Chapter 39
Trufante had the wheel. He leaned against the seat, taking weight off his injured leg. The boat was making ten knots, pitching forward with each wave. Spray drenched the deck as the bow rose and fell. It was only two foot seas, but driven by the wind, they were whitecaps and stacked up close together. The seas were following now, the waves running with the boat. It would be much worse coming into them on the way back. Wood was below, laid out in a bunk. Sue and Mel sat at his side.
Mel watched his face as his brow furrowed with every bump.
“By the dawns early light, who taught him how to run a boat?” Wood muttered.
“Easy, Dad, it’s pretty messy out there. We’ll be at your place in a few minutes.”
“Tell him to bring her into the lee of the island. That’s the side the bomb is on, and out of the wind. Let me know when we get there.” He rolled over, burying his face in the cushion.
Sue motioned for Mel to come out onto the deck. Once outside, she raised her voice to be heard over the engines and wind. “He can’t take much more of this. Even if those staples hold, there’s no telling whether there’s more internal damage.”
“There’s not much we can do until we get there. Once we get the bomb onboard, we can just park him out there. Probably where he wants to be anyway.”
“If you can talk him into it, I’ll call in sick and stay out with him. He shouldn’t be alone.”
“Thanks.” Mel looked down at the text message just coming into her phone. She moved over to the helm and showed it to Trufante.
He squinted at the small screen and smaller letters, her hand bouncing with the rhythm of the boat. “If we were sitting in a bar on land I couldn’t make that out. You’ll have to read it to me.”
“Just says to meet Mac at waypoint 59 in an hour. These must be the coordinates.” She texted back.
“Wonder what’s going on out there.” Trufante turned on the chart plotter and waited for the unit to acquire a signal. An hourglass spun on the screen as the unit calculated it’s position from the satellites it used to navigate. The display changed to a menu, and he went to the waypoint view and scrolled to 59. An arrow came up on the chart plotter, showing the location of the waypoint overlaid on a chart. “That’s where we found that thing,” he said slowly. “Wonder what he’s up to?”
“There’s Dad’s place.” Mel pointed to the island in the distance. “He said to go around to the lee side of it.”
“Yeah, makes sense. That’s where we left the bomb. I’m going to have to go in a big loop to miss the sandbars. It’s low tide now, gonna take a few.”
“Let me know when. I’m going to look in on him.”
Sue was by his side when Mel came over next to her. “How’s that leg holding up?”
“Hurts a bit, but I’ll live.” He grinned at her. “We get back from this, I’ll have to get a nurse to help me out.”
She smacked his arm. “So what’s really going on here? I’ve been picking up bits and pieces about a bomb. What are you guys really into?”
Trufante put his arm around her. “Well little lady, it kinda goes like this …”
***
No one had to tell Wood when they pulled around the island. The seas went to glass, the wind buffered by the island. The boat coasted smoothly through the water. He gained his feet and fought his way up the ladder one rung at a time, pausing between each step.
“Actually made it without wrecking. Pull her up onto that sand bar there.” He pointed toward the shore. The sand bar was about fifty feet off the beach. “We can ground her. By the time we’re done, the tide should float us back off.”
Trufante slowly approached the sandbar, nudging the bow, then gunning the engine slightly to ground the boat. The scar left by the boat that crashed was still visible as he stopped. “What’s your plan now? We’re two cripples and two women. How’re we gonna get that thing ought’a there?”
“No worries, it ain’t a bomb without the guts. Should have done this before, and never got the Navy involved. I’m gonna try and pull the trigger mechanism and then see if I can get the warhead out of it. Never did it myself, but I used to watch the ordnancemen all the time.”
“That’s a ballsy maneuver. You sure you know what you’re doing? I got a lot more beer to drink before I’m ready to meet my maker.”
“Just get those girls to pull the paddleboard down. You stay here with the boat. I’ll grab some tools and the girls can get me in there. I’ll give it my best shot. No telling what the inside of that thing looks like after sitting in salt water for so long - could be nothing left.”
“That’s good, because Mac texted Mel and wants us to meet him at the spot where we pulled this up.”
“Goddam it to hell. Fifty years those bombs have sat down there undiscovered. Now they’re both out.”
***
The paddleboard moved easily through the water. Wood lay prone, Mel on one side, Sue on the other, guiding it. They reached the shore and helped Wood off the board. Mel and Sue supported him as they made their way towards the bomb. They both glanced at the wrecked boat before moving to the bomb. Camouflage pulled back, the bomb shone dimly in the sun. Wood got down on his knees, removed a screwdriver from the box they had brought from the boat and started to remove the access panel. The screws were bound — years or saltwater had corroded them just enough to weld them to the metal.
“Can you find the house from here?” he asked Mel.
She gave him the look only a daughter can give her father. “What do you need?”
“In the top drawer of the tool cabinet is a set of easy outs. They look like little spiral things. Grab them, and there’s a battery drill right by it. Better get both batteries.”
Mel headed toward the house to retrieve the tools. Wood tried to get comfortable, his back against the bomb.
Chapter 40
Doans was pretty much soaked by now, the low freeboard of the boat offering little protection from the spray. Next time he’d have to steal a better boat. No wonder that couple fought like that with this piece of crap. The salt water hit his face again as he pulled back on the throttle. He slowed down, surveying the broken water. It was much harder to see the bottom features when it was this choppy. He was halfway to the island, an area he knew was loaded with obstructions. On a typical Keys day, you could see the bottom clearly, almost watch the turtle grass swaying in the gentle current like wheat in a breeze. The sandbars and shoals stood out in stark contrast to the sandy bottom. Not today, though. The slate grey water was unreadable.
He took his handheld GPS from his pocket and wiped off the broken screen with his shirt tail. Hoping it still worked after the crash, he waited for it to start up. It was hard to read through the cracked plastic. The screen showed his progress in real time. Ahead was the mark he had put in before running aground and hitting the old man. He navigated toward it, trying to remember where the shoals were.
His mind was drifting when a wave took the boat on the beam. He looked around and saw another, larger wave - the wake from the lobster boat, coming at him. The next wave caught him before he could correct course, knocking him to the deck. He lay there for a moment waiting for his vision to clear. As he turned to get up he saw a waterproof box secured in the open compartment below the steering wheel. His injuries forgotten he pulled the box out, got to his feet and set it on the seat. The latches opened, he removed the revolver from the foam surrounding it. The barrel spun in his hand revealing six bullets. Thank God for rednecks he thought as he placed the gun in his waistband.
He flexed his hands trying, to get the circulation back. The white knuckle ride had left them numb. He approached the island after a half hour beating. The motor pivoted on its mount, the propeller leaving the water as it lifted clear of any obstructions. He slid up to the piling by the beach. It was low tide, but the boat didn’t drag the bottom. He found a line in the forward compartment and tied off. Already soaked, he didn’t mind hopping over the side of the b
oat into the water. Once on dry land, he headed up the path.
The clearing was empty when he reached the house. Several trails led off in different directions, and he was forced to pick one. Dead reckoning was never one of his talents. The palm fronds in front of him rattled and moved in a different direction than the wind, as if an animal was about to cross his path. He ignored the disturbance and continued on.
The brush thinned and the clearing became visible. He saw the old man and a younger woman leaning against the bomb. The wreck of his rental boat got no reaction as he looked at Mac’s boat grounded on a sand bar fifty feet from the beach. He swept a large pond frond aside and stepped into the clearing, gun drawn. Wood and Sue froze focussed on his gun.
“Aren’t you the son of a bitch that ran me over?” Wood said, surprised.
“You look okay to me, old man. You got this pretty girl keeping you company?” He leered at Sue. “Looks like you’re doing okay from here.”
“I can only imagine why you’re here and how you’re mixed up in all this.”
***
Gillum peered through the bouncing binoculars, trying to piece together what he saw on the island. The Sheriff’s Contender was downwind of Mac’s boat and out of sight, the velocity and direction of the wind masking their engine noise. From their position, it looked like there were three people on the beach, one holding a gun on the others. He handed the binoculars to the deputy.
“Have a look through these, and tell me what you’re seeing out there.”
The deputy lifted the binoculars and gazed at the island for a moment. “Looks like the guy we’re supposed to be watching out for. The boat he stole must be on the other side of the island.”
Gillum directed the pilot to move the boat around the point. When they got there, one of the crewmen threw the anchor as far as he could onto the beach. He started recovering line, pulling the boat toward the island. Gillum and the two crewmen hopped over the side and headed toward the beach. They drew their guns as they approached the clearing.
“Put that gun down and step over with the others.” Gillum entered the clearing first, the two crewmen behind him.
The guy with the gun looked behind him. Seeing he was outnumbered and outgunned, he dropped his gun to the sand, and watched as Gillum picked it up. He moved over by the bomb, awaiting his fate, and trying to keep his distance from Wood.
Gillum chuckled. “Well, Wood, it’s been a long time since the two of us were together with this baby.”
“Haven’t you and Ward caused enough trouble, leaving these bombs out for whoever to find? You two should have manned up and reported it back when it happened. What do you plan on doing?”
“That wouldn’t be any of your business.” He moved over and spoke quietly to the two crewmen. One of them took off in the direction of the sheriff’s boat. “Let’s all get comfortable, now.”
***
The crewman reached the sheriff’s boat, pulled the anchor out of the sand, and pushed the boat off. He hopped over the gunwale and directed the deputy to head off in the direction of Mac’s boat. They quickly crossed the distance between the two boats. A hundred feet away, the deputy turned on his lights and signaled over the bullhorn for any one aboard to show themselves.
A tall man came out of the wheelhouse, hands over his head. The Navy man vaulted the distance between the two boats. He looked around and reached for a piece of line coiled up on the deck. He quickly turned his prisoner around and bound his hands behind his back. At the helm, he gave a short blast on the horn, signaling to the men on the beach that the boat was in his control.
“Over the side,” he motioned with the gun to his prisoner.
It took several minutes for both men to cross the knee-deep water. It was already several inches higher with the tide coming in. They reached the beach and waited for instructions.
Chapter 41
The wind got hold of the fourteen foot race board and spun Mac around. Still feeling the effects of the gas fumes he struggled with the board. Finally he regained control of the paddle board and carried it to the dock. There were three boards in the rack, just inside the garage door. The fourteen footer was the least stable, but the best for what he had in mind. Fortunately, the wind would be at his back once he got under the Seven Mile Bridge. Until then, it would be bad. But paddling the nine miles downwind was like a typical race for him - something he trained for.
He blew into the BC, partially inflating it to use as a cushion for the small pony scuba tank against the thin fiberglass coating of the board. The skinny board was rigged with tie downs for gear on the bow and stern. He used these to secure the BC and tank. Worried about putting that kind of weight forward, but figuring it was better to keep an eye on it than have it behind him and possibly lose it, he let it go and set the lighter dive bag behind him. He would just have to adjust his stance to balance the weight. A weight belt with eight pounds of lead attached hung from a hook. He strapped on the belt and headed out into the water.
As he started to paddle, the board, usually responsive, began having a hard time with the extra weight and wind. It felt like a truck, not a sleek racing machine. He moved backward on the board, trying to get the nose out of the water. The first half mile was going to be the hard part. Paddling into a twenty knot wind was not for the faint of heart. After he got into the channel, the wind would start moving to his back, pushing him forward.
Several hard minutes later he cleared the end of the canal, turning right into the main channel, the wind at his side now. Counting strokes, trying to take his mind off the struggle, he didn’t see the larger wave until it took the board. The next thing he knew, he was in the water, weight belt dragging him under. The leash held the board close, thank God, and he heaved his body back on and regained his feet. But the board had drifted dangerously close to the seawall. After what felt like a thousand strokes on his right side he regained the channel, the wind finally shifting to his back. He started taking longer and deeper strokes, timing them to catch the waves running behind him, and surfing the crests. The wind and seas behind him, he could chew up miles. Where he struggled to go one mph into the wind, he was cruising at close to nine mph now. He fell into an easy rhythm, several quick strokes to get on the crest of the wave, then a few long slow strokes as the wave played itself out. Rinse and repeat. The Seven Mile Bridge faded behind him as he cruised toward the ledge.
There was no one in sight, which was a good sign. The trap buoys guided him to the right spot. He reached the closest, lay down on the board, and grabbed the line. The board swung around, water pouring over the nose, drenching him. He reached down and removed the leash from his ankle, securing the trap line to it instead. The board swung back with the current. He was effectively anchored now.
Waves bounced the tank against the board and he cringed. Race boards weren’t durable enough to take a beating like this; they were made to be light, not durable. The tank would break the fiberglass coat and allow water to saturate the foam inside if he wasn’t more careful. He decided it would be best to get in the water and start looking, take some weight off the board at least. The sound of his boat propeller's cavitation would be audible underwater and alert him when Mel arrived.
He tried to reconcile himself to the feeling that he might be alone in this as he straddled the board, legs in the water. No idea where Mel, Wood or Trufante were or if they had even gotten his message. He hoped they would be here shortly, but was prepared to find the other bomb by himself. With no plan what to do after, just a gut instinct that this had to be done, he pulled the tank and BC out of the restraints, and screwed on the regulator. Air turned on, he inflated the BC and set it in the water, clipping it to the buoy line with a carabiner attached to the vest. Fins and mask adjusted, he slid off the board and into the water. The BC strapped to his back, he held the inflator above his head, released the air from the bladder, and quickly sank to the bottom.
***
The rough seas had an effect on
the visibility - only ten feet now. He automatically checked his gauges, noting air pressure and depth. His time at this depth was limited only by his air supply. Although the pony tank was considerably smaller than a standard-size scuba tank, the air would still last an hour, and it wasn’t deep enough to worry about decompression. The ledge slid past him as he explored the reef, looking for any sign of metal, straight lines or a man-made shape. Working his way along its length, he passed the spot where he found the first bomb, an indentation still visible in the sand.
A small hump in the sand caught his attention toward the end of the ledge. If he hadn’t recovered the first bomb and seen its size and shape, he would have passed the form right by. Air flowed from his regulator as he took it from his mouth and pointed it toward the sand. For once, he wished for an octopus. The extra regulator, used for buddy breathing in emergencies, would allow him to breathe while he was using this regulator to clear the sand. Instead, he alternated the one regulator between his mouth and the sand, blowing the firmament from around the object. His teeth gripped the rubber mouthpiece as he breathed and waited for the sediment to settle before moving on. He’d been at it for twenty minutes, and was starting to worry about Mel and Wood and whether they were coming at all. He would need them — and his boat — if he found a second bomb. Another breath and he would surface and scope it out up top. He held the next breath, allowing small bubbles to escape from his mouth. He removed the regulator, pointing it at the ground again. Sand shifted as the air swooshed out, changing the contour of the bottom. Blinded by the sediment, Mac moved his hand along the disturbed sand and hit something smooth.
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