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

by Steven Becker

  “What is that noise? I’m trying to work here.”

  He handed her a piece of paper. “Compressor - Just filling the tanks.”

  “Why now, and what’s this?” She pushed the paper aside.

  “You said I would be compensated for this. It’s a bill,” TJ said.

  A wave smashed the hull causing the boat to pitch. “Shouldn’t you be driving?” she asked and grabbed the table with both hands.

  “No worries. Tru’s just taking a bit to get used to the joystick. It’s all about fine tuning the motor skills. Lot of skill transfer from driving a ten ton boat to a game controller. Now could you help me with this?” He pushed the paper back towards her.

  She looked at the sloppy handwriting and figures laid out in an uneven column, thinking the best way to get rid of him was to cooperate. Then she could get back to work. There had been some broken chatter on the VHF she had just picked up in Spanish about men in the water, but there was no way to pinpoint where the signal came from. She adjusted the squelch, but they were too far away to receive a clear signal. Frustrated she looked back at the paper. “What’s all this? Provisioning, air fills?” she asked as she scanned the charges.

  “Got a charter in the morning; can’t fill the tanks at the shop. Heck, I’m, not sure we’ll even make it back,” he said and grabbed the list from her adding ‘missed charter’ to the charges.

  She took it back and continued reading, “This is crazy. Fifty dollars for a twelve pack of beer that I’m not even drinking.”

  “It’s all supply and demand - gotta keep the crew happy. Besides, Tru said to add everything.”

  She was getting angry, but also knew the Agency would pay whatever she submitted without question. Other bills, thinly veiled charges for cocaine and hookers, had passed her desk and the Agency paid them without comment. She took the bill back.

  “Can you stop the noise?”

  He went out to the deck, came back a minute later after shutting off the compressor, the dull rumble of the main engine and the sound of the seas slapping against the hull the only noise. Scary as that had been an hour ago, it was almost calming without the compressor.

  “Happy?” he asked.

  She ignored him, hoping he would go away, but he remained.

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, I couldn’t help but notice you were scanning the VHF.”

  She looked up impatiently, waiting for him to continue.

  “I worked out an algorithm to triangulate the signals and generate a GPS waypoint for the source of the communication. It’s all about getting good numbers in my business. Divers now want more than the tourista dives in the books. With this, I see one of my competitors out on a spot and I hit this button,” he reached over her. “And shazaam. There you go.”

  That was the missing piece she had been working on. She slid over and motioned for him to share the bench seat. Just as he sat, another wave threw them together.

  “What the …”

  “No problem.” He got up. “I’ll put the auto-pilot on. Could be that we just entered the stream.”

  “The what?”

  “The Gulf Stream. You know, the current of water that runs from here to Greenland. It can be a bugger sometimes.” He got up just as another wave slammed against the boat. “Yup, feels like the stream to me.”

  She stared out the window. From her vantage point, the top of the waves were at eye level as she looked out the window, looking like they would roll the boat over. A quick tug confirmed the life vest was securely in place and she went back to work. The boat seemed to change course and the seas evened out. She was able to resume work.

  TJ came back down to the cabin. “Changed the heading. Should be a bit smoother now.”

  “Is he still awake up there?” She could feel the last few days catching up to her.

  “As long as there’s beer, he’ll be awake. When we run out is when you have to keep an eye on him.”

  Not the answer she wanted, she turned the VHF louder and scanned the screen. “This is the signal. Let’s see what your program can do.” She slid the laptop towards him and watched as he put his head down and started typing. She could usually tell how good a programmer was by their body language, and from watching TJ's focus, she knew he was very good. What a waste to dedicate it to gaming, she thought. A minute later he pushed the screen back to her, a satellite image open with a red dot near three piers.

  “Terminal Sierra Maestra,” she read the small type. “That’s the ferry pier. Something’s gone wrong.”

  She started typing and scanning the screen, oblivious to the eyes looking over her shoulder.

  “That’s slicker than owl shit,” he said.

  She needed his cooperation, and if trading off computer tips would garner it, so be it, she thought, and continued to let him read, talking through what she was seeing as the text flew by. “Getting two signals overlapping. One is a search effort for two men that jumped from the ferry, the other is an escort calling ahead that they have two high-ranking Americans in custody and are bringing them in for questioning.”

  She listened to the chatter, processing the pieces as she listened to the radio and watched the screen. This was her wheelhouse and she relaxed, letting her subconscious work, knowing that it would soon spit out the answers.

  “I’m going to need a plan pretty soon. We’re past Key West and should be near Cuban waters in a couple of hours.”

  ***

  Norm sat in the chair waiting for his captors to return and reveal his fate. There were only three outcomes and only one of those was good: a Cuban jail, death, or release. He expected the latter. A CIA operative at his level had things to offer, either information or a trade. He had probably been missed by now, but with the nature of the business it would be days, or even weeks, before anyone bothered to look for him. Only Alicia had any idea what he was up to and she was also deeply embroiled in this mess. He could only hope that she wouldn’t panic. By now he expected her to have tracked him down with her computer skills.

  The door opened and the general entered. “We meet again, Mr. CIA,” he said.

  Norm stared at the pock-marked face and waited.

  “My grandson is missing. He jumped into the harbor with your accomplice.”

  Norm suspected something was wrong when he saw Choy walk into the room. “I got him to Cuba. You can find him,” he said more bravely than he felt.

  “The deal was to hand him over and I would give you the location and time of the bomb.” He leaned over, his face close. “You have failed and now you can watch the ferry blow up and everything you have worked for vanish.”

  “There will be an investigation,” Norm stuttered.

  “In Cuban waters?” Choy waved his hands in dismissal, “They can say what they want. Relations between the countries will be ruined, maybe permanently, but at least long enough for China to strengthen its foothold here.”

  “The US will never allow that,” Norm said.

  “Allow what,” Chow spat. “Trade? We have learned to use your own convictions against you. There is no need to start a war when your real weakness is yourselves. The liberal media in your country will be jumping over each other every time a freighter enters Cuban water bearing Chinese goods to improve the lives of the poor Cubans. Make no mistake. We will own this country.”

  “And what about me?” Norm asked.

  TWENTY SIX

  He was hauled onto the steel deck and bound. From the quick glimpse he got before they blindfolded him he determined that it was a Navy ship and Cuban from the Spanish being spoken around him. He felt Armando’s body next to his as orders were given and they were hauled across the hard deck. The bulkhead slammed into his back as they were dragged inside a cabin and he was alone.

  The sound of a helicopter landing startled him and he realized he had lost track of time and thought he might have fallen asleep. The rotors shut down and the ship was quiet again. Although he was in the dark cabin, he could sen
se men were moving quickly around the boat, and he figured from the changed attitudes that whoever had just landed had something to do with their urgency and his fate. He started to get fidgety. The restraints cut into his wrists with each movement and he was at the point of breaking when the blindfold was ripped from his head. A pock-marked face stared at him.

  “You are?” the man asked.

  Mac looked at the scarred face, the army uniform displaying enough hardware to suggest his rank. There was no reason to lie to the man. “Mac Travis,” he said.

  “Ah, Mac Travis. And how did you come to be in the water?”

  Mac needed to stall and see where this man’s loyalties were. He had figured out enough in the last few days to understand the two factions vying for power. Their means were the same, but their aims were different. “Where is my friend?”

  The man laughed, “Your friend? Is that what he is. We know Armando Cruz, the baseball player and my grandson.”

  “Is he OK?”

  “Mac Travis, yes; he is safe and comfortable and thank you for taking care of him, although dragging him into the harbor with you served no purpose. He speaks highly of you and requested that you not be hurt.”

  His suspicions were confirmed and Mac tried to figure a way out. “What do you intend to do with me then?”

  The man rubbed his chin. “You are also a prize,” he turned, giving an order in Spanish to one of the men behind him.

  ***

  Alicia was frantically typing lines of code, alternately pinging Mac and Norm’s phones. Neither responded and she suspected the batteries were removed or totally dead. Since the men had been captured, the chatter on the radio had become more organized and less urgent. Hoping this meant that they haven’t been found yet, she continued working.

  She had been fighting her conscience as well. The ‘do the right thing’ part of her brain told her to call this in to the Agency, but the ‘it’s your first assignment – don’t screw it up’ part convinced her to wait a little longer. Her sympathetic qualities were intentionally dimmed to make herself analytical, but in this case she was right and taking emotion out of the situation was the best course. She decided that informing the Agency was not going to diffuse a bomb planted on the ferry; it would only muddy the water, especially with Norm missing. Although her trust for him was gone, she still recognized and respected his skill. She was well aware of the assets the Agency had in the area, and knew they were scarce, and none on the island itself. She was the closest and most aware of the situation. Her mother had said to be careful what you wish for, and this was the perfect example.

  Frustrated with her efforts, she left the table and made her way to the flybridge. Trufante and TJ sat side by side on the bench, drinking beer like they were out for a pleasure cruise. She climbed the stainless steel ladder and found it was even rougher on the platform, the little bit of elevation making a huge difference in the sway of the boat. With both hands clinging to the rail, she looked ahead. The view was better than the cabin window and she could see the thin line of land ahead.

  “Is that Cuba?” she asked.

  TJ turned to her. “It is. Time to decide; we’re sitting just outside their waters.”

  ***

  Choy had not shown any willingness to negotiate earlier and Norm paced the room trying to figure a way out. He had picked at the plate of picadillo that sat on the table, pulling the peas out before eating, and wishing the bottled water was rum. He knew the general was trying to appear to be patient, but he suspected he was anxious for a resolution. Having lost control over Choy’s grandson, though, things were different. The door opened and the general entered.

  “It seems my grandson has been found,” he said with a smile.

  “Then I am done here. Tell me where the bomb is and let’s end this before it turns into an international incident.”

  “Not so fast, Mr. CIA. Maybe we should take a walk,” Choy said and extended his arm toward the door.

  Norm didn’t have to be asked twice. ‘Take a walk’ in the intel business meant the general wanted to talk without anyone hearing. He had to suspect, or know firsthand, that the building was monitored. Norm walked out the door and past the guard, the general behind him. They exited the building from a back door and entered a small park-like area surrounded by a high concrete wall.

  The general started to walk and as they reached the far corner of the property, he stopped. “I can trust your discretion?”

  Norm knew what this meant as well; he was about to be asked an off-the-books favor. “Of course,” he replied.

  “We don’t need to go into the inner politics of the island. I trust you know what is going on here,” Choy said.

  “Yes,” Norm said, showing more patience than he felt.

  “But things are not often as they appear.” He started walking. “I am an old man. You see, I came here with my countrymen over fifty years ago, full of dogma, a desire to support the revolution, and thwart the evil United States. Over the years I have become more and more Cuban and less Chinese. I intermarried, out of necessity, and raised my children and grandchildren under the name Cruz, rather than Choy.”

  Norm knew where this was going.

  Choy continued. “The younger generations of my family have blended and assimilated well, to the point where my grandson is a well known Cuban baseball player. But you already know that.” He paused and looked at the ground. “I have seen three brands of communism fail, all in different fashions: the Russians first, with their power-hungry greed; my home country with their nepotism and hatred of the peasants; and my adopted country. I care for these people and call them my own.”

  He stopped and looked at Norm. “I am powerless in this. The Special Forces men that captured your Mac Travis and rescued my grandson were there to plant the bomb on the ferry. I have no reason to believe they did not succeed.”

  Norm saw the opening. “And how can I help you, General?”

  “I am going to release you. Since there is no US embassy here, you are on your own.”

  “You want me to find and diffuse the bomb?” He needed an answer to a question that had been bothering him now that he held the higher ground. “So this was always a bluff.”

  The look on the general’s face said it all.

  “Where are you holding the American?” Norm asked, playing his advantage. He needed to find Travis and close the loop on this.

  “Fair enough. I don’t want any more blood on my hands,” Choy said.

  ***

  Mac felt someone grab him by the shirt, pull him to his feet and push him towards a passageway. He was guided along the narrow corridor and stopped at a cabin close to what he thought, by the increasing engine noise, was the stern. The man pushed him. He tripped on a threshold and was thrown against a steel wall. Something slammed behind him and his hopes sunk another notch when he heard the sound of the hatch being sealed. It took a few minutes for his eyes to acclimate to the dimly lit cabin. It was a plain storage closet barely big enough for him to move. The walls were lined with shelves containing what looked like cleaning supplies, some with Russian labels.

  He sat down and leaned against the steel bulkhead, trying to figure out a plan, but soon realized how futile his situation was. Stuck in the hold of a foreign Navy ship somewhere in Cuba was not anywhere close to a scenario he could salvage, and he started to feel powerless to help Mel. His leg cramped, probably from dehydration, and he twisted to the side to relieve the pain. He heard the sound of something hit the steel deck and worked his hand around to find the objet that must have fallen from his pocket. He thought back to his capture or rescue, not sure if he needed to make the distinction, and could not recall being searched. Dragged dripping wet from the water in only shorts and a T-shirt, it was evident he was weaponless. His hand found the plastic case of the cell phone and he groaned. After being in the water, there was little chance it would work.

  He flipped the screen open and nothing happened, although that didn’t surp
rise him. With nothing else to do, he crawled to the door and searched the bulkhead for a light. His hand found a toggle switch that turned on a single overhead bulb in a metal cage and he surveyed his surroundings. The shelves were lined with cleaning supplies and paper goods. He looked down at the dead phone and cleared a workspace on a shelf, pulled the cover off the back compartment and removed the battery. With a roll of toilet paper, he wiped the terminals clean and placed it to the side. Slowly he scanned the supplies stored on the shelves until he found what looked like glass cleaner. He squirted a small amount on his finger, smelled it and felt it evaporate.

  There were no ingredients listed on the generic looking products, but he suspected the cleaner contained a high volume of isopropyl alcohol. He took the bottle back to the shelf and pried the phone case apart. The toilet paper had a harsh industrial feel to it and though he wouldn’t want to use it for its intended purpose, it was better than its softer counterpart for his use. Working carefully he dried the board inside the phone by dabbing it with a wad of the paper. When he had gotten all the moisture the paper could reach, he picked up the cleaner and sprayed down the phone. It seemed incongruent to his purpose, but he knew rubbing alcohol was a drying agent and would leach the remaining moisture from the circuit board when it evaporated. The unknown was time. There was no telling what other ingredients were in the solution and they would all dry at different rates. It looked dry so he replaced the battery and turned the unit on. It was either going to work or not and he might as well find out now.

  He pressed the power button, but heard activity in the hallway and quickly pushed back his work, set several boxes in front of it and lunged for the light switch. The door opened and he assumed the position on the floor.

  Squinting at the light, he tried to make it appear to his captors that he had been in the dark the whole time. He clenched his jaw when one of the men started sniffing the chemicals still in the air, but the soldier moved out of the way when the pock-faced man came towards him and slammed his head with a leather sap.