Off Course: A clean action adventure book

by Glen Robins

  By the time they reached their destination, the passenger had also connected all four cameras to his smart phone using a special app. Now they would be able to monitor their subject and act when the opportunity presented itself.

  ****

  Western Caribbean Sea, 200 miles south of Grand Cayman Island

  June 14, 5:35 p.m. Caribbean Time

  Slowly, Collin became aware of his surroundings. Time had melted away along with the initial shock of watching his friend and shipmate murdered. As his eyes opened and focused, he saw that Mr. Green had stationed himself across the salon from the lower bunk bed where Collin lay with his hands zip tied behind his back. He was maybe twelve feet away, wiping his weapon with a cloth. The galley was to Collin’s left. The steps leading up to the deck were a few paces to his right, along the center line of the hull. Immediately to his right was the second set of bunks that lined the port side. Mr. Green sat on the end of a U-shaped bench that wrapped around a teakwood table capable of seating four men for dinner. Down a small passage to his right was the crew’s head, situated beneath the cockpit where the Captain piloted the boat, complete with toilet and shower. Beyond the galley to Collin’s left, tucked under the bow, was the Captain’s quarters with his own bathroom and closet.

  Things had changed while he was unconscious. Stinky was nowhere to be seen and Mr. Green, the trigger man, was now guarding him. Collin pushed down the rising anger that pushed him to take hasty vengeance. Everything was shiny―the walls, the floors, the table. Tog was gone. And there was a strange scent, like lemon cleaning solution had been poured over hot copper. That scent mixed with the gun oil Mr. Green was applying to his weapon.

  Collin tried to move into a more comfortable position, but every movement jostled his brain, which caused a pulsing sensation inside his skull, as if a steam piston was knocking one side of his head, then the other. The constant wave action, limited amount of fresh air, and lack of food and water combined to increase his misery. Every attempt to think and string concepts together so he could make some sort of plan ended in shear frustration. He allowed his swollen eyes to shut again and his bruised body to remain prone on his left shoulder.

  Mr. Green didn’t notice Collin’s eyes had opened. His snub-nosed Uzi lay across his lap, while he tumbled the slide-action handgun over and over, inspecting every inch of it as he wiped it clean.

  Collin lay still, trying to push away the images of what he had witnessed, but his efforts were fruitless. And his guilt over it would not be assuaged. If only I had just turned over the laptop to them, he thought.

  The farther south the Admiral Risty plowed, the more the sea roiled. Collin needed rest. The short catnaps these hijackers allowed him thus far were not enough to aid in his recovery. He tried once again to close his eyes and his mind, but the constant battering of the swells against the ship’s hull, accompanied by the violent rocking side to side, thwarted any chance of sleep. A call from above deck caused Mr. Green’s head to swivel and lock in anticipation. He stood and moved to the stairwell. He called out in his native tongue, then listened for a reply. Moments later, an unfamiliar face appeared, gun at the ready, to trade places with Mr. Green. Collin watched through the slits of his barely opened eyelids.

  This man walked immediately to the bunk, grunted as he hovered over Collin, poking his ribs with the muzzle of his machine gun. Collin raised his head. Another grunt, but nothing else. As Collin lay motionless, trying to sleep, this new guard roused him every ten to fifteen minutes. Each time Collin grew comfortable, slipping into a fanciful dream about breathing fresh air or having the use of his hands or standing on solid ground, Grunter would repeat the same sequence of actions: Grunt, mumble, poke, grunt.

  Collin had now met all four hijackers. So far, Grunter appeared to be the least violent of them. But he remained vigilant at his post, not allowing Collin to rest and regain his strength.

  Time passed, although it was hard to measure in his semi-conscious state. All Collin knew was that the rays of the sun were at a much shallower angle now, coming in the small, shaded window above the dining table on the starboard side. Dusk approached. And with it, a calming of the wind and the waters. The sounds outside now were less boisterous. The sails flapped with less intensity. The slap of the waves against the hull less potent and less frequent. All seemed more languid and peaceful. Collin’s prospects for rest were increasing.

  The illusion was shattered when Stinky’s raucous voice breached the still in a virulent stream of high-pitched inquiries. It was obvious he was questioning the Captain; his voice climbed an octave at the end of each word string. Collin could not make out the words, but he could imagine what was being asked. Why are we slowing down? Did I say to slow down? What are you doing, trying to cause trouble?

  As he strained to listen, Collin could hear the Captain’s deep voice as it projected from his perch at the helm into the open hatch, calm and assuring, explaining the situation and attempting to educate the armed novice before him of the ways of the sea. It seemed to Collin the Captain’s efforts fell short of their desired effect. Stinky kept shouting, his tone brooding and suspicious.

  “I told you,” the Captain said, “I cannot control the wind. If there is no wind, we cannot go faster.”

  Stinky screamed some more and the Captain responded with, “Yes, we do, but if we run the engines we will run out of fuel and will be helpless in an emergency.”

  As expected, Stinky stomped his way down the steps and entered Collin’s immediate space. He yanked Collin by the collar into a sitting position and demanded his cooperation. “We go too slow now. Your friends making trouble. You want more trouble?” Stinky’s face was just inches from Collin’s. His breath was sour, and his beady eyes shot daggers.

  It took Collin a moment to reply. He tried to lick his parched lips and form words. At last, with his eyes closed in concentration, he slowly muttered, “This happens sometimes when sailing. It’s called the doldrums. The wind just stops, and the water gets calm.” Collin braced for the onslaught. It didn’t come.

  Stinky barked at Grunter and a short conversation ensued. Collin understood nothing.

  Before marching back up the steps, Stinky approached Collin and shook him by the shoulders. “You better hope no funny business,” he commanded. “Or you lose another friend.”

  Collin slumped back down and tried to sleep, knowing it was not an idle threat.

  Chapter Eight

  London, England

  June 15, 12:20 a.m. London Time

  For Nic Lancaster, the Collin Cook case would go down in his personal file as either a brilliant rookie triumph or an embarrassing start to his investigative career. Either way, his pride was involved, and his emotions poured into it. Yes, this case had become personal and he knew that was unprofessional, but he also knew it could define his trajectory.

  Because he felt his career track was in jeopardy, Nic was more nervous than he had been on his first date. Collin Cook, the crafty little bugger, had finally made the mistake that Nic had been waiting for. The cheap cell phones he bought for himself and his lady friend would prove his undoing. Now that he had the ability to track Cook’s location, it was time to coerce some cooperation from the higher-ups, starting with his section chief, Alastair Montgomery.

  The sometimes-helpful Alastair didn’t often see things Nic’s way. Knowing this and having spotted a pattern of irregular behavior, Nic had done some sleuthing into his boss’s out-of-the-office activities.

  Nic reviewed the video recording he had of Alastair getting out of the taxi in Kensington during the middle of the day, having claimed to be off to a meeting with Scotland Yard. Nic had checked the validity of the meeting and learned that it was bogus, so he had followed him in a cab and used his phone to video the whole incriminating scene.

  On the video, Alastair checked in all directions as he exited his taxi and strode blithely across the street. The footage became jumbled as Nic jumped out of his taxi, paid the cabbie, and darte
d behind a parked car to continue filming. He captured Alastair heading into a flat, the door held ajar by a very young and very beautiful lady, who he later learned was the daughter of a member of Parliament. He stitched the end of that video to the beginning of the next one, careful to show the time stamps on each. Approximately forty-five minutes elapsed before Alastair stepped out from the flat and into a waiting taxi.

  With the potentially career-ending scandal for Alastair caught on his phone, Nic had the goods he needed to persuade his boss to bend to his will. The trap was set.

  The next step was to convince Alastair that Collin Cook was alive and could still lead them to Pho Nam Penh. He had video footage from the bank in George Town and eyewitness accounts from boat owners at the marina. With some more arm twisting, Nic hoped to get surveillance video from the dockside cameras as well, to corroborate his findings and prove Cook was still breathing and moving and, more importantly, in real danger. The reports of hijackers increased the urgency of the mission to capture Cook before Penh and the Kamados put an end to him. Once they had what they needed from him, he would no longer be useful. Without Cook, Nic feared he might never find a way to take down Penh. Collin Cook, he knew, was the bait he needed to catch the big fish and the bait had provided a way for Nic to track him. That, the crowning piece of evidence, being the cheap burner phone Cook had hoped no one would find out about. Thank you, Collin Cook.

  Quick and decisive action was necessary, but Crabtree’s attempts to get the Navy SEALs involved seemed a long shot at best. Nic would be the one with a plan in place, knowing the Americans would not be able to move in time. He would be the one to save the day and all previous embarrassments stemming from this case would be swept away.

  Nic knew that Alastair, like the rest of the world, viewed Collin’s demise at the hands of Hurricane Abigail as certain and hadn’t given him another thought since he had disappeared over a week ago. It would take more than mere words and pleading to get Alastair to assist in finding a man he believed to be dead. Nic had his body of evidence concerning Cook’s state of undeadness compiled and ready to present.

  One more call to the chief of security at the George Town Marina, then he would call it a day.

  ****

  Scripps Cancer Research Patient Clinic, La Jolla, California

  June 14, 5:44 p.m. Pacific Time

  Sarah Cook woke as Henry’s large, but gentle hand caressed her cheek. “Dear,” he said. “The doctor is here to check on you. Can you wake up and talk to him?”

  Dr. Navarro moved closer and studied her face. “Mrs. Cook, I’m so glad you’re awake now. I’ve been a bit concerned.” A scowl receded and gave way to a contrived smile.

  Sarah cleared her throat and attempted to sit more upright. “Oh? What time is it?”

  “It’s almost six o’clock, Mrs. Cook. You’ve been out much longer than I would have anticipated. How are you feeling?”

  “I feel like I’ve been drugged,” said Sarah with a wry grin.

  Dr. Navarro first hesitated, then allowed himself to chuckle. “I see you still have your sense of humor. That’s good. Your blood pressure, breathing, and heart rate are all back to normal now, so that makes me feel better about letting you return to your home tonight. We ran some additional tests, but they were all well within normal limits. You are free to go and rest comfortably at home after you eat and walk a little way for us. We just need to make sure everything is working. How’s your appetite?”

  “I feel like I could eat a horse,” Sarah said.

  Another slight hesitation. “Very well, Mrs. Cook. I’ll have the nurses bring you a horse for dinner,” Dr. Navarro dead-panned without looking up from his tablet. This brought laughter from both Sarah and Henry, easing the tension. The humor disappeared and Dr. Navarro’s brow bunched together. “In all seriousness, Mrs. Cook, I must remind you that your diet during this clinical trial must be highly regulated.” He turned to Henry, who nodded his acknowledgment and consent. “We’ll make sure your dinner conforms to that meal plan. The nurses will provide you another copy of the detailed meal planning guide. It shows not only what you should eat, but the schedule you should keep, including a suggested exercise routine.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” said Henry. “That will be very helpful.”

  “We’ve now set up an online profile for you to report your daily activities. It’s quite detailed, but it will allow us to monitor the effectiveness of the prescribed diet. The nurses will provide you with the login information. You can even do it from your phone, which I think is extremely convenient and really cool,” he said with the grin of a schoolboy who had just learned a new trick. “Hopefully, by monitoring your diet and accounting for it, we can make the dietary adjustments needed to restore your strength and energy.”

  Henry and Sarah both stared wide-eyed at the doctor, who looked back at his tablet and continued.

  “It’s very important to keep your strength up so your body can utilize the enzymes we’ve injected and fight the cancer,” added Dr. Navarro. “Without proper nutrition, the enzymes die, and the cancer thrives.”

  “How do we do that when she hasn’t had much of an appetite, Doctor?” asked Henry.

  “She’ll need to eat smaller meals more frequently. I know that doesn’t sound like much, but it has proven to be a significant factor. Remember, this is a clinical trial, so we need to regulate and monitor everything―food intake, caloric burn, even waste evacuation. Not only is it important to follow the meal plan and exercise routine, you’ll also need to keep a journal of all these activities. I assume this was explained to you when you volunteered for the program.”

  “It was, thank you,” said Henry. “I have adjusted my work schedule so I can be there and take care of her.”

  “That’s good. I can’t stress enough the role diet, especially, plays in this treatment. We believe there is a strong interplay between the enzymes we’ve injected, and the foods patients eat in fighting the cancer cells and reversing the tumor growth. So, if it seems strict or restrictive, keep that in mind.”

  “Will do, Doctor. Thank you again.”

  “No problem. We’ll bring her dinner, then have the physical therapist come and walk her through the halls. After that, we can send her home.” Dr. Navarro turned to Sarah and continued, “I suspect we can have you out of here in a couple of hours. How does that sound?”

  “The thought of sleeping in my own bed sounds too good to be true. I’ll take it, though.”

  ****

  Scripps Cancer Research Center, La Jolla, California

  June 14, 6:05 p.m. Pacific Time

  Mike Zimmerman stood and clumsily attempted to retreat between the chair he had been sitting on and the empty chair holding his briefcase during this pow-wow. As Emily’s boss, it was his custom to debrief at the end of each day. These meetings were informal and friendly―a chance to review and plan―and part of a well-established routine. Like most people with Asperger’s, Mike thrived on routine. Emily needed little in terms of guidance and Mike did little in terms of micro-management but sticking to the pattern was important. Theirs was a productive partnership based on mutual respect and a shared love of science and research.

  Despite his position on the high-functioning end of the autism spectrum, Mike’s contributions to the laboratory research community were now legend. He was one of the most published researchers at Scripps and a pioneer in enzyme enhancement. His compliments, therefore, carried significant weight.

  After Mike shuffled out of her office, Emily sat down and pondered her recent run of good fortune and the high praise Mike had just heaped upon her. He thought this current set of experiments using an obscure protein chain—an idea conceived during one of her early morning runs while preparing for her presentation at the Bio Med Conference—would be her third breakthrough in two years. Of course, it would take another two years of development and perfecting before it would be ready for clinical trials on humans, but the thought that her work could bene
fit cancer patients, gave her a warm sense of accomplishment.

  She didn’t spend long luxuriating in Mike’s accolades. Her success only mattered if it resulted in helping real people and their families to live longer, more productive lives―something ingrained in her brain during graduate school. That thought led her back to Sarah, so she picked up the phone and dialed Dr. Navarro to check on her.

  During her conversation with Dr. Navarro, Emily learned of Sarah’s difficulties recovering from the anesthesia and Dr. Navarro’s concerns about her general weakness. “As you know, Dr. Burns,” he told her, “Sarah’s cancer is the most advanced of any patient in the study and while her cancer type makes her a good match, her condition makes her less than ideal for total success. Having said that, this treatment is her best option to prolong her life. I’ll also tell you what I told her and that’s how imperative it is for her to strictly adhere to the diet.”

  ****

  Scripps Cancer Research Patient Clinic, La Jolla, California

  June 14, 7:42 p.m. Pacific Time

  A white van sat parked along the street, under a tree, several hundred feet from the Cook’s Cadillac and out of range of the institute’s cameras. Inside, the driver with the ink up his neck nudged the passenger with the spikes, who had nodded off after hours of watching and waiting. “Look. There. It’s them. They’re getting in the car,” he said as he held out the binoculars.

  The passenger put the binoculars to his eyes and adjusted the focus through the dim twilight. Sarah Cook sat in a wheelchair pushed by the tall white-haired Henry Cook. The parking lights of the Cadillac blinked on, then off as Henry pushed the button on his key fob and slipped it back into his pocket. “You’re right. Let’s roll,” said the spike-wearing passenger. He placed the binoculars in their case and returned it to the duffle bag on the floor between the driver’s and passenger’s seats. His hand dove into the hip pocket of his coveralls and pulled out a sleek smart phone. He tapped the face of it a few times until a map opened up. Two dots blinked on the screen―one blue and one red. As Henry Cook’s Cadillac began to cross the parking lot across the street, the red dot blinked faster.