That gun was part of why the onetime Corporal LuAnna Bryce got her job. Such monstrous fowling pieces in the hands of these Island men had been all too efficient in thinning the flocks. This way of hunting started back when autumn skies went black with migrating birds. Any thunder rolling across the water in those days might have been a real storm or gunfire. In later years, the rumble might have been a munitions test at the nearby Aberdeen Proving Grounds, or hunters at work.
Ben never knew such a gun was hidden just overhead in his own home. Dyze gazed at the personal howitzer. Bent, and caressed it fondly.
He made the introductions. “Friends, meet Barking Betty. She’s old Tully Wessel’s’ market gun. His people had this place long before your family, Ben. When the game wardens come a-confiscating these pieces, Tully hid the old gal good. There’s a couple-two-three others like her scattered round this island yet. Swagger die, boys, doncha know she’ll bark again good and loud.”
CHAPTER 39
Ben’s plan was taking shape, but the disastrous consequences of failure prompted him to make one further crucial step. This meeting with the Council was bringing the full enormity of the risk down heavily upon him. He stepped into the stairwell and climbed it half-way, sitting on a step with a small semblance of privacy. He limbered up The Kid’s sat-phone, and dialed a number he knew by heart.
It rang only twice on the other end before Michael Craig picked up. “What.” Ben pictured Craig trying to clamp the phone between his ear and shoulder, a task made more difficult by several fused vertebrae in his neck. Craig was a giant of a man who loathed direct human contact. His size helped him avoid most conflicts. His charm helped with idiots who would attack him to prove themselves. When these failed, a prodigious strength, augmented by rage, settled matters quickly enough. But these encounters throughout his youth left him wishing for a quieter existence, which over time he had built for himself in a comfortable cabin in Vermont, far from the world.
Craig amply sustained his solitude with Pemstar, his very discreet consulting business. With proprietary and public-use software, Craig, assisted disaster relief coordinators and incident commanders handling emergency responses to storms, floods, wildfires, earthquakes, terrorist incidents, biohazards, chemical spills and salvage operations. He even provided vital sit-reps to security clients when solar flares threatened sensitive communication links in low-profile, high-stakes covert operations.
Craig also modeled and projected the effect of weather on war games as well as actual campaigns and large scale battle plans for the militaries of several governments, not all of which were recognized by the United Nations. His refusal to leave the private sector vexed generals and politicians alike around the world. Sometimes he even received calls from the personal assistants of savvy celebrities trying to plan outdoor birthday parties, weddings and other benign events. Once, a former First Lady had called to ask about the effects of certain planetary alignments on the introduction of important legislation by her husband. That’s where Craig drew the line.
Craig’s fees would damage the economy of a small country, but his work was so accurate that the calls poured often and from everywhere. Ben knew Craig from a job in Iraq involving a sniper mission, a sandstorm, and a smoke-belching oil rig fire. The target had gone down in the middle of an open town square, and Ben had safely exfiltrated the area along a path suggested by Craig, disappearing like a wraith into the storm and haze.
Ben asked, “You know who this is?”
Craig said, “If you’re an ex-girlfriend calling to tell me you’re a dude now — because twice in one month would really hurt my feelings—”
Ben smiled. “No. This is worse. You placed me yet?”
“You don’t want me to say your name because you’re not a hundred percent sure the line’s tapped, encrypted, or both, but yeah, I know you.”
Ben asked, “Can you run a scenario?”
Craig was in such demand that he always sounded on the verge of complete exhaustion. “It’s what I live for.”
“Say there’s this storm around where I live.”
Ben heard tapping on a keyboard. Craig said, “Wow. In this scenario, hypothetically, you’d be in deep shit.”
“There’s a device involved.”
Michael Craig was quiet for a time before speaking. “Like a food processor?”
Ben said, “Okay. Sure. But it’s got a timer. I think I can manage it, but the processor is going to — process.”
“Definitely?”
Ben said, “No, not definitely. But in a hypothetical way that’s pretty concrete.”
“Oh dear God.”
Ben affirmed, “Something like that. I need to know the absolute best time, after dark today, for this to happen. To keep the food from going all over the place.” Ben rattled off coordinates, and talked for almost a minute about what he knew about the dirty bomb, wasting most of that time trying to cloak his subject in terms that seemed more appropriate to a cooking show.
There was another long pause while Craig input the data into his software. Then he began a disquisition about the weather, the nature of a hurricane, upper atmosphere steering currents and other factors that could ruin a picnic. He stated a time that night that was all too near for Ben’s comfort when he checked his watch. Craig wrapped up saying, “The thing you need to look out for is the chimney. When you’re cooking. The flue I mean. When the downdrafts come. The opposite of what you usually have in the stovepipe. Do you see what I mean? In the middle of it all?”
Ben knew what Craig meant. “Thanks.”
“Can’t you put the lid on this thing? Hypothetically? Because if you time this wrong—”
“I’m listening,” Ben said.
Mike Craig sounded more tired than ever. “Forget it. If you time this wrong, it won’t matter much, will it?”
Ben broke off the call. Ten minutes later, he was back on the roiling Chesapeake in Miss Dotsy with Ellis.
As Wade Joyce promised, Miss Dotsy’s gearbox was much quieter after his laying on of hands. On the other hand, the weather had not improved. Knocker Ellis could manage the waves so far. Large as these mammoths were, they rolled in predictably. The Chesapeake could deteriorate still further in just minutes. At least now there was none of the deadly scissoring wave action for which the bay was infamous. They didn’t call it chop for nothing. Very bad for small boats.
On the way out the door Ben had noticed the mercury in his old barometer dropping faster than Jack Kevorkian’s patient roster. Beyond that, he’d avoided listening to the marine weather. There was no point. What were his options? Hunker down ashore ’til Polly, this new storm, and everything else blew over? No, he and Ellis would deal with it gust by gust. That was the only way. If they sat home and did nothing, the forecast was death one way or another.
Ellis said, “My turn to say thanks.”
Ben asked, “What for?”
“You stood my ground on the split. Good lookin’ out. Thanks.”
Ben shook his head. “I stood for what’s right. Hey, I’m no Boy Scout. I’ll just sleep better.”