Killer Waves

by Brendan DuBois

  "All right," she said grudgingly. "A fair start. And what will you do tomorrow?"

  I picked up a length of oak, put it in across the growing flames. "More of the same, I suppose. And I'll probably talk to the same people again at the end of the day, to see what's going on. And what about you?”

  "Don’t you mind what we're doing," she said. "You do your own little piece. We’ll do our own."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said.

  "Confidence has nothing to do with it," Laura said. "I'll use a phrase I'm sure you'll remember from your days at the Pentagon. Need to know. Right?"

  I sat down on the couch, extended my feet to the flames.

  "There are many things I've tried to forget about my years at the Pentagon, and you and your crew keep on bringing them back to me. Thanks a lot."

  "You're welcome," she said. "And do talk to me tomorrow, will you?"

  "You can count on it."

  After she hung up, I sat there on the couch, phone in my lap, just watching the flames rise higher and higher, the fuel from the dried wood giving the fire life until they, too, gave up all they had, and the flames began to die.

  Then I went upstairs.

  In my office I went through my collection of books, until I found what I was looking for: a two-volume history of Hitler's U-boat war, expertly researched and written by Clay Blair. I also took down a couple of other books about the Battle of the Atlantic during World War II, and then started looking up information about what was going on in this nearby stretch of the ocean as the European theater of World War II ground to a halt. Armed with this basic information, I fired up my computer and started racing down the grand old information superhighway, to see what I could learn about U-234.

  And it didn't take long.

  The U-234 was more than three hundred feet long, and had been designed as a submarine that would lay mines. For its final trip, its mine-laying equipment was torn out by German engineers so that it could carry more cargo. Among the cargo it carried in its intercepted voyage were tons of strategic materials --- from lead to steel to mercury --- and as Jack had mentioned, a disassembled twin-engine ME-262 jet fighter aircraft. There were also optical glass, medical supplies, anti-aircraft ammo and equipment. The submarine left the great German naval base at Kiel on March 25,1945, for Norway, where it picked up an additional passenger, a Luftwaffe general.

  And stored forward, in ten cube-shaped metal cases about nine inches on a side, were more than twelve hundred pounds of uranium-oxide ore. Produced for the German atomic bomb effort, it was being sent to their Axis allies in Japan for their own atomic bomb project.

  The heavily laden submarine left Norway on April 15, 1945, and in the middle of the Atlantic, when word came that Germany had given up on May 7, the U-234 surfaced and the crew surrendered to an American destroyer, the USS Sutton, on May 14. And, as Jack had said, the two Japanese officers had committed suicide rather than allow themselves to be captured.

  At the Porter Naval Shipyard on May 17, the uranium oxide --- which could be processed for use in an atomic bomb --- was removed from the submarine. And there, the paper trail ended. No official government records existed on what happened to the uranium.

  Oh, there were theories, the most popular one being extraordinarily ironic, in that the uranium was processed in the American Manhattan Project and was used in the atomic bombs dropped on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. German uranium used in American atomic bombs to shatter Japan. But nothing definite.

  In looking through the documents and my books, I saw a familiar name. Fehler. Johann Heinrich Fehler, a thirty-four-year-old German navy lieutenant who was commander of the U- 234.

  Fehler. Just the other day, when I was first with Laura Reeves in her room at the Lafayette House, Gus Turner had come in saying he had secured the Fehler debrief. Which meant an intelligence document of some sort, debriefing Fehler after his surrender.

  I quietly logged off, stared at the blank screen. I tried to think of any type of circumstance where a German U-boat and a U-boat captain and its load of uranium could have anything to do with Colombians, Mexicans, and a drug shipment, but I had no success. After a while my head hurt, and I turned off the computer and went to bed.

  The phone rang about thirty minutes later, and putting on my robe, I went downstairs, rubbing at my face. My portable office phone had been left downstairs, and although there's a phone jack in my bedroom, there's never been a phone there. It would be easy enough to set up another phone, but I've always felt a room with a bed in it should have the basics: a bed, a light, and plenty of books. Besides, by the time I got downstairs to answer the phone, I was usually awake enough to make sense in talking on the damn thing.

  "Hello," I said, bringing the phone over to the couch, barely beating the answering machine. The fireplace was now dark. Even the last of the embers had died away to black.

  "Hey, Lewis, it's Paula."

  "Hey yourself," I said, looking at the time. It was ten past eleven.

  "Did I wake you?"

  "Not hardly."

  "But you must have been in bed, the phone rang so long."

  I tried to lighten up my voice. "It makes me smile to think that you know how many steps it takes to go from my bedroom to my phone."

  There. A laugh. She went on. "I just got out of the selectmen's meeting, and they were still going at it when I left. They had fifteen items on the agenda, and number twelve --- which they spent more than thirty minutes yapping about --- was whether or not the town should have a park designated for dogs only. That way, the dogs have a place where they can poop while their owners run them around, and we don't have to worry about kids playing in dog doo-doo and getting it in their mouths."

  "Democracy in action," I pointed out.

  "Yeah, ain't it wonderful," she said, sighing. "Then a couple of people spoke up, said that taxpayer’s dollars paid for those parks, and that everyone in town should have the same right to visit them. that it wasn’t right to exclude people from a town park. Then somebody said didn't dogs have rights too. After all, their owners have to pay money to license and register them in the town. About then I was expecting somebody to bring Fido up to testify, and I started getting the giggles, thinking how Rhonda, the recording secretary, would put that in the meeting minutes."

  "Did anybody see you get the giggles?" I asked.

  "God, I hope not. That'd be another thing for Rupert to get pissed at. Anyway, the meeting got even stranger when people started arguing on why dogs have to get licensed, and cats don't, and cat owners are freeloaders when compared to dog owners. That's when I gave it up and decided to leave."

  "Good choice."

  "Then I got home and I started thinking... well, I decided I didn't want to be mad at you anymore. I'm much happier thinking about you and thinking about good things. But it's just... I don't know, Lewis. I was thinking as I was waiting for your phone call earlier today that I didn't matter, that you enjoyed getting caught up in those strange things you do, and that I was taking a backseat. Plus the fact that I didn't have a particularly good day at the paper worked its way into the equation. So. There you go. Apologies and all that."

  "Apologies and all that accepted. And you're not in the backseat, not at all."

  "Thanks."

  "And how was dinner with the new town counsel?" I asked. "Oh, it was all right. The name's Mark Spencer. Young pup, maybe a few years out of law school. Full of vim and vigor on how he was going to work for the town, serve the people and do good things, all before lunch every day. Didn't feel like telling him he'd be spending most of his time arguing before the superior court about arcane zoning regulations and septic permits."

  "That was nice of you."

  She laughed again and said, "What about you? Got anything good going on tomorrow?"

  “Tomorrow? I’ve got a little trip planned.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “Boston.”

  "But you hate driving to Boston."

/>   "That I do."

  "Then it must be kind of important, to head off to Boston like that."

  "It is."

  She yawned and said, "Oops, where did that come from? Tell you what, why don't you get on up to bed and get some sleep, rest up for your exhausting trip on the morrow."

  "And you do the same, so you can get to your newspaper early and write a scintillating story about parks and dog feces and cats' rights."

  Another yawn. "Right now I don't even know what scintillating means, never mind spelling it. Night, Lewis."

  "Good night, Paula."

  I was halfway back up the stairs to my bedroom when I was startled to hear the phone ring yet again. I doubted it was Paula who was calling me, but I instantly thought of Reeves, across the way. Perhaps lightning had struck Perhaps the mysterious Whizzer had walked over to the hotel and surrendered. Perhaps I wouldn't have to go to Boston tomorrow. I walked back downstairs and retrieved the phone.

  "Mr. Cole?" came the woman's voice, which I couldn't identify.

  "The same," I said. "Who's this?"

  A pause, and all I could hear was her breathing.

  "Hello?" I called out again.

  It was as if she weren't there, except for the regular sound of her breathing. Then she cleared her throat and said, "I do hope you have your affairs in order." Then she hung up. I stared at the phone, dialed an asterisk and then 6-9, which Bell Atlantic claims will instantly reconnect you with whoever had just dialed. But Bell Atlantic must have been having a bad night or something, for when I dialed the ring-back combination, I got a high-pitched whirring sound that told me a lot of nothing. 1 hung up the phone, tightened my robe about me some more, and slowly walked upstairs

  In my bedroom I went to the top drawer of my oak bureau and pulled out my holstered 9-mm Beretta. There were two spare clips in the bureau, which I left behind. In couldn't handle whatever was out there with the sixteen rounds in the clip, then I doubted additional ammo would do me much good.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, lifted up the mattress some and worked with the holster, which had a short leather strap attached to it. With the mattress pinching the strap between it and the box spring, the holster and the pistol now were at fingertip reach from my bed. I took off the robe and crawled in, and then practiced a few times, to make sure I could get at the pistol if necessary.

  Logically, I knew the call was just designed to rattle me.

  Logically, I knew if somebody really wanted to do me harm, then they would have come and done it already, without the muttered threats and such. Logically, I knew I was well-armed and that all my doors and windows were locked.

  But logic was on vacation this evening. I was ticking off somebody, somebody who was concerned enough to phone in a threat, and I wondered why.

  I was still wondering long minutes later, when I fell into a fitful sleep.

  The next morning I showered with my Beretta resting on the edge of the bathroom sink I had a quick breakfast of tea only --- both to make penance for the huge meal I had consumed the night before, and because of the nervousness I felt, still thinking about the previous night's phone call. After washing up in the kitchen I made a call across the way, and got a hold of Reeves right off the bat.

  "I just wanted to let you know that I am now leaving the house," I said, still hating each word I was pronouncing, as if I were a schoolchild leaving the campus and telling his principal. "Anything interesting going on at your end?"

  "Not a thing, except I'm getting mightily sick of room service food."

  "Well, maybe some morning you'll luck out, and I'll make you a meal.”

  I thought I heard a giggle. "Now, that's an offer I'd like to pass on to my supervisors. Go on, Lewis, and do good."

  "That's what I intend to do."

  I hung up and then grabbed the Beretta --- placing it in a shoulder holster --- and my L.L. Bean jacket. Outside, the morning air was crisp and cool, and the ocean's swells were low and smooth. I wished my own mood matched the look of the ocean, and then I got into the garage and backed up my Ford Explorer.

  At the top of the hill, in the parking lot of the Lafayette House, I drove out on Atlantic Avenue and headed south. From Atlantic Avenue I took Route 51 out to the interstate, but instead of heading north, as I would if I were going to Porter, I turned south, following the huge sign that said BOSTON.

  Getting on the interstate cost me two quarters. I felt my legs tighten in distress as I drove. The highway was crowded with southbound commuters, mostly high-tech or professional types who enjoyed making the relatively high salaries in Massachusetts and living in relatively low-tax New Hampshire, but from the looks of the commuters who passed me, it didn't look as though much enjoyment was going on. I spent a fruitless few minutes looking for something intelligent to listen to on the car radio, and finally secured a classical music station out of Rockport. The names of the Massachusetts towns flew by me as the morning wore on --- Newburyport, Newbury, Georgetown, Boxford, Topsfield --- and for the most part, we were in farm or suburban country. As I drove, I practiced in my mind, over and over again, what I would do and what I would say, once I got into Boston.

  At Danvers 1-95 jogged to the left, and I went right, onto Route 1, and in the matter of minutes I was in commuter hell. The traffic slowed and about me the land had been built upon, paved and transformed into a cold-climate nightmare of what parts of Los Angeles must look like. There were gas stations, strip joints, restaurants, malls, miniature golf courses, discount stores, sporting-goods establishments, bars, more gas stations, and acres and acres of parking lots. Scattered among the concrete-and-asphalt mess were a few lonely houses, the last survivors of what must have been a relatively attractive community about a half century ago, before the Boston sprawl moved north and swallowed everything in its path.

  Cars and trucks and buses flowed around me, cutting in front of my Ford without hesitation, without using a directional signal, and I found myself caught in a vicious rhythm of braking and accelerating as I tried to keep up. I had no doubt that if I were to brake suddenly, the onslaught of the commuters heading into Boston would tumble my Ford over and over, cascading the wreckage and me into one of the side drainage ditches.

  Route 1 suddenly went up a hill and I saw signs for Revere and for Logan International Airport, and there, just a few miles away, were the tall buildings and spires that marked the Athens of America.

  But I only spared it a glance. I had a lot of driving left to do. About forty minutes later, I found a parking spot near the building I was looking for. I turned off the engine and just let my trembling fingers ease themselves against the steering wheel. It had been a number of years since I had been in this part of Boston, near the harbor, which was gradually being brought back to life. There was an enormous construction project going on in this part of the city-a plan to eliminate most of the driving congestion, once and for all, at least for a year or two-and roads I remembered had disappeared, others had sprouted up in their place, and there were detour signs and blockades sprinkled here and there to make things interesting.

  The driving a while back on the commute I thought had been bad enough, but the last half hour or so had been a wide awake nightmare story of snarled traffic, ineffective traffic cops who leaned against trucks drinking cups of coffee, and drivers who flew through stop signs and red lights as though they were artifacts from another planet. I rubbed at my face and got out, locking the doors behind me. My Beretta was snug in its holster, and only gave me a small bit of comfort. I didn't expect anything had to happen to me as a result of my mystery phone call last night, but the pistol served as a talisman of sorts, at least letting me know I had a means of defense. Through connections of Felix’s, I had a permit to carry a concealed weapon in this state, and knowing how hard it is to get such a permit, I always wondered what strings he had pulled to make it happen. I had never asked point-blank, but I had always wondered.

  The brick building had once been a warehouse but had bee
n rebuilt a decade or so ago, as the waterfront district of Boston became attractive property. I joined a bunch of commuters --- feeling smug knowing that I could go home anytime I wanted to --- and got off at the third floor.

  Impressive. The last time I was here, the lobby area had been dark and cramped. Now, windows had been blasted through the brickwork and gave a nice view of the financial district, lighting up the whole place. The receptionist was an intense-looking young man with round black-rimmed glasses and short brown hair, and his collarless white shirt was buttoned up to his neck. He had on one of those telephone headsets, which made him look like a flight controller for NASA.

  I went up to him and said, "I'd like to see Admiral Holbrook, please."

  He looked up at me. "The editor? Admiral Holbrook, the editor?"

  "That's the one," I said.

  "Do you have an appointment, Mr.... "

  "Cole," I said. "Lewis Cole. No, I don't, but I'm sure he'll want to see me."

  His face looked a bit prim, as if he were the smartest student in class and was about to show off in front of everyone. "And why's that, Mr. Cole?"

  On his desk was a magazine, which I opened up and went past the advertisements for museums, bed-and-breakfasts, and Chambers of Commerce throughout New England. I found the page I was looking for and passed it over to the receptionist.

  "Because I work for him, that's why," I said. "I write this column for him every month, and I need a moment of his time. See any resemblance in the photo?"

  It's an old photo and I didn’t like it that much, but it did its job this morning. The receptionist’s face flushed into the color of the old brick behind him. "Of course, Mr. Cole, of course. Have a seat and I'll see if I can get a hold of him."

  "Thanks," I said, and I went over to one of the chairs set against an ivory wall. Through the glass doors---- all marked SHORELINE --- I saw the bustle of people moving around, working on putting another magazine out. My coworkers, I thought. These people were all my coworkers, and except for the editor, I didn't know a single one of them.