by Evan Graver
“Shut up and listen,” he barked, amused that she had picked up her husband’s vernacular. “Send the workboat for me and Dennis. Have Travis and Gary pack gear to board an abandoned ship and get Anthony in the water to clear the left prop. We’ve got work to do.”
“Oh, now it’s we—”
Ryan hung up before he could hear the rest of her sarcastic retort. He and Dennis walked to the dock at the end of Calle Municipal where a line of people stood by the gate, waiting for the ferry to El Bluff. The two Americans flashed their passports to the soldier, and Ryan pointed toward the SeaArk as it drew alongside the wharf.
The sentry allowed them through the gate, and as soon as they were in the SeaArk, Stacey spun the wheel and headed for Peggy Lynn.
As they approached, Ryan saw the surface supply umbilical snaking over the side of the salvage vessel and the bubbles up coming from the water at her stern. They tied off the SeaArk and clambered aboard Peggy Lynn.
Grandpa was leaning against the gas blending station, a pair of headphones clamped over his ears, pinning down the black watch cap that covered his long white hair. He’d let it grow since they’d left Key West almost two years ago, and now it was almost to his shoulders. He could have been a double for Willie Nelson. When Ryan had asked him to sing “On the Road Again,” Grandpa had spat a long stream of tobacco beside Ryan’s bare foot as his way of saying no.
“How’s he doing down there?” asked Ryan.
“He says he almost has the umbilical cut away. In thirty years of running this boat with Dennis, we never had a problem like that.”
Ryan chuckled. “Blame it on the woman driver.”
Grandpa grinned. “I wouldn’t say that to her face.”
“Me neither.”
Grandpa smiled and nodded his head, indicating something behind Ryan, who turned and saw Stacey standing with her hands on her hips, head cocked, and eyebrows furrowed.
Ryan grinned at her. “Oops.”
“Next time,” Stacey said, “I’ll cut your hose on purpose.” Then she smiled sweetly. “How come I don’t get to chase the ghost ship?”
“I want you to drive Peggy Lynn. You’re the second-best captain we’ve got aboard.”
“After you?”
“Uh, no, Dennis is the best.”
Gary and Travis carried gear bags from below and set them on the deck.
“What do you think we’ll need?” Travis asked.
“Rope and a grapple.”
“Got those,” Gary said.
“Water, food, a change of clothes, and some firepower,” Ryan added. “We’re going to camp out on the derelict that sank the EPC. It’ll take a few days for the tug to arrive.” He turned to survey the harbor, and his gaze settled on a white twenty-three-foot Trophy Walkaround with a hardtop over the cuddy cabin.
“I’ll be right back.” He hopped in the SeaArk and motored to the Trophy, where a black man was puttering about on the aft deck.
Ryan came alongside and asked in Spanish, “Is your boat for hire?”
The man smiled. “Yes,” he replied in English. “I take you to de best fishing spots on the coast.”
“I wanna go to Compass Reef.”
“That’s a long run, amigo, but good fishing.”
“I don’t care about fishing. How much for you to take me and two friends up there?”
“Three-fifty a person.”
Ryan whistled. “Kinda steep, ain’t it?”
“Is the price, amigo. You do not like it, find another captain.” The man turned away to work on the boat.
“You take cash?” Ryan asked.
The boat captain turned back, a broad smile on his weathered face. “American dollars?”
“Yes.” Ryan nodded. “Move your boat to the port side of the red salvage vessel over there.” He pointed at Peggy Lynn. “We’ll be ready to go in a few minutes.”
The Miskito leaned over the rail and extended his hand. “I’m Wyn.”
Ryan shook the man’s hand and introduced himself.
“I will need to get bait, ice, and refreshments for you, mi amigo.”
“All I need you to do is run us to Compass Reef. You get whatever you need and meet us alongside Peggy Lynn in a half hour.”
“Yes, sir,” Wyn said.
Ryan pushed the SeaArk away from the Trophy and raced back to the Peggy Lynn. He tied off the workboat, climbed aboard the larger vessel, and went below to his room. From a compartment under his mattress, he pulled his Glock 19 handgun and a KRISS Vector submachine gun, with plenty of high capacity magazines crammed with hollow-point cartridges. After he’d changed from shorts into gray cargo pants and holstered the Glock on his hip in an inside-the-waistband holster, he put the Vector and the spare magazines into a duffle bag with a load-bearing tactical vest. On top of those he put several pairs of underwear, socks, and pants.
On deck, he added his bag to the pile of gear the others had accumulated, including ropes, a grappling hook, canned food, cases of bottled water, and a camp stove. Gary had decided upon a Remington 870 pump-action tactical shotgun with a pistol grip and folding stock to complement his own Glock, and Travis sported a pistol, even though he didn’t want to and wasn’t as well-trained as either Ryan or Gary.
Anthony climbed the stern ladder and announced he had cleared the prop and shaft of all the umbilical hose, but the prop had sheared the key holding it to the shaft. He would need to remove the prop to check for further damage. Grandpa handed the necessary tools to him, and Anthony disappeared once more over the side.
“Probably what caused the engine RPMs to shoot up,” Dennis said to Stacey. “The shaft was spinning inside the prop. Hopefully, you shut off the engine before there was too much damage.”
“I hope I did, too,” she replied, nibbling at the tip of her left index finger while glancing between Travis and Ryan.
Travis gave her a kiss. “It’ll be all right, honey. Even if you gotta run on one engine, you can still get over the EPC like Greg asked.”
Wyn pulled his Trophy alongside Peggy Lynn just as Ryan had instructed, and the men transferred their gear into the smaller fishing vessel before piling into the boat. Wyn put the single outboard into drive, and they made their way across Bluefields Bay, past El Bluff, and into the broad Caribbean Sea beyond.
The dark blue waves were running about two feet high, and the Trophy bashed through them as they sped northeast toward the tiny reef. Using the travel time effectively, Ryan looked at the coral structure using an overhead satellite view on a tablet. The imagery was blurry, but it showed Compass Reef as a line of waves breaking over barely visible coral. The reef was part of a group of eighteen islands known as the Pearl Cays, designated as a wildlife refuge even though there were several privately owned islands in the archipelago. According to the navigation chart, the water around the reef dropped sixty feet to the seabed below.
It took two hours for them to make the run to the grounded ship, and it came into view ten minutes before they arrived. Wyn slowed as they neared the ship and motored slowly around it, keeping well clear of the coral heads.
The 328-foot-long ghost ship had grounded bow first, then the waves had pushed her to the west. Written on the stern of the rust-streaked hull were the faded white letters of the ship’s name, Galina Jovovich. Her coat of dark blue paint didn’t hide the giant red stars on either side of the bow, indicating the ship had once belonged to what President Reagan had called the ‘Evil Empire.’
As they circled the ship, Ryan saw that most of the lifeboats were missing from their davits, and even though she’d been built for enjoyment as a cruise ship she had a silent, eerie quality to her, causing a shiver to run up his spine.
“Is this what you are fishing for, amigo?” Wyn asked.
“Yeah,” Ryan replied, staring up at the ship towering above them.
“Greg wants us to board that thing?” Travis asked.
“Yeah,” Ryan said again. Even he remained unconvinced. “Wyn, go around to
the lee of the ship.”
Wyn goosed the Trophy into the clear water west of the breakers booming against the reef.
“This area is normally very calm, but the storm is making it rough,” Wyn informed them.
Ryan pulled out his sat phone and dialed Greg. When the boss came on the line, Ryan said, “She’s right where Chuck said she’d be.”
“Are you aboard?”
“No, and we don’t really want to be, either. She looks like she’ll roll over any minute.”
“You’ll have to hold the fort until the tug gets there.”
“How long will that be?”
“Star of Galveston is on her way, but it’ll take three or four days.”
“You’re kidding. We have to stay on that dump for that long? When will you get here?”
“Tomorrow.”
“All right. We’ll see you then.” Ryan hung up and glanced at Travis and Gary. Both men nodded their assent, but neither looked happy. “Wyn, take us to the starboard stern. Gary, ready the grappling hook and rope.”
As Wyn drove them to the Galina’s rounded stern, careful to stay in the lee where the hull blocked the waves and wind, Ryan removed his tactical vest from his bag and pulled it over his head. He didn’t think there was anyone onboard, but it was better to be prepared.
The ship’s bulbous bow had run up on the reef, giving her an upward angle and a list to port which allowed Gary to easily toss the grappling hook over the handrail on the captain’s deck, two decks above them.
Ryan went first, scrambling up the rope with practiced ease and climbing through the accommodation ladder opening onto the main deck. When he was aboard, he pulled the KRISS from his bag and slung it on its three-point harness.
He signaled Wyn to bring his little craft closer to the Galina and Gary climbed the rope. He tossed the end to Travis, who tied on their gear bags. Ryan and Gary pulled the gear up, making several hauls to get it all aboard. They stacked everything along the railing, keeping their bags containing the guns and ammunition handy.
There were locals who lived on several of the nearby islands, and Ryan suspected they’d been aboard already. If not, they might notice the newcomers and be curious to see what the strangers were doing. Ryan doubted they would be a genuine threat, but he also knew his team would have to stick around until help arrived, regardless of whether the islanders were friendly or not.
Once the gear was aboard the Galina, Travis climbed the rope and dragged it up after him. Wyn waved, backed the Trophy out of the Galina’s shadow, and headed for home.
Travis sat on the deck and pulled out a bottle of water. He looked up at Ryan and, in a deep voice, he said, “Rambo, kill.”
“I know it’s not in your nature because you’re Canadian.”
Travis held up his middle finger.
“Let’s store our kit in a locker so it doesn’t grow legs,” Gary said.
The men spread out and found a small utility room just inside the main passageway door. They put their gear in it and moved up the stairs to the upper deck, heading for the aft observation platform on the captain’s deck where a deflated twenty-five-foot rubber boat lay beside two rows of picnic tables bolted to the floor.
Ryan put his Vector to his shoulder and kept moving. It was strange being on such a quiet ship. Usually there would be people talking, an engine running, or some other noise to be heard. All he could hear now were the boom of the waves on the coral heads and the whistle of the wind. He was often the only person on his sailboat and it never bothered him but being on this massive rusting hulk was almost intimidating.
Making his way up the wide stairs to the bridge deck, he saw no one, but still he kept swinging the snout of his gun from side to side.
From the rear of the group, Gary said, “You know they make horror movies about this shit.”
“This is crazy,” Travis said. “There’s no one here.”
“Then why do you have your gun out?” Gary asked.
Chapter Twelve
Ward and Young Insurance
Tampa Bay, Florida
Emily Hunt stood at her office window, overlooking Old Tampa Bay, her arms folded across her chest. It had become a ritual for her to watch the morning boat traffic for a few minutes before starting work if she was in the office. Lately, she preferred to be more out than in.
As a lead insurance investigator, she had an excellent vantage point from her fifteenth floor office in the modern steel-and-glass building that housed Ward and Young, an insurance agency that had its roots in the early 1900s when they’d covered the automobiles, yachts, and houses of the rich young industrialists who had made Florida their winter playground. The company had flourished following the post-World War II economic boom and was now a leading insurer along the Gulf Coast and the U.S.’s southeastern seaboard.
The company was one of the largest underwriters of vessels in the United States, specializing in protection and indemnity insurance, or P&I, for shipowners who wanted to cover open-ended risk such as cargo damage during carriage, terrorism, and environmental disasters. Not only did Emily investigate claims made against hull and machinery damage, but she worked to prevent fraud through the surveillance of clients, auditing of accounts, and working with law enforcement to prepare criminal prosecution.
Her background as a former Broward County sheriff’s deputy and current holder of a private investigator’s license helped her to seamlessly navigate between the staid coat-and-tie world of insurance and the seedy underbelly of criminal activity along the world’s waterfronts. She also wasn’t above using her good looks and feminine wiles to solve a case.
A knock on the door startled her from her reverie, and she turned to see Kyle Ward standing in the doorway. As always, the CEO of Ward and Young wore a tailored suit, and not a strand of his brown hair was out of place. Emily had told him that his well-trimmed beard made him look more like a bum than the head of an insurance agency, and she hated how it scratched her cheeks and lips when they kissed.
He stepped into the room, pushed the door closed, and set a manila folder on her desk before walking to where Emily stood beside the window. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he took in her dark blue slacks and white blouse before saying, “Is that a new outfit? It looks good on you.”
At five foot ten, she could look her boss and boyfriend in the eye. She continued to stand with her arms crossed, even as he leaned in to peck her cheek. Their relationship was outside the company rules, but Kyle thought they could get away with it because he was, after all, the one who made the rules. Emily hadn’t fully committed to the relationship, even though she was sure Kyle probably carried a ring in his pocket, waiting for the opportunity to propose.
“I was thinking about taking you to dinner tonight,” he said, “but the board called a meeting. You have a new case as well.”
She raised her eyebrows.
Kyle dropped his hands and continued. “Our friends at Dark Water Research have run into problems in Nicaragua.”
“What are they doing there?” Emily asked.
“Apparently, they were laying subsea cable when one of their divers cut a fiber-optic line. Then a ghost ship struck their cable layer and sank it.” He held up his right hand, palm out. “Before you ask, Ryan Weller is part of the crew.”
She leaned back, eyebrows furrowing. “What do you mean, ‘ghost ship?’” She let the comment about Ryan slide for a moment to make him feel like he’d dodged the implications of dropping her ex-boyfriend’s name into the middle of their conversation.
“An old cruise ship was being towed to the breakers in Bluefields when the tug got caught in the hurricane a few weeks ago. The tug’s cable broke, and they left her to drift.”
“And it hit DWR’s cable layer?”
“They’ve claimed salvage rights to the derelict ship, and your ex is on it right now.” He slid his hands into his pockets and looked out at the bay. “I can see the Gulf from my office, but I’ve always thought this was a better
view.”
They stared out the window for a few moments.
“Anyway,” Kyle said, breaking the silence. “The DWR case is pretty straightforward, ex-boyfriend or not. Find the owners of the ghost ship and get them to pay for the damages. You probably won’t have to leave your desk.”
“Why do you keep mentioning his name every time something comes up that involves Dark Water Research?”
He faced her again, leaning against the glass. “You two have a complicated history, and I don’t want you to get hurt again.”
“I’m over him.”
It was Kyle’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Really?”
Emily turned to look at the picturesque bay. Crisscrossed with boat wakes, the water sparkled in the morning light. She tightened her arms around her body. “I can do my job.”
Kyle rubbed her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I know you can, Em.”
“Have you talked to Greg Olsen?” she inquired.
“He’s in Nicaragua. DWR is preparing a bid to build a new port facility in Bluefields. He drove his boat down there.” Kyle shook his head. “I’d rather fly.”
“What about dinner?” she asked to be polite.
“Unfortunately, it’s going to be a late night for me.” He kissed her cheek again on the way out of her office, closing the door behind him.
Emily sat behind her desk and opened the file. After a quick readthrough, she did a search through the insurance databases and on the Internet for the Galina Jovovich. She was able to identify the ship’s owners, except they had signed their rights over to the towing company, Stavanger Marine, which had won the bid to move the ship from Miami to the breakers in Bluefields. Emily compiled the necessary paperwork and filled out the forms to file a lien against the Galina and the towing company with both the U.S. courts and the Norwegian Secretary of State, where Stavanger had its headquarters. It would be up to the DWR lawyers to file a suit against Stavanger Marine for any other compensation.
With the paperwork done and half the morning gone, Emily walked down the two flights of stairs to the law offices and turned her file over to a clerk at the front desk. She was eager to get back to her office and finish the paperwork she’d come in to do before Kyle had dumped the ghost ship in her lap. For some reason, if the Ward and Young agent in Houston couldn’t handle something for DWR, the problem fell into her lap. She wasn’t sure if it was because she knew the owner personally or because they had requested her to do the work. Whatever the reason, she was glad to be done with today’s assignment. Checking her watch, she smiled. If she could get through her backlog quickly, she might be able to make it to Fort De Soto Park to do some paddleboarding.