Wood's Harbor: Action & Sea Adventure in the Florida Keys (Mac Travis Adventures Book 5)

by Steven Becker

  He turned to port and followed the channel running parallel to land. The other boat was still visible further out against the backdrop of Fleming Key. “Top off the gas tank,” he ordered Trufante, wanting the advantage of the protected waters and slower speed for the operation. The smell of gas wafted towards him as Trufante struggled with the heavy containers. He looked back and slowed to idle speed, giving Trufante a better chance of pouring the gas into the small hole, just large enough for the nozzle of a gas pump. The Cajun emptied the first can, tossed it aside, and started dumping the fuel from the second. Mac calculated the range of the boat while Trufante filled the tanks. With the additional twenty gallons, he figured he had another fifty miles, maybe more. If he could keep the engines in their comfort zone, they would have a range of over a hundred miles. Trufante tossed the second tank to the deck.

  The other boat was around the tip of Fleming Key and out of sight. Mac inched the throttles forward. He didn’t want to go too fast and spook the driver. There was only one way to go around the island and he would have eyes on him before long. There were several options once they reached the other side, but he took his time, confident the other boat would still be visible until they reached Wisteria Key and Tank Island where the deep-water channels ran from the Key West Bight. If he intended on heading east into the back country, he would likely turn into the Northwest Passage, rather than risk the unmarked waters through the flats in the dark. If he was heading further west, or around Key West to the Atlantic side, he would make his move there as well.

  Mac pushed the throttles, waited for the boat to settle on plane and held the RPM’s just under three thousand, the most efficient speed for the engines. At this speed he calculated they would burn around eight gallons of fuel an hour. An increase to four thousand and the consumption would be twelve gallons. The other boat was also on plane and Mac knew he needed to close the distance before he turned. The Scout crept closer to its prey. Wisteria Key passed on the port side and Tank Island came into view just ahead. The other boat was running full out, but Mac relaxed as the Scout, with its twin engines, easily closed the gap on the single outboard. He waited for the rental boat to make its move and followed after it turned to the West around Tank Island.

  “What the hell?” Trufante said.

  The direction concerned him. A lot of empty water and finally Cuba lay in along the course the boat was heading, but Mac knew the small rental boat was no match for the waves and current of the Gulf Stream it would have to cross before reaching Cuba – if that was its destination. He was more than likely headed to one of the islands extending from Key West towards the Dry Tortugas. What worried him was the geography of the area. Dawn would break soon, but even in the sunlight he would need electronics to navigate the shallows and shoals.

  “Must be meeting someone,” Mac answered. He watched the white light mounted to the T-top of the rental boat. He hit his navigation light switch and turned off his own lights. The white anchor light had been lost at the bridge, but the red and green bow lights would be visible from miles away if the man looked back. This was a desolate area, popular with fishermen and snorkelers during the day. At night they were the only boats on the water. He backed off the throttles again, bringing the boat to the slowest speed it would stay on plane. Even without navigation lights, moonlight would be enough to illuminate the boat at this range. He worked the throttle to maintain the largest gap he could and still see the white anchor light on top of the other boat.

  ***

  Norm looked back again. He was trained to watch for vehicles tailing him. Boats were much easier to spot. He watched the outline behind him. It had been keeping its distance, but after seeing the man on the dock, he was under no illusions that he was unobserved. There was no way to outrun the larger boat, but he knew where he was going and the other boat would be forced to stay well back to avoid being seen. This was not his first rodeo and he smiled at the prospect of the chase. He glanced down at the chart-plotter that showed a small shape indicating his boat. He glanced at his phone on the dashboard; the GPS app showed distance to the waypoint ticking down and the boat’s approach to the Marquesses, a small volcanic atoll where the rendezvous was to take place. It was harder to navigate with both devices rather than program the location into the rental boats unit, but tradecraft dictated caution.

  The screen showed his location just off Man Key. Ballast, Woman, and Boca Grande Keys lay ahead, and then a gap of about six miles before the Marquesses. He needed to lose the boat before they reached the last stretch of open water. The chart enlarged, showing more detail of the area and he zoomed in, re-centering the display. Boca Grande Key, the largest and last land before deeper water, had a marked channel and made a good place for a clandestine meeting. From the distance to waypoint number, he estimated he would reach the channel just before sunrise. He focused on the chart plotter again, trying to plan a route that would lure the chase boat into thinking his destination was the back side of Boca Grande. The other boat would be able to use their electronics to follow, but they would be forced to declare themselves if they did; the area was too close to avoid visual contact. Whoever was running the other boat would have no idea if he was armed, where he was going or why. He doubted they would take the chance of a confrontation.

  He glanced at the chart-plotter and focused on the cut in front of Ballast Key. From the distance the other boat was following, he hoped they would think he was entering the larger Boca Grande channel instead. Another glance behind and he saw the boat in the moonlight. They were running without lights now, clearly showing their intention to remain unseen. He laughed to himself at the amateurish move. Even the muted tones of the red and green running lights would obscure the occupants of the boat to anyone looking back on them.

  At the entrance to the channel, he cut the wheel to starboard. It was his turn to go dark and he flipped off the navigation lights. He wanted the other boat to think he was blocked from view by the land mass of Boca Grande Key. He stared at the plotter, relying on the unit to show his progress as the unmarked channel would be invisible in the dark. Just past the Key he made a quick turn to port and pushed the throttle all the way down. This was his chance to escape. The boat sped past Woman Key, his eyes were glued to the depth finder. He was confident he had lost the other boat, but now the shallow water was a problem. The depth fluctuated between two and five feet, but the boat moved forward.

  Ten tense minutes later, he rounded the back of Boca Grande Key and hit the deep channel. He had seen no sign of the other boat. If they were still following, he would appear to be coming from a different direction. The plotter showed him in open water. He looked at the darkness behind him. He was alone.

  ***

  Mac pushed the throttles down hard as the boat in front turned. Without the aid of electronics, he had no choice but to follow it into the shallows. He’d been through here several times and knew the general area, but needed the plotter and depth finder to navigate the unmarked channels. The other boat was out of sight, probably behind the island in front of him. He cut the wheel and entered what he hoped was the correct channel. Suddenly he was thrown forward and lost his balance. The boat brushed the bottom again and he reached for the throttles, pulling them back hard to keep from digging any deeper. There was an old saying in boating that if you were going to hit something, hit it slow.

  The boat slowed, but as it came off plane, it sank deeper into the water and stuck.

  “Damn it,” he muttered. The chase was over. It would be hours before the tide brought enough water to lift them off the bottom.

  ***

  Norm slowed at the cut leading into Mooney Harbor in the center of the Marquesas Keys. White mast lights and the faint outlines of several boats anchored in the protected water were just visible. He entered the channel and steered towards the shore of the largest island following its jagged shape, using the plotter to keep him in deep water until he reached the tip. The GPS beeped. He looked up and saw a large tra
wler anchored several hundred yards ahead. Breathing deeply, he tried to settle his mind after the chase. He would need all his wits for this meeting.

  At idle speed he closed the distance and saw the outline of three figures on the other boat. He thought two looked like they were uniformed and he tensed as the boats came together. Norm caught the line one of the men tossed to him and tied it to a cleat. The boats coasted to within a few feet and the other man tossed a bumper over the side and pulled them together. Norm got a good look at the men. He was right about the uniforms, but his heart missed a beat - they were Cuban.

  He had a quick moment of panic where he wanted to release the line and get out of there. Despite the risk, when the third man rose, his curiosity piqued. The figure, still in the shadow of the cabin, was also in uniform, his pock-marked face was illuminated when he pulled on his cigar.

  “Generalissimo,” Norm called across the boats.

  SEVEN

  Another fifteen minutes and they would have been able to see the muck they were stuck in, Mac thought as he stared at the dark brown bottom surrounding them. The sun’s rays pierced the surface now and clearly showed the bottom.

  “Now what we gonna do?” Trufante asked.

  Mac looked over at the Cajun, sitting on the deck as if he were ready for a nap. “What do you think we’re going to do. I’m not waiting on the tide.” He looked around the boat again. The turtle grass waving in the current below them was not a good sign. Had they grounded in sand, the water would have been a light, almost clear green and they could have pushed the boat off the harder bottom. Turtle grass meant mud, the kind of bottom that would trap you to the knee like quicksand and create a powerful suction on the hull.

  “Can you hold off on the nap for a while; I know you’ve had a few rough days with the party and all, but I need you to keep watch. That rental boat’s range is limited. I expect he’ll come back this way,” Mac said.

  Trufante had propped himself up on the gunwale, his head resting in his arms. He looked like he’d be asleep in minutes.

  Mac shielded his eyes, squinted into the rising sun, and cursed his luck. The CIA man was out there somewhere, and if he could figure out what he was doing, it might give him the leverage he needed to clear his name and help Mel. He inspected the water around the stuck hull, anxious to free the boat before the man returned. Although they had lost him, the channel had an unimpeded view of any boats passing by. The wind was down, the seas calm, and the tourists were already starting to take advantage of another beautiful day in paradise. With the additional boat traffic, it wouldn’t be nearly as hard or risky to follow him.

  He went forward, opened the hatch where the anchor was stored, and grinned at the Fortress anchor in the hold. The rest of the boat had been stripped down by the chop shop, even life jackets and flares, the rudimentary safety equipment the Coast Guard required had been removed. Finding an anchor at all was a stroke of luck, and especially the Fortress; the lightweight aluminum anchor would bury in the mud, unlike the grapnels many Keys boats used for anchors. The two empty gas cans were the only other objects he had to work with. He started forming a plan.

  “Hey. Wake up!” he called to Trufante, whose head rolled to the side.

  He turned a bloodshot eye to Mac. “Yo.”

  “In the water,” Mac ordered.

  “In that crap?” Trufante responded slowly and looked over the side.

  Mac glared back and waited while Trufante slowly gained his feet and stripped off his shirt. “Take the empty cans with you.”

  Trufante leapt in the water, a can in each hand. Mac directed him to set one under each side, just behind the V shaped bow where the hull flattened out. The boat would need to come off backwards and he wanted the lift from the tanks to break the suction of the mud. He came close to jumping in to help, but Trufante finally managed to wrestle the buoyant tanks under the boat. Their effect was unnoticeable.

  The Cajun looked back up at him, panting from the exertion. “Ain’t doin’ squat.”

  Mac ignored him and went forward to the anchor compartment where he lifted the lightweight anchor from the hold and set the ten feet of chain gently on the deck.

  “Now swim this out past the stern.”

  He started tossing line towards Trufante who waded towards him and took the anchor. The lanky figure lunged through the mud in a kind of half-swim half-walk. He looked like he was tiptoeing, fighting hard to escape the embrace of the muck. With a standard anchor, he would have sunk, but with the lightweight Fortress over his shoulder he moved past the boat. Mac paid out the line until it reached the bitter end and called for Trufante to drop the anchor. It disappeared into the muck and he secured the line to a cleat while Trufante swam back to the boat. Mac waited until he was back aboard before he started pulling on the rope in quick, hard jerks to set the flukes. The line came tight and, satisfied it was secure, he called for Trufante. The two men strained to pull the boat free from the grasp of the mud. With all they had, they heaved on the line, but to no avail. Mac had hoped the empty gas tanks would allow the boat to slide and their buoyancy would help break the suction but the hull remained glued to the bottom.

  “You got to check the cans again. Make sure they aren’t stuck too.”

  Trufante looked done, but he needed him in the water.

  “Do this and I’ll let you sleep on the way back.”

  Mac watched as Trufante breathed in several breaths and then disappeared into the dark water. He made several trips down before he climbed back aboard. “Should be good now.”

  Mac went to the helm and pushed the button to raise the engines. He wanted to make sure they were clear of the water. He thought about using their power to help pull them off, but decided against it. Pulling by hand, although harder, let him feel their progress. One burst from the engines could grind them deeper into the mud - deep enough that even the tide couldn’t help.

  Both men were standing in the cockpit with the line in their hands.

  “Pull,” Mac called out, and their muscles stained as they struggled to gain line. They tried twice more without bringing in even an inch. What they needed was mechanical advantage and Mac looked around the bare boat for anything that could help. A block and tackle were the tools he needed, but the boat didn’t even have a windlass for the anchor. He looked at the engines, the stainless steel blades of the propellers glistening in the sun, and had an idea.

  He took the line from the cleat and brought the end over to the port engine. If they’d had a single engine, he never would have tried this, but with two, it was worth the risk. They could sacrifice one if it got them out of the mud. He took the line, wrapped it around the propeller shaft and went to the helm, where he lowered the engine until the intake was barely submerged. The engine started and he called for Trufante to stay clear of the line. With the lightest touch he had, he pushed the throttle forward. The propeller shaft spun, but didn’t grab. Mac goosed the throttle and the motor started to stall as the line caught. As it came tight he pushed harder. Drops of water flew from the fibers of the rope, the tension increasing until finally, the boat jerked. He breathed deeply and pushed a little further.

  “Shit, its working,” Trufante yelled.

  Mac ignored him. They were not free yet. He checked the propeller and saw the line neatly wound around the shaft. As long as it didn’t start to wrap on the blades, he could pull more. Two things could happen if the line caught the blades, and both were bad. Either the line would be sliced by the sharp propeller or the blade would be bent, disabling the entire engine.

  “Watch the line on the blades,” he called to Trufante. Once more he pushed the throttle and the line jerked. He pursed his lips and gave it a little more power. The engine sounded like it was ready to stall again. He was just about to back off when the boat shifted. With a quick push forward, it moved again. Finally the gas cans had done their job and were floating in front of the boat. He shut down the port engine, lowered and started the starboard one, and pull
ed the throttle back into reverse.

  “Take in the slack,” he said to Trufante, who stood behind him watching. He didn’t want the line stretched behind the boat to entangle the other propeller.

  The boat slid backwards as Trufante pulled in the line.

  “Secure it,” Mac ordered.

  Trufante went forward and tied off the anchor. The boat swung around with the current, unimpeded by the bottom. Mac went back examining the shaft as the line unwrapped from the port engine. It looked OK, but he wouldn’t know for sure until he ran it. Even the slightest deformity would cause the shaft to spin out of true and trash the lower unit.

  ***

  Norm accepted the cigar and sat in the deck chair next to the small man, whose pockmarked face was visible even with the cover of his beard.

  “You have something that belongs to me?” the general asked in a tone of voice that told Norm he already knew the answer.

  A cloud of smoke hid Norm’s face as he thought about the implications of what the man said. He had been at this game for years and had many things that belonged to many people; specific to Cuba was the string of baseball players he had smuggled out of the island. Surprised his operation had caught the attention of a high ranking official, especially one of the old guard like General Choy, he looked blankly at the man. For years he had been smuggling younger players with promise, taking a chance on their talent. He carefully avoided the big-time players that would attract the attention of the regime. Once they were in the US, his business plan was to falsify the players’ identities and get them minor league tryouts. About half made it; the ones that did owed him ten percent of their earnings for life. Over the years he had many wash out, but a few big hits had enlarged his offshore bank account.