The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  “Shit!” He turned back to the rope and began sawing furiously.

  The strong rope barely yielded a few strands, and he cursed his prone position. He just couldn’t get enough leverage to cut it from underneath. He sheathed the knife and decided he would just unwind the rope, but he knew he’d have to stand up to do it.

  He took in a deep breath and jumped up as fast as he could. He never got close to the loop holding the two boats together. In seemingly slow motion, he heard the whiz of the third shot and a metallic ping before he was blinded by the explosion.

  He threw his hands over his face and was hurled into the water.

  Part II

  Discover

  “Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.”

  -Andrew Gide

  21

  Rough Riders

  Gene Henry spewed a mouthful of coffee as the alarm blared from his computer. He’d been tracking the progress of the Wy Knott out into the gulf, taking sonar readings with the engine noise. The resolution gradually got better as the boat neared the shallow reef waters. But the beacon had suddenly gone offline and the alarm had sounded. Gene instinctively grabbed the CB radio.

  “Wy Knott, this is Wyatt 1, what’s your status?”

  Nothing but static. He repeated this a couple of times, but got no response.

  “Dammit, Troy what the hell have you—?” Gene stopped mid-sentence as, one line at a time, one of his computer monitors began producing an amazingly sharp picture of the gulf floor where the beacon last placed the boat.

  Panic began to creep into his mind as he studied the picture. The resolution was so good he could see sharp curves and twists in the coral and a trail of scattered rocks or something on the gulf floor. To produce this kind of view, he’d need sound that bordered on thunder, or maybe…

  He grabbed the telephone and rang George Wyatt.

  “Do you know what time it is?” the oil rigger croaked in a sleepy fog.

  “Sorry, George, but you need to see this.”

  Minutes later he was staring at the computer screen.

  “Yeah um… that’s great, Gene, but couldn’t this have waited till morning?”

  Gene clicked back to images from several minutes ago.

  “Look,” he pointed to the screen, “this is the resolution I was getting before the beacon went out… and this…” He clicked forward. “This is after.”

  The difference was like looking at an old black and white tintype exposure from the civil war compared to a high definition digital camera picture from today; striking, to say the least.

  “Well, that’s probably lightning or something, eh?” Wyatt said.

  That’s when it hit him.

  “What did you say about the beacon?”

  Gene turned to look up at him.

  “It went dead just before I got that last image.”

  “Went dead?” Wyatt demanded. “What the hell do you mean it went dead?”

  Wyatt grabbed the radio, but Gene stopped him.

  “I tried that, no response.”

  “Oh, my God.” Wyatt looked out the window in the darkness. “We have to get out there.”

  Suddenly, Bill Bane was standing in the doorway yawning. “That’d be great, boss,” he said as he moved into the room, “but we got no boat, remember.”

  “Shit,” Wyatt said, turning to look back at the monitors.

  His eye caught some motion on one of the security cameras scanning under the oil rig. He pointed to it.

  “No, but we do have a plane.”

  Gene looked at the seaplane jostling about in the waves tied to the lower deck. “Now, who in the heck’s gonna fly that piece of junk?”

  “Gene, you know I can fly.”

  “But you’re not instrument rated,” he protested, “and its pitch black out there and storming.”

  “I don’t see that we have much choice.”

  He looked at Bill, who nodded at him.

  “Bill and I will go,” he said. “You keep your eye on us, and we’ll keep her low under the weather; if anything happens, radio the coast guard and tell them where we’re located.”

  “No!” Gene stood up. “This is crazy. This is a very bad idea. I knew we shouldn’t have let them go out, and I’m not going to let you go out there searching for them.”

  Wyatt put his hands-on Gene’s shoulders. “I can’t just leave them out there. It may be nothing; maybe the lightning that gave you the picture struck the boat and shorted everything out, including the beacon.”

  Gene’s tight-lipped scowl relaxed. “You’re right,” he said after a moment. “It’s probably nothing. But let’s wait till dawn. It’ll be light in about two hours.”

  “That’s a good idea, boss,” Bill said to Wyatt.

  “Two hours? In this storm?” Wyatt raised his voice. “We may never find them!”

  “If they are out there without power, we won’t be able to see ‘em anyway,” Bill said.

  “Dammit,” Wyatt finally said, nodding, “you’re probably right.”

  He looked out the window at the wild waves and sheets of rain pelting the deck in huge swaths of water. Dangerous weather to be out in.

  “Tell you what, Gene; you check that plane to see how much fuel we have. Bill, you and I should get diving gear ready just in case they are in the water… hopefully, they’ll be able to float for a while.”

  “Let’s just hope they ain’t in the water.”

  “Yeah,” Wyatt said and shrugged.

  It seemed like forever before dawn crept in light gray over the oil rig. The three of them stood by the seaplane. The weather was harsh, and the wind had picked up to thirty miles an hour. Staying balanced on the catwalks below the rig was a constant white-knuckled battle.

  “Make sure you’ve idled out well beyond the pylons before you take off,” —Gene pointed out to the gulf— “don’t want to get blown back into us.”

  “Roger that,” Wyatt said, and gave him a thumbs-up.

  “I’ll keep an eye on you guys and the weather. If that storm gets anywhere near you, turn north and just get the hell out of there.”

  “Gotcha.”

  George Wyatt and Bill Bane climbed into the small plane. Gene untied them and they taxied out into the buffeting waves. They watched as Gene began the long walk up in the driving rain back to his control room.

  The wind shook them around violently and the ever-strengthening waves threatened to turn them over.

  “Let’s get this thing in the air, boss,” Bill shouted over the noise.

  The plane picked up slowly in the rough chop and Wyatt wondered if they’d ever get enough speed to lift off. But finally, they limped into the air.

  “Gene, you got us?” he called into the radio.

  “I gotcha,” he radioed back. “Rough ride ahead, so make it quick.”

  Gene gave them the G.P.S. coordinates of the last beacon ping and they headed east. Wyatt kept the plane as low as he could stand, about a hundred feet off the water. He figured if they went down, at least it wouldn’t be too far to fall.

  He looked over at Bill. It would’ve been slightly comical to see the big black man shaking so badly, if he hadn’t been scared to death himself.

  “Don’t worry, Bill,” he said, clapping his shoulder, “we’re gonna be alright.”

  “Whatever you say, Boss,” he said, then grinned a tight smile. “Whatever you say.”

  22

  Ahab’s Cellphone

  When he finally rolled his way back to the surface, R.B. could taste the coppery blood in his mouth, his ears still ringing violently from the blast. He looked around to see the Wy Knott sink into the water. He thought for a moment that Natasha’s government boat might break free and remain afloat. But the blast had torn through the side of it as well and soon it was taking on water. Within ten minutes, both boats were headed to the bottom.

  He knew it must be getting near dawn, but with the storm right on top of t
hem, it was still pitch black.

  “Troy!!” he yelled into the violent wind. “Megan!!”

  No reply.

  He swam as hard as he could in the churning waves toward the smoldering pieces floating and flipping on the surface. He frantically pushed through the rubble. His breath became shallow and panic began to drip into his mind. There was no sign of anyone else alive.

  Suddenly, a figure crashed through the waves a few feet away from him. Troy had his arms tight around Megan’s waist. She was out cold from what looked like a violent blow to her temple. Blood streamed down from her matted hair.

  “Oh my God,” R.B. shouted and swam toward them. “What happened?”

  Troy grabbed the first large piece of debris near him and shifted Megan over to his back. He gasped for breath.

  R.B. could tell Troy was banged up a bit but saw no blood. All the blood was coming from Megan’s forehead.

  “We went down inside the cabin and when the blast blew out the windows, she got hit,” Troy said, “piece of wood or something.”

  R.B. nodded. “Natasha?”

  Troy shook his head.

  “Never even saw her.”

  R.B. paddled away from them and began shouting into the storm. “Natasha!!”

  He went on for a few minutes, but got no response. After a few minutes, he swam back to join Troy and Megan. The waves had gotten so violent that it was hard to hang on to the—

  R.B. looked down; it was the basket with the pieces of ship wreck. The buoy he’d tied to it when they first saw Natasha was keeping them afloat. He almost smiled at the irony.

  “The only ship that stayed afloat is the one that’s been wrecked for a few hundred years.”

  Even Troy smirked darkly at this. R.B. looked around. Waves were now violently tossing them up and down. In the dark dawn, he couldn’t tell which direction they were drifting. He could only pray that the hurricane would rush past them and not carry them along, swallowing them up as they went.

  R.B. looked back at Troy, who was staring down into the basket. Even in the driving rain, he saw tears rolling from his eyes. Natasha would never come back from this trip. Troy’s hand rubbed along the frame of the basket and he had a strange, faraway look in his eyes. A shiver went up R.B.’s spine; he couldn’t help but picture Captain Ahab tangled up in ropes astride the back of the slain Moby Dick.

  Somewhere at the bottom of the gulf, a cellphone flashed to life in muted green monotone. A startled school of fish darted away from it. The message clicked up on the screen:

  -REPORT

  23

  Cover That Up

  Joe Bond rubbed his lower back. The pain was intensified with the quickly degenerating weather. Julie Matthews, Channel 7 news anchorwoman, was prattling away on his television about Hurricane Daniel. Though the coming storm was very dangerous, it had been declining in strength and was now being categorized as a Class Two hurricane; big enough to trash the island, but small enough to require emergency personnel to stay put.

  He clicked off the television and walked over to his window. Heavy rain pelted the street outside and the wind sent the trees thrashing from side to side. He turned the crank beside the window that lowered the hurricane shutter into place. Several minutes later he closed the last shield and darkness drowned the small house. He made his way into the kitchen and found his flashlight before the power blinked and then went out.

  He plopped down on his brand new micro suede recliner he’d treated himself to after his last raise and clicked open his cellphone. Two bars of service blinked on the screen. Probably not enough, he thought. He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and dialed the number Ashleigh had given him.

  “Hello?” Her voice was quiet.

  “Ashleigh, it’s me, Joe.”

  “Okay, give me ten minutes,” she whispered, “I’ll call you back.”

  “Sure.”

  He closed his phone and closed his eyes. He couldn’t sleep with the throbbing pain in his back so he just lay there and mulled over the past few days. His instincts told him something bigger than just a murder was going on here, but he didn’t have enough information to put the puzzle together. He wondered why the C.I.A. had this guy covered up. He had a stray thought that maybe he should just let this go, as he didn’t want the clandestine government agency on his case.

  Ten minutes later, on the dot, his cellphone beeped. The caller ID was a blocked number.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey, Joe, it’s me.” Ashleigh sounded a little more like herself. “I had to call you from outside the building, as everything’s wired in there.”

  “I understand.”

  “Okay, your guy is a man named Hector Martinez.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Well, he has a few charges related to drug running out of Cuba into Florida.”

  Joe sat up. That explained a lot. The Johnson boys probably stumbled onto Hector and his thugs making a run to the Keys and he had killed them. But that still didn’t explain the mysterious disappearance of the G.P.S. unit. Maybe Hector had some sort of system of dumping the drugs into the ocean and a contact in the Keys picked it up. That had a nice ring to it. The boys had found it, bragged about it at the bar, and Hector had waited for them to come back to bring it up and murdered them. Then needing to secure the location, he took the G.P.S. and left the boat to drift away.

  “Okay, thanks, Ashleigh,” he said, “that helps a lot. I think we can—”

  “Wait,” she interrupted him, “there’s more.”

  Joe sat up. A sharp pain stabbed him in the back. He grunted heavily.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, just a little arthritis.”

  “You’re getting old,” she said, and laughed.

  “Tell me about it.” He eased back into the chair. “Anyway, what else have you got.”

  “Well, first of all, this guy is classified up to level two clearance.”

  “Okay,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “That means only the Director of the C.I.A. and the President have access to this file.”

  He sat up again, more carefully this time. “And you got it how?”

  She was quiet for a minute. “Best you don’t know that.”

  “Okay.” Joe felt his eyebrows rise. “So, what’s so special about this guy?”

  “He’s working for us.”

  Joe sat stunned, unable to speak.

  “Get this,” —Ashleigh sounded as if she was reading from a file— “Hector has been feeding us information from inside Cuba for about a year now. He makes contact somewhere in the gulf with an operative stationed in Florida.”

  “Who’s the operative?”

  “Just says the operative is code name: Stingray.”

  “Stingray,” Joe repeated, “doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “Whoever it is would have to be close, maybe someone who has moved there within the last couple of years.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  “Anyway,” she continue, “In exchange for his cooperation, our patrols avert their eyes when he’s making runs of his own.”

  “So, the C.I.A. is now in the drug-running business?”

  She stopped for a minute. Ouch, he wished he hadn’t put that so harshly.

  “I only meant that—”

  “No, no,” she interrupted him again, “that’s exactly what it looks like.”

  It was her turn to be stunned and silent. Suddenly, another thought came to him. “So, maybe the Johnson boys stumbled into Hector while he was making the drop and the agent had something to do with…” He trailed off.

  “Well, it is possible, but that seems too messy for a C.I.A. cover-up. More likely, they would’ve made the whole thing—the boys, the boat and the G.P.S.—disappear.”

  “Yeah, that’s true.”

  He ran over all the pieces of this ever-deepening mystery. “So, what I’ve got so far is two dead boys, a drug runner from Cuba, a dirty C.I.A. operati
ve and a cover-up that runs all the way up to the Director of the C.I.A.”

  “Yeah, that’s about all I have here.” Ashleigh sounded baffled by everything in the file. “What I can’t figure out, is why this is so classified. I mean, the C.I.A. has performed much harsher ops to accomplish far simpler objectives, and my clearance is usually plenty high enough to open those files. This just seems like trading drugs for info.”

  Joe nodded to himself. “I know, and it’s info that doesn’t seem all that relevant or sensitive. I mean, Cuba isn’t exactly the hotbed of action against the U.S. like it used to be.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I still think it has something to do with this particular location in the gulf,” he said, urging himself to stand up from his chair. “It all started with the G.P.S. and I think that’s what ties this together.”

  He walked into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and cracked open a bottle of Tylenol. He poured four of them into his palm, pulled a diet coke out of the fridge, and washed down the pills.

  “I need to find this guy, Hector,” he said. “Any info on where this guy is in Cuba?”

  “Well,” —he could hear her shuffling papers around in the file— “I think I can do better than that. As an informant with a somewhat shady history, we probably tagged him with a locator.”

  “Okay, what does that mean?”

  “Well, it means you can track him, if you have the right locator program.”

  “Ah, of course I don’t have that program.” He shuffled his way back into the living room. “Can you tell me where he is?”

  “Are you on a smart phone?”

  “Yup.”

  “Give me ten minutes and I’ll upload the program, so you should be able to track him through your phone.”