“Entering the hangar deck,” said Lansdale.
Sinclair watched the screens as they revealed the dive team’s progress. The sight of the seaplane bomber proved galvanic, even to a jaded veteran like him. To think it had come close to being a part of history was chilling. When he noticed the bomb bay doors open, he wondered why?
He watched the number 2 camera’s display, Waldrop’s, as it revealed the underbelly of the German plane. “We have a problem,” said Waldrop, who had once been in charge of the nukes on one of the supercarriers.
As the diver moved directly under the plane, looked up so that Sinclair shared his view of the interior, he said: “No bomb.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Wow,” said Tommy. “What a nice old gal, huh?”
“She was great, and I felt bad about blowing off her offer for lunch, but we just don’t have the time.” Dex checked his watch out of habit, and scanned the neighborhood where he’d asked the woman to drop them off on Charing Cross Drive. The area was a pleasant, innocuous-looking collection of townhomes, and the traffic along the main connecting artery was sporadic. As they walked along a shady sidewalk, Dex was forced to admit absolutely nobody paid them a lick of attention.
“How far to your house?” said Tommy.
“About five blocks — long blocks.” Dex reached the intersection at Reidel, and took a left heading northeast toward his townhouse. “We need to be careful, or it’s ballgame.”
His plan was simple — check to see if anyone had found out where he lived. It would happen eventually, but they still had a chance to be ahead of that particular curve. With Tommy following along, they walked slowly, as if they were in no hurry — just in case someone was watching. When they reached the street one block down from Dex’s, Tommy waved casually as he parted company and headed down the tree-lined lane. Dex continued on, past his street, to the row of trees that bordered all the back yards on his block and defined by a service road for sanitation and utility vehicles. Dex cut in behind the row of trees and walked down the road to the gate which opened into his backyard. He didn’t open the gate, but leaned against the latch and waited for Tommy.
The plan was so basic, it would probably work. Tommy walked around to the next block, turning up Dex’s street. Whether or not he noticed any unusual activity or vehicles, he was to continue walking until he joined up with Dex waiting by the gate.
Five minutes. Then he saw Tommy turn the corner and approach leisurely, smiling. That made Dex feel better already. “Well?”
“Man, this neighborhood is beat… There is like nobody around except some kids in the sprinkler.”
“No cars?”
Tommy shrugged. “Damned few. Coupla little ones.”
Dex exhaled, drew in another breath. “You take a look at my place?”
“Yeah, everything looked normal, I swear.”
Dex considered this for a moment. It looked almost too easy, plus he felt outrageously exposed in the bright sunlight. But there was little choice. This would be his only, best chance to get into his house and get a few of the things he would need. Sooner or later, there would be people crawling all over his stuff, and odds were they were already on the way.
“Okay,” Dex said. “Here’s what it comes down to. If they’re in there waiting for us, it’s just a matter of time before they close the net. If they’re here, we’ve probably already been seen, marked, and catalogued.”
Tommy looked at him with an expression that suggested his version of deep thought. “Looks to me like we’ve already made our decision. What’re we waiting for?”
“That’s what I figure. Let’s go.” Unlatching the back gate, Dex entered his backyard — a swath of grass he cut only under duress. He hated lawns and all the stuff you needed to maintain them. The yard was enclosed in an eight-foot fence of pressure-treated planking he never bothered to stain. The area contained not one piece of decoration, enhancement, or furniture.
“Fancy.” Tommy whistled. “You get a landscape designer to do this?”
“Wasted space,” said Dex, moving quickly to a collection of rusting paint cans under the small wooden deck that ran off the back of the townhouse. The lid on the Behr ceiling white was warped from a screw driver and lifted easily as Dex reached in to retrieve a Ziploc bag holding a key.
“Nice security system too,” said Tommy.
“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”
Dex climbed the steps to the deck, keyed the back door’s deadbolt and regular lock. Tommy followed him as he stepped into the kitchen where everything looked exactly as he’d left it this morning. As agreed, Tommy took the stairs down to the basement rooms and the garage. Dex glided quickly through the first floor, and finding it empty, carefully ascended the carpeted steps to the top floor.
With each step he felt more confident they were alone. His survival instincts, which had served him so well in all those Navy years, had kicked in — especially what he called his “proximity sense.” It had functioned as a kind of personal, mental radar that almost unfailingly warned him when something… troublesome… might be approaching or at least nearby. Dex trusted it and right now it was telling him nobody was waiting for him in any of the upstairs rooms.
But he still moved quickly in and out of all of them, checking in closets and under beds even though he started to feel silly. Reaching into the nightstand drawer by his bed, he smiled as he peered down at the number one item he’d come home for — his SIG-Sauer P-226, modified to accept a double-column magazine holding 15 rounds of 9mm Parabellum ammunition. Reaching down, he picked it up, marveling as always at its light weight. Racking the magazine, he felt immediately better knowing it was ready to rock. At the back of the drawer was a box of extra ammo, which he grabbed as well. From the hook on his closet door, he grabbed his conceal carry underarm holster.
Time to check on Tommy.
As he descended to the middle floor, he heard the footsteps in the kitchen. Slow. Deliberate.
As Dex reached the bottom step, he wheeled around the corner with the 226 leading the way.
“Whoa!” said Tommy, hands up and out in front. “Whaddya doin’?”
“You were supposed to be whistling if everything was okay — what happened?”
“Shit, I forgot. Sorry.”
“You could’ve been a lot sorrier.” Dex lowered the gun, took off his shirt and shrugged into the holster. “I assume everything was normal down there?”
“Yeah, I mean you’re not the neatest guy in the world, but it doesn’t look like anybody’s been here yet.” Tommy opened the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of Guinness. “You mind?”
“Drink up. We can’t take it with us. And we’re leaving soon.” Dex finished adjusting the holster and slipped the gun into it. “Keep a watch on the front street while I get some stuff together.”
Tommy nodded, moved to the bay window by the front door, took a pull off the bottle of stout.
As he did this, Dex moved quickly through the house, gathering up things he would need, starting with a Mountainsmith Travel Trunk Duffel. It was light, superstrong, and its 33 inches was exactly the right length to hold his Mossberg 500 Persuader — the absolutely best six-load shotgun in the world. When you were talking close-range anti-personnel, the weapon had no equal. Dex had bought it for home security because he didn’t want to have to worry about something as pesky as aiming at a target that would be coming at him in a darkened room or hallway. And like the ads said, a mean guard dog needed to be walked, groomed, and fed. All the Persuader needed was a little oil.