Wood's Revenge

by Steven Becker

  His county was awash in polluted water and dead fish. The environmentalists blamed the dark brown flow routed to the Gulf via the Caloosahatchee River from Lake Okeechobee and the sugar fields below it. Back in the day, Big Sugar had paid off scientists to push the blame for the red tides and fish kills elsewhere, but it was so bad now a child could figure it out. He knew legislators on the East Coast were facing similar problems, and, with the rise of social media, there was nowhere to hide.

  He’d told Dusharde he needed to back away or risk losing his seat—and more. Dusharde had laughed and told him he was expendable. But without the magnate’s patronage he knew he would soon have a mailing address in a federal correctional institute. That might not be the worst of it once his trophy wife left him and his ex found out. Both would not hesitate to flay him publicly, and probably together.

  It was a hot issue now, and every reporter and blogger in the state was interested. The probes were getting close. Several well-placed informants had told him a reporter from the News-Press had been asking questions in the county records office about real estate he owned. One of those deals that Dusharde had told him “would never see the light of day” was about to. His problem was not just taking the money, it was his greed. He had doubled down and used the “campaign contributions” and his inside knowledge to buy some of the real estate involved in the state’s purchase plan.

  The voters had approved the purchase of large tracts of agricultural land, which would have made him a quick buck if the sugar companies hadn’t double-crossed him and stalled the transactions. The sugar magnates had used their influence and the land had never been sold. Now he was sitting on a pile of dirt that was worth pennies on the dollar and could put him in jail.

  With the gun tucked into his belt, he put on his suit jacket and adjusted it to conceal the bulge. It was time to pay Dusharde a visit and settle this. Then he could move on to the campaign appearances he had scheduled for the weekend, all carefully fabricated to slide his position toward the environmentalists. You didn’t get elected five consecutive terms without being able to take the temperature of the electorate—and it was running green now. To make the shift, he had to deal with Dusharde and, unfortunately because of the Colt, he would have to drive.

  It was his habit to listen to National Public Radio, not that he agreed with their views, usually his were a hundred and eighty degrees from the liberal agenda, but he needed a source of motivation, and NPR provided a good one. He started to yell at the radio as he drove. A piece started about the Plan Six Flowway and he focused on the story.

  The plan was to open drainage channels into the Everglades, in effect, restoring the original flow. That would entail buying tens of thousands of acres of public land—but the land purchases were to the east of his property, leaving it worthless. The project would also contribute jobs and money to his district. That was the good part. Promoting the environmental plan would likely get him reelected. But he was conflicted about the proposal to alleviate the flow of fertilizer-saturated water pouring into the Caloosahatchee and St. Lucie Rivers.

  Though the plan looked good on paper, with big blue arrows showing the unrestricted flow of water to Florida Bay, buying the land and creating the drainage was problematic. The bridges to breach sections of Alligator Alley and Highway 41, the two roads that crossed the state connecting the east and west coasts, were necessary to the plan. From what he knew during his time with the Army Corp of Engineers in Vietnam, bridges brought unforeseen complications. The organic mush of the Everglades was all-too-similar to the swamps of Vietnam. These were not hard-bottom or sandy riverbeds they were planning to span. The bridges’ piers would create channels that would form dams as silt and muck accumulated. In the end, he feared all those millions of dollars would be spent in vain. The plan would result in an ongoing multi-million-dollar dredging project to keep the water flowing.

  Thinking about the inadequacy of the proposed project only fueled his anger. Whether the plan would work or not, he knew he needed to back it. It would mean jobs in his district and pacified environmental groups—both good things. But first he needed to salvage his investment, and, after the phone call, he knew Philip Dusharde had other plans. His resolve hardened the more he thought about it.

  22

  Mel was pinned against the back of the seat by the forty-mph wind generated from the forward movement of the airboat. The 383 Chevy small-block engine put out 475 horsepower, and she was feeling all of it as the driver made a run for it. He must have seen the other boat come out of the channel and accelerate after them.

  The low square bow sliced the tops of the cattails, sending them flying at Mel, who held up a hand to protect her face from the stinging spikes found on the top of the plants. Facing backward was more comfortable than forward, and she was able to watch the boat behind. It looked like they were maintaining the gap, although judging distance with only cattails and sawgrass between them was difficult. They had moved far enough from the highway that her entire field of view was now the same. Soon she started noticing subtle differences as they moved farther south. The Southern Glades, reaching from Highway 41 to Florida Bay, was the most pristine of what was left of the original River of Grass. Once spreading over much of South Florida, the Glades had been drained, filled, and rerouted so less than half of the natural area remained.

  White Ibises scattered in front of them, joining other birds flying higher above. Every so often she saw a splash and a wake as a gator slid out of their way. Wondering if this was kind of a wetlands safari, she stared in awe at the natural landscape, mostly because she was powerless now, her life in the hands of the driver following the small red dot on the phone.

  The boat behind them was keeping pace, and she wished she could communicate with the driver, but the exposed engine driving the airplane propeller was too loud to talk over. A minute later he reached down and handed back the phone. She looked at the screen and noticed the dot was gone. Frantically she pinched, panned, and zoomed the display, trying to find her link to Mac, but it was no use.

  She looked up at the driver, who understood her concern and pointed straight ahead. Apparently he had an idea where they were going. He began to veer slightly to the east, and she saw the landscape to their left change. What had been all wetlands now showed signs of man. There were straight lines and agricultural fields in the distance. They entered a wide area of water that looked like a road running through the grass, heading straight for what looked like land.

  Another glance back and she relaxed slightly. The other boat had been reduced to a spec on the horizon. It was still there and following, but showed no sign of being able to catch them. Turning forward, she focused on their surroundings, which had made the not-so-subtle change to a man-made canal. She had a feeling they were getting closer, but the waterway had narrowed, forcing the driver to slow. The other boat was closing the gap.

  Out of breath, Mac and Pamela made it to the corner of the building. Trufante grabbed the woman in a bear hug and the couple exchanged a brief moment before Mac ordered the group to fall back. The distraction of the flare wouldn’t last much longer, and now that they were together they needed to put some space between the group and whoever was shooting at them. “Scouts are out,” Trufante said, still holding Pamela,

  Mac saw the smile on his face and knew he was enjoying this. That was Trufante. “Where are they?”

  “Went to see what the she-devil was doing. That woman’s evil as a snake-bit gator.”

  Mac was about to respond when two boys and a girl who looked about college age called for cover and dove toward them. Again he wondered if this was still just a paintball game to them. “What’d you find out?”

  They looked at Trufante for approval before talking. He nodded.

  The girl started. “They’re around the rocket. The woman is down in the silo. We couldn’t get close enough to see what she was doing.”

  “Rocket?” Mac asked.

  “Dude, it’s the old Aeroj
et rocket factory. They left one down in the silo when they bailed in the late sixties,” one of the boys said.

  Mac didn’t know what to believe. He needed to see this for himself. Scanning the area, he saw the building the scouts had come from and wondered how to get across the fifty yards of exposed asphalt to reach it without getting shot.

  “I need to have a look,” Mac said. This was spinning out of control.

  “Max, take two men and Mac here over to the silo. We’ll cover you,” Trufante said.

  “Cover me with what? You have paintball guns, they have the real thing,” Mac said.

  “Quantity over quality is what I always say. Just keep your head down. We’ll keep them off you.”

  Mac looked at Max, who had picked two other boys from the group. They nodded to each other and, bent over in low crouches, took off at a run. Mac heard a continuous stream of splats as the rest of the group fired over their heads toward the building where the live fire had come from earlier. Something was missing, he realized, as they turned the corner inside of the silo shed and caught their breath. No shots had been fired back. That could only mean the shooters were either gone or had moved. He suspected the later.

  With no threat from the rear, he looked forward. Max had already ordered the two other men to fan out to scout the perimeter. “It’s over here,” one of the boys whispered.

  Mac followed him to a section of the concrete floor covered with a rusted and broken steel grate. The sun disappeared, casting the building into an eerie twilight. He looked back outside and saw storm clouds were building. Light streamed into the building the large openings where he suspected roll up garage doors had once hung. The roof had several large gaps where the sections came together. Designed in a way to slide open when the rocket was fired, it was now only partially closed. Just as he approached the edge of the silo the sun came out, throwing beams of light into the building. Trufante was right. There was a rocket down there. It’s metal finish was dulled by years of exposure, but he could still see the NASA markings. He moved toward a section of the grate on the far side that had been removed. There were fresh scrapes on the concrete where the steel cover had been dragged, and it looked like it had been moved recently.

  “You have a flashlight?” he asked Max.

  He handed him his rifle with a tactical LED light mounted next to the telescopic sight. Taking the offered butt from Max, he placed it against his shoulder and brought the barrel to his eye. He found the switch, and brilliant light illuminated a narrow area of the silo. Panning the rifle from side to side, he scanned the rocket and surrounding silo. It was much larger than he expected, spanning over twenty feet in diameter. Shooting the light into the void, it diffused before he could see the bottom. Not sure what he was really looking for, he lowered the weapon as he swept it back and forth. About halfway down the fuselage he saw a blinking red dot.

  “Look at that,” he said to Max as he pulled the gun away.

  “What the heck,” Max said.

  A loud boom caused them both to jump, then they realized it was thunder. Standing above the opening, staring into the hole, they heard a gun cock behind them—a real gun.

  Before Mac turned, he noticed two other dots attached to the rocket, and he realized what they were.

  “Back away,” a woman called.

  She was backlit by the doorway and Mac could only see her silhouette. Looking like an Old West gunslinger, she stood there with pistols in each hand. On first glance as she approached it looked like she had bandoleers crisscrossed over her shoulders. A flash of lightning was accompanied by a thunder clap, and he could see it was the nylon webbing of a climbing harness.

  She motioned Max away and approached Mac. Instinctively he stepped back, putting his weight on his left foot to catch himself and was surprised when there was nothing there. Falling backward into the silo, his body clipped something hard and he reached out desperately. A hard blow to his side turned him and he was able to see the rocket in front of him. He grabbed for a guide wire, hoping it would slow his fall.

  The rusted wire immediately tore his hands, but he held on. Like a fighter taking body shots, he flinched as he bounced back and forth between the solid steel rocket and the concrete walls. Finally the momentum slowed and he hung in space. Grasping the fifty-year-old wire, he took several breaths and fought for a better grip before he looked up to see how far he had fallen. He was deep in the silo. The circle above him was small, and he thought he saw several heads sticking over the opening. He heard voices echoing down into the chamber. They knew he was down there.

  A few shots fired blindly into the void, but a women’s sharp voice ordered a stop to them. He was trapped and she knew it. After spending the last twenty-five years around demolitions, he knew what she had placed on the rocket and was probably worried a ricochet might ignite one of the charges. Feeling safer from the threat above, he had to face the unknown below as his sweaty palms and cramping muscles threatened his grip on the wire. Slowly he was losing the battle.

  His eyes had become acclimated to the dark and he looked down, thinking he saw the hard bottom of the chamber. It was too far to jump, and he looked back around him at the rocket and casing. The rocket was smooth, the only rigging points were the ones the guide wires were attached to above him. The old cable was frayed and rusty, but he had no choice. Wrapping it around his hands, he placed his feet against the face of the rocket and started to climb.

  Mel looked at the anvil-shaped cloud ahead. Thunder had already started to roll, a precursor of what was to come. But she thought she heard a different sound over the engine noise. After an hour of the constant whine of the engine, propeller, and cattails snapping as the bow crashed through them, the pop—pop—pop sound of a gun and the whiz of bullets flying by grabbed her attention. She expected them to be coming from the man in the boat behind them. Risking a look back, she could see him clearly, but there was no gun. She turned, willing the boat to go faster, when she saw the first building appear on her left. Several more came into view, and she almost forgot about the pursuit as she stared at the abandoned industrial complex and wondered what it was doing out here in the middle of the Everglades.

  The roar of the boat behind her brought her back to the present and she turned. The airboat was right on their tail now, the gap only a dozen feet. Instinctively, she grabbed for the handrests when she saw the steel hull about to ram them. The first hit was just a tap, and she looked up at the driver, who accelerated. Just as he did, the canal took a forty-five-degree turn, and the starboard side of the airboat slid against the berm, causing the boat to spin. He immediately cut the engine speed to regain control.

  Feeling like she was in a car skidding on an icy road, Mel fought the dizziness and gripped tighter as the g-forces built. Finally the boat slowed enough for the driver to straighten it out, but they were dead in the water. Turning back, she saw a gun in the hand of the pursuer. A shot fired and she jumped over the side. Clawing at the lukewarm, slimy water, she tried to reach the bank, ignoring the bullets slamming the water around her. A blast of air caught her by surprise and she panicked for a second. Her driver had the boat moving, using its position to screen her from the other boat. Besides the protection of the steel hull, the thrust from the propeller pushed her toward shore.

  With the shooter distracted, she climbed the berm and lay on the rough gravel surface, surveying her position. The pursuing airboat had been forced to turn by the melee, and she could see the driver standing in the bow looking for her. The top of the berm concealed her from his vantage point. As long as she stayed low, she could move away from him, and she was about to make a run for the closest building when she felt the barrel of a rifle press into her back.

  23

  Mel collapsed on the gravel lot, not caring about the fat rain drops that had just started falling. Thunder boomed again, this time shaking the ground, and lightning flashed in the distance. She berated herself for acting impulsively, but then realized that there had been
no choice. With the man in the airboat shooting at her, there was nowhere to go but forward. She could have easily blamed her situation on Mac and Trufante, but she knew they were only pawns in a bigger game. Big Sugar was involved, and that steeled her for whatever was to come.

  A hand grabbed the back of her shirt, pulling her to her feet, and she found herself face-to-face with her captor. Mel blinked the water away from her eyes and followed her directions, moving slowly, so she could evaluate her surroundings. A loud crack of thunder seemed to open the heavens and the rain intensified. Despite the reduced visibility, she had the feeling there were other people around, which was confirmed when she heard something crash by the side of the building behind them. The noise distracted the woman for a brief second, and if she had been prepared, she might have been able to catch her off guard and escape, but the moment passed.

  It did alter their path. The woman pushed her to the right, toward an alley between two concrete buildings. As they approached she saw a shadow toward the end and noticed the woman tense. She heard a strange sound and felt something sting her thigh. Looking down, she saw a blue splat on her leg. Within seconds, several more appeared, and she looked around for the source.

  Before she could figure out what was happening, the woman dragged her against the wall of the building. Their backs were covered now, but the paint splatter surrounded them. They were pinned down, with shots raining in on them from both directions. The woman was covered in paint from head to toe, the rain blending the individual spots into a mass of blue upon contact. She tried to return fire, but the incoming barrage was coming so quickly she fell back. At the same time that Mel felt the stings increase in intensity, she noticed their frequency had decreased. She wiped her face with her shirt. Instead of clearing her vision, it was now blurred from the rain and the paint smeared in her eyes. Squinting, she could see the vague outline of two groups approaching. A steady stream of fire coming from what looked like rifles was directed at the other woman. She was pinned down, taking all the shots now, and Mel saw her chance. She ran toward the tall figure leading the group approaching from her side, and even through her paint-clouded vision, she saw the two rows of teeth and knew it was Trufante.