The Breach Read online

  THE BREACH

  Edward J. McFadden III

  www.severedpress.com

  Copyright 2017 by Edward J. McFadden III

  “We cannot prevent equilibrium from producing its effects. We may brave human laws, but we cannot resist natural ones,” Captain Nemo, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea

  1

  Mother Nature was still undefeated.

  The ninth hole tee box stood above the floodwater like an island, and trees and bushes climbed from the dark water and cast spiderlike shadows across the flooded golf course. A dinghy was tied off on the signpost, showing a diagram of the ninth hole, and the Zodiac slapped against the water as it bobbed on the temporary sea. Insects buzzed and chirped in rhythm with the distant waves, and somewhere a seagull squawked. Marine cop Nate Tanner took a pull of bourbon and thought of all the drives he’d shanked from where he sat.

  The night was dark and damp and the air smelled of rot. Clouds obscured the stars, but stray beams of moonlight shined through gaps and reflected off the Great South Bay. A light fog floated just above the floodwater like a carpet, and Tanner felt like he could step off the tee box onto the plush rug and walk to the station out on Wood Point with the mist seeping between his toes. He took another pull of Jack Daniels and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Four days had passed since the storm hit and most of the news vans had left the island, but the destruction remained. Hurricane Tristin was a bitch, and she had slapped Long Island harder than any storm ever had. The Category 4 nightmare that displaced half the population, knocked out all utilities, and turned large sections of the south shore into Little Venice, would take decades to fully recover from. Landfall was a direct hit, and the wind and flooding left everything east of New York City crippled.

  Tristin made landfall on August 24th, 2019, at approximately 12:59PM, and Tanner recalled every detail of the harrowing night. The storm tore a quarter-mile hole in Long Island’s southern barrier island, and the Atlantic Ocean poured through the breach into the Great South Bay, which was technically a lagoon. Long Island endured sustained winds of over one hundred and fifty miles per hour, and suddenly Tanner felt differently about the extra expense of hurricane strapping in home construction. Strict building codes helped save the day, and though many houses had damage, most still stood. The wind had been the worst part for Tanner. It found every crack and weak point. Wind can’t be stopped, and given enough time, like water, it proved to be one of Mother Nature’s most powerful weapons.

  Pale light leaked from the top of the marine command tower and spilled across the floodplain that had been the third and sixth holes. The tower was manned, despite the lower level of the station being flooded. Tanner saw the dark silhouette of Kipper’s head in the window. Wood Point Golf Course surrounded the station on two sides, the bay and a canal on the other two. Tanner and his crew did their best to fortify the seawalls around the station, but the storm surge had been too much. He’d retreated, though the station survived the worst beating the brick structure had ever been exposed to.

  Tanner tossed back more whiskey and recalled the night his life changed. It had been almost a year—he’d shot a boy, arrested a senator, and Audrey left him, all on the same night. It was like every bad thing he’d ever done came home to roost at the same time. Then came Tristin like a bad rebound: mean, jilted, and ready to wreak havoc.

  Something swam past, but he couldn’t make out what it was. Most likely an odd duck out for a swim in the dark. All the animals had been acting strangely since the storm and Tanner figured their circadian clocks were off like his was because he couldn’t sleep for more than five minutes at a clip. When he closed his eyes, he heard the howl of the wind and running water, and he’d wake drenched in sweat.

  Tanner raked fingers through his hair, jerked his head side to side, and rolled his shoulders, trying to crack his neck. He failed, and pain shot down his spine to the tips of his toes. His chest was ice, and as he took another pull of booze, his stomach gurgled and protested the lack of food. The last four days seemed unending, and he was tired, unshaven, and in need of a shower and sleep. In the morning, he and his crew would continue the arduous task of clearing the bay of major impediments, while the coasties worked to get the buoys set and the major waterways open. The Sound led to New York Harbor, and despite the south shore of Long Island taking the brunt of the hurricane, most of the Coast Guard units worked the north shore to ensure the Sound was passable.

  A high-pitched hum rose above the roar of the insects and Tanner’s ears rang. It sounded like a massive cicada, except it had a dolphin-ish quality, a gentle squeak that clicked just below a rising buzz. The water around Tanner’s little island rippled, and the gentle two-inch waves lapping over the grass grew to a foot. Breaking whitecaps sloshed across the tee box and rushed over his boots.

  A mountain of churning whitewater rolled toward Tanner.

  The smell of rotting flesh and seawater washed over him, and Tanner staggered back, his vision blurred. Trees moved and swayed, shadows danced, and the rumble of rushing water grew. Thick clouds sailed overhead, the night grew darker, and the dancing shadows disappeared like phantoms. Bay water mounded above the floodplain as if Poseidon himself climbed from the depths to remind Tanner he was the god of all waters, not just the oceans.

  Tanner dropped his bottle, jumped into the dingy, and pulled the motor’s starter cord. The waves grew in height as the sea advanced in a roiling knot, and the sound of the giant cicada drowned out the other insects. Pain lanced Tanner’s back as he strained to start the engine. The motor sputtered as he pulled the cord harder and faster, but the engine only choked and popped.

  When Tanner was a boy, his dad told him stories about the Vietnam War, and how sometimes doing nothing was the smartest thing, even when facing great danger. Take a breath, count to ten, run through your protocols, then act. He remembered telling his father how crazy that sounded. You’re drowning, or being chased, and you stop to think? With the chase example, his dad admitted no, you wouldn’t stop and think, but the rest of the time his advice was solid.

  Tanner counted, pulled the starter cord, and the engine caught and roared to life. He untied the guide rope and slid the throttle switch to maximum. The Zodiac churned like a brick through the water, passing trees, bushes, the tops of ball washers, and signs. A fist of water trailed behind the boat, and Tanner jerked the outboard’s control handle left. The boat arced right as the ten-horsepower Merc screamed and clawed at the floodwater.

  The fog grew thick inland, and it was hard to avoid floating debris and low areas. The trailing mound crested, and the push of water lifted the boat and drove it forward as Tanner hunkered down. Dry land crunched beneath the boat and Tanner leapt over the gunnel onto slick grass. He slid a few feet, his arms outstretched for balance, and skidded to a halt beneath a thin oak tree. The whitewater dissipated like a bubble below the surface had burst, and floodwater rushed over the grass and around the trees.

  The high-pitched clicking ended with a deep, hollow grunt that was replaced with a skittering sound that reminded Tanner of cockroaches. Thousands of crabs poured from the water, scuttling over tree roots and grass as they rushed to escape the flood. Blue claws and hermits climbed over the slower-moving horseshoe crabs and headed for the trees and dry land.

  Tanner ran, hit his head on a branch, and went down like a sack of potatoes.

  “You alright?” his mother asked, her face in a halo of white.

  “Not really, Momma,” Tanner said.

  “Well, suck it up, buttercup,” said his mother as she faded, and he faded with her.

  2

  The day was clear and cool, but a rank salty-shit breeze permeated the air like the scent of smoke after a fire. Tann
er’s head pounded. He had to stop getting banged up. His worn-out body just couldn’t handle it. At forty-two, his binge-drinking days were behind him, but since Audrey left, he’d been trying to rekindle his love of booze and was failing miserably.

  He drove slowly through the tunnel of fallen trees and debris that lined the side of the road. It brought back memories of his youth, when Gloria tore across Long Island. Tanner and his friends built an intricate fort and tunnel system through the debris piles, and he remembered how disappointed he’d been when the dump trucks came around a month later to fully clear the road and destroy all their hard work.

  A commercial jet lumbered overhead, leaving a white streak and a rumble of thunder. The plane stood out; MacArthur Airport had been closed to commercial flights for four days, but now was open and a limited schedule of flights had started.

  The water along the shoreline receded overnight, but not enough to make any difference because the tide had been brutal.

  “Oh, shit,” Tanner said. The captain’s white Tahoe was parked on the grass next to two boats lying on their keels, motors up. Tanner had moved the main base of operations for the marine division to an old post office at the edge of the flooding. The red brick structure hadn’t been used for years, but its sturdy mid-century construction left it standing tall amidst the destruction. It was set back off the first unflooded road to the north of the swamped golf course, and small craft could travel with ease out to where the larger boats were tethered to the PD station and its makeshift docks.

  It was almost 10AM and the captain was going to give him a tongue-lashing for being late when so much needed to be done. When he saw the chief talking on his phone and pacing back and forth, he knew his day, which hadn’t been anything special so far, was about to get worse. He’d decided to keep what he’d seen… what he thought he’d seen the prior night to himself. Nothing good would come of telling anyone, even if it hadn’t been a whiskey-induced dream.

  Tanner swung his battered Jeep in next to the boss’s car and got out. “Morning, Captain. Sorry I don’t have coffee ready, but I—”

  “Save it,” the boss said, “and open this door before I lose my shit.” Tanner complied. “Where you been? Don’t tell me sleeping another one off.”

  Tanner said nothing.

  Captain Terry Quinn and Tanner went all the way back to the academy, and if it wasn’t for Quinn, Tanner would have been fired long ago. The man had eyes as hard as rocks, and twice as cold. When Quinn looked at you, it was as if your mother herself was giving you the stink eye. Above his hard eyes, thick eyebrows knitted together, and a dark caterpillar mustache made his face look fat. Quinn was a good man, and a good cop. He didn’t like screw-ups, and at that moment, that’s what Tanner was, but something in the captain’s face made Tanner think the sweet scent of opportunity might be on the air.

  Once inside the old post office, they took seats around a folding table that served as Tanner’s desk, atop which sat all the stuff that had come in the last couple of days that he hadn’t looked at. The captain picked up a sealed envelope. “My written orders from two days ago.” He held the envelope up as evidence.

  “Don’t you have someplace more important to be?” Tanner asked. “Half the island is underwater and you’re worried about me being on time to gather driftwood? What’s up?”

  “What’s up is you’re an idiot. Why don’t you answer your phone?”

  “Dead battery.”

  Quinn sighed. “What about your radio?”

  “I forgot it in the car.”

  “You forgot? You sound like my teenage son.”

  Tanner was getting pissed. “I don’t have time to play wet-nurse with you today. I’ve—”

  “Zip it,” Quinn said. “Did you know three people are missing on the bay? Three separate vessels?”

  That shut Tanner down. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. Pain throbbed down his back, and his stomach sank like he’d just jumped from an airplane.

  “What? No wiseass comment?”

  Tanner said nothing.

  Quinn slid a file across the table and Tanner stopped it with his palm. “Not much there,” Quinn said. “Clammer’s wife said he left at his normal time and never came back, and two recreational boaters scouting through the wreckage have been reported missing. Aerial has done a full overhead, and they think they spotted three debris fields, though they weren’t certain on one of them. There’s a lot of hurricane debris in the water. You can see in the pictures that—”

  “I’ll be going out there, don’t need pictures yet,” Tanner said.

  Quinn just stared at him, breathed deep, and said, “Jurisdiction technically falls with the Coast Guard, but they’re stretched so thin, boaters taking unnecessary risks won’t be high on their priority list. So I think marine division should lead. But not you.”

  “Why?”

  “You got no capital. You’re an Italian bank. One step out of line and the jet-ski gang will bounce you. And what if there’s something to this and your mug ends up on News 12?”

  “Don’t give me that shit. You were there that night also, sir, or do I need to remind the world?”

  Quinn’s face puckered. “Don’t threaten me, dipshit, or blame me for where you are. You want to be cutting up tree branches with a hand saw? I know that’s nothing next to busting the hardcore criminals out on the bay. Little girls taking seventeen-inch fluke.”

  Tanner laughed. It was funny. “I’m the aquatic crime scene expert. That’s one reason I’m here. I’m not asking for special treatment, just fair treatment.”

  “You embarrass me on this and you’re done. No more soft landings and cozy morning coffees on the bay checking fishing licenses. You will be done. Are we clear?”

  Tanner nodded, but said nothing.

  “Are we clear!”

  “Yes!” Then in a softer tone, “Sir.”

  “Find out what happened. Make it fast, because you may be needed inland,” Quinn said. “What’s the status of the fleet?”

  Tanner’s eyes shifted to the floor. He didn’t know. “We’re still evaluating, but we have Big Boy, our forty-two footer, and three SAFE boats ready to power out. Two of the smaller center consoles actually floated inland and were found basically where they sit out front. We use them to go back and forth to the station.”

  “What’s it like out there?”

  Tanner shook his head. “Ain’t pretty, sir. Not pretty at all. The tower is useable, but to get to it, you have to climb through a second-story window because the first floor is still flooded.”

  “You OK?” Quinn asked softly, now using his friendly tone.

  “As well as anyone else. This one really kicked the snot out of us.”

  “Sure did. The cost estimates are off the charts. Our grandchildren will be picking up after this bitch.”

  Silence fell between them, and that’s when Tanner knew something else was up, something his old buddy hadn’t told him yet. Quinn could have called him about the missing persons, and usually when the small talk was done, Quinn would be back on his phone and hurrying to get someplace he didn’t really need to be. Tanner let the silence hang there. Like when someone farts and everyone in the room pretends not to smell it.

  Quinn coughed softly, and that’s when Tanner knew it was coming. “One other matter.”

  “I’m getting a raise?” Tanner said.

  “You’ve been busted down a rank for that shit you pulled with the woman over at Davis Park last year.” Quinn breathed out, like a brick had been lifted from his chest.

  “Bullshit.”

  “Not bullshit. It was all I could do to save your ass. She wanted you fired. I had to agree to bust you down a rank and give her a stack of PBA cards for her and her friends. How many petty larcenies and speeding tickets will never be now because of your bullshit? You’ve become a real nut-sack.”

  “You’re a riot, Alice. A real riot.”

  “You grabbed her ass,” Quinn said.

&n
bsp; “She wishes.”

  “With the reduction in rank comes a pay cut. Stay straight and when everything blows over…bad choice of words. When everything quiets down, and Ms. Layborn forgets all about you, I’ll see what I can do about getting you reinstated. Technically, Randy is in charge now, but I don’t care what you two do. I think it makes sense for you to stay in command, but the official word is you’ve been busted down and he’s in charge.”

  “You did all this because you love and cherish me?”

  “Don’t mess around. Now’s not the time. Keep me appraised. I expect to hear from you by sunset at the latest.”

  3

  The Johnson outboard gurgled and shook as the eighteen-foot Boston Whaler inched across the flooded golf course, causing a mini-tsunami that gently rolled through the trees and shrubbery not fully submerged in the floodwater. Tanner had the motor tilted up in case it got shallow, and the lower unit sucked air and struggled to take in the water needed to cool the engine. Debris floating just below the surface could damage the outboard, so he was being extra cautious in the flood area.

  A line of geese flew south across the bay in a tight V-formation, trailed by seagulls and pipers. It reminded Tanner of the fall exodus that was still two months off. The scent of salt-shit faded as he left land and its troubles behind. So he’d lost some money. So what. He already lived in a trailer park…well, what was left of it, anyway. His rank? He laughed. He was heading onto the bay, and that made everything all right.

  Randy Vernon stood next to Tanner, and there was no other person he trusted more. Because of his recent drop in the pecking order, Randy was now his boss. They hadn’t discussed it. Both men wore jeans, blue inflatable PFDs, faded blue Suffolk County PD work shirts, and were strapped with Glock 19s. Randy had a tight crew cut, but Tanner’s dark shoulder-length hair blew across his face and tickled his nose. King Quinn regularly pointed out that his hair was longer than was permitted, and Tanner would tell him to break out the tape measure.