Atomic Lobster (17 page)

“Mandy, would you be a dear and grab some more steaks from the fridge.”

“Sure, Vin.”

She hopped up pertly and scampered inside. Seconds later Mandy slowly walked backward out of the house like she was at gunpoint. Her voice cracked as she called to the player: “Baby?”

“What is it?”

“Someone’s here to see you.”

The guys turned.

“What have you done with my husband!”

“Martha,” said Jim. “What are you doing here?”

She marched around the pool and gave Vinny the toxic eye. He stared down at shoes he couldn’t see. Then she stomped right up to——. “I don’t care how famous you are! Stay away from Jim with your drugs and bimbos and mob buddies!”

The player shrank back on his lounger. “…Sorry.”

Martha yanked her husband by the arm. “Let’s go!”

The other two guys leaned and watched until they were sure she was gone, then the player looked at Vinny. “What the fuck was that about?”

“He’s happily married.”

GULF OF MEXICO

T
he G-Unit arrived at the ballroom doors earlier than ever before, but the line was already around the corner.

“What’s going on?” asked Edna.

“Those new dancers are what’s going on.”

This far back, it was over before it had begun. The doors finally opened, and the women resigned themselves to an evening of punch and cookies. They stared across the room at the flock of women swarming around the new guys.

“Why aren’t they dancing?” asked Edna.

That’s when she noticed Steve enthusiastically waving them over.

“What do you think he wants?”

Five minutes later, the G-Unit and the rest of the room couldn’t believe the reversal of fortune: These new guys had fought off all comers, waiting for Edith and her friends, whom they now spun and waltzed around the floor.

Edith was beside herself. “Steve, you’re a marvelous dancer!”

“Just following your lead.”

“And such a gentleman…But why’d you wait for us?”

A charming smile. “You and your friends are special.”

Edith’s own blushing smile: “Oh, please…”

It went like that all night, every night, from Tampa to Cozumel
and back again. The other women finally gave up, and the Brimleys were back in play.

CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

Two agents returned to a dim room. One sat down at a computer; the other watched over her shoulder.

“Where’s the ship now?”

“On its way back to Tampa,” said Special Agent Denise Wicks.

“Any more on that chatter we picked up?”

“Nope. Just the name of the ship.”

“Not even a time range?”

“We don’t even know if they’re planning anything.”

“Agent Foxtrot now lives in Tampa. When they hit port, it would be easy to activate—”

“Still too risky.”

“When did you first meet Foxtrot?”

“I don’t know,” said Wicks. “Sixteen, seventeen years ago?…”

KUWAIT CITY
, 1991

Operation Desert Shield was still a week away. Iraqi soldiers roamed streets at will, tanks at both ends of a wide thoroughfare through the center of the previously thriving financial district. Now, broken glass and charred BMWs, every building pocked with machine-gun fire.

The street was normally jammed, but no traffic or pedestrians these days. The few Kuwaitis who hadn’t been able to flee now hid in whatever cubbyholes the soldiers hadn’t been able to detect when they’d swept the city. Troops milled in front of sacked storefronts. An Iraqi colonel walked down the middle of the road with his enlisted assistant. He had a thick, jet-black mustache, and he was laughing.

The assistant listened attentively as they continued up the street. The colonel stopped mid-sentence. The assistant looked sideways, then down. The officer lay in a spreading purple-red puddle from a
silent forehead bullet. The assistant stood bolt straight, threw his hands up in surrender and didn’t move. Nearby soldiers ran in directionless confusion; others rushed up the stairs of the biggest building at the end of the street, the one with the giant, ornate tower. Obvious sniper nest. That’s why the shooter was down on street level, technically a few inches below, camouflaged in a dirt depression dug twelve hours earlier under cover of night.

By the time they reached the top of the spire, the sniper was gone like a ghost. The colonel’s assistant remained motionless in the middle of the street, arms still up, and didn’t move for the next three hours until sunset.

It went like that each day, all over the city, without pattern or clue. Psychological warfare. Top-ranking officers picked off by an invisible enemy. Five more colonels and a general. Regular soldiers left untouched, except cramped muscles from standing till dark.

The agent was the stuff of mythology, a proverbial lone wolf who could survive and inflict havoc for weeks behind enemy lines with no trace of ever having been there. It was years of training, but it was more. Logic dictated some fierce, bulging warrior appearance, but if you ran into the agent in a supermarket back home…well, the last person you’d expect. Because the most invaluable trait was that one-in-a-million mental makeup you can’t teach. Even at the moment of the killshot, the agent’s pulse never budged.

Code name: Foxtrot.

Desert Shield was launched. Kuwait liberated. They called Fox-trot in for new orders. The “Shield” became “Storm.” The invasion of Iraq. First business: Control the skies. Ill-trained Iraqi pilots were no issue. The real danger came from anti-aircraft ground radar directing surface-to-air missiles. Stationary sites were bombed to molecules. The problem was a handful of mobile radar trucks. By the time allied planes could trace the active ping, off they’d zipped.

Intelligence arrived. General headquarters location of a mobile squadron west of Mosul, trucks darting around at night, then returning to the concealment of a building or overhead netting, where they were protected by platoons of elite commandos.

Foxtrot’s mission: forward recon thirty miles beyond the nearest
other American. Locate the radar trucks using any technique available, then break radio silence with the airbase. When the F-16s were in range, Foxtrot would laser-paint the target. Only one problem. Once radio silence was broken, Foxtrot would also be a target. The plan had no escape clause.

The first moonless night, a two-seat special-ops dune buggy dropped the agent in a sea of sand. It took most of the evening for Fox-trot to avoid Iraqi patrols and cover the remaining ground on foot until the first lights of Mosul danced along the flat horizon. Then two more hours flanking quickly in the cool night desert, following the sounds of the returning radar trucks and confirming the base with a night-vision scope.

Time got tight. A hole was quickly dug as the sky began to lighten. Camouflaged cover fashioned. Foxtrot burrowed in with the radio and laser. The plan was rolling smoothly.

Then the wheels came off.

FOXTROT

L
angley, Virginia: one year after the mission in Iraq.

Brown, leafless trees. Scattered crusts of snow dotted the shoulders of the parkway as spring began its thaw. A sign at the heavily guarded entrance:
CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
.

The low building sprawled. Somewhere deep inside, another black-box debriefing. This one had the tone of unofficial reprimand that would never see ink. Foxtrot sat respectfully and listened to the long table of superiors.

“You violated protocol.”

“The mission was in your hands.”

“You’ve never hesitated before.”

“Why didn’t you shoot the civilian?”

The questions weren’t intended to be answered. Foxtrot’s pulse was like a day at the beach.

“The directive is more than clear.”

The purpose of the directive was to eliminate tough calls by making them ahead of time. The tougher the call, the greater the need for an advance decision. Then, all that remained was reflex.

This was one of the toughest calls of all, but that’s why they call it war. Foxtrot was too good to be detected in desert surveillance, except by accident: Always a slim chance that some peasant or farmer with world-class bad luck might stumble upon the one-person bun
ker and become curious about its camouflaged cover. The directive: If he lifts the cover, shoot him with a silencer-equipped sidearm, and pull the body inside with you. They’d gone over it dozens of times.

“What the hell happened?”

They expected an answer this time.

“Everything was going by the book,” said Foxtrot. “Then the sun rose…”

…The sun rose out of the eastern sand with wavering lines.
Lawrence of Arabia.
The Anvil. Foxtrot switched to regular binoculars. Substantial Republican Guard presence but none the wiser. American planes already in the air. Just waiting for the word. A laser dot hit the side of a building; a hand reached for the radio.

A nearby sound. Right flank, five o’clock. Foxtrot turned toward a slit in the camouflaged lid. Vision was obscured, but one thing was certain: not military. Dammit. Foxtrot switched off the laser and slowly rolled over, bracing the pistol for a mandatory head shot if the unfortunate civilian raised the cover. Perfectly still. Seemed like forever. Sandy footsteps.
No, please, don’t…

Dusty hands raised the camouflage. Foxtrot’s pistol aimed right between the eyes. For the first time ever, a skipped heartbeat. The trigger finger wouldn’t respond. The civilian ran off sounding the alarm.

“Son of a bitch!” Foxtrot leaped from the hole and looped an arm through the laser backpack, then raced straight for the radar compound, radio mike in hand:
“…Bravo, Foxtrot. Deliver package…”
The radio was flung aside. The screaming civilian had troops scrambling out of buildings. Foxtrot ran straight for them. One of the Iraqis saw the apparition sprinting out of the desert. He began shooting, and the others joined in.

Bullets raked the ground at Foxtrot’s feet. In the distance, an approaching roar of F-16 Falcons, pilots on the radio. “Where’s that laser?”

The radar compound deployed two jeeps with .50-caliber mounts. The desert became alive with bursts of sand exploding all around Foxtrot, who never broke stride toward the trucks. Straight at death.

The direction and sound of the jets said they were five or six seconds out. Foxtrot dove belly down onto the sand and aimed the laser. The .50-calibers had been erratic from bounding over the dunes, but now the jeeps hit a flat stretch, and one of the gunners drew a bead. The strafing started sixty yards ahead and ripped through the sand on a direct line that would cut Foxtrot in half headfirst. The bullets reached fifty yards, forty, thirty—Foxtrot’s right eye stayed glued to the laser sight—twenty, ten…the first guided bunker bomb hit. The concussion blew the gunners into the air and upended both the jeeps. Debris rained.

Back at the base, a bird colonel inspected videos from the F-16s’ onboard cameras. Total success. But where was Foxtrot?

“Presumed killed in action,” said the classified report.

Three days later, a security detail of U.S. soldiers chatted at a checkpoint on the Kuwaiti border.

Someone suddenly appeared right beside them.

“Shit!” They fumbled for M-16s before recognizing U.S. gear under all the filth. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“Can’t tell you that,” said Foxtrot.

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

The story ended. People at the table shook their heads.

“Jesus,” said Special Agent Denise Wicks. “I don’t know if I’m more pissed off by your insubordination or because the mission succeeded despite it.”

Foxtrot didn’t speak.

“Stand.”

The agent did.

Wicks walked over. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” She pinned a medal for valor on Foxtrot. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

Then she unpinned it and put it back in her pocket, because the mission never existed.

They sat back down. Officialness over. Time for smiles.

“So, you’re really leaving the service?” said Wicks.

“Doing the same thing too long. Thought I’d try something else.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t know yet,” said Foxtrot, thinking back to the unforgettable face of that civilian in the desert who’d stumbled upon the camouflaged nest. A five-year-old girl.

“Where do you think you’ll go?”

“Guess back home to Tampa.”

TAMPA

T
he sun waned on the grimy part of town past the old railroad depot. Two dozen men fidgeted in an alley of broken glass and blowing newspapers.

Serge had called another wildcat team meeting of Non-Confrontationalists Anonymous. He had his new video camera, and he was pumped!

If only they could get started. Serge had never met people with so many questions. Why did they have to wear costumes? And makeup?

“Because they’ll give you the anonymity to role-play like you couldn’t otherwise. Plus the comic relief of the outfits I picked—Well, if my hunch is right, I may just strike a previously undiscovered chord with the rest of the country, make a killing on the Internet and leave my legacy.”

“Where’s the moderator?”

“He’ll be here any minute,” said Serge. “Please, take your places…. Coleman, you ready with the camcorder?”

“Ready!”

Serge took a seat in a director’s chair, raising a homemade cardboard megaphone. “And…
action
!”

Two of the group’s members squared off like a pair of kids on the
playground who’ve never fought before. Lots of dancing around, then the occasional, awkward punch that only swishes air.

“Come on!” Serge yelled into the cardboard tube. “Fight!”

Five more minutes of passive jockeying until one of the timid swings accidentally found a cheekbone.

“Ow! Bastard! You hit me!”

“I didn’t mean to! Are you okay?”

Wham.

“You hit me back! You fuck!”

“Sorry, don’t know what got into me.”

Wham.

“Perfect!” shouted Serge. “You’re getting the hang of it.” He turned to the rest of the group waiting against a brick wall plastered with rave-club flyers. “Okay, everyone else in!”

“But…”

“Get over there!”

They reluctantly joined the first pair. Another slow start. But the alley’s close quarters precipitated more accidental punches, leading to deliberate ones. It grew nasty, the way only amateur hour can. Kicking, biting, hair-pulling. Then they went off Serge’s script, picking up garbage cans, pipes and bottles.

“Coleman! This is incredible! You getting it?”

“Every second.”

An Escalade drove up.

“Jim,” said Serge. “You’re late.”

“They’re killing each other! What the heck’s going on?”

“I’m curing them.”

“Serge!”

“There’s still time for you to get in there—”

“We have to talk.” Jim stepped aside. Someone flew by into a pile of boxes. “I can’t take this anymore.”

“Take what?”

“I saw on TV about that business at the railroad tracks. Why did you do that?”

“Me?”

“You’re saying you didn’t do it?”

“Jim, Jim, Jim, you must have more trust.” He reached in his pocket. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Free tickets.”

“Serge! Enough’s enough!”

“I know you’re upset right now. But think of Martha. Those tickets were expensive. You’ll have a great evening.”

Jim pushed them back. “If you want to do a favor, just leave us alone.”

“But those tickets are guaranteed to help with your bedroom problems.”

“I—You can tell?” A bottle smashed against the brick wall next to his head. “How’d you know?”

“Just use the tickets.”

Jim took them and began reading. “What’s this special service about?”

“I can’t spell
everything
out for you….” Serge raised the megaphone. “Phil! No cement blocks!”

GULF OF MEXICO

The G-Unit used to stay on board when the ship reached port. Didn’t need the hassle of those insane Cozumel crowds. But then something changed, thanks to Steve and his footloose friends. A reawakened zest for life. They bought stylish sunglasses, purses and bright floral dresses from the ship’s galleria. Laughter filled their stateroom. Hurricane glasses clinked, quarters tumbled into slot machines. Edna became a regular at the waterslide.

Then the ship hit port, and the G-Unit was first in line, casing security procedures.

“I see a crack,” said Edna. “Everything goes through the X-ray for safety, but they only spot-check at the declarations table.”

“We’ll exploit it with our age.”

They raced slow-motion down the gangway, hitting Mexico like
spring-breakers. Bustling outdoor markets, cafés, snorkeling lessons, nightclubs. Then they returned to the ship and smuggled duty-free Kahlúa past security without question.

The gals locked the door to their cabin, and the room filled with giddiness.

Knock-knock-knock.

“Hide the liquor!”

Another knock.

“…Just a minute.” Edith eventually opened the door a slit. “What do you want?”

A steward smiled and cradled a bottle in a towel.

“What’s that?”

“Champagne.”

“We didn’t order any.”

“It came with a card,” said the steward.

Edith grabbed the bottle and envelope.

The steward smiled with tip-ready hand. The door closed.

“What is it?” asked Eunice.

“I don’t know.” She set the bottle on a table and tore at the envelope.

“What’s it say?”

“Will you wait?” Edith opened the card:
FROM YOUR SECRET ADMIRERS
.

“Who do you think?”

“I have a strong suspicion.” Edith twisted the wire harness off the cap, stuck the bottle between her legs and grunted.

Pop.

“Ow!”

“Put ice on it.”

TAMPA

The headless body at the railroad tracks wouldn’t go away, thanks to the press.

Politics rolled downhill from the mayor to the police chief to the
unfortunate agents in charge of the case. That would be Sadler and Mayfield. Both excellent homicide veterans, both overweight. In their spare time, Sadler liked to build scale model planes from scratch, and Mayfield didn’t. It never came up.

The detectives had started the investigation with two desks, a shared phone and the distracting noise of a busy police office.

“What kind of a sick place are we living?” said Sadler. “This mess with the train, plus those nine deaths the FBI still hasn’t solved.”

“We’re not supposed to talk about that,” said Mayfield. “The press can’t find out.”

“They’ve already reported it.”

“They reported the individual deaths. But they’re just not supposed to know they’re connected.”

“Think
this
is connected?”

“Who knows?”

The TV affiliates wouldn’t connect the nine deaths for some time, if ever, because it involved reading documents. The decapitation, on the other hand, was made to order for sweeps week. The mayor felt the heat, and otherwise austere resources flowed.

A task force was tasked. Fifteen top investigators reported to Sadler and Mayfield. They got a conference room and a water cooler. Phone company people installed new lines. Handcarts arrived with stacks of cardboard boxes: the victim’s court records and his mobile home contents. Agents began unloading. Others cleared bulletin boards of thumbtacked suspect photos from the last task force. A rookie dumped a handful of RICO mug shots in the trash.

Sadler walked seriously toward the front of the room. “Listen up everyone. We got a nightmare and no leads. Just a partial fingerprint from a pillow in the victim’s mobile home. The lab guys are working on it. Meanwhile, we’re starting from the beginning.” He waved a thick stack of pages. “This is Bodine Biffle’s record. We’re going to track every codefendant, known associate, girlfriend, relatives, neighbor, and anyone who worked with him at Moving Dudes. I want to know if his dry cleaner had a parking ticket….”

The room grumbled.

“Quiet down,” said Mayfield. “If the answer’s here, we’re going to find it.”

Into the afternoon: tedium, coffee, sandwiches, guys standing to stretch. Bulletin boards filled with fresh index cards. Investigators opened more boxes; others called out hundreds of potential cross-references to the rest of the room. No matches.

One agent peeled through recent receipts. “…Luck Pawn, Payday Check Advance, Caribbean Crown Line, Hubcap Emporium—”

“Back up,” called an agent on the other side of the room. “Did you say, ‘Caribbean Crown’?”

“Right.”

“What is it?” asked Sadler.

“Sir,” said the second agent. “We had someone go missing a few weeks back on a cruise out of here.”

“Thousands sail from Tampa every week,” said Sadler.

“This one had a rap sheet,” said the agent. “And his body parts washed up in the mangroves at Terra Ceia.”

“What ship?”

“Serendipity
.”

The other agent looked up from his cruise receipt.
“Serendipity
.”

An hour later, everyone at the bulletin boards. The life history of the missing cruise passenger took shape: crime jacket, phone records, stolen Diner’s Club—each shard of his existence assigned to a separate index card.

Someone pulled a card off the board. “Think we might have something. The motel where he stayed before boarding the cruise.” The agent called a name across the room.

Another agent at another bulletin board: “It’s a match.”

“Excellent work,” said Sadler. “Still a long shot. Travel agencies often bundle the same motels with the same ships. But worth checking.”

Mayfield came up and grabbed one of the index cards. “More than worth checking.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Sadler.

“I know this place. It’s a shit hole.”

“So?”

“You won’t believe who owns it.”

“Who?”

Mayfield had just told him when a breathless detective with a computer printout ran into the room. “Sir, database got a hit on that partial fingerprint.”