Breacher (Tom Keeler Book 2)

by Jack Lively

  I pulled a chair over. I said, “What do you have?”

  Hank said, “We don’t have the new, but we’ve got the old.”

  Ellie shifted over to make room for me. “Hank couldn’t get into the Nuclear Regulatory Commission computers, so I suggested that he go for the Department of Energy. Looks like he got it."

  Hank said, “It’s no big deal. These are old web pages that have been cached. Like, backups. It’s not top secret or anything. All I needed to do was guess about the directory structure.”

  I said, “Whatever that means. Can you just spell it out for me?”

  Hank flipped to the website we had already seen. Zarembina’s photograph with the flag and the Department of Energy logo, but nothing else. Then, like a magic trick he flipped to the same web page, but this time with a whole lot more information.

  He said, “See what I mean? They changed the page, just taking off all the information, but the old one still exists on the server.”

  Ellie said, “Zarembina was an investigator with Energy.” She pointed at the screen. It showed the same photograph I’d seen of Zarembina, but this time showing her as a Special Agent with the Office of Investigations.

  I said, “What do they investigate at the Department of Energy?”

  Ellie said, “We looked it up. They mostly go after fraud and abuse. The Department of Energy contracts work out to private enterprise, so they look for bad guys trying to rip off the taxpayer.”

  Hank said, “Their yearly budget is like forty billion bucks, so that’s a shit load of cash ready to leak.”

  Ellie was looking into space, a thousand-yard stare.

  I said, “What if Zarembina was still doing the same job, but now with the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. It’s what you’re thinking already, Ellie.”

  Hank looked from me to Ellie, not entirely following. She leaned back in the chair and nodded. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

  I said, “Zarembina moves on from energy to become an investigator with the USNRC, where she meets George Abrams. Then this. Doesn’t entirely explain the situation, but it’s the best theory so far.”

  Ellie looked at me. We both knew that there was more, but that this was a pretty good start. Hank was hunched over the keyboard still, not moving but staring into the screen. I said, “Hank, let’s get you away from here. Fresh air and ocean spray will do wonders for you.”

  He nodded vaguely. “You think?”

  “We can keep going on this later.” I gave a significant look to Ellie.

  She said, “Get going. I’ll deal with this, and Hank, I’ll see you later about making a statement.”

  Hank shut down his machines reluctantly. He was way too comfortable with his computers. By the time we got outside I could tell he was restless. I shouldered him hard and Hank wobbled, but grinned despite everything. The kid needed to do something physical, to get himself worn out and ready to sleep it all off and wake up a new person. He needed an ordeal to get his mind off what had just happened.

  I said, “Good to go?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Hank followed me around the front of the trailer to his mom’s Toyota Land Cruiser and I threw him the keys. “You drive, Hank.”

  He looked at me, like a doe speaking to a leopard. “I don’t have my license yet.”

  I shrugged. “So what? This is Alaska.”

  Thirty

  The boy was quiet on the ride out to Eagle Cove. He gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands and chewed his lip. Otherwise, Hank’s eyes were fixated on a spot somewhere over the horizon. Not a good look for a driver, but I was fairly confident that this wasn’t his first trip behind the wheel. They start early up in Alaska.

  In my hand, I still had the Glock pried out of the dead fingers of the assassin. I popped the glove compartment in front of me and put the gun in there with the extra magazine. The scenery from the passenger seat blurred by like an out of focus movie. Dull and faded homes were set into hillsides bursting with an almost uncontrollable vegetation. Once we arrived, Hank put the Land Cruiser into park and turned to me.

  His face was deathly white. He looked rough. “Keeler, what we are doing here? What’s the connection? I don’t get it.”

  I was patient with him. “We think the guys who killed your mom were working for people who own some property up past the old fire tower.”

  “You mean Mister Lawrence.”

  “That’s right, Hank. We don’t know exactly what they’re up to, but it isn’t any good. They’re prepared to kill people, and your mom isn’t the first, and might not be the last. Reason we’re out here is because the property they own comes with a private island. It’s their island now, but it used to belong to the government, who loaned it to the navy to use as a research base. I want to take a look at the island. So that’s why we are here, Hank.”

  He said, “And what happens when we find out what we want to know? We just give the information to the police and hope that they’ll catch whoever killed mom?”

  Which was Hank’s real question, and it was one that I respected. Ultimately, he wanted to know about getting revenge. I said, “No. I won’t settle for that. I’m not a cop. When I find the people who are responsible, I’m going to take them out, Hank. Big time.”

  He nodded, his gritted teeth showing through chapped lips. “Yes, I want to be part of that. I have the right.”

  I shook my head. “Rights are for lawyers and the legal system, and we’re drifting from those shores, buddy. Out here there are no rights. If you want rights you’re better off keeping out of it. Live to fight another day.”

  Hank said, “I can shoot, Keeler, and you’ll need someone who can shoot.”

  I thought for maybe three seconds. I figured there wasn’t any better rehabilitation therapy than righteous revenge. An eye for an eye sounds good, but not when it’s both of your mom’s eyes. Then you’d be better off tearing out ten or twenty of theirs. I said, “You do what I tell you, when I tell you. No more, no less. You just do your part. You’ll get your revenge, even if I’m the one doing the taking. It’ll be yours as well. Hear what I’m saying?”

  Hank nodded once and turned the ignition key to off. The engine stopped running.

  I led the boy through the cannery, and out to the docks. He followed a few steps back, alert and curious. About half of the boats had shipped out by then. Joe Guilfoyle was up in the wheel house. When he saw me he made no gesture of recognition. Just put down the book he was reading and stood up from the chair. I stepped on board. Hank followed and a minute later the diesel engine kicked over. Two minutes after that, we were chugging away from the cannery dock.

  I brought Hank up to the wheelhouse and introduced him to Guilfoyle.

  The Sea Foam was a fully equipped working boat. Which meant that the quarter-mile-long net was piled up on the flat stern with an aluminum skiff trailing behind, attached by a tow rope. The way it works is the skiff and the boat each get one end of the net. They pull in opposite directions, making a big semi-circle. Then after waiting awhile, they meet up, completing the circle. The skiff driver hands off the rope to someone on the mother ship. At that point the big boat has control of the net, which gets hooked into the winch. When the net is winched in, it gets tighter and narrower. The circle closes, collecting all of the fish into the middle. In the end, the fish are hauled up in a part of the net called ‘the sock’. They get dumped into a hatch filled with ice chips and sea water.

  Game over for the fish caught in the sock.

  Guilfoyle maneuvered the Sea Foam into the channel between the mainland and Carolina Island. Hank was looking at the rippling wake formed by the boat. I was looking out to sea. Presently the view was over to the cove on Carolina, where I had stopped the zodiac with Chapman the night before. Carolina Island receded and a half-hour later I heard the motor drop. I tapped Hank on the arm. He looked away from the water and I motioned up to the wheelhouse.
r />   Guilfoyle was kicking back in his chair looking east through a pair of binoculars. He heard us coming up the ladder, dropped the binoculars to his chest. “Here we are, like you wanted. A mile out. What now?”

  I held out a hand and he put the binoculars in it. I looked toward the mainland. Bell Island was a lump of green a mile off. I could make out some low buildings, not much more. I said, “Spotting scope?”

  Guilfoyle said, “Roger that.” He eased out of the chair and slipped into the captain’s quarters behind the wheelhouse. When he came back he was carrying a long tan padded rifle case. He unzipped the case and pulled out a Remington 700 with a glossy walnut stock. Up on the rail was a Leupold scope. I noticed Hank eyeing the gear up in the wheelhouse. Guilfoyle had a fancy large screen unit that did fish finding and GPS navigation, all in one, and of course, the gun.

  Guilfoyle flicked off the lens caps on the scope and handed me the rifle. I opened the side window. He passed me a clean microfiber cloth. I set the hand guard on the folded cloth and sighted through the scope. Bell Island got a lot closer all of a sudden.

  I could make out three single-story buildings, a fenced-in area, and a pebble beach. Behind the buildings was a tall communications tower. About two hundred yards in front of the beach was a very long dock. A horizontal platform in the middle of the water. No movement, no people, nothing happening. I focused again on the dock for a moment.

  I said, “Looks deserted from here.”

  Hank said, “Should we get closer, maybe go around it?”

  I said, “Good idea.” I glanced at Guilfoyle and inclined my chin. “What are we supposed to be doing, in case someone is watching?”

  Guilfoyle said, “Well Keeler, I reckon we are prepping the net for dry dock storage.”

  I said, “Let the net go and bring her in, do a full round?” He nodded.

  I took Hank down and we got the wet gear on. Bib pants and hooded jacket. All yellow and orange. I took an old SEAS hat off the hook and handed it to him. He declined. I said, “A lot of people end up wearing these, Hank. We’ll be bringing the net in from the water, over the winch.”

  He said, “That’s okay, I don’t wear baseball hats all that much.”

  “People tend to wear them, working on a boat.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  I shrugged and adjusted mine. “It’s here if you need it.”

  Meanwhile, Guilfoyle raised the anchor and turned the boat toward Bell Island. It had become a beautiful day, clearing up a little from earlier. The cool breeze and salt spray coming off the Pacific felt great. I looked down over the rail at the wake. A pair of porpoises was playing in the troubled water.

  Thirty-One

  Hank and I stood behind Guilfoyle in the wheelhouse. We were coming up on half a mile away from the island. I put my hand on the captain’s shoulder.

  “Pass close in, see what we can eyeball. Maybe draw security if they’ve got it.”

  Guilfoyle cut the throttle. He bobbed his head twice. “Roger that. Why don’t both of you get on the net? Look like you’re working the boat, in case they have anyone watching.”

  I motioned Hank to come down out of the wheelhouse. I brought Guilfoyle’s binoculars with me. We got to the back of the boat and sat on the netting piled up in an organized mess.

  Hank made himself comfortable on a spiral of webbing. “What’s going on?”

  I said, “We’ll go in close to the island, and Guilfoyle’s going to bank us past real slow. If there are no issues, I’m thinking we might take the skiff in and land it. Then we get to look around.”

  He said, “Sounds good to me. Why all the gear?”

  I said, “In case there are issues. We’re a fishing crew. It’s standard practice to do a last run with the net before putting it up in the loft for the winter. We do that, check out the condition of the webbing and see if anything needs to be repaired right away. In fact, we already did that three days ago.”

  Guilfoyle had the throttle pushed all the way forward, the diesel engine gurgled like a healthy and energetic beast. I watched the island through the binoculars as we got closer. There was nothing remarkable about it. The compound of buildings was visible to the naked eye now. Three low structures, fenced area, beach, skeleton communication tower tucked back in the bushes. None of it in use, abandoned for years. Then there was the long dock in the middle of the water, about two hundred yards out. I put the binoculars up to get another look. Scanning from left to right I saw nondescript, functional structures. I figured there would be desks and chairs, and in the past, computers and calculating equipment. Maybe a kitchen. One of the buildings was likely to be reserved as quarters. Single rooms for the officers, doubles or more if there had been enlisted men. I could see the reason for the fenced area. A round dome was smack dab in the center of the square of dirt. The dome was white, its surface not quite round, but speckled with flat geometric tiles. Like a die with a thousand faces. That would be a satellite communications rig.

  Then I heard a sharp intake of breath from Hank. At the same time, Guilfoyle eased up on the throttle. The engine sound went from hell-bent to idle in less than three seconds. Once the Sea Foam’s throttle cut back, I heard the other boat.

  Hank said, “Keeler.”

  I put down the binoculars. A powerful zodiac had come around the north side of the island. It was cruising on an interception trajectory. I could make out two men. One of them was at the wheel in back. The second man was standing at the bow, legs wide apart. He was looking at us through a pair of binoculars.

  I said, “The guy standing at the bow, did he see me looking?”

  Hank said, “I don’t think so. He just got the glass up a second ago.”

  “Alright, so take it easy. Let Guilfoyle handle it. They’ll speak to the captain, not us.”

  Guilfoyle brought the boat to idle and drift-turned so that he was port side to the incoming zodiac. Hank and I sat on the net like hired help taking a break before the hard work begins. The zodiac was alongside us in a half minute. I raised a hand at the two crew members, who didn’t reciprocate. They were guys in their thirties wearing good practical marine gear.

  Guilfoyle came out of the wheelhouse onto the little platform above the ladder. He called out, “Howdy.”

  The guy at the wheel cut back on the throttle so that the zodiac remained in place. The other guy standing on the bow called out to Guilfoyle. “Government property. Got to ask you to keep your distance. Three hundred yards is the limit. Be happier if you kept off four hundred.”

  Guilfoyle nodded vigorously. “No problem. Didn’t know it was still government property. What am I, five hundred yards out now, thereabouts?”

  The guy didn’t respond. Guilfoyle said, “We’re gonna set for two and we’ll be out of here. I need the depth so I want to come in about a hundred yards more. Give or take. We’ll stay clear of your perimeter.”

  The guy didn’t say anything but eyeballed the boat hard. Then he nodded briefly, almost imperceptibly. The zodiac driver got the signal. He gunned past us and banked around in a tight U-turn. They came roaring by again, skimming the water. The zodiac drifted into an idle at two hundred yards. The men both turned to watch, waiting for us to change tack.

  Guilfoyle came down the ladder, walked out on to the stern, and stood with one foot on a pile of webbing, like he was briefing us on the work. He said, “So we’ve got issues.”

  I said, “What did you mean by needing the depth?”

  “There is a reason the Navy chose Bell Island. It’s got an unusually deep approach.”

  Hank said, “I wonder how they spotted us coming in? Kind of touchy, if you ask me.”

  I said, “Very touchy. Either a lookout, or electronic sensors.”

  Hank said, “How would they do that?”

  Guilfoyle said, “Buoys beneath the surface. Seeded a couple of miles around the base.”

  I said, “Which makes me curious, Hank. I want to go up on that island, that’s for damn su
re.”

  He said, “But how are you going to do that now?”

  “You know how to drive a boat?”

  He said, “Basics, yes.”

  “You’re driving the skiff.” I looked at Guilfoyle. “Can you handle the net by yourself?”

  He shrugged. “Not my favorite thing to do, but in a pinch, yes.”

  I said, “I’m going to need to borrow your dive gear.”

  A ripple of worry passed over Guilfoyle’s face. Like every fishing boat, the Sea Foam carried basic diving equipment. This was in case of any tangles with the net and propeller, or other problems beneath the surface. But it was rarely used.

  Guilfoyle said, “To be honest, Keeler, I’m embarrassed to say that I’m not entirely sure the dive gear is in order.”

  “It’s in order, Guilfoyle.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know because I checked and made sure it was. The weight belt clamp was cracked, but I changed it out.”

  “When did you do that?”

  “Back in Seattle.”

  After four months, Guilfoyle knew significant parts of my biography. So he kept quiet. He had nothing more to add to the conversation.

  I turned to Hank. “Once we’re set up, I’m going to lie down in the skiff so they don’t see me. Guilfoyle, you’ll screen us with the big boat when we board the skiff. Hank’s going to drive it and tow the net.” Hank was just looking at me, open mouth. I said, “You’ll be fine. Just get me as close as possible to the island. The less swimming I need to do, the better. Then I’m going over for a look around. I want to see what’s out there.”

  Hank said, “Shit, you sure that’s safe?”

  I ignored that and lifted my chin to Guilfoyle. “What’s with the floating dock?”

  Guilfoyle said, “Submarine dock.”

  I nodded. “What I thought. Is that because of the depth here?”