by Glen Robins
“Anthony raised his eyes to meet my gaze. ‘That’s it, then. We will go back down there and finish the job. Then we’re done. No more. Right?’
“‘Right,’ I said. I stood motionless, as if my feet were nailed to the floor. The gentle swell was the only thing making me move.
“The men didn’t speak as they prepared for their second dive. As each man readied his gear, a somber alliance grew between them. They communicated with each other using only their eyes and hands.
“Before dropping back into the water, Anthony signaled for the group to huddle together. ‘We must work more quickly this time. We must save our air. Breathe slower. No need to be nervous now. Just get the other four cars and be done on this dive. OK?’
“The others nodded, grim-faced and resolute.
“‘I already cut the locks on all the containers on the first dive,’ Anthony said. ‘Willy, you go in the first container. Manny, you go in the second. I’ll take the third and fourth.’ He used his hands to show the positions of each container, orienting his hands to match the angle at which each lay and the relative distance between them. It was apparent that the third and fourth containers were close to each other. Looking at me, he added, ‘We started with the ones farthest away. The other four are closer. That will save time and oxygen. And we will work alone this time, not in teams.’
“‘Go. I will take care of the rest of this,’ I said as I motioned toward the remaining packets containing the coke. They looked like white bricks. I knew the street value of each to be approximately twenty-five thousand dollars.
“‘You need to move. If the Coast Guard sees you again, it’s all over. We’ll go north as far as we can on the scooters. You can track us and pick us up after we surface, when our batteries run out.’ Anthony was all-business at this point. He had the ‘get-it-done’ attitude to begin with and it manifested itself clearly in this crisis.
“Anthony nodded to the others and, one by one, they stepped off the back platform and disappeared under the water with a splash, a gurgle, and a plume of bubbles. None of them switched on their lights until they were several feet below the surface. I watched as the luminescent globes slowly disappeared in the depths.
“Once the crew was out of sight, I turned my attention to housekeeping. I busied myself concealing all of the tightly wrapped bricks of white powder, worried that the Coast Guard might reappear. After stuffing every inch of the secret compartments, I realized we would not have room to hide it all. Much of our loot would have to be stacked in the open on the floor and beds. A thousand kilograms of cocaine would take up more room than I had originally thought.
“I then prepared for departure, set my sails to tack and jibe my way slowly on a northeasterly course. Knowing the crew had a maximum of thirty-five minutes’ worth of air in their tanks, and a remaining range of maybe two kilometers on the sea scooters, I reefed the jib. Purposely taking my time, I would come around lazily with each turn, making my way toward the anticipated rendezvous area. The wind was light, which helped keep my speed down.
“I kept an eye on the progress of my three remaining crew using the tablet computer. My mind flitted back and forth between the scene belowdecks where Tino lay, wrapped in a sheet, and worries that the others were struggling to finish the job short-handed. I wanted to be underwater with them, helping, but I knew we each had a role to play and mine was to ensure we made a quick getaway.
“The night was dark. The moon hung low in the sky, a tiny sliver of it illuminated. I came around, heading back to the bearing Anthony and I had discussed, having traveled approximately two kilometers along that bearing line. Yet, there was no sign of the rafts bobbing on the surface. I checked the tablet again. It showed them moving toward me, half a kilometer back. My heart rejoiced.
“Movement meant progress. Knowing they were making progress eased my mind.
“I shifted my focus to preparing to stop and drop anchor.
“As I approached the bearing line, I could just make out the outlines of the two black rafts as moon light glanced off them. Soon after, I noticed bubbles at the surface and a bluish bulb of light slowly growing larger off the beam maybe two hundred meters. My breathing began to normalize. I hurried to furl the sails and tie them up and drop the anchor to prevent me from drifting. I didn’t bother to set it firm for the sake of time, trusting that it would catch and hold on its own enough to keep the boat steady while we loaded up the men and cargo.
“Before my crew were visible, a massive plume of bubbles roared to the surface and a large rectangular area of water jumped and popped. The noise gave me a start until I realized what it was. It was the lift bags that were fastened to the net full of cocaine bricks. Four large balloon-like air bags breached the surface not so unlike a pod of whales.
“The men soon surfaced and grabbed the net with their hands and pulled it toward the boat. I tossed a line, which they tied to the leading edge, and added my efforts to theirs and together we slowly dragged the massive load to the stern.
“Anthony, the first to surface, climbed out of the water onto the small platform on the stern and helped me pull and tie it off. He shook his head and tapped the gauge on his regulator. He was almost out of air. ‘That was another close call,’ he said.
“He turned and allowed me to help him out of his buoyancy vest. Anthony, in turn, helped the others out of the water, one by one.
“As the men stowed their gear, I turned my attention to the white bricks of cocaine, roughly seven-hundred kilos. We were out of discreet storage space, so we formed a line and passed the bricks two at a time into the cabin belowdecks, where Manny stacked them as evenly as possible around the berth in my stateroom, on the bunks, and on the benches. It would be a cramped ride to Jamaica. When all of those spaces were taken, he stacked them across the floor of the cabin, blocking the way to the galley and the head.
“When the last of the cargo was stowed, I let out a sigh and said, ‘Good work, men. But now we must get underway.’
“Each man let out all the air from their tanks and buoyancy vests. Then took their weight belts and used cabling the unnamed man had provided to tie together every piece of dive equipment, including the torches, tanks, scuba gear, and lights. Then they dropped them into the water and let them sink to the bottom. After that, they pulled the net close to the stern as well as the two black rafts that had carried their extra tanks and gear. Manny pulled his dive knife from its sheath and ran long gashes down the sides of each raft. He also punctured the lift bags. All of these things were then gathered up like a bundle of laundry and placed on the net while Willy tied the corners together. Anthony retrieved the old anchor the unnamed man had given us. We lashed the net to the anchor and hauled the tangled mass over the gunwale and watched it disappear into the inky depths.
“A sense of satisfaction permeated the air, but we knew we were still exposed and vulnerable with our cargo stored so openly. ‘Full sails ahead,’ I bellowed.
“My men responded and within moments, the Admiral Risty lurched forward, the sails catching the light breeze and tugging us all in a northerly direction. Each man took his position. They were dog-tired, but ready to get out of harm’s way.
“I laid out my plan to avoid complications. We would go as fast as we could until dawn, then slow up to make it look like we were just a bunch of fun-loving sailors out on a joy ride. If we should encounter the Coast Guard again, we were looking at jail time. I prayed inside that my plan would work, that the wind would cooperate, and that those on the receiving end of this shipment would be where they were supposed to be at the right time. I prayed for Tino and I prayed the Lord would forgive me for putting him in harm’s way.
“I thought about Tino and his family. I owed it to his mother to bring him back. What story I would tell her was an ongoing internal debate, one that occupied my mind during the entire long journey home.
“We sailed through the night, the boat laden and heavy. We did not make great time as I had hoped. When mo
rning came, the men took turns napping belowdecks one at a time. The weight of the boat became an issue at times. Late in the afternoon, when the wind gusts were strongest and the swells were the largest, the boat heaved and keeled from side to side and lumbered through the chop, taking on water. When night fell and the weather settled again, the going was faster and easier.
“There was a monkey on our backs, so to speak, and the sooner we could dispose of the cursed load, the better. The new owners of the shipment were as anxious as we were to do the same. Time was not our friend, for a variety of reasons, so we pressed on through the night, not a word between us.
“Early evening of the third day, I radioed ahead, giving the unnamed man our estimated time of arrival, which would be approximately 11:30 p.m. He promised the intercept boat would be there, and it was. I should say, ‘they’ were. Three different sailboats of various sizes showed up, each taking an equal share of our cargo, each departing in a different direction. I marveled at the coordination behind this operation.
“Just fifteen minutes after our arrival at the rendezvous point, some eighty miles southeast of Jamaica, we were underway back to George Town, free of our fearsome cargo, but yet to face a difficult new reality. These men that I cherished as family, who trusted me and took a risk for me, had lost a brother. And I felt like I had lost another son.
“Things would never be the same. That much I knew.”
Chapter Ten
Three and a Half Years Before Meeting Collin Cook
En route to Grand Cayman Island
Rob and I cast and reel the whole time I speak of that third mission. Lukas looks on, keeping himself steady and out of the way of our poles and lines.
“So, what happened after you turned over the drugs?” Lukas asks. “How were your men? How did they handle themselves?”
“I’ll tell you. It was awkward unloading the goods and having to see Tino’s body and work around it. That was unpleasant, to be sure. But my men were focused on the task. They carried on like true professionals. I was proud of them, though my heart was breaking inside.
“After the goods were unloaded, things changed. I sailed in the dark alone for a time, heading northwest, while my men stayed belowdecks. A gentle breeze blew from the northwest, forcing me to come about on my own constantly. My forward progress was substantially slower than on the way toward Colombia due to all the zigzagging, but at least we were moving, heading away from the crime scene.
“Alone I sat at the helm, stewing in my own ruminations. At first, I cursed the unnamed man. Then, as I steered the boat in a come-about maneuver, my thoughts came about as well. Those thoughts turned the finger of blame straight back at me. Then I howled with grief into the wind and cursed myself over and over.
“My men must have heard me. Either that, or they needed to draw comfort as a group. One by one they emerged from the cabin below. The three survivors looked like the survivors of catastrophes you see on the news. Their faces were drawn and ashen, their expressions glum and forlorn.
“Their presence created an internal conflict that I could not express. I was glad to have their company, but worried about the possibility of another surprise boarding by the Coast Guard or worse, the US Navy.
“I checked my instruments. There were few blips on my radar. Based on the relative size and speed of the blips that I did see, I guessed them to be freighters or cruise ships. No would-be patrol boats within an hour’s radius.
“The pall that hung over us was soon replaced by the rising sun, then a squall. Winds kicked up and the seas grew. One by one and without a word being uttered, the three men assumed their positions on deck, manning riggings in the pale light that reflected off the grey ceiling of clouds. The boat’s leisurely pace was soon quickened by the onslaught of lashing gusts and driving rain.
“I adjusted the angle of attack on the sails to increase our upwind velocity now that I had help, wanting to work our way beyond the wind’s reach as quickly as possible. The men sensed the urgency and belted in to hike outward to keep the keel in the water as we picked up speed.
“No words were exchanged until the swells coming from the east grew fierce and frequent. Then I bellowed out instructions and the men bellowed back their replies.
“‘Steady the mainsail.’
“‘Aye, Cap’n.’
“‘Hoist the jib.’
“‘Aye.’
“‘Coming about port.’
“‘Portside coming about.’
“Soon we were back into the rhythm we had grown accustomed to during our time sailing together. It was therapeutic. My mind was caught up in the moment, not in the sorrow. The immediacy brought on by the growing weather replaced the melancholy that had threatened to consume us all.
“After two hours of scudding the storm, the winds abated, and the first rays of light poked through blue-gray clouds hanging on the eastern horizon. We trimmed the sails and took it easy for the final hours as we approached George Town Harbor. I turned the helm over to Anthony so I could send the unnamed man a cryptic text relaying our approach. It was in French. ‘Looking for a good rugby match. Know of any?’
“His response was so immediate I was led to believe that he was eagerly awaiting our return. ‘Rumor has it there’s a union match brewing between Cayman and Jamaica. Don’t know when yet.’
“‘I’ve heard the rumor as well. Reckon they ought to post the schedule forthwith.’ That was my predetermined reply that the mission had been accomplished and were returning to base, due to arrive shortly.
“‘The Dewsbury Rams have the league’s top scorer this year. I assume he’ll make the team.’
“‘I assume so, as well.’
“To anyone intercepting the message, it would have seemed an innocuous conversation about regional sports teams. But this was how the unnamed man wanted to communicate—like spies. ‘Dewsbury Rams’ was code for ‘home base.’ ‘Top scorer’ meant the money would be concealed under the water, easy to find. ‘Make the team’ meant that the payment would have a tracking device that I could see on my tablet. I checked my tablet to find the signal from the electronic beacon attached to the case containing our payment. He had hidden our payment in the water under my very own slip in the harbor. It would be easy to find. I could dive down using my SNUBA gear, which I kept onboard in case I needed to do any underwater repairs. It consisted of a compact air tank/regulator combination that attached to the strap of my mask that gave me about twenty minutes’ worth of air at or near the surface.
“It all felt worthy of a spy novel. Our trickery and gamesmanship took away some of the tension that otherwise would have been crippling. After all, we were not hardened criminals. We were not adept at lying to authorities or playing it cool under scrutiny. If we had been asked to pass through another inspection by the Navy or Coast Guard, our proverbial gooses would have been cooked. It had not donned on me that we had one last obstacle to hurdle: the George Town Harbor Master. He was friendly, but nosy. Being informed and aware of everything happening in his harbor was more than a job to the man who ran the morning shift.
“‘Can’t wait for the tournament to begin’ was the last message I typed to the mobile phone number I was given. I assumed the number belonged to a burner phone and would soon be replaced.
“The reply was seconds behind. ‘Alas, may the best team win.’ Translated, that meant, ‘Our business is done. Good luck.’
“Late at night, while everyone else was asleep, I would dive down and retrieve the ill-gotten gains.
“At least, that had been the original plan.”
Chapter Eleven
Three and a Half Years Before Meeting Collin Cook
George Town Harbor, Grand Cayman Island
“As we neared our home base of George Town Harbor, clouds descended upon us. Not the kind of clouds that gather in the sky and bring rain, but the emotional kind that bring sadness and pain. What should have been a celebratory occasion, a chance to congratulate ourselves on our t
riumphal return, became a bitter moment of reckoning.
“Silence enveloped the four of us as the dread anticipation of our ugly chore loomed. I, for one, did not relish the thought of removing our dead comrade’s body from its resting place. Nor did I have a good strategy for respectfully transporting him from the boat to the dock and then from the dock to . . . where does one take a deceased friend?
“My mind fogged up. I could not get past the logistics of the grizzly task ahead. Half of my brain was preoccupied with guilt and shame, recriminations and reprisals. The other half worried about transporting Tino’s body. When? How, exactly?
“The four of us never discussed any of these things during our return voyage, when no one else was around to hear or see. Having no idea how to broach the subject and expecting us to have more time to discuss our strategy, I made the mistake of pushing it off. Then the storm happened, and the opportunity vanished. Now, ready to enter the harbor, fearful tension took hold. So much so that I forgot about the Harbor Master.
“It was shortly after 6:00 in the morning. The harbor was bustling with activity. Boats of all stripes were coming and going. People were moving to and fro on the docks, preparing themselves and their vessels for a day on the water. The Harbor Master’s was a busy job. He helped boats navigate through the port, kind of like a traffic cop, letting each captain know what other vessels were doing and what to watch out for. He monitored those coming and going, watchful that nothing untoward was happening within his jurisdiction on his watch. It was common practice to wait at the mouth of the harbor for him to come by, pass along such pertinent information, do a visual check of the vessel and the occupants to make sure all was well, and grant permission to continue to one’s destination.
“Among his many duties was to ensure that no illegal activities were taking place. This included the loading or unloading of illicit drugs, dirty money that needed laundering, and smuggled immigrants from Latin or South America—all trades that were flourishing in the Caribbean during the economic downturn. If necessary, in his opinion, the Harbor Master had the right to board and inspect any vessel coming into or exiting the port.