Wood's Reef (11 page)

She zoomed in on the tail, shooting a closeup of the two rows of numbers and letters etched into the metal.

“There’s no cell service at this resort, is there?” she asked, glancing at her phone for coverage.

He shook his head. “No, have to head back to my place if you want to use your cell.”

“Oh, be still my heart, an invitation to your place.”

Chapter 19

Behzad leaned forward as the passengers exited the terminal. This was the third time they’d circled the arriving flights area. Each loop took fifteen minutes, and Doans was getting anxious. They hadn’t dipped back into the baggie since they hit the mainland over an hour ago. Both men were coming down, and hard, the law enforcement presence not making things easier.

Doans was getting agitated with the traffic, clearly overtired from the last few days. “Gimme another bump and I’ll hang out and wait with you.”

Behzad took out the bag and held it low. Doans watched the traffic for a break, ducked down and inhaled. “Thank you my friend. I lost my phone so I won’t get his call. If we can circle a few more times, I’ll make it worth your while.

***

Ibrahim finally appeared. He had lingered in the area on the gate side of security where there was free WiFi. With several email accounts to check, the anonymous internet the airport provided was the perfect spot.

“There he is.” Behzad pointed to the middle-aged business man. 

Doans pulled up to the curb. Behzad got out and signaled the man. He looked more like an attorney than a friend of the guy he’d just spent two hours snorting coke with.

The man came forward, and he and Behzad embraced quickly, looking like brothers to anyone watching. They all walked to the car. 

“Ibrahim, this is Jerry. He gave me a ride after I had some trouble last night,” Behzad said.

“Always trouble, little one.” Ibrahim used the term with condescension.

“Not so. I pulled over to rest for a few minutes and was mugged and car jacked by some Haitian gangsters. It could have happened to anyone.”

“And this kind stranger just picked you up in the middle of the night and agreed to not only drive you to Miami, but pick me up as well.” The skepticism was evident in his voice.

“I was cruising up US1, getting out of town for a while, when I saw your friend on the side of the road. I was tired and figured some company would be good, and he was clearly in need of assistance.” Doans came to Behzad's aid. Ibrahim looked at Doans. Not believing in coincidences had kept him alive and undiscovered. This was clearly a red flag. 

“Anyway, had some domestic trouble in Marathon and figured the ride and change of scenery would help clear my head.” 

“We both thank you for your kind assistance,” Ibrahim said. He noticed that both men were wiping their noses, and wondered what Behzad was up to. He had to figure this American out and quickly, now that he had been seen. He knew that neither he or Behzad by themselves would trigger any red flags. Neither looked like a terrorist — they were both clean shaven and had adopted American personas. 

***

Doans saw the sign for the airport exit. “I should probably drop you guys off at a rental car place or somewhere.” He was starting to get uncomfortable around this stranger. Maybe a trace of paranoia from the drugs or maybe it was just obvious, but this guy was clearly treating him with suspicion. After years of living on the edge, Jerry’s radar was up and working non-stop, looking for people to steer clear of. This guy was a big red blip on the screen.

“Please, allow me to buy you a meal in thanks for saving my friend here,” Ibrahim offered. Doans got the feeling he was being sized up. He longed for the comfort of a weapon, but knew it was too risky to chance airport security with one. Still, it would be number two on his priority list … right after priority number one in the driver’s seat.

“I could do that, and take a break from driving,” Doans said, never one to turn down a free lunch.

He exited the airport, heading west on the 836. After merging south on the Florida turnpike, he exited at the first sign of food. “Waffle House ok?”

***

They were seated in a booth, drinking coffee, waiting for their food. Ibrahim had been asking all kinds of questions, and though he might intend for it to be a pleasant conversation, it was clearly an interrogation to Jerry Doans. He wondered what this guy was after when the questions started focussing on Marathon. 

“I thought you said you were from Key West.” He looked at Behzad.

Ibrahim answered for him, the previously chatty Behzad being extremely quiet and deferential since Ibrahim arrived. 

“We have a business opportunity in Marathon,” Ibrahim continued probing. He had ascertained from the questions that Doans was definitely not what the Americans called a ‘hard-working citizen.’ Still, if he could help them in Marathon, he might be worth keeping around. “Do you know the waters around the area?” he asked.

“Pretty well,” Doans replied. 

Ibrahim was eating now, focused on his food. Behzad and Doans were pushing the food around their plates, still wired from the coke and now the coffee. Each took a small bite now and then for appearances, but neither was interested in the food. He wondered again what was going on here. 

Ibrahim finished eating and looked up from his plate, his mind made up. “We could use a man of your knowledge and position to help us in our venture. There will, of course, be compensation for this.” He offered the bait to Doans, knowing full well that the compensation would be a trip to the other side of paradise. He’d made his decision and felt that he could trust him as long as he thought there was something in it for him. Greedy Americans.

Chapter 20

Gillum wondered why the image on the screen was making him as sea sick as the actual boat ride. The video of the F470 inflatable was bouncing up and down following the rhythm of the sea. He’d been going back and forth through the drone’s video for the last hour, the bourbon almost gone from his tumbler. 

The picture’s definition was amazing; the level of detail taken from the drone could show a bead of sweat on a hermit crab on a beach. But the image was erratic. He slowed down the video, working one frame at a time. That helped, but would take forever. The island, with the exception of a clearing where the house and an outbuilding were located, was densely covered in mangroves. He was looking for shapes and lines, indicating something outside of nature, in the tangled brush was close to impossible. He got up and refilled his glass. 

Into the third hour, and the third inch of bourbon, he saw something out of place. The drone’s camera was focused on the area where Mac Travis and the unidentified girl were walking. He moved the mouse and enlarged the foliage nearby.
That has to be it,
he thought. It took a few minutes, but he started to pick out the dissimilarities between the camouflage netting and the native flora. He zoomed in further and saw what looked like a glimmer of metal reflecting in the sun. 

He leaned back in his chair, working on inch number four, and trying to figure out what to do next. The obvious choice would be to send a special ops team to the island and just take it back. One problem was that he didn’t have the authority for what would need to be a classified mission. The other was that he didn’t want the publicity of the bomb being found to trigger the obvious question of why it was there in the first place - and who knew about it. Wood was right. The Navy kept records for everything. Although it was buried deep, there was always a chance someone would find it. That would ruin his career and destroy the Vice President. 

There were only two other men alive who knew what originally happened to the bomb. Ward probably hadn’t thought about it in fifty years and Wood was in the hospital. The carefully guarded secret was now sitting on a beach instead of hidden in the vastness of Florida Bay. Add in the handful of locals that knew as well, and the group was too big for a secret like this to remain intact. It was time to let Joe Ward know. He had the most to lose, let him make the call. The problem now was how to get a message to him. They hadn't spoken since 1963, when he’d been transferred after the missile crisis ended. 

Gillum leaned forward and opened his web browser. He searched several web sites but none revealed a phone number. The closest he could get was to send a message to the Vice President on the White House web page. He tried other searches, but every path ended on the same page. He began to fill out the form, hoping to include something that would force whatever intern or aid that was responsible for monitoring the page to pass it up the chain of command.

As he came to the subject line he wrote:
Message from old Navy buddy
. He hoped that would at least get the contents read. In the message section he wrote:

We served together during the Cuban Missile Crisis in Key West. I was wondering if you remember that pilot that came in light. I was working with you that day. Something has come up and I need to reach you about the pilot.

He clicked the box asking for a response, and closed the browser. It was a long shot, but hopefully the message would reach the VP. 

***

Minutes later, the message appeared on the intern’s monitor. Max Van Doren was just finishing for the day. It was almost 8pm, but that was what it took to intern — do whatever they said and hope for the job offer or at least a good recommendation at the end of the term. One of his responsibilities was to monitor the messages on the VP's White House web page. It was actually an interesting part of his job, better than filing and research. The comments seemed to change with the wind. Some days it was a rage against the administration or rants against the VP, other days it offered praise. Max charted the comments on a spread sheet aimed at tracking which way the political flag was blowing. As the election neared, the comments were more polarizing. 

He scrolled through each comment, deleting as he went, answering when called for. He had some latitude in answering the messages, and a blurry line defined what needed to be passed higher up. The message in front of him was one of those. The mention of the VP’s naval career and a direct reference to an incident flagged the message to go higher up. The check box for an answer was highlighted, indicating that the author hoped to hear back. He typed in his best robot:
This message will be passed to the Vice President.
 

A copy of the message in his hand, he took the elevator from the basement of the Naval Observatory up to daylight. He followed the ornate corridor to the chief of staff’s office.

“Sir, got a minute?”

Dick Watson looked up from the pile of papers on his desk. No computer monitor was evident; the chief was strictly old school. “What is it?”

“This message came in on the comment page of the boss’s White House page.” He handed the paper over.

The older man glanced at the note. “I’ll pass this along. We were just talking about the boss’s service during the Cuban Missile Crisis this morning. Do we know who this guy is, or how to get a hold of him?”

“Just the basics from the form. Name, address, email.”

“In the future, you get something like this, why don't you save us all some time and find out what you can about who sent it. Check the name, run the address, let’s see if this is real.”

Max took the scolding in stride and headed back down to the dungeon. 

***

Watson had the phone in his hand the minute the aide was out of hearing range. The Vice President’s personal secretary picked up on the second ring.

“Yes, sir.” She knew who it was from the caller ID.

“Is the boss around?”

“No, he’s shaking hands and kissing babies. In the middle of a fundraiser. Want me to pass along a message?”

“Slip him a note with the name Jim Gillum and Cuban Missile Crisis on it. See what his reaction is.”

***

The aide wrote the note out on an index card and went to the VP’s table. She discreetly handed over the note. Ward glanced at it and quickly excused himself.