The Black Bullet

CHAPTER FOUR

The following afternoon, O’Brien’s boat, Jupiter, was sixty miles out into the Atlantic when Max started pacing the cockpit.

“Bathroom break,” O’Brien said, setting Max on the boat’s dive platform. A sea gull flew over and squawked as Max squatted on the edge of the platform. She spread all four legs to balance herself above the gentle roll of the sea, looked up at O’Brien, who stood in the open cockpit, and released a stream that flowed through the slots in the platform into the Atlantic Ocean.

Jason Canfield said, “It’s pretty cool she knows where to pee.” He scratched the back of his sunburned neck. “What do you do when Max has to take a dump?” Jason grinned. O’Brien could see Maggie in her son’s bright face-high cheekbones, wide smile, gentle eyes. O’Brien also could smell the taint of cheap gin coming from the boy’s skin.

“We’ve never been out that long for Max to feel the urge,” said O’Brien, hosing off the platform as Max trotted back into the cockpit. “If she does, sounds like a job for our newest deckhand, though.” O’Brien turned to his friend, Nick Cronus and winked.

Nick, a Greek with a mop of curly black hair, wide moustache, playful dark eyes, crossed his Popeye forearms. “That’s the way it’s done in Greece. Mates get the shit duties ‘til they can buy their own boat.”

“Wait a sec,” protested Jason, “you guys never said anything about that.” He licked his dry lips. “I mean … I like Max, but-”

“Look at that,” O’Brien said, pointing to a bird.

A small black and white tern circled the boat twice and landed on top of the fly bridge. Nick looked at the bird, rubbed his thick mustache and said, “Birds bring good luck. They get tired flyin’ at sea. One time I was out about a week and had a little bird land on top of my head. Outta nowhere. Let the little fella stay in my hair for a while. Gave him some water and bread, you know.”

“What happed to the bird?” asked Jason.

“He stayed on the boat for a half day. When we got close to land, maybe ten miles out, he took off. But before he could fly home, a sea hawk-the osprey, come down and caught the little fella. Man, I felt awful.”

“That’s sad,” Jason said, petting Max.

O’Brien looked at the tern perched on his bridge. “Maybe our newest passenger will have better luck.”

“Yeah,” Jason said, grinning. “We’ll call him Lucky.”

“Lucky it is, Jason,” O’Brien said. “Let’s hope he brings us fishing luck.”

Nick grinned and added, “No luck in fishing, it’s an art. C’mon, we got to get our hook up and move to a better spot. Where’s the fish?” He ran a hand through his thick hair and climbed up the ladder to the fly bridge. Nick looked at the sonar fish finder, his eyes reading the bottom. He leaned out the bridge door. “We got some grouper comin’ in on port side. Jason, fish about seventy-five feet down.”

Jason nodded, put a fresh piece of bait on the hook and cast a few feet off the port side of the 38-foot Bayliner.

Nick cracked a beer, wiped the foam and ice from the top of the can, took a long swallow, and studied the readings he was getting from the ocean floor. His black eyes squinted as he watched the topography one hundred feet beneath Jupiter. Something was wrong. “Sean, come up and take a look.”

O’Brien climbed the steps to the bridge. “Have you spotted a big school of reds?”

“Naw, man. Something strange. We’re sixty miles in the Atlantic, in the Gulf Stream, water’s warmer here, but should be more fish. Bottom looks like a canyon. Lots of places for fish to make a home, you know? But look here … see … those dark shapes?”

O’Brien watched the screen. “Nature doesn’t design things in straight lines. Shipwreck maybe?”

Nick touched his thick index finger to the screen. “See those dark contours?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re deeper valleys-drops from seventy-five feet to more than two-hundred in the span of thirty yards. Man, I know I’ve fished this area before. Least I think I have. Don’t remember those shapes.”

“It’s a big ocean.”

“I don’t care if its thirty-million square miles. With GPS, I can find just about anything out here.”

“Find the fish.”

“I’m tryin’. Sean, first thing you gotta learn, if you want to be successful as a fishing guide, is patience. You get a couple of guys payin’ for your boat … you can’t show impatience. Your customers will pick up on it.”

“Where are the fish you spotted before Jason dropped his line?”

Nick pointed to the left of the screen. “They were right there. Now they‘re gone. Look, that’s a shark.”

O’Brien followed the tip of Nick’s finger on the monitor, the shadow in the deep slowly swimming off the screen. “Probably a bull,” Nick said. “Not huge, but big enough to chase off fish. That’s a pisser. Tell Jason to pull up the anchor. We’ll move on about a half mile west. We’re still gonna be in the Gulf Stream. The few reds we caught aren’t enough.”

O’Brien leaned out the bridge and told Jason to reel in the rod and hit the winch to bring up the anchor. To Nick he said, “You know, I had better luck catching killers than I’m having catching fish.”

“Sean, you are my friend. Stick with ol’ Nicky and I teach you how to catch killer fish. In no time, word will spread that Sean O’Brien knows the secrets of the fishing gods. Then ever’body wants to hire you and your boat. I help make a great friend a great fisherman!” Nick lifted his beer in a toast toward the sea and took a long pull off the can. Jupiter’s bow made a hard pitch causing Nick to spill beer on his tank top. “Shit!”

O’Brien stepped out of the bridge. Jason strained with the anchor rope near the bowsprit. He pressed his foot on the large button that controlled the winch. The motor slowed, making a sound like a chainsaw pinched in tough wood. “Anchor’s caught on something!” Jason shouted.

“Give it slack!” O’Brien said.

Nick stared at the screen. He yelled, “Give it more rope! I’ll move the boat to starboard ten meters and see if I can ease the anchor outta whatever’s got it.”

O’Brien turned to Nick. “Can you see where it’s stuck?”

“Naw, man. The anchor is still about two-hundred feet north of us and in ninety feet of water.” Nick eased the boat to the east as Jason released more rope.

Jason opened the anchor storage area. He took off his sunglasses to peer inside the dark cavity. “Looks like we only have a few more feet of rope.”

“I’m not gonna lose it,” Nick said, watching the bow and cutting his eyes to the depth finder. He reversed the engines and backed Jupiter slowly in the direction of the anchor. The rope went slack. Nick leaned his head out the bridge window. “Jason, hit the windlass. See if you can bring it up now.”

Jason nodded, starting the winch, the rope coiling nicely in the storage well. Then it was taught as a trapeze. “It’s caught!” He stopped the motor.

Nick put Jupiter in reverse. “Shit! Man, I can’t believe it’s snagged on something. What the hell’s down there?”

“Don’t know,” O’Brien said. “Let’s cut the rope.”

Nick shook his head, face filled with concern. “You do that and you lose a nice, expensive anchor.”

“Better than losing the bow trying to plow the ocean floor.”

Nick drained his beer. “I’m supposed to be teachin’ you, and we get the damn anchor caught. Can’t remember the last time I got one snagged.”

“Forget it. I’ll have Jason cut the rope.”

“No! I’ll go down and see if I can wedge it out.”

O’Brien looked at the depth chart. “It’s ninety feet down.”

“That’s nothing, man. You forget that I made a livin’ for ten years as a sponge diver. That depth is no big deal. When I was a kid in Greece I could free-dive it.” Nick climbed down the ladder and began strapping on a weight belt. He lifted a crowbar from the engine hole. “Jason, help me with this tank.” Nick pointed to one of the two SCUBA tanks in the corner of the cockpit and turned his back to Jason.

“What do you think has the anchor?” asked Jason, lifting the tank so Nick could get his arms through the straps.

Nick adjusted the tank on his back and grinned. “Maybe it’s a sea monster.” Nick carried a pair of fins to the bow, Max following at his heels. “Max, what do you think swallowed our anchor?” Max cocked her head and barked. Nick glanced up at O’Brien in the bridge. “I’m gonna follow the rope down to the hook. You make sure the rope stays slack, otherwise, even Hercules, my second favorite Greek god, wouldn’t have the strength to get it outta there.”

Nick jumped off the side of the boat as Max barked. He swam to the anchor rope, inhaled once through the regulator, and vanished into the cobalt blue sea.

Jason watched the bubbles and said to O’Brien, “Looks like a long way down.”

O’Brien stared at the fish-finder and could see Nick swimming down the rope. He glanced back at Jason. “I don’t know what he’ll find, but if anybody can free an anchor from the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, it’s Nick Cronus.”

When O’Brien looked back at the screen, Nick was gone.