Sea Devil

Chapter Two

The sun set over the Irish Sea with a deceptive swiftness.

From the transom of his battered fishing trawler, Liam Lafferty watched the twilight. The western horizon was aglow in breathtaking color. Rich bands of orange and golden yellow merged with the gathering violet of night to produce a unique, ever-changing canvas. Absorbing every detail, the grizzled fisherman prayed it was an omen of good fortune.

For an entire two-week stretch, they had had nothing but one angry gale after another sweep in from the North Atlantic. During this time, only the most desperate fishermen left Dundalk Bay to ply their trade. Most of these individuals returned home with nothing but smashed equipment and a severe case of seasickness to show for their efforts.

Even though his family was already down to half-portions of cod, Liam wasn’t one of those fools who challenged the windswept tempests. Better to go hungry than lose one’s life to the elements. This was a lesson that the old-timer learned the hard way, for he had lost his father and his only brother to just such a storm.

Less than three hours ago, the red pennant was lowered from the harbormaster’s flagpole. Shortly thereafter, the dark canopy of lowlying clouds that had been with them for the past fourteen days began to clear.

Liam was working on his lines in the shed behind his cottage when a neighbor excitedly conveyed the good news. Without wasting a second, Liam gathered his line and hooks, and rushed from his cottage to get his seabag.

He was able to get his trawler to sea just as the tide began to change.

He had been out for a good two hours now and already had several fat fish in the hold. Soon it would be time to once more pull in the lines to add to this catch.

But before he did so, he decided to have a smoke. He packed his trusty briar pipe with tobacco and lit the bowl with a wooden match. The aromatic scent of rum and vanilla wafted upward as Liam exhaled a long ribbon of smoke.

With his gaze still locked on the western horizon, he watched the vibrant colors of twilight begin to fade. The night was swiftly taking over, and a sharp crescent moon crowned this inevitable triumph. Almost directly beneath this celestial orb, Liam spotted the distant, flickering directional beacon at Dunany Point. Since he had no navigational equipment of his own to speak of, he preferred to keep this light in sight at all times. As long as he knew in what direction it lay, not even the arrival of a sudden gale or fog bank could disorientate him.

His son Sean was forever pestering him to buy one of the newfangled Loran directional finders. Such a device would allow him to find his way home even without the assistance of the Dunany Point beacon. In this way, argued Sean, he could vastly increase his fishing territory and assure his future safety as well.

Liam wanted no part of such expensive, wasteful contraptions.

He was a traditionalist who much preferred to work with as few mechanical devices as possible. Fancy equipment was always breaking down. Besides costing a fortune to repair, it only made life that much more complicated.

Though the territory he could cover was limited without such gear, he could still get the job done just as his forefathers had for seven generations before him.

If Sean was so anxious to help him increase his catch, the very least he could do was give his father a hand once in a while. Sean was his only son, and Liam had hoped he would take an interest in his father’s craft. As a child, Sean seemed to love the sea and accompanied Liam on many a fishing trip. The boy was bright and inquisitive, and was a great help when it came to baiting the hooks and hauling in the catch.

It was when Sean dropped out of upper school that he seemed to lose all interest in both his family and fishing. Bored of life in provincial Dundalk, he moved to Dublin, where he got a job at the Guinness brewery.

Though Liam hated to lose him, at least the boy had gotten himself a decent job and was taking care of himself.

Content to let him do his thing, Liam made the best of the situation. Even though he was pushing sixty five he was in decent health and could still manage his affairs quite capably.

His wife Anne wanted him to hire an apprentice.

Liam would have no part of such a ridiculous thing.

Even in bountiful times, fishing was a poor man’s occupation.

Liam’s profits were meager, and bringing in an outsider would only dilute them that much further. Besides, he honestly enjoyed working by himself. At least during his time at sea, he could be guaranteed genuine peace and quiet. Clever small talk and gossip were not for him. Like his father and grandfather before him, Liam was a loner. Bringing an apprentice from outside the family would make serene evenings such as this one impossible, and as far as he was concerned, it just wasn’t worth the bother.

Taking a contented pull on his pipe’s worn stem, Liam redirected his gaze upward. The rapidly darkening sky was unusually clear, and the evening star could be seen close beside the new moon. Further up in the heavens, a myriad of twinkling stars greeted him.

With his gaze still locked skyward, the old-timer muttered a prayer to the gently blowing wind.

“Heavenly Father, I realize that I’m not one of your most devout subjects, but I really do try to live within your gospel even if I don’t make it to church every Sunday. So with that in mind, could you please see to it that this good weather holds, and that I’ll return home with a full hold before my Annie’s forced to eat the last of the cod.

That woman’s an angel if I ever met one, and it’s for her sake alone that I issue this prayer. For yours is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever.

Amen.”

Hurriedly crossing himself, Liam took one last look at the twinkling expanse of stars that covered the black heavens before sticking the stem of his pipe back in his mouth and turning to get back to his fishing.

Thirty-eight thousand feet above the Irish Sea, the Boeing B-52G Stratofortress bomber, whose call name was Red Dog two-niner, was about to complete the second leg of a twenty-five-hour-long mission. Eighteen and half hours ago, the aircraft had taken off from Barksdale Air Force Base, outside of Shreveport, Louisiana.

Manned by a crew of six, Red Dog two-niner headed due north on the first leg of its flight. It was over the northern tip of Greenland that it rendezvoused with a KC-135 tanker and took on 25,000 gallons of kerosene jet fuel. Over the frozen Arctic island of Spitsbergen, the B-52 initiated a racetrack-shaped course for eight hours. At this time they came to the very edge of Soviet airspace, patiently awaiting the “go” code that would send them on the mission for which the aircraft had been designed — the nuclear bombardment of the Soviet Union.

Captain Lawrence Stockton had made dozens of these alert patrols before. Only thirty years old, Stockton already had over 2,000 hours behind the controls of a B-52, and was presently Red Dog two-niner’s senior staff pilot. At his side in the cockpit, he had a rectangular black satchel marked with red stripes and the words Top Secret boldly emblazoned in big yellow letters. This was the Combat Mission Folder, or CMF, for short. It held the precise identity of their target, and could be opened only on direct orders from the President. Fortunately for all of them, a CMF had never been opened in the air; hopefully it never would be. For such an act would be contrary to the motto of the Strategic Air Command, which read, Peace is our profession.

As a veteran cold warrior, Lawrence Stockton understood sac’s role as a deterrent. As a B-52 pilot, he participated in only one leg of the so-called triad, which also included ground and submarine-based missiles.

Each of these delivery systems was developed to ensure that the United States could respond in case of a surprise nuclear strike by the Soviets.

In the event that such an unthinkable attack was to take place, Stockton’s mission was to deliver four hydrogen bombs to their targets. Each of these weapons was stored in the forward bomb rack and could produce an explosion equivalent to 1,000,000 tons of TNT. To give him a better idea of its true nature, it was once explained to Stockton that such a blast would be about seventy-five times stronger than that which destroyed Hiroshima.

When he was off duty back home in Louisiana, the Michigan State graduate tried not to think about his awesome responsibility. At such a time his family became the center of his life. Married for nine years now, he had three healthy children and another on the way.

Since his wife had been an Air Force brat, she understood the demanding nature of his work, and made certain that his time at home was as free from needless pressures and petty hassles as possible.

Only a few days ago, he had learned that with the conclusion of this mission, he was to be taken off the flight line and made command post controller. Though he loved to fly, this new ground position would be more like a nine-to-five job, and thus allow him a more stable home life. It would also give him a chance to take his family on a long overdue vacation. His kids had already picked Walt Disney World in Orlando. He didn’t dare veto them, and left instructions with his wife to begin accumulating the proper maps and guidebooks.

Satisfied that he was finally going to be able to spend some real quality time with his family, Lawrence Stockton anxiously looked up and scanned the dozens of dials and gauges on his side of the cockpit. To his right, his twenty-four-year-old copilot, Lieutenant Michael Ritter, was in the process of monitoring the instruments that he was responsible for.

“How are you holding up. Lieutenant?” quizzed Stockton lightly.

“Is your first real deterrence patrol all that you expected it to be?”

The copilot yawned before answering.

“It sure beats flying those simulators, sir. Although I must admit that I’m going to really enjoy getting some decent rack time.”

The pilot grinned.

“You’ll get used to it eventually. Of course, you could always call up Major Avila. I’m certain that he’d be more than willing to spell you.”

Major Pete Avila was their relief pilot, and was presently curled up in the rear of the plane reading the latest issue of Popular Mechanics.

“That’s okay, sir. I can handle it,” retorted the recent flight school graduate a bit more eagerly.

Stockton remembered well his own eagerness on his first mission, and wasn’t about to spoil his copilot’s first experience in the big leagues.

“We’re getting close to our final refueling point, Lieutenant.

All we need to do is top off our tanks, and then we can turn this eagle home to its nest. Why don’t you see if First Lieutenant Gener has our KC-135 on the scope yet.”

While the copilot initiated this call to Red Dog two niner navigator, the Boeing KC-135 Stratotanker that Lawrence Stockton had been referring to had just taken off from its nearby base at Mildenhall, England. Built around the same basic airframe as a commercial 707, the KC-135 was in reality nothing but a cavernous flying gas station. Though its mission was far less glamorous than the fighters and bombers that it was designed to refuel, the KC-135 Stratotanker was one of the most important platforms in America’s military arsenal. Without such dependable vehicles available to fulfill their mission, the range of the country’s strategic and tactical airborne response would be drastically cut back.

As the sleek tanker streaked across English airspace and headed toward the Irish Sea, its four-man crew settled in to their jobs. In the cockpit, Major Gene Aikens, a forty-five-year-old veteran of the Vietnam conflict, was at the controls, while Captain Paul Standish sat beside him as his copilot. In an adjoining cabin, the plane’s navigator, First Lieutenant Lee Rothman, charted the exact coordinates where they were to rendezvous with the thirsty B-52. In the rear of the aircraft. Master Sergeant Lou Moretti passed the time reading a two-day-old copy of USA Today. As boom operator, Lou would not begin his work until the initial rendezvous was completed. Only then would he continue on into the tail portion of the plane, where he would take control of the actual transfer of the fuel.

As the master sergeant scrutinized the sports page, he came across an article showing the results of the latest NFL draft. A decade ago, Lou had been an All-American defensive tackle for the University of Missouri Tigers.

During his senior year, he was scouted by the Dallas Cowboys, who were so interested in his potential that they actually made him an offer. Coach Landry had been a childhood hero of Lou’s, and the Cowboys were one of his favorite teams. Yet it was a prior commitment with the United States Air Force that kept him from accepting. As a participant in the ROTC program, Lou received assistance towards his tuition at a time when a football scholarship wasn’t available. So upon graduation, instead of beginning a career in the NFL, he began one in the military.

As it turned out, the Air Force had been good for him. Though he could have made more money playing football, his training was superb, and he genuinely enjoyed working with the service’s quality personnel. He was also soon to learn that above all, he loved to be airborne.

A slight case of nearsightedness kept him from going for his pilot’s wings. Instead he did the next best thing and qualified as a boom operator. This allowed him plenty of flying time and placed him as one of the elite few trusted to handle this difficult and demanding task.

What really bugged him, though, was the fact that today, a fellow could be both a professional athlete and in the armed forces at the very same time. Why, he had just read about a recent graduate of the Naval Academy who was allowed to do his duty aboard a ship from Monday through Friday, and then on weekends played professional football for the Raiders. In Lou’s day, such a thing was unheard of, and as far as he was concerned, it shouldn’t be permitted even now.

Astounded by the salaries the NFL was offering its latest bunch of recruits, Lou disgustedly threw down the newspaper and dug into his jacket pocket for the Snickers that he had hidden there. Because of his diet, he knew he shouldn’t have even taken it along. But he had so few pleasures left in life, and one little candy bar certainly wasn’t going to hurt him any.

He carefully unwrapped it and took a second to savor its chocolaty aroma before taking a bite full. The bar was fresh and tasted of roasted peanuts, creamy nougat, and rich milk chocolate. Only after he had completely devoured it did the first pangs of guilt possess him.

Four months ago, he had made a New Year’s resolution that he would go on a strict diet and lose at least twenty pounds. At six-four, he was a naturally big man who had developed a lot of muscle as a young football player. His duties in the Air Force were mostly sedentary, and slowly but surely his muscles were turning to flab. To counter this deterioration, he decided on a diet and a strict exercise program.

For the first two months he carefully monitored his diet, cut out all sweets, and exercised regularly. By the end of February he had lost seven pounds. Then, on March first, he was transferred from the States to the UK. The hectic move played havoc with his workout schedule, and the rich English food did the same to his diet. By the end of March, he had gained the seven pounds back and then some, his resolution all but forgotten.

With the taste of the Snickers bar still fresh on his lips, Lou wondered how he’d ever find the willpower to resist such treats. He had to do something drastic, or soon he wouldn’t even be able to fit into his uniforms.

His excess weight was even beginning to get in the way of his present duty. As boom operator he was required to lie on his stomach and crawl into the cramped passageway at the tail end of the airplane. It was here that he directed the boom down to the refueling aircraft.

If he kept gaining weight, he wouldn’t be able to fit into this narrow section of the KC-135, and his days of being a boom operator would be over. He’d then most likely be grounded and forced to wait out his retirement at a desk. Such a future didn’t appeal to Lou, who wondered if the base hospital could help him find a compatible diet program and force him to stick to it. Promising himself that he would at the very least give this option a try, he sat forward. His intercom headset suddenly activated.

“Master Sergeant Moretti,” greeted the distinctive bass voice of the pilot.

“We’ve got our thirsty customer on radar, twenty miles ahead of us. Intercept will be in five minutes. Do you think that you can handle them?”

“We aim to please,” returned the boom operator, who then pivoted, and after sucking in his bulging waist, began his way further into the KC-135’s tail.

To accomplish the refueling process, it was necessary for Captain Lawrence Stockton to bring his B-52 down to 30,500 feet. This was some 2,000 feet below the tanker, that was in the process of initiating a sharp banked turn, to put itself several miles ahead of Red Dog two-niner. It was as the bomber began slowly closing this distance that the cockpit intercom rang.

“Captain Stockton, this is Major Tabor. I’m showing a yellow light on the fusing circuit of bomb number four.

I’m almost certain that it’s nothing but that of’ gremlin at work again, but I’d like permission to go down into the bomb rack and check for certain.”

“I copy that, Major,” replied the pilot.

“We’re just about to begin refueling up here. Couldn’t that eyeball check wait until we’ve finished this process and turn for home.”

“I’d rather get on it right away, Captain. If it’s something more serious than a bad circuit, I might have to open it up, and that could be a lengthy process.”

Lawrence Stockton deliberated a second before responding.

“I understand, Major. Go ahead and check it out. I’ll get Major Avila to relieve me and meet you down in the bomb rack. If it is that gremlin again, maybe this time we can catch him red handed

Stockton unplugged his umbilical, and as he began removing his restraining harness, addressed his copilot.

“I’d better get down to the bomb rack and see what’s upsetting Major Tabor. Ill send up Major Avila to take my place. It’s about time he earned his keep around here.”

“Can I still handle the refueling, Captain?” asked the eager copilot.

Stockton answered the rookie while slipping out of his ejection seat and carefully climbing over the console that held the throttles.

“I don’t see why you can’t. Lieutenant.

Make certain our friendly flying gas station cleans those windows while they’re at it, and checks under the hood as well. And if he asks for your charge card number, remind him to put in on Uncle Sam’s tab.”

With this the veteran pilot playfully winked and turned to make his way out of the cockpit. As expected, he found the relief pilot sound asleep on the narrow bunk that lined the fuselage. He put his hand on Avila’s shoulder and shook him awake.

“Rise and shine, Major.”

Pete Avila groggily stirred.

“Are we home yet, skipper?”

“We won’t be back in Barksdale for another six hours.

And we won’t be getting home at all unless you get your keister up into the flight deck and make certain that our tanks get filled. And by the way, I told the lieutenant that he could handle the controls when we link with the KC-135. He’s a sharp kid, but keep your eyes on him all the same.”

“Will do, skipper,” replied the relief pilot as he stiffly sat up, yawned, and scratched his beard-stub bled chin.

“I’ll be in the bomb rack with Major Tabor if you need me,” added the pilot, who continued on down a narrow passageway lined with snaking cables and electronics gear.

A ladder brought Stockton to the deck below, where the B-52’s primary cargo was stored. Here he found the bombardier seated at a computer console, busily feeding a series of requests into the keyboard.

“Find anything yet, Major?”

The bombardier took a moment to scan the monitor screen.

“It doesn’t look like that short is located on this side. Skipper. Even with an auxiliary circuit, it’s still flashing yellow.”

Crossing the compartment to check this screen himself, Lawrence Stockton reflected.

“If it is an internal short, then I bet it occurred when we initiated that practice run over Spitsbergen.”

“That’s very possible,” returned the bombardier.

“But I’m still going to have to open up number four to check that circuit board firsthand.”

The pilot nodded.

“Then let’s do it, Major. 111 open up the rack while you get the test kit.”

As a duly qualified bombardier in his own right, Lawrence Stockton replaced the Major at the console.

He needed to enter a series of security codes before depressing a large red toggle switch positioned directly above the keyboard. The muted hum of hydraulic machinery filled the air as two steel plates that had formed the floor of the compartment opened with a loud popping hiss. This revealed a large hollow cavity, approximately twenty feet long and six feet wide. Mounted inside this opening was the tubular steel bomb rack.

Four cigar-shaped objects were held inside this structure.

Each of these cylinders, stored in side-by-side pairs, was seven feet in length and looked much like a fat torpedo.

Lawrence Stockton carefully studied each of these objects, which he knew to be their four 1.5-megaton hydrogen bombs.

The underside of the cavity was currently sealed, and led directly to the outer skin of the bomber. This was the bomb bay door, and would be opened only to service the weapons or to drop them.

Major Tabor appeared with a compact tool kit. There was a serious look on his face as he began his way down a steel ladder bolted into the rear part of the rack. This allowed him access to the forward portion of the bomb positioned at the rear of the rack’s left side. He carefully used a tapered screwdriver to remove the protective plate that covered the fourth bomb’s trigger mechanism. Faced now with a number of wafer-thin circuit boards, the bombardier pulled out a probe and began gingerly searching for the malfunctioning chip.

Breathlessly watching this delicate process, Lawrence Stockton commented, “Take your time, Major. And don’t forget that if those boards show clean, we can always temporarily cock the trigger to overload the circuit and then read it again.”

Not bothering to respond to this except with a curt nod, the bombardier tried to keep his hand from shaking as he continued inserting the surgical probe deep into the juncture of each individual connection.

It was a call from the tanker’s navigator that sent Master Sergeant Lou Moretti into the extreme rear portion of the KC-135’s tail. His hefty frame seemed to fill the entire enclosure as he stretched out on his stomach on an elongated red plastic-covered mattress. Before removing the tail’s outer plexiglass shield, he strapped himself firmly in place so as not to be sucked out if the inner window collapsed. Only when his bonds were taut did he remove the shield and peer out the viewing port that was cut into the very tip of the tanker’s tail.

Less than a mile away he could make out the nose of the B-52 Stratofortress, illuminated by a pair of powerful spotlights. The bomber seemed to be perfectly aligned, and Lou spoke into his chin-mounted radio transmitter.

“Red Dog two-niner, this is your friendly attendant, Master Sergeant Lou Moretti on Troubador Six. I have you on visual. You are cleared to close.”

For the next ten to fifteen minutes, Lou would in cf feet be commanding both planes during the actual refueling process. But first he had to guide the B-52 to the proper transfer distance. He did so by operating a set of red and green guidance lights that were mounted on the tanker’s tail.

When the distance between the two planes was less than a half a mile, he activated the tanker’s 42-foot-long boom. This telescoping metallic tube had two stubby wings built onto it that Lou “flew” to a position straight behind their tail. On the end of this boom was a nozzle that would be fitted into an opening just at the upper rear of the bomber’s cockpit.

Looking down from his cramped vantage point, the Master Sergeant could almost see the individual faces of the B-52’s flight crew as the bomber closed within 200 feet.

“Come closer and elevate your nose slightly,” he commanded calmly.

The two planes sped along one beneath the other at a speed of 275 miles per hour. All so gradually, the lower of the two aircraft began closing in.

“Okay,” said Lou.

“Now just a little bit closer and we’ve got it.”

The nozzle of the boom was just about over the B52’s cockpit when the veteran operator noted a slight inconsistency in the bomber’s closure rate. Startled by this sighting, he called out excitedly, “Hey, heads up down there! You’re coming in too damn fast!”

What followed next took place with the ponderous pace of a nightmare. For the bomber’s flight crew failed to heed his warning, and Lou looked on with disbelief as the boom pierced the B-52’s longeron. As this taut metal spine fractured, the bomber began breaking up in mid-air, and a fiery spark shot up the tanker’s refueling boom. Master Sergeant Lou Moretti had no time to cry out in horror as this spark ignited the 30,000 gallons of fuel stored in the KC-135’s tanks.

A blindingly bright flash lit the night sky, and in a blink of an eye, the Boeing Stratotanker was blown apart by a tremendous explosion. Lou Moretti and his crewmates never felt any pain, for their bodies were instantly vaporized, while the molten remains of their aircraft’s fuselage and wings spiraled downward to be buried in the cool depths of the sea below.

The first hint that something was amiss was when the high-pitched wail of the bail-out alarm filled the bomb bay enclosure with its chilling sound. Captain Lawrence Stockton had little time to react as the plane around him violently shook and canted hard on its right side.

Thrown off balance by the force of this unexpected roll, the pilot sensed that something was seriously wrong with his command. Seconds later, the plane rolled wildly in the opposite direction, and Lawrence Stockton found himself pinned to the roof of the compartment, the victim of the forces of gravity as the Stratofortress tumbled wildly from the skies.

It was sheer instinct and the will to survive that kept him from surrendering to his rising panic. Forcing himself to take deep even breaths, he scanned the now darkened compartment and failed to locate his crew mate

The last he had seen of the bombardier was as the Major completed his testing of the circuit boards, and still finding nothing wrong with them, was in the process of activating the device’s trigger. This was only to be a temporary process, for he wanted to send a brief electrical charge through the circuit mechanism, and this was the easiest way to do so.

The pilot vainly reached out to stabilize himself when the cabin once more rotated and he fell sprawling to the deck below. He landed painfully on his side, next to the console. As he struggled to right himself, there was a loud popping noise followed by the deafening roar of rushing air. The temperature immediately dropped a good forty degrees and Stockton realized that the bomb bay doors had just been wrenched open. His pulse quickened, for now he had a way out of the crippled aircraft.

As always, he was wearing his parachute. Since there were no ejection seats in this portion of the plane, his only path to safety would be through the bomb bay doors. Yet the cabin was still spinning so wildly that it was a supreme effort for him just to get to his knees.

A momentary vision of his family flashed in his mind, and he began desperately crawling toward the twenty foot-long opening. Inch by painful inch he moved his bruised body forward until he was able to peer into the enclosure. Looking down toward the four bombs, he could just see the open air beyond, through the struts of the rack mount. He was prepared to try crawling into the space that lay between the rack and bomb number one when the cabin spun upside down and he was once again sucked upward and pinned to the ceiling. Before he could cry out in frustration, another quick pitch of the cabin sent him spiraling back to the deck. He did his best to ignore the excruciating pain that coursed up his right arm as he crawled back to the bomb bay enclosure.

Yet this time when he peered downward, he saw that the entire rack, including its lethal load of bombs, was no longer there. Only the spinning night sky greeted him as he wasted no time dropping into this welcome void.

Liam Lafferty had been in the process of pulling in his fishing lines when the night sky seemed momentarily to catch on fire. The blindingly bright flash originated high in the pitch black heavens, and for a few startling seconds it was as if the sun had miraculously dawned.

Yet the intense, mysterious light was all too soon snuffed out as abruptly as it had arrived.

A muffled, explosive boom echoed in the distance, and the wizened fisherman scanned the sky in a vain effort to locate the source of this sound. His night vision temporarily lost by the unexpected flare-up, Liam felt his pupils take a full minute to readjust to the blackness. When they eventually did, he viewed a sky full of familiar twinkling stars and exhaled a long breath of relief.

His first concern had been that a sudden storm was on its way. Lightning could play curious tricks on the eyes, and he was certainly no stranger to the resonant blast that only thunder could produce. But a variety of phenomena were present that indicated that this was not the case. First of all, the heavens were still clear from horizon to horizon, meaning that there were no clouds belonging to an advancing storm front present in the area. And since the wind remained negligible and the seas calm, the veteran fisherman seriously doubted that a storm was responsible for the strange sighting.

Several years ago, Liam had seen a movie on the television at his local pub that told the story of the day when a giant comet hit the earth. Of course this was mere fiction, but he did know that such a thing could happen. Why, whenever that rare clear night presented itself, he never failed to sight dozens of shooting stars streaking through the heavens. He had once read that these were caused by meteorites. Usually formed from rock, these meteors became visible only when they fell through the earth’s atmosphere, where friction burnt them up.

It seemed logical to Liam that a large meteor could have been responsible for the intense flare-up. Yet that still didn’t account for the resounding explosion that followed it. To set his inquisitive mind at ease, he decided to ask Dr. Blackwater about it the next time he ran across the physician in town. The worldly doctor was ex46 tremely well read when it came to such matters, and would most likely be able to explain just what had caused the phenomenon.

Liam was all set to return his attention back to his lines when of all things it began to rain. This shower didn’t consist of droplets of water, but was made up of thousands of pieces of what appeared to be shredded metal. Only lady fortune kept the veteran fisherman from being struck by this debris, which clattered down upon the deck and bombarded the surrounding waters.

Once more Liam’s line of sight went to the heavens to find this shower’s source. Yet the only thing unusual that he could view was a huge billowing object that floated down from the sky with a feathery lightness.

This was certainly no meteorite, and Liam rushed to the pilot house to start up the engines. If luck was still with him, he’d be able to be there when this object came to rest in the sea. Then he’d make every effort to retrieve it. For he was absolutely certain that it alone held the secret to the great mystery that had befallen him this fated evening.