  Jupiter moved again. That was real. He reached under the pillow for his Glock. Max, sleeping at the foot of the bed, opened her eyes. O’Brien whispered, “Shhhh … we have company.” He looked at his watch: 3:30 p.m. He’d fallen asleep at noon. Three and a half hours. His mind felt drugged from sleep deprivation. O’Brien stepped into the salon. Jason Canfield stood outside in the cockpit, leaning against the glass door, his hands on the glass and cupped around his eyes so he could see inside.

  “Come in,” O’Brien said.

  “Can’t. It’s locked.”

  O’Brien set the Glock on the bar and opened the door. “Been out there long?”

  “Couple of minutes. Looks like you were taking a nap.”

  “More like a coma. Didn’t get any sleep last night.”

  “My sleep’s been kinda weird, too. Since we found that stuff, everything is different. Our pictures are all over the news, the web, people are tweeting and re-tweeting like crazy. It’s freakin’ crazy. I had like five hundred new friend requests on Facebook in a couple of hours. Nicole’s got hundreds of new friends on her page, and like a thousand new followers on Twitter. She took the pictures of the sub and stuff off there.”

  “Good. Listen, Jason. You’re like a son I never had. I care about what happens to you. That’s why I want you to understand what I say, it’s for your own good. I want to keep you safe—”

  “It’s okay. I understand, but you don’t—”

  O’Brien held up one hand. “Listen to me. We’ve stepped into a hornet’s nest. Be careful. If you even suspect you’re being followed, you call me. Understand?”

  “Okay. Mom told me you to
ld her, too. This is about the stuff in the sub, huh?”

  O’Brien leaned over the wet-bar sink and splashed cold water in his face. “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t notice anybody following me from my house to the marina.”

  “Just be very aware. Chances are nothing will happen. Thanks for waking me. If I sleep during the day, my clock gets out of whack.”

  “You’d wanted me to pick up some stuff for the charter.”

  “I’ll write up a short list. You should be able to get what we need at the grocery store. Go to Chapman’s to pick up the bait. Get it last thing. It’s frozen. Don’t need it thawing out in your truck.” O’Brien handed Jason the list and money. “Call me when you get to the store and call me when you’re headed back. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. I just think this is kinda paranoid, maybe.”

  O’Brien’s cell rang. He answered as Jason nodded and left. Dave Collins said, “Sean, the team will be here in a little while for a debriefing. They’ll need to talk with you, Nick and Jason. Where are they?”

  “I just sent Jason to pick up some stuff for a charter. He’s going to the grocery store, then Chapman’s Fish House. Nick’s probably on his boat.”

  “Tried his cell before I called you. No answer. Maybe he’s napping.”

  “I’ll see if I can find him. What time are they arriving?”

  “Couple of hours, tops.”

  ***

  NICOLE BRADLEY SAT IN HER cubicle at Channel Nine and read her e-mails. Since she was interviewed on CNN, her e-mail and text messaging was so heavy she sent her Twitter followers an update telling people she couldn’t begin to answer them.

  This is wild! I WILL answer everyone!!! One person she corresponded with immediately was a new friend, a USC grad student who was in Orlando with his family for a vacation. He was waaay cute, she thought, pulling up his picture again and reading his bio. He was a film student, and he’s written two original screenplays. Had a super great idea for a journalism-based new reality TV show for the Internet. He could have been Robert Patterson’s twin brother. God, what a smile. He texted that he’d like to meet her. Wanted to talk about an online TV show. Thought she would be perfect for the host’s job.