Barracuda (11 page)

“Twenty-four-B.”

“Okay, I get back later.”

Micko walked with the towel toward a small
village down the road. The village was quiet until he walked in.
Suddenly, people popped up from their unseen siestas and tried to
sell him everything from a hand-carved knife to a pygmy pig. The
villagers were friendly, but just as pushy as those Penn Station
beggars that annoy commuters.

Micko noticed a small refreshment stand and
decided to buy a fresh-squeezed fruit drink. The girl at the stand
smiled at him with a mouth full of missing teeth, but she spoke
English quite well.

“You American. I like American. No like others.
They mean and cheap. They come all year and disrespect us. They
almost as bad as Japanese.”

Drinking his juice, Micko asked the girl why she
disliked the Japanese so much. He knew that the arrogance of
wealthy Europeans was legendary, but he was curious about the
dislike of the Japanese. The girl went on and on about how
historically the islanders had always hated the Japanese—and it had
become worse after World War II.

Thanking the girl for the juice and the history
lesson, Micko walked away with the juice and tossed it as soon as
he found a proper receptacle. It was too sweet, and he worried that
he, too, would start losing his teeth. Back in his room he took a
shower, but the water pressure was so low that the water barely
trickled over his slightly sunburned body.
Well, that didn’t
take long,
he thought.
Sun block from now on.

Dinner was served in a colorful dining room from
a “help yourself” smorgasbord. Because Micko had a table to himself
since all the others were in groups, he had time to eat and
people-watch. A waiter named Albert served his coffee and asked if
he was alone. Micko quickly explained that he was going to scuba
dive in Bikini Atoll. Albert loved to gossip, so Micko picked his
brain and found out that the Europeans came from many different
countries to vacation all over the South Pacific. The cost was
cheap, the resorts were never crowded, and the beaches were always
in pristine condition.

The American divers, Albert said, were from
California, and they were on a scuba shop run dive trip, also going
to Bikini. Albert said that it was the first time this particular
scuba shop had run a trip to Bikini, and he thought the divers were
all wealthy, judging from their watches and shoes. Micko smiled and
thought this guy would have made a good detective.

The Americans and Europeans mingled at the small
lounge after dinner, but Micko felt a bit tired with a slight
sunburn adding some discomfort, so he headed for bed. He then had a
restless night, dreaming of toothless Japanese tourists who spoke
in various European accents.

After showering and packing the next morning, he
went down for breakfast at seven o’clock. When he entered the
lounge, one of the Californians waved to him. “Come over here and
sit with us,” he offered.

Micko noticed that there were only two people at
the table, so he walked over and sat down. “Hi, guys. I’m Mick
O’Shaughnessy.”

“We know. You’re the New York policeman. I’m
Eddie Dolan and this is Tom Monahan.”

Micko raised his eyes to the ceiling and asked,
“Is there anyone for ten thousand miles who doesn’t know I’m a
cop?” He smiled as he heartily shook each man’s hand and sat
down.

“We know you’re a policeman on holiday
recovering from a gunshot wound,” Tom quipped. “You’re all we
talked about at the bar last night.”

“I’m glad I went to bed early,” Micko said with
a laugh. He could only guess that when Sharon made all the
bookings, she let it be known that an injured cop was her client.
Of course, she had meant well, and the notoriety did usually
provide extra attention and benefits.

“So, how did it happen, Officer?” Eddie
inquired. “Are you all right?”

Micko gave a dismissive laugh. “I’m fine, and I
would rather not bore you with the details. Instead, I’d like to
discuss our upcoming diving adventure.”

“Fine, Detective. Diving it shall be,” Tom
declared.

Eddie asked, “Are you staying at the Bikini
hotel?”

“No, I’ve been booked at the Majestic.”

“Our group and another dive club are booked at
the Bikini resort,” Tom stated.

The three divers spoke excitedly about their
expectations while Albert served them a light breakfast of tropical
fruit and croissants.

“This coffee is exquisite,” Eddie commented.

“Have you ever been to the South Pacific
before?” Tom inquired.

“Yes, this coffee and this island remind me of a
trip I took to Papua, New Guinea,” Micko started. “I was diving
with a pretty diverse group of thirteen divers, and we stopped at a
beautiful grotto. Our ship’s captain told us that his good friend
Dickie Boyle was the owner of a coconut plantation and a copra
factory on the island. The captain sounded his horn, and shortly
thereafter a couple of natives pulled up in dugout canoes. One by
one, they transported us to shore, and Dickie gave us a tour first
of his plantation and then of his lovely home. He had it built on a
bluff overlooking the gorgeous bay.”

Micko was warming up to his storytelling. “Now,
Dickie was a bit of a character. He was a short, slender fellow
with flaming red hair and freckles on every exposed part of his
body. He had a quick wit and loved to cuss. He served us delicious
coffee while amusing us with enchanting tales of how he came to be
in this exotic land. He told us the charming story of his island
lovers, his prosperity, and his loneliness. After we remarked about
how splendid his coffee was, he told us he had a special treat for
us.

“It was about this time that I realized that
almost all the younger workers on the plantation and in the house
had slightly lighter skin tones than the other natives, and their
hair had a reddish tint to it. I was about to ask Dickie about this
when we were served a sweet smelling grog that Dickie declared was
a local drink to consummate new friendships. With that
introduction, we all drank deeply. Dickie forgot to mention,
however, that the herbs and roots that were ingredients of the
friendship grog caused hallucinations. None of us remembered
getting back onboard the ship that night, but I remember that I
dreamed I was a tap dancing walrus. The rest of the divers
adamantly refused to tell me what they did or did not remember
about that night.”

Eddie and Tom laughed hysterically and promised
not to drink any unsolicited intoxicants while in Bikini or
anywhere else in the South Pacific.

Soon the shuttle bus hustled everyone aboard for
the final leg of the journey. This time, Eddie introduced Micko to
each of the members of his group, and they all had a vivacious chat
about past dive trips and the one on which they would soon
embark.

As the bus pulled up to a small terminal, the
divers unloaded their gear and went to the check-in line. Micko was
surprised to see that there was a group ahead of them, a dozen of
the rowdiest divers he had ever seen. They looked like members of a
motorcycle gang—and they even wore colors. Looking more closely, he
could see that each member was wearing something that indicated he
or she was a member of the Renegades Dive Club of Sydney,
Australia.

The rabble was arguing with the clerk about
their flight to Eneu. From what Micko could overhear, it sounded
like the Renegades had arrived early and wanted to take this
immediate flight. The clerk told them that this flight was already
booked and that they would have to be patient and wait for their
scheduled flight in another three hours. The clerk pointed to Micko
and the Californians, and told the Renegades, “This is their
flight, gentlemen.”

A Neanderthal-looking fellow approached Eddie
with an evil look in his eye. It was the man’s fearless gait that
concerned Micko, so he stepped in between them.

“How do you do, big guy? I loved diving on the
Great Barrier Reef and in Sydney Harbor. Damn, you fellas have some
great diving in Australia. Lucky we got here on time. We’ll take
off quick and send the plane right back to get you guys.” Micko
smiled and held the man’s eyes with his as he made an attempt to
distract him.

“You did some dives in Australia, mate?” the big
man queried with a sense of doubt in his voice.

“I sure did. Couldn’t see shit in the harbor,
but I dove off the Tusa dive boat at Cod Hole and had a blast. I
also paddled a sea kayak to Fitzroy Island, went skydiving in
Cairns, and went white water rafting down the Tully River. Hell, I
even climbed the Sydney Harbor Bridge,” Micko boasted.

The man hollered back to his band, “Hey, gang,
this mate’s all right!”

With the ruffian’s subdued, Micko asked Eddie to
check in his gear while he reminisced about his adventures down
under with the Aussies. He soon found out that these guys looked
much more intimidating than they actually were. They seemed to be a
nice bunch of hooligans who enjoyed the sport of scuba diving,
preferring extreme diving. They told Micko of their wild plans at
the Bikini resort.

The big fellow’s club name was Rat. He told
Micko that fellow club members Bill and Bob Barrett had been at the
Majestic for a week doing some reconnaissance dives so that when
the rest of the club arrived, they would only dive the best wrecks
and not waste time on the boring shallow dives.

He pulled Micko aside and said, “Can you keep a
secret, mate?”

Micko raised his eyebrows. “Of course, I
can.”

“My mates set up a scavenger hunt inside the USS
Saratoga
. See our bandanas? The Barrett brothers are going
to hide dozens of them in the wreck.”

“Whoa! That’s kind of dangerous.”

“Not for us,” Rat replied with a grin. “We love
extreme diving, and that’s why we’re going to Bikini. We also
intend to rape, pillage, and plunder the wrecks like pirates.”

“You may get artifacts out of the ships, but
you’ll never get them home. The dive masters will report you and
the customs people will stop you,” Micko warned him.

“We have our tricks.”

Micko decided to change the subject. “I’m
staying across the atoll from the Bikini resort at Shark Alley
Island, and I’d love to meet up with you guys at night for a few
drinks.”

“Sure thing, mate. They must have a ferry or
tender that goes between the islands. I’ll buy the first round for
you and the sissy Californians,” he said with a laugh.

***

The plane flew low over the clean tropical
waters until the island of Eneu came into view. The airport was
very small, and as the plane landed, it taxied past the terminal to
the end of the short runway. Several airport employees were then
dispatched to grab the tail of the plane to help it turn around so
that it could taxi back to the terminal so the passengers could
disembark. This would have been comical if it hadn’t been so
scary.

Micko had been to several small third world
countries where this practice at modest airports was common. The
runways were very short and were usually cut from dense forests.
The Bikini Atoll was shaped like a horseshoe, with the island of
Eneu located at the lower right corner. Planes approached the
airport from a southerly direction, and the runway led straight
into dense brush at the northern edge. The passengers gripped their
armrests tightly as a quiet cloud nestled about the nervous divers.
Micko sat calmly, enjoying the ride, aware of his apprehensive
cabin mates. He filmed the landing and mechanically put the camera
into his knapsack before it was his turn to exit the craft.

Once through the short customs line, he gathered
his gear and luggage and met the Majuro Majestic liaison, a shapely
raven-haired beauty with porcelain skin. “Tanya” was embossed on
the nametag she wore. The business suit that draped her could not
hide her curves, but her demeanor was completely professional and
she even seemed a bit curt with her answers.

“Are you O’Shaughnessy?” she almost growled.

“I’m not sure if I want to be,” he responded,
trying to joke with her.

“Get on the minibus,” she directed. “This will
take us to the dock and the boat that will take us to Shark Alley
Island. Chuu will put your luggage on board.”

Two minivans were parked at the curb, one from
the Majestic Hotel and one from the Bikini resort. Micko showed his
paperwork to the driver of the Majestic van while the others
scrambled for seats on the small remaining van. The way it stood,
Micko would ride alone in his van while the other divers would have
to make two trips to the dock in their van.

Looking at Tanya Micko asked, “How about
transporting some of the Bikini resort people to the dock in this
van?”

“Absolutely not,” she coldly replied.

Micko sat behind the driver and observed Tanya
in the front passenger seat. She was as beautiful as a tropical
sunrise but as cold as an ice cube. He noticed her high cheekbones
and other obvious Slavic features. When they arrived at the dock
Tanya exited the van first and talked into a cell phone, ordering
the ferry to leave the Bikini Island dock and come pick them up at
the Eneu Island dock, which was only large enough to accommodate
one boat at a time, while Bikini’s could hold several in
abeyance.

“Do the others get on this boat, too?” Micko
inquired.

“No, they have their own boat,” she snapped.

Tanya was a striking-looking woman, but also
quite a bitch, Micko thought. When she walked away out of earshot,
Micko asked the driver, “Why couldn’t we transport the others so
they wouldn’t have to make two trips?”

“Regulations.” Chuu was a short, older Japanese
fellow with quirky eyebrows that made it look like he was
perpetually laughing at the world.

“I don’t understand,” Micko protested.

“The Majuro Majestic has its own hotel, boats,
vans, and workers; and the Bikini resort has theirs. Competition is
fierce and unfriendly between the two.” The old man was a walking,
talking paradox. He talked with disdain about the rival resort, but
his happy eyebrows danced merrily.