by Joe Nobody
Dusty shrugged his shoulders, “Fine with me. I have always thought a luau might be the way to go. I will tell Grace to get out her grass skirt and coconut bra.” He paused at his brother’s feigned disapproving expression. “Hey,” the older Weathers continued, “we are supposed to blend in, right?”
“Personally, I can’t wait to see you match up an Aloha shirt with your cowboy boots.” Mitch smiled at the realization that he had not seen his older sibling so relaxed in ages. The professor continued, “Andy is meeting us there as well. He’s going to fly over with my family, so it will be Grace and you on this first leg of the adventure. That will give you guys a few days at sea so you can make sure there’s nothing we haven’t thought of.”
“I haven’t been off this ship for weeks,” Captain Bard announced to his second in command. “We set sail tomorrow, so I’m going to head into town for a drink. There’s an old watering hole down by the Navy piers that used to serve reasonable Scotch. I haven’t been there since I was an ensign, and this will probably be my last chance to have a drink and chill out for a long, long time.”
“I’ll keep an eye on things,” replied the first officer. “You’ve busted your ass on this project. If anyone deserves a little decompression, it’s you.”
Bard walked to the front gate where he asked the guard to call him a cab. A short time later, he was entering the Rusty Chain.
Like so many establishments that cater to the military crowd, the Chain was full of historic memorabilia. The place looked Navy, felt Navy, and primarily catered to the men and women of the U.S. Navy.
He’d just ordered his first libation when a large shadow appeared over his shoulder. With a friendly smile, he pivoted to see who was violating his private space.
There were actually two of them, both in their early 20s, both wearing the uniform, both reeking of beer. “This is a service man’s establishment,” the larger of the boozers announced. “There are plenty of other places for a civilian to have a drink.”
“What about retired officers?” Bard asked, figuring the two drunks were more bluster than threat.
“You ain’t no retired officer,” slurred the other aggressor. “You’re too young to have retired.”
“Captain Christopher Bard, retired,” the ex-officer said, offering his hand. “Recently retired, as a matter of fact. Why don’t you gentlemen let me buy you a drink?”
Dismissing Bard as having little potential for an argument, intimidation, or a fight, the larger man waved off the offer and moved along to find other entertainment.
“Did you say your name was Bard?” asked another fellow a few stools down.
Chris realized he’d probably just fucked up, studying the questioner with a wary eye. “I did,” he finally answered honestly.
“I think we’ve met, Captain. I was stationed at Norfolk for two years,” replied the man. “Jack Lamar, formerly the weapons officer aboard the Stark.”
Bard knew the ship and her captain. The seated man did seem familiar, the mention of his boat bringing back vague memories. “So how are you doing these days, Jack?”
“Not so good, sir. They forced me to separate nine months ago, and I’ve been having a hell of a time finding work. What about you?”
“Same here,” Bard lied. “I got caught up in some politics and resigned my commission a while back. But, I got lucky and found some temporary work out here on the left coast.”
“Really?” Jack perked. “Do they need any more men?”
“No, sorry, I wish I’d known you were looking… but the project is over tomorrow. That’s why I’m in here having a drink.”
Lamar didn’t like the response, but his reaction wasn’t aimed at Bard. “Just my luck,” he said. “Seems like I’m always a day late and a dollar short.”
Bard threw back the bottom of his scotch, relishing the warm liquid as it burned its way down his throat. “One more,” he instructed the attentive barkeep. “And one for my friend Jack… whatever he’s having.”
Bard was halfway through his second before Jack spoke up again.
“I’ve been sitting here racking my brain,” Lamar began. “Weren’t you the skipper on Gravely, sir?”
Sensing no malice from the man, Chris answered honestly. “Yes, I was.”
It all seemed to fall into place for the semi-inebriated sailor. “I’d say you ran into some politics,” he laughed. “Last I heard, you were up on charges. Did they get dropped?”
“Yes, the board of inquiry found no facts to support a court martial. But it was clear that my career in the Navy was over, so I resigned.”
“Too bad,” Jack sighed, shaking his head. “With all that shit going down in Washington, and all the crapola about some superweapon, nobody is hiring. I heard today we’re looking at a second depression if things don’t improve. None of that makes my wife feel any better. We got one in college and one about to go, and the savings is just about gone. That poor woman… she suffered through me being gone for months at a time, and now that I’m finally out, there’s no job and no money.”
“I hear you, friend,” Chris responded sympathetically, feeling the man’s pain. That could be me, he thought. I could be sitting right where he is.
Bard finished his second and rose to leave. Glancing over at Jack, the captain said, “I’m going to let you in on a secret, friend. The president is going to make an announcement tomorrow that is going to kick the economy in the ass. This whole rail gun ordeal is over; it’s no longer a threat. Hang in there man; things are about to get a whole lot better.”
And with that, Bard turned and exited the Rusty Chain, stepping outside to hail a taxi, feeling good about life.
After he’d left, Jack pulled a cell phone from his pocket.
A voice answered on the third ring, “Jack, I already told ya buddy, I can’t loan you any money.”
“That’s not what I’m calling about, asshole. You’ll never guess who just bought me a drink.”
“Admiral Nimitz?”
“Very amusing, shithead… very amusing indeed. Why my sister married you is way, way beyond me. Anyway, Captain Christopher Bard, formerly of Gravely, just bought me a drink.”
“The missile attack guy? He’s not in the brig?”
“Nope. He’s been working on a project out here in Seattle, and it’s finishing up tomorrow. He was in the bar celebrating.”
“Okay…. So?”
“So, he told me that the president is making some major announcement tomorrow that will jumpstart the economy big time. He said that Texan with the doomsday weapon is no longer a threat.”
“Hmmm. Interesting. News to me.”
“Oh, come on now. You can’t tell me a guy working in a senator’s office doesn’t know about some big news story that’s going to splash tomorrow. Seriously, what’s up? ”
“Seriously, I don’t have any clue as to what your friend is talking about. Besides, the FBI is looking for my boss even as we speak. They think he had something to do with the coup attempt.”
“Why doesn’t he just show himself and clear his name?” Jack asked, following his alcohol fogged logic.
“No one knows. Speculation is that he’s waiting until the feds find the real culprits so he doesn’t get dragged through the mud. Other people think he was killed in the firefight that took place here in the capital.”
“No matter. Sorry I bothered you, brother-in-law. I am so desperate for good news, I thought you might be in the loop.”
Jack’s attention was diverted to a disturbance, the two men who’d accosted Bard finally having found someone to argue with. “Gotta go… there’s going to be a fight.”
The senator’s aide returned his phone to the desk, staring out the window at the capitol dome, wondering if his wife’s down and out brother was simply drunk… or had actually stumbled onto to something big in the works.
With Senator Hughes on a definite downward spiral, he might be looking for work himself soon enough. The fact that his boss had dis
appeared into thin air wasn’t a confidence builder, to say the least.
A few moments later, he was on his laptop, performing a variety of searches on Seattle, Bard, Gravely, and any other keyword he could come up with.
After an hour, frustration began to set in. He was about to give up when he remembered a contact he had at Norfolk. Maybe he could shed some light on what was going on with the former Captain Bard.
He tried the man’s office line, but the voice mail indicated a different person now owned that number. He dialed the cell number next and smiled when his call was answered by the vaguely familiar voice.
Dusty and Grace were somewhat disappointed in the ceremony surrounding their departure. The entire affair involved a small crew of line handlers, three tired-looking managers from the shipyard, and a single, large tugboat.
“I was kind of expecting a band… or ticker tape… or fireboats shooting arches of water as we passed under,” Dusty teased.
“They could have at least had the Blue Angels fly over or something,” Grace responded.
The show was over in less than 20 minutes, the tug blowing its horn as it steamed away, turning back toward the port to help the next big ship heading out to sea.
Dusty turned to Grace suggesting, “Let’s head up to the bridge and see how our illustrious captain is doing. He’s got a whole console of fancy do-dads and whiz-bangs up there, and I’m dying to know what they all do.”
Grace shook her head, indicating she didn’t like the idea. “It’s a new ship for him and the crew, Dusty. The last thing they need is to have nosey passengers getting underfoot. I’m sure by the end of this cruise, you’ll have wormed your way in and be spinning us all around the Pacific Ocean. But not yet. Give the man some space to do his job.”
Dusty nodded, “You’re right, of course. But I do intend on figuring out how everything works. It’ll help me pass the time.”
“Right now, just stay here with me and enjoy the ride. This is such beautiful country, and it’s not raining. Hold me, relax, and enjoy, ‘Mr. I’m Bored Already.’”
Grunting, the Texan decided she was right, satisfied with wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her close.
The couple found themselves enjoying the simple pleasures that they had been denied for so long – gawking at the surrounding scenery, pointing toward the snowcapped mountains in the distance, and occasionally observing some wildlife. Before long, they were moving into the open ocean, majestic forests replaced with dark blue waters and an endless horizon.
“Come on,” Grace said. “Let’s go figure out the do-dads and whiz-bangs in our kitchen. I’ll see if I can scramble us an omelet.”
Dusty rubbed his stomach, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, ya know,” he teased.
Grace laughed, “That’s BS, and we both know it. The way to a man’s heart is to keep him out of federal prison and negotiate a private, luxury ship instead.”
Senator Hughes disconnected the call and sat motionless for a moment, his mind processing the information he’d just received.
Finally he turned, making eye contact with the man posted nearby.
At first, the ex-Special Forces soldier didn’t acknowledge the Senator’s attention. He was manning his post, on the lookout for any law enforcement activity or other threats to their hideout. Finally, he noticed the politician’s gaze.
“Is the admiral awake?” Hughes inquired.
“Yes, sir. I stopped by to check on his progress this morning. He was preparing for physical therapy.”
The politician rubbed his chin, “And his mood?”
The question seemed to take the stoic, military-type off guard. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
Hughes waved off the topic, regretting the attempt to make conversation with the man. Most of the coup survivors that had managed to escape Washington were the same way. Armstrong, severely injured during the attempt, had fallen into the same melancholy persona.
The senator rose from his perch, stepping to the sliding glass doors that led to the yacht’s rear deck. He paused there for a moment, gazing across the water at the distant mountains.
After a minute, Hughes seemed to reach a conclusion. Pivoting with purpose, he proceeded to the stairwell leading to the vessel’s internal spaces.
Their hideout was actually a private yacht, moored behind a private, seaside estate. At nearly 100 feet in length, Gabby’s Girl was the property of a reclusive, eccentric millionaire who was in the later stages of Alzheimer’s.
Sensing a long-term, potentially lucrative, campaign contributor, Hughes had interceded with the IRS on the patron’s behalf several years prior. Use of the wealthy man’s yacht and private aircraft had been part of the repayment. Besides, mused the senator, he can’t remember his own name most days. He thinks I’m his son.
After loading up their supplies and the wounded, the ex-Navy men under the admiral’s command had no trouble taking the big boat out into a secluded anchorage in the Columbia River basin. They’d remained there for 10 days, hoping to avoid law enforcement’s nationwide manhunt. It had worked.
Needing food, medical supplies, and fuel, they’d returned to the estate and had remained tied up at the private dock ever since.
Meandering through the expansive salon on his way to the section of the boat that housed the vessel’s many staterooms, Hughes reflected on the past few months.
Despite the plush surroundings and relative comfort offered by the yacht, being a fugitive had taken a serious toll on the senator. For a man accustomed to being in the public eye, the lifestyle of a recluse was complicated at best, pure torture on average. More than once, he’d considered surrendering to the authorities and facing the music, but the thought of rotting away in a federal prison had allowed him to endure the current circumstances, as troubling as they may be.
He continued his way forward, entering a passage lined with several ornate, wooden doors. Hesitating for a moment, he finally knocked lightly on the frame.
“Who is it?” Armstrong’s voice boomed through the bulkhead.
“It’s me. We need to talk.”
“Enter,” came the single word response.
He stepped into the private cabin to find the admiral lying in the berth, reading something on a laptop computer. Armstrong looked like shit.
When the revolution attempt had failed, a dozen of the admiral’s men had shown up at the Virginia estate where the senator had been lying low. Bloodied, battered, and defeated, the small group of survivors had carried their half-dead leader off the battlefield in a heroic display of loyalty. For weeks, Armstrong’s survival had been touch and go, severe internal injuries and infection an ongoing threat to the man’s life. Two of the other wounded rebels hadn’t survived.
Hughes, along with that small group of survivors, had flown with their wounded comrades across the country, finally landing on the West Coast and hiding out on the yacht.
At first, they had only intended to stay a few days, biding time until they could develop a more tenable escape. But Armstrong’s injuries were too severe, and the Army medic had advised that the patient not be moved.
Armstrong had been slowly recovering ever since.
“How are you feeling, Admiral?” the senator greeted.
“I think I am ready to step up my game, Richard. Today, I’m going to give jogging a shot,” he explained. “In another six months, if the FBI doesn’t shoot me on sight, I should be back to normal.”
“I received an interesting phone call this morning, and I wanted to share the details with you. It seems that a well-secured freighter not far from here has been the benefactor of an incredibly expensive refurbishment, including the creation of an expansive master suite and the installation of some pretty sophisticated lab equipment.”
“Go on.”
“I was also informed that the captain of this floating fortress was in charge of the destroyer that fired the cruise missiles against St. Louis.”
Armstrong’s eyes squinted in slow recognition, his mind rapidly connecting the dots. “So that’s how they’re going to do it. I’ve been wondering about that. It all makes sense.”
“I don’t get it? What makes sense?”
“They aren’t going to take any chances with that damned rail gun. There’s no military base, research lab, or government facility in the world where they can feel safe stashing that thing away. I would’ve put it on some desolate island and kept the location secret, but this is even better. They’ve talked Weathers into using a mobile research lab that would be next to impossible to capture.”