“I need to see it.”
“It’s outside.”
“Let’s take a look.”
“What’s this about?”
“At this point, I ask the questions. Where’s the dive gear?”
“When I left for a fishing trip this morning, I remembered leaving America.”
“You’d be smart to dispense with the editorial comments, Mr. O’Brien.”
“If you’re looking for drugs, why don’t you just say so?”
Petty Officer Kowalski popped his head up from the galley. “Sir, clean down here. Ron’s looking through the master. Want me to go topside?”
“Affirmative. Check the engine compartment, outside storage areas, too.”
“Yes sir.”
Chief Wheeler stepped back onto the cockpit as Petty Officer Kowalski scampered up the ladder to the bridge. “Where’s the dive gear?” Wheeler asked.
“Over here,” said O’Brien, stepping to a storage area. O’Brien opened the compartment. Chief Wheeler removed the tanks and fins. He knelt, feeling the inside of the fins. “Wet. When did you last dive?”
“This afternoon.”
“Who dove?”
“Nick and I did.”
“Why?”
“Had an anchor stuck. Didn’t want to lose it.”
“Caught on something, was it?”
“Rocks.”
“What were the GPS numbers?”
“Don’t know. In all the commotion, we didn’t jot them down.”
Petty Officer Johnson emerged from the salon. “Open the engine compartment,” ordered the chief. To Nick he said, “What kind of rocks had your ground tackle?”
“Blue rock,” said Nick gesturing with his arms. “Big ones. Down there it’s kinda hard to tell what kind they are. Everything looks blue, you know?”
“What I know is about three hours ago someone used marine channel thirty-six and talked about finding a submarine on the bottom of the Atlantic. Said there were bodies, skeletons. This person said they were fishing in the Gulf Stream when they got their ground tackle stuck, stuck on a submarine, maybe a German U-boat. We heard they were heading back into port, Ponce Inlet. I figured this vessel travels at about eighteen to twenty knots. You’ve already said you were fishing the stream. If you left close to after the time we intercepted the call that would put you here about now.”
O’Brien said, “Dozens of boats come in and out of this inlet every hour.”
“Yes, but none came from the exact direction you came from.” Chief Wheeler dropped the fin he held, stood, and turned to Jason. “What’s your name, son?”
“Jason Canfield.”
“Did you dive today?”
“No sir.”
“Were you the one who radioed in the find of the German submarine?”
Jason glanced at O’Brien. “I was just saying that we might have found a U-boat. I’d read about some of them sinking off the east coast of America in 1942. I guess my imagination got the best of me.”
“Quite an imagination, I’d say. In monitoring the radio frequency, one of our officers heard you mention human remains, maybe munitions on the site, too. Is that what was seen?”
“I’ve played too many video games. I’d guess that if a U-boat was ever found, one that went down with its crew, there would be skeletons and stuff.”
“I bet that’d be a good guess,” Chief Wheeler said. “Did any of you see a submarine today?”
Nick grinned and said, “I’m making grouper submarine sandwiches. You and your posse are welcome to stop by.”
O’Brien said, “Chief, unless you have a public affairs person on board, it looks like you might be asked for a comment from a TV news crew. If you want to tell them you’re questioning us about finding a German U-boat out there, I’d like to hear their follow-up question.” O’Brien pointed to the boat heading their way, cameraman standing, legs slightly open, camera on his shoulder.
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,
“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
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
