The Blue Tango Salvage: Book 2 in the Recovery and Marine Salvage, Inc. Series

by Chris Poindexter

  “When were they on the timeline, Deek?”

  “One right before he stopped fishing and the other one about two weeks later.”

  “Was Key Largo first?”

  “It was.”

  “Any charges north of Miami?”

  “I don’t see any.”

  “At least we can narrow the search area,” I pointed out. “Key Largo’s in a protected management area as is most everything south of there. Out here,” I pointed to the Straits of Florida, “look at these depth numbers...375 fathoms...400, that’s 2,400 feet, nearly a half mile. It takes a bigger rig than you could carry on a 32 foot boat to work at those depths.”

  I traced my finger along the map. “So, we narrow the search area to somewhere north of Key Largo, east of Paradise Point and depths under…,” I mulled over the numbers, “...under 200 fathoms.”

  Q walked over to the screen. “What are these squiggly lines?”

  “Cable areas,” I clarified as the legend was off the edge of the screen. “So we can rule those out as well.”

  That still left a huge area but a lot smaller than it was a few minutes ago. It traced out an oblong area south of Miami and Biscayne Bay and north of The Keys.

  “Deek, make sure Fred has access to all this,” I had to speak up because I left my phone back on the table. Fred would take our crude analysis and refine it down even further.

  Instead of shedding light on the mystery, the new search area actually made the mystery deeper. That space was one of the most heavily trafficked shipping areas in the world and has been for centuries. Added to that the bottom of the ocean is a strange place; mostly barren in huge stretches and teeming with life in others. A big storm or a change in the current can cover and uncover areas the size of a small city. Even though it looked flat and featureless, the bottom of the ocean was a place of constant change and upheaval. The ocean could bury riches one day and offer them up for the taking the next. Fred would frequently remind us to think about everything that had been hauled out of the ocean and then to consider there was that much and more still down there.

  That meant whatever had gotten poor Raphael killed, which was the only reasonable explanation for his sudden disappearance, could have been damn near anything. I kept trying to think of things that could be snagged by a passing fisherman but again, under the right conditions, that could be almost anything. Once we figured out what it was he hauled up then we could start figuring out who he might have asked for advice. Whoever that was knew something about Raphael’s disappearance or initiated it.

  The warehouse was another mystery. Whatever it was had sufficient bulk to necessitate storage and yet left no trace evidence behind. While it was probably many somethings, it was remotely possible it was a big something recovered in pieces. All we knew at the moment is he spent long days stretched out over weeks recovering it while someone was watching him work. In my mind the word ‘they’ formed because it was almost certainly more than one person. While we could rule out that the watchers were law enforcement, we could not eliminate a host of other government agencies and foreign governments.

  “Damn peculiar,” I said out loud.

  The Swan’s engines changed pitch and she swayed awkwardly in the swells as we turned west and rounded the tip of Key Biscayne, where you could find some of the most exclusive real estate in the country. A little farther up the road on Virginia Key was the Miami Seaquarium. We decided to spend at least one night at Dinner Key which meant going around the tip of Key Biscayne and navigating across Biscayne Bay. Mackey had to slow down to navigate the tricky channels and we would be late getting in but a heavily traveled marina like Dinner Key that was not unusual. Mackey would have called ahead for a slip assignment as the office was open 24 hours a day during the season.

  I must have been lost in thought for a while because I turned around to discover Q and Amber were asleep in the Swan’s comfortable salon furniture. I checked my phone and even Deek had checked out on me.

  “Quitters,” I mumbled to myself and headed down to my stateroom for some rack time.

  Chapter 3

  I awoke shortly before dawn with a vague memory of arriving at the dock last night, marked by hushed conversations outside the stateroom portals and soft footfalls on the deck above. Amber was snoring, wrapped up in a blanket on the edge of the bed. It would be another few hours before we saw her topside but it didn’t matter. We’d unload her bike and her mission for the day was jetting down to Key Largo and see what she could learn at the marina there. Q and I would go talk to the wife, see what we could learn from the harbor office and have a look at the Burja, still in her slip here at the marina.

  It was light enough I could see the nightstand on Amber’s side of the bed, strewn with what she carried in her pockets. A crumpled half-pack of sugar free gum, a stick of lip balm, motorcycle key, her phone, a Walther PPS in a clip holster, a spare mag and an M16-14SFG tactical knife which she stole from me and refused to return. Instead of a wallet or purse she had a slim card holder for her driver's license, credit card and a small amount of cash. All the things a girl needs for life in the modern world that would also fit in skin tight leather pants, with the exception of the tactical knife which carried in her boot.

  I made my way to the galley to find Ashley already hard at work making breakfast for the crew and guests.

  “Good morning,” she smiled. “There’s coffee upstairs on the open deck and I’ll be putting out a buffet breakfast in just a few minutes.”

  “Perfect,” I smiled in return, turning to make my way topside.

  It was a gorgeous Florida morning, warm and muggy with just a trace of a breeze coming off the water. The sun was just peeking over the horizon and the waterfront was painted in blue and warm gold. Seagulls wheeled through the sky and a formation of pelicans drifted overhead. I helped myself to a heavy mug of coffee, glad to have a few minutes to myself. Once Q and I stepped off the boat this morning, the shit would be rolling downhill.

  I got all of three minutes of alone time before Q joined me, running a hand through his perpetual bedhead and stifling a yawn. This morning he was wearing white shorts and a blue sleeveless t-shirt that showed his Special Forces ink. He seldom wore shoes on board, even when it was cold, and this morning was no exception.

  We sat in silence for a few minutes and sipped our coffee. Like Amber, Q wasn’t a morning person. He’d talk when he was awake enough to be civil so I just waited it out.

  “We going to start with the boat?” he finally asked.

  “Might as well. There isn’t going to be much to see and we can do that early. We should give the wife time to pack the kids off to school. Then we can go look at the empty warehouse.”

  “Hey, where’s the truck?”

  “Impound. The cops wanted to run forensics on it. Maybe we can text Anita and get them to drop it off at the house this morning.”

  “There’s something I thought of last night,” Q informed.

  I raised an eyebrow. It didn’t come fast for Q but it was usually insightful.

  “He’s taking something heavy off the boat and moving it to the truck, right?”

  I saw where he was going. “He needed something to wheel it down the dock.”

  We were interrupted by Ashley carrying a fruit platter in one hand and a bucket of ice in the other. Q jumped up to help her with the ice.

  “Whew, thanks,” she said gratefully. “That was a load.”

  Ashley had been with us for six years and with one of our property management companies three years before that. She was one of the few people to work her way into an operational job and, at 32, was one of the oldest people we sent through tactical and tradecraft training. She passed but not without some additional effort and had to retake more than one class. While not a standout badass like Amber or Jennifer, she was prudent and reliable. She wore sensible deck shoes, a long sleeve top with the sleeves rolled up and blue crew shorts. She had her hair back in a ponytail which was the standar
d for galley duty. She wasn’t bad looking, but had a face that was a touch too long and a nose that was a hair too big. Her figure was trim but, like the rest of her life, largely uneventful.

  Sensible described everything about Ashley. She was single but owned her own home, a two bedroom bungalow in Royal Palm Beach, which meant she had a commute to get to the docks on days the Swan was in port. She lived alone, seldom dated and played online video games for hours on end during her off days. She had a kid from a previous marriage but, due to some legal troubles when she was younger, the child lived with her father and his new wife in Jupiter. Even though she was well paid, as were all our employees, she lived frugally, seldom drank and rarely talked about her personal life. The only exception was her dog, Branson, an Australian Shepherd mix that died of old age three years ago. She never replaced the husband after the divorce or the dog after it died, though she did take time off to mourn the dog.

  For security reasons we kept pretty close tabs on our operational personnel. I hated to use the word “spying” only because it made me feel guilty but we had to know what they were up to when not on duty. Deek said keeping tabs on Ashley was like watching paint dry. She kept her lawn mowed, paid her taxes on time and apparently had a Level 60 Wizard on some online game that meant nothing to me but impressed the hell out of Deek. Like anyone who lasted in our organization she was thorough, careful and diligent. Though she passed tactical and combat pistol classes with respectable scores she only went to the range to meet her required certification testing. Ashley was not the person I would pick to back me up in a fight, though I was certain she would go down swinging. She put the fruit tray on the ice and plugged in the electric warmer for the hot food that would be coming up next. She checked the coffee before heading back down to the galley.

  “Kind of an odd gal,” Q observed after she was out of earshot.

  “I wonder how she’d react if you slapped her around and bent her over one of the salon chairs?”

  Q looked hurt. “I wouldn’t do that,” he protested. If Q had a blind spot it was women. Though Ashley didn’t gawk at any guy she did smile more around Q than any of the rest of us. “You think she’d like that?” he asked after I didn’t say anything.

  “She kinda likes you,” I said, “but I really don’t have a good read on her. I honestly couldn’t tell you what she likes.”

  “Why do people say that?” Q asked, changing the subject.

  “Say what?”

  “Say ‘I honestly don’t know’? It kind of implies that everything else they said was dishonest, right up until that moment.”

  “It’s just a figure of speech.”

  “It undermines their credibility.”

  “You honestly overanalyze the strangest things,” I informed him.

  “Now you’re going to say that all day, aren’t you?”

  “I honestly am,” I assured him.

  Ashley made an appearance with two stacked metal pans followed by Captain Mackey carrying another pair.

  “Thanks, skipper,” she said taking the pans from him, “I got it from here.” She started placing the pans in the electric warmer and setting out plates.

  “You want some privacy?” Mackey asked us.

  “Pull up a chair,” I smiled. It was his boat and he still asked if he could join us.

  He took a seat and set his coffee cup on the table. Mackey had his own cup that was seriously stained from years of use and had been glued back together at least once when he chipped the handle.

  “You need us for anything while you’re here?” Mack asked after a minute.

  I thought about it for a minute. “Slot up offshore,” I said, surprising myself.

  Q and Mack looked surprised.

  “I rented the slip for three days,” Mack informed me, meaning we probably wouldn’t get a refund this time of year.

  “I thought we were working above the line on this one?” Q asked.

  I didn’t really have a good reason for what had just come out of my mouth, so I wasn’t sure how to answer.

  “Playing a hunch,” was my lame non-response.

  Neither one of them was completely satisfied with that answer but neither had the inclination to argue. Mack shrugged it off; I figured Q would ask about it later. The answer I’d have later wasn’t going to be any better than the one I’d just given him. The truth was I didn’t even know myself. It would mean that the Swan would burn a lot of diesel making her slow way up and down the coast, close enough to run in shore in a few minutes if we needed her. It was a precaution that was normally routine when we were working under the radar but on a job like this it was borderline paranoid.

  “Are we playing the whole gig that close?” Q asked.

  “Let’s just play it by ear,” I replied, not particularly liking that answer, either. Maybe I was having a bout of senility a few years early.

  I could tell it bothered Q but he let it drop and we had breakfast while Mack went to unload Amber’s bike and oversee the preparation for an early departure. After breakfast we split up to shower and change. I got the crap duty of rousing Amber to inform her about the change of plans. Her groaning about the unexpected awakening had a serious “fuck you” edge to it.

  “I thought you said we could sleep in,” she said more sharply than she probably intended.

  “Change of plans,” I offered weakly.

  “That’s not a reason, that’s a deflection,” she snapped, opting for jeans instead of her leathers for the trip to Key Largo. On her crotch rocket the round trip would take about three hours. Even though she was still pissed and half asleep, she gave me a kiss before heading topside for coffee and her errands. Considering her past profession Amber was always diligent about kissing me, even if she was annoyed about something. She joked that was how I knew it wasn’t about the money. Outside the portal the crew was off-loading the Honda.

  Q, the master of the two minute shower, was already waiting for me by the time I got topside. We opted to start with the Burja and the dock carts which were stacked up next to the office.

  Even though it would be a while before the shore crowd was up and around, life at a marina gets an early start. Many people going fishing were already heading out and there was a line at the boat selling live bait just outside the marina entrance. Two couples were rolling the cover back on a Bayliner on the next dock over. The women were wearing cover-ups over their swimsuits and flip flops and each carried a big shoulder bag and wore wide brimmed hats. By the looks of it and the timing they were probably headed out to one of the sandbars that appeared at low tide and then disappeared at high tide. They were popular swimming and snorkeling spots and some of them got pretty crowded.

  It was a big marina, nearly 600 slips plus rows of neat tie ups out in the small bay. It took a bit of hunting around to find the Burja, which was sandwiched in between two bigger boats. Out of habit I took pictures of the boats on both sides and texted them to Deek. It never hurt to talk to the neighbors.

  I forgot how small a 32 foot boat really was but the Burja was well-appointed for a small boat and obviously received good care. She was sun-faded white above and you could just make out the blue underside peeking up above the water line. According to the specs she had two 200 gallon diesel tanks and a CAT 3208 diesel engine that would push her 10 foot beam along at around 10 knots. Burning 3-4 gallons of diesel per hour, she could comfortably stay at sea for three or four days on full tanks with the crew working in shifts.

  The Burja was a bit odd looking because of the scaffold-like superstructure above the tiny cabin that anchored the lifting arm of the small crane fitted into a hydraulic damping piston in the middle of the deck just aft of the enclosed cabin. There was a tapered guard rail that ran along the side from the cabin aft. Though it was a small boat, you could work comfortably on the wide back deck in 3-5 foot seas. Commercial boats had big numbers and the Burja had hers stenciled above the cabin.

  The winch motor for the lifting arm was located on top o
f scaffold and had two attachment points on the arm, which extended all the way back to the end of the back deck. The lifting arm was solid and sturdy and looked like it could easily handle a net full of fish or shrimp. The tackle for the lifting mechanism was conveniently located on the lifting arm itself so, in the event of a jam, you could work on clearing it without hanging out over the water or climbing the aluminum derrick in pitching seas. Though you couldn’t see it, the Burja would have a recessed prop and rudder to avoid fouling lines or nets and a thick, heavy keel in case she bumped into a reef and it also served to keep marine mammals, like manatees and dolphins, out of the prop. For a small operation, the Burja was perfect.

  “You want to go fishing?” I asked Q.

  “Actually, that would be kinda fun.”

  “You could probably stay out for a couple days at a time if the weather cooperated. It’s got built-in rod holders and everything.” The Burja could be converted for almost any type of fishing and, apparently, treasure hunting.