Dark Hunt: A Ryan Weller Thriller

by Evan Graver

  The two divers floated in silence for another two minutes before Gary motioned them upward again. They swam straight for Peggy Lynn’s stern ladder and climbed aboard. As soon as Ryan was on the ship, Anthony told him to strip and get into the recompression chamber that Travis had just vacated. Ryan left a trail of gear in his wake until he wore only his compression shorts, and he climbed into the single-man chamber where he stretched out on the thinly padded bunk, pulling a cotton towel over him as the door slammed. Within seconds, the chamber was blowing him back down to eighty feet.

  Through the speaker, Grandpa said, “We’ll bring you up slow.”

  Ryan tapped the tank’s metal wall with his knuckle to show he understood and closed his eyes. He began a breathing regimen to encourage his body to relax. In for a three count; hold; out for four. He soon drifted into an uneasy sleep, troubled by the work ahead.

  Chapter Nine

  When Ryan exited the chamber, EPC crewmen crowded Peggy Lynn’s deck, and the vessel was limping toward Bluefields on its single engine. He pulled on shorts and a faded DWR T-shirt and looked for familiar faces as he made his way to the bridge with Travis, who had been monitoring the chamber while Grandpa, Anthony, and Gary served coffee and warm soup to their waterlogged passengers.

  On Peggy Lynn’s bridge, Mike Wetzel, EPC’s captain, sipped coffee as he stared out the rear window at his personnel gathered on the aft deck. Stacey stood at the wheel, and Dennis sat in the captain’s chair, cradling his arm.

  Ryan found his coffee cup, wiped it out with the tail of his T-shirt, poured hot coffee, and took a sip before asking no one in particular, “What happened while I was playing in the dirt?”

  Stacey gave him a blow-by-blow description. She finished with, “We found sixty-five souls. Five are unaccounted for.”

  “It’s my fault,” Wetzel said. “I should have been more attentive when my radarman told me about the mystery blip.”

  “It’s not your fault, Mike,” Dennis said. “It’s one of those freak things that can happen at sea.”

  Wetzel shook his head. “No. I’m the captain. I’m responsible. I should have paid attention when Jeff told me he had something suspicious on radar. I assumed it was the weather. I was too distracted by everything else.”

  “What could you have done?” Travis asked. “You were tethered to the seabed. There was nowhere for you to go.”

  Wetzel stared down at his crew. Dennis waved his hand to silence the conversation and said, “Tell us about your dive, Ryan.”

  Ryan recounted the harrowing tale of being caught beneath the plow and how he’d managed to escape. Pouring more coffee, he asked, “Has anyone called Greg?”

  “Not yet,” Dennis said, “but Captain Wetzel called Chatel.”

  Ryan knew Dennis meant retired Admiral Kip Chatel, current CEO of Dark Water Research, a man Greg Olsen had selected to succeed him when Greg had stepped down. He still helped with special projects, but his new focus was on his private military contracting company, Trident. He’d asked Ryan to join him at the PMC, but Ryan had wanted to remain with his crew.

  The crew watched as Stacey guided Peggy Lynn through the deep-water channel between the city of El Bluff on the El Bluff Peninsula and the tiny island of Isla Casaba Cay. It was a relief to enter the protected waters and end the constant battering from the waves and wind. While Ryan had been in the recompression chamber, Gary had tried to cut the umbilical from around the prop and shaft, but the waves had made it too difficult and Dennis had ordered him out of the water to prevent further injury.

  Stacey had to be careful to stay within the navigational beacons on the way to Bluefields, fighting the pull of the single engine as it pushed them to starboard. The wide bay shoaled to just two to three feet deep on either side of the dredged channel. When they reached the ferry dock, Ryan, Travis, and Gary secured the ship to the dock bollards.

  Even though it was late, the Nicaraguan Army troops who guarded the dock flocked to the pier, guns drawn.

  Ryan threw his hands up and said in Spanish, “These people are survivors of a shipwreck. We’ll offload them and moor the boat in the bay.”

  The lieutenant in charge of the troops stepped forward, his hand still on his sidearm. “What shipwreck?” He was a short, stocky man with a wrinkled, sweat-stained shirt, whose name badge said, ‘Baltazar.’

  Ryan explained what had happened and asked if there were accommodations available for the crew in town. Baltazar demanded to see the ship’s papers, visas for everyone, operational permits, and declarations of firearms and money.

  “We have several people who need medical attention,” Ryan told the man. “Can you call a doctor for us?”

  “I must see the paperwork first.”

  Ryan retreated to the bridge and returned with the permits from the Ministry of Trade, Industry, and Development in Managua, along with passports and paperwork for Peggy Lynn’s crew. He also slipped several one-hundred-dollar bills into his passport and handed it over first. He didn’t declare any weapons or cash, even though the vessel had an abundance of both hidden in various compartments.

  Lt. Baltazar glanced up sharply when he saw the bills, but then a smile creased his face. He gave a cursory glance at the other paperwork. “Welcome to Bluefields, Señor Weller. My men will escort your people to a local hotel and call a doctor.”

  “Gracias.” Ryan motioned for the EPC crewmen to follow the lieutenant.

  The crew were split between two hotels. Ryan carried a Mastercard Black Card in his name and embossed with the DWR logo, which he used to pay for the hotel rooms and purchase meals for the crews.

  When he returned to the Peggy Lynn, Ryan found the crew ready to cast off. Dennis remained in his chair on the bridge. Ryan paused at the door. “I got you a room, Captain.”

  Dennis narrowed his eyes. “I’m staying with my ship.”

  “No, you need to get your arm looked at,” Ryan said. “Go ashore, see the doctor, and spend the night at the hotel. We’ll get you in the morning.”

  Stacey and Travis agreed. Grandpa leaned over the rail and spat a stream of tobacco into the water. He was usually the one to sway Dennis. “You’re no good to us with a bad wing, whippersnapper.”

  Ryan laughed. He and Travis were the ones Grandpa usually called ‘whippersnapper’ when he wanted to correct or admonish them.

  Dennis grimaced as he stood. “Fine.”

  Grandpa sped below deck, and by the time Dennis stepped onto the pier, he’d reappeared with a gym bag and Ryan’s backpack. He handed both to Ryan, who then guided Dennis up the street to the hotel.

  As they walked, Dennis glanced over his shoulder to see Peggy Lynn easing away from the pier. “Treat my boat right, Stacey,” he mumbled.

  “You know they will. They love her as much as you do.”

  “What about you?” Dennis asked.

  “She’s carried us through a lot of rough water,” Ryan said.

  “You’re choosing your words, son. I’m grateful for you getting me off my ass and out of Key West, but every time you show up, I’m holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

  The words startled Ryan, and he didn’t have an immediate answer. He liked the crew and working the underwater jobs, but Dennis was right: he had a habit of disappearing.

  “I know you like chasing bad guys and whatever else you and Greg cook up, but it’s hard on us when you’re always coming and going. We have to rotate divers from DWR when you’re not here. Maybe you should go be part of his little army.”

  “Are you giving me the boot, Dennis?”

  “No. I’m just asking you to think about the ship and crew first.”

  “Roger that, Captain.”

  Ryan took Dennis to the triage area the doctor had set up in a hotel conference room and went to get a room key for the captain. After giving it to Dennis, he left to find the bar. He needed a stiff shot of tequila and some time to figure out his next move.

  Chapter Ten

 
The second-floor hotel bar and restaurant of the Hotel Casa Royale was full of the EPC’s crew, but Ryan wanted a quiet drink to reflect on his ordeal and celebrate his escape. Unfortunately, it was early morning and he figured none of the local bars would be open, so he settled for a drink at the hotel’s bar which offered a view of the docks below, lined with local fishing boats, and in the bay he could see Peggy Lynn’s mooring lights.

  He ordered a shot of tequila and a Toña, a pale lager made in Nicaragua, before slamming the shot and carrying the beer to a table where he knew several of the crewmen. They talked about the ghost ship that had rammed and then sank the El Paso City.

  Ryan couldn’t help but wonder where the ship had come from, where it was headed, and what other tragedies would befall unsuspecting vessels before someone corralled the wayward vessel.

  The satellite phone in Ryan’s backpack rang, and he excused himself to answer it.

  “Tell me what happened,” Greg Olsen said.

  “Did you talk to Chatel?”

  “I did, but I wanted to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  “So now I’m a horse?”

  Greg snickered. “More like a jackass, but that’s another subject.”

  Ryan laughed as he moved onto the wide veranda. “Takes one to know one.”

  “Yeah, it does. Now give me the details.”

  Ryan recounted everything Stacey and the crewmen of the EPC had told him.

  “Any idea where the ghost ship went?” Greg asked.

  “No clue. I was underwater.”

  “She’s probably caught in the northbound current, heading for the Yucatán Straits.”

  “That’s as good a guess as any,” said Ryan.

  “I’m on my way down there, anyway, because we’re bidding on the shipping port the Nicaraguan government wants to build in Bluefields.”

  “Really? Where are you now?”

  “We just left Cozumel.”

  “Who’s with you?” Ryan asked.

  “Shelly, Rick, and Erica Opsal. You’re not going to believe this, but she and Rick are dating.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “Shortly after you guys came back from Mexico.”

  “I’ll be damned. I thought she had some class.”

  Greg laughed again then called out, “Hey, Erica, Ryan said he thought you had more class than to go out with Rick.” Into the phone, he said, “Rick just told you to do something that is anatomically impossible with your small dick.”

  Ryan laughed and changed the subject. “I assume you’re bringing engineers to give you their opinion on the port project?”

  “Chuck is flying them down in the Beechcraft.”

  “You’re going all out on this.”

  “It’s a major contract, and I think we can get a piece of it. Chuck is supposed to land tomorrow morning—well, this morning. I want you on the plane as soon as it lands. Tell him to fly you to Roatán and we’ll hunt for the ghost ship. I’m smelling a salvage contract.”

  “Can’t you do it with just Rick?”

  “I need two people. You’re my guy.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Greg demanded.

  “Nothing. Dennis just gave me a speech about putting Peggy Lynn and her crew first.”

  “I’m your boss,” Greg countered.

  “No, you’re not. I’m an independent contractor, and I put that crew together.”

  “You put them together to pull the gold out of the Santo Domingo. After that, it was something completely different. Do you want to be a glorified mechanic and an underwater welder, or do you want to do something fun every day with your best friend?”

  “What about the tropical storm? It’s heading your way.”

  “We’re on our way to Roatán right now, and the storm is veering northeast. Stop worrying and get on the plane. Either way, I want Peggy Lynn over El Paso City as soon as the weather permits, if not sooner. I don’t want someone else trying to salvage my equipment.”

  “You really think someone is going to horn in on salvaging your boat?”

  “I don’t think the good citizens of Nicaragua are well-versed in the Merchant Shipping Act of 1995, stating that all jetsam, flotsam, lagan, cargo, and wreckage remain the property of the original owners. Let’s get the team over the wreck just in case.”

  “I’ll call Travis now.” Ryan thumbed the End button.

  The sky was turning pink and red on the horizon, and fishermen were working around their boats, preparing to go to sea. The stench of rotten fish and garbage pervaded his senses. With the dawning light, he saw the plastic litter and trash floating at the water’s edge. Despite the smell and the trash, the place had a romantic feel to it and, looking at the ancient wooden boats, he almost felt that he was with Bogart and Hepburn on The African Queen.

  Ryan rubbed his face with both hands. He wanted to talk to Peggy Lynn’s crew before he took off again, and he needed to sleep. The nap in the recompression chamber had refreshed him, but his body demanded more. And now he had a sudden craving for a cigarette. It was like that when he felt tired or he’d had a beer or two. For too many years, he’d depended on the nicotine to get him through his exhaustion, particularly during multiple deployments as a U.S. Navy Explosive Ordnance Disposal technician and as a solo sailor, crossing the world’s oceans.

  He called Travis’s sat phone and the commercial diver answered in his Michigan Upper Peninsula drawl. “Geez-o-Pete, Ryan—do you know what time it is, eh?”

  “Tell me you’re actually from Canada.”

  “Just ’cause you’re on the beach having a cole one, doesn’t mean you need to call and harass me.”

  Ignoring the man’s regional slang for a cold beer, Ryan said, “I just talked to Greg. He wants Peggy Lynn over EPC as quickly as possible.”

  “Yeah, I reckoned he would.” He yawned. “Where’re you going?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Normally, you say Greg wants us to do this, or Greg said we should do that. This time, you said Greg wants Peggy Lynn over the EPC. So, I’ll ask again—where ya goin’?”

  “Greg is on his way down here on Dark Water to make a bid for work on a new port facility in Bluefields. He wants me to fly to Roatán so we can look for the ghost ship.”

  “When?”

  “This morning after Chuck Newland lands with the engineers.”

  Travis was silent.

  “Do you want me to stay?” Ryan asked.

  “If you leave, we’ll be short-handed again. We’ll need everyone on this project.”

  “Greg is sending more people and equipment,” Ryan assured him. They hadn’t talked about it, but raising the EPC was a bigger job than the five divers on Peggy Lynn could handle.

  “Do what you want to do, Ryan. You always do, eh?”

  The call ended, and Ryan took the phone away from his ear. Did they all feel the same as Dennis? It wasn’t fair that he was always jetting off on some adventure and leaving them to pick up the slack, but it was his crew, damn it. He’d put them together.

  They couldn’t vote him off the boat.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ryan went to the bar and ordered another Toña. He returned to the balcony, watching the fishermen depart with the rising sun, and bummed a cigarette. Neither the beer nor the nicotine helped him to decide what to do. He was torn between staying with the crew and leaving to help Greg. He flicked the cigarette butt away, disgusted with himself for having broken a nine month ‘no smoking’ streak. After washing the taste from his mouth with more beer, he ordered coffee, eggs, toast, and fruit from a passing waiter.

  By the time the waiter set the coffee on the table and asked if Ryan needed cream or sugar, the diver’s foul mood had worsened. Ryan shook his head and the waiter left, leaving him to stare at the brew in his cup. How many times did he have to joke that he liked his coffee black like his soul before he manifested it in his life? Ryan was always a believer i
n manifestation. What he visualized would come true, and now his soul was as black as the coffee, and when he took a sip, he realized it was just as bitter.

  He buttered his toast and piled scrambled eggs onto it before taking a bite. The food settled his stomach and helped to put his dark thoughts behind him, but he still needed to make a decision.

  Ryan was just wiping his mouth with a napkin after his last bite of fruit when his sat phone rang again. “What’s up?” he asked, seeing Greg Olsen’s name on the caller ID.

  “I had Chuck fly along the coast on his way down to see if he could spot our mystery ship,” Greg said. “He says there’s an old cruise ship grounded on a coral atoll called Compass Reef about forty miles north of your position. Get there now.”

  “What about El Paso City?”

  “Command decisions, Weller.”

  “Roger that, boss.” He ended the call and waved for the check. After signing for it, he jogged to Dennis’s room and knocked on the door. The captain answered it in boxer shorts and a T-shirt. He had a plaster cast encircling his left arm from his wrist to halfway up his bicep.

  Ryan said, “Get dressed, old man. We’ve got work to do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ryan explained their priorities while Dennis pulled on his pants and hunched sideways to button and zip them, accommodating for the arm cast.

  “Take Travis and Gary and find a boat to take you to Compass Reef,” the captain said. “I’ll get Peggy Lynn over our cable layer.”

  Ryan dialed Travis’s number again.

  “Geez-o-Pete, Ryan,” Stacey said angrily.