Wood's Tempest

by Steven Becker

  Dropping the end of the hose in the water, he saw the first sign of light on the horizon. Trufante and Pamela were rummaging through the galley, pulling out whatever food they could find, and he decided, along with a mug of the coffee that was brewing, eating was a good idea. The only thing on the menu was peanut butter and jelly, and he waited while Pamela made sandwiches. They ate in silence, waiting for enough light to dive.

  “I’m going down myself,” Mac said. “Tru, you work the pump. I’m hoping I can get it clear on one tank and use the other to get it ready to lift.” He went back to the cockpit, where he laid out and checked his gear. When everything was ready, he started the engine and turned on the pump. It was louder than he liked, and he hoped it sounded like a boat running. There wasn’t much boat traffic here even during busy times, but it was traveled, and he hoped the engine wouldn’t attract any attention during daylight hours.

  When the sun finally broke the horizon, he geared up and walked through the transom door to the swim platform. Between being anchored directly above the bell and having to manipulate the heavy firehose, he had decided on adding weight and using booties only. Checking the gauges, he inhaled through the regulator to check it and was about to enter the water when Ned handed him the spear gun.

  “You know all that silt is going to attract something,” Ned said. “Better to be ready.”

  Mac took the spear gun, not really thinking he would need it, and, with one hand on his mask and regulator, stepped off the platform and into the water. It was much easier, even with the low light, to find the bell, and without fins, he was quickly standing next to it with the firehose in hand.

  They had decided on a two-minute lag time, and, checking his watch, Mac waited for Trufante to start the pump. As the time ticked down, he braced himself for the blast of water and soon felt the pipe stiffen as it filled. Even underwater, it was heavy, and the water jetting from the nozzle started moving material away from the bell. The current was even weaker this morning than last night, leaving the sand and silt suspended in place. Finally, he caught a glimpse of the chain and started following it across the channel. He knew from the journal that it was attached to the bell, and they had decided to use the chain and the winch aboard the trawler to retrieve the treasure.

  Still strung across the open channel, the chain was buried deep under the sand. Mac was slowly uncovering it, but he was almost out of air. Turning the nozzle off, he looked around to get his bearings. He was tired and numb from the vibration of the hose, and as he shook out his extremities before ascending, he thought he heard the sound of a motor, but his hearing had been impacted from the sound of the jetting water. He looked around for the source of the noise.

  Without the current running, the typically gin-clear water for which the Tortugas were famous was silted up from the firehose, and Mac struggled to see the surface. He dropped the hose, inflated his BC, and with the speargun in hand, started floating toward the surface. At ten feet, he could see the trawler and what looked like the shape of another boat next to it. He shot another blast of air into his BC, floated to within five feet of the surface, and saw the flat bottom and inflated pontoons of the park service RHIB boat.

  Dropping back to ten feet, he moved to the anchor line to hold himself in position while he tried to figure out what was happening above. There appeared to be no scenario where this was a routine visit. It had to be either Bugarra himself or his puppet, Farnsworth. The question was, what to do while Mac still had the advantage of being invisible? They certainly knew he was diving, but with the silted-up water, they had no idea where he was. Even if they could track his bubbles, they wouldn’t be able to tell what he was doing.

  He needed a distraction to get aboard the trawler, and with the spear gun in his hand, he had the means to make one. A shot into the one of the pontoons wouldn’t sink the Park Service boat, but would cripple it. He ascended to directly underneath the hard bottom of the RHIB boat. Without fins, it was hard to maneuver, and he released the air from his BC before finally dropping his weights. Swimming to within a few feet of the pontoon closest to the trawler, he drew a breath and felt a restriction. There was no need to check his gauges—he was out of air. He was so close, and pulled hard on the regulator, getting one more breath before dropping his tank and BC. With only the air in his lungs, he aimed the shaft at the pontoon, released the safety, and fired.

  A blast of air shot back at him as the power head exploded, and he quickly swam toward the portside of the trawler and surfaced. There were voices, and tearing off his gloves, he put his fingers in his mouth and risked a low whistle. If Ned or Trufante heard it, they would know it was a signal. Treading water, Mac waited until he saw a shadow fall over the water. Ned sat on the gunwale with his back to the water, but had heard him.

  “I’m going to cut the anchor line,” Mac said. “As soon as you feel the boat drift, fire up the engine and get out of here.”

  “He’s got a gun on Kurt and them, and took our shotgun,” Ned whispered over the side.

  “The plan stays the same.”

  Using the hull of the trawler for cover, Mac swam to the anchor line and sliced it with his knife. He kicked up, and when his head broke the surface, he screamed to Trufante to start the engines. There was a long pause, and Mac yelled again, but it was drowned out by the engine starting. Wrapping the anchor line around his arms, he held on as the boat started to move.

  After a hundred or so feet, the water cleared, and he could see the edges of the channel on either side as he clutched the line. Soon the boat slowed, and he heard the click of the transmission as it dropped to neutral. Kicking hard, he released the line and swam to the dive platform, where he dragged himself aboard. The boat started moving again the moment Ned called out that Mac was aboard, and he climbed through the transom door.

  It took a minute to acclimate himself, but when Mac looked back, he saw the soft-sided boat was just behind them, and Bugarra was looking right at him, pistol extended.

  Forty

  Mac looked over at Kurt, Justine, and Allie huddled in the back of the park service boat and wondered what he could do. After using the spear gun’s last round to shoot out the pontoon, they were now out of ammunition.

  Mac saw the muscles in Bugarra’s arm tense, and dropped to the deck as two shots went over his head. The two boats were close enough that he heard the click of the empty chamber when Bugarra tried to fire again. Unless he had a spare magazine, the odds had evened.

  “He’s out,” Kurt called from the other boat.

  Trufante was at the wheel, and Mac crawled to the base of the captain’s chair, where he rose, counting on the protection of the wheelhouse if Kurt was wrong and Bugarra shot again. He was certainly acting like he was out of ammo. The park service boat pulled ahead of them and Bugarra looked back. Mac saw the fire in his eyes, but there was no weapon in his hand. Bugarra turned back to the wheel and set a course that, it appeared, was going to take him back to the channel. Mac took the wheel from Trufante and followed.

  A feeling of helplessness overcame him. With one of the pontoons deflated, he was able to keep pace with the normally faster boat, and he racked his brain for any idea of how to stop Bugarra before he reached the park boundary. Mac could already see the light bars on the T-tops of two park service boats coming toward them. He had to stop Bugarra now and get out of the park waters before the boats reached them.

  Fishermen have a built-in radar, and Mac’s kicked in. His gaze shifted to the diving birds ahead, and he saw the small silver reflections of the baitfish as they broke the surface, trying to evade a predator beneath them. The school was large enough that one throw of his cast net could fill the bait well.

  Mac turned back to Bugarra’s boat, but an idea struck him. He called Trufante back to the helm and asked him to maintain the distance between the boats, then told him his plan. The Cajun smiled. The Cadillac grin on his face gave Mac at least some confidence that it would work. Sliding across the deck, he pulled a bu
cket from underneath the starboard-side bench and carried it forward. He and Trufante exchanged a quick glance before Mac climbed onto the wheelhouse roof. The footing was awkward, and he slid onto his belly, grabbing the antenna mounts to hold him in place as the Ghost Runner crashed through the waves in pursuit of the crippled boat.

  Bugarra continued on his course, but the damaged pontoon only allowed him to run at about ten knots before the pressure of the water dragged the deflated rubber under the surface and flooded the boat. The self-bailing rigid deck allowed the water to drain and Bugarra proceeded to move forward, knowing, as Mac did, that the damage had been done and it was not likely to get worse. Mac thought about his options. There was nowhere for Bugarra to run except toward the oncoming boats and the fort.

  Wedged between the radar dome and the stubby GPS antenna, Mac worked his way to his knees. He brought the bucket between his legs and pulled the line out. Normally he would slide the loop around his wrist, but for what he had in mind next, he would be pulled off the boat if it were attached. Banging on the roof, he got Trufante’s attention, and after he felt the Cajun return the signal, he waited as the boats converged.

  Several times, as Trufante crossed the crest of the waves, Mac was almost thrown from the roof. Unable to call out directions with the blade of his dive knife in his mouth, he held on and silently rehearsed what he would need to do as the Ghost Runner pulled alongside the park service boat. Bugarra was looking over, and Mac stayed low, hoping the angle of the higher boat would block Bugarra’s view.

  The park service boat swerved as if to change course to avoid the trawler, but with the blown pontoon, it had lost not only speed, but maneuverability. Without having to worry about being shot at, Mac showed himself. He glanced at the three figures huddled by the transom. Kurt was pale and possibly unconscious. Justine had a defiant look on her face. Mac mimicked the motion of throwing a net, and she gave a nod.

  The boats were less than ten feet apart now, and Mac rose to his feet, hooking his ankles onto the electronics and hoping that Trufante wouldn’t do anything that would knock him off. He reached into the bucket, knowing he only had one chance, then looked up and saw the park service boat was in range.

  Looping the nylon line in one-foot circles in his left hand, he grabbed the monofilament brail lines and horn of the cast net. There was no time to check if it was tangled, but both he and Trufante were meticulous with their equipment. Losing a school of baitfish due to a tangled net often ruined an entire day’s fishing. With the line and horn in his left hand, he started pulling the mesh net from the bucket until he held two-thirds in his hand. After dropping the weights until they just hit the deck, he took a section of the lead line in his mouth and started tossing the net over his right shoulder. When he felt he had half the net, he dropped his right hand and, with two fingers, took hold of the lead line near his waist. Opening his hand, he grabbed the rest of the split net and brought both hands together by his face. The actions were automatic and took only a few seconds. Before Bugarra could figure out what was intended, Mac turned to the left, drew a deep breath, and recoiled.

  He spun to the right, letting the line drop from his mouth at the same time as he released his left hand. After waiting a long second, he snapped his right wrist and let the net fly. It was a perfect pancake, but, used to having the line tied to his left hand, he thought it would fall short. Instead, unhindered, it flew toward the park service boat and dropped over the console, entrapping Bugarra in the fine mesh.

  Bugarra held the wheel in one hand as he tried to escape the net, but his actions only entangled him further. Mac watched him for just a second. Before Bugarra could steer the crippled boat clear of trawler, Mac crouched down and launched himself at the park service boat.

  His knee slammed into the console and it took Mac a second to gain his feet. Ignoring the pain, he looked up and saw Bugarra was still struggling. Mac hobbled to Justine, grabbed the knife from his mouth, and cut through her bonds. He handed her the knife to release Allie and Kurt, then went to the helm. Bugarra turned as if to fight, but his movements were severely limited by the net. Mac reached for one of Bugarra’s hands and twisted it behind his back.

  Mac looked back to see if Justine had freed Kurt and Allie. “I need you to take the wheel,” Mac called to her.

  She cut the last restraint and came toward him. He pushed Bugarra’s arm higher and walked him away from the helm, but with the net still draped over him, the quarter-inch mesh snagged on the console.

  “Cut it loose. I’ve got him,” Mac told her.

  Justine slid the sharp knife through the mesh like it was butter. Releasing the tension allowed Bugarra a little movement, which he immediately used to try to free himself from Mac’s grasp. Pulling up harder on the arm, Mac stopped him.

  “Is there anything in the console that we can restrain him with?” Mac asked Justine.

  With one hand on the wheel, she opened the small compartment and riffled through it, coming out with two flex cuffs. Mac took them from her with his free hand. Placing them in his teeth, he wrenched up hard enough on Bugarra’s arm to bring the big man onto his tiptoes and used the knife to cut Bugarra’s other hand free. He tried to fight back, knowing once the ties were around his wrists, it was over. Unlike the hardware-store-variety cable ties, which were easy to escape from, the law enforcement versions were bombproof. Still restricted by the net, Mac was able to grab Bugarra’s other hand. Needing his own hand free, he dropped the knife, pulled a tie from his mouth, and cinched Bugarra’s wrists together.

  Somehow, during the struggle, Bugarra had freed one of his legs from the net and, using Mac’s grip on his arm to lever himself, executed a sweep kick. Both men were flung to the deck, and as they fell, the net snagged on the leaning post. Their combined weight tore it almost in half, and, Bugarra was freed from it.

  Mac had the advantage of using his hands, but Bugarra fought like a bull without his. Using his body weight to his advantage, he was able to slam Mac against the console. Mac’s knee, which had taken the brunt of the impact when he landed on the boat, crumpled. Bugarra approached, and Mac saw his leg swing forward. He tried to avoid the blow, but the injury to his knee slowed him, and he tried to roll against the soft gunwale to avoid the side kick. He was too slow, and the kick landed just below the hurt knee, causing him to howl in pain.

  Bugarra backed off and went for the knife on the deck, rolling onto his back in an attempt to grab it. Mac struggled forward, trying to ignore the pain, knowing that in seconds Bugarra would not only be free, but have control of the knife, too. Bugarra’s attention was focused on Mac, and just as he was about to grab the blade, Kurt slid toward him on his belly. Still lying on the deck, he grabbed one of Bugarra’s feet. With a twist of his body, he howled in pain, but still threw Bugarra to the deck. Mac slammed his foot down on Bugarra’s hand, and the knife dropped from his grasp.

  Bugarra screamed and tried to roll away, but Kurt was not done. Now on his knees, he rained down blows on the rogue treasure hunter, exacting revenge for what he had done to his family. Mac finally made it to his feet and reached out to grab Kurt’s shoulder. At first, Kurt pushed Mac away, but, realizing who it was, he relaxed. Mac reached beneath Justine, grabbed a handful of the flex cuffs from the console, and went to Bugarra, who lay in a fetal position, trying to protect himself. Mac added another restraint to his hands and secured his ankles. Once Bugarra was secure, Mac leaned against the gunwale and tried to catch his breath.

  “Where are we going?” Justine asked. “The park service boats are closing in on us.”

  Using the wheel, Mac hauled himself upright. He looked over and saw the boats were only a mile away. Time to ditch the crippled boat and run. After signaling to Trufante that they were okay, he instructed Justine to steer a collision course with the trawler, and within a minute, the two boats came alongside each other.

  Justine was still behind the wheel, and Mac ordered them to abandon ship. Justine and Allie easily made it
aboard the Ghost Runner, but it took Trufante and Pamela to haul Kurt from the lower boat to the trawler. Mac, careful of his knee, climbed aboard and yelled for Trufante to head toward open water. It would be close, but Mac thought they had a chance.

  The tachometer was in the red for longer than Mac wanted, and he could almost feel the fuel tanks emptying as they fed the struggling engine. He’d never had the engine over twenty-one-hundred RPMs, and they were close now. “A little more,” he told Trufante, and looked back. They were running thirty-five knots, close to the maximum speed of the park service boats. Slowly, the red line on the chartplotter approached. Finally, they crossed it.

  When they were a good mile past the line, he relaxed and turned back to Allie.

  “How’s your dad?”

  “I’m good,” Kurt responded.

  “We’re out of the park, but need to decide what to do about him.” All eyes moved to Bugarra, who was still curled up in a fetal position by the starboard gunwale. They all knew that taking him back to the park was not an option and no one knew what awaited them in Key West.

  “I’ve got an idea.” Using the gunwales for support, Kurt hauled himself to his feet. Trufante dropped the RPMs and slowed just enough to allow Kurt to make his way to the helm. “I’ve got a buddy with ICE. I don’t know what they did during the hurricane, but if he’s around, he’ll help out.”

  “This isn’t ICE’s jurisdiction,” Mac said. Over the years, he’d had several dealings with the different alphabet agencies.

  Kurt thought for a second. “As a special agent for the National Park Service, it’s within my authority to pursue suspects that have committed crimes inside the park’s boundaries, wherever that may lead me. Don’t ask me how I know that, but it works.”

  “That’ll play,” Mac said. “Stealing a park service boat should get the ball rolling.”

  Kurt picked up the VHF and called out on channel sixteen. A moment later, a scratchy response could be heard. The ICE interceptor was just offshore of Key West and would rendezvous with them off the Marquesas. Mac relieved Trufante of the helm, leaned forward, and entered the position the ICE captain had indicated into the GPS. The fort soon dropped below the horizon and Kurt moved next to Mac, grasping the back of the chair for support.