Steady As She Goes: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 21)

by Wayne Stinnett

  “I’m hearing a whale, Captain,” the sonar man said. “Dead ahead, one thousand meters, near the surface.”

  “Idle engines, helm,” I ordered, scanning the water ahead. “Transmissions to neutral.”

  “Neutral idle, aye,” the helmsman replied.

  “What kind of whale, Bernie?” I asked.

  He looked at me and put his right hand to his headphone, listening for a moment. “A blue whale, sir. Mother and young calf.”

  “Heading?”

  “Stationary, Captain. Probably nursing. It’s very early in the year.”

  “Active sonar,” I ordered. “Give her one ping to let her know we’re here.”

  “One ping active,” Bernie said. There was an audible sound from his console. “Ping sent.”

  Although we could hear other ships through the sophisticated passive sonar, Ambrosia herself was much quieter. Instead of noisy, cavitating propellors, she used water jets. And the engine room was extremely well insulated from the rest of the ship, to cut down on interior noise while underway. She’d also had a good bit of sound-deadening insulation added to the inside of the hull, as well. There was a chance the whale hadn’t yet heard us and I didn’t want to frighten her.

  Ahead, I saw a disturbance in the calm water, and then she appeared, surfacing for a breath with her calf as the two swam away toward the north. I recognized the blow as that of a blue whale, and from the swirl of her tail to her head, she was probably eighty or ninety feet long.

  “Good ear, Bernie,” I said. “A blue about eighty feet with what looks like a newborn calf. Let me know when they’re clear of our course. Ahead slow, helm.”

  “Ahead slow,” Kris repeated.

  Kris and Bernie had joined Ambrosia’s crew just a few months before I did in January. They’d both come from one of Armstrong Research’s true oil exploration ships.

  Though oil exploration was the stated goal of the company, it was known by a few people in law enforcement and government intelligence agencies to be much more than that. Finding oil helped fund Armstrong’s other projects.

  “Clear and moving away,” Bernie reported.

  “Resume course and speed,” I said.

  “Resuming course and speed, Captain,” Kris replied.

  For the next half hour, nothing at all happened. Ambrosia rode quietly and steadily eastward. Only the stars and the water occupied my view. It was no wonder that early man saw pictures in the stars at night. When they were the only thing to see, they seemed to come alive.

  Matt returned to the bridge and headed to the coffeemaker to pour himself a mug.

  “Nothing to report,” I told him. “Except a whale in our way.”

  “Ah, that explains our slowing down, yeah? Emmets are always gettin’ in the bleddy way.”

  I’d heard him use the term before and had asked him about it. An emmet was Cornish slang for a tourist or newcomer.

  I doubted if many on board had even noticed that we’d slowed. But like me, Matt was very attuned to the ship’s movement, even if there were no sound.

  “I met Mr. Santiago,” Matt said. “Seems a proper bloke and the food was hell-of-a-good. Too bad he won’t be stayin’ on.”

  “I’ll get a chance to try his cooking in the morning,” I said. “I’m going to turn in now. It’s been a long day.”

  “I’ll see ye at sunup, yeah?”

  It’s been said that the dialect of Cornwall was what led to the fabled pirate language, and indeed, at times, Matt sounded like how I imagined Blackbeard would have.

  When I got to our quarters, Savannah was lying in bed, reading.

  “Why’d we slow down a few minutes ago?” she asked, putting a bookmark in the novel, and placing it on her lap.

  “A whale,” I replied, “nursing her calf. What are you reading?”

  She rolled over to place the book on her nightstand and the sheet slid down, exposing a bare breast. She turned back to me and gave me a wicked smile.

  “It’s the latest by Chelle Bliss,” she replied. “Called Singe.”

  “Singe?” I asked, as I got undressed. “What’s it about?”

  “Difficult to say,” she replied, lifting the sheet so I could slide in beside her. “It’d be easier if I just showed you.”

  The drive from Puerto Borburata to Puerto Cabello was only twelve kilometers, but it took twenty minutes on the winding mountain road. The two vans that were transporting the live cargo had the logo of a local fish company on the sides, and each had a large refrigeration unit mounted on the roof. These two mingled in with several other vans on the way to the busy seaport.

  When they arrived, they lined up with other similar trucks, all bringing iced-down snapper, grouper, dorado, ribbon fish, mackerel, corvina, octopus, kingfish, wahoo, and other local seafood to the port to be shipped to markets in America, Europe, and Southwest Asia.

  Security was lax at the port entry. Occasionally, a guard would ask to see the cargo, and when the back doors were opened, all he’d see were stacks of bins, filled with fish and ice, stacked floor to roof. Each van carried forty-eight of the large plastic tubs, completely filling the inside of each van. In the two Nissan vans, the ones carrying the live cargo, there were only eight containers, packed tightly just inside the rear cargo doors.

  The line of delivery vans crept forward as each one backed up to a refrigerated cargo container. The driver and assistant unloaded the catch, moving their tubs of fish deep into the cavernous and cold interior until it was full. Then the container would be lifted and moved onto the ship, as another empty container was lowered into place.

  The process continued most of the night, six nights a week. Each evening, the catch was brought to local markets all along the coast, where buyers waited to sort through it, purchasing what their customers wanted and then loading it onto waiting vans and trucks.

  On Sundays, nobody worked. The country was over seventy percent Roman Catholic, and even among the drug cartels, the day of rest was strictly adhered to.

  The first of the two Nissans pulled up and the assistant jumped out to guide the driver back as close to the container as they could get and still open the doors. Once parked in the right spot, the driver got out and they quickly unloaded the eight bins in the back of the van.

  From his vantage point, next in line, only Juan Espinoza and his driver could see movement beneath the other van. He watched the two men’s feet disappear as they climbed inside. A moment later, a door in the vehicle’s bottom opened and one of the men reached down to lift a manhole cover beneath the van and set it aside.

  One by one, the live cargo was forced to climb down into the darkness. When they were all out, the cover was replaced and the door in the bottom of the van secured. Then the two men exited the back of the vehicle, closing the doors.

  When the first Nissan van drove away, Juan’s driver pulled up and Juan jumped out to guide him back. It was important to park in the right position over the manhole cover. Plus, being in the right spot insured that the back doors could be opened to just inside the container, shielding their work from view.

  When the driver joined him at the back of the van, they swiftly moved the bins of fish into the container, then climbed into the back of the van to open the inner door.

  Juan moved quickly through the knot of people crammed into the cargo van, pushing anyone down who got in his way. At the front, he lowered the false floor and, lying on his belly, he removed the manhole cover and set it aside as Enrique readied the cargo to be moved.

  Juan stood and pulled a suppressed semi-automatic handgun from behind his back. Several of the people near him gasped.

  “Your restraints will be removed so you can climb down the ladder,” he said in Spanish. “Do not try anything foolish. I will shoot anyone who does and dump your body head first down to the bottom. It is ten meters down. If my gun doesn’t kill you, the fall will. Do as you are told!”

  Enrique began cutti
ng the bonds of those nearest the front of the van, forcing each down into the floor opening. A weak light shone from far below. They worked quickly until they reached the ones in the back of the van.

  “Not this one,” Juan said, pointing to the girl he’d hit back on the dock. “She will stay with us for a while.”

  “No!” she cried. “Please, I want to stay with my fam—”

  Juan backhanded her again, silencing her protests.

  “You do not have a say,” he growled. “Sit there and shut up.”

  Once everyone was out of the van, the two men exited the rear, and closed both the inner and outer doors.

  The young woman stayed inside.

  “That one has fire,” Enrique said. “How long do you think she will last?”

  “A week, perhaps,” Juan replied as they pulled away and the next van backed in. Many of the dozens of vans in line were similarly equipped but carried tightly packed bricks of cocaine.

  The cartel had gone to great expense to create the new shipyard. The plans incorporated the tunnel, and Juan knew that the whole project was basically built around it and what it led to.

  Far more money had been spent for the parasite ship.

  It had been Juan’s idea. Submarines and low profile boats had been tried and most had failed. He’d been up in the mountains overlooking Puerto Cabello and marveled at the number of ships coming and going when the idea just hit him.

  The water at the dock was twenty meters in depth—deep enough for even the largest container ships to dock. After selling the idea to his higher-ups, the first expense had been to find and purchase the right container ship, then refit it to suit their needs.

  The ship the Maracaibo cartel bought and used wasn’t one of the big Suezmax ships, nor even as big as the Panamax line. But Canadian Gold was massive, nonetheless. Measuring over three hundred meters in length with a beam of thirty meters, she could carry 2,250 standard twenty-foot containers.

  Canadian Gold was moved to a dry dock and work had begun two years ago, while at the same time, a new shipping facility was being constructed at Puerto Cabello.

  The ship went into service a year ahead of the shipyard, carrying legal cargo to and from America and also to contacts in the eastern part of the Mediterranean. This continued for a year, despite the low profits, as the parasite ship and the other two facilities were being built.

  For six months now, the cartel had used Canadian Gold to transport drugs to America and human cargo to the Middle East, safely tucked into the parasite ship attached to her belly, completely under the noses of the authorities.

  Canadian Gold had a draft of only fifteen meters when fully loaded, leaving plenty of room beneath its massive hull and the bottom. During the time in dry dock, while the ship was being repowered and having all new wiring and rigging installed, the ship had several strategically placed eyes welded into the bottom of its hull; fifteen in all. Juan had seen them up close as the ship was being refitted for its new purpose.

  Deep below the surface, divers would attach thick cables to the eyes, and once the cargo was loaded into the parasite ship, the watertight hatch would be sealed and the remote operator would disengage it from its docking port, then use onboard winches to lift it off the bottom until it was pulled up snugly to the hull of Canadian Gold.

  There it would stay until the ship reached its destination.

  The parasite ship was small when compared to the container ship it attached to. It was seven meters wide—not even an eighth of the cargo ship’s beam—and was just over ten meters in length, which was nothing compared to the 350-meter length of the ship that carried it, stuck tightly to its bottom.

  A man of average height could stand up inside the parasite ship but would likely have to keep his knees bent or head bowed. Still, it added well over a hundred cubic meters of cargo space that would never be searched. Enough room to transport eighty tons of cocaine, or up to fifty slave laborers. Twice that if they were forced to lie shoulder to shoulder. Usually, the parasite ship carried a combination of the two. The slaves’ beds were burlap-wrapped bundles of cocaine.

  The winches and cables attaching the parasite ship to the larger vessel were the only mechanical things on board. There was no need of heating or cooling. The surrounding water kept the interior cool when it was just filled with cocaine. But with more than fifty people, it quickly became sweltering.

  An umbilical, disguised as a thru-hull fitting for a bilge pump, provided air from the cargo ship, which helped to keep the temperature low enough that only a handful would die in transit.

  Losses were expected.

  In fact, if discovered, the captain of the ship could disengage the parasite and let it fall to the bottom. The parasite’s strength was in its design to withstand the forces of moving at up to forty knots, while attached to the mother ship. If disengaged while at sea, the great pressures of the ocean’s depth would crush it like an aluminum can. So far, that had never happened, or even come close. The cartel was now building another parasite ship and looking for another container ship to dock it to.

  The trip from Puerto Cabello to the newly constructed shipyard in Miami would take only three days, running at a steady twenty-five knots. The parasite ship had enough water and food on board, mostly in the form of bread, dried fish, and fruit, to last fifty people for several days if they conserved it. The twenty tons of cocaine had been loaded before the people, stacked in lines that allowed room for them to sit or lie down. The slaves would be told how to ration their supplies just before they closed the hatch. After that, they were on their own until the ship reached another similarly designed port in Syria.

  Juan, formerly a nautical engineer, had personally supervised the shipyard construction in Miami, where much of the work had to be hidden from American authorities.

  Slave labor had built the one in Syria. The tons of concrete poured into the forms became the final resting place for most of them when the project was completed.

  Juan’s van returned to Puerto Borburata with the Guyanese girl in the back. Enrique pulled up next to Juan’s car, a black Mercedes with dark- tinted windows.

  “Give me a moment to open the trunk,” Juan said, climbing out of the van.

  He moved quickly, checking the area for prying eyes. He saw nothing. When he opened the trunk lid, Enrique climbed into the back of the van.

  “Get up,” Juan heard Enrique order from inside.

  A moment later, he appeared at the back doors, practically dragging the girl by the hair.

  Juan took her by the arm and snatched her out, where she tumbled to the ground. As Enrique had done, he grabbed her hair and pulled her to her feet, moving her toward his car. There, he forced her, headfirst, into the trunk.

  As he looked down at her, the bright light of the trunk’s interior shining on her face, he saw how beautiful she really was. She cowered in fear as a slow, menacing smile crept across Juan’s face.

  “Perhaps you will last more than a week,” he said, then slammed the trunk lid closed.

  I woke early, nearly as tired as I’d been when I’d gone to bed. But it was a good sort of weariness. I stretched and flexed, then quietly dressed for the day.

  My choice of work clothes was a little different than Nils’s starched white pants and shirts. I opted for dark blue. I tended to get up close and personal with Ambrosia at times, and white would show stains too easily.

  My denim work shirt did have the four gold captain’s stripes on the epaulettes, so there was no mistaking who was in charge when we encountered someone at a port. I also wore a white yacht captain’s cover with gold braid on my head.

  It had taken some time to get used to wearing a uniform again, such that it was, after more than twenty years as a civilian. I was more comfortable in bare feet and shorts. But after trying several styles, I found the dark blue cargo pants and denim work shirt suited me best.

  As I’d done the day before, I headed to the engine
room to further familiarize myself with the water maker system. But I had to make a stop on the way.

  Instead of using the inside companionway to the bridge, I exited our quarters, then stepped out onto the side deck through an exterior hatch. I went down the aft ladderwell to the cockpit on the main deck and entered a hatch beside the big, glass sliding door to the salon. At the bottom of another companionway, I went forward toward the crews’ quarters.

  Ricardo was waiting outside his cabin. “Good morning, Captain.”

  “How are you feeling, Ricardo?” I asked. “I wouldn’t hold anything against you if you decided to take more time to heal.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he replied. “I’m grateful to you for allowing me and Marcos the opportunity to work off our passage.”

  “Follow me, then,” I said, and turned back the way I’d come.

  Halfway down the long passageway, lined with nearly twenty hatches to the crews’ quarters, we came to a side passageway to port. Going down it, I opened a hatch on the left and motioned Ricardo through.

  Inside, we descended a few steps to a grated landing overlooking the engine room.

  “Madre Dios,” Ricardo breathed softly. “I have never seen such equipment.”

  “Good morning, Captain,” Heitor called from below, his voice rising above the drone of the engines. “I heard we had guests aboard. Who is that with you?”

  I started down the last few steps to the engine room deck. “Ricardo, I’d like you to meet Heitor Silva. Heitor, this is Ricardo…” I paused and looked up at him, still staring at the two big turbine engines forward of the main diesel engines. “I don’t even know your last name, Ricardo.”

  He snapped out of it and came down beside me. “Lopez,” he said, extending a hand to Heitor. “I am Ricardo Lopez.”

  “Good to meet ya,” Heitor said, shaking his hand.