“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Dex felt stymied, even more exposed.
“But that wouldn’t preclude me driving you up to town,” she said.
“Really? That would be great.”
Reaching into her pocket, she produced a cell phone. “Of course, I’d at least like to be sure you’re who you say you are.”
“Oh sure, of course,” said Tommy, with a wink.
Dex had been thinking ahead. There was a decent chance anyone looking for them didn’t know about Tommy yet. He hadn’t been with the dive group all that long, and Dex couldn’t remember if he’d ever even written down his name anywhere at the shop. Tommy had paid cash for his gear, telling Dex he hated credit cards because they always got him in trouble, so that was a good thing too. Hardly anything connecting him to Dex and Don Jordan or the Sea Dog. Of course, there would be cell phone records, but they might require some time or bureaucracy to access, and even then, there would be lots of names to sift through.
“Is there anyone I could call?” said Eleanor.
“Engine House No. 5,” said Tommy. “Ask for Tommy Chipiarelli.”
The lady squinted at him through her glasses. “And how do I know that’s really your name?”
Tommy smiled, walked closer to the gate, and held up his left wrist where his silver ID bracelet dangled.
“Here we go,” he said, disengaging the catch, and handing it to her.
After scanning it carefully, she gave it back to him, and googled the fire house location, then called the listed number.
Dex and Tommy waited for her to finish her brief conversation with whomever had answered.
“They said it was your day off, and I could reach you tomorrow during the day shift.” She closed the lid on her little phone, tilted her head in that coquettish way she had.
Tommy smiled. “They don’t need to remind me. I’ll be there.”
Eleanor put away her phone, reached into her garden apron and produced a remote control, which she depressed. Instantly, electric motors buzzed and hummed and the big iron gate began to slide off to the right. “Why don’t you two follow me up to the house, and we can get ready.”
“Thank you very much,” said Dex. “We really appreciate it.”
Things got even better. While they were waiting on the spacious deck that wrapped around half the house, Eleanor came out with a large cardboard carton — filled with men’s clothing. She dropped it between their chairs with a detached expression.
“Some of my husband’s. I’ve been meaning to give them away, but… I guess I could never get myself to do it.”
“Mrs. Winthrop,” said Dex. “You don’t have to—”
“No, no. You boys should get out of those silly suits. You look like a couple of lollipops.”
An hour later, dressed in casual golf attire that was little tight on Dex and a little baggy on Tommy, they rode along Ritchie Highway in Eleanor’s Lexus hybrid SUV. She had become quite comfortable with them and clearly enjoyed being able to simply talk to people. Dex could easily imagine how isolated she must feel in her day-to-day existence. A CD of string quartets played softly below their conversation, which she kept igniting with questions designed to uncover some adventurous tales of Tommy’s firefighting and a sprinkling of details from Dex’s Navy days.
He preferred to let Tommy do the talking while he tried to figure out how they were going to get through this mess. He wanted to have a plan or at least a series of alternatives. But he didn’t know enough about their adversaries, or how much they knew about him. It was going to be tough to take a step without worrying if it would be the wrong one.
Dex hated this kind of situation. After a career of having to make critical, often impossible decisions, he’d retired in the errant belief there’d be very few left in his life.
Wrong.
Or… not. There might be only one more bad choice, and then it would be lights out.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Target approaching,” said Sypniewski, who sat hunched over a screen which switched among a choice of displays with a touch of his index finger. “Depth 69.7 feet. ETA five minutes.”
Sinclair nodded, said nothing. He sat in the command chair peering out through the bubble head of the Dragonfish even though the green-brown suspension of the Chesapeake Bay ratcheted visibility down to murky at best. The DSAR’s instrumentation provided vision and a clear view better than any pair of human eyes ever could. The central LCD outlined the old U-boat as it lay on the sandy bottom, its humpbacked shape distinctive and memorable. He had seen classified blueprints from the old OSS files back when he’d been USN. The fate of the U-5001 had been one of those almost mythic mysteries in the Pentagon for a long, long time. To finally be a part of the unraveling was very satisfying to him — especially since he was no longer part of the system.
Of course, the Guild had a larger agenda than merely uncovering the fate of a World War II relic. Since the end of the war, its scientists and military people had known about the order from Doenitz to visit Station One Eleven. The Guild also had fragmentary data suggesting the Arctic station was the repository of innumerable technological wonders. But they — like everyone else — had never been able to discover its location. Finding the U-5001 might provide a key to the proper coordinates. And of course, there was one other pesky problem with this mission — a 70-kiloton weapon that may or may not be operational.
“That’s a damned big boat,” said Sypniewski. His simple observation yanked Sinclair from his thoughts.
“By the folks who brought you the Bismarck,” said Taggard, adjusting his speed and descent angle.
“Dive team — stand by,” said Sinclair. He watched his screens intently as the 5001 materialized right in front of the DSAR. Taggard reversed the engines, then dropped to a full stop. “Okay, gentlemen — get in the water.”
Sinclair watched their progress via remote-cam, but the visibility was terrible. He relied more on the running narrative of the team leader, a very capable diver named Lansdale, as they entered the submarine through the open hatch on the conning tower. The other two comprised a Tactical Officer named Barrett and Waldrop, the Weapons Tech. Once they gained the boat’s interior, their remote cam’s images became remarkably clear. Sinclair saw no evidence of damage anywhere, which gave credence to the theory that boat had been scuttled all those years ago.
But why? Part of a larger story, no doubt.
Tense minutes passed as the three divers worked their way through compartments of the boat. Sinclair watched his screens with intimate interest, as if he were right along with them. The team leader assessed their progress so far: “Looks like we were late for this party, sir. The captain’s quarters has been picked. If there ever was anything here, it’s gone now. Nothing anywhere else either. You copy that?”
“Loud and clear,” said Sinclair. His orders had been laid out in very simple terms: find anything that might lead to the location of Station One Eleven. He had no idea why his superiors needed that information, but he would work under the assumption it was vitally important. If he needed to know more, they would tell him. It was a comfortable paradigm and to tell the truth, he didn’t really care what the Guild wanted or why. Sometimes the hours were long, but they paid him well and his life was generally good.
“Proceed to next phase?” said Lansdale.
“Affirmative.” Sinclair exhaled slowly, clearing his mind as best he could. No sense worrying about what was coming next. It had to be done.