Blank Slate (A Kyle Jackle Thriller)

by Hamric, Zack

  This was still an enormous advance over the semi-submersibles that the Columbians had been using to smuggle drugs up to this point. At a cruising depth of fifty or sixty feet this new submarine would be virtually undetectable to law enforcement except when they were on the surface at night.

  Just forward of the conning tower was the helm. The single seat with instruments clustered around it indicated this boat was intended to run shorthanded using probably no more than a two-man crew. Most controls were similar to what I would expect on any surface motor vessel. A wheel with the dual throttles offset to the right. Switches that allowed the vessel to run either from the battery banks or motor. And an unusual feature-a series of valves labeled ballast in Spanish-these would be used to flood the ballast tanks and descend or to release high-pressure air into the tanks to ascend to the surface. There was a commercial chartplotter onboard very similar to the one onboard Dolce Vita. I powered it on and could see a course had been plotted that was almost identical to the one that I had just traveled-looked like their final destination was supposed to be just west of Marathon Key. A favorite among smugglers with its easy access to dozens of small islands and heavy boat traffic to help disguise their movement.

  I knew GPS wouldn’t work underwater-they must have planned to run submerged during the day and pop up at night to recharge their batteries and check GPS coordinates. One item that surprised me was the forward looking sonar-this was a commercial unit that some high end yachts used to warn of obstructions lying just beneath the surface of the water. Probably not a bad idea for a submarine trying to run in the shallow waters of the Caribbean.

  I opened the bulkhead door leading to the aft section of the submarine. The stern half of the submarine had a couple of surprises-a brand new diesel generator hooked into two electric Saildrive units. These self contained electric drives could be powered either by the diesel generator on the surface or run off the extensive battery banks that lined either side of the compartment when submerged. Directly overhead was another hatch that allowed them to either load in cargo or service the motor drive components. In spite of myself, I was impressed-this was first-rate engineering from beginning to end. Only goes to prove that narco dollars could afford to buy the very best. It was also clear that the majority of the construction had been completed and the first drug run could be taking place within days.

  I had seen enough-time to move on to the only other vessel tied to the dock. I left the same way I came, carefully dogging the hatch closed behind me.

  I had to cover about fifty feet of open dock to reach the other vessel tied up to the pilings. I slowly eased up beside the looming hull of the lobster boat. Thought about it for a second; this was probably as good a place as any to start the search for Tasha. At first glance, it seemed to be deserted. No sounds from a genset running or other equipment noise. I took a look at the bamboo gangplank and rejected it-no way to cross it without it squeaking enough to wake the dead. Next to me was a pile of crates that had been offloaded and stacked high. I climbed to the top of the pile and was still about six inches short of being able to reach the railing of the bridge deck. Holding my breath, I jumped for the rail and managed to get a grip on it. I let my body pendulum back and forth a couple of times and swung my heel up to hook over the deck edge. As quietly as possible I muscled over the top of the rail to the deck and slowly eased open the door to the wheelhouse.

  Across the room, with the help of the NV goggles, I could see the sleeping form of a man curled up on a couch. I pulled out my knife and slipped quietly across the cabin. Years of living in the jungle had apparently left him a very light sleeper; as I took the last step towards him, he woke with a start. Just as suddenly he froze in place-a typical reaction when you wake up to find a six-inch blade at your throat.

  “Tranquillo,” I said smiling at my new captive. I needed information, not dead bodies at this point.

  I was a little surprised when he responded in English, “No problem. Are you here for the woman with the blonde hair?”

  “Yes, is she here?” I asked, letting out a mental sigh of relief at knowing I was on the right track and that Tasha was still alive.

  “Since last night. They make me bring her here on boat. Bad men. I no have choice or they kill my family.”

  “What's your name?”

  “Reginaldo.”

  “They call me Kyle. Which building are they keeping the girl in?”

  “She in the hut with no windows at the end of dock. I hear men talk.”

  “How many are here?” I asked.

  “Ten are here tonight. The others stay in village down the trail until the morning. Big boss Escabado is staying there waiting for some Russian man to arrive.”

  “OK Reginaldo. I'm going to tie you up and leave now. Keep your head down. It's going to get a little noisy in the next few minutes.”

  “Senor, a favor please,” Reginaldo asked as he wriggled sideways to find a more comfortable place to settle himself. “These are bad men. Come in village-cause trouble. During troubles many year ago, they kill good teacher who come to village. Then I was young and strong and fought Sandinistas with the Americans. Kill many of them. I old and sick now. If you take woman and leave, it cause big trouble in village. Please kill them all,” he asked with a flash of fire in his eyes that gave me a small glimpse of the warrior he had been thirty years before.

  “I'll do my best, Reginaldo,” I said clapping him on the shoulder as I walked out of the wheelhouse.

  I exited the same way I came, using a rope I found in the pilothouse to lower myself the last couple of feet. I moved slowly onto the dock looking for any sentries-smelled one smoking a cheap cigar before I ever saw him. Stupid-smoking destroyed his night vision and was a dead giveaway for anyone trying to locate his position. I came around the corner of the first hut, really nothing more than a shack with corrugated metal sides and a palm frond roof. The sentry was at the corner of that building. I casually walked around the corner like I owned the place. He looked up for a second-before his confusion could be resolved into action, I stuck my knife neatly into the hollow just below his breastbone and arced the blade upwards. He gasped-the last breath he would ever take.

  I figured there would be at least one other guard with Tasha. Hard to tell with the door to the hut closed. The only telltale was the faint smell of cigarette smoke wafting from under the edge of the door. I had to hope there was only one watching her-too much of a chance of losing her in the crossfire if there were several guards inside.

  Not sure how to get him to come out. I had a vague memory flash into my consciousness of diving for lobster when I was younger. You could never reach into a deep crevice and drag out the lobster without risking the loss of a finger to the massive claws. The safest way was to tickle him with a short stick, gradually teasing him out of his hole until you could grab him by the back of the shell.

  I picked up a long tree limb that had fallen across the dock. Hiding in the darkest shadows at the corner of the hut, I slowly reached out and scratched the door lightly with the tip of the branch. No response; I paused a minute and repeated the scratching. This time, I could hear the door being unlatched from the inside followed by the head of the guard as he cautiously stepped outside clenching an ancient AK47 in his hands. Lying prone at the corner of the building, I carefully took up the slack on the trigger and squeezed off a round. The sound of his body hitting the wooden dock was louder than the muffled report of the silenced MP5.

  Waited another minute, no more guards. Stepped carefully to the door that was still cracked open and saw Tasha lying on a pile of rough burlap bags in the back of the room. She managed a weak smile that still communicated her relief at seeing me walk through the door. I wasn't ready to celebrate yet. There were still guards in a hut between the dinghy and us.

  I held my finger to my lips, sliced through the rough manila ropes that bound her, and helped her to her feet. Tasha reached out to steady herself by holding my arm and quickly wrapped
her arms around me. Time for that later-we needed to move. I pointed in the direction of the dinghy and she stepped quietly down the dock trying to avoid the twisted boards that groaned with the slightest movement.

  I wanted to avoid the bunkhouse at all costs-no idea how many men might be there and better to walk by the hornet's nest than to poke a stick in it. That would have been a good plan, except for one guard whose weak kidneys prompted an unexpected late night trip to the edge of the dock. He froze, unable to clearly see more than our shadowy figures in the cloaking darkness. I had no choice-he was too far away for me to reach him before he could sound an alarm, so I fired two quick rounds that dropped him in his tracks. The crash as his body hit the dock and rolled off into the water seemed to reverberate through the jungle and was met by shouts of alarm from inside the barracks.

  No time for subtlety. I switched the MP5 selector switch to full auto and sprayed the doorway and front of the building with the remaining rounds in the magazine. The first two out the door paid for their enthusiasm-they immediately collapsed in a bloody pile of twitching meat; I didn't wait to see what happened after that. Tasha and I ran like hell for the end of the dock with the sound of an occasional round buzzing by our heads as some of the more adventurous guards ducked out for a quick shot from the windows or the doorway.

  We were able to use the hull of the lobster boat as a partial shield from the bullets that continued to sporadically fly in our direction. I had the fortune to have the angle on anyone trying to approach and managed to pick off a couple of men who tried an end run on us. “Tasha, grab the bowline on the dinghy and drag it out. I think we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

  “Kyle,” she said. Something in her tone caught my attention. She was holding the line leading to the dinghy, but the deflated tube on one side of the dinghy told me that at least one of those wild rounds had hit the mark.

  “OK, Plan B,” I said leaning around the edge of the boat for a snap shot at someone crawling along the edge of the dock. “I think that was the last one.” I cautiously checked the dock, didn't see any one still living and breathed a small sigh of relief. “Tasha, we need to go. We may have some visitors from the village in a few minutes.”

  Our problems started sooner than that. From the front of the lobster boat, I could hear muffled curses as a couple of men tried to scramble up the angled dock line to the deck of the boat.

  “Tasha, follow me. If they get on the deck above us, we’re done.” With that I slipped over the side into the murky water and slowly started swimming back toward the end of the dock followed closely by Tasha. We came up beside the round shape of the submarine conning tower and slipped around the edge. Opened the pressure hatch and climbed inside.

  “Give me a second,” I whispered as I went back to the dock. No time to bother with untying lines-one swipe of my Payara knife and the lines dropped into the water. In the near total blackness, I could see two men on the stern of the lobster boat peering into the darkness at the stern. No time to waste-I could hear the sound of other men moving rapidly through the jungle toward the shipyard who couldn’t be more than two hundred yards away. The heavy silencer at the muzzle of the MP5 helped steady the weapon as I lined up the tritium sights on the head of the first man. I squeezed off a three round burst, quickly shifted my aim to the second man and dropped him as well. Still some moans from the back of the boat-one dead, the other apparently out of action.

  I rushed through the hatch of the submarine, dogged it closed and slid down the ladder to land with a thump on the deck below. “Tasha, have a seat; we’re out of here.”

  “OK, what do you need from me?”

  “A prayer might be appropriate.”

  “Not sure if God hears prayers from strippers, but I’ll do my best.”

  I smiled in the dark as I fumbled with the unfamiliar switches on the panel. That must be the power master switch-the LEDs on the panel illuminated three banks of switches. A faint hum coming from the direction of the electric motors as they powered on. Throttles forward halfway and the submarine quietly accelerated forward toward the narrow channel with only the sound of water swishing quietly past the hull. Maximum exposure for a few seconds as we motored across the open water and entered the shelter of the jungle canopy. In the background behind us, I heard what sounded like a couple of shots muffled by the fiberglass hull of the submarine. I peered through the small viewing window forward-thank god for NV goggles. Even in the pitch-black channel, there was enough ambient light for the goggles to reveal a clear path to the river. It seemed like hours, but must have only been minutes before we left the overhanging canopy behind and moved to the current in the center of the river.

  “Tasha,” I said. “Would you pull the forward ballast tank valve?” I asked indicating the end lever on the high pressure air manifold. We’re running too deep in the water. I need to run at minimum draft until we reach the Caribbean.” The depth finder was showing fourteen feet, but I didn’t want to take a chance on grounding on an unmarked shoal before we made good our escape.

  “Gotcha,” she said. I could hear the rush of compressed air squealing into the tanks and pushing the water out. The submarine rose out of the water until almost six feet of the hull was exposed above the water. The smooth steady motion when we rode deep in the water was replaced by a side-to-side rolling action from the higher center of gravity. Very uncomfortable-I glanced at Tasha and her face told me she was feeling the same thing.

  “Tasha, I don’t know how much of a lead we have on the guys behind us, so I’m going to push hard until we get to the bay. We need some deep water and a little maneuvering room.” I silently cursed myself for not disabling the lobster boat when I had the chance.

  I opened the check valve to the fresh air intake on the diesel. One push of the starter fired up the motor and I opened the throttles to their limits. Our speed immediately jumped to twelve knots and the DC gauges showed that the batteries were quickly reaching full charge. According to the GPS, it looked like we had another five miles to go before we reached the Atlantic.

  The smell of the diesel in the enclosed space was overwhelming. “Tasha, Would you crack the hatch? I could use a little fresh air.”

  “Not a problem love,” Tasha said as she wrestled the locking dogs on the hatch open.

  “Hey, stick your head out and check behind us. Any sign of the lobster boat yet?”

  “I’m not sure. There’s some kind of boat maybe a mile behind us, but all I can see is the searchlight.”

  “Tasha, keep an eye on them. There’s nothing on this river except dugout canoes and that lobster boat. I need to know if they are closing on us. I think their top end is maybe ten knots max, so we should be OK. Looks like we’ll see sunrise in another twenty minutes or so. Hopefully, we’ll be in deep water by then.”

  Tasha continued craning her neck around the corner of the hatch monitoring the progress of the boat pursuing us. After ten more minutes she said, “I think you’re right. It looks like they’re falling further behind.”

  “Thank God for small miracles,” I muttered under my breath. The GPS showed another half-mile to the mouth of the river. In another five minutes, we entered the bay and I started a beeline straight for the narrow cut on the other side of the bay that would give us access to the open Atlantic. Here in the bay, the water was calm and ranged from seventy to eighty feet deep. The sun was just beginning to brighten the horizon with a faint glow followed a minute later by a golden orb as it broke free of the Atlantic and signaled the beginning of a new day. It also revealed the Lucia Marie sitting just outside the bay blocking the only exit to the Atlantic. With their fifteen-foot draft, they had no chance of clearing the bar and coming into the bay. Standoff for now-my first thought, rapidly dispelled by the sight of a bright flash coming from the bow of the Lucia Marie.

  “Incoming! Close the hatch!” I said as I twisted the helm hard over to port. A second later, a splash erupted one hundred yards off the starboard bow as the first sh
ell arrived from the three-inch deck gun of the Lucia Marie.

  “It’s closed,” said Tasha over my left shoulder as she watched the scene unfold through the view screen.

  “Flooding the tanks,” I said pushing the levers to vent air from the main and auxiliary ballast tanks and allow seawater to flood in through the bottom. “Tasha, shut down the diesel and close the engine air valve.”

  After a few seconds, “Done.”

  “OK, let’s see how good a submarine this is,” I said pushing the control yoke forward to engage the bow planes. The bow tilted gradually downward and the water flowed up the deck and gurgled against the view screen as we dove for the relative safety of the depths.

  A sound like the thunder of a hundred sledgehammers came from the stern. Not a direct hit, but very close. The under water concussion threw us against the rough fiberglass walls of the submarine. I glanced over at Tasha. “You OK?”

  “I’ll live. I’ll probably have a knot on my head,” she said gingerly touching the area where she had bounced off the bulkhead. Any further conversation was cut short by the sound of water in the stern running down the tilted deck toward the bow of the boat.

  I took one look at Tasha, slipped out of the seat and ran to the stern steadying myself with handholds as I ran. Two thirds of the way back, I saw the problem. The concussion hadn’t been enough to completely blow a hole in the hull, but the impact had created a thin crack between the layers of fiberglass about two feet long that allowed a steady spray of water to shoot into the engine compartment. I ran back forward and settled into the helmsman’s seat.

  “Tasha, we have to level her out. The water running forward will tilt us bow down and we’ll crush the nose when it hits the bottom. I’ll need you to blow the forward trim tank while I try to level us with the planes. Ready?”