Wild Tide

by Tripp Ellis

  JD tried to hide his I told you so grin, but he failed miserably.

  I had to eat a little crow. "I'm happy that you're happy."

  Her eyes burned into me like lasers. "You know, I was just doing fine here until you came back into my life. Feel free to leave at any time if you're going to keep acting like this. We're not in high school anymore. You don't have to look out for me. I'm a big girl," she growled.

  “You're right," I said raising my hands. "I overstepped my bounds. I'll stop acting like a big brother."

  "Good."

  She spun around and went back to her business.

  JD gloated.

  "Don't say a word," I cautioned him.

  He finished his drink and stood up from the bar stool. JD patted me on the shoulder. He took a breath, about to say something, then thought better of it. "I'll talk to you tomorrow. I'll let you know if that tracking device registers anything interesting."

  "Are you going to Helen's?"

  "Yup."

  He left the bar, and I decided to stroll back to the Wild Tide. My presence was no longer welcome in Diver Down.

  I texted Luciana: [Just checking on you. Are you okay?]

  I hadn't heard from her all day, which wasn't unusual. But given the fact that an assassination attempt was made on our lives, I thought I should at least touch base with her.

  I stared at my phone for a few moments, waiting for a reply, but nothing came.

  The marina was quiet, and the moon peeked through the clouds, glimmering across the water. I scaled the transom and pushed into the salon. I made my way down the starboard staircase to the master suite, kicked off my shoes, peeled off my clothes, and crawled into bed.

  About the time I was dozing off, my phone dinged with another text message. It was from Luciana: [Aw, you’re sweet. I'm good. You?]

  I texted her back: [Want some company tonight?]

  Again, I waited for a reply.

  27

  [Sorry, not tonight].

  The text from Luciana was short and succinct. There were no sad faced emoji's. No additional comment that would leave the door open for future contact.

  Nothing.

  I spent the next few minutes trying to analyze what exactly the three words meant. Did it mean she was tired? Did she have other plans? Was she just not in the mood? Or was she with somebody else?

  I shrugged it off.

  She didn't owe me an explanation, and I didn't need to be over-analyzing the situation. We hooked up twice and went through a traumatic event together. Perhaps it was making me feel a little closer to her than I should have been.

  Tense situations can do that.

  You will often find that couples that survive disasters together end up connecting deeply and staying together for long periods of time. They share a common understanding of the trauma they experienced that no one else would ever understand. Hostage situations, survivors of airline disasters, carjackings. Anything that creates intense, heightened emotions can bond people, enhancing relationships and friendships.

  Combat does it among platoon members. You'll never forget the buddies you went to war with. They are brothers for life. And most of them will do anything for you.

  I tossed the phone aside and went to sleep—the gentle rocking of the boat aiding in my transition.

  A shaft of morning light beamed through the porthole, and I peeled my eyes open, feeling rested. I yawned and stretched and checked the messages on my phone. Mrs. Parker had left a text message. [Hey, it's Debbie. Do you still want Buddy?]

  I thought about it for a moment and tried to resist. What the hell was I going to do with a dog?

  I couldn't hold out for long. I called her back right away. "Hey, it's Deputy Wild."

  "You're in luck. My friend who took Buddy had a change of heart. Long story short, she had some unexpected expenses, and she didn't think she'd be able to care for him properly, especially at this stage. She started a second job… Anyway, I've got Buddy again. He needs a forever home."

  I hesitated. "Sure. I'll take him."

  "Great. I'll be here till noon if you want to swing by today. Or you can get him tomorrow."

  "No, I'll come by today. Give me an hour."

  "Sure thing.”

  I hung up the phone and lay back in bed, wondering what I just committed myself to?

  I went over to Debbie’s, and she greeted me at the door, holding Buddy in her arms. The other dogs barked and hopped around at her feet, and she tried to keep them at bay.

  "His vaccinations are completed, but you'll have to take him in for a booster in a few months," she said.

  Buddy looked at me with his adorable eyes. She handed him to me, and I cradled him in my arms.

  "Is he housebroken?”

  "He does pretty good. The other dogs have been showing him the ropes. So, he knows to go outside in the grass. Just let him go regularly and you shouldn't have any problems."

  That was a relief.

  Debbie petted him one last time, then asked Buddy, "You want to say goodbye to Mommy and Daddy?"

  The dogs said their last words to each other, and Debbie looked like she was going to tear up.

  The cab was waiting for me so I thanked her and took Buddy with me. I climbed into the backseat, buckled up, and held Buddy in my lap. He trembled slightly, not sure what was happening, or where he was going. I kept petting him, trying to reassure him that everything was going to be okay.

  Back at the boat, I had his water bowl and food prepared. I had put newspapers on the deck in the guest room in case of an accident. I set Buddy on the deck in the salon and let him discover his new environment. He scurried around, sniffing and exploring.

  I wasn't too sure how JD would feel about all this, but Buddy was hard not to love.

  I played with Buddy for a while, then attached his leash and took him for a potty break.

  "You want to go poop?" I asked.

  Buddy tilted his head, curiously.

  I figured I'd start training him to associate the word with the action.

  I carried Buddy through the cockpit, scaled the transom, and set him on the dock.

  Mr. Miller sat in the cockpit of his boat and gave us both a scowl.

  I took Buddy around the back of Diver Down, by the dumpster, and let him do his business in the grass.

  "Good boy!" I said.

  I squatted down and gave him a treat and petted him, praising him with positive reinforcement.

  I took him for a short walk, then we strolled back to the boat, and it was nap time.

  I started crate training him right away. I let him explore the crate on his own, then gave him a chew toy while he was in there for reinforcement. In the evening, I took up his food and water bowl around 7 PM, that way he wouldn't overfill his bladder before bed. I put him in his crate before sleepy-time, and he whimpered a few times during the night, but I wasn't going to give into the demands of a Jack Russell Terrorist.

  I set my alarm for an interval of 4 hours so I could walk him in the middle of the night and let him take care of business.

  Over the next two days I spent as much time with Buddy as possible, looking after him, playing with him, and getting him acclimated to his new environment.

  He seemed to be adjusting rather well, and there was no doubt I had grown fond of the little guy. Sure, it was a little extra work, but I liked having him around. He was a smart dog and picked up on things pretty quick.

  I still hadn't heard anything back from Luciana, and I figured that it had pretty much run its course.

  It was fun while it lasted.

  JD called in the afternoon. "I'm noticing something interesting about Rick Lowden's boating activity. He's made several trips to the same location. All at night. I looked at the charts, and from what I can tell, there's nothing out there. No reefs, no shipwrecks, and it's not a particularly good fishing spot."

  My brow crinkled. "What do you think he's doing out there?"

  "I don't know. But I suggest
we find out. You up for a little recon?”

  28

  I'd been keeping clear of Madison for a few days. I figured she needed time to cool down. But I needed her assistance, and I felt reasonably confident that she wouldn’t refuse. After all, Buddy could be mighty persuasive.

  Buddy’s paws clacked against the wooden dock as we strolled toward Diver Down. I hung onto his leash as he pulled me along. The little guy was full of energy, and I tried to get him out as often as possible, letting him run it off. Activity was always followed by a nap, for both of us.

  I picked up Buddy and pushed into the bar and took a seat at the counter.

  Buddy caught Madison's eye right away. He melted her heart, instantly.

  She rushed over to greet him. "Who's this little guy?"

  "Madison, meet Buddy. Buddy, meet Madison."

  "He's so cute!"

  She went gaga over him. Her fingers scratched his chin and petted his head. She took hold of him and held him in the air, and he licked her face.

  "He's just adorable. Who's dog is this?"

  "Mine."

  She looked astonished. "Yours?"

  I shrugged. "What? Is that so odd?"

  "I never figured you for the nurturing type."

  "Everybody needs a friend."

  Her eyes narrowed at me. "You better be taking good care of him!"

  "I am,” I said. "But, I may need a little help."

  She gave me a look, knowing something was coming.

  "Do you think you could look after him for a few hours while JD and I go run an errand? I don't know how long I'll be gone, and I don't like to leave him for more than a couple of hours."

  She hesitated for a moment. "I'm not adopting a dog by doing this, am I?"

  "No."

  "Are you sure about that? You're not just trying to pawn him off on me because you lack responsibility?”

  "He's my dog, and I'm keeping him. Isn’t that right, Buddy?"

  Buddy barked in agreement.

  "See."

  "Okay. Fine," Madison said with a sigh.

  “I’ll bring down his food and water. Just make sure he gets out every couple of hours, and if I'm not back by 11 PM, put him in his crate for bed."

  “Buddy, are you going to be okay with Madison?"

  He barked again.

  "You need to let him out in the middle of the night,” I said. “So, set your alarm.”

  “I will.” Madison didn't look thrilled about having her sleep disrupted.

  "I'll bring down some treats and a few chew toys as well. You sure you don't mind?" I asked.

  "I don't mind,” she said, loving on Buddy.

  I smiled. “You two are going to get along great!"

  JD arrived, and we unhooked the lines and cast off. We idled out of the marina as the sun dipped down over the horizon. JD throttled up, bringing the boat on plane and we raced toward the mysterious destination.

  It wasn't far from the dive site north of Angelfish Island where we had taken Ted and Charlotte.

  "You don't think Rick is looking for treasure?" I asked.

  A skeptical glance twisted on JD's face. "At night? And what are the odds he’d be looking for the Spanish Galleon in exactly the same place."

  "It's not exactly the same place. It's at least a mile away."

  JD shrugged. "We'll find out soon enough, won't we?"

  We carved through the water, heading toward the site as the sky grew dark. JD flicked on the running lights, and by the time we arrived, the sky was a deep, midnight blue.

  There was nothing out there.

  JD cut the engines, and we drifted along the surface, rocking with the waves. I scanned the horizon, there was nothing but open ocean.

  “Why don't you use some of that fancy equipment and tell me what's underneath the surface?”

  JD glanced at the depth monitor. "We're 110 feet.”

  He took a look at the fishfinder.

  JD had an Aquasonic™ HDX 6000. It had side-scan and down-scan imaging. It gave a complete view of fish, bait location, and bottom contours. It had a high-resolution display and provided information up to 700 feet on either side of the boat.

  We made several passes of the area, scanning the depths below "I think something is down there," JD said.

  "Like what? A shipwreck?"

  "I don't know, but it's a man-made structure. Looks like it's about 75 feet long and 9 feet wide." He shrugged. "There is all kinds of shit at the bottom of the ocean. I've seen cars, trucks, cargo containers, you name it. Though, we're not in a direct shipping lane."

  "I say we go down and take a look."

  JD agreed.

  We dropped anchor, prepped the gear, and prepared for a dive. JD raised the diver down flag.

  We were both experienced divers and knew that we had a limited amount of bottom time at this depth.

  We donned the gear and shouldered the tanks and plunged into the water. The beams of our dive lights lead the way as we descended through the dark depths. The underwater lights of the boat illuminated the surface area, but the light fell off fast.

  At the bottom, it was black and inky.

  JD and I stayed within sight of each other as we scanned the bottom with our dive lights. I saw a few fish and a crustacean scamper across the bottom, kicking up puffs of sediment. There was always the possibility of running into a bull shark or two, but as long as no one was chumming the water, I figured we'd be okay.

  Including our descent time, we had a total of 15 minutes before we had to surface. On the way back up, we’d take a 3 to 5 minutes safety stop.

  I had no intention of exceeding our bottom time.

  Getting bent isn’t fun.

  My dive light cut through the darkness, slashing across the sea floor.

  I didn't see anything.

  Maybe what JD saw on the fishfinder was nothing more than a mound on the seafloor?

  We were nearing the time when we needed to begin our ascent when my beam raked across a structure. I motioned to JD and pointed toward it.

  As we swam closer, the object’s full form came into view.

  29

  A black, homemade submersible lay at the bottom of the ocean, embedded into the sediment. It had been made in the swampy jungles of Columbia. Drug submarines were the latest weapon in the arsenal of the cartels for transporting large amounts of cocaine and heroin into the United States.

  They were elusive and hard to detect.

  There were three main designs that were in common use. This appeared to be one of the more sophisticated ones. I had heard of drug subs that had advanced sonar, air conditioning, heads, galleys, and sleeping quarters.

  This looked to be an advanced model.

  The typical crew complement was a captain, two deckhands, and an engineer. They were powered by diesel engines, and had ballast tanks, O2 scrubbers, and even periscopes. There was no telling how many of these things were successfully navigating the waters. But many would-be sailors went to a watery grave at the bottom of Davy Jones Locker.

  Sometimes the ships were scuttled to avoid capture, and the merchandise would be recovered later. Often, sailors drowned in the process.

  I swam toward the main hatch. It had been opened from the inside, presumably as the crew attempted to escape—but a quick glance inside the submarine revealed none had survived.

  The pale lifeless bodies of the crew floated in the sunken tomb. Fish had nibbled at their flesh and eyes.

  The hatch wasn't wide enough for me to fit through with my gear on.

  I looked at my dive watch—it indicated that we had less than 2 minutes remaining before we needed to begin our ascent.

  We were cutting it close.

  I slipped the tank off my shoulders, took a last breath from the regulator, then set the equipment on the seafloor. I swam through the hatch, into the tiny submersible. My dive light guided the way.

  For something that was made deep in the jungle, it looked polished. No expense was spared. It
was on par with a WWII era submarine. The only thing it lacked were torpedo tubes. And I wouldn’t be surprised if that became an addition to later models.

  I’m kidding, but not really.

  I swam into the cargo hold and found it full of packages sealed in watertight black plastic. They were stacked from the deck to the ceiling. Inside were sealed bricks of cocaine.

  Several packages were missing, and I assumed that Rick had been making dives, attempting to bring the merchandise to the surface.

  I couldn't quite put all the pieces together, but I gathered the two fishermen had stumbled across the wreckage and decided to make a few extra bucks. But something went wrong.

  Two guys like Glenn and Rick wouldn't know how to move large volumes of cocaine. Perhaps that's where the gangs came in? They would need someone with street connections to move this volume of product.

  With my knife, I cut open a package and grabbed a brick of cocaine. Upon examination, I saw it had the logo of the Los Demonios Cartel stamped into the packaging. It was a skull with devil horns.

  I took the brick and swam toward the hatch. I squeezed through and showed JD the brick. He took the package and inspected it while I shouldered my tank.

  JD pointed to the surface, indicating it was time we begin our ascent. We slowly made our way toward the surface and paused for a safety stop. The lights of the Wild Tide provided guidance in the dark inky water.

  After the required safety stop, we surfaced and climbed aboard the swim platform. JD set the package of cocaine on the ledge and attempted to pull himself up. But we were greeted by barrels of angry assault rifles.

  We had visitors aboard the Wild Tide, and they weren't invited.

  Another yacht had pulled alongside the Wild Tide, and men with assault rifles roamed the deck. It was a 90’ Italian luxury yacht named the Liquid Asset.

  The fact that the goons didn't put bullets in us right away was an encouraging sign. They allowed us to board the Wild Tide and remove our gear.