Fusion: Power Unlimited

By William F. Conklin

Alex Markov, a 27 year old Polish exchange student to the United States has discovered the secret of converting nuclear fusion to electrical power. Whoever controls the process will effectively control the world. An international cabal is determined to capture him or kill him. The United States Navy is tasked to protect the young man and choose Tony Ringer, a retired Navy man who operates a fleet of charter boats to keep him under wraps. Tony takes Alex aboard Willful Witch, his personal sailing yacht. A trusted State Department attache is also a member of the cabal, and knows where Markov has been hidden. The story builds on a series of attacks by hired thugs, international operatives and a Cuban Mig jet fighter. Tony's contacts in world shipping help him foil the attackers searching for him in high speed boats, but it is a matter of time before they find him.Tony eliminates one attack boat with a hand grenade, and shoots down the Mig jet with a heat-seeking missile rigged to Willful Witchs mizzen boom. Alex is an idealistic peacenik who adds to Tony's problems by attempting to deep-six Tonys store of weapons. In the first attack, Alex is wounded while trying to surrender. The attempt on his life has a profound effect on kim. He forgoes his naievete and takes the threat on his life seriously. He realizes that his notoriety brings danger to others. He disappears over Witch's side during a storm at sea. Tony at first assumes that Alex must be dead, but later finds that Alex had taken his snorkeling gear, two hand grenades and a life preserver with him. These figure in Alex's resolution, revealed in the last chapter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 13, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469112183

William F. Conklin

William F. Conklin is a retired Navy fighter pilot with combat in Korea and Vietnam. He and Mrs. Conklin have lived on boats for twenty-five years. Both hold Merchant Marine Master's licenses. Mister Conklin is the founder of Conklin Marine, a school for mariners and of the Chesapeake Area Professional Captains Association, both in Annapolis, Maryland. He has contributed articles to Sail, Boating, Oceans and other magazines since 1973. He won two awards for short stories in 1997 and is the author of Nautical Rules of the Road Explained, sold by BoatUS in their stores and catalog. He and Mrs. Conklin now live in Naples, Florida where he has had three short stories published in The Naples Review. He is a member of Mensa and Intertel.

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Copyright © 2000 by William F. Conklin.

Library of Congress Number:           00-192091

ISBN #:                 Softcover             0-7388-3678-8

                              eBook                  978-1-4691-1218-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

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in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Prologue

Annapolis

Chesapeake Bay

Maryland Inn

Council on Foreign Affairs

Cockrell Creek

Under Siege

Dismal Swamp

Brochette D’Agneau

Elizabeth City

Albemarle Sound

Solent Enterprise

Cat Cay

Monsieur Henri

The West Forty

Fishnets

Grand Bahama Island

Little Bahamas Bank

Cuban Mig-17

Overboard

The Destroyer Barquist

The Potomac River

M.V.Adirondack

Willful Witch

Epilogue

Prologue

Scientists continue to search for a source of cheap, safe power. Nuclear fusion is the most likely candidate, and billions have been invested in the search for a process which will release its potential. Claims of such progress appear periodically, usually to be disproved. Each time someone claims progress in harnessing the nuclear fusion process, it strikes dread into the hearts of world leaders, for whoever first controls this process, be it a nation or an international cabal, will have such power that they would be free to work their will over the rest of the world. But who can be sure that the discovery has not been made, and hidden—hidden for fear of the world chaos which would surely follow?

Annapolis

Across the Severn River from the United States

Naval Academy the Annapolis Naval Station quietly accomplishes administrative support functions for the Academy. Every week day, the quiet is broken by the pop, pop, pop of small-caliber rifle and pistol fire as young midshipmen are introduced to their first weapons, 22 and 38 caliber small arms, but this late summer afternoon in 1970, some local residents were startled to hear the thurrump of a hand grenade, the whoosh of a rocket and the sharp crack of a high-powered rifle. The range was deserted except for three men: a range safety officer, (a nervous two-striper named Wilkins); a civilian, (definitely) a strapping twenty-something, sporting a black beard, so black it flashed red; and a slightly older man whose body fat, his doctors said, registered below three percent. Lt. Wilkins referred to the older man as Commander, although it seemed unlikely. Tony Ringer had been a commander once. He deserved the title even though he looked more like a sailor of fortune with his blue dungarees, blue chambray shirt and white boat shoes. He didn’t look like a commander, but there was no doubt that he was the boss.

Look, Josh, he said to the big bearded guy, the hand grenade is the most powerful weapon you’ll have on your boat. I’ve saved my boat from being boarded by pirates just by going topside and showing one of these. If that didn’t work, pulling the pin with my teeth usually did, but when the enemy has you outnumbered, they tend to be foolish. That’s when you toss that baby into their laps. Now, try another one.

Wilkins piped up. Jeez, Commander, can’t you just have him throw some duds? This noise is going to cause problems with the locals.

Ringer ignored the Lieutenant. The Superintendent of the Naval Academy was an old shipmate, now a three-star admiral, who knew that Tony Ringer’s unique occupation gave the United States Navy information about the sea that was unavailable through CIA or Naval Intelligence. Tony had his permission to use the firing range. The admiral would handle any complaints.

Josh, you can use the rifle for sniping, and the pistol against an armed man, but they’re no good against a boatload of armed thugs. They’ll out-gun you. So let ‘em come alongside, then break out the grenade. Here, take this. With the pistol in your left hand, pull the pin with your teeth. Now, pretend that bunker is their boat. Toss that baby into the cockpit.

Josh lobbed the grenade by straight-arming it in a perfect arc. It landed squarely in the bunker. He and Tony Ringer ducked, but the Lieutenent stood, looking around as though the nosy neighbors were descending on the range. Tony dove at his feet, a full tackle just as the harrumph blew sand and shrapnel over the area. God, Wilkins. Some range safety officer.

Jesus, Commander. Wilkins said, brushing the dirt off his blue uniform. We never use those things out here. Just small arms.

Tony Ringer hoped silently that the Lieutenant planned on a civilian career, hopefully not involving personal danger. Wilkins, would you like to try tossing a grenade? Probably get you over your nervousness.

No, thanks, Commander. You two go ahead with your artillery.

Josh, Tony said, ‘This shoulder-launched rocket, this bazooka, will knock out a large boat or a small ship out of range of small-arms fire. The problem is, you have to know the ship is an enemy, a luxury you seldom have. More likely, you’ll have to let the bad guys get into hailing range—hand grenade range. Still, it’s a damned good feeling having this weapon aboard. Besides, there’s something about rockets that appeals to me."

Boss, the big guy retorted, Am I going to ever use these weapons? I’ve been sailing for years and the only threat I’ve had was a boat load of drunken Mexicans off Yucatan, and they backed off when we showed a sixteen gauge shotgun. Never fired a shot.

You were lucky, Josh. There have been thirty two small private yachts reported missing in the Caribbean alone over the last five years. People are naive. Especially Americans who only think about the glamor of sailing into the sunset. Just the other day a Morgan forty-one sailed into Key West with fourteen bullet holes in the hull. The owner had been approached by some Hippies flying a skull and cross-bones. The stupid bastard got scared and decided he’d put a shot across their bow. Jesus! A shot across the bow was used as a warning in the eighteenth century when a forty pound cannon ball made a splash as big as a house. The Morgan skipper fired a thirty caliber rifle. No splash, no warning, no reason. The hippy boat heard the shot and returned fire with everything they had. I couldn’t believe it when the skipper of the Morgan complained to us at the Key West Yacht Club Marina, ‘I just fired a shot across their bow. I just wanted to warn him away.’ It never occurred to the dumb bastard that a rifle slug made no splash. The Hippie boat thought they were being attacked. It’s a wonder no one was killed. The guy had a wife and kid aboard. He thought he was protecting them. ‘Shot across the bow,’ for god’s sake! Get real. Okay, Josh. Put a rocket into the third bunker from the left.

Josh hoisted the launcher onto his considerable shoulder. Tony turned his back to the launcher and saw the lieutenant standing fifteen feet away with his hands over his ears and his face scrunched into misery. Fire! he yelled and watched the lieutenant slowly open his eyes when the phooot! of the rocket sent the dud warhead into the bunker with a disappointing dull thud.

Tony said, Okay, Lieutenant. That’s all for today. You can have your firing range back. He turned to Josh and said, Let’s get our weapons into the truck and find us a steak. They drove out of the Naval Station, stopping while the Severn River lift bridge opened to let three sloops, a ketch and two motor cruisers, which muscled ahead, through the open span.

The older man started speaking quietly. Annapolis was the capitol of the United States in 1783, Josh. The Continental Congress met here. It’s been the capitol of Maryland since 1694. One of my favorite places.

When you’re ashore, you mean.

Tony let that one fall quietly. His experiences ashore were bad memories mostly. He remembered the year he’d warmed a chair at a desk in the Bureau of Naval Personnel sweating out the medical evaluation board which had decided he was no longer physically capable of carrying out the duties of an active duty naval officer.

I’ve been busy, Josh. I now have five boats in my fleet. Soon I’ll add Vara with you in command, then more boats until we cover the globe. I expect to have ten or eleven in the fleet by 1975. There’s a growing demand for hiding places. We’ve had the son of an Emir, a Mafioso witness, an Irani professor. A lot of people who’ll pay to drop out of sight and change their personas. A few weeks at sea on a small boat can change a man physically and mentally, so much so that they can often start a new life with little chance of being recognized. What we want is to have enough boats and remote hiding places ashore so we can shuffle them around quickly. There are a lot of tricks to the trade that you’ll learn when you need them.

Boss, I could stand to lose some of my identity as far as the state of New York is concerned.

You’re in the right business, Josh. They won’t come looking for you out there, but it works both ways. As soon as your boat leaves the dock, there’s no more police cruisers, highway patrol; you’re on your own. When you get beyond the sea buoy, a few miles out, you’re in international waters, and international operatives could care less that you’re in a U.S. vessel. I was off the Yucatan peninsula two years ago when I was approached by some turtle fishermen. Oh, they were friendly, all right, until I wouldn’t turn over my weapons. The hand grenade gambit got me out of that one.

Turtle fishermen? Josh asked, I thought Mexico outlawed turtle fishing in the Yucatan.

They did, Josh, but there’s no one out there to enforce the laws. The descendants of the Maya have lived on the coast there for centuries. No roads, no communications. It’s a cabbage patch and fishing boat subsistence society that can capture a private yacht, toss the owners overboard, and no one will ever know what happened.

Tony drove the old Dodge pickup, following the line of traffic backed up for the bridge opening, past the Naval Academy gate, then turned left on King George’s Street and wound his way to the city market where he parked between a Jaguar and a BMW. The two men walked to the waterfront, a narrow inlet lined with fishing, working and pleasure boats, a goggler’s paradise, where tourists and locals linger and dream their individual dreams of the boating life. A forty-foot cabin cruiser with a man piloting from the fly bridge glided into the basin from their left. A dark-haired very striking woman in her thirties looked out over the instrument panel. Josh whistled softly and looked to see if the boss had caught the scene.

"Watch this, Josh. Let’s see how this guy handles the turn-around at the end of the basin.

The Chris-Craft glided silently, engines at idle until within twenty feet of the seawall, then a backing whirl of water from the starboard screw made the bow ease right and the boat slowed, then stopped. It then started to back; the port engine went ahead, and the boat pivoted neatly in its own length, a nice one-eighty, and she slowly headed back out of the basin.

Well done, Tony Ringer proclaimed, then turning to the younger man, You just observed why they call this basin ‘Ego Alley.’ The human’s need to show off can be used to advantage in our business, Josh. You can count on it.

I see what you mean, Boss.

The two men walked silently, reverently, past some three hundred year old buildings lining main street, as natural in their settings today as they had been centuries ago, when ladies and gentlemen of Anne Arundel Town strolled leisurely in their Sunday finery. Now the hustle of the seventies was less peripatetic and more push and shove. Still, walking up Main Street in Annapolis was a treat to those able to savor the history and charm of the old city. They approached O’Brien’s restaurant where a sign promised the visitor the best steaks and seafood. Both men turned in as one, pushed open the door to the bar and sat at the only two vacant bar stools. A gruff voice rang out. Hey! That’s my seat. Tony turned to see a giant of a man with a huge shaggy head looking down on him. Josh immediately stood, ready to step between his boss and the threatening stranger, but Tony grabbed him by the arm and said, Sit down, Josh. You can’t afford to get into a fight.

But, Boss. . . . he replied.

It’s OK, Josh.

The stranger stepped back and said, I’m not talking to him, I’m talking to you, little man. He grabbed Tony by the shoulder and spun him around, but before Tony was half way around, he dropped off the stool into a crouch, grabbed the brute by the waist, lifted with his legs until the man was on his toes, then kicked the man’s legs out from under him. The man crashed onto the floor with a room-quieting thump. He lay there, not moving, trying to catch his breath, unable to rise. The hush in the room began to be broken by a hum, then a babble, as the crowd realized that the little, older, seemingly powerless man had put the bully out of action and now stood quietly waiting for the intruder to make the next move. But it wasn’t to be. The man on the floor coughed weakly, then tried to sit up. He was able, with some effort to roll over on his side, then decided that the best way out of this situation was to crawl toward the front door. The maitre d’, a large man in a blue suit, shirt, tie and jacket leaned down to help the man toward the door. Each time the man tried to rise, the maitre d’ expertly guided him out the door before he could get fully to his feet.

Jesus, Boss. That was beautiful, Josh said. He shook his head in disbelief. A few of the customers started to applaud, but Tony Ringer held up his hand and the applause stopped. The hum of conversation returned, now excited and animated where it had been quiet and subdued.

The maitre d’ returned and approached the bar. I’m sorry, Sir. He’s a trouble maker. I dare say he won’t be around here to face this crowd for some time. Are you all right Sir?

Yes, of course. I’m sorry about the fuss.

"He won’t be back, but I should warn you that he might lie in wait for you when you leave. He’s a coward, really, but a powerful man at that, and not above trying to catch you unawares, so to speak.

I’m Angus Swanson, the owner."

Tony Ringer, Mister Swanson. What part of England are you from?

Sussex, Mister Ringer. Littlehampton, Sussex. Have you been to England?

I have, Sir, several times. I know the area well and have some good friends there. By the way, this is my friend, Josh Hingham."

How do you do, Mister Hingham. I would be pleased if you would both be my guests. I have a table available in the dining room.

The two followed him into the dining room. They both welcomed the darker room where they could be out of the limelight. Swanson sat them at a corner table , left two menus and