Rising Water

by Wayne Stinnett

  “John’s the best sonar man around,” he said. “Pick him up Saturday morning and keep your ears on. He’ll tell you where to take up position. You and DJ will be filling in acoustic gaps for other organizations.”

  I ended the call and looked out over the water on the port side. The idea that a sub loaded with terrorists and ten tons of high explosives could be out there somewhere, just under the waves, was a bit disconcerting. But if they could see me, I would look like an ancient trawler, no threat to anyone. No wonder Sara had insisted on cruising at slow speed. I had to assume that they had sophisticated sonar, as well.

  With only three hours of daylight left, I checked the chart plotter. I was more than halfway up the east side of Saint Kitts. If the sub was southwest of my location, the island would block any sounds the passive sonar might pick up. I bumped the throttle up to ten knots, anxious to get past the island. It would be nearly dark when I dropped anchor.

  Saint Kitts slipped slowly past; the three peaks of its highest mountains just visible on the horizon. The mountains were volcanic, as were most of the islands in this part of El Caribe, though the only eruption in recent times had been down on Montserrat, just southwest of Antigua, where a 1995 eruption had buried the capital city of Plymouth.

  Soon, as I got nearer, the volcanic peak of The Quill on Statia began to slowly rise up out of the water. With the sun barely above the western horizon, I motored around to the lee side and headed toward Gallows Bay. It was really a bay in name only, having a shoreline that barely cut into the mainland and a rocky jetty extending out a couple of hundred yards.

  Still far from shore, I dropped the hook in forty feet of water and backed down, releasing 250 feet of rode. When I was sure the anchor was set, I shut down the engine. I was about a quarter of a mile off Interlopers Point, with no other boats around. More importantly, the radar showed no surface activity to the west. That meant no noise.

  The fish hung in the water ten feet below the surface, drifting off to the west. I hauled the tether in a little, to allow it enough slack to hang below the surface. I didn’t want anyone running over it.

  Returning to the command bridge, I turned the sonar volume up and tied it into the boat’s intercom system. There were a multitude of sounds—chirps, clicks, whirs, croaks—all naturally occurring in the ocean. The sonar display on the computer plotted many of them on a rectangular green display, with each sound represented by a curving line and showing its distance from the boat. I didn’t hear anything rhythmic, which would indicate a man-made source.

  I ate a microwave dinner on the flybridge as the sun slipped slowly into the sea’s embrace. One by one, the stars began to appear. When I got a beer from the mini-fridge and popped the top, the sound seemed unusually loud in the near darkness. The only illumination came from the aft masthead light and a faint glow to the west, which quickly disappeared.

  Once I’d finished my beer, I went below to shut off all non-essential systems. In the pilothouse, lit only by low-level red lights from the overhead and sonar and radar screens, I opened the hatches to allow the cool sea breeze to filter in before stretching out on the watch bunk. It was my favorite place to sleep on Floridablanca. I was soon fast asleep, hearing nothing but the underwater sounds of the sea.

  I slept hard and there were no unusual noises from the sonar to wake me. Spending a day with Sara, then motoring for nearly ten hours had physically drained me, and the idea of a terrorist attack by submarine had taken a toll mentally. After taking a shower and eating a banana for breakfast, I carried a Thermos of coffee up to the command bridge and started the engine. It was daylight, but the sun hadn’t yet risen over the island.

  Half an hour later, I had the anchor up and began a wide turn around the bay, the sonar array still trailing behind me. When the depth finder showed 100 feet under the keel, I turned north to resume my course to Norman Island, about 120 nautical miles away. I slowly brought the speed up to eight knots. It would be close to midnight when I arrived, six hours ahead of my appointed meeting with John. My course would take me within a few miles of Saba in about two hours. It was the last island in the Netherlands Antilles, with nothing but a hundred miles of open ocean after that before I reached the British Virgin Islands.

  The seas were calm, just a light chop, which had no effect at all on the big steel-hulled trawler. Saba came into view, just a few degrees off the port bow, Mount Scenery rising up nearly 3000 feet above the ocean. The volcano was considered dormant, having last erupted about the time of the Mayflower. But then, the Montserrat volcano hadn’t erupted since about that same time either. Until it blew in 1995.

  There was a muffled poof from the sonar speaker, followed by a pulsing echo that diminished quickly. I’d never heard anything like it. The closest I could describe to it would be the time a blue whale breached, as John Wilson and I were listening to ocean sounds off Puerto Rico.

  I heard nothing more on the sonar, as Saba slowly drifted past just a mile off the port side. John had told me once that most of the sounds you heard in the ocean traveled a long distance and were unrecognizable to humans. The sound I’d just heard was obviously man-made, but I had no idea what it was.

  After several minutes, the VHF crackled to life. “Mayday, Mayday!”

  The desperate call, nearly covered by static, was barely readable, meaning the caller was probably many miles away. I turned up the volume.

  “To any vessel northeast of Saba, this is the Wavy Davey. We are in distress. We have sustained major damage and are sinking fast.”

  As I reached for the microphone to ask the boat’s position, the radio crackled again. “GPS is down but we are midway between Saba and Sint Maarten. Mayday, Mayday…”

  The rule of the sea was to help any vessel in distress. But I didn’t want to give away too much information about who I was or where I was going.

  I keyed the mic. “Vessel in distress, this is the Floridablanca. I am just north of Saba bound for Saint Kitts. I believe I have you on radar, but I don’t have visual. I wanna make sure this blip is you—do you have a flare gun on board?”

  “Wait one,” the voice said, steadier now.

  A moment later, I saw the flare rising and arcing to the northeast, trailing white smoke. “I see it. You’re about ten miles off my port bow. How many are you?”

  “Three.”

  “Hang tight, I’ll be there as soon as I can. If I had my old Rampage I’d be there in a jiffy, but this long-haul trawler can only hit fifteen knots.”

  “Roger, Floridablanca,” the voice replied. “We’ll be here. We might be in the water, but we’ll be here. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure. Voyage was a bit dull, anyway. See ya in a few.”

  Pushing the single throttle to the stop, I turned the wheel as the antique diesel revved to its limiter, pushing my old boat to its top speed of fifteen knots. At least that was the top speed on the single original engine. The twin Mercedes powerplants would push the old, steel-hulled, raised pilothouse trawler across the water at thirty-five knots. But that attracted too much attention. Besides, the amount of time it would take to go down to the engine room to shift the main engine offline and bring the modern engines online would take longer than just pressing on.

  The minutes ticked by as I raced toward the stricken vessel. I raised a powerful pair of binoculars to my eyes, looking for it. It wasn’t there, and the radar no longer showed the echo. But I could see what looked like an orange, inflatable lifeboat resting on the horizon, probably four miles ahead.

  I set the autopilot and quickly went down to the cockpit. It took a great deal of strength to pull the fish in, pulling hand over hand. But I finally returned it to the lazarette, along with the tether. When I went up to the flybridge, I could see debris floating in the water. It didn’t look anything like what you’d expect from a boat sinking. Still several hundred yards away, I dropped the throttle to an idle, letting th
e boat’s momentum slowly bleed off the speed.

  “Ahoy the raft!” I called down from the flybridge.

  “Ahoy our savior!” A young woman called back. The way she pronounced savior like save-yuh made me think she was English. She was with two men, one wearing a uniform of some kind.

  Twenty feet from the raft, I shifted to neutral and hurried down to the foredeck. I threw a line and one of the men caught it and tied it off to the raft. I walked aft along the starboard side, pulling the raft to the only boarding opening in the rail, where I hauled it in close and tied the line off to a deck cleat.

  Reaching down, I took the woman’s hand and hauled her up through the opening. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall and weighed very little.

  The uniformed man—really no more than a teenager—was hurt. Blood streaked down his face from a scalp wound. The other man helped him to the side of the boat, then the woman and I pulled him on board. The other man tried to lift himself up to climb aboard but slipped back a little. I grabbed the shoulder of his shirt, steadying him.

  “Welcome aboard,” I said, hoisting him up. “I lost your boat on my radar. Glad to see you got off safe.”

  “Yeah, the Wavy Davey is no more,” the man said, his accent identifying him as American.

  “Sorry to hear about that. You had her long?”

  “About an hour,” he replied.

  The woman suppressed a snicker as I led them aft to the shade of the cockpit. “Before I ask for an explanation of that cryptic reply,” I began, “lemme ask about something else. I just passed a lot of debris and none of it looked like it came from a pleasure craft.”

  “That would be the submarine that blew up,” the American said.

  “Sir,” the woman began, obviously finding some comic relief in their situation, “we’re not loonies, I promise... Sid here is a cop, and—”

  I raised my hand to interrupt her. “You’re talking about the smug-druggler submarine some terrorists stole? Got everyone going crazy up near the Virgin Islands?”

  The American man looked surprised. “How do you know about that?”

  I just shrugged, motioning toward the flybridge. “I overheard some chatter. Let’s just say I know what bands to listen in on.” I turned toward the police officer. “You Saba Police?”

  “Yes, sir,” the young man replied. “Aspirant… er… Cadet Sidney Every.”

  “And you two?”

  “Emily Durand,” the woman said, dipping a curtsy. “And this beanpole is Boone Fischer.”

  “We’re divemasters from Bonaire,” Boone said. “Just got here.”

  “And who may we thank for rescuing us?” Emily asked, a disarming smile on her face.

  “Where are my manners?” I said. “You can call me Stretch. Stretch Buchannan.” I used the alias I always gave when I didn’t want anyone to know who I was. Opening the hatch to the salon, I nodded inside. “Hey, Sid, head into the wheelhouse and call this location in to the Dutch Caribbean Coast Guard. There’s a GPS in there to the left of the wheel. Then sit your ass down and I’ll take a look at that cut.”

  “I’ve got some first aid training,” Emily said.

  “Okay, good. There’s a kit on the wall in there—you can’t miss it. Patch him up.”

  “Aye-aye, Cap’n Stretch!”

  As Emily and Sid headed to the wheelhouse, I turned and looked at Boone. “You carry yourself well, but you’re not military, are you?”

  “No, sir,” he replied. “My father was Dutch navy but that’s the closest I got.” He pointed at my arm. “That tattoo. You were a combat diver?”

  “Among other things,” I replied. “Force Recon. Very retired. Come up to the flybridge with me, will you?”

  Boone followed behind me. “Beautiful boat,” he said. “What is she?”

  “She’s a 1969 Seaton RPH. Incredible range. I’ve always enjoyed speed in my boats, but at some point in your life you just wanna drift and take it all in.”

  At the helm, I picked up the binos and glassed the debris field. “I thought that looked like a conning tower.” I lowered the glasses and studied Boone’s face. “The sub blowing up. You have something to do with that?”

  “Indirectly.”

  “Have a seat. Start from the beginning.”

  “Wait… do you have a satellite phone?”

  I studied him a moment longer. “I might. Who do you need to call?”

  “Rick Claassen. He’s Navy Reserve and said he works with… the Joint Inter-something-or-other.”

  “Joint Interagency Task Force,” I asked. “I know someone who works with them from time to time. Claassen… that name’s familiar. Big Southern boy? Got a brother?”

  “That’s him. He’s been passing along my info on the submarine.”

  I nodded and opened the drawer to the left of the helm, took out my sat phone and powered it up. “I’ll need to make the call for you. Get the number ready.”

  Scrolling through my short contact list, I touched the one I wanted and held the phone to my ear until Chyrel answered. “It’s me. Odd request. I need you to place a call and patch me in.”

  Boone retrieved a soggy receipt from his pocket and handed it to me. The number was still legible. I read it to Chyrel and she said to hang on. Then there were a few clicks and a buzzing sound. I handed the phone over to Boone.

  “Rick, it’s Boone,” he said into the phone. I could hear an excited voice, talking fast, but couldn’t make out what was being said. Boone listened for a moment, then interrupted whoever was talking. “The sub is destroyed. We managed to ram her and the crew blew her up.”

  That would explain what I’d heard on the sonar earlier. I made a mental note to ask John why it seemed to pulse.

  Boone laughed. “My ears are still ringing. Yeah, I’m certain. Debris everywhere. She’s gone, Rick.” He listened a moment longer, then nodded. “Will do.”

  He listened for another moment, then handed the phone to me. I heard the click of the ended call but knew the connection to Deuce’s office was still open. “Thanks, Chyrel.”

  “Any time, Jesse. I’m not even going to ask what that was about.” I grinned and ended the call.

  Boone held my eyes. “Your name’s not really ‘Stretch Buchannan,’ is it?”

  I studied his face for a moment, as Emily climbed up the steps from the Portuguese bridge forward of the pilothouse. I kept my eyes on Boone’s, and the corner of my mouth came up at the advantageous interruption. “Well, hey there, Miss, come join the party.”

  Emily carried a pair of water bottles. “Hope you don’t mind, but I swiped a couple bottles of water.”

  “No worries… mi agua es tu agua,” I said, still looking at Boone.

  “Sid’s resting now, and I…” She trailed off, looking at the two of us. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “Oh nuthin’ much,” I replied, relaxing a little. “Boone here was about to tell me how you found yourselves chasing a submarine full of terrorists. Why don’t you join us—pull up some bench and contribute to story time?”

  “Okey dokey,” she said. “Let me just squeeze through the testosterone here and…” She mimicked a struggle through thick air, then plopped down beside Boone and handed him a water bottle.

  I burst into laughter and Boone grinned. The tension broken; he began. “It all started with a shore dive…”

  An hour later, as I came out of the pilothouse and started up the aft steps to the flybridge, I saw the USS Tornado approaching from the west. A Cyclone class patrol ship, the Tornado had spent time in both the U.S. Coast Guard and Navy, the speedy little ship primarily being used for interdiction and anti-piracy missions. She slowed and maneuvered closer, as the crew prepared a fast boat for launch. I could hear my sat phone ring as I went up the ladderwell. Boone was reaching for it.

  “Ho
ld up, Boone. I’ll take it.”

  I looked at the screen. It was Armstrong, so I pushed the Talk button. “It’s me,” I said, not giving a name. “Just FYI, I’ve got some company. I’m between Saba and Sint Maarten.”

  “I already know the sub’s been destroyed and who your guests are,” he said. “The cell’s handler has been discovered. We have someone watching him. How fast can you make Norman Island?”

  I looked at my watch. “They’re sure it’s him?”

  “Yes,” Armstrong replied.

  “Okay. Tell your man to stay on him.” Boone was pretending not to listen, so once again, I needed to provide misinformation. I hoped Jack would get it. “I’m not far from Kitts—pull some strings and get me some fuel lined up. I’ll contact you when I get there. Oh, and the USS Tornado just pulled up. Could you…?”

  “Saint Kitts? You just passed there. Oh, yeah, company. At any rate, the navy will only want to talk to you long enough to get a statement. You didn’t see it go down. I’ll make sure they know that you need to be on your way quickly.”

  “Yeah, that’ll work. Gotta go.” I ended the call.

  Boone watched as the Tornado’s fast boat was lowered into the water. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop…” he began.

  “Hard to avoid on a little flybridge.” I said. “No worries.”

  “You’re taking the boat to Saint Kitts? I think the navy’s going to want to talk to us. I doubt they’ll just let you drive away.”

  I smiled. “Oh, I think they might.”

  “Hey, fellas, here comes the cavalry!” Emily called up from below. “Boone, you wanna give me a hand?”

  “You heard your girlfriend. Snap to it!”

  “She’s not…” I raised my eyebrows and Boone chuckled. “Whatever you say, Stretch. On my way, Em!” He headed down to join her at the starboard side.

  The navy fast boat bounced across the waves and swiftly came alongside Floridablanca. Boone and Emily helped them tie up.

  An officer who looked to be in his mid-thirties peered up. “Boone Fischer and Emily Durand?” The two nodded. “And is the Saban police officer on board?”