Wood's Tempest

by Steven Becker

  A man in a park service uniform came toward them. “You must be Hunter?”

  “Right. I’m Kurt. This is my wife, Justine, and daughter Allie.”

  “I’m Richard Farnsworth, the park director. Grab your stuff. I’ll show you to your rooms.”

  They followed Farnsworth around the beach, where they reached a walkway that crossed what looked like a moat. The water was clear enough that Kurt was able to see schools of small snapper cruising around the shallow water.

  “It’s really six feet deep,” Farnsworth said.

  “Looks like a lot less than that,” Allie said. “Is it a real moat?”

  “It was built to hinder a land invasion, yes.”

  They entered the main gates of the fort and found themselves looking out on a large, grassy area.

  “Our housing is in that newer building on the other side. Come on; I’ll give you a quick tour on the way.”

  The fort was unlike anything Kurt had ever seen. He recalled from the narration on the flight that it covered sixteen acres, most of the island. Farnsworth rattled off dates and statistics as Kurt studied the architecture.

  “That building was used to heat the cannon balls before they were shot.” Farnsworth indicated a freestanding structure with an odd-shaped roof.

  “Why?” Allie asked.

  “Fire is a deadly threat to every ship at sea. By heating the shot, they were able to both damage and set fire to approaching ships.”

  “Were there any battles here?”

  “No, the fort was actually never finished. Rifled cannon made it obsolete, and it was turned into a prison.”

  Kurt saw a woman running toward them.

  “Special agent, we need you ASAP.”

  Kurt looked around for a second before realizing the woman was talking to him. There seemed to be urgency in her voice, and he handed his bag to Justine. “I’ll catch up to you guys in a bit.”

  “Cool. Can we see Dr. Mudd’s cell?” Allie asked Farnsworth.

  Kurt remembered from Gary’s briefing that the doctor who had set John Wilkes Booth’s broken leg after he shot Lincoln was the most famous prisoner housed here. The description faded as he was hustled back out the entrance and to a dock on the right of the ferry pier. A man waited there.

  “We’ve got a distress call out by Rebecca Shoal,” the man said, tossing Kurt a horseshoe-shaped inflatable PFD. “You’re the special agent in charge. Sounded like there might be some foul play.”

  “What about the Coast Guard?” Kurt asked as he slid the collar over his head and attached the straps around his chest.

  “They bugged out because of Ruth.”

  “Is it safe?” Kurt adjusted the straps on the PFD.

  “Totally. Seas are running four to six feet.” The man hopped onto a twenty-odd-foot soft-sided RHIB boat.

  Kurt followed and moved to the helm while the man started the engines. Seconds later, they sped off across the clear water. It took a few minutes for Kurt to get acclimated to the boat. The twin two-fifties each putting out over forty-four hundred RPM were pushing the boat over forty knots. The soft sides of the boat absorbed the brunt of the waves, but with their speed, the larger waves launched the lightweight boat into the air. Kurt held one of the grab-rails as the craft slammed back against the water. Still, it was exhilarating. In these conditions, his center console would be lucky to push ten knots.

  “The shoal is about twenty miles out.” The man pointed to a mark on the chartplotter.

  Kurt estimated that was less than a half-hour. “How long ago did you receive the distress call?”

  “Logged it at eleven twenty.”

  Kurt looked at his watch. That was ten minutes ago. Add the half-hour trip, and he wondered if they would reach them in time. “Any idea what we’re dealing with?”

  “Just a mayday. They were probably at the limit of the VHF range. Couldn’t get much info.”

  He felt the engine noise rise a notch and looked down at the gauges. They were moving at fifty knots now. With nothing to do but hold on and hope that they got there in time, Kurt alternated staring into the clear water and watching their progress on the screen. Ten minutes later, the tower marking Rebecca Shoal came into view, and he felt his hand instinctively move to his waist. Having no idea what they were facing, he wanted to check his weapon, but it was packed in his bag back at the fort.

  “Are we armed?” he asked the man, who also wore no sidearm.

  “Got a rifle in the hold there,” the man said, nodding in the direction of the console door.

  Releasing his grip, Kurt reached around and unlatched it. The door swung open, and he eased around to the opening. He found the barrel of the rifle and, sliding his hand down, released it from its restraint. Moving back behind the protection of the enclosure, he checked the magazine.

  “Haven’t ever had to use it,” the man said.

  “I’m from Biscayne. With Miami close, we get some interesting action.”

  Both men were silent, observing the scene in front of them. Two boats were in view now, and both looked in danger of grounding. The sound of gunshots echoed across the water, and Kurt gripped the stock of the rifle. They were too far away to see what was happening aboard the vessels, but he could see how they were moving. Suddenly, what looked like a stream of water shot from the lead boat. The other boat foundered, its captain probably blinded by the water. It moved toward the shoal and, in what looked like slow motion, capsized.

  Twenty-One

  Mac saw help speeding to their aid just as the boat that had been chasing them capsized. He idled until he was downwind of the shoal and let the trawler drift. Picking up the binoculars, he scanned the water, looking for survivors. After they had clearly tried to kill him, he was more interested in their identities than saving them. Trufante stood next to him, shielding his eyes from the sun.

  “Bugarra,” he said softly.

  Mac moved the binoculars in the direction Trufante was looking and confirmed the sighting. The other two men in the water with Bugarra looked familiar, but he couldn’t place them. “What about the others?”

  “I think those dudes were the ones on the island.”

  Mac’s blood started to boil, and he breathed deeply, trying to control his emotions. He knew in his current state he was not rational. Pamela and Ned emerged from the cabin.

  “I heard Bugarra’s name,” Ned said.

  Mac offered him the binoculars and pointed at the larger man in the water.

  “Once I saw what was on that flash drive, I figured it wouldn’t take long for him to surface. He always thought it was easier to steal things than earn them.”

  Ned had known the treasure hunter since the old days when Wood was still around and Bugarra was a struggling diver. One lucky find, piggybacking on someone else’s work, had elevated Bugarra to superstar status. It hadn’t even been from a wreck, but just the coins he’d pulled from the sands near Sebastian Inlet that were both very rare and easily documented. Secrecy was a highly coveted commodity in the world of treasure hunting. Unless you dotted every i and crossed every t, there was always a chance that a discovery could be discredited. Bugarra played the game by a different set of rules. A media hog, he often claimed success before he had it, in an attempt to attract more dollars for his company.

  “Bad business when he’s around,” Ned said, handing the binoculars back to Mac.

  The rescue boat was close enough now that Mac could see the National Park Service logo stenciled on its side. It was less than a quarter mile away and had dropped off plane. Raising the binoculars, he recognized one of the men aboard.

  “We have to save them,” Pamela said, distracting him.

  “Park service’ll take care of it now.”

  “We ought to skedaddle before they start asking questions,” Trufante said.

  Mac knew that since he had spotted Kurt, there was a good possibility that Kurt had recognized him or his boat. “We’ll stick around and see if they need help.”
/>   Trufante suddenly disappeared into the cabin. Mac wondered for a second what he was hiding, but was distracted by Kurt’s voice on the hailer. Mac decided to respond face to face. Bugarra would hear anything said over the loudspeaker, and the VHF was an open channel for anyone listening. Seeking discretion, he waved at the boat and idled toward it.

  “Kurt,” Mac called out, then called for Trufante to set the fenders. There was no sign of the Cajun, not unusual when there was law enforcement around.

  “We got it,” Kurt called back, and flipped several large red balls over the gunwales.

  Mac maneuvered the Ghost Runner next to the park service boat and grabbed a line. The seas were still too rough to sit side by side without the fenders. “You guys take care of those men, and we can pull the boat out of here.”

  The man at the wheel nodded. Mac tossed the line back to Kurt. Before they were out of earshot, he called to him, “We’re heading to Fort Jefferson—we can catch up there if you need a statement.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Mac idled away. He was all business now, and called to Trufante that the coast was clear of whatever it was that he was avoiding. The coward peered out of the cabin and came back on deck. He and Mac focused on the capsized boat. Trufante’s grin was back when he realized what Mac had in mind. They both knew they were looking at a six-figure boat. As a salvor, Mac would benefit from the recovery of the vessel, and Trufante knew he’d get his share. Taking the boat out from under Bugarra would just be icing on the cake.

  The Yellowfin was drifting away from the shoal, and they were a good hundred yards away from the men in the water. The park service boat was moving toward them. “Let’s get a line on her,” Mac said, turning his attention away from the rescue to the drifting boat.

  “What’cha got in mind?” Trufante asked.

  “Let’s just get ahold of her for now. Once the park service picks up Bugarra and his men, we’re gonna flip it.”

  “Parbuckle would be the correct term,” Ned said.

  “Right.” Mac idled toward the boat. Trufante reached into the portside hold and removed a coiled line. “Gonna need three before we’re done.”

  Trufante pulled out two more lines and laid them on the deck. “Bow or stern?” he asked, as he stripped off his shirt.

  “Bow first. We’ll get the stern once they’re out of sight.” Mac was upwind of the disabled boat now and set his engines into neutral. The trawler slowly drifted back to the capsized vessel. Trufante was on the dive platform with the end of a line in his hand. Ned had the coil ready to pay out line as he needed it. When the boats were fifty feet apart, Trufante jumped into the water and, dragging the line behind him, swam toward the bow of the capsized boat. Treading water, he took several deep breaths and dropped below the surface. Mac started to idle forward, and a second later, he saw the thumbs-up signal.

  Slowly, Mac idled into deeper water until the slack was out of the line and waited while Trufante used the rope to pull himself back to the trawler. After hauling himself onto the dive platform, he sat with his feet in the water, catching his breath.

  With the boat in their possession, all eyes turned to the park service boat just in time to see Bugarra being helped aboard. He shrugged off the helping hands and turned to face the Ghost Runner. They’d drifted several hundred yards apart, but even from that distance, Mac could see the hate in the man’s eyes. A few minutes later, the other two men were aboard and the park service boat accelerated. Mac acknowledged Kurt’s wave, and they watched the boat come up on plane and head toward Fort Jefferson.

  “Okay, let’s get ’er done. Pamela, you better stay clear. One of those lines snaps, it could take out an eye.”

  “Not on your life, Mac Travis,” Pamela replied. “I want to watch.”

  Mac shrugged. He wasn’t running tours here, and if she wanted to be on deck, so be it. “At least go forward so we can keep the cockpit clear,” he said, waiting for her to climb around the cabin and situate herself on the foredeck.

  “Ready?” Mac called to Trufante. “Use the portside cleat.”

  Ned brought in the slack line as they backed down on the boat. Line management was critical in this maneuver, and Mac was glad the old man was here.

  “Go,” he yelled to Trufante. With the line in hand, Trufante repeated the procedure. A few minutes later, he was back aboard, and Mac started to move Ghost Runner away from the capsized boat while Ned payed out the line. When both lines were taut, he repeated the same procedure with the third line, this time to the cleat at midship. “Hold on!” he called out, and accelerated.

  The deck vibrated as the engine fought with the load behind the boat. Mac continued to apply pressure, looking behind him as he pressed down on the throttles. It wasn’t a complicated procedure, but the seas were making it difficult, and he had to slow several times to adjust the lines to allow the boat dragging behind to sit on top of a wave instead of in the trough. When he felt it was right, he applied power and, with one eye on the tachometer and the other on the boat behind them, pushed the engine into the red.

  Suddenly, he felt the speed increase and the RPMs drop. He’d found the sweet spot, and behind him, the rotational pressure on the hull flipped the boat over. Once it started to turn, he immediately called for Trufante to release the stern and midship lines before it rolled again.

  Trufante let out a loud hoot when the boat, now righted, turned bow forward and accepted the tow. Mac slowed and, wary of entangling a line in the propeller, dropped to neutral. “Ned, bring the free lines in. Tru, haul the boat closer.” It was a long tow to Fort Jefferson, and rather than dragging a thousand gallons of water behind him, he wanted to make sure the bilge pumps were working.

  With the vessels alongside each other, Mac and Trufante climbed onto Bugarra’s boat. There was no apparent damage other than some chipped fiberglass where one of Mac’s rounds must have hit. The Yellowfin was well built, and despite having been upside down and exposed to the water, the downward pressure on the hatches had kept water from entering the battery compartment. Water spewed from either side as the bilge pumps did their work, and when they sputtered, Mac shut off the battery switch. He had already decided to tow the boat back to the fort. It was fifty-fifty whether the Yellowfin would start, and having it come into port under her own power might taint his salvage rights. He and Trufante climbed back aboard Ghost Runner, and Mac breathed deeply. The run to Fort Jefferson had accomplished several things in addition to the payday being towed behind him. Bugarra had been exposed, and there was a good chance he would face charges for shooting at them. Kurt Hunter appearing at the scene had been an unexpected bonus. Mac had spent several days in Miami in the last few weeks helping him with Gross’s murder. Now, he hoped the special agent could repay the favor.

  Ned and Trufante had made a bridle from the lines, and Bugarra’s boat, now with two cleats sharing the load easily, followed the trawler. Mac thought about the logistics of towing it the twenty miles to Fort Jefferson, then covering the same ground again to get it to Marathon. He pulled the phone from his pocket and opened the radar app, but it wouldn’t load. There was no signal, so he put the phone back in his pocket. Even with new technology, he still depended on the accumulated knowledge and experience of his twenty-five years on the water, and studied the waves and sky.

  There was nothing alarming above, with only puffy cumulus clouds scattered through the sky. The seas were more difficult to read. It was easy to see the wind waves coming from the north, but there was a distinct groundswell caused by the storm coming from the east. Towing the boat fifty miles to Key West in these conditions was not a good idea.

  Decision made, he set course for Fort Jefferson and sat back in the captain’s chair. The seas were easy on the boat and passengers, and the mood was light. To help things along, Trufante had handed beers to everyone. Mac took the one offered him and, after checking the tow, finally relaxed. With his feet on the wheel, using them to make subtle adjustments, he sipped the beer and ste
ered toward Fort Jefferson.

  As they approached the fort, Trufante was the only one who appeared anxious, and Mac remembered how he had disappeared when the park service boat showed up. Under other circumstances, Mac would have dismissed it as Trufante’s instinctive reaction to law enforcement, but Trufante knew Kurt, and had stayed down after they had recognized him. That led Mac to think it was Bugarra that Trufante was worried about, and the knowledge put Mac on edge.

  Twenty-Two

  As they approached Fort Jefferson, the seas calmed. Glancing over his shoulder every few seconds to check on the tow, Mac did what every salvor does after making a recovery—calculate the worth.

  Trufante had probably done the math, which should have lifted his mood, but something was troubling the Cajun. He sat alone on the port seat with a beer in his hand. It was the same position Mac could have found him in almost any other day they were out, but that thousand-dollar Cadillac grin was missing. Whether Mac liked it or not, his fortune was often tied to Trufante’s, and that made him a concern.

  Mac placed the boat on autopilot and asked Ned to take the wheel. The old man nodded and moved to the captain’s seat, where he scanned the seas ahead as the hydraulic motor tied into the autopilot steered the course Mac had laid out.

  “Old Wood’d be rolling in his grave if he saw all this mess. You got cable too?” Ned asked.

  Mac ignored him. Like Wood, he had grudgingly accepted the early technology, loran and paper depth plotters were often hard to use and inaccurate, but now he was sure his mentor would approve.

  Mac left Ned and turned to Trufante. “Need another one?” Tru shook his head as Mac moved toward the bench. The trawler was all function with minimal form. Except for the cabin, which was well appointed, the decks were bare of cushions or seats. The bench running along the port gunwale was used to move crab and lobster pots from the winch near midship to the slide on the stern. Across the cockpit, the other bench had a rack behind it to hold dive tanks and offered room to gear up. Both men were acting out of character. Mac rarely offered Trufante alcohol, and Trufante more rarely refused.