“Holy shit,” I heard Jeremy say.
I switched the VHF to the frequency monitored by the 125th Air Wing out of Homestead and snatched the mic. “Inbound Eagles, this is DHS vessel in distress.”
“Hey, Homey,” a voice came back over the speaker, with a decided Texas drawl. “Cowboy here, with Rat Tail on my wing. What can Snake do for you fellas this early in the morning?”
Grinning, I said, “I have a friendly rotary at my six, Cowboy, and an inbound tango not far behind him.”
“Roger that, Homey,” Cowboy said. “I got ’em both on tactical.” Then in fluent Tex-Mex Spanish, he said, “This here’s a pair of Florida Air National Guard F-15 Eagles calling the inbound MiG-29 approaching a civilian watercraft in international waters. If we’re gonna dance, I’m leading, amigo.”
Someone pushed a set of night vision goggles onto my head and I reached up to adjust the fit. Suddenly, two jets shrieked past, just barely above the water. In the gray-green of the night vision, they appeared as nothing more than a streak, leaving a wake of disturbed water behind them. I looked back and saw the two pairs of distinctive twin exhausts set close together. They suddenly glowed white hot as the jet jockeys kicked in the afterburners, and both planes climbed and turned westward, spreading out to engage the approaching MiG, if necessary.
“Looks like I’m not getting my dance card punched, Homey,” Cowboy said. “My dance partner is bugging out.”
The helicopter caught up to us and slowed, matching our speed. “Roger that, Cowboy,” I said into the mic. “Appreciate the help. If you guys get up to Marathon, ask around for the Anchor. I’ll buy you a beer.”
Hearing a coughing sound, I looked down between the seats. Waldrup rose a little and helped Celia Minnich up to a sitting position as she continued to cough up seawater. Waldrup quickly tore his shirt off and wrapped it around the woman’s shoulders.
“Welcome back, Missus Minnich,” he said as she continued coughing. He looked up at me. “You got a first aid kit? A blanket or a towel?”
“Poncho liner in my bag,” I said. “There’s QuickClot and bandages in there, too.”
Digging through my go bag, he pulled the Quick Clot out and pulled Missus Minnich’s blouse down over her shoulder. The bullet had passed through the fleshy part of her shoulder, back to front, leaving a nasty exit wound. As Waldrup poured most of the powder onto the wound, her head went back, brows furrowed in pain. She barely made a sound as Waldrup slapped a bandage on the wound. Then he did the same with the entry wound on the back of her shoulder.
Satisfied, Waldrup took my poncho liner from my go bag and wrapped it around the woman’s shoulders over his shirt. He then helped her get into the second seat and strapped her in. His chest bare, Waldrup knelt and shielded her view into the rear cockpit, where her husband lay dead on the deck.
“Hey,” I heard Binkowski’s voice over the VHF. “You guys looking for a gas station?”
“About eight miles dead ahead,” I said into the mic. “South Anguilla Cay, the first island you’ll see. On the west side, you should find a Zodiac beached near the north end. Drop the tanks in the water near there.”
The nose of the chopper dropped and the sound of the blades changed pitch as it began to move ahead of us. Minutes later, I slowed as I entered the cove, but didn’t drop off plane. We quickly located the gas cans and began pouring the precious fuel into the nearly empty tanks, while Andrew and Jeremy waded to the spot where they’d beached the Zodiac.
In minutes, they dragged the inflatable out to where we floated and pulled the motor, handing it and the gas tank up to Waldrup, who muscled the heavy engine into the forward cabin. While Andrew and Jeremy deflated the boat, Scott and I poured the last gas can into the tank. Andrew lifted the partially folded and rolled-up boat to Waldrup, and he stashed it forward also.
Celia Minnich was awake and breathing normally, watching as the men climbed back aboard before looking up at me. “You’re not with Miguel’s security team.”
“No, ma’am,” I replied quietly.
“Darius?”
I looked into her eyes. With all that she’d been through, and I could only imagine what that was, she still had a steely toughness in her blue eyes.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said. “Your husband didn’t make it.”
The news didn’t seem to have any effect. Most women would have begun sobbing, yelling, or something. She just stared back at me with quiet acceptance. “Miguel said it was you that dove in and saved me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As Waldrup knelt down next to her, and I restarted the engines, she mouthed, “Thank you.”
I only nodded as I slowly backed the boat away from shore and turned northeast toward the gap between here and Bellows Cay to the north.
“Hey, Homey,” a voice on the radio said. “You still there?”
“Heading north,” I replied.
“The CO just contacted me in person,” Cowboy said, obviously impressed. “I don’t know who you guys are, but we’ve been ordered to remain on station with y’all until you get back to wherever you’re going.”
“Tell the colonel he’s welcome at the Anchor, too,” I said and shoved the throttles to the stops, turning through the gap and heading north for Dog Rocks and the turn home.
More details came to light over the following days. Darlene Minnich claimed she’d only wanted to hurt her ex-husband’s business when she’d told the kidnappers about the project he was working on and his travel plans. She’d sworn that they’d agreed to only hold him until he gave up the technology of his company’s CephaloSuit. She’d been arrested and charged with conspiracy to commit murder and kidnapping.
Parsons came down to my island the day after we returned and brought CephaloTech’s COO, Delores Juarez, to extend her thanks for the rescue mission. “Missus Minnich is recovering in the hospital, or she would have come herself,” Delores said.
“I’m sorry we weren’t able to save Mister Minnich,” I said, uncomfortable with the situation. “What’s the future of the company look like without him?”
“Business as usual, Mister McDermitt. Another reason I asked Dave to bring me here. We’ll be exhibiting the new suit in a week, and based on Dave’s description of your background, Missus Minnich asked me to extend an invitation to you for the unveiling. You’ll find the surroundings familiar. It will be at Camp Lejeune. The project leader is anxious to meet you.”
I hesitantly agreed. I like my life here and don’t like to leave. But the idea of seeing just what this technology might mean to my brothers in Force Recon definitely had an appeal, so I accepted. Though I couldn’t be certain, there seemed to be some chemistry going on between Parsons and Delores Juarez.
Marty wasn’t on hand during the takedown, but that didn’t stop Deuce from giving him full credit for organizing the assets to solve the kidnapping and rescue Missus Minnich so quickly. He received a personal commendation from the sheriff, which came directly from Travis’s desk at the Pentagon. Travis had said he would like to be there, but had to fly to Bogotá. After the ceremony, Marty was given three days’ leave and chose to go up and spend it with Kim in Gainesville.
The following Friday, Linda and I were at the Anchor catching up with Rusty and readying the Island Hopper for the flight to North Carolina. Pescador lifted his head from where he was lying beside me and looked toward the driveway. A blue sedan pulled into the parking lot.
Rusty nodded toward it and said, “Who the hell you reckon that might be?”
I looked out the window as the passenger door and both back doors opened. The car had a blue tag with a colonel’s insignia on the bumper. I grinned as a tall young man in a cowboy hat held the door to the bar open for another young man and an older man with salt-and-pepper hair.
The older man stood just inside the door as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Finally, he strode toward the bar and addressed Rusty. “I was told we might find a friend here.”
�
�A bit early for that beer, Cowboy,” I said to the tall Texan.
He turned to where Linda and I sat at the end of the bar, drinking our coffee.
“Glad to see you’re alright, Homey.”
I approached him and extended my hand. “Jesse McDermitt.”
Taking my hand and glancing quickly at Linda, then back to me, he removed his hat and nodded. “Neil Thornton,” he said. “This is Terence ‘Rat Tail’ Lowe and Colonel Joseph ‘Quickdraw’ Quick.”
“Just call me Joe, Jesse,” the colonel said, extending his hand. “I haven’t been behind a stick in a decade.”
Rusty poured coffee for the three pilots and they sat down.
“Mister McDermitt is the one that invited us, Colonel,” Cowboy said.
“The call I got that night,” Joe said after taking a sip of his coffee. “Hey, this is good.”
“Rusty gets it from a little farm in Costa Rica called La Minita.”
Joe raised his mug and nodded to Rusty, then continued. “Anyway, the call I got that night. It came from the top.”
“Secretary of the Air Force?” I asked.
“No,” Joe said. “That’s what got me curious, so I decided to take you up on the offer you made to Major Thornton, here. The call I got was from the secretary’s boss.”
“Oh,” Rusty said, jerking a thumb toward a framed photograph over the bar. “You mean this guy here? He went fishing with Jesse once.” It was a picture of President George Bush in the Oval Office with me, Rusty, and his daughter, Julie, standing around him.
Looking at the picture, Joe smiled. “Yeah, that’d be the guy.” He chuckled and looked at me. “Don’t suppose you can share anything about what you and your fishing party were doing so close to Cuban waters?”
“Sorry, Colonel,” I replied with a wink. “I’m just a guy who likes to fish.”
We talked for a little longer, and Joe said he’d contact my charter office by email to arrange a charter. Though Kim is several hundred miles away, she likes to take care of my website and charters. So, wherever her laptop is, that’s where my charter office is located.
“I hate to cut this short,” I said, nodding out the window to where the Hopper sat at the top of the boat ramp. “But Linda and I were about to take off for North Carolina to spend the weekend.”
Joe glanced out the window and his eyes grew wide. “Is that a Beaver? You ever charter in it?”
“Yeah,” I replied, picking up my flight bag from the deck. “It’s a Beaver. I can take you up to some of the best bass spots in the Everglades, or redfish off Cape Sable.”
The three of them followed me and Linda out to the ramp. They enviously inspected the Hopper, while we loaded and secured our bags in the back.
“I’d like to take you up on that,” Joe said, turning toward me. “Bass fishing from a Beaver sounds like great fun. I used to fly one in Alaska.”
I handed him a business card with my name and Kim’s website on it as I climbed in. “Rates are on the website, Colonel. I’ll even let you fly her.”
The men backed away when I started the big radial engine and eased the Hopper into the water.
The following morning, a car picked me and Linda up at our hotel in Jacksonville, North Carolina. Half an hour later, we pulled into the parking lot at the rifle range on Camp Lejeune. The driver stayed with the car, Pescador sleeping in the front passenger seat.
Celia Minnich was waiting for us as we walked up to crowd of people assembled at the top of the firing range. She was accompanied by Delores Juarez, Dave Parsons, and Miguel Waldrup. Surprisingly, Meg Stewart was with the big security man.
“I’m so glad you came,” Missus Minnich said, her left arm still in a sling.
“Well, from what Parsons told me, I was curious.” I looked around. Bleachers had been set up behind and to either side of the range coach’s tower at the five-hundred-yard line. A lot of high-ranking officers and enlisted sat in most of the stands, along with some influential people in business suits. All of them were looking downrange, as if waiting for something to happen.
“I would have thought y’all would use the infiltration course out at Force Recon,” I said.
“For other kinds of equipment, perhaps,” Celia said. “Our suit is designed to be used in open terrain.”
“Well, it doesn’t get more open than this,” I said, looking downrange at the butts. “When does the exhibit begin?”
Looking at his watch, Waldrup said, “It started thirty-three minutes ago. Come and have a seat. We have a spot on the front row just for you, Gunny.”
Shrugging, I followed them to the bleachers, where we all sat down in front of the top brass of the armed forces. Celia left us there and walked to the podium.
“My apologies for the interruption,” she said, arranging a notepad in front of her. “Some of you may know our special guest, retired Marine Gunnery Sergeant Jesse McDermitt.”
I heard a few oohrah grunts from behind me and a smattering of applause. Celia continued her speech.
“I trust that during the delay, all of you had a chance to scour the field ahead. Major Roberts has been making his way toward us for the last thirty-five minutes and will be making his location known in just a few more minutes.”
She stopped talking and turned to look out over the range. I followed her gaze. Parsons had said it was some kind of high-tech ghillie suit that made the wearer invisible. I studied the terrain, my eyes moving across the grassy area between the five-hundred and three-hundred-yard lines. If the man in the suit was about to reveal his location, I figured he’d be in this area.
There was nothing there but grass. A light wind was blowing from left to right, occasionally flattening the grass, which looked like it should have been mowed before an exhibit like this.
Celia turned back toward the podium, holding a hand to her ear. Glancing at me, she said, “Ladies and gentlemen, my tech people have just informed me that Major Roberts has reached his target. I present to you, Major Frank Roberts, United States Marine Corps, wearing the next generation in infiltration technology, the McDermitt Suit.”
I looked at Celia in surprise, and suddenly the grass in front of me flickered and turned silver. Less than ten feet away, directly in front of me, the silver blanket rose and a man’s face and body appeared. He was grinning from ear to ear. Probably because my mouth was hanging open.
Extending his hand and stepping toward me, he said, “It’s an honor to finally meet you, Gunny.”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. All around, the spectators applauded and some of the higher-ranking generals and admirals rose and went to the podium, all of them asking Celia questions at one time.
Standing up slowly, I couldn’t help but grin as I took the major’s hand. “It was Missus Minnich’s idea,” he said. “It’s a fitting name for the latest in sniper technology.”
The usual pomp and ceremony began, the band playing a motivational tune in the background as caterers quickly covered a table with finger foods and drinks. Most of the attendees crowded around Celia, until Waldrup inserted himself in front of her. The questions became more orderly then as he stood beside her, Meg dwarfed at his side.
Several minutes later, I got Parsons, Celia, and Waldrup off to the side. “I’m honored,” I told her. “Your husband’s technology is going to save a lot of lives.”
“I believe it will,” she said.
Looking at the bigger man, I asked, “Have you told her?”
Celia looked from me to Waldrup and back again, “Told me what?”
“No,” Miguel said, “I figured that should come from you if it came from anyone.”
I turned toward the car we’d arrived in and whistled loudly. The driver opened the front door, and Pescador stepped out of the car and stretched. For the last ten days, since we’d returned to the Anchor after bringing the yacht in, Pescador had been in a real funk. Listless and lazy, he had barely eaten in days. Seeing me, he trotted toward us, oblivious to the crowd
of people behind us, trusting that if I was okay with it, he was, too.
Suddenly, the big dog stopped a few feet away and his eyes fell on Celia. She gasped, her good hand going to her mouth as her eyes filled. “Nadador?”
The big dog literally melted down right there on the spot, trotting to her and rolling on the ground at her feet, whimpering.
“How? What?” Celia stammered.
Though I hated even thinking about it, this was the right thing to do and had been the only thing on my mind for days.
“I found him up in the back country north of Big Pine Key, a day after Hurricane Wilma. I’ve been calling him Pescador.”
Celia fell to her knees as Pescador writhed and rolled. She scratched his belly for a moment, then he stood up, his heavy rudder-like tail wagging his whole body.
“I thought he’d drowned,” Celia said, looking up and sobbing.
Linda and I waited around for a few more minutes, then we said our goodbyes and started toward the car. My heart was torn. Pescador and I had become more than friends.
“It’s the right thing to do,” Linda said, taking my hand and leaning her head on my shoulder.
I heard him bark and turned around. He came trotting toward me, his tail almost taking him off his feet. When he got to us, he sat down in front of me and barked once.
“No, buddy,” I said, my voice catching a little. “You need to stay here and take care of Celia.”
As if he could understand what I was saying, he looked back to where she stood with the others. When he looked back, I knew that he understood.
Kneeling, I gave him a farewell scratch behind both ears and said, “Go on, boy. You’re home now.”
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Fallen Tide: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 8) Page 19