Rising Force

by Wayne Stinnett

  “Just for self-defense,” I said.

  Brayden pulled the goggles off his head. “I ain’t no melon, Jesse. What you’ve got there’s a sniper rifle.”

  “It was the tool of my trade for twenty years,” I said. “I can guarantee nobody gets close enough to hurt either of us.”

  “How accurate is it?” he asked, leaning forward for a closer look under the moonlight.

  “A well-trained marksman can drive nails at a thousand meters and bring down a man at nearly twice that. It’s zeroed at five hundred, where even a novice could kill a squirrel.”

  He looked down at the bag, open at my feet. “And the Draegor?”

  “You know rebreathers?”

  “Used one many times, mate. That’s how you’re going to get close enough to hear them snore?”

  “If the people on that boat are who I think they are, they won’t be snoring. These are the type of people who sleep past noon and do bad things at night.”

  “You’re going to slip aboard their boat?”

  “Not what I’m planning on,” I replied, readying my equipment. “Even a plastic boat will transmit sound through the hull.”

  “And if they are asleep?”

  “I’ll wake them up,” I said with a shrug. “Bang on the hull or something to get them talking. What do you think are the odds of an Englishman being on the same boat with a blond hick from Oklahoma and a redheaded California girl?”

  “But you can only hear them, mate,” Brayden said with a grin, as he pulled the goggles down and brought the skiff up on plane. “What if the Okie is the redhead, and the blonde is an English woman with a deep voice?”

  “There is that possibility,” I said, raising my voice and turning forward. “Remote, but possible.”

  Laying my gear out on the deck in front of me, I checked it over carefully in the moonlight. The bright orb was high above us, and there were no clouds or vapor to obscure it in the slightest. Even without night vision, my eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and the moon provided plenty enough light for what I was doing. While Brayden was watching where we were going through the tunnel vision of the goggles, I slipped my Sig into a pocket on the Draegor.

  Though the water was a warm eighty or so degrees, I’d be submerged for a long time, and hypothermia was a danger. So I put on my thin one-piece neoprene wetsuit to help retain a little body heat—but not too much; I was going to be swimming underwater for almost half a mile each way.

  I checked and rechecked the rebreather. Unlike scuba, there was no bulky external air tank. It was a closed loop system, which basically used a filter to absorb the carbon-dioxide from the diver’s exhaled breath, returning the mostly unused oxygen in the air back to the diver. Using a sensor, it monitored the oxygen content of the air being rebreathed and added to it from a small oxygen tank in the enclosed rigid container the diver wore.

  Checking the GPS, I saw we’d covered five miles and were clipping along at twenty-six knots. Having checked the charts, I knew the area was mostly devoid of patch reefs—just a wide, sandy plain covered with about five to ten feet of water, with sandbars that breached the surface at low tide. The tide was high now, and Brayden’s boat probably only needed a foot when on plane.

  “Crikey!” Brayden shouted, slamming the tiller toward the port gunwale.

  I nearly lost balance, as the boat suddenly lurched to the right, in danger of flipping over. Grabbing both rails, I waited until Brayden brought the boat under control. Slowing, he looked back.

  “What was it?” I asked, as Brayden started to turn the boat around.

  “Dunno,” he said, straining his neck to see over the bow. “Something big, though.”

  Reaching into my bag, I took out a small night vision spotting scope and turned it on. Scanning the water ahead of us, I saw something, and pointed. “There. Eleven o’clock.”

  Brayden turned his head, then the boat, and idled toward what I could already see was the smoking remains of a large boat that had burned to the waterline.

  “I see it,” he said. “It’s smoking.”

  “Burned out hull,” I said, as we neared the bulky remains of a wooden boat. It had probably been about a fifty-footer.

  When we were close enough to see by moonlight, Brayden pulled off the goggles and steered toward the wreck.

  “Slow,” I warned. “There’s very little water in the hull.”

  Brayden slowed, knowing just what I meant. There were only inches of the hull’s planking above the surface. If our boat’s wake sloshed any more water into it, the hull would sink, pulled down by the weight of the two diesel engine blocks just aft of amidships. The sudden turbulence from such a large boat could easily flip his skiff and suck it into the churning mass of debris.

  Something struck me clearly, as I gazed at the charred remains of the boat. There hadn’t been a massive explosion. The ribs and planks in the hull weren’t broken or splintered. That meant the boat had been adrift or at anchor when it burned. And it meant the fuel tanks were probably empty or very close to empty.

  Brayden brought us closer, shifting the engine into gear for a second, then gliding for several more. We came alongside the hull, making barely a ripple. We both stood and looked down into the wreck. The decks and cabin roofs had collapsed into the hull and been burned to almost nothing, indicating a very hot fire. There were tangles of bare copper wires, cables and metal objects strewn through the debris. Any plastic coating on them had been melted off.

  “Good Lord,” Brayden muttered. “Is that what I think it is?”

  I looked toward the stern of the smoking hulk. The boat had a large lazarette. The aft deck had collapsed into the large storage area but was still attached to the transom. In the forward part were two bodies, lying on their sides and facing one another. They were bound hand and foot with copper wire, and burned beyond recognition.

  “That’s Mark and Cindy,” Brayden said, sitting down hard on the aft bench seat.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Mark lost his left leg below the knee in a car wreck.”

  Looking down, I knew he was right. The larger of the two corpses had a prosthesis, loosely attached to the left leg, and bound to the right by the wire. The straps that held it on were completely burned off. Two rings on the left ring finger of the smaller body were probably an engagement ring and wedding band. A husband and wife.

  Slowly, I sat down on the middle bench, facing aft. Brayden was just staring off toward the horizon, away from the carnage. “I’m sorry,” I said softly.

  “They were nice people, Jesse. They didn’t deserve to die this way.”

  “I know.” I couldn’t think of anything more to say.

  Brayden turned to face me. “Do we still go to the barge and see if it’s them, or call the coppers?”

  Not having bargained on finding the bodies of the kidnapped couple, I thought about his question a moment.

  “We’ve come this far,” Brayden said, before I could decide. “We can mark this position on your handheld and call it in after we find out if your killers are on the barge.”

  “Fair dinkum,” I replied with a grin.

  “You’re an odd dag,” he said, bumping the engine into gear for a second.

  Once clear, Brayden put the engine in gear again, and turned back to our original course, idling slowly.

  I marked the location with a pin on my GPS. Once the wind picked up in the morning, some small waves would likely breach the hull and sink it. The fire was probably from earlier in the night, invisible to any island by distance over the horizon. The keel of the old yacht couldn’t be more than a foot or two from the bottom now, so it would be easily seen from the air.

  Unfortunately, there was no way we could have retrieved the bodies and we both knew it. If one of us were to step over onto the wreck, the whole thing would surely sink
immediately. The sudden rush of water into the hull would throw everything around with great force. It would just be too dangerous.

  Glancing down at the GPS, I nodded to Brayden. “Three miles, dead ahead. We should be able to see it soon.”

  He brought the boat up on plane and I turned around on my bench. Brayden kept our speed just high enough to stay on plane with minimal splashing, but not so fast that the little engine was screaming.

  Looking through the scope, I watched the odd-looking catamaran slowly rise over the horizon ahead of us. I couldn’t see any lights at all in the unusually high, enclosed bridge. As we got closer, I made out a low light from below the bridge, in what I assumed was the salon, or lounge area of the boat.

  Brayden slowed, having picked up the light through the goggles. They weren’t magnified like my scope, so he couldn’t yet pick out as much detail as I could.

  The boat was anchored with the stern almost toward us, and the starboard hull slightly visible. Her bow was pointing northeast. Just above the waterline, a bright light emanated from the port hull, shining on the water. That side was slightly away from us, so the source was unknown.

  There were no lights at all forward of the tall structure. In fact, the only portholes visible along that side were aft, and both of them were dark. This reinforced my idea that the forward hulls and foredeck might be used for cargo.

  A few minutes later, Brayden slowed to an idle. “How close do you want to get, mate?”

  “Let’s swing around in front of them,” I whispered. “If anyone’s up, they’re aft.”

  Turning, Brayden moved off to the northeast, around our quarry. He idled slowly, though at this distance, even over water, I doubted they could hear the quiet outboard. We had no lights on at all, so they certainly couldn’t see us.

  When we reached a spot about half a mile in front of the cat, Brayden killed the engine. “I can pole us a lot closer,” he whispered.

  Sound travels over water much better than on land. There aren’t any trees, shrubs, or even grass to catch and deflect it.

  “No closer than half a kilometer,” I replied, getting the anchor ready.

  It was obvious that Brayden had poled the boat many times, searching for fish. Even with the tunnel vision created by the goggles, he stood easily and dipped his pole to the bottom, while stepping up onto his seat. I didn’t hear a drop of water as he stealthily pulled the pole back, keeping the foot in the water, and pushed again.

  A few minutes later, I signaled to him that we were close enough and quietly slipped the anchor overboard.

  “How long will you be?” Brayden whispered, barely audible, as he pulled the goggles off and placed the device in a small storage box beside him.

  “We’re closer than I’d planned,” I said quietly. “Maybe five hundred meters. It’ll take me ten minutes to get there and another ten to get back. So maybe half an hour in all. I’ll swim about two feet below the surface until I get close. You should be able to see an occasional swirl in the water from my fins.”

  “What if you get caught?”

  “Not much chance of that,” I replied. “Spotted maybe, but not caught. If they spot me, I’ll swim on the bottom all the way back. We’re far beyond normal eyesight, and with their lights on they won’t be able to see you at all out here.”

  Reaching into my bag, I felt around until I found a small box, which I pulled out and opened. I took one of the tiny communication devices out, turned it on, and handed it to him.

  “Stick this in your ear,” I said. “Mine’s waterproof and has a mic built into the mask.”

  Brayden grinned in the low moonlight. “You really are a spy.”

  I shifted over to the port side of the boat, and Brayden countered my weight by moving forward and sitting next to me on the wide center bench. As I turned and swung my legs over the side, he turned and hooked his feet under the seat, leaning back in the opposite direction just enough to keep the boat balanced.

  Sliding toward the gunwale, I could tell without looking back that he was matching my moves to keep the boat level, so as to avoid any splashing. When I was in position, I raised my butt over the gunwale and slipped slowly and quietly into the water. My fins met the sandy bottom and I was able to stand with the water just below my armpits. Standing on the seafloor nearly four miles to the nearest dry land, I looked up at Brayden and nodded.

  “Good luck,” he whispered, extending my weight-belt to me. The six pounds of lead shot in the pouches would offset the buoyancy of my wetsuit and allow me to hover motionless in the water column.

  Slipping the belt around my waist, I pulled it tight and secured the buckle. Then I turned toward the cat and raised my left arm in front of me, a small compass strapped to my wrist. I took a bearing on the boat, then looked back at Brayden and nodded again. Pulling the mask down over my face, I whispered, “Comm check.”

  Brayden jumped, then looked at me and grinned, giving me a thumbs-up. “Loud and clear,” he whispered.

  Submerging, I turned and brought the compass up in front of my face, grasping my right elbow with my left hand. I slowly began to swim in the direction of the catamaran, counting my right kicks.

  I’d probably made several thousand dives over the last forty years, having started at a very young age. Distance is difficult to measure underwater, especially in minimal visibility. I’d checked my kick rate with every new pair of fins, counting kicks over a known distance. I knew exactly how far I moved with every kick of these fins, whether on scuba or a rebreather. Eight feet with a bulky tank on my back, and nine with the more streamlined Draegor. The catamaran was about a hundred and seventy kicks away.

  I felt water seeping into the mask. A full-face mask doesn’t seal well over facial hair. It wasn’t a flood, but it was enough that it could present a problem. If water covered the microphone, it couldn’t pick up my voice. I exhaled hard enough into the mask to displace some of the water, but not hard enough to blow any air out of the seal around the mask. I decided it would have to be a balancing act, as far as pressure inside the mask, but manageable.

  Brayden’s voice came over the tiny speaker in my ear. “I can see your kicks now and then. You’re heading straight toward it.”

  “Having a little trouble with water getting into the mask,” I said, popping the last word, to push water out around my beard.

  The seal on my forehead and cheeks was good, so the excess pressure would force the water toward the path of least resistance; between the thick hair shafts around my jaw.

  “Figured you would,” he replied. “I’ll let you know if I see you go off course.”

  Keeping the needle on the compass at two hundred and twenty degrees, I continued counting my kicks. When I reached a hundred, I began glancing left and right, hoping to pick up their anchor rode. I finally spotted the chain on the sandy bottom and turned toward it.

  “You’re turning away from the boat toward the west,” Brayden’s voice said over the tiny speaker.

  “On their anchor chain now,” I replied.

  A few minutes of kicking later, and the rode lifted off the bottom and out of the water. The twin hulls became visible, casting a large moon shadow on the bottom. She was riding lower than I’d have thought. Most power cats I’d seen in this size drew about two-and-a-half to three feet. As I slid back toward the starboard keel, I held my depth gauge up and saw that it was well over three feet.

  The sea is never a quiet place, not even at night. All around, I could hear the clicks and whispers of sound from whatever crabs and fish were about. Some sounds might even emanate miles away. Listening past those, I could hear the creaks of the catamaran’s hull itself. There was also a low hum, maybe a fan or something inside the boat.

  Moving slowly along the hull, staying very close to the bottom, I heard a thumping sound. When I reached the halfway point on the starboard hull, I heard the hum st
art up again, then another thump. They sounded mechanical. Like a hoist raising something and dropping it over and over again.

  Diving to the bottom, I was in seven feet of water, with the keel three feet above the bottom. Seas were calm, so I wasn’t worried about a wave rocking the boat and crushing me. I quickly swam under the hull to the other side.

  Unlike dolphins and whales, humans can’t tell which direction sound comes from underwater. In air, sound travels at over seven hundred miles per hour. Water, being denser, allows sound to travel at more than four times that speed. Humans determine the direction of sound by the difference in the time it takes it to reach each of our ears. It’s only milliseconds, and we can’t even consciously tell there is a difference, but the brain can measure it and tell you where to look. Dolphins and whales evolved under the water, so that part of the brain that deals with hearing is much more developed. Because we’re land animals, the time difference is far less than our feeble minds can comprehend, and sound seems to emanate from all around.

  Unless you put a fifty-foot-long wall between you and the source of the sound. The thump repeated, quite a bit louder. It was coming from the other hull. I swam toward it.

  It was brighter between the hulls. I looked up and saw that a light was shining on the surface. I instinctively froze, until I realized the deck joining the two hulls was above me. There couldn’t be anyone up there shining a light down.

  The humming noise returned, now sounding more like a buzz, than the hum of a motor. As I neared the port hull, the buzz suddenly ended and there was the thump again.

  Rising slowly, and away from the light, I allowed just half my head to break the surface. There was a porthole on the inside of the hull, too. It was about two feet above the waterline and looked to be a watertight hatch. I figured it was to allow whoever was in there to look down and maybe see the bottom. A light was on inside.

  Looking around the underside of the dry part of the hull above me, I noticed a brace not far forward of the porthole. I moved slowly toward it and using the tips of my fins against the bottom, I could stand motionless with just my eyes and forehead above the surface.