Deep Shadow

by Nick Sullivan

  “And all is well,” said the man chosen to lead the lighthouse mission. He was Omar Hychami, an old neighborhood friend of Sulayman Zougam. Omar hung the microphone back on the short-wave radio. “The dorado are biting.” He grinned. “I like this secret agent talk.”

  The submarine and lighthouse were broadcasting on VHF, so they spoke in Spanish and kept their conversations in the realm of fishing, since the airwaves were full of such talk in these areas.

  “I could use some dorado, right about now,” Tarik said, and the two men laughed.

  Fernando Muñoz glared at them. He was handcuffed and sitting in a chair near the radio. If I get the chance, I will kill these pigs, he thought, for perhaps the twentieth time. He had been blindfolded on the boat ride over but he was fairly certain there were five terrorists—one more than the group of National Guardsmen they had slaughtered. From what he’d been able to piece together, the boat had stopped and dropped off several of the terrorists some distance from the compound. After a hail of distant gunfire, the boat had moved again and once he was on shore and the blindfold removed, he had seen the four corpses lying in the sand, shot execution style. They had taken his daughter away while he was still blindfolded but he thought they were holding her in a smaller shed to the north of the lighthouse.

  The nonsense with the blindfolds was pointless, of course. He knew exactly where they were. The Cartel of the Suns used this little island as a navigation point and drop-off location for narcotics, and occasionally put a “fisherman” ashore to pass information to one of the now deceased Guardsmen who had been on Muñoz’s payroll.

  The bearded one in charge loomed over Muñoz. “Zougam wishes to speak with you, face to face.” He turned to the Filipino. “Go tell Houssaine to start the patrol boat. We three are going out to meet the sub.”

  “You sure you want to leave Moussa alone with the girl?”

  “Good point,” Omar said. They had to leave a guard with the cartel leader’s daughter, but Moussa was… impulsive, and had carnal tendencies. The sniper, Abdul, had to remain on overwatch in case of any incoming boat traffic. Ah, but he can serve two functions. “Tell Moussa to meet us at the dock.” He grabbed Muñoz by the arm and hauled him to his feet. “Come.”

  They reached the dock and Omar handed the cartel leader over to the terrorist aboard the boat. Moussa, jogged up. Fat and sweating, the man was not the most fit of their members but he was vicious in a fight. “Ah, Moussa. As you know, we are heading out for a while, and you will be left in charge of the prisoner. She is still cuffed, am I correct?”

  The man nodded, a note of confusion knitting his hairy brow. “Yes, Omar.”

  “The woman is very beautiful, don’t you think?”

  Moussa’s eyes flashed with lust but his mind quickly caught up as he realized where his leader was going with this. “I won’t touch her.”

  “I know you won’t. You will stand outside the door to her shed. And if I hear from Abdul,” he pointed up at the lighthouse, “that you went inside before we get back, well… I’ll have to assume the worst.”

  Moussa swallowed. “It is very hot outside—” he began.

  “Good thing you’re from North Africa, then,” Omar said over his shoulder as he boarded the boat.

  “They are coming, Sulayman” one of the Oukabir brothers called down. It was hard to know which one, they sounded so alike. The brothers had started to feel seasick as the submarine bobbed in the waves and they had offered to stand on deck, holding the thick rope that Samarkandi had thought wise to leave attached to several points along the hull. It had only a minor effect on their aquadynamic streamlining and the Uzbek knew there might be a need for boats to tie up—as was about to happen now.

  Zougam went up the steps, Samarkandi following. The two of them would cross over to the patrol boat while the others brought aboard some additional provisions and water that the lighthouse group had picked up on the way over to the island. Samarkandi stuck his head back down. “Lenox, keep an eye on the radar. Mohammed, you watch the periscope view. And keep an ear out for any calls on channel 16.” Channel 16 was the VHF band for emergencies and would be the likely channel someone would use if they tried to raise the Coast Guard to report their odd-looking “boat”—though, in this case, the Venezuelan Coast Guard might ignore the call. Several Guard boats were commanded by cartel men.

  The patrol boat pulled alongside and lines were tossed across to secure the two vessels. Zougam and Samarkandi jumped over, approaching Omar Hychami and the handcuffed Muñoz.

  “Omar,” Zougam said with affection, embracing the man and clapping his back. “You took the lighthouse with no casualties?” he asked in Arabic.

  “They surrendered without a fight. We put their bodies in the inner lagoon.”

  “Good thinking, they won’t float into the shipping lanes.” He looked around the boat. “Where is Moussa?”

  “Guarding the girl.” When Zougam gave him a look, Omar added, “under Abdul’s watchful eye… and sniper scope.”

  Zougam laughed and playfully slapped Omar’s cheek before turning to Muñoz and switching to English. “Now, Colonel Muñoz, it is time to explain your part in all of this. Hamid?”

  Samarkandi stepped forward. “Your original plan to use the frigate Mariscal Sucre to screen our transit is still in play. It was a good plan and we intend to use it. If anyone approaches our submarine, the frigate will drive them off, even putting a shot across the bow, if need be. They will claim that President Maduro has declared a state of emergency and has authorized any and all measures to protect the territorial integrity of Venezuelan waters.”

  Muñoz was sullen. “And what if a Venezuelan ship approaches?”

  “There are no Venezuelan ships on station between here and the Northern Caribbean. None, except the Mariscal Sucre. That is what you told me, yes?”

  Zougam took over. “We will radio Omar from time to time with updates. You will contact the frigate as originally planned. Tell your man, Commander… Moreno?” He looked to Samarkandi for confirmation. The Uzbek nodded. “You will tell Moreno that everything is going as planned and we will rendezvous with the frigate as scheduled.”

  Muñoz stared at the terrorist leader, his jaw clenched.

  Zougam waited patiently before adding, “Your daughter is very much intact. She can remain that way.”

  Muñoz looked down at the deck of the boat before nodding savagely.

  “Excellent.” Zougam glanced at his watch. A few minutes before five. He looked over to the submarine. “Is the food and water transferred?”

  Sayyid Oukabir looked to his brother and Rachid said “Yes.”

  Zougam switched to Arabic. “Hamid, go back aboard and prepare to sail… or sink… or whatever you call it. Omar, you will take Muñoz back to the island—but first, it is time you knew of our plans.”

  The cartel leader sat quietly as the two men talked in what sounded like Arabic. He knew the submarine was loaded with explosives and he knew it was heading north—and while he didn’t comprehend most of the words they spoke, he understood two: “Charlotte Amalie.”

  “So where do you think that sub was going?” Emily asked.

  They were rinsing their gear and wet suits in the freshwater tanks alongside the now-closed Rock Beauty Divers dive shop. Frenchy the Belgian had locked up early and was gone for the day by the time they arrived.

  “I dunno, Em,” Boone said. “They might have been headed back to the Venezuelan coast closer to Trinidad, or they could have been on their way to one of the other Caribbean islands to sell their drugs. Who knows?” He lifted his wetsuit out of the water and wrung it out. Saltwater was extremely corrosive, and it was always a good idea to rinse everything before putting it away in storage.

  They headed into the open-air drying room to hang their suits and BCDs and store their other gear in their lockers. Emily held on to her camera
, thumbing one of the buttons on its underwater case. “I got some amazing photos of that juvenile spotted drum… but then you push the button and bam! Submarine!”

  “Yeah,” Boone said, grabbing dry clothes from the locker. “Kinda hard to beat.”

  They heard a couple hollow, metallic clangs and some splashes outside. Someone else returning from shore diving, setting down empty tanks and dunking gear in the fresh water rinse.

  “I’m telling you, that was a cornetfish.”

  “Nah, way too big. Musta been a trumpet.”

  Boone recognized the accents. The Claassen brothers. “I’m gonna go settle an argument,” Boone said, smiling.

  “Be right there,” Emily said, pulling a T-shirt over her bikini top.

  “Hey, Boone! How’s it hanging?” Rick said.

  “To the left, I suppose. Where’d you guys go?”

  “Tori’s Reef,” Ron said. “Down by the outflow from the saltworks.”

  “I know it well. Second most fish diversity on the island at that site. So, you think you saw a cornetfish?”

  “Nah, Rick does. But it was almost five feet long. I think it was a trumpetfish.”

  “There’s a cornet that’s been seen down there—and they can grow to six feet. Was it blue?”

  “Yeah,” Ron said.

  Rick had his camera out, a little GoPro, and was clicking buttons. He handed it to Boone. “There, see? It’s got that long filament at the end of the tail.”

  “That is indeed a cornetfish. Congratulations! I’ve only seen two during my time here.”

  “Ooh, lemme see, lemme see!” Emily had joined them and took the GoPro from Boone. “Gorgeous! I haven’t seen one yet!”

  “I thought you guys had the afternoon off,” Rick said.

  “We decided to do a little shore diving of our own,” Boone said. “We were just down the road from you, at the lighthouse.”

  “I thought that place was a rough spot.”

  “Usually is, but it was perfect today.”

  “You see anything good?” Ron asked.

  Boone looked at Emily who was biting her lip, an excited grin on her face. “Show them,” he said nonchalantly. Emily handed back the GoPro and grabbed her camera. When she started to hand it over, Boone held a hand up. “Back it up to the beginning. Let them enjoy all of the dive.” He winked at her.

  She might have winked back from behind her big sunglasses and she fiddled with the camera a moment before handing it over.

  Rick held the camera and flipped through the images, his brother looking over his shoulder.

  “Eagle ray!” Ron said. “Love those. Let you get pretty close, too.”

  Rick whistled. “And a big-ass moray. Spotted, right? Never seen that kind get that big.”

  Boone and Emily watched the two brothers ooh and aah through the photos, sharing in the anticipation of what was coming. Emily gripped his arm tightly and pressed against his side; he could feel her practically vibrating with excitement. Suddenly the Claassens stopped, the looks of wonder being replaced by ones of confusion.

  “Wha…?” Rick trailed off.

  “What the fuck?” Ron said, managing to complete his sentence.

  Rick looked up from the camera, his brow knitting. “What exactly are we looking at here?”

  “You tell me, you’re the Navy guy,” Boone said.

  Before Rick could speak, his brother beat him to it. “It’s a submarine,” Ron said, his voice filled with wonder.

  “There’s a few more shots, and some of them are better images,” Emily said.

  Rick focused on the viewscreen as he went through the additional photos. “Two propellers,” he said to himself. When he looked back up at them, his expression was all business. “How big would you say this was?”

  “About a hundred feet long,” Boone said. “Hard to be sure underwater, but it was longer than most of the dive boats on the island.”

  “How deep was it? And any idea how fast it was going?”

  “I was at seventy when I saw it. It pulled away at a decent clip, maybe six to eight knots, and started descending. We lost sight of it and the viz was quite good, so it definitely dived below a hundred feet. And I think it was using sonar. I heard two sets of double-tones. The second pair came when I was pretty close and was kinda uncomfortable—felt it in my guts.”

  “You’re lucky,” Rick said. “A full targeting ping from a military sub might’ve killed you.”

  “I’m no expert, but I get the feeling it’s not military,” Boone said.

  “Sorry I didn’t get a video,” Emily said. “By the time I came out of the reef and got those shots, it was already moving past.”

  “Can you send these to me?” Rick asked. “I’ve got an active duty buddy I want to run these by.”

  “Yeah, sure, I can Bluetooth them to my phone and email them to you,” Emily said.

  After Rick gave her his email, Boone asked, “So, do you know what this is? We thought it might be some kind of cartel submarine. I can’t imagine anything legitimate would come that close to a reef.”

  “I don’t want to jump to conclusions until I talk to my contact in Key West. What time is it?”

  Boone checked his dive watch. “Quarter to six.”

  “How about we meet you two for dinner. We were thinking of going down the road to Buddy Dive for their big barbecue. How about we meet you there at seven thirty? If you can get me those photos quickly, I should have some info within the hour.”

  Emily had her phone out and was looking back and forth between it and her camera. “One’s already on the way. By the time you get to some Wi-Fi, the rest will be in your inbox.”

  “Nerd,” Boone whispered.

  “Hey, you didn’t complain about my tech savvy when I got us Game of Thrones.”

  “Good point,” Boone said. “I retract my statement.”

  “Ron, will you finish rinsing everything? I’ll run back to the condo and forward these photos.” There was a small condominium complex next door to Rock Beauty and Rick headed through a little side gate toward their unit.

  While Emily finished sending the remaining photos, Boone put the empty tanks away before they headed out to the road on foot. The Buddy Dive Resort was only two plots down, just past Captain Don’s Habitat. As the two passed the driveway into Captain Don’s, Emily suddenly grabbed Boone’s hand and dragged him through the parking lot toward the outdoor bar they’d had lunch at.

  “What are you doing, Em? We’re meeting at Buddy.”

  “Not for over an hour. The BBQ is always packed, so first we’re gonna go back to the Deco Stop. You know why?”

  Boone smiled as she dragged him to the terrace beside the little bar. “Why?”

  She pointed toward the ocean, the sky starting to take on a vibrant pink, ten minutes away from a fiery orange.

  “Because you promised me a sunset drink.”

  Standing on the catwalk outside the navigation bridge, Commander Eduardo Moreno took another pull from his cigarette and looked down at the bow of his ship, the F-21 Mariscal Sucre. The frigate sliced through the water with ease. The Italians had designed her, and with their penchant for speed she originally had a top speed of thirty-five knots. But the Sucre had been commissioned over thirty-seven years ago and she was showing her age. On a good day, Moreno could push the old girl to thirty knots, but the shortage of fuel for her gas turbines meant she usually just used her diesel, chugging along at a dependable cruising speed of sixteen knots.

  Finishing his Belmont, he flicked the butt into the ocean below and raised his binoculars.

  “Fire!” he called back to the bridge. He heard his order repeated in the Command Information Center below.

  The bow turret and its Otobreda 127mm gun swung smoothly to port, its barrel making a small vertical adjustment before opening
fire, sending four shells down range in six seconds, recoiling rapidly with each shot.

  “Cease fire!” Their target was a large piece of plywood Moreno had spotted in the waning light of sunset. None of the shots were hits but they had been close enough. With international sanctions tightening their grip on the Maduro regime, the Bolivarian Navy of Venezuela had to be sparing in its ammunition use for training purposes. Besides, Moreno was just killing time.

  Eduardo Moreno came from humble beginnings, having grown up in Congo Mirador, a tiny fishing village on the shores of Lake Maracaibo—although, more accurately, the village was on the brackish lagoon itself. Congo Mirador was entirely composed of palafitos—stilt houses—and Moreno had lived his childhood quite literally on the water. Even the town church was on a raised platform above the lagoon. The villagers owed their livelihood to fishing, but supplemented their income from the occasional groups of tourists who came to see the lightning.

  Lake Maracaibo, and particularly the mouth of the Catatumbo River which emptied into the lagoon near the village, was the focal point of one of the largest displays of lightning in the entire world. “Catatumbo lightning”—also known as the Beacon of Maracaibo or the Eternal Storm—was a weather phenomenon like no other. Electrical storms slashed the sky for ten hours at a time, occurring an average of two hundred sixty days a year, with hundreds of lightning strikes every hour. Fishing was hard work and the young Eduardo Moreno had noticed how much money these tiny groups of tourists brought in. When he reached his teenage years, Moreno rented a small boat from an uncle and began traveling to various cities to ferry tourists back to his village to see mother nature’s performance. It was on one of these trips that he came to the attention of the Bolivarian Cartel.

  Moreno had picked up a small group of tourists from Ciudad Ojeda, a small city across the lagoon. Back in the village, the group was treated to a meal before turning in for the night. The village had a small stilt house they used as a bed and breakfast for tourists since most groups stayed overnight—the boat ride was long and the lightning display didn’t always start on cue. Moreno happened to notice that one of the tourists didn’t avail himself of the lodgings—in fact, when everyone gathered to see the lightning, he was nowhere to be found. Moreno remembered the missing man, because he had been traveling alone, wearing an expensive shirt and slacks. When the time came to board for the return trip, the mystery man was back, waiting with the rest of the tourists, except this time he had a large duffel bag—a bag that Moreno definitely didn’t remember seeing on the trip over, and he was always acutely aware of how much weight his little boat was carrying. The man noticed the young villager looking at the bag during the transit and when they reached the little marina across the lake, the man asked the teenager to join him for an early dinner. When Moreno explained he had to leave right away to get back across before it was too late at night, the man had politely insisted, explaining that his employers were looking for bright young men to work with. In addition to dinner, there would be lodging, female companionship, breakfast, and two hundred American dollars to keep him company on the boat ride back. The man had unzipped the duffel bag a couple inches and the teen saw stacks of American presidents on a sea of green.