Pi Day Doomsday

OFF DAY

Lined up like dominoes on a board game, boats moved with the waves, tugged at their moorings, trying to escape their salvage prison. Strong and Dover met in the large parking lot surrounding the marina. It was eight a.m. and the lot was already busy with boaters coming and going.

They examined the radiation suits, stowed in the back of Dover’s truck; everything was there, ready for use. They would don them once they identified the boat’s slip, rather than walking around in public, announcing their presence.

Together they entered the Harbormaster’s office and asked for the Sea Ray’s location. In their street clothes, they appeared to be casual boaters.

The desk sergeant asked, “Do you have IDs? If I remember right, that’s a restricted boat.”

They pulled their IDs from their pockets and handed them to him. One was a black leather wallet with Strong’s photo ID card and under it, the FBI golden shield badge; the other a military photo ID card, showing U.S. Coast Guard, Ensign John Dover.

Passing them back, the he thumbed through the logbook, looked up at them and said, “Oh, that’s the one in quarantine. It’s in the D-22 slip, fourth pier from the entrance, out at the end. It should be easy to find; it’s the only boat on the D pier, about a football field out.” He looked at the tide clock on the wall and added, “The tide’s going out so if you drop something in the water, grab it fast or it’ll be heading to Hawaii.”

“Thank you,” Dover nodded, “we’ll be out there inspecting it for an hour or so, but we’ll be wearing hazmat suits. Where can we park to be less obvious? Wearing them across the parking lot will surely raise some eyebrows.”

He looked at another logbook. “Tell you what. Walking out to the end of that pier… it’s a long pier; you’ll be on display the whole time. Let me have one of our deputies take you out in a patrol boat; there are a few docked at the north side of our building, hidden from sight. Just park in a reserved spot and tell them Reyes sent you.” He smiled, then took an incoming phone call.

Dover, with Strong following closely behind, returned to his truck. Once in, they drove around the building, found an empty reserved space, and parked. Staring out the front window, searching for a deputy on the patrol boat dock, they saw no one. A black Prius, four spaces over, loomed, its hooded driver staring over the dock through binoculars. Its license plates smeared red, hid its identity.

The rapid sharp taps on the side window surprised them. A uniformed deputy motioned to roll down the window. Through the receding glass, he said, “Deputy Johnson here. Are you the guys needing a ride out to D-22? Reyes radioed me that you were coming.”

“Yes, deputy,” said Dover, “We’re here to retrieve evidence from that boat, but we’ll need to suit up first in our CBRN suits.” He motioned to the back of the truck, “Can you wait a few minutes?”

“Sure. Catch me on the pier, I’ll be waiting.”

They exited the truck, opened the Tonneau cover and pulled out two massive, yellow CBRN suits with giant inflatable glass-front hoods. Within minutes, they walked down to the pier, resembling scientists from The Andromeda Strain. The added height of the large inflated hoods made them stand over seven feet tall. “Check your dosimeter. Make sure it’s on, and reset,” Dover said.

“These aren’t going to stand out at all,” said Strong, chuckling at Dover, lifting his legs as he walked, trying to adjust his crotch for comfort. Dover looked back at his comment. Strong was ten feet behind him, carrying the Geiger counter in one hand and a large toolbox in the other. He laughed and retorted, “Speak for yourself, cornbread doughboy.”

Johnson, waiting near the patrol boat, chuckled as he helped them, struggling awkwardly, laughing, into the patrol boat’s cabin. “I’m gonna need a bigger boat,” he said, adding to their humor.

Strong, finally finding a comfortable position, smiled and yelled through his hood, “Just get us there, deputy. This is bad enough without all the bad humor.”

The boat, loaded, pulled away from the dock, and headed south to the long piers, showing large letters on their ends. They passed Pier A, Pier B, and then Pier C. Approaching Pier D, the boat slowed and pulled left, into an empty row. Staring in disbelief at the empty slip, the deputy shouted, “Where the hell’s D-22? It’s supposed to be here. I checked it last night.” He grabbed his radio and jammed the talk button. “Reyes? Did someone authorize removal of D-22? It’s not here.”

Seconds passed. With urgency in his voice, Reyes replied, “No deputy, it’s still logged in. Should be there.”

Johnson, passing the empty slip, jammed the boat into reverse, then forward and pulled into D-22. As he reached out to throw a line over the mooring post, he noticed another line looped over it, hanging into the water. He pulled it up, examined the free end, and said, “This line’s been cut.” He looked at the other posts on D-22 and saw the same thing, more mooring ropes dangling in the water. Radioing Reyes again, he spoke rapidly, “Reyes, the boat’s been cut loose. Start a search. See if we can find it. It may have drifted out with the tide or been stolen.”

“10-4, Deputy Johnson. It’s in the works.” Johnson, pissed that it disappeared on his watch, looked at Strong and Dover, sitting patiently waiting, angry that their evidence had vanished, and offered, “I’m sorry guys. We’ll find it. Hope it wasn’t too important.”

“Well, deputy, does it look like it wasn’t too important?” Dover motioned to the suits they wore, the toolbox and the Geiger counter they carried. “Please take us back to our car so we can get back to work. We’ve wasted enough time here. I’ll radio the Coast Guard a BOLO for the Sea Ray when I get back.”

At the patrol boat dock once again, Johnson dropped them off, apologized for his loss, and headed off to search for the missing boat.

Cursing their misfortune, they waddled back to the truck, stripped off the CBRN suits, stuffed them into the truck’s bed and drove off. The black Prius, previously parked four spaces over, was gone. It was never noticed.

On the PCH, headed home, Dover said, “Wonder what happened to Lieutenant Poole. She said that she might join us. Good thing she didn’t; she’d have been pissed, too.”

Strong nodded in agreement. “Hey, let’s stop for breakfast. At least we can accomplish something today.”

A mile down the road, Dover exited off the PCH and pulled into a Denny’s.

Special Agent Lashawn Gibbs had spent much of the morning on the phone with her home office in D.C., explaining the progressing details on the Adam case. It had not been a pleasant call; they wanted more: more progress, more information, and most importantly more involvement.

She continued, speaking through her scrambled cell, “But we have a competent team now. Just the right size. You send more people down; we’ll need an auditorium for our meetings.”

The voice on the other end sounded mechanical, sluggish and distorted, normal for a scrambled conversation. “You realize, Lashawn, this is the first valid WMD threat we’ve had since the inception of our agency. The President is not happy with our lack of results. He’s demanding action.”

“Well, you just tell him to get his butt down here, put on a scuba suit, and find this thing himself. We’re working on it, trying to narrow down a hundred and twenty-seven square mile search area. And that’s making assumptions, trying to eliminate the whole damn Pacific Ocean.”

“Okay, calm down Lashawn. I understand your frustration, but we’re looking at the larger picture. With prevailing westerly winds expected for the next month or so, our computer models are predicting a half-megaton explosion a thousand-feet down, after obliterating southern California, will send a radioactive cloud several miles into the sky. Three days later, it will drift over Las Vegas, then another day to Phoenix, then Albuquerque and so on. In a week, it will hover over the Dallas-Ft. Worth area. Thirty-one million citizens killed. Some by instant death, others by slow radiation poisoning, like those poor souls in Fukushima. Not a pretty picture. You let that bomb blow and it’s all on your shoulders, Agent Gibbs. Understand?”

“Yes sir, I do. How many and what kind of support personnel are we talking about?”

“We’re considering sending you a Special Homeland Defense Battalion, trained in nuclear disaster response. We can deploy and have them at working strength in about two weeks.”

Well, that’s just great, boss. You’re shipping out some five to eight hundred soldiers to southern California, giving them less than a week to work miracles, and you expect results? Can they swim? Scuba dive? Pilot deep sea submersibles?”

“Some of them, maybe. Most are trained in special ground force operations.”

“Mercenaries?”

“Well, I wouldn’t venture that, but it is a very select group of nuclear and radiation specialists.”

“Keep them! They’ll just get in our way. Their presence here will bog us down in bureaucratic red tape until suddenly we see a flash and cease to exist, along with some thirty-one million people, as you say. Let me handle it. I know what I’m doing. I have a great team behind me and it’s going to get better in a few days.” She was referring to Commander Norton’s new hotshot DSV team: Matt Cross and his mini-sub, Canyon Glider. She preferred not to stake her life on an unknown commodity, but she trusted Norton. She felt his admission that Cross was better than his entire navy, spoke volumes.

The line went silent for moments, except the buzz of the scrambler carrier, then continued, “Are you sure, Agent Gibbs? This is highly unusual. You could lose your job if you fail.”

She laughed, “Sir, I’m afraid that’s not all I’ll lose if I fail. I’m taking that chance.”

“Okay then. I’ll report your decision up the chain and see how it fares. Don’t be surprised if you receive a call from the President; he’s following your progress very closely.”

“Yes, Sir. Expect my scheduled daily report by twenty-hundred hours EST tonight. I’ll reference this conversation. Have a good day.”

“Fine, Agent Gibbs. You too.”

She clicked off, sat thinking, staring at her phone for minutes, then speed-dialed Norton on her other, non-scrambled, cell phone.

“Norton here. Go.”

“Commander Norton, this is Agent Gibbs, DHS. Sorry to bother you. Are you busy?”

“Just talking with the Admiral of the Navy about our stance on the Adam search. Other than that, no. What do you need Agent Gibbs?” She heard chuckling in the phone’s background.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt your meeting. I just refused a nuclear response team, a battalion of soldiers, offered by my home office in deference to your superstar civilian diver. Is he coming aboard? When will that happen?”

“Well, thank God for that, Agent Gibbs. We don’t need a battalion of anything; we need a few good men. I plan to contact him early tomorrow and start him packing. We’re sending a mother ship, the R/VX Trident Tine, to bring his DSV down; we’re only looking at a few days max until he’s searching. Do not worry. He will be here, if I have to swim him down myself. He just got married a few months ago and his expenses shot up. He’s ready for some heavy funding.”

“Thank you for that, Commander. Incidentally, what is your Navy’s stance on the search? By the time that information goes up the chain and back down to me, I’ll be toast.”

“Although we can’t supply all the underwater search vessels needed for this task, we’ll provide multiple support equipment, including UUVs, AUVs and their operators. They are a strong autonomous underwater search force, small and unmanned. We control them from the Trident Tine, while we support Cross and his Canyon Glider.”

“And visibility? We don’t want to start a panic with all the offshore activity. How will you handle that?”

“Simple. There won’t be any. One large unmarked white ship lumbering over the ocean, about five miles out. A few helicopters coming and going. A small submersible launching and landing from the deck. Nothing else. Its cover story will be for undersea fiber-optic cable repair. Happens all the time. They stay out there for weeks. The media is used to them.”

She sighed, realizing the story was believable. “Okay, I’ll pass that along to home office in my report tonight. It should make at least a few of them happy.”

“Hope that helps, Agent Gibbs. Gotta sign off. The Admiral is waiting. See you tomorrow.”

“Sure, Commander. Thank you for your help. This mare’s nest may just come together after all. Take care. Goodbye.”

Alone in her barren motel room, she sighed wistfully, holding the phone in her lap, thinking of home. Her son, Todd, was having his tenth birthday today, celebrating it without her: the first birthday she had missed, but Bryan had assured her that he would make it so much fun, Todd wouldn’t miss her. She doubted that. In her mind, she watched Todd blowing out the candles and wiped her eyes.

Bryan, her husband of fifteen years, had kissed her goodbye as she boarded the plane at BWI, not knowing where she was going or when she would return. Accustomed to her spontaneous mystery trips, he took the time to bond with the kids. Beginning to weep, she missed them dearly. On normal assignments, she knew she would return to her family once they ended. This one was different; it was not normal. There was a strong chance she would not return. She had to tell them. Aware of her restrictions, including contact with family and friends, she held up the phone and began to dial. On the ninth digit she stopped, cancelled the call and began sobbing into her hands.

Deputy Keller, seated in Sherriff Victor’s office, had planned to be enjoying the day off with his wife and three kids at Disneyland, but instead had been called in shortly after eight a.m. to explain and describe the SWAT strike on Ocean Drive. Victor, sitting back in his chair, his feet on his desk, thumbed through Keller’s report and grilled him, trying to clarify the scribbled writing.

“So the music was playing when you entered?

“No, not when I entered. They had already silenced it. It was playing when they entered.”

“Was the stereo warm? Did you check? Or had it just been turned on?”

“You know Sheriff, I did not check the amplifier, but the LP was over halfway done. I remember it was playing Vivaldi’s Summer. The thunderstorm part. Near the end. I remember when I looked at the tone arm, it was closing in on the lead-out groove.”

“Now refresh my memory. How long is an LP side? I haven’t seen one in ages. Can’t remember.”

“About twenty minutes.”

“So that means Fogner was in the house fifteen or twenty minutes before your team entered?”

“No, not necessarily. The turntable was on Repeat, so it would cycle back to the beginning of the record when it reached the end.”

Victor scanned further into the report, scrutinizing each page. “What about this pincushion wall, as you call it? Tell me about it.”

“It was a wall in the kitchen, by his worktable. Highly radioactive wall. It had close to fifty tiny holes in it, probably made by pushpins or thumbtacks. Some of the holes had small tears of paper and newspaper hanging from them as if the papers were rapidly torn from the wall. ”

Sitting up, eyebrows raised, boots off the desk, Victor said, “There’s our answers!” He read a few more lines into the report. “Did you find the papers?”

“No. Nor the pushpins. Stilson and a few deputies searched the trash and found nothing. All the cans and baskets were empty.”

On an impulse, Victor reached for the phone and called his command center.

“Orange County Sheriff’s Office, Garcia here.”

“Garcia, this is Sheriff Victor. I want two deputies to search the landfill for Dana Point, Ocean Drive pickup, specifically. I want a Geiger counter or two with them. They’ll be looking for a trash bag filled with paper scraps, probably newspapers, highly radioactive. That should simplify the search. Report back to me when they’re done. Thanks.”

Victor’s eyes were back on him expecting more. “Of course, the trash could have been taken to another dump or landfill, too. Let’s hope whoever threw it out just placed it on the curb for pickup.”

Victor was tiring of the elusive information. No Fogner, no real clues, nothing. “So after reading your report I see that our SWAT effort was basically a waste of time. Did you see anything that caught your eye?”

“Yes, I took some photos of the wall, the albums in the music room and a very strange small booklet in the same rack titled Shazam. We brought nothing back because of the radioactivity, but I have some photo printouts in the Adam SWAT file. You’re welcome to go through those, too.”

“Thanks. I will.” Victor flipped through the report searching for something, then stared out the window and back to him, waiting curiously. “One last question before you go. I remember that big Ocean Drive house on the hill. Used to drive by it during my deputy patrolling days. White Victorian, if I remember correctly, right?”

“Right.”

There was this widow’s walk high on its roof; a man with binoculars often stood up there watching the ocean. Occasionally he’d wave at me. Did you check up there?”

Keller flushed white as if he’d seen a ghost. He didn’t answer.

“You knew there was a widow’s walk, right?”

Looking at his feet, he muttered, “Um, no. We missed that, I guess. Sorry.”

Victor jumped up from his chair, threw the report across the room, and yelled, “What a bunch of incompetent asses. I knew I should have gone.”

He could almost see steam spewing from Victor’s ears. “I’m really sorry for the oversight, chief. I should have known, but we were so tied up worrying about the radioactivity, it slipped by us. Those things are common on the East Coast but rare as hen’s teeth in California. I just should have known.” He paused wondering how he could correct his error. “Want me to go back up there and check again? We taped it off, padlocked all the doors. It should be safe,”

“I sure as hell am not going to send another SWAT team up there.” He checked his watch. “You still have three hours of light available. Take Deputy Higgins with you and finish your job. Make sure he’s not there. I’ll expect you back in two hours. Thirty minutes down, a half-hour searching, and thirty minutes back, with thirty minutes to spare. Don’t forget your radiation suits.”

Turning to leave, he looked back. “Got it, Sheriff. Anything else?”

“Nope. Just do your job. And do it right this time.”

Quickly, he rounded up Higgins and told him the plan. Together they pulled on two blue Smurf suits, grabbed a couple M4s and a Geiger counter from the storage cage, loaded a cruiser, and headed down to Dana Point.

Thirty-five minutes later, he pulled into the driveway on Ocean Drive. The house was quiet, exactly as he left it. Yellow tape marked with big black letters stating CRIME SCENE — DO NOT CROSS stretched across the boarded-up front door, around the ground floor of the house then rejoined itself on the porch. He sat for minutes watching for movement. Nothing. It was still, except for a few trees moving gracefully in the onshore wind. Remembering Victor’s words, he opened his window and craned his neck, looking up to the widow’s walk. He could see only a corner, but it was empty.

“You okay, Higgins?”

“Yep, locked and loaded.”

“That door is boarded up so we’ll have to enter through a window. I’ll pop it with this.” He held out the counter and continued, “You climb in first. I’ll stand watch while you enter then follow you in.” Clearing his throat, in a low voice, he said, “The lunatic that owns this house is pure evil. He might be inside but I don’t think so. Our SWAT team swept it clear yesterday. Be vigilant.”

“Copy that,” said Higgins

“Let’s do it,” he said opening his door. Rather that run straight to the front, he swerved in the driveway looking up at the widow’s walk until it came into full view. He could see through the cracks in the flooring that no one stood there. It was clear.

“Get up here, Keller! I’m going in.” Higgins shouted.

Seeing Higgins standing alone by the window panicked him. He started running trying to catch up. Panting, he arrived behind him just as Higgins kicked in the window. Glass shattered inward, scattering across the hardwood floor. Suddenly a shot rang out, echoing through the house. Higgins fell to his knees, moaning, grasped his chest, and toppled into the shrubbery.

Oh my God, he’s still in there, he thought.

Then it came; the second shot felt like a pinprick to him. Keller reached up to his forehead and drew back a bloody hand. Red fluid quickly streamed over his eyes, blurring his vision. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but he felt no pain. Then the light began to fade, darker and darker until it went black.

Two hours later, thirty minutes after their expected return, Victor began to worry. It was not like either of them to miss a deadline or at least call in a delay. He checked with Dispatch; they had heard nothing.

The radio was quiet after he called out to them. He tried again, “Keller, Higgins do you copy?”

Again silence. Jamming the talk button, he called urgently, “All units near Ocean Drive in Dana Point, please respond.”

The return, distorted, roaring, and garbled as units talked over each other, told him nothing.

He keyed the microphone, and replied, “Those units responding, please go to 1124 Ocean Drive for backup. We have two deputies on the scene that may be in trouble. Approach with caution.”

Sun setting out his office window, Victor sat waiting, praying that his men were okay. Shortly, the call came through, not what he wanted to hear, “Dispatch, Units 512 and 498, 10–23. We’ve got two deputies down. 10–79. Subject has escaped; repeat subject has escaped.”

“Shit!” he screamed. The 10–23 told him that his units were on the scene, and the 10–79 requested a coroner. He knew he had sent them to their deaths. Bowing his head in prayer, he silently began to weep.

The call came just after dinner. Dover was tidying the kitchen, pitching the plastic container from his frozen pot pie and wiping crumbs from the table. He grabbed the vibrating phone. “Dover here.” He was still chewing his last bite.

“Ensign Dover, this is Deputy Johnson at the Sheriff’s marina. We just found the Sea Ray about two miles out, still drifting westward. Good thing the tide was turning or it would have gone further.”

“Um-hmm. Did you bring it in?”

“Yeah, we’ve got it back in D-22. Chained this time. Whoever did that is going to need a cutting torch to do it again. Do you want to search it now? It’s getting dark out. We have work lights on the pier if you need them.”

“Anything different when you brought it back… besides the cut mooring lines, I mean”

“We did notice the GPS unit looked like it had been bashed in, as had the hull and deck. There were dents all over and the GPS had a cracked screen. It was hanging by its cords. Someone must have taken a hammer or baseball bat to it. The boat is a mess. Strange.”

“That son-of-a-bitch Fogner got in there and did this. He must be alive.”

“Well, do you want to come check it out?”

He considered the offer, then realized his buddy Strong was out of touch. He had no way to contact him. “No deputy, I don’t know where Strong is tonight. I think I’ll pass.” Reliving his anger at its loss, he added, “Think you can keep it there overnight so we can do it in the morning?”

“Oh, for sure. We put a motion alarm on board. If anybody steps into the cockpit, all hell will break loose. We’ll know.”

“Good. I’ll trust your security to do it right this time. I’ll contact Strong in the morning and we’ll be out there at, say, ten a.m. Okay?”

“Sure ensign, we’ll be here and so will your boat. Have a good evening.”

“Thanks for the call Deputy Johnson. Thanks for locating the boat, too.”

“You can thank your group. Your Coast Guard Station found it. Beat us to it. You guys are pretty damn good. Goodbye, see you tomorrow.”

He smiled, signed off, and grabbed a beer from the fridge. In the den, he slammed his body into the brown recliner, took the remote and switched on the television. His hometown’s Houston Rockets battled the New Orleans Hornets in the Big Easy. Houston was losing.