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Wood's Tempest

Page 12

by Steven Becker


  “You named your boat?” Trufante asked. “The console too?”

  “Reef Runner,” Pamela said, quietly.

  For the second time in as many hours, Mac had to admit he was shocked at her vision. “Reef Runner,” he said, almost embarrassed to hear the words out loud. He wondered why Ned and Trufante thought it so out of character that he had named the boats. It was just something Mac had never thought of. But now it felt right. “There’s beer in the fridge,” he said, as he eased Trufante away from the wheel and took back the helm.

  “Naming your boats and offering beers. Highly suspect,” Trufante said, as he disappeared into the cabin.

  Despite its forty-two-foot length and twelve-foot beam, the boat felt crowded. Still not entirely trusting the new electronics, Mac checked the chartplotter. Aside from being swept slightly off course when large waves pushed the bow sideways, the instruments reacted correctly, and he watched as the boat turned to starboard, heading toward the waypoint he had placed at the entry to the Northwest Channel. He continued to watch as Ghost Runner maintained a straight course through the channel, then made a turn to port after reaching the next mark. In deeper water now, the seas were still big, but the ride leveled out. Mac looked over at Trufante, who was standing next to him with a full beer—probably his second, at least.

  “You’re going to have to talk to her,” Mac said.

  “Yeah,” Trufante muttered, and drank.

  Mac looked at the sky. The horizon was clear. Behind them, a dark cloud was moving toward Key West. Not many people would have thought that going to sea in a storm was a good idea, but Mac felt more comfortable aboard the boat than he would have on land. With a thirty-foot reading on the depth finder, he pushed the throttle down. The engine reacted and settled into a comfortable twenty knots.

  Sitting in the chair at the helm, Mac glanced back at his passengers. They had settled in as well, and although the seas were running about five feet, the steel hull of the trawler sliced through them easily. Trufante had gone back into the cabin, obviously drinking another beer while avoiding Pamela, who sat on the port bench talking to Ned. Satisfied with the autopilot, Mac looked up, scanning the water around them. A ray of sunlight made its way through the swirling clouds behind them, and he saw the distinct reflection of glass. He stared at the location, then the compass. After calculating the reciprocal course, he grabbed the binoculars from the electronics box. Putting them to his eyes, he braced his elbows on the back of the seat and scanned the water. He had been right. Maybe a mile behind them was another boat.

  Nineteen

  With a renewed sense of purpose, Bugarra scanned the water ahead with his binoculars. He first thought he had lost them. Then, on his way to Travis’s boat to interrogate the old man who was still aboard, he saw the three figures running toward the marina, and scrambled back to his boat.

  The twenty-eight-foot Yellowfin had twin two-fifties and a small cabin forward of the console. With its narrow beam, it was built for speed, not comfort. In these conditions and following Travis’s trawler, the opposite would have satisfied Bugarra.

  “Just enough speed to keep him in sight,” he said to the man at the helm, wishing the boat was equipped with radar so he could track Travis without the risk of being seen. “Either of you see radar on his boat?” He tried to remember if he had seen a bar or dome on top of the wheelhouse.

  “I think there was a dome with a pair of VHF antennas and the outriggers,” the helmsman said.

  Bugarra had seen the twin displays mounted in the dashboard, and now his man confirmed how well equipped Mac was. Two VHF antennas would mean he had a single-sideband radio as well. The other problem was fuel. Travis had a destination in mind. Without knowing where he was heading, Bugarra did not have the ability to run at the Yellowfin’s optimum efficiency. He moved next to the helmsman and pressed several buttons on the engine gauges. The top one showed his consumption, and, as he thought, they were in a bad spot. A little faster would be better for the twin engines. Having to hold back kept the boat not quite up on plane and sucking thirty gallons an hour. Travis was probably running right in his sweet spot and using less than half that. Although the gauges showed the tanks almost full, Bugarra knew not to trust them. The loading of the boat and its attitude in the water could throw off the gauges by as much as a quarter tank.

  Studying the chartplotter showed only one likely destination: the Dry Tortugas. On their present course, there was nowhere within either boat’s round-trip range that had a safe harbor. There were anchorages in the Marquesas Keys, but Fort Jefferson made more sense. If he were heading there, Travis’s intention was probably a safe harbor to wait out the storm—unless he knew something else. And with that thought, Bugarra’s paranoia increased.

  He crossed in front of the console and sat in the chair on the portside. Just as he sat, the helmsman eased back on the throttle as the boat ahead appeared to slow, and Bugarra went back to the helm.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Just came down off plane. I’m not sure, but you said to stay back.”

  Bugarra picked up the binoculars and scanned the water ahead. The trawler had slowed to almost a stop. “Shadow him from here,” Bugarra said. He handed the binoculars to the other man, who climbed onto the gunwale to get a better look. There could be a hundred reasons why Travis had slowed.

  Switching the VHF on, Bugarra turned to channel sixteen in case the other boat was in trouble. The airwaves were quiet, and he lowered the volume. If Mac wasn’t in trouble, there must be something significant to the location. The chartplotter showed them past the Marquesas Keys near an area called the Quicksands.

  Famous as the final resting place of the Atocha, the shallow area’s shifting sands were a cemetery holding dozens of lost wrecks. But he wondered why Travis had stopped. Shallow areas like this were better explored during flat-calm conditions, not in six-foot seas that could expose the bottom.

  “They’re moving again,” the helmsman said.

  “Follow them until we’re sure of the heading. Then we can circle back and see why they stopped.” Bugarra moved the cursor over the area where Travis’s boat had slowed and set a waypoint there. His impatience was growing with each wave they slammed into. The men he had chosen for the mission were two of his best. After blowing the assault on the island, they would want retribution. Bugarra did some quick math and realized that with the speed difference between the boats and no backup available, this was as good a time as any to take what he wanted from Travis.

  Mac was tuned in to the vibrations of the boat. It didn’t take a name to make a bond between boat and man, and he’d had one with Ghost Runner long before last night. Every noise meant something, and running through these conditions, missing something could be fatal. Condition Zulu meant that not even the Coast Guard was going to rescue an errant boater today.

  “Mac!”

  The sound of his name penetrated the tunnel vision he had extended toward the crew. On the small boat, the only way to get space was in his head. He turned to Ned when he heard his name called again.

  “This is one of the spots in Gross’s research. Stayed up all damned night sifting through it.”

  Mac instinctively cut back on the power, then realized that searching now would be futile. “Seas are up, and with low tide, low pressure, and a storm surge, I can’t trust any of this,” Mac said, waving his hand at the electronics. Newton’s discovery that every action had a reaction was true with storm surges. The wall of water pushed ashore when a hurricane made landfall had to come from somewhere. What he was seeing here was just that. He also knew the low water here might be adding to the surge slamming against his house right now. That explained the turbulent seas as the receding water acted like low tide against the wind.

  “Just saying,” Ned said.

  Mac had to admit that he was intrigued. “We don’t have a lot of equipment, but we can take a look on the way back.”

  Because of the shallows and shoals, a dir
ect route to Fort Jefferson was impossible, and Mac entered a route in the chartplotter around them. He listened to the sound of the engine, and his knees absorbed the steady pounding of the waves under the boat as it started to accelerate. He heard it in the sound of the engine and felt the seas, but he couldn’t regain the flow state he had been in earlier.

  As they travelled away from Ruth, the wind and waves subsided. It was still what the old-timers called nautical, but the worst was behind them, and Mac was satisfied with how the trawler cut through the four-foot waves. Earlier he had to drive each wave, increasing and backing off power to adjust to the larger ones. Now, Mac started to relax, and re-engaged the autopilot. He stared out at the water ahead of them and felt his eyes grow heavy. Fighting to stay focused, he jerked upright in the chair just as something passed by his head and ricocheted off the steel frame of the wheelhouse.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d been shot at. “Get down and hold on,” he called out as he pressed down on the throttle and cut the wheel hard to starboard. The boat didn’t respond, and he had a moment of panic until he realized that the autopilot was still engaged. Hitting the standby button returned control of the vessel to him, and he made the ninety-degree turn. With Ned’s interruption, Mac had forgotten about the reflection he had seen before.

  Looking back, he could see the shape of the boat running toward them. He immediately realized that there was no chance of outrunning them. If they were to escape, it would be through evasion. Turning the boat back to port, he steered toward the shallow water.

  Trufante emerged from the cabin with a four-beer look on his face. For many people, this might impair them, but the Cajun looked ready.

  “Shotgun and power head are in the rack.” Mac tried to think of anything else that might be effective, but came up short. He wasn’t even sure if there was any ammo left for the shotgun.

  “What’s going on, Mac?” Pamela asked.

  “You and Ned go down into the cabin and stay low.”

  “Just because—”

  Mac was not about to have this discussion. Another bullet struck by his head. “Now.” He continued to steer toward the shallow water while Ned and Pamela crept into the cabin. Trufante was back with the shotgun and a half-box of shells. He started to slide them in, and Mac heard the reassuring click as Trufante chambered one. It might sound good, but Mac knew it would be of little use at this range. Glancing back, he saw the boat veering down on them.

  “Don’t waste ’em, but throw a little lead their way.” Working on instinct now, he grabbed the microphone for the VHF radio and put out a mayday call. As soon as he issued it, he realized that, with all the agencies shut down by Ruth, it was futile, and was about to set the microphone back in the holder when he heard a response.

  The chase had drawn them within Fort Jefferson’s range, and Mac quickly explained their position and circumstance. Help was promised, and Mac dared a look back. Figuring he had about five minutes before the boat caught up, glanced down at the chartplotter, looking for refuge. With help coming from Fort Jefferson, he could halve their response time by heading directly toward it, but that wouldn’t be enough. He needed to buy another ten or fifteen minutes.

  Rebecca Shoal was coming up to port. It was the last obstacle between their current position and help. Somehow, he would have to make it work. Steering toward the tower on the horizon, he tried to make a plan.

  Twenty

  Mac had been able to run a comfortable line with the bow slightly tilted away from the beam sea. Now, trying to reach the shoal before the boat behind them did, he had no choice but to turn to port and face the waves head-on. Slamming into the face of the storm-driven waves, he fumbled with the touchscreen plotter, finally getting close enough to see that the shoal was six miles off. The soundings he already knew in these conditions were meaningless, and he stood on his tiptoes, struggling to see the water color ahead.

  Behind him the boat was still closing, and he pushed the throttle to its limit. He could see the boat clearly and hoped his heavy steel-hulled workboat might have an advantage over the lighter fiberglass of the other boat. His insistence on adding extra horsepower paid off as the big diesel pushed the boat through the waves.

  Bearing the full brunt of the waves, the trawler cut through the crests, which threw up huge sheets of spray that covered the cockpit. With his passengers all forward, Mac gritted his teeth and plowed ahead. Risking a glance behind him, he saw that his tactic, though uncomfortable, had worked. The other boat was still behind them, but didn’t seem to be gaining ground. As the waves tossed the lighter boat around with each strike, its course turned into a zigzag of corrections, increasing the distance they were covering.

  There was also something to be learned by watching how the captain handled the boat. A patient man would have cut his speed and worked with the seas rather than against them. Whoever was after them was impatient, and that could be used against him as well.

  Mac stared at the sixty-six-foot tower growing on the horizon. He started to calculate speed and distance both for the Ghost Runner and for whoever was coming to their aid out of Fort Jefferson. It would be close if the boat in pursuit was unable to gain an advantage. Gripping the wheel tightly as it fought for an easier course, he continued to plow toward the light.

  He’d been to the Dry Tortugas several times, mostly to fish the pristine reefs lying within site of the brick fort. It was still U.S. soil, so he had not been required to check in with the authorities there, and struggled to remember who had jurisdiction. He did recall several soft-sided RIB boats with twin outboards. The boats would be perfect in these conditions. He only hoped they were fast enough to reach him in time.

  A plan was brewing in his head, and he looked over at Trufante. Using his long legs like shock absorbers, he stood next to Mac, lightly gripping the seat for support with one hand and gripping the shotgun with the other. His thousand-dollar grin was full on, and he looked like he was enjoying the ride. The only discomfort Mac could see was that he needed the one hand to secure himself, meaning that he couldn’t hold the ever-present bottle of beer.

  “Get the power washer ready,” Mac yelled over the engine noise.

  Trufante gave him a questioning look, but released his hold on the seat and, grabbing for anything that would steady him, made his way to the stern. He wobbled back and forth with each wave, finally reaching the hose. It had been a useful addition to the boat. The strong stream of water was useful for cleaning traps and jetting out sunken objects, but Mac had no illusions it could stop bullets. What he was hoping for was that it was enough to throw the captain off balance, forcing him into a mistake.

  They were within a mile of the shoal now, and Mac scanned the opposite side of the tower for any sign that their help was approaching. The horizon was empty except for the tower and the lines of white-capped waves moving toward them. That didn’t mean that the boat wasn’t close. If he was right and they were coming in one of the soft-sided craft, the waves would easily disguise it until the last minute.

  Gradually, so that the other boat might not notice, he started to slow. As they approached the shoal, he zoomed in on the chart showing on his left-hand screen. The soundings were decreasing, and just ahead he could see waves breaking over rocks where there should be three feet of water. The storm surge was wreaking havoc on the soundings, but now he knew by how much. Either unaware or not caring that he had slowed, the other boat was within a hundred yards of them when several rounds struck the trawler.

  Trufante looked back at Mac, but he knew it was too soon to show his hand. Sliding his body against the wheelhouse, he used the structure as a shield and continued on. When they were twenty yards away from the rocks, he dropped speed to just above an idle and spun the wheel hard to port.

  “Ready!” he yelled back to Trufante.

  The other boat was late in reacting and flew past them. More shots were fired, this time going wide. Mac had seen the impatience of the helmsman earlier, and he was cou
nting on it now.

  Continuing his course, he circled the light, waiting for the other captain to commit. “Here he comes.”

  It was up to Trufante now. His Cadillac grille shone brightly as he rose and aimed the wand at the oncoming boat. Mac flipped the switch to activate the pump and reached for the shotgun that Trufante had stashed by his side. Firing several rounds in the direction of the boat to distract them, he counted the seconds in his head and waited until the boat was within range of the power washer. With the seas moving each vessel independently, it was a long shot that any of the buckshot would hit the boat, but the distraction seemed to work. A second too late, the driver saw the rocks, and, just as the boat slowed, Mac called to Trufante.

  The stream of water slashed across the bow of the Yellowfin. Before Trufante could adjust the aim of the water, Mac sent several more rounds toward the boat. He ducked and watched as the Cajun stood tall and raised the stream until it hit the driver squarely in the face.

  Instantly, the boat spun out of control as the driver was blinded and thrown off-balance. Mac turned back to the wheel and increased power. He continued his circle, moving the trawler to the opposite side of the tower to use its steel frame as cover in case the other boat was able to recover.

  Mac heard Trufante let out what sounded like a Cajun war cry from the cockpit and turned to see the other boat had capsized, floating perilously close to the rocks. He saw three men in the water swimming for the tower.

  Kurt, Justine, and Allie stood on the beach looking out past the float plane that had just delivered them. Far to the north, they could see the faintest sign of the squalls marking the outer band of Ruth. It was an odd feeling, standing on a white-sand beach surrounded by gin-clear water when their homes were inside the black mass.

 

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