The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset

by David F. Berens

  “So, you guys need our crane. Fair enough. I don’t want to pester you with too many questions, but this rig and everything on it is my family fortune, so I'm going to ignore my tact and pester you with too many questions. What are you going to do with it?”

  “Well, um… we… “ Troy started.

  No one wanted to say anything first. Wyatt crossed his arms and remained silent, leaving an awkward void.

  R.B. knew the guy better than anyone else there, but it still wasn't much. He knew the man was no angel, because he’d wiled away many hours listening to his rebel-rousing stories between shots. He wasn’t pretending to be a Boy Scout; he just wanted to make sure his machinery would be back in one piece.

  “We have to recover something,” Troy finally said.

  “Something?" asked Wyatt. “Define this something.”

  “It's big. At least, we think it might be big. And heavy. Tons per load, possibly, so we want to make sure we have a heavy-duty machine.”

  “You can get those a few miles from where you came from. Why fly all the way out here for my crane?” Wyatt continued.

  “Let’s be honest, you guys are friends and we need discretion. Anyone with a decent-sized crane will want all sorts of documentation and records before turning it over to us. They may even want to go with us. Regardless, commercial equipment companies track their equipment’s movements with LoJack systems.”

  “And you don't want to be tracked? You want me to give my crane to someone who doesn't want to be tracked?”

  Troy considered what he was about to say carefully. “The load is somewhere we aren't supposed to be. Federal waters. Protected coral reef. No crane owner is going to send his boat in there with the risk of it being seized."

  It is widely known that no oil man is an environmentalist, and Troy thought maybe the chance to defy federal environmental laws wouldn’t exactly put George Wyatt off.

  “Yeah, damned fish-huggers. They would wipe out humanity to protect a square mile of dying coral.”

  Megan shot a harsh look at Troy which he promptly ignored.

  “So, you need my crane to go where you aren't supposed to be to get something you probably aren't supposed to have, and you aren't even going to tell me where, what or why?"

  “Yep, that's pretty much it.”

  “I don't like this. Bill and Gene think I should call this off if it feels a little strange, and I gotta admit it smells pretty fishy.”

  “George, please, we need this.”

  “I don't know, Troy, I—“

  “So, what's it like out here, with no women?” Megan suddenly interrupted.

  “What do you mean?” The hardened oil rig boss looked like he’d been caught off guard.

  Troy was surprised she’d spoken up, but then again, he had seen this ploy work for her before, so he sat back and gave her a little room.

  “I mean, all you big, tough, roughneck types out here for weeks on end with no girls to keep you company. It must be hard,” she said, batting her eyelashes.

  Troy winced at the over-the-top flirting, but by God it seemed to be working.

  “It sucks, if you ask me,” Wyatt said, and chuckled. “Hell, that’s why we end up at the Red Garter as much as we do, or the French Quarter, because everyone needs a little company now and again, don’t they?”

  It sounded as if he now saw Megan as fair game and was moving in. Little did he know that he was the prey. Troy almost felt sorry for him… almost.

  “It’s sort of like back at my dolphin sanctuary. It’s full of free-spirited young girls and a few touchy-feely sensitive guys. Sometimes it feels like there’s not a real man for miles. We hate it," she continued.

  “What a waste. Smart, good looking girls like you shouldn’t have to search for a good time," Wyatt said and looked directly into Megan’s eyes, hoping she got his not-so-subtle message.

  “I agree. Listen, why don’t you give us a call the next time you guys come in. Maybe we can meet you in Key West.”

  “But, if I don’t give you this crane, you won’t take my call, will you?”

  Troy tried to muffle a laugh. So George is playing the game too.

  Megan looked surprised, but quickly recovered. “Um, well, no… probably not.”

  "That’s too bad,” he said, then winked at her. “I'll get the keys."

  Gene Henry, chief drill rigger for the Wyatt 1, sat with his back to the door watching the dozen screens available to him. Keeping up with the drill head was his job, but the sonar readings had become his hobby, ever since he realized what they were able to do. Any large sound that penetrated the water to the hard seafloor bedrock would travel like sound through a cymbal to the ultra-sensitive sonic equipment of the Wyatt 1’s primary sonar shaft. Those vibrations were then digitized into distinct colors on Gene's screen.

  The sound appeared differently depending on whether it had to travel through sand, coral, wood or metals before reaching bedrock. By graphically depicting the differences, Gene could see the outline of the sea floor in amazing detail. The only drawback was that it needed a sound source, and the strength of the sound source determined the clarity of the image. Deep water never produced a good image, just because few sounds made it down that deep, but the shallow water produced great images, assuming there was a sound source nearby.

  Lightning was a good sound because it was so loud, but it was also very brief and limited to a small area. Loud boat motors were another useful source, but boats tended to follow the path of other boats, creating very good images of popular channels for tourist cruises, but little else of value outside of those. Gene had also carefully mapped the floor around Fort Jefferson, using the motors of boats and planes there. Explosions worked well, but obviously, there were very few of those out here.

  Gene didn't have to sit and watch the screens; all of the sonar readings were recorded and stored on the backup drives. But he’d become addicted to the amazing things the sonar revealed about the gulf floor and enjoyed watching it live better than watching the replays later. He liked suspense. And the pending hurricane and spin-off storms would provide more sonar readings in one day than Gene had seen since the equipment was installed. He was anxious.

  Bill Bane’s tall, dark shape walked into the room and delivered a fresh cup of coffee. Gene took a sip and shifted his girth to look at the man.

  “So, Troy and R.B. are here?” he asked Bill.

  “Yup.”

  “And they’ve been talking to George?”

  Bill sat down in an office chair beside him and nodded his head sipping the coffee. “Uh huh.”

  Gene reached up and clicked a few keys on his computer, the image on his monitor shifting to a view from under the rig. He tapped the screen with his pen.

  “So, why does the security camera from below show George waving to our crane chugging away?”

  “You got me. One of those favors where you don’t ask too many questions.”

  “Fair enough. It’s his boat, after all, but everything tied to this rig is our responsibility too.” Gene raised a trademark eyebrow at Bane. “So why didn't they rent a crane from someone closer?"

  “This one's free, I guess, or maybe they don’t want a paper trail.”

  Gene sighed, as if he was mildly insulted by the notion. He turned in his chair, reached high on the panel in front of him, and flipped a switch that remotely engaged the tracking device aboard the Wyatt Knot.

  “The boss may trust them, but I’m not so sure I do. Let’s see where they go.”

  18

  X Marks The Spot

  Several hours later, Natasha Wainwright clicked through the text messages she had uploaded from James Howard’s government issued cellphone. She had gone back to her quarters in a panic. Most of the messages were typical James:

  -Meet me at Fat Tuesday’s

  -I’ll be there at 9:30

  But there was one that caught her attention.

  -They’re getting too close. I have the location coordinates
. Will keep an eye on the spot.

  The number he had sent it to was a 786 area code… local. She jotted down the number on a notepad and decided she would call it from a payphone on the mainland when she got a chance.

  “Who’s getting too close to what?” she wondered aloud.

  Closing her door, she again shouldered her duffle bag and headed quietly down to the beach. She looked back toward the fort and could see that James’ light had been turned off. He’d probably stumbled to the bathroom in his delirium, his body weight allowing him to come around quicker than she expected. She’d have to be quiet. The misty rain was so warm it was almost hot and the wind was beginning to pick up as well.

  “Damn hurricanes,” she muttered and heaved her heavy bag into the boat.

  She removed the lines and shoved the boat back into the water and jumped on as it floated out. She turned on the small trolling motor with almost no sound and idled out into the darkness without running lights. When she thought she was sufficiently far away she turned the ignition. The engine fired to life quickly, which she thought was odd; it normally took several tries to get it running. A glance at the fuel gauge told her she had barely enough to get to her possible crash site and back.

  “Dammit, James,” she cursed as she pulled the boat out to deeper water, “just once, fill up the boat after you take it on a joyride!”

  She brought the boat up to cruising speed and flipped on her laptop. Good thing these babies are waterproof, she thought while wiping the hot stinging spray from her face. She tapped the coordinates she’d narrowed her search down to into her onboard G.P.S., and estimated it shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to get there; so, she throttled up to fifty and turned on the radio.

  An emergency tone was blaring through the static and the weather center was calling for a total evacuation of the Keys by Thursday. It seemed that Hurricane Daniel was going to take a turn straight at the island chain. She clicked to a new station and the same alert was blaring out there too. She turned it off in disgust.

  “Twenty-four hours to get this thing up,” she said, laughing sarcastically. “Not a problem.”

  With the wind and engine noise surrounding her, she never even noticed the boat racing up behind.

  Not ten miles to the west of Natasha’s boat, Troy cocked his straw cowboy hat back on his head and glanced down at the G.P.S. in the cockpit of the Wyatt Knot, the small tug they had borrowed from the Wyatt 1.

  “Almost there,” he said to R.B., who was dozing in the passenger’s seat.

  “Hmm, huh, what?” He rustled himself up into a sitting position.

  “The shipwreck, we’re about five minutes away.”

  “I’ll go tell Megan.” R.B. stood and stretched.

  Troy could feel his heartbeat begin to speed up; he had been waiting for this for a long time. In just a few minutes, his whole life was going to change. For once, his fortunes appeared to be looking up.

  Megan and R.B. entered the cockpit of the boat as he was slowing. Megan glanced out the misty window as if trying to recognize the spot where she had gone down. But the storm was clouding the water and visibility was reduced to about ten feet.

  Troy shut down the engine and turned to face them. “This is it.”

  He had a grin that reminded R.B. of a long-forgotten Christmas morning and seeing the pile of packages and gifts for the first time.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, let’s get in the water!” Troy jumped up and turned them both toward the cabin door. “R.B. and I will go down and you can operate the crane.”

  “I’m not afraid to get in the water,” she retortedm and put her hands defiantly on her hips, “and besides, I’m the one who’ll make sure we do this correctly and protect the reef around this thing.” She crossed her arms and tapped a foot impatiently.

  “I know, I know, you want to protect the environment and all that jazz, but we need someone smart up here to operate the machinery,” —he winked at her— “and that puts us right out.”

  “Hey!” R.B. chimed in.

  “Just messin’ with ya, bro.” Troy nearly shoved them out onto the deck. “Now let’s get this party started, because the hard rain will be on us soon.”

  He turned to Megan. “I promise we’ll make sure we disturb as little as possible getting’ this thing up.”

  She didn’t look like she was going to give in, but finally relented as Troy squeezed into a wetsuit.

  “Hold on to my hat, would ya?”

  She took the Outback Tea Stained straw cowboy hat from him and slipped it on her head. Troy raised an eyebrow, and she winked.

  “You might look better in that than I do,” he said, laughing.

  “Okay, you two can work out who gets the hat after we get back,” R.B. said, bringing them out of the moment. “Can we do this now?”

  They worked out a rope tug signal for lifting their findings from the bottom as R.B. also squeezed into his wetsuit. Megan took a cursory glance at the crane operation panel. It seemed pretty intuitive; the crane controls were labeled simply; UP, DOWN, and ROTATE. Another lever operated the cabled hook and it also read UP and DOWN.

  “I think I can handle this,” she said as they began rigging up a wire mesh box on the end of the hook.

  “I knew you could, sweetie.” Troy clapped his hand on her shoulder and winked again.

  “Let’s go.” R.B. was tugging at his slightly too small wetsuit. “I feel like a sardine in this thing!”

  They shouldered their air tanks and pulled their masks on. Troy took a few breaths from the regulator and gave the thumbs up. R.B. did the same and they both turned to the water.

  As they resurfaced Megan slowly lifted the cage from the deck and lowered it in beside them. A few seconds later they were down too far to see beneath the choppy surface, so Megan relaxed and waited.

  The wind began to gust harshly at times and the rain became steadier and soaking, so she ran into the cabin to grab a poncho, and by the time she was back they were already tugging the rope.

  Natasha Wainwright had immediately stopped when she saw the other boat on the horizon. She grabbed her binoculars and peered into the distance.

  The back end of the boat said Wy Knott.

  “What the hell is George doing out here?”

  A figure emerged from the cabin of the boat, but whoever it might be was wrapped and concealed in a bright orange poncho. The figure moved toward the large crane on the boat and began pushing buttons and levers on the control panel. Natasha decided to wait and see what they brought up. She caught herself holding her breath. She wiped the rain away from the binoculars and looked again.

  A basket of some sort rose out of the water and two divers surfaced shortly behind it. The person operating the crane quickly unhooked the raised bounty and strapped it to a buoy on deck. Given the choppy water, the cargo could easily slide overboard. She strained through the steady mist to see them begin emptying the basket. It appeared that what they had found, mostly dark, randomly shaped objects, was probably pieces of her downed drone. She pushed her throttle up to just above idle and moved slowly toward the Wy Knott. The boat a hundred yards behind her did the same.

  19

  Buried Deep

  Joe Bond’s desk phone chirped and the station receptionist’s harsh voice blared through the speaker.

  “I have Ms. Ashleigh Hamilton on line one for you, Joe.”

  “Thanks, Betty, put her through.”

  Joe leaned back in his chair and switched the phone from his left ear to his right. He grabbed a yellow pad and pencil and flipped over the top pages until he found his notes regarding the Skipper Johnson case. A soft beep in his ear told him he’d been connected.

  “Ashleigh, how are you doing?”

  A deceptively mousy voice laughed on the other end of the line. “Just fine, Joe, just fine. And you?”

  “Ah well, it’s eighty-nine and cloudy, gettin’ ready to rain.”

  “Hurricane season, eh?”

 
; “Yeah, yeah. “He really wanted to dispense with the talk about the weather but it had been years since he had spoken to Ashleigh. “So how’s the C.I.A. treatin’ ya?”

  “Ah well, you know, it’s mostly dull paperwork on cold cases… pretty boring really.”

  He knew this wasn’t likely to be true; it sounded like a stock answer. Ashleigh had finished at the top of her class at American University Washington College of Law. The ink was barely dry on her diploma when she’d been recruited by the C.I.A. Joe had met her in New York just after 9/11, before his own accident and subsequent transfer. He’d lost a lot of friends, and worked very hard with the C.I.A. shortly after the attacks to track down suspects living in the city. Ashleigh had appreciated his hours of tough street work and promised him a favor. Now he had a reason to collect.

  “Ash, I’m workin’ on something down here in Key West.”

  “Okay.” He could hear her tap something out on a computer.

  “It’s a double homicide from last year and I finally have a lead on a partial print from some pretty cold evidence.”

  “Okay.” More clicking keys.

  “My print doesn’t show up on the local database, but it does show up nationally.”

  “Well, that’s good.” She didn’t click this time. “Who did you come up with?”

  “That’s just it,” —he tried to feel out the best way to come out with it and went for the straightforward approach— “my guy is classified by the C.I.A.”

  Much more clicking. “Hmmm, do you have the print on file?” she asked.

  “Yup, got him right here.”

  “Send it over, and I’ll run it and see what I come up with, but Joe…” she paused.

  Suddenly, a prickly sensation twitched the back of his neck. He wondered if he’d stepped over some invisible intelligence line. He clicked the send button and the e-mail was gone.