Tom Lowe - The Black Bullet

“Tell Dave I’m bringing over some Ouzo. Need something to chase the ghosts away. I’m still seein’ those bones.”

Almost every stool at the Tiki Bar and Grill was taken by a mix of charter boat captains, deck hands, tourists, and bikers. A teenage girl worked the wooden plank floor and its dozen tables, about half filled with diners.

As O’Brien walked with Max back from the oyster shell parking lot and its grassy places, he looked up and saw Kim Davis working behind the bar. She spotted him at the same time and waved. Kim was in her late thirties, brunette, high cheekbones, her raven hair pinned up, firm body, and eyes that could hypnotize most men. To a college-aged bartender she said, “Tim, I’m taking five.”

“No problem.”

Kim stepped to the end of the bar, next to the open-air ramp leading down to the dock. “Sean O’Brien and his first mate, Miss Max.” She leaned down and petted Max. Kim lowered her voice and took O’Brien aside. “Sean, we have to talk. You okay?”

“Last I checked all was fine.”

Kim smiled. “I bet. Channel Nine had video of your boat, you, and your crew in the inlet. They showed the Coast Guard questioning you. Said something about a local fishing crew catching a German submarine. They said the details are coming up at six. What’s going on, Sean? Did you find a German submarine somewhere out there?”

O’Brien’s cell phone chirped on his hip. He looked at the caller ID, but didn’t recognize the number. “Excuse me a second, Kim. I transferred in-coming charter calls to my cell. Not that I’ve had a lot of calls.” O’Brien answered the phone, “Jupiter Charters,” he said.

“I just saw your boat on the news preview,” the man said. “If you can take me out to catch a submarine, I’ll book your fuckin’ boat for a month.”

O’Brien disconnected. “The nuts are falling and calling.”

Kim smiled. “They saw the news promo on Channel Nine, huh?”

“Looks that way.”

“What’s the news talking about, Sean? Who started it?”

“Coast Guard heard something on one of the marine channels. Probably a practical joker. Said they’d found a lost German submarine out in the Atlantic. We were fishing there today and I guess the Coast Guard got a little jumpy. Could be because of the last scare at Port Canaveral. Can’t blame them for being suspicious these days.”

“That incident at Port Canaveral was a fishing boat with some Middle Eastern types cruising in a restricted area. You guys don’t fit that profile. We’ll, maybe Nick looks a little like a terrorist.” She smiled. “I can’t even begin to imagine Nick being arrested in some mistaken identity thing. He’d start swearing in Greek.” She glanced over toward the TV in the corner of the bar. “There it is again!”

O’Brien looked up and saw his face on the screen. Then there was a wide shot of Jupiter and the Coast Guard boat, the shot cutting back to him, Nick and Jason being questioned by Chief Wheeler.

The reporter’s voice said, “Could a local fishing guide have found a German U-boat somewhere in the Atlantic? That’s the question the Coast Guard is asking. The full story on Eyewitness News tonight at six.”

“See!” said Kim. “They’re going to have everybody buzzing about the story.”

“There’s no story. There’s only an over-zealous reporter who wants to accelerate her career by doing inaccurate, sensationalized stories. Trash TV. Junk journalism.”

A man sitting nearest them at the bar laughed at O’Brien’s comments. He held a bottle of beer in a large hand, knuckles thick and scarred. The man, late thirties, had the shoulders and arms of a pro football quarterback, short cropped dark hair, tanned angular face and a Paul Newman nose.

“Eric Hunter, meet Sean O’Brien,” said Kim.

Hunter extended his hand and O’Brien shook it. “Looks like the Coast Guard had a lot of firepower pointed at your boat.”

“You noticed that, too?”

“Hard not to.”

“Overkill.”

“They get jumpy out there in today’s hostile climate.”

O’Brien laughed. “Out there was right here in Ponce Inlet.”

“I see you’ve got Jason Canfield on board. He’s a fine young man.”

“How do you know him?”

“His dad was a friend of mine. We served in the military together. His mother has done a good job raising him after his father died.”

“You knew his father?” O’Brien asked.

“Yes. Frank died a few years ago.”

“How’d he die?” Kim asked.

“He was one of the men killed when the USS Cole was bombed.”

O’Brien was silent.

Hunter said, “I really appreciate you taking the kid on, showing him the ropes, letting him earn some bucks. If you ever need a diver, I’d be glad to help you.”

“So you dive?”

“I’ve done a few dives in my time. Maybe one day you might need your hull cleaned.” He reached in his wallet for a card.

“Thanks, I’ll remember that,” O’Brien said, wondering why Hunter hadn’t asked him if the submarine sighting story was real. “I have to get back.”

“Let me give Max a fried shrimp,” Kim said. “That’s one of her favorites, Eric.” Hunter smiled and sipped his beer as Kim stepped back to the open kitchen and picked up a fried shrimp. O’Brien noticed a postage stamp sized tattoo high up on Hunter’s arm, only visible when the T-shirt he wore climbed farther back revealing solid biceps. The tattoo was the insignia of the Navy Seals.

Kim returned, the shrimp at the end of a toothpick catching Max’s eye. “Here’s an appetizer for the only lady I can see Sean O’Brien with and not feel a little jealous.” She winked at O’Brien and let Max take the shrimp off the tip of the toothpick.

“Between you and Nick, Max will never eat her dog food again.” To Hunter he said, “Good meeting you, Eric.”

“Same here.”

O’Brien nodded and said to Kim, “Maybe you can change the channel before the six o’ clock news comes on.”

She smiled. “Actually you look pretty good on TV. Maybe the publicity will jumpstart your business.”

As O’Brien walked back down the long dock, Max at his side, he watched a flock of pelicans sail effortlessly over the marina and cast slow-moving shadows against a sky lit in shades of maroon by the setting sun. The breeze across the Halifax River and tidal estuaries propelled the faint scent of rain in the distance.

Dave Collins stepped from the salon of his trawler, Gibraltar, to the wide cockpit just as O’Brien and Max were approaching. Collins, in his early sixties, looked like a seasoned college professor, thick mane of white hair, wide forehead, bushy gray eyebrows, and a cleft chin. He walked two miles a day to clear his head and burn off the remnants of his favorite vodka. He’d never told O’Brien details of his former work in the covert intelligence business. But after a few dinners, and a few glasses of wine, he’d let just enough slip out that O’Brien was convinced Dave had spent years as a foreign field agent before retiring and divorcing his wife three years ago. Now he did occasional “consultant work” from his boat and his beach-side condo.

Dave grinned as O’Brien and Max approached. “Looks like you could use a drink.”

“You can get thirsty out there having a nice chat with the Coast Guard.”

“Saw the news tease. Jupiter’s never looked better. Might bring customers.”

“You sound like Kim. I could do without this kind of publicity.”

“Nick stopped by, said he’d be over to fry up some grouper sandwiches, the kind he makes with feta cheese, tomatoes, and those wonderful Greek spices. He said in honor of the find, he’s calling them sixteen fathom subs.”