But then Bebe swooped in after George's mother had died, and was his new stepmother before he knew she existed. When his dad passed, the money George expected wasn't there. Now, it was all going to Bebe and the bloodsucking lawyers. Unfortunately, George had already committed tens of millions of his family's money to Wyatt 1, and he couldn't back out now. And so far, the drills had been coming up bone dry.
“Purty, ain't it, boss?”
The unmistakable baritone voice booming in George’s ear could only be rig boss Bill Bane. He’d come to Texas from a poor black family in Louisiana. He and five older brothers had set out to make their fortunes in the oil business; one had died on the job, and three had quit and gone back to New Orleans. But Bill’s career had flourished. Not many young black men made it in the oil business in those days, but he and George had hit it off immediately while working in one of George’s grandfather’s refineries, and Bill took to the roughneck work quickly.
He was easily the hardest worker on the crew. When George embarked on Wyatt 1, he knew who he wanted to run it. While not an engineer or a geologist, Bane had oil in his veins. He knew how the stuff flowed and what it took to get it out of the ground.
“Takes a black man to really understand black gold,” he’d bellow loudly.
His height, strong build, booming voice and gregarious nature made him a natural leader and an inspiration to the roughnecks working under him. His signature phrase, how ‘bout today, was a daily dose of optimism for a crew of guys looking for a patch of black liquid a mile below and hundreds of miles from civilization. It had become a challenge among the crew to see who could work harder and longer than Bane… so far none had been successful.
It’s funny, George thought, how each generation goes to the sea looking for something new. It used to be food. Then it was a New World. Then it was pirate gold. Now it’s oil. What will the next generation seek in the deep blue?
“It's gorgeous, Bill. I'm envious you get to see it all the time.”
“It never gets old, George.” Bill called him boss when he wanted to be formal, and George when he wanted to remind him they were friends first, business partners second.
“Say, aren't you guys late for New Orleans?”
“We're ready. Gene is powering down the systems to idle so nothing too bad can happen while we're gone. A few of the guys are going to stay on board to keep things together. Are you sure you don't want to come with us?”
“No, I think I’ll stay. If this thing is going to bankrupt me, at least I’m going to get some sunsets out of it.”
“George, we’ll hit something soon. I promise. Gene is doing some amazing things with these systems you’ve installed. I've never seen anything like it. Once we hit bedrock, we’ll be able to pick up sounds and vibrations from farther away than anyone imagined. You’d be amazed. I’ll bet the C.I.A. doesn’t even have shit like this.”
“Oh, I’ll bet they do. Listen, you and the boys go have a good time. You’ve earned it.”
“Thanks boss. It was nice of you to show up and give us a surprise vacation like this. We won’t forget it.”
“Take care Bill, and don't pick on the tourist pilots this time!”
Bill had, in a card game on a recent trip to Key West, wagered the pilot’s bar tab against a free ride back to the rig for him and his crew. The pilot lost, flew everyone back to the rig, and then didn’t have the fuel to get home. Ironic that they were sitting on tons and tons of fuel, with not a single drop of Jet-A for his seaplane. Poor guy spent hours here waiting for fuel to arrive. His punishment was having to listen to Gene ramble on about the rig’s amazing sonar and drilling systems.
That had been the beginning of a year-long friendship with the pilot, Troy Bodean. And they had agreed to stash a fifty-gallon drum of fuel on the rig so the poor guy wouldn’t get stuck again.
George’s thoughts drifted to more serious matters. Bill was a good guy, but would never forgive George if he knew why he had made this sudden visit. It’s amazing who comes out of the shadows when you have a mile-long drill bit sunk into the bottom of the Gulf in a place where no one else has been. It’s also amazing what a man is willing to do to keep his family fortune from going to the bottom of the gulf. George looked out at the darkening water. He would soon go to the mess hall for coffee, because he had a long night ahead of him.
At the same time, somewhere on the western coast of Cuba, the setting sun told Hector Martinez it was time to go. He fired up the Pratt & Whitney PT6A turbine engine in his long, slender boat and coasted out of the harbor. He increased the throttle to let the six hundred horses behind him do their thing. Even with a full load in the cargo hold, the boat shot up on top of the water and leveled off at seventy-five miles-per-hour. He just hoped his U.S. contact had taken care of the government patrol boats as promised, or this was going to be a short trip.
He practiced his lines in his best Cuban peasant accent. If he made it past the boats, he’d be at his destination in six hours, in the middle of the night like his contact preferred. This wasn’t the first time he had made this moonlight voyage; confidently, he engaged the G.P.S. autopilot and set a direct course for the Wyatt 1.
9
Report
Natasha Wainwright was making her evening rounds at Fort Jefferson, locking gates, picking up stray litter, and checking the beach for stowaway visitors, when her sat phone beeped.
A single word text message from an anonymous number simply read:
-REPORT.
She knew this was an automated message sent to operatives stationed throughout the United States, and wasn’t really all that urgent. But she knew that dallying around and not electronically sending in her packet this evening would bring swift investigation.
Not that it mattered; she hadn’t heard a thing since she’d been sent here to this ghost town of a fort.
As she made her way down the endless halls toward the rangers’ quarters, she began to hear the echoing voice of James Howard. He was warbling along with Jimmy Buffett’s standard, A Pirate Looks At Forty. When she opened the door, he stumbled a bit, surprised at her quick entrance. He jerked his legs down from a reclining position on his desk and quickly hid his beer between his legs.
He was a little more than chubby, his belly extending past his waist, and he had a clump of curly red hair perched on his head like a bird’s nest. His beard, if you could call it that, was scruffy and dark. He probably hadn’t bothered to shave for the weekend.
“Natasha… what uh… what um…” He was clearly nervous. “I thought uh, you had rounds.”
“Yeah, finished that a few minutes ago.”
“Oh um, okay.”
There was a bit of an awkward silence, and James’ eyes flitted around the room.
Natasha walked over to the desk and tapped the faux wood-on-steel top. “You gonna share that beer or what?” she said with a wink.
James’ mouth opened a little wider. “Sure, I um… I think I may have one here.”
He put his own beer back up on the desk and walked over to the slightly smaller than normal refrigerator. It was covered in local bar magnets and pictures from amazingly drunken forays out and about in Key West. James opened the door, and the clinking of bottles rattling in vegetable drawers and the clanking of more stuffed in the door made Natasha laugh out loud.
“You sure you didn’t want to put any food in there?”
James smiled as he handed her the beer. “Why? I’ve got all the nutrition I need right here; barley, hops, water.”
Natasha made a dramatic show of trying to open her beer and handed it back to James. “A little help?”
“Oh of course,” James said, and almost swayed around the desk.
She laughed playfully. “And just how many of these have you had tonight?”
“Oh, I dunno,” James said as he wobbled back to his chair, “two, three… twelve, something like that.”
Natasha sat down on the guest sofa and raised her beer. “Thanks for the be
er. Cheers.”
“Anytime, I always have a good supply. Troy keeps me stocked up.” He made a clinking gesture toward her raised beer and then swallowed about half of it in one gulp. “Yeah, that’s a great guy there, Troy.” James nodded enthusiastically.
“Mmhmm,” Natasha agreed as she sipped her own beer.
“He really deserves the best.”
“Yep.”
“Hope he finds that damn boat.” James’ eyes suddenly went wide. He clearly realized he’d said something he wasn’t supposed to say.
Natasha sat up straight on the couch. “Boat?” she drank the last of her beer and handed the empty nonchalantly to James. “Beer me.”
This seemed to relax him as he popped open another.
“What boat?”
“Ah, I’m not really supposed to tell anybody about it, but since I guess he knows you and all,” —James scratched the back of his neck— “it’s just a shipwreck or somethin’ he’s been looking for.”
Natasha tried for the next few minutes to find out what Troy was up to, but James had clamped up his mouth tight… except for the intake of more beer.
She shrugged as if to say, eh, no big deal. Then she snapped her fingers and raised her eyebrows. “You know what would really be good right now?”
James’ drunken eyes took on a mischievous glint and he leaned over the desk closer to her. “What’s that, kitty cat?”
She almost rolled her eyes. “Not that, silly,” she said, and smiled playfully. “Some tequila!”
James’ eyes returned to being a drunken, happy glint. “Aha,” he said, standing up unsteadily and opening the freezer door, “I just happen to have some fresh Patron from our mutual friend, Nate. Will that do?”
“Absolutely!” She thought it would be a perfect information lubricant.
Five or six shots later, Natasha was glad she’d been dumping them into a nearby plant. James’ eyes were bloodshot and half closed and he was reeling on the edge of passing out.
“So, tell me,” —Natasha stood up and faked a stumble— “what’s all this about a boat?”
“Oh yeah,” James said, rocking a bit, “Troy says he’s gonna find a big boat, a wrecked one…”
He listed so far to his right that Natasha had to catch him and prop him back up in his chair.
“What boat is he looking for?”
“Ummmm… I dunno, he said somethin’ like Senorita De Murray.”
He was drunk and slurring so badly she couldn’t be sure it was what he’d said.
“Senorita De Murray?” She didn’t even have to pretend to be drunk anymore.
“No, no… uh…” He scratched his scruffy chin and a bit of drool dribbled down it. “It’s the Señora, yeah, the Señora De somethin’. Somethin’ like Marta.”
Her heart began to beat normally again. It didn’t sound like this was going to be a problem. Troy was apparently on some foolish treasure hunt. Typical, she thought to herself. She let James slump forward and pass out on his desk. He began snoring loudly and gurgling noises were echoing around his stomach.
Natasha quickly turned and walked out the door, heading toward her bunkhouse. As she turned the key in her front door lock, her phone beeped again.
“Oh hell, the report,” she whispered, turning on her light and booting up her laptop. She tapped out a quick report form with her ID number and message.
-Things are moving slowly. Just received key info. Will follow up with details tomorrow.
She hit the send button, and not thirty seconds later the reply simultaneously hit her phone and her inbox.
-Good.
She leaned back in her desk chair and rolled her neck around. She picked up her phone and texted Troy.
-Flying tomorrow?
-Yup.
-See you then.
-You bet.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re up to, Troy, but it better not be what I think it is,” she muttered to herself. She turned back to her computer and opened up an encrypted file. A chart of Key West and its surrounding waters slowly filled her screen. An accompanying document showed records of hurricane patterns for the last several hundred years and ocean current patterns as documented by the National Weather Archives. It was so up-to-date it even had a storm track of the impending Hurricane Daniel.
Natasha tapped her computer screen with a pen. “If I was a top secret wreck at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico… where would I be?”
It was the beginning of a long night and, unbeknownst to her, the beginning of an even longer week.
10
We Need A Better Boat
Troy Bodean studied Megan Simons’ shivering form as she slept restlessly on his garage sale southwestern design foldout couch. He couldn’t help but remember a very similar scene playing out in his former Pawleys Island beach house with… um… Sarah? Kelly? He couldn’t quite recall her name. Eh, another lifetime ago.
The houseboat was rocking more intensely with the harsh waves that preceded the incoming bad weather. He wondered idly how much of his home would be left if Hurricane Daniel got a hold of it.
Megan had been frantic when she came out of the water; a bull shark had bumped her and put her in a panic. She kept rambling on about the crumpled magnetometer and how the center was going to kill her, but she also said she’d seen the object in the coral. Her air supply had run out before she could get a closer look. Troy was pacing back and forth, knowing he had to let her get some sleep but wanting to dive again as quickly as possible.
Julie Matthews, the anchorwoman on Channel 7, was droning on in the background about the hurricane’s path and evacuation reports. The Keys were now under a tourist evacuation; a full evacuation was probably only a day behind.
Troy walked over to the kitchen and pulled a small bottle of Jagermeister out of the freezer. He quickly raced two shots down his throat and grimaced with the cold burn. He glanced at the television with tinfoil rabbit ears. Even in the snowy picture, he saw that the storm track put the hurricane directly over the location of his find. He poured another shot. He sat down on the edge of his bed and waited until the liquor finally put him out.
In the predawn early morning haze, he could just make out someone sitting at his small folding dining room table. His eyes wouldn’t yet adjust to the light.
“Who’s there?” he said, realizing he still had a shot glass in one hand and an empty Jager bottle in the other.
The figure stood up and walked toward him. Megan’s form slowly came into focus. She had a coffee cup in one hand and a computer printout in the other.
“Here,” she said, handing him the steaming cup of coffee and taking the shot glass and bottle from him. “I don’t know why you do this to yourself.”
Troy blew across the top of the mug and took a temperature-testing sip. The warmth of the coffee slid down his throat, mildly burning the tip of his tongue.
“I’m a pirate, pirates drink rum,” he said and mock toasted with his mug.
Megan just shook her head and dumped the bottle and shot glass both in the trash can by the front door. Troy didn’t have the strength to protest, but he made a mental note to rescue the shot glass later when she wasn’t looking. He groaned as he rose to his feet, stuck his hat on his head, and walked over to the table where she was again sitting.
She had a map spread out with a few markings on it, and a computer printout with a jagged line running through it that looked like an EEG graph.
“Look at this,” she said as she pointed to the map. “Here’s where we stopped the boat.”
She traced a line to the west with several circles drawn in red.
“As I swam this direction, the magnetometer flashed each time something registered.”
“Mmkay.” Troy nodded and sipped his coffee. “I have no idea what that means.”
“It means that it was probably seeing some things that weren’t just ocean junk,” she said and turned toward him. “I can’t know for sure without checking the readings, bu
t it means I think we’ve found your ship.”
A surge of emotion hit him and his stomach tightened. In his excitement he grabbed Megan by both arms and kissed her. Her eyes went wide and she stared at him, mouth gaping.
“Hot Dang!” he exclaimed.
She was staring wide-eyed at him, and he realized what he’d done.
Oh, um… I uh…” he stammered. “I’m sorry I got so excited.”
For a few seconds, she turned and looked at the map.
Oops, Troy thought, I royally screwed that up. “Okay, um, so, what do we do now,” he said and quickly changed the subject.
“Well, don’t get your hopes up just yet,” she said as she brushed a stray hair back from her forehead. “I need a computer to download and check this data. And, we really need to dive it again, but this time we need a better boat and some more accurate readings. And a camera might be good, too.”
Troy stripped off his dirty shirt and replaced it with a fresh Tortuga Adventures shirt.
“We could really use some help, too,” she continued, “as I’m not really keen on going into shark infested waters alone again… and is that the only kind of shirt you own?”
He looked down at his work polo. “Why, what’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing,” she said, standing up from the table, “I was just hoping to borrow some clean clothes.
Troy finally realized she’d long since removed her soaking clothes and been in his robe since yesterday. He rummaged through his closet and pulled out a long sleeved, blue button down and some khaki cargo shorts.
“I think that’s all I have that’s clean.”
The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset Page 26