by Joe Nobody
Congressman Wallace had to agree with the senator’s assessment. He was actually proud of how everyone here had been working so hard to solve problems in an attempt to get the country moving again. Gone were any disputes between right and left. Egos and platforms had truly been set aside because the country was in trouble – real trouble.
The senator swallowed a sip of milk and said, “Didn’t your father work at the Federal Reserve Board, Mr. Wallace?”
“Yes, Senator, that’s correct.”
“If memory serves, he died in a robbery some years ago.”
Reed hesitated, a flood of different answers filling his mind. Despite knowing better, he couldn’t suppress his response. “Officially, yes, it was a robbery. Personally, I’ve always had serious doubts about the incident.”
The response seemed to trouble the senator from Ohio. A fleeting glimpse of annoyance crossed the man’s face. The emotion passed so fast that Reed couldn’t be sure he was reading it right.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Wallace. It must be a difficult thing to live with…the not being sure, I mean.”
Senator Conley continued with his meal, Reed believing the topic was exhausted. He was wrong.
“My brother-in-law worked for the Fed in those days, Congressman. I’m curious, what do you believe happened to your father?”
The question sent Reed’s sixth sense to high alert, the senator’s approach and conversation now entering the realm of suspicious. Pretending to having trouble swallowing, the Texan bought some time to compose his answer.
“There were a number of inconsistencies with the final police report, Senator. In addition, new information about the case has recently come to light. Why do you ask?”
Conley was a master politician and had no trouble waving off Reed’s inquiry. “No reason, Congressman. I was just trying to make conversation. I’m sorry if I broached a sensitive subject.”
“No problem, sir. It’s not a sensitive topic at all. I just thought it unusual lunch conversation.”
The two men continued with their meal in silence. Conley signaled he was done by wiping his face with the napkin, wadding the paper into a proper ball, and depositing it on his tray. As he stirred to stand, he said, “Nice meeting you, Mr. Wallace. I promise to keep my dialog a little lighter next time. Good day, sir.”
Reed smiled as the man rose. “Good day, Senator.”
Conley picked up his tray and turned to walk away. To Reed’s astonishment, the man paused and then spun back. “If I may, Mr. Wallace…a little advice from and old-democrat-dog to a young-republican-pup. Don’t allow your official actions to be driven by any personal agenda. It will taint your term and poison your service to our great nation. I’m telling you this because I hear you’re a bright young man who truly cares about his country. I’d give anyone the exact same advice.”
Without waiting on any response, the senator left, greeting someone at each table on his way out.
Reed immediately replayed and analyzed the entire conversation. The discussion could have been what it appeared on the surface – a casual discussion between two elected officials. On the other hand, Conley might have been issuing a friendly warning. Was he trying to say, “We know what you’re up to, don’t even think of trying anything?”
God, you’re paranoid, he thought.
The whole exchange put Reed into a funk. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about, now the senator’s words added another layer to his fog. He’d been struggling to keep his chin up and remain functional as it were. He’d even considered visiting the base chaplain and having a conversation about depression.
Just as he was beginning to feel like things might improve, the man from Ohio had thrown a proverbial wrench into his gears. Reed was just realizing his melancholy state wasn’t entirely attributable to missing his family. His internal strife was based on the struggle to set aside what had been his primary motivation during the last few years of his life – the mission to find out what had really happened to his father. Now, the collapse of society demanded he put those private concerns behind him and work for the good of the people. He was struggling to accept that change.
The Texan supposed he wasn’t the only one battling an internal struggle. The national crisis impacted everyone a little differently. Some of those he worked with had lost family members in the riots, while others had loved ones who were missing, the military unable to account for their whereabouts or status. Many people knew for certain that their homes had been destroyed. It seemed like everybody had a different worry, loss or concern.
Reed chewed another bite of chicken, realizing the man that had shared a table with him was causing a flood of guilt to wash over him. He’s right of course. I should be that focused, he thought. I shouldn’t be worried about anything other than putting the country back together again.
Everyone at the makeshift capital realized the citizens were hurting. The elected leadership of the country was doing everything in its power to repair, resolve and organize. All the folks here are pulling together to utilize their strengths to contribute except me, thought Reed. I need to get onboard and push down this selfish desire for revenge, he resolved.
Sage yawned and pulled the blanket tighter over her shoulders. The northern gusts carried an arctic bite into the normally humid region of Texas. Her iPod was plugged into the cigarette lighter on the bridge, but she had turned off the device, feeling like her ears were becoming fatigued. The only audible melody playing now was the orchestra of groaning anchor lines and the random splashing of a fish striking the surface of the bay. Most of the boats were running generators, but the dull, constant drone of the machines faded into a constant background hum – a kind of white noise – so relaxing it was coaxing her eyelids to close.
Before he had gone to bed, her dad had told her to wake him up if she got too sleepy. “Pulling anchor watch is about as boring as it gets. If you get tired, don’t hesitate to wake me up. I’d prefer to lose sleep versus lose the boat,” he advised.
Being the youngest, she had always felt like she didn’t contribute as much as everyone else. It seemed like she was always too slow or too weak to help out in any meaningful way. David was always so big and strong and fast. She loved her brother, but for years had secretly wished he would mess up at least once. Living in the shadow of perfection wasn’t easy. Tonight, she would pull her weight and do it flawlessly – no matter how mind numbing it was.
Besides, Sage was troubled about her dad. His life had been hell the last year. And every time she saw him, she seemed to notice another visible sign of accelerated aging – greying at the temples, a few more wrinkles here and there, an apathetic gait. For a while, when the business was failing, her heart jumped into her throat when mom called unexpectedly. Sage was sure Wyatt was going to have a heart attack or worse yet, take his own life. Tonight, she could let him rest.
Time to do the checklist, she thought.
She glanced at the radar screen mounted on the dash. The glowing display was the size of a small television. Unlike its stereotypical depiction in old war movies, there wasn’t a sweeping arm circling from a central point or nested rings indicating distance from the epicenter. Sage saw a picture that looked similar to a paper chart, where the white background coincided with the water, and land was colored grass-green. She could zoom the picture in and out, her father explaining that a five-mile range was optimum.
The radar served as an electronic watchman as well. The device contained a function called a collision avoidance alarm that sounded an alert if another vessel were on a course to collide with Boxer. Sage knew the alarm was set, but her father had warned her it wasn’t flawless. “It will only start beeping if its computer brain is certain. It helps, but you can’t trust it.”
The boats around Boxer showed as blue dots on the radar. At the five-mile range, the Marinaville fleet appeared as a blob around the middle of the map.
Sage’s real job was to make sure an anchor didn’t pull loose d
uring the night. That anchor could be Boxer’s or any of the other boat’s. One vessel could drift into another if it lost its grip on the bottom. Floating onto an oyster reef or one of the well platforms that dotted the bay were other possible hazards.
The lower right-hand corner of the radar screen had two big numbers – Boxer’s longitude and latitude. Those values were Sage’s charge; slight fluctuations could mean the anchor was dragging. The numbers hadn’t changed.
More for entertainment than duty, her dad had left the night vision on the bridge. “If you get really bored, look at the stars through the night vision,” he had advised. “They didn’t name it a starlight scope for nothing.” Tonight, however, the clouds weren’t going to allow any stargazing. Sage had toyed with the scope a little, sweeping her gaze over the bay, picking out the other boats and some seabirds standing on Redfish.
She had also spied on her fellow watchmen. Three of the bigger boats had someone keeping an eye on the anchors. The larger vessels had been chosen for the task due to their having more folks aboard who were better able to share the duty, plus their hulls rose higher off the water, allowing for a better vantage.
Sage was pretty sure one of the other lookouts was napping. Until about an hour ago, the man had lit his pipe every 30 minutes like clockwork. She hadn’t seen the flash of his lighter for over an hour now. She couldn’t see the other sentry on watch from Boxer’s bridge. At one point in time, she had been tempted to call out on the radio just to have someone to share her solitude, but had decided against it. The noise might wake up her father or brother and that would taint her contribution.
While Sage was inspecting the huddled boats, she didn’t notice a new blue dot appear on the radar screen. This dot wasn’t close to the fleet, but hugging the shoreline a mile away. Boxer’s radar detected the new presence for a moment, and then it was gone. A few minutes later, it found it again, but then it disappeared. No matter, decided the radar logic circuits, the new contact wasn’t headed directly in, nor was it going fast enough to worry about.
Buck was beginning to think his idea wasn’t so hot, but his ego wasn’t about to allow any public admission of flawed planning. Robbie and he had pushed their little 16-foot aluminum skiff into the bay an hour ago. The flat-bottomed Johnboat wasn’t designed for the oceangoing experience, but rather for calmer lakes and rivers where waves and currents weren’t such a factor. Their boat didn’t like even the light chop on the bay and made them pay for the trip with a rough, jolting ride.
To make matters worse, the small outboard motor had been left ashore. The last of the gas had been used a few days ago trying to get to more productive fishing grounds. Tonight, it was human oar power propelling them across the water, and that was a poor substitute.
Buck sat in the front of the rowboat all smug and satisfied because he had outmaneuvered his cousin with regards to who was going to man the oars. Robbie had fallen for the same old trick of “You go first, and I’ll take over in a bit.” There was no way the two men could switch positions without tipping over the small boat. Buck looked forward to the time when Robbie finally realized he had been had. Hopefully, they wouldn’t be rowing back.
As they tentatively navigated from the shoreline, Buck realized it was going to take longer to reach the anchored boats than he had thought. The wind kept blowing them off course, and Robbie wasn’t exactly an Olympic class sculler.
Buck grunted and half-turned to Robbie, “Those dumbasses, they all have on their anchor lights like is required by the law. Haven’t they noticed there ain’t no other boats around? What are they worried about – the coast guard?”
Robbie peered around his passenger, nodding at the white twinkling lights in front of them. “They look like Christmas lights, cuz…. I sure do hope they know it’s better to give than receive.”
After what seemed like half the night, the interlopers were finally close enough to make out individual boats. Buck signaled that Robbie should take a break, and then leaned back and whispered, “We need to pick one out - one of the big ones on this side.”
“I don’t care which one you pick, cuz. Just make sure it’s one that’s close, cause my arms are about to fall off.”
Buck nodded and swiveled on the bench to gain a better perspective of the fleet. He wanted to choose the largest possible boat because it would have the most supplies onboard, and probably the biggest fuel tanks. He wished there was a way to tell which ones were diesel and which were powered by gasoline, but that was just a chance he would have to take.
Finally, he spotted one on their side of the formation. He pointed it out to Robbie and whispered, “Let’s get this over with, cuz.”
Robbie began rowing a little faster than before, adrenaline kicking in over the anticipated heist. Buck reached for his shotgun.
Movement caught Sage’s eye as the small craft steered from behind the big catamaran anchored a few boats over. Her first thought was the small launch was from one of the other members of the fleet, but the rowboat was too big for any of them to carry as a dinghy. She picked up the night vision, studying the two men as their paddling brought them closer to Boxer. She could make out enough detail to realize they were strangers. What the heck were they doing out in the middle of the bay at 3 in the morning?
Her next line of reasoning concluded they were fishermen. She had watched her dad and brother leave at all kinds of crazy hours in order to catch fish. These two were just a couple of fishermen from the shore who were out for a day’s catch. Satisfied she had figured it out, she leaned back in the captain’s chair as the men rowed closer and closer to the anchored flotilla. When the guy in front reached around and pulled up a big gun, Sage doubted her original hypothesis. When the small boat clearly made a turn for Boxer, she became frightened.
Sage’s mind raced with all kinds of options. They were tired and just wanted to tie off on Boxer, perhaps needing to rest for a bit. They were having an emergency…maybe their boat was leaking or something. Maybe they were from one of the other boats, and she just didn’t recognize them. While she tried to justify whom and what they were, the small rowboat made directly for Boxer’s stern.
By the time she snapped out of it, the approaching vessel was too close for her to slide down the ladder and reach the cabin. She was hiding behind the captain’s chair, peering over the top, sure the two men had not seen her yet. She thought about yelling out and stomping on the floor to wake everyone up, but the man in the front of the boat was now pointing the shotgun toward Boxer, and she froze, certain the guy was going to shoot her.
Panic tore through Sage’s chest when the boat stopped right behind Boxer’s swim platform, one of the men grabbing onto the deck to stabilize their tiny craft. The man in front looped a line around one of Boxer’s cleats, while the other set down his oar and picked up his own huge gun. Sage ducked even lower behind the chair and for some reason began rummaging around for something to throw at the men…maybe she could scare them off.
She opened a small storage hatch beside the helm and found one of Boxer’s emergency kits. Inside the clear plastic box was something that caught her eye – a flare gun. Her dad had taught her how to use the bright orange pistol a long time ago. It was fairly simple, and she quickly pulled off the safety pin and rose up to get a clear view of the strangers below.
The first guy was now standing on Boxer’s transom, steadying the small boat so his partner could get out. Sage pointed the armed flare pistol at the two men and screamed, “Get off our boat!”
The sound of the screeching voice made Buck jump, and he lost his grip on the rowboat at just the wrong time. Robbie, wobbly and rocking, tried to shift his weight to get balance, but was instead thrown overboard into the chilly waters. Buck watched his cousin fall, but was more concerned about whoever was yelling from aboard his prize. He turned, raising the shotgun.
Sage pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on the 12-gauge emergency flare, striking the primer and igniting the propellant. The red-burning ma
gnesium rocket was designed to shoot several hundred feet into the air as an emergency signal. It left the short barrel and flew directly at Buck, striking him square in the chest.
Buck was stunned by the impact, which reminded him of being hit by a well-thrown baseball. He dropped his shotgun, watching in horror as it bounced off the deck and rattled into the water. The loss of the weapon enraged him beyond control. The bright flare ricocheted off his body and slammed into Boxer’s deck, where it was pinned into a corner, fizzling and pulsating blinding light.
Sage immediately sprang for the ladder, desperately wanting off of the bridge and into the cabin. She slid down the steps and reached for the cabin door when a strong grip seized her from behind, tossing her to the deck like a rag doll.
Sage gazed into the meanest pair of eyes she had ever seen. The crimson glow from the burning flare caused the filthy, unshaven man hovering over her to look like a demon, staring down at her with the intent to consume her very soul. He raised his arm, and her heart stopped. He was grasping a long knife, its shiny steel blade reflecting like fire in the throbbing radiance from the flare. Every fiber of Sage’s being focused on that dagger. As if watching a movie in slow motion, she detected the man’s arm muscles tighten, and then the blade curved downward. Sage closed her eyes, waiting on the inevitable agony she knew was going to rack her body in less than a heartbeat.
The pain never arrived. Sage peeked up and noticed the knife almost exactly where it had been, but there was something new. Another hand was part of the image, firmly clutching the wrist of the dagger- bearing demon. She detected a shifting shadow behind her attacker and then watched puzzled as his eyes changed from an expression of pure hatred to one of surprise - and then pain.
David clasped the man’s knife arm with both hands, squeezing with all his might on the wrist. He sidestepped and planted a vicious kick to the attacker’s weight-bearing knee. The resulting sound was a grotesque chorus of breaking bone, popping ligaments and an animal-like howl escaping from the victim’s throat. David’s furry was unbridled, the desire to stop the man about to slaughter his sister becoming a bloodlust roaring through his veins. The tension in the arm holding the blade dissipated, allowing David to let go with one hand. Pulling the freed hand back, David’s fist shot out with all of his rage, striking the attacker in the Adam’s apple and throat. Again and again and again, David threw his considerable strength into the blows – rapid firing as fast as his arm could reset and strike.