by Tom Lowe
The Black Bullet
( Sean O'Brien - 1 )
Tom Lowe
Tom Lowe
The Black Bullet
“There are children playing in the streets who could solve some of my top problems in physics, because they have modes of sensory perception that I lost long ago.”
— Robert Oppenheimer (“Father of the atomic bomb”)
CHAPTER ONE
May 19, 1945
Billy Lawson smelled it before he saw it. Something was out there. Beyond the breakers and hidden in the veil of night. When the silhouette appeared, he wasn’t sure it was really there. Clouds smothered a three-quarter moon over the ocean, and the image, a hundred yards off shore, faded to black. The breeze let Billy know it was near. The odor of diesel fumes, salt and baitfish blew across the surface of the ocean-a ghost wind delivering something felt but obscured in the dark.
There was the drone of engines, throaty growls similar to a pride of lions after a fresh kill, mixing with the crash of the breakers. Could be a boat in distress stuck on a sandbar, he thought. But there were no running lights. Maybe just hearing and seeing things again. Couldn’t tell sometimes, not since the injuries in the war. Smells and tastes all messed up-a ringing in the left ear that only stopped when sleep came.
The wounds on his chest had beaded into scar tissue, but sometimes, in the middle of the night, the horror in his dreams was as deafening as the night a mortar exploded in the center of Company C. He’d left that world-that war-in Europe. Back in Florida, after a month of rehab, he could walk with only a slight limp, and he could throw a cast net with the best of them. He readied his net once more. Maybe get it a few feet beyond the breakers. Let it fall around the fat mullet and flounder. He had only three mullet in the bucket behind him wedged in the sand. He thought of his pregnant wife, Glenda, and he threw with all his strength. Casting to put food on their table.
As the net hit the dark surface, a cloud parted in front of the moon. Before the net could sink to the bottom, Billy saw the thing.
Something long and dark.
No lights.
His pulse pounded, hair rising on the back of his neck. It looked like some sea serpent lying about a hundred yards off shore. “Jesus,” Billy muttered. He ignored the punching of fish in his net and stared at the ship. But it was no ship in the traditional sense. Billy Lawson knew it was a submarine. It wasn’t supposed to be there.
Neither was a life raft.
The raft was maybe eighty yards off shore and coming toward the beach.
Who were they?
Billy watched for a moment, the flashes of white in the water on either side of the raft, the paddles breaking the surface, creating a phosphorescent green glow in the ocean, the smolder of the moon leaving a trail of broken light.
“Time to get,” he whispered.
Billy felt his heart in his throat. He pulled in his cast net. It was heavy with fish, the night air thick and humid, mosquitoes orbiting his head. The salty sting of sweat rolled into his eyes while he tugged at the net. No time to sort the fish. “Ya’ll got lucky,” he mumbled, emptying his catch back into the sea.
Something wasn’t right. The war had been over for two weeks. Was it a German U-boat? Japanese? American? Who was in the life raft?
Seventy yards away and coming.
He could feel it-a signal buried in his heart, almost like the night he could feel the impending destruction when Company C was caught off guard. But tonight Billy had seen the men in the life raft and hoped they hadn’t seen him. He slung the net over his shoulders, lifted his fish bucket, and tried to run up the beach, ignoring the pain in his knee. In less than one hundred feet, he’d be where his old truck was parked under a canopy of palms, next to Highway A1A.
Billy set the fish bucket in the corner of the truck-bed, laid the net around it for support, and searched for his keys.
Gone.
In his haste to leave, he’d left his keys and his Zippo lighter on the beach. He crept behind palms and sea oats. The men were now close to the breakers. Too near to get his keys. He thought of Glenda. Saw her growing stomach, a stomach he placed his hand against only a few hours ago, feeling the kick of the child inside. He heard Glenda’s laugh when he’d asked if it hurt when ‘she’ kicked.
“How do you know it’s a she?” Glenda had asked.
“Just feel it inside. Gonna be a daughter.”
The sound of German broke his thoughts. The men were rowing through the breakers, and one man was giving orders, trying to keep his voice down, but having to shout over the waves.
German. Billy was damn glad he’d left quickly. He squatted down and watched the men get out of the raft. Six of them. Four looked to be dressed in German military uniforms. Two other men, shorter, were in civilian clothes and looked Asian. The men carried canisters, each about three feet long. One German sailor carried a shovel.
Had they come to bury something?
Billy held his breath as the men walked right past his keys and lighter. They were in a hurry, the weight of the canisters slowing them in the sand. The two men in civilian clothes walked in front. One tall sailor, who Billy assumed was an officer, pointed towards Matanzas Inlet and said something in quick German.
Although the war in Europe had ended, this was American soil, and Billy Lawson was no longer on active duty. He was serving his last six months of his enlistment on a disability deferment. Maybe he was out of uniform, but he felt something in his heart that was protective-a defiance. They were not supposed to be here. But they were. What the hell did they think they were doing here? He hadn’t lost half his Army buddies, part of his left knee, some of the flesh on his ass, to sit and watch a small squadron of German sailors come to hide something on American soil. Hell no.
Billy Lawson reached under the seat of his truck and found the short-nosed.38 he’d carried for safety. He stayed in the shadows of the palms and followed the men.
CHAPTER TWO
Just get the keys and go, Billy told himself. Go! Run! The Germans would see him if he walked down near the water’s edge to search for his keys. Just wait them out. See what the bastards are doing and report everything as quickly as possible to the Navy base in Jacksonville. If he could reach them, they might capture or bomb the U-boat.
Billy kept behind the trees and sea oats as he followed the men around a bend at the mouth of the inlet. In the distance, a wink of light popped over the horizon from the St. Augustine lighthouse. A green sea turtle crawled from the surf. She would dig a hole to lay her eggs. The men ignored the sea turtle. They were near the 250-year-old Fort Matanzas. The old Spanish fort, with its tower and coquina stone, was a dark gothic sentry, and now a silent witness to another round of military history. The men sloshed through ankle-deep water in the inlet, stopped near a live oak gnarled from time and weather, and started digging.
Billy hid behind sea oats, watching the men finish the hole. Gotta phone Glenda.
There was movement.
Someone hiding behind dunes and palmettos approached the men. They stopped digging and spoke. Under the moonlight, he could tell that the man who walked up to the Germans was dressed like an American. It looked like they were exchanging something.
As they began shoveling sand back into the pit, one of the men dressed in civilian clothes stopped and said something to the German officer. The officer shook his head and dismissed whatever it was the shorter man had said. Billy could hear the shorter man raise his voice. And the words were not German.
He spoke heated Japanese.
Billy mumbled to himself, “Japs and Germans here on American soil … why?”
One of the other German soldiers stepped in and raised the shovel like he was going to hit the Japanese
man standing next to him. The tall German officer pulled a pistol out of his holster and shot the German sailor in the head, his body crumpling next to the hole. The two Japanese men made a cursory bow to the officer and the man dressed in American clothes, before walking quickly toward Highway AIA.
Billy felt his heart hammer in his throat. He had to work to control his breathing. Calm. Stay calm.
He ran toward his truck. Could make it to get the keys. He turned and darted down the beach, dropping to his knees to search for his keys. The tide soaked his pants. Where are the keys? His hands fanned sand and rushing water. The keys seemed to tumble into his hand. Headlights from an approaching car punched through the tree line, and Billy became a moving shadow in the sand. He heard the Germans yell as he tried to run up the beach to the truck.
Run! His rebuilt knee snapped causing Billy to fall face down. He spat sand out of his mouth, lifted himself up, ignoring the pain, running as fast as he could. He saw the remaining sailors moving back in the direction of the life raft. They’d spotted Billy, no doubt. A German was missing. Maybe he left with the Japs. Deserted.
Billy jumped in his truck. The engine strained, sucking the life out of the old battery. “Start! Just fucking start!” The engine turned over and roared. Billy burned rubber going from sand to pavement.
He drove a mile to the A1A Bait ‘n Tackle, which he knew was closed. He pulled up to a phone booth and searched his pockets. One dime! Who to call? Glenda or the Navy? Phone Glenda and tell her what’s happening and tell her to call the Navy and the sheriff. What was his damn phone number? His index finger shook so hard he could barely get it in the rotary dial.
“Glenda!”
“Billy, what’s wrong?”
“Just listen. I just saw a murder!”
“What?”
“A German soldier shot another German soldier on the beach. There were six of them-four Germans and two Japanese. Another guy I think was American. He walked outta the bushes after the Germans and Japs came ashore in a life raft from a German U-boat sitting off the beach-”
“A what-”
“Listen, baby! They buried something on Rattlesnake Island! South of the fort. It’s in line with the light from the lighthouse passing through the tower window. Six o’clock position-maybe two hundred feet from the old fort. Call the Navy! Tell them there’s a German submarine lying about a quarter mile off Matanzas Pass. Tell them there’s been a killing on the beach. Tell them two Japs ran away! And tell them it looks like an American-maybe a spy-met them. The Japs headed north on A1A on foot. I don’t know what this is about. War in Europe is over, but the Japanese haven’t surrendered.”
“Oh God, Billy. Sweetie, this isn’t one of those flashbacks from the war-”
“Glenda! It’s real! Call them! I’m outta change. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”
Billy saw the reflection in the phone glass, a dark figure leaping from the truck-bed. Billy dug for his pistol as two bullets shattered the glass and slammed into his body.
“Billy!” The tiny voice came through the receiver. “Billy! Dear God, no!”
The man stood next to the phone booth and fired a third shot into Billy’s stomach and then ran. He jumped in the truck and drove away while Billy slid down the back wall of the booth. He sat in the broken glass and blood, nausea and bile rising in his throat.
Billy lifted a bloodied hand toward the phone hanging by the cord just out of reach. “Billy! Billy!” His wife’s cries sounded far away. He wanted to speak, to tell Glenda how much he loved her. To tell her goodbye … to have her put the phone on her stomach, right where he’d felt the little kick, to whisper his love to his unborn child. “Glenda ….” He coughed, the taste of blood like pennies in his mouth, his wife’s cries so distant now. Darkness covering him.
Billy heard the explosion of a mortar above Company C. The blast was the brightest white he’d ever seen, and he saw his wife’s smile somewhere in the absence of color. Felt the gentle kick of his baby on the tips of his fingers. The ringing in his left ear was now silent, the sound of the pounding surf across AIA the only noise in the night.
CHAPTER THREE
Florida, Present Day
Something about the way she walked caught Sean O’Brien’s eye. It was a typical Saturday afternoon at Ponce Marina, yet she stood out from the people milling around the docks. Boat owners, charter boat captains, deck hands, and tourists moved with the rhythm of the marina. Sunburned charter customers snapped pictures as first mates unloaded red snapper and dolphin at the fish cleaning stations. Pot-bellied pelicans waited patiently for fish heads and other handouts. The people and wildlife all seemed to move in sync.
She did not.
O’Brien stood in the fly bridge of his 38-foot boat and watched her walk down the long dock. The scent of fried grouper sandwiches from the Tiki Bar mixed with marine varnish, mangroves, and the smell of the sea. O’Brien, six-two, mid forties, dark hair, stopped sewing a small tear in the canvas top over the fly bridge as he observed the woman. She paused and started walking back toward the marina office, then turned around and came down the dock. Slowly. Almost cautiously.
Max barked.
O’Brien looked toward the cockpit where his miniature dachshund stood on a deck chair, eyes following an orange and black cat stalking a lizard on a dock post. “Stay away from ol’ Joe,” O’Brien said smiling. Max’s fur rose down her spine, and she looked up at O’Brien, her pink tongue visible, a sense of the hunt reflective in her brown eyes. “That cat is bigger than you, Max.”
O’Brien glanced toward the marina office and restaurant. The woman was closer. Less than seventy-five feet. O’Brien thought he recognized her, a distant memory like a hologram on the horizon in the shape of a woman he once knew. He climbed down from the bridge, petted Max on her back and said, “We have company coming-a lady. I want you on your best behavior.” Max seemed to nod as O’Brien went inside the salon. When he came out with a second canvas deck chair, the woman approached his boat.
“Hello, Sean. It’s been a long time.”
Max barked once, her tail a blur. “Maggie, it’s good to see you,” O’Brien said.
Maggie Canfield crossed her arms, the sea breeze teasing her auburn hair. In her early forties, she still had the striking good looks that O’Brien remembered twenty years earlier. She bit her bottom lip and offered a nervous smile. “I’m surprised you still recognize me.”
“The good things in life you try not to forget.”
She smiled. “But it’s often the bad things you remember because you try so hard to forget them.”
O’Brien said nothing, waiting for her to continue.
She blew out a breath, her eyes falling on Max. “You always liked animals. Somehow I pictured you with a German Shepherd or something.”
O’Brien set Max on the cockpit floor. “Max is the ‘something.’ There’s a long story behind her. Come aboard, Maggie, please.”
She took a seat in one of the deck chairs. O’Brien sat opposite her. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? As I recall, you liked chardonnay.”
“You have a good memory. And you always saw things others seemed to miss.”
“Just observant.”
She smiled, her eyes now bright. “I think it was more than that. I won’t be long.”
“Take all the time you need … it’s only been twenty plus years.”
“How are you, Sean?”
“Can’t complain. I’m trying my hand at this charter boat thing. It’s a good way to make some money, especially during season. One of the guys, two boats down, a Greek with saltwater in his blood, is showing me the ropes.”
“I read a story in the News Journal that a former Miami homicide detective was starting a charter fishing business at Ponce Marina. When I saw your name, I knew it had to be you. I read about your wife … her death, when I went online. I want to….” Maggie paused, seemed to look at something over O’Brien’s shoulder for a moment, her caramel brown ey
es falling back to his. “I was so sorry and sad for you when I heard about your wife’s death. After they killed my husband, Frank, I believe I could relate to your loss on a deeper level.” Her eyes watered.
O’Brien nodded. Silent. He waited for her to speak.
“God, look at me, Sean. I haven’t seen you in twenty two years, and I’m crying.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your husband’s death.”
She looked away, her eyes filling with guarded thoughts. She smiled, pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. She looked up at the fly bridge. “You always loved boats … sailboats I thought. But I guess you can’t charge people to fish from a sailboat. I live about two miles from the marina.”
“I’m sort of a recovering former homicide detective. Left it all behind in Miami. This boat’s twenty years old-owned by a former drug runner. I bought it in a DEA auction and brought it up here, hoping the Daytona area might open some new doors. Where I spend most of my time, though, is at an old house I’m fixing up on the banks of the St. Johns River about a half hour’s drive from here.” O’Brien touched the top of her hand. “Who killed your husband?”
“The same people who run in the pack of murderers responsible for the nine-eleven tragedies. Frank was one of seventeen killed during the attack on the USS Cole. Our son, Jason, was only ten when it happened-a horrible age for a boy to lose his father. Jason’s now a sophomore at Florida State University. I had a rough time; the single parent thing isn’t easy, especially with a boy. When he was fifteen, he got involved with the wrong crowd. Drugs. His attitude was so defensive. Somehow we pulled through. Now that he’s away in school, I think he’s developed a drinking problem. I’ve tried to talk with him, but he’s in denial. When he was home for spring break, I got really scared. I found him passed out in his car. Sean, he reeked of alcohol. An empty vodka bottle was on the floorboard, and he had his father’s picture against his chest.”