Wood's Wreck (25 page)

He raised the gun but decided against using it. If a wave hit, his aim would be compromised and he could damage the craft. He needed another weapon, and looked around the boat for anything he could use.

Suddenly he saw the eight-foot antenna he had tossed from the T-top lying near the bow. Holding the stainless steel railing he went forward, ducking as each wave crashed over the bow and soaked him, to retrieve it. Looking back at the helm, he saw Jay’s gaze still focused on the waves in front of them. They were so big you had to drive through almost every one, planning the best angle to assault them. It would keep the other man busy for as long as he needed.

He picked up the antenna and made his way back to the shelter of the cockpit, where he took a position behind Jay. The thin fiberglass snapped easily in his hand as he broke it roughly in half, discarding the thinner end. With the base in hand, he stood back and braced himself, timing the waves to assist him, then lunged forward, slamming the ragged end into Jay’s back. 

He crumbled to the deck, blood pooling around him. Norm pulled the spear from his body and hauled his inert form to the transom, where he pushed him overboard. Discarding both halves of the antenna, he caught the wheel as the boat spun and changed course toward the towers marking the entrance to Sister Creek. He could use one of the remote channels off Boot Key to clean up the boat and figure out his next move.

It was a bad result for the Nationals, but for him personally, he knew he would survive. There might be another opportunity though, as The White House had just announced the resumption of diplomatic relations with Cuba and he suspected it wouldn’t be long before the trade embargo was lifted. He had a plan to turn the Guantanamo Bay base into a Vegas type strip. This might be the right time to get out of the smuggling business. 

***

Mac dared a glance behind them as he steered toward the coordinates he had entered in the GPS. He hoped his memory had served him. The two - seven digit numbers were deceiving. The first four were easy. The entire area was around the 24 degree latitude and, depending how far west you went, either 80 or 81 degrees longitude. It was the final three numbers that identified the spot, and he had long ago committed this site to memory. He looked around, but they were alone in a sea full of whitecaps. It looked like Trufante had succeeded, and he silently wished him luck. 

He scanned the horizon again and still saw only whitecaps. There was no pursuit, the CIA men having followed the power boat. He turned to Mel.

“Take the wheel,” he said, and pointed to the waypoint on the screen. She knew what to do from there, and he went to the cabin and pulled out the dive gear. 

 He bounced around the cockpit as he tried to strap the BC and tank to his back. The seas were coming in fast and hard, throwing him off balance every time he tried to lift the weight of the tank off the floor. 

“Where do you want to drop anchor?” Mel yelled over the roar of the wind and noise of the waves smashing the boat.

Mac had her stay close to the waypoint, using the chart-plotter to stay close to the spot. “We can’t anchor in this. You’re just going to have to keep circling. I’ll take a bag down and inflate it when I’m ready to surface. Then you can motor over and pick me up.” He finally managed to close the velcro waistband and buckle the strap. 

Armando came over and helped him adjust the tank on his back.

He slid across the wet deck to the transom—the only place on the boat he could exit without the coated wire guardrails interfering. His body jammed in the corner to remain stable, he put on his fins and mask and grabbed the spear. With his right arm he swept behind him to find the regulator, which he put in his mouth, and, in one movement, he rose and fell over backwards to enter the water. Immediately his body stung from his blistered hands and the scratches on his legs, but he fought through his injuries and started his descent. It was like a different world the minute he was under water. The turbulence above ceased to exist, the angry seas replaced by tranquil water. He warmed as he descended slowly, the eighty-degree water like a hot tub after the wind-blown spray they’d endured on the way out. Clearing his ears every few seconds, he dropped through the water column, trying to even out his breath from the excitement of the chase and exertion of getting in the water. 

He reached the bottom and checked his gauges. Calculating fifty minutes at the seventy-five-foot depth, he went to work. In his previous efforts to find his stash, he had followed a grid using standard search procedures. But this was his last shot, and he had to think outside the box. 

He adjusted his BC and floated several feet off the bottom, picturing in his mind how the site had looked before the anchor had torn it apart, and imposed that image over what he now saw. He had assumed before that the anchor had dropped the coral heads where they were, not thinking they could have been dragged across the bottom. This area of the reef had no defined walls or ledges with which to orient yourself. It was a forest of coral heads, sponges, and hard bottom; one area was almost indistinguishable from another. The three corral heads had been his landmark, so he had naturally gone to them. 

Now he thought he might have been wrong. The two heads remained where he had last seen them, leaning next to a third. But what if the third structure was not part of the original cluster? He looked around and saw similar lone corals scattered over the bottom. He checked his watch and air, then looked at his compass and followed a westerly course, thinking that the predominant sea conditions were from the southeast, and that a boat with a stuck anchor would have backed down in that direction to free itself. Slowly he started swimming a search grid, staying ten feet off the bottom in sixty-five feet of water to aid his air consumption and add to his bottom time. 

He checked every coral head as he circled the area, but their bases were all undisturbed. The incident had happened within the last six months, and he expected some growth, but the craters where the two heads had been should still be visible. 

A line became visible above the sand, moving slowly towards a coral head, and he couldn’t help but follow the black grouper, finning closer for a better look; as intent on finding his stash as he was, it was hard to ignore a large fish. He had brought the spear more out of habit and to use as a pry bar than to hunt, but he couldn’t resist the challenge. And he wasn’t sure how the boat was provisioned; they might need the meat. 

If he had just been hunting, the fish would have been on his stringer by now, but in the time wasted thinking about it, the grouper sensed him and all he could do was watch it tense, and with two sweeps of its tail fin, speed away. 

Just as he was about to look away and resume his search pattern, a lone coral head in the path of the fish caught his eye. It was not where he thought, but the ocean bottom often appeared to shift depending on current and visibility; the bottom could look one way on a Monday and completely different on Tuesday. 

Perhaps he’d been seeing it wrong the entire time. Invigorated, he quickly swam into the current toward the coral head. He was using more air than he had wanted, but the excitement of possibly finding his cache overruled his better judgement. 

A long few minutes later he arrived at the coral head, out of breath, and checked his gauges. The hard swim had cost him, and the needle kissed the red zone, showing five hundred psi of air left. Not a lot at this depth, and he would need a reserve to ascend and wait for Mel to find him. With no time to lose, he held the inflator hose over his head with his left hand, released air from his BC, and descended to the bottom. 

He knew he was on the right spot as soon as his eyes came level with the lone coral head. Beside it, he could see where the other heads had been. The boater must have dragged them to where they now lay.

He was down to two hundred psi now—minutes from running out of air—as he stuck his hand under the coral head. Something was different, and the space felt smaller than before. Frantic to recover anything, he took off the BC and let it rest on the ground. Without the bulk of the vest and tank, he jammed himself as deep as he could into the opening and moved his hand back and forth in the small cavern. 

He was about to give up, when his hand brushed against what he thought was a rock. But it moved too easily, and he grabbed it. Without the time to look, he stuck the object in his BC pocket, slid back into the vest, and inflated the BC. Working with both hands, one to secure the vest and the other to add some air to the BC, he started a fast but not dangerous ascent. 

Twenty feet from the surface he reached in his pocket and pulled out the inflatable marker, took the regulator from his mouth, and pressed the purge button. The red material retained the air and quickly floated toward the surface. With the regulator back in his mouth, he sucked for another breath that did not come.

His lungs burned as he kicked towards the surface and spat out the regulator as soon as his head broke the surface. A mouthful of sea water greeted him as a wave broke over his head. White-capped waves crashed around him and he realized the seas were at least a foot bigger than when he had entered the water. 

He spat out the sea water and gasped for air, sucking as much as he could before another wave slammed into his face. Using his fins, he pushed himself out of the water and took a deep breath, which he held while he fumbled for the inflator hose, recovering it and breathing the air held in his lungs into the bladder. This gave him enough buoyancy to float above the water, and he looked around, using his fins to turn. 

Mel was a hundred yards away, the waves too high to see the small red float. He started to swim toward the boat, but a minute later realized that the current was against him. He would never reach it, and with the wind and seas crashing, she would never hear him if he screamed. 

The only option was to signal her. 

He pulled the buoy toward him and stuck the red fabric on the tip of his spear, which he extended over his head. The float lost its air as soon as it was out of the water, but stuck on the end of the long shaft it was several feet out of the water, he hoped she’d see it. All he could do was rest on his back and let the BC support him while he waited. 

***

Mel circled the imaginary mark, keeping one eye on the seas and the other on the chart plotter. She had been able to communicate with Armando by putting her hand to her head as if she was searching and repeating ‘
rojo’
as she scanned the water. He got it and looked vigilant as he held the winch by the helm for support. 

She didn’t have a watch but she used the clock on the chart-plotter screen to estimate Mac’s bottom time. He hadn’t said how long he was going to be, but she expected that at forty-five minutes he would be out of air soon. She turned back into the waves to continue her circle and saw the red buoy above the water. 

Slowly she approached the red float, careful to stay to windward so the boat would be moving away from Mac instead of crashing into him. Leaving the wheel for a second she grabbed the PFD from its bracket on the safety rail and handed it to Armando, hoping he would know what to do. 

The seas were way too rough for her to idle up and let him climb the ladder. They would have to stay to keep him in the lee of the boat and haul him in. Again she circled, this time closer. Armando threw the life preserver into the wind, but despite his pitching arm, the float fell short and he pulled it back in. 

She breathed deeply, knowing their pursuers had taken the bait and followed the power boat and that Mac was fine floating in the water. There was no reason to panic. Once more she circled, turning as close to him as she dared.

“Throw it!” she yelled to Armando, hoping he understood. 

He wound up and tossed the ring sidearm like an inside slider and landed the line across Mac’s head, the float landing several feet past him. 

She set the boat in neutral and turned her back to the wheel as she watched Mac retrieve the float. Armando started to bring the line in and she breathed in relief as Mac approached. Just as he reached the ladder, a huge wave hit the bow, throwing her to the deck. 

When she looked up, Armando was nowhere to be seen. Now both men were in the water, and she had a second of panic before she saw Mac pull himself up the ladder.

Chapter 29

Mac unbuckled his BC and let the tank drop to the deck as he watched Mel throw the PFD to Armando. He removed the rest of his gear and went to help, taking the line from her hand and pulling the man toward the boat. 

Armando appeared dead in the water, and Mac didn’t know if the man was unconscious or could not swim. The wind was pushing the boat’s higher profile faster than the smaller body in the water, and the man’s head was being submerged under the water as he was pulled towards the hull. 

Things were looking worse and worse.

Suddenly, he saw the figure cough and spit out a mouthful of seawater. Mac hauled the line into the boat, no longer anxious that the man had drowned, but wanting to get him out of the water as quickly as possible. 

“Unbuckle the guard rail and grab him as soon as he’s close enough!” he yelled to Mel.

She went to the rail, unclipped the two wires surrounding the boat, and leaned toward the water. Mac pulled harder now and the man came to her.

She grabbed him by the shirt collar, but between his weight and the forward movement of the boat, Mac doubted she could hold on much longer. He went to the helm and searched the unfamiliar console in front of the wheel, finally finding and activating the auto-pilot. The system began to fight the water, trying to keep the boat on course in the pitching seas. 

He went to her side, reached over, and grabbed the man. “See if you can find a boat hook or gaff!” he yelled over the noise of the engine and waves. 

Mel let go, giving him the weight, and he had to pause to appreciate her strength. After only thirty seconds, his blister-covered hands were starting to cramp. He looked forward and realized they had only seconds, the tower marking the reef loomed over them.