by Matthew Rief
As quickly as the compound had appeared, it vanished from view as Ange piloted us across another point. Our destination was dead ahead—a cluster of colorful bungalows hugging a palm-tree-covered coastline.
Ange brought us around, then descended with smooth experienced precision. The two pontoons touched down softly in the small remote bay. She motored us toward the place Scott had booked for us. Each bungalow was painted its own unique and vibrant color. Scott had told us that ours was the lime-green one on the eastern end, the most private of the six.
“Okay, this is nice,” Ange said, smiling from ear to ear.
The water was calm and devoid of boat traffic. Other than a dark-skinned middle-aged woman waving at us from what looked like the establishment’s main structure, there were no signs of human life.
We waved back. Ange taxied slowly up to the side of the lime-green bungalow, and I hopped out. She killed the engine just as I tied us off, and I offered her a hand down onto the large deck.
“Nice flying, Captain,” I said.
We did a quick look around the unit. It was perfect. Cozy, clean, and well appointed. An independent cottage right over the water, complete with a wraparound deck, two hammocks, a swim platform, and a lush jungle backdrop.
As we unloaded our gear, the woman we’d seen earlier came over. She introduced herself as Maisy and welcomed us to her island haven, telling us to let her know if there was anything we needed.
“Any restaurants nearby that you recommend?” Ange asked.
She’d read my mind. We’d both worked up a hearty appetite on the long flight down from Key West.
“We have a small one at the lodge,” she replied happily. She motioned toward the bamboo dining table and added, “There’s a menu in the welcome book. There’s also a great pizza spot nearby that delivers. My cousin Sergio owns the place. Tell him I sent you and he’ll throw in a free T-shirt.”
Ange grinned. “Sold,” she said with a laugh.
After giving us a brief history of the place, Maisy informed us that there were kayaks and paddleboards available. She also said that we could take her convertible Volkswagen bug for a tour of the island if we wanted.
“We’re like family here, and we’re happy to have you both,” she said before hugging us and walking gingerly back toward the lodge.
We finished unloading, then walked around the porch to get our bearings. Scott had picked a good place. We were close enough to reach Wake’s compound quickly, but far enough to go unnoticed. To any onlooker, we were tourists just splashing down to take in the island for a few days. Nothing more. Nothing suspicious or unusual about us.
I grabbed my sat phone and called Scott for an update. He said they were close and hungry as well, so we ordered four lunches from the lodge restaurant to be delivered to the bungalow. Moments after placing the order, we spotted a boat motoring into view from the southwest.
I grabbed my binos for a better look. It was roughly thirty feet long with a pilothouse. It looked like a Boston Whaler, a boat usually used by marine law enforcement officers. I focused the lenses and a moment later watched as a lean shirtless guy sprang up onto the bow and shielded the side of his face from the sun.
It was Jack.
I smiled and handed Ange the binos.
“They weren’t kidding about being close,” Ange said after peering through the lenses.
Scott piloted the boat right up to our bungalow. It was painted light gray and had a dive flag painted on its sides along with the words “Exotic Divers.” The stern was open and renovated to make it a dive charter boat, with bench seats and a swim step. Clamped to the transom were two 300-hp Mercury outboard engines.
“Speed and an alibi,” Ange said, nodding her head as Jack tossed a line from the bow. “I’m impressed.”
“Up to fifty knots,” Jack said. “I’ve never seen one of these rigged as a dive charter boat before, but it’s a good idea. Lacks adequate deck space, though.”
“It’ll be plenty for us.” I waved him off.
I moved along the edge of the porch and tied off the stern. Scott was standing in the small pilothouse. He was wearing brown cargo shorts, a short-sleeved button-up, and sunglasses.
“Run into any trouble getting here?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Without a hitch. Hopefully, that trend continues.” He looked over his shoulder and nodded toward the bungalow just west of us. “I rented that blue one as well. Jack and I will stay there.”
Scott grabbed a leather satchel, slid it over one shoulder, and stepped onto our porch.
“You two didn’t make any moves without us, did you?” Jack said as he jumped over and landed softly on his bare feet.
“Without you two? Wouldn’t think of it.” I heard knocking at the front door and motioned for them to come on over to our humble abode. “That’s gotta be our food.”
We ate Honduran baleadas on the porch overlooking the bay. The classic favorite consists of sour cream, cheese, avocado, scrambled eggs, and chorizo folded into a handmade flour tortilla. Maisy had even thrown in a few fresh tamales. It was delicious and gave us just the fuel we needed. We had a long day ahead of us—and most likely an eventful night.
NINE
Once we’d all had our fill, we migrated into the small living room of our bungalow. The place didn’t have Wi-Fi, so Scott used his smartphone as a hotspot. Powering up the laptop, we brought up recent satellite imagery of the compound.
CIA Deputy Director Wilson had sent snapshots taken every half hour going back to the previous morning. There’d been no detectable movement since Wake had arrived the previous day.
“The place has been quiet as a tomb,” Scott said. “No vehicles in or out since yesterday. No boat traffic anywhere near the dock.”
“We didn’t see anyone during our flyover either,” Ange said. “The compound looked deserted.”
Scott filled us in on more details, and we looked over a few more images. Looking around at the group, I felt good about the situation. We had a few advantages. Firstly, we were no strangers to this kind of thing. Scott was a brilliant tactician and Special Forces commander for years. Ange was arguably the deadliest woman on the planet. I’d infiltrated so many enemy compounds I’d lost count. And Jack, though far from a soldier by trade, could handle himself well and was one hell of a boat captain and diver.
Another key advantage we had was the element of surprise. Wake and his crew didn’t know that we were there. The longer we could keep it that way, the better chance we’d have at taking him down once and for all.
“I think a road approach is out,” Ange said, looking over the zoomed-in images of the compound. “It’s narrow, and that gate looks a little over the top. I’m sure they’ll have a few guards on watch there and more than a few cameras.”
“I agree,” Scott said. “With just the four of us, it’s not much of an option.”
“How about dropping in from above?” Jack said. “You guys got the chutes on the Cessna, right?”
“As much as I love a good night jump, I think an air drop’s out,” I said. “Skies are too clear, and most of the surrounding trees are too short to provide sufficient coverage. And with the waning gibbous moon, we’d be easy to spot soaring through the night sky. Based on the intel we’ve gathered so far, my votes on a beachfront approach.”
“The dock and stairs will be guarded and heavily surveilled as well,” Scott said.
“We’ll need to move fast once we’re inside,” Ange said. “Take down the guards and find Wake before they have a chance to mobilize.”
“Or try and escape,” Scott added.
We strategized for an hour, digesting the meal and coming up with the loose foundation of a plan.
Jack rose to his feet and stretched. “Well, I think it’s time we motor over and get a closer look at this place,” he said. “And by that I mean, who’s up for a dive on the Exotic Pearl?”
We geared up and prepared to make way. The boat was packed with most
everything we’d need to make the alibi look legit. A handful of BCDs, six air tanks, stacks of weights, dive flags, etc. Ange and I changed into our swimsuits, then grabbed our masks and fins and climbed aboard.
As we untied the lines, Maisy hailed us from the shore.
“Some of the best diving is just north in Old Port Royal,” she said. “Keep an eye out for pirate shipwrecks.”
Her words brought a twinkle to Jack’s eyes and a smile to my face.
“Not this time, Dodge,” Ange said. “Next visit.”
I shrugged. “Maybe next visit. Thanks, Maisy,” I said. “Food was delicious.”
Jack started up the engines and motored the aluminum-hulled craft east, staying a few hundred yards from shore. The day was clear, the sky big and blue. It was in the low eighties, with barely any wind, and the visibility was as near perfect as the ocean gets. Though we’d be diving only for show, it was a great day for a dive.
We rounded a bend in the shoreline, and Jack piloted us farther south as we spotted the bay where Wake’s compound was located. He passed it, using the small Fort Morgan Cay as cover, then wrapped around back to the west. From the edge of a rocky point, we could see the dock, boathouse, and stairs leading up to the main part of the compound. The property even had an impressive waterfall that splashed into the bay just up the beach from the dock.
“Hard to believe this place used to be a pirate haven,” Ange said.
“And that it still is today,” I said, motioning toward Wake’s hideout.
While Scott peered at the site through his binos, I grabbed my wetsuit. Dipping it into the water, I slid it over my shorts and zipped it up.
“We’ve got a guy on the dock,” Scott said. “He’s standing in the shade, and it looks like he’s got a handgun holstered to his right hip.”
“Got an earpiece, too,” Ange said, peering through her own.
“Definitely on watch,” Scott added. “I’d recognize that bored look a mile away.”
I smiled. It was a look all Navy sailors, and all military personnel for that matter, were familiar with.
“There anyone else?” I asked.
There was a short pause as they both scanned and focused.
“Not that I can see from here,” Scott said.
Once my wetsuit was on and adjusted for comfort, I strapped one of the tanks to the back of a BCD.
“Jack, could you bring us around the front for a better view?” I said. “I’ll drop into the water so we can make it look real.”
I looked over the side at the sprawling reef and smiled. It would be one tough burden to bear.
Jack motored into the bay, then dropped the anchor about a quarter of a mile from Wake’s dock. We were just north of an uninhabited island no larger than a football field. Barely within the calm waters of the bay.
Scott donned a wetsuit as well. I strapped a tank to his BCD and handed it to him once he was ready.
“You remember how to put one of these on?” I jabbed.
He chuckled. “That’s rich coming from you, Dodge,” he said. “Especially after what happened that time in the Persian Gulf.”
He was referring to an incident many years earlier, after a long operation with no sleep. I’d managed to strap my tank to my BCD upside down, and Scott never let me hear the end of it. Let’s just say I was more than a little exhausted.
“Ouch,” I said. “Your comebacks aren’t bad… for a former officer, that is.”
Whether active duty or veteran, the enlisted officer badgering never ended.
Once we were strapped and ready to go, I looked over to Ange, who was standing up on the bow, still peering through her binos at the compound. From that angle, we had a full frontal view of the place.
“See anything new, Ange?” I asked.
“Got two guys up on the main veranda,” she said. “Too far to see much more than silhouettes, though.”
She grabbed a digital camera with a long lens from her shoulder bag and began snapping photos.
“Security looks pretty tight along the shore,” she added. “I count three rotating cameras. I’m sure they’ll have motion sensors as well come nightfall.” Ange paused a moment, zoomed in with the camera, then lowered it and turned to face us. “Looks like the guy on the dock’s watching us. Better hop in before he gets suspicious.”
I tossed a dive flag out over the stern. “How much more time do you need?”
“An hour would be nice,” she replied. “The longer we stay, the better idea we’ll get of their movements.”
Scott and I donned our fins and masks, then sat opposite each other on the gunwales. After a thumbs-up, we dropped backward into the warm Caribbean water.
After a quick bob on the surface, we vented our BCDs and submerged. It was only ten feet deep, so we quickly reached the bottom, straightened out our bodies, and finned a few feet above the seafloor. The marine landscape was pristine and full of colorful life. Clusters of fan, brain, and staghorn coral. An assortment of tropical fish. A distant passing school of sergeant majors, their silver, yellow, and black striped bodies glistening in the afternoon sun.
It was beautiful.
The water was eighty degrees, and we weren’t going deep enough to reach any chilly water. The neoprene wetsuits were more for protection against the reef and jagged rocks than anything else.
We finned about a hundred feet from the boat, hovering over the seafloor. I enjoyed the dive. It was nice to drop beneath the waves, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d dove with Scott.
But it wasn’t just about showing face or enjoying the sights. I was getting a feel for the water. After thousands of dives all over the world, I’ve learned that no two dive sites are identical. Each has its own slight variations. Visibility, temperature, seabed topography, currents, and tides—all vary from site to site.
If we went with the current plan, I’d be back in that same water very soon. I wanted to be as prepared as possible.
We performed a big loop around the boat. Checking my dive computer, I saw that we’d been down for forty-five minutes. Having never descended deeper than fifteen feet, we both still had plenty of air left, but I decided it was time to head back. We’d done what we’d planned to, and I felt comfortable with the knowledge I’d attained while observing the water’s behavior.
We turned and kicked back toward the boat.
After three smooth cycles, we both froze as we heard the distant sound of an engine and props slicing through the water. The mechanical groan grew louder and louder. Looking up, we spotted a boat’s hull slicing through the water’s surface. It came from the direction of Wake’s compound and was heading straight for Exotic Pearl.
TEN
Scott and I watched as the boat motored by just overhead. We made eye contact through our mask lenses, then turned to look toward our boat. Focused and remaining calm, we flattened our bodies once more and finned forcefully.
A moment’s glance at each other effectively communicated our course of action. We’d stay down for the time being. But we kept our senses alert as we darted through the water, ready to surface at a moment’s notice at any sign of trouble.
Ange was my wife, yes. And I felt more protective of her than anyone else in the world without question. But I also had a lot of trust in her abilities.
If whoever was on the approaching boat had shown any serious sign of hostility while closing in on Exotic Pearl, Ange would’ve had them bloodied and retreating back to their compound before they’d made any form of effective attack.
But there were no gunshots fired. No signs of conflict. The mysterious boat slowed right up alongside Exotic Pearl’s starboard gunwale.
We kept our eyes forward and kicked. Seventy feet. Fifty. Then thirty. We moved into a deeper channel in the reef and descended to a depth of thirty feet. From there, we could just see the hulls through breaks in the rock and coral above us.
We stopped and waited for a moment, then looked at each other. Using hand signals and e
ye movements, we communicated a quick plan of action. I’d leave my BCD there, then sweep around to the opposite side of Exotic Pearl and surface behind the port gunwale. Scott would stay there and wait for my signal.
With the dive flag in the water and the bubbles fluttering to the surface from our regulators, I was sure that the visitors knew that we were down there. If I was going to have any element of surprise, I’d need to ditch the gear.
We gave each other OK signals. I freed myself from my gear, then filled my lungs halfway with a breath and removed my regulator. Turning around, I finned along the bottom of the cut, my dive weights keeping me negatively buoyant. I maneuvered through a narrow opening. I was glad to be wearing a wetsuit when my left leg grazed against a sharp edge of coral.
Once on the other side of Exotic Pearl, I exhaled as I ascended to keep the air from expanding too much and damaging my lungs. I broke slowly through the water. In an instant, the mumbled voices above became clear.
“These waters are off-limits,” a low male voice said.
“Says who?” Ange fired back. “The laws here state that recreational diving is permitted from—”
“Says me,” the guy retorted.
They all fell silent for a moment. Quietly, I grabbed the edge of the gunwale with my left hand and pulled myself slowly up out of the water. My right hand hovered over my dive knife as I peeked up at the mirror above the cockpit. In the reflection, I saw Ange and Jack, their backs facing my view. I also had a slight glimpse of two guys standing on the other boat. They were both big and dressed in black. The one closest to the edge wore a ball cap and sunglasses and had a full red beard. He had the front of his shirt raised just enough to reveal a handgun holstered to his belt.
“Now get out of here before I use this thing,” he added, then dropped the shirt back down.
I blinked a few times. The mirror was smudged and dirty, but the guy talking looked and sounded very familiar.
Ange raised her hands in the air and sighed. “Alright, we’ll leave. Just give us a few minutes to get our divers out and our anchor up.”
