by A. J Tata
Nix watched the wing tips break the surface of the water and he was staring at the almost perfect image of a fighter jet, but one built for moving undetected through shallow water. It had two small torpedo tubes on either side of its “wings” that looked more like small cannons. Nix’s design created a vacuum fed conveyor belt into each wing that allowed the guns to rapidly fire miniaturized torpedoes with significant warhead explosive capability, either by line of sight or with predetermined GPS coordinates.
The hatch popped and his partner, Vinny Falco, stepped out, slid down the MeshLink surface, and splashed into the chest-deep water. He took a few steps and lashed a snap link through a countersunk eyelet and then fed some rope through his hand, securing Vader as if it were his steed. Falco pulled down on his wetsuit zipper to let some air in and emerged from the water looking like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.
“Boss,” Falco said, his gold earring reflecting the sun.
“Vinny. You’re late.”
“I know. Sorry, boss.”
“Though it appears the GPS works well,” Nix said.
“Almost plowed into a damn shrimp net. You’re right, the radar did well, though. Caught it just in time.”
Nix had designed Vader with futuristic global positioning systems, forward-looking infrared radar, and thermal capabilities all downloaded into a single integrated platform with a heads-up display that gave the pilot just-in-time information to make crucial decisions about steerage or combat.
“That’s good. Good.” Nix looked into Croatan Sound and changed the subject, letting some of his anger show. “Some drifter found the body.”
“Really?”
“You sterilized it, right?”
“Yes, completely.”
“Next time, we use Vader to haul any bodies out to sea. Got it?”
“It’ll be the first time we punch her through Oregon Inlet, but aye. Thought the old concrete block at the bottom of the sound was good enough. Hell, drop ’em at sea and they can still wash in. We caught a bad break, that’s all. There was the other matter with his boat I had to deal with, too. A lot going on.”
“Cut the lungs out next time. They’ll stay down.” Nix paused, holding back. He and Falco had served in Desert Storm together and had been on a variety of low-level, noncombat missions when they got bored with the military scene and retired. Nix had retired as a Navy captain, which accorded him a decent pension, except that his ex-wife got half of it. Falco had retired as a Navy chief petty officer, which also accorded him a decent pension, except he spent every minute off in Nags Head chasing women or in Atlantic City gambling. He was awash in debt and had needed the business as much as Nix had.
“I’ve got a phone conference today with Fort Brackett, so we’ll see. They called after this morning’s incident. It seems as though they need some security. Seems our willingness to do the bomb cleanup has got us some traction with DoD again.”
Falco frowned.
“Saw the news right before I got in Vader. Lots of casualties?”
“Check. They’re saying it was a lone jihadist targeting a major military facility. Front gate security cameras picked up a guy running into the crowd. This could be an opportunity for us.”
Falco stood in knee-deep water holding the submersible that wafted back and forth with the chop kicked up by the breeze. About one hundred meters to their rear through the thick forest was Route 264, though it saw only the occasional car this time of day.
“We’ve got a lot of projects going, boss. I know we got our ass handed to us, but we can’t spread ourselves too thin. Where will we get the personnel if we get the security contract? Can’t be the same as who we’ve got clearing bombs, that’s for sure.”
Nix was losing his patience.
“Vinny, need I remind you that you were part of the Afghanistan debacle? We need the work, and if we need people, we’ll find people, just like we found people to clear those bombs.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bombing range a few miles to the north.
Nix studied Falco closely, keeping in check his pent-up anger over what Falco had done in Afghanistan.
“Understand. I’m just saying, boss. We got tons of shit going on. Almost like we’re throwing spaghetti at the wall. See what sticks.”
Nix nodded. “What’s sticking is this dull-ass bomb disposal. But it’s steady work and, as you said, cheap labor. We have a good chance at the Vader thing. I think we can sell that puppy to the Navy once we get our use out of it. Two prototypes. So do whatever keeps the cheap labor coming. We’re going to need it.”
Falco smiled. “Okay. Got it, boss.”
“Plus, now we’ve got the biggest military base in the country maybe asking us to provide security. I’d say things are looking up, wouldn’t you, Vinny?”
Nix watched Falco break eye contact, something not quite right.
“You know it, boss. Plus we’ve got the Rainbow.”
Nix paused and then nodded. “We don’t talk about Rainbow until it’s a sure thing.”
Falco started to speak, but Nix chopped a hand through the air and shut him down before pointing a finger at him.
“And Vinny? I don’t know how that asshole floated to the surface, but don’t let it happen again.”
“Understand.”
“And the other? The ‘missing person?’ ” Nix used his fingers to make quotation marks.
“We’re handling it.”
“Okay. Dismissed.”
The Navy captain had spoken to the chief petty officer; the businessman had not spoken to his partner. Nix knew Falco didn’t like it, but tough shit. He also knew Falco was not being completely honest with him about what had transpired with the dead man named Miller Royes the drifter had found.
Nix watched Falco pull up his wetsuit zipper, unlash the line, step onto the stirrup just below the cockpit, and swing into the seat. Falco closed and sealed the hatch and then looked over his shoulder at the cargo bay. In Nix’s view it had been crucial to keep the cargo hold as small as possible so that the submersible could carry more ammunition. In addition to the two turbopropulsion engines, he had designed Vader with a flotation system so that it could elevate completely out of the water with a twenty-four-inch freeboard for activities such as transferring passengers or cargo.
As he watched Falco back out of the cove, he thought about all of his product lines: the bombing range clearance project, Vader, potential security work, and, of course, Rainbow.
Rainbow was the game-changer. It was his ticket to financial independence.
Chapter 10
The sun had set, it was eight p.m., and Mahegan watched Locklear navigate the narrow roads out of Manteo, up through Nags Head and Kitty Hawk, into Chesapeake, Virginia, and then onto Interstate 664 through Suffolk, over and under the Monitor-Merrimac Bridge Tunnel, and past the Hampton Coliseum on I-64 toward Richmond.
He watched her hold the steering wheel with her knees and text for about five minutes. When she seemed to have finished her business, she looked at him and said, “What?”
“You might want to watch the road.”
“Making you nervous?”
Changing the topic, he said, “Johnson’s your uncle?”
“That’s right.”
She was wearing the same outfit she had on when he had first met her. They had left Blackbeard’s Restaurant, made a quick stop by her beach bungalow on the north end, and then departed for Arlington, Virginia. He was still wearing her IF IT’S TOURIST SEASON, WHY CAN’T I SHOOT THEM? T-shirt. The September evening had grown cool and Locklear had opted for the soft top. The air whipped through the gaps in the canvas and Mahegan closed his eyes, letting the wind buffet him.
“You’re a deputy?” he asked.
“Sort of. During the tourist months, the sheriff needs all the help he can get. I’m really an engineer. Marine biology engineer to be specific.”
Mahegan let that sink in for a moment. He ran the last twenty-four hours through
his mind and something caught in one of the gears. He kept working through it and thought that Locklear may be able to help jar it loose.
“You kayak in the sound. You carry a Glock. You’re deputized. You know all about the Teach’s Pet, and you know all about the Croatan tribe.”
“That’s right, though the Croatan thing is sort of a hobby. As a direct descendent of Virginia Dare, I’m curious. The Croatan protected Dare and we know she survived, but can it be true that there are no Croatan bloodlines left in the world? I don’t think so. An entire people extinct? Can’t be.”
They passed a sign for Fort Eustis, which Mahegan knew was a transportation command headquarters along the James River.
“You mentioned something about the private military contractors and no jobs for the locals. Can you tell me more about that?”
Mahegan felt he was close to what was hanging in his mind. When he added up the events of the day, her comment about the contractors was the only thing that did not make sense to him.
“Over in Alligator Wildlife Refuge the Navy and Air Force have a bombing range. After all the protests and threatening to vote out our congressman, they finally closed the place down two years ago. Can you believe it? Jets bombing in the middle of a wildlife refuge for black bears and red wolves. Unbelievable.”
“The contractors?”
Locklear pulled onto I-295, bypassing Richmond as she moved north toward Washington, DC.
“Right. Copperhead, Incorporated won the contract to clear the 46,000 acres of all the ordnance. As you may know, for every ten bombs dropped, two don’t detonate.”
“At least that, but forget what I know. Why would you know that in your world?”
Locklear turned and smiled at him, the dimly lit dashboard casting a faint orange glow across her face.
“I’m a researcher.”
Mahegan nodded, as if that explained everything.
“So, the contractors come into Manteo and hang around?”
“Only a few of them do. Mostly ex-military. Copperhead is that company that was protecting all the State Department and nongovernmental organizations in Iraq and Afghanistan and lost their contract after Abu Ghraib and the Bagram scandals. A prick named Sam Nix is their CEO and founder.”
Mahegan knew from his time in Afghanistan that Copperhead had mostly rogue operators who would ride hanging out of windows, firing at anything that moved, aggressively pushing citizens and other vehicles off the road all in the name of getting their principal safely from point A to point B. Most of them lied about being former Delta Force or Navy SEALs. He didn’t know of Nix, which told him something right there. Nix wasn’t part of Mahegan’s community of shadow warriors. Mahegan had known the Copperhead thugs left in their wake a scorched path of destruction that the maneuver commanders would have to then reconcile with the indigenous people, often costing military lives to increased numbers of roadside bombs and ambushes from angry citizens. Their interrogators would push the limits of the law and decency, believing that slapping around a few prisoners would yield the gold nugget of information such as Adham’s exact location in the form of a ten-digit grid coordinate. It was not only shortsighted but plain stupid. Mostly, Mahegan knew these rookies just liked getting off on the power, having complete control over another human being.
“You know these guys?” Locklear asked.
“I know of them. Loose cannons, mostly.”
“What nobody can figure out is that they really haven’t hired any locals. During off-season our unemployment goes through the roof and everyone was hopeful. First, to get the bombing range cleaned up so that the wildlife preserve could actually preserve some wildlife. Imagine that. Second, the contract is for several years and folks were hoping for some good-paying jobs. Times are tough.”
“But no jobs?”
Locklear nodded and Mahegan could tell she wanted to say something more, but she didn’t. They drove on in the darkness, merging with the constant I-95 traffic heading toward the nation’s capital like bees to pollen.
“Is Lindy short for something?”
“Why do you ask?” Locklear stiffened.
“Normal question, isn’t it?”
“Is Jake short for something?”
“In fact it’s a nickname. Chayton is my first name. Couldn’t say it as a kid. Kept coming out Jake, so Jake it is.”
“Cute.”
After another five minutes of driving, Locklear relented even though Mahegan hadn’t pressed her.
“Elizabeth.”
“Pardon?”
“Lindy is short, sort of, for Elizabeth.”
Something clicked in Mahegan’s mind at the name, but he lost the thought as they pulled into the parking garage for the Hilton in Crystal City. It was one o’clock in the morning and Locklear changed the subject. “You’re in my custody, you understand?” she asked. “I take my duties for Dare County seriously. Don’t make an asshole out of me. And then there’s this.”
She showed him her iPhone. Mullah Adham’s statement from this morning’s attacks was on the screen.
“Captain Chayton Mahegan knows how we are doing this, so if you want answers, it is best to ask him.”
“I want answers,” Locklear said.
Mahegan processed the information. Williams had mentioned the attacks and he had heard intermittent references to the casualty count. But why would Mullah Adham implicate him? How would he even know who he was? But he immediately knew he had underestimated the enemy. Of course, Adham knew who he was. Mahegan had been assigned the task of capturing The American Taliban.
“I don’t have any . . . right now,” Mahegan said.
Locklear seemed to understand. “Fair enough, but I thought you should know.”
“Thanks.”
“This whole Pentagon thing may be more about this,” she said, pointing at the phone, “than something that happened a year ago.”
“A year ago, today. It’s all the same. We are fighting a war and nobody really cares. The generals in the Pentagon go home every night and the soldiers in the field get shot at every night. Then they use the 8,000-mile screwdriver to tighten your ass up and decree whether you did right or wrong. Happens every day.”
Locklear looked out of the window of the Defender into the dark parking lot. Mahegan saw her eyes narrow, as if in deep thought. He noticed, not for the first time, the beauty of her profile. Subtly strong chin, high cheekbones, thick blond hair, and light freckles across a nose that could be every plastic surgeon’s inspiration.
“You’re talking about the dishonorable discharge.” Not a question.
“Partly. There is a great divide, Lindy, between the wheels that spin in the Pentagon,” he said, pointing in the direction of the five-sided building, “and the machine that goes to war.”
“But for you, a dishonorable discharge would be wrong. Unfair.”
“I don’t get into fair or unfair. It is up to a three-star general to decide. My record was spotless until I killed Hoxha. He was handcuffed. My intentions were irrelevant. I should have been more careful.”
“Careful? You were in combat. He could have escaped and killed more of our soldiers!”
Mahegan was surprised. He had not mentioned any of the details to Locklear. Recalling that General Savage had said the news had covered the incident, he gauged Locklear differently. She had researched him. When and why, he wondered?
“This much is true,” Mahegan said. “It’s late. Let’s move.”
She parked the car and checked them into separate but adjoining rooms. Mahegan took a twenty-minute shower to wash off the day. While the memories of what happened that night to Colgate would never leave him, he thought he had left the legal ramifications behind. His command had conducted an investigation and had cleared him of any wrongdoing. Savage had recommended him for an honorable discharge and Mahegan had quietly received a chest full of medals when he’d departed the Army. He didn’t care about the medals, but the discharge characterization was important
to him. He had served honorably and deserved that permanent moniker on his record. General Bream pursuing a change in Savage’s recommendation to perhaps characterize the discharge as dishonorable gave even his last hold on honor a bitter aftertaste.
And now this? Adham mentioning his name in connection with Fort Brackett?
Turning off the shower, he heard a light rap on his door. He wrapped a towel around his waist and peered through the peephole. He saw Locklear’s face distorted by the bubble as if she was looking at him.
He opened the door and she stepped in, nervous and carrying a hanging bag she pushed into his hands.
“I had a friend go by Big and Tall as we were driving and get you clothes for tomorrow. I don’t know what the Army requires you to wear to something like this, but I guessed at your sizes; forty-six-long jacket and thirty-two waist by thirty-six pants. Size twelve shoes, which I knew from inspecting the mocs. Close?”
“Close enough. Thank you. A friend?”
“That’s right. When I was driving with my knees and texting? Anyway, she had to buy off the rack because anything else would need to be tailored.”
She held out a navy blue suit, white shirt, red-and-black rep tie, black dress shoes, and a bag of white T-shirts.
“What do I owe you?”
“We’ll settle up later,” she said.
Mahegan retrieved the items and hung them in the closet, setting the shoes and the shirts on the top shelf.
Then he turned toward Locklear, realizing for the first time that he was naked under the towel. He caught her staring and she flushed.
“Sorry,” he said. “Just got out of the shower.”
“Obviously. I wasn’t checking you out.... Well maybe just a bit.” Locklear smiled.
“I’m sure you got a boyfriend and all that comes with it.”
“No boyfriend,” she said. Locklear moved to the bed and sat on one corner. “No nothing. You got tourists who come and go and all they want to do is get laid or cheat on their significant others. You got a few contractors who come over to the island and the Outer Banks to get drunk and then get laid. You got rich guy millionaires who keep their boats on the sound, who just want to get laid in their fancy boats.”