Deepkill

by Michael Kilian

  Westman moved at a crouch to the foot of the dock, then knelt, waiting and watching, not moving farther even as Cat joined him.

  Nothing stirred. The rental shack was dark and appeared to be locked. Aside from the distant traffic, the only sound to be heard was the gentle slosh of water.

  “Keep low,” he said. Taking out his own automatic, he stepped onto the dock, then crept along to the first pontoon boat.

  Its deck was empty. Glancing back to make certain Cat was with him, he then moved on to the second.

  There was a tarpaulin stretched rail to rail over the boat’s deck, running almost its entire length. Westman swung onto the outside of the rail, then untied one of the lines holding the canvas fast. Moving farther along the boat’s side, he undid another knot and then flipped back about six feet of the tarpaulin, waiting for Cat and helping her aboard.

  “Why haven’t they left a guard?” she whispered.

  “Maybe they thought that would look suspicious. Draw attention. Be thankful.”

  He loosened yet another line, folding back the canvas still more. There was little light, but the long, dark form was unmistakable. Westman touched the cold, rough surface, as though to make sure it was real.

  Cat did the same. “All right. Here it is, like you said. Now what?”

  “We put the tarpaulin back in place and get the hell out of here. I want to wait for Dewey before we do anything more.”

  “Well, it’s not like we can just pick it up and put it in the back of the Jeep.”

  Westman thought of the big truck. “Or even get it off the boat onto the dock.” He reached for the edge of the canvas.

  “Why don’t we just take the boat?” Cat said.

  “And take it where?”

  “To your Coast Guard cutter.”

  “That would be theft.”

  “Erik …”

  “I’m not sure Dewey would go along with that.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “He likes to follow procedure.”

  Carrying a baseball bat and an automatic pistol, Gergen led his crew toward Leonard’s ratty little house on foot. Leonard’s shiny new motorcycle was standing in the driveway. The Lincoln Navigator was parked in the sandy street. Bear could see the silhouette of a human head through the rear window. Someone was in the driver’s seat, waiting.

  He whispered a command to Creed, who crouched down as much as his big body would permit and moved to the right side of the vehicle. Bear did the same on the left, halting just to the rear of the driver’s-side door. Both let a few seconds pass; then Creed rapped gently on the passenger-side window.

  The driver leaned to his right. Assuming the man had a gun, Bear yanked the driver’s-side door open swiftly and in almost the same motion grabbed the man by his collar, pulling him back and out of the SUV and flinging him to the ground. His next move was to stomp on the poor devil’s neck. A gurgling sound followed, then ceased. He didn’t need the ball bat.

  Not yet.

  Bear motioned the rest of his crew forward. They put their heads together on the street side of the SUV. He thought of Mary Lou. “I don’t want any shooting.”

  Creed gave him a questioning look.

  “If we can help it,” Bear said.

  Turko sat uneasily in the rearmost seat of Pec’s fully loaded eight-passenger van, just behind the Kosovar. There was no way Turko could exit the vehicle without crawling over Pec and the man next to him, a Saudi named Ibn. He’d be dead within two seconds of initiating the attempt.

  Turko wondered if the six men Pec now had with him were the last of his supply of troops. Sleeper cells survived because no one knew about them until they were called into action. So it had been with Turko’s. There could be more of them here on the East Coast, just waiting for Pec’s summons. But Turko didn’t think so. He desperately hoped not.

  The Kosovar was obviously very interested in acquiring this bomb. His head was on the chopping block as well. The weapon would be as much of a lifeline for him as it was for Turko.

  But Turko’s lifeline was short. He’d told Pec about the bomb and where to find it. He had nothing left to barter. He’d be useful in negotiating with the tugboat man, but after that, he’d be expendable, just as Gergen would be expendable once Pec had acquired the bomb.

  As Turko now knew, but Pec might not realize, Gergen was an unusually intelligent man. In this fact lay Turko’s only real chance of survival.

  “I suggest that we haggle with them over the price,” Turko said. “And question how we might remove the bomb from wherever they have it. Work the one thing against the other.”

  Pec said nothing. When he finally spoke, it was about something else. “How did you get away so easily in New Jersey?”

  “I prepared carefully,” Turko said.

  “It’s always escape with you. Are you afraid to die, Turko?”

  “Not afraid. There is more that I would like to do.”

  Turko sensed Pec’s grin. “The time comes when that is no longer of any consequence.”

  The driver slowed. “This is the street,” he said.

  Hearing the sound of a large, outboard engine, Westman used the flashlight from the Wrangler to signal the craft, trusting it was Dewey and his inflatable. He sent a simple message, in Morse code: “CG, CG, CG.”

  The outboard droned on. The boat had gone far past them when at last a light blinked on in reply, flashing the same message. Westman then clicked the flashlight fully on.

  The inflatable altered course and headed directly for Westman and his friends, slowing as it approached the concrete seawall. One of the crew threw Westman a line. He made it fast to a metal post and, a moment later, Dewey and DeGroot clambered ashore.

  “What’s the situation?” Dewey asked.

  “As of a few minutes ago,” Westman replied, “the bomb was on the boat and completely unguarded.”

  “Not very bright, these guys,” said Dewey.

  “Bright enough to steal the thing,” DeGroot countered.

  “And kill two nice kids,” said Cat.

  Dewey took note of her presence and Schilling’s with a friendly nod. “Well, I think we should call in the Ocean City police. As Miss McGrath says, there are homicides involved.”

  “We’d have to go up through channels to get a warrant,” DeGroot said. “Justice Department gets involved and you know what that means.”

  “We could simply inform the police that there are illegal explosives aboard that boat,” Westman said. “They’ll be down here quick enough.”

  Dewey frowned. “They will need a warrant.”

  “Why?” Cat asked.

  “Procedure.” Dewey turned back to Westman. “The bomb was covered by a tarp when you went aboard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you should have had a warrant. It involves a search.”

  “Tim …”

  “Lieutenant, this is a goddamn hydrogen bomb!” interjected Schilling. “It’s sitting on a boat tied up three blocks from here! We’re in Ocean City, Maryland. Thousands of people here. And we’re just a hundred thirty miles from Washington.”

  “He means to sell it and we don’t know who to,” Westman said.

  “It’s a night we should throw away the book, Skipper,” DeGroot added.

  If Dewey threw away the book, if he blew any successful prosecution of this case, he could be throwing away his next assignment as commander of the Sentinel—along with his career.

  “So what do you propose?” Dewey asked.

  Westman looked to DeGroot. They had worked together in the Caribbean. “We take the boat. We take it out to the Manteo and haul the bomb aboard. We bring it down to Norfolk, and turn it over to the U.S. Navy.”

  Cat shivered. “Why are we standing around talking?”

  Dewey made a face. “What do you think, Hugo?”

  “Easy enough to do, Lieutenant. If you’re willing.”

  Schilling stepped forward. “It’s there. On the goddamn boat. Forty ye
ars it’s been under the sea and now it’s right there. What’s the problem?”

  Dewey stood a little straighter. “The problem, Captain, is that we’ve had two terrorist attacks in less than two weeks and I’m responsible for patrolling a very important waterway where one of them took place. I’m under orders. I am well acquainted with Chief Warrant Officer Westman here, but I don’t know you very well, and it’s your word we’re all relying on that this is an operational weapon. Mr. Westman told me your belief is based on a deathbed letter you received from a former crew member.”

  “I haven’t any doubt, Tim,” Westman said. “None. I’ve seen it.”

  Dewey sighed. “Erik, I’ve got to get authority for this. One quick official call. From the Manteo. As per standing orders.”

  Westman shook his head. “You go up the operations food chain and you’ll run right into Admiral dePayse.”

  “Erik. You’ve been a Coastie a hell of a lot longer than I have. You know I have to do this.”

  Cat turned in disgust and started walking away.

  Gergen had Creed and one of the other crew members go to the rear of Leonard’s house. He kept his fourth guy, Valdi Pinski, with him at the front. Roy was to move first, making a lot of noise as he attacked the door.

  Watching through the front window, Bear waited for Roy’s attack, then saw Leonard get up from the couch and, taking up a pistol, disappear through a doorway. A black man rose from a chair, pulling out an automatic but not taking a step. Bear guessed there might be more of these guys in the house, but even so, now was the time to move.

  He kicked in the front door, quickly, with one jolt. He had his own .44 out. Seeing it, the black man who had gotten to his feet dropped his weapon, but in his peripheral vision Bear caught sight of another African man to the left, rising from a chair and reaching within his coat.

  Now Bear had no choice. He swung his gun left and squeezed off one round. His aim was a little off. Instead of hitting the man squarely in the stomach, the bullet went left, taking out his liver. He dropped fast.

  Gergen moved his pistol back to the first black man. “You get facedown on the floor right now and don’t move one inch.” He nodded to Pinski. “See to that.”

  Then he went to where Leonard had gone.

  Pec had his man at the wheel drive past the address Turko had given him and pull up across the street.

  “I think I heard a gunshot,” said one of the men up front.

  “Fired at us?” Pec asked.

  “I do not think so.”

  Pec turned around to fix Turko with an accusing stare. “Would he know we were coming tonight?”

  “No. It was very specifically agreed. Noon tomorrow. To give us time to acquire the money.”

  Another of the men laughed.

  “Where could he have this bomb?” Pec said. “Not in that little house.”

  “No. But near. He is a tugboat man. Maybe it is on a boat.”

  A convertible full of noisy young men and women came down the street, its radio blaring strange American music. They rolled by without pause or notice, turning at the next corner.

  “This is very clumsy. I am not certain it is worth the risk. We have never taken such risks.”

  “I think it is worth the risk.”

  Pec considered this. “We wait. If there is another gunshot, we leave.”

  Turko knew full well that, in that event, he would quickly leave this life.

  Gergen dragged his cousin into the living room. He had been careful only to whack Leonard in the leg with the baseball bat, though his inclination had been to knock his head off.

  Nodding to Roy Creed to stand behind Leonard, Gergen went over to the still-prone black man, who did not appear to have moved even an eyelid. “Enrique Diller sent you guys, right?”

  “No. We came with him.”

  “Came? Where is he?”

  “Over there. You have killed him.”

  Gergen swore. He had questions for Diller. “What’re you doing down here?”

  “Business.”

  “With my cousin here?”

  The eyes moved to Leonard, then back to Bear. Easy choice. “Yes. With him.”

  “He sold you bastards my stash of drugs off that yacht, right?”

  “He did.”

  “And what was he fixing to sell you now?”

  “I am not sure.”

  “Something he had on one of his boats? That why you sons of bitches were down by his dock?”

  The man did not reply. Bear kicked him in the ribs. “Yes.”

  “What would a bunch of dumb druggie bastards like you do with something like that?”

  “Your cousin said there were people who would pay a lot of money for it.”

  “How much were you going to pay him?”

  “Five. Ten. I don’t know.”

  Gergen went over to Leonard, hulking over him, bringing his face down to his cousin’s as he might an aimed heavy weapon. Leonard had been doping, but he seemed now very alert.

  “I’m sorry, Bear.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Sorry.”

  Gergen stood up straight, smiling. “You’re sorry, all right, you sorry-assed bastard. Only you’re going to be sorrier.”

  “Please, Bear. I got a wife.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Gergen went to an armchair he guessed to be the one Leonard used, as it was directly in front of the television set. “Get me a beer, Roy. He’ll have beer. And some for you guys.”

  “Okay, Bear.”

  Seating himself, Gergen leaned back carefully, then raised his pistol to aim it at Leonard’s James Dean nose. “You know what you are, Leonard? A fucking traitor to your country—trying to sell something like this to the enemy.”

  “Enrique Diller’s an American, Bear. Least he was.”

  “Well, who the hell did you think he was going to sell it to, the Daughters of the American Revolution?”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.”

  “What about you, Bear? You’re tryin’ to sell it to the fucking rag-heads!”

  “You dumb shit. Once we had the money I was going to drop a dime on them. You think I’d leave a nuke with a bunch of murderous pricks like that? I’m ex-Navy. I voted for both Bushes—twice each. I was going to call the Coast Guard the second we were clear of these guys.”

  Bear heard a click and turned to see the front door open.

  Chapter 33

  Westman led the way back to the dock, halting in the shadows at the near end behind a storage shack. Cat knelt beside him. “Something wrong? Is someone there?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m wondering where we should go with the boat.”

  “Out to the cutter.”

  He shook his head. “I know Dewey. I think he’s spooked by our having become outlaws.”

  “If we go out there and confront him with it, he’ll have no choice.”

  “We can’t count on that. He may well have gotten new orders by now. With the terrorist flag up, they like to keep everybody in motion.”

  “So what do we do?”

  Westman made a map in his mind. “We should go south. On the Intracoastal behind Assateague Island. Where they can’t find us. There are coves back there, and islands.”

  “How far?”

  “I don’t know. Follow the Intracoastal channel down Sinepuxent Bay.”

  “You want to go to Wallops Island,” she said.

  “It’s an idea. Federal facility. NASA. We could turn the bomb over to them.”

  “There’s a Navy installation there,” she said. “Some sort of test site.”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “Is your friend Dewey up for promotion?”

  Westman nodded again. “A bigger boat.”

  She swore. “Your Coast Guard’s no better than the Navy.”

  A car was moving slowly along the waterfront.

  “No more talk,” said Burt. “Time to go. Move it or lose it.”

  Bea
r lowered his pistol when he saw it was Mary Lou coming through the door. Upon seeing Leonard and the dead man, she stopped cold, fear creeping into her eyes when they returned to Gergen.

  “Where the hell were you?” he asked.

  “I went out for a couple of beers. Leonard said he had some business and that I should get lost for a while.”

  “You didn’t know what was goin’ on here?”

  She shrugged. “Some kind of drug deal?”

  Bear swore. “Your husband was ripping me off—again!” He pointed to the still-bleeding corpse. “That’s Enrique Diller, out of Philly. Leonard wasn’t selling him marijuana this time. He was selling him my bomb.”

  “I don’t want to know anything about that.” She went to a chair, slumping into it, putting her hand to her forehead but opening her fingers to keep both Bear and Leonard in view.

  “Mary Lou …” Leonard mumbled.

  “Shut up.” Bear went over to the surviving black man, still lying facedown on the floor. “Sorry.” He fired a single shot into the man’s head, causing him to flatten.

  Mary Lou gave a little shriek, but caught herself. Bear took out the clip from the gun, emptied its remaining rounds into his pocket, wiped the handgrip and trigger, and then brought it over to Leonard.

  “Here,” he said. When Leonard only stared blankly, Bear thrust the weapon receiver-first into his belly. Finally understanding what he was supposed to do, Leonard took hold of the gun. “Congratulations,” Bear said. “You are now an official murderer.”

  His cousin dropped the gun. That would do him no good. Bear went to retrieve his baseball bat, then returned to stand before Leonard. “Turn your head, Mary Lou.”

  “You can’t do that!” she said.

  “No choice.” He swung the bat back as though preparing to hit a three-bagger. He paused to wonder just how far Leonard’s handsome head could be hit by a baseball bat.

  Bear had waited too long. Mary Lou had left the front door slightly ajar behind her. Now it swung open and against the wall with a bang. In walked Skouras and some of the nastiest-looking people Bear had ever seen in two decades of hunting down or doing business with the scum of the earth.

  Leonard smiled at his reprieve. He’d live—for the two or three minutes Bear figured he had left to live.