“This goes against my better judgment.”
“Trust me on this one.”
“Take the FBI’s bag phone with you and report directly to me. Cease any more contact with the Tavernier office,” Pat ordered.
“Why? What’s going on?” Joel asked.
“We’ll go over it later, just do as I say. And for God’s sake, be careful, both of you.”
“We’ve got to go Pat,” Joel said, pushing the red end button of the phone.
“Do you need any assistance?” the agent asked.
“No thanks. You guys kinda stand out,” Joel said, looking back at the dozen men who were equipped with tactical gear, Kevlar vests, loaded automatic weapons, and looked more like a small army than FBI agents. “No offense.”
“None taken,” the agent responded with a smile.
As the two got back in the car, Owen looked over at Joel who maintained a forward stare.
“When were you going to tell me?” Owen asked.
“What? That the guy who’s been after you all this time is my brother-in-law? How do you think I got a hold of the indictment?”
“So, you’ve been sent down here to bust me. I’ve got to tell you, it’s a big surprise.”
“It’s a surprise to both of us man. I had no idea you were the guy they were after.”
“And Tessa? How does she figure into all of this?”
“That’s not fair. You know my feelings for her are real.”
“Real. What’s that?”
“Look, Owen, if I was in on this do you think I would have told you about the indictment, gotten this close to Tessa, or let you drive away from a dozen armed FBI agents. Like it or not, right now, I’m the best asset you’ve got. So, can you stop, take a moment and trust me?”
* * * * *
Disconnected
Fat Albert, the name locals gave to the 175-foot tethered balloon at Cudjoe Key, bounced violently on its concrete pad as the remnants of Tropical Storm Oliver blew over the small island. The large white object that was drawn down with its guide wire was stressing the structural components to their limits.
The crew had plenty of warning before the storm rolled in. The massive front showed up like a solid white marshmallow on CNN’s weather report. The balloon had to come down for two reasons. First, a tethered balloon rising up into the inversion layer of a major weather front posed the risk of a lightning strike that, at the very least, could harm the delicate magnets of the radar system. Lightning could also cause an explosion by igniting one of the many gases that keep the zeppelin aloft. The Hindenburg disaster was a crude reminder of what hydrogen did when it burned. Second, Fat Albert, because it used hydrogen and helium to float, was sensitive to the temperature changes. The colder it got, the more sluggish and heavy the balloon became. Small amounts of the buoyant gases were sometimes removed on hot summer days to prevent the ship from pulling its anchor out of the ground. The outer surface of the craft was insulated to prevent sudden changes in the temperature from affecting the balloon without suitable warning to the crew on the ground. Special solar energy-absorbing panels were also sewn into the topside of the craft to help warm it when it was used at extremely high altitudes. The balloon required a relative ambient temperature of at least forty degrees Fahrenheit in order to stay aloft. The cable, capable of letting it fly as high as fifteen thousand feet like a kite on a windy day, on occasion weighed in excess of three tons. The onboard computer system interfaced with the ship’s radar and satellite uplink that sent its signal directly to C3I, weighed another eleven hundred pounds. The payload requirements for this balloon were demanding. The EH-07 hybrid helium and hydrogen gases were the perfect solution, achieving maximum lift with minimal displacement.
Keeping this ship in the air was a monumental task. Special equipment was fabricated to minimize down time and afford the best in reliability. The stainless turnbuckle that connected the main harness to the rest of the ascendable wire was manufactured by Altech Aviation of Cedar Rapids, Michigan. It was a very simple piece of rigging, allowing the balloon to rotate without causing undue stress on the lead wire. The one precaution that needed to be adhered to once the balloon was grounded was that the Altech turnbuckle had to be wrapped in a foam sleeve, also supplied by the manufacturer. The precaution was implemented in order to prevent the piece from being banged around. On this windy night though, with forty miles per hour gusts ripping over the concrete pad, the foam pad sat in its locker unused.
The balloon had only been down for six hours, but the stainless piece had already been struck repeatedly against the wet concrete pad. At 8:27 p.m., the stainless Altech turnbuckle holding the Cudjoe zeppelin to the pad absorbed the final shock of its shortened life. Pieces of battered stainless steel were scattered over the wet concrete as the huge balloon ascended skyward at a northwestern heading. Because of the latent energy stored in the insulated skin of the ship, the craft climbed to a height of one hundred feet over Florida Bay. The balloon then leveled off and continued on its course being driven by the fierce wind.
It took over three hours before the balloon reached its resting spot. The temperature had dropped to a record twenty-two degrees, made even colder by the wind chill factor. Fat Albert set down into the cold water, skating over the choppy waves until its harness snagged on some mangrove branches that rose from a small island hammock just west of Key Largo.
* * * * *
Delegate
Fred Gold watched from the twenty-third story of Turnbush’s north tower as the Jolene Marie approached the entrance to the yacht basin. A soft rain, the beginning of an approaching storm front that had been falling all day, soothed out the rippling waves that usually were atop the flowing waters of the Intracoastal Waterway. The only thing that upset the windowpane-like surface was the bead of water that extended from the bow and stern of the returning yacht as she turned slowly, easing down the tributary that led to the backside of the Turnbush complex.
Gold took his starched white captains hat from the room’s oak dresser and made way for the elevator.
•
Across the Turnbush basin was an empty lot that had been used as a storage facility for a nearby construction site. The red IROC fit in with the five other muscle cars that were parked on the cluttered property. Most were kids who were trying to get away from their parents to drink some beer or smoke a joint. Others had different intentions with their car windows fogged over with steam, a byproduct of the heat that was generated by their adolescent passions.
Joel and Owen watched as the Jolene Marie made a one hundred and eighty degree turn in front of them to dock nose out towards the Intracoastal, with the starboard side of the yacht against the fuel dock next to the dockmaster’s office.
“This is almost too good to be true,” Joel said.
“We’ll see about that,” Owen replied.
•
Gold exited the north tower’s elevator on the ground level and went directly to the yacht lockers next to his office. These storage closets were convenient for large yacht owners who needed extra space to house everything from spare parts to cases of beer and liquor. The aged dockmaster unlocked unit B-10 that held the six sets of nested designer luggage that Del had purchased days before. With a rolling utility cart, Gold loaded the bags, each of the six containing its smaller, corresponding seven matching pieces packed inside each of the larger. There were forty-eight bags going on the yacht as six pieces of luggage.
•
Regis stood on the wet bow with a gold braided spring line coiled in his hand. He wore a bright yellow foul weather jacket that came to his waist. Below that he had on his yacht crew uniform that was made up of a set of khaki crew shorts and Topsiders that were completely saturated with the fresh rainwater. From the wheelhouse, Tony Milner could see the goose bumps formed on his first mate’s legs.
Tony worked the controls, pivoting the yacht one hundred and eighty degrees to moor her against the main fuel dock. The dock boy that was on duty
stood on the wet concrete pier wearing a full length raincoat and a plastic rain protector over his official looking hat to ward off the cold. As Tony reversed the twin diesel power plants, Regis prepared to secure their lines to the approaching pilings that would eventually lay off the boat’s bow. Once the bow was secure, Regis ran the length of the boat and repeated the proces with the stern lines, throwing the rope to the boy on the dock like a cowboy securing a head of cattle.
As the gangplank went down, Gold was there waiting with the six pieces of luggage that went on board before Tony could shut off the engines.
•
Eight hours after they had arrived and all the other cars had left the property, the red IROC sat idling alone in the dark. An hour before, Joel had taken the car to a nearby convenience store where he filled the empty Camaro with gas and stocked up on hot coffee and cold chocolate milk. Owen had stayed behind to keep an eye on the yacht.
The two were back in the warm car waiting for something to break across the basin. As they sat, scores of anxious amateur fishermen started to assemble with gear and bagged lunches by the sport fishing boats that were docked on the other side of the small harbor. And then they saw it: three matching white airport limousine passenger vans had pulled into the circular drive by the dockmaster’s office. Then, without warning, the crew from the Jolene Marie started to offload the luggage.
“They look pretty heavy,” Joel said, jugging down his third carton of chocolate milk.
“I’m willing to bet that’s not designer fashions in those bags,” Owen said, looking through a pair of standard binoculars. “By the way, what do you have against coffee anyway?”
“This stuff keeps me from…you know…having to go,” Joel answered.
“Whatever works kid.”
The sun had started to rise and the entire complex was filled with a grayish blue light that was getting brighter by the minute. Joel and Owen had been awake for twenty-four hours and their day was just beginning.
•
With the last bag of luggage unloaded, Del leaned over and gave Lynn a long kiss.
“When will you be back?” she asked with a sad tone.
“As soon as this stuff is safe, I’ll rent a car and come home - probably sometime tomorrow. Go home and get some sleep and keep the bed warm for me, okay?” he said, giving her a final kiss.
* * * * *
Marriage
Backcountry fishing pro Jim Plimpton, The Redfisher, was on the water early this morning. He slept very well the night before. He usually did when it stormed. The front had passed and all that remained was the cold air that pushed it here. Plimpton’s 18-foot backcountry boat skimmed across the water that was like a glossy mirror as far as the eye could see, a perfect surface of liquid making the ride the smoothest he could remember.
Plimpton was out early to catch shrimp. They ran in the cold water, usually darting through the small channels of water between the mangrove islands out west. The spot where he wanted to fish was easy enough to find. He had been there many times before. Other boats would have had to use caution in approaching the outward-bound Keys. The water depth in the surrounding vicinity ranged from twelve feet to under twelve inches. Underwater banks of sand were common. Plimpton’s boat, however, was used to making this trip, drawing less than eight inches of water while on plane.
As he neared the small islands, something looked out of place. A distinctive white glow lingered over it like a huge storm cloud that rose up from the horizon. What was it? he thought to himself. For a minute, it almost looked like the moon low at the horizon, but the brightly lit moon was already overhead shining through the clear sky. The white object seemed to absorb all the light from the sky above. The moon and the stars all made it glow. This was easy to see despite the fact that it was over a quarter mile away. Plimpton put the boat back on plane and headed west towards the backcountry.
It took less than a minute for the overpowered craft to reach the snagged 175-foot long balloon. Once he was next to it, Plimpton recognized it immediately. It was Fat Albert, with all of its antennas and sophisticated electronics mounted in its belly. Whoever lost the thing probably wanted it back, he thought. The idea of a sizable reward filled his head. The running shrimp would have to wait.
Plimpton, while in good shape, was not a big man. He never weighed more than one hundred and forty pounds his whole life and with his six-foot-one frame, he always appeared to be thin as a rail. Plimpton climbed from the bow of the Mako to the clumsy branches of the mangrove trees. The harness was pretty wrapped up into the limbs and twigs but with some manipulation, the oversized pillow shifted around and Plimpton jumped back onto the boat with the broken turnbuckle in hand. The balloon was lifeless and floated about with what seemed to be the perfect balance of weightlessness. It was obvious that the gases inside that gave the craft its lift were paralyzed by the cold.
Plimpton knew the only way to get this thing back to Key Largo was to tow it with his backcountry boat. He wasted no time in preparing a towing bridle out of the three-quarter-inch anchor rope. A Y piece was quickly manufactured and secured with the two ends tied through the stainless eye rings in the transom of the boat. The third leg of the bridal went to the loop on the balloon harness where the remainder of the turnbuckle was. Plimpton then powered up the six-cylinder outboard as gray exhaust and steam rose into the chilled air while the motor strained against the Fiberglas transom, pulling the huge, weightless balloon from the trees. He had the throttle open all the way but it wasn’t until he changed the angle at which the boat was pulling did the airship slide from its cozy nest and plop into the cold water. Plimpton felt accomplished. Almost like freeing a beached whale, he thought. He looked back for a second. This was big, real big! he thought to himself. It was long and tubular, had wings and a tail section so when aloft it pointed into the wind and was stable. His mind ran wild: How much would I get? Five thousand? Ten? God, maybe twenty? What a night!
The boat and balloon moved along at a steady pace of three knots. Plimpton left the throttle at a third so as to not strain the highly torqued outboard motor. He watched the exhaust for its constant spray of water. The bay was shallow here and it was easy to pick up debris from the bottom; debris that could easily clog the small intake of the outboard’s water pump, the heart of its cooling system.
He had a temperature gauge installed on the console of the boat several years prior. It proved useful in varied fishing situations being able to give the water and air temperatures. With the sun starting to rise in the east, the gauge read the air to be a brisk forty-four degrees. Plimpton noticed his boat to be moving a bit faster when he first started his journey back to Key Largo. The balloon had lifted from the bay and was trailing the boat at an elevation of about thirty feet. This was some sight, Plimpton thought.
What at first made the 18-foot vessel go faster was now straining it, making it steer poorly. Plimpton noticed the rope pulling the balloon was growing more taut, pulling the transom higher in the water. The bow was starting to grope head-on into the small, choppy waves that had developed in the meantime. Much more of this and the engine would be completely out of the water, he thought. He sat as far astern as he could to maximize the weight in the back of the boat. The oversized pillow was now a cloud that loomed directly overhead.
Plimpton made the decision to cut the lines as soon as the spinning prop on the outboard was lifted completely from the water. He was frightened, however, to go to the bow where in his tackle box was a freshly sharpened filleting knife. He knew he just had to do it. Water was starting to lap over the bow of the now motionless boat. He made a dash toward the front of the boat but it was the wrong move. As he shifted his weight forward of the center of gravity, Fat Albert also shifted, pulling the stern of the boat higher still and making a vertical angle where the boat hung steeper. The momentum of the shift threw Plimpton over the submerged bow and into the cold water. Stunned by the chilled liquid, he was further horrified to see the bow of the Mako l
eave the water as it ascended skyward at a rate of two feet per second. Plimpton grabbed a hold of a loose bowline, trying to stop his departing boat. It was too late. His frail body didn’t make a difference anymore. He watched as the boat’s anchor, fuel tank, tackle box and other loose items fell into the water below. Hatches dropped open dumping more items into the bay. Plimpton swam to a floating life vest that had landed a few feet away. He couldn’t believe his eyes. His life was now in peril and the regret of his greed was just starting to set in.
* * * * *
Rubicon
Owen turned south on U.S. 1 and maintained a tail on the last van seven cars deep while Joel called Pat on the bag phone.
“Hey, just checking in,” Joel said.
“Where the fuck are you?”
“North Miami, headed south. Everything’s cool. I forgot to ask yesterday, why are you in Miami?”
“Tried to work out a plea deal with Morales.”
“Guillermo Morales? What kind of plea deal?”
“It’s all moot anyway. The asshole tried to escape.”
“What? Escape! What the hell happened?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Hey, hold on Pat. Owen, watch where you’re going. He’s turning right onto 163rd Street. I bet they’re headed to the interstate.”
“Let me know if you guys need backup. What are you guys working on anyway?” Pat asked.
“It’s nothing. A guy is trying to move a few kilos. We’ve got it under control.”
“Joel…” Pat said as Joel hit the red end button with a disconnecting beep.
“Was that him?” Owen asked.
Mid Ocean Page 40
