Shadow Cast: A Brock Finlander Novel (Coastal Adventure Series Book 3)
Page 1
Shadow Cast
Coastal Adventure Series Book 3
E. J. Foster
EJFosterBooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by E. J. Foster
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Be Part of My Crew
Please take a moment to sign up for my newsletter on my website.
www.ejfosterbooks.com
A couple times a month, I’ll bring you insights into my private life and writing habits, with updates on what I’m working on, special deals I hear about, and new books by other authors that I’m reading. Join My Readers Club.
TO MY DEDICATED READERS
I’d like to offer you this FREE stunning 11" x 14" map of the Lighthouses of the Chesapeake Bay. This high-quality image is hand-drawn and suitable for printing and framing. Download it here:
https://my.ejfosterbooks.com/get-the-map
The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.
Jacques Cousteau
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Books by E. J. Foster
Be Part of My Crew
Author’s Note
About the Author
1
Lore and legends were often flawed and unreliable, and usually false. This sunset, however, was bidding the day farewell in flawless truth.
It reminded me of why I liked to spend my time on the Chesapeake Bay. This moment is how I'd like to spend the rest of my retirement, kicking back on my boat in the evening sun with my feet up on a cooler.
Being out here on the water and watching the sunset was like a dream come true. Hearing the gulls screech in the distance and the water lapping on the hull of my boat was just what I needed this evening.
After what I had been through the past two summers, I decided I was done getting involved in things. Done sticking my neck out. Done risking everything, especially my family. That life was over, and I was happy to put it behind me. A problem would have to hit me square in the face and drag me kicking and screaming to stick my nose in where it doesn’t belong again.
The serenity I currently enjoyed was shattered, however, by the sound of an outboard. It was getting closer, approaching me pretty quickly. I sure hope this fool sees my dive flag flying, I thought. I've been anchored here for about two hours.
My boat was a thirty-two-foot captain’s gig with a covered stern, and a cabin down below in the bow. A captain's gig was a boat typically used on naval ships as the captain's taxi. I bought this one from a connection I still had from my time with the Navy.
These days, I spent my Saturdays taking dive charters out on the water. I’d been trying to make a name for myself, and it was working. The local divers were starting to recognize the name Brock Finlander.
Many dive tourists had heard the legends of shipwrecks and the bay. And they came here as hobbyist treasure hunters.
The husband and wife I had been chartering today had been down below for about twenty minutes.
As the boat came closer, I could see bold black letters on the side of a white hull: PILOT.
He was obviously one of the bay pilots.
There was a local mafia of pilots around here who were trained to take large foreign commercial vessels up the Chesapeake Bay and into Baltimore Harbor.
The path was precarious, and if you didn’t know what you were doing, you could get yourself into big trouble.
All foreign container ships are required to stop here, where the old Bay Bridge used to stand before it was destroyed a couple summers ago.
They're required to take on a local pilot to captain the ship temporarily. And then when the Baltimore Harbor Master calls them, they're free to head up the Chesapeake Bay and into Baltimore Harbor to deliver their goods.
Consequently, these large ships hang out around here. You can see them in the mist. Huge container ships, almost like ghost ships, disappearing in the fog and then reappearing.
The pilot boat pulled alongside me, and the captain yelled out, “Afternoon!”
I grunted something in return as I got up out of my seat, grabbed my coffee and walked over to greet the man. I recognized him instantly and cringed a little inside.
“How's it going, Randall?” I responded.
Randall Matchmaker was a local bay pilot and a real son of a bitch. Nobody much liked the man, and I was included in that group. But I found it necessary to be polite from time to time.
Today, Randall was in rare form, sporting a fishing T-shirt with the words Master Baiter on the front of it. The guy had no class.
“I'm headed out to the Castle Queen,” Randall responded. “Big container vessel. Got to take her up to the harbor.”
Randall motioned out to the center of the bay where the silhouette of a huge container ship rose out of the mist.
He spotted the dive flag that I was flying. A field of red with a diagonal white stripe across it waved in the breeze. Diver down.
“Doing some diving around here?” Randall asked.
“Just a curious husband and wife, you know, treasure hunters,” I replied dismissively. “That kind of thing.” I gave a half-hearted laugh.
“Another dive of the Black May?” Randall giggled to himself as well, and then added, “You know, there’s a kernel of truth in every rumor.”
“Yeah. The Black May,” I confirmed.
The Black May was just one of the dive wrecks in the Chesapeake Bay, among hundreds of others. Old pirate ships. British colonial warships. And other sailors from as far back as the 1600s.
Some of the rumors said there was treasure aboard, among other things. I didn't go for all that.
“Damn treasure hunters,” I sa
id out loud.
“These people are so gullible sometimes,” Randall agreed.
“They're down on my port side, be careful over there. Keep to starboard,” I said to him as he positioned his pilot boat.
“Well, I gotta be going,” he said. “I'm headed off to the Castle Queen container ship to Captain a real boat.” The man emphasized the word real as he eyeballed my small dive boat in judgment. I was starting to see why people didn't like this guy.
Randall throttled up and pulled away hastily, the waves he left behind shaking my boat from side to side. It was a bit of a jackass move, knowing I had divers down below. But I wouldn't consider Randall a considerate man, so there was no surprise there.
After a moment, I shook off the annoying interaction and went back to sit down. I wanted to relax, enjoy the evening sun and the soothing sounds of water gently lapping against my hull, alone.
Sometimes, I wished I had someone to share this with. All this beauty around me. And yet I spend most of my time alone out here. Even when I had a dive charter. They were down below and I sat alone.
I looked up at the bright sky. The red gradations of color created the sunrise, and the sun twinkled at me from behind a cloud.
The twinkle seemed to be moving. Fast.
It was more than just the sun. It was some sort of shooting star.
A constellation of small pins of light sliced through the evening sky and headed right down at the bay. They were getting closer and brighter––and heading straight for me.
2
Megan checked her regulator, and then motioned to Nash. Nash extended all five fingers, signaling that they had about five minutes left.
Megan was mesmerized by the ghost anemone she had been viewing. The jelly-like invertebrates had flat, rounded bases and stinging tentacles at the top of their elongated stalk; they almost entirely covered the wooden hull of the wrecked ship. Normally living on rocks, reefs, pilings, and other hard surfaces throughout the Chesapeake Bay, this colony had settled here, attaching themselves to the remains of the Black May.
Megan wanted to check out one more small nook before they took a break––a dark hole in the side of the great wooden ship ringed with fragile planks that disintegrated under touch.
She peered in and froze when two eyes stared back at her. Fear iced Megan's entire body. She couldn’t move, not even to signal Nash. The pounding of her heart drummed in her ears, drowning out the other underwater sounds of gurgling bubbles and breathing.
In an instant, the thing charged straight at her. Megan flinched spasmodically, momentarily dislodging her goggles. The slimy creature smacked the side of her bare face. Megan couldn’t see her attacker through the flurry of bubbles released in the commotion.
Something had her from behind now, and was gripping both her arms tightly, restraining her. Megan sucked air hard, gasping. Trying to turn and face her attacker. Nash.
Nash held Megan, trying to calm her. He had seen the striped bass emerge from the hole and smack Megan with its fin before swimming off. Being more familiar with the area, he knew that striped bass were common around here. The locals referred to them as rockfish.
Nash drew a fish on his whiteboard, trying to explain what had happened to Megan, and her breathing started to normalize. He signaled that they should surface, and Megan nodded agreement.
At that moment, a projectile tore through the water between them at the speed of a bullet. They both looked skyward as another bullet came whizzing past Megan’s head, narrowly missing it, and tearing a fresh hole in the side of the old wooden ship. Were they being shot at?
3
I stood on the deck of my boat, looking up in awe. What in the hell were these things? Some sort of meteors. They were headed straight for the bay; some of the smaller ones directly for my boat.
A crashing sound and the teak of my deck burst into a million pieces, creating a cascade of wooden splinters.
Instinctively, I ducked and took cover.
Another small object impacted my boat and went clear through the top that covered the aft deck, through the teak, and down below, into the engine compartment.
With great speed, I went down below deck to check that the engine was still there. Water was collecting below.
There was no time to waste. I got the bilge pumps up and running and hustled back topside. The divers, Megan and Nash were already reboarding the boat.
There was huge splash in the distance a couple miles away. Water plumed into the air as the largest of the meteors landed in the bay.
I began to operate the windless pulling up the anchor. I knew we had to move fast.
“What the hell is happening?” Megan shouted. “Were you shooting at us?”
I motioned towards the sky in the distance. Gleaming pinpoints of light were still raining down, all up and down the bay.
Both Megan and Nash turned and caught the sight of the meteor shower.
“Looks like some space weather entered our atmosphere,” I said. “We're taking on water. One of those things pierced my hull. We're gonna have to get out of here as fast as we can.”
Megan and Nash peeled off their diving gear as I finished pulling in the anchor.
A large wave rocked the boat; a small tsunami from the meteor impact in the distance had just arrived. The three of us lost our footing under the jostle.
“You two hold tight,” I ordered. “I'm gonna throttle up.”
I touched the throttle and we started moving, heading back home. My only hope was that the bilge pumps would hold and keep up with that leak in my hull. We were taking on water pretty fast.
I turned the boat east and headed straight for my home dock.
The breach was in the forward part of the hull. I knew that too much throttle could force more water in through it.
I pulled a small walkie-talkie out of my pocket and verified it was on channel seven. I keyed the mic and called out.
“Katie,” I said. “Are you there?”
Silence. Katie and I had agreed to use these small handheld FRS radios after what happened last summer. I always stayed close to home, and they had a five-mile range out on the open water. Sometimes it was better to avoid using the VHS radio. In the past, it had drawn some unwanted attention and we decided it was a threat to our operational security. We’ve been using the walkies ever since.
“Katie, are you there?” I tried again, but nothing.
I eased off the throttle and took it slow and steady, limping my way back home.
4
There I stood at my home dock, staring at my boat. The old captain's gig I had purchased just for these dives.
Streaming out of my bow was a fountain of water flowing from the hole in my hull. I stood there and watched my boat drain.
I thought about my charters, and the disturbed look on their faces as we headed back; they must’ve been convinced I was shooting at them.
They looked frightened, terrified in fact, and they trembled the whole ride back, unsure of who I was or if I meant them harm.
“Look folks,” I’d said. “I'll make sure to get you guys out again next weekend, no charge.” I’d been trying to reassure them, but they looked like they wanted nothing more to do with my charter service.
When we docked, they quickly packed up their gear, said their goodbyes and were off. I was left standing there with nothing but a hole in my boat.
Alone.
I had spent a lot of time alone recently, and it was starting to needle at me. Having my family back in my life after decades without them was life-changing and wonderful. But it didn’t quench my desire for intimacy. It didn’t fulfill my need to have one special person in my life. Someone to spend the good times with, but also someone to commiserate with during the bad times. Like today.
I climbed aboard, made sure the bilge pumps were off and decided to let this thing drain naturally. I sloshed around through the engine room, trying to assess the damage.
I stopped when I felt some debris unde
r my boots, resisting against my feet. I spotted something under the two inches of muddy water at the bottom of my boat. A rock?
I kicked the rock around for a few minutes with my foot, trying to figure out what it was. Eventually, I reached down and pulled it up. The small object was heavier than its size suggested. The surface of the dense thing looked like a charred black walnut with a patina polish, no larger than a golf ball. It had a rough matte-black surface that was pitted, and it looked almost metallic in nature.
I took the thing with me back up to the cockpit and set it down on the dash near the throttle.
What in the hell was this thing? Was this actually a meteorite from outer space? Was I holding in my hand something from galaxies far away?
When I was in the astronaut corps, I had to be acutely aware of space weather, and the dangers it posed to space shuttle missions. But lately, I had been out of the loop, and out of that life. The only weather I monitored these days was the wind and the tides, and that’s the way I liked it.