09-Twelve Mile Limit (16 page)

“But the U.S. intelligence agencies also have some very amazing birds up there. I’ve read about this, understand, I got no firsthand knowledge. Not that anything is such a great big secret anymore. Our military shoots off a rocket, the world’s watching. The Chinese, the Saudis, everyone, they know that if the rocket goes east or west, it’s probably an electronic eavesdropping satellite. If it goes north or south, it’s most likely a photoreconnaissance satellite, doing what they call a polar orbit or figure-eight orbit. The photorecon satellites, that’s what might interest you.”

No longer gazing at the octopi, concentrating on what Bernie was telling me—telling me with words, and without words—I said, “Exactly. Satellite photographs. How good are they?”

“Even back in the 1960s, when the CIA first starting launching them, even then, they were pretty good. CORONA Satellite Photography, that was the name of the operation. Keyhole photography we …” Bernie paused, catching himself. “Every satellite had a KH, keyhole, designation. Carried large spools of seventy-millimeter film into space, great big panoramic cameras. After photographs were taken, the satellites jettisoned the exposed film, which was then snared in midfall by military planes. Amazingly complicated, but it worked pretty good.”

I said, “But it’s better now.”

“Better? Remember the old rumor that NSA could read the number on a license plate from outer space. That was ten, fifteen years ago. Bunk! Three-meter resolution, that was about as good as it got. So the rumor was complete nonsense up until a few years back when we launched a couple of ultra-high-tech birds, KH-12s and now KH-13s. Absolutely fabulous resolution … which is what I’ve read, anyway. Pictures are so sharp, they can count the rivets on equipment coming out of Iraqi factories. They can pick out a human face in a sea of people. And the KH-13s, what they can do is still classified so, of course, how is someone like me supposed to know a thing or two about something like that? Spectacular reconnaissance, that would be my guess. With all the improvements in sensor development, maybe they can see through clouds. At night. In a heavy fog. I’m not saying it’s true, but in such a world, name one little thing that’s not possible.”

Yep, Bernie definitely had access to the satellites, and the satellites had the capability. That’s what he was telling me. I found his line, a human face in a sea of people, at once subtly evocative and also haunting. Was it really possible that he could pull up photos that might isolate Janet, Michael, and Grace after they were adrift?

I said, “Just for argument’s sake, let’s say I wormed my way into the right department, filled out all the forms, jumped through all the hoops, and managed to get official authorization to check the satellite data banks—”

“Marion, Marion! Forget it. Don’t waste your time. It could never happen. If this country allowed intelligence satellites to be used in even one missing person’s case, the floodgates would be opened. You know how many people go missing every year? Not to mention the breach of security. The whole system would be compromised. It would be disastrous. Even if you were a U.S. Senator, the governor of a state, it wouldn’t matter. They wouldn’t release that information to you, or even admit they had it.”

“But let’s say I did manage to get access. What are the chances that one or more satellites flew over the area the night my friends were set adrift? That photographs were taken?”

Yeager’s voice changed slightly, had some emotion in there—additional reassurance. “The chances? A man so naturally lucky as you, what do you care about odds? I’ll put it this way. There is now in place a keyhole system called ‘Lacrosse’ that is part of the old Star Wars initiative. With the satellites they have, U.S. intelligence people are able to see all parts of Russia at the same time, twenty-four hours a day, no problem. We’ve got newer birds on station now. Could be, our people want to keep a close eye on Cuba. Or Panama, maybe. I wouldn’t be the tiniest bit surprised if that included the Gulf of Mexico, the Florida Keys, the whole kit ’n’ kaboodle. Isn’t that where you live, down there in the tropics? Coconuts and alligators, tourists wearing those horrible shirts. All that rain and humidity. Every summer we used to have to visit my aunt on Miami Beach. Whew! It’s yours, you can have it.” He was laughing now.

Yes, there would be photographs available, and Bernie could find them.

We talked for another fifteen minutes. We traded old stories, spoke of old friends. I mentioned the Islamic terrorists, and he went on a ten-minute tirade. “They have asked for a dirty war, and we are giving it to them!” he said more than once.

Yes, he was fixated on them, despised them.

Bernie was wrong when he said I have no appreciation for the electronic niceties of this century. I much appreciate the fact that I now have access to instant communications worldwide with people about whom I care deeply. Pick up a telephone, punch a few buttons, and we have an immediate conduit to those individuals who have made a mark upon our lives. Much of technology is a response to the loneliness of the human condition. Drums and signal fires, cell phones and Internet cafés—methods change, but our wistfulness, our rebellion against isolation, does not.

Finally, Bernie told me how well Eve’s son was doing. He was in high school now. Getting straight As and he’d almost aced his SATs on his first try. Sports, too. He was a superb point guard and played baseball as well. The proud uncle going on and on.

As we chatted, me standing in the lab, watching the octopi with cat-gold eyes watching me from their lighted tanks, I had an idea. Missing stone crabs were not nearly so compelling as three missing people, but the oddity of it still troubled me.

I said, “Hey Bernie, maybe you can give me some advice about another little problem I’m having. Someone or something is sneaking into my lab at night and stealing specimens. How hard would it be to rig a little night-vision camera in here and keep track of what happens when I’m away?”

“So, finally you ask for a favor that I can help you with! What I’m going to do is loan you a little digitized video camera. The night-vision lens is already attached, so what you’re going to do is mount it on the wall, plug in the converter, and walk away. Simple as falling off a whatever it is people say. A barrel? There’s a timer you could probably figure out on your own after futzing with it two or three hours, so it’s better if I program it here. How’s it with you I set it to come on at midnight, off at six? With enough memory to film nine, maybe ten, nights before you got to go to the menu and delete.”

“Perfect,” I said.

“Not a problem, old friend. You will be getting something from me in the next few days.”

I wasn’t certain if he meant the camera or satellite photographs.

The next night, Sunday, a cool, clear Pearl Harbor anniversary eve, Tomlinson came puttering up in his little rubber dinghy. I could hear him swearing fraternally at the ancient Japanese kicker that missed, coughed, sputtered, and threatened to stall. He’d had the thing for years, refused to get rid of it because, he said, it dependably sapped all the aggression right out of him each and every time he used it.

“The goddamn thing is an emotional laxative,” he explained. “A bad karma purge with a carburetor glitch that Jesus Christ himself plus the twelve disciples couldn’t solve if their holy asses depended on it. I still think it’s a bad diaphragm, by the way. Reminds me of my ex-wife, the ball-breaking dragon lady. Dealing with that rice-burning piece of crap is like meditation in reverse. It’s cheaper than therapy, plus I’m never in much of a hurry, so what do I care?”

Now I felt the rubber boat bump my inside dock, then felt and heard the clomp-slap sound of Tomlinson’s bare feet as he swung up onto the deck. Heard the heavy rustling of paper bags, so I flipped on the outside flood, then held the door wide as he came in, arms filled with two bulging grocery sacks. I don’t have air conditioning—don’t like it, don’t need it. Just ceiling fans and lots of big windows with screens. Even so, Tomlinson came in pushing a pocket of mangrove-dense air, hotter than the air inside, and rich with sulfur, iodine, and the oil fragrance he always wore, patchouli. Something else, too: the sappy sweet odor of marijuana clinging to his baggy surfer shorts and tank top, plus a hint of a familiar woman’s perfume, Opium. Opium was my sister, Ransom’s, favorite perfume. Apparently, they were keeping company again. I fanned the air away as I pulled the door closed and hooked it tight.

“Dinnertime, compadre. You eaten yet?”

I looked at my watch. It was more than an hour past sunset, nearly 7 P.M. Through the west window, I could see a quarter moon, coral pink among December stars, drifting seaward. I’d checked the Farmer’s Almanac: Moonset was at 10:46 P.M. A good, black night for stargazing if I decided to break out the superb Celestron Nexstar 5-inch Schmidt-Casselgraine telescope that stood angled on its tripod by the north window, next to my reading chair and lamp. It is an amazing piece of optics. With its built-in computer and GPS, all you have to do is point the barrel of the scope north, punch in the approximate lat and long, and you can then select from a menu of many hundreds of celestial objects, stars, and planets. Choose any one of them, touch a button, and the telescope will automatically find it.

I said to Tomlinson, “Amelia didn’t head back to St. Pete until after four, and I just finished working out. So the answer’s no, I haven’t eaten.”

He was taking objects out of the sacks, bunches of fresh herbs—parsley, basil, cilantro—a handful of Persian limes. “Did you run? Or go to the school and swim laps? They’re keeping the pool open late, I hear.”

“Both. Kind of. I went down by the old landing strip and ran a couple of miles along Algier’s Beach, then swam out to the jet-ski buoy and back.”

“You’re shitting me. This time of year, man, the water’s getting cold. Has to be in the mid, maybe low seventies.”

I said, “I don’t care. After the Gulf, the water in my cistern shower seems warm. I like it.” I looked at the counter as he unloaded his sacks on to it, noting that, along with food, they contained a pilot chart of the Gulf of Mexico, wirebound, plus a sheath of what looked to be printed material from the Internet. I picked up the pilot chart, then looked into Tomlinson’s deepset and sad blue eyes. “You called your buddies at Blue Water Charts in Lauderdale.”

“Yep, Rick and Dorie. They knew just what I needed and FedExed it over.”

“So explain. Are we making dinner or doing research?”

“You got any fish? Maybe some shrimp, something like that? I’m going to make a Panamanian chimichurri sauce.”

I loved Tomlinson’s chimichurri but could never seem to duplicate it exactly: diced bunches of parsley and cilantro, one clove of diced garlic, one small diced chili pepper, a pinch of kosher salt, a little drizzle of balsamic vinegar, the juice from half a fresh lime, plus a cup or more of olive oil. Sometimes he added tomatoes, sometimes he didn’t.

I nodded. “Jeth dropped off a couple of nice kingfish steaks. He says the mackerel are running two-ten off the light-house in thirty-five feet of water.”

Tomlinson was at the sink now, washing the greens, the veins in his biceps implying the tubular network linked beneath his skin, the complicated hydraulics of human physiology. We are delicate machines, indeed, fleshy pumps, electrodes, and cartilaginous wiring. He said, “In that case, we’re making dinner and doing research.”

Tomlinson and I discussed it, going back and forth until we agreed that there were only three possible explanations for why Janet and the other two weren’t found. One: The people aboard the planes, helicopters, and search vessels missed them. Two: Someone, something, or some incident had removed them from the surface of the water before or during the search. Three: They were never adrift to begin with.

Sitting at the little teak table on the porch outside, an oil lamp burning between us for light, Tomlinson took a bite of his mackerel in chimichurri, and said, “Okay, but the working premise is that Amelia Gardner’s story is mostly true. We start with that, then presumably eliminate the other possibilities as we go along.”

“Agreed,” I said.

Tomlinson was getting into it, his brain firing, generating enthusiasm. We’d had the memorial service for Janet that afternoon at Jensen’s Marina. It was an emotional affair. Some crying, some laughter, the ceremony—like all funeral ceremonies—underlining the fact that our lives are brief and that the impact an individual has on the life of another is never realized until the association has forever ended. Apparently, Tomlinson had converted his own sense of loss into a determination to salvage Janet’s reputation. It’d been a while since I’d seen him so focused and lucid. Now he said, “Our job is to compile all the data we can. Objectively, I’m saying. If we go into this as advocates, hermano, we forfeit our credibility. We’re both scientists. We both know that.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t do it any other way.”

“Not that I don’t have my own biases. Some of the crap they’ve been saying about what happened out there? It was a drug deal gone bad. It was murder. It was some military snafu that the right-wingers are trying to cover up—that one, at least, I’m willing to consider. Like maybe the three drifters were out there and saw the military doing something top secret. Whatever happened, we need to collect all the data we can and just have faith that Amelia’s story is mostly true.”

That word again: mostly. It surprised me. “Did I miss something? I didn’t find any holes in her story. Everything seemed consistent. An emotional event that was tough to talk about, but she seemed to do her best to lay it all out there. To be honest.”

Tomlinson started to speak, hesitated, choosing his words carefully before he said, “It’s just a feeling I’ve got, man. You know me. I collect information on a whole different level. Let’s face it. I’m clairvoyant. Psychic, whatever small label you want to use. Clairvoyant, anyway, ’til it comes to love affairs, then I turn into a hundred percent numb-nuts fuck-up. But, if I’m not in love, I know things about people without them having to say a word. I just have a sense that Amelia didn’t tell us everything. Intuition. But it’s more than that.”