Red Tide

by W. Dale Justice

  “Will do, Sam.” Cyrus hung up.

  “What was that all about?” a suspicious Trooper asked.

  “A customer wanted to stop by and check out his boat refinish. I lied to him and said it wasn’t finished. You want civilians walking into whatever you cops got going on here? I have a business to run, you know.” Cyrus phrased it as his way to help the police.

  “Oh, okay.” The trooper bought it.

  Sitting on the airport approach road, Swagart watched the airport police, TSA agents, and what could only be really badly trained Homeland Security operatives. The HS guys were in civilian clothes carrying obviously empty suitcases, as they circled into the building, then emerged moments later from an exit fifty feet away, pretending to be businessmen entering to catch a flight, and a businessmen exiting having just arrived. Booby Lee may be a wealthy landscape baron on the run, but he grew up in the swamp, hunting, fishing, and trapping. The first thing a successful hunter learns is to listen, and observe before he is heard or seen.

  “Ok, let’s go.” Swagart instructed the cabbie.

  “Where to?”

  “Boca Chica Field. This place is too crowded, I’ll never catch a flight waiting around here.

  Sherrod sat and fidgeted by a window in the front of the bar. All the other patrons sought darkness in the interior. That’s where the locals looking for a fling or an opportunity with a tourist gathered. A what happens in Key West, stays in Key West thing. Why else would women by the carloads from up north flock to Key West for Fantasy Fest to have their boobs painted so they could parade around the streets naked?

  Sherrod wanted to be left alone, and watched for Bobby Lee’s return, and cops. At first, he had ordered a martini to calm his nerves, which led to a second and third. He realized he was quickly getting drunk, and decided to switch to water. The TV over the bar showed the Ohio couple and their kids recounting their ordeal, showing photos of Sherrod and Bobby Lee, then switching to the minivan. The police found it before it was stolen. It had been hours since Bobby Lee left for the boatyard, and all kinds of dire scenarios took turns filling his mind first with terror, then a solution that could save him.

  Bobby Lee left me.

  I need to find my own way to Cuba with some underworld person.

  Bobby Lee was caught and telling the authorities where to find me.

  I need to leave this bar and find another where I can watch this bar.

  Bobby Lee was spotted and on the run, and is leading the authorities to me.

  OK, that’s just like he was caught. Think of something!

  The trouble was, he had no idea how to go about creating a solution to save himself. Where do you find some underworld type, start asking around? Knock on doors? So then what, open the suitcase and show him a hundred thousand dollars, and ask him if he wants some? The only solution he could come up with that had a remote chance of success was to take his suitcase, change it for a cheap beach bag, buy some used clothes at the Goodwill Store, find a sleazy rooming house, and hole up for as long as it took for things to settle down. Might take months before the authorities realize he wasn’t on Key West, and looked elsewhere. He could grow a beard, wear sunglasses and a floppy hat. He would blend right in. The first step was changing some of those damn crisp new $100 bills into twenty’s. That, he had already started, paying for three martini’s with a new hundred dollar bill for each. He now had 13 twenty dollar bills, some tens and singles from the change. It was a start. He needed to switch to beer, too. Locals drank beer, not martini’s. His reverie was shattered when his cell rang. Sherrod almost jumped out his chair.

  “Yes? Hello?” Sherrod hated himself for sounding so weak and helpless.

  “Guess Whooo?” Bobby Lees voice unmistakable.

  “Skip it Swagart. What’s the situation?” Sherrod was finally finding his backbone. He had been forced to beg Swagart to take him along. He cringed in terror, wetting his pants when threatened by Leroy. He had endured insult after insult from Swagart, including making him pee in a cup, then jerking the wheel so it spilled on him. Sherrod was a very intelligent and manipulative man. So far in his career, his weapons of choice were intimidation, bribes, off the books deals, corporate backstabbing, and smearing reputations. Now he was learning new techniques. His teacher was his new abuser.

  “Damn Sher, is that a tough guy act yer’ trying out?” Bobby Lee goaded. Sherrod waited silently for an answer to his question. No more taking the bait, no more games. The pause was becoming uncomfortable for Bobby Lee. “Alright, here it is. The cops have the boatyard and my yacht staked out. Same with all the marinas. Key West International is crawling with Feds.”

  “And?” Sherrod wanted Bobby Lee’s solution. Then he would decide if he wanted to participate, or go his own way.

  “And what, asshole? I don’t take orders from you, you slack jawed bitch!” Bobby Lee liked to be in control.

  “I’m waiting for you to tell me your plan, Swagart. If I agree it’s a good one, I’ll go along. If I don’t think it’s a good one, I’m gone.” The old Sherrod was back.

  “And where the hell do you think you’re going to go to git’ gone?” Bobby Lee was pissed. “I’m the one that got you this far, Skippy!”

  “And what a fine position we’re in. Trapped on an island, swarming with cops and Feds who know we’re here. We are now wanted for assaulting a police officer, kidnapping, and grand theft auto. Oh, I forgot, add a hundred counts of murder and the wrongful death suits sure to follow. So tell me, Great White Hunter, denizen of the Florida swamps and landscaped golf courses. Do you have a plan, or just more bullshit, because I’ve had hours and hours sitting here to evaluate my options. Right now, you don’t fit prominently in them. So far, you’ve done a piss poor job earning your $10 million. That kind of money can buy a whole lot of love from the right people, and I’ll have twice that much left over. So what’s your fucking plan?”

  The truth of Sherrod’s rant hit Bobby Lee like a sledge hammer. His bravado faded like the cheap T-shirt he wore. The realization he may not get off this island, and could possibly spend the rest of his life in a six by nine-foot cell felt like a lump of ice in his stomach. He stumbled for words.

  “We don’t have many options left. International is locked down, but the municipal airport on Boca Chica Key is still open for now. That’s option one: hire a plane to fly us to Cuba. That’s dicey. Most private pilots won’t go near the place without guarantees they can fly back out. Or, we hire a plane to fly us off this island to some-where we can re-group.” Swagart explained.

  Sherrod wasn’t convinced yet. “And option two?”

  “Same as option one, only using boats. There are hundreds of private slips and docks dotting the coastline of this island, with thousands of boats capable of reaching Cuba or the mainland, whichever seems the safer bet. I think we need to locate a willing pilot or boat captain. Better, we locate both.” Bobby Lee finished.

  Sherrod said nothing for a long time, obviously weighing the options. Finally, he responded. “Make it happen. Oh, and Bobby Lee, use your own money. Call me when it’s arranged. I’m relocating now.” He hung up on Bobby Lee.

  Sherrod rose, grabbed his suitcase, and approached a particularly seedy character sitting alone. He had been watching the tourists with great interest for the past hour. Sherrod stood over him for a long moment. The local, unsettled by the implied challenge of this intrusive attention leaned back in his chair, and dropped his right hand to his side, out of sight under the table. Sherrod bent over, slapped five crisp one hundred dollar bills on the table, and said quietly, “I need a gun.”

  Brownsville, Texas

  The untouched Marine chopper finished loading the wounded. Lieutenant Parrott had decided to remain at the border crossing until relief arrived, either US, or Mexican. One more border raid like the last, and he wouldn’t have a command. That left just Hector and two slightly wounded Mexican Special Forces soldiers who were capable of fighting. Hector had supervised the loading
of the wounded, and some supplies. He made sure that two American made M72 .66mm Law Rocker Launchers he liberated from the combined forces armaments were also on board. He had also secreted aboard a very burly but unscathed Special Forces soldier from his unit with fake bandages covering half his face. That made three counting himself.

  “Ready to lift off?” Lieutenant Parrott stepped forward.

  “Yes James. Thank you for your hospitality, and allowing me to see my men to the hospital.”

  “I wish it had turned out better for the both of us.”

  “As do I. Adiós mi amigo.” Hector extended his hand to James, then stepped aboard. To make room for the wounded, the Marine door gunner agreed to stay in Brownsville until the chopper returned, so Hector sat in the gunner’s position.

  The chopper lifted off in a cloud of dust, and headed northwest towards San Antonio, following I-77, and Miguel’s route. Once in the air a safe distance from Brownsville, Hector removed the bandages from the unwounded Special Ops soldier, Carlos.

  “Arm yourself and scan the ground for signs of the ambulance from that side.”

  He distributed the two Law Rockets to his two slightly wounded soldiers. A wounded Marine watched this unusual activity from his stretcher. Hector leaned down, and shouted. “We were attacked once before. We need to be on guard.” The Marine nodded, and closed his eyes, surrendering to the pain meds.

  The chopper covered ground quickly, too quickly. Hector would have preferred a slower pace to better scan the roadsides for signs of the ambulance, but that would reveal his real plan to the Marine pilot. Fifteen minutes and a dozen miles from Brownsville, Carlos shouted.

  “There, in the grass.” Hector leaped to Carlos side of the ship, and looked behind. The chopper moved fast, but he was able to clearly see tire tracks in the tall grass pass through a hole in the interstate fence, leading to a barn a kilometer from the highway.

  Hector rose, stepped over soldiers and Marine’s on stretchers, and stood holding onto the partition behind the pilot. “Can I help you, Sergeant?” the pilot shouted.

  “Yes, you can. That overpass a kilometer ahead, please land on the other side.” Hector bent and shouted to the pilot.

  “What? I’m not landing on the damned highway with wounded soldi…”

  His last word was cut off when he felt, then saw the side arm in Hectors right hand resting on his shoulder. He ripped his gaze up to meet Hector’s eyes.

  “Please. It will only take a moment. Then, you may continue to get these men to the hospital.” Hector smiled pleasantly.

  The pilot descended over the overpass, dropped to hover three feet above the pavement, as Hector and three heavily armed Special Forces soldiers jumped out. The pilot quickly tipped the nose and rose back into the sky. Total time on the ground, 15 seconds. No one in the barn would notice anything other than a momentary change in sound, as the helicopter continued to depart the area.

  Carlos, the supersized soldier had unlatched the chopper’s M-60 machine gun, which hung horizontally across his chest from an improvised sling around his neck. He carried the ammo can that fed the belted ammunition into the weapon in his left hand, his right holding the pistol grip ready to fire. It would be difficult to control by hand without benefit of a fixed mount, but big Carlos had done it before.

  Everyone else including Hector were well armed with M-4 assault rifles, and twelve full 30 round magazines of 5.56 ammo each in their load bearing vests. Then there were the two M-72 .66 mm Law Rocket tubes. Their numbers were small, but their firepower was huge. Hector addressed his men.

  “Miguel Suarez is in that barn a kilometer away, or very close. His driver is one of your former comrades, Luis Gomez. You know his training and his skills. We left two of our brothers dead at the crossing at the hands of Miguel Suarez and Luis Gomez, and now they believe they are out of our reach. They knew the casualties and losses they inflicted upon the blocking force would prevent the Americanos from pursuit, as they tended their dead and wounded. The Americanos believe they should leave no man behind. They have never lost in war, while we have learned the hard way, this is not always possible.

  “They cannot carry two thousand kilos of heroin. That ambulance was heavily damaged in the fight, so even if it still ran, they could not have driven into San Antonio. Ten kilometers from here, the population has not evacuated. No, they have to find another vehicle, and that barn may hold just such a treasure. They heard and watched the Marine Chopper headed to San Antonio with the wounded. They believe they have succeeded.

  “We are illegally on foreign soil, disobeying standing orders, and conducting an illegal military operation for which we will all be court marshalled and jailed. Or worse. Any man who so desires may leave. Walk south, and cross back into Mexico. Tell your comrades when they find you, you became separated from the rest of the unit in the firefight. They will believe you. Go now if you must.”

  Every member of the Army Special Forces tasked with fighting the Cartel knew the temptations of instant wealth should they cross to the dark side. Luis, their former comrade was living proof. Each of them struggled to provide for their families and raise their children on soldier pay. Each of them knew the unlimited wealth that could be had by looking the other way, or making a simple phone call. But they stayed, and fought, and sometimes died. The three soldiers made no comment, nor moved from where they stood. There were no glances left or right to see what the man standing next to you was going to do. They looked towards their Sergeant with steady gazes, and awaited his orders.

  Hector looked from one soldier, to the next, challenging them. After several moments, he dropped his eyes to the ground. He did not want his warriors to witness the tears in his eyes. To cover his welled eyes, Hector removed his helmet, and ripped off his ski mask. They all wore masks to conceal their identities from the Cartel. He wiped his eyes quickly.

  “Remove your ski masks. Anyone who sees your face today will not live to see tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Key West, Florida, The Boatyard

  The two black SUV’s pulled into what appeared to be a deserted boatyard, and exited their vehicles. The site of navy blue T-shirts and jackets emblazoned with NCIS in huge tallow letters caused the surveillance team of State Troopers to reveal themselves, one from what appeared to be an office perched on stilts six feet off the ground, two more from the yacht tied at the small dock, and two more from the brush and trees behind the SUV’s. All carried police issue M-16’s. Dusk was approaching quickly.

  “Jimmy and Kate are with me. You others take a look around. Beth, talk to the troopers.” Chris ordered, and made for the office. Kate and Jimmy followed. A scruffy old man in filthy coveralls had peeked out the door, then retreated. Must be the owner of this junkyard, thought Chris. The Trooper met them at the foot of the office stairs, extending his hand to Chris.

  “Charlie Marsh, Florida State Police.” He introduced himself.

  “Chris Roma, NCIS. This is Agent Beth Sheridan, Jimmy Falcone, and Dr. Katherine O’Neal CDC. They shook hands all around.

  “Dr. O’Neal, hero of Mobile and that fight out in the Gulf against the Red Tide. A pleasure doctor. Charlie remarked.

  “Just doing my job, officer.” Kate hated this kind of attention.

  “What’s the situation? Any activity?” Chris got right to the point.

  “Nothing. Nobody in, nobody out the last 18 hours.” Charlie reported. “The only activity was a phone call the owner of this fine establishment got from a customer inquiring about his boat refinish. Didn’t think much of it, until I looked around the place. There are no boats undergoing repair in his junkyard, only derelicts of what once were boats. Except for that yacht at the dock, there are no boats here other than that 14-foot John boat capable of floating.”

  “You think it was Swagart checking the place out before he showed his face?”

  “I would bet the ranch it was Swagart.”

  “I think I’m going to have a little talk wit
h the owner. What’s his name?” Chris asked.

  “Cyrus. He’s a real piece of work. We suspect this place is a smugglers drop. He knows something, but isn’t talking.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Chris headed for the stairs.

  “Hold up, Chris.” Jimmy walked to the stairs. “Let’s think about this for a second. This Cyrus dude is not going to talk to law enforcement. You’re going to threaten to lock him up under the Patriot Act, and ship him to Guantanamo, and he’s going to laugh in your face. You can’t arrest someone for receiving a phone call that was not recorded, from a cell phone that cannot be traced. He can claim it was a telemarketer, or his toothless mom telling him to bring her a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes. We need a better plan.”

  “Like what?” Chris asked.

  “Let Kate and me have a shot at him, with you guys not around.”

  “What are you going to say to him?” Chris was curious.