Killer Waves

by Brendan DuBois

  "No," I said. "Difficult, but not impossible."

  "What you’ve asked for can't be gotten," she said. "It's the property of the people of the United States."

  "And you represent the government of the United States, and you can get your hands on it, if you really try."

  "No, I'm afraid we can't. It's impossible."

  "Nothing's impossible if you put your mind and talents to it, Laura, and you've shown me that you have an impressive amount of both. Like I said, it's non-negotiable. That's what I want."

  “Really? Or else, right?”

  "Right," I said, and I spun my chair around and reached over to my new computer. A few mouse clicks later, and a familiar voice came out of the computer's speakers: "All right then, here it is. You're right, you bastard, about the enriched uranium. One of the many little secrets from the end of the Old War and the start of the Cold War. "

  Laura did not say a word. I smiled and said, "Not bad sound quality, right? Here's another demo." And I clicked on a few more keys.

  "Our job is to analyze the threat, respond to it, and make sure that little snot-nosed sixteen-year-old gets in a world of hurt so much that he'll never go near a computer again. Our job is also to respond to the threats that come from some adults-to go into cities with detecting devices and search out where a bomb may be hidden. Thank God that particular scenario hasn't come up recently. It's not often that we get to respond to a real deal."

  "Oh,” I continued. "If you're wondering, everything we've said here today as well has been recorded. Amazing what built-in microphones and sound systems these new computers have, and what they, can do. So that was my little demonstration. And since

  And the files that are being stored on a Web site, set to be automatically E-mailed in a week to some major news organizations, those will be trashed as well. All in exchange for one little item. Not you were so big on making promises earlier, here’s mine: The moment I get what I want, the files are trashed. The files that are being kept in a friend’s hands, they’ll be trashed as well. And the files that are being stored on a Web site, to be automatically E-mailed in a week to some major news organizations, those will be trashed as well. Not a bad deal, is it? In exchange for keeping you and your folks and what went on over at Samson Point out of the newspapers. Pretty fair, don't you think?"

  Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her. "You son of a bitch."

  I shook my head. "No, my parentage is fairly well established. What I am is somebody tired of being pushed around by people who think they're my betters, especially those whom I employ through my tax dollars. People who break down my doors, shanghai me, threaten me, and lie to me. So you've had me and everything I had to offer this past week. What I'm looking for is fair compensation. And what you're looking for is peace and quiet. Like I said, sounds fair to me."

  Her hands seemed to loosen up some, and then she laughed. "Boy, I'd really like to have you come work with us, Lewis."

  I laughed in return. "Not a chance. Are we done here?"

  "Yep," she said, standing up. "And I'll see what I can do about your request. You're right, it does sound fair, and I'll make sure you get it."

  "Great."

  I walked her downstairs, and at the door I said, "Walk you back to the Lafayette House?"

  "No, I'm all set." She gently placed a hand on my chest, kissed me on the cheek "All in all, it's been quite an adventure. Thanks."

  I grasped her chin in my hand, bent down and kissed her on the lips. "True. A real adventure."

  "Maybe I'll see you again," she said. "If I ever come back here on business. Or pleasure."

  "Make sure it's pleasure," I said. "If it's business, I'll be hiding out."

  She laughed and stepped out, and then began walking up my driveway. I watched her for a second and then closed the door.

  I supposed I shouldn’t have done what I did next, but I needed to get out of the house for a while. I spent a few minutes at a combo drugstore/convenience store down at the beach, and then went to the Tyler Professional Building, where I saw that Paula Quinn's car was missing from the parking lot. No matter.

  Following the rules like a good boy, I went through the front door and waved cheerily at the receptionist, who called out after me, "Can I help you? Can I help you? Can I help you?"

  In the newsroom Rollie Grandmaison was working at his cluttered desk, strands of black hair still plastered across his skull. Over his head the front pages of the Dover and Porter papers still hung from the ceiling, the fake blood and the plastic dagger, the sign saying, IT’S WAR! Rollie looked over at me and I said, "Rupert?"

  He motioned to the closed conference room door. "In there. Having a hell of a meeting, I'd guess."

  "Well, I'll go check on it for you."

  He grinned. "That'd be great."

  I opened up the conference room door without knocking and I could smell it right away: trouble. Rupert was sitting at the head of a shiny conference room table, and the suits were there, on either side of him. One woman and three men. Sent over from the home office no doubt to see what the hell was going on with their porn-loving editor. Rupert's eyes were puffy and even his bow tie looked droopy.

  "Hey, Rupert, how's it going?" I said.

  His voice was hoarse. "This is a private meeting, Cole. Get the hell out."

  "Oh, it'll only take a second," I said. "I just got three quick things to pass along. First of all, congrats on the circulation boost this week for the Chronicle. I'm sure it'll be a doozy. Second, next job you get air-dropped in, try to keep what snipers call a low profile. Or somebody might feel the need to take you down when you’ve decided you’re the king of the county. And third…”

  I tossed the little package over to him, and he caught it and slammed it down on the table. "Yes?"

  "A little going-away present for you," I said. "Head cleaner for your VCR. Something tells me that you might need it right about now."

  He started yammering to the suits about how he had been set up, and they were yammering back, but the female suit had a hard time hiding a smile behind her hand. I went out of the conference room and left the door wide open, so Rupert the Ruthless could see me leave by the employee's entrance. When I got there I turned and he could still see me. I waved bye-bye at him, like a three-year-old. By now Rollie was on a stool, taking down the newspaper and plastic knife, and just for the hell of it, I waved bye-bye at him as well.

  Later that night, the phone rang, and it was Paula. "Hey," she said.

  "Hey yourself." I was on my couch, trying to get an update on the shuttle mission from CNN, and so far I had to sit through segments on a Paris fashion show, a calf born in Iowa with the sign of a crucifix on its head, and an interesting bit on some unexpected naval maneuvers in the Mediterranean, off the North African coast.

  "I understand you said farewell to our fearless leader this afternoon. I'm sorry I missed it."

  "Me, too," I said, muting the sound on my television. "Is he still there?"

  "Nope. Cleared out about five P.M. Took one box and that was that. Spent the whole day protesting his innocence. But the powers upstairs don't care. He's an embarrassment, so he gets tossed over the side."

  "For once the powers upstairs sound okay."

  She sighed. "Yep. And this morning, remember how pissed I was, about how now we'd have to get someone new in and learn to deal with his or her foibles?"

  "I remember," I said.

  “Well, forget it,” she said. “When I saw that arrogant and smug man walk out of there, his career in tatters, after all he did to us and the towns around here… I hate to say it, but it made me feel good. Schadenfreude.”

  “Excuse me?”

  "Schadenfreude. A German expression at feeling joyous at someone else's misfortune. Not a very nice feeling, but when I saw how Rupert the no-longer-so-Ruthless was leaving, that was the only feeling I had. So there you go."

  "Uh-huh."

  There was the sound of her breathing, bringing back
a memory of the first night she had spent in my bed, more than a year ago.

  “Lewis?”

  "Still here," I said.

  "About this morning..."

  "No explanations necessary," I said.

  "I don't care if they're necessary or not, but they're coming your way. I like Mark I really do. And it wasn't just a one-nighter, that's not the way I operate."

  "I know."

  "It's just that with my job so up in the air and everything so crazy, I needed something stable. Something warm. Something dependable. Lewis, you are a dear in so many ways, but ---"

  "Dependable I'm not," I said. "Especially this past week"

  "Right," she said, and she spoke louder, "Oh, sometimes you can be so damn secretive and mysterious, and I hate it."

  On screen there was a familiar face, a space-shuttle mission commander whom I knew personally being interviewed from out in orbit. I kept the mute button on. I cleared my throat. "Ask away," I said. "Ask away and there'll be no more mysteries, no more secrets."

  She paused for a moment, and her voice was quiet again.

  "No, not now. I don't want to know. Earlier, maybe, but not now. Look, we'll have lunch tomorrow, maybe talk some more. You're a special man in my life, Lewis, but I needed something more. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, I do."

  There was a noise in the background, and she said, “Um, somebody’s at the door. Gotta run. Tomorrow?”

  "Yes," I said. "Tomorrow, and any day after that."

  "'Kay," she said, and she hung up.

  I slowly put the phone receiver back in and switched the sound off. I had missed the segment I had wanted to see, and I spent the rest of the night on the couch, finally falling asleep in my clothes, and it never repeated.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A few days after that evening phone call with Paula, Felix Tinios was over at my house. He walked slower than usual from having a couple of cracked ribs and there was still a small bandage on the back of his neck Other than that, he was his usual self, and he was standing in my living room, a bottle of Molson in his hand, complaining. "The steak tips are getting colder with every passing second," he said. "How much longer?"

  "Just another minute," I said. "Just another minute."

  On the screen CNN was showing the space shuttle Endeavour gliding into a landing at the shuttle landing strip in Florida, its mission successfully completed. Another round of truck drivers back from low earth orbit, passing time until we decided to go back to where we had once belonged. Felix grumbled something and took a swallow from his beer. In his other hand he juggled a small black rock

  I tore my eyes away from Felix and looked at the television.

  On screen the shuttle flared down and its landing gear poked down. The voice of the NASA commentator said, "Main gear touchdown" and was followed a few seconds later by, “Nose gear touchdown.” I watched and felt something tug at my throat as the braking parachute deployed, and then Endeavour glided to a halt. I looked over at Felix. "Okay. Now we can eat."

  We ate outside on the rear deck, consuming a complicated steak-tip-and-pasta dish that Felix had prepared. I suppose we should have had wine with our meals, but it was the first real warm April day we had this rainy spring, and beers seemed in order. The Red Sox were playing in Boston that afternoon and I had a small radio set outside. It was a pleasant way to spend the afternoon, eating and drinking and listening to the sounds of baseball and the waves and the seagulls. Earlier Felix had said that baseball just seemed more real if one listened to it over the radio, and I had agreed.

  Felix now looked over at me, tilted back in his chair. He was still juggling that small black rock. "Something's going on with you, isn't there."

  "Always," I said. "Something to do with me?"

  I balanced my own beer bottle on my belt buckle as I tried to avoid looking at him. "Yeah, you're right. Something to do with you."

  "What is it?"

  Now I looked over at him. "You really want to know?" "Really and truly," he said. "What is it?"

  "It's guilt."

  "Guilt?" He leaned his chair back down flat on the deck "Guilt over what? Not the cell phone, I hope."

  "No, not over the damn cell phone," I said. "Over the way I left you behind, back at the gun emplacements. I should have tried to rescue you. You might have been alive. You might have been slowly drowning. I should have done something. Instead I looked at you and went away. That's why I felt guilty. That I left you there to die."

  Felix took another small sip of his beer, continued juggling the rock "If I was dead, there wasn't much you could do, right?"

  "Right."

  “If I was wounded, what would you have done? Tried to drag me out of that hole?”

  “Maybe, I could have done ---“

  "Wait,” he said. “What did you do, then? Did you hide? Run away? Wet yourself?

  I ran a finger over the top of my beer bottle. "No. I went after Gus. I wanted to kill him,"

  Felix nodded in satisfaction. "Good. You did exactly right, and if we’re ever in a similar circumstance again, do the same thing. Don’t worry about my corpse. Don't worry about my wounded body. Go find the son of a bitch who took me down and take care of business. Guilt? Forget it. You did the right thing."

  "Maybe so, but ---“

  "Hey, Lewis. End of subject, okay? I want to see how the Sox can lose this one. All right?"

  "Fine,” I said, and I cleared the dishes and piled them in the sink and came back with fresh beers. "How's Mickey?" I said.

  "Mickey's fine," he said. "You seeing her tonight?"

  "Nope."

  "You seeing her tomorrow?"

  "Only if I catch a flight to Denver," he said.

  From the radio came a tinny roar as somebody had hit a home run over the Green Monster. I had lost track of who was up. I said, “Colorado/”

  "Very good," Felix said. "That's where she is, and that's where she's going to be for a few weeks. Then Montana, and then Wyoming. All summer long. She's on some horse exhibition tour that goes on the whole summer, state to state, out west."

  "Oh," I said.

  "Don't say it like that," he said. "It's not like she's dead or anything. It's just that ... " And Felix's words, so unlike him, just dribbled off.

  "It's just what?" I asked.

  He shrugged, though his shoulders didn't move much, as if they were weighted down. "She wanted me to come along with her. Go on the road, go to these horse shows, keep her entertained at night in motel and hotel rooms. I tell you, I was tempted, very tempted, to take her up on it. She’s quite the woman.”

  "And why are you here, and not there?"

  He took another swig from the bottle, looked around at my house and the deck and the big ocean. His voice got quiet. "Because I belong here, my friend. That's who I am. I'm content in who I am and what I do. Sometimes what I do doesn't make sense. Sometimes what I do 1 can't share with anyone at all. Sometimes what I do involves violence. But I'm content with all that. Finding a woman to share things with who can say the same... well, I doubt she's out there."

  "So what's left?" I asked.

  "What's left?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "What's left are the moments, the special times, the encounters. That's all, my friend. And I'll tell you a secret. You know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you."

  Another roar from the crowd on the radio. I wish I had been paying more attention to the damn thing. I spoke up. "Maybe. Maybe I do."

  He laughed and juggled the rock again. "Speaking of secrets... Tell me you're not lying to me."

  "Okay, I'm not lying to you."

  He held the rock up to the April sun. "This rock, this is an honest-to-God moon rock?"

  "It surely is."

  He tossed it over to me and I caught it with one hand, and then rubbed at it gently, thinking of the many hundreds of thousands of miles it had to travel to end up in my grasp. Felix said, "I thought moon rocks were controlled tighter than the gold at For
t Knox. National treasures, and all that."

  "You are correct, sir," I said.

  ''Then how did you get it? Steal it?" "Not hardly," I said. "I made a deal."

  He laughed. "Over the uranium and that woman who wanted to debrief me a few nights back. Am I right?"

  "1 can't say," I said. "Not right now. Maybe later. Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s just listen to the game and drink our beers. Does that sound all right to you?”

  “It sounds perfect,” Felix said.

  So that’s how we spent the afternoon on the first warm day of April, relaxing and letting the sun caress our faces, while I held a chunk of the universe in my fist and watched the waves softly roll into the cove beneath me, killer waves no more.

  Author’s Note

  The author wishes to express his deep gratitude to Ron Thurlow, for his technical advice; to the staff of the Exeter, New Hampshire, Public Library for their cheerful assistance; and to his wife, Mona, the best first reader an author could ever wish for.

  The Porter Submarine Museum as mentioned in this novel does not exist. However, the USS Albacore is on display and can be visited in Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

  The story of the German U-boats being interned in New Hampshire after World War II is true, as is the tale of the U-234 and its cargo, including the uranium to be used for a Nazi atomic bomb.

  This uranium did in fact disappear after the U -234 was brought to the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard. Its whereabouts are still unknown.

  Afterward

  I’m often asked “Where do you get your ideas?”, and while it’s sometimes hard to explain the thought process, here, it was ridiculously easy. Years ago The Boston Globe ran a front-page article about the main plot point in this book: the missing uranium from the U-234 U-boat, which had been interned at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard. The uranium went missing, and has been missing ever since.

  There, that was it, all wrapped up in a pretty pink bow, an idea for the next Lewis Cole novel. A friend of mine who knows a lot about things nuclear told me that even a half century or so later, the uranium oxide that the Germans had processed could still be used in a dirty bomb, or the development of an atomic weapon.