Wood's Fury

by Steven Becker

  With the advent and improved service of cell phones, the public hailing system had fallen by the wayside, at least in nearshore waters in recent years. The Surfari, like most boats, had one aboard, but Sloan generally opted for the more secure cell phone when in range, and his satellite phone when not.

  “Travis,” JC’s voice carried over the water.

  He hailed him by name twice more before Mac reached the microphone. “This is Ghost Runner. Please go to channel 72.”

  Travis was using proper protocol in trying to get JC off the public channel 16, which he had hailed him on, to a more private channel. There weren’t many folks within listening range, but Sloan expected someone from the National Park Service over at Fort Jefferson was. Deciding it would be easier to eavesdrop on his own radio, he climbed back into the cockpit and moved to the helm. Turning on the radio, and setting it to channel 72, he listened to his father, surprised that he was being somewhat discreet.

  Thirty-Four

  At first Mac suspected it was due to his head injury, but after a minute he was sure the echo of JC’s voice was real. Checking that the transmit button wasn’t engaged, he turned to Trufante.

  “You got your radio on?”

  “Don’t even know if it works.”

  “Go check,” Mac ordered him. While he waited, he decided it would be a good idea to move Trufante’s boat. If JC didn’t know where the Cajun was, all the better.

  Mac stayed silent, waiting until JC’s voice came over the speaker again. Just as it did, Trufante was back, shaking his head from side to side. The voice echoed, and Mac signaled Trufante to see if Sloan was eavesdropping. There was nothing illegal or even unethical in listening to open VHF stations. Fishermen used them all the time, often giving misinformation.

  “I know y’all are sittin’ on something big down there. I can see ya, so don’t think about running.” Both Ghost Runner and the Surfari had their masthead lights on. Using the standard signal that a boat was at anchor was essential in these dark waters to avoid a collision. A dark boat would also foster suspicion if anyone was watching from the fort.

  Mac scanned the horizon. The only visible lights were from the decorative tower on Fort Jefferson, along with several masthead lights marking sailboats anchored in the harbor. The overcast skies and glow of the moon actually made it harder to see than in a clear dark sky. It looked like the water after a school of mullet rolled in the mud.

  The next voice startled everyone.

  “Mac, it’s me. You’ve got to help.”

  Pamela’s voice elicited a different reaction from each of them. Mac was glad, but knew JC would have no problem leveraging her life for what he wanted. Trufante, who had just returned, shaking his head in the affirmative, showed his Cadillac grin. Mel and Ned were hard to read.

  “I hear ya, girl,” Mac said, trying to reassure her.

  “Okay, Travis. Here’s the deal,” JC said.

  The group moved closer to the speaker.

  “I’ll be needin’ that quarter mil. You get that gold up and I’ll take the melt value. Ain’t countin’ none of that historical nonsense. Y’all do that, and I’ll let the girl go.”

  Before Mac could respond, JC continued.

  “And by the way, if the girl ain’t a big enough reason, that boy up at FWC been tossin’ your name around. And not in a good way. Work this out and I could maybe help you with that problem.”

  Saving Pamela’s life would have been enough. Adding what JC thought was more incentive actually enraged Mac more than had the fishmonger left it out. He suspected JC and Warner had formed some kind of twisted partnership. It would be the only explanation how his business had survived.

  “Bastard,” Mac cursed under his breath.

  Trufante pointed to the Surfari, reminding Mac that Sloan was listening. His first inclination was to go directly over and beat the crap out him, but that could wait. For now, he had an advantage over Sloan. He still wasn’t sure what his game was, but Mac would hold the card until he needed it. He nodded to Trufante that he understood.

  Mac picked up the microphone and held down the transmit button. “We’ll be doing some exploration in the morning. Don’t piss your boots until you hear back from me.” He shut off the radio, ending the conversation while he had as close to an upper hand as he was going to get.

  “You’re going through with it?” Mel asked.

  With Sloan listening, Mac had to be careful what he said. “Not much else we can do. At least it’ll buy us some time.”

  Mac knew the speculation could have gone on all night. Glancing over at the center console, he decided to make Trufante and Sloan disappear for a while. There was no privacy aboard a boat and getting rid of the center console was to their advantage.

  Making sure he made enough noise to wake the dead, he called over to the Surfari. “Need a hand, Sloan.” It hurt even to ask this much help from him.

  Sloan popped his head out of the cockpit, just a little too quickly for someone who had been asleep.

  “Tru’s here. I want you to take the dinghy and follow him to the harbor off the fort. Leave his boat there and come back. Probably going to need gas from the rangers there anyway.” He said it as an order.

  With both boats’ spreader lights temporarily causing a white-out condition to obfuscate the departure of the center console and dinghy, Trufante and Sloan motored away from the site. Mac had told them to run dark once they were away from the glow of the lights.

  Once they were a quarter mile off, he shut off the spreaders, and gathered Mel and Ned in the wheelhouse.

  “I found what I think is a cannon earlier.” Mac watched their faces and saw what he suspected: Treasure fever.

  “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” Mel asked.

  Ned’s eyes lit up.

  “Sloan was listening in to our conversation. I heard an echo from his radio and sent Tru to have a look. I’m just not sure about that guy.”

  “I hear you there. So … what’s your plan?”

  Mac hated it when she started a sentence with so. “I don’t have one yet, but I know that crafty old bastard’ll be watching. We make it look good in the morning and see what’s really there.”

  “You’re in no condition to dive.” She paused. “And what about Sloan?”

  “I’m feeling a whole lot better. That bit of sleep did me good. As for lover boy, I’m not sure about that yet. Somehow we’ll have to draw him out and see what he’s all about. I do have some serious boat envy, though.”

  “It does look pretty sweet. I have a few ideas about that,” Mel said.

  “Better get some rest,” he said, starting for the cabin.

  “I’ll keep watch until they get back,” Ned said.

  Mac almost regretted telling him; there was no way now he was getting back to sleep.

  “That’d be good. Once they’re back, kill the lights, and see if you can spot JC.” Mac closed the cabin door.

  Mac lay down, knowing sleep would be a long time coming, if it did at all. He could tell Mel was awake, and probably had an alarm set to check him every hour, per whatever concussion protocol recommended it. He appreciated her concern, and he would have done it for her, but what he needed was sleep, not to be woken up every hour to tell her how many fingers she was holding up.

  When she woke him the first time, he was surprised he had fallen asleep so easily. The second time he was groggier, and the third he was just angry. That’s when she knew he was all right and canceled the protocol.

  On returning, Sloan waited for his night vision to return before heading back to his boat. Travis had gone below, leaving Ned alone on deck. He tried to draw the old man into a conversation, but all he got was a grunt in return. By the time his vision had returned, Trufante was snoring on a starboard side-bench and Ned was staring off to sea. Moving across to his boat, he realized there was nothing to do until daybreak.

  Daylight was visible in the gap between the porthole and curtain when movement aboard th
e trawler woke him. Sloan glanced at his watch. It was already seven, but on only five hours of sleep, he was groggy. After a quick cleanup in the head, he skipped the hair gel, and picked out his least preppy and most workmanlike board shorts. With his hair unkempt and wearing a plain white t-shirt, he hoped to blend in, or at least not be a walking billboard of how different he was from them.

  Moving down the companionway, he noticed the door to Ned’s cabin was slightly ajar. Easing it open, he saw the unmade bed. Late to the party, he climbed up the stairs to the single-level living area and walked onto the deck. He’d come to grips with his situation and made a plan before falling asleep last night. The breeze was light and the skies fair, perfect conditions for his getaway, but first he needed the treasure.

  He hadn’t gotten where he was by being emotional, and that was how he was acting. Sending Eleanor away could be seen as a pragmatic move that allowed him to deal with his problem without her knowing, but he knew that was a lie. He had sent her away because of Pamela. With his father here, and his worlds colliding in no-man’s land, he was faced with two clear choices: get what he could and run, or face his father and save Pamela.

  Reason, in the form of his genetic makeup, had taken over and he started to plan his escape. He’d have to be patient and let Travis lead him to the treasure, but once he knew where it was, he would dive himself and recover enough to pay off his debt and reserve enough drop-dead money that if something like this happened again, he was secure. Call it smugglers’ insurance. Once he had the treasure, he was out of there, using his advantage of sail over power to head south.

  It was a calculated risk, but his Ivy league education and shady morals allowed him to make it an acceptable one. Trufante in the center console was his primary worry. With a top speed more than twice that of the Surfari, the Cajun could easily catch him if it turned into a chase. The odds were favorable, though, that Trufante had likely not gassed up since Marathon. Even then, based on fishermen’s predilection for only putting in the fuel they expected to burn, his tanks were probably not full when he left Key West. Based on that assumption, Sloan calculated that an hour’s head start would put him twenty miles ahead. With the closest fuel dock sixty miles away, every mile Trufante chased Sloan would, put him that much further from Key West. The twenty miles would turn into a forty-mile fuel expenditure. The two trawlers were likely fuel starved as well, and not nearly as fast. Heading south into the Florida Straits would quickly put him out of their reach.

  Crossing to the trawler, he said his good mornings while evaluating the situation. Dive gear was strewn across the deck, but that wasn’t what interested him. It was Mel and Travis, alone in the wheelhouse, having what looked like a heated conversation. Wanting to get a sense of what was going on, he moved forward to the galley, where he smelt coffee brewing.

  “You think you’re in good enough shape to dive?” Mel asked.

  “Damned right. I feel fine,” Mac replied.

  “At least you’re back to your grumpy self. That’s a good sign, I guess.”

  Mac moved out of the way to let Sloan pass, saving his reply. He gave Mel a questioning look when Sloan turned to the coffee maker, which she returned with a shrug. They hadn’t yet decided what to do about him. That would have to wait until after the current problem.

  “It’s twenty-odd feet down there. I could see where a deeper dive might be a concern, but that’s the same pressure as standing here.” Mac figured throwing some science at her might end it, but they both knew there were risks, even in shallow water.

  “Since there’s no stopping you, Ned’s going with you.”

  “Great. The old and the crippled together,” Mac said, smiling.

  “I’m staying up here to keep an eye on Sloan and Tru. With those two topside, there’s probably more of a risk up here than down there.”

  She was right. Although she was a better diver than Ned, she could handle whatever might happen on the surface. Trufante, as good as he was on top of the water, was not much good under it.

  “Okay. Me and old folks.”

  With that decided, Mac went to the cockpit to tell Ned. After the brief conversation, Mac got the feeling he was looking at his future self when he saw the excitement on Ned’s face. Mac looked over at Trufante, who was shielding his brow with his hand, scanning the water.

  “Yeah, they’re close,” Mac said, guessing he was looking for a reflection or sign of the boat where JC was holding Pamela. “I need your head here.” Mel would keep him out of trouble, but Mac needed him focused.

  “Set up the pressure washer,” he said in his normal tone, then quietly added, “I think I found something yesterday.”

  “Dickhead doesn’t know?”

  “No, just Mel.” Mac saw the smile return to Trufante’s face.

  “You gonna play it straight up and give JC what he wants?” Trufante asked.

  “We’re not going to do anything to endanger her.”

  “Good enough. Want me to keep an eye on sailor boy, too?” Trufante asked.

  “Mel’s got him. I need your attention on the dive.” The deck of a salvage boat was a mess of hoses and lines. It took someone who knew the purpose for each one to keep them clear without endangering the divers below. Mac turned away and started to check his gear, deciding it would be a good idea to get in the water before Mel changed her mind.

  Thirty-Five

  Mac and Ned each had their own reasons for getting in the water quickly. Now that Mac was a little worried about himself, he was convinced that Mel would see through his armor and ground him. Ned knew he only had so many dives left in him, especially one that might have historical significance.

  It was also a good time to dive. After being down there twice when the current was ripping through the narrow pass, Mac had checked the tide tables. Their planned dive was at slack tide.

  Both men were anxious, but entering the warm, clear water settled Mac quickly. Every few feet, worried about how the pressure was going to affect him, he cleared his ears—whether they needed it or not. Although they were not going to be crossing the atmospheric barrier where decompression was an issue, water pressure could still be a problem, especially on ears and sinus cavities, at shallow depths.

  Reaching the bottom, he glanced over and gave Ned the okay signal, then dropped the pressure-washer wand in the sand. Wood’s old dredge would have been more efficient, but Ruth’s storm surge had taken it. Ned returned the signal and Mac looked around, trying to find the coral head where he had hidden from the shark. At first, after he couldn’t find it, he was distressed, and wondered again about the clarity of his thinking. This wasn’t the first time he had been disoriented underwater. At one time, he had used three coral pinnacles off Marathon as a cache. An anchor dragging through the reef had caught on one, and changed the landscape enough that he had never found the spot or what it contained again.

  Mac tried to relax and floated with the gentle current. He could sense nothing wrong with his head, though he knew he would probably be the last one to know if he made a bad decision. Slowly, he finned around the eastern outcropping and studied the reef, knowing he would have to check each structure from all angles before moving on. Still, though he knew he was in the right area, he came up empty.

  Thinking back on how the shark had appeared last night, he moved into the channel and approached as if the shark was still there. Moving toward the outcropping in this way, he immediately recognized the coral head and finned over. The bronze knob, which until yesterday had been covered for two centuries appeared. Mac removed a brass clip from a D-ring on his BC, reached around and tapped it against his tank to get Ned’s attention.

  There are few ways to communicate underwater. Masks with two-way communication devices, though they had come down in price, were still expensive. Had Mac known what they would be doing, he might have invested in a set, but the spontaneous nature of the search hadn’t allowed him the thought or time to buy any. Underwater slates were the next-best form o
f communication. For Mac, this was like jumping from the space age to the stone age. He’d never had the patience for them. Without either device, he relied on hand signals. Fortunately, Ned had dived with him and Wood enough that they understand each other.

  Mac had Ned wait by the outcropping while he retrieved the pressure sprayer. Before picking it up, he checked his air gauge, and surprised to see it was only 1500 PSI, about half a tank. He glanced at his watch. The elapsed time was only twenty minutes. From experience he knew that in water this shallow his air consumption should have been much better. Mac stopped and focused on his breathing and pulse, which appeared normal. Now he wondered if he had checked his air pressure before entering the water—and couldn’t remember. That wasn’t an indictment in itself, but another clue that the concussion was affecting his judgment.

  With the wand in hand, he dragged the hose over to the coral head and signaled for Ned to move behind him. Pressing the trigger, he waited for the line to fill before it shot water at high-pressure around the bronze piece. It took only a few seconds before the silt cloud ruined the visibility. Mac had worked under these conditions before, and though it was disorientating, he moved the wand by feel, expanding the circle, clearing sand until he was satisfied he’d uncovered enough to warrant the wait for the silt to settle.

  After a few minutes he started to see the outline of the cannon in the sand. Ned tapped him on the shoulder and gave an okay signal. A thumbs-up might have been more appropriate for the find, but that would have meant they were to surface. Mac could see the excitement in his eyes. Ned pointed to an area, outlining what he thought should be the next spot to be cleared. Mac waited until Ned was behind him before pressing the trigger again. As he worked, he could feel his heart beating quickly, but he was sure it wasn’t because of the concussion—it was what they had found.