He approached the podium to start his speech. The crowd remained in a frenzy. He smiled and waved, in no rush for this to be over. It felt like the first of many victory celebrations to come. He glanced at his campaign manager standing just offstage who was moving his hand across his throat, signaling him to stop. He held his hands up, palms forward for several minutes before the crowd quieted.
The speech rolled easily off his tongue, recited many times before in the last few days. He smiled as he thought of the drama to come. As his prepared speech closed, he grabbed the microphone and headed off the stage toward the bomb, Secret Service frantically trying to cover his impromptu actions. He grabbed the briefcase from the side of the stairs, where he’d stashed it earlier, and headed toward the parked trailer.
The crowd parted as he made his way toward the bomb. He climbed the bumper and stood next to the flag-draped shape. “I want to make sure we take the time today to commemorate all the veterans of this country, and especially celebrate the end of the Cuban Missile Crisis. Fifty years ago, I flew combat missions with bombs like this strapped to the belly of my plane, looking for Soviet subs to drop them on.” The crowd quieted as he pulled the flag off, revealing the dull sheen of fifty year old metal.
He set the briefcase down on the stage and opened it. Agents tried to form a perimeter around him and the trailer, but the crowd edged closer, trying to get a look at what he was doing.
Ward held up the drill. “Now, fifty years later, I am going to decommission this bomb. We have moved past the need for nuclear weapons and I vow to do this to every one of them.”
The crowd was getting edgy, realizing that a nuclear bomb was in front of them. Ward removed the access panel, and looked blankly at it. There was nothing in the compartment. He tried to recover and think of a way to save the moment.
Wood appeared on the stage, holding a back pack over his head. He reached in and pulled out the primer. “Looking for this?” Secret Service agents scrambled to reach him, but he held the primer over his head. Not sure of his intentions or the danger posed by the primer they kept their distance. “Don’t trust this man. He covered up the fact that this bomb was dropped into the ocean fifty years ago. Fact is, he dropped it himself," he paused for effect, "and left it there, to be discovered by anyone who came along. He didn’t take it seriously then, and he wouldn’t take it seriously now. He’ll do it again, I guarantee it.”
***
Behzad saw his chance, now that the agents were all focused on the strange old man he’d picked up. He had followed him to the stage, not having a plan. Now he was standing beside him. Without thinking about it, he removed the gun and fired.
At the concussion of the gunshot, the primer ignited, its force destroying everything within ten feet. The bomb disintegrated, it’s empty shell turning to shrapnel. People scrambled backwards, trampling on their neighbors trying to get out of the blast area. Ward, Wood and Behzad were all down. The agents left standing scrambled to cordon off the area and help any survivors.
***
Mac jumped onto the table when he saw the disturbance. They were on the perimeter of the crowd, no reason to be in the mix until they saw Wood hold the primer up. He hopped down and they raced toward the stage, fighting against the surge of people fleeing. They reached the Secret Service agents and were stopped there, though they could see the carnage. Mel buried her head in Mac’s shoulder. He put an arm around her, unable to look away.
Epilogue
Waves lapped against the hull of the boat as the divers came up. Mac threw the bag with its three lobster onto the platform and helped Mel onto the ladder. Tanks off and a cold beer in hand, they looked at the sun as it set over land, five miles away.
“You know, he went on his own terms,” Mac said.
“I know. It doesn’t make it any easier, though.”
Mac didn’t answer. He went to the bow and pulled the anchor. Back at the helm, he swung the boat toward the north. “Let’s drag a couple of baits and cruise around for a while. It’s time we talked this through.”
Mel swung the lure over the side and started to let out line. Satisfied the lure was riding right, she engaged the drag and set the clicker. She repeated the process with another rod, setting the bait further back this time. Rods in their holders, she grabbed two more beers and sat next to Mac at the helm.
“I’m going back to D.C. tomorrow,” she said.
He looked devastated. “I thought we had something here.”
“We do.” She took his arm. “But the only way this is ever going to be over is for me is to go back and tie up the loose ends. I don’t want to see Joe Ward as a martyr or hero. I need to get the truth out about him and Gillum. I feel like we’ve just started to unravel this.”
Mac nodded. “I understand. You know where I’m at when you’re ready.”
“That might be sooner than you think.”
As they embraced, the port side rod went off. A fish jumped in the distance. Mel ran to the rod and started the fight. A plane seemed to come at them, slowing and losing altitude. It appeared to stall then, and something dropped. It was soon out of sight, too far off to see what it was, and the fish close enough to gaff. Forgotten now, Mac’s gloved hand reached for the leader, his other hand gently setting the gaff below the fish. He quickly pulled up on the gaff and, in one movement, had the fish over the side and into the box.
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Wood’s Wall Now Available
Chapter One
Pete looked over his shoulder at the spread. The fishing lines glistened in the sun as they trailed behind the 24-foot boat trolling southwest through the light chop of the Gulf Stream. The wind was light, the water glassy with a gentle swell. Satisfied the lines were running true, he returned his focus to the water. He looked over at his friends, lulled into a state of semi-consciousness by the motion of the boat and the beers they’d drank. They’d been hammering beers all day. He wondered how it had taken this long for them to pass out. It’d been a good day with plenty of Mahi Mahi in the fish box. He was thinking about calling it a day and heading back in.
“Birds at one o’clock!” he yelled. He had been scanning the water for any sign of life; birds and debris were the ticket for bait which led to bigger fish. Dan and Jeff popped awake. “C’mon guys - one more - let’s go.” Pete steered toward the birds while Jeff checked the lines. The three friends had fished together long enough that they had the smoothness of a well-oiled machine, each knowing their jobs. The boat moved closer to the birds, clearly working some bait on the surface. The three men watched as the birds crashed and soared, intent on the bait below, as the boat pulled through the bait pod.
The clicker buzzed as one of the reels gave line. “Fish on!” Pete continued the course and speed to set the hook and see if they could get another fish to hit one of the four remaining baits. “It’s pretty good size. Let’s pull in the other lines.”
Dan grabbed the rod with the fish and held it high to keep it clear of the other lines. He left the drag loose, letting the fish take some line off as Jeff brought in the rods. Pete circled the boat around as Dan reeled. The fish jumped, revealing itself, then crashed and sounded. Dan continued to bring in line. The fish was close now but was startled when it saw the boat and pulled
harder, the drag whizzing as line came off the reel. Dan let it run, sweat dripping from his brow, waiting for the inevitable as the fish jumped and crashed sideways into the water, irritated by the hook and the pull of the line. This was the crux of the fight. The fish would soon lose energy.
They went back and forth, the fish jumping, Dan patiently bringing it closer. “He’s ready!” he finally yelled.
At that, Jeff grabbed the gaff and stood by Dan at the side of the boat as Pete drove, watching the water; keeping the fish parallel with the boat. The boat moved slowly through the water, the exhausted fish, its electric blue color now half-green with fatigue, slid next to the boat. Jeff lowered the gaff into the water and, with a swift pull, set the point into the fish. He hefted it quickly onto the boat, and then into the waiting fish box, and the struggle was over.
“Damn boys! Must go a little over 30 pounds,” Dan said as he closed the box and offered up a round of beers. High fives and cans tabs popping marked the end of the bout.
***
They were stowing gear and spraying off the deck, removing the fish blood before the tropical sun baked it on the deck. “Give it another pass?” Pete asked.
“Something in the water over there!” Jeff called out, pointing to the starboard side of the boat. Pete scanned the water, following Jeff’s gaze. He changed course and directed the boat toward the object bobbing in the waves. Debris was common in the Gulf Stream, and a great fish attractant. In their experience, anything in the water could hold fish, even something as small as a crab trap buoy with a piece of line attached might hold fish.
The object took shape as they got closer, the sun reflecting off the brown plastic, shining in the sun, wrapped tight around a square object.
“That’s not trash,” Dan said from the bow. They were fifty feet from it, but it was already obvious that they were looking at something more than a crab trap or piece of flotsam. “Looks fresh in the water, too. Let’s grab it and see what it is.”
Pete slowed the engine and coasted up to the package. Maybe two feet square, it hadn’t been in the water long. Dan leaned over the gunwale and gaffed the package. He struggled with the weight to get it over the side. Finally it landed on the deck and sat there, undisturbed. The three fishermen stared at it.
“That’s a square grouper. Let’s open it and see what we’ve got.” Jeff said.
“Make it quick,” Pete said, scanning the horizon. The level-headed one of the group, he wasn’t seeing this as treasure, but as danger. If it was out here, someone was looking for it. Waterproofed packages didn’t just appear in the Gulf Stream.
Jeff slid the knife through the outer wrapping, opening it to reveal white paper known as house wrap in the home building industry. As the waterproof fabric opened, small bundles individually wrapped in brown plastic revealed themselves. The size of bricks, neatly stacked, they spilt onto the deck.
“Open one up,” Dan said, excited at the prospect. “It’s either drugs or money.” He reached for a brick.
“We ought to throw them back. This looks like trouble to me.” Pete continued to scan the horizon.
“Oh calm down, you freakin’ pussy. Figures you’re an insurance guy. This has been in the water overnight at least. There’s no one here.” Dan slit one open, ignoring his friend. “Yes.” He held up the opened package for Jeff and Dan to see. Cocaine sparkled in the sunlight. He brought it down to examine it. The white powder, caked into a brick had the initials DV pressed into it.
Pete leaned over Dan’s shoulder, staring intently at the item. “Well whoever DV is, he’s gonna want this back,” he said. Before he could say anything else, he was interrupted by the radio.
“Coastguard Station Key West to …” Pete jumped and scooped several bricks into his arms. He was about to start tossing bricks back in.
But Jeff stopped him. “There’s no one here. The radio call was not about us. Calm down and let’s figure out what to do here.”
“Party is what we do here,” Dan said. He took a knife and carved a corner of the brick. Powder fell off onto the blade, and he raised it to his nose and snorted. He laid his head back waiting for the drug to take effect. “Whoa, that's amazing.” He passed the knife to Jeff.
Several long minutes passed as they sat on the deck, staring at the bundles. Dan had counted and stacked them into ten piles of five bricks, each about a pound. Jeff, the numbers guy, tried to do the math in his head, breaking the pounds to ounces, then to grams, multiplying by one hundred - the street price for a gram. In the end, though, the calculation was too much for the number of beers he’d consumed. He just shrugged, saying that whatever it was, that much cocaine was worth a lot of money.
“We gotta move.” Pete said as he scanned the horizon.
Four boats were coming at them. Not that it was any surprise; any boat sitting still in the Gulf Stream was like a magnet. Other boats thought they were hooked up and headed toward them, hoping to draw the school of fish away … or at least pick up a straggler. The boats were getting closer, some running at full speed. Two of the boats were clearly fishing charters, their fly bridges visible from a distance. Another smaller fishing boat’s outriggers dipped, almost hitting the waves, as it cruised towards them. The last boat was different. A custom paint job, yellow hull with red highlights, its shape that of a cigarette boat.
All three men were starring at the racing boat now. “Get some baits out. Start trolling,” Pete said as he set the boat in gear and steered a course away from the yellow boat. “They all think we’re on fish and that cigarette boat doesn’t look like he’s got a rod on it.”
The fishing boats turned away as soon as they saw the boat deploy lines and resume trolling. Whatever they thought might be there was probably gone. The yellow boat maintained it’s collision course.
“Cover that thing.” Pete yelled.
Dan and Jeff grabbed the bricks and tossed them into the fish cooler. They had just stuffed the packaging into the trash bin when the boats passed, only feet separating them. A tall dark skinned man eyed each of them individually, then scanned the boat. He made a pistol with his fingers and fired and imaginary shot at them. Satisfied he pressed down on the throttle and moved on. A collective sigh came from the men.
“That’s one scary dude - and you know what he was looking for.” Pete said.
“Well he’s gone now.” Dan said as he went for the cooler and grabbed the open brick. He huddled with Jeff again each snorting off the knife.
“He knows what we look like. I say we toss all this and call it a good fishing day. Nothing but trouble’s going to come out of keeping it.” Pete said hoping the others would agree.
“No, don’t think so.” Dan said as he looked at Jeff who was nodding in agreement.
The two men repacked the bricks in the fish box, below the ice, and covered it with fish.
Chapter Two
Two women came through the sliding glass door of the rented house as the boat pulled up to the dock. They wore bikini tops and shorts; each carried a tall glass. Pete waved at them and wondered how many they’d had. “Think we can keep this quiet?” he asked Dan and Jeff. Silence answered his question as they finished their beers.
“You boys got dinner?” Penny asked. “It’s kind of late.”
“Yeah and then some,” Dan responded. Pete tried to stare him down. “We did well. How about mixing us a couple of those?” He gestured to the drinks.
“Sure thing, hun.” The girls went back toward the air-conditioned house.
The women were barely out of hearing range when Pete whirled on Dan, furious. “Dammit. We’re not back thirty seconds, and you have to start laying on innuendoes. “Can you please keep this quiet until we figure out what to do with it.” Pete pleaded. He looked at Dan carefully, noting that he was grinding his jaw and his pupils were dilated. “How much of that did you do, anyhow? You’re a mess.” Pete regretted picking up the package. There was no telling what Dan was going to do.
“Never mind.
” Jeff said. “He’s ok, probably just needs a couple of drinks to take the edge off.”
“Well I’m gonna grab the cooler from the carport. We’ve got to get this off the boat before anyone sees. I don’t know about you guys, but that guy in the cigarette boat scared the crap out of me.”
As Pete walked away, Jeff and Dan looked at each other. Then, without saying anything, each grabbed a brick and put it in their backpacks.
“Getting laid tonight,” Dan muttered, smiling. They high-five’d and set the packs to the side. “Screw him.”
Pete returned with the empty cooler. He set the it next to the fish box, neatly stacking and counting the bricks as he set them in. Dan and Jeff provided cover by unloading the fish onto the dock. Suddenly the sliding glass door opened, the sound startling Pete so much that he lost count around forty. As the girls approached, he quickly finished his work and closed the lid.
At that point, Dan made a production of laying out the day’s catch, hoping to distract them. The women did the ‘ooh, ah’ thing, as expected, and Dan told them how they’d caught the fish, embellishing each story. “Help me with this,” Pete called to Jeff as he lifted the cooler onto the dock.
The house was built on concrete piers to protect it from the storm surge brought by hurricanes. Although not permissible by the building code, most houses had small apartments and storerooms built underneath them. They carried the cooler each with a hand on a handle into the cluttered room. Jeff started moving gear until a space opened in the corner. They set the cooler there and carefully used the gear to hide it.
“You’ve got to get a handle on Dan,” Pete said as they finished. “He’s blown out of his mind. He won’t listen to me, but maybe he’ll listen to you.”
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