by A. J Tata
“I’ll head down there.”
“We’ve got visitors coming soon, too.”
“Army pukes, right?”
Nix smiled. “Yes.”
“Well, just keep them dancing, boss. That’s your line of work. Meanwhile, I’ll go find out what’s happening with the boat. We’ve got one more shipment and then we reverse the process. Everything’s ours free and clear.”
“Which is why I figured those morons might try something stupid such as running off with the last load,” Nix said.
Falco rubbed his goatee with an open palm and then tugged at his diamond stud earring.
“No worries, boss. I’ll find Lars and dump the bodies for the gators.”
Falco was a shade under six feet tall, but his muscular frame seemed to occupy more space than men much bigger. Both his edgy personality and brawn mixed to create their own magnetic field that actually pushed people away. When Falco walked into a room, people noticed his wide shoulders cutting an arc like a scythe and his penetrating gaze sizing up and assessing anyone in his field of vision as a threat or nonthreat.
“Cut the lungs out so they sink this time,” Nix said. He nodded and turned to his bank of cameras that covered every point of entry into his compound. He started at the periphery and worked his way inward. On Route 264 he had cameras facing both directions, tracking the only two routes into the compound. Both gates were locked tight, though he knew that Falco would be exiting out of the south gate in a few minutes in his white Ford F-150. He checked the east gate about four miles to the north and east of the south gate and saw it was locked. One of the first tasks Nix gave the ghosts was to move large boulders and dragon’s teeth, tripods of iron bars, on either side of the chain-link fencing. The first layer of early warning was video coverage coupled with Slew-to-Cue technology. If something moved, a camera would automatically adjust its direction and zoom in on the movement.
On the perimeter fencing, which Copperhead, Inc. had billed to the government as part of the contract, Nix had installed top-of-the-line magnetic, infrared, audible, and passive vibration technology. If someone tried to climb, dig, or cut through the fence, one of the systems would cue one of the hundreds of cameras, which would then zoom in and focus on the anomaly using change-detection technology. Each camera stored an image database of every square inch of its sector of fence line. Each day, the cameras stared and recorded. Simultaneously, a back-end software system overlapped the current digital video with previous pictures, building a composite picture over time, accounting for minor changes such as trash, debris, or animals making changes to the terrain, such as a gopher digging a hole. Larger manipulations, though, would be presumed to be man-made and would be flagged by the software. After eighteen months on the job, Nix had to inspect the fence a dozen times, often in challenging locations. Each time, a bear or alligator had ripped through the fencing or burrowed underneath.
Such instances tended to dull his concern toward someone coming into the compound through the marshy terrain. Still, Nix was confident that if the fence didn’t keep intruders out, the camera would probably spot them and his team could react. Nix kept a three-man quick reaction force and pickup truck with a .50 caliber machine gun mounted in the bed like the Tec Vehicles the Somalis used. He had billed this security equipment to the government under his ordnance removal contract.
In essence, the government had paid for a secure compound from which Copperhead, Inc. could conduct all of its activities.
As he watched Vinny Falco’s Ford F-150 wait for the remote-controlled gate to open, he heard the high-pitched single beep of a fence alert along the southeast portion of the property. It was an outer perimeter fence that they had constructed along a dike separating two swampy ditches.
Nix turned and looked at the camera as it began to turn, tilt, and zoom onto the fence.
Mahegan studied the highway and the ditch-fence-ditch setup he would have to navigate. He was on the south side of the highway with Route 264 twenty meters to his front. He was camouflaged well enough by the dense undergrowth and deadfall. About ten feet from his position he saw a water moccasin coiled on the log behind which he was hiding. Its elliptical eyes watched him, the forked tongue flicking and sensing his presence.
He turned away from the snake, feeling safe enough. The road and the canals were classic danger areas that required caution on many levels. First, a random car could turn the corner and spot him, which might not be tragic, but the likelihood that Copperhead, Inc. kept tabs on vehicular traffic near their gates was high. Going across the road put him at high risk for detection, as was attempting to breach the fence in the early morning sun.
He studied the moccasin again, which hadn’t moved. Its thick black-and-brown body was coiled like a climbing rope atop the deadfall. Mahegan looked farther east and saw a steady stream of water moving toward the Long Shoal River. His eyes followed the flow upstream and he spotted a large drainage pipe.
With a nod, he bid the snake farewell, moved about ten meters into the dense foliage away from the road, and then moved laterally toward the stream. The thorny vines and poison ivy were plentiful. The swim back would wash most of it away, he figured. Thick oak and walnut trees gave way to cypress as he stepped into the rich, black soil of the stream. As he approached the culvert, he could see that the near end was open and that the far end, about twenty meters away, had some type of mesh covering. He figured there were probably sensors embedded in the culvert denial system as well.
Mahegan moved back toward his position near the moccasin, which was still coiled tightly in a new block of sunshine that was angling through the high canopy. In his periphery he saw the southern gate to the Copperhead, Inc. compound open as a white Ford F-150 pulled through and then crossed directly onto the dirt road, which led to the landing craft’s anchor point on Long Shoal Creek.
Mahegan suspected that this person was a one-man investigation team in response to radio silence from Lars Olsen. Having no idea how many men worked at Copperhead or what their true security posture might be, Mahegan was at a disadvantage. He was in recon mode as opposed to assault mode. He needed more information and while the GPS and maps were useful, what he really needed was to be inside the compound. He also knew that whoever was driving the white pickup truck was going to find some dead Copperhead, Inc. employees at the landing craft launch site and eventually Olsen as well. Mahegan would become public enemy number one in the eyes of Copperhead, Inc. He knew that the corporation hired mostly ex-military and some ex-police, all of whom had some kind of expert skill sets, whether hand-to-hand combat, marksmanship, or several combinations thereof.
He looked at the snake, completely still, nearly invisible to the naked eye, and thought the serpent had it about right.
Lie there, observe, and strike when ready.
Chapter 18
Lindy Locklear slipped into the dream again. Each time, she knew it was a mixture of her personal experience, her research, and a bit of creative license on behalf of her subconscious.
It was September, 1857, in the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Nags Head, North Carolina. The SS James Adger, a side-wheel steamer, was pushing through heavy seas. With winds gusting over 120 mph, the captain was using the 240-horsepower Allaire Iron Works steam engine. They were burning through mounds of anthracite coal ferrying $3.5 million in gold from the Dahlonega, Georgia, and Charlotte, North Carolina, mints. They had lost their main sails and their steam engine was flooded. The ship’s captain knew they had passed Hatteras light so he searched for Oregon Inlet and the Bodie Island lighthouse where there was safe harbor.
Meanwhile, Dr. Warren Johnson, owner of the Curlew ironclad steamer, received a telegraph from Charleston, South Carolina, that the Adger left port with large quantities of gold. He quickly devised his plan. He hauled kerosene-soaked logs onto the high sand dunes of Kitty Hawk, several miles north of Bodie Island, set them on fire, shot the foreman of the Bodie Island lighthouse, and snuffed the lighthouse flame. As the
floundering Adger angled toward the ersatz lighthouse, it ran aground in the shoals where the Gulf Stream and Labrador currents met.
Johnson’s crew raided the Adger and took some casualties, but escaped with nearly two million dollars in gold as the flat-bottom Curlew glided back into Oregon Inlet. Johnson murdered the remainder of his crew and hid the gold in the Long Shoal River.
Lindy Locklear passed the Curlew in her kayak, her stroke quiet and stealthy. She was scared that Johnson might shoot her as well, but now she knew where the gold was hidden. She paddled hand over hand, her fit triceps propelling her through the still waters until she was floating in the Long Shoal River above underwater mountains of gold gleaming up at her like shiny pyramids. Finally, her research had paid off and she had discovered the missing treasure. But the felled crewmen of the Curlew were staring at her, eyes open, faces pale, hair wafting in the tidal ebb. “Stay away,” they seemed to be saying to her, their mouths moving. “Stay away.” But two million in gold was too much to ignore.
Locklear bolted awake, sitting upright immediately, wiping sweat from her brow. She checked the clock with the panic-stricken thought that she was late for something.
Ten o’clock a.m. Her mind reeled through the last twenty-four hours. She remembered returning from the Pentagon, drinking with Mahegan, the sensual lovemaking, and falling asleep exhausted. She recalled waking and secretly watching him stride confidently into the water as he swam toward the Teach’s Pet. Then she had snuggled back into his warm spot in the bed.
She was surprised that she didn’t care this time that he had left. From this point forward, the situation was not in her control, and she would follow the leads wherever they appeared.
And she would reclaim the gold.
But first she needed to go check in with the sheriff, so she showered, combed her hair wet straight back over her head, and tossed on a bikini, T-shirt, shorts, and her Tevas.
“Hell with it,” she muttered, realizing she was nervous. She liked the guy and wondered where he was, what he was doing, and what he might discover. While clumsy, he had turned out to be an affectionate lover, which she found appealing.
She leaned over the sink, stared in the mirror, taking in her almost platinum hair, pale green eyes, and clean, lightly freckled face. She smiled with perfect teeth grinning back at her. On the way out, she picked up her Droid cell phone, checked her voice mail, texts, and instant messages, most of them reminders about the season closing cast party tonight for the Lost Colony production.
She hopped in her Defender, flipped her sunglasses over her eyes, and drove the quick four miles to the sheriff’s office. As she entered the building, she almost bumped into Rollie Williams, who was barreling out of the building. She spun around, grabbing his arm. “Hey there, Rollie, where are you going so fast?”
“Don’t mess with me now, Lindy, I’ve got a mission,” Williams shot over his shoulder.
She watched him leave and then went straight to Sheriff Johnson’s office, where she found him standing and talking with two other men.
She leaned over Johnson’s assistant’s desk and asked Lorraine Wilson, “So what’s shaking, wild thing?”
Lorraine was a throwback. She had lived in Dare County all of her life and had held the sheriff’s assistant position for over forty years. She dyed her hair brown, had one face-lift already, and at sixty years, Locklear thought she looked pretty damn good.
“Love the police outfit, Locklear.” Lorraine smiled. The two women got along usually and mostly because Locklear deferred to the elder nearly one hundred percent of the time. In fact, most people did.
“You know better than anyone, Lorraine, if you don’t use it, you lose it.”
Lorraine smiled again. “You got that right, girl. What’s shaking, yourself?”
“You going to the cast party tonight?” asked Lindy.
Lorraine had played a variety of extras over the years in the Lost Colony theatrical production.
“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it unless this new information on Miller Royes and J.J. causes us all to work late.” Lorraine winked.
Locklear picked up on the hint and, leaning forward, said in a whisper, “So what’s the deal?”
Lorraine bent toward Locklear and said, “We’ve got military police in the office asking questions about Miller and J.J. Word is that they were out on the Pet last week when they went missing.” Lorraine tilted her head in the direction of Johnson’s office.
Locklear chewed on a fingernail, concerned that she might need to deal with these federal investigators. What in the hell had they found out?
“Thanks, Lorraine, we’ll see you tonight then?”
“Sure thing, honey.”
Locklear took a step, then stopped and turned around, catching Sheriff Johnson’s eye. She nodded and then leaned back into Lorraine. “Think I can catch a minute with the sheriff when he’s done with the military guys?”
“He’s always got time for you, dear. Why don’t you just pull up a chair?”
The outer office was sparsely furnished with old government furniture consisting of gray cloth chairs to match Lorraine’s gray desk. There were a few paintings on the wall of Chief Manteo, the Croatan tribal leader during John White’s settlement in 1587. Locklear noticed there were none of Chief Wanchese, Manteo’s main rival during the Lost Colony days.
After thirty minutes, the two investigators, whom Locklear immediately recognized as the two men she and Mahegan had confronted at Blackbeard’s, came walking from Johnson’s office. Johnson was saying in his Elizabethan English, “I thank you all for coming down. We had no idea that Royes was anything but a worker on the Pet. You know that ship stays out there year-round except when we haul it in and scrape all the crap off the bottom and get it ready for a new season. And we’re just worried sick about my nephew, J.J. I’ve got everyone in the department looking for him.”
The man Locklear recognized as Paslowski said, “We were going to Copperhead today but we decided we would start with that ship first based upon some information we got from headquarters.”
“We can work that out. Give me a day to get it set up. Now that the theater season’s over, they have a business they run out there. Kids go out on field trips from the schools. They have guys playacting as pirates. Five hundred dollars a pop and they do at least two visits a day. They’ve got some official Edward Teach artifacts out there on display. Plus, it has radio and antennae stuff on there and acts as a relay station so I can communicate to all my deputies across this big county, so we’re going to have to be careful.”
Paslowski slewed his head toward Locklear like a T. rex looking for game and then returned his gaze to Johnson.
“We’ll be ready tomorrow morning,” said Paslowski. “That’s when we’d like to get out there. If you can be ready sooner, so will we. I’ve got a warrant coming from the federal judge in a few hours, but I’d prefer to start when we’ll have a full day to spend out there.”
“Deal,” Johnson said. He stood there in his denim shirt with the embroidered “Sheriff” above the left breast pocket and his khaki pants.
“And on the other, about Mahegan. He’s in deep shit with the Inspector General. So, we’ll defer to you for now, but the evidence that he murdered a prisoner of war is looking pretty good from our end.” Paslowski turned and looked directly at Locklear, who took that as her cue to stand.
Paslowski’s eyes did a full-body scan of her, which caused Locklear to shiver as if to shake off the residue.
“How’s the arm, slugger?” Locklear provoked him.
Paslowski’s mouth turned into a wicked, lips-sealed grin making him look like a Gila monster. “Probably better than Mahegan’s. Where is he, by the way?”
“I’ve got him locked up,” Locklear said confidently.
Paslowski paused, started to say something, and then the two men departed.
Once they were gone, Sheriff Johnson looked at her. “What in the world?” he asked. “Lindy, we’ve t
alked about this. Either you’re on duty and dressed appropriately or you don’t come in here like that.”
She grabbed his arm, pulled him into his office, closed the door, and said, “Listen, you don’t pay me enough to work full-time. I’m trying to pull some things together that will help the case. You’re not seriously going to let them tear apart the Pet, are you?”
“Don’t have much choice in the matter, Lindy. You heard the man. They’ve got a warrant from a federal judge. Royes and J.J. were doing some work for Copperhead and Royes apparently had called the feds. Something about the expense report for the bomb-clearing effort there. They’re spending money on construction when all they’re supposed to be doing is finding bombs. Miller didn’t get real specific, but they said he was worried about something. And another thing Paslowski told me was that there is an issue with the paychecks for the people who are clearing the bombs. So, we know they’re up to something, but until now there’s been nothing but secrets.”
“What I never got about Copperhead is that they’ve got this big contract to clear the bombing range and they’ve never hired a single local person to do it. I couldn’t ever get Nix to talk about it,” Lindy said, sitting in another gray chair inside Johnson’s office. She pulled at her lip, thinking.
Johnson sat in his chair and leveled his eyes on Locklear.
“Lindy, I’ve thought about the same thing. All we ever see is that guy, Falco, who is bird-dogging chicks during tourist season—”
“Doesn’t have to be tourist season. He’s always bird-dogging chicks,” Locklear countered.
“And sometimes Nix is over here, but you’d think there would be workers.”
“You’re the sheriff of Dare County. Can’t you go over there and check things out?”
“Federal property. We got no say,” Johnson said.
Locklear paused, then asked, “What do you think they’ll find on the Pet?”