Tom Lowe - The Black Bullet

Abby said, “Your finding the submarine proves it!”

“I didn’t say I found a sub.”

“If you did, it might be connected to my grandfather’s murder. Maybe whoever gunned down granddaddy was killed when that U-boat sank.”

O’Brien was silent. He stared down to the river, glanced at the yellowed newspaper story, and then said, “Look, Abby … Glenda … I think it was tragic that your grandfather-your husband-was killed. If he was murdered, it was more than sixty years ago, and whoever did it is probably dead. If it’s tied to German soldiers landing on the beach, the police, Navy, FBI and the Army, should have a record.”

Abby shook her head. “We couldn’t find it. FBI people in the Miami office told us they checked records, files stored in Washington and couldn’t find anything about my grandfather’s killing. Navy says they did get a report of a U-boat sighting that night, the call from my grandmother, and said they dispatched a gunboat and two planes but saw nothing suspicious. If you found a German sub, it’s the closest thing we have to bringing closure to an old wound. Not so much for me, I never knew granddaddy. He never got a chance to know the baby he’d fathered, my mother. When she was alive, we never had closure. But we might find it for an eighty-eight-year-old woman who never remarried, raised a daughter and granddaughter by herself, practiced the Ten Commandments better than anyone I’ve ever known, and still says goodnight to her dead husband’s picture by her bed. In that photo, he’s dressed in his Army uniform, and he was buried in it.”

“I’m not a homicide detective anymore. I’m trying a new career as a fishing guide. I think what happened to your grandfather is horrible. If it was connected to a sub on the bottom of the sea, it doesn’t mean you’d ever prove anything. No witnesses, or if there were, probably long dead. If the authorities covered up his death, it’s a shame. Without knowing why-a probable reason-it’s hard to prove it ever happened. I wish there was something I could do-”

“I said I’d pay you,” Abby said

“It has nothing to do with money.”

“Leslie told me you once said to her you felt an obligation to speak for the dead-the ones murdered because they had no one else. Sorry for wasting your time.” She stood and started to help her grandmother out of the chair.

Glenda Lawson took a small step toward O’Brien. “Sir, my husband gave his life for his country. He died on American soil trying to let us know we’d been invaded. My Billy was a hero, and they said he was killed in a robbery. The killers robbed him of his life, dignity … they robbed him of our unborn daughter. And they robbed Abby. I’ve often thought how the history books tell us about Paul Revere, the man who warned us that the British were coming. He saved Boston and became a hero. What about my husband, sir, what if he saved the nation?”

O’Brien was silent.

“They tell me my time left in this world’s short … I’ve lived a good life … sometimes a lonely life … but a good life. A free life. I’d like to think my husband calling that night had something to do with that. If you did find that submarine, it proves what Billy told me that night. Whatever those men buried was worth more to them than my husband’s life. Was his death in vain?” Her green eyes were alive, searching. Her nostrils flared, and she made a clicking sound with her mouth.

“Come on Grandma,” Abby said.

“I apologize, sir, for my show of temper. I just want to know who killed Billy. If he was shot by our enemy at a time of war, a war that had just ended, then why didn’t our military stand up for him when he stood for us and everything that is American?”

O’Brien listened for a half minute to the sound of her car as Abby drove away. He picked up his cell and called Dave Collins. “I have no idea if a murder mystery that happened sixty-seven years ago can be connected to the discovery Nick and I found. Maybe you can check your sources.”

“Sixty-seven years ago? What do you have?”

“You might want to take notes, Dave. This one begins May 19, 1945. It’s a war story that starts after the war officially ended.”

The news director, assistant news director, executive producer, two reporters and Susan Schulman crowded around Nicole Bradley’s desk and watched her open the computer to her Facebook page. Nicole felt more excited than she had in a long time. She had the attention of the people who ran the number-one-rated newscast. She was going to be working on a big story with Susan Schulman.

“Here they are,” said Nicole, her eyes dancing with excitement, her fingers trembling as she pointed to each picture. “My boyfriend, Jason, said this is some kind of rocket … and these parts are from fighter jets.”

“Must be an enormous sub,” said the news director.

“Look at that … wow,” Susan’s said. “That’s the ID of the sub, U-235.”

“I don’t know,” said Nicole, “because there’s like another number, too.” She clicked to the image of the conning tower. “Jason said this is what’s on the outside of the sub. Looks kinda like a fat chimney, don’t you think?”

“Then what are the boxes labeled U-235?” asked Susan.

The portly news director crossed his arms over his chest and said, “Those boxes are labeled with the short, abbreviated name of enriched uranium, U-235.”

“What?” Susan asked. “As in the guts of a nuclear bomb?”

“Yes,” said the news director. “But only if it’s highly enriched uranium.”

“What a story!” Susan pounded her fists on the back of Nicole’s chair.

“Ohmygod!” squealed Nicole. “I told you it was big!”

“You did, girlfriend!” They slapped hands in a high-five.

The executive producer said, “Hold on. We don’t know what that U-235 means. However, if it’s the stuff of nuclear bombs … oh boy. This could be huge!”

The news director said, “Susan, you run with the lead piece. Bob, you find out everything you can on U-235. Todd, call some of the universities, talk to historians, physicists, whomever, see if you can find out how advanced we think the Germans were with this stuff. Karen, you get on the line to Homeland Security, work those ‘potential threat’ angles. Susan, pictures are good, but it’d be enormous to have video from the U-boat. Take Johnny, he’s a certified expert diver. See if you can find that boat captain, the one who lied to you, O’Brien, and get him to take you out there. Let’s move people!”

As they scattered, Nicole asked, “Mr. Brickman, what do you want me to do?”

“Nothing right now.” He disappeared beyond the cubicles and desks as he entered the control room.

Nicole stared at the pictures of the U-boat on her Facebook page and mumbled, “But I’m the one who told you about it.”

Susan grabbed her purse and was followed by a brawny cameraman. She stopped at Nicole’s desk. “Where can I find that cute boyfriend of yours?”

“Why?”

“I want to interview him.”

“You mean … like on camera?”

“That’s exactly want I mean.”

“Uhh … I don’t know where he is-”

“Does he have a cell?”

“Yes.”

“Call it. Tell him to meet you at the boat I saw him on, Jupiter.”

“Meet me? Why me?”

“Why not? He won’t show up if he knows he’s meeting me.”

“I … I don’t know about-”

“Listen-this is a huge story. Don’t blow your chance at jumpstarting a career by getting a little guilt complex now. One day you’ll thank me for it.”

O’Brien had planned to spend most of the day at his river house replacing planks on his dock, which were protesting under his weight. But Dave had called and said it was urgent they talk, and he didn’t want to discuss it over cell phones. O’Brien thought about that as he drove his Jeep across the oyster shell parking lot of the Ponce Marina, Max’s small head poking out of the passenger window.