Deep Shadow

by Nick Sullivan

  “That Coast Guard vessel looks like a variant of our Marine Protector patrol boats,” Rick said. They were waiting beside the main building while Darcy greeted the Venezuelans.

  They watched as the crew deployed a small, inflatable pursuit boat at the stern. A uniformed man boarded it alone and motored slowly to the beach. Darcy headed back up the pier toward shore, motioning for the others to join him. They reached the beach as the man nosed his rubber boat onto the sand. He hopped out and gave Darcy a vigorous hug, greeting him in Spanish, then pointed at the terrorist’s boat, talking animatedly.

  “English, Luis,” Darcy said. “We have gringos.”

  “Of course,” the man said, switching effortlessly to lightly accented English as he turned to the group. “I was just telling Señor DaSilva that this boat went missing from its slip several days ago. I am Lieutenant Luis Rojas of the Venezuelan Coast Guard. Darcy said over the radio that terrorists had taken over the lighthouse and that they’ve been dealt with. Are you certain they are all accounted for?”

  “There were only five and they are all dead,” Ana said with venom.

  “One of them didn’t have to be, bitch,” Emily spat, her voice wavering with emotion.

  Ana turned a cold stare on the young Brit. “I’m sorry if avenging my father’s death offended your sensibilities… little girl.”

  Emily launched herself at Ana, but Boone grabbed her in a tight hug, restraining her at the same time he tried to comfort her. “Easy,” he said against her ear. “I don’t think she was thinking straight when she did it… do you?”

  Emily relaxed in his grip, still staring daggers at the Venezuelan woman.

  Ana’s stony gaze slipped a notch. “That was unworthy of me. You are a brave young woman; that being said, do not test me.”

  The Lieutenant looked at Ana as if she seemed familiar but then remembered greater concerns. “The Coast Guard lighthouse complement. Have they been located?”

  “No,” Boone said. “I checked all the buildings and found some personal belongings near some of the cots, and there was a spot outside that had dried blood on the ground along with shell casings…”

  “Mierda. I know some of them…”

  “Lieutenant, I’m Rick Claassen, United States Navy—formerly of the Joint Interagency Task Force South, currently in the Reserves.”

  Luis smiled. “Yes. And inside Venezuelan territory, no less. But Darcy say you are not here in an ‘official’ capacity.”

  “No, sir. Listen, we have an urgent need to use your radio to contact a frigate using Venezuelan military frequencies.”

  “Darcy told me you think a submarine full of terrorists and explosives is in our waters? How can you be certain?”

  “Because my father built it, and those pigs stole it,” Ana said.

  This time, recognition dawned on Luis’s face. “Darcy, this is the daughter of Colonel Fernando Muñoz, head of the Cartel de los Soles!”

  “The terrorists killed my father,” she said in a steady, steely voice. “His body lies inside that building. I am now the head of the cartel.”

  “Señorita Muñoz, you have my condolences, but I am not one of yours. I know your people have spread throughout the military, but my ship is clean.”

  “Admirable.”

  “Listen, Lieutenant, we need to make the call now!” Rick butted in. “We have reason to suspect the submarine is sailing north to the U.S. Virgin Islands and we think they are planning to blow up a cruise ship in the port of Charlotte Amalie. It is being escorted by the frigate, who believes it is a simple cartel drug shipment.”

  “Which frigate?” Luis asked.

  “The Mariscal Sucre,” Ron said.

  “Ah… Commander Moreno.” Ana smiled at the Coast Guard lieutenant. “Now he… he is one of ours.”

  “I know,” sighed Luis. “He’s also a drunken idiot.” He turned to Rick. “Very well. Come aboard.” He gestured to the rubber boat.

  Rick nodded to Ana. “You should come. He may not listen to us but I bet he’ll listen to you. Boone, you come too.”

  “Why, me?”

  “You spotted the sub. Your circus, your monkeys.”

  “Commander? Commander!” A muffled voice and the sound of a fist pounding the stateroom door punched a hole in Moreno’s deep sleep. He’d been dreaming about a pet cat he’d found in the marshes around his home town. He sat up in bed. That scrawny calico cat… I haven’t thought of him in years. He ate a big bowl of herbs off the counter and we named him Cilantro…

  “Commander! Radio call. It’s urgent!”

  “I’m up. I’m up. I’m coming.” Moreno got of bed, throwing on his uniform amid grumbles. Muñoz again. Probably wants me to nudge my ship another mile here or there. Moreno sighed, grabbing his half empty mug of cold coffee. He grimaced at the first taste, then remembered he’d put rum in it. He opened the door, finding his aid waiting. “Let’s go,” Moreno said, shuffling down the hall toward the bridge. “Muñoz again? Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Um, sir… it’s not Colonel Muñoz. It’s the Coast Guard.”

  Moreno stopped walking. “What do they want?”

  “Lieutenant Rojas wouldn’t say, but he said he needed to speak with you directly.”

  “Rojas,” Moreno scoffed. “That Boy Scout.” He sipped his rum-laced coffee, thinking: what if he’s gotten wind of the narcotics shipment? Well, no matter, I outrank him, and he’s just a Coasty. He started walking again. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Moments later, they reached the bridge and Moreno put on the headset. “Moreno.”

  “Commander Moreno, this is Lieutenant Rojas of the patrol boat Pelicano. Are you still escorting the submarine? Do you have it in visual range?”

  Moreno hesitated. He knows about the submarine? How much does the man know? “Lieutenant, we are in the middle of a naval exercise. The submarine you speak of is a naval asset and—”

  “Commander, I know the submarine is a cartel asset… or was. What you do not realize is that it is no longer in the hands of the cartel!”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about—”

  “It has been seized by terrorists and has been packed with explosives. They are using you as cover to keep others away—”

  “That is ridiculous! I’ve been speaking to Colonel Muñoz—”

  “Yes, we know. They took him hostage and were forcing him to give you orders. Listen, you must sink that submarine!”

  “You can’t give me orders!”

  Suddenly a new voice came on the line. Female. “Maybe he can’t, Eduardo, but I can.”

  “Who is this?”

  “This is Ana Muñoz, the new leader of the Cartel de los Soles. The terrorists killed my father and now you are going to kill them. If you don’t, I assure you I will send you back to the swamp shacks you came from… and maybe your family will still be alive when you get there. Now… do you have the submarine in sight?”

  Moreno swallowed, sweat having instantly popped from every pore on his face. He had heard stories of Ana Muñoz—those who crossed her lived to regret it… assuming they did live. “No, uh… Señorita…” Although he was tempted to address her as “Doña”, in deference to her power and station, Moreno also knew she was young, beautiful, and unwed. “Señorita” was safer. “Colonel Moreno ordered us to head northeast to the maritime boundary with Guadeloupe. We know they are somewhere to our southwest but we didn’t have them on our radar when I went to bed…”

  “You went to bed while escorting a cartel shipment, how nice. I certainly hope you are well rested.” The voice became steely. “Is it on the radar now?”

  Onboard the Pelicano, Ana gripped the radio handset while the others stood around the small bridge, waiting for Moreno to respond. In a moment, he did.

  “No, Señorita, he is not on our radar. I have ord
ered a turn to starboard, we will close the distance to where they last were.”

  Boone was looking at a navigation chart that was spread across a work station. The frigate commander had mentioned Guadeloupe. Boone knew little about the island, apart from it being French. He found it on the map, just north of Dominica. His eyes were drawn to a location to the west of those islands. “What’s this? Out in the middle of nowhere.”

  Darcy looked at the tiny spot on the chart. “Isla de Aves,” he said. “It’s little more than a glorified sandbar.”

  Boone traced a line from there to Saint Thomas in the north. “What if they needed supplies? Fuel, food and water…”

  “We have a small science facility there,” Lieutenant Rojas said.

  Darcy held out his hand for the radio mic. Ana eyed him, then handed it over. “Commander, where did you rendezvous with this submarine?”

  “I was ordered to take up station north of Isla la Blanquilla. Once the cartel sub was near, Colonel Muñoz then ordered me to head north-northeast.”

  Darcy pointed to the island Moreno had mentioned. “Here. Blanquilla is part of the same chain of little islands that the lighthouse is on.”

  “Look at the depth topography,” Boone said, sweeping his hand from the lighthouse to Blanquilla, and then north-northeast toward Aves Island. “They’re following this contour of shallower water.”

  “Makes sense,” said Rick. “That sub looks high tech compared to most narco subs, but it might have some teething problems. They’d want to avoid having the abyss underneath them if they had any ballast issues.”

  Darcy keyed the mic again. “Commander, what were your coordinates, bearing, and speed when you were ordered to make the turn and what are your coordinates now?”

  “One moment.”

  After a pause, Moreno provided the information. Darcy quickly made several marks on the map with a pencil. “Mister Navy Man, what do you think?”

  Rick looked at the marks. It showed that the frigate had headed north-northeast with a small adjustment toward Aves Island—then, the frigate was abruptly sent toward Guadeloupe. “Sure looks to me like they’re headed to that little island. Either as a navigation point, or to pick up supplies—”

  “And my organization has people there,” Ana said.

  Luis Rojas sighed. “Why am I not surprised? I have a good friend stationed at the facility, an oceanographer—she suspected there might be a couple narcos there.” Suddenly, he stiffened. “Wait. If they do something there like they did at the lighthouse…” He took the handset. “Commander, we have reason to believe the terrorists may be heading to Isla de Aves. Alert the science installation there to shelter in place and get there as soon as you can. If you detect the submarine, sink it!”

  “Do you see them yet?” Sulayman Zougam asked from below, his voice tinged with anxiety.

  “Nothing yet.” Mohammed Martinez replied from above, sweeping a pair of binoculars across the horizon in the vicinity of Aves Island. He was seated on the deck just outside the little conning tower.

  “Damn. We’ve been sitting here for nearly an hour!” The terrorist leader paced—a difficult feat in the cramped confines of the mini sub. “Perhaps we should have Muñoz radio them again.”

  Hamid Samarkandi cleared his throat. “The cartel doesn’t control the entire staff at the scientific research base, do they?”

  Zougam ceased his pacing. “No. Only two, my sources say.”

  “Then it’s possible the cartel men are trying to make the transfer without alerting the other staff at the base.”

  “Yes. Yes, that makes sense.” The terrorist leader seemed to relax a little. After a moment, he went to the ladder and breathed deeply. “Smell that salt air. I wish we could wait up top but I only want Martinez in sight when they approach. You lived by the ocean, didn’t you Hamid?”

  “Yes. I grew up in Uzbekistan but for fifteen years I worked at the Rubin Design Bureau in Leningrad—Saint Petersburg, now. The Baltic seemed more ice than ocean, truth to tell, but I spent several years in Bandar Abbas. That was quite pleasant.”

  “Ah yes, in Iran, at the mouth of the Persian Gulf? I imagine the climate there is similar to Ceuta.”

  “Yes, I expect so. Did you grow up in Ceuta?”

  “I did.”

  “Do you… miss it?”

  Zougam heard the hesitation and the wistful tone. He turned to look at the Uzbek. “I suppose. And you? Do you miss Uzbekistan?”

  Samarkandi thought for a moment and opened his mouth to respond when a shout came from above.

  “I see them!” Martinez called down. He stuck his head inside. “They are in a rubber boat of some sort.”

  “How many?” Zougam asked.

  “Two. They are moving fast. Should be here any moment.”

  “Rachid, you and your brother stand by below, out of sight from the ladder. Lenox. You will assist with bringing the oil aboard. If they ask about you, tell them you work for the cartel in matters involving islands with black populations.”

  Lenox snorted. “I may say dat a different way, but I know what ya want, hoss.”

  “If they ask to look inside, tell them Fernando Muñoz forbids it.” By now, the sound of an outboard motor reverberated through the hull. “Hamid. Sonar. Listen for any distant boat traffic.”

  Zougam watched the periscope viewscreen and spotted the boat just passing from his field of view. He looked toward the scientific naval base. There were lights on in a few rooms, but the big box on stilts looked quiet. While the Oukabir brothers flipped the safeties off on their weapons, Zougam slipped off to the side of the ladder, listening to Martinez as the boat’s engine dropped to an idle.

  “Saludo! You have something for us?”

  “Si! Sorry about the delay. Some of the other men at the station are still up. We had to row part of the way before starting the engine.” The voice sounded young. “Wow, this is a beauty! I was expecting one of the usual rust buckets.”

  “I am glad you like it. We are in a hurry, though. The delay was unexpected.”

  “Of course. We have two drums of oil and several cases of bottled water,” the voice said. “The oil is a bit heavy, do you have anyone else to assist?”

  “Yes. I’ll get Lenox. Toss me your line.”

  Zougam nodded to Lenox and the Trinidadian climbed the ladder.

  “Oh. You are not Venezuelan,” the youthful voice said.

  “You got a good eye,” Lenox’s voice said dryly, speaking in a bastardized Spanish. “I and I am the cartel’s ‘ambassador’ for certain islands, ya dig? Now, if you’re done admiring my complexion, hand up that first barrel. Boss Muñoz is not happy we’re behind schedule.”

  Zougam chuckled. “He’s very good.”

  Samarkandi grunted, stepping to the periscope and turning the view in a complete circle. When he returned to where he had started, Isla de Aves had changed—the entire science station was now lit up, interior and exterior lights blazing. The crackle of a radio came from above—a radio on one of the men, most likely, the voice emanating from it too garbled to discern from down in the submarine.

  “Something is wrong,” Samarkandi said.

  Above, the youthful voice said, “What? But they’re right here. We’re delivering supplies to them.”

  Samarkandi clutched the joystick for the periscope, spinning it to the side and trying to depress the lens but the boat was snugged up against the submarine’s hull and beneath his view. He returned his view to the complex on stilts—now he could see figures running about.

  “What is happening?” Zougam hissed.

  More garbled radio talk and then the racking of the slide on a pistol. “You! Undo the line to our boat. Now.”

  Zougam turned to Sayyid and Rachid. “Go! Kill them!”

  The brothers moved as one around both sides of the ladder, moment
arily coming up short as they both tried to ascend at the same time. A flurry of pistol shots sounded, followed by a loud splash as something, or someone fell into the water. Rachid pushed past and in seconds, a burst of AK fire erupted above, the muzzle flashes visible through the hatch opening. A couple anemic pops of pistol fire replied and Lenox cried out. Another splash. Sayyid reached the deck and another long burst sounded. Zougam grabbed a flashlight and rushed up the ladder.

  In the moonlit night, he could see the outline of the rubber boat alongside the starboard side of the Zil. Two dead men lay inside, their bodies torn from point blank rifle fire. The boat itself was riddled with holes and visibly deflating. No trigger discipline, those two, Zougam thought ruefully. Splashes behind him—he swung the light over the port edge of the hull and spotted Lenox struggling to grab hold. He reached down and grabbed the man by the wrist.

  “Goddamn muddafukah shot me in da shoulder. Da barrel of oil—I grabbed at it when I fell back—I’m sorry hoss, it gone. Pretty sure dey put some holes in it when they shot at us, anyway.”

  “Sayyid! Rachid! Grab the other oil barrel before that boat sinks!”

  Zougam pulled Lenox out of the water, then swept his flashlight around the sub. “Where is Mohammed?”

  “Dey shot him in da head when he went for da gun in his waistband. Fell overboard.”

  “How bad are you hit?”

  The Trini looked at his shoulder in annoyance. “I’ll patch myself up, no worries. We gotta get dat oil drum up.”

  Working together, the four men managed to wrestle the remaining drum onto the deck, as well as a case of water. They were just about to carry the drum through the hatch when Hamid Samarkandi’s head appeared at the top of the ladder.

  “Sulayman! The frigate! She turned on her gas turbines and brought them to full power. She would only switch from diesel if she planned on making a dash.”

  “Everyone! Get below! Now!” the leader roared. He turned and watched the last of the rubber boat slipping beneath the surface, the corpses inside now bobbing in the waves. Stooping, he quickly undid the line still attached to the sub. He took a last look in the waters around the sub. I am sorry, Brother Mohammed, that you could not be with us to the end. Inshallah we will see you soon. A noise reached his ear, traveling across the water, the blaring of a siren coming from the science base.