The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset

by David F. Berens

  “Déjà vu all over again, eh,” Steve said as they exited the cruiser.

  “Okay, now,” Joe warned him, “no coming down on the kid, agreed?”

  Steve just shrugged an innocent shrug. He’d recently gotten a bit hot under the collar at the nonchalance of the hippie kid working the desk at the marina.

  “I want to find Hector’s boat and get the inspection team on it.”

  Joe walked up to the desk. “Hector Martinez? Which one is his?”

  The kid never looked up from an old issue of the High Times. “Thirty-two.”

  Steve glared but said nothing. Joe urged him on from behind. As they walked along the slips toward Hector’s boat, Steve slowed.

  “What?” Joe asked, nearly bumping into him.

  “Notice anything strange?”

  Joe looked around at the boats, all of them hanging above the water on lifts—except for one.

  “Well, I guess they pulled them all out because of the storm.”

  “Which means that one,” —Steve pointed to the boat still sitting in the water— “came in after the storm hit.”

  “Get the kid; find out who owns it.”

  “Gladly.”

  “Be nice,” Joe said over his shoulder.

  He continued down to slip number thirty-two. The boat was hanging above the water, put up for the storm. Joe pulled the lever to lower it.

  When it came to rest, he climbed aboard. He tried the key he’d found on Hector and sure enough, the boat fired up. He started the onboard G.P.S. unit and found that Hector had indeed been to Cuba and back a few times.

  He continued to scroll through the locations and came to one he recognized immediately. Fort Jefferson.

  “Now, what in the hell is Hector doing out there?”

  He remembered Steve saying the man had begged not to be taken to an evil place and that the man at the fort had told him all about it. There was only one man stationed at Fort Jefferson. James Howard. Joe didn’t know James very well, but he hardly seemed the type to instill fear into Hector.

  He poked around the boat and eventually found several bags of white powder beneath the rear seat; drugs, probably cocaine or heroin.

  Joe Bond sat back in the captain’s chair of Hector’s boat. He struggled to put all of these seemingly random pieces into place. He took out a notepad and began scratching out a flow chart of pieces with lines between them representing any connection they may have.

  Hector is running drugs; he’s stopped at Fort Jefferson. He cocked his head to the side in a moment of inspiration, clicked open his cellphone, and dialed Ashleigh at the C.I.A. on her secure line.

  “Hello, Joe,” she answered.

  “I need another favor,” he said, scribbling notes again.

  “Okay, I’ll do my best.”

  “Check these two names, please,” —he spelled each one out— “J-A-M-E-S H-O-W-A-R-D and N-A-T-A-S-H-A W-A-I-N-W-R-I-G-H-T.”

  She repeated them back to him as she clicked on a computer keyboard. “Hmmm, that’s odd.”

  “What is it?” Joe asked.

  “Natasha is registered in the official dossier, but she has no assignments listed.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well… I don’t know,” she replied, “but James is listed as released. He doesn’t work for the C.I.A. anymore.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Joe mumbled.

  “What did you want with them?”

  “They both work at Fort Jefferson here in the Keys.”

  Ashleigh paused for a second. “That’s odd… neither has any kind of listing for that job.”

  Joe scratched the stubble on top of his head. “Looks like I need to make a trip out there to get some answers.”

  “I’ll do some cross-referencing here and see what I can find out.” Ashleigh clicked some more keys. “But Joe… please be careful. According to what I see here, they’re both agents, or at least prior agents.”

  “Will do,” he said, and scribbled C.I.A. next to their names on his notepad. “Thanks a million.”

  He clicked his phone shut and looked at what he had written. Hector is running drugs; he’s stopped at Fort Jefferson. James Howard (former C.I.A.) and Natasha Wainwright (C.I.A.) are stationed at Fort Jefferson without the agency’s knowledge.

  He tapped his pencil on the page. Someone is coming down on Hector for some reason and that someone is stationed at Fort Jefferson to keep an eye on him. But why?

  “Yo Boss,” Steve yelled across the marina, “you gotta come check this out.”

  Joe folded the notepad and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. He climbed out of Hector’s boat and walked a few slips down to where Steve was sitting in the mysteriously un-raised vessel. It was a much nicer boat, with a high fishing tower and a well-appointed cabin for sleeping underneath.

  As Joe approached, Steve said, “It belongs to Vince Pinzioni; he is the current owner of Captain Tony’s.”

  “Yeah, I know who he is,” Joe said as he climbed down into the cabin, “but what would he be doing out in that storm?”

  “I dunno, but check this out.” Steve held up a plastic evidence bag. Inside was what looked to be a medicine vial similar to those used to fill hypodermic needles, three red feathered darts, and an air gun.

  “What’s in the bottle?” Joe asked, taking the bag from Steve.

  “No label.”

  Joe rubbed his chin and looked up at his partner, “did you check the G.P.S.?”

  Steve shook his head.

  “Why not? Seems like standard operating procedure around this island these days.”

  Steve shrugged as they made their way back to the upper deck. Joe clicked on the unit and, as he had done hundreds of times this week, he scrolled through the most recently logged destinations.

  He clicked on the last one listed.

  “Fort Jefferson?” Steve asked.

  “Yeah,” Joe said as he stood up, “they’ve been getting a lot of visitors lately.”

  “Huh?”

  “And after we get this stuff to the lab,” —Joe shook the evidence bag with the air gun and darts— “we’re gonna pay them a visit to find out why.”

  31

  Troika Huge

  Bill Bane coasted the newly purchased thirty-seven-meter ocean-going support tug to a smooth stop under the Wyatt 1. He didn’t ask questions about where his boss, George Wyatt, had gotten the three million to buy it, nor did he ask questions about how Warren International Ltd. had acquired such a boat so quickly. Through normal procedures, it could take anywhere from twelve months to two years to make such an acquisition.

  He simply admired the boat, and took the helm. Bill was only too happy to be back from Key West, where they’d dropped off the three survivors of a shipwreck at the hands of Hurricane Daniel; Megan Simons, and Ryan and Troy Bodean. They had been aboard the original tug, the Wy Knott, investigating some sort of shipwreck Troy had discovered, when their tracking beacon suddenly stopped. The amazingly detailed sonar signature that the Wyatt 1’s sophisticated machinery had produced when they lost the beacon suggested a lightning strike or an onboard explosion.

  They learned after rescuing the nearly drowned crew of three survivors that someone had been shooting at them and had ignited and exploded an onboard fuel tank that was almost empty.

  Bill and Wyatt discovered them floating on rescued debris from Troy’s Spanish Galleon, the Señora De La Muerta, and the Wy Knott was now on the seabed of the gulf with her.

  Bill clapped Wyatt’s shoulder as they started to climb the steps up to the oil rig’s platform. “She’s a nice boat, boss.”

  “Thanks, Bill,” Wyatt said, and stopped and looked back at the tug, “and fast as shit, too.”

  Bill held out his meaty hand palm up, and said, “Watcha gone call this one?”

  “The way things are going around here,” he said, smiling crookedly, “I may call her the Titanic II.”

  “Naw,” —Bill shook his head— “I was think
in’ something more like… the Wyatt Load.”

  Wyatt chuckled. “Wyatt Load it is, my friend.”

  Bill watched as his boss and friend stared back at the massive boat. He seemed quiet and even melancholy as they sailed back to the oil rig. It was the resignation of a man ready to throw in the towel.

  “We pulled three people from the water today, boss,” Bill said quietly, “That’s gotta count for somethin’, don’t it?”

  Wyatt turned toward him and nodded.

  “Karma’s a strange thing,” Bill said, and held out a hand, “and today, we bought ourselves some good. The sun is shining, and soon it’s gonna shine on us, boss.”

  “I sure hope so, Bill.”

  They climbed the rest of the stairs in silence, the only sound the clanging of their footsteps on the steel stairs and the water slapping against the pylons far below.

  When they finally opened the submarine style door and entered Gene’s control room, the hefty man was hunched over a sheaf of printouts with a magnifying glass. He didn’t look up.

  “We’re back, Gene.”

  He still didn’t look up.

  “Gene, buddy… what’s up?” Bill asked a little louder.

  Still no reply, as the man continued to study the papers, tracing a finger along them and muttering to himself.

  Wyatt walked over and rapped his fist on the table in door-knocking urgency.

  “Hellooooo,” he called into the hunched man’s ear, “anybody home???”

  Gene looked up suddenly, startled that he wasn’t still alone.

  “Oh, uh, sorry,” he started. “Hey guys. When did you get back?”

  Bill and Wyatt exchanged glances.

  “Well, we just got in, but we radioed an hour ago telling you we were coming!” Wyatt began to smile. “I knew you loved that sonar, but wow, that takes the cake.”

  “You don’t understand,” Gene said and grinned like a kid on Christmas Eve. “You have no idea what this thing can do.”

  Wyatt laughed and Bill just rolled his eyes and sat down at the table.

  “Actually, I know quite well what it can do.” Wyatt stepped over to a nearby counter and poured himself a not-so-fresh cup of coffee.

  He didn’t mention that the C.I.A. had provided the sophisticated sonar to him as a means of keeping an eye on the waters around Cuba. He didn’t think the waters around Cuba were that important, but apparently, someone at the C.I.A. did. Only much later would he learn that someone at the highest levels of the C.I.A. was using the data he was providing to his covert contact, Stingray, to look for something very important on the floor of the gulf.

  “Okay, look at this.” Gene pulled out the familiar printout of the moment they lost the Wy Knott.

  “Yes, yes, very impressive,” Wyatt said and moved closer to the table, sipping his coffee.

  “But look,” —Gene flipped the page back to reveal a similar image, but something was different— “I found a function that allowed me to see three dimensionally… below the gulf’s bed.”

  “What do you mean?” Wyatt looked closer at the page.

  “This is a picture of the next five hundred feet down,” Gene said and tapped the table, “and this…” He paused and flipped another page. It was dramatically different. It looked as if a black hole had been drawn in the center of the grid. “… is the next five hundred feet.”

  Wyatt’s mouth dropped open. “What is that?”

  Gene stood up and went over to a nearby computer keyboard. “It’s under a salt bed.” He turned to look at them as the computer screen resolved into an almost photographic three-dimensional rendering of the printouts they were looking at. “It appears to be a reservoir.”

  “A reservoir?” George was stunned. “A reservoir in less than sixty feet of water?”

  “Yup.” Gene tapped the screen. “And it looks huge.”

  “How huge?” Bill stood up to get a closer look at the monitor.

  “Troika huge,” Gene said in a whisper.

  “Holy mother of…” Bill just blinked at the screen.

  George Wyatt fainted.

  32

  An Odd Bowl

  Shortly after her release from the Lower Keys Medical Center at sunrise, Megan Simons arrived at the Dolphin Research Center to find R.B. and Chelsea huddled together, asleep, or more accurately passed out, on a lobby couch.

  She shook her head and walked back to the lab. Troy had gone to see if anything was left of his beloved houseboat, but she was excited to get to work on the items they had recovered from the shipwreck before they’d been…

  She suddenly stumbled in her thoughts. So much had happened that she hadn’t stopped to fully appreciate the fact they’d been shot at; someone had been willing to commit murder to get their hands on that shipwreck… or to keep them from bringing anything up.

  It was a chilling thought, one she would have to discuss with Troy later, but it also piqued her curiosity. What had they found that would inspire someone to kill them? Surely gold or silver alone wouldn’t be enough for that.

  She clicked on the fluorescent lights in the lab to find that Chelsea had done a good job preparing the items in a saltwater bath to keep them from decomposing. At first glance, most of them appeared to be metal objects, rusted and heavily barnacled. She would have to be extremely careful not to damage them in cleaning.

  Megan opened a cabinet and prepared a solution of dissolved chlorides and sulfates to saturate the artifacts. She randomly picked up an item from one of the saltwater tubs and dipped it into the solution. Amazingly, this particular artifact did not crumble under her tongs. She continued to move the pieces into the new solution. It would take some time for the chemicals to evaporate and leave behind semi-clean pieces. She then planned to use electrolysis and perhaps some other chemical baths to further remove salt and smaller debris.

  She decided to get some breakfast while giving the solutions time to do their work. She exited the lab and clicked off the lights.

  As she walked into the lobby, Chelsea stirred and looked up through groggy eyes. “Oh, hey,” she said, suddenly awkward and shy.

  “Don’t mind me,” Megan said with a wink, “I’mjust heading down to the Seven Mile Grill for something to eat.”

  R.B. raised his head quickly. “Ahhh, that sounds terrific.”

  “Sheesh,” Megan said, sighing. “Okay, you’ve got five minutes to get ready.”

  R.B. flipped his Tortuga Adventures cap over his tussled blonde hair. “Heck, I’m ready now!”

  Chelsea shrugged and stood up. “Yeah, me too, I guess.”

  Ten minutes later, R.B. was drooling over the three egg omelets listed with various combinations of unhealthy ingredients. Megan ordered her usual; fresh fruit and a bagel. Chelsea laughed at her and ordered French toast with apple topping. R.B. ordered the same, plus a Keys Omelets with ham, tomato, peppers, onions, cheese and potatoes.

  “Hungry?” Megan raised an eyebrow.

  “What?” he smiled sheepishly. “I haven’t eaten a decent meal since before…” He stopped short.

  “I know,” she said, nodded.

  An awkward silence fell over their plastic outdoor patio breakfast table.

  “So, how ‘bout those Seminoles,” Chelsea chimed, in trying to change the subject.

  The horror of their experiences from the last few days was still fresh.

  “You know,” Megan said, ignoring the dark-haired intern, “I’ve been wondering about something.”

  “What’s that?” R.B. doodled with his finger on the table.

  “Who shot at us?”

  He stopped doodling and looked up at her. “I’ve been wondering that too. I mean, who could have—”

  The waitress interrupted them, setting their food on the table. As she left, he continued his thought.

  “… who could have known where we were?” He sat up a little straighter. “We didn’t tell anyone where we were going.”

  “Maybe you were followed.” Chelsea didn’
t look up and took a bite of her French toast.

  Megan and R.B. stared at her and said nothing.

  “What?” She realized they had stopped talking. “Well, that only makes sense… right?”

  R.B. looked at Megan. “She’s got a point.”

  “They could’ve followed us,” —Megan tapped her fork on her plate— “or they could’ve followed Natasha.”

  R.B. nodded in agreement. “But who?”

  “I don’t know,” Megan said, “but whoever it was probably thinks we’re dead.”

  “We need to lay low until we know what’s going on here.”

  She nodded and put her fork down. “I’m not really hungry anymore.”

  “Yeah, me neither.” R.B. slouched back in his chair.

  Chelsea looked at Megan and then back at R.B. while chewing on a bite of apple. “Well, heck. I still am!”

  After dropping Chelsea off at her apartment, R.B. returned Megan to the research center, then headed back to Key West, leaving Megan to finish her work on the artifacts. He promised he would keep Troy out of trouble; Megan was sure that was an empty promise, but she didn’t see much she could do about it.

  Megan clicked on the lights in the lab. She was pleasantly surprised to see that some of the items were readily identifiable. Many were even showing metallic luster and looked pretty well intact.

  She carefully pulled an item from the chemical bath with the tongs and laid it on a soft pad on the table. It was an iron cup, and it was fairly ordinary. Something she’d long since pushed to the back of her mind resurfaced; what did a ship carrying the dead need with an iron cup… clearly not the cup of the wealthy. The crew on board would’ve sipped from bottles of rum.

  She shook her head and put the cup down on the pad to continue drying. She turned her attention to the biggest piece they had recovered. It appeared to be a bowl about ten-inches deep and it was heavy, maybe thirty pounds.

  It hadn’t fared as well as the cup. It was badly corroded and had several holes in it. It had an odd loop in the bottom that was broken, maybe an attachment for mixing the bowl’s contents; another odd find for a boat full of dead people. There were a few markings on the side, but they were indistinct, probably just scratches from the disaster that must have sunk the ship.