Terminal Justice Read online

  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.

  “There she is,” Greeny said excitedly as the image of a large metal behemoth loomed on the monitor. “We got her.”

  “Easy, Mr. Green,” Odle said firmly. “Let’s play this by the book. Take her aft, and let’s see what name’s painted on her.” Greeny complied by directing Snoopy to move laterally along the hull toward the rear of the sunken vessel. “She’s listing hard to port.”

  “Looks like she impacted stern first,” he said, his excitement supplanted by a swelling sense of apprehens
ion. Seconds passed sluggishly as the little submarine pressed against the current. Moments that seemed like eons later, the two men saw the stern. One of the two propellers lay in the silt by the ship, the port prop was not visible anywhere. “What could separate the propeller from the shaft? And look at that hole.”

  The hole in the ship’s hull was large, and it was clear that it came from an internal explosion. “Take her up and back,” Odle commanded, choosing to ignore the question. Greeny complied quickly, and Snoopy responded without complaint. The image of the ship slowly shrank to allow a greater view of the stern. The white painted words Sea Maid soon appeared. Both men gasped, not at the name of the ship, for it was the ship they were searching for, but at the sight they couldn’t have expected; a scene they had never seen before, not even in their nightmares.

  Not waiting for a command, Greeny slowly caused the ROV to move closer to the vague apparitions that emerged on the screen. He did so, not out of courage or some latent macabre leaning, but for the need for emotional closure. He had to know if what he was seeing was real or imagined. He knew his superiors would ask questions, and he had to be ready with meaningful answers. So he pushed Snoopy forward, slowly forward, until he knew the truth with no shred of doubt.

  The image of the ship was secondary now, shrinking in importance in the light of the hideous vision before him. Greeny retched.

  “Easy, Lieutenant,” Odle said, quietly placing a hand on the younger officer’s shoulder. “Let’s finish our job.”

  “Aye sir,” Greeny croaked.

  Picking up the hand piece of the ship’s intercom system, Odle signaled the bridge. “We found her, sir,” he said when the captain responded. “But there’s something I think you should see.” Turning, Odle looked at the ghastly image on the screen and imagined what was happening fifteen hundred feet below the surface as Snoopy hovered a few feet away from the Sea Maid’s crew. Their bodies floated like balloons tethered to the ship’s rail, their sightless eyes staring into the abysmal darkness of the ocean bottom. Odle wondered about the kind of man who would do such a thing.

  The twenty-by-forty-foot room was filled with an eclectic assortment of sounds: squeaks, thumps, swats, and grunting. A.J. took his place between the two parallel red lines that had been painted on the highly polished wood floor at the center of the court. “Ready?” he asked.

  “As ready as I’m going to get,” David replied, taking large gulps of air and expelling them in massive pants. A.J. looked at the twenty-foot-high wall in front of him, pulled his racquet back, and in a fluid motion struck the small blue rubber ball in a vicious serve. The ball rebounded off the front wall and careened back across the red lines, bouncing to David’s right. David’s swing connected with the ball, sending it sailing to the ceiling where it ricocheted to the front wall and then down to the ground. A.J. sprinted forward and gave the ball a gentle tap so that it barely touched the front wall before bouncing weakly on the floor, making it impossible for David to return. David stood at the back of the court in disbelief.

  “That’s game,” A.J. said.

  “Is it just me, or does this court get bigger with each game?” David asked as he walked to the back wall and sat on the floor, still gulping for breath.

  “You’re just a little out of shape,” A.J. said kindly. “A few more games and it’ll all come back to you.”

  “A little out of shape? I’m dying here. And you,” David remarked, pointing his racquet at A.J., “are in great shape. Look at you! You’re not even breathing hard.”

  “Nothing like racquetball to keep a guy in shape. It involves more than your body; there’s a strategy to it.”

  “That’s why I gave it up half a decade ago. I couldn’t think and sweat at the same time.”

  “Don’t kid yourself,” A.J. said, joining David on the floor. “You show a natural talent. You simply have to spend more time here.”

  “If I spend any more time here,” David said, wiping his brow, “you’ll be burying your latest speechwriter.”

  A.J. chuckled. “Physical activity releases the stresses of both mind and body. We see a lot of abuse in the world, and that builds up emotional strain. I come here to work some of that off. I find I think better after hitting this ball around. Besides, the ball doesn’t hit back … usually.”

  “Yeah,” David said with chagrin. “I’m real sorry about that. I wasn’t aiming for your head. How’s the lump?”

  A.J. rubbed the back of his head. “It’ll heal,” he replied. “How about you? How are you adjusting?”

  “I’ll get my breath back in a minute, but I’ll be sore tomorrow.”

  A.J. smiled, “I meant, how are you adjusting to all the changes in your life? You’ve got to be going through some stress yourself.”

  “I’m managing okay,” David squirmed.

  “Getting used to living alone?”

  “It has advantages.”

  “It has disadvantages too. Personally, I love living alone … now. But when my wife left, it took me forever to adjust. I hated to go home, because there was no one to go home to. Just emptiness and loneliness.”

  “But you adjusted?”

  “I have a new wife now—my work. In most ways it’s a poor substitute, but it’s not without merit.” A.J. stretched his long legs. “Some people are cut out to live alone, others aren’t. You strike me as one who prefers living with another.”

  “I never really thought about it,” David said as he focused his attention on the strings of his racquet, straightening the misplaced ones.

  “Does it make you uncomfortable to talk about such things?” A.J. asked.

  “I suppose it does,” David chuckled. “Odd, isn’t it? I spent years in training and service to help others through their spiritual journey, which often meant counseling individuals and couples about their problems. And here I sit struggling with the same kinds of problems and I have no advice for myself. I guess I’m an emotional cripple.”

  “How many men do you know who aren’t?” A.J. asked. “Very few of our gender can deal with their own emotions. People can say what they want about a nineties kind of guy, but we haven’t changed all that much.”

  “You’re right, of course,” David replied. “But that still leaves the problem.”

  “Let me ask you this: If you could change anything about your life right now, before we leave this court, what would it be? Short of wishing that none of this ever took place, I mean. What would you change about yourself right now?”

  David inhaled deeply and thought. “That’s a deep question, A.J., and I’m not sure I have an answer.”

  “Give it a try. I promise not to chisel it in stone.”

  “Confidence, I guess,” David replied quietly. “I have moments of total, abject insecurity. I’ll be going along fine, working at the office, but then as I drive home, I’m seized by a feeling that I will never again be able to do something worthwhile. That everything that happened—my wife leaving, my resigning the church—is all my fault. My reason kicks in and says, ‘Bologna, you’re not at fault,’ but I still feel that I am. And then there’re my emotions.”

  “What about your emotions?” A.J. prodded.

  “They’re confused.” David crossed his legs and leaned forward. Sweat dripped from the tip of his nose. “There’re too many of them at times: anger, remorse, joy at my new job, regret, fear. They all pour in at the same time.”

  “I understand,” A.J. said. “I felt the same way. We’re very much alike, the two of us. We both have a need to do a work that is both meaningful and lasting, and we both lost our wives. I lost mine because of my self-centered stupidity, you were an innocent victim.”

  “Can anyone be innocent in a divorce?” David said solemnly.

  “My wife was, and you are too. It’s not fair. It stinks. But that’s life.” A.J. bounced the ball on the floor in a consistent rhythm. “Even if you were at fault, you still have a future. The way you feel now will pass. The more you face the future, the easie
r it will be to remember the past.”

  David said nothing. He felt uncomfortable sitting on the floor of a racquetball court discussing his problems with his boss. He wondered if it was wise. Employers seldom liked whining employees. Still, he knew that if anyone could understand, it was the man sitting next to him. A.J. had walked the path that David now found himself traveling and had succeeded in forging a new future.

  “Do you remember,” A.J. continued, “when you told me I had to get in touch with my passion when I give a speech? You told me to be free to express that passion, to bare a bit of my soul. Well, I’m giving you the same kind of advice: You need to feel free to … well, feel. Face those emotions, David. Ask them questions, challenge their right to be in your life.”

  “Challenge them?”

  “Sure. Just because you feel something like guilt doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re guilty. Do a little self-discovery. You have too much to offer the world to sit around feeling sorry for yourself, David. We need you, buddy. And you need yourself. Does that make sense?”

  “It does. Thanks.”

  A hard knocking sound reverberated throughout the court. Both men got to their feet. “It sounds like our hour is up,” David said. “We had better surrender the court to the next crew.”

  “It’s been a good hour. Let’s do this again.”

  David laughed. “You’re assuming I’ll recover from this workout.”

  “You’ll recover,” A.J. said with a broad grin, “and not just from racquetball.”

  9

  “YOU LOOK NERVOUS,” A.J. SAID CALMLY. “I’M THE one giving the speech, and I’m not nervous.”

  “The problem of empathy,” David replied. “I’m nervous enough for both of us. Besides, I’m not used to wearing a tuxedo and standing shoulder to shoulder with all these important people.”

  “You look good in a tux, and as far as being among important people, all I can say is that everyone is important. The only difference is that these people are rich. Which is a good thing, since I’m about to ask them for a lot of money.”