Storm Rising

by Steven Becker

  “Oh, the Fat Virgin.” He nodded back and removed a VHF radio from a clip on his belt. A few minutes later, a yellow boat with a glass enclosure pulled alongside the dock and hovered without tying up. Storm boarded the taxi and sat in the seat to the side of the driver. Water gurgled behind the transom as the transmission slipped into gear and the boat moved forward. Thankfully, the old diesel inboard was too loud to comfortably talk over, allowing him to observe the shoreline in silence. He had seen no marked roads between Leverick’s and the YCCS on a small tourist map, and now he studied the shoreline for any trails or private roads that might allow him access if he needed it. They passed a point and headed across the water, where the boat entered a narrow bay, the ocean visible across a thin land mass at the end. Storm was more interested in the long dock on the right. It was designed to be a statement and had achieved its goal. Several hundred feet of freshly painted deck, with shiny black pilings standing sentry every twenty feet. Just inside of the main pier were rows of slips, mostly empty except for the half dozen small yachts there. As impressive as the facility was, the two large boats tied up at the end made it look insignificant.

  “It is the big money there,” the driver said over the rumble of the motor, probably expecting John to be one of the gawking tourists that always urged him to get as close to the megayachts as he would allow.

  John nodded back without taking his eyes off the compound.

  A quarter mile past the resort, the pilot pulled up to a small dock.

  Storm paid the driver and walked down the dock, found a small sidewalk and cut behind the kitchen of a small, colorful restaurant. The road which he had seen from the water looked like it led most of the way to the luxurious resort. As he approached, the hotel behind the docks came into view, its tower visible above the trees, and he moved to the shadows to avoid the guards he expected to be patrolling the perimeter. The resort was a step above exclusive, allowing no one but its guests access to the amenities—and he didn’t look like a guest.

  Storm checked the road, crossing where it ran by the docks. He settled into a clump of bushes and did his best to adjust his body for an extended stay. Thankful for his choice of attire, he tried to ignore the mosquitos and trained his binoculars on the yacht. From his vantage point, the names were hidden by the dock in front, but he knew the Iranian’s vessel.

  At eighty-five meters, over two hundred fifty feet long, the sleek yacht towered over the docks, her tower sitting over fifty feet above the water. He knew the specs and tried to look past the two nearly naked women sunbathing by the pool. The yacht was a statement, and at close to a hundred million dollars, it was the top tier of luxury. Three men sat around a table in the shade off to the side of the pool, but he couldn’t see who they were until a crew member waiting on them moved. He clenched his jaw as the Iranian laughed.

  CHAPTER 7

  Mako studied the wound in the small bathroom. He winced when the tampon pulled free, but the bleeding had stopped, and only a few bright drops showed where the fabric had stuck. With a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide, he cleaned the gash and applied a new dressing. He took a half dozen steps to the tiny kitchen, brewed another pot of coffee and packed.

  A few minutes later, he was in an Uber cab headed back to the airport. The driver was male and chatty, neither appealing to his social instincts, but the cars were cleaner than the city cabs and within his budget. And with the loss of the drive, money was quickly becoming an issue. Half an hour later, he stepped onto the curb at LaGuardia Airport and tipped the driver, the payment automatically coming from Alicia’s account—just another reason to use the service.

  The glass doors slid open and he entered the terminal. The continuous stream of people pushing bags and pulling children appeared daunting. Stepping into the flow of traffic reminded him of entering a busy freeway. Getting through security was a simple matter, especially with the TSA pre-check Alicia had arranged, and minutes later, he was sipping a glass of wine at the bar by the gate. It wasn’t yet noon, but he knew he would need all the patience he had for the trip, first to San Juan and then the puddle jumper to Tortola.

  The British Virgin Islands were not unfamiliar to him, but his memory of previous trips was clouded by alcohol. He would have to rely on Alicia to give him more specifics. The boarding process had just started when he texted her asking for more details. He boarded, groaning to himself about the middle seat. The plane pulled back from the gate, and the male flight attendant gave him a look as his phone chimed. He glared back, sneaked a peak at the screen and smiled. The easiest and least conspicuous way to get around the small chain of islands was in a sailboat, and she had rented him one. Many cruisers had little sailing skill and just motored around—with his limited boating abilities, he would fit right in.

  The attendant gave him another look as the pilot taxied to the runway, and he finally shut off the phone, hoping there would be a better level of service on this flight than it appeared. Once the plane had reached cruising altitude, he pulled out his laptop and connected to the plane’s Wi-Fi, not caring about the cost as again it went on Alicia’s account. He studied a map of the islands, committing it to memory, and found the marina where the sailboat was reserved. It was a twenty-minute cab ride from the airport, and he tried to decide if he had enough time to stop for provisions on the way or wing it with the restaurants and boatside delivery services.

  He was disappointed again as two men pushed the drink cart down the aisle and briskly asked for his drink order. Finally, with two empty Grey Goose vodka bottles in front of him, he closed his eyes and slept until the plane bumped to a stop in San Juan, Puerto Rico.

  Expecting air-conditioning, he was surprised by the humidity as he entered the terminal. It looked like it had come out of a build-your-own-airport kit and assembled by someone who didn’t know how to put the parts together. The walk to Cape Air took him through several different sections, each marked by a clear transition and different architectural style. After several long hallways, he found the small desk and checked in for the flight.

  The crowd here was different, mostly tourists excited about their upcoming trip. As he approached the counter, he noticed an attractive woman in uniform pass by, slide a card into the lock and exit the terminal. He checked in and went to the window, where he watched her board the ten-seater, hoping the plane would be his. The agent at the desk called the flight, and he swiftly moved to the front of the line, wanting the copilot’s seat. His phone vibrated and he checked the message while the agent checked boarding passes and passports. It was Alicia again, letting him know that Cyrus, the Iranian, was on Virgin Gorda. How she compiled her information was a constant mystery to him, but as a partner she was top-notch. The door opened and he was first into the heat, leading the group down the stairs and onto the hot tarmac.

  At the boarding steps, he squeezed between a couple placing their bags on a cart next to the ladder and was first to climb the stairs. He looked into the cabin of the aircraft and smiled at the pilot. “This seat taken?”

  She barely acknowledged him, but nodded it was okay, and he slid into the right-hand chair. While observing her as she went through the preflight checklist, he practiced his Sherlock Holmes, trying to put the pieces of her life together. First and most important, there was no ring. That hadn’t stopped him before, but it did complicate things. Next he studied her face—she was striking, and he wondered what she would look like out of the standard-issue pilot’s uniform. He could see curves, but the unflattering cut made them indistinct. She was tan, a good sign that she had enough time off to enjoy the outdoors.

  He continued to observe, choosing to leave her to her work, but admiring the efficiency of her movements. She completed the checklist and looked back at the cabin, locking eyes with him briefly before focusing on the other passengers. After a quick welcome and safety briefing, she put on her headset and asked the tower for permission to take off. Unfortunately, there was no way to start a conversation with the large he
adphones she wore, and he tried to figure out a way to talk to her once they were in the air.

  The plane revved and started down the runway, fishtailing as it picked up speed. The wheels left the ground, and Mako was pushed back in the seat from the slight G force of the takeoff. The pilot adjusted several controls, and he relaxed as the plane settled into its cruising altitude high above the deep blue water.

  He was about to tap her on the shoulder when he noticed a headset hung from a small hook by his legs. She glanced at him and smiled when he put it over his ears, and the next thing he heard was her voice.

  “Well, hello.”

  “Back at ya,” he said, adjusting the volume knob on the right ear. “Didn’t think I’d get a chance to say hi.”

  “Well, hi. Staying in Tortola long?” she asked.

  “A little work—a little play. On a sailboat, though, so.…” Air traffic control from St Thomas cut him off and she went back to work. The chatter was fairly constant for the next thirty minutes as she adjusted course, and he could see the islands ahead. St. Thomas handed her off to Tortola, who issued a course and altitude change, taking them over the pristine horseshoe-shaped coves of Jost Van Dyke. She banked and veered left, descending as they crossed the larger island of Tortola and landed.

  “I love to sail,” she said.

  He thought for all of two seconds before responding. “And you are welcome aboard.”

  “I’ve only got two days,” she said and cracked the door to let some fresh air in as they taxied.

  “We’ll just have to make the best of it.” The list of things that could go wrong with this scenario was endless, but he put them to the back of his mind, deciding to rationalize it as “good cover.”

  Half an hour later, they had cleared the small customs line and went to a small shack across the street, where the taxi drivers were gathered in the shade, playing checkers and sipping cold drinks.

  “Hillary, by the way,” she said with some sort of a mild accent that he couldn’t place—yet.

  “Mako,” he answered and formally extended his hand. She laughed and accepted it, twisting it slightly with a firm grip, giving a hint of what might be in store later.

  It was almost four when they left the airport, endangering his plan to get out of the harbor tonight. There were several islands across the bay that had good anchorages and more privacy than the tourist-trodden docks of the marina. He decided to skip the grocery store and stop at the liquor store, where they carefully selected a few bottles of wine and a large bottle of rum, along with some chips and nuts. They arrived at the marina with one bag of provisions and checked in.

  They were assigned a thirty-eight-footer and given directions to the slip. Pushing the cart containing little baggage and less provisions ahead of him, they greeted the other cruisers preparing to head out. Toward the end of “B” dock, they found the boat and laughed out loud at the name on the back: Escape Yourself.

  They quickly unpacked and went on deck to wait for their briefing. Hillary had been here several times and went quickly through the rundown while Mako sat entranced by the melodic accent of the dark-skinned woman. Everything that came out of her mouth sounded like an exotic song. Finally he signed the papers, and she called for assistance to help them out of the tight slip. Several dockworkers came over, skillfully released the lines and wished them a good trip before they pushed the boat into the channel.

  With the sun just starting to set behind them, he pushed down the throttle and steered through the buoys until they were in open water. With Hillary navigating, they left the protection of the bay and fought the afternoon swells driven by the tradewinds as they motored across the channel, heading for Cooper Island, where they planned to moor for the night.

  It was near dark when he extended the boat hook over the bow and reached for the line attached to the mooring ball. Hillary ran a boat as well as a plane and judged the wind and currents perfectly. Escape Yourself coasted to a stop right at the ball, and he pulled the line aboard. She came forward and showed him how to loop the dock line through the eye in the mooring line and attach it to two cleats for a better hold, and he patted her bottom as she led the way back to the cabin.

  Fifteen minutes later, they docked the dinghy at the Copper Island Beach Club and ordered Cooper Cules from the small walk-up bar. They took the drinks and selected a secluded spot amongst the comfortable chairs and couches which were scattered in several different seating arrangements. Sipping the cocktail made from muddled cucumber, lime, light rum and ginger beer with Hillary sitting next to him, he almost forgot why he was here.

  ***

  John Storm fought the mosquitos, braver now that the sun had set, and worked the cramps from his thighs. He had been waiting for several hours and seen nothing unusual, but this kind of work took time. You never knew when you would catch the break you needed, and just as his patience was expiring, he heard the soft drone of a helicopter in the distance. It moved closer, and he brought the glasses to bear on the deck of the ship. Cyrus and his guests were gathered in a tight group on the top deck, their eyes to the sky.

  The single-rotor chopper banked and slowed over the ship, gently lowering itself a few feet at a time until it rested on the top deck. The engines wound down, and he watched the Iranian duck and move toward the cockpit. He opened the clear glass door, and the first thing Storm saw was the stiletto heels of the occupant, followed by perfect legs and the rest of the body to match. The woman took his hand and exited the chopper. He couldn’t help but notice there was not a hair out of place on her head as they moved to the waiting group where the fake, touchless hugs of the rich were exchanged. He looked back to the chopper and watched the pilot, who took several designer bags from the back and then two other cases that were clearly not designer or luggage.

  He smiled, the wait having paid off, and studied the cases. They were identical in size and clearly contained something valuable. Before he could notice any further details, two uniformed crewmen took them from the pilot’s hand before he could set them on the deck. With cautious looks, they carried them inside. John moved his gaze back to the group, trying to place the woman, who by her looks was not someone you would forget—and when she turned, the memories came flooding back.

  CHAPTER 8

  Alicia was bone-tired, but the bath she craved would have to wait. After their scheduled dives, they had the first good luck in days with favorable weather to cross the Gulfstream. Customs and Immigration continued the streak and gave them a pass, allowing only a radio check as they entered US waters. Back on the dock, they said their farewells to the divers, paying special attention to the woman, who reassured them she felt fine and was very happy with the way they had handled things. Alicia was suspicious, though. Once the woman told her story to friends and family, someone always had the idea to sue.

  Their arrival had coincided with the return of the afternoon dive trip run out of Cody’s shop, and Alicia smiled as the returning passengers quizzed the divers about their Bahamas adventure. Everything she overheard was positive, and she texted the clerk working inside to make sure there were plenty of brochures available.

  “Go on,” Cody said. “I’ll get one of the guys to help me clean her up. Your work is more important.”

  She pecked him on the cheek, grabbed her laptop and eased her way past the divers talking on the dock. Taking the stairs to Cody’s apartment on the side of the shop, she reached the landing and entered the combination into the door lock. A green light flashed, she heard the electronic bolt slide and she entered. The room was warm and humid. She passed through the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and went to the war room. This was Cody’s game room, a high-tech modern design that you would never guess was here from the ramshackle appearance of the apartment.

  Cold air greeted her as she opened the door. A separate ductless air-conditioning system serviced the space, always kept cool to satisfy the computer equipment. The windowless room was painted black with
a grey ceiling. Sleek modern furniture sat on a rubber flooring made to reduce static and noise levels. Large monitors lined one of the walls, with several desks set back in a configuration that always reminded her of the bridge on the USS Enterprise. The captain’s chair, as Cody called it, was in the middle of the room, with joysticks built into the arms, a keyboard mounted on a swinging stand off to the side, and of course, the obligatory drink holder.

  She went to one of the desks, a new addition since she had moved in, and plugged several cables into the laptop. The screens came to life and she started pecking away at the keyboard. To most people, the rows of data would be meaningless, but this was her domain. Years in computer labs had taken her to robotics tournaments in high school, which had led to a scholarship to Stanford, where she had done her undergraduate work, and then on to MIT. With her pedigree, finding work had been easy, and she was courted by all the big Silicon Valley companies, but after a few years she had found the work unsatisfying. The rat race never stopped, developing products that were obsolete seconds after completion. Somewhere along the line, she had noticed an inner calling to do something good, and when the CIA had offered her employment, she’d bitten the bullet, accepting the minuscule pay rate and jumping at the opportunity.

  She enjoyed the work and the challenge, but after a few years, the monotony of cubicle life made her restless. Pushing thirty years old, she realized she had no life at all and started lobbying her supervisors for field work. A high-level agent in Miami had noticed her and given her a chance. But her first assignment was no training mission; the supervisor was playing both sides of the fence. Mac Travis and his sidekick Alan Trufante had opened her eyes to the world, and together they had put things right. During the operation, she had met Cody, and for the first time she’d felt fulfilled. Over the last year, she had learned to balance her obsessive need to work with the sheer joy of diving.