T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 02 - Southern Poison

by T. Lynn Ocean

  My next call was to Ox’s cell phone. “Look, I know you’re busy with Louise and I’m sorry to bother you,” I rushed when he answered on the first ring, “but I have a quick question. If you planned to blow up a container ship that was loaded with munitions, how would you do it? Obviously with a detonator of some sort, planted in one of the containers. But would it be on a timer, or what?”

  “Does it need to blow at a specific time? Or anytime the ship is out in open seas?”

  “A specific time. At the exact time it passes by a house.”

  “I’d use command detonation, then, like what was used on your car. The remote would need to be within signal range to the receiver, or detonator, and the user would need to have a visual on both the boat and the house.”

  “How far of a range, generally speaking?”

  “Depends on the equipment. The remote could easily be a kilometer away from the receiver. Or more. What location are we talking about?”

  “Bald Head Island and the shipping channel.”

  “Remote detonation could take place from the beach or a building with an unobstructed view. Even from the air in a chopper or small plane. Keep in mind that if a container ship of munitions blows, it could take out an untold number of houses and nearby people, including the person who detonated it. That’s a lot of juice, Jersey.”

  “Well, maybe John Mason is a die-for-the-cause kind of guy.” I disconnected and dialed JJ. I needed a sharpshooter, I told her, and explained that the job could be dangerous. Or to be more accurate, deadly.

  “Aren’t they all?” she said. “What type of rifle do I need?”

  “One that will shoot somebody.”

  “C’mon, Jersey. Help me out a little bit here.”

  “We’re going to Bald Head for an outdoor wedding. You’ll have to figure out where the bad guy has hunkered down. He’ll be someplace where he can watch the shipping channel and see the house. If I’m right, he’s going to send a wireless signal that will detonate a bomb on a passing container ship. The ship, by the way, is loaded with forty-foot box loads of explosives and ammunition. Hundreds of them. Thousands, actually.”

  “Aren’t you retired?” JJ said.

  “All you have to do is find the bad guy and shoot him before he has a chance to push the button.”

  She laughed. “Remind me to never retire.”

  I told JJ to watch for me at the Southport Marina. She said that she and her.416 Barrett rifle would be waiting with bated breath.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Ready to crash a wedding?” I said, angling Incognito close enough to the fuel dock for the Barnes Agency’s newest partner to pull off her heeled sandals and jump aboard.

  JJ smiled. “Sure. Maybe I’ll catch the bouquet.”

  Gorgeous in a flowing sundress and floppy hat, she certainly didn’t look deadly, even though I knew her bag contained a sniper rifle and a few other lethal toys. And I knew for a fact that she had no desire to get married, caught flower bouquet or not.

  “What would you do with it if you were to catch it?” I asked.

  “Give it to you, so you’ll be ready when Ox proposes.”

  “Yeah, right.” Neither Rita nor JJ knew I’d been to bed with Ox. But everyone thinks we’d be perfect together, as a couple. Of course, that was before Louise blew into town and started building a nest at Ox’s place.

  “Sizzling duds, by the way,” she said. “When Ox sees you in that dress, he just might come up with a proposal, if you know what I mean.”

  My dress was black and satiny and sleeveless with white piping around the waist. Respectably knee length, but invitingly low cut. If we were going to disrupt a wedding, at least we’d look good doing it. Plus, it’s the only dress I had in the stateroom closet and it perfectly concealed my backup weapon—a Sig-Sauer P232—in a thigh holster. The Glock, a much bigger and heavier piece, would have to stay in the boat. It was either that, or walk bowlegged.

  “Ox is busy with his ex-wife, who’s apparently in town for an extended stay. So he’s obviously not going to see me in this dress, at least not today.”

  “You never know,” JJ said.

  As I pushed the throttle forward to pull away from the dock, Ox stepped aboard with one long stride. Like JJ and me, he was dressed for an outdoor summer wedding in lightweight slacks and a short-sleeved white silk tee.

  “You know how I hate to miss a good party-crashing,” he said and I wondered if he’d been close enough to hear any of our conversation. JJ’s face registered guilt when I gave her a look. She must’ve called him, although I couldn’t say I was mad about it. He climbed to the flybridge. I stood at the console and when he moved behind me, the back of my neck tingled. He radiated a physical energy that reached through the empty space between our bodies. I thought about throwing myself into his arms, but asked him to take the wheel instead. As we cruised to the Bald Head Island marina at twenty-five knots, I gave him an update, admiring his relaxed and capable stance at the helm of Incognito.

  “Nice dress,” he said when I finished with the briefing. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” I said, noticing his recent haircut. “You look pretty good yourself.”

  “Want me to run the boat so you two kids can go below and play?” JJ said.

  “Hey, I’d be game,” I quipped, “but Ox has been busy playing house with somebody else.”

  I knew the comment sounded petty and I immediately felt small for saying it. But I felt even worse when Ox didn’t say anything to correct my assumption.

  A reception tent was set up in the marina’s parking area and, using fake press passes JJ brought, we pretended to be photographers taking pictures for Lady Lizzy. After a list was consulted, the three of us and our bags of gear were whisked via electric golf cart to the site of the wedding, a lovely home on the southwestern point of the island. We backtracked a few houses, cut through to the beach, and walked back along the water’s edge, deciding on a plan of action.

  “If our man must see the house from his vantage point,” JJ said when we reached the wedding area, “it makes sense that I’ll be able to find his location from the house.”

  “Might could use the sundeck,” Ox suggested. We looked up from the beach to spot a wooden platform built over one section of the roof, on the third story. Stairs zigzagged down from the deck to a second-floor balcony. Enclosed with a decorative wrought-iron fence, the sundeck held a variety of large tropical plants in clay pots. There were also lounge chairs, small tables, and a mini refrigerator.

  JJ’s eyes swept the deck, checked out the rest of the house, and ended up back on the deck. “Probably the best place to station myself, considering that I don’t know who I’m looking for or where they’ll be.”

  “Take a camera and tripod, in case anybody asks what you’re doing up there,” I suggested.

  She stuck out a hip. “Well, duh.”

  “You don’t have to be snippy just because I’ll be down here, mingling with the guests and eating caviar-covered brie cheese while you’re up there, boiling in this heat.”

  We tuned our miniature two-way radios to the same channel. Ox left to scout the area, JJ headed off to infiltrate the sundeck, and I strolled up a pathway from the sandy beach to the rear lawn. I flashed a press pass to get by a guard and only had to wait ten minutes before I saw movement on the roof deck. JJ had made it and, from what I could tell through the plants, was fishing around in the small refrigerator.

  In the half-hour to follow, the property became a jovial, bustling get-together in a whirl of activity, handshakes, and hugs. Air thick with the smells of perfumed people, cooking food, and fresh flowers—the flowers were everywhere—blew over the grounds while servers circulated with trays of mint lemonade. A circle of well-manicured guests surrounded the secretary of Defense and another enveloped the mayor of New York City.

  I was pretending to take some photographs when Lady Lizzy strolled up. “Why, hello, Jersey,” she said, without the usual exclamation
point.

  “What, no dahling this time?”

  Tiny droplets of sweat popped through heavy makeup on her upper lip. She dabbed at them with a cocktail napkin. “Blackmail disagrees with me.”

  “But I’m here for a very good reason, if that makes you feel any better. Oh, and if anyone asks, I’m one of your photographers.”

  She eyed my camera. “My photographers use much more sophisticated equipment than that.”

  “Yeah, well. They probably have their cameras powered on, too.”

  Fanning her face with a program, she flounced off.

  Ten minutes before the wedding ceremony was to start, servers collected empty drink cups and ushers appeared to escort people down to the beach area. Rows of folding, white resin chairs formed a semicircle around a decorated stage, the first three rows marked RESERVED for family and VIPs. A fancy public address system with elevated speakers ensured that everyone would be able to hear just fine. Press pass hanging around my neck, I positioned myself close to the water, as though I planned to shoot photographs of the wedding party as they walked down the makeshift aisle.

  “JJ,” I whispered into my radio.

  “Go ahead,” she answered.

  “Anything yet?”

  “Negative. Not a damn thing, and I’ve been scouring every back lawn, rooftop, and beach walker I can see, and I can see pretty much everything. With these binoculars, I could count the hairs on a gnat’s ass at five hundred meters.”

  “Ox? You see anyone?”

  “Negative,” came his reply.

  The assembled crowd instantly hushed when the wedding march blared from the speakers and the bridal procession began with a young flower girl throwing handfuls of rose petals on the sand. I pretended to snap a few photographs before returning my attention to the water. As scheduled, a squarish spec came into view and, as it grew larger, it began to take the form of a ship.

  I moved farther away from the stage and took some more faux photos. “JJ, do you see the boat coming southbound through the channel?”

  She came back after several seconds. “Affirmative. It’s the container ship, with two Coast Guard escorts.”

  “Dammit,” I muttered to myself. The wedding progressed with two men in robes officiating. A sniffling bridesmaid dabbed at tears. Carrying a wailing baby, an apologetic mother inched her way out of the crowd. One of the priests said something funny and everyone laughed. About a mile away, the container ship passed Oak Island and continued our way. It was time to get everybody inland and my mind vacillated about the best way to do so. I’d probably need to take the microphone from the dueling priests.

  “JJ,” Ox’s voice came over the radio.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Get a visual on the top of the lighthouse that we passed coming in. The lantern room.” Old Baldy is an octagonal lighthouse built of bricks and plaster that has been inoperative since the early 1900s. I knew JJ had already checked it out, but maybe our mark wasn’t yet in place.

  I was studying the tower when I noticed a woman staring at me with an odd expression. She nudged her companion and whispered something to him, after which he stared at me, too. I fiddled with my camera, as though changing the settings, and snapped a few more pretend photographs. Satisfied, the couple returned their attention to the bride and groom. The container ship grew steadily bigger.

  “Male Caucasian, baseball cap, mirrored sunglasses,” JJ said. “Holding a small box … just pulled a retractable antenna out of it. Looks like the receiver my neighbor’s kid uses when he’s playing with his radio-controlled dune buggy.”

  I took another photograph. “Ox?”

  “Shouldn’t be anyone in there, unless he’s a maintenance person from the foundation that owns the lighthouse.”

  “He look like maintenance?” I asked and took another picture.

  “Nope,” came JJ’s reply.

  The bride slid a ring on her man’s outstretched finger. The mother hurried back to her seat with a now-quiet baby. A parade of five pelicans sailed by, skimming the water in search of dinner.

  “What’s he doing?” I asked.

  “Just standing there,” JJ said. “Appears to be watching the house. No opticals.”

  He wouldn’t need binoculars. He could see just fine when the ship passed by the house.

  “Rangefinder says I’m 882 meters away from him,” she continued. “Virtually no wind. Clean shot. I’m good to go.”

  “Ox?” I questioned.

  “Your call, Barnes.”

  “Take him out, JJ. Do it now. Head shot.”

  The audience of nearly two hundred happy people clapped and whistled when the newly wedded couple embraced. A display of low-level fireworks went off behind them and the crowd clapped louder. Just when the groom kissed his bride, JJ’s Barrett went off and it sounded like a bottle rocket being fired from a minicannon.

  A surprised crowd looked around to see where the sound came from, unsure of what they’d heard. But with fireworks still popping and sounds echoing off the water, they went back to watching the newlyweds, who obliviously continued to kiss. When the couple stopped to wave to the crowd, everyone stood and the noise level inched up another notch. The secretary of Defense joined his daughter and son-in-law, taking a microphone from its stand on the podium.

  He held up a hand to quiet the guests. “My wife and I want to thank all of you for coming to join our family on this most special, most memorable day,” he said.

  The container ship grew big as it glided by, flanked by the Coast Guard patrol boats. After a few seconds of nothing exploding, my body went slack with relief. Adrenaline draining from my system, I hustled to the house to find JJ. Gear bag slung over her shoulder and camera and tripod in hand, she met me in the backyard. “I’m ready for a drink. How about you?”

  We got Ox on the radio. He was on a golf cart and said he’d pick us up in front of the house.

  “So much for my drink,” JJ said, “and free drinks are the best kind. They’ve got the premium stuff, too.”

  We heard the father droning on, as though he were at a political rally. “My job deals with protecting the freedoms that all Americans enjoy, such as the freedom to cherish family and friends on a beautiful day like this,” the father continued. “And now, we invite everyone to stay for the reception and dinner.” He pointed to the sky, where a skydiver dropped from a small prop plane. “Look up and let’s give a big welcome to Chila, lead singer of Feather Heavy—my daughter’s favorite band!”

  “My God,” JJ said. “They got Feather Heavy to perform?”

  There were oohs and ahs and, when the bright yellow chute popped open, the younger people went wild. A screech of static sounded through the band’s speakers on the lawn, and the singer’s recognizable voice came through. “Congratulations, Janie and Daryl, this is Chila dropping in from above, and I have to say that, even from up here, you guys look beautiful!”

  Janie squealed with delight.

  “Join me on the back lawn, won’t you?” Chila said. “My band is ready and waiting, so let’s get started!” A thumping drum beat started and people began filtering to the lawn, where the band started to play as they watched their singer descend. Chila appeared to be right on target for a cordoned-off landing area.

  JJ had managed to secure a shot of 1800 Silver tequila in a real glass and we were walking to the front of the house to meet Ox when another piercing screech of feedback sounded. The kind that makes people cringe. Then it happened. The ship blew with a deafening rumble. It started with a sharp crack that hurt my eardrums and in the microsecond of silence that followed—as we spun toward the source of the sound—the air-sucking stillness erupted into a violent explosion and blinding fireball. A wave of hot wind knocked us to the ground and sounds of windows shattering filled my ears. We scrambled upright and ran to the beach as a series of secondary explosions lit up the waterway and spit fiery chunks of steel and shrapnel into the air at lightning speed. Had the container ship not cleared th
e island and reached the mouth of the ocean, we’d be dead. The bride and groom and all their guests would be dead. The lighthouse and numerous residential houses would be flattened. Stunned, we stood mesmerized by the show, gusts of searing heat engulfing our bodies, surging water rolling way past the high-water mark. Ox found us and led us away from the shore.

  “It was the damn jumper,” JJ shouted over the noise. “Chila did it.”

  I rubbed my eyes, to rid them of the green and white spots in my vision. “That makes no sense.”

  “Her special, long-distance wireless microphone must have been on the same frequency as the bomber’s receiver. Chila flipped on her microphone pack to the crowd as she floated down. That’s what set off the detonator on the ship. The first time she spoke, it didn’t do anything. But as she came closer in, her signal was strong enough to reach the ship.”

  “Let’s get out of here, ladies,” Ox said and I realized he was right. Everyone else had run away from the explosions, fearing for their safety. Not toward the beach like we had. The vessel was a good distance away, but not far enough when you considered the cargo on board.

  Another thundering explosion rocked us and an instant later, something whizzed by my head. A palm tree exploded behind us.

  “Anti-tank missiles,” Ox yelled. “The fire is setting them off. Let’s go!”

  We dropped to the sand and belly crawled our way to the street—not a graceful task in a dress and sandals—as a few more missiles whizzed overhead. Once in the road, we hiked to the marina, boarded Incognito, and headed up the shipping channel toward Wilmington. Police and rescue boats flew by us in the other direction and we could see an orange medical chopper in the distance. There was no way any of the container ship crew survived. Or those on the Coast Guard boats. The recovery efforts would not be pretty.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Other than the dead man in the Bald Head Island lighthouse and a heart attack victim who was eating a grilled hamburger on his lanai two houses down from the wedding, the only casualties were the crews on the container ship and Coast Guard boats. Still, thirteen people were dead as a result of the explosion, not to mention the damage done to nearby houses and the shipping channel. Luckily, Chila had been blown onto the roof of a pool house and survived with only a sprained ankle. The media couldn’t get enough of her, especially since she was the only one talking. Officials wouldn’t comment on the disaster, understandable since they didn’t have a clue what caused it. The camera operator who was videotaping the wedding had enough foresight to point his digital video camera at the exploding ship before he ran, and the footage was now airing on every major network.