Deep Shadow

by Nick Sullivan

  “Thanks Martin, but I don’t think we’ll need these,” Boone said, handing the bag back.

  Martin didn’t take it. “You may not need to use them, but if any pirate or druggie or druggie pirate comes along and sees those, you may save yourself a lot of trouble. You better believe Darcy has a little something on his boat. Here.” He handed Boone a second, smaller bag.

  “Is this full of bullets?”

  “It’s your breakfast, you lolo.”

  Boone decided to skip a scenic breakfast stop and cycle straight to the dive shop. The sun was just coming up as he stowed Martin’s pistols in his locker and went into the office to retrieve the keys to the Kleine Dancer. Wolfing down his pastechi, he went to the pier, stripped down, and dove in. He’d brought the boat in solo plenty of times, his recent bump against the pier notwithstanding, and he wanted to be able to start their morning dive early. Pulling the boat alongside he tossed a looped line with a practiced throw, lassoing one of the dock pillars and pulling the bow in close. He put the starboard engine in reverse and gave it a single, short pulse before scrambling aft and repeating the procedure with a stern line, pulling the boat up against the bumpers. He quickly hopped across and secured the boat to the cleats before climbing back aboard and killing the engines.

  Boone brought two carts to the pier, one loaded with tanks, the other with the BCDs and regulators for their morning divers. He was about to fetch the water, ice, and snacks when Frenchy the Belgian showed up. “I see you’re hoping for an early start!”

  “Yeah. If we can finish before one, that’d be great. Say, Frenchie, um… we okay to take another afternoon off?”

  “Emily called to ask me last night and I already told her you could on one condition: she has to put up a high-resolution photo of that submarine in the dive shop. The Carib Inn has a great manta ray shot, Divi’s got that whale shark… but only Rock Beauty is going to have a submarine!”

  Emily appeared, exiting the dive shop office with a cooler of ice and snacks. “You brought the boat in yourself, I see? Nice to see it’s in one piece. Here, grab a handle and gimme a hand.”

  Boone did so and they carried the heavy Igloo out to the boat.

  “I’ll bring the water,” Frenchy called out, heading back to the dive shop.

  “So… do we have a charter?” Emily asked in a low voice, as they brought the cooler aboard. No one was on the pier to overhear them except for a few crabs, but since she seemed to still be in secret agent mode, Boone played along, whispering his reply.

  “We do. Old pier north of the Black Durgon. Two o’clock.”

  She squeaked and gripped his arm. “We’re going on an adventure, yeah?”

  Boone thought about the Glocks in his locker. “Yeah. Could be fun.”

  By eight o’clock the Claassen brothers had shown up and helped bring aboard the last of the equipment, setting up their own BCDs and regs. Frenchy informed Boone that they were in luck; the two students from before were heading to Curaçao and only two other divers were joining them today. Two divers weren’t enough to warrant the fuel expenditure for an afternoon dive anyway, so the shop wasn’t going to lose any money by letting Boone and Emily off. Frenchy opted to stay at the shop to catch up on paperwork and assigned Emily to skipper the boat.

  Once the other pair arrived, a husband and wife, the Kleine Dancer headed out. The plan was to dive Klein Bonaire (“Little Bonaire”), the small uninhabited island to the west, less than a mile offshore. The reefs around it were spectacular, and with such a short travel time and only the Claassens and the couple to wrangle, they’d be able to wrap up the morning dives quite early.

  They chose Jerry’s Reef for the deeper, first dive. A divemaster at the Buddy barbecue had told him they’d seen eagle rays and turtles there the day before. They hit pay dirt, spotting a flight of three eagle rays and a pair of hawksbill turtles. For the second dive, Emily suggested No Name but the husband and wife had already dived there, so Boone took them around to the south side of Klein to Monte’s Divi. While they enjoyed sodas and oranges opposite the solitary Divi-divi tree that grew near the shore, Emily explained to the divers that this site was known for large stands of staghorn coral, a dwindling sight in the Caribbean. Also, the odds were good that they’d see a seahorse. Emily knew of three spots to check and she usually found one. As it happened, she found two, along with a bright yellow frogfish.

  While the couple went up top to the flybridge, Boone motioned for Rick, Ron, and Emily to join him at the stern.

  “We’re all set. We’ve got a boat meeting us at two o’clock.”

  “You know the operator?” Rick asked.

  “Only by reputation. And the person I trust most on this island vouches for him.”

  Rick nodded. “I took out some cash. I’m guessing he doesn’t take credit cards.”

  Boone smiled. “Reasonable guess. This coming out of your own pocket?”

  “For the moment, but I suspect my friends will reimburse us, if we find anything useful. Even if they don’t, Ron and I are both pretty well set, ain’t that right brother-of-mine?”

  Ron grinned. “Company’s doing well—and hey, if we’re gonna blow some money this seems like a good way to do it.”

  “So, what’s the plan?” Emily asked.

  Rick thought for a moment. “How about we start nice and easy. Visit the spot where you saw the sub, dive in, and take a looksee.”

  “Conditions might be a little rough,” Boone cautioned. The winds were still pretty calm, but a little breezier than the day before.

  “Rick and I are both advanced,” Ron said. “No worries, on our account.”

  “We should bring a couple tanks apiece,” Rick suggested. “Where are we meeting your guy?”

  “A pier about a half-mile up the road,” Boone said.

  “We can load up my jeep with shore dive tanks and our gear,” Emily proposed. “I’ll run you guys over and Boone can return my jeep to the shop and bicycle back to us at the pier.”

  “What kind of boat is it?”

  “No idea,” Boone said. “But I’m guessing it’ll be something discreet.”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Rick said.

  They were standing at the edge of the pier as a garishly painted boat approached the shallows. A navy blue gunwale rimmed the top of a bright red hull, and everything was topped with a canary yellow superstructure and bridge. She flew both the flags of the Netherlands and Bonaire up top, but the color scheme hinted at something else.

  Boone grinned. “Yellow, blue, and red. The Venezuelan flag.”

  “I thought you said this guy was discreet,” Ron said.

  As the boat slowed to nuzzle up to the pier, Emily suddenly burst into laughter, pointing at the name of the boat, painted along the bow.

  “Yachty McYachtface?” Rick read, his lips quirking up in a smile.

  Boone laughed and caught the bowline the captain tossed to him.

  “Funny name… is there something to it I don’t get?” Ron asked.

  Emily giggled. “My fellow Brits were christening a research vessel and some science group created an online poll to name her. They were hoping for something like Attenborough or Shackleton, or Blessed—but no, the internet spoke, and ‘Boaty McBoatface’ won by a landslide. They ended up going with Sir David Attenborough. Psh. That one only had three percent of the vote. But they did give the name ‘Boaty McBoatface’ to the robot submarine the ship carries.”

  “And the Swedes named one of their trains ‘Trainy McTrainface’,” Boone said, securing the stern line.

  Darcy DaSilva exited the lower helm cockpit and hopped down to the rickety pier, wearing a T-shirt so faded the logo was no longer discernible. He was a short man, deeply tanned, a mix of bloodlines apparent in his features—his sunbaked complexion made his age hard to determine. He smiled an easy smile. “You talkin
g about my boat’s name?”

  “Yeah! Love it!” Em said.

  “Thank you, pretty lady. I like it too! I bought it from a Scotsman in Barbados and he explained the joke. I thought it was too good to change, so Yachty McYachtface she remains. Of course, she’s not technically a yacht—she’s a Beneteau Swift Trawler. But Trawler McTrawlerface hurts my tongue to say.” He looked around the group, his eyes settling on Boone. “You must be Martin Petersen’s friend.”

  “Boone Fischer,” Boone said, shaking Darcy’s hand. “How’d you guess?”

  “Martin said you’d be the one that looks like a scarecrow who works out.”

  “Martin has a lively imagination.”

  Darcy nodded vigorously. “Tells stories almost as good as he cooks!”

  “And he’s got great taste in music.” Emily stepped forward. “I’m Emily.”

  Darcy gave her a rakish smile. “Very pleased to meet you. Darcy DaSilva, at your every service.” He shifted his eyes to the brothers. “So, who’s paying for this little outing?”

  “That’d be me,” Rick said, stepping forward to shake hands. “Rick Claassen. And this is my brother Ron. So, how much are we talking about?”

  “Depends on what you have in mind.”

  Rick started to unzip his backpack. “Well, if you need something up front…”

  Darcy waved Rick off. “Later, later. Let’s get your gear aboard and get going. This pier isn’t used often and I’d prefer not to draw too much attention.”

  “Said the man with the rainbow boat…” Emily quipped, tipping her sunglasses down on her nose and giving him a meaningful look.

  Darcy grinned, and Boone spotted a tiny spot of gold in the middle of the man’s front tooth. Is that a little heart?

  “Permission to come aboard, captain?” Rick asked.

  “Ah, there’s a man who knows proper nautical procedure,” Darcy said. “Permission granted.” He hopped back aboard and Rick joined him, the two men taking the scuba tanks that Ron and Boone passed over. Emily nimbly scampered back and forth from pier to gunwale, bringing the various gear bags and backpacks aboard. In minutes, they were loaded and as Darcy entered the lower helm and started the engine, Boone released the lines. The colorful boat backed away from the dock before turning to starboard and heading into the channel.

  “So, where to first?” Darcy called over the engines.

  “Willemstoren Lighthouse,” Boone replied.

  The boat lurched forward as Darcy throttled up, the sudden increase in speed sending a shimmering shoal of flying fish skimming across the water in their wake.

  “We have a problem.”

  Samarkandi opened his eyes and looked up from his air mattress at Lenox Bua, standing over him. The crew was sleeping in shifts and Lenox had been on watch. Samarkandi glanced at a simple, battery-operated clock they had installed on a bulkhead. Three in the afternoon. “What is it?” he asked, rising.

  “It’s de oil pressure. It started dropping. It was so slow I didn’t notice it at first, but now I’m certain.”

  Samarkandi went to the gauges at the small control console. Sure enough, the needle was several ticks below optimal pressure. “It might just be this gauge. I’ll go back to the engine room—”

  “Already did dat, mon. It matches.”

  “Shit. How long did it take to drop to this point?”

  “Hard to say, but I tink maybe an hour?”

  Samarkandi made a quick calculation. Not necessarily a mission-ending problem, but they would need to address it. The rest of the crew were asleep except for one of the Oukabir brothers who was manning the sonar. He went to Zougam and shook his leader awake. “Sulayman. We need to talk.” After explaining the oil pressure drop, the engineer brought Zougam to the nautical chart. “I could attempt some repairs but it would mean spending some time on the surface—also, finding the actual leak might be impossible, depending on where it is. The leak is slow, however. While we will not be able to complete our mission in our current state, if we were to obtain additional lubricants…”

  Zougam nodded. “I see. Continue to replenish the system, rather than try to fix something that might prove impossible to repair.”

  “Yes. And if we damage the submarine further, well… it won’t matter in a few days, will it?” Samarkandi pointed to a tiny speck on the map. “Aves Island. The Venezuelans have a small research facility there, correct?”

  “It’s more of an outpost for their military, but yes. There are ten to twelve men and women there, inhabiting a building on stilts at the southern tip.”

  “And are any of these people with the Cartel of the Suns?”

  Zougam’s expression brightened. “Yes. Two, I believe.”

  Samarkandi nodded. “I thought that might be the case. And I imagine they have supplies there for Venezuelan naval assets as well as research vessels.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Have Muñoz order the frigate to move past the island, about twenty miles northeast of it, and take up station here.” Samarkandi pointed to a spot on the chart closer to the French island of Guadeloupe and the volcano-ravaged Monserrat. “After he speaks to the frigate, order Muñoz to place a second call to his contacts on Aves Island. Have him tell his people to load a boat with as much engine oil as they have and meet us here.” He tapped the chart at a point a few miles west of the island. “As far as they will know, we are just a cartel sub with a little engine trouble. Martinez can wait above, and be both our ‘face’ and ‘voice’ while they transfer the oil.”

  Zougam was silent for a time, his eyes distant. Finally, he spoke. “I am not comfortable with someone on the outside getting that close to us but this seems like a logical course, under the circumstances. Still, I think we will need several safeguards in place. If anyone became suspicious, could you lose the frigate?”

  Samarkandi had researched the warship when he had first learned their plans and he didn’t hesitate. “Yes. It is an export model of an old Italian Lupo class frigate with an emphasis on surface to surface warfare. It has only a basic hull mounted sonar and an antiquated helicopter—she’d have to get very lucky to find us.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Nothing is certain in this world, but given how far from us she will be when we surface for the transfer, she’d have to close the distance at high speed, making her sonar useless. And unless the helicopter is prepared and waiting—and I doubt it will be— we can be deep and on another bearing before it arrives.”

  “Good. After sunset prayer, I will have Muñoz make the calls. I will have them provide us with additional water as well, in case your repairs take longer than expected. In the meantime, I want you to plot a second course from Aves Island to a different location, as a precaution.” Zougam pointed to the north on the chart. “The frigate is escorting us to the maritime boundary near the Virgin Islands and expects us to make a narcotics delivery to one of them, or to Puerto Rico. So… we need an alternate target. Instead of the cruise ship pier in Saint Thomas, I propose the piers here.” He pressed a fingertip to the chart.

  Samarkandi frowned. “Sulayman… respectfully… that is not an American island.”

  “True. But we’re not after the island, just the cruise ships.”

  Samarkandi sighed. It was just a backup plan, after all. “Very well, Sulayman.”

  Zougam patted Samarkandi on the shoulder then turned to the Trinidadian who was watching the gauges like a hawk. “Lenox, wake Martinez—we have some calls to make.”

  While Samarkandi began charting the alternate plots, Zougam took a moment to visit the bow hold. The forward compartment was packed with coolers, their tops removed and detonators installed at intervals. Walking along the aisle that ran down the middle of the compartment, he checked the wiring. All appeared secure. Excellent.

  Sulayman Zougam hailed from Ceuta, one of tw
o Spanish enclaves inside Morocco in North Africa—the other being Melilla. Both cities were hotbeds of extremist groups and acted as a gateway for radical Islamists to enter Europe, particularly Spain; all of the attackers that struck Barcelona earlier in the year had come from Morocco. Zougam himself was a Salafist jihadi and had been planning his own attacks in Spain when the order came from on high to travel to South America—almost a year ago, now. At first, he was disappointed with this transfer. Zougam prayed for the restoration of the Cordóba Caliphate, and the return of the bulk of Spain to Islamic control with the resurrection of al-Andalus, the former lands of the Umayyads. At its heyday, the Caliphate stretched to the borders of France. Islam had lost its last foothold in Western Europe in 1492, with the fall of Granada at the hands of the Spanish Reconquista. Zougam had hoped to be a part of the restoration but fate had chosen a different path for him.

  Smiling, he extracted the remote trigger he kept in a pouch at his side. Reverently, he ran his fingertip along the small grip, taking care to steer clear of the dual safeties on its sides. The Great Satan must fall, if Spain is ever to be liberated. We will strike such a blow the Americans will tremble and look to their own shores!

  On the way south from Kralendijk, Emily showed Darcy the photos of the submarine. He was fascinated, examining them very closely, occasionally glancing up to check for boat traffic.

  “When Martin told me about what you saw, I thought maybe you’d exaggerated. I’ve been aboard a few of the cartel’s narco submarines and they’re usually just half-submerged barges, but this… this is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

  “Wait a minute… you’ve been on a cartel sub? Which cartel? Do you work for them?” Rick peppered the captain with questions.