Storm Rising

by Steven Becker

  ***

  Mako walked off the plane feeling better than he deserved. After the rendezvous with the flight attendant, he had slept the entire flight. It always amazed him how the world didn’t look so grim after some sleep. He was confident that, with Alicia’s help, they would find another way to get the data on the lost drive.

  He waited by the gate for the flight attendants to finish their closeout procedure and exit the plane. Standing by the ticket counter, he texted Alicia, asking for any information and hoping he would have the night in New York with the blonde, who smiled when she exited the jetway. She said something to the other attendants and walked over.

  “A little close quarters for a proper invitation in there.” He smiled. “But if you’re open, I could buy you dinner.”

  “I’ve got an early flight tomorrow,” she said.

  Unsure if she was begging off or just making him work harder, he countered, “We can make it early to bed, then.”

  She hooked her arm in his. “If you understand those are the rules,” she said.

  On the way to the exit, he used his phone to hook up with an Uber driver. They bypassed the waiting cabs and hopped into the Pathfinder. “West Eighty-Second, by…,” he told the driver.

  “It’s on the app. Got it,” the driver said.

  “Nice neighborhood.” She smiled.

  “Chinese?” he asked and reached for his phone, both to check if Alicia had answered and to order food.

  “That’d be great,” she said and slid closer.

  He finished ordering and gave the driver the address for the restaurant.

  ***

  It would have been better if the diver was unconscious, Alicia thought as she released air from her BC and descended to the woman struggling to remove her arm from the coral head. The question of what it was doing there and how it had gotten stuck flashed through her mind, but she put it aside for later. As disoriented as the woman was, anything could have happened. Once she had reached the Rescue Diver level, her instructors had started to tell the stories of their favorite FUBARs—f’ed up beyond all recognition.

  Alicia swept her right arm around her side, recovered the octopus and, instead of handing it to the woman, reached out and stuck it into her mouth. The panic in her eyes subsided briefly as she quickly inhaled. Alicia didn’t bother to check her gauges. During her training, several dives had been designed for her to run out of air; to learn the feeling of sucking on a near-empty tank and how many breaths to expect once it started. She would know when to take the last breath and head for the surface, hopefully with the woman in tow.

  The line from the buoy was in her way when she reached around to free the woman. Unclipping it from her BC, she attached it to the woman, trying not to think that she might be marking the body. A green ooze floated from the coral head as Alicia tried to extract the woman’s arm. The hold seemed to tighten like a Chinese puzzle; the more she pulled, the firmer the grasp of the coral.

  She checked her air and, with only five hundred PSI remaining, reviewed her options. The best solution was to leave the tank with the woman, surface and return with tools and two fresh tanks. A quick glance at her watch showed they were well past the no-decompression limit. They would have to deal with that issue after they had the woman on the surface. Alicia unbuckled her BC and left it next to the woman. She gave her a reassuring look and took a long breath, removed the regulator and finned for the surface. The visibility made the ascent appear easier than it was, and it took her last gasp or air to reach the surface. The buoy floated next to her, but the boat was still anchored several hundred yards away.

  Without the aid of her BC, she had to tread water to stay above the surface. With the buoy in her hand to prevent the current from taking her, she screamed for Cody. Whitecaps covered the surface, brought by the leading edge of the storm. The seas were not dangerous to dive in under normal circumstances, but they seemed huge as she fought to keep her head above water. There was no answer from the boat and she started to panic. The woman didn’t have enough air for the time it would take her to swim to the boat—in fact, she might be out now. She pushed that thought from her mind and screamed louder. They had to be looking for her. She was well past her dive profile, and the other divers should have reported the situation to Cody. Finally she heard someone call out from the boat and the engine start. The sound of the windlass pulling the anchor chain carried clearly across the water, and within a few minutes, Cody skillfully placed the stern of the boat by her.

  “Get me a BC and two air tanks!” she called from the water. Treading water, even with the fins, was taking a toll on her, and she worried about the increased bottom time, but she was already in the water. She could take the tank down and resurface. “Get Cody in the water with me,” she called to the closest diver. “And tell him to bring a pry bar.” He had the experience to deal with the situation below and had not been in the water today. The other divers would be in danger of decompression sickness if they returned to depth this quickly.

  She inflated the BC and flipped it over her back. The second tank, a smaller pony tank about a quarter the size of a regular tank, was handed to her, and she descended. The extra weight of the second tank took her quickly to the bottom, but hindered her as she made her way back to the woman. Fortunately, a small stream of bubbles rose above her, indicating she was still breathing. Once there, Alicia replaced the near-empty tank with the pony bottle and gave her the OK sign. A figure in the water above made her jump, but she relaxed when Cody appeared next to her. He gave her the thumbs-up sign that she should ascend and leave him with the woman.

  The fresh tank gave her plenty of air for a long decompression stop. At thirty feet, her computer beeped, indicating a stop of five minutes. She adjusted the air in her BC to keep herself in place and waited. She was close enough to the bottom to see the two figures below, but there was little detail. Cody appeared to be working to free her, but after her five-minute stop, she lost sight of them as the dive computer updated itself, indicating that she needed to move up the water column to fifteen feet, where she would remain for ten minutes. While she waited, she started to calculate the woman’s situation. Alicia’s watch showed she had been in the water for over an hour. That would place the woman below in severe danger of decompression sickness.

  With two minutes left in her safety stop, she saw action below her. The two figures rose to the surface and stopped below her. Cody held the woman with one hand and adjusted both their BCs with the other. For now, they were doing the right thing. Alicia’s time was up, and she added a blast of air to the BC and surfaced. The other divers helped her out of the water, and she gave several orders while she slid onto the bench, clipped the tank onto the rack behind her and slithered out of the gear. One of the men threw a line with a dive weight tied to the end behind the boat and tied it to a nearby cleat. With this, Cody could hold onto the line, making the safety stops easier.

  CHAPTER 6

  Mako’s third-floor walk-up above a busy restaurant was a single room with a closet-sized kitchen and an even smaller bathroom, but it was all he could afford. The woman snoring quietly next to him had not seemed to notice and was more impressed by the address than the surroundings. The night had been a good one. Mako rolled out of bed and looked over at the body beside him, hesitant to leave. But he was anxious to see if Alicia had left instructions. He got up and went to the kitchen, where he started coffee. The sky was just starting to lighten when the water boiled, and he poured it into the French press. While he waited for it to brew, he checked his phone to see if Alicia had called or texted overnight. There was nothing, and he wondered why she hadn’t given him directions. The mission was time-sensitive, and even wasting the night, as pleasurable as it was, might cost them the contract.

  The sound of bare feet coming from the next room brought his attention back to the present. He watched the flight attendant head to the bathroom, flashing him a shy smile as she passed the small kitchen. The brew looked to b
e dark enough, and he carefully applied pressure to the handle, forcing the screen to push the grounds to the bottom of the glass decanter. Sitting back, he sipped his coffee while he watched her get ready, and a few minutes later, with a quick peck on the cheek, she was gone.

  Mako was anxious and decided to go for a run. He dressed and headed down the three flights of stairs, pausing in front of the restaurant to stretch before starting at a slow pace toward Central Park. With every step, he felt the gash in his thigh, but after being run down in London, he was dedicated to improving his fitness—at least for today. This early, the city was quieter than one might expect. Manhattan started late and ended late. He headed up Eighty-First, crossed Central Park West and picked up his pace as he joined the trail. A few other joggers, mostly women, made eye contact, but for the most part, he was caught up in his own thoughts, wondering what happened to Alicia and where he would go next. Five miles and forty-five minutes later, he was back in front of the restaurant, checking out the pastries in the window. His breathing back to normal, he walked up the three flights to his apartment. Standing in the small kitchen, he filled a glass with water, took several long sips and gobbled down the pastry he had just bought, letting the crumbs fall in the sink. He refilled the glass, sat down and checked his phone again. There was still nothing from Alicia, and not wanting to wait any longer, he pecked out a message to her.

  ***

  Alicia woke the next morning wondering where she was. Exhausted when they’d finally docked late last night, she had decided the woman’s life was more important than the contract and stayed with her until they had both fallen asleep. She had no idea how she had reached their berth. Finally her tired brain pieced all the clues together; they were docked in the marina at West End on Grand Bahama Island. Typically, to give a more adventurous feel to the trip and avoid the cost, they anchored over a shallow reef, in easy snorkel reach of the abundant lobster and conch. Unless forced in by bad weather, they never docked. This time was different. They had wanted to make sure the woman got medical attention if she needed it, and the marina’s Internet connection should be fast enough for her to do her work. Unless the marina was busy, which usually only happened during fishing tournaments, there would be plenty of broadband for what she needed.

  The boat was quiet, the divers probably sleeping after the late night fueled by rum drinks from the tiki bar and the excitement of the rescue yesterday. It was dark by the time they had completed the decompression stops needed for the woman and gotten her onboard. The other divers had been great, willing to take turns keeping her company in the water as she waited for the nitrogen to leave her blood. Fortunately her wrist and arm were just scraped, nothing deep enough to require medical attention. They would have to keep an eye on her, though. After that long in the water, there was still a chance of coming down with the bends, and coral cuts were often easily infected. She rolled over in the large forward V-berth, looking for Cody, but his space was empty and cold.

  She got up, put on a t-shirt and shorts, and went up to the bridge, where she sat down next to Cody, taking his coffee and sipping it before they spoke. He had the look of someone who had been up all night, and he probably had.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  She placed her hand on his forearm, leaned over and kissed him, wondering again if she had ruined his life. After another sip of his coffee, she took the mug to refill it. “I need to get on the computer and figure some things out. Hopefully the Wi-Fi is fast enough.”

  “After yesterday, I think this whole group could use a break. I was planning to head back to the Altar and do the shark dive, but I’m thinking we should probably do something tamer. Maybe hit a couple of shallow reefs where they can get some good bottom time, hunt some lobsters and maybe shoot some fish.”

  “Sounds good.” Alicia turned and went down the ladder. He was right. Taking home lobster or fish would take any sour taste from their mouths. She refilled Cody’s mug and slipped carefully past the sleeping divers, grabbing her laptop on the way out of the cabin. After handing the coffee up to him, she stepped over the gunwale and onto the dock. A short walk to the end of the pier brought her to a coffee shop, where she ordered a latte and opened her laptop in a quiet corner. It didn’t take her long to immerse herself in her trade. She methodically went from source to source, checking all the resources she had. Credit cards, airline flights, anything that would give her an indication where the Iranian had gone. The man was invisible, having the luxury of his own fleet of jets and boats. It wasn’t lost on her that John Storm had resources beyond her reach and probably had a head start. It would be hard to trace him, but finally she saw one of his known aliases on a flight from Atlanta to San Juan. From there it was easy to find his reservation to Spanish Town in the British Virgin Islands. She leaned back and smiled for the first time in two days. Finding Storm would lead them to the Iranian.

  Just as she closed her laptop, the message from Mako appeared on her phone. Head to La Guardia, she texted back, and pack tropical. I’ll load your flights into your phone shortly. With the laptop under her arm and the unfinished coffee in her other hand, she headed back to the boat. The divers were starting to stir now, and she started breakfast. While the fresh lobster sautéed, she started to scan her phone for flights to Tortola. When the meat was translucent, she poured the egg mixture in and booked his flight to San Juan while the dish cooked. Once the divers were in the water, she could make the other arrangements and email Mako his boarding pass.

  While the divers dug into the lobster-scrambled eggs, she went over to Cody, who was talking to the woman they had rescued yesterday. Without wanting to disturb them, she walked close enough to hear the conversation, making sure that the woman was okay before she interrupted. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  The woman looked up at her, clearly exhausted. “I don’t think I’ll be diving anymore today, but I don’t want to ruin the charter for anyone else, so if you guys want to head out, that’s fine with me. I’ll just hang out on the boat.”

  Cody looked at Alicia. “We’re due to head back tonight anyway. How about we go to the ups and downs and then do one last shallow drop. The forecast looks favorable to cross the Gulfstream this afternoon. We can be back by six or so.”

  The state of the Stream was always a concern on these trips, and Alicia relaxed a little knowing the crossing wouldn’t be the bone-jarring slugfest it could be. Tonight she would be at home with full broadband access, able to steer Mako to the Iranian.

  ***

  Cursing overnight travel, John Storm got off the plane and climbed down the ladder to the steamy tarmac. It was one thing getting to San Juan, but flights out were limited, and he had arrived too late for the Cape Air flight to the BVI. Congress had seen to it that there were no longer any guarantees or expense accounts in his business, and he slept in the terminal instead of booking a hotel. The first flight out was at eight a.m., and he sat behind the pilot, his favorite spot in a small plane, where he was able to watch the gauges and controls of the aircraft. It was a brief flight, less than an hour, mostly over water until St. John and St. Thomas appeared on the right. The pilot stayed seaward of the smaller islands and landed on the small airstrip in Spanish Town. Virgin Gorda’s airport was smaller than Tortola across the channel, but closer to the Costa Smeralda Yacht Club, known locally as the YCCS, where the radar transponder had shown the Iranian’s boat was docked.

  After clearing customs and immigration, he found a pay phone and called the hotel at Leverick’s Marina. It was as close as he could get to the YCCS. The more laid-back complex was affordable and had a great tiki bar. With his lodging handled, he found a cab and bartered with the driver for the cross-island drive. Leverick’s was less than six miles away, but the drive would take close to an hour on the island’s steep inclines and winding roads.

  Feeling slightly ridiculous in the tourist wagon, a pink bus with exposed bench seating in the rear, he left the airport. Twice, the driver stopped on the de
scent from Gorda Peak to let the brakes cool down. Finally, tired and impatient, Storm was dropped off by a small grocery store. He paid the driver and wandered down the hill to the water. Bypassing the hotel office, he turned to the left and entered the shade of the bar. It was almost noon. He needed a drink and a plan.

  The Dark and Stormy quenched his thirst and took the edge off his mood. The bartender came by to see about a refill, but he declined and paid. There was work to be done today if he wanted to stay ahead of Alicia and Mako. He slung the messenger bag over his shoulder and climbed the stairs that wound up the hill to the hotel, where he checked in to the cheapest room they had. The bed looked inviting, but it would have to wait. He changed clothes. Despite the heat and humidity, he opted for lightweight long pants and a long-sleeve shirt, knowing the mosquitos would be worse than the heat. With his field glasses around his neck, he left the room and locked the door, leaving a piece of his hair wedged in the jamb. It was an old trick, but would tell him if anyone entered when he was gone.

  Descending the winding exterior stairway, he looked down at the busy marina. Several dive and fishing charter boats occupied the closest slips, then came the few private and charter sailboats, all with thick yellow cords hooked to the shore power. The additional forty-dollar charge for a slip instead of a mooring ball allowed the air-conditioners to run. He approached a small shack on the end of the dock, where a dark-skinned man in a tropical uniform nodded to him from a chair set in the shade.

  “Afternoon, sir.”

  “Can you get me a water taxi over to the small restaurant past the yacht club?”