“Well... it wasn’t easy work.”
“Oh, man, yeah, I know that. I know it was hard, dirty, and maybe dangerous. But I’m sure you felt like you were helping out the country, you know? Helping defend it by making the navy strong. Me? End of the day, end of the month, what do I get? I moved some papers around and made some middle managers happy. So what?”
Gus cackled. “Yeah, managers. Always tend to get in the way, don’t they. Paperwork, procedures, forms, checklists. If it wasn’t for completed and filled-out forms, made you think whether they could breathe or not.”
“They sure do. Man, so how many submarines did you work on?
Gus shrugged. “Lose track. Eighteen, maybe nineteen.”
“So you were there when they went from diesel subs to nuclear?”
“That I was.”
“Bet security was really something, back then.”
Gus didn’t say anything, and Michael wondered if he had gone too far. He waited, wondering what to say next.
The old man finally said, “Yeah, it was something. Had to be. We were in the middle of the Cold War, weren’t we?”
Michael nodded. “People tend to forget that, don’t they?”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Neither do I.” Michael got up. “Tell me, you ever see a kingfisher fly by here?”
A firm shake of the head. “Nope, can’t say I ever have.”
The third time, the third Wednesday, it was overcast, with a steady breeze coming off the Atlantic, whitecaps making the channel choppy. But Gus was still sitting there, watching the gray buildings and cranes of the shipyard.
Michael sat down, having brought two cups of coffee with him. He passed one over to Gus, who took it and murmured, “Thanks, appreciate it.”
“Not a problem.”
A cargo ship was making its way slowly out of the harbor, being escorted by two tugboats. Michael watched it slide by and said, “Your dad work at the shipyard?”
“No, he was navy.”
“Oh. During World War II?”
“Kinda. He joined up just as it was wrapping up. Went to Japan as part of the occupation forces, right after the war ended.”
“I see.”
“Me, I got into the shipyard in the late 1940s, just as a kid.”
“Bet your dad was proud of you.”
“Yeah, you’d think,” he said, speaking slowly. “But my dad... something in the navy really changed him. Didn’t talk about his duty for a long, long while. But he hated the fact I had anything to do with the military.”
“Really? That sounds strange. I mean, you read all those books and see those television shows about ‘the Greatest Generation.’ It seems most guys were proud of their service. My grandfather, he fought the Nazis during the war. Said it was the best four years of his life. Nothing ever came close to giving him that close bond, of being part of something larger than him, fighting against fascism.”
Gus took a noisy slurp from his coffee. “Yeah, but the war was pretty much over when my dad joined up. No more fighting. Just occupation duty.”
“Something must have happened to him, back then.”
Michael sensed he had gone too far. It seemed Gus was staring at something very, very far away. His orders told him to do something, but he couldn’t do it. Not yet.
He didn’t know enough.
Finally Gus said, “This coffee is good. Thanks.”
Michael sat with him for a little while and then got up.
“Later, Gus.”
The old man didn’t say anything else.
In nearby Portsmouth, the Federal Building in the center of the city contained offices from the post office to the Armed Forces Recruiting Centers to the local office of the FBI. Michael parked nearby and walked for a bit, arriving at a room where he made a phone call to give an update.
His supervisor was brusque with him. “You should be wrapped up by now.”
“I’m close. I don’t want to spook him.”
“This whole thing can blow up in our faces unless it gets handled right. So handle it.”
“I will.”
“You better.”
And then his supervisor hung up.
The Wednesday next, Michael came to the park bench where Gus sat. In addition to bringing two coffees, he had brought a bag of doughnuts. Gus grunted when he saw the doughnuts. “My doc says I shouldn’t eat this stuff.”
“What do you say?”
“My doc should mind his own goddamn business.”
The doughnuts came from a local bakery — not a chain shop — and they were tasty and filling as both men ate. Michael took in the channel, the bridges, the brick buildings of Portsmouth, and the cranes and gray buildings of the shipyard.
“You said you worked on a lot of subs over the years,” Michael said. “Any one of them stand out in your mind?”
Gus took a good mouthful of coffee. “No, not really.”
“You sure? I think there’d be at least one that stuck out in your mind.”
“Nope.”
“Not even the USS Thresher? You sure?”
Gus paused, one hand holding the coffee cup, the other holding a half-eaten cruller. He coughed. “What do you know about the Thresher?”
“It was built over there, at the shipyard. Came back for some overhaul work in 1963. Went out one morning for a test dive off Cape Cod. Something went wrong. It sank, all hands lost. One hundred twenty-nine crew members and civilians. Hell of a thing.”
Gus lowered his shaking hands, let the coffee and the cruller fall to the ground. Michael said, “Went out on April 10, 1963. A Wednesday. Funny thing, huh? Every time I come by here and you’re sitting here, looking at the shipyard, it’s a Wednesday. What a coincidence, eh?”
“Sure,” Gus said. “A coincidence.”
“Never a Tuesday. Or Friday. Or Saturday. Only Wednesday. Why’s that?”
No answer.
Michael pressed on. “Tell me. You ever see an osprey out there?”
Gus turned to him, tears in his eyes. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
Michael took out a leather wallet with a badge and identification and held it up for Gus to look at. Gus looked at it, sighed, and sat back against the park bench. He seemed to age ten years from one heartbeat to another.
“How did you do it, Gus?” Michael asked. “How did you sink the Thresher?”
Michael waited, thinking he now knew this guy pretty well, and Gus didn’t disappoint. He didn’t argue, he didn’t deny, he didn’t try to get up and run away.
Gus just seemed to hold on to his cane tighter. “Wasn’t meant to sink the damn thing. That wasn’t the plan.”
“What was the plan, then?”
Gus said, “You told me the code words, in the right sequence. You should have figured it out, you and the rest of the FBI.”
Michael put his identification away. “You’d be surprised at what we don’t know.”
“You seem to know enough.”
“No, not really,” Michael said. “Biggest thing for me is, why didn’t you bail out once I said ‘kingfisher’ that first day?”
Gus turned to him. “What? Where would I go? Shuffle off to my assisted living facility? Empty out my savings account and take a Greyhound to Florida? I didn’t know who the hell you were... so I waited you out. Maybe you were a birdwatcher. Maybe not. I’m old enough now I don’t really give a shit.”
Michael knew his supervisor wanted him to wrap this up as quickly as possible, but he was patient. Maybe too patient, but he wanted to make sure he had this one settled before proceeding.
“So what can you tell me, Gus?” he said. “How did it start?”