by Jeff Schanz
Brandt snatched up the carpet. Under it was a small one-foot square hatch for accessing the bilge pump. It opened with a twist of a latch and a yank upwards. Inside was the bilge pump anchored to the hull. Next to that was a package wrapped in clear plastic with a timer attached.
Shit, shit, shit.
Brandt was pissed to see the bomb, but not surprised. The one he had seen before had been on a cigarette boat owned by The Russian, which Brandt sabotaged when three of The Russian’s goons had tried to kill him. He had planned to bring his own explosive, then found the ready-to-go detonation security feature on the boat when he snuck aboard the eve of the fateful day. He ended up using the driver’s own remote control detonator against the guy and blew up that boat, plus the trailing boat. At the last moment, he dove overboard, which should not have saved him, yet somehow did. Anyway, there was no remote he could see here. Maybe one of the dead guys had it. Without the remote, he would probably be screwed. This package was installed by a professional bomb maker, which meant it could not be removed from the thing it was wired to, or it would automatically detonate. Nor could it be disengaged. If a wire was cut locally, the secondary would detonate it. And if the remote were to fail, or if the team were to be killed without being able to get back to the boat, the timer would automatically detonate and blow up all the evidence. Thorough. And it ruined every plan he had just made in the last hour.
The clock on the package ticked away. It was at eleven plus minutes and counting down.
GOD—DAMN—IT! Think. Think.
There wasn't much time, but he needed to see if one of the dead guys still had the remote. With that, he could either reset the timer to give himself more time or turn the whole thing off (he hoped). Either way, it was a good idea to find it. He hoped the sunken black guy didn't have it.
Brandt waded out to the shoal area, then swam over to the rocks where one of the assassins had been tossed by Viktor. The crumpled body was still there. His clothes were shredded and bones protruded through the tears in the fabric. The flesh was only pink and red pulp now. Brandt wasn’t squeamish. He had searched bodies that were turned inside out from bombs before, but he had been in a different frame of mind then. He held a deep breath and dug around in the pile of guts and cloth. Nothing on the man remained in one piece except his knife and his belt buckle. No remote. Not even a broken one.
Shit!
Brandt took the knife, figuring he could use it to expedite the search on the other guy’s clothing, and jumped back in the water. He swam as fast as he could to the pebbly beach. You’re taking too long. He staggered out of the inlet and ran out onto the beach. The first assassin who had died was still there in two halves. Each half was in decent shape, all things considered. But neither half of the man had a remote detonator.
The guy I killed with the harpoon must’ve been the leader. And the remote would’ve sunk with him. Even if he found it, it would be useless having sat underwater for however long it had been.
Brandt swam back to the boat like he was being chased by a shark. All his bruising and spraining were a long-gone memory now. Way too much adrenaline going on. Brandt got back on board and knelt down at the bilge hatch.
The timer had 3 minutes, 47 seconds left on it.
Brandt needed time to rethink the situation, but he had at best three and a half minutes to do it.
He needed an idea to pop into his head and nothing was coming. I’m screwed.
Screwed? That was actually an idea.
The bilge pump was fastened to the hull by three screws. It had a hose that ran the bilge water out to the side of the hull. The C4 was banded around the bilge pump tightly. If he tried to remove the C4, it would release the trigger. But the only thing stopping him from removing the bilge pump itself was three screws and the hose.
I think I can do this. He had three minutes to try.
There were rusty screwdrivers in the trawler toolbox. He leaped out of the sloop, ran to the toolbox and snatched up two screwdrivers: flat and Phillips-head since he forgot to see which one he needed. Back in the sloop, he knelt over the bilge hatch and tried to steady his nerves and see which screwdriver to use. Phillips-head screws. He sucked in a quick breath and pressed the tool to the screw head. It slid off several times. Screwdriver heads never seated easily when you needed them to. Finally, it stuck. He twisted the screwdriver hard and the screw came loose. It was taking too long for this damn thing to come out.
2:24 on the clock.
The screw wiggled out. He went to number two. This time the tool seated itself right away. He twisted. This screw was tougher, but with a grunt, it turned. Brandt ground the screwdriver into the screw and muscled it free.
On to number three. 1:58 on the clock.
The third screw loosened easily, but had more friction and took longer to turn with more awkward screwdriver angles. The time seemed to be ticking faster.
Number three out. 0:47 on the clock.
The pump was almost free, but the hose still held. Brandt brought out the knife he had liberated from the dead man. He jammed the blade under the hose and pulled. The hose sliced open but didn't separate. He slipped the knife back into the cut and tugged again. This time the hose split. The pump was free.
For a brief moment, Brandt wondered if he had been correct and the pump was the only thing the C4 was attached to. As he carefully lifted the pump out of the hatch, the C4 came with it with no other attachments. Once the pump was clear of the hatch, Brandt considered his next problem: what to do with it?
0:24 on the clock.
Reminiscent of when he was pinned down on a mountain in Pakistan, Brandt’s mind was revving in high gear. It reminded him that there might be more C4 in the hatch. Too dark to see inside, he bent an awkward arm through the hatch and groped around desperately, hoping he would need no more than a few seconds to discover any more C4.
0:17 on the clock. No time to look anymore. He’d have to hope he got it all. Even if he didn’t, there would be no time to free it safely.
He scrambled up to the deck. 10 seconds on the timer. Chuck it? He took a controlled breath and scanned the lagoon. Drawing his arm back, he threw the bilge pump as far as he could. It splashed into the shallow water of the sandy shoal.
Brandt ran and dove behind the trawler. If that one bomb was all there was, he was safe anywhere on shore. Sand and water wouldn’t kill him. But if there was something else inside the sloop, then the trawler would be a buffer.
The bomb on the shoal blew. A plume of water rose up and blasted out a wet cloud. Grit and sand pelted the cavern ceiling and walls. For a brief moment, the loud whoosh of the sand and water was a beautiful sound to Brandt’s ears, because it was the only sound going on. No other boom happened in the sloop.
And then the sloop blew. It wasn’t as large an explosion as the shoal blast, but it sent a spray of fiberglass, wood, and metal tumbling across the ground and slashing through the air, pummeling the side of the trawler.
My beautiful stolen boat. He gripped his head in tense hands.
When the dust and smoke cleared, he was able to see what all his frantic work had wrought. The boat was still there. Holy shit, it’s still a boat! Not just splinters, not just twisted wreckage. He ran to starboard side. That side was still intact.
There had to be a hole somewhere. He ran around to the other side. There it is. A hole the size of a yoga ball. He could see all the way into the cabin. Whoever the mercenary captain had been, he had put an extra small brick of C4 in there somewhere to make sure his comrades didn’t disagree with his plan and disarm it like Brandt just did. Damn it.
A wooden hull like the trawler might be patchable with stuff you could find on an island. Not likely, but not crazy. A little crazy, maybe. But fiberglass? Unless you have access to raw fiberglass and some machines that spun, smoothed, etc. the fiberglass, it was not going to be patched. So this pretty little sloop was now nothing more than spare parts and an expensive storage
compartment.
Oh well. You didn’t think you’d be lucky enough to save the boat, did you?
No, he didn’t. But hope was normally a good thing. Just not today.
CHAPTER 13
Brandt brooded for a little while, his emotional meter wagging between misery and hope. The trawler was still a viable option if he could Frankenstein some things together. Maybe use the sails and mast from the sloop? But… there had been a perfectly good boat right there. Right there! He could’ve sailed home immediately.
And blown up at sea if you did.
God was toying with him. Brandt still had something to do here and God apparently didn’t want him to go sailing just yet. Fine. It wasn’t fine, but it would have to be. What else could he do? A couple of hours ago, Plan A was to get the trawler functioning with whatever tools and materials he could find on this island. Then the sloop showed up. Granted, it came with armed assassins and gruesome slaughter, but after fast-forwarding past that part – there was the sloop, ready to sail back to the mainland. So old Plan A became a distant Plan B, and the new Plan A was to just pack his shit and get off this rock. Eventually. He still wasn’t sure of his timeline. Viktor apparently wasn’t going to interfere, despite delaying his departure briefly with dinner. Then the plans suddenly changed once again. Plan A had a literal hole in it, and Plan B was now back in effect as the new old Plan A. He needed a scorecard to keep up.
You’ve been through worse. He knew that and didn't like reminding himself.
Reengineering the new old Plan A, he scrounged what gear he could from the sloop wreckage. The inflatable raft was still intact. It had been in the opposite bunk compartment and miraculously had not been punctured by anything. Brandt doubted the raft would be much help, but it was always a good idea to have one handy. The refrigerator was busted permanently. Who knew if it had worked before, but it was definitely not working now. He had already removed the gas can, rope, and first aid kit before the explosion, so they were safe, along with the book. The duffles of gear were fine, as well. The tarp was torn up, though. It may still have a use, kind of like his dilapidated sails had been used for his bedding, so he folded up what was left of the tan canvas tarp and hauled that back to his camp.
All things considered, he may want to transfer his camp to the sloop now. The hole would let in a draft, but the cabin would be more comfortable than the ground. He could use the trawler later as his home once he got it cleaned out. At least the sloop was clean, albeit a little burned and sulfury smelling. He lay down on the intact bunk to test it. It held together but wasn't at all comfortable. Like sleeping on an airport bench.
He could decide the camp issue later, too.
He went back to each of the fallen henchmen and gathered what he could from them. They each had small backpacks that had carried a few essentials. The pummeled guy’s backpack was destroyed, but the stuff inside was mostly intact. The severed guy’s backpack was in perfect shape. Even his belt was in one piece. Brandt brought all that back to his cave and took inventory. Though he was minus the stuff the leader sunk with, it was still a decent haul.
Two AK-47 automatic rifles. Six full extra magazines and three extra boxes of rounds. Three shotguns and three boxes of shells wrapped in plastic. 10 bricks of C4, with 10 detonators. 10 programmable timers with triggered starters (zero remotes). 3 coils of rope, 3 grappling hooks, 3 ratchets, 3 binoculars, and 5 bottles of water. 12 MRE packets. 3 stacks of plastic-wrapped cash: each had $300 U.S and $200 pesos. Two passports: one U.S., one Mexican; same dude with two names. Two bowie knives, 3 9mm semi-automatic pistols, including the one tucked into his pants, and 3 boxes of 9mm rounds. He took the belt and holster off the severed guy so the pistol would have a handier place to reside.
The dead bodies of the two men would need to be disposed of. He considered letting the surf take them, but thought better of it. They might wash back up somewhere on the edge of the island. They’d either need to be buried or taken farther out into the ocean and dumped, and since this island was mostly rock and hard soil, the sea dump sounded like a better option. And how do you plan on doing that? With a broken sloop? Or the trawler that has no way to propel itself?
One thing at a time. As a temporary measure, he gathered up the corpses, and associated pieces, then piled them to the side of the beach and decided to cover them with the formerly useless tarp. A few rocks on the edges to hold it down, and some sand and pebbles tossed on top, and it resembled a lumpy piece of terrain. Good enough camouflage for someone passing by with a zoom lens or binoculars. If someone got close enough though…
If someone is that close, they’re landing, and I’ve got bigger problems.
Brandt made one more effort to find the sunken man he had harpooned, to no avail. The guy had disappeared or was just plain hidden in the dark depths of the inlet. And unless the guy became a swimming zombie, Brandt assumed he sank to the bottom and maybe shifted with the tide.
It had been a hell of a morning and Brandt took a break. The sun was right around noon-ish in the sky and Brandt had already done an entire day’s worth of activity. He surveyed the MRE packets and picked out one. Chili with beans. Awesome. I’ll add shitting my pants to my new experiences on this island.
The meal was actually better than he gave it credit for. Not a lot, but a little. He knew MREs well from six years in the U.S. Army, yet hadn't had the chili too often. Probably because no one in his squad wanted to apologize for producing nasty gas in a cramped situation. Maybe these guys weren’t professionals after all.
He perused the two passports. They were the exact same photo of the black guy. Michael Martin, American citizen, and Miguel Martinez, Mexican citizen. Funny how the U.S. citizen had an identical twin that lived in Mexico. Even funnier was there were three men and only one had passports.
He had no idea what to do with the passports, but he’d hold onto them for now. There was time to decide. Like it or not, he’d be here for a little while longer. Get your shit together and make the best of it, bucko.
MRE successfully downed, he snatched up the empty black duffle bag.
The tool shed, aka woodworking shed, was the closest building to the cave’s sink-hole exit, tucked closer to the mountains than the other buildings, and partially hidden by a vast tree. Like the other buildings, the walls were weathered and grey. As Lia had promised, the entry door was unlocked.
Though there were no lanterns inside, enough daylight was creeping in from small slits in the wall that it wasn’t necessary to grope around blind. Brandt found two candle holders and a box of matches on the work table. He lit the candles and looked around.
There were three aisles of shelves. The center aisle was stacked with varieties of wood boards, poles, planks, pickets, rods, molding, trim, etc., plus odd-shaped pieces, little things like spheres, triangles, and some unorganized ornate decorations. To the far left was the metal aisle with nails, screws, bolts, nuts, braces, pipes, rebar, and a variety of aluminum construction pieces that Brandt had seen plenty of times, but had never known the names of. To the far right was the tool aisle. Unfortunately no power equipment, but there were old-fashioned versions of a hand-cranked drill, bow saw, jigsaw, carpentry saw, sanding pad, hammers, screwdrivers, wrenches, etc. The back half of the tool aisle was anything that needed a can or a bucket, like paint, varnish, lacquer, wall patch, thinner, unmixed concrete, and bags of fine sand. In short, the place had most everything he needed to fix a wooden boat. Not the fiberglass one, that would’ve been miraculous.
He expected to feel deflated by the loss of the perfectly good boat, instead, he felt pretty decent. There was still plenty of time. The sloop’s mast and sails could be removed and bolted to the trawler, and some modest woodworking, patching, paint, and lacquer could get the old boat sailing again. Add to that the fact that he had survived another attempt on his life and he was in process of reconciling with his neighbors. He would like to get closure with Lia and her dad. Maybe that could happen in t
he next few days while he repaired the old boat. So the few extra days delay wasn’t a bad thing.
Roaming around the shed was like being in a ghost town. Old, dusty, and deadly quiet. If he was going to make the best of his stay on the island, it was time to lighten up and be himself. He decided he would have to be his own entertainment. He started humming an old sixties tune while he collected items and tucked them into his duffle bag.
“Me and you and you and me. No matter how they toss the dice, it had to be. The only one for me is you, and you for me. So happy togetherrrrrrr.”
He stopped singing. I don’t even like that song.
Something else came to mind. Still old, but a few years newer. “Just a small-town girl, living in a lonely world. She took the midnight train going anywhere.” He started the first line softly, then as he progressed he sang at full volume. “Just a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit. He took the midnight train going anywhere.” His voice wasn’t in Steve Perry’s league, but he could do the low and middle notes alright. The high notes came with a few squeaks and cracks, unfortunately. Not quite ready for prime time. But he was by himself on a nearly deserted island, so he belted it out with gusto anyway. The goats and sheep could deal with some off-key notes.
Once done collecting, he walked toward the house with a half-full duffle. It was early afternoon and he didn’t expect Viktor would be about. Lia seemed to tolerate the light better, or dared to risk it more, so she might be at the house, which could be an awkward rendezvous, which he was fully intending on rectifying. If she wasn’t around, that was fine too. Better actually.
He opened the door and went in. His sneakers were removed at the door, possibly unnecessary, it just seemed the courteous thing to do. The house was exactly the way he remembered leaving it. Not a thing out of place and virtually no dust disturbed except for what he and Lia had done the other day when they had eaten dinner together.
