by Evan Graver
In the silence, they could hear Landis clicking his pen in and out. He blew out another deep breath. “Greg, do you know why we stopped working jointly?”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea.” He glanced at Ryan.
“Your dad didn’t operate like this. Everything he did was above board an—”
Greg hit the end button. “How dare that asshole talk about my dad.”
“I went rogue, right?” Ryan asked. “My op to takedown Killer Roy was unsanctioned, and I delivered weapons to a warlord in Haiti.”
“Something like that.”
Greg’s phone rang. “It’s Landis.” He tapped the button to take the call.
“Don’t you ever hang—”
Greg hit the end button again.
The phone immediately rang, and Greg answered.
“You’re just as cavalier as your buddy, Ryan,” Landis fumed. “If you lose government contracts it won’t be my fault.”
“Other than owning the controlling interest in DWR, I have nothing to do with its daily operations, Floyd.” Greg winked at Ryan. Both knew Landis hated to be called by his first name. It reminded him of Floyd the Barber in the Andy Griffith Show.
“Are you going to Haiti?” Landis asked, more under control.
“Yes,” Ryan said.
Another long sigh and pen clicking filled the air. “Just be careful. Greg, you’re like your dad in a lot of ways and I know you both operate above board. Ryan, while I know your heart is in the right place, I’ve been ordered to keep my distance from you if I want to collect my pension, but if there’s anything I can do for you, please call me. You have my personal cell number.”
“Thanks, but we just wanted some information about Joulie,” Greg said.
“She’s united two warring gangs and now controls almost half of the country. She did it with the Humvees, MRAPs, and guns you unloaded before the Santo Domingo sank.”
Ryan asked, “What else is she doing?”
“I don’t know,” Landis said. “Haiti isn’t my department. I only know about the unification of the gangs because her name came up in an interagency meeting. Ryan, before she went back, she asked me where you were. I told her that I had no clue.”
Puzzled, Ryan asked, “Why’d she want to see me?”
“She didn’t say.”
Ryan took a draw on his cigarette. He wouldn’t mind seeing her again.
When Ryan didn’t say anything more, Greg said, “Thanks. I’ll call you if we need any help.”
“Good luck, guys.”
Greg ended the call. “That adds a wrinkle to things.”
Ryan nodded. “Hope she doesn’t want a cut.”
“I’m sure everyone and their brother will know exactly what’s going on when you drop anchor over the Santo Domingo and send a diver down.”
“No kidding,” Ryan said.
Chapter Twelve
The promised party with Chuck didn’t pan out as they’d planned. His busy flight schedule meant he couldn’t return to Key West for two more days. Days Ryan wanted to use to get to Haiti. Greg waited in a hotel and Don accompanied the crew across the Gulf Stream to Andros Island. He wanted to ensure all his new systems were up and running. Things went smoothly, and Ryan insisted Don go further down the Bahamas, so they could test the surface supplied diving gear and the towed sonar array.
From Andros, they worked their way south. At eight knots they weren’t going anywhere fast. Their maximum speed was just over twelve knots and the old boat started to protest when she approached double digits. Ryan had complained about the fuel bill at Andros Town, and Dennis was happy to oblige his old gal and his boss by keeping her below her normal cruising speed to conserve fuel.
Ryan figured Kilroy wouldn’t have their exact location, unless Dreadlocks had gotten a tracking device on board the Peggy Lynn, and that would buy him some free time to enjoy the trip down. He was wrong.
Once they started down the island chain, he became anxious. He was ready to be back in the action and to find the gold. To help alleviate the tension, he had them tow the sonar array through the deeper water between islands. He wanted them to be well-versed on the equipment by the time they reached Haiti. Staring at a television screen was monotonous for a man who had once lived like an action sports star, jumping out of planes, scuba diving, traveling across the globe, blowing up mines, deactivating bombs, and shooting bad guys. He’d had teammates who, in their down time, were professional BASE jumpers, raced dirt bikes, ran triathlons, or rock climbed competitively.
“Hey, Ryan, get your ass up here,” Stacey yelled from the bridge.
He jerked his gaze upward from his spot on the stern, stubbed out his cigarette and ran up the stairs. “What?”
“We found a shipwreck.” Stacey pointed to the screen. Don was using a computer tool to take measurements and then used them to render a three-dimensional model. In the meantime, Captain Dennis had slowed the boat to make a wide turn for a second pass over the wreck.
“Why are we wasting time on this?” Ryan asked.
Travis looked up, puzzled. “I thought you wanted to try out some of the gear?”
Ryan glanced at the model Don was generating. According to the projection, the boat was an old shrimper. Not surprising for these waters. “Yeah, let’s do it. Dennis, make another sweep and then come back around to anchor. Travis and I will take turns on the surface supply.”
“You know me and Captain Dennis have been using that gear for years,” Emery said.
“Do you want to dive, Grandpa?” Travis asked.
“It’s been awhile since I’ve been in the water, whippersnapper. I’d like to give it a go.”
“What about you, Captain?” Ryan asked.
“I’m good,” Dennis replied from behind his cup of coffee. Ryan had noticed the man had laid off the whiskey since they’d been underway.
Ryan asked, “When was the last time you dove?”
“Been a few years,” Dennis said.
“Wouldn’t hurt to do a refresher dive. We’ll probably need a standby diver.”
Dennis gazed out the window while guiding the Peggy Lynn across the wreck site again. Ryan noticed Dennis had made a mark on the GPS plotter.
“Passing over now,” Dennis said.
Everyone except Dennis stared at the flat screen and the sonar’s waterfall display. They saw the dark outline of the ship against the sea bottom, the laser scanner adding additional details to the previously generated 3D model of the vessel lying on her port side.
After the sonar had passed over the sunken boat, Don shut off the system and activated the drum winch to reel in the towed array. Ryan went aft to monitor the progress of the winch and to hoist the array aboard. When the nose of the array broke the surface, Ryan motioned for Dennis to put the engines in neutral, and the big salvage boat drifted while Ryan and Travis craned the torpedo-shaped sonar gear back aboard and settled it into its cradle.
“What do you think we’ll find?” Travis asked.
Ryan said, “Probably some old, piece of crap that sank fifty years ago.”
Travis shook his head. “Are you always so cynical?”
“No.” Ryan leaned both hands against the sonar array, another piece of gear tested and improved by DWR. “I’m a pretty positive guy. I’m just ready to get to Haiti and get on with the mission.”
Travis said, “I understand that.”
Peggy Lynn’s engines shuddered as Dennis brought her to a stop over the wreck.
Ryan straightened. “Our lives depend on this equipment. Let’s make sure it works to standards.”
“I agree.” Travis turned and pulled off his sweaty T-shirt. His back and chest were white as a sheet, but his arms had been bronzed by the sun in a classic farmer’s tan.
Ryan started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” Ryan said, trying to keep the smile off his face.
Forty minutes later, Travis wore his wetsuit and had his helmet l
ocked in place. The compressor was humming, and all their topside checks were complete. Ryan hooked up the Launch and Recovery System basket—a large stainless-steel platform used to lift and lower the divers—to the crane boom. Travis stepped onto the LARS, and Ryan used the crane to lift him over the rail and lower him to the sea floor below. Stacey stood by the thick umbilical cord connecting the diver to the compressor and his topside control. Emery sat on the bench in his faded ratty wetsuit, which he refused to give up for a new one. His helmet was beside him, ready to dive in case of an emergency. Ryan didn’t see any reason for Travis, experienced as he was, to run into difficulty at one hundred and fifteen feet.
Once the LARS was on the sand beside the wreck, Ryan retreated to the bridge to watch the video feeds with Dennis and Don. In the clear water, the camera footage made it look like they were standing beside Travis as he walked around the wreck. The boat showed no signs of damage to the hull to provide a clue to the cause of her sinking. There was damage to the bridge, hoist masts, and lifelines. Some were completely missing, and others dangled precariously. Ryan watched silently, knowing he didn’t need to warn Travis about the dangers of becoming entangled in the wreck.
“Not much outside,” Travis said after making a full circle of the wreck. He turned to watch a school of fish that had taken up refuge on the artificial reef. A good-sized black grouper slid out from one of the hold doors. “Where’s the spear gun?”
“Take a look inside,” Ryan said into the microphone.
“Roger that.” Travis stepped over the bow railing and used a piece of twisted metal to boost himself up to see in the bridge window. The camera bounced around as Travis jerked back and dropped to the sand. “What the hell?”
“Dead bodies?” Ryan asked.
“I guess so,” Travis said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“You okay?” Stacey asked through her radio connection at the gas blending station.
Travis sounded a little heated. “I’m fine.”
Ryan said, “Take a look inside the hold.”
Travis moved slowly around to the ship’s stern. The port side cargo door lay open on the sand. Travis clicked on his helmet-mounted lights and shone the twin beams into the hold. Ryan stood with his arms crossed while he watched the scene play out. Something nagged him about the glimpse of the bridge. The quick look he’d had was of two dead guys in what looked like blue coveralls.
“Holy balls,” Travis said.
Ryan focused his attention back on the screen. Highlighted in the cones of light were four shrink-wrapped pallets still strapped to the deck. Red, waterproof packages strained the insides of the shrink wrap as gravity pulled them toward the seabed. Only the cargo straps kept them from toppling over. Each red package held a kilo of cocaine.
“Travis, get out of there. Now,” Ryan commanded into the radio. He took his finger off the radio switch and said, “Don, back up the video to the bridge.”
Don rotated a round controller to back the footage up.
“Stop. Freeze it.”
Don had to jump the video back and forth a few times to get it exactly where Ryan wanted him to stop. Ryan bent close to the screen and stared at the image. “Erase all of this and overwrite it.”
“Why?”
“Just do it,” Ryan said, running out of the bridge and leaping down the steps to the deck. “Stace, get lover boy on the LARS. We need to get out of here.”
“What? Why?”
“Just do it!” He stripped off his shirt and strapped a weight belt with four pounds of weight and a wicked-looking dive knife on it around his waist. Next, he grabbed a mask and squirted baby shampoo mixed with water from a spray bottle into it. Stacey had Travis on the LARS. Ryan rinsed his mask in a small bucket and pulled it over his face before jerking on his fins. He grabbed a pole spear. The whole time he’d been working, he was taking deep breaths to purge his body of carbon dioxide.
Chapter Thirteen
Travis Wisnewski heard a splash and twisted his head to look above him. The SuperLite’s faceplate didn’t offer a great view upward. “What’s going on?”
“Ryan just dove over the side.” Stacey’s voice came through the fiber optics without the standard tininess of the old coaxial lines.
“What for?” Travis asked.
“I have no idea,” Stacey replied, a hint of exasperation in her voice. “He just insisted you get out of the water and jumped over.”
Travis swiveled around and finally spotted Ryan descending through the water column. He was kicking for the bridge of the sunken ship, his powerful back, leg, and arm muscles standing out like cords under his skin. Travis watched as Ryan thrust his upper body through the front bridge window. A few seconds later, he used a back kick and a push-off to make his exit. Travis saw Ryan shove something into the cargo pocket of his shorts. Several powerful kicks later, Ryan was at the rear of the ship.
The black grouper edged out of its hole. Travis saw Ryan slide his hand up the shaft of the pole spear, stretching the black rubber band tight. The grouper stared dumbly at the undersea invader yet did not turn away as he had from Travis. With no bubbles to scare the fish, the grouper mistook Ryan as a fellow sea dweller. Ryan extended his arm, the spearpoint just above the fish’s gills. He released his hand, and the spear drove straight through the grouper’s tender flesh. Immediately, the fish began twisting and plunging, trying to rid itself of the spear.
The LARS lifted Travis higher when his one-minute deep stop at fifty-eight feet ended. Ryan was still struggling with the fish. Travis asked Stacey, “How long has he been in the water?”
“I didn’t start counting,” Stacey said. Then, she said, “Grandpa says a minute and twenty seconds.”
Travis looked at his watch, mentally marking the spot on the bezel where the second hand had just been. He kept one eye on the sweep hand and the other on Ryan. He estimated the fish was close to three feet in length and nearly fifteen pounds. Ryan grabbed the pole spear in two hands. One near the fish and the other near the base. He started toward the surface, kicking as hard as he could.
Gripping the curved bar of the LARS basket, Travis watched Ryan swim past. Ryan gave him a wide grin, bubbles escaping through his teeth. Red blood streaming from the grouper appeared green in the water. The cage stopped, and Travis looked at his computer. Fifteen feet for three minutes, then he was done. Ryan climbed up the stern using the old tires and Travis was left sitting in the cage, alone. He peered down at the sunken vessel. What was so important that Ryan didn’t take the time to strap on a tank?
By the time Travis stepped out of the basket and onto the deck of the Peggy Lynn, Captain Dennis had the engines started and Grandpa was out of his wetsuit and dive gear. He wore a black Speedo over his wrinkled and sun-burned flesh. His slight paunch and prominent bones gave him a fragile look. White hair matted his chest, lower back, head, and legs.
Normally, Travis relished the first deep breath of fresh air after taking off his hat. The sun on his face and the wind against his wet body always served to remind him he’d survived another dive. But, as soon as his helmet was off, Travis barked at Ryan, “What did you see on the bridge?”
Ryan took Travis’s helmet and set it in its plastic case. He stood back up and turned to face Travis. “Nothing. I thought I saw something, but my eyes were playing tricks on me.”
“Bullshit, man,” Travis said, stepping out of the basket. “I saw you put something in your pocket.”
“You saw me spearing a fish.” Ryan stared right into Travis’s eyes.
Travis squared his shoulders and stared back. “I saw you go into the bridge. What did you take?”
Ryan stepped closer, bringing them nose-to-nose. Travis’s blood pressure rose, and the adrenaline kicked in. Anger boiled just beneath his skin. He felt prickly all over. “What did you take?”
Through clenched teeth, Ryan said, “I didn’t take anything.”
“Bull! Shit!” Travis cried. “Empty your pockets.”
In a menacing voice, Ryan said, “I am your boss. You answer to me. I’m telling you I didn’t take anything out of the bridge, and if I did it wouldn’t concern you one damned bit.”
Anger swelled inside of Travis. “You’re lying, and I don’t give a damn if you are the boss. I signed up to go after gold and now we’re meddling in drugs?”
“You’re the one who wanted to test the gear, remember?” Ryan said, not backing down. “Your girlfriend spotted this wreck, and you dove it. How am I to blame?”
“You picked the route,” Stacey said quietly.
“I’ve got a fish to clean,” Ryan said, not moving from his toe-to-toe standoff with Travis. Travis could feel Ryan’s anger pulsing off him even as his own anger clouded his judgment.
“You picked the route,” Travis said, trying to keep an even tone to his voice. “You knew where that boat was and now, we’re recovering cocaine.”
“We are not recovering cocaine,” Ryan growled. “You want a conspiracy theory, try the grassy knoll. Dennis and I agreed on the route. We’re going to Haiti.”
Travis’s gaze moved past Ryan to Emery, who was coming out of the bridge. The old man stopped at the top of the steps. “Captain says to knock it off.”
Shifting his gaze back to Ryan, Travis whispered. “I saw you put something in your pocket, asshole. Boss or not, I don’t like people lying to me.”
Ryan backed away and picked up the grouper. “Stop being so butthurt and clean up the gear.”
Travis’s blood boiled again, and he clenched his fists. He stepped forward, pulling an arm back to deliver a blow.
“Stop!” Stacey pleaded, lunging toward her boyfriend.
Travis looked at her and put his arm down, suddenly ashamed of his poor behavior. He began to strip off his buoyancy compensating vest, weight belt, harness, and wetsuit. Once free of his gear, Travis sat down on the bench. Stacey scooted in beside him.
“What was that about?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t know.” Travis leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “I saw him go into the bridge through the front window and come back out. He put something into his cargo pocket. It was small, whatever it was. Then he shot the grouper.”
