Terminal Justice (13 page)

Turning back to the entrance, he entered the upscale restaurant, quickly spotted A.J. sitting by a window, and strode over to meet him.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” A.J. commented as he gazed out at the ocean. “This is one of my favorite places.”

David agreed, nodding his head. “The restaurant is new, isn’t it?”

“Less than six months,” A.J. replied. “I know the owner. He’s quite a story. Refugee from Cuba who came here a couple of
decades ago. Started working as a busboy in a Miami restaurant and worked his way up to management. Saved every dime he could and opened this place. Now he’s making money hand over fist. Sports stars, major executives, and entertainers dine here.”

David looked around. The restaurant was filled with antiques he couldn’t identify, a design motif he couldn’t name, and an ambiance that was new to him. But he was sure of one thing: This was an expensive place. “You sure have great taste in eating establishments.”

“Wait until you taste the food; it’s absolutely fabulous.”

Opening the menu, David read through the fare. It took only a moment to discover the establishment’s theme. The menu listed dozens of Mexican offerings, almost all associated with seafood. There were crab enchiladas, various fish tacos, shrimp salad with black beans, and other similar dishes.

“Crab enchiladas?” David said aloud.

“They’re wonderful,” A.J. said jovially, “I think I’ll join you.” Before David could speak, A.J. raised a hand and motioned to a waiter who scurried over.

“Yes, Mr. Barringston,” the waiter said in heavily accented English.

“Caesar, we would each like an order of the crab enchiladas, a big bowl of salsa—green salsa—chips, a large glass of ice water with lime for me and for my friend …”

“Iced tea, please.”

“Iced tea.”

The waiter bowed, acknowledging the order, and scurried away. A moment later he was back with a bowl of chips and a soup bowl of green salsa.

“The waiter knew your name,” David commented.

“I eat here whenever I can, usually with business owners I’m trying to wring donations from. Occasionally I bring a congressman or a senator. I like to leave a good impression. You have to admit this place can do that.”

“It does,” David agreed. “And you’re right, the ocean view is impressive.”

“I have a reason for this little get-together,” A.J. said.

“I thought you might want to talk about tomorrow night’s fund-raiser.”

“No, we’re as ready as we’re going to be on that. The speech is great, and I’ve been practicing it as you told me to. I have another reason. You are a man of talent. I see that in the work you’ve already done, and I sense it too. You have taken to our unique work quite well. That leads me to my next point: A few of us are going abroad soon, and I would like you to go along.”

“Me?”

“All of our key people travel to the areas where we work from time to time. It gives them perspective and motivation. I thought we might as well toss you in to see if you can swim. We’ll be going to several countries in East Africa. I can promise that it’ll be an eye-opener for you. When we first met, I mentioned travel, but if this is too soon …”

The image of the little boy on the mat that David had seen on the videos of Barringston Relief’s work flashed vividly to his mind. “East Africa?”

“As you know, that’s one of the most troubled areas of the world right now and will continue to be for at least another quarter century. It’s a fascinating area, but I have to tell you right up front that the trip will be unpleasant at times.”

“I’ve never been abroad before,” David said, “unless you count Tijuana. I don’t even have a passport.”

“We have people to take care of that. They’ll give you a protocol book and arrange for whatever papers are needed. Just sign where they ask you to.”

“When do we leave?” David asked, his mind filled with images of Africa.

“September 5, if everything goes as planned.”

“That’s only a couple of weeks, but I’ll be ready to go,” David said enthusiastically.

“You’re not afraid to fly, are you?”

“Not in the least. I love to fly. I’m thankful for the opportunity and look forward to the trip.”

A.J. shook his head slowly and said, “No one who’s ever been to a relief area ever looks forward to it; they go because they must. But I appreciate your zeal.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that I thought this was a vacation …”

A.J. raised a hand and smiled. “I understand fully and there’s no need to apologize. There will be plenty of adventure and many sights to see, but I want you to be prepared for the … more difficult parts of the trip.”

“I’ll be ready,” David affirmed resolutely.

A.J. leaned back in the booth, smiled, and nodded. “Your life is about to change again, David. Change for the good.”

The waiter arrived with two massive plates of crab enchiladas, which brought comments of delight from both men who then whiled away another hour with food, laughter, and appreciative glances at the silver-laced ocean.

After the meal, David strolled across the street and through the small green park to the concrete stairs that led down to the small sandy grotto that formed La Jolla Cove. A few people sat on the small confined beach and watched the ocean perform its mesmerizing dance. David removed his shoes and socks and walked through the still warm sand. The air was fragrant with the smells of the ocean, seaweed, salt, and nearby plants. The gentle roaring of three-foot-high waves as they crashed on the shore echoed off the southern sandstone cliffs. The few people on the little beach spoke in hushed tones as if showing reverence for the location and the sea’s display.

Finding a spot that was as far from the others as possible, David sat on the ground. He knew that he’d have to clean the sand from
his pockets later that night, but that didn’t matter. He was feeling good, truly good, for the first time in months. He thought about the glorious opportunity that was his. Now he possessed a great job and was about to travel to distant lands, something he always dreamed of, but never did. Topping it all off, however, David had made a friend. A true male friend with whom he could bond and build a lasting camaraderie. There was no doubt in David’s mind: His life had taken a turn for the better, and he was convinced that nothing would disrupt his newfound happiness.

The USS
Shepherd
rolled easily on the gentle swells of the Indian Ocean in such gradual fashion that even the most neophyte sailor would find the rocking pleasing. The rocking was even less noticeable in the cramped room adjoining Central Command, near the center of the ship, where two khaki-dressed officers, one standing and one seated, peered at a video monitor.

“Lighter touch, Greeny,” the standing man said in a deep, resonant voice. “Caress the stick. Don’t tap it, press it smoothly. Remember, it’s not a video game.”

Lt. Julian “Greeny” Greenbaum flexed the fingers of his right hand and gripped the molded plastic handle again. “Understood, sir. There seems to be a decent current down there.”

“Always is,” Lt. Comdr. Patrick Odle replied. “Ocean currents are the life of the sea.”

“So much for ‘Still waters run deep,’ ” Greeny said.

“More like ‘Deep waters still run,’ ” Odle replied as he stood straight and stretched his back. “I’m getting too old to be crammed into closet-size cabins like this.”

“Ah, but the company’s great.”

“The jury’s still out on that,” Odle remarked casually. “Got the feel of it now?”

“I think so,” Greeny answered. “It’s a lot different from the tank training.”

Odle nodded. Just two months before he had been training young officers like Greeny in the use of underwater remotely operated vehicles, known as ROVs. With the advances in undersea robotics, remotely operated vehicles had become indispensable to both navy and commercial interests. Trained personnel could now sit comfortably aboard ship while guiding magnificently engineered submersibles hundreds of feet below them. Yet it took practice, a high level of concentration, and great patience to do the work properly. Odle had been charged with training officers and enlisted personnel in the maintenance and operation of submersible ROVs. The tank training Greeny spoke of was the first hands-on experience the naval trainees received. Each took a turn operating an older version of the current ROV. Later they moved up to drills in one of the East Coast bays that harbored some of the navy’s ships. After their training, the sailors were stationed aboard ships in either the Atlantic or Pacific fleet where they would ply newly acquired skills in various jobs, from inspecting the submerged electronic submarine detection net to investigating hull damage caused to ships.

There was no one better to lead the training. The navy had educated Odle at Annapolis, where he earned his commission and a degree in marine engineering. From there he had devoted his time and the navy’s money to the development of ROVs that could descend through the deepest waters and handle the most sensitive tasks. The minisubmersible that Greeny now struggled to control in the unexpected current was Odle’s latest design, able to descend to eight thousand feet and maintain its functionality. One of the engineers had nicknamed it
Snoopy
, because of its stark white paint and its small black sensor emitter that looked like the nose on Charlie Brown’s dog. “What do you make her depth, Greeny?”

“Fourteen twenty-six, sir,” Greeny replied crisply. “Still no sight of her.”

“We’ll find her. Side-scan sonar gave us a good image and a firm location. She’s there; we just have to get to her.” As if
confirming his prophecy, a small bit of debris appeared on the stark, sandy ocean floor. The high-intensity lights of
Snoopy
caused a glint on the edge of the metal shard.

“Got something,” Greeny said excitedly. “Looks metallic.” Without waiting for instruction, Greeny twisted the control stick to the right and slightly down. The electronic command was transmitted down the nearly one-third-mile length of cable to
Snoopy
’s mechanics, causing the little submarine to bank right and point its nose down so that the piece of metal scrap was centered in its camera eye.

“Zooming, sir.” The small metal shard suddenly grew larger as the zoom lens on
Snoopy
’s camera tightened for a closer look. Under
Snoopy
’s bright lights the reddish-orange piece of metal came into focus. “It’s definitely metal, sir.”

Odle nodded in agreement. “What else can you tell me about it?”

“It’s new to the ocean bottom, sir. The surface seems to be painted, but the edges are clean, no corrosion. It hasn’t been down here long.”

“Good observation,” Odle said. “What else do you see?”

Greeny sat in silence as he studied the image on the monitor. Then it dawned on him: “Its thickness. It’s thick enough to be from the hull of a seagoing vessel.”

“Exactly,” Odle said. “I think we found our missing lady.”

“Shall I collect the piece, sir?”

“No, let’s keep searching until we find the rest of her. Is the VCR running?”

“Yes, sir.

“Then resume course, and keep her off the bottom. I don’t want us stirring up clouds of silt that might bury something important.”

Aye sir,” Greeny snapped and directed the ROV back to its original course. Moments passed slowly as the two men studied the
drab, barren otherworldliness of the ocean floor. Both men were confident they had found what they were looking for, but the bottom of the Mozambique Channel was home to many skeletal remains of ships current and ancient that had been placed to rest by pirates, storms, or war. The fresh appearance of the metal scrap gave them hope that their mission would soon be successful, and they would once again show the importance of ROVs in the modern navy.

Snoopy
advanced slowly, seeing only the occasional bottom-dwelling fish. Five minutes later the seabed took on a new appearance, that of a cluttered floor in an auto shop. Bits of metal scrap and debris littered the bottom as far as
Snoopy
’s “eye” could see in the deep ocean’s penumbral gloom.

“Steady on,” Odle said in professional tones. The banter between the two men had quickly reverted to formal navy protocol. “Sonar, Mr. Green.”

Greeny reached forward to the control panel with his free hand and activated the miniature sonar device.
Ping … ping … ping
. Speakers overhead sounded the familiar sounds of active sonar.

“Spin her, Mr. Green, and see if we can get sonar acquisition.”

Greeny slowed
Snoopy
to a stop and then twisted the control handle so that the ROV turned on its vertical axis. A moment later the repetitive ping was joined with an echo. “Target acquired, sir. I read a large metal object forty-eight degrees starboard from present course. Distance”—Greeny paused as he checked his readings—“four hundred yards.”

“Adjust your course, Lieutenant. Let’s have a look at her.”

Neither man spoke as the slow-moving ROV lumbered through the pressure-filled depths. Odle and Green had been charged with finding and investigating a missing ship—a ship that had disappeared with all hands. Such missions carried a mixed blessing: Fulfilling the mission brought professional satisfaction; knowing that lives were probably lost bathed the work in a somber light.