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

by Wayne Stinnett

  “Si,” the radioman replied.

  “How can that be?” Mauricio asked rhetorically. “They were nearly two kilometers away.”

  He looked down at the radar screen and saw his men racing away from the two launches.

  Suddenly the blip representing his lifeboat disappeared.

  Mauricio waited for it to return, assuming it had dropped below a large wave, though the seas were relatively calm. Still, he’d seen big waves on calm seas before. He waited a moment longer, but the radar signature from his lifeboat didn’t return.

  “Contact the lifeboat,” he ordered the radio operator.

  He used his field glasses to look in the direction he knew the small boats to be, though he realized they and the yacht were over the horizon.

  Through the binos, he saw a black and orange cloud rise up over the horizon.

  “They are not responding,” the radioman said.

  Understanding started to sink in as Mauricio slowly lowered the field glasses.

  “Esos malditos Americanos.” He muttered. “I will kill them all!”

  “What is it?” the radioman asked.

  The rich gringo must have security, he thought. Someone who is good with a rifle. O muy afortunada.

  A lucky shot from two kilometers? That was more likely, considering the distance the yacht was from the small boats.

  Maybe someone on one of the launches was armed. But he dismissed that thought since a handgun wasn’t much use against a boat.

  He turned to the radioman. “You said they were being fired on from the yacht?”

  “Si,” he replied. “Miguel was shot and Tomas took over to drive the boat away.”

  It had been at least ten seconds after the radioman had first said the men were returning that he saw the image on the radar disappear. Not a long time, but a lifeboat with three engines would be out of range of a handgun from the tender. It had to be a rifleman from the yacht.

  He stared down at the screen, watching the two small echoes merge with the larger one.

  The radioman was monitoring the international hail and distress frequency and the yacht hadn’t reached out to report anything. At least not by radio.

  Girls from fishing villages had fathers who were poor fishermen. But those from a yacht would have very wealthy families.

  Mauricio stared at the blip on the screen, his anger seething. He would follow the Americano. Somehow, some way, he was going to take those women from him. He would ransom them to their families in America, and then sell them to Juan after receiving the money.

  While the rich yacht owner and his friends searched for their wives and daughters, they’d be locked in a hold, on their way to Syria, playthings for the super-wealthy oil sheiks to use up and throw away.

  As he watched the screen, the blip began to move, heading away from Canopus.

  “Engine ahead,” Mauricio said. “Follow that yacht.”

  “You may run, mis hermosas putitas,” Mauricio snarled, still staring at the screen. “But you cannot hide.”

  They had lost five good men, one of their lifeboats, and all three of their lifeboats’ engines. The men were his cazedores, his hunters, the men who snuck into the villages and grabbed anyone they could, concentrating on younger women.

  They would be hard to replace, but every port in South America had its share of wharf rats, men who would do anything for a few centavos o pesos.

  On the radar screen, the yacht began to accelerate. It went faster and faster, until Mauricio was sure the radar was malfunctioning.

  “How fast are they going?” he asked his radar man.

  “Forty-five knots,” the man replied, anxiously. “And still accelerating.”

  Mauricio slammed both fists on the dash.

  “How can this be?” he cried out. “Who is this Americano?”

  The radar man turned on the AIS for just a moment, watching the screen closely. When the identifier appeared, he quickly turned the system back off.

  “It is a motor yacht called Ambrosia, Capitão,” the radar man disclosed. “Its home port is New York, New York.”

  I ordered the anchor raised but waited to engage the turbines until Travis’s voice emanated from every speaker on the boat. “This is Mr. Stockwell,” he said, his voice charged with rage. “We have been attacked, but there are no serious injuries to any of our crew. The captain is going to move the ship expeditiously to São Luís. All on board who are not part of the bridge crew, operations deck, engineering, or security team, please remain in your quarters. The ship will be moving very fast.”

  “Engage the turbines,” I ordered.

  Axel moved the uppermost set of throttles forward, and even with the bridge hatches closed, I could hear the roar of water from the giant twin water jets as they were engaged. Ambrosia gathered speed quickly.

  Moments later, as we accelerated past forty-five knots, Ross looked up from his radar screen. “Captain, Canopus just turned on their AIS.”

  If there wasn’t a knot meter on the chart-plotter screen, nobody could guess we were going so fast, except for the occasional jarring motion as the ship plowed through moderate seas.

  I moved over next to Ross’s station, keeping hold of the grab rails in the overhead. Just as I spotted the identifier on the screen, it disappeared.

  “Out of VHF range?” I asked.

  “Definitely not,” Ross replied. “We should still be able to pick up their AIS transmission to a range of about forty miles.”

  “They turned it on to identify Ambrosia,” I said. “But why?”

  Val stepped up beside me. “You killed some of their men and sank their boat. Machismo revenge?”

  “I hope they do,” I said, barely whispering, but meaning every word.

  “Me too,” Charity added.

  I hadn’t even noticed her step up beside me.

  I put a hand on Axel’s shoulder. “Hold her steady at fifty knots, Axel.”

  “Fifty knots, aye,” he replied, gently pulling back on the throttles.

  Unlike a commercial ship, where a desired engine speed is relayed to the engine room, Ambrosia was a yacht, and had two sets of electronic engine controls, one for the diesels and another for the turbines, allowing the helmsman to directly control the boat’s speed.

  “Fishing vessel eight nautical miles ahead, Captain,” Ross informed me. “Three nautical miles south of our course and heading south.”

  “Gradual turn to starboard, helm,” I said. “Give us non-visual separation.”

  Maneuvering at high speed was something the helmsmen practiced whenever we did our routine maintenance runs on the big turbines. The first time I’d actually taken the helm at high speed, I’d been surprised at how little movement of the wheel was required to turn the big yacht.

  All four engines were connected to water jets. The two connected to the turbines were fixed, while the two connected to the diesels were directional and had diverters to reverse the flow of water.

  Axel gently turned the wheel a few degrees and Ambrosia gracefully heeled into the turn. He brought the rudder back amidship and the line on the chart plotter indicated that we’d pass the fishing boat about six miles north of its present location. If someone were on the roof and had powerful binoculars and sharp eyes, they might see our flybridge roof and radar arch hurtling along the horizon.

  “Nicely done,” I said.

  I looked back into the op center. Chyrel was at a console next to David, both scribbling notes on a pad and reading what the other had written. I had no idea what it was and probably wouldn’t have a clue even if I read it.

  But she was busy—in her own element—and her mind was on something else.

  Val was reading something on her Metis, then stepped over to the communications system. She plugged a headset into an encrypted radio’s jack. The headset was the kind that had only one earphone, like football coaches wore, or anyone else who needed to listen quietly with one ea
r while maintaining outside hearing.

  She handed the headset to me. “It’s Mr. Armstrong for you.”

  I put it on and adjusted the voice-activated microphone in front of my lips. “Jack?”

  “Chyrel filled me in on what happened,” Jack said. “I’m sorry about Tank. He was a good man and I know what he meant to you.”

  “Thanks,” I said, looking over at Val.

  “And Val just reported what happened with the launches. How’s Travis?”

  “He’s okay,” I said. “I had him make the announcement that we were going to São Luís, so the crew would know he was okay.”

  “Good thinking,” Jack said. “How long before you get there?”

  I looked at the chart plotter. There were numerous radar returns near the busy port city. We’d have to slow down soon.

  “Less than twenty minutes,” I replied.

  “Don’t go to the docks,” he said. “Drop anchor three miles off the coast of Raposa and wait. A doctor is on the way.”

  “What about Tank’s body?” I asked.

  “The doctor who’s coming will have the necessary documentation,” he replied. “Once he leaves, Charity can fly Chyrel and Tank back to Grenada, where I’ll have a jet waiting to take him home.”

  “And my daughter, David, and Tank’s friend, Bud Ferguson?”

  “David and Florence are your call,” he said. “Ferguson stays aboard until we find out who he is and whether his being there was simply as Tank’s guest, or something else.”

  Even I didn’t know all of Jack’s operatives and I wasn’t privy to all the goings-on in Armstrong’s vast network. He directly employed thousands of people, and there were tens of thousands in his network, maybe hundreds of thousands.

  I watched Chyrel, busy at the terminal. “I take it you weren’t the one who sent him.”

  “I’ll never send someone to Ambrosia without clearing it through you first,” Jack replied. “Call me when the doctor leaves.”

  His voice was replaced with static, as he’d switched off the encrypted satellite radio connection.

  I handed the headset back to Val and told Axel to start slowing the ship. When we were down to twenty knots, he brought the diesels up to speed, then shut down the turbines.

  Twenty minutes later, as we were dropping anchor, a small boat came racing out toward us.

  I wasn’t taking any chances and ordered security to man the starboard rail and aft platform.

  “Take over,” I said to Matt. “Let me know if anything comes within three miles of our position.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” he replied.

  I went back to our quarters and told Savannah that Jack had a doctor coming out to meet us.

  “It never fails,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are there any resources, anywhere, that Jack Armstrong can’t provide?”

  I grinned at her, understanding that for Jack, it wasn’t about the logistics of moving equipment and assets, but more in knowing where assets he didn’t control were located. With a single phone call, he could have just about anything available that his operators needed.

  “He just knows a lot of people,” I said.

  “Can I go with you?” she asked. “That last hour was very long for us back here.”

  “Was it rough?”

  “No,” she replied. “It’s just that knowing we were going twice as fast as Sea Biscuit ever could and not seeing what was going on or where we were going was…well, a bit disconcerting, that’s all.”

  “You could have come to the bridge,” I told her, hugging her tightly.

  “But Travis said—”

  I looked into her clear, blue eyes. “Travis’s orders don’t apply to the captain’s wench.”

  She pinched me hard on the butt. “Wench, huh? I’ll show you.”

  The door connecting our main quarters to Alberto’s suite opened and he joined us. “I thought you said she was the admiral.”

  Savannah and I broke apart. “What’ve you been doing?” she asked innocently.

  He shrugged. “Just watching out the window. Can I go out now?”

  “No,” I told him. “Not yet. Soon though.”

  “And me?” Savannah asked. “Whether wench or admiral, I worry about you.”

  “It’s better if you stay here and keep Alberto company,” I replied. “I don’t trust anyone in these waters right now.”

  I left them and went down to the cockpit by way of the starboard side deck.

  The boat was a small center console with only two men aboard—one at the wheel and the other seated in front of the console. He had a briefcase and a large first aid kit at his feet.

  Meachum and another man I’d only heard called “Duster” were at the rail, weapons carried openly, as the boat moved toward the platform. I waited for the two security men, then the three of us went down the steps to the platform.

  I was surprised to see Travis waiting there with another of his team, a short, stout black man named Gerald.

  The small boat’s pilot moved the center console closer, then went forward and tossed a line to me. I made the line fast to a cleat and pulled the boat closer, turning it sideways to the platform.

  “You shouldn’t be standing, Colonel,” the man I assumed was a doctor said. He stood and handed the big first aid kit to me.

  “We have first aid supplies,” I told him, but took it anyway.

  “You guys can stand down,” Travis said to Meachum and the others.

  The doctor handed the briefcase to me as he stepped over. “I’m sure you have a fine first aid kit,” he said. “But Colonel Stockwell is blood type B positive. Not the rarest, but only a small percentage of Earth’s population have it.”

  “I’m fine, sir,” Travis said. “No need for—”

  “I will be the judge of that, Colonel,” the doctor interrupted. “Sit over there on that step.”

  Surprisingly, Travis did as he was told. I caught a bit of a snicker from Duster.

  The doctor, his pale blue eyes charged with electricity, looked back at the man. “That’ll be enough of that, Duster. Unless you feel it’s time for a proctology exam.”

  The young man’s face went blank and his body rigid. “Yes, sir!”

  Who was this guy?

  Stockwell sat on the second step and removed his shirt, wincing slightly. There was a bandage over the upper part of his left chest, just below the collar bone. It wasn’t the same one Savannah had put on while Stockwell was lying on the deck.

  The doctor peeled the bandage down from the top. The bullet wound had been closed with three sutures, which I knew Savannah didn’t have time to do.

  He nodded approvingly, then grabbed a blood pressure cuff from his kit and fit it onto Travis’s upper arm. With the touch of a button, the cuff inflated, then slowly deflated, as sensors measured the BP.

  The doctor frowned, then used a stethoscope to listen to Travis’s heart.

  He frowned again. “Not a through and through,” he said. “Who took the bullet out?”

  “I did, General,” Duster said.

  General?

  The doctor looked back at the younger man and grinned. “No doubt why the colonel needs blood.”

  Turning back to his patient, he said, “You’re lucky, Travis. A couple of inches lower and we wouldn’t be talking.”

  “The guy was aiming at my face,” Travis said, then nodded toward me. “His dog knocked me aside.”

  The doctor turned to me. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Travis said. “This is Jesse McDermitt, captain of Ambrosia. Jesse, meet retired Major General Leopold Earnst, former chief of the trauma center at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany. Jesse’s a retired enlisted jarhead, General, but we don’t hold it against him.”

  He shook my hand. “Colonel Stockwell may well owe his life to your dog, Captain.”

  �
�I’ll see that Finn gets checked out by a vet at our next port of call.”

  He chuckled and nodded. “A wise idea, I’m sure. Did you retire as a sergeant major?”

  “No, sir. Gunnery Sergeant.”

  His eyes sparkled with mirth. “And now captain of Jack’s infamous pirate ship, eh?”

  General Earnst was a bewildering man. At times, he had a gentle manner about him, taking great care with his patient. And at other times, he’d seemed more like an infantry officer, exchanging profanity-laced barbs with Travis’s team.

  It was obvious that there was history with all of them. As he worked, setting up an IV drip, I studied each member of the security team a little closer.

  Duster seemed the youngest, but even he was in his thirties. He reminded me of a bird of prey, perched high on a limb overhanging a gorge, body unmoving, sharp eyes not missing a thing.

  Meachum was a few years older, I figured. He was taller and heavier, but that wasn’t what separated the two men. Duster looked up to Meachum, admired him in a way that told me they’d been through a shitstorm together.

  But the other two, Gerald and Oswald, were both more than a decade older, probably late forties. They both had a look about them that told me they had been career soldiers.

  These were men who’d all served together, comfortable in whatever bond that held them. Meachum and Duster had probably been in high school on 9/11, Oswald and Gerald already staff NCOs. Stockwell was still an active-duty officer until he was tapped by Homeland Security in early 2007.

  My guess was that Stockwell had met and worked with each man while in the Army, sometime between 2002 and 2007. Knowing his background and observing the casual way they all interacted, I assumed it was probably some covert operation.

  Somalia, Syria, Lebanon, and Yemen were all hotbeds of clandestine military operations during that time. Iraq and Afghanistan had been more overt, but it might have been one of those just as easily.

  The retired general was the wild card. He appeared to be in his early seventies and, being a doctor, had probably never served in a war zone. At least not this latest, long war. But that fact also might have allowed him to serve beyond mandatory retirement. On 9/11, when the two younger men were likely still in school, Earnst probably had the first star on his shoulder board, a brigadier general.