The Black Bullet

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“We’re rolling,” said the Channel Nine cameraman.

Reporter Susan Schulman, a Julia Roberts look-alike, waited for a beat. She smiled and said, “So now motorists won’t have to make the long trek to drive from New Smyrna Beach to Daytona Beach. The new ferryboat service will operate seven days a week ferrying people and their cars across Ponce Inlet from seven a.m. until six p.m. In South Daytona Beach … this is Susan Schulman reporting.”

“Got it,” the cameraman said.

“Get a shot of the first cars driving onto the ferry. We can edit when we get back to the truck. It’s one feature piece too many today for me.”

The cameraman’s eyes squinted in the late afternoon sun looking across the inlet. “You might have a real story over there. Coast Guard’s busting someone. That’s one of their fastest cutters. Could be a load of drugs.”

Schulman bit her lower lip for a second, watching the Coast Guard approach the boat. She said, “They’re fully armed.” She looked around and saw a man sitting in a small boat and fishing near the jetties. Schulman, still holding her microphone, started walking quickly towards him.

Jason lowered the anchor when O’Brien shut off the engines. The voice over the loud speaker said, “All occupants of the vessel, Jupiter, report to the cockpit.”

O’Brien and Nick climbed down from the bridge. Jason, Max running in front of him, came around the deck and stood in the cockpit. They said nothing as three members of the Coast Guard approached in a Zodiac. One held a rifle, the others wore side arms.

The oldest man, square-jawed, early forties, precision-cut salt and pepper flattop, crisp white uniform, tied a line to the swim platform and stepped out of the Zodiac. His men followed. They opened the transom door and entered the cockpit. Max barked.

“I’m Chief Carl Wheeler,” he said. “Petty Officers Johnson and Kowalski.” The men said nothing. Wheeler looked at O’Brien and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Sean O’Brien.”

“Mr. O’Brien, have you been fishing?”

“We got a few snapper. A slow day.”

“Who’s the captain of this vessel?”

O’Brien smiled. “Don’t know if I’ve earned the title of captain, yet, but I’m the owner. What’s this about?”

Chief Wheeler looked at O’Brien like he was about to inspect his hair for lice. “We’ll need to see your registration. Do you men have anything to declare?”

Max barked.

“Confine that dog, please.”

“I declare Max is no threat,” O’Brien said. “Come on, Max. Hang out inside.” She trotted into the salon and O’Brien closed the door. “Declare? We’ve been fishing.”

“So, I take it your answer is no?” asked Chief Wheeler.

Nick said, “All we got on this boat is fish, man. Wanna take a look at ‘em?”

“We do,” the chief said.

Nick pulled open the big ice chest on the far right side of the cockpit. Chief Wheeler gestured with his head and one of the men began searching through the ice and catch. He said, “Looks like fish only, sir.”

To both petty officers, Wheeler said, “Search this vessel.”

“Wait a minute,” O’Brien said. “I have no problem with a search of Jupiter. But I do have a problem with a lack of explanation as to why.”

“Sir,” said Chief Wheeler. “This is an issue of Homeland Security, and we’re within our authority to search this vessel.”

O’Brien felt the anger rise in his chest. He said nothing as the petty officers began their search. When the men entered the salon, Max barked. Nick started to walk inside to get her. “Halt!” ordered the chief. To O’Brien he said, “Sir, call your dog outside.”

“Come on, Max. Stay out here with us while our guests make themselves at home. If you want my papers, Chief, I have to go inside to get them.”

“I’ll escort you.”

O’Brien said nothing. He entered the salon with the chief close behind him. O’Brien opened a cabinet beneath the lower control station, sorted through papers and pulled out the boat’s title and registration. He handed them to the chief who spent a minute reading them, gave the papers back to O’Brien and said, “They look in order. Do you have diving equipment on board this vessel?”

“I do.”

“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.