by Steve Berry
I hated what was happening between us.
A Navy career was not conducive to good marital relations. Its hit-and-run existence added nothing but strain. The divorce rate was sky-high, and not just with enlisted. Misery stretched all the way up the ranks. The closer you got to retirement, the greater the chance of a split. But my self-inflicted screwup had only poured salt onto that potential wound. A friend of mine liked to say that once you leave the marital bed, you never return. He might be right, because returning came with a host of heavy baggage. Truth was not a one-way street, and it really did take two to tango. For Pam and I the truth would be a long time coming between us. Many years would pass before we both learned the whole story, eventually ending our marriage first as bitter enemies, then as friends. But back then I genuinely hoped Pam and I weren’t finished.
Stephanie told me to get a good night’s sleep and be at the Key West Bight at seven. Last evening I found a nearby motel and took her advice, the same one Pam and I visited last year on a long weekend. A truly enjoyable three days for us. We’d played, talked, and there’d even been sex.
Good times.
Laid back, free-spirited, artsy, quirky, scenic, you name it, Key West definitely shifted left of center. Pirates once made it the wealthiest place in Florida, at a time when Miami remained an uninhabited swamp. The town sat at the end of a rocky chain of low-slung islands. Its tropical climate lingered year-round, along with a seemingly continuous happy hour. People came to fish, escape, carouse, and rejuvenate. Nonconformity seemed a religion. Hell, it even seceded from the Union back in the 1980s, declaring itself the Conch Republic, then promptly surrendered to the United States and requested a million dollars in foreign aid.
You had to like that spunk.
I was told to find one boat among the charters that called the historic harbor home. Today not that many people buzzed about, probably thanks to a clinging canopy of gray sky, which looked ugly and threatening. A steady breeze swept in from the sea carrying a tide of warm moisture, the air thick like being submerged. A storm was definitely coming. Not a day for deep-sea fishing.
I found the boat, the Isla Marie, at the end of a dock, a forty-footer with a wide stern, twin inboards, and an enclosed upper bridge. A sheltered rear deck offered sun protection for any fishermen, and a spacious forward cabin accommodated overnight stays.
A man emerged onto its rear deck.
Short, stout, square-shouldered, thick-necked. His tanned skin contrasted with thin, silvery hair. He was potbellied, dressed in khaki shorts, a dark Key West T-shirt, and a battered ball cap. Around his neck hung a gold doubloon on a chain. Just as with Stephanie Nelle, I knew the look.
More law enforcement.
“Trying to fit in?” I asked the guy from the dock.
“I’m retired. What do I care?”
Good point. “You Captain Nemo?”
The guy smiled. “I don’t miss all the stupid intrigue.”
Stephanie had told me to use the code name.
“And you are?” he asked.
“Cotton Malone.”
Which sounded like a code name in and of itself.
“Where’d you get a name like Cotton?”
“It’s a long story.”
He flashed me an amiable, toothy smile. “That’s good. ’Cause we have a long trip. Hop aboard.”
“Where we going?”
He pointed a finger out toward open ocean.
“Seventy miles that way.”
* * *
We stood in the enclosed bridge, the Isla Marie fighting hard against a stiff headwind, the beat of the engines steady under my feet. The farther west we cruised, the worse the rain became. Windblown spray and gusts of bright foam flew up from the bow as we knifed a choppy path through the churning water.
“Nobody will be fishing today,” my host said.
“Haven’t you forgotten something?”
No name had yet been offered. At the docks I’d understood. Loose lips sink ships. But we were long gone from Key West.
“Jim Jansen, once with the FBI.”
“Now with the Justice Department?”
“Hell, no. I was asked to help Stephanie out. A favor. Like you, I’m told.”
The entire boat shifted like a seesaw. Thank God I wasn’t prone to seasickness, otherwise I’d be tasting my breakfast twice. Jansen seemed to have a good pair of sea legs, too.
“Are you local?” I asked.
“Born and raised in the Keys, then spent thirty years with the bureau. I retired two years ago and came back home.”
I knew the score. Generally, FBI special agents had to go when they turned fifty-seven or completed twenty years, whichever came later. Extensions could be granted, but they were rare.
“You a conch, through and through?” I asked, making sure I pronounced the ch with a heavy k.
“Absolutely. We have a lot of freshwater varieties, transplants from every place you can name. But the hardcore saltwater species, the true locals, we’re getting rarer and rarer. Take the wheel.”
I grabbed hold as Jansen found a map, unfolded it, and laid it across the instrument panel. The rain kept slapping like pellets, splattering the windshield in drenching waves.
“Time for you to know some things,” he said. “We’re headed for the Dry Tortugas. Ever heard of them?”
“A little bit. Didn’t Billy Bones mention them in Treasure Island?”
He pointed a stubby finger at the chart. “It’s a cluster of seven tiny islands, not much more than sandbars with some trees and bushes, set among a slew of coral reefs. It’s the end of the line for the Florida Keys and the last speck of the United States. Less than a hundred acres of dry, uninviting, featureless land at the edge of the main shipping channel from the Gulf to the Atlantic. Ponce de León himself discovered them. He called them the Tortugas for all the turtles.”
“And the ‘dry’ part?”
“That came later to let sailors know there’s not a drop of fresh water anywhere. But the islands offered great anchorage from the weather and a perfect resupply and refit stop.”
“Why are we out here in the middle of a storm, headed for them?”
“Stephanie a little tight-lipped?”
“More like lockjaw.”
He chuckled. “Don’t take it personal.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Just met the other day.”
Which told me nothing, so I asked, “Tell me about the boat that sank.”
“It was a dump. Looked like the Orca from Jaws, after the shark got hold of it. I don’t know how the thing even made it here from Cuba.”
I heard the magic word and tossed Jansen a hard look. “You’re kidding?”
“Makes it all the more interesting, doesn’t it?”
That it did. Cuba lay only ninety miles away, and as far as I knew it was illegal for any boat from there to be in American waters. No exceptions. Ever. Stephanie had not mentioned a word of this detail, saying only the craft had come north from the Caribbean.
“Two days ago the boat was docked off Garden Cay in the Dry Tortugas. I was there, watching. The wind was howling like today and it was raining hard. The tidal currents are real bad there, they flow against the prevailing winds. The harbor has long been a sanctuary, a safe haven from enemies and weather, but you have to know what you’re doing. This captain didn’t. The boat broke anchor, drifted west, and hit a reef. Gone.” Jansen snapped his fingers. “Like that.”
I kept a stranglehold on the bucking wheel. “I’m not an expert on driving a boat. You want to take this back?”
“Nah. You’re doing fine. The boat went down here.” Another stab at the chart, just west of a small, slender island. “Just off Loggerhead Cay. The guy who brought it north was held up at the campsites on Garden Cay, at Fort Jefferson. Here. Which is a few miles to the east.”
The fort I knew about.
Built in the mid-1800s to defend what was at the time the world’s busie
st shipping lanes, it eventually evolved into a jail for Union deserters during the Civil War. After, it continued to serve as a prison. Dr. Samuel Mudd, convicted in Lincoln’s assassination, was its most famous inmate. Disease and hurricanes forced its abandonment, and it eventually morphed into a late-19th-century coaling station for Navy steamers. The Maine left from there for Havana and history. Now it was a national park, showcasing the largest masonry structure in the Western Hemisphere. I’d seen pictures. A massive brick hexagon, hundreds of feet long, walls fifty feet tall and eight feet thick that consumed nearly the entire high ground of a featureless cay, making it appear to float atop the surrounding turquoise water. Its massive gun batteries, mounted in multiple-tiered brick casements, had been meant to hold their own against an entire enemy fleet. A perfect example of the old adage that forts were built not where convenient, but where needed.
“It’s got to be remote as hell out there,” I said to Jansen.
“It ain’t the Four Seasons. But there’ll be few people to get in our way.”
“You said the guy who brought the boat was on Garden Cay. Where is he now?”
“In custody. Good for us it’s illegal for someone from Cuba to be here.”
Yeah, good for us. “Am I going down to the wreck in this storm?”
“We have no choice. The boat’s owner is on the way, and we have to get that waterproof case before he does.”
“Where’s he coming from?”
“Cuba. Where else?”
Of course. How silly of me to ask.
A wave pounded the port side and the boat reeled. I compensated and brought the bow back on its previous heading. I then caught Jansen’s eyes with my own. His were deep-socketed, with a nervous blink, and I wondered what this man knew that I didn’t.
A blast of air slapped more rain against the windscreen.
“This is nuts,” I said.
“It’s the smart play. Nobody will be out in this mess. Especially the park rangers. We should have an open-field run.”
A mass of black clouds, loaded with thunder and lightning, swirled overhead. The entire ocean seemed to be boiling.
“If you were there when it sank, why didn’t you make the dive?”
“Do I look like Lloyd Bridges? It’s not in my skill set. So Stephanie went out and got herself a young buck.”
“You don’t approve?”
“Not my call. I’m just a volunteer.”
“How much do you know about her?” I tried again.
“I guess you deserve a little info.”
That was the way I viewed it, too.
“She was State Department, then moved over to Justice. I remember that she worked close with the FBI when I was with the bureau. Still does, I’m told. A lawyer, but government through and through.”
I heard his unspoken praise.
A prosecutor. Good people. On the right team.
As long as the man was talking, I tried, “She told me about the 1933 Double Eagle. Seems like one special coin.”
“It could be the last of a species.”
Valuable enough that we were out in the middle of a storm trying to retrieve it. But nothing about any of this rang right. A coin that shouldn’t exist. A boat from Cuba suddenly sinking. The owner, from Cuba, too, on his way. The Justice Department allowing all of that to happen. And all for a waterproof case that had to be retrieved intact.
Unopened.
I’d tried enough court-martials at JAG to be able to read juries and witnesses, and though I might be the designated young buck I was no fool.
Something stunk.
Bad.
CHAPTER FIVE
I spotted Fort Jefferson through the rain.
The trip from Key West had taken nearly three hours, the going slow thanks to the storm. Jansen was back at the helm, navigating us beyond Garden Cay and the fort, heading toward Loggerhead, the largest of the seven islands, which accommodated a lighthouse whose piercing beam could be seen through the storm.
“The boat broke anchor just over there, then drifted off the south point of Loggerhead,” Jansen said. “That’s where the reefs on the other side got it.”
The squall had eased, but the rain continued. A couple of catamarans, sailboats, and a few power cruisers sat at anchor five hundred yards to our left. We passed the south tip of Loggerhead and I spotted something bobbing in the water. A plastic milk jug with a piece of yellow rope attached to its neck.
“I tied it off to a coral head below,” Jansen said. “The reef is shallow here so I could snorkel. The wreck is fifty yards west of the marker, in a little deeper water.”
“Isn’t this a national park? How’d you manage to tag the wreck?”
“With all the bad weather, that jug hasn’t been noticed. But another day and it would have been.”
He eased back the throttle and held the boat steady. “I’ll keep above you with the engines. Careful with the props. Go ahead and gear up. Everything you need is down on the deck.”
It had been a while since I last dove. The Navy taught me. Pam learned in Cozumel a few years ago. But she’d only made two dives. On the second, an encounter with a nurse shark proved that being underwater was not her thing. So she’d spent the next three days on the boat, waiting for me, which seemed the story of our life.
I climbed from the bridge and found the gear. Standard issue. Nothing fancy. I screwed the regulator onto the tank and tested the pressure with a hiss. Then I adjusted the shoulder and waist straps and buckled on a weight belt. Overhead, lightning flickered and I flinched against another jagged stab that seemed like it was meant for me. The tumult of thunder and the beat of the rain remained steady. How many safety rules was I about to violate? Like never, ever go into the water with lightning. Or alone. In restricted waters. The deck tossed in violent, unpredictable lists and I decided this was no place to don heavy equipment. So I slipped on my mask and fins, tossed the tank over the side, and rolled off the gunnels into the water.
I dropped beneath the turbulence and found the sinking tank. Leaning forward, I inserted both arms through the shoulder straps inside out, then hoisted the weightless mass, bringing it up, over my head, and down on my back, keeping my arms out straight until the straps rested comfortably on my shoulders.
I found the regulator and purged it of water.
Ready to go.
I kicked toward the bottom where things were much calmer. Jansen had been right. The reef was shallow here. Maybe ten feet at most, then a sharp drop down to white sand and thirty-plus depths. A little farther out the real drop happened to deep blue water. The dingy day offered challenging illumination, but visibility was excellent.
The water teemed with life.
A barracuda appeared, hanging around with its mouth open, exposing some impressive fanglike teeth. With an incredible burst of speed, it disappeared into the blueness. A forest of living coral, in shades of tan, yellow, and brown, sheltered countless inhabitants. I recognized lavender triggerfish, banded butterflies, black and yellow angels, and red squirrelfish. I also kept watch for sharks at the outer limits of visibility.
And then I saw it.
The wreck, angled to its starboard side, the white wedge of a hull settled into the sandy bottom, its bow pointing skyward. What paint there was remained, as the hulk had not been down long enough for algae to take hold. It was every bit thirty feet long, and not all that dissimilar in configuration to the Isla Marie waiting above. A gash large enough to swim through ran down the length of the port side, confirming what Jansen said.
Reef hit.
I swam around to the stern, poking my head into the main cabin. Furniture and equipment lay helter-skelter. Not much there. The rear deck was likewise sparse, except for some diving equipment strapped to the bulkheads. No black waterproof case in sight. I took a moment to survey the sandy bottom surrounding the wreck and saw nothing there, either.
I stopped and gathered myself.
The warm water felt good, and my brea
thing had slowed to steady and calm. This definitely beat the hell out of a courtroom. I kicked toward the upper bridge and stopped at the door, which remained open on its hinges.
And there it was.
A black waterproof case, about eighteen inches square, just as Stephanie Nelle had said. I grabbed its handle and was surprised. Heavy. A bit too much to haul to the surface, especially since I wore no buoyancy vest.
Which raised a question.
What else besides a coin was inside?
I took a second and assessed things. The smart play was to move the case out to the seafloor, then head up for some rope. No sense trying to haul it up, then fight the storm to get it on the boat. So I worked the container free of the bridge, kicking hard, breathing harder, and finally gliding out beyond the wreck, settling the container on the sandy bottom. A quick glance up and I saw the Isla Marie’s keel bobbing on the surface, the engines grinding back and forth, maintaining its position.
I headed up for it.
Breaking the surface I spit out the regulator and caught Jansen’s attention with waving arms. “I need rope. Fifty feet or more.”
“We’ve got company,” he hollered back through an open window, motioning toward the stern.
I popped up as best I could to see over the rolling crests. A small boat was coming our way, closing fast. Could be the park rangers from Fort Jefferson.
“Get the rope,” I yelled again.
“We need to go.”
“There’s time. We can do this. Get the rope.”
I wanted these people to know I had nerve. If I was ever going to get out of JAG and into the action, I had to prove myself. I had a talent for sharp thinking in a crisis. Time to put it to good use. The other boat was coming, but I should be able to get down and back—if Jansen would just toss me the damn rope.
