Fallen Pride (Jesse McDermitt Series)

by Wayne Stinnett

  We’d been looking for four days, with no luck. Sometimes we would spend eight hours a day under the surface of the shallow waters off Fort Pierce. We were taking a lunch break when Deuce said what all three of us were thinking, “Maybe Lester came back and found the rest, but didn’t tell Sonny about it.”

  Elijah ‘Sonny’ Beech was a loan shark and smuggler in West Palm Beach and Lester was one of his crew. It was Lester that had killed Deuce’s dad and two other of Sonny’s crew that killed my wife. All three murderers were now dead and Sonny was enjoying the sunshine in Gitmo, due to the fact that he attempted to smuggle terrorists into the country.

  The more I thought about, the less likely it seemed. “I don’t think so,” I finally said. “Lester had everything on him that he’d stolen from your dad and not pawned.” I found Lester more than a week after he’d knocked me off my own skiff and escaped into the northern mangrove keys, above Big Pine Key. He’d gotten lost, ran out of gas and was nearly dead from hunger and dehydration on a small island near Raccoon Key. I’m sure he died eventually, but not by my hand. “If we don’t find anything today,” I continued, “we’ll have to either give up or start again next week.” Deuce’s fiancé, Julie, was currently undergoing training with the Coast Guard at their Maritime Enforcement facility at Marine Corps Base, Camp Lejeune, NC and would graduate in three days. All three of us planned to be there when she did.

  Rusty checked the onboard compressor and said, “Tanks are full, let’s get back down there.”

  We put our gear back on and stepped off the dive platform at the stern of my boat, Gaspar’s Revenge. She’s a 45 foot Rampage convertible that I use for fishing and diving charters, though lately I wasn’t doing much of either. I’d bought the Revenge, along with my tiny island in the Content Keys, six years ago when I retired from the Marine Corps. This past winter, I’d learned that my late wife left me an inheritance, most of which I donated to causes that were important to us both. I had my military pension and under an agreement with Deuce’s former boss to make myself available to move his men and equipment around on the Revenge whenever the need arose, I really didn’t need to take out charters very often.

  We descended to the bottom and once more split up, using underwater metal detectors to sweep the ocean floor. We’d moved the boat several times over the last four days, but never more than a few hundred feet from the coordinates that were on Russ’s GPS and we restricted our searches to an area no more than fifty feet from the boat. As I swam along a small ridge, my detector pinged. We’d had dozens of false readings, but this one was strong. I pulled a small gardening shovel from my belt and started probing the bottom where the detection was strongest. Almost immediately, I hit something large and hard. I dug away the sand to reveal what looked to be a large, heavily encrusted anchor chain. I uncovered more and more of the chain, until I could see a good ten feet of it. Each link was about six inches long and three inches wide with the rings being at least three quarters of an inch thick. As I pondered the chains significance, I looked over at the ridge we’d been following. Suddenly, it struck me. I was looking at the remnants of a boat, the lines still clearly visible in my mind’s eye.

  I reached back and pulled on a plastic ball that was bungeed to my tank and released it. It made a loud clanging sound that traveled a long way underwater. A few minutes later, Deuce and Rusty swam over the ridge and down to where I rested on my knees on the ocean floor. I pointed out the chain and Deuce swam to it and examined it closer. He looked up and nodded, thinking the same thing I was. Could this be the anchor chain of the Lynx? All three of us had studied the shipbuilder’s drawings, read everything Chyrel found on the subject and the chain was the perfect size to all the references we found on it.

  Then I pointed to the ridge itself. At first, Deuce and Rusty didn’t see it and looked back at me with a shrug. I cupped my hands, with the outside edges of my palms together, the signal for ‘boat’. They looked back at the low wall and I watched as both their heads turned studying the length of it. Together we swam toward it, then up to the top. I used the gardening shovel to move some of the sand away from the edge and soon found what looked like a large ships rib just below the sand. Moving exactly two feet along the top of the ridge I did the same thing and found another. Rusty moved the opposite way and found a third one. He then pointed away from the ledge where the bottom fell away about 20 feet from where we were. I kicked toward the surface until I could hover about 10 feet above the others to get a ‘bird’s eye’ view. Rusty and Deuce joined me and I could tell from the look in their eyes they could see it also. There on the bottom, was the outline of a broken ship, over 200 feet in length. However, unless you were looking for a ship, it appeared to be just two ledges that ran parallel, then came together at both ends. We knew the Lynx was steel hulled, but underlaid with wooden stringers. It was the stringers that had caught my attention, seeming to be too symmetrical. The steel hull had long since rusted away to nothing.

  I looked up at the position of the Revenge and noted she was nearly on top of us. I needed to move her straight forward of the current position about fifty feet, slightly more than a boat length, then we could use the mailbox I’d bought to clear some of the sand away. A mailbox is a large tube that turns at a 90 degree angle and fits over the propeller of a boat to force water straight down.

  I motioned to Rusty and pointed at the center of the ship below us, then pointed to Deuce and myself and up to the Revenge. Rusty and I had probably made a thousand dives together and he knew instantly what I wanted him to do. He swam down to the bottom, positioning himself right in the middle of the old ship.

  Deuce and I swam to the surface and I climbed aboard, telling Deuce to hang on the swim platform and tell me when to stop. I climbed up to the bridge and engaged the anchor windlass. Fortunately we’d let out a lot of anchor rode. Slowly the Revenge crept forward, pulling the anchor line aboard. After a few minutes Deuce called up to me, “Hold it there. I’m directly over Rusty.”

  A minute later, Rusty was aboard and we put two large Danforth anchors in the small rowing dingy we were towing. Deuce climbed into the dingy and rowed astern at a 30 degree angle until the 100 foot anchor lines were fully paid out. He dropped the anchor overboard and Rusty hauled on it until the line was tight, then lashed it to the port davit while Deuce rowed in an arc to another position 30 degrees out from the stern in the opposite direction. There, he dropped the second anchor. Rusty hauled on that line and tied it off to the starboard davit, once it was taut.

  Now we were anchored solidly above the wreck. Rusty and I lowered the mailbox, which I’d rigged without having to drill holes in the transom by attaching it to the swim platform itself. It wasn’t perfect, but should work if I didn’t rev the starboard engine too high. As Deuce was rowing back to the boat, I noticed a Florida Marine Patrol boat approaching. It came along side as Deuce was climbing back aboard. There were two FMP Officers aboard, a Lieutenant and a Sergeant, the Sergeant at the helm.

  “Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” I said while climbing down from the bridge.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “I’m Lieutenant Briggs. Can I ask what you think you’re doing?”

  “You could,” Deuce said. “But we know what we’re doing.”

  The Lieutenant looked from me, to Deuce. “It appears to me that you’re doing some kind of salvage work here. You have to be a licensed salvor to do that and this doesn’t look like a salvage boat.”

  Rusty had already gone to his bag to get his Salvor’s license, knowing the FMP Officer would want to see it. Handing it to the man he said, “You mean like this one, Eltee?”

  The Lieutenant studied the document and looked at Rusty, then at the two of us. “I’ll need to see some ID. From all of you.”

  Deuce stepped closer to the gunwale and stared down at the Lieutenant. He’d retrieved his wallet from his pants pocket, lying on the cleaning table by the salon hatch, opened it and showed the Lieutenant his DHS credentials. “No
you won’t. I’m an agent with Homeland Security. You can leave now.”

  “Mister,” the Lieutenant said, “I don’t care if you’re James Bond himself. These waters are my juris….”

  Deuce cut him off mid-sentence. “Lieutenant Briggs, you work for the state of Florida and I just identified myself as an agent for the Department of Homeland Security, a federal agency. Our papers are in order and you’re dismissed. Or, if you like, I can have Captain McDermitt here contact your boss and he can tell you you’re dismissed. Both ways, you’re gone and we’re in the water in less than five minutes. Your call.”

  The Lieutenant looked at his Sergeant, then handed Rusty the license back. “No wonder nobody likes you Feds,” he said as he motioned for the Sergeant to shove off.

  Once they were well away, Deuce turned to Rusty and grinned. Rusty said, “You really get your rocks off doing that, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely.” Then he looked over at me and added, “Let’s blow some sand away, Jesse.”

  I climbed back up to the bridge and started the starboard engine, while Rusty and Deuce looked over the stern rail on either side. I put the engine in forward and brought the rpm’s up to 1000. The mailbox would probably hold at 1500, but the water was only 20 feet deep and the big props on the Revenge move a lot of water. I held it there for about four minutes, then backed it down, put the transmission in neutral and shut off the engine.

  “Can’t see shit,” Rusty said. “You sure blew up a lot of sand.”

  We had to wait about ten minutes more while the compressor refilled the three tanks yet again. By then, the current had carried away most of the sand and we could see the outline of the ship clearly. We put our gear back on and headed back down to the bottom. We only had a couple of hours of daylight left.

  Before we even got close to the bottom, Rusty pointed and we all saw it. The unmistakable glint of gold. Even after more than 140 years buried in the sand, it gleamed like the day it was removed from the molds. Gold is too dense for anything to attach to it. Scattered in a small area were eleven gold bars and we each picked one up. I looked over at Deuce and Rusty. They were both having a hard time breathing, grinning around their regulators as they were. We each carried the bars up to the boat and I climbed up on the swim platform, while they went back down four more times. I stacked the gold bars in one of the fish boxes built into the deck as they brought them up.

  Once we had them in the fish box, we each leaned against the railing and looked down at them. “I can’t believe it,” Deuce said. “We actually found it.”

  “That there’s 110 pounds of pure gold, man. I thought they’d be bigger,” Rusty said with a grin. “Just the melt value alone, that’s worth over a million bucks.”

  “Historic value,” I said, “twice that and then some. Since it’s the property of a nation that no longer exists, the government will have a hard time proving ownership.”

  “Think there’s anything else down there of value, Jesse?” Deuce asked.

  “I doubt it. You read the information Chyrel gathered. The Lynx already unloaded here in Fort Pierce and was commandeered by Colonel McCormick at the last minute. All the crew made it ashore, except him.”

  “No reason to hang around,” Rusty said. “I know a guy with the Florida Historical Society. I’m sure he’d be interested in buying it. We’re gonna have to get the state and federal government involved too, since we’re inside the 12 mile limit.”

  “I doubt Washington would even send anyone down,” Deuce said. “Not over a paltry couple of million dollars.”

  We started getting ready to return to the Keys. Deuce rowed out to where the stern anchors were set, taking a long coil of rope. He free dove down to each and used the rope to hoist them up to the dingy and then I used the windless to hoist the bow anchor. Within fifteen minutes we were ready to get underway.

  Just as the sun was starting to set, I pushed the throttles forward and the twin 1015 horse Cats responded instantly, lifting the bow and bringing the big boat up onto plane. I never get tired of that feeling. It was 250 miles back to Marathon, so we set the autopilot and took shifts on the bridge for the ten hour run.

  Chapter 3: Red Right Returning

  We pushed a little faster than normal cruising speed. What the hell, we had over a million dollars in gold. Burning a little more fuel wasn’t about to break us. We arrived at Rusty’s home and place of business, the Rusty Anchor Bar and Grill, at 0300 to a less than millionaire welcome.

  Tying off to the dock, we noticed that there were no lights on in either the liveaboards, or the bar. Not really unusual, as closing time was 0200 or whenever Rusty chose. Since the Florida state tax official and the appraiser from the Historical Society weren’t due to arrive until 0800, we moved the gold to the forward stateroom. I have a digitally controlled lock that allows the bunk to be raised and a large storage chest under it with a combination padlock, along with several other smaller boxes and cases. The chest had plenty of room for the gold and with it being inside a locked chest, under a locked bunk, inside a locked cabin, with a security system, we agreed it was safe.

  The three of us decided a drink was in order to celebrate our new found fortune. Walking to the bar, I heard a dog bark and my big Portuguese water dog came bounding around the corner from the back yard.

  “Pescador! How ya doing buddy?”

  He was excited that I was home, obviously. His heavy tail was nearly wagging him as he jumped from one of us to the other, accepting ear scratches.

  Rusty unlocked the door and we went inside. He’d left his cook, Rufus, in charge and hired my former First Mate, Jimmy, to help out behind the bar. The place looked just as clean and spotless as it did when we left.

  Rusty walked behind the bar, pulled a bottle out from one of the lower cabinets and three highball glasses. “Pusser’s?”

  “Absolutely,” I replied. “Admiral Nelson’s best.”

  He poured two fingers in each glass and we sat down at the end of the bar. Pescador lay down by the door, as he usually did.

  “What do you think the appraiser’s gonna say, Jesse?” Rusty asked.

  I thought about it for a minute. I was no expert on lost treasure, but Deuce’s dad and I had found some years ago. We’d sold it for the melt value, to a less than reputable dealer to avoid the taxes. Afterward, we learned that sometimes the intrinsic value was high enough that paying the taxes yielded more return. However, that was only for treasure found outside the territorial waters. “I’m not a hundred percent certain about the amount, but this being Civil War treasure it’s bound to be quite a bit more than the melt value, even after taxes. I’d guess about two million. He’s going to try to lowball us, though. The tax man will help us get the best price.”

  “Yeah,” Deuce said laughing. “So the state can get a bigger share of it.”

  Rusty put the bottle back in the cabinet and said, “We better get a little rest. It’s gonna be a long day.”

  Deuce and I headed down to the docks, while Rusty locked up and walked to his little Conch house next to the bar. Julie had been trying to talk Deuce into buying a boat for several months. She wanted a little houseboat they could dock here at the marina. Deuce had decided on a 42 foot Whitby cutter rigged ketch, though. I had to admit it was a nice little blue water cruiser. Doc Talbot, my First Mate, and I had helped crew her when Deuce flew to Bimini and bought her. Julie still didn’t know about it. They were getting married in two weeks and he was going to take her cruising to the Lesser Antilles for a month long honeymoon.

  As we walked along the docks he asked, “How should this be split up, Jesse? I really don’t need or want any of it.”

  “You have more than yourself to think of, old son. Julie’s a sensible girl and doesn’t need much, but one day you’re going to have kids and they’ll need to go to college. Besides, it was your dad’s find. I propose a five way split after the state takes its share. Twenty percent to the three of us, another twenty percent to Mister McCormick a
nd twenty percent to Russ. I’m sure he’d have wanted his share going to his grandkids education.”

  “But it was your boat, Jesse. You should get a bigger share. Plus, you had all the expense.”

  I stopped and turned to him at the gangplank to his sailboat. “Deuce, I have way more money than I’ll need in two lifetimes and you know my needs are few. I’m giving a chunk of my share to Chyrel and the rest is going into maintaining the island for a few years.”

  “Dad always put a lot of stock in education. He and mom lived on base most of the time and he put away every penny he could so my sister and I could go to college. I guess I’ll do the same.” Then he grinned and added, “Julie ever tell you she wants a bunch of kids?”

  Then he turned and went down the gangplank to his cockpit and disappeared into the aft cabin. Pescador and I continued to the end of the long dock to the Revenge and turned in. I set the coffee maker up to start at 0700 and turned in for a short nap.

  The aroma of Columbia’s greatest export roused me three hours later. The sun was streaming in through the port side portholes. I poured a cup into a heavy mug that had the Marine Recon emblem on it, a winged skull with a regulator in its mouth and crossed oars behind it and then poured the rest into a large thermos. Carrying both and an extra mug up to the bridge, I sat down and watched the early morning activity in the marina. Mornings were my favorite time of day. Enjoying a cup of coffee while watching the sun slowly climb into the sky seems to recharge me, regardless of how little sleep I might have had the night before.