“Oh my god… is that…?” Emily began.
Boone handed her the binoculars, then raced to get his cell and throw on his shoes. Grabbing Emily’s green sneakers, he called her over. “Em! Put these on. We’ve got to get down to town. Maybe the police have a boat. And get your camera. We may need to show someone your photos.”
At the top of the stone steps, Boone dug the receipt with Rick Claassen’s number out of his wallet. Punching in the number, he started down toward Windwardside, Emily close on his heels, her sunglasses back in their customary place. Rick picked up on the second ring.
“Hey, Bonaire Boone! Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. What’s up?”
“The submarine! It’s here!”
Rick’s joshing manner ceased. “Where is ‘here’?” he asked.
“Saba. Dutch island southwest of—”
“You’re there already? Where is the sub now?”
“It was sitting at the surface on the southeast of the island. Not far from shore, not underway. If you go to Google Maps and look up El Momo cottages, it’s right off the coast from there.”
“Shit, we’ve got all our assets around the Virgin Islands! I’m in the office now, and I overheard that the P-3 is down for maintenance and the Poseidon plane just landed at Homestead. I’ll get on the horn and tell my bosses to get her back out.”
“Okay, good, I’m going to the police here. See if they have a boat.”
“Hey, remember what happened at those Venezuelan islands,” Rick said firmly. “These people are killers. We got lucky, but if a police boat comes too close they may submerge, or they may just blow it out of the water. We’ve got a Cyclone-class patrol boat off Saint Croix, it can be there in a few hours. And we’ll get an ASW helicopter there ASAP. Don’t do anything cr—”
The signal cut out and Boone cursed. They reached the steep road below the steps and jogged down it to the edge of Windwardside. Scout’s Place was on the near side of town so Boone headed there, planning on calling the police and grabbing a taxi. He dashed inside and headed for the bar. There was a man with salt and pepper hair behind the bar, chatting with a couple patrons sitting on stools.
“Are you the owner?”
“Some days I feel like it.” The man noted the look of urgency on Boone’s face. “Something wrong?”
“Can you call the police for me? It’s urgent.”
Without a word the man grabbed a cellphone that was sitting on the bar and punched in the number. “Is this Sid? Hey, hold on, got someone here that needs to talk to you.” He handed over the phone.
Boone tried to explain as best he could—the officer clearly thought it was a prank at first. Boone then suggested he call the Dutch Caribbean Coast Guard for confirmation of the submarine’s existence.
One of the patrons at the bar had been listening to Boone’s side of the conversation with growing interest. An older man, he sported a straw fedora atop his head, his coffee-colored skin in sharp contrast to the white guayabera shirt he wore. When the word “terrorists” left Boone’s lips, the man paused in mid-drink and set his Presidente beer down on the bar.
“Hold on,” the policeman said over the phone. “The Coast Guard is actually calling us right now. Don’t hang up.” He went over to the other call before Boone could say anything.
“Dammit. On hold,” he said to Emily.
“I just want to clarify something,” the man in the fedora said, wincing as he rose from his stool and launched into conversation with Boone as if they’d been chatting all along. “You say there’s a narco submarine full of terrorists and explosives and it’s right off the coast over there?” He gestured precisely southeast. Boone himself had an uncanny sense of direction and this man must’ve had his own internal compass.
Emily had already called up a photo of the submarine on her camera in case they needed to convince someone. She held it out to the man. “Here.”
He extracted a pair of reading glasses from a pocket and took the camera, squinting at the display before letting out a low whistle. “You took this?”
“In Bonaire,” Boone said. “We were shore diving when we spotted it. It was stolen from a cartel in Venezuela and loaded with explosives—a cartel man said they were targeting Saint Thomas. The Venezuelan Navy claimed they’d sunk it but—”
The man was already plunking down a ten-dollar bill. “Murray, take your phone back. Tell Sid to meet us down at Fort Bay Harbor.”
“But we need to tell them to get a boat out!” Boone said.
“I happen to know the KMar patrol boat is over on Statia. Had coffee with the skipper this morning. The two islands share the boat, so there isn’t a police boat on island at the moment. That being said…” he trailed off, his eyes staring into the middle distance. “Oh, that might work,” he said to himself, before heading toward the door. “Come on, my taxi is out front.”
Boone returned the phone to the bartender and followed the man out to his taxi, a gray, blunt-nosed van. Boone got into the passenger seat and Emily jumped into the back. With a grinding of gears, the taxi lurched through a three-point turn and sped back through town, making a left on The Road.
“You the new divemaster for Scenery Scuba?” the man asked, hauling on the wheel to make the turn.
“Yeah. How’d you know that?”
“I know everybody on the island and I’ve never seen you before. You’ve got the tan and build of a divemaster and you’re staying at El Momo. Fischer, right?”
“Right again. Boone Fischer. How’d you…?”
“I was supposed to pick you up at the airport but apparently you decided to come early and get a ride from Mr. Hollenbeck for free. Taking my hard-earned money! I do a lot of pickups for Scenery Scuba—in fact, I’m scheduled to pick you up tomorrow morning for your first day at work. But I’m guessing evil submarines might be your focus at the moment.” He flicked his eyes up to the mirror. “Now, this lovely lady is a mystery…”
“Emily Durand.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Rodney Hassell, best taxi driver and guide on the island… brace yourselves!” He spun the wheel and the van leaned into a hairpin turn. “Sorry about that. Few more of those coming up but I’ll get you to the harbor in one piece. Goat!” The van lurched to a stop as a goat clopped across their path. “So… you saw this thing in Bonaire and now it’s here? What are the odds? You’ve either got very bad luck or very good luck, depending on your perspective.” The goat hopped over the stone wall along the road and Rodney hit the gas. “Now… hypothetically… if you had a boat and you found the submarine… what exactly were you planning on doing?”
“Got it!” Samarkandi gasped after spitting his regulator from his mouth. He waved a thick, twisted rope of rubber that looked like a licorice whip scaled for a giant.
“Excellent!” Zougam said. “And Lenox says he’s almost finished topping off the oil.”
Zougam and Rachid helped Samarkandi out of the water—he quickly returned Rachid’s knife, figuring the lunatic would want it back immediately. He sat on the deck and began removing his tank and fins. Rachid went back on watch—he had armed himself with one of their AKs and kept an eye on the cliffs above. Zougam tossed the fins into the open hatch and lifted the Uzbek’s tank and BCD vest. “I’ve got this. I’ll have Lenox begin preparations to get underway. Take a breath and then come below. Soon we will be in paradise!”
Samarkandi nodded and paused to catch his breath. The rubber seal had proven a bit harder to cut than expected. He held it up, inspecting it. Why had the starboard one twisted, and not the port? I’ll have to reexamine the design… Abruptly, he halted his technical daydreaming. There will be no more designs. No more engineering. He squeezed the industrial rubber in his fist, its length dangling impotently from his grip. This is the end, isn’t it? Is it? His eyes strayed upward to Rachid, the man’s back to him, the AK on his shoulder l
ike an American cowboy with his trusty rifle. Samarkandi shifted his gaze to the beautiful, turquoise ocean, the sun sparkling across it. He looked up, up along the green cliffs above and the cloud-shrouded peak, higher still.
“Hey! Enough rest. We go to kill the nonbelievers!” Rachid nudged him roughly with his boot, then headed through the hatch.
Samarkandi stood, took a last look at the rubber seal, then let it slip from his fingers into the blue waters beside the submarine.
The western half of The Road was winding and steep, but goat-free at the moment. After a few more hairpin turns they reached The Bottom, passing by the university and turning left toward the road to the port.
“So…” Rodney began, his voice hesitant. “Just so you know… Sid, the policeman you talked to? He’s new. First week on the job. And currently the only policeman on the island. That KMar boat I mentioned? The others went over to Statia to pick up a prisoner. Murder suspect.” He pulled up to the side of the road across from the Deep End Bar and Grill, in sight of the piers. A police car was parked just ahead, orange stripes decorating the front doors and hood. A young man in a short-sleeved police uniform was standing alongside the car. He raised a hand and started toward them as Rodney shut off the engine.
“He’s a kid!” Emily said.
“Yeah, but he’s a smart kid and a good kid,” Rodney said, exiting the taxi van.
“Mr. Fischer?” the young man said, extending a hand. “I’m Aspirant Sidney Every.”
“Aspirant?” Boone asked, shaking the boy’s hand.
The policeman cleared his throat. “Umm… it’s a Dutch police term. It means ‘Trainee’. The Coast Guard confirmed your story about the submarine. What is it doing up here?”
“No idea, but hopefully it’s still where I saw it. We need to get a boat out there and get eyes on it. Watch it and call it in if it dives or moves.”
“I radioed my captain, asking him to bring the boat back from Statia, but it will take a while to—”
“There’s no time. We need to commandeer a boat. How about one of the dive op boats?”
“I can’t involve a civilian craft,” Sidney said. “I think we should wait for—”
“Sid,” Rodney began, rubbing his stubbled chin with a knuckle, “I was thinking… that boat you guys impounded from those smugglers last week….?”
Sid looked across the street at a small yacht in the little harbor, then back to the taxi driver. “Yeah?”
“Well, technically, it’s police property right now, isn’t it?”
A grin grew on the young trainee’s face, but then slipped a notch. “This is a bit embarrassing but… I don’t know much about boats. I know, weird for an islander, but… long story.”
Boone waved a dismissive hand. “No worries.” He gestured to Em. “Sid, meet Emily Durand, one of the best skippers I know.”
Emily took Sid’s hand and dipped a curtsy. Sid grinned and gestured to the police car. “I’ve actually got the keys right here in the glove box, in case it needed to be moved.” He ducked into the passenger side to retrieve them.
Boone looked into the police car. “You don’t happen to have a shotgun or anything in there, do you?”
Sid popped back out, keys in hand. “This is Saba. Not much call for that.” He patted the holster on his utility belt. “I’ve got my service weapon, but we’re not planning on getting anywhere close to them, are we?”
“Doesn’t hurt to be prepared,” Boone said. “But no, we’ll stay well clear and just keep an eye on them.”
“Sid, I’ll head to the station and man the radio,” Rodney said. “Used to do that for your dad. If I hear anything new from the KMar boat or the Coast Guard, I’ll hail you on 16.”
“Thanks, Rod,” Sid said, before crossing the road toward the boat.
The “harbor” was a simple bay, less than six hundred feet across, enclosed by two thick concrete piers. They reached the boat, a sleek looking convertible with an open flybridge. The name on the side: Wavy Davey. Boone noticed it was tied up along the pier with the bow facing out. The original captain must’ve made a tight circle in the little bay, positioning the boat for a faster exit.
Emily snatched the keys from Sid’s fingers. “Yoink! You two get the lines while I fire her up.” She hopped across to the gunwale.
Boone and Sid set to work, and in seconds they had the lines free, tossing them across to the boat. “Go on over,” Boone said to Sid. The young policeman hesitated a second then scrambled across. “Say when!” Boone called up to Emily.
A powerful rumble began. “When!”
Boone gave the hull a shove with his foot and vaulted aboard. The rumble increased and they quickly slipped from the tiny bay. Em turned hard to port and the rumble segued to a roar, the boat rising up on plane as Boone scrambled up to the flybridge. He found Sid already there, watching Emily pilot the boat.
“Whoa, this boat is ace!” she cried.
Sid grinned, a sporty pair of wraparound sunglasses adorning his face. “If ace means awesome, then yeah, it is. My dad did a little research on it once we busted the owner.” He pulled a little notebook from his equipment belt and flipped a couple pages. “Viking 48C. Twin ten-cylinders. Top speed 38 knots.”
“What were they smuggling?” Boone asked, wedging himself in a corner of the bridge and readying his binoculars.
“Nearly two thousand kilos of marijuana. Not sure where they were bound for.”
At this rate, Boone knew they would round the nearest slope of Saba’s bulk in moments, giving him a clear line-of-sight to where he’d seen the sub. He got ready to ask Emily to dial it back a bit so he could get a steady view through the binoculars, but that proved unnecessary.
“There it is! Em, ease off, nice and casual.”
Emily throttled the engines back, angling away from the submarine.
“Good,” Boone said. “We’re just a fishing boat out for a charter.” Glancing down, he noted a GPS unit on the console and powered it up.
Sid peered into the distance. “I don’t see any—oh! Wow. That’s a great camouflage paint job. Anyone up top?”
Boone steadied his arms against the windscreen and leveled the binoculars. “No. And there were two or three on deck before.”
“We should radio the Coast Guard, yeah?” Emily suggested.
“Yeah… wait. There’s a wake. She’s moving. And it’s further out from the cliff than when I saw it before.”
Emily squinted. “Can’t be going more than a knot. Let’s just play it cool, keep it in sight, call the cavalry.”
“It’s diving!” Boone yelled. “Emily! Floor it!”
“Hang on, fellas!” She shoved the throttles forward and the boat leapt up on plane, reaching its top speed in seconds.
“Wait a minute!” Sid yelled. “What happened to hanging back and observing? We should call this in and—”
Boone gave up on the binoculars, tucking them into a cargo pocket of his shorts. “This isn’t a typical rusty barge narco sub, Sid. A Navy friend said it would be very hard to locate underwater. We have to ram it!”
“What?” Sid shouted. “Are you crazy?”
“See that rudder sticking up? Just behind it are two propellers in housings. Aim for the stern. Maybe we can destroy their steering or—”
“It’s almost gone!” Emily shouted.
As fast as the Wavy Davey was traveling, the distance was too great—the sub’s rudder was beneath the waves long before they reached it.
“Dammit!” Em swore, throttling back.
Boone looked at the GPS, noting their location. He pointed at a little dry-erase slate hanging from a hook. “Sid, write that down.” As his eyes left the GPS screen on the side of the console he had a momentary feeling that something was… off. But then Emily was speaking to him.
“Boone, do you remember how fast
it was going underwater when you saw it in Bonaire? Ballpark guess?”
“Seven knots I think.”
“Right-o.” She throttled up to eight knots and turned north. “I’ll try to get on their bearing. Maybe we can figure out where they’re headed.”
“Good thinking,” Boone said, looking back at the GPS with a frown on his face. What did I see? He closed his eyes, clearing his mind before reopening them. There. The vertical surface at the base of the left side of the console; it didn’t quite match the rest of the materials around it. Remembering the hidey hole on Darcy’s boat, he placed his fingertips against it and pressed. It gave slightly. He pressed harder and there was a click as an entire panel popped free.
Sid had been watching Boone with interest and now he crouched beside him, looking into the compartment Boone had discovered. He whistled. “We found the smugglers’ pot but we certainly didn’t find that.”
Inside was an assault rifle of some kind, several ammo boxes, and a duffel bag. Boone withdrew the duffel and zipped it open. Inside were stacks of American currency and various smaller items—among them, a satellite phone. Boone grabbed it and powered it on, digging for Rick’s number in his pocket.
“I hear something. I think. Maybe.”
Sayyid Oukabir had been put on the sonar while Lenox handled the piloting. Samarkandi was busy eyeing every gauge for any problems. Sayyid had only been given basic training, and Samarkandi wasn’t sure he was the brightest bulb to begin with.
“What?” Zougam asked, looking up from the nautical chart.
“An engine, I think?”
Samarkandi took a last look at the oil pressure gauge before joining Sayyid at the sonar station and grabbing the headphones. Yes. There. “Twin engines, probably a dive boat. Not military. Close though.”
“Ignore it,” Zougam said. “Make for Sint Maarten.”
“Claassen,” the voice on the other line said.
“Rick, this is Boone, I’m on a sat-phone. We’re right on top of the sub. Or we were. It dived. Location…” Sid handed him the slate and he read it off. “And it was heading…” He looked to Emily.
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