Sea Raptor: A Deep Sea Thriller

by John J. Rust

  There’d always been a worry hovering around the back of his mind that one day the Western Sahara op would come back to bite him in the ass. Thanks to that bitch Malakov, it did. Now a job he’d grown to love was in jeopardy. Worse still, if the FUBI fired him, would that affect his relationship with Karen?

  They’d gone through so much during these past few weeks. They’d survived three attacks by the Point Pleasant Monster, they had saved each other’s lives. They talked, they joked, they worked effectively as a team.

  He didn’t want to imagine life beyond this expedition without Karen.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself, he warned himself, thinking about the way things ended between him and Marie.

  His mind drifted back a little over a year ago. He’d been sitting in a cell on the military side of Tan Tan Airport. He’d given his side of the story to a parade of investigators, ranging in rank from second lieutenant to brigadier general. They represented JSOC, the JAG Corps, CID – Criminal Investigation Division – the Department of the Army. Some were by the book, some were sympathetic. The general was irate for having to fly across an entire ocean to, “Clean up a cluster-fuck created by a captain who went nuts and tried to murder a superior officer!”

  Rastun imagined spending the next 20 or 30 years in Leavenworth. He thought about how he had embarrassed the Army, embarrassed the Rangers.

  Embarrassed the memory of his Uncle Roger.

  The Army spared him any prison time, but at the cost of his commission. He flew back to Hunter Army Airfield in Georgia, home of the 1st Ranger Battalion, thinking of the men he’d lost and his career in ruins. He’d gone to Marie’s apartment and told her what happened, expecting sympathy and understanding.

  What he got instead was fury, not directed at the Army, but at him.

  “I thought I was going to marry a man who’d make colonel or general one day. Now what are going to do? Manage a fucking Taco Bell?”

  Rastun had been too shocked to respond. He had loved Marie. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. How could he have not realized she was so shallow?

  In the days that followed, he looked back on their relationship. Signs emerged, signs he’d been blinded to when they were together, like all the times she encouraged him to attend formal dinners or parties.

  “You need to rub shoulders with the higher-ups if you want to get ahead,” she’d say, or, “Try to get a spot on some general’s staff. You can show them how smart you are. They’ll take that into account the next time you’re up for promotion.”

  Rastun didn’t get a staff appointment. He was no REMF – Rear Echelon Motherfucker. But he did go to those damn boring formals. He did rub shoulders with colonels and generals. He convinced himself it wasn’t ass-kissing, just making his presence known. Score a couple of brownie points for advancement.

  It was only after their break-up he realized Marie didn’t make those suggestions to help him. It was all to help her. She had been enamored by the wives of senior officers, the respect they commanded from the wives of junior officers, even other base personnel. Marie wanted that for herself, like some high school girl desperately wanting to be popular. He was just the dumbass she hitched her wagon to.

  He knew Karen was nothing like Marie. She had saved his life twice. She had risked her life to save little Ashlee. She was a caring mother to Emily. He couldn’t imagine her being concerned about something as trivial as the social pecking order of Army wives.

  What’s going to happen to us now?

  “This sucks,” Geek blurted as they passed a road sign welcoming them to Maryland.

  “Yeah, I got that after the fifteenth time you said that.”

  “Sorry, sir. This just isn’t right what Malakov did to you.”

  “No shit.”

  Geek snorted. “Well, once we tell our side of the story, I’m sure your bosses’ll understand.”

  “That would be nice.” Rastun paused. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

  “You didn’t drag me into anything.”

  “You never would have put your weapon to that soldier’s head if I’d just kept my head.”

  “What was I supposed to do? Stand there and let that dick pop you?”

  “What if Aster fires you over this?” asked Rastun. “You’ve got a wife and three kids to support.”

  “Whatever happens, happens,” Geek replied. “Me and Angela’ll deal with it. And you’ll deal with it, too, sir.”

  “Yeah.” Rastun went back to staring out the window.

  His cell phone rang. The call was from Sherlock.

  “I’ve got good news, Captain. Gabe Monroe gave me the real story on what happened on the Bountiful Betty.”

  “Was it just like the story on The Unexplained Files?”

  “Yes, sir, but with a not-so-happy ending for the guy who wrote it. MonsterMaster491’s real name was Leo Fallon. Monroe told me some people from the corporation that owns Kearney/Ryan threatened the fishing boat’s crew to keep silent about the monster. Fallon didn’t, so they silenced him permanently.”

  “How?” asked Rastun.

  “A drug overdose is the official story. I checked the medical examiner’s report on Fallon. He only found a single needle mark on his left arm. No tracks up and down the arms, no damage to the lining of the nose, no liver problems like you’d expect from drug or alcohol abuse. Fallon was pretty damn healthy when he died.”

  “And that didn’t set off anyone’s radar?”

  “Fallon was found dead in his bed,” replied Sherlock, “a needle on the floor and no sign of foul play. Whoever killed him probably did it while he slept.”

  “Sounds like we’re dealing with some serious professionals.”

  “I agree.”

  “What about the company that owns Kearney/Ryan?” asked Rastun. “Did you find anything on them?”

  “They’re called Coast to Coast Fish, Incorporated. The forensic accountants back at headquarters are still checking on them.” Sherlock paused. “By the way, sir, I saw the news, the story about you and Western Sahara.”

  “You have Doctor Malakov to thank for that. She got a reporter friend of hers to dig into my past for any skeletons. She found the biggest one.”

  “What do your bosses have to say about it?”

  “Geek and I will find out tomorrow. We’re driving down to Alexandria right now.”

  “I hope everything goes well for you,” said Sherlock.

  “I hope so, too. You find out anything else?”

  “We may have a location on the second Point Pleasant Monster.”

  “Where?” Rastun straightened in his seat.

  “According to Fallon, it might be in an old mansion along the Virginia/North Carolina border.”

  “That’s still a lot of ground to cover.”

  “I know. I’m narrowing it down to counties near the coast, assuming the opposition didn’t want to drive too far with a sea monster. I’ll start checking county property records tomorrow.”

  “Sounds like you’re going to need some help with that.” Rastun bit down on his lower lip. What he was considering meant disobeying an order.

  At this point, what do I have to lose?

  “Where are you at now?”

  “Home,” replied Sherlock.

  “All right. We should be there in another hour-and-a-half. We’ll get some sleep and look at those county records tomorrow.”

  “Sir, you have a meeting with the FUBI tomorrow. I can get some other marshals to help me out.”

  “The last thing we need is a bunch of U.S. Marshals running all over Virginia and possibly tipping off the bad guys. Plus, if the monster is in some mansion, you’re going to have to recon it, and no one does recon better than Army Rangers.”

  “What about your meeting with the FUBI?” asked Sherlock. “You know you’re in for a world of trouble if you miss it.”

  “I’ll get out of it somehow.”

  “If you say so, sir. I just hope you know what you�
�re doing.”

  “I always do.”

  When Rastun hung up, Geek glanced over at him. “How are you gonna get us out of this meeting?”

  “By calling in one big favor.”

  He punched up Colonel Lipeli’s number.

  “Sir, we just heard from Sherlock.” Rastun ran down the information the deputy marshal had given him.

  “Good,” said Lipeli. “It sounds like we’re getting closer to finding this other monster.”

  “I think so, too. That’s why I need a favor.”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “We’re on our way to give Sherlock a hand with his investigation.”

  “Give him a hand? You do realize you’re supposed to meet with Director Lynch and Mister Parker tomorrow.”

  “I know, sir,” replied Rastun. “But who’s more likely to find this house without spooking the bad guys? Three ex-Rangers or a bunch of marshals going around flashing their badges?”

  “Captain, this is not the time to be playing action hero.”

  “Just give us twenty-four hours.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to do that?” demanded Lipeli. “That Western Sahara story has created a Category Three shitstorm. Director Lynch wants to see you and Sergeant Hewitt in his office tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred, and that is exactly where you two will be.”

  Rastun clenched the phone tighter. He racked his brain for a counter argument. Nothing came to mind.

  His eyes came to rest on the dashboard. That’s when the idea hit him.

  “Hey, Geek. Did the check engine light just come on?”

  Geek looked at his console, then turned to him and grinned. “Son-of-a-bitch, it did.” He rapped on the dashboard. “Whoa, you hear that knocking sound? That can’t be good.”

  “You really expect me to believe you guys are having car trouble?” said Lipeli.

  Rastun pounded the dashboard. “It’s getting louder. I don’t think we’ll be able to make it another mile, never mind Alexandria.”

  “We’re gonna have to call for a tow.” Geek’s smile widened. “Too bad all the service stations around here are closed this time of night. We’ll have to wait till morning for someone to look at it.”

  “And who knows how long it’ll take to fix,” Rastun added.

  Lipeli blew out an exasperated breath. “All right. I’ll sell your bullshit story to Lynch and Parker. But you two asshats better come back with something good, or don’t bother coming back at all.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Rastun and Geek crashed at Sherlock’s apartment, waking up at 0400. Divorced for five years, Sherlock lived like the typical single guy, meaning he didn’t have much food in the fridge or cupboard. The trio went to a nearby convenience store for cereal bars, breakfast sandwiches, bagels, coffee and orange juice. They ate while they scanned the internet for 18th and 19th century mansions in Virginia. Specifically, the southeastern counties of the state, where the travel time from Manns Harbor was anywhere from an hour-and-a-half to two hours.

  The less time spent on the road secretly transporting a sea monster, the better.

  It turned out there were a lot of old mansions in that part of Virginia. They did their best to narrow down the list, first eliminating the ones in more developed areas. Whoever had the other Point Pleasant Monster would want it as far away from prying eyes as possible. They also eliminated the ones converted into museums, horse farms or bed and breakfasts.

  That still left them with nearly 40 old mansions and houses stretching from Isle of Wright County along the Chesapeake Bay to Mecklenburg County some 90 miles inland. They tried to narrow it down even further, using satellite images from Google Maps to see which ones were in isolated areas.

  The number dropped by half.

  “Twenty possible targets,” said Geek. “That’s still a lot of ground to cover.”

  “We can narrow it down even more, but we need to go to Southern Virginia.” Sherlock turned to Rastun. “You may want to consider changing, sir.”

  He looked down at his BDU pants and olive green t-shirt. “What for?”

  “After that story last night, people might recognize you. Like you said, we don’t want to risk tipping off any bad guys.”

  Rastun agreed and changed into jeans and the polo shirt he got from Wal-Mart after the boardwalk attack. Now he looked like an ordinary civilian. Sherlock also lent him a Washington Redskins ball cap to complete the ensemble.

  “You seriously want me to wear this? I’m an Eagles fan.”

  “A ball cap and sunglasses makes for a nice, cheap disguise.”

  Rastun grimaced and donned the cap.

  It could be worse. It could be a Dallas Cowboys cap.

  The three piled into the Escalade. While Geek drove, Sherlock checked his smartphone for companies that specialized in building aquarium tanks.

  “I found one. Jonnard’s Aquariums. They’re located in Newport News.”

  Rastun sat quietly in the back as Geek took I-95 south. With a two-and-a-half hour drive ahead of them, that left a lot of time for his mind to wander. He thought about his future with the FUBI, if he even had a future with them. He worried about the FUBI expedition in New Jersey. With Geek having been recalled as well, he had to take the shotguns and dart launchers with him. They were property of Aster Technologies and they didn’t want them used without one of their representatives on hand. All Epic Venture had now were standard tranq rifles, and hopefully a Coast Guard cutter nearby.

  Most of the time, he thought about Karen.

  They reached Newport News around noon. Jonnard’s was located in a beige rectangular building along the Southwest Branch Back River. They walked across the parking lot toward the glass front doors. The blazing sun beat down on Rastun while suffocating humidity wrapped around him. He’d been in climates much hotter and more miserable than this. Still, he relished the cool air when he entered the building. A woman in her early thirties with glasses, pale skin and unnaturally bright red hair sat behind the reception desk.

  “Good morning.” She smiled. “How can I help you?”

  Sherlock introduced himself and pulled out his badge. “Is your boss here? I’d like to speak with him.”

  “Um, no. Barry’s out on a job. But his brother Greg is here. He’s in charge when Barry’s gone. I’ll get him for you.”

  The receptionist, Crystal, according to the name plate on her desk, returned a couple of minutes later with a portly man with thinning black hair.

  “Greg Powell. I’m the general manager here. What can I do for you?”

  “We’re working an animal smuggling case,” Sherlock explained, “and think our suspects may have bought some equipment from your business.”

  “What?” Powell’s eyes widened. “Hey, if anyone used our stuff for anything illegal, I didn’t know about it. All our business is legitimate.”

  “Don’t worry, Mister Powell, I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want to check your records and see if anyone purchased equipment for building a tank large enough to hold a dolphin or a shark.”

  “We’ve built large aquariums for all kinds of people. Can you be a little more specific?”

  “It would have been sometime early last year.”

  Powell had Crystal call up the sales records on her computer. “Here’s one.” The date she gave was a day after Gabe Monroe’s supposed shark attack.

  “Actually, I remember this one.” Crystal winced. “The guy who placed the order was kinda scary.”

  “Scary how?” asked Rastun.

  “He was big. Not tall, just really buff. And his eyes. They were kind of cold, you know.”

  “Anything else you remember about him?” asked Sherlock. “Hair color? Race? Distinguishing marks?”

  “He was white. I think he had dark hair.”

  It wasn’t the guy Sherlock had told him about, Rastun thought, the one that paid the visit to Monroe after he lost his leg. But other than the ethnicity, the two could have been clones.


  “What did he get?” asked Rastun.

  Crystal ran down the list. Along with thick glass for the tank, the mystery man bought filters, pumps, overhead lights, temperature regulating equipment and water monitoring equipment.

  “Do you sell accessories like stones or artificial reefs and plants?” asked Rastun.

  “Yeah.” Crystal nodded.

  “And this guy didn’t buy any of that?”

  “Nope.”

  He took it as an indication they were on the right track. Most people bought stuff to decorate their aquariums. Animal smugglers, though, wouldn’t give a damn about that.

  “Can you give me a name and address on this man?” asked Sherlock.

  Crystal looked at Powell, who nodded.

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ll print it out for you.”

  A minute later Sherlock held a copy of the sales receipt. It was for a Jeff Mason, who lived at 117 Laskey Street in Gloucester, Virginia. There was also a phone number and credit card number.

  Sherlock looked up from the receipt. “Did you build this aquarium for Mister Mason?”

  “No,” Crystal answered. “He said he had other people who’d build it for him.”

  “Is that normal?” asked Sherlock.

  “We usually build the aquariums,” answered Powell. “But sometimes the customers will do it themselves.”

  Rastun nodded. No way would animal smugglers let a legitimate company build a tank for something like the Point Pleasant Monster.

  Sherlock shook hands with Crystal and Powell. “Thank you for your help. We appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome,” they both said, with Powell adding, “Remember, we had no idea we sold to animal smugglers. Let your bosses know that.”

  “I will.”

  Rastun, Geek and Sherlock went back to the Escalade. Geek programmed Mason’s address into the GPS and headed north to Gloucester.

  Thirty-five minutes later, the GPS announced, “You have arrived at your destination.”

  Their destination turned out to be a square white building just off Main Street. Judging from the faded paint, graffiti and overgrown weeds, no one had been here for years.