“I see it. You’re about ten miles off my port bow,” the radio said. Boone thought he detected just a touch of the South in the gruff voice. “How many are you?”
“Three.”
“Hang tight, I’ll be there as soon as I can. If I had my old Rampage I’d be there in a jiffy, but this long-haul trawler can only hit fifteen knots.”
“Roger, Floridablanca, we’ll be here. We might be in the water, but we’ll be here. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Voyage was a bit dull, anyway. Seeya in a few.”
Boone hung up the mic and fished his binoculars from a cargo pocket. Looking to the northwest, he couldn’t see any boats at the moment. Glassing the waters where the submarine had exploded, he quickly spotted a debris field. Most of it was small fragments but the entire conning tower was floating there, blown clear of the sub. Probably made of light-weight composites. Better call Rick, let him know we sank it. He looked around for the sat-phone. It had been on a little shelf on the console but must have gone flying when the boat was lifted by the shockwave.
“Boone! I need a hand!” Emily yelled from below. “Sid’s hurt!”
Boone grabbed hold of the bannister of the flybridge ladder and was about to do a rapid slide down it before opting for a more cautious descent—he was still woozy from hitting the deck.
Emily was waiting below, her tiny frame holding up a bleary-eyed Sid who was sporting a bloody cut on his brow. “You boys need to wear helmets,” she muttered.
“I’m still a little fuzzy, but I’m okay,” Boone said, removing his life vest and stripping off his shirt to give to Emily. “Here, ball this up and press it against that cut. Sid? You with us?”
“We’re sinking, aren’t we?” Sid slurred, trying to focus on the dipping stern.
“Yeah, but help is on the way.” As he put the life vest back on, he did a quick mental calculation: ten miles at fifteen knots, which was a hair over seventeen miles-per-hour… just over thirty minutes. The stern was already awash and the deck was definitely taking on a noticeable tilt. Since the design of the speedy craft was mostly bow, this could get ugly fast. “We’re gonna have to get wet.”
“No, no…” Sid mumbled, pointing to the bench alongside the cabin door. “When we impounded it, I searched in there. Inside… a yellow square with a handle, I think it’s an inflatable life raft.”
Boone was already lifting the bench seat and extracting the object, the words “Revere Coastal Compact” on the side. “Good. A fishing charter I crewed for had one of these. It’s self-inflating. Sid, can you hold on to the ladder here? Em, we need to secure this painter line to the boat. Let’s use that gunwale cleat—stern’s dipping too much.”
Once they’d secured the line, Boone hurled the yellow case into the water, the painter line playing out from within the case. Upon hitting the water, Emily started pulling the remainder of the slack until the painter line stopped. “Now what?” she asked.
“Give it a tug.”
“I’m gonna leave that one alone,” she said through a smirk, then yanked the painter line. The raft rapidly inflated—in thirty seconds, a small circular raft floated alongside their sinking boat.
“Water’s up to my feet,” Sid said from the ladder.
“Em, help him to the gunwale,” Boone said. He dropped over the side and swam to the life raft, corralling it and bringing it close to the Wavy Davey. He reached one arm up and grabbed a cleat, gripping the raft by a handle with his other hand. Emily had Sid seated on the side of the boat, his feet dangling down.
“I suppose now’s not the best time to confess that I’m not the best swimmer?” Sid said.
“You can step right down into the boat,” Boone said. “I’ll hold it steady.”
Sid did so and no sooner than he was aboard, the Wavy Davey’s rate of sinking abruptly increased. Emily yelped and caught herself from falling to the deck.
“Em, jump in! Now!” The muscles in Boone’s arm corded as he held fast to the cleat while Emily hopped down into the raft. Once she was aboard, he swung himself in after her. The painter line pulled taut as the shattered yacht began to slip beneath the waves. Boone remembered the instructions the fishing charter captain had given him. He quickly found the pouch alongside the inflation tube and slipped the small knife from it. As the raft skidded toward the sinking boat, Boone slashed through the painter line. Exhausted, Boone collapsed back into the raft, his head landing in Emily’s lap.
“Y’know,” Emily said, playfully stroking his hair, “that wasn’t bad for a first date. But next time, just dinner and a movie, yeah?”
Boone closed his eyes and let himself drift.
“Wake up, sleepyhead. Our ride’s here.”
Boone could hear a deep thrumming engine as he opened his eyes, looking up at the underside of Emily’s jawline. Her head was turned as she watched the approaching boat. He’d only managed a few minutes of napping because she kept pinching him, telling him that guys that bonk their heads didn’t get to sleep. He was pretty sure he didn’t have a concussion—Sid, on the other hand, looked a bit pale and clammy. Cuts on the head bled profusely, and Boone’s T-shirt was a total loss.
Sitting up, Boone turned his head toward the sound of the engine; a white trawler was approaching. About fifty feet in length, its bow sported a pair of anchors and up top were a number of masts and supports. Boone could see a radar slowly turning on the aft mast. The boat looked like an old model but was well maintained. As the boat neared, its engines dropped to an idle.
“Ahoy the raft!” a voice boomed from up top. Set back from the wheelhouse was a flybridge and a tall, bearded man was rising to his feet as he hailed them.
“Ahoy our savior!” Emily called back.
A line came sailing through the air to them and Boone caught it. The man had climbed down to the main deck and was now hauling them in. He was a big man, skin tan and weathered, maybe an inch taller than Boone. He was clearly fit, his arms well-muscled. It was difficult to guess his age—if it weren’t for the scraggly, gray beard and lined face, Boone might have pegged him for much younger.
Once alongside the trawler, the man reached down and took Emily’s hand, hauling her up. Boone helped Sid to rise and together he and their rescuer assisted the Saban policeman aboard. Boone grabbed hold of the gunwale railing to pull himself up but suddenly realized he didn’t have the strength. The man offered him his right hand and Boone took the assist, climbing to the rail. As the man lifted his left arm to steady him, Boone noted a tattoo on the man’s broad forearm: a winged skull with a scuba regulator in its mouth.
“Welcome aboard,” the man said. “I lost your boat on my radar. Glad to see you got off safe.”
“Yeah, the Wavy Davey is no more,” Boone said.
“Sorry to hear about that. You had her long?”
“About an hour.”
Emily suppressed a snicker and the man’s brow furrowed in mild confusion. “Before I ask for an explanation of that cryptic reply, lemme ask about something else. I just passed a lot of debris and none of it looked like it came from a pleasure craft.”
“That would be the submarine that blew up,” Boone said.
“Sir,” Emily began, still fighting a fit of mirth, “we’re not loonies, I promise… Sid here is a cop, and—”
The man raised a hand for quiet. “You’re talking about the smug druggler submarine some terrorists stole? Got everyone going crazy up near the Virgin Islands?”
Boone’s jaw dropped. “How do you know about that?”
The man shrugged, pointed vaguely toward the wheelhouse. “I overheard some chatter. Let’s just say I know what bands to listen in on.” He turned to Sid. “You Saba Police?”
“Yes, sir,” Sid replied. Boone noticed the young cop instinctively called him “sir”. Not surprising—the man had a take-charge, military bearing. “Aspirant… er… Cadet Sid
ney Every.”
“And you two?”
“Emily Durand,” Emily said, dipping a curtsy. “And this beanpole is Boone Fischer.”
“We’re divemasters from Bonaire. Just got here,” Boone said.
“And who may we thank for rescuing us?” Emily prompted.
The man looked at them for a moment but then a smile split his beard. “Where are my manners?” he said. “You can call me ‘Stretch’. Stretch Buchannan. Hey, Sid, head into the wheelhouse and call this location in to the Dutch Caribbean Coast Guard. There’s a GPS in there to the left of the wheel. Then sit your ass down and I’ll take a look at that cut.”
“I’ve got some first aid training,” Emily said.
“Okay, good. There’s a kit on the wall in there, you can’t miss it. Patch him up.”
“Aye aye, Cap’n Stretch!”
As Emily and Sid headed to the wheelhouse the man turned to Boone, sizing him up. “You carry yourself well, but you’re not military, are you?”
“No sir,” Boone said. “My father was Dutch Navy but that’s the closest I got.” He pointed at the man’s arm. “That tattoo. You were a combat diver?”
“Among other things. Force Recon. Very retired. Come up to the flybridge with me, will you?”
Boone followed Stretch up to the secondary bridge atop the cabin. “Beautiful boat,” he said. “What is she?”
“She’s a 1969 Seaton RPH. Incredible range. I’ve always enjoyed speed in my boats, but at some point in your life you just wanna drift and take it all in.” He picked up a pair of marine binoculars and glassed the debris field. “I thought that looked like a conning tower…” He lowered them. “The sub blowing up. You have something to do with that?”
“Indirectly.”
“Have a seat. Start from the beginning.”
“Wait… do you have a satellite phone?”
The man just looked at him for a moment. “I might.”
Odd response, Boone thought. He looked at the man, waiting.
“Who do you need to call?” Stretch asked.
“Rick Claassen. He’s Navy Reserve and said he works with… the Joint Inter-something-or-other.”
“Joint Interagency Task Force,” Stretch said. “I know someone who works with them from time to time. Claassen… that name’s familiar. Big Southern boy? Got a brother?”
“That’s him. He’s been passing along my info on the submarine.”
Stretch nodded, taking a sat phone from a compartment and powering it on. “I’ll need to make the call for you. Get the number ready.” He placed a call and very quickly said “It’s me. Odd request. I need you to place a call and patch me in.”
Boone had retrieved the soggy receipt from his pocket—fortunately, Rick’s number was still legible. He handed it to Stretch who read it to whoever he was talking to. After a moment he handed the phone to Boone. Rick picked up on the second ring.
“Claassen.”
“Rick, it’s Boone.”
“Boone! Several ships are telling me their sonars detected a huge explosion…”
“The sub is destroyed. We managed to ram her and the crew blew her up.”
“You’re certain?”
Boone had to laugh. “My ears are still ringing. Yeah, I’m certain. Debris everywhere. She’s gone, Rick.”
“Thank God. Listen, I need to get on the horn with a bunch of people. We diverted a U.S. Navy ship to Saba. Can you stay on scene? Keep the debris in view?”
“Will do.”
Rick ended the call and a female voice with a Southern twang came on and asked for Stretch. Boone handed the phone back to the skipper who took it and listened for a moment. “Thanks, Chyrel.” He hung up, set the phone aside, and looked at Boone.
Boone held his eyes. “Your name’s not really ‘Stretch Buchannan’, is it?”
The man didn’t look away and the ghost of a smile appeared on his face. “Well, hey there Miss, come join the party,” he suddenly said without taking his eyes off Boone.
Emily was ascending the stairs to the flybridge with a pair of water bottles. “Hope you don’t mind but I swiped a couple bottles of water.”
“No worries… mi aqua es su aqua,” he said, still looking at Boone.
“Sid’s resting now, and I…” she trailed off, looking at the two of them. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Oh nuthin’ much. Boone here was about to tell me how you found yourselves chasing a submarine full of terrorists. Why don’t you join us—pull up some bench and contribute to story time?”
“Okee dokee,” she said. “Let me just squeeze through the testosterone here and…” Miming a struggle through thick air, Emily plopped down beside Boone and handed him a water bottle.
The man known as Stretch burst into laughter and Boone grinned. The tension broken, he began. “It all started with a shore dive…”
An hour later, the USS Tornado arrived from the west. A Cyclone-class patrol ship, the Tornado had spent time in both the US Coast Guard and Navy, the speedy little ship primarily being used for interdiction and anti-piracy missions.
Up on the flybridge, Boone watched the Tornado maneuver closer, the crew preparing a fast boat for launch. Beside him, the sat phone rang. Boone started to reach for it but hesitated. A voice settled the issue.
“Hold up, Boone. I’ll take it.” Stretch said, mounting the flybridge and retrieving the phone. “It’s me. Just FYI, I’ve got some company. I’m between Saba and Sint Maarten.” He listened for a long time. Boone saw something come over the man’s face before he spoke again. “They’re sure it’s him?” Another pause. “Okay. Tell your man to stay on him. I’m not far from Kitts—pull some strings and get me some fuel lined up. I’ll contact you when I get there. Oh, and the USS Tornado just pulled up. Could you…?” He listened a moment longer. “Yeah, that’ll work. Gotta go.” He ended the call.
Boone watched as the Tornado’s fast boat was lowered into the water. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop…” Boone began.
“Hard to avoid on a little flybridge,” Stretch said. “No worries.”
“You’re taking the boat to Saint Kitts? I think the Navy’s going to want to talk to us. I doubt they’ll just let you drive away.”
Stretch smiled, a little twinkle in his eye. “Oh, I think they might.”
“Hey fellas, here comes the cavalry!” Emily called up from below. “Boone, you wanna give me a hand?”
“You heard your girlfriend. Snap to it!”
“She’s not…” The man raised his eyebrows and Boone chuckled. “Whatever you say, ‘Stretch’. On my way, Em!” He headed down to join her at the starboard side.
The Navy fast boat bounced across the waves and swiftly came alongside the Floridablanca. Boone and Emily helped them tie up. “Boone Fischer and Emily Durand?” an officer in his mid-thirties called up. When they nodded, the man continued. “And is the Saban police officer on board?
“Sidney Every. Right here,” Sid said, leaning against the cabin door, a large adhesive bandage on his forehead. He looked much more himself, Boone thought.
“I’m Commander Harper. I’m here to take you all aboard my ship for a debriefing. I don’t normally join the boarding party, but… where’s your captain?”
“Up here, Lieutenant,” Stretch called down. “Permission to come aboard. Join me up top, if you would.”
The officer climbed aboard and headed for the flybridge. Emily started to follow but Boone took her arm. “Actually, I think our friend wants a private conversation.” When Emily cocked her head at him, he continued. “I’m not sure ‘Stretch’ is your run-of-the-mill cruiser.”
“Well, yeah, he’s a retired Marine,” Emily said.
“That’s just it, I’m not sure how ‘retired’ he is.”
Harper descended to the deck and joined them. “So,
Captain Buchannan has been cleared.” Emily nudged Boone who gave her a shrug. Harper continued, “You three will be joining us. The Dutch Navy has been made aware and is letting us handle the debrief. Afterwards, we’ll return you to Saba.”
As they climbed aboard the fast boat, Boone turned back to the trawler and called out to the big, bearded man as he untethered them. “Stretch! Thanks for the assist. And good luck with the rest of your cruise.”
The man grinned. “Here’s hoping it’ll be smooth sailing for all of us. You kids try not to sink any more boats, ya hear?”
The fast boat’s engine throttled up and they curved through the water toward the Tornado. When Boone looked back the bearded man was already at the flybridge wheel, a wake appearing at the Floridablanca’s stern as it motored away, heading to the southeast.
The sun was low in the sky as the Tornado rounded the southern coast of Saba, the orange glow just topping the steep cliffs providing a spectacular sight. Boone, Emily, and Sid were in the bridge of the patrol boat, watching through the windows as the two piers of little Fort Bay came into view. Boone’s eye was drawn to a weather satellite display that an officer was watching, jotting down notes on a pad. “What’s that big blotch there?” he asked, pointing to an area just off the coast of West Africa.
“Pretty big tropical wave,” the man said, making a note under the heading “August 26, 2017”. “We’re in the middle of the Atlantic hurricane season so we keep an extra-close eye on anything that might develop.”
“Hell of a week you two have had,” Harper said as he entered the bridge. “Your reservist friend gave us plenty to work with but it was good to get your side of it to piece it all together. Come with me, please.” They followed as he headed aft to where the crew was once again readying the fast boat. “I’ve got your email if we need anything else. Sid, how’s your head?”
“Better, sir. Give your corpsman my thanks for the stitches.”
“Did they ever figure out who exactly built that submarine?” Boone asked. “Rick thought it might have been Russian engineers.”
Deep Shadow Page 24
