Barracuda Read online

  Barracuda

  Mike Monahan

  Barracuda

  Copyright 2008 by Mike Monahan

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Mike Monahan at Smashwords

  Available in print at Amazon.com.

  This book is dedicated to my mother, Barbara, my brother Thomas, and my good friend Eddie Dolan. They inspired and encouraged me to complete this project. They are always in my thoughts.

  I wish to thank my dive buddy Henry Fine for allowing me to use his barracuda picture for the book cover, and Timmy Collins for reading my manuscript with an open mind and giving me his valuable input.

  I also wish to thank Leah Fretwell for giving me permission to include part of her research for the preface and the Bikini website for its informative content.

  I am compelled to thank my good friend Thunder for loaning me his ancient laptop on which this story was created.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and places are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  “We forget that the water cycle and the life cycle are one.”

  Jacques Cousteau

  PREFACE

  The history of nuclear testing covers a period of over sixty years. The United States conducted 1,054 nuclear tests between 1945 and 1992 at the Trinity site in the New Mexico desert and at the Nevada test site. A majority of the tests—839—were underground.

  The vast majority—929—were conducted at the Nevada test site, while 108 more were conducted at various sites in the Pacific. Of the Pacific tests, forty-three were done at Eniwetok, twenty-three at Bikini Atoll, twenty-four at Christmas Island, and twelve at Johnston Island.

  1

  She swam swiftly and purposely. Something inside her told her that she had to go to a certain location and mate. The instinct was so overwhelming that she could not ignore it. During this migration, she would forego eating until her copulation was complete. Such a maternal drive is common in nature and varies from species to species.

  Although she had an inherent duty, she swam warily. She felt a strange yet unseen presence in the waters she had entered. This was her second mating season, and she had expected the shallow waters to be warmer—but not this warm, and she wondered what was causing that tingling sensation.

  Her species didn’t begin mating until they were two years old, and she had grown to full size during her three years in the ocean. Her natural feeding grounds abounded in healthy prey, enabling her to develop great hunting skills. She knew she was larger and stronger than many of her kind, so she didn’t hunt in schools or packs like the others did. Still, with her hormones in overdrive, she felt trepidation. Something was not right.

  As she entered the lagoon, she immediately felt another rise in the water’s temperature. Then she noticed how few fish there were compared to her previous visit. This lagoon had once been a haven for numerous species of fish; last year her kind had feasted heartily after mating.

  Suddenly, a large predator appeared from below, rushing at her in attack mode. She easily eluded the attack with a few quick flicks of her tail, and the large predator swam away erratically. This confused her. She remained at full alert, observing her enemy. Then she saw a school of the predator’s own species approaching from deep inside the lagoon. Without provocation, the school attacked the erratically swimming beast.

  In a matter of minutes, the carnage was over, and smaller fish were treated to scraps as the school swam off to prowl in the confines of the lagoon. She had never known that species to attack her kind or be cannibalistic. She also noticed that the fish snapping up the scraps were very odd-looking. She recognized the various breeds, but many had unusual growths on their bodies. Others were much larger than the species she was used to seeing, while some bore extra fins, eyes, and other appendages. This lagoon was filled with such aberrant behavior that it was quickly becoming identified to her as a potentially dangerous place for spawning.

  Her instinct warned her to leave the shallows of this lagoon and seek out another area. She did not feel safe here, but her need to mate had become stronger. The full moon would rise any day now, and her eggs were ready to be released. She had to find a mate and a safe haven where she could procreate.

  Instinct drove her to swim across another expanse of blue water to a different section of the lagoon. Once again, she felt the strange tingling and warmer-than-usual water. She also observed more deformed fish. Swimming into this lagoon, she noticed a huge object that was not a reef, although it had many orifices like one. Schools of large predators also patrolled this lagoon, so she sought refuge inside this unusual structure.

  The upper layer of this reef had enormous compartments with huge entrances and exits. These would not suffice since predators could enter and exit at will. While searching for a smaller, safer compartment at the lower levels, she met a potential mate. He spotted her searching and swam to her. Then, after a brief courtship ritual, he led her back to a small cave-like opening.

  He had already built a small nest while waiting for a suitable mate to arrive. He was smaller than she was, so he easily squeezed into the opening that led to the nest area below, while she had difficulty entering. The mating took place that night when the full moon arrived. Their species was rather direct and not flamboyant about spawning, as opposed to other species that had elaborate rituals including spectacular dances and colorful displays of fins that could last for days.

  She lay in the shelter, simply exhausted from her long trip to this mating place. She had absolutely no maternal instinct and would return to her reef as soon as she rested. Her eggs were on their own as soon as she departed.

  It was nighttime, and she was sleeping when she first felt the shudder. The whole edifice that surrounded her began to shake and crumble. It only lasted a minute, but that was long enough for her entrance to become blocked. She was sealed in an underwater tomb. There were many smaller apertures surrounding her, but they were too tight for her to swim through to escape.

  Luckily for her, the large predators chased smaller prey into her structure. While the smaller prey sought shelter, they inadvertently swam into her lair. Although she was trapped, she was able to feed herself well, and she simply adapted to life in the huge cavern.

  The strange prison seemed to stretch for a great distance, and it had multiple levels of extraordinary lofty rooms. Each day, she explored different sections of her new world and hunted well. But as time went on, the tingling sensation worsened, and she became more and more lethargic. Unlike other members of her species, she was able to watch the progress of her hatchlings. One in particular caught her attention. It grew faster and was hungrier and more aggressive than the others. As time went on, this offspring turned cannibal and ate its siblings one by one until it was the only one left.

  This barbaric act didn’t matter much to her. Hers was a world of survival of the fittest. On days when she had more energy, she followed It as It cruised throughout the interior of the system that entrapped them. It was small enough to exit at numerous points but seemed to instinctively know that danger lurked outside. She marveled at the speed and agility It possessed while hunting. It had an uncanny ability to change the color of its body, using a dozen different shades and patterns, giving it an incredible edge. Soon It was swimming throughout the structure on its own.

  The strange reef that entombed them was so big that It would be gone exploring and feeding for days on end. One day, when It returned to the nest, she saw a bone-chilling look in Its eyes—the last thing she saw before It consumed her. It grew to become nearly twice the size of Its mother and soon was unable to leave the confines of the metal grotto just like her. Bu
t as it turned out, there was no need to leave. It was the top predator in a reef full of food. It mutated so that It could actually lay eggs and fertilize them Itself, a common development in certain species when breeding females were absent.

  It used the same nest as Its mother to bring other juveniles into the world, and the cold-blooded acts of cannibalism and patricide continued incessantly for years. Each generation produced bigger, faster, and more aggressive offspring content to live unmolested in the giant subterranean passage. It was never seen except by the hapless victims that served as Its nourishment. It was a trapped, unknown monster, constantly growing and evolving generation after generation.

  2

  Mick O’Shaughnessy was in a deep sleep when the alarm of the clock radio woke him. He groggily sat up to Louis Armstrong singing “What a Wonderful World.” When the song ended, the DJ announced that it was six a.m. on a bright, sunny Monday morning in October.

  Before he could turn off the alarm, a red tabby cat bounded across the bed.

  “Good morning, Mr. McGillicuddy,” O’Shaughnessy—Micko to his friends—said as he stroked the cat’s furry head. The cat purred so loudly that it sounded like a motorboat.

  Micko stretched and punched the snooze button on the alarm clock. He needed just five more minutes of sleep, but Mr. McGillicuddy had other ideas. The tabby rubbed his nose and head in Micko’s face until he exploded, “All right, you furry Irish rat! I’ll get up and feed you!”

  It took him a few minutes to struggle out from between the sheets as his feline companion sat expectantly at the foot of the bed. Then he walked gingerly into the spotless kitchen, placed fresh water in a bright green bowel, and opened a can of Nine Lives Mackerel.

  Micko loved this cat, which had been his companion for eighteen years. Mr. McGillicuddy had outlasted his master’s two failed marriages and been with him through his entire time on the force. People should be this loyal, he thought.

  He rented half a house from Joe Galvati, his landlord. Joe was a ninety-year-old gent who lived to tend to his garden. He had the most gorgeous garden in the neighborhood, and he was quite proud of it. He had lost his wife to a heart attack several years earlier, and then the garden became his obsession. The master gardener loved to give his huge tomatoes to his favorite neighbors. He would proudly proclaim, “I grew these with my own two hands!”

  Joe lived downstairs, and Micko lived on the second floor of a sprawling two-bedroom apartment complete with a huge eat-in kitchen and a large outdoor veranda. Micko loved the veranda and ate most of his meals out there, where he had an unencumbered view of all his neighbors’ flower gardens.

  Now, he was trying to decide if he should shower first and then enjoy a cup of coffee on the terrace or just sit with the coffee first and wake up.

  He was still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when the alarm once again sounded, kicking on the morning news. Not wishing to hear anything bad, he scurried into the bathroom to begin his daily hygiene routine with a hot shower. The coffee would wait.

  While the warm water splashed about his head and body, he wondered what the department doctor would have to say at their eight o’clock meeting. It had been nine months since he was wounded in a line-of-duty shooting, and his leg had been slow to heal. He looked down at the injured leg and slowly rubbed antiseptic soap onto the large scab that had formed where the bullet had entered. There was no exit wound to worry about because the bullet had been spent after it shattered his tibia bone.

  The doctor in the emergency room had removed the nine-millimeter and given it to Micko as a souvenir. The cast had been off for a week, but he still hobbled on his weakened leg. Looking down at it, he could see how much thinner it was compared to his left leg. The doctor called this “muscle atrophy.” Micko’s right leg had withered from a lack of exercise and fresh air. In this case, the atrophy was due to the lack of use after nine months in a cast that ran from his toes to his hip. A healthy exercise regime would correct this condition when he was able to lose the cane and walk on his own.

  Micko couldn’t wait to get back into shape, but he still had reservations about hastily returning to work. The trauma of the shooting had left him with a strange feeling of insecurity and a great loss of confidence. He was the most aggressive member of his homicide team, but he was now plagued by short bouts of depression and became madly emotional when watching movies.

  These new personality anomalies made Micko question his courage and ability to protect the public, himself—and his partner. The depression increased his doubts, and the doubts, in turn, increased his depression. It was an overwhelming cycle of spiraling despair, torturing him into a web of insecurity. He was not a coward, but he had uncontrollable fears.

  As Micko applied some shaving cream, he barely recognized the face in the mirror. Good God! he thought. I’ve aged a dozen years since the shooting.

  Nine months earlier, he was a 40 year old, strapping, tough Bronx homicide detective with the NYPD. To him, every murder was personal until he placed the handcuffs on the perpetrators. He undertook his investigations with a bulldog tenacity that won raves from his peers, and he was fearless in his apprehensions of armed felons, winning numerous departmental awards and community citations.

  Now he was a bit on the fragile side in appearance. His inability to exercise had caused his sharp muscle tone to deteriorate. He still had rugged good looks to compliment his boyish charm, but much of the glimmer in his eye and swagger in his step was missing. He hobbled around with a weathered brown wooden cane, and his hazel eyes wore dark circles beneath them that had not existed before his injury.

  As he stared at himself in the mirror, he was pleased, however, to see that he still had a full head of brown hair that hadn’t thinned or turned white.

  “Well, enough of this Dorian Gray nonsense,” he mused. “I better not be late for the doc.”

  He shaved and dressed without incident, except for struggling to get his trousers on. He still had difficulty bending his right knee, so he had to sit while getting into his pants. After one final glance in the mirror, he was satisfied that he looked very snappy in his best pinstripe suit, white shirt, and powder blue tie. Even though this was just a visit to the doctor, he would still hobble in and look like the consummate professional that he was.

  The aromatic smell of fresh coffee made the detective happy that he used an automatic coffee blender. He poured himself a hot cup and walked out onto the porch with Mr. McGillicuddy close behind. He sat in a brown wicker chair that matched his small round glass table. He watched as the neat cat dutifully cleaned himself while sitting in the other wicker chair.

  A million thoughts raced through Micko’s mind as he sipped from his Honor Legion coffee mug. He had been inducted into the prestigious legion many years earlier. This select club boasted members from all religious denominations and races without prejudice, while other organizations required a police officer to be of a certain religion or ethnic group. But the Honor Legion’s only exclusivity was that its members had to have been awarded a commendation for a heroic act.

  Micko looked deep into the black coffee in this symbolic mug and wondered if he would ever feel heroic again. At the moment, he just felt like a walking wounded soldier of misfortune.

  Still, he didn’t feel overly depressed that morning. He liked both his G.P. and the psychiatrist. They were very patient with his angry outbursts and mood swings. Sometimes he was mad at the entire world, while other times he was a charmer who could talk the ears off a jackrabbit.

  Finishing his coffee, Micko placed his wallet in his right rear pants pocket and his shield in his left rear. He placed his keys in his right front pocket and his lucky 9-11-01 coin in his front left pants pocket. He wore a sub-nosed .38 holstered on his right hip. Taking one last look around, he triple-locked the door to his tidy bachelor apartment. He had moved into this cozy apartment after his second divorce. As was common with police officers, he had been divorced after his wife couldn’t put up with
the irregular hours, the double shifts on holidays, and of course, the dangerous duties. Now he had to admit he was relieved to be single. Returning to work after being shot could test the patience of a wife possessing saintly qualities.

  Being shot or stabbed were not the only dangers of police work. Officers were known to have one of the highest suicide rates, as well as divorce, alcoholism, gambling addictions, and severe stress disorders. Micko was rapidly becoming a statistic in several categories.

  He limped to his car, and decided that, starting that day, he would walk without the cane. He loved his midnight black 1984 Firebird. There was something special about the retro muscle cars that made him feel like a teenager again. Whenever the stress of dealing with dead bodies and live scum got under his skin, Micko would rev up the engine, snap off the T-tops, and pop in a doo-wop tape. Mario Andretti would have been proud of the way he raced around the mean city streets with the wind in his hair and no cares in the world.

  What is it that made grown men regress when they played songs from the early days of rock and roll? he wondered as he cranked the volume on a Del Vikings tape. The uplifting song “Whispering Bells” blared as he raced out of the driveway en route to his appointment with Dr. Bellamy, the Bronx police surgeon, and Dr. Gladys Goldberg, the police-appointed psychiatrist.

  He had been out sick ever since the shooting and had monthly appointments to see both the department medical doctor and the department shrink. This was standard operating procedure. Bellamy monitored the healing progress of the leg injury, while Goldberg monitored mental status after the shooting event.