Sleeping Dogs

by Tony Vanderwarker

“Good. Now we can really give him something to think about.”

  37

  Everglades Motel, Baltimore, Saturday morning

  Dishes in the sink, empty pizza cartons scattered around, the rooms are a mess but housekeeping is the last thing on Sharon’s mind. She’s been up ever since 6:30 when Straub called Howie. She dressed in a flash, got the major up and going, and helped him down the corridor to camp out in Howie’s room to wait for Winn’s next call. The taste of civilization at Tysons Corner left her craving more and right now she wants to put miles between herself and the cruddy motel. Even though she knows things will be a lot more risky down on the bay, the thought of the Coast Guard is reassuring.

  Howie’s desk is crowded with empty Pepsi cans and discarded pizza crusts, she guesses he’s been up half the night.

  “Anything happening there?” she asks him.

  “Got it narrowed down some.”

  “I’m ready for a change of scenery, even if I’m going to freeze my damn butt off out there on the bay. So why don’t you give your buddy a call?” She had slept fitfully and was relieved when Howie rang so she didn’t have to stare at the ceiling any longer.

  “We have to wait,” says Howie, leaning over his laptop screen where he’s been working to discover most likely trajectories of the bomb after it was dropped.

  She checks her wristwatch for the umpteenth time. “I’m itching to get a move on Just give him a ring and see if he’s ready.”

  “You’ve got to cool your jets, it’s Winn’s move. He made that clear.” During the conversation with Winn earlier that morning, Howie confirmed the nuke must have been dropped into the upper reaches of the Chesapeake Bay. His hunch was right, the Pentagon didn’t have the vaguest idea of where the bomb was but given the B-52’s course, the spot where they encountered the severe weather and the fact that the major came down on land, there’s little likelihood it could have been jettisoned anywhere else. He gave Straub the coordinates of the three most promising areas. Winn was going to transmit the information to the Coast Guard unit and have them map the search.

  Sharon wanders into the kitchen, takes the last Pepsi out of the refrigerator and pops it. Leaning against the doorjamb sipping the soda, she asks, “Do you realize it’s been a full week since we first met at Starbucks?”

  “And you’re wishing it will never end.”

  “I want it to end right, that’s for damn sure.”

  He glances at her. He knows she’s been fretting about the search and wonders if she’s seconds away from going over the edge again. She has one of those disconcerted expressions that doesn’t augur well. “Believe me, it will go like clockwork,” he reassures her. “Winn has the whole operation organized.”

  “I don’t know where you get all your optimism, Collyer. Here you’re about to be the bait for a group of terrorists and you sound like you’re heading off for a day at the beach. ”

  “They only want the nuke. As soon as we find it, they’ll elbow us out of the way.”

  “Elbow us out of the way? What do you think we’re playing here— pickup basketball?”

  “Everything will turn out fine.”

  “You’re telling me to shut up, aren’t you?”

  He chortles, “I know better than to do that.” Collyer returns to the course calculations he’s running on his computer until five minutes later when Sharon interrupts him again.

  “I’ve been thinking—I bet your wife and I could be friends.”

  “What made you think of her?”

  “I thought the two of us might, you know, hit it off. She seems like a sharp lady.”

  “Sharp as a tack. If it wasn’t for her nose for stocks, I’d be driving a UPS truck right now.”

  “What did she invest in?”

  “Dot com deal down in Charlottesville in the crazy days before the whole thing imploded. A startup Internet retail operation. She rode the stock to the top then got out two days before it tanked.”

  “Gutsy move—my kind of lady.”

  “She thinks you are the only sane one in this operation. Said you have a lot of common sense.”

  “Not enough to keep from getting involved in this mess.”

  Howie’s eyebrows suddenly shoot up. He turns and looks around the motel room. “That’s the phone. Where is it?”

  “I picked it up. It’s in my purse,” Sharon says. “Here,” she takes out the cell and hands it over.

  He listens a moment, then answers, “We can be out of here in two minutes. Let me jot the directions down on the computer. Grimes Boatyard in Fairhaven, okay—”

  “Where are we going?” Risstup questions Sharon as they stand in the doorway watching Howie talk on the phone.

  “Don’t ask me, I just work here.”

  Howie continues his conversation, “It’s 10:15 now and you say it will take us an hour plus to get to the boatyard. We should see you sometime before noon. Right, a cab with the number ending in eights.”

  He waits, listening carefully, jotting down a couple notes, then says, “Okay, I hear you—mouth shut and eyes open. See you soon, Winn.”

  “What was that mouth shut eyes open business about?”

  “I’ll tell you after I find the cab,” Howie opens the door.

  “Are we paid up?”

  “I took care of it earlier,” Howie says to her as he backs out. “See you in a couple.”

  A cab with the number 5488 is waiting on the corner. Howie’s glad to see a friendly face behind the wheel. But it’s clear the cabbie has been instructed to maintain his cover, no chitchat. Howie gives him their destination. He nods and drops the flag. That’s the last bit of conversation he has with the cab driver.

  “Say goodbye to the Everglades,” Howie says as Risstup and Sharon climb into the backseat.

  “Don’t care if I ever see the place again,” Sharon says, looking back at the motel.

  Howie hears his phone buzzing, reaches for it expecting Straub to be on the other end. “Hello?” But it’s Sylvie instead. She’s called him twice since they met at the mall. He listens patiently, nodding, the even-tempered husband placating the anxious wife.

  “I told you what we’d be doing, Sylvie. We’re heading down to the shore. We’ll be working with the Coast Guard down there, everything will be fine.”

  Howie smiles, making more small talk with her until Sylvie finally runs out of things to say. “I’ll say hello to Sharon for you—yes, dear, I promise. I love you too. Goodbye,” and he clicks the phone shut.

  “Everything fine on the home front?” Sharon asks.

  “Sylvie’s got more complaints than a homesick kid at camp. Food’s lousy, sheets are scratchy and they’re sick of watching movies.”

  “At least they’re safe,” Sharon says, surprising herself at the wistful tone in her voice.

  “You could be safe down there too.”

  “And miss all this excitement? Are you kidding? What was that last thing Straub said to you on the phone? About keeping your ears open?”

  “To follow his directions to the letter and not worry about it.”

  “He says not to worry a lot.”

  “Winn means it.” That’s as far as he takes it with Sharon. Straub told him not to tip his hand down in Fairhaven. They need to get a read on the Coast Guard commander. Having spent most of his career in the Navy, Winn wants to make sure he’s not tied to the Pentagon. So far Straub’s decisions and timing have been perfect, so Howie isn’t about to start second-guessing him.

  Once out of Baltimore, they make good time. It’s Saturday and the weather is blustery so there isn’t much traffic. The trip through the flat farmland is uneventful, the two-lane roads running straight through the fallow fields where soybeans, wheat and vegetables sprout during the growing season. Every couple miles, a stretch of woodland opens up to a series of farmhouses. Usually brick, sometimes frame, all neat, clean and prosperous-looking and surrounded by barns and outbuildings.

  Howie verifies the directions on his
laptop when they get to the quaint harbor-side town of Fairhaven, though he has the definite sense that the cabbie knows where he’s going. White houses, nicely tended yards, friendly-looking signs in front of many of the houses with the owners’ names inscribed upon them: Welcome to the Mulvanys, Home of the Decatur Clan.

  Coming around a corner, Howie can see the sign reading Grimes’s Boatyard, Rentals, Winterizing, Storage, Repairs on all makes of inboard and outboard engines, Painting and General Maintenance, Fully Insured. A black Hummer blocks the entrance. As the cab pulls up, the driver climbs out and slowly approaches, looking them up and down carefully. He’s wearing navy blue fatigues, boots, cap on his head, holstered pistol. Even though he is without insignia, Howie assumes he’s Coast Guard.

  “Mr. Collyer?” the man asks, leaning down to speak into the back window.

  “Yes, I’m Collyer,” Howie says, opening the door. Sharon helps Risstup out the other side.

  A second man gets out of the Hummer, a submachine gun slung over his shoulder.

  “I’m meeting Winston Straub,” Howie explains.

  “Yes, sir,” is all the man says. Sharon is impressed. Straub sure seems to have his act together. “Come inside, someone will be out to talk with you in a few minutes.” He motions toward the entrance.

  Some welcoming committee, Sharon decides, don’t even introduce themselves. The men climb back into the Hummer, doors slam shut.

  The three wander through the entrance into the boatyard, Sharon helping Risstup along, Howie checking out the interior. Though he decides not to point it out, Howie doesn’t miss the men stationed on the rooftops with rifles, scopes attached. He counts five. Could easily be more around the perimeter he can’t see. Howie doesn’t know what it will be like out on the Chesapeake, but at least they’ll be safe here.

  He’s been around boatyards since he was a kid. Except for the sentries, this one’s typical. Sheds and barns surrounding a wide area crammed with boats in cradles gradually sloping down to a concrete ramp leading into the water. Though the yard is dilapidated and in need of paint, the place has recently been spruced up. Immaculate, all the cradled boats neatly lined up, not a weed or a piece of trash anywhere, none of the discarded parts and machinery you normally see around boatyards. Shipshape is the word that occurs to Howie. And it’s perfect for this kind of operation. Someone did his homework. Out of the way and off season, there’s no one around to get suspicious.

  Though it’s chilly with a brisk wind blowing in off the bay, after almost two hours on the road, Howie appreciates the chance to stretch his legs.

  “You want to wait for us?” he hears. Sharon sounds peevish. Howie realizes he’s way ahead.

  “Sorry,” he says, stopping to let them catch up. Though he still needs someone to lean on, Risstup’s walking more confidently. Waiting for the two, Howie’s wondering why no one has come out to greet them.

  Had he looked back at the building they passed when they came in, he would have seen a slightly parted curtain. Standing at the window of the boatyard office watching the three, Warren decides they are an odd-looking bunch, the former Pentagon employee, the VA nurse and the old pilot shuffling along arm in arm with her. More like a group you’d see strolling around the grounds of an old age home than a threat to national security.

  But General Hatkin was explicit about the threat they posed. And concerned enough to pay Warren a visit early yesterday evening, choppering down from the Pentagon with his top aide. Not since his Annapolis days has Warren been in the presence of so much brass. General Watt is a two-star, Whitey Hatkin has three and is a walking myth. Fueled by coffee and adrenalin, Warren sat wide-eyed in the boatyard office while the three-star brought him up to speed.

  Watt was curious how Hatkin would handle it. Commander Warren was clearly in a bind. Under orders from the top official in his agency, Lucien Jimmick, the Secretary of DHS, he was now being asked to set them aside and take on another mission. As Watt watched the white-haired general expertly weave the web to catch Collyer in a conspiracy to secure nuclear weapons, an expression came to mind—blood is thicker than water.

  “Secretary Jimmick bought into this?” Warren asked, incredulous that a cabinet secretary like Jimmick could be so easily hoodwinked.

  “Swallowed Collyer’s whole cockamamie story hook, line and sinker. Jimmick’s plotting to discredit the Pentagon by going after the nuke. It’s nothing more than a cheap trick to bolster Homeland Security’s stock. A self-seeking and foolhardy scheme with troubling implications.”

  “Is there actually a bomb in the Bay?”

  Watt wondered how Hatkin would field Warren’s question. He wasn’t surprised when Watt turned to him.

  “I’ll let General Watt answer, he’s our expert on unrecovered weapons.”

  Watt knows it’s no time to be getting into gray areas. “Our records indicate the aircraft jettisoned the nuke over the Continental Shelf.”

  “So, as you said, it’s a wild goose chase.”

  “The chance the bomb is in the Chesapeake is close to zero. But we need you on board to make sure. Any attempt to retrieve a weapon would be disastrous. These bombs must be left undisturbed so they can decompose. Even bringing attention to their existence creates risk.”

  Watt and Hatkin detailed what they wanted Warren to do. Provided him with a secure cell phone with preprogrammed direct lines to the Pentagon and assured him he would have their complete support.

  Commander Warren peers out the window at the threesome standing around the rigid inflatable in the center of the yard. He remembers Hatkin’s warning, “Don’t be fooled by appearances. They might look like an older man, a young nurse and a senior citizen. But in reality, since they are conspiring to obtain a nuclear weapon, we have to consider them enemy combatants.”

  Enemy combatants—hardly the phrase that comes to mind, Warren thinks as he watches the three civilians loitering around the boat. He has seen the enemy before, up close and personal. Men with gaunt faces who’ve been living off the land for months and who would take out a relative if ordered, fearless and savage zealots who will crouch behind a rock without food or water for hours in the blazing sun waiting to get off the perfect shot.

  Warren swings open the door and takes the stairs in twos, thinking, Let’s go see what this crew is all about.

  “You know anything about boats?’ Sharon asks Howie as she watches the lean guy in the blue uniform come out of the building and head down toward them.

  “I’ve had a bunch.”

  “All I know about boats is I get seasick.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  Howie reaches up to run his hand over the tight black skin of the inflatable. “This boat is amazing, can handle anything.” He pats one of the engines with his hand. “Bet this baby can do forty knots.”

  “Fifty, actually,” Howie hears a voice correcting him. Turning around, he sees a man in his mid-thirties, slim but well-built, striding toward them dressed in the same outfit the men in the Hummer wore, navy baseball cap on his head, a revolver at his waist.

  “I’m Commander Warren, I’m your skipper,” he says. “Ms. Thorsen, Mr. Collyer, Major Risstup, pleased to meet you,” he greets them, extending his hand to Sharon first.

  “I see you already know our names.”

  “You’ve been the topic of a few conversations recently.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” she winks at him.

  Sharon likes his smile, he’s around her age and cute. Strong jaw, smooth skin, steely eyes, taut body, if he played ball he probably would have been a strong safety. The kind of guy I always fall for. She stops herself. What am I doing flirting at a time like this?

  Howie shakes his hand and gestures over toward the boat, saying, “Wouldn’t mind taking a spin in this baby.”

  Sharon rolls her eyes. “Can’t wait,” she groans sarcastically.

  “That’s our backup chase boat, we’re going to be spending most of our time in that craft over there,”
he says, pointing at the thirty-foot fishing boat moored just off the end of the ramp. In contrast with the menacing-looking inflatable, the smaller craft is ordinary, and with chipped paint and stained planking, appears as if it’s seen its best days.

  “Looks can be deceiving. I’ll give you a tour later. Right now, please join me for a briefing.” He motions back over his shoulder toward the main building. “And I have to warn you. Watch what you say inside— we’re still in the process of debugging the interior.”

  As she guides Risstup up the slope, Sharon takes another look at the lithe and athletic-looking man who’s in command, musing—Maybe there will be at least one saving grace in the next few days.

  One by one they file into the main building. Once an office with a counter and desks, the furniture has been pushed back to create a space filled with a row of chairs facing easels with large maps. With all the stuff on the walls, the interior looks more like a situation room than a boatyard office. Warren pulls up an easel holding a map of the Chesapeake Bay with three colored rectangles, one green, the second a lighter green, the third yellow.

  These guys work fast, Howie thinks. I gave Winn that information just a couple hours ago. But the specific locations of the search areas are baffling. Though he’s low on sleep, he remembers the coordinates well enough to know that the rectangles are off by miles. Howie wonders, Is that a mistake or was it intentional on Straub’s part? But he also remembers Winn’s warning to keep his mouth shut.

  Using a pointer to outline the three sections, Warren explains, “Our mission is to mount a concerted search in the areas you have identified for us, color-coded by priority. Green first. We will tow detection gear behind the boat I pointed out to you in the yard.”

  “What kind of gear?”

  “The latest, state-of-the-art metal and radiation detectors.”

  Tracing the outlines with his pointer, Warren continues, “We’re going to be starting with the green first. Think of it as mowing the lawn, going back and forth until it’s completely covered. Then we’ll search again perpendicular to our initial pattern to checkerboard the entire area. If the object is there, we’ll find it.”