Within minutes the plane leveled off and headed east towards Puerto Barrios. Below the steep ridges of mountains peaked around them were foliage-covered hills with palm trees and other tropical growth. The scarcely placed valley was covered with rows of pineapple and banana crops, most of which belonged to the Dole Corporation. Off the port side, the blinding sun shown through the plane’s window illuminating Lynn’s blond curls. She watched the haze glow as it became partially obstructed by a pair of dark, fast moving objects. Two MiG 18s surpassed the relatively slower turbo propped aircraft. She continued to watch as they flew on and out of sight.
The flight was slightly over eighty minutes. Linez brought the plane down low over the harbor as they made a sharp sixty-degree bank and headed towards the airport. The once rabid craft now lurched under the strain of the lowered landing gear and deflected wing flaps. The sound of the air rushing past the multitude of parts was now louder than the slowly turning turbine engines. Once on final approach Del took a last look at the landscape below. The sight of a white, turn of the century battleship was only outdone by the spread of the Puerto Barrios Federal Prison. Made from an old British fort, the stone, castle-like structure was still in use housing over seventy inmates. With no air conditioning, the stone fort was a temped pit of torture for those who had to endure its confinement.
The main gear squealed as a burst of tire smoke formed from each wheel that was now spinning to keep up with the passing runway. They rotated down and in no time were taxiing to the small terminal.
The two MiGs that had passed them earlier were staged on the tarmac with boils of heat emanating from their respective exhaust ports. Linez taxied the turbo prop up to the ramp area as the whine of the twin engines whistled down. He cut the power and went through the post-landing checklist and cool down. In the distance, an old Citron station wagon waited at the edge of the tarmac.
On the edge of the blacktop runway, Lynn affixed her sunglasses while Del assisted one of the local stewards with their bags.
“Del, I’m Tony Milner,” the man from the Citron said, holding out his hand.
“Hey Tony. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m glad we finally get to meet. This is Lynn,” Del replied, putting a hand behind her back.
“Hi Tony, I’m glad to meet you,” she said.
“We should get out of here as soon as possible,” Tony insisted.
The port was a three-minute car ride from the airport. As the three passed a building with a large sign that read Clearwater Boat Works, Del saw her. The Jolene Marie sat moored to the concrete pier that extended out from the main building. It was a lot bigger than he had imagined.
“That’s her,” Lynn announced, recognizing the boat from when she had been docked at Turnbush. “What a difference! She’s like a new boat!”
“It’s been a long haul but we turned her around. Whoever let her get in the shape she was in before should have been shot,” Tony commented.
Most of the day was spent getting familiar with the boat and its operating systems. After that, Del and Lynn made themselves comfortable in the master stateroom at the aft end of the yacht followed by a nap because they knew it was going to be a long night.
Six hours later and just after sunset, some bad weather had started to enter the harbor.
“It’s time,” Tony announced as he watched five small boats coming across the bay from the uninhabited north portion of the harbor.
Tony and Lynn walked down and back into the aft stateroom. The bed was still undone from Del and her nap earlier. He opened a small closet locker on one side of the stateroom while Lynn stood behind him. He handed her the various contents: the couple’s shoes, empty luggage and a clay pot Lynn had picked up in the hotel’s gift shop in Guatemala City. One by one, she set the items over the unmade comforter. Then, from his back pocket, he pulled a Phillips-head screwdriver and, getting down on his knees, proceeded to dismantle the elevated shelf that was installed about twenty-four inches from the carpeted floor of the locker. The brass screws squeaked as they backed out of their snug holes that were drilled into the golden mahogany. One by one Tony passed the screws over his shoulder to Lynn who deposited them into a small paper cup.
“Don’t lose these,” he warned, “a missing or out of place screw is a dead giveaway that something has been tampered with.”
Lynn looked down at the cup of screws while he, with a quick pound from underneath the shelf, forced it free from its tight footing. Tony then pulled another screwdriver from the same back pocket; this one was slotted, and was used to pry the carpet from the wooden floor. It came up in one three-by-three-foot piece. The carpet had hidden an access panel that was a piece of wood slightly smaller than the bottom of the closet. It was recessed and had several countersunk Phillips-head screws around its borders. Tony took the Phillips screwdriver and carefully removed more brass fasteners from the wood. The panel had a dual purpose. As he lifted it from its frame, the dingy odor of the bilge filled the stateroom.
“Hand me that flashlight,” Tony instructed, motioning across Lynn’s bent knees.
He was not one to enjoy confining spaces. The small swells that were common in the Puerto Barrios basin made the Jolene Marie rock back and forth. Tony gritted his teeth and disappeared into the small hole. Directly below the hole were the boat’s four aft-mounted bilge pumps. He had to step carefully to avoid any contact with their delicate plastic shrouds. The beam of light was weak at best but was enough to illuminate his path through the cramped companionway. The below-deck space was relatively clean. Unlike the mold-filled, timber-lined scenes in the movies, this bilge was made up of aluminum stringers and precisely spaced ribs. The only wood on the boat was that which made up the cabin floor and was done for insulation, reducing the sounds that occurred in the inner spaces of such a vessel. The rest was made up of the lightweight alloy. The dull flashlight beam reflected off the shining welds at every joint. Tony continued to climb through the cramped bilge heading further aft towards the stern-mounted fuel tank.
Encased in low-density polyurethane foam and welded to the yacht’s frame, the nineteen hundred gallon fuel tank sat directly over the aft section of the keel and against the transom. Bolted to the side of the large hold was an access plate about eighteen inches in diameter. Stainless steel bolts held the plate in place. Tony pulled the third tool from his back pocket, a nine-sixteenth’s inch ratchet and socket. The clicking of the ratchet echoed inside the aluminum hull. The process was time consuming and, given the cramped conditions, very uncomfortable for the claustrophobic captain. Above deck kneeling on the carpet, Lynn watched from the hatchway as Tony dropped each bolt into the small puddle of water that accumulated at the lower apex of the bilge, the product of a slow but persistent leak from one of the prop shaft seals.
Time was starting to become an issue. Earlier, Ralph Linez had set up a tentative delivery time for the product of 9:00 p.m. A light rain pattered on the deck above and filled the bilge with a soft iridescent sound. The mood created by the sounds below deck was soothing, almost hypnotizing to the point of relaxing his claustrophobia. It was too bad I couldn’t climb into the bilge when I had trouble sleeping, Tony thought to himself.
BUMP!
A heavy percussive sound echoed from inside the hull.
“Shit!” Tony yelled to himself as Del ran up to the main salon.
Lynn rose up from her knees and climbed over the unmade bed to peer out the aft porthole. Tony had already motivated his contorted body through the twisted path of the bilge heading for the hatchway. Lynn could see a large wooden canoe tied up to their stern. Inside, canvas duffel bags lined the homemade craft to the gunnels.
“It’s them!” she yelled down to Tony who was now sitting below the hatchway.
“Okay, get Regis and Del to the deck. Make sure that asshole doesn’t bump into us again!” Tony was already conjuring mental images of the gash torn into the paint on the stern by the last impact.
Lynn quietly turned and headed u
p the companionway toward the others while Tony finished removing the last bolts from the access plate. The new sounds of feet pounding topside replaced the once entrancing sounds of the bilge with havoc. The blitz of activity carried its way through the yacht’s foyer, into the main salon, down the circular stairway and through the companionway ending up in the master stateroom. The thud of the first duffel hitting the carpet caught Tony’s attention from under the deck.
“Hey! Be careful up there!” Tony yelled as he pounded on the bottom side of the deck.
“Ay, conyo! Dónde está!” yelled the muffled reply from above. More undetectable gibberish, Tony thought to himself.
He was concerned about the duffels. If they were like the ones he had seen before, they would be equipped with brass rivets on the bottoms, securing the strap-like handles. If they were slid across the yacht’s inlaid teak deck, they would most likely leave marks, and judging from the way things were sounding above, there would be a trail of dings and scratches all the way to the closet door.
Lynn reappeared at the hatchway. “How do you want to do this?” she asked.
“Hold on a minute,” Tony said, panting out of breath.
With the slotted screwdriver he managed to pry the access plate free from the rubber gasket affixed to the side of the tank. The eighteen-inch plate dropped to the inner side of the aluminum hull below, splashing a minute amount of bilge water against his khaki shorts and shirt.
“Tell Regis to get down here, and for Christ’s sake, tell him to watch his step.”
Seconds later Regis’s bare feet were climbing over the sharp aluminum ribs, ducking his head under the deck above. He positioned himself strategically between the hatchway and Tony who had a stretch of about four feet or so.
BUMP!
“Damn it! Will you guys please slow down and take it easy on the hardware!” Tony yelled as his voice echoed in the bilge.
“It’s okay Tony, I’ve got it under control up here,” Del said with a reassuring voice.
As he came topside, Del couldn’t believe his eyes. With all the sophisticated craft he was exposed to in South Florida, the largest and most expensive load he had ever handled was being delivered to them in five homemade dugout canoes. Each boat had a small black-haired native who steadied the boats that were loaded to the gunwales with duffel bags. Each boat was powered with a small outboard motor and Del thought to himself that it was a wonder they all made it across the harbor without capsizing.
The first bags were small enough to fit through the eighteen-inch hole in the side of the fuel tank. Tony managed to shove them all toward the back of the hold, making room for the rest of the load. Linez had said they could expect at least thirty-six hundred kilo-sized pieces. This would require all the space the relatively small tank had to offer. Each bag held twenty to thirty pieces, which meant that at least a hundred and fifty bags would come down the path towards their hidden compartment.
Two hours had passed and before Tony knew it, all of the smaller bags had been loaded into the tank. There were a few larger, bulkier bags that had to be emptied and loaded one key a time. This worked out perfectly as the single pieces fit snuggly between the bags, securing the load firmly into the tank. With sweat dripping off his face, Tony sat back against the cold hull catching his breath. As fast as it had started it had ended, and the manic confusion was over until a commotion started on the aft deck.
The leader of the natives who delivered the load re-boarded the aft of the Jolene Marie.
“You pay me!” he insisted. “You pay me now!”
“Just a minute,” Del replied.
“No. You pay me now!” he said, putting a hand on the machete that was strapped to his waist.
“I don’t think we have that kind of money with us?” Del inquired, looking at Regis.
“It’s only a hundred dollars,” Regis replied, looking down at the deck like a dinner guest at a restaurant just after the check arrives.
“Oh. They do all of this for a hundred dollars apiece?”
“No. It’s supposed to be a hundred dollars for all five.”
“Here,” Del offered. “Handing over five twenty dollar bills.”
“Me thank you,” the leader said with his best English and an outstretched hand.
With the load secured in the aft fuel tank, Tony made preparations to cover their tracks. This started at the tank and continued forward. He surveyed the bilge floor for fabric strands from the duffel bags. Being dragged across the sharp aluminum cross-members lining the hull, the soft canvas bags could easily tare and leave fragments of fabric behind. When he got to the hatchway, he was confident that it was left exactly as it was found. He climbed up, bracing his weight on the frame of the hatchway. The wooden panel began to fit snuggly into place.
“Oh shit!” Tony said aloud.
“What is it?” Lynn asked as she came down the companionway toward the master stateroom.
“Someone cracked one of the aft bilge pumps,” Tony replied as he reached down and picked up part of the plastic case that shrouded the electric water pump.
“Looks like it took a direct hit,” Del stated, coming in behind Lynn.
“What does this mean?” Lynn asked with a touch of anxiety in her voice.
“Well, each of these pumps is responsible for pumping out a certain section of the boat’s bilge. If we experience any unexpected flooding below deck we could list to one side or worse - appear tail heavy. If we come into port with our stern dragging low, we’ll get boarded for sure.”
“And that’s right where they’ll start their search?”
“You got it,” Tony replied.
“Nothing like making it easy for them,” Regis said, standing at the back of the stateroom.
“We can always flood one of the forward compartments to compensate,” Del suggested.
“Yeah, and put a hell of a lot of stress on the mid-sections.”
The floor piece for the closet went into place a lot easier than it came out. Tony took great patience in making sure none of the screws appeared worn. As a last minute precaution he dipped the heads in varnish to give them a look of being unbothered. Then he took the yacht’s Hoover vacuum cleaner from the companionway closet and reversed the flow of air back through the dusty hose, blowing soiled air into the locker. Dust immediately caked on the edges and corners of the closet. When he was done, the bare floor looked as though it had not been touched since the yacht was built. After the carpet was put back into place, Lynn replaced the articles they had removed previously and then she made the bed.
* * * * *
Disclosure
The Key Largo campground was a Mecca for recreational vehicle owners who enjoyed the serenity of the Florida Keys and the freedom that owning an RV provided. The inhabitants included everything from expensive hundred thousand dollar mobile mansions to old converted school buses and everything in between, like the inconspicuous aluminum-sided Winnebago situated on waterfront lot thirty-two. The camper was owned by the Customs Service, the result of a drug seizure, and had been converted for covert surveillance work or, as the agents of the Tavernier office called it, “the hideout.”
“I think we should use this downtime for its best advantage. We can’t use the boats - that’s fine. I’ve got a lead on something bigger and better,” Owen said.
“I still think the idea of grounding all of the boats because someone died on a race boat that is barely similar to one of ours is ludicrous. What’s your idea?”
“This stays between us. I have had my suspicions that an agent or agents in our office have been going into business for themselves.”
“Who? Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
“Joel, it’s not something you speculate on without definitive proof. I don’t know who, but I have my suspicions and I will keep them to myself for right now.”
“What’s the lead?”
“Remember the credit card that we got off of our buddy Ralph Linez?”
; “The pilot? Yeah, the Miami Aerotek corporate card.”
“It was in Linez’s name and he’s an authorized user, so it’s not stolen. Miami Aerotek uses a boutique lawyer named Irving Marshall.”
“I don’t get it,” Joel stated.
“Boutique lawyers like Marshall take only one client, usually a big doper. The client gives the lawyer so much business that he doesn’t need other clients. This is good for the client because it helps keep their affairs under the radar.”
“How? I would think it works the other way.”
“Focus Joel. If an attorney has a dozen different unrelated clients and one of them gets popped, that brings peering eyes upon the other eleven…especially now that we can subpoena client payment records, law firm bank accounts, wire transfers…the works.”
“So this guy Marshall has one client?”
“Yes, so to speak. He started nine Florida corporations in the last five years. It’s diversified including everything from The Capital Moon rock club in Tallahassee to Morada Boat Leasing in Key West.”
“And Aerotek?”
“Yes, Aerotek along with the pot of gold - a cattle research firm called The International Farms Corporation based out of Ocala.”
“That’s it? One lost credit card from a pilot who was probably moonlighting as a smuggler to score some extra cash?”
“Joel, remember the 38-foot Stiletto we busted during your first night out?”
“How could I forget it?”
Mid Ocean Page 36
