Wading Out

By T. Vincent Beck

Wade Nash is retired after forty years of clandestine service to his country, and boredom is setting in. As he questions if he retired too soon, a series of explosions three miles north of Wade’s hometown of Flagler Beach, Florida, settles the question. Terrorists strike the special ops group Wade recently commanded, and the nephew of the President of the United States is killed in the attack. The president asks for Wade and his wife’s assistance to apprehend the terrorists and expose their violent motive. When Wade delves into his investigation, he discovers a group of high-profile individuals attempting to sway the upcoming election with the aid of Russian involvement. Surprisingly, the lives of everyday people pave the way to a violent dénouement as Wade’s “boring” life is immersed in life-threatening peril.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Nov 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781684712960

Book preview

 11/13/2019

CHAPTER 1

I T WAS FIFTEEN MINUTES TO midnight when I slipped out of bed as quietly as possible. Some strange, unexplainable feeling had taken over my sleep, waking me for a reason I could not understand. Deciding to walk out to my dock on the Intracoastal Waterway, I grabbed a bottle of Modelo Negro beer as I passed through the kitchen. I hoped the alcohol would settle me down and I could soon find sleep again. As I walked out onto the dock in my bare feet, I could feel the uneven texture of the wooden surface more than usual. The hurricane we’d experienced a few months ago had left its mark on most of us in its path in a variety of ways.

There have been a lot of changes since that storm. A big one was that I no longer sleep alone. Within a very short span of time not long ago, I had met, fallen in love with, and married my soulmate, Diane Mason, now asleep a hundred feet away in our bedroom. Her breathing, a bit raspy but not quite a snore, has become a comforting sound to me. And her last name is no longer Mason because she took my last name as her own. I’m Wade Ivan Nash.

I just turned sixty-three years of age, stand six feet, one inch tall, and tip the scale at one hundred eighty-eight pounds. For my age, I’m in pretty good shape. Maybe better than pretty good. I joined the best fighting force in the world after high school, when I turned eighteen—the United States Marine Corps. Starting out as a grunt, I worked my way up to an 06 Colonel, and although still attached to the Marine Corps, much of my duty consisted of working in a special clandestine service—men and women dedicated to ensuring the safety of our country.

To this day, I cannot talk about much of what I did or where it happened. But I can say that I still hold the best record for solving crimes in the history of the special group I was a part of most recently and had a stellar record before that. I have, however, been known to bend the rules on occasion.

Eight years ago, I pulled the pin, as they say, and retired. Well, I guess I would say I was technically retired on some papers, but because during the last several years I worked in a top-secret group, my retirement came with training certain new people as they joined the group as well as monitoring the central east coast of Florida for suspicious or unusual behavior. Monthly meetings came with the deal in exchange for monetary and physical benefits, such as my car, presently an Audi A-6 turbodiesel. Perhaps the biggest benefit was working closely with a benevolent boss. Floyd Johnson was a man of supreme talent and intellect.

So why had I chosen to retire then? I had discovered the quaint town of Flagler Beach, Florida, between Daytona Beach and St. Augustine. My late wife, Catherine, and I had found a fixer-upper with a hundred and twenty feet of water frontage right on the Intracoastal Waterway and separated from the Atlantic Ocean by only a few other homes and a small golf course.

Catherine’s vision for our home’s remodeling had become a reality, but after we’d lived in our new location only five years, she was killed on Interstate 95, just eight miles from our home. A semi-truck with a mechanical problem had crossed the median, and … well, they told me her death was instant. So once more, my life changed.

With Catherine gone, I never considered relocating. I loved the area, but although I was technically retired, I was getting bored and wanted something else to do. As I fished almost daily and knew the backwaters around my home very well, guide fishing was a logical choice. I then branched out into taking folks on water tours. Sightseeing. Business increased rapidly, and luck had me find a business partner who made my life easier, only to find he would soon be leaving.

In the years following my wife’s death, I grew accustomed to a relaxed lifestyle … until there was a murder in my back yard, actually in the backwaters behind my house, two years ago. Suddenly, I was no longer retired. I solved that case and then broke up a sick, violent human-trafficking ring passing through our area. During this process, a specialist from England, a native North Carolina gal named Diane Rose Mason, came to help. We worked together well—after a week or so of competitive challenges. Then something happened to both of us. We fell in love. Yet more than that, we became soulmates. It was like we could read each other’s minds, and I did something I never thought I would do again. I asked her to marry me. And lucky me, she did.

With the help of many people, Diane and I had put a big dent in the human-trafficking trade going on here on the waterways of central Florida. In doing so, Diane came within a whisker’s width of getting killed. In the hospital that night, Diane and I married. A week later, as I’d promised her, we took off in a deluxe motorhome to see our beautiful country for three months.

As I thought about Diane and our trip, I walked to the end of the dock and sat on my favorite seat there, the end of the six-foot-long fiberglass locker box, secured to the dock with multiple screws. A good thing it was, too, as the hurricane would have otherwise taken it to places unknown. There was no storm tonight as I looked west and clearly saw the planet Venus making its way, following the moon. The water surface was almost mirror calm, the light of the moon dancing a shimmering pattern on its surface. A slight breeze off the ocean was just enough to keep the no-see-ems away.

I took a swallow of beer and breathed in the salty fresh air. A pair of dolphins blew at the surface just north of me as they made their way south. On the far bank, six hundred and sixty feet away, I could hear fish feeding, probably big gator trout after mullet. The world was a beautiful place at that moment.

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During the murder and human-trafficking investigations, my home and dock had been our team’s base of operations. But while Diane and I traveled on our motorhome tour, the government had procured property for a new base location just north of the bridge on State Road 100, in the town of Flagler Beach.

The story I heard was that a man of considerable wealth had previously bought the land, which was situated on the east side of the waterway. He’d had it dredged, had several docks built, and planned to open a marina business there. Not only would he have sold fuel and groceries at the marina, but he had also secured two floating houseboats there. His idea had been to rent those out, and if the idea had worked, he would have had more built. That was many years ago, though. Nobody seemed to know what happened to the man.

When the government took over, while Diane and I were on our motorhome tour, it became the base of operations used by the people I worked with. The outfit I had supervised and had made many decisions within had been run by Marco Rodriguez since I retired (again) four months ago. The pink houseboat was the group’s office. The yellow one was for the crew. It was an ideal setup.

When Diane and I got home from our travels, I also found out the crew had acquired two very fast boats, seized in drug trades in Miami waters. One in particular was a sixty-foot cigarette-style boat capable of speeds in the triple digits. Different armament was used now than when we’d started this operation, and Marco was doing an excellent job of setting the new operation in motion.

Ah, Marco, I thought. When Diane and I had left Flagler Beach on our cross-country trip, he called two or three times a day, every day, including Sundays. He’d had a lot of questions then and asked for advice all the time. A month later, the calls were more like three or four times a week. Soon, the calls were once a week, and the talk was mostly of a personal nature. What are you doing? and Where are you going next?

At first, I was glad the calls had stopped. And now? Hell, did I miss the action of the past year. When I was involved, I wanted out. Now that I was out … Well hey, buddy, you’re the one who quit. Get used to it. I still have my charter business and fishing trips, thanks in large part to my partner, Bobby Joe Green. It’s just so damned tame and simple compared to the months before beginning my second attempt at an easygoing retirement.

And then I thought of Diane and how she was almost killed. And the many close calls I’d had over the years. And I knew I’d made the right decision. I just had to get my mind in the right frame now.

Vickie Asher, Marco’s girlfriend, had called earlier today. Marco was in London at a meeting about human trafficking, and somehow the entire group was quarantined. It was a bit like Legionnaires’ Disease but not as severe. The majority of the attending members had become ill, showing high fevers and intestinal problems. The latest word was they thought it was a food-contamination issue, but they were not totally sure, so all were quarantined for the next three to five days. It wasn’t life-threatening, so while Marco was away, Vicki and Diane planned to do a shopping trip to the St. Augustine discount mall and see something at the Peabody Theatre in Daytona Beach.

As I continued to sit on the dock, the stillness was interrupted by the bull croak of a giant blue heron sitting on the boat lift of the house to the north of me. I didn’t see him until he croaked and opened his wings, gave a flap, and settled in for the night. I was smiling, thinking what a wonderful place I lived in, when it happened.

Off in the distance to the north, about where the bridge crosses the Intracoastal, I saw a brilliant white-orange flash. That flash was followed moments later by another flash more brilliant and intense than the first. The thunderous double booms soon reached me. Oh hell, those explosions are severe. Whatever it is, we have a major problem in town. I didn’t feel the rough texture of the deck boards as I sprinted to the house as fast as I could. Somebody had a serious problem, and I was going to find out what had happened.

CHAPTER 2

A T SOME POINT, I DEVELOPED the habit of taking off my shoes when I enter my house. My well-broken-in running shoes sat next to a wicker chair in the hall connecting the garage to the house. I always wore socks with them, but my socks were in the bedroom, and I didn’t want to wake Diane, so I just slipped the shoes onto my bare feet. As I tied them, I had a sudden thought that if I didn’t wake Diane and tell her where I was going, we could have our first major argument. Hmmm. Should I let her sleep? Wake her? How would I feel if the roles were reversed? I headed for our bedroom.

My brain came up with a scheme on my short travel down the hall. Whisper to her you have to leave, I thought. If she mumbles, I am in the clear. It must have been that half of a beer I drank that came up with that idea. I opened the door and saw her bedside light on, illuminating Diane as she sat on the side of the bed, tying her shoes.

Facing away from me, she said, I heard the explosions and heard you running back to the house. I knew we had to go. I’m a little surprised you didn’t wake me first, before you put your shoes on, she added, turning to give me a questioning look.

I, uh, well … I got excited. Uh, you ready?

We took Diane’s Mustang, and with her driving, we made the three miles to town in record time. Utility poles flashed by as the sound of sirens got closer. She turned onto State Road 100, sliding the rear of the car, a move I remembered they call a drift, then hammered the Mustang again just before hitting the brakes, forcing my seatbelt to dig into my chest and neck.

Which way, Wade? I see vehicles on the bridge and a glow of fire just to the north, on the ground.

Take the bridge, I said.

Diane pulled up behind a pickup truck near the top of the bridge, its emergency lights flashing and a guy standing by the open truck door.

As we ran up to the guy, he started yelling at us like we were deaf. Look, there’s a car that is going to fall over the edge of the bridge. I see people inside, but I’m afraid to go out there.

Just then, a fire truck pulled in behind us. I knew three of the guys on it. The crew chief came up to me, his eyes blazing, looking at the car hanging over the edge of the bridge.

Hey, Wade. Holy shit. That car’s ready to go over the edge. Look at it. It’s starting to tip even more. Look, the concrete is cracking behind the car.

As the car tipped forward a couple of inches, screams came from inside. It was easy to hear they were voices of two distinct people: a woman and a little girl.

If I crawl out there, Wade, that may just be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

Tom Nelson was fit. But he was well over two hundred pounds of solid muscle. I wasn’t much lighter, and I didn’t want to be the one written up in tomorrow’s newspaper as the guy who caused the death of two people, even though I probably wouldn’t be able to read my obituary.

Diane took a couple of steps forward and looked at Tom and said; Chief, get me two slings at least eight feet long. They have to be the same length. Wade, back my car off the bridge and get the pickup off, too. Chief, get your engine as close as you can to hook your front winch on the slings I’m going to put on that car. Let’s go.

Who the hell are you, lady? And I ain’t the chief.

Tom, this is Diane Mason, er, my wife. Do what she says before it’s too late.

Tom stared at me then looked at Diane. I was about to tell him to get his ass in gear when he said, OK, Wade. Charlie, get me two ten-thousand-pound slings. Those yellow ones in locker three. Bring them here.

I said to Tom, "Have one of your guys move Diane’s car. The keys are in it. And get that truck backed down. We don’t have much time, the way it looks.

When Tom took off at a run, I turned to Diane and said, Honey, if you die, I am never going to forgive you.

"Relax, big guy. I’m not going to die. I’m going to take the winch clip and tie myself to it. Be like Aaron Rodgers, who tells his football fans, ‘Relax.’"

I stripped about eighty feet of cable from the front winch on the fire engine. Diane made a loop on the end and slid into it, securing it snugly. It was far from an ideal way to secure herself, but we had little time as the car nosed down another couple of inches, accompanied by more screams. As the vehicle hung precariously over the edge, we could see the reflection of flickering flames on its windshield. I knew the fire was burning below, at Marco’s team’s base of operations, as we heard other fire trucks fighting their way to it.

Pulling the slings behind her, Diane crawled to the left rear wheel of the car, slid one of the slings over the tire, then slipped one end of the sling through the other eye and pulled it snug. She had a choice now: Either she could take the winch end off of herself and secure that sling—which would be strong enough to secure the car in case the concrete collapsed but would entirely expose herself to mortal danger—or get the other sling on first. Tom and I watched her slide out of the winch end and secure the car then roll over and do the same thing on the right wheel, thus securing both slings to the winch cable. As she worked, I said a prayer, a rarity for me.

OK, take the slack out, shouted Diane.

Diane, get your ass back here, I said in a controlled voice I thought had abandoned me.

Not until I know these slings will hold. Now get that slack out, guys.

In less than a minute, the cable was tight. Diane slid under the car again, head first, with the gas tank just above her head. Should the concrete give way, she would be crushed in an instant. The slings looked secure, so she scooted herself from under the car then walked back to Tom and me. I was hyper, watching Diane in danger, but the car was stable and would not fall to a fatal ending for those inside. When Diane got to me, she turned toward the car, and she yelled, Ladies, your car cannot fall to the ground, but it can tip more. Just sit tight, and we will see what we can do to get you out of there.

The winch started to turn, and the car, a late-model Honda Civic, began its journey back onto the bridge. The bottom of the car scraped its way to safety until it came to the front wheels and stopped. The front wheels were well below the surface of the road. The angle was wrong, and the winch was not strong enough to bring the car back any farther.

Diane said, Get me a harness and secure it with a rope strong enough to support me. And a hammer. I’m going to get those people out of there, Chief.

Sweat poured off Tom’s face as he said; Maybe we should wait. That car won’t fall now.

Diane replied, Wait for what? What if it’s an old lady who is having a heart attack? Wait for daylight? Get me the damned harness, Chief.

As Tom ran to the fire truck, I looked at Diane and said, When we get home, you’re gonna get a spanking, lady.

Promises, promises. You say the sweetest things, honey.

I just shook my head.

A minute later, secured in a harness attached to a half-inch nylon line, Diane walked out to the car, climbed onto the trunk, then yelled into the car,

I’m gonna get you out. How many are in the car? Is anybody hurt?

We aren’t hurt. Just scared to death. I thought we were going over the edge. I really did. I’m Brenda, and my daughter, Cassie, is in the seat next to me. Cassie is five years old. She is not in her car seat. I was going home, and she fussed about the seat, so I just let her sit in the front. I’m sorry.

That’s OK, Brenda. Here’s what I want you to do. Both of you, lean forward and close your eyes and cover them with your hands. I’m going to break the back window and glass will fly all over, but it’s OK. Then I’m going to take both of you out. Cassie first. Got it?

The back window shattered into fragments with just a couple blows from the hammer Diane swung. Getting Cassie out was easy. She probably didn’t weigh forty pounds and like most young children was limber enough to slip through the window with ease. As Diane easily carried Cassie to the safety of the fire truck, the child held on to Diane’s neck and wrapped her skinny legs around Diane’s body. One of the men picked Cassie up, but she started yelling she wanted to stay and watch her mama get out of the car. The fireman stood with the little girl as Diane walked confidently back to the endangered car.

Brenda was more of a challenge. Not much over five feet tall, she weighed a few stones more than Diane. It wasn’t easy, but Diane pulled as Brenda did all she could. Soon, she was through the little opening the rear window allowed and was able to walk to the fire truck and her daughter. The car had never moved.

Tom said, I’m curious, ma’am. How did you manage to turn into the side like that? Did you have a blowout on your car?

No, sir. I was driving careful because Cassie wasn’t in her car seat. I was going less than forty miles an hour when there was a giant flash and an explosion just ahead of me on my side of the bridge. Just then, something hit the front of my car on my side and knocked me to the right. I must have blacked out, because when I woke up, Cassie was crying and had a bloody nose, and I could see we were hanging over the side of the road. My car was pointing kind of down, and all I could see was a reflection of fire on the surface of the river. I got Cassie calmed down then got my rosary that hangs from my rearview mirror and together, we prayed. And God answered.

Look, Tom, I interjected, the concrete from the side of the bridge has been blown onto the road. Something big and powerful hit the outside of the bridge. I saw two flashes. Maybe a missile strike or somebody planted a bomb. This car isn’t big enough or strong enough to plow through the rails. There’s a big section of the walkway and safety rails missing.

You said something hit you from the side. Did you see what it was? Diane asked Brenda.

No. Just a blinding flash and the hit. I think it was coming over the bridge from the other way, going into town, but I’m not sure, Brenda said. Two paramedics arrived with wheelchairs, and soon mother and daughter were on their way to Flagler Hospital to be checked over for any injuries.

Tom and I continued our investigation of the bridge using powerful handheld spotlights. As we did, Diane walked to the south side of the bridge and started walking down eastward, into town. Her flashlight searched for a skid or other unusual signs. She was near the bottom of the bridge when she saw it. Grabbing her phone, she pushed button number one, a connection to me.

She continued to walk, faster now, as the phone connection was made.

Wade, I think I found out what hit Brenda. There’s a pickup truck halfway into the side of the Sun Trust Bank here at the bottom of the hill. Wade, it’s Bobby Joe’s truck.

CHAPTER 3

B OBBY JOE’S TRUCK WAS ACTUALLY my truck. I owned it and insured it, but he had exclusive use of it. I knew I’d heard Diane right, but for some reason, it didn’t make sense to me. He was a reasonable and sensible driver, and if it was him, what was he doing out so late? He was usually in bed by ten.

It didn’t take long for me to run down the hill and slide in beside Diane, who was standing next to the driver’s door, talking to somebody. A decal on the door displayed the words NASH OUTDOORS. Even before seeing the sticker, I knew it was my truck.

I pushed closer to Diane, crowding her a bit out of the way, and looked inside. In the dim light, I could see Bobby Joe was awake but in a lot of pain.

Bobby Joe, how bad are you hurt? Can you unlock the door? I asked as I was pulling on the handle, trying to open his door.

Nuttin’ works, Wade. I tried the horn and opening windows, but nuttin’ works. I think da battery connection done broke off.

I looked at Diane, who was on the phone, barking out orders as only Diane can do when she has to. I heard her say ‘jaws of life’ in her conversation.

Diane got off the phone and turned to Bobby Joe. Help is on the way. Palm Coast has two units that will be here in a few minutes.. Hang in there, Bobby.

How’d this happen, Bobby Joe? I asked.

"I rightly don’t know, Wade. I was at Sharon’s house. I taught her how to play a card game, twenty-five hundred, and her daddy took a shine to it. I was cleanin’ the grill at da restaurant, and Niko was there. We was jest talkin’. Sharon called and asked if I could come over and play cards. Her daddy was gonna order a pizza. I tol’ her not until after eight, but Niko heard and tol’ me to go have some fun. Most of da work was done anyhow, so I went.

"We’d only played one game when da pizza came, and we stopped to eat it. I only had one beer, Wade. And only ‘cause her daddy likes to have a beer with me. He likes me a lot now, but I guess you know dat.

So I git to da street dat runs next to da bridge. It runs under it and goes to da boat-building place; you know da street I mean?

Yeah, Lambert Street, I think it’s called, I said.

"Well, den a truck pulled out, right in front of me, and I had to hit my brakes real hard. He never stopped fer da stop sign. I tink maybe he was drunk.

"I was gonna blow my horn, but den I thought, I don’t want no trouble with a drunk. I stayed back a little. He got to da top of da bridge and stopped. Den he started blowing his truck horn and stuck his head and arms out of his window. It looked like he was takin’ pictures. I know, it don’t sound right, but dat’s what it looked like.

Den all of a sudden, there’s an explosion, an’ it looks like it’s at the new security place da boys are at now. It’s a big one. Jest before it exploded, I was passin’ da guy. He starts yellin’ and steps on da gas, an’ dat big truck hit me on my front fender on da right side. It knocks me clear to the lane on da other side, and a car is coming up the bridge. Jest before I hit dat car, a big explosion went off on da edge of da bridge. It was a giant bright flash, an’ dat’s the last thing I remember until jest before Diane got here.

It was a big truck? What kind of big truck, Bobby Joe? I asked.

I dunno da name. It was a big ol’ jacked-up pickup. Ya almost need a ladder to get in da thing.

I was calling a BOLO on the truck when a Palm Coast rescue unit pulled in behind us.

My truck or Bobby Joe’s truck or whatever was buried in the building just past the door hinges. Taking the door off to get to Bobby Joe would have been very difficult. But this group knew what they were doing. Within minutes, they built a tube frame over the cab of the truck. Then over that, they spread and secured a special blanket designed to protect one from falling debris. While that was taking place, two men hooked the Toyota to the fire rescue vehicle. They pulled the Toyota free of the bank wall and had Bobby Joe in the ambulance in no time. He hurt all over, so we had no idea how severe his injuries were.

I’ll call Niko, Bobby Joe, I said.

Thanks, Wade. I’ll see you tomorrow, huh?

I looked at my watch. It was 12:25 A.M. Let’s make it later today. Do you want Diane to go with you? I asked.

Nah, I’m good.

As the ambulance pulled away, I called the home of Sharon Stone. Her father, Hiram, answered on the second ring. I gave him a brief rundown on Bobby Joe’s injuries as I knew them and heard Hiram call out.

Ethel, wake Sharon. Bobby Joe’s hurt and in the hospital. We gotta go. Hurry now. He needs us.

I thought, Funny how a bad storm can also bring good things, too.

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Diane drove as we attempted to reach the new security base but ended up walking a quarter mile to get to it. Roads littered with debris and broken concrete are not meant for Mustang travel.

We got there in time to see firefighters wrapping up hoses and the police challenging anyone getting near the office, which was the pink houseboat now singed black from the blast.

We showed our badges to a young rookie Flagler County officer who looked at us suspiciously and walked us to a group of guys standing around then asked if any of them knew us. In the group were Ryan Adams and Chet Puller, guys I had worked with before. We shook hands and were introduced to a guy from the Daytona News Journal. I asked him to please leave as I had confidential information to discuss. He was good about my request, saying he understood, and walked off. We walked into the singed pink building, which was now missing windows on the blast side.

You guys know I’m retired, but I am just trying to put this all together. I was on my dock when I saw one explosion and just seconds later, a bigger one. I guess you guys were here. What can you tell me? Maybe we can put this together and give Marco a heads up. By the way, he’s quarantined in London for a few days. Some virus thing.

Chet spoke: You know Freddie D., Wade. Dalyrimple.

Of course. Is he OK?

No, not really. The second explosion sent a shovel flying, and it caught Fred in his right ankle and took his foot off. Well, not off, but it’s hanging by some skin is all. He was walking out the door when he got hit with the damned thing.

Damn. Some of these docs can do a lot of things today they couldn’t a few years ago. Let’s hope for the best, I said.

The worst of it, Ryan Adams added, is our new captain got killed. Do you know about him, Wade?

I heard you were going to get somebody from the military, but I didn’t know who or exactly how he was going to fit in. Since I’m retired, I don’t get all the dope any more, and that’s as it should be.

Ryan said, His name was Ron Stefaniak. A really nice guy. A tough son of a bitch, too, I’ll tell you. He was only supposed to be here a couple of days, but with Marco getting sick and quarantined, he had to stay until Marco got back. When the bomb went off under the LP tank, it took a leg off the tank and blasted it through Ron’s chest. He was dead before he hit the ground. Man, what a shame. He had a wife, Vickie, and three girls.

We heard he had some kind of connection to the White House, but he never said, Chet added.

So what happened in what order? asked Diane.

Hold on, I said. Do you boys have a recorder? We don’t want to tell our stories more than we have to.

Yeah. I’ll get it, said Chet, who then walked across the room and opened a cabinet above a desk while I walked to the other side and pulled down a cone-shaped drinking sleeve and filled it with cold water. Anybody want a drink? I asked, looking at the