Mount Misery

by Angelo Peluso

  The contractor who installed the alarm mechanism cut corners. Despite rigid NRC standards and contract materials commitments, the contractor did just enough to meet the minimum acceptable standards but used sub-par valves. As the water level in the pool dropped to within a few meters of the tops of the fuel rod assemblies, elevated radiation levels contaminated the water being accidentally released into the bay via the defective valve. While the safety inspection of the pool identified the problem, enough damage had been done to warrant an evacuation of the plant. But that never happened. The accident was kept hush for many years and only a few workers and their superiors were aware of the event.

  Plant officials attempted to pay off all those involved with large sums of money to keep their mouths shut, starting with Ned Mack. He was offered a substantial lump sum payment in addition to a lucrative pension annuity arrangement to forget what he had seen. He refused. Others didn’t. Ned was a principled man and was not about to be bullied or bribed into doing something that went against his grain. After several repeated refusals of their offer, Ned’s superiors realized he had become a threat. Sadly, Ned didn’t fully understand the magnitude of what he was up against. Ned mysteriously disappeared one day while out fishing. He was officially classified by police as a “missing person,” and his disappearance remained an open cold case. Ned’s family was never satisfied with the investigation and, although they received a ton of money to make them forget, they never could.

  The crisis at the plant following the accident eventually stabilized. As interest in nuclear power generation gained new traction, the possible longer-term effects of the accident were swept under the rug. Since many who had been involved in the leak had died from various forms of cancers, the accident’s audit trail from eyewitnesses was weak at best. Aside from the cancers, when humans and other animals come into contact with the harmful levels of radioactive substances, the interaction is known to mutate DNA and genetic composition, potentially causing chromosomal aberrations. That is precisely what happened when radioactive water came into contact with a species of migratory fish that had been in the area at the time of the accident. Some of those fish floated to the surface with mouths agape and clouded eyes, but many resisted death.

  CHAPTER 11

  Rick’s morning aboard Maya had been far from ideal. His charter arrived promptly at first light. The lead dog of the charter, Sidney Metzinger, was a Type A orthopedic surgeon who headed a local practice. He chartered Rick for himself, his wife and son, and for a shot at catching a striper, a bluefish, a little tunny, and a bonito: the Long Island Grand Slam. This was the best time of year to attempt that feat. Sidney fancied himself a fly fisherman and was determined to bag his slam on the fly, but as the morning unfolded, Sidney’s inexperienced wife proved to be the best angler of the four. She stuck with easier-to-use spinning tackle and caught one fish after another, which did not sit well with the good doctor.

  The day started out just fine inside the Port Roosevelt Harbor where Sid immediately hooked a six-pound bluefish from among a small school feeding on peanut bunker by the ferry dock. His wife and son did the same; it was a good start for Rick. The skunk was out of the boat, some of the guide pressure was off Rick, and for the moment he had three happy clients just minutes from the launch ramp. Sid was congratulating himself on the fly-rod catch but it was one of those situations with bluefish that no matter what was thrown their way, they were determined to eat it. Fish actually raced each other to get at the fly first. All in all, it looked like it might shape up into a good morning of fishing.

  After playing with the bluefish for half an hour, Rick decided to move on and try for a striped bass that would give Sid number two of the four species needed for his “slam.” Rick hit all his productive harbor spots to no avail and moved out into the open Sound, heading east along the beach. Sid’s wife caught a nice keeper-size bass at the first spot, and his son followed with two small undersized fish. As his wife released her bass back into the Sound, Sid hooked up with another bluefish that bit through his fluorocarbon leader. Rick retied the leader and added a new fly. He then worked down the shoreline to East End Beach, and then stopped at the inlet jetty off Mount Misery Harbor. It was there that Sid hooked a small striped bass that was eaten by another fish while being retrieved. Rick saw a large swirl behind the bass just before it was stolen from the line. He assumed it was a large bluefish. Sid was pissed. Rick moved the boat to the other side of the inlet where he knew some small school bass stayed throughout the summer. Sid hooked up again but the line immediately went slack. The bass was gone and so was Sid’s Deceiver fly. Again Rick saw a large swirl. That’s odd, Rick thought.

  Rick tied on another fly and the doctor was into another bass. He landed this one. While not a keeper, it was a bass on the fly and it qualified as part of the slam. The easy part was now out of the way. While Sid’s wife and son were having a blast with a school of harbor blues, Rick noticed the telltale surface-busting of the elusive Atlantic bonito. Their behavior was erratic and out of the ordinary. They seemed especially spooked. Rick knew Sid would have difficulty.

  Sid was an abominable caster. The speed and selectivity of the bonito totally frustrated him. His casts were consistently off the mark and pitifully short, and at times wild flailing of the fly rod posed a danger to all those on board. At one point, Doctor Sid hooked his hat and then Rick’s shirt. It could have been a lot worse. But that didn’t stop his wife and son from catching their share. The frustrated doctor belted out orders for Rick to get closer to the fish so he would have a fair shot at reaching them, and he instructed his wife and son to cease casting. That didn’t help either. Rick thought that for this guy to catch one of these speedsters, it would have to commit suicide by hooking itself. Rick checked his watch and was glad to see his six-hour charter come to an end. Sid wanted to hire him for the rest of the day but Rick had had enough and Sid’s wife and son had caught plenty of fish.

  Rick headed back to the launch ramp at full throttle, only slowing down when he hit the no-wake zone just outside the harbor. At the ramp, Sid paid his bill, adding a decent tip, and said he would call again. Rick had no clients scheduled for the afternoon so he would head back out into the Sound for an afternoon of personal fishing and some exploring. He had Katie on his mind and was still thinking about her call. He’d grab some lunch, fill up with gas, and then make the rounds of all his productive spots to see if he might locate anything unusual. He dialed Katie’s number on his cell phone.

  “Hi Rick. What are you up to?”

  “Just about to grab some lunch and then head out for a solo afternoon of fishing. Care to join me?”

  “Can’t Rick. Working hard on this case and still need to gather some more facts.”

  “Well, we might just bump something out there that could help you solve this. There were a ton of small bluefish and bass out there this morning. Aside from some seemingly spooked bonito, I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary but we could make the run out east and then back west. We could cover a lot of ground.”

  “I’ll take a rain check for later in the week. What do you mean spooked bonito?”

  “They were just acting a bit odd and being tougher than usual to catch.”

  “Huh. That’s interesting. Wonder what had them nervous? Let me know if you see anything else. Okay?”

  “How about dinner?”

  “Rick, you know I’m busy.”

  “Come on, Katie, we really need to talk and maybe I can help you with this case of yours. And it has been a while since we got together. I think you’ve made me suffer long enough. I’ve done my time in purgatory. Don’t make me beg on this one.”

  “Seven-thirty at Grumpies. Okay?” Katie’s reply surprised Rick.

  “You just made my day. I’ll be there 7:30 sharp. Love ya.”

  Rick made certain the boat was secured to its mooring and then headed over to Mickey D’s. Once back on board Maya, Rick hailed his buddy Jack on the VHF.

 
; Rick took a bite of his sandwich and tried again. “Captain Jack, Captain Jack, this is Captain Rick, do you read me, over?”

  The VHF crackled, “Got you, Rick. What’s cookin’?”

  “Hey Jack, just eating some lunch and getting set to head out to the middle. I’ll be idling out in a minute. Anything going on?”

  “Things got quiet during the slack tide but when she was running hard on the outgoing, there were fish busting all over. Got some nice blues and stripers and played a bit with the albies. How about you?”

  “We did okay this morning. Had a challenging sport on board but we managed some fish. The guys wife nailed a slam.”

  “Nice going, Rick. Ton of fish around right now. Hope the bait stays put. Where you headed this afternoon?”

  “Figured I would do some scouting and see if I might help Katie out with her case. She’s still going on about something strange out there but won’t spill the beans. Got dinner with her tonight so maybe she’ll open up a bit.”

  “Bet you’re hoping in more ways than one.”

  “This is just a friendly dinner, Jack. See if we might get things back on track.”

  “Man, you two are like oil and water. You will be the death of each other one of these days.”

  “Hey Jack, anything strange going on out there. I mean any more of those unexplained big fish sightings?”

  “Last evening I bumped a large school of little tunny just flying out of the water in all directions. Not like they were feeding, just as if they were running from something. Strange behavior.”

  “Did you see anything harassing them? Something would have to be big and fast to catch them.”

  “Nah, nothing. At first I thought it might be bottlenose dolphin. About two hundred were spotted west of here the other day, over by Stork Neck, but I never saw anything break the surface. There would be no mistaking dolphin.”

  “Got you, Jack. I’m just breaking free of the harbor and getting ready to mash the throttle. Heading east a bit and working my way back. Gimme a shout if you see anything suspicious.”

  “Count on it Rick. Over and out.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The novice diver had recently finished his certification training at the Long Island Dive Center and quickly outfitted himself with the latest and best diving gear. He bought everything one could possibly need for dives with a National Geographic film team. But the gear he was most eager to try out was his new spear gun, so much so that he was prepared to violate the cardinal rule of diving: always dive with a buddy. Anticipation had gotten the best of him and he loaded his gear into his small fifteen-foot Boston Whaler skiff. He figured the dive would be a quick one; a small rock reef about four hundred yards off the beach, not far from his parents’ waterfront home. He’d be down and up in no time with a nice bass skewered on his spear.

  Once he exited from Mount Misery Inlet, the young diver motored east to a tight formation of large visible boulders. Like icebergs, what is revealed above the water represents but a small indication of the structure that lies beneath. The diver’s handheld GPS guided him to the exact submerged rock cluster he was looking to find. He dropped anchor and suited up, dutifully checking his gear to make certain all was in working order. Satisfied he had done his pre-dive due diligence, he entered the water back first off the portside gunwale. The water was about thirty feet to the bottom. He had fished this area from his boat in the past and knew it held plenty of porgies, blackfish, striped bass, and bluefish. But this was the first time he would fish the rock reef as a diver, alone. If he was really lucky, he might be able to pick up a nice lobster or two hiding in the crevices for dinner with his family. While winter diving in the Long Island Sound offers some of the cleanest water and highest visibility, late summer divers are hampered by algae growth and can expect about four feet of visibility. Since it was late afternoon, the sun’s rays angled low, limiting optimal light penetration to brief windows of visibility as he dove to the bottom.

  As the diver approached the floor, he spotted a school of porgies suspended above the rocks. He chose not to give his new spear gun a try on the small fish; he had bigger game on his mind. The diver found a trio of rocks that formed a bottom blind he could conceal himself within. Rather than swim about looking for fish to shoot, he opted to stay put on the sand and gravel bottom and have the fish come to him. Most predatory game fish are drawn to rocks and boulders since all the nooks and crannies attract potential food like small baitfish, crabs, and lobsters. The diver knew this from his fishing experience and also knew the probabilities were high that some desirable fish species would eventually swim by within his cone of vision. He had about thirty minutes to spear dinner before the aqualung emptied.

  The diver sat patiently, comforted by the soothing release of air bubbles as he breathed. He had always wanted to be a Navy Seal but he didn’t have the right stuff. His doctor dad had other designs on the career he should pursue. Remaining motionless, the young man imagined being part of an expeditionary team preparing for an extraction of a covert operative held captive by the bad guys: an undetected swim to the beach, a silent approach to the cottage where the mark was being held captive. Stealth personified as muffled shots from silenced Sig Sauer 9mm handguns hit their target. Mission accomplished.

  He saw the fish swim by, moving quickly from the murkiness to within his cone of vision. It was a big striped bass, but while daydreaming, he missed the opportunity to shoot. He readied his spear gun and aimed it through an opening in the rocks, figuring on having another chance. The bass was at least twenty pounds so the odds were good there were other fish of that size swimming with it. Again he saw the snout of another bass fill the opening of his rock blind; the pace of his breathing accelerated as the excitement built. He held off firing the gun until the mass of the fish’s mid-body filled his field of vision, and then he pulled the trigger. The elastic band released; swoosh . . . as the spear traveled the short distance and struck true in the target. There was no way he could miss at four feet, even in dingy water. It was a big bass, larger than the one he first saw.

  The fish reacted quickly to the mortal sting of the spear. With a burst of speed and power, the bass pulled line from the spool attached to the spear gun. The bass was a vigorous fighter and had much stamina. Coming out from his lair, the diver swam after the fish and its blood trail while continuing to retrieve and release line from the reel as needed. Although he could no longer see the bass, the diver was able to stay on track with the angle of the line attached to the spear. After a few minutes of give and take, a tug-of-war of sorts, the diver felt the first signs of submission. The pulling stopped and he detected only minor headshakes and slow, lumbering movements. He glanced at his watch—he had eight minutes of air left, plenty of time to get his prize to the surface.

  An even larger fish swam by him with a force that moved water and pushed him off track. Holy shit! What the hell was that?

  The diver watched in awe as another equally humungous creature passed through his field of vision, then another, and another—perhaps a dozen or more in all. Even though he could no longer see what they were, he could feel their presence. He felt uneasy, like being in a dark room sensing some unnatural force. The young man figured they were a school of really big bass, but he had already taken his dinner and his airtime was running out. He reeled quickly to retrieve the solid mass attached to his spear that no longer fought back. His prize was obviously dead. Based on the amount of line that was put back on the reel, he estimated his fish was about ten or twelve feet away.

  The diver was startled as he felt a bump at the end of his spear. It was either another fish or his prize was in the final throes of dying and making one last bid for freedom. He quickly gathered more line and brought the bass to within six feet of his position. He could only see out about three or four feet so the bass was not yet visible to him. His senses were focused, and adrenaline flowed through his veins. The presence of other creatures while one is in the water is unnerving. Not s
eeing is downright frightening. The diver heard odd sounds in the water. It was a clicking sound accompanied by thumping and grinding noises. As he tried to determine the source of the sounds, his spear gun jolted violently from his hand, saved from total loss by the securing wristband he wore that attached him to the gun. Line flew off the reel as if his dead prize was brought back to life. He had five minutes of air left and he could not afford a renewed or prolonged battle. This damn bass must be bigger than I thought.

  The pulling suddenly stopped. The diver re-grasped the reel and wound on more line, the fish all the while coming toward him easily. Yet again, the big fish was very close. A few more feet of line taken in and he was able to make out the snout of the bass. By the size of its head, it was indeed bigger than he first thought. Oh my God, the diver thought when he realized only half a bass was still attached to his spear. Something had bitten a fifteen-pound chunk of bass clean off, from the tail to the midsection.

  The diver panicked: shark. He swiftly kick-started his ascent to the surface, while still clinging to his spear gun and half of what just moments ago was a thirty-pound striped bass. The diver wanted to scream. His eyes widened as panic took hold. One of the demons charged upward from beneath the diver and bit off his left flipper and foot. The diver’s mouth and face contorted within his mask as another creature severed his right foot from his leg. He tried again to scream but the sound he made was a high-pitched gurgle. The diver clung to the bass even tighter in his final moments. It gave him comfort. The diver was still kicking his legs as if to swim but he went nowhere as blood trailed from the stumps that moments before were his feet. He could see the surface, his boat just out of reach. But as the diver tried to swim upward, each leg kick only resulted in his body descending further back toward the bottom. The blood scent excited the big fish to feed even more violently—unlike sharks, they liked the taste of humans. Two-dozen killers circled their prey, taking big bites of neoprene and flesh wherever they struck. The bass was taken from him along with his arm. He maintained consciousness long enough to watch as the razor-lined mouth of a one-hundred-pound creature ripped off his face in one swift bite.