“Dispatch, this 408 at Aliso Beach Park. I’ve spotted a watercraft adrift about a half-mile offshore. No signs of life. It’s capsized, upside down.”
“Roger that, Officer Briscoe. I’ll get the Coast Guard over there 10–18, ASAP. Can you meet them there?”
“I’ll be here, dispatch. By the south lifeguard tower in my cruiser. Please advise when they’re in route, with an ETA.”
“10-4, officer, enjoy the beach. Got your swim suit?”
“Very funny. Briscoe out.”
By the time Dispatch called back, the boat had drifted closer, now only a football field out from shore. He had tracked it in through his binoculars, seeking more detail, but it gave nothing more.
“A Cutter’s on the way. Should be there in fifteen minutes,” the radio squawked.
“Wait a minute, Dispatch. That’s at least a sixty-foot ship. They’ll never get in here to the boat. It’s almost onshore. I need a hovercraft.”
“10-4. I’ll call them back.”
“Oh, would you ask them to bring a Geiger or scintillation counter with them. I’m working on a far-out hunch, here,” he said, squinting through glasses, watching the fiberglass shell dance on the waves toward shore.
“That’s a strange request, Briscoe, but I’ll ask. Dispatch out.”
He lowered the binoculars and shook his head, chuckling at the thought of a sixty-foot Coast Guard Cutter making its way onto shore. Sometimes a little added information makes all the difference in the world. The beach crowd had begun to gather near him, all fascinated by the approaching hull. With each wave, the hull rocked and drifted closer, bringing cheers from the crowd. Then suddenly it halted, as if it hit a brick wall. What the hell? he though. It began to spin erratically with each wave, advancing no further. It’s caught on something, run aground. He walked to his cruiser and looked back. It wasn’t going anywhere until the tide changed. Dropping into his seat he reached to the console, grabbed the cup of cold coffee and sipped from it, waiting for the hovercraft.
The unmistakable roar of huge fans approaching awakened him. He had only napped for a few minutes but he was refreshed, ready to fight a new war. He stood from the car and waited for the sand to settle before acknowledging the ACV, or air cushioned vehicle. Fans stopped, it dropped on its skirt into the sand as a white uniformed coast guardsman disembarked and walked briskly toward him.
“Ensign John Dover at your service, officer,” he said as he approached. An officer and a gentleman, at six-foot-three and two-hundred pounds, with black closely trimmed hair and deep-set azure eyes, he exuded confidence. He shook Briscoe’s hand, then looked around assessing the emergency. “What’s the problem here,” he asked, glancing out at the capsized hull, then continued, “other than that unfortunate craft. Seems to be stuck in the sand--probably on its ski tower. Any survivors?”
“No, not unless they’re under it. Can you right it so we can see?”
“Sure. Want us to tow it back to the impound marina, too?” asked Dover.
“No, not yet. I’d like you to beach it here so I can investigate a possible crime. We’ll go from there.”
“With a Geiger counter? What’s that about?”
“Did you bring one?”
“Yes sir, our San Onofre special. We used it around the twin tits nuclear plant--when it was operational. It’s old but still works. We keep it calibrated in case of another leak.”
Smiling, nodding, he replied, “Ah, yes. I call those the double-Z towers. Know them well. Mind if I use it for some tests after you bring it in?” He motioned toward the stuck, rotating hull.
“No, not at all. Stand back and we’ll bring ‘er in.”
He walked back to his cruiser as Dover boarded the hovercraft, started the engines, and lifted from the beach in a flurry of sand. He turned back and curiously watched the ACV in action. Rocking side to side, on a roiling spray of water six inches over the ocean, parallel to the hull, Dover pulled with grappling hooks and gaffs on long poles trying to right the capsized boat. On the third try, it began to roll, slowly at first, then reached equilibrium and flipped upright exposing a tall onboard cargo crane and hoist mechanism.
“What in the hell is that?” he asked himself. He recognized the craft as a Sea Ray, but had never seen such a massive cargo rigging before. His heart sped as he realized its implications. That might just be Adam’s launch pad. He closed his eyes, hoping, praying that he would find radioactivity there.
It took only minutes for the ACV to capture, tie off, and tow the boat to shore. Once beached, it sat, listing, awaiting his scrutiny. He watched Dover return to shore, park the ACV nearby then stride across the sand toward him carrying a small yellow box with a short black curved handle. It reminded of a vintage metal detector he had used in his navy days. That must be the San Onofre special. He exited the cruiser, met Dover halfway, and took the instrument, inspecting it in his hands.
“How do you work this thing, ensign?”
Dover pointed out the controls. “Simple. Toggle that switch to ON, then watch that meter and listen for clicks. It’s auto-ranging so it self adjusts for any intensity. If that red light flashes, run like hell.” He looked up, chuckling. “We’ve never had that happen, so we don’t know if I really works. The manual says it does.”
“If you’ll stick around while I test it, I’d appreciate your towing it to the salvage marina when I’m done. I’ll call a deputy for authorization.” Briscoe said, walking toward his target, Dover trailing behind.
“No problem, officer. My time is yours until we get it off the beach.”
Stepping over the hull into the Sea Ray’s tilting deck, he slipped on the wet fiberglass, fell into the boat and quickly stood, regaining his composure. “Slippery,” he said, smiling. His leather-soled shoes were not meant for this type of work. Before activating the Geiger counter, he looked around the cabin of the boat deciding where to measure first. A circular deep gouge in the flooring behind the captain’s seat drew his attention. Glancing at the cargo crane tower, he noticed its arm was extended to a distance that seemed to place its claw, when swiveled, right over the round imprint. He tested his observation, grabbing the arm and pulling it toward him. Sand gritted in the swivel joints making it difficult to move. A few more tugs and he had the claw in place, directly over the indentation. He bent over and rubbed his hand over the circular depression, estimating it to be a half-inch deep. As he suspected, he was right. This was the place to measure.
Dover watched with mounting curiosity, wondering what was happening, as Briscoe held the instrument over the circle and switched it on. Not a click or two, but a raucous buzz came from the speaker accompanied by a bright flashing red light from the Geiger counter’s front panel. Dover jumped back, away from the boat, almost falling in the wet sand, and yelled, “Holy shit! Get the hell out of there, Briscoe. That’s lethal!”
Slipping and stumbling, he scrambled hand over foot out of the listing boat and fell in the sand. The San Onofre special, landing several feet from him, still clattered, though its light was dark. He stood, brushed the sand from his uniform, grabbed the counter, and retreated with Dover until the buzzing stopped. They were fifteen feet back, further than the beach crowd in front of them, gathered around the boat curiously looking in.
“Everybody back!” he yelled. “It may explode any time now. There’s a gas leak.” He improvised his deception on the fly to avoid a panic. Announcing lethal radioactivity would certainly scare everyone and start the questions, which he couldn’t answer. He had put the monster to rest before it awakened. The crowd obeyed, gathering their belongings, racing to their cars. Soon the beach park was empty.