She evaluated his proposition at some length, then summarized her doubts. “How can we do that? That boat’s so hot we can only spend minutes aboard before we reach saturation. Remember: radiation is additive. The dosage doesn’t restart each day, but accumulates over hours, days, and weeks. We’ll have to have a rotating crew for the inspection.”
Dover retorted, “We’ll do a grab-and-go. I’ll can get a few radiation suits from the San Onofre plant. Since its decommissioning, there are several NBC, or Bunny, suits standing idle. My friend there, the one that supplied us with the San Onofre special, has offered them for our use in nuclear emergencies. They cost over two-thousand dollars apiece; makes it difficult to justify for our inventory. It’s just a loan. They won’t mind.”
With little else to go on, she examined her options and found none. Her map on the wall showed it all. He did have a valid point about the GPS post-mortem; what could it hurt if they had the proper protection for an extended de-installation. It could yield invaluable information about the bomb’s whereabouts.
“Okay, Ensign, do it. I’ll find a volunteer deputy or two and have them ready by tomorrow. When can you get these ‘Bunny’ suits?”
“I’m released to your command until this nightmare is over. I’ll get two suits on my way home tonight and be at the salvage harbor, wearing one, at eight a.m. tomorrow. My specialty is marine electronics so I’ll head the operation… if you don’t mind.”
Pleased that anyone would throw a lifesaver her way, feeling she was sinking below the water line, she accepted his offer. “Sure, Ensign, that would be great.”
“I’m in, too,” Strong said, raising his hand. “I’m an electrical engineer, familiar with the design and firmware in most GPS units. Recovering positional data also happens to be one of my specialties, especially if it’s encrypted. I’m pretty sure I can help. Okay, Ensign?”
She smiled, referred to Dover for his consent, and waited.
“Sure, Agent Strong. Why not? I’d be glad to have you on board. See you at eight?”
“You bet. Do you have a map how to get there?”
“I’ll draw you one. Hold a minute.”
Dover scribbled on a small pad, tore off the page, and handed it to him. “Well, I gotta go, folks. Got a hot date tonight.” He rose to leave the room then looked back at Poole. “Meeting tomorrow?”
“I think not, Ensign. You’ll be out with Agent Strong most of the day, and we’re locked up until you report back in. We’ll take tomorrow off and meet here on Wednesday, same time. Don’t be surprised, though, if I show up at the marina. Yours and Keller’s SWAT report are pivotal elements in this case right now. Anybody else have a comment or question before we close up for the day?”
Silence.
“No? Then have a great day off tomorrow, you deserve it, and if you need anything, call Sheriff Victor; I keep him abreast of everything by email, encrypted of course.” Quietly the taskforce filed from the room leaving her alone in silence.
Drawing a deep breath, she exhaled, shuffled the papers together on the table, and closed her laptop. The time was approaching six o’clock and she was drained. At least things were moving again, she thought. Unproductive days were not in her vocabulary. She knew that if she failed in her task, there would be no reprimand, no bad grade, no demotion, just ten million souls frying in microseconds, without warning. All on her hands. Failure was truly not an option.
As she closed the door to her lab, she decided to stop on the way home and grab a few burgers, one for her, and one for her longtime companion, Pupski. He loved hamburgers. She knew he’d be waiting with a wagging tail.
OFF DAY
Lined up like dominoes on a board game, boats moved with the waves, tugged at their moorings, trying to escape their salvage prison. Strong and Dover met in the large parking lot surrounding the marina. It was eight a.m. and the lot was already busy with boaters coming and going.
They examined the radiation suits, stowed in the back of Dover’s truck; everything was there, ready for use. They would don them once they identified the boat’s slip, rather than walking around in public, announcing their presence.
Together they entered the Harbormaster’s office and asked for the Sea Ray’s location. In their street clothes, they appeared to be casual boaters.
The desk sergeant asked, “Do you have IDs? If I remember right, that’s a restricted boat.”
They pulled their IDs from their pockets and handed them to him. One was a black leather wallet with Strong’s photo ID card and under it, the FBI golden shield badge; the other a military photo ID card, showing U.S. Coast Guard, Ensign John Dover.
Passing them back, the he thumbed through the logbook, looked up at them and said, “Oh, that’s the one in quarantine. It’s in the D-22 slip, fourth pier from the entrance, out at the end. It should be easy to find; it’s the only boat on the D pier, about a football field out.” He looked at the tide clock on the wall and added, “The tide’s going out so if you drop something in the water, grab it fast or it’ll be heading to Hawaii.”
“Thank you,” Dover nodded, “we’ll be out there inspecting it for an hour or so, but we’ll be wearing hazmat suits. Where can we park to be less obvious? Wearing them across the parking lot will surely raise some eyebrows.”
He looked at another logbook. “Tell you what. Walking out to the end of that pier… it’s a long pier; you’ll be on display the whole time. Let me have one of our deputies take you out in a patrol boat; there are a few docked at the north side of our building, hidden from sight. Just park in a reserved spot and tell them Reyes sent you.” He smiled, then took an incoming phone call.
Dover, with Strong following closely behind, returned to his truck. Once in, they drove around the building, found an empty reserved space, and parked. Staring out the front window, searching for a deputy on the patrol boat dock, they saw no one. A black Prius, four spaces over, loomed, its hooded driver staring over the dock through binoculars. Its license plates smeared red, hid its identity.
The rapid sharp taps on the side window surprised them. A uniformed deputy motioned to roll down the window. Through the receding glass, he said, “Deputy Johnson here. Are you the guys needing a ride out to D-22? Reyes radioed me that you were coming.”
“Yes, deputy,” said Dover, “We’re here to retrieve evidence from that boat, but we’ll need to suit up first in our CBRN suits.” He motioned to the back of the truck, “Can you wait a few minutes?”
“Sure. Catch me on the pier, I’ll be waiting.”
They exited the truck, opened the Tonneau cover and pulled out two massive, yellow CBRN suits with giant inflatable glass-front hoods. Within minutes, they walked down to the pier, resembling scientists from The Andromeda Strain. The added height of the large inflated hoods made them stand over seven feet tall. “Check your dosimeter. Make sure it’s on, and reset,” Dover said.
“These aren’t going to stand out at all,” said Strong, chuckling at Dover, lifting his legs as he walked, trying to adjust his crotch for comfort. Dover looked back at his comment. Strong was ten feet behind him, carrying the Geiger counter in one hand and a large toolbox in the other. He laughed and retorted, “Speak for yourself, cornbread doughboy.”
Johnson, waiting near the patrol boat, chuckled as he helped them, struggling awkwardly, laughing, into the patrol boat’s cabin. “I’m gonna need a bigger boat,” he said, adding to their humor.