Tom Lowe - The Black Bullet

O’Brien laughed. “You’d better sell some more music on PBS and get a bigger boat. She looks like the mega-yacht type.”

Nick reached across the console and turned on satellite radio. John Mellencamp filled the speakers with Little Pink Houses . “I always like music when I come back to the harbor. We celebrate now ‘cause we caught a few fish. Every time I bring my boat in, I’m out there a week or more, I always crank the music goin’ by the fishermen, the babes, restaurants, and the bars leading up to the marina. Kinda like Nick’s parade.”

“If you want to go out on the deck and do a little Greek dance, don’t be shy.”

“Shy? Sean, I’m the one tryin’ to get you to come outta your shell. I tried to introduce you to Shelia-”

“The stripper?”

“Doesn’t matter how she makes a livin,’ it’s what she’s made of, you know?”

O’Brien started to respond, but stopped when he saw what awaited them just around the rock jetties. A Coast Guard cutter. The distinctive orange stripe from the lip of the bow to below the waterline. At least five men on deck. Two holding rifles. O’Brien said, “Gentlemen, company has arrived.”

“Whoa, holy-” Jason said.

“No shit,” Nick said, his voice dropping.

O’Brien brought Jupiter to a slow speed. “Jason, where’d you put the camera?”

“Lower station. Next to the wheel, right where I keep my cell and keys.”

“Hide the camera in a milk carton inside the rear of the fridge. The carton has its backside partially cut out. Put the camera in there, and put the carton in the same place.”

Jason nodded, his nostrils wide, a vein jumping in the side of his neck.

From the Coast Guard boat, a voice came booming over a loudspeaker, “This is the United States Coast Guard. Pull the vessel west of marker seventeen and anchor. Prepare for boarding.”

“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?”