Authors: Patrick Robinson
Tags: #Suspense, #Fiction, #Political, #Thrillers, #Weapons industry, #War & Military, #Assassination, #Iraq War; 2003-
Diamondhead (21 page)
The very last thing on Mack Bedford’s mind was to become in any way involved with these international networks of edge-of-the-law cutthroats. Yet he now stood on the verge of a very evil organization.
The first moment Mack had announced his name as Morrison, Raul had put into place a set of routine procedures. He fired off an e-mail to all branches of FOJ, contacts and recruiters, to check if anyone might have recommended anyone of that name to the Marseille office. No one had. Then he redrafted the request to check if anyone had spoken to an unnamed American perhaps looking for contacts in France. Everyone shot back a reply saying, “Negative.” Except for Major Douglas, commander central Africa, in faraway Kinshasa on the Congo River—
Affirmative. I had a Spike Manning on the line probably from Birmingham, Alabama, looking for his brother, Aaron, serving in Niger. Call came around 1515 French time.
Affirmative. I had a Spike Manning on the line probably from Birmingham, Alabama, looking for his brother, Aaron, serving in Niger. Call came around 1515 French time.
Raul immediately called Aaron on his cell and asked if he had heard from his brother in the past day or so.
Negative.
Raul proposed to bother the combat fighter no more.
Negative.
Raul proposed to bother the combat fighter no more.
So he called Major Douglas and asked if he had a number for Aaron’s family, just the regular next-of-kin contact to be used in the event of the man’s death. Major Douglas did, and he put in a call on Raul’s behalf. He spoke to Mrs. Manning, mother of the two former Navy SEALs.
Yes, she had received a call yesterday from someone looking for Aaron, but her son Spike had dealt with it. No, she could not remember the name of the caller, but she thought it might have been something like Pat Stepford, “kinda like one of the wives.”
“Huh?” replied Major Douglas, who last went to a movie when he was at prep school.
When Spike came home later that evening, he issued a very serious warning to his mom.
Do not ever mention to anyone the name of any one of my former SEAL buddies in any context whatsoever. Our work was top secret. Everything we did was highly classified. Not even the navy would release a name. Ever. Not even for a birthday card. We all have many enemies, and mostly we have no idea who they are. I repeat, never name anyone.
That evening, Spike Manning had the phone number changed at the family home. Mrs. Manning thought that was a bit excessive, but she was considerably chagrined at her very obvious near-blunder.
Anyhow, Major Douglas made no attempt to take the matter further. And Raul intended to do no more until the caller made contact again at 1615. He was, however, very interested. To the best of his knowledge no one was planning open revolution in France, which left the possibility of an assassination contract. Big money. These jobs were conducted “in-house” by the ex-Foreign Legion guys. The money would be split four ways, 20 percent each for the hit men, 50 percent for Raul the negotiator, and 10 percent for the lawyer, Carroll.
Perhaps Forces of Justice might be competent to carry out the operation against Foche. But the organization was nothing short of a bear trap for Mack Bedford. And his fears of disclosure were justified. He’d had a narrow escape on the phone to Spike Manning’s home, and he didn’t even know it. Now he was
almost
obliged to make contact again, and this time he might not be so lucky.
almost
obliged to make contact again, and this time he might not be so lucky.
Mack took Tommy fishing again that evening after Anne had driven him back from the hospital. It was one of those days that might seem strange to visitors, but to the residents of Maine it was just normal. It was a day when the clouds suddenly rolled in off the Atlantic, followed by fog banks. The summer heat seemed to evaporate in the mist. They stood on the shore listening to the deep baritone boom from the Sequin lighthouse. In the far distance, the ghostly chimes of the bells on the marker buoys clanged eerily, as they stood sentry over the great granite ridges that stud the inshore waters.
Mack didn’t care. Tommy never gave it a thought, this total disintegration of a bright early July afternoon. Neither of them had ever known anything else. And they knew enough to bring thick sweaters.
It was low tide, and the channel leading outward from Dartford Bay seemed to run slowly. Sandpipers and sanderlings stepped through the shallows. There were arctic terns shrieking out near the middle of the stream, as they dipped and dived toward the slow-moving water. Large herring gulls dropped shellfish onto packed, pebble-strewn sand, trying to split them. The terns were very busy, and they were dive-bombing into a flashing shoal of porgies that meant the big bass and bluefish were right underneath.
Mack’s eyes glittered as he made his first cast. “Tommy, these are great fishing conditions for us. Let’s try to get one quick, and then dig out a few clams. Mom can fry ’em.”
“I’ll get a fish,” said Tommy. “I’m good at low tide.”
Mack chuckled. “Okay, let’s see you do it.”
Tommy cast, with a “popper.” He hurled the lure way out and wound it in fast, watching it glitter across the water, waiting for the hit when a bass or a blue struck it.
Nothing happened. They both kept casting, trying to whip their lures way out toward where the terns were swooping. But they could not get a bite. Mack was on the verge of calling it a day when Tommy said, “Let’s have two more goes. Those birds are still out there. There’s gotta be fish.”
“I can’t understand it—maybe there’s too much bait around. But . . . okay. You go first.”
Tommy cast. He drew his rod back over his shoulder and flung the lure out toward the arctic terns. He let it sink a little, then he began to wind the reel in, faster, faster. And there it was, chopping across the surface, a silver streak right in Tommy’s line of vision.
That was when the big bluefish struck. He ripped upward from the deeper water, spotted the darting lure, and powered forward, snapping his tough, toothy mouth right on it. The lure dived under, and Tommy felt the unmistakable jolt as the fish took it. Instinctively, he slowed the reel, then he jerked it back, setting the hook, as the fish came to the surface again.
“That’s a blue, Tom!” yelled Mack as the glinting stripeless dark blue caught the sun. “Keep reeling him in! He’s Mom’s favorite.”
Tommy adjusted his stance for the fight, and Mack, mindful of that unorthodox backward fall with the baseball, put down his own rod and wrapped his arms around the little boy’s waist. He issued no instructions. Tommy knew how to do this, and he worked the bluefish into the shallows, where Mack took over.
He raised the rod, with the lure still in the fish’s mouth, and lifted the head up, maybe a foot off the sand. Mack had to look sharp, because the blue was still flailing, trying to slacken the line to shake out the treble hook. Then, dodging the wicked line of teeth, Mack grabbed the fish in the only place you can grab a fighting blue: the little clear space between the head and the razor-sharp dorsal spikes. He gripped it like a carpenter’s vice. “That’s the old Bedford grab, kid,” said Mack, grinning. “Never forget it!”
For a few moments, they both gazed at the thirty-two-inch silvery bruiser of the Northeast coast. Then Mack gave it a solid whack on the head with his “priest,” killing it instantly. Even still, he used long pliers to remove the hook from its jaws. Then he placed the fish on a flat rock, four yards out into the water, and stood there in his waders, skillfully cutting and filleting it. He packed the two oily pink bluefish steaks on the tray inside the cooler and told Tommy, “That was outstanding, kid. Beautiful. Let’s forget the clams. This is a great dinner right here.”
He scooped the remains of the blue off the rock and into the incoming tide, below which he had no doubt hungry crabs were waiting. But even as Mack packed up the gear, the gulls were circling, wheeling, shrieking, dipping, preparing to dive. He turned to Tommy and then noticed the little boy was sound asleep on the sand.
Mack picked Tommy up and rested him over his shoulder, holding him safe with his left arm. With his right hand he picked up the rods, net, and cooler and wished to God they had brought the car. Still, fishing rods were lighter than machine guns. And he set off for home resolutely, one mile on a narrow beach road, with Tommy sound asleep. In a disaffected way, it was the saddest mile he ever walked. Worse than the Euphrates Bridge. He hadn’t wept there.
They reached home and Anne took over, resting Tommy on the sofa while Mack prepared the fish. His method for marinating the blue was unlike that for any other fish, because of the high oil content. He placed the two fillets in a shallow pan and delved into the cupboard for a bottle of gin. He splashed the entire contents over the fish and left it to soak in the clear spirit that, in maybe an hour, would somehow suck out the excess oil. This was an old Down-Easter trick, and in a way it made dinner kind of expensive, even though the fish was free. But bluefish cooked on the grill after that marinade was sublime. Just butter, salt, pepper, and hot coals. That’s all you need.
For all the disadvantages of Maine, the endless winters, the cold, the snow, the rough seas, and the northern New England bleakness, Mack believed that everything was worth it. Just to sit out there on the porch, eating the succulent bluefish, fresh out of those misty tidal waters. Especially since it had been landed with the old “Bedford grab,” passed down to Mack through generations in this wild land of his forefathers. The bonus was, in his opinion, that he shared the table with one of the most beautiful women ever to reside on the banks of the Kennebec River. And his little boy, who was now wolfing down the delicious fish, kept reminding them both, “This is my fish. I got it, right, Dad? All by myself. Last cast, right?”
As ever, Tommy was every father’s rookie, just sitting there reliving one of those unforgettable boyhood moments. For Mack Bedford, this was paradise. Almost.
The focal point of Remsons Shipbuilding was a gigantic drydock, like a giant square cave, with one end open to the water, railroad tracks running from deep inside, all the way down to the low-tide mark. In the center of the dock, right above the railroad tracks, was a four-hundred-foot-long guided-missile frigate with a gunmetal-gray hull. Below the foredeck, painted black, seven feet high, were the identifying marks
F718.
The superstructure inclined at ten degrees to the vertical to reduce combat radar echo. This was a state-of-the-art Lafayette Class frigate, custom-built by Remsons for the navy of France. Its 21,000-hp diesels were already fitted. Its twin shafts were jutting from the stern awaiting the massive bronze propellers. The flat helicopter landing platform on the stern was being painted. The heavy foredeck gun was already in place.
F718.
The superstructure inclined at ten degrees to the vertical to reduce combat radar echo. This was a state-of-the-art Lafayette Class frigate, custom-built by Remsons for the navy of France. Its 21,000-hp diesels were already fitted. Its twin shafts were jutting from the stern awaiting the massive bronze propellers. The flat helicopter landing platform on the stern was being painted. The heavy foredeck gun was already in place.
The ship was encased in scaffolding and a jungle of electric cables. Sounds of heavy hammering muffled out from inside the hull. Two men with sledgehammers were slamming the wooden chocks, tightening the base upon which the great ship rested. Walking slowly down the port side of the hull was Harry Remson. His face was absolutely stricken.
He turned away from the ship and returned to the staircase that led up to his office. At the top he opened the door, walked in, and sat down, at the same desk, in the same red-leather-padded, curved captain’s chair once occupied by his father and his grandfather. From here, the Remson-in-command had a view of the entire drydock. Old Sam had watched U.S. Navy destroyers being built from this very spot. And now it was over. At least it would be unless he, Harry, could take some drastic action.
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