A Ryan Weller Box Set Books 1 - 3

by Evan Graver

  Ryan pointed at the come-along. “Get ready to crank.”

  Travis scrambled back to the winch handle and increased the tension on the box. It didn’t move.

  “A little more,” Travis said.

  “Copy that.” Ryan triggered another burst of air into the lift bag. They’d kept the air in the bags even until now. He didn’t want to hop back and forth over the come-along wire to add air to both bags. “I’ll add air to the driver’s side. If it becomes unbalanced, hopefully it’ll tip to the side and take the weight off.”

  Travis cranked the handle again as he saw the Humvee pivot on the box. “Just a hair more.”

  Ryan added another burst of air. The Humvee tilted precariously toward the passenger side.

  “You gotta balance it out,” Travis shouted.

  “I know. I know.” Ryan stepped over the cable, careful to not get his feet or umbilical tangled in the tight line. He added air to the passenger side lift bag. The frontend rose, stabilizing the Humvee. Ryan bent to look at the box. The strong box lay on its side with the pallet it was strapped to wedged in the undercarriage of the Humvee. “That pallet won’t let the box come out.”

  Travis dropped to his knees to examine the situation. “Give it some more air.”

  “Screw that. Give me the crane hook.”

  Travis hauled the hook over to the Humvee and passed it to Ryan, who had wiggled under the Humvee and was lying beside the strong box.

  Once he had the hook looped in the cargo strap, Ryan said, “Dennis, get ready to pull.”

  “Roger.”

  Ryan moved out of the way and gave the command. It took several seconds for the slack to be pulled in and then the cable jerked taut.

  “Pull,” Ryan said.

  They could hear the wood render and snap as the pallet broke free. The strong box slid out from under the Humvee.

  “Hold,” Travis said, and the box stopped moving.

  “Get the lift bags,” Ryan said.

  “Five minutes, boys,” Emery warned.

  While Travis deflated the bags, Ryan removed the rest of the pallet from the strong box and wrapped the box with a strap like a Christmas ribbon around the four sides of a present. He worked three clevis pins into the webbing, one on the front and one on each side of the box. He attached the crane cable to the front and the lift bags to the sides. They filled the bags until the box began to rise.

  “Dennis, we gotta move slow. We have the box supported by the lift bags. You’re going to pull it out of the hull.”

  “You got two minutes, Ryan.”

  “Damnit, Emery, we know.”

  “I understand,” Dennis said. “Just keep talking to me.”

  Ryan took a breath to calm himself. He understood the time constraints, but he also wanted to get the job done. “Slack in.”

  Dennis began retracting the cable. The box floated along the ship’s hull.

  “Emery, pull in some of our umbilical slack, so we don’t foul the crane,” Travis said.

  “Copy.”

  Ryan continued to narrate their movements for Dennis as they moved the box closer to the hold’s entrance. “Pause, we need to lift the box over a rib.” They increased the air in the lift bags just enough to clear the rib.

  “Slack in,” Ryan said.

  “We’re not going to clear that gap, Ryan,” Travis said as they approached a tangle of Humvees and MRAPs.

  “Let’s go up.” They added more air and climbed over the vehicles as the crane dragged the box.

  “How much longer?” Emery asked.

  “Not much,” Ryan said. “Don, run some new deco numbers.”

  “Roger,” Don said.

  DWR had sent along one of their new computer programs, allowing them to accurately calculate decompression times and gas blends for any depth and bottom time a diver might accumulate.

  They continued working the strong box out of the hold. Once it was clear of the ship, they dropped the strong box into the dirt, deflated the lift bags, and moved the crane cable back to the LARS. Don had the calculations run before they started up. Their extra five minutes of bottom time to extract the box had added another hour of deco.

  “Do you want to do it in the chamber or in the water?” Ryan asked Travis.

  “It’s easier to sleep in the chamber.”

  “Chamber it is. You heard the man, Emery.”

  “Will do,” Emery said.

  They stopped at one seventy-five. Ryan said, “Easier than we thought.”

  Travis shook his head inside his hat. “We’d have been there a lot longer if you hadn’t used the crane cable.”

  “Sometimes brute force is better than finesse.”

  “Did you learn that in bomb disposal, eh?”

  “No.” Ryan grinned. “Construction.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Mango Hulsey rocked forward on the balls of his feet, compensating for the roll of the Hatteras beneath him. He still couldn’t believe the flexibility and fit of the new leg. The tiny servo motors accommodated his movements thousands of times a minute as his muscles reacted to changing conditions. As real as the leg felt, it was nothing like the real thing, and occasionally, the phantom pains and feelings from the lost leg still triggered inside his brain.

  He still remembered the burning sensation as the Coast Guard’s rubber boarding craft pinned his leg to the steel hull of the freighter. Four-foot waves had made the boarding operation difficult, and he’d jumped for the Jacob’s ladder, knowing it was a bad idea before he consciously made the decision to leap. His hands had grasped the rope solidly, but his foot slipped, and the boats had collided with his leg acting as the bumper.

  The impact had crushed his foot, ankle, and the lower part of his tibia and fibula. They’d medevacked to the Navy base in Bahrain, then flown him to Germany. Surgeons at the massive Landstuhl Regional Medical Center had made the decision to amputate, believing they couldn’t save the crushed bones. It still pissed him off that they didn’t bother to try, even though he’d seen the X-rays and knew his bones were jelly.

  At the time, Mango was serving with the Coast Guard’s Maritime Security Response Team. Within the special force, he’d worked in both the Direct Action Section, assaulting and boarding ships, and as a sniper in the Precision Marksman Observer Team. He’d loved his time as a sniper. Once he’d lost his leg, the Coast Guard deemed him unfit to return to combat or to deploy to a ship, and they’d retired him. Mango had filed multiple appeals to the decision but was unable to convince the system to allow him to even return to an administrative role. In the end, he and Jennifer had moved to her hometown, Port Aransas, Texas.

  He sprawled out on Dark Water’s bridge roof, sliding the Accuracy International AXMC rifle into the crook of his shoulder, his right hand naturally finding the pistol grip. He entwined his left arm in the sling to provide stabilization to the bipod. He breathed out and closed his eyes. The old feeling was back, a tingling at the base of his skull. He ran his tongue across his lips and opened his right eye, peering down the magnifying lenses of the Nightforce scope. This was the moment he lived for. How could I hide from this?

  Greg had brought an AXMC chambered in Mango’s favored round: .338 Lapua. The gun had undergone extensive modifications to the stock, trigger, and barrel. The most obvious was the long black suppressor. Mango worked his elbow into the sling, feeling the gun butt bite deep into the meat of his shoulder, marrying him to composite and steel, and forming an extension of his body. He focused on the rhythm of his heartbeat, his breathing, the shift and roll of the boat beneath him. It was all part of his process, each element adding information to his mind. The drop of the bullet over distance, the effect of the wind, the resistance of humidity, all calculated into the science of a long-distance shot.

  Through the scope, he found the white jug they’d dropped earlier. It bobbed in the water two hundred yards off the starboard bow. Mango adjusted his body. He’d been through the gun, tightening scope rings, cleaning compon
ents, polishing the burs off the action, checking each bullet before thumbing it into the magazine. Now, it was time to see how the gun performed. It was his opinion that a clean barrel would change the flight characteristics of a bullet. After the first bullet had filled the pits and imperfections of the rifling with lead and copper, the following shots would be more accurate, spinning the bullet in a tighter flight pattern. This was why he was popping a few holes in the jug. He wanted the gun to be slightly fouled, and he wanted to understand the rifle’s intricacies. If Emily or Ryan’s life depended on his shooting, he needed to know exactly what he was dealing with.

  Sweat beaded on his back, the ghostly breeze fanning his face. Even though the ocean was calm, the boat still shifted with the water’s movements. He forced himself to concentrate on the tiny white dot swaying in the water. His finger removed the trigger’s slack, bringing it against the mechanism which would snap the firing pin. Four pounds of pressure. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, BANG. The gun jumped and settled. Mango saw the jug had spun in the water, meaning he’d hit close to one of its edges.

  “Hit,” Greg said. He was watching the jug through a pair of binoculars. “A click to the left.”

  Mango made an adjustment to the scope. He settled in again, concentrating on the jug. The jug didn’t move with the next hit.

  “Dead center.”

  Mango’s third, fourth, and fifth shots perforated the jug in a circle around the second shot.

  “Good shooting, buddy,” Rick said, taking the big rifle while Mango slid off the roof and hopped down the ladder to the cockpit. Rick handed the gun down from the bridge to Mango. He took it into the cabin and stowed it in its case.

  “Now what?” Jennifer asked when Mango returned from the stateroom.

  “We wait for Ryan to contact us,” Mango said.

  Jennifer shook her head, rolled her eyes, and muttered, “I knew that guy was trouble the moment we met him.”

  Mango shrugged.

  “Don’t you stick up for him either.” Jennifer leveled an accusatory finger at him. “You two are peas in a pod.” Turning to a grinning Rick, she said, “Every one of you special operators are special all right, touched in the head special.”

  Rick laughed. “Come on, pea, let’s go hang out in the pod.”

  They climbed the ladder to the bridge. Mango felt his new foot grip each rung and provide him with a stable purchase. He didn’t have to worry about wedging it into the corner of the rung and side rail to prevent him from slipping. On the bridge, Greg had the big boat idling beside the plastic jug used for target practice. Jennifer fished it out with a boat hook and Greg swung the Hatteras toward Cap-Haïtien. He pointed at a cluster of boats on the horizon off the port side. “Looks like Kilroy’s boat.”

  Mango picked up the binoculars and trained them on the vessels. “That’s Northwest Passage, all right. Looks like two other little boats and a converted trawler with a red hull.

  “The converted trawler is Peggy Lynn, the salvage boat. The others must be the security boats Joulie put out.”

  “She’s not worried about her own people stealing the gold?” Rick asked.

  “Are you kidding?” Greg asked. “Northwest and Peggy probably have more fire power on them than those other two boats combined. Plus, Joulie would roast them alive if she even thought they were trying to steal the gold.”

  “She would, too,” Mango said.

  “This chick must be pretty badass,” Rick mused.

  “Joulie united two warring factions,” Greg said. “The woman knows how to get things done.”

  Mango took the field glasses down. “Let’s hope she agrees to help us out.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Bubbles rushed up around the two divers as the LARS dropped into the water. Water clarity had improved overnight, and the chop had flattened out into little wavelets. With the improved weather had come heat. The water was cooler than the early morning air by five degrees, but it was still like sinking into bathwater.

  Ryan glanced over at Travis, who had beads of sweat lining his upper lip and brow. “Can’t wait to hit the thermocline.”

  “Me, too,” Travis agreed.

  The few degrees drop in water temperature would feel good. Puddles of sweat sloshed against Ryan’s skin where the neck dam had trapped them. He shut off the defogger system now that the face plate had cleared up. His undergarments were wet with perspiration and felt clammy against his skin under the drysuit.

  They rode the rest of the way in silence, each man dealing with his diving physiology in his own way. When the LARS settled in the muck on the seabed, they clamored into the Santo Domingo.

  “Where’re you going? The box is over there.” Travis pointed.

  “I’ve got something to take care of in the bow. Start on the gold and I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Travis put his hands on his hips. “I’m done. We get this gold out of here and I’m on a plane to someplace sane.”

  “Suit yourself,” Ryan said, walking toward the bow. “Just do your job.”

  He maneuvered himself through the forward hold and into the bow proper. Crushed ribs, mangled struts, and smashed pieces of hull made it hard to discern what had been where. Wilky Ador’s two rocket-propelled grenades had done the job Ryan had planned for the EFPs. He traced the detonator wires from the hold door. He had to get down on his belly and work his way under a jagged piece of metal.

  “What the hell are you doing, son,” Dennis asked, staring at the camera footage being transmitted topside.

  “Gotta take care of something.” Ryan maneuvered through the debris until he could slip under the forward hold. He kept tugging at his umbilical to ensure it wasn’t getting snagged, chafed, or cut.

  “You’re about out of cord, boy,” Emery said.

  “Yeah, hold on, Grandpa, I’m almost there.” Ryan could see one of the capped sections of pipe he’d used to build the EFPs. With the ship on its side, it now dangled by its det wire from an overhead rib. The other EFP was nowhere to be seen. Ryan shimmied farther into the bowels of the ship. He stretched out his arm. His fingertips brushed against the short section of six-inch round pipe with a cover bolted to its flange. But he couldn’t get close enough to grab it. The bailout bottle, strapped to his back, prevented him from sliding deeper into the ship. He dropped his helmet to the deck, face squishing into the rubber oral nasal mask. Closing his eyes, he silently let out a string of curses.

  Ryan lifted his head and looked at the bomb. It was critical to his plan. He shoved himself forward; the bailout smacked the deck plating. He’d have to remove it, and that would cost him time. Backing out of the hole, he felt a stab in his thigh. The bang stick! He rolled enough to slide the four-foot-long metal rod out of his tool belt and reached out to snag the det wire. He caught the wire with the cotter pin, which held the power head on the pole. He pulled the EFP to him and clipped the detonator wire with a pair of side cuts. He backed out of the hole, dragging his bomb, and made his way to where Travis was methodically stacking bricks.

  Ryan laid the EFP beside the stack and pitched in to help. They righted the box and began restacking the nineteen bars back inside.

  “Looks like we’re missing a couple,” Travis said.

  “You and I took three up and Kilroy has one. Who knows where the hurricane moved the rest?”

  “Neptune’s payment,” Travis said as he closed the lid. He and Ryan used two straps to wrap the box securely, so the top wouldn’t fall open again. They used lift bags and the crane cable to move the box outside the Santo Domingo and set it beside its mate.

  “Twenty million,” Travis said, patting the box.

  “Give or take with the missing bars,” Ryan said. “Tomorrow, you’ll get your payday and you can get out of here.”

  “I was spouting off, eh.” Travis clapped Ryan on the shoulder. “What the hell is that thing?” He pointed at the metal pipe in Ryan’s hand.

  Ryan set the EFP on top of the strong boxes. “
A bomb.”

  “A what!”

  “Trust me,” Ryan said, with a grin. “I’m an expert.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Emily Hunt was in her stateroom on Northwest Passage, one of the nicest she’d ever seen on a boat with custom-fitted rose wood panels, a queen-size bed fitted with Egyptian cotton sheets, granite on the bathroom vanity counter, and a tiled shower. Kilroy had given her a tour of the ship and explained how it had once been a crab boat operating in the Bering Sea off the Alaskan coast. After the owners had financial difficulties, they’d put it up for sale. Kilroy purchased it for much less than the asking price by offering them cash, then converted the boat into a luxury exploration vehicle. The luxury didn’t comfort Emily or ease her mind. She felt like a trapped rat, sniffing the corners of its box, and peering up walls too slick to climb.

  Kilroy had offered her free reign of the ship, but she’d sequestered herself in the small cabin. Her view of the outside world consisted of a porthole. Through the round glass, she could see sunlight reflecting off dazzling azure water, and nothing else. She turned away from the endless view of blue horizon and leaned against the wall.

  Slowly, she allowed herself to sink to the polished hardwood floor. Emily hugged her knees to her chest. It had been two days since they’d eaten dinner at the Hotel Roi Christophe, and she’d tapped out an S-O-S on Ryan’s leg.

  Emily whispered his name and shivered. She was unsure if it was from the blast of frigid air from the air-conditioning vent, or the memory of her former lover. She’d stuffed her feelings deep inside and tried to move on. Here she was again, a pawn in Ryan Weller’s life. She hated sitting in this room, waiting for him to rescue her. Yet, she knew he would come. He had told her he was coming. She knew the stubbornness that drove him to a life of action would be the stubbornness that drove him to rescue her, no matter what the stakes.

  “Never again,” she chastised herself softly. Never again would she be so vulnerable. The gun had been so close, and she’d chosen pepper spray. She’d accused Ryan of being insensitive and paranoid for giving her a snubnosed revolver as a present. Now she saw it as a prudent gift.