Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller

To my family, who shared the dream and made it possible.

I also want to thank my good friend, the late writer and sailor Doug Danielson, expert on all things nautical, who provided invaluable advice and counsel. He now sails that never-ending sea.

Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.

—G
EORGE
S
ANTAYANA
(
1863–1952
)

The longer you look back, the farther you can look forward.

—W
INSTON
C
HURCHILL
(
1874–1965
)

In addition to combat of all kinds, possible operations in the next several years will include everything from helping victims of a flood to restoring order in a collapsed state with large-scale criminal activity, violence, and perhaps even unconventional weaponry.

—G
ENERAL
R
AYMOND
T. O
DIERNO
, C
HIEF OF
S
TAFF OF THE
U.S. A
RMY
,
F
OREIGN
A
FFAIRS
, J
UNE 1, 2012

Si vis pacem, para bellum. (If you wish for peace, prepare for war.)

—A
NONYMOUS

M
AC HALLEY DESERVED A
better death.

He’d known failure, more than his share. Three marriages had ended in bitter divorce. Failed husband. Three kids from those marriages were grown and on their own. Not one kept in touch with him. Failed father. He had owned a small barge company that plied the Mississippi River and Intracoastal Waterway, but it went bust. Then he had a seafood restaurant overlooking the gulf, but Katrina smashed it flat, and after he’d spent every last dime getting it back on its feet, the oil spill fouled the neighborhood beaches and robbed him of the regular trade he had built up. Failed businessman. Alicia, his latest live-in, had dumped him; walked out with her suitcase—and his Rolex. Failed lover. At fifty-five years of age, he didn’t have much left, but it helped when he gave himself credit
for his one consistent success in life: survival. His failures were not all his fault, and the fact that he got back on his feet over and over reinforced his sense of self-worth. His resilience had helped him land the job he had now; a shit job but one that kept him alive. Halley’s present occupation was a galley cook on one of the many offshore service vessels owned by Dumont Industries, one of the Gulf Coast’s biggest conglomerates. It was a curious combination of his former lines of work, only now he was a grunt, not a proprietor. Big difference.

The 350-foot high-capacity vessel had finished a run deep into the gulf and was now on its way back to shore. It had been his first trip. Except for sack time in his bunk, he’d spent all his time in the galley cooking, as he’d expected. What he hadn’t expected was to be ordered to remain in the galley unless permission was given to go topside. This ship was not running personnel to and from the offshore rigs, as most of them did, but taking out drilling equipment. Were they worried he’d hurt himself? He probably knew the business better than most of the crew.

On the second day of rolling seas, he said to hell with the orders. He needed some air. Looking for an access to the main deck, he passed an entrance to the ship’s hold, opened the door, and took a peek. He wasn’t sure what he saw, but he knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t offshore drilling equipment. One item was uncovered. It was a tripod and stood chest-high. Painted olive drab. Halley forgot about
going on deck. He hastened back to the galley. Where he stayed the rest of the day.

That night he was in his bunk alone. All the crewmates quartered with him were on duty. The ship was slowing down and, without speed, was rolling in moderate swells. Being cooped up inside was enough to make any sailor seasick. He got up, went to the head, and splashed cold water from the sink on his face. He then went to the cabin door and found it locked. They’d locked him in the crew’s quarters. The engines rumbled, gurgled, then stopped. He heard another ship for just a moment, then its engines died too. It was close by. Then it was alongside. There wasn’t a lot of noise, but he knew the ship’s cargo was being transferred. The silence was odd. He’d never offloaded a vessel without yelling orders; it was part of the process. When he finally did hear voices, they were speaking Spanish. Half an hour later, the engines started up. Halley got back in his bunk. He feigned sleep when his mates returned.

The next day, he waited for his chance and took another peek at the hold. There was a new cargo. The hundreds of rectangular packages were easily identifiable. That night after dinner, he complained about the restriction on his movement. A man needs fresh air.

“Go on up,” the captain said. “Have a smoke.”

He was standing at the stern of the vessel, one hand on the railing. It was a still night with a half-moon, and by its light he gazed at the dark water, phosphorus blinking like
fireflies. He took a drag from his cigarette, leaned over the rail, and exhaled smoke. He did not know what sent him over and into the ship’s wake. His head hit the stern as he fell, and Halley was unconscious when he hit the water. Reflex actions took over, his pulmonary system seeking air. Half a liter of water was swallowed with the first gasp and flooded into his lungs. Then six liters of ocean water filled his respiratory organs. His throat constricted with rigor, cutting oxygen to his brain. Survival, his one success in life, now eluded him.

The body sank quickly; fifty feet, one hundred, till it danced on underwater currents. Inside the cadaver, nature’s forces began their slow but inexorable process. Bacteria feeding on dead flesh in the belly and chest began to produce gas, carbon dioxide, hydrogen sulfide, methane: gases that caused it to rise like a balloon, though not all body parts rose at the same time. The torso was the first to bloat, as it contained more bacteria than the head, arms, and legs. The body was turned facedown in the water, limbs dragging below and behind. Passing fish took their nibbles. About a week later, the bloated corpse of Mac Halley rose to the surface. It wasn’t pretty. He had deserved a better death. He’d worked hard for it all his life.

“W
E’RE NOW TRAVELING AT
the speed of a rifle bullet,” the fighter pilot said, “twice the speed of sound, over fifteen hundred miles per hour. We’ll arrive in Washington less than two hours from takeoff.”

“What plane is this?” asked the passenger in the second seat, directly behind him.

“F-15 Strike Eagle.”

The voice of the pilot was audible but tinny, transmitted into the earpiece of the flight helmet. Jock Boucher stared at the complex instrumentation in front of him, astounded by where he was at this instant and where he had been just thirty minutes ago. Wrapped in a towel in his hotel room in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, his evening shower interrupted, he’d been greeted by a U.S. Air Force colonel telling him he had orders from the president to fly him back to Washington without delay.
He’d been rushed to Puerto Vallarta’s international airport, given a flight suit, and practically carried onto the tarmac, where he’d found this winged devil cleared for immediate departure.

“How did you get permission to fly a fighter aircraft into Mexico’s airspace?” he said into the helmet’s mouthpiece.

“Our president spoke to their president. It’s unusual for a jet fighter, but our navy pulls into Mexican ports all the time.”

“This must be costing taxpayers a fortune. I could have flown coach.”

“I needed to log the flight time,” the pilot said. “I would have been up in this bird anyway; the president’s orders just gave me a mission. At least this is one thing they can’t assign a UAV.” The acronym was muttered with a sneer evident even through the lousy audio.

“UAV?” Boucher asked.

“Unmanned aerial vehicle. A drone. They’re taking more responsibilities away from fighter pilots every day. I’m glad I’ll be retiring soon. I hate what’s coming. Took me two and a half years and cost the government ten million dollars to train me to fly this aircraft. Now they’re teaching twenty-year-old kids to play video games. After a few weeks they’re guiding drones over Afghanistan from a cozy cubicle in Las Vegas. Not what I signed up for. Yogi Berra said it best. ‘The future ain’t what it used to be.’ He
should have been our national poet laureate. Anyway, sorry to ruin your vacation.”

“Well, thanks for picking me up, I guess.”

Boucher had one thought. The President of the United States must
really
be pissed off at him. A federal judge from the Eastern District of Louisiana, Boucher had let it be known he was leaving the bench only months after assuming the position. His first case had caused him to question whether he was fit to sit in judgment of others. In self-defense, he had taken the lives of two men with his bare hands. He had no remorse; in fact, he would do it again if given the chance. Bringing his girlfriend on vacation while he pondered the ramifications of his decision, he had been forced by this unexpected presidential command to leave her to make her own way home. The unheard-of abandoning of his judicial post must have caused anger and embarrassment to the man who had nominated him, and now the president was going to chew him up and spit him out in little pieces. He had sent supersonic transport in order to do it without delay. Jock Boucher was nervous.

“How high are we?” he asked.

“We’re climbing to our cruising altitude of forty-five thousand feet, over eight miles high. You can see the curvature of the earth from up there.”

“Am I in the copilot’s seat?” He wondered if the controls in front of him needed attention that he would not be able to give.

“That’s the WSO’s position,” the pilot said. “Weapons systems officer. Don’t worry, I don’t think we’ll run into any hostiles between here and the nation’s capital. You do have a throttle and stick back there, and they have all the controls you need to fly the plane. HOTAS—hands-on throttle and stick. Do you fly?”

“Does a Piper Cub count?”

“Same principle. Grab the stick. Get the feel. Got it? Great. I’m going to take me a little nap. Wake me up when—”

“Don’t you dare!”

The pilot laughed. “Just kidding.”

Boucher repeated the question he’d asked the colonel on first meeting him. “Is the president pissed off at me?”

“Like I said earlier, you’ll have to ask him. We’ll be touching down at Langley. There’s ground transport waiting to take you to the White House.”

“That seems kind of late. Maybe I could just find a place for the night and meet him in the morning.”

“I have my orders. Sit back and enjoy the flight.”