No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2)

by Mark E Becker

  When Max emerged with Mulligan at his side, he was wearing more subtle and tasteful golf clothes, adorned on both sleeves with the Shank logo, a snowy Egret in flight with a golf ball on its back. The logo also appeared on his golf hat and his newly acquired golf sunglasses, in addition to his golf underwear, which Shank threw in for good measure.

  “Now the key to golfing for pleasure,” Shank began, “is not your score, or how many strokes you take, it’s how you look in front of the cameras.” They practiced looking good for the next twenty minutes while the press was sequestered out of sight, preparing for the photo opportunity that would be broadcast worldwide by dinnertime.

  Max’s first two shots hooked into the woods that lined the first tee. Making a slight adjustment, the ball shanked right over a manicured mound that concealed the eighth hole. Within seconds, two Secret Service agents came running, stopping at the top of the mound to determine the source of the shot.

  “He sunk it. He got a hole in one,” they radioed. “You’re shittin’ me,” Max and Mulligan said in unison. That evening, as the broadcast of Max’s golf outing ran nonstop with a voice-over of the day’s events, Shank Mulligan was interviewed.

  “No, he really is a terrible golfer,” he explained.

  “But he really looks good in my golf clothes.”

  u

  CHAPTER 17

  T

  wo helicopters left Alabama in a rush. One held the President of the United States and half of his Secret Service contingent, while Rachel co-piloted the remainder to Tallahassee Airport, where Air Force One sat waiting to transport Max back to

  Washington. Max gave his pilot special orders to head to a favorite location in Florida as soon as he took off his golf shoes. He pitched them out the window somewhere over Pensacola Bay. It would be the last time he wore golf attire.

  “Andrew, radio ahead and have them supply me with a surf ski and snorkeling gear, and I want you to find something for Secret Service to paddle, too. I don’t want any power boats on the river. They make too much noise.”

  “What’s our itinerary, Mr. President? I’ll alert the press,” Andrew replied, still shaken from the oil spill fiasco and the golf fiasco. He didn’t want to make any more mistakes on his first official day on the job.

  “I have had about as much press as I can stand for one day. This is for me, not that enormous entourage. You are not to broadcast my whereabouts to the press, or anyone else, do you understand? Make them think that I’m in Tallahassee. Tell you what…have someone dress up in those awful golf clothes and rush him aboard the plane. At a distance, they’ll think he’s me,” he chuckled. “A part of each of my days as President will be spent out of the public eye, and it is your job to help me accomplish that goal. Pulling a Max is as important to me as anything you can do for me. Oh, and by the way, I’m not doing this in my underwear. Get me a bathing suit.” Andrew made a mental note to have snorkeling gear and swim trunks stowed on any trips abroad.

  Marine One landed at the park at the headwaters of the Wacissa River in a remote part of the Panhandle of Florida. The river is spring-fed, and the clear water and white sandy bottom were unique to Florida. The water quality at the springs far exceeded that of drinking water that had been purified through man-made processes, and the Floridan aquifer that flowed beneath the limestone bedrock was a national treasure.

  On their excursions throughout Northern Florida as a child, Senator Masterson had made a point to stop at as many springs as possible so that his son would gain an appreciation of nature. The values that the senator instilled in his son evolved into a need to protect that treasure. Max had quickly developed a love for that time together, and he sought out the solitude and natural beauty of those remote places.

  After a quick change into swim trunks, Max took an obligatory jump off the diving platform. Swimming with powerful strokes, he let the current propel him toward the waiting surf ski, which waited at the point where the spring flowed into the river. Donning a dry T-shirt, hat, and flip flops, he inspected his watercraft. It was a Kevlar composite racing surf ski, nineteen feet long, with a rudder operated by pedals in the footwells. It weighed less than thirty pounds from stem to stern, designed for long-distance offshore races. He was familiar with similar humanpowered craft, and he estimated that there was nothing on the water that could move faster. He had a familiar surge of adrenalin as he inspected the carbon fiber paddle that accompanied it, anxious to test his limits.

  He looked over at the two canoes that had been supplied to his Secret Service contingent. Livery canoes are average in every respect, accommodating beginner canoeists on weekend day trips, and capable of carrying two passengers, a large cooler, and the family dog. They are not as tippy as the surf ski, and due to their width, Max could predict that they would be slow. At least he wouldn’t have to rescue the black-suits from the bottom when they tipped. He quickly became resigned to a leisurely float, and he amused himself by poking fun at his security detail as he strapped his snorkeling gear to the hatch with bungee cords.

  “You are required to wear the orange life vests that you see there, and I’ll wait right here while you guys put them on. We will not leave without proper safety precautions,” Max prodded, fully aware that two of his protectors were seasoned Navy SEALs who had probably faced death in treacherous waters many times.

  “Mr. President, why aren’t you wearing one?” questioned the man with the broadest shoulders. He looked ridiculous in a canoe, but with his broad chest covered in a bright orange life vest, he resembled a bad Halloween costume.

  “Dang, the whole river can’t be more than fifteen feet deep at the deep end, and I can probably walk across most of it without getting my head wet,” complained another.

  “Quit complaining, or I’ll just go by myself,” Max teased.

  “Alright, we’re ready,” proclaimed the third as he awkwardly took a seat at the stern.

  They launched and paddled quickly away from the headwaters. “Follow me, I have something ahead I know you will enjoy,” said Max with the enthusiasm that freedom provides.

  CHAPTER 18

  A

  fter a few minutes, it was apparent that the surf ski powered by the President was about three times as fast as the two canoes powered by four exasperated Secret Service agents in constricting orange vests.

  “Fuck this,” said the first one, shedding the vest in one contorted move. At his example, all of the paddlers shed their floatation devices, piling them on the floor of the canoes in contempt. Max amused himself by continuously circling back and prodding them.

  “Can’t you go any faster?”

  “No, Mr. President,” they proclaimed in unison.

  “We’re almost there.”

  They were perspiring and cussing under their breath. “Where?”

  “Here,” said Max, steering toward a small, clear creek on the left.

  He disappeared behind a curtain of wild rice that lined the river canal, prompting the paddlers to increase their pace. They steered into the current at the place where they had last seen him, and caught a glimpse ahead just as Max and his superior watercraft negotiated another turn in the high reeds.

  “Damn, I thought White House detail was going to be a cake job,” puffed one.

  “You got that right. He’s making us work for a living,” complained the paddler at the bow.

  “Just shut up and paddle,” muttered the one in command.

  When they caught up with Max, he had already donned snorkeling gear and had free-dived to the bottom of Big Blue Spring, a hole in the earth which discharges millions of gallons of pure water each day. The view that they saw, however, was the unoccupied surf ski bobbing in the middle of a remote area, and the President was nowhere to be seen. They panicked and radioed Marine One in unison. Their voices came through as a unified message, undecipherable to the pilot and other members of the security detail. “Please repeat,” asked a member stationed back at the communication hub.

  �
��We’ve lost the president.”

  Max, having stayed down at the bottom of the 45-foot-deep spring for as long as he could in one breath, popped to the surface in a burst of water and expelled air.

  “Never mind, we found him.”

  “If it wasn’t my job to keep him alive, I’d be tempted to kill him myself,” proclaimed the agent in the stern .

  CHAPTER 19

  M

  ax was reliving his youth, and although he was years ahead of his protectors, he had found a way to rekindle the joys of his childhood from time to time. “You guys should really try this. It’s a rush like you wouldn’t believe.” He

  ran his wet hair through his hands and put his still-dry T-shirt back on. Straddling the surf ski with both legs, he unlashed the kayak paddle, put his feet in both footwells, and took off again, steering around both canoes and shooting downstream, back to the main channel of the river with powerful strokes.

  His security escorts struggled to turn their canoes, and they nearly succeeded in dumping themselves in the water before pointing in the direction of the current. By the time that they recovered, Max was out of sight, and the anxiety of their failures was compounded. As they emerged from the high grass and entered the main channel of the river, they were relieved to see Max coming their way, paddling toward them against the current.

  “I think I’ll just float for a while,” he said. “After we go downstream awhile, we need to turn around and paddle against the current to get back, and I don’t want to have to tow your sorry asses back to the helo.” He settled in behind the canoes and stopped paddling, allowing the strong current to carry them downstream.

  “Mr. President, you say you have been here a few times?” “Oh yeah, when I was a kid, I used to paddle down the slave canal to where it meets the Aucilla River, go down to Nutall Rise, and then turn around and paddle back. It’s pretty remote, with gators and wild boar. One time, I even saw a manatee give birth. Not a place you expect to see in Florida.”

  “Slave canal? Why do they call it the slave canal,” questioned one agent, who bristled at the idea. His ancestors had been slaves, and he had never been able to reconcile the idea that one man could own another and treat him like a commodity that was bought and sold.

  Max wanted to cherish the silence and enjoy the abundant wildlife, his way of decompressing from the stresses of the day. But he owed his companions an explanation. After all, he started it, and he wasn’t through testing their ability to protect him from the unknown.

  “Back before the civil war, the plantation owners needed a way to float their cotton on barges from the headwaters to the Gulf of Mexico, and this river ends up in a swamp. They had slaves that they used to construct a canal between this river, the Wacissa, and the Aucilla, which is a direct route to the Gulf and deeper water. Then it was easy to load their valuable cargo onto ships.” Max slowed the surf ski by silently back-paddling while the current pulled the canoes farther downstream.

  “The interesting part of the story is that the canal was never used. The Civil War intervened, and the South declined. The Union blockade ended the cotton industry, and after the war, trains did the work that the slaves used to do,” Max explained. They had reached the slave canal, hidden to the right behind willow trees. If you didn’t know it was there, there was no way to find it without a detailed map. Miss the concealed cutoff, and you ended up in the swamp.

  Max took the cutoff.

  Two more seconds, and Max was concealed by trees and high grass. To his protectors, it was if he had disappeared without a sound.

  u

  CHAPTER 20

  H

  e paddled at full pull, using the foot-controlled rudder to maintain maximum speed around the turn. As the bow of the surf ski rounded the narrow bend of the river, he passed into full view of the mama gator sunning on the sandy

  right bank. The squeaks of her newly-hatched babies greeted him from the opposite shore. No sane person would intentionally come between a mother alligator and her babies, but his intrusion was purely accidental.

  Max immediately realized his predicament.

  He was about to get chomped.

  The eleven-foot-long alligator slashed her tail once and lunged

  into the water. He paddled on pure adrenalin now, not bothering to turn his head to respond to the source of the splash. He knew that she was inches behind his rudder.

  If he wanted to live, he had to paddle.

  The surf ski was nineteen feet long, but it only extended three inches on either side of his hips. At twenty-nine pounds, it would be no obstacle to the five thousand pounds per square inch produced by the jaws of the ancient reptile. If he brought the man-powered racing kayak to a full stop, it would tip him into the water. Besides, and at this point stopping was definitely not an option. He saw the eyes and snout of the gator pop to the surface to his left ahead of him, and he looked on as the leathery mouth began to open, revealing jagged rows of teeth.

  She was looking at him.

  Max kept paddling. When he came abreast of the gator, he placed the blade of the paddle directly between her eyes and hoped that the depth of the water would keep her from planting her powerful legs in the sandy bottom. If she was floating, he could sink her long enough to propel his watercraft beyond her jaws.

  If she was planted on the bottom, she could have him for lunch.

  Without breaking form, he aimed his paddle directly between her eyes, and he was relieved when the massive head submerged for the moment he needed to get by. Propelling the surf ski as fast as his aching shoulders could go, he sought his escape. A wake extended behind him, creating small waves that hit the sandy banks on either side. He imagined the eyes of the gator glowing yellow as she watched his retreat. Fifty more strokes, and he came to a tree that extended its full length across the Slave Canal. A lush bush of poison oak covered the center section of the narrow passage. On the right, he saw light beyond the obstacle and steered the rudder toward the hole in the foliage. Great, he thought, I get past being served for lunch, and now I have to worry about catching a nasty rash…Once beyond the downed tree, he turned and looked behind him. There was no sign of the gator, but he was not in a trusting mood.

  He paddled for as long as his tired muscles would thrust him downstream, and then he allowed the sleek craft to tip him into the water. It was cool and clear, and the invigorating wetness brought him back from exhaustion. Its spring-fed waters maintained a temperature of seventy-two degrees year-round, and he floated until his body temperature and breathing returned to normal.

  I wonder how frantic my Secret Service agents would be if they knew that the President of the United States was almost devoured by a huge reptile on their watch? he asked himself. I can only imagine the predators lurking in the Oval Office. And there are no corners to hide.

  u

  CHAPTER 21

  H

  e could hear it before he could see it: the sound of a helicopter’s rotor pushing the humid air aside as the aircraft approached the secluded spring. Then the massive rotors appeared above the cypress trees with a loud thrup-thrup-thrup,

  followed by the dark blue body of the craft, the presidential seal prominently displayed on the fuselage in gold. The turbulence tore the Spanish moss from the branches, and it floated slowly toward the water in elongated tufts of grayish green. The helicopter maneuvered above the circular opening in the trees—not much wider than the reach of the powerful blades—and hovered thirty feet above him.

  From doors on either side of the helicopter, two dark figures emerged and dropped from the sky, landing twenty feet away. Max treaded water as two Navy SEALs in wetsuits and full scuba gear swam furiously in his direction. The SEALs approached with strong strokes, their faces covered by masks. Max was amazed at the speed at which they converged on him, and he wondered whether they would crush him between them. When they were at arm’s length, they pulled off their masks and pulled the regulators out of their mouths in unison.

&
nbsp; “Just relax, Mr. President, we’re here to save you,” exclaimed one, while the other attempted to roll Max onto his back with arms that resembled tree trunks.

  “But I don’t want to be saved,” sputtered Max as he slipped beneath the hold and pointed his finger in the face of the SEAL in front of him. “I was enjoying a restful dip in my favorite spring until you guys came along.”

  “Sir, it is my duty to protect you from danger, and I would give my life to defend you from harm—”

  “Did it ever occur to you…what is your name?”

  “Shields, sir.”

  “No, your first name! There will be no formality, as long as you maintain respect.”

  “Benjamin, sir. Well…Ben,”

  “And you?” Max shouted.

  The other Navy SEAL treaded water silently, witnessing the exasperation of Max, and wondering whether he and his companion were about to get re-assigned to somewhere cold and lonely on the first day of their privileged duty.

  “Mr. President, sir, my name is Jonathan Schlitz, but my friends call me Schlitz. I prefer it. I’m duty bound to protect you,” he said over the roar of the helicopter.

  Max contemplated his next move, knowing that if he attempted to exercise independence that violated their stringent training, he would likely be trussed up, stuffed in a metal basket, and hauled by cable into the helicopter, which continued to hover overhead.

  I have been coming to this spot since I was a young kid, and one of my favorite things to do is see how long I can hold my breath at the bottom of this spring, Max thought. While I’m here, I’ll be damned if I am going to let them spoil my fun in the name of security! What I’m gonna do is take three deep breaths and free dive down to the bottom, thirty-five feet down below, and I’m going to hang upside

  MARK E. BECKER

  down from that piece of limestone down there until I can’t do it anymore. Then I’m going to float to the top all by myself. “After I’m done having my fun, you can take me home.” He didn’t waste his breath with a lengthy explanation. The sound of his voice was nearly drowned out by the rotor wash. Max could see black SUVs pulling into the clearing near the boat launch on shore. One of them was already stuck in the white sugar sand, wheels spinning and throwing dust into the air.