Wood's Reef

by Steven Becker

  “I was cruising up US1, getting out of town for a while, when I saw your friend on the side of the road. I was tired and figured some company would be good, and he was clearly in need of assistance.” Doans came to Behzad's aid. Ibrahim looked at Doans. Not believing in coincidences had kept him alive and undiscovered. This was clearly a red flag.

  “Anyway, had some domestic trouble in Marathon and figured the ride and change of scenery would help clear my head.”

  “We both thank you for your kind assistance,” Ibrahim said. He noticed that both men were wiping their noses, and wondered what Behzad was up to. He had to figure this American out and quickly, now that he had been seen. He knew that neither he or Behzad by themselves would trigger any red flags. Neither looked like a terrorist — they were both clean shaven and had adopted American personas.

  ***

  Doans saw the sign for the airport exit. “I should probably drop you guys off at a rental car place or somewhere.” He was starting to get uncomfortable around this stranger. Maybe a trace of paranoia from the drugs or maybe it was just obvious, but this guy was clearly treating him with suspicion. After years of living on the edge, Jerry’s radar was up and working non-stop, looking for people to steer clear of. This guy was a big red blip on the screen.

  “Please, allow me to buy you a meal in thanks for saving my friend here,” Ibrahim offered. Doans got the feeling he was being sized up. He longed for the comfort of a weapon, but knew it was too risky to chance airport security with one. Still, it would be number two on his priority list … right after priority number one in the driver’s seat.

  “I could do that, and take a break from driving,” Doans said, never one to turn down a free lunch.

  He exited the airport, heading west on the 836. After merging south on the Florida turnpike, he exited at the first sign of food. “Waffle House ok?”

  ***

  They were seated in a booth, drinking coffee, waiting for their food. Ibrahim had been asking all kinds of questions, and though he might intend for it to be a pleasant conversation, it was clearly an interrogation to Jerry Doans. He wondered what this guy was after when the questions started focussing on Marathon.

  “I thought you said you were from Key West.” He looked at Behzad.

  Ibrahim answered for him, the previously chatty Behzad being extremely quiet and deferential since Ibrahim arrived.

  “We have a business opportunity in Marathon,” Ibrahim continued probing. He had ascertained from the questions that Doans was definitely not what the Americans called a ‘hard-working citizen.’ Still, if he could help them in Marathon, he might be worth keeping around. “Do you know the waters around the area?” he asked.

  “Pretty well,” Doans replied.

  Ibrahim was eating now, focused on his food. Behzad and Doans were pushing the food around their plates, still wired from the coke and now the coffee. Each took a small bite now and then for appearances, but neither was interested in the food. He wondered again what was going on here.

  Ibrahim finished eating and looked up from his plate, his mind made up. “We could use a man of your knowledge and position to help us in our venture. There will, of course, be compensation for this.” He offered the bait to Doans, knowing full well that the compensation would be a trip to the other side of paradise. He’d made his decision and felt that he could trust him as long as he thought there was something in it for him. Greedy Americans.

  Chapter 20

  Gillum wondered why the image on the screen was making him as sea sick as the actual boat ride. The video of the F470 inflatable was bouncing up and down following the rhythm of the sea. He’d been going back and forth through the drone’s video for the last hour, the bourbon almost gone from his tumbler.

  The picture’s definition was amazing; the level of detail taken from the drone could show a bead of sweat on a hermit crab on a beach. But the image was erratic. He slowed down the video, working one frame at a time. That helped, but would take forever. The island, with the exception of a clearing where the house and an outbuilding were located, was densely covered in mangroves. He was looking for shapes and lines, indicating something outside of nature, in the tangled brush was close to impossible. He got up and refilled his glass.

  Into the third hour, and the third inch of bourbon, he saw something out of place. The drone’s camera was focused on the area where Mac Travis and the unidentified girl were walking. He moved the mouse and enlarged the foliage nearby. That has to be it, he thought. It took a few minutes, but he started to pick out the dissimilarities between the camouflage netting and the native flora. He zoomed in further and saw what looked like a glimmer of metal reflecting in the sun.

  He leaned back in his chair, working on inch number four, and trying to figure out what to do next. The obvious choice would be to send a special ops team to the island and just take it back. One problem was that he didn’t have the authority for what would need to be a classified mission. The other was that he didn’t want the publicity of the bomb being found to trigger the obvious question of why it was there in the first place - and who knew about it. Wood was right. The Navy kept records for everything. Although it was buried deep, there was always a chance someone would find it. That would ruin his career and destroy the Vice President.

  There were only two other men alive who knew what originally happened to the bomb. Ward probably hadn’t thought about it in fifty years and Wood was in the hospital. The carefully guarded secret was now sitting on a beach instead of hidden in the vastness of Florida Bay. Add in the handful of locals that knew as well, and the group was too big for a secret like this to remain intact. It was time to let Joe Ward know. He had the most to lose, let him make the call. The problem now was how to get a message to him. They hadn't spoken since 1963, when he’d been transferred after the missile crisis ended.

  Gillum leaned forward and opened his web browser. He searched several web sites but none revealed a phone number. The closest he could get was to send a message to the Vice President on the White House web page. He tried other searches, but every path ended on the same page. He began to fill out the form, hoping to include something that would force whatever intern or aid that was responsible for monitoring the page to pass it up the chain of command.

  As he came to the subject line he wrote: Message from old Navy buddy. He hoped that would at least get the contents read. In the message section he wrote:

  We served together during the Cuban Missile Crisis in Key West. I was wondering if you remember that pilot that came in light. I was working with you that day. Something has come up and I need to reach you about the pilot.

  He clicked the box asking for a response, and closed the browser. It was a long shot, but hopefully the message would reach the VP.

  ***

  Minutes later, the message appeared on the intern’s monitor. Max Van Doren was just finishing for the day. It was almost 8pm, but that was what it took to intern — do whatever they said and hope for the job offer or at least a good recommendation at the end of the term. One of his responsibilities was to monitor the messages on the VP's White House web page. It was actually an interesting part of his job, better than filing and research. The comments seemed to change with the wind. Some days it was a rage against the administration or rants against the VP, other days it offered praise. Max charted the comments on a spread sheet aimed at tracking which way the political flag was blowing. As the election neared, the comments were more polarizing.

  He scrolled through each comment, deleting as he went, answering when called for. He had some latitude in answering the messages, and a blurry line defined what needed to be passed higher up. The message in front of him was one of those. The mention of the VP’s naval career and a direct reference to an incident flagged the message to go higher up. The check box for an answer was highlighted, indicating that the author hoped to hear back. He typed in his best robot: This message will be passed to the Vice President
.

  A copy of the message in his hand, he took the elevator from the basement of the Naval Observatory up to daylight. He followed the ornate corridor to the chief of staff’s office.

  “Sir, got a minute?”

  Dick Watson looked up from the pile of papers on his desk. No computer monitor was evident; the chief was strictly old school. “What is it?”

  “This message came in on the comment page of the boss’s White House page.” He handed the paper over.

  The older man glanced at the note. “I’ll pass this along. We were just talking about the boss’s service during the Cuban Missile Crisis this morning. Do we know who this guy is, or how to get a hold of him?”

  “Just the basics from the form. Name, address, email.”

  “In the future, you get something like this, why don't you save us all some time and find out what you can about who sent it. Check the name, run the address, let’s see if this is real.”

  Max took the scolding in stride and headed back down to the dungeon.

  ***

  Watson had the phone in his hand the minute the aide was out of hearing range. The Vice President’s personal secretary picked up on the second ring.

  “Yes, sir.” She knew who it was from the caller ID.

  “Is the boss around?”

  “No, he’s shaking hands and kissing babies. In the middle of a fundraiser. Want me to pass along a message?”

  “Slip him a note with the name Jim Gillum and Cuban Missile Crisis on it. See what his reaction is.”

  ***

  The aide wrote the note out on an index card and went to the VP’s table. She discreetly handed over the note. Ward glanced at it and quickly excused himself.

  “Would y’all excuse me for just a second?” he said while getting up. The southern accent was for the direct benefit of the Georgians sharing the table.

  He exited the banquet room, the aide in tow, glancing once again at the note. Panic cracked his voice. “Get Dick on the phone.”

  She pressed the chief of staff’s private number and handed him the phone.

  The VP started pacing, waiting for an answer. Finally Watson picked up on the other end.

  “Where did this come from?” Ward asked.

  “It came through the form on the White House web page. I wasn’t sure if I should bother you, but we were talking about making an appearance down there the other day.”

  “You did the right thing. Do we have a number for this guy? I vaguely remember something about this,” he lied.

  “Working on that right now. We have an email, but should have a phone number momentarily.”

  “Get it to me as soon as possible. And Dick, let’s keep this quiet in case it’s some crackpot.”

  “No problem, boss. We’ll get you the number as soon as we have it.”

  Ward handed the phone back to the aide. He wiped his brow and tried to breathe deeply. Relax. He hoped Watson would not question the immediacy and secrecy he was asking for.

  Chapter 21

  Mel was back on her phone, thumbs jamming away on the keyboard. The ride was smooth. She glanced over at Mac as he shook his head watching as she navigated the tiny screen. Basically a ludite, he didn't get it at all.

  “You know your messages can wait ‘till we get back.”

  “You know that thing’s a nuke, don’t you?” she glanced up from her Wikipedia screen. “The amount of military-related information on Wikipedia is astounding.”

  “How did you figure that out off that thing?” he asked.

  “Duh, run a search on the picture and bam, instant results.” She decided it may be a good idea to tone it down a little. “Although the internet is not the source of all knowledge some think, it can be useful. What we have here is a MK 101Lulu. A 11-kiloton bomb used from 1958 to 1971. I wonder what it’s doing here?”

  “That's what he called it — a goddamn Lulu.” Mac gazed out the salt-crusted windshield. “There’s all kinds of unexploded ordnance in these waters. From World War II through Vietnam the armed forces didn’t have the oversight they do now. There were huge swaths of land and water they were allowed to use for training missions and testing. Some are marked as munitions dumps on charts, others are unaccounted for. All kinds of stuff was coming in and out of here during those couple of months.”

  “Surely even the Navy wouldn’t leave a nuke out there,” Mel said, “I know dad’s skeptical of the government’s ability to do anything. I am too for that matter.” The only thing they were good at was fighting her lawsuits she thought.

  “The last storm must have shifted things around down there. I’ve dove on that ledge dozens of times and have never seen it.”

  “The drone we saw,” she said slowly, starting to put things together. “You and Dad talked to someone he knew at the Naval station. Whatever his reluctance to give it to them, I bet they’re after it. I bet that was them.”

  “I don't know why he wouldn’t just turn it over. You know how he is with authority, but it seems like there’s more to it. His contempt for the Navy guy and Ward was evident. Just kept muttering to himself on the way back about sinking both of them.

  “Yeah, he’s used to keeping himself company on that island. Must have some great conversations with himself.”

  They were silent, both processing the information available.

  “What if Ward, Gillum and Wood were the only ones that know it was a nuke. That would explain a lot - the secrecy and distrust. Gillum and Ward would be ruined if the truth came out that they had covered it up. Wood just needed the proof to do it. That explains why he wanted to see Gillum. He had no intention of turning it over. He wanted to let him know he had it.”

  “I’m thinking we have two options. We either have to tell them where it is, provided they didn’t see it from the drone, or put it somewhere they won't find it,” Mel said, back in lawyer mode.

  “If Wood doesn't trust the Navy, I’d say he has good reason. I know he can be an ornery old coot, but he’s got good sense. I’ve never known him to be paranoid.” He thought for a minute. “There’s some nuclear waste facilities I know about. A lot of compaction testing equipment has nuclear cores. We had to service and disable a few of them. I can look up what we did with the core material. Maybe just have to divide it up so no one gets suspicious. Aside from the primer, which I can probably disable, the rest is just a hunk of metal. We can take it and dump it somewhere deep.”

  “I’m with you, except that we don’t know how stable it is,” she said. “The last thing we want is for that thing to blow while your messing with it and take half the Keys with it.”

  “What about the Navy? They’re not just going to go away. I have a mind to go down there and confront them about that drone anyway. Spying on US citizens is not cool. I can turn this into a Federal suit, get the kind of attention this whole drone thing deserves. I can go down there and record the whole thing on my phone. Maybe get some kind of confession out of him.”

  Mac choked. “We’ve got a live nuke out there and your worried about a case? Come on, girl, get some perspective.”

  The ringtone from her phone halted the conversation. “Local number, maybe it’s the hospital,” she murmured, glancing at it.

  She answered, listened, and asked a few questions. Then she hung up and sat back in relief. “He’s awake and asking to get out of there. That means he’s ok. We need to head over there before he causes any trouble. You know how he can get.”

  Chapter 22

  The humidity was taking a toll on Mel. She was acclimated to DC’s high humidity, but the Keys raised the bar on that index. She was thankful as the automatic door opened, letting out a hint of the air conditioning about to encompass them as they entered the hospital. She looked at Mac, not even sweating.

  “Let me see him alone for a minute.” She went for the door. His eyes opened as she entered. The closest thing to a smile that anyone had seen on his lips showed on his face.


  “Mel.” His voice was raspy from the ventilator.

  “Dad, don’t talk, it’s ok.” She took his hand.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, neither knowing how to go from there. There had been a glint of happiness when they first saw each other, but as the minutes passed, the old uneasiness built.

  Finally Mac entered and broke the silence for them. “How are you feeling? Glad to see you’re still tough as nails.”

  Wood gave them a thumbs up. “My side hurts like hell, but I’m ready to get rid of this.” He looked at the IV.

  Mel gave him a disapproving look. “You are going to do what the doctor says, exactly. You’re not going to pull your usual crap and decide for yourself. Do you have any idea how serious this is?”

  “Good to see you too.” He looked at Mel. “That damn fool doctor won’t give me a direct answer if it would save his own life.”

  She teared up, “I’m sorry. I was really scared you weren’t going to pull out of it. I’ll find the doctor and use my lawyer skills on him.”

  “Why don't you just smile and look nice? May get you further than that lawyer crap.”

  The automatic closer slammed the door behind her as she left.

  ***

  Mac looked at Wood, trying to evaluate his condition. “You clear headed enough to talk about the bomb?”

  “Yeah, can’t feel half my body, but I hear you.”

  “Mel and I were out at your place to check on the cammo job and make sure everything was ok. We heard some kind of buzzing and saw this model airplane-size drone cruising around. I think it was taking pictures.”

  “Goddamn Navy. They can’t just spy on me like that. Sounds like old Gillum took the bait for sure.”

  Mac’s brow furrowed, his suspicions confirmed. “Don't worry about that. The lawyer is all over it. Why don’t we just give it to them?”