by Rich Johnson
The men tore into the crates as if they were treasure chests. After clearing away a few of the water-soaked cardboard boxes and plastic totes, Juanico ripped into one box after another, hoping to discover bales of plastic-wrapped money. Finding nothing but household goods and clothes, he fired off a nonstop string of cuss words in Spanish until all the men stopped what they were doing and stared at him.
“Hey, boss,” one of the men said. “We ain’t found the money yet, but even this stuff will be worth something. We can take it around to other islands to sell.”
Juanico stopped cursing and stared at the man, as if he had lost his mind. Then he thought about it. “You’re right. Lay this stuff out on the barge. Organize it in piles, according to what it is.”
“Where’s the eleven million, boss?” one of the men shouted.
Juanico shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t know. But I ain’t done looking yet.”
For the next ten minutes, he continued shoving one box after another toward the open doors, and the men formed a bucket brigade of sorts to move the cargo quickly onto the barge to be sorted into piles. After he had made his way ten feet into the container, he could see something different behind the wall of boxes and totes. It was yellow and white and looked like corrugated metal siding.
“There’s something else in here,” he called out. “You two,” – he pointed quickly to the men closest to him – “get in here and start moving this stuff away. Time for me to take a break.” He stepped out of the container and wiped his arm across his sweaty forehead. Already the day was hot, and there was no air movement inside the container to cool things down. Even beneath the shady canopy of overhanging trees, the tropic air was stifling.
With two men working, all the boxes and totes were quickly moved away, revealing the front wall of the travel trailer. “Hey, boss, now what?” one of the men asked. “This thing is so wide we can’t go any farther.”
Juanico hopped up to take a look, and could see that the trailer filled the interior of the container from wall to wall. “We gotta pull it outside.” He looked around and saw the crane winch at the front of the barge. “Antonio, bring the winch cable in here,” he ordered, and moments later the cable was strung to the trailer’s hitch A-frame. “Okay, start it up.” He stood at the lip of the container opening and waved his arm up and down. The winch whirled to life, and the cable became taut. “Back off, everybody,” Juanico shouted, and the trailer started to roll toward the doors.
“Maybe the money’s in there, boss,” somebody said, and Juanico just shook his head, hoping for the best. But in the back of his mind, he knew this didn’t look like a shipment of baled greenbacks from Bank of America.
“Whatever it is, we share it equal,” he shouted above the noise of the winch, and all the men cheered.
The winch cranked and the trailer slowly dragged forward until the hitch jack reached the lip of the container. Juanico raised his hand and rotated it in a circle above his head. “Keep going,” he shouted, and the jack slid off the container floor, throwing the trailer nose down on its frame with a crash. “Keep going.” Juanico spun his hand overhead again, and the winch kept churning. Fifteen minutes after starting the process, the forward half of the trailer hung outside the container. It was enough to allow entry through the side door, and to Juanico that was enough.
Four rough-looking men gathered around Juanico as he twisted the door knob and pulled. Cocked at an angle, the trailer walls flexed enough to jam the door tight. “Somebody bring me a pry bar,” Juanico yelled, and one of the men broke ranks and ran to the tool shed. In a moment, he was back with a long bar. Juanico stood aside. “Go ahead,” he ordered, “open it up.” The man with the bar slammed the chiseled end into the crack between the door and the frame, pulled back and the door popped open.
“Santo!” the man shouted, throwing his hand across his face and moving back so quickly that he tripped and fell over. “It stinks. Something died in there.”
Weeks of vomit inside a hot metal box had created a stench like the bottom of an old grave. All the men moved away from the trailer, fanning hands in front of their faces to clear the air. “We will let it air out for a while,” Juanico said. “Let’s go have breakfast and we will come back later.”
He turned to walk away, but the lure of eleven million dollars was working in the minds of his men, and none of them wanted to leave the trailer behind. Without hesitation, he drew the pistol and fired a shot at the container. The round ricocheted into the tropical sky with a whine, and every man jumped off the barge and walked quickly down the dock toward the main house. “I don’t deal well with disobedience, men,” Juanico shouted. “That’s the last warning you’ll ever get.”
In the dim recess of his bleary mind, Husam al Din thought he heard the sound of a bullet ringing somewhere. He felt half dead, but dragged his aching body from the corner where he had fallen and was covered by an avalanche of a stinking mattress and a pile of filthy blankets. How long he had been there, he had no idea. He rubbed his face and blinked. Is that light I see? Yes, there was daylight in the trailer. Maybe I’m in Miami and they’ve off-loaded the container.
He dug through the debris covering the trailer floor and found his duffel bag, grabbed the web handles and headed toward the light.
Chapter Thirty-five
A wave of fresh air met Husam al Din as he reached the open door to the trailer and squinted into the bright sunlight. He inhaled deeply. Thick, warm and humid as the air was, at least it smelled fresh, and he was thankful to have something to breathe other than the putrid stench that had been locked inside the foul container. The clean air stimulated his lungs, and as he inhaled again and again, oxygen began to awaken his mind. His eyes adjusted to the brightness of the day, and for a moment he stood just inside the trailer, taking advantage of the shadow for concealment as he tried to make sense of what was around him.
This is not right. Why is the trailer lying at such an angle, half in and half out of the container? It was a puzzle. The scene outside was clearly not the container yard at the Miami shipping terminal. In the distance, he heard voices trailing away, and he quietly peered in their direction. Through the trees he saw a cluster of men walking away from him, heading toward a small building a few hundred yards distant across a clearing. With duffel bag in hand, he leaned out the doorway and looked up at the canopy formed by high branches of tropical trees that lined both banks of the river. Where am I?
After the men entered the building and were out of sight, he stepped down onto the barge and studied his surroundings. A small tug was tied behind the barge, and beyond that was a red and black boat that looked fast. Without a sound, he moved first to the tug and stepped inside the cabin to look for charts that would tell him where he was. A quick look told him that this was an old work vessel, but it was equipped with a GPS. He pressed the button to turn it on, and waited as the display indicating satellite linkage blinked on and off. It’s the trees. They’re blocking satellite signals.
A short distance down the dock from the tug, a sleek 26-foot powerboat was tied bow and stern. Before leaving the tug cabin, he watched and listened for the men he had seen earlier, but there was no movement and no noise coming from the direction of the house. He felt his energy returning and he moved swiftly to the powerboat, climbed aboard and placed the duffel bag on the floor at the foot of the driver’s seat.
The dash was equipped with a VHF radio, a full complement of gauges, and a chart plotter. He spotted the small, mushroom-shaped GPS antenna next to the radio antenna on the stainless steel targa arch. A pair of 225-horsepower outboard motors stood ready for action, and the keys were in the ignition. A cuddy cabin stood open, so he ducked below to see what he could find. Held to the roof overhead by a pair of bungee cords was a plastic tube. He pulled the tube down and shook out the rolled paper chart, then spread it on the small forepeak bunk. It was a chart of the western Caribbean, showing Panama to the south and a cluster of islands along the easter
n coast of Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Honduras, Belize and the Yucatan Peninsula. In the upper right-hand corner was the western tip of Cuba, and as he studied that part of the chart, he knew that he was getting closer to accomplishing his goal because Miami was not far from Cuba.
He stepped back up to the cockpit and tossed the rolled chart on top of the dashboard, then turned the ignition key to start the port engine. It jumped to life and settled into a quiet rumble as he let the motor warm up at idle. Over his shoulder, he glanced at the building, but there was no movement. He stepped onto the dock and untied the bow line, coiled it quickly and tossed it onto the foredeck, then released the stern line. With a gentle push, the boat floated away from the dock and he scrambled aboard, spun the wheel and pushed the throttle. The boat responded instantly, turning out into the center of the river channel and gliding past the tug and the barge.
A moment later, he was clear of the overhanging trees, and the GPS indicated strong signals from six satellites. By the time he left the mouth of the river, Husam al Din had his coordinates. This is where I am. He drew an imaginary line on the chart with his finger. And that is where I am going. He turned the starboard ignition key and felt the second engine roar to life and brought the starboard throttle equal with the port throttle, then threw both throttles all the way forward. The boat came up on plane and leapt ahead.
Station Panama, Coast Guard Communication Center.
“Station Panama, Station Panama, Station Panama, this is Borboleta, over.”
“This is Station Panama, over.”
“This is Borboleta. I have an urgent message to relay from Whisper, a catamaran sailing in the vicinity of San Luis Miguel.”
“Go ahead with your relay,” the young communications officer said. Over the next several minutes, the owner of Borboleta gave a description of the Whisper and the Plover family, the container, the piracy incident and their escape from Juan Baptista de la Vega.
“Borboleta, is anyone aboard Whisper currently in danger or in need of medical attention?”
“Negative. To my knowledge, they are all safe now and are proceeding toward Rio Dulce in Guatemala. But, I say old man, they’ve had a bugger of a time. They are citizens of your country. Perhaps you could do something for them.”
“Thank you for your report. I will process this information through the proper channels. Station Panama out.”
No sooner had he ended the radio transmission than the communications officer picked up the phone and pressed a speed-dial number. “Captain Pfister,” the voice on the phone said.
“Sir, this is Gable in com. I’ve just received a report of a container being found near San Luis Miguel. And there was a piracy incident involving an American family.”
The news brought Pfister bolt upright in his chair. “I’m on my way. Have all the details printed out for me in …” – he looked at his watch – “… six minutes.”
“Aye, sir,” Gable said, and the phone went dead.
As soon as he had a dial tone, Pfister punched in the numbers for Josh Adams’ cell phone. It rang twice, then a voice answered. “Josh here.”
“Mr Adams, another player just came into your game. Meet me in com as quickly as you can get there.”
“Ten minutes?”
“I’ll have a helmet ready for you.”
San Luis Miguel Island
Antonio Souza was out of breath when he reached the small house. “Juanico, the boat is gone.”
Irritation flooded Juanico’s voice, “What boat?”
“The red and black boat. The boss’s pride and joy. It’s gone.”
“How could it be gone? It was there just a few minutes ago.” Juanico shoved his wooden chair back and it fell with a clatter against the wall. He headed out the door, walking fast and swinging a machete with one hand. “Get all the men,” he yelled back toward Antonio. “Maybe those people came back and stole our boat while we weren’t looking.”
“What are we going to do?”
Juanico stopped in mid-stride and turned, “I don’t know yet.” Then he shook the machete at Antonio. “Just you quit talking about the old man as the boss. I’m the boss now, and that boat is my pride and joy.”
“Sorry, boss,”
“That’s a fast boat. We’ll never be able to catch them. But we gotta do something. Nobody comes into our backyard and steals from us!” He stomped away toward the dock. Behind him, he heard Antonio yelling to the other men to come to the dock.
By the time all the men came running, Juanico stood staring at the empty spot along the dock where the sleek red and black powerboat had been tied. He walked back and forth along the vacant platform and shook his head in disbelief. “How could this happen?”
A small, heavily bearded Brazilian pushed through the cluster of men. “Boss,” he said.
“What is it, Andre?’
“Do not worry. We can take the tug to go find the boat.”
“We can never catch that fast boat with this tug. It barely moves.”
“Yes,” Andre agreed, “but it will move, and the other boat will be dead in the water soon. It’s almost out of gas. The boss …” – he stopped and looked sheepishly at Juanico – “… the other boss, he told me to fill the tank yesterday, but I forgot.”
A grin spread across Juanico’s face. “Well, we will just let them run out of gas. How long will it take?”
“Only a couple of hours. That is a fast boat, but one that is thirsty.”
“Then we will let them run out of gas for the next couple of hours, and then we will go get our boat. In the meantime, we have a treasure to find. Who is brave enough to go into that stinking trailer to look for the treasure?”
A chorus of voices sounded and everybody’s hand went up. “Okay, to be fair, I will send you in two at a time and you can search for fifteen minutes. Bring out whatever you find, and then the next two will go in. That way everybody will have a chance. Andre, because you brought me the good news about the boat, I will send you first. Choose someone to go in with you.”
“I will take Antonio.”
Juanico flicked his hands at the men. “Go then, the time is counting.”
Andre and Antonio sprinted to the barge and jumped up into the trailer. “Whew!” Andre yelled, “It still stinks very bad in here. Smells like vomit.”
“How would vomit get inside a locked container?” Juanico asked.
“I don’t know, boss, but I know the smell of vomit and that’s what this is.”
“Your time is running out.”
Andre pulled his head back inside the trailer and he and Antonio started tossing things out the door onto the barge platform. “Whew,” Andre yelled as he threw a couple of blankets out the door. “I think I found the puke.” Next out the door was a mattress.
“You men,” – Juanico pointed to the other two who were just standing around with hands in their pockets – “pull that stuff aside and make room.”
A moment later, Andre poked his head out the door and he was wearing a grin. “Look at this, boss,” – he waved something black. “I didn’t find any money yet, but we can get some good money for this.”
“What is it?” Juanico walked toward the barge.
“It is one of those expensive American flashlights made of aluminum. The kind the cops carry. It was on the floor under the mattress and blankets.”
“Here,” Juanico held out a hand, “let me see it.” Andre handed it to the boss, and ducked back inside to continue his hunt.
From the heft of the flashlight, Juanico could tell it was well made. He looked into the lens, found the switch with his thumb, and pressed. In the palm of his hand, he felt a dull thud, but the light didn’t come on. He shook it then thumped it against his leg, and looked into the lens again while thumbing the switch on and off. Nothing. Then he noticed that from the butt of the flashlight there was a faint mist that looked like smoke curling through his fingers. He sniffed at the mist, but it didn’t smell like smoke, so he handed it off to the m
an standing next to him.
“Here, what does this smell like to you?”
The man sniffed at the flashlight and shook his head. “I’ve never smelled anything like it, boss. Maybe the batteries are bad.”
Juanico took the flashlight back. “Yeah, maybe that’s it. Well, the rest of the thing looks okay, so we’ll just replace the batteries.” He yelled into the trailer, “Hey, Andre, look for batteries.”
From deep inside the trailer came the response, “Okay, boss.”
Panama Coast Guard Station
Three hundred and fifty miles south, a C-130 rolled down the runway and lifted off. Through the headphones built into the helmet, Josh listened to Pfister. “We’ve got the cutter Victory on her way at max speed, but we’ll fly some air surveillance first and shoot some photos. According to the report we got from the Borboleta, the folks who found the container contacted a salvage operation to help rescue the thing. Turned out to be a band of cut-throat pirates that took the family hostage, threatened to sell the kids into white slavery and murder the man. You can guess what they intended to do with the woman.”
“But the family managed to escape?”
Pfister laughed and related the story to Josh. “Yeah, they broke out and the dad distracted the bad guys while the rest of the family got away on Whisper, their catamaran. Dan Plover, the dad, made a run for it across the island, where he had signaled his son to meet him an hour later with the boat. But the pirate leader, a piece of garbage named Juan Baptista de la Vega, caught up with Dan and was about to hack his head off with a machete when Nicole, the mom, showed up with a flare gun and ran a rocket down de la Vega’s throat.”