The Long Game

By Conner

San Diego Times Reporter Amy Radigan has discovered a plot to cover-up damage at the San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station. The deception could go as high as the Vice President and Amy must determine whom she can trust. Security specialist John Randall uncovers even more details and higher threats resulting attempts on her life and the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Raptor Books
• Release date: Sep 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9798986197791

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The Long Game

Ian Conner

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Black Raptor Books

© 2022 by Ian Conner

Originally Published Sep 20, 2020

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

FOR MY WIFE

WHO LOVES SCARY STUFF

...AS LONG AS IT IS DURING THE DAY

A better judge of character

is not the admirable deeds a person does

but

how compassionate a person is when

conditions around them are less than admirable.

Other books by Ian Conner

Solaris

Cardinals

Skadegemutc: Ghost Witch

Griffin’s Perch

Cooper’s Ridge

The Price of Partisanship

A special thank you to

Kristy

Who types and proofreads so much better than I do.

The Long Game

Ian Conner

Chapter 1

"O ceanside’s harbor is called The Jewel of the North. Says so right there above the bar."

James Quinn told Bill the bartender. Quinn’s barstool creaked as he stretched. Their discussion of the harbors in the area continued.

Ten minutes. Ten minutes to get from my slip to the open water. Quinn was animated as he spoke, Of all the harbors in the San Diego area it is deep enough to service small fishing fleet but were still small enough that the dock community is still friendly. The people on each dock know each other, almost all the boat owners on that dock and several others. Quinn continued.

In San Diego or Chula Vista, it could take hours to get out to open sea and truly sailing. Annually the Harbor District dredged the entrance pumping the sand back onto the beaches. The Marine Corps at Camp Pendleton had a vested interest in keeping the harbor mouth clear. Amphibious Assault Vehicles-AAVs from Camp Del Mar and other ships used the boat basin training guaranteeing that the harbor mouth was well maintained.

The facilities within the harbor were top notch. Concrete slips instead of wood. Ample bathrooms, restaurants and entertainment were available. Coast Guard, pump out facilities and dedicated Harbor Patrol. The yacht club was full of congenial characters that would be NUMA proud with a tiny fleet. It was the California version of a Rockwell painting. The Yacht Club was at the far end of harbor drive. Several of the yacht club’s founders had mortgaged their own homes in the late sixties to build the place. The club was simple, homey and friendly. Everyone knew everyone, like Cheers only real.

James Quinn sat at the bar nursing a beer and discussing the upcoming Emerald Bay cruise with Bill the bartender. Every summer many of the boat owners that belonged to the club sailed or powered over to Emerald Bay on Catalina Island off the California coast. It was collegial gathering of old and new friends harkening back to the 1960s style family vacations.

James, there’s a guy down at Marlinspike looking for ya. Tommy Allen told James as he entered the bar of the Yacht Club.

James slid a five-dollar bill onto the bar to cover the beer and a tip for Bill the bartender.

Marlinspike was a thirty-five-foot Bertram powerboat. James had her berthed at the end tie of H dock. He ran occasionally charters for folks who wanted some good fishing. Doctors and lawyers seemed to pass the word amongst themselves that James Quinn was the captain to go to for good fishing. Marlinspike was the boat to go out on. Quinn looked down the dock toward Marlinspike and saw a familiar figure waving to him.

James Quinn had been a fixture at Oceanside Harbor since age five. His grandmother is credited with stoking his interest in the sea. She would walk him along sidewalks of the harbor several days a week in his stroller then holding his hand as a toddler. He would stare at the boats and water in wonder. By age five he was sailing sabots, a tiny eight-foot racing boat. By eight he was crewing on local race boats. By thirteen he was busy with a boat repair business, hoisting his ninety-pound frame up sixty-five-foot masts in a bosun’s chair. James delivered boats up and down the west coast, as far as Cabo, Vancouver, and Hawaii. He was happiest on the water it seemed. Now at age 24 he was an integral part of the harbor, known by all. He didn’t need to advertise his expertise nor his business. If someone asked for help, his name was the one that invariably came up as someone who knew what to do or knew who was best to help if he couldn’t.

Hey Doc, is that you?

James yelled down the dock to the man standing next to Marlinspike at the end tie.

Chris Rogers waved back rather than yell at Quinn. He chose to wait for him to close the distance. H dock was quite long. Like most sailor Quinn walked in a slow deliberate manner. Rogers waited patiently. Like a lot of customers, Rogers was a doctor, an orthopedic spinal specialist. Rushing was not in his nature either. It was a happy coincidence that Quinn’s father was a patient of Roger’s.

How’s your dad? Chris Rogers asked Quinn as he got within earshot. I haven’t seen him in my office in a while. Rogers continued.

He hates needles remember doc. I will chase him into your office soon. Quinn replied.

What can I do for you? More water samples? Quinn asked.

Yes. That’s the idea.

Saturday morning good?

Rogers nodded.

Chris Rogers thought of himself as amateur environmentalist. He wasn’t the green peace, tree hugging crazies he saw on the animal channel, but he felt he was contributing to monitoring water quality. He collected water samples from the area out front of the San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station, SONGS for short, every month for years. He took them to a friend of his at the Scripps Institute of Oceanography for analysis. Rogers had gone out on Marlinspike with James Quinn for the past fifteen months. It was an expected gig between them.

I’ll see you this Saturday Doc. James told him.

They shook hands as they passed through the fate at the top of H dock. He held the gate open for a man James Quinn did not recognize. It was a neighborly thing to do and quite common in the friendly boating community. The man said nothing but nodded a thank you to them both. The man carried a backpack, not unusual for harbor folk. James gave the stranger a second suspicious look. Something bothered Quinn about the man. Quinn couldn’t put his finger on why, but the man was out of place. He was about to stop him and talk to him further when a voice from the Yacht Club balcony caught his attention. He turned away from the stranger and started towards the stairs leading up to the Yacht Club to investigate who was calling him.

Thomas McLaren had been hired to conduct surveillance on Doctor Rogers and his friend at Scripps. He had followed Chris Rogers from his Carlsbad office to the harbor on several occasions. He watched the meeting at Marlinspike with interest. He saw the water samples Rogers brought off the boat previously then followed him to the doctor to Scripps. Mike Smith was an oceanographer at the institute who Rogers met with monthly. He analyzed the samples and recorded the trends.

McLaren had reported his findings to those who hired him and been given some rather ominous instructions. His retainer and salary were quite substantial leaving little room for developing a conscious. Regardless that was not something he needed to worry about. He simply reported back and did what he was told.

What about Smith’s records? he asked.

That is being handled and not your assignment. He was told brusquely, "Concentrate on your task." They told him.

McLaren continued walking down the dock, whistling as went. He admired the boats as he walked, the sailboats in particular.

Sailing. That would be the way to go, peaceful, quiet, powerful. He thought to himself.

McLaren reached marlinspike unclaimed board without hesitation. The best way to blend in was to just act like you belong somewhere. That meant not hanging around and looking around. He quickly popped open the engine compartment hatches then carefully lowered himself down and looked around the engine space. McLaren spotted the space he was looking for and removed the backpack. He opened an internal storage space meant for storage in the engine space. He opened the backpack carefully on the explosive device inside the bag. He closed the bag, placed it in the space and replaced the cover. Combined with the diesel in the fuel tanks and explosive what create an inferno when it was detonated. He hopped out of the engine space and closed the hatches. McLaren hopped off the boat and made his way off the dock. It was Wednesday afternoon. If he had heard the conversation between James Quinn and Chris Rogers correctly Marlinspike was going to be out front of San Onofre on Saturday.

James Quinn was back on the balcony of the Yacht Club. He finished his discussion with Matt Balsam and dialed his dad cell

Hey Dad. Dr. Rogers says he wants you to come into his office. You were bitching last week about sciatica numbness. So go see him. James told his father.

Quincy senior I grumbled in response to his son’s directness. It was an attribute he had inherited from his father. A former Marine Connor Quinn brooked little nonsense. Neither did his son.

Okay Okay! Conner Quinn replied to his son.

Good! Your appointment is at three on Thursday. That’s tomorrow. Don’t be late.

James hung up the phone before his father could grumble. Ten minutes later Dr. Rogers’s assistant called confirm the appointment.

Mr. Quinn. This is Ayesha from Dr. Rogers office I wanted to confirm your appointment for the epidural injection tomorrow at 3pm. The young woman said.

Ayesha was a bouncy personality, and her energy was contagious.

Yes, 3pm. See you then. Conner Quinn promised he be there on time.

The following day Quinn Senior checked into the clinic in Carlsbad. Connor Quinn used his cane for balance as he stepped out of this Tacoma. He stared at the stairway leading to the orthopedist office. Once inside he began speaking with the assistant at the front desk.

Ayesha, he greeted the girl with the nod, isn’t it ironic that most of your patients are handicapped and you have a set of stairs leading to your office we have to go up? Quinn asked.

That fact is not lost on us? I should’ve replied with a giggle.

The back is the front of the building, and the site looks like but isn’t the front and the stairs were not well-planned. She shrugged.

Could you fill this out please? she asked.

Quinn took the form and filled it in.

This doesn’t give you the rights to my house or anything right? Quinn asked the girl in as a smartass tone as he can muster. Ayesha wore an obligatory smirk and told him follow her. She had Quinn fill out yet more paperwork, change into a hospital gown, and lay down on the procedure table.

Left L5-S1. Nurse confirmed with the doctor.

Heeeeyyy that’s cold! Quinn yelled as the nurse dabbed on iodine and scrubbed the area where he would be injected.

Chris Rogers entered procedure room and made his rounds.

Hey Doc, can hold up your left hand? Quinn asked him.

Rogers did so, looking at Quinn blankly with confusion.

Just checking. Quinn said in an attempt at humor and smiled at Rogers.

Left L5 S1. The nurse told him.

Ooooohhh Okay, now I get it. Rogers laughed.

Same drill as before, Conner. Small pinch. Rogers told Quinn.

Rogers injected a local into Quinn’s lower back then waited for it to take effect before he began the actual procedure.

Conner Quinn had arthritis in his lumbar spine and bone spurs that were pressing on the spinal nerves. The injections calmed those nerves and alleviated the sciatica in numbness he suffered from. The pain kept awake at night. It was an intense burning stepping pain that made sleep impossible. It is what made him go to Rogers in the first place. Quinn discussed the possibility a surgery with Rogers almost right away, the odds Rogers quoted Quinn of fixing the problem versus making it worse were not to his liking.

70/30 plus the fact a by you guys’ mistake can mean I’m stuck in a wheelchair. Thank you, NO! Quinn replied.

The spinal injections provided several minutes for relief. Quinn took advantage of the injections two or three times a year. He wasn’t a fan of drugs or pain. The irony that the procedure gave him a temporary docent both was not lost on Quinn as you lay there on the procedure table with his ass hanging out of a backless gown. Rogers moved with Quinn referred to as the contraption into position. It reminded Connor of the mechanism from the movie Contact with Jodie Foster. It was the Fluoroscope X-ray unit that allows Rodgers to guide a needle in between Quinn the spinal vertebrae to deliver the steroids and anti-inflammatories directly to the nerves. Those drugs allowed some relief from the pinched lumber nerves.

What’s it look like the back there now? Quinn asked.

The spur that is pressing on the nerve has grown. I can see why you might be in working lately. We will take care of that a moment. Rogers told Quinn.

After a moments preparation rogers injected drugs into the space between vertebra nerve. He withdrew the needle.

Doctor this pressure is dropping like a rock in his heart up too! the nurse told Rogers.

His heart has stopped. She said with a tinge of panic in her voice.

That phrase galvanized the room in action. The doctor assisting Rogers broke one over and pulled the smock off Quinn’s still body. Rogers wheeled over a defibrillator and shocked Quinn’s chest. His heart rate and blood pressure returned to normal almost immediately.

OW! Quinn said groggily.

He was looking up at Rogers’s who was checking his pupil function with a penlight. Quinn flinched away from the light.

I’m really light sensitive remember do! Why does my chest hurt, why am I on my back and more importantly why am I totally naked? Quinn asked.

We had a little hiccup during the procedure. Roger told Quinn.

Quinn looked over at the defibrillator his eyes widening because he realizes what it was. He surmised its use and why his chest hurt.

Hiccup, huh? How long was I out? Quinn asked.

Not even in 30 seconds, when shock. Rodgers replied.

Quinn held out his hand shook Dr. Rogers’s. He sat up and swung his feet off the procedure table then stood up.

Whoa! Whoa! Roger said excitedly.

Let’s take this a step at a time shall we. Rogers continued.

Quinn sat down clearly annoyed with the fuss.

I feel fine. Quinn said waving the doctor.

Get a wheelchair and take him to recovery. Rogers told the nurse.

Damnedest thing ever saw. Rogers said.

No! Quinn said bluntly.

No what? Rogers asked.

No, I’m not going to ER. No, I’m not taking an ambulance. No, I don’t need checked out further and no, no one is coming to pick me up. Quinn explained.

But… Rogers protested.

Quinn cut Rogers off.

I can’t sit in recovery like we normally do OR I can walk out now! Ayesha give me my pen and paper please. Quinn was quite adamant.

Rogers held up his hands in surrender.

Keep the heart monitor on them and give him his pen and paper. Rogers said nervously.

DOC! Quinn said loudly, Relax and thanks for restarting my ticker. This ought to give you something to talk about with my kid this Saturday. Quinn laughed as he was wheeled out of the procedure room.

A few minutes later Quinn was in the recovery room. An hour later when was in there writing on his pad like a mad man. Rogers came in to check on him. He stopped at the nurse’s station to review his charts, noting his heart rates.

Still runnin’ like an old watch ain’t it Doc. I guess we only winding occasionally. Quinn told him with a sly smile.

I’ll tell you what Doc. I’ll call cardiology at VA get checked out have that doc call you with the results. Quinn said.

Quinn’s wife arrived to check in on him. Quinn looked at Rogers very sternly and shook his head indicating he did not want his wife told about his heart stopping.

Be sure to ask the VA about that! Rogers said instead.

Quinn got dressed and walked out using his cane. Ayesha came into the recovery room in time to see him walking now.

Shouldn’t he be going to the hospital? Ayesha asked.

Guys like that die at home or at the hospital. Rogers said and went back to his office.

Rogers showed up at H dock at the Harbor 6 AM. He parked behind yacht club and waited for James Quinn to come up and open the H dock gate for him. Quinn wait from the end tie answering Rogers greeting and began walking towards the gate.

"Jesus Doc, I said take care of my dad!" James Quinn scolded Rogers.

Quinn unlocked the gate and let Rogers in. They started down the ramp toward Marlinspike.

I’m kidding Doc. It will take more than an orthopedist to kill off my old man. The Navy, Marines and Army couldn’t kill him. The guy has more lives than a feral cat. Quinn explained as they walked toward the boat.

The sunrise was just coming in the full view as they cast off from H dock and rounded the breakwater by the Marina Inn. As Marlinspike passed into the main channel at the mouth of the harbor the colors of the sunrise were on full display. Quinn throttled up as he rounded the seal buoy that marked the harbor entrance. Rogers stood in the cockpit enjoying the sunrise. Marlinspike was up at full speed headed to their usual spots to draw water samples. Soon they arrived at the spot known as Golf Balls. It was a communications array on Marine Corp Base Camp Pendleton. They were covered in a huge trapezoidal shaped fiberglass structures that made it look like two humongous golf balls. The two structures were visible local landmarks both from the highway and for local mariners.

James powered down and eventually stopped, bobbing in the water as the wake of the boat caught up to them.

Okay Doc, nice calm day to do your site 1 samples. Quinn told him.

The waves dissipated quickly, and the water was lake glass soon. Rogers took his samples. He marked down in a logbook several notations then motioned to James to go to the next sample site. There were ten sites’ Rogers collected samples from every month starting at Golf Balls and ending at Trestles. Trestles was a local surf zone north of San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station but not quite to San Clemente. The surfers in the area inquired what they were doing just outside the surf zone. Surfers were a protective, territorial bunch but once they realized Rogers was working with Scripps Oceanography sampling the water Marlinspike was accepted as a regular.

McLaren had watched as Rogers and Quinn walk down H dock and board Marlinspike. Once they cast off McLaren dropped his car in gear. He drove towards the gate at Camp Pendleton, veered left at the light just before entering the base onto I5 entrance ramp. McLaren hightailed it north up the highway and reached the Las Pulgas exit. He crossed over and re-entered the interstate on the south side. Not far past that was a scenic vista point that overlooked area south of the San Onofre Nuclear Generating Station known by its acronym SONGS. He pulled into a parking place and turned off the engine. The overlook was high above the ocean. A stout wind blew in off the water whipping the grass and bushes around. It also buffeted the car a bit. McLaren pulled out an IPad and fired it up and loaded a mapping application. On the display McLaren could see the powerboat had stopped for another water sample. The backpack he placed on Marlinspike three days ago contained a tracking mechanism. He sat down the IPad and searched the horizon for the Bertram yacht. Unsuccessful in finding it with his naked eye he pulled out a pair of binoculars.

Twelve boats dotted the area he searched seven were sailboats so he could discount them. McLaren shifted from boat to boat eliminating them one by one.

There you are. He muttered.

Marlinspike was the fourth of five powerboats cruising the area. McLaren watched as Quinn fired up the diesels and sped off to the next collection point. McLaren removed the transmitter from the console and pressed it triggering a three-minute timer. It began counting down.

Marlinspike sped along at a mild 17 knots, north towards San Onofre. The air was thick with salt spray kicked up by the boat. Chris Rogers enjoyed the freshness of the open breeze and the spray.

Hey Doc, come up here a minute. Quinn called from the fly bridge.

Rogers nodded. He climbed the ladder leading to the fly bridge. Quinn pointed to a large shadow just below the surface.

Nice!! Rogers said.

A whale breached on the shore side of Marlinspike. Rogers smiled as viewed the whale’s tail went vertical in the water and slipped below the surface.

I never get tired of seeing that. He said in admiration.

Below deck the time clicked down on the clock. The seconds ticked off…29..28..27. The steady drone of the diesel belied the impending cataclysm. Quinn and Rogers were still high up in the fly bridge unaware of what was about to happen. James was now pointing to another large shadow beneath the surface.

Do you see it, Doc? Quinn asked.

It was a different creature. It drew awe from the two men but not the smiles the way the whale had. The fin jutting from the water was unmistakable, a Great White Shark.

Makos and thresher sharks were regular features in the waters off Oceanside but usually much farther out. Closer to shore this year Great White sightings were being reported at an 85% higher than previous years. Courtesy of climate change the warmer waters were drawing them up from their traditional areas off Baha, two weeks prior a young boy had been attacked by a Great White off Encinitas. Quinn held up and opened and closed a hand three times then two fingers signifying a seventeen-foot shark, a large predator by any standard. Quinn was scanning the area for others when Marlinspike exploded.

A huge fireball erupted as the explosive combined with the fuel onboard to produce a huge, black roiling ball of flame and smoke. The explosion blew out the bottom of the Bertram. It quickly sank. A minute after the explosion gravity pulled the boat beneath the surface. The fires hissed, quickly extinguished by the seawater as it rushed into the hull. A few fires still burned on the surface of the water.

McLaren had watched the explosion and the thick smoke cloud erupting from it. He was still sitting in his vehicle parked in the observation point above the ocean. He watched the boat sink below the surface then drove out of the vista viewpoint toward Oceanside. Two miles down the highway he wiped down the transmitter for fingerprints then tossed it out the window. It was promptly run over and smashed by a semi-truck and two cars destroying it. He texted a single word to the number he had been given, Done.

It was a fortunate thing that a whale was in the area. Legend said sighting a whale was good luck. With both Quinn and Rogers on the fly bridge when the boat exploded that luck was in evidence. Instead of being burned by the flames and fuel both men were launched into the air to the west of the boat. The fly bridge was thirty feet in the air. Being tossed from that height the open ocean by the concussive force of an explosion was painful to say the least. Both Quinn and Rogers were still conscious treading water. Their ears ring so badly it was hard to hear. Dr. Rogers gave James and himself the once over. No blood or fluid appeared to be coming from their ears. Slowly the ringing began to fade, and they were able to communicate.

We need to find that shark. Quinn said. Rogers pointed. I found it! he replied.

That’s not good. Quinn said.

Rogers pointed to a large fin that cruised by about 200 yards west. Of course, the shark turned towards them almost immediately. Behind them a boat was making its way slowly towards the two men from the other direction. It was a sailboat but had its engines running as well. Quinn recognized the boat, Bueno, a 36-foot sloop. He knew the captain as well. Steve Ford was on deck watching Quinn and Rogers with his binoculars. He was motioning animatedly to his crewmates. Apparently, he had seen the shark as well. Bueno was closing the distance, but the question was would Bueno arrive before the Great White. Quinn waved his hands, Rogers followed suit. Ford waved back from the deck to let them know he had seen them. Bueno sped up trying to reach them in time.

The Great White was closing the distance then Quinn saw the fin disappear below the surface of the water.

OH SHIT. That is a lot of teeth to deal with Doc. Quinn cursed after the fin disappeared.

Bueno was still 500 yards out. Both men were busy watching the sailboat’s approach and searching for the shark when a much larger shadow appeared below the surface fifteen feet in front of them. The whale they had seen when the boat exploded surfaced between them and the shark. The whale hung there, floating in the water, as a buffer between the men and the shark. Rogers and Quinn stared at the whale in amazement. Fifteen feet from them they watched the whale the whale watching them almost eye-to-eye.

Bueno dropped their sails and throttled back as they as they came alongside of Chris and James. Hands quickly hauled the two men out of the water at the stern of the boat. Once Chris and James were on deck everyone stared at the whale in amazement. It was almost as if it had waited until it knew they were safe. It slapped its tail and departed.

Am I the only one who can’t believe what I just saw happening? Quinn said from the deck.

Steve Ford looked at his friend and clapped him on the shoulder.

Karma takes care of good people James! Ford said loudly. Sorry about your boat. What happened? Ford asked.

"I’m not sure but diesel doesn’t explode like that!" James said.

I thought we were shark bait. We got blown off the fly bridge right after we spotted the Great White.

You think it was an explosive on you boat? I can’t think of a single person who would wish you harm James. Ford replied.

Every person on the deck of Buena turned to look at Chris Rogers. Rogers looked back guiltily.

What were you doing out here? You still collecting water samples from San Onofre Doc Rogers? Ford asked

Rogers previously used Bueno on other occasions to take samples. It was the first thing that came to Ford’s mind. Anything to do with SONGS was controversial, involved large sums of money, and almost always involved something coming out that Sempra and government didn’t want to be out in the public. Rogers suddenly looked very uncomfortable.

Why don’t we get back in so we can give the police our statements. Quinn said.

It took the focus off Rogers, and everyone shifted their gaze to Quinn. Now Quinn himself looked at the doctor with a bit more suspicion than ten minutes ago. Rogers looked back at Quinn, slowly walked up, and sat down next to him.

"I think you, me and dad need have a sit down after we talk to the police. The Quinn Clan seems to have developed a bit of an allergy to Chris Rogers.

Why is that?" Quinn asked.

Rogers simply nodded and look very uncomfortable again. Quinn gave Rogers a final stern look stood up. Steve for promotion James over and handed him a piece of paper.

This is the GPS coordinates of the wreck. You can see Marlinspike on the fish finder clears the bell. She went down fast, straight down. Yeah, the stuff is details I wrote down. Times, events and what we did. It’s damn suspicious James! Ford said.

Thanks Steve. James said nodding in agreement.

James went below and borrowed a phone from the crew. He called his insurance agent and briefly explained the situation. He promised to get a more detailed update to her in the coming days. He left out the part about Steve and his own suspicion about the explosives being the culprit for the sinking.

Steve Ford piloted of Bueno directly up to the police dock. John Engle was a local harbor for philosopher who took their statements. He waited to interview James Quinn last. Engle was a no-nonsense cop.

If it quacks and swims it’s a duck. Engle is offering him a seat.

Steve Ford Said it was an explosion bigger than what you would get with diesel alone. Nobody wants to kill you, James. That leaves Rogers. Engle said matter-o-factly.

James simply nodded in agreement.

You are taking water samples off San Onofre then your boat blown up. Pardon me that doesn’t sound like much of a coincidence. Water samples of a nuclear power plant and BOOM! Sounds more like someone doesn’t want you nosing around to me. He kept on.

He was nodding in an exaggerated manner with his eyebrows raised waiting for Quinn to agree. It was clear what Engle thought the reason for the boat being blown up was.

How long have you been running Rogers out for those samples? Engle asked.

Monthly for more than a year. Before that Steve was doing it. Quinn replied.

Did Rogers say who’s doing the water analysis? Engle asked.

Scripps Oceanography. No name. He didn’t get specific what they were looking for but it’s not rocket science it’s San Onofre for chissakes. Quinn asked Engle.

Are you recruiting coming back from Hawaii? Quinn asked Engle.

Depends on the water testing was actually for. Engle said noncommittally.

Gimme me a lift to my truck? Quinn asked.

"What’sa matter Quinn you only got blown up." Engle joked.

Engle let Quinn out at the base of the stairs of the yacht club. He was still in work clothes when you sit down at the bar. Bill set up a cup of hot chocolate and went to the kitchen. He returned with the steak dinner for James. Several people came out of the dining room in clapped a hand James Quinn’s shoulder. They pulled back a wet hand.

What can I do to help young man? one asked.

Jim shook the hand of each one and shook his head unsure how else to respond. Two people came into yacht club with a large paper bag. Quinn taught their granddaughter to sail sabots two summers previously.

This ought to help out in the short term. They said.

The bag contained T-shirts, jeans, sock, deodorant, toothpaste, and toothbrush. The older woman hugged Quinn and left him to eat his steak. Steve Ford came into the club.

You’re welcome to sleep on Bueno tonight. Steve offered.

Thanks. I’ll take you up on that, thank you! Quinn said.

Up to that moment he hadn’t thought about where he was going to sleep that night.

Any idea when you get a new boat? Steve asked.

That was something else he had not considered yet either. James Quinn shook his head. It dawned on him that everything he owned was in 150 feet of water off San Onofre.

Chapter 2

President Colin Rockwell was the first republican president in sixteen years. The democratic nominee was generously described as lackluster by the national press. It was two men and the democratic women voters simply refused to show up for the ticket. Still, it was an incredibly close race. 5,634 votes close. Parallels to the 2016 election of Donald Trump were immediately drawn. The electoral college had been done away with after that election. While it could hardly be considered a mandate Rockwell did in fact win the popular vote and was elected fair and square with no chicanery from the Russians or Saudis. November through January the pundits lamented how important voter participation was to the democratic process. Unfortunately, the democrats had stayed home this time. Colin Rockwell was a politician his running mate was not.

Susan Ralston was a private sector COO with an excellent record in the energy sector. For Rockwell it was a winning bet. A woman in the White House with him picked up enough female voters to carry them over the finish line. Ralston was well spoken, intelligent, ambitious, attractive, and tall. The ticket could have just as easily been reversed with her at the top of the ticket. Had it been the margin would have been much wider.

Rockwell was known for picking the most inappropriate moment to say and do the absolute wrong thing in any given situation. Voters had labeled his clumsiness as being down to earth rather than viewing it as a detriment. His ability to answer any question directly, albeit politically incorrectly was viewed as an asset during the campaign. He could get people excited and interested on the campaign trail with utter bull. Rousing crowds with lies and despite not actually having a viable message, platform, or agenda. The lack thereof did not appear to hurt either of them. Ralston was frequently able to decode Rockwell’s gibberish into something coherent. The feeling among the pundits on the cable news shows was not so much that the ticket of Rockwell/Ralston won a victory at the polls because of a lack of response to the candidates the democrats put forward. National interest in politics in general was at an all-time low as was voter turnout for both parties. The inauguration, covered by only the broadcast networks not cable, had the lowest ratings in two decades.

The lack of interest rankled Rockwell. His semi-closet narcissism was offended when he was ignored by the press or more importantly, they paid more attention to Ralston. When events happened that knocked him from the headlines Rockwell would manage to find a way to reinsert himself into the situation or create one that he was at the center of. What cable news hosts lamented at what looked to be the most boring presidency in recent history and the most paranoid. Even during the campaign some of his statements were a bit off the wall. Blaming the lack of turn out on the German Chancellor and Chinese premier. Then seemingly providing excuses to totally unrelated matters. It was times like these that Ralston would step forward to clarify, explain or dismiss the possible conspiracies against the administration.

Ralston’s relationship with the press was completely different from Rockwell’s. Rockwell regarded them with suspicion, Ralston preferred to think of the press as a tool. One of Rockwell’s bedrocks redlines was delving into his past and present finances. Of course, that set reporters off to do just that. Public records regarding real estate transactions, freedom of information requests and several lawsuits had brought much, not all, of his finances into full view. Russian, Saudi, and Chinese investors and investments were draped across the headlines embarrassing Rockwell. Rockwell was on social media as a constant railing against the media bias against him and claiming they were invading his privacy. Rockwell became the first president in history to call the press as Those dishonest motherfuckers! on national television in response to their headlines about him being a tax cheat and taking money from the Chinese. The Post responded to his accusation of dishonesty by posting his tax returns and another document. The Post was very explicit about the fact that the returns arrived in an unmarked package and there was no basis to Rockwell’s claims the Post was very explicit about the fact that the returns arrived in an unmarked package and there was no basis to Rockwell’s claims the Post bribed an IRS employee to obtain his tax returns.

It was amidst the revelations of all these perceived conflicts of interest that a Post reporter disappeared at the Saudi Arabian Consulate in Turkey. Rockwell had been unusually quiet about the questions. Not only had the man been critical of the Saudi Crown Prince but he also published a great many stories critical of Rockwell including a piece linking in an extramarital affair with the Chinese Ambassador. It was a week after a very heated exchange in the rose garden between Husseffgi and Rockwell that ended in the dishonest mofos comment.

Amir Husseffgi groggily rolled over in his bed to grab his cell phone from the nightstand. He glanced at the clock as he pressed the green button on his iPhone. 2am.

Your last couple stories have gone too far. We need you to come back. The male voice spoke in Arabic insistently.

You’ve made very clear what will happen when I come back. My work, my life is outside of Saudi Arabia now. I will not return.

Husseffgi hung up the phone. It dawned on him that they were in fact watching him. How else could they have known to call him in Turkey. He had only arrived earlier that day. His fiancé was from Turkey. They had met in D.C. as he had worked for the Post. Now they were in Turkey to meet her family and get the necessary paperwork to marry. Amir looked out of the hotel room to see who might be watching. He looked down into the street from the second story of his hotel. A white sedan sat halfway down the block. Husseffgi saw the dull glows of the cigarettes from the two men sitting in the car. The bare outline of their faces came into focus as they inhaled then dropped dark as they exhaled the smoke. Their windows were down in their car, and he could see the smoke rising in the streetlamps. His minders were not usually so obvious, but he had been in the United States for the past eighteen months. While there his minders were much more cautious. U.S. laws were more protective of journalists. The men in the street below were not that well trained. Amir checked the locks on the room and went back to bed. His minders were just that, minders. If the Saudis planned to abduct him, he would never see it coming. With that thought he closed the blinds and his eyes and his eyes and sought out some much-needed sleep.

The following morning, with his shadows in tow, Husseffgi went to the Saudi Consulate to inquire about the necessary paperwork for his impending marriage. He waited for a nerve wracking three hours before being able to meet with an official in person. After the short meeting and waiting another ten minutes he was told to come back in two days to pick up the permissions and licenses. As Husseffgi walked out of the Consulate the officer he had been speaking with picked up the phone and spoke to the Saudi Consul himself.

Husseffgi just left. He will be back in two days at 1pm. The officer told the Consul in a voice that trembled a bit. He hung up the phone wondering if he had just signed the man’s death warrant by telling him to come back later then reporting it to the Consul. Better Husseffgi than he and his own family. Just the same day the officer closed his office and departed for the day.

The Saudi Consul General in Turkey was ambitious. He had been alerted, via communique and phone calls from the prince himself, that Husseffgi was to be detained and returned to the Kingdom. Period. The Consul knew Husseffgi’s bride was Turkish. He knew that eventually he would come to the Consulate, and he had. The Consul called the Palace directly when it happened. He had been instructed to do so by Prince Mohamed Bin Ibrihim himself. For Ibrihim, Husseffgi was a thorn under his fingernail. An irritating reminder that he was not his father, not yet king and in a different era than King Salman. It was 2018 and the monarchy was not beyond question outside the Kingdom. Despite his efforts at reform, he was not fooling anyone. His other actions, all his actions were constantly being questioned by Husseffgi’s Post articles in both English and Arabic. It was intolerable for him to be questioned in such a manner. This would never have happened to his father. Husseffgi had thumbed his nose at and ignored any warnings from the princes and his surrogates had issued. After a call from Colin Rockwell and reading the latest scathing review of the prince in the newspaper the Crown Prince lost his temper and ordered the problem solved.

After several delays the Consul General was connected to Ibrihim himself.

"Good morning your highness. Husseffgi will return to the Consulate in two days at

1pm local time." the Consul told the prince. There was a long pause, then Ibrihim started yelling at several people in Arabic. The Consul grew tense and was sweating as he waited for further instructions from the prince. Forty more tense seconds and the prince finally replied.

"I have two jets with two teams departing within the hour. Expect them in time to meet

Husseffgi. It will be good to remove that splinter. Thank you for helping. I will not forget it." he said.

Signals intelligence at the NSA and CIA was truly amazing in the 21st century and astounded most folks involved. Even those who worked the systems daily. But today was the content of the intelligence. Standing procedure was to alert those involved if there was intel that indicated a person was in direct danger. A kidnapping or possible murder plot was something that warranted such a warning.

The duty intelligence officer fully documented the situation and got the information forwarded up the chain of command. The Director of National Intelligence made sure the threat to Husseffgi was in the Presidential Daily Brief and the intelligence brief, both verbal and written. Rockwell had ignored the brief and paid no attention to the Rockwell had literally smiled when he heard about the threat to Amir Husseffgi during the brief but basically ignored the rest of it.

What should we do about .... The briefer began to ask.

He wanted to know how they should warn Husseffgi when the president cut him off abruptly.

Thank you. Rockwell said dismissing the officer.

He seemed taken aback that he was leaving with no instructions whatsoever about whether

to