It wasn’t a question.
“We’re looking for anything out of the ordinary,” I replied.
He gave me a knowing look. “Like the ghost ship?”
An hour earlier than usual, Matt relieved me for lunch.
“I met me cabin-mate a bit earlier,” he said. “A proper bloke, ’e is.”
“I’m sorry about that,” I offered. “We’re suddenly a little short on accommodations.”
“Hunky-dory, mate,” he said with a grin. “I ain’t there at night, an’ he promised ’e’d not disturb me kip during the day. A bit of a spooky geezer, mind.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “He is that,” I replied. “He’s a retired CIA spook.”
Matt looked at me puzzled. “A spook, ye say? You mean like a ghostie?”
“A spook is an undercover agent,” I explained.
“A birdwatcher? That’s what we call ’em, yeah.” Then his face became serious. “I ’ear CIA agents never retire.”
“They have to at some point,” I said. “Ferguson’s gotta be at least in his mid-seventies.”
“A proper double-oh-seven, yeah? Take a few hours, Cap’n. Spend some time with yer emmets.”
“Thanks, Matt,” I said. “I will. You have the conn.”
“I have the conn, oye,” he replied, picking up the binos and scanning the sea ahead. “What’s the count up to, Ross?”
“Twelve contacts so far, Mr. Brand,” Ross replied, as I headed for the corridor.
When I reached our quarters, Flo and David were both there, getting to know Alberto.
“An early lunch?” Savannah asked.
“Matt has the conn for a few hours,” I replied, tossing my cover on the little coffee table. “He said I should spend time with my emmets.”
“What’s an emmet?” Alberto asked, looking up at me with a puzzled expression.
“It’s a Cornish term,” I replied. “An emmet is a tourist.”
“Tank’s friend seemed nice,” Flo said. “Did you know he was seventy-five?”
“No, but I figured he was a bit older than Tank, who was only seventeen when he enlisted. Chopper pilots are college-educated officers, so he’d have to be at least four years older to serve with Tank right after he enlisted. Have you seen either of them around?”
“They went down for lunch,” David said. “Chyrel and Charity are in the op center. Would it be okay if I joined them?”
“Sure,” I replied. “I figured you’d be there sooner or later.”
He left us and I joined Flo and Alberto on the sofa. “It’s Wednesday,” I said. “Aren’t you supposed to be studying?”
He grinned at me. “The admiral said I could take a long lunch, too.”
I put an arm around him and pulled him close. “She did, did she?”
Woden’s head came up, his ears perked.
“I’m just playing with him,” I said to the dog.
“Woden takes his job very seriously,” Flo said to Alberto. “He was my protector when I was younger than you. He and Finn won’t let anyone hurt you. Not even dad.”
“He’d never hurt me,” Alberto said. “Him and Mom saved my life.”
Savannah let out a little gasp, trying to hide it with her hand. It was the first time he’d directly referred to her as his mom. Until today, he’d never referred to us directly by anything and when talking about either of us to the other, he’d used our names.
“Mine too,” Flo said.
“Really?”
She looked over at me for a moment, then back at her adopted brother. “Yes, really.”
“How’s the swim training going?” I asked Flo, changing the subject.
She grinned. “Swimmingly!”
Savannah laughed.
“Sorry, I couldn’t help it. It’s going really well. Last week, I swam a two-hundred-meter freestyle that tied the school record and was just a little over a second off the U.S. record.”
“Whoa! That’s excellent,” I said. “I’m sorry you didn’t make the team for the Tokyo games.”
“Coach didn’t think I was ready to try out,” she said with a shrug. “He thinks I’ll grow another inch this year.”
Using my best Bogart impression, I said, “We’ll always have Paris.”
She laughed. “Well, it gives me another three years to prepare for the Paris Olympics.”
“I’d much rather visit Paris anyway,” Savannah said.
“You’re gonna be in the Olympics?” Alberto asked, in awe. “We watched some of it a few weeks ago.”
“She will,” Savannah said. “She had one of the best trainers when she was little.”
“Who?”
“Charity,” Flo replied. “She swam in the Sydney games twenty-one years ago.”
“The lady who flew the helicopter?”
“Yep,” I replied. “She won a medal, too.”
Wow,” he breathed softly.
“Why don’t you men leave us girls to talk?” Savannah said. “Tank told me he and Bud were going to try to catch a fish or two after lunch.”
“Can we go too?” Alberto asked, excitedly. “I saw them headed down there a little while ago.”
The kid enjoyed fishing as much as I did.
“For a little while,” I agreed. “You have to get back to your schoolwork and I have to go back up to the bridge.”
He turned and looked at Flo. “I’m glad I finally got to meet you. I think I like having a big sister.”
She smiled and rose with us. “You have three,” she said. “And two brothers-in-law, and a nephew.”
“I haven’t met them, yet,” he said. “We’ve been on Ambrosia for a while now.”
She smiled. “Soon, you might have another brother-in-law.”
“Huh?” Alberto and I said at the same time.
She took Savannah’s and my hands. “It was David’s idea to come and see y’all.” She turned and faced me. “If he asks for a few minutes of your time, Dad, please don’t put him off. He might be too scared to ask a second time.”
“He proposed?” Savannah asked, hugging her tightly.
“Not officially,” she replied, pushing her mother away and looking up at me. “But we have talked about it. He said his dad told him he’d have to ask you first.”
I looked over at Savannah, who was smiling brightly, then back to our daughter. “He damned sure better.”
“There’s one more thing,” she said, looking down at the deck.
“What is it, sweetie?” Savannah asked.
She looked at her mom. “I changed my name last week.”
My chest swelled with pride.
“As I get married,” she continued, “I want my name to be McDermitt. Is that goofy?”
Savannah looked over at me and we both smiled.
“Not at all,” Savannah said. “It’s what your name should always have been.”
I hugged both of them and then guided Alberto toward the door. When we reached the large, aluminum work platform attached to the stern of the boat, Tank and Bud had set up the two chairs and had lines trolling out behind Ambrosia.
“Any action yet?” I asked, as Finn and Woden lay down beside the two outboard stairwells.
“Bud put a wahoo in the cooler,” Tank said, nodding toward a six-foot Igloo mounted at the side of the work deck.
Many of the crew members enjoyed fishing and it supplemented our provisions. Between the two sets of stairs was a large door that could be raised to access the “garage,” where the submersible was usually kept, along with an assortment of other things, including fishing and dive gear, an air compressor for filling scuba tanks, two twenty-four-foot tenders, and a mini-sub. One of the crew must have shown them where the gear was located.
I flipped open the lid on the Igloo. The fish was nearly as long as the cooler and probably close to a hundred pounds.
“Hell of a catch, Bud,” I offered.
“Would you like to tak
e a turn?” he asked Alberto, as he unclipped himself from the fighting chair and rose.
“Thanks,” the boy replied. “But if I catch one that big, I don’t think I could get it on the boat.”
“Have a seat,” Tank said. “Me and you can fish together like we did back in the Keys, and if you get a big one, we’ll all help you get it aboard.”
Alberto settled into the chair and adjusted the straps to fit his smaller frame.
“A couple of fine animals there,” Bud said, nodding toward where the dogs lay watching everything that went on.
“Thanks,” I replied. “They’ve sort of taken it on themselves to stay close to Alberto. They’re both boat dogs and until recently, Alberto’s never been on one.”
“But Tank said you used to be a charter captain.”
“Savannah and I adopted Alberto a few months ago,” I replied, lowering my voice. “His father died when he was six and his mom was recently murdered.”
“No other family?”
“None fit to take care of him,” I replied. A silence hung between us for a moment or two before I said, “You mentioned a ghost ship earlier. What was that about?”
He looked up at the cockpit, inscrutable eyes scanning for anyone listening, then lowered his voice. “It’s no secret in certain circles that the drug cartels down here have expanded into the slavery business.”
“What do you know about it?”
“More than most,” he replied. “Maybe more than you.”
“We picked up a family of rafters two days ago. One of them mentioned a ghost ship where kidnap victims were taken to.”
“It’s a coastal freighter,” Bud said. “But that’s not how the drugs and people are transported away from here.”
I faced the older man and searched his dark eyes. Though he was American, I could see how he could easily pass himself off as Hispanic. The fact that he’d worked for the CIA in South America reinforced that.
“Did you just happen to drop in to visit Tank?”
“Actually, no,” he replied. “We’d been talking about getting together again for some time and when he told me he’d settled in the Keys and had cancer, I made it a point to arrange a visit. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t buy into coincidences,” I said.
He shrugged. “Well, I can assure you that’s all that’s going on here. Two old Nam vets getting together one last time. So, am I to take it that you’re looking for this ghost ship?”
“Take it any way you like,” I replied, as Tank’s rod bent and his reel started to zing.
“Wahooooo!” Tank yelled, his exclamation explaining how the fish got its name.
The wahoo was one of the fastest-swimming fish in the sea. Not just in spurts, either. They could sustain high speeds for great lengths of time, and pound for pound they were one of the most powerful game fish, highly prized for their flaky white flesh.
I moved quickly behind Tank’s chair, ready to help him if needed.
“Pull your line in,” I needlessly told Alberto. When I looked over, he was already reeling furiously.
Ambrosia wasn’t a sportfishing boat. Aboard the Revenge, I could slow or turn to keep a fish astern. We were making fifteen knots, a good speed to catch wahoo over steep, underwater ledges, like the one just to our south. But the ship wasn’t going to slow or turn to help Tank get the fish aboard.
It tired quickly from straining against the continuous pull, and when Tank got it close to the stern of the platform, I was able to gaff it and bring it aboard, flopping wildly. I quickly got the fish into the cooler and removed the hook. It wasn’t as large as the one Bud had caught, but we’d soon be adding enough meat to the freezer to feed the entire crew for a couple of meals.
“I thought I heard a shout,” Marcos said from behind me.
I turned and saw him coming across the platform, eyes on the two fish in the cooler.
“Magnifico,” he said, admiring the cooler’s contents. “I have a special recipe for the peto.”
He looked up and smiled at me. Then he saw Bud and his eyes went wide. It was obvious he recognized the man. But he quickly recovered and introduced himself.
“I am Marcos Santiago,” he said to Tank. “I am one of the cocineros aboard the ship.”
“Cocinero?” Tank asked.
“That means chef,” Alberto said.
He shook hands with the two men, but I could tell that he’d met Bud before. Not so much from Bud’s reaction, but from Marcos’s.
“I’ll have a couple of the crew bring these fish to you,” I said. “Along with anything else we catch.”
Marcos looked back at the churning wake of the ship. “At this speed, Capitan, you will only catch the peto or the picúa. Few can swim so fast.”
“He means wahoo and barracuda,” Alberto translated.
“Let’s get another one,” Tank said, putting a hand on Alberto’s shoulder and guiding him back to the fighting chairs.
Marcos disappeared quickly up the steps and I nodded for Bud to follow me out of earshot of the boy.
“You know my cook,” I said.
He looked me right in the eye and lied. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I just met the man.”
I knew a little about CIA spooks. They lived a life of total anonymity and secrecy. Often, failing that resulted in their death. Lying came as easily as breathing for them. Those I’d met would disavow knowledge of their own mothers if they hadn’t just introduced her to you. It was that engrained in their training and discipline.
One CIA operative I knew had gone rogue and murdered a friend of mine, a young Marine corporal he’d shafted in Afghanistan. Charity and I had tracked him all across the Caribbean until we finally caught up to him and she’d disarmed and killed him, barehanded.
Crammed into the confined space, the people had little room to move around without bumping into one another, so they didn’t. The heat was unbearable, and the stench of sweat permeated the thin air. Cries and moans from the frightened and those who were ill echoed off the steel walls, creating a miserable, mournful sound.
The crowd of people were mostly women, the majority of them young, but there were a few men and even some children—all crammed into a space dimly lit by a single light near the door, and barely the size of a small house.
After a while, they began to talk, some finding friends or loved ones, or just a comforting person to be close to. They came from different backgrounds and from all areas of the coast of South America, mostly from small fishing villages on the many rivers that flowed down from the mountains of Brazil and Colombia through to the sea. Some spoke English, while others spoke Spanish or Portuguese.
After an indeterminable amount of time, the talk ceased.
They’d been forced to simply lie on the rough burlap bags stacked in rows, each bag no bigger than a pillow. They had no way of knowing the contents of the bags. They also couldn’t tell how long it had been since the door had been closed and their fates sealed. Beyond the confines of the room, it could be day or night. The dim light over the door never turned off.
There was food and water, but they’d been told to use it sparingly, because it would have to last for several days. Their captors had said the best use of their time would be in simply doing nothing, conserving energy so they might live to complete their voyage.
Nobody knew where the voyage would take them.
Once the door had been closed, it was silent for a long time, except for the occasional whisper. Then a mechanical clang came from the door and a whirring sound emanated from several places along the sides of the room. This had frightened many of them, and several screamed for help. There’d been a sensation of motion, but in the near total darkness it was difficult to tell if the movement was real. That had been followed by metallic clangs and then the moving had ceased.
After some time, there came a vibration and a noise had filled the close air—the sound of an engine. Again
, a slight movement was felt, but it quickly dissolved into nothing.
The engine sound droned on for what seemed like hours. Then it increased slightly, and the room began to move up and down, rolling slightly from side to side. The constant movement had made a few ill and the stench of vomit mixed with the reek of urine, feces, and body odor.
To most of the captives, the closing of the door had seemed like days earlier. Time didn’t exist. Whether it’d been days or hours, they had no way of knowing.
It was decided that the constant rolling motion meant that they were on a ship of some kind, though only a few fishermen in the room had ever been on one.
The people had slept fitfully, some clinging to one another. In the near total darkness, eyes reflected desperation, sadness, and a loss of hope.
At some point, a Spanish-speaking man took charge, positioning himself near the stores of food and water. When he was thirsty, he passed the water around, telling everyone to take no more than a sip. When he was hungry, he passed food to the others, dry bread, fruit, and smoked fish.
Nobody argued with him.
The overall mood was one of utter despair. They could only guess at where they were being taken, how long it would take to get there, or what their fate would be when they arrived. It was maddening.
Most had heard stories about or even witnessed the taking of other people. Those who were taken by the raiders were never seen or heard from again, and no bodies were ever found. One moment they were there and the next, they were gone. The realization of what those people had gone through was slowly unfolding to the captives.
After what seemed many days, the water supply began to get low, and the food was nearly gone. Finally, the rocking motion began to subside, and the engine sound diminished.
Just by the amount of time between eating, the Latino man, who called himself Jorge, said they must have been locked in the confined space at least three days, maybe longer.
It didn’t matter.
Soon there were other sounds and sudden bumping movements. Finally, the sound of the engine stopped, and it became deathly quiet. Huddled on a makeshift bed with a young woman and a little boy, an older woman coughed. The three had cried for most of the trip, having had another girl taken from them before they’d been forced down the ladder.
Steady As She Goes: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 21) Page 11