by John Avery
“Where are your parents?” she asked.
“My parents are dead,” Aaron said quickly, not wanting to go there. “I was living in a shelter down at the harbor near where this old fish cannery had been, and I ran into this wealthy retired couple who mentioned they were planning to sail their private yacht from Connecticut down to the Cayman Islands.
“It was pretty obvious that I was a homeless orphan, and why they didn’t call Child Protective Services on me I’ll never know. But I thank God they didn’t, because instead they took pity on me and told me they could use an extra hand on the trip. I told them I had no sailing experience, but they didn’t care. Long story short, my first hot meal and shower in months were in New Haven Harbor, aboard their yacht, and after smuggling me out of the country in a life-vest compartment we sailed down to the Caymans and I fell in love with the place and never left.”
“I know the feeling,” Jason mused.
“So I guess I’ve been here two years myself,” Aaron calculated.
“You mentioned you were a diving instructor,” Brandy said. “That sounds fascinating.”
“Yeah, unlike back in the States, here in the Caymans you don’t have to be fully certified to dive,” Aaron said. “I can teach a beginner in under an hour — with the exception of wreck diving, that is. You have to be wreck certified to enter the interior of a wreck. No one wants to see an untrained tourist get stuck deep under water inside a sunken ship, in the dark, with no air, and no apparent way out.”
Brandy stared at him, picturing herself in that predicament. “That would be awful!”
“And fatal,” Jason added, grimly. He didn’t want Brandy to get any ideas about taking SCUBA lessons.
“Diving is magical,” Aaron said, returning to the lighter side. “It’s one reason why people from around the world travel here to the Caymans.”
“I’ve heard it’s like flying,” Brandy said with a sexy lilt in her voice.
“A submarine gives you a similar feeling,” Jason said. “Except for the fact that you’re packed inside a pressurized hull with a hundred other men, of course.”
“You’ve been on a sub?” Aaron asked.
“You could say that,” Jason replied smugly. “I’m a former submariner, a lieutenant commander with United States Navy.”
“No kidding,” Aaron said.
“I was stationed at Naval Base Point Loma, in San Diego, piloting nuclear submarines capable of sailing under the poles and staying down for months. I spent more time submerged than I did on dry land.”
Aaron paused at the mention of San Diego. Before his father died, he had often overheard his parents talking about vacationing there together as a family. But he knew that that was never going to happen, so he returned his thoughts to the subject of submarines.
“I read somewhere that many foreign countries have started buying up old diesel-electrics,” he said. “They can run on battery power with their diesels off and are quieter than a nuke and hard for us to detect. Supposedly they can swim circles around our giant nuclear subs.”
“All true,” Jason said. “After Blueback was decommissioned in 1990, the U.S. discontinued production of those smaller, quieter, conventionally powered, non-nuclear submarines. But because our nukes were too huge to use as diesel-electric stand-ins, we lost our ability to train in anti-submarine warfare against them. It wasn’t long before our enemies figured out that all they had to do to defeat us was to buy surplus diesel-electric submarines and start using them.”
“So, what did we do?” Aaron asked.
“We got smart and leased a diesel-electric from the Swedes. I personally trained alongside their crew for two years, learning everything there is to know about engaging them in anti-submarine warfare. I can assure you, U.S. nuclear submarines no longer have a problem detecting and killing diesel-electrics.”
“Fascinating,” Aaron said. “Sounds like you were doing great in the Navy, and being relatively young. Why’d you retire?”
Jason paused. “I didn’t. I was dishonorably discharged.”
“Whoa,” Aaron said. “What’d you do to deserve that?”
Jason really didn’t care to discuss that chapter of his career, and he thought an honest answer would end the discussion. “My brother needed my help, and when I asked for a day off, the Navy said no. So I went AWOL for the day.”
“That must have been hard for you,” Aaron said, trying to understand.
A look of bitter evil fell over Jason’s face. “Believe me,” he said. “It was.”
Suddenly Aaron felt very uncomfortable. He glanced at his watch. “You know — I should be heading back. I have a long sail ahead of me.” He stood up from the booth. “Thank you for the beer.”
“But you haven’t finished your burger,” Brandy protested.
Aaron knew that, and it saddened him to leave it, but he really did have a long journey back. He held his hand over his stomach as if he’d eaten too much already. “I’m really full, thanks.”
“Maybe we’ll see you around the islands,” Brandy said.
“Maybe so,” Aaron said, and he and Jason shook hands.
As he turned to go, Brandy gave him a sexy little smile and a fluttering wave of her fingers. “Bye, Aaron,” she said.
* * *
“What was that all about?” Jason said.
“What,” Brandy said.
“You know very well, what. All that goo-goo-ga-ga over Aaron — that’s what. I thought I was going to puke.”
Brandy took a big sip of her beer and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jason took an even bigger sip. He had plenty more to say, but he chose to hold his tongue. Brandy thought it best to do the same.
Lunch came and it was excellent, but it was eaten in silence.
Chapter 16
It was nearly dark when Aaron sailed up to the beach on the northern most Cayman Island called Cayman Brac. It had been a long return sail, and he was happy to be back at the place he called home. He rammed the keel of the boat up onto the sand and then hopped out and tied the bow line to a nearby palm tree.
A few yards up the slope, a small hut sat perched on a flat slab of rock. Aaron followed the sandy, seashell-strewn path to the door (something he never bothered to lock) and stepped inside.
* * *
Little more than a bamboo box equipped with a window, a kitchenette, and a small bathroom, Aaron’s tiny house wasn’t much to write home about; but ever since the accident he had learned to live like a pauper, and this miniature beachfront resort suited him just fine.
He tossed his keys on the counter, lit a candle, and then pulled a fifth of Jack Daniels out of his only cupboard. He smiled when he saw that it was a new bottle: there was something deeply satisfying in peeling off the wrapper and cracking the seal on a new bottle of Jack. He slid a paper cup off a stack and set it on the counter next to the whiskey, and then opened the tiny fridge and yanked the ice tray out of the frosted hole that served as his freezer. He tapped the tray on the edge of the counter to free the two remaining cubes then dropped the cubes into the cup before refilling the tray and returning it to the freezer.
He picked up an old copy of the Cayman Islands Gazette, noticing a reprint of an article from the early 1900s about a submariner who’d been “shot” out of a torpedo tube.
That would be a lousy way to die, he thought.
Suddenly, an idea for a simple short story popped into his head, and as a writer he knew he had to get it down on paper before it vanished into the aether. He reached for a small notepad and pencil, flipped open the pad, and wrote five brief lines of text with five words per line. Then he tore the page off, folded it carefully, and put it in his pocket.
That done, and with the bottle and cup in hand, Aaron walked over and sat down on the beat-up velvet sofa that also served as his bed. He opened the bottle and poured the whiskey over the ice cubes until they floated freely; then he put his feet up on his sagging, bamboo coffe
e table and took a big sip.
The alcohol burned pleasantly going down, and for a moment Aaron was at peace, staring out the window at the tranquil, moonlit Caribbean.
But then, as it did every evening, his subconscious released into his conscious mind a flood of painful memories. It had been over two years, now, yet the images of those fateful three days were still as vivid and powerful as if they had happened yesterday. He recalled the insanity of the bank robbery, and the agony of being shot, and how back in the fish cannery, after saving his life, Needles and Beeks had laid him on a sofa very similar to the one he was sitting on now. He recalled his wild morphine dream, and how, throughout the painful ordeal, his best friend, Willy, had remained at his side.
He and his mother had lived through hell those three days, and had been so very close to starting a new life, the life they had hoped to rebuild after that dreadful night, when Aaron was nine, and the notifying officer and medic made their midnight house call to tell his mother that his father had been killed in action.
Then, in the blink of an eye, a black Hummer stole everything he had, everything except the one thing he had wanted to lose — those painful memories.
He took another sip of whiskey and found himself pondering his earlier lunchtime encounter with the two yacht owners. He didn’t know what to make of Brandy Fine’s obvious, if not blatant, attraction to him, or the unsettling notion that he had met Jason Beckham before. But deep down he knew that, whether he liked it or not, he would be seeing the two of them again.
He took one last sip of whiskey, and then he lay back and closed his eyes, trusting that very soon the alcohol would carry him far away, giving him the courage to continue living a life that had lost all meaning.
Thursday
Chapter 17
“ Permission to come aboard?”
Jason turned toward the sound of a familiar voice and smiled when he saw the man standing on the dock. “Permission granted!” he yelled back. The man came on board the Cayman Jewel and the two exchanged a hearty hand-shake.
“It’s good to see you, my friend,” Jason said. “What’s it been, five years?”
“At least,” the man replied.
Brandy was lounging up on the foredeck. She had spotted the stranger in the expensive suit as he passed through the marina gate. Jason called to her and she came down to join them on the main deck.
“Brandy, I’d like you to meet my dear friend, Commander Richard Fagan, of the United States Navy,” Jason said. “Commander Fagan, meet Brandy Fine.”
Fagan took her hand and kissed the back of it.
Wow, Brandy thought, blushing a little. That’s not something you see every day.
“You’re a lucky man, Jason,” Fagan said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before letting go.
His hand was strong and powerful, like Jason’s. Brandy wished he’d been in uniform and was curious as to why he wasn’t. She would have loved to stay and talk about it, but thought it best not interrupt a meeting between two naval officers. She excused herself and headed below decks.
Fagan looked around at the expanse of teak decking, polished white fiberglass, and brass accents sparking in the midmorning light. “You’ve done well for yourself, Jason,” he said.
Jason felt a twinge of guilt and quickly changed the subject. What Fagan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. “You’re the last man I would have expected to see this morning,” he said. “Especially way down here in the Caymans. I’m surprised you found me.” He really was surprised that Fagan had found him so easily. He had worked hard to keep a low profile, and Fagan’s sudden appearance was a little unnerving.
“A tip from a young man at Earl’s Reef Dive Shop, on Cayman Brac,” Fagan admitted. “Nice kid. Very accommodating.”
Jason kicked himself for giving Aaron Quinn the impression that he welcomed visitors.
“We should sit down,” he said, gesturing toward a private yet spacious lounge area on the aft deck with an unobstructed view of the Caribbean Sea.
* * *
Fagan took the same seat the dead tourist was occupying when Jason shot him in the head. He sat forward and clasped his hands in front of him.
“I’m sure you’ve figured out that I’m not here by accident,” he said, “so I’ll get right to the point. I’ve recently become part of a small team of important men with big plans, and we’re in the final planning stages of a mission of great importance.”
“I’m listening…” Jason said.
“I was asked if I knew anyone outside of the military who could pilot a submarine. And, well… I thought of you.”
Jason was taken aback. Pilot a submarine? What on earth for? It had been years since he’d been in the Navy, and he hadn’t so much as looked at the controls of anything other than his old cabin-cruiser, and the Cayman Jewel, of course. Besides, his dishonorable discharge pretty much guaranteed he would never set foot on a sub again.
“Richard, I’m flattered,” he said. “But I haven’t —”
“Just listen for second,” Fagan said. “I’d expect you to have lost most of your chops by now. But do you remember when the Swedes came over to Point Loma with their submarine, HMS Gotland?”
“Of course,” Jason said. “They were here for two years. I spent so much time aboard that little diesel I could practically sail it all by myself.”
“Well, the sub I’m talking about is nearly identical to the Gotland,” Fagan said. “You should know her like the back of your hand.”
Jason knew that what Fagan was saying was true. With a proper crew, and when compared with the massive nuclear submarines he had piloted toward the end of his career, sailing an old, Soviet, Cold-War era, diesel-electric attack sub would be a walk in the park.
“Where is this sub of yours? What’s her name?” Jason asked.
“She was christened b-39,” Fagan said. “She’s moored down at the MMSD on San Diego Bay.”
“I’ve read about that boat,” Jason said. “Code named Cobra, formerly known as the ‘terror of the deep’. One of the Soviet Project 641 submarines classified as “Foxtrot” by NATO. Essentially larger and more powerful versions of German World War II era U-boats. Low-tech but lethal.”
“I’m impressed,” Fagan said.
“Yes, but you know better than I do, Richard, she hasn’t left the museum’s docks since she got there. She’s nothing but a crumbling tourist attraction, covered with temporary stairs, walkways, and railings. Why on earth would you attempt to —”
“We think she has one more mission in her,” Fagan said, interrupting Jason. They had a lot to discuss in a short amount of time. “But I’m not at liberty to tell you what that mission will be — not just yet.”
Jason was curious, now. “How could we sail away from a busy Harbor Drive dock without being discovered? Tourists are everywhere.” But no sooner had he said it did it dawn on him.
“It is common practice for shipyards to erect large, semi-permanent, plastic tarpaulins, or shelters, to protect ships from the elements while under construction or repair,” Fagan said.
“And from prying eyes,” Jason said. “We simply drive out from underneath the tarp running on battery power, right?”
“Right,” Fagan said. “My connections at the Maritime Museum of San Diego and the San Diego Port Authority have spread the word that b-39 is in need of minor repair and will be under cover and closed to the public for thirty-six hours. No one will ever know she’s gone.”
“The water’s only twenty feet deep in that part of the bay,” Jason said. “We’d have to claw our way out.”
“We’ll be squashing stingrays for sure, but there’s plenty of depth once we reach the main channel.”
Jason knew that, of course, but it all seemed too surreal. He considered for a moment. It would help if he knew what they were proposing to do.
Fagan removed his suit jacket and laid it over a deck chair. He sensed Jason’s trepidation and figured it was time to throw him something tangib
le.
“Listen,” he said. “I know this all sounds a bit crazy. So I’ve arranged a meeting, this Sunday, in Coronado, and I’d like for you to attend. You’ll get answers to all of your questions, first-hand, from b-39’s former captain himself.”
Jason’s immediate reaction was negative and he spoke without thinking. “Why should I go all the way to San Diego to meet with some old sea-fart, when you can’t give me the slightest hint as to what you’re up to.”
Jason’s cavalier attitude and blatant disrespect for Captain Pankov offended Commander Fagan — he hadn’t traveled more than half way around the world in the last two days to suffer the whining of a crybaby. But Jason was the right man for the job, and Fagan knew it.
“Damn you, Jason,” he said, struggling to maintain his composure. “Do you think I would have traveled all the way down here to fucking Grand Cayman to speak with you in person if I didn’t think it would be worth your while? What’s the matter with you? Trust me for once, okay? You’ll want to be in on this.”
He removed an envelope from his inside breast pocket and handed it to Jason. “That’s a first-class round-trip ticket to San Diego. We’re meeting for brunch in the Crown Room at the Del at 11:00 a.m. Sunday. I’ll have a car waiting for you outside San Diego International at 10:30. The driver will carry a sign reading BLACK COBRA.”
Jason turned the plane ticket over in his hands, feeling a bit foolish. He couldn’t respond with any clarity, so he didn’t try.
Fagan glanced at his watch — he had done all he could. It was up to Jason now.
“I have a plane to catch,” he said, rising to his feet. “I hope to see you Sunday. If you decide to show, I’ll propose a toast in your honor.”
Jason walked Fagan to the marina gate, and they shook hands goodbye.
* * *
Jason returned to the yacht and flopped down on a lounge chair overlooking the water. His head was spinning.
