CHAPTER TWELVE
The middle-aged fisherman sat with his hand on the Evinrude throttle and three empty Budweiser cans near his feet. His leathery face was the shade of a worn saddle. His eyes glistened from wind and alcohol. Susan Schulman turned in her seat on the boat and asked, “Can you take us closer?”
“Sweetheart, for you, I’d jump overboard and pull this damn boat by holding a rope in my teeth. Guess the Coast Guard will tell us when we’re too close.”
To her cameraman she said, “Make sure you’re rolling when they kick us out.”
“No problem.”
“The party in the boat approaching the detained vessel,” the voice resonated through the bullhorn. “You must keep within one-hundred feet.”
The fisherman said, “We might get our asses shot off.” He looked at Susan and added, “That’d be a real bad loss. I think I recognize that boat, Jupiter, right?”
“Yes,” Susan said.
“That boat’s docked at Ponce Marina. I’ve heard rumors about the ol’ boy that owns her. You hear a lotta shit around marinas ‘cause ever’body talks, you know. Close nit bunch of degenerates. Anyway, I’d heard he sorta showed up one night, paid a year’s lease on a slip and nobody saw him for a few months. Heard later on that he lives in some remote cracker shack on the St. Johns River. The fella is supposedly an ex-Delta Force, ex-cop, and one tough dude. They say he was a homicide cop. Supposedly right in the thick of all that Miami shit. Cocaine cartels, mobsters and whatnot. I heard he got fired ‘cause he crossed the line.”
“What do you mean, crossed the line?” Susan asked.
“Dirty Harry kinda stuff, I guess.”
“Interesting. Maybe he got a little too close to the drug world, crossed over and is working in it. Which one is he?”
The fisherman grinned as he idled his boat in what he guessed was a distance of one hundred feet from Jupiter. “Believe he’s the tallest one, blue shirt to the left. If he’s gettin’ busted for haulin’ drugs, I guess you two done stumbled onto one big ol’ news story, huh?”
Chief Wheeler said, “If you didn’t see something out there, my apologies. We need to know about these kinds of things, potentially so close to our shores, even if it’s been lying out there more than sixty years. In the Gulf of Mexico, not too far from that BP spill, an oil company found a sub in five-thousand feet of water. Some of those enclosed caskets carried dangerous material like mercury.” He pulled three cards out of his shirt pocket, handed one to O’Brien, Nick, and Jason. “Should any of you gentlemen remember something else, here’s my card. Since none of you know the GPS numbers to your last fishing hole, I bet you won’t be going back there. Am I right?”
“Absolutely, Chief,” O’Brien said. “It’s a big ocean. Thirty million square miles, give or take a few.”
Chief Wheeler forced a smile. To his men he said, “Let these fishermen get in port to make their submarine sandwiches.” They climbed off the swim platform, cranked the gasoline engine, and headed back to the cutter.
The small fishing boat followed. Within fifty feet, Susan Schulman stood and yelled, “Excuse me!”
Chief Wheeler looked behind him. “Official business,” he barked.
“Follow them,” said Susan
“Yes maaam,” said the fisherman grinning. “I like a woman who ain’t afraid to say what she wants.” He covered the beer cans with a rain slicker and cranked the engine.
As the Zodiac pulled alongside the cutter, Susan said, “Excuse me. I’m Susan Schulman with Channel Nine news.”
“I know who you are,” Chief Wheeler said, his tone all military business. “You’re risking arrest if you continue to film this. Homeland Security, Patriot Act.”
Schulman smiled. “I’ve seen you on some of the biggest drug busts between West Palm and Jacksonville. Is that what you and your men are doing today, checking that boat for drugs? What did you find?” The camera rolled.
“It was a routine stop. That’s all.”
Susan looked at the rifle and the 9mm pistols the men carried. She glanced up at the fifty-caliber machinegun, its barrel still trained on Jupiter. “If it’s routine, then why all the firepower, Chief?”
“In this day and time, it pays to be very cautious at sea.”
“You had to be looking for something, right? I hear one of the men on that boat is ex-Delta Force military, and a former Miami homicide cop, a person known for fighting crime. Are you holding him and his boat?”
Chief Wheeler felt blood rise in his face. “Absolutely not. They’re free to go. We boarded the vessel because our Mayport station picked up a conversation, if you will, on a marine frequency about a boat getting its anchor stuck in the wreckage of an old World War II vintage submarine. It proved to be false, a prank, we suspect. But we’re obligated to investigate these possibilities. You never know when it’s real.”
“An old submarine? What kind of submarine?”
“Like I said, someone playing games on the radio, sort of like the chatter and rumors that get started on the Internet. It’s hard to trace. The wrong information gets out, and we have to look under rocks. Takes a lot of manpower sometimes, but it’s our job. Thank you for your interest, Miss Schulman. We have to go now.”
Jason secured the anchor when it cleared the water. He waved to O’Brien in the wheelhouse and said, “It’s up.”
Nick reached for a beer. “The TV chick is headin’ our way.”
O’Brien said, “Take the helm, no-wake speed. I’ll go down and bid the lady adieu. If you see me put my hat on, gun Jupiter.” O’Brien climbed down to the cockpit and stood at the transom door as Susan Schulman and her entourage caught up with them.
“Why’d they search your boat?” she asked with a look of concern on her face.
“Got us mixed up with some other boat,” O’Brien said. “A lot of these Bayliners are still on the water. This particular make was one of Bayliner’s best sellers.”
“Did you buy it after you left Miami PD?”
O’Brien wouldn’t let her see surprise in his face. He smiled. “No, I bought it while I was there. Tell your viewers it’s for hire. We offer some of the best half and full-day fishing rates in Daytona Beach.”
She fired right back. “Did you find a sunken submarine out there today?”
Jason walked the side deck to the cockpit, Max following him, tail wagging. He said nothing as the TV camera was pointed toward O’Brien.
“Now wouldn’t that have been a catch,” O’Brien said. “I’d like to be the first to come across one. I’ve always been fascinated by boats, as you can see, especially boats that can travel underwater. Now if you’ll excuse me.” O’Brien pulled a baseball cap on his head, and Nick dropped the hammer on the twin diesels.
Susan Schulman shouted something, her voice silenced by Jupiter’s diesels. The fisherman held his beer to keep it from spilling in the wake. He grinned and said, “Guess he felt the conservation was over. Can’t say I blame him.”
Schulman ignored the comment. “Get me to shore!” she ordered. “Now!”
O’Brien stepped inside the salon and closed the door, picked up his cell phone and punched the keys. “Dave,” he said over the drone of the engines. “We’ve just been searched by the Coast Guard. Didn’t tell them anything yet.”
“Where are you now?”
“Coming into Halifax River. See what you can find out about Germany’s nuclear efforts toward the end of the war.”
“Okay. How fast can you get here?”
“Not fast enough.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A pelican sat on the top of a dock piling and watched as O’Brien backed Jupiter into its slip. “That’s good!” shouted Nick. He tossed ropes to Jason who quickly wrapped them around the boat cleats. O’Brien killed the diesels and Jupiter became silent, the only sound now coming from the slap of a small wake against the barnacle-covered pilings.