He and his mother had lived through hell those three days, and had been so very close to starting a new life, the life they had hoped to rebuild after that dreadful night, when Aaron was nine, and the notifying officer and medic made their midnight house call to tell his mother that his father had been killed in action.
Then, in the blink of an eye, a black Hummer stole everything he had, everything except the one thing he had wanted to lose — those painful memories.
He took another sip of whiskey and found himself pondering his earlier lunchtime encounter with the two yacht owners. He didn’t know what to make of Brandy Fine’s obvious, if not blatant, attraction to him, or the unsettling notion that he had met Jason Beckham before. But deep down he knew that, whether he liked it or not, he would be seeing the two of them again.
He took one last sip of whiskey, and then he lay back and closed his eyes, trusting that very soon the alcohol would carry him far away, giving him the courage to continue living a life that had lost all meaning.
Chapter 17
“Permission to come aboard?”
Jason turned toward the sound of a familiar voice and smiled when he saw the man standing on the dock. “Permission granted!” he yelled back. The man came on board the Cayman Jewel and the two exchanged a hearty hand-shake.
“It’s good to see you, my friend,” Jason said. “What’s it been, five years?”
“At least,” the man replied.
Brandy was lounging up on the foredeck. She had spotted the stranger in the expensive suit as he passed through the marina gate. Jason called to her and she came down to join them on the main deck.
“Brandy, I’d like you to meet my dear friend, Commander Richard Fagan, of the United States Navy,” Jason said. “Commander Fagan, meet Brandy Fine.”
Fagan took her hand and kissed the back of it.
Wow, Brandy thought, blushing a little. That’s not something you see every day.
“You’re a lucky man, Jason,” Fagan said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before letting go.
His hand was strong and powerful, like Jason’s. Brandy wished he’d been in uniform and was curious as to why he wasn’t. She would have loved to stay and talk about it, but thought it best not interrupt a meeting between two naval officers. She excused herself and headed below decks.
Fagan looked around at the expanse of teak decking, polished white fiberglass, and brass accents sparking in the midmorning light. “You’ve done well for yourself, Jason,” he said.
Jason felt a twinge of guilt and quickly changed the subject. What Fagan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. “You’re the last man I would have expected to see this morning,” he said. “Especially way down here in the Caymans. I’m surprised you found me.” He really was surprised that Fagan had found him so easily. He had worked hard to keep a low profile, and Fagan’s sudden appearance was a little unnerving.
“A tip from a young man at Earl’s Reef Dive Shop, on Cayman Brac,” Fagan admitted. “Nice kid. Very accommodating.”
Jason kicked himself for giving Aaron Quinn the impression that he welcomed visitors.
“We should sit down,” he said, gesturing toward a private yet spacious lounge area on the aft deck with an unobstructed view of the Caribbean Sea.
Fagan took the same seat the dead tourist was occupying when Jason shot him in the head. He sat forward and clasped his hands in front of him.
“I’m sure you’ve figured out that I’m not here by accident,” he said, “so I’ll get right to the point. I’ve recently become part of a small team of important men with big plans, and we’re in the final planning stages of a mission of great importance.”
“I’m listening…” Jason said.
“I was asked if I knew anyone outside of the military who could pilot a submarine. And, well… I thought of you.”
Jason was taken aback. Pilot a submarine? What on earth for? It had been years since he’d been in the Navy, and he hadn’t so much as looked at the controls of anything other than his old cabin-cruiser, and the Cayman Jewel, of course. Besides, his dishonorable discharge pretty much guaranteed he would never set foot on a sub again.
“Richard, I’m flattered,” he said. “But I haven’t —”
“Just listen for second,” Fagan said. “I’d expect you to have lost most of your chops by now. But do you remember when the Swedes came over to Point Loma with their submarine, HMS Gotland?”
“Of course,” Jason said. “They were here for two years. I spent so much time aboard that little diesel I could practically sail it all by myself.”
“Well, the sub I’m talking about is nearly identical to the Gotland,” Fagan said. “You should know her like the back of your hand.”
Jason knew that what Fagan was saying was true. With a proper crew, and when compared with the massive nuclear submarines he had piloted toward the end of his career, sailing an old, Soviet, Cold-War era, diesel-electric attack sub would be a walk in the park.
“Where is this sub of yours? What’s her name?” Jason asked.
“She was christened b-39,” Fagan said. “She’s moored down at the MMSD on San Diego Bay.”
“I’ve read about that boat,” Jason said. “Code named Cobra, formerly known as the ‘terror of the deep’. One of the Soviet Project 641 submarines classified as “Foxtrot” by NATO. Essentially larger and more powerful versions of German World War II era U-boats. Low-tech but lethal.”
“I’m impressed,” Fagan said.
“Yes, but you know better than I do, Richard, she hasn’t left the museum’s docks since she got there. She’s nothing but a crumbling tourist attraction, covered with temporary stairs, walkways, and railings. Why on earth would you attempt to —”
“We think she has one more mission in her,” Fagan said, interrupting Jason. They had a lot to discuss in a short amount of time. “But I’m not at liberty to tell you what that mission will be — not just yet.”
Jason was curious, now. “How could we sail away from a busy Harbor Drive dock without being discovered? Tourists are everywhere.” But no sooner had he said it did it dawn on him.
“It is common practice for shipyards to erect large, semi-permanent, plastic tarpaulins, or shelters, to protect ships from the elements while under construction or repair,” Fagan said.
“And from prying eyes,” Jason said. “We simply drive out from underneath the tarp running on battery power, right?”
“Right,” Fagan said. “My connections at the Maritime Museum of San Diego and the San Diego Port Authority have spread the word that b-39 is in need of minor repair and will be under cover and closed to the public for thirty-six hours. No one will ever know she’s gone.”
“The water’s only twenty feet deep in that part of the bay,” Jason said. “We’d have to claw our way out.”
“We’ll be squashing stingrays for sure, but there’s plenty of depth once we reach the main channel.”