Jeffery Deaver - Ice Cold

“You know it.”

He sat still for a bit longer, not wanting to spook the man. All those months and weeks, poring over the dusty files, then making last-minute travel arrangements, and then ending up here. He had finally made it, and he didn’t want to screw it up.

“Think the shipyard will close now that the Cold War is over?”

A shrug. “Beats the hell out of me. But somethin’ that’s been there for nearly two hundred years, it’d be a shame if it did.”

“I agree,” Michael said, putting warmth into his voice. “I mean, there are good-paying jobs over there, with a lot of skilled guys and gals, am I right? Working with their hands, having special knowledge, knowing how to build subs.”

“Nobody over there builds subs,” the man declared.

“Excuse me? It’s a shipyard, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but all they do now is overhaul work or the occasional repair. Last time they built a sub over there was the USS Sand Lance . Launched in 1969.”

“What kind of submarine was that?”

“An attack sub. Sturgeon class. Used to hunt Russian missile subs.”

“Oh. I see.”

Michael kept quiet, folded his hands in his lap. Looked back at the older man, said, “Excuse me for asking this, I get the feeling you worked there. True?”

A long pause. The old man rubbed his hands along the top of the cane. “Yeah. I did. A pipefitter.”

Michael felt a small sense of triumph, tried to keep it out of his voice and expression. “You miss it much?”

“The people,” he said quickly. “You miss the guys you worked with. A real smart bunch of fellas, could pretty much figure out how to solve any kind of problem, no matter what it was, no matter if it was welding or electronics or anything else. Most of the times, we finished the boat under budget and on schedule. A great, great group of guys.”

“Sounds like it,” Michael said. “Makes it good to know that the place might still stay open.”

The old man kept quiet, and Michael stayed with him a few minutes longer, and said, “Lots of birds out there today.”

“Mostly seagulls,” the old man said. “More like rats with wings, not sure if they count as birds.”

Michael spoke softly, “Ever see a kingfisher?”

“No,” he said sharply. “Never have.”

He let it be, and after a couple of minutes, got up and said, “So long,” and walked back to his rental car.

Good ops were like going fishing. Getting that initial nibble was always encouraging.

Exactly a week later, Michael came back to the Great Island Common and once again found the old man sitting at the same park bench, like he had never left. He sat down and, when the guy glanced over, he put his hand out and said, “Michael.”

The man took his hand. It was wrinkled and rough. “Gus.”

“Glad to meet you, Gus.”

They sat there for a while, and Gus said, “What brings you here?”

Michael sighed. “You know, Gus, sometimes I just need to sit outside and get some fresh air. I work in an office, and after a while, you realize, man, is this it? Is this your life? Moving papers from one pile to another. Going to lots of meetings. Moving some more papers around. Kissing the right ass. Go home, go to bed, get up and do it again. Blah.”

Gus stayed quiet, and Michael said, “I know this sounds crazy, but sometimes, you know, sometimes I envy guys like you. Worked with your hands. Building things. Fixing things. Could point to something at the end of the day. Could say, hey, that submarine that just got launched, I had a part of it.”

“Well… it wasn’t easy work.”

“Oh, man, yeah, I know that. I know it was hard, dirty, and maybe dangerous. But I’m sure you felt like you were helping out the country, you know? Helping defend it by making the Navy strong. Me? End of the day, end of the month, what do I get? I moved some papers around and made some middle-managers happy. So what?”

Gus cackled. “Yeah, managers. Always tend to get in the way, don’t they. Paperwork, procedures, forms, checklists. If it wasn’t for completed and filled-out forms, made you think whether they could breathe or not.”

“They sure do. Man, so how many submarines did you work on?

Gus shrugged. “Lose track. Eighteen, maybe nineteen.”

“So you were there when they went from diesel subs to nuclear?”

“That I was.”

“Bet security was really something, back then.”

Gus didn’t say anything, and Michael wondered if he had gone too far. He waited, wondering what to say next.

The old man finally said, “Yeah, it was something. Had to be. We were in the middle of the Cold War, weren’t we?”

Michael nodded. “People tend to forget that, don’t they.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Neither do I.”

Michael got up. “Tell me, you ever see a kingfisher fly by here?”

A firm shake of the head. “Nope, can’t say I ever have.”

The third time, the third Wednesday, it was overcast, with a steady breeze coming off the Atlantic, whitecaps making the channel choppy. But Gus was still sitting there, watching the gray buildings and cranes of the shipyard.

Michael sat down, having brought two cups of coffee with him. He passed one over to Gus, who took it and murmured, “Thanks, appreciate it.”

“Not a problem.”

A cargo ship was making its way slowly out of the harbor, being escorted by two tugboats. Michael watched it slide by and said, “Your dad work at the shipyard?”

“No, he was Navy.”

“Oh. During World War II?”

“Kinda. He joined up just as it was wrapping up. Went to Japan as part of the occupation forces, right after the war ended.”

“I see.”

“Me, I got into the shipyard in the late 1940s, just as a kid.”

“Bet your dad was proud of you.”

“Yeah, you’d think,” he said, speaking slowly. “But my dad… something in the Navy really changed him. Didn’t talk about his duty for a long, long while. But he hated the fact I had anything to do with the military.”

“Really? That sounds strange. I mean, you read all those books and see those television shows about ‘The Greatest Generation.’ It seems most guys were proud of their service. My grandfather, he fought the Nazis during the war. Said it was the best four years of his life. Nothing ever came close to giving him that close bond, of being part of something larger than him, fighting against fascism.”

Gus took a noisy slurp from his coffee. “Yeah, but the war was pretty much over when my Dad joined up. No more fighting. Just occupation duty.”

“Something must have happened to him, back then.”

Michael sensed he had gone too far. It seemed Gus was staring at something very, very far away. His orders told him to do something, but he couldn’t do it. Not yet.

He didn’t know enough.

Finally Gus said, “This coffee is good. Thanks.”

Michael sat with him for a little while, and then got up.

“Later, Gus.”

The old man didn’t say anything else.

In nearby Portsmouth, the Federal Building in the center of the city contained offices from the Post Office to the Armed Forces Recruiting Centers to the local office of the FBI. Michael parked nearby and walked for a bit, arriving to a room where he made a phone call to give an update.

His supervisor was brusque with him. “You should be wrapped up by now.”

“I’m close. I don’t want to spook him.”

“This whole thing can blow up in our faces unless it gets handled right. So handle it.”

“I will.”

“You better.”

And then his supervisor hung up.

The Wednesday next, Michael came to the park bench where Gus sat. In addition to bringing two coffees, he had brought a bag of doughnuts. Gus grunted when he saw the doughnuts. “My doc says I shouldn’t eat this stuff.”