The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  Megan had expected a typical Key West fishing boat, basically a platform, a tower, and a bunch of rods, but this was more like a cabin cruiser—complete with double bed underneath. The stern was emblazoned with the boat’s name, The Ocean Blue. The three of them piled on and Vince cranked up the radio. Bob Marley sang to them as they unmoored and pulled away from the dock. Vince parked himself behind the wheel and sang along as they idled out to the first buoy.

  Troy took off his shirt and tamed his flapping hair with his trademark cowboy hat. Megan did the same, tying her hair into a ponytail under her Dolphin Research Center cap. She couldn’t help but notice Troy smiling at her… apparently he liked the red bikini too.

  They spent the better part of the morning whizzing around like vacationers, tanning, drinking rum and coke, and listening to beach music. Megan made sure Vince had double, sometimes even triple the amount of rum, while hers and Troy’s drinks gradually became straight Coke.

  It wasn’t long before he was snoozing on the double bed under the bow and Troy had taken the wheel. He turned the boat toward his G.P.S. coordinates and Megan readied her dive equipment.

  Within half an hour, they were floating just above the edge of the reef where he had seen his mystery object. Megan strapped on her diving gear, tested her regulator, clicked a button on the magnetometer to check the battery life, and splashed backward off the boat.

  The waters were teeming with an astounding array of fish and sea life. The coral was home to an amazing rainbow of colors and it wasn’t easy to find Troy’s discovery. She loved the water and everything in it, and for a few minutes she just took it all in, floating in the peaceful calm of the quiet reef.

  A couple of spotted morays whooshed by and a cloud of jewfish paused to check her out but quickly resumed their flashing swim. A four-foot long barracuda momentarily sent a shiver up her spine, with his sharp fangs jutting from his jaw, but he seemed only curious, like the rest of them.

  As she floated there with no particular direction in mind, she saw no sign of the object they had seen from the air… maybe it was an optical illusion, she thought, some shaft cut into the coral that looked dark and solid from above? Visibility was less than thirty feet, an effect of the coming hurricane. This search would be slow going.

  She began to swing the magnetometer back and forth, much like a metal detector. It would record and transmit its findings back to her laptop for later investigation. She ventured farther out from the reef, trying to maintain a straight line to the west, and after about a hundred yards of searching she began to lose hope. There was nothing down there; just sand and fish and coral.

  She turned to head back toward the boat, and that’s when she saw the looming dark shape in front of her. However, this wasn’t Troy’s dark shape; this one was moving in her general direction. She froze in place, not panicked yet, and waited to see what was coming to check her out.

  As it swam closer through the cloudy water and slowly gaining detail, Megan began to recognize the telltale features of a bull shark; wide short snout, tall harshly pointed first dorsal fin taller than the second, and row upon row of razor sharp teeth. It was coming straight at her. Distinctively grey on top, white underneath, and very broad, this one looked to be about eleven feet in length; she guessed from its size it was a female. She could see a slightly distended belly. Great, she’s pregnant, Megan thought to herself. The maternal bull would be hungry and feeding. It was swimming closer.

  She began to tense up now, her pulse racing, and against her will, her breathing became hurried and shallow. From her studies, she knew that Bull sharks were very aggressive and accounted for a great number of attacks on people. Until now, she’d never actually seen one in the flesh, but she knew they eat anything that moves. So, she did what any good diver knows to do; she tried to keep calm and stay completely motionless.

  She knew she was too far from the boat for Troy to even realize this was happening, and wondered idly if he’d even find her body. For what seemed an eternity, the shark seemed content to just cruise around the general area while scavenging for food. Not a good sign; she appeared to be hunting.

  Like an alarm bell in the dead silence, a ping went off from Megan’s tank and the shark turned instantly toward her. She looked down at the dial on her wrist; about ten minutes of air left. The shark quickened its pace and Megan was sure she could hear her own thumping heartbeat. She struggled to maintain slow, regulated breathing to conserve her air, but that all flies out the window when there’s a massive shark on your trail. She found herself subconsciously wafting away from the beast.

  With quickness she could never have anticipated, the shark darted at her, and Megan jerked away instinctively. The monster’s snout bumped her harshly in the stomach and she did what all those Discovery Channel rescue shows say the survivors did; she slammed the magnetometer down hard on the shark’s snout. With the density of the water slowing her swing down, she knew the blow was largely ineffective. The shark bit down hard on the end of the sophisticated piece of equipment, instantly turning it into scrap metal.

  For a second it looked as if the shark was puzzled. It nudged past her and she resisted the urge to swim frantically back toward the boat. Megan was sure a second bite was coming, but amazingly the shark turned and swam away. Apparently, it was convinced this object it had found in the water was too hard to be food.

  For several moments, she drifted in the gentle gulf current, mentally paralyzed by the attack. She could feel tears coming down her cheeks inside her mask. Finally, as she began heading back toward the boat, her tank pinged again. She quickly looked around to see if the shark had heard it and was coming back for another try. Nothing.

  Five minutes of air would get her most of the way back to the boat. She focused on slowing her breathing and swam as quickly as she could, and soon the reef and boat were in sight. With just twenty yards remaining she began to make out some detail in the reef, and as she got closer she idly glanced back to the north, the direction the shark had come from… and there it was.

  Troy’s mystery object.

  It was lodged in the side of the reef, but the coral had advanced considerably, nearly consuming it. She couldn’t tell what it was from this distance, but she could see it definitely wasn’t part of the natural reef formation. That’s when her air finally ran out and she had to hold her breath and swim up. She had to move quickly or she’d drown, embolism be damned. They’d missed the object to the south… but just barely.

  As she broke the surface of the water, she saw Troy peering over the edge, obviously wondering where she’d been. He motored over and helped her on deck. She dropped her tank and what was left of the magnetometer, jerked off her mask, and hugged him with ferocity. She trembled with fear, tears forming again. He didn’t say a word; he just let her regain her composure in his arms.

  When she felt she could speak without breaking down again, she whispered in his ear. “I saw it. It’s down there.”

  8

  Wyatt 1

  George Wyatt stood on the highest deck of the oil rig, Wyatt 1, and looked west across the Gulf at the setting sun. He closed his eyes in the warm glow and listened to the sound of… nothing. No cars. No horns. No telephones. No radios. No televisions. There was no sound here but the massive machines below him rumbling in the deep and groaning like whales. His machines. His sound. His steel island in the sun.

  He had spent as much time here this year as he could. The rest he had spent with his brother in Houston arguing over their father's fortune. They weren't arguing with each other, mind you, but against the twenty-six-year-old widow his father left behind, complete with a poorly written will that appeared to leave most of the family fortune to her. Typical of the old man, George thought with a grin. Always a gambler. Always a risk taker. Never thinking of the long term.

  George was part of a small, elite group of young turks who called themselves New Oil. They were all either children, grandchildren or great-grandchildren of American oi
l interests. They met annually to discuss plans and coordinate their efforts against OPEC. Their numbers had been thinned out in past decades as families sold out to the international conglomerates, but a few were too stubborn to sell. The remaining members were all idealists and dreamers who wanted America to be oil-independent, and they had family money to back them up.

  George was a member because his great-grandfather was one of the original band of Texas wildcatters who just happened to stick his pipe in the right hole.

  George's grandfather had increased the business tenfold when he took over, but his father had gone into refining raw oil instead of digging for it. George liked the sea, so he ventured into offshore wildcatting, which costs a few million just to think about, and ten million to actually start up. That was going to be his contribution to New Oil and also how he would increase the family fortune, just like his father before him.

  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 beer. 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.”