Fallen Palm (Jesse McDermitt Series)

by Wayne Stinnett

  Rusty laughed and said, “You could probably turn that radar off and he’d let you know if anything was ahead of us.”

  We all sat back down and I turned to Jimmy and gave him the whole scoop on what we’d planned to do today. He listened, nodding when needed and didn’t ask a single question. When I was finished, he said simply, “So, what you’re saying is, I’ve been shanghaied, man?”

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that. You okay with it?

  “No worries, man,” he replied. “Party on.”

  It only took us about ten minutes before the alert signaled we were coming up on Conrad Reef. I disengaged the autopilot and slowed to ten knots, while I studied the GPS and turned on the Furuno sonar. The waypoint I had set for Conrad was about a half mile due south of the reef. Conrad is a patch reef, about fifteen hundred feet inside the reef line. There was a natural cut in the reef, just one hundred feet north of the waypoint. I adjusted the sonar so it read the bottom in front of us and dropped down to idle speed as we neared the waypoint. I turned the wheel so we were headed due north and passed the waypoint, as the sonar started to show the gap in the reef just ahead. The gap was plenty wide enough for the Revenge and the reef head was at least fifteen feet from the surface, but it’s always best to play it safe. I’d heard of many boats that crashed on debris that had been snagged by the reefs.

  We cleared the gap and the sonar was showing twenty-one feet under the keel and the southern edge of the little patch reef, just a few hundred feet ahead. The bottom was twenty-five feet and Conrad came to within ten feet of the surface. The tide was slack and what little wind was blowing was coming out of the south. Ninety feet from the reef, I told Jimmy to release the anchor and it dropped into the water with a splash from the bow. I took the engines out of gear and shut them down, then adjusted the sonar so it showed the bottom directly below us. The anchor dropped onto the sandy bottom and I told Jimmy to pay out fifty feet of chain. Slowly, the Revenge drifted forward, and then began to swing slightly, as the chain tightened. I readjusted the sonar toward the stern and it showed the southern edge of the little patch reef getting closer. As the anchor took hold and the slight wind straightened us, the sonar showed the southern edge of the reef to be directly below the boat. If it was daylight, we could look down from the bridge and see it, the water was so clear. I turned on the underwater lights at the stern and sure enough, the top of the reef lay just below the stern. Though it was ten feet down, it looked close enough to touch.

  “This is Conrad Reef,” I solemnly told Deuce.

  “Thanks, Jesse,” he said and reached under the bench seat and pulled his bag out. He unzipped it and pulled a small, square, sealed box out of it. Taking a knife from his belt, he slit the seal on the top. He opened it and withdrew a brass urn, in the shape of an old hardhat diver’s helmet. “I think dad would have wanted you and Rusty to join me,” he said.

  The three of us climbed down to the cockpit and Rusty and I stood on either side of Deuce at the stern. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jimmy standing on the bridge, where he lowered the colors to half-mast. I fly both the American flag and the Marine Corps flag. Then Jimmy reached into his pocket, pulled his mp3 player out, and plugged it into the stereo on the console.

  Deuce opened the urn and placed it on the stern. Then he looked at Rusty and me in turn and said, “Dad was gone a lot when I was a kid. I used to resent him for it. But, as I grew older, I realized why he did what he did. Guess the apple doesn’t fall far, does it? Now I’m the one leaving and staying away for weeks and months. I’m going to miss the old war horse.”

  I cleared my throat and recited the last verse of a poem I’d recently read, “His face is rough, his shirt is torn. He’s tired of fighting, in this war of the sea. He lost his ship of gold and diamonds in battle, now he floats alone. The Warrior of the sea.”

  Rusty then added, “Vaya con Dios, mi hermano.”

  As Deuce lifted the urn and leaned over the stern rail, the doleful sound of a bugle split the air. Jimmy, up on the bridge, playing a recording of “Taps”. His way of honoring a fellow Vet he never knew. Deuce slowly poured the ashes and small bits of bone into the water. It slowly spread on the surface behind us, drifting down onto the reef that Russ and I had first dived so long ago. The four of us stood rigidly at attention as the last notes of “Taps” mournfully blew out across the water. As Deuce placed the now empty urn on the stern railing, I heard him whisper, “If it was by the hand of another, I’ll avenge you dad.”

  “Hoist anchor, Jimmy,” I called up to the bridge. The rattling of the anchor chain interrupted the quiet and pulled the Revenge slowly south, away from the reef. The three of us climbed up to the bridge in silence and took our places. When I heard the windlass starting to strain with the weight of the anchor, I started the engines, tapped them both into forward, and adjusted the sonar forward, to pick up the gap in the reef.

  “Thanks for that, Jimmy,” Deuce said as he replaced the urn in his bag.

  “De nada, hermano,” Jimmy said. “Seemed like the thing to do.”

  We passed through the gap in the reef, each of us silent in our own thoughts. Deuce was right. If Russ had been killed by someone, that person would pay and pay dearly. Once clear of the reef, I pushed the throttles, brought the Revenge up on plane, and continued south for a few minutes, to deeper water. Once we passed fifty feet, I turned northeast and reengaged the autopilot, entering the Key Biscayne Yacht Club. I knew that Rusty felt the same way I did, but Jimmy was the wild card. I decided now was the time to say what needed to be said.

  “Jimmy,” I said, “I don’t want you to feel like you were roped into this and I don’t want you to be a part of what might happen if things turn out like I think they’re going to, if you don’t want to.”

  “Skipper,” Jimmy said, “you always been a straight shooter, man. I know you like a brother. You and Rusty, both. I only met Deuce here a couple times and never met his dad. I can add pretty good, though. I’m guessing all y’all think these hombres had something to do with Deuce’s dad dying, right?” I nodded and he continued, “You know I was a Machinists Mate, but I don’t think I ever told you what ship I served on, though.”

  “No,” I said, “I don’t recall you ever did.”

  “I served on the USS Wasp, out of Norfolk” he said, “from ‘93 to ‘97, Somalia and Kuwait.” The Wasp was one of the first amphibious landing crafts built for the Navy, kind of a mini aircraft carrier, designed to move Marines into areas where they’d be needed.

  Jimmy continued, “Actually met Colin Powell, when he landed aboard, off of Mogadishu. He was still Chairman of the Joint Chiefs then. We had about a thousand Sailors aboard, officers and enlisted, and more than two thousand Marines. Always liked you Jarheads, for some reason, man. My guess is that if these guys had anything to do with Deuce’s dad’s death, they won’t ever be seen again. The way I look at it, you step on one Marine’s toe, they all go ‘ouch’, man. Goes for Sailors, too.”

  Jimmy turned to check the radar, switching it to a five-mile radius and said, “The lights of those two pleasure craft should be visible, just off the port bow now.” Then he laughed and added, “That is, unless they’re fishing for square grouper.” That settled that. Jimmy was in.

  “Square grouper?” Deuce asked.

  “Bales of marijuana,” I explained. “Lots of drug trafficking goes on around these waters, especially at night.” I glanced at the radar, then looked out to the horizon and saw the anchor lights of the two boats. “Just fishermen,” I said.

  “Sunrise will be in about three hours,” I said. “We should make Biscayne Bay about then.”

  25

  Saturday morning, October 29, 2005

  Sonny Beech was sitting in his downtown office at eight o’clock in the morning, an unusual time for him. Actually, this office was in a strip mall in Lake Worth, about a block from the interstate, but he preferred to call it his ‘Palm Beach’ office. Across his desk sat a man wearing a fin
e silk suit, named Hafez al Madani. He was a Miami businessman of Pakistani descent. He’d come up to Palm Beach to meet with Sonny, mostly because of Sonny’s reputation of taking on any kind of job without asking too many questions. Also, because Sonny owned a large enough boat for his needs.

  “Let me get this straight, Mister Madani,” Sonny said. “You want me to have one of my guys take my boat to Brown’s Cay and pick up four people and bring them into Miami?”

  “For your trouble, Mister Beech, I will pay you twenty thousand dollars,” al Madani replied.

  “And you want me to take the chance of not going through U.S. Customs with these four people, right?”

  “That is correct,” al Madani answered. “There can be no interaction with American authorities.”

  “That’s a big risk you’re asking me to take. Bigger than twenty grand.”

  “I’ll pay you twenty thousand up front and another twenty thousand once they’re ashore, without incident.”

  “Yeah, I can do that,” Sonny said. “But your people will have to bring one hundred gallons of gas to Brown’s Cay, to refuel the boat. That’s about the limit to its range.” Easiest money he’d make all year, he thought. Can’t be any harder than his monthly cocaine run for a local dealer and it pays nearly double.

  The two men rose and shook hands, and then al Madani said, “Yes, they can bring the gas. I’d like to see the boat this morning, if I could. To be sure that it is suitable.”

  “That can be arranged. It’s in Miami right now. When did you want this pickup made? My boat’s currently on assignment.”

  “It will have to be early this Tuesday morning. I would expect delivery no later than seven o’clock that evening.”

  Sonny thought it over. He’d hoped the guys would have this McDermitt guy at the junkyard by now. Hopefully, he’d arrive today or tomorrow. If not, he’d just have to pull them off and do this job, then start looking all over again.

  “The job it’s on should easily be wrapped up by Sunday,” Sonny said. “I can have Captain Rodriguez leave Monday morning and be on Brown’s Cay before sunset. If your people are ready, they can board before sunrise and be in Miami by four o’clock.”

  “When could you arrange to let me inspect your boat?” al Madani asked.

  “I don’t have anything pressing right now,” Sonny replied. “Like I said, it’s in Miami. If you can meet me at Rickenbacker Marina in about ninety minutes, we can make sure it fits your needs.”

  Outside, parked on the far side of the parking lot, sat a nondescript Chevy van, with dark windows. Four men were inside the van, one in the driver’s seat and the other three in back at a console where a lot of sophisticated video and listening equipment was mounted. Two of the men, one black and one white, were younger than the driver and the fourth man in the back.

  The three men in back were all wearing headphones and listening intently. The older man, Jim Franklin turned to the two younger men and said, “We’ve had this guy under surveillance for two months. He’s suspected of funneling money through several of his business dealings to al Qaeda in Afghanistan. Sounds like he’s trying to bring in some other cell members. You two are lucky to be in on this. It was only supposed to be a routine surveillance training exercise. Find anything on this Sonny Beech?”

  Art Newman looked up from the laptop and replied, “Real name’s Elijah Beech. He’s a local loan shark and is suspected of drug smuggling. Been arrested a number of times, mostly small stuff and never did any time. He has a boat registered in his name, a thirty-two foot Carver, named One-Eyed Jack.”

  Tony Jacobs said, “We should call Deuce. He’s down in the Keys. He can get up here in just a few hours. I know he’d like to be in on this.”

  Franklin said, “Not just yet. He told Associate Deputy Director Smith he’d only be a couple days down there.”

  “Yeah,” Art said, “he’s scattering his dad’s ashes, probably about now. I know he’d like to be in on this, though.”

  “He will be,” the senior agent said. “The whole Caribbean will be our assignment. Right now, I’m just supposed to be showing you boys the finer points in surveillance without being seen. This’s gotta be boring for a couple SEALS like yourselves, though. Don’t worry, there’ll be more than enough action to keep your skills honed with this new team. Mister Smith tells me a lot of our team will come from your ranks, since we have a lot of water to cover.”

  “They’re coming out,” said the driver, watching the office in his side mirror.

  “Okay,” Franklin said. “We know where they’re going. It’s only an hour’s drive and we have ninety minutes to get there and get set up. Wait until they both leave the parking lot, then head to the Rickenbacker. Mister Jacobs, if you’d like to call Mister Livingston and bring him up to speed, that’ll be alright. I need to email Associate Deputy Director Smith the recordings and let him know we’ll continue the surveillance in Miami.”

  26

  Saturday morning, October 29, 2005

  We’d been anchored about four hundred yards northwest of the docks since before the sun came up. There were a couple of sailboats between the docks, and us but we could easily see over their decks, from the bridge. We’d been lucky. Lester was on the bridge of the Carver, on watch. Before we’d arrived, I went down to my stateroom, lifted the bunk, opened the large chest, and retrieved my Night Spirit XT-3 night vision monocular, manufactured by American Technologies Network. It’s a really nice three power spotting scope, that also has infrared capability, but there was plenty of light on the Carver, so the IR wasn’t needed.

  Deuce was impressed, “A Gunny, huh?” he’d asked.

  “Hey, even retired Jarheads have to have their toys,” I’d replied.

  By now it was late morning and Lester was still on the bridge. I’d called Alex and told her it might be a while. We wanted to wait until Lester finished his watch. She said they were fine. They’d go into the marina for breakfast, but could be at the boat ramp within a few minutes of my call. The Hispanic guy boarded with breakfast and coffee about 0630 and went below, leaving something for Lester to eat. We’d eaten sandwiches and some really good chowder that Jimmy had whipped up in the galley. Deuce’s phone chirped and he answered it. “Hey Tony, how’s the training going?” After listening for a couple of minutes, he said, “You’re kidding. Actually, I can be there faster than you can. We’re sitting just a few hundred meters from the docks.” He listened another couple of seconds and said, “Yeah, the docks at Rickenbacker Marina.” After a few more seconds he said, “Okay, keep me posted.”

  Rusty and Jimmy were down in the galley. Deuce had a puzzled look on his face when he said, “That was Tony. He and Art were doing some surveillance training up near Palm Beach for our new employer. Their target is coming here. What are the odds of that?”

  “Pretty slim,” I said, watching through the binoculars as two new men boarded the boat. One was an older, slim man, dressed in a golf shirt and brown slacks. The other looked Middle Eastern and was wearing a nice suit. Earlier, I’d noticed a white van pull in and roll slowly through the parking lot, finally parking near the end. I’d only noticed it because it was in my line of sight, while I was watching the Carver. It struck me as odd that nobody got out of it. “Call Tony back. Ask him if he’s in a white van.”

  “What’s up?” Deuce asked.

  “Here, take a look,” I replied. “Two more guys just joined Lester on the Carver. Look just beyond the Carver, in the parking lot. See that white Chevy van? It pulled in before those two guys arrived. Nobody got out of the van.”

  Deuce pulled out his phone and dialed Tony back. “Tony, are you in a white Chevrolet van, with dark windows?” he asked. I could hear the response, but couldn’t make out what he said.

  “I’m looking right at you, Tony. Which of the two guys that just boarded is the target?” After a few seconds, Deuce said, “Okay, let me talk to Franklin. Franklin, yeah, I’m on the fishing boat, just beyond the two sailboats.” A
fter a minute he replied, “Yeah, he’s the one Smith told you about. He’s good. Never mind why we’re here. Email me the recording.” Then he hung up.

  Turning to me, he said, “Tony and Art are on a surveillance training exercise and their target is a suspected al Qaeda sympathizer. He’s sending me the recording of the meeting between him and the older guy.”

  Just then, Deuce’s phone chirped and he opened it. After punching a few buttons, he looked down toward the cockpit and said, “This goes no further than this bridge.”

  I touched the intercom button and said, “Rusty, you guys stay in the salon for a few minutes, okay.”

  “No problem,” came the reply over the speaker.

  Deuce punched a button on his cell phone and we could hear the fuzzy recording of the conversation that Tony had sent. After it ended, I looked at Deuce and said, “Sounds like this Beech guy is Lester and Baldy’s boss and he’s going to smuggle some terrorists into the country for the Arab guy. I thought Baldy was the boss.”

  “This puts a different light on things, Jesse.”

  “Yeah, it sure does. How do you want to play it?”

  “I need to call my new boss. He’s already on board with you getting some information about what we’re doing. I’ll need to tell him what we’re doing, our suspicions about Lester, and let him decide if we can continue what we have planned. I want Lester, but this has national security implications now. Rusty and Jimmy can’t know about this.”

  He made another call and gave Jason Smith the whole story. It took a good ten minutes of back and forth conversation. Finally, he ended the call and said, “Like it or not Jesse, you’re a part of the team for the time being. Mister Smith is going to set up an account in your name at the Bank of America in Marathon and deposit twenty thousand dollars into it.” He grinned and added, “You’ve been shanghaied.”