“I know the feeling,” Jason mused.
“So I guess I’ve been here two years myself,” Aaron calculated.
“You mentioned you were a diving instructor,” Brandy said. “That sounds fascinating.”
“Yeah, unlike back in the States, here in the Caymans you don’t have to be fully certified to dive,” Aaron said. “I can teach a beginner in under an hour — with the exception of wreck diving, that is. You have to be wreck certified to enter the interior of a wreck. No one wants to see an untrained tourist get stuck deep under water inside a sunken ship, in the dark, with no air, and no apparent way out.”
Brandy stared at him, picturing herself in that predicament. “That would be awful!”
“And fatal,” Jason added, grimly. He didn’t want Brandy to get any ideas about taking SCUBA lessons.
“Diving is magical,” Aaron said, returning to the lighter side. “It’s one reason why people from around the world travel here to the Caymans.”
“I’ve heard it’s like flying,” Brandy said with a sexy lilt in her voice.
“A submarine gives you a similar feeling,” Jason said. “Except for the fact that you’re packed inside a pressurized hull with a hundred other men, of course.”
“You’ve been on a sub?” Aaron asked.
“You could say that,” Jason replied smugly. “I’m a former submariner, a lieutenant commander with United States Navy.”
“No kidding,” Aaron said.
“I was stationed at Naval Base Point Loma, in San Diego, piloting nuclear submarines capable of sailing under the poles and staying down for months. I spent more time submerged than I did on dry land.”
Aaron paused at the mention of San Diego. Before his father died, he had often overheard his parents talking about vacationing there together as a family. But he knew that that was never going to happen, so he returned his thoughts to the subject of submarines.
“I read somewhere that many foreign countries have started buying up old diesel-electrics,” he said. “They can run on battery power with their diesels off and are quieter than a nuke and hard for us to detect. Supposedly they can swim circles around our giant nuclear subs.”
“All true,” Jason said. “After Blueback was decommissioned in 1990, the U.S. discontinued production of those smaller, quieter, conventionally powered, non-nuclear submarines. But because our nukes were too huge to use as diesel-electric stand-ins, we lost our ability to train in anti-submarine warfare against them. It wasn’t long before our enemies figured out that all they had to do to defeat us was to buy surplus diesel-electric submarines and start using them.”
“So, what did we do?” Aaron asked.
“We got smart and leased a diesel-electric from the Swedes. I personally trained alongside their crew for two years, learning everything there is to know about engaging them in anti-submarine warfare. I can assure you, U.S. nuclear submarines no longer have a problem detecting and killing diesel-electrics.”
“Fascinating,” Aaron said. “Sounds like you were doing great in the Navy, and being relatively young. Why’d you retire?”
Jason paused. “I didn’t. I was dishonorably discharged.”
“Whoa,” Aaron said. “What’d you do to deserve that?”
Jason really didn’t care to discuss that chapter of his career, and he thought an honest answer would end the discussion. “My brother needed my help, and when I asked for a day off, the Navy said no. So I went AWOL for the day.”
“That must have been hard for you,” Aaron said, trying to understand.
A look of bitter evil fell over Jason’s face. “Believe me,” he said. “It was.”
Suddenly Aaron felt very uncomfortable. He glanced at his watch. “You know — I should be heading back. I have a long sail ahead of me.” He stood up from the booth. “Thank you for the beer.”
“But you haven’t finished your burger,” Brandy protested.
Aaron knew that, and it saddened him to leave it, but he really did have a long journey back. He held his hand over his stomach as if he’d eaten too much already. “I’m really full, thanks.”
“Maybe we’ll see you around the islands,” Brandy said.
“Maybe so,” Aaron said, and he and Jason shook hands.
As he turned to go, Brandy gave him a sexy little smile and a fluttering wave of her fingers. “Bye, Aaron,” she said.
“What was that all about?” Jason said.
“What,” Brandy said.
“You know very well, what. All that goo-goo-ga-ga over Aaron — that’s what. I thought I was going to puke.”
Brandy took a big sip of her beer and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Jason took an even bigger sip. He had plenty more to say, but he chose to hold his tongue. Brandy thought it best to do the same.
Lunch came and it was excellent, but it was eaten in silence.
Chapter 16
It was nearly dark when Aaron sailed up to the beach on the northern most Cayman Island called Cayman Brac. It had been a long return sail, and he was happy to be back at the place he called home. He rammed the keel of the boat up onto the sand and then hopped out and tied the bow line to a nearby palm tree.
A few yards up the slope, a small hut sat perched on a flat slab of rock. Aaron followed the sandy, seashell-strewn path to the door (something he never bothered to lock) and stepped inside.
Little more than a bamboo box equipped with a window, a kitchenette, and a small bathroom, Aaron’s tiny house wasn’t much to write home about; but ever since the accident he had learned to live like a pauper, and this miniature beachfront resort suited him just fine.
He tossed his keys on the counter, lit a candle, and then pulled a fifth of Jack Daniels out of his only cupboard. He smiled when he saw that it was a new bottle: there was something deeply satisfying in peeling off the wrapper and cracking the seal on a new bottle of Jack. He slid a paper cup off a stack and set it on the counter next to the whiskey, and then opened the tiny fridge and yanked the ice tray out of the frosted hole that served as his freezer. He tapped the tray on the edge of the counter to free the two remaining cubes then dropped the cubes into the cup before refilling the tray and returning it to the freezer.
He picked up an old copy of the Cayman Islands Gazette, noticing a reprint of an article from the early 1900s about a submariner who’d been “shot” out of a torpedo tube.
That would be a lousy way to die, he thought.
Suddenly, an idea for a simple short story popped into his head, and as a writer he knew he had to get it down on paper before it vanished into the aether. He reached for a small notepad and pencil, flipped open the pad, and wrote five brief lines of text with five words per line. Then he tore the page off, folded it carefully, and put it in his pocket.
That done, and with the bottle and cup in hand, Aaron walked over and sat down on the beat-up velvet sofa that also served as his bed. He opened the bottle and poured the whiskey over the ice cubes until they floated freely; then he put his feet up on his sagging, bamboo coffee table and took a big sip.
The alcohol burned pleasantly going down, and for a moment Aaron was at peace, staring out the window at the tranquil, moonlit Caribbean.
But then, as it did every evening, his subconscious released into his conscious mind a flood of painful memories. It had been over two years, now, yet the images of those fateful three days were still as vivid and powerful as if they had happened yesterday. He recalled the insanity of the bank robbery, and the agony of being shot, and how back in the fish cannery, after saving his life, Needles and Beeks had laid him on a sofa very similar to the one he was sitting on now. He recalled his wild morphine dream, and how, throughout the painful ordeal, his best friend, Willy, had remained at his side.