The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  The man leaned over him, his silhouette eclipsing the moon. “Just who the hell do you think you are?” he snarled. “You think you can come here and threaten me? How many sleaze-balls do you think I’ve sunk to the bottom of the gulf? I lost count years ago. I was killing for my people when you were still sucking your thumb.”

  Hector felt his windpipe contract under the baton. He wouldn't last much longer. He couldn’t take a breath and could feel his face swelling.

  “I don't even need permission to take you out. You’re a freebie. You’re a target of opportunity. I can kill you right now and justify it later, if I even bother to mention it to anyone.”

  He released his weight from Hector's throat.

  Hector sat up, gasped for air, and rested his weight on his one good hand. Then he heard a familiar sound: the unmistakable click of a hammer being pulled back on a gun—his gun—just as he felt the barrel against the bottom of his chin.

  “Threaten me again. I dare you. I know people who can make you wish you had never been born, and I’ll be happy to deliver you to that hell.”

  Hector could smell alcohol on the man’s breath and his eyes had a crazy glint to them. Este hombre esta loco, Hector thought. There was a fully automatic AR-15 in the boat, but this guy would blow his chin off if he even twitched; he wasn't afraid to pull a trigger, Hector guessed. He put his hands up in surrender.

  “Okay, okay, man,” he rasped as the pressure released on his throat. “I’m just gonna go. You will never see me again.”

  He staggered to his feet. The contact remained still, gun and baton in hand. Hector massaged his throat and backed up a step. He reached down to pick up his package of money from the sand.

  “Well, I suppose this won’t be such a problem for you when the Hurricane comes, eh señor?”

  The man remained silent as he watched the Cuban turn and limp to his boat.

  “You know, whatever you're looking for out there, you won't find it,” Hector said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you won’t. You are treating the gulf like it’s only water. It is so much more than that.”

  Hector stood next to the boat, ankle deep in the Gulf. He pointed out into the darkness.

  “It is a living thing. It moves, it breathes, it pushes underwater mountains around with no more effort than you would sweep your floor. If it doesn’t want you to find something, you won't. And it is apparent that it doesn’t want this thing found.”

  Hector’s contact broke into a full laugh. “Found? Found? What makes you think we want it found?”

  17

  A Man About A Crane

  R.B. flew Gidget like he was an old pro at the stick though he’d only owned her for a little over five years. The seaplane hadn’t been named Gidget when he bought her from crazy old Mel. No, that had been Troy’s doing. Something about a girl he used to know back at the Peppermint Hippo in Vegas.

  After the war, R.B. had come back to an empty home, parents both passed, Troy allegedly killed by an I.E.D., and no work to speak of… so, he did what every estranged vet does; he rambled on. He rambled so far that he ended up at the southernmost point of the continental United States of America, Key West. He poked around from odd job to odd job until one night at Pepe’s. He was at the bar talking to one of the local loonies, Mel, about his huge ship captain’s license. He and Mel spent the evening trying to one-up each other with stories from their military pasts, ranging from Mel’s exploits on the Zambezi river with local rebels trying to board his oil barge, to R.B.’s daring rescue of a group of ex-pat hikers who’d gotten overturned and stranded trying to get their dugout canoe up to the base of the churning Angel Falls.

  Eventually, Mel told him about his seaplane and a failed attempt at a tourist sight-seeing venture. He never understood why it hadn’t taken off, but R.B. thought it might’ve been the proprietor’s… craziness, that kept the customers away.

  He knew of a perfect place to put the plane back to work. Fort Jefferson. The trip to the island fort would be so much more exciting with an aerial view and a water landing. Without letting Mel see his excitement, he talked the old man into letting it go for a pittance. Money R.B. had borrowed from his grandmother covered most of it while a small business loan covered the rest. All of that had been paid for many times over. And now, after his second pilot had run off with a Red Garter girl from Duval Street, he’d discovered that his brother—who flew Apaches in the war in Afghanistan—was alive and well. A little internet digging and a phone call and he and his brother were united again.

  He didn’t have as much flying experience as Troy, but he had learned to land her in the narrowest of shallow channels, where a drift ten feet in any direction could mean hooking the coral with a float and flipping the plane over on its top, ruining every electronic system on board, plus the engine, and dumping four hundred pounds of fuel into the water; and that’s the best-case crash scenario, with no tourists on board to perish in the attempt.

  Compared to that, landing in the deep water of the gulf a hundred yards away from the Wyatt 1 was a task he could have done in his sleep. He took the landing a little hot in order to impress Megan Simons, the cute marine biologist Troy had roped into his treasure hunting scheme.

  The oil rig wasn't wide enough to accommodate the wings of the Cessna Caravan between its lower pylons, so R.B. slowly taxied the plane up to the outside corner of the waterline catwalk while Troy jumped over with a guide line and a small boardwalk they kept handy for just such occasions. By the time they were secured, George Wyatt was standing on the catwalk.

  “Well, well, look what the tide’s brought in,” he said and extended his hand to Troy. “Long time no see, buddy. Bill said you'd be here today. How was your flight?”

  “It’s getting a little rough out there, with the weather and all, but it’s still okay,” Troy said as he shook the brawny man’s hand.

  “Yeah, probably not long before you’ll have to pull her out for good. Did you bring enough fuel to get you home this time?” He joked, referring to Troy’s ill-fated trip out here when he lost an old bar bet and had to fly Wyatt and the crew back to the rig, subsequently running out of fuel and having to wait several days for a refill. Troy had always thought it ironic to be stranded on an oil rig waiting for gas.

  “Hey, nobody lays down a full house!”

  Wyatt laughed. “Nope, I guess not.”

  “What the heck are you doing here anyway?” Troy asked. “I figured you’d head inland with Bill and the guys. Weren’t they headed to the Big Easy for some serious recreation?”

  “Well, they were, but that blasted storm has every coastal town along the gulf battening the hatches and preparing for the worst. Seems Katrina’s made ‘em all gun shy.”

  “Can’t say as I blame them. So I guess Gene’s around too, eh?”

  “He is, of course. He’s up in the control room as always; loves all those gadgets, you know.”

  Megan walked up and Troy couldn’t help but notice Wyatt giving her an up and down glance; appreciative, but with that look a sailor gets in his eyes after a six-month submarine tour in the deep.

  “George Wyatt, meet Megan Simons,” he said, “and of course, R.B.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, miss,” he said and shook her hand before turning to Troy’s brother. “You, I’m not so sure about.” The oil rigger laughed and clapped his hand on R.B.’s shoulder. “How’s the tourist biz?”

  “Can’t keep the plane in the water long enough to pick up all the people we’re carrying back and forth,” said R.B. and returned the man’s smile. “Remind me to tell you about the bachelorette party we just did over a beer sometime.”

  Megan shot a glance at Troy. He opened his mouth, presumably to offer an explanation.

  “I—”

  “Will do,” Wyatt interrupted and pointed to the stairs. “We all ready?”

  “Yup,” Troy said and jumped onto the stairs.

  They made the long climb up to the c
onference room, which was really just a second kitchen, but with a commanding view of the gulf to the west. George poured thick black coffee into Styrofoam cups and handed them out.

  “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
r />   -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.