Wood's Reef (22 page)

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 boat 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.

Chapter 42

Mel watched the scene unfold, concealed behind a strand of thick mangroves. She shielded her eyes from the glare and scanned the water. The sheriff’s boat was tied off of Mac’s. It looked like one man was on deck. She moved her gaze to watch the men on the beach. Clearly the man in charge didn’t know what to do. He probably wanted the bomb, but didn’t know what to do with the prisoners. The lawyer side of her brain took over as she tried to figure a way out. She pulled out her phone and checked the time. They were supposed to have met Mac ten minutes ago, although she had no idea why. But first she had to get Wood, Trufante, and Sue out of there.

She’d need firepower and surprise to negotiate this position. Despite her racing heart, she quietly exited her hiding spot and started slowly back down the path toward the house. Once out of earshot of the clearing, she increased her pace and quickly covered the ground to the shed. With no idea where her dad kept anything, she started rummaging through the piles of tools and gear. In a pile of dive equipment, she saw a speargun. More valuable in her hands than a shotgun, she grabbed the gun, an extra spear, and a fresh band. Then she moved stealthily back down the path toward the clearing. When she was within a few feet of exposing herself, she stuck the extra shaft in the sand in front of her, checked that the spear was inserted, and pulled the band back, engaging the trigger. 

She knew she was outgunned. The element of surprise and her experience with a spear gun her only assets, she slowly moved to a better vantage point and aimed the gun at the closest crewman. In her teen years, her passion for spearfishing had won her several competitions. Evaluating the threat, she had determined the crewmen to be vastly more dangerous than the officer. She accounted for distance and the weight of the spear, knowing it would drop as it travelled, and pulled the trigger. The shaft buzzed through the air, embedding itself in the crewmen’s shoulder, right by his neck.