Killer Waves

by Brendan DuBois

  Jack said, "Let's get a move on, now. Come along."

  My right arm ached from being placed on Jack's shoulder all this time, and my left hand was cramped from carrying that damn black case. Again, we began the shuffling motions and I almost groaned in pain and dismay at what we were going through. My mind's tricks started again, especially when Jack called out, "Water coming up. Don't worry, it's only about ankle deep," and we splashed through cold water that had a foul smell. After going through the water, I imagined again that Jack was lost, that he didn’t know where he was going, and that he would tumble us over into a pit that was a hundred feet deep. My toes began to curl back up against themselves, and I was thinking of what it might feel like to step out into nothing but deadly air.

  I was afraid I was going to start moaning in fear, moaning out loud and making noises like a coyote caught in a leghold trap, when Jack said calmly, "We're here. Close your eyes and cover them with your hands. It helps."

  I dropped the case and almost sighed out loud in relief as I brought my hands up to my eyes. Yards, I thought, I was literally yards away from my comfortable home and safe bedroom at Tyler Beach, and here I was, buried underneath tons of dirt and concrete, living at the whim of two killers, each of whom seemed eager as hell to strike out at the other.

  Suddenly light glared through my fingers and my closed eyelids, like being on a Nevada test range as an atomic bomb goes off. I blinked hard and slowly opened my eyes, which were tearing from pain, and looked around. We were in what seemed to be the central area of the emplacement, with concrete-lined corridors running out like spokes on a wagon wheel. More homemade lights were hung from rusting pipes, and cable conduits from the cement ceiling. Gus was off to my right, and Jack was to my left, and again I had the feeling of being a target, as both ensured that I was between them.

  I looked around some more. The place was a mess. Graffiti --- WORSHIP SATAN, 666, WORK sucks --- had been spray-painted in large looping letters on the walls, along with the names of Freddy, Jen, Krystal and Byron, and the usual cryptic graffiti symbols that look like relatives of Egyptian hieroglyphics. Beer cans, broken whiskey bottles and crumpled cigarette packages and snack containers were scattered across the floor. Faded black paint in careful block letters above some of the corridor openings said PLOTTING ROOM, RADIO ROOM, OOD STATION. Despite all that was going on, I felt a flash of anger at what years of teenagers had done here, trashing a place where men had come to work every day, defending their home, their soil. It was like seeing a graveyard being desecrated.

  Near where Jack was standing was a rusted metal door, bowed in at the center, which looked as if generations of troubled youth had tried to kick it in. A gate was placed at eye level in the door, and Jack-keeping the shotgun trained on us-poked around the trash on the ground until he came up with a short length of pipe. He inserted the pipe at a particular angle through the grate, and something made a loud click. Jack had a satisfied smile on his face as he took the pipe out and dropped it to the floor.

  "My dad was handy with tools and such," he said, grabbing hold of the grate and swinging the door open. "Nobody knew anything was back here for nearly a half century. A little spring lock and pressure plate. That's all it took."

  The door opened up and more lights came on. A shorter concrete corridor extended in, and the floor was covered with empty beer and soda cans, no doubt tossed in through the grates. Jack kicked them aside with practiced moves, heading to another metal door at the end. This one was in better shape, and a combination lock was holding it in place. Gus and I followed Jack in, each of us carrying one of the black plastic cases.

  "Lewis," Jack said. "Not that I don't trust my partner in crime here, but please keep your distance between us two as I get to work."

  I moved back, as I was getting that tingly feeling, as if a large bull's-eye were painted in the middle of my spine. Jack worked the combination lock and popped it open, and I sensed Gus looking around me as the door swung wide.

  And there they were, illuminated by a single bulb dangling from the ceiling. Lined up against a wall were ten metal cases, nine inches to a side. Such a small collection of containers, such a small thing that had caused all this death and deceit and hate. And as if to symbolize all the death and hate, emblazoned on the side of each container, just as Keith Emerson had told me, were the German eagle and swastika, and the words: EIGENTUM DER OKW. There were other items in there as well: a couple of furled flags or banners leaning against the wall; a small pile of what looked like uniforms in the corner, and a moldering collection of pamphlets and books, all in what looked to be German. Near the door was a long metal handcart with four wheels, and by the cart were some old canvas sacks. From behind me Gus seemed to sigh in satisfaction. He said, "Jack, I need to ensure that those boxes contain what we both think they do. If they contain sand or rocks or Spam, it sure'd be a hell of a thing."

  Jack said, "Makes sense."

  "One of these cases has detection equipment. I'll open it up in full view of you, just to make sure nothing… well, make sure nothing untoward goes on. All right?"

  Jack nodded and moved in with Gus, shotgun still in hand, as Gus knelt down and laid out the case flat on the soiled concrete. He deftly went through the combination and undid the side latches. Jack looked on intently as the lid was slowly lifted up, revealing dark gray foam-rubber protection and some instrumentation, and what looked like a metal probe, about a foot long.

  "Lewis," Gus said, without looking at me. "Go on over and grab one of those cases. Bring it to me."

  I wanted to tell him off, but kept my mouth shut. I stepped into the tiny room and lifted up the case with no problem. Unbelievable. More than a half century ago, German technicians had carefully packed away this uranium, confident that they were helping their Axis ally get the Bomb. Thousands of miles and decades later, these careful packages were soon going to be on their way to a place that, like wartime Japan, wanted the Bomb and hated America.

  I placed the metal container down and stepped back. "It's welded shut," I said.

  "Doesn't make any difference," Gus said, placing the end of the probe against the container, and working some of the instrumentation inside the case. "This close up, it... aaah, that's nice. Jack, my friend, you are now officially one million dollars richer; by this time next week, I should be humping two young things from Ipanema."

  Jack smiled, for the first time I had seen him smile tonight, and he said, "The money. Pass it over. That's the deal. You've got the uranium, and I get the cash."

  "Sure,” Gus said, sliding the other case over to him, but Jack just shook his head and slipped it back. “Nope. You open it.”

  Gus said, "Hell, I'll tell you the combination. You can open it just as easy as I did this one."

  Another shake of the head. "And have that damn thing blow up in my face? No, you open it."

  "Gee, you're being awfully distrustful tonight," Gus said in mock disappointment, and he went to work on the case. He popped it open, and piled in tight rows were bundles of hundred dollar bills, the benign face of Benjamin Franklin looking up at me. He slid the case back, and once again Jack didn't look happy.

  "Lewis, that money sure looks good, but I wouldn't put it past this character to have some sort of pressure switch on the bottom, set off a charge once I start emptying it. So... " He reached back into the small room, past the handcart, pulled out a bag. He tossed the bag at me and I let it fall to the floor. "Please be so kind as to transfer the money from the case to that bag."

  "No," I said.

  Jack looked right at me, and moved the shotgun closer in my direction. "I'm afraid you don't have any choice."

  "Maybe not, but I'm tired of being everybody's gofer tonight," I said. "So to hell with you, and to hell with putting that money away. You want it so bad, do it yourself."

  Gus laughed. "Well, good for you, Mr. Cole."

  Jack wasn't laughing. "I'll shoot you down if you don't."

  I tried for a casua
l shrug, wasn't too sure if I achieved it.

  "Maybe you will. And then what? You shoot me down and then Gus is out a mule, and then you'll have to put the damn money in the bag yourself. So save yourself a pull of the trigger and a kick of the shoulder. Do it yourself."

  Jack stared at me. "Your last chance."

  "For all that talk you gave me about being part of a noble generation, of not being appreciated for all that you've done, you sure are a cold-hearted bastard. Not much of a memory there, right? Or did you forget how I helped you out that day in the museum, when you were all by yourself? Or was that all part of the cover all these years, pretending to be a noble veteran, and just being a noble thief?”

  He kept that cold stare, started moving the shotgun up to his shoulder, until Gus broke in. "Oh, for Christ's sake, I'll do it. Lewis, untwist your panties. Jack, let up on the trigger finger. I'll take care of it."

  I kept my own look at Jack, and he gave a crisp nod. Gus flopped open the canvas bag and started tossing in the bundles of hundreds, one right after another. "Lot of money here," Gus observed, as the bag started to bulge from all the hundred-dollar bills being stacked inside. "You got any grand plans? Gonna get some new teeth? A new truck? A new house?"

  "All that and more," Jack said, looking at the money with hunger in his eyes. "All that and more. You just keep on shoving it

  in." "Sure," Gus said. "Hey, one more thing."

  What's that?" Jack asked.

  "You want to make sure I'm not cheating you, right?" Gus juggled one of the bundles in his hand. "You'd hate to see that it's just one hundred-dollar bill on the top and bottom and green paper in the center. Right?"

  "Well, shit, yes," Jack said.

  "So, here you go," Gus said, "check it yourself."

  With that, Gus tossed the bundle of bills at Jack. Everything seemed to move as if we were all in amber. The bundle rolled end over end, and Jack looked almost pleased with himself as he reached up to catch the money. His eyes were on the money, were on the bundle of Ben Franklins, but I kept looking at Gus, Gus whose hand flew back into the case and came out with a revolver.

  Chapter Twenty

  I fell to the ground as Gus fired and didn't see what happened next, though I sure as hell heard it. There was a teeth-rattling boom as Jack fired his shotgun, and then another two sharp reports, as Gus returned fire. I rolled on my back and got up and started to think of sprinting away, when Gus called out, "You stay right there, Cole. Right fucking there."

  I slowly turned. There was hazy smoke in the air. Gus got up from a combat crouch, lowered his revolver. Jack was sprawled against the near concrete wall, head lowered, chest splotched with blood. The shotgun was on the floor next to him. I rubbed at my eyes, looked over again at Gus. He smiled.

  "Jeez, that was fucking close," he said.

  I took a deep breath. "How in the world did you ever get through the psych testing for your job?"

  "Just lucky, I guess," he said. "Looky there, up on the ceiling."

  I did just that, saw fresh marks on the dirty cement ceiling.

  “Not even a ricochet?”

  “Nope, not even a ricochet. Think about that. A couple of dozen shotgun pellets go overhead, and not a single one hits me. Guess this really is my lucky day, huh?”

  I looked over again at Jack, lying there still. "The day's not over yet," I said.

  "Well, it's close enough. C'mon, you've got work to do. Start loading up that handcart, and let's get the canisters out of here. Seeing that old fart there is spooking the shit out of me. Get a move on."

  I thought of how bravely I had stood up to Jack a few minutes ago, and how that bravery had melted away with the second murder I had witnessed on this dark evening.

  I shook my head and headed into the little room, started packing up the canisters. No time for bravery. No time for action. Just enough time to stay alive as long as I could.

  As I worked, I think Gus noted the glances I was sending to the shotgun on the floor, and with a smile he picked it up and casually placed it in the far corner. It was hard work, putting the canisters up on the handcart, and I took a moment to catch my breath. Gus was putting the money back into the open case, and I said, "That sure was some planning. What would you have done if Jack hadn't asked for one of us to unpack the money?"

  Gus said, "Then he would have gotten a free revolver, that's what. Besides, I had another revolver in the detection case. I was going to pull a similar stunt before he left. No offense, but not having to spend that money on Jack will mean a lot more months of fun for me in Brazil. I thought I could use it better than he could."

  "And where did you get a million dollars?"

  He grinned as he snapped the case shut, still holding the revolver in a free hand. "Trade secrets, Lewis. That's all. You gonna finish up in there?"

  "Sure," I said, grabbing one of the last canisters and putting it down on the handcart. "Helicopter, right?"

  Gus stopped on his way to the other black case. "Huh?" "Helicopter. There's no way you're going out of here putting this stuff in the rear of the LTD and just driving away. Nope. And there's no harbor close enough for a boat pickup. You must have a helicopter around here. Somebody waiting for a pickup, or a signal from you. A radio concealed in the case that had the detecting equipment. Libyans?

  "Nope," Gus said, snapping the cover shut of the instrument case. "Ex-French Foreign Legion. Having a couple of guys hanging around at a small airport who speak with a French accent is easier to explain than having those guys speak with an Arabic accent. Plus, they're easy to hire. They don't rightly care what they're doing as long as they get paid for it. A nice philosophy. Ready to move out?"

  "Move out where?" I asked. "Where else? The way we came in."

  I tried to see if he was joking, and failed. "Did you keep track of how we came in?"

  "Didn't have to," he said. "We got lights now, don't we?

  We'll just get a move on. C'mon, I don't have time to waste."

  My hands and arms ached, and I was terribly thirsty. I was also terribly aware of how this evening was going to end for me, and decided that arguing with Gus wouldn't buy me anything, except a quicker end to things.

  "Okay," I said, grabbing the twin handles of the handcart. "You're the boss."

  Gus swung both black cases onto the top of the uranium canisters. "That's the nicest thing you've said all night."

  I leaned in and pushed, and the weight of the uranium and the two cases made it slow going. But the handcart was fairly new and the wheels seemed well-lubricated, and after I got it started, it moved well. I tried not to look at the still form of Jack as we headed away from the small storage room. Gus stayed right behind me as we moved down the corridor, brushing aside empty beer and soda cans. When we came out to the large center room, I let the handcart roll to a stop.

  "Where to?" I asked. "We've got six corridors to choose from."

  "That one," Gus said, indicating the closest one.

  You sure?"

  "Who gives a fuck?" he said. "There's only six. Process of elimination. C’mon, doggy, get a move on.”

  I dug in with my feet, and the cart slowly started rolling. I thought about asking Gus again about why he was doing this when he knew that he was helping a government gain a nuclear device, a government with a unique view of the world and its place in it. A government that every now and then declared war on the rest of the world. A government that was now going to have a weapon that could kill tens of thousands in seconds. A hell of a thing to do. I still wondered how Gus could be doing what he was doing.

  But I was too tired to ask anything. I just bowed down and

  kept pushing down the corridor, and after a couple of minutes I realized it was getting harder and harder to see. I raised my head and looked back, where Gus was silhouetted in the lights coming from the large center room. I let the handcart roll to a stop again.

  Gus came up to me. "What's the problem?"

  "The problem is that we're run
ning out of light. Look, the corridor must curve. See how dim it's getting? We keep on going like this and we're going to be in darkness again."

  "Well, I guess we'll have to keep on ---"

  I interrupted, "Look, you idiot, I keep on pushing your precious cargo down this corridor without any lights, and I may drop it down a hole. Or I might get stuck in a rough patch. And how will that affect your schedule?"

  I could sense what was going on in Gus's mind, knowing the pressures that were starting to bear inside him. I rubbed my hands, trying to ease the muscle cramps.

  Gus said, "Okay, it makes sense. Turn this rig around and let's head back. I've got an idea."

  I was going to say something snappy in reply, but remembering Clem's and Jack's fates, decided against it.

  It seemed like a week of steady pushing before we were back in the circular room, and Jack said, "Come along and leave the cart here. I want to check something out."

  He motioned me to the short corridor where we had just been, and I started heading in. Gus came up behind me and said, "We're going to take another look at poor dead Jack."

  I stopped and turned. "Excuse me?"

  The pistol was back in Gus’s hand. “You heard me. I can’t believe the old man didn't come in here without a flashlight or a lighter or matches. You're going to take a look. If he's got a flashlight, fine. If he's got matches or a lighter, then we can make a torch or something."

  "You want I should take his rings and gold teeth while we're at it?" I asked.