Dark Beach - By Lauren Ash Page 0,20

he arrived at a security checkpoint of San Diego Military Base. Fluorescent yellow barricades. Marines with M-16’s. Barbed wire. A stern gate officer waiting to check people through. He felt his stomach tighten. There was no line, so Ron pulled up next to the officer.

“ID, sir.”

Ron handed over his driver’s license. “I don’t have my pass. I’ve been called down for the emergency.”

“You need your pass, sir,” the officer said dryly.

“I’ve been called for the disaster! It’s an emergency. Can you please check or call someone?”

“Sir, please pull over to the right.”

Ron parked the white rental car and waited, watching the officer at the gate, who was now on the radio. There was a tap on the window—another marine. “Sir, please step out of the vehicle.”

A team of men and dogs began to search his car. Ron received a full pat down.

“Get back in the vehicle now, sir.”

The gate officer called over to him, “You will have to go the pass and ID office, back down that way on the right. You may turn around, sir.”

“Fine.” Ron remained calm as he filed paperwork, provided fingerprints, and collected his pass from the office.

The gate officer ignored him as he drove back in.

He wound down the window. “Where do I go?”

“Straight ahead.”

The base seemed very quiet, considering the report Ron had received—that was, until he got closer to the water. An eddy of people—the odd firefighter, marines in camouflage, and plenty of other random workers—swirled around the docks. He parked and was escorted down to the scene in a white shuttle van. Venturing out into the whirl of workers, he strode toward the dry dock.

“Excuse me.” He stopped a marine who trotted by, weapon in hand. “Do you know where I can find the mechanical foreman?”

The marine pointed. “Up there, sir.”

Ron scanned the throng ahead, noticing a cluster of three men in white hard hats and fluorescent orange vests. “Right, thanks.”

All of the men looked very serious, pointing this way and that. A pronounced Kentucky drawl floated down from above. That’s my man, Ron thought, although they had never met in person.

“You must be Carl. I’m Ron.” He extended his hand. Ron had pictured him taller for some reason.

“’Bout time you arrived.” Carl gave his hand a firm shake.

“How bad is it?” Ron asked. No small talk; there was no time.

“One dead, two seriously injured, one minor injury. We have a dead sub in the water that needs to get out ASAP. The folks on this job are a bunch of carpenters.” Carl pointed to two lines of men on the primary and secondary hose team, all wearing full battle dress and self-contained breathing apparatuses. Ron knew this type of comment was normal for Carl.

“What happened?”

“An explosion in dry dock one, cause unknown. We were refitting a World War I destroyer. All Ah know is somethin’ blew, and when it did, it lit up a pile of five-inch gun shells. The debris then lit most everything else. A young welder down there died instantly. These boats aren’t labeled, not up to OSHA standards. Two men on a scissor lift got badly burned and are in critical condition. Some other workers have minor injuries.” Carl ran his hands over his face. “We managed to shut down all major systems, even with the serious damage, but that meant shutting down the whole utility, which also services the sub. We’re in hot water. This sub has got to go out—some emergency in the gulf. She’s mostly serviced. Ah’ve had them workin’ as quick as they can to clean up the mess, but it’s everywhere. The sub’s in dry dock two. The doors are stuck. They caught fire in the explosion.”

“Who do you have in?”

“Multiple crews, machinists, welders, riggers—you name it, we have it.” Carl pointed energetically.

“Well, just get me down there and I’ll take a look at those doors. I need plans, and a few men.”

***

“Look at that beauty. What a whopper.” John nodded toward the fillet of King Salmon.

“Do you like a sweet glaze? I’m thinking butter and brown sugar,” Jenny said.

“We’re easy,” John answered.

“I’m not easy, but yes, that sounds lovely.” Mrs. Coggington smiled, a little bit too wide, at John. They seemed to be getting on well—a bit too well, Jenny noticed. She glanced at their hands; neither of them wore wedding rings.

“So, where’s Mr. Coggington?” Jenny couldn’t help herself.

“Dead. But I was a missus for forty-seven years and I like being a missus now. Anyway, I guess you can call me