Rocky Island by Jim Newell

keys, and returned to their own vehicle.
    “What’s your name?” asked Hamlin.
    “I’m not saying anything until I have a lawyer present.”
    “You can tell us your name.”
    “Not until my lawyer is with me.”
    “Okay, that’s obstructing police. Who’s your lawyer?
    “Haven’t got one.”
    The two officers looked at each other but said nothing. Hamlin radioed the station and reported what they had found. “We’ll take him right through to Shelburne and lock him up until we get this checked out. Can you send a tow truck for the cube van? He won’t have any trouble finding it, but he’ll have a helluva job getting it towed back. Right now it’s stuck in a snowdrift. I’m going to have just as big a job getting our van turned around.”
    As it turned out, Len Hamlin was correct on both counts. The towing company driver was displeased at being wakened so early, and even more unhappy when told what the call was for.
    “Whyntcha leave the thing where it is ’til spring? How’m I s’posed to get down that God-forsaken road to tow out something that big stuck in a snowbank?”
    “You got a contract, Chucky. Better take somebody with you to help. Bring the thing in here to the station. Have fun.” The Duty Officer was grinning as he hung up the phone.
    Hamlin was not grinning as he struggled to turn the police van around. After twenty minutes of small turns and back and forth movements, almost getting stuck five times, he was finally headed in the right direction on the road. Reaching Port Saxon was a real relief, and to be able to shift into third gear and two-wheel drive for the half-hour run to Shelburne was almost real joy. There they deposited their prisoner in the county jail, charged him with illegal possession of loaded weapons, obstructing police and operating a motor vehicle without a license, assured the Duty Officer there that somebody would be back later in the day to question him, and went home to bed.
    *
    Sometime after one-thirty, Allison phoned the number Corporal Brock had given her and after a couple of minutes of waiting, she was transferred to another number where Brock came on the line.
    “Jason, it’s Allison. I’ve been picking up some messages on Channel 88 from what sounds like fishy fishing boats if you’ll pardon the pun. I’ve got a tape of the calls.”
    “Good work, Allison. We’re just about ready to take off for Rocky Island. What have you got?”
    “Apparently three of them calling themselves Fish One, Fish Two and Fish Three. They seem to be hove to and have given each other their lat and long. Fish Three keeps calling Helen of Troy , but he doesn’t get any answer . Fish One just said they should wait another two hours.”
    “Great. Just what we want. Give me the lat and long and I’ll pass it on to the sub commander.”
    Allison gave him the three different latitude and longitude positions the fishing boats had stated. “I plotted them on the chart. They’re less than ten miles apart,” she said.
    “Wonderful. You’ve done a great job. Stay with it. The number you called is the duty desk at Maritime Naval Command headquarters. If you get anything more, ask for Lieutenant Commander Aylwine—that’s A-Y-L-W-I-N-E—and he’ll know what to do with it. How’s Toby doing?”
    “Jason, I haven’t seen Toby for hours. He hasn’t slept all night or all day unless he’s been dozing down on the shore. He’ll be frozen.”
    “He’s tough, Allison. Don’t worry. We’ll be there in an hour and he can go to bed and sleep the clock around.”
    “Not likely. You don’t know my husband.”
    Toby had napped off and on, and he was fairly comfortable, out of the wind behind his big boulder. He was actually asleep when he was suddenly jolted awake by the sound of the lifeboat being lowered from the davits once again, only this time he could see what was happening. There was no sign of the submarine. He figured that it must have submerged when the fog began to