Minutes later, as he pulled into the parking lot, he could see that the seaplane’s engine had been fired up for him. He chained the scooter’s wheel and rushed into the sales booth.
“Bro, what the heck??” R.B. demanded of him, “No, you know what, I don’t want to know.”
Troy smiled at him and slapped him on the shoulder. R.B. had come back from the war with a boatload of G.I. Bill money. He got his History degree and a teaching certificate… all the while thinking Troy hadn’t made it back. Troy was lost in a Vegas strip club called the Peppermint Hippo spinning records for the lovely ladies who danced there. Seems the ghastly details of the bomb that had killed Harry Nedman had grown to include Troy’s demise as well.
R.B. was barely removed from graduating and had spent the years since teaching geography, even though his major was in history. That was public schooling for you. He had confided with Troy that the end had come when one of his students had answered a final exam question as follows:
On what continent is the Nile River? Tennessee
Well, at least they’d spelled Tennessee right. He failed the kid, packed up his desk and never looked back. Lucky for him, he’d been run through the pilot program in Afghanistan and could fly everything but a jet. Upon leaving his cushy thirteen thousand a year teaching job, he’d found a floundering seaplane ferry business down in the islands and had made the owner an offer he couldn’t refuse. The money had come in the form of a loan from their grandmother, Charlotte Lucille Bodean along with what little was left from his G.I. Bill. He’d paid everything back within a year. He joked with Troy that he’d gotten his inheritance too, as everyone thought he’d been killed.
R.B. was a good-looking kid with long combed down hair that had golden streaks in it from his time in Key West and a clean-cut goatee, the current cut was just covering his chin. He was built like a baseball player with strong limbs and broad shoulders, but his waist was beginning to show the effect of his love for beer. He and Troy were famous around Key West bars. It was widely thought that R.B. was the most eligible and sought after straight man on the island.
“Did you give ‘em the emergency Fort Jefferson speech?” Troy winked.
“And then some,” R.B. laughed, “You know, management won’t be too happy about this.”
“You fueled her up?” he asked as he grabbed his khaki cap and walked out the door.
“Does the Pope wear a funny hat?” R.B. got up and followed him out.
“That he does, that he does,” Troy gave him a mock salute as he climbed into the plane.
“Good flight,” R.B. called to him.
“You bet,” he nodded and disappeared behind the closing hatch.
As he lifted the Cessna 208 into the air, he began his own speech about the tropical wildlife and sea creatures he and his passengers would see as they traveled to the famed nineteenth century island sixty miles off Key West.
As the plane neared the island, he could hear the oohs and ahs of his passengers.
Troy began what he referred to as his landing speech, “Ponce de Leon called it the turtle island or Las Tortugas long before the fort was ever built and pirates used it as a base for attacking merchant shipping in the sixteenth century. The national park is actually a collection of seven tiny islands surrounded by white beaches, teeming coral reefs and legends of sunken treasure ships, but the stars of Garden Key are the forty-five-foot high casemate style walls that rise up out of the sand.”
With this he took a turn around the island to give his passengers a complete view of the fort’s hexagonal shaped walls that surrounded nearly the entire island; however, Troy couldn’t keep his eyes from drifting out to the open sea beyond it. She was out there; he knew where she was hiding. Finding the right time to go and get her and someone to help him salvage her was the real trick.
He knew he couldn’t trust any local divers with this, hell they might get him out to the site and throw him into the water for some hungry shark to find, sixty miles was a long way to swim. This girl from the business card, Megan, would be perfect, a little green, controllable and highly unlikely to mutiny once they found the wreck. He glanced to the south and could barely see the darkening hurricane sky, he’d have to move fast if he was going to get anything up.
With the rush of splash down and the exciting ride up onto the white sand beach, Troy received the obligatory applause from the delighted passengers and as they left the plane they tipped him a few dollars for his expertise. He quickly folded the bills into his pocket and helped them step onto the sand. A lot like back in the Army choppering old General Summerton around, he thought to himself as he climbed back up to the cockpit, but without the tips.
The vacationers would be ushered through the fort and served a beachside lunch over the course of about two hours, just enough time for a nap. He leaned back into one of the more comfortable passenger seats and tipped his cowboy hat forward over his eyes.
“Sleeping on the job again, huh?"
Troy opened his eyes to see a face he hadn't seen in years, Natasha Wainwright, wearing the unmistakable uniform of the United States Park Service, without the hat. Her military posture was hard and straight, and her physique was like that of a triathlon athlete – mainly because she had trained for and competed in at least twenty of them. She had yellow blonde hair pulled back so tight in a ponytail it looked as if it was pulling her razor thin eyebrows upward, not one hair out of place. Troy could feel her pale hazel eyes probing him and found disapproval in her tightly pursed lips. She wore no makeup, but he thought he could see the slightest film of sunscreen on her sharp nose.
They had met fifteen years ago – before the Iraq War– in Little Creek, Virginia where her father's Seal team was based. Troy had been stationed there prior to shipping out to Afghanistan for some training on water rescue. That’s the Army for you, he thought, water rescue in the desert. He had seen her running before dawn each morning, finally asking her out one Friday night at the officer's club. She turned him down three times before giving in to him. She’d had a hard and brusque demeanor and at that time, he’d thought he was into that. That was another lifetime ago, before the war, before Vegas, before Louisiana and before Pawleys Island… way back in his Army days. Nowadays he was laid back and easy going and liked his company that way too.
"Natasha?"
What in the hell was she doing here. He’d been out here hundreds of times and knew all the park rangers by name and had never caught wind of this.
"The one and only; I walked out to see the plane, but immediately recognized your day-old beard and trademark slouch."
He laughed; she hadn't changed a bit, a lifetime military brat that didn't apologize for anything… brash in every sense of the word. She had gone through her military career using her father’s high-ranking connections to get her into the Pentagon. Ambition was her middle name.
After they had gone out for a while, he’d realized they were yin and yang, two very opposite sides of the same coin. She was honest, disciplined and loyal. Right and wrong were not debatable. Troy admired those traits, but he had a more fluid definition of right and wrong. She also didn't approve of how he spent his free time with buddies drinking and talking about flying and other women. It became apparent they wouldn't last, since they drove each other crazy. Luckily though, the military had done the breaking up for them, his training was over and her new assignment – very confidential – was somewhere else… she couldn’t tell him where. How the hell did she end up as a park ranger on a tiny island in the middle of nowhere?
"You're a Park Ranger?"
"Yep. I decided D.C. and the military was not for me. I wanted to enjoy nature, not order people to blow it up. This seemed like a nice place to get away, seventy-five miles from the mainland."
He knew her well enough to know she was lying; brutally honest people make horrible liars. Besides, her ambitions wouldn't let her pass up opportunities in Washington just to kill time in a place like this. Not only that, Fort Jef
ferson was sixty miles from the mainland, not seventy-five. A Park Ranger would know that. Why was she here?
"So, you've put your flying to use, I see." She was being sarcastic. To her, if an airplane didn't have sidewinder missiles attached, it wasn't worth flying.
“That I have, darlin’. I answered a classified ad with Tortuga Adventures for a pilot,” he lied, “It’s amazing what you can learn to do watchin’ YouTube videos."
He was suddenly flirting, but he wasn't sure why. She wasn't buying it anyway.
"I like it here, suits me," he said, in a last-ditch attempt to justify his slouchy island existence to someone who would never be impressed by it.
There was a long awkward silence.
“Okay, well, I have to go tend to the tourists, but we should catch up," she said, to avoid continuing down a dead-end conversation.
"Is this a regular trip for you?" she asked.
"Every day there ain’t a hurricane."
"Great! I have some things I want to ask you about the area, and there are some places nearby I'd like to see from the air. Think I can hitch a ride?"
He could see some wheels turning behind her eyes, wheels that had a strangely secretive air to them, but he couldn't say no. Despite having been trained to kill people and all that straight-shooting brashness, she was still cute enough to get whatever she wanted. What was she up to?
"Sure, just say when, darlin’."
"Will do. See you around, and Troy" she said, “don’t call me darlin’.”
He tipped his hat, “Roger that.”
She turned to go. He couldn’t help but notice that she was just as fit as ever… even from behind.
As she walked away, another lumbering figure walked toward Troy. It was a figure he knew well. This park ranger had on the same uniform, but it was a bit wrinkled, buttons straining to cover a bulging belly. Thick plastic framed glasses bent outward over his temples, one of the lenses cracked in the top left corner, both lenses scratched in various places. One corner of his shirt’s front had come loose and was almost dangling free over his belt.
James Howard was the perfect park ranger for this place. He was the bohemian dropout type who was lucky enough to have a paying job with federal benefits. This fort was his little kingdom, where he ruled with a drunken fist.
"You two seem to have hit it off." He said.
"Long story, man. We have a history… an ancient history. What the hell is she doing here?"
"She’s been here for almost a year. I got a call one day from top brass in D.C. to tell me we were adding a Ranger. I wasn't aware that we needed one, nor did I ask for one. She's not too sociable, though. She stays in her room with a laptop and satellite phone she brought with her. You're the first person I've seen her say more than three words to; other than that, she seems hardworking, honest and loyal. So, I hate her already."
"She’s a bit tight, but I guess she’s pretty smart."
"Yeah, but she doesn't know dink about being a Ranger, even though her paperwork says she has been one for six years."
"Six years, you say? That's very interesting." Troy watched carefully as she marched off into the distance, seemingly oblivious to her immediate surroundings.
“Oh yeah, got something for you,” Troy reached behind his seat and pulled a brown paper bag out.
James pulled the paper back slightly to reveal the label on the bottle.
“Patron, eh?” he nodded approvingly, “What are we celebrating?”
“I’ll tell ya later.”
James broke into a grin, “Ahhhh, keeping secrets, are we?”
“Nothing like that,” Troy laughed and shook his head, “I just have a good feeling about my not too distant future.”
“Consider me intrigued,” James tucked the bottle back into the bag, “I look forward to our toasting your new good fortune soon.”
“You bet,” he clapped the big man on the shoulder.
“Ah well, I’ll let you catch some shut eye, dude,” James gave him a thumbs-up and turned toward the fort, “besides, I have to start this damn tour soon.”
“Good man.”
Troy settled back into his seat and drifted into a warm sleep, he had at least an hour before his passengers would be back.
He was just seeing visions of a sunken treasure ship when he was pulled back from sleep yet again today by the horrendous sound of his cellphone.
“Dangit, what’s a guy gotta do to get some sleep around here??? Gotta figure out how to change that ringtone,” he muttered to himself as he flipped it open, “Yep, this is Troy, go ahead.”
“Troy who?” a girl’s voice asked.
“Troy Bodean,” he sat up quick, “and who might this be.”
“You called my phone at five-thirty this morning.”
“Yes,” he said quickly, “Yes, I did.”
3
Señora De La Muerta
Megan Simons wanted desperately to be a granola munching, tree-hugging, environmentalist hippie chick, but her father had planted too many God-fearing conservative seeds in her throughout her life for her to truly feel that way. The best she could manage was a Save the Manatee sticker on the left side of her Honda civic bumper and a Vote for W on the right.
She had grown up in Boston and was now secretly glad her father had sent her to a strict private Catholic school. Actually ‘learning’ in a place like that was demanded of the students, not requested. That, and also she liked washing her hair on more than a monthly basis.
Somewhere along the way she had picked up an interest in the sea, which led her to school in south Florida. An internship had landed her a job at the Dolphin Research Center on Grassy Key, about half way down the long stretch of islands.
While she’d been feeding the resident sea life this morning she couldn’t help but notice that most of the center’s animals were restless. It had to be the impending storm.
When she got back to her office, she sat down and dialed the unknown number that had called her at five-thirty that morning. It had the local area code three zero five, but it wasn’t familiar. The research center got calls from all over the country, so she wasn’t too suspicious about it. The caller introduced himself as Troy Bodean. She didn’t know the name.
“Well, Mister Bodean,” she asked, “what can I do for you?”
There was only silence the other end of the line, and she almost hung up… another crazy man in the Keys.
“Your card,” he finally started, sounding unsure of himself, “it says Love of Ocean Legend.”
Megan rolled her eyes. She’d had those cards printed when she was just out of grad school. The idealist in her had chosen a colorful sunset background with bright white cursive text; now her card was just white with black text, Arial font.
“Okay?” She was willing to follow this for one more line from the guy. “So—”
“So what do you know about shipwrecks?” he blurted suddenly, sensing her drifting away from the conversation.
“Well, not much,” she replied. “I’ve toured a couple, but that’s about it.”
“You’re a diver?”
“Of course.”
The man paused again. “Look,” he finally said, “could we talk about this in person?”
“Talk about what?” she demanded. “I don’t even know what we’re talking about. Listen, I don’t know you and this is all very strange. Thanks for your call, and good luck.”
With that she hung up without waiting for his reply.
Troy looked down at his phone. He pushed the button to redial her number, but his passengers were suddenly poking their heads into the door of the seaplane.
“Ah, there you are,” he boomed in his best smarmy game-show-host voice. “How was lunch?”
The vacationers all chimed in with beaming faces about how amazing the fort was and the beach was this and the water was and… blah blah blah. He’d heard all this a thousand times, but he smiled and nodded like it was the first time he’d ever been to the fort.
The plane lifted off in a rush from the water and headed back to Key West.
Megan Simons sat at her desk and stared at the phone.
“Hey, you okay?” said her assistant, who’d stuck her head into her office.
“Hmm?” Megan shook off the daze. “Oh yeah, I’m fine. Chelsea, will you call the Weather Bureau and see what the status of evacuation is currently?”
“You don’t think this thing’s gonna be big, do ya?” the girl asked.
“Nah,” she assured her, “but there’s no harm in being careful.”
Chelsea nodded. There wasn’t much on her plate today, so she decided to get out of the office for a while.
“I think I’m going to go for a run.” Megan stood up from her desk. “Can you take care of the late feeding schedule?”
“I sure can,” Chelsea said, and disappeared from the doorway.
Megan opened the locker door next to her rusting file cabinet. She pushed her wetsuit aside and brought out her workout duffle bag. Her mind drifted as she put on her running shorts and tank top.
“Shipwrecks, eh?” she mumbled to herself as she tied her shoes and turned on her iPod.
As she stepped onto US 1’s familiar pavement and turned right, she thought she might run to Marathon and back… ironically, it was about twenty-six miles round trip. The sun was hazy and she could see dense cloud cover rolling in far to the south. When she ran, she mostly listened to audio books. Stephen King was her favorite. Sometimes it was music, usually the Beatles or the Stones… never Jimmy Buffet, as that was just too cliché. Today, however, she was so distracted by the strange phone call that she had strapped it to her arm and put the ear buds in.
The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset Page 23