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“And your men will concur with that?” Gates asked.

“Yes.”

Gates stared over the marina water, the reflection off the bay bouncing in his olive green eyes. For a moment, O’Brien saw a detached glimpse of absolute power. He knew he was looking at a man used to getting his way. Gates moved only his eyes to O’Brien. He didn’t blink.

“Mr. O’Brien, we know of your background with Miami-Dade homicide. Some of our Miami agents speak highly of you and your investigative talents. But let me get one thing very straight, and put you on notice, too. If enriched uranium is, in fact, on that sub, then this is a very serious investigation. We won’t need, nor ask for your help in conducting any portion of it. The FBI has the manpower to nip this quickly, and we’re not looking for any soldiers to help or hinder us. Do I make myself clear?”

“Clear as a bell,” O’Brien said with a smile.

Dave said, “There is nothing territorial here. I’m retired CIA. I’m sure the agency will be in the thick of things, too. Because Sean and I understand your challenges, if there is anything that we can do or add to your investigation, please let us know.”

“Do you know if anyone from the agency is here yet?” asked Butler.

“No, not in an official capacity.”

Agent Gates looked over at Jason washing down Jupiter and said, “It would have been more appropriate if you and your crew had come to us before all this hit the media.”

“If you’re implying that Jason screwed up by having too much to drink and letting his girlfriend get it out of him, you’re right. But that’s happened, and there’s nothing we can do about it. I assure you, he feels awful.”

“The unfortunate part is, with the Internet, this kind of stuff gets around the world in a matter of a few clicks,” Gates said. “What we know, the bad guys know. I’d hate to see one of them question that kid. If you did find weapons-grade uranium out there, the salvagers you’ll see can make sharks look like guppies.”

Dave said, “We’re aware of the gravity.”

“Are you?” asked Gates, standing. “O’Brien, you need to figure out where you were when you hooked that U-boat, and then take us out there.”

“Could take a long time. Atlantic’s a big ocean,” O’Brien said.

“Mike, you want to question the kid?” asked Agent Butler. “I’ll walk over and get to know Mr. Cronus.”

O’Brien said, “Knock loudly on Nick’s door. He’s a sound sleeper.”

The first reporter arrived at 10:00 a.m. It was an online newspaper reporter, bearded, plaid shirt, sleeves pushed up above his elbows, in tow with a pudgy photographer. The reporter stepped aboard Jupiter’s deck and knocked on the salon door. The photographer stayed dockside, both hands on his camera, ready.

A TV news crew, reporter, and camera operator were coming down the dock, followed by a freelancer from the Associated Press.

CHAPTER THIRTY

From inside Gibraltar, Dave Collins watched the media converge around Jupiter. He looked at Sean, Nick and Jason. “Gentlemen, the only way to combat the damage done is to do what politicians and pundits would do in these circumstances.”

“And what would that be?” asked O’Brien.

Dave sipped black coffee, grinned, peered out an opening in the curtains on the starboard window and said, “Spin it.”

“What do you mean?” asked Nick

“What I mean is survival.”

“So what do we do now? Those FBI agents haven’t been long gone and now we got the news people coming around like gnats.”

“We hold a news conference,” Dave said.

“Where?” Jason asked.

“Right here on the dock. We’re well represented by our esteemed fourth estate. They’re crawling out there, sniffing. It may be our only chance to shake this thing off your backs like little Max would shake water off her back. You three have had your faces plastered on international television, blogs and social media sites around the planet, courtesy of Susan Schulman. So you go out there, stand next to Jupiter and take their questions. What it’ll give you is an opportunity to distance yourselves with what could be a worldwide powder keg, so to speak.”

“What do we say?” Jason asked.

“You don’t say anything until asked. Then, it’s best to let Sean answer the questions. He is, after all, the captain of the vessel that locked horns with a submarine.”

“The facts are,” O’Brien began, “we have no clue where the sub is. We didn’t get a GPS reading. We were using our fish-finder looking for rocks and other places where fish could hide, and the next thing you know, we hooked a German U-boat.”

“What if they ask us about the skeletons?” Nick asked.

Dave said, “Be truthful. Human remains are part of shipwrecks.”

“But the HEU isn’t,” O’Brien said. “That’s where the questions will be directed.”

“Probably,” Dave nodded. “However, all you saw were two canisters. Snapped a picture, everything else was twisted remains of a U-boat.”

“What about those jet parts and some kind of rocket?” Jason asked.

“What about them? You don’t know for sure what they are, so there’s nothing to say,” Dave said, sitting at his salon desk. “Remember, you guys are just fishermen stumbling across something. You’re not salvaging divers or treasure hunters. You’re just a bunch of average Joes excited about what you found, but ready to return to your livelihood, fishing, which is suffering.”

“You comin’ out there with us?” Nick asked.

“It wouldn’t be prudent. Add to more confusion and personal jeopardy.”

Nick shrugged. “I got nine lives. You have to when you dive for sponges.”

“Come on Max,” O’Brien said. “You run interference as we meet the media.”

“How many bodies did you see?” asked a TV news reporter.

“Looked to be half a dozen or so,” O’Brien said.

They stood on the dock next to Jupiter and fielded questions. The journalists now numbered seventeen. Fox News, CNN, ABC, NBC, BBC, Washington Post, New York Times, USA Today, A.P., local TV reporters and freelancers. Nine satellite news trucks beamed the interviews live to television and news websites. “Did you bring up the cylinders marked U-235?” asked an A.P. reporter.

“No,” O’Brien said.

“Can you find the sub again with GPS readings?” asked a Fox reporter.

“Didn’t get them, it was all a little overwhelming.”

To Jason, a reporter asked, “How did your girlfriend get pictures from inside the U-boat on her Facebook page?”

Jason glanced at O’Brien for a second. “Umm, she sorta downloaded it off my camera-phone to her computer and posted them.”

“Weren’t you quoted as saying you thought you could go back out there and find the U-boat?” asked a local TV reporter.

“Umm, I may have said that … I was kinda bragging in front of my girlfriend … but I really couldn’t … you know … I wasn’t operating the boat. I’m not exactly sure where we were when the anchor got caught.”

“Mr. Cronus, we understand you were the first to discover the U-boat,” said a CNN reporter. “How many cylinders of U-235 did you see?”

“Same as what Sean saw, two. No more, no less.”

The New York Times’ reporter asked, “Why did you all tell the Coast Guard you didn’t find a U-boat when, in fact, you’d just come from diving around one?”

O’Brien said, “As a sailor, you have reverence for ships and those who went down with them. Nick dove down there, found the sunken U-boat. We figured the sub and its sailors had been lying out there since World War II, so we might as well leave them alone. I’m sure the families back in Germany would appreciate that. Thank you, we’ve got to be moving on and get ready for a charter.”

Rashid Aamed stood in his posh Miami Beach condo and turned the sound up on the television. He was tall, with dark hair perfectly parted, and eyebrows like wire stitched in his coffee-colored skin. He watched the conclusion of the live interview from the marina, his black eyes following every word, every gesture from the men being interviewed. Two are lying, he thought. However, the tall one, the one who did most of the talking, his body language was too natural to indicate deceit. Aamed scribbled notes on a piece of paper and punched numbers into a cell phone. “Listen closely,” he began in Arabic. “There may be an opportunity to retrieve what we’ve been waiting for.”