by Ken W. Smith
After supper, he asked her to take a ride to one of his favorite spots in Falmouth. They drove north on Route 28A past old houses with gray, weathered shingles and antique shops. He took a left towards West Falmouth harbor and pulled into the parking lot for Chapoquoit Beach. The wind was blowing hard, and the surf was up. Several people in wetsuits were kitesurfing.
The sun dropped toward the horizon. A few wispy clouds turning various shades of pink and orange. People lined up in their cars to watch the nightly ritual.
Jay and Olivia walked through the surf. The fine sand squishing through their toes. Jay stopped to skip some rocks while Olivia gathered seashells. When they reached a granite breakwater, he climbed up, and Olivia followed. They walked out to watch the waves crashing over the piles of granite boulders.
Jay held Olivia’s hands and pulled her towards him. “I wanted to say something to you for a long time.”
“Wait,” Olivia said as she resisted. “I need to be honest with you.”
“What do you mean?” Did I do something?”
“No, Jay. That’s not it. I won an award for the research report I wrote about our trip to the Falkland Islands. It included a grant to continue my studies for my Ph.D. I received a full scholarship to continue my research.”
“That’s great news. Did you got your first choice at the Institute?”
“I got my first choice. It’s not here.”
“Where is it?”
“I’m going to study at the Scripps Institute of Oceanography in San Diego.”
“I thought you were getting the job at the Falmouth Aquarium? You were going to care for Jojo?”
“Stephanie got the trainer’s job at the aquarium. She’s staying at the Institute to work on her degree. There was only one slot available. He’s in good hands.”
“What will you be doing?”
“Sea mammal research. They have the research ship Sally Ride. We’ll be traveling to Alaska to study killer whales and seals.”
When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow. I was going to tell you sooner, but you know what happened.”
Jay turned his back. He tried to gather his composure.
“Jay, what were you going to tell me?”
Jay put his hand in his right pocket. He fingered the small box with the diamond engagement ring. The one his father gave to his mother over thirty-five years ago. He contemplated popping the question. But he knew that wasn’t right. He had to let her go.
“Nothing,” Jay said as he turned to look at her. “Olivia, I love you. I’ll be here when you return.”
Chapter 9
The water was murky and cold as Jay approached the ship. Large strands of kelp floated in sinewy clumps around the motionless propellers. Jay watched for errant dock lines dangling in the water. Left by sloppy deckhands, they could entangle a diver, cutting off his oxygen supply. Barnacles covered the hull of the ship. The tiny, razor-sharp crustaceans could tear through the thin nylon work gloves on Jay’s hands. They weren’t poisonous, but human blood attracts predators. Recent reports of great white sharks feeding on harbor seals were fresh in Jay’s minds. Even though the sightings were off the Outer Cape beaches, nothing stopped them from swimming into Woods Hole Harbor.
As Jay drifted towards the two propeller assemblies, he turned on his headlamp. The bright LED lights blinded him for a brief moment. Jay turned on the mini GoPro camera mounted on his helmet. He dove in close to the rudder, the rectangular blade behind the propellers, then worked his way forward, looking for rust, foreign debris, and broken welds. He recorded his observations as he swam.
When he finished the inspection, Jay swam to a ladder on the side of the dock and climbed up. He removed his headgear, placing it on the pier.
A slim, aging dark-haired man in blue coveralls approached Jay and said, “How does she look, Jay?”
“No signs of damage, Al. No obvious rust or decay, and all weld seams appeared to be intact.”
“Jay, are you sure about that?”
His words stunned Jay. Al Flores was a long-time friend and the Chief Maintenance Manager at the Marine Institute. He never questioned Jay’s findings before. “What are you saying, Al? You don’t trust my inspections?”
“Jay, I like you and trust you. But, the Captain of the ship is questioning the quality of your work. Follow me. I want to show you something.”
He peeled off his wetsuit and scuba gear, following Al into a two-story brick building. They entered an office filled with computer equipment and video monitors.
“Take a look at this video. A robotic inspection system called the Trekker recorded these images last week.”
Jay watched an image in bright orange, reds, and blues. It showed a jagged orange line running across the bottom of the hull.
“That’s an infrared image,” Jay said. “It’s showing a fissure between the third and fourth bulkheads.”
“That’s right. It picked up a fissure that you missed.”
“But I don’t have infrared equipment. I don’t remember you asking me to use it before. How can you compare my visual inspection to an infrared inspection?”
“We’re not trying to, Jay. The Trekker includes acoustic imaging as standard equipment. It relays real-time video streams while conducting inspections. It also creates a log, so we don’t have to enter manual reports.”
“What are you saying?”
“You know we’re friends, and I’ve gone to bat for you since you returned from the Navy. I know you’re having a tough time with PTSD and all. The cost of the robot system is half of what we pay you.”
“I can get infrared gear. I won’t charge you extra. You have to….”
Jay couldn’t finish his sentence as Al stood up and pulled an envelope out of his desk drawer. “Here’s your payment for today’s inspection. It’s the final one.”
A feeling of dread overwhelmed Jay. His throat felt dry, and a pounding feeling gripped his chest. Jay felt his anger rise, and he tried to control it but to no avail.
“Thanks for nothing, Al,” Jay said as he grabbed the envelope and stormed out of the office.
Jay picked up his dive gear, then pushed his way through the security gate. A security guard stopped him. “I’m sorry, sir,” the young guard said. “I need your security pass.”
Jay pulled the pass off his t-shirt, threw it at the guard, and then stormed out to the parking lot. He opened the rear liftgate of the Cherokee, tossed his gear in the back, then slammed the door. He gunned the engine, leaving smoke and rubber behind.
* * *
He couldn’t think about the consequences of what happened. Not yet, at least. Jay headed north on Woods Hole Road and turned east on Route 28 through Falmouth Village. He ignored the town square lined with ritzy gift shops and cozy restaurants and continued driving into East Falmouth, winding his way through groves of scraggly pine trees and cranberry bogs. He turned down a pitted, sandy dirt path that ended at a white, single-story building. A few pick-up trucks and broken-down SUVs lined the side of the building. A small sign over the side door read Portuguese Veterans Club.
Before Jay went into the club, he pulled off his wet t-shirt and threw it into the back of the Jeep. He reached into a white duffle bag, pulled out a clean white t-shirt with USN on the front, and pulled it on. Jay pulled his shoulder-length hair back away from his face and put the cap on. He ran his fingers through his beard and rubbed his bloodshot eyes, then stepped out of the Jeep.
Jay entered the private bar in the back of the club. Since Jay’s father helped build the club, Jay had lifetime privileges. He knew the bartender and members like they were his own family. After his discharge, it has been a home away from home.
Inside the dim clubroom, a ragged pool table sat ignored in the back corner. A few round tables sat empty. Plain pine paneling adorned the walls with photos of past barbecues and other events. One black and white photo showed a group of men standing in front of the hall. Jay’s dad knelt in the front row, h
olding a hammer across his right knee.
The bar had room for about twenty patrons, but now there were two guys at the bar. Jay slid onto a stool in front of the flat-screen television above the liquor shelves. The Global News Network played on the TV.
“Hey Sal,” Jay said to an overweight bartender with a shaved head and three missing teeth. “Give me a double Jack on the rocks.”
The bartender grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels, added a few ice cubes then filled the glass to the top. “Here you go, Jay. Starting a bit early, aren’t you? Having a tough day?”
“Yeah, you could say that,” Jay said as he took the glass and downed the liquor in one gulp. “Give me another.”
Sal obliged, and Jay drank half the glass, put it down, and put his head down on the bar.
“I’ve known you since you were a kid,” Sal said. “I built this club with your old man. Tell me what the hell is going on. I’ve never seen you down like this.”
He looked up at Sal and shrugged. “What the hell. I can’t afford a shrink. I lost my job today.”
“You didn’t fuck up, did you? You never fucked up a job before.”
“No, I didn’t fuck up. I didn’t do it as well as….”
“As what? Another diver?”
“No. I lost my job to a fucking robot. Some mechanical camera found a crack I didn’t see. I couldn’t see.”
“You gotta be shitting me. A lousy robot? What the hell is this world coming to? Here, have another drink on me.”
Jay laughed. “Yeah, I need one. Give me.…”
The reason Jay stopped mid-sentence was the broadcaster on television. It was Kathleen Amejian, Jay’s accuser from Pakistan. She was standing in front of a hospital in Italy.
“Sal, turn the TV up, will you? I want to hear what the bitch has to say.”
“Sure, Jay, whatever you want. Why did you call her a bitch? She’s one of the world’s most famous reporters.”
“I’ve got my reasons. Now turn it up.”
Sal grabbed the remote control and turned the volume up.
An aerial view of an ancient hospital appeared on the screen. A small box with Kathleen Amejian’s face appeared in the bottom left corner.
“This is Kathleen Amejian reporting from Castel Gandolfo outside of Rome. Inside sources have informed us that Pope Pius XIII is being treated for a gunshot wound. Details are very sketchy, but sources tell us that a sniper shot the Pope on the Vatican’s official vacation residence’s balcony. Our calls to the Vatican and the Swiss Guard have gone unanswered. On a side note, local priest Edwardo Cavetelli’s body was found floating in Lake Albano three days after being reported missing. According to police, he had a gunshot wound to the side of his head. The coroner reports the cause of death as a suicide, even though police found no weapon. Stay tuned for continuing coverage.”
He felt his blood pressure rise as he listened to Kathleen’s voice on the television. He then said, “I can’t listen to her anymore.”
Jay grabbed his glass off the bar and threw it at the television. The glass shattered, spraying ice and shards across the bar. A large crack appeared on the screen. Then the TV went black.
“Ah, Jay, what the hell is the matter with you?” Sal said. “Get the hell out of here. Now!”
“I’m not going anywhere. I need another drink.”
“You’re done for today, Jay. You need to go before I call the police.”
One of the guys sitting at the end of the bar stood up and walked over to Jay. He stood about six foot three and built like a weightlifter. “Come on, Jay,” the man said. “Don’t cause any trouble.”
Jay ignored the man and shouted, “I want another drink, Sal!”
The big man grabbed Jay by the right shoulder and yanked him around. “Come on. You’re outa here!”
Jay screamed as pain surged through his arm. Fueled by anger, frustration, and embarrassment, Jay turned and punched the man in the face. The man’s head snapped back, and he dropped to the floor. His buddy, about the same height but with a huge pot belly, jumped out of the way. He then took two quick steps and threw a wild roundhouse punch at Jay’s head. Jay ducked out of the way and punched the man in his soft midsection. The fat guy bent over in agony, and Jay laid him out with an uppercut.
Jay looked back at the bar to see Sal on the phone. “I need a police cruiser and ambulance at the Portuguese Veterans Club. I have an out-of-control patron.”
“Sal, what are you doing?” Jay said. “You don’t need to call an ambulance. These guys aren’t hurt.”
“It’s for you, Jay,” Sal said as he smashed the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels down on Jay’s head.
Chapter 10
Brian McCoy sat in his office in the Emergency Command Center. His job at the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) coordinated with other agencies during terrorist attacks or natural disasters. The view of Boston Harbor from his tenth-floor office was spectacular.
McCoy didn’t pay any attention to the scenery. When he last saw Jay, they were in a bar in Bahrain the night he disappeared without a trace. The only information he had was from a cryptic phone message on his cell phone. It said Jay was okay, but he had to go away for a while. The voice scrambled, and the caller ID blocked. McCoy tried to trace the source of the call without any luck. He missed his roommate and felt guilty for escaping punishment after the Pakistan debacle. He also knew Natalie, Jay’s girlfriend, and Gunny Mack, the two former teammates with Jay that night in Bahrain, also missed him.
The other former Infinity Squad members stayed in touch. CJ and Madman finished their enlistment and returned to New Hampshire. Gia Khalil returned to civilian life and concentrated on raising Rameera, her adopted daughter. At the same time, Michelle Goddard moved from London to New York to run Goddard Aviation. He tried calling her several times but was turned away by her assistant.
Andrea, his administrative assistant, walked in and handed him a newspaper. “I think I found him. Look at the police report.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” McCoy said. “I thought you had an obituary. He’s not dead.”
“No, but he is in trouble.”
* * *
Jay awoke to a pounding headache. He could tell he was in the hospital by the familiar beeping from unattended monitors. He tried to sit up but screamed when a surge of pain blasted through his head. The pain wouldn’t stop, and Jay put his hands to his head, trying to cope with the intense throbbing. A nurse ran in, hearing his scream. She administered pain medication through the IV drip, and Jay fell back asleep.
When Jay awoke, he saw an enormous figure standing in the doorway to the treatment room. The person blocked the light in the hallway so Jay could only see a silhouette. The person moved closer to Jay until he stopped at his bedside. Jay noticed the person was a large man in a police officer’s uniform.
“Jay? Jay Mendes, right?” the police officer said.
Jay nodded.
“Don’t you recognize me? I’m Marty. Marty Hernandes. Do you remember now?”
Jay thought to himself, who was Marty Hernandes? The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
“I think I know you,” Jay said. “From when I was a kid?”
“Yeah. We were best friends. Your dad worked for my dad in the cranberry bogs when he wasn’t fishing. We played football together. I blocked for you when you ran sweeps.”
“Yeah, now I remember you. My head is a bit fuzzy. I had a tough day yesterday.”
“Well, actually, it was three days ago,” Marty said. “You’ve been in and out of consciousness since we brought you here.”
“So why are you dressed in that uniform?” Jay said. “Are you a cop?”
“You might say that. I’m Deputy Chief of the Falmouth Police Department. Jay, I’m here to read you your Miranda rights and inform you of the charges against you.”
“Charges? What charges? Marty, what did I do?”
“The Commonwealth of Massachusetts is charging you with two c
ounts of assault and one count of disorderly conduct. You broke Mike Alvarez’s cheekbone, and you busted Sal’s TV at the PA club. Our fathers built that club with their bare hands. How could you disrespect their memory?”
“Shit, was I that drunk? I usually don’t blackout when I drink.”
“No, Sal hit you over the head with a bottle of Jack Daniels.”
“That explains the glass in my skull. So now what? Am I going to jail?”
“Most normal human beings would go to jail. But Jay, you’re not human. You have friends in high places.”
“God?”
“No, you idiot, me,” said a voice from outside the treatment room.
Jay looked up to see a second man standing at the doorway to his room. This man was as tall as Marty but much slimmer. He had short, blonde hair cut tight to his head. Unlike Marty, Jay recognized his voice immediately.
“McCoy?” Jay said. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“To do one thing, Mendes. Save your sorry ass.”
Chapter 11
Jay needed to know what the verdict was.
“McCoy, what the hell happened in Bahrain? Was I found innocent or guilty?”
Then the flood gates opened. Jay closed his eyes as the memories of his last day in the Navy washed over him.
* * *
Jay paced outside the courtroom at Naval Support Activity (NSA) Bahrain, home to the US Fifth Fleet. The knots in his stomach tightened when his JAG, a military lawyer, Lieutenant Commander Pete Medici, told him the jury was back. Jay straightened his dress uniform and put on his cap.
“Let’s do this,” Jay said to nobody in particular. The Navy MP led him into the courtroom. He saw his Infinity Squad colleagues sitting in the empty gallery. His girlfriend, Sargeant Natalie Choi, USMC, looked at him and smiled back. He reached out to her as he sat down at the defendant’s table. She squeezed his hand back and said, “It will be okay, Jay.”
Sitting next to Natalie, Petty Officer Brian McCoy and Gunnery Sergeant John “Gunny Mack,” McCauley whispered. McCoy was his roommate. Gunny Mack was the Infinity Squad’s operation commander and Jay’s good friend.