He slowly started walking down the hill, continuing to scan the harbor and watching for the two men. He just hoped they hadn’t returned the boat early. If he hadn’t taken so long with Henley, he would’ve been here on time. He was going to be up shit creek if he missed them.
The old man he and Gunny had talked to was standing inside the shack, leaning on the counter, smoking his pipe. Grant walked up to the shack. “How are you, sir?”
“Do you want to rent a boat?”
“My friend and I were here this morning asking about a rental, sir. Do you remember?”
The old man’s thick gray eyebrows knitted together as he looked at Grant. “I’m not that old.”
Grant cleared his throat. “Of course you aren’t, sir. Accept my apology, please.”
Dried tobacco fell out of the pipe as the man tapped it against the side of the counter. “Unless you’ve got some experience boating in this kind of weather, son, I don’t recommend it.”
Grant sidestepped the suggestion. “Could you tell me if the eighteen footer we were inquiring about this morning has pulled back into port?” Grant asked, looking over his shoulder.
“No.”
“Is there any timeframe when you…?”
“We always have our boats returned.”
“Uh, I understand, sir. But what is your procedure if one doesn’t come back?”
The old man leaned over the counter. “Then I contact them,” he said pointing his pipe toward the lifeboat building.
“Ok. Thanks for your help.” Grant looked at his watch again. “Almost fourteen forty,” he said under his breath. He started analyzing the situation. With the size of the boat and the small engine, they couldn’t have gone that far. Could they have traveled along the coast and pulled into a cove, or another harbor? Or did they…?
Turning away from the shack, he started walking along the breakwater, looking toward Newquay Bay. Another boat? Were they going to meet another boat?
He spun around, beginning to jog back to the road, when he spotted someone talking with the old man at the shack, possibly someone from the lifeboat building.
The man looked like a fisherman, wearing old slacks, long-sleeve shirt, an old sweater, with a gray tweed cap resting on his head. Grant slowed his pace, trying to catch a few words as he passed.
“There’s the young man asking about that boat,” the old man said as he pointed to Grant.
The man stepped in front of Grant. “I’m Harbormaster Clifton Roberts. I understand you’re interested in a particular boat that had been rented out by Albert here. Would you like to tell me why?”
“Could I talk with you over there, sir?” Grant asked, as he started walking toward the lifeboat building.
Harbormasters enforce the regulations of harbors or ports. British harbormasters are civilians and have full responsibility for ensuring the safety of navigation, security and operation of port or harbor facilities.
When they were alone, Grant said, “Sir, I’m Captain Grant Stevens. I work for the U.S. Naval Investigative Service in Washington, D.C. All I can tell you is that I’m under orders from Admiral John Torrinson.” He took a step closer to the harbormaster. “I really need to find out what happened to that boat and the two men on board, sir.” He waited.
Roberts stroked his face, hesitating briefly. “Are you the American the police talked with about the man….”
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“I see. Well, it was reported that some wreckage had been spotted drifting toward the coast. It appeared to be from a small craft.”
“Any indication what happened?”
“Not yet, except there was a sighting of smoke.”
“Like from an explosion?”
Roberts scratched the back of his head, shoving his hat forward. “Possibly.” He readjusted his hat.
“Sound? I mean, did anyone hear an explosion?”
“Nothing was mentioned.”
“Have any other boats been spotted in the area?”
Roberts shook his head. “The weather’s brought most of the craft back into port, especially the rentals. Those folks get a bit skittish.”
“Do you know if there’s any search and rescue going on now?”
“I believe the RAF had sent out one of its Shackleton’s, but I don’t have details yet.”
Grant lifted a pen from his jacket pocket. “You have anything I can write on?”
Roberts rummaged in his pockets, pulling out a slightly used napkin. “Will this do?”
Grant unfolded the crumbled paper, looking for a place to write that wasn’t stained by grease. He laid it in his palm and started writing. “Here’s my name and a contact number at St. Mawgan. Whoever answers will know how to reach me.” He handed the napkin back, then slipped the pen into his pocket. “I’d really appreciate you letting me know if the search and rescue turns up anything.”
Roberts glanced at the napkin. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks,” Grant said, then added, “I’d appreciate you not discussing our conversation with anyone, sir.”
“You have my word, Captain. Oh, for your information, if we’re called out for a rescue and I’m unable to contact you, keep an ear out for ‘maroons’ being fired.”
“‘Maroons,’ sir?” Grant asked curiously.
“Yes. It’s a signal for our volunteers to report here to the harbor.”
“Is that like fireworks?”
“It is, but in sound only. There aren’t any visible signs, like colors flashing, but the noise is much louder. Two will be fired if the volunteers here are needed. There is a large ocean-going coastguard vessel in Padstow for emergencies that are beyond our lifeboat’s capabilities. If that is ever needed, we contact them by telephone.”
“Understand, sir. And again, thanks!”
Padstow is approximately sixteen miles north of Newquay, with the lifeboat station sitting at the River Camel Estuary. The boat is an Oakley class, self-righting lifeboat, thirty-seven feet in length.
Grant turned and ran up South Quay Hill, not stopping until he reached the car park on Fore Street. He hoped Adler was on his way in that chopper because they were going to need it.
Grant pulled the MG into the first parking space available in front of the EOD building. Grabbing the car keys from the ignition, he flung the door open, trying to extricate himself as quickly as he could from the sports car’s front seat.
As he hurried toward the office, the door opened and Adler came out, wearing his service dress khakis. “Skipper! How ya doin’?”
“Joe! Where’s that chopper you came in on?” He looked up and down the runway, unable to spot the helo.
Adler knew there was trouble and he rushed toward him. “They’re refueling for the return to Mildenhall!”
“Come on!” Grant said. They took off running toward the office.
A petty officer sitting behind the desk jumped up when he saw the two officers coming through the doorway. “Sirs!”
Grant ordered, “Petty Officer, call Operations. By my orders that chopper is not to take off! Request the pilot contact me here ASAP!”
“Aye, aye, sir!” The petty officer immediately dialed the number.
Grant turned to Adler, but he didn’t even have to ask, as Adler said, “Our gear’s already stowed in the barracks, skipper. By the way, I brought you a stash of these,” he said, reaching into his shirt pocket.
Grant took the Snickers candy bar and licked his lips. “Later,” he said, giving Adler’s arm a light slap. “We’ll head over to the barracks as soon as we have confirmation on the chopper, Joe.”
The door to Henley’s office opened, and Henley poked his head out. Grant turned toward him. “You okay, Jack?”
Henley just nodded.
The petty officer held the phone toward Grant. “Excuse me, sir. The the pilot’s being patched through.”