Deepkill

by Michael Kilian

  “They can’t patrol the roadway,” replied Dewey. He noticed something awry on the foredeck. “Where’s the fifty-caliber?”

  “Second officer had it stowed below,” DeGroot said.

  “SOP transiting to duty station,” Kelleter explained.

  “Get it back on the mount, Hugo.”

  “You think we’re going to need heavy weapons?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  Coast Guard Investigative Service Special Agent Erik Westman was at the tiller of his small sailboat, heading downstream from Alexandria and the Wilson Bridge toward his mooring at Belle Haven Marina. He had sailed up to Washington for dinner and was returning after dark, but he knew the Potomac well and there was a moon.

  With his prematurely white hair, deep tan, Navy polo shirt, white shorts, and Sperry Topsiders, he looked more a yachtsman than a federal agent. There were times when that proved useful on undercover missions.

  Westman was from Bristol, Rhode Island, and had grown up with boats. He had quit college at the University of Rhode Island after only two years and joined the Coast Guard as a lark, thinking he’d spend a little time doing something he truly enjoyed while he figured out what he wanted to do with his life. When it had come time to reenlist, he’d realized the service was it, though his parents hadn’t been very happy with his choice of a career.

  His architect father had hoped he’d become one too, or perhaps an artist, for Westman had shown talent as an amateur painter. But the Coast Guard made him happy, and even lowly petty officers made more than most artists.

  Four years after signing up with the Coast Guard, Westman had been selected for the warrant officers program. Two years after that, having earned admission to the Coast Guard Investigative Service, he’d been promoted to chief warrant officer four, the top grade before you got into the regular officers’ caste. Westman had no interest in that, because the Investigative Service accepted no one in its special agent ranks above the rank of warrant officer. He’d been with the CGIS, mostly as an intelligence operative, for nine years. Westman could not imagine himself doing anything else.

  As always, he was returning to his marina reluctantly. He loved sailing this river, night or day. He was put in mind of an afternoon he’d spent on it years before with a woman from Rhode Island—a lady who might have become his wife, had he not been inconveniently and unfortunately involved with someone in the Coast Guard.

  She had brought a picnic lunch and wine and after they had finished it he had kissed her knee. That was all there was to it that day, but it was a memory never far from his mind. He wondered what might have happened had they gone on more such sails—especially on soft summer nights like this one.

  Instead, the lady had married a fighter pilot friend of his. The Coast Guard lady friend had abandoned him for higher rank. There had never been anyone else, though he’d come close.

  The wind was light and from the east. Raising the center-board of his nineteen-foot Flying Scot, he crossed directly over the sandbar that ran just off the river’s western shore. Reaching the deeper water of the harbor, he lowered the board again, turning away from his mooring and heading for the dock. Tying up there, he’d just stowed his jib when his cell phone rang.

  He’d been thinking of his small town house on the west end of Alexandria’s Old Town, and the pleasant prospect of a glass of wine and a book. He thought he’d revisit Nicholas Monsarrat’s The Cruel Sea.

  “Westman,” he said.

  “This is Admiral dePayse.”

  Her voice this evening was very sharp. Usually she was much gentler with him. The lady was deputy assistant Coast Guard commandant for operations—a world above mere warrant officers, though theirs was a less-than-formal relationship.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “There’s been some kind of explosion on the Bay Bridge. Early reports are confusing, but there’s a possibility it’s a terrorist act. I wonder if you’d mind going out and showing the flag. Under the memorandum of agreement, the FBI will be running the show, but I’d like us on stage.”

  “Any particular reason to believe it’s terrorism?”

  “A better term might be attempted assassination. The Homeland Security adviser was on the bridge at the time.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “I haven’t heard otherwise.”

  “Traffic’ll be backed up from Annapolis all the way to the District line.”

  “There’s a helicopter en route from Activities Baltimore—an HH-60 Jayhawk. Go to your office on Telegraph Road and I’ll have it waiting for you.”

  “To whom do I report?”

  “You’re probably the only chief warrant officer in the Coasties who says ‘whom.’”

  “Yes, ma’am. Who then?”

  “The usual channels. And to me.”

  From the air, Highway 50 and the roads running to it looked like a weave of sparkling, illuminated snakes. Traffic seemed to have halted throughout Anne Arundel County and all along the bridge beyond. Around the near end was a large cluster of whirling red-and-blue police car lights.

  “I don’t see anyplace where we can set down,” said the pilot over the intercom.

  Westman leaned to the left, pressing his head against the Plexiglas. He could see boat lights all along the line of bridge supports. Nearer was the familiar outline of Sandy Point State Park.

  “How about that parking lot on Sandy Point?” he said.

  The chopper pilot had no view of that section. Slowly, he turned the machine until he could see the bayside park from his side.

  “They’ve got some emergency vehicles down there—and it looks like light poles and other obstructions.”

  “And the beach?”

  “I might try that in an emergency—if the alternative was death. Night landings, Erik. Hard on the equipment.” He began turning the machine to face the open bay again.

  “You’re right,” said Westman. He looked forward. “An awful lot of boat activity. What resources do we have on the scene?”

  “I’ll check.” The pilot clicked on his radio microphone. The response was immediate. “Got the Manteo—Island Class cutter—plus a couple of forty-sevens out of Station Annapolis.”

  “Call the skipper of the Manteo. I know him—a lieutenant named Dewey. Tell him you’ve got me aboard and I want to transfer to his deck.”

  “That’s a hundred-ten-footer, Mr. Westman. Not a two-ten. There is no helo pad.” There were other helicopters in the night sky, hovering around the bridge like fireflies.

  “I know that. I’ll use the basket hoist.”

  Dewey returned the radio microphone to its holder. “Prepare to receive a passenger.”

  DeGroot frowned. The Manteo had two inflatables in the water, searching for victims from the bridge incident. One of the Annapolis forty-seven-footers was working the other side of the span while the second was busy shooing away gawkers in motorboats.

  “Who is it, some brass hat from headquarters who thinks the situation requires flag rank?”

  “A mere warrant officer. Erik Westman, from CGIS.”

  DeGroot grunted—his form of approval.

  The Jayhawk pilot approached the Manteo by the bow. The vessel had a derrick-style mast that rose three stories above the deck and bristled with antennae. The pilot apparently wanted to have it fully in sight while he hovered.

  Leaving DeGroot in charge on the bridge, Dewey went forward to receive his guest, standing by the starboard rail to keep his footing in the rotor wash. The helicopter began lowering its basket with great care.

  The basket was swinging in a gentle arc. Two crewmen rushed forward to take hold of its sides when it was low enough to reach. Westman waited until it was perhaps a foot above the deck, then stood up and swung over the basket rail, landing on the Manteo with a slight thump. He backed away from the basket, watching to make sure it was retrieved without fouling on the cutter. Then he turned and joined Dewey.

  “Permission to come aboard, s
ir,” he said after the helicopter had lifted away and its roar diminished.

  “You got it, Erik,” Dewey said. “I’m glad to have you on the Manteo, but why aren’t you working with the FBI? They’re all over the place.”

  “I haven’t reported to them yet. It would take me forever to get out onto that bridge. Anyway, I doubt they’ll have much use for me on this one.”

  “Their mistake.”

  “What’s the situation?” Westman said.

  Dewey looked to the bridge span above, and the rectangular gap in its flooring. “Couldn’t get much out of the Bureau boys, but the Maryland State Police gave me a report. Exploding truck. Surprisingly little damage. A number of casualties.”

  Westman studied the bridge flooring as well. “They’re certain it was a bomb?”

  “Pretty sure. First report was it was a tanker truck, but witnesses said it was a rental stake truck. The explosion blew out the bridge railing and damaged a section of the roadway. A couple of vehicles went into the water, including the truck.”

  “How many casualties?”

  “No idea how many.”

  “The White House Homeland Security adviser?”

  “He’s alive. Maybe a little singed. They walked him off the bridge. It’ll be a while before they get that traffic moving again.”

  “And you’re doing SAR?”

  “Search and rescue. Victims and survivors. Haven’t found either yet.”

  “Perpetrators?”

  “Witnesses said they saw men running along the bridge back toward the Eastern Shore, but they could have been motorists just trying to get away.”

  DeGroot blew the Manteo’s horn in five quick blasts—a signal to an approaching motorboat to stand off.

  As the last blast trailed off into a faint echo, another sound was heard—a hail from one of the cutter’s inflatables, which was returning on the Manteo’s port side. Westman and Dewey went to the rail.

  “Find something?” Dewey said, calling down to the crewman at the helm of the inflatable.

  “Yeah, Cap. Nothing good.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The crewman flashed his light at the center of the craft, where a canvas cover had been thrown over a small human form. Westman could see a small foot protruding.

  “A little girl,” said the crewman. “What’s left of her.”

  “Here we go again,” said Dewey. “The bastards.”

  Chapter 3

  It had been a routine nighttime takeoff, just like hundreds Burt Schilling had done since he’d joined the Air Force shortly before the Vietnam War.

  And it had proceeded routinely that cold March night nearly forty years before, at least in the beginning. He had lifted the big C-130 Hercules cargo plane off the main runway of Dover Air Force Base without incident and was climbing to altitude in the usual laborious but steady fashion.

  Ahead and to the left were the bright lights of Cape May, New Jersey. Off to the right were those of Lewes, Delaware. Beneath his lumbering airplane, the flat blackness of Delaware Bay stretched between the two. Beyond its mouth, a vastness of dark that was the Atlantic Ocean, and beyond it their eventual destination of Frankfurt, Germany. The four big turboprop engines were throbbing and thrumming in their usual harmony.

  And then suddenly they weren’t.

  Burt looked to his instrument panel. The needles were showing normal readings. But the airspeed was falling. Burt detected the anomaly first as a subtle change in engine noise. Then it finally registered on the indicator—a jiggle, then a slight movement in the wrong direction. The altimeter was still holding steady. Or was it?

  They were clean—gear up, flaps retracted. He’d throttled back a little as the C-130 had gained height over the bay. Now he jammed all four throttles to the wall and checked the engine gauges again. Two of the needles were falling back. Engines one and two. Fewer and fewer RPMs.

  “We got a serious problem,” said Olssen, his copilot. The man’s pale eyes took on a maniacal cast from the red glow of the instrument lights.

  “Yep.”

  Burt heard Sergeant Mikulski, his flight engineer, swearing behind him.

  “Number one and two goin’ out, Captain,” the sergeant said.

  Burt looked out his cockpit window to the left. A few licks of blue flame and sparks from the outboard engine on that side; the other was dead and dark.

  The left wing was beginning to drop. Gripping the controls tightly, Schilling put in some compensatory aileron and rudder.

  Altitude was 3,800 feet and slipping. Airspeed was two-twenty. Then less.

  “No fire indicated,” Olssen said.

  “Three and four still normal,” said Mikulski.

  Schilling looked to the left. No exhaust flames.

  “Try to restart?” said Olssen.

  That could risk a fire. “Negative. Cut the throttle and feather props on one and two.”

  A drop of sweat slid into Burt’s eye. Was he that nervous? Or was the word “scared”?

  “What are you going to do, Cap? We can’t fly very long like this.”

  Right. What the hell was a pilot in command to do here? Was he out of options already?

  Altitude 3,600 feet. Airspeed two-fifteen. Burt had to act fast. Somehow get back to Dover. There was another, smaller field nearer, just to the right, at Milford, Delaware. He could almost see the lights. But he’d have to go far over land to line up with the too-short runway. They’d probably end up in the dirt and trees, digging their own grave with a C-130. Ocean City had an airport with a long runway, but it was too far down the shore.

  No, it had to be Dover. Dover or death.

  A younger pilot might panic here, as Burt had often done himself as a beginner. The impulse was to throw the aircraft into a tight 180-degree and head for home—Hell or high water. But a steep turn like that with faltering power and the heavy cargo they were carrying would cost them precious altitude fast—or even bring on a stall. They’d be in the drink before they saw the Dover approach lights.

  There was still time for everyone to get chutes on and plenty of altitude yet to jump. But this was night. It was March. The dark water below was dangerously cold. There was a Coast Guard station at Cape May, but there was no telling how long it would take for a rescue.

  Schilling could try to ditch in the bay close to the shore. But the chances of a successful night-water landing in a clumsy aircraft like this were essentially nil. The plane wouldn’t float for more than a moment. Not with what they had aboard. The very full belly might well rip apart on impact.

  There were fifteen other men aboard.

  They had only one chance. He had to make the ship lighter. Flight occurred when lift overcame gravity and thrust overcame drag. They’d lost too much thrust and were losing lift. He had to decrease the pull of gravity. Fast.

  Burt called in a Mayday. The origin of the term was French: “M’aidez.” “Help me.” But there was no help. Not outside this aircraft. He gave the Dover tower his situation, position, and intention, then looked to Olssen.

  “We’ve got to jettison the cargo.”

  “Cap! We can’t do that! Not what we’ve got!”

  “It all has to go.”

  He clicked on the intercom, and told the rest of the crew. He explained the seriousness of their plight as swiftly as possible—telling them their safe return depended entirely on how fast they could move. Then he gripped the controls, ordering Olssen to go below and help with the cargo.

  “The main cargo, Burt? You mean it?”

  “Go!”

  “President Johnson isn’t going to like this.”

  Burt was sweating all over now. He could feel it running cold down his back. He and a couple of pilot pals had hit some bars in Baltimore the previous night. Hit them too hard. His eyes were burning from the perspiration.

  Olssen was barely out of the cockpit when the rear hatch opened. The ship jerked downward a bit, as though a gigantic hook had caught it. Straight ahead now, thr
ough the windshield, there was only blackness. To the side, the lights of Rehoboth Beach were at an odd angle.

  The altimeter was unwinding at a rapid rate.

  “How’re we doing down there?” Schilling said into the intercom, as though asking God.

  “Still working on it, Cap,” came a desperate voice.

  “Joe,” said Schilling to Mikulski. “Get down there and help them—quick!”

  The engineer hurled himself aft. Schilling could hear his feet clanging down the ladder to the cargo deck.

  Fighting the pull to the left, Schilling leaned to the right, hooking his arm through the control wheel.

  “Hurry up! Damn it, you guys! Get those things out!”

  Altimeter twenty-two hundred. Airspeed close to three hundred, and rising. Schilling could measure his life now in passing seconds, in the unwindings of a needle. He hadn’t thought much about his life, about what he would do with the rest of it. Now, suddenly, here he was at the end.

  There was little he could remember about the night before this flight—after his fourth drink.

  He rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t keep the perspiration out of them. Once, years before, he’d heard men in a doomed, plummeting aircraft screaming their last over the radio. They’d shouted obscenities. No dignity. No faith. Just rage.

  There was a sudden lurch.

  Burt heard a sharp bang, and then a thump and the groan of metal, something heavy rolling, and then another thump. The pull to the left abruptly increased. His arm, lodged in the control wheel, felt near to breaking. He had his landing lights on. He could see the water ahead.

  “Are they clear?” He shouted this.

  “Last one’s hung up! Mikulski’s working on it!” He heard screams, profanities, rage.

  “Goddamn it!” Schilling said. “Get that thing out of the airplane!”

  A dreadful banging. He heard more shouts and swearing over the earphones. Something jarred the aircraft again.

  The Dover tower was calling him, but he ignored it. His landing approach at that moment was in the realm of fantasy. More wrenching sounds. He felt the plane shudder again.