by Lyle Howard
Toby and Lauren looked up at each other in unison. “Fans!” they both blurted out. It was as if they were suddenly sharing one brain. “It would have to be a ship that could approach quickly and quietly, with a huge set of fans capable of releasing a debilitating payload and then dissipating it just as fast.” Toby acknowledged.
“That would incapacitate everyone on the Truman,” Lauren added.
Simms rapped his knuckles on the desk. “Not everyone. Not if you were prepared with the proper gas mask!”
Toby sat down in his chair and leaned back deep in thought. Lauren and the Petty Officer stared at him as if waiting for advice from Buddha himself. “Does your wardrobe consist of more than just uniforms?” He asked Simms.
“I only have my service uniforms and my dress whites,” Simms replied.
Toby intertwined his fingers and rested his hands on his portly abdomen. “I’m gonna need you to go out and buy yourself a nice suit and all the trimmings by Saturday night. I don’t want you dressed in your livery. We need to blend in. I’ll clear your leave with Admiral Baer. Just bring me the receipt, and I’ll get my department to pay for it. Just keep it reasonable.”
Toby then turned his attention to Lauren. “And I want you to look especially gorgeous, doll face. I know you’ve got something fancy to wear, but make sure it’s accommodating enough that it allows you to be fully-equipped should the occasion arise.”
Lauren nodded her understanding.
“What is this all about?” Simms asked. “Why are we getting dressed up? Where are we going?”
Toby loosened the knot in his tie and tried to sound sincere. “Have you ever schmoozed with the rich and famous, Scott? They’re a hoot.”
Hydra noun
Hy·dra | ˈhī-drə
Definition of hydra
Noun, plural hydras, hydrae
1 : Classical Mythology. A water serpent with nine heads,
each of which, if cut off, grew back as two.
2 : A persistent or many-sided problem that presents new
obstacles as soon as one aspect is solved.
45
Jaxport Cruise Terminal
Saturday, 3:00 P.M.
A sleek white cruise ship named The Spirit of the Seas pulled away from its berth at the lone passenger terminal along the banks of the Saint John’s River. The vessel would traverse the river for nearly twenty miles before reaching the Atlantic Ocean. From there, it was seven relaxing days of fun and sun in the Western Caribbean for its nearly three thousand passengers and crew.
Passengers stood at the railing waving down to dockworkers and anyone else that would return the gesture. Times had certainly changed. Gone were the days of friends and families being able to cheer “bon voyage” from the pier. Security on the water was nearly as tight as it was in the air. Nowadays, if you were fortunate enough, you got a kiss and a hug in front of the terminal with the Port Authority Police urging you to move on. There was no animus intended, they were just doing their job, keeping the unloading process to a minimum and the traffic moving efficiently. Weekdays, the terminal was like a ghost town; but on Fridays and Saturdays, when the majority of ships usually arrived and departed, the scene was a madhouse.
Once the Spirit of the Seas cleared its berth, the entire peninsula of the seaport became visible to its passengers. Many of them who cruised often were used to seeing an empty plot of land to the Northeast of the terminal, but now something was different. Many of the passengers began walking toward the stern of the ship to get a better view of the unusual structure that now occupied that undeveloped acreage.
It was greater in size than a football field, resembling an arch-roofed Quonset hut, but it looked temporary, not built from corrugated metal. The skin was some type of synthetic fabric, white in color, stretched over an enormous frame. The edifice was windowless and bore no logo or other identifiable markings. It appeared to be protecting something inside from the elements—or perhaps from prying eyes.
There was plenty of activity surrounding the structure, with hard-hatted workers and executive types milling about the area. Four massive cranes supported taut cables that pierced the roof of the structure. Whatever the building housed was an enigma. Passengers aboard the Spirit of the Seas pointed at it and speculated about the building’s contents. It wasn’t tall enough to accommodate a commercial cruise ship, but the travelers agreed that it was far too large for any private vessel they had ever seen. No one seemed aware of or made the connection to the hangar’s remarkable tenant.
As the distance from shore increased, the terminal and the unique structure became nothing more than unintelligible details on the horizon. The passengers quickly turned their attention elsewhere and began preparing for their mandatory muster station safety drill.
***
Peter Mason was livid as he stomped his foot down onto the newly installed glass Oceanwalk. “This panel feels loose, and there are less than four hours until we get underway! What are we going to do about this?”
Kaci Lynch had out her notepad and added it to the list of her bosses’ concerns. “The installation crew from Doosan are already on a flight back to South Korea, but I can assure you that every bolt and seam were x-rayed and approved by the state inspectors.”
“Then why does this feel unstable to me? Even with the fanbines at half thrust, these four inches of glass are the only thing that separates our passengers from the boiling water seventy feet beneath them.”
Lynch knelt down and ran her fingers along the seams in question. “There has to be a bit of elasticity for expansion and contraction of the joints. This walkway isn’t one solid piece of glass, Mr. Mason. It’s made up of over twenty separate panels that were built to flex with the stress that a moving ship can produce.” The head engineer stood up and paced slowly along the walkway, some sixty feet off the ground. “Nothing like this has ever been attempted on a sea-going vessel before. The Skywalk overlooking the Grand Canyon is a stationary structure built to handle its own set of issues, such as extreme wind gusts rising up the wall of the Canyon, but this walkway must deal with many more variables. She’s been tested, inspected, poked and prodded, but if it convinces you more, I’m telling you unequivocally that I wouldn’t hesitate to let my children walk on it. I trust it that much.”
Mason leaned against the stainless steel handrail that ran along the inside of the glass tunnel. “Well then, why don’t we put your money where your mouth is?” he said, bluntly.
“Excuse me?” Lynch questioned.
“Bring your entire family tonight,” Mason said, making it sound almost like an order. “Consider this a special invitation. We’ll let your kids be the first to experience the Oceanwalk at sea! Who knows, they might even make the front page of the newspaper!”
The pen fell out of Lynch’s hand and clattered to rest on the transparent deck. “Are you serious?”
“Like a heart attack,” Mason responded. “The press will eat it up.”
46
Gerald Banks stared up at the bow of the Hydra. The ship was a marvel of marine engineering, suspended ten feet above the ground by four thick cables. Once her fourteen lift pods were inflated, and the fanbines beneath the Hydra spun to life, she would support herself on a ten-foot cushion of air, no longer needing the assistance of the cranes.
A temporary ramp had been installed on the port side of the ship so that crates of food and supplies could be loaded by forklift into the Hydra’s hold. On her trial runs, the Hydra had run lean, but tonight she would be decked out in all her glory, a shining accomplishment for all other cruise lines to envy. Once the Hydra was authorized for her bi-weekly cruises, the ship would only be hoisted into dry dock for routine inspections and maintenance. This was the only way the fanbine technology beneath the hull could be accessed safely.
There were no more sounds of drills and hammers grinding a
nd banging on metal. The time for that had long passed. This ship was a white-plated beast, mean, sleek, and just begging to be freed. The crew was in the last-minute processes of feeding her belly, and soon her shackles would be released. With her crisp angles and bright trim, she looked like she should pounce into the channel rather than float majestically out on a cushion of hot air.
Banks strolled to the right side of the ship and looked up to see his brother-in-law in what seemed like a serious discussion with the Head of Engineering. They were on the Oceanwalk, which from below was an eerie sight to behold. They were standing outside of the ship suspended in midair, the bottoms of their shoes clearly visible. What a coup this would be for the company.
Mason didn’t look pleased. Backs waved to get their attention for nearly a minute before he was noticed. Bank’s phone rang immediately.
“Everything okay?” Banks asked.
“Meet me in the Siren’s Lounge,” Mason insisted. “It’s quiet there, we can talk in private.”
Banks signaled his acknowledgment and headed for the loading ramp. Five minutes later, he was sitting in a secluded booth in the back of the Siren’s Lounge. Across the room, there was a small well-lit stage filled with musical instruments and a video screen for karaoke. Five booths lined each wall and fifteen tables dotted the lounge. One long bar with an aquarium base filled the remaining wall space. A variety of colorful saltwater fish swam lazily amongst the coral and marine plant life. The shelves behind the bar were being stocked by three bartenders with domestic and exotic liquors, while two more stood in front of the bar, cutting various citrus fruit into slices for the garnishes.
Peter Mason entered the lounge at a brisk pace and slid into the booth. “Tell me about Sowell.” He said, under his breath.
Banks could plainly tell the crew was out of earshot, but he kept his voice down anyway. “He’s been on the bridge for three hours already. We made him up to match the picture on his credentials, and he’s already settling into the Captain’s chair.”
“And our imposter?”
“You mean my Uncle Morty?”
“Uncle Morty? You mean, Morty Poe?”
Banks nodded. “You wanted someone who looked like an experienced sea captain. The first person that came to mind was Morty. You’ve got to admit he fits the part. He’s got the white beard and broad shoulders. He’s perfect.”
Mason took a paper cocktail napkin off the table and wiped his forehead. He was quiet for what seemed like minutes. “Morty Poe used to smuggle bales of weed with my father.”
“Exactly! He knows the ocean, and he knows boats,” Banks argued.
Mason tapped his finger angrily on the table. “Not this boat, he doesn’t!”
Banks leaned back and spread his arms along the back of the booth. “He ‘s the spitting image of Captain John Smith. We always said that.”
Mason crumpled up the napkin and tossed it in Bank’s direction. “John Smith sailed the Titanic into a fucking iceberg, Gerry!”
Banks held up his hands. “You need to take a breath. I told you I would handle this. I sent Morty the manuals two weeks ago. He’ll be able to bullshit his way through any questions the guests throw at him. I’ve quizzed him personally. When you introduce him to the crowd, he’ll charm them like a cobra.”
“I swear to God, Gerald. He can’t screw this up.”
“Relax Pete. He’s making more tonight then he would in a year tending bar at the Paradise Shack in the Keys. All of his credentials are impeccable. Tonight he’s Captain Oskar Karlsson by way of Oslo. No one will suspect a thing. You need to take a deep breath, or you’ll give yourself a stroke before the most important night of your life!”
Mason checked his watch nervously. “I don’t have to remind you of what a fiasco the ballgame turned out to be. The media was vicious.”
“So you’ll change the team’s goddamned name,” Banks suggested.
“You can’t just change the name,” Mason said, indignantly. “You have to get the approval from the Commissioner of Baseball and all the other owners. You have to do a trademark search and file copyrights. Not to mention all the money we’ve already spent on branding and merchandising.”
“Perhaps more should have been spent on researching the name,” Banks muttered.
“What’s that?” Mason asked.
“I was just saying that the name was a bit obscure for a sport’s franchise. Maybe if you had asked a few more people for their input...”
“What’s done is done,” Mason said curtly, avoiding any personal responsibility. “If tonight’s trip doesn’t go as planned, the franchise, our fleet—our company—could hit a reef and never right itself.”
“Once a pirate…” Banks chuckled.
Mason stood up and leaned over the table. His eyes burned with intensity. “The company needs this influx of cash to survive, Gerald. You need to make sure everything goes on schedule while I’m wining and dining the crowd.”
Banks’ eyes darted around the lounge and then met Mason’s stare confidently. “Sowell can handle this. Uncle Morty can handle this. I can handle this.”
Mason stood erect, unaware that his hands had clenched into fists. “We only have one shot at this tonight. If it all goes tits up, we’re all going down.”
Gerald Banks watched his brother-in-law turn to leave the lounge. He couldn’t let him walk away without getting in the last word. “I told you, Pete,” he called out. “Everything is copacetic. Tonight you’re going to get everything you deserve!”
47
The sun had just set over the city of Jacksonville, and the sky was evolving from vivid shades of pink and orange into the intrusive darkness of night. In the distance, the city skyline was blinking to life. It was a moonless night, as expected, and both the Saint John’s River and the Atlantic Ocean were working in partnership by remaining calm and smooth. The wind was light out of the south, and the course was plotted and locked in. This was the Hydra’s moment, and she was purring as softly as a newborn kitten.
The white material that covered the structure had purposely been backlit by half a dozen portable stanchions of high-powered floodlights that created a silhouette of the ship visible to the arriving invitees. As expensive cars and limousines were directed to park in the adjacent lot, a line of celebrity passengers and dignitaries were already walking the red carpet that had been rolled out along the pier.
Three hundred invited guests, a third of the ship’s actual capacity, were captivated by the sleek shape and enormity of the giant shadow only a few hundred yards away. There was something about seeing the dark form of a ship on dry land that made everything seem surreal.
As the guests mingled excitedly on the pier, the local—and a few of the national—cable news networks were conducting interviews and photographing the event. While there was almost no sound emanating from the vessel, everyone could feel the reverberation of the ground beneath their feet. This is what made the Hydra different from her predecessors: her technology was so refined that she operated with virtually no sound, except for whatever was created by the three lounge bands and the excitement of happy passengers.
Toby Bilston, Lauren King, and Petty Officer Scott Simms did not arrive in a limousine. Instead, they pulled into the parking lot in a JPD patrol car driven by a uniformed sergeant who shook his head in disbelief at the craziness of the event. The detective and seaman were in the backseat, while the doctor rode shotgun. Not out of choice, but out of necessity. Toby could barely function in a dress suit that felt four sizes too small. In the back of his head, he kept thinking of the late comedian Chris Farley singing “Fat man in a little coat.”
“Do you want me to actually park?” The sergeant asked.
Toby loosened the knot in the tie that Harriett had picked out for him. It had been less than an hour, and it already felt like he was being choked by a python. “Just leave us of
f over there,” he said, pointing to an isolated area away from the rest of the cars. “We don’t want to be seen stepping out of a cruiser. Just let us out here and go. No lights, no siren…nothing that would draw attention.”
“Got it,” the sergeant said, braking where he had been told. “Looks like a tough assignment for the three of you. How’d you swing a free cruise?”
Toby opened his door and struggled to lift himself out of the vehicle; the night air was so moist that he double checked behind his ear to make sure his seasickness patch hadn’t slipped down his neck. “It’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it, sergeant,” he quipped. “Thanks for the ride.”
Simms opened his door and rushed around the rear of the cruiser to assist Lauren out of her door. She looked elegant in a long silver gown that discreetly covered the handgun strapped to her inner thigh. A slit up the side of the dress gave her the mobility she hoped she wouldn’t need.
Simms had shopped well. The dark suit he wore made him look inconspicuous enough to blend in with the crowd of high society, but handsome enough to make Lauren glad to be on his arm. Not a bad deal for less than his two hundred dollar budget.
The unlikely trio began walking toward the rear of the gathering throng of guests. Every few feet Toby needed to blot his forehead with his handkerchief. If he didn’t get into the air-conditioning soon, he swore he’d be able to swim aboard. They had walked halfway across the parking lot when Toby’s phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket. When he checked the number, he immediately recognized that the call was coming from a burner phone.
“Everything okay, Toby?” Lauren asked.
Toby motioned with his hand. “You two go ahead and get in line. I’ll catch up with you.”
“Are you sure?” Simms asked.
“Yeah, just got to take this call. Don’t want to be talking police business in the crowd. Go ahead. I’ll be right there.”