by Lyle Howard
Baer walked over to Simms and gave him a reassuring smile. “Okay Petty Officer Simms, you win. You have me over the proverbial barrel here. I have to get you the proper security clearance first, but then I want answers.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, but one more request.”
Baer raised one eyebrow in incredulity. “Are you sure about that son? I might think twice before you flip that switch a second time.”
Simms stood at attention as was the proper indication of respect. “Sir, I request that I accompany Ensign Hale’s body to the Jacksonville police, sir.”
“What gave you the idea that we would be sending his body to a non-military location?” Simms looked around and realized he and the Admiral were suddenly alone on the dock. The injured had all been taken to the infirmary, and the three officers had headed back to the command center to start the paperwork for Simms’s security clearance.
“May I speak freely, sir?”
Baer nodded. “Talk to me, son.”
“Our medic said there was something strange about the way the Ensign died, sir. It wasn’t the shrapnel that killed him. He is requesting that an autopsy is performed to examine the Ensign’s lungs. The doctor claims that the Jacksonville Police Forensics Team is the best-equipped unit to do the procedure properly. I just figured that you would want the results kept confidential. I could act as a Coast Guard liaison to expedite the autopsy and make sure that any results were kept under wraps. I would bring the report directly back to you. No one would know the results until you opened them.”
Baer looked deep into Simms’s eyes. He saw something familiar in those two brown mirrors. Even though he was staring at a hot mess, he saw himself standing there thirty years younger. Something instinctively told him that Simms could be trusted. “Okay, Petty Officer Simms, I will draw up the orders to transfer the Ensign’s body to the J.S.O. Forensics Lab, and I’ll allow you to accompany him, as long as I have your assurance that I’m the only person besides yourself who will read the findings.”
Simms raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think I would disobey a direct order and read the content?”
Bear smiled. “Because I would have done the same thing thirty years ago. It’ll take a while to make a few phone calls and get the paperwork in order, so go catch a shower and be in my office in two hours for your debriefing.”
“Yes sir, Admiral!” Simms said as he saluted.
Back at his base apartment, Simms let the warm shower wash away his discomfort and anxiety. Had he really spoken to a commanding officer, no, the highest ranking commanding officer on the base, in that manner? What the hell was he thinking? He loved the Coast Guard and could see himself making a career out of it. Why the hell would he jeopardize it like that?
Two hours later he was ushered into a conference room in the base administration building. Vice Admiral Baer was sitting alone at the oblong table, scribbling notes into a binder and holding a teleconference with a monitor mounted on the far wall. Simms immediately recognized the Secretary of Defense, Retired Rear Admiral William Ford. He no longer wore a uniform, but the dark blue suit and familiar rounded eyeglasses made him just as formidable a figure.
“Petty Officer Simms,” the Secretary greeted him from the screen as he entered the room. “Take a seat. Vice Admiral Baer and I were just discussing your demands.”
Simms froze behind one of the high-backed chairs. He was speechless. “I…I…” Secretary Ford waved his hand in jest. “We’re just yanking your chain, son. Please, have a seat. You’ve had a pretty rough forty-eight hours.”
Simms could feel his legs trembling as he sat down. The Secretary of Defense of the United States just made a joke at his expense. He was so thankful that he had emptied his bladder in the shower.
“Before we start your debriefing,” The SecNav continued, “I would just like it entered into the official record that Petty Officer Second Class Scott Simms personifies the high standards of excellence that the Coast Guard of the United States stands for. He was thrown into a chaotic situation and proved himself a worthy leader by bringing his ship safely back to port and earning the respect of his entire crew. He is to be commended.”
Simms couldn’t find words for the second time in less than a minute. “Thank you, Mr. Secretary,” he stammered.
“Take your time and try to relax Petty Officer,” Baer instructed him from across the table. “This is not a courtroom, simply an official inquiry, but we want you to know that this conversation is being recorded. We need a permanent record of your account of the events that transpired aboard the Intrepid. We’ve already indicated the official date and time, so you don’t have to worry about those minor details. To the best of your recollection, tell us what happened. We will try not to interrupt you.”
Simms was going to tell the Secretary and Admiral everything that they wanted to know. But the gas mask? Simms thought he would keep that ace up his sleeve until he heard what the pathologists at the forensics lab had to say. It would merely chalk it up as an omission in his testimony that he would recall at a later time.
Simms sat forward in the plush leather seat and reached over to a nearby pitcher and poured himself a glass of ice cold water. The chrome pitcher left a ring on the table, so the P.O. wiped it away with his palm. He let the liquid act like axle grease to lubricate his tongue and throat. He had a lot to say.
Simms revealed everything that he could remember…almost. It took nearly two hours to describe the shocking details. In return, the Admiral asked the Secretary for permission to explain about the defensive weapon that was at the core of all the destruction and death. “He deserves to know why so many men and women perished, Mr. Secretary.”
As long as the P.O. swore under oath, the Secretary agreed to divulge the truth behind the Truman’s covert mission and the Intrepid’s search and rescue operation. “Anyone who possesses the technology aboard the Truman controls the negation of the world’s nuclear capability. You watch the news, son. Some nations are poised to strike their neighbors and have even threatened the United States itself with nuclear weaponry.”
Simms sat, mesmerized by what he was being made privy to.
“We’ve exhausted our air to air missile defense technology,” the Secretary admitted. “It’s just not precise enough to ensure we can take down an enemy’s first strike. Now we have the most reliable defense weapon ever developed. A laser with pinpoint accuracy and tracking capabilities second to none. It can identify and take down a rocket launch anywhere in the world within seconds of detection—and according to the late Captain Fitzpatrick’s message from inside the Truman, it’s gone missing. We would prefer to assume that the laser was taken by force at sea and that the Truman was scuttled to cover the hijacker’s tracks. There have been other, more nefarious scenarios bandied about by the Intelligence Branch, but we dare not tarnish the late Commander Sowell’s unimpeachable reputation and advance any sort of conspiracy theories until all other possibilities have been excluded.”
Simms had to do whatever he could to help recover the missing laser. He sat silently as the Secretary and Admiral discussed a plan of action. Something was bothering him. This was the first time he learned that the Commander of the Truman’s last name was Sowell. He was part of the group hovering over Captain Fitzpatrick and the medic listening to Ensign Hale’s final request.
The Petty Officer remembered back to his childhood and his insatiable love of jigsaw puzzles. The more complicated the pieces were, the better. He loved to dump out the entire box and scatter all the bits and turn them over one at a time. There was an image concealed in all those fragments, but just like this real-life brainteaser, it would eventually link together and reveal the entire picture. The laser and the gas mask were both pieces scattered before him. He just had to figure out how to fit them together.
The Admiral signed off from the SecNav and turned to Simms. “Let me give you a na
me,” he said, jotting on the back of one of his business cards. He slid it across the desk. “When you get to the police department tomorrow, ask for Toby Bilston, the Head of the Forensics Department. I’ve already called him, and he is making this case a priority. ”
“Tomorrow, sir?”
“Unfortunately, as I with speaking with Toby, he received an emergency that would be taking him out of the lab for rest the day. He promised that he would meet with you first thing in the morning. He’s a man of his word. The two of us go way back.”
Simms frowned, but maybe he could use this extra down time to piece together a few more parts to the puzzle. “Yes sir,” he said standing up to shake the Admiral’s outstretched hand. “ I’ll be there first thing in the morning.”
“And remember, even though Toby will try his best to pry it out of you, don’t give him any details you don’t have to. He’s still a civilian with zero security clearance.”
“Of course, Admiral. I understand completely.”
The Admiral closed the binder in front of him. “If anyone can tell you what killed Ensign Hale, Toby Bilston can.”
Simms slipped the card into his chest pocket. “He’s that good?” The Petty Officer asked.
“He’s the best there is!” The Admiral’s replied.
Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance an act of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged.
-Samuel Johnson
19
An Abandoned Airstrip
45 Miles Southwest of
Jacksonville, Florida
No one knew an exact time of death yet, but now man-made machines had replaced the buzzards that circled the desolate and overgrown runway. Prohibited from flying within a half mile of the cordoned-off airstrip, news helicopters loaded with ravenous reporters hovered around the perimeter of the crime scene, just like their carnivorous predecessors. A pair of blue and yellow police helicopters made sure the press kept their distance by flying perilously close whenever one would breach the invisible boundary.
Fearless cameramen dangled precariously out of open hatches, braving buffeting winds in the slim hope of catching the best perspective of the significant events unfolding on the tarmac some five hundred feet below.
Two days of speculation had passed since the ranking City Commissioner of Jacksonville, Arthur Beckworth, had disappeared. He had excused himself in the middle of an exclusive dinner held for the entire City Commission at Peter Mason’s Star Island Mansion in Miami. It had been a lavish affair with entertainment, dancing, and plenty of pressing of the flesh. The board of seven commissioners and their spouses had been invited to the dinner to discuss Mason’s upcoming redevelopment of the riverfront, including the new Mason Cruise Line Ballpark.
Beckworth, being the lone bachelor at the gathering, had slipped away after excusing himself from the dinner table and then just vanished. Throughout the City of Jacksonville, the lead story on every newscast, the headline on every front page, the argument around every office water cooler, all centered on his disappearance.
Supporters and critics alike seized any public opportunity for heated debate on Beckworth’s virtues or motivations. The local political pundits were having a field day. From beneath every overturned rock, the talking heads on the cable news networks spread their innuendos and proffered up their libelous allegations about the Commissioner’s alleged mob ties and bribery schemes. They would say just about anything in the hopes of extending their fleeting fifteen minutes of fame.
The media had been whipped into a furor by these zealots. One renowned newspaper reported that, through an undisclosed source, they had learned that the once-esteemed Commissioner had absconded with city funds and was heading for the French Riviera. On the same day, one of the television tabloid shows had him checking into the Betty Ford Clinic under the pseudonym of Paul Welsh. After further investigation, the patient in question turned out to be just another washed-up corporate executive—who was neither pleased nor flattered by his sudden notoriety.
But now, after forty-eight hours and all the whispered hearsay and media rumination, the story was about to be laid to rest. Commissioner Arthur Beckworth had been found.
The corpse was first spotted by a student pilot in a small, two-seater, single-engine Cessna. The eighteen-year-old had been practicing figure eights and stalls using a nearby row of high-tension towers for reference points, when he noticed the obscured airstrip for the first time. Figuring it would be the perfect spot to practice his touch and go landing drills, he lowered the plane’s nose for his first trial landing—but quickly realized, much to his alarm, why the airfield was abandoned. The weed-infested, fractured concrete runway was in no condition to be used.
Barely managing to pull out of his steep descent in time, the inexperienced pilot spotted what he thought at first glance was just a flock of hungry buzzards tearing at the carcass of a dead alligator on one of the two adjacent taxiways. Although the sight sickened him, there was nothing unusual about seeing something like that in this swampy region of the state. Out here, the only law was Nature’s Law...survival of the fittest.
As soon as he had cleared the looming wall of sawgrass at the far end of the field, he banked the small plane to the north. It wasn’t until that moment, when the pilot’s side of the cockpit dipped toward the ground, that he was able to clearly see what the birds were actually fighting over. It was horrifying! Just lying there...not more than a hundred yards in front of the old ...they were chomping and gnawing on the torn garments and grisly skeleton of a human being!
That was less than two hours ago.
It took the first airborne unit on the scene some ten to fifteen minutes just to repel the pesky buzzards. This was no easy task, because this particular flock of birds had taken to guarding the decomposing body like it was their last supper. The repugnant black birds looked up at the intruders, squawking and screeching. They had no intention of giving up the hearty remains of the meal that had been so graciously set before them. It wasn’t until one of the quick-thinking officers decided to shoot one of the pesky birds that the rest of the flocks’ cannibalistic appetite shifted toward the fresher bird meat.
That was when the feeding frenzy really started...
The position of the body had already been photographed from every conceivable angle and outlined on the pavement. The chalk silhouette raggedly following the normal contours of the corpse until it reached the area above the shoulders. There the sketch abruptly became oblong above the neck, marking a spillway for a dark brown flood of dried blood and an amalgam of brain matter, hair, bone, and tissue.
Numbered evidence cards had been placed as identification markers on questionable locations in the general vicinity of the body, including the victim’s wallet, which was conspicuously lying open next to the corpse. These tiny yellow pyramids were scattered across the tarmac by the first set of criminalists that had arrived on the scene. These trained professionals were merely evidence “finders,” not evidence “interpreters.” They knew exactly what to look for in cases such as this, and they placed a marker on anything and everything that looked like it didn’t belong in the natural environment. Ferreting out clues was all they did, and they were meticulous in their responsibility. They photographed the area down to the smallest detail without disturbing the body. Analysis of their findings would be left up to the lead detective assigned to the case, and to the Forensic Pathologist—and the City of Jacksonville had two of the very best.
Another blue and white police helicopter came swooping out of the sun like it was on a bombing run. The pilot, who had been warned ahead of time by one of his passengers that he hated to fly, thought he would take this opportunity to have a little fun at the passenger’s expense. They were old friends, and it was a sitcom that had been played out time and time again for over fifteen years.
When the helicopter’s skids finally embraced terra firma, Toby Bilst
on, the head of the City of Jacksonville’s Forensic Lab, stumbled out of the hatch, set his evidence collection kit on the ground, and fell to his knees. His thick salt and pepper beard surrounded a mouth that always seemed to be frozen in a perpetual smile...except for now. A descendant of English ancestry, at this moment, with the green tinge to his face, Toby could have easily passed for Irish. His eyes were a soft brown, and the lines that had sprouted around them like grins with the passing years seemed to accentuate his unusually optimistic demeanor.
Toby Bilston was a short, rotund man forever locked in a battle with his waistline. Never a candidate for the centerfold of Health and Fitness Magazine, Toby liked to describe his hairline as “receding,” but his wife Harriet always lovingly described her husband of thirty years as simply being “follically challenged.” Together, they had raised two beautiful daughters and an extraordinary son. Tanya and Bonnie were both off at school in Gainesville at the University of Florida, with Bess studying physical therapy and Tanya two years behind her older sister, still undecided about her prospects. Tanya’s vacillation was okay with Toby and Harriet since she was still young, and they knew she would come around in time, as her sister had.
It wasn’t as straightforward with their only son Benjamin. While Ben’s dreams and ambitions far exceeded those of his sister Bonnie, his future was far more uncertain than Tanya’s. During his last year of middle school, Ben had been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. Less than a year later, he was confined to a wheelchair. Life was a daily battle for Toby’s son, and with new drugs and treatment, his future was looking brighter now than ever. Young Benjamin still had dreams of becoming a criminal attorney, and nothing would give Toby more pleasure than to one day have the opportunity to be raked over the coals in a courtroom by his offspring. It was his faith in that vision that made the concept of life and death so meaningful to Bilston. It was his son’s hope that made him such a doting father in his home life, and it was his indignation over his son’s disease that made him so tenacious at his work.