“Never mind about that. Best you keep to yourself here. Me and the Captain go way back, and it hasn’t always been good.”
They pulled up at a cinderblock building left over from the 1960s, recently painted yellow, its green metal roof dulled from the topical sun. As they were getting out of the truck, they were greeted by a small-framed man in uniform, captains bars on his lapels.
“Don’t know whether to be happy to see you or scared stiff,” the officer said, extending his hand to Wood.
“You can decide after we have a little chat, Jim. God, man you look pale,” Wood replied, any friendliness hidden by his tone of voice. “You remember Mac Travis from that Sigsbee causeway job we did.”
Jim Gillum walked toward the drivers door and shook Mac’s hand. “Come on in, then. We can talk in my office.” He held the door open for the two men and followed them in.
“It secure in there?” Wood asked.
“It’s a Navy base, Wood. It’s secure.”
“All right then. Just be sure it is.”
“What’s so important you have to visit me? I don’t expect it’s a social call. I haven’t seen or heard from you in twenty years. Last time was when we titled that piece of sand to you.”
“I would’ve been happy if that was the last time, too,” Wood said. “Saved your career, that deal. If that was the last time I had to be here, that would have been fine with me.”
Mac wondered if this was really a good idea. They walked into the sparsely decorated office and sat in the chairs facing the desk.
“Coffee, anything I can get you?” Jim asked grudgingly.
“Cut the crap, Jim, you know I’m not here to reminisce about the old days.” Wood leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “My boy here found a Lulu.”
Jim Gillum sat back in shock. “What are you talking about?”
“You know what we did, you lying piece of crap. You were the Aviation Ordnanceman, for Christ's sake.”
“There was all kinds of stuff going on back then. There was more ordnance coming in and out of here than we could keep track of. Thankfully, that was before computers, and those records are gone.”
“It’s the Navy. Nothing’s gone,” Wood replied. “They’re in a storage building somewhere, catalogued in some arcane system that nobody remembers anymore. But they’re not gone.”
“All right, so you found a Lulu. And you came to me. Does that mean you’re going to trust me with this?”
“Trust you, trust the Navy. No, I don’t think so. Last time I trusted you, I had to bail your ass out of trouble. I don’t trust you … but I need you.”
Mac sat erect in the chair ready to interrupt the conversation. He was unsure if Wood really had a plan or if he was just here to throw the past in the Captain’s face. He wasn’t into politics and had no feelings about Joe Ward. What he wanted was the bomb disarmed and the nuclear core properly disposed of. If it blew or leaked into the pristine waters, the Keys would be ruined.
Gillum looked over at Mac, evidently hoping for a more civil response. “Care to tell me what happened?” He took out a pad and pencil.
“Jesus man, put that away. This is what you Navy boys call ‘ears only.’ No way we’re going to leave a record of this.”
Gillum put down the pencil and looked at Mac to begin. Mac relayed the story, up until the disposition of the bomb, where Wood quickly cut him off.
“Well, where is it now?” Gillum asked.
“That’s gonna stay what we call ‘classified’ until I know what you have in mind.”
Gillum took a long time to respond. “Defuse and dispose. We have an Army underwater demolition team based here. We can set it up like a training exercise. No one else needs to know anything.”
“Who are you protecting? Yourself and your pension or Joe Ward? You’re both guilty. This needs to be out in the open. I’m sure this isn’t the only thing Ward has done. Striped marlin don’t loose their stripes. They light up like neon and get more visible when they’re stressed. How do you think he’s gonna do as President if he couldn’t make the right choice then, or come clean since?”
The men were startled when Mac spoke, so focussed on their past they forgot he was there. “That things fifty years old. What if it blows? We may have damaged it moving it.”
“It’s not going to blow. The controls were simple in those days. Heck, there weren’t even circuit boards then. Just snip a couple of wires and it’s done. Then they can disassemble and dispose of the core. We can scatter the rest of the parts.” Gillum said.
“We’re going to do this together, me, you and Mac. You have access to the bomb specs and wiring diagrams and I don’t. That stuff is probably still classified. It’s sure as hell not on the internet.”
“I don’t know if I can get access to that kind of stuff.”
“Figure it out. This could be a career wrecker for you, not to mention that ass running for President. You’re about to retire with a pretty nice pension, and I’d hate for something like this to come along and take all those dreams of yours away.”
Gillum paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and then nodded. “There’re some numbers I need off the unit. Should be a series of four or five numbers stamped into the tail section. Get those for me and I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter 9
Mac and Wood were back at the bomb, looking for the numbers Gillum had asked for. Mac scraped at the area. The serial numbers were now covered with barnacles. Wood looked the bomb over, studying the access panel.
“You know, I could probably dissect this sucker without the schematic. We’re talking the ’60s here. How complicated could it be?”
“That could go badly. Remember the old spy movies. Clip the wrong wire and boom.”
They both looked up at the same time, searching for the source of the outboard engine that seemed to be closing in.
***
It was well into the afternoon when Jerry headed to the dock, curiosity getting the best of him. His head still hurt from a long night partying, but he had work to do. He sensed a payday. The boat’s motor fired up. His handheld GPS still displayed the coordinates from yesterday. He entered these into the boat’s built-in unit and pushed down on the throttle. An arrow on the screen showed the fastest route to the destination. Head banging he steered it without thinking, passing over several shallow sand bars without knowing it.
The boat leveled off and started moving at an easy twenty knots, the ride smooth, the seas flat. Jerry was feeling better; the wind on his face, blowing through his hair, helped clear his head. Five miles from the dock, he saw birds standing in the water and veered around them. Once past, he resumed his heading.
He approached the island at full speed, the late afternoon sun hiding the bottom and shoals from view. The water was clear, but the direction of the sun made seeing features and colors impossible. Still traveling at twenty knots, the propeller suddenly hit a rock and spun the steering wheel out of his hands. The boat spun out of control and turned ninety degrees. It was airborne and running straight toward the mangroves when it touched down, smashing into the sandbar. Jerry was thrown from the cockpit. He landed in a clump of mangroves.
***
Wood’s legs were underneath the beached hull.
“What the hell you think you're doing?” Mac screamed at the intruder, both terrified and furious.
The man was trying to reassemble himself, checking for damage. The old adage that drunks land well must be in play today, for despite being airborne for thirty feet, he seemed unhurt.
“Aren’t you supposed to mark low water?” he responded, playing the victim.
"It's my island, my rules. I want folks around here, I’ll put out a welcome mat of green and red markers clear back to Marathon. Turns out I don’t want guests.” Wood spat out in pain
Wood tried to move, grunting in pain. The white sand turned red below him. Mac tried to move the hull off of him, but it was too heavy.
The in
truder, finally waking to the reality of what happened, noticed the old man’s condition. He moved cautiously to the hull and studied the situation.
“Goddam’ if you ain’t some city fool. What are you doin’ out here anyway?” Wood snarled.
Mac stepped between them, forcing the stranger back. He watched the intruder as his gaze moved over to the camouflage netting, it’s end lifted off the tail section of the bomb. He could clearly see the nose and tail fin of the bomb. Recognition was evident in the eyes of the stranger.
Wood noted his gaze as well. “Nothin’ there you need to worry about.”
“You. Come with me.” Mac pointed at the man. He had no intention of leaving him there alone with Wood and the bomb. They set off towards the interior of the island. Both men struggled through the mangroves as they made a path.
They were back a few minutes later with supplies. Mac set the pry bar into the sand and tried to lever the hull up. But the more pressure he placed on the bar, the deeper into the sand it sank. He yelled over at the stranger. “Put that bottle down and get me some of that driftwood over there.”
Several minutes passed as they dug out some sand and created a driftwood platform for the pry bar to rest on. Mac lifted again, and the boat moved slightly. A little more, and he ordered the stranger to place another piece of driftwood between the hull and the sand. As soon as the pressure was off his legs, Wood used his arms to extricate himself from beneath the boat. He took inventory of himself and looked at the man in disgust.
“This ain’t good.” Wood said.
Mac looked down at the sliver of fiberglass from the broken hull imbedded in Wood’s side. The piece stuck out several inches. There was no telling how deep it went in, but from the look of the blood pooling in the sand it was deep.
“Can you walk?” Mac asked Wood. He turned to the man. “Help bandage him up.” Not really sure what to do, but knowing he had to stop the bleeding Mac opened the first aid kit. He ripped Wood’s shirt away, exposing the wound. “This is going to have to come out. Give me that bottle.”
The guy picked up the bottle, took a slug, then handed it to Wood.
“What the hell? Are you hurt?” Mac yelled as Wood winced in pain. He grabbed the bottle and poured tequila on the wound. “Get a bandage ready and some tape. This is going to be ugly. Don’t know how much it’s gonna bleed.”
Mac grabbed the fiberglass chunk and yanked. Wood passed out when it left his body, a steady stream of blood pulsing from the wound. Mac watched the other man puke into the sand as he tried to apply pressure to the wound.
He waited for the man to recover. “Think you can hold this on here before passing out? I’m gonna bring the boat around. We need to get him emergency treatment and fast. It’ll take half the time for me to bring him in than having to wait for a boat or chopper to come out and get him.” Mac set off down the path.
What seemed like hours later, but was only several minutes, Mac pulled the trawler into view. The man was still holding the bandage, soaked with blood, a panicked look on his face, the empty bottle of tequila at his side.
“How ‘bout we change that out for a clean one? That tequila was supposed to be for this, not for you.”
“It was. If not for that bottle, I would be passed out on the ground right next to him and he’d be dead. I’m not good with blood.”
Mac ignored this bit of idiocy and taped the new bandage to the wound. The blood had stopped pumping, but the pad was soaked through again. This was bad. They needed a hospital.
“We’ve got to move him. If he loses too much more blood, he’ll go into shock.
Mac waded out to the boat he had anchored as close to shore as possible. The shallow water extended a hundred feet until it was deep enough for the boat to rest. He had a paddleboard strapped down on top of the cabin. He removed the tie downs and tossed it into the water, aiming for the beach. In the water, he walked the board toward shore. The two men dragged Wood onto the board and guided it back to the trawler, where they lifted him onto the dive platform. Mac made him as comfortable as possible and set off for Marathon.
Chapter 10
Wood's gurney was wheeled into the emergency room entrance. Mac had dropped him at the dock and handed him, unconscious, to the waiting EMTs. The EMT’s had treated him for shock and re-bandaged the wound in the ambulance on the short trip to Fisherman’s Hospital.
Jerry Doans slithered away from the boat as soon as they reached the dock. He had no intention of talking to the authorities like this. His clothes were tattered and wet, his face dirty, hair unkempt. There was no way he was going to get a ride anywhere like this, either, so he started walking. He covered the mile back to US1 and collapsed on a bus bench, thankful that it provided some shade. Dehydrated from the tequila and slightly delirious from the entire incident, his most rational thought was to get himself cleaned up and head to the closest bar.
He took inventory. His phone was gone, but there were a couple of wet dollars in his pocket. In his front pocket was a the handheld GPS, screen smashed. Now a man with a plan, he got off the bench and headed north on US1 to find a gas station. When he got there, the clerk made quick change of his dollars, just to get him out of the store, and pointed him in the direction of one of the few remaining pay phones in the civilized world.
He had no idea of his friend’s phone number, now lost in the contact list on his phone and with the phone book long gone, he dialed information. It took a dozen rings for the man to answer, and another fifteen minutes for an old Toyota Corolla to pull up.
***
Mac looked around for the guy who’d hit Wood, but he was out of sight. Probably ran as soon as they hit dry ground. He put that on the back burner and thought about the call he had to make.
He’d decided to walk the mile from the hospital back to the boat ramp at 33rd street where he’d left his boat. Once there he fired up the engines and headed West towards the Seven Mile Bridge. He steered through the old and new bridge sections aiming between the second and third power pole then headed past several markers before changing course to the East.
He steered by instinct into the Knights Key channel and entered Boot Harbor as he thought about Mel, Wood’s daughter. He hadn’t thought about her in years, but knew from Wood that she was living somewhere around DC. He knew where she was, but had no direct number to reach her. He slowed to idle speed as he rehearsed the conversation he was about to have in his head. He turned the boat into the canal backing on his house and tied up at the dock. Inside, he fired up his laptop and started searching.
They hadn’t spoken in years, but he had to break that silence now.
He pulled up the Davies and Associates website, and called the general information number, half-hoping someone would be working this late. The other half hoped that he would get a reprieve until morning. It had been a hard day, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for this. The first number didn’t go through to anyone, nor did the second. In fact, it took several subsequent calls to finally reach someone who was willing to give him a cell number for her.
He took a deep breath and dialed.
“Melanie Woodson,” came the slightly out-of-breath answer.
“Mel, this is Mac down in Marathon.” The nervousness turned to a queasy feeling with the pregnant pause on the line. He gathered his courage and continued. “Listen, your dad’s been in an accident. He’s in surgery right now at Fisherman’s Hospital."
The pause continued, then finally broke. “And why are you calling? I knew when I saw the Keys area code that this was trouble.”
Mac ignored the hostility. “Do you even care about him? He’s hurt, for God’s sake!”
“Of course I do. Tell me what happened.”
Mac told her about the boat accident, and she sighed.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you, Mac. I’ll get the next flight down there. Probably won’t be ‘till morning now, but I'll be there.”
“Thanks, Mel, I know he
’d appreciate you being here.”
Chapter 11
Behzad woke to a disaster. The sun was already on its way to the western horizon, and he lay in bed wondering first, who was next to him, and second, what had happened the night before. He watched the sun disappear below the third floor roofline of the house next door before he finally gained his feet, his corpulent belly hanging over the silk pants he’d worn for the party. There was something about the sun going down that made his hangover better.
He walked by the coffee maker and over to the half-empty bottle of wine on the counter. Too late for coffee, he thought. A glass of wine in his hand, he sat down at the kitchen counter and tried to piece together the night. There was something he needed to remember. He hated it when his memory eluded him, and it was happening more frequently of late. Making no association with his lifestyle, he assumed it was his thirty-year-old body decaying. He had no idea how older people dealt with life.
Fortunately, his background and training all but eliminated aging from his worries. He was bred to be a martyr. Just not until he was fifty, he hoped — life was fun now, even if Allah didn’t approve. Sent to the US by his parents to get an American university education, he was befriended by two groups at college, both Middle Eastern. The first group were the reborn Muslims — reborn to live like Americans. They saw beyond the strict laws with which they’d been brought up. So they weren’t always about enlightenment; in fact, most of the time they were just about the fun and the girls. The second group were the fundamental Islamists, who hated everything American, more now that they lived amongst it.
Most Middle Eastern foreign students arrived naive, with heavily accented but passable English. They quickly fell in with one of those two groups, and moved into that lifestyle. Behzad had fallen for both. He’d quickly learned that the strict Islamic laws weren’t for him. The American lifestyle was more appealing. But, without intending to, he fell for a member of the fundamentalist group. The fun lovers were tolerant of his fundamental lover, because they were enlightened now and thought tolerance was cool. Ibrahim, his lover, was high up in the fundamentalist group and circulated the lie that Behzad hung out with the other group to gain converts. Sexual mores in the Islamic community were hard to understand from a Western point of view. Homosexuality, although a quick path to hell, was rampant.
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