Barracuda (4 page)

Finally, she said, “I will get you the
brochures, and you let me know which hotel you wish to stay in.
Then I’ll book everything immediately. Go to your doctor and get
the proper shots, and then pack your bags.”

Micko gestured with his arms open. “How can I
ever thank you?”

Sharon replied, “Just get better and have
fun.”

***

Micko had trouble concentrating on his driving
on the way home as his mind wandered to the South Pacific.
Sixteen hundred bucks! I’ve spent more money on a one-week dive
package to the Caribbean
, he thought to himself.
Wait until
I tell Gus.

Once he returned home, he called Gus and another
former partner, Jim Carley, known as JC to his friends. JC was the
kind of guy who would have stayed on the force until he was forced
out by old age. Unfortunately, a triple bypass heart operation cut
his extended career short. He’d had more than twenty-five years in
before he had the heart attack.

Micko and JC had worked together as uniformed
patrol officers, undercover in an active anti-crime unit, and also
in the robbery squad. JC was a former MP with the U.S. Army. He had
been a straight arrow for as long as Micko had known him. He didn’t
bend the rules at all, and he was an expert at doing all kinds of
research. Recently, he had developed a love affair with snacks and
rich foods, causing dangerous weight fluctuation, that made his
heart doctor berate and swear at him, “Jimmy, your corpulence will
be the death of both of us!”

Micko had gone scuba diving with both
ex-partners on numerous occasions, so he valued their input. The
three detectives belonged to the New York’s Finest Divers Club.
This organization had originally been formed for cops who loved to
scuba dive, and created terrific dive packages around the globe for
its members. Two years after its inception, it boasted more than
one hundred members. Some cops brought in friends who were not
cops, and they brought in friends, and so on. The great benefit of
having a huge membership was the clout the club had when it came to
booking large trips. Most travel agencies worked with large
organizations for repeat business. They also threw in free trips
for every sixth or seventh diver. If the club booked a trip to Key
Largo for fourteen divers, two went gratis.

Jim Carley did all the research on the club’s
dive locations, so Micko asked him to turn on his computer and do
some research on Bikini. They would meet for breakfast the next
morning.

Then Gus and Micko spoke at great length about
the new homicide Gus was working. Since Micko was injured, Gus was
bouncing from partner to partner, and was sometimes loaned out to
other commands that were shorthanded. Such was the current case.
Another detective squad was investigating a double homicide, and
Gus was assigned to assist them.

Gus enjoyed giving his partner the juicy details
while watching him salivate for more. He was a great storyteller,
quite animated as his arms waved and his voice rose an octave or
two at times. He also loved to pause for effect during the critical
parts of the yarn, and Micko enjoyed listening to his partner
recount the investigation.

The two could have gone on discussing the case
all night until Micko said, “Gus, I gotta get this scuba gear put
away. It’s lying all over my room. I’ll pick you up at your house
at oh-nine-hundred hours, and then I’ll drop my gear off to be
serviced. Then we’ll drive upstate to Mahopac and get JC.”

Tuesday morning was dark and damp with a threat
of rain. Micko picked up Gus and then drove to Captain Mike’s Dive
Center on City Island to drop off his gear. Mike Carew ran the
place. He was also the instructor who had taught the detectives how
to dive many years earlier. Carew promised to service the gear
ASAP.

JC was ready when they arrived at his house. He
opened his jacket to reveal a scuba diving shirt from the Galapagos
Islands. Micko and Gus both laughed as they recalled the great time
they’d had visiting the place where Darwin originated his theory of
evolution.

The three former partners drove to a small,
family-run breakfast nook called Pancakes R Us. From outside the
place looked like a small log cabin, but inside it took on the look
and feel of a full-sized restaurant. The log cabin design was warm
and hospitable, and there were neat, black and white pictures of
early settlers and hunters adorning the walls. The booths were
clean and of a suitable size to comfortably sit three Bronx
detectives.

Mabel, the waitress, was a tall brunette with
lumpy shoulders and a weathered face much like Dorothy’s nemesis,
the Wicked Witch of the West. She was beyond sixty years old, but
as tough as they came.

“C’mon, c’mon, I ain’t got all day,” she
bellowed

“Is your name really Mabel?” Micko inquired. He
suddenly felt mischievous.

“Keep that up and you’ll get cold coffee and
runny eggs,” she blared.

“Talk about a name fitting the job,” Micko
continued brazenly.

“I’ll be right back with three cold coffees for
the three comedians,” she responded.

“Are you satisfied, Micko?” Gus complained.

“Well, we could always walk down the yellow
brick road and find the coffee house with the good witch,” Micko
cracked. He started to laugh at his own joke.

“Or maybe we could click our heels and go to
Kansas,” JC quipped.

“Hey, Gus, don’t you own a pair of red
shoes?”

Micko and JC were beside themselves with
laughter.

Eavesdropping, Mabel was actually enjoying this
juvenile banter. True to her word, she brought three cold cups of
coffee, but she put a fresh pot on that the three couldn’t see.

“Okay, my three little Einsteins, what will you
have?”

Micko ordered, “Two eggs over easy with bacon,
crisp, and rye toast with butter.”

JC ordered, “Scrambled eggs with sausage and
whole wheat toast.”

Gus was nervous about getting runny eggs, so he
ordered a cop special. “What kind of donuts do you have?”

“For you, Mr. Wizard, we have a box of
munchkins,” she joked.

With that, the entire table and nearby diners
roared with laughter. Apparently, quite a few people were listening
in. It appeared that Mabel had as much fun as the detectives during
these breakfast encounters.

JC was excited as he pulled out some pages he
had downloaded and printed off his computer. He did a great job of
researching the Marshall Islands, the Bikini Atoll in particular.
“Micko, this place is better than Truk Lagoon.”

“What’s Truk Lagoon?” Gus asked.

Micko answered, “It’s where the U.S. sank the
Jap fleet near the end of World War II. There are dozens of
warships sunk there, and they offer some great shipwreck
dives.”

“Yeah, but in Truk most of the good ships are in
very deep water,” JC said. “You need to either dive on mixed gas,
limit yourself to shallow wrecks, or do fewer dives per day. In
Bikini, the atoll is shallower, hence the dives are shallower.”

“But is it dangerous to dive on a radioactive
island?” Micko wondered. Despite Sharon’s assurances, this was what
had been bothering him most.

“Not according to the U.S. radioactivity
reports,” JC answered. “The U.S. would not have built a dive resort
for the Bikinians if it wasn’t safe. Here are some of the pages
that I downloaded regarding the safety issues.” He handed Micko
some computer printouts that resembled survey reports.

The three detectives talked incessantly while
gorging themselves on a hearty breakfast. Micko had a number of
reports from JC to read and brochures on the way from Sharon. He
would be busy for the next few days preparing for his trip. He
silently wondered if this trip would cure the horrendous nightmares
he had been having lately. He had doubted his nerve and
self-confidence since the shooting nearly left him dead in the
hallway of a rundown South Bronx tenement building.
Maybe some
exciting diving will bring back my confidence
, he thought.

***

The next day, Micko picked up his equipment from
Captain Mike’s and started packing his serviced scuba diving gear.
He took out his
Sea & Sea Motormarine
underwater camera,
greased the O-rings, and bought new batteries for the strobe light.
He did the same for his high-powered underwater flashlight.

After he finished rechecking everything, he
visited his regular general practitioner and got all the necessary
shots for the Marshall Islands. Later in the day, he got a call
from Sharon.

“I hope you’re packed and ready to go because I
have your reservations, tickets, and itinerary on the way via
FedEx. You leave Friday morning on the six a.m. flight out of JFK.
I made the decision, and you’re going to stay at the Majuro
Majestic Dive Resort and Casino.”

“Whoa! That’s in two days!” Micko
complained.

“In my experience, you book the trip quick and
don’t give people a chance to back out. So pack up, bucko, and get
on that flight. FedEx promised to drop off the material to you no
later than four this afternoon. Look it over and get your ride to
the airport arranged.”

“Okay, thanks for everything. You and your
sister have been great. I never would have been able to get
motivated to do this all by myself.”

“We know,” she said with a laugh. “I want to see
pictures and hear some great stories when you return.”

Just as Micko hung up with Sharon, his doorbell
rang, and as promised the FedEx guy dropped off all the information
and tickets for his trip. After reading all the material, Micko
immediately called Gus to ask for a ride to the airport.

“Six in the morning!” Gus complained. “That
means I have to pick you up at three to get you there at least two
hours before the flight.

“No, you can get me at four. I don’t expect a
huge crowd at that hour. I fly straight to L.A., and then to
Honolulu. I spend two nights in Hawaii, and then I catch a ride on
Continental Micronesia’s Island Hopper to Majuro. I spend a night
there and then jump on the weekly Air Marshall Islands flight to
Eneu. Then I take a short boat ride to Shark Alley Island.”

“Where the hell is Majuro?” Gus inquired.

“The brochure said it’s the capital of the
Marshall Islands. It’s probably a one-horse town, but I’ll just be
there overnight.”

“All right, I’ll drive you to the airport, but
you have to buy me breakfast.”

***

Gus was right on time on the day of the flight,
and he helped Micko lug his suitcase and dive gear to the car. The
ride to the airport was uneventful with little or no traffic. Gus
drove up the ramp that read American Airlines departures and
briefly parked in front of one of the curbside check-in
counters.

“You will owe me a breakfast later,
O’Shaughnessy. I’m too tired to eat now. Besides, I don’t want to
pay for parking.”

“C’mon, Gus. Park the car and meet me inside.
I’ll take care of the parking bill.”

“No, I’m more tired than hungry,” Gus
growled.

“Will wonders never cease? My Rican friend is
too tired to eat!” Micko clowned.

Micko went inside and waited on line to validate
his ticket and be assigned a seat. When he handed the attendant his
E-ticket, she politely asked him for identification. Micko handed
her his driver’s license, and she suddenly perked up. “Oh, good
morning, Detective,” she said.

A bit confused, Micko asked her, “How did you
know?”

“Oh, we’re expecting you. Sharon told us all
about you.”

“Good old Sharon,” he cracked sarcastically.
Cops had a history of not wanting civilians to know who they were,
especially when traveling.

“I have good news, Detective. There are several
empty seats in first class, so I can place you there if you’d
like,” she said with a smile.

“I’d love a first class window seat, if you
don’t mind,” Micko responded with surprise.

Armed with his first class seating papers, a
jubilant Micko headed straight for the nearest breakfast nook.
Unfortunately, it was still too early in the morning for any of
them to be open, so he settled for a newspaper, a lousy cup of
coffee, and a prepackaged bagel that tasted like cardboard. His
only worry in the world was that Joe would remember to feed Mr.
McGillicuddy and empty his little box.

3

Dr. Timothy Collins was in a panic as he
searched his room. “Where is my research? Where is it?” he yelled
to his assistant James Donaghy.

James was carefully brushing his teeth when he
heard the uproar from the next room. “Calm down, Doctor. Which
research do you mean?”

“Which one do I mean? Which one do I mean? Are
you an imbecile, man?”

James looked up to the ceiling for help.
“Doctor, I haven’t unpacked all of your bags yet. Just calm
down.”

He knew he would have his hands full on this
trip. A graduate student from New York University, he was working
as an assistant to Dr. Collins while completing his doctorate. Dr.
Collins was a renowned scientist working for the Florida Museum of
Natural History Ichthyology Department, and the world’s leading
authority on the behavior of gray reef sharks. He was also renowned
among his coworkers as an overly enthusiastic neurotic.

“My research, James! My research! I’m losing my
patience!”

James went back into the adjoining room. He
carried in an old weather-beaten briefcase and placed it on the
bed. “Here you go, Professor,” he said. “Knock yourself out.”

James went back to brushing his teeth as Dr.
Collins tore through the briefcase. Looking in the mirror at his
reflection, he thought,
Not too bad.
He was a tall muscular
lad of twenty-five, and his clean-shaven face was finally
pimple-free. His good looks and athleticism on the football field
had made him popular with the girls at Fordham University in New
York. Now his brain was going to make the world stand up and take
notice. As annoying as Dr. Collins was, he was brilliant, and James
planned to be his heir apparent someday.