Wood's Reef (5 page)

Though rustic in outward appearance, the house was also in excellent repair. Put this up on the internet with a few good pictures, and this place would rent out as a vacation dream spot. Then the renters would see where it was and back out.

Mac saw no sign of his old boss. He climbed the stairs and sat down in one of the chairs on the deck to wait. 

Half an hour later, he heard the sound of a small outboard motor pulling up to the beach. He went to the beach and watched as Wood gunned the engine, gaining just the right amount of speed before hitting the kill switch and tilting it out of the water before the propeller hit bottom. He aimed for the two trenches cut into the beach. Close to the high water mark, an old truck axle with mismatched tires stood waiting. The boat came to a rest with the bow a foot from the axle.

“Get the tide right and I can hit that thing right on,” Wood muttered.

He hopped over the side of the skiff and headed toward the mangroves, where the tracks disappeared, moving several branches out of the way to reveal a small clearing just large enough for the boat. At its end, anchored in a large concrete block, was a winch. He put it in free spool and dragged the cable to the boat. 

Mac knew the drill, and went to the winch. As he turned the crank, the boat slid easily onto the axle and moved along the tracks toward the clearing. The mangrove branches were replaced, effectively screening the craft from site, and the two men headed up the path toward the house, Wood carrying an old milk crate he’d taken from the boat.

He dumped the contents of the crate onto a fish cleaning table adjacent to a small shack that served as a storage shed. Stone crab claws gleamed in the sunlight. He dug through the shed removing a large propane burner and pot, and Mac filled the pot with water from a hand pump. “Haven’t used this sucker since the season ended last March.”

“Nice catch. All’s I’ve heard are dismal reports since the season opened last week,” Mac said. “Dammed jewfish eat those things whole. Idiots in Tallahassee have no idea what they did when they protected them.”

“I’ve got a couple of secret spots where I can usually pull some out. The pots have been soaking extra, since the season opened, ‘cause of that storm.”

They watched the boiling water change the crabs’ color from dark brown to bright red, and Mac’s mouth started to water at the thought of them. He was a lobster fisherman. Which meant, of course, that he preferred the taste of crab. “What are we going to do about the bomb?” he asked.

“I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about that. It can’t stay here. Too much risk of someone spotting it. I’ve been thinking the best way to sink Joe Ward’s campaign and dispose of the beast at the same time. I keep coming back to the Navy. Loose lips sink ships and there’re a lot of those around there. Especially the base commander. Fellow named Jim Gillum. Remember him from that bridge deal down by Sigsbee Key?”

“That jackass? He couldn’t manage a peanut stand”

“Words bound to go running to Ward now that this is out in the open. I’d like to see that son of a bitch run scared. At the same time, maybe the demolitions unit down in Boca Chica can deal with the nuclear core.” 

“Yeah, I don’t know about your deal with Gillum and Ward. I’m more concerned about that thing ruining the ecosystem than taking down a presidential candidate and a Navy captain.” Mac said. “You seem to know more about this than you ought to. Is that it?”

“Like I said yesterday, me and that bomb got some history.” He turned off the propane burner. “I think we ought to take a ride down to Boca Chica and go see someone there. First we’re gonna eat.”

Chapter 8

Mac watched Wood from the driver’s seat as the uniformed guard gave the man in the passenger seat of the old pickup a cockeyed look. He didn’t get many folks drive up in an old pickup, rusted out from the harsh climate, and ask for the Base Commander by name, Mac thought.

“I asked you to call up Captain Gillum, son,” Wood repeated.

“I heard you the first time, mister. What business should I say you’re here on?”

“All you need to do is tell him Wood is here.”

The man looked hesitantly at his partner. Mac knew the look. He suspected the men were discussing how they didn’t get much traffic here, especially from the locals. Tourists asked directions thru the windows of late-model rental cars, but not often an ’80s pickup with what looked like two fishermen. Keys residents were notorious for avoiding authority. 

“I’ll call up for you, but this better not be some kind of hoax.” He returned to the guard station and picked up the handset. 

Several minutes later, the gate swung open and the soldier waved the old truck through. “That boy sure changed his tune once he talked to your friend,” Mac said.

“Never mind about that. Best you keep to yourself here. Me and the Captain go way back, and it hasn’t always been good.”

They pulled up at a cinderblock building left over from the 1960s, recently painted yellow, its green metal roof dulled from the topical sun. As they were getting out of the truck, they were greeted by a small-framed man in uniform, captains bars on his lapels. 

“Don’t know whether to be happy to see you or scared stiff,” the officer said, extending his hand to Wood.

“You can decide after we have a little chat, Jim. God, man you look pale,” Wood replied, any friendliness hidden by his tone of voice. “You remember Mac Travis from that Sigsbee causeway job we did.”

Jim Gillum walked toward the drivers door and shook Mac’s hand. “Come on in, then. We can talk in my office.” He held the door open for the two men and followed them in. 

“It secure in there?” Wood asked.

“It’s a Navy base, Wood. It’s secure.”

“All right then. Just be sure it is.”

“What’s so important you have to visit me? I don’t expect it’s a social call. I haven’t seen or heard from you in twenty years. Last time was when we titled that piece of sand to you.”

“I would’ve been happy if that was the last time, too,” Wood said. “Saved your career, that deal. If that was the last time I had to be here, that would have been fine with me.”

Mac wondered if this was really a good idea. They walked into the sparsely decorated office and sat in the chairs facing the desk.

“Coffee, anything I can get you?” Jim asked grudgingly.

“Cut the crap, Jim, you know I’m not here to reminisce about the old days.” Wood leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “My boy here found a Lulu.”

Jim Gillum sat back in shock. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what we did, you lying piece of crap. You were the Aviation Ordnanceman, for Christ's sake.”

“There was all kinds of stuff going on back then. There was more ordnance coming in and out of here than we could keep track of. Thankfully, that was before computers, and those records are gone.”

“It’s the Navy. Nothing’s gone,” Wood replied. “They’re in a storage building somewhere, catalogued in some arcane system that nobody remembers anymore. But they’re not gone.”

“All right, so you found a Lulu. And you came to me. Does that mean you’re going to trust me with this?”

“Trust you, trust the Navy. No, I don’t think so. Last time I trusted you, I had to bail your ass out of trouble. I don’t trust you … but I need you.”

Mac sat erect in the chair ready to interrupt the conversation. He was unsure if Wood really had a plan or if he was just here to throw the past in the Captain’s face. He wasn’t into politics and had no feelings about Joe Ward. What he wanted was the bomb disarmed and the nuclear core properly disposed of. If it blew or leaked into the pristine waters, the Keys would be ruined. 

Gillum looked over at Mac, evidently hoping for a more civil response. “Care to tell me what happened?” He took out a pad and pencil.

“Jesus man, put that away. This is what you Navy boys call ‘ears only.’ No way we’re going to leave a record of this.”

Gillum put down the pencil and looked at Mac to begin. Mac relayed the story, up until the disposition of the bomb, where Wood quickly cut him off.

“Well, where is it now?” Gillum asked.

“That’s gonna stay what we call ‘classified’ until I know what you have in mind.”

Gillum took a long time to respond. “Defuse and dispose. We have an Army underwater demolition team based here. We can set it up like a training exercise. No one else needs to know anything.”

“Who are you protecting? Yourself and your pension or Joe Ward? You’re both guilty. This needs to be out in the open. I’m sure this isn’t the only thing Ward has done. Striped marlin don’t loose their stripes. They light up like neon and get more visible when they’re stressed. How do you think he’s gonna do as President if he couldn’t make the right choice then, or come clean since?”

The men were startled when Mac spoke, so focussed on their past they forgot he was there. “That things fifty years old. What if it blows? We may have damaged it moving it.”

“It’s not going to blow. The controls were simple in those days. Heck, there weren’t even circuit boards then. Just snip a couple of wires and it’s done. Then they can disassemble and dispose of the core. We can scatter the rest of the parts.” Gillum said.

“We’re going to do this together, me, you and Mac. You have access to the bomb specs and wiring diagrams and I don’t. That stuff is probably still classified. It’s sure as hell not on the internet.”

“I don’t know if I can get access to that kind of stuff.”

“Figure it out. This could be a career wrecker for you, not to mention that ass running for President. You’re about to retire with a pretty nice pension, and I’d hate for something like this to come along and take all those dreams of yours away.”

Gillum paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and then nodded. “There’re some numbers I need off the unit. Should be a series of four or five numbers stamped into the tail section. Get those for me and I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter 9

Mac and Wood were back at the bomb, looking for the numbers Gillum had asked for. Mac scraped at the area. The serial numbers were now covered with barnacles. Wood looked the bomb over, studying the access panel.

“You know, I could probably dissect this sucker without the schematic. We’re talking the ’60s here. How complicated could it be?”

“That could go badly. Remember the old spy movies. Clip the wrong wire and boom.”

They both looked up at the same time, searching for the source of the outboard engine that seemed to be closing in.

***

It was well into the afternoon when Jerry headed to the dock, curiosity getting the best of him. His head still hurt from a long night partying, but he had work to do. He sensed a payday. The boat’s motor fired up. His handheld GPS still displayed the coordinates from yesterday. He entered these into the boat’s built-in unit and pushed down on the throttle. An arrow on the screen showed the fastest route to the destination. Head banging he steered it without thinking, passing over several shallow sand bars without knowing it. 

The boat leveled off and started moving at an easy twenty knots, the ride smooth, the seas flat. Jerry was feeling better; the wind on his face, blowing through his hair, helped clear his head. Five miles from the dock, he saw birds standing in the water and veered around them. Once past, he resumed his heading. 

He approached the island at full speed, the late afternoon sun hiding the bottom and shoals from view. The water was clear, but the direction of the sun made seeing features and colors impossible. Still traveling at twenty knots, the propeller suddenly hit a rock and spun the steering wheel out of his hands. The boat spun out of control and turned ninety degrees. It was airborne and running straight toward the mangroves when it touched down, smashing into the sandbar. Jerry was thrown from the cockpit. He landed in a clump of mangroves.

***

Wood’s legs were underneath the beached hull. 

“What the hell you think you're doing?” Mac screamed at the intruder, both terrified and furious. 

The man was trying to reassemble himself, checking for damage. The old adage that drunks land well must be in play today, for despite being airborne for thirty feet, he seemed unhurt.