Barracuda Page 7

  James walked back to his room, fantasizing about Tanya until Dr. Collins snapped at him.

  “Where have you been?”

  James spent the next hour talking about his conversation with Celestial. Tanya spent the next hour plotting with Andrej.

  ***

  “Can’t you move any faster, James? We don’t have time to spare,” Dr. Collins lamented.

  “I could go much faster if you would carry some of this stuff,” James returned.

  “You know I’m busy on the computer checking the satellite links. I want to get out to the passageway and check on the video equipment before the storm arrives. We will have to leave it on continuous play while we investigate this shark cemetery. We can always download the information later. Please hurry.”

  James hustled the gear to the skiff while the professor made the final computer adjustments. They weren’t taking all the gear they normally carried since this would be a short dive to calibrate the video camera and the piggyback transmitter. The sun was barely above the horizon when the duo departed the dock. Morose eyes followed their every move.

  James powered the small boat to the beacon mooring ball, and dropped anchor. The water was the roughest it had been thus far, and a light rain was spraying them with a cool mist. It took James a few minutes to tightly secure the anchor. He was careful to make sure that it would hold in case the sea really got rough. The tide was exiting the atoll, making the water behave angrily. By the time the pair was suited up to dive, the waves were rolling past and the small boat was bouncing in the froth.

  “I think we should abort the dive, Professor,” James yelled over the wind.

  “We can get this done in less than five minutes, James, so let’s stop lollygagging and go,” the doctor countered.

  With that, the scientists dropped over the side of the skiff and raced down to the video equipment. As the professor had claimed, the job was completed in less than five minutes, but they had difficulty maintaining their position underwater. The current was racing out toward the ocean at the rate of about eight knots. The interior of the lagoon was protected, but the passageway felt like the turbulence of a toilet bowl being flushed.

  With the job accomplished, Dr. Collins gave the thumbs-up signal to James, indicating that it was time to ascend to the boat. The current was ripping so fast that the divers could not do a free ascent. They had to search for the anchor line and pull their way up to the boat lest they be washed out into the open ocean. Dr. Collins used a hand signal to James, indicating a question: Where is the anchor line? The pair looked above and then to the left and right. The two were on the bottom holding their ground by clinging to rocks protruding from the gateway wall. James let go for a second to do a pirouette so he could look in all directions. The unforgiving current grabbed him and pulled him through the passage and out into the open ocean.

  ***

  “This is good. Right here,” Disco yelled to his comrade, Nikolaij. Disco’s real name was Vladimir Zhivilo, but he got his nickname from working as a bouncer in a disco. His friend was called Nike because of his preference for the sneakers.

  “Rock the boat until sinks,” Disco ordered.

  Nike complied, and the small skiff sank like a rock over the resting place of the U.S. Submarine Apogon. The sandy bottom was at 175 fsw. The skiff landed stern down and settled peacefully into the depth.

  “Get in and have a little vodka, Nike,” Disco joked.

  Nike was bobbing in the water, and the larger skiff that Disco piloted was rolling in the windy lagoon. Once he scrambled aboard, Disco handed Nike a bottle and he drank deeply.

  “Good job, comrade. Let’s get back before anyone is awake.”

  5

  This was Micko’s first time flying first class, and he loved it. The seats were much larger and more comfortable. The flight attendants were very attentive and friendly. He was still a bit groggy since he had gotten up so early, so he decided to take a short nap. The nap lasted three hours.

  “Detective O’Shaughnessy, would you like some breakfast?”

  Startled, Micko looked up to see a rather tall but pretty stewardess addressing him. Her nametag read “Ruth.”

  “Sure. What do you have?”

  “Scrambled eggs with either bacon or sausage, or some nice Eggs Benedict.”

  That wasn’t a difficult decision. “Eggs Benedict, please.”

  “Coffee or tea?”

  “Tea, please. Plain.” This sure beats that overbearing Miss Maple, he mused to himself while enjoying his meal. He guessed he would really owe Sharon big time. Now there were two sisters for whom he would have to buy souvenirs.

  Micko glanced out the window and saw that it was a beautiful, sunny, cloudless day. He was in the window seat as promised, and the seat next to him was vacant except for his knapsack. Micko decided to read through some of the material he had on his vacation. There were still many questions he had about this once radioactive atoll, and he also had a few misgivings about being present for a hotel’s grand opening, hoping only for the anonymity that had thus far eluded him. He was enjoying all the attention on his flight, but he wanted a quiet vacation where nobody knew who he was.

  Micko was still troubled about his loss of confidence since the shooting. He was normally a very easygoing guy with many close friends, but this fear was consuming him. So far he had not let anyone else know how he felt, except his psychiatrist. He had recurring nightmares about being paralyzed with fear when dangerous situations arose at work. Police work was always dangerous. How would he be able to protect himself or his partner with this insane fear? He silently prayed to God that this exciting adventure would cure him of those demons.

  To clear his head of negative thoughts, Micko read the reports that Carley had downloaded from the Internet. There were plenty of surveys and reports regarding rads and other radioactive terms that were like Greek to him, so he just scanned through them. The bottom line was that these reports stated that the Marshall Islands were safe. He put those reports aside and pulled out more reading material about the history of the Bikinians.

  There were 196 Bikinians in 1946 before they were moved to various other islands in the Marshall Islands chain. The current home of the Bikinians was Kili Island, about four hundred and twenty-five miles south of Bikini. In the early years of the twenty-first century, there had been almost four thousand Bikinians, most still living away from Bikini Atoll. The total land area of Bikini Atoll was just 3.4 square miles.

  Micko now knew he was traveling during the best time of the year for scuba diving. He was amazed at how small the island and atoll really were, yet two of the best shipwrecks in the world lay in this atoll. The Japanese Battleship Nagota lay in a watery grave one hundred eighty feet below the surface. This was the infamous ship from where Admiral Yamamoto directed his attack on Pearl Harbor. And the USS Saratoga was the only dive-able aircraft carrier in the world. Its final resting place was also one hundred and eighty feet below. These two wrecks alone constituted the scuba experience of a lifetime.

  Micko felt his confidence level rising as he truly anticipated these world-class dives. He put all the papers down for a moment, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes. He needed a little time to retain all this information. Soon he drifted back in time to his scuba training days.

  He and Gus had been partners in a busy South Bronx detective squad. They had just finished up the tedious paperwork on a couple of recent homicides when Gus lamented, “We need a hobby.”

  Micko fondly recalled how they had gone into the scuba store and met the shop owner, Mike Carew. After accepting the school’s brochure, the detectives went off on another case, but they talked incessantly about scuba diving for weeks until one morning when Gus came into work and proudly announced, “Micko, I did it! I enrolled in the scuba course and I begin this week.”

  When Gus completed the course and obtained his scuba license, Micko repeated Gus’s routine and also received his diving license. The two had ma
de the first step to doing some serious diving.

  Ruth noticed Micko grinning with his eyes closed and thought he was fast asleep again. She had been instructed to pamper him, but thought it best to let him rest.

  ***

  Later Ruth noticed that Micko was wide awake again and reading scuba diving brochures. As she approached him he looked up. “Are you in the NYPD Scuba Unit?” she inquired.

  “No, I dive as a hobby and for excitement,” he replied.

  “Are you going to dive in Hawaii?”

  “No, I’m going to drink and raise Cain in Hawaii. Then I’m on my way to the Marshall Islands.”

  “The Marshall Islands? Why are you going there?”

  “Well, it’s got some of the best virgin diving around since no one has been able to dive there for more than fifty years. Plus, it offers some of the best shipwrecks in the world all located in a single lagoon.” He smiled warmly at Ruth for being nice enough to show interest in him and his hobby. Most non-divers yawned with boredom whenever a diver tried to explain the great attraction of swimming in the silent world among our finny friends.

  Another passenger called out to Ruth and asked for some water, and she smiled at Micko before returning to her duties.

  Micko continued studying the array of material for his vacation until the plane touched down in Los Angeles for refueling. Micko just carried his material to a seat in the lobby until the jet was ready to continue to Hawaii.

  Engrossed in his reading, the flight across the Pacific seemed quick. Before he knew it, the plane was touching down in Honolulu. Ruth had pampered him with food, pillows, blankets, peanuts, and soda for the entire flight. Micko graciously thanked the tall stewardess for her kindness as he exited the jet.

  Retrieving his luggage was a snap, and Micko only waited ten minutes for the shuttle bus to drive him to his hotel. Sharon had booked him into the Sunset Hotel located two blocks off the beach. His cost was just seventy-nine dollars per night for a rather nice room with a king-sized bed. He had to stay two nights before the Island Hopper flight would fly him to Majuro. If he’d stayed in a brand-named hotel on the beach, his cost would have been tripled.

  The driver of the shuttle bus carried Micko’s luggage to the front desk and was rewarded with a five-dollar bill. Micko handed the desk clerk his reservation and the clerk smiled.

  “Hello, Officer.”

  “Does everyone know who I am?” Micko complained.

  “Yes, we do,” he answered with a flamboyant wave of his hand.

  Noticing the clerk’s nameplate, Micko requested, “All right, Carmine, try to keep this quiet, okay?”

  “Sure, Officer. Would you like to schedule a massage for your leg? Jesse is our on-site masseuse.”

  “Is Jesse male or female?”

  “Oh, Jesse is all male, I can assure you,” Carmine answered with a wicked smile.

  “Well, Carmine, anyone who touches my leg must have hooters, not a Johnson.”

  Carmine cast a disapproving look toward the ceiling and rang for a bellboy, who carried Micko’s suitcase and dive bag to room number thirty-seven. The room was spacious enough with the normal, trivial hotel room amenities.

  Once he got settled in his room, Micko decided to do some sightseeing. He had rested enough on the plane, so he wasn’t tired. The hotel lobby had a tour desk nestled in the far corner with a large selection of tour booklets. A pimple-faced college boy sat inattentively behind the desk as Micko perused the pamphlets. He was attracted to a tour of Honolulu that included a trip to the USS Arizona Memorial.

  “Can I book this tour for tomorrow morning?” he asked the young man.

  “Sure,” he replied. “The tour bus will arrive here at nine a.m. for pick-up.”

  Micko made all the proper arrangements and paid the college boy.

  “Are you all right?” the boy inquired.

  “Sure, why do you ask?”

  “I see that you’re limping.”

  Micko hadn’t been aware that he was favoring his wounded leg as he walked. It must have been a little stiff from the long flight.

  Walking outside he saw a large outdoor shopping market across the street. This bazaar-like flea market ran for several blocks through alleys. He spied a sign that identified this shopper’s chaos as the International Market. Micko enjoyed browsing through the various shops and stalls, looking at the Hawaiian goods. Colorful shirts and muumuus abounded, along with local carvings and jewelry. But not being much of a shopper, he got bored quickly and stopped in a small sandwich shop. This store was a two-story recreation of a Hawaiian hut with an outdoor, second-floor balcony. Micko sat out on the balcony and watched the shoppers and tourists below. He was hungry since he had slept through lunch on his flight.

  One of his favorite past times was people watching, and this was an ideal spot. He ordered a BBQ sandwich on a kaiser role will a beer chaser as he looked at the people passing by, admiring the beautiful women below. He slowly nursed a few beers until nightfall, and then headed back to his hotel. Surprisingly, he had a very restful sleep.

  The receptionist woke him at seven a.m. as directed, and Micko felt quite refreshed after his shower. He looked out the window and saw that it was a beautiful day. He noticed a line of people waiting to gain entrance to a rather small-looking coffee shop.

  Since he was only on the third floor, he could see the shop fairly well and saw that the name of the place was the Sea Breeze. Let’s got see what they’re giving away there, he thought.

  After dressing in a pair of black Dockers and a white golf shirt, Micko walked to the small coffee shop and got in line. A man wearing a bright blue shirt was walking up and down the line, handing out cheap paper breakfast menus. Micko asked him, “Why are there so many people here?”

  “Ah, you’re a new tourist,” he said with a smile. “This is a small family-run business, and we have the best breakfast at the best price. We are only open for breakfast and we close at noon. My name is Frank, and my family and I are from Chicago.”

  Frank had a good strong handshake. Funny, but Micko could immediately tell if he liked someone by the first words out of their mouths or their handshakes. With Frank, Micko liked both.

  They shared some small talk until Micko entered the shop and was seated at a solo window seat. He finally had a chance to read the menu that Frank had handed him. Micko was amazed at the cheap prices. He was quite content after breakfast, and the tour bus was on time. It was the typical huge, fifty-passenger monstrosity painted in local pastel colors to make it look tropical. The bus made the rounds to all the hotels that had booked passengers.

  The bus filled quickly, and a fat sweaty man took the seat next to Micko.

  “Hi, I’m Buddy Burger from Raleigh, North Carolina.” The fat man stuck out a sweaty paw in Micko’s direction.

  Micko hesitantly shook it and said, “Hi, I’m Mick O’Shaughnessy from the Big Apple.”

  “New York City? Wow! I’ve never been there. I bet it must be very exciting living there.” Buddy went on and on about New York then switched the topic to Raleigh, and his job as a manure consultant. Micko smiled to himself as he thought what shitty job poor Buddy had.

  He had never seen a man sweat so much in his life. The bus was air conditioned, yet the sweat just poured off Buddy. Micko felt that if the bus had not had A/C, he surely would have drowned in a salty sea of the manure man’s sweat.

  The fat man was just beginning to explain how important a manure consultant’s job was for farming when the PA system came alive with the sound of a sweet young lady’s voice announcing that she would be the tour guide.

  Buddy slithered into silence as the tour began with a brief driving tour to the Indian Head Crater, with stops along the way that included the Palti Lookout, the Byodo-In Buddhist Temple, and Hanauma Bay.

  Micko was very pleased to have taken the tour. He was very proud of his patriotism, and this tour of Pearl Harbor buoyed his love for his country and fellow Americans. He could not wait to
begin diving on the historic wrecks in Bikini Atoll.

  On the return bus, Micko actually talked with Buddy Burger and enjoyed it because the man was a fellow American. Besides his proclivity to perspire, the chubby guy had a good sense of humor and was a Vietnam vet. He had been in an artillery unit and hadn’t seen much action, but he’d done his duty.

  Since they were fast becoming friends, Micko asked, “Hey, Buddy, let me buy you a beer when we get back.”

  “I’ll take you up on that, pal.”

  The bus stopped at Micko’s hotel first, and they agreed to meet at the beach bar, in Buddy’s hotel, in half an hour. This gave them both time to wash up and change clothes. Micko carefully folded his clothes and looked for a fresh outfit. Hey, I’m going to the beach, so a tank top and bathing suit should suffice. He put on a white tank top that he had bought in Honduras and a blue bathing suit that advertised the Great Barrier Reef in Australia. Good conversation clothes, he thought.

  Then he walked out of his hotel and turned into the International Market, exiting on Kalakaua Avenue. He looked up and down the street until he saw the Sheraton Moana Surfrider Hotel. Walking into the decadently ornate lobby be thought, Geez! There must be a lot of money in manure!

  He spotted a sign that pointed to the Banyon Courtyard and followed it to the Beach Bar. He immediately liked the bar, which was fairly crowded with a lively group who were singing and laughing. It was a fancy little place with a tiki motif looking out over the beach, and it had a spectacular view of the setting sun. Micko took a seat in the shaded area of the bar and looked out at the beach and the sun worshipers on their blankets.

  Micko smiled at the bikini-clad barmaid with the nametag that read “Chrissy.”

  “Hi, Chrissy, can I have a Coors Light, please?”

  “Sure, tap or bottle?”

  “Bottle, please.”

  “New Yorker. I can tell by your accent,” she said with a smirk.

  “Guilty as charged,” Micko remarked with a laugh.

  “I’m originally from Montauk, Long Island,” she told him.